Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

One
Moody: Limbo



Falling into infinity.

Where seconds before the streaks of spells in red, green, and violet had been, there is only blackness. A silence so absolute it chills him to the profound depths of his soul.

Where his hands had been clutching the handle of his broom there is nothing, even the peppering of stars in the distance has been blocked out by the dark presence of evil.

The shrill sound of gears grinding together -- a sound he associates only with Muggle vehicles -- reverberates inside his skull. His hair flaps like icy feathers about his head; he can feel it. But still, his eyes see nothing.

Eternity opens up before him, its unnatural jaws snapping at him voraciously. He is not ready to die, his mind screams. But there is no one to hear, no one to care. Even if he’d found the will to utter the words aloud, the wind would have ruthlessly snatched them away.

As he gains momentum, the very air leans heavily against him. In desperation, he claws at it but finds no solid purchase.

The impact comes without warning, forcing the last breath from his straining lungs. His final thoughts are panicked, struggling against intangible foes as mental images become disjointed…

---

Rustlings in the background and the unfamiliar smell of new surroundings. He barely forms the thought before it floats off into the stratosphere, tugging his defenseless body by an invisible tether.

With his next musing, he wonders if he even has a body anymore. He can’t feel anything, but the air surrounding him is a comfortable temperature. That he can sense on his lips. And if he has lips, well, then it follows that he has a face…. He loses track of where this thread is leading once more.

So this must be how it feels to be dead, he concludes as he continues to float outside of time. The insubstantial noises in the background must be angel’s wings, if the vague tales he’d heard are true.

He feels his eyelids flutter, protesting the too white light after the soothing darkness of the womb. Triumphantly, he takes this to be further confirmation that he still has a face.

After an indeterminate amount of time, indistinct cadences inside his brain resolve themselves into voices, but he doesn’t understand the words. Is it a foreign language or an undiscovered form of communication?

Then one day, the words seem familiar as they tease him from afar. A lost melody dreamed in the night but fading in the morning light. How does he know it’s morning? He has no suitable answer, no frame of reference anymore; but somehow he is certain that he’s right.

The incandescent mist before his sight begins to clear and he distinguishes blurred outlines of the rustic whitewashed rafters above. Is that thatch he spies beyond? He would have never imagined that spirits -- or whatever incorporeal form he now inhabits �“ would need shelter from the elements. Likely it’s a quaint manifestation of his own mind, he postulates. It must be overwhelming to come to terms with the alternate reality of death.

After what seems like hours of feverishly searching the featureless ceiling, he hears the distinct sound of a door opening and whispered voices. A blurry ring of faces comes into his line of sight; and with it, he is suddenly slammed back into his body. His involuntary scream echoes in his own ears as his limbs are assaulted with pain so intense he cannot get his breath.

He hadn’t considered that he might end up in hell, but that can be the only conclusion. He expected flames dancing on the walls and perhaps the unmistakable reek of brimstone. Not that he’s familiar with the odor, but he always imagined it to be very similar to burning creosote.

When he is finally able to take a ragged breath, his chest heaves with the effort. It comes as a surprise to find the air fresh and clean. Wait, is that a faint hint of curry tickling his memory?

---

It was a long time before Alastor Moody felt like he was a reasonable remnant of himself once more. He did not know his rescuers, but the language they spoke among themselves was clearly Hindi as they had told him in very passable, though accented, English. He no longer had his magical eye, a black eye patch covering the unsightly puckered skin. It was not safe to seek a replacement at the moment, not in a land torn by war; or so his new friends cautioned him.

His artificial leg had been mangled in the fall as well, but they were able to hammer it back into fairly workable shape. It was clear by their conversation they were familiar with the magical world; the leader, Benji, assuring him that he had nieces who had attended Hogwarts.

“Why did you not perform a magical repair? I can help you with the strange spells, but I seem to have misplaced my wand,” Moody offered solicitously.

Benji shook his head sadly as he loosened the neck of a rough grain sack and allowed Moody to look inside. Slowly, he recognized that the pile of jumbled sticks were wands. “We dare not expose ourselves by the use of spells,” Benji hissed.

“Is my wand among those?” Moody asked unnecessarily as he’d felt the familiar presence.

“Among others which fell from the sky that night,” a swarthy grandmotherly type named Tamisan assured him gravely.

From the lines around her eyes, Moody concluded they must have readily creased with laughter in the past. But the darkness threatening their way of life has stolen that away and replaced it with barely banked fear.

“Where did you find me?” Moody asked over and over only to be met with polite silence.

Finally, one of the young women had given him a nonsensical reply. “You came to our door in need of assistance.”

“But how �“ “ he started to say when Benji sat up sternly.

“You must be patient, my friend. You may be anxious to return to the war, but there are many who would kill you on sight.”

“A dead man cannot be killed,” Tamisan whispered as she tidied up in the background.

It was all an enigma throughout his convalescence, but there was no doubting the kindness and generosity of those who nursed him back to health. He did not think it was a language barrier that kept them from supplying him with the whole truth, but he would be hard pressed to say how he was so certain.

Patience had never been once of his best qualities. Truth be told, he’d had little use for it as an Auror, but now he had no choice. Much to his surprise, he found that surrendering himself to the simple task of recovery did much to ease the turmoil in his mind.

On a day when the chill of autumn was working its way through every joint, the answers arrived on a bitter wind.

“How is my friend?” demanded the unmistakable voice of Severus Snape.

“Much better than the last time, your excellency,” Benji replied in subservient tones. “You were away for a long time.”

Moody felt the looming presence as if a dementor was seated at his bedside. The instant chill between the two men was apparent to the others who shuffled hurriedly out of the room, leaving only Benji lingering by the door.

“Well,” Snape grunted as he cleared his throat, “it’s not so easy to slip away unnoticed. My duties have changed somewhat.”

“Chained to the Dark Lord, Severus?” Moody growled. “You should be chained in Azkaban for striking down a defenseless old man like Dumbledore!”

Anger flashed darkly in Snape’s unfathomable eyes, but his voice was oddly modulated as he scoffed, “Dumbledore defenseless? Don’t insult my intelligence! Frozen naked in a chunk of ice, that man could have wielded more power than the lot of us --”

“Who exactly is this us?” Moody dared although he could see Snape was inches away from drawing his wand.

“The same as it’s always been, you demented old fool,” Snape shot back. “But I don’t have the luxury to debate it now.”

“So I’m supposed to trust you implicitly?” Moody pressed.

“Rot in hell for all I care!” Snape retorted. “Just don’t take your venom out on these nice people who have been urging you back to health. At my request, mind you.”

Moody glared in return. “I find that hard to believe!”

“Then why am I not carting you off in ropes?” Snape maintained as he crossed his arms across his chest. “Do you think I’m saving you for the Yuletide feast at Malfoy Manor?”

“I’ve been trained to resist Veritaserum,” Moody warned.

“As have I.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Benji implored. “The subject at hand.”

“Of course,” Snape harrumphed with a vicious scowl. “Fact is the Daily Prophet reported your demise months ago.”

“Surely you informed the Order…” Moody trailed off as he saw a hint of sadness flicker across Snape’s saturnine features.

Snape hesitated only long enough for Benji to leave the room, then flashed an Imperturbable Charm in the direction of the wooden door. “Things have changed dramatically in your absence. I can no longer contact the Order without exposing myself �“ nor it is likely they will believe me anyway.”

“But they will think --”

“They will have already mourned their fallen comrade,” Snape pronounced in a hollow tone. “They have accepted it and moved on. You should do likewise. Are you so anxious to face your four ex-wives?”

“What do you propose I do then? I’m retired; I have nothing other than my work with the Order.”

Snape shrugged as if he were dislodging a bothersome insect. “That is for you to decide. I’m not in a position to offer advice to anyone. Hire a social secretary, if you think that will help! Just don’t go forth as Alastor Moody �“ not unless you want the next Killing Curse to be permanent.”

Fragments of memory vied for Moody’s attention: sinister images of black shadows ringing his broomstick and blocking the feeble moon. A virulent jet of green rushing to meet him as he hurled through the sky. Visibly shaken, he returned his attention to Snape. “Who?” was his overriding thought.

“I can’t say for certain. Does it really matter?”

“Then they have no idea they missed?”

“Technically, they didn’t; but the spell connected with your broom and not your person. But they don’t know that. Everyone remembers seeing you tumble towards the ground from a great height.”

“So I have you to thank for scraping me off the ground,” Moody grumbled.

“I hardly carry a spatula in my back pocket! I was able to maneuver my broom to break your fall. Nearly shattered my collarbone in the process,” he snarled.

As Moody’s suspicious mind weighed the new information, a disturbing thought took hold. “You were one of the Death Eaters who ambushed us, weren’t you?”

There was no denying the turbulent cloud that shadowed Snape’s features. “Don’t act so surprised! It’s hardly a revelation that I’m forced to consort with such filth.”

“Then why do it? Walk away as you’re suggesting I do,” Moody grimly put forth.

“I have no wish to sacrifice myself for Guy Fawkes Day!” Snape snorted. “I must go on alone if I’m to fulfill my assignment for Dumbledore.”

“Come, Severus, are you now able to exhume the dead for a cozy chat? Surely even Vol -- ” He got no further as a black gloved hand closed tightly around his windpipe.

“Don’t say the name,” Snape hissed lowly, his face inches away. “Call him the Dark Lord or create a new euphemism. But the name has been made Taboo; Death Eaters will surround us in minutes.” Gingerly he loosened his grip and returned to his overturned chair.

Moody’s remaining eye registered shock, but there was no doubt they had underestimated the scope of their enemy’s magical abilities.

“Who else knows I’m here?”

“No one. And these kind people only know they offered their assistance to another in a time of need.”

“Yet they’re bound to remember you,” Moody remarked as his brain followed the familiar paths of an Auror.

“Not if I can help it! I’ll have to modify their memories on my way out.”

At Moody’s shocked expression, Snape stressed, “For their own good, of course.”

“Let me guess: the Order would love to get their hands on you right now. Perhaps employ a bit of persuasive interrogation techniques.”

“Hardly! They’re in such disarray, it’s a wonder they remember what day it is.”

“And whose fault is that?” Moody growled, but Snape’s cool reply caught him off guard.

“Dumbledore’s. That man insisted on keeping his cards too close to his waistcoat.”

“In other words, you’re not going to tell me.”

“I’d prefer to save you the indignity of a memory wipe. The less you know the better.”

“So I’m supposed to wait this fight out from the sidelines?”

“Great Merlin’s beard! Where ever did you get that idea?” Snape volleyed back as he paced impatiently in the small room. “You have a unique opportunity to engage in undercover activities, but you’ll have to do it completely on your own.”

Irreverently, Moody grumbled, “What do you stand to gain from this?”

In a swirl of black, Snape was in his face. “If I’d known you were going to be so much bloody trouble, I would’ve blasted you myself!”

“Why didn’t you? Could have earned you a few extra points with …the Dark Lord.”

Much to his surprise, Snape resisted the taunt as an aura of icy control descended over his features. “Somehow I didn’t think what you’d most miss from the world was an argument,” he observed with cold detachment.

“It’s not so easy to separate myself from my previous life.”

“If you don’t, there are those who will be only to willing to oblige you.”

“Somehow, I got that,” Moody returned sullenly. The small flash of annoyance he saw in the back of Snape’s eyes gave him a tiny measure of satisfaction. “It’s a prison sentence of sorts to know that you will be cut off from all your friends, those you’ve come to think of as family almost…”

“Each passing day makes it easier,” Snape attested morosely. “But if you’re thinking of Nymphadora, she has her own family problems to consume her at the moment.”

“She should have someone she can trust watching her back at the Ministry.”

“She’s not at the Ministry �“ or so my sources assure me.”

“Where is she assigned then? Perhaps I can keep an eye on her covertly.”

“She’s been made redundant.”

“What do you mean redundant?” Moody roared. “I wager there isn’t another Metamorphmagus in all of Britain; how could she no longer be an asset to the department?”

“Bearing in mind that I’m only the messenger…” Snape held up a long finger in stark warning. “…I understand they were none too pleased when she requested reassignment to desk duty due to her pregnancy.”

“Tonks pregnant? What were she and Remus thinking?” Moody shook his head in amazement. A wide grin was working its way across his grizzled face when it froze in mid-stream. “I won’t be able to be a part of that, will I?”

“Not until the war is over,” Snape confirmed, yet it was a ray of distant hope.

“Wait right there!” Moody shot to his feet and pointed a gnarled finger in Snape’s chest. “They can’t discharge her for being pregnant! There are laws prohibiting such forms of --”

“Discrimination,” Snape finished succinctly.

“Despite the Ministry’s archaic practices, at least they’ve been progressive in that respect!”

“There’s been a change in power.” The vagueness of Snape’s words filled Moody with dread. “But she was not discharged for being pregnant, make no mistake about that. She was sacked because the father of her child is a werewolf.”

“How could I forget?” Moody grumbled. “That Umbridge pig practically made it illegal to be a werewolf, as if it were a lifestyle choice the victims had embraced wholeheartedly.”

“Be careful what you say about Dolores, her delusions have landed her a rather prestigious post with the new administration.”

“Then they must be the lapdogs of lunacy!” Moody exploded with pent up frustration.

With a bitter laugh, Snape attested, “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Not that I have the luxury of speaking my mind, not even in the ruddy mirror. As it is, the able associates the Dark Lord assigned me are likely wondering about my absence. Now that they’ve had long enough to tie their own shoelaces, mind you.” He made as if to leave.

“Wait!” Moody blurted in spite of himself. “When will I see you again?”

“You won’t.”

As Moody strained to work his legs without stumbling from lack of practice, Snape elaborated in a hollow tone, “It’s much too dangerous for everyone concerned. You, me, the Patil clan who have so generously taken you in. Their large family has intermarried enough among the locals that no one will doubt you are some manner of in-law. This damnable war has spawned refugees left and right.”

“But I can’t just live off of them,” Moody protested as he considered the difficulty of obtaining employment with nothing but a trumped up background.

“Another needless worry.” Snape scowled as he withdrew what looked like a tiny sachet from his robes. A dismissive wave of his wand sent it soaring towards Moody’s lap where it assumed normal size.

Moody stared at the golden galleons tumbling out of the worn money pouch. His eyes were troubled as they searched out Snape’s unreadable expression. “I can’t…I would…never…in good conscience…” he stammered.

“A lesser host would be offended by your lack of gratitude,” Snape dismissed darkly. “But rest assured, it’s nothing but your own spoils that you squirreled away for safekeeping.”

“Then tell me how you bloody well accessed the bank vault of a dead man!” Moody demanded venomously. “Did you destroy my last testament? Or did you devise some sinister twist to the Imperius Charm that could penetrate the goblins’ natural resistance?”

“Neither, although your irreverent musings make me wonder why the Dark Lord didn’t make more of an effort to recruit you. After all, Alastor, I was rather surprised to discover that you, too, were in Slytherin House.” Snape’s words invoked the charm of a rattlesnake.

“What of it? In those years, it wasn’t such a training ground for junior Death Eaters. Just look at Horace Slughorn: nothing but a pompous, egotistical social climber, but the most heinous thing he ever did was to snub someone.”

“I daresay Horace is having to adjust to the new regime as well. But if it’s an analysis of the idiosyncrasies of the Hogwarts faculty you seek, I suggest Minerva is much better suited to the task.”

Refusing to be sidetracked for long, Moody persisted, “You didn’t really answer my earlier question. Is this blood money?”

“There’s a hollow within a rocky ridge that rises much like the skeleton of an ancient beast among the desolate fens of East Angl--”

“You found my emergency stash? How in the name of creation were you able to do that? Not even with a magical eye --”

“Dumbledore knew.”

“And I suppose he sent you an owl?”

With a disdainful sneer, Snape replied, “If I weren’t a sarcastic bastard myself, I’d refuse to answer. But as it is, did you forget the portraits of the former Headmasters which grace the walls of Hogwarts?”

“What of the nest egg in my Gringotts vault? Did those officious wankers distribute it as I saw fit?”

“Not exactly. There was a counter-suit brought by one of your ex-wives. Raised a minor scandal about Nymphadora’s suitability as an heir.”

“Which one?”

“Shirley, I believe.”

Moody screwed up his face in displeasure. “Nothing but a desiccated old vulture, she is. Jealousy and spite. It’s my money to do as I see fit; and from what little you’ve told me, it sounds as if Tonks and Remus could use a generous wedding gift.”

“No need to worry needlessly. Andromeda has taken them in; Bellatrix is quite enraged over her sister’s continued duplicity.” There was something in Snape’s tone that made Moody think there was considerably more to that story.

“But--”

“No more buts, old man, or they may be our last. Let it not be said I failed to bring an appropriate token to the bedside of an injured man.”

Without a backward glance, Snape pulled his midnight black cowl over his sharp features and let himself out. He left a small hamper overflowing with chocolate frogs and all manner of confections.

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Two
Moody: Resurrection



Moody stared at the basket for hours, his suspicious Auror’s mind trying to knit the few facts he had into a conspiracy. As usual, Snape’s actions were a nest of contradictions.

If only he had his magical eye, Moody mused, he could at least readily determine whether any of the chocolates had been poisoned. He considered turning them over to Benji’s grandson who was always underfoot, dragging Moody into impromptu walks about the surrounding marshland.

“Ah, I see the owl arrived without any trouble,” Benji commented as he nodded towards the untouched basket. “My niece’s handwriting is not always as clear as it could be.”

Only the slightest hesitancy revealed Moody’s surprise at the statement. “Please thank her for her generosity,” he improvised in his politest voice. “You won’t think me a total boor if I suggest we check it carefully.”

Benji chucked appreciatively. “I was just about to suggest the same thing. In a time of war, sabotage can never be discounted.”

Moody fumbled for his wand in the still unfamiliar clothing, but Benji’s brown hand grabbed his wrist in warning. “Only those who are part of the new order can cast spells without worry. We don’t want to draw any undue attention to our humble community.”

It was a dreary group of weathered huts they occupied, but at least there was no one looking over their shoulders like in the nearby village. It was just one extended family, Moody had come to see, as the older members spoke among themselves in their native tongue.

In the end, it was Tamisan who demonstrated how they could brew a certain potion to use as a poison detector. With the dainty cauldron dangly from her nut-brown wrist, she allowed the slight breeze from the open window to direct the purple steam over the rim of the basket.

Uncertain about an untried procedure, Moody inquired, “How do we know if anything is poisonous?”

“It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, Maa,” Benji interceded in a diplomatic tone.

“I want to learn how to use this should the need arise in the future,” Moody clarified.

With a knowing nod, Tamisan shuffled into the next room only to return with a small dusty vial labeled: Tincture of Arsenic.

“You watch, you learn,” she commented as she eased a single drop into the dregs of that morning’s tea.

Replacing the basket with the tea mug, she approached with the still-smoking cauldron.
Much to Moody’s satisfaction, the smoke parted before the mug and swirled around it, but not over it.

“See, smoke not want to come too near,” Tamisan muttered with a gap-toothed smile.
“Now surely, you can spare a chocolate frog for an old lady?”

“And young Roger as well,” Moody confirmed with obvious relief.

“Rajeesh!” Tamisan’s voice summoned the energetic lad to join them. “Uncle Madai has a treat for you!”

---

When they left him to his nap later that day, Moody retrieved the newspaper clippings from the bottom-most layer of the basket. Snape had cleverly included full pages that would appear as nothing more than stray padding. No one would even question that the publication dates spanned the past few months.

SCRIMGEOUR STEPS ASIDE

“It’s a new dawn, a new vision for the wizarding world,” newly confirmed Minister for Magic, Pius Thicknesse proclaims. “The former administration had a crisis of conscience…”

Moody’s eye scanned down the verbose paragraphs until he found the small disclaimer that confirmed his worst fears:

In secluded retirement, former Minister Rufus Scrimgeour could not be reached for comment.

Not without a pick and a shovel, Moody grumbled. Even though he had not always agreed with Scrimgeour’s policies, an unmarked grave on some desolate moor was not what the man deserved.

From late August, another headline announced Snape’s appointment as Headmaster at Hogwarts. Their all too brief conversation suddenly made that much more sense. Buried near the bottom of the page, a tiny article caught Moody’s attention:

A NEW DIRECTION IN EDUCATION

“Traditions are all fine and good; but some subjects, like Muggle Studies, have been modernized,” Alecto Carrow was only too happy to inform us from her new office in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“It’s an unforgiving world out there,” she elaborated. “Students need to take a more aggressive approach to the Dark Arts curriculum. With my brother, Amycus, at the helm…”

Unfortunately for Moody, the story was continued on another page which had not been included. He couldn’t help but worry whether the term ‘Dark Arts’ was still an abbreviation that simply omitted the words ‘Defense Against’ or did Carrow’s words represent a drastic shift in emphasis?

Near the end of the stack, he was caught short by Harry’s familiar face grinning out at him from a wanted poster much like the ones that had been plastered throughout the countryside to warn of Sirius Black’s escape from Azkaban. Huge letters blared:

NO MORE LIES, HARRY POTTER

Confirmed as the last person to see former Hogwarts’ Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, alive, how can we be sure Harry Potter is really as innocent as he’d have us believe? Does an innocent man hide from authorities, we ask? Does he refuse to elucidate events so the true culprit can be identified?

“He refused all overtures to cooperate with the previous Minister and now simply ignores all entreaties,” newly appointed Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, Dolores Umbridge, tells us. “Are we to think his attitude has changed in the past few months?”

It was all Moody could do to keep from setting an Incarcerous Charm to the brittle pages as he cursed that squat woman and her amphibious ancestors. It was an undisputed fact that the only thing that the Prophet got consistently right was the Quidditch scores. But to let itself be used as such a blatant tool of propaganda, that was a new low!

He flung the offensive pages across the room, scowling as they fluttered to the floor and gazed defiantly up at him. Damn the blasted world that seemed determined to drive itself into the deepest, most fiery pit of hell!

Grudgingly, he allowed that if it had been Snape’s intent to goad him into action, he had succeeded admirably.

---

It was two days later that Moody first heard the voice, or rather the sound of someone clearing his throat nearby.

He staggered up from the chair where he’d been napping and gingerly eased his head past the door into the main sitting room. Still empty. The others had not returned from their weekly trip for supplies. Today was the day of the monthly farmer’s market, young Roger had told him proudly, and absolutely everyone was going.

The hut was remote enough that Moody did not feel it likely anyone could sneak past the border wards unannounced. Thankfully, those charms had been in place for many months and would not give their presence away. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick peek at the surrounding sea of wild grass, Moody decided.

Before he could cross to the small barred window, though, the disembodied voice startled him. “I wager it’s not so easy to survey the surroundings without the use of your magical eye.”

It couldn’t be, Moody thought to himself as he crept up to the nearly empty basket which Snape had left behind. But the sound was definitely coming from that direction.

“I’ll just give you a few moments to settle yourself comfortably for a chat,” the voice spoke once again.

Feeling the hairs on his neck come to attention, Moody stopped in mid-stride. “Reveal yourself,” he ordered in a terse undertone as his head swiveled to take in the entire room.

A soft chuckle taunted him as he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his good eye. Up against the nearby wall, young Rajeesh had arranged his small collection of chocolate frog cards.

My imagination is just playing pranks, Moody allowed. Of course, he’d seen the photos of modern day wizards easing themselves in and out of their frames on the collector cards. Was he feeling that lonely that he had imagined them talking to him as well?

“You’re lucky I have the entire morning free, Alastor, but it won’t last forever,” the voice urged. “Do you not recognize the voice at least?”

Dumbledore! Moody brain latched onto the thought. Great, now he was hallucinating about the dead.

“Are you a ghost?” the words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them. Now he was talking to himself, he grumbled inwardly.

“No, but I’m not alive in the sense you are, either.”

With a jolt, Moody concluded that the sound was indeed coming from the image on the chocolate frog card. As he peered more closely, Dumbledore’s familiar blue eyes twinkled at him playfully.

Moody said the first thing that sprang into his mind. “Where are your half-moon glasses?”

Dumbledore chuckled as he replied simply, “I no longer need them in this new land where I find myself.”

“And where exactly would that be, old man? The North Pole, Antarctica, perhaps the middle of the Gobi desert?”

“I don’t know,” the august wizard admitted. “It’s more of a concept really. Call it what you will. No nationalities or borders are recognized, so it doesn’t need a name.”

“And who told you this?” Moody prodded, intrigued that his subconscious would go to this much trouble to entertain him.

“It’s just something I worked out on my own.”

“Dumbledore lies buried beneath a slab of white marble on the shores of the Black Lake.”

“I’m glad to see you didn’t suffer any amnesia in your fall,” the chocolate frog card commented.

He had to give his subconscious credit, Moody mused, it had managed to get a fair measure of Dumbledore’s infuriating nature. “Get to the point,” he urged. “I take it you don’t make too many house calls these days.”

“It took me a while to work out the magic,” Dumbledore’s image admitted. “It was something I tinkered with before my death, but apparently it only works from the other side.”

“Then why don’t I see Ptolemy or any of the other legendary sorcerers offering me their wisdom?” Ha, answer that one.

“They are not drawn to you because they did not know you. It’s the power of friendship �“ of love, if you will �“ that allows me to maneuver among the mists.”

“So you’re among the clouds?”

“Not in the way that you’re thinking. Besides, I think the ambiance appears different to everyone.”

“Have you tested this out?”

Dumbledore shrugged his shoulders. “Just an idle old man filling in the hours with speculations.” The next words caught Moody unprepared, “Have you had a moment to review the newspaper clippings Severus left for you? I helped him to select the ones that would be most beneficial to you.”

Immediately on alert for dark magic, Moody grumbled, “I’m not admitting to anything until I establish who you are!”

“Fearing another nasty surprise from the Death Eaters? I don’t think the despot’s name is Taboo here, but I’m not certain how sound travels.”

“Considering this conversation is taking place inside my head, I doubt that anyone could overhear us.”

“That’s very likely,” Dumbledore allowed. “But that doesn’t make it any less real. Nor does it mean that I’m a manifestation of your fevered brain, either.”

“So now you’re proposing that telepathy exists?”

“Do you have proof that it doesn’t?” Dumbledore shot back with the curl of a smile.

“It’s a proven fact that I can argue with myself,” Moody attested. “Some of the best work on my cases is the product of that.”

“How do you think I know about your ex-wives then?”

“Anyone willing to slough through the paperwork at the Ministry could obtain that information.”

“Not the part about how your second wife, Gwendolyn, accused you of infidelity.”

“The number one cause for divorce. Good guess!”

“Ernesto Sandoval,” Dumbledore threw up, crossing his arms across his chest expectantly.

Through ashen lips, Moody returned, “Never met the man.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t,” Dumbledore volunteered with a wry chuckle. “But you looked into his reflection in your bathroom mirror while you were undercover in Barcelona.”

“If you expect me to fill in the details for your benefit, you’re wrong.”

“An irredeemable playboy, quickly approaching his middle years without having acquired any ties to home and family. You dyed your hair black and wore the most outrageous robes you could find in the London street markets.”

“Surely the eye patch reminded you of what a rakish look that was.”

“Don’t toy with me, Alastor! That was long before you lost your eye.”

“A fact that would not have escaped my subconscious!” Moody growled.

Dumbledore shot him a trademark inscrutable look. “Is that the game we’re playing? Then how about something your subconscious wouldn’t know?”

“How will I know it’s true then?” Moody countered with determination.

“That’s for me to worry about, isn’t it?” Dumbledore retorted. After a few moments of thought, he volunteered, “Neither Harry, Ron nor Hermione reported to Hogwarts on September the first.”

“Hardly surprising that! The place is an anthill of Death Eaters and you expect the lad to just present himself to those who labeled him as the most wanted criminal in the land?”

“Ministry records still show Sirius Black as being guilty,” Dumbledore volleyed. “Even without Fudge at the helm, that group plays a rather loose game of table tennis with the truth.”

Moody barked a sharp laugh in spite of himself. “Scrimgeour may have been a pompous old wind bag, put he didn’t strike me as that easily corrupted.”

“Another casualty of war, I’m afraid.”

The confirmation was abhorrent to Moody, but hardly unexpected. “And the puppet they installed in his place?”

“A rough named Pius Thicknesse, a Death Eater of long standing.”

“Riddle’s losing his touch,” Moody growled. “I would’ve expected another anagram of his name, at least.”

Dumbledore chuckled at Moody’s trademark irreverence. “In the midst of a war, expediency always overshadows finesse, even of the most sinister sort.”

“What about the trio?” Moody urged, falling back into the code names the Order had once employed.

“They were residing at Grimmauld Place for a while; that much Minerva was able to learn from Kreacher. After the elf despaired of their return, he wandered back disconsolately to work in the Hogwarts kitchens once more.”

“That ruddy elf was senile, Albus. He thought his long-lost mistress was still alive every time her portrait screeched a welcome to arriving guests.”

Dumbledore shook his head slowly. “I once would’ve thought so, too. But it appears that was another area in which I was sadly mistaken. Kreacher was at a loss for a master to serve, no different than any other house-elf. Sirius rejected him outright; but when he realized the trio were holed up in that townhouse with little to no sustenance, he came to their rescue. All it took was a little kindness on their part; for that we have Hermione’s wisdom to thank.”

“So if they’re no longer at the townhouse, where are they now?”

“We’re not certain. They’ve been Disillusioning themselves quite handily and managing to avoid those forces who would seize them just as much as those who would help.”

Thinking like the Auror he’d been for all of his adult life, Moody prompted, “And just how do you expect them to know the difference? Knowing they have no true way to recognize friend from foe, they trust in one another only.”

“I tried to leave them the necessary tools in my last testament, but the hapless bureaucracy interfered,” Dumbledore complained.

“Never underestimate the government’s ability to complicate everything,” Moody commiserated. “I actually suggested that for the inspirational banner Fudge used to drape across the Atrium.”

Dumbledore chuckled deeply. “How close were you to retirement at the time?”

“Not as close as you’d think, old man. An Auror doesn’t get anywhere without steel-plated bravado.”

“Keep an eye on them, Alastor. It’s no longer my place to run things -- not that I’d expect you to take orders from a spirit, mind you.”

“Can’t blame a man for following his own subconscious, though.”

Dumbledore nodded in agreement. “They hold the key to victory if they can just find their way through the thicket.”

“Always in riddles, Albus?”

“I have no choice, my old friend. Secrecy must be their last and only friend. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make a difference. Just stick to your anonymity. If neither Severus nor I know of your activities, you will be that much safer as well.”

Still as inscrutable as ever, Moody thought to himself as he mused over Albus’ words. Taking advice from a chocolate frog card, he chided himself. Nymphadora would convulse with laughter at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Well, at least the enemy would never anticipate his next move, that’s for certain.

When the Patil clan returned, arms laden with foodstuffs and Rajeesh bursting with amusing tales for his adopted uncle, Moody found a moment to take the venerable Tamisan aside.

“Tell me of your home country, Maa. Tell me about the traditional caste system that allows those in the lowest strata to virtually disappear from public scrutiny,” he urged fervently. “I need to learn how to pass unnoticed among other wizards.”

No one will give a street beggar with only one eye and a ravished physique another look, he thought to himself. Snape had been right, damn the arrogant bastard! He’d been granted a singular opportunity.

---

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Three
Remus: Soul-Searching




Click, click, click. The dog’s nails rang sharply against the pavement of the deserted street. The asphalt shone with the tears of a late summer downpour, reflecting the streetlamps in an irregular pattern of diamonds.

He could almost smell it �“ or rather imagine how it would’ve smelled if he were still alive. The gusts of steam rising periodically from the Underground line had a peculiar scent he associated with Muggle petrol and speed. It saddened him that he could no longer feel the rumble of the passing trains through the pavement at his feet. But then, he wasn’t really present in that derelict street somewhere in the heart of London; he only had a small window into it. He could be eons or light years or heartbeats away; his existence was no longer dominated by manmade measurements.

What could have possibly drawn him so persistently to this scene? Dumbledore wondered, determined to patiently wait until the answer arrived. It always did, sooner or later, he chuckled to himself as an idle breeze rearranged the rumpled wrappings along the gutter. The plaintive bark of the stray dog echoed from two streets away where it had wandered in search of discarded food.

Time dragged by as the errant raindrops from a nearby roof kept up a regular rhythm. No longer needing the assistance of his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes slowly grew accustomed to the dim light. Who knew a shadow could contain so many different hues and nuances of black, he mused as the outlines rose from the depths of the still night.

The discarded crates beneath the torn awning resolved themselves into sleeping figures, but it was impossible to tell how many. A bunch of tumbled dominos, he couldn’t help but think. By the number of crumpled bags still clutched tightly in slack fingers, it might be hours before they awoke from their stupor.

Sudden movement caught him unawares as one shadow detached itself from the others. As it stumbled hesitantly to its feet, Dumbledore strained to catch the details illuminated in the feeble streetlamp. The coat was soiled and splattered in places; yet in others, it seemed to have been patched with great care. The hollow cheekbones showed a week’s worth of beard as hair that had once been sandy brown fell over the man’s eyes. There was something familiar in his rangy grace, the way in which his long limbs moved with an almost lupine fluidity despite the man’s unsteadiness.

With dawning recognition, Dumbledore hailed him in a loud whisper, “Remus! Remus, is that really you?”

Remus Lupin swung his head around in confusion, the sharp movements threatening to unbalance him completely. At the last moment, he caught his arm around the nearest streetlamp to ease himself down to the ground.

“Remus!” Dumbledore tried more softly now that much of the distance between them had been breeched.

“I know that voice!” Remus muttered under his breath, more to himself than anything. Narrow slits for eyes darted in all directions, shining with suspicious intensity.

“Surely, you’re not so inebriated that you don’t recognize an old friend,” Dumbledore attempted once more in a kindly manner.

“I’m not drunk at all,” Remus admitted as his eyes attempted to penetrate every errant shadow. “Exhausted the few coins I had days ago.” He held up the bottle of ginger beer so the last inch of liquid shone amber in the streetlamp before downing it in one long pull. “I just seem to be talking to myself,” he choked with an erratic sob. Impatiently, he wiped the wetness from his eyes and mouth in one movement of his sleeve.

The despondency rising from the younger man must be what had exerted such a pull on his heart, Dumbledore decided. Luckily, discarded chocolate frog cards seemed to turn up all over the place.

“You haven’t lost your mind or your bearings,” Dumbledore began in as gentle a tone as he could muster.

“Albus, I know it’s you. But I can’t place the sound. Are you a ghost?” Remus sighed as he gazed unseeingly at the night sky, waiting stoically for the answer to come to him much as Dumbledore had done earlier.

“Just beyond your feet,” Dumbledore coaxed softly, his eyes drawn to the holes wearing themselves through the cobbled soles of Remus’ shoes. “Just a little further.”

Remus’ eyes went wide with recognition as his hand reached out to gingerly clasp the corner of the chocolate frog card. “You’re a visitor to my dreams, then,” he remarked in an awed whisper.

Dumbleldore’s eyes twinkled like the very stars which hid behind the city grime. “If that will help you come to terms with the reality…”

Remus’ next words caught Dumbledore short. “Have you come to take me with you? To escort me to whatever comes next?” It was the plea of a lost child.

He swallowed the urge to retort that no one could possibly look less like the Angel of Death. This broken man before him needed his compassion; only in better days would Remus have laughed heartily at Dumbledore’s irreverence. “Are you ready to die so easily?”

Remus hung his head wearily, his overgrown fringe hiding his eyes. He took a deep breath before answering, “Honestly, no. Why do I feel a lecture about the ideals of Gryffindor is waiting in the wings?”

Dumbledore couldn’t help chuckling at the tight smile that Remus tried to dredge up. His eyes were still flat, but it was a move in the right direction. “Why are you not at home tonight?” He had intended it to sound like a concerned inquiry, but Remus took it as an affront.

“Not you as well!” he spat. “But what else should I expect from my effing conscience? First Harry, now you!”

“Remus, what happened…” He was about to say ‘tonight’; but by the man’s appearance, it was clear that it had been days since Remus had last seen a warm bed and a decent meal. “What brought you to this place?” he amended. “And if you answer by telling me the names of the streets you traveled, I’ll find a way to hex you despite everything!”

Remus’ laugh was hollow as he remarked, “I assume you meant metaphorically. Your preference for riddles precedes you, old man.”

“Then you should accept that I’ll keep at you until I get to the heart of the matter. As a portrait, Legilimency is not an option.”

With a weary sigh, Remus acknowledged, “I find myself at a crossroads. Metaphorically speaking.”

“Between what and what?”

Remus considered this as his eyes swam with unshed tears. “In the middle of nowhere, if you must know,” he sputtered, squeezing his eyes shut to dam the tide.

“That’s not so, you’re--”

“In the middle of ruddy London, I know!” Remus shot back.

“I was going to say ‘among friends’,” Dumbledore corrected lowly. “But if we’re switching to geographical terms, we’re not too far from Grimmauld Place.” With sudden clarity, he added, “Have you been to see Harry?”

Remus nodded wordlessly into his lap.

So it had been over a week ago, Dumbledore guessed as the jumble of images rose to the forefront of his mind. Just snatches of conversation really, as the townhouse’s overlapping protections greatly hampered his ability to see through the wadded card Ron Weasley had tossed carelessly into the kitchen dustbin.

Sharp words, sharper emotions barely held in check. Harry ranting in an icy voice that Remus belonged at home with his wife. Wait, there was more… Something about not leaving his child to go wandering about like an unwed renegade. Hermione scolding Harry that he had gone too far; he dismissing her like a bothersome insect.
.
“It seems I’m not wanted anywhere, Albus,” Remus elaborated in a wet voice. “Harry practically hexed my carcass into the street.”

Perhaps he felt you deserved it. Aloud, Dumbledore was more diplomatic. “Hermione and Ron would’ve stopped him before he got that far.”

“You didn’t see the look in his eye. I’d forgotten how hot Lily’s temper could flair when she was really angry.”

“You forget that he practically leveled my desk when we returned from the Department of Mysteries.” He didn’t have to remind Remus that it had been Sirius’ fall through the Veil of Death that had sent Harry to deal with despair in the only way he knew how: anger. “I’m sure both of you said things you’d like to take back.”

Remus nodded dumbly once again, the trail of tears shining starkly as his head fell back against the lamppost. “The worst part of it is that he’s right, you know. Only he doesn’t know how I’ve burned my bridges.”

“Isn’t the flat you were sharing with Nymphadora close by?” Dumbledore ventured.

“Not anymore. We turned in the keys to the landlord. It was really too small for two people; but it had been her home for so many years, it made more sense for me just to fit myself into her life.”

“Larger flats can be very dear these days.”

“That too,” Remus confided grimly. “I helped her move her belongings to her parents’ house before I set off on my fool’s errand.” With infinite patience, Dumbledore waited until Remus added, “He told me flat out that he had no use for me on his quest.”

“Unfortunately, Harry’s on a secret mission of his own. He’s only allowed to --”

“Include Ron and Hermione,” Remus finished. “It’s also common knowledge that you assigned him this task. That much he admitted to Minerva the very night….the night that Snape showed his true colors.”

Dumbledore chose to not correct him. Instead, he offered, “And you’ve been trying to dissuade him all summer, haven’t you?”

“Believe it or not, Albus, but having just gotten married, I had other priorities in my life. This was the first instance when I was able to talk to him alone.”

“You must’ve considered this was a distinct possibility when you arrived on his doorstep. Why does it bother you so?”

“Like I said before: I have nowhere else to go.”

“I’m sure Ted and Andromeda would’ve welcomed you both.”

With haunted eyes, Remus pleaded his case, “I just couldn’t pretend any longer. I went through the motions of transporting my steamer trunk there, knowing in my gut that I couldn’t stay.”

“Are you so afraid of imposing on someone else’s generosity?” Remembering how tetchy Remus could be about financial matters, Dumbledore thought it best to add, “Until you got back on your feet, that is.”

“I should never have given into her,” Remus asserted like a mantra. “I managed to hold out for so long; I don’t know what made me abandon my principles like that. Everything in my head gets muddled whenever she enters into the picture.”

“Remus, it’s not unusual to have second thoughts about taking such a big step. But it’s no crime to fall in love. Why deny yourself this?”

Clenching his fists in frustration, Remus looked down at the small band of gold on his finger. “Because I can never be like other men. Even if Tonks refuses to see the reality of it, society will still condemn her for her choices. Haven’t you been listening, I’m a werewolf.”

“Remus, I’ve known that since before you were eleven years old. But it would only be relevant to the situation at hand if she hadn’t known that before the marriage �“ and that was not the case.” With utmost delicacy, Dumbledore continued, “Tonks doesn’t care what the world thinks, she never has. She only cares for you. Surely, you’ve worked that out for yourself by now?”

Remus shook his head stubbornly, stray bits of moisture illuminated like glass before falling to the sidewalk. “We argued.”

“All couples argue. Then they find the commonalities that brought them together in the first place.”

“Such a reconciliation may not be possible in this instance.”

“I doubt that. As long and hard as Tonks fought to have you by her side, I hardly think--”

“I have nothing to offer her, Albus. No job, no prospects, nothing but another yoke for her to bear.”

“Did she say these things to you?”

Remus shook his head. “I said them to her. But I owed it to her to be perfectly frank about the situation as I saw it.”

“See that’s just it: she doesn’t see things in the same stark relief as you do.”

“Just because she can empathize, doesn’t mean she can truly appreciate how society views werewolves.”

“So, in other words, you think she was a fool for marrying you,” Dumbledore dared.

“I should’ve stopped her from making such a mistake. I should’ve known better.”

“I doubt she would let anyone, including you, keep her from her chance at happiness.”

“She won’t find that with me.”

“Why not? Don’t you love her? Doesn’t she love you? I fail to see the problem.”

Remus cast his eyes down in misery.

“Remus, why do you feel you’re not entitled to be happy?”

A shuddering sob was the only response.

Sensing that such introspection was more than Remus could bear at the moment, Dumbledore tried a different tack. “What makes you so certain Tonks doesn’t want you back?”

With a wet sigh, Remus muttered, “We said so many things….”

“There isn’t a couple anywhere that doesn’t argue. It’s how compromises are hammered out.”

“Is that why I feel like a sword in a blacksmith’s forge?”

“Fatigue alone with do that,” Dumbledore sympathized. “But you’re not going to dodge this issue with a well-placed analogy, Remus. Did she specifically say she didn’t want you back? Or that she wanted you to leave in the first place?”

“Not exactly… But how could she not feel that way?”

“Just because you’ve convinced yourself that’s the way she should feel, doesn’t mean she does. What were her exact words? If you’re determined to ignore your heart’s wisdom, her words are all you have.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Remus volunteered, “I believe the term ‘tosspot’ was bandied about quite a bit --”

“Vintage Nymphadora,” Dumbledore chuckled lowly.

“�”and perhaps a few stronger modifiers I’d rather not repeat.”

“We’ll consider those the curlicues of anger.”

Remus snorted a derisive laugh. “I might actually share that with her �“ if she ever gives me the time of day, that is.”

“Let’s assume for the sake of argument that she does. What other accusations did she throw in your face?”

After a long pause, Remus surrendered, “That my altruism marked a singular brand of selfishness.”

That was it: the heart of the matter, Dumbledore concluded inwardly. Aloud he tendered, “And this wounds you deeply because, perhaps, it’s true?”

“She just doesn’t understand. Doesn’t even try. I’m doing this for her own good!”

“And for the good of your unborn child?”

Remus winced, then through gritted teeth maintained, “That too.”

“Yet it brings you pain. How can a decision that brings both of you to the brink of despair be the right choice?”

“Damn it, Albus! Because there is no other. I’m a ruddy, stinking werewolf.”

“A fact she knew before she agreed to marry you. Nor were your feelings about the inherent unfairness of your condition a surprise to her. You’re remarkably outspoken about those things among those you trust.”

Clearly caught short, Remus sputtered, “Shouldn’t I be?”

“You miss my point. If you involve others in the process, then they can’t help but be irked when you ignore them in the decision.”

“So you’re saying I should never’ve married her in the first place?”

With a level look, Dumbledore counseled, “No, Remus. I would never deny you this chance at happiness. Your love burns too brightly for that. But you should understand that marriage is a partnership. You have to arrive at your decisions together. Neither of you can override the other.”

“I just wanted to protect her �“ and my family.”

Dumbledore arched a silver brow knowingly. “And give her an opportunity to accuse you of patronizing her?”

“Merlin’s fur-lined knickers! If she sees it as sexism, I’ll never hear the end of it!”

“Perhaps the punishment will be less severe if you own up to your deficiencies up front. No, not about being a werewolf. Your deficiencies as she sees them; it’s the basis of any heartfelt apology.”

“I can never forget that I’m a werewolf,” Remus argued.

“So remember it as the full moon draws near, but it doesn’t belong in this negotiation.”

“Did all the prejudice in the wizarding world evaporate while my back was turned?” Remus noted with sharpened sarcasm. “Handy spell, that! You’ll have to tell me how you managed it.”

“The new Minister is zeroing in on a different underdog. Has even managed to redirect Dolores Umbridge’s hatred towards a new objective.”

“That single-minded toad…”

“Is now in charge of harassing Muggleborns,” Dumbledore clarified. “They’re the new cancer in the midst of wizarding society. And those in power are committed to whatever drastic measures are needed to persecute Muggleborns to the extent of their drummed up laws.”

Obviously shocked, Remus uttered, “Having Umbridge in charge puts a new complexion on everything. You have a source at the Ministry?”

With a sad shake of his patrician head, Dumbledore confided, “I read it in the Daily Prophet. People seem to leave those laying about just as much as candy wrappings.”

“So what conclusions have you reached?”

“I’ve studied the Death Eaters’ approach: the manner in which enemies are insidiously undermined by sowing the seeds of doubt and despair. In this instance, they’re seeking to consolidate their supremacy by making outcasts of those most likely to oppose them.”

Catching on, Remus ventured, “Prejudice against Muggleborns is as pervasive as that against werewolves.”

“If anything, the new government has allowed people to openly voice their narrow-minded views. Popularized actions that once were considered shameful.”

“That’s all fine and good, Albus. But werewolves are the true lepers in the equation. We have no advocates.”

“Not so, Remus,” Dumbledore persisted. “Werewolves are studied by many scholars -- but the Department of Mysteries doesn’t market its findings.”

“So we’re a curiosity of sorts,” Remus dismissed.

“If you’ll forgive my appropriation of Muggle terminology, werewolves present a unique ecological niche among wizardingkind.”

“So do hippogriffs and thestrals. But very few wizards are willing to stand up for werewolves’ rights to be treated as humans. Past legislation is proof enough of that!”

“Yet there’s no one denying that werewolves began life as magical beings,” Dumbledore enunciated. “Need I remind you of what happens when a Muggle is bitten?”

As if by rote, Remus replied, “Muggles never become werewolves. Their bodies are unable to metabolize the pathogen, or whatever, which causes the mutation. They always die before the next full moon.”

“As for Muggleborns….Well, I don’t have to tell you that we have yet to determine what causes magic to be born in a seemingly unprecedented manner.”

“But it happens! Surely they can’t deny what their very eyes are telling them.”

In a voice tinged with sadness, the great wizard pronounced, “They pass laws to do that instead.”

“So according to your calculations, Muggleborns pose a greater threat to the new administration than a handful of destitute werewolves.”

“You can’t deny that Muggleborns are clearly the more abundant of those two groups.”

“If they succeed in painting all Muggleborns as criminals, then Tonks’ father…”

“Yes, that makes Ted Tonks a bigger target than you. At the moment.”

“Why just now? What else do you know?”

“Nothing is certain. The full truth is never what the Prophet declares it to be. I connect the dots, one would say. It’s a by-product of having too much time on my hands these days.”

“There are those who would accuse you of weaving conspiracies out of straw.”

“The Death Eaters are one big conspiracy to eradicate life as we know it. Surely, this doesn’t strike you as a paranoid concept,” Dumbledore emphasized.

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

“They may actually go so far as to offer an olive branch to werewolves --”

“�”and lay waste to Umbridge’s previous career of persecution?” Remus scoffed.

“Even so. But they need to be on better terms if they wish to recruit the werewolf population to join their ranks.”

The last dregs of color drained from Remus’ face. “Greyback’s deliberate attempts to infect children…”

“The easier to mold their outlook on the world.” With a bitter smile, Dumbledore placated, “But I tell you this not to alarm you, but to make the point that the Tonks family will soon feel the squeeze from that side as well. Don’t make it any harder for them by causing needless worry. I think you’ll be surprised how easily they accept your contrite words.”

With the card nestled inside Remus’ breast pocket, Dumbledore’s view of the outside world shifted as the dejected man rose slowly to his feet.

Resigning himself to the august wizard’s advice, Remus acknowledged, “I don’t trust myself to Apparate, but it’s a remarkably long walk from here.”

Dumbledore issued a dismal cough. “Just promise me you won’t be foolhardy enough to call for the Knight Bus.”

“You mean the Death Eater Express?” Remus retorted. “Stan Shunpike’s arrest made that abundantly clear.”

“Your powers of analysis were always first rate. I suggest you blend in with the Muggle workers who will soon be returning home from the midnight shift.”

“Do the buses run at this hour?”

“The Underground does,” Dumbledore pronounced with certainty. “Do you know which stop to take?”

“I had occasion to travel that way once,” Remus allowed through tight lips as he recalled yet another fiasco. “Before I knew enough of the neighborhood to simply Apparate.”

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Four
Remus: Seeking Forgiveness


Remembering the twisted trail Alastor had led him through, Dumbledore couldn’t resist commenting, “I’m surprised you accepted the premise of carrying on a conversation with a photograph so readily.”

Remus issued a mirthless laugh. “What? You wonder whether I have enough sense to doubt my own sanity?” His eyes gleamed with near feral intensity as he elaborated in a quiet voice, “Doubting myself has become part of my daily routine; but I’ve concluded that it’s the world around me that’s insane. Is that the way a madman would see it?”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled in amusement. “I’m afraid so.”

Remus shrugged his gaunt shoulders with exaggerated nonchalance. “What’s another added burden to bear?”

“What of a Death Eater plot? Have you considered that?”

Remus gave him a keen, appraising look. “It’s always best to let your enemies overestimate your frailties.”

It was typical understatement; Dumbledore instantly recognized it as such. He wouldn’t have been drawn to the scene if Remus hadn’t been drowning in a cauldron of despair. Yet there was a kernel of truth to it as well.

“You can’t very well shoot ropes at me from a gilded cardboard frame,” Remus elaborated as the first hint of grey eased its fingers over the surrounding rooflines. “And I doubt there’d be an ambush waiting for me in the midst of a Muggle tube station.”

“What about at the Tonks residence?” Dumbledore goaded.

“If I find the house surrounded, I’ll be able to lend my assistance from outside their perimeter.” Neither man mentioned that in Remus’ weakened condition, casting a simple Alohamora would likely bring him to his knees.

“You envision yourself arriving just in the knick of time.”

“I’m trying to envision they want me back at all,” Remus emphasized grimly. “But it’s a moot point anyway.”

Intrigued by the way the man’s mind worked, Dumbledore urged, “Why is that?”

“I’m not important enough for the Death Eaters to expend a number of hours just to bring me in,” Remus replied with aplomb. “Not when a well-placed curse could’ve left my lifeless body in an anonymous alley.”

“Efficiency supersedes compassion.”

“I expect it to be emblazoned around the golden fountain in the Ministry Atrium any day now.”

Recognizing some of the landmarks, Dumbledore directed, “Turn right at the next street corner. There’s an Underground station two blocks beyond that.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised you know so much about Muggle mass transit.”

“Like many young boys, I had a fascination with trains. The Hogwarts Express didn’t run regularly enough to suit me, but in the belly of the beast--”

“Did you imagine the Underground as the intestines of some formidable and exotic creature?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t share your imaginative view of the world, Remus. No, not even as a lad. But I liked the pent up power of the trains, hurdling into the dark tunnels without a wizard’s hand to guide them. They became a thrill ride for a lad of very modest means.”

“And the scar on your knee?”

Dumbledore smiled beatifically. “Fate intercedes in the most remarkable ways, doesn’t it? I fall from the branches of a neighbor’s tree and my scar forms an indelible map of sorts. Very handy as Aberforth and I used to plan our campaigns into enemy territory in exquisite detail before setting forth.” With a playful lilt, he added, “We had to, you see, to get the maximum ride for the fewest farthings.”

“At what point did you learn to Confund the ticket machine?” Remus frowned at the implacable metal contraption before him.

“Ah,” Dumbledore dodged, “it was a ticket taker then. A rather wily Muggle, as often as not.”

“You must have found that an even greater challenge.”

“Such is the untamed enthusiasm of youth.”

Remus stepped aside to allow a solitary man to feed a Muggle bill into the mechanical slot. He noticed there was a separate pocket for Euro coins.

“Have you any coins at all?” Dumbledore whispered.

“Not Muggle ones.”

“Something we could transfigure?” Cutting Remus’ rebuff short, he added, “You can always return with the proper fare later; donation boxes are available at every stop.”

Remus dug through the pockets of his dusty suit coat to no avail. Noticing a group of middle-aged ladies approaching, he slung the jacket over his arm to reveal a wrinkled, but relatively clean, shirt. From his trouser pocket, he extracted two copper knuts which shone dismally under the weak overhead bulb.

Once the others had passed, Dumbledore talked him through the spell. It was all Remus could do to keep his knees from buckling as he steadied himself against the ticket machine. The whirling mechanisms accepted the coins hungrily but did not disgorge his prize. Instead, the lights flashed red in anger.

“Long shift?” a white-haired matron issued at his elbow, making Remus start involuntarily.

Recovering quickly, he favored her with his trademark self-effacing smile. “Endless,” he replied.

The woman patted his arm in a grandmotherly fashion. “My late husband worked the graveyard shift during the war,” she supplied with a wistful sigh. “Seems like it was just yesterday.”

“Ruddy machine didn’t like my coins,” Remus remarked in an off-handed manner as he made to slap it with his open palm.

The woman chortled. “They’ve just upped the fare on us, again. How much did you add?”

Remus bit his tongue and lied, “Two Euros.”

Understanding from his tone that he had no more, she added a five pound note of her own and extracted two tickets. Gathering the few coins in change, she handed one of the tickets to Remus.

“Same thing happened to me last week. If my friend, Grace, hadn’t happened along I dare say I would’ve had to hobble home. I trust you to help out the next chap who finds himself in similar straits.”

“I’ll consider it my sacred duty,” Remus intoned with a slight nod.

“And such courtly manners,” she crooned as he assisted her with the turnstile. “If I was forty years younger…”

Remus laughed as he glanced self-consciously at the gold wedding band around his finger.

“You have a family, of course.”

“A wife,” Remus allowed, seeing no reason to hide the fact.

A fortyish woman in a smart business suit drew near. “Morning, Greta. See you’re off to the markets extra early today.”

“Bargain hunting,” Greta replied as she hefted her empty cloth sack for emphasis.

“The early worm syndrome,” the other woman concurred. “Did you find yourself an able apprentice this time?” She held her hand out to Remus, “I’m Martha, by the way.”

He barely hesitated before returning, “Ronnie Smythe.”

“Ronnie, hmmmm?” Martha considered as she checked him out over the rims of her glasses. “Can’t say the name rings a bell…”

Greta chuckled knowingly. “Martha thinks she recognizes everyone. Comes from staring at all those people who come to check out books.”

“You’re a librarian?” Remus smiled.

“Technically,” she allowed. “The British Library prefers that we refer to ourselves as curators.”

“Guardians of the world’s wealth of knowledge,” Remus concurred as he caught a sharp intake of breath from the card in his pocket. He’d need to watch his step as she very likely had seen him amid the hallowed halls of the country’s premier library. Admittance was free, after all.

Martha disembarked at few stops later, but they were joined by another gaggle of ladies en route to early shifts. Dumbledore barely kept himself from chuckling aloud as the women drew Remus out in turn, becoming even more solicitous when he confessed that he was an expectant father. By the time Greta said her goodbyes, Remus had been fortified by a half thermos of tea with milk and honey as well as a thick slice of freshly baked date bread.

Sensing that Remus’ head was drooping from weariness, Dumbledore waited until they were alone before clearing his throat. But before he could remind Remus that his stop was up next, the great wizard felt himself yanked unceremoniously in a different direction. Rather like a hook had caught him about the middle and Portkeyed him into another card, held in another’s hand.

---

He didn’t have a clear view of his surroundings as his face was still blocked by the mass of chocolate frog that had only just been unwrapped.

“Don’t be eating chocolate before breakfast, dear,” a disembodied voice issued in the distance as a sizable chunk of chocolate was torn away.

A loud bump and the rattle of glass, followed by a voice he recognized as belonging to Nymphadora Tonks groused, “Bugger that! Why does she always rearrange the furniture while I’m asleep?” Raising her voice, she called, “How much longer until breakfast, Mum? Please tell me we don’t have to wait until Dad returns from his run.”

At that moment, Dumbledore heard the sharp knocks.

“Coming!” Andromeda Tonks proclaimed as she hurried towards the front door.

“Don’t just open it!” Tonks cried as her mother hustled past.

Despite the warning, Andromeda took a quick peek around the curtain and cracked the door immediately. “Oh, it can’t be! We’ve been…”

The rest was drowned out as Tonks swore loudly, dropping the spent wrapping and the card atop a credenza in the front hallway. Dashing back up the stairs, her foot reacquainted itself with the grandfather clock on the landing, sending a sharp report through the house.

Sitting herself on the topmost step to massage her injured toe, Tonks turned a stubborn expression to her mother’s worried eyes. “Don’t believe a word he says. It’s just as likely to be a ‘juiced up gigolo than Remus,” she cautioned tersely.

“Dora, dear…” her mother pleaded, only to be caught short once again.

“Save your compassion for an enemy who deserves it!”

“He’s your husband,” Andromeda tried to mollify.

“How can you be so bloody sure?”

With an indulgent sigh, Andromeda turned on her heel and walked back to the front door. Easing the door open, she confronted Remus directly.

“Dora insists we observe strict Ministry protocols,” Andromeda apologized.

Remus’ gauzy form was just visible through the sidelights as he hung his head in resignation. “Ask what you will,” he offered in a meek, muffled tone.

In a voice laced with of compassion, Andromeda replied, “Not good enough, I’m afraid. She wants us to keep watch on you for a full hour in case Polyjuice is involved.”

Remus’ face fell. “You want me to sit in your parlor like this?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I was hoping to shower off the grime first,” Remus backpedaled.

“In due course,” Andromeda promised. “Certainly before you face a hearty plate of ham and eggs. But in the meanwhile, you’ll just have to trust in my spellwork.”

“Please…”

“It’ll be fine,” Andromeda soothed as she laid a comforting hand on Remus’ shoulder. “I’ve tackled much worse in my time. Dora used to roll in the mud with her bicycle as a child. Arrived at the door looking like she’d dipped herself in chocolate.”

Remus chuckled weakly as he allowed his mother-in-law to perform a few deft Scourgify spells. Once satisfied, she motioned for him to follow her into the otherwise empty foyer.

“I don’t suppose it will hurt if I bring you a change of clothes,” she confided. “Let me just see if Dora agrees.”

She left him to shift anxiously from foot to foot, uncertain of his next move. Like a wraith, Tonks materialized at the end of the short hallway, looking at him with large, accusatory eyes. The dank brown of her hair told Remus all he needed to know.

“Usher Remus into the sitting room, dear,” Andromeda suggested as she gave her daughter a small push in the general direction. Before hustling back into the kitchen, she placed a set of freshly laundered men’s pajamas next to the remains of the chocolate frog.

Looking every inch the Auror despite her pink terry robe and matching slippers, Tonks brought her wand to bear imperiously. “You can change in there,” she ordered with a quick nod of her head. At the last moment, she bundled the chocolate wrappings with one hand while keeping her wand leveled on Remus with the other.

“Aren’t you going to draw the blinds?” Remus stammered as he faced a long bank of windows facing onto the street.

“Might help our monetary situation to sell a few tickets,” she retorted.

Seeing the stern look on her face, Remus refrained from laughing. From her point of view, she was just needling a recently apprehended suspect.

“Nice touch with the modesty bit,” Tonks added as she settled herself comfortably in an armchair. “But as we all know from Harry’s recent rescue, a ‘juiced up wizard feels no shame.”

“Aren’t you afraid the neighbors might see the bright spells ricocheting off the walls when I attack? This is a Muggle neighborhood after all.”

“They’ll just assume I’m watching morning cartoons on the telly. Besides, Mum placed your wand on the kitchen counter, saw it with my own eyes.”

“And if I have a second one up my sleeve?”

“Don’t think so,” she returned with a quick swirl of her wand. “But I’m willing to watch for it, just in case.”

With the weariness of a long, sleepless night weighing upon his shoulders, Remus turned his back to her wand and proceeded to change his clothing. Once finished, he sat down opposite her and motioned towards the unruly pile of discards.

“Don’t you want to Levitate those into the nearest laundry hamper? I’m certain your mum would greatly appreciate the gesture.”

“I’m not foolish enough to take my wand off you.”

With a deep breath to quell his frustration, Remus crossed his long legs and regarded Tonks evenly and openly, inviting her to make the next move whenever she was ready. Hopefully, it would be before his eyelids gave out once and for all; but if not, her intimidating tactics would not keep him from falling asleep on this very sofa.

“Can I get you some juice or coffee, Remus?” Andromeda offered from the doorway as she Summoned the soiled clothes into her arms.

“Nothing until the hour is up,” Tonks interjected.

“Are you suggesting I’m a fellow conspirator and not your mother?” Andromeda returned with a flash of anger.

“I’m really fine,” Remus interceded. “Had a small snack on the train.”

“Train?” Tonks’ eyebrows shot up.

“The Underground,” Remus corrected.

Andromeda returned with a tray holding two glasses of chilled pumpkin juice. With great ceremony, she waited until Tonks took a sip and then handed that glass to Remus to finish. As Tonks made to protest, Andromeda whispered to Remus, “Let me know when she starts to change appearance!”

He knew he should maintain an impassive demeanor, but Remus couldn’t help chuckling at his mother-in-law’s antics. The chuckles worked themselves into laughter until he doubled over with a deep belly laugh. Feeling weak but heartened at the same time, Remus allowed a small smile to play over his lips.

Taking a deep drink of the juice, he began, “Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot this morning. Unexpected guests and all. How have you been for the past few days?”

“Days? Try two weeks!”

Refusing to be flustered, he started anew. “How have you been for the past weeks?”

“Sitting pretty in my bedroom. What do you think?”

“Missing your duties in the Auror Department?”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Tonks warned as she waved her wand at him. “I’m not about to delve into personal matters. Anyone with a scholar’s vocabulary and a gift for gallows humor can imitate your style well enough.”

“You just described Severus Snape,” Remus huffed.

“He goes for the jugular, you just tease.”

“And you just gave a potential enemy a template, you know.”

Tonks gave an arrogant shrug. “Since he’s not getting a chance to deploy it, who cares?”

Remus tried closing his eyes to wait out the hour, but much to his chagrin found that sleep eluded him. Shifting onto his side, he slitted his eyes open. “I can’t be that interesting a specimen to look at. You’ll understand if I close my eyes for a bit.”

“That park bench wasn’t as comfortable as your lumpy bed at Grimmauld Place, was it?”

“You didn’t seem to complain then…” he snapped, then calmed himself before adding, “But this sofa’s much better.”

“You don’t mind if I maintain my surveillance.”

“By all means, but it must seem like watching a beetle slowly suffocate inside a glass jar.”

“You never know what an innocent-looking beetle might have up its sleeve,” Tonks snorted.

“So the beetle in your imagination wears clothing? What an interesting quirk, Dora.”

“That right there demonstrates your innate unpredictability. So watch your step, Lupin.”

“Well, at least we’ve established that,” he sighed.

“Don’t get cocky. It’s too early to come up with any clever put-downs.”

“So my self-serving sense of nobility no longer seems pedantic?”

Taking the bait, she returned sharply, “It’s a swine who throws back words said in anger.”

“You have a long wait ahead of you if you’re expecting me to turn into a pig.”

“Just bear that in mind as you relax into my parents’ sofa, I still have my wand trained on you.”

Opening one eye, he observed wryly, “How could I? I’m being guarded by an unemployed Auror in pink bunny slippers.”

“Watch your mouth! I didn’t make disparaging remarks about the pile of rags you were wearing when you walked in.”

“Is that why I’m wearing your father’s old pajamas?”

“Mum just doesn’t throw anything away,” Tonks dismissed. “Always says our old things are too nice to just toss with the rubbish, but she rarely remembers to donate them to charity, either. Wouldn’t surprise me if she still had all my baby clothes in the attic.”

“That still doesn’t explain why she didn’t just fetch something from my trunk. You do remember the trunk you dropped on my toes as we Levitated it up the stairs? More than once, I might add.”

“I should’ve dropped the ruddy thing on your head!”

“That required more control of the Locomotor Charm than you displayed, my love.”

“If you want to know the truth of it, I still haven’t unpacked your trunk. Don’t give me that look, Lupin! The absolute last thing I need from you is a lecture about my deplorable house-keeping skills. A grown man like you should be perfectly capable of unpacking his own effing trunk.”

“Particularly if I wanted to be able to find where my things had been stored,” he dared.

“There you go again! Besides, I wanted to be ready to chuck the whole thing after you if it came to that.”

“I see. An empty trunk doesn’t really make a very satisfying sound, does it?”

“Hollow like your head, I would guess.”

“You don’t know that. After my hour is up, I might just grow two heads, for all you know.”

“I’d be happy if you just grew a heart,” Tonks grumbled.

---

Dumbledore’s ears caught the sound of steps approaching the back stoop. Without any conscious thought, he found himself staring out into the kitchen from the pocket of Remus’ discarded shirt.

Andromeda was busying herself with preparing breakfast, doing her best to not listen into the words that rose and fell from the front of the house. The rattle of the back door startled her and she barely avoided spilling muffin batter all over the counter.

“No luck, again,” Ted huffed as he bent low over his knees to regain his breath. “This bloody jogging is going to be the death of me.”

“You have to admit it’s a wonderful cover our Dora thought up,” Andromeda whispered as she handed him a towel to wipe his brow.

“I keep having to wander further and further afield, though. Good thing I have a trusty map of London with all the Apparition points marked.” Ted patted the inside pocket of his windbreaker to emphasize the point.

Andromeda shook her head and placed a finger over her lips to denote silence. “He’s with Dora in the other room.”

Ted’s eyes bulged from his head as he stumbled into the nearest chair. “How?”

Andromeda shrugged. “Just showed up on our doorstep looking like an unkempt vagabond. You would’ve probably caught your trainers on his robes if you’d gone out the front door instead of the back.”

“How’s Dora taking it?”

“It’s too soon to tell. She insisted we wait out the requisite hour for any Polyjuice Potion to wear off.”

“He doesn’t look like himself?” Ted sputtered in confusion.

“She just wants to be sure it isn’t someone else trying to gain her trust. Alastor instilled a good sense of self-preservation in our Dora.”

“Why doesn’t she just ask him questions?”

“Ted, you know how utterly lame those Ministry guidelines are! As she pointed out to his face, any half-wit could impersonate Remus with sardonic and playful responses. He’s just too adept at word games.”

“Yet you let him into our parlor, for Merlin’s sake!”

“I’m not the one who doubts his identity. There’s just so much pain and regret in his face…”

“Can’t Dora see that, too?”

“If she’s honest with herself. But that extra hour comes in handy when you’re trying to decide how to react. You know she’s been pacing the halls most nights.”

---

“I came back didn’t I?” Remus reiterated in a strained voice, causing Dumbledore to shift his focus once again.

“Only because Harry had the sense to throw a mangy cur like you out on his arse!” Tonks countered.

“Glad to see you’re waking up,” Remus remarked as he stretched his cramped limbs on the sofa.

Tonks jumped to her feet. “You really are the most contrary man, you know. I’m just getting warmed up and you’re ready to shuffle off to dreamland!”

The playfulness slid right off his face as he admitted, “Nightmares, more like. It’s been a number of days since I had a good night’s sleep.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours. If you count that little announcement of you being pregnant with my child.”

Tonks’ small fist clenched with pent up frustration. “Did you expect me to keep it a secret for nine months?”

“Of course not,” Remus returned softly. “But in the midst of a war…Dora, what were we thinking?”

“We weren’t thinking at all, that’s the point. I was drunk thinking that you loved me as much as I loved you.”

“More,” he stressed, his eyes burning with intensity.

“Then why did you walk out on me?” she demanded. “Don’t give me that line about your obligation to the Order, either. No one assigned you to be Harry’s bodyguard.”

“That’s just it, Dora. We’re in such disarray that there’s no one to organize anything. Consider it a bit of misplaced initiative on my part.”

“Harry didn’t relish having a middle-aged Marauder tagging along, did he?”

“He didn’t react well to the news of your pregnancy, either,” Remus affirmed. “And I am not middle-aged!”

“Well, one would certainly never think it by your actions,” she sniffed. “How did Harry react?”

Remus sighed. “Like a product of his unhappy childhood, I see now. Said the only place for me at the moment was with my unborn child. Made me feel quite like an extraneous accessory that’s outlived its usefulness.”

Clearing her throat to announce herself, Andromeda interjected, “Excuse me for interfering, but there’s something I’d like to ask Remus.”

Tonks’ brow scowled in displeasure, but Remus’ reaction was more accommodating, “Yes?”

“Do you like children?” Andromeda posed softly.

“Mother, really,” Tonks protested, but a motion from Ted made her back down.

“Seeing as how you’re a guest on our sofa, we just thought we’d like to get to know you a bit better, son,” Ted added. His friendly smile did much to diffuse the suddenly tense atmosphere.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Remus stammered.

“I know it must seem like a bit of a non sequitur,” Andromeda explained gently as she settled herself on a nearby armchair. “But you see, poor Dora’s been noticeably distraught for the past week, blaming herself for something that isn’t solely her fault.”

“Mum, please,” Tonks implored, fidgeting noticeably. “Remus and I discussed these things at length --”

“I’ll answer the question,” Remus volunteered as he glanced quickly at the faces around him. Andromeda’s features softened as his eyes settled on her. “Yes, I like children.”

“I think we all needed to hear you say that,” Ted observed, not moving from his perch in the doorway. “Dora included.”

“Don’t you remember me telling you how much he enjoyed his teaching post at Hogwarts?” Tonks defended.

“I also recall you telling us it was a rather brief tenure,” Andromeda pointed out. “So I have to wonder, Remus: did your regret stem from losing a paying post or being judged unfairly because of your condition? Or was it because you were forced to give up something you dearly loved?”

It was a probing question, but Remus concluded it was allowable under the circumstances. With a deep breath, he admitted hollowly, “All those things. Every single one. It didn’t matter that the post was rumored to be cursed,” he added, effectively cutting off Tonks’ next comment. “I was as heart-broken as if I’d lost a close friend. So to emphasize your point, Andromeda, Ted, I have always liked children. I enjoy working with them and teaching them. I would consider myself lucky to have some of my own someday…” His voice wavered uncertainly.

“But--” Andromeda coaxed.

Remus hung his head as he unconsciously dug his nails into his palms. “Everything is just so ill-timed,” he muttered into his lap. “The war…having to give up our flat…and both of us being out of work. It’s hardly an auspicious beginning,” he summarized as he caught the unspoken emotion shining forth from his wife’s eyes.

“Such things have a timing onto themselves,” Andromeda soothed as she caught one of Remus’ hand between hers. “Who are we to question a gift born of your boundless love?”

“Besides,” Ted remarked with a wry twinkle, “a baby comes with a timetable of its own, make no mistake about it. Looks like this one’s going to be as strong-willed as Dora here.”

At the sound of the kitchen timer that singled sixty minutes had elapsed, Ted wrapped his arm around Andromeda’s shoulder and escorted her from the room.

“We’ll let you know when breakfast is ready,” he called over his shoulder.

Left alone once more, Remus offered humbly, “I’m sorry I panicked. Please forego the comparison to an animal stampede.”

With mock innocence, Tonks returned, “Would I do something like that?”

“With entirely too much relish. I’m trying to form an abject apology here.”

“I think you managed that when you dragged yourself onto the front porch,” Tonks acknowledged with a tender smile.

“Was I that pathetic a sight?”

“You’ll have to ask Mum; it was her heartstrings you melted. I was in the kitchen.”

Remus wisely sidestepped the temptation to tease her about the piece of furniture which had obviously ambushed her on the stairs. “Back to my apology,” he maintained.

“Flowery words make me uncomfortable. You might as well walk across broken glass on your knees.”

“Is that going to be part of my penance?”

“Too clichéd,” Tonks allowed as she wormed her way onto to sofa next to him. “I have something entirely different in mind.”

“After breakfast,” Remus promised into the soft tendrils of her hair.

“And a shower,” she agreed as a huge yawn overtook her. “I can’t seem to get the sleep out of my eyes otherwise.”

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Five
Tonks: Traditions Old and New



He checked on them after a time to make sure that things were still on track. He was loath to interfere once again; his actions had been unprecedented enough as it was.

From a table alongside a worn settee, Dumbledore gazed at a mounding belly that could only belong to Nymphadora, her trim figure finally beginning to show the unmistakable signs of pregnancy. In the near distance, a pair of turquoise puffskein slippers were kicked off to reveal toenails painted in sparkling lavender. Undeniably Nymphadora. The image brought a welcome smile to his face.

Outside the window, gauzy light attested to the gloomy, colorless days of winter. The vague outline of Muggle fairy lights through the sheers indicated it must be approaching Yuletide as Tonks munched happily on a chocolate frog.

“Can’t find it!” Remus’ voice rose from the stairwell at the end of the hall. Footsteps approached and his face appeared in the doorway, sandy fringe badly in need of a trim. “Not a single issue of the Prophet to be found.”

Looking up, she questioned, “What about the small kiosk --”

“Near the Muggle market? All boarded up. I don’t dare venture as far as Diagon Alley.”

“Too dangerous,” Tonks concurred. “Don’t give it a thought, sweetheart. I found something else to read in the meanwhile.” As she flipped the cover to show her husband, Dumbledore caught the title: Witch Weekly.

“That issue is at least a year old.”

“Doesn’t matter if I haven’t read it.”

“Of course you haven’t. You always say such magazines are too girly.”

The small mountain of flesh rose and fell as she shrugged dismissively. “Can’t rightly deny my womanhood when I’m carrying a child.”

Remus’ tone bordered on reverence as he echoed, “Our child.”

“Besides, the Daily Prophet should be renamed the Daily Lies these days. Prophetic, it is not.”

“I thought you didn’t hold much store with prophecies.”

“I don’t -- and I certainly don’t care for lies.”

“Isn’t that what Witch Weekly promises? Right there on the cover it proposes to teach you how to don robes that will make your wizard’s eyes pop.”

Tonks laughed merrily. “That’s wishful thinking. Hope, not lies.”

“Having seen the ghastly crones at the market, some of those women are hopeless.”

“Which is precisely why they feel the need to improve themselves. Besides, Mr. Analytical, the story only promises to teach them what to buy. Nothing is implied about whether or not it will suit them.”

“The vagaries of fashion.”

“Which is why I always prefer to set my own trends, thank you very much.”

“Dora!” came Andromeda’s velvety voice from the stairs. “Did you finish with the gifts?”

Tonks screwed her face up for Remus’ benefit as she raised her voice in reply, “Sorry, Mum. You know how hopeless I’m with that folding spell. Didn’t want to mangle all the fancy paper you insisted we couldn’t live without!” Under her breath she added, “I don’t know why she has to go through all this rigmarole. Not this year anyway. So many worries pressing in from all sides.”

“That’s precisely why she does it,” Remus confided lowly. “If she goes through the motions at home, it helps her to pretend things aren’t so dire in general.”

“But without Dad…” Tonks voice caught with worry.

“What if he manages to show up? She’d never forgive herself if she didn’t offer him a proper holiday welcome.”

“Dad wouldn’t care about that.”

“Perhaps not, but don’t take this one little thing away from her, Dora. Your mother’s doing her best to not fall apart herself; don’t crack her veneer.”

“But reality �““

“Is the last thing she wants right now. She wants Christmas, a traditional celebration that brings joy to the entire world. Even if it’s just for a few days.”

“It just seems so pointless -- not to mention the extra expense.”

“You can’t put a price on the glue that holds someone’s sanity together, love. Trust me on that one.”

“Remus,” Andromeda cried from the first floor landing. “Could I delegate the gift-wrapping to you? Something tells me you’re better suited to such tasks that some others whom I won’t mention.”

“I’ll be down in a second,” Remus called in reply. Then turning to Tonks, he admonished her gently, “Please stop all these morbid thoughts, sweetheart. It’s not good for the baby to let your raging hormones get the better of your usual common sense. Remember what the Healer said.”

“Do you really think the baby can hear everything we say?”

“Who am I to doubt the experts?”

“I notice you left the wireless on the endless music station.”

“You could’ve turned it off with a flick of your wand; it’s in your direct line of sight.” Remus cocked his head as he listened briefly. “Don’t you like Vivaldi? I always found it uplifting.”

“You’re right. I’ll just tell Teddy a happy story while you manufacture some Christmas cheer.”

At the doorway, Remus turned back with a quizzical furrow between his eyes. “Teddy? I thought you didn’t want to know the gender ahead of time.”

“I don’t.”

“What makes you think it’s a boy?” he asked as he kneeled next to her and laid a gentle hand on her abdomen.

“I don’t. Teddy’s supposed to be a generic name.”

“How do you figure that?”

“We could go with Theodora, if it’s a girl.”

“I thought you hated long names �“ and that’s another Dora to add to the confusion.”

Tonks grinned up at him. “That’s why I chose Teddy. Just change the spelling if it’s a girl.”

“But your father’s first name is Edward, not Theodore.”

“True, but I just couldn’t warm up to Edwina.”

Through her unspoken words, Dumbledore clearly read the inner turmoil. Despite the carefree air she adopted on the surface, Nymphadora was just as desperately worried about Ted Tonks as her mother was. So much so, that it permeated every segment of her life.

“He’ll be fine you know,” Remus soothed as he ran his thumb over the knuckles of the small hand he held in his. “Didn’t you say he loved to go camping when he was younger?”

“That was in a wizard’s tent; Mum would never consider actually roughing it.”

“So he’s finally getting a chance to truly sleep under the stars. Think of it as a big adventure.”

“You’re right,” she conceded with a sigh. “Worrying doesn’t accomplish much of anything, does it?”

“Negative energy, nothing more.”

“Go help Mum, Remus. She’s always short on patience as the holiday chores pile up.” As his steps echoed from the hallway, she raised her voice to add, “Tell her I’m not baking any fancy biscuits, though.”

“No need,” Remus snorted from the landing. “She claims you always burn them so black, she has to pass them off as thestrals!”

“Cheeky!” she muttered under her breath to the empty room. “Your daddy wasn’t always such a prat, you know. There was a time I thought him the most romantic man alive.”

Dumbledore was mesmerized as she spun the tale for the benefit of her unborn child, her gentle fingers making swirling motions across her swollen belly. “Let me tell you about the first time he kissed me…”

The effect was nothing short of hypnotic as Tonks’ voice took on a soft, lilting cadence. It was so easy to visualize the peeling wallpaper in Sirius’ bereft townhouse -- yet the joy and laughter that the three of them managed to eek out of their somber surroundings was unmistakable.

The kitchen table was worn to a shiny smoothness by years of use; the cracked bricks of the basement hearth hid a century’s worth of soot deposits. The high transom windows could only be unstuck with repeated spells peppered with more and more creative expletives. Into this setting, Tonks’ narration placed the young heroine.

“Yours truly,” she whispered to her child, “as well as the noble but brassbound hero, your father-to-be. Only according to the argument that we were having for the hundred and tenth time, he was determined to remain childless until his dying day. Why he even had recurring themes that he liked to rotate at will just to make sure I was paying attention. That night I believe he was going on about our ages.” She varied the timbre of her voice so that Dumbledore had no trouble following the conversation.

“‘Thirteen years is still quite a gap,’ Remus stubbornly maintained.

“‘Since when is that an important issue?’ I demanded. ‘It’s not like you’re old enough to be my father, anyway.’

“‘Well, technically a lad of thirteen is old enough--’

“‘Only if he finds a willing female. And that’s one very big ‘if’.’

“That stopped him for a moment as he considered that not even your uncle, Sirius, could have pulled that one off �“ and everyone knew he was smooth enough to date girls who were a number of years ahead of him at school. Finally, your father settled for, ‘Old enough to be one of your professors, then.’

“‘By the time you took up the Dark Arts class, I was already a trained Auror.’

“‘So you’re saying you would’ve flattened my presumptuous arse?’ he countered, unable to hide his smirk.

“‘No, I’m saying we’re on an even playing field.’

“‘What about Severus? He was in the same year as I; you took Potions classes from him.’

“‘Lumbering hippogriffs, Remus! I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing.’

“‘It was only a hypothetical --’

“‘Now I’ll have to wash that distasteful, hypothetical image from my mind. Snape is hardly my type!’

“‘What exactly is your type? You haven’t rightly said.’

“‘You haven’t exactly indicated you were rightly interested.’

“‘Consider it another hypothetical.’

“I rolled my eyes at his machinations before supplying, ‘Someone who makes me laugh.’

“‘Severus can be funny.’ Remus refused to back down.

“‘Yeah. He’s a barrel of hyperactive crups, he is. I meant someone I could laugh with, not at.’

“That made him chuckle, so he relented, ‘I see your point. But really, Tonks, if you were to look at the situation realistically --’

“‘Not back to thirteen again, are we? It’s just a bloody number, Remus! Like number twelve, Grimmauld Place.’

“‘That’s a number that denotes a location.’

“Not to be outdone by his circuitous logic, I remarked, ‘So is this! It pinpoints the roadblock in your thinking. Look, Remus, it’s not as if I’m a child.’

“‘Just an ingénue.’

“‘That’s a theatrical term. Unless you plan on handing me a script…’

“‘No, that would spoil the fun of your unexpected retorts.’

“‘See, you enjoy having someone to laugh with also.’

“‘I admit Buckbeak never really gets my jokes,’ he deadpanned.

“Seeing a way to turn the conversation more to my advantage, I volunteered, ‘I bet I’ve lived more in my years since I left school than you have in yours. Don’t deny it! You yourself admitted you’d been a recluse far too much of the time.’

“‘Not entirely by choice.’

“‘Couldn’t have been as a direct result of all those objections you always bring up.’

“‘I’m not giving you a tour of my sordid love life, if that’s what you’re angling for.’

“‘Of course not. You’d be too much of a gentleman for that. Besides, you wouldn’t want to make yourself look so pathetic. Some girls fancy that kind of neediness.’

“With a sharp lift of his eyebrow, he replied, ‘But not you?’

“‘No. There’s too much living to do to spend your life mired in the past. That’s my motto.’

“‘Really? Yesterday, your motto was: Never tickle a sleeping dragon.’

“‘That’s the Hogwarts motto,’ I reminded him.

“‘Really? Well, I knew it had something to do with an unruly beast.’

“‘Never throw pearls before a Neanderthal. And I was talking about those tossers at work.’

“Leaning over, he whispered, ‘Sometimes I feel the same way about Sirius when he’s in his cups.’

“I couldn’t help giggling, ‘Don’t let him hear you say that!’

“‘As if he could hear anything over his snoring!’

“‘What makes you so sure that’s not the hippogriff?’

“‘Buckbeak? At times I feel he’s the more domesticated of the two.’

“‘Don’t make me laugh!’

“With a playful pout, he recalled, ‘But I thought you liked that.’

“‘From the men I go out with,’ I emphasized. ‘You and I are still arguing about how we’re destined to spend eternity in this effing townhouse!’

“‘Don’t you have to present yourself at work on Monday?’

“‘If I kill you first, they’ll cart me off the Azkaban.’

“‘See, and you thought you’d never get out of this townhouse! I promise I’ll come on visiting days. Even bring chocolate cupcakes.’ He threw me a cheeky grin.

“Playing along, I conceded, ‘With my luck, the dementor assigned to my cellblock would have a sweet tooth.’

“‘Then he’d self-destruct when he devoured one of my cupcakes.’

“‘Without a doubt! No offense, Remus, but you’re the world’s most deplorable cook.’

“‘Can you do any better?’

“‘No, but I don’t lie to myself about it. I just fetch take-away.’

“‘Spoken like a true working girl. I prefer to stay at home.’

“‘All alone apparently.’

“‘Not really. I’m not alone right now, for instance.’

“‘Only because you haven’t worn out my patience yet.’

“‘You’d just come back tomorrow. Now look who’s pathetic!’

“‘So said the kettle.’ Wanting nothing more than to wipe that smug look off his face, I added, ‘I could go out this very minute and find myself a right fellow at the nearest pub.’

“‘Is it your intention that I should watch?’ he mercilessly taunted.

“I looked him up and down enough to unnerve him, then whispered, ‘I never took you for a peeping wolf…’

“‘That’s not really what I meant,’ he answered, trying to hide the fact that I’d made him blush.

“‘What did you mean then? I may not be as worldly as you, but I’m hardly a virgin, you know.’

“‘Tonks, I would never have asked you such a personal question!’ he stammered.

“‘Why would you need to? I just told you myself.’

“Feeling cornered, he begged, ‘Can we change the subject? Please.’

“‘Why? Are you that much of a prude?’

“‘Damn it, Tonks! What would you have me say?’

“‘What’s the big fuss?’ I pressed my advantage. ‘Are you a virgin?’

“He shook his head in resignation as he admitted lowly, ‘No.’

“‘See? And you thought we’d have nothing in common from opposite sides of that wide, thirteen-year abyss.’

“Unwilling to admit defeat, he tried to distract me with, ‘I bet I can find something else we have in common.’

“‘ Ooooh, I love wagers. What are --’ It was at this point that he leaned over and kissed me, surprising me with the true depths of his quiet demeanor.

“When I was finally able to get my breath back, I responded, ‘Does this mean we’re going out?’

“‘We’ll see.’

“Railing at the stoic mask that had fallen over his face once more, I cried, ‘If you were this infuriating with your school sweetheart, I can see why she dumped you!’

“‘What makes you think I wasn’t the one to break up with her?’

“‘You forget you already told me the sob story about how she broke your heart.’

“‘I wouldn’t have if I’d known you were going to make light of it.’

“‘I know you won’t believe me, but it wasn’t that different being a Metamorphmagus.’

“‘Sure it is! You’re in control of your appearance. You can desist making changes if you know it will repulse another.’

“Seeing the hole in his argument, I countered, ‘Why would I want to cease being myself for the sake of someone else? Such company I could do without.’

“‘I quite agree, but I haven’t found anyone who was willing to accept my version of the truth.’

“I cleared my throat to get his attention. ‘You haven’t really given anyone a chance,’ I clarified.

“‘Is that anyone I know? Or anyone in a hypothetical sense?’

“‘Don’t you ever tire of these games?’ I sighed.

“‘How could I? You keep changing the rules on me.’

“‘Oh really?’ With a bit of devilment, I pressed, ‘What did you say was the name of your girlfriend at Hogwarts?’

“‘I didn’t.’

“‘Why? Do you think I might know her?’

“‘Probably not. But I wouldn’t put anything past you.’

“‘There’s only one way to find out,’ I cajoled.

“‘Her name was Rosalinda. Satisfied?’ He grimaced in that comical fashion of his.

“‘Was she beautiful?’

“‘Not on the inside where it counts the most.’

“‘But such a romantic name…’ I whispered in a dreamy fashion.

“‘Would you rather your parents have named you that instead of Nymphadora?’ he teased.

“‘Not in this case. I wouldn’t want you to get confused.’

“‘I’m certain the pink hair would keep me straight.’

“‘You can’t see colors in the dark,’ I pointed out with unerring logic.

“‘That depends upon how bright the moon is. But what makes you think I’d get caught in the dark with the likes of you?’

“‘Don’t think you can trust yourself, eh?’ I needled in return.

“‘Something tells me you’d have more arms than the Giant Squid.’

“I pulled a face. ‘You really are kinky, aren’t you! I recommend saving the role-playing for later.’

“His eyebrows arched in surprise, ‘Aren’t you taking a lot for granted?’

“‘It was a tantalizing kiss. Full of possibilities.’

“‘Don’t make me regret it then.’

Remus stood in the doorway, Levitating a small mountain of gaily wrapped gifts. “I don’t remember it happening quite like that,” he observed, effectively breaking the nostalgic spell.

“No?”

“You omitted the part where you drew your wand and threatened to Imperius me if I didn’t take you out to the pub.”

“Seems to me you went willingly,” she corrected.

“Didn’t want to be the cause of you being sent upriver for using an Unforgivable.”

“I would’ve been acquitted,” Tonks huffed lightly. “Extenuating circumstances.”

“Hardly,” Remus snorted. “You were too busy trying to out-flirt me.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Do you have a more appropriate term?” he dared.

“Ambush. Regroup. Re-evaluate. Resurgence.”

“Just as long as it’s not regret,” he breathed as he settled himself on the arm of the settee.

“No, never that,” she responded in a husky voice as she closed the distance between them.

After breaking apart from a lengthy kiss, Remus was slightly lightheaded as he inquired, “Are you planning on telling our Teddy an X-rated story next?”

“Colliding comets! If he, or she, can hear everything, our privacy just went out the window. How ever will --”

Remus placed a finger tenderly across her lips. “I think the midwife Healer just meant that the baby can understand being loved. Word recognition occurs as the birth draws nearer.”

“I’m not certain I buy into that,” Tonks considered. “When do a baby’s ears actually develop in the womb?”

“Check one of those reference books your mum saved.”

“You mean her scorecards?” At his blank expression, she elaborated, “Many of those books include a timetable for a child’s development. Averages only, not instructions carved in stone. If you expect your child to exhibit those skills and behaviors exactly on schedule, a parent is bound to be disappointed.”

“Since when did you become an expert?”

“Since I recalled the words our family Healer repeated over and over to Mum.”

“I suspect being a Metamorphmagus played a major role in that.”

“And it’s likely to be a factor for our child as well,” she predicted.

“So anything’s possible, you’re saying?”

“I’m saying that if he’s anything like you, he’ll be carrying on a conversation with himself inside the womb.”

“If she’s anything like you, she’ll be contradicting me with her first breath!” Remus volleyed back.

They glared at each other playfully before breaking into gales of laughter.

Noticing the packages still hovering in the doorway, Tonks was drawn to examine them more closely. Each was wrapped in bright foil and tied with a fabric ribbon bow. She peered critically at the neatly folded corners.

“It didn’t take you any time to master Mum’s gift-wrapping spell,” she complimented. “She adapted it from the packing spell; I’m rubbish at that one also.”

“I didn’t use a spell.”

“What wizard wraps gifts by hand when he can use magic?” she countered in disbelief.

“One who enjoys a rare opportunity to do things with his hands. Much less stressful than waving your wand about all the time.”

“But surely you needed a charm to tie all the bows. Some are even double-tied.”

“Nope. All by hand. Andromeda gave me the basics and let me run with it.”

“Then she trusts you more than she ever trusted me,” Tonks groused. “You even adhered to her theme.”

Remus nodded from where he was lounging on the bed. “Solid wrap, patterned ribbon. Not that complicated.”

“I always preferred the patterned wrap.”

“According to her, you also added clashing ribbon to create a discordant mess!” he chuckled.

“There’s nothing wrong with originality, you know. Modern artists and symphony composers use dissonance to great effect.”

“Sounds like you were dragged to far too many cultural events as a child.”

“Which means she should’ve made the connection herself,” Tonks persisted. “All her lofty words about taking time to understand the artist’s true message.”

With amusement dancing in his eyes, Remus coaxed, “So what exactly were you trying to convey with your avant-garde style? That you hated being assigned to gift-wrapping duty?”

“You know me too well,” she barely managed without smirking.

“The better part of a year teaching children and one learns just how their manipulative little minds work. It’s been a skill I find rather useful…”

“Are we back on that age thing again?” she interjected. “It’s a ruddy dead dragon, Remus!”

“People of all ages can be childish.”

“So, it’s the very definition of maturity to collude with Mum’s arbitrary ideas?”

“I wasn’t the visionary that you were, true. But I got the job done. Now where do we hide them?”

“Hide them?”

“So the elves can distribute them at daybreak on Christmas.” He hesitated at her bemused expression. “Didn’t you wake up with piles of gifts at the foot of your bed?”

“Sure, that’s the way elves do it at Hogwarts. But in case you haven’t noticed, we don’t have a house-elf. Just Mum to delegate tasks to me and Dad.”

“And you think my parents did?” Remus countered. “Modest doesn’t begin to describe our living arrangements.”

“Then I suspect your parents soundlessly Levitated the gifts themselves in the middle of the night,” Tonks surmised. “We don’t do that here. Mum always arranges them under the tree like Dad remembers from his Muggle childhood. The added bonus is that everyone can admire her gift-wrapping skills in the bargain.”

With an amused curl to his lip, Remus attested, “I think you attribute way too much of a Slytherin’s selfishness to your mother.”

“Why shouldn’t I? That was her house at school. All the Blacks were sorted into Slytherin --”

“Except for Sirius, I remember it like it was yesterday. Caused quite a stir in the Great Hall.”

“I suspect there were fireworks when Sirius’ parents found out,” Tonks giggled. “Mum remembers being inordinately proud of him but afraid to let anyone know. By Merlin’s beard, Remus! What are we doing with the presents this year? Don’t tell me she bought a tree!”

“Right outside the market,” Remus confirmed. “They’re holding it in our name until I come back for it at dusk.”

With a slight frown, she noted, “Blimey, it starts to get cold that time of night. Why don’t you just tie it to the top of Dad’s jeep? I’m certain he won’t mind.”

“Did you forget I’ve never driven a Muggle automobile?”

“Well, Mum could certainly teach you if she still had her trusty little Fiat, but with the jeep….She hasn’t mastered the clutch beyond the first lesson, I’m afraid.”

“What’s the first lesson?” Remus wanted to know.

“Backing out of the driveway.”

Remus grinned. “Oh, that explains why she practices it regularly.”

“Don’t be a dolt, Remus! She keeps moving the car to give the illusion of normality. We’re in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Did she forget about the Fidelius charm Ted insisted she establish before he left? Muggles can’t see us.”

“I suspect she didn’t want to get out of the habit. Charms can fade sometimes.” Finding another wrinkle, she added, “How will you be able to find your way back at dusk?”

“The same way we’ve been going back and forth to the market.”

With sudden inspiration, Tonks volunteered, “Does extreme hunger qualify you for rescue by the Knight Bus?”

Remus started to chuckle only to have it die in his throat. “Considering Stan Shunpike, I don’t think I’d trust that ruddy contraption.”

“I see what you mean,” she sighed.

“But to answer your earlier question. We’ve been Apparating from that patch of woods at the end of the lane; the snow’s not too deep underneath the trees there.”

She gave him a heartfelt smile. “Makes sense. You wouldn’t want to Floo with full grocery bags.”

“Too much like St. Nick returning home with an empty sack, I wager!” Remus laughed outright. “Besides, I’m fairly certain your house has been disconnected from the Floo Network. It’s one of the first precautions Kingsley advises.”

Taking a furtive peek out the window, Tonks revealed that it was almost dark �“ and not quite tea time, Dumbledore calculated. With concern coloring her features, she reiterated, “It gets gloomy ever so quickly this time of year.”

Giving her a reassuring kiss on the top of the head, Remus whispered, “The better to use a Locomotor Charm away from prying eyes. I don’t have to remind you, this is a Muggle neighborhood.”

Tonks rolled her eyes. “Really? Must have escaped me all those years growing up here…So then you’ll Apparate the tree back--”

“Really, Tonks. Have you ever Apparated with an inanimate object strapped to your body?”

“Does an umbrella and rucksack count?”

“No. The magical laws won’t allow for anything much larger. I’d likely end up as the angel atop the blasted thing for my troubles!”

Tonks laughed uproariously at the image. “That would make for a memorable holiday!” she finally managed.

Through his own merriment, Remus admitted, “I was hoping for something a little less memorable. After all, we have years to carve out our own Lupin family traditions.”

Tonks made to stack the presents carefully atop their clothes cupboard for the time being. Only Remus’ quick wandwork kept them from tumbling into a rainbow avalanche.

She looked up into his warm eyes with a saucy grin. “Do you think after you get back, I can help trim the tree?”

“I thought you hated Christmas chores.”

“It doesn’t count as a chore if I volunteer willingly. You didn’t even have to manipulate me.”

“We’ll see,” Remus insisted as he gently led her back to the settee. “You know what the Healer said.”

“The one who couldn’t see that I wasn’t a ruddy pureblood like the rest of the Blacks? I’m not some hothouse tentacula that needs to be coddled!”

Sitting himself at her feet, Remus soothed, “The midwife’s just being cautious in light of all the problems your mother had.”

“But I’m used to physical activity.”

“And she said you could maintain a regular exercise routine. Don’t give you mum any more cause for worry. You know we can’t risk repeated visits to the Healer �“ not unless it’s an emergency. You need to keep your pregnancy as problem-free as possible.”

“You said it yourself: no one needs to know that I’m a Metamorphmagus unless I tell them.”

“It’s still too big a risk. Subconscious thought can trigger your hair changes; I’ve seen it first-hand.”

“You saw my gift fizzle out to nothing,” she recalled with a small frown.

“I’ve also seen you angry and it’s a veritable light show in every sense of the word,” Remus attested as he ran his fingers lovingly through her spritely pink curls.

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Six
Ron: Self-Reliance



The Christmas fruitcake tasted foreign in his mouth. A bit stale from the napkin in which he’d stored it like a priceless jewel underneath his pillow. The familiar spices mingled with the salty spray from the roiling ocean �“ or from his tears, Ron admitted with some chagrin. But there was no one looking over his shoulder, judging him, as he perched high above the rocky shoreline that hugged Shell Cottage to its very bosom.

After a sleepless night, the sunrise was full of vibrant slashes of cranberry red, signifying that stormy weather was on the horizon. A tiny slash of sand was revealed at low tide and his brother, Bill, and his new wife had gone on and on about how they would invite the entire Weasley family to a clam bake in the summer. In their enthusiasm, it wasn’t difficult to picture glowing faces laughing around a huge bonfire.

In a land torn by bitter warfare, it was a daydream to cherish just as they clung to how perfect their lives had been before. Unrealism in the face of unreality, there was no other way to categorize it.

With a pang, he longed to share that thought with Hermione but she was far away. Lost in the murky mists of his stupid anger and, try as he might, he could not see the way to win her back again. As if she had ever been his really; he’d been much too tongue-tied to come right out and ask her to be his girlfriend. But in his heart, she was his �“ and right now, all he had were those memories.

Another bite of the fruitcake crumbled in his mouth as he identified the final component: ashes from the bridges he’d burned with everyone he held dear, family included. Bill had assured him that all recriminations would melt away if he simply accompanied them to the Winter Solstice feast at the Burrow. After all, their mum had been worrying herself to the bone about his whereabouts. What better reassurance than to have him standing in the flesh before her?

Tempting as the offer was, Ron had declined. As much as he missed the rest of his family, he knew that their second or third questions would be about Harry and Hermione and he was not ready to face such a tribunal.

Bill had returned with all manner of news to share. First was to apologize for the small pile of lonely gifts he’d had to leave behind at the Burrow. Presents that had been addressed to Ron in the vain hope that he would find his way home in time for Christmas.

“There was no way to smuggle them out,” Bill attested. “Sooner or later, Mum would ferret out who’d done it and she’d be here on our doorstep.” At the dejected look on Ron’s face, he added, “Was I wrong to put your peace of mind above all else?”

Ron shook his overgrown red mane as he stared at his feet. If he wasn’t such a gutless git, he never would’ve found himself in this situation at all. “I’m not ready to face them yet,” he muttered to no one in particular.

“Ginny had some startling tales about life at Hogwarts,” Bill continued. “Not that she said much in front of Mum and Dad, but she found a moment to take me aside and fill me in. Said she owed it to the Order, at the very least.”

Ron turned eyes full of concern to search his brother’s face. “I can’t image Snape as headmaster �“ except perhaps in my darkest nightmares.”

“That was a bit of a shocker, really. But somehow, they’ve managed to take it in stride. Revived that Dark Arts study group of Harry’s --”

“Dumbledore’s Army,” Ron supplied.

“Exactly. Only it’s more a group of insurgents now. Headed up by none other than -- hold on to your hippogriff, now �“ Neville Longbottom!”

“Bloody hell! Neville used to see Snape as his boggart. Remus made a right funny lesson out of it once, but Neville’s fear was real.”

“Neville’s determined to confront his fears head on then. Ginny said they’ve had to limit themselves to only those students who were part of the original group; it’s next to impossible to determine where everyone else’s true loyalties lie.”

“They’re going to pay dearly if Snape gets wind of it.” Ron bleakly recalled the dour potion master's uncanny ability to worm his greasy nose wherever it wasn’t wanted. Why it was almost as bad as Moody’s magical eye that could see through solid objects! Instantly, he regretted the comparison as it brought up buried feelings of loss.

“They already have. Snape caught them sneaking into his office to steal Gryffindor’s sword.”

“Morons!” Ron echoed the same sentiments from when he’d overheard a similar tale. Or was it just that without that effing Horcrux around his neck he was finally free to express his true feelings? “What good would it do them with no idea of how to get it to Harry? Even if they’d been successful.”

“It seemed the ultimate act of defiance, I suppose. Snape turned them over to Hagrid for punishment.”

“Hagrid?” Ron’s eyes fairly bulged from his head. “What sort of punishment could Hagrid impose? Sloughing through the Forbidden Forest might be miserable, but it’s hardly torture!”

Bill nodded with a grim set to his lips. “Ginny arrived at the same conclusion. That’s one of the things she most wanted to share with me.”

“So we’re to think Snape’s gone soft? I’m not taking that micky!”

Neither was Ginny, Bill explained at length as he described how Snape barricaded himself in the Headmaster’s Tower and wasn’t seen by anyone for days on end. How his ill-gotten throne at the teachers’ table was more often empty than not. He’d always been a cagey sort, but he’d taken malicious relish in doling out punishments, gleefully pouncing on any infraction which crossed his path.

Ron recalled the satisfied smirk on the man’s face as he blasted rose bushes amongst snogging couples outside the Yule Ball. There had been a dark delight shining in his eyes that night.

“It’s Ginny’s belief that he’s come to loathe his position as Headmaster.”

“It’s no secret Snape’s always hated his students,” Ron volunteered. “Not even Hermione could impress him with her encyclopedic knowledge.”

“Something’s changed for him, though. And if we could only place our finger on it, we might have a clue as to what’s really going on behind the scenes at Hogwarts,” Bill concluded. “You know how observant our little sister is about tiny details -- especially those we’d like to keep hidden.”

Ron agreed wholeheartedly. Another reason why foregoing the family holiday gatherings had been inevitable. Based upon Ginny’s conjectures, he wasn’t sure what to think of Snape �“ nothing new there �“ but was equally uncertain that they had the full picture by any means, either.

“Here, I didn’t come empty-handed though,” Bill offered as he placed a small bundle in Ron’s lap. “Sorry I couldn’t justify taking anything else for just Fleur and me.”

Inside was half a loaf of his mother’s famous Yuletide fruitcake and a stack of sweets.

“I’m fairly certain I grabbed the last of the chocolate frogs,” Bill confided lowly. “I know they’re your faves.”

“Thanks, Bill,” Ron managed through a suddenly tight throat.

He’d sliced off thin slices of fruitcake to last him as long as possible. It conjured warm evenings spent at the Burrow when his deepest worry was how to complete one meaningless school assignment or another. He’d managed to stretch the slices out for almost a week, but today he brushed the final crumbs into the steel grey breakers below.

He had only one more chocolate frog left after this one, he sighed. Reverently, he unwrapped the crinkly foil and allowed the stiff wind to send it dancing like a bright butterfly among the whitecaps. Placing his thumb firmly on the hind leg to avoid any mishaps, he bit off the head and savored the velvety chocolate melting in his mouth. With smaller and smaller bites, he prolonged the pleasure as much as he could until he was staring down into Dumbledore’s sparkling blue eyes.

He’d never been particularly close to the famous wizard. No heart-to-heart chats in his office like Harry’d enjoyed. For Ron, being summoned to the Headmaster’s office only meant one thing: punishment was imminent. Yet he found himself yearning to speak with his former professor more than anything. Perhaps in his wisdom, Dumbledore could help him to find a way to untangle the mess he’d created single-handedly. If he hadn’t given Harry much to go on for his final assignment, perhaps he could offer a few words to hapless Ron instead.

The Deluminator he’d inherited was a familiar weight in Ron’s trouser pocket, bringing a hesitant smile to his lips. Somehow Dumbledore had known of the Weasley men’s obsession with all manner of trinkets and toys.

It had proven right handy, too, when he’d wandered off along the first road leading away from that accursed campsite. Smack into a gang of Snatchers as he’d been too preoccupied to take stock of his surroundings before Disapparating. After a frenzied escape, the Deluminator had somehow allowed him to find his way back to the same hillside, but Harry and Hermione were long gone by then.

At that point, he was still inclined to tell them what a pair of toerags they were; but when he tried the Deluminator again, it hadn’t worked as before.

With the first drops of frigid rain against his woefully inadequate windbreaker, Ron began to have second thoughts. Not that the heat of anger had dissipated enough for him to admit this to himself. Only in retrospect had his actions seemed those of a sulky, petulant child.

He burned with shame every time he recalled how he’d countered all of his mother’s earlier arguments by saying that he was of age �“ and man enough to undertake the journey at hand. Bollocks! He and Harry �“ and even Hermione, if she was honest with herself �“ were playing hide-and-seek with the Grim Reaper himself. A pointless game, if ever there was one.

Were they any closer to solving the wretched puzzle of the Horcruxes? Not really. The books Hermione had smuggled from Hogwarts only gave them an academic sort of knowledge �“ practically useless in the real world. Hadn’t she learned that hard truth yet?

So they knew what the ruddy things were! Big deal. Dumbledore’s summary and Harry’s first-hand account of neutralizing Riddle’s diary had given them that much. Did they know how to destroy the ruddy things? No. What kind of book tells you how to create a thing and then not how to destroy it? One that wants to lead you astray, was the inevitable conclusion. Which, of course, explained why Dumbledore had removed those books from the library in the first place.

It was like knowing a curse without the counter-curse. You could create mayhem but not restore the peace.

That is if they ever figured out how to find the cursed objects in the first place. Why they’d just go rapping on doors at random. “Excuse me, sir, madam, but would you happen to have one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes gathering dust in your attic?”

Now that was a recipe for disaster. Maybe an hour until a phalanx of Death Eaters blasted the three of them into atoms.

It was at this point in his internal dialogue that morning that Ron had concluded he was lost in the bargain. On the far side of the ridge from the sodding campsite was a muddy country lane that could be anywhere on the effing map. After a few minutes’ walk, the desolate fields surrounding him were the nondescript brown of mown hay. Had it not been raining intermittently for the past week, they would have been covered in a white dusting of snow. Either way, no landmarks.

The landscape over the next rise was much the same except for a grayish structure along the roadside which turned out to be a deserted bus shelter. At least it would shield him from the downpour which had started to trail in small, miserable rivulets down his back.

He tried to blow some warmth into his bloodless hands as he settled his backside against the only portion of the rickety bench that was still dry. For a split second, he considered calling for the Knight Bus �“ only to conclude that the new conductor was just as likely to be a Death Eater trainee than not. They’d Imperiused Stan Shunpike, hadn’t they?

Perhaps he could purchase a bus ticket with the few Muggle coins which each of them kept for emergencies. To where, was the question.

In the dingy half-light, it was difficult to tell just what was posted on the shelter’s walls. Uncertain of what tracing spells might be about, he didn’t dare light his wand tip. If only he had some ordinary matches, he considered briefly.

Not a good idea inside a wooden shack, his mother’s voice rose from his conscience. He doubted the rain-soaked planks would do anything other than smoke. Still, it would draw others to investigate.

How about a cigarette lighter, then? Ron considered the gadget he’d seen in Muggle billboards. They looked remarkably like that Deluminator-thingy of Dumbledore’s. Unconsciously, he fingered the very object inside his jacket pocket.

Having slowly grown accustomed to the low light, Ron detected a rusted light fixture hanging crookedly from the ceiling. He pointed the Deluminator at it and clicked. Nothing happened.

He rose to his full height and peered up into the lamp more carefully. Broken glass on the outside, but the bulb inside seemed to be intact. He recalled that was the most important factor from Hermione’s attempts to explain electricity to his father. He ignored the sharp bite of regret as he shoved all thoughts of Hermione forcefully aside.

Positioning the Deluminator directly below the fixture, Ron clicked again. This time he was rewarded with a sharp flash of light before the bulb exploded! The tinkle of broken glass fell to the floor as he shook his wet fringe, reminding him that the only thing that could make this day worse was if it was hailing in the bargain.

Was it his imagination, or had he seen a faded road map on the far wall? He felt his way blindly until his fingers detected a frame bolted securely to the wall.

He closed his eyes against the purple spots still coloring his vision and allowed his sight to return to normal. Endless minutes later, he was peering into an illegible bird’s nest of faintly colored lines snaking off in all directions. It was too dim to read any of the place names, though.

Not that he had any idea where to go. Too many questions at the Burrow; and Hogwarts was overrun by the enemy. He could visit Bill at Shell Cottage, he reminded himself, if only he had some idea where it was located. Not having ever visited, he couldn’t picture it to Apparate directly there, either.

If only he could find it on a map, he might have a fighting chance. Impromptu Apparation into places only seen on a diagram had been part of his licensing examination. A wrinkle which had initially stymied him as he’d had no advance preparation. But his nervousness had been unnecessary as he reappeared seamlessly in the broom cupboard one story below at the Ministry. He was fairly certain that a similar technique over longer distances would be much more challenging.

So what if he Splinched himself again? He rightly well deserved it for being such a sodding wankpot. Perhaps Fleur would know how to administer first aid before he rendered himself unconscious from the pain. The two missing fingernails from his earlier mishap throbbed in dull rhythm to the ache in his chest.

Only if ‘desperation’ were one of the three D’s of Apparation would he have a chance, he noted glumly. Desolation, devastation, delumination. The mantra played over and over inside his skull as he absently fingered the very gadget more and more rapidly inside his pocket.

He squinted through the waning daylight but the map was nothing more than meaningless tracings. He had a vague idea that Shell Cottage was somewhere to the south, but without knowing where he was in the first place, it was a doubly hopeless task.

“How to find Shell Cottage?” Ron muttered absently, not realizing he’d said the words aloud. Much to his amazement, the Deluminator felt hot enough in his pocket that he initially thought the fabric might catch fire. In the open air, it glowed a ghostly pale blue. Even that soon faded as he stared blankly at it.

Damn Dumbledore, and his obsession with riddles! Why couldn’t he -- just as a novelty, mind you �“ have included the barking instruction manual? Ron ground his teeth in frustration, only to make his jaw ache into the bargain.

He could just see the headlines now: Clueless Berk Holds Winter at Bay with the Heat of Anger Alone. Right catchy for an epitaph. Why minstrels would sing songs about the travails of Ron the Irresolute. An appendix would be added to The Tales of Beedle the Bard to record a cautionary tale about the dangers of losing your temper. He barely caught himself before a watery sigh turned into a sob.

Think of the solution, or so the old proverb went. Firstly, he needed a map that showed the whole of Britain. Then some indication of where he was as a starting point. Was it his imagination or did the road tracings on the map suddenly seem clearer?

He drew close to the wall again, ignoring the fine curtain of mist that was leeching through the cracks. The Muggle bus routes were marked and, yes, there was a faint arrow to show where he was. The middle of effing nowhere with no buses that turned south until he got to the nearest city.

Yet there was an intersection not too far to the west of here. It was impossible to tell whether it was a road, a path, or a track for moving livestock from one field to another, Ron mused, as he traced a line along the length of it. When his finger reached the edge of the frame, the Deluminator in his pocket grew warm once more.

Feeling like he was grasping at his last lifeline, Ron withdrew the shiny object for a closer look. There was nothing to see this time, but it was definitely warmer and heavier in his hand. As if it was trying to get his attention.

Bringing it nearer to the edge of the faded map, he clicked only to be met with disappointment. “Would it kill you to do something useful?” he hissed. “Or are you as much a useless appendage as I am?”

He closed his eyes against the burning sting even as he remembered that such a cruel joke would be more in keeping with Snape’s style, not Dumbledore’s.

“I need to find Shell Cottage!” he issued through gritted teeth.

There was no mistaking it this time. The Deluminator had grown heavier in his hand. He drew it close to the edge of the map and repeated lowly, “Shell Cottage to the south.”

When he clicked, the weathered map seemed to condense to a smaller scale as it scrolled down to show the lower half of the island. The name of a single village along the rugged Cornish coastline drew him like a magnet: Tinworth. A half remembered memory that it was a spot popular with wizards, but that Bill had promised Mum to add a Fidelius Charm to appease her long litany of worries.

Bloody hell! If that was the case, he would just as likely transport himself over the roiling sea if he’d tried to Apparate there directly.

“Tinworth.” Ron barely mouthed the word, but the map readjusted itself once again to show the crisscrossing lanes of the small seaside hamlet.

One step closer, but would he be exposing himself in a village frequented by other wizards? “I need to find their house.”

The map seemed to blink, there was no other way to describe it as all the lanes glowed faintly for a split second.

With renewed confidence, Ron whispered, “Shell Cottage.”

Much to his amazement, a faint line of footsteps snaked their way into the adjoining countryside as they followed a meandering path along the coastline. At a small inlet labeled, Dragon Cove, the footsteps turned towards the cliff face.

Easy enough to remember, Ron decided. He’d just have to depend upon finding some sort of sign post, but it was definitely better than waiting about here. Harry and Hermione would certainly not return to this area anytime soon and it was doubtful they’d welcome him back anyway. He’d just have to hope that Bill hadn’t yet set a Fidelius Charm.

With the map’s image firmly planted in his mind, Ron cleared his thoughts of any emotions that would cloud his concentration. The Deluminator grew almost hot in his fist as he repeated to himself: Destination, Determination, Deliberation, Deluminator.

He didn’t know what made him add the fourth D at the end, but it seemed inordinately right for once. When the tightness constricting his body relaxed, Ron took a hesitant breath of cold, salty air.

He cracked his eyes open to a desolate landscape in varying shades of grey The stiff wind threatened to snatch the very strands of his hair as it swirled them into a coppery halo. Bending over against the gale, Ron inched his way towards the sole landmark: a large pockmarked boulder that hovered at the top of a small rise.

The ocean was nothing but whitecaps in the distance as he attempted to survey his surroundings. Although the biting sea spray made it difficult to open his eyes beyond mere slits, he could discern that the faint track beneath his feet wound down the other side. Carved into a stone marker in the lee of the boulder, an arrow pointed to Dragon Cove.

The winds muted themselves once he worked his way down the escarpment, allowing Ron to pick his way carefully among broken bits of sharp oyster shells. Amid the monochrome landscape, their silvery insides glowed to mark the way as the early winter gloom set in by mid-afternoon.

If Bill was surprised to see his dripping little brother standing on the doorstep, he didn’t show it. Instead, Fleur wrapped him in a warm blanket before the roaring fire as she poured him a bracing cup of tea. He declined her offer of cognac as she examined his injured fingertips.

“Aren’t you protected by the Fidelius Charm?” he blurted as soon as the worst of his shivering had subsided.

“Thankfully, things haven’t deteriorated to that point -- yet,” Bill attested.

“You’re wondering eef any stranger could find us just as you deed,” Fleur cooed as she laid a plate of toasted scones at his elbow.

“Well, yeah! I mean if a tosser like me can find Dragon Cove…”

Ron’s words faded out as Bill threw back his head and issued a hearty laugh. “Hardly! That marker’s spelled so only friends and family can find it.”

“Do not fret about your nails, Ron,” Fleur soothed as she laid a gentle kiss on his brow. “Zey will grow back on zere own, given time. Just soak zem in teez tincture of dittany to ease ze sting from ze salt air.”

The small curl about Ron’s lips felt singularly unfamiliar, as if his facial muscles had forgotten the process during those endless days of despair and bickering with Harry.

Recollecting those events of two months ago turned the smile bittersweet. Ever since he’d heard Hermione’s voice coming from the Deluminator in the middle of the night, Ron couldn’t help feeling that he’d left a task undone. Perhaps, he’d imaged the entire incident, but what did it really matter?

Just as it hardly mattered that he’d been struggling vainly to find the heartening words of another Potterwatch broadcast on the wireless -- even though he knew that even the most dedicated dissidents would be with their last scraps of family on Christmas Eve.

How was Ted Tonks faring? he couldn’t help but wonder. Bill had artfully relayed Ron’s encounter by pretending to have overheard a group at Gringott’s discussing their former co-worker, Griphook. Tonks had been heartened without Bill betraying Ron’s involvement.

Bill had also told Ron how Remus had tried his best to recruit him to assist with Potterwatch. He was unsure whether his duties at Gringott’s would interfere so he’d promised Remus he would get back to him. The unspoken words were only too clear to Ron: just because you’ve abandoned one segment of the struggle for freedom doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get involved in another.

That had been at the huge Winter Solstice celebration his mother had cooked up at the last minute. Ron suspected it was more of a way to welcome Ginny home for the holiday break, but it had drawn everyone to the Burrow. He’d begged off, of course, but it had taken all of Ron’s powers of persuasion to convince Bill and Fleur to attend. With owls begin intercepted regularly, who knew when they’d get another opportunity to see Tonks.

Not only had Bill returned with Ginny’s update, but also with the happy news that Remus and Tonks had reconciled and were happily sharing Andromeda’s guestroom. Fleur was practically gushing about how Tonks was radiant with the fullness of pregnancy upon her. The leading looks she tossed in Bill’s direction made Ron think that it wouldn’t be too long before he himself became an uncle.

Bill had been relieved that Remus had not asked any specific questions about Harry. Luckily, his apprehension about facing Remus’ renowned deductive powers were unrealized. Instead, the conversation had limited itself to the pervasive belief that if You-Know-Who’s forces had captured Harry, or any of the wayward trio, their trumpet section would be out in full force.

Nonetheless, Remus’ concern for Harry was abundantly clear as the man dedicated a portion of each Potterwatch episode to making a direct entreaty over the airwaves. Anyone familiar with Remus’ studied stoicism could see how desperately the man sought to mend things between them. As difficult as it might be, it was something Harry needed to hear for himself. Too bad he had no way to learn of the next password or even of the existence of the program itself.

Well, perhaps something could be done about that, Ron decided. After all, if Tonks could forgive Remus for abandoning her during her pregnancy, surely Harry and Hermione might give even him another chance.

But despite the decision that had slowly been growing in Ron’s chest for the past week, he still had no ruddy idea how to find them. Attempts to get the Delumintor to perform another minor miracle had fallen flat despite all the maps that Ron had found in Bill’s study. The contraption would snatch all the lights on the first click and then release them with the second. Nothing else. It had not glowed or felt warm until this very morning when Hermione’s voice had spoken Ron’s name.

As if it, too, recognized the voice, Ron decided, the Deluminator had behaved in a unique fashion. After swallowing the bedroom lights, the second click caused them to coalesce into a blue planetoid which floated through the windowpane. It hovered at sash height in an inviting fashion as if waiting for Ron’s comprehension to dawn.

As he turned his back on the sunrise, he could still see a bluish hint issuing from the dark shadows on the far side of the cottage. Uncertain how he knew that the time had come, Ron worked his way back inside the kitchen to find Fleur preparing breakfast for a still yawning Bill.

“So you’ve come to share our love for zee unbridled sea, no?” his sister-in-law inquired as she gave him the ritual kisses which he’d come to accept.

“Doesn’t seem like Christmas without the last scrap of Mum’s fruitcake,” Ron replied as he slid into a seat next to Bill.

“Sorry I couldn’t get more, mate,” Bill replied. “You know how Mum’s suspicious mind works.”

It was bad enough that Fleur and Bill had made excuses that they wanted to spend their first married Christmas together just so he wouldn’t be left alone. Perhaps if he left early, they could still make supper at the Burrow with all those delicious holiday leftovers. Ron’s stomach growled in agreement as Fleur placed one of her famous omelets before him.

“Eet up while eet’s ‘ot,” she urged as she took the seat across from him. “Zee Christmas feast will be a few ‘ours yet.”

Clearing his throat nervously, Ron began, “That’s what I need to talk to you about. I think I have to leave. Today. To get back to Harry and Hermione.”

“On Christmas?” Bill protested.

“My timing’s rubbish, I know,” Ron admitted hollowly. “But I might not get another opportunity.” Briefly he explained the strange behavior of the Deluminator and how the warmth had not faded away as before.

“You think this may be the window you’ve been waiting for,” Bill summarized.

“Yeah. Actually made my mind up that it was the right thing to do days ago, but…”

“Ah, zee meal of blackest crow,” Fleur commiserated. “We will meez you at zee dinner table.”

“Perhaps it’s not too late for you to go to the Burrow,” Ron whispered in Bill’s ear as he rose to his feet.

As Ron took the stairs up to his bedroom two at a time, Bill’s voice rang out from the kitchen below, “Say, sweetheart, why don’t we detour past the Burrow after we clean up?”

“Just show up on zee doorstep unannounced?” Fleur’s voice was full of indecision as Ron felt around for his rucksack.

The morning rays had not yet worked their way past the steeply pitched roofline and the room was in deep shadow. He didn’t dare relight the lamps for fear of losing his one opportunity to redeem himself. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim blue that still poured in from the garden, he quickly located his meager belongings.

“Mum always makes enough to feed an army,” Bill cajoled. “We could say you burned the turkey and chestnuts.”

“With sausage stuffing, not zee bread filling,” Fleur reminded him.

“Can you store it in the cold box until tomorrow, dearest?”

“Oui, anozer day of marinating een zee white wine will only make eet more juicy,” Fleur concurred as she warmed up to the idea.

Was it his imagination or had the blue sphere begun to pulse in urgency? Or joy? It was difficult to say for certain; but Ron was almost finished digging the last of his things from under the bed.

“Mum will see fit to regale you with mountains of cooking advice,” Bill cautioned.

“I zink I can manage, cher,” Fleur replied in a light-hearted tone. “Converzation wiz your mozer eez always pleazant; eet will ‘elp to drown out zee ‘orrible bruit from zee wireless.”

Ron clomped unceremoniously down the stairs to say his final farewells. As he hugged his brother with all his might, Fleur zipped a fragrant bundle into his rucksack from behind.

“ ‘ot cross buns for zee journey,” she trilled as she kissed his cheeks for the second time that morning. “Enough to share wiz zee ozers.”

“Be sure to give Harry and Hermione our best,” Bill implored.

“Only if you find some way to let it slip to Mum that you’ve had news of us �“ and we’re fine. I can’t bear to --” Ron’s words lodged in his throat and he was unable to go on.

“I’ll find a way that won’t compromise either of us,” Bill promised with a crooked grin.

“Thanks again,” Ron called with a final wave from the bottom of the front steps.

The blue mass glided past him and down the path, wordlessly entreating him to follow. Eyes glued to the swirling blue vortex at the center, Ron eased his way behind the garden shed. Trusting to his instincts, he allowed the light to encompass him as the warmth spread to his very fingers. With it came the realization that, for once, he knew exactly what needed to be done and how to rejoin his friends.

Satisfied that he had also managed to sort things with his brother and sister-in-law, Ron surrendered himself to the Apparition instructions whirling about inside his head.

Forgotten in his haste, the last chocolate frog lay abandoned on the bedside cabinet.

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Seven
Remus: The Yoke Tightens


“Bugger! Dumbledore again!” Tonks giggled at the unintended double entendre. Taking a large bite of the frog’s head, she lovingly smoothed out the collector card.

“Are you planning to wallpaper the baby’s room with those?” Andromeda asked indulgently. Then she nodded towards the row of cards which formed a veritable frame around her daughter’s dresser mirror.

Unable to resist the pull of their happiness in these dark times, Dumbledore blinked his bright, blue eyes playfully from the newest card.

Scrunching up her nose in thought, Tonks replied, “Just might turn out to be valuable one day. Especially since they introduced a newer version…recently.”

“Really? Can’t say I noticed.”

“It’s the lavender robes, see,” Tonks explained as her mother settled down on the window seat next to her. “He also holds his left hand behind his back.”

“The one that he injured no one knows how?”

“Not the only mystery he left behind,” Tonks sighed. “See how they show his date of death, but don’t provide any details.”

“Perhaps they don’t consider that his greatest accomplishment,” Remus interjected from the doorway.

Andromeda made as if to chastise him, but thought better of it as Tonks dissolved into laughter. Instead she posed, “Do you think the older cards will be more valuable now that an updated version’s available?”

Remus stopped to consider as he allowed his eyes to trail along the edges of the mirror. “Only if they stop issuing the older cards and it doesn’t seem like they have. Have you thrown any out, sweetheart?”

“Not since my pregnancy,” Tonks asserted. “They’ve become a good luck charm of sorts. I even saved the faded one that got thrown in the wash. The one you brought home in your pocket after your ill-advised tour of London alleyways.”

He accepted her ribbing good-naturedly. “Seems like we unwrap Dumbledore more often than not. Have they discontinued the other cards?”

“Don’t think so,” Tonks volunteered. “I found one of Circe the other day.”

“At least the manufacturer hasn’t seen to issue any with the faces of the new administration,” Andromeda tendered. “Not that Fudge or Scrimgeour would have been much better.”

“Dear Cornelius is still alive, so I doubt they’ll immortalize him just yet…” Remus began.

“…waiting for him to die a glorious death,” Tonks sniggered irreverently.

“Now, Dora,” her mother scolded. “That’s really unfair. Likely none of us will forget how Fudge’s determined avoidance of the truth just gave evil a chance to grow unchecked.”

“Infamous Wizard Cards!” Tonks proclaimed. “A whole new line!”

“Remind me not to recommend you to their marketing department,” Remus noted sardonically.

“Are you implying I should start a new career after the baby is born?” Tonks posed.

Remus deftly side-stepped the unspoken challenge in her tone. “Quite the contrary, pet. If we manage to sort out the world once again, there’s going to be an unprecedented demand for dark wizard catchers. Rounding up the scoundrels, liars, and questionable collaborators is going to take years!”

“Speaking of which, have you been able to find another safe locale for the next Potterwatch transmission?” Andromeda encouraged.

Remus sighed as he ran fingers through his hair. “I think so. Kingsley’s working out the details.”

“Here,” Tonks Levitated the last of her chocolate frog in his direction. “You need to keep your energy levels up just as much as you’re always telling me to do.”

Remus stretched out on the nearby settee to savor his prize. “Certainly seems like this new photo is particularly lifelike,” he offered without elaboration.

“Any idea why Dumbledore would insist on updating his card?” Tonks mused. “Simple vanity?”

“Why did Dumbledore do anything?” Remus issued in a rhetorical manner. “Perhaps it was the chocolate frog company who decided to immortalize him.”

“Where did they come by the photo then?”

Remus shrugged. “Minerva complained that Dumbledore spent a lot of time away from Hogwarts during that last year. He would’ve had ample opportunity.”

From his otherworldly perch, Dumbledore chuckled soundlessly at their conversation. If only they knew, but he suspected that sharing such a secret across metaphysical boundaries might just stretch his tenuous link to the breaking point. Fact was the Chocolate Card Project was just one of the many irons he’d left in the fire at the time of his death. A bit of inspiration that had blossomed unexpectedly �“ all because he’d taken a notion to update the outdated image in circulation. An arcane spell half remembered from a crumbling parchment had provided the rest.

“Seems rather sad to be reminded of all that we’ve lost,” Tonks grumbled.

“Or we could be inspired by his greatness,” Remus countered.

With sudden inspiration, Andromeda interjected, “Why not commemorate some of the other fallen heroes? Like the Prewett brothers who were cut down in the first war?”

“Or Mad-Eye?” Tonks supplied with fervor.

As if walking on eggshells, Remus tendered, “Consider the political climate, ladies. Depending upon your side of the fence, these same persons can be considered valiant warriors or unlawful dissidents.” He patiently held up his hand to forestall their objections. “A business who doesn’t want to be summarily shut down by the current administration would be wise to stay as neutral as possible.”

“So you’re saying Dumbledore is a safe bet,” Andromeda echoed.

“The safest!” Remus emphasized. “Even the Chief Death Eater grudgingly respected Dumbledore’s magical prowess.”

A circumstance which Dumbledore himself had anticipated might be used to his own advantage. If Remus came to the same conclusion, he didn’t share it with the others. So far, he’d given no indication that anyone else knew of the hushed conversation the two of them had shared and Dumbledore respected the man’s privacy. It was just one more sign that Remus had put that bout of despondency behind him �“ something which pleased the aged wizard immensely.

---

Tonks’ eyes crinkled with amusement as she noticed the various colors decorating her husband’s oldest, most threadbare trousers.

“Did you finish painting the baby’s room yet? I really wish you’d let me help.”

“Oh no, Dora,” Andromeda chided as she brushed an errant strand from her own brow. “You’re doing quite enough just carrying the baby around.”

“You don’t trust me with the painting spell,” Tonks pouted.

“Quite the contrary,” Remus affirmed as he pressed a quick kiss to her head. “I’m certain you could’ve created a whole spectrum of color, but we were hoping for a more conservative décor.”

“Oh. What single color did you decide upon?”

“Sherbet lemon,” her husband replied as he pointed out the handy swatch right above his left knee.

“What about the pistachio?” she inquired as she signaled out a slightly higher stain.

“Looked too much like the waiting room at St. Mungo’s,” he affirmed.

“The stormy blue?” Tonks pressed as she couldn’t find a corresponding splatter.

“Andromeda applied that in our room. Very restful amid the silver and navy bedding, but too much like a rainy sky for a child’s room.”

“Come, dear,” Andromeda’s voice rang from the far side of the hallway. “You can help us arrange the crib Remus unearthed in the rear of the attic.”

Tonks rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t you ever throw anything out, Mum?”

“And where would you be if I had?” Andromeda called. “Conjuring cutting edge design out of thin air?”

“I’d use an Engorgio charm on one of those oyster shells edging the flowerbeds,” Tonks volleyed back. “That would make for a much roomier bassinet than the nutshell the fairies used in my storybook.”

Andromeda shook her head in defeat as Tonks awkwardly heaved her belly into the next room.

“What do you think?” Remus beamed.

Tonks was transfixed as she ran her fingers lovingly over the row of chocolate frog cards fashioned into a decorative wall border around the built in toy shelves. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart. Like I’m inside a hollowed out lemon, fresh and exhilarating.”

“This is such an unusual crib design,” he commented, gazing upon the circular shape that fit perfectly into the alcove once occupied by Tonks’ twin headboard.

“Ted and I found it in a second-hand store when we were first married,” Andromeda supplied as she caressed the curved white balustrade. “We didn’t have much room in our flat, either, but this design fit in the hallway right outside our bedroom.”

Shuffling through the hamper of pastel baby linens, Tonks raved, “Look, Mum, it’s my flying horse mobile!”

Andromeda graced her daughter with a nostalgic smile. “Your little eyes used to follow them until you drooped from sleepiness.”

Remus helped his wife untangle the silken cords and held the support steady as she fastened it to the crib’s banister with a practiced twist of her wand. “There, that should hold it,” she proclaimed with satisfaction.

“Looks like it’s a little worse for wear,” Remus noted as he wiggled two fingers through an empty rope harness.

Tonks slapped his arm playfully. “Don’t be silly, Remus! That’s the thestral. Where did you learn about magical creatures?” She pointed out the two tiny Granians with their silvery manes and tails, the robust blonde Abraxian renowned for its unquenchable thirst for single-malt whiskey. Two regal hippogriffs followed, one bluish roan like Buckbeak and another a peachy mahogany roan, with their tiny stitched front claws and shiny beaks. The chestnut Aethorian stallion was next, its ginger mane the exact shade popularized by the Weasley family. And the invisible one was, without a shadow of a doubt, the thestral. “Who would expect a baby to be able to see thestrals? Now tell me that, Remus!”

“How short-sighted of me, sweetheart,” Remus demurred, counting seven total to guarantee good fortune for the child. “Must have slept through that lesson from the redoubtable Professor Grubbly-Plank.”

With a wry grin, Andromeda admitted in a bare whisper, “I think the shop owner was of the same mind as you, Remus. He kept trying to sell us a mobile with pastel fairies instead, while this one languished unclaimed in a corner. But Ted was so convinced the baby was going to be a boy that he wouldn’t budge. Finally, the owner sold him the ‘defective’ model at a discounted price and we laughed all the way home about how he’d forgotten the lesson of the poor, maligned thestral.”

---

On a grey February afternoon, Bill penetrated the Fidelius bubble with the hastily mumbled instructions he’d been issued in case of emergencies. He was clearly flustered as the slam of the back door rattled the entire framework of the house. Despite the adhesive, the chocolate frog cards trembled against the bedroom wall in tandem.

“What is it?” Andromeda inquired as the clang of the teakettle against the stove betrayed her apprehension.

“Things are changing in disturbing ways again,” Bill offered so lowly that Dumbledore had to strain to hear from his opening into the nursery.

“At Gringotts?” Remus surmised, his tone unnaturally gruff.

“Plans to put Ministry guards at the outer doors,” Bill confided. “Goblins are up in arms at the implied insult.”

“What about the inner door?” Tonks posed. “Will the goblin guards there remain?”

“Yes, but they’re being made to seem ceremonial,” Bill confirmed. “A quaint colloquialism, at most.”

Remus’ voice was full of ice as he postulated, “The long arm of the Muggleborn Registration Committee. First they confiscate wands, now they wish to restrict access to bank accounts.”

Bill’s response was even more chilling, “Rather like a castle siege, I would say. Do they really think that forcing wizards to be destitute is any more merciful than killing them outright?”

“What’s to keep them from restricting goblins’ rights next?” Tonks decried.

“That’s certainly what the grumblings at Gringotts seem to suggest,” Bill concurred.

“How can the Ministry refuse people access to their galleons?” Andromeda cried. “Has the Minister nationalized all private holdings behind our backs?”

“Not until they can devise a way to draft laws that will apply to one segment of the population and not to another,” Remus growled lowly.

“In the meanwhile, the worthy will be determined by the Ministry guards at the door,” Bill summarized grimly. “But it hasn’t happened yet, I’m just here to give you advance warning.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Remus promised in a hurried whisper. “I’ll go today and withdraw the last of our funds. What about you, Andromeda?”

But before Andromeda could react, Bill interjected, “No need. Look in the bottom of the basket. Under the brioche loaf and herb bouquet from Fleur.”

The heavy clank of metal against the tabletop reverberated up the stairs.

“I see you put the emergency power of attorney to good use!” Andromeda issued with a nervous laugh.

“This can’t be right,” Remus protested in an awed voice. “Even converting everything into knuts…”

“The Ministry finally released the funds Mad-Eye left to Tonks,” Bill attested. “Ran out of excuses to block it with sensationalized lawsuits and the like.”

“Why now?” Tonks prodded with undisguised suspicion. It was easy for Dumbledore to imagine her poking the sack with her wand as if it might turn into a vicious serpent.

Instead it was Remus who replied, “Why not? That absolves them of complicity as it shifts the burden to the new generation of Gringotts’ guardians.”

A sharp intake of breath followed.

Taking up the reins once more, Bill reiterated, “I’m afraid Remus is quite on the mark. What they didn’t anticipate was that the document would come across my desk. I simply handed it to the goblin in charge of Moody’s vault together with the power of attorney form.”

“The galleons never reached the Lupin vault then.” Remus issued a hollow laugh.

“Personal delivery to the heiress herself,” Bill added with amusement coloring his voice. “As to the power of attorney documents themselves, I think we should burn them �“ but I wanted to confer with you first.”

“But they might come in handy in the future,” Andromeda postulated.

“The vault is empty. You’d be fools to deposit anything else. Was there something else of value which I overlooked?” Bill urged.

“You don’t want there to be a paper trail. At least not one that leads to you,” Remus surmised solemnly.

“For the time being,” Bill agreed. “Eventually… Well, eventually, it may be necessary to abandon my post. Go into hiding myself.”

“What about the Tonks’ account?” Andromeda inquired. “Can I withdraw those funds as well?”

“Might be too suspicious at the moment,” Bill warned. “Let them think that a bureaucratic mix-up delayed the transfer of Moody’s funds. In the meanwhile, I will change the name on your account to read Andromeda Black, if that’s all right with you.”

“You think it’s necessary? My marriage to Ted was hardly a secret,” Andromeda provided.

“It will give the illusion that you’re rethinking your position,” Bill proposed. “Enough that the Ministry goons won’t dare to question a pureblood from a venerable wizarding family.”

“He’s right, Mum,” Tonks opined. “As distasteful as it may seem, our only weapon is to use their prejudices against them.”

“No one’s about to question your ideology if you put on a haughty air like Narcissa,” Remus affirmed.

“The less you speak with anyone the better,” Bill maintained.

Still unconvinced, Andromeda stammered, “What will Ted think? What if he needs to visit Gringotts himself? Won’t I be cutting off his lifeline?”

“Mum,” Tonks whispered, “Dad’s a fugitive. He can’t go into any Gringotts branch, not even in far-flung Siberia �“ if such a thing existed!”

The sound of a loud sob was followed by a string of wet reassurances. It was clear Andromeda and Tonks were comforting one another as best they could.

“Remus, a word,” Bill issued tersely.

For a moment, Dumbledore feared they would retreat outdoors where their conversation might be out of range, but Remus suggested, “It’s freezing outside, the drawing room might be better.” Under his breath, he added, “There’s a bottle of Firewhiskey in the cabinet.”

Unperturbed by the electric tingle of the Imperturbable Charm, Dumbledore listened in.

There was the scratching noise of the poker against the brick fireplace and then Bill proposed, “Can I just burn the document here?”

“Be my guest,” Remus replied. “You’ve gone out of your way to help us enough as it is. I don’t want you prosecuted for your actions.”

Bill issued a bitter laugh. “The least of my sins, I assure you. The Weasleys are blood traitors extraordinaire. Dad’s just not certain when the new order will be train their spotlight on us. We’re all prepared to drop things at a moment’s notice.”

Remus sighed in resignation. “Have they run out of Muggleborns to harass already?”

“Soon enough.” The clink of glasses indicated that they had fortified themselves with whiskey. “In a way that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. How long has Ted been on the run?”

“Since the Prophet published his name among the Muggleborns wanted for questioning. He left the following week even though Andromeda tried to convince him that once we set the Fidelius Charm, it would protect all of us.”

“But Ted didn’t agree.”

“Argued that we’d be better served if we could claim no knowledge of his whereabouts should officials come calling.”

“How could they come calling if you set the Fidelius?” Bill pointed out.

“That was my position also, but he wouldn’t budge. Said the redundancy was necessary in such desperate times.”

“I’m not sure I could work up a counter-argument to that one,” Bill conceded darkly.

“Same here…So you have a lead on Ted?” Remus breathed.

“Maybe.”

“Something tells me it’s not good news, though.”

“Another sign of the times, I’m afraid. But I don’t want to jump to any foregone conclusions, either. I overheard some goblins talking and was trying to make sense of their unique perspective.”

“The same group that Ted was with earlier?”

“I think so, but he could just have easily parted company with them in the interim.”

“True. How can you authenticate a second- or third-hand tale?” Remus considered.

“There was a dog involved,” Bill volunteered. “Didn’t yours recently run away?”

“Ted’s dog, yes. He was the one who grew the most attached to it after Tonks went off to school. But the poor animal was definitely getting on in years.”

“Anything you can tell me would help,” Bill prompted. “The smallest thing might turn out to be significant.”

“Just bear in mind that this was the version I heard from Andromeda,” Remus cautioned. “Are you sure you don’t want to speak with her directly?”

“I’ve already upset her enough as it is,” Bill admitted in a hollow tone. “Indulge me, please.”

With a grim sigh, Remus began a third person rendition that conveyed just how much he wanted to emotionally detach himself.

It had been Ted’s idea to get a dog. Mostly in response to his daughter’s pleas that she wanted to play with Cousin Sirius’ oversized, black mongrel.

While at eight years old, Dora was familiar enough with the wizarding world to be informed that her favorite cousin was an Animagus, somehow her parents had never done so. Perhaps because Sirius was a renegade Animagus, one who had never been registered with the Ministry of Magic as was required by law. Perhaps they considered that young Dora was just guileless enough to share this secret with the wrong person. Alas, they had long ago accepted the futility of cajoling Sirius to legally document the shape of his alter ego.

Then the unforeseeable happened and Sirius betrayed his best friends, killing another schoolmate in the aftermath. Andromeda was speechless at the depth of his duplicity and never questioned why her once-favorite cousin was sent to Azkaban without a trial.

All she could think about was how wrong she’d been to suppose that Sirius had been fundamentally different than the rest of their family. Had her own judgment been clouded by the Sorting Hat’s decision to place Sirius in Gryffindor House instead of Slytherin with the rest of the Blacks? She could only conclude that her cousin had been ruthless enough to confuse the Sorting Hat as well �“ though how such ancient magic could be circumvented, she had no idea.

It had been impossible to shield young Dora from this ugly truth, though. News was plastered everywhere which detailed the quick actions of the Department of Magical Catastrophes headed by none other than Cornelius Fudge.

With woeful eyes, Dora had asked who was to care for Sirius’ dog now that his master had been sent to Azkaban? Prisons didn’t have kennels, she argued with childish tenacity. It was clear from her intonation that she considered it her familial duty to adopt poor, bereft Snuffles. How could they tell her that Snuffles was in the same dank cell?

Would she even believe them if they explained about Animagi without seeing an actual demonstration before her eyes? Knowing how relentless their daughter could be, Ted and Andromeda decided that it was best to tell her that other arrangements had been made for the dog. Dora had accepted their excuses grudgingly, somehow recognizing that seeing Snuffles on a daily basis would just be a sad reminder of her cousin’s unfortunate fate.

Ted’s solution had been to simply get Dora a dog of her own. All children needed pets as his Muggle mother had insisted. Andromeda’s pleas that they would be left to care for the dog once Dora attended Hogwarts didn’t matter to Ted.

“So the dog will be our pet as well,” he insisted. “Playing with it will help to ease the emptiness of Dora’s departure.”

It was at that point that Andromeda’s inexperience with animals of any sort came to the fore. Her mother had considered pets to be a waste of time and resources, banning them from the Black residence entirely. They were unclean, unappreciative, and constantly underfoot. The thought of lavishing love on a lesser creature was something that never would’ve occurred to Druella Rosier Black. Far better to spend those galleons on a ball gown or a fancy necklace that might attract a worthy suitor. Her goals for her three beautiful daughters were uniquely single-minded.

Feeling like a washed out version of her two older sisters who shared the same raven hair, Narcissa had made a valiant plea for a cat when she was old enough to attend Hogwarts. Cats were permissible according to her letter, Cissy assured her mother. She would not be abandoning her pet to someone else’s care during the ten or so months that she was away at school. And a black cat would be instantly recognizable as befitting their family, she’d added artfully.

But their mother had not budged. In the end, her sole concession had been to buy Cissy a black cashmere twin set with a fur collar instead of the obligatory pearls her two sisters received.

Remus found himself engrossed in his mother-in-law’s characterization of the three Black sisters and how they interacted with one another. Unable to resist, he’d delved, “Do you suppose that Bellatrix’s penchant for torture might have had something to do with your mother’s decision?”

Andromeda had turned eyes soft with understanding in his direction. “Bella wasn’t always like that you know. But she was competitive, obsessively so. Her cruel streak didn’t surface until much later �“ as a product of her unsuccessful attempts at motherhood, I’ve always thought.”

“I can’t imagine Aunt Bella submitting a child to her dominatrix ways,” Tonks protested with a shudder.

“It was a misplaced wish to be sure,” her mother agreed. “She would’ve just farmed the childcare duties to a house-elf or servant.”

“She just couldn’t bear that her sisters had something she didn’t,” Remus surmised with sudden clarity.

“She was always the first at everything,” Andromeda echoed. “And this time she couldn’t even place last. Despite her arrogant façade, it was something that affected her deeply. A failing for which she could never forgive herself.”

“Rather like a bully who lashes out due to his own insecurity,” Tonks tendered. “Aunt Bella just happened to be handy with her wand instead of her fists.”

Returning to the main subject, Andromeda explained how Ted took it upon himself to surprise Dora for her ninth birthday with a Scottish terrier puppy. A seriously black female that he insisted should be named after a heavenly body in the family tradition. After much pouring over the star charts, Dora settled on Cassiopeia and they shortened it to ‘Cassie’ for everyday use.

“Did you tell Dad the story about Aunt Cissy ahead of time?” Tonks pressed.

“No, it was just the sort of stupidly romantic gesture Ted liked to make,” Andromeda allowed with a hitch in her voice. “Cassie became his walking companion every morning and afternoon.”

“That’s really all I know,” Remus allowed as his recount cycled to a close. “Ted was extremely attached to that little dog. Fairly broke his heart when he found her gone from the yard one morning, even though she was clearly nearing the end of her lifespan.”

Bill’s sudden discomfort caused the chair to protest loudly. “This is going to be so much harder than I thought,” he admitted. He stretched out his legs before him, revealing a bent chocolate frog card between the seat cushion and the upholstered arm of the chair.

“Sorry about that,” Remus muttered as he plucked the card from his guest’s fingers. “Pregnant women seem to leave a trail of chocolate behind them.”

Finally afforded a view of the sitting room, Dumbledore blinked into the subdued contours from the tightly drawn blinds. In the flickering firelight, the scars on Bill’s face stood out starkly white. Coupled with his furrowed brow, the younger man’s face seemed as if it was weighed down by ceaseless worry.

Remus leaned back on the sofa and raked his fingers through his fringe. The uneven edges betrayed his mother-in-law’s attempts at trimming the unruly mass, but at least it no longer fell into his eyes.

“If it will make you feel any better, I’m the cause the poor dog ran away in the first place,” Remus proffered morosely. “As if Tonks and me moving in didn’t disrupt the household enough.”

Caught off-guard, Bill uttered, “You…how?”

“Spooked the poor thing, I suppose. Should’ve waited a few extra days after my transformation, perhaps. But we were so anxious to vacate the London flat before we incurred another month’s rent.”

With the bond of their shared tribulations, Bill ventured, “I thought werewolves didn’t pose a threat to other animals.”

“They don’t. But sometimes other animals are wary, especially smaller ones. If only I’d had a few days to make friends with her, Cassie would’ve accepted me as just another member of the family. My father’s hounds always did when I was growing up. It wasn’t unusual to find one or two curled up by my bed when I recovered from my monthly ordeal.”

With an audible intake of air, Bill began anew, “You see, I overheard something at work. Goblins talking about some of their own. But there were also wizards among their party, most notably a man with a small Scottie dog.”

“And you think it might be Ted?”

“It’s possible. Nobody mentioned the name of the dog, though.”

“Any human names?”

“Only Dirk Cresswell, but he was well-known among the goblin community.”

“I should say so!” Remus exclaimed. “Isn’t he in charge of the Goblin Liaison Office?”

“Used to be. Now he’s just another Muggleborn on the run,” Bill confirmed. “We’d just been talking about him, too. How none of this utter bollocks with the Ministry guards would’ve ever come to pass under his watch.”

“Scottish terriers aren’t exactly rare. What makes you so certain it’s Ted?”

“That’s precisely why I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others,” Bill emphasized lowly.

Pouring them both generous portions of Firewhiskey, Remus prodded, “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

With a somber nod, Bill took up the narrative once more. “Gornuk and Griphook, both goblins, had been on the run since fall. Griphook used to work at Gringotts so everyone was anxious for the latest news about him. As best I could tell, they had formed a little band with three other wizards: Dirk, the man with the dog, and a dark-skinned lad.”

“Another Muggleborn?”

“Or an escapee from Hogwarts �“ I hesitate to use the word ‘truant’ under these circumstances.”

“Point taken.”

“The goblins discussed the merits of having a dog as a companion at great length,” Bill elaborated. “The general consensus of their kind is that pets are a decadent affectation of wizards, part of our unconscious desire to subjugate lesser beasts.”

“I hardly think a dog sees it that way,” Remus observed. “It’s a symbiotic relationship; a partnership, if you will.”

“So concluded this group as the terrier was well trained to issue only a low growl to warn of strangers, obeying its master’s command to keep quiet when its muzzle was tapped.” Leaning over to take a deep swallow of whiskey served to accent the cavities of Bill’s eyes. “On a snowy night, they were set upon by Snatchers. Word of Dirk’s escape en route to Azkaban had spread and the price on his head had escalated accordingly. The other wizards had wands so the group was able to hold off the attackers long enough to allow the lad and the goblins to escape down the embankment.”

Remus hardly dared to breathe, “What about the ones left behind?”

“From the next rise, the goblins caught a glimpse of the small clearing where they had been set upon. Errant spellfire had caught the surrounding trees alight, creating an inferno against the winter landscape. A number of dark shapes surrounded Dirk while the other wizard and his valiant dog cut down more than their fair share. But in the end, they were no match for an organized gang of Snatchers. The survivors turned away as green streams of the Killing Curse were shot at the three defenders from all sides.”

In the absolute stillness, Remus finally found his voice. “It would’ve been just like Ted to defend others to the bitter end.”

“Word was the Snatchers were unable to disarm him while he was still alive,” Bill added through papery lips.

“And those who got away?”

“They sought help for Gornuk who had been wounded in the side. Managed to make it to a regular goblin settlement where he died after retelling the tale to trusted friends.”

“Other goblins, I take it.”

“Yes. Griphook and the lad didn’t linger, not wanting to draw the Snatchers to those who had offered them kindness. Chances are they haven’t learned of Gornuk’s demise.”

“Thanks for sharing this with me,” Remus offered numbly as Bill indicated he really should get back to Shell Cottage before Fleur began to worry needlessly.

“Sure you won’t stay for a snack?” Andromeda urged from the stove. “The salty sea air gives the herbs from your garden the most delightful piquant flavor. Just see what it does to my parsnip and squash soup.”

With leaden eyes, Bill murmured his goodbyes and eased himself slowly out the door.

Remus stared into his teacup, watching the steam rise in slow circles. Unsure of how to begin, he opted to remain silent.

“Did Bill give you some bad news, sweetheart?” Tonks ventured as her cool hand soothed his scarred fingers.

Remus bit back the sting of tears as he cleared his throat hesitantly. “Seems that Ted and Cassie were reunited in the end….”

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Eight
Moody: The Devil’s Playground



It was but a pale imitation of its former glory. The constant Death Eater raids had stolen like a lethifold over the once bustling lanes of Diagon Alley. Only Knockturn Alley wore its desolate veneer proudly; yet Moody suspected that even there, business was not as brisk as it had once been.

The brashness of Weasleys Wizard Wheezes was an arresting display of excess. Garish against the steely sky, it displayed a stubborn optimism which was sadly lacking in these dark days. It was rumored that one of the twins had lost an ear in the aerial battle which had claimed Moody’s “former” life. Within the hour, he had allegedly been making ear jokes with his twin �“ the lamer, the better.

Moody shook his head at the irreverence of those two. Bringing smiles to the dour faces around them was perhaps a more heroic task than most would like to admit. Yet the twins managed to do it on a daily basis, allowing a bit of childhood delight to shine into even the bleakest heart.

As much as he yearned to explore the shelves that whizzed, squealed, and flashed with merchandise that defied the ordinary imagination, Moody dared not venture inside. Against such a backdrop, he would draw unnecessary attention to himself. A destitute beggar such as himself would have no business inside a retail establishment. What if close inspection revealed the just laundered freshness of his ragged attire? The sandy clods his wand had fired at the cloth made it look dirtied and worn, but it was just street theatre. The multitudes of the displaced who lined the storefronts allowed him to “disappear” at will, but he did not live undercover among them.

Moody routinely overheard enough of the surrounding conversations to learn that the twins had been adding their unique twists to the fight against Voldemort’s tyranny. Although their sales of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder had raised many concerns in the wake of the infiltration of Hogwarts castle, the twins had adjusted the formula so that it gave the user the illusion of not being able to see anyone else. But a wraith-like image was still visible to the trained eye of the observer.

Headless Hats were refashioned so their effectiveness was of very limited duration. The packaging itself explained that the cost of materials had skyrocketed and the price point demanded that the manufacturers reluctantly cut corners. As an alternative, Handless Mittens were introduced that would obscure objects held within the wearer’s fist and slightly beyond. The imbedded charm was not strong enough to work with medium to large objects, however.

Despite the decidedly pureblood taint that permeated the area, many young customers continued to frequent the joke shop behind their parents’ backs. One such renegade was Nightshade McNair who was determined to arm herself against the ruthless pranks inflicted on first year Slytherins like herself. It was not difficult for Moody to eavesdrop on her strategic campaigns as she whispered unabashedly outside of Gringotts with her close friend, Natasha Mulciber.

“Look, Tash,” Nightshade hissed. “These Skiving Snackboxes are the dog’s bollocks!”

Natasha giggled as she whipped her head about to make sure no one was within scolding distance. “Which lessons are you planning to ditch?”

“Does it matter? And the Fever Fudge is ideal if I repackage it in some of those heart shaped boxes Mum brought from the bakers!”

That’s not to say that Fred and George were not experiencing the same procurement woes that plagued the remaining merchants in Diagon Alley. Moody overheard Verity complain about the unavailability of specialized doxie eggs from the Ministry’s subbasement, a species which had mutated in wondrous ways due to its rarified habitat. But Fred had assured her that his Unspeakable friend would come through for them �“ he just couldn’t guarantee regular shipments.

Which was a good thing for Zeth and Zither, the fraternal Selwyn twins, who were ardent consumers of the Patented Day Dream Charms. There were enough adult enthusiasts to guarantee that such escapist pursuits continued to be best-sellers �“ especially in the darkest of times.

It was on a dreary day, not too long after the Birthday Blowout Sale on April first, that a tearful Verity wrapped herself tightly into an oilskin cloak and boarded the door to Weasleys Wizard Wheezes for the foreseeable future. Her grey eyes surveyed the empty lanes with suspicion even though the steady downpour alone would have kept customers away. Only the usual chorus of the displaced, her gaze seemed to say, as she noted the few brownish lumps that were huddled under the various awnings.

The wide display windows had been shuttered and then fortified with magic, Moody noted as he later ambled by aimlessly. Nothing but mangled boxes remained on shelves that had artfully been given an extra layering of dust and cobwebs. Even the banner that stretched from one side of the tall room to the other was dirtied and torn. Between the skeletons of past displays, it was still possible to distinguish posters which extolled: Tired of Apparating to and fro? Use our handy Owl Order Service to speed purchases directly to your windowsill!

Moody hid a crooked grin behind his gnarled hand. Had those signs been there all along, unnoticed due to relentless activity within? Or had they been added as last minute instructions for loyal customers? Either way, it was a testament to the twin’s indomitable spirit. If pressed, Moody would likely contend that the April Fool’s event had been a clever ruse to empty the shelves without arousing suspicion. The inventory could then be warehoused in a remote site for further distribution via owl post.

Since then it had been a colorless expanse that greeted Moody as if the twins had packed the last bit of joy in their rucksacks. He had not realized how much the presence of the pure-blood children enlivened the mostly boarded storefronts. With one less reason to venture to Diagon Alley, most stayed prudently away.

From the murky mouth of Knockturn Alley, even the dubious enterprises of Uncle Ern’s Emporium seemed to attract even less customers than before. Although the shop did its best to court the only demographic that still enjoyed a measure of prosperity, Uncle Ern himself was hardly a Death Eater. Just another enterprising businessman trying to eek a living out of barren rock, Moody grumbled to himself. He couldn’t fault the wizened herbalist for indulging his penchant for marketing unique concoctions with vaguely sinister labels. Peddling dark dreams; Moody had dismissed it early on.

Luckily, Moody had stashed emergency supplies throughout the countryside for survival in even the most restrictive economies. In one such cave, he systematically brewed Polyjuice Potion for his daily forays among the enemy. At Tamisan’s insistence, he’d carefully ground the hair from a number of sources, men and women alike, into a fine powder to create unidentifiable features that tended to vary from batch to batch. An arsenal of faded faces that were then accessorized according to whether he would disguise his prosthetic leg or hobble around in a multitude of different ways.

He was now one of the Wandless, as the current euphemism went. Surprising that they’d actually come up with a name since most wizards averted their eyes so quickly that it was arguable whether the beggars’ presence had even registered. There were enough new faces each day that no one remarked upon Moody when he claimed his habitual spot just before the deserted awning of Flourish and Blotts.

It had proven to be fertile territory for the misinformation campaign he’d put into play. With the offices of the Daily Prophet just around the corner, there were always reporters nosing about for the latest scrap of gossip or Ministry leak. Nothing was ludicrous enough to be discounted, Moody learned early on. Especially that vile Rita Skeeter who would latch her lacquered claws into absolutely anything that might garner her a byline in the next issue. It would have been ungentlemanly to not oblige her, Moody chortled to himself.

First there had been the hints, mere whispers among the Wandless with no discernable source, that Lucius Malfoy maintained the purity of his albino peacocks by feeding them stewed manticore brains. An investigation into the illegal poaching of restricted species was initiated.

Next had come the persistent tales that Dolores Umbridge’s blood-status was not all she claimed it to be. It was revealed that a third cousin had married a notorious Muggle starlet and was instantly disowned by the remainder of the family. It was unclear, however, whether they had been more offended by the woman’s long string of previous marriages or her non-magical heritage �“ it certainly hadn’t been by her investment portfolio. Two squibs in the past generation were uncovered to much consternation, but the enquiry had stopped short of unearthing any amphibian forbearers. Only because they had not gone as far back as the previous century, Moody single-handedly maintained.

So he’d artfully concocted a tale of the trained rats the insurgents were mounting to wrest control of the Ministry from Pius Thicknesse’s puppet administration. Tiny rats in vests and bow ties, as they appeared in Moody’s imagination, against a burly bastard like Thicknesse seemed inordinately funny. How was he to know the man harbored a pathological fear of rodents? Just an unsubstantiated rumor had marshaled most of Magical Law Enforcement into a search and destroy mission within the marble corridors of power. Perhaps he should’ve sweetened the pot by insinuating that Wormtail was at the helm, but he was fairly certain that Pettigrew’s Animagus status was known only to a select few.

---

The sky was the nondescript color of old clothes, the damp air heavy with the bitter tang of broken dreams. Along the desolate storefronts, discarded leaves and paper flickered in a restless wind that whispered secrets to the overlords and the oppressed alike. It was a sad reminder that the rubbish was often more colorful than the lives of those who systemically ignored it.

Even though he still felt doubly-blind without the extra features of his magical eye, Moody heard them before they came into view. Something about the furtive whispers just didn’t seem to fit their clothing and mannerisms. The woman was clearly Bellatrix Lestrange, her vacant glare and curled lip were unmistakable -- even with one eye bandaged as part of his disguise for the day.

Bellatrix was notorious and many of the Wandless scuttled or rolled themselves into whatever dark hollow they could find on short notice. Today, she was single-minded enough to ignore them completely, not bothering to swish her skirts away with disdain as if their very shadows were contagious.

Her companion was a stranger, yet there was something about his features that nagged at Moody. Could it be someone whom he’d met long ago and then forgotten in the mists of memory? Or was there some subterfuge at work? His magical eye would’ve known immediately, but ‘One-Eye’ Moody would have to work things out the hard way.

Perhaps something of Moody’s doubts conveyed themselves to Bellatrix’s companion as he shifted nervously in his boots. A flash from the gutter just beyond and Moody would have sworn that Dumbledore’s weary face had just winked at him from a pile of useless adverts. In the next instant, the patterns shifted in the wind and the chocolate frog card disappeared.

But Moody wasn’t watching the detritus as his eye had been arrested by a peek at something more sinister: a disembodied trouser cuff and a single ragged trainer. In the space of a heartbeat, they disappeared as if they had never been, but Moody was not so easily fooled. Judging by the way Bellatrix and her companion moved, there was at least one more person following in their wake. Rendered invisible by spell or artifice, it mattered not to Moody’s suspicious Auror mind. That entourage was up to something untoward.

From the depth of his rags, Moody wrapped his hand around his portable Foe Glass. Much to his surprise, it felt cool to the touch. Not a single tiny vibration to indicate impending danger.

Unsure what to make of that, Moody ran his fingers along the length of the wand he had smuggled in the seam of his trousers. With practiced nonchalance, he made as if to scratch his leg then worked his wand up his sleeve instead. From behind a dilapidated crate, he cast a surreptitious Homenum Revelio charm then barely stopped himself from gasping at the unexpected results: three humans and a fourth murky presence. It was a phenomenon he had previously observed in the presence of elves, mermaids, and centaurs. Any sentient magical creature that was capable of verbal communication, to be exact. The very creatures that Voldemort’s camp labeled as inferior beings. How could this be?

A shout from a nearby lane indicated that Bellatrix had been recognized by a fellow Death Eater. Moody recalled the steel wool hair of Turlington Travers, an officious bore if there ever was one. As Travers drew near, the Foe Glass still clutched in his left hand grew warmer by the second. The momentary panic that he saw flitting behind Bellatrix’s eyes spurred Moody to action.

With the stumbling gait of a man who hadn’t properly eaten in months, Moody threw himself at Bellatrix and extorted her help with his nonexistent children. The shock in her face was quickly replaced by a mask of loathing before her companion immobilized him with a well-placed hex to the chest.

Moody’s body crumbled obligingly to the ground where he rolled to the far side of the lane. Although his muscles still spasmed from the stunning spell, his vision was unaffected. He lay perfectly still, allowing them to think he’d been knocked unconscious so they would forget about him. Inches from the rough cobblestones, his unbandaged eye slitted open to observe the tableau before him.

If anything, his assault helped Bellatrix to assume her haughty demeanor as Travers engaged her in conversation. Her companion muttered a few words in a foreign dialect more indicative of his uncommunicative nature than his nationality. Yet the foreigner fingered his wand in a strangely rhythmic fashion even after he lowered it to his side. As if he were fingering a melody on a bagpipe; Moody couldn’t help making the comparison.

Travers’ misgivings were unmistakable as the brief interchange deteriorated into an interrogation in short order. But Bellatrix refused to be detained from her incipient business at Gringotts as she left him struggling to keep pace with her hurried strides.

Intrigued by the unanswered questions floating in the very air, Moody slowly inched his way towards a back alley providing a convenient shortcut to Gringotts Bank. There was no doubt that the indeterminate presence could rightly belong to a goblin. Unable to determine conclusively whether he was dealing with friend or foe, he was intrigued to see how this would play out.

From the deep shadows across the small square, Moody watched as the golden doors were swung wide to admit the unlikely procession. Bellatrix swirled her skirts majestically as in her wake the lesser mortals struggled to keep pace.

The first hint of trouble was about a quarter hour later when a goblin emerged to confer with one of the Ministry goons stationed at the bank’s outer doors. The guard nodded sharply and took off at a trot down the twisting lane, taking a sharp detour when he reached Knockturn Alley. The goblin stared after the guard with his customary frown, yet the clenching and unclenching of his spidery fingers indicated great agitation.

With that the ghost of memory rose from Moody’s subconscious. Pale, freckled fingers working the bed rail in St. Mungo’s in the same musical manner. Arthur Weasley! But he was in hiding with Bill and the twins, wasn’t he? That still left three other sons unaccounted for, Moody considered as he worked out the implications in his brain.

Was one of Arthur’s sons being held hostage by Bellatrix? The Prophet had announced that wanted criminals had infiltrated Malfoy Manor recently but had said nothing about them being apprehended by authorities. Had they managed to escape, as Moody had cheerfully surmised, or were they being held prisoner? Visions of Bellatrix’s past cruelty rose like a miasma in his gut.

What about the cloaked figure then? Why would an accomplice need to cloak himself when Death Eaters strutted unhindered through Diagon Alley?

Unless the invisible party was quite the opposite; if he was someone who would find himself in danger if he were recognized. Three humans and one sentient creature. One woman, one man, and one dirty trainer which could belong to either, Moody continued to ponder as the wanted posters for Undesirable Number One stared at him from every storefront.

Surely, it couldn’t be! They wouldn’t be that utterly brazen, would they? Perhaps if that was the only way, Moody acknowledged grimly. But such an undertaking without any kind of back-up or reinforcements was folly! Yet he’d been sent on similar infiltration missions as a young Auror �“ when the Department had banked upon the sheer audacity and recklessness of youth to see him through.

Instantly, he knew what his next step would be.

When Ministry reinforcements poured out of Floo connections the length of Diagon Alley, they were confronted with a patchwork of human bodies strewn the length of the steps leading up to Gringotts Bank. The beggars shifted listlessly from side to side to allow passage, yet somehow managed to impede an organized assault. It was passive resistance at its best, Moody beamed proudly.

The first phalanx had just reached the lobby doors when the ground shook beneath them. With a mighty hiss, a fissure appeared in the pavement at their feet, forcing them to scramble like mismatched dominos in all directions. From within the edifice, the sounds of an earthquake echoed to the surface even as the other structures along the length of Diagon Alley stood by implacably.

The plaintive groan of metal fatigue grew in intensity until Moody clamped his hands over his ears. With a roar not unlike collapsing bridge girders, the golden doors of the impenetrable bank were wrenched from their hinges to rest crookedly against the walls. From the crumbling maw within, a fearsome dragon clawed its way onto the portico as beggars as well as enforcement officers broke into a panic. Ignoring the spells which were rebuffed by its weathered scales, the dragon launched itself into the air and circled above Diagon Alley once before winging towards the north.

Shielding his eyes with his hand, Moody could just make out the three figures astride the beast’s back. A female with curly brown hair and two lads, one ginger and the other dark-haired and spectacled.

With a grin of unabashed delight, Moody waved at them from a back alley. Knowing that it was only a matter of time until he was identified as the instigator of the Wandless revolt, and too weary to contemplate changing his appearance in mid-stream, he Disapparated home.

---

Moody threw the stack of Daily Prophets in the corner of the cave with a growl. Worse than useless, he decried inwardly.

A sensationalized report of an ancient dragon escaping from the bowels of Gringotts. An interview with senior trustees assuring that their trusted goblins were, at this moment, scrambling for even better measures of securing the vaults of the institution’s most prestigious customers. The root cause of the upheaval was conveniently omitted. No vaults were reported as being vandalized, no personnel reported as being harmed. Hell, it hardly allowed that the goblins had been inconvenienced!

No idea whether the trio’s covert mission had been successful. And what of the cloaked being who had accompanied them? Moody chafed at being stuck in the periphery.

“Madai,” Benji’s quiet voice broke into thoughts. “It is time.”

Moody favored him with a grimace and a non-committal huff.

With ever-patient eyes, Benji posed, “If you have changed your mind, we will understand. This is your struggle more than it is ours.”

“Tamisan won’t,” Moody huffed. “She’ll say I'm a self-centered old thestral who thinks the world revolves around his overblown ego.”

Benji chuckled warmly. “Yes, she will. Are you so certain that she’s wrong?”

“No,” Moody allowed glumly.

“Wouldn’t you rather tell her so yourself?”

Moody harrumphed, “And walk into the veela’s pit willingly? Absolutely not.”

“You’d rather I faced her instead,” Benji countered.

“Don’t fret, I’m coming. Just wanted to take an extra moment to say good-bye to my sumptuous surroundings.” With a wry twist to his lips, Moody’s arm encompassed the roughly hewn walls of the cave that had been their home for the past month.

“I’m certain our photos will be featured in Neanderthal Nooks and Crannies once we arrive in India,” Benji promised.

Moody threw back his head and issued a deep belly laugh. “If that doesn’t testify that you’ve been saddled with my company long enough, I don’t know what does!”

“Besides, I’d hate to think I risked my own life for nothing.”

Moody did a double-take. “Were the last minute errands so dangerous?”

“Not all. But having to trek to Honeyduke’s through a mass of roiling students was not as easy as you make it seem. I got the last of the sugar quills and was almost assaulted on my way out the door.”

“A grown man like you afraid of a group of children?” Moody teased.

“They were an organized gang,” Benji corrected. “And I couldn’t very well zap them with magic with their teachers on the next corner.”

“Not that cow, Carrow, and her throw-back brother?” Moody growled.

“Minerva McGonagall. An even stricter proponent of student rights.”

Moody sighed. “How did she seem? Snape’s appointment to Headmaster must have stung mightily, as if her years of experience were worthless… I should’ve sent her a letter of commiseration --”

“Ghosts don’t keep owls. Birds spook.” In a more serious tone, Benji added, “She seemed strained, her lips pursed as if they had never known any other expression.”

Moody nodded gravely. “Glad to see she’s been able to hang on, though.”

“You wish you could help her, don’t you?” Benji sympathized as he Levitated the last of their trunks before them.

“Can’t see how,” Moody grumbled. “Who knows what ripples my sudden reappearance might cause? And in this climate, just one moment of distraction might prove fatal.”

“Are you going to present the jumbo box of multi-flavored beans to Rajeesh, or shall I?”

Moody smiled at the mangled product name. “As long as you remember to save those sugar quills for Padma and Parvati.”

“How could I forget my nieces’ favorites? If only we could have convinced them to flee the country with their cousins.” Benji’s hangdog features recalled how the girls had stoically submitted to memory modifications lest they fall prey to unexpected coercion. “Bad enough they insisted on being imprisoned in that fortress for their final year of schooling.”

“It didn’t used to be a prison,” Moody attested.

“And it won’t be forever, old man,” Benji agreed. “But it’s time we left that fight for others whose hopes are less tarnished than ours. We’ve earned our retirement on all fronts.”

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Nine
Dumbledore: On the Wings of a Thestral



Like countless others before him, Dumbledore found his options severely limited by his own mortality. Granted, he’d been lucky enough to lead an exceptionally long life with ample time to prepare for the inevitable. Due to extensive research into obscure magical principles, he’d even managed to blur the lines between life and death to a minute degree. But that’s where it ended; he truly had no direct influence on the events he witnessed unfolding before him. He could only depend upon the impression he’d made in others’ lives while he stood before them in the flesh, but his time was past. For a man who had depended on his charisma most of his adult life, it was a singularly disheartening realization.

To make matters worse, that insufferable Rita Skeeter woman had taken it upon herself to tarnish the image he’d so carefully fostered throughout his long career at Hogwarts. Lies, innuendos, half-truths, suppositions! Since when did these comprise the cornerstones of journalism? It was as if Voldemort’s corrosive influence had tarnished that profession as well.

But try as he might, he could not lay this one at Tom Riddle’s feet. Scandals had fed the voracious minds of the populace since the beginning of time. It was the baser side of human nature that reveled in destroying those around them, seeking to make themselves look better by comparison.

No one was exempt from Skeeter’s poisoned quill. What did it matter, anyway, when the subject was dead and buried? Surely that was the way she justified such perfidy.

Or did the woman even bother anymore? Dumbledore pondered. Had she blurred the truth so many times that she no longer recognized it when she saw it? As far as he could tell, Skeeter’s sole foray into responsible journalism had been when The Quibbler had published her interview of Harry Potter during Fudge’s reign of misinformation. And that had been Hermione Granger’s doing more than anything. How ironic that Skeeter might derive credibility from that very action, one which she had resisted to the very end.

The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, such was the title of Skeeter’s latest tell-all exposé. What a difference a single word could make, Dumbledore considered philosophically from his otherworldly window. A truer title would be: The Life and Lies About Albus Dumbledore. But truth never sold anymore, did it?

Just as discretion was no longer in fashion, it would seem. Privacy had become a euphemism for secrets; and crimes committed without witnesses were not crimes at all. Even Skeeter must recognize that force-feeding an aging woman like Bathilda Bagshot with large quantities of Veritaserum was unethical at the very least! To have manipulated Bathilda’s brain in this manner had clearly contributed to her demise; and willful or not, such depraved indifference for another merited a charge of manslaughter, or possibly as an accessory to murder. Could the Wizengamot not see that Skeeter was implicit in this? But with no living relatives, poor Bathilda had no one to demand justice on her behalf.

At least his own brother, Aberforth, had given Harry and friends the true story in the end. But the damage had already been done. Even from beyond, Dumbledore had been drawn to the turmoil within Harry at that very moment. He had seen the last youthful idealism slide from the lad’s face �“ only to be replaced by the harshness of adulthood. How Dumbledore wished it could have been otherwise!

Another failure to add to his expanding list. They were falling fast and furious now, the weight of each accumulating like a millstone about his neck. An unmistakable sign that things were drawing to their inevitable conclusion.

Once his surroundings assumed the shape of a galactic train station, Dumbledore knew that the final confrontation between Harry and Voldemort was imminent. His youthful fascination with trains had followed him into the afterlife, it would seem. With quiet dignity, he arranged his pristinely white robes on a bench in the waiting area to witness the proceedings in his previous existence.

Try as he might to refashion the area into a small welcoming platform like that in Hogsmeade village, the illusion would not hold. The roof of the open-sided shelter would change from dark wood into a sparklingly glass skylight as it receded a hundred feet or more above him. The worn wooden columns would be replaced with shiny brass and elaborate Beaux Arts adornments until he was returned to the wonderland of his boyhood: Victoria Station.

Only this time there was a foreboding about the multiple tracks laid out before him. Just how many lives would be derailed in the upcoming conflict? Dumbledore wondered grimly.

It was a shiny, silver bullet train that slid before him soundlessly. The whisper of its sophisticated braking system so unlike the squeal of metal on metal that he remembered from the steam locomotives of his youth. The doors slid back into the hull like a long series of eyelids. All along the endless expanse of the disembarking platform, ancestors eased forward to welcome relatives on their final journey.

Dumbledore was shocked to see how many of the passengers were barely more than children. Surely Minerva and the other trustworthy teachers had evacuated the students to safety. That had been one of the main reasons for establishing the secret tunnel to Aberforth’s upstairs parlor. But even as he formed the thought, he acknowledged the likelihood that some students would’ve doubled back to lend their assistance in defense of their beloved school. It’s what he would have done himself, he winced.

He made to turn away as the cherubic face of Colin Creevey broke out in wonder at being greeted by the elderly Nana he had only met in stories. Damned Gryffindors and their over-rated bravery, Dumbledore moaned internally. Children should not be drawn into a war! But hadn’t Voldemort done just that by attacking Harry as an infant and countless others since his resurgence?

In the distance, a tight clutch of Chinese ancestors jockeyed for position, the rainbow hues of their brocade garments arresting against the predominantly Victorian garb. Amid the shiny, blue-black hair, a tall blonde youth joined in as the group surged forward to meet the newest arrival. With a tremulous smile, Cho Chang slowly eased her way down the steps, unsure of her ultimate destiny until her eyes met those of her beloved Cedric.

The knot of apprehension in his stomach tightened at the arrival of Fabian and Gideon Prewett flanked by their Uncle Bilius, wild hair making the elderly man look just as deranged as ever. Unwittingly, Dumbledore’s eyes were drawn to the tracks once more by the rhythmic squeaking of wheels among all the surrounding hydraulics. A humble handcart was inching its way closer, the sole passenger working the seesaw mechanism single-handedly. It was not lost on Dumbledore that it was a mode of transportation designed for the combined energies of two persons working in tandem. Fred was as bereft in death as his twin, George, would find himself in the land of the living.

Dumbledore’s breath caught in his throat as he spied a tall, rangy fellow who loped up to join those waiting to disembark from the sleek bullet train. Dear, sweet Merlin! Let it be a trick of the light, an unintentional resemblance only, he begged of whatever deity might heed him.

No, no, no, no, NO! It couldn’t be Remus. Remus was needed at home to care for his infant son. His wife needed him. His mother-in-law had already lost her husband in this conflict. Remus was slated to be part of the reconstruction, to help the survivors build themselves up from scratch once again. The world would need his quiet words of wisdom as much as his gentle humor in the upcoming years.

But such considerations were meaningless to Death; they always had been. Death didn’t care that Dumbledore had other plans for Remus, that he was the ideal candidate to assist Harry with his NEWT’s. It was how Dumbledore intended to repay Harry for all the sacrifices he’d made along the way, not to mention the final year of schooling that he’d had to forego. They were a well-suited team; Dumbledore had seized on that immediately when the lad had conquered the advanced Patronus Charm under Remus’ able instruction.

A bird-like cry on the wind and the tall man whipped around. Another passenger was running towards him from the rear of the train. Nothing but snatches of color zipping past the long ribbon of windows. The man fell back in shock, catching himself on one of the seats as he buried his face in his hands. But it had been enough to validate Dumbledore’s worst fears: the tortured, drawn face was Remus’ without a shadow of a doubt.

With measured steps, the smaller figure drew closer to Remus. It was clearly a woman; so much like a timid, jeweled bird that it made Dumbledore ache with the memory of his beloved phoenix, Fawkes. She reached out a tentative hand to Remus’ shoulder, causing him to jerk as if stung. The silent figure shook his head sharply as his wife grabbed his hands imploringly. From the rapid fire of their lips, it was clear they were arguing. With a shuddering sob, Remus clutched Tonks to his breast in abject defeat.

Dumbledore’s fists curled in frustration at the unforeseen calamity. Not Tonks, too! She was still nursing her baby; how could Fate be so utterly remorseless? Why had she not stayed at home where the Fidelius Charm protected her from Bellatrix’s evil intentions?

Any further words of recrimination died on Dumbledore’s lips. What difference did it make now anyway? Let Remus and Tonks find what solace they could in each other; at least they had that. His heart went out to poor Andromeda, praying that she didn’t break under the added burden.

If he had not witnessed it for himself, Dumbledore would’ve maintained that the dead were no longer capable of tears. But as Remus descended the silver steps with Tonks’ smaller body crushed to his side, the scintillating trails on their cheeks told a different story. The anguish they both felt about their fate was evident as they were embraced in turn by Sirius Black, and after hushed introductions, James and Lily Potter as well. It was a bittersweet reunion as the Potters sympathized wholeheartedly with the misery of having left their only child in the care of relatives.

It was all Dumbledore could do to keep from succumbing to an overall sense of futility as the trains increased in frequency. He repeatedly reminded himself that it was Riddle who had set these events in motion, but he couldn’t escape that he shared a portion of the burden also. It was perhaps the most difficult and sobering realization of his long existence.

Like a wave of smoke, the crowds parted to reveal a tight knot of browned-skinned men and women as they engulfed a young woman with a long plait down her back. Amid the vibrant gumdrops, Parvati Patil looked over her shoulder into the ageless blue eyes of her former Headmaster.

“Padma dispatched him like the right vermin that he was,” her lips affirmed soundlessly, yet the words formed clearly inside Dumbledore’s brain. Her dark lashes blinked the tears away as both of them acknowledged that at least her twin had avenged her untimely death.

Only Lily’s sharp intake of breath as she lifted her head from Remus’ shoulder served as warning. Dumbledore followed her line of sight as a dark antique engine puffed slowly towards them, a single black caboose attached behind its coal car. Past the sleek cars of the streamlined trains it chugged with grim determination until it stopped directly in front of the venerable wizard. Through the wide glass inserts, a lone coffin rested atop a table, a garland of white lilies standing out starkly against the dark polished wood.

A rosette of roses as black as midnight hung on the back door that was thrust open by the pearly white hand of Severus Snape. Like burning coals, his dark eyes took in his surroundings as his thin lips remained impassive. With feline grace, he took the steps quickly, his long strides putting him abreast of Dumbledore in short order.

“It is done,” he reported, his deep voice that of the sepulcher. “Later rather than sooner, but he has all he needs. The future is in his hands.”

Dumbledore nodded his approval, but before he could offer up any accompanying words, Lily swept up to Severus -- the purity of a white dove against the sooty black of a crow. She smiled beatifically at her childhood friend and the lines of strain and worry were wiped from Severus’ brow as if they had never been. Never breaking contract with her emerald eyes, Snape fell on his knees in supplication before her.

“It is the most I could do,” he whispered reverently. “I have nothing else to give and yet it is not enough to undo the past.”

“It will be enough,” Lily crooned as the backs of her fingers caressed Severus’ cheek.

The dour potions master opened his eyes to find James standing at Lily’s side, his arm draped protectively around her waist. Much to his surprise, James was grinning down as he held out a hand to help Severus to his feet.

“You have my thanks as well,” he offered. “Others may not have always seen the truth of your actions, but it was clear to us �“ Lily, as well as myself �“ that you've done an admirable job of looking out for our son.”

Compounding Severus’ look of confusion, Sirius added, “Your methods were too inscrutable for me, I confess. But I owe you an apology for having doubted that you held my godson’s interests at heart.”

Severus’ eyes were dazed as he clasped Sirius’ hand while Remus looked on with an amused expression.

The feather touch of Lily’s hand brought them all up short. “We are being summoned,” she breathed.

“Harry has entered the forest,” Dumbledore attested with grim certainty. “He will need your presence, if only for a moment’s support.”

With alacrity, James, Lily, and Sirius started down a spiral stair that had appeared in the train platform at their side. With a hasty kiss for his wife, Remus followed closely behind.

“What happens now?” Tonks’ eyes had grown in dimension as she searched out Dumbledore’s wisdom.

“It’s all up to Harry,” Dumbledore explained as he bade her to sit beside him on the bench.

“He has the fortitude,” Severus confirmed, a grim sentinel at their side.

Dumbledore trained ancient eyes on Tonks’ uncertain face. “You’re wondering why your father didn’t come to greet you?”

Tonks nodded tearfully into her lap. Only a few years older than Lily had been, yet somehow Lily had seemed less childlike and unassuming.

Gently he reassured, “Ted will be along, don’t you worry. He’s still just getting used to his surroundings. It’s a bit disconcerting for everyone at the beginning.”

Tonks took a deep, shuddering breath. “What about Mad-Eye? I really wanted to thank him.”

Snape’s deep chuckle unnerved her and she jerked her face to meet his. “You won’t find Moody here,” he affirmed with unspeakable satisfaction shining in his eyes.

Tonks’ jaw fell. “You can’t be….No, not Moody… Not in a thousand years.”

“Perhaps in a thousand years…” Snape drawled dangerously as he leaned his hip against the armrest.

“Now, Severus,” Dumbledore smiled benignly. “Not everyone appreciates your gallows humor. Especially at a time like this.” Cocooning Tonks’ tiny hand in his, the mighty wizard appeased, “Severus is just being modest; although how anyone would ever recognize it as such, I can’t say. Moody is still alive, dear. He crash-landed into Severus’ broom, dislodging his prosthetic eye.”

“But his magical eye was displayed in the Ministry,” Tonks stammered.

“A gruesome trophy,” Dumbledore concurred. “But without a body…” He spread his hands in demonstration.

“They wished to foster a false impression,” Snape put forth.

“The same could be said for you!” Tonks accused Snape’s saturnine features.

“Now, Dora,” Dumbledore soothed. “Severus was in a bind. If his actions had aroused suspicions, he would just be handing Alastor over to the Carrows or any other Death Eater.”

“So you just left him?”

“Once he’d recovered sufficiently, he was left to his own devices. I gave him a unique opportunity to create mischief,” Snape hissed. “Are you so certain Moody wouldn’t have relished the role of an avenging dervish?”

Tonks shook her pink curls in disbelief.

“It’s a lot to take in at once,” Dumbledore mollified. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

Before he could elaborate, the others materialized out of thin air. Tonks jumped up and caught her husband in an exuberant hug.

“I can’t bear to look,” Lily confided tearfully as she clutched Dumbledore’s arm in entreaty.

“Harry seems lost,” James issued, watching from on high.

“Then I will give him guidance,” Dumbledore proclaimed as he majestically rose to his feet.

“But how?” Snape posed. “He dropped the stone…on purpose it would seem.”

“I don’t have to cross into his world,” Dumbledore clarified as he ascended a gilded catwalk. “I just have to meet him on neutral ground.”

“Will he live?” Remus imposed as he gazed up at his former Headmaster.

“The choice is his,” Dumbledore sighed. “I cannot make it for him.”

“Try to make him see reason,” James insisted.

With a sad smile, Dumbledore looked down upon the anxious faces of the core members of the Order of the Phoenix. “I’m bending the rules enough as it is. My sole chance is to explain the unwritten concepts to him. If I try to do more, I might make things worse.”

“Harry will make the right choice,” Lily attested, but her voice cracked as Dumbledore disappeared beyond the crest of the golden bridge.

He could still hear the whispers as they tried to comfort one another, Tonks' voice offering what solace she could. It was only when those rustlings faded into nothingness that Dumbledore realized he’d reached his destination.

Almost as if he’d willed it, a silver door appeared in the air before him. Trusting in laws that he did not fully understand himself, Dumbledore stepped through onto another balcony, the colorful heads of Muggles flowing like ants in the distance between his feet.

‘Platform Nine’ and then ‘Platform Ten’ the signage read; and Dumbledore knew without any hesitation, that Platform Nine and Three-Quarters could be found by those discerning enough to know just where to look. He smiled to think that Harry, too, had returned to the familiar surroundings of his youth.

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Ten
Harry: Fallout


There was no denying the sense of déjà vu making Harry’s insides clench the moment he spied the neat rows of chairs. In the background, the calm expanse of the Black Lake sparkled in the last rays of the afternoon, the ribbon of trees along the edge of the Forbidden Forest like dark arms to encase their grief.

He’d been too caught up in the tide of battle to savor his return to Hogwarts �“ and now the stately structure which had once been his home seemed just as empty a shell as he. The carefree laughter of children he recalled so fondly had been supplanted with recent cries of anguish that still haunted the depths of his soul.

It was inevitable that he would be asked to say a few words. After all, he was the man of the hour, the unsung hero. The Boy-Who-Continued-to-Live-Despite-the-Odds, regardless of what his weary heart may have wished at any given moment.

How he’d longed to tell them that he’d just as soon skip the entire thing. Light a hero’s pyre and float the useless remains of lives cut short out onto the Black Lake. That would have been more fitting for the occasion. Deep down, they had all been renegades; not part of any organized resistance, not in the way the Ministry was determined to treat them.

Besides, he needed the cleansing power of fire. Needed it to burn away the shadow that the Death Eaters had allowed to fall over the world. Needed it to burn the guilt that incessantly plagued him for allowing so many to go to their deaths because of him.

Well, they would have to accept that Harry Potter was going into retirement. He’d had his share of heroics, to tell you the truth. Had his share of it long ago, each small victory coming at too high a price. Any triumph he’d felt had long since dissolved into acrid ashes on his tongue. Today’s speech would be the final curtain call for him. The world would have to accept that he was their puppet no more.

A hushed silence fell over the assembled mourners as the Acting Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, concluded his eloquent words and motioned for Harry to join him at the podium. The warm encouragement of his smile did not chip away at the glacial shell surrounding Harry’s heart. It was the only thing holding him together; the moment it cracked, he knew he would be incapable of coherent speech.

With a dolorous weight to each step, Harry rose to take his place before the ocean of faces undulating into the horizon. Today there was no green expanse of lawn before the smoking hulk that was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Even the deep scars the climatic battle had left on the very face of the escarpment were covered in somber, upturned faces.

He couldn’t look at them. He was too afraid of the recrimination he would see in their eyes. So instead, Harry allowed his watery gaze to take a panoramic view of his surroundings, focusing his attention on the distant row of trees beyond the lonely Quidditch pitch. He could feel the heat of the setting sun at his back, but the sky beyond was still a cerulean blue that testified just how paltry the events of mankind were in the whole fabric of time. With a deep sigh, he consigned himself to the inevitable.

“Thank you for the inspiring words, Minister,” Harry began as he felt the Sonorous Charm enlarge his voice as far as the foothills. Amplified, the rawness was even more pronounced, but he didn’t allow that to stop him. “I’m absolute rubbish at flowery speeches so you can all be thankful that Minister Shacklebolt was kind enough to set the mood today. Please add my sentiments to his.

“All I can say is that I’m glad it’s over. Yet at the same time, I can’t help replaying the events over and over in my mind and wishing that I could change the outcome for all these beloved people whom we are here to honor today. They shouldn’t have died; but if they hadn’t, surely we’d be looking at a different row of corpses before us. War and death are forever intertwined; let us never forget that.

“War is the last resort of bureaucrats who can’t work things out amicably in the halls of government. May that echo through the new administration as we turn our faces to a world enshrouded in peace once more, yet diminished irretrievably by our losses.”

Harry felt his voice hitch as the bitterness flowed unhindered into his chest until he feared he would drown. Sensing this, Ginny was suddenly at his side although he had not seen her rise from the front row. Like an old man, stooped and stumbling, he allowed her gentle hands to guide him back to his seat, heedless of the shining river of tears upon his face.

---

It was a foregone conclusion they would end up at the Burrow afterwards. Andromeda Tonks had briefly proposed hosting the get together in her too-empty house, but Harry suspected that a horde of funeral guests would only amplify her feelings of loneliness �“ especially in the echoing silence once they left. Molly had interceded with her bustling sort of kindness that brooked no argument, insisting that the Burrow was home to all sorts of marauding reprobates; and consequently, ideal for the occasion.

Clearly, Molly found solace in assuming full hostess mode as she directed everyone towards the extensive buffet that had been laid out the in the shade of the back veranda. From his spot underneath the gnarled beech on the far side of the yard, Harry could see them flitting like somber moths before returning with laden plates to join the conversations inside.

“Too boisterous for you?” a soft voice rang at his elbow as Ginny settled her gauzy black skirts around her knees.

He gave her a small smile that was tinged with sadness. “I needed some air.”

“Doesn’t surprise me one bit!” she agreed as she fanned her face with her hand. “That Firewhiskey packs a punch.”

He eyed her in a creditable impersonation of Molly. “You’re not even of age, young lady!”

“What’s a few months when I’ve dueled mano-a-mano with Bellatrix Lestrange herself?”

Harry suspected that Molly would intercede to protect her only daughter once again, but kept silent. Truth be told, he found Ginny’s irreverence intoxicating amid all the pallor that had dominated his life in the past year. Had it really been that long since he’d sat under this tree at the Burrow? He felt as if he’d aged a decade, at least.

“That was an inspired idea of Seamus to suggest toasting the departed. ‘Tis a fine tradition the Irish bring to our desolate shores,” he added in a brave imitation of Seamus’ lilting brogue.

Ginny laughed softly. “Needs a bit of work, I’d say. Perhaps some more whiskey would help.”

“No, thanks. I was dizzy enough when I found my way back here.” Too many to toast, he thought, but left the words unsaid. Even though he’d been prudent enough to take sips instead of downing most of the small glass with each name. So many names…but to roll them into one blanket toast seemed disrespectful of the vibrant individuals they had all been.

Turning away from that avenue with some difficulty, Harry prompted, “Is that what’s got your eyes shining so? Illicit sips of forbidden firewater?”

Caught in the cross-hairs, Ginny lowered her eyes self-consciously. “Only in part,” she mumbled more to herself than anything.

What was he to make of that? Harry thought to himself. They really hadn’t had time to iron out the turbulent issues between the two of them, yet she’d latched onto him from the minute he and Hermione agreed to return to the Burrow with the rest of the Weasleys. Was it just compassion in a time of need? he wondered. Ron had Hermione after all. Ginny’s closeness was his ballast in the storm, but Harry didn’t dare attribute anything but friendship to her actions. He wasn’t prepared to risk everything to know the truth; he couldn’t face the possibility of rejection right now.

A smattering of laughter wafted on the gentle breeze as the horizon slowly bled into night. The sun had performed a glorious display over the newly dug graves, but even the endless summer sunsets eventually faded away.

“They’ve certainly managed to cheer each other up,” Harry observed.

“I suspect that lot is approaching incandescence by now,” Ginny attested wryly.

“I never knew your father had such a hidden cache of Firewhiskey.”

“He doesn’t. Seamus had accomplices. Hagrid arrived with a full bottle in each hand, only to be upstaged by Professor Flitwick who claimed to be able to Apparate with two full pints and never spill a drop. Then McGonagall showed up at the back door with the genuine article: Power’s Irish Whiskey. Much mellower with a sweeter aftertaste.”

“Somehow I can’t see Minerva slipping you a stealthy sip.”

“She didn’t. I’m just repeating what I overheard.”

No wonder he’d heard Hermione exclaim from the next room, “Why they have a regular Finnegan’s Wake going on!”

The pun had not been lost on Harry, but he’d slipped out as it brought back bittersweet memories of Remus retreating to the library at Grimmauld Place. His esoteric reading selections were often from Muggle writers such as James Joyce.

Reining his emotions back in, Harry commented, “I can’t see our staid Head of House throwing them back at all, come to think of it. She’ll be letting her bun out at this rate!”

“She strikes me as the type who can hold her liquor,” Ginny giggled. “Seamus explained that in true Irish tradition, this was to be a celebration of life. So Dad launched into a funny tale about how Moody had disrupted the entire Muggle Artifacts Office �“ all two of them -- when he’d ambushed a rogue cuckoo clock just as Dad was coming around the corner with his alarms full of spelled alarm clocks!”

Harry joined in her laughter. It was too easy to supply the missing details and the startled look on Arthur’s face.

“Flitwick started to recount the night he and Hagrid had accompanied Dumbledore to London,” Ginny continued, “but McGonagall hushed them saying that was too inappropriate. Bill promised to remind them to tell it later.”

“Didn’t anyone remember Tonks?” Harry blurted before he thought to stop himself.

Ginny squeezed his hand in comfort. “Of course. Andromeda had everyone in stitches, only to make Teddy laugh, too. Then McGonagall told a totally outrageous tale about the tribulations of being Head of House to the infamous Marauders. We’re used to thinking of Remus as the quiet one in that group; but to hear her tell it, he was the most preposterous schemer of all!”

Harry bit his lip to maintain his composure as he imagined all the adventures Teddy and Remus would never share. He himself had known the man too briefly to suit him, barely saying hello before being caught up in the tide of battle it seemed.

In a voice fraught with emotion, Harry begged her to stop. “I promise to get every last tale from McGonagall myself �“ even if I have to pour all the liquor at the Three Broomsticks down her throat in the process. I owe Teddy at least that much. It’s not like I knew his parents that well, when you get down to it. Certainly not as well as Sirius had known mine…” He found himself unable to go on; the recent tragedies breaking forth the dam he’d cobbled over his heart when Sirius had fallen through the veil.

Without having to ask for comfort, she gave it. Wrapping her arms roughly around his chest, she pulled him into her body, resting her chin against the side of his head. He locked his arms around hers as he finally gave in, capitulating to the despair that had hunted him like a predator since he’d escaped from Bill’s wedding with Hermione and Ron in tow.

A lifetime later, he found himself staring into the midnight blue of the heavens which were peppered with stars that couldn’t possibly still be shining. He wiped sticky tears from beneath his glasses as he struggled to sit up on his elbows. From his side, Ginny did likewise; the sudden absence of her body pressed next to his made him shiver self-consciously.

“It’s a beautiful night,” she issued wistfully. “Hard to believe that Voldemort’s claws haven’t shredded that as well.”

“Will life ever be the same again?” he wondered, not realizing that he’d said the words aloud.

“I think so,” she affirmed softly. “But it will be a while before it stops hurting every time I breathe.”

Feeling like a selfish clod who had not considered how much she must be hurting at the loss of her brother, Fred, he cocooned her softly in his arms once more. The warmth of their bodies served as barriers to the harsh reality that neither could fully escape.

After a time, her breathing slowed and he whispered into her hair, “You know there was a time I dreamed of sitting like this with you. Only you were at Hogwarts and it was only me alone in the anonymous woods. Half the time, I had no idea where Hermione had Apparated us to for that day. My only ties to the familiar world were the faint melody of her and Ron bickering in the background.”

Ginny snorted derisively at the image. “If you’re angling for the pity prize, you’ll have to let me participate, too.”

He tightened his arms around her in response, willing himself to become lost within the faint smell of her hair.

“How do you think I felt: abandoned at Hogwarts with those sadistic Troglodytes for instructors --”

“Minerva would not take lightly to that characterization,” he teased.

“Not her!”

“Snape would’ve set up detention.”

“He did. When the new Dumbledore’s Army tried to steal Gryffindor’s sword.”

“Clever,” he remarked. “Was it your idea or Neville’s to require an initiation ritual for new recruits?”

He felt her giggle silently. “Neither. We were too afraid to trust anyone else. It was just the dregs of the once glorious Army,” she asserted.

“Wouldn’t it have made more sense to call yourselves ‘Dumbledore’s Commandos,’ then?”

“And risk being confused with men’s underwear fashions �“ or lack thereof?” She rocked with pent-up laughter.

“McGonagall would’ve had no choice but to punish you for being out of uniform,” he retorted wickedly as he watched a soft blush steal across the side of her cheek.

“Is that what spending months in the wilds did to your imagination?” she posed, twisting awkwardly to face him.

Suddenly embarrassed, he mumbled something unintelligible.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” she prodded mercilessly.

“Ginny…I….” He berated his sandpapery tongue as he imagined his lips flapping morbidly like a dying fish.

Much to his surprise, she leaned over and kissed him gently, drawing away so slowly that he could see individual strands of her hair glowing in the moonlight.

Was it courage or self-destruction that spurred him on? “What was that supposed to mean?” he gasped, his pulse pounding relentlessly in his ears.

Ginny shrugged playfully. “Just a more constructive way to leave you speechless, is all.”

“Oh.” The disillusionment lay heavy upon him even as he yearned to hear more.

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

“I wasn’t. At least not entirely.”

“Well, what then?” her fiery temper flared suddenly. “Is the expert ready to render his critique?”

“Not without a larger sample,” he returned huskily as he pulled her down to him once more. This time when they broke apart there was no mistaking that she was as breathless as he was.

With a small sigh of contentment, she snuggled into his shoulder once more. “Well, at least you’re not trying to break up with me again. Merlin knows where you got it into that tussled head of yours that it was proper behavior after a funeral.”

“I was….an idiot,” he settled for.

“No argument there.”

“I’m surprised you’re even speaking to me, to tell you the truth.”

“Not many other options at the moment.”

“You could rejoin the others,” he suggested in spite of himself.

“Not without at least a quart of Firewhiskey to my name!” she asserted as the raucous echoes lingered on the evening breeze.

Not that he begrudged the others their bit of respite, Harry muttered to himself. If only he could find such surcease.

“What’s that you have in your pocket?” she asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been worrying it since you got up before the crowd,” she insisted. “A hole that needs mending? I’ll just get my wand.”

Sheepishly, Harry withdrew his hand from his pocket. The faded and dog-eared slip of cardboard had seen better days, yet the benevolent image of Dumbledore in his stylish lilac robes was unmistakable even in the gossamer moonlight. “It’s been a sort of talisman of mine since I found it in the gutter among the shambles of Diagon Alley. The last shred of the past…”

“They’ll rebuild,” she asserted as she pulled his head onto her shoulder and soothingly stroked his back until his shoulders stopped shaking.

“Not feeling like much of a hero, thanks for asking,” he dissembled into the folds of her blouse.

“You never do,” she chuckled lightly. “It’s the outside world who tried to cast you into a mold that never really suited you.”

Her sudden insight floored him. Could it be that she knew him almost as well as he knew himself? The hope that flared in his chest died away almost instantly with the notion that she recognized him for the worthless loser that he was.

“Why Dumbledore?” she urged like a whisper of wind.

“Nervous habit,” Harry answered by rote, willing his fingers to stop caressing the edges of the cardboard that were already beginning to disintegrate into layers.

“No, it’s more than that. Tell me all of it.”

She waited patiently as he leaned back against the soft carpet of grass and searched the cosmos for the answers to what lay buried in his heart. With a sigh of resignation, he admitted hollowly, “That’s when it all started going sour. As I watched Snape cut down Dumbledore, I knew that it had all spiraled out of my control. I no longer knew whom to trust �“ only that enemies were where I least expected.”

“I’m not your enemy.”

“No, but what you represented was.” Seeing the confusion in her face, he plowed onward, “The temptation to turn away from the sordid mission Dumbledore had entrusted to me was almost overwhelming at times, Ginny. Too many nights I wondered what would happen if I just walked away. Who else would step up to save the world?”

“You and Ron both. Walking away is never the answer.”

“What would you have done then?” he asserted, turning around to face her directly.

“About Voldemort, I’m not sure. Haven’t had as long to ponder that one.” She tapped her finger on her lower lip as she considered her response, a simple gesture which Harry found enchanting at close range. Catching his eyes with hers, she intoned breathlessly, “As for Ron’s disappearing act, I would have snatched that Unlighter gadget from his grubby mitt so fast --”

“It’s called a Deluminator,” Harry interjected.

“Really?”

“Hermione found a description of the very object in a book.”

“In the middle of the stinking woods?”

“Couldn’t wait to put her nose to it just as soon as we got back to civilization. Turns out there are only two known to exist. She was so aglow with satisfaction, it’s a wonder Shell Cottage wasn’t visible from across the channel!”

Ginny emitted a sharp laugh. “Well, you certainly nailed the description.”

Harry basked in the warmth of her smile. What did it matter than he had tooled rather liberally with the truth? He had made her laugh. On today of all days.

“Forgive me,” he beseeched. “What would you have done after you commandeered the Deluminator?”

She flashed him a put upon pout before continuing, “I would’ve shoved Ron aside and shown him how it should be done.”

“You were at Hogwarts,” he argued.

“No, I wasn’t. It was almost Christmas and even the Death Eaters hadn’t gotten around to cancelling that yet.”

Once again, he was amazed at how much better she’d kept up with his exploits than vice versa. Unbidden, a vision of his parents’ headstones in the Godric’s Hollow cemetery rose to the forefront of his mind. He’d lost track of the days by then, the snow on the ground being the only indicator that it was winter. Hermione had reminded him that it was Christmas Eve only to have it seem like a celebration he had observed in a past lifetime.

“What about Ron then?” Harry played along. “Hermione would’ve been devastated.”

Ginny shrugged stoically. “Life is full of disappointments, but I hate to think my git of a brother had broken her heart.”

“How would your parents have explained your failure to return to school?”

“Another case of spattergroit, I suppose. I’m certain that poor ghoul was feeling lonely by then.”

“So you’re saying your mum would’ve imprisoned Ron in the attic?”

“Or the root cellar, seeing as how the ghoul had inherited his room as part of the charade. Whatever it took to keep him from running off into danger once more. Don’t look so affronted; it’s not like she wouldn’t have fed him and let him out to exercise in the yard!”

“Molly must’ve been really put out before,” he considered.

“Sick with worry, more like. We all were.”

“I was so afraid someone would try to follow us and get caught in a trap.”

“Don’t think that idea wasn’t tossed about; but in the end, it was Elphias Doge’s advice to lay low that made the most sense. He told us how during the prior conflict, the Death Eaters had purposely broken into homes to set pets free. Then they’d follow them to their owners who were in hiding.”

“Blimey, that’s cold,” Harry attested with a small shudder.

With an iron set to her jaw, Ginny continued, “Dad believes that’s how they caught up with Ted Tonks in the end. Andromeda reported that their aged terrier had run away not long after Remus and Tonks got married. She was so caught up in their troubles, what with the unplanned pregnancy and Tonks being summarily dismissed from the Auror squad, that the last thing she thought about was searching for Cassie.”

“That was about the time Remus showed up at Grimmauld Place and offered to be our bodyguard,” Harry recalled.

“Andromeda admitted that Ted took up jogging right about then as an excuse to search for both of them.”

“Remus was half-crazed with worry that staying with Tonks would endanger her,” Harry supplied.

“Sound familiar?” Ginny prodded.

“Not in the way you think,” Harry returned. “I sent him on his way rather brusquely, thinking how much I’d missed growing up without my parents and that I’d rot in hell if I’d let him do the same to his child.” The sense of irony threatened to engulf him. “A lot of bloody good it did in the end.”

Ginny gripped his hand in comfort. “They were happy, just as I’m sure your parents were in the short time they had together. But it was Voldemort who stole their lives away �“ not you!”

Harry nodded wordlessly as he sobbed silently into his chest. The pressure of her fingers interlaced with his finally brought him back to the present. It was such a beautiful, peaceful night that it seemed inordinately selfish of him to be drowning in sorrow.

Ginny’s breath tickled the back of his neck as she posed, “What would you have done?”

“Me?”

“Hypothetically,” she clarified. “If you had to do it over again, what would you change?”

“You mean if Neville hadn’t destroyed that cache of Time-Turners in the Department of Mysteries?”

“Precisely. No one can fine you for tinkering with the past in your imagination.”

Harry stopped to consider all the possibilities. How could he have kept his own existence from falling apart without impacting others in even worse ways? There was no way to know, of course.

“I think I would’ve stepped aside,” he mused. “Refused to be the Chosen One. Forced them to choose someone else.”

“You mean like that Muggle king who abdicated to marry the woman he loved?”

“See, it even comes with a signing bonus!” He grinned.

“But who would’ve stopped Voldemort? The prophecy…”

“Assuming that I believed in Divination, which I don’t,” he stipulated, “that prophecy could just as easily apply to Neville as to me.”

“But Dumbledore …” Ginny began only to be swallowed up by the enormity of such a monumental shift.

“Dumbledore knew. Knew it all along, but kept his cards close to his vest. I was stupid enough to step up to the plate first, so he went with me. But don’t think he didn’t have a back-up plan.”

“How long have you known this?”

“Since we were stumbling about in the woods like a trio of blind mice. I had plenty of time to think things through. Wild extrapolations that dissolved in the bleak light of morning. But not this one line of reasoning; it kept at me until I unraveled it bit by bit.”

“Why didn’t you tell Ron or Hermione?” Ginny asked in an awed whisper.

Harry issued a mirthless laugh. “Seemed rather rude under the circumstances, don’t you think? Besides, by then it was too late.”

“What about your scar? Wasn’t that essential to defeating Voldemort?”

Harry was relieved that he had confided in her so completely. “So they could’ve dragged me in at the end to do my part,” he offered. “Rather like a supporting player. If only I had done things differently in my first year…”

“That was the turning point as you see it?”

“Absolutely. Dumbledore made a big point of awarding Neville extra House Points at end-of-year feast to bolster his confidence. For the longest time, I thought it was an act of supreme kindness.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Even then, he was hedging his bets. Ready to put his weight behind the one contender who took the bait. I’m absolutely certain of it!”

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Eleven
Harry: Bereavement at the Burrow



The bereavement hampers that arrived at the Burrow did not contain any chocolate frogs �“ or so it seemed to Dumbledore from his otherworldly perch. The sense of depthless sorrow had drawn him forth almost against his will, but he was unable to get a closer view of the inhabitants.

Molly, he was certain, was drowning herself in ceaseless household chores, hoping that her single-minded quest for normalcy would put her world to rights again. Arthur would sigh in silent grief, returning to his Ministry duties sooner rather than later. As veteran members of the Order, they had both come to terms with losing comrades in action �“ even if the loss had not hit so close to home since Molly’s brothers had fallen during the previous conflict.

It was the younger generation who would be taking things the hardest, Dumbledore knew without a shadow of a doubt. But he dared not intervene. He’d interfered enough in their lives as it was, Harry’s childhood truncated with the destiny that had to be fulfilled. Even an old man like himself had been unprepared for the final cost of their bitter victory.

Death was too random and capricious to suit him �“ even though he’d always known that many innocents would die along the way. Had it ever been any different? How many nights had he lain awake worrying about the constant danger of Severus’ mission to undermine the Dark Lord from within? The man’s loss in the final hours of battle had saddened him deeply, but Voldemort’s heartless butchery had not come as a shock.

For the thousandth time, he cursed the nobility of spirit that had drawn Remus from his home to lend his support to Harry. Tonks’ heart-wrenching loyalty to her husband had doubled the blow to Dumbledore’s already flagging spirit.

“No!” he had wailed to the silent heavens. “STAY PUT!” But they could not have heard him across the measureless distance that separated the living from those already dead. They had disappeared like wraiths in the night, intent upon heroic deeds, intent upon their own destruction. His insubstantial arms could not have held them back even if he’d found a way break free of the cardboard likeness of himself �“ not that he believed such a thing was possible.

Meddle as he might, it was a sobering realization that his influence over others was limited. Ultimately, each person was the architect of his own life with the free will to make foolhardy decisions. He’d had other plans for Remus and Tonks, other ways in which their unique talents would be needed to rebuild the world. It was with a frustrated huff that he conceded the world would be a dimmer place without them.

The metallic rustling of a familiar wrapper drew him forth like a siren, his consciousness trembling in anticipation as the overlarge eyes of Luna Lovegood came into view. Was it his imagination, or did they seem unusually watery today?

“…naturally, he’s still struggling,” Luna was commenting in that ethereal manner of hers. “But you know how Father is. Determined above all else to repair the presses and produce a special commemorative issue of The New Quibbler, as he’s bound to call it.” With a barely contained sniffle, she added lowly, “I suppose it’s a self-imposed penance of sorts.”

“Rubbish!” Molly asserted with uncommon emphasis. “No parent could be expected to act the hero when his child was being held hostage. A bunch of cowardly toe-rags those Death Eater were, just you tell him that!”

“Molly’s right,” Harry answered through a voice hoarse from disuse. “Anyone can be manipulated. Just recall how I was their pawn on the night we stormed the Department of Mysteries.”

From where the chocolate frog card had been discarded on the side table, Dumbledore witnessed Harry catch Luna in a tight hug.

“Dad’s gone back to work as well,” Ginny confirmed. “For some it helps…”

“To feel useful again,” Harry finished.

“To keep the demons at bay,” Ginny amended softly as she watched her mother hustle towards the kitchen to prepare a pot of tea.

“Is that where George is today?” Luna posed gingerly.

With a sad shake of her head, Ginny indicated the hamper full of sweets before them on the low table.

Squeezing her shoulder in comfort, Harry supplied, “Verity sent that; she’s been managing the store single-handedly for the most part. Charlie and Percy went to relieve her today, but they’ll need to return to their regular jobs in the next few days.”

“I’ve been helping Father intermittently; you know how headstrong he can be. But I could still take a shift or two,” Luna offered. “Is it possible I might offer George that in person?”

“Be our guest,” Molly offered as she expertly Levitated tea mugs before each of them. “I’ll pour you an extra cup to take to George. He’s taking a walk through the orchard; says it calms him.”

What anyone would find soothing in that twisted tangle of growth was a mystery, but people reacted to grief in their own individual ways, Dumbledore allowed to himself.

With parting hugs all around Luna drifted down the back steps, leaving a gentle whiff of summer breeze in her wake. Through the drawn window sheers, a riot of wildflowers could be seen undulating across the adjacent meadows. But the joyous cries of songbirds were ignored by those consumed by the hollowness in their hearts.

He didn’t dare start a dialogue. Sympathize from afar, Dumbledore reminded himself, but getting directly involved will do them no good now. He’d taken flagrant liberties with the natural laws that governed his current circumstances, already having achieved more than anyone else thought possible �“ or wise. By the haunted look in Harry’s eyes, it was clear the lad was still struggling with the manifestations he’d encountered on death’s threshold. No need to make him think he was losing touch with reality even more, Dumbledore asserted. Let him continue to suppose those events had transpired entirely in his own mind; that didn’t necessarily mean they were a figment of his imagination. With all the untapped potential in the human brain, who was to say it was incapable of traveling across unnamed dimensions?

Not that he would share his own theoretical ramblings. Harry needed to find his own answers, rework the world in whatever manner made the most sense to him. Such was the path of healing.

“Verity was right to insist we open the doors as soon as possible. Maybe Harry and I could help her with the store,” Ginny proposed as Molly turned away from the back window with a worried frown. “Even a day or two will ease the burden.”

“Perhaps it would be best if we closed the shop temporarily,” Molly posed darkly as she perched herself on the arm of the overstuffed armchair.

“NO!” Harry reacted on pure instinct. At the shocked faces turned in his direction, he croaked, “Fred wouldn’t want that. The world needs to concentrate on being happy; his whole life was dedicated to that.”

Despite the tears welling in her eyes, Molly leaned over and caught Harry in a smothering hug. “The twins always said you were their first and chief investor,” she remarked wetly. “I suppose it’s not out of line for you to have a say.”

“Then it’s all right if we volunteer?” Ginny urged with a slight tremble to her lower lip.

“Not just yet,” her mother cautioned. “Harry’s presence might attract a bit of a riot…”

“Well-wishers,” Ginny defended fervently.

“I’ve never much cared for celebrity,” Harry admitted in a hollow voice which condemned the world for not allowing him the anonymity to find solace in the same manner as others had.

Molly nodded in approval as she observed, “With Ron and Hermione still abroad, I doubt Ginny will be wanting to go off on her own, either. Best that you both stay among family for now,” she decreed, rising to check on the simmering stew.

The stern parting look Molly gave her daughter contrasted sharply with the soft, imploring eyes Ginny focused on Harry’s face. Placing her finger gently across his lips, she breathed, “Don’t even think it. You’re not an imposition to us here; you never have been.” Unspoken were the words that Molly might have surrendered Harry into the temporary care of Remus, but that was clearly no longer possible.

“I could go visit Andromeda and…Teddy,” Harry offered weakly. “Help stem the loneliness…” His voice trailed off as the sting of Tonks’ decimated family burned behind his red-rimmed eyes once more.

“You’ll have time enough to learn to care for your godson,” Ginny asserted in a velvety manner-of-fact tone. “But you don’t want to be waking the infant with your night terrors just now.”

Harry hung his head in glum defeat, acknowledging Ginny’s wisdom.

---

Night terrors. The words rang ominously to Dumbledore, but it wasn’t until later that he witnessed Harry’s nightly distress firsthand. Ginny had insisted on stashing a few extras chocolates on her dresser and he was afforded a rare look inside her bed chamber.

He hadn’t really understood why Ginny didn’t turn down the coverlet, just stretched out in comfortable athletic wear and a small afghan. The sinuous shifting of moonlight across the ceiling soon had her in a light doze, her features relaxing into girlish repose that reminded Dumbledore of how tiny she had seemed in the frame of the Great Doors the first time he’d seen her. On her way to be sorted, the remaining first years tittering nervously as she walked with the confidence of Marie Antoinette going to the guillotine. He’d known then that it would only take the Sorting Hat a millisecond to funnel her into Gryffindor House with the rest of the Weasleys. The very last of an extraordinary line; but by no means the least. More than anyone, Ginny encompassed the heart of a true lioness, cut from the Prewett mold that had made her uncles such fearsome fighters and her mother such an unbridled force when properly riled.

Ginny was alert to Harry’s footsteps, halfway to the door before the brass knob turned with a muffled click and he staggered into her arms.

“Ssshhh,” she soothed into his tangled mass of hair as the unrestrained anguish made him hiccup against her chest. “Nothing’s changed.”

“I don’t know whether that’s good or bad anymore,” Harry moaned lowly as Ginny’s wand flashed a privacy charm towards the doorway. “Everything was refashioned �“ almost as if it might turn out right for once. Only I couldn’t remember what the key was. It was essential that I remember what I had done wrong the time before and not repeat that mistake. It was infinitesimal, something so small and mundane that you wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but it held the key to everything. If only…..” He tore at his hair until his knuckles shone white through the raven strands.

With a shuddering sob, he collapsed against Ginny’s chest, making her knees buckle until they were both kneeling on the small rug at the foot of the bed.

“It’s all right,” she cooed gently. “As long as we’re still breathing we can try to re-piece things together again.”

“I don’t want to fix things, Gin. I don’t want to refight the same hopeless battles in my dreams. I can’t change reality.”

“None of us can. But everything won’t seem so bleak in the light of day. At least then you can put these things behind you…until next time.”

It was clear from her inflection that Harry’s inner demons would plague him the next night as well. In the bare week that he had been staying at the Burrow, they had already fallen into a rhythm; their clothing attested to that.

“Come,” Ginny urged as she Summoned extra pillows from the closet as well as the head of her bed. “Lay down next to me here.”

Harry huddled into himself, his arms wrapped tightly around his faded T-shirt to reveal the white drawstring of his sweatpants.

“Now give me your glasses,” she implored as she placed them gently on the dresser above Harry’s head. “Still within reach.”

He nodded wordlessly, the haunted look in his eyes resembling that of Sirius when he’d broken free of Azkaban. “Will you stand guard over me while I fall asleep?” he beseeched in the voice of a lad half his age.

She gave him a beatific smile. “Don’t I always? Wand at the ready to shoot down any nightmares that wander in.” She brandished her wand to show that she meant business.

With a curt nod, Harry grabbed the quilt from the foot of the bed and allowed his head to sink back into one of the pillows. Ginny leaned against the side of the bed, her eyes keeping careful watch on the single window and door which opened onto the outside world. With his hand curled protectively around her ankle, Harry finally closed his eyes and allowed his breathing to relax. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

Not wanting to disturb him, Ginny Summoned her discarded afghan and tucked it around herself before closing her own eyes. The slow rise and fall of her chest indicated that she had fallen asleep as well.

Feeling like someone needed to watch over these two broken dolls, Dumbledore kept the vigil until the translucent summer sunlight broke over the horizon. The yellow walls intensified the color until everything was bathed in a warm glow.

The first finger of light tickled Ginny’s coppery hair as she slowly awoke and looked warily about her. The barest shift of her leg and Harry was grabbing for his glasses, instantly on alert.

“No one’s awake yet,” Ginny breathed. “You have a few more minutes before your morning jog.”

Harry grinned up at her, a thousand emotions flitting across his eyes. “Somehow this isn’t exactly how I pictured waking up in your bedroom,” he ventured only to be smacked playfully with Ginny’s pillow.

“So those were happy dreams, I take it?” she shot back.

“Except for the ones where the door is thrown back and I’m facing a ring of wands,” he noted with a dry chuckle.

“Rather like when Ron barged in on your birthday. Never did give me a chance to give you your present.”

Why did those words set off so many alarms in Dumbledore’s mind? He had no detailed recollection of the event, yet deep inside a vague memory stirred. A maelstrom of emotions; he remembered that clearly. A collector card must have been abandoned somewhere inside the Burrow; there could be no other explanation.

Suddenly Ginny’s words crystallized the moment in his mind’s eye. She had taken Harry’s hand and eased him soundlessly past her door. He was unsure, questioning, not daring to hope as his pulse raced. She was defiant, ignoring the burning pain that throbbed in her heart as she surrendered to a tide she didn’t fully understand. Harry had been swept away with the intensity, losing himself for blissful moments in the immediacy of her body pressed against his. Who knew how that episode would have concluded had Ron not interfered?

Dumbledore noticed some of that same hesitancy in Harry at the present. “My birthday’s next month…at the end,” he stammered, uncertain of Ginny’s expression.

“Ummm,” she acknowledged. “Still time to think of just the right gift.”

“Why go to all that soul-searching?” he issued, overcome with an unexpected bit of shyness as he drew her across his chest and buried his face in her hair.

“Because you’re not the only one who’s had time to think,” she muttered.

Harry pulled back as if stung. “Regrets?” he managed in a strangled voice.

“Not exactly,” she began only to be cut short by the sounds of movement on the floor above. “Quick! They’re awake!”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice as he bolted for the hallway. From the doorway, Ginny tossed him a balled up pair of socks from her drawer. With a quick smile, he whispered, “Good thing I left my trainers at the back door!”

---

Ginny grabbed a chocolate frog from the basket that Luna had thoughtfully provided. How clever of her to find one with a self-filling charm, she considered as she secreted her prize in her pocket just in time.

“Going for a morning run again, dear?” Molly’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Harry left not more than a minute ago; you should be able to catch up.”

“Thanks!” Ginny cried over her shoulder as the screen door banged shut. Within moments, she found Harry at the tree stump where he routinely stopped to stretch his legs.

“What’s wrong?” she posed the minute he looked away from her guiltily. “More nightmares?”

Harry shook his head, making his hair fall into even more disarray. “Not while I feel you next to me.”

“Then what?”

“What makes you think there’s anything amiss?” he hemmed as he avoided her eyes once more.

She planted herself before him and pushed him into a sitting position. The sheared log that had been struck by lightning served as a perfect resting place. “Look at me then,” she demanded.

With a small sigh, Harry complied. But he looked away when the intensity of her gaze started to unnerve him. “What would you have me say?” he muttered as he rose to his feet and took to the path.

Within moments, she’d caught up with him. “The truth.”

“The truth is a royal bitch, Ginny. Set to burst our dreams as if they were nothing but errant soap bubbles.”

They jogged in silence for a few more seconds before Ginny caught him by the arm and spun him around to face her. “It’s about the birthday present, isn’t it? When my clumsy brother couldn’t mind his own effing business. I’m not sorry he interrupted us, you know.”

Shocked to the very core, Harry stammered, “You’re not? It was your idea in the first place…” He shook his head as if to clear it.

“I went about things all wrong,” she admitted.

“Not to my way of thinking.”

“And how exactly do you envision that little scene ending?” Ginny posed with her hands on her hips.

It wasn’t just the uncanny resemblance to her mother in that moment, but the fact that she could see into his very soul. Harry blushed even more deeply as he felt her eyes upon him. “That memory kept me warm at night for months. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I wanted to let you know that I’d forgiven you for being such a heartless clod at Dumbledore’s funeral,” Ginny clarified. “I’m fairly certain that didn’t come through.”

“Not exactly.” Harry issued a mirthless laugh as he bent over double to catch his breath. This was too much of an emotional rollercoaster to try to jog at the same time. “Why did you feel a need to offer up an olive branch?” he wheezed. “I was the one who wronged you.”

“I wanted to start a dialogue of sorts.”

“Words might have suited you better then.”

“I didn’t have the words, not then. Just the feelings,” she conceded.

“I thought you were offering me a vision of hope.” There, he’d almost said it. “That was what I took from it. The promise that one day, if the circumstances were right, perhaps I’d have the foresight to tie Ron up in the root cellar before I eased myself into your room.”

Ginny laughed at that. Probably more than his quip deserved, but Harry didn’t complain.

“Perhaps a change of scenery might solve a lot of those logistical issues,” she volunteered.

He answered without thinking it through, “Fine by me. What did you have in mind?”

It was Ginny’s turn to blush and turn away.

He stumbled around the uneven terrain until he stood before her. “No fair ducking.”

“No rules,” she returned.

“No fair,” he volleyed. “No fair trying to take a childish tack to what’s essentially a serious conversation.”

“What went wrong with us?” she sighed.

“Nothing. Voldemort was like a wedge in my heart; I didn’t want to share you with him.”

“But he’s gone for good.”

“Precisely why a ray of hope for my upcoming birthday would be just the thing,” he replied in a light-hearted tone.

“Hard to gift-wrap,” she argued.

“No, it isn’t,” he asserted as he playfully unzipped her light-weight hoodie.

“Wait right there, mister,” she warned with a sharp swat to his hand.

“You’re wearing something underneath, aren’t you?”

“But that’s not what you’re seeing in your mind, is it?”

The glower she flashed in his direction was hardly encouraging. Staring at his feet, Harry swallowed past the sudden dryness in his throat. “Forgive me if I’ve overstepped,” he mumbled as he set off at a trot. In some ways, it was easier if he could just keep his eyes on the uneven path before him.

“Why do I always feel like you’re running away from me?” she cried as she came abreast.

“I never know what to say is all.”

“That’s the whole point! I don’t regret my actions, not exactly. I just don’t think I did a very good job of conveying what I was thinking.”

Did she want him to ask? Or just gloss over it? “I’m not certain how to respond,” he ventured.

“While you were stomping through the woods, I found the words. Took me months of soul-searching.”

“I had plenty of time to think things through myself. Convinced myself that I was a wrong-footed fool. But I just couldn’t find it in me to ask you to wait for me. It seemed so selfish and…there was no guarantee, see…”

“And now?”

“I have no idea what tomorrow holds.”

“Neither does anyone else.”

The outline of the Burrow was just visible ahead, so Harry took a detour towards the rustic bench that stood near the overgrown orchard. He felt the old boards sway ominously as he collapsed against them.

“I’ve no idea what you want from me,” he ventured. “No idea whether you want me in your life at all.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“As am I.”

“We’re back to where we started,” Ginny moaned.

“Not really, we’ve taken a detour of sorts.” He waited for realization to dawn in her eyes before continuing. “I want to get back on track. Tell me what I need to do to worm my way back into your good graces.”

“Nothing.”

“As hopeless as all that, eh?” He tried to make a joke of it, but felt that he failed miserably. “Look, if Hermione managed to forgive Ron for leaving her stranded in the middle of nowhere --”

“I wouldn’t go there if I were you,” she warned lowly. “That analogy ends with me being shipped off to a training ground for hate-mongers.”

He considered that she was probably right. “I didn’t think at the time that you’d be in as much danger as we were. I didn’t know about the Carrows.”

“Apology accepted.” Turning the tables on him, she put forth, “I have no idea what you expect of me, either.”

“I just want to be with you; I don’t rightly care where we go.”

“As long as Ron isn’t about,” she teased.

“He just needs to mind his own business.”

“He’s in Australia with Hermione.”

And probably caught up in the same maze of feminine double-talk, Harry thought, but wisely kept that to himself. Aloud, he deadpanned, “How do you think that’s working out?”

“Better than this, I was going to say. But then it’s Ron we’re talking about.” She started sniggering into her hand.

“Hermione will keep him straight.”

“Only if she writes him a script.”

“Why bother? The Imperius Curse is much easier.”

“Is that what I’m going to have to do with you?” Ginny proposed mischievously.

“I never took you for such a deviant.”

“I’m not. Is that what you like?”

“Who knows? I’ve so little experience with these sorts of things.”

“And you suppose I do? Do you see me as some wanton woman?”

“Can I get to know you better before I answer that?”

Ginny leveled a serious look at him. “That sounds surprisingly like something you say to all the girls.”

“What girls? I’ve dated exactly two: Cho and you. Please don’t count that disastrous ham-handed match-up at the Yule Ball, I beg you.” Another who had paid the ultimate price for her association with me. But under the warm glow of Ginny’s eyes, his sadness dissipated like the last wisps of morning mist.

“I seem to remember your Hogsmeade date with Cho was an unqualified disaster,” she noted.

“That’s actually an understatement, but let’s not go there. I enjoyed much happier times with you. Even when I was too dense to realize how much you meant to me and too tongue-tied to say it.”

“Seems to me you’ve found some of the words yourself,” she observed sagely.

Just not the courage to say them. “Perhaps if you shared some of that chocolate frog that’s been trying to jump out of your pocket ever since we started jogging.”

“Mum will smell the chocolate on our breath. I’m surprised she hasn’t called for us to come into breakfast.”

“Then why’d you bring it? I assure you it was much happier in that basket than in your pocket.”

“Not as happy as I’m going to be with it in my mouth!” She ripped open the package and took a huge bite of chocolate then thrust the remainder at Harry.

He managed to bite the treat just as it was crouching for a jump -- then felt it bounce down his throat. “Merlin! It’s still trying to hop away.”

“Didn’t Ron ever tell you that letting it melt in your mouth soothes it?”

She took the last chunk from his fingers and laid it reverently on her tongue. With a blissful expression, she gave him a look that made his knees grow weak.

He drew his face close to hers but didn’t dare breach the last few inches. There were so many ways her words could be interpreted and he didn’t dare let his buoyant heart override his reason. Luckily, she met him halfway, giving him a tantalizing taste of the warm chocolate lingering on her lips.

Before he had a chance to catch his breath, Molly’s hail made them jump apart.

“Harry, Ginny! Last call for breakfast. Angelina and Alicia are accompanying George to the store today and they haven’t got all morning!”

With a conspiratorial wink, Ginny shot to her feet. “Race you to the back door!”

“You’re on!” Harry barely managed in her tailwind. Perhaps Molly would be distracted enough to not notice their chocolate dalliance.

They barely avoided plowing into Arthur who was lingering near the back door. Doing his best to keep up a nonchalant conversation with his wife, he surreptitiously slid a chocolate frog into his briefcase in preparation for the workday. Catching sight of them, Arthur held a silent finger to his lips as his blue eyes twinkled with childish delight.

“Your secret’s safe with me, Dad,” Ginny breathed in his ear, allowing him to experience the lingering scent of shared guilt.

“Have a good day at the Ministry,” Harry offered as Arthur flashed him a long-suffering look. It was a well-known fact that the man was inundated in stacks of paper since returning to his post under the new administration. He had not been the only employee forced into hiding by Thicknesse’s totalitarian policies, it seemed.

“Oi, Harry!” Angelina Johnson greeted him from the end of the dining table. “Looking a bit ragged around the edges, I have to say.”

“Nothing a few laps around the Quidditch pitch wouldn’t remedy,” Harry returned with a wry grin.

“Don’t I know it!” Alicia Spinnet echoed. “My feet haven’t left the ground in months �“ and I hate it!”

“Seems we’ve all been grounded,” Ginny rejoined with a quick glance at George’s unfocused expression. “Snape didn’t allow such frivolity; those were his exact words.”

Angelina nodded vigorously. “Have to give the git credit for once. Kept you from being target practice for the resident Death Eaters.”

Molly flashed Angelina a reproachful look as she set full plates before Ginny and Harry. “I’m certain all those details will be ironed out before the fall term. Minerva will sort things properly; you can bank on it.”

“Then it’s a done deal?” Harry urged. “She’ll be assuming the post of Headmistress?”

Molly sighed as she occupied herself with sugaring the tea in the mug before her. “I certainly hope so. Sends a message that women’s work is worthless otherwise.”

“Kingsley’s a savvy enough bloke to see that,” Alicia concurred.

“The Board of Governors isn’t always so broad minded, though,” Molly clarified.

“You’ll have to eat more than that if you accompany us,” Angelina cautioned as she nodded towards George’s half-eaten breakfast. “Fainting in mid-Apparition is a guaranteed splinch.”

“That’s more like it,” Alicia coaxed as she spooned a generous amount of marmalade on George’s toast.

George made as if to offer her some, but she politely declined. “Have to watch my girlish figure now that I’m not in training,” she demurred.

“I’m not training, either,” George mumbled through a mouthful of toast and eggs.

Molly pursed her lips in disapproval, but prudently looked away.

Angelina gave her trademark staccato laugh. “You’d better be! All those anxious customers will make the Slytherin team seem like pussycats in comparison.”

Skewering the last of his sausages, George confessed, “I haven’t rightly finished packaging up the new products we’re introducing.” The ones that Fred had been instrumental in creating during their enforced sabbatical at Auntie Muriel’s, his sad eyes seemed to say.

“Don’t you fret, George,” Molly interceded as she removed his plate. “The three of us here will set up an assembly line of sorts. We’ll Floo you over the first shipment by lunchtime, just you see.”

“Sure, George, glad to help,” Harry concurred as he gave an encouraging smile.

“You just start with the hype,” Ginny proposed. “Work up the anticipation with the prototype you have.”

“We’ll work the hordes like a regular sideshow,” Angelina promised as she waved from the doorway.

In a whoosh of purple robes, the two girls surrounded George as the three of them Disapparated with a resounding pop.

Molly sagged with relief as she sat at the end of the table. “I’m not certain that a riot is what George needs on his first day back, but I can’t deny those two sure lifted his spirits -- for a while at least.”

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Twelve
Hermione: The Prodigal Daughter



She drew her eyes tight against the relentless sun. Even through the lacy sheers, it was more than she could bear after the endless series of Floo connections she and Ron had endured in the past twelve hours.

Hermione rolled over and burrowed deeper into the downy covers, hoping that another few hours of uninterrupted slumber would make her feel normal in this strange upside down land. She gave it up as Ron’s mumbling increased in volume from the love seat where he’d insisted on sleeping.

For someone who could be so uncommunicative when awake, Ron could sure carry on a prolonged dialogue in his sleep, she grumbled to herself. Perhaps a hot shower would sort her out.

She finished dressing in the bathroom then threw a soft jumper over her damp curls as she returned to the main room. It was totally disconcerting to be in the midst of winter, one more indignity Australia seemed determined to heap upon her jet-lagged person. Make that floo-lagged, she corrected herself, then decided it was a stupid expression. She’d have to ask Ron what the proper wizarding equivalent was �“ perhaps after he stopped snoring loud enough to be heard back in England.

The alarm she’d set the night before started beeping from the bedside cabinet, but Hermione debated whether she should silence it as her fingers closed over her wand.

“Blimey, Charlie! Can’t you stop that infernal…” Ron muttered as he shifted in his sleep. The alarm increased in urgency. “Er, sorry, Percy, should have recognized your voice…Tell the Minister I’ll owl him back later, won’t you?”

Hermione stifled a giggle as she relented. With a tiny flick, she silenced the alarm from the other side of the room.

“Wha…what happened?” Ron cried in a woolen voice. “You ‘right, Hermione?”

This time she laughed outright as his clear blue eyes searched the unfamiliar room with frantic intensity.

“Everything’s fine, you silly goose. Just an Aussie welcoming committee come calling too soon.”

“Tell ‘em this bloke’s still on Greenwich time,” he complained as he stumbled half-blindly in the direction of the shower.

---

They arrived in short order at the Ministry of Magic in downtown Sydney. As Kingsley had promised, Reginald Roscoe of the Intercontinental Cooperation Bureau ushered them directly into his office overlooking the scintillating harbor. It was all Hermione could do to keep her eyes from squinting totally shut.

“Sorry, mates,” Roscoe drawled. “Forgot you were probably suffering from differential drag.”

Ron nodded in acknowledgement. “Is there an apothecary nearby?”

“In the lobby. Just ask the attendant for what you need. Should have you back to rights in no time.”

“Don’t such remedies wear off in a matter of hours?” Hermione tendered.

“Depends on the person,” Roscoe allowed. “Make sure you take the extra potent formula; it’s a staple for tourists the continent over.”

Hermione made a quick notation in her leather appointment calendar. “Did you have any luck locating my parents, Mr. Roscoe?”

“Ah, yes,” Roscoe riffled through the papers spread across his desk. “What were their names again?”

“Wendell and Monica Wilkins,” Hermione supplied.

“Got them right here.” Roscoe held up a thin folder triumphantly. “Resettled in a picturesque cottage near Alice Springs in the interior. Favorable Apparition points are marked if you feel up to it.”

“Maybe after we get a first-hand view,” Hermione demurred. “I’m not certain I could head blindly in my current frame of mind. What about you, Ron?”

“These photos have great detail, but I’m feeling muddled myself.”

“Not to worry,” Roscoe agreed as he handed the rest of the dossier over to them. “I’ll just have my aide set up a Portkey. Won’t be but a moment. Why don’t you nip downstairs for that potion in the meanwhile?”

---

The discarded metal pipe had grown so cold that it burned their fingers. With a small gasp, Hermione dropped the spent Portkey to the ground as she tied her scarf more securely around her neck.

Just beyond the manicured edges of a small park, the reddish hills captured the robust color of the sun without adding any warmth. The town itself was carved out of the untamed land as if it had only temporary custody of those few acres. It was the absolute antithesis of the relentless hustle of London, and Hermione knew from the start that it would be difficult to convince her parents to leave this rugged oasis.

“According to this, their house is just down the street. Dad runs a small repair business and Mum’s been teaching science at the local school.”

“I thought they were dentists,” Ron muttered in confusion.

“In England, yes. But that would make them too easy to trace if the Death Eaters were persistent enough,” Hermione explained. “My Memory Modification Charm convinced them that they wanted to adopt a less stressful lifestyle. Dad always liked tinkering with stuff about the house. Didn’t I tell you he’d get along great with your dad? Would delight in explaining the inner workings of all sorts of devices until he wore Arthur out.”

“Don’t bank on that, Hermione. Dad’s pretty indefatigable.”

Hermione smiled at the incongruent word coming from Ron’s lips. He’d been doing his best lately to appear more worldly -- for her benefit, she liked to think. She certainly couldn’t fault him for trying to improve his vocabulary after a year away from his studies.

After a brisk walk, they found the building easily enough. A brightly painted clapboard structure much like its neighbors, the signage extolling: Wendell Will Fix-It. A smaller sign in the shop window indicated that the premises were currently closed.

“Perhaps we should’ve come on a weekday,” Ron suggested lowly as he peered past a collection of unfamiliar objects. Muggle artifacts, he amended inwardly.

“Mum would’ve been away at school,” countered Hermione. “It’s essential that I get them both together.”

“Are you so certain that’s best?”

Hermione gave a small shrug. “So the spell manual asserts. Cuts down on initial disbelief when they find the truth reflected in each other’s eyes.”

“I’m not certain how I’d feel if I suddenly discovered the past year of my life had been a total lie,” Ron postulated gravely.

“Not a lie exactly,” Hermione soothed. “I just liberated them from the constraints of their previous life. Allowed them to follow their subconscious dreams.”

“Then it might be that much more difficult to convince them to return with us.”

Hermione nodded with downcast eyes. “I’ve steeled myself to accept that, but I want them to know they have a daughter. I can’t bear just abandoning them. Not after all the losses…” She trailed off as her voice caught in her throat.

Ron draped a protective arm around her as they followed a narrow path to the side door. Ruffled curtains in the neat row of windows indicated that these were likely the Wilkins’ living quarters.

“Are they expecting us?” Ron cautioned.

“Hopefully. I sent them a note a few days before we left. Owled care of the Australian Ministry of Magic who forwarded it via Muggle air mail.”

“Here, for courage,” Ron issued as he dug out a weathered chocolate frog card from his trousers pocket.

Despite the ragged edges, Dumbledore’s laughing blue eyes looked up with a hint of daring. Deciding that it would be the ultimate in stupidity to have traveled all this way just to shy away at the last moment, Hermione boldly knocked on the emerald green door.

A quick swish of the curtain and the door was cracked open by the familiar features of Wendell Wilkins, aka Graham Granger. “What a surprise!” he cried jovially before Hermione could intercede. “You must be that nice English lass who’s researching her family tree.”

Hermione smiled warmly as her nervousness dissipated. “Hermione Granger,” she introduced herself. “This is my friend, Ronald Weasley.”

‘Wendell’ ushered them into the tiny sitting room as he called out to his wife, “Monica, it’s the girl who sent the letter.”

“Oh, dearie me,” ‘Monica’ called as she hurried from the other room, drying her hands hurriedly on her apron. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”

“Travel plans came together all at once,” explained Hermione.

“But to come all this way,” ‘Monica’ remarked. “I certainly hope there was some other reason to make such a long journey. Do you also have relatives nearby? Ron, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ron improvised on the spur of the moment. “We’re doing a class project of sorts. Too far to travel alone, see…” He looked to Hermione for assistance.

“Ron has relatives in Perth,” Hermione handily supplied. “A rather large contingent, as a matter of fact.”

“All ginger, like my sister and brothers,” Ron volunteered with a crooked grin. “And I’ve always wanted to see the strange local animals.”

“I dare say, we’re the strange ones to them,” ‘Wendell’ chortled.

“Now, Wendell,” ‘Monica’ protested with a playful lilt. “I’m just sorry we can’t be of much help.”

Hermione had been expecting this, so she ploughed ahead. “But both of you are from England, I can hear it in your voices.”

“We only settled here a year ago,” ‘Monica’ provided with a small worried crease between her brows. “Can’t say I remember much of my family before that.”

“Must have been an only child,” ‘Wendell’ theorized.

“I’ve always liked the name Hermione, though,” ‘Monica’ mused. “Always thought if...” She drifted off then shook her head.

“I think I see what you’re getting at,” ‘Wendell’ enthused. “You do look vaguely familiar, now that I see you in the flesh. Doesn’t she, dear?”

“I just wish I could place the face. Maybe a college acquaintance…” It was clear from ‘Monica’s’ expression that she was having difficulty remembering what university she’d attended.

“Perhaps I could show you my research,” Hermione proposed as she shared a quick glance with Ron.

They scooted over on the sofa so ‘Wendell’ could sit next to Hermione. The instant his forearm brushed against hers, Hermione cast the charm.

There was a momentary instant where ‘Wendell’ looked as if he’d received an electrical jolt and then his jaw dropped. “It couldn’t be…” he muttered as he looked feverishly between Ron and Hermione. “No wonder your name seemed familiar as well, lad.”

Clearly intrigued, ‘Monica’ knelt before Hermione and accepted a small photo of her and her husband at the seashore. Playing in the sand at their feet, six-year-old Hermione favored the camera with a gap-toothed smile.

The blank look on ‘Monica’s’ face said it all. “That’s clearly me and Wendell and I remember that stretch of beach from my own childhood, but --”

Her words were cut short as her fingers brushed against Hermione’s and she was hit with the full force of the Memory Restoring Charm.

“You’re my….rather, our… daughter!” Jeanette Granger’s features fairly glowed with triumph.

“Proof positive that Hermione’s your favorite name,” Hermione replied as she caught her mother up in a tearful hug.

Graham wrapped his arms around the emotional women as he continued to work his mouth soundlessly. Catching a glimpse of his daughter’s wand poking out of her pocket, his eyes narrowed with realization.

Clearing his throat for their attention, Graham began, “As much as I hate to break up this reunion…”

“…but you must stay for lunch. Supper, even!” Jeanette was gushing with unbridled joy. “There’s so much to tell you, I don’t know where to begin!” Beaming at Ron, she added, “And it’s high time she brought you for a visit, young man. Talked about you enough.”

Ron’s ears turned bright pink at the added attention.

Jeanette made as if to return to the kitchen, but Graham caught her elbow and turned her around. “The pot roast will take care of itself; it always does.”

“How about some tea then?” she offered. “I should’ve asked you the minute you sat down. How rude of me…”

“We’re really fine, Mum,” Hermione assured her only to be caught up in another hug.

“There’s a few things I’d like to get straight in my head,” Graham insisted in a low voice that brooked no argument.

“Of course, Dad,” Hermione turned to him expectantly.

“Why are we here?” He looked at everyone in turn. “In Australia.”

“Oh, Graham,” Jeanette leaned over and gave him a pat on the hand. “The prices in Sydney were just so dear. Almost as bad as in London…” She caught her husband’s eye nervously as the implications dawned on her as well.

“It’s something to do with that, isn’t it?” Graham pointed an accusatory finger at Hermione’s wand. “How could you? We’re your parents!”

Hermione gulped noticeably. “I didn’t want you to be dragged into the war,” she admitted hollowly. “So many of our close associates were wounded -- or even killed -- in the past year.”

“Why would we be dragged into a conflict that only affected the wizarding population?” Jeanette challenged.

“Because of me. Harry was the primary target, see, but Ron and I were helping him every step of the way.” Hermione was speaking very quickly now. “They retaliated against Ron’s parents and against those who helped relocate Harry’s aunt and uncle. You and Mum would’ve been next.”

“Three teenagers against a whole army? Hardly seems sporting, does it?” Graham observed dryly.

“I think we need to hear everything from the beginning, sweetheart,” Jeanette coaxed.

“Fine, but let me get the tea for once,” Hermione beseeched as she waited for everyone to settle around the table. “Cups in the left cupboard as always?”

At her mother’s nod, she did a complicated motion of her wand. Right on cue, the sound of water pouring into the pot was followed by the gentle tinkling of cups and saucers as a fully loaded tea tray floated through the kitchen doorway. Hermione did not break eye contact until it rested in the center of the table before them. The wondrous expressions on the Grangers’ faces evidenced that their daughter had not practiced much magic before them in the past.

“I’m of age now,” she asserted. “I can perform magic outside of school. Just not in front of anyone who doesn’t know about our world.”

“And since you’re about to fill us in on the goings on of that very world…” Graham noted.

As gently as possible, Hermione outlined the major events of the past year, glossing over many of the grimmer portions that might upset her parents. Ron assisted with the many detours that required background explanation. She faltered only when she was faced with detailing their fallen comrades, at which point, Ron volunteered, “None of us were immune from losses. One of my brothers was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time; many of our close friends and associates as well.”

“I’m so sorry, Ron,” Jeanette commiserated with eyes bright with tears. “I heard similar tales from my grandfather who fought in the Great War. How’s Harry coping?” With a hint of panic she added, “You didn’t leave him alone at the hotel, did you?”

“Nothing as drastic as that,” Ron chuckled. “He’s back in England, staying with my family.”

Hermione explained that after the better part of a year, Harry needed to talk out his woes with someone other than the two of them. Clearly her mother recalled earlier conversations of Harry’s uncertain attempts to date his best mate’s sister by the look she shared with her daughter: the trio had started pairing off.

“So you relocated us in a pre-emptive manner; that I understand,” Graham insisted. “Why escapes me is why you felt this was necessary?”

“It had taken us years to establish that dental practice,” Jeanette issued in support of her husband.

Hermione nodded wordlessly then added in a strangled voice, “Would it have been worth your lives, though?”

“Of course not,” Jeanette shot back. “It’s not like we haven’t been happy here.”

“I know that it must seem like Hermione acted rashly,” Ron spoke up. “But those people were not above taking revenge on anyone who outsmarted them. Random gas explosions were their specialty. Even the house where Harry grew up was destroyed. Luckily, his relatives were evacuated a few hours shy of the ghastly fireworks.”

“Why didn’t you just present this to us before the fact?” Graham protested.

“Because you wouldn’t have agreed,” Hermione returned tearfully. “And we couldn’t spare another pair of experienced wizards to drag you away grumbling like they had to do with Harry’s aunt and uncle.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“Because you would never have believed in the devastation that the Death Eaters could wreak until it was upon you,” Hermione countered. “I know you, Dad.”

“Am I that unreasonable?” he persisted.

“No, just unfamiliar with the realities of the wizarding world,” Hermione allowed. “Muggles of any sort were considered completely expendable! Don’t you recall all those inexplicable accidents throughout the country?”

“You mean those were deliberate acts by these…these maniacs?” Jeanette cried.

“Every one of them,” Ron affirmed. “We can go down a checklist if that will convince you.”

“Perhaps this will help,” Hermione tendered as she withdrew a sizable bank draft in the names of her parents.

“Is this some sort of buy-out?” her father stammered.

Hermione shook her head sadly. “Insurance payment.”

“But this is dated just last week,” her mother countered. “I thought your conflict was resolved long before that!”

“It was,” Ron assured them. “We didn’t know…didn’t find out…”

Holding her chin up bravely, Hermione finished for him, “Until we went to air out the house. Prepare it in case you wanted to return.”

With solemn expressions, Graham and Jeanette poured over the insurance documents. A sharp intake of breath punctuated the moment they reached the photo of the burned out skeleton of their two-story home. On either side, the neighbors’ houses were untouched as if a giant blowtorch �“ or trained dragon, Hermione noted darkly -- had been directed at the Granger residence alone.

Before they had a chance to fully recover, Hermione presented her parents with a handwritten envelope. “I promised I would deliver this to you as well,” she explained as she waited for her parents to scan the folded pages contained within.

Dear Jeanette and Graham,

How nice to hear that you are both doing well! I can’t say we haven’t been worried about you �“ but this has been a year full of worries on all fronts.

It was a great relief when your lovely daughter, Hermione, was able to fill us in on the details. Must have taken a lot of determination on her part, too, as everyone had scattered to the winds, it would seem. But more on that later.

In retrospect, we should’ve noticed the strain that you were under; Graham, in particular. The constant pinched look about the eyes should’ve been an indicator -- but we were all too wrapped up in our own concerns, I suppose. How well I remember Jeanette railing that he was a mere dentist, not Superman. Not that we couldn’t have used a veritable superhero on staff as you will see.

I should elaborate about that peculiar young man who insisted on booking an appointment with you. Surely, you remember how persistent he was, claiming that you had been recommended by an unnamed friend. I recall how you later told me that despite his broad shoulders and golden hair, his blue eyes were like immutable glaciers. We should’ve put more trust in your intuition.

I tried to reschedule him with one of the other partners after you two left, but he had not given us a telephone number of any kind. Nor was I able to find a listing under his name with the telephone company. But sure enough when the date of his original appointment rolled around, there he was in the waiting room. It was with some difficulty that we convinced this gentleman to see one of the other dentists; there was no other alternative, really.

I won’t go into the details of his dental exam; those are for Davidson to share should he feel they’re significant. It was the disposition of his bill which seemed the most irregular to me. Not only did he request that we prepare it for him immediately, but he returned with a handful of pound notes that very same day to settle it. All singles, if you can imagine it! Tied up in a bundle as if they were kindling. I would’ve thought him a foreigner who was unfamiliar with the local currency were it not for his perfect English.

It was not two days after his visit that the problems began. First it was the metal gears on Davidson’s chair that had corroded seemingly overnight. Then the constant flickering of the electric lights which complicated examinations considerably. Followed by the most disturbing thing of all: a persistent problem with the gas lines. Despite numerous service calls, maintenance workers could not locate the source of the problem, yet their instruments kept showing unacceptable leakage levels. The entire city block was evacuated for a 24-hour period while they cleared the main lines, but that only worked for a short while.

Couple that with the constant disruption of the transit systems. Be it the Underground, trains, buses, even the city streets themselves. Every day it was a new detour that required the tenacity of Magellan to navigate our way to work. Carleton took to riding a motor scooter, the better to negotiate the constant roadblocks; but he’s always been a bit of a renegade. It was as if every terrorist organization had suddenly moved its headquarters to Britain �“ or so the newscasts seemed to indicate.

So you can understand why we jumped at the chance to sell the block of offices to investors who wanted to convert them into luxury lofts. It was a generous offer that did not seem to take into account the recent problems. Perhaps once the gas lines were adjusted for residential units, the problems would cease �“ or so we concluded among ourselves so we wouldn’t feel guilty for not bringing the matter to their attention.

Needless to say, all these tribulations resulted in widespread cancellations -- business having dropped off to the point where there was barely enough to sustain the remaining two dentists. Luckily, our loyal core customers are slowly returning to our new offices, aided by the current lull in calamities.

Rest assured that the portion of the money that corresponds to your shares has been set aside in a separate interest-bearing account. You can retrieve it whenever you see fit. In the worst case, we would’ve turned over those amounts to Hermione as the rightful heir.

I was so pleased when she managed to find me, apologizing for not having been able to do so earlier. Seems that her boarding school was also experiencing disruptions and students had been barred from outside contact for their very safety. She was so concerned that we may have worried needlessly after your abrupt departure. I assured her that your health was paramount, of that there can be no doubt.

Dave and Carl send their best and remind you that we can always convert the file room into another examination room should you decide to rejoin us. After all, you have a hefty chunk that would more than pay for any renovations or additions that you might wish to make.

I am sending this on with Hermione as she assures me that she will be visiting you in person as soon as her travel plans are finalized. I must say I was surprised to see how she has matured in the intervening years while I have not aged one bit! I still remember her in pig-tails with her rambunctious curls escaping every which way. You should be proud of what a gracious young woman she has become and how well she's managed everything in your absence.

Do send us some photos of the both of you in Australia. They would be just the thing to frame in our new waiting room.

Forever yours,

Rosalie


“You didn’t tell her about our house,” Jeanette noted.

“Didn’t discover that until the next day, actually,” Ron admitted.

“I wanted to make sure everything was perfect,” Hermione pleaded. “It was the least I could do…”

“Is everything lost then?”

“No, part of the Compulsion Spell made you both quite diligent about organizing documents and other prized possessions. They were all put into storage before you left. The furniture and old clothing are no more, but photo albums and other irreplaceable items are safe.”

“Sounds like she just reinforced your natural obsessive tendencies,” Graham teased his wife.

Jeanette exchanged a meaningful look with her husband that just made Hermione nervous all over again.

“I know it’s a long shot, but do any of these faces ring a bell?” Hermione inquired as she occupied herself with spreading out a rogue’s gallery of Death Eaters before them.

“Motley crew, aren’t they?” Ron joked as he caught the strained look on the Grangers’ faces.

“We promised the Minister… in return for him facilitating our trip here,” Hermione stammered self-consciously.

Graham shook his head regretfully as Jeanette gingerly picked up one of the glossies and brought it closer to her face. “I think this is the man Rosalie referred to…”

“The tall blonde chap?” Graham posed with mounting interest. “Too bad the photos aren’t in --”

The words froze in his throat as a simple swish of Hermione’s wand colorized the snapshot before their eyes.

“Is that better?” she indicated.

“I’m not certain that’s the word I’d use,” Jeanette replied with a grim set to her lips. “But that’s Mr. Glacial himself.”

Hermione nodded as Ron supplied, “Thorfinn Rowle. Known instigator and acknowledged fire fiend.”

“Explosions in the dead of night were his favorite,” Hermione added then winced when she got a good look at her parents’ pained expressions.

“You know this man?” Graham balked.

“Or just his reputation?” echoed Jeanette.

“A little of both…” Hermione fidgeted.

“Hermione got the better of him in a Tottingham Road coffee shop,” Ron expounded. “Doesn’t surprise me that nutter would seek to even the score.”

Jeanette grabbed her daughter’s arm with concern. “What did he do to you?” she hissed.

Struggling to maintain her equanimity, Hermione replied, “Tried to kidnap the three of us �“ although it was Harry they were really after.”

“If this is the sort of lawlessness that’s rampant throughout Britain, I’m not sure I want to go back!” Graham groused.

“Please, Dad…” Hermione implored. “That faction was defeated for all intents and purposes.”

Jeanette’s voice was insistent, “Why the qualifier?”

“Please tell me you didn’t seek us out just so we could testify at this bastard’s trial?” Graham fairly growled.

Taken aback, Hermione sputtered, “Not exactly…”

“At least tell us he isn’t at large!” Jeanette demanded.

“He’s been rounded up,” Ron assured them.

“But we don’t want to lie to you,” Hermione asserted. “There are bound to be loose ends for years to come.”

Ron came to her aid. “It’s not a bleak a picture as you might think. Any who are still free are going to be intent on laying low. We’ve chopped off the head of the serpent, see.”

“With their leader dead, there’s no point in continuing his rampage,” Hermione elaborated. “War criminals always take a while to round up.”

“Yet you came here to persuade us to return with you?” Graham stressed each word carefully.

Hermione raised damp eyes to her father’s stern expression. “I wanted to restore your memories… so you’d know you had a daughter who still loved you… Please tell me you won’t hate me forever,” she begged.

“Of course not, dear,” Jeanette replied as she leaned over to squeeze her daughter’s hand in comfort.

“Would you hate us if we decided to stay in Australia?” her father put forth.

“I’d miss you,” Hermione emphasized. “But I’d understand. Why would you want to uproot yourselves again? I can just arrange for shipment of those things…” She trailed off as she got a good look at her mother.

Jeanette was untying the apron she’d wound around her waist and turned sideways for the first time. Her mother had always enjoyed spending time in the kitchen, even if she’d had to cut corners to accommodate her busy career. Now with a more relaxed lifestyle, it was obvious she’d given into temptation more often than not. On the other hand, Graham had regained the lithe physique of his youth, finally shedding the extra pounds bestowed by too much take-away.

Noticing her daughter’s eyes, Jeanette expounded, “Your father’s finally taken up walking, just like his physician’s been advising him for years.”

“Only here it’s called a walk-about,” Graham added. “Mine are just very modest in scope. There’s something about the very air that’s exhilarating. Haven’t felt this energized in years!”

“Which I suppose is why…” Jeannette hesitated as a rosy blush crept up her cheeks, accentuating the same pale freckles Hermione had inherited.

Graham reached out and tenderly cupped his wife hands. “Hermione, it looks like you’re finally to become a sister. In approximately four months to be exact.”

---

“So your parents decided to return after all?” Ginny pressed as she helped herself to a lemon tart on the tray before her.

Hermione nodded through a bite of snowy meringue. “Just as soon as Mum finds a replacement to finish out the last of the school term. She’d planned to do that anyway…” She hesitated as embarrassment colored her cheeks.

Catching on immediately, Ron pressed, “Hermione’s folks liked the easy-going pace in Australia. Made them feel young again.”

“So I see from the photos!” Harry raved as he deftly balanced them before him. With a quick turn of his head, he took a bite of the tart that hovered in mid-air.

“That’s not really…” Hermione started but then lost her nerve once again.

“What is it, dear?” Molly piped up from the sink area where the dinner dishes were merrily scrubbing themselves.

Hermione shook her head, feeling especially awkward with all eyes fixed upon her.

“Did your parents give you a difficult time?” Arthur inquired sympathetically.

“Not once they slept on it,” Ron attested. “Decided it was a right adventure, after all.”

“Mum said they’d always rhapsodized about a cottage in the Lake District,” Hermione supplied with a quick change of subject. “Only their careers always seemed to get in the way.”

“That’s not very far from here,” Molly tendered.

“I don’t think Dad’s ready for retirement yet,” Hermione explained. “But there’s no denying that learning to relax has eased a lot of the health problems he was experiencing before.”

“He insisted that they compromise and find a twee cottage near a major train route,” Ron volunteered.

“So he’ll go in a few days a week instead,” Molly surmised. “Are you listening, Arthur? Hermione’s dad has found his healthy balance.”

“Yes, pumpkin,” Arthur conceded as he grabbed the last two tarts and handed one to George. “But only the Minister can set his own hours; Graham’s not really working for someone else.”

Molly pursed her lips in dissatisfaction as she hastened Arthur to follow her into the next room. A small click and the soft drone of the wireless could be heard from the main parlor area. George muttered some excuses before drifting like a wraith up the stairs.

In the warmth of the Burrow kitchen, Ginny imposed, “What’s the rest of it?”

Hermione took a careful sip of tea and countered, “What makes you think there’s more?”

“Because you’re a third-rate liar and Ron’s practically jumping in his chair,” Ginny returned with aplomb.

Hermione’s eyes shifted. “It’s just so mortifying…”

“We’re your closest friends,” Harry urged as the suspense heightened.

“I’ll tell them if you won’t,” Ron dared with a wide grin.

“It’s like I told you earlier,” Hermione stammered. “Australia rejuvenated them both… and, so, Mum announced that she’s expecting another child. Can you imagine that? At her age!”

As the others offered words of congratulations, Molly poked her head past the doorway to summon the teapot. “Please tell me you were more diplomatic to your poor mother’s face.”

Ron let out a huge guffaw. “She was so thoroughly gobsmacked, she didn’t say anything at all!”

“Well, that’s certainly preferable,” Molly harrumphed. “How old is your mother, dear?”

“She’ll be thirty-nine next month.”

“That’s certainly not too old,” Molly insisted as she slid into the chair next to Hermione. “Especially since it’s not her first. Does the thought of being a sister trouble you?”

Hermione shook her curls to the negative. “It was just so unexpected! I know for years they kept talking about another child but somehow it never came to pass. I just assumed the notion had been shelved in favor of other considerations.”

Molly smiled indulgently. “Perhaps all they needed was a little time to themselves -- without any outside influences. So she’s waiting until after the delivery to return to England?”

“They thought it best,” Hermione concurred.

“As much as I’d like to be nearby, I have to agree with them,” Molly approved. “Even a Portkey can add additional stress during pregnancy. I can only imagine the effect of travelling in one of those silver Muggle birds!”

Hermione laughed, much of her embarrassment evaporating under Molly’s no-nonsense approach. “Airplanes can seem overly confining; especially during the endless hours it takes to travel halfway around the globe. The last thing a pregnant woman needs is a panic attack in close quarters.”

“Or an unexpected delivery,” Ron breathed in Harry’s ear.

“I think it’s incredibly sweet that your parents had themselves a second honeymoon,” Ginny affirmed, poking her brother in the ribs in the process. “Ron’s sense of romance is just limited to viewing the animals in the zoo.”

Ron pulled a face amid the ensuing laughter. “It was an animal preserve. Do you see any bars or fake habitats in the photos?”

“You mean you were really this close?” Harry prompted with renewed interest.

“Dad used a telephoto lens but our vehicle was on a dirt track not a stone’s throw away,” Hermione volunteered.

Harry nodded in understanding. “No large predators in Australia.”

“Although those wallabies there can be a right nuisance.” Ron pointed to a group of small kangaroo-like creatures.

“Dad says they wander into people’s backyards on a regular basis,” Hermione interjected. “Help themselves to the ornamentals.”

“I saw a marauding fox in Little Whinging once,” Harry commented. “Can you imagine Aunt Petunia’s face if she found one of these creatures foraging in her flower beds?”

Hermione pointed to a pure white wallaby which stood on its hind legs, mugging for the camera. “You don’t think she might take this lad for the fabled white rabbit? Why he has a ready-made pouch for his pocket watch and everything!”

Harry gave her a put-upon face. “As if my relatives possessed an iota of imagination! More likely, Uncle Vernon would go apoplectic at the muddy tracks it left on his beloved lawn.”

“That’s an overwrought puce color, right?” Ron clarified.

“Yeah,” Harry allowed as he exchanged a quick look with Hermione that acknowledged the obsessive nature of Weasley men in general.

“Not so at the Burrow,” Ginny opined. “Those garden gnomes would’ve speared the ruddy beast!”

“Fur coats for all the she-gnomes,” Ron chortled with abandon.

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Thirteen
Harry: The Ghosts of Guilt



The sensation of choking on wet wool was overpowering. Swinging his head to and fro, the coughs were wrung from the depths of his stomach. He took quick, shallow breaths, knowing that the oppression would soon return in greater force.

The absolute darkness surrounding him was impenetrable to his darting eyes. It crushed his psyche without fingers, obliterated the last bit of light in his soul without touching it. He’d never experienced terror like this, not even when he’d faced his greatest enemies in battle. Dueling wand to wand with the likes of Voldemort had been a pale shadow. A prelude to this faceless, nameless terror intent on annihilating him.

Harry’s icy fingers inched over the smooth handle of the wand, clutching it to his breast as his last lifeline. Lumos! his mind screamed, his papery lips mouthing the words for emphasis.

NOX! the darkness whispered seductively in his ear as the wand rebuffed him. There is nothing to see…

He bolted upright as skeletal hands grasped his shoulder. A glacial rattle betrayed the presence of a dementor at his back.

“Expecto Patronum!” Harry cried with all his might, yet the happy thoughts skittered like cockroaches into the darkness beyond his reach. With greater effort, he marshaled his concentration and tried again, “Expecto --”

The incantation died on his lips as demonic red eyes bored into his, the sinister sensation of an alien presence in his mind making him recoil. His resistance fell away in tatters as a dark knife cut through his very brain, zeroing in on cherished thoughts of all those whom had been lost. Another’s hand closed over his wand and with a sharp jerk, it was yanked out of his slack fingers.

He fell back, clawing helplessly at the festering rags which shrouded him, his mouth yawing in a wordless scream….

“Wake up, mate!” Ron hissed as he shook Harry’s shoulder even harder. “You’re having a bloody nightmare!”

Harry fought his way back from the depths of the Black Lake, the last dregs of the dream dragging at him with sticky grindylow claws. With a throat wrung dry, he sputtered, “Wh�”what? Where?”

“You’re at the Burrow,” Ron whispered. “Charlie’s old room. Mine still has the lingering scent of the ghoul, so Mum closed it off while it airs out.” His friend’s crooked grin as he issued the last reassured Harry more than anything else.

“Sorry. Did I call out again?” His fuzzy mind recalled Ron casting a Muffliato Charm towards the doorway.

“Not so much. Looked more like you were trying to strangle yourself and then you tried to hex me.” With a sheepish look, Ron replaced Harry’s wand on his friend’s beside cabinet. “Good thing I’m not sprouting tentacles, or I’d been obliged to hex you back.”

Harry sighed in frustration. “I must seem like the houseguest from hell.”

“Naw,” Ron scoffed. “The ghoul’s much worse and we haven’t evicted him.”

“Thanks. That’s just the sort of comparison a bloke relishes.”

“I’d say it was an overblown case of indigestion if you’d eaten more of the bubble and squeak.”

“It’s not your mum’s cooking…”

“Nobody thinks that, don’t worry ‘bout it.” From Ron’s voice it was clear that he was growing drowsy again.

Recalling that his best friend was likely feeling spent from his long journey back from Australia, Harry tendered, “Perhaps I should sleep in Percy’s room.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Ron muttered. “ ‘mione’s in there.”

“What about Bill’s room then?”

“George’s there. Too many ghosts otherwise.”

Harry winced as he recalled that George was likely having trouble sleeping without the presence of his twin. Running out of options, Harry suggested, “Perhaps some cold pumpkin juice for my scratchy throat.”

“Now that’s an idea!” Ron agreed as his stomach growled in commiseration. “Food always chases the boogie-man away. Dad swore by it when we used to wake him up. Granted we were a bit younger…”

So much for taking a detour by Ginny’s room, Harry grumbled to himself. But now that Ron was back, that was tantamount to stirring up a hornet’s nest anyway.

---

Harry sipped his juice as Ron made himself a cheese sandwich then chased it down with a chocolate frog. Satiated, he started back up the stairs as Harry lingered by the window leading out to the back porch.

“Not a good time for a walk,” Ron issued lowly, pointing towards the full moon just cresting the hillside.

Harry nodded wordlessly.

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” Ron relented as he slowly made his way up the stairs, his eyes glued to the silhouette of his friend staring past the window.

It was a beautiful night, Harry couldn’t help thinking, the tall grasses creating a seascape of undulating waves in the overgrown meadow. The colors were muted with the sole exception of the white wildflowers which stood out like miniature lanterns. To draw errant mooncalves from the heavens, or so the children’s fable went. It was a pull that five-year-old Remus had been unable to resist. The unbridled curiosity of a small child which had twisted the man’s life for years to come.

Harry allowed the pumpkin juice to wash over the scratchy lump in his throat as he settled himself against the window seat.

---

He must’ve fallen asleep; there was no other explanation. For when awoke, he was still in the moonlit drawing room of the Burrow while ambushers waited in the woods to attack once everyone was asleep. He needed to sound the alarm to wake everyone up, but no sound escaped from his throat. He cast a controlled Patronus charm, a miniature stag no larger than a spaniel to canter up the stairs unseen from the windows. It cast its doleful eyes at him expectantly, but Harry’s tongue was too thick to impart any instructions.

The stealthy shadows were approaching the house, easing themselves from beyond the twisted trees of the abandoned orchard. Their approach was timed to coincide with Harry’s eye blinks. A clever ruse, but he was not to be outsmarted so easily. Soundlessly, he inched his body backwards into the kitchen, his bulk easing the door open with each cautious step.

The shadowy veranda presented too many hiding places, he decided with mounting alarm. The wraiths could jump on the window sill and into the dark sink basin. With the bite of adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream, Harry summoned all manner of knives and other cooking implements and arranged them as silvery sentinels around the rim of the sink. An extra long boning knife he directed towards the pipes to slash any that tried to escape down the drain.

He could hear their hushed voices now: creaks of metal and whispers of wood against wood. It would not be long before his sanctum was breached, but Harry was ready for the onslaught. The rest of the house could sleep unconcerned above his head and he would see to their safety.

The heavy moon worked it way towards the far side of the house, lending its silvery brushstrokes to the opposite side of the room. The shadows retreated before his eyes, while those at his back jumped in intensity. All the in space of a heartbeat, all in the moment that his eyelids blinked.

With feral intensity, the wraiths pushed their way through the window glass as if it were nothing but Vaseline. Harry watched with grim satisfaction as they hopped soundlessly into the black maw of the sink. He could feel the fabric of the night tearing as the attackers dropped away in shreds.

The rattle of the back door knob froze him to the spot. Heedless of who awoke, a deep pounding reverberated through the timbers of the house as the sharp pinpricks of a thousand needles made Harry look down. The ribbons had woven themselves into an ebony hand that had gripped him firmly by the arm. With icy horror in his veins, Harry finally found his voice and issued a gurgled scream.

In a whirlwind of panic, he threw off his unknown attacker, scuttling on all fours past the open windows of the drawing room and into the cupboard under the stairs. Here he would be safe, Harry repeated to himself like a mantra. This is the doorway to another dimension. A place where Muggles growl with pent up purple anger, but where shadows have no substance.

Finally woken, the soft steps of the others sent plaster dust raining about his hair and shoulders. He would beckon them to join him once they reached the bottom of the stairs. As long as their feet did not touch the ground floor of the house, they would be safe from the wraiths. Harry put his eye up to the tiny keyhole but there was nothing to see but the swirling black veils which writhed in frustration beyond.

Their hunger pulsed though the floorboards and lapped at his bare feet, forcing him to scrunch into a ball atop a discarded ottoman in the back corner. He wrapped his arms around his knees and pulled his legs close, only then noticing the grey tendrils that lapped liked flames about the stark white cotton of his pajama legs. Harry shouted to warn those above to stay clear…

“Wake up, wake up! Harry, please… you’ll wake the whole house,” Ginny’s voice led him from the dark pit into a fragrant garden. Her satiny hair tangled with his as he drew her close in utter relief.

“Oh, Ginny. It was terrible. The shadows were going to take over the world!” he half sobbed into her shoulder.

“Lethifolds,” she corrected him.

“Such creatures really exist?” Harry demanded, eyes wide with fear.

“Yes, but not in England. Not for centuries anyway. They’re afraid of smoke and petrol; so as long as civilization flourishes, they’re relegated to the most inaccessible regions of the planet. Tropical rain forests and the like.”

“Then they don’t breed under the furniture?” Harry pondered with the beginnings of a sheepish smile.

“Those are free-range dust bunnies, quite domestic. Mum’s broom usually causes them to stampede.”

“I could’ve used you earlier,” he admitted in a hollow voice. “When I managed to wake Ron up for the fourth or fifth time.”

“That explains why he insisted on a snack. His internal clock --”

“�”is centered in his stomach, right,” Harry finished handily.

“Any new themes?” she posed tenderly as she brushed the dark spikes of his hair from his damp forehead. In the moonlight, the edges of Harry’s scar stood like a fading tattoo against his bone-white skin.

He shook his head emphatically. “Just the worst of the lot. The one where I’m trapped inside the white marble of Dumbledore’s tomb. I mistook Ron for Voldemort coming to snatch the Elder Wand from my dead hands. Nearly hexed him in the bargain.”

“A chorus line of tap-dancing spiders would’ve been just the thing to repulse him,” she giggled into his shoulder.

“Wish I’d thought of that,” he joined in. A regular arachnid version of 42nd Street, Hermione would say; but such Muggle references were lost on Ginny. Nevertheless, being silly was so much better than succumbing to the relentless phantoms of the night.

It didn’t take an idiot to see he was seeking wisdom from the mightiest wizard of all. Would Dumbledore’s guidance in those final months have tipped the cosmic scale? If only he’d managed to save his venerable mentor, would everyone else be alive instead of gathered around the remains of a heavenly rail station?

His eyes strained against the gloom as Dumbledore’s face seemed to purse its lips sadly in the collector card Ron left behind. Or had that been a figment of his overwrought imagination as well?

---

He resisted the tickle of warm sunlight against his face as he snuggled more securely against Ginny’s side. From a drowsy state, Harry reminded himself that it was Saturday and the entire household would be having a bit of a lie-in. They’d be lucky to see either Ron or Hermione before noon; Molly herself had warned everyone to stay clear of their rooms until their internal clocks adjusted.

It was with a small shock that Harry heard Arthur’s voice in his ear, “Did your midnight snack ambush you before you would make it up the stairs?”

Remembering his surroundings, Harry bolted awake. Straightening his glasses with one hand, he was dismayed to find himself in his nightclothes. The glistening waterfall of Ginny’s hair was splayed against the back of the sofa at his side. Embarrassment burned in Harry’s face as he self-consciously tightened the sash around his dressing gown. Sleeping next to Ginny was not without its side effects, but he doubted that Arthur wished to be reminded of that.

Seeing the empty glass on the side table, memories of the previous night came flooding back. “Must have,” Harry mumbled as he found his voice. “Ron and I refueled in the night, but I was wide awake…”

“Did you make it a double-date with the girls, too?” Arthur tendered.

There was an edge to Arthur’s voice that made Harry sit up straighter. Dressed in her stretchy athletic wear, Ginny shifted against him.

“Ginny came down later and woke me from a nightmare,” Harry openly admitted.

“So why didn’t you both return to your rooms after that?”

“We got to talking. I was a bit spooked, you see.” Harry gulped nervously under Arthur’s relentless scrutiny.

Leaning over to shake his daughter’s arm, Arthur whispered, “Ginny, you fell asleep on the sofa.”

Ginny opened groggy eyes that turned defiant within moments of assessing her surroundings.

“Did you come down for a snack as well?” Arthur prodded.

“I heard noises from the landing and found Harry thrashing on the sofa. I woke him before he yelled loudly enough to bring everyone else down.”

“So he says.” Arthur chose his words carefully. “Is that why there’s an Imperturbable Charm around your doorway each night?”

Ginny’s mouth flew open but she closed it before any more words slipped out.

With maddening calm, Arthur elaborated, “It’s not a lucky guess on my part, either. I tripped the other night as I was coming out of the loo and barely avoided crashing into your door. It was only in the light of day that I realized only an Imperturbable Charm could cushion my fall in such a manner.”

Harry strongly suspected Arthur would have rather stubbed his toe painfully, but thought it best to keep silent.

“Your mother and I have been interrupted by George’s distress but I didn’t think those cries would filter this far down the stairs,” Arthur ventured. “Was I wrong?”

Take his lead, Ginny, Harry yelled inside his head. He’s handing it to you on a platter!

Instead, Ginny met her father’s eyes directly and told the truth. “Harry tends to cry out in the night. I didn’t want the rest of the house to wake up.”

Harry groaned inwardly as Arthur shot back, “Would either of you like a shovel so you can dig yourselves in deeper?”

Nonplussed, Ginny returned, “If you already know George has been having nightmares, it shouldn’t surprise you that Harry has, too.”

Arthur took a moment to compose his thoughts before replying, “Then I suppose I have to ask why you have become his Angel of Mercy?”

“Because he’s too old to seek out Mum!” Ginny defended. “How would that have looked? Did you work that one through, Dad?”

“I’m sorry… I should never have…” Harry began only to be shot down from both directions.

“You have nothing --”

“This is between Ginny and --”

Trying a different tack, Harry offered, “Then I should --”

“Sit!” Ginny instructed.

“She’s right, Harry, this concerns you as well,” Arthur advised. “Luckily, Molly’s still curled up tight after having spent half the night consoling George.”

“Then you know exactly what I mean!” Ginny cried. “I’m not going to feel guilty �“ or ashamed �“ about acts that have only been committed in your imagination!”

“What about in Harry’s imagination?” Arthur argued.

Harry felt the embarrassment rise to his face in full force. Was he just beet red or approaching his uncle’s favorite shade of apoplectic plum?

“I rest my case,” Arthur noted as he crossed his arms across his chest.

Addressing Arthur directly, Harry proposed, “Perhaps I should bother Hermione in the future. The last thing I want is to upset your household.”

“Why do you feel a need to bother anyone, son?”

Harry sighed as the words eluded him.

“Is your bed uncomfortable?” Arthur inquired with genuine concern. “I thought you’d be soothed by sharing a room with Ron like you did at school.”

“Ron’s always been a remarkably sound sleeper,” Harry attempted. “Yet I woke him a number of times.”

“Did you shake him? Shout in his ear?”

“I might as well have,” Harry succumbed.

“Dad,” Ginny mollified as she laid a gentle hand on her father’s arm. “You’re just making Harry feel uncomfortable.”

“Ginny, you don’t have to --” Harry made to protest.

“Yes, I do!” she answered fiercely. “Harry goes from nightmare to nightmare each night. Even if he walks around or gets something to drink, when he lies back down again, the demons are waiting for him.”

“Is this true, Harry?” At Harry’s pained nod, Arthur delved, “What sorts of nightmares?”

“Ones where if I don’t solve the puzzle right, everyone I care about will die,” Harry surrendered. “There’s always the promise that I might get things right, but it never works out that way. It’s always worse than before. Ginny’s presence reminds me that it’s just lies; her presence affirms that it’s not her corpse lying next to Fred’s …” He was overcome with shame as his voice broke.

Arthur squeezed Harry’s shoulder as he rose unsteadily to his feet. His grim features gave him the look of a much older man as he urged them into the kitchen.

“Let’s surprise Molly for once,” Arthur suggested with a wobbly smile. “No one can think clearly on an empty stomach. It’s the Weasley family motto.”

As he summoned the tea kettle and frying pans from the upper cupboards, Ginny wrapped her arms around her father’s waist. Walking up behind Ginny, Harry unabashedly joined in the group hug.

---

“I have trouble sleeping as well.”

Harry started from his chair, the shock sending unpleasant chills down his spine. He’d thought himself completely alone on the back veranda, but clearly that was not so. Looking over his shoulder, the bluish shadows resolved into George’s lanky form leaning against the outside wall of the house.

“You’re not alone,” George affirmed in a raspy voice. “The others just don’t understand, but I do.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been feeling poorly,” Harry ventured, recognizing it was a singularly lame response.

George shrugged in a dispassionate manner. “You’d wonder about me if I was jumping for joy, wouldn’t you?”

Harry suppressed a small smile. “Right.”

“Do the dead come to speak to you at night?”

Harry barely stopped himself from sharing the secrets of the Resurrection Stone. What sort of comfort would that give George anyway? The last thing the poor, grieving sod needed was to go rummaging about the forest floor in that accursed clearing.

“Not so much,” Harry answered carefully. “It’s more like I’m facing a maniacal dungeon master who sets me an unsolvable puzzle. Then the bastard cackles demonically when I fall on my face over and over again.”

He considered whether the reference to one of his cousin’s favorite computer games would be lost in translation, but George nodded solemnly to indicate he understood. “A Russian roulette of death,” he countered.

“Very much so. Remember that boggart who wouldn’t let your mum go at Grimmauld Place? Kept changing into different family members….” Harry trailed off as he recalled how Remus had been the one to comfort Molly as she blubbered all over the place. Despite the knot in his stomach, he managed to add, “I didn’t realize it was a preview of coming attractions.”

“That’s the one thing about life,” George issued in a detached tone. “You never see what’s coming at you. Fred can attest to that.”

Uncertain whether he should laugh at the gallows humor, Harry simply waited for George to elaborate. When the silence stretched on, he gathered the nerve to pose, “Does Fred visit your dreams?”

George nodded as his eyes shone brightly. “Mum persists in calling them nightmares, but I think you have it right, Harry. Dreams. Meringue landscapes of what life would be if Fate wasn’t such a colossal … Bellatrix. Makes it rather difficult to look forward to mornings.”

“I understand wholeheartedly, but Molly’s likely to think you have a distinct wish to join Fred in death.”

George nodded morosely. “Loneliness is a real bugger.” When a furtive look inside the kitchen window showed that it was empty, George confided, “They’re worried about you as well. Heard Mum and Dad whispering.”

“Did they come to any conclusions?”

“Only that neither one of them is a licensed Healer. Mum admitted this was beyond her household remedies.” Once again George blindsided him with, “I thought you’d want to be a part of the new order is all.”

“I still have to pass my NEWT’s if I intend to be an Auror.”

“Is that really what you want? Isn’t that signing up for much of the same carnage we just witnessed?”

Harry gave it a moment’s thought before replying, “Perhaps it won’t be so bad now that the world is at peace again. I just don’t want to play hero anymore. Never wanted to really, it’s just…”

“…you inherited the cape, mate,” George finished with the first hint of his usual impish manner. “Who else were they going to pick?”

“You’re right, George. No one with a lick of common sense would’ve done it.”

“It’s only mental to think yourself immortal,” George continued in a contemplative manner. “No one expects to die in battle. After all, the whole point of a war is to emerge victorious.”

“What level of loss is acceptable, then?”

“It’s war itself that unacceptable. You conveyed that very well with your brief words at the funeral.”

“We would’ve been wise to avoid the conflict entirely.”

With utmost sadness, George observed, “If we hadn’t fought back, Voldemort’s factions would’ve just enslaved us. I doubt Fred would’ve wanted that.”

“Still, I should’ve organized things better,” Harry maintained.

“The chaos we faced was not of your making, Harry. I don’t hold you responsible for the outcome.”

“Thanks. That’s a bit of consolation.”

“You just have to find a way to forgive yourself. Both of us do.”

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Fourteen
Harry: Collateral Ailments


Due to the escalating hostilities, George had been unable to seek previous medical advice about his missing ear. Now that things were gradually returning to normal, Healers were optimistic about alternatives in spite of the dark magic that had caused the injury.

Molly was her usual ebullient self as the reminded everyone not to linger over breakfast that morning. “I don’t want to keep Healer Pye waiting,” she admonished.

“ ‘at name son’s famil’ar,” Ron mumbled as he stuffed his mouth full of toast.

“It should,” his mother returned. “He was one of those who treated your father’s snake bite. His ground-breaking ideas are just what we need.”

Of course, Harry recalled, Augustus Pye had suggested using stitches on Arthur’s wound. That had not been wholly successful, but such innovation was clearly mandated in George’s case.

“Wasn’t he the Healer who melded Muggle techniques with more traditional methods?” Hermione posed with undisguised curiosity.

Molly’s eyes shone brightly with hope as she nodded. “In this case, he feels we can take a small bit of George’s other ear and grow another right in the laboratory. Like cultivating a plant.”

“Sounds like magic to me,” Ron barely managed through his sausages.

“Muggles refer to that as cloning,” Harry volunteered, leaving Hermione open-mouthed in surprise.

Quickly recovering, she added, “That could certainly guarantee that the tissue was untainted by dark magic.”

“So Healer Pye explained to us,” Arthur concurred as he grabbed the last blueberry scone on his way out the door.

“So how does Harry fit in, Mum?” Ginny inquired with a private smile in his direction.

“Yeah,” Ron snorted. “What part of him needs re-growing?”

Molly flashed her youngest son a reproachful look as Hermione swatted Ron’s arm. Their antics kept the color from rising to Harry’s checks as much as he dreaded.

“Harry’s to see a specialist in sleep disorders,” Molly harrumphed. “Kingsley recommended as much to Arthur.” Turning her attention to George who was sitting impassively at the far end of the table, she urged, “We’re going to be late if you take your time, dear.”

“Sorry, Mum,” George muttered as he made a concentrated effort to assemble the remaining eggs and sausages into a makeshift sandwich between some rye toast. Ron watched with a greedy expression as his brother added a thick layer of butter and jam at the last moment.

As she oversaw the last of the preparations Molly explained that after his internship in the Creature Induced Injuries Ward, Pye had been accorded full status as a Healer. His work with accursed wounds had enabled him to oversee a new area of the Spell Damage Division dedicated to dark magic. Sadly, business was thriving and there were often long waiting periods for patients to be seen.

“If we’re late, who knows how long we’ll be forced to wait,” Molly grumbled as she fussed over George’s collar. She flashed a quick look at Harry’s untidy hair then shook her head helplessly.

“Will we be travelling on the Underground again, Mum?” Ginny asked, directing a merry look at Harry that translated: At least no one’s life is hanging in the balance this time.

“No, dear. We’ve been accorded special Floo access directly to Healer Pye’s floor.”

“Then why is Harry burdened with his Invisibility Cloak?” Ginny provoked.

“You’ll have to assist him to take a lift to a different floor. Healer Tudor was kind enough to work him into her busy schedule.”

As they lined up before the kitchen hearth, George leaned over and breathed in Harry’s ear, “In other words, the mob will attack if they find out you got in ahead of them.”

Harry turned to give him an appreciative grin but George was already stepping into the bright green flames, his face as stoic as ever.

“Don’t worry,” Hermione called out. “I’ll make sure to start the dishes to washing before we leave for Diagon Alley.”

“Not that there’ll be much other than crumbs by the time Ron finishes,” Ginny confided lowly.

“Just mind Verity,” Molly supplied. “She’ll make sure you know the ropes before setting you loose --”

The rest of Molly’s words were lost as Harry and Ginny stepped into the flames as one, her arm wrapped protectively around his despite the presence of the cloak.

---

St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies was much the same as Harry remembered. Considerably less chaotic now that they’d bypassed the Welcome Witch on the ground floor.

Molly sent George to check in at the desk as she pointed Ginny towards a long featureless corridor. “That leads to the only lift that will take you to the mezzanine level,” she whispered. “Make some excuse if the cage is too full.”

They needn’t have worried, though, as the mesh doors opened to reveal a solitary woman with a gurgling baby in her arms. She barely glanced at Ginny before devoting her attention to the little boy who favored her with a gummy smile.

Harry felt a sharp pang as he thought of his godson, Teddy. How was Andromeda faring in that empty house with only a three-month-old infant for company? Molly had assured him that the constant caring for her grandson would act as a balm of sorts, but Harry was less certain. The devastation of losing her husband followed so closely by her only daughter and son-in-law had to be overwhelming. He resolved to pay her a visit as soon as he was feeling more like himself.

An elderly man with a cane joined them on the next floor as Ginny impatiently pressed the button for the mezzanine level.

In his nervousness, Harry longed to joke that at least they weren’t taking him to the Incurable Ward to join the likes of Gilderoy Lockhart. Even if he managed to whisper for Ginny’s ears only, her reaction alone might give him away. He could only imagine how much the Daily Prophet would give for a sighting of the elusive Boy-Who’s-Determined-to-Live-Out-of-the-Limelight. Would he make the front page or just the gossip columns? Once again, the urge to share his musings with Ginny was overpowering.

---

Sandwiched between the first and ground floors, the Collateral Ailments Ward had started as a tiny department devoted to hereditary conditions passed on from wizarding parents to their children. Since very few of these resisted magical treatment, it had mostly fielded inquiries from anxious parents who feared giving birth to a Squib like their third cousin, twice removed.

“A complete lack of magical ability is not hereditary,” the scheduling witch would explain patiently. “It’s a random happenstance. Rather like a witch or wizard being born to a thoroughly Muggle family, only much less common.”

With the advent of the war, however, Collateral Ailments had grown to also encompass those complaints which were indirectly caused by magic. Dark magic, in almost all cases. Harry had only recently learned that despite the postage-stamp waiting area, the interior rooms of the unit had been magically expanded a number of times in the past year.

The clerk at the desk was obviously expecting them, or rather Ginny, as he ushered her into the chief Healer’s office. At the sound of the door closing behind them, Harry threw off his cloak with relief.

It was a study in antiseptic surfaces, the polished aluminum of the desk top vying with the shining white tile walls. By comparison, the lime green robes of the elegantly coiffed Healer paled in intensity.

“Very pleased to meet you,” the Healer said as she offered each of them her hand. “I’m Sandrena Tudor, Mr. Potter. Arthur Weasley briefed me on your situation.” Taking in Ginny at his side, she added, “I take it you’re Arthur’s daughter?”

“Yes, Ginny. Do you wish me to leave you alone, Harry?”

He turned stricken eyes in her direction. “Is it all right if she stays?” he posed directly to the Healer.

“If you prefer. But that may change if I feel her presence is causing you to be less than candid with me.”

Harry nodded as he allowed Healer Tudor to ask him a series of probing questions. It was hardly anything that he hadn’t shared with Ginny beforehand. Molly knocked on the door just as the Healer was suggesting that Harry surrender himself to a brief physical examination to rule out any lingering spell damage.

“By your own account, you sustained two direct hits from You-Know-Who’s wand,” the Healer noted with concern.

“I’ll keep Ginny company, dear,” Molly offered as she patted Harry reassuringly on the shoulder.

He allowed himself to be led away by an assistant who emphasized that only a few minutes of his time were needed. What did it matter that Madam Pomfrey had already given him a going over in the wake of the final battle? Before the door leading deeper into the suite of offices clicked shut, Harry overheard Molly indicate that she had a few things to discuss with Healer Tudor herself.

He returned within a quarter hour to find the three women waiting patiently. A quick review of the clipboard proffered by the Auxiliary Healer revealed a clean bill of health. That ruled out, the primary Healer outlined that the next step was to observe Harry’s sleep pattern to make sure his body wasn’t displaying any physical symptoms of a sleep disorder. Some of these could be hereditary, but since so little was known about Harry’s birth parents, she insisted on being extra thorough. At the same time, he would keep a log of the nightmares he experienced. She released him for the day with the understanding that he would return at nine that evening.

“I’ll be here to see that you’re settled properly,” Healer Tudor assured him with a disarming smile. “I’ll enable the small hearth in my personal office so your comings and goings will be strictly private.”

---

It was fitting that he should find himself in the kitchen at Privet Drive, the sterile surfaces of St. Mungo’s morphing seamlessly into Petunia’s gleaming white counters. As his closest friends gathered to create the seven decoys, the one true Harry had an epiphany.

Grabbing a used grocer’s receipt (Petunia wouldn’t have any use for it now), Harry looked wildly about for a pen. A quill, a crayon, anything! In true dream fashion, none were to be found anywhere. Feverishly, Harry pulled out drawer after drawer, even searching inside his uncle’s roll-top desk to no avail.

“Use your wand,” Hermione whispered in his ear. “Remember how I marked the doors…”

It was as if the knowledge had instantaneously leapt from her head into his. With complete confidence, Harry made the unfamiliar wand motions and hissed, “Flagrate controllis!”

The very tip of his wand glowing like a lit cigarette, Harry scrawled his words in the air directly above the paper. The letters were burned into the white fibers below, his message lettered in brown ink:

Dear Luna,

Please care for this owl until I am able to retrieve her in person. Your rapport with animals will win her over at once.

H


“Hedwig!” Harry called as he located her cage among those of the stuffed poseurs which had her swiveling her regal head in consternation. Immediately, the flesh and blood owl turned her yellow eyes in his direction. He made as if to unlatch her cage only to find Mad-Eye Moody at his elbow.

“No time to retool the plan,” Moody grumbled. “We’re in a time crunch as it is.”

Don’t you see? Harry’s mind screamed. Hedwig’s the key. How could he not have seen it earlier? It was so ruddy obvious! She was the first thing that made him see the beauty of the magical world that was being handed to him on his eleventh birthday. If the magic died with her, they were all doomed!

“Wait, Alastor,” Remus ventured as he drew close. “A secondary diversion is a rather brilliant notion when you think on it.”

Moody’s swirling eye turned to regard the werewolf critically. “There’s only one! How can that confuse even the most spectacularly stupid Death Eater?”

“There doesn’t have to be!” Tonks announced as she hopped down from Petunia’s washing machine. With a complicated wand movement that also seemed to involve a tight series of dance steps, Tonks weaved among the extra cages. Toy owls transformed into snow white birds before their eyes. “The illusion won’t last more than an hour or so,” she warned.

“Hardly standard Auror procedure,” Moody growled.

“All the more reason why it will fly right below their radar,” Fred chimed in.

“Pardon the pun,” George interjected to a chorus of nervous chuckles.

“Fine!” Moody capitulated. “But all owls must bear messages as well.”

Six pairs of hands flew towards the canister where Petunia squirreled her receipts; and in moments, seven owls were ready to take flight.

“Make sure you direct them away from any safe houses,” Remus cautioned as he assured Harry that the Lovegood residence was not involved in the rest of their plan.

That hurdle cleared, the events continued in the familiar manner as the true Harry’s eyes gleamed with triumph. The aerial battle unfolded in quick succession, Harry landing in a heap atop a Hagrid-sized mound in the back meadow of the Burrow.

Harry grabbed the half-giant by the lapels and brought his stunned face inches from his own. “We’re at the Burrow, Hagrid!”

Still fuzzy from the impact, Hagrid mumbled, “Yeah, right. Las’ minute change o’ plan, tha’.”

“Why?” Harry demanded, instantly on alert for the smallest variation that might make everything unravel.

Hagrid scratched his shaggy head as he took a moment to recover. “Bellatrix,” he began as if dredging up the memory from deep within his brain. “Paid a visit ta the Tonks residence. Claimin’ ta offer congratulations ‘bout the marriage, but Andromeda was instantly suspicious.”

“I didn’t think they were on speaking terms,” Harry supplied.

“They’re not. Not for twenty years o’ more. Sniffin’ about fer somethin’ else, no doubt. Didn’t have time ta line up another safe house, so the Burrow it was!”

Harry couldn’t find a hole in the explanation so he put it aside as Ginny and Molly ran out to meet them.

“You all right, Hagrid?” Molly inquired as she tried with all her might to help the burly man to his feet. With Harry grabbing the other hand and adding his body weight, they finally managed it.

“And you?” Ginny crooned as she grabbed Harry in a fierce hug. Before he could mumble “fine”, she crushed his lips with hers in a long and lingering kiss.

If he hadn’t been winded before, he certainly was when they broke apart amid disapproving clucks from Molly. Harry doubted his embarrassment was evident in the darkness, but flashed an apologetic grin towards the onlookers nevertheless.

They were escorted towards the Burrow as Hedwig swept out to greet Harry. Hooting happily around his head, she swung back to Luna’s outstretched arm.

“She’s lovely,” Luna cooed. “Do you want her back already?”

Harry smiled into Luna’s innocent expression. “Not just yet. I have a few errands that may keep me away…” He stopped himself before he went too far as Molly was clearly trying to avoid looking like she was listening.

“You don’t mind if I introduce her to Father then,” Luna proposed as she glanced in the direction of her tower home. “He was busy with the presses when she flew up.”

Within moments, Luna’s corn silk mane faded out of sight as she worked her way over the adjoining hillside.

Inside the cozy kitchen, Harry and Hagrid settled themselves to await the others’ return. The minutes stretched into hours, straining their nerves to the breaking point. Even Molly forgot to offer them tea as she paced nervously from one end of the narrow room to the other.

“It’ll be fine,” Ginny attempted to soothe. “If the others were set upon like Harry was, they may have been forced to improvise.” Nonetheless, her grip tightened around his hand under the table.

Molly wrung her apron as the dire possibilities flashed through her mind. Standing sentinel, the family clock still showed all hands pointed to ‘mortal peril’ �“ even for the two Weasleys who were present.

The floor heaved up moments before the sound reached their ears. Wands drawn, they rushed as one towards the windows only to be met with impenetrable darkness. Soundlessly, Molly motioned for everyone else to wait while she inched her way towards the back door.

Before she was halfway there, the door crashed open and Moody hobbled in. Harry’s heart leaped at the sight of the madly whirling eye: Moody had survived this time!

“We’ve been betrayed!” Moody yowled. “Death Eaters from all directions. They barely hesitated with the other decoys, convinced that I had the genuine article!”

“What happened to ‘Dung?” Molly inquired fearfully.

“Scarpered as if his tail was on fire!” Moody growled.

“Panic or guilt?” Harry posed through cautious lips.

Moody threw up his hands in disgust. “Who knows? Or cares at this point. Here, lad, at least I saved you this.”

With a quick swish, Moody sent Harry’s beloved Firebolt in his direction.

Before they could ask after anyone else, a series of crashes and raised voices drew them all into the backyard. A white-faced Fleur raced up with tears streaming down her face. A few steps behind, Arthur, too, had returned alone looking as if he’d aged a decade in the space of a few hours time.

“ ‘Eet was ‘orrrible!” Fleur wailed. “Fire een ze sky! Bill ees…” She hiccupped as her eyes beseeched everyone in turn. “ ‘Ee ees lost!” she sobbed into Molly’s open arms.

Molly raised a helpless face to Arthur’s sad head shake even as she murmured assurances about rescue teams into Fleur’s hair.

Harry had barely torn his eyes away when his attention was drawn by a tight knot of people near the derelict pond, one tall ginger head among them. He raced towards them to find Ron, Hermione, and Kingsley staring down at the crumbled figure of Tonks on the ground. Remus was kneeling at her side, his face drawn in anguish.

“I’m sorry, Remus,” Ron was repeating softly, his voice breaking with emotion. “I’m so sorry. It was all I could do to catch her body as George was hit in the chest…”

Remus nodded like a broken doll as his shoulders hitched with sobs.

NO! Harry railed internally as he caught fistfuls of hair in hands. It can’t be! Without Tonks, little Teddy will never be born! And to lose Bill and both twins in the bargain was just too much!

His body thrashed in despair in the narrow hospital bed until he managed to wake himself up. Harry jammed his glasses on his face and made quick notes on the pad beside his bed as instructed.

With a heavy sigh, he swallowed the salty tears and laid back on the pillow to wait for nightmare number two. It was going to be a long night.

---

The recent return of his best mates proved fertile ground for his subconscious as the nightmares spun out in new intensity. Not only did he bear witness to Ginny’s battered corpse, but now he relived finding the charred remains of Ron and Hermione consumed by Fiendfyre in the desolate embers of the Room of Requirement. The resemblance to blackened holocaust victims was inescapable.

Another scenario had a tearful Tonks confessing to Harry that Hermione had thrown herself before Bellatrix and been cut down for her bravery. Ron’s cry of anguish was akin to a werewolf’s howl amid the scarred battlements of Hogwarts. In the next moment, Harry was frantically digging through a collapsed portion of wall to find Ron’s broken body next to that of his brother, Fred.

Bellatrix returned in all her evil glory to torture Hermione repeatedly in the overwrought parlor of Malfoy Manor, forcing Ron to watch her administer the Cruciatus Curse until Hermione could take no more. Ron impaled himself on the woman’s long knife as he sought to avenge Hermione’s murder. Harry barely escaped to Shell Cottage with three graves to dig during the night.

He revisited the lonely expanses of woodland where they had camped throughout the fall and early winter, Ron’s desertion stinging just as poignantly as before. This time, Harry convinced Hermione to stay a second night in the same spot despite the extra risk. They came upon Ron’s bound body the next morning as they broke camp. With hearts racing, they feverishly strained to untie knots that burned their bare fingers with ice and snow. Their success was met with Ron’s form dissolving into that of Wormtail who gave them a fiendish look of triumph. The real Ron yelled a strangled warning from the shadows as Snatchers descended upon Harry and Hermione from all sides.

Harry decided he’d had enough when Fenrir Greyback bounced the captured Deluminator in his yellowed hand and growled, “Right handy tool, this. Thanks for the early Christmas gift! Next time, pick friends who aren’t such gormless toerags, Potter. Not that there’s ever going to be a next time for you!”

Slapping his glasses on his face with finality, Harry flicked his wand towards the wall switch to flood the featureless room with light. He didn’t rightly care what time of day or night it was; he was done with this experiment.

“Is there a Healer on duty?” he asked the startled night nurse in the hallway.

The shock on her face indicated that she had recognized him, but he couldn’t have cared less at that point. “Right away, M-m-mister Potter,” she stammered.

“Tell them I’m ready to check out!” he brazenly called after her retreating form.

The Auxiliary Healer arrived with a barely suppressed yawn. With a woeful look, he took in Harry’s wrinkled pajamas. “Anything the matter?”

“I’d like to go home if it’s not too much trouble. Maybe catch a few winks in a less stressful environment.”

The Healer looked down at his clipboard in confusion. “But you indicated you were having trouble sleeping…”

“Incessant nightmares. I’ve detailed the particulars on the pad next to the bed. After eight different versions of why I’m a worthless wanker, I’ve reached my limit. That should give Healer Tudor enough to work with. I’ll just check in with her about midday if that’s all right with you.”

“No, it’s not all right. Look here, mate, I’m responsible for you --”

“I’ll sign whatever document you want. Say that I’m leaving against your express wishes….”

A slight cough announced another presence behind them. Harry heaved a sigh of relief to find Arthur and Ginny standing in the prosaic corridor. “Thank Merlin, you got my Patronus! I wasn’t certain I was making any sense.”

“It’s all right, son,” Arthur affirmed. “Your desire to be elsewhere came through loud and clear.”

“This is highly irregular…” the Healer made as if to protest.

“That’s probably what they’ll be saying about the clerk in the front office when Mum gets through with him,” Ginny whispered into Harry’s ear as she caught him up in an exuberant hug.

He looked up to find a protective-looking Molly flanking the chief Healer.

“Mr. Potter is not officially here, Healer Jenkins,” Healer Tudor observed as she leaned across him to make a quick notation. “The Minister vouches for him.”

With a wordless huff, Jenkins deposited the clipboard on the bed and resumed his other rounds.

“Now, Harry, if I let you go home with these good people, will you come back later this afternoon to discuss your situation?”

“If that’s what’s needed,” he agreed.

“It’s a start,” Healer Tudor affirmed. “I’ll review your notes and the visuals in the meanwhile.” She frowned slightly at the stack of scribbled notes. “Did you keep it brief?”

“As much as I could. One page per nightmare as instructed. I’ll fill in the details later.”

“Come,” Molly urged as she ushered them towards the Floo connection that had been hastily established at the end of the deserted floor. “Ginny will keep you company as you doze in the living room.”

“At least until the sizzle of bacon lures you awake,” Arthur promised with an encouraging smile.

---

“I’ve had a bit of time to confer with the Minister,” Healer Tudor began as Harry took a seat in her office. “Not that I always bring him in on my cases; but as a former Auror, he’s seen a lot of battle-related issues. Though not usually in one so young.”

“Aren’t Aurors trained to deal with such stress?” Harry posed with genuine interest.

“To some degree. But anyone can get overwhelmed at times. It’s not an admission of weakness, not by any means.”

“So what’s the remedy?”

“Time,” she supplied succinctly. “I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, but it’s the only antidote to grief. Those who choose to medicate themselves into dreamless sleep just delay the natural healing process.”

“Then I’m not a raving nutter?” Harry dared with a wide grin.

“No one ever said you were. But the side-effects of sleep deprivation can be serious if it goes on long enough. Usually, sheer exhaustion acts as your body’s shut off valve to keep things from getting out of control.”

Harry barely covered his mouth before a huge yawn overtook him.

Looking him in the eye, the Healer volunteered, “You’re wondering how an excess of yawning can be so dangerous?” She waited until Harry nodded before continuing, “Go too long without proper rest and lack of coordination will be the least of your worries. You’ll be seeing your wildest dreams come to life before you. Hallucinations will meld so perfectly with reality that you won’t really know which is which.”

“Does that happen often?” Harry considered.

“Very rarely. Sleep takes over. But it shouldn’t surprise you to learn that enforced sleep deprivation has been used as a form of torture. It’s no less cruel that starving someone to death.” At Harry flummoxed expression, she added, “I find it intriguing that you’ve already found a way to keep the demons at bay by using Ginny as a reality check of sorts.”

Harry acknowledged the truth of her words. “Her parents aren’t too keen on the notion.”

“Gives rise to lots of other possibilities,” she observed. “I suppose what concerns me is whether those other notions have occurred to you?”

Harry blushed at the gist of her question. “Sure, but I’m a guest in their home.”

“Spoken like a well-mannered young man. Now, tell me the truth.”

“It’s a private matter,” Harry demurred.

“As it should be.”

“There isn’t anything to tell,” he argued.

“Yet? Or never?”

“If you’re that determined to know whether I fancy girls, the answer is a very emphatic yes.”

“Didn’t doubt it for a minute, actually.” Very precisely, she pressed, “No circumventing the question, though.”

“You’re not going to let this go are you?”

“No. It’s right of passage that should be at the forefront of any young mind.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“Then what do you intend to do about it?”

“Nothing at the moment,” he sighed. “I don’t have a lot of options. Her brother -- that’s my best mate, Ron -- practically went ballistic when she drew me into her room for a bit of a snog last summer.”

“So where do you go on dates?”

“Nowhere. I’ve been off on a mission for the past year while she’s been at school. We’ve only had time together since the end of the war.”

“Seems to me you’d be making up for lost time,” she insisted.

“Why does this matter to you?”

“Because I’m a Healer dealing with a patient who’s avoiding a partial remedy to his problems.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Surely you don’t mean…”

“Life is to be lived, Harry. The more you focus on the here and now �“ or even the future �“ the less hold the past will have on you.”

“The Weasleys aren’t going to take to your suggestions, you know.”

With a raised eyebrow, Healer Tudor emphasized, “I have no intention of sharing them with anyone other than you. But before you think me totally unprincipled, let me remind you that it’s no different than what would be a normal course of action for an Auror who needed a bit of time to recuperate.”

Clearly intrigued, Harry delved, “Do such Aurors rest at home?”

“Sometimes. Certainly those with families might prefer to do so. Others find that a change of scenery helps their thinking to get out of a rut.”

“A fresh perspective.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s to keep them from total debauchery?”

The Healer laughed at Harry’s irreverence. “The same as the rest of us: their conscience. But I wasn’t about to suggest you take up with a band of white slavers, just have a bit of a holiday.”

“Alone? Doesn’t sound very appealing, thanks anyway.”

“Not totally alone. Interaction with the staff is absolutely required.”

“Medical staff?”

“They’re more like activity directors to hear it.”

“Still sounds rather lonely to me.”

“What if I told you your friends could visit at will and you might be able to convince Ginny to accompany you?”

“I’d think you were taking the mickey. Her parents would never agree.”

“Is that a dare?”

Harry was left speechless.

“If I can get them to agree that Ginny will be there to coax you through your recovery, will you consent to go?” she emphasized.

“Sight unseen? Not on your life.”

As if she’d been waiting for this, the Healer removed a small glossy brochure from her desk drawer. “See for yourself then.”

Harry peered at the picturesque vistas along a rugged coastline, the deep blue water making him think of the Mediterranean. “Do the views come with bars or just netting?”

“Neither, but the cliffs are spelled to avoid any falls. You’re not a cliff-diver, are you?”

Harry chuckled as he shook his head.

“See the little white-washed cottages?” She pointed those out in the photo. “The larger ones have extra rooms for visitors.”

“Let me guess, group activities at the sound of a whistle?”

“That’s a children’s summer camp. I wager you’ve outgrown that.”

“Then what would you call this?” He waved his hand vaguely over the glossy foldout.

“An exclusive spa for the rejuvenation of the mind and spirit. You don’t have to see anyone other than your advisor if you’d prefer. Albus Dumbledore himself established it for wizards who needed a temporary refuge of sorts.”

“Sounds pricey,” Harry countered.

“Ministry offered to pick up the tab. They must really want to recruit you.”

“Does this obligate me in any way?”

“Not if your advisor has anything to do with it. Why don’t you read the brochure?”

“And you’ll accept that Ginny coming along is non-negotiable?”

She gave him a playful pout. “You still don’t think I can make it happen, do you?”

“Not entirely,” he admitted. “But it might be fun just watching you try. You’re on, doctor.”

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Fifteen
Andromeda: Tea and Sympathy


The wallpaper border of chocolate frog cards could not have been more ideal. It was as if Dumbledore was peering past solarium windows into a cheery nursery painted his favorite shade of sherbet lemon. He regretted that he no longer had taste buds with which to enjoy such sweet indulgences. Time and time again, he was drawn to the encapsulation of a grandmother’s love for her grandson, a baby who already sported the ability for wild hair colors he’d inherited from his mother. It would have been an endearing sight were it not for the heaviness of sorrow that creased Andromeda’s face.

The weighty boulder in the great wizard’s heart knew no surcease these days as the newly departed had become his frequent companions in the great beyond. How he longed to ease Andromeda’s misery by telling her that her daughter and son-in-law had found some measure of happiness among their cohorts. How her husband, Ted, had made quick friends of the reunited band of Marauders, attaining posthumous acceptance in much the same manner as Severus had.

But such messages across the metaphysical divide were not allowed. Just as the living were not permitted a similar window into the land of the dead. To attempt to break such laws would shatter the fabric of time and space irrevocably; and Dumbledore did not want the end of the world to come as the result of his actions. It would have made a mockery of the deaths of those who had sought to secure a better way of life for their fellows.

Fortunately, Molly Weasley was equally fascinated by infants and often brought freshly baked casseroles to make certain Andromeda did not neglect her own needs.

“Nonsense, dear,” Molly’s nurturing instincts rose to the fore as she waved off Andromeda’s protests. “It’s no trouble to spoon some extra into another container. My hands never seem to remember that some of my boys no longer live at home. There’s always extra.”

Behind Andromeda’s compassionate eyes, it was evident that she was recalling that Molly, too, had lost a son in the recent conflict. “I can’t deny it’s nice to have some adult company,” Andromeda capitulated. Then noticing that little Teddy was sleeping soundly on her shoulder, she excused herself to nestle him in his crib upstairs.

She returned with the intent to offer her guest some refreshments, but found that Molly had already made a fresh pot of tea. Andromeda graciously accepted her new friend’s overzealous nurturing as she slid her weary bones into the adjoining kitchen chair.

Despite their different circumstances, the two women had instantly bonded over amusing stories of their children’s antics. Although the laughter was often punctuated with bittersweet tears, they found solace in one another’s heartache. Granted, nothing could hold a candle to the coordinated campaigns the twins had perfected once they were old enough to walk; but as an only child in the midst of a Muggle neighborhood, Dora had created her own brand of chaos.

“Trust me, my daughter could’ve benefitted from having a sibling to prank,” Andromeda allowed as she wiped the tears from her eyes. Molly had just finished recounting how Fred and George had once again gotten a rise out of their stuffy brother, Percy.

“Often the others tried to get even which just escalated the mischief,” Molly elaborated. “Ron was usually easy going enough that he just joined in the laughter at his own expense, but Ginny would retaliate in devious ways that often took the twins by surprise a few days later.”

Andromeda nodded knowingly and attempted to launch into a tale of how Ted had taken seven-year-old Dora to see a children’s matinee. A few sentences into the recounting, the enormity of her loss threatened to overwhelm her.

Quickly stepping in, Molly assured her in an oblique manner. “Oh, how well I recall the Muggle cinema palace! Arthur used to take me there when we were courting. Rumored to be a hot house of teenage passion, it was; but Arthur’s main objective for sitting in the balcony was to view the whirling projection dragon first-hand.”

Andromeda couldn’t resist smiling into Molly’s kind eyes. “He was obsessed even then?”

“Oh, yes. Finally I had to grab him by the lapels and kiss him myself!”

Andromeda issued a low laugh which grew in intensity as Molly pantomimed not just her own determined expression, but Arthur’s flustered one as well.

“Can’t rightly remember what was playing; likely Arthur does, though,” Molly confided. “What movie did Dora see?”

“A classic Tarzan trilogy. Favorites from Ted’s own boyhood.”

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. But I remember reading the Tarzan books to my eldest boys long after they’d outgrown bedtime stories.”

Warming up to her subject matter, Andromeda’s voice mellowed as she elaborated, “Ted should’ve mentioned that the stunts were performed by trained aerialists, but it totally slipped his mind. So as soon as she got back home, Dora found herself a nice clump of oaks in our backyard. If her attempts at the trademark yell hadn’t set our poor dog to howling miserably, I might not’ve made it into the backyard in time. As it was, I was caught totally off-guard when she launched herself in a swan dive towards the next tree branch.”

“Were you able to counter with a Levitation Charm?”

“Wasn’t fast enough with my wand. I was halfway through a Cushioning Charm when her little hands failed to curl around the rough branch and she dropped like a sack.” Andromeda smiled at Molly’s horrified expression. “She bounced like a regular ball when she hit the ground -- then lost her footing as she flashed a cheeky grin in my direction and landed in a mud puddle!”

Through her laughter, Molly admitted, “I don’t know how Muggles do it. Had our children not been born with unconscious magical defenses, they would’ve broken every bone in their bodies.”

“Is it a small wonder that immobilizing casts are so popular they come in designer colors now?”

“You don’t say?” Molly marveled at Andromeda’s familiarity with both wizards and Muggles alike.

“It a good thing that didn’t come about until Dora was safely at Hogwarts,” Andromeda confided. “She would’ve caused a stir by demanding a striped or tie-dyed variation!”

“Even though a fracture could be remedied with a quick bit of wandwork?”

“She would’ve sported it as a fashion accessory,” Andromeda predicted.

“Do you think Teddy will take after his mother in those ways, too?”

“Merlin, it will be the death of me if he does!”

“What kind of temperament did Remus have as a child?” Molly ventured, even though the man who had so often visited the Burrow had rarely spoken of his childhood.

“He never said. Dora once told me that his whole world had been turned upside down once he’d been bitten �“ and he was only five at the time. But surely one can imagine that a lad of five who ventured out his bedroom window and into the woods to observe nocturnal animals was rather fearless.”

“A true Gryffindor.”

“With the perseverance to deal with calamity when it was forced upon him.”

“Did you ever think to ask Remus directly?” Molly posed. “He could be rather forthcoming around those he trusted.”

Andromeda sadly gazed into the dregs of her tea. “I wish I had. All I have is his comment that enforced solitude had become so ingrained in him by the time he boarded the Hogwarts Express that it had come as a shock that others didn’t see him as a freak of nature from the onset.”

Molly commented on the commonalities that had brought Remus and Tonks together despite their outward differences. “Remus once told me that if anything ever happened to me or Arthur, he would see to it that our children didn’t starve.”

Andromeda’s eyes grew wide at the scope of such a promise. “But a man without a steady job… and you had how many at home then?”

Molly took a moment to consider. Now that it was mended, she couldn’t rightly remember when the rift with Percy had started �“ nor did it matter really. “Four or five,” she shrugged. “And all our boys always had healthy appetites.”

Andromeda shook her head in disbelief. “Sounds just like him. Always thinking with his heart. Despite all the time he lived with us, I was never prepared when the full moon came ‘round each month. Not meaning to be critical, but it seemed like he had the most unlikely temperament for a werewolf.”

Molly chortled at the assessment which so agreed with her own. “Never could figure out how to convey that to Remus without it coming across as an affront. He must’ve felt like a misfit no matter what he did.”

“I suppose that’s one of the reasons Dora loved him so. That and the fact that he could always make her laugh at the unlikeliest things…Not that she told me much about him until she announced that she was getting married in a few days time and would her father and I like to attend.”

Ever the optimist, Molly supplied, “Saved you the expense of an elaborate wedding.”

“I was so afraid that Dora’s impetuous nature had caused her to make a rash decision.”

“It wasn’t rash at all. I think she just didn’t want him to change his mind �“ again.”

“Again?”

“I see now that she didn’t tell you the full story,” Molly sighed. Would it be breaking a confidence now that Tonks was gone? Deciding that Andromeda was the priority at the moment, she elaborated, “In the months after Sirius’ death, the headquarters for our secret organization was moved temporarily to the Burrow. It was not unusual for Tonks to linger after meetings looking for a sympathetic ear. Especially during those months when Dumbledore had sent Remus on a secret mission within the werewolf camps.”

Andromeda gasped. “She must’ve been sick with worry!”

“Remus was being rather cagey even before that, convinced that the biggest favor he could do for her was to simply leave her alone. It nearly broke Tonks’ heart in the process.”

“But why? Didn’t he love her then?”

“He argued that a life of suffering was the only thing a monster like him deserved. It took Tonks a long time to convince him that it was pointless for the both of them to be miserable when the solution was so simple.”

Andromeda shook her head in disbelief. “No wonder she was anxious to cement the deal before he had second thoughts.”

“And no wonder he still had lingering doubts after,” Molly added.

“I never knew,” Andromeda breathed. “All I caught was that it was Harry who had the courage to tell Remus he was acting like a right fool and send him back to deal with his unborn child.”

Biting her lip, Molly issued, “I think Harry still regrets those cross words.”

“Rubbish! Remus thought the world of Harry.”

“Why else would the man ask him to be Teddy’s godfather?”

“Clearly, Remus intended for Harry to be part of his new family,” Andromeda maintained. “Is Harry having doubts?”

“Not about that.”

Noticing her friend’s troubled look, Andromeda pressed, “Is that why he hasn’t come to visit?”

“He’s consumed with guilt, or at least that’s what the Healers think. They’ve recommended that he take a sabbatical. Sort himself out in a more restful environment.”

Andromeda’s face registered shock. “Surely, you don’t mean a sanitarium?”

“Nothing as drastic as that. More like a spiritual retreat in Greece. Commune with nature and all. There’ll be counselors to help him through the process.”

“You make it sound like a personal quest.” The doubt was evident in Andromeda’s tone.

“Apparently it’s used by the Auror Department quite frequently to deal with cases of battle fatigue.”

“But Harry’s so young…”

“And we asked him to take on a man’s responsibility long before his time,” Molly emphasized. “Is it any wonder he was naïve enough to think that everyone would come through unharmed?”

How vividly those words conjured the surreal atmosphere that had followed the Final Battle, Andromeda considered inwardly. It had been late morning when she’d been roused from the nursery by a sharp rap on her front door. Teddy was still soundly asleep in his crib. He always grew drowsy after his morning bottle and he’d been quite fussy the night before as if sensing that his mother had slipped out of the house soundlessly. Still feeling an overpowering sense of weariness, Andromeda had drifted off in the nearby rocking chair.

With worry throbbing in her veins, she picked her way carefully down the stairs in response to the summons. Perhaps, she’d misheard. It was not unusual for the house to creak when the surroundings were at their most tranquil. In the kitchen, Dora’s hastily scribbled note still hung on the white icebox door where Andromeda had discovered it in the night.

As her slipper reached the foot of the stairs, the knock came again. Softly, as if the visitor were shy or hesitant in some manner.

Or too weak, the thought sent all sorts of alarms to ringing inside her brain. Especially as the hazy outline was so reminiscent of the ragged version of Remus from so many months ago.

As she drew nearer, the silhouette resolved itself into two figures with the tangerine sun at their backs. One shorter and one tall and lean. Forgetting all about the redundant layers of protection that warded the house, Andromeda threw back the door with bated breath.

The smile froze on her lips when she recognized the battered figure of Harry before her. In the scant months since he’d crash-landed in her backyard, the lad’s eyes had gained a hard, steely look that belied his true youthfulness. At his back, the steadying hand of Bill Weasley kept Harry from swaying on his feet.

On wooden legs, she ushered them into her front room. Before she could form coherent words through a sandpaper tongue, Harry collapsed on his knees and wordlessly clasped her hands in supplication.

She’d spared a questioning glance at Bill whose face bore the haggard lines of too much worry coupled with too little sleep. With a solemn head shake, he supplied, “Harry insisted on coming in person. I was the only one who could penetrate the Fidelius, assuming it still holds.”

Andromeda nodded that it did and returned her attention to the huddled form at her feet. The bowed head reminded her of a vassal waiting to be knighted by his liege.

In a bare whisper, she ventured, “Did we win? Is that madman gone once and for all?”

“Yes,” Harry croaked, his voice breaking as he added, “It’s finally over.”

Laying a hand on his raven head, Andromeda softly urged, “Why did you not tell me this to my face?”

Harry’s shoulders hitched in a shrug which dissolved into a sob. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “So sorry. So very, very, very sorry.” He fumbled underneath his robes and extracted two wooden batons. Pressing his lips reverently to each in turn, he presented them wordlessly to Andromeda.

She’d taken a step back as she gasped in sudden comprehension. Remus’ and Dora’s wands. That’s what Harry was so contritely offering up to her. That had to mean…No, oh no, it couldn’t be…First Ted, now this…

Bill lunged to catch her by the elbow but it was already too late. With a wailing sob, Andromeda fell to her knees. She crushed the wands to her chest with one hand as her other arm engulfed Harry in a tight hug. They clung like that for many long minutes, the sobs raking both their bodies in turn, each lost in his own personal torment.

It had not been until that very moment, many weeks later, that Molly’s words finally made sense of Harry’s elaborate ceremony. He had not been seeking reward or benediction when he’d thrown himself at her feet. He’d been seeking absolution.

Andromeda’s concern deepened as she caught the dregs of worry still lingering in her friend’s face. “What else has you out of sorts?”

Molly hesitated as she considered how much personal baggage she should unload. “The Healer insisted that since Harry’s distress is punctuated with abandonment issues, he should take a companion.”

Andromeda failed to see the problem. “So Ron and Hermione aren’t willing to see him through? It’s still summer term break.”

“They were with him during his joyless Horcrux search,” Molly qualified. “And that’s the last thing Harry needs to be reminded of. The Healer insisted he grow in other directions.”

“Then who?”

“Ginny. She practically jumped at the opportunity.” She’d practically jumped into Harry’s arms, but Molly discretely omitted that detail. After a year’s enforced separation, it was clear her daughter was determined to not let anything stand in the way of her fragile reconciliation. After all, Molly knew that even the most single-minded man could lose his way when bombarded from all sides.

“You think she’s too young,” Andromeda sagely surmised.

Molly nodded. “But I can’t change the fact that she’ll be seventeen in less than a month’s time. It’s too late to alter the date on her birth certificate.”

Andromeda issued a throaty laugh as she commiserated with the lengths to which mothers would go. “If it makes any difference, I felt the same way when Dora moved into a flat of her own �“ and she was already a year into her Auror training by then. Time won’t make a difference.”

“She’ll always be my little girl.”

“As was Dora, even when I watched her give birth to her own child. Have you thought to speak with Ginny directly?” Andromeda urged with a gentle smile.

“Did that put your mind at ease?”

“The younger generation has a much more pragmatic approach to these things. Before she moved out on her own, Dora assured me that she had quite mastered the Contraceptive Charm, thank you very much. Then in the next breath, she confided she’d never had cause to use it.”

Molly couldn’t help chuckling at Tonks’ disarming manner. “Do you think she was being completely honest?”

Andromeda shrugged. “Even if she wasn’t, she at least made me feel that she wasn’t being reckless.”

It was clear Molly was thinking of how many children she’d borne by the age of twenty-five. “I want Ginny to feel she has options at her age. She shouldn’t dive head first into anything.”

“Is that what you feel she’s doing with Harry?”

Molly took a moment to compose her thoughts. “Not entirely,” she sighed. “It’s just that she’d taken such a schoolgirl fancy to him that she was speechless in his presence during her entire first year at school.”

“Sounds like she outgrew that.”

“I fully thought she’d outgrown him as she made no secret of dating others in the intervening years.”

“What about Harry?”

“He didn’t seem to rightly notice at first, at least not openly. Then during his last year at school, I’d catch him pining at the most unlikely moments when he came to visit. When an inconsolable Ginny returned from Dumbledore’s funeral, she blubbered that they’d started dating only weeks before Harry’s final assignment was destined to tear them apart.”

“Knowing how headstrong you claim she can be, I’m surprised Ginny didn’t insist on accompanying Harry then.”

“Oh, she did. Argued quite vociferously about it all summer �“ even if only Arthur and I were there to listen. Harry wouldn’t budge in his resolve to keep her out of danger and to prevent her from being used as a weapon against him. Even when our side was grossly outnumbered at the Battle of Hogwarts. He certainly didn’t express any similar concerns about any of his other schoolmates.”

“Dora would’ve called that sexism.”

Molly nodded grimly. “It made Ginny chafe as well. It was only later when I realized how much of a strain it put on Harry that I concluded he must have cared very deeply to have stood his ground.”

“Ginny can be very persuasive, you’re saying?”

“She can make your life miserable until the sheer discomfort wears you down,” Molly observed. “How could I turn down her entreaties when she explained that holding Harry’s hand helped her through her own anguish at losing her brother?”

Andromeda gave a look to indicate that she understood only too well. “Love is a more powerful emotion than sorrow. We fight to hang onto love; we are struck down by sorrow.”

“It’s why we’re always told to concentrate on the living,” Molly affirmed.

In a slightly tremulous voice, Andromeda elaborated, “A heart brimming with love will consign grief to the back shelf where it belongs �“ instead of leaving it in the middle of the floor where it constantly impedes our progress.”

“Sounds like you have the theory down, but its day-to-day application is more difficult.”

Andromeda nodded wordlessly before deftly guiding them into less painful waters. “When does Harry leave?” she inquired.

“The week after his eighteenth birthday. I insisted that he at least let us throw him a bon voyage and birthday party in one.”

“You’re afraid he won’t come back,” Andromeda observed with mounting anxiety.

“Neither of them will come back the same,” Molly concurred. “I keep telling myself that both he and my son, Ron, grew into manhood while my back was turned. And Ginny fully admitted to the Healer that helping Harry has allowed her to accept her own grief. But it’s never easy…”

Andromeda commiserated that her own maternal feelings had not faded one bit, even after only memories of her daughter remained. With sudden inspiration, she added, “Will you allow me and Teddy to come to the party?”

“Well, of course,” Molly stammered. “But how? Teddy’s still an infant and the Burrow’s a long train ride away.”

Andromeda laughed outright. “Now who’s thinking like a Muggle? Your house has been reconnected to the Floo Network, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, but young children hate that almost as much as Apparition!”

“Most do,” Andromeda conceded. “But little Dora didn’t. Her father convinced her that it was a wizard’s way of tumbling inside the clothes dryer like she’d seen at her Muggle grandmother’s house. She squealed with joy the whole way. I suspect Teddy will be the same.”

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Sixteen
Harry: A New Landscape


Much to his delight, surprise, euphoria, and a whole mixture of emotions that threatened to overpower him, the Weasleys succumbed to the Healer’s recommendation. Harry would be Portkeyed directly to the retreat to get settled before Ginny arrived at the weekend. Arthur’s and Molly’s sole stipulation had been that they would accompany Ginny to check out the facilities first hand.

Thus it was with a buoyant heart that Harry anticipated celebrating his eighteenth birthday at the Burrow. Not even the Muggle world could deny that he was now an adult in full charge of his own destiny.

Andromeda arrived at mid-morning with a sleeping bundle nestled on her shoulder. As Molly quickly Levitated the oversized nappy satchel to safety, Harry was gazed in awe at the mop of fine turquoise hair that floated in all directions.

“This one’s bound to be a Quidditch player no less,” Molly cooed approvingly as little Teddy held out his tiny arms to her.

“Or a circus performer. Didn’t even stir in the Floo,” Andromeda proclaimed proudly. “It’s the wonderful aromas of your kitchen that tickled his nose awake.”

“Harry’s birthday cake,” Ginny supplied. “Teddy can help us frost it a little later.”

“He’ll be wearing that frosting, Sis,” George issued lowly from the far end of the table. He’d been observing the events so soundlessly that everyone had forgotten his presence until now.

“Would you like to hold him, George?” Andromeda offered.

“Here, I’ll show you.” Molly bustled over.

George looked a bit bewildered as his mother arranged his arms around the squirming child. Little Teddy looked up at the red-headed giant above and issued a tiny gurgle followed by a pink smile.

“I think he likes you,” Ginny observed.

“Probably senses a co-conspirator,” Andromeda added wryly. “He takes after his mother already.”

“Don’t forget that Remus was part of the infamous Marauders,” Hermione supplied.

“He’s bound to be a handful then,” Harry confirmed.

“Don’t get cocky, young man,” Molly scolded him merrily. “You’re next. Whoever heard of a godfather who didn’t feel at home handling his godson?”

George rushed off to meet Ron at the store, but Ginny and Hermione were only too happy to fuss over Teddy’s needs. With the girls on hand to do the nappy duties, watching over his godson was not such an onerous duty, Harry decided. Teddy was curious about everything, his round eyes with a serious expression that captured Remus exactly. Harry’s heart ached at the memories that floated unwittingly to the surface but managed to maintain a wobbly smile for his godson’s benefit.

Once fed a lunch of mashed potatoes and watery cereal, Teddy settled down to his bottle followed by a much needed nap.

“He’s gone for the afternoon, I’m afraid,” Andromeda proclaimed. “Doesn’t rouse until his stomach tells him that tea time is drawing near.”

Molly nodded sagely. “It was always the same with my boys. Ron still wears his watch in his stomach.”

“So he won’t need you to send him a Patronus at the store, Mum,” Ginny supplied.

“What if they get busy?” Molly fretted. “George gets so overwhelmed with everyday things that he may not remember Harry’s birthday party.”

“I’ll retrieve them in person if it comes to that,” Hermione volunteered as she helped Andromeda to get the baby things together.

“Have a happy birthday, Harry,” Andromeda offered. She admitted that the only chance she got to catch up on her own rest was during Teddy’s afternoon nap. Waving away Molly’s offer of a spare bedroom upstairs, Andromeda bundled the sleeping child into her arms and Flooed back to her house.

---

It was not quite tea time when Harry came downstairs to hear a familiar voice emanating from the direction of the kitchen.

“Merlin, I don’t presume to know how that old man’s mind worked!” Minerva McGonagall attested. “But I can assure you that Albus’ heart was breaking when he accepted Remus’ resignation. The man had such an untarnished gift! Other than Potions which he never could stomach, I’m convinced Remus could’ve tackled any subject.”

“Children respond to that kind of outpouring,” Molly agreed. “How could they not?”

As he entered from the parlor, Harry noticed that Hermione was leaning over the kitchen table intently. “If only the world didn’t persist in being narrow-minded and blind,” she insisted.

McGonagall caught Harry’s eye as he leaned in the doorway. “I swore to myself that very morning that the day I was in charge, I would make things right. And here it’s too bloody late….” Her voice cracked as she dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes. “Oh, the new students are going to think they have an old softie for a Headmistress.”

“So it’s official?” Hermione pressed. “You’ve been confirmed by the Board of Governors?”

“For now,” McGonagall provided. “But there’s a movement afoot to eradicate the taint of this past year by bringing in new blood.”

“Even though Minister Shacklebolt recognized Severus Snape posthumously?” Harry weighed in.

“Even so,” McGonagall predicted. “The reality is my days as Headmistress are numbered.”

Clearly surprised, Hermione stammered, “Will they seek to replace Flitwick and Hagrid as well?”

“Likely so,” McGonagall sighed. “Professor Binns is probably safe as he’s so cost-effective.”

Harry chuckled mirthlessly at her wry commentary.

Addressing him directly, the Headmistress intoned, “But I swear to you today, Harry, that my legacy to Remus will be this: I will make it may duty that only those who truly love their subjects will be asked to teach at Hogwarts. And I don’t give a flip what the outside world thinks of my choices!”

Ginny flashed a radiant smile in everyone’s direction as she entered toweling her damp hair. The snap of the screen door indicated that Ron and George had instructed Verity to close the shop early today.

“I wondered when you’d rejoin us,” Molly issued from the sideboard where she was adding the finishing touches to the birthday cake.

Harry barely managed to cover his mouth before a huge yawn claimed him. McGonagall’s look radiated sympathy as she inquired about his health.

Despite having changed into a crisp, clean shirt after his nap, Harry couldn’t help fidgeting as he ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “The Healers prescribed a bit of a holiday,” he tendered with classic understatement.

“Then it’s good I caught you before you left,” McGonagall replied.

He gave her a hesitant smile. “You could’ve come for a visit there.”

“As appealing as the seaside is this time of year, Hogwarts needs me more,” the new Headmistress admitted with a note of regret.

Harry nodded that he understood.

“Which is partly the purpose of my visit today,” she continued. “Have you had a chance to consider your future? At Hogwarts, I mean? Hermione made a point of dispatching an owl �“ from Australia no less.” Catching Molly’s worried frown, McGonagall amended, “Ron included a short note that he would be returning as well.”

“And you were wondering about me?” Harry surmised.

“It wouldn’t be out of line to expect you to finish your NEWT’s if your ambition still rests with the Auror Department.”

“It does,” Harry responded without hesitation. “But I’m less certain about returning to Hogwarts. My last memories…”

Behind her square-framed glasses, McGonagall’s eyes filled with kindness as she affirmed, “It’s not a crumbling edifice anymore. Still festooned with ladders and scaffolding in places, but the final renovations should be complete by September first.”

“As much as I appreciate your concern,” Harry demurred, “I’m not certain I could handle it right now. The halls are just too full of sorrow…”

“I understand. Memories abound in those corridors for me as well. I only hope to supplant them with new, happier ones in the days to come.”

“Would it be out of line if I suggested I wanted to keep my options open for now?” Harry proposed.

With an inscrutable smile, McGonagall acquiesced, “Not at all. It’s not unheard of for Muggle students to take a gap year. Why should we be any different?” Focusing her raptor gaze on Ginny, the Headmistress posed, “What about you, Miss Weasley?”

Caught short, Ginny fairly squeaked, “Me?”

Interceding on her daughter’s behalf, Molly volunteered, “You won’t mind sharing a dormitory with Hermione, will you, dear?”

Ginny’s glances wavered between her mother and Harry. After a moment’s hesitation, she indicated, “If you don’t mind, Mum, Professor, I’d prefer to keep Harry company when he returns.”

Molly made as if to protest, but was cut short by the Headmistress’ quiet words, “I had a feeling you might say that. That’s why I took the liberty of bringing you something you might not realize you’d left behind.”

“Something that fell out of my trunk?” she replied hesitantly.

“A bit of room decoration one might say,” McGonagall clarified as she removed a small roll of parchment from her robes. “I took it down before the workmen arrived.”

Like sharks on the lookout for blood, Ron and George abandoned the frosting bowl to bear witness to Ginny’s discomfiture first hand.

Ginny blushed then hedged, “I’m not certain…”

The Headmistress elaborated blithely, “Oh, I managed to crack the privacy charms right off. Nothing a Head of House hasn’t encountered before.”

“Sounds like you had a bit of contraband in your room,” Ron chortled.

Ginny’s dark look in her brother’s direction clearly said: Kettle, Pot. At least in Harry’s estimation.

“It’s nothing I haven’t encountered before. Students are well-known for hording literature of dubious merit.” McGonagall retreated into her customary brisk manner to hide the barest hint of embarrassment. “Why Sirius Black…Well, those were different times.”

“Was it one of those trashy romance novels?” George teased.

“Students tend to keep those right out in the open,” McGonagall corrected. “Rather like those Patented Daydream Charms your company sells. Wouldn’t you say?”

George accepted the zing graciously from his former Head.

“Perhaps you’d better show us,” Molly put forth. “I’ll decide if punishment is warranted later.”

Ginny sunk even lower in her chair. “It’s nothing like that, Mum. Honest…”

“I admit it must have taken a fair bit of bravery to secure this from the common areas,” the Headmistress continued. “Not that the past administration didn’t plaster them everywhere. I shudder to think what might have happened if anyone other than myself….”

Harry stopped listening as the scroll of parchment expanded and attached itself to the nearest wall. In the sudden hush, it unfurled to reveal the wanted poster that the previous regime had displayed from the Ministry itself to Diagon Alley. Instead of his likeness being labeled ‘Undesirable Number One’, however, Ginny had altered the words to read: Desirable Number One.

Harry felt his face go beet red as the laughter erupted around them.

“Seeing as how the other placards have been destroyed that might turn out to be a collector’s item one day,” Hermione chimed in as she struggled to keep a straight face.

“I should say so,” Molly harrumphed. “Where did you find such a thing?”

“In the girls’ loo, if you must know,” Ginny defended. Despite her obvious embarrassment, dark fire lanced through her eyes.

“Were you afraid Harry was staring at the other girls instead of you?” needled Ron.

“I couldn’t very well use it as a recruiting poster for Dumbledore’s Army, could I?” Ginny shot back.

Minerva allowed herself a tiny cough. “I daresay the posters accomplished that on their own. Although to have said so openly would’ve been ill-advised at the time.”

“Are you going to deduct House Points?” Hermione posed in her patented matter-of-fact tone.

“For conduct unbecoming a Gryffindor? Seems pointless at this late a date. Now if she were a returning student…” It was difficult to tell if McGonagall was joking with only the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth as a clue.

“Let us at least offer you some tea and fresh scones for your trouble,” Molly offered as she made quick wand work out of putting the kettle on.

“Please stay, Professor.” Harry insisted. “Your special delivery far outshines Minister Scrimgeour’s visit last year.”

The light-hearted atmosphere of having been effectively pranked by his former Head of House accentuated Harry’s feeling that his life was totally out of kilter. Despite Fleur and Bill Flooing in from Shell Cottage and Luna from the neighboring homestead, that evening’s birthday party celebration was diminished by the obvious absence of Remus and Tonks.

And Fred, the bereft look George shared with Harry clearly conveyed.

---

The wildness of the terrain outside the window of his rustic villa was invigorating, the salty breezes warm and enticing as they coaxed him awake each morning. The tiles on the terrace were still cold from the night as Harry settled to his light breakfast in bare feet. He would have to don shoes as the surfaces warmed up by midday, but it was refreshing to be in just shorts and a T-shirt as he surveyed the Aegean blue of the waves in the distance.

It was hardly what he’d expected to find. But perhaps the most startling thing was the emblem embroidered on the employee's uniforms. How could the triangle, circle and vertical line that he’d come to associate with the Deathly Hallows also serve as a symbol for the rejuvenation of spirit?

“I should’ve expected no less from a disciple of the great Dumbledore himself,” his welcoming aide had intoned. “It’s a symbol that speaks of balance: of the mind and of the body. Just as in death all things have to be considered, so it is in life.”

His personal counselor, Alexandra, had been more forthcoming. “The circle represents ourselves, body and mind. The triangle is the influence we exert on the outside world; notice how it touches in certain places only, so our sphere of influence is limited. Use it well. No one can be everywhere or be everything to everyone. The line in the middle denotes a balance in all things.”

“So it’s not the cross-hairs of a target?” Harry quipped as he tested the waters.

Much to his relief, she laughed outright. “Spoken like a lad who’s watched too much Muggle television.”

Harry silently allowed that she was probably right on that count -- even if Dudley had always been in charge of the remote control. Aloud, he dared, “What if I were the wizarding equivalent of a hit man?”

“Then you’d hardly be using laser sights on a rifle, would you?”

They had fallen into an easy rapport from that quirky start. Lexxie, as she insisted that he call her, was in her late twenties and often made him feel as if he were back at school �“ an elite version of Hogwarts in a much more agreeable climate. She was just as easy to talk to as she was challenging at times, her unconventional sense of humor drawing him out when others would have just been rebuked by his long silences. It hadn’t taken her more than a day to home in on the source of his troubles.

“There seems to be a recurrent theme to your dreams,” she observed as she doodled on her ever-present clipboard. “Your nightmares, as you would categorize them.”

Amid the distant murmur of the waves crashing against the rocky shore, night terrors seemed eons away. “Right,” Harry allowed. “Mainly that I don’t seem to have any happy dreams anymore.”

“You probably do; they just don’t wake you up. We tend to remember the events of our last dream before waking.”

“Doesn’t it seem like the nightmares have been excessive?” he pressed.

Lexxie shrugged easily as she crossed her tanned legs. “Anything that keeps you from resting properly is problematic. But it’s clear you’re trying to work through things in your sleep.”

“Is that abnormal?”

With an encouraging smile, she responded, “Not at all. But the answers seem to be eluding you.”

“Perhaps there are no answers at all.”

“Certainly that’s how you’re feeling. But you need to narrow your search: find the answers for you alone. You don’t have to find the answers for others.”

He couldn’t keep the sullen tone out of his voice as he intoned, “Not anymore. But if I’d done a better job of it…”

“Others would still be alive, you’re saying.”

Harry nodded wordlessly as he allowed his gaze to shift over the cobalt horizon. It was difficult to tell whether the salty tang was from the ocean or of his own making.

“Why do you feel you bear the burden for others’ actions?” Lexxie coaxed.

“Not for their actions, just for making sure that everything turned out right.”

“Why? Why is this colossal burden yours to bear alone?”

He stopped to consider before stating flatly, “Because I’m the Chosen One.”

“In prophecy. But you, yourself, told me that you didn’t believe in prophecy.”

“I don’t. But others did. My enemies based their whole strategy upon that effing prophecy.”

“So you’re saying you were forced to play according to their rules?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Why didn’t you just walk away?”

Harry gave a long, rueful laugh. “A thousand times since I’ve wished I had. In hindsight, it all seems so obvious. But a first year student has no way to know the consequences of his simple actions.”

“Do you feel you were manipulated then?”

“That’s too strong a word. I trusted in adults to guide me and this is the path on which I was set.”

“By whom?”

“By Dumbledore, I suppose. He always said he had great faith in me.”

“Then it was by his decree that you felt you had no choice but to follow your destiny, as it were,” Lexxie summarized.

“Essentially. But he was right that Voldemort would’ve sought me out even if I’d turned my back on him. That monster was convinced that I was the enemy who had to be annihilated.”

“So if you hadn’t fought, you would’ve found yourself dead.”

“At least that’s what Dumbledore believed; he told me as much.”

“Something tells me you didn’t agree with his assessment of the situation. Am I wrong?”

“Again, it’s revisionist history. The prophecy was vague enough that it could’ve applied to another. Of course I didn’t know that at the start. Merlin, by the time I knew that the source of everything was a vaguely worded prophecy, it was probably too late to change direction!”

“But others knew of the prophecy?”

“Very few,” Harry clarified. “And no one knew the complete wording other than Dumbledore. Not before I knew, anyway.”

“So Dumbledore set you upon this path. The path of your destiny.”

“Right. But wouldn’t that apply to the role of a Headmaster in most cases anyway? He wasn’t as Machiavellian as others have suggested.”

“People can be manipulated with kindness just as much --”

“NO! IT WASN’T LIKE THAT!” Harry took a deep breath as he forced his temper down. “Far too many people are determined to heap blame for their misfortunes on others. As if that absolved them of having any control over their own actions. In the end, all they manage to do is tarnish the memory of someone they once held dear. I’m not like that!”

Lexxie gave him an appraising look. “So if you’d been unhappy, you would’ve been free to say so to Dumbledore’s face?”

“I lost track of how many times I stormed into his office and gave him a piece of my mind. I wasn’t always very diplomatic.”

“You were a child,” she emphasized.

“Having to deal with issues that a child is unprepared for.”

“No one is ever prepared for loss. It can be difficult to accept at any age.”

“Loss? Try devastation! At every turn. Each time I found a small niche to call my own, it was snatched from my grasp!”

“I won’t deny that life is unfair, Harry,” she soothed. “You’ve shouldered a lot from a very young age. It’s why you’ve come to this point.”

“You make it sound like I’m fed up.”

With an arch to her eyebrow, Lexxie prompted, “Aren’t you? Aren’t you railing at the inequities life has thrown in your path?”

He was momentarily caught short. With dawning realization, he admitted, “Right. Is that why my nightmares won’t leave me alone?”

“They’re symptoms of the disquiet you feel.”

“Am I not justified?”

“Very much so,” she confirmed. “But you have to find a way to deal with the feelings that are threatening to overwhelm you. That’s what your dreams are trying to tell you. Didn’t you say that the idea of doing things over again holds some appeal for you?”

“Sure. I’d love to go back and make things right knowing what I know now. But it’s a pipedream. Something to amuse Ginny after the funeral. It made her laugh; that was an accomplishment in itself.”

She gave him a warm smile full of encouragement. “Yes, it was. A ray of hope among the sorrow. The two of you seem to do that for one another.”

Harry gave a casual shrug. “She was one of the few things still there after the dust settled.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“For me,” he answered carefully.

“And you feel guilty because others weren’t so lucky?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Not if their actions were out of my control.”

“They came to my assistance. Followed me into battle, as it were.”

“Did you call them? Send them an owl?”

“No. The call was initiated through an enchanted coin. Neville called the first group; he was the other person who could have fulfilled the prophecy. The members of a study group we had formed in school. I had been their leader, for lack of a better term.”

“So they rallied behind a cause which you represented.” Before he could protest, she continued, “Wouldn’t they have come if Neville had called them, regardless?”

“I suppose so. He did a good job of sowing the seeds of insurrection during my absence. But Neville only sent out the signal because I was there,” he insisted.

“The adults came in the second group, I take it?”

“The members of the Order of the Phoenix; Fred summoned them. He and his twin brother had been involved in that group’s covert wireless programming.”

“So Fred called a group of experienced freedom fighters to assist your specially-trained band of teenagers,” Lexxie summarized. “Do you doubt his judgment?”

Harry shook his head sadly. “No, I’m just sorry he paid the ultimate price for being involved with the lot of us. The same goes for some of those he summoned as well.”

She argued, “Experienced fighters are aware of the risks they face.”

“Don’t make it sound like they were career soldiers!” Harry protested with intensity. “These were ordinary people who felt a need to defend the values they held dear. Remus and Tonks left an infant asleep in his crib to join in the battle. I would never have asked that of them �“ no matter how dire the circumstances!”

Softly, Lexxie countered, “No single man can hold himself responsible for the actions of all the world. You’re being unfair to yourself.”

“I can’t help how I feel.”

“Even if you hurt yourself in the process?”

Harry leapt to his feet. “Why should I be immune? Others are hurting because of me!”

Unperturbed by his outburst, she continued in a modulated tone, “So it’s a penance of sorts; a self-imposed hair shirt. Does it make you feel any better?”

“Why should it?” he huffed.

“Punishment should hurt, in other words.”

“Yes.”

“Why do you feel you deserve to be punished? It seems like you accepted a burden that others would not and took it to victory.”

With a grim twist to his features, Harry attested, “If you’re suggesting I should be dancing among the corpses then I’m no better than the Death Eaters!”

Lexxie’s words were feather-soft as she put forth, “Why are you so determined to consign yourself to Purgatory, though?”

It took him a few extra moments to concede, “I can’t say it doesn’t feel like that at times. How do I find a way to climb out?”

“I don’t pretend to have the answers. You have to find your own road.”

With sudden insight, he postulated, “Is that what I’m trying to do when I confront my demons in the night?”

“The demons are winning.”

“Only because I don’t have the key to their defeat.”

“That key is within you,” she assured him. “You have to find a way to turn your back on them. It’s your guilt that empowers them. Only a flesh and blood enemy can seek you out against your will. Dreams cannot.”

“I can’t stay awake forever.”

“No one expects you to. That’s why I’m here to be your guide in the wilderness. Sometimes a change of scenery helps. Something new and your mind whirls off in uncharted directions.”

With a heavy sigh, he admitted, “Time alone with my own thoughts is what I most dread. I’ve had much too much of that in my life.”

“So invite some friends. The Ministry secured you a spacious villa. This is not a prison; it’s a spa of sorts. Rejuvenation for the mind and body.”

“So I could play Quidditch if I wanted?” Harry’s eyes lit up at the possibilities. He hadn’t played in over a year.

Lexxie gave an easy, melodic laugh. “Not over the edge of those sea cliffs. But I’m sure there are disused fields in the area. Would you like me to arrange something?”

“I’ll have to ask Ginny. She’s the truly rabid Quidditch fan. Well, her brother, Ron, as well.”

“Do you want some books to read on the beach, or perhaps on your breezy veranda?” she suggested.

“I’d rather swim or build sandcastles.”

“A man who likes to work with his hands. We have pottery classes.”

Harry gave a wry chuckle. “Now, that would be yet another form of Purgatory. Save that for any Death Eaters who come this way!”

“Watercolors or other types of painting? Many find the surroundings inspiring.”

Surely, she wasn’t referring to the oil portrait of Dumbledore which adorned the main sitting room. Why it was just as realistic as the one he recalled from the Headmaster’s office. That was clearly the work of a professional.

Now the delicate painting hanging above his bed frame was a different thing all together. Although rendered in the minimalist stokes of Oriental dry brush, the tumble of rocks that rose to a summit above the roiling ocean was identical to the distant headland he glimpsed over Lexxie’s shoulder.

“Is some of the art in the cottages the work of previous residents?” Harry tendered.

“Sometimes. There’s certainly no shortage of talent.”

With a curt wand motion, Harry Summoned the small piece in question. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he pointed towards the glittering expanse of shoreline.

Lexxie compared the deceptively simple brush strokes with the vista before her. Turning a warm smile in Harry’s direction, she commented, “The artist took a few liberties by adding the marble temple at the apex. You have a good eye.”

“So he imagined the ruins in their heyday.”

“Hardly,” she scoffed. “Those crumbling walls you see belong to an abandoned lighthouse. Hundreds of years old, yes, but not an ancient ruin from the classical era.” She gave him a searching look, “Does this mean you’d be interested in setting up an easel of your own?”

“Finger painting is the extent of my ability,” he noted ruefully.

“You can join one of our ongoing classes if you like. Lots of different styles are encouraged.”

“Landscapes aren’t really my cup of tea.”

“I see.” Her eyes danced with devilment as she added, “There are some who wish to recreate mythological scenes of winsome nymphs and satyrs. We can hire some body models so your depictions of the human form are suitably realistic.”

Harry felt the color rising to his cheeks as the import of her suggestion hit home. Without reservation, he shot back, “Cloven hooves and all?”

“Some details are left to the artist’s discretion….Such as whether to drape the women’s bodies in gossamer fabrics.”

Determined to not let her have the upper hand, he returned, “I can barely manage stick figures on a good day, why would I have need of flesh and blood models?”

She shrugged playfully. “Just exploring the possibilities. Life drawing classes always prove to be extremely popular among all residents. Just giving you the opportunity to grow in new directions.”

Harry nearly choked on his pomegranate tea, uncertain whether he had heard her correctly. Had she intended such innuendo? You could never tell with Lexxie, he decided as he noticed her doodling calmly on her clipboard. He let it go, concluding that he was just not used to being treated as an adult.

Stemming the tide of his embarrassment, he proposed, “I’d rather hike to the ruins.”

“Only if you don’t go by yourself.”

“Picnic with Ginny, then.”

“Aren’t you feeling bored in the meanwhile? Restless?” She gave him a piercing look that from anyone else would have made him squirm.

“A bit. I’ve never really been on holiday,” he replied earnestly. He was certain the Dursleys’ escape to that windblown rock didn’t count. That had not been for pleasure, but rather to thwart his persistent Hogwarts letters. “What sorts of things do people do?”

“Sightsee, eat, shop for souvenirs. Mainly relax.” After a moment’s thought, she added with a smirk, “Send glowing postcards to their friends who are stuck at home.”

“Can I send an owl to Ginny?”

“Yes, but she’ll be joining you at the weekend.”

“I miss her.”

“How about this: keep a journal. Put down all your thoughts and then you can turn them over to her when she gets here.”

“I’ve never been very good with words,” he protested.

“No one is �“ when they start. Inspiration comes in unexpected ways when you open yourself up to her. After all, this land has been infused with the elusive breath of muses for eons.”

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Seventeen
Dawlish: A Case of Russian Roulette



It had been the most grueling year of John Dawlish's life. And after twenty-some years in the Auror Department, that was really saying something.

Even his memories of Lord Voldemort's first rise to power paled in retrospect. There had been saboteurs within the Ministry’s bureaucracy then as well. Those who had been brought up to believe in pureblood superiority had no trouble sympathizing with the new faction which was calling itself the Death Eaters. Once initiated into their ranks, there was no backing out, however. Dawlish had seen enough men come to an untimely end in just such a manner.

He had not expected the same lunacy to take hold thirteen years later, however. As it spread its tentacles into the hallowed halls of power, many saw the totalitarian rigidity of those like Dolores Umbridge as nothing more that a return to more traditional ways. By the time their wives, husbands, mothers or fathers were hauled before the Muggle-born Registration Commission, it was too late to object.

Still others had resigned their Ministry posts in protest only to find themselves replaced gleefully by those who wholeheartedly approved of the new ideology. Not that Dawlish suspected that Rufus Scrimgeour was a Death Eater; he'd worked too many hours alongside the man to not know otherwise. But the corruption had spread too deeply by the time Scrimgeour took the helm; Fudge's stance with his head firmly buried in the sand had given too many a free rein to establish their own private fiefdoms within the Ministry's walls.

What good would it have done for him to resign his Auror position? Dawlish knew he was shrewd enough to survive in a hostile climate �“ and just bland enough that he would pass unnoticed. He had weathered rumors that many Aurors had been Confunded at one time or another. Luckily, the new Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, had been quick to absolve him of any true guilt. Perhaps it was because Dawlish had been the first to point out signs that Pius Thicknesse was being manipulated by dark forces. It may have started with the Imperius Curse, but by the end of his abortive term as Minister for Magic, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Thicknesse was a confirmed Death Eater.

In the wake of Voldemort's final defeat, Dawlish had been assigned the task of sifting through those who besieged the new government with offers of information. It had been much the same the first time around, he remembered clearly, even though he'd only been a scant year out of training then. This time, his uncompromising detective work would guarantee that guilty parties could not claim that they had been unwittingly Imperiused unless the culprit could be identified. If the controlling party had been killed, then the wand used to cast the curse would have to be subjected for analysis.

It was grueling work, but Dawlish and his team were slowly recreating the individual duels which had taken place during the Battle of Hogwarts. Eyewitness testimonies could only fill in a portion of the chaotic melee which had taken place in the dead of night. The trail of corpses demanded answers, but tracking down the actual wizards who had dealt the killing blows was not so easily accomplished. Minister Shacklebolt had assured him that evidence amassed by Dawlish's squad would be the cornerstone of war crime tribunals.

His first break had been when Narcissa Malfoy mentioned that she'd no idea what transpired with the wand belonging to her sister, Bellatrix Lestrange. “You'd do better to ask Potter's accomplices,” she'd snorted haughtily. “They made off with it when our traitorous house-elf assisted their escape.”

Although her own son, Draco, had also been disarmed in that confrontation, Narcissa had been quick to point out that she later allowed him the use of her own wand.

Recognizing that Ollivander had escaped at the same time, Dawlish theorized that Bellatrix had been unable to procure a replacement wand before the Last Battle. Yet there was no denying that the crazed woman had battled three at once before meeting her doom at the hands of Molly Weasley. Had Bellatrix strong-armed another to loan her a wand much as the Dark Lord himself had done with her brother-in-law, Lucius?

Dawlish turned his attention to those stray wands which had been recovered among the debris. Many of them contained enough traces of dark magic to clearly belong to Voldemort's faction and not the defenders of Hogwarts. With the assistance of the meticulous records kept in Ollivander's wand shop, Dawlish had been able to identify wands carried by Yaxley, Dolohov, Thicknesse, and Travers. Why he'd even found Snape's wand hardening in a pool of dark blood next to the man's lifeless body. A grisly reminder that those who aligned themselves with scorpions �“ even if only for appearance's sake -- often got stung in return.

He turned the last wand over in his fingers, the one which refused to give up its secrets. Voldemort's wand. A reddish yew on the surface, its core contained a phoenix feather from the same bird as that of Harry Potter. With his thumb, he traced the barely discernible imprint of rat teeth that marked where Peter Pettigrew had salvaged it from the rubble in Godric's Hollow so many years before. Had the duplicitous rodent known even then that his dark master would one day rise again? Or had he wanted the wand as a gruesome souvenir of his dastardly achievement? Only one thing was clear: as the Potter's Secret-Keeper, Pettigrew would've had no trouble accessing the site despite any lingering remnants of the Fidelius Charm. Of course, no one had questioned why Voldemort's husk had been found at the blasted house but not his wand. They had assumed that its wood was scattered among the matchsticks that remained of the quaint cottage.

Just one of the many assumptions that had been made by one Cornelius Fudge when he arrived on the scene that night. Tied everything up neatly with Pettigrew's ‘murder’ the following day. Dawlish shook his head at the immensity of their folly. He was not about to disregard the convoluted trail of the wands this time. He owed it to Kingsley, to Potter, to Black �“ may he rest in peace. Merlin, he owed it to the wizarding population of Britain.

This time, the wand had been found next to the madman's corpse in the shattered remains of the once Great Hall. Nothing should have been simpler to catalog. Yet by numerous accounts, the Dark Lord has used another, different wand for the final confrontation: a strangely carved instrument of sinister grey wood with dark accents. A long, skeletal finger even more colorless than the Dark Lord’s hand itself. Various descriptions of the carvings which ringed the wand’s length had left Dawlish thinking of malignant nodules of the Black Death which had decimated Europe during the Middle Ages.

Nevertheless, a wand whose origin was unclear and which had since disappeared from the scene.

By all accounts, Harry too had been using a ‘borrowed’ wand; namely, the hawthorn one he had taken from Draco Malfoy in order to make his escape. But somehow in the wake of the Final Battle, Harry had managed to repair his original holly wand and then personally returned Draco's to him while the Malfoy family huddled in a corner. Minister Shacklebolt had attested to this personally, adding, “Potter was the only one to approach that group. Everyone else treated them as pariahs.”

A sentiment that made perfect sense to Dawlish. He couldn't quite bring himself to fully trust the Malfoys, despite all the cooperation Narcissa and Lucius had only been too keen to provide to his department. He found himself double-checking those facts with another source whenever possible. Outward appearances aside, that Lovegood girl had been a wealth of information about the goings on at Malfoy Manor �“ quite on par with a Ministry mole. He'd just had to learn how to keep her rambling down to a minimum.

Yet many unanswered questions still plagued Dawlish. Why had Harry not mended his own wand before? Kingsley had simply explained that the lad required the unique wand he'd won from Voldemort to do so, but had refused to elaborate further. In Dawlish's opinion, there was considerably more to that story; he could see it swimming in the depths of Shacklebolt's dark eyes. But there was no way to compel the Minister for Magic to divulge state secrets, either.

So it came to be that Dawlish found himself dodging the crowds in Diagon Alley that fine August morning. The sound of tireless workmen mingled with the chatter of throngs of shoppers who wove in and out among the scaffolding. He wisely avoided the roundabout where the new spa, Beauty At Any Cost, had recently opened amid much manufactured fanfare. He recoiled involuntarily as a break in the crowd revealed the freshly peroxided head of Rita Skitter just exiting the gilded doors.

There was no denying that the warm city air was tinted with optimism as a record number of families were outfitting their children for school. Hogwarts was bracing for a veritable onslaught of first years as those who had prudently stayed away during the past year would need to be accommodated. The Ministry itself had assisted the Headmistress in locating all the Muggle-born witches and wizards who had turned eleven in the past two years and issuing them apologies along with specially drafted invitations. Rumor was that McGonagall herself had visited an unprecedented number of families to offer special assurances and newly created vouchers to cover school supplies. Anything to convince those wary parents who were just coming to terms with the wizarding world.

No one took notice of the graying Auror as he worked his way past cages of hooting owls and youngsters braying for the newest Quidditch equipment as ice cream cones melted in their hands. He was not surprised to see a long queue outside of Ollivander's wand shop; he'd been warned of such in reply to his owl and directed to the employee entrance at the rear.

His knock was answered swiftly by a youngish clerk who immediately thanked him for his punctuality. Then in the same breath, he directed Dawlish to a private office before excusing himself to tend to the bustling counter in the front room.

At the urging of Dawlish's wand tip, the stack of long boxes that were piled atop the sole chair rearranged themselves neatly against the wall. He settled to wait for the fabled wandmaker to extricate himself from those seeking assistance with their child's first major magical accessory.

“Forgive me,” Ollivander heaved not fifteen minutes later. “Too many parents remember their own first experiences in my shop and insist that I be the one to see to the rest of their family.”

“Such loyalty is an asset,” Dawlish remarked pleasantly after the standard greeting.

“But it is the wands themselves that select the wizard,” Ollivander crooned. “My assistants have been well trained for the occasion.”

“Then you won't mind that I, too, came to see you about a wand?” Dawlish ventured.

“Replacements for the Department or just yourself?”

“Neither. A mystery I'm trying to unravel,” the Auror clarified as he removed the bundled wand from the pocket of his dark robes.

With studied care, Ollivander placed the object in the center of his hastily cleared desk. As he removed the last layer of protective silk, his eyes grew in intensity as well as recognition.

“Why this is no mystery at all. This is the wand I sold to a young Tom Riddle; I remember that day as if it were yesterday.”

“Yet it was not the wand he was holding at the time he fought Harry Potter for the last time.”

The wandmaker hesitated briefly before he uttered in a bare whisper, “No, I expect not. Voldemort had long been seeking another wand, one which would not react to the twin core within Potter's own.”

“Potter was using Draco Malfoy's wand in the battle. Since he helped you to escape Malfoy Manor, I suspect you knew that firsthand.”

“Yes, Harry's own wand was beyond repair. The wand he captured from Draco served him well in its stead. How unfortunate that I was too weak to fashion a new one for him myself.”

“Don't trouble yourself, Potter has gone back to using his original wand. The one that you yourself matched him with seven years ago.”

If he had expected Ollivander to question how, he was sorely disappointed. Instead the wandmaker issued an inscrutable smile. “More evidence that the wizarding world is returning to normal,” he commented enigmatically.

“And you have no idea how this was possible?”

“I have a cauldron's worth of ideas, but no real facts.”

“Any theories on why Voldemort went to the trouble of securing another wand when he would not be facing off against Potter's original one?”

“The simplest explanation of all: he did not anticipate it. He was too focused on how his previous encounter with Potter had resulted in cracking asunder the wand he'd procured from Lucius Malfoy.”

“But surely his followers told him that Potter and his gang had Disapparated with captured wands in hand?”

“So I would surmise. And the adventures of Harry's phoenix core wand were waiting to be read from the two wands his friends left behind. Hermione fretted endlessly about this while I regained my strength at Shell Cottage.”

“Then by your own admission, Voldemort's actions make no sense!”

“Only one madman can make sense of the actions of another,” Ollivander supplied cryptically.

“Don't expect to satisfy me with worn platitudes!” Dawlish rebuked.

“Would it surprise you that the original wands belonging to Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Dean Thomas were burned in the fireplace at Malfoy Manor? After being snapped in two, of course. Standard procedure for prisoners you wish to incapacitate; they had done much the same to me when I arrived many months earlier.”

“How do you know this so conclusively?”

Ollivander placed a long finger alongside his nose for emphasis. “Even in the dungeon, I could smell the fragrant mixture of wood smoke.”

“Why then was Potter's wand not burned with the others?”

“There was a fourth wand; blackthorn, I believe, by the acrid after-scent. Although I do not believe its original owner was present… Likely Harry was using it while the pieces of his broken holly wand were tucked away for safekeeping.”

“Then the Death Eaters would've known that they had failed to destroy the wand that was so problematic to their master along with the others,” Dawlish concluded.

Ollivander returned a sad smile. “Surely if Voldemort had shifted through the ashes. Snakes have a highly developed sense of smell.”

Dawlish took a minute to reconsider his next question. In light of the uncertain facts, Voldemort’s use of an alternate wand would've still seemed a prudent precaution. “So this wand before us just fell out of Voldemort's robes? Is that the best explanation we can devise for its presence at the Last Battle?”

Ollivander shrugged. “Considering how many of his followers had been disarmed by then, it’s likely he loaned its use to another. After all, he could no longer depend on torturing me to craft new wands like I did in Pettigrew’s case. By then, I had slipped through his greedy fingers as well.”

What a ruddy Devil’s Snare! Near-sighted jugglers couldn’t have made a bigger mess of it! Dawlish grumbled for the hundredth time. It just made him that much more determined to get to the bottom of things. With so many eyewitness accounts of the climatic events in Hogwarts Great Hall, it should have been a simple matter. “Bugger that!” he groused under his breath as his weary eyes zeroed in on the portion of his notes that were flatly refusing to conform to established facts.

Wielding Wizard
Details of Wand
Acquisition

Voldemort
pale/black trim
?/verified by multiple witnesses

??
yew, found next to Voldemort's dead body
Purchased from Ollivander by Voldemort himself


Harry Potter
hawthorn
belonged to Draco Malfoy, won by disarmament

Ron Weasley
chestnut
belonged to Peter Pettigrew, won by disarmament

Hermione Granger
walnut
belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange, won previously by Ron, loaned to Hermione

Draco Malfoy
silver birch
belonged to Narcissa Malfoy, loaned by mother

Bellatrix Lestrange
??
none found, witnesses attest she was armed

Dawlish's mind reeled from the implications. It just couldn't be! Yet he'd ruled out all the other wands, hadn't he? He was not about the jump to the most obvious conclusion à la Fudge, he reminded himself forcefully.

Without realizing he'd voiced his thoughts aloud, Dawlish muttered, “But why would Voldemort have rewarded his minions in such a manner when they'd failed him yet again?”

“I have no doubt that the punishment exacted on the residents of Malfoy Manor was grave indeed. By all accounts, it was Bellatrix Lestrange who summoned him to witness their triumphant capture of the Chosen One himself.”

“So, by all counts, she should’ve been punished the most severely,” Dawlish argued.

Ollivander's voice was a dry as a tomb as he replied, “She was.” As if he could read the very questions streaming through the Auror's mind, he elaborated, “Your mistake is to think that wielding the Dark Lord's own wand would be considered a sign of favor. Quite the contrary; it had already been established as a flawed weapon, especially when used against Potter. So Bellatrix was sent to do battle with a wand that could not be used against their greatest enemy.”

“Could it have been his intent that she fall to Potter?” Dawlish considered as a whole new vista opened up before him.

“Possibly. Certainly the irony would’ve seemed fitting. Or perhaps Voldemort just wanted to ensure that, in her zeal, Bellatrix didn't accidentally cut down the ultimate prize.”

“Then why won't this wand reveal its last spells to me like all the others have?”

It took a mere moment for Ollivander to address the question which had burned in Dawlish's gut for weeks. “Perhaps because this particular wand succumbed to the Priori Incantatem so spectacularly in the past. Its secrets must now be unlocked by someone who's won its favor.”

Ollivander's references to wands as living beings was unsettling even in the best of times, Dawlish considered inwardly. Aloud, he tendered a more politic response, “I'm not certain I follow.”

“If you assume Bellatrix was burdened with this wand, who defeated her in battle?”

“Molly Weasley.”

“Then that is the person whom the wand now recognizes as its true master. The spell will likely work for her alone.”

With hurried words of thanks, Dawlish grabbed the disgraced wand and its wrappings in one hand as he quietly exited into the side alley.

---

He was surrounded by an ocean of molten gold as he dropped the spent Portkey in the dusty lane. Before him was the most peculiar structure, rather like a beehive that had been cobbled together by drunken drones. Yet the multiple chimneys identified it as a wizarding habitat, at least in Dawlish’s estimation.

The worn wooden gate opened at his touch. Placing his heavy work shoes carefully on the moss-draped stones, he made his way towards the front porch. As he drew nearer, a mad flapping of wings turned out to be nothing more than an ordinary clothesline. His nostrils could still recall the fresh scent of sun-dried linens from boyhood visits to his grandmother. The Auror found himself smiling unconsciously as he raised his hand to knock.

He could hear noises through the open sheers as a harried voice called out, “Back already, girls? Weighed down with purchases?”

He considered his response as a soft gust carried with it the briefest hint of autumn. Just as the burnished amber of the tall field grass proclaimed the end of the growing season, fall
would soon be upon them this far upcountry. Climbing the length of a weathered rain pipe, the tangled trellises were determined to hold onto their fat blossoms until the very end.

An auburn head was visible through the gauzy glass for an instant before the door cracked open. “Excuse my appearance,” Molly Weasley issued pleasantly as she rubbed her wet hands upon her apron. “We don’t often get visitors out here in the West Country.”

“Forgive my intrusion,” Dawlish replied formally as he held out his Ministry credentials for her review. “I was hoping you could assist me with an ongoing investigation, Mrs. Weasley.”

Molly gulped as she looked up at him apprehensively. “Did something happen to Arthur? My husband tends to get rather preoccupied at times… and accidents, well…”

He cut her off gently before she worked herself up with worry. “I’m sure he’s fine --”

“But you’re not certain,” Molly cut across. “Oh, sweet Merlin…. Why don’t you come inside while I check? That wouldn’t be too much of a bother, would it?”

“Not at all,” Dawlish concurred with an indulgent smile.

He expected her to turn towards the kitchen hearth just visible through the doorway and made as if to assist her with the Floo pot resting atop the mantle. Instead Molly hustled past him into the main sitting room, setting the foil trimmings of a basket of chocolate frogs trembling in her wake. Only a faint dusting of cake flour floated in the spot where she had been standing seconds before.

“Oh, dearie me,” she fretted as she gazed into the face of an ancient grandfather clock. “I don’t have hands for all of them!”

The experienced Auror barely stopped himself from chuckling at an image lifted from his own childhood in Dartmoor. “Forgive me for staring, but I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

“Fallen out of favor, they have.” Molly clearly relaxed as she noted that none of the golden hands were pointing to ‘mortal peril.’

“You have a rather large family,” Dawlish commented as he approached the specialized clock. Arthur’s hand was pointed to ‘work’ while hers was clearly labeled ‘home.’

Warming to the subject, Molly elaborated with a hint of pride, “Percy works at the Ministry also, executive branch. Bill’s at Gringotts Bank. George has premises in Diagon Alley where my youngest son, Ron, is helping him out today.”

Peering closely, Dawlish could just make out four slightly shorter hands clustered next to their father’s. “What about this one? Charlie, is it?”

“He’s a dragon handler in Romania.”

Which explained why his name was nestled securely between ‘work’ and the next designation which read ‘abroad,’ Dawlish thought to himself.

As an afterthought, Molly added, “Bill’s marker used to rest right next to Charlie’s when he was working in Egypt. He’s a curse-breaker, see. Settled for a home post when he got married.”

Seeing another pointer which lay, unused, near the base of the glass, he ventured, “So the extra marker is for your new daughter-in-law.”

Molly’s hands bunched her apron convulsively in reply.

Too late, Dawlish realized his mistake as he read the faint tracings of a name on the lifeless hand: Fred.

“Forgive me for being an insensitive clod,” he beseeched into Molly’s swimming eyes. “I should’ve made the connection when you mentioned Diagon Alley. Everyone knows Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. A true success story.”

“We’ll see,” Molly returned wetly. “Innovation is not so easy to come by these days. George isn’t used to going at things alone.”

Trying to turn things in a less sensitive direction, Dawlish inquired, “So your daughter, Ginny, is shopping today?” He nodded towards the remaining indicator that was firmly planted at ‘errands.’

“Yes,” Molly returned as if she relished the opportunity to shake off her sadness. “She’s invited to the seashore and needs to get some presentable clothing. She’s too grown up to show up in the shabby playthings she wears at home.”

“Did I come at an inconvenient time?”

“No, no. She’s with a girlfriend. They’ll be gone for hours.”

“Unless they buy out the store.”

“Hermione will just pull her towards the Muggle shops,” Molly chortled. “You know how girls are.”

“Not personally, no,” he admitted with self-effacing charm.

“No? You don’t have any children of your own, Mr. Dawlish?”

“It’s John, please. That way I won’t be breaking Auror protocol by admitting that I have two sons. But my wife and I haven’t lived together for years.” To Molly’s sympathetic gaze, he found himself adding, “The strain of the Auror Department took its toll, I’m afraid.”

“Of course. You came to ask me about a case. Oh my, it isn’t about Harry, is it? Harry Potter?” She flashed an agonized glance at the clock face once more, frowning slightly when the reassurance she sought wasn’t there.

“Only indirectly,” Dawlish soothed. “Would it help if I could confirm Mr. Potter’s continued good health?”

“Yes…but how?” Her luminous eyes were uncertain and hopeful at the same time.

“May I?” he indicated the extra hand and waited for her permission before picking it up. “My Nan had a clock just like this and she was always adding new grandchildren in favor of other relatives. It’s a simple spell, really.”

He instructed Molly to bring the golden hand bearing Fred’s name to her lips while picturing whom she wished it to represent. The carved letters faded into the shiny background as Dawlish commanded it towards the clock cabinet with a peculiar wand motion. As the letters to Harry’s name rose from the depths of the metal, the new marker swung towards an unoccupied position marked as ‘on holiday.’

“Ooooh,” Molly crooned as she heaved a noticeable sigh of relief. “We haven’t used that since Arthur took the entire family to visit Bill in Egypt! That was a few years back �“ when he won the Grand Prize Galleon Draw.”

Not wanting her to dwell on how unlucky they’d been in the intervening years, Dawlish smiled reassuringly to indicate that times were on the mend.

“How ever will I explain to Bill’s wife that she’s been passed over, though?” Molly countered with an impish grin.

“Just blame it on me. Interfering brute and all that.”

Affirming that such a compact required them to share a convivial glass of lemonade, Molly ushered him towards the kitchen table. A hint of movement caused Dawlish to take one last look over his shoulder. The hand with Harry Potter’s name had inched itself nearer to the adjacent designation which was ‘abroad.’

No wonder Kingsley had stressed that Dawlish’s investigation should be conducted without the lad’s input if at all possible. Not that he could blame Harry for taking a bit of extra time to sort himself out, he mused inwardly. The last year had been traumatic for all concerned.

Molly set out the glasses with a practiced whoosh of her wand. Before she could upend the icy pitcher, though, a chorus of warbling bluebirds fluttered into a ring about her head. With a start, she bustled over to the oven and Levitated a number of golden tarts onto the open windowsill to cool.

Dawlish laughed openly. “Your family certainly has a number of unique timepieces.” He nodded towards the one on the kitchen wall that just specified daily chores. Its single hand was firmly planted on ‘something’s in the oven.’ The bluebirds were chirping as they resettled themselves within a small nest atop the wooden frame.

“One of Arthur’s passions, I’m afraid,” Molly provided as she set a plate of strawberry crumpets before him.

“From his days in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?”

“Now, Auror Dawlish �“ John,” she replied to his teasing. “It’s not contraband when wizards fashion items inspired by the Muggle world for their own use. Especially when they’re not used for ‘Muggle-baiting’, as the expression goes.”

“Wireless transmissions and magical cameras come to mind almost immediately.”

“Exactly.”

“How did you come about the unique kitchen timer? I’ve never seen that for sale in Diagon Alley.”

Molly gave him her most disarming smile. “My family’s never been much for store-bought items. Arthur had a number of parts left over from some jinxed cuckoo clocks that were just gathering dust in his workshop. The boys helped him to rework the pieces into a useful gadget and gave them a more cheerful coat of paint in the process. That was the first Christmas after the twins learned to walk unaided; I think they took pity on their poor mother whose attention was often so divided that she burned a dinner or two.”

“Very ingenious.” The sweet, buttery aroma was mouthwatering. “What type of pies?”

“Coconut custard. They’re a friend’s favorite.”

“Don’t let me hinder you from your guest preparations then.” Dawlish made as if to get to his feet.

“Nonsense,” Molly decried. “I’ll just take her a few in time for afternoon tea. That’s hours away.”

“Nonetheless, I should get down to business. I have to account for how I spent my hours away from the office.”

“Quite right,” Molly affirmed as she sat up a little straighter. “You said you were in the midst of an enquiry.”

Briefly, the senior Auror outlined the progress and stumbling blocks he’d encountered in his analysis of the Last Battle.

“Ask away then,” Molly urged. “I was present myself -- although I gather you already knew that.”

“It’s about your encounter with Bellatrix Lestrange. We can’t seem to trace the wand she was using. She’d been disarmed by your son, Ron, as he and his friends escaped from enemy clutches at Malfoy Manor. Her original wand, a walnut model, was later used by Hermione Granger when she impersonated Madam Lestrange in order to access her Gringotts vault.”

“I’m fairly certain Hermione turned over the walnut wand to the Ministry. Mr. Ollivander was kind enough to carve replacement wands for both her and Ron. Brought them here himself not too long after the memorial service.”

“I’m actually more concerned about the wand Bellatrix used during her duel with you. Do you think you could identify it?” Dawlish tentatively unwrapped Voldemort’s wand and placed it on the table. It seemed strangely out of place among the bucolic surroundings.

Instantly on alert, Molly examined the wand from all angles without actually touching it.

It’s as if she can sense the aura of evil that clings to that wooden stick, Dawlish mused to himself.

Finally she looked up with a small frown. “I’m afraid I can’t rightly say. My attention was focused on protecting my daughter, Ginny. Bellatrix didn’t look like she was out-numbered as she defended herself against three at once.”

“Understandably. Still this wand has refused to release its secrets.”

“Not even to its owner?”

“Its owner is dead, I’m afraid. But if it’s indeed the one you won in battle, it may respond to you.”

With a grim nod, Molly followed Dawlish’s careful instructions and placed her wand tip to tip with the other. “Prior Incantato,” she intoned with careful diction.

There was a short pause wherein the defeated wand trembled for a moment before deciding it had met its match. Brief flashes of multicolored spells darted in all directions to recreate Bellatrix’s duel against Ginny, Hermione and Luna. With repeated uses of the incantation, they methodically peeled back the past to uncover the last successful spell.

“Here it comes,” Dawlish warned as a wisp of silvery smoke rose as if from an oversized cigarette.

Molly gasped as the wraithlike form of Tonks was so distinct that even her hair was rendered a vague pink color. “Oh, sweet Merlin and his divine cohorts!” Molly moaned. “That lunatic cut down her own niece. This is going to kill Andromeda. Her very own sister…”

“I can’t say it comes as a total surprise,” Dawlish allowed as he placed a comforting hand over Molly’s trembling one.

“Tonks herself said that her aunt had been intent on bringing her down when she helped Harry escape to safety.”

“Around the time of his seventeenth birthday?” Dawlish clearly remembered having to lie low during those days. His pretense at absent-mindedness had so aptly mirrored the Confundus Charm that he was left to his own devices with his mental faculties fully intact.

Molly gave a shaky nod. “Hard to discount when Ron told the same story, though. He was partnered with Tonks during that mad flight.”

Dawlish pressed his lips into a straight line as he considered Narcissa’s testimony. Bellatrix had been unhinged with joy when the Dark Lord expressly assigned her to trim the diseased branches on her family tree. Knowing that would distress Molly further, he wisely kept silent.

“I won’t impose upon your hospitality any longer, Molly. I’m truly sorry such a pleasant visit had to end on such a jarring note.” Dawlish hastily stuffed the guilty wand into his Auror robes and rose to his feet.

“Just one moment!” Molly protested.

Dawlish gave a polite bob of his head. “Of course, how could I forget? I trust you’ll keep our conversation confidential.”

He raised his wand to impose the Confidentiality Constraint but Molly caught his wrist sharply.

“Standard procedure,” he explained into her fiery eyes.

“Until you inform the next of kin, right?”

“It’s understandable,” he rejoined as he glanced past the edge of his sleeve. If anything, Molly’s fingers were digging even deeper into his flesh.

“She’s my friend,” Molly hissed.

“Please don’t suggest that I shirk my duty…”

“Yet you ask that of me!” Molly cried with pent up venom.

In one fell swoop, Dawlish understood: Molly was begging for a compromise. “You wish to be present?” he relented. A bit unorthodox; but as long as he was there himself, it really didn’t matter.

“No, Auror Dawlish,” Molly insisted. “It is I who will allow you to tag along when I join Andromeda for afternoon tea. She won’t object if we arrive early. Especially if I bring her some of my lamb curry as an excuse.”

With a determine flick of her free hand, Molly caused the lip of the simmering pot to pour a generous portion into a smaller flask. The redolent smell of apples and exotic spices teased Dawlish’s nose as he stared at the tiny powerhouse before him. Allowing that Molly Weasley’s fortitude was more indefatigable than his own, he submitted to Side-Along Apparition to the Tonks residence.

---

“Shhh!” Andromeda cautioned as she opened the door. “Just got Teddy to settle down. I think he’s got a tooth coming in already!”

“Forgive us for coming a bit early…” Molly began but was interrupted when Andromeda noticed the other visitor.

“I’m Andromeda Tonks,” she issued as she held out her hand in greeting. “Welcome.”

“John Dawlish. From the Auror Department.” He left Molly standing open-mouthed as he added, “I’ve come to pay my respects. Long overdue, I’m afraid. Your daughter was a colleague.”

“Thank you,” Andromeda accepted with solemn grace as she led them towards the formal sitting room.

Catching the scent of dust from the disused rooms, Molly interjected, “Why don’t we sit in the kitchen, Andromeda?”

“Please, don’t alter your routine because of me,” Dawlish insisted.

The kitchen walls immediately reminded him of his grandmother’s apricot jam. The tea things were already arranged on a round table embraced by a sunny window seat. Obviously, Molly was a frequent visitor, Dawlish concluded silently. A tap of Andromeda’s wand caused the kettle to boil immediately and water for the tea arched magically into the waiting pot. The calming aroma filled their nostrils as they seated themselves before a neatly arranged platter of ginger biscuits.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble of baking,” Molly protested, but her friend’s throaty laugh made her back down.

“I didn’t,” Andromeda’s rich voice lilted in return. “They’re from the corner bakery. The bright red buttons attracted Teddy’s attention and I didn’t have the heart to refuse.”

“Gingermen are one of my faves.” Dawlish accepted a biscuit with a genuine smile. “You ladies are determined to revisit the pleasant scenes from my childhood.”

“That’s what grandmothers are for,” Molly whispered as she indicated Andromeda with a flick of her eyebrows.

“Forgive me, Auror Dawlish --” Andromeda ventured as they settled to their first sips of tea.

“John, please,” he corrected amicably.

“Fine. John, then,” she began anew. “I can’t rightly recall my daughter mentioning you.”

“It’s a large department. I was probably included among the brainless blighters in her tender musings.”

Molly chuckled unabashedly as Andromeda issued a bittersweet smile. “How could I ever doubt that you knew her?”

“We didn’t always see eye to eye,” Dawlish allowed light-heartedly. “But that’s to be expected in a disciplined environment. The constraints that keep the idiots from harming themselves tend to infuriate the capable.”

“Then you considered my daughter an accomplished Auror?” Andromeda pondered.

“She had talents the others could only dream of. But Aurors who thinks themselves infallible pose a danger to all. Even Moody, who was rumored to have more lives that a whole colony of cats, met an untimely end. Consequently, it was often necessary to hold Nymphadora back just to maintain the peace.”

“Arthur’s always grousing about the petty jealousies in his department,” Molly interjected. “Almost makes him nostalgic for the easy-going pace when it was just him and Perkins in Muggle Artifacts.”

“Then you can just imagine what a time I had with these two ‘traditional’ types who were assigned to me. Nymphadora rounded out my elite squad that was assigned to Hogsmeade Village.”

Grasping her teacup tighter, Andromeda pressed, “Was that two years ago?”

Dawlish nodded wordlessly as his thoughts drifted back to those miserable months spent patrolling themselves into dizzying circles and achieving little more than getting on each other’s nerves. Cursed objects, poisonings, and mind control. Crimes committed in their very midst while they were powerless to identify the guilty party -- hardly surprising when three-quarters of the possible suspects were off-limits in Hogwarts castle. Dumbledore had been so determined to guard against outside threats when the true danger had walked his very halls with impunity the entire year.

“Everyone was in poor spirits, I’m afraid,” he elaborated to his listeners. “The role of chief cheerleader was not one that suited me very well.”

“Tonks shared some of her frustration when she stopped by for tea during those long months,” Molly volunteered.

“Glad she found an outlet,” Dawlish affirmed. “The other members of my squad were intent on deriding her just because she was a woman.”

“Then it was only Dora’s professionalism that prevented her for hexing them into oblivion,” Andromeda harrumphed. “They should consider themselves lucky.”

“Right shame that,” Dawlish chortled. “Might have made for an amusing interlude during those dreary days.”

“Scottish winters can be downright depressing,” Molly commiserated. “Only a child would consider an ocean of snow a thing of joy. To adults, plowing through the slushy muck is the very definition of misery.”

“I thought the bitter rains in London would’ve prepared me, but I was wrong,” Dawlish supplied. “Not to mention that I was already uncertain of whom I could fully trust.”

“Surely you didn’t doubt my daughter’s loyalty?”

“Loyalty to whom or what became the issue,” Dawlish clarified. “The unspoken tone in the Ministry was already shifting, so to say one upheld those values could just as easily mean someone was buying into the new rhetoric the Death Eaters were subtly introducing.”

Molly nodded sagely. “I think we all felt unsettled during those months. As if a storm was brewing on the horizon and things would improve if it would just break.”

Dawlish gave a rueful smile in acknowledgement. “Only the deluge threatened to wash us away in the wake of Dumbledore’s murder.” Catching Andromeda's eye, he affirmed, “I’m truly sorry your daughter and son-in-law are no longer with us. They will be sorely missed by all of us who knew them.”

“Thank you,” Andromeda mumbled with downcast eyes.

Trying to ease the sudden tension in the room, Molly put forth, “I didn't know you were acquainted with Remus.”

“I wasn't, not in the general sense,” replied Dawlish. “I was always careful to keep a professional distance.”

“Yet you observed....” Molly urged.

“It's what Aurors are trained to do. Trust their instincts and the nuances that they perceive for themselves. Truth isn't carved into stone tablets for easy accessibility.” To his captive audience, he expounded on theories which he had heretofore kept to himself, “Lupin was questioned a number of times concerning Sirius Black. He always acknowledged the personal betrayal he'd felt at the hands of a close friend, but little else.”

Molly added an observation of her own, “At some point, he must’ve substituted his feelings about Pettigrew's dark lies.”

“Exactly,” Dawlish affirmed. “Only no one suspected. The interrogators got a few meaningless tidbits to whet their appetites that always led to dead ends. I watched Lupin play out his hand with ultimate patience and skill. So much so, that I didn't fully comprehend what he had been doing until Black was revealed as the victim and Pettigrew, the traitor.”

“Remus never felt that he could trust the Ministry,” Andromeda supplied.

“Can you blame him?” Molly concurred. “After Sirius was practically railroaded into Azkaban.”

“It's regrettable that he always considered the Ministry to be his enemy,” Dawlish acknowledged. “His basic integrity and intelligence would’ve been a great asset to Kingsley's administration. I'm sorry I never got the chance to tell him so.”

“I so wish his lycanthropy hadn’t hung like a proverbial millstone about his neck,” Andromeda considered.

Dawlish felt compelled to share some of his other musings, “Have you ever stopped to consider why Lupin's status as a werewolf was not commonly known? The Death Eaters knew; Fenrir Greyback was part of their group. And don’t forget, Lupin’s resignation from Hogwarts was precipitated by his affliction being revealed to the entire student body.”

With a slight grimace, Molly provided, “I always found it irrelevant to the man that he was.”

Dawlish gave a curt nod. “Noble sentiments, but hardly in line with public sentiment.”

After a moment’s consideration, Andromeda weighed in, “Remus was a very popular teacher despite everything. Hogwarts instills tolerance in their students as part of their education.”

“True about everyone but the Slytherins,” Molly contended. “After all, it was their Head of House who made it was his duty to unmask poor Remus. Intolerance was more in keeping with Severus' style.”

“Dumbledore kept the story from leaking to the press,” Andromeda countered. “That's what Dora always believed.”

“Possibly,” Dawlish considered, “if the Headmaster had that much influence. I have a much more startling interpretation.” At the expectant faces turned in his direction, he pronounced, “The rumors were squashed by the Death Eaters themselves.”

Molly gave a strangled laugh. “That's just plain barmy -- as my son, Ron, would say. They would’ve delighted in unveiling the monstrous half-breed in our midst.”

“Quite the contrary,” Dawlish argued. “Lupin was the absolute antithesis of Greyback. Kind and considerate, compassionate and cerebral. To expose him as a werewolf would’ve laid waste to the Death Eaters' claims of pureblood superiority. He would've stood as a testament that a werewolf is just as capable as an ordinary wizard �“ if not more so, in this case.”

Andromeda’s eyes grew wide as the implications dawned on her. “You're thinking that they targeted him specifically.”

“I have no evidence to support that,” Dawlish clarified. “Not yet, at any rate. Just being a known member of the Order of the Phoenix made him a target.”

“He was so afraid that Dora’s association with him would endanger her,” Andromeda fretted.

“No more than in her usual role as an Auror,” Dawlish established. “I dare say she didn’t take it well when I recommended her termination to my superiors.”

There was a loud gasp not unlike steam escaping from a whole stove full of kettles.

“Auror Dawlish, I thought you were her friend!” Andromeda rasped. She pulled the tray of ginger biscuits out of his reach as his hand drew near. “We offered you hospitality and you turn out to be a viper in disguise.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Molly clucking her tongue reproachfully.

“Please, ladies….” Dawlish held his hands out before him in a gesture of supplication. “I did what I thought was best for all concerned.”

“Best for the Ministry and its narrow-minded views, you mean!” Andromeda accused as she pushed away from the table.

“So I wanted my superiors to believe,” Dawlish stipulated as he gazed up at her angry features. “Pius Thicknesse was still Head Auror then. Need I remind you of whose side he was on?”

“Rationalize your behavior in whatever way you will,” Andromeda fumed. “You put an expectant mother out on the street. You must have known that Remus was unable to secure steady employment. Without Dora’s paycheck, they had to give up their flat.”

Dawlish returned a doleful expression. “I hoped that would send the two of them into hiding.”

“Perhaps we should hear him out, Andromeda,” Molly interjected diplomatically.

With a huff, the stately woman sat down heavily and leveled a suspicious look at her guest.

“It was a simple matter, really. All I had to do was to present a copy of the marriage certificate and Lupin’s file from Werewolf Registry. Both offices are located within the Ministry itself. Nymphadora barely uttered the words that she was requesting desk duty, as is required of all pregnant Aurors, and Thicknesse slammed the folders on his desk and sacked her on the spot.”

“Forgive me for not understanding the serpentine methodology of the Auror Department,” Andromeda noted in a sullen tone.

“Don’t you see?” Dawlish implored. “If I hadn’t, how long before Nymphadora was dragged before Umbridge's tribunal and strong-armed into turning her father over to the Muggle-born Registration Commission?”

“She would've never done it!” Andromeda spat.

In a spectrally quiet voice, Dawlish tendered, “Do you think those fanatics had any compunction about using torture?”

Andromeda paled. “On a pregnant woman?”

“They wouldn't have let such an insignificant detail get in their way,” Dawlish returned.

“That's monstrous,” Andromeda railed.

“The dementors they used to maintain order are just that: soulless monsters,” Dawlish concurred with a grim set to his lips. “But at least they can be seen for what they are on the surface. Umbridge hid behind fake smiles and dubious legislation.”

“But to subject an expectant mother to dementors could’ve proved fatal to the unborn child,” Molly gasped.

“So much the better, these zealots would’ve told themselves. They would actually be doing her a favor my ridding her of…” At the last minute, he decided against the term ‘profane hybrid’ that Thicknesse had employed. Instead, he finished, “…a deplorable mistake.”

Even so, Andromeda’s outrage hung like daggers in the air before them. “My grandson is no mistake!” she seethed. “He was conceived by two people who loved each other very much!”

“Just be glad you didn't have to argue that before Madam Umbridge,” Dawlish sighed.

Seeking to smooth ruffled feathers, Molly suggested, “Did it not occur to you to warn Tonks of your subterfuge?”

Dawlish ran stubby fingers through his curly grey mop. “Too big a risk; I was sitting on a powder keg as it was. Better that she proclaim undying hatred and be safely out of their clutches by the time those tyrants had second thoughts.” Dawlish recalled the indignation that had burned in Nymphadora’s eyes that day, her lips pressed so tightly they shone like ice. Her hair had treated them to a fireworks display of her unspoken feelings.

“What kind of second thoughts?” Andromeda wanted to know.

“Predatory nature aside, the Death Eaters often reacted from the gut; and Thicknesse was hardly known for his abstract thinking. I wanted your daughter long gone before they snatched at the opportunity to turn her into their pawn.”

Ever the peace-maker, Molly inquired, “How could you work alongside such senseless abusers of power, John?”

“It wasn't always easy,” Dawlish admitted. “But if I could help a few to avoid persecution, I felt I was accomplishing my bit for the resistance. I just had to do it in a very circumspect manner and according to their twisted rules.”

“It’s been a difficult year for everyone,” Andromeda allowed.

“Please tell me the two of them were happy in the few months they had together,” Dawlish insisted.

Andromeda gave a perfunctory nod as she mopped the corner of her eyes with a tissue. “All this hatred reaching a boiling point. Try as I might to draw my immediate family away from it, Fate seemed compelled to punish me for the sins of my parents and sisters.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Andromeda,” Molly soothed as she wrapped a comforting arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Everyone has choices.”

Andromeda returned a tearful nod. “I always dreaded the path my sisters were set to walk. Bella was so determined to blaze a new and glorious trail. All she managed was to sacrifice her own sanity in the process.”

“Surely, a stint in Azkaban was enough to push anyone into the abyss,” Dawlish sympathized.

“There’s no need to make excuses for her, John. I came to terms with the soulless shell my sister had become when she gleefully tortured those poor Aurors into insanity.”

Dawlish shut his eyes tightly against the memory. “I remember the Longbottoms well.”

“I’m long past the point where I can pretend that Bella was just rebelling against authority,” Andromeda asserted.

Dawlish caught Molly’s eye significantly to indicate that the moment had come. “I believe John has some news about your sister,” she began.

Despite Molly’s soothing tone, Andromeda jumped in her chair. The eyes that were turned in the senior Auror’s direction were haunted with misery.

The silence in the suddenly joyless room hung like an icy curtain between them.

“I’ve been trying to recreate the duels from the Battle of Hogwarts,” he began hesitantly. “So many deaths were unwitnessed in the gloom of night.” He could feel Andromeda’s eyes burning into him as he concentrated on the crumbs remaining on his plate. “Just today, I isolated the wand that Bellatrix �“ your sister �“ used that night.”

“The walnut wand was presented to Narcissa by the Minister himself. In memory,” Andromeda posited through strained vocal cords. “I wouldn’t have it myself.”

With quick brush strokes, Dawlish outlined how Hermione had been in possession of the walnut wand at the Last Battle, using it briefly against Bella herself before Molly had taken over. Hermione relinquished it directly into Kingsley’s hands after everything was over.

“We believe Bellatrix was using a wand that had been entrusted to her by Voldemort himself.” Dawlish waited for a look of shock to steal over Andromeda’s face, but she maintained a stoic stance instead. “Analysis of that wand revealed that your daughter, Nymphadora, was cut down by Bellatrix. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such grim tidings.” With a heavy sigh, Dawlish allowed his head to fall forward into his hands. He felt like a careening balloon that had finally run out of hot air.

In a hushed whisper, Andromeda commented, “As much as I’d like to say I’m shocked, Bella’s actions no longer surprise me. I don’t even hold the sister I once knew responsible, John. That young woman died long ago, consumed in the crucible of her devotion to a sadistic overlord. She was manipulated as much as someone under the Imperius Curse. She was mentally unbalanced, a regular bedlamite.”

“I’m so sorry,” Molly crooned as she held her friend’s hand more tightly. “I wish it had been otherwise.”

Looking up into Molly’s swimming eyes, Andromeda proclaimed, “I, too, wish my daughter was alive. But Bella’s finally at peace; no one can take advantage of her anymore. I told you as much when you blubbered that you’d had no choice but to defend Ginny and the other girls. At least you had the opportunity to defend your own daughter…” Andromeda’s chest heaved with a mighty sob, but she didn’t allow herself to succumb. Turning towards Dawlish, she added, “Please don’t think me heartless, John, but I’ve been mourning my sister, Bella, for years now. I’m grateful that she was granted a quick death; Molly knows I don’t blame her. I’m doubly glad that Molly didn’t have to sacrifice herself in the same manner that Lily Potter did so many years ago.”

Dawlish nodded solemnly, awed by the strength that radiated from the majestic woman before him. Despite her unmistakable resemblance to Bellatrix, Andromeda’s eyes shone with intelligence and life. Clearly, she had cast the Black family’s bitterness aside in favor of carrying her forth in her own right.

With a quick glance at the kitchen clock, she slowly rose to her feet and gave Molly’s shoulder a gentle squeeze of appreciation. “John, why don’t you come upstairs and meet my grandson, Teddy?” she offered. “He’ll be waking up from his nap now. You’ll be surprised how much he already takes after his parents.”

Her hand skimming the banister, Andromeda slowly led the way upstairs. Despite the casual slacks she wore, Dawlish was reminded of a long, regal robe trailing behind her as she took each step.

The fragile vulnerability of family ties hit him full force. As the bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore twinkled from the cheerful wall border, Dawlish vowed to himself that he would Floo his sons that very evening. He surprised himself by adding that perhaps things were not as estranged with his wife as he’d previously imagined.

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Eighteen
Harry: Finding his Muse



The squeak of the chair cushion gave Lexxie away as the tray of cool drinks silently settled on the low table before them.

“Do you want to see what I’ve written?” Harry posed as he wrapped his fingers around a tall glass.

“Only if you want to share it with me. Are you a budding Tolstoy?” she teased.

Harry gave a derisive laugh. “Hardly. It’s turned into more of a scrapbook of sorts. Souvenirs and a few random line drawings.”

“Just as long as it pleases you.”

“Who wouldn’t be pleased? I’ve never had such an unstructured assignment in all my days.”

“Do you think I’m being too lenient?” she posed mischievously.

Throwing up his hands, he defended, “I’m not complaining!”

“But you’re enjoying your holiday after all.”

Harry tilted his head in consideration. “It’s not so bad.”

“Then I think I will give you something a little more challenging.”

“Just as long as it’s not about the undiscovered properties of moonstone.”

Rising to the bait, Lexxie urged, “Why not?”

“My Potions Master didn’t much care for my attempt.”

“From what you’ve told me of him, he had a jaundiced eye.”

“To match the rest of him,” Harry concurred. “But he was a brilliant wizard, nonetheless.”

In a bare whisper, she confided, “I doubt he would’ve approved of my approach, either. But if you want to wax poetical about undiscovered properties, be my guest. The more wildly imaginative, the better.”

“He’d say you were asking for gibberish,” Harry volleyed back.

“Then you’d be another Lewis Carroll, wouldn’t you?” She flashed him a cheeky grin.

Harry chortled. “If I admit I’d fare better with a bit more guidance, will you take pity on me?”

His pathetic, puppy-dog face was rewarded with a shining smile.

“Write about your holiday, but not so randomly. Organize it in some manner. Perhaps as a long missive home, a letter to a recluse in a rainy climate who dreams of warm sunlight as he waters his flagging petunias.”

“That would be my Uncle Vernon,” Harry deadpanned. “But my Aunt Petunia wouldn’t droop so much if Vernon didn’t possess such a belligerent attitude about everything on the face of the sodding planet.”

Caught off-guard for once, Lexxie doubled over with laughter. “You just made that up!”

“I’m not really that quick. My aunt’s name is Petunia, honest. You must have read it in my file….” He broke off and joined in with her infectious laughter.

“See what I mean about inspiration? The subconscious is a veritable font of untapped potential.”

“Will I get extra points for creativity?”

“Absolutely.”

Harry gave her the patented Marauder’s grin. “Good, my primary school teacher only cared about punctuation and spelling. Sucked the life right out of every assignment.”

“I, too, had an aspiring dementor as a teacher in primary school,” Lexxie commiserated. “Gave the same assignment each year: What I Did Over Summer Break. I considered writing about how the prospect of the dreaded assignment hung like a millstone about my neck, but I doubted she would appreciate black humor.”

“Nor sarcasm,” he chuckled unabashedly. “But as droll as that sounds, how could it have been worth more than a paragraph at best?”

With merriment dancing in her dark eyes, Lexxie expounded, “That’s where you have to get creative, see. If Hamlet could whinge about being misunderstood for a full three or four pages… Well, I never could resist a good challenge.”

“I’m listening….”

After a moment’s thought, she volunteered, “So I could’ve described how the millstone would drag me down to the bottom of the ocean every time I dove in from the pier. Then detail the microcosm that dwelt at the base of the pilings. Well, you get the picture.”

“Sorry you never did it?”

“Not that year. The gorgon who presided over Written Composition could deliver a Jelly-Legs Jinx with a single glance.”

“I thought you attended a Muggle school,” he protested.

“I did! The worst was having to listen to others get up and read their compositions.”

“Tell me about it! There was this one bloke who always wrote about the elaborate holidays his family took to the most exotic locales.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Perhaps if he could’ve imparted any sense of adventure,” Harry admitted as he thought back to those long forgotten days when he was still Dudley’s favorite punching bag. “Instead, his words were nothing but a checklist of what everyone had for dinner and what sights they visited. No details of any sort.”

“At least the teacher couldn’t accuse him of copying the evocative words from the travel agency brochures. There was a similar blowhard in my class. Every September, like clockwork, he would puff out his chest and crow about the fabulous places his family visited and how they bored everyone else aboard the ocean liner.”

Following her lead, Harry improvised, “They were clamoring for life jackets despite the shark-infested waters.”

“Demanding parachutes as they flew over icy plateaus!” she added. Looking him right in the eye, her words took on a more serious tone. “Then in my final year, a new teacher surprised me.”

“She didn’t present the dreaded assignment?”

“Oh, he did. But he treated us by choosing the best and reading it aloud to the class himself.”

Clearly intrigued, Harry urged, “Was it yours?”

“Hardly, but I might’ve had a chance if I’d stuck my neck out. Much to everyone’s surprise, he read a fantastical tale about a spaceman who lived inside an empty mayonnaise jar and traveled to all sorts of far-fetched locales as long as the pantry door remained closed. Then Mr. Stuffed Shirt squawks, ‘Leave it to Jeffrey to entertain himself while he was being punished.’ To which our teacher gave him a smile laced with pity and pronounced, ‘Can’t you ever read between the lines, Mr. Coates? To me, that’s one of the most sincere representations of term break I’ve ever read. For Mr. Jordan demonstrates how he wiled away the hours by daydreaming.’”

“None of my teachers were ever that open-minded.”

“Perhaps you never gave them the chance.”

Determined to take the most un-Hermione-like approach to his assignment, Harry stared at the blank parchment for what seemed like hours. Then as a sultry breeze tickled the tips of his hair, he mentally conjured the polar opposite: the shiny black asphalt of a London street after a predawn shower. Next came the barely banked curiosity of three unruly teenagers intent upon finding buried treasure in the most unlikely of places. As he embarked upon his own tangent, the tight band around his midsection loosened for the first time in months.

---

He was so intent upon his sentence that he didn’t notice her right away. It was only when he looked up to take a bite of his breakfast yogurt that he found Lexxie sitting in the metal chair opposite him. Her right brow was arched in that uniquely amused expression of hers, a warning that a sardonic comment was on its way. Harry took another spoonful of fruit and waited for her opening gambit.

“Still struggling to meet a deadline? I can commute your sentence if you like. Give you an extension.”

“No need,” he mumbled in return. “The completed assignment is on the desk inside.”

“Then that is…” She waved a fork in the vague direction of his parchment as she speared a chunk of ripe melon from his bowl.

“A continuation of my folly,” he replied after a moment’s thought, falling into the irreverent style they used informally with one another.

“A sequel?”

“Chapter Two, I think.”

She gave him that sarcastic look again. “Have you managed to get a serialization deal while my back was turned?”

Harry chuckled playfully. “You’d be piqued if I let anyone else read it first.”

“Not if it was a literary agent.”

Harry stopped to consider his next move in the verbal chess match. “Do many of your patients resort to a literary career? I’d rather hoped to be an Auror one day; sorry to disappoint.”

Lexxie gave him a conspiratorial grin. “I’d be a lousy camp counselor if I didn’t direct you to entertaining activities.”

Her light-hearted comment brought Harry up short. Not because she was wrong, but because she was so inordinately right. He was enjoying himself. Losing himself in the adventures of his alter-ego and his intrepid side-kicks was liberating; and with Lexxie’s no-rules approach, inspiration had not been long in coming.

He could feel her eyes intently upon him as he ventured, “Feeling proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Said the monster to Dr. Frankenstein.”

“What made you so certain that you had me properly pigeon-holed?”

She shrugged. “A hunch.”

“Sneaky muse blind-sided me!”

“I got that. You’re hoping I’ll share my deductive reasoning with you.”

“Is that against the rules?” Harry prodded.

“We have rules?”

Harry sniggered at her teasing. “I’m allowed to be curious,” he rebounded.

“I suppose you are. But it’s not an exact science…”

“So you didn’t use Legilimency. Disclaimer noted.” He waved his spoon to urge her to continue.

“Can I ask why you’re so curious?”

“Only after.”

Acknowledging that he drove a hard bargain, she relented, “One of your earliest memories was of your aunt reading you and your cousin a bedtime story. You were unhappy when she stopped in mid-stream because your cousin had fallen asleep while you hadn’t.”

“My earliest recollection of being treated as an insignificant insect and that’s what you took from it?”

“Love equals attention, sure. But love also equals story.”

“But I’ve never been one for writing assignments,” Harry sputtered. “Hated having to do the research and then find some way to regurgitate what the textbook had already phrased in a much better fashion.”

“You prove my point. You’re intrinsically different from your close friend, the Homework Queen.”

“Hermione is the Undisputed Homework Queen. Says so on her personal letterhead.”

“And she’s the sort who can’t conceive of anyone approaching things in a less methodical manner.”

Harry laughed outright. “If I didn’t know better…”

“You described her accurately enough for me to fill in the little details. Everyone knows someone like that at school.”

“It took Hermione a few months to realize that if she didn’t allow for others to approach things differently, she was destined to be friendless.”

“Give her credit for that. There are many who never figure that out �“ and certainly not so quickly.”

“Short learning curve. That’s Hermione, too.”

“Yet you instinctively associate school work with her to this day.”

“She kept trying to infuse us with her enthusiasm, even though she no longer judged us when we ignored her.”

“Did she ever read fiction? Anything other than Hogwarts: A History?”

He’d never really given it much thought. “She read other books, but you’re right on the mark, Lexxie. Books were equated with learning in her mind, not with entertainment or flights of fancy.”

No, it had been Remus who had books of literature vying for attention with magical grimoires in his steamer trunk. Tonks often commented that she would regularly find him relaxing in the library at Grimmauld Place. The heavy weight of guilt shifted like sharp stones against Harry’s heart.

“I had a hunch you’d approach things differently given the chance,” Lexxie explained. “So what did you write about? In Chapter One, that is.”

“What I did over my summer term break,” Harry shot back with a grin.

“A parody?”

“You’ll have to decide that for yourself,” he dared. “But I did manage to incorporate some of those elements you admired.”

“Such as?”

“The alternate approach to reality. The adventurous spirit. And while I couldn’t work in the mayonnaise jar, the hero does hide in the kitchen pantry.”

“You took up the challenge,” she confirmed with anticipation.

“The black humor I saved for Chapter Two, though. Where the hero’s gormless relatives are introduced. I didn’t think I could create characters out of thin air, so I basically wrote what I knew.”

“Then it will ring with truth,” Lexxie affirmed.

---

The midday rain shower washed out his sand fortress as effectively as a localized tsunami, driving him back inside earlier than expected. Taking a cue from the weather, Lexxie arrived with lunch and proposed an extra long session that still had Harry's head swimming. But it had been worth it; he now had the rest of the day and evening to himself.

The ozone still lingered in the air as he set out on an afternoon hike. The sun had dried the path in minutes and the breeze sang with the salty tang of the sea. A bit of exercise and his taste buds would be primed for an early dinner, Harry decided with satisfaction. The straggling wisps of clouds would make for a technicolor sunset to savor later over a glass of wine.

The tidal pools were teaming with debris and even sea creatures that had been whipped ashore with the angry swells. He watched a translucent crab scurry sideways, its trail like ancient cuneiform writing across the damp sand. A brownish lump that looked like nothing more than wadded cardboard turned out to be a large aquatic sponge.

But glistening alongside was the true treasure: a long, grooved sea shell which tapered to a fine point at one end. The constant wash of the waves had worn the outside ridges smooth in many places allowing the pearlescent inner layer to peek through. Harry turned it over in his hands as the low sun revealed hidden hues within the iridescent patches. He couldn't help thinking that it looked like a tiny unicorn horn. He tucked his prize into his pocket as the sea birds hawked in protest.

Leaving the eager gulls to their bounty, he turned his attention to the scrub pines which clung tenaciously to the cliff side, their dark green needles still glistening like diamonds. The redolent smell of resin was released each time the wind brushed a few droplets his way.

He doubled back at the end of the short headland. Intent on the swelling whitecaps near the horizon, the sound of conversation did not register until he came abreast of his balcony. With sudden clarity, he raced up the last steps to the veranda.

No wonder Lexxie had been so eager to rework his timetable today. The brief storm had just been a diversion, after all.

“Oh, Harry!” Molly Weasley cried as she swept him up in a massive hug. “You look so much better rested...and fed.”

“Nice tan,” Arthur supplied as he pumped Harry's hand.

Harry's mumbled responses were vaguely incoherent as his eyes sought out the others in the room. There in the far corner, chatting happily with Lexxie, was Ginny. Her brown eyes caught his almost immediately as her face broke out in a radiant smile.

“It's just wonderful!” she gushed as she released him rather quickly before the probing eyes of her parents. “We saw you on the path below and Lexxie hurried us to the villa to surprise you.”

“The full tour comes later,” Lexxie promised. “Today, I requested afternoon tea in honor of our English guests.” A flick of her wand revealed a laden sideboard in the adjoining kitchen area. The cups began magically filling themselves as she excused herself to see that the luggage had been properly routed by the reception desk.

Plates heaping with all manner of delicacies, they settled themselves in the sitting room. Through the glass doors to the veranda, the majestic ocean seethed restlessly towards the horizon. It was a vista which temporarily halted the conversation as the newcomers drank in their fill.

“It a bit like Egypt,” Arthur noted in a awed tone.

“The rocky coastline similar to the desert?” Molly protested. “Are you mad, dear husband?”

“Just pleasantly deranged,” he answered as he patted Molly's knee lovingly. Addressing Harry directly, Arthur elaborated, “It's the panorama, see. An ocean of water or a sea of sand. Either one makes us seem puny and inconsequential in comparison.”

“Not to mention that was the last time we were on holiday,” Ginny noted.

“That too,” her father concurred.

“How is everyone doing back home?” Harry politely inquired.

“Swimmingly,” Arthur replied. “Kingsley's taking firm control of the Ministry. Trying to sort those who collaborated with the Death Eaters out of fear from those who really bought into the twisted ideology.”

“We hardly even see Percy,” Ginny volunteered. “Even though Mum assures us he's given up his London flat and moved back into the Burrow.”

“And just whose owl do you think you've been using to keep in touch with your friends?” Molly posed.

“Well, Hermes' about,” Ginny confirmed. “But that's only circumstantial.”

Harry chuckled lowly as he caught her impish expression. “What about Ron and Hermione?”

“All ready and excited about returning to Hogwarts,” Molly attested.

“I suspect Ron will miss helping out at the joke shop,” Arthur confessed. “It's more like play than salesmanship in his eyes.”

Harry nodded as he imagined Ron's loopy grin while demonstrating the latest gadget to an eager throng. If it backfired on him, it would be even more hilarious. “Business has been good then?” he posed.

“Better than I rightly expected,” Arthur observed. “Diagon Alley is awash with new optimism even if George is a bit slow to catch the spirit.”

“Go on, Mum,” Ginny whispered under her breath. “You know you're just dying to break the news.”

“Bill and Fleur are expecting!” Molly cried as she clapped her hands in delight. “A baby, you know. Not some ruddy package like the lot of you are apt to claim.”

“A special delivery indeed,” Arthur beamed.

“When?” was the only thing Harry could think to offer in return.

“Late April or early May,” Ginny supplied.

“Fleur's only a few weeks along, but a witch always knows,” Molly affirmed sagely. “She has a certain glow about her already.”

“Molly returned from getting Ron's school things in Diagon Alley to find the Burrow ablaze with lights,” Arthur explained.

“I confess my first thought was of burglars,” Molly tittered.

“From all the noise and clatter that was coming from the upper floors,” Arthur clarified. “So as she waded her way through a cloud of dust, wand at the ready, it turned out to be nothing more than Bill rummaging in the attic.”

“The ghoul was a bit put out,” Ginny interjected. “I could hear his peculiar grunts of displeasure as he lobbed things about.”

“Where were you?” Harry wondered.

“I took refuge in the orchard,” she explained. “That way nothing could be blamed on me later.”

“Turns out Bill was searching for Ginny's old crib,” Molly continued. “Wanted to make sure that I didn't offer it to Mrs. Granger.”

Ginny flashed him a look that begged what Jeanette Granger would want with a faded third- or fourth-hand crib.

“Did he find it?” Harry urged.

“Eventually,” Arthur conceded. “After the rest of us returned home to lend a hand. George recalled he'd helped his brother to disassemble it �“ with the unexpected facility for tools unique to boys the world over. Molly then remembered reducing it and tucking it into the back of a disused bureau. The drawer was labeled 'baby things', but Bill assumed there was nothing but hand-me-down clothes inside.”

Lexxie returned with the suitcases and trunk and expertly Levitated them in the proper directions.

Taking the lead, Harry offered, “Arthur and Molly, you'll have the double bed in the back bedroom. I'm afraid it doesn't have as wide a view of the ocean as the other but the scent of night flowering jasmine flows in from the garden. Ginny, you're in the small study there at the end of the hall. Yes, the room with the desk. The settee folds out into a bed.”

“Where should I hang my things?” she asked.

“There's no closet, I know. But there's large closets in the two other rooms, so we should be able to share.”

It was only later, when they had all settled down to sleep after a late supper, that Harry recalled he’d forgotten to ask after Charlie.

---

The next day, he found her sitting at the desk that overlooked the craggy headland in the distance. It was a favorite writing spot of his, especially when the late summer sunsets colored the restless sea with all manner of improbable hues. There was no denying that the landscape was inspiring; and in less than a week, Harry had come to see what had drawn Dumbledore himself to this very site.

Or was it just the presence of his very own muse that enticed him?

“I’m sorry if I was poking about,” Ginny stammered as she hastily rose to her feet. He could see that his current manuscript had been tucked to the side and the folder with the beginning chapters lay open on the desktop.

“I often scribble here in the afternoons,” Harry allowed with a reassuring smile. “If those journals were that confidential, I would’ve removed them to my trunk before you arrived.”

“Still should’ve asked permission first,” Ginny maintained. “Guess I got caught up in the plot.”

“Oh.”

“That’s a compliment.”

A bit awkwardly, he acknowledged, “Thanks.”

“I just felt compelled to go back to the beginning. Didn’t want to miss a crucial clue that would unmask the perpetrator in the end.”

Harry laughed at her obsessive approach. “It’s not that kind of a mystery. Voldemort does it -- or rather tries to. I’d like to think the hero prevents the pall of darkest evil from settling over the land.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“Haven’t gotten there yet. These things take on a life of their own,” Harry candidly admitted.

“So there’s more characters to be introduced besides Ron, Hermione, and the hapless Muggles?”

He knew what she was getting at, but wasn’t ready to give in just yet. Aloud, he tendered, “Sure, Tonks and Remus are waiting at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.”

“So they board the Hogwarts Express?”

With a casual shrug, he replied, “I couldn’t come up with anything to top your dad's flying Ford Anglia so I went with the traditional approach.”

“Do I figure in the tale?” Ginny asked point blank, the glow from the sunlight against her radiant hair giving her an aura of sorts.

“Of course. You’re the love interest.” At her quizzical look, he elaborated, “Something that has to be introduced with delicate strokes. A hint of flowery perfume before she flits tantalizingly out of reach. You do remember Professor Slughorn’s Amortentia Potion?”

By the coloring of her cheeks, it was clear that lesson had been presented to her class as well. “You make it sound like she’s a right vixen,” she protested.

Looking deeply into her warm eyes, he clarified, “Elusive. Like a rare butterfly.”

A blue morpho from the jungles of Brazil, he considered as his eyes swept the deep azure of her summery top. But flowery words would never be his style, so he kept those thoughts to himself.

“A temptress who plays hard to get?” she playfully provoked.

“Not really. But the hero’s a bit clueless so it takes him a while to formulate a plan.”

“To catch a butterfly all you need is a bit of netting.”

“The hero takes the better part of the story to figure that out. Sound familiar?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m trying to make it sound like he’s a bit tortured, but I suspect you might just see him as a royal tosser.”

Ginny gave her silvery laugh. “Now that sounds vaguely familiar. Does it have a happy ending?”

“Overall, yes. Haven’t worked out the details with the love interest yet.”

“Why?”

“Lack of material, I suppose.”

She gave him a small pout. “Is that why you invited me on holiday?”

“How could it be? I had no idea Lexxie would set me on this task when I arrived.”

“Point taken.”

Perhaps he had taken some things for granted, but no one had forced her to join him in Greece. With a sudden burst of courage, he added, “I never did ask you to be my girlfriend. Not even back at Hogwarts when we celebrated the Quidditch victory.”

“Your lips did. Not in words, but the intent was conveyed nevertheless.”

He could accept that. “Perhaps I should’ve re-established myself after the battle.”

“Had your position changed?”

Uncertain whether she was teasing him or not, he returned, “Not really. But I very much wanted to take back the harsh words about our not being together.”

“So it’s the circumstances that changed.”

He considered her words for a moment before capitulating, “That’s a fair way to put it. My heart never wavered, Ginny. You must believe me. All those lonely nights while we searched for Horcruxes, you were the last thing I thought about each night.”

“I forgave your rashness a long time ago, Harry. That was what I wanted to convey with your birthday present last year.”

“How could I forget the snoggis interruptus?” He gave her a saucy grin.

Ginny blushed even as she tittered self-consciously.

“Seems your lips told a rather compelling story themselves,” he pressed softly, leaning closer to her. “One that seemed clearer and clearer the more I thought about it.”

“Perhaps it was just wishful thinking on your part,” she hedged without backing away.

“Or I was too much of a fool to not cement our relationship that very moment,” he dared as he closed the distance between them.

As they broke apart, Ginny breathed, “I’m fairly certain Godric Gryffindor’s wife thought him a noble prat as well.”

Harry chuckled into the silkiness of her hair. “Despite my clumsiness, I want you to know that I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“I love you, too, Harry.”

“Somehow I got that from the wanted poster McGonagall returned to you,” he sniggered.

“Really?” she countered. “What’s to say it wasn’t just a schoolgirl crush like Romilda Vane’s?”

“No poisoned chocolates,” he retaliated merrily. “You were kind enough to demonstrate that when you took a bite of the frog first!”

Her eyes sparked with passion as she geared up for a heady retort. Then catching sight of the retreating figures of Molly and Arthur through the window, she relented. Lexxie’s avid hand motions indicated she was fully enjoying her role as the afternoon’s tour guide along the cliffside path.

“Looks like we’re finally alone,” Harry observed.

“They could turn back any moment,” Ginny cautioned.

“Not with Lexxie acting as their Pied Piper,” Harry snorted. “She’ll draw them into her web sure as anything.”

“Is that what she’s done with you?”

“She’s easy enough to talk to. Has a devilish streak a mile wide.”

“She’s too old for you,” Ginny emphasized.

“Told her that from the start. Mentioned your prior claim.”

Ginny bit her lip as she weighed the alternatives. Her eyes watched the tiny figures in the distance. “What if we don’t catch sight of their return?”

“I’ll set a Caterwauling Charm around the perimeter.” At her skeptical look, he elaborated, “I often helped Hermione to ring our campsite each night. Just adding a few tweaks of my own.”

“Don’t you think the klaxon will shatter the mood?”

“Not as much as a Stinging Hex to the bum,” he returned with a dry laugh.

“Or worse!” she giggled. “Give me two minutes and I’ll surround the back bushes with an Odiferous Oracle. Auntie Muriel preferred defenses that would make intruders retreat.”

Not to mention that it will look like just a prank, Harry considered inwardly as he congratulated her on her brilliance.

---

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Nineteen
Harry: Family and Other Strangers



For the first time in years, he felt his tribulations slide off his back and into the slip stream behind him. Harry’s face broke into a wide grin as he recalled just how much he enjoyed flying. Effortlessly he rode the air currents like a strange hybrid bird, the weight of his previous life having been left on the ground below. After the dreary events of the past year, it was like rediscovering a long lost love, the exhilaration making him feel like a lad of eleven all over again. No wonder he had initially wanted to use this heady sensation to conjure his Patronus.

He hazarded a peek at Ginny’s radiant face as she kept pace then angled upward to indicate he should follow. He was nothing but a leaf, allowing the carefree breeze to buffet him where it wanted. In the distance, the pinnacle of the rugged peninsula jutted like a worn stone finger into the foaming waves below. The endless expanse of blue that met the horizon was breathtaking.

From the edge of the abandoned pasture, the tiny figure of Lexxie waved her arms to lure them back to earth. The wind whipped the words from her mouth, but her avid motions conveyed the message clearly enough: others had seen them take flight and were anxious for an impromptu Quidditch game.

They spiraled in lazy circles to the ground, coming to rest a few yards from the mismatched row of local youths who had answered the siren’s call. Some were barely taller than their brooms, others looked too gangly to not fold in upon themselves like giant spiders; but the smiles of anticipation were unmistakable.

“What do you think?” he addressed Ginny directly. “Think they can muster up a head of steam?”

“Only one way to find out!” she responded merrily. “Shall we divide up into teams?”

Harry raised his voice to be heard over the cheering. “Not just yet. A sample flight, please.” He waved the children into the sky so he could get a better idea of how to balance the teams.

It had been sheer genius for Ginny to bring a pair of brooms from home, Harry concluded as the rag-tag players took to the air. As much as he yearned for his once trusty Firebolt, a high-end racing broom would’ve surely outstripped the locals. And it was so much more fun to play with full teams again.

Without a regulation set of Quidditch balls, it was a simplified game at best, a weathered black and white football serving as the Quaffle. The goalposts were nothing more than the gnarled branches of curiously bent trees which ringed the rocky meadow. It was so much like the avid games that had often accompanied holiday get-togethers at the Burrow that Harry and Ginny felt right at home.

A sharp whistle from the sidelines interrupted the aerial battle at a point where both teams were tied with seven goals each. Fulfilling her previous threats, Lexxie had transfigured her wristwatch into a silver referee whistle that was perched upon her lips. Harry noted that she had been joined by another woman, older and more full-figured but with the same dark, wavy hair.

As he drew up his broom before them, he saw that it was Hestia Jones.

“Sorry I couldn’t have been here sooner,” Hestia apologized as her eyes shifted from Harry to Lexxie and back again.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t spoil your surprise,” Lexxie confided.

The implications were startlingly clear to Harry. “You two know each other,” he stated simply.

“I went to school with Alexandra’s mother, Lyra,” Hestia explained. “We keep in touch.”

“Aunt Hestia taught me how to cast a Patronus Charm,” Lexxie supplied with a hint of nostalgia.

Hestia chortled as she expounded, “Remember it like it was yesterday. What other fifteen year-old would conjure up a tarantula?”

Ginny’s melodic laughter issued from Harry’s right. “Be sure to tell that one to my brother, Ron. His boggart is a spider.”

“Perhaps he and I can do a duet of sorts when he visits,” Lexxie shot back with a mischievous grin. “You don’t mind if I borrow Harry for a short conversation.”

Ginny returned to the air and quickly reshuffled the teams to account for Harry’s absence. In the distance, their happy cries resembled gulls at a picnic as Harry threaded his way back to his villa.

His unease mounted when the two women shared conspiratorial looks as they settled under the breezy awning overlooking the ocean. Unable to stand it any longer, Harry burst, “Please tell me something terrible hasn’t happened to the Dursleys…”

“Nothing that wasn’t of their own making,” Hestia reassured him.

“If anything, Hestia confirms just how unpleasant that lot can be,” Lexxie issued with a wry laugh. “You were considerably more charitable.”

“They are what they are,” Harry dismissed, even as he admitted that he had never been one to hold a grudge.

“Thought it might ease your conscience if you tied up some loose ends, as it were,” Lexxie tendered.

“So Hestia came to give me a progress report,” Harry concluded as the knot in his stomach began to ease.

“Not exactly,” Hestia allowed. “Lexxie’s of a mind that a more personal interaction is needed.”

Lexxie nodded eagerly. “Are you up for a side trip, Harry?”

“Me?” Harry sputtered in surprise. “I thought I was restricted to the grounds.”

Lexxie gave him an indulgent, put-upon look. “I’m changing the rules. Especially since Hestia agreed to be your escort.”

“Here’s your opportunity to see more of the country,” Hestia urged.

“Since you phrase it like that,” Harry conceded. “When are you planning this excursion?”

“Tonight at dusk,” Hestia supplied handily.

“You and Ginny can have a light supper beforehand,” Lexxie added as she scribbled quick notes on her clipboard.

Unable to claim a prior engagement on the spur of the moment, Harry agreed to the recommendations of his smiling guardians.

---

He couldn’t help thinking he was atop an oversized boulder with the scintillating expanse of the Aegean Sea spread in all directions. Harry shaded his eyes as the blood red sun laid a golden path along the glassy surface. Even in the dim light, the waters maintained a hint of dark cerulean blue as they gently lapped against the small rocky cove below.

He had Apparated in the dark lee of an ancient stone church, his nostrils full of sea air even as he opened his eyes. For a split second, it was as if he were back at Shell Cottage once more, Dobby’s dying body clutched against his chest. Was it the memory or the cooling evening breeze that sent an involuntary shiver down Harry’s spine? Neat rows of white crosses in the small church cemetery attested that death was a frequent visitor the world over.

“You won’t have any trouble finding him,” Hestia whispered in his ear. “Follow the sounds of laughter once you reach the docks.”

“Aren’t you going to �“” Harry started to inquire only to find her warning finger pasted across his lips.

“Sound travels clearly in the still night near water,” she barely mouthed in his ear. “I will meet up with you later.”

Like a wraith, Hestia disappeared into the shadows as the susurrus of mingled conversations spilled from the golden squares of open windows all around. Harry allowed himself a few more moments to become acclimated to the gloom before turning towards the steps leading in the opposite direction. The white stucco structures were a jumbled house of cards as he negotiated his way down narrow lanes until the weathered docks stood before him.

Beyond the gnarl of fishing nets, the open doorway of the rustic taverna was a welcoming beacon. Amid a sea of dark tousled heads not unlike Harry’s own, his cousin’s streaky blonde hair was unmistakable. Dudley broke off in mid-conversation as he noticed Harry standing in the doorway. A lop-sided grin suffused his features as he ushered his cousin over into a small booth near the window.

By force of habit, Harry cast a wordless Muffliato Charm although the lively conversations would surely mask their words, even those spoken in a foreign language. The owner returned with their orders: another Mythos for Dudley and a tumbler of Greek brandy for Harry who had requested something sweeter.

“Sip slowly,” the owner warned in accented English. “Not as lethal as ouzo, but we don’t want to be fishing you out of the ocean.” He laughed heartily at his own joke as he returned to his post behind the bar.

“Do Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon live nearby?” Harry began hesitantly.

“Other side of the island,” Dudley replied brightly as the bronzed muscles of his arm hoisted the beer to his lips. “Nice little inlet there. Not much of a beach, but the lapping of the waves is soothing at night.” With a wry grin, he added, “Dad hates it.”

Harry fairly sputtered as he rejoined, “Don’t tell me he misses the fumes and noises from the motorway?”

Dudley nodded. “Can’t get used to the slower pace of life here. Complains that he’s been put out to pasture before his time even though he has a cushy post translating documents for the local magistrate.”

“And your mum?” Harry prompted as expected.

“She likes it better, but she doesn’t dare contradict Dad. Has all the surfaces of the house shining like a bright diamond. I’m surprised it doesn’t draw attention to passing aircraft!”

“Didn’t anyone tell her you were supposed to be in hiding?” Harry pointed out as he warmed up to the conversation. For the first time in hours, he stopped fingering the worn edges of the chocolate frog card he carried in his pocket.

Dudley nodded vigorously as he took a long pull of beer, his eyes crinkling up with laughter. “Too ingrained, I suppose. She’s taken to the local diet readily enough; managed to slim Dad down with a steady supply of fresh fish. In turn, he complains that he can’t get a decent pork pie anywhere.”

“What about you? Sorry, you missed out on your final year at Smeltings, by the way.”

Dudley shrugged as a shadow fell over his features. “That wasn’t your doing.”

“Sure it was!” Harry insisted as he motioned for another beer. “You wouldn’t have left Privet Drive if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Doesn’t mean I would’ve graduated from Smeltings,” Dudley grumbled. After a deep swallow, he raised his eyes to meet Harry’s. “Dad forbade me to say anything, but it seems so pointless now…. I managed to get myself expelled. Had to finish most of my sixth year at the local comprehensive.”

“Sorry to hear it, Big D. Couldn’t you have appealed the decision?”

Dudley snorted derisively. “Dad was fairly bristling; you know how he set store by his alma mater. As for Mum, she was certain there had been some mistake. After all, an inter-school boxing champ like her son had to stay in practice �“ even if he was a bit overzealous in the hallways.”

“What about you?” Harry emphasized.

“One school’s very like the next,” he shrugged. “Bunch of prigs at Smeltings, anyway.”

“You could’ve told me, you know,” Harry commiserated. “It’s not like I haven’t been threatened with expulsion myself.”

“It wasn’t that at all. The Smeltings board made it quite clear they would reinstate me if Dad just made a small donation. Only their definition of small was about a year’s salary to Dad.”

Of course, Vernon would have been humiliated to admit such financial short-falls. Better to bluster about in his quintessential superior manner than to appear fallible before his odious nephew.

“Besides, I like it here,” Dudley continued. “Don’t have to punch an infernal time-clock and fishing boats are always ready to take on extra help.” He gave a sheepish smile. “I suppose I owe you my thanks more than anything. Word was you had a much rougher time of it yourself.”

Harry shrugged in return. “Couldn’t find a way to side-step it, to tell you the truth.”

“Antia says you’re a right hero,” Dudley pressed, his eyes lighting up with curiosity.

“Antia?” Harry hedged.

“Sorry. Hestia Jones. She asked us to call her Aunt Tia so our conversations wouldn’t seem so out of the ordinary and it got shortened to Antia. She’s kept us abreast of things.” With a self-deprecating chuckle, Dudley amended, “Make that me. Mum and Dad made it abundantly clear they didn’t want to hear anything about the goings on of ‘your kind.’ Made a big stink about it, too. Dad’s face turned the color of stewed prunes and he demanded that we be allowed to return to Privet Drive once your departure made our family irrelevant --”

With soft determination, Harry cut across, “But the house was destroyed within an hour of my leaving. Mrs. Figg saw it with her own eyes.”

“Regular Guy Fawkes Day, Hestia explained. Had to show Dad pictures of the site �“ or rather, crater �“ that was left to convince him.”

“I’m just glad everyone got away without incident.”

“Hardly! Dad was determined to create an incident of his own.” In a lower voice. Dudley confided, “It didn’t help when Mr. Diggle suggested that he was being an ungrateful prat. That just set him off that you had been an ungrateful bleeder all these years -- that is until Antia reminded him that if you truly took them for granted, you would’ve let the ruddy house explode and good riddance.”

Harry winced at the imagery. “Diggle’s house was burned, you know. Retribution for his actions.”

“So I heard. But by then, Mum and Dad had already established that they didn’t bloody care about anyone who wasn’t a … What’s that word for non-magical folk?”

“Muggles,” Harry supplied with amusement.

“Mum and Dad only cared about the Muggle world. And if you asked me, they only cared about the Dursley side of the family.”

“I didn’t think there were any relatives from the Evans side,” Harry ventured.

“Who knows?” Dudley threw up his hands for emphasis. “So Mum says, but you’ve seen how she’s always looking for Dad’s approval. Makes her shifty-eyed once you notice it. She hasn’t exactly been completely honest about her side of the family, has she?”

Harry thought back to the memories Snape had shared of Lily and concurred silently with his cousin.

“Antia says you were a regular hero,” Dudley commented. At Harry’s obvious embarrassment, he amended, “Your side won and all.”

Harry nodded silently. “Victory comes at too high a price,” he muttered towards the tabletop before downing the rest of the brandy in one long, burning gulp.

“Antia said you lost a lot of close friends. One of those ginger chaps who gave me the joke candy…”

Harry nodded silently.

“I’ve long since forgiven them, you know. Always has to be a victim when it comes to practical jokes.”

“Mighty big of you.”

Dudley smirked in response. “On the other hand, Dad is still up in arms about the All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition. Had me research it on my computer and threatened to march over to their offices in person. To which they reminded him to watch out for the undertow…. Bet you didn’t know such a group existed �“ only it’s on the Isle of Wight!” Dudley stopped as he noticed the tightness around Harry’s eyes. “Surely not…?”

Harry returned a haunted look as his throat tightened. The memory of Tonks giggling proudly at her subterfuge seemed vivid enough to touch.

Much to his surprise, Dudley proposed, “We should drink a toast to them. I think it took Aunt Marge for me to really understand.”

Harry looked up in shock. Hestia hadn’t said anything about Marge. But then she hadn’t said much more than, “You’ll have to take the good with the bad, I’m afraid.” He’d been the one to assume that she was referring his relatives’ general obstinacy.

“What happened to Aunt Marge?” Harry asked through wooden lips.

“An accident,” Dudley mollified. “Tragic, but nothing of direct consequence. Her car got caught in a malfunctioning train crossing. Something to do with a last minute re-routing that got relayed wrong. Didn’t feel a thing, so we were told.”

Harry felt his extremities go cold. The Death Eaters had targeted Muggles for fun. It could have been a coincidence, but somehow he didn’t think so.

“Where did it happen?” Harry whispered with urgency.

“It was more where she was headed,” Dudley admitted. “To a meeting with Hestia. At Dad’s insistence.” With a deep breath, he added, “But I’m telling it all wrong. Won’t make any sense unless I start at the beginning. You don’t mind, do you, Harry?”

“Not at all.”

Vernon was in the midst of his daily snit, demanding that just because they were in hiding didn’t mean they had to loose track of the world around them.

“Is it too ruddy much to ask for a proper newspaper to read over my breakfast eggs?” he demanded, ignoring that the food before him was surely getting cold in the process.

“I saw a newsstand on the corner,” Dudley volunteered, having already finished his own breakfast and wishing for any excuse to stretch his legs.

“We’re in Greece, Duddykins,” Petunia reminded him. “Those papers are in a foreign language.”

“Has everyone gone daft?” Vernon roared. “We’re in the stinking capital of this god-forsaken country! Surely somewhere in Athens a proper paper can be found.”

“Perhaps near the British Consulate,” Petunia suggested as she stared daggers at the impassive faces of Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones.

With a weary sigh, Diggle rose to his feet and proffered, “I’ll just pop over to that modern bookstore we passed in the center of town.”

“Just one minute!” Vernon protested. “Nobody’s going popping anywhere…”

“He’s right,” Hestia interceded before Vernon could shift into high gear. “No sense appearing like anything other than a bunch of British tourists on holiday. I’m certain I saw a newsstand adjoining the bank we visited yesterday. I wouldn’t mind a breath of fresh air myself.”

“Certainly before the day gets any warmer,” Diggle agreed.

“Might I come, too?” Dudley implored directly to Hestia then turned expectant eyes towards his parents.

“But there’s so much smoke and pollution from all those roaring vehicles,” Petunia cautioned. “Wouldn’t you rather just watch something on the telly, dear?”

“It’s all Greek, Mum. Besides, I’m used to a morning workout.”

“Can I trust you not to put any of your nonsense into his head?” Vernon harrumphed as he dug into his breakfast.

“Absolutely,” Hestia agreed as she ushered Dudley out the door before Vernon changed his mind.

They returned a half hour later to find that Vernon was fuming about the inadequacies of the fan.

“….expect to survive in this infernal stewing pot?” his voice bellowed the moment the door opened. “No wonder those ruins are nothing but desiccated stone!”

Diggle gazed out the open window at the majestic columns of the Parthenon which looked down upon the modern, bustling city. He flashed a strained look in Hestia’s direction.

“Somehow I always fancied a hotel overlooking the Aegean Sea,” Petunia sighed wistfully as she fanned herself steadily. “Is that totally beyond our means?”

“I thought you wanted to be among the British tour groups,” Diggle reminded them as he surreptitiously cast a cooling charm over himself. He would’ve kindly done the same for the others, but Vernon had forbidden it from the start.

“I have no desire to toil anywhere in this heat!” Vernon growled. “Small wonder the Greek civilization died out eons ago.”

Hestia curbed her tongue despite the overwhelming desire to inject some civility into this overblown oaf before her. No point in escalating matters before lunchtime, she reminded herself.

“Here, Dad.” Dudley slid the thick folds of the London Times across the table to his father. “Today’s edition, even.”

That seemed to appease Vernon for the time being as he wrestled the pages before the straining blades of the fan. Dudley escaped into his comic book while Petunia leafed through a tourist brochure she had grabbed in the lobby, every once in a while sighing in regret over the sites she would only see from a speeding taxicab.

The explosion caught them unawares as they were just getting drowsy in the midday heat. Hestia’s head jerked awake from the chair as she muttered, “Probably just a firecracker.”

“It was a car backfiring,” Vernon corrected her dryly. “Hard to believe your lot lives right alongside the rest of us. Welcome to the twentieth century, I say.”

“There’s no need to get shirty,” Diggle protested.

“Oh, no?” Vernon growled. “Then tell me, sir, WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF THIS?”

With a loud rapport that sounded suspiciously like another car, Vernon tossed a folded section of the Times before his startled hosts.

FLAW IN GAS LINE DECIMATES SUBURBAN HOME,
LEAVES NEIGHBORING STRUCTURES UNTOUCHED

Little Whinging, Surrey �“ In a freak accident that has officials scratching their heads, a main gas line exploded in a surburban neighborhood just after midnight on 28 July. The residents of number 4, Privet Drive, Vernon Dursley, his wife, Pansy, and their seventeen-year old son, Dudley, are missing and believed to have perished in the blast.

Neighbors report hearing nothing out of the ordinary that night, although a pile-up on the adjacent M25 motorway kept traffic snarled most of the early evening, causing nearby homes to shut their windows tightly to drown out the insistent blaring of horns.

No one remembers seeing the Dursleys since the day before the incident when they were watering their lawn as usual. Investigative reports into the disappearance of the family reveal that the couple’s bank account had been systematically emptied of all funds. Bank officials were unable to specify dates or amounts of withdrawals due to ….

“IS THIS HOW YOU COVER YOUR TRACKS?” Vernon bellowed as the color rose to his face at an alarming rate.

“That would be the Muggle-Ready Excuse Office,” Diggle explained.

Ignoring the fact that her name had been mangled by the press, Petunia cried, “Why would they want to obliterate our house?” Her hands massaged her husband’s shoulders as she urged him to calm himself. “What did we ever do to them?”

With a forbearing look, Hestia elaborated, “The attack on your home was likely perpetrated by Death Eaters, the evil group who is intent on taking over our �“ my -- world. The Muggle-Ready Excuse Office is an official part of the rightful government that helps to maintain secrecy surrounding the wizarding world.”

“Forgive me for speaking plainly,” Petunia hissed. “But it sounds like one faction is only too willing to make excuses for the other.”

Before Hestia could protest, Diggle concurred, “Seemingly so these days. The rightful government is riddled with evil collaborators. No one is safe. That’s why it was so imperative your family be relocated.”

“But everyone’s going to think we’re dead,” Dudley wailed.

“I’m afraid so, son,” Diggle soothed. “But you’ll make headlines again when you miraculously resurface unscathed. Maybe even see your faces in that moving picture box of yours.”

“Bollocks!” Vernon denounced as he waved off his wife’s protests. “The bank will know I withdrew the last of my funds today �“ a good week after the date of the explosion.”

“Actually, they won’t,” Hestia affirmed. “One of our group works in the banking industry. Just as he facilitated the transfer across international borders, he will also obscure the trail.”

Vernon’s beady eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. “Say, if you’re really magical, how about seeing that your banking chum forwards the insurance settlement?”

“A dead man can’t collect on his life insurance policy,” Diggle returned pragmatically. “Please, be sensible about this!”

To Vernon’s intractable look, Hestia objected, “I’m not going to assist you to commit fraud.”

“What about the homeowner’s policy?” Petunia postulated. “Aren’t we still entitled to that?”

“Unless you want to paint a bull’s eye on your backs, that cheque will have to go to your next of kin,” Hestia emphasized.

The color seemed to drain from Vernon’s florid face. “Marge will be devastated. I’m her only brother.”

“It’s not fair that she should endure such anguish when we’re sitting pretty in the shade of the Acropolis!” Petunia protested.

“It’s too big a risk,” Hestia maintained. “Any one of us could be a target!”

“I’m sorry,” Diggle mumbled. “It’s most unfortunate, but my house was similarly attacked as well. Those bastards will stop at nothing.”

“Perhaps we should consider relocating to a seaside location,” Hestia suggested diplomatically.

Petunia’s eyes sparkled at the prospect.

“Others may likely read the same article in the Times,” Diggle agreed. “Wouldn’t do to be recognized from an old grainy photograph, now would it?”

But as much as Hestia involved them all in their relocation to rustic surroundings where the news of the outside world was kept to a minimum, Vernon refused to back down when it came to his sister, Marge. Not long after they had settled on the pleasant island, Hestia finally gave in to Vernon’s constant demands.

“Fine, you obstinate old goat!” she capitulated. “If I make contact with Marge will you give it an effing rest? All of it! No more complaints, no more comparisons about how the world you left behind was far superior to this stagnant little rock. Nothing!”

Vernon gulped in the face of her anger. “There’s no need to be put out, now…”

“There bloody well is!” Hestia decried. “You won’t be content until one of us puts our lives in danger once again. Right into the proverbial kettle!”

“Vernon, please,” Petunia pleaded. “Hestia’s right. Marge is a survivor, she won’t --”

“She’ll never forgive me,” Vernon cut across harshly. “Cut me off as if … as if I were one of their kind.”

“I suggest you quit while you’re ahead, my good man,” Diggle issued lowly as he gave Vernon a meaningful look. “Perhaps this situation calls for some of that Polyjuice Potion we’ve stashed away for emergencies. Wouldn’t you say, Hestia?”

Hestia did not elaborate on how she was able to make contact with Marge, only that they had agreed to meet for tea at a country inn situated a good hundred miles from Marge’s home. Marge had an errand of her own to run in the immediate area, so it proved ideal timing.

“What sort of an errand?” Harry posed, breaking into his cousin’s narrative for the first time.

“Something to do with her bulldog,” Dudley supplied. “You remember Ripper, don’t you?”

“How could I forget?”

“Marge thought he’d been stolen, was right heart-broken about it. Then on top of that, the news about the explosion on Privet Drive was almost more than she could bear. She assuaged her grief by plastering the entire countryside with posters of Ripper. Hoping against hope --”

“Miraculously, Ripper turned up,” Harry supplied as a chunk of ice settled in his stomach.

Dudley nodded guilelessly. “A couple in East Anglia found him tussling with their dog, a female. Needless to say, Marge was beside herself and promised she would reimburse them for any unseemly, er, complications.”

“Was the dog in the car with her? When it happened?”

“Probably squirming with uncontrolled joy and distracting Aunt Marge, Hestia seemed to think.”

Likely Hestia was just being kind, Harry thought to himself. Ripper had traveled in a kennel when he’d arrived at Privet Drive. There was no reason to suppose Marge would’ve done things any differently this time.

“I’m sorry, Dudley,” Harry offered as he swallowed the lump in his throat. “These things are never easy.”

“Who was Cedric?” Dudley asked out of the blue. “Was he the first to die?”

Harry was caught short by his self-centered cousin’s sudden intuitiveness. It took him a few extra seconds to find his voice before answering, “At least he was of age. There were others, recently, who died in battle… Some were still children, Dudley. Snuck out to help their older schoolmates in battle and paid the ultimate price.”

“Is that why you felt a need to seek solace in the peaceful Greek seaside?” At Harry’s flummoxed expression, Dudley added, “Hestia made it seem like you were on extended holiday, but that just didn’t sit right with me. You strike me more as the type who would want to be involved in the rebuilding.”

Harry nodded as the taverna owner refilled his brandy glass. “Lost comrades?” he inquired with compassion. “Forgive my boldness, but the look is universal.”

“My cousin here just returned from a tour of duty, Niko,” Dudley supplied as Harry quickly released the privacy charm.

Once again, Harry marveled at the change the past year had wrought. “A bit shell-shocked, I’m afraid,” he issued.

“Come join the others,” Niko offered as he waved them towards the bar. “Our little rocky peninsula has seen enough conflicts for us all to commiserate.”

Harry found himself surrounded by other survivors as the obligatory glass of ouzo was pressed into his hand. The war stories of the Fascist occupation were not all that different from those during the oppression imposed by Voldemort. Before long, Harry’s vague answers allowed the others to assume he’d flown covert missions for the RAF during the recent Iraqi War. They sympathized with his loss of his favorite teacher. His godfather. The undercover mole who fell deep within enemy territory. The grizzled veteran who everyone had always assumed was invincible. As the owner had said: the intertwining themes of warfare and loss were recognized the world over.

“You met more of them than you realize, Big D,” Harry whispered into Dudley’s ear during a brief lull in the conversation. “Moody was wearing the purple bowler hat at the train station when you came to retrieve me once.”

“I remember Dad being completely bent out of shape over than one,” Dudley sniggered as they toasted Mad-Eye.

“Lupin and Tonks were there, too, although I had no idea they were seeing one another and would end up married within a year’s time.”

“She was the one who came up with the All-Lawn Suburban Contest?” Dudley pressed.

Harry wasn’t sure they’d gotten the title right, but what did it matter anyway? “Yeah, she always had a good head for pranks.”

They downed toasts to Remus and Tonks as Dudley fondly recalled how his mother had criticized Tonks’ fashion sense during the car ride home. “What about that white-haired chap who came to retrieve you once? Tried to act like a right friendly fellow while we sat like graceless statues in the parlor.”

“That was Dumbledore,” Harry supplied. “He was cut down while I was ten feet away. I couldn’t lift a finger to save him.”

Many understanding nods followed that admission as the entire bar drank a toast to the great man they had never known.

The silvery moon was long past its zenith when Harry bid his goodbyes amid many vigorous handshakes. He was none too steady on his feet as he leaned against the doorframe to wait for his cousin to catch up.

“Will you be all right, Xenos?” one of their drinking companions issued as he caught Dudley from staggering over the uneven path.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Dudley replied with a crooked smile. “I’ve leaned on my cousin before.”

Harry made to protest as he recalled practically having to drag Dudley’s body in the wake of the dementor attack, but Hestia rose up like a dark shadow at their side.

“I’m going that way myself,” she affirmed. “Thanks anyway, Constantine.”

With a few exchanged words in Greek, Constantine broke off in the opposite direction.

“Antia!” Dudley gushed as he caught her in a clumsy one-armed hug. “You should’ve joined us. We toasted all your fallen comrades.”

Hestia favored Dudley with an affectionate smile. “That was thoughtful of you, Duds, but you know that women aren’t seen as warriors in these parts. It would’ve just made them doubt the truth of Harry’s words.”

“Doesn’t seem fair, though,” Dudley mumbled.

“It’s enough for me that you think so,” Hestia affirmed. “How are you holding up, Harry? That ouzo can sneak up on you, no?”

“I’m still vertical,” Harry quipped. “I am, aren’t I?”

Dudley doubled over to get his breath as they both broke out in laughter.

“Glad to see you lads had a good time,” Hestia commented as she gently guided them down the sinuous path that hugged the rocky coastline.

The sea air was mixed with the heady perfume of local plants as it washed over the tiny island. A few deep breaths cleared a bit of the fog inside Harry’s head.

“Say, Hestia, you haven’t been waiting in the shadows all this time, have you?” Harry uttered as it occurred to him that they had been unintentionally rude -- despite the all too traditional attitudes of the other island residents.

“My cousin lives nearby. We could see your silhouettes from her window.”

This was news to Harry. “Really?” he asked, barely remembering to close his mouth so he wouldn’t look like a guppy.

“A major factor in why I relocated the Dursleys to this location,” Hestia breathed in Harry’s ear.

“Antia knows everybody,” Dudley proclaimed.

“Well, considering there were probably more students in your school than on this island, that’s not saying much,” Hestia rejoined.

As they rounded a small headland, Hestia urged them to keep silent. Up ahead, a single hanging lantern illuminated the cobalt blue door of a two-story cottage. The remaining windows were dark, but all the shutters had been opened to admit the cooling night air.

Pressing his mouth to Harry’s ear, Dudley confessed, “Dad’s such a fusspot over everyday things that Mum doesn’t always have the energy to wait up for me like she used to. Finally decided I can’t get up to much trouble until the ferry docks in the morning.”

“Sounds liberating,” Harry whispered back.

Dudley nodded happily. “Do you want to say hello anyway? Dad often surfs long into the night on my computer.”

Harry looked down at his hanging shirttails that were sure to enrage his aunt. He ran a rueful hand through the salty residue making his hair spike even worse than usual. “Perhaps when I’m more presentable,” he demurred only to set them both off to sniggering like errant schoolboys once again.

Dudley nodded wordlessly then slipped a piece of paper into Harry’s pocket. “That’s my address,” he breathed. “Just don’t use an owl, all right?”

“What about a sea gull?” Harry suggested with a wicked smirk.

“Fine by me,” Dudley chuckled. “Ruddy birds always have Mum scrubbing the walkways, anyway.”

“Too bad she won’t let me use a simple cleaning spell,” Hestia interjected.

“Go figure,” Dudley allowed as he issued a final wave.

Harry turned for one last look before the bend in the path. His cousin’s silhouette was just blowing out the lantern in the uppermost floor.

“Come,” Hestia urged with an insistent tug on his arm. “It won’t do to Disapparate in the open like this. The locals can be superstitious in the best of times.”

Harry followed more deeply into the shadows as she climbed along a path leading towards the summit of the island once more. Determined to engage her in conversation, he lengthened his strides until he was abreast and made certain she watched him cast a wordless Muffliato Charm.

“You never told me you had relatives on this same island,” he began with an earnest expression.

“Not much of a secret,” Hestia allowed with a small shrug. “A few aunts from the non-magical side of the family; cousins mostly. You know how it is.”

“Actually, I don’t,” Harry replied only to have her stop short.

“Right. Sorry about being so blasé. Greek families have a tendency to grow more tentacles that a giant squid. Imagine the Weasley brood in each generation.”

Harry gaped. “That could be everyone on the island!”

“Not really. Many have sought their livelihoods elsewhere. Those who attend the secondary school on the mainland often go on to university there. Then they only return to hire a cottage for the holidays.”

Changing tacks, Harry posed, “What did Constantine call Dudley outside the pub?”

It took Hestia a moment to catch on. “Xenos. That’s with an ‘x’. It’s Greek for stranger, a nickname of sorts. Has a romantic sound to it, don’t you think?”

“Romantic and Dudley are two words I would sooner poke my eyes out than use in the same sentence!” Harry chortled. “You can’t be serious?”

“You just have to see it through our eyes.” Hestia’s voice was that of a muse weaving a compelling tale. “Not many golden haired lads in these parts. With his muscles bronzed from his work on the open water, your cousin stands out. A hero from an ancient book of myths.”

At Harry’s skeptical expression, Hestia ruffled his hair affectionately and added, “He’s got a good heart once you separate him from his parents, you know.”

“Yeah, surprised me to discover as much on the night we went our separate ways,” Harry noted ruefully.

“Not forever.”

“He gave me his address,” Harry marveled as he felt the scrap against his skin.

“Won’t do you much good,” Hestia affirmed with mirth dancing in her eyes.

“Muggle mail must come here, however infrequently,” Harry countered.

“It does…. Here, let me see the paper he gave you.”

Ducking behind a wide column, Hestia cupped her hand around the glowing tip of her wand. Sure enough, the name: Dudley Dursley, Cove Cottage was clear, but the rest was a mix of incoherent symbols.

“Is that ancient Greek?” Harry proposed.

“ ‘Course not. Greeks have been using modern letters for longer than England’s been civilized.”

“Then wha --” The words died on his lips as the answer rose from the depths of his anise soaked brain. “The Fidelius Charm. You hid the entire island?”

Hestia’s smile glowed in the starlight even as she extinguished her wandtip. “Just an oversized rock, really. Dedalus was only too happy to help after his own cottage was incinerated in yet another ‘freak’ accident. Didn’t want the same to happen to me, so we gathered everyone that needed to be protected in one spot.”

“But how do they get to the mainland?” Harry posited as his mind reeled with the implications. “The Muggles can’t Apparate like we do.”

“As Secret-Keeper, I made a couple of journeys back and forth with both ferry captains. And Dudley's sailed with all the fishermen at one time or another.”

“What about the mail delivery?”

“Third cousin works in the mainland post office. He has a real knack for redirecting letters that would otherwise end up in the dead letter bin.”

“Doesn’t anybody wonder why they can’t see the island from the shore?”

“Never could before. It was just over the horizon,” Hestia scoffed. “Really, Harry, you worry things to death. These people have braved the fickle seas in these parts for generations. They long ago learned to sail by the stars. A tiny island rising up out of the mist is hardly remarkable, not with all the tales of mermaids and savage sea creatures that still permeate the salt air.”

Harry shook his head at the enormity of it all. “Kingsley should’ve given you and Diggle medals.”

“Only for having endured Vernon without resorting to any Unforgivables,” she noted with a laugh. “I often daydreamed of sending the buffoon on a mission to infiltrate Voldemort’s camp. Seen how long it took for that red-eyed monster to implode from sheer aggravation!”

“What if Dudley wants to venture to other parts? Will he be able to find his way back?”

“Probably.” Hestia waved off his concerns. “Won’t need to, though. He’s got everything he needs at hand.”

Sensing there was more to this story, Harry prompted, “Such as?”

“I introduced him to one of my nieces, Raffia. She’s quite taken with her flaxen-haired xenos and Dudley loves her exotic home cooking.”

“Does he know she’s from a magical family?”

“Not yet. The witches and wizards that pop up in our line are so few and far between, we’d be hard-pressed to think of ourselves as anything other than Muggleborn. But Raffia’s heard enough tales about her English aunt that it won’t take her long to put it all together. That is, when Dudley finally breaks his silence. He was so shocked about the explosion at Privet Drive that I haven’t had to remind him to keep his past to himself.”

Harry couldn’t stop himself from succumbing to a wild thought. “Tell me, Hestia. I know the chances of bearing magical off-spring increase when both parents are wizards, but what happens if the magical gene skips generations?”

Hestia gave him a smile tinged with irony. “It’s just like the Muggle theories about genetics. Traits that occur on both sides of the family, even those which may otherwise be recessive, often bear fruit when combined in such a way.”

“You’re saying Dudley’s offspring aren’t necessarily going to be Muggles, then?”

“Not if he gets serious ideas about my niece.”

How much had Dudley really seen of the dementor ambush? Harry wondered why he hadn’t thought to ask his cousin directly. Likely, it was more than he’d confided to his stricken parents.

Harry snorted with amusement. “Hestia, you may just have your revenge on Vernon after all!”

Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.

---

Twenty
Luna: What a Difference a Year Makes




She knew they called her Loony Lovegood behind her back. They could have said it right to her face and it wouldn’t have mattered. Everyone had a nickname at one time or another. Most were hardly flattering. Why should hers be any different?

What they failed to understand was that Luna was inordinately proud of her name. The moon was a benevolent deity who watched over the slumbering lands. At the same time, it allowed timid creatures to go about their business unhindered by mankind. How else could she explain her uncanny affinity with all sorts of animals?

Nor was she repulsed to learn that the moon was the siren call to magical creatures such as werewolves and hinkypunks. Each and every living being had its unique niche in the world. Just because a wild animal resisted domestication didn’t mean it was necessarily evil. That was just narrow-mindedness on the part of wizards who forced it into an arbitrary category in the first place.

Take werewolves for instance. Granted, she’d never known any personally �“ other than Professor Lupin, that is. And wasn’t he the gentlest, most patient soul she’d encountered at Hogwarts? It was as if all his negative emotions were consumed within that one night per month that he transformed into a wolf. So why did the world seek to treat him as a pariah the remaining days? It had never made any sense to Luna.

She sighed with regret that she would never get to share her thoughts with the professor now. If only she’d known about his affliction while he was her instructor, she would’ve struck up a conversation after class. So many opportunities lost. By the time the word had spread throughout the school that he’d resigned his teaching post, he was already gone.

Nevertheless, she’d always believed the proper moment would come. Sometime in the misty future her path would cross that of her former teacher and she would be able to give him her vote of confidence, too. Just as Harry had managed on that fateful morning when he’d caught up with the professor just as he was packing. How she wished she’d known to accompany Harry. But they really hadn’t become friends until a couple of years later �“ when Harry himself had needed her vote of confidence.

Then as if Fate herself had decreed it, there was Professor Lupin among the guests at Bill Weasley’s wedding, a newlywed himself. There had been something troubling him, though. Even from the other side of the marquee, Luna could tell by the way his forehead was pinched together. Almost as if he had a bad headache, but not quite. She was rather good at reading people, their mannerisms like a road map if you only looked with all your senses.

She would tell him how pleased she was about his good fortune. Compliment him on the radiant young witch at his side whose eyes glowed so warmly every time she glanced at her new husband. Show him how lucky he was in the midst of the crumbling infrastructure of the wizarding world.

But before she took two steps nearer, the very darkness that had hovered at the edges of their consciousness arrived like a maelstrom in their midst. In an instant, Harry, Ron and Hermione Disapparated with a resounding echo that was lost among the woeful cries coming from every direction. She couldn’t help noting the haunted look in Professor Lupin’s eyes as he stared at the spot where the trio had stood just a heartbeat before.

In the charged atmosphere as Voldemort’s henchmen materialized in the center of the celebration, Luna felt it too: their hopes were encapsulated in Harry; he was the priority now. If he didn’t succeed, it was unclear if anyone else could banish the taint of evil.

Then she’d heeded the gentle pressure of her father’s hand to return to their home before the attackers thought to impose an Anti-Apparition Charm. But she had remembered the professor’s unwitting lesson from that dismal day and employed it as the rallying cry for Dumbledore’s Army. It didn’t matter that it was mostly Neville, Ginny and herself; the three of them were devoted to their goal to create as much havoc in Harry’s name as they could.

Those in Slytherin didn’t get it, of course. They denounced them as lunatics �“ as if that term could ever be considered a slur to her. Dumbledore’s Dunces, they mocked for following in the footsteps of a ruddy ghost who didn’t even have the decency to properly show himself. She didn’t let their petty jealousies tarnish her beliefs, not even when they came for her aboard the Hogwarts Express.

How ironic that the next opportunity to talk to Professor Lupin had come the night of the Final Battle, when she’d learned that he’d just become a father for the first time. Affirmations were all fine and good, but they’d all had other priorities on their minds at the moment. She’d answered his call for volunteers to secure the front lawn but there had been no time for small talk. From the moment she’d stepped outside, all her energies had been devoted to staying alive. As for the professor, he’d disappeared like a wraith among the crisscrossing spells.

Months later she still felt the gnawing tug of sadness, noting inwardly that she was not as clueless as others supposed. They just never gave her credit for approaching life on her own terms. So when schoolmates giggled behind her back, Luna was happy that she could lighten their mood.

Only Harry had understood; they whispered about him, too. He’d recognized her as a singular individual from the start -- no wonder she felt more at ease with him than any of her other schoolmates.

“Muggles have an expression for it,” he’d confided. “You just march to the beat of a different drummer, Luna.”

The phrase had been a perfect fit for her, she acknowledged as she favored her friend with a serene smile. “I like music. It stirs up primal energy as it soothes with the same melody.” Then she’d added, “But I think my drum is actually a bodhran.”

Momentary surprise turned into genuine interest and he asked, “What makes that so unique?”

“It’s not what you’d expect to look at it.” Then she’d explained how the drum was small enough to hold in the crook of an arm, yet its echoing beat resembled the pounding feet of a marching army. Thus had small bands of Keltic warriors persevered among military giants in the past.

“Right here among these Scottish foothills,” he’d affirmed.

“Even more so across the North Channel,” she echoed.

Luna had long ago accepted that people didn’t always believe her, either. It had been like that since she was a small child. But she was not about to let the ignorance of the world in general mar her existence. They would find out soon enough �“ or never, in some cases. People had the right to live within their cocoons if they choose. Her father had taught her that at an early age.

“We can shine the light of truth for all to see, but don’t be surprised when many pretend they are blind,” Xenophilius Lovegood always maintained.

Thus it was with a small measure of satisfaction that she watched the other students mount the carriages that would transport them to Hogwarts castle on the evening of September first. Nervous glances towards the softly heaving flanks of the tethered thestrals convinced them that they had been wrong to assume the carriages pulled themselves.

Luna knew they had discounted her words as fantasy when she’d tried to tell them before. Even Harry had been reluctant to trust the evidence before his very eyes. She supposed that sooner or later, they would all see the truth for themselves. The harsh lessons of life and death were unavoidable in a time of war.

It was sad, too, that those who saw her as naive and detached from reality eventually discovered that it was quite the opposite. Sometimes ignorance was indeed bliss, Luna philosophized, wishing that death had not knocked on so many people’s doors in the past year.

She was pleased to see the familiar faces of Ron and Hermione as she looked forward to sharing classes with them for the first time. Not that she didn’t have a lot of catching up to do for missing the latter half of her sixth year. But the Headmistress had assured her that those who’d remained at Hogwarts until the bitter end were in need of a recap as well. A school overrun with Death Eaters did not foster a very conducive learning environment, she’d confided to Luna. And those who’d sought refuge in the Room of Requirement had likewise been prevented from attending lessons.

Hermione had traded concerns with her aboard the Hogwarts Express, each finding reassurance in the other. The common bond of Dumbledore’s Army superseded any previous House alliances, Luna concluded with silent approval.

Ron was ecstatic that he’d been named Gryffindor Quidditch captain and could only mumble incoherently through his joy. It was sweet, as Hermione had observed wryly during the long train ride. Despite all the tribulations he’d endured with Harry during the previous year, Ron’s unblemished happiness shone like a beacon in a world that was still reeling from its narrow victory.

Even though she felt Ginny’s absence keenly, Luna understood why she’d want to remain at Harry’s side. After all, Ginny had openly yearned for Harry during the past year. Who could fault her for following her heart when she had the chance? Luna hoped that one day she herself would have reason to feel that way about another and think nothing of throwing practicality out the window.

“It’s as if everything’s back to normal,” Dean Thomas breathed reverently as the majestic towers of Hogwarts rose against the last orange streaks of the sunset.

“Did you miss everyone while you were away?” Luna posed in a tone that from anyone else would have seemed guileless. As a Muggleborn, Dean had been unwelcome at Hogwarts under the Death Eaters’ yoke. But she hardly thought his vagabond existence prior their reunion in the basement of Malfoy Manor had been very enjoyable, either.

“More than I ever thought possible,” he affirmed.

“Is Neville going to be recruiting for Dumbledore’s Army?” Michael Corner whispered in her ear, causing her to pull away at the tickling sensation.

“Only as a Defense study group,” Luna reiterated what the Headmistress had decreed. “When he spoke at the funeral, Harry declared that we should put down our arms. We should follow his example.”

She didn’t have to add that Neville had only been the de facto leader while Harry had been on his quest. It sounded too much like a knight errant on crusade to put it that way, but words for the true hardships he’d faced were not the stuff of casual conversation. Harry did not confide in many, she’d learned; and Luna was not about to betray his friendship with idle chatter.

The first years were stunned into silence as they disembarked from their boats. Hagrid waved a mighty hand in greeting to those atop the carriage and Luna balanced on her bouncing seat to wave back.

The Sorting Hat would have its work cut out for it this year as the ranks of the first years now included those whom had been barred from attending last year. Muggleborns who had been prudently advised to fade into the shadows lest they be persecuted by Death Eaters for being born with magical talent.

As if the children themselves had any say in it, Luna reasoned. Not that the parents really did, either, when you got down to it. They were completely ignorant of the magical world around them. If the Death Eaters had only thought this through, they would’ve concluded that Mother Nature was at fault �“ and laying the blame at Her feet was a pointless pursuit if ever there was one.

From atop the long stone stairs that led to the docking grottos below the castle, Filius Flitwick, the newly appointed Deputy Headmaster, beckoned the reluctant first years to queue up in preparation for the Sorting Ceremony. Only standing on an overturned crate allowed him to be seen over the crowd.

He’d been well-advised to don the tall purple hat that made him look like a garden gnome with aspirations above his station, Luna decided with a small giggle. That, too, was one of her father’s favorite sayings.

As Head of her own Ravenclaw House, she knew the professor’s talents far exceeded what his compact stature would suggest. A renowned duelist in his youth, Flitwick’s quick skill with charms, jinxes and counter-jinxes was well-respected throughout the wizarding world. Luna just hoped that his added duties to the Headmistress would not prevent him from indulging in an occasional game of Wizard’s Chess. She’d spent a good portion of her captivity in Malfoy Manor devising unexpected counterattacks to his favorite stratagems. All she needed was the opportunity to put them to the test.

She found many familiar faces at her house table. Terry Boot was deep in conversation with Anthony Goldstein, the latter looking out of uniform without his prefect badge flashing under the floating candles. Like Neville, these two had returned for the Headmistress’ accelerated review to prepare them for sitting their NEWT’s in late October.

It was particularly sad that Padma Patil was absent, but Luna understood why she preferred to mourn with the rest of her family in India. Her last memories of school couldn’t have been pleasant ones as her sister’s body had been ceremonially wrapped for further transport overseas.

Still others, like Lavender Brown, had not recovered fully enough for the rigors of climbing the multiple staircases that crisscrossed the castle proper. Like many who were not present, her parents had hired a private tutor to prepare for her upcoming examinations.

Stewart Ackerly now towered over her even though he was only in his OWL year. He and Orla Quirke were quite the pair as they flirted in unabashed whispers at the far end of the Ravenclaw table. Luna caught Orla’s eye and issued a tentative smile. She was rewarded with an enthusiastic wave and a pantomimed congratulations as Orla pointed to where Luna’s prefect badge was pinned.

As she surveyed the head table full of familiar and not-so-familiar faces, Luna's quiet musings were cut short by a gentle tug on her sleeve.

“Is it true you were here for the battle?” The saucer eyes of a lowly first year implored. “I’m Balthazar, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” Luna replied, somewhat taken aback when the young lad met her gaze directly.

“T’zar is much too inquisitive for his own good,” a raven-haired lass leaned over his shoulder. “I’m Lacey.”

“Come on, Lace, you’re just as curious,” T’zar argued through a mouthful of mashed turnips.

“Don’t be so modest,” Quincie Quintain supplied. “Tell them about the night you ambushed that Carrow…cow…while the rest of us were in bed. Harry Potter was at your side and all.”

Luna recalled being particularly anxious to try out her new wand. Kind Mr. Ollivander had insisted on personally carving her a replacement after their escape from the Malfoy Manor. A suitable coming-of-age gift for her seventeen birthday, he’d confided in a bare whisper, an event that had gone uncelebrated during their incarceration.

Once again her private thoughts were interrupted by her new housemates.

“You know Harry Potter?” squeaked a timid lad whose eyes barely reached over the table. His worn book satchel was embossed with an eagle so he likely came from a long line of Ravenclaws.

“I do,” Luna beamed beatifically. “You, on the other hand….”

“Raleigh,” he muttered as if he didn’t want to share his secret with anyone else.

“Like the famed explorer?” Luna whispered back.

Raleigh shook his tawny locks so they flew in all directions. “My mum claimed that if she stuck with the ‘R’s, I’d be more likely to be sorted into her old house. Dad’s a Muggle, see.” The last was issued so lowly Luna practically read the words from his lips.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Luna intoned. “You set right by your mum because you inherited her abilities.”

“And her eagle book bag,” Raleigh issued proudly as he turned the flap over to show where it had been lettered ‘Roxanne.’ “You don’t think she’ll hate me if I ask everyone to call me Leigh, instead?”

“Owl her tonight that you got into Ravenclaw,” Luna recommended. “Tell her about the nickname your mates gave you when you return for Yuletide.”

As Leigh nodded happily, Luna turned her watery eyes to the last bites of her pork roast before the pudding magically arrived. Little by little, she noticed that a good portion of the first years and even second years kept looking in her direction expectantly. Some stole glances between staring at their half-eaten confections, but no one seemed to be sniggering behind their hands for a change.

“Tell you what,” she confided just minutes before the Headmistress called for prefects to lead their new charges to their dormitories. “If everyone settles in quietly tonight, tomorrow after supper we’ll reconvene in the common room and I’ll tell you all about the events that took place on that very site.”

---

The details of that fateful night were forever seared into Luna’s memory. If she had thought her encounter with Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries had prepared her for battle, reality abruptly brought her up short. Only the surreal sense that this couldn’t really be happening was similar. But instead of the cavernous rooms devoted to esoteric research, she stepped into a roiling sea of chaos. The booming sounds of destruction, garbled shouts, and screams alike assaulted her like a physical wave.

Despite the darkness that had settled over the Forbidden Forest in the distance, Hogwarts’ front lawn was peppered with patchy bonfires. Had these been set deliberately to provide illumination for the attackers or were they nothing more than piles of smoldering debris? All she knew for certain was that the acrid smoke burned her eyes even more if she struggled to focus on the flaming details within.

Picking her way across the grounds took all of her concentration as spells of every color flashed in all directions at once. Between the shadows and the smoke which hugged the ground like a noxious fog, she could only catch glimpses of the fighting. Not that she could recognize friend or foe from their silhouettes, however.

Luckily, her deployment was purely defensive. Kingsley Shacklebolt had assigned her, Seamus Finnegan and Ernie MacMillan to guard the various entrances to the castle just in case any of the Slytherins decided to slink back among the ranks of the enemy. Especially the older ones who had shown open hostility towards Harry in the Great Hall.

Seamus trotted off towards the covered bridge while Ernie volunteered to patrol the side courtyard. That left Luna with the main entrance and the side door which connected to the greenhouses.

Like eyes of a colossal centipede, the dark windows of the closest greenhouse flashed with the intensity of the reflected firefight. Heeding the nervous pounding of her heart, Luna clung to the shadowy eaves as much as possible. She dared not light her wand tip for fear of being targeted.

Checking the door was secure, she pressed her face to a small corner of the dingy glass. Everything was dark and quiet within. With a grim nod of satisfaction, Luna continued deeper into the lee of the castle. The areas here were untouched by the fighting, yet the stone canyons amplified sound into dissonant echoes.

In vain, she sought the quiet place within her psyche that had always allowed her to weather any storm. But in this hellish nightmare, there was no oasis. The pounding of blood in her ears reminded her that the only way to persevere was to move forward. To draw within herself would be tantamount to succumbing to madness … and death.

The second greenhouse loomed above her like a crouched tiger. Behind its sightless windows, the flickering of wand tips snaked like fireflies in the summer dusk. The murmur of hushed voices was unmistakable as her wordless Homenum Revelio spell indicated two presences within.

Intent on catching her quarry unaware, Luna crouched behind the door nearest to the castle. Up close, it was clear that the padlock was unhasped. She considered surprising them then concluded that she would likely succeed in only stunning one before the other managed to escape out the back door. And she’d be lucky to avoid being stunned herself in return.

Perhaps she should just lock them inside the greenhouse like bugs inside a cricket cage. Only as a temporary diversion, she decided. Two wands would make quick work of the glass ceiling; and even a Squib could break a window by heaving a heavy flowerpot at it. Before she managed to come up with a workable plan, the door creaked open and two figures crept out �“ mere inches from where Luna was holding her breath. Casting a wordless Shield Charm, she angled her wand where her attack would be most effective.

“Where should I drape the Devil’s Snare to do the most damage?”

“Near the lane leading to the front steps. Then Levitate a clump on the portico that we can drop on unsuspecting invaders.”

“What about sunlight? The shadows of the parapet will only protect it for a while.”

“That’s all we have, when you get down to it. A while.” The distorted voice took on a grimmer tone. “Our defenses will be used up long before dawn.”

Luna slowly let the air out of her lungs as Neville and Professor Sprout slunk off in opposite directions. Good thing they hadn’t seen her or they would likely have fired before asking questions.

Like a spectre, she slowly trailed Neville as he circled back towards the front of the castle. As he broke left to seed the winding drive with botanical land mines, Luna turned towards the wide steps leading to the double front doors.

Abruptly, the ground shook with earthquake intensity. Luna dropped to a crouch just in time to avoid losing her footing entirely as the sound waves assaulted her entire body. Had the Death Eaters enchanted the very trees in the Forbidden Forest to do their bidding? Such was her first panicked thought as tall, hulking silhouettes materialized not ten feet away.

Her second thought was even more disconcerting: Giants! Their feet were as large as the boats in which the first years were ferried across the Black Lake!

Her ant-like insignificance before these behemoths hit Luna with a rush of adrenaline. She scampered back against the wall of the castle as a huge section of the stone balustrade was ripped as it if was no more than a lacy fringe. To her right, the flagstones had been churned to resemble a mass of enormous cracker crumbs.

The smoke hung heavily here, making it difficult to see her way through the swirling mass. A decapitated head practically leapt at her from the murky darkness. She recoiled in disgust even as she recognized that it belonged to one of the decorative gargoyles that had once lined the battlements. At the sound of approaching thunder, she instinctively ducked behind it only to come face-to-face with a drawn wand.

“Declare yourself!” hissed a low, menacing voice.

Two slow blinks of her eyes and the fog cleared enough to reveal the rough outline of Seamus.

“It’s me, Luna,” she whispered back then nearly tripped as he brusquely caught her by the arm.

“Shhhh!” Seamus warned in a husky whisper. “There’s someone up above. I heard the hinges moaning lowly as if they were trying to avoid notice. I sent Ernie over to the other side to catch them.”

“How many?” Luna pondered aloud.

“Dunno. Don’t attack if we’re outnumbered,” Seamus cautioned.

In a landscape gone insane, Luna considered themselves lucky when only three grayish figures materialized like ghosts. A shiver overtook her as the temperature seemed to plummet.

“It’s hopeless,” Seamus moaned into her ear. “We’ll never coordinate an attack to take all three at once.” He lowered his wand and sank to his knees in despair.

Luna’s first instinct was to join him. To commiserate about the utter unfairness of life in general. But in the next instant, the pieces fell into place.

“Don’t give in!” she urged lowly as she attempted to hoist Seamus to his feet. “All is not lost. It’s just dementors.”

Luna angled her wand away from the unidentified figures. Then trusting in her control of the Patronus Charm, she issued a silvery umbrella to block the worst of the debilitating effects without revealing their hiding place. As if waking up from a deep sleep, Seamus scrambled to his feet.

“Let’s follow them. Rendezvous with Ernie and then take them down all at once.”

Nodding in response to his improvised plan, Luna watched the shadowy figures work their way down the steps and head in the direction of the forest. Zig-zagging between the giants’ onslaught, she and Seamus followed silently until they were caught short by a dark shadow rising before them. Luna recognized Ernie’s agonized face awash in dementor-induced stupor.

“It’s just dementors, mate,” Seamus breathed in an upbeat manner. “Nothing we haven’t seen before.”

Still holding the silvery Patronus pointed at their feet, Luna coaxed the shimmering mist to envelope Ernie. It was like watching a statue come back to life.

“We’re tailing them,” Luna nodded to the retreating figures. “We’ll never catch up if we lose sight of them in this mess.”

“Don’t stupefy them, though,” Ernie cautioned as he fell into step. “That’s Harry, Ron and Hermione. I caught enough of their words before they raised a Privacy Charm.”

Without warning, a wall of glacial air blocked their advance. As the smoky mist thickened in response, the fuzzy outlines of the figures were consumed in the swirling soup.

“Quick,” Luna prompted. “It’s not as if we haven’t practiced this for Neville.”

The image of those companionable training sessions allowed her to find a micron of peace within her mind. Concentrating on the memories of her mother reading her a bedtime story and then, more recently, her father dancing with her at Bill’s wedding, a bounding hare shot from the tip of Luna’s wand. With scarcely a glance it bounded off, the muscles of its powerful hind legs detailed enough to ripple convincingly.

“For Harry once again,” Ernie breathed.

In quick succession, Patronuses in the shape of a boar and a fox dashed after the rabbit-sized break in the smoke. Luna issued a tentative smile as she took a deep breath for the first time in what seemed like hours.

A few words of encouragement for Harry and friends and Luna’s group turned back towards their assigned posts. Deliberately ignoring the trailing spells, Luna’s eyes soon adjusted to the gloom as she picked her way carefully. Luckily, the giants had moved towards the tall towers on the far side of the castle so the approach to the front steps was not as harrowing as before.

Turning towards her left, she noticed the dark stairs leading down to the boat grotto. Had anyone remembered to check that?

Seeing her wide-eyed alarm, Seamus volunteered, “I checked that first. Iron grate is safely padlocked. Nothing could get through there.”

“What about something without shape?” Ernie worried.

“Incorporeal, like a ghost?” Luna clarified. “Not much of a threat there. Even Peeves has mass despite popping in and out of view.”

Seamus nodded sharply. “To be perfectly honest, I was more worried about an invasion via flotilla, rather like Operation Overlord…” His voice trailed off as he caught the others’ quizzical looks. “You know, like when the Allied troops stormed the beaches of Normandy.”

“Muggle warfare techniques,” a sonorous voice acknowledged. “Now wouldn’t that be ironic?”

They started and turned as one towards the impenetrable shadows along the castle wall. A darker patch detached itself from the stone and advanced upon them slowly. There was no mistaking the thin silhouette of a drawn wand in long, white fingers.

The three froze as they waited for the hawklike nose of Severus Snape to emerge from the gloom. It was with a sigh of relief that the swirling darkness resolved itself into Black Watch tartan instead.

“Come,” Professor McGonagall beckoned them towards the same featureless expanse of stone. The strange echoes deepened her voice to be practically unrecognizable, but the Scottish burr was distinctive. “We need to regroup inside before the other side presents its next set of demands.”

“What about the others?” Ernie dared to glance worriedly over his shoulder.

“Those who are still fighting will have to fend for themselves, I’m afraid,” the Deputy Headmistresses returned tremulously.

Luna made as if to protest as the graceful silhouette of Lupin dancing among the firefight rose unbidden in her mind. So like a butterfly, she had last seen him for only a split second as she neared the greenhouses. Drawn to the flame, she mused with a sinking heart as she allowed herself to be herded with the other two.

A circular movement of McGonagall’s wand arm and a portion of the wall before them sprang to life. Within moments, the stones had rearranged themselves to reveal a hidden entryway. A single smoldering brazier outlined the skeleton of a spiral staircase leading upward.

“What are you waiting for?” Up close, McGonagall’s voice returned to its familiar brisk brogue. “Teachers have been using this secret access for centuries.”

Once past the doorway, the stones closed smartly behind them. McGonagall started up the curving steps only to realize that no one was following. Adjusting her square-framed glasses more firmly on her nose, she turned to regard the students huddled at the base of the stairs.

“Did something happen? You three are looking very pale all of a sudden.”

Seamus gulped, the sound magnified within the narrow passage. Ernie cleared his throat with a reverberating echo then supplied, “We thought you were the Headmaster for a moment.”

“Totally unnerved us,” Seamus admitted rather sheepishly.

“Were you doing something you shouldn’t have been?” McGonagall countered.

“Perhaps to his way of thinking,” Luna posed. “We were watching for Slytherins trying to sneak back in.”

“I see,” McGonagall replied. “An assignment from Kingsley Shacklebolt I take it.”

Luna nodded eagerly. “We left the Great Hall right behind Professor Lupin.”

A shadow seemed to flitter across McGonagall’s face, but it was gone in an instant as her lips pressed into a thin line. “Well, you may rest assured Severus Snape has resigned his post as Headmaster. I am once again assuming the duties of Acting Headmistress.”

“Always in times of crisis, eh?” Seamus commented.

“Is that meant as a derogatory remark, Mr. Finnegan?”

“No, Madam Headmistress,” Seamus backpedaled in the wake of her formality.

“Your presence is a great comfort to us, Headmistress,” Luna issued beatifically and was rewarded with a crisp nod.

“If I may be so bold,” Ernie ventured, “what prompted Professor Snape’s…er, departure?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Seamus snapped. “He went to join his master.”

The Headmistress’ mouth curled into a measured smile. “That and Professor Flitwick’s accusation that he’d committed murder in order to assume his predecessor’s position. Now, no more dawdling!” she commanded, allowing them to precede her up the winding staircase.

Another slice of McGonagall’s wand and they emerged into a ground floor corridor. An avalanche of boulders was all that remained of the familiar dungeon staircase. Through the open doorway to Firenze’s classroom, Luna glimpsed the mighty centaur lying on his side. A huge red gash on his pale flank was being tended by Madam Pomfrey as Hagrid hovered in the background. She took a step closer as the magic within faltered. The illusion of tree trunks rimming a forest glen became gossamer thin as the stark outline of a partially collapsed wall peeked through. Beyond that, the vague contours of the Great Hall showed that it was teaming with persons darting to and fro.

“He’s well-taken care of,” McGonagall soothed as her firm hand directed Luna to another classroom. “But if it’s Slytherins you’re after, we found these two who doubled back before they even reached the tunnel to Hogsmeade. Isn’t that right, Mr. Malfoy?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions,” Draco spat from where his long body was folded into an ornate chair. He struggled against the magical ropes which held him securely in place. “You have no authority here.”

McGonagall sighed. “If that’s what you wish to see with your narrow-minded view of the world.”

“So we’re prisoners!” Gregory Goyle bristled from similar restraints. “Won’t change the outcome.”

“Just perhaps your ability to enjoy them, Malfoy!” Seamus railed from the doorway, intent upon getting a measure in return for his best mate’s incarceration in the Malfoys’ dungeon.

Inexplicably, McGonagall motioned for only Luna to enter the room.

Remembering the arrogant posturing she’d endured while being questioned at Malfoy Manor, Luna kept her body as still as possible. “Perhaps, it’s just time we returned your hospitality,” she tendered in a delicate voice.

Draco scowled as he turned his face away deliberately.

“I’m not certain I follow,” McGonagall protested.

“Draco’s just being modest,” Luna explained in her ethereal manner. “His family was kind enough to have me for Yuletide. Eagerly fetched me from the Hogwarts Express while it was still en route. I’m not certain they informed Father in the kindest manner, though...”

“You’re a loony bird!” Draco retorted. “Did you see a single Christmas decoration in our home?”

“That’s true,” Luna allowed calmly. “They seemed to have forgotten the adornments in their enthusiasm. I initially thought we would hang them all together, but they seemed to observe different customs. Such a beautiful house, though. Could’ve used a spot of color.”

“I doubt my mother would take kindly to decorating tips from the likes of you!” Draco fumed.

“Ha!” Goyle intimated darkly. “Can you just see the Dark Lord among fir boughs and mistletoe? Your Aunt Bella might have enjoyed the possibilities of holly, though.”

“My aunt’s twisted imagination is none of your concern,” Draco issued out of the corner of his mouth.

“I tend to agree with Luna.” McGonagall’s tone was that used to exchange pleasantries about the weather. “Abandoning your family traditions will just make you feel that much more isolated from your fellow man. Have you stopped to think that this may have been your Dark Lord’s intent?”

“Is this really the time for philosophical ramblings, woman?” Draco groused.

“Perhaps not,” the Headmistress returned evenly. “Those musings would have been better employed before you decided to join their ranks. You are one of them aren’t you, Draco?”

Draco huffed and met her eyes defiantly.

“Very much so,” Luna replied in his stead. “His father was quite proud of the Dark Mark on his son’s forearm. A matching set, I’d say. Mother was a bit more ambivalent, though.”

“How dare you speak of my mother in such a familiar manner!” Draco enjoined.

“She was a guest in your home, wasn’t she?” McGonagall pressed.

“Until Easter,” Luna confirmed.

“She wasn’t a guest!” Draco clarified. “The guest rooms are upstairs; Luna was housed with the other vermin in the dungeon.”

“Not so,” Luna maintained as she leaned over to address the Headmistress directly. “Peter Pettigrew would’ve been my roommate if that were the case.”

Luna turned luminous eyes towards Draco as Ernie and Seamus dissolved into guffaws behind her. Even Goyle coughed to cover his snigger while Draco glowered.

The barest of smiles twitched at the corner of McGonagall’s mouth but she bit her lip to disguise it. “How very observant of you, Luna. What else can you tell us about Malfoy Manor?”

“The estate was very opulent but dreary at the same time. As if the lifeblood had been systematically drained from everything. Why even the stately peacocks who roamed the manicured lawn were as colorless as parchment.”

“They’re albino peacocks, you loon. Extremely rare and valuable.”

“I would say you were overcharged, then,” Luna insisted.

Just then Voldemort’s voice echoed from the very bedrock, setting the walls themselves to vibrate with his menacing message. He would suspend the attack for one hour to allow Harry to surrender himself.

“Come, we’ll meet with the others in the Great Hall. Or what’s left of it,” the Headmistress ushered them briskly down the hall once more. “Thank you all for drawing those two out. All they did when Professor Flitwick confronted them was to pull faces.”

“Where exactly did you find them?” Ernie inquired.

“And what about Crabbe?” Seamus proposed. “Aren’t they inseparable?”

Interchangeable even, Luna hummed to herself.

“Not far from the Room of Requirement,” McGonagall confided. “They were trying to convince the other side to accept their services. But since they’d managed to lose their wands, their pleas were summarily ignored. Prior to that, I was informed they tried to interfere with Harry’s mission for Dumbledore. Crabbe didn’t make it.”

“You mean he’s still at large somewhere in the castle?” Ernie asked eagerly.

“We’ll find him,” Seamus volunteered.

The Headmistress turned watery eyes in their direction. “I’m afraid you misunderstand. Vincent Crabbe set a trap for Harry and the others. He did not escape alive.”

“Blimey!” Ernie gulped noticeably. “What happened exactly?”

“They were ambushed in the Room of Requirement. Crabbe set off Fiendfyre to prevent them from reaching their objective and it raged out of control.”

“But we just saw Harry and the others…” Luna implored weakly.

“They managed to escape. Flying brooms, I believe. They were not able to get to Crabbe in time.”

“He set off a spell he couldn’t control…” Seamus considered with a frown.

“Always risky,” the Headmistress concurred. “More so within closed quarters with only one avenue of escape.”

“And the Room of Requirement, is it destroyed as well?” Luna pondered.

“We’ll have to see. Professor Flitwick is of the opinion that only that particular chamber will be useless. The room may even be able to heal itself. But none of us really understand the ancient magic that created it when the school was founded.”

“Ginny!” Ernie remembered with a jolt of panic. “We left Ginny behind guarding the room!”

“Don’t get yourself worked up --” the Headmistress began.

“I didn’t see Ginny file out with the rest of the Gryffindors,” Seamus worried.

“She would’ve had to vacate the Room of Requirement before Harry and the others could call up a different chamber,” Luna reasoned.

“And I doubt Harry would’ve allowed her to re-enter with the rest of them,” McGonagall answered knowingly.

---

Luna took in the rapt faces turned in her direction, the midnight blue carpet all but eclipsed by the brightly colored pajamas and dressing gowns of her housemates. She had lost herself in the retelling of her experiences and suddenly felt a bit weary.

“The rest of the story’s common knowledge,” Luna concluded. “Harry fooled everyone into thinking he was dead and then was able to defeat Voldemort. Ginny, Hermione, and I traded a few spells with Bellatrix Lestrange until Molly Weasley showed herself to be a superior duelist.”

“But you confronted the evil Alecto-lizard right here in this very room!” Quincie insisted.

“Near the base of Rowena Ravenclaw’s statute, yes,” Luna admitted. “But all I did was Stun her. The same spell that’s taught in elementary Defense lessons. And it’s hardly brave to shoot from under an Invisibility Cloak. Rather an unfair advantage, I would say.”

“So now you want us to believe you’re a coward?” Confusion from an unrecognized face in the crowd.

“Not exactly. A coward would’ve trembled under the stairs. Waited for the debris to stop falling about his head before checking himself over to see if he was dead or alive.”

Lots of nervous giggles.

“That’s just plain stupid.” Luna recognized Leigh’s serious eyes gazing up at her intently.

“Would’ve made more sense to evacuate when they had the chance,” Stewart noted dryly.

“Many did. But make no mistake about it: bravery and valor are for dead heroes. The survivors will tell a different story if they’re honest with themselves. War is the worst nightmare you could ever imagine. Death facing you with every breath. It doesn’t matter if you’re right or honorable. There’s no sense of pride if you win. Death comes in a completely random manner.

“It’s nothing but a gruesome playing field. Where’s the honor if you go into battle to prevent atrocities, yet your survival requires that you commit the same heinous acts? And if you don’t survive, the enemy’s abuse will continue unabated. It’s survival at the basest level. Scratching in the dirt for subsistence much as cavemen once did.

“Crude clubs, long-distance bombs or complex magical incantations: what’s the difference? Finding more sophisticated methods of annihilation doesn’t make us more advanced. It just allows us to fool ourselves into thinking we’re civilized. War tears away the mask and exposes everyone as a savage.”

She paused to catch her breath as the tears threatened to clog her throat. At some point in her narrative, she had risen to her feet and was suddenly feeling drained. Without warning, Luna’s legs gave way and she sat heavily on the squashy chair behind her.

“Here,” a small tentative hand reached up and offered her a foil package. “Chocolate always makes everything better.”

“Thanks,” Luna mumbled as she undid the wrapping with unsteady fingers. A single nibble of the frog’s webbed foot made her feel that her humanity was returning.

“Seems to me it takes a fair bit of courage to tell a truth your audience isn’t prepared to hear,” Flitwick’s squeaky voice issued at Luna’s elbow.

She graced her Head of House with a gentle smile as he broke off a chunk of the chocolate frog she offered him. Dumbledore’s blue eyes blinked back at them as if holding back tears of his own.

“It seems as if everyone is scrambling headlong to get their lives back on track after last year’s derailment,” she observed into Flitwick’s compassionate eyes.

“Albus would have surely issued a hollow chuckle at your wording, my dear,” he confided lowly.

“How so, Professor?”

“Why your use of the term ‘derail.’ The man had a fascination with trains of all kinds since he was a wee lad.”

They shared a sad smile as they permitted a few heartbeats of silent remembrance for the greatest wizard either one of them had ever known. Then they allowed the heady boisterousness of the common room to consume their attention once more.

---

As Ron posted an extra Quidditch tryout notice on the bulletin board in the Entrance Hall, Luna couldn’t help but wonder how Harry was faring so many miles to the south. Hermione’s assurances that the exclusive retreat was huddled among the rugged Grecian coastline ignited Luna’s vivid imagination.

Without much difficulty, she could envison Ginny in a diaphanous gown of pure white, the steady wind whipping at her long skirt. The golden circlet around her fiery hair bestowed the look of a sun goddess in the warm sunlight. How fitting when heliopaths were said to have originated in the untamed Greek peninsula. Returning to her dormitory after supper that evening, she dashed off a quick owl to Harry to alert him of the prime opportunities for exploration in regions she had always longed to see for herself.

Harry had not been long in responding.

Dear Luna,

The land is just as wild and unkempt as you have pictured it. From my veranda, I can see the ocean waves lapping ceaselessly at the porous rock that makes up much of the seashore. It’s not difficult to imagine that Titans once tread these very cliffs, their giant footsteps carving out indentations in the uneven terrain. It’s rumored that merpeople populate a bottomless grotto nearby, but the undercurrent can be dangerous so I stick to sandcastles in the surf.

Manticores no longer breed among the sea rocks; too many tourists, especially Muggles, took care of that. The Greek Ministry has set aside an Unplottable island as a manticore preserve, but visits are only allowed from afar and require all sorts of special permits.

The sole ruins nearby are atop a headland that can only be reached by a trail that snakes among the boulders. Rather like finding one’s way amid the spikes of a prehistoric dragon, or so my counselor puts it. It’s become Ginny’s favorite picnic spot even though we often have to shout to be heard above the wind. No one’s near enough to overhear snatches of conversation anyway. I suspect that sunsets on this spot must be truly glorious, but the treacherous footpath demands that we return while the sun is still high in the sky. With the uncertain crosswinds, Apparition is not recommended near the sea coast.

I know you’ll be disappointed to learn that the ruins are not those of an ancient temple but rather those of a lighthouse dating from the time of the Venetian Republic. Still, it’s not difficult to imagine that the ocean is just as much a cruel deity as the Hellenic gods described. And the only thing fiery about Ginny is her temper, but I try not to invoke that if I can help it.

I’ve not found any traces of heliopaths so far. Ginny and I often play Quidditch with some of the local lads so I will scour what I can of the neighboring areas from the air. The mountain caves that you mention are far to the north and are renowned for chimaeras -- but they’re miles beyond the horizon even from astride my broom. I quite agree that the remoteness of that region could harbor many secrets known only to the intrepid mountain goats which inhabit the highest reaches. (Ginny recommends not sharing that with Aberforth unless you’re looking for an unconventional travel partner of your own.)

Despite the undisputed majesty of the countryside, I find myself missing the sloshy days of autumn rain at Hogwarts. As the first of September came and went, I couldn’t deny the pull of King’s Cross Station. Just as last year when I was holed up with Ron and Hermione in that humorless townhouse at Grimmauld Place, my thoughts often turn to the familiar rituals that were once such a welcome part of my life. No matter how far and wide I may roam, Hogwarts will remain my first, true home and its inhabitants my dearest and closest friends.

Yours,
Harry