A/n: No, you are not dreaming. No, this is not some sort of hallucination. And no, I am not dead!
…Sad that this chapter's author's note and the last begin with the same exclamation. But I figured that should be the first thing I mentioned, because I'm sure some might have been worried. But fear not, try not to kill me, and rejoice, if at all possible.
As a refresher, I recommend skimming Chapters 22 and 25. Only because, after such a long break, I figured a review before reading a chapter relating to plot was necessary.
This chapter is dedicated for the faithful followers who read this and didn't give up on me, going so far as to review this story months after my last update. Your reviews were not in vain and are always the prime motivator for me to continue on through work, school, writer's block, and life in general.
The Tales of Weasley the Father
By dieselwriter
Chapter 26: The Tales of Givers
"Well I'll be damned."
"That's not much of a greeting for an old friend," Ron gave a tired smile, taking his seat.
"This isn't much of a day to be chatting it up with an old friend."
"True," Ron replied, scratching at his ear, "we should have had this meeting a long time ago. Why didn't you ever come forward with the information you had?"
His interviewee looked uncomfortable immediately, as if hoping this sort of question would have never needed to be asked.
"You have to understand, Ron, that if I thought what I knew was pertinent to your investigation, I would have told you sooner. I had no idea…"
The woman looked even more disturbed, idly fidgeting to her pocket where her wand resided.
"No idea he was capable of this?"
"I had no idea he would go after children," she murmured, taking a deep breath. Her blue eyes bore into his, suddenly reminded of something, "How mad is he?"
"Very, but it's mostly fear-based. If I could just talk to Scabior—"
"Not who or what I meant," she interrupted, a softness to her voice.
"Then I have no idea what you're talking about."
It was Ron's turn to feel uneasy as a grin lit up her features, making the small scars across her face disappear in smile lines.
"All your mini-Aurors can't stop talking about it. You can't get too much excitement in a place like the Auror Department; your fight with Harry is the closest thing they've had to gossip since that huge scandal with Senior Auror Townsend and his house elf."
Ron begrudgingly returned her smile.
"Some things never seem to change, you know?"
"I know," she returned with confidence, "and that's why this whole thing will blow over by tomorrow."
"Here's hoping."
They sat in a relatively relaxed silence, taking in the less awkward but still highly strange predicament they found themselves in.
"You want to tell me what happened?"
Ron raised an eyebrow, not quite believing the intent behind the question.
"I thought you'd have heard all that happened already?"
"Snippets of stolen conversations does not a story make," she wagged her finger, although Ron was certain she was far more used to waving quills in peoples' faces. "All I heard in the office was 'attack', 'Hogwarts', and 'Scabior' before I was out the Floo and at your desk. I might as well get the whole scoop straight from the source."
"And wind up on the cover of the morning edition of the Daily Prophet? Fat chance."
"You know I'm merely a columnist for the evening edition," she waved her hand dismissively, even though they both knew better about her infamy as an investigative reporter. "And that's a rather unpleasant attitude to have. Here I come in, willing to help you in an investigation and thus spilling one of my deepest and darkest secrets—"
"It's your civic duty to help us—"
"—and yet I can't even get knowledge of my own family's safety—"
"—and I told you they were perfectly safe—"
"—and did you have to pick out the smallest and dankest room to interrogate me—?"
"—this is my office—!"
"Weasley!"
Both occupants of the room jumped as the only door into the room opened with a loud bang and a rather intimidating Minister of Magic filled up the doorway, emanating a raw kind of power that made both witch and wizard cower in their seats.
"A word, if you please?" Kingsley held the door open and Ron scuttled out of the room. "And is there anything I can get for you, Mrs. Davies?"
"Nothing, thank you," the witch replied stiffly, rearranging herself in her seat and smoothing out her robes.
"We'll be only a moment, ma'am," he nodded at her, his rich voice not seeming to have much of an affect on her cold demeanor. "Just let us know if there's anything we can do to make you more comfortable."
"Well that sounds as though you're prepping me for questioning with a Dementor."
Kingsley nodded his head gravely, making the woman roll her eyes.
"That was a joke, Minister."
"I've found very little to laugh at today, Mrs. Davies."
"Right, sorry," she replied, looking at once as she had upon entering the room: distant and discomfited.
"He'll be right back, I promise," Kingsley bowed out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him. He then turned to the squirming Auror, looking like a dog that had been caught making something nasty on his master's carpet.
"I'm sorry—"
The Minister of Magic held up a solid hand, stopping Ron in his tracks.
"I told you I don't like this," Kingsley said sternly, and when Ron made to interrupt, he continued, "but I did agree with you that this is the best plan. After you miraculously made nice with Malfoy, I assumed you would be up to questioning a fellow classmate and Gryffindor who asked specifically for you."
Ron, who had beamed at the hidden complimenting of his diplomacy skills with Malfoy, scowled at the retraction of the praise.
"We have…a history," Ron picked his words delicately, but that was apparently the wrong choice.
"Who don't you have a history with in this case," the tall man shook his head, possibly regretting some of his own decisions he had made in the dealings with Travis Scabior. "And that is exactly why I didn't want you involved. Now play nice with her; she's the only lead we have right now."
"You want the media to know about how little we know?"
"No, but it's out, whether we like it or not. Give her what she wants…she might at least be slightly biased to our agenda."
"Anyone hoping to stop these attacks should be biased to our agenda," Ron's brow furrowed at the implication that this whole mess would be the fault of the Ministry and not Scabior.
"Tell that to the reporters," Kingsley muttered, opening the door to allow Ron to continue on with his interview. "Literally."
"Right-o," Ron nodded, entering the room.
"I already did mention how I don't like this, correct?" Kingsley muttered rhetorically as he shut the door, causing Ron to grimace.
"Did I get you in trouble?" Mrs. Davies smiled a half-amused, half-guilty smile.
Ron took back his old seat, shaking his head, already displeased with his obvious lack of authority with his guest.
"No trouble, just encouragement."
"Excellent. Then that means he wants you to tell me what happened?"
She threw him a hopeful grin, and Ron rubbed the back of his neck before recounting the events that had occurred earlier in the day.
"Kill him! KILL HIM! Merlin, he's right there!"
"Get around him! C'MON, YOU SLOTH! MOVE YOUR BROOM!"
"Oh COME ON! That was BLATANT! How can you not call that?"
"Is it over yet?"
Five rather angry pairs of eyes glared at a sixth, who merely sighed in defeat before raising her red and gold banner and waved it half-heartedly.
"Fight, fight, Gryffindor."
Hermione's lack of enthusiasm didn't deter her family's exuberance, however; in fact, it quite possibly provided even more fuel for their fire.
"KILL 'EM! KNOCK HIM IN THE HEAD, GRADY!"
"Behind you! It's right behind you! OPEN YOUR EYES, IT'S BEHIND YOU!"
"How is that not stooging? Flagherty and Morgan are both clearly in the scoring area! That's clearly stooging!"
Indeed, the crowd seemed to have likewise noticed the obvious foul and repeated chants of 'Stooging! Stooging!' rang out across the pitch, but Rolanda Hooch, unperturbed by the audience, kept her hands on her broom and off her whistle.
"Hooch has been off her game all day," Harry mumbled, clearly displeased by the lack of adequate refereeing in the match. "Remember that botched blurting call right at the beginning? Pathetic…"
Ron couldn't deny the comment; the game had gotten decidedly dirty after the first ten minutes had elapsed without so much as a single foul called.
"Not her fault," Ron finally surmised, eying their old Quidditch instructor and referee. "She's been keeping her eyes on Davies most of the match."
Harry glanced over at the Hufflepuff Keeper, squinting to see through his glasses, even though visibility was quite good, given the cloudy conditions.
"Davies, huh?" he threw a sly grin to his friends that was not reciprocated by either.
"Shut up, Harry," Hermione and Ron said at the same time, echoing their sentiments on the subject.
"You know, she looks familiar…"
"Shut UP, Harry!" they reiterated together, causing Harry to smile wider but keep his teasing to himself.
"Who's Davies?" Hugo looked curiously between his parents, but Rose interrupted the question with an elbow to the ribs.
"Bridgette Davies, Hufflepuff Keeper," she told him but pointed out her cousin James on the pitch. "Watch this; James told me they've been practicing reverse passes all week and he just gave the signal for it."
"What's the signal?" Al called out around Hugo, unsure if he should be watching Rose or his older brother.
Rose made a complicated series of hand gestures, causing her cousin's eyes to widen in awed disbelief and her brother's to narrow in suspicion.
"Bull—"
"Hugo!"
"—ogna. Bologna, Mum, that's what I was going to say! Bologna…" he muttered half-heartedly, withering under the stern gaze his mother refused to relent. "Thanks a lot, Rose."
"Just watch."
"OH!"
The crowd roared its surprise when, with a sharp flick of his wrists, James sent the Quaffle in his gloved hands behind him into the waiting hands of his fellow Chaser.
"Ah hell," Hugo's muttered swear was quickly drowned out by the Gryffindor supporters' screams of delight as their Chaser aimed the Quaffle out of Davies' reach and through the Hufflepuff hoop, bringing the score to 90-70 in Gryffindor's favor.
"How did you know that was coming?" Al asked his cousin, now adopting Hugo's shrewd nature.
"I told you, he gave the signal," she answered, shrugging her shoulders as if it were no big deal, but the small twitch at the corner of her mouth said otherwise.
"There's no way he could give that signal on a broom without falling off!"
"Maybe you can't…"
"Da-a-ad!"
"I was just kidding, Hugo," Rose rolled her eyes and muttered darkly under her breath about the annoyances of having a younger brother.
"Ron?" Hermione frowned, seeing that Ron hadn't reacted in the slightest, despite hearing their son's highly grating plea for assistance.
"Do you see that?" was Ron's only reply, pointing towards the Hufflepuff Seeker. Hermione rolled her eyes; it seemed as though he were, in fact, engrossed in Davies once again.
"Do we have to bring her up again?" Hermione said under her breath, clearly not wanting Harry to overhear and badger them about it more.
"Not that," Ron muttered, eyes narrowed as he kept his finger pointed at the solitary object of his interest.
"You see the Snitch?" Harry bobbed excitedly, searching the skies for the glittering, winged sphere.
He frowned at finding the hawk owl Ron was focused on, flying steadily from behind Davies and moving onward toward the center of the pitch.
"What the hell? How'd it get through the barrier?"
"Harry," Ron didn't take his eyes of the owl, nor the package it was transporting, "that's it!"
"What's it?" Harry questioned, not liking at all the horrified expression in his best friend's wide blue eyes.
"Scabior."
The word sunk into Harry's mind, and he was unable to avoid spouting the first thought his subconscious provided at the idea.
"Bull—"
"Harry!"
"—der. Boulder. You know, the bologna thing made more sense."
As his family laughed at Hermione's subsequent rebuking, Ron's mind was working blindingly fast, piecing together all the subtle clues that had been carefully laid, only seeing them now with the appearance of the painfully familiar hawk owl.
The Gryffindors decked out in red and the Hufflepuffs, yellow. The words written in Scabior's second threat in paralleling red and yellow. Hooch's slack demeanor throughout the match. The hawk owl that Ron had seen so vividly in a memory supplied by a whinging Draco Malfoy. The very same hawk owl now flying to the outstretched arm of the Quidditch referee. The very same hawk owl stolen by one Travis Scabior.
"Al, Al…give it to me…"
Al looked taken aback at his uncle's outburst, eyes wide behind his glasses.
"Uncle Ron?"
"The whistle, Al, the whistle! Let me have it!"
Still looking confused and slightly frightened at the panic in his uncle's eyes, Al removed the bright purple whistle hanging around his neck and handed it over.
Not skipping a beat, Ron put the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes' Whistle ('Guaranteed to be ten times shriller than a Mandrake's cries without the lethal side-effects!') to his lips and blew as hard as he could.
Everyone in their section covered their ears with their hands immediately, some cursing and others glaring in their direction, but Ron ignored them all. He was pleased when progress of the match was momentarily halted as Gryffindor and Hufflepuff players turned in confusion to Madam Hooch, having assumed that she had finally called a penalty.
Momentarily distracted by the fact that their referee was otherwise preoccupied with untying a package from an equally unexpected owl, Ron cupped his hands and, knowing he looked supremely stupid but again not particularly caring, he called out at the top of his lungs.
"JAMES SIRIUS POTTER!"
His only stroke of luck was that his nephew was close enough to hear him and fly over to him, looking slightly perplexed and far more embarrassed.
"Uncle Ron? What the hell?"
Hermione, for her part, did not scold her nephew's inappropriate language; she was looking rather frightened between him and her husband, unsure of what was happening but knowing something was wrong.
"Give me your broom."
Ron's command was ill-received.
"What? No!"
"James, we don't have time—"
Ron paled considerably as Hooch finally freed the owl of its burden and, not hesitating for a moment, promptly dropped it.
"Holy—" Harry couldn't complete a thought, finally seeming to catch on to the truth and severity of the situation, staring at the plummeting package and then at Ron.
"Fine—FINE! James, just catch it!" Ron shouted desperately, pointing a now shaking hand to the parcel that James was now eying suspiciously. "Catch it before it hits the ground and bring it back to me! Carefully!"
James apprehensively glanced at him a second more but, seeing the pure gravity of what was happening in his uncle's intense gaze, he chased off after the rapidly descending package that Ron knew, without a shadow of a doubt, contained the life of every person in attendance.
"Oh my god," Hermione covered her mouth with one hand while grasping blindly for her daughter.
"What's going on?" Hugo's eyes were wide with fear, knowing his parents far too well to know that there was something acutely wrong.
"Mum?" Rosie's eyes filled with uncertain tears as her mother held onto her tightly, terror tightening in her chest and making her feel sick.
Ron remained resolutely still, watching his nephew make the dive, it felt, in slow-motion. An arsenal of spells flew through his mind to slow down the progression of the parcel, but he had absolutely no faith in his ability to hit the target and not James.
"Al…Al!" Harry said in a hoarse voice, needing both of his sons to be in his arms but only able to have one. "C'mere."
Al was at his side in a heartbeat, watching his brother closely and feeling unwillingly and unbearably anxious for him, even if he had no idea why.
"What's going on?" Hugo reiterated, but he was again denied an answer as his mother grabbed onto him as well, sandwiching a compliant Rosie in between.
The game had come to a near standstill, the only action coming in the form of a lone Hufflepuff Chaser trying desperately to evade both Bludgers. The crowd had likewise been silenced, all curious to determine the outcome and importance of a Gryffindor Chaser catching a falling parcel out of the air.
"Catch it," Ron whispered, unable to tear away from the sight of his nephew taking both hands off his broom to reach for the falling object, fingertips brushing the edges. "Come on, James, catch it."
The audience roared its approval seconds later as, a mere five meters from the ground, James caught up the small parcel and broke out of his dive with the grace expected of a Chaser that had only moments ago pulled off a perfect reverse pass.
"Merlin," Ron's voice quaked, knees feeling as though they had been replaced with Jelly Slugs. "Thank Merlin."
The crowd's cheering died down to the point where it was merely polite applause as James returned, the box held as gingerly as possible under one arm.
"You're amazing, James," Ron croaked, holding his hands out to receive the parcel from his nephew. "That was absolutely amazing."
"What is it?" he asked, blushing modestly at the praise.
Ron wrapped his long arms around the box, hugging it to himself as he slowly but steadily sank into the seat beneath him. Harry didn't hesitate to jump forward and collect his oldest son in a very awkward hug.
"Dad! DAD! Everyone can see us!" James bellowed, appalled, as though the loving gesture was a fate worse than the one that had nearly occurred.
"Ron, what do we do?" Hermione asked, being one of the few people who understood that there was still an immediate threat in the form of the volatile box resting on her husband's lap.
"Evacuate," was his answer, perspiration dampening his forehead. "Contact the Ministry; they'll want to search around."
"They won't find anything," Hermione said quietly, eyebrows furrowing in thought. "He'll be long gone."
"Probably, but he might have left something behind to Trace him with, other than this damned thing," he smiled weakly, gesturing to the item he was holding. "You really need to start evacuating everyone."
"At least let me put a protective charm—" she held up her wand, but Ron shook his head defiantly.
"It might be sensitive to magic," he explained, holding it tighter still to his chest. "Just leave it."
"Then I'll wait with you—"
"Please," his earnest gaze fell onto Hugo and Rosie, and he doubted he had ever seen either look more baffled in their lives. "Please, Hermione, just get everyone out of here."
Tears rimmed her eyes and she bit her lip, but nodded as she leaned forward to kiss him soundly.
"I love you," she blurted as she stood, casting a Patronus she prayed would reach the Minister of Magic first before collecting her children.
"Love you too," he said, feeling that if he said more he might be ill. Holding a box filled with Exploding Potion was definitely a confidence deflator.
"James," Harry ordered his oldest son, who was still red in the face from embarrassment, "round up the teams and head back to the castle. And Al, go with your cousins," he urged Al to follow after Hugo before turning to Ron. "That was some fast thinking."
Ron didn't miss the condescending tone of his best mate's voice.
"Thanks…" he said suspiciously, watching every stiff move.
"How much potion do you reckon is in that thing?" Harry eyed the box, not looking nervous in the slightest despite his close proximity.
"Enough to take out half the pitch, at least," Ron said, trying to ignore the sensation of a trickle of sweat sliding down the back of his neck.
"Half the pitch," Harry repeated, and Ron definitely didn't appreciate the blithe indifference to the predicament. "So you decided to order my son to fetch it instead of fly as far away as possible from it?"
The uncharacteristically mean look behind the harsh question caused Ron to hesitate with a response.
"It was the only way," he finally answered unsteadily. "We didn't have any time—"
"Bullshit!" he hissed, a dangerous look behind his lenses that Ron didn't like to see aimed at him. "Would you have sent Rosie or Hugo after it?"
Harry and Ron remained immovable, watching each other as if seeing each other clearly for the first time.
"I didn't even think—"
Harry snorted without any mirth at that response and Ron swallowed the rest of his sentence to try a different tactic.
"What would have me do?"
"Oh, I don't know," Harry cast his sight around them, as if signifying the plethora amount of possibilities that had been available to him. "Did you even think of using a wand?"
"Can we please have this conversation later, when I'm not holding a box full of explosives?" Ron pleaded, unable to take his friend's anger on top of all that had happened in the past five minutes.
"We've got time," Harry replied, crossing his arms.
"We don't," Ron shook his head to deny the comment. "Kingsley would want us to evacuate. And someone needs to deal with Hooch."
Harry's mouth worked furiously, as if wanting to retaliate, but he ultimately came up short. It was hard to argue, after all, with the truth; their old Quidditch referee was slumped on her broom, eyes glossy and unrelenting to the players bombarding her with questions. He didn't say another word before he was barking out orders to the grumbling crowd.
"Wow," Mrs. Davies was all frowns by the end of the story. "What kind of guy gets angry over the fact that everyone was saved?"
"Harry's never been famous for his infallible logic," Ron grimaced.
"That would've been Hermione, right?"
Ron did not look up to see the expression she was wearing, but he could certainly envision it in his head.
"I'm pleased to hear Bridgette did well, though," she continued when she did not receive a response. "Sounds like the match would have gone down to the Snitch if it hadn't been interrupted."
"Most likely," he said, placing his chin in his hand as he adopted a bored look. "Are we going to get down to the reason as to why we're really here now?"
The blond witch shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable on the chair she had been occupying for most of the afternoon.
"Where do I start?"
Ron was taken aback at her sudden meekness.
"Tell me about you, first. Where you were and what you were up to before your encounter."
"It was right after the war," she recounted, keeping her eyes trained to a scorch mark on the tabletop standing between them. "I was healing from my injuries," she indicated the scars that were barely visible on her face, "and my parents were still abroad.
"They hurt like hell," she continued, gesturing once more at her face, "but it wasn't anything I needed to stay in St. Mungo's for, so I rented out a flat in London."
"By yourself?" Ron frowned, knowing first-hand how hard wizards and witches alike had it in the aftermath of the Second Wizarding War.
"I tried to go home, but it wasn't…there. The Death Eaters had gotten to it," she shrugged, looking sad. "Parvati would stay over sometimes, but she was at St. Mungo's more, taking care of Padma.
"It wasn't a great flat, in an even worse part of town, but it was all I could afford until Mum and Dad got back. I started working at some small café, mostly biding time until everything settled down. That's…pretty much all that was happening with me."
"It's good," Ron said, trying to infuse as much empathy as he could into his words, "you're doing really good, Lavender."
Lavender Davies nodded dully, no doubt upset at digging out the lonely memories she had tried her hardest to bury so long ago.
"Tell me about the night you met Travis Scabior."
His ex-girlfriend swallowed dryly before continuing on.
The only thing Lavender Brown hated more than working the late shift at The Espresso Bar was the ill-fitting uniform she wore. Her trousers were uncomfortably tight around her arse and incredibly loose at her ankles, not to mention the fact that her shirt was a size too small. Most of her male customers didn't complain, however, so she never bothered with trying to change it.
One thing she would have to complain about was the severe lack of lighting on her street. Sure, she was a witch and only a spell away from brightening her surroundings, but Muggles should have the common courtesy of not having to bumble about in the dark.
She kept to the sidewalk, left hand on the brick wall beside her, fingering the roughened surface and wondering vaguely if her annoyance with the lack of lighting on the street would be enough motivation for her to actually hunt down whoever was in charge and demand it be rectified.
"Hey lassie," the slur of a dark voice nearby made her jump, "it's a little late to be wandering around alone, innit?"
She didn't stop, but rather increased her speed while her right hand fished around in her purse for her hidden wand. It was times like these that she thought she should have just ignored the suggestive 'What's that in your pocket?' question rather than stow away her only means of defense.
Up ahead, a body sagged off the bricks, blocking access to her front door.
"Let me walk you home," the man in the oversized coat leered at her in the dark, and she stumbled to a halt, hand still searching for the handle of her wand.
"No thank you," her voice sounded pathetically weak. She cleared her throat before continuing. "It's just up ahead."
Her eyes darted to her door but the stranger didn't take the hint.
"I meant my home."
"I beg your pardon!" Lavender found her anger reassuring, although finally pulling her wand out of her bag to aim at her would-be assailant was also a definite comfort.
"Ahh," he didn't look the least bit confused or worried, which Lavender didn't take to be a good sign. "I'll be takin' that."
"Stupe—"
"Expelliarmus!"
The second unfamiliar voice had startled her, but the loss of her wand and purse to the newcomer worried her far more. The man had followed her from behind and was now holding all of her belongings in his silver left hand, which was a shining beacon to the darkened street. How she hadn't noticed the added light felt like a kick in the stomach when she was already down.
"Let's go," the new man had a wild mane of hair and she vaguely recognized him from the Prophet, he having been one of the many Death Eaters that had avoided capture by the Ministry.
"You can go," Lavender hadn't forgotten her old problem, who was still standing at her stoop and watching her with hungry eyes that made her more frightened than she cared to admit. "I wanna play."
Her hands were shaking as the man with shortly cropped hair advanced on her, and she backed up several steps, eyes darting between him and the wizard holding her wand.
"That's not the plan," the second arrival's eyes shone eerily in the light emitted from his hand.
"Forget the plan," her knees were shaking as the first pulled out his own wand, pointing it right at her chest. She momentarily despised her internal thought processes when they determined that, had the situation been completely different, she would have found him attractive with his dark eyes and strong chin.
"Forget it, Hatch," the ex-Death Eater approached her from the back, as if trying to claim her first. She shivered at the thought. "We've gotta meet back up in ten."
"I'll be quick."
Lavender's eyes grew impossibly wide and she prayed that she could somehow disappear into the brickwork at her back.
"I ain't kiddin', Hatch."
"Neither am I."
The two wizards stared at each other before Lavender made her choice.
"OI!"
And she found herself flat on her back in the middle of the road, desperate to fight off tears. Her attempt to escape had gone very poorly indeed.
"I like a fighter!" Hatch bore upon her, much like a hunter its prey. He stooped over her, the lust in his eyes evident as his dirty and calloused hand feathered the exposed skin at her midriff.
"Stop! Please!" she shrieked, begging him. Her eyes squeezed shut when her attacker's hands did the opposite of her wishes and stroked her face, wiping her tears away.
"Hatch—"
"Sod off, Scabior!" Hatch shouted down his partner's words, and his fingers gripped her hair tightly. His moist, putrid breath caressed her ear as he whispered. "You'll be fun, I can tell—"
He stiffened suddenly before collapsing on top of her. The Body Bind spell she hadn't fully been aware of being under lifted, and she struggled as she elbowed Hatch off of her.
"Get out of here," Scabior muttered to her as he approached the pair, lowering his wand and looking as if he almost regretted his actions.
Lavender didn't need telling twice: Hatch was stirring at her side and that was all the incentive she needed. Shaking, she sprinted down the road, in the opposite direction of her flat. She could hear the loud argument and feel the magic as angry spells were cast behind her but she never stopped or slowed.
Lavender had told her story unblinkingly, staring hollowly the entire time at the tabletop. Ron found it hard to come up with any reasonable words to say to her.
"Does that help you at all?" she finally asked him after they had remained silent for several minutes, digesting what she had said. "Please tell me it helps."
"Did you notice…" Ron stared into her eyes and pursed his lips nervously at the imploring look she gave him. "This is going to sound stupid, but I need to know: did Scabior have a…a hand, under the silver one?
Realizing that what he had asked had practically nothing to do with all that she had just told him, he was surprised when she answered with very little venom in her voice.
"If that's what you wanted to know why didn't you just ask me that?"
The hurt in her voice, however, was far worse than hearing her snipe at him.
"I wanted to know all of it!" Ron amended quickly. "You have no idea how many holes you've filled in for us. I just wanted some clarification with the last one, that's all."
She rewarded his honesty with a half smile and a nod.
"Yeah, the silver hand was like a glove on top of his real hand," she said. "But how does that help at all?"
"Because saving you and fighting a dark wizard in the process," Ron replied, feeling morbidly pleased as the pieces of Scabior's history finally fell into place, "was his stressor. That spell on his hand revolted that night by removing his real hand when Scabior revolted by saving you. He was never the same after that night. It all makes sense now."
"Gross," Lavender statement didn't match the genuine smile she supplied, seemingly pleased to provide whatever help she could. "So where do we go from here?"
Ron rubbed his tired eyes, images of his irate best friend flooding his vision momentarily.
"We wait for his next note."
A/N: *reads last chapter's author's note*
…
Yeah, I suck. I'm an awful person. I'm a liar. I've also moved, gone back to school, and started two new jobs. This chapter has been in my mind consistently during all of it, even though severe writer's made it a very slow process.
I am still rather pathetic, though, and appreciate your patience. Thank you all, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was formatted a tad differently than normal, but I like mixing it up every now and then. Considering Lavender Davies nee Brown is involved, how much can be enjoyed is up to debate. I liked writing her, though, the sassy pants that she is.
Unsure as to when to expect another update. That doesn't necessarily bode well, but it's better than a blatant lie of a quick update only to not have it come (*cough*never again*cough*). If anyone wants to chip in a request for a flashback in a review it may help with the creativity process.
And that's all I've got for now. I've missed you all though and hope you are doing well and are feeling a bit forgiving.
~dieselwriter
P.S.: This would have been up like two weeks ago, but apparently my unanticipated hiatus messed with my ability to post anything. Hopefully you are not experiencing the same difficulties.