COLLECTED SHORT STORIES

By

Bfd1235813

Author's Note

An idea for a piece of fiction arrives. One begins to write. The words flow, the plot emerges, the characters show strengths, weaknesses, quirks, affinities, hopes and fears. Conflicts arise, are met, perhaps resolved or deflected. Love buds and blossoms, sometimes. Sometimes it buds and withers, or is plucked. The climax is seen, in the distance. Fingers fly across keys, characters get theirs, for good or ill. Done! One looks at the word count—six thousand? Eight thousand? All that work and sweat for a short story? We read. It's enjoyable. Perhaps we're the only one who will think that way, but so what? A good story does not require 500,000 words to tell. A good story can start and end in an afternoon of prose, if that is all there is to the story. COLLECTED SHORT STORIES is a place to put the runty, the quirky, the short, the ones that aren't much as stories but have some nice sentences that are just little jewels and must be shared. There may be threads between two or three of these pieces, but not necessarily.

Acknowledgment: this is a work of fanfiction, written and posted solely for the enjoyment of readers. The characters derive from the works of JK Rowling as do some locations and institutions. The author makes no claims and receives no remuneration.

A girl from a long line of magicals can't use magic herself but attracts the attention of the dashing hero of the late civil war. She gives birth to his little wizard. Oh, Merlin—who wouldn't be conflicted?

Fragments

London had gotten a good wash overnight. The April rain came down in moderate amounts, mostly, with occasional short bursts of deluge. The majority of the population slept through it all. Late shift police, fire and emergency medical personnel watched warily, especially when they needed to drive through the larger patches of standing water backed up before the drains. The very last thing the driver of an emergency vehicle wants to do is create another emergency by flooding an engine or hydroplaning into something immovable.

A few citizens watched the rain come down. Trucks arrived at the wholesale fresh food markets from midnight until seven or eight. Bakers started baking early. Employees getting up for morning shifts drank their coffee and tea, looking out windows at the lightening sky and slackening rain. Certain people crave those moments. A cup of tea and a window overlooking a street are valued companions for insomniacs. Add the rain, underlain by the sound of tires on wet pavement, for an instant meditative state.

Harry Potter, the unintentional head of household at #12 Grimmauld Place, London, rose between two and three. He put on thick socks and plotted his routes to stay on carpeting until he was well away from the occupied bedrooms. Once downstairs, he boiled water using a silent, magical heating charm, pouring the hot water into a pot and adding four bags of a popular black tea. When the tea had a little color, Potter poured a cup. He added one sugar cube and took the tea and a book to a corner of his living room where stood a substantial wing chair. The chair was next to a bay window, one of the front windows of his house, that overlooked the street and a neighborhood park.

The park occupied a full city block. Grimmauld Place was fortunate. The developer's family had held farmland for generations, growing for the London markets while waiting patiently for London to come to them. Then they had divided up the fields and rationalized the rights-of-way, widening the lanes and creating lots for housing and a great square in the middle of their new suburban community. The works were completed in the second half of the nineteenth century. The rows of townhouses were bought with new money made from East African coffee, importation of beef and hides from North and South America and brokering on the exchanges of fractions of stocks, bonds and shares of insurance policies.

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had been built to the specifications of a couple from two well-established bourgeois families that had been respectable for several generations but hadn't made what was beginning to be called real money. The husband had put everything he had for ready cash into a cousin's small, family-run bank. That bank was acquired by a bigger bank. The minority shareholders were well-rewarded and the young couple invested their share in #12. A few years later, the house was sold for cash during a sharp depression brought on by a financial panic that began in New York.

The buyer worked through a law firm. The sellers never knew the identity of the new owners. If they had, they would have thanked them for taking the house off their hands at the full asking price, something of a rarity in the depressed market.

Workmen wearing peaked caps appeared on Grimmauld Place. If anyone from the neighborhood noticed the tradesmen lacked tools, they kept their observation to themselves. One day, #12 disappeared. It just wasn't there when the sun came up. The neighbors seemed to forget it had ever existed. The standard explanation, if asked, was that a surveyor's error caused the house numbering scheme to skip from #11 to #13. If they thought about it at all, people might say the quirks were all part of the charm of living in London.

The house had been acquired by a magical family, the Blacks, and had undergone some upgrades, including becoming invisible to anyone who had not been given a kind of pass phrase to enable them to see #12. The house was handed down from one generation of Blacks to the next until the late twentieth century when an unmarried Head of House had willed his estate to his godson.

That godson, the war veteran Harry Potter, sipped sweet lukewarm tea and looked out at the rain. From time to time he would read a few pages of the Potter family grimoire. The reading was therapeutic. Three in the morning is not a good time for many war veterans. The Potter grimoire transported Harry from his solitary morning funk into the company of his gaggle of brave, skilled, funny and eccentric forbears.

The rain had stopped when Harry's housemate, a distant cousin named Andromeda Tonks, whom he considered a kind of honorary aunt, came downstairs and saw him in his chair. His feet propped on an ottoman, Potter leaned back, sound asleep. Andromeda left him alone and went on to the kitchen to see about breakfast.

Besides Andromeda and Harry, a third person resided at #12 Grimmauld Place, Harry's godson, Teddy Lupin. Andromeda did the best job possible pulling together breakfast in silence. Harry Potter and Teddy Lupin needed to sleep. Even so, the minimal sounds were enough to bring Potter back to consciousness.

"Hey, Andy," Harry called from the top of the kitchen steps.

"Harry!" Andy answered. "It sounded like millstones grinding in there so I left you alone."

"Thanks for that," he said. "I don't know what it was, once I woke up I just couldn't get back."

Andromeda had lost her husband, daughter and son-in-law in the long civil war within Magical Britain. She knew about sleepless nights.

"Sure," she said. "Thought I'd have scrambled eggs."

"Ah. Maybe I will too," said Potter. "Be right back."

By the time he returned, showered, shaved and dressed for his day, Teddy Lupin had joined Andromeda at the ancient plank table in the kitchen.

"My man," said Potter, extending his fist toward his godson.

Teddy doubled his own fist and touched his knuckles to Potter's. His godfather smiled at him and Teddy smiled back.

"All set for school?" asked Potter.

Teddy was seven. His teacher didn't give the seven-year-olds homework. Being all set for school consisted of waking up, getting dressed and eating breakfast.

Harry Potter looked around the table. One widow, one orphan. Harry Potter, an orphan himself, was divorced.

'What a bunch of fragments,' he thought to himself.

He smiled a very satisfied smile. They, the three of them, had their traumas. Nevertheless, they all stuck together and helped each other over the rough spots.

When Andromeda left to walk Teddy to school, Potter picked up the Daily Prophet and went out. His destination was a magical neighborhood called Wandwood. Harry Potter found Wandwood more to his liking, as a neighborhood, than Diagon Alley. There were fewer stores and more cafes. Wandwood had nothing like Knockturn Alley and its gaggle of magical misfits. It did have magical antique galleries and second-hand stores, the boundary separating them delightfully vague.

Harry's favorite café ran a popular special every day between nine and eleven. A witch or wizard could order a small carafe of coffee or tea for the same price as a cup of either and the carafe would magically refill itself each time the customer poured a cup. Harry thought it highly congenial company for anyone working the Daily Prophet's magical crossword puzzle.

Wandwood was around two miles distant from #12 Grimmauld Place. The ground was flat and there weren't many busy streets. Potter had tamed his trademark headful of wiry black hair with a pair of enchanted clippers and could stroll unnoticed through both mundane and magical districts.

"Harry!" called the witch behind the counter.

"I'll have the carafe," he said, handing over the amount due plus a generous tip.

The crossword was challenging. Potter was so focused he looked up and was surprised to see his former wife had entered and now sat across from him.

"Oh. Hullo," said Potter when he looked up. "What are you doing?"

"I have a name," said the woman.

Potter felt a bit cheeky.

"Is it still Roxelana?"

"Jerk. That's what it says on my birth certificate, same as always, and I prefer Rox, or Roxie, if you must, same as always," huffed the former wife.

"Figured, never hurts to check," said Potter. "Everything okay?"

"Fine. Can he come stay with you?"

'He' was James Potter, son of Harry with the former wife, Roxelana (Rox) Selwyn. The abrupt request, while superficially simple, was actually complicated.

Harry and Rox were introduced after the end of the Wizarding War. Something clicked, hard and fast. Within days they had commenced what's called a 'torrid affair,' neglecting home and friends to spend every possible moment together. Much of that time was spent in a private and unclothed condition with the predictable result that very soon they were expecting a baby.

Rox' birth family, the Selwyns, was magical but Rox lacked the ability to work magic. In magical slang terms she was a squib. Harry didn't really care. Rox was capable of navigating the hidden magical society. For example, she could see the passage into Wandwood that was obscured so that non-magical people didn't wander in. She had learned all kinds of things growing up a Selwyn. That was a big help to Harry, who, at the time, was still figuring out Magical Britain.

Rox could be testy, the cause not necessarily any nameable thing or condition. Potter thought it was just the phenomenon of a young couple who'd rushed into love, marriage and family doing their getting-to-know-you process backwards.

By the time their son was born, Rox was tiring of Harry's company. Her husband was a hero to their magical associates. She was reminded of the difference between them every time he boiled a kettle of water with a wave of his wand or opened his hand for the pepper shaker that floated over to him. Rox had a secret feeling she couldn't control; rather, it controlled her. She thought the witches and wizards they knew were all looking at them, asking, 'What is he doing with HER?'

Deep down she knew it was what she would be asking.

The Selwyns had seen that Rox was prepared, educationally, for a non-magical life. She found a job in a graphic design shop with on-site childcare. Rox let Harry name his son James Sirius, for Harry's late father and the godfather who left him the townhouse. When they split up, James was the medium that kept them in touch.

"That covers a lot of ground, Rox," Harry said, just a little warily. "I take it you mean today. Or possibly some days tacked onto next weekend?"

Rox sighed.

"No, Harry, I mean…Peter wants to take me to France."

Peter was Constable Peter Smith, an un-magical police officer with no magical antecedents, as far as was known. Harry had met him, introduced by Rox when she was dropping James off for a weekend. Harry remembered it well.

"Peter is with the Met," Rox had said.

Harry tried very hard not to snort or react in any way. A magical Chief Inspector of Harry's acquaintance, who'd applied, been accepted and worked his way up, the same as any non-magical officer, had once related a bit of police folklore. After a certain age, constables who were 'with the Met' were understood to be stuck at grade, most likely until retirement. Harry's instant estimation upon meeting Peter Smith was that Smith was a perfectly adequate station colleague, organizing the colored push pins and moving files from A to B. That was fine with Potter, as long as Constable Smith was good to Rox and James. Following Rox's logic was impossible for Harry but that was her business.

"He wants to take you to France, so James would get in the way?" asked Harry.

Rox didn't answer right away.

"We've talked about getting married," she said.

"Okay. I wish you well," said Harry.

"Peter wants to go to the South of France to kind of see whether we work," said Rox.

"Fine," Harry said.

He didn't have a steady job, so that wasn't a consideration. As a matter of fact, Harry had done something very wise at the beginning of his marriage. He didn't see any harm in letting Rox think he had some accumulated savings that he used for their living expenses, while obscuring the sources and amount of his actual income. The dating and marriage had been one of those whirlwinds of which one hears. Harry didn't have any reason to think they wouldn't have a long life together so he decided to let everything come out a little at a time. When Rox began to get restless, even before James was born, Harry was glad he'd had the foresight to exercise some discretion.

"So, can I bring him over?"

The realization hit Harry so hard it felt like a physical blow. Rox was ready to give up James to get Peter. That meant Peter had been ambivalent, at best, about forming a household, a family, with Rox and James.

"Now?" asked Harry. "Where is he? Is he ready to go?"

"Oh, he's home, with Peter," said Rox. "His go-bag is packed."

Potter improvised, thinking while he was moving.

"Why don't I just come with you and bring him back myself? We're simply adding a few days to his weekend," said Harry while strongly suspecting he was embarking on much more than a few days.

"Oh. That's accommodating," said a pleased-looking Rox.

"Rox, it's the least I can do," said Harry. "We'll go this way."

The café had a wall with a protrusion caused by a chimney that formed a hidden niche perfect for traveling by apparation. Magical people used it all day and well into the night.

"I'll just take us both, if that's okay? Or did you drive?" asked Harry.

"I took the bus," said Rox.

Harry had come and gone, picking up his son from his former wife's neighborhood plenty of times, using a spot between some shrubs and a maintenance shed in a nearby park. He was, at the same time, agitated and determined not to show it so he tried to make some innocuous conversation as they walked to Rox's building. The overnight rain had made plenty of mud, so Potter touched Rox's forearm with a finger, just to signal 'Stop' for the casting of a little shoe-cleaning charm.

Rox flinched and drew back.

"What?" Harry asked.

He hadn't missed the flinch and momentary flick of her eyes toward her building. He looked down and to his right, his wand hand.

"Shoes?" he asked.

"Oh, thanks," said Rox, lifting her right foot.

"Where are you going?"

"Nice, to start," said Rox.

"Sounds great. Ever see Picasso around?"

"He's been dead quite a while," answered the ex.

"Oh. Guess that would…"

"But there is supposed to be plenty of art nearby," said Rox, apparently desiring to make up for the absence of el Maestro.

"Here we are."

Rox produced her key card and let them into the first-floor vestibule. Harry looked around. He had always liked the tilework in the building. The colors were so wild they might have referenced something magical. Rox's flat was one floor up so Potter started climbing. Rox was more lift-oriented but she sighed and fell in behind.

"When?"

Potter heard James through the door. He turned and looked for Rox, willing her to move. He was ready to knock when she reached the top of the stairs, so he waited.

"Soon," said Constable Smith.

'Merlin,' Potter thought. 'He does sound like he will retire as a constable. Good place for him.'

Then he felt cross with himself for being uncharitable in his thoughts. He didn't know what tools Peter Smith had in his toolbox. Maybe he was doing the best he could do. If he was honest, kept his nose clean and treated Rox well, anything else was outside Harry Potter's purview. He possessed enough residual affection for the former spouse to hope she had an enjoyable and fulfilling life, even if she hadn't wanted to stick around and raise their son together.

The door opened and James shouted.

"DAD!"

"My man!" Potter replied, kneeling down. "Look at that, you're taller than me already."

"You are kind of short," noted James.

Potter got off his knees and stood up.

"Peter," he said.

He found it very uncomfortable, having to remember he was, in theory, on a first-name basis with the muggle constable.

"Harry! Good to see you. Thanks for doing this, I was able to take a little leave so it's worth our while going. Rox is charitable enough to come along," Smith said, with a big smile for Rox.

"She's good company," acknowledged Potter. "I'm sure it will be a great trip to an interesting part of the world. Have fun. So, James, got everything?"

James grabbed a small backpack and slid his arms through the straps. Neither James nor Rox signaled a need for a good-bye hug.

"Safe travels," Potter said, steering James out into the hall with one hand while he closed the door behind them with the other. Then it was down the stairs and across to the park and the blind spot he had just visited, between the shrubs and the shed.

'Damn,' Potter thought. 'They could make some noise so a citizen would know.'

It was too late. Some people had arrived in the short time since he and Rox had been there. It was a bit late to go another way as the couple had seen them. The girl's hand disappeared where the young man's shirt tail covered the waist band of his jeans while one of his was visible, moving around inside her white blouse.

"Where'd you come from?!"

The man backed away from the hand that had been down inside his trousers, shoving his own hand under his shirt tail. Potter wondered if he was reaching for a pistol under there. It didn't matter because he went flying backwards from Potter's stunner and lay still on the muddy ground.

"Hey, mind your own business, you old coot!" said the girl. "That was a client! Are you going to pay me?"

The light dawned, finally. Young or old, Potter had interrupted a girl at work and cost her some money. He reached inside his jacket and mentally summoned a twenty-pound note.

"Sure," he said, holding it between his first and second fingers, reaching out toward the young woman.

When she reached for the twenty he cast a charm called a confundus, muttering, "Your mother sent you out to get coffee and eggs to bring home and expects a receipt and all of the change."

Her face lost all expression and she brushed by Potter and James on her way out of the little secluded area.

"Not in your hand, you'll lose it, tuck it away somewhere," he said, gratified to see the hand with the note come up to the closure of her blouse.

The young fellow on the ground was unresponsive so Harry Potter decided he'd take the time to tidy up a bit.

"James," he said as he knelt.

James stepped close, so Potter could wrap one arm around his son while he grasped the downed fellow's shoulder with the opposite hand. One quick apparation later put all three back at #12 Grimmauld Place.

All of the houses on Grimmauld Place had sheds in the rear, on an alley that ran the width of the block. The sheds had their origins in a design for a compact urban barn just big enough for a stall, a small carriage and some feed storage. Shortly after the area was developed the private stabling of horses was prohibited and the sheds were turned to other uses. Harry Potter used his as a workspace for anything, magical or non-magical, that hadn't ought to be done inside the house. The apparation from the park terminated inside Potter's shed/workshop. The young man from the park made a few sounds as he was patted down. Satisfied he wasn't sending an armed person right back to the streets, Potter cast a quick enervation and pulled him to his feet.

"Feel okay?" Potter asked, raising his hand and snapping his fingers twice.

"What happened?" asked the guy from the park.

"Don't know," said Potter. "You looked a little woozy. Still do, as a matter of fact. Well, thanks for helping me get that home. We said twenty but I'm going to make it worth your time. Here."

He pressed a wad of notes into the young man's hand as he opened the door to the alley.

"Out to the street there, see it? Then left to the corner. There are cabs going by all the time. Don't take the bus home, you still look a bit greenish about the gills."

The man did exactly as Harry ordered, first to the street then on to the corner. Harry and James stood around under a little occlusion charm until they saw him flag down a cab and get in. Once the cab was out of sight, Harry took James back through the shed, which he locked from the inside, then on across the garden to the house.

"We're home!" Potter called as they entered.

Kreacher, the house elf who kept things regular at #12 Grimmauld Place, was the first to greet them.

"Master James, welcome back," said Kreacher. "Master Teddy will be so glad to see you. I hope you have come for a good, long stay."

"Thank-you, Kreacher," said Potter. "Is Lady Andromeda at home?"

"She was discussing baths with Zephyr," said Kreacher.

Zephyr was Andromeda's lady's maid elf. Drawing baths, tidying Andromeda's rooms and overhearing things she could report to her mistress all combined to give Zephyr's life meaning.

"If I were to need to get a message to Lady Andromeda, Zephyr…" Potter began.

Luckily, at that moment, Zephyr happened to be coming around the corner into the corridor.

"Lord Harry, how nice to see you!" Zephyr began.

Potter knew he had to pinch everything off right then or he'd be lost in a further ten minutes of rhetoric.

"Zephyr, how fortunate for us that you are here, just when I was thinking I needed to talk to you. When your mistress is available, I have some news to pass on. I'll be in the second drawing room," said Potter, leaving so that the elf would not think of another diversion into additional discussion.

"Cookies and milk in the second drawing room, Kreacher?" Potter said as he left.

"Nothing welcomes us home like cookies and milk," he observed when he and James were settled. "What's in your bag?"

"All the things I need," James reported.

It sounded to Potter as if his son was very proud to have put such comprehensive supplies together for his visit. When James unzipped one compartment, Potter could see he'd brought his stuffed bear.

"I guess so. There's your bear. So you're all set to stay for the summer."

James' lower lip protruded a little and began to tremble.

"Hey, what? Is something wrong?" asked Potter.

"Mum said I might have to stay," said James. "She said we'll see. When she comes back."

"That's fine with me," said Potter. "Did she say why?"

"I think Peter," James answered, his voice barely audible.

James looked down as if studying his shoe tops.

"Something happened."

Potter leaned forward. When he spoke, he kept his voice down.

"Want to tell me the rest?"

"Okay, so, I dropped a spoon on the floor and I just put my hand out and thought I wanted to pick it up and then it was in my hand. Peter wanted to see it again but it didn't work. Then they went in the bedroom and shut the door and had a fight," James said.

Harry Potter saw it all, right up to that moment and further on into the future. His son had two magical parents, even if one was a squib, and had shown his first bit of magical ability. It was perfectly normal, and natural, for magic to manifest in a young witch or wizard, exactly that way. It was also perfectly normal, when a bit of magic took the non-magical muggles by surprise, for there to be a negative reaction, disbelief and demands for explanations. Magic was irrational, after all.

"Ahh-h-h! I see. That happens, nothing to worry about. Is that why your mum and Peter decided to go away, just like that?"

"Yeah. She said they needed to talk and that I wouldn't help," said James.

That made Potter laugh out loud.

"I think she's right about that," he said.

Potter and James turned at the sound of feet in the corridor.

"James!" said Andromeda Tonks when she arrived. "Zephyr said she saw you down here. Teddy's going to be home from school soon. He'll be so glad to see you! How long are you staying?"

"We were just discussing that," said Potter. "James will be here as long as necessary."

Andromeda paused and looked out the window. Harry could see from the way her face went from puzzled to bright and happy that she got it.

"That's wonderful!" she said. "It will be great having you and Teddy together here, you'll see. Now, are those cookies here to sit on the plate or shall we eat them up and spoil our lunch?"

James was unsure, so he looked over at Harry.

"One more can't hurt," Harry assured him.

James commenced a sequence, take a bite of cookie, chew, swallow, slosh a bit of milk around in his mouth, swallow, take a bite of cookie…

"You good? Can I have a word with Gran?"

'Gran' was Andromeda who wasn't actually James' grandmother but she was 'Gran' to Teddy so it made sense to be an Honorary Gran for James. He was dealing with a mouthful of cookie so he remembered his manners and didn't speak, instead nodding vigorously. Harry glanced at the hallway door. Andromeda turned and led the way.

Harry stepped into a little study, waited for Andromeda and closed the door behind them.

"Rox tracked me down in Wandwood," Potter began. "I was drinking coffee and working on the crossword in that coffee shop and she came in and sat down. Wanted to know if he could come and stay. I thought she meant for the day or the weekend or maybe add a few to my vacation days but she meant right now. James said he did a little magic at home and they had a fight. Rox and Peter, that is. He's funding a trip to Nice, allegedly."

"This Peter, I take it, has no experience with magic?" asked Andromeda.

"I don't think so," Potter answered. "Neither one of them was talkative. They had James packed and ready to go when we got to the flat."

Potter and Andromeda stood, silent, pondering the six or eight feet of space between themselves, until Andromeda spoke up.

"We'll have to make sure he has a good time. If his mum comes home, James will expect to go back to her."

Harry finished Andromeda's thought.

"Oh. If Rox and Peter don't want him…"

"Uh-huh," said Andromeda.

Potter felt a sensation of cold, wet, inhospitality wash over him. He had been rejected as a youngster and was too aware of the damage it caused. He would move Heaven and Earth to keep his son free of those feelings.

"Right. I'll get him settled, then maybe take him across the street until lunchtime," Potter said.

The cookies were gone when he got back to James. Potter picked up the backpack and said they'd better unpack. James had his own room upstairs and it didn't take long to put one backpack's worth of clothes away and position the stuffed bear just so on his pillow. The park across the street had trees, grass, bare patches, an iron fence and graveled walkways. James spotted numerous birds and insects that required identification. He didn't seem to have any questions concerning his mother's whereabouts or her expected return.

Potter thought the clothes James brought were ready for replacement. He and Andromeda took Teddy and James to Diagon Alley for some new kit, including tailor-made robes so the young wizards would feel magical at home. A proto-tradition evolved where Teddy and James washed up before dinner then dressed in their new robes on to dine. Dropped silverware was fair game for picking-up by magic, with no fear of criticism or misunderstandings.

Rox got back to London and asked to meet with Harry. Andromeda had been prescient. Although she didn't press for a permanent solution, Rox asked for a little more time. The end of James' visit was left unspecified. Rox seemed to enjoy coming to #12 every week or two. She usually stayed two or three hours, reading books with Teddy and James, sitting on the floor, sharing in whatever treats Kreacher provided.

James turned six. Potter enrolled him in a very good kindergarten for magical children, the same one Teddy had attended. James had no problem adjusting to spending several hours each day in the company of a gaggle of young magicals. Potter was surprised when he recognized he looked forward to Rox coming over. It provided a certain rhythm to James' week.

Signs of a waning summer arrived, long days giving way to noticeably shorter ones, the washed-out colors replaced with warmer autumnal reds and golds. Harry Potter watched the clock, even though he had close to an hour before it would be time to go pick up his son.

"Harry?"

Andromeda stood in the front parlor, looking out a front window.

"What in the world?" Potter asked, looking across the street at his former wife, who was strolling in the park.

Exiting the house via the rear door, Potter crossed the garden and let himself out into the alley. Rox saw him when he crossed Grimmauld Place and waited by a park bench.

"Want to sit down?" she asked.

"Thanks, but there's a perfectly good house right over there," Potter replied, pointing a finger across Grimmauld Place.

Rox hesitated, sizing up first Potter, then the row of townhouses.

"Fine," she said, and fell in, slightly behind, when Potter turned back toward the crosswalk.

Rox' odd, no-notice arrival signaled something, Potter knew. He resolved to keep his mouth shut and wait for her to reveal her purpose.

"Kreacher," called Potter as they entered. "A pot of tea for the drawing room and two cups, please."

"We do maintain a phone, you know," Potter observed as he poured tea.

"It has that strange warble," said Rox. "Are you sure there is no one listening in?"

"No," laughed Potter. "I wouldn't begin to know how to prove it, one way or the other. What is wrong?"

Rox took her time answering, sipping tea, putting the cup down, looking up at the ceiling. Indulging in a long, drawn-out sigh.

"Peter asked me to marry him," said Rox.

Potter nodded.

"You're a divorcee, free and clear," he said. "Are you asking my permission?"

"NO!" she answered. "Ridiculous, Harry, sometimes you…"

"What?" he asked.

"What about James? Don't you care about him?" demanded Rox.

"Of course. He's happy. Doing well in school. He has friends. You don't have to worry about him."

Rox stared, the look on her face not overtly hostile.

"Harry Potter, you are the most frustrating man!" she declared.

Harry Potter often wondered why he still felt such a strong attraction to Rox, something he conceded he did, when she could be so irritating. She'd asked Potter to take their son off her hands for a short vacation. It seemed quite obvious to Potter that she didn't want the responsibility of raising a magical child. Of course there would be complications if she and the non-magical constable were living under the same roof with a child discovering his inherent magic. Potter asked himself once again, just what did Rox want?

"Rox, he's magical and the constable isn't," Potter began. "That wouldn't be a good situation. Don't feel obligated. I understand. So does Andy. Don't cause yourself domestic issues over us."

Rox was still looking unsettled. Potter wondered if she had avoided thinking about the finality of what she was doing before that moment.

Living with a witch, a wizard and a couple of house elves would soon make James a competent beginning student of magic. They would gently guide him in how to recognize when some magic was about to happen. Then they would work with him so that he could control his natural abilities. He would grow confident, concealing his magic around muggles.

When James was formally Harry Potter's sole responsibility, her role would end. She would become a guest in the household that had once been hers, a visitor to the son for whom she had been care-giver, protector and confidant. Potter watched the change take over her face. There would be no more thinking. Roxelana Selwyn, formerly Roxelana Potter, had made her choice and they both knew it. Harry Potter stood, checked his watch and looked at the door.

"You can come back, anytime," he assured her. "Like I said, we do have a phone."