AN: So much happens in this chapter in terms of character development we'd better get started right away.
.o0O0o.
The swirl movement and the smell of ash was disorienting. Something bumped into his elbow hard causing it to go numb. Closing his eyes to avoid the worst of the nausea wizards seemed to think went hand-in-hand with traveling, Harry managed not to lose his lunch; not that he had had lunch. In the hours he spent in Gringotts lunch had been completely forgotten, and now Harry was glad for it. If he had anywhere to go in the wizarding world from now on, he was going to make sure not to eat anything the entire day before.
Just as he was beginning to forget which way was up, Harry felt a great swell of heat and the sensation of being pushed. Remembering what Lichfield had said, Harry relaxed and just went with it. His feet hit solid ground again, the polished wooden floor threatening to make him slip. Harry's shoes held firm though and he silently thanked the odd shoemaker for their 'plenty of grip.' After the flippy elevator of Gringotts, Harry thought he could handle anything.
The last gout of flame caused his robe to blow up around him, kicking up a bit of ash which had somehow settled on him on his way through the fire. Harry brushed off what he could as he took in the surprised faces of his three favorite redheads.
"Harry?" twin voices asked astonished.
"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
"You invited me," Harry smiled, amused he could have forgotten.
"Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" Ron asked, still perplexed. "Did Dad come and get you?"
"No, I came from Gringotts," Harry explained. "Didn't Lichfield tell you I'd be here?" he asked, gesturing to the fire he'd just stepped out of.
"Not to us he didn't," one of the twins said.
Ron ran to the door of what appeared to be a very warm and homey kitchen.
"Mum! Harry's here!" Ron called to her.
"Traveling a bit light there, don't you think?" the other twin asked with a smile. Harry thought it was Fred.
"Actually, no," Harry said, somewhat embarrassed. "I might need to talk to your parents about that."
"Did someone say Harry?" a stout, cheery-faced red-headed woman asked as she came inside. "Oh, Harry! It's so good to see you," she said, recognizing him from the station the year before. "Sorry things are a bit of a mess," she said to him quietly. "Just in the middle of a good cleaning."
"Oh, that's fine by me," Harry said.
"Oh, Merlin!" Mrs. Weasley cried, her hand going to her mouth in shock. "I've got the wash on the line." She bolted back outside to hide the offensive laundry from their company.
"Our mother–," the twin he thought was George said with a shake of his head.
"–Completely mental," the twin he thought was Fred finished for him, his voice a bit louder to drown out whatever it was his mother called from outside.
There was a heavy thump to his right. Harry looked over and saw a spray of red hair coming out of a flowery dress and a girl on the floor where she had collapsed. He hadn't even noticed her.
"Oh look!" Fred said to Harry with cheeky grin as he and George went to check on her. "Our sister's fallen for you."
"Does she do that often?" Harry asked, concerned for the youngest Weasley's health.
"Only for guys she really likes," George joked as they helped the fallen Weasley to the living room sofa.
"Mum!" Ron yelled from the door. "I think Ginny's fainted."
Mrs. Weasley quickly returned with a basket full of laundry, a thick towel serving as a cover to hide what was inside.
"She fainted? What do you mean she fainted? Ginny doesn't–," Mrs. Weasley's eyes sought out her daughter before bouncing back and forth between her and Harry. "Yes, well," Mrs. Weasley covered. "That can sometimes happen."
It took some time for the girl to recover. Harry thought she might be sick as well, she was so very pale.
"Nah," Ron assured him. "She always looks like that. Well, not the dress. Usually she just loafs around in her bathrobe."
"Yeah," George said. "Don't know what she was thinking–"
"–Why would today be special?" Fred finished with a look to Harry.
Ginny was laying on the sofa with a cool cloth on her forehead when she finally came around.
"Oh, Mum," the girl said groggily. "I had the most wonderful dream. My Harry had come and–"
"Ginny, we have company," Mrs. Weasley said, cutting off the rest of her daughter's sentence.
Harry leaned out from around her brothers to get a better look.
"Hello," was all he said.
Little Ginny turned beet red.
'Well there's the color,' Harry thought to himself.
"Ron, Fred, George," their mother said as way of reprimand. "Why's Harry still standing around? Go help him take his stuff upstairs."
"We tried," Ron said.
"Unless he's got it hidden in his pockets, he's got nothing with him." George explained.
"Apparently he sleeps starkers," Fred said with a glance to his sister as she turned to try to bury herself into the folds of the couch.
"I needed to talk to you about that, Mrs. Weasley," an embarrassed Harry said. "I've actually got a lot stuff that's going to be delivered. I hope you don't mind."
"Delivered? Oh, not to worry, dear," the cheerful woman said with a wave. "Ron's got plenty of room. We'll make do."
"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, "but this is a lot of stuff."
"What'd you do, buy out Madam Malkin's?" Fred asked with a look at Harry's robes.
"Not exactly."
"He could always use one of Bill or Charlie's old rooms," Ron said.
"Absolutely not," his mother replied. "They might decide to pop by for the weekend and then where would we be?"
"If they planned to pop by–," George said.
"–They wouldn't have moved so far away," Fred finished.
Harry was trying to think of a way to get the magnitude of the problem across when a clock chimed and Mrs. Weasley scurried over to take a look.
"That'll be Arthur," she said as she moved. "I wonder what's going on, he's never home this early."
Harry followed her, eager to get a look at a magical home. From somewhere behind him, Harry heard a door close. Glancing back to the couch, it seemed like the girl had disappeared up to her room.
What Mrs. Weasley was so interested in turned out to be a very unusual clock, it had a multitude of hands and no numbers at all, written around the edge were things like 'Time to make tea,' 'Time to feed the chickens,' and 'You're late.' The hand labeled Arthur was pointed directly at Work, it was another hand that was moving.
"It's Bill!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, heading for the door to the garden.
"What's he doing here?" George asked.
"He's hardly ever in range," Fred commented.
Bill, who Harry knew to be the oldest of the Weasley brothers, had bounced on the clock from Traveling to Work, back to Traveling, before finally landing at Home.
"Hey Weasleys!" a voice called from outside.
Harry arrived in the garden just in time to see Mrs. Weasley almost knock a young man over in her rush to hug him while the man himself came as a bit of a shock. 'This is the Weasley from Gringotts?' Harry wondered. He had heard Bill had been Head Boy during his time at Hogwarts and had imagined him to be an older version of Percy: fussy about rule-breaking and fond of bossing everyone around.
While Harry would never classify the man as "dreamy," as the secretaries had, Bill was nonetheless cool – at least he would have been if he wasn't being hugged around the neck by his mother. He was tall, with long hair he had tied back in a ponytail, and was wearing an earring with what looked like a fang dangling from it – a new addition if his mother's expression was anything to go by. Bill's clothes would not have looked out of place at a rock concert, except Harry recognized his boots weren't made of leather, but of dragon hide. He wondered if Cadogan had made them.
"Did you buy new furniture from someone dodgy?" Bill asked once he was free of his mother's clutches.
"Now where would we get the money for new furniture, let alone meet someone dodgy?" a confused Mrs. Weasley asked.
Now the spectacle of Bill had faded, Harry noticed the young man wasn't alone, he had brought a small horde of goblins with him. Two of them had his trunk between them, another had Hedwig's cage, four had his wardrobe, eight were carrying his bed, and in a blur of movement one went flying off randomly upwards – only to fall back down to earth again ten feet away from where he had started. It seemed as if Harry's broom had been a bit too eager to be off.
"Mr. Potter?" the goblin in charge said as it marched up to the only non-redhead in sight and Bill launched into the story of his strange journey to muggle land. "Retrieval Specialist Dirtclaw, I've got something for you from Overseer Barchoke."
From the inside of the goblin's scarlet coat came a small hard-backed eyeglass case; inside was his very own Blood Quill.
"The Overseer said to keep it on you at all times. Litigator Lichfield said for you to hide it until you need it and to clean it regularly," the goblin recited. "I'll leave it to you to decide how to match those up. You also get this," he said, taking out a small leather-bound book full of tiny forms.
"And these are?" Harry asked.
"Your cheques," Dirtclaw explained. "The Overseer said you'd understand what to do, based on the additional security requirements of your account."
'Of course,' Harry thought. 'Sealed with Blood and Magic. For the cheques to be good they'd need them both.'
"Right," Harry said as he stuffed both case and book into his pockets. "Thanks."
"You also need to sign this," Dirtclaw said, producing a clipboard with built in inkwell and quill holder, "to show you've received your belongings."
As Bill was busy keeping the other Weasleys distracted by pantomiming a confrontation between what looked to be a walrus and a herd of goblins – which didn't look to be going well for the walrus – Harry made his quick scratch with the Blood Quill, signed his name with the other, and covertly drew his wand to add his magical signature to the form.
Fred, George, and Ron broke out in laughter as the walrus went down for the count. Mrs. Weasley looked torn between whether to reprimand or be amused. If the look on Bill's face was anything to go by, Harry didn't think the Dursleys had a pleasant afternoon at all. 'Serves them right,' Harry thought.
"Right then," Dirtclaw said. "Where do you want the tub?"
"The tub?" Harry asked, thinking for one crazy moment the goblins had ripped out the Dursleys bathtub. 'That had not been on any form I signed,' Harry thought to himself, though he supposed Lichfield might have added it as a joke.
"The tub," Dirtclaw repeated. "The one with your clothes," he explained, pointing to the small group of goblins struggling to haul a glossy white metal contraption trailing tubes and a trickle of water behind it.
Harry broke down laughing. The goblins had stolen Aunt Petunia's prized washing machine.
.o0O0o.
For the first time in his life, Harry was excited to be in his room because while the furniture was the same as the day before, this was a very different room. For one, it was in the Burrow, the home of the Weasley family, and for another – the room just felt free. Everything about it just shouted freedom to him, and Harry didn't mind in the least that it was a hand-me-down.
With an entire bedroom set to accommodate, Mrs. Weasley had been forced to admit more than just a corner of Ron's room would be necessary to get all of Harry's things to fit into the house. Bill had volunteered his old room and quickly moved to shrink all of his old stuff down to take with him before his mother could voice her objections. She had drawn the line at the washing machine though. That remained right where it was, on the ground outside.
He had been surprised Hedwig had turned up as well. Apparently she'd been resting up in Ron's room to make the trip back to Surrey, so she was already there when he arrived. Harry was glad she understood how crazy his day had been and he hadn't meant to make her take the trip in vain, he just didn't know he'd be coming.
The guys had been eager to show him their makeshift Quidditch pitch or for Harry to join them in hearing Bill's exploits as a Curse-breaker for Gringotts, but he had begged off saying he had just about enough of Gringotts as he could stand for one day and just wanted to get settled in. This was how Harry found himself sitting at his own desk, in his own room – and faced with the most uncomfortable part of his day so far.
How was he supposed to start his letter to Hermione?
'"Dear Hermione"?' he wondered. 'No, that sounds like I'm down on one knee with a bouquet of flowers.' He discarded the idea.
'Just a simple "Hermione"?' Harry considered for a moment. 'That one reminds me of how she signed the second letter,' he finally realized. The last thing this letter was supposed to do was tell her he didn't like her.
'How about, "Hey Hermione"?' Harry asked himself. 'It's not distant like just "Hermione" is, because she's still our friend, but it's not too friendly or showering her with flower petals and chocolates.' Harry nodded his head. That could work.
He dipped his quill in the inkwell and took a breath, readying himself to start. Quill poised over the parchment, his hands refused to move. They'd gone cold and numb, like they'd been turned to ice. Harry shook them to get his blood pumping again, sending ink splattering all over the place. He sighed, head slumping to the desk. 'Why did this have to be so hard?'
Cautiously, Harry retrieved his wand. Straining to hear if anyone was nearby, he whispered a spell he remembered Hermione using when Ron had gotten ink all over his homework last year. The splattered ink now safely sucked up into his wand, Harry dashed over to the window to look for any incoming owls in the fading afternoon light.
As the minutes passed by Harry began to think Lichfield was right, maybe the Ministry couldn't tell if he had done magic after all. 'Still,' Harry thought to himself. 'I'm going to have to keep what I do small, just so I'm not found out. If Fred and George discovered that legal loophole they'd go nuts and it'd be all over Hogwarts in half a second.' The Harold part of him said, 'For homework use only, young man.'
'Won't Hermione be surprised when we get to school and I already know some of the spells,' the Harry part of him said with a grin. 'That'd definitely make holding off on magic the rest of the time worthwhile,' he thought. Harry supposed studying did have its upside.
He sat back down at the desk and refilled his quill with ink but before he could write a thing there was a knock on the door and Ron stuck his head inside.
"Hey, Harry, you hungry?"
"Starved," he answered, more in the hope that once food was in front of him his stomach would remember he hadn't eaten since breakfast.
"Good," Ron said as he came the rest of the way inside. "Mum's going nuts downstairs. Apparently having you and Bill here is reason enough to throw a party."
"She doesn't have to go through all that trouble," Harry said, not wanting to be even more of a bother than he already had been.
"Well," Ron said sheepishly, running a hand through his hair and not quite looking at him. "I did lay it on a bit thick about your birthday. Looks like she wants to make up for all of them."
Harry smiled. A belated Burrow birthday was definitely something worth writing about. 'Hermione could wait a little longer,' he decided.
Dinner was certainly a lively affair and Harry ate eagerly, his appetite coming back with a vengeance. Mrs. Weasley prompted him to get seconds and he had to tell her he was already on thirds. Word must've gotten around to Mr. Weasley that his son had come in from Egypt because he had rushed straight home, exploding toilets be damned. As excited as he was to see his eldest boy again he was positively over the moon when Harry told him he could have the washing machine. Apparently Mr. Weasley was quite the fan of muggle appliances.
While Ron, Fred, and George were talking about the latest Quidditch standings, and Percy lamented his time out of his room and presumably his homework, Mr. Weasley kept Harry to his side all night – all the better for the man to pick his brain about all things muggle. Mrs. Weasley kept shooting her husband looks that said he was being rude and kept trying to get her daughter to join her brothers' conversation. The girl though had obviously decided the best course of action was to avoid being seen entirely. To be honest, Harry didn't mind. It just didn't seem right to be the object of one girl's attention when there was another he wanted to talk to instead.
"So Harry," Bill said, cutting through his father's muggle talk as they passed around pieces of cake for dessert. "How is it you've got a Litigator stalking the halls of Gringotts and an Overseer in charge of your account? I've never seen that happen before."
"It's pretty simple, really," Harry said, wanting to brush past the subject as quickly as possible. "I had my money stolen."
Ron dropped his fork and the silence afterwards couldn't have been more complete if he had insulted their beloved grandparents or suggested that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were brother and sister.
"Those little blighters are stealing from you?" Ron asked disbelievingly.
"Those little blighters are my bosses, Ron, and they take stealing very seriously," Bill said with a stern look.
"How much did they get?" Fred asked.
"You got anything left?" seconded George.
"That's not really suitable for the dinner table," Mrs. Weasley cut in decisively with a look even worse than Bill's and promised harsh rebuke should anyone cross her.
After that, the conversation was a falsely pleasant affair, full of grand plans for a series of two-on-two Quidditch games starting tomorrow while Bill told them what life in Cairo was like. Harry was actually glad for Mrs. Weasley's insistence on the matter. The last thing he wanted to do was repay their kindness by telling them the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world was nothing more than a crook who stole from children. Plus, until he had Barchoke's beloved rental agreement signed and sealed, which he had said would take Lichfield days to word in a way no supposed guardian could interfere with, there was too much of a risk one of them would run off to get Dumbledore's side of the story, and that would mess up the whole plan.
Ginny disappeared as soon as the party was over; hiding in her room as she had hidden behind her mother all night. Mrs. Weasley followed soon after, only pausing to hug Bill again and tell him to visit his poor old mother more often while her husband Arthur quickly slipped out to fiddle with his new washing machine as soon as his wife wasn't looking. The man was practically giggling with nervous energy. Harry thought he might be a little mad, at least when it came to muggle things.
Ron and the twins were all set to drag Harry away but Bill got his hands on him and sent them packing. Harry had been dreading this, but if Lichfield and the goblins were going to be publicly calling Dumbledore a thief then the least he could do was stand up to Bill. He didn't even let the older boy get all the way through his first question before telling him in no uncertain terms that if he wanted to know anything then he could ask Barchoke and Lichfield themselves.
Bill grinned and said that the goblins must have rubbed off on him. Harry didn't know what to say to that but did try to make it up to him by politely asking if the mad old shoemaker in Diagon Alley had made his wonderful boots; turns out he had, so at least they could swap stories on that.
"I heard what happened with Ginny after you arrived," Bill said, nervously fiddling with his ponytail as if to make sure it was still attached after how much his mother had complained about it during dinner. "You'll have to forgive her. Being the only girl in a house full of guys hasn't been easy for her. The only friend she's ever had outside the Burrow was a girl named Luna, and Mum put a stop to that a few years back."
"Why'd she do that?" Harry asked.
"You haven't seen how Mum can get," Bill said with a shake of his head. "Don't get me wrong, she's a great Mum, she just mothers you too much sometimes and doesn't know when to stop. It's why Charlie and I wound up on other side of the continent," Bill chuckled. "Charlie's said dragons are easier to deal with than Mum. Anyway, Mum took exception to Mrs. Lovegood working from home and tried to tell her how to raise her daughter."
Harry winced.
"Yeah, that pretty much spelled the end of that," Bill explained. "Ever since then most of Ginny's friends have been in books."
"That's not such a bad thing," Harry said, thoughts turning back to Hermione. Her friendship with books had come in quite handy a number of times.
"That depends on what the books are about," Bill said meaningfully.
Harry had no idea what he meant by that, let alone what to say to that.
"Well," Bill said, eyeing the stairs as he edged towards the door. "I'd better get out of here before Mum comes back down and sees me still here. I wouldn't put it past her to lock me in my room. You may be sleeping there tonight," he said with a grin, "–but in her mind you're just borrowing it."
Harry walked him to the door; as long as he didn't try to treat him like a little kid, Bill was actually a pretty nice guy.
"'Til next time, Harry. Enjoy the room," Bill extended his hand to shake Harry's.
"I'll try not to let the twins blow it up," he replied, accepting the handshake.
Bill left with a grin and a wink, and a strange pop! as soon as the door was closed. Harry looked back outside but he was nowhere to be seen. He wondered if this was that Apparition thing the old man on the bus talked about. 'Even if it's worse than the Knight Bus,' Harry thought, '–at least it's quicker.'
Harry heard quick footfalls on the stairs.
"Honestly, Ginny, I don't know what you were thinking," an exasperated Mrs. Weasley said from the next room.
"Mum!" the girl cried quietly.
Harry quickly ducked out of sight in the kitchen and prayed they stayed in the living room lest he embarrass the girl even further and she faint again.
"Oh, please, you heard them. They're all upstairs," Mrs. Weasley huffed. "But really, bride price, marriage contracts – you hadn't even seen the boy before."
"I'd seen him–," Ginny said stubbornly.
"What, twice? And for all of a second? Plus, you're ten years old," the girl's mother reminded her.
"Eleven, in ten days," she said grumpily.
Mrs. Weasley sighed.
"I've told you before; these books are much too old for you," she said as Harry inched closer. "They're nothing but romantic twaddle. Nothing like that's happened for hundreds of years! I thought I saw an end of this when I stopped you seeing that Lovegood girl."
"Luna didn't like them," Ginny sulked. "She called them silly."
"Leave it to Loony Lovegood to be the one of you with sense."
"She wasn't loony," the girl said angrily.
"No, you're right, you are," her mother countered. "Next you'll run up and kiss him claiming true love and soul bonds. Tell me, have you named your children yet?"
"Everyone knows what Harry's children will be named," the girl pouted. "James and Lily, after his parents."
'That – that actually wasn't a bad idea,' Harry thought to himself. 'Incredibly creepy the entire wizarding world came up with it ten years ago, but still not a bad idea.'
"His kids will be named whatever the real Harry wants them to be named," Mrs. Weasley said. "One could be named Albus for all we know!"
'Not bloody likely,' Harry thought sourly.
"If you want to see real love, just look at me and your father. You think we got together because of a contract?"
"They – Well – They're magically binding, so you might not be able to say even if you had."
"Absolute rubbish. And Binding? What, pray tell, happens should you break it then, hm?" her mother asked, taking the girl's fantasy to its ridiculous end.
"Well, you either die or lose your magic," the girl explained.
"And don't you see how silly that is? You can't lose magic any more than you can give it away," Mrs. Weasley explained. "And if people died just from breaking their word, they'd be dropping left and right and no one would be signing anything at all."
Harry saw how she was right. If something that dire happened just from changing your mind or breaking your word, to say nothing of having something bad happen where you couldn't fulfill your side of a deal no matter what you did, then no agreements could ever be reached, much less signed. Gringotts would have to shut its doors and magical society would just collapse.
"I'm sorry, Ginny, I really am, but it's past time for the books to go. You'll be going to Hogwarts this year, I can't have you dragging all this 'Boy-Who-Lived' nonsense up there with you."
"Wait – I – It's just – I'll miss my Harry," the girl said sadly.
Mrs. Weasley sighed and he heard a heavy thump of something being placed on the coffee table.
"I know you'll miss him, but that Harry never existed, except in your head. Don't you see the opportunity you have here? The real Harry is right upstairs. He'll be staying with us all month and you'll be at Hogwarts together for six years. You may have been embarrassed today but he never even mentioned it and probably didn't even notice. The least you can do is say 'hi' to the boy. Who knows? You might even be friends."
Harry wondered how he could not have noticed how embarrassed the girl had been all day but saw what Mrs. Weasley was trying to do. It still didn't seem right to him, having another girl try to cozy up to him when there's already one who put herself forward. It just wasn't right and he certainly didn't want to feel like he was stringing one along.
"How can I be friends with him?" Ginny asked. "He'll kill him, I know he will."
'Kill him?' he thought.
"Kill him? Who'll kill him? Ginny, what are you talking about?" her mother asked.
"That Harry. He'll kill him, he'll kill my Harry," the girl explained. "That's the one I want – not this one."
"And that's the one no one can ever have," Mrs. Weasley said. "Your Harry, if he were here, and if he ever loved you the way you loved him, he'd tell you that. He wouldn't want you to waste away, waiting for something that can never happen. You can't live your life in your head, dear. He'd want you to move on, to live your life and make some real friends. If it takes that nice young boy upstairs killing the 'Boy-Who-Lived' to do it, then that's a good thing in my book."
Harry was reminded forcefully of what Dumbledore had said to him in front of the Mirror of Erised last year. He didn't know if it made him hate the old man less for having one genuine moment with him, suspicious he was only there to pass him a tidbit of information to use against Voldemort later on, or hate the old man even more for not having ten whole years' worth of those kinds of moments to go along with that one.
'Probably a bit of all three,' Harry thought.
Mrs. Weasley sighed again.
"The books can stay here for tonight," Mrs. Weasley said. "–Only for tonight, so you can say goodbye to them. They will be gone in the morning, even if I have to turn the entire house inside out to find them."
"You won't have to," Ginny said morosely.
"I'm truly sorry, dear," the girl's mother said, sounding like she genuinely meant it. "It's always hard saying goodbye, but you'll see it's for the best. It's time to say goodbye to Make Believe."
Harry heard Mrs. Weasley gave her daughter a kiss and go back upstairs, leaving her daughter alone. Harry quickly looked around, trying to come up with some way to make it seem like he hadn't been listening the entire time so he could make it up to his room without absolutely mortifying the poor girl.
'Maybe if I opened and closed the door to make it seem like I just came inside?' he thought.
'And what would we say we'd been doing?' another part of Harry asked himself in turn. 'Looking up at the stars? That's not the kind of image we want the girl to have at the moment.'
Just as he had decided to go with 'helping Mr. Weasley with the washing machine' as his excuse it was taken away from him when he heard the girl say, "It's just a stupid book for a stupid little girl," before seeing the offending object sail through the kitchen, land, bounce, and slide across the floor to the door.
Harry sighed and reached out to see for himself what all this commotion was about. What he saw was rather unnerving.
'Oh,' Harry thought gazing at the title. 'So this was what Bill was talking about.'
'The Future Adventures of Harry Potter:' the title read. 'The Boy-Who-Lived and the Chamber of Doom.'
Harry stared dumbfounded at the book in his hands. He'd put together the books in question had been about him but this made him sound like Indiana Jones. 'Might as well wear a fedora and carry a bull whip.' He shook his head to clear the image from his mind. 'Certainly not the image anyone needs at the moment.'
If anything, the cover art was worse. He looked much too old to be himself. In fact, he didn't look anything like himself, apart from the black hair and lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. For some reason they seemed to think he'd wander around dark chambers full of vicious clawed beasts while his shirt was undone, cradling some red-headed girl in his arms, and lifting a sword triumphantly.
'I could only hope to look this muscular when I grow up,' Harry thought to himself. 'Whoever this author, Ida Beeman, is they need to get their head examined.'
Harry stood to go upstairs, the quick squeak from the couch telling him he'd forgotten about the girl in the next room. His eyes darted towards her just in time to see her dive to hide her face in the couch again. This time though she didn't stop, in a flash the couch had swallowed her up as if she had never been there.
"Er– Hello?" Harry asked. "Are you still there?"
He went to look behind the couch for the missing girl only to find she was nowhere to be seen.
With a stifled grunt the couch shuddered.
"Hello?" he asked again, poking the couch.
The couch shuddered again and there was more sounds of a struggle.
"Are you alright?" Harry asked.
Finally the couch gave a diminutive sigh.
"Could you get my Mum?" the girl's muffled voice asked. "I think I'm stuck."
"How'd you get in there?" he asked as amusement warred with mild concern.
"I don't know. It's never happened before," the girl said quietly.
"Do you think the couch was just incredibly hungry?" Harry asked, hoping to lighten the mood.
"I don't know." The poor girl sounded like she wanted to cry.
'Okay, that isn't helping,' Harry thought to himself.
"If I help you get out, are you going to faint again?" he asked.
"No," the girl said mournfully.
"Are you going to run off to your room?"
There was a pause.
"Maybe," Ginny answered.
'Well, at least she's honest,' Harry thought.
"Okay, hang on," he said as he tried to think of something to do. If he went and got her mother the girl would be mortified, and if her brothers found out there'd be no living it down. He couldn't even use magic to do it without the risk of everyone finding out about it afterwards.
Harry set the book down and checked the cushions to find that they came off quite easily. Directly beneath them was the youngest Weasley, lying in a small unnatural dent and pinned in place by one of the couch supports.
"I think we can get you out," Harry said after a moment. "Give me your hands, I'll pull you towards this end and we can see if you can wiggle your way out."
Either the girl was held at an odd angle which made things slow going or the couch was putting up more of a struggle for its meal than he had been expecting. It took some doing but after a couple of minutes the girl was free from the couch. As soon as her feet left the dent the couch popped back out into place with a groan of springs.
"Thanks," Ginny said.
"Don't mention it," he replied. Harry looked down at the books still on the coffee table and picked up a couple. "Do you mind if I borrow these?" he asked.
Ginny tensed for a moment. "No," she said. "You can have them."
"Thanks," Harry said as he turned to go.
"Just–," the girl started. "Can we not mention the couch to anyone?" she asked.
"As long as you don't tell the guys I have these," Harry smiled, hefting the peculiar books.
Ginny nodded.
Harry made his way back up to his room. This had definitely been the strangest day of his life.
.o0O0o.
The kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world wound his way down the quaint village street in the afternoon's failing light towards the warm glow and lively sounds of the village's most comforting inn. It had become a kind of tradition for him, these quiet little jaunts down from his proverbial ivory tower at Hogwarts, and Albus found he quite enjoyed his monthly visits. They reminded him of what it was all for.
He crossed the threshold of the Three Broomsticks, quickly making way for some of the more spritely village youngsters dashing about on their way home before sunset after one last butterbeer. Albus chuckled to himself as he made his way to his usual booth. He did so love youths; all of the unrestrained energy and promise of life's great adventures laying ahead for them filled him with hope. The rosy tavern keeper, Madam Rosmerta, made her way over just as he was settling into his seat.
"As regular as clockwork. How are you, Albus?" Rosmerta asked warmly as she hugged him to her overly large breasts.
"I'm fine, just fine," he said jovially, straightening his half-moon spectacles on his twice-broken nose and set his hat back in its proper place. Oh, how he loved these genuine displays of affection he got from his few regular acquaintances; they made him feel young.
"–Ready to begin a new year," he smiled as he continued. "Now all we need are students. I believe you have something for me?" Albus prompted. He always had his monthly statements mailed here for him to review surrounded by the bustle and life of the tavern. These people were the lifeblood of the wizarding world, and Hogwarts its heart, so it only made sense to do what he did here in the warm glow of all that life while its heart had grown temporarily cold.
"Oh, not today, I don't," Rosmerta said, wiping an imaginary spot on the table. "I'm sorry," she said sympathetically. "It looks like your lady friend's forgotten you this time," she said with a twinkle in her eye. She had tried setting him up with some of the older witches and wizards of the village a number of times before in the last decade, but he had always been more inclined towards his work than in meeting any new friends, let alone anyone special.
"Alas," Albus said. "The closest thing I've had to a lady friend in that regard has been you, since you always leave me wanting more. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to find me something to nibble on while I'm here?
Rosmerta laughed and flicked her rag at him.
"Oh, you old flirt," she smiled. "It's a pity you've never found yourself someone special to settle down with," she said sadly.
"Ah," Albus said. "Finding one and doing so are two very different things."
"I'll go see what I can come up with," she said as she patted his hand comfortingly before walking away.
Albus did hope it was food that she brought and not another older gentleman.
It was quite some time later that the lonely old man made his way back up the hard-packed dirt lane towards the grounds of Hogwarts. No mail had come for poor Albus, nobody wanted him, and nobody thought him important; it made him feel sad. Even the patrons in the bar, long accustomed to his monthly working visits, had paid him no mind and didn't even notice as he gazed longingly at them as if looking for some way to join their conversation.
He sighed despondently as he looked up at the castle through the wrought iron gates, only a tiny few pin-pricks of light in a multitude of windows. Albus wondered what would happen to it once he was gone.
'There is still time,' he thought to himself. 'There's still time.'
A cold and mournful wind blew across the grounds as Albus walked to the castle. In other times, on other nights, the breeze might've seemed brisk and cool, but not tonight, not for Albus.
He looked over to the great misshapen lump of Hagrid's hut and a small smile crept onto his face as he thought it looked very much like a slumbering giant, so much like the gentle giant tottering about within. Albus reminded himself to try to be more like the kindly gamekeeper. A pure and simple soul was so much more in tune with the Greater Good than one whose mind and heart was fixed on the mournfully mundane.
The entryway was dark when he arrived at the school, only one door unlocked and none open. The Great Hall stood empty, silent, its tables devoid of golden plates and shining silverware, its enchanted ceiling showing only darkness. Only one torch in three was lit as Albus made his way to his office and he wondered how long they would last.
It was on this somber scene that he saw one of his few moderately good work friends appear.
"Ah, Professor McGonagall," Albus said with a smile he didn't feel. "I see you have returned, and a few days early. Just as eager as I to get another year underway?"
"Sadly, no," the Scottish woman rained on Albus's parade. "I just got the statements for the Operational Fund and they're far less than the projections you gave me last year. I came in to see what could have caused it."
"Nothing amiss, I trust?" the kindly old man asked.
"Something's definitely amiss, alright," Minerva said tersely. "Hogwarts is in dire straits. The Fund is lower than it's been in over a decade and I'm at a loss as to how to explain it. Did the Governors say anything about cutting our budget?"
"Not any more than they've said in previous years," Albus said. "I wouldn't worry, things will work themselves out."
"Things had better 'work themselves out' soon," she said, tugging fitfully at her tartan robes. "–Or we may have to end the Hopefuls program entirely and you'll have to hit the Beggar's Circuit again."
"I do so dislike that phrase," Albus tutted. "They are valued alumni, generously donating to their old school."
"Whatever they are, you'll need to see them with your hat in your hand asking for money if you want to keep the doors open for long."
"Oh," Albus said, once more regaining his jovial mood now that someone needed his reassurance. "I don't think things are quite as dark as all that. I didn't get my statements at all today. This may well be some sort of mistake or delay in processing. I wouldn't worry about it. There's still a week before the Mailings go out, by then we may look back and think how alarmist we're being now. There's still plenty of time."
"I hope so, Albus," the Scottish woman said. "I really do. I'd so hate to have to go back on our word. Those would be three very dispirited children to have to hear they'll never be going to Hogwarts."
"Rest assured, Minerva," Albus said knowingly. "By the time I return from this month's I.C.W. meeting, I'm certain the problem will be solved. I wish I could stay to make sure things were fine here but–"
"–There are too many opportunities to do good there," she finished for him. "You're a saint, Albus."
"Oh, no," he smiled. "But I do try."
.o0O0o.
Lichfield looked spitefully at the tiny car. His blasted neighbor always did this to him; it's what comes from living above reckless youths who thought of no one but themselves. He tapped the oddly shaped metal thing with his wand, causing it to roll back several feet. Finally able to get to the old wooden stoop that served as the entryway to his part of the building, Lichfield made his way inside.
Though most would classify being inside the building as being 'inside,' he was still no closer to his apartment. He flicked on the lights to reveal the room was nothing more than a steep stairway. Lester felt like he had lived every year he had twice over again as he hauled his aching bones up the blasted staircase and through the upper door into the apartment proper.
A pattering of tiny feet came running from the kitchen as the warlock made to set his briefcase down.
"Mister Lichy is ever so late," the young house-elf said as she whisked the briefcase away.
Lichfield grunted. It had been a long day. First Gropegold, then Cadogan and the Knight Bus, then tracking down the foul Trunchbull woman, though he did get no end of enjoyment seeing the havoc those children caused her, even adding a few choice bits himself.
Lester removed his outer robe.
"Mipsy didn't know what Mister Lichy would want to eat," Mipsy said as she whisked his outer robe away.
The robe took its place on its hook, within arm's length in front of him. He could just as well look after himself but as much as she pained him, he never could bring himself to send little Mipsy away. The girl deserved better than to wallow in a freedom she didn't want just as she deserved better than him. She deserved to be with a large family who could give her all the work she was worth instead of having to make due with him.
He groaned as he settled into the apartment's one small chair and started untying his shoes.
"Would Mister Lichy like the eggs?" Mipsy asked as she whisked away the right shoe.
"–Or the soup?" she asked as she whisked away the left shoe.
"Perhaps the meal of toast?" she asked as she walked away with the right sock held well away from her long nose.
"–Or maybe the juice?" Mipsy pinched her nose as the left sock was carried away.
Lester sighed.
"Toast will do," he said.
"With the jam?" she asked.
"With the jam," he nodded.
He was a creature of simple habits. Simple habits made by long years of being alone, of having nothing worth living for, of having nothing to take enjoyment from. His meals were simple ones, eggs the way he liked them, a simple soup his mother used to make, or a bit of toast or some juice if he were in a hurry or not particularly hungry. It was so much less than the little elf deserved so he tried to make it up to her by making the portions small and having her cook each serving separately. It gave her more to do to occupy her time and give her the need she needed. He did the same with his clothes.
Not for the first time he considered actually freeing her, letting her go off to find someone capable of giving her all the work she was worth, but freeing an elf would more likely end up with the little one dead from wallowing in misery than anything else. So few survived being away from those they felt truly needed them, it was only by being attached to families, where they could be passed from one generation to another, that they gained the most protection from that, though even Charlus and Dorea's elves didn't survive them long. It was simply too much grief to bear.
If what the boy had said was true though, if that Dobby had come to him, if he had served him the way the boy claims he had, if he truly held no love for those who owned him now, then there was a chance the little guy would live. Lester shook his head, he had to stop thinking about them like they were human, it was half the problem he had with Mipsy.
Mipsy quickly reappeared with a bit of toast and jam on a small plate.
"Mister Lichy need anything else? Draw the bath? Brush the hair? Brush the teeth? Warm the bed?" Mipsy asked in the rapid-fire way she had when she was desperately looking for something else to do.
"Just warming the bed will be fine," Lester said, eating his tiny meal in a few quick bites. His small attic apartment was always drafty, his bedroom always cold. "You can individually wash and fold my socks, if you like, when you're done."
"Washed them twice today already, Mister Lichy, sir," Mipsy said happily.
"Well, third time's the charm, you know."
Mipsy smiled and nodded happily. Her dark hair and eyes making her seem all the more like the small daughter he'd never have. He waved her away to get started on what passed for work in this house as he settled into an even deeper gloom. Lester hated when his thoughts became tangled in the past. The past was nothing but a continuous stream of heartbreak and despair there was no escape from.
Unbidden, his eyes sought out the things that haunted him most. A large class picture from his Hogwarts days, made for all the Seventh Years as they used to do back then. So many friends, so confident, so daring, so eager to shake the world to its foundations and bold enough to hold back the sands of Time itself to accomplish their aims. So many friends dead, their confidence shattered, their eager daring and boldness broken as the world crumbled around them and Time itself wasted them away too soon.
Charlus was there with his arm around him, inseparable as they were, and Dorea stood stately at her would-be husband's side, her cool demeanor and haughty vanity on full display; the vanity that would doom her and Charlus both because the poor fool had loved her so. To trade away half your life, just to spend a few more years with the woman you loved when you had a young son who needed you, Lester would have thought him mad if he hadn't already lost someone himself. She wasn't pictured though, she had been so distressed she'd miss the photo, having been confined to the hospital wing with a bout of dragon pox.
Lester set the picture face-down so he wouldn't have to see the smiling array of future corpses any longer and his eyes were drawn to the picture that reminded him of the most joy he had ever felt. They were so young when it was taken, and yet it so near the end, though they had no way of knowing. Smiling and happy and sitting in the large bay window of their very own home, a gift built by Charlus when Lester had married his sweetheart. He wanted them close, he had said, so he had built it on his land. He wanted them happy, so he had built them what they wanted, and in this picture they were. So young, so in love, and so soon to be parents – until it had all gone so horribly wrong.
It was with trembling hands this picture joined the first, and with trembling hands he grasped the fiendish bit of twisted brass and glass that had stripped everything away from him. Bits of sand threatened to escape through his fingers as the sharp edges of the thrice-damned device bore into his palms. With a silent rage for all the years that should have been lived by so many, the man they call Lichfield flung the diabolical device as hard as he could, not caring where it landed. It would make its way back to its proper place, just as the pictures would right themselves. There was only so much work for the little elf to do.
He stalked into the tiny bathroom to splash himself with water and try to calm himself down. Rage and distress caused problems when your body was as withered as his was, and he couldn't die just yet. Lichfield sighed as he toweled himself dry. He knew what had gotten him into this funk. It wasn't the boy, it wasn't all the references to Charlus, it was the Trace.
They had stood in line together, he and the girl, the day the Ministry man came to Hogwarts to give them a 'standard health screening.' A health screening so good at its job they had never done it before or since. It was only later, once he had joined the Ministry himself, he had learned what it really was. What a day that turned out to be; asked out the girl he fancied, she said yes, then they spent the rest of the day grinning like idiots while waiting in line so they could be tagged and tracked by the government.
To this day, nearly forty years later, he still sometimes saw her in his dreams the way she was then; her shy smile, her dark hair and dark eyes were always mesmerizing. If he couldn't even look at Mipsy without seeing the ghost of the child they never had staring back at him he knew tonight would be one of those nights. She had nothing to do with the Potters, even less with their boy's young boy, yet he had raised her up out of her grave as surely as he was one of the Three Brothers himself. And all he did was mention the Trace.
'And the land,' Lichfield thought. 'Returning the people Gropegold had run off the land.' A noble idea, and one Charlus would've supported, but what was left on the land for him? An old house that was home to more memories and more ghosts than the boy could ever conjure with the Stone itself, and a pair of old graves – one filled, one still waiting.
'That's the only reason I have to return to the land,' Lichfield thought. He'd have to tell Barchoke about it, for when the time came. He only hoped there was time enough left in him. He was so much older than his sixty two years. He looked and felt almost twice that. There had to be time. Time for one last service for the Potters, for Charlus. She would have to wait a little while longer. The boy had to reach thirteen.
'Eyes ahead,' Lester reminded himself, 'not behind.' He was no longer a kid, and 'as dumb as a door' no longer, or so he hoped. He had the thing to do, and he was going to do it, and he was going to do it right.
The boy. The house. The secrecy, and the Secrecy. What was it Barchoke said? The depth of secrecy he hadn't seen since You-Know-Who. With the old man planning things out, with him being as intelligent as he was supposed to be, he'd want to have someone stationed near that house, just to keep an eye on things. A witch or wizard's out because the old man wouldn't want their magic to alert the Ministry. But how to do it without breaking Secrecy?
Lester knew what he would do if it were him. He'd get a squib. Most children of magical families left the magical world behind once they know there's nothing there for them. They could never inherit and most were disowned when it became obvious. Most feel like they never truly belong, being unable to do magic themselves. Some squibs though, some cling to the periphery of the magical world, coming up with some way to still remain a part of a world with no place for them. Owl keepers, farmers, animal breeders, there are loads of jobs wizards would never even think to do that squibs would suddenly find useful to make money from.
'He might be using one of those,' Lester thought. 'If nothing came up in the dealings of the Potter account I'll have to make sure and check the records for any businesses registered in Little Whinging near this Privet Drive.' Once Dumbledore showed himself at Gringotts, he'd be free to go after his eyes and ears, he'll squeeze them until they popped, and then he'd have everything he needed to drag the old man's name into the mud where it belonged.
Dumbledore might've been a great man once, and one of his favorite teachers, but he had one last service to do. For Charlus.
.o0O0o.
Barchoke stopped what he was doing as his mind went back to review this monumental day. That snow white owl had turned his reasonably comfortable world on its head and set him on a collision course with some of the most powerful people in the country; but he wasn't afraid. He had Lichfield, and he had the boy, and he had the chance for the revenge he had shaven his head to swear to more than a decade ago when his enemy had been nothing more than some theoretical someone.
Now he had a name for the one who wronged him: Dumbledore.
He looked over at his father and he knew what happened all those years ago. It wasn't the loss of the Potter family and all the work he'd spent his life dedicated to that had warped Hammerhand's mind, it was magic. Long ago Lichfield had suggested that a simple Confundus charm could've done this much damage, if performed by someone who didn't know any better.
A goblin's mind was built for gain, obsessed with it, it couldn't be made to confuse loss with gain of any kind. It simply couldn't be done. The goblin mind would rebel. When it happened during an attack though, the goblin mind would remember. A goblin always remembers those who've wronged them, those who've taken from them, those who've made them lose. They remembered, and they couldn't stop remembering.
His eyes swept the room his father had been confined to. Snakes, very crafty and deadly creatures to those who live underground. Snakes with long white beards could prove all the more so, but Barchoke would be ready. He might not be a warrior of old but he had other weapons with which to seek his revenge if Lester's theory proved true.
Neither of them had the funds to afford the type of mental healing Hammerhand required, and the isolated goblins of Britain had no skill in it. When it was simple grief, Gringotts Bank had written him off as a bad investment and refused to pay for it. If it had been an attack though. An attack meant a victim, and a victim means damages. Damages meant money to be gained, money that included every knut spent housing Hammerhand for eleven long years, every knut spent making him well again too. If it were an attack, then victim could become witness.
Hammerhand's heavy hand landed on his desk with a bang!
"You have to help me, Barchoke," the old goblin said tersely. "Stop dawdling or we'll never get this audit done for Charlus. He doesn't have much time left, you know."
"Not to worry, sir," Barchoke said. "We'll work through the night if we have to. We'll get it done."
Hammerhand nodded and went back to his drawing as Barchoke returned to his. It wasn't an old stag, mournfully drawn, like the one he had drawn yesterday had been, this one was a young stag full of pride. This would be his weapon of choice. His father might be partial to his portraits of snakes with beards, but to Barchoke, it always came back to stags.
.o0O0o.
AN: Well, I bet you never thought you'd see Ginny and Molly like that did you, let alone Albus?
Thanks for reading.