Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world is the property of J.K. Rowling. The plot is of my own invention.
“Prime Minister, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Arthur Weasley said, extending his hand to the Muggle leader of England. The cool green flames of the fireplace behind the wizard were rapidly fading.
“Thank you, Weasley. Welcome back to Downing Street.”
“I would like to introduce my son, Bill Weasley.” As a second flash of green flames erupted in the fireplace and the eldest Weasley son stepped up to his father. “Bill, this is the Muggle Prime Minister, Anthony Blast.” The Prime Minister’s eyes widened ever so slightly when he saw the terrible scars on Bill’s werewolf-ravaged face.
“Forgive my appearances, sir,” Bill said sincerely, “I was attacked by a werewolf a few months ago and the scars don’t heal.”
Both Weasleys saw that their host had at least a few dozen questions on his mind, but they pressed on with Arthur continuing the introductions as a small creature stepped out of the fireplace following a third eruption of flames. “And may I present the director of the London Branch of Gringotts, our Wizarding financial institution, Senior Manager Crawsnag.” Now the Prime Minister made no pretense of not noticing the oddities of the third member of Arthur’s party. The diminutive Goblin smiled, exposing a startling display of ugly teeth, and held out his hand. Blast hesitated, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“I “ I’m sorry, Mr. Crawsnag, I’ve n-never, er…”
“That is understandable… sir,” the Goblin grumbled. His hand remained out for the Muggle to accept. Blast finally collected himself and shook the green-skinned, gnarly hand.
“Please, come into my private conference area, er, gentlemen.” He escorted the group through a door into a room set up with a long, narrow table and chairs. Crawsnag pulled out one of the seats and jumped up. His nose barely met the top of the table. Bill and his father watched the Muggle’s reaction to the obviously awkward situation. Crawsnag cleared his throat.
Blast looked at the Goblin, not knowing the protocol for the situation. But he finally reached down and showed the creature how to raise the chair height, all the while stealing nervous glances at the other two wizards. Bill took a glimpse at his father and they both barely nodded. Their plan to frazzle the Prime Minister was working perfectly.
“Please, have a seat.” They did.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Arthur started abruptly, “before we begin any substantive discussions, I think it might be best for us all to understand how broadly you expect our societies to interact. And for protocol purposes, I should be addressed as Minister or Minister Weasley. My son is Mr. Weasley…”
“And I am Crawsnag,” the Goblin added, his smile almost appearing as a sneer to the Muggle.
“I understand you prefer to be addressed as ‘Minister.’ Is my information correct?”
“Yes, Wea… Minister Weasley.”
“Wonderful. In the upcoming meetings between our two worlds, will we be dealing directly with you, and you alone?”
Up until three minutes before, Blast would have said no, but the idea of letting anyone else see this, this, freak gallery made him abruptly queasy. “You will be dealing directly with me, for the present. If I need further assistance I will cross that bridge when I come to it.” Bill and his father exchanged another quick glance. Crawsnag remained silent and statue-like.
Seeing an opening, Blast began. “Since our last meeting I have drawn up a detailed list of the damages… to my country.” Blast pointed to a number of thick binders at the center of the table.
“Minister, forgive my interruption, but England is our country, too,” said Bill rather harshly. Arthur placed a hand on his son’s forearm.
“A poor choice of words, Mr. Weasley,” the Prime Minister said quickly, “my apologies.” He stood and picked up four of the binders, handing one to each of three Wizarding delegation members and keeping one for himself. “If you have any problems understanding our accounting practices please do not hesitate to…” Blast trailed off as he saw Crawsnag’s face become enraged, though he wasn’t certain that was the emotion the Goblin was really trying to convey.
“Minister Weasley,” the Goblin growled, looking at Arthur. “I cannot work with this rubbish, you know our standards!”
Arthur opened his binder and nodded to Crawsnag. Then he addressed the Muggle. “Minister, I am sure these figures are fine for you and your… what do you call them… accountants? But Goblins handle all our financial transactions and they are unable to read digits of this size. Poor eyesight, you know, from all those centuries living underground.”
Blast looked stunned for just a moment, then recovered. “I, er, see. Perhaps I can have the reports reprinted?” he asked Crawsnag.
The Goblin casually took out a quill and inkpot and wrote a number of characters on the first page of the binder’s contents. “I will need them this size, Minister.” He turned the binder and pushed it towards Blast. Blast sighed.
“Very well, Cragsaw, I will…”
“Crawsnag, Minister,” the Goblin barked out, causing Blast to jump back.
“Right, yes, my apologies, Crawsnag. I will have your copy reprinted…”
“Ten,” the Goblin broke in. “I will need ten copies, Minister.”
“Yes, very well. I shall have them ready for you tomorrow… now what’s wrong?” Blast asked in obvious irritation as he saw Arthur hold up a finger, as if to stop him, and then point to his son.
“This week is the Goblins’ New Year celebrations, Minister. I don’t believe Senior Manager Crawsnag or his associates will be in any shape to start reviewing these until the following.” Bill looked at Crawsnag who nodded slightly.
“Very well then, shall I wait for word from you to deliver the records?”
“Yes, we will contact you through the usual means.” Arthur was referring to the portrait in the Prime Minister’s office that alerted the Muggle whenever the Wizarding world desired to communicate with him.
“Very well, Minister Weasley, Mr. Weasley, er Crag… Crawsnag,” Blast said, standing, “Until we speak again.” The Wizarding delegation did not rise with him.
“Just a moment, please, Minister, there is a situation developing within our law enforcement branch and we hope you can assist us with its resolution.” Blast slowly sat back down. “We actively monitor the non-magical community to ensure someone does not accidentally stumble upon our way of life. A while back we were investigating a journalist named Michael Allen,” Arthur handed Blast a sheet of parchment with Allen’s name, address and Muggle photograph. “This person was able to gather information that would lead to our exposure. We were about to apprehend him and erase his memory of us when he escaped, apparently with another man and possibly some evidence of magic being performed.”
“You can erase memories?”
“Yes, Minister. We have a wide range of… spells that can remove specific memories from a person. Naturally, we don’t like to use these on Muggles because…”
“You’ve done this before?” Blast spat out in astonishment.
“Not terribly often, but a few times a year non-magical persons might witness something revealing. We believe it is best to erase those memories rather than let the person suffer long-term psychological problems trying to comprehend things that are clearly out of their realm of understanding. We are trying to prevent Mr. Allen from falling into this category.”
“I see. What shall I do if we are able to locate this person?”
“Please contact me immediately. If we are quick enough we can Obliviate him and return him to his home before any damage is done. He’ll never know what happened.”
Blast nodded. “Very well, I shall pass this on to Scotland Yard and see what they can find. Should they expect to find this person dangerous in any way?”
“No, there was no indication that he was anything other than a clever journalist who stumbled upon our way of life,” Bill finished.
A second time, Blast started to rise but quickly reseated himself when he saw his guests remaining seated. “There is one other item, Minister. I need to report back to my government about how you would like us to handle evil wizards in the future.” Arthur’s tone bore the slightest hint of sarcasm, but he didn’t blink as he stared at Blast sitting quietly in his seat; a trickle of sweat ran down the side of the Muggle’s head.
“I’m not sure how to answer that, Minister Weasley. How would you normally handle them?”
“Of course, Minister, forgive me. Perhaps I should pose the question this way: when we run across an evil wizard or witch, should we leave Muggles unprotected and only deal with them in our world?”
“Unprotected?”
“Yes, sir,” Bill answered, taking over from his father. “In this latest conflict with Lord Voldemort we estimate that we saved about eight hundred Muggle lives, and at a tremendous cost to our Aurors “ that’s what we call our police force. In future situations should we not protect them?”
Blast was speechless.
“You see, Minister, your society was not the only one damaged by this war,” Arthur finished.
Nodding at Bill and Crawsnag, Arthur rose, bowed, and left a flummoxed Prime Minister sitting alone in his meeting area.
Following the departure of the wizards, Anthony Blast sat thinking for a good hour. In his entire political career he had never been so entirely at a loss for words. Magic! Memories! Goblins! He felt completely and utterly helpless. What’s to keep them from modifying my memory or doing something I don’t want them to do? The thought chilled him.
Blast was not certain, yet, how to handle this turn of events, but he did know what to do about this Allen fellow; he knew the man’s name and reputation. Returning to his office, Blast made a call to Scotland Yard as promised. But then he made a slight change after asking for the man or men to be found. “Inspector, when you find Allen I want you to do nothing but search them for weapons and bring them to Downing Street. No questions are to be asked of them and no conversation initiated. What’s that? Good point. You may tell them that they are not in trouble, and that is all.”
Maybe one problem would help with the other…
“Well, Arthur, how did it go?” Penrose asked, his face appearing in the fireplace in Arthur’s new office. “Did he react to your comments about future threats?”
“I think he was too astonished to process anything at that point. I brought Director Crawsnag with me and the poor bloke could hardly speak after seeing him.”
Penrose chuckled. “Excellent, Arthur, nice touch. Join me for lunch? The Wizengamot is about to announce their selection for Minister of Magic.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, we can dine whilst speculating on our futures.” With a smile and slight nod, Penrose’s head disappeared from Arthur’s fireplace.
Following a half-hour dictation to his Dict-O-Quill about the meeting with the Prime Minister, Arthur took a few more minutes to jot down notes in his personal journal before heading off to Penrose’s office. He stopped at Percy’s cubicle on the way and saw that Bill was still visiting.
“Keep your ears open, dad, I hear we should have a new Minister soon,” Percy whispered. Arthur nodded and left for lunch.
|-|-|-|-|
Michael Allen had never felt so helpless in his life. The night of the sting, after they had escaped, he had insisted Billy and he separate. “After all,” he told the youth reasonably, “you weren’t seen, you should be safe from…” It was hard to find fault with Digger’s logic, and Allen explained that he needed someone to supply him with money, and try to get his passport and wallet. That, they both realized, would be tricky.
But before splitting up, the two had ducked into a dodgy looking pub and speculated about what they had witnessed and experienced. They skirted around the evidence in the bag Billy still held. It was obvious… yet impossible. People appearing (and disappearing) out of nowhere? Sticks that shot out different colored lights? And what was it the man Billy had stunned said to Allen before getting zapped? ”Let me see your wand”?
“What’s that, Digger?” Billy asked.
“Cripes, Billy, it’s what that goon said to me right before you stunned him. He asked to see my ‘wand.’ What… it couldn’t be... could it?” He really hadn’t addressed the last question to Billy.
“Magic?” whispered the computer store technician. It was, after all, what both had been thinking, even if only as a last possible choice.
Digger shook his head. “It sounds impossible, it has to be impossible. But remember what you heard on my Dictaphone tape, about spells?” Allen slouched down in the booth, trying no to think about what it might be that his foot had just slipped in. “This must all be some fantastic prank…” Neither of them really believed it. “We have to see the tapes.”
“Right, should we take them down to… wait! If you’re right about me not being known I could take them down to the shop. Do you want to try and sneak in?”
Allen gave Billy a skeptical look. “Are you kidding? I just want to hide under this table. Look, lad, you have enough money to get home, don’t you? Good, go home. Tomorrow, I need you to go to the bank and get some money… You do have some money, don’t you?”
“Er”yeah, not a lot, but… well don’t look at me that way! I took this job for the money, remember?”
“Ok, sorry. Get what you can and come back here. I’ll pay you back double.” Billy smiled. “But watch your back and don’t take any chances.”
With that, Billy left Allen in the pub and headed home. He had no problems at all taking the tapes to his shop, transferring them to a CD, making a number of copies, and then stopping at his bank on the way back to meet Allen. With that, a daily routine was set up, always ending with them viewing the video on a borrowed laptop. And the more they watched and listened, the more they became convinced that… Magic was involved.
“Digger, you do realize that we’re going to be put in a loony bin, right?” Allen just nodded.
The following Wednesday, Allen thought Billy should make a trip to his flat.
“Here’s a letter to the landlord authorizing him to show you the flat. I said I was thinking about sub-letting it to you. Make sure you take him with you for protection. If anyone’s already there, get out. But watch the building before you go in. If you see people in long robes, drop everything and get back here.” Billy was looking a bit green.
“No worries, lad, it’ll be simple.” Allen wasn’t really so certain himself. “Now my wallet, keys and passport are on my dresser. Mac, the landlord, won’t follow you around, he’s too lazy. Get in and out quickly and you’ll be fine.” Billy didn’t feel fine, but took the letter and set off.
He spent the rest of the morning and until mid-afternoon watching the building, particularly Digger’s flat, for any signs of trouble. He even got up the courage to enter the building and pretend to be lost while walking around the ‘wrong floor.’ At four o’clock it was time.
Steeling himself, Billy again crossed the street and entered the building. He rode the lift up to Allen’s floor and went to the Landlord’s flat. After a brief conversation with the man, “Mac” took Billy to Allen’s unit and let him in. Billy was delighted that no one was there and true to Allen’s prediction, Mac stayed at the door while Billy swept through each room, ending at the bedroom. Allen’s wallet, passport and keys were exactly where he said they would be. In one quick, practiced motion, they were swept away and Billy found himself telling a lie about leaving so soon. Mac didn’t have a problem with that and pointed down the corridor. “The lift’s that way. G’day,” was all the man said as he turned back to his own room.
“Excellent, Billy,” Allen exclaimed as he took his possessions. “Let’s go.”
“Where? Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”
“Not any more. We’re going to post those CDs to some friends of mine. Did you encrypt them like I said?” Seeing Billy nod, Allen smiled. “These, my lad, are our insurance policies. Look.” Taking an envelope from his pocket, the journalist handed it to his accomplice. Billy read it.
“Blimey! You do want to go to the loony bin, Digger!” His voice was full of amazement and disbelief. “You’d really do this?”
“You got a better idea? Blackmail is a powerful incentive. But the real question is, what are you going to do, Billy? Do you want to sit on the sidelines or take a chance with me? I didn’t think it was dangerous before, but now…” Billy knew. They both knew. There was something extraordinarily odd happening in their lives and neither should ever expect to have another chance like this. The tapes had convinced them that a strange world existed within their own, and even if it was not magic, it still had to be something remarkably important.
“I’m in, Digger. What do you want me to do?”
“Excellent. First I need you to post these,” Allen said, sealing the last envelope. “Be certain to use two or three different mail drops. Come on, I’m feeling cooped-up in this damned room; let’s walk around the lobby.” They exited the room, this time Allen remembered to take his wallet, passport and keys. As the two walked down the corridor to the front office, Allen stretched and did a few squats to loosen up. They end their short walk helping themselves to the complimentary coffee in the lobby and sat watching a large tank of tropical fish.
“After you drop those off tomorrow, meet me back with a bag packed, we’re taking a little trip.”
“Where to?” Billy didn’t look happy.
“Well, apparently I was researching this Potter fellow in a place called Godric’s Hollow. I checked the map and it’s in Wales, a few miles north of Bristol. We’re going to take a road trip and see if we can rediscover anything.” Seeing the expression on the boy’s face he guessed the reason. “If you can get the time off, that is. I could use your help.”
But before Billy could answer, something caught Allen’s trained eyes. Approaching the hotel was a line of six identical black sedans. Years of experience told Allen what they were, but he hoped they would continue down the road. They didn’t. Three turned into the far side of the hotel, three others the near side. One of those on the near side pulled up to the front entrance. Standing and coolly distracting Billy to keep him calm, Allen kept speaking as they walked to the men’s toilet. Just as the door was closing he heard the voice of a man explaining to the front desk man that they were here to apprehend a criminal traced to the hotel by his credit card. Allen froze. How could I be so bloody STUPID? He had to think and act quickly.
“Billy, get in the stall and sit on my lap; the Bobbies are here.” If the order didn’t startle him, Allen’s next move did. He crossed his legs, sitting on the toilet and pulled Billy on to his lap after telling him to drop his trousers. Fortunately the techie understood what the older man was doing. To the outside observer there was only one person in the stall. If questioned, Billy would simply stand and answer. The police didn’t know Billy so he should be safe.
The maneuver worked. Fifteen minutes later, with Allen’s legs cramping badly, an officer entered the bathroom and demanded to see the stall’s occupant. Billy stood and the officer apologized. As soon as the man left, Allen stood and massaged his legs. “Close call; I can’t use my credit card again, or at least more than one more time. We have to get to a bank before the card’s shut down.”
They waited another hour in the stall cracking silly, juvenile bathroom jokes before Billy went out to check the lobby and room. He returned shortly with a report of an officer in one of the sedans across the street, ostensibly staking out the room since they didn’t find anything.
“Ok, Digger, how are we going to get you out of here?”
Good question! “The good old fashioned way. Call a cab but have them wait a couple blocks down. While you’re doing that, I have a call to make.”
An hour later, near the Roman ruins at St. Albans, and lighter by a couple hundred pounds after paying off a series of cabbies, Allen and Billy watched the last car pull away. Earlier in the evening they had withdrawn the limit of Allen’s credit card’s cash advance allowance and departed London for Bristol via the historic town. The bank transaction was very risky, Allen knew, and he was certainly captured on one of the many cameras in the financial institution, but there was no way of avoiding it. Billy could not be seen or have his anonymity compromised, so he was compelled to remain away from the area.
On the journey, both had talked about the problems they faced, not the least of which was that Billy would certainly lose his job. He made one short call to his parents to let them know he was taking a trip to Scotland for a couple weeks with some old school friends. When he spoke with his shop manager the results were less well received. Later that day, as the local bus pulled into Godric’s Hollow, Allen promised Billy full compensation for his troubles. Billy just mumbled, “Sure.”
A small hotel at the edge of the village supplied them with two rooms for the night. Allen insisted on two rooms, and they entered the lobby separately to reduce suspicion. Shortly thereafter, Billy joined Allen, who was using the alias Peter Smithfield, to plan their actions. Fortunately the clerk did not ask for his passport.
“Billy, whatever is going on here is dangerous.” This was the fifth time Allen had issued the warning. “I’ve picked up some techniques over the decades and I want to share them with you, they might save your life, or mine, or both!”
Allen proceeded to explain a number of simple but effective ways to warn of danger. Partly opened curtains or blinds; the “Do Not Disturb” sign with a mark on it; the shower running with the bath door open. “Are you trying to turn me into a spy, Digger?” Billy asked, his voice a little shaky.
“No, just trying to keep you alive. Here.” Allen handed Billy two thousand pounds in large notes. “Hide those in small bunches in your clothes, shoes, anywhere, but keep as much with you as possible in case you need it for a quick escape. I’m doing the same. If something happens and we get separated, we will meet at noon, two days after our separation, at the rail station in Bristol, in that cafe we ate at. Got it?” He saw Billy’s sober nod as an answer.
The rest of the day was spent shopping for necessities, as the younger didn’t have much with him outside the clothes he were wearing; Allen had nothing. By late that evening, both were showered and wearing fresh clothes. “I saw a little pub down the street, let’s get a bite there. I want you to go in first, I’ll follow a few minutes later and sit as close to you as I can. What I want you to do is listen for any talk about Michael Allen by the customers. And remember, I’m Mr. Smithfield to you, should we be seen together.”
“Right. I’m off,” Billy said, jumping up. The truth was, Billy was beginning to enjoy the excitement. He knew that whatever trouble Allen might be in, he was not likely to be fingered for anything worse than an “accessory after the fact” charge. But who would charge me with that? he asked himself. They had their insurance policies in the post, and according to Allen, the people he sent the CDs to were cut-throat competitors of his and would not hesitate to expose every bit of the fantastic story he included with the packages. He just hoped they were honest enough not to “peek” at the CDs before they received the word and the key for decrypting them. Yes, if either was caught, it was unlikely anything serious would happen to them.
The first day passed, then another, with nothing interesting or unusual happening. Billy and Allen spent most of the time planning their search, beginning the next day at the local police station where the unerased Dictaphone tape said that Allen had made a major breakthrough weeks before.
Lily Evans Potter and James Potter, 4 Flower Lane, Godric’s Hollow, Wales; murdered 31 October 1981. Their son, Harry James Potter, disappeared into thin air. This was what Allen had to start on. Again.
“Why me?” Billy asked, irritatedly.
“Because someone in there probably helped me. And don’t you think it would look strange if I returned asking the same questions as last time?” As usual, Allen’s logic was flawless and Billy acquiesced.
Entering the small building that held the village police unit, Billy was greeted by a receptionist. “Good day, lad, what can I do for you?”
Lad? Grrrr “I’m looking for a police report about a crime sixteen years ago. A friend of mine thought I might be able to get a copy here.”
The receptionist took out a form and a pen, handing them to Billy. “Just fill this in and we’ll have a look for you.”
Sitting, Billy saw that the paper was a standard information request form. He filled in everything he knew and returned it to the lady. She pointed him back to the bench. Ten minutes later a clerk called his name and escorted him to a small room, placing a folder on the table. “You can make all the notes you want, but no photocopies.” And then he was gone.
Paging through the brief report, Billy saw little that he and Allen had not already discussed, though he could not find the Potter’s address. But Digger had told him he might not see it, based on his notes from the Dictaphone. Fifteen minutes later Billy was at the last page, a sheet containing information about anyone desiring to view the file. The last two entries were for Michael Allen, about two weeks apart; the first one had an address of a boarding house in town, the second named his flat in London.
Becoming nervous at the ease with which the exercise was running, Billy was glad to leave the office and walk three blocks to meet Allen. From there they cabbed to the vicinity of the hotel and walked the final few blocks apart.
“Damn! I knew it!” Allen exclaimed, seeing all the notes Billy had made.
“The boarding house next?” Allen nodded.
“Right. I gave the place a call and the landlady said she has a room available. Check out of your room here tomorrow morning and take it from there.”
Now Billy would be completely on his own, and it set a chill of both apprehension and excitement through his body. The two spend the remainder of the day discussing strategies on how to get information about Allen’s lost memories. Billy was also told to keep notes on everything. The following morning, Allen and Billy shook hands and he was off.
The cab deposited the young man in front of the Peachey Boarding House, a large, well-kept single-family dwelling. Billy approached the door but did not need to knock, a well-dressed man on his way out nearly ran him over.
“Sorry there, son, didn’t see you,” the man said, offering his hand to Billy.
“No worries, no harm done. Is the owner in?”
“Yes, in the parlor, first door on the right.”
Billy entered the house and easily found the woman Allen had told him about. “Hello, I’m Billy Thompson. I was recommended to see you about a room.”
The older lady looked him over suspiciously and then abruptly asked him to sit. Over the next quarter-hour she interrogated Billy, asking every question she could about his character. “And how did you hear about us?”
“A friend of mine from London, Michael Allen, recommended your place to me, ma’am.”
The landlady clapped her hands together excitedly. “Oh, wonderful! How is Michael, er, Digger I believed he went by?”
“Last I saw him, a few weeks ago, he was fine.” The lie slipped easily off his lips.
“Splendid. How is he doing with his book about our little town? I heard you run into Mr. Blake a moment ago. He went out with Digger a few times, looking at some of the historic parts of town…”
Bingo!
“May I see the room, ma’am?” Billy asked, cutting off the lady, suspecting that he might sit there all night if he didn’t interrupted her.
|-|-|-|-|
As the Christmas holidays approached, Hogwarts was abuzz with preparations for everything from the mid-term exams to gift buying. Harry, Diane and Ginny would be traveling to the Burrow through Christmas Eve and then joining Remus and Tonks at Grimmauld Place (for a family Christmas Day dinner) and the next four days would be spent redecorating. Harry was determined to gut and rebuild the old Black House; he privately planned to make it a wedding gift to Remus and Tonks. Hermione was spending the Holidays with her parents. Charlie, who was still recovering and receiving physical therapy, would be in Vernon with Tré and the rest of the Mellanson family. Bill and Fleur were to split their time between the Delacour and Weasley families. Ron was undecided about whether to stay with Harry, Ginny and Diane or with Tré and Charlie, but he still had a week to decide.
At the start of the term, McGonagall had decided to hold a Ball immediately before the holiday, and for once Harry was relieved to have no problem about whom to ask. Hermione joked with her friends about asking Diane to escort her, but she was also quite certain that the straight-laced Headmistress would frown upon the Head Girl’s lack of propriety. Ginny fumed about the situation, they all knew that there were a number of gay and lesbian couples at school, though none of them flaunted it. But in the end Diane accepted an invitation from Ernie Macmillan, one of the few students outside her closest circle of friends who knew her ‘secret.’ Hermione politely turned down a number of invitations, even an offer from Ginny to let her and Harry attend together, and decided to sit out the event.
The Weird Sisters were again booked and McGonagall did not require the school orchestra to perform the formal dance numbers before the wilder music began, as had been done three years earlier during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. This seemed to meet with everyone’s approval. Only Fourth Years and above were invited though, which caused Harry and Hermione much grief as they had to constantly console and counsel the younger upset students.
On the twenty-third of December the Great Hall was closed immediately following an early dinner and the students retreated to their dorms to bathe, primp, dress and otherwise stumble about in their excitement. At eight o’clock, while Harry was talking to Ron on the Floo Network, Ginny, Ernie and Diane arrived at the Head Girl/Head Boy Suite to collect him.
“Wow! You “ you look, er, stunning, Gin,” Harry mumbled as his girlfriend hugged him.
“Thanks, Potter, you’re not too shabby yourself,” she whispered into his ear. After a final and fruitless plea with Hermione to join them, the four headed to the Ball.
At eight o’clock the Hall doors were opened and hundreds of students flooded into the massive room. The decorations were similar to those three years earlier, except that the near end of the Hall appeared to simulate a winter morning while the far end looked like the evening. The large open area in the center of the Hall, cleared for dancing, shone brightly during faster music numbers but then dimmed when slower songs started.
The massive, ancient phonograph Harry had seen years before was sitting on the musician’s stage scratching out some old waltz while the band tuned their magically amplified guitars and other instruments. McGonagall and a number of other staff were spread throughout the Hall, mingling with the students and their fellow workers.
As eight-thirty approached, the time the Ball would officially commence, Harry heard Ginny gasp and turned to follow her line of sight. Standing at the door was Fred Weasley, decked in a fine new set of dress robes. He was speaking with McGonagall. Behind him, Harry saw, were a few dozen other school alumni also prepared for the party, including George and Verity, their assistant from Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes. Ginny looked back at Harry with a questioning expression, but Harry hadn’t been told anything about this and he simply shrugged. “Let’s go ask,” said Ginny excitedly, jumping up and pulling Harry along.
“Ah, Harry, old bean,” Fred exclaimed, “and our baby sister…”
“Here to welcome us, I presume?” George added, arching his eyebrows.
“I had not informed Mr. Potter or Ms. Granger of the additional guests this evening,” McGonagall replied hastily. “I thought it might be a pleasant surprise. Harry, I opened the Yule Ball to our former students, many of them had their years here at Hogwarts blighted by the events surrounding Voldemort’s reign of terror. Perhaps this will allow them to infuse more delightful memories.”
“Er”sure, I don’t have a problem with it.”
“I think it’s brilliant!” Ginny nearly shouted, grabbing her brothers’ hands and pulling them into the Hall.
“Hello?” a voice called from the fireplace.
“Who’s there?” Hermione replied from her bedroom where she was reading, and praying for no interruptions. She placed a bookmark in the large, heavy hardback she was studying and got up to answer what she thought was a visitor at the door.
“Down here, Hermione,” said Ron, startling the Head Girl as she walked by.
“Ron! I thought you were another Third Year coming to complain about not being allowed to attend the Yule Ball.” She sat on the edge of a chair to get closer to Ron’s face.
“Tetchy midgets at it again, eh?” They both laughed. “Why aren’t you going, ‘Mione?”
“I… just wasn’t in the mood. McLaggen invited me, but…” she trailed off. “What have you been doing this evening?”
“Not much; wrote a letter to Nettie, helped dad out in the shed. You know, domestic stuff.”
“Ginny said you might be going to see Charlie and Tré for Christmas, have you decided yet?”
“No… look, Hermione, this is a bloody awkward position. Wanna come over for tea?”
Hermione hesitated. “I “ I can’t, Ron. Harry’s at the Ball and I have to stick around.” It wasn’t too much of a lie.
“Oh, ok, well then I’ll…”
“You can Floo over if you like,” she interjected before Ron ended the conversation.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, just watch your head.” Ron’s face vanished, a moment later the fire flared as Ron spun into the room. He was wearing casual clothes and had a smudge of what appeared to be treacle tart on his cheek. Both were unsure of how to greet the other. When they’d met in Hogsmeade it was expected that they would embrace after not seeing the other for so long, now both were blushing a little and feeling much younger than their age.
“Welcome back, wait, you never saw the suite, did you?”
“Nah, left before you and Harry moved in.” He looked around a bit. “Nice place. Did Harry do the decorating?”
Hermione laughed. “Right, and have you been hanging around the twins?” She patted him on the shoulder, but withdrew her hand quickly. “Tea?” she asked.
“Yeah. Cake?” Ron took a very small package, the size of a matchbox, out of his pocket and set it on the table. With a quick motion he drew his wand, waved it, and the box expanded to a cake box. Hermione looked impressed.
“You learn that in France?”
“Yeah, it was either shrink decent food or eat the rubbish the army fed us. Charlie and I got real good with the spell after our first week.” Ron smiled shyly.
“Here you go; have a seat.” Taking the teacup, Ron sat himself on one end of the sofa while Hermione prepared her own cup. When finished, she turned around and sat without hesitation at the opposite end from Ron. “Why the cake?”
“Nothing special, just leftover from dinner; Mum still cooks for a full house. Want some?” Without waiting for a reply, he conjured two plates and forks and cut each of them a slice of the chocolate cake. “Fred and George are here, you know. Victor, too,” he added, with no change in the tone of his voice.
“Here? Oh, at the Ball? McGonagall didn’t mention anything about it being open to people other than students.”
“Mum said it was a surprise… but she had to limit it… to only a couple hundred guests,” Ron said between bites of cake.
“Well, we certainly can’t have it open to everyone, I suppose…”
They finished the rest of their dessert in silence. When Hermione put her plate down, Ron banished the plates and levitated the cake into Harry’s office. “He can have the rest.”
“Hermione, why don’t you get dressed up and go down to the Ball? You…”
“No, Ron, I… I’d feel uncomfortable, especially with Victor there. I’m just going to stay here and read, I think.” She stood up, but didn’t leave.
“A little edgy this evening, ‘Mione?” asked Ron, smiling. “Well, I guess I’ll be heading home; thanks for the tea.” Standing, Ron walked over to Hermione and gave her a quick hug, then taking a pinch of Floo Powder, called out his destination and disappeared into the green flame.
An hour later, Hermione stood in the doorway to the Great Hall wearing the much altered gown from three years before. She saw Harry and Ginny dancing, with a hundred other couples, to a slow, romantic melody. Watching the dancing for a few minutes, she was about to turn and leave when a hand landed on her shoulder.
“Try again?”
“Ron! What are you doing here?” It was obvious what he was doing, decked out in new dress robes, his hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“I saw that look in your eyes, I knew you wanted to go to the Ball, but I figured you would chicken out once you got this far,” he answered, speaking quietly. Hermione blushed.
“Ron, you didn’t have to come back…”
“I know, but I wanted to. I owe you one from Fourth Year.” He stood up straight and looked into her eyes. “Will you go to the Yule Ball with me, Hermione?”
She could hardly answer. “Ok,” she whispered, completely floored by Ron’s gentleness and poise. He’s definitely changed …
He held out his arm and she looped hers through it, blushing. Together they entered the Hall. Ron directed them straight to the dance floor, spinning Hermione into place, and smoothly stepping with her to the music. Their friends watched with curiosity, particularly Ginny and Harry who had stopped dancing.
Hermione looked around the room as they danced. Headmistress McGonagall was standing with a surprised expression on her face. Cormac McLaggen, dancing with a bored looking Diane Bradley, looked like he wanted to hit someone. Ginny was beaming. But it was Harry she first thought she wanted to see the most. But then she could not bring her eyes up to look him in the face because she knew exactly what she would see.
“You alright, ‘Mione?” Ron asked, feeling her tense up.
“Ron, I… I… Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking me, you really didn’t have to.”
The dance ended and Ron started to lead them towards the table where Harry, Ginny, Cormac and Diane were sitting. Without thinking of possible misinterpretations, she took Ron’s hand and guided him to an empty bench.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea, Ron,” Hermione said quietly. Ron started to respond but Hermione held a hand up. “I have things I need to resolve, they really don’t have to do with you, they’re my problems.”
“’Mione, don’t worry about this, I mean us; I really just wanted to get you down here to have fun. Even if it’s not with me,” he added, smiling cheerfully. “Come on, there’re a bunch of blokes here who would love to dance with you. And I’m going to ask my sister and Diane, maybe even McGonagall.” That made Hermione laugh.
“Ok, Ron. Shall we sit with Harry and the others?”
“Excellent idea.” Ron jumped up and held out his hand. Hermione took it but they both let go when she was standing.
As midnight approached, fewer couples remained in the Hall, the rest had left to pack for the holiday and prepare for the early departure of the Hogwarts Express. Hermione ended up having a wonderful time and thanked Ron throughout the Ball for taking her. She danced with anyone who asked, but mostly with her ex-boyfriend. Twice she danced with Harry, but both times left her feeling uncomfortable and vaguely guilty. Viktor Krum requested a dance, and both he and Hermione were delighted to see that Ron had not a trace of jealousy on his face. But Viktor had also brought his own date, so it was obvious there would be no problems.
When the clock struck midnight, the music ended and the remaining guests made their way to their respective tower or to Hogsmeade to Apparate home. A light snow was falling through the cold, still air as Harry, Ginny, Hermione and Ron bade goodnight to their friends.
“I better head home, too. Harry, Hermione, can I use your fireplace to Floo home?”
“No problem, mate,” Harry said stifling a yawn.
On the walk up to the suite, they traded speculation about the appointment of Marcus Proudfoot to the Minister of Magic post. Harry said he remembered seeing him around the school the previous year, but wasn’t sure if he had any special ability for the position.
“He might just be a non-controversial pick. The Purebloods are up in arms about losing control of the Ministry,” Hermione speculated.
“Not all Purebloods, Hermione,” Ron reminded her. “Still, dad recons it was a good move, and he was an Auror so he should know a good bit about law enforcement.”
“Then why not Kingsley?”
“Percy and Bill said he was still too controversial,” Ron answered, “with all the things he did right after September 11th. Mind, I don’t have any objections.” The rest agreed with him.
Reaching the Head Girl/Boy Suite, Harry and Ginny said goodnight to Ron and ducked into Harry’s office, presumably for some private snogging. Hermione gave Ron a quick hug and a kiss on his cheek before seeing him off, and then went to her room, changed, and picked up where she had left off in her book hours earlier.
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“Arthur, the Minister is very pleased with your work at Downing Street. And you feel confident the last meeting will keep them off our backs for a few weeks?”
“Absolutely, Phoebus.”
“Splendid. I suppose I should tell you now that I’m retiring… again.” They both laughed.
“Your work has been critical these past few months, Phoebus. It appears the transition is going smoothly.”
Penrose waved Arthur’s compliment off. “Superfluous, Arthur, that’s what I am. Proudfoot asked me to let you know he would be meeting with you again soon, and he wants you to start preparing the formal inquiries into the war. If you need assistance you should contact the Legal Ministry.” Penrose hesitated, obviously debating whether to make his next statement. “Arthur, I know you’re close to the Potter boy. I want to let you know it’s going to be rough for him the next few months. He’s at the center of all this and we can’t get a word out of him.”
Arthur said nothing, but Penrose could tell there was something important on his mind. “What’s going on, Arthur? You know more than you’re saying,” he asked quietly and most seriously.
“Phoebus, this is a very… delicate topic. I know why Harry’s being circumspect with the information, and I agree with him one hundred percent.”
Penrose looked at Arthur carefully, weighing his options. “Alright, Arthur, for what it’s worth I trust your word, but Proudfoot will insist. Can you confide in me? I might be able to prepare the Minister and spare you and Potter from a bloody confrontation.”
Arthur sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He had known for months that this time was coming. “Phoebus, do you know what a Horcrux is?” The question had the desired effect. Penrose was sharp witted and he immediately turned ghost-white.
“Voldemort had a Horcrux?” he breathed out, almost in a whisper.
Arthur paused, intentionally, for effect. “No, Phoebus, he had six.”
The elderly wizard now turned a sick shade of green and his eyes bulged. “Six? Merlin protect us. Did we get them all?”
“Thankfully, yes. That’s what Albus Dumbledore was up to last year, and why his arm was damaged. He destroyed one of the bloody things but it cost him dearly.” Arthur stopped talking. He could see the cogs in Penrose’s brain turning, trying to comprehend the evil information he had just absorbed. After a good thirty seconds, the old wizard closed his eyes and shook his head. “I have to admit, Arthur, my opinion of Harry Potter just went up ten or twenty notches. But why hasn’t he come forth with this? He’s being hammered in the papers… Oh.”
Penrose realized why Harry hadn’t said anything. While the truth would exonerate him, the information would be potentially catastrophic to the Wizarding world. The last thing anyone needed was a bunch of evil dark wizards and witches running around trying to create Horcruxes. “I’ll speak to the Minister immediately… don’t worry, Arthur, I’ll say nothing about the Horcruxes, but you should be prepared, the word will eventually get out.”
This was a fact Arthur had resigned himself to long ago. “I understand.”