Chapter 3 - Letters from Home
Hermione leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee, looking out towards the sea, and at the youngsters playing on the beach. She smiled to herself at the sight of a young girl, of maybe two or three, desperately trying to catch a large, brightly-coloured ball tossed by an older child. The girl would bring her arms together much too late to grasp it, and it would inevitably land softly in the sand.
“Look at that, Ron,” she said, pointing discreetly. “The toddler there. She keeps missing. It’s very cute.”
He dutifully looked where she indicated but merely gave a brief glance and grunted his agreement before turning back to the buttered scone before him. The two of them were sitting in the open air section of a beachfront café, enjoying a mid-morning snack.
Although Hermione seemed to be quite taken by the antics on the beach, she nevertheless was able to catch Ron a few moments later when he reached for the half-eaten scone on her plate. “Ron!” she scolded, giving him a swat on the wrist. She was laughing, though, and the smack was decidedly more playful than hostile.
Her smile faded abruptly as she returned her attention to the beach. She said Ron’s name again, but he heard the strangled quality of her voice this time and his head immediately snapped up. “What?” he hissed, his eyes intent on her face, which had drained of all colour.
“It’s that man again,” she told him, barely moving her lips. “The one from the shop yesterday, and the elevator. He’s on the beach. No,” she cautioned as Ron had started to turn his head. “He’s looking.” She reached for Ron’s hand and he enveloped her fingers in his.
“ ‘S’alright,” he murmured.
She shook her head. “I don’t like it. Why is he following us?” She swallowed hard as she realized something else. “And why, when it’s so hot, is he the only one on the beach wearing a jumper?” Her eyes narrowed. “And he had a large bandage on his forearm in the elevator...” She allowed herself a grim little smile. “He’s a Death Eater,” she declared.
“What?” Ron yelped, though quietly. “Where’d you get that from?”
“Ron, come off it,” she replied. “It’s the only explanation. Who else would have followed us all the way to Australia, be trailing us now, and take great pains to keep his left arm covered?”
Ron nodded, realizing the truth of her statements. “To hide his Dark Mark.” His actions concealed by his back, he reached for his wand and held it against the table, keeping it from the view of the many Muggles around them.
Hermione, meanwhile, had reached for her bag. Taking out a few dollar coins, she tossed them onto her serviette. With measured haste, desperately trying not to look as if they were in a hurry, they made their way back into the restaurant towards the main entrance. Once out on the street they strode quickly down it, deftly avoiding the shoppers and sightseers strolling beside them. They didn’t stop to look behind until they’d covered a block and a half. Only then did Hermione risk a glance over her shoulder. At her gasp of horror, Ron gripped her elbow, urging her to move even faster, his wand between them ready to curse their chaser if necessary.
Although the man tailing them was not running, he was steadily gaining ground. Ron and Hermione broke into a trot, ignoring the looks of surprise from the Muggles they passed. Their pursuer began to jog at the same time, the distance separating him from Ron and Hermione ever diminishing. When it looked as if he would soon be immediately on their heels, they ran passed a deserted alley. Thinking quickly, Hermione hurried back to its entrance and pulled Ron into it with her. Drawing her wand, she spun on the spot.
After the familiar squeezing sensation, they Apparated before the door of their hotel room. Unfortunately, their tailer must have guessed not only where they’d gone, but known which floor they were on, for as soon as they appeared, he was suddenly at the end of the hall. Obviously having also Apparated, he was soon sprinting towards them, his own wand raised. Ron turned to face him, prepared to duel. Hermione searched frantically for their room’s entry card. Just as the green flash of light of the Death Eater’s curse ricocheted off the wall beside them, Hermione found it, opened the door, and pulled her boyfriend to safety. They leant back against the door for a few moments, catching their breath. With a nervous chuckle, Hermione headed for the room’s kitchenette.
“Fancy a cup of tea?” she asked.
“Not so fast, dearie,” a voice sneered behind her. She wheeled to see the Death Eater, his arm gripping Ron’s neck in a stranglehold, his wand pointed straight at her.
************
Gasping, Harry awoke with a jolt. Staring into the darkness above his head, he desperately tried to control his breathing, feeling his heart hammering madly in his chest.
Was a dream, he thought. It was only a dream.
However many times he said it to himself, though, fear still clutched at his throat. It had been five days since Ron and Hermione’s send-off at the airport, five days of Harry not knowing what was happening to his friends, five days of gut-clenching nightmares.
Harry closed his eyes. Unfortunately, all he could see when he did so was his best friends being threatened by an unknown, sinister man. He reached for his gold watch on the bedside table.
Twenty minutes past four.
Exhaling heavily, he rolled over onto his back again. For what seemed an eternity he counted owls, with no effect, before checking the time again.
Twenty-two minutes past four.
Irritably tossing the watch back onto the night-stand, Harry threw off his covers, giving up the notion of going back to sleep as a bad job. After dressing silently he crept down the stairs, his trainers in one hand, careful not to awaken the older members of the household.
He paused in front of Ginny’s bedroom door, wondering if he dared wake her. Reminding himself that her parents’ room wasn’t that far away, he decided not to risk it and continued on his way to the ground floor without knocking.
Once downstairs, he was at a loss for what to do. He didn’t feel like eating, had no inclination to listen to the wireless, and he knew that no book could hold his interest. With a sigh, he headed for the door where he slipped on his shoes and a jacket before stepping out into the pre-dawn lull of the back garden.
It was chilly outside, and Harry shivered a little in his thin jacket, wishing he’d put on a jumper over his t-shirt. He stood for a few moments staring out across the garden. Although he was no longer gasping for breath and his heart was once again beating normally, the traces of terror from his nightmare were still clinging insistently to him like the morning dew starting to settle on the grass beneath his feet. He knew Ginny would say he was being silly, that Ron and Hermione were probably doing just fine, but he still couldn’t shake an overall feeling of anxiety whenever he thought of them.
With another sigh, he realized he would have to do something to clear his head. Glancing around the garden, he caught sight of the broomshed and hurried toward it. Riding was just the thing to lift his spirits. The fact that his surroundings were still in semi-darkness was a bonus for which he was grateful; he would be able to fly higher without the risk of being seen.
Quickly mounting one of the Weasleys’ old Cleansweeps, he kicked off from the ground and soared into the air. Feeling the familiar exhilaration of being airborne, Harry almost cried out with the sheer joy of it. This was definitely what he needed to do. Grinning madly, he encouraged the broom higher, soon zooming above the treetops in the orchard.
It was well over an hour and half later when he touched the ground again, having thoroughly enjoyed his long flight. He had had to fly lower once the sun had risen about forty minutes into his time in the air, but he nevertheless felt much better than when he had started. Or at least he did until he entered the kitchen again and heard sobbing coming from the sitting room. Concerned, he hurried into that room and saw Mrs. Weasley perched on the edge of the settee, her head in her hands, crying.
Hesitantly, Harry cleared his throat. “Um, Mrs. Weasley?” he began. “Are you alright?”
Startled, her head shot up. “Oh, Harry,” she said, hastily wiping her face with her hands. “You’re up. I thought everyone was still sleeping.”
“What’s wrong?”
Mrs. Weasley showed him the photograph that had been laying on her lap. It was, he presumed, one of Fred. Harry’s own eyes started to burn as he looked at the picture of the twin hamming it up for the camera, various exploding wands and rubber chickens surrounding him.
“Oh,” Harry said. “Fred.” He swallowed hard, feeling a lump in his throat rapidly forming. “It’s still, um ... still painful to see his pictures, isn’t it?”
But Mrs. Weasley was shaking her head vigourously at him. “No, dear,” she said, absentmindedly stroking the frame of the photograph. “That’s not it.”
“Oh?” Harry sat down next to her, confusion creasing his forehead. “It isn’t?”
Strangely, two spots of colour appeared high on Mrs. Weasley’s cheeks. Seeming flustered all of a sudden, she stood and placed the photo back on the little table where it usually rested. She took longer to do this than Harry thought was absolutely necessary. Finally turning to him, she admitted, “I didn’t notice.” Her eyes welled up again as she gestured to the table. “His picture had fallen behind. I don’t know when.” She let out a strangled sob. “And I didn’t notice, Harry. I didn’t even notice my baby wasn’t there. What sort of mother wouldn’t even notice?” Covering her face again she began to cry in earnest once more, her body shaking from the force of her sobs.
Rooted to the spot, Harry was unsure what to do. Soon discovering his ability to move, however, he got up and stepped close to her. Reaching out a tentative hand, he patted Mrs. Weasley awkwardly on the shoulder, murmuring what he hoped were words of comfort.
Eventually, she calmed down. Turning to Harry she smiled thinly before she embraced him briefly. “Thank you, dear. You’re so sweet to console me.” Releasing him, she reached into the pocket of her dressing gown for a handkerchief and blew her nose. “Enough of this,” she said, her jaw set. “Fred would have had a fit if he saw how I was carrying on. Must get dressed so as to start breakfast. Arthur must be off early this morning ...” With a final pat for Harry, she headed from the room. “Oh, hello Ginny, dear. You’re up early, too.”
Harry spun at Mrs. Weasley’s words to see Ginny standing in the doorway, dressed in the jogging pants and t-shirt in which she usually slept.
“How long have you been there?” he asked.
She smiled fondly at him as she closed the gap between them. “Long enough to remind me one of the reasons I love you.”
Harry frowned at her. “What?”
She rolled her eyes at his lack of understanding. “You’re sweet to my mum,” she spelt out, before leaning in to kiss him.
Harry slipped his hands around her waist to pull her closer, suddenly wishing he’d bothered to brush his teeth after he’d gotten dressed.
They only broke apart when they heard Mr. Weasley’s voice call through to them from the kitchen, “Good morning you two. You’re up early today.”
“ ‘Morning Dad,” Ginny said.
“Good morning, Mr. Weasley,” Harry echoed, wondering whether Ginny’s father had seen their embrace. Thankfully, Harry didn’t have to dwell too long on the disturbing thought as Mr. Weasley’s words had given him something else to think about. “Why are you up so early, by the way?”
“Well I would still be sleeping except I heard someone in the garden. I was thinking it was an intruder until I saw it was just you going for a spin on a broom.”
Harry grimaced apologetically at her. “Sorry. I didn’t think I would disturb anyone.”
She shrugged. “No worries.” She peered shrewdly at him. “Couldn’t sleep again, huh?”
He shook his head.
“Another bad dream?”
“Yeah. Death Eater this time.”
“And you know that’s highly unlikely, right? There’s been no Death Eater activity anywhere near Australia in months. You know that. Dad had Ministry officials check after your first nightmare.”
“I know. It’s just ...” Harry sighed heavily, finding he couldn’t quite put into words the apprehension he felt regarding his two best friends.
Ginny gave him a sympathetic look and reached out a hand to brush away the unruly shock of hair hanging in his eyes. She kissed him again and Harry was relieved she seemed to understand.
“Don’t you just hate the waiting, though?” he burst out. “The not knowing? How do you stand it? You’re so calm about it.”
Ginny let out a mirthless laugh. “You forget, Mr. Potter. This isn’t the first time I’ve been left behind.”
A phantom fist slammed into Harry’s gut at the bitterness he could hear in her voice. Shame descended onto him like a particularly heavy travelling cloak as he thought of Bill’s wedding and how he, Ron, and Hermione had left without a trace.
“Ginny“”
“Leave it.”
“But“”
She reached for his hand. “I didn’t just mean“ ” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Come off it. Youngest of seven?” Changing her voice to mimic her older brothers she chanted, “ ‘You can’t go, Ginny. You’re too young’, ‘You’d just be in the way’, ‘You’re a girl!’ ” She sighed heavily. “You weren’t the first,” she added grimly.
He dropped his eyes to his hand still in hers and said softly, “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “No. Actually? ‘I care about you too much’ made a nice change.”
Harry laughed, despite himself. “I still do, you know. Care about you, I mean.”
Ginny cupped the side of his face in one soft hand. “I know,” she whispered, and pressed her lips to his again.
************
Intent on rubbing away a particularly stubborn bit of dried egg, Harry didn’t notice Ginny had flicked soap bubbles at him until they splattered across the front of his glasses. Grabbing a handful of bubbles himself, he lost no time in flinging them at her. She ducked in time, and they ended up dropping ineffectively on the floor.
“Those that spill soapy water on the floor dry the floor,” Mrs. Weasley called to him as she passed with an armload of washing which she took up the stairs.
Ginny smirked, pretending to study carefully the plate she was drying. The two of them were doing the washing up from breakfast, three days after Harry’s most recent nightmare. Although they were no longer prohibited from using magic for such a task, they’d taken to doing it by hand as they found they both enjoyed it more using the Muggle method.
It had been eight days since they’d said goodbye to Ron and Hermione, and despite Harry’s continued worry about his friends and the fact that they still hadn’t heard from them, his sleep had been mercifully dreamless.
Just as they were putting away into the cupboard the last dish, they heard a faint tap on the far window of the room. Thinking it was Mrs. Weasley, needing something as she hung up more washing in the back garden, they were surprised when they turned to see a brown owl, rapping the glass with its beak.
Before they could open the window, another owl, identical in size and colour, alit beside the first. Exchanging a glance, Harry and Ginny hurried to let the birds in. They flew in, and soared directly to the kitchen table.
“Those are school owls, aren’t they?” Ginny said.
Harry nodded as he reached for the letter tied to the owl closest to him. It was addressed to Ginny. He passed it to her without a word. She opened it as the owl that had brought it took off and flew back out the window. The remaining owl clicked its beak impatiently at Harry and he quickly removed the envelope tied to its leg so it could follow its fellow courier. That message was addressed to him and with much curiosity, he slit open the envelope and began to read.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall
(head consultant, Transfiguration Today; regist’d Animagus reg.# 00-73-94120;
holder International Confed. of Wizards gold standard for magic, Transfiguration branch; recipient Magnificence in Witchcraft platinum medal)
Dear Mr. Potter,
It is with great pleasure that I find myself with an opportunity to correspond with you. I trust that you are enjoying your summer despite recent unhappy events.
You will notice by the above letterhead that the Secretary for Education at the Ministry of Magic has assigned me permanently to the position of Headmistress at Hogwarts. The task of preparing the school for the coming year therefore falls under my jurisdiction.
As you are surely aware from your last visit to Hogwarts, the school is currently in no fit condition to house students nor for any instructing to take place. The building is in great need of (substantial) repair, and the staff and I are not equipped to complete the innumerous duties that are required in the brief time we have remaining until the start of term. Even with the Secretary’s permission to open the school one month later than usual, we are still unduly pressed for time.
It is for this reason that I compose this missive. I wish to extend a petition to you, Mr. Potter, soliciting your extremely able assistance in helping the staff and myself in returning Hogwarts to its previous glory. As you will soon be aware, I have sent similar letters to many of your friends asking them for their aid as well.
I do hope you will consider my request favourably.
Once the school has been righted, I would ask further that you remain at Hogwarts for the full school year as your assistance would be greatly appreciated in the Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons, in particular at the higher levels. I have chosen a novel approach to the DADA class this year which I will be able to explain in greater detail at a later time. Spending this year at the school will, incidentally, enable you and your friends to obtain your hitherto ungarnered NEWT levels.
Awaiting your reply owl, I remain,
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
When he had finished reading, Harry looked up to see Ginny looking at him intently. “What do you think?” she asked.
He didn’t know what to say. Hogwarts had always been his home, the one place he felt most comfortable and the idea of returning filled him with joy. At the same time, the memories of all that had transpired the last time he was within its boundaries were still painfully vivid. The thought of seeing the scene of the final battle against Voldemort and the realization that seeing would undoubtedly involve at least a partial recalling of the events of that battle filled him with uneasy dread.
No, he didn’t know what to think yet.