Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world is the property of J.K. Rowling.
The plot is of my own invention.
With Charlie awake, if not completely alert, Ron was able to convince Nettie to spend their last day together before traveling to Nice with him in Paris at the French version of Diagon Alley, called Rue De Méntary.
Located deep in the oldest part of the city, an English visitor might think they were in Diagon Alley, except for the language differences. It was also nearly twice the size of its English counterpart, the main difference being the number of clothing stores, art galleries and cafés. It even had its own Knockturn Alley, called the Place de Noir. And as in England, the French branch of Gringotts was at the physical and financial center of the district. But in Paris the Goblin Bank resided next to a spacious park lined with cafés, street musicians and artists.
When the couple told Tré where they were going on their last day together, her enthusiasm was so genuine Ron impulsively invited her to go with them. Nettie squeezed his hand in a less than affection way, and was certain her older sister would sense the annoyance she felt, but Tré ignored Nettie and accepted. Later that same Saturday evening, Nettie told Ron that she’d discovered her parents had insisted Tré accompany them, “To keep my honor unblemished!” They both laughed at that.
But Ron was, in some ways, relieved by the sentiment behind the joke. He and Nettie had kept their friendship chaste, by mutual agreement. Both knew that an active sexual relationship would only make their inevitable parting all the more painful. And for Ron, it had also become an issue of self control, something he felt he did not have with Hermione. That he could sit in front of a fire, holding and snogging an attractive female, without feeling the pressure to have sex was a novelty. And a relief. It was an atypical liaison, but it suited both and deepened their friendship in unexpected ways.
The late November air in Paris was cool and breezy as they exited the Muggle subway and walked the final three blocks to the clothier that fronted as the entrance to Le Rue De Méntary. Tré observed that Nettie and Ron seemed to be enjoying themselves despite their imminent separation. It was also a side of Ron that Tré had come to enjoy. Until meeting Nettie he had been sullen from his breakup with Hermione, and, as best she could describe it, obsessed before it. But she knew Ron was deeply concerned for Harry and so the true source of his obsession was not clear. Had she still been involved in counseling, Tré thought Ron Weasley might have been an interesting case to work.
As the morning wore on, Nettie told Ron stories about each of the shops. Every one seemed to have some special significance to either her personally or to her family. When she pointed out the store where Jacques had been caught shoplifting years before, she and Tré shared a wistful look. Like Tré, Nettie was not as overtly emotional as most women Ron had met. To see them both emotional made him uncomfortable; however, it was also a sign of their deep trust and regard for him. But the cloud of sadness passed when Nettie let out a happy squeal and dragged Ron and Tré across the street. Half way there, Ron heard the Minister groan.
“Antoinette, no! Not… oh God, Ron, she’s been trying to get in this place since she was four,” Tré complained. Nettie just stuck out her tongue and continued pulling. As they reached a somewhat out-of-place, decrepit storefront, Ron had to ask Tré for the translation. “Ron, it’s a Fortune Teller named Madam Cassandra. This same woman has been here since I was a child! Nettie, let’s go somewhere else…”
“No! Ron, you’ll go in with me, won’t you?” she pleaded.
“Come on, Nettie, that stuff’s all rubbish. Let’s grab a bite over there, that place looks good.” Nettie and Tré shared a glance, this was his second suggestion that he was hungry. Charlie’s stories of Ron’s appetite seemed too fantastic to be true. Now they knew the truth.
“Later, Ron; I’ve heard of this woman, we used to pass this place all the time when I was young. I would beg mamma to let me go and have my fortune told,” Nettie said.
“Yes, little sister, and she wisely refused…”
“Oh, come on. What’s the harm?”
Grumbling, Ron and Tré followed the girl into the Fortune Teller’s shop. As soon as they entered the door, everything went dark except for a light at the end of what appeared to be a tunnel. After his recent trials in the sewers, Ron was even more reluctant to proceed. Finally Nettie took both his hands and pulled him forward.
They arrived at a store of some sort. The walls were covered with oddly packaged objects. When Ron started reading the labels of some he thought he might get sick. There was Dried Pixie Skin, (some with and some without tattoos,) Powdered Leaf Mites, Root of Angibar; a collection worthy of Snape and Slughorn’s N.E.W.T. potions laboratory. Ron thought Tré had the same feelings as himself, but Nettie was running from shelf to shelf, occasionally taking a small bag of one thing or another.
“What’re you going to use that rubbish for, Nettie?” Ron finally asked suspiciously, hoping the answer had nothing to do with his brother.
“You two are impossible. Some of these items are very rare!”
A loud bang echoed through the shop and a short, very ugly, very, very old lookinig woman came into the shop, apparently startled that she had visitors. So much for fortune telling! Ron thought.
The old witch gave Ron an evil look, then an even more frightening smile. “Monsieur, I have been waiting many years for this young lady to visit me.” Then looking to Nettie, “You are Antoinette, aren’t you, my dear?”
Plainly impressed, Nettie clapped and jumped up and down like a little girl. But Tré got Ron’s attention and pointed to Nettie’s purse, the name Antoinette clearly written across the front.
“Impressive!” Ron said sarcastically, trying not to burst out laughing. Tré had to cover her mouth and look away. Clearly this was going to become another legendary story for the Mellanson family.
Again, the ugly witch looked at Ron with disdain. “Monsieur Weasley has little regard for me, I see. Perhaps the young Ms. Mellanson would like to hear her fortune?”
While Nettie sat at a small round table, Ron and Tré shared glanced, again. This time it was a look of curiosity. Ron was wearing nothing identifying him as a Weasley.
“Come on, Essie, Ron, this will be fun!” Nettie said, trying to grab their hands and pull them to the table.
But the fortune teller snapped out, “Leave them! And don’t be so certain all I see will be ‘fun’.”
Ron and Tré finally surrendered, joining the other two at the table. Then the ‘fun’ began. The witch sat theatrically, pulling up her sleeves and with a twist of her hand, a wand appeared in it. She pointed the wand at the table and in a puff of smoke, a container the size of a small jewelry box appeared.
“I am Madam Andie, and today we will consult the fates to see the life of this young woman. But be warned, sometimes we see what we do not like. Are you ready?”
With an expression of awe, Nettie nodded. “I am,” she said eagerly.
The room darkened and the air became cold, for the first few seconds the only sound was that of Ron trying to snort back a laugh. Then there was a loud THUMP. “Stop it, Ron!” Nettie scolded. Although he could not hear it, as Ron massaged his arm, he knew Tré was silently chuckling next to him.
Seconds later, the table began to appear, lit dimly by a yellowish, diffused, unseen source of light. On the table, centered perfectly, was a thin red thread in the shape of a cross, shimmering faintly against the black background. It divided the table into four equal sections. Then Madam Andie spoke:
“To question the Fates about the path of a life requires sacrifice, Antoinette Mellanson. Are you willing to sacrifice for the knowledge provided?”
“Yes, of course!” Nettie replied immediately.
Ron looked up at Tré with an expression indicating he wanted her to sense his thoughts. She nodded, with a questioning look on her face. But Ron just stared at her, his mind radiating a simple message: I wonder how many Galleons the Fates will require Nettie to sacrifice… Tré couldn’t help herself, she exploded in laughter and Ron followed.
“HUSH, non-believers! Or you will have to leave.” Madam Andie scolded. Nettie kicked both of them under the table.
“Your future and fortune will be told by the symbols of life.” Madam Andie opened the box on the table, the same one she had conjured a moment earlier. Removing a piece of cloth, she revealed the symbols. “This is your Life Marker,” she held up what looked like a ceramic, cone-shaped object, but it had been sliced neatly in half down the center. She set it on the table.
“This is you Fortune,” another object was set on the table; this one appeared to be a long string of beads, each shimmered with a different color every few seconds.
“This is your Health.” Ron saw what looked like a bone, perhaps a finger bone, but with gold runes carved into it.
“This is your Intelligence.” She laid a tiny pouch with the other items.
“This is your Magic.” What looked like a miniature wand of ebony and yew joined the pile.
“This is your… husband.” Ron’s breathing hitched, he hadn’t even thought about the possibility of that being discussed. And he suddenly realized, too, that he was paying very close attention to the Fortune Teller.
“These are your children.” Madam Andie rolled an item which might be mistaken for a tiny Osage orange into the others.
“And finally, this is your Strength.” The final item was a large claw, razor sharp and yellowed from age.
“I see your friend and your sister are now interested in your future too. Perhaps they will listen to me without laughing. Oui?
Tré and Ron just nodded; they were interested, but neither would realize why for a while yet.
Madam Andie picked up the small collection of unusual objects; she didn’t flinch when the claw dug into her palm and drops of blood fell onto the table. She held up the eight items, closed her eyes, and released them so they would fall upon the table. Absolute silence was replaced by the sounds of the indicators hitting the table.
The first thing Ron noticed about the table was that there was an elegant simplicity to the way it interacted with the indicators. This wasn’t reading tea leaves or smoke patterns with Professor Trelawney!
“Your past, Ms. Mellanson, look.” Madam Andie’s hand hovered over one half of the table where all the indicators had landed. “I will read your past before predicting your future. Perhaps then the non-believers will have faith.” Ron and Tré both felt her gaze and both refused to meet it.
“You are seventeen years old, are you not? You Life marker shows you being born here,” Madam Andie said, pointing to the indicator. Nettie softly said yes.
“Your Fortune in the past has been good, until about a month ago?” She glanced at Ron as if he was the cause of Nettie’s fallen fortune. “But I see a death here. Did someone close to you die?”
“Yes, my brother,” said Nettie simply.
“But since then have things gone better?”
“Y-yes,” she squeezed Ron’s hand.
“Perhaps something at school or work?”
“Yes.” She could sense Ron’s sudden drop in self esteem.
“Good. Now your Health indicator is steady and shows no dangerous illnesses.”
Tré muttered to Ron, “Nettie has never been sick.”
“As for your Magical abilities, they are… average. But one should not despair for this. When combined with your intelligence it can become far greater. And as for your Intelligence indicator, look here.” The Fortune Teller pointed to the tiny pouch at the far edge of the table. “You are special, yes? Very gifted, brilliant even.”
No one said a word, they all knew Nettie was a prodigy.
“Yes, I thought so,” the old witch said smugly.
“Your Husband and Children indicators are missing, I think you know what that means.”
“As for your Strength and how it has helped you, look.” Madam Andie pointed to the claw. “You are above average in Strength, not only physical Strength but also emotional Strength. When we look into your future we shall see how that might help you.” In one quick movement of her arm, Madam Andie swept up the Indicators and dropped them again. Like the first time, they all landed on one side of the table, but this time it was the opposite side. Immediately the Seer started clapping, which made her look decidedly odd… or odder. Ron, Tré and Nettie all started asking what she saw.
“My dear, you are a very fortunate girl! I don’t know if I’ve seen quite so many positive signs, at least not for many years. See this, you have a long life ahead of you, but it will end abruptly. No, no! Do not worry, child. When you get to be as old as I, heart failure is abrupt and welcome, especially if it happens at night.”
Ron looked at Tré, both grimacing at the idea, but Nettie had instantly seen the logic of the answer and nodded.
“Your Fortune, Health, Intelligence and Mind all are very good; as is your Strength. Now look here, my dear. I see a Husband in your future and more than three children, but the children are a few years away. The husband is not.”
Nettie sat up, looking distressed, but said nothing.
“It is a difficult thing, child, when I tell someone this, but you have not met your husband, yet.”
Nettie nodded silently. She had been holding Ron’s hand through most of the Telling, when she heard the news she squeezed it so hard it brought tears to Ron’s eyes.
In the Circle at the center of Rue De Méntary, Ron, Nettie and Tré sat sipping coffee and trying to think of how to distract the young Healer. She had run from the Fortune Teller immediately after the Reading finished and her sister and friend found her crying beneath one of the dwarf pines that lined the circle.
“Nettie, we knew this was how it would be. You’re off to Nice and I’m headed back to England tomorrow. I…I’ve had a wonderful time with you and I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.” Ron sat, holding both of Nettie’s hands, rubbing her wrists with his thumbs. Tré, feeling terribly out of place, just wanted to get back to Charlie
“I know, Ron. I just began to think that maybe three years wouldn’t be too long for you… for us. I will be alright.” Nettie pulled away from Ron, sat up and put on her emotionless face that Ron so hated, and then looked to her sister. She was frowning.
“No! Not again, Nettie. Don’t hide behind that,” Ron exclaimed, taking his friend’s face and bringing it back to look at him. “That is not the girl I love…” both Ron’s and Nettie’s eyes opened wider; neither had used the “L” word up to this point, afraid of how it might spoil their friendship.
“Ron, I can’t do this…”
“Yes, you can, Nettie. Listen to me; you can and you will. This has nothing to do with fortune telling and strange old witches, this has to do with your life. I’m going to make a bold prediction myself,” Ron proclaimed officiously and in a way that made the two females laugh. “You will meet that perfect man and fall in love with him, and marry him. We never said this to each other, but we’re just too different, you and I. Maybe like Hermione and me, great friends but… well, you know. I can’t challenge you intellectually, we only talk of superficial things ” and it’s nice now, while we’re in love, but in a year or two we’d just be scratching our head wondering what we got ourselves into.”
Nettie was in tears at this point and holding onto Ron’s hands like she would never let go. Behind them, Tré was observing two children taking an enormous step towards adulthood. She was proud of both.
After she calmed down some, Nettie wiped her eyes and haughtily asked her sister if she still thought the woman was a fraud. “No, little sister, and I think Ron recognized something special about her soon after she started.”
“Right, Essie, but I think Nettie was too wrapped up in the woman to really notice how she told her fortune.”
“What is this?” Nettie asked, completely confused.
“You have done a fine job tutoring monsieur Weasley in French these past weeks, little sister, but how do you think he could understand everything the woman said? Every word was in French.”
“NO!”
“Oui,” Ron said, smiling.
Ron got his lunch that cool, sunny November day in Paris. Sitting at a sidewalk café with two very good friends, all three talked for hours and Ron never ran out of words, and he never felt the discomfort he usually experienced around females. After a few glasses of wine all three became a little tipsy and said many wonderful and silly things, things they had not been able to say for a long, long time. When they finally parted that evening, neither Ron nor Nettie made any attempt to hide their emotions from the other, but neither were they sappy or clingy.
It might have been a scene from a Humphrey Bogart movie when Nettie stepped onto the train and waved a final goodbye to her family and Ron. Her face was streaked with tears but more noticeable was her smile, filled with wonderful memories and a promising future.
Ron stood silently as the crowd around him thinned. In the background he heard Tré bidding goodnight to her family and soon he felt her standing at his side. “So, young Mr. Weasley, shall we go see how old Mr. Weasley is feeling tonight?”
Mental illness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Michael Allen mused while reviewing notes of his past weeks in Godric’s Hollow. He was quite certain that he was insane and living in a dream, or some sort of post-middle-age cocaine-induced flashback gone terribly wrong. He had put Godric’s Hollow behind him, physically, for now. His last week there was spent doing work more suited to a behavioral scientist than a journalist. Data gathered, he returned to his London flat and tried to return to a normal routine by contacting a number of publications he had worked with in the past. None needed, or wanted, any of his work at the time, but that didn’t bother him, either. Dry spells were just part of the job of a free-lance journalist. Besides, he had no real need for the income; the six thousand Pound per month check he received through an inheritance from a wealthy uncle took care of all his needs. If he spent a bit too much one month, whether on travel or women, he could let the bill ride until the next.
There was a level of comfort in London, too, that Allen never felt in any other location he had lived, including his home town in New Mexico. The city was his life: the people, the noise, the history, even the pollution and crime; everything he sensed around him intermingled and created his own personal universe. He knew his neighbors and their personalities; which ones to chat with and which ones to avoid. If he became bored with an assignment he knew how to handle the pesky editors. But there was one thing Michael Allen never quite learned how to handle, and that was himself.
The weeks in Godric’s Hollow had shaken him badly. Apart from the frustrations associated with being unable to track down the puzzling Harry Potter, the events of the final two weeks gave him considerable anxiety. The odd migraines and baffling dead-ends, however, were nothing compared to what had happened on the morning of his return to London. On the odd chance that he had missed something in the police reports about the Potter disappearances, Digger had returned to Godric’s Hollow’s police station and asked to view the official report one more time.
He waited patiently at a desk while the clerk brought out the papers. Thanking the man, Allen told him he could take them back in just a moment. He opened the folder and shook his head, knowing he would see what he had seen weeks before: a report with key information missing. And it was still missing. The frustrations of the past weeks suddenly and unexpectedly came to a boiling point and Allen lost his temper. He slammed the folder shut and thrust it out at the clerk angrily causing various papers, which were not securely attached, to go flying out of the folder and around the small room.
“Bloody hell! You go pick those up,” snarled the clerk. “What’s got you all in a twist?”
Allen knew he’d been rude and he apologized, something he seldom did. “Sorry fellow, just a frustrating case. I can’t even find the damned address!” He got down on the floor and started gathering the papers strewn about while the clerk collated them. Allen handed off the last bunch and stood to gather his things.
“All for nothing, governor?”
“That’s right, all for nothing. I’ll be seeing you.” Digger made to pick up his briefcase when the clerks gnarly hand came down hard on the leather bag.
“This what you’re looking for?” The clerk held out the top sheet of the report.
“Yeah, and if you can find the address I’ll give you five quid.”
“Oh! Then how ‘bout 4 Flower Lane, Godric’s Hollow? That enough of an address?” The official was wearing a smug grin and pointing to a blank line on the report.
“WHAT?!” cried Digger in disbelief, snatching the paper from the man’s hand. He looked at it, turned it over and looked again. Nothing. “Very funny, chief, very funny.”
Allen was suddenly aware of how large the clerk was. He had stood up, nose-to-nose, or more appropriately, chest-to-nose, to Allen. “You trying to cheat me? What’d’you call this?” He held up the paper again and pointed to the spot where the address was to be entered. Digger looked at it. Nothing! And he felt a headache coming on, too.
“I…I…what do YOU see?”
“I told you what I see,” the clerk said, poking Allen in the chest, and none too lightly. “Righ’ there: 4 “ Flower - Lane. That’s an address in my book. And I’ll thank you for the five quid.” He slapped the paper down and held out his hand.
Allen looked again. There was NOTHING on the address lines. He reached for his billfold, but stopped and picked up the paper. “Uh… yes, just a moment… sir,” Allen mumbled. He took the paper and stepped over to the receptionist and asked her what the address read.
“Why, 4 Flower Lane, Godric’s Hollow, sir.”
Muttering a thank you, Allen returned to the office where he found the clerk still smiling smugly. He opened his billfold and took out two five Pound notes. “Er, sorry about that. The eyes are getting old… I guess.” The clerk thanked him and departed with the file. Allen sat there for a few more minutes, made notes in a pad, and then left Godric’s Hollow on the local trolley to Bristol.
It’s happening again, he realized. While he had gone searching for Harry Potter’s address he found nothing. But the clerk and the receptionist, only interested in other matters, could clearly read: 4 Flower Lane.
The journey back to London had been quiet, on the outside, but in his head he knew he was going insane. However unusual, he was able to rationalize the migraines of the previous weeks. But an invisible address? This was truly disturbing. Was he hallucinating? It was the only logical possibility! And if he was not seeing things that were there “ and they clearly were there for the other two at the station “ then something was seriously wrong with him.
As he unpacked his clothing and toiletries, back in the safety of his London flat, Allen had to face the fact that something was, without question, seriously psychologically wrong with him.
“But what?” he asked himself.
Following a quick dinner and a long, relaxing shower, Allen followed his usual evening routine of dictating his thoughts for the day. With all the clutter on his desk, Digger placed the Dictaphone machine on the floor along with a tall stack of notebooks, papers and other odds and ends. The notes from his stay in Godric’s Hollow remained on the desk awaiting his decision on how to handle them. With his annotations from the morning trip to the police station in his hand, Allen began his work.
Amanda Bright had no idea, even with magic, how difficult it would be to trace an IP address to a specific location. But with the assistance of two of her Ministry co-workers, she managed to find her first target. IP address 189.22.001.027 was registered to the laptop of a Mr. Michael Allen’s who rented a flat at 878B Wattle Crossing, London… just a few blocks away! Amanda realized. Her search algorithms had easily detected this machine performing almost daily internet queries on Harry Potter for more than six weeks.
Calmly following procedures she herself had established to ensure the validity of her targets, Amanda ran multiple checks against her Wizarding databases to be certain Michael Allen was not an Auror, or Unspeakable on an undercover mission. He was not. Then she checked with the ISP, the Internet Service Provider, for 878B Wattle Crossing and found that Allen, or Allen’s laptop, was not currently at his flat. This was a disappointment, but only a temporary one.
With the disarray in the Ministry over the past year, no process or procedures had ever been formally approved for Amanda’s department. If she came across something unusual she was expected to notify the Minister and receive assistance, presumably Aurors or Obliviators from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That wasn’t going to happen any time soon, Amanda knew. The Ministry was only now starting to function again and Kingsley Shacklebolt had relinquished his temporary position to head the Auror division full-time.
So Amanda Bright took it upon herself to contact the new temporary head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and request two Obliviators for an important mission. Had the newly appointed Minister not been in the middle of defending himself against unexpected allegations of being sympathetic to Voldemort’s followers, he might have considered Amanda’s zealous request more closely. However, two young Obliviators arrived at her office late that afternoon, the afternoon before Michael Allen returned to London, and were given their assignment.
“I want you two to stake out this address,” she said, handing them a slip of paper. “In this apartment is Mr. Michael Allen, a Muggle, making an unusually large number of inquiries into our world. Please observe his actions and report back to me tomorrow afternoon. You are to take no actions, is that understood?”
Acknowledging the instructions, the two wizards kept watch for someone who was not there… until the following afternoon.
“Bingo, Billy! There ‘e is. Looks ordinary enough. Let’s report back to the boss-lady and see what she wants us to do.”
“Right, then we can get us a pint.” Laughing, the two men walked back to the Ministry building.
A half-hour later, both had their hopes for a pint dashed as they listened to their new instructions.
“Good work. Here’s what I want you to do…” Amanda filled them in on the standard procedures for Obliviating a Muggle, with the usual cautions that they not overdue the memory charm. But the men were very good at what they did and both were very precise with their procedures, a crucial requirement for the job.
Thus instructed, Billy and Marvin returned to Wattle Crossing.
Allen, finally relaxed and lounging comfortably at his desk, dictating the day’s activities, heard a noise that could only be one thing, his door locks unlatching. He had, over the years, picked enough locks himself to easily recognize the sound. But there was something odd this time, it sounded as if all three of the locks had come undone at the same time. Having barely a chance to turn in his seat, Digger saw two men in strange clothing… but they suddenly were not that unfamiliar, he had seen that sort of dress before. In a fraction of a second he made the connection between the clothes and Harry Potter. But he had no time to do anything else; one of the men swiftly closed the door and pointed something at him.
"Petrificus Totalus!" one of the intruders said, and Allen found himself unable to move.
“Blimey, Marvin, you don’t use a binding spell, use a bloody stunner,” the other said.
Digger found his situation oddly amusing, and not at all unbelievable. He had reconciled himself to the fact that he was insane. These hallucinations were only another symptom of his disorder, he reasoned. Frozen in place, he watched as the other man, not Marvin, pointed as stick at him and then everything went black.
Billy levitated Digger to his bedroom, placed him on the bed and began the work of wiping Michael Allen’s mind clean of Harry Potter. He was an expert at Memory Charms and was finished in minutes. Back in the den, Marvin was busy erasing a stack of notebooks, returning them to a new and unused state. Billy returned and they looked at a cabinet full of small boxes which, upon closer examination, appeared to have something to do with a wide range of subjects over many years. The last one they saw, apparently the most recent, had H. Potter scribbled on the label.
“Recon we ought to erase them all?” Marvin asked.
“Yeah, but… cor! This bloke must have decades of information stored here. I hate to do it…”
“Look, Billy, let’s just wipe the ones with Potter’s name, I’m not comfortable destroying a man’s livelihood.”
Billy thought for a moment. “Alright, Marvin, but we’ll have to check every one of them. There must be thousands!”
“Then we better get started.”
It took two hours, but Billy and Marvin managed to find six tapes referencing H. Potter. They both blessed the poor bugger that he had kept such wonderful records of his work. When finished with the tapes there was only one more task to perform.
“Is that one of them Muggle laptop compukers, Billy?” asked Marvin, in awe.
“Yeah, see here,” Billy handed his partner a picture of the machine and Amanda’s instructions on how to erase its memory. Taking out a large piece of metal, he waved it over the machine for half a minute, turned the laptop over and repeated the procedure. The powerful magnet effectively destroyed the data on the hard drive. Then the two Obliviators tidied up the room and Apparated directly to the Ministry of Magic to report on their success.
The next morning, Michael Allen woke up with a nasty headache and absolutely no memory of Harry Potter.
Ginny Weasley had never been more frightened in her life. Facing Voldemort was easier than this, she said to herself over and over. Meanwhile, Diane Bradley watched the terrain pass far below; it was the first land either had seen in four hours. As the Boeing 747 slowed and began its initial descent to Logan International Airport, Diane watched her friend grip the seat handles and close her eyes for the umpteenth time. The nauseating, swooping, falling sensation was a thrill to Diane, but Ginny sat frozen, praying for a swift end to the five hour trip.
Why I ever let Di talk me into traveling this way I’ll never know… yes I will. She said Harry did it so I thought I could, too… Oh noooo… The plane made a loud noise and took another dip; Ginny felt her lunch coming back up and she scrambled for another air-sick bag. It was the third time, so little remained in her stomach, just the Muggle drink called Ginger Ale which Diane had sworn would make her feel better.
“Don’t worry, Gin, that was the flaps coming down. They’re a bit noisy but you should be more worried if they hadn’t lowered.”
Ginny wiped her mouth off and gave Diane a dirty look. “Just you wait, Bradley…”
Thirty minutes, (and one more air-sick bag later,) Ginny was trying to Scourgify herself in the women’s restroom, quite a feat in itself, given the size of the cubicle.
Diane stood outside the restroom door, beaming, as Ginny reentered the Muggle world. “Ready?”
Taking the American witch’s elbow, Ginny led her out of the plane and down the long passageway towards the few remaining people waiting to meet their acquaintances from the jet. “You are so dead, Diane Bradley. You better stay in Muggle areas or I’m going to hex you until…”
“JASON!" Diane screamed, pulling away from Ginny and running to the arms of her guardian and former principal.
The two embraced warmly and then Jason turned to his other guest. “Ginny, it’s wonderful to see you again. How are you?”
“A lot better now that I’m on the ground,” she said coolly.
“Ah, sounds like you had an interesting flight. Harry preferred other means of transportation, too, as I recall.” Ginny just continued to glare at Diane. “And how are our English cousins? Harry, Ron and Hermione doing well?”
Diane flashed Ginny a quick, uncomfortable glance. “Harry and Hermione are fine. Ron got himself into that battle in Paris last week and was injured, but he’ll be fine.’
“He’s back with our parents now,” Ginny finished.
“Oh? Were his injuries so serious that he couldn’t recoup at Hog… school?”
Diane and Ginny looked at each other again. “Ron’s taking the year off, Mr. Graham,” Ginny said simply.
“Really? I’d have thought he’d want to be around Hermione, now that the, eh, problems are fixed over there.”
“Ron and Hermione broke up, Jason.”
Startled, the Salem School Principal took a moment to find his words. “I’m sorry to hear that, they seemed very close and well suited for each other.” He wondered if he really was that upset, but put that thought away. “Well, let’s get you two through customs and something to eat. You hungry, Ginny?” The youngest Weasley just scowled when Diane started laughing.
“Probably not, Jason, she had two lunches on the plane; one when we left England and another shortly before we landed.” Jason just looked confused as his former pupil walked away at a rapid pace.
Following a light dinner, (Ginny said she really was hungry,) the three took a cab to the Salem School where Diane was mobbed by a number of her former classmates. After greeting them she introduced Ginny, pointing out to her friend Bob that Ginny was Harry’s girlfriend. Ginny heard Bob say something along the lines of party pooper. As the group of teens walked off to trade stories, Jason reminded Ginny and Diane that they had an early appointment the next day with the lawyers, with the full knowledge that they would stay up a better part of the night anyway.
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving dawned far too early for Ginny who was staying in the same guest room Harry had used months before. She groaned threateningly at Diane, who was already wide awake and dressed, and reached for her wand, croaking out something about owing her a hex. But Diane had wisely picked the wand up and held it dangling from her thumb and forefinger, teasing Ginny to come and get it.
“Come on, Gin, let’s get this over with. You promised.”
“Yes, and you promised I’d love Muggle airplanes,” she harrumphed. “Alright, I’ll meet you in the dining hall.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ginny stumbled into the mostly empty hall where she found Diane and Jason waiting for her. Still half asleep, she scalded her hand with hot coffee and treated those present to a few choice British curses. While Jason spoke with Diane about what she should expect with the lawyers, Ginny walked around the hall, occasionally chatting with the few students who had not already departed for the long weekend. Never having celebrated the American holiday, she found it highly appropriate, especially for her friends and family back in England.
Soon it was time to leave and Jason extended his arms for Ginny and Diane. A moment later they Apparated into Manchester, New Hampshire, at the home of an acquaintance of Jason’s. From there they took a taxi to the downtown law office which had been sending Diane correspondence for over two years and handling the liquidation of her assets. Ginny thought Diane looked a little pale as they walked into the lobby, but she had a determined look on her face; she wanted this over with, once and for all.
Following a brief wait in the reception area with a number of other people, a woman entered and asked for all those attending the Bradley family case.
“It sounds more like a trial,” Ginny whispered to Diane as they stood. “Do you want me to wait here?”
Diane took her friend’s hand. “No, please stay with me. I’m so nervous I think I might hurl… and you’re experienced handling that.” Ginny and Diane quickly devolved into silly giggles as they entered a conference room. The room was bright and comfortable; there was a large, solid oak table with twelve heavily padded chairs surrounding it. Various refreshments, fruit and muffins were also arrayed along a table on one side of the room. Diane sat between Jason and Ginny and looked apprehensively at the pile of papers and folders in the center of the table.
“Good morning everyone!” a bright, cheerful voice cried out, startling the three guests. “I’m Michael Pallone… and… you must be Ms. Bradley.” He held his hand out to Diane who took it, self-conscious of her sweaty palm.
“Hi.”
“And you must be Jason Graham.” Again, he held out his hand, this time Jason rose and shook it.
“And, are you a friend of Ms. Bradley?” he asked, looking at Ginny.
“Yes, hello, my name is Ginny Weasley. I’m a schoolmate of Diane.”
“And an English one, too; excellent! Welcome, please feel free to help yourself to the refreshments, the coffee is especially fine. We will be starting soon.” Pallone took two folders from the pile in the middle of the table and handed one each to Jason and Diane. “I’m sorry, Ms. Weasley, only Ms. Bradley, and Mr. Graham, as her legal guardian, may have a copy of these papers. Of course, either can share their contents with you at their pleasure. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll go and let the boss know we are ready to start.”
“A bit exuberant, isn’t he?” Diane commented to Ginny, her voice shaking. Ginny thought she saw her eyes welling up, too. When she looked down at the papers in the folder that had just been opened, she saw it was Diane’s parent’s will, and she caught herself stiffening. She placed her hand on Diane’s arm, but her friend’s only reaction was a small sniffle.
In next to no time, Mr. Pallone returned to the room followed by three other well-dressed associates, one a woman. Introductions were made and one of the arriving men began to use a strange device he identified as a “steno machine.”
Then it began.
“Ms. Bradley, I want to start by telling you how sorry we are for your loss. As happens, all of my associates and I have lost either a parent or sibling, but we cannot begin to claim we understand what you have gone through. Please accept our sincerest condolences.” The Partner’s brief speech was obviously sincere and Diane nodded silently, accepting the sentiment.
“Are you ready to begin, Ms. Bradley?” the Partner asked, seeing Diane’s head still looking down. After a few seconds she nodded silently. Ginny noticed that Jason was gently rubbing her back.
“Per your wishes, Ms. Bradley, and through the directions of Mr. Graham, Page 3 shows all your assets…”
The meeting droned on for another thirty minutes as one lawyer or another addressed parts of the Bradley estate. During the briefing Diane remained mostly silent, occasionally asking for clarification about one thing or another. Jason asked a number of questions and made notes, but that was all. Ginny watched, her curiosity peaked, as the legal jargon flew back and forth. When it was over, Diane had a small mountain of papers to sign to complete the process. Then, with the signing task complete, Ginny looked down and saw her friend’s net worth, a bit over two million dollars. She wasn’t certain of the exchange rate, but knew it was a tidy sum.
“Is that everything?” Diane asked in a whisper. “Can we go now?”
“That’s all the paperwork, Ms. Bradley. I took the liberty of cashing in some of your funds in case you needed currency while you’re back in the states.” The Partner handed Diane a thick envelope which she refused to take. Following an awkward few seconds, Jason took the money and put it in his coat pocket. “I do have two boxes of personal items…”
“NO! I said I didn’t want anything. Throw them away.” Diane shouted, finally losing her composure and breaking down. Jason glanced at the Partner before leading Diane and Ginny out of the office. Ginny had a good idea what Jason was doing when he returned to the conference room. Five minutes later he walked into the waiting room, this time from the front door; he had take the boxes himself and put them in the taxi that was still waiting out front. Still comforting her friend, Ginny knew that some day she would want to see what remained of her parent’s personal items.
Jason treated the girls to coffee and pastries at a nearby Starbuck’s, though none of them were particularly hungry or desirous of sharing conversation. When both girls turned down Jason’s offer for lunch he sighed and told the driver to take them to his friend’s house, from which they Apparated back to Salem. Ginny suspected that Jason would find some way to get the two boxes to Hogwarts at some point, but she was wrong. After dinner that evening, a quiet affair with just the three of them “ the only ones remaining at the school - and Sister Bernadette, Jason gave an order.
“Diane, I left the two boxes from the lawyer in your room. I want you to start going through them right away… I know what you’re going to say, but there are some things in there you need to see.”
Ginny was amazed that her friend didn’t hex Jason right there. Her face was red and she could see Diane’s magic, as waves of heat, rising from her skin. She reminded Ginny of the way she looked weeks earlier when she and Hermione had nearly attacked each other.
“You had no right to do that, Jason. You know how I feel about it.”
“Yes, I do know, and I also know that ignoring it is not healthy for you.”
“If I can kill a bunch of Dementors I’m sure I can ignore that trash, too.”
“No you can’t. There’s a big difference between Magical Ability and Mental Stability. Magic won’t do anything to help you accept what happened, and you’ve put it off far too long. You’re not my daughter, Diane, so I can’t order you to do it, but I’m telling you, as a friend, go through it, and start tonight.”
The room became deathly quiet, reminding Ginny of being around Dementors, but without the chill. Diane stood and left the room without another word.
“Ginny, if you feel comfortable doing it, would you go and make sure she’s ok? I think that’s partly why she wanted you here. Diane knew she would have to do this.” The frustration was obvious on Jason’s face
“Sure, Mr. Graham,” Ginny said unenthusiastically, and went after her friend.
A gentle knock on Diane’s door a minute later brought no answer. After a few more attempts, Ginny opened the door and found the room empty, the two boxes Jason had left still untouched on the floor. Making a quick decision, she stacked up the boxes and carried both back to her room, hoping Diane would return if she saw the boxes gone. But it really didn’t matter. When Ginny pushed her door open she found Diane curled up in her bed, sobbing quietly.
Setting the boxes down, out of sight, Ginny went over and sat with her friend. “Did you go into your room, Di?” She nodded. “You know, Jason’s right, you have to get through that stuff or it will eat you up. Harry used to burry his feelings and pain until it nearly killed him.”
That caught Diane’s attention. “Harry? You’re kidding?” she choked out. “I always thought he was the Rock of Gibraltar. Wow…”
“You should have seen him the beginning of August when he came to the Burrow, that’s my family’s home, he was a mess…” Ginny went on to highlight some of Harry’s self-destructive behavior over the years, but always careful to qualify them with the dreadful facts that lead up to his actions. “It’s easy to look back now, with Tom dead, and criticize some of Harry’s choices. The Prophet’s doing that quite nicely. But I was probably the only one who had gone through a fraction of what Harry experienced and I know why he did so many of things that drove others crazy.”
“What do you mean?”
Startled by the question, Ginny realized that she had never told Diane about the Chamber of Secrets. Over the next hour she revealed the horrors of her first year and the near tragedy that ensued. Both girls found themselves in tears by the time the story was over, Ginny from reliving the experience and Diane from the pain she saw in her English friend.
“Did he… rape you, Gin?”
In the four years since Harry had rescued her, it was the first time anyone had asked her that question straight-forwardly. And Ginny suddenly realized that Diane was not the only person in the room burying a horribly painful memory. She closed her eyes and thought back to her first year, still vivid in her memory. At first she ran into the same empty memories of her possession she had always come up against, the black holes covering minutes or hours of her days. But the magic and the psychological barriers of the events had broken down over the years, particularly after Voldemort’s death, and for the first time in years Ginny saw the details of what had been hidden to her.
Opposite, Diane watched her friend reviewing her memories and thought, at first, that her answer would be no. But in an instant that changed as a look of horror crossed Ginny’s face; she had obviously just discovered something that had been hidden for a long time.
“Oh my God, Di…! Ginny cried out, suddenly wishing Harry was with her.
“Gin, it’s ok, you don’t have to talk about it. It was really rude of me to ask…”
“He DID rape me, that bloody bastard!”
Diane was frozen with the thought of what she had just forced Ginny to recall.
“But it wasn’t… I mean, he didn’t… penetrate me, physically. He was just a ghost.” Ginny was talking more to herself than Diane now. “But it was… oh God, he made me… like it, and want it. What a bloody prat I was!”
“Gin, don’t do that to yourself. That wasn’t your fault, you were the victim, for heaven’s sake.”
This seemed to jar Ginny back into the reality of her surroundings and she calmed down enough to talk and think more calmly. “I’m sorry, Di, I didn’t mean to go barmy on you like that. Wow! I thought I’d worked all that out already. I definitely need to talk to someone about this.”
YES! “That’s a good idea, Gin. I mean, you can always talk to me, but you might need more than a sympathetic shoulder for the heavy stuff.”
“Thanks, Di; it’s just so… disorienting to face something like that. It was a complete surprise.” Ginny leaned back on the bed next to Diane and let out a long sigh. “Gosh, I wish Harry was here.”
Diane smiled. “You really love him, don’t you?”
A content smile crossed the red-head’s face and she pulled a pillow to her chest, hugging it tightly. “Yeah, I do.”
“I’m so happy for both of you.”
“What about you, Di? Any tall, dark-haired man in your life?”
“N-no, not right now.” Should I tell her…?
A long period of silence followed while each witch thought about their life. Then Ginny had an idea. “If I were with you, Di, would you look through the boxes? I-I don’t want to push you, but I think it would help.”
The briefest flash of annoyance passed over Diane’s face, but then she sighed, resigned. “Ok.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I saw you bring the boxes in. Wanna grab one and we’ll plunge into it together?”
Elated, Ginny jumped up and brought the top box over, setting it on her bed, between both of them. Diane hesitated for a second when her hands first touched the top, but she set her face and opened the container.
Neither girl saw what they expected to find; Ginny “ a bunch of family pictures, and Diane “ mushy notes from the grave. Instead, the box was filled with plain manila envelopes of varying sizes and thicknesses, each labeled with its contents: Birth/Death/Marriage Certificates, Tax Returns, Insurance, Will(s), and a dozen others. Only two claimed to hold anything that sounded as if it was personal in nature; Pictures and Susan’s notes. Ginny recalled that Diane’s mother’s name was Susan.
“Well, where do you want to start?” asked Ginny.
Diane closed her eyes and said, “Eenie, meenie, minie, moe,” and picked up the Tax Returns envelope. “How fun! Let’s see what dad earned,” Diane said, shaking her head.
“Hey, your dad did pretty well, didn’t he?”
Dine answered by rudely taking the envelope from Ginny’s hands and throwing it back in the box. Then she took out another. “Oh, joy! Insurance Policies. Let’s deep six that one, too. Let’s see what other happy things are in here… ah, Birth/Death/Marriage Certificates. In case I forget my birthday, I guess.”
“When is your birthday, Di?” Ginny asked, trying to see the certificates.
“December eleventh, seventy-eight; here,” Diane threw the official paper at Ginny, but it went flying off to the side.
“Gee, thanks… So you’re a Christmas baby?” Something wasn’t connecting with Ginny.
“A couple weeks before, I guess you could call it that.”
“No, look, Di, it says your Birthday is December 25, 1978.”
“Crap, Ginny, gimme a break, this isn’t fun.” Irritated, she leaned back to take her birth certificate when she saw Ginny’s face, it was completely serious. Looking at the document, she scratched her head. “Uh, sorry, Gin. There must be a mistake somewhere; I know my birthday is the eleventh.”
“Kind of odd they’d make a mistake like that, isn’t it?”
“Who cares? What’s next?”
Ginny handed Diane one of the thicker envelopes while she looked at the certificate again. She checked both sides and set it down, her curiosity peaked. While Diane was engrossed in whatever was in the latest envelope, Ginny picked up the birth certificate for the third time and checked for the official seal. It appeared, and felt, genuine; the New Hampshire Department of Public Health seal clearly readable. Then she had an idea. Rummaging through the first box, she picked out the envelope labeled Insurance Policies and rifled through it until she found one for Diane. The endorsement showed Diane’s birthday as December 11, 1978. She stuffed the papers back and found the last envelope the lawyers had placed in the box; the one titled Will(s). There she found the same date; December 11, 1978.
That’s odd, official organizations don’t make these sort of errors, and here are three that did!
Just then, Jason rapped on the door and called in to see if the girls were inside. Ginny jumped up and let him in. “Hi, oh, I see you changed your… Diane?” Ginny looked down and saw Diane holding what looked like a journal or diary open in her lap, but when she saw her face she froze.
“GET OUT, BOTH OF YOU! OUT!”
Before either Jason or Ginny could reply, they found themselves being forcibly pushed out into the corridor and Ginny’s bedroom door shut. Jason groaned as he turned to help his guest up. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, she looked like she was reading a notebook of some sort and just exploded.”
“Ah, she must have come across her mother’s diaries. That might explain it.”
Taking Jason’s hand and standing, Ginny wasn’t sure that was the only thing. “Right before that we found her birth certificate and is says her birthday is Christmas day.”
Jason looked taken aback. “Diane’s birthday is December eleventh, not the twenty-fifth. Are you sure the twenty-fifth wasn’t the date she was christened?”
“Yes, I’m sure; it was the official birth certificate. But all the legal documents say the eleventh. I checked her insurance policy and her parent’s will and they both say the December eleventh.”
Jason and Ginny stood, puzzled by the unexpected information, until they heard Diane in the room; she was sobbing, “They knew… all along they knew…”