May 14th, 1998
Sally-Anne was punishing herself and she didn't know why.
She could have Apparated directly to Hampstead Lane, but instead she'd walked to Swiss Cottage and taken the tube all the way down to Waterloo, transferred, and was now riding the interminable Northern Line back up to Highgate.
She was almost certain it wasn't because she was afraid she was turning into a monster.
But as she hung onto the handrail, pressed between two anonymous bodies that were more rank than should have been socially acceptable, swung and jerked by the car's torque, she couldn't think of a competing hypothesis.
Was it wrong that she was starting to see everything in terms of its usefulness in defeating an enemy she wasn't even sure existed? An enemy she knew neither the face of, nor the goals of, nor the crimes of, other than the likely murder of a known Death Eater?
She'd already decided, based solely on conjecture, that Ollivander was this enemy's tool, or likely to become his tool. But was what she was doing to Sam, or to Zhu, or hopefully to Zhu's house elf, any different?
Part of her tried to cut the entire line of self-questioning short by pointing out that monsters didn't wonder if they were monsters. They just kept eating people. But Sally-Anne wasn't reassured because deep down, far past the defense mechanisms she'd built over the years to screen her every action and prevent her from being hurt, was the indomitable sense that what she was doing was right.
Certainty scared her. Monsters had certainty.
Again she saw, far more clearly than she had when it actually happened, Mark Regan, with a feral grin, raising his wand and pointing death at her. If Arun had frozen… But he hadn't, and Mark's last second, involuntary flinch had sent the green bolt wide. She'd been certain in that moment, casting the cutting spell that severed his wand arm, that this was a man too dangerous to be left alive.
Had she been right, to think that? To believe he'd be released by an overwhelmed system and return to rape and murder, only more carefully now, more deliberate, harder to catch? Was the necessity of his death actually just a failure of her imagination? Had she really prevented another Susan Williams? Or had she used the cloak of virtue as an excuse to become a monster?
She could barely move her head in the crush of commuters and, short as she was, could see only armpits and chins. But she didn't have to see faces to feel the misery radiating off her fellow straphangers. How much suffering could wizards alleviate by bringing magic to the Muggle world? Systemized portkeys, healing spells, construction magic: the low-hanging fruit was extraordinary and the cost of not picking it was extraordinary as well. The callousness of the Statute of Secrecy had horrified her as a child, but the horror had slowly faded into the background of How Things Were.
No, she wasn't a monster for wanting to improve these lives. But then, who didn't want to save the world? Yet nothing changed. It wasn't a question of intent, she realized; people who meant well and gained power had no better luck improving the world than anyone else. No. Earnestness was insufficient. She had to figure out what a virtuous person would do in her situation.
How exactly was she supposed to do that?
The train slid to a halt and the doors opened. Finally. She trudged up the stairs into the rain. It didn't look like one of the poshest areas in London. The sidewalk of Southmore Lane was uninviting. The street itself was narrow; there might as well have been a sign: Lorries Unwelcome.
The rain wasn't heavy but it was steady, and her sweater was already sodden and her trainers were beginning to squelch as she tried to avoid the deeper puddles in the pavement. A drying spell would have been the work of a moment, but she refrained. It was easier to think here, despite the early morning chill and the solitude, than in the claustrophobic heat of the tube. She realized she was afraid of meeting a house elf. It was easy to rue their condition at a distance, but seeing one up close, interacting, would be considerably more difficult, just like dissecting a human body was fundamentally different than talking about its layers of muscle, nerves, and viscera.
She promised herself she would treat the house elf with dignity. Was that enough? Empty gestures without action? How arrogant would she have to be to think she could help it — him — but how cold not to consider the scenario? How much power did she think it was appropriate to assume?
She was nearly there. Zhu lived on one of the short streets off Hampstead Lane that guarded its elite residences with gates and uniforms. Muggle security was so adorable. The home itself had one of those half-circle driveways designed for maximum throughput of delivery vans, servants' coupes and guests' sedans, with plenty of room left over to park the spare Mercedes or Porsche.
The black door with gold trim opened almost before she'd knocked; Zhu must have been waiting just inside. She wondered for how long. The house seemed the exact same size from the inside as it had from the outside: ginormous. All she could think about was how much it cost to heat.
Zhu put a long, slender finger to her lips and Sally-Anne obediently and silently stood there and dripped on the Kashmiri rugs that covered the marble flooring as Zhu quietly explained the logistics. The house elf — Knabby — was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Zhu would introduce Sally-Anne as a friend, instruct Knabby to answer her questions, and then leave them alone. There were worry and shame lines on Zhu's face; Sally-Anne was happy to see both.
The kitchen was stone and steel, with hidden refrigerators and a top of the line Viking range. Knabby stood on a stool that was pushed up against the island. He was squeezing glasses of fresh orange juice. There was a plate of freshly fried rashers and, next to it, steaming, a full French press. It certainly beat cold cereal eaten over the sink. She finally dried herself off and took one of the glasses of orange juice.
"Knabby, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Sally-Anne Perks."
The house-elf looked up with bright eyes, but he continued working while he talked.
"Knabby is very pleased to meet Ms. Perks! Any friend of Mistress Zhu is an honored guest!"
"Knabby, Sally-Anne came a long way to talk to you. It's very important." She hesitated for a moment, but continued. "You know I dislike doing this, but this is an unusual situation. I order you to answer Ms. Perks' questions as truthfully as possible. I order you to do whatever Ms. Perks tells you to do, with the blanket exceptions of harm to yourself or others. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mistress! Knabby understands what he is to do!"
"Great." She grabbed a piece of bacon. "I'll be upstairs. He's all yours."
Zhu left. Knabby did not sit down on the stool, but remained standing. He watched Sally-Anne like a puppy about to be fed after a long walk. The room was very quiet. Sally-Anne took small sips from her glass and then poured herself a mug of coffee without looking at the house elf. She was about to take a shot in the dark, but she had to know.
"Knabby, you're going to obey whatever I say, correct?"
"Yes, Ms. Perks! Knabby is at your service, just as Mistress ordered!"
She wrapped her hands around the mug and breathed in the steam. The coffee was still too hot to drink, but it smelled glorious.
"First, a promise. I will not report to another human, elf, or creature anything we discuss or anything that happens while we are together in this room. I will not tell your Mistress. And I will not initiate further contact with you or any other bound elf in the future, ever. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Ms. Perks," chirped Knabby. "Ms. Perks is kind to Knabby."
"This, then, this is my first command. You will talk to me in the manner and with the language you talk to other house elves. Is that understood?"
Knabby seemed to settle into himself.
"You had better keep your promise, Sally-Anne Perks, or much trouble will come of it." His voice was deeper and his eyes were no longer open quite so wide. He sat down on the stool. "It has been generations as your kind measure them since wizard and house elf talked in this fashion. Not even a freed house elf would dare, but under the orders of my Mistress and unable to evade through self-injury, I am compelled to comply."
She'd hit for six.
The groveling, the self-abasement as survival mechanism, had been too familiar for her not to challenge it. She imagined every house elf faking that innocuous, squeaky voice over the centuries and hoped she knew what she was doing.
"Thank you for no longer pretending."
"Don't thank me. It was not my will," said Knabby bitterly. "Trusting wizards is not a common hobby among my people and while I am speaking forthrightly to you now, know that everything I say or do is explicitly under duress given the command of my Mistress."
"My understanding was that elves were bred to enjoy following orders."
"We are not dogs, although both elves and dogs were bred into bondage. We are sentient, intelligent beings. Do not condone what has been done to us — what is done to us every day — at homes much like this one throughout Britain."
"That bondage is a source of grief to your Mistress. If you wish, without any information or further justification, she will free you immediately."
"Have you ever lost a fingertip and tried to function?" Knabby was already shaking his head. "Would you declaw a cat and then abandon it in the woods in winter? It took thousands of years for wizards to make us what we are; you cannot remedy that problem so easily. So blithely." He almost spat the words.
"What you call freedom would mean despair and death for us. No. My Mistress was raised well and is a good woman. But freeing a house elf is an act of thoughtless cruelty." He looked as her as though at an exasperating child. "The feel-good solution is rarely the right solution."
"Can house elves act freely as long as those actions do not directly contradict a Master's order?"
"We do not obey the letter of the law. We obey its spirit."
"Can house elves penetrate most wards?"
"Yes. The ownership of house elves in Britain is quite restricted. The owners are scions of ancient families. Those who control us are, shall we say, incurious both by nature and nurture. Our magic is poorly understood by wizards and rarely utilized for other than domestic purposes. Although I have heard of exceptions. A freed elf recently became involved in the war against Voldemort. And died for it."
"The Zhus were immigrants. How did they manage to acquire you?"
"It was near the end of the First Wizarding War. Many wizards had died and their house elves were homeless and Masterless. The Zhus had great wealth and powerful connections. More importantly, they openly pursued an elf, which few were willing to do." His lip curled at the implied hypocrisy. "An arrangement was made."
How careless, how casual, wondered Sally-Anne, were wizards in their power? Disposing of sentient beings like bric-a-brac at an estate sale. Had they hung a tag around his neck?
"So your previous Master was killed by Voldemort."
Knabby laughed harshly. "Other than the blood traitor Black, house elf owners to a man supported Voldemort. It is no easy thing, to watch your power and your status ebb with the generations. No, my master was murdered by Albus Dumbledore."
Sally-Anne crinkled her eyes, trying to picture the chain of events. "From Death Eater to first generation immigrants. Insider to outsiders. That transition couldn't have been easy."
"My former master was not a gentle man," said Knabby shortly.
Pieces were falling into place. "You knew about Dobby. Do house elves routinely talk to each other?"
"It is not uncommon. Servants talk under the stairs. And slaves are often thrown together while waiting upon their masters."
"If ordered, could you talk to other house elves, gather information?"
"Possible, but within the constraints of my obedience."
"Knabby, I have two orders for you. The first is simple, the second, less so. You will follow both to the extent of your abilities and, by doing so, earn the promise I made at the beginning." The coffee was cool enough; she drained the glass.
"Never to mention any of this to my Mistress. And never to contact me, or any enslaved house elf, again, unless we come to you first." His eyes were hard.
"That is correct. I apologize for not making it an Unbreakable Vow, but I felt it was better not to involve a third party."
"What are your orders?" He seemed impatient.
"First, talk to house elves, trespass, do whatever you believe is necessary and realistic, but find Augustus Rookwood. If necessary, tell house elves sweet lies about the purpose so their oaths do not trigger their own deceptions. You will tell your Mistress not only where Rookwood is, but his schedule and his likely whereabouts at any time of any day. You will report back by this Saturday at noon with an update, regardless of success or status. You will do this without alerting or being noticed by any wizard other than myself and your Mistress. Do you understand this first order?"
"I understand. It is rare for a wizard to understand the true usefulness of our abilities."
"You may not appreciate me in a moment." She took a deep breath.
"You say you obey the spirit of the command. I'm going to put that to the test. You say freedom is dangerous for house elves. I understand that, but I do not accept it. I hear similar arguments too often in the Muggle world to so obediently accept the status quo. A stable equilibrium is not enough of a justification for unthinking inaction. You are a thinking being. And I'm working on being less arrogant and not always assuming I know what's best for others.
"Therefore, this is my second order. Knabby, you will figure out a way to be safely freed. You will figure out a way for free elves to live without undue physical or mental or emotional turmoil. You will brainstorm with other elves, gaining their cooperation by telling them it is a mere thought experiment ordered by your Mistress, without any chance of ever being implemented. If another method gains their cooperation more effectively, you will use that instead. You will come back to me personally and instruct me in what you have learned. You will take as long as necessary to complete this order, but you will work on it knowing that I am under significant time pressure and, if a solution comes to you too slowly, I may not be alive to either hear or implement it. Do you understand and will you comply?"
"I will." Knabby said. He stood up and vanished.
"Of course they agreed, Percy. Did you ever stop to ask what you would do in their situation, or are you incapable of empathy?"
"But, Death Eaters, father. I don't trust them. Rookwood especially."
Arthur controlled his anger with effort. The rain had strengthened, cutting visibility, and Diagon Alley was chaotic enough on a clear day. He held their umbrella steady with a firm hand, the Gryffindor lion walking laps around their heads. Arthur scanned the narrow street while keeping his face relaxed, a father chatting idly with his son.
A steady stream into Quidditch Quality Supplies. A pretty Chinese girl huddled under a fruit and vegetable vendor's stand, buying strawberries. A delivery of cauldrons at the magical supply store. Knockturn Alley quiet as the grave. A dark-haired man swinging a knapsack. Gringotts. A pallet stacked high with empty cages on its way to the Magical Menagerie.
"Does it matter?"
"You're about to place an illegal order for ghost wands..." Percy shriveled under his father's glare.
"Muffliato."
"Sorry, thanks."
Now he whispers, Arthur thought with disgust.
"...wands to give to captive Death Eaters for an attack on the Ministry; trust seems like a pre-requisite."
Arthur nodded to — what was her name — Andy to take up position outside the junk shop. Without making eye contact, she obeyed. He liked competence. She was a good find of Perkins. He'd have to remember to thank his friend.
"No one else comes in." They'd stopped outside Ollivander's. "And, Percy, think for once. Information is only relevant if it changes your beliefs and only if those beliefs drive your actions. Ask yourself, can I trust Yaxley and the others and, more importantly, would I act differently based on different answers?" He pushed his way into the gloomy shop.
Percy turned up his collar against the rain and watched the men unloading the boxes of cauldrons. There was much cursing and shouting; they hindered each other in their haste to finish before the boxes dissolved, making the process take twice as long as it should. There seemed to be a lot of bodies for that many boxes, but Percy supposed apprentice labor was cheap. He turned away; the wind, channeled by the tightly packed buildings, was making his eyes water. He refused to check on Andy.
Soon — too soon, it seemed — Arthur came back out, his lips tight. He unfurled the large red and gold umbrella. Percy cast the Quieting charm and fell into step beside him as Andy took her position slightly behind them and to the left.
"Of course I can't!" said Arthur. He wondered if his son would consider it a non sequitur. "But since I would act the same in either case, it's irrelevant. Ollivander, after all his delays, will provide the wands within the week. Let them fail to meet me at the Ministry, and I will get such laws passed as to make my recent progress look like nothing. Let me try to betray me, and who will listen; Ollivander can take the fall. Let them follow my orders and they, but not only they, will die in battle."
"Is it really worth it?" protested Percy. "Look around you; some of these people might die. Colleagues of yours will die."
Arthur stopped abruptly. Could Percy really think he relished those deaths? How could his son not see what a thin line lay between them and genocide, what a small — tragic, yes, but small — price needed to be paid to prevent that? He took his son's hand gently in his own. The rain sluiced down their fingers.
"Percy, look at your hand. It's clean. Now look at mine. You can't see it, Percy, but it's red, red with the blood of your brother. And almost your mother's. Fred is dead, Percy, because I couldn't stop it. I failed him. Don't tell me I didn't; a father is supposed to protect his children. Some day, you and Audrey will have children and only then will you know the feelings of a parent. May you never know what it is to lose a child. To watch your child die before you."
He could see the blood now, not just on his own hands, but gathering in pools on the street. He raised Percy's hand, still held in his own, until it seemed to be pointing into the chaotic press of the crowds pouring between the shops.
"Imagine this street empty, Percy, and all these people dead. And not just here. Hogsmead, inhabited only by corpses. Hogwarts, in ruins. Because we were reluctant to act. Because we ignored the consequences of inaction. What will you say then, Percy? After thousands have died at the hands of Muggles because you were squeamish now over the deaths of a dozen.
"Your scope neglect would ring hollow then; it rings hollow now. Because now we can still take the power necessary to prevent genocide. Or would you rather feel good about yourself in this moment and wait patiently for your mother to be killed? For Charlie? For Bill? for Ginny? To lay George next to his brother? On that day, looking down at their bodies, what will you wish you had done today?"
Arthur started walking again. He knew he was crying and didn't want his son to see. He hid the grief and terror in his voice by roughening it.
"Choose wisely, or carry the guilt for those whom you could have saved. So I say again, the Death Eaters are useful and so I will make use of…"
There was a loud bang from their eight o'clock.
Arthur never finished the sentence. Between one word and the next he was gone, Apparated thirty feet forward and twenty feet up, then Disillusioned. It would have taken someone with excellent eyesight paying close attention to notice the rain sliding around a gap in the grey sky.
Percy dropped to one knee and sprayed — from Gambol & Japes to the edge of Gringott's — Disillusionment and Finite Incantatem.
Behind him, Andy unleashed a stream of Stupefy and Homenum Revelio.
To Arthur, kept in place by a steady flicker of his wand, the combined effect sounded like fireworks. From his second-story perspective, he had a perfect view down Diagon Alley, although mostly he saw the tops of umbrellas. The crowd had initially pulled back, then quickly returned to its own business, pushing close to the opposite wall to get past the commotion and the scattering of gawkers.
Andy sprinted in the direction of the bang, ignoring the fallen bodies of the shoppers that had been hit by her stunning spells. She looked confused, searching through a chaos of pallets and cages.
Whoever had been unloading at the Menagerie must have gotten distracted, thought Arthur. Several pallets had tumbled over. The metal birdcages were still half-heartedly rolling semicircles on the pavement, like the dismembered arms of iron snow angels. The bang must have been the cages hitting the ground. Two employees of the shop were now yelling at each other, busily assigning blame.
Arthur sighed and Apparated back to Percy, who was already Rennervating the stunned. Andy returned, holstering her wand and shaking her head in disgust.
"False alarm," she said, handing Arthur his umbrella. He shivered in the wind, soaked through. It was good that Andy was there. She'd proven capable and, more importantly, trustworthy. He hoped she'd be a good influence on his son. He gestured them closer.
"Quietus. I didn't ask to be a hero," he told them, speaking slowly and carefully. "I didn't ask for this responsibility. I hate having to make these decisions. I wish everyone could live and let live, with puppies and rainbows and the whole bit. But I won't cross my fingers and hope someone else comes along and saves us. You don't know the Muggles like I do; you haven't seen what I've seen. We stand on the brink of annihilation. To prevent that, what means may not be used? We have the knowledge. All we require is the courage." He scanned the Alley again.
"I doubt there's trouble, but meet back at the Ministry in half an hour to discuss timing. Be sure you're not followed."
Arthur Disapparated last, looking the street over one final time before he left.
For the span of a couple deep breaths, nothing of note happened. Then a green umbrella emerged from Knockturn Alley. The girl holding it had long black hair and was eating a strawberry. She looked soberly at the spot where Arthur had just stood, then quietly disappeared.
"It's called taking initiative, you nob. Try it sometime."
"Yeah, that's one way to put it, I suppose. If you're mental. And you are, so it makes sense."
They were on Heston Road, in Hounslow, walking Arun home. The rain continued to splatter down, misting over the Brentford F.C. Training Ground, but Zhu had lent him her umbrella and was defiantly using a small shield charm to hold off the rain. It wasn't working very well.
"Look at Mr. Goody Two-Shoes, here. 'Yes, Ms. Perks. No, Ms. Perks. How many bags, Ms. Perks? Oh, three, why I have them right here!' Next time, I'll send an owl and ask you. There was plenty of time. Now, how should I address it? Do you prefer Goody Patel or Arun Two-Shoes? Just Mr. Two-Shoes, I think. More professional."
"Oh, I'm sorry. You've been working at the Ministry for sixteen minutes. Of course you know exactly when to creatively interpret orders in the field. Provoking a murder suspect on your own. And his two minions, in case you think I missed that tiny detail. Why was I worried? Zhu knows what she's doing. Zhu always knows what's best. Just ask her!"
Zhu hit him lightly on the arm.
"Ow!" Arun spun around and frantically windmilled, trying not to fall over, the wind-filled umbrella seeming to carry him rapidly backwards down the street. Despite herself, Zhu giggled.
"Workplace violence. Tsk, tsk. Ms. Zhu. I expected better from someone with your N.E.W.T.s." He lowered an imaginary pair of spectacles and frowned at her.
"And that's the other thing!" exclaimed Zhu. "She's practically our age and still she's miles ahead of us. It's not just that she does crazy things like slicing that sicko or talking to house elves; her spell work is brutal." Her voice was torn between admiration and envy. "I bet she could take McGonagall."
"No way. McGonagall's, like, a million years old. She teaches this stuff. But maybe Williamson."
"Arrrgh! Yes, fine, but that's my point. How is she so strong? It's not fair. Let's suppose, and I'm not saying you're right, that'll be a cold day in hell, but what if Mr. Weasley had noticed me?" Her voice dropped. "He's powerful, Arun. You think he's a joke, that I'm crazy, but you didn't see how fast he moved. You didn't see how he looked when he thought no one was looking.
"I was lucky…"
Arun silently threw his arms up.
"Fine, I said it, now shut up, I was lucky to be out of sight. I was nervous. But Sally-Anne wouldn't have been."
"She's older."
"Less than a year! I was top of my class. She didn't even go to Hogwarts, apparently. And you were right, she does make us practice more than I expected, which is great. But still. How?"
"We practice now, but I don't see anyone else at the Ministry trying to get better." He shrugged. "They think it's not their job, probably, just call the Aurors."
"Lazy gits. That's weird, though. I haven't noticed anyone practicing, either. And at school, between lessons and homework and Quidditch and boys" — Arun rolled his eyes — "oh, don't even start; what about what's-her-name, that Gryffindork. There wasn't time to practice. Not really."
"So maybe that's what she was doing instead of going to Hogwarts."
"Maybe. But what about the restrictions on underage sorcery? We only got a pass because we were at school, supervised and what not. I don't think she was at any school. Not Beauxbatons, not Salem, not..."
"Wait," Arun interrupted, "wasn't her mother in the Ministry? Maybe she got special permission or something."
"And no one else outside Hogwarts or the Ministry can practice because of Wand Screening!" Zhu got excited and then very serious. "Arun, do you know what this means?"
"That you're about to take obnoxious overachiever where no one has gone before?" Arun groaned.
"Dork. No. That somehow Sally-Anne has had the opportunity to get more powerful than any other living wizard, except maybe for a handful of Aurors and professors."
"Wow. Wait. Waitwaitwait. We were talking about something like this, before the whole Mark Regan thing happened. That kinda distracted me. What did she say?" Arun scowled at the ground in concentration. "Something about how the Ministry used its power to prevent anyone else from gaining power. She implied that was a bad thing."
"That doesn't make sense. Somehow, she avoids Hogwarts and gets home schooled or something by her mother. Then she joins the Ministry herself, the only place a wizard can really train without it being suspicious. She's worked to get powerful her whole life! But she doesn't like how the Ministry operates?"
"Don't pretend you're not the same."
Zhu straightened her back at that. "What do you mean?"
Arun sighed and walked over to her. He brushed an imaginary something off her shoulder. Zhu raised her chin even higher. He didn't know if she was going to punch him or start crying. She did neither. Instead, she seemed to just look over his shoulder at the row of semi-detached homes. He didn't have to turn to see them; routine had pounded every house in Heston into his memory.
"Do you know why I joined Improper Use of Magic? I had better offers." She still wasn't looking at him.
Arun bit back some snarky retort and just shook his head.
"Everyone else I interviewed with brought up my parents. What had happened to them. What Voldemort did to them. They all — they all made it about themselves. How sorry they were. How grief-stricken they were sure I was. Told me their sad stories and assumed they knew all about mine. But not Sally-Anne. I suppose she knew, but she never brought it up. Just asked me about me, you know. Not about them. Or even what I'd done. Just who I was."
She swallowed and Arun belatedly noticed her flop of a shield spell had gone out completely. He moved to share the umbrella.
"At the end of our talk, just before I left the room, I brought it up myself." Zhu laughed abruptly. "Never thought that would happen. I told her the short version. And you know what she said? She just looked me in the eye and said 'that sucks'. That's it."
Arun looked up at the umbrella. He wondered what his mates back in Hufflepuff would make of this.
"Zhu, can you do me a favor?"
She'd started walking again, her arms crossed over her body. The spell shield flickered back to life and Arun scrambled to keep up.
"I doubt it. What?"
"Sally-Anne takes risks, but when she acts she has the power to back it up. We don't. Not yet. But you're right. We should. And we work at the Ministry, too.
"What I'm saying is, do you want to practice with me? We can figure out a way to get around Wand Screening. Bribe them or something."
Zhu looked at him in disbelief for a moment then slowly a huge grin spread across her face and, whirling, she gave him a fierce hug. Then she pulled back, serious again, and held him by the shoulders.
"All right, Mr. I-Keep-My-Head-Down; tigers don't change their spots, nay, nor leopards their stripes. Why are you doing this?"
They were in his neighborhood by now; he could just see his parents' house. How hard had he worked to get away from there? He could remember how it felt, getting his offer owl from the Ministry.
"Because everyone thinks they're the good guy," Arun said. "Even if they're not. And this whole mess has me wondering who I can trust. After Voldemort died, I assumed…" He looked grim for a moment.
"Maybe I don't have time to do things the normal way. But I trust us. Don't you?"
"Well, I don't know, Mr. Patel." Zhu tried to both laugh and frown, her eyes bright for the first time since Arun could remember. "If we're supposed to be the good guys watching everyone else, then if we're not the good guys, who's going to check up on us?"
Arun smiled back. "Also us! Stay for dinner? My mom keeps asking about you."
"Of course, silly. I love your mom. Besides, I haven't seen Knabby — that's my house elf, btw — since Sally-Anne talked to him." She laughed and took his arm. "And I'm not learning how to cook now that we have real skills to practice."