A bright beam of light hit his eyes. Jolting slightly, Harry peered through heavy eyelids. The curtains were swaying. He'd left the windows open last night and a breeze was pushing the drapes apart, sending sporadic shocks of light through the bedroom.
Harry tried to retrieve his glasses, but found he could not. There was a weight on his arm: Ginny's head cradled in the crook of his shoulder. She was fast asleep, her lips slightly parted.
Turning carefully onto his side, he watched her. She was impossibly beautiful. Her thick lashes, almost translucent in the morning light, rested on her cheek like a butterfly's wing. Her skin was dusted with freckles, the result of many years playing on or reporting from the Quidditch pitch. Waves of rich crimson hair spread over his arm, smooth and sleek. So unlike...
No.
Hesitating, Harry lifted his free hand and trailed his fingertips from her bare shoulder to her hips. He looked at his pale hand on her paler skin and gently pressed. It left a red imprint that disappeared a moment later. Her skin porcelain once more.
Ginny stirred and Harry looked back at her face. Her delicate mouth twitched, but she continued to sleep.
He smiled. He loved her. He was sure of it.
There was a time in his life when he'd been wholly obsessed with the woman in his arms. In his sixth year, when he first started seeing her as more than Ron's little sister, his attraction had felt like a roaring monster in his chest. After Voldemort's fall, they started dating in earnest. Harry remembered this as a very happy time. Little talking and a lot of sex. He was still very much a boy then, and the rages of hormones and desire that he'd suppressed for so long finally overtook him. At times, it seemed he could never have enough of Ginny Weasley.
When he was twenty-one, she broke up with him for reasons he still didn't fully understand. It nearly destroyed him. It was then that he'd known that he loved her. How else could he explain the complete despondency that threatened to overtake him? He slept with many women after that, but none of them were her. Yet, they still saw each other too frequently. Within two years they had drawn back together, like magnets clicking into place.
He remembered learning she was pregnant with James, how he'd started crying right there in the kitchen at the Burrow. He was so happy then, he thought his heart might fail. She gave him James, then Albus, then Lily. She gave him all that he'd yearned for without knowing the words for it. A family of his own.
How could he think of jeopardizing this?
The resolve from last night returned. Something was required. He needed to...he'd have to hold himself apart from her. It was the only way to put a stop to...whatever was happening to him.
Gently, he pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips. She stirred again and he moved to her neck.
"Good morning," she murmured appreciatively.
He brought his lips to hers. She returned the kiss slowly, leisurely. A morning's kiss.
After a minute, Ginny pulled away. She looked blearily at the light. "I've got to get to the pitch."
He grumbled against her throat.
She laughed lightly. "There's a very important match today, as if you didn't know, Harry Potter."
He nodded and turned onto his back. He reached out for his glasses and they flew into his hand. Slipping them on, she came into focus. She was watching him, as if considering something.
"What?"
"Why don't you come?" she said. "It's short notice but I'm sure I can get you a seat in the top box."
"What time does it start?"
"One, but you should get there by noon."
His heart juddered strangely. Wasn't there something he was supposed to do at noon?
He groaned. "I'm supposed to meet Hermione at St. Mungo's at noon. Can I come after?"
"St. Mungo's?"
"Yeah. There's an update on the Camerons' condition. She asked me to come."
"Why would you need to be there for that?"
"I don't know," he said, glancing away. "She just asked. Plus, you remember Duncan. He's lonely over there. We're bringing him more books."
Her expression grew hard as he spoke.
"Hey," he said, reaching for her hand. "It'll be an hour. Two at most. I'll be there before half-time."
Reluctant, she nodded. Slipping her hand from his, she moved to the edge of the bed and walked to the washroom, her hair falling in rich waves down her back.
Harry felt a knot of unease grow in his stomach. He could just tell Hermione his plans had changed...but she'd asked him to be there. To back out because of a Quidditch match...what would she think of him?
He groaned softly and lay back down. Her opinion shouldn't matter.
It's about the Camerons. It's Duncan. Not her.
After breakfast, Harry apparated to the Ministry to finish the stack of files he'd neglected in favor of lunch with Hermione the day before. The Auror pool was nearly empty. A light staff worked the weekend. Waving to the few Aurors he could see, Harry moved towards his office. He had just settled at his desk and opened the first file when there was a knock.
Matthew Durkheim stuck his head through the door.
"Chief? Is this a bad time?"
Harry shook his head, waving him inside. "I thought you had the weekend off."
"You said I could work this weekend and take Thursday and Friday for my sister Zara's wedding?"
"Oh, right," said Harry, embarrassed he hadn't remembered. "What's up?"
Durkheim produced a parcel from behind his back. Pockmarked and bruised, the box had been heavily blasted with spells. Harry thought he saw Muggle postage on the top.
"What the hell happened to that?"
The Auror looked uncomfortable. "You know how we had Counselor Granger's post redirected here?"
He nodded. He'd issued the order after the death threats Hermione received in September.
"This arrived yesterday," Durkheim continued. "One of the younger Aurors thought it was suspicious—likely never seen Muggle post before—and well..." He lifted the mangled parcel again for Harry's examination. "It was just from the Counselor's mother."
Harry wanted to laugh.
"Should I take it to Counselor Granger?"
"No," he said quickly. "I'm seeing her in a couple hours. I'll give it to her."
Durkheim nodded. He placed the package on the couch and exited.
Harry shook his head, smiling. He turned back to his files, ready to spend the next two hours pouring over paperwork.
Five minutes later, however, he picked up the box and studied it. There was a gap between the cardboard flaps where blue tissue paper peeked through.
A belated birthday present, he guessed. But somehow he didn't think so. Elaine Granger was not the type to send a belated gift to anyone, let alone her only child.
Glancing momentarily over his shoulder, Harry lifted the edges. She'd never know, the package was so battered.
A jumper fell into Harry's hands. It was a rich cream color in a cable-knit pattern. By its size, he knew it was for Hermione. Losing interest, he replaced the jumper but then heard the distinctive sound of paper on paper. He lifted the jumper again, revealing a yellow envelope. Hermione's name was written on the front.
It had already been opened, likely by one of the Aurors. Surely there was no harm...
He freed the letter from the envelope. It was long—three pages, front and back. He skimmed them, noticing Mrs. Granger had the same fine, looping hand as her daughter. He was about to replace the letter when he saw his own name on the last page.
I'm glad you're managing so well with your security detail. I know for someone as independent as you, it can't be easy. But you have to realize your own limitations. Harry wouldn't have given you those Aurors if he didn't think it absolutely necessary, would he? This is his area of expertise, after all. Wasn't he the only one who ever made better marks than you in Defense Against the Dark Arts? (I hope you still aren't holding a grudge about that!) He cares for you terribly, so please don't make him worry.
Harry felt a rush of appreciation for Elaine Granger. He'd love to see Hermione's face when she read that. Perhaps her brows would knit together. She'd roll her eyes and shake her head, curls sweeping across her face...
No.
He slid the letter into its envelope and closed the box. Returning to his desk, he stared at the grain of the wood for what felt like a very long time. In the end, he only got through a few files.
The Head Office of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement looked entirely empty, all the barristers gone for the weekend, save Hermione.
Taking a steadying breath, Harry knocked on her door and stepped inside.
"Hey," she smiled, catching sight of him. She was closing her attaché, ready to leave.
Without his consent, his eyes swept over her. She was casually dressed, a patterned jumper over black jeans. The neckline had a slight V to it, dipping above the subtle rise of her breasts. In a searing flash of memory, he saw Ron bending low, pressing his lips to hers.
He swallowed. "Hi."
She gestured to the box in his arms. "What's that?"
"Your mum...package," he mumbled.
"What?"
"Your mum sent you a package," he repeated more audibly. "The Aurors went through it by mistake. Sorry."
She looked at the disfigured box and laughed. "All right, bring it here."
He picked his way over to her, sidestepping stacks of documents, rolls of parchment, and intimidatingly large reference books.
"Poor mum," she said laughingly, taking it. "If she knew…"
Harry wanted to laugh as well, but he caught himself. "Everything inside is fine."
"So you went through it?"
Fuck.
"It was so beaten up..." he dodged.
"Uh huh." She pulled back the edges and removed the jumper. "That's nice," she said absently, running her hand over the material. She took up the letter and briefly skimmed through it. When she came to the last page, her fine brows knitted together and she shook her head.
Harry couldn't help grinning then, which she caught.
"I'm assuming you read this too?" she said in her sternest, most lawyerly voice. "What happened to no more borderline security measures?"
He laughed uncomfortably. "You have to admit she's right."
"I admit nothing." But, thankfully, she dropped the issue. "Ready to go?"
He nodded and Hermione came round to his side of the desk. She wasn't wearing shoes. A pair of ankle boots had been kicked off near to where he stood. Without warning, she bent down for the shoes, placing a hand on his arm to steady herself.
He drew away sharply, as if stung. She caught herself on the desk.
"What was that for?" she said, annoyed.
"Had an itch. Sorry."
She looked at him and, for one chilling moment, he was sure she knew everything. That he wasn't over Oxford, that he was trying to keep himself apart from her, that he'd seen her last night with Ron...
But the moment passed.
"It's all right," she murmured.
She slipped on her shoes, using the desk for support. When she'd finished, she smiled, though it didn't seem to reach her eyes.
In contrast to the Ministry, St. Mungo's hummed with activity.
"Hello," said Hermione brightly to the witch behind the Inquiries Desk. "Hermione Granger and Harry Potter for Healer Waltham. He's expecting us."
The woman did a double take at their names.
"Yes, Counselor," she said hastily. "I'll inform him you've arrived. If you and Chief Potter would just wait in the lobby—"
"We'll just head up to the Thickey Ward, if that's all right?" Hermione said, not really a question. "Would you tell Healer Waltham to meet us there?"
Before the woman could respond, Hermione pulled Harry away, making a beeline for the lifts.
"What was that for?" he asked once the doors had closed.
She punched the signal for the fourth floor. "Are we here to see the Camerons or not?"
"Yeah," he said slowly, "but why didn't we wait for Waltham?"
"That man irritates me so much," she seethed. "I know he did my procedure, but the way he talks about the Camerons...Did you know they haven't been told anything about their condition in weeks? Waltham—all of them, really—they treat them like they wouldn't understand." She sighed as the lift came to a stop. "No. Healer Waltham is going to tell me about their condition in their presence. It's the only way they'll get answers."
Her face set, Hermione stepped into the corridor. Harry followed silently after.
An overcast sky filled the Thickey Ward with pale grey light. As always, two patients occupied one end of the hall. The Camerons lived behind a partition. It was towards this barrier that Hermione strode.
"Miss Hermione!" someone cried out in a voice so full of joy that Harry was momentarily stunned. "You're back!"
Duncan Cameron flew into Hermione's arms and she laughed. "Oh, Duncan! It's good to see you!"
The eleven-year-old as quickly approaching Hermione's height. Eyes just over her shoulder, he spotted Harry.
"Mr. Potter?"
Harry gave the boy a one-armed hug. "All right there, mate?"
He nodded enthusiastically but he was looking past the partition. "Is Lily here too?"
Hermione smiled at Harry's expression, which Duncan thankfully didn't notice.
"No. She's not with us, I'm afraid," she said.
The boy looked visibly deflated. In another context, Harry might've laughed.
Hermione quickly greeted Walter and Theresa Cameron, perching herself on the older woman's bed and taking her hand. They spoke softly and urgently to one another. Harry caught up with Walter, who—as luck would have it—was an Arsenal fan like Dudley. Having just been updated on the team's prospects by his cousin, Harry was able to hold his own in the conversation.
Their reunion was short lived, however. Healer Waltham—ginger, stocky, and irritated—had arrived.
"Counselor Granger, Chief Potter," he said, nodding curtly to them.
"Healer Waltham. So nice to see you again." Harry could tell she did not think so.
"Might we take this meeting to my office?" he said. "It'll be much quieter there and I can offer you and Chief Potter some tea."
"That won't be necessary," she said flatly. "It's not loud here. I'd like the Camerons to hear the latest on their condition as well."
The Healer looked uncomfortable. His eyes shot to Duncan at Harry's side. He lowered his voice, though he was plainly audible to everyone in the room.
"Counselor...I did not call you here for a medical update. That remains quite unchanged. Rather, I hoped to discuss arrangements for their future care."
Hermione was undeterred. "I don't see why that couldn't be discussed in front of them. Have they no say in what is to happen to them?"
"Please, Ms. Granger," the Healer said, his voice plaintive now. "It's not something I can so readily discuss in front of…Muggles. Please, would you just come to my office? I will explain everything there."
Hermione, faltering, glanced at Harry. He raised his eyebrows in grudging consent.
"That's fine," she sighed. "But, I must insist on more regular updates to the Camerons. They've been deprived of—"
"I understand. If you'd just follow me."
Bidding a momentary goodbye to the Muggle family, Harry and Hermione followed Healer Waltham out of the ward and down a long corridor lined with offices. Stopping before a handsome door with a gold nameplate, he escorted them inside.
It was almost too clean, Harry instantly thought. White-tiled walls and a grey, stone floor. The desk was spotless. It was the exact opposite of Hermione's office.
Harry and Hermione lowered themselves to the chairs in front of the desk. She wasted no time.
"I take it if we're to discuss their future care that there has been absolutely no improvement to their memories?"
"I'm sorry, Counselor," the Healer said, though he did not particularly look it, "we've tried everything possible. We remain hopeful that some solution may yet be found, but currently there is no improvement. At least we can take solace in the fact that their condition has not worsened."
Harry saw Hermione's jaw tighten.
"Solace?" she repeated dryly. "Theresa Cameron cannot remember her son. Walter Cameron cannot remember his occupation. Nicole has woken up once in eight weeks."
The Healer's mouth pressed into a hard line. "Well, that's why I called you in, Ms. Granger. Mind you, I was not required to do so. But I thought you might want to know before it happens."
"Before what happens?"
"Duncan Cameron is to be obliviated today, of course."
A dark burst of anger blurred Harry's vision. Hermione reacted first.
"What?" she breathed, her fingers tightening around the edge of the chair.
"He's to be obliviated," Waltham repeated quite simply. "His memories pertaining to his time in St. Mungo's are to be erased. Unfortunately, this means we must also erase the reason he came here. Some additional information will be added to his memories to ease his transition to the Muggle world. Considering Duncan is of some relevance to your case, I thought it best you be informed before the procedure."
A ringing silence met his words.
"Am I to understand," said Hermione, her voice dangerously soft, "that Duncan came to this hospital to have his memory restored and now you plan to destroy it completely?"
Waltham shifted uncomfortably. "Duncan's case is most unusual," he grumbled. "Under normal circumstances, no Muggle child without a familial connection to the magical world would be allowed to have knowledge of wizardry for over eight weeks. He's already divulged everything he knows about your case. And among his family members, his memory remains the most functional and intact. He'll be taken to a Muggle home for children that, I understand, is very good. There is simply no reason he needs to stay here…"
"His family is here!" Hermione shouted. "Is that not a reason? Is it now St. Mungo's policy to separate children from their parents? Particularly when those parents are still receiving medical care? No, he absolutely will not be taken away!"
"I'm afraid it's been decided," Healter Waltham said, clearing his throat. "I've confirmed with the Wizard-Muggle Exchange Office that St. Mungo's has sole discretion on this matter."
"And I suppose," said Hermione scathingly, "you'll make Duncan an orphan when you obliviate him, will you? Tell him his parents and sister died in a car accident or something? Have you any idea the impact that has on a child?"
"Memory Charms can always be removed," said the Healer weakly. "Should the family's condition improve, Duncan will be reunited with them immediately."
"And when will that be?" she shot back, her eyes growing bright. "A month? A year? Ten years? You'd put him through the additional trauma of finding out his parents were alive and that he'd been separated from them against his will?"
Harry felt a strange ache watching Hermione's face. This was very personal for her. After Voldemort's death, Hermione removed the eleven-month Memory Charm she'd placed on her parents. When Hermione's mother found out what her daughter had done, she did not speak to her for nearly a year. Hermione wrote of her guilt in letters to him during her seventh year at Hogwarts; it was one of the worst times of her life.
Harry leaned forward. "Healer Waltham, this can't be done," he said darkly. "Duncan's parents are alive and healthy apart from their memory losses. Surely there's no better place for him than with his parents."
"I understand your concern," Waltham said, looking anywhere but Hermione, "but Duncan simply cannot stay. Besides the drain on hospital resources, surely you've realized that Duncan is not thriving here? St. Mungo's is no place for a Muggle child. He needs to attend a school, be around others like himself. And as the Ministry cannot risk releasing Duncan to the Muggle world un-obliviated, we have to do something."
Harry and Hermione grew still at his words. Indeed, Duncan was not thriving. They both knew that. He was caged in an institution that hated him. Every moment of his life defined by his inferiority. Well, Harry knew what that was like.
Looking at Hermione, the words came to his lips easily. "I'll pay for Duncan's upkeep."
They both stared at him.
"Er, that's very…generous, Chief Potter," the Healer said after a moment. "But, I don't think that would be—"
"No," Hermione interrupted, turning to Waltham. "No. I'll pay for Duncan's expenses."
"Hermione," said Harry.
That same tender, but calculating, look had returned to her eyes. She reached out and placed her hand on his knee.
"I will. No arguments."
He fell silent. Looking at her small hand on his large knee, he thought he was supposed to remember to do something...
Waltham watched their exchange with a furrowed brow. "Chief Potter, Counselor Granger," he said, "I understand your desire to help the boy, but he needs more than financial support now. He needs a school. He can't attend a Muggle school as he is now. He'd be too tempted to tell his Muggle friends about what he's seen here."
Harry thought of what Duncan told him the night of the dinner party, after his first ride on a broomstick.
I won't tell anyone. I don't have anyone to tell.
"What about home-schooling?" said Hermione eagerly. "His mother can't teach him because of her…memory block, but what about his father?"
Healer Waltham was shaking his head. "Mr. Cameron's intellectual faculties were the most severely damaged of the four. His failure to remember his occupation stems from a larger inability to use his higher-level thinking. He would hardly make for an appropriate teacher."
She turned to Harry. "Is there anyone we know? Someone who could tutor Duncan? Mrs. Weasley's too busy to manage, I reckon. Same with my parents, and they aren't properly trained. Is there anyone else?"
Harry searched his mind but no obvious answer came. After a moment, she said, "I'll do it. I'll teach him myself. I can make time after work…or maybe early in the mornings."
This time, Harry reached out his hand.
"Hermione," he said, shaking his head softly, "you don't have the time. You're running ragged as it is preparing for the trial."
"I could do it," she said softly, staring at his hand over hers. "He's right. Duncan has to go to school."
"It's not up to you to do everything," he replied just as softly.
Healer Waltham cleared his throat.
"You see," he said, somewhat smugly, "there is no other option than Obliviation at this point. I'm sorry, but releasing him to a Muggle school with his memories intact is simply out of the question—"
"What if he's not sent to a Muggle school…" Harry said slowly.
"What?" said Hermione and Healer Waltham.
"What if we keep him in this world? What if we send him to the Agrippa School?"
Two sets of wide eyes stared back at him—Hermione with sheer adoration, Healer Waltham with sheer disbelief.
"I'm sorry," the Healer sputtered. "The best wizarding preparatory school in the country? You want to send Duncan there?"
"Yes."
The Cornelius Agrippa School for Elementary Wizardry in London was the same school Lily and Hugo attended. All of Harry and Hermione's children went to the prestigious academy before their entry into Hogwarts. These days, most magical families sent their children to preparatory schools rather than home-schooling.
"A Muggle in a wizarding school? Why don't you just send him to Hogwarts then?" the Healer cried, throwing up his hands. "It's ridiculous, preposterous—"
"It's perfect," Hermione beamed. She clutched Harry's hand so tightly he was losing feeling in his fingers. "The deputy headmistress is a friend of mine. She may be able to pull some strings. Most of the classes are basic maths, reading, and history. None of the children are allowed to perform magic, so he'd be at no disadvantage. There's one problem though," she said, thinking fast, "Duncan's eleven. Agrippa only teaches up to age ten…"
"You see? Quite impossible," the Healer interjected.
"Should it matter, really?" Harry said levelly, glaring at the man. "Agrippa is advanced. Duncan will probably be at or close to his level. Isn't the most important thing that he remain in school, close to his parents until they improve?"
"Yes," Hermione agreed immediately. "I'll speak to Elda Stalk, the deputy headmistress, about it. I'm sure it'll be no problem."
"Counselor," Waltham protested, "I already have the order for Duncan's Obliviation. It's signed and scheduled to happen at four. I don't think—"
"Who signed it?" Hermione demanded, using her most lawyerly voice again.
"Well, I did…" said Waltham weakly, "and the senior director at the Office of Wizard-Muggle Exchange."
"Who is?"
Waltham glanced at a parchment on his desk. "Xavier Dodderidge."
Dodderidge was a high-ranking official but, in the few times Harry had met him, Harry knew he had no real interest in Muggle relations. He was the ambitious civil servant type, constantly jockeying for a more prestigious assignment.
But Hermione was smiling sweetly at Waltham. "Well, you certainly agree we should postpone his Obliviation, don't you? You'll reconsider the order, of course, after everything we've discussed."
"Counselor, I..."
"What's the problem, Fredrick?" asked Hermione with false innocence. "Duncan will receive an education, his expenses will be paid for, and, most importantly, he will be with his family. Surely this is the best option now."
"Of course," the Healer mumbled. "But—but Duncan's place at Agrippa is not assured. And there's Mr. Dodderidge…"
"If I can ensure his place and Mr. Dodderidge agrees, you'll rescind the order?"
"That seems—"
"You can have no objection then," said Hermione, crossing her arms, "unless you've some personal reason for wanting to remove Duncan?"
Waltham's brow furrowed. "No, not at all. The boy is a nuisance, but—"
"Then it'll be good to have him away from the hospital eight hours a day, wouldn't it?" she pressed brightly.
"But the deadline, Counselor. It's three hours away. To process a hold on the order takes time..."
Hermione bit her lip. She glanced at Harry before she spoke. "I'll be back before four."
With that, she stood and Harry followed suit.
"But, Counselor—"
"Before four!" she called cheerily and she slammed the door behind them.
Outside, however, her face fell. Pacing down the hallway, she turned to him.
"You need to stay with Duncan," she whispered urgently.
"What?"
"Lower your voice," she hissed, glancing down the corridor. "You heard him. Waltham has the order. Despite everything we talked about, there's nothing stopping him from carrying it out except us…and I have to go."
"Go where?"
She shushed him again. "Weren't you listening?" she said in a most Hermione-like tone. "I've got to convince Xavier Dodderidge to rescind the order, and that means I need to meet Elda Stalk to make sure Duncan has a place at Agrippa. So, I need you to stay. Please?"
Her eyes had a bright intensity he knew well. The same light that came to them when she spoke of house-elf liberation and placing jinxes on snitches. But something else pulled at him. A promise he had made. He could barely remember it now...
"What would you have me do, Hermione?" he whispered back sharply. "Stand between Duncan and his Healers? Fight them off?"
"Precisely," she said, failing to detect his sarcasm. "It hopefully won't come to that…but stall. Delay them. Spend the day with Duncan. If you're with him, they won't dare touch him."
Harry wanted to roll his eyes, but resisted. "How long is this supposed to take?"
"I'll leave for Elda's now, explain the situation," she said, thinking quickly. "I don't think she'll take too much convincing. All I need is a verbal promise Duncan can attend. Then, I'll head to the Ministry."
"Will Dodderidge be there?"
"I don't know," she said, considering this for the first time. She often failed to realize people didn't work through the weekends like she did. "Someone at the Office will know where he is. Maybe at the Quidditch pitch. That match is today, right?"
Harry's stomach dropped. The match. He'd promised Ginny. He had to go. He couldn't stay here.
"Hermione—" he started desperately, hating how she'd look at him when he said the words.
"So maybe two hours, all in all. Plenty of time, don't you think?"
She looked up at him expectantly, her soft and brilliant eyes watching his face. He looked back and, in the next moment, felt his resolve leave him like water through cupped hands.
"Two hours. You promise?"
If he was lucky, he'd catch the tail end of the match.
"Yes." There was something tender in her face as she picked up his hand. "Before I forget to say it...you're wonderful. If you hadn't thought of Agrippa..." She looked away.
Without a thought, as if it was the most natural thing, he took her other hand and entwined her fingers with his.
"Find Elda and Dodderidge," he said gently. "I'll be here."
She nodded, looking at the floor. "Thank you."
"Go."
"Two hours," she sniffed, releasing his hands.
"Two hours."
As Harry walked to the Thickey Ward, he tried not to think of the match. She'd be furious with him. He could only hope it would run long. The Falcons and Cannons were both notoriously bad at Seeking.
Pushing through the swinging doors of the ward, that strange and rare sound met his ears: Duncan was laughing.
Harry separated the partition and stepped inside. Duncan was sitting on his bed with an man Harry had never seen before. He briefly took in the rest of the room. Nicole Cameron, Duncan's sister, lay motionless, her skin paler and blotchier than he remembered, as if she had not been turned in some time. Mr. Cameron sat by the telly holding a book—another crime novel by the looks of it—but his eyes were not moving. He wore a vacant expression.
"Mr. Potter," Duncan said, sliding off the bed. "Where's Miss Hermione?"
He didn't bother to hide his disappointment at finding Harry alone and Harry's mouth twitched. How could he begin to explain what Hermione was doing for Duncan right now?
"She's running an errand," he said instead. "She'll be back in a few hours. What're you up to, then? Did I tell you I brought you a new book?"
Duncan immediately brightened.
"Really? Thanks so much, Mr. Potter! I finished Miss Hermione's books last week and…" The boy looked guiltily towards his bedside table. Harry saw two or three large medical tomes stacked under the lamp.
Harry laughed, reaching into his cloak. "I'm sorry I've only brought one, then. But at least it's about something you've never read before."
Harry held a shrunken version of Quidditch Through the Ages on the palm of his hand.
"Engorgio!" said Harry and the book bloomed to its true, mammoth size.
"Wow," Duncan breathed, taking it. "Quid-ditch? Lily told me about this! With the brooms and hoops!"
"Yes," Harry smiled. "It's basically our version of football."
He found a strange pleasure in telling Duncan about these things, like explaining a cultural quirk to a foreigner.
The unknown man, who'd watched Harry and Duncan's exchange silently, stood. He knelt down to address the boy.
"I'd better go, Duncan," he said kindly. "Healer Belby is leading a seminar in the Brain Ward."
"Oh," the boy said, face falling. "Okay."
The man ruffled Duncan's hair and glanced at Harry. He stopped, however, at the look on Harry's face.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, realizing he was staring. "But, are you a doctor?"
"Yes," the man replied, bemused.
"A real doctor? Like a Muggle doctor?"
Again, Harry knew little of Muggle medicine, but the man before him dressed very similarly to Dr. Srinivasan. The same crisp, white coat. The same air of intelligence and cleanliness. Harry had to imagine that, amid the lime green robes of the Healers, this man looked exceedingly out of place. Like a dove amid peacocks.
"So I've been told," the man laughed. "I'm Dr. Peck. You can call me Alex."
He held out his hand.
And then it came to Harry. "I read your name in the Prophet," he said, taking his hand. "You're one of the Muggle doctors on that fellowship?"
"Yep. Been here just over two weeks," Alex replied. "Met Duncan my second day. It's hard to find others likes us around here, so we stick together."
The doctor was handsome. Slightly shorter and younger than Harry, he had dark brown hair and hazel eyes deeply set into a light olive face. His features were only slightly distorted by a thin scar that ran from his left nostril to his lip. Instead of scrubs, he wore a white button-down shirt and navy trousers beneath his doctor's coat.
"This is Mr. Potter, Alex," Duncan piped up, perhaps having a mature premonition that an introduction was required.
"You can call me Harry."
"Harry, okay. Wait...your name," the doctor hesitated, brow furrowing. "I'm sure I've heard it before too. Maybe in my orientation material, but that was some time ago..." His eyes widened. "Oh god. Are you—are you the Prime Minister of Magic?"
A bark of laughter escaped Harry's chest before he could stop it. How nice not to be known for once.
"No, not at all," Harry grinned. "That post's been held by the same man for some twenty years. I'm an Auror. Chief of the Auror Department, actually. We're like police in this world."
"An Aur-or," Alex repeated, turning the word over in his mouth. "Well, I am sorry, then. But—and again, my apologies—are you important? I could've sworn I saw your name a lot. There was a war some time back, right?"
"There was a war."
The doctor looked at him eagerly, clearly expecting more. But when Harry said nothing, he cleared his throat.
"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you," he said. "I reckon you know Duncan too?"
The boy had grown tired of the adults' conversation. He sat on his bed, already ten pages deep into Quidditch Through the Ages.
"Yes. My best friend is the lead Ministry prosecutor for the Camerons' case." He ran an agitated hand through his hair. "I'm guessing you heard what happened?"
"Bits and pieces."
"Right. Well, I certainly don't mean to keep you, if you need to go. I'm in charge of watching Duncan for the next few hours."
"You're in charge?" the doctor repeated. "Duncan needs the wizard police to watch over him?"
Harry laughed uncomfortably. "It's a favor…for my friend."
"Who's the friend?"
"Hermione Granger. I'm sorry, Weasley. Or Granger. Both are…both are used."
This time, recognition lit the doctor's eyes. "Hermione Weasley? I met her! She was at the welcome dinner earlier this month. From what I gathered, she's one of the founders of this exchange programme. So, she's pretty important too, then?"
"She's very important."
"She seemed very clever."
"She's brilliant."
Stop it.
"So, she has you babysit her clients, is that it?" Alex said with a sardonic smile. "You're a good friend."
"No, it's not like that," Harry said stiffly. He looked at Duncan. "It's a complicated story."
The doctor followed Harry's eyes and nodded.
"I understand." He paused. "You know, I don't need to go to this seminar. I won't be needed, to say the least. Would you and Duncan care to visit the courtyard? The weather's not bad for it."
"Er, sure," Harry replied. "Why not?"
The courtyard had a fine garden. The five floors of St. Mungo's loomed above so that the square of sky seemed far, weak, and inconsequential. Stone benches followed a geometric pattern around the square, interspersed with the imposing busts of medi-wizards past. The older busts had been weathered beyond recognition into face-shaped lumps of stone.
Duncan sat by the central fountain, reading his book. Dr. Peck and Harry took the short, circular path.
"How'd you learn about the exchange programme?" Harry asked.
"Through my friend, Dr. Reyes," Alex replied. "She was a fellow two years ago. I've been told that the first doctors in this programme were all relatives of witches and wizards. I don't have any magical people in my family, so it's sort of odd I'm here…."
"Your friend was allowed to tell you about the programme?"
"Not exactly," he said. "Apparently, there's some clause that former fellows can nominate new ones. She nominated me and then, one day, there was a knock at my door and two men in cloaks asked to come inside. At first, you know, I thought they were cultists or evangelists. But they knew my name and mentioned Jessica—Dr. Reyes—so I let them keep talking."
"What was your reaction?"
Alex laughed, remembering. "I called them mad. I said they should see a good doctor—someone who wasn't me—because they needed help. And then, they said they could prove it, right? They said they could show me."
"What did they do?" Harry asked, grinning. The were only five, legal demonstrations of magic for the purpose of proving the existence of wizards to Muggles. The Auror Department typically used them if Muggles were the only witnesses to a magical crime. They were always oblivated soon afterwards, of course.
"One of the wizards sprouted fire in his hand and then he froze the flames in place."
"Two demonstrations. You must be hard to impress. What did you make of it?"
Alex laughed again. "To be honest, I just sort of stared into space for a long time after that. They gave me chalk. They said if I wanted to know more, if I was interested in learning about magical medicine, then I should put an 'M' on my front door and they'd come back. If I didn't, someone would come by and erase my memory of it ever happening.
"So, I made a strong cup of tea and put an 'M' on my door the next day. The cloaked men came back and explained the rules, which boiled down to 'don't tell anyone about magic.' And here I am."
A door swung open at the far end of the courtyard. Harry touched his wand inside his cloak. A Healer emerged and Harry watched him pass through another exit and disappear.
"So, are you enjoying the programme?" Harry asked casually.
"No. Not at all."
"You're not? Why?" Harry said, taken aback.
Alex was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he said in a low voice, "It's hard to enjoy a programme when your presence is resented at every moment."
"Resented?"
The doctor smiled wanly. "The Healers know there's absolutely no reason for me to be here. I can't perform magic. What use is it for me to learn the intricacies of Brain Transfiguration or brewing the ideal Replenishing Potion? I'll never be able to do it and they'd never be allowed to perform it on a non-magical person. So, what's the point?"
Harry felt an odd compulsion to defend the programme. Hermione, and so many reform-minded officials he knew, put tremendous store into the wizard-Muggle exchanges that now dotted almost every level of the Ministry.
"Isn't it enough that you're...increasing understanding, building connections and all that?"
"Yeah, but usually in an exchange programme there's some sort of exchange," he said quite bluntly. "Do you see any Healers lining up to shadow doctors in our hospitals?"
When Harry said nothing, Alex continued. "From my first day, the Healers made it very clear that they think non-magical medicine beneath them. At best, it's unnecessary. At worst, it's barbaric. Bit hard to have an exchange when that's the mentality."
"If you feel that strongly about it, why haven't you told anyone?" Harry asked, growing annoyed. "The administrators would surely let you leave, if you wanted."
"But I don't want to leave."
"If you can't find any good in it—"
"There is some good," Alex said quietly, "and it has to do with that boy by the fountain."
Harry stopped in the path, staring hard at the doctor. "What's Duncan got to do with it?"
"Well, he's why I want to stay."
"I don't understand."
"He and his family lost their memories, right? From what I've gathered, something horrible was done to them, something that's left them deeply scarred. They're suffering from a trauma they can't remember. I'd like to change that."
Harry continued to stare at him. It was the first time he'd heard anyone—apart from Hermione—speak positively of the Cameron's prospects.
"Waltham said everything they've tried hasn't worked," said Harry lowly.
"And why hasn't it worked?"
"Well, I suppose because they're Muggles. Magic doesn't affect them the same way it does us."
"Right," Alex said, his eyes brightening. "And why is that?"
"I'm not a Healer. How should I know?"
Alex grinned widely. "But that's just it. Not even the Healers know."
"I'm sorry?"
The doctor glanced around the courtyard and started walking agin. Harry followed suit.
"Do you know anything about the origins of magic?" he asked Harry quietly.
"Like the historical origins?"
"No. I mean the biological origins, the physiological origins."
"Like where magic comes from in the body?" He paused, considering. "Well, I reckon it comes from our blood."
"Do you know for sure?"
"I've—I've never thought about it," Harry said honestly. "We're separated into purebloods, half-bloods, and Muggle-borns, so I reckon it has something to do with blood."
"But you all can perform magic equally, right?" Alex pressed, almost breathless. He seemed thrilled someone was actually answering his questions. "What I mean to say is that having extensive magical ancestry doesn't necessarily mean you're a better wizard, right?"
Harry thought of small girl with bushy hair, her hand shooting into the air. Of reams of parchment falling onto the floor of the Gryffindor common room. He thought of the casual prejudice of a former professor who'd been shocked to learn a Muggle-born was the best in Harry's year.
"Yes," he said with certainty.
"So magic has nothing to do with the amount of magical blood you have, then."
"You must have some though, right?" Harry reasoned. "It's always said that Muggles are Muggles because they don't have a drop of magical blood."
"Yes, that's the definition I was given too."
"The definition you were given?" Harry repeated, disbelieving. "You mean to say that's not the real definition?"
The doctor shrugged. "I will admit that one of the best things about this fellowship is that I'm granted access to the medical library here. I'm told it's the best one in Europe. But would you believe I've found basically no research on the biological origins of magic?"
"And by biological you mean…?"
"I mean, how does magic work?" he laughed, almost exasperated. "How does it actually manifest from the mess of guts and nerves our bodies are? The fact that you all can control your magic suggests the brain is involved. In the same way my brain can order my hand to rise..." The doctor lifted his palm. "Your brain can direct objects to float or ignite a wand tip."
Harry watched, growing increasingly uneasy, but unwilling to interrupt the doctor's train of thought.
"So how does this happen?" Alex said quietly, more to himself than to Harry. "Based my training, my best guess is that magic originates in the brain and is then sent through the electrical pulses of your nerves to your wand. Or perhaps blood is involved. Perhaps it serves as a courier and interacts with your brain chemistry to produce magic."
Harry was very much out of his depth. "What does this have to do with Duncan?"
"Well, a few things," the doctor said. "First, I'm not convinced that all non-magical people have no magical blood. The fact that two non-magical parents can produce a magical child suggests that magic is hereditary. It suggests one or both of the parents was carrying the gene for magic. Duncan may have that gene."
"Even if that's the case," said Harry slowly, "he's not a wizard so the spells to restore his memory won't work."
Alex nodded. "I should've mentioned at the outset that I'm a brain specialist. You know, I deal with head injuries, brain disorders. That sort of thing."
Harry nodded.
"I see basically two lines of treatment we could try with the Camerons. One involves my speciality and the other doesn't. First, the simpler one. Let's say that magical blood is, indeed, what's required for the Healers' spells to work. Well, from the perspective of our medicine, that's hardly an insurmountable problem."
"It isn't?" Harry said, shocked again.
Alex laughed at his expression. "No, it isn't. A simple blood transfusion from a magical donor could very well solve the problem."
"A blood transfusion?"
"Yes. We would replace a significant portion of the Camerons' blood with blood from a magical donor. While the blood is fresh in their system, a Healer could try the spells and counter-charms again and look for any response. This could be done several times, if necessary. The Camerons will be safe so long as the blood types match. Eventually, the donor's blood would be flushed out and the Camerons would go back to their normal state."
"What's the second option?"
The doctor watched Harry for a long moment, almost as if gauging whether to trust him.
"It's considerably more complicated," he said, his voice falling to a whisper. "Have you ever heard of gene therapy?"
Harry shook his head.
"It's a relatively new field, but things are changing rapidly these days," he explained quietly. "We have the rudimentary tools to edit genes, or add genes, to treat certain diseases in my world."
"You all can do that?" he said before he could stop himself.
Alex was not offended, though there was long suffering air to his smile. "You see? That's what the Healers could learn from us. Science is our magic."
"So you could use this...technique on the Camerons?"
"In principle, I believe so. Say a blood transfusion doesn't work and the Camerons actually need to produce magic in order for the spells to work. Well, we could develop a gene therapy that either activates the magical genes the Camerons already have or adds them to the DNA of the relevant cells. Perhaps then the Healers' spells would finally work. We would need to understand the magical genome better, of course, to know which cells to target. My best guess is we'd need to start with brain or nerve cells—"
"Wait. Hold on." Harry stopped again. It was too much to take in. "You're...are you saying this therapy would alter their genes so they could perform magic? That—in a sense—they'd become magical?"
Again, Alex gave him a level look before he smiled, looking pleased. "You know, I've explained this procedure to perhaps a half dozen Healers. You're the first one who's realized what it could mean."
Harry was far from pleased.
"Do you realize what you're talking about?" he hissed. "You're saying you can turn Muggles into wizards. Do you have any idea what that would mean to this world—"
"I have some idea," Alex said tersely, and a dark thread of anger tinged his voice. "Two weeks of coming here is a lifetime's education. You don't need to tell me what it would mean."
Harry stared at him. "This is insanity."
It was a blood supremacist's worst nightmare. It was like saying there was no real difference between the populations at all. Like magic was not a birthright, but a choice. If Muggles accepted magic, if they could simply elect to become wizards, why there'd be no need to separate the two worlds any longer.
He needed to sit down. There was a bench several paces away and he lowered himself onto it, feeling numb. Alex came to sit next to him.
"Don't look so worried, Harry," the doctor sighed. "This is all theoretical. As advanced as the field has become, we'd essentially be starting from scratch in the Camerons' case."
"How d'you mean?"
"It's what I said before. We haven't sequenced the magical genome. We don't know which genes are magical, so we don't know which ones to alter. As far as I know, no witch or wizard has undergone genetic analysis. We'd have to test hundreds of wizards to get an accurate read. And could we find that many people who'd consent to have their blood taken by a doctor?"
Alex sighed again. "Even if we did identify the correct genes, there's no telling whether the Camerons' bodies would accept them. If they're rejected, it could actually worsen their condition. And finally, how would I get clearance for any of this? It's not like I can exactly wheel the equipment into the Thickey Ward. I'm not even a geneticist. No. Just because it may be theoretically possible doesn't mean it actually is."
The two men fell silent, both looking out at the center of the courtyard. Duncan had put down Quidditch Through the Ages and was walking along the edge of the fountain, arms outstretched, as though on a high wire.
The boy looked so like his own green-eyed son. They shared that same goodness, that same intelligence and curiosity. Harry remembered the grounds of Clymene Court, where Duncan had asked him why their two worlds must remain separate. How sure Harry had felt of his answer then.
Slowly, like the warmth of the sun in winter, he began to feel a small measure of that animus that defined Hermione's character—that force that made her fearless in confronting blood supremacy. The impulse that brightened her eyes as a fourth-year when she founded S.P.E.W. The same crackle of energy when Hermione addressed Theodonus Callahan in a darkened cell.
And now, Harry felt it too.
"But," he said slowly, watching Duncan, "if it were possible, it would help the boy? It would help them?"
Alex turned to look at him, surprise touching his features. "I believe it would," he said. "But if anyone ever found out—"
"They won't."
"What do you mean?"
Harry gave the doctor a half-smile. "You were right about one thing. I am a very important person in this world."
At two, Harry, Alex, and Duncan took a late lunch in the Tea Room. The hospital's visitors and Healers looked curiously at the wizarding celebrity eating with two Muggles, but Harry ignored them.
By a quarter to four, they had returned to the Thickey Ward. Harry and Alex spoke in low voices by Nicole's bed. Duncan was still immersed in Quidditch Through the Ages. He was nearing the end.
It was then that the doors of the ward flew open with a resounding bang. Harry reached for his wand.
A second later, Hermione ran through the partition and threw herself onto him in a hug that nearly knocked him flat.
"Oh, Harry!" she said in an enraptured whisper. "Duncan has a place! He can start the week after next!"
"Fantastic," he murmured into her hair. He tried to ignore the way his body responded to her breath against his neck, her chest pressed tightly to his.
The doctor cleared his throat behind them.
They disentangled themselves and Harry brought Hermione forward.
"Alex, this is Hermione Granger."
The doctor extended his hand. "It's a pleasure to see you again. We met at the welcome dinner a few weeks ago."
"Of course," she said, taking his hand. "Duncan told me you've been visiting. I'm so glad. I can't seem to get away enough."
"I understand," Alex said kindly. Watching them a moment, he said, "I'd better head out. My girlfriend's expecting me for dinner."
Harry and Hermione nodded and Alex bid farewell to the Camerons.
"Oh, Harry," Hermione said again once Alex had gone. "It went perfectly. Elda was so understanding. She's a Muggle-born herself, you know. I did have some trouble tracking down Dodderidge but—"
"Was he at the match?"
"The match?" Hermione repeated, confused. "Well, no. That's where I thought he'd be too, but the pitch was empty when I got there."
Harry's stomach turned. "What d'you mean empty?"
"The match was over," she said offhandedly. "Apparently, the Falcons caught the Snitch an hour in. It was a big surprise."
"So, the Falcons won?" he said numbly.
"I don't know. Maybe?" She was clearly uninterested.
Harry overlooked Hermione's disregard for who exactly wins national semi-finals. A strange dread churned in his stomach.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah," he mumbled. "I'm just late for something."
Ten minutes later, Harry eased open the enormous front door of Clymene Court. It was dark inside, the late afternoon light streaming weakly through the windows.
"Lily! Ginny!" he called.
No answer came and Harry released a breath, hanging his cloak.
"Lily's at Mum's."
He turned. Ginny was standing near the entrance of the library. Her face was like stone.
"Gin," he said, coming towards her. "I'm so sorry about the match. I tried to leave, but Duncan...It was only supposed to take a couple hours. I heard the match ended early."
She didn't say anything. She turned and walked into the library. The dread churned against the walls of his chest.
"I really am sorry," he repeated, following her into the darkened room.
She stopped near a table. "Something came for you in the post."
"Oh?"
"The Muggle post."
She faced him and Harry saw the envelope in her hands. The words "Royal London Opera" were written in looping calligraphy on the front. It had already been opened.
"Can you explain this for me, Harry?" she said, voice dangerously soft. "Instead of coming to a Quidditch match—a national semi-final no less—you went to a hospital to visit Muggles. And now you'd like us to go to a Muggle opera."
He couldn't meet her eyes. "I'm sorry. I should've told you."
She stared at him and the silence stretched on like a barren landscape.
"I don't understand you," she eventually said, voice quiet. "Why are you getting involved in all this? What's wrong with you?"
"There's—there's nothing wrong," he could only murmur. "There's nothing wrong with going to look."
Another beat. "You're doing more than looking."
"What does that mean?"
Ginny's gaze fell. She replaced the tickets on the table. "It means you can sleep down here tonight."
She turned out of the room, her boots striking an even cadence on the polished floor.