Chapter Two: Of Scars, Families and Unbreakable Vows
"Argh! My scar is burning!" screamed Harry and Ron in unison just as dawn cracked in their end-of-year disheveled dormitory.
"What is it now?" demanded an equally disheveled Hermione, materializing on the scene as usual, hair rigid and unidirectional, her hands on hips.
"My scar, it's my scar!" bellowed Harry, clutching at a crack in his forehead, prancing around the rug.
"Okay, as usual." She turned to Ron. "And you?"
"My scar, my other scar!" he wailed in reply, face split in a permanent scream.
"What scar?"
"The scar that everyone has!" Ron replied unabashedly, being rather unabashed, "I sit on it most of the time-"
"Ew!" said Hermione understandingly, being rather understanding.
"-It was that sandwich, I tell you," Ron continued, prancing around, clutching his bottom, "No more sandwiches from now on. At least not when I've made them…" Hermione remembered Ron's expression yesterday morning, the fact that the pepper mill on the Gryffindor table was suddenly half-empty and put two-and-two together.
"Argh!" screamed Harry.
"Argh!" screamed Ron.
"Urgh!" said Hermione, as any bushy-haired girl in the company of screaming boys would have done. She closed her eyes as though praying for patience and opened them, turning to Harry.
"Harry, you sit down quietly and wait for the pain to stop.” Harry did what he was told while Hermione turned sideways.
"Ron, as for you, go to Madam Pomfrey and -”
"Argh!" Ron bellowed loudly, "I can't! She's too close a friend to Madam Rosmerta! I don't want her guffawing at the wrong joke in the Three Broomsticks!"
"Okay, fine!" said Hermione, losing her patience. "Go to St. Mungo's then but please stop bothering me!"
"Great idea," Ron replied, considering her suggestion. He made a determined face and closed his eyes tightly. Muttering something, he half-turned around the spot.
"No, NO - Ron!" Hermione screeched, knowing what he was about to do. "Don't Apparate! You can't do it from-"
Ron cut in, "What do you mean 'can't'? Look at this!" he thrusted a fake Apparition License at Hermione's face, which had an unconvincing photo of him (with freckles, a fourteen-year-old fluff of a moustache and waist-length red hair) while the name read 'Resmond Worque'. "This is proof that I can Apparate, Okay?"
Hermione stared at him, mouth open, at a loss of words for something which she had re-elaborated sufficiently throughout the series.
"No, I meant than in Hogwarts…" she began, but suddenly changed her mind. “Fine, go Apparate!" she cried, her twelve-thousand-tome-nourished conscience overpowering her concern for her so-called boyfriend's welfare and intellect. "But don't blame me later if you splinch a leg or a gall bladder or something!"
"Gall bladder?" retorted Ron, "I'm a man, not a steam engine!" and with this enigmatic note, he Apparated.
Or so, he thought.
For in the next minute his whole body levitated comically upward, his limbs gesticulating, finally making him fall face-first with a resounding crash on the unforgiving common room floor. A parchment floated down to him. It had the picture of Dumbledore.
Ha Ha Ha! read the cautionary, sensitive and worldly-wise note on it.
"Ow!" said Ron, out of pain.
"Voldemort!" said Harry, out of habit.
"Vicky, where are you!" said Hermione, biting her tongue.
* * *
Miles away in London a marginally-hygienic serpentine Shack was bustling with hope and elation, numerous anticipations for the upcoming marriage. But it wasn't the same in every corner of the house, at least not in Chamber of Scowls, a lesser known room in Grimmauld Place which was privy to the most historically concealed Order-moping and florid-handkerchief blowing.
On a straight-backed chair, a woman was seated, hunch-backed and sniffling. Within a few moments she began to whimper and finally cry.
Feeling rather humane at the moment, Remus Lupin stepped into the room (in the process of searching for an empty space where he could accommodate his full-moon rendezvous) and stopped at the foot of the door.
The woman dressed in tartan suddenly looked upwards and Lupin, who was shocked to see the normal strict and stony face of Minerva "never-cross-me" McGonagall covered with silver tears. Lupin thought he knew what the reason was.
"Thinking about Albus, Minerva?" he asked softly.
"N-no…Remus," she whimpered, swallowing breath in gallons, "It's about the Potter boy!”
Lupin looked confused, "What about him?"
McGonagall glowered at Lupin as though he had sworn. "What about him? Look at what he's facing! He's losing so much every year!"
There was a pause.
"Weight?" Lupin suggested.
McGonagall peered at him cat-like and decided that any other Order member would have grasped without a hint. To her surprise, as though for assistance, four Order members Apparated around her: two of them allegedly as tearful as she was.
"Molly, Arthur, Moody, Niagara!" McGonagall exclaimed, wiping her nose in a tartan handkerchief, "What a pleasure to see you all!"
"Nymphadora," corrected a slightly younger woman, her hair a shock of champagne beige and robes a shocker of fuchsia pink, "but I prefer you call me Tonks!"
"Okay, whatever…" said McGonagall uninterestedly, "I wanted to talk to Mol-"
"-about Harry?" assisted Molly, her own face drenched with tears, "I know! I haven't slept for days thinking about how much he's lost!"
"Hair?" suggested Arthur.
Molly glared at him saber-toothed-tiger-like and resumed what she was saying.
"The poor dear who loved my cooking had no parents to start with, then he lost Sirius, his technical godfather and figurative mixture of father and brother." she sniffled, her tears forming a messy puddle on the floor.
"And this year…" McGonagall started, her face as frightened as it would be if the whole of Gryffindor house started picnicking at midnight.
"Scars?" Moody suggested.
Tonks glanced at him tyrannosaurus-like and decided that men in the world were born to be insensitive.
"What's a tyranno-?" began Arthur interestedly but Tonks cut in, weeping, "This year…h-he lost P-professor Dumbledore who he u-used to address without his title n-near his friends! Dumbledore, who was a technical Headmaster b-but figurative mixture of-of…" she grasped around for words, looking at the Transfiguration godmother for hints.
"O-of a grandfather and a mentor," said McGonagall helpfully, "or maybe ‘of a wise old man and an over-partial principal’ o-or maybe ‘a maverick wizard and a 150 year old style statement…’" she bit her lip and was lost in thought.
"What he needs," Molly advised, "is-"
"Wolfclaw clippers?"
"Screwdrivers?"
"Magical Creature Fingerprint Detectors?"
"NO!" shrieked McGonagall ferociously, breathing fire, "he needs a FAMILY! Something which he has been deprived of till date…"
The Weasley's made indistinct noises in their throats.
"We all need to represent family members for him," McGonagall continued, refraining from offering cough drops. "Yes, that's it! Each of us needs to act like we are his family member!" she brightened. Everyone stared at McGonagall dumbfounded as though she was suggesting them to play hopscotch.
"So what should we do?" Tonks asked innocently.
"Good question, Nephridia," McGonagall pondered, "I…I'm going to be his grandmother!" She got up from her seat determinedly and stuck out her arm, her palm facing downward.
"Who all are with me?" she demanded impatiently.
"I'm going to be his elder sister," said Tonks dramatically leaping and placing her palm on McGonagall's.
"I'll be his grandfather!" Moody growled, ignoring McGonagall's bewildered expression and slashing his gnarled hand on Tonks'.
"I'll be the Minister of - I mean, his father!" said Arthur, correcting himself as his wife coughed.
"I'll, um…be his…um…" Lupin began, ignoring Tonks who coughed something like ‘brother-in-law’. "Um…his UNCLE!" and delivered his slightly furry palm on the stack. Tonks groaned.
"Which leaves…" McGonagall turned to Molly.
The latter, at the far end of the room, prepared herself, swiveled dramatically on the spot (sharp intake of breath from Tonks), focused on their palms like an angry bull and sprinted forwards resolutely, finally depositing her pudgy hand on top, emphasizing the finality of relationships and announced,
"I will be his mother-cum-favourite-cook!"
McGonagall pointed a wand beneath her palm and stars shot out in all direction as though sealing something. Faint superhero music played from a gramophone somewhere. The palms retreated to their owners. There was an odd feeling among the group as though they had signed a sort of contract.
"We should have a name," decided McGonagall.
"Hear, hear!" Moody growled inconsequentially.
"How about the Family Squad or the F.S. for short?" suggested Molly, her domestic-level creativity offering her the best she could think of.
"Yes the F.S. sounds fine. But let's keep it to stand for Fiery Spiders because that's Ron's greatest fear, isn't it?" chirped Tonks.
Molly hem-hem’ed.
"Done!" asserted McGonagall fervently, her glasses askew. "Although I see no connection. So…all in favour of the Fiery Spiders?"
Four hands shot up, and finally Molly's did too as she saw a glimpse of past Transfiguration teacher, future Hogwarts Headmistress and daunting student dictator behind the square spectacles.
"Our agenda this summer," continued McGonagall, sounding business-like, "will be decided later, but the first initiative would be to keep close watch on Potter…"
Molly gargled conspicuously.
"I mean my ickle grandson Harriekins…" McGonagall rectified awkwardly, which apparently her oral muscles were inappropriate for. "The aim of this wedding party will not just be debauched merriment and callous enjoyment but also to monitor Harry, assess what his existing state of mind is and assist him psychologically. We need to elaborately motivate him, aid him identify his ongoing Dark diminishing goals, hone his grit to perfection and be a precedent to what he should turn out to be - a gallant warrior of light and an example to the young Phoenix successors, as opposed to an athletically-inclined, logically-lamentable and unusually-annoying oddball of a sightseer that he currently is."
Five pairs of eyes blinked.
"So, enjoy the party, Molly, Remus, Nirvana!" Saying so, she vanished.
* * *
The Riddle House, perennially shrouded in thick black smoke, was Darker than usual. Even heaven refused to witness what macabre episode the dilapidated dwelling was going to present this time. Outside the bungalow too, the Dementors were fearful of anticipating the diabolical chain of events to happen inside and hence were huddled into each other, shivering with fear.
Harry's non-admirer and Nagini's godfather, Lord Voldemort, advanced towards his plagued servant Wormtail, his wand drawn.
"My L-lord…?" stammered the latter, "Why are you l-looking at me like that? I swear I'll book the tickets…I-I…"
"Wormtail, you haven't been loyal to me…" the Dark Lord hissed.
"L-loyal? Why of c-course I…I have a-always been…" Wormtail stumbled, his extra large robes affording a huge domain for him to do so.
"Then why does that old man say that you have a life debt with Harry Potter? That now you have a wizarding bond with the boy?"
"L-life debt? Bond?" Wormtail laughed hollowly.
"That book said so…"
Wormtail muttered something like "not my fault" and "being framed".
"W-what are you going to d-do to me?" Wormtail cowered, while adjusting his blonde hairpiece.
Voldemort turned away from his trembling figure and walked to the centre of the room.
"Fortunately, there's a simple solution!" Voldemort informed, his moustache twitching as a bug escaped its folds, almost choking to death, "You'll have to make the bow to me…"
"Certainly, my Lord!" simpered Wormtail, sighing with relief, and curtseying as much as he could without doubling up.
"Not that bow!" Voldemort snapped, non-verbally making Wormtail snap straight, "The other bow! The one that involves fiery barbed wires and arm-wrestling! Make an Unbreakable Bow to me that you are never going to do…oh, I'll keep the mystery at the time of bowing, shall I?" chuckled Voldemort.
"Oh that bow!" said Wormtail, feeling slightly stupid. "Why sure, I'm willing to do a million v- I mean bows for you! But wouldn't we need a bonder for that?"
"No!" cried Voldemort, haunted. "Not a third person requirement! It takes too long and requires the Hogwarts academic calendar and examinations to pass by safely!"
"No, my Lord!" explained Wormtail, "This time we can do it without Harry Potter; we only need a person with advanced Charming abilities..."
Voldemort pondered for a moment, "Aaah...But where can we get someone like that?" There was silence for a minute as he ticked off the names of Death Eaters on his fingers, tongue between his teeth.
"Got it!" Wormtail exclaimed, "How about that hostage? The one you had kidnapped last year?"
"What hostage? No no, the pink Power Ranger is as pure a Mudblood as this fanfic writer."
"No, my Lord," said Wormtail, almost gritting his teeth, "I mean that wandmaker!" Wormatail waited as Voldemort registered this, "Hmmm…but there's a snag; I Confunded him by mistake so he may have lost all his magical power…"
"But sir, Confundus Charms do not destroy magical abilities; he might be a bit deluded but powerful all the same," Wormtail explained.
"But he can't recognize his name!" said Voldemort petulantly, "He won't come if simply called!"
"Then Summon him."
"Fair point." Voldemort turned to face the doorway, lifted his wand at arms length and said, "I summon thee…Oh perpetrator of Magical talent, whose slender wooden wonders have taught few very much… "
Wormtail groaned loud enough for the bimbos at the Hangleton bar to hear and accioed Ollivander non-verbally, whose portly form bounced towards the duo and slumped at the rug near the fireplace.
Mr Ollivander was a sight to see; rumpled hair (now dyed a wacky blue), bedraggled robes and an overpowering scent that seemed to suggest that he had overindulged with Voldemort's Eau De Toilette. The strangest part was the gibberish he was cackling, with a bit of a dance routine:
"Blibbery, Blibbery, Blibbery, Boo,
Harry Potter, I love you,
Voldy will be killed by you.
Then Dementors will eat Voldy poo!
Ha, Ha, Ha…"
"Now-now, old man," growled Voldemort, alarmingly tolerant, "let's talk business."
"Business?" repeated Ollivander, moony-eyed and he suddenly caught a saleswizard like tone. "You want a wand? I'll give you one with one free - perfect for Death Eater destroying, Pensieve stirring and witch wangling, what say?"
A sentinel Dementor outside the house sniffled slightly.
"I mean I want you to do a Charm for me. A very, very secret Charm…" began Voldemort.
"Secret?" repeated Ollivander intrigued, while picking his nose.
"Yess…" murmured Voldemort, almost in a whisper, building theatrical effect. "You have to be our bonder…"
"Bondahhh…" said Ollivander, turned on by the offer.
"For our Unbreak-"
"But if you make me Bondahh, I will need a wandaahhh," Ollivander cut in.
Voldemort signaled Wormtail to pass on his wand and handed it over to the wizened wandmaker.
"Aaah," he sighed, fondling the wand between his veined fingers, "I remember this one.” (Voldemort slapped his forehead) “Nine-and-a-half inches, celery, and core containing the appendix of a Fire Crab…bought by a child with a big bottom…"
Wormtail blushed.
"Curiously enough," Ollivander continued, "The Fire Crab also donated its bile duct as a core for a similar brother wand, currently owned by a girl with a big head…some Gorkins or something…"
"Bertha Jorkins…" Wormtail commented, suddenly mesmerized, his eyes having the look a Harry Potter fan has on spotting a revelation. "I remember that rendezvous in the woods…how I had meticulously operated my boyish charms on her and brought her to the Dark-"
"Wormtail, you'll find that it were your Charms and not your charms that worked that day," Voldemort interjected soullessly. "So, should we get on with the bonding, Mr Ollivander?"
"Of course," answered the latter as the Dark Lord and his faithful minion interlocked their fists.
"Please begin," he hoisted his sleeves and placed his wand at the tip of their fists.
"Peter Pettigrew, do you promise to always support me, your Lord, who you always owe your loyalties to?" the Dark Lord pronounced as his bewigged servant listened.
"Y-yes, I do."
A thick white fluid shot out from Ollivander's wand and formed a ring around their fists, coiling tightly.
"Eh, what's this?!" Voldemort exclaimed, as the gluey liquid snapped their palms shut against each other and disappeared innocently, immaculately.
Voldemort immediately tried to retract his hand, but it stood fruitlessly stuck with Wormtail's and he yelled, "Stop it, Ollivy! What are you doing?"
"You want the Unbreakable Bondahh?" chortled Ollivander, "You want more of it? You will never separate now! You have both been bonded! Happy New Year! Ha, ha, ha! Blibbery, Blibbery…" and he began humming it, throwing in a bit of Shakira movements too.
"Not this bond, you dolt!" Voldemort bellowed, "Undo it, now!" Ollivander stopped doing what looked like tap-dancing on fire to simply stare at the wand with awe. "Hey, I can do magic?"
"Yes, so?" Voldemort said absent-mindedly trying to separate his palm from Wormtail's.
"So I can Apparate too." and saying so, he Disapparated for good, leaving the duo behind to struggle.
"Nooo!" Voldemort bellowed, gesticulating one-armed, "Why do people around me escape so quickly?!"
Wormtail now grew genuinely concerned; not only was his wand gone but he was also stuck physically to his master, judging by whose solely satanically-oriented magical expertise, he could never disconnect, unless -
"My Lord, please hand me your wand for a moment."
The bats sitting on the Riddle House roof fled at the bawl of fury that followed.
* * *
The next morning rose for half of the world, while the Riddle House still was plunged into darkness due to a miscalculated thicket of chimney smoke. Miles away in London, a train was waiting to depart.
But the commuters at Platform Pi in the King's Cross station were in for a shock as a massive man in a moleskin overcoat approached them, his silhouette overlooking a brilliantly blue puffing metal dragon known as The Burrow Express.
The more dumbfounding fact was the presence of a moustached, serpentine green face bobbing at the shoulders of the furry coat and a strangled "Mmphf!" from its veritable inner folds…
The Summer of Ninety Seven by SevenAndMoreToGo
Chapter Notes: DISCLAIMER: Neither do I own JK Rowling nor am I her. Because if I was, instead of trying to make my coagulated creative juices flow, I would be in Jo's seven bedroomed mansion, ransacking her notes, taking turns on Jessica's Gameboy and squandering her wealth. Well by the time I attempt to get there, enjoy my fic!
And oh yes, I also don't own Shakira.
Author's Notes: Patience is a virtue. And I learnt this the hard way when this chapter was rejected no less than five times while attempting to force it through MNFF. I thank my incomparable beta babekitty_92 who patiently filtered this chapter of errors and made it fit for the grammar-particular readers of Mugglenet! And I also thank Schmergo, the humour queen, who permitted me to use a small reference from her milestone work "The Dark Lord's Blog".
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