Chapter 3
Digging for Answers
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world is the property of J.K. Rowling.
The plot is of my own invention.
Quote of the day: “Me flunk English? That’s unpossible!” Ralph W.
“Who’s this Paquin bloke?” Ron asked. “You don’t sound too happy about meeting him.”
Tré didn’t answer immediately, she was consulting a small notebook Ron had seen her reference on occasion. As she flipped through the pages her face became more and more grave. “He’s was a spy, Ron, just like Bissette. They worked together for years before taking jobs at the Ministry.” Tré motioned them forward, through a narrow garbage strewn alley. As they approached the corner, Ron saw the Eiffel Tower come into view, perhaps two or three kilometers away.
“Wow!” Ron exclaimed softly, Charlie was crouched down mostly hidden behind a crate, also admiring France’s most famous landmark.
“Sightsee later you two, we have to go back.”
“What?! We just spent all morning getting here.”
Charlie shushed his youngest brother and turned to Tré. “What do you see?”
“Nothing, it’s what I feel. If the building was still safe it would have at least two lookouts. I don’t see or feel any. I think it’s been abandoned, or turned into a tr…”
Before Tré could finish saying “trap,” two green bolts crashed into the ground between Ron and Charlie.
“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Ron, looking around. A red bolt crashed into the wall, inches from his face, spraying razor sharp shards of brick at him and his brother, opening several small cuts.
“UP! They’re above us,” Tré gasped out, choking on the dust stirred up by the three blasts. Ron felt Charlie grab his arm and pull him back towards the far end of the alleyway. Tré was crawling on her hands and knees towards them as two more killing curses smashed into the space she had occupied a second before. Not a moment later a blast threw the French woman through the air and she landed atop Charlie and Ron, unconscious and bleeding from numerous wounds.
A light blue spell washed over them, but had no apparent affect. Charlie wrestled his friend off himself and reached into the collar of her blouse. When his hand came out it was holding what appeared to be a miniature Eiffel Tower, like one you would find in a cheap souvenir shop. Tapping it twice with his wand, the three vanished and the Portkey deposited them in a copse of bushes adjacent to a Euro-Disney car park. Neither Charlie nor Ron had known where the emergency Portkey would land them, but the noise from tourists, mostly excited children, disoriented them momentarily.
While Charlie attended to Tré’s injuries, Ron crawled around and made certain their location was secure and adequately hidden. Behind him, Ron heard his brother whisper a timely silencing charm; Tré had begun to moan as she regained consciousness. At first glance, Tré’s injuries appeared superficial, but when Charlie tried to move her arm from under her back she cried out in pain. The limb was obviously broken.
“Ron, I can’t take care of this arm and I don’t know what other internal injuries she has. We have to get her some help right away. I want you to take Tré back to Vernon. In the town there’s a retired Healer that might be able to help, his name is...” But before Charlie could continue they heard the distinct pops of multiple Apparitions nearby; they had been traced.
Ron felt his brother roughly push him atop Tré and heard him cast the Portus spell, the next instant they landed in a small garden behind a house. Charlie was nowhere to be seen.
Disoriented yet again by the relocation, Ron whispered for Tré to remain quiet, but she appeared unconscious. He cast a Disillusionment Charm on the French woman and crawled off towards the house to ask about a doctor. Charlie had just told him there was a Healer in Tré’s home town, but he hadn’t time to give the name or directions. For that matter, Ron didn’t even know if he was in Vernon, he could only hope that was where they’d been sent.
Moving along the side of the house, Ron peeked around the front and was relieved to find no one in sight. Praying that the tracking spell that must have been cast on them in Paris had worn off, he slipped his wand into his shirt and walked as casually as he could onto the street. The beautiful village was so calm and peaceful, Ron was tempted to just keep walking and find a sidewalk café, sit and have tea; however, Tré needed medical attention and that was paramount.
It only took seconds. The very house they had been Ported behind had the universal Wizarding Healer symbol inconspicuously displayed on the front door lintel. Charlie had known what he was doing. Walking to the front door, Ron, in his excited state, knocked a little too loudly and was greeted moments later by a scowling elderly man. Ignoring the man’s glare, he mimed that he needed a healer and gently pushed his way into the house, showing the man his wand. It worked.
Within two minutes, Tré was lying in the Healer’s old examination room and the man was waving his wand over her, acting much like a male Madam Pomfrey. Ten minutes later, with Tré’s cuts and abrasions healed, her arm expertly set and on the mend, and the Healer’s guarantee of no serious internal injury, Ron collapsed in a chair. Over the past half-hour, he had been attacked twice; but he’d also kept his cool under fire and followed his brother’s orders without question. For all the hype and hoopla of the expected “final battle” against Voldemort, the past two weeks had been far more dangerous. And Ron had never been more thrilled in his life.
The Healer invited his male guest into the parlor and they tried to communicate, but Ron knew virtually no French and the Healer’s English was limited to phrases like, “Where does it hurt?” and “Sit still.” When Ron finally mentioned Tré’s name, the man instantly recognized it and motioned for him to stay where he was. “You stay, I be back, one minute,” and he ran out the front door. Ron moved over to the curtained window, stealing looks every few seconds. He still wasn’t sure how much he should trust the old man.
While Ron was waiting for the Healer to return, his thoughts turned to Charlie. Though he had never learned the Portus spell for travel, he did recall hearing or reading something about direct Teleportation. And it wasn’t good. For the Portus spell to work exactly as expected, it had to be cast upon an inanimate object, but Charlie hadn’t done that… Now, between Tré’s injuries, Charlie’s absence and a twinge of panic from not having Harry or Hermione with him, some of Ron’s earlier excitement faded away.
Standing, he strode to the examining room door and looked inside. Tré was starting to stir, which made him feel better; he felt better still as he heard the front door open and the Healer speak French to someone. A moment later, the two came around the corner. “Essie! Are you alright?” called out the young woman who accompanied the Healer. Ron was particularly happy she had said it in English.
“Er”she’s just waking up now…” stammered Ron, still standing in the doorway.
“Pardonez moi!” the female snapped, rather rudely, pushing Ron aside and entering the examining room.
“Son soeur, eh… Madam Mellanson’s seester,” the Healer said, a broad toothless grin on his face. Ron nodded that he understood, wondering where the Healer’s teeth had disappeared to over the past ten minutes. Entering the examining room, the Healer closed the door, with Ron on the outside.
Left with nothing to do for the moment, Ron made himself comfortable in the Healer’s parlor until he got antsy, then walked around looking at the array of Muggle pictures covering the walls. Most of the pictures appeared to be of the house’s sole resident, whose name he saw was Dr. Francois LeVasseur. One picture showed the Healer standing with another family: Tré’s family. By the look of the photograph, the Healer was well acquainted with the Mellanson’s. There was a salutation of some sort, in French, near the lower right corner, and each of Tré’s siblings had their name and what appeared to be a date of birth above each head. Ron counted eight Mellanson’s, including Tré; five girls and three boys.
Sitting back down and waiting for the doctor and Tré’s sister to reappear, Ron’s thoughts turned back to Charlie.
This is why they told us to never cast a Portus Spell that way, Charlie laughed ruefully to himself. He had not been followed, or traced, this time, but he also had no idea where he was, except that it was far too cold to be near France in September. And his wand was nowhere to be seen. He had to hike for three hours before finding any sign of civilization; three hours without water, in near freezing temperatures, and there were no trees or bushes to burn: warming spells only worked when you were sitting still, and he didn’t have his wand, in any event.
What Charlie did know was that he was near a volcano, dormant, hopefully! The ground was mostly old lava flows with an occasional green sprout of some hearty grass poking up here and there. As he hiked along, he saw the lava fields thin until they gave way to a tundra-like field of gently rolling hills. In the distance, maybe a mile off, was what appeared to be a flock of sheep. That’s where Charlie saw a rough road. An hour later, as the sun was getting low in the sky and the air much colder, he came upon a house.
The moment Charlie knocked on the door he realized it was a mistake. Even the kindest of souls would want an explanation of who he was and how he had come to this isolated spot, and he had only seconds to think of a cover story.
“Halló,” a young boy greeted him.
“Hello, is your mother or father home?”
“Mamma! A maður er hér,” the boy replied, beckoning Charlie into the house. A second later a woman came into the room.
“Já, mega Ég hjálpa þú?”
“Er”do you speak English?” asked Charlie hopefully.
“Já, and do you speak Íslenska?” was the less than friendly reply. But he recognized a word.
“Iceland? I’m in Iceland?” Charlie exclaimed in surprise and without thinking.
“Já, Ísland, Iceland, vere did you think you ver?”
“Er”I’m sorry, could you tell me the way to the nearest town?”
The woman looked on suspiciously as she gently pushed her son behind herself. “Zee nearest town is eight kilometers,” she pointed in the direction Charlie had been walking. “But you aren’t dressed for the weather. You can wait in here until my husband comes home. He should be here shortly.”
Moving out of the hallway, the Icelandic woman gestured Charlie into a small parlor where she sat with her son, watching him closely. The youth pointed at their guest a number of times asking his mother, what sounded like, the same question over and over; the mother kept shaking her head. Finally she said something to her son and he ran off, returning shortly with a wet cloth and handing it to Charlie. He made a motion with his hand that seemed to indicate Charlie should wash his face.
The dampened cloth stung when it touched, and when Charlie looked at it there was blood all over it. He had forgotten about brief battle and the cuts he’d sustained. No wonder she’s so hesitant, I must look dreadful! “I’m sorry about this, I had a little accident and forgot to clean up.”
The woman gave him a disbelieving look and said something in her native tongue to the lad. He took the cloth from their guest and returned it rinsed out. Charlie thanked him and his mother again.
Following a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Charlie heard a car pull up and someone, presumably the husband, approach the house. Seconds later he was facing a huge man with blonde hair and a surly scowl on his face; his wife was speaking furiously behind him.
“So, you vant a ride into town? Get in the car.” Charlie thanked the woman and made a quick exit, waiting outside; a moment later the man appeared and pointed at the passenger door, apparently irritated that Charlie had not done as he was told. “Let’s go,” was all he said.
The “short” ride into town turned into a long trip directly to Reykjavik, the capital. Charlie tried to start conversation a number of times but the man said little, grunting occasionally to one comment or another. When he asked to be taken to a local doctor, the man nodded and finally dropped him off at a small clinic. Thanking the man for the ride, Charlie received a curt nod that reminded him of Minerva McGonagall. Then his benefactor drove off.
Feeling immensely lucky, if not at all closer to Vernon, France, Charlie entered the Muggle clinic and looked for any sign of a Healer from his world. The small reception area was empty but for an elderly woman behind the desk who watched Charlie with interest. To her, the strangely dressed man with spots of blood on his neck and shirt appeared disoriented. “Sir, do you need assistance?” she finally asked, in heavily accented English.
“Yes, may I borrow your qu… er, pen please?” Taking the offered writing implement, Charlie drew the Wizarding Healer’s Sign on a piece of note paper and showed it to the woman. “Do you know anything about this?”
Much to Charlie’s concern, the look of surprise on the woman’s face was quickly replaced with a scowl. Then she stood and pointed to a door. “Go in there and wait, you’re lucky it’s quiet tonight. I’ll be there shortly.” Following the odd directions, Charlie entered a small room with three chairs and a small table. Ten minutes later the woman came into the room. As soon as the door closed she drew a wand from an unseen pocket and cast a silencing charm on the room.
“You are lucky we know how to do things here in Iceland, young man. Who are you and what happened?”
Over the next ten minutes Charlie explained his plight to the lady and asked for assistance returning to France. Agreeing to help repatriate the Englishman, the witch also warned him that getting in and out of France was still dicey; she suggested he first go to Belgium to purchase a new wand and then travel by Muggle rail to his final destination. Charlie agreed and was told to stay put until an international Portkey could be arranged. When he asked how long it would take she told him a day or two.
For a man of words, Digger Allen spent very little time in a library unless it was related to researching a piece. He had hemmed and hawed for more than a day about whether he should start his research in Paris or London; both cities had world-class research facilities, French resources were across the street from his flat, but London’s references were primarily in English so he was off to England. The TGV carried him through the Chunnel and in a few hours he was back in London, seated at a small cubicle in the London Library, exploring the World Wide Web on his laptop.
In the few years since the Internet had become known to the general public, its popularity as a reference and research aid was surpasses only by its usefulness as the repository for every know form of smut, audible and visual. But that did not concern Digger today. He was looking for something very mundane, and he knew a good source and a worthless second-hand rumor, and how to distinguish them: As in written journalism, it was largely references that made the work credible.
So he started where, in 1981, he could not, doing a simple search for “Harry Potter” and “H Potter” using the AltaVista search engine. Not surprisingly, he had over six hundred hits; the name was not at all uncommon. He pondered the screen in front of him but was momentarily distracted by the voices of two other researchers sitting nearby; and it was a serendipitous incident. Jotting down a word, Copper nick?, he set the research aside for a moment and pulled up the tool he’d heard the other researchers speaking about. It took a moment for him to find the correct name: Copernic; he smiled as he read the creators’ claims. In ten minutes he was using the tool that searched other search engines and his six hundred Harry Potter hits became two thousand. Refining his results narrowed it down further to England, 1981, and Halloween. Two hits remained.
The first site was an ambiguous reference and helped little, or so he thought.
"Take, for example, the enigmatic non-persons A. Dumbledore[sic] and Harry Potter. Both names had been heard briefly in public, the former in May of 1945 and the later around Halloween, 1981. But when researchers investigated, neither person seemed to have ever existed. Of course, this unusual evaporation of information ignited all sorts of conspiracy theories that ranged from the incongruous (prominent underworld figures) to the ridiculous (magicians.)”
Digger cut and pasted the text and reference information into his laptop’s hard drive and set to look at the second reference.
“The mysterious disappearance of James and Lily Evans Potter, and their son Harry, of Godric’s Hollow, at the end of October, 1981, was categorized as suspicious by local law enforcement officials. Neighbors say that the young, newly situated family had lived in the old cottage only a few weeks before their sudden disappearance Halloween night.”
Thanking his good fortune, this reference, too, was stored. Now he had far more names to work with: Harry Potter, apparently the son of James and Lily Evans Potter, an A. Dumbledore, plus the new pictures and the two bits of information they provided: A name ending in …brielle Delacour, Gabrielle Delacour, Digger supposed. And below the name, the word Beauxbatons.
Returning to his newly rented hotel room, Digger pulled out his “Harry Potter” file from 1981 and began to piece together the additional clues. The first and most important clue was the town of Godric’s Hollow, apparently Potter’s last known location. A simple atlas should help him find the spot. The most unusual clue was Harry Potter’s age. If the neighbors, whom he fully intended to interview, observed that Harry’s parents were a “young” couple, it was likely that the child was in the infant to five year old range. This, in itself, troubled the journalist. How could such a young boy be so popular?
Setting aside his doubts about the boy’s youthful age, Digger next considered why Harry Potter and A. Dumbledore would be mentioned in the same article. Could this Dumbledore person be Potter’s grandfather or grandmother? Probably not, he reasoned, though it certainly was not out of the question. He decided to do further research on Dumbledore/Potter and Dumbledore/Evans connections later.
Next, Digger made some notes about the word Beauxbatons and Delacour. Both were obviously French, beautiful sticks? and of the heart? if his translations were accurate. And the only obvious connection between the clues in different countries was the name Harry Potter… Tired from travel, and sporting a migraine, Digger left his work and took a long, hot shower to relax his excitement with the breakthroughs and soothe his aching head.
When finished, and feeling refreshed, Digger did what he had done almost every evening over the past thirty years, he recorded the days events into an old Dictaphone machine. Seeing there were only a few inches remaining on the recording tape when he had finished, he removed the spool and put a new one on the machine for the next day; he placed the old reel into his house coat pocket to file away later.
Early the next morning, Digger departed his flat and walked the eight blocks to Paddington Station to catch an express to Bristol, the ride was quiet and uneventful and he even managed to sleep a bit on the ride. Two hours later he was in Bristol’s Temple Meads station searching for the local bus that would take him the final thirty miles to the village of Godric’s Hollow. Traffic out of Bristol was light and the local bus made few stops that morning, finally depositing the journalist in the center of the village at just past ten o’clock.
The sleepy little community was still shrouded in fog which made seeing more than two blocks in any direction difficult, and no one, other than a vagrant, was about. Digger eventually found the office of the small local paper, but it was closed until mid-afternoon, something not uncommon for early edition dailies. A few blocks further along, he ran across a small cafe opened for breakfast; it held about a dozen older citizens, all jabbering to each other. When Digger entered, the customers fell silent as they eyed the stranger, then, just as suddenly, they resumed their conversations.
Sitting at a small two-person booth, Digger ordered tea from the waitress, the only youngish person in the establishment. Over the next three hours, the masterful journalist went from table to table, introducing himself as a local historian, and gathering bits and pieces of information. Names, from those who would supply them, were recorded, and by early afternoon, though no one had mentioned the name Potter, Digger was certain at least two of the men he spoke with would have more information. Both of the contacts, Giles Mellon and Alfred Mountjoy, spoke freely of how the town had changed about sixteen years ago. BINGO! 1981! When he left the cafe, Digger knew he had made more progress in a few short hours than in the previous two decades on just who this elusive Harry Potter was.
A friendly tip from Mellon told him where to find a room to let for a few nights. On this recommendation, Digger visited the house of a widow named Peachy, though he was not certain if that was a surname or a nickname, the sign out front read simply: Peachy Boarding, Short Stay Rooms to Let. Presenting himself to the widow, and mentioning the people he had met earlier, Digger was welcomed into the house by the ancient looking woman. His room was small, but it had a desk and a clean bed, perfect for his short stay.
A quick dinner at a pub yielded nothing of any consequence, except a case of heartburn. Returning to Peachy Boarding, Digger was delighted to find that the widow had tea ready for her three boarders. Fetching a bottle of light Jamaican Rum from his travel case, and offering liberal portions to all, the most recent boarder quickly became popular: The age-old method of loosening tongues would triumph again.
“Another hit?” Digger asked the thin man on his right, who obviously had little tolerance for alcohol. He answered by belching loudly and holding out his tea cup.
The fat man on his left wasn’t shy to ask for thirds. “Well now, Diggy, I wouldn’t mind a bit more, too.”
“Digger, my friend,” he said, doling out another portion. This man hiccupped in response.
“And what about you, my good lady? Another drop to help you off to sleep?” The landlady smiled shyly but thrust her cup forward so violently that the remains of her last portion sloshed onto the table. She looked horrified for a moment, but laughed it off.
Then Digger began to show how he had earned his nickname.
“Now, here’s a bit of excitement for our sleepy little town, eh, friends?” he said, holding up the half-full bottle. They all tittered, probably more than they intended to, as they sipped their tea and rum. “When I arrived this morning I knew I’d found the perfect place for peace and quiet. That’s what I said to meself: ‘Here you are mate, a little town where nothing ever happens.’ I may just move here, my friends. The widow there,” he pointed to the now droopy-eyed woman, “would know best. What say you, Peachy?” Digger ended his question with a grossly over-dramatic wink that made the old lady blush and fan herself with one hand.
“Oh, Mr. Allen, this is a lovely little place to live, so peaceful and quiet.”
“Yes, my dear, and that’s just what I want. Peace and quiet, no excitement.” The other two men nodded knowingly.
“I imagine nothing dramatic has happened here for centuries; a veritable Brigadoon, eh, Peachy?” This time Digger smiled at each of hisvictims. It wasn’t a friendly sort of smile, but a broad obsequious grin, and had the lot of them been more sober they might have noticed it. It was a condescending grin; the grin of a cat as it prepares to pounce.
“Well, Diggy,” the fat man said to Allen, mispronouncing his name yet again, “Peachy and I ‘ave been ‘ere the longest and there ain’t nothing like The ‘Ollow.” He drained the last of the rum and held his teacup out for more. Digger obliged. “Oh sure, we get our share of oddballs now and then…” Peachy giggled. “…but it’s been ages since the ‘big stink’.” He looked at Peachy; they both nodded and then burst into fits of inebriated laughter.
Digger hardly had to say a word from that point on. His hefty housemate started asking all the questions: “What was the ‘big stink’, Tubby?”
“Well, you see, ‘Skinny’,” now everyone laughed, though Digger’s was forced, “it was about, let me think, sixteen or seventeen years ago when this new family moved into the north part of the village…”
‘Tubby’ and ‘Peachy’ talked on for another hour while ‘Skinny’ and Digger listened closely. By the end of the story, ‘Skinny’ had drifted off to sleep, but Digger was quite wide awake.
He thanked his house mates, helped the old lady back to her room, and then retired for the night to fill up another reel of audio tape with dictation of the day’s events. Like the previous night, he removed the reel of tape when finished. Then he recalled that there was another tape in his house coat pocket. He removed the robe from his travel bag and placed the second tape with the first, so they would be filed together; ‘H. Potter, 1981-1997’ clearly written on the labels. He thought for a moment about transferring their contents to his laptop, but that would take two hours and he was quite ready for bed.
Ron escorted Tré to her sister’s flat a few blocks from the Healer’s home late the same evening she was injured. Her arm was still in a sling, but Dr. LeVasseur assured them both that it would be fine the following day. Tré’s sister, Antoinette, or Nettie, as Tré called her, prepared a small back room for her sister and then asked Ron if he would mind sleeping on the parlor couch. Thanking his hostess, Ron sat at the kitchen table for a long time, thinking about his future.
His seventh year would be starting in just a couple days and he knew he couldn’t return, at least not yet. The hungry monster in the pit of his stomach gnawed painfully whenever he thought of Hermione. Seeing her every day would be torture. Not seeing her every day would be torture, too! Charlie and he had talked about his options a number of times over the past two weeks, and the older Weasley offered to speak with Tré to see if Ron could remain in France. There was much work to be done to clean up the lingering mess Voldemort’s followers had caused by refusing to relinquish their hold on the French Ministry. In fact, the situation was far more unstable than in England, and people were still dying on the continent.
Tré came to Ron after speaking with Charlie and offered to let him stay at her parent’s hideout in Normandy, at least for a while; he would be expected to help, where he could. Ron leapt at Tré’s offer and asked to go with them on their reconnaissance into Paris, the one that had earned Tré a broken arm and missing boyfriend.
Sitting at the table, Ron knew he had to write his parents and Harry… and Hermione. No, just Ginny and dad, he would write to Harry and Hermione later. About to get up and look for parchment and quill, he was startled by Tré’s sister.
“Bonsoir,” Nettie said to Ron, near midnight, peeking around the corner of her bedroom. “Can I get you anything?”
“Oh, thanks, Nettie, I was just going to write a couple letters before bed.” Ron’s feeble attempt at a smile concerned his hostess so she sat at the table.
“Essie told me how you saved her life today, thank you, Ron.” Reaching across the smallish table, she took his hand and gave it a friendly squeeze. “I apologize for snapping at you earlier.”
Ron had to think back to what she was talking about. “Oh, no worries, I’m sure you were concerned, especially after….” Ron grimaced, he had almost mentioned her recently murdered brother. Nettie nodded sadly. “What do you do here in town?” Ron asked quickly, trying to change the obviously painful subject.
“I am training to be a Healer. I worked with Dr. LeVasseur last year and I was planning to attend our Healer’s University until this mess started.” She sat back and flung her arms out dramatically, her face a mask of frustration.
“Didn’t know there was one of those, I thought all Healers went through an apprenticeship.”
“In most countries that is the case, but France has the second largest Wizarding population in the world so the Ministry decided, oh, about a hundred years ago, to offer interested persons the choice of either. If Dr. LeVasseur had not taken ill, I might have stayed on as his apprentice. He offered me the position when I graduated from Beauxbaton two years ago.”
“Ah, then you were in Fleur Delacour’s year?”
“No, Fleur was a year ahead of me. How do you know her?” Nettie asked in surprise.
“Fleur married my brother, Bill…”
“Yes, of course, how silly of me; you’re a Weasley! I should have known; that’s why you’ve been hanging around with Essie and Charlie.” Nettie smiled and instantly relaxed.
“Yep, another Weasley, I thought the hair would give it away.” Off Nettie’s puzzled look, Ron continued. “All my brothers and sister have this red mess up top. It’s sort of a family identifier back in England. Haven’t you met Charlie?”
“No, not yet; Essie sent me a picture of him last week but it didn’t show much of his hair.” The girl rose and walked over to a cabinet and withdrew a few letters. Choosing one, she opened it and brought out a small picture and handed it to Ron. “It was obviously taken by one of those Muggle machines at a store, you know the ones where you sit in a booth, feed it money and it takes four pictures. I hope that one wasn’t the best,” she chuckled. It wasn’t.
“Yeah, the black and white Muggle pictures aren’t worth much.” Ron handed the picture back, thanking Nettie. They sat in silence for a minute or so.
“Would you like pen and paper to write with?” Nettie asked, jumping up to the same cabinet where she had retrieved the letter. She brought out a pad and pen.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Nettie; I forgot that I don’t have my owl to deliver it…”
“No, use mine, she doesn’t get out much.” Nettie handed Ron the pen and pad then left the room, returning a moment later with a yawning brown owl that instinctively jumped on the table and walked over to Ron.
“Clever girl, this one,” Ron said, tickling the owl on the back of its neck. She hooted back appreciatively and nipped his fingers gently.
After staring at the blank paper for a minute, Ron heard Nettie say good night again, pat him on the shoulder, and walk off. He started the letter to Ginny, then blinked, finding that his eyes were watering heavily. Dear Ginny…
Arthur Weasley, Gilbert Wimple and Phoebus Penrose were very self conscious of being seen together outside of the Ministry. But the fact remained that the bulk of the detailed work they desired accomplished could not be done in Committees. The progress made in the initial two days was all they had to show for the past two weeks. One faction after another threatened to logjam the entire process if their agendas were not considered. In short, the process to rebuild the Ministry was in shambles.
Weasley, Wimple and Penrose had started meeting in the evening at the Burrow, secreted away in Fred and George’s old room, trying to work around issues and find consensus; after the first week they realized their efforts were pretty much hopeless. Every time they inconspicuously advanced one of their ideas or compromises to a Committee, it would be discussed for a few hours and rejected. It made no sense at all.
They knew, for example, that the Committee dealing with Parliamentary Orders wished to amend the rule for debate time allowed on bills returned to various Committees; the current process of three days having been deemed far too long. A majority of Committee members desired reducing it to a single day, or ten hours, but were meeting opposition from the Pureblood members who were insisting on no less than two days. Penrose and Weasley had casually discussed the impasse with both sides and had been assured that fifteen hours would be an acceptable compromise. But when the change was formally introduced to the Committee, neither side stuck to their pledge and the squabbling went on. It was maddening.
Neither did it help matters that Gilbert was pushing Arthur Weasley for a separate investigation on the actions of September 11th by the American witch, Diane Bradley. Arthur had heard murmurs over the previous week, mainly concerns about the power the young girl displayed. He agreed with them, in principal, but when Harry, Ginny and Diane abruptly left the country his hands were tied. When the concerned parties heard about their disappearance Arthur was placed in a very uncomfortable position of defending Harry, Ginny, Remus and Tonks for actions he too did not agree with.
And to make matters worse, Penrose’s emergency Ministerial powers were due to expire on October 12th, but it was obvious to everyone that one month was far too little time for both rebuilding and restructuring the entire Ministry of Magic. But with so many department and ministerial position vacant (they had been former supporters of Voldemort,) the three began to discuss extending the emergency powers. It was a heated discussion at the Burrow the night of Saturday, October 4th, when an owl from Ron Weasley arrived, addressed to his father, informing him he was leaving Hogwarts for a year to help his brother in France.
Arthur abruptly ended the meeting, apologizing for the sudden interruption. Upon seeing his colleagues out of the house, he went to speak with his wife and tell her of the latest development with their family.
“This was my fault, Arthur,” Molly Weasley said softly after reading Ron’s letter. “I wish we had never gone on that walk.” Arthur watched his wife carefully as she reread the letter. She was, of course, referring to the night they came across Ron and Hermione in a state of partial undress. Neither she, Hermione nor Ron was blameless for the problems between them the past few weeks, neither did any of them attempt to patch things up.
“Molly, why don’t you go see Hermione? We were all under enormous strain; maybe you’ll be able to... I don’t know. Even if she and Ron are no longer dating they could still be friends.”
“I don’t know, dear. I’m more upset with Harry and Ginny right now, how could they? Maybe in a few days, after I’ve calmed down.”
“All right, Molly, that’s probably best. I’ll write Ron back and encourage him to return to school, though things are a mess on the continent, I’m sure he’s a big help to Charlie. And even if he doesn’t return this year he might be able to finish with Ginny’s class.” Smiling, Arthur kissed his wife and returned to the meeting room to gather his notes and compose a letter.
“What are you worried about, Di?” asked Harry. “It sounds like they just want to close everything up.” Harry, Ginny and Diane were sprawled out on the furniture in the Head Boy/Head Girl lounge mid-afternoon Sunday. Diane had been talking to her friends about the lawyer’s letter. The welcoming feast and Sorting would take place in just three hours.
“I know, Harry. I guess I just don’t want to deal with the personal articles at home, I haven’t been back since the accident.”
“That was two and a half years ago, Diane. You haven’t gone back once?” Ginny asked in amazement.
“Nope, I stayed with my aunts and uncles over the summer breaks, and Jason was kind enough to handle all the details of the...” she looked away, unwilling or unable to say ‘funeral.’
“Who’s paying the note, er... the mortgage, I think you call it?” Harry asked.
“It comes out of the estate. I’m sure that’s part of the reason the firm wants to close all this up. They’re not real estate lawyers.”
“Yes, but every month you put this off eats into your trust, you could run out of money if you’re not careful.” Harry, Diane and Ginny looked up, surprised; Hermione was standing next to them.
“Don’t you think I know that?” snapped Diane, turning away. Ginny gave her a disappointed look and the American apologized. “Sorry, Hermione, it’s harder than you know, you haven’t lost anyone from your immediate family, have you?”
Hermione sat on the arm of the sofa Harry and Ginny shared and nodded. “No, thank God, I haven’t. I was just pointing out that it’s a drain on your assets.” But the Head Girl stopped talking when she saw her words were not registering on the American. “Sorry, I’ll butt-out.”
“No, it’s ok. I do need to do this. Maybe Jason would...” Diane stopped, the expressions on Harry and Ginny’s face (she couldn’t see Hermione) told her that she had to do this herself. “Ok, I’ll go. Maybe McGonagall will give me a week off to do this in early November.”
Diane excused herself and went off to write a letter to the lawyers and Jason, asking the later for a place to stay while she was in town. Back in Harry and Hermione’s suite, the three friends sat around quietly. Harry and Ginny were missing Ron; Hermione was thinking about a letter she’d received an hour earlier from Molly Weasley and how to respond.