Author's Note:
I know it has been quite a while since the last update. Thank you for your patience and for all of the polite reviews/e-mails telling me to get my rear in gear. Here is the first of three completed chapters. The other two will be up soon.
Chapter 18: Four Years Later
"So you're finally giving up the Hogwarts beat?" Ian asked me as he gave some of the Daily Prophet's money to the cashier at Photographic Parchment, Inc., the only photography supply store in Diagon Alley. The photography division of the newspaper had a contract with the store. We'd do all of our business with them in exchange for modest discounts. It worked well for the photographers to have the shop there. We could walk down the street to get more film and photography paper whenever we needed it, and the owners knew all of us well and were quite helpful.
"I figure it's time to pass Hogwarts down to the new guy," I said, examining a camera lens carefully. I decided I didn't need it and put it back down in its display next to the counter.
"The new guy's been waiting for almost two years," Ian said, laughing as he took the receipt and the chemicals we'd purchased for the Developing Potion from the cashier.
I grinned. "And now that Harry Potter is out of there, he can have it. You know, I never realized how much more exciting Hogwarts got after Potter got there. You-Know—Voldemort—living in the same body as the D.A.D.A teacher, the Chamber of Secrets opening, Sirius Black breaking into the castle… all because of one student."
"In other words, now the Hogwarts beat is boring again?" Ian asked, opening the door for me as we walked out into Diagon Alley, which was back to its pre-war levels of traffic.
"Extremely boring," I agreed, laughing. "I thought the Christmas Holiday would never come. The new photographer can have the beat. I'm happy with London and Diagon Alley—"
"Which you stole from me," Ian joked. I hadn't stolen any beat from him. He'd been dying to get rid of the Diagon Alley beat so that he could completely concentrate on sports, mainly Quidditch.
"You gave it to me," I said, maneuvering through the post-Christmas crowd towards the Prophet office. "Anyway, the Diagon Alley beat is too dangerous for a father," I said, smirking up at him.
That wasn't true anymore, either. Really, the Diagon Alley beat had never been more dangerous than any other beat during the war, but it gained that reputation at the Prophet's office because that was the only beat all of us at the paper had to deal with. Since we all knew the dangers, we all exaggerated those dangers while talking to one another. Ian became a celebrity in the office for having the courage to photograph the damage the Death Eaters did to any business on the street that did not support them them. The Ministry had Aurors in Diagon Alley at all times, but thankfully, the Daily Prophet had extra protection, which saved our office—and many lives—more than once.
"How is Sarah doing?" I asked more seriously.
"She's doing great. She misses work, but I think she's still planning on spending more time at home with Brandon," Ian said, smiling proudly, as he always did while talking about his family.
"How old is Brandon now…?" I said.
"Sixteen weeks," Ian said a bit impatiently because I asked every week. "Born at the end of August, remember?"
"Yes," I said. I always remembered how old Ian's son was after he told me. I just had difficulties keeping track of how much time was passing. Time had been going so fast since… I was eleven.
"I have to stop by Quality Quidditch Supplies to look into whether or not the owner can get me and my camera a sneak peek at the new broom that Nimbus is releasing," Ian said, adjusting his path—and hence mine—accordingly. "You can tag along if you'd like. It won't take long."
I shrugged. It was either go to the Quidditch shop for a few minutes or go back to the dark room and start making Development Potion that much sooner. If I waited for Ian, he would probably make the potion while I 'helped' by staying out of his way. Sure, I could make the potion, but he was better at it.
After silently debating my options, less work won out. "All right," I agreed. We were almost at the door of the shop anyway.
I let Ian approach the storeowner alone. It was easier to convince people to let one person in on a secret than it was to get them to agree to tell a secret to a group. I wandered down an aisle of the shop, barely looking. The only thing in the whole store that could keep my attention was in the window front. I walked over to the display meant to be seen from the opposite direction. An array of Golden Snitches that could be charmed not to fly away from a small area (for use in yards without the benefit of the walls of Quidditch stadiums) sat on stands holding them down. The Snitches weren't professional grade, but they looked the same. I'd found Snitches to be quite pretty since Oliver had shown Percy and me a box of Gryffindor's Quidditch supplies. That had been about a month before he'd tried out for the team.
There were many people walking by the storefront because of that post-Christmas surge in shoppers. Still, the top of a little kid's head popping into view caught my attention. I watched the young boy with dark hair and darker eyes peeking at the Snitches. After several moments, he realized that I was looking at him, and his eyes lit up a bit more, which I suppose meant that he smiled at me. (He was too short for his mouth to be in view.) The kid brought his hand up and waved.
I laughed and waved back. One of the adults walking by stopped behind the boy and looked to see at whom the child was waving.
I stopped waving, but shock prevented me from lowering my arm for several seconds. Oliver hardly seemed to notice my raised arm. He'd frozen when he'd seen me in the window display, too.
Both of us snapped out of our astonishment at about the same time. I walked to the door, where Oliver met me, smiling pleasantly.
"What are you doing here?" Oliver asked, surprise still very evident in his voice. We stepped out of the doorway and into the store so that customers could enter and leave the shop as they pleased.
"I'm running errands for the Prophet," I said, smiling up at him.
I was happy to see him. I'd hardly heard a word from Oliver since Adam and Tara married, which had been about four years previously. I had sent Christmas cards (always late), but I'd never written much to him. His responses were always equally short. After all, we would have had to have written pages in order to get beyond what Joan already told us about each either. (Even Joan didn't write as often as she had; exchanging a letter with her once a month seemed frequent.)
"How are you?" I asked, reaching up to hug him friendlily.
"I'm good," Oliver said, returning the hug with one arm.
When I stepped back, I noticed why. Oliver was holding the hand of the little boy from the window. Surprise washed over me again, probably even more than it had right after I'd seen Oliver. The boy, who appeared to be three or four years old, was smiling up at me, rocking a little, which was making Oliver's arm sway slightly, too.
"And who—how—are you?" I asked the boy, smiling back at him; it was hard not to smile, although not as hard as it should have been.
"Good," the kid answered, still grinning.
"This is Bernard," Oliver said, still looking at me.
My surprise at seeing Oliver unexpectedly and my surprise at seeing Oliver with a little kid were added to my surprise upon hearing the boy's name. "You named him Bernard?" I asked, not hiding my feelings on the name.
"No!" Oliver said immediately, making a small face. "Of course not. His mother did."
"And you went along with it?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.
"Well…." Oliver shrugged and shook his head. "I didn't really have a choice in the matter."
"No choice? In his name?"
Oliver didn't say anything for a few seconds. At first I thought he was confused, but then he smiled a little and said, "His mum liked 'Bernard.' Who would I be to go against his mother?"
"Who is his mother?"
"Celeste," Oliver said simply, as if the name should mean something to me.
Ian had walked over next to me. "No luck on the broom," he said before seeing in whose company I was. I hardly noticed his comment.
"Who's Celeste?" I asked Oliver after failing to think of a single person named that.
"My mum," Bernard chimed in, still gazing up at me.
"Oh," Ian said quietly to himself. He started to walk away, but I grabbed his arm impulsively to keep him there.
The four of us stood in our small square for several moments. I could see the whole group, but my focus was on Oliver, who was looking at Ian curiously, but with recognition. Ian was looking down at Bernard, and Bernard was moving his stare from adult to adult, trying like the rest of us to figure out what was going on.
"Did you marry his mother?" I asked Oliver, finally. I said it accusingly and meant it that way because I was almost positive that if Oliver's engagement or wedding announcement had been in the Daily Prophet, I would have noticed it.
Oliver switched his gaze back to me. I didn't think anything else could surprise me. Oliver's wide smile did. Seeing my anger made Oliver quickly break into laughter.
The other three of us watched for several seconds with blank expressions.
"What's so funny?" Bernard asked Oliver.
"That," I said seriously, "is a good question."
The group waited for a response.
Oliver calmed down enough to answer, "Bernard—whom I had no part in naming—is my cousin."
I blinked. "Your cousin?" I asked emotionlessly, my supply of astonishment running dry.
Oliver nodded, still laughing "My Aunt Celeste's son."
The name clicked. Oliver's Aunt Celeste. Mr. Wood's younger—much younger—sister. The woman who'd trapped Oliver and me in a net during the New Year's game of Wizards and Warlocks.
"Your cousin," I repeated thickly.
Ian had more than enough information to understand the joke, and he added his laughter to Oliver's. That only increased Oliver's response to the situation, and it took almost no time for Ian and Oliver, who were building off each other, to be in hysterics.
"I don't get it," Bernard said, looking up at Oliver…, his cousin.
I looked down at Bernard, the only other person there not laughing. I knew I was blushing furiously. Again, Bernard seemed to sense that I was looking at him, and he returned the gaze, waiting for an explanation.
I smiled at him, which quickly turned into a broad grin. I brought my hand up to cover my eyes as I started laughing, too. Bernard's last comment and expectant stare had made me see the humor in the situation. Oh, it was embarrassing. Horrifying, more like. But that's what was so funny.
"I don't get it!" Bernard said more loudly, not appreciating being ignored.
I uncovered my eyes. Oliver had let go of Bernard's hand when he'd started cracking up. Now, Oliver messed up the boy's hair a bit.
"Laura thought you were my son," Oliver explained. He was barely able to stop himself from laughing again.
I didn't think I could get any redder, but I'm pretty sure I was wrong. My cheeks definitely got hotter.
Bernard processed what Oliver had said for a minute. "That's funny?"
"It's bloody hilarious," Ian said, wiping away the water streaming from his eyes, but mercifully, he did not laugh anymore. We had all calmed down quickly, though we were still smiling at the joke.
"This is my good friend, Ian Mallory, by the way," I said, emphasizing 'good' more than was needed to get the irony across.
"I know," Oliver said, shaking Ian's hand, "though it's nice to more formerly meet you."
"And you," Ian said as the men took their hands back. "That was a bloody good game you played last month. Against the Cannons. That was a great save."
Oliver's smile grew even bigger. "Thank you. I saw your picture of it in the Prophet."
"That was a good picture, wasn't it?" Ian asked, shifting his camera case off his shoulder so that he could stand more comfortably.
"Yes, it was," Oliver agreed.
I had no idea what game, save or picture they were talking about. I stopped listening to the men's conversation about Quidditch when Bernard pulled lightly on my cloak.
When I looked down at him, he asked, "Is my name bad?"
My eyes widened as a small wave of shame swept over me. I bent down so that I didn't have to look down at the little boy. "No, your name isn't bad," I said, smiling as kindly as I could.
"It isn't?" Bernard asked.
"No, you have a nice name," I lied convincingly. "I was just upset that Oliver didn't tell me he had such a nice younger cousin. It had nothing to do with your name."
"So… you like my name?" the boy asked, smiling.
I laughed a little. "Bernard is a… fine name."
"What's your name?" Bernard asked.
"Laura Debman."
Bernard wrinkled his nose. "I don't like that name."
I laughed appreciatively at Bernard's comment. It made me feel not quite as bad about being so blatant about how I felt about the poor kid's name after I'd first heard it.
"It's not so bad, is it?" I asked, playing along.
Bernard thought about it for several seconds. "No," he admitted. "Do you like Quidditch?" Oliver's cousin said, better at continuing small talk at age four than I was at twenty-two.
"It's OK. Do you like Quidditch?"
"I love Quidditch!" Bernard said enthusiastically.
"Do you? What's your favorite Quidditch team?"
"Puddlemere," he said, rocking back and forth a little, as many kids do when they're forced to stand in one spot.
"Of course," Oliver said approvingly, bending down to take Bernard's hand again.
I hadn't realized that Oliver and Ian had stopped talking to listen to my conversation with Bernard. I stood up straight again, but didn't stop looking at the boy.
"What's your favorite team?" Bernard asked me.
I shrugged, laughing. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."
"Her favorite team is Puddlemere, too," Ian said, grinning down at Bernard.
"Really?" Bernard asked excitedly.
"Sure."
"How old are you, Bernard?" Ian asked in his regular voice. Ian didn't believe in baby-talking younger children. Even his four-month old baby. (Sarah, his wife, didn't use a babying voice, either, when she was around Ian, but I heard her use baby-talk more than once while eating dinner at the couple's house.)
"Three," Bernard answered proudly.
"He's almost four," Oliver told Ian and me.
"And what are you doing in Diagon Alley, Bernard?" Ian asked.
"Getting ice cream!" Bernard said, turning towards Oliver and jumping up and down a couple of times.
"You don't want to look around at the Quidditch stuff first?" Oliver asked, laughing.
"No!"
Oliver looked up and over at me. "Well… I'm sure you're busy, and if I don't get Bernard to that new ice cream parlor within three minutes, he might hurt me," Oliver said while Bernard tugged on his arm excitedly.
"It was nice to see you," I said.
"Wanna come?" Bernard asked.
The rest of us looked down at him. He was still tugging on Oliver's arm, but he was looking up, switching his gaze between Ian and me.
"I'm sure Ian and Laura are busy—"
"Not really," Ian interrupted Oliver. He looked over at me with a look that reminded me a bit too strongly of Joan. Grinning, he turned his focus back to Bernard. "At least, Laura's not."
"We have to develop our film," I said. And it was true.
"We have to make the Developing Potion first, and I can do that alone just as easily as I can do it with you looking over my shoulder," Ian said. …That was true, too.
I tried to glare at Ian without letting Oliver see it, but it proved impossible, so I probably looked like I was staring blankly at my colleague.
"You can come if you want," Oliver said.
Ian nodded. "Go get some ice cream. And bring me back some Fizzing Whizbee Fruit Wham."
I glanced down at Bernard, who was looking up at me hopefully. "All right," I said a bit reluctantly.
"Yeah! Let's go!" Bernard said, moving towards the door and making it very difficult for Oliver not to follow.
"I'll see you back at the office," Ian said, giving me a shove, making us both follow the Woods out of Quidditch Supplies.
Oliver slowed Bernard down long enough for me to join their group. I walked up on Bernard's side, and he took my hand before pulling Oliver and me in his wake.
"Have you been to the new ice cream parlor?" I asked Oliver, looking straight ahead to make sure that Bernard didn't pull me into anything solid.
"Not yet. Is it as good as Fortesque's?"
"About the same," I said, dodging a person who wasn't walking in accordance with Bernard's idea of the flow of traffic.
"The Fizzing Whizbee Fruit Wham is good?" Oliver asked, and I could hear his smile.
"Ian likes it. It's slightly better than its name, which isn't that great."
"Careful. You might hurt its feelings."
I looked over at him just long enough to make sure that he was kidding. He was, but I still felt as if I should apologize. "I'm sorry about that whole thing. Both for insulting Bernard and for… you know…."
"Accusing me of having a kid without letting you know?" Oliver asked, laughing.
"I guess," I said, laughing and blushing again.
"My reaction probably would have been about the same," Oliver admitted.
"Do any of the old seventh years have kids?" I asked. "So I'm not caught off guard again?"
"As far as I know, only Adam and Tara."
I would have slapped myself lightly in the head if I hadn't been afraid of hitting someone in the crowd while bringing up my hand. "I knew that. Joan wrote to me as soon as Tara would let her. Their kid is… two?"
"A little over two now, I think," Oliver said.
We'd reached Simons' Ice Cream Shoppe, and Oliver opened the door for Bernard and me. Since I was still holding Bernard's hand, I led the way to the counter. Bernard and Oliver took their time looking at all of the flavors in the shop and, after much debate, all of us placed our orders and brought our dishes to a small, round table tucked in the back of the store. Since it was December, the place wasn't very busy. Based on the number of packages placed near tables, most people in the parlor looked as if they were from out town, and they probably hadn't been to the new store yet.
Bernard sat in the seat that faced the majority of the shop so that he could watch everything going on, which positioned Oliver and me across from each other. Bernard seemed more than satisfied with his ice cream and the view, so Oliver continued our conversation.
"You know that Rose and Flint eloped?"
"No!" I said. "When?"
"About… three weeks ago, I guess."
"When did you find out?"
"Joan wrote a week ago. I'm surprised she didn't write to you about it yet. She was pretty upset that she wasn't going to get to go to a wedding ceremony."
I laughed. "That's Joan. And I guess that's Rose and Flint, too."
"Yes," Oliver agreed after swallowing a spoonful of ice cream.
"I saw in the paper that Dave and Cedar decided to get married."
Oliver nodded. "Took them long enough. Although, I have to admit, I thought those two would put it off for another five years. They're not very good at making decisions."
"No," I said, "although they stick by their decisions, so their marriage should be a long one."
Oliver laughed. "For better or worse."
"Joan never writes to me about these things. Is she still dating Evan?"
Oliver looked mildly surprised. "Adam's brother?"
"Yeah."
"They were dating?"
"They started dating about a year ago. Cedar told me one time when I ran into her at Gringotts."
"I never heard about that," Oliver said. He shrugged. "So, I have no idea if they're still dating."
"I bet they still are," I said.
"Are you still dating Elliot?" Oliver asked. There wasn't much emotion in his voice, so I didn't think much about the question.
"No. We broke up years ago."
"Why?" Oliver asked. "If you don't mind me asking," he added quickly.
I shook my head. "I don't know. We just… didn't have all that much in common. Hell—" I covered my mouth and glanced over at Bernard, who didn't respond. "Sorry. Heck… though that's not much better…."
"He's heard worse," Oliver said dismissively.
I smiled. "From you?"
"No, thank you, from his parents," Oliver said, smirking.
"Sorry again, then."
"What were you going to say before the minor curse word?"
It took me a few seconds to remember. "I was just going to say that Elliot and I didn't talk much."
"Ah," Oliver said, nodding. "That seems to be the death of most of my relationships, too."
"Are you dating anyone?" I asked.
"No. Not right now. I've been really busy since I became Puddlemere's Keeper after the old one was traded to another team."
"That was over a year ago," I said.
Oliver laughed. "To answer the question implied in that comment, it's been a while since I seriously dated anyone."
I smiled, then caught myself and made my face as unreadable as I could.
"You?" Oliver asked, raising his eyebrows.
"I'm not dating anyone now, no."
"Too busy?" Oliver asked.
I shrugged. "Same as always."
"Oh. I thought maybe…." Oliver took another bite of ice cream. "I guess I just meant that I assumed you'd be spending more time developing pictures since your pictures have been in the paper more and more."
I smiled, glad that he had noticed so I wouldn't have to brag if he asked about how I was doing at the Prophet. "I spend a little more time there, but the amount of time I work still evens out."
"Some of your pictures have been all over the place," Oliver said.
I nodded. "I wish they could have been pictures of better events."
I had become the Hogwarts photographer at one of the school's most news making periods in recent history. I was about the only photographer who could get pictures of Harry Potter on a regular basis, and the Prophet printed many of them. Those pictures got me some attention in the office, which was nice; who doesn't like to receive a little appreciation for doing his or her job well?
Unfortunately, it took a tragedy for me to make a name for myself. When Professor Dumbledore was murdered, I was the only Daily Prophet photographer who was allowed to take pictures at the funeral because the event took place at Hogwarts. So, my pictures became the visuals of that funeral for most wizards in Great Britain. A few weeks later, I was digging through my stock for recent pictures of Dumbledore, and I discovered a picture of Snape and Dumbledore, together. I had taken it after Snape became the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. School hadn't even been in session at the time I took the picture, and the paper had decided not to run an article about Snape's appointment to the new teaching position, but it was still the last picture (and one of the few pictures) taken of the pair. The paper printed the picture with a follow-up story of Dumbledore's death, and then other publications started using the photograph, too. For about two days, the picture itself became a story, and since I had taken that photograph, I was dragged into the story, too.
"It's not your fault that the things you took pictures of happened, so there's really no reason to feel guilty that the pictures made you famous," Oliver said simply but seriously.
"They didn't make me famous—"
"Everyone knew your name—"
"For a few days," I interrupted. "Just long enough to get me promoted."
Oliver shook his head. "Most people want to be famous," he said, smiling.
"I wouldn’t mind it. I just… would rather be famous for something more… pleasant than taking a picture of Professor Dumbledore and his murderer."
"There's no reason to feel guilty," Oliver repeated.
I nodded and focused on my ice cream again. Several people at the Daily Prophet had told me to enjoy the attention and that there was no reason to feel guilty for what had generated that attention. It's the nature of news to benefit from misfortune. It's cold, but it's true. Ian had been the only one at the office I'd actually talked to about the whole thing. Everyone else who came up to me knew how I was feeling because they'd been there themselves. Ian, who was known for photographing Quidditch, needed a bit more of an explanation. He'd been quite supportive after listening to what was bothering me, and he had convinced me that there was nothing to feel badly about.
I wasn't focusing on my ice cream because I felt guilty; I focused on my ice cream instead of looking across the table because Oliver hadn't needed me to tell him why I had felt guilty, or even that I had felt guilty at all. The idea that I might be feeling badly about benefiting from the death of a man whom I respected had never occurred to anyone outside of the paper. Or, at least, no one outside of the paper had ever said anything to me about it before then.
"All right?" Oliver asked.
"Yeah. I'm fine." I looked up and smiled. "And I know there's no reason to feel guilty. I don't. But thank you anyway."
"I'm done!" Bernard said.
Oliver and I looked over to see a very messy young wizard sitting in front of an empty dish. We laughed as Bernard smiled at us, unconcerned with the dirty state of his face and black cloak.
"Scourgify," Oliver said after taking his wand out of his cloak pocket and pointing it at his cousin.
The ice cream on Bernard disappeared, and the boy didn't even blink. I gathered that he was used to having the spell performed on him, and I briefly wondered what my own mum would have done to have been able to use a spell to clean me up when I'd gotten messy when I was Bernard's age.
"Can Laura and I finish our ice cream?" Oliver asked.
Bernard nodded, but he already was moving around in his seat.
"I'll tell you what," Oliver offered. "If you sit quietly for five minutes I'll… take you for a ride on the Nimbus at home."
"OK!" Bernard said, bouncing up and down in his seat.
"But only if you don't let go of the broom this time," Oliver said quite seriously, and it took a lot of control not to laugh.
"OK," Bernard promised solemnly.
"Five minutes," Oliver said. He took off his watch and placed it in front of Bernard. "When the bigger hand points to this number," Oliver said, pointing to the face of the watch.
Bernard nodded.
"I think I'm the only one who can get him to do that," Oliver said, looking back at me and jerking his head towards Bernard. "Of course… I'm the only one mad enough to take him up on a broom."
I laughed, still watching Bernard, who was staring intently at the watch.
"How's Percy?" Oliver asked.
I shrugged. "I'm not sure. He hasn't written in a while."
"I heard about his mum."
I nodded and looked back to Oliver, who appeared to be rather sad, which didn't surprise me. Oliver had known Mrs. Weasley when we were just starting school. It was easier for him to go to the Burrow than it was for me to get there because Oliver's parents could use magic to bring him.
"Is the family doing OK?" Oliver asked politely.
I shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah, now, they're doing OK as far as I know. But it's been more than a year since Mrs. Weasley died."
"I couldn't believe it when I read about it in the paper," Oliver said, shaking his head as if he still had trouble believing it, which I sympathized with.
"I couldn't either," I said. "I thought Percy would have—although, I'm sure Percy was much too upset to think about writing to tell anyone."
Oliver looked at me for a few seconds, but he didn't say anything, which I was somewhat glad about. I could tell he was trying to figure out what I'd meant but hadn't said. He was good at it. Percy, Ian and my mum could usually do the same thing. Thankfully, they all (eventually) learned that it was best not to run their guesses by me; their guesses were usually correct, which pissed me off.
"Did you go to the funeral?" Oliver asked eventually.
"Yeah. Figured Percy could use a friend since… you know… things weren't so good with the family before Mrs. Weasley passed away."
"Are things OK between Percy and the Weasleys now?"
I thought about it. "Well… they're talking again. And Mr. Weasley apologized… even though he was probably more correct about the whole fight than Percy was."
Oliver smirked. "Percy didn't apologize?" He'd phrased it as a question just to be polite.
"Of course not," I grinned back. "But family is better at forgiving that kind of thing."
Oliver's smile barely faltered as he accepted the implied accusation behind what I'd said, even though I hadn't meant it in anyway against Oliver. "That's true, I suppose," Oliver admitted.
I looked down at my empty ice cream dish. "I was kind of expecting… I mean, I thought you would have come." I kept my head down but moved my eyes up to see how he took the comment.
His face didn't change noticeably. "I thought it would be best to stay away."
After a bit of consideration, I decided, "Maybe you were right."
"I knew you could handle it."
I raised my eyebrows in disagreement. "Well… I tried."
"You tried?" Oliver asked.
I rubbed my forehead a little to give myself time to figure out how to say what I was thinking. "I guess holding someone's hand just… isn't enough anymore."
"Did you try it?"
I laughed a bit, humorously. "All day. Of the funeral, I mean."
"Percy won't talk about it?"
"No."
"Will he talk about anything?" Oliver said, putting his spoon and crumpled paper napkin into his empty bowl.
I smirked.
"Other than work," Oliver added quickly.
"No."
Oliver collected Bernard's ice cream dish and trash in silence. I could tell the five minutes was about up because Bernard was starting to look excited and was moving around in his seat.
"Well, if he couldn't talk to you, who could he talk to?" Oliver said, placing Bernard's trash on top of his own. He held out his hand across the table to take my empty ice cream dish.
I handed the bowl across the table. "That's what worries me."
"I know it is."
I laughed silently to myself. Of course he knew.
"I wish I could still help him, but—" I started.
"Five minutes!" Bernard said, throwing his hands up in delight and hopping out of his chair. He ran around his chair and over to Oliver, whom he immediately began pulling on. "Five minutes! It's pointing to where you said!"
Oliver smiled apologetically at me before facing his cousin with a more open grin. "I promised. Five minutes. You did damned—"
"Oliver!"
"Darned well," Oliver corrected himself, grinning at me.
The time suddenly seemed much more important than it had a moment previously, and I checked my watch. "Oh, wow." I stood up and looked around the table for anything I might have put down. (I'd kept my cloak on because… I was eating ice cream in December.) "I need to get back to the Prophet. Ian's finished the potion by now, I'm sure."
Oliver stood as well. "Oh. OK. …It was nice seeing you."
I nodded and smiled sincerely. "You, too, Oliver." I looked down at Bernard, who was still tugging on Oliver's arm while looking up at me. "And it was lovely meeting you, Bernard."
The boy beamed up at me. "Thank you."
Oliver and I laughed.
"What he means is that it was nice to meet you, too," Oliver said, looking down at Bernard to make his point.
"Yeah," Bernard said.
"So… I'll see you around," I said, my eyes traveling back to Oliver.
He nodded once. "I hope so, yes."
"Is she going to New Year's?" Bernard asked Oliver, looking up at his cousin for the first time since all of us had stood.
Oliver was caught a bit off guard by the question. "I…. She can if she wants." He turned his gaze back to me. "You can if you want."
I hesitated.
"Come!" Bernard said, letting go of Oliver's arm to tear around the table to grab my arm. He jumped up and down a couple of times. "It's fun! Come!"
I laughed as Oliver walked around the table to try to prevent his cousin from taking my shoulder out of its socket.
Ultimately, I couldn't say no to Bernard. I thought little kids were all right, but I was rarely easily persuaded by one. But, Bernard was more likeable than most three- and four-year-olds. Sure, he was a bit of a hassle, but he wasn't a brat merely for the sake of getting attention or causing trouble. And the war was still very much with everyone, including me; that made Bernard's simple humor quite appealing. So was being reunited with old friends, whom I'd worried about frequently despite never being good at keeping in touch with them. And not attending the Daily Prophet New Year's party, which was almost exactly the same each year, was tempting, too.
"All right," I said. I beamed down at Bernard. "I'll be there."
"Yeah!" Bernard said, pulling on my arm a bit too harshly as he celebrated.
"We'll see you there, then," Oliver said, this time remembering to disconnect Bernard's hands from the sleeve of my cloak.
"Yes," I said. "I'll see you both there." I nodded once at the pair of Woods before turning uncertainly and walking out of the Simons' Ice Cream Shoppe alone.
"About damned time," Ian said when I slipped into the dark room quickly, before the lights in the hall could come back on. Ian was already putting his photographs into trays of Developing Potion. "Did you bring my ice cream?"
I winced. "Oh, shit. I lost track of time, and then, when I realized what time it was, I completely forgot about your ice cream," I said. "I'll go back and get some—"
"Don't bother," Ian said quickly. "No one in his right mind wants ice cream in December. I was just giving you an excuse to go." Ian smiled at me, and yet again I was a bit reminded of Joan. "So… it went well, then?" Ian asked, watching me move around the center table as he smirked knowingly.
I nodded. "I guess it did. We had a decent conversation."
"When are you seeing him again?" Ian asked, laughing, apparently pleased with himself for making me go eat ice cream with Oliver.
I laughed, too. "It wasn't that kind of conversation. It was just… friendly."
"Just friendly?"
"Yes. It was more like a conversation with an old friend than with an ex-boyfriend."
Ian nodded sarcastically. "Yes. I accuse my old friends of having children out of wedlock all of the time. It's a great way to—"
"Oh, shut up," I interrupted, but I laughed at the joke.
"So. When are you seeing him again?" Ian asked again, turning back to his work.
"New Year's."
Ian laughed. "I'll cover for you at the office party."
"Thank you," I said, "but I'm still only going as an old friend."
"I know," Ian said in a voice that clearly told me that he didn't mean it.
"Because Bernard asked me."
"I know," Ian repeated.
"How could you know—"
Ian turned, smiling genuinely. "Laura," he interrupted me. "Just go have a good time. With your friends."
I nodded once in mock defiance. "Maybe I will."
Ian laughed and shook his head at me. "And try not to be so stubborn."
"I'm not—" His almost cruelly skeptical look broke me off. "I'll try."
Author's Note:
Thanks to Marie (electronicquillster) for Bernard's name. I asked for a horrible name for a child, and she didn't disappoint me. (My deepest apologies to anyone who has the name/likes the name/gave a child that name.)
The next two chapters are finished and will be posted very soon.
Preview: Laura goes to the Woods' for the first time in five years to bring in a new year. The rest of the old seventh years show her how much has changed and what has stayed the same.