Chapter 6

What I like about dinner, if it's got people around you who wish you well, and good food and drink, is what I like about everything else.

The first family meal I'd ever had started out quietly, with Hermione subdued but a little flustered as I came up to her, put my hand on her shoulder, and pulled her gently towards the table. "I just met you," I said softly, trying to emulate my mother's tone. "I've known you only a little less than my parents."

"I know that," she said sadly, and I felt the edge of desperation in her tone. She thought she'd failed at something.

"So that makes you one of my oldest friends," I said.

Her eyes were wide, and to my surprise a film of water formed over them. I wondered if this was a spell or something, to protect them. By the way, I'd never seen this before, hence my unfamiliarity with the common act of eyes filling with tears.

"You're being better than you ought to," she said, a little briskly, but there wasn't anything angry about her. I steered her over by Ron, and they sat together. She didn't look at him, but she placed her hand on his (which seemed to be in easy reach) and gave it a squeeze. He appeared to be out of trouble.

"I don't think so," I said as more people came to the table. The twins sat together, looking a little sheepish, and the other young men were a little unreadable to me, as I hadn't much experience reading men's faces. Considering the insight into womens' faces that I thought I had, though one can't be sure, I felt a little disappointed that they were kind of inscrutable. But so be it.

Percy's face in the firelight was stone-stiff, and Bill and Charlie flanked him in their seats as if waiting for him to do something. Ron was availing himself of any food he could reach to heap on his plate. I expected to lose sight of him shortly. My mother was smirking at him as she came from what I discovered was the kitchen, bearing a platter of something steaming.

A little behind her, and a little timidly, came Arthur.

When it dawns on you that your aunt's a man, one of the first things you might think of is the wardrobe aspect. How the dresses don't hang right, or how the heels, though low, tend to look even more painful than normal, I mean all heels look a little painful to me but what do I know. How striking it is to see a bit of stubble on the chin over the apron, and, most curiously for me, that the stubble is not black, but red. And also that the aunt in question appears to have grown a few inches and is currently putting a bit of a strain on the dress, the apron and the shoes.

Arthur was carrying a dessert in, one that smelled amazing to me. I couldn't recall any desserts at home, and I was thinking I would have remembered this one.

Bill lost his unreadable expression and gained one of surprise, then of wistfulness.

"Smell that, Charlie…" he said softly.

"Yeah, I kind of remember," Charlie replied. He then turned his head and took in Arthur, and added quietly, "Bloody hell."

Percy looked at Arthur briefly and just shook his head before looking away.

The twins were silent.

Ron said, "Apron's a little tight on you, eh Dad?"

Hermione looked horrified and my father looked like he was stifling a laugh. My mother said, "It's one of mine, Ronald." He registered the full-length use of his name but didn't really understand why, it seemed.

"Yes…yes, well, I thought I'd make something from the old days, that you children might remember…" Arthur's voice was cracking a little, like an adolescent boy's. I stepped forward and took the plate from him and placed it on the table. Whatever it was, it was too hot to eat just now. It was steaming.

"Always one to rush dessert," Bill said.

Arthur gave him an affectionate look. "You remember."

"Never…never forgot about you," he said thickly before returning his gaze to the food in front of him. He started shoveling things onto his plate mechanically. Charlie stopped him before it got ridiculous.

Ginny put a hand on Arthur's arm and said, "Come sit by me." She guided him to a place more or less opposite Percy.

"Deasil," my mother said, "the boys have lost a little of their more primitive impulses, and may have a few things to say to you…"

Charlie spoke first. "Yeah, about that…we err…got a bit stirred up when we found out you were alive, and back – and we wanted answers, and well – blokes don't think so well in groups, I mean you've seen football matches – well, maybe you haven't, but anyway we were stupid, and…"

Bill spoke. "I remember you as a little boy."

There was a funny silence. I didn't quite know what to make of it.

"Was I a … good boy?"

It sounded silly coming out.

"Yeah," he said, "you were funny. You loved running around in the garden, and you had this little toy broom that – er, anyway," he amended as my dad gave a subtle shake of his head and my mother's eyebrows went up, "well, you did, and you were a natural on it. I didn't think they could go that fast," he said thoughtfully, "and you managed to get it to jump the rose bushes, how I'm not sure because those things aren't supposed to make it over a foot or so above the ground," here my dad was looking defeated and Bill's face took on a bit of a mischievous cast, "must have been a mistake at the factory, just tearing around at break – neck speed, narrowly missing trees and thorny bushes –"

"All right, Bill, stop taking the mickey," my mother said.

"No fun at all," he said, finally smiling fully. "You were good and kind, wanted to do what you wanted but you weren't bratty about it. You were a little mate. I used to watch you play with Ron and Ginny. You were a bit of a hugger…bit of a sweetheart, really."

Well, that was good to hear. It was a little hard to hear I'd played with these folks as kids. That would have been something to remember. And just like that, it was.

Leaves. Leafy crunches. My small feet, stomping through them, liking the sound, my impact on things, on the world. A coat, no, a robe, a cap on my head that slid down a lot, but mummy liked it on. Toward a leaf pile, running now, fast as I can, little strides but lots of them, sound of my high-pitched breath, Ronnie beside me as we reach it and fling our bodies onto it, followed by Ginny who lands partially on both of us, laughing, shrieks, throwing leaves in the air. There's a dog somewhere near, barking, a happy, safe sound. It's cool, some of the leaves are wet. At some point we rise out of the leaves, still laughing, and are floating through the air, my head upside down, towards my daddy and another man, both laughing at us. "Look what someone has done with Charlie's hard work," the man says, shaking his head. Good day.

It's what mummy calls a good day.

"What were bad days?" I asked. The table was deeper and wider. My hands looked alien on the table, like someone had come up behind me and put theirs down. People were further away. There was a bit of roaring in my ears. To the others I was probably wading in tapioca.

"Deasil," came a tinny voice I thought was my mother's, "you remember something."

"I … maybe. I didn't understand it at the time, I think. You said some days were good days, and some were bad days."

She was closer to me, and said softly, "I never said that to you, you must have overheard me. It wasn't about you, every day with you was fairly good."

"What was it about?"

In the ensuing silence I thought a little. Only enough to remind myself I hadn't left. It was like leaving a faucet trickling in winter to make sure the pipes didn't freeze. And I didn't really think about anything. I just knew someone was doing it, and it was probably me.

"It was probably me," came Arthur's voice, slivered with tremolo. "I went… a little to and fro."

"Arthur," my mother said.

"No, it was true," he said insistently, in the way he had when he'd told me what he had to do with me. "Some days it was easy to be myself, and other days it was work, really hard work, because I was so split in two, you know, and I knew what I needed to do, I had to for the two of us…and we both knew it was for the best, even though when we … we left it was just me who knew."

"We all were broken by what happened, Arthur, " my mother said softly.

"How could Deasil have known it was for the best?" Ginny abruptly asked.

"Oh, but… but…he was so small, dear," Arthur replied, with a strange note of reproof in his voice. This was classic Arthur to me, answering a question with an unrelated answer, but I wondered if he'd been like that before. I was returning to the room a bit now.

Hermione spoke up. "When did you know what you had to do?"

Arthur said, "At the meeting."

"Meeting of…"

"Of the… it was a secret, very secret, only met in a pub, only men and only," his tremolo disappeared and his index finger came up, "those who knew about the prophecy."

Bit of a gasp around the room, from all of the older people present and Hermione.

"Why only men?" Hermione asked, recovering.

"Not that sort of pub," Arthur answered, his voice a little deeper.

"Who were these men?"

Arthur considered, absently scratching his stubble, which looked if anything a bit longer than it had a moment ago for some reason.

"Hard to say…maybe a charm…the leader was…well, he wasn't the leader, but he controlled the order, or took the…or…"

"Where did you meet?"

"Down the bark." This was said quickly, like a motor reflex, like a knee jerk.

"Down the…" I said.

"Bubble and Bark," Ron said. "It's a pub down the way a bit. You go through the – "

"Not right now," Hermione said.

"Hard to think of a better time," one of the twins muttered.

There had been a bit of a leaning-in during all of this. Bill said, "So there was a group in on this? Who? Why? Who was the leader?"

Arthur seemed to shrink somewhat. "His name was…was…Jeff."

"Jeff?" Bill said incredulously. "Who's got a bloody ringleader called 'Jeff'? 'How's our plan for world-domination going?' 'Oh, I don't know, let's ask Jeff.'"

"There's a Jeff down there, though," my father said thoughtfully.

"Who's that?" Bill asked.

"The barman. He's been there thirty years. At the very least, he might know something about all this."

"Excuse me," Hermione said, rising from the table, and she then walked to the fire, stoked it up with some sort of powder and stuck her head in. I lurched in my seat, but Ginny kept me from getting up. After a moment I realized Hermione wasn't killing herself for asking questions or needing a haircut and fancying a bit of a singe, and relaxed. What was I thinking? Heads in the fireplace, everyone. Whatever. She was talking to someone in what registered on me now as green flames. I wondered if it was a two-way fire or something. Well, it had to be, I mean if you can make a fire you can stick your head in and talk through, certainly you deserve the model that allows for a reply, otherwise you'd have to take it in turns, tossing powder in and bellowing at logs or something. Somehow this was irritating to me, this whole –

"Albus says he'll look into it right now." She emerged a little sooty but unburnt. "He suggests we have our dinner and he may have something for us after pudding."

Oh, good. There would be pudding!

Well, there was dessert, but it wasn't pudding. Also irksome to me. Not only did things float, rattle, and glow when they ought not, and not burn when they ought to, not that she ought to have been burned but I mean really, but here I was in a country where we spoke the same language but used different words. Somehow magic was a little easier to take than the linguistic differences.

Though I have to say, I was completely charmed by the accent. Isn't that what all Americans say? And why do so many say it in a way that makes the recipient feel like they aren't listening to what's said, and only thinking it's cute or something?

Ginny was waving her hand in front of my face, and I was obliged to tell her that I hadn't heard what she was saying, but I left out that it was because I'd been ensnared by her mellifluous lilt.

That sounds better, I hope. I am an utter jackass.

And the dessert was something called a treacle tart, which made me want to tell the tart and my mouth to get a room.

Ginny was waving her hand again, while I chewed slowly and guessed the waving would turn into something involving more contact if I didn't tune in. This time I apologized for only being able to handle one wonderful sensory experience at a time, which earned a laugh from the table at large and a slightly reddened countenance from her.

Her. In a sort of literary way, "her" could only mean her. In my then-current handwritten, furiously-scribbled-as-I-went life story, one could assume that unless otherwise noted, any unspecified "her" was Ginny. It's funny how the, let's see, second witch I met is the one I fixated upon, I mean, I can easily see why – she's beautiful and smart and funny and a redhead with a temper – but the first one was beautiful and smart and kind of funny too. Totally different. The first one I knew was a friend, I knew I had an affinity going with her, and it lasted about a minute because that was how long I saw her, but Ginny – well she made the drapes show off. You know? Maybe you don't. That wouldn't be weird if you didn't. What's weird is, I don't know, everything that happens to me. I played with her when we were children, flash-forward 14 years, I'm googly-eyed. There was a big part of me that felt like this was too easy, too simple. That my small circle of acquaintances should probably expand before I decided whose picture went next to "woman" in my dictionary.

Beautiful woman.

"What was it you were saying?"

"Is there anything that you wanted to ask us, the boys and me, anything you want to know?"

"Yes, can you pass the cream?"

She was frustrated, oh, yeah, she was irritated. She was also smiling.

Cream began to approach from the other side of the table. On its own, mind you. Ron's serviette, as I've found I must call them lest the twins have a field day with the word "napkin", arched its back, that is to say it made itself into a shape that had a back and then arched it, before scampering down the table and quivering in Ginny's lap. She squealed, but in delight. "That's amazing!" She grinned at me.

Hermione's eyes were big. "No wand…no training…just right out of your head… and with a character…how long do these last?"

"Um… not sure, a day or less –"

"A DAY or less?" she asked.

"Well, my blanket seemed to be … full of attitude for around twenty-four hours – it subsided when it was time to use it again."

"Deasil, at – at some point," she said, clearly trying to calm herself, "whenever you might feel up to it, I'd like to ask you if you wouldn't mind…"

"No problem, Hermione. I don't know if I can do it reliably, it's just been happening lately."

"Well, that's not surprising," she said. "A wizard usually matures around seventeen, and you've probably been a little pent-up due to your – well, to the memory charms keeping you from building up any magic."

That made sense. "Thanks for your insight."

She smiled, clearly pleased at the compliment. "Happy to help." Ginny was petting the napkin and Ron and the others were watching that with varying degrees of wonderment. To me it was a little silly and a little embarrassing. It was a little like accidentally breaking wind and having people think it was cute.

That's where my mind was when the fireplace flared up big and green and a man stepped out of it.

He wasn't tall, but he was imposing. There was a billowing thing happening with his grey robes. I have to say, it looked like a vanity option. He had long white hair and a white beard that was tucked into his clothing but that probably would have ended below his waist.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked in a way that made me think he knew he was but expected to be contradicted.

"Of course not, Albus," my mother said. "Can we get you something?"

"Thank you, no, I've just come from the Bubble and Bark, and – shall I say – their fish and chips are not currently welcoming any other visitors." He smiled.

"I see," she said.

His eyes cast around the room, passing over me and stopping on Arthur. "Arthur, my old friend, so good to see you after so long. It seems time has been kind to you in interesting ways."

"You could say that," he said, a little shyly, and I actually felt myself getting a little mad. Arthur was who he was, and he was being made to feel awkward by a man I hadn't met yet but was not liking so much right now. This was a little alien to me, and I didn't like feeling this way.

"That's not exactly…" I wasn't sure what it wasn't exactly, but it certainly wasn't.

"No, I suppose not," this man said smoothly, "It's just that I might have expected to say 'you've kept in shape' rather than 'you've certainly kept your figure.'"

Well, that wasn't popular with the Weasley kids.

Ginny was formulating something of a response, but it never made it out – he turned to me and said, "My apologies – Albus Dumbledore at your service."

I said, "Deasil Potter, so far."

He examined me before saying, "What part of this wonderful family are you from?"

"This part."

He became a little still. This was a disquieting effect, I have to say. It felt like the lights dimmed a little, though this time it didn't actually. Not sure what rules govern that sort of thing. He stopped the sort of hover-y aspect of his appearance and kick-started the weather-beaten-statue aspect.

"A cousin, then?"

"No, Lily and James are my parents."

His eyes had taken on a haunted look.

"Not adopted?"

"No," I said, getting a little irritated. "We're all very much alike."

"Forgive me," he said, and a burst of air struck my face, like a hair-dryer.

"Hey!" I said, swiping my hands in front of me, but to no avail.

He was now gaping at me, but he wasn't looking me in the eye. Just a little above.

All right, that was enough. My hand went down on the table, the wind stopped abruptly, and this Dumbledore person, and the table, took a step back from me.

"I am really," I said in a low tone I have come to know as my severely cranky voice, "really sick of people giving me that not-in-the-eyes look. I'm not big on intimidating Arthur, and the blowing-air-in-my-face thing has got to stop. What I want to know is: why do you think it's okay for you to be so pushy?"

"I…" He faltered, looking very surprised. Well, that ought to be good for his circulation, I thought.

"I…you have my apologies. Please forgive an old man's –"

"So you're an old man now? What were you when you came in here?"

Well, it sure got quiet.

My father's eyes seemed to twinkle a little.

"I apologize for casting unwelcome magic in your direction. It was presumptive of me, when I might as simply asked you to brush your hair from your forehead."

"What does my hair have to do with anything?"

"Not your hair," he said softly, "your mark."

"What mark?" I was getting very frustrated with this. I looked at Ginny, who was coming towards me, and tried to ask the question again with my expression.

Her hand was on my arm, and I wanted to be calm. She would help me.

"Deasil," she said, "Arthur's been casting a glamour charm on you to hide a feature on your face that would identify you to anyone. Maybe since she's always done it, you don't remember it, but she hasn't cast it since you've been here."

"Okay… what feature? Do I secretly have a big nose?"

"No," she said, smiling a little. She gave me a look that said, more humor later. I felt like the richest man in the world.

"You have a scar on your forehead."

"No I don't," I said.

"See for yourself," she said, as a mirror appeared in her hand. Not by magic, she apparently just had one. But before I would take it from her I brought my hand to my head. Under my fingers, a small ridge, rising from my skin, jagged and stiff. It didn't belong there, but it had always been there.

Ginny held the mirror for me. I got a good long look at it.

"Cool, " I said quietly. "I mean, who gets a lightning bolt?"

"This is not good," Dumbledore said. "Not good at all."

I said, "Does anyone invite you over twice?"