23/08/18
Past Lives
Past lives couldn't ever hold me down
Lost love is sweeter when it's finally found
I've got the strangest feeling
This isn't our first time around
Past lives couldn't ever come between us
Sometimes dreamers finally wake up
Don't wake me, I'm not dreaming
He had never seen her properly until now. Wrapped in the cacoon of her duvet, her arms around him, her skin luminous beneath the lamplight. He could count every freckle on her pristine face: eleven in total.
She ran her fingers over his forehead, brushing his fringe from his eyes, and said softly, 'Do you want me to turn the lights out?'
'I'll fall asleep if you do.'
'You can sleep here. It's okay.'
He shut his eyes, leaning into her. 'My mum will kill me.'
'She doesn't know you came over?'
He shook his head. 'She made Lily and I go to bed as soon as we got home from my grandparents'.'
'Where was James?'
He didn't want to answer this, and so he said, 'I wonder if there'll be a memorial.'
'I'm sure there will be. The Ministry will need do make some sort of gesture.'
'Why's that?'
'To make up for the deaths. The aurors died while trying to defend the Ministry. They should have had more protection.'
'But how could they have expected this? I mean, nothing like this has happened in years and years ago. Not since the war.'
'Yes, but anyone could tell that the tension around blood equality has been rising since Gamp died.' Mei caught the look in his eye and added quickly, 'Not that it's your father job. Shacklebolt should have done something sooner.'
His eyes travelled across her bedroom. He wondered if his parents would attend the memorial; he wondered if he would be expected to attend it. The thought of it made it hard to breathe. He didn't know anybody who had died; he didn't know how to behave around it. He didn't want to think about it; he didn't want to see what his parents had seen.
'Mei, how do you…'
When he trailed off she shifted, turning on her side to look at him. 'Yes?'
He stared back at her across the pillow. 'How do you… how do you get over… I mean, with your dad…'
He stopped talking, but knew that Mei had understood by the small "oh" she murmured. She was silent for several seconds, paused in thought, before in a small voice she spoke.
'You don't really get over it,' she told him. 'You just keep going. And things are different but… but it's not terrible.' She turned deep, brown eyes to look at him before continuing. 'You never really… I mean, it doesn't get better. You don't stop being sad about it but… but I think you can still be happy. Most of the time, at least.'
He saw now that she was crying, and he sat up, reaching for her hand. 'I'm sorry, Mei, we – we don't have to talk about this.'
She shook her head. 'No, it's okay. I don't mind.'
She fell silent and he gazed up at her; she had torn her eyes away from him as she spoke, and was now staring out across her silent bedroom and he followed her line of sight; the corkboard and the far room sat covered in photographs, her father and her in the centre, and he asked softly, 'What was your dad like?'
From the corner of his eye he saw her smile. 'He was… he was really funny. He laughed all the time – just about nothing. He used to say my mum worried enough for the pair of them. I do the same thing, I think. I can't remember if I was like that before he died. I was just little, I suppose. But I think… I don't know. Perhaps if he was still alive I'd be a bit more like him.'
Another silence ensued. He watched her wipe her eyes before she turned to look at him. 'Perhaps we should talk about something else. I'm not very good company when I get sad.'
'That's not true. You're always good company.'
She gave a hushed laugh and raised a hand to trace his chest. 'I like this sweater.'
He looked down at what he was wearing and thumbed the green wool. 'My grandmother makes them.'
'Was it a Christmas gift?'
'From a few years ago. She used to make me and my cousins new ones every year, but I think she realised we were getting too old for them. I worry if I don't wear mine she'll be offended, though.'
'It's the same colour as your eyes.'
'Yes, she does that on purpose.'
Mei was silent for a moment before she asked, 'That Chudley Cannons jumper of yours. You wore it on our first date, remember?'
'Yeah?'
'But you told me you don't like Quidditch.'
'Er – no.' The look in her eye told him she wanted an explanation, and so reluctantly he gave her one. 'It was my brother's. My dad likes flying, but he was raised by Muggles so he doesn't really follow any teams, so my Uncle Ron would take James and me to Cannons matches. I always hated it – it was always so loud and the crowd was always so aggressive. James loved it though, but the Cannons always lose, of course. So, he switched to following Puddlemore after the won the cup in 2012. And then the Harpies when they won the next year, and then Cork, and so on.'
'He doesn't have very strong principles, does he?'
'No, he doesn't.'
'So, you kept the sweater?'
'I found it up in some old boxes in the attic last summer and – and this is really stupid.'
'What is?'
'Well, when Cassie broke up with me I kind of – I kind of had an existential crisis. I just wanted to be – better. And I had this idea that I'd come back to school this year and I'd – I'd be cool. I'd be like – like funny and outgoing and good at Quidditch and…'
'And wearing old Quidditch sweaters was a part of that?'
Grinning, he shook his head. 'I suppose in some way I thought it was.'
Mei frowned and was silent for a few seconds' contemplation, before she said decidedly, 'You're much too tough on yourself.'
He reached for her hand and she responded by lacing her fingers through his before raising her free hand to wipe a tear from her eye. 'Thank you for letting me come over,' he said.
'Thank you for coming over,' she replied. 'I didn't expect to be so bothered by what happened at the Ministry but – but I suppose it's quite sad. My stepfather works there, you know? And if he had been there… I don't know how my mum would cope.'
'You don't have to say thank you,' he said. 'I'm glad I came. I'm glad you let me come over.'
'I did already say you can come whenever you like.'
'I know, I just... I suppose I'm worried you'll get sick of me.'
She shook her head. 'I don't imagine so.'
'Good.' He kissed her forehead before adding, 'I should go soon.'
She ran her fingers through his hair and said, 'Stay a bit longer.'
He tightened his grip on her and she shifted to kiss him. It was a long kiss, slow and soft. He said her name, and she murmured back to show she was listening. He didn't want to stop, but he knew that he had to. He pulled his lips away from hers, but kept her close, his forehead pressed against hers.
'Mei,' he said again.
'Yes?'
'I just… I've never had sex before.'
She didn't reply immediately, and his stomach gave a terrible turn; was he being presumptive?
'Neither have I,' she said finally. 'But it doesn't matter, does it?'
'No, I don't think so.'
And she began to kiss him once more.
'I really should go,' he said to her.
'You keep saying that, but you haven't left.'
'I don't want to.'
'Stay until the morning.' She shifted beside him, stretching his arm over his chest to reach for the alarm clock on her bedside table. 'We'll set an alarm. You can get home before your parents know you're gone.'
She settled back down beside him, placing her face in the crook of her neck, and he pressed his lips against her forehead. 'Okay.'
She woke early the next morning – early even for her. It was still dark outside her window and Hugo was snoring softly beside her. They had fallen asleep with the radio on and she could hear a song she didn't know playing faintly. She reached over to her bedside table to turn it off, moving as gently as she could so as not to wake her brother. She checked her alarm clock; it wasn't even six o'clock, but she knew there was no use trying to get back to sleep.
She tiptoed across her room and retrieved a jumper from her wardrobe. She had slept in the clothes she had been wearing the night before, black tights and a dress that she had gotten too tall for. She looked at herself in the mirror; her hair was a tangled mess, and rather than dealing with it she pulled it back from her face into a haphazard knot and left her bedroom.
As she came down the stairs she could hear hushed footsteps from the kitchen. She came to the door and stuck her head around the corner; her mother had her back the door, standing at the kitchen sink, gazing out the window into the overgrown garden as she washed a frying pan. Her father usually tended to most of the household chores; it was only when her mother's mind wanted a distraction that she did so, and at those times she never used magic, but only her hands.
Rose stood there watching her for a moment, wondering how long her mother had been at it. The frying pan looked spotlessly clean. She stepped into the room. 'Hi.'
Her mother jumped at the sound of her voice. The frying pan slipped from her hands into the soapy water, splashing the front of her robes. She rounded on Rose and immediately tried to compose herself. 'Oh, morning, darling. What are you doing up so early?'
Rose could see immediately that she had been crying. 'Hugo slept in my bed. He was snoring.'
Hermione gave a croaky laugh. 'That's sweet of you not to kick him out.'
Rose didn't have a reply, and so she crossed to the kitchen table and took a seat. 'What time did you get home?'
'About an hour ago. Do you want a cup of tea? I was about to put the kettle on.'
'You haven't slept?'
Hermione crossed to the stove top and set the kettle to boil before replying. 'I couldn't.'
'How many people died?'
Rose knew her mother didn't want to answer. Hermione turned back to the window and fished the frying pan out of the sink. 'You didn't hear the radio last night?'
'No.'
'Good. I was hoping Ron would put you both to bed.'
'He didn't put me to bed. I was listening to music. What happened?'
'It's Ministry business, Rosie.'
'But if it was on the radio, won't it be in the Prophet too?' asked Rose. 'I can just read about it for myself if you don't want to tell me.'
Hermione looked vaguely amused. 'Is that a threat?'
Rose shrugged.
Hermione gazed at her daughter for several seconds before she too crossed the room to take a seat at the table. 'Rosie, you need to know that nothing's going to happen to us. We're very safe here, okay? And Hogwarts is equally protected.'
'I know,' lied Rose.
'I'll tell you what happened but I don't want you to worry, alright? Nothing's confirmed yet.'
'Okay.'
'There were twenty-five aurors stationed at the Ministry last night,' Hermione informed her. 'And they – they all passed away. There'll be a memorial the day after tomorrow.'
'How did they die?'
'We're not sure yet. They were trying to defend the Ministry. The attackers used some kind of dark materials, but the curse breakers haven't been able to identify what it was.'
'Why did they want to break into the Ministry?'
'We don't know that either.'
'They didn't – I don't know, ask for anything? Or make any demands? Or try to contact Kingsley in anyway?'
Hermione frowned at her. 'What makes you ask that?'
'I don't know. Why would they kill twenty-five aurors if they didn't want something?'
Hermione's frown deepened. She seemed to be contemplating her response. She gave a slow sigh before saying, 'They broadcasted over the WWN. They want Kingsley to resign.'
Rose's eyes widened. 'But he's not going to, is he?'
'No, of course not. The Ministry doesn't give into demands of criminals, Rose.'
'So, do you think they'll…' She stopped herself from saying murder more people. '…Target the Ministry again?'
'We don't know, Rosie. We're trying to find out.' Hermione got to her feet under the pretence of tending to the whistling kettle, but once she turned away Rose could see her wiping her eyes.
Rose knew it was a stupid question, but she asked anyway: 'Are you alright?'
Her mother gave a tearful laugh as she filled the teapot. 'Yes, Rosie, I'm fine. I just haven't slept.'
'You can go to bed. I'll bring you tea.'
'No, it's fine. I don't want to sleep yet.'
Rose watched her mother get out two mugs from the cabinet. She knew she should say something more, but she didn't know what. She settled upon, 'I'm sorry about the other day.'
Hermione looked at her. 'About what?'
'After we went out to get coffee. I was being a brat.'
'Oh,' said Hermione, pouring out their tea. 'Well, thank you, Rose. It's alright. But I do wish you wouldn't be so combative all of the time. If I've done something that's upset you can just tell me.'
'I know.'
Hermione returned to the table, setting down two mugs of tea. 'And I'm sorry I didn't tell you there would be aurors guarding the house. I was thinking if I didn't tell you it wouldn't bother you.'
Rose took her mug in her hands. 'It doesn't bother me. I get why they're there. I just don't see why you're not more honest about it.'
Hermione sipped her tea and set the mug back on the table before answering. 'I suppose I forget that you're getting older. You're hard to fool.'
Rose was silent for a moment. Her mother hadn't said a lot, but Rose somehow felt it was more than they had said to each other in a while. She watched as Hermione got to her feet to refill her cup of tea.'
'I had sex with Andrew.'
Halfway between the kitchen table and the counter, Hermione turned back to look at her. She was frowning, as if having not heard her properly, and Rose felt compelled to keep talking. 'The Muggle boy down the road. The one who thinks my phone's broken.'
Hermione continued to frown at her. She wearing the same expression she wore when she was called into the office on a weekend; a kind of unhappy intrigue. When she spoke her voice sounded very calm; it was strange to think she'd just been crying. 'I didn't know that.'
Rose found it difficult to look at her, and so she stared down into the depths of her mug. 'I know you didn't. I thought I'd tell you because – I don't know why, really.'
Without looking her, Rose watched from the corner of her eye as her mother re-joined her at the table. Rose heard her give a sigh of dismay, before she asked, 'Is he your boyfriend?'
'No.'
'Was he your boyfriend at the time?'
'No. Well, not really. I wouldn't say so.'
Hermione was silent. Rose knew she was trying to quell her disapproval. 'When was this?'
'In July.'
'In July?' At the alarm in her mother's voice, Rose looked up at her. Hermione was watching her with a worried look on her face. 'Oh, Rose.'
'It was only one time. It wasn't a big deal.'
'It should be a big deal.'
Rose couldn't help but roll her eyes. 'You're so old fashioned.'
Hermione frowned. 'No, I'm not.'
Rose couldn't help but laugh at this.
'Rose, it's not funny.'
'It kind of is. I thought you'd be above being offended by being called old fashioned.'
'But I'm not old fashioned. Was he the first person you've slept with?'
'Yeah.'
'But he wasn't your boyfriend?'
'No. I mean, I did like him. At the time, at least. He was nice. He doesn't know you and Dad are famous which was…' She stopped to choose the right word: '...different. But afterwards I just – he just irritated me. As soon as we did it, I wanted to leave. I don't know why.'
Hermione's eyes softened and when she spoke her voice was far too gentle for Rose's liking. 'That happens. That's normal.'
'That's depressing.'
Hermione laughed. 'You're such a cynic, Rosie.'
'You always tell me that.'
'Yes, and it still surprises me. I've never know what to expect from you.'
Her mother had told her this on several occasions, but she had not yet learnt how to respond to it. She realised she didn't much feel like talking anymore. She drank the last of her mug of tea and got to her feet. 'I think I might go have a shower.'
'Okay. Thank you for being honest with me, Rose. I appreciate it.'
Rose stared into her empty mug to avoid her mother's eye. 'Alright.'
'I'd like to think you'll keep telling me what goes on in your life.'
Against her better judgement, Rose replied, 'But you don't tell me what goes on in yours most of the time.'
'I can try if you do.'
Rose considered this, before giving a nod. 'Okay.'
'Is there anything else you want me to tell you?'
'Not that I can think of.'
'And is there anything you think I should know from you?'
Rose hesitated. There was Scorpius Malfoy. There was James sneaking out of the castle. There was the knowledge that her mother had far more important things to think about that her and Albus's own theories.
Rose shook her head. 'I don't think so.'
Snow had been falling on Godric's Hollow all through the night and day. It ought not to have been, he thought; the view outside his window was far too docile for what he was doing.
He tore his eyes from the window and back to the parchment before him. It was the auror office's roster for the week of the nineteenth. He had scribbled it out two weeks previously at eight o'clock on a Friday night when he was half-asleep and trying to get home in time to eat with Ginny. He had picked twenty-five names from his staff at random, as he did every time it came to do the roster, quickly and thoughtlessly.
His eyes travelled over the parchment. The twenty-fives names before him belonged to dead people. He needed to memorise them; he needed to burn them into his brain. He was the one who put them there; he was the reason they had had to die.
Matilda Clearwater. Farha Baqri. Jonathon Chang.
On and on it went. They were all gone now, and their bodies needed to be returned to their families.
There was the rap of fingers against wood and he looked across his study to see Ginny in the doorway, her coat slung over her arm. He very rarely shut the door to his office - a habit from when the children were young, so they could interrupt him when they needed - but Ginny always knocked anyway. She had always respected his work, even if she didn't like it.
'Are you busy?' she asked him.
Of course he was busy, but what did anything he could do matter?
'No,' he replied.
'I'm going to meet Neville and Luna for a drink.'
'Okay.'
She stopped herself from frowning; she was trying to be patient with him. 'Do you want to come?'
'I would, but I can't. I need to sort out this roster and see to - see to taking on new recruits.'
He looked away from her. He could feel her eyes upon him, distant and pitying. The names ran through his head again.
Indrahit Acharya. Anna Lewis. Christos Fortescue.
'Surely that can wait until after the memorial,' said Ginny. 'Nobody expects you to be working right now.'
'I need it done as soon as I can.'
Ginny sighed and shut her eyes. She had apparently decided he wasn't worth her efforts, for she said, 'I'll tell them you're busy then.'
'Thanks.'
She pulled on the coat she was holding, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. 'Lily's at Zelda's.'
'Yes, I remember.'
Ginny ignored this. 'She says she'll Floo home, but I'm sure she'll want to stay there for dinner.'
'Okay.'
'The boys are asleep.'
'Still? It's nearly two o'clock.'
She ignored this as well. 'Can you make sure they eat something when they get up? I have no idea what time James got home last night.'
'He is home, isn't he?'
Ginny rolled her eyes. 'Yes, Harry, I did check. But look for yourself if you don't believe me.'
'And Al?'
'He stayed up all night listening to the radio.'
'You let him listen to that?'
'If you didn't want him to hear it then you should have been home to stop him.'
'That's not fair.'
Ginny gave a sharp laugh. 'That's a first, isn't it?'
'Let's not do this. I didn't sleep last night.'
'Neither did I.' She turned back to the door. 'I doubt I'll be gone long.'
'Stay out if you like. You don't need to rush back.'
'Thank you for your permission.'
'Christ, Ginny.'
'I'll see you later.'
'Bye.'
She left the room. He sat staring at the list of twenty-five names, listening to her footsteps as she descended the staircase. He heard her heels echoing around the silent house and the click of the lock on the front door. He got to his feet and crossed to the window, allowing himself a view into their front garden. He watched Ginny stride across the front garden, her wand held aloft to melt the snow impeding her path. She opened the front gate and stepped through into the empty street beyond, before he saw her disapparate. He stayed stationary, watching the place where she had been, before he turned away.
He strode through the cold, silent house. It somehow felt as if it had been a long time since he had been there. He paused at the door of Albus's room and eased the door open, making as little noise as he could. The curtains were drawn, but light was leaking in around the corners, allowing him to make out Albus's dark figure curled up in his bed, snoring gently.
He shut the door and turned away, continuing down the passageway. James's bedroom was at the end by the stairs. He rarely went inside; James had forbidden it since he was twelve. What was also rare was his checking on James after an evening out; there was not much point, because the majority of the time James wouldn't even bother to come home, and knowing this did nothing but cause anxiety.
Today he went against his own rule. He opened the door. Unlike Albus, James hadn't bothered to draw his curtains before going to sleep. His bedroom was full of white, afternoon light, but he was deep in sleep, his limbs sprawled out and tangled beneath his blankets, his leg hanging over the edge of the bed, his dark hair a dishevelled mess, falling over his eyes.
He didn't know where James had ended up last night; only that he must have been home late. As little as he understood Albus, he thought he understood James even less. He feared that James knew this, perhaps even relished in it, but the harder he tried to bridge the gap the more James squirmed away. By the time James was thirteen, Harry had learnt to give him his distance. It was a choice between that or constant arguments.
He was pulled from his reverie by the bell chiming from the front door. James seemed to stir for a second, before he settled back onto his pillows, continuing to snore. Harry gave his son one final appraising look, before he turned away and shut the door.
It would be the Minister's secretarial staff, coming to escort back to the office. Either that or journalists. In their first few months in Godric Hollow after he and Ginny had moved in, they had been followed everywhere they went by reporters, until the Ministry had finally banned them from his street, but today the Ministry would have better things to do than enforce that rule.
He reached the front of the foyer and peered through the stained-glass window pane in the front door. It wasn't any journalists or Ministry personnel standing on his door step, but his godson. Teddy's features were distorted through the frosted ruby-red glass, but Harry knew him from the way he stood with his hands in his pockets and warn yellow rain jacket.
Harry opened the door and took a proper look at Teddy. 'Teddy,' he said.
His godson turned to face him, a grin on his face. His hair was a mousy shade of brown Harry hadn't seen on him in years; his eyes were looped with bags; his olive skin looked sallow in the pale winter light.
'Hey,' said Teddy. 'Hey, good to see you? I'm not interrupting, am I? How are you?'
'I'm fine, Teddy. What brings you here?'
'Oh, I was just – you know, had the day off. I've been feeling guilty about not coming round and see everyone while they're on break.' Teddy beamed at him.
'Well, Ginny and Lily are out, I'm afraid. And the boys are still asleep, if you'll believe it.'
Teddy gave a laugh and ran a hand through his lank, brown hair. 'Ah, course they are. Just my luck. Look, I thought I'd just come round – but I should have written first. Sorry, I – I know you're gonna be busy with all this…'
Teddy dropped his gaze and plunged his hands back into his pockets.
Harry stared down at the young man on the doorstep. There was something in his face that Harry couldn't ever remember seeing in him before. His mind wandered to the paperwork he had abandoned on his desk, but he forced the thought away. 'Do you fancy a cup of tea?'
Teddy looked up at him, hesitant. 'Oh, look, it's… it's okay. I shouldn't have come, I know you're busy…'
Harry stepped out of the doorway so Teddy could step inside, motioning him through. 'I'm not doing anything. It's quiet when the kids aren't around.'
Teddy hesitated again before he grinned. 'Go on, then.'
He stepped inside and Harry shut the door after him. As he pulled off his scarf and raincoat, Teddy gave the foyer of Hecate Hall an appraising look. Harry wondered, as he was sure Teddy was wondering, just how long it had been since he was last there.
'You've got new curtains,' observed Teddy, gesturing to the window.
'Have we? Ginny chooses them. I never notice.'
'Oh, I like them. Gin's got good taste.'
'She does.' He started towards the kitchen, and Teddy followed him.
As Harry set the kettle to boil, Teddy took a seat at the kitchen table. Harry didn't have anything he could think of filling the silence with, and Teddy sensibly busied himself with inspecting the photographs on the wall over the kitchen table.
'That's a cute one of Lily,' said Teddy after a minute.
Harry turned to glance at the photograph in reference. 'That was her birthday last year.'
'And I like that one of James.'
'Yeah. He'd just been made captain.' Harry set two mugs of tea on the table. 'Do you have – I've forgotten…'
'Black with two sugars.'
'Right, that's it.'
Harry retrieved sugar bowl from the cupboard and took a seat across from Teddy. He wished he had something more to offer, like mead or a meal to share, but all he had was the tea.
'I don't think I got around to saying it,' said Harry, 'but congratulations on the engagement.'
Teddy grinned. 'Thanks.'
'Have you made any plans?'
'Nah, you know me. Plans are boring.'
'Of course. Silly of me.' Harry didn't know what else to talk about, and so he asked, 'What about the basic things – do you want a big wedding or a small one?'
The wonderful thing about Teddy, thought Harry, was that he seemed to have no concept of awkwardness. He responded with the same enthusiasm he had for everything. Laughing, he said, 'Well, Vicky's going to want to invite her three hundred friends whose names I don't remember, so that's going to be fun for me. She'll want everyone we went to school with there. She's going to have about twenty bride's maids, I'm sure.'
'And your best man?'
'Gosh, I hadn't even though of that. I suppose I'll ask Luke, if he's up for it.'
'Right.'
Teddy seemed to know Harry was lost. 'Luke's the blonde one who was in my dorm at school,' he said, unbothered. 'He was our Quidditch captain.'
'Oh, yes. I remember him,' Harry lied.
A silence settled upon them. Harry sipped at his tea and turned to the window. It had stopped snowing since Teddy had arrived.
The silence continued for several minutes, until Teddy asked, 'Were you with the Minister last night?'
Harry took another sip of tea. 'Yeah.'
'So you were there when – the radio – that bloke declaring war or whatever it was he said?'
'Yes, I was there.'
'But you can trace that, right? You know, find where they were broadcasting from?'
Harry looked back at Teddy. There was something strange in his eye; eager and pleading and very close to desperation. 'It doesn't really work like that. We weren't prepared. They could have been anywhere across the country.'
Teddy seemed to consider this, as if searching for a rebuttal, before he gave a slow nod. 'Yeah, that makes sense.'
The dark look returned to Teddy's face. Harry shut his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and opened them again. 'Teddy, I didn't think. You knew them, didn't you?'
It took Teddy a moment before he gave a slow nod. 'Some of them, yeah. Anna and Indrahit did their Ministry induction at the same time I did.'
'I should have realised…I'm sorry, I'm not thinking clearly…'
Teddy have a weak laugh. 'Nah, forget it. You've got enough to think about. I just – I suppose I just wanted to know if there were any leads. It's not any of my business, though.'
'Kingsley's going to do anything within his power to find out who did this.'
'Yeah, I thought he would, only… When the paper arrived today all the articles were about Kingsley calling for calm. But I mean, some lunatics just declared war – how calm can he expect people to be?'
Harry silently agreed, but he didn't want to say it aloud. 'It's going to be fine.'
'Yeah, I know. I trust you when you say that, only… only it's just - I knew them, you know? They were friends of mine and now they're just – gone. I've never known how that feels before now. I mean, I know I should understand – what with Mum and Dad. But everything I know about them is stuff other people have old me. But with Anna and Indrahit and the others – they were real people, and now they're not.'
Harry nodded, staring into his mug. 'Yes, it's… hard when these things happen.'
When these things happen. He loathed himself in that moment. What would he have done to somebody when he was Teddy's age for saying something so stupid? If somebody had spoken that way about Fred or Sirius or Cedric Diggory?
But Teddy had never had the anger he had. His godson merely nodded, thumbing the edge of his teacup. Faultlessly civil, faultlessly reasonable. He had always been like this, and Harry admired him for it; he had admired Teddy for as long as he could remember.
Andromeda had done a good job with him. He didn't like to think in those sort of terms; he didn't have the right to assess another parents' ability. And yet when it came to Teddy he couldn't help it, and Andromeda was solely responsible; he certainly had had no role to play.
'I just keep thinking about them,' he said. 'You know, keep imagining what happened when they died, and how it happened, and if it was – quick.'
'You can't think about those things. It doesn't do anyone any good.'
'Vicky said that, too. And you're right – you're both right. It's just I can't help it, and I keep wondering…'
Teddy stopped. Harry realised now that his godson was shaking, but he drew in a breath and continued.
'I've just been thinking… You know the – the elder wand?'
Harry very nearly dropped his mug. He tried his best to compose himself, settling the mug quickly bag down on the table. Those weren't words spoken often in his house. He attempted to disguise his fumble by clearing his throat heavily, before looking back at Teddy. The boy's eyes were once again full of eager desperation.
'That was Albus Dumbledore's wand while he was alive,' Harry told him, as evenly as he could. 'It was destroyed in the war.'
This was the same lie he told anyone who ever asked. He had been telling it since the day the war ended; to Kingsley and to journalists and to his own friends. Only he, Ginny, Ron and Hermione knew the truth. Nobody could know – not even someone like Teddy. 'Why do you ask?'
Teddy seemed unable to look him in the eye. 'I don't know, I just… I just have this thought in my head, and I can't rid of it, and this sounds so stupid but I just – I keep thinking about that children's book. And if the elder wand was real then what about the other Hallows? Like… like the invisibility cloak, and the resurrection stone…'
Something panged painfully in Harry's chest. The hopefulness in Teddy's face was unbearable. 'That's just old legends,' Harry forced himself to say.
'But the wand – '
'There have been powerful wands throughout history,' said Harry placidly. 'It depends on the skill of the wand maker. But an indestructible invisibility cloak and a stone raising the dead are beyond the reaches of magic.'
Teddy nodded. 'I know, it's just… it's really stupid. I just… I just don't see why they had to die.'
Harry looked across the table at his godson. He had never quite decided if he looked more like his mother or his father; Harry usually tried not to think about. Like many things in his life, thinking about it was more difficult than it was worth.
'I'll get James and Al up,' said Harry suddenly, and he got to his feet.
Teddy looked up at him, frowning, but Harry couldn't look back; he suddenly couldn't stand to be alone with the boy. He tore his eyes from Teddy; he couldn't look at him anymore. He couldn't look at Tonks's eyes or Remus's nose.
'They'll want to see you before they go back to school.'
'Oh, no, no, let's let them sleep.' Teddy got to his feet, too. 'I should be going anyway.'
Harry waited to hear himself protest, but found that he didn't have the strength for it. He led Teddy out of the kitchen and through the foyer to the front doors. Teddy pulled on his yellow raincoat and looped his purple scarf around him. The bright colours seemed at odds with today's lank, mousy hair.
'Thanks for the cuppa,' said Teddy, bright as ever. 'You make a good brew.'
'Anytime.'
'I'll hold you to that.' Teddy offered his hand. 'See you soon?'
Harry shook the offered hand and pulled the door open. 'I expect so. There'll be a public memorial on Wednesday if you'd like to be there. In Alienor Hall.'
'Right. Course. I'll be there.'
'Well, I'll see you then.'
They let go of each other's hands and Teddy stepped outside. He hesitated on the doorstep, hands in his pockets, gazing out over the dishevelled garden. It had always been in a far better state when Teddy was younger, but if this occurred to him he didn't say so, and instead turned back to Harry to give him a smile. It was a warm, gentle, Teddy smile.
'Tell the boys they need to get up already,' he said.
'Okay, I'll let them know.'
'Good. See you, Harry.'
'See you.'
And with that Teddy crossed the front yard, moving in his fluid, floaty walk he had always had. He opened the gate and stepped through, turning back to Harry to raise his hand in farewell, and then disapparated.
He found his mother waiting in the drawing room. The curtains had been drawn back, allowing the morning sun to burst through. She was gazing out the window, looking thoroughly content in her amber dress robes, her hair pulled into an elegant knot. Scorpius could see her running her hand gently across her stomach.
'Mum, I'm ready.'
She turned to look at him, giving his teal dress robes an appraising glance. 'Oh, darling, you look so handsome. I don't know what you didn't want to wear them at Christmas.'
Because Dad told me I had to.
'Are you sure you want to go?' he asked.
'Yes, absolutely. We must.'
He sighed and leant heavily against the doorframe. 'But why? You don't work for the ministry.'
'But it's not just for the ministry, darling. It's for everyone. I just want to go pay my respects. It's not fair that they lost their lives.'
'I didn't say it was fair. I just think we're going to be out of place.'
'Well, you don't have to go if you don't want to. I don't mind going alone.'
He rolled his eyes. 'No, I didn't mean that. I'll come with you if you want company.'
'I don't need the company, darling, but it's the right thing to do to go along.'
He heard footsteps approaching from across the foyer, and turned to see his father appear behind him, frowning. He stopped in the doorway to look between his wife and his son, eyeing their dress robes and looking livid.
'You're seriously going through with this?' asked Draco.
'Yes, of course, darling,' said Astoria.
'You know there'll be reporters swarming all over the place.'
'Yes, dear, you told me there would be and I'm sure you're right.'
'Don't let them recognise you,' Draco warned, and he turned to look at Scorpius and said very seriously, 'Do not say one word to them. Understand?'
'Yes,' replied Scorpius.
'Oh, darling, you worry too much,' sighed Astoria. She crossed the room to kiss her husband goodbye, before squeezing past him through the doorway.
Scorpius was left alone with his father. It was the first time they had been alone since their row at the front door on Christmas. His father had spent most of boxing day in the drawing room recounting his alibi for the auror office, and Scorpius had stayed in his room.
'Keep your eye out,' warned Draco. 'You don't know what these journalists are like. They'll do anything to dig up dirt on people.'
They wouldn't have to dig very deep with you.
'Okay,' said Scorpius.
'And stay with you mother,' he ordered. 'Don't get separated.'
From the front door, he heard Astoria call his name, 'Scorpius, we best go no, dear.'
Scorpius looked back at his father. 'I'll be off then.'
'Scorpius,' hissed Draco, 'you need to take this seriously.'
'Yes, Dad. I'll see you this afternoon.'
And he pushed past him out into the foyer to meet his mother.
He ran a hand through his hair, willing it to stay flat. It was a losing battle, as it always was. Sighing, he pulled on his school robes, fastening them all the way up in the way that was traditional but not fashionable and that nobody ever bothered with at school. He inspected himself in the mirror, raising a hand to attempt to tuck from view the red Gryffindor trimmings.
He didn't own any dress robes: he didn't have any reason to. His mother had decided that Albus would wear his school robes, as they were passable enough, while James would be designated some of his father's robes, his own school robes being in too poor a condition to be deemed acceptable.
There was a knock on the door, giving himself one last sorry look in the mirror, he crossed the room. He opened it to find his father standing before him. He was wearing a pair of drab looking brown dress robes that had fallen out of fashion fifteen years ago; James had only agreed to borrowing the dress robes if he could pick out the pair he deemed to be the nicest.
'Nearly ready?' asked Harry.
Albus shrugged. 'You can tell they're school robes.'
'We can fix that,' said Harry soothingly. He ushered Albus back over to the mirror, standing him up straight before raising his wand and beginning the process of concealing the red trimmings.
'We'll need to get you a real pair of robes before Teddy's wedding,' said Harry as he worked.
'Won't that be ages away?'
'Maybe. You know Teddy. He's very blasé about the whole thing. We can still but you the robes though.'
'But if it's like a year away… I mean, what if I get taller?'
Albus saw his father's reflection smile over his shoulder in the mirror. Albus rolled his eyes.
'You're right, perhaps we should wait,' said Harry. 'Will Mei be there today?'
'Er – I don't think so. Why?'
'Just hoping we could meet her before you go back to school.'
'Well, I think she's busy.'
Harry seemed unbothered by the obvious lie. 'So, things are going well?'
Albus squirmed uncomfortably. 'Yeah, I – yeah, things are good.'
'How long have you been together now?'
'Er… two months, I think.'
'Right. It would be good to meet her.'
Albus dropped his gaze, thumbing the hem of his sleeve. His head was suddenly full of the other night spent in Mei's room, and it was hard to think of a legible reply. 'Yeah, maybe.'
'Okay, I think that's done,' said Harry resolutely, tucking his wand away.
Albus inspected himself in the mirror. The robes looked slightly more acceptable now.
'I'm going to Floo over to Pembroke Road now and bring them back here,' his father informed him. 'We should all arrive together.'
Albus stopped himself from sighing; his parents had strict rules when it came to public appearances. 'Okay.'
'Can you go make sure James is ready?'
'Isn't he downstairs?'
'No, he's in his room.'
Albus wanted to protest, but he wasn't sure how. He watched his father stride from the room and head down the passageway towards his office. He hadn't exchanged any word with his brother since Christmas. He had been trying to avoid having to look at him as best he could. In the last three days they had spent no more than five minutes in the same room.
But he owed it to his father. He could tell how uneasy both his parents were at the prospect of the memorial, and tensions had been running high at Hecate Hall after a vicious row had raged between James and Ginny when she declared he wasn't allowed to wear a Quidditch sweater to a memorial.
Albus left his bedroom and strode down the passageway towards James's room. From across the hall he could hear his mother and sister talking in Lily's room; Ginny was insisting that if Lily didn't choose a dress within five minutes they were going to be late.
He reached James's door and, drawing a breath, raised a hand to knock.
'I'm wearing them, okay?' James bellowed from within his room.
'Dad says we have to go,' called back Albus, and he quickly turned away; he had no interest in speaking any further, but a second later the door had been wrenched open.
James leered at him from the doorway, wearing his father's navy robes, his messy black hair falling carelessly into his eyes. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted from the room, turning Albus's stomach.
'Nice robes,' said James, eyeing his brother.
'We have to go.' And he turned away again.
'Al, what's the bloody problem?'
Albus rounded on him. 'What?'
'You're not still upset about me talking about your girlfriend's legs, are you? She has nice legs, okay? What do you want me to do about it?'
In that moment, Albus felt suddenly sicked by the sight of his brother: his faultlessly dishevelled hair, his borrowed dress robes that suited him too well, his smile that gave away nothing of his guilt, his arm that he was holding awkwardly at his side. The memory of his bloodied elbow made Albus's stomach turn. He swallowed heavily and said, 'You know what you did.'
James's smile vanished. He straightened up, forcing his arm out straight as if to show his innocence. 'I really don't know what you're talking about.'
But Albus had had enough. He turned away, and finally James did not try to call him back.
Alienor Hall was the oldest building on Diagon Alley. It belonged to the Ministry and its only use was being large enough to hold foreign delegations. The entrance was guarded by a tall archway, inscribed with runes that he couldn't understand. The long, cobbled pathway wound up a sloping lawn to the doors of the ancient, bluestone hall.
They had arrived early, hoping to avoid any notice, but the lawn was already dotted with other witches and wizards waiting for the service to begin. Some had conjured up chairs or fires as they sat around waiting. There were groups of journalists lining the pathway, cameras held aloft and quick-quotes quills at the ready, waiting for anyone of interest to arrive.
They made it half-way along the pathway before somebody recognised them. A young wizard stepped towards them, his Daily Prophet ID badge clipped to the front of his robes, camera slung around his neck. 'Morning, Mrs Malfoy, do you mind if I take your photo?'
His mother laughed and raised her hand to her face, continuing up the pathway to the hall. 'Oh, no, if you don't mind, dear. I haven't got my face on.'
'Well, I think you look lovely,' said the journalist, falling into step with them and following them up the pathway. 'Where's Mr Malfoy today?'
'Oh, he wanted to come. Unfortunately he's a little under the weather,' said Astoria.
'Mum,' Scorpius hissed warningly.
'Oh, Scorpius, stop,' laughed Astoria. She looked back to the wizard and said earnestly, 'Hope you keep warm standing around outside, darling.'
The journalist apparently knew he wasn't going to get anything else of worth, and so he bid them goodbye and fell away. Once he was out of earshot, Scorpius turned to his mother. 'He's going to put that in the paper now.'
Astoria waved away his concern. 'You sound like your father. He's just doing his job, darling.'
Scorpius decided upon pressing her further. He didn't want to sound like his father.
The spires of the hall plunged towards the cloudy sky, casting them in shadow as they made their way to the front door. There were at least twelve aurors stationed at the hall's entrance, scrutinising anyone who approached. Before they could get within ten feet of the doorway, an auror had stepped forward to meet them.
'Apologies,' said the auror. 'Ministerial invitees only, I'm afraid. The public's welcome to occupy by the lawn. The Minister's speech will be magnified so everyone can hear.'
'Oh, thank you,' said Astoria, and she took Scorpius's arm. 'Come on, darling.'
Scorpius trudged down the hall after his mother: she seemed utterly unbothered by this news, which only irritated Scorpius further. 'It's freezing out here,' he said. 'I thought Alienor Hall holds three hundred people or something? Why does the Ministry need that many seats?'
'Oh, darling, can you blame them? It's a security issue. They're terrified more of their staff will be targeted. Poor Mr Shacklebolt – I can't imagine how he's feeling.'
Scorpius knew his mother would not have spoken of Kingsley Shacklebolt this way in his father's presence. As far as Scorpius knew his mother and father had never voted in their lives, and yet on several occasions Scorpius had happened upom his mother poring over interviews with Shacklebolt in the Daily Prophet when his father wasn't around to notice.
'Here, this looks nice,' said Astoria, gesturing to vacant patch of lawn below a naked birch tree, just off to the side of the pathway.
In spite of the cold, it seemed like half of wizarding Britain had materialised at the gates of Alienor Hall. Within fifteen minutes the lawn was reduced to standing room only, with witches and wizards meandering around, talking loudly in anticipation.
Scorpius stood with his hands plunged into the pockets of his robes. He turned to look at Astoria; she was humming herself, once again running her fingers absently over her stomach. 'Are you cold?' he asked her.
'No, darling, stop fussing.'
From across the lawn, the call of a journalist cut through the voices of the crowd. 'There they are!'
The chatter died away, to be replaced by excited murmurs and the sound of camera shutters snapping closed.
A young witch sitting beside his mother said softly to her husband, 'Ooh, is it them?'
Suddenly the air was full of the sound of journalists and photographers bellowing greetings. Scorpius looked around for the source of the excitement, knowing what it was before he saw them. Trailing up the sloping hill towards Alienor Hall were the Ministry invitees that the journalists had been waiting for.
Everyone knew that Dumbledore's Army and the Order of the Phoenix travelled in packs at public events, trying to discourage journalists from cornering them: today there was a group of at least thirty. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley entered first, followed by the other Weasley brothers and their children, along with Edward Lupin, Professor Hagrid, the Scamanders, the Longbottoms, Finlay Jordan's family, and a number of greying Order members whose names Scorpius couldn't remember. The children were usually pushed to the centre of the group, in an attempt to shield them from photographers, but Scorpius could see Albus Potter and Rose Weasley clearly through the crowd.
Aurors converged on the group, forming a circle around them to try to guide them to the doors of the hall unimpeded, but the journalists were determined: this was what they had been waiting for. Shouts echoed across the lawn, hoping to coax the war-heroes into looking in the direction of the cameras.
'Mr Potter, do you have any leads?' yelled a witch with a notepad.
'Those are lovely robes, Ms Granger, where'd you get them?' called a young woman from Witch Weekly.
'Ron, who are you tipping in the Cannons-Harpies game this weekend?' demanded a young photographer.
'Lily, Rose, can you girls give us a smile?' a wizard bellowed, raising his camera.
Dumbledore's Army seemed trained in pretending the journalists didn't exist, but at this they showed some sign of response. Hermione and Harry both looked back at their daughters, alarmed, and Ron Weasley broke away from his wife's side.
Scorpius saw him step very close to the man, and say loud enough for those nearest to hear, 'Don't you fucking talk to them.'
His wife moved quickly to catch his arm. 'Ron, don't…'
Ginevra Potter put her arms around her daughter and Rose, shepherding them to the front of the hall while Hermione Granger dragged her husband forward. Albus Potter scurried along after them, hurrying up the hill.
In the commotion James Potter had managed to break away from the group, stopping very close to Scorpius and his mother to talk to a pretty journalist who had called his name. As Edward Lupin passed with his girlfriend, James caught hold of him and pulled him to a stop, linking arms with him to pose for a photo.
The journalist took the shot and, as she wound the film, Scorpius heard her say, 'That's gorgeous. Could I get one of just you, James?'
'Hear that, Ted? She doesn't like you,' laughed James, and he let go of Lupin, giving him a push away. Lupin hurried away to re-join his girlfriend.
'Alright, go on then,' James said to the journalist. 'Tell me what to do. Do you want me to fix my hair?'
She gave a laugh, blushing. 'Could you maybe push it out of your eyes?'
James leant forward, bowing his head to the her. 'Here, you just put it the way you want it.
Giggling, the witch raised a tentative hand, brushing her fingers through James's fringe. It was then that Harry Potter reached them through the crowd, seizing hold of his son, and muttering something in his ear that Scorpius couldn't make out.
'It's just a photo,' James protested loudly, but Harry had started dragging him away. James turned back to the witch, saying as he did, 'Sorry about my father. He's forgotten his manners.'
There was a chortle of laughter from those near enough to hear. Scorpius rolled his eyes; there was an inexplicable affection amongst the public for Harry Potter's children, no matter how intolerable they were.
With the aid of aurors to hold the journalists at the front doors, the group made it to the doors of the hall and disappeared inside, leaving in their wake a lot of disappointed journalists and excited onlookers.
From beside him, Scorpius heard his mother give a low sigh. 'Those poor kids. Imagine growing up like that.'
Scorpius didn't have anything to give in the way of respone. He somehow felt that he had gotten the raw end of the detail when it came to parental legacies.
His mother's words to the journalists were prickling at him. He's a little under the weather – that was all she had said, and yet how far would the Prophet be able to stretch it? Would they surmise he was at home recovering from injuries obtained during an attack on the Ministry? Or perhaps they would report what Scorpius believed to be the truth – that his father simply didn't care about strangers dying.
It had been reported in the Prophet yesterday morning that the families had opted for private burials, and so in place of coffins the alter of Alieron Hall was adorned with twenty-five wreaths, woven of holly and Christmas lilies.
It was not the first time she had been in the hall. When she was very young she had been brought along to fundraisers and Ministry dinners here. She had been guided through the crowd, clutching hands with Albus, their parents ushering them along, keeping onlookers are bay, much in the same way they had been today.
She could almost feel the anger radiating off of her mother as she dragged her into the pew that had been designated Potter, Granger, Weasley. Her parents were not looking at each other. Her father had broken their strict rule of ignoring the press.
Rose knew that Ron was bristling too, a mix of anger and guilt; she knew just as he did that his photo would be in the Evening Prophet, brandishing his fist at the journalist who had told her to smile.
The thought of it made her skin crawl. Everyone had heard it - her entire family and all of her parents' friends. Neville and Hannah. Finlay and his parents. Her uncles and aunts. They had seen her looking hopelessly around, startled at being addressed, looking right into the camera in her surprise. Her photo would probably be in the prophet, too.
A hush fell over the hall and she watched as Kingsley Shacklebolt got to his feet in the front pew of the hall, flanked by two aurors. He made his way onto the alter; only once he was at the podium did the aurors break his stride, falling back into the shadows to allow the Minister to take centre stage. Rose had never seen him looking so old; for the first time she could remember his handsome face had visible lines.
He withdrew his wand from the pocket of his black dress robes and raised it to his throat. When he spoke, the Minister's words were magically amplified so as to echo over the lawn of Alienor Hall.
'Good morning and thank you all for being here,' he began. 'It brings me great sorrow to know that our wizarding community if gathering here not in celebration, but in mourning. We are here today to stand together to honour twenty-five young witches and wizards who gave their lives defend our Ministry and its people.'
Defend our people. That didn't sound right to Rose. Who were they defending? They hadn't saved anyone; they hadn't died for anything close to purpose. They had been murdered.
'They were brave – they were strong,' continued Kingsley. 'They came to the aid of each other in an attempt to fight those who wish to do others harm. It is for that reason that the Wizengamot has legislated to have space made for their crypts at Chelsworth Grove.'
Chelsworth Grove. The name was too lyrical for something so morbid: the oldest Wizarding cemetery in the country, dating back to the burial sites of the druids before the first century. Only the most illustrious members of Wizarding society were buried there: Ministers and aristocrats and war heroes. She knew that her parents had plots waiting for them in Chelsworth Grove.
'It's at these times when it is hard for us to remember the strength that we have as a nation,' Kingsley proclaimed. 'We have survived turmoil and war. We have risen above the bigotry and hate that threatens to tear us apart. We have fought, and we will continue to fight, because there is a unity between us that cannot be broken.'
And suddenly she felt tears threatening to break, but she refused to let herself succumb to it. She wasn't going to let anybody see that. She wasn't going to let them think she was being tricked by the Minister's pretty word – she was smarter than that.
She wasn't crying for unity. She was crying for her parents, at the thought of their bones in the earth at Chelsworth Grove, and the knowledge that if there was another war they could be buried there much sooner than later.
'We will remember these young aurors – we will honour them,' Kingsley assured the weeping crowd. 'We will farewell them, and to do so I invite onto the podium the loved ones of our twenty-five fallen brothers and sisters to give their eulogies.'
She watched as Kingsley stepped away from the podium and raised his hand in gesture. From around the wide hall, twenty-five people got to their feet. One person for each of the murdered aurors with a few minutes to attest to an entire life. They were of all ages: parents and siblings and husbands and wives of the dead.
The first onto the podium was a young woman. Her black dress robes made her seem older, but Rose thought she looked no older than eighteen. She was shaking as she raised her wand to her throat. 'My brother's name was Indrahit Acharya,' she said in a slow, uneven voice. She swallowed deeply. 'He was twenty-three years old. He… he joined the auror program the week after he left Hogwarts…'
Rose shut her eyes. She willed herself to listen, but all she could think of was Hugo. She wondered if he knew what she did; that another war would be different for their family than it would be for anyone else's. He seemed to have had an inkling of the weight of such a thing when he had come into her room on Christmas. He was smarter than she gave him credit for – smarter than their mum and dad gave him credit for.
'He's too young for that,' she had overheard her mother telling her father the previous evening, and so it had been decided that he would spend the day with his grandparents at the Burrow. She suspected they would have preferred to have left her there if they thought they could; perhaps if she had known she would be told to smile by a strange man with a camera she would have agreed to it.
You're such a child, she told herself furiously, as a man in his seventies stepped onto the podium to speak about his daughter. What does it matter if someone takes your photo?
She could hear her mother weeping in the row ahead of her. Her father raised an arm to pull her into his chest, and she didn't resist. She wondered how many times this scene had played; a memorial and her mother crying and father holding her. She thought it would be more times than they would be able to remember. She hoped it was more than she would ever have to witness.
How lovely it would be to have his photo taken. How thrilling it would be to see the look on his father's face if he were to open the Daily Prophet to see his son skulking under the awnings at the back of Alienor Hall, his dress robes hanging loose and a cigarette in hand. At least it would give them something different to talk about over breakfast.
He raised the cigarette to his lips. The tobacco was stale; he hadn't been able to smoke at his usual rate while at home with parents. He ought to toss it away and buy a new tin, but he wasn't one to admit defeat
He heard footsteps against the cobbled stone. For a moment, he feared it would be his mother, coming to investigate where he had gone. He wasn't in the mood to argue.
But then, around the corner, came Finlay, slouching in his emerald dress robes, hands plunged into his pockets.
'Found you,' said Finlay when he reached him.
'Having fun?'
'I'm going to kill myself if I have to listen to that any longer,' said Finlay. He sounded humorous, but James could tell her was on edge. 'Mind rolling me one of those?'
James raised his eyebrows, eyeing Finlay suspiciously. The green dress robes suited him very well. 'Since when did you abandon your morals, Fin?'
'Come on. I was about to have an anxiety attack sitting in that fucking hall. There's still twelve eulogies to go.'
'Who knew funerals were depressing?'
'I know. Shocked me, alright.'
James took the cigarette out of his mouth and passed it to Finlay. He shrugged away the thanks he was given and reached back into his pocket for his tin.
'This is stale as shit,' said Finlay.
'You're welcome, mate.'
Finlay watched him as he rolled it, struggling to keep his hand steady.
'You want me to do that?'
'And have me smoke one of your shitty roll-ups? No thanks.'
Finlay sighed and raised a hand to catch James's wrist.
James met his eye. 'What?'
'Let me look at it.'
James considered this, before saying coolly, 'I thought you didn't want to do that anymore.'
Finlay was undeterred. 'It's pathetic to watch you try to roll like that. Let me look.'
James seemed to ignore this, licking the edge of his paper and rolling up the smoke. He tucked away the tin of tobacco and ignited the tip of his cigarette, popping it into his mouth. He inhaled deeply before shaking back the sleeve of his dress robes.
Gingerly, he extended his aching arm. Finlay stepped forward, taking his wrist in his hand, easing it up to inspect the damage. The patch of skin where the bone had torn through was swollen and shiny and an angry shade of red.
'That's infected,' said Finlay.
James replied by taking his cigarette from his mouth and exhaling deeply.
'Did you clean it when you closed it up?'
'I was more concerned about getting my bone back in my skin, actually.'
'Well, you sealed it up alright,' said Finlay, running his fingers up the length of James's forearm. 'And the bone's been set okay. But you're gonna need a cleansing draught though or the skin won't heal.'
'Alright, then.'
Finlay let go of his arm and returned to his cigarette. 'Your letter didn't really tell me what happened.'
'Nothing happened. It's just one of those things.'
'James. Your bone was out of your arm.'
'Yeah, but I put it back where it belongs. It's sleeping tight now. All better.'
'Ginny and Harry didn't ask you where you were?'
'They think I was at your place.'
Finlay sighed. 'How long do you think you can get away with this?'
'As long as I want.'
'But Albus saw. What if he tells Ginny and Harry?'
'He won't.'
'You don't know that.'
'Al's got other things to think about. He's trying to get de-flowered.'
Finlay rolled his eyes. He took a final drag on his cigarette and vanished the butt with a wave of his wand. 'Mundungus didn't show up today.'
'Nah, he never does. He hates these things. Half the Order can't stand him. From what I've been told he wasn't a very brave soldier. Who the fuck can blame him for that, though?'
Finlay raised a hand to his hair. He had tied his dreadlocks back from his face for the occasion, but now he pulled them loose. 'Come on, let's get out of here. We'll go the apothecary and get you a cleansing draught.'
'Then what? Drinks?'
'Drinks,' agreed Finlay.
James took the end of his cigarette from his mouth. He pressed it against the old bluestone, streaking the deep grey with an angry smudge of black. He dropped the butt onto the ground and, with Finlay, turned away towards the arched gateway.
Matilda Clearwater. Farha Baqri. Jonathon Chang. Indrahit Acharya. Anna Lewis. Christos Fortescue.
The names went on and on. And now it was in front of him. Real, tangible, annihilating. These weren't names on a page; these were dead people. Dead people whose families were up on the alter crying – crying because he couldn't protect his own staff.
James has slipped away; he had pretended he hadn't noticed, and he was pretending it didn't bother him. He wasn't allowed to think of anything else; he needed to be present; to make himself hurt. He deserved to hurt; this was his fault.
Ginny was sitting beside him, rigid and unmoving. He could hear Hermione crying in the row behind him. From across the pew, he saw Teddy wiping his eyes, Victoire clinging to his arm as she wept.
It was all too familiar – it was happening all too soon.
Finally the twenty-fifth eulogy came to an end and Christos Fortescue's hysterical fiancé was led away from the podium by his mother. Kingsley returned to the podium and gave his thanks.
'And now, before we leave each other, I've been told that Deputy Head of the DMLE Mikhael Rowle would like to speak.'
Murmurs broke out from around the hall. Before he could stop himself, he spun in his seat to look back at Hermione. She was staring back at him, her tear-stained face looking startled. They had both been given schedules for the service; Rowle taking the stage was not part of it.
'What's he doing?' Ron muttered. 'What gives him the right to get up there?'
Harry turned back to the front. Mikhael Rowle made his way along the aisle towards the alter, raising a hand in welcome to the hall. He was wearing long, elegant grey robes, his blonde hair pulled into a long, neat ponytail. He took his place behind the podium and raised his wand to his throat.
'Hello, hello, to all of you. I am sorry that it is under such severe circumstances that I am speaking to you, and my thoughts are with the families of the twenty-five aurors who needlessly lost their lives.'
Rowle gave a very planned pause, drawing in a deep, feigned sigh. 'It pains me to know that these young witches and wizards didn't need to die in the way they did. But they have – and they have because our Minister failed to protect them. They died because our Ministry refuses to acknowledge the threat of Muggle-born extremists.'
The response could be heard around the hall. Mutterings of surprise, soft gasps. More than one person jeered at Rowle. A young witch somewhere in the back got to her feet and bellowed, 'Death eater!'
This gave way to another round of gasps and murmurs. Aurors converged on the witch, trying to get her back into her seat, but she shook them off and turned back towards the doors. She wrenched the doors open, and as she did so Harry heard it: the sound of cheers from out in the lawn. There were people outside of Alienor Hall bellowing their support for Rowle.
The witch disappeared through the doors and the aurors pulled them shut. Rowle straightened his robes, unfazed by the protests from around the hall; Harry knew that he had heard the cheers of support.
'The age in which our Ministry bows to the demands of Muggle-borns and casts aside the rights of Purebloods is ending,' Rowle continued. 'We must open our eyes to the threat that stands before our way of life, and in recognising that threat we must fight it.'
The doors didn't need to be open for the cheers to be heard this time. Even within the hall Harry could see people nodding in agreement.
'And that is why,' said Rowle bracingly, 'I'm announcing my intention to challenge Mr Shacklebolt for the role of Minister at next year's elections.'
There were no jeers this time. It seemed those who objected were too horrified to speak. Instead the only noise was the distant rumble of cheers and applause from outside the hall's doors.
The weather didn't suit the kind of day they were having. Soft, warm light fell over them as they stepped out of the hall. The aurors had advised they stay inside until the majority of the crowd had left. Her parents had only agreed to leave after being assured that any journalists left had been escorted outside of the grounds.
As their parents convened at the doors to speak with the old Order, she and Albus were allowed their first moment of solitude for the day. They hung back from the crowd, dawdling by the door, and Albus caught her arm. She turned to look at them, and knew immediately something was wrong.
'I have to tell you something,' he said.
'What is it?'
'Not here,' he said. 'Somewhere quiet.'
'Oh, Al, if this is about Mei…'
'No,' he told her flatly. 'It's really bad.'
At the look of severity in his pale face, she gave a nod. Glancing around to make sure their parents were occupied, they strode down the sloping hill, hands plunged into the pockets of their coats against the cold.
There were a few tearful mourners still straggling around the lawn, but it was easy enough to give them a wide berth. They found a place on the edge of the garden, and stopped under a shrubby evergreen where they could be hidden somewhat from their parents.
'Alright,' sighed Rose bracingly, 'what is it?'
'James did it.'
'Did what?'
'It,' said Albus. He gave a hopeless gesture towards the hall at the top of the hill. 'He… he…'
His breath caught in his throat and he shut his eyes. For a brief second Rose thought he might be sick, before he steadied himself with several deep breaths.
'He didn't go to Finlay's after dinner on Christmas,' said Albus. 'He went somewhere else, and when he came home he – his arm was –'
'Al…' said Rose slowly, 'that doesn't mean…'
'His bone was out of his arm, Rose, how else could that have happened?'
'You don't know it was him.'
'I do. I do, Rose. He's done something really, really bad. I've known it for ages but I just – I just couldn't admit it to myself. And now – now they're dead.'
'James doesn't know that kind of magic,' insisted Rose.
'How would we know what he knows?'
Rose could see there was no sense in arguing, as much as she wanted to. She drew a breath and paused for thought. 'Okay… so say he did it. What are you going to do?'
Albus shook his head. 'I don't – I mean – I don't know. He can't – he can't get away with it, but what would happen to him if I told my parents? Would they tell the Ministry? And if they told the Ministry…'
'He'd go to Azkaban,' said Rose.'
'Exactly,' murmured Albus. 'So, I… I don't think we should tell anyone.'
'Al…'
'He can't have meant to – he musn't have meant to do that. He's not like that – he's not… not a killer…'
'Albus, shut up,' said Rose quickly, catching his shoulder. 'Look.'
She forced him around. There, on the edge of the sloping hill, making his way towards them, was Scorpius Malfoy. They watched him approach, hands in his pockets, head bowed. They were silent as he drew nearer, incapacitated by their surprise at seeing him making a beeline for them.
It wasn't until he was standing over them that he finally looked up. 'Hey,' he said.
'Hello,' replied Albus. 'How are you?'
Scorpius gave a slow nod, looking at the ground. 'Alright, you?'
But Rose interrupted sharply before he could answer. 'What are you doing here?'
Scorpius frowned. 'It's a memorial, Weasley, or didn't anyone tell you?'
'I mean here. Talking to us. What do you want?'
He looked back across the lawn towards the hall, as if he didn't want to look them in the eye. He looked uneasy, tapping his foot impatiently, his hands stuck in the pockets of his silk dress robes. Seconds passed before he spoke. 'I was just thinking…'
'That's grown up of you,' said Rose coolly.
It seemed for a second that he was going to rise to meet Rose's hostility, but he seemed to think the better of it. Forcing his voice to remain even, he said, 'I was thinking about September. When we left the castle.'
'What about it?'
'About the Slytherins,' said Scorpius.
'Yes. Could you hurry up, please?'
'Well shut up and let me tell you, Weasley,' snapped Scorpius. 'When they were sneaking back to the castle – and we could hear them talking.'
'They said that – somebody called… August, right?' said Albus uncertainly.
'Yes, and he didn't need to see them again until-'
'Until Christmas,' breathed Rose.
There was silence as the realisation dawned upon them. They each looked back and forth between the other to, stunned into silence, before Rose felt Albus grab at her hand. She looked towards him to find him looking elated – she had never quite seen him look that way, and she wondered if she looked just as relieved as he did.
It wasn't James.
Albus shook his head in disbelief. 'But – if they – if the Slytherins…'
'Then they might know who attacked the Ministry,' said Scorpius. 'They might have even helped.'
'I doubt that,' said Rose, and when Albus and Malfoy both looked at her she added, 'Nobody would want fifth-years helping with something like that.'
'What, so you think it's just a coincidence?' Scorpius snapped.
'I didn't say that, Malfoy. I'm saying that just because they might know something doesn't mean we can prove they were involved.'
'So, what? We just get away with it?' he demanded.
'I didn't say that,' said Rose through gritted teeth. 'I'm saying that the aurors and the teachers aren't going to care what they said about Christmas. They'll have their own leads to follow.'
'So what do we do?' demanded Scorpius. 'Just do nothing and have them get away with it?'
'You're going to need something more convincing to tell the teachers,' said Rose. 'Otherwise you're just going to get us detentions for sneaking out.'
Scorpius glared at her, apparently lost for a counter-argument.
'Rosie,' said Albus in a small voice. 'What about the cloak?'
Rose's eyes narrowed. 'The cloak?'
'Dad's cloak.'
'What cloak?' asked Scorpius.
Rose ignored him. 'What good is that going to do? He's hardly going to hand it over to you so you can go sneaking around spying on the Slytherins.'
'But I doesn't even have it anymore. James has been using it for years. He used to go through Dad's desk when he was out.'
'And I'm sure James would just be thrilled giving it to you,' drawled Rose.
'I suppose I could ask to borrow it,' said Albus.
'What are you two on about?' demanded Scorpius.
Rose again ignored him. 'Maybe. It would have to be for a good reason though. I suppose you could tell him you need it to get into Ravenclaw tower. He'd adore that – thinking that you owe it to him that you lost-'
'Rose,' said Albus sharply, 'I am not telling him that. I'll tell him I need it for – I don't know – something.'
'Need what?' growled Scorpius. 'I'm the one who figured this out. You can't keep this to yourself. If you want my help-'
'We don't want your help,' said Rose decidedly, and she got her feet. She seized hold of Albus's arm and pulled him up to. 'We have no way of knowing it was them, and even if we did we'd have no way to prove it. So congratulations on figuring it our – you're very clever.'
'Wait, Rosie,' said Albus tentatively, glancing towards Scorpius. 'Perhaps he could help… I mean, his family knows their families…'
'Exactly,' said Scorpius triumphantly.
'Oh, so when you go to your little I-Hate-Mudbloods club you can pick up on their gossip and pass it back to us? No thank you.'
'Where the hell do you get that from?' snapped Scorpius. 'When have I ever said about Muggleborns?'
'You don't need to say it. I can tell by the way you behave what you think of them,' said Rose coolly.
Scorpius shook his head in furious disbelief. 'God, Weasley, you are such a-'
'Such a what, Malfoy?'
'Such a self-important little brat.'
'And you're a spoilt little rich boy,' said Rose. 'We do not need your help.'
'Rose …' beseeched Albus.
'Albus, no-'
'Somebody's coming, Rosie.'
At Albus's warning, they spun around to look up the sloping hill. A woman was hurrying towards them, wearing a set of richly embroidered amber dress robes. She was looking anxious and was panting by the time she reached them. Scorpius's expression changed immediately.
'Mum…'
'Oh, darling, I've been looking for you,' she sighed. 'You should have told me you were with friends.'
Scorpius seemed very tempted to correct her, but managed to stop himself.
The woman was astoundingly pretty, with a warm, soft face and plump, rosy cheeks. Her dark ringlets were pulled back from her face, with a few curls against her olive skin. Rose saw that Scorpius had absolutely nothing of his mother's looks; his face was all his father's.
Regaining her breath, Scorpius's mother gave both Albus and Rose warm smiles. 'I'm sorry to interrupt, you two. I didn't know where he'd gotten to. I'm Astoria – and you are?'
Albus looked uncertainly at Rose, before turning back to Astoria. 'Er – this is Rose, and I'm Albus.'
'Rose and…' Something clicked within Astoria's head as she recognised them both. 'Oh, you are… oh, it's lovely to meet you both. I had no idea you three were friends.'
'Mum,' said Scorpius quickly, 'I'm freezing. Can we go?'
'What? Oh, yes, of course, darling.'
'I'll just say goodbye.'
'Oh, oh, yes…' Realising she was being asked to leave, Astoria bid both Albus and Rose goodbye and started back towards the arched gateway.
Once Astoria was out of earshot, Scorpius turned back to Rose and Albus. 'Look,' he said, straining to remain civil, 'I know you don't like me, and I don't like you either, but it's not about that. The Slytherins hate you both, but they – they sort of tolerate me. They asked me to help them once at the beginning of term and I – I probably should have taken more notice.'
'Yes, you should have,' said Rose. 'It's a little late to make amends now. Come on, Al.'
She started forward, but Albus stood his ground. Rose looked back at him venomously. 'Albus.'
'You go on,' said Albus. 'I'll catch up with you.'
Rose's brow pinched together. It was glorious watching her when she was angry, thought Scorpius; it was glorious seeing somebody get the better of her. Without another word, she turned away and stalked back up the sloping hill, and he found himself alone with Albus Potter.
'Look,' said Albus, 'I'm going to try to get my dad's old invisibility cloak. James has it, and he'll probably never give it to me but – but I'll try. And then after than I think that… I think we probably need as much help as we can get.'
Scorpius raised his eyebrows. 'Will your cousin approve?'
'Well, perhaps… perhaps I won't tell her.'
"Yeah, that could work.'
'Okay,' said Albus, nodding as if to reassure himself. 'Okay, so – so should we like… shake on it?'
Scorpius considered this for a moment, before taking Albus's offered hand in his own and giving it a rough shake.
Song Credit: Past Lives by BØRNS.
A/N: Once again sorry about the long wait between updates! Here's another stupidly long chapter.
Thank you so much for reading, I really appreciate! If you're still enjoying this please let me know in a review! x
