Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

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One
Prologue



Teddy Lupin had always known his godfather, Harry, to be a troubled man, a man haunted by too many tragedies during the first eighteen years of his life. He’d steadfastly accepted it as part of Harry’s personality in that non-judgmental way all children possess.

Destiny had robbed Harry of his childhood, his grandmother had explained in simple terms a child could understand. But all Teddy knew was that Harry was often sad and lonely as if he didn’t have a friend in the world �“ even amid the riotous activity of the Weasley clan. Desolate smiles were often the norm, not deep belly laughs like Teddy often heard from Uncle Ron when his own mischievous offspring had gotten the best of him yet again.

It was more than the fact that his godfather, too, had lost his parents at a very young age. Both he and Teddy were too young to remember that, yet it had given them something in common from the start. As Harry had later explained, it was not the same to miss someone you’d never known as the chasm that opened in your heart when loved ones who had shared your life died before their time.

It was what had led Harry to write long into the night, his grandmother had told him when Teddy was old enough to read the pages of the story for himself. “It was your godfather’s way of not letting the sorrow overwhelm him. An antidote to grief, if you will,” she whispered gently. “He created a world in which events played out differently. In so doing, he gave you a window into your parents’ personalities you might otherwise have never known.”

“But, grandmother,” Teddy had protested, “didn’t you know them as well?”

“Surely, your mother, yes. But she and Remus had only been married for a short time, less than a year really. And it was such a tumultuous time with the death of your grandfather and all, that I regret I never got to know Remus as well as I would have liked. For that I, too, am grateful to Harry for having fleshed him out, for having let me see into the playful part of my son-in-law’s personality that I never really got to know.”

Teddy had known not to press his grandmother further, that her eyes were already pooling with tears to have admitted so much of the heartache she herself had endured.

He never really understood why Harry was always so guarded when he went to stay with him and his wife, Ginny, until he’d overheard the argument with his grandmother late one evening. Grandmother was always so patient and understanding with him, yet Teddy was surprised to hear her voice rising from the floor below. He was so young he recalled hugging a teddy bear to his chest with one arm as he allowed the other hand to guide him down the banister without making a sound. He knew if he were discovered, they would either mask their words with magic, or more likely, turn away with nothing resolved as they trundled him off to bed.

“Don’t you think he sees it?” his grandmother, Andromeda, seethed.

“He’s only a child…” Harry protested weakly.

“How can you be so blind, Harry? Teddy is extremely intuitive -- just like his father in that respect.”

“Don’t, Andromeda,” Harry groaned, his voice thick with emotion. “Don’t you think I see Remus and Tonks in him every time I look, so much so that it hurts unbearably at times?…Oh, Merlin, Remus must’ve felt much the same way…”

Teddy chewed on his bear’s ear in an effort to soothe himself as he heard sobbing from the next room. After a few minutes of this, Andromeda offered softly, “Do you want to talk about it? Will that help?”

“I never really understood before,” Harry admitted wetly. “I was in my third year at Hogwarts; Remus had finally landed a job after who-knows-how-long teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. He was a fabulous teacher, made learning fun for everyone, even those who often fell behind the others. But I didn’t see how much he was trying to put the past behind him by handing the torch to the next generation. No, all I could see in my selfish, myopic way--”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Andromeda interjected kindly. “You were only thirteen.”

“�”all I was concerned with was that I couldn’t go to Hogsmeade village with my friends since I didn’t have a permission slip. Remus kept me company that morning, sought me out on the covered bridge where I was wallowing in self-pity by throwing pebbles at the rocks below. I suppose that was the start of our friendship, right there.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Tried to have me see the big picture by telling me that he had once known my parents and that I was so very much like them. Told me how my mum had once restored his faith in himself when he thought he had reached rock bottom. It was a conversation that made his voice quaver with sadness, yet he kept on. It wasn’t until now that I realize how much seeing me must have dredged up all those feelings of loss. Stars, he was so much a better person than me, reaching out to comfort another when his own heart was breaking. Why is he gone and I’m still here?” More sobbing, followed by the sound of shuffling chairs.

“Come sit,” Andromeda suggested tremulously. “A few sips of whiskey will help your jagged nerves… Please don’t think I’m criticizing you, but Teddy thinks you’re sad about something he’s done.”

“As if he could ever disappoint me.”

“He needs to know that, Harry; find a way to convey that. But for the sake of your unborn child, too, you have to move on.”

“Is that what you’ve done with Ted? Moved on?” Harry shot back. “Teddy tells me he knows next to nothing about the grandfather whose name he bears.”

“That’s not fair, Harry. I don’t want him to be distressed at my tears.”

“So you admit how hard it is to recover….” Harry whispered.

“I don’t blame myself, Harry, that’s the difference.”

“Why would you? Not when you have me to blame instead!”

“That’s not true.” Teddy was surprised to discern that his grandmother, too, was crying. She was always so controlled, rarely getting emotional even when it was just the two of them alone. “I blame Voldemort and his Death Eaters, just as I blame them for Ted’s murder. But these are horrors I’d like to spare a six year old.”

“They came to help me,” Harry moaned. “Came to try to catch my back because the fate of the wizarding world depended upon an inexperienced seventeen year old!”

“Don’t forget you were successful in the end,” Andromeda soothed.

“At what cost? They should have stayed by Teddy’s bedside…”

“I know you and Remus argued about that before. But Harry you must accept that it was their decision. Remus was too much of an idealist to let someone else finish the fight that had begun with the murder of your own parents. And as for Dora, well, she was always too impetuous for her own good.”

“Don’t you wish you had heard them that night and tried to stop them?” Harry pressed.

“Revisionist history only works in novels, as you well know,” Andromeda scoffed. “By the time I got the note from Dora to please sit with Teddy that night, she and Remus were long gone. I can’t spend the rest of my life bullying myself because I couldn’t foretell their actions -- and neither can you!”

“If only it were so simple…”

“Let Teddy be your link to the future; don’t dwell so much in the past,” Andromeda suggested in a compassionate tone.

“It haunts me in my sleep, Andromeda. I can’t escape it.”

“They call that survivor’s guilt, a well-documented reaction. Talk to a Healer. I’ll go with you if you feel it will put too much strain on Ginny with her first pregnancy and all.”

Teddy couldn’t say with any certainty what had come of that; somehow he’d never felt it was his place to ask. Besides, Gran would have likely punished him for eavesdropping when all he’d wanted to do was to get to know the two of them better.

He’d heard whispers that Harry was occasionally prone to dark inconsolable days, especially on those occasions when the rest of the wizarding world celebrated the anniversary of Voldemort’s downfall. Teddy suspected that if Ginny couldn’t cheer him up, Ron would soon Floo in to take up the slack. He’d seen the two of them laughing it up like they were back at school without a care in the world. Only it had never really been like that, had it? The threat of Voldemort had loomed over Harry from his first year at Hogwarts, urging him to short-change himself in order to save the world.

Is that what made Harry often excuse himself quietly from family gatherings at the Burrow and wind his way silently up the long staircase? Teddy had often longed to follow and cheer him up, but there was always someone to lay a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“He needs to be alone now,” Ginny would whisper as she’d hug Teddy to her tightly, often eliciting a string of protests from her own children who would clamor to sit in her lap.

More often than not, it was Uncle George who would follow in Harry’s wake, seeking him out in whatever corner of the rambling house he had cocooned himself. It had a certain logic, Teddy had sensed even at an early age. George had lost his twin brother, Fred, in the war and he, too, often found it difficult to participate in the happiness going on around him.

“What do they do up there for hours?” Teddy had once asked Ginny’s mother, Molly.

“They talk to the dead,” she’d replied enigmatically before bustling away to scrub the already spotless kitchen.

Seeking out the advice of Ginny’s father gave Teddy a different outlook. Screwing up his face thoughtfully, Arthur explained, “Only the ruthless find it easy to recover from the horrors of war. Patience, understanding, and above all, time is needed. Harry’s simply bonding with others who have experienced similar upheavals in their lives.”

Undaunted, Teddy had tried a different tack. “Uncle Ron, why do you sometimes join in with Harry and George and other times you don’t?”

Ron’s boyish grin had beamed down at him. “Because sometimes I feel like getting drunk and other times I don’t,” he replied candidly, even though his wife, Hermione, had lightly swatted his arm.

“What kind of an answer is that to give a child?” she hissed.

“An honest one.” Directing his attention to Teddy, Ron elaborated, “Look, scamp, Harry and George find solace in each other somehow. It’s how they deal with the grief neither of them can put aside.”

“But what do they do?” Teddy insisted, seeking an explanation for why Harry sometimes returned in a more melancholy frame of mind than before and why other times he was overly jolly, seeking to make light of even the smallest things.

Ron shook his head sadly. “Dunno.”

So with a few months to go before Harry’s thirty-fifth birthday, Teddy made up his mind to find a way to lure Harry towards a more rewarding life in the same manner his godfather had done for others. If he was successful, it would make a fine birthday present. If not, well, he could always find something in Diagon Alley.

Unlike his godfather who found inspiration in the desolate snows of winter, Teddy let the cottony clouds of the spring sky lead him into that other world where his parents had not died and left him an orphan before the age of one. He’d grown up hearing the fables his godfather had penned about the trials and tribulations of Remus and Tonks as Harry himself struggled to grow into manhood. There was so much truth in this alternate view of life that Teddy often found it difficult to believe events had not truly unfolded as such in the years before his own birth. Now as he sat beneath an expansive oak, he set his quill to the parchment pad balanced upon his knees and took up the tale of the Potter and Lupin clans which had become inextricably intertwined.

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

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Two
A Face from the Past


“So it is you!” the voice exclaimed softly as if it were afraid to trust an apparition.

Remus looked up from the parchments layered on his desk that represented a frantic attempt to catch up on paperwork while his next appointment ran late. He had expected Madame Thierry to be an older woman, an elegant aristocrat who had pulled her only daughter from the Beauxbatons Academy after only one year and insisted upon a solid English education at Hogwarts. He had not expected to be confronted by the familiar olive eyes of Seraphina Salton.

“Sera!” Remus cried out warmly as he quickly extricated himself from his chair and caught her hand. “After all these years! I see you made another life for yourself…” With true regret, his eyes clouded over. “It will have to be a different time, though. I’m in the middle of meeting with all my new students’ parents and I’ve had a devil of a time finding an opening in Madame Thierry’s calendar.”

Merlin, she looked good! Remus admitted to himself, feeling just a hint of old guilt for having abandoned her when he’d made his harrowing escape from the werewolf compound. It had been unavoidable but that had not kept him from feeling like a selfish coward nonetheless.

Tucked into an ecru hat, Sera’s dark chin-length hair framed her delicate features and drew attention to her long, smoky lashes. The simple elegance of her attire reminded him of how his mother-in-law, Andromeda Tonks, must have looked during her youthful days in Paris.

Stealing a furtive glance at the hour, Remus couldn’t help himself from prodding, “What brings you to Hogwarts today?”

With a radiant smile, Sera lingered just inside the doorway of Remus’ office, allowing her gaze to sweep the surroundings. “I have an appointment.” Peering carefully at the card she withdrew from her coat pocket, she elaborated, “With a certain Professor Remus Lupin, head of the new Linguistics Department.” Without giving him a chance to respond, she was drawn to a small shadowbox frame on the adjoining wall. “Is that truly an Order of Merlin? First class even,” she added as she peered at the tiny lettering before her.

“Sera…I’m…” Remus stammered then settled for the unvarnished truth, “Speechless.” He collapsed into his chair, suddenly seeking the familiarity of the desk between them.

“So I see.”

“You’re Madame Thierry?”

“And my daughter, Serenity, speaks very highly of her charming French instructor �“ even if she feels the lessons are not remotely to her liking.”

“Too basic, I regret,” Remus admitted. “She’s quite adept with the language already. Practically talked my ear off after class when she no longer felt like an oddity among the other students.”

“Three years of schooling in France prior to Beauxbatons. She never felt like she fit in with the French girls, either. Especially after she started at the Academy.”

“Do you mind me asking why?” Remus posed with a kindly smile.

“It’s too much like a bloody finishing school, that’s why! No emphasis on anything other than deportment and social skills. I wanted her to have a solid education, to be able to make her own way in the world �“ not just as an ornament on someone’s arm! She couldn’t stand those flighty females any more than I could; all they did was titter among themselves about the boys.”

“That happens here as well, I’m afraid. It’s not unusual to run the gauntlet of snogging couples in the hallways in the evenings,” Remus allowed ruefully. “Hogwarts has seven years of male students to Beauxbatons’ three since the Academy became co-educational.”

“I’m not a prude, Professor. You know that. I just want my daughter to have an education. She enjoys being challenged academically; let her discover the opposite sex when she’s ready for it. Everyone has his own timetable.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re not against young love then,” Remus noted with a wry laugh. “But, please, you must call me Remus. I’ve never stopped thinking of you as a friend.”

“The man I knew �“ or thought I knew �“ is not before me, Professor,” Sera noted as she unbuttoned her coat impatiently. The simple navy dress beneath contrasted sharply with the creamy cashmere. “Rather shaky ground on which to base a friendship, don’t you think?”

“I’m sorry, Sera, it was a cruel deception �“ regardless of the reasons,” Remus admitted sympathetically. “The back story may have been a lie, but my interactions with you were not. Do I seem that different to you?”

“Other than the moustache, no,” she conceded. “For the longest time I thought this Lupin fellow must be a cousin, a brother even �“ someone who bore an uncanny resemblance… I couldn’t envision the man I’d known could have been capable of such daring deeds… I thought you were dead, damn it! Who did you work for that could perpetrate such a lie? I saw the body myself…”

“We were at war, Sera. The mightiest wizards in the land put their heads together to defeat an evil megalomaniac who threatened to swallow all of mankind, wizards and Muggles alike. If we had not been able to outsmart our enemies, we would have never prevailed.”

“In other words, you can’t tell me,” she remarked with a flash of indignation.

“I’m sorry. Suffice it to say that it was a ruse devised by a very savvy, very ingenious veteran.”

“And you didn’t bloody care what the enemy thought of the matter…” In a bare whisper, she inquired, “Did you stop to think that you had included me among the enemy?”

“Much of the subterfuge was completed without my knowledge. I was laid up for months recuperating from traveling cross-country in knee-deep snow.” Seeing that her expression was far from sympathetic, he added stoically, “After that, it was too much of a risk. I was too deeply involved with the final battle to do anything to undermine our chances. Forgive me if working for the greater good makes me seem callous.”

“It’s always the same with heroes…”

“I’m no hero, Sera. I’m an ordinary chap who simply felt that he had to do something. Those monsters stole my four best friends, picked them off with deadly accuracy until only I remained. I could have curled up into a ball and died inside or --”

“�”or you could have fought,” she finished with sudden clarity. “What about after the war? Were the risks so great then?”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt is a close friend of mine, I entrusted him with the search since he could access restricted areas of the Ministry without raising anyone’s hackles. Those were touchy times; too many dark collaborators being unearthed throughout the various departments. The files, whole reams of them, had been destroyed, Sera. There was no paper trail to follow. I suspect they were purged by that Umbridge woman whose personal career goal was the persecution of werewolves.”

“So you encountered a minor roadblock,” she scoffed.

“Everyone had disappeared. The camps were nothing more than the derelict bones of abandoned factories. There was nothing to trace. Little by little, other werewolves returned to their homes. I hoped that you had been able to find your way also. Had I known Jeffrey’s last name, I might have had more luck among the Muggles; they’re notorious for keeping records in triplicate, I’ve been told.”

“It wouldn’t have done you any good; I was long gone by then. And I didn’t follow a predictable path,” she admitted hollowly. “That was the lesson I learned from Will’s death.”

Intrigued by her resilience, Remus delved, “How did you manage it, Sera? I had an organized band of brigands at my back, but you…”

“I had Bridget. I believe she trumps at least two or three of your freedom fighters.”

“So she landed on her feet as well? Thank goodness.” Remus had no doubt that much of his guilt over leaving Sera and Bridget behind had manifested itself in the fevered nightmares which had haunted his escape, but he kept that to himself.

“Bridget’s son-in-law showed up at the gates with so many bundles of official parchment you would have thought they were going to wallpaper the entire compound,” Sera noted sardonically. “They barely gave her time to pack her bags before they trundled her off in a dark sedan. Two months afterwards, she accompanied her family to a new diplomatic posting in France -- although she cleverly kept those details to herself.

“When she returned and told the guards she was assuming responsibility for me to accompany her for a weekend at the seashore, no one was the wiser. I was a bit unprepared when we Apparated to Le Havre instead, but by then I was out of their clutches. I took your advice and simply never came back.” She flashed him a smile tinged with forgiveness. “I’m just sorry I didn’t get a chance to see the stymied looks on their faces!”

Remus laughed triumphantly to know he had at least inspired a minor mutiny. “I believe this calls for a toast. Will you join me?”

“In the middle of the afternoon? Is that allowed?”

“If I didn’t have other appointments lined up, no one would be the wiser,” Remus noted with a mischievous wink. “As it is…” He held out his hands apologetically.

“We’ve barely touched on Serenity,” Sera gently reprimanded.

“Join me and my family for dinner tonight,” Remus proposed impetuously. “I’d love for you to meet them. By all means include Serenity and your husband as well.”

“Wouldn’t we be imposing on such short notice?”

“Amid all the chaos?” Remus chuckled good-naturedly. “Really, it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

“I can’t speak for my husband,” she demurred. “His personal timetable is maddening. But you can count on Serenity and me.” After a bit of consideration, she inquired, “Just how large is your family, Remus? I got the impression you were unmarried when I last saw you.”

“I was. It’s a bit of an extended family,” he explained. “I share the estate with my…” He struggled in vain for the proper word. “Well, you’ll see,” he offered magnanimously. “We generally eat at seven.”

---

There it was again, the soft trilling notes he’d come to associate with the presence of his father, James. They had been coming more frequently since the renovation of the old nursery that imploded in the final duel with Bellatrix Lestrange. Out of the rubble that also represented the site of Lily Potter’s last stand, Harry had built a reliquary of sorts for his parents. The shelves which once housed baby toys had been reconfigured to hold the photographs he’d found lovingly preserved atop the old piano in the ballroom. Their collection had expanded as friends and acquaintances brought additional photos, laying them reverently among the shelves of the Memory Room, as they had come to call it.

It had become a fitting tribute to the heroism of James and Lily, a place to pay respects to those who had never been allotted a proper burial. Long protected by a Fidelius Charm that endured unbroken, his parents’ bodies had lain undisturbed and uncollected within the walls of the crumbling Potter estate for most of Harry’s young life. All remains had long ago crumbled into dust to be whisked away by the gentle spring breezes and freezing gales of winter alike.

Harry had not protested when Tonks added a small childhood photo of Bellatrix seated between her two sisters. Despite the family acrimony, Andromeda had never ceased to care for her sister and Tonks’ had not held back her tears when her aunt had died in the collapse of the nursery walls.

After all, Tonks was part of his extended family now, even if she and Remus had renovated the other wing for their use. Everyone still shared the common areas of the large drawing room, dining areas and kitchen in the main part of the house much as his parents had done in the past. Remus had transformed the billiard room leading off the main foyer into a library and office, leaving the old billiard table on the first floor sitting room he had once shared with Sirius in the heady days after leaving school. With a comfortable bay window that bathed the room in light, it had become the unofficial playroom for the Lupin children ever since Harry and Ron had taken to shooting billiards when they babysat.

With no one to play the beautiful grand piano which had been situated in the ground floor ballroom, Remus had suggested removing it to the Memory Room. From the start, the piano looked perfectly at home in the middle of the room, patiently waiting for a visitor to reawaken its song. But other than an occasional foray by young Teddy who had been told he could begin lessons at age seven, the ivory keys remained silent.

It was not long after that Harry had begun to hear the haunting piano music, often as an accompaniment to his thoughts when he was alone. The melodies were soothing and sad at the same time, but never familiar enough for him to be able to name them or coherently recall the notes later. They were like wisps of memory; the comparison had come unbidden into his mind.

Recalling that Remus had said it had been James’ habit to play as the others lounged on the shady patio, Harry gingerly broached the subject of the mysterious serenades.

“Sorry, Harry. Can’t say that I’ve heard a thing, but I wouldn’t expect to in the other wing. Piano music wouldn’t travel that far.”

“Could it be a ghost?” Harry asked tentatively, hating to think his father had been so troubled in death that his spirit had remained tied to the earth.

“Others would have seen it then, don’t you think?” Remus replied kindly. “It’s only Muggle ghosts who are shy; wizards reveal themselves with gusto. Have you forgotten that from your years at Hogwarts?”

“I suppose Ginny would have seen him then,” Harry acknowledged Remus’ wisdom. She certainly spent the night often enough, Harry thought to himself �“ leaving the works unspoken even though Remus and Tonks were both fully aware of the situation.

“You think you’re losing your mind, don’t you?” Remus posed with a compassionate smile.

Smiling sheepishly in return, Harry nodded. Just sharing his fears with Remus had already made him feel infinitely better.

“Would it surprise you if I told you that I, too, have experienced something similar? It was during my escape from the werewolf camp.” At Harry’s look of wide-eyed surprise, Remus confessed in a whisper, “If either of us were to confide in a Muggle Healer, the phenomenon would be classified as an auditory hallucination.”

“Something tells me you have an alternate explanation.”

With a small shrug, Remus admitted, “When I brought my concerns to Dumbledore, he professed he had not encountered anything remotely comparable in all his years �“ then stressed that he was by no means an authority on the true nature of reality. Believe whatever feels right to you, Harry. That’s essentially the advice he gave me.”

“What would you conclude if the music came to your ears on a still night?”

“Did it feel spooky or threatening in any way?”

“That’s just it, Remus. It had a calming effect, almost as if the notes had been hanging in the air just out of my range of hearing for months.”

“And you’re afraid you may actually be welcoming neurosis with open arms?” Remus postulated with a wry chuckle. “This entire estate is alive with memories; I see them every day, in every shadow and movement. But they’re happy memories. The few short years that Sirius and I lived with James and Lily �“ and then with you as a baby �“ were filled with sunny days full of music and joy. You’ve seen the old photos. Since you can’t recall your first year of life, I think you’re feeling it in a different way.”

“So you think it’s James trying to reach out to me?”

“Are you so certain such a thing is impossible?” Remus countered softly.

“Perhaps we should have listened to those who insisted the entire estate was cursed. Bulldozed all the buildings and built from scratch, at the very least.”

“Since neither of us held with such superstitious drivel at the time, what makes you think that now?”

Harry took a moment to consider. What exactly had unsettled him? That others would think him a nutter? Not really, he’d dealt with that enough during his school years to realize the world around him was full of crackpots just begging to be recognized as visionaries. All they needed was a lectern and a rapt audience.

“Why haven’t I heard from my mother then?” Harry prompted with sudden insight.

“What makes you think you haven’t?” Remus returned cryptically. “Just give yourself time to see it. Lily was always the more subtle of the two.”

“Then you don’t think I’m going crazy?”

“They’ll have to lock us both away,” Remus attested with the lopsided grin he reserved for family members.

As the silent house wove its relaxing spell around him, Harry heard the music again. It was louder this time as if the melody was pouring in through his bedroom door. Experience had taught him that if he raced towards the Memory Room, the notes would die away as soon as his steps touched the hall carpet. It was best just to relax and enjoy the luxury of an afternoon nap mid-week. The hallways would be alive with the ringing laughter of everyone returning from Hogwarts soon enough.

As his limbs relaxed into the mattress, he felt his ambivalence fading for the new modified workweek that had been instituted in the Auror Department. Kingsley Shacklebolt had been quick with the innovations when he’d been appointed Department Head on the eve of Gawain Robards’ retirement. Why anyone would need an afternoon off at the expense of working an extra hour on the other days had come as a complete mystery to most, Harry included. The Ministry atrium rang hollowly with the footsteps of the small cadre of Aurors who left later each day than the workers in other departments. One more bit of evidence that Kingsley was either ahead of his time or a raving lunatic, depending upon which camp you found yourself in. Harry had always considered Kingsley an affable sort who was always on top of things despite his casual manner. Close ties with Remus during their days in the Order of the Phoenix meant that he was a frequent visitor to their home. Wisely, Harry had refused to weigh in on the debate, concluding that he would let Kingsley make his mark in whatever way the man thought best, reserving judgment for the day in which something truly earth-shattering came to pass.

---

Tonks held her two exuberant children back to keep them from racing up the stairs. She was tired from a long day of teaching, but they seemed to get a second wind the minute they set foot on their home turf.

“Now you know Wednesdays are Harry’s early day,” she cautioned them in a whisper. “I’m sure he won’t mind if you two seek him out. But remember: if he’s taking a nap, please wake him gently.”

Nodding eagerly, they both shoved their coats into their mother’s arms and tiptoed with exaggerated movements up the short stairs leading to the room that had once belonged to Lily and James. With a loving sigh, Tonks levitated their discarded clothing onto the proper pegs in the adjoining mudroom they had fashioned from the hall closet. She would probably never become as adept at household spells as her mother who would have had the coats mounted on hangers with a flick of her little finger. The row of hooks was more practical as the children could reach and stow their own belongings, sitting down on the adjacent bench to secure galoshes when needed.

Keeping an ear out for overly boisterous activity, Tonks left her outdoor shoes just inside the mudroom door and followed up the stairs at a more measured pace. Hearing the muted voices from the far bedroom, she ducked into the Memory Room across the hall.

Among the overflowing bookshelves, she located the small corner that had been allotted to the Black family. True to his generous nature, Harry had not balked when she had suggested placing a small family portrait in memory of her aunt, Bellatrix, in one corner. Taken while they were still at Hogwarts, the photo showed off the resemblance of the three sisters in the days before Bella had joined Voldemort’s fanatical inner circle and before her own mother’s elopement had categorized her as a pariah. Bella’s funeral had been nothing more than a furtive ceremony, Tonks’ father, Ted, being certain that they would be ambushed by errant Death Eaters at any moment. Despite Andromeda’s best attempts to mend the rift with her remaining sister, Narcissa Malfoy had been too distraught over Draco’s fate at the hands of the Dark Lord to think of anything else. Her husband, Lucius, had swept her away with a glacial look, all the while making the word ‘murderess’ reverberate inside Tonks’ skull.

She represented the only viable line of the Black family now, Tonks noted grimly as she stared into those three hopeful faces. There was little doubt that Draco’s death had cut a deep hole in Narcissa’s heart. Andromeda had been right to insist that Cissy was not too old to have another child; the new joy being the surest antidote to unending sorrow. Despite the aid of the best Healers, though, Cissy had suffered miscarriage after miscarriage leading her deeper into despair. Finally one had postulated that no pregnancy would be successful until she stopped feeling the need to punish herself for the past. Taking the Healer’s insight to heart, the Malfoys ceased their efforts to recreate their family.

Harry had gone out of his way to give due credit to Draco’s memory, often repeating the tale of how the lad’s ghost had come to him in the heat of the final battle and helped to end the stalemate with Voldemort. Yet Tonks wondered how much solace that truly gave the Malfoys. As a mother herself, she was certain Narcissa would have preferred her son alive and breathing, faults and all, to a plaque that memorialized his heroism in a museum.

It had not helped, either, that Tonks and Remus had found the promise of peace in those shaky days after Voldemort’s downfall to be fertile ground on which to start their own family. First Teddy, then two years later, Phoebe, had demonstrated conclusively that the infusion of Muggle genes from the Tonks side had greatly improved the pure blood of the Black dynasty. Andromeda ignored all of her sister’s barbs insinuating that Metamorphmagi and other aberrations could hardly be considered improvements to their family line; she was wise enough to see that it was envy more than anything fueling her sister’s remarks. Despite her best efforts to include Cissy in family events, all invitations had been coldly refused.

Ironically, Phoebe had clearly taken after the Black side of the family. With her long flaxen locks, she was so much like her Aunt Cissy that it was hard for anyone, even those who knew of the family rift, to keep from making the comparison. Tonks herself made it each time she looked at the school portrait, wishing there was some way to heal old wounds.

---

Harry heard them trying to sneak up the stairs long before they entered his bedroom. Not to spoil their fun, he feigned to be sleeping soundly as he felt the small dip in the mattress from Phoebe.

“Dormez-vous?” she inquired as she peeked at Harry’s face, making quick note that his glasses were still folded neatly on the nightstand.

Harry made a big production of opening first one eye and then the other and then pretending to clutch his chest in shock at the blond haired munchkin who was straddling his knees. Phoebe giggled happily as she relaxed her hold on the ears of the stuffed rabbit she carried with her everywhere. Now was his chance, Harry thought slyly as the hand he’d casually tucked under his pillow made contact with his wand.

Levicorpus! he intoned silently as his god-daughter was hoisted bodily into the air above the large four-poster bed. High-pitched laugher accompanied the outstretched clutching of her small hand as she valiantly tried to summon her toy. Soundlessly, Harry aided the rather threadbare yellow rabbit to float into her fist.

For the hundredth time, Harry wondered why Remus had not dubbed her Pooh Bear or some other variant, perhaps even Piglet, in recognition of her constant companion. But she had vehemently resisted any such nicknames, finally allowing that they could refer to her simply as ‘Rabbit’, preferably with the guttural French ‘r’ sound that her brother liked to demonstrate.

“One of these days, she’s going to wake you up just like that,” Teddy announced matter-of-factly from Harry’s other side. After years of practice, Harry had learned to mask the involuntary start Teddy’s soundless appearances often invoked. Small wonder his father had dubbed him ‘Spook’ despite the bright shock of turquoise hair his son preferred.

“He’s going to be a natural at Stealth and Tracking,” Tonks had beamed proudly. “Once he learns to control his appearance enough to blend in with his surroundings, that is. No clumsy bones in that one; not like his old mum, not at all.”

Aiming a reproachful look in Teddy's direction, Harry warned, “I better not catch you teaching it to her. I’ll freeze the hair right off your head if you do.”

Nonplussed, Teddy returned, “I’ll just change it right back.”

“Not if you’re too busy shivering in the depths of an Antarctic snowdrift!”

“You’re not that good with long distance Apparition,” Teddy scoffed in an authoritative tone.

“Want to bet your father is?” Harry shot back, flashing his godson a wicked grin.

At Phoebe’s appreciative giggle from the rafters, Harry released the spell without looking in her direction, knowing the moment of wide-eyed shock would be appeased by much giggling as she bounced safely on the mattress.

“Tell him,” Phoebe urged from Harry’s other side.

“Don’t rush me, Rabbit,” Teddy moaned playfully as he artfully intoned the French pronunciation he knew neither Harry nor Tonks could duplicate. Taking inspiration, he took off in a long string of French sentences to which Phoebe nodded happily.

He should have been expecting it, Harry thought to himself. It was always the same after the children returned from spending a day with Victoire, the daughter of Fleur and Bill Weasley. Aided by Remus’ tutoring at home, Spook had been chattering away with Victoire like a native for years now. Fleur had been delighted with Remus’ suggestion that the children spend at least one afternoon a week together, insisting on rearranging her work schedule so she could watch them. With the addition of Phoebe and two-year-old Yvette into the mix, the children had whispered to Harry that they had learned a secret language.

Harry would have given anything to see the shocked looks on their faces when they had first attempted to outwit Minerva McGonagall and she responded in kind. When Remus and Tonks had come to retrieve their children at day’s end, the Headmistress had given Remus a reproachful look.

“You could have at least warned me, Remus,” she’d admonished him.

“And ruin such a useful object lesson about assumptions?” Remus responded mischievously.

“You’re just lucky my school-girl French can handle the vocabulary of a five-year-old!”

“Now you’ll have chance to practice,” Remus replied with a smile as he tried to avoid looking in the direction of Poppy Pomfrey who was laughing silently in the background.

Mr. Filch, the grizzled caretaker of Hogwarts castle, had been less generous when he’d found his cat being dressed in doll clothing. “Get away from her, you miscreant!” he’d snarled as he clutched a mewling Mrs. Norris to his chest. “This cat’s an employee of Hogwarts, not a plaything or a pet!”

Minerva had smoothed things over with Mr. Filch, but not before Teddy had overheard the man grumbling about how such a child shouldn’t grace the halls of Hogwarts when he was old enough; he should be shipped off to Durmstrang where such reprobates were tamed.

It had been to shocked faces all around that Teddy had later posed blithely, “Where’s Durmstrang?”

Out of earshot, Minerva had whispered, “I’m certain he overheard a suggestion made by Mr. Filch.” Her look conveyed that Durmstrang had actually been Mr. Filch’s second choice of where to send Teddy.

“No one knows for sure, Spook,” Remus answered his son honestly. “Somewhere that the climate is much colder than in Scotland.”

“The North Pole?” Teddy suggested merrily.

“Possibly,” Tonks allowed calmly. “Someplace mountainous, I think.”

But Teddy had not missed the shared looks between his parents and it wasn’t long before he snidely brought up Durmstang whenever anyone mentioned what a scamp he was turning out to be. He reveled in the shocked looks on the faces of the adults around him as his parents interceded with some joke or another. Every child knows that anything which generates such consternation among adults has got to be especially good.

So when Harry’s school chum, Ron Weasley, had called him incorrigible, Teddy volunteered, “They’re sending me to Durmstrang, you know.”

“That’s not true, Spook,” Remus spoke up with a wry grin. “Hogwarts hasn’t rejected you �“ yet.”

“After all,” Harry’s fiancée, Ginny, remarked, “Hogwarts accepted Fred and George.”

“Yes, but they’re still rethinking that one,” Harry interjected.

But it had been Ron’s pregnant wife, Hermione, who had absolutely floored Spook with her comment. “It’s not so bad, Teddy. I once knew a rather nice chap from Durmstrang. He was a Quidditch champion and everything.”

“Not that he doesn’t have a paunch and a receding hairline these days,” Ron breathed in Harry’s direction. Harry nodded his assent, having seen the same magazine photos of Viktor Krum’s retirement from the Bulgarian team.

“Is it true about the beatings?” Teddy urged, eager that he had found an adult who didn’t summarily shut the door on all issues related to Durmstrang.

“He overheard Filch grumbling,” Tonks supplied.

“Well, it’s actually Mr. Filch who’s such a big fan of corporal punishment,” Ron elaborated to Teddy’s delight. “Always threatened that he had the necessary paperwork to hang us from our ankles in the dungeons. Didn’t he, Harry?”

“Thanks to his deplorable filing system, he could never lay hands on the permission slips,” Harry attested.

“Otherwise you might be taller today,” Ginny quipped in Harry’s ear amid much background laughter.

“Don’t let those threats of Durmstrang get to you,” Hermione confided to Teddy. “There’s something to be said about a school that instills such gentlemanly manners in their students. Why Viktor escorted me to the Yule Ball and proved to be the most accomplished dancer. I felt as weightless as a feather when he twirled and lifted me into the air,” she finished dreamily.

Hermione hadn’t expected the look of revulsion that screwed up Teddy’s face. With a makeshift belch of utter contempt, he fled from the room.

Long after the children had been put to bed, Harry discovered Tonks in the kitchen offering hushed congratulations to Hermione for finally setting Teddy straight.

Was it any wonder that since the birth of the Lupin offspring, Harry had honed his ability to sleep with one eye open? Not that such a development hadn’t delighted Alastor Moody, his steadfast mentor in the Auror Department.

Bringing his thoughts back to the present, Harry demanded of the devilishly bright lad before him, “Could you give that to me in simpler terms? I’m not sure my brain is totally awake yet.”

With an exaggerated roll to his eyes, Teddy repeated the sentences again more slowly with overly precise enunciation �“ and still in French. His eyes looked challengingly at Harry.

Not to be out-smarted by a five-year-old, Harry took a moment to review. The only words he recognized were père, ami, and manger. “Your father is bringing a friend to dine with us?” he ventured, thinking to himself that it was usually Tonks who brought old friends home.

Teddy nodded eagerly as Phoebe added, “Tonight.”

“It’s true,” Tonks affirmed from the doorway. “That’s why Remus had me retrieve the children early today. Otherwise, he’d still be chattering away with Fleur himself. You know how they get.”

Harry nodded as he thought what an unexpected development that had been. He’d had the distinct impression Remus considered Fleur to be a frivolous waste of time much as Ginny had in the beginning. Somehow conversing in her native tongue had convinced Remus otherwise and it was not unusual for him to return quite late on those evenings when he retrieved the children from her care.

“Who’s the guest?” Harry asked of Tonks.

“Remus wouldn’t say.” She shrugged. “I was just to tell Dobby that there would be two more at the table tonight.”

“Good thing Dobby’s not prone to last minute panics.”

“Not even when I relayed Remus’ request for chocolate soufflé for dessert,” Tonks remarked.

Must be someone truly special indeed, Harry noted as he sent along a Patronus message to Ginny.

---

“Did you find a dress finally?” Harry posed as Ginny rummaged through his tie drawer.

“Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?” she queried as she checked the deep violet suede of her blouse in the mirror.

“I meant for the wedding,” Harry added only to catch on that she’d known what he meant all along. “It’s less than two months away,” he added in a vain attempt to save face. He didn’t mention that their long engagement had given her ample time to settle on something.

“I think so,” she admitted as she sank back in the armchair, lazily watching Harry knot the tie she’d chosen. “If I can get Mum to approve. The color for one thing.”

“How unconventional is it?” Harry’s fingers stopped in mid-stream, well aware that wizards didn’t always hold with Muggle ideas. He wasn’t that big of a traditionalist himself, but he wanted to be prepared if Ginny decided to wear emerald green, for instance.

“It’s sort of a silvery grey,” Ginny replied. “Andromeda described it as oyster.”

“That shouldn’t be so bad,” Harry asserted. “Dare I ask how much? I know you don’t want to burden your fam--”

“A bargain really,” Ginny confirmed in a tone that made Harry exceedingly nervous.

“You’d better tell me the whole story,” Harry urged as he leaned his hip against the over-stuffed arm of the facing chair.

“There’s not much to tell,” Ginny admitted with a small shrug. “After all those months of searching through wedding establishments which rolled out their most hideous and over-wrought monstrosities the minute I arrived, Hermione found just the thing in a vintage fashion magazine. I didn’t want to jinx it by showing you. Even with a photo in hand, no one could help. They suggested I have someone make it for me.”

“I thought Tonks nixed that idea early on as rather risky.”

“She did. But she also suggested that I enlist her mother’s assistance, claming that Andromeda’s contacts in Paris could work miracles. But then Hermione pointed out the price for Parisian couture and, well, we tried to make another stab at stores that just sold party dresses.”

“Any luck there?”

“Lots, if I wanted to be married in black or even navy blue. Hermione found this smashing plum number…”

With a deep sigh, Ginny continued how she had finally capitulated and agreed to meet Andromeda for lunch, just the two of them. In despair, she had convinced herself to abandon all preconceived notions and just put herself into the woman’s hands. After all, Tonks always looked fabulous when she sought her mother’s assistance. Sensing the desperation in Ginny’s tale, Andromeda had surprised her by noting that Tonks really had no idea what she wanted most of the time.

“On the other hand, I sense you just haven’t found something which you specifically want,” Andromeda observed. “Give me something to go on.”

Unlike the salespeople who had totally ignored the photo that Ginny shakily unfolded, Andromeda smiled knowingly as she gazed at the long, unadorned gown of golden satin, its lush train laid out elegantly against ebony marble tiles.

“Surely it’s not the color?”

“No, it’s the shape, the simplicity. A girl won’t need a bevy of attendants to secure an endless row of Victorian buttons.”

“But a strapless gown for a wedding? Even if it is modestly cut.”

“That part’s negotiable also,” Ginny affirmed. “I just like the way the gown makes me feel every time I look at is. Almost as if its magical.”

“I have an idea.” Andromeda winked. “If nothing more, it will be a starting point.”

Without further ado, they had Apparated back to the Tonks residence and Andromeda returned with a long silver gown from her own closet. “Is this more to your liking? Tonks always claimed it was much too drab for her, but I just couldn’t bear to part with it. It no longer fits me after bearing a child, I’m afraid.”

Trusting in Andromeda’s vision, Ginny had tried on the dress, reveling in the soft fabric and the way in which it gracefully draped across her hips, accentuating the curves with its narrow cut.

“If you’ll allow me,” Andromeda suggested, having slipped noiselessly into the room.

With a few swipes of her wand, she created the illusion that the dress had been altered more in keeping with Ginny’s petite frame. The hem no longer dragged the floor as the elegant pleated train moved in tandem with her body. It was the sort of dress movie goddesses had once worn in the days when they graced unattainable pedestals.

“Where can we get such a gown today?” Ginny breathed in reverence.

“Alas, the gentleman who designed it has long since passed away. Squibs don’t live as long as the rest of wizarding kind, I’m sad to say.”

“Anyone who could design something like this could hardly be classified as a Squib,” Ginny protested. “He just worked his magic in another medium.”

“I tend to agree, dear. Why don’t you take this gown? Have it professionally altered; I can recommend someone who won’t let you down. Let it be my wedding gift to you. The color suits you more than I would have ever supposed.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Ginny had raised her left hand to her breast to keep the surprisingly heavy neckline from slipping too low. As the light caught the long, marquis cut amethyst in her engagement ring, she was surprised to note that there were underlying lavender tones in the grey fabric as well.

“See how it shows off the stone in your unconventional ring?” Andromeda urged. “It’s a shame more wizards don’t hold with such a delightful Muggle custom.”

“You don’t think it’s an archaic manner of marking one’s territory?” Ginny replied with a pithy giggle.

Andromeda laughed in return, her velvety voice making Ginny feel at ease. “I don’t suspect you do, either. Despite the best efforts of my daughter to place such doubts into your head.”

Ginny acknowledged the other woman’s acumen with a wordless nod. “Harry said he couldn’t tear his eyes from me the first time he’d seen me wear purple. The jewel was just a pale echo of that.”

“Did you agree?” Harry inquired as he took in the dreamy look that had come over Ginny’s face.

“Only if Mum approves,” she answered as his words pulled her into the present. “If anything I should be wearing her gown; only Mum got married in a rather frumpy suit, if we’re being perfectly honest. And it’s not like it was Andromeda’s wedding dress, either. It was designed as a ball gown.”

“Ginny, at the risk of raining bad luck upon us, do you have a picture?”

Ginny looked at him quizzically before she surmised, “That’s just Muggle superstition. Wizards don’t think in those terms!”

Summoning a small folder from the stack of papers she had deposited on the dresser, Ginny withdrew two photos. One of a twenty-something Andromeda and an instant photo of her in the same general position.

“I just learned this spell, so please be patient,” Ginny pleaded as she quickly superimposed her photo over the one of Andromeda among a group of people at a lavish party.

With a muttered incantation Harry thought might be in French, Ginny placed the sandwiched photos tenderly on the adjoining table. Before their eyes, the lines of the underlying photo twisted themselves onto the image of Ginny as if she were being draped in layers of ethereal fabric. When the movement finished, they both gasped at the full effect. Ginny seemed to be clothed in a shimmering grey waterfall, small pools and eddies undulating across her body as she breathed. Harry did not have the words to describe it.

“I’ll help you to convince your mother,” he breathed in her ear.

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Three
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner


“She did it again,” Teddy whispered as soon as he had Harry to himself in the short hallway. Wordlessly, he nodded in Phoebe’s direction as she was just pulling herself up the stairs using the banister rungs as handholds. “Black and white just as before. Victoire saw.”

“What about Mrs. Weasley?” Harry prodded. “Did you ask her?”

Teddy nodded eagerly, bringing a miniature version of the Marauder twinkle to his eyes. So much like his father, Harry noted inwardly, the serious demeanor and unconscious rangy grace already evident. Only the vivid hair color distinguished him as Tonks’ offspring as well. “Granmum Weasel said she hadn’t seen any.”

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle. “That’s Grandmother Weasley,” he corrected. “Just because Phoebe can’t--”

“Ma Weasel, Ma Weasel,” Phoebe issued in a singsong voice as her short legs carried her past Harry and into the waiting arms of Ginny who was just closing the bedroom door at the end of the hall.

“Don’t you look lovely today,” Ginny crooned as she scooped the youngster into her arms. The bright tartan of the diminutive skirt draped over Ginny’s arm as the white tights of Phoebe’s legs dangled happily. With a chubby finger, Phoebe pointed to the black velvet Alice band that complimented her long blonde hair. “Very nice,” Ginny assured her. “Your mother has a rare talent with hair.”

Satisfied that she’d passed muster, Phoebe squirmed free and ran down the short hallway to wait at the head of the stairs for the others to catch up to her.

“Did you think to ask Ginny?” Harry urged Teddy. “She grew up at the Burrow.”

“Ask me what?” Ginny posed directly to Harry.

“Teddy has spied rabbits at the Burrow on a few occasions and was curious about their origin,” Harry explained.

“Victoire claimed they were her special friends,” Teddy interjected.

“Really now?” Ginny remarked as she looked down into Teddy’s intense eyes. “Weren’t you able to ask them personally? Surely a spook like you wouldn’t have any trouble sneaking up on a few harmless rabbits.”

“It’s always the same rabbit,” Teddy insisted with a small scowl at her teasing. “A black and white one.”

“I wasn’t aware the girls had any pets,” Ginny supplied.

“That’s what Molly said,” Harry echoed. “What about wild rabbits wandering out from the woods?”

Despite catching the serious import in Harry’s look, Ginny replied with a smile, “I really don’t think so. Any animals on the grounds were driven off long ago by my brothers. Dad used to claim the twins were capable of scaring away the summer mosquitoes as well.”

“I never heard of mosquito venom used in novelty products, but I wouldn’t put it past Fred and George.” Harry laughed good-naturedly.

“You don’t believe me!” Teddy remarked plaintively.

“Actually, I do, champ,” Harry whispered, crouching down to be at eye level with his godson as Ginny ushered Phoebe down the stairs. “It’s just a bit hard to believe that it’s your sister.”

“Why? You and Dad both change into animals. Big animals. So Phoebe has to start small.”

“I’m not denying the logic of your conclusions…”

“Then what?” Teddy probed, his innate curiosity so much like his father’s that Harry couldn’t just brush him off.

“Your Dad and I studied long and hard to become Animagi, over a year in my case. It’s a technique that requires the use of a wand. Phoebe has no wand.”

“I don’t need a wand to change my hair color.”

“Nor does your mother,” Harry acknowledged. “But you have to admit her control is far superior to yours.”

“She just likes to change her mind more often,” Teddy replied, unconvinced. “I just stick with turquoise.”

“So that explains why you like to wear that black jumper so much,” Ginny volunteered from the stairs. “To show off your hair.”

Harry barely suppressed a smile as he recalled Tonks giving in to her son’s preferences with a weary sigh. “At least black won’t clash violently with whatever color his mood dictates,” she’d admitted just loud enough for Harry to overhear.

“Mum says it makes him look growed up,” Phoebe called gaily as she tugged impatiently on Ginny’s hand.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Ginny confided to the little girl at her side. “Harry used to think the same thing when he was at Hogwarts. Used to think a black jumper made him seem like less of a nervous school boy.”

Harry joined in with the laughter at his expense, putting his concerns about Phoebe from his mind for the moment. Remus was unlikely to believe anything unless he saw it with his own eyes, anyway.

---

Tonks stared at herself critically in the hall mirror as she dispatched her children to seek out Harry and Ginny. Their guests would arrive between half-past six and seven and it wouldn’t do to have those two wandering down from upstairs as if they owned the place, even though technically Harry did. His half anyway.

The black leather pants and creamy folds of the poet’s shirt were perfectly in keeping with the contrasts Remus always whispered so beguiled him. The blue hair, though…. No, not tonight. She wanted to make an impression in a different way. In a way that was not so similar to her classroom persona. With a bit of concentration, her hair was transformed into short dark waves, sculpted ever so casually with a bit of glossy gel.

With a final flick of her wand, she summoned the bold necklace she’d purchased on a whim over the summer. Tucking her wand firmly into her belt, she reviewed the look in the mirror and nodded her approval.

She could hear Ginny’s and Harry’s voices as they started down the stairs, the squeakier pitch of her children’s words interlaced in the conversation. With a colossal sneeze of lavender smoke, the oversized hearth in the sitting room announced that their guests’ arrival was imminent. In the next heartbeat, Remus was brushing the last vestiges of Floo powder from his dark trousers. Tonks could see he had swapped his suit coat for a more casual jumper but had not removed his tie.

“Welcome to my home,” Remus was saying as he gallantly offered a hand to each of the guests as they tumbled from the Floo. “This is my wife, Tonks…. Harry and Ginny. And the two little midgets are my children, Teddy and Phoebe.” As he said the last part, Remus squatted down and held his arms out so his children could engulf him in a welcoming hug. The customary greeting completed, he drew himself up to full height and added, “This is Sera Thierry and her daughter, Serenity, who is one of my students this year.”

As the polite words of introduction were exchanged, Harry caught Serenity’s awed expression and watched as recognition slowly suffused her features.

“Why, you’re Harry Potter!” she exclaimed softly, then put her hand to her mouth for having spoken out of turn.

Harry gave her his most winning smile to put her at ease. “Yes, I am. And this is my fiancée, Ginny. We’re both very pleased to meet you.”

Sera stopped in mid-sentence and looked at Remus and then at Harry and back again. Clearly, she was at a loss for words. After a few moments of indecision, she settled for, “I never knew you had such a distinguished pedigree, Remus.”

Remus laughed heartily as he steered his guests into the drawing room. “I don’t. Harry and I sort of adopted one another since neither one of us had any other family left. Tonks is cousin to Harry’s late godfather and now Harry is godfather to my children.”

“It’s a bit confusing,” Tonks acknowledged, “but it works for us. And the children absolutely adore Harry.”

“Then this house…” Sera hesitated, remembering all too well the tragic details she’d read. Could this be the house in which Harry’s parents had been murdered by the darkest wizard of all time?

Sensing her discomfort, Harry volunteered, “This was originally the Potter estate. My parents left half to me and the other half to their closest friends -- of which Remus is the only survivor. We could have simply divided the land in half and lived as neighbors, but this arrangement suits us better. It’s kept me from having to endure lonely nights as a bachelor.”

And it allowed Remus’ family the services of the house-elf who demanded to work for you when you left school, Ginny thought to herself but wisely kept silent. After all, she knew Remus insisted on paying his share of Dobby’s salary.

Noticing that Teddy and Phoebe were clustered around Serenity’s chair, Remus suggested, “Why don’t the two of you give Serenity the grand tour?”

“By ourselves?” Teddy posed as he eagerly jumped to his feet.

“Of course, you don’t want her to think you get lost in your own house, do you?” Addressing Serenity directly, Remus added, “Feel free to speak with them in French; they seem to think it’s their secret language.”

Phoebe was already tugging Serenity by the hand and leading her towards the checkerboard tiles of the foyer when Tonks called out, “Mind that Harry’s room is off-limits.”

“Really, it’s all right,” Harry demurred in an undertone. “It’s not like I have secrets around here.” He could feel Ginny give his hand a gentle squeeze at his side, effectively reminding him that the drawer in which she stored a few of her things was carefully warded against inquisitive children.

“Nonetheless, they should recognize certain boundaries,” Remus affirmed.

As the rapid-fire cadences could be heard from the next room, Sera turned to her hosts. “I didn’t know your children were so accomplished at such a young age.”

“Ginny’s sister-in-law hails from Provence,” Remus supplied. “The children play together at least one afternoon a week.”

“Then it’s true that you speak all those languages? Serenity and I were part of the special diplomatic group who was allowed to visit the museum,” Sera added by way of explanation. “It’s a shame all the exhibits were not yet finalized.”

“Some more than others -- I suppose that goes for languages as well as the exhibits,” Remus replied modestly. “Too many hours to kill while I searched in vain for employment, I’m afraid.”

“Yet I wager not a single other werewolf used his extra time in such a manner,” Sera suggested with a wry arch to her eyebrow.

Who is this woman who seems to know my husband so intimately? Tonks thought to herself. An old girlfriend he swept under the rug? She caught Ginny’s quizzical eye and surmised that she was having similar thoughts. Remus was hardly one to speak so openly about his lycanthropy, either. Even today, there were too many deeply entrenched prejudices for that.

Finally finding the courage to speak up, Tonks demanded, “Forgive me for being at a disadvantage, but how exactly are the two of you acquainted?” She held her breath, dreading all the possibilities.

Nonetheless, Sera’s candid answer took her by surprise. “Remus and I spent a delightful six months in a werewolf camp together. I would have thought he’d filled you in.”

“Didn’t really get the chance,” Remus admitted sheepishly. “It’s not the sort of thing one discusses in front of small children; it was hardly Club Med.”

“But surely they know of your condition?” Sera gasped.

“As well as such things can be explained,” Tonks elaborated. “Everyone in the family has unique traits so it doesn’t seem like such an oddity. Except for Phoebe, that is, but she’s still so young.”

“That’s right. Serenity mentioned how entertaining your classes were, Tonks.” Sera offered graciously. “Metamorphmagi are the sort of things one reads about but never actually meets.”

Tonks smiled at the compliment and added a small rainbow trill of hair color changes, concluding with Teddy’s trademark turquoise shade before returning to her previous style. Still, it was difficult to imagine this elegant young woman before her was a werewolf. If anything, Tonks would have pegged her as a devotee of the same Parisian shops her mother preferred, what with her elegant navy twin set and opera length pearls.

With a welcoming smile, Ginny volunteered a tidbit from her years at the Wireless News Desk, “It’s a shame His Excellency, your husband, was unable to join us tonight.” She paused briefly to gauge the effect of the announcement. Sure enough, Remus and Tonks were thunderstruck, but Sera just took it in stride.

“Michel’s schedule is an absolute nightmare,” Sera admitted. “I constantly have to check with his social secretary to see when he’s free.”

Ginny caught Harry’s amused smirk as Remus struggled for a response. She knew that after years of being in the spotlight himself, Harry always enjoyed it when someone else was the center of attention. Good thing she’d been right about the connection, Ginny thought wryly.

“Your husband’s Michel Lucien Thierry, the ambassador from the French Ministry?” Remus stammered.

“I thought you knew.”

“Isn’t he an older bloke?” Tonks blurted out then blushed at her deplorable manners. “Forgive how that sounds…”

Sera laughed easily. “You’re thinking of his father, Philippe. He retired a few months ago. That’s why everything is in such a turmoil.”

“The transfer of power,” Harry supplied with a sage nod.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight.” Remus poked Harry playfully with his elbow.

“Just enjoying you getting caught short for once,” Harry quipped.

The conversation flowed freely as they sipped a delightful aperitif Tonks had discovered during their scouting trip to Spain that summer.

“Really, Remus, I’m surprised you never applied to the diplomatic corps,” Sera commented. “Such a facility for languages is a rare talent. I could still put in a good word for you…”

Remus laughed in the light-hearted manner which seemed to come naturally to him since Voldemort’s defeat. “Did you forget I’m routinely indisposed each month?”

“As am I,” Sera affirmed. “Michel has no qualms about making the necessary allowances. Truly, your value would far outweigh any inconvenience!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but old attitudes prevail more than you realize. Besides, I’m quite happy where I am.”

“The Headmistress has long harbored a dream to make Hogwarts more competitive by offering foreign languages,” Tonks expounded with a note of pride. “Remus here was tailor-made for the task of making it a reality.”

“So you intend to offer more than French, Italian and Spanish in the future?” Sera inquired with obvious interest.

“I intend to recruit a German instructor during the summer holidays,” Remus remarked. “It’s part of my job to scout out appropriate candidates who the Headmistress can interview for a final decision.”

“Doesn’t that interfere with your holiday?” Sera posed.

“The Headmistress is very generous in that respect,” Remus supplied. “She always procures the most delightful accommodations for the family so we can all immerse ourselves in the culture for at least a month. Even our house-elf finds he enjoys the chance to learn new recipes.”

“It’s hard to argue with such an assignment,” Sera agreed.

Harry caught the unspoken words Remus clearly felt were too personal to voice, even to another werewolf: how the summer sabbaticals were timed precisely so his family was safely ensconced in another country while he Flooed back in time to transform at home. Since mastering the Animagus transformation, it was a ritual Harry shared during those summer months when it was necessary to discontinue the reconfigured Wolfsbane Potion Remus took for the remainder of the year. It was an ingenious solution which benefited the school as well as Remus, Harry noted, not wanting to think back on the first nerve-wracking summers when Tonks and Teddy had been hurried off to the safety of her parents’ home during full moons.

Harry refocused his attention on their guests as Sera addressed Tonks directly, “You must bring back some wonderful things.”

Tonks sighed in contentment. “I suppose it would be a dream come true for an unrepentant shopper like my mum. I just enjoy having some unbroken days to spend with my children.”

“Besides, it’s Remus who brings back the unexpected surprises,” Ginny offered with a wide smirk.

Harry couldn’t help laughing out loud as Remus had once again been put on the spot.

With a quick glance as the sparkling challenge in Ginny’s eyes, Remus did a quick surveillance of the immediate area to make sure the children were still out of range. His expression relaxed somewhat as he caught a glimpse of them escorting Serenity across the front lawn towards the far wing that housed their own bedrooms.

“Please do tell,” Sera urged as she caught Tonks’ amused expression.

With a rueful shake of his head, Remus recounted the events surrounding the recruitment of Signorina Olivetti, their new Italian teacher. “She’s actually a Muggle, you see. Her paternal grandparents were both wizards, but her father was a Squib who married a Muggle. Having grown up with her grandfather, Enzo, living upstairs, she was quite familiar with the wizarding world.”

“But you know how old-fashioned these Italian families can be,” Tonks interjected with a barely contained giggle. “And an unmarried daughter accepting a post abroad required further inspection.”

“Having heard of Hogwarts, Grandfather Enzo accompanied Ms. Olivetti to her interview with the Headmistress so he could acquaint himself with the exact nature of the accommodations and teaching post she was being offered,” Remus continued.

“Surely he wasn’t put off by Minerva McGonagall…” Sera urged.

“Oh, no,” Tonks intoned. “Mr. Enzo got along famously with the Heads.”

“Both of them,” Harry emphasized.

“Especially Professor Sprout,” Ginny clarified mischievously.

“Professor Sprout?” Sera asked, unfamiliar with the name.

“She teaches Herbology,” Remus explained. “She’s also the Deputy Headmistress. So while Minerva prepared the Olivettis a delightful home-cooked meal to win them over, Pomona took Enzo on a tour of her exotic gardens --”

“The long and short of it is that Pomona Sprout recently announced her plans to retire at the end of the school year and relocate to Enzo’s Tuscan villa,” Tonks supplied. “She’s been showing off her engagement ring ever since.”

Sera laughed merrily. “What a charming tale. I never took you for such a match-maker, Remus.”

“I’m not,” he decried. “Blame it on Minerva’s cooking; she’s the one who wields the culinary magic in this story.”

“Not that any of this has been announced to the students,” Harry warned. “Not even the upcoming retirement.”

“Minerva will want to announce the name of the replacement Herbologist, if at all possible,” Ginny asserted. “And I’m fairly certain she hasn’t even started on that.”

“Not yet,” Remus confirmed. “Although I suspect Pomona Sprout might have a say in that decision herself.”

He was saved from having to elaborate as Dobby took that moment to announce dinner was ready as he ushered the children in before him.

“But I wasn’t done with the tour!” Teddy protested to the elf and then to his father in French.

“Finish after dinner,” Remus suggested as he urged Serenity to sit at one end of the long table with the Lupin brood. “We don’t hold much with ceremony here,” he advised her directly. “You’ll find it much easier to continue with your conversations if you don’t have to constantly talk across the others. You’ll still be close enough to follow the adult conversation if you wish.”

Somewhere between the soup and the main course, they got down to the crux of the matter.

“I know you’ve not been pleased with my classes,” Remus addressed Serenity directly.

“Please, don’t take that personally, Professor,” Serenity replied with wide eyes at being put on the spot. “Everyone says you’re such a wonderful teacher…”

“You shouldn’t have to struggle through mediocre lessons, Serenity. I, too, spoke French at your age and would have been most insulted with the Hogwarts curriculum. So, here’s what I propose we do instead…”

Harry found that as long as he didn’t try to contribute too much to the individual conversations, he could listen to Remus on his left as well as follow the avid wedding planning that absorbed Ginny and Tonks to his right. His initial puzzlement over Tonks’ enthusiasm when she had eschewed all such trappings for her own wedding had long since been explained away by Remus’ sobering reminder that things had been a lot different in the midst of an all-out wizarding war. They had been extremely lucky to find a bit of untouched paradise amid the chaos to pledge themselves to one another.

“Just look at what happened to Fleur and Bill,” Ginny supplied. “They had to wait until Voldemort was defeated to congregate so many wizards in one place at one time.”

“Not that I would have waited until after the war,” Tonks had confided sotto voce. “I wasn’t fool enough to give the Viscount of Vacillation here a chance to change his mind.”

Harry was amused that the selection of the dress, the biggest obstacle according to Ginny, had simply given rise to another set of challenges. Ginny was adamant about wanting a simple ceremony in the arbored courtyard under the violet glow of dusk. She had immediately latched on to Harry’s sole suggestion that they release fireflies to dance about the patio. He had not mentioned the recent advent of the mysterious piano music and how it had invoked Remus’ recollections of the past. Harry smiled to see how she defended his one idea, arguing that live faerie lights had become such a wedding cliché and how Hagrid was sure to know where to obtain fireflies.

How were they going to cope with the likely advent of colder temperatures in November, maybe even snow, though? He left them discussing the various types of shield charms and warming spells that could be used as he focused his attention on the negotiations to his left.

Remus had readily sold both of the Thierrys on his radical idea of allowing Serenity to be his teaching assistant, even though that was a role usually reserved for N.E.W.T. level students. “I would have to do without, you see,” Remus explained. “The language program is so new that I won’t have any upper level classes for a few years yet. But I’m certain Serenity’s proficiency is up to the task of grading papers for the beginning students, don’t you think?”

Serenity was avidly nodding her head while Sera’s eyes twinkled in merriment at her side.

“But there are conditions,” Remus stressed. “I want you to take the first O.W.L. level French exam offered so you can progress into the more advanced classes. Can you promise me that? I hope to delve into literature and poetry in the original language.’

“Oui, Monsieur,” Serenity provided on cue.

“Wait, there’s more,” Remus warned with a raised finger. “I want you to sign up for either the basic Spanish or Italian classes currently being offered by Senorita Ramos and Signorina Olivetti. If you find you don’t care for either of those languages, you can change next year. We’ll be adding German as an option at that time.”

Serenity paused just as she was going to reply, her dark eyes darting towards her mother uncertainly. “But, Professor,” she petitioned, “won’t that require an extra class period?”

“Yes, it will, Serenity,” Remus allowed patiently. “You will have one more class than the other second years. More akin to a third year schedule, I believe. We can arrange your student assistant hours so they agree with both our timetables. At teatime, perhaps. Do you think that will be too much to handle?”

She shook her head vigorously as she broke out in a broad smile.

“Aren’t you going to a lot of extra trouble just to accommodate the special needs of one student?” Sera suggested.

“You mean like Dumbledore did for me when I was allowed to attend school despite the limitations I had suffered since the age of five?” Remus whispered with a lift to his eyebrow.

“Sorry, I never quite knew the details,” Sera responded, not needing Remus to spell it out for her.

“Actually, Serenity will be doing me a favor,” Remus elaborated diplomatically. “Unlike the other language teachers, I will have an assistant to help with much of the onerous duties. One who can accept assignments and discuss them with her instructor en français. N’est pas, madamoiselle?”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

Sera relented, “Well, if you put it in such terms, I don’t see how we can refuse, can we?”

As Dobby bewitched a pitcher of pumpkin juice to refill the children’s glasses, Harry hazarded a look towards the dinner plates being levitated towards the kitchen. True to form, Teddy and Phoebe had cleaned their plates in preparation for the special dessert. Not that Dobby hadn’t assisted them by preparing most of their favorite dishes. Still, Harry suspected the promise of chocolate soufflé might even induce those two to consume Brussels sprouts, although he had yet to test his theory.

By the time they dug into the chocolaty overload of the dessert, it was clear Serenity was excited over the prospectus Remus had outlined.

“Can I be part of the Round Robin?” she posed to Remus directly.

“We’ll see,” he responded with a sly tilt to his smile.

Noticing the exchange, Sera couldn’t help but ask, “What’s a Round Robin?”

Remus and Tonks both broke out laughing at the same time.

“Oh, I’ve heard about that…” Harry offered in a tantalizing manner.

“Only Remus could devise such a torturous diversion,” Ginny echoed.

“Pay no attention to their teasing,” Remus scoffed. “It’s just something Professors Olivetti, Ramos and I do to practice our language skills.”

“All at once,” Tonks interjected.

“So it’s efficient,” Remus clarified with a note of pride.

“I believe Minerva used the term ‘maddening’,” Tonks countered. “Although only in the nicest way.”

“All right, now you really have my curiosity piqued,” Sera prodded.

Indulgently, Remus explained how the three of them would carry on a conversation in three different languages at once, switching from one to another every time their turn came up. “No English allowed,” he stipulated.

“Don’t you get tongue-tied?” Sera laughed.

“Or brain-tied?” Ginny giggled.

“Or run out of things to talk about?” Serenity dared.

Harry caught Tonks eye as they both dissolved in laughter. It was clear they were both recalling when Severus Snape had attempted to insult Remus by suggesting that he could carry on a conversation with a lethargic thestral. To which Remus had shot back, “At least he wouldn’t mistake me for a long lost relative!”

Remus smiled in response as he challenged his student, “You’ll have to familiarize yourself with more than two languages to do it.”

It wasn’t long before Teddy’s and Phoebe’s eyes were drooping, although neither of them would ever acknowledge it willingly.

“Come, let’s get you two into your pajamas,” suggested Tonks as a subterfuge.

“But we never got to show Serenity our bedrooms,” Teddy protested weakly.

“You’re welcome to come along, then,” Tonks suggested to Serenity.

“Please, Zen,” Phoebe echoed as she held out her hand to the older girl.

The others were just polishing off the last of the dessert when Tonks and Serenity returned to the dining room.

“I think they were asleep before we managed to tuck them in.” Serenity giggled.

“And they were so determined to show you my Zen garden off the patio,” Tonks added with a note of regret.

“We were there earlier, Professor,” Serenity clarified. “I think they wanted you to see the clever drawings they left for you in the sand. Spook was convinced that faeries like to obliterate such things in the night.”

Tonks laughed merrily. “That’s just the explanation Remus gave Phoebe when the howling wind kept her awake one night. He said it was the faeries calling to one another as they reworked the landscape.”

“And sure enough, the tree limbs where limned with icy crystals the next morning,” Ginny claimed.

Dobby urged them up from the dinner table with his long fingered hands. “Enough with the lingering,” the elf pronounced boldly as he motioned towards the drawing room. “Dobby would much prefer to clear the table without the added obstacles of wriggling bodies in his midst.” Everyone giggled at the elf’s outspokenness.

“The elves at the Embassy are so staid,” Sera commented as she accepted the glass of port Remus handed her. “I think they might actually faint if I attempted to engage them in conversation.”

“Dobby’s unique, all right,” Tonks agreed. “He even helped me to win Remus’ favor when he was being particularly obstinate and hard-headed.”

“It was a complete mystery to me how she managed to deliver a gift to Dumbledore’s flat when the wards had been set by the mighty wizard himself,” Remus admitted with a wry laugh. “Caught me totally off guard.”

“So what happened?” Sera urged.

“You mean before or after he subjected the mysterious package to every hex detection known to wizardkind?” Harry quipped.

“Thank goodness he didn’t think to immerse it in water like Muggles defusing their bombs,” Ginny gasped.

“I would’ve ended up with a sodden mass of parchment for my troubles,” Remus allowed with a good-natured laugh. “You didn’t think to use water-proof ink, did you, cherub?”

“I’m not rightly certain,” Tonks allowed as she curled herself up next to Remus. “The simplest things required so many stringent protocols in those dark days that I don’t know how we didn’t get bogged down in day to day minutia.”

Serenity took the spot next to her mother and tugged her impatiently by the sleeve. “Did you notice what Phoebe called me? Zen. It’s my new nickname.”

“A three year old came up with that?”

“I’m sure it was Teddy,” Remus noted as Serenity nodded in response. “He’s the one whose mind thinks in those terms �“ constantly.”

“But how did he�”“

“From the garden, of course,” Tonks supplied.

Serenity elaborated, “He told me very solemnly that it was not a sand box. Said his mum told him its purpose was to promote peace and serenity. Then his eyes got all round when he made the obvious connection.”

“So now you’re Zen?” Sera noted with a small smile.

“I can’t wait to tell the other girls in Ravenclaw!” Serenity raved. “You don’t know how frustrated they were when I told them that ‘Sera’ was my mother’s name so they’d have to think of some other nickname. Two weeks later and no one has been able to come up with anything!”

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Four
Rude Awakening


“Hello, is anyone home?”

Dobby bent over the grate, gazing at the wavering face in the green flames before recognition set in. “Oh, Mistress Hermione!” he yelped in alarm. “Dobby did not expect anyone to call today!”

“I understand, Dobby. Is Remus or Tonks about by any chance?” Hermione inquired, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible.

With a barely discernable pop the house-elf Disapparated, returning moments later with Remus in tow.

“What a pleasant surprise, Hermione,” Remus offered with a wide grin as he allowed Dobby to magically whisk the worst of the mud from his gardening boots. “How’s motherhood?”

“Just fine at the moment, but that’s not really why--”

“Harry and Ginny won’t be back from their honeymoon for another week,” Remus supplied.

“Yes, I know,” Hermione stammered, not sure where to begin. “I think that’s precisely why the story ran today. Without Ginny to edit it before it was broadcast on the wireless.”

Knowing that Hermione could not leave her infant to travel, Remus made an instant decision. “Dobby, please tell Tonks I’ve gone to Hermione’s briefly. She can contact me there when she returns with the children if she likes.”

Without waiting for a reply, Remus threw a generous handful of Floo Powder into the fireplace and announced, “The Ronald Weasley residence,” as he stepped resolutely into the leaping emerald flames.

A small furrow of worry creased Remus’ brow as he unfolded his limbs from the hearth in Hermione’s kitchen. He found her seated at the table surrounded by baby paraphernalia, the empty basinet at her feet as she cuddled her four-month old daughter on her shoulder.

“You don’t mind?” he posed, nodding toward the sink.

“Make yourself at home,” Hermione urged. “Forgive me, but doesn’t Dobby generally do the gardening?”

Remus looked up from working the soap bubbles underneath his fingernails. “I was preparing a surprise for Tonks. Getting some new flowerbeds ready in our private patio. Today seemed the perfect opportunity since she’s taken the children to her parents’.”

“Not too many days before the winter frost will make the dirt impossible to work,” Hermione concurred. “I’m afraid my flowerboxes will go unplanted this year.”

A smile broke through Remus concerned expression as he took the adjacent chair and laid a gentle hand on the baby’s back. “How’s young Eleanor today? Already surveying her new kingdom?”

“She has the entire household at her beck and call,” Hermione agreed, gazing up at him with obvious maternal pride. Pulling her thoughts to the matter at hand, she added, “Forgive me for interrupting your plans, but I couldn’t get away in person today.”

“Not at all,” Remus returned. “I take it you’re not just in need of a baby-sitter, though.”

“Did you not hear the latest story on the WWN?” Hermione urged. At Remus’ blank look, she flicked her wand in the direction of the wireless to start it with a sharp click.

The modulated tones of the announcer blared forth, “… eve of her retirement, long time Ministry employee, Dolores Umbridge, felt it was her duty to speak out. To unmask the half-truths and fabrications that have been force-fed to the wizarding public for the past decade. Allegations that will rock the very foundation of everything we hold to be true.”

“I just couldn’t stay quiet any longer,” Umbridge simpered in an ingratiating tone which immediately raised Remus’ hackles. “It’s unfair that we have been presented with a series of tall tales by those in power to legitimize their leadership. Have you stopped to think that we have only the words of those parties involved for what really happened? Where are the unbiased observers?” she posed rhetorically.

“Forgive me for not having thought to bring along the remainder of the Hogwarts student body when we confronted Voldemort’s forces in Godric’s Hollow,” Remus muttered angrily as he caught her import.

“I doubt that a series of senseless killings would have strengthened our case,” Hermione returned in an attempt to mollify. “Besides, she would just claim we had poisoned the minds of everyone at the school.”

“Surely she can’t be as vile as that!”

“Just you listen to the reports, Remus. She’s obviously been planning this for a long time. Long enough to come up with a way to twist everything.”

With the house unnaturally still around them, they listened in disgust as Umbridge presented her own contorted view of reality. Even events which had been witnessed by many fell victim to her diabolical revisions. While she could not deny the wizard’s battle which had culminated in the Ministry’s own atrium just as workers were arriving for their morning shift, who was to say that the other wizard was Voldemort?

“His face was certainly more grotesque than many remembered from years past. After all, there’s no denying the events of the previous wizarding war,” Dolores insisted.

Catching Hermione’s eye, Remus harrumphed, “Surely that lying toad wasn’t going to imply James and Lily killed themselves, was she?”

“Do you mean to suggest it was a staged performance?” the awed reporter’s voice issued from the wireless.

“Doesn’t the timing strike you as extremely fortuitous?” Umbridge returned, barely managing to sugarcoat her cunning tone. “Curtain time to coincide with the weekday morning rush hour.”

“But he was clearly a wizard,” the interviewer backpedaled.

“Of course, but he was also an accomplished actor,” Umbridge asserted shamelessly.

“I find it hard to believe that a wizard of Dumbledore’s standing would be complicit in such a charade.”

“Nor do I believe so, either,” Umbridge concurred with the sweetness of a viper. “He may not have realized he was facing a clever imposter. After all, doing away with Dumbledore was part of the overall plan, wasn’t it?”

There was an audible gasp from the reporter. “But that’s monstrous! Who…?”

“If I had that answer I would have come forward long ago, my dear,” Umbridge crooned.

“If she had that answer, she could have parlayed her distortions into a best selling political thriller,” Remus scoffed through narrowed eyes. What would the Dowager make of Dolores’ diatribe? Remus pondered. Dare he attempt to contact her via Sera and try to make amends?

Their attention was riveted on the wireless once more as Umbridge continued in saccharine tones, “Did anyone else even see Dumbledore’s alleged murder atop the spires of Hogwarts?”

“We have the testimony of Harry Pot--” the reporter began only to be cut across.

“Why he’s their chief charlatan, dear. Don’t you see?” Umbridge elaborated as if she were instructing a small, recalcitrant child. “No one even saw him atop the Tower, just an extra broomstick he claims to have used. The other poor lad, Draco Malfoy, is dead; the Carrows imprisoned in Azkaban for war crimes, and as for Severus Snape… Well, that man is a walking antidote to Veritaserum itself!”

Hermione turned questioning eyes towards the unwitting bark of laughter that escaped from Remus. “Forgive me, Hermione,” he begged, “but Severus would take her words as a glowing testimonial to his Occlumency skills.”

“True,” Hermione allowed as a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “If only we could count on the rest of the world laughing in the face of such malarkey!”

But the commentator’s closing statement belied Hermione’s optimism. “The question we must ask ourselves is this: does Dolores Umbridge’s retirement from the Ministry mark the end of an era that never was?”

“Has the Daily Prophet picked up the story?” Remus prompted as grim scenarios replayed themselves in his mind.

“Not today, but I expect to see it tomorrow.”

“What does Ron have to say?” Remus inquired as he recalled that Ron’s temper often ran as hot as his fiery red hair.

“He left early this morning before the story broke. Time to do the quarterly inventory at the Joke Shops and he does have such a good time helping Fred and George. Brings out the schoolboy who refuses to grow up in all of them, I suppose. Ron does entirely too much paper shuffling at the Magical Games Department during the week, to hear him tell it. I assured him Eleanor and I would be all right for a few hours.”

“What’s the word from the Department for Regulation and Control?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione cried. “I’ve been on maternity leave and no one mentioned anything when they came to see the baby.”

“I suspect that has a lot to do with the timing also,” Remus responded through pursed lips. “Contact them on Monday to see what their position is.”

“I’m not scheduled to return for another fortnight,” Hermione bemoaned. “But perhaps I should rethink that. Eleanor would be fine with Molly during the day; she adjusted to a regular timetable almost immediately --”

“Don’t overturn your life just yet,” Remus counseled. “It’s just the word of one overzealous fanatic at the moment. Surely the media must see there’s nothing to substantiate her allegations.”

“I think Ginny would have stopped the story from airing without any hard evidence,” Hermione pointed out thoughtfully.

“Which explains their timing,” Remus concurred.

But the stories which ran in the Sunday edition of the Prophet were even more sensationalized with direct quotes from Cornelius Fudge himself. Looking more humble than ever, he appeared in the moving photos worrying his signature bowler hat in his hands as he spoke of the small group of concerned citizens who had arrived on his doorstep one afternoon.

“I told them I was quite through with public office. Had my fill of it, to tell you the truth,” Fudge maintained in print while his eyes shone with ambition in the photos. “Mistakes were made by the previous administration and I was willing to step down. The people are entitled to have a leader they feel they can trust…”

He’d left his words hanging in a most unsettling way, Remus decided. Fudge wasn’t ready to substantiate the lies spewed by that Umbridge cow �“ not yet anyway. But he clearly didn’t repudiate the stories as rubbish, either. Dumbledore had been so right to claim that man’s ego outshone his intelligence and reason every time.

Fudge spoke on the wireless not long after the newspaper story, the interviewer posing the questions which had smoldered in Remus’ mind since he’d read the Prophet’s article over breakfast that morning.

“Do you think you were deposed so others could impose their more drastic plans?”

“Now I’ve never been one for conspiracy theories,” Fudge equivocated. “But the current administration did rise to power on the basis of the threat which was hanging over the wizarding world.”

“A threat they may have manufactured for that very reason,” the gullible reporter finished for him.

Remus barely restrained himself from chunking a shoe at the wireless to silence Fudge’s whiney voice as the former Minister continued, “Obviously, Ms. Umbridge’s allegations are very serious indeed and will bear thorough investi--”

Luckily, Tonks read Remus’ glower correctly and simply turned it off with a quick wand motion.

“It does no good to get upset, sweetheart,” she reminded him. “Fudge has always been as malleable as his name implies.”

“And that…witch…has vitriol in her soul,” Remus sputtered. “She was clearly collaborating with the Death Eaters during the war.”

“The war she claims was a fabrication. Unfortunately, the most damning bit of evidence was contained in the Horcrux which Harry, Ron and Hermione destroyed.”

“Surely, there’s got to be something else among all the Ministry documents!”

“Nothing that’s come to light, but the gaping holes speak for themselves, don’t they? Her over-zealousness got her shuffled enough among Departments to make her job performance questionable, but I don’t think we can actually prove our case against her anymore than she can prove hers. Don’t you think the Auror Department would have brought her to trial for war crimes just as they did others? The Wizengamot is not as easily swayed as it used to be, you know. Give Scrimgeour credit for that, at least.”

“But if the corruption goes as far as Scrimgeour himself �“ which is what that harridan is suggesting �“ then everything is suspect.”

“It’s all lies, Remus. Sour grapes from someone whose own career has hit a brick wall.”

“I know that, and you know that, and everyone else who was involved directly in the war effort knows that; but that still leaves a tremendous chunk of the wizarding world out there which may fall for her lies.”

“Without any evidence?” Tonks decried. “That’s insane!”

“That’s a crowd mentality, unfortunately,” Remus asserted grimly. “They’ll believe in the most heinous things simply because they’re afraid deep down that they might just turn out to be true. A leap of bad faith, as it were.”

“It’s nothing more than a bit of whinging on a slow news day,” Tonks affirmed with a determined set to her jaw. “It will all be a bad memory when something else catches the public’s fancy.”

Despite Tonks’ protestations, the story was still slowly simmering when Harry and Ginny returned from their honeymoon.

“She wasn’t scheduled to retire until early spring,” Ginny protested. “It was already penciled in on the station’s calendar.”

“Apparently, she moved it up,” Remus pronounced unnecessarily.

“It would have been too much of a temptation to not take advantage of both Hermione and Ginny being out of the picture temporarily,” Tonks concurred.

“But no one outside of our circle knew about the wedding,” Harry cried. “Did we end up with some gate-crashers after all?”

“No, nothing as clever as that,” Remus assured him.

Luna’s idea of casting a Fidelius Charm with Remus and Tonks as Secret-Keepers had allowed them to control just who received the hand-lettered wedding invitations. Hagrid double-checked Patronuses at the gate to make sure no one had passed their invitations on to a Polyjuiced poseur, as Ginny put it. Any gate-crashers would not have known the date of the event nor been able to even see the lanes leading to the grounds.

“You did have an announcement run in the Prophet a few weeks after, though,” Tonks pointed out.

“Mum insisted,” Ginny supplied. “Besides, it was a done deal by then. They weren’t likely to try to track us down on our honeymoon.”

“If they could have ever come up with the location,” Harry added with a sly wink.

“I was hoping you could ease yourselves into married life without such a cloud hanging over your heads,” Remus volunteered.

“Reality always makes other plans,” Harry noted stoically. “Besides this cloud hangs over all of us: every member of the Order as well as much of Scrimgeour’s administration.”

“It’s not that I haven’t thought Scrimgeour is somewhat mired in the past,” Tonks acknowledged. “But he doesn’t deserve to be tarred with Umbridge’s trumped up story, either.”

“She’s depicted him as a total lunatic, completely mental,” Ginny complained. “Wouldn’t the rest of us have had to be barking to go along with that?”

“Not when you take account how the Death Eaters allowed themselves to be swayed by Voldemort’s senseless rhetoric,” Harry remarked. “Let’s not forget she was one of them.”

“Too bad she didn’t have the Dark Mark tattooed on her inner arm like the rest of them,” Ginny commented. “Would have made identifying her that much easier.”

“True, but Voldemort would have been a total imbecile to mark his moles so blatantly,” Remus opined. “I’ve seen numerous photos of her in short-sleeved frocks at the height of summer.”

“I bet she had a mark where no one thought to look,” Ginny supplied with a sharp slap to her right flank. “Is probably sitting on it even as we speak.”

“No one would want to look there!” Harry exclaimed with look of revulsion.

“So much the better,” Ginny asserted.

“And Aurors can’t go around strip-searching suspects, not without hard evidence,” Tonks explained. “We never found enough to officially add her to their list of suspects even though it was common knowledge she was Voldemort’s stooge.”

“Or was she?” Remus considered much to everyone’s shock. “She’s beginning to come across as more of a political opportunist, if you ask me.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Harry prompted as he drew up a chair. No one was as good at dissecting a problem as Remus; that’s why he had been unanimously selected to head up the Order after Dumbledore’s untimely demise.

“First she manages to keep her job after Fudge is forced to resign,” Remus began.

“So did Percy,” Ginny reminded him. “He went from being Fudge’s personal assistant to attending to Scrimgeour’s needs.”

“Kingsley had a lot to do with singing Percy’s praises,” Tonks volunteered. “Don’t forget he had an ulterior motive, too.”

“And no one was about to rave about Umbridge,” Remus took up the threads once more. “Fudge is deposed, Voldemort’s coup unmasked, and Dolores gets shuffled a bit from one job to another �“ but she retains her posting with the Ministry.”

“You think she’s gunning to bring someone else down, don’t you?” Harry surmised.

“And aggrandizing herself in the process,” Remus maintained.

“Who’s the target?” Tonks urged, not sure that she was ready for Remus’ answer.

“Either Scrimgeour or Kingsley would be my guess,” he supplied to horrified gasps.

“But Kingsley’s a hero!” Ginny protested.

“Not according to Umbridge,” Harry announced. “It’s all a figment of his overactive imagination.”

“And Scrimgeour legitimized the fabricated tale of Voldemort’s defeat by awarding everyone present at the final battle with Orders of Merlin,” Tonks provided.

---

Despite the message he’d received to retrieve his children early today, the scene that greeted Remus at Shell Cottage was nothing out of the ordinary. Fleur welcomed him with kisses to both cheeks, a custom that had long since stopped making him feel self-conscious. The glow of the setting sun painted the interior of the large playroom in shades of bronze and coral as he took in his surroundings.

“Will Harry be home?” Phoebe’s cobalt eyes searched her father’s face as she climbed into his arms in greeting.

“Yes, Rabbit. He and Ginny returned from their honeymoon two days ago. You do remember what a honeymoon is?”

Phoebe nodded her blonde head and mumbled, “Wedding trip,” more to convince herself than for her father’s benefit.

Fleur caught Remus’ eye over the child’s shoulder. “I theenk zey ‘ave both been missing ‘arry very much,” she offered with a knowing look.

“That’s to be expected; he’s been a fixture in their lives,” Remus allowed. “Did anything unusual happen today?”

Fleur shrugged dismissively in a typically Gallic fashion. “Teddy and Victoire got eento an ‘eated argument. Zey ‘ad to seet een opposite corners of ze salon to cool down while zey drank zair juice.”

“Nothing serious, I trust?” Remus posed with concern as Phoebe played happily with the ends of his tie.

“ ‘Tis ze stuff of children, nothing more,” Fleur maintained as she waved towards the two combatants who were hunched companionably over a large book with pictures of swiftly moving animals. “Can I eenterest you een some tea, Remus? A chat wiz an adult would be quite nice.”

“Tired of English?” Remus posed sympathetically.

“Not so much. Just a child’s vocabulary.”

“Ah,” Remus commiserated as he switched into French himself. “It’s been much the same for me. Small words for those who are still finding their land legs on your native shore.”

Fleur laughed easily, a musical sound that made Phoebe smile in unison. “Always so poetic. Are you perhaps thinking to convince them to expand your teaching duties?”

“Promise me you won’t breathe a word of it to Minerva. She’s a veritable gorgon when it comes to delegating. I barely escaped with my skin intact today!”

“Then perhaps a bit of cognac? Bill tells me he still prefers the harshness of Firewhiskey.” She shuddered at the very thought.

Drawing his battered pocket watch from his trousers, Remus made a quick note of the hour. “Just a small one then. I don’t want the children to miss seeing Harry and Ginny this evening. The newlyweds are dining with Molly and Arthur at the Burrow tonight.” He stretched his long limbs languidly on the chintz sofa as Phoebe scampered down to rejoin the other children.

“Of course,” Fleur chattered amicably. “Bill and I are supposed to join them �“ if he doesn’t get back too late from the bank. He’s prone to lose track of the time since they assigned him this special project.”

“Wasn’t it a promotion of sorts?”

“Yes, which is why I don’t feel I should pester him by Floo.”

“What are you drinking?” Teddy tugged on Remus’ sleeve insistently.

“It’s about time you noticed your wayward father,” Remus intoned with mock severity. “Have you outgrown hugs already?”

Nonplussed, Teddy climbed onto the seat cushion to throw his arms eagerly around his father’s shoulders. In the process, he brought his nose to the rim of the snifter Remus cradled in his palm. One exploratory whiff was enough for him to recoil in disgust.

“Smells like battery acid!” Teddy remarked with a grimace as the adults broke into laughter.

“And just how much do you know about such Muggle trappings?” Remus challenged.

“Grandpère Arthur took me out to his shed and showed me the metal dragon that eats grass. He says it only drinks battery acid and petrol.”

“ ‘e didn’t actually start ze zing, did ‘e?” Fleur asked with some alarm.

“Naw,” Teddy maintained with his customary stoic expression. “He said this dragon was very old and needed its rest.”

“I theenk Arthur will recruit young Teddy in ‘is own mania before you can teech ‘im to ‘ave a deescriminating palate, no?” Fleur confided to Remus as they said their goodbyes.

---

Once home, the children insisted Harry keep them company at the table while they consumed an early supper. Ginny finished dressing in time to join them for pudding and they regaled her with requests for more tales of her recent travels with Harry.

“Let’s just wait until we get the photos back,” she insisted. “You two will wear me out before I have to tell the same stories all over again to my other family tonight!”

It was only after Harry and Ginny had extricated themselves to Floo to the Burrow that Remus was able to steal a few minutes alone with Teddy. He waited patiently while Phoebe said her goodnights and Tonks led her into the other wing.

Remus patted the cushion beside him on the long leather sofa facing the great stone hearth. Teddy didn’t need to be told twice as he curled up in the protective curve of his father’s arm.

“Did you and Victoire argue today?” Remus posed conversationally. “Be honest with me, Teddy.”

Looking up at him with great solemn eyes, Teddy replied, “It wasn’t a fight, Dad. It’s what you always call an intell…an intelligent discussion, that’s it!”

“You mean an intellectual debate?” Remus barely managed to conceal his smile.

“That’s it!”

“So you had a difference of opinion. What about?”

“Me…us…our name.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Remus admitted.

“You know how Victoire hates to lose an argument…” Teddy began.

Remus suspected Victoire’s mother was much the same, but wisely kept that to himself.

“…and she always knows everything about everything,” Teddy finished with the voice of authority.

“A veritable encyclopedia of chatter, she is.”

Teddy giggled at his father’s wry description. “Yeah, but I have enough sense not to say so to her face.”

“Wise boy,” Remus acknowledged with a smirk. ”So what was the point of your bickering? Besides to get to the truth of the matter as in all manner of learned debate.”

“She was convinced that Lupin is a French name.”

“It is. My father’s family came from Rouen, but that was many generations ago. And your grandmother’s family has roots in Ireland as well.”

“So Victorie tells me that’s why Phoebe likes rabbits so much.”

Uncertain where the conversation was heading, Remus supplied, “Lots of little girls like bunny rabbits. They’re soft and cuddly -- and don’t snarl at her. Surely you recall from when we went to the zoo.”

“Victoire says it’s because of our name,” Teddy insisted. “Lapin is rabbit in French.”

Remus did his best to keep his voice as neutral as possible. “Yes, it is. But Victoire’s been playing her rhyming game again. Lupin is a totally different word.” Dear Merlin, how was he ever going to explain the irony of the name to a five-year-old boy? Perhaps that was a subject for a later discussion, he decided inwardly.

“I told her that, “Teddy insisted. “Said we were named for flowers. Just like her mother was.”

“I take it that didn’t satisfy Victoire.”

“She wanted me to show her one in her Grandma Molly’s garden.”

“Molly only plants vegetables,” Remus volunteered.

“I told her that, too. Which didn’t seem to make her very happy at all. She argued that we’d just have to ask Ginny since she was the one who always coaxed the pretty flowers to grow on the fence.”

“The trellises, yes. But there’s mostly wild rose vines at the Burrow. You won’t find any lupines there. Lupines are meadow flowers, spreading as far as the eye can see during the spring. It’s also the wrong time of year, Spook.”

“Oh.” Teddy’s face fell at his fatal error. “I didn’t think of that. What month was it when we went to France?”

Remus took a moment to consider. “It was over the Easter hols; sometime in April, I would say. You remember that? You were only three at the time!”

“I remember the steep meadow behind the old church,” Teddy supplied. “And how Rabbit was trying so hard to crawl up on her hands and knees and not getting anywhere.”

Remus had no difficulty picturing the scene. Teddy had run off among the overgrown grounds of the ancient cathedral while Tonks was intent on finding at least one weathered tombstone engraved with the Lupin name -- although neither of them had any idea of the proper century. Phoebe had been unusually fussy all day, no longer content to ride in her mum’s rucksack-style baby carrier. Not that she much preferred the view from the higher angle of her father’s arms, either. Phoebe was determined to run after her brother as her outstretched arms seemed to indicate, although she was still a few months away from walking unaided.

“Look, cherub, let’s just give it up for the day,” Remus capitulated.

“Don’t you want to know for sure?” Tonks protested. “We can’t very well ask if anyone remembers the Lupins; it’s been too many generations. Besides, it’s not such a strain bending over the stones without having to balance a squirming infant on my back.”

He was about to mention the siren song of their hotel’s shady terrace and a tall glass of pastis when he heard Teddy’s joyful whoop of laughter coming from much too far away. They both set off at a trot towards the wild meadow sloping down to the church cemetery.

It didn’t take them long to spy Teddy. Standing atop a large granite boulder at the top of the hill, he brandished a discarded stick as a king waves his scepter over the vast expanse of his demesne. Remus hesitated at the base of the hill. It was a lot steeper than it had looked from a distance, shot through with tumbled rocks among the riotous display of wildflowers.

“There’ll be no coaxing him down, you know,” Tonks warned. “Let me know if you get tired and I’ll carry Phoebe the rest of the way.”

So with a resigned sigh, Remus had stepped onto the canvas of an Impressionist painting, the late afternoon sun transforming the knee-high grasses into tendrils of pure gold. As the slanting light revealed the tiniest threads of their interior structure, the vibrant red, pink and purple flowers seemed to be constructed of nothing more than tissue paper. Phoebe reached out with her chubby fingers to grab some of the passing jewels only to find she could not reach. Noting that her efforts might cause Remus to lose his balance, Tonks handed her daughter a small bouquet of tapered blossoms in lemon yellow, lavender, and bright fuchsia.

“Do you remember the flowers that Phoebe tickled your face with that day?” Remus posed to the young lad at his side. “When you stood with the world at your feet?”

Teddy turned serious eyes to his father’s laughing ones. “They were long and thin, like a paintbrush covered in tiny flowers.”

Remus smiled at the memory, surprised that Teddy remembered the events of that day so clearly. “Those were lupine blossoms. The shape is like that of an animal’s tail, a wolf’s tail to be exact. Lupin also means wolf-like.”

“So we’re named for animals just like the Weasleys.”

Sagging with relief inside, Remus confirmed, “Yes, like the Weasleys. Fox and Byrd are other common surnames. And in France, chevalier is a noble horseman just as it’s used as a family name today.”

“But why wolf?” Teddy pressed.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Remus remarked in order to give himself time to think.

“Why wolf? If cheval…”

“Chevalier.”

“Right. Those people were involved with horses in olden times, right?”

“Probably either as horse breeders or perhaps even members of the royal guard. It’s impossible to say. The names are often ancient in origin.”

“Dad, what did our family have to do with wolves? Didn’t you tell us that the hungry man-eating wolves in fairy tales didn’t exist anymore?”

“Yes, they were wiped out by farmers protecting their livestock throughout Europe.”

“Then we’re named for something that doesn’t exist anymore?” Teddy’s curiosity seemed to know no bounds.

“Certainly in that incarnation.” Remus fought the sensation that he was quickly drowning.

“But…” Teddy urged with that unerring sixth sense of children everywhere.

With a deep breath, Remus stammered, “Teddy, you know that your father… that I suffer from a disease, something I contracted when I was not much older than you are now… something for which there is no cure.”

Much to Remus’ relief, Teddy shrugged as if it were the most common pronouncement. “Sure, that’s why Mum’s always giving you that foul-smelling potion. She explained that to me once when I asked her why she was punishing you.”

Remus laughed awkwardly despite the trepidation hammering in his chest. “Well, it’s not exactly the sort of illness that’s contagious so you don’t have to worry about being in the same room with me or anything.”

“I would never think that, Dad. Is that what makes you so sad sometimes? Do other people say ugly things to you?”

Surprised at his son’s intuitiveness, Remus could only reply, “Those who are ignorant do.”

Teddy nodded his head in commiseration. “Mum said there would be those who thought less of me because I could change my hair color and they couldn’t. Envy, she called it.”

“People often fear what they do not understand. Those who are different from them, for instance.”

“I still don’t get what this has to do with wolves!” Teddy persisted.

Recognizing that his son’s relentlessness was but an echo of his own, Remus explained, “If I were not taking my medication, the disease would cause me to turn into a wolf on the night of the full moon.”

“But you turn into a giant turtle and Harry into a zebra when we play games.”

“That’s something we learned to do at will. The disease is different; it changes you whether you resist it or not. And afterwards all you remember is the pain of your bones and muscles stretching as you transform, but you have no memory of what transpired during the hours in which you were in an altered state.” Despite his best efforts, Remus’ voice nearly gave out before he reached the end. “That’s what’s most frightening of all, Teddy; you can’t remember what you’ve done!”

“But the medication helps?”

“Yes, it does,” Remus admitted with a shaky smile. “It allows me to lead a more normal life. But not everyone who suffers from this disease is lucky enough to have access to medication. They have to go to designated cells when the moon is full so they are kept safe from one another.”

There was only concern in Teddy’s expression as he asked, “These poor people are caged up like animals?”

Not being able to deny his son the truth, Remus replied through ashen lips, “Some of them are forced into this because the government controls the source of the medication and it can be very expensive.”

“Can’t they have someone brew it for them like Mum does?”

“Not everyone has your mother’s skill. The Potions Master at Hogwarts recently perfected a much more effective variation to the basic formula. It’s not yet available to the general public.”

“Does Victoire know all this?”

Remus hesitated, suddenly lost as to how to proceed. “I’m not sure,” he conceded. “I know her mother does. But it’s a little too personal to discuss with anyone outside of our immediate family, don’t you think?”

Teddy nodded gravely.

“Even your little sister,” Remus cautioned. “Any questions you have should be directed to me or to your mother. No exceptions.”

“Do we know anyone else who suffers from the wolf sickness?”

Had he asked so many questions of his parents when he’d been a child? Remus considered inwardly. With a sigh to acknowledge that he had likely been even worse, he responded, “Yes, but I will tell you only if you promise not to breathe a word to anyone.” He waited for Teddy to nod his head. “Serenity’s mum also suffers from this disease.”

“Does Serenity know?”

“I’m sure she’s old enough for her mother to have confided in her. But, Spook, that doesn’t mean she’s willing to discuss this with you. It’s still a very personal issue.”

“I’ll remember, Dad,” he promised with a tight hug that had Remus trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

As bedtime beckoned, Teddy turned towards Remus at the entrance to his room. “Is that why Mum’s Patronus is shaped like a wolf, too?”

“She told you about that?”

“Yes, but it’s a secret, too.” Teddy flashed him a conspiratorial smile. “I just didn’t think it was a secret between you and me.”

“It isn’t, son. I don’t ever want you to think you have to hide things from your mum and me.”

“What about Harry?”

“Not Harry, either. But I don’t think he’ll be comfortable discussing these matters with you, not until you’re older anyway.”

“I promise I won’t put Harry on the spot then.”

“As for your mother’s Patronus, it was one of the things that convinced me she was ready to become a member of this family.”

“Is that why you married her?” Teddy asked as he struggled with his pajama top.

Remus straightened the hem as he pulled the fabric down over his son’s ribcage. With a small smile of contentment, he added, “That and the fact that I loved her very much.”



.

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Five
The War Museum


The sign over the door to number twelve, Grimmauld Place read simply: “War Museum”. Next to the doorknob, a small plague announced that it had been donated by Harry James Potter and the Estate of Sirius Black.

Not that any of that was visible to passersby. Despite all the debates which had raged recently about the abolishment of the Statute of Secrecy, the Ministry was not certain the Muggle world was ready to embrace the wizards who had been living amongst them. Better that wizards set their sights on correcting the injustices within their own society before inviting more trouble was the prevailing argument. A viewpoint which was often fostered by those who protested any changes to make the wizarding community more equitable for all magical creatures.

So the museum curators had been designated as the Secret-Keepers of the Fidelius Charm protecting the former headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix from public view. Admittance was only by way of tickets distributed by the Ministry or through one of the wizarding travel agencies which had sprung up throughout Britain and other countries in the wake of Voldemort’s defeat. Each ticket had to be hand-lettered with the address by one of the curators to allow the premises to be seen by visitors. They soon learned to issue only one ticket to large groups to enable one of the curators to be at the gate at the appointed hour. It was the surest way to guarantee that those at the back of the queue would not be left gaping on the sidewalk as the rest of their party disappeared before their eyes.

It was a job that Arabella Figg had taken to from the start. She had been lucky enough to secure a small house adjoining the narrow backyard of number twelve so her cats could lounge in comfort. She had merely to walk the twenty paces from her backdoor, turn the key in a gate which no one else could see, and she was at work. She had always enjoyed meeting new people and this job was ideally suited to that.

Unlike Mrs. Figg who was in charge of admissions and tours, the second curator handled the exhibits themselves, a truly demanding task in the case of a civil war which had been fought covertly. Just how much should be revealed about the heroes who wanted nothing more than to return anonymously to their ordinary lives? Yet some sort of memorial was necessary. To not acknowledge what had been accomplished by the small band of freedom fighters would just make it easier for another despot to take power. That was perhaps the only thing which had everyone in agreement

It was a constant tightrope to be walked, though, often allowing the people who were being honored to be the final arbiters of a given display. The constant diplomacy and tact required made it an ideal post for the unique talents of Luna Lovegood. Although she often worked long hours when the museum was closed to the public, she reveled in the flexibility of her schedule. Her boyfriend’s employer required him to travel abroad on a regular basis, but Luna could always adjust her work hours to spend the maximum time with him when he returned to British soil.

Luna displayed an instinctive knack for the delicacy required. Take the section devoted to those who had served as wartime spies. There were no traitors, just double agents; pitting the likes of Peter Pettigrew with those of Severus Snape. Moles who had infiltrated unfriendly territory included Percy Weasley and Dolores Umbridge.

It had been more difficult to ignore the pleas of anonymity from those members of the Order of the Phoenix who had been awarded Orders of Merlin by the Minister himself. After the unavoidable public ceremony that pinning the medals entailed, many just wished to return to the course of their private lives. Harry himself had dwelled far too long in the spotlight and just wanted to be left alone.

Between his natural modesty and the uncertain status of werewolves, Remus had begged to remain in the background as much as possible. Honoring his concerns as valid, Luna’s display had simply mentioned that although he had not been present at the final confrontation with Voldemort, Remus had been instrumental in luring one of the enemy’s chief lieutenants to an undisclosed site, allowing the others to attack unimpeded. After mentioning how his unsurpassed foreign language skills had aided with the translation of classified communications, the verbiage concluded with the words that Mr. Lupin continued to pursue a career in education. Much to the relief of the Ministry, no mention was made of the werewolf encampments and the role Remus had played with that. Not that Luna’s objective had been to placate the Ministry; her primary goal was to honor Remus’ request that he be treated just like everyone else.

“I know it’s perplexing to anyone who has not walked a mile in my boots, but the fact that I’m a werewolf is irrelevant,” Remus had confided to her. “It does not make me more heroic in the eyes of others who will stop to consider what obstacles I’ve had to overcome. Quite the contrary. It will lead them to conclude that the Order was directed by a chained monster in the shadow of Dumbledore’s demise.”

“No one who knows you would think that, Remus,” Luna mollified, her slightly protuberant eyes conveying the sensation that she saw things so much more clearly than most.

Instinctively, the diplomat in him sought the common ground. “Let’s not forget the museum will be visited by hordes of strangers, then.”

Ever mindful that she was dealing with real, living people and not artifacts, Luna had agreed that to list Remus as a werewolf was tantamount to providing overly personal details.

It was a history not unlike uncovering the layers of an onion, each display often giving rise to another to flesh out all the pertinent details. With a critical eye, she reviewed the wording of her newest exhibit and decided it should rightly be situated near the entrance. Even though such arrangement was not strictly chronological, sometimes it was best to organize things in a way that simply made them easier to understand.

The Heir and the Spare

It had all begun with a prophecy: stark in its pronouncement, much more complicated in its interpretation. One child born at the end of July 1980 had the power to destroy the Dark Lord. Born of parents who had outwitted the Dark Lord three times.

But as the appointed date drew near, there were two such families who fit the bill. The Longbottoms, Frank and Alice, a pair of established Aurors with the Ministry of Magic and the Potters, James and Lily, married just out of school and still struggling to establish their place in a world quickly being swallowed up by war. Both couples were active members of the Order of the Phoenix, the underground group which stood steadfastly against Voldemort’s rise to power.

As the month of July drew to a close, Alice Longbottom gave birth to a son, Neville, at approximately 11:30 p.m. on the night of 30 July. Having gone into labor at almost the same moment, Lily Potter gave birth to a son, Harry, in the early morning hours of 31 July. Two sons, both born as the month of July died, their births separated by only a matter of hours.

Not being one to leave any loose strings, Voldemort was determined to eradicate the threat before it grew to manhood. For reasons that have never been made clear, he sent one of his inner circle to locate the Longbottoms and torture them repeatedly with the Cruciatus Curse while not touching a hair on young Neville’s head. The Potters, he killed personally on the night of 31 October as a full moon guided Muggle Halloween revelers in the nearby village of Godric’s Hollow. He would have killed one-year-old Harry, too, had the green light of his Killing Curse not rebounded from the boy's forehead and hit his attacker squarely in the chest instead. Harry was left bereft and abandoned, crying inconsolably for parents who could no longer come to his aid, branded with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

Thus Voldemort fulfilled the portion of the prophecy which stated that he would mark his nemesis as his equal, many argued as the eyes of the wizarding world hailed Harry Potter as their hero. The other boy, Neville Longbottom, could no longer pose a threat to Voldemort, others -- including the venerable Albus Dumbledore �“ maintained, as only Harry had been marked.

Not to be swayed by so simplistic an interpretation, Neville weighed in after hearing of the prophecy from Harry himself. He believed that his weekly visits to catatonic parents in the Incurable Patients Ward had scarred him just as deeply on the inside.

Although he did not hold much stock in prophesy himself, Harry was not one to leave anything to chance, either. With that in mind, the final confrontation with Voldemort was executed in tandem by the two seventeen-year-old wizards, each distracting the mighty Dark Lord in turn so the other could attack with impunity.

Luna straightened the edge of the frame one last time before she was satisfied with her morning’s work.

Now all she needed to finish was the display on the moles and double agents. Well, one in particular, if she was perfectly honest with herself. After all, the section on Peter Pettigrew had been easy; he was hardly in a position to object to being portrayed in an unfavorable light. Percy Weasley had been a cinch; his tale of misunderstanding among his family members would strike a cord with everyone who felt friction at home. She’d even managed to inject a note of humor when Percy recounted how difficult it had been to maintain his cover in the midst of a Christmas Day food fight.

The paragraphs on Severus Snape had been more troublesome as she wanted to encapsulate the crisis of conscience which had led him to change paths without betraying too many facts of an overly personal nature. It had proven to be a daunting task; Snape had sacrificed too many things in his life in order to correct his wrongs. To totally omit those was to ignore the profound selflessness which had led the Minister to eventually present the man with an Order of Merlin, third class.

For a man with such a naturally caustic nature, Snape had shown great perseverance in convincing the Order of his true loyalty �“ even though he’d resorted to approaching many of them one by one. In retrospect, Luna had concluded that without the full weight of the Order behind him, things might not have turned out so well for the Half-Blood Prince. He had played his duplicitous roles too perfectly and the evidence against him would have been too overwhelming for the war tribunals to dismiss. It was only the eloquence of those who spoke before the Wizengamot on his behalf, coupled with the fervent written testimonials of others who did not feel up to the task of personally addressing such an august assemblage, which had turned the tide in his favor. As Scrimgeour himself had noted for the press, “These were hardly the words of a legal counsel who had made a career of swaying juries in his clients’ favor.”

In the end, Snape himself had come to Luna’s aid and distilled his exploits into the bare bones version she had ultimately used.

“Please don’t think me ungrateful,” Snape himself had commented after reading her preliminary drafts, “but your words are so much more than a scoundrel like me deserves.”

When Luna had made to protest, he reminded her that his fledgling potions business would not be enhanced by her attempts to paint him as a romantic hero. “Political controversy and business seldom mix,” he intoned succinctly. He much preferred to be depicted as an ordinary man who had been pulled into events he could not ignore.

Then there was his position as the newly reinstated Potions Master in the wake of Horace Slughorn’s second (and final) retirement. “I would be inundated with personal questions from day one,” Snape pointed out. “Despite the temptation, I can’t put everyone in detention without my wife complaining that I never come home in the evenings.”

A slightly rakish lift to his otherwise somber eyebrow left Luna thinking that Voldemort’s defeat had been a liberating moment for Snape as well.

---

A number of hours later, Mrs. Figg found Luna at her worktable in the attic. Despite the pitched ceiling and tall windows which gave the former children’s nursery an airy, uncluttered feeling, it was clear Luna was not finding much inspiration today. Balls of wadded up parchment littered the table as well as the area surrounding the wire dustbin.

“Sorry about the mess,” Luna noted sheepishly as her wand sent the debris to resettle within the dustbin before Mrs. Figg was tempted to bend over to tidy up herself. “Umbridge is proving just as uncooperative as ever.”

“You’re determined not to just gloss over the facts, aren’t you?” Mrs. Figg ventured as she urged Luna to help herself to some sandwiches from the luncheon tray.

“I want to present as unbiased an exhibit as possible,” Luna maintained, the idealism which had led her into the fight against Voldemort still shining in her pale blue eyes.

“Bearing in mind that history is written by the victors…”

Picking up the threads of a familiar topic, Luna added, “I just don’t want to be accused of rewriting it.”

“But, my dear, isn’t that precisely what that Umbridge woman has already done in her recent interviews?”

“Worse than that, she’s accused us of a complete fabrication.”

“Seems rather unfair, don’t you think?” Mrs. Figg noted with dry sarcasm. “She hasn’t even seen a single one of our exhibits.”

Luna laughed despite the seriousness of the situation. “Oh, Figgy,” she cried, “I don’t know how you always manage to ease my frustrations, but somehow you do.”

“Well, my dear, it’s like my mother always used to say: you can rail at the stupidity around you or you can laugh in its face!” She watched Luna noticeably relax as the young woman took a large bite of ham sandwich followed by a long swig of iced Butterbeer. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

“Nothing really,” Luna admitted. “Just the copies of her Educational Decrees from Hogwarts. Her complicity with Voldemort’s camp has never been documented.”

“Which is why she escaped punishment. Neither of us doubts the evidence Harry unearthed among the Horcruxes he had to destroy.”

“So how do I approach this?” Luna posed. “Bearing in mind that I can’t lead with the most damning evidence of all and she’s sure to raise a hue and cry if she considers any of my words libelous, even though it might be the truth.”

Mrs. Figg took a moment to consider before suggesting, “The worst thing we can do is to omit her from the exhibit. It will be more difficult for her to repudiate the entire war effort as blatant lies if we can establish that she was a participant.”

“Agreed.”

“So let’s begin with those actions which were reported in the Daily Prophet. Start with how she came to be the Ministry’s envoy to Hogwarts. Her mission: to debunk the rumors that Voldemort had indeed returned.”

“Don’t forget how she undermined any attempts for students to learn defensive spells.”

“Did she really, in retrospect?” Mrs. Figg urged with an intense look. “I believe you could easily paint her as the catalyst for Dumbledore’s Army. She galvanized the students to become involved in a way that a less controversial teacher might not have.”

“Surely, that’s not the story you want me to tell!” Luna protested.

“No, I was just making a point about there being more than one way to look at things.”

“Perhaps I should portray her as a bureaucrat sent to do a thankless job for a boss whom she idolized,” Luna volunteered.

“Would that boss be Cornelius Fudge or Lord Voldemort?”

“Both, when you get right down to it!” Luna couldn’t help laughing outright at Mrs. Figg’s devilry.

“Why don’t you tie it in with the section on Fudge’s vain attempts to keep his administration from crumbling. You can still depict her actions are being covert, even though she was just following her boss’ orders -- as she will undoubtedly claim.”

When Mrs. Figg returned an hour later to fetch the tray, Luna had the rudiments of her exhibit falling into place.

“Here, I found this in another file,” Mrs. Figg presented Luna with a letter on Fudge’s personal stationary. “We requested he review the data concerning his tenure for accuracy. He sent this as part of his response.”

“Do you think it might provide the perfect segue?” Luna asked with interest as she scanned the former Minister’s words.

It is regrettable that an administration which did much to benefit wizardkind will ultimately be remembered for its most grievous flaws. As the man in charge, I have no one but myself to blame for my myopic view of the events unfolding in the world around us. It was a short-sightedness buoyed by idealism, not that such is any sort of excuse. We had finally banished the worst among us and our society deserved to live in peaceful coexistence. Was I too stubborn to think that our halcyon days could be numbered? It was a dream for which I was willing to fight, to wager my own reputation for the sake of our mutual happiness.

It was unfortunate that Fate proved me to be so fundamentally wrong-headed. But a man who has done his best and failed can only step down from office draped in the mantle of humility. Disgrace is reserved for those who willfully abused the responsibilities which were thrust upon them �“ and that I never did.

There are those who will say that my stubbornness allowed our mutual enemy to obtain an undue advantage and for this I am truly sorry. That the forces of good eventually triumphed is a benefit which I will reap along with everyone else.

I cannot think of a more fitting tribute to your relentless heroism than the War Museum you have planned. Let the private citizenry witness firsthand how their very neighbors took it upon themselves to rid the world of evil. We are all indebted to them for their selfless donations of time, property, and in the most extreme cases, their very lives, so that wizardkind would be liberated in their wake.

With quiet certitude, Mrs. Figg proclaimed, “It takes a certain type of courage to admit one’s mistakes, especially without rancor as Fudge has done here. I think we owe it to him to include his words.”

“That’s fine by me, but I still need something more on Umbridge herself. It’s as if I’ve abridged her tale somewhat…”

“Well, you have, Luna dear. You’ve buried her true intentions among the political posturing. What you need are some inoffensive facts about her schooling and early career perhaps.”

“I’m not sure any of her former coworkers are likely to want to cooperate with us. I’d have more success if I sought fodder to deride her.”

“So she wasn’t very popular, I see. Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” Mrs. Figg poured the last of the lukewarm tea into her cup as she considered the alternatives.

With an accommodating smile, Luna leaned over and reheated the brew with a dainty tap of her wand.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Figg acknowledged. “Tell you what: why don’t I take a little walk to the archives and bring you back some innocuous tidbits? I’ve been cooped up in this dreary townhouse much too long.”

“But the weather…” Luna cautioned with a wary look towards the dubious cloudcover.

“You think I’m afraid of a little rain? It looks like its hours away, at best. I grew up in the city and, believe me, if we waited for the weather to cooperate, Londoners would have long ago died of starvation within their own homes.”

Recognizing a losing battle, Luna desisted. A bit of exercise never did anyone any harm, she allowed inwardly. And Mrs. Figg was right about the rain in the city being more manageable than in the bucolic countryside where she had spent her youth. Luna still recalled the tall tales her father told of the mighty mud holes which could easily swallow a horse and rider.

Looking down at the formal parchment she still clutched in her hand, the words came unbidden from the depths of Luna’s subconscious: The evil men do lives after them; the good is often interred with their bones. She would double-check the exact quote form her father’s Collected Works of William Shakespeare. Her quill struggled to keep pace with the torrent of words flowing onto the creamy sheets before her:

Although this fictional eulogy was never delivered over the grave of Julius Caesar, the words remain true nonetheless. One has only to consider the tenure of Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister for Magic, from 1990 through 1996…

Despite Arabella Figg’s fondness for grandmotherly calico and comfortable oxfords, Luna would have been hard-pressed to find a more steadfast muse. With her shabby Macintosh tightly belted against autumn’s sharp bite, Mrs. Figg turned the far corner of the sidewalk and was lost from view. A slight pout of concern lingered on Luna’s lips as she turned her eyes from the leaden horizon and concentrated on the task before her.

---

She came upon it like a Muggle would: against the slate grey sky, it stood as a darker lump before the modern cityscape. It was only as she drew nearer that the silver ribbons of cold autumn rain parted like a watery fringe, allowing the details to come into sharper focus.

The tumbled concrete cinderblocks and plaster looked like colorless pieces of cake demolished by a giant’s footsteps. The broken timbers were still blackened by the hatred of an enemy long vanquished, yet the metal mesh fence wove around it like a bandage on a wound that, for many families, would never heal.

The small weathered sign identified that the ruins had been declared a national monument by governments past, an homage to the nightly terror which had gripped the city during the dark days of the blitzkrieg. It was a time Mrs. Figg recalled vividly from her childhood and from nightmares for many years thereafter. The vague sign implied that the site was being developed in some manner, yet it never changed. No construction crew ever came to provide sidewalks for the tourists to stare wide-eyed at the haphazardly cantilevered planks above their heads. It would have ruined the starkness of the memorial, Mrs. Figg maintained, somehow diluting the sacrifice many innocents had made for their country.

As for Muggles, they passed by it on their way to work each day and hardly gave it a second glance, a part of the landscape and nothing more. As such it was the perfect locale for the Daily Prophet to house its archives. The morgue, to speak of it in journalistic jargon, a term whose irony was not lost on Mrs. Figg.

She had disembarked from the tube at the prior exit so she could stop in at the bakers and had walked the intervening distance on foot. Having lived in London all her life, the rain did not bother her. Besides, Luna had charmed her umbrella to repel water and she always remained inside a dry bubble despite the angle of the downpour. A subtle effect which proved invisible to Muggles who barely glanced at her through a curtain of rain.

Such a dear that Luna was, Mrs. Figg smiled to herself. She could have never asked for a more agreeable working companion. Always insisting that Squibs didn’t have to live without the benefits of magic; after all, what were friends for?

Immediately across the street from the archives, she ducked under the awning of the concrete pavilion which marked the tube access. With a sigh of relief, she closed her umbrella and went through the motions of shaking it before clasping it shut. As damp as the pavement was in all directions, no one would notice that no droplets actually clung to her magically enhanced brolly.

Two short flights down and just prior to the ticket turnstiles was the short maintenance tunnel she sought. Unobserved by the few Muggles around her, she made as if to reach a single drinking fountain at the rear wall. Unseen from the landing, the tunnel turned at a sharp right angle leading to a single metal door.

She retrieved the plastic card that would allow her access as a frequent visitor. It looked no different than the employee passes worn by the Underground workers; but once through the initial door, a dark crack materialized in the poured concrete before her. Splitting open like a prehistoric egg, it allowed her into the brightly lit and bustling lobby beyond.

The morgue was a regular crup’s den of activity despite the less than hospitable weather conditions outside. Mrs. Figg nodded in a friendly manner to the desk clerk on duty as she found herself a nice spot near the massive file cabinets. She carefully arranged her cloth shopping bag to keep the white bakery boxes stacked properly inside. Courtesy of Luna’s charm, the thick cloth remained bone dry as well. But no wizard would question that; they would assume she had applied a drying charm herself.

A quick mental calculation told her that she should begin her research with 1969 and then proceed backwards until she found the obligatory Hogwarts graduation photo which included Dolores Umbridge. From there, she could limit her research to the seven years prior that would comprise the woman’s student years, assuming she had returned for her N.E.W.T. levels. That was highly likely as Umbridge had obtained a posting with the Ministry right out of school. No need to research the woman’s more recent reign of terror while she enforced Cornelius Fudge’s agenda of misinformation at Hogwarts. They had already amassed reams of parchment about that, not to mention extensive firsthand accounts from aggrieved students and faculty alike.

Although the giant drawers were designed to be manipulated with magic, there always seemed to be a helpful clerk on hand to assist a frail, old lady. Having wrestled the proper stacks to form a small fortress around her end of the reading table, young Jimmy secured her promise that she would not hesitate to call him if she needed anything else.

Mrs. Figg gave him her most benign smile and murmured, “Thank you, dear. I’m sure I’ll be quite occupied for at least an hour or two.”

Chuckling amicably as he gallantly adjusted her chair, Jimmy waved off to his assigned post.

It was all Mrs. Figg could do to hide her guilty smile as she turned the yellowed pages of the decades-old newspaper before her. All young people assumed the elderly were so incapable of helping themselves �“ even among wizards where it was a well-established fact that magical ability continued to grow with age. One had only to look to Dumbledore or even Minerva McGonagall to see that. Yet the prejudice persisted.

Ageism, Tonks would surely scoff with a disgusted twist of her face as she assured Mrs. Figg that she was not old by any means. Always thinking in terms of stealth and concealment, Tonks had quickly conspired to use society’s short-sightedness to mask that Mrs. Figg was a Squib.

“Here, just carry this old defective wand in your pocket,” Tonks proposed. “No one will suspect if you wave it around vaguely. Let them come to your assistance. No one could possibly look more inoffensive than you.”

Such a sweetheart that Tonks was, Mrs. Figg concluded. Remus was a lucky man to have snared her. Or had she snared him? Well, it hardly mattered; they were clearly happy with one another and the two delightful children they had produced.

It didn’t take long to lose herself among the subtle nostalgia, recalling how each new event had influenced her own life. A thin stack of issues containing stories from Dolores’ school days was painstakingly set aside. Not much to go on really. Mrs. Figg had so hoped it would not be necessary to travel to the school directly. As much as she would have enjoyed a nice visit with Minerva, she did not have the option to travel by Apparition without a guide (not that it didn’t give her the most beastly headache, mind you) and her one experience with the Knight Bus had been enough to last a lifetime. Several lifetimes, actually. To think that her companions had expended so much energy to convince the young conductor that she was merely suffering from a wayward jinx which had temporarily robbed her of her magical abilities and nothing more.

As she continued to flip the weathered pages, she was caught short. It couldn’t be, her mind screeched. Well, perhaps it could; but how had they not known? No one had thought to ask, she concluded. Of one thing she was certain: she needed to show this to someone who could put it in perspective. Perhaps she was just overreacting, although she had never been one to see conspiracies under every rock like Alastor Moody.

The squeal of her chair as she slid away from the table echoed hollowly in the chamber. With a start, she looked around to find that it was almost closing time. She had not noticed the afternoon slipping away.

“Can I help you with anything?” The solicitous clerk smiled in Mrs. Figg’s direction. It was a young woman now; the shift change had occurred without her noticing at all. “Need copies?” The clerk nodded towards the small stack at Mrs. Figg’s elbow.

“If you don’t mind, dearie,” replied Mrs. Figg, followed by the stock line which Luna had taught her. “I much prefer it when the photos continue to move about and that just doesn’t seem to happen when I copy them with magic.”

The clerk smiled down at her kindly. “Please don’t think there’s anything wrong with your wand, m’am. The Prophet has a copyrighted charm which blocks the replication of its moving photographs unless one of us clerks does it.”

Mrs. Figg knew that, counted on it as a matter of fact. It was one of the reasons doing research at the Daily Prophet morgue was so easy to accomplish despite her limitations.

Remembering the time, Mrs. Figg placed a gentle hand on the clerk’s arm to forestall her. “Not meaning to be a bother, dear, but is there anywhere nearby where I could send an owl? I seem to have lost track of the time today.”

“You’re welcome to use the Floo.” The clerk tilted her head absently toward the large blazing hearth which dominated the far wall. “Complimentary powder is in the pot to the right.”

“I don’t mean to impose…” Mrs. Figg let her words trail meaningfully. “Well, kneeling like that makes my head spin so. Not as easy to get up and down at my age, either.”

Deftly levitating the oversized volumes before her, the clerk turned an indulgent eye towards Mrs. Figg. She really was such an old darling, revisiting the good times of her youth instead of obsessing over the obituaries as so many of these old birds were wont to do. “Tracing old friends today?” she inquired.

“Oh, yes!” Mrs. Figg nodded eagerly. “Today I was lucky to find a path to renew an old friendship. I’m just a bit late…”

“Of course, your family will be worried. And it’s still raining like there’s no tomorrow outside.” Glancing at the minute hand of the clock which indicated it was now officially closing time, the clerk made an immediate decision. “I’ll just get one of the express owls we keep in case the Floo acts up. I won’t be a moment.”

“I don’t want to keep you after hours,” Mrs. Figg demurred, peeking worriedly at the clock herself. Luna was sure to be concerned by now.

“Really, it’s nothing. I still have another hour to my shift while I straighten up and finish some paperwork. It will be pleasant to have a bit of company, if only for a short while. Why don’t you prepare your message on a bit of parchment and I’ll be back for it as soon as I’ve seen to your copies?”

Mrs. Figg graced the clerk with her most beatific smile before turning her attention to the note she needed to send. How should she word it exactly so the seriousness of the discovery was conveyed without raising any undue alarms? There was really only one person she felt comfortable confiding in now that Dumbledore was gone. With a quick flourish of her quill, she addressed the outside of her note to:

R J Lupin
Marauder House
Godric’s Hollow

The clerk assured her that she was welcome to wait for a response. The Floo was not closed until the building was locked up in the wake of the cleaning crew.

Mrs. Figg leaned back in one of the padded chairs which flanked the ornately carved hearth, idly wondering whether it had been part of the original structure. It would not have been unusual to find such a large fireplace in the basement kitchen of one of the stately Edwardian homes which had once been the toast of London.

With a regretful sigh, she realized she had no real idea what sort of structure had stood on this spot before it had been bombed by the Nazis. She had only been a child, caught up in the minutia of childhood and had never visited this part of London that she could recall. Schooled among Muggles, she had learned of Hilter’s views on Aryan purity only to have those same twisted tenets echoed by Grindelwald’s mantra of pureblood superiority for wizards. Two madman, each from the same part of the world, had often made the child in her wonder if there was something amiss with the water supply.

It was too much to be coincidental, she had come to believe, but she never had anyone with which she dared to discuss it. The Statute of Secrecy forbade her from bringing such explosive news to the attention of University historians. As for wizards, they were often the worst about assuming that Muggles were just ants beneath their boots, paying heed only to the events in their own society and disregarding the rest. We share the same world, Mrs. Figg had often wanted to shout, the same sidewalks, the same air, the same bloody rock standing in the middle of the frigid sea �“ and, ultimately, the same destiny.

It was Albus Dumbledore who had finally made her see that she was not alone in her beliefs. Although the time had not yet come to dismantle the Statute, he warned, she was not the only one who questioned whether it had outlived its usefulness. Introduced to the other like-minded wizards in the Order of the Phoenix, she was pleasantly surprised to find that, for the first time in her life, she fit in. Imagine that, a Squib finally finding her place among wizards!

Dumbledore had actually seen her total lack of magical aptitude as an asset and assigned her to watch over Harry at Privet Drive for the sixteen years the lad had lived there. No one else would have passed muster with the Dursleys and their obsessive rejection of everything magical. Stupidity in the face of what they knew to be true, what they had witnessed for themselves, yet Vernon had poisoned his wife Petunia to turn her back on her own sister �“ and by extension, her nephew, Harry.

She often wondered how the Dursleys had fared in the eight years since Harry had left them for good. Were they happy to finally be rid of him as they had always maintained to the poor lad’s face? Or had he left an inexplicable void in their lives only to have them deny it to themselves as well? Mrs. Figg often suspected it was the latter, but she knew it was too big a risk to try to find out. Her own safety depended on her anonymity just as the Dursley’s welfare in the midst of a brutal war had depended upon them cutting all ties with the Boy-Who-Lived.

Mrs. Figg remembered Harry asking her about it as they stood among the dusty tomes of the neglected study at Grimmauld Place and dared to dream that the shabby townhouse might be suitable for a museum.

“I often wonder…” He had left the sentence unfinished, the hitch in his voice unmistakable to her ears.

She had given his arm a gentle squeeze and counseled, “Sometimes we have to let go, Harry. They never really wanted to be a part of our world. Are you really ready to go back to theirs?”

“No, I wouldn’t want to lose all I’ve gained,” Harry admitted woefully. “I just worry…”

“That they might have become victims?”

He nodded dumbly.

“The Auror Division has kept meticulous records of Muggles who fell victim to Voldemort’s rampages; you can thank Kingsley Shacklebolt for that. Have you checked with him?”

“Yes,” Harry admitted hollowly. “He allowed me to comb through the lists to convince myself. Promised he would never keep such news from me regardless of how…painful…it might prove to be.”

She had seen the haunted look in the back of Harry’s eyes then, the ghosts of all those whom he had lost along the way. It saddened her that such hardships had been visited upon him at an early age, wondered about how much they had cost him despite his ultimate triumph.

But then she’d heard Remus calling up from the landing, reminding Harry that they’d promised Tonks to be back in time to help feed the children and all vestiges of the past had flown out the window. With a high voltage smile which demonstrated just how much he had come to love his extended family, Harry wrapped her up in a quick hug and took the stairs at the breakneck speed of youth.

Almost as if on cue, a bright emerald flare drew her from her musings. But instead of seeing Remus’ features nestled among the blazing coals, Mrs. Figg was surprised to find the man himself easing his long limbs from the gargantuan hearth.

“Why, Auntie,” Remus remarked with a winning smile directed at the clerk, “we were beginning to worry about you. Did you forget you were dining with the family this evening?”

“She lost track of the time as she meandered down memory lane,” the clerk supplied as she assisted Mrs. Figg to assemble her packages. “Is it still beastly out?”

“Deplorable,” Remus commiserated in his most charming manner. “I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble. She so prefers the bustling ambiance here to the library.”

“No bother at all,” the clerk assured them. “The dear is welcome anytime.”

“Ta,” Mrs. Figg offered as she deposited three shiny Sickles on the desk to pay for the copying services. As Remus led her towards the fire, she couldn’t help being relieved that she’d bought an extra box of the lavender tea biscuits which Luna preferred. No point in arriving without a hostess gift �“ despite the impromptu nature of the invitation.

“I already Floo’d Luna to let her know you were in good hands,” Remus breathed reassuringly in Mrs. Figg’s ear as he helped her over the low stoop.

Briefly, she wondered if she would get a chance to see Harry tonight as well. Or were he and Ginny still enjoying their honeymoon?

Taking an extra moment to steady her by the arm, Remus nodded that they should step into the hearth in unison. With a mighty green swoosh, they were swept away in the direction of Godric’s Hollow.

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Six
A Call to Arms


“I don’t want that man in my house!” Harry reiterated, the copper pots hanging from the rack above reverberating as he brought his fist down on the kitchen table.

“Be reasonable, Harry,” Remus returned in a even voice. “He’s still an official member of the Order. How would it look if he were purposely excluded?”

“We’re allowing Luna to bring her father as a guest. It’s not like we’re maintaining strict secrecy.”

“Don’t you think it would be useful to have The Quibbler on our side? You yourself used it to stand up to the slanted news in the Daily Prophet, or have you forgotten?”

The set of Harry’s jaw clearly showed he was not backing down. “Besides, the Order ceased to exist with Voldemort’s defeat.”

Remus sighed. “Consider it a social club, then, like the Veterans of Foreign Wars. The Minister specifically requested --”

“Have you forgotten the doubts I’ve had about Scrimgeour all along?” Harry pressed. “Surely Tonks relayed the man’s personal stance on werewolves…”

“Yes, but he publicly puts a different face on it. You can’t deride him for that.”

Only because Hermione and Percy cornered him, Harry thought darkly, prudently deciding it would not do to voice such sentiments aloud. After all, the presence of Mrs. Figg meant this was not just a family discussion.

“Did I do the wrong thing by bringing this to your attention?” Mrs. Figg implored as she looked at the two men standing on opposite ends of the long table.

“No, of course not, Arabella. Harry and I don’t always see eye to eye,” Remus offered genially.

“It’s always better to know the truth,” Harry echoed with an apologetic half-smile in the direction of his former neighbor.

“That’s just it,” Remus argued. “We only know a very small corner of the truth. You’re judging the man based on circumstantial evidence!”

“All of his suspicious actions just got put into context!” Harry shot back. “How can you deny that?”

“I know how it looks, Harry. But I can’t categorically condemn the man without hearing his side of it,” Remus insisted. “Just remember how they railroaded Sirius.”

“It is a similar situation,” Mrs. Figg ventured, her grey head bobbing up and down. “Not that I’m taking sides, mind you.”

“Wise decision,” Tonks agreed as she took the chair next to Mrs. Figg. “Don’t let their enthusiastic discussion put you off. Harry and Remus are bound to disagree every once in a while.”

A loud pop announced Dobby’s Apparition at Tonks’ side. “Were you able to put the children to bed, Mistress?”

“Yes, Dobby.” Tonks smiled at the concern in the house-elf’s protuberant eyes. “I diffused an Uninterrupted Sleep Potion directly into the air as well.” Leveling a no nonsense look at the men, she added, “I’m trusting the two of you to reach a viable compromise as adults.”

“I really didn’t mean to spark a confrontation…” Mrs. Figg remarked apologetically.

“Of course not, dear,” Tonks soothed as she patted Mrs. Figg’s papery hand in reassurance. “Just take it with a grain of salt. If Ginny were here, she’d already be lining up wagers for Harry’s temper versus Remus’ stubbornness.”

Mrs. Figg giggled nervously. “Do you approach everything with such irreverence?”

“Didn’t we fight a war for that very privilege?” Remus supplied with a smirk. “Besides, humor always diffuses the situation.”

“Thank you, Dobby,” Tonks whispered as she took the laden tray from the elf’s hands. “Won’t you help yourself to some tea, Arabella? I need to check on the children one last time. I think an Imperturbable Charm may be in order.”

“I’m still not backing down,” Harry pronounced. “Mrs. Figg, surely you remember how he abandoned his post just prior to the dementor attack in Little Whinging?”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Figg offered over a dainty sip of tea.

Harry nodded grimly before continuing, “And I stumbled upon him in Hogsmeade with a whole satchel of silver goblets from Grimmauld Pl--”

“You have no evidence they were stolen,” Remus interjected. “Sirius was prone to give things away with just a wave of his hand.”

“They were family heirlooms!” Harry volleyed back.

“From a family which had disowned him,” Remus countered.

“You always have an answer for everything,” Harry huffed as he sat down heavily at his end of the table.

“Alternate explanations can be just as valid,” Remus supplied diplomatically. “That’s why I maintain it’s all inconclusive.”

“But he’s related to that…pig!” Harry was clearly unconvinced.

“Did you forget that Sirius and Tonks were related to Bellatrix? Much more closely, in fact,” Remus pointed out. “You can’t condemn a man because of his family. It’s his own actions--”

“�”that are particularly damning!” Harry finished. “I caught him with the pinched goods months after Sirius fell through the Veil. His guilty reaction--”

“�”means nothing,” Remus cut across. “He could just as easily have obtained those goods months earlier. What makes you so certain he was raiding the townhouse while it was uninhabited?”

“Didn’t Dumbledore warn you not to go back there?” Harry posed rhetorically. “That is was unsafe.”

“Yes, he provided me with alternate living arrangements that summer,” Remus admitted. “But I suspect he did that to help ease my grief just as much as anything else.”

“He was searching for Hufflepuff’s Cup!” Harry proclaimed.

“Which Dolores Umbridge had already secreted at Hogwarts the previous year,” Tonks volunteered as she calmly reclaimed her seat at Mrs. Figg’s side. “Yet Dung didn’t know about that.”

“So she didn’t tell him everything,” Harry opined.

Lupin shook his head sharply. “So he wasn’t privy to her true intentions, Harry. You can’t assume they were accomplices in this.”

“I still don’t want him in my house!” Harry exclaimed as his cup rattled ominously in its saucer.

“That’s not your decision to make,” Remus answered.

“Half of it is,” Harry defended. “Are you weighing in on the other half? What about Tonks?”

Tonks threw up her hands in surrender. “I’m claiming Swiss citizenship on this one. Total neutrality.”

Remus repositioned his chair so he was closer to Harry. “Look, Harry,” he proffered gently, “I admit Mundungus Fletcher has always been a dodgy character, but we can’t be condemning others based on theory and not absolute fact. It’s not fair!”

Harry scowled. “And everyone has always been fair to you in life. Haven’t they, Remus?”

“Quite the contrary. Which is why I strive to rise above it,” he urged with quiet fervor.

“Over-compensation, if you ask me,” Harry scoffed.

“Intransient idealism,” Tonks mumbled to herself.

A long shadow fell across the table from the doorway leading to the drawing room. Tonks looked up expectantly, but was caught short by the dark figure of Severus Snape.

Leaning contemptuously against the doorframe, he sneered, “Well, well, well…I always thought the two of you got along so famously together.” His obsidian eyes bore into Harry and Remus in turn. “I’m frankly surprised I don’t see wands drawn.”

“Really, Severus…” Remus protested.

“Of course, how could I be so boorish? Domestic disputes call for more civilized methods. Luckily, I see you have all manner of sharp knives at your disposal.” At the disparaging lift of Snape’s eyebrow, metal implements throughout the kitchen rattled ominously in their holders.

“Very funny, Severus,” Remus remarked dryly. “I see you’ve just returned from a visit to Rasputin’s tailor.”

“Yes, well, the man is entitled to make a living. Besides, he’s a distant relation,” Snape allowed in an undertone.

Not to be left out, Harry dared, “What brings you here this evening? Isn’t it a little late for Halloween?”

Not missing a beat, Snape replied in a silken tone, “A Muggle custom the wizarding world has embraced wholeheartedly thanks to your lot.”

“Why, Severus,” Tonks interjected sweetly, “I would have thought you were a natural for fancy dress parties. So many villains to choose from…”

“Indeed,” he acknowledged her well-place barb. “If only I had Lupin’s innate abilities, I could deride the students in different languages, as well.”

“Glad to hear you’re in support of the new linguistics program, then,” Remus noted.

Mrs. Figg’s mouth was hanging half open at the rapid-fire word play, confusion dotting her brow as she looked from one to the other.

Knowing this group could go on for hours, Tonks redirected the conversation. “Opening pleasantries aside, I should explain that I took the liberty of soliciting another opinion.”

Ginny was really going to kick herself for choosing tonight to clear out her London flat once and for all, Harry thought to himself. He could just envision her licking the end of her quill in concentration as she quickly refigured the odds with the addition of Snape into the mix.

With vampiric panache, Snape swirled his black robes into the chair Tonks offered him. “An impartial arbiter, so to speak. Minerva sends her regrets, Tonks. Both the Heads were tied up with school duties, but I was free. Finished supervising all my detentions hours ago. Didn’t know I’d be called upon for a another round.” Nodding sharply in Mrs. Figg’s direction, he commented with a sardonic smile, “Good evening, Arabella. I see you got caught up with this band of reprobates.”

“Fell though the rabbit hole, more like,” Mrs. Figg admitted.

“See, you have a flair for the game already,” Snape returned glibly.

“Here, let me fill you in,” Tonks offered as she handed him the parchment sheets Mrs. Figg had brought to their attention. Snape furrowed his brow as his eyes scanned the words before him.

“5 April 1964,” the banner across the top of the page read. It was an instinctual reaction to ponder where his own life had been at that juncture. Too young for Hogwarts, too young even for the run-down Muggle schoolhouse perched like a vulture on the hill overlooking Spinner’s End. His mother must have already been toiling dawn to dusk at the textile mill; it would have been operating at full capacity then. Even his father had been gainfully employed, not having been sacked for drunkenness until Snape was older. Only then had the beatings of his mother begun in earnest...

Next Snape turned his attention to the outside world. Grindelwald had been long since banished by Dumbledore; young Tom Riddle would have left Hogwarts as well, but not yet resurfaced in the self-styled guise of Lord Voldemort. Nobby Leach had been Minister for Magic while the Muggle government had been entrenched in some minor skirmishes -- but that was hardly surprising. Nothing of world-wide import affecting wizards directly…

Having taken a moment to orient his mind, Snape scanned the headlines before him.

Hogwarts Hosts European History Symposium
Students Reacquaint Themselves with Long-Lost Relatives

After nearly two years of negotiations with the Department for International Magical Cooperation, Caspar Mulroney, Deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has finally realized a life-long dream. His school is hosting the first-ever History Symposium during the Easter holidays.

“Any Hogwarts student who wished to stay on as a spectator was welcome, of course,” Professor Mulroney commented. “But let’s face it: not everyone finds history to be a very fascinating subject.”

As Ancient Runes instructor, Professor Mulroney often finds himself digging into the past to unearth exciting tales of ancient intrigue and adventure. Trying to impart his passion to his students has often met with rather bored expressions. “But that’s all going to change this week,” he assures us. “We will be bringing history to life with re-enactments, debates, and finally an elimination tournament that will incorporate important events from the world of wizards and Muggles alike.”

In order to thoroughly challenge students, the combined expertise of Professor Jeremy Farquar, Muggle Studies, and Professor Cuthbert Binns, History of Magic, have been recruited to prepare quiz questions for the competition.

Events will culminate with the Antiquarian Ball (period costumes preferred, but not required) this coming Friday, 10 April, in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. This will allow foreign visitors to return home in time for classes to resume the following Monday…

Snape scanned the section detailing the make-up of the Hogwarts team, but recognized no one. A familiar name near the end of the column caught his eye.

“It is a fine testament to Professor Mulroney’s long tenure at Hogwarts that he had bestowed such an honor upon us,” current Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, confirmed. “I have full confidence the event will run smoothly under his able stewardship.”

Scheduled to retire at the end of the school year, Deputy Headmaster Mulroney is being allowed to take the helm of the symposium as a final honor while Professor Dumbledore spends the Easter break with his own family.

“It will be a rare treat for me as well,” the Headmaster confided as he double-checked last minute travel preparations. “I have longed to explore history on a more personal level among the classic ruins of Greece.”

Asked if he was tracing Hellenic roots of his own, the Headmaster’s vibrant blue eyes twinkled as he stated, “Not at all, I just like the climate.”

Wanting to provide international students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang Academies with the full Hogwarts experience, visitors were sorted into Houses and allowed to share dormitory rooms with those students who choose to remain on hand during the two-week event. Much to their delight, many students have discovered they share family ties with those who have been temporarily assigned to their Houses.

“Not that we shouldn’t have expected it,” Professor Minerva McGonagall remarked. Currently Head of Gryffindor House, the professor is expected to assume the post of Deputy Headmistress in time for next fall’s crop of students. “Siblings end up in the same house more often than not; why should it surprise us that the tie holds true if relatives are separated by land and sea?”

Current seventh year student, Rodolphus Lestrange, found a great-great-grandmother still living in Dijon. Evan Rosier has relatives in the foothills of Alsace. Herbert Chang discovered he hails from a long line of Tartars with current roots in Vladivostok. The Malfoy family of Wiltshire traced distant cousins to the Loire Valley of France.

But no one was as surprised as Gilbert Goyle to find that his family shared a common ancestry with renowned wand manufacturer, Yuri Gregorovitch. “Blimey, my genes must not react properly with this poor excuse of a domestic wand I’ve been carrying,” Goyle scoffed as Charms instructor, Filius Flitwick was overheard muttering, “No more excuses from you, lad.”

Not to be outdone, Professor Mulroney himself discovered a Muscovite branch to his family tree.

“It’s international brotherhood at it’s very best,” Bartemius Crouch of the Department for International Cooperation announced with pride…

Lots of familiar names, Snape concluded, but surely there was nothing here to alarm Mrs. Figg. Despite her appearance, he knew her to be a grizzled veteran who was not so easily rattled.

Feeling she should attend to her other guest while Snape’s concentration was elsewhere, Tonks whispered to Mrs. Figg, “You must forgive the boys, Arabella. It’s just a little recognition ritual they follow. Making sure that no one is disguised with Polyjuice and the like.”

“Isn’t that why we do a Patronus check?” Mrs. Figg returned in confusion.

“Yes, but Severus once claimed that Remus’ presence was enough to put him off pleasant memories entirely.”

“So we found another method that suited him better,” Remus concluded under his breath.

Snape’s particular brand of biting baritone would be difficult to duplicate, Mrs. Figg allowed silently. It wasn’t so terribly different than the protocols the Ministry’s pamphlets had outlined -- once it had finally admitted to Voldemort’s return. Who could blame them for reworking the rules in a time of peace?

Ignoring the conversations around him, Snape unfurled the next parchment page, finding a small, related bit shoved into the lower left corner.

Hog’s Head Public House
Closed Due to Failed Inspection

A famous Hogsmeade landmark was dealt a heavy blow earlier this week when Ministry inspectors announced that the Hog’s Head would be temporarily closed due to health code violations.

“It’s nothing that a thorough cleaning and airing out won’t cure,” officials assured us. “We want to make sure everything is in tip-top shape when our children return to Hogwarts after their spring break.”

Reached for comment, proprietor Aberforth Dumbledore had this to say, “I’m goin’ ta make the best of it, I am. Can’t say I’ve taken a right holiday since I opened my doors. And don’t ya be askin’ me who sat on the Muggle throne when that was, neither!”

The recent influx of international attendees to the History Symposium will just have to make do with other famed eating establishments such at the Three Broomsticks and Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop which promise us they will remain open during the Easter school holidays.

Snape was in the midst of considering who Dumbledore had paid off to grant Aberforth such a perfectly-timed subterfuge when he was drawn to the vivid moving pictures gracing the right hand side of the page.

A photo of three smiling girls had a caption which read: Marlene McKinnon, third year, had always known that Dorcas Meadows, first year, was her fourth cousin. What neither of them foresaw was that they would be sharing sleeping quarters with Dominq Fobeus, another cousin, whose family resides in a coastal village in Poland. Both local girls had joined the Order and fallen victim to Voldemort’s cruelty long before he had joined the ranks, Snape recollected.

The following photo showed Goyle the elder with his arm around a bulky man who could easily have been his evolutionary precursor, Snape sneered to himself.

Next came a vibrant Augusta Longbottom with a foppishly dressed little boy. Could that really be Frank under all those curls? He couldn’t have been more than four or five at the time. ‘I just couldn’t let the opportunity slip by for Frankie to meet some of his relations,’ Augusta Longbottom declared as she found her seat among the spectator stands. ‘We’re related to the Longineaus from Zurich, you know.’ Chloe and Gertie Longineau are both alternates on the Beauxbatons junior and senior squads, respectively. No doubt about it, Frank had the same cherubic face which had plagued Neville until his final year. As for Augusta, her attire was spinsterish even as a young woman. Merlin, how he detested that woman’s taste in fashion!

But it was the next one that caught him by surprise. ‘Mum always said I had loads of third and fourth cousins,’ second-year Dottie Umbridge chirped. ‘Didn’t have to go much further than Lancastershire to find ‘em, though.’ Sixth-year Mundungus Fletcher was pleased to stumble upon family right in his own Hufflepuff Common Room. Caught off guard, ‘Dung’ commented joyfully, ‘And ta think I almost didn’t come back for N.E.W.T.s!’

There was no mistaking the faces, either, Snape considered. Even in her girlish Alice band and frilly socks, Umbridge’s round face was already taking on a toadish look. As for Fletcher, he looked as unkempt as ever, his sixteen-year-old features looking just as haggard as if he’d come off a three-day drunk. So this was the viper in their midst, Snape concluded with absolute certainty.

Harry refilled his cup impatiently as he waited for Snape to reach the end of the document. Had the man ever read any of his essays in such careful detail before scrawling disparaging remarks across the face of them?

Snape looked up to find Harry’s emerald eyes boring into him with a coldness worthy of a Slytherin.

“Surprising, isn’t it?” Harry goaded.

“Absolutely,” Snape drawled, turning slightly to better address him. “I would never have suspected Mundungus Fletcher was not the blackest sheep in his family. I take it you’re arguing whether to paint them both with the same tar brush?”

“I don’t want that man in my house!” Harry repeated.

“Nor his cousin, I warrant,” Snape returned with cold precision. “Why do you take a different view, Lupin?”

“The evidence is all circumstantial.” Remus sighed wearily. “We can’t allow ourselves to use the same tactics as the Ministry when they sentenced Sirius after Pettigrew set him up.”

“True,” Snape allowed grimly. “But you had a good measure of Sirius’ character after all those years of friendship. Can anyone speak for Mundungus?” Seeing that he had no takers, Snape prodded, “How about you, Arabella?”

Mrs. Figg shrugged self-consciously. “He was always friendly enough,” she volunteered tentatively. “Never said anything nasty about my cats when he swept them off the sofa before seating himself. Used to commiserate that ‘Dottie never used to be like that.’”

“See…” Harry urged.

Mrs. Figg continued, “He claimed that Cornelius Fudge had poisoned her with promises of power. I always took that to refer to her appointment to Hogwarts, but I suppose he could have been referring to other things. I don’t rightly know…”

“He wasn’t there for the final confrontation with Voldemort,” Harry interjected venomously. “Nor part of the reinforcements or the first-aid detail, either.”

“I believe he was doing a stint in Azkaban for a botched burglary at the time,” Mrs. Figg clarified softly.

“Hardly a sterling recommendation,” Snape remarked. “Might I add that Dumbledore was of the opinion that Fletcher had been framed. A simple way to get one of the Order members out of the way… Or was it an old man’s paranoia in the face of this own dwindling health? What have you to say on the matter, Tonks?”

“I never really knew the man,” Tonks stammered, her eyes glued to her teacup.

“Oh, come,” Snape cajoled darkly. “He showed enough of his backside at the Burrow that one time. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

Discomfited, Tonks shook her head. “It seems so inconsequential, Severus. We were all so stressed at the time, myself included. Perhaps I was too touchy…”

Catching the haunted look in Tonk’s eye, Remus leaned over and entwined his fingers with hers. “You never told me this, cherub.”

“No, I didn’t,” Tonks admitted hollowly. “You had enough on your plate once they dug you out of a snowbank. Truly, Sevenus, we were all at our wit’s end that night.”

“When?” Remus urged in a whisper.

Tonks sighed before capitulating. “The night of the first full moon after you escaped from the werewolf compound.”

Harry held his breath, hoping the rest of the details would be forthcoming. Remus didn’t speak much of those episodes in his life, if ever. The few snippets he’d been able to piece together indicated Remus’ undercover assignment had proven to be more harrowing than Dumbledore expected.

In answer to Tonks’ look of supplication, Snape elaborated, “If you’ll allow me. We had an emergency conclave to appraise one another of how we were leading the Ministry in a merry chase over Will Overstreet’s escape. Dumbledore was doing his best to convince Tonks that nothing would be achieved by launching a one-woman rescue mission. Fletcher made an offhand remark to Tonks about how we were just making much ado over nothing.”

With downcast eyes, Tonks clarified in a tiny voice, “He said not to worry; that Remus was like a bad penny, always showing up.”

“Precisely,” Snape concurred. “Well, Minerva turned on him like a lioness and growled, ‘I would expect such disparaging remarks from Severus; but what did Remus ever do to you?’ Caught in the crosshairs, Fletcher just shook his head. The man never had enough backbone to stand up to that woman’s temper.”

“Very few do,” Remus attested.

As Snape spun out the story in dispassionate terms, Tonks felt she was reliving those agonizing moments once again. She clearly recalled Dung shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot as he scratched his unshaven chin. “Nothing,” Dung muttered, avoiding the sparks in Minerva’s eyes. “Forget I said anything, ‘right?”

She’d raised her tear-streaked face from Minerva’s shoulder and tried to stare the man down. “I think you’d best elaborate, Dung,” she demanded, her wet voice robbing her words of their impact.

Trapped, Dung had replied, “ ‘e’s not the sort you’d take ‘ome to meet yer folks, if ya catch my meaning.”

Tonks’ jaw had dropped, too overcome with shock to respond. Dung was one of them, she wailed inwardly, how could he harbor such narrow-mindedness?

Minerva had come to her aid. “I suspect Remus cleans up a lot better than you do!” she hissed before ushering Tonks into the other room.

Remus’ sarcasm brought her back to the present. “And you happened to witness this entire exchange?” he threw at Snape. “Convenient.”

Snape shrugged disdainfully. “Once Minerva mentioned my name, I was obliged to be on hand to defend my status as the resident curmudgeon.”

“Really, Remus, it was nothing,” Tonks implored as she squeezed his hand.

Remus turned to look at Harry directly. “I can’t actually say I like the man, mind you, but if we allow personal feelings --”

“Then you would have never included me in any of the Order’s activities,” Snape finished with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Severus, please…” Remus interceded.

“It’s hardly a secret, Lupin. Don’t insult me.” Snape’s smugness was beginning to wear on Harry. “The difference is I don’t go around hoping everyone will like me.”

Unable to resist, Harry quipped, “That does explain a lot.”

Unperturbed, Snape replied, “Not that you lot --” He motioned to Harry and Remus. “�”aren’t known for your own brand of gallows humor, mind you.”

“So neither of you trusts Mundungus,” Mrs. Figg summarized adroitly. “What now?”

Without hesitation, Remus intoned, “We need real evidence. No more suppositions.”

“Set a trap,” Snape suggested. “You want to know if he’s a spy in our camp, right? Feed him some false bit of fluff and see if Umbridge repeats it.”

“That still requires we let him in the door,” Harry protested.

“Unless you know how to feed him the information otherwise.” Snape shrugged. “You have to make it sound like it’s the official stance of the Order, you know.”

“And what’s to keep him from helping himself to our possessions?” Harry cried. “He must restock his secondhand goods store somehow!”

“Harry, are you really that suspicious?” Tonks posed.

Lupin’s piercing look seemed to imply: are you really that materialistic?

“Begging your pardon, Sirs,” Dobby interjected with pleading eyes, “but if that’s what’s worrying Master Harry, Dobby can help. Dobby was not always a kitchen elf, oh no. When he was younger, he often worked security detail. Dobby knows just how to shadow suspicious characters to protect Master’s valuables, yes indeed. Dobby will follow this Dung fellow.”

Dobby had so seamlessly become a part of their extended family Harry often forgot he had once belonged to the Malfoys before obtaining his freedom. No doubt Lucius had just cause to keep extra eyes on the dodgy characters who had frequented Malfoy Manor during Voldemort’s reign. Characters who would make Mundungus Fletcher look like Peter Pan in comparison.

Making an immediate decision, Harry smiled into the elf’s upturned face. “Do you promise to let someone else help with the refreshments, Dobby? I don’t want you to overtax yourself and Ginny’s mum is always offering to lend a hand.”

Looking hesitantly in Remus’ direction only to receive a reassuring nod, Dobby agreed to the compromise. “Grandmother Molly would not be as successful at tailing guests as Dobby would,” he affirmed solemnly.

Hiding her smirk as best she could, Tonks turned gratefully in Snape’s direction. “Please don’t think I’ve neglected your needs, Severus. Can we offer you some brandy or Firewhiskey perhaps? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take tea…”

“That’s because those Hogwarts elves have no concept of how I prefer it,” he drawled with a sinister smile. As he deftly filled a china cup with a lazy flick of his wand, Snape held out his other hand expectantly. With a sharp pop, Dobby reappeared with a bottle of honey mead. “However, this delightful elf has a fine memory,” he noted as he fortified the beverage to his liking.

With a deep courteous bow, Dobby Disapparated leaving the bottle at Snape’s elbow. There was little doubt Snape had once been a frequent visitor to Malfoy Manor as well.

---

The warm glow of the candle sconces embracing the disused ballroom belied the wintry chill which had fallen over Godric’s Hollow. As the familiar faces of the Order members lined the room before her, Tonks couldn’t help thinking that even in death, the old man had been prophetic. How keenly she recalled the inspirational conversation she’d had with her Headmaster at her graduation festivities so many years ago. He’d likened evil to a dark phoenix, hadn’t he? It had echoed in her mind as she endured her Auror training. Months which alternated between frustration and exhaustion and euphoria. She would never accept the inevitability of evil; she would eradicate it. Poison its very roots so it could not rise again.

Had he been recruiting her for the Order even then? She had graduated during a period of relative peace, yet even then Dumbledore had known they would be drawn into another facedown with Voldemort. Only the manner of the maniac’s return was uncertain.

Now with Voldemort vanquished once and for all and Dumbledore’s presence relegated to a portrait in the Headmistress’ office, Tonks had forsaken the outer trappings of an Auror for the life of an educator; following in the great man’s footsteps without even realizing it. Not to mention deriving great satisfaction in preparing her avid students for whatever tribulations the future might hold.

She had not considered she herself would be called upon to confront petty tyrants intent upon making their unique dark mark. Bugs which should be crushed under the Ministry’s boots, if she had her way. Surely, that was the most expeditious handling of such issues. But hadn’t the Ministry demonstrated its power-hungry tendrils often knew no bounds?

Kingsley’s summons had only to remind them that the Minister had chosen to recognize the victors with Orders of Merlin for them to conclude they owed it to come to his aid. The problem was no one was exactly sure how to counter Umbridge’s unfounded aspersions. It was a situation no one had anticipated. After all, as Tonks had reminded her husband the night before, they were a group trained to meet their enemies head-on. Standing up to Dolores’ lies was a public relations nightmare, but hardly something they could attack at wandpoint.

Taking her words to heart, Remus had invited Luna to join them while Neville was still abroad. In the current crisis, Luna’s finesse with pleasing opposing factions would come in handier than battle skills.

Tonks reminded herself that appearances could be deceiving as she watched Luna’s blonde head swivel dreamily about the room much as Phoebe’s would have done. Remember this was the same woman who single-handedly kept Harry’s wedding from become a media nightmare, she intoned silently. Had it not been for Luna’s innovative ideas for the Fidelius Charm, the ceremony could have become as much a carnival as Kingsley Shacklebolt’s had been the year before. Kingsley had only managed to save the day by obtaining an emergency Portkey at the eleventh hour and transporting the entire assemblage to a private Caribbean island. An undertaking which had cost him a pretty penny, one might add.

A commotion near the entrance brought Tonks immediately to her feet although she could see Remus had already gone on ahead of her. She could hear Hagrid’s booming voice as he checked Patronuses at the door.

“It’s probably Father,” Luna whispered as she fell in with Tonks.

Fumbling poltergeists, what sort of a problematic Patronus could Luna’s father have? Based on the far-fetched stories which often ran in The Quibbler, should they be expecting an army of Heliopaths? One Heliopath would be bad enough, Tonks reasoned snidely. Surely not, that would mean the creatures really existed, wouldn’t it?

“It’s a coelacanthe!” Xenopilius Lovegood maintained. “Can’t you read, you ruddy oaf?”

“Don’t rightly say what tha’ is, do it?” Hagrid’s oversized finger pointed at the long list of Patronuses before him as he puffed out his mighty chest in offense. “Not much o’ an infallible identifier if all you’s have ta know is how ta pronounce it!”

“It’s my fault,” Luna chimed in as she eased her way between Hagrid and Remus. “I should have included some literature, perhaps a picture.”

“Why The Quibbler devoted a full issue to coelacanthes on the fiftieth anniversary of their discovery,” Xenophilius asserted with pride.

“Would there be a source other than The Quibbler?” Remus urged diplomatically. “Something that I might have in my own library?” He graciously swept an arm in the direction of the large room situated just off the entrance foyer to emphasize that he was not doubting the integrity of Mr. Lovegood’s tabloid, even though Tonks knew that, inwardly, he did.

Luna’s watery blue eyes lit up immediately. “Do you have any books about fossils, prehistoric ones? Even a Muggle volume will do.”

“Follow me,” Remus allowed as he ushered Luna into the next room, raising the lights in the wall brackets as he did so.

“It won’t just be a minute,” Tonks remarked as she graciously offered Xenophilius her hand. “We met at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, I’m Tonks.”

“Of course,” Xenophilius wagged his head eagerly. “You’re the Metamorphmagus.”

“You have a fine memory.” Tonks flashed him a wide smile.

“An eye for the unusual, one would say,” he confided.

“Here we go,” Remus proclaimed as returned with a large tome. Placing it where Hagrid could see the photo clearly, he bade their guest to invoke his Patronus once more.

Within moments, a smoky version of the pre-historic sea creature could be seen swishing its mighty fins as it made its way up the staircase leading to the upper story.

“Notice the peculiar way its fins move,” Xenophilius pointed out. “Not in tandem like most fish, but in opposition like the legs of land beasts.”

“Many believe the coelacanthe is the missing link between the creatures of the land and those of the sea,” Luna elaborated.

“I always envisioned it as being a precursor to Thor’s multi-legged stallion,” Xenophilius added with a large wink.

A quick review of the book before him had Remus shaking Xenophilius’ hand vigorously and apologizing for the inconvenience.

“Too many instances of Polyjuice at Hogwarts even.” Xenophilius chuckled amicably. “Can’t say I would’ve reacted any differently myself. What did you expect my Patronus to be, a Crumbled-Horn Snorkack?”

The Patronus must have alerted those upstairs as Victoire and Yvette could be seen dangling from the short expanse of railing above. Their cheery voices cried, “Uncle Xeno! Uncle Xeno!” as they tumbled down the stairs in greeting.

“I did tell you he’s been my neighbor for nigh on thirty years,” the quiet voice of Arthur Weasley offered from where he had joined them. Catching Fleur’s face peeking around the corner, he reminded her, “The meeting is about to start, dear. I’m sure the children will be just fine with Tonks’ folks.”

Tonks nodded encouragingly to Fleur as she urged the girls to return to the playroom above after getting quick hugs from their Uncle Xeno.

“How are they holding out �“ honestly?” she implored as she guided Fleur down the short hallway that led back towards the meeting.

“Zey are ‘olding on,” Fleur confided. “Your maman eez remembering zee French words of ‘er youth.”

“And Dad?” Tonks giggled.

“’e eez much ze same as you!” Fleur laughed gaily. “’e finds zee seriousness of zee conversation to be much cause for laughter. Teddy and Victoire together, zey eez accomplices.”

“Teddy is so much like his father in that way.”

“I theenk not,” Fleur opined with a Gallic wag of her finger. “If ‘e was truly like Remus, ‘e would be dissecting if Camus was truly zee existentialist or zee nihilist. Or per’aps, zee folly of zee antics of Voltaire.”

“He does like to practice his vocabulary now that he’s officially teaching French at Hogwarts,” Tonks commiserated with a laugh.

“’e apparently theenks Beauxbatons eez a training ground for zee philosophers, much as ‘ogwarts eez.”

“I see your point,” Tonks allowed. “I can only imagine what he’ll require of his N.E.W.T. level students when the time comes.”

As they found their seats among the mismatched sofas, chairs, and even garden furniture that had been levitated onto the polished wood floors, Tonks caught sight of Ron and Hermione who must have arrived in the meanwhile. Ginny was already chattering away as she hoisted her niece over her shoulder for burping.

“It’s really not necessary,” Hermione protested with a weak smile. “We took care of that at home.”

“Unless you feel a need to practice, Sis,” Ron teased with a dig of his elbow. “Now that you’re a married woman and all.”

“It was hardly a shotgun wedding, if that’s what you’re implying,” Ginny scoffed.

“I suspect not,” Ron quipped. “As long as the two of you were engaged, it must have actually taken a landmine to get you before the magistrate.”

“Now, Ron,” Hermione soothed. “Harry and Ginny just wanted to take their time, establish careers. Consider it a backlash for all those years which were consumed with Harry’s destiny to defeat Voldemort.” Hermione thought it wise to keep silent about Ginny’s confession that she did not want to be supervising a gaggle of children by the time she was twenty-five as her own mother had.

“My folks are upstairs taking care of the other children,” Tonks interjected. “I’m sure they wouldn’t find young Eleanor a burden.”

Ron expertly peeled the sleeping infant from Ginny’s shoulder and repositioned her in his own arms. With a wide grin suffusing his face, he replied, “Thanks, Tonks, put we have her well in hand.”

“If she wakes up, you may wish to reconsider,” Tonks allowed generously.

“I’ll make sure your parents get a chance to meet her before the night is out,” Hermione promised in an undertone.

---

Standing beneath the main staircase, Harry directed the last of their guests towards the meeting. Mundungus Fletcher had been among them, looking just as creased and rumpled as always, but thankfully minus the stale beer smell which often pre-announced his presence. Feeling a sharp tug on his sleeve, Harry found himself staring into the saucer-like eyes of Dobby.

“The varlet is in that last group, no?” the house-elf whispered eagerly.

“Yes, Dobby, the gentleman in question is wearing a rather wrinkled khaki overcoat.”

“Dobby spotted him instantly, sir. He will not be out of Dobby’s sight all evening.”

“I don’t need to remind you to not draw any attention to yourself, though,” Harry cautioned gently.

“Dobby is an expert at tailing suspects, sir,” the elf announced proudly as he Disapparated with a hollow snap of his long fingers.

With a whispered thanks to Hagrid for assisting with the arriving guests, Harry replaced the magical locks and wards on the front door. Remus had issued very careful instructions in advance: any late-comers would need to Floo ahead to be admitted, no exceptions.

Hagrid located a seat near the rear table where Molly Weasley hovered protectively over the refreshments. She smiled broadly in Harry’s direction as he eased himself soundlessly into the chair next to Ginny and exchanged a few quick words with Ron and Hermione to the other side.

Clearing his throat for attention, Remus addressed the assemblage from the front of the room, “Welcome to my home.”

“Harry’s home, too,” was heard from the back of the room.

Remus’ eyes crinkled with amusement as he shared a private smile with Tonks in the front row. Raising his gaze towards the back of the room, he added, “As those of you who were kind enough to attend Ginny and Harry’s wedding a few weeks ago are already aware, this is their home also. Currently, the Lupin clan occupies the far wing, with the upper story of the main structure allotted to the Potters. True, the common areas are often taken over by my exuberant children, but I suspect that will not always be the case.” He waited for the chuckles to die down before continuing, “As you know, the Order of the Phoenix was disbanded once and for all following Voldemort’s defeat on this very estate. Although the roundup of renegade Death Eaters continued for months after, we felt this was a job best left to the Ministry’s Auror Division. Having achieved our objective, we unanimously decided to return to our private lives. This has not changed despite recent troubles. Since I am no longer the titular head of this band of ruffians, I will now turn this meeting over to Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

Remus took the seat next to Tonks which Kingsley had just vacated. All eyes were turned to Kingsley’s dark features as his deep voice poured forth, “Friends, guests, and former insurgents, welcome all. I have been asked to convene this unofficial meeting at the personal request of Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic, to address the recent falsehoods presented by one Dolores Umbridge, recently retired from her Ministry post. Although many of us felt that, without substantiation, such blatant lies would quickly fade, this has not been the case. Alas, the public consciousness is fickle, as I have been repeatedly reminded.”

“The public is an arse!” Hagrid boomed from the back to much laughter.

“I have no quarrel with that,” Kingsley acknowledged with a broad smile. “There isn’t anyone in public office who has not felt the same way at one time or another. Nevertheless, Umbridge’s lies are a slap in our faces -- and by extension, cast a shadow of doubt on Scrimgeour himself as he recognized so many of us with official commendations for our heroic efforts.

“Although the Minister’s office has a well-established public relations arm, currently headed by our own Percy Weasley…” A smattering of polite applause was directed towards Percy who was seated next to Arthur. “… it was suggested that perhaps this situation called for a more creative approach.”

“Haven’t found a way to shut that toad up, have you, Perce?” sounded forth.

“Not legally, no,” Percy admitted without chagrin.

“How about Reverse Veritaserum?” Fred suggested as he brazenly took to his feet.

“Pour it down her throat and she’ll accept the truth,” George finished with a devilish grin.

“What would keep the enemy from using such a thing to validate their twisted ideals?” challenged Mad-Eye Moody with a growl.

“Regrettably, such a potion might have the potential to be abused,” Minerva McGonagall added with concern. “Assuming such a thing was even possible. What do you say, Severus?”

Unfazed, Snape returned the stares all around him with the unblinking gaze of a poisonous spider in their midst. “It is not something I have researched, yet I can think of many beneficial applications.” With a curt nod towards Fred and George, he added, “If you gentlemen are successful in producing such a substance, let me be the first to tender a standing order. It would be ideally suited to my uphill battle against ignorance in the classroom.”

McGonagall pursed her lips in recrimination as Snape’s level glance dared her to ask for his input again.

Kingsley barely managed to mask a smirk as he took over the reins once more. “Perhaps something a tad less imaginative is called for. How can we counteract the wretched lies Ms. Umbridge has been spewing forth?”

Ron leaned across the back of Ginny’s chair to better whisper to Harry, “Did anyone suggest the simplest solution of all? Get the bloody cow before us in this room and dare her to deny the truth to our faces!”

“And such tactics worked so well for me,” Harry hissed with pointed sarcasm. “Don’t you remember the delightful detentions she set me in fifth year? Regular tattoo parlor, it was.”

“She can’t foist her dastardly quill upon anyone if we shackle her hands,” Ron suggested in return.

As Eleanor slept blissfully in her father’s arms, Hermione flashed them a reproachful look. Then speaking up loudly enough for the entire room to hear, she volunteered, “We need to put our tale before the public. Dare her to refute the truth, fact by painful fact.”

“The Minister attempted to do that,” Percy attested as he took to his feet. “Arranged for an interview with the Daily Prophet and everything. The story never ran. My requests for an explanation were ignored.”

Hermione nodded grimly; how well she remembered Rita Skeeter’s assertion that the Prophet’s main goal was to sell itself. “They’ve interviewed the Minister too many times,” she extrapolated. “They need a fresh voice to capture their readers’ attention.”

“Are you volunteering?” Kingsley posed.

With a slight blush, Hermione demurred, “Someone with a more interesting tale, perhaps. Someone who is not currently employed by the Ministry might be more appealing. Sorry, Harry.”

Amid tittering laughter, Harry commented in return, “None taken. Although my personal experience has demonstrated that the Prophet is particularly adept at twisting words into pretzels.”

“Run the interview in The Quibbler like we did before,” Luna put forth as her father echoed her sentiments.

“I can guarantee you full approval before publication,” Xenophilius promised.

“Not a bad idea,” Kingsley concurred. “Certainly worked before…”

“Begging your pardon,” McGonagall interjected. “The tactic you described worked well to re-establish Harry’s credibility among the Hogwarts’ students. It is not a model that should necessarily be applied to wizardkind as a whole.”

“All we have to do is capture the imagination of the adult community,” Xenophilius expounded. “They are the central core of The Quibbler’s readership. Harry was already a household name, guaranteed to sell copies. What we need is someone whose story is novel and engaging.” Luna whispered urgently into his ear. “Luna suggests that Remus’ facility with words makes him a natural choice.”

The air seemed to stand still in the entire room. Surely, Luna hadn’t meant it that way, Harry’s mind worked feverishly. But in her naiveté, she had not stopped to think that publishing a werewolf’s account in The Quibbler might have quite the opposite effect �“ even though it unquestionably would appeal to their loyal readership.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Remus slowly stood and turned to face everyone from his place on the front row. Smiling benignly in the Lovegoods’ direction, he attested in a diplomatic manner, “Despite your kind words, I have no desire to be in the public spotlight. I am…unsuited…to it.”

In the uncomfortable silence which followed, Tonks came to her husband’s rescue. “Say, Mad-Eye, haven’t you been threatening to unleash your memoirs for years?”

“Well, Moody certainly has a charismatic enough face for their cover,” Harry breathed to Ginny as she struggled to control her giggles.

“That’s true, lass,” Moody concurred as his magical eye swirled in all directions. “But I had hoped to parlay my adventures into a longer tale. Something with a more permanent shelf life.”

“Like a book,” Kingsley supplied with aplomb. “Such a strategy is not without merit. It all depends upon how soon such a thing can be published. Do you have an agent already lined up, Alastor?”

“Gave it up,” Moody rumbled. “Already had my hopes dashed. You can thank that pillock, Gilderoy Lockhart. Publishers aren’t so keen to accept factual accounts anymore. Can’t spare the personnel and expense needed to authenticate the tales, they say. More than happy to categorize it as fiction and provide a disclaimer, though. Makes all my hard work and risks seem meaningless.”

“Perhaps a tale full of redemption?” Xenophilius prompted. “Those are always popular. Someone made stronger by the adversity they’ve endured.”

Wordlessly, faces turned to look at Snape once again, although no one dared to voice their thoughts. Finally, Bill Weasley ventured softly, “Severus… yours is a heroic tale like no other, full of danger and inspiration.”

Without looking at anyone directly, Snape pronounced his verdict, “No.”

“Everyone loves an underdog,” Hermione issued with gentle persuasion.

Snape’s head shot up immediately, the anger blazing in his eyes tempered only by the unfaltering compassion in Hermione's. “For the first time in your life, you are quite mistaken, Miss Granger,” he asserted in his most formal tones. “Muggles like to root for the anti-hero; that is the only way they can glorify the small acts of valor in their own pathetic lives. I have found wizards are much more self-righteous.”

“Present company excluded?” Kingsley urged good-naturedly.

“That goes without saying,:” Snape supplied with silken disdain as he recalled the difficulties he’d endured getting his colleagues to accept his loyalty. “Find another sacrificial lamb. After eighteen years of my life donated to Dumbledore’s vision, it’s surprising I still have a personal life to reclaim.”

“Forgive me for stating the obvious,” Molly spoke up from her station at the back of the room. “But is not the purpose of the War Museum to present a factual account of our path to victory? Harry here sacrificed a major chink of his childhood as well as a townhouse to promote our actions and somehow it’s not enough?”

“Sentence Umbridge to a personal tour,” suggested an anonymous voice.

“With Percy as her personal guide!” Harry was fairly certain that came from one of the twins.

“In perpetuity!” provided Dedalus Diggle with a wry snigger.

“Very worthwhile suggestions �“ without a legal precedent,” Percy proclaimed solemnly.

“What about the museum, though?” Arthur took up in his wife’s support. “I thought the Minister was behind the idea one hundred percent.”

“He is,” Kingsley confirmed. “We in the Order decided we wished to preserve our modesty and have it open quietly and without fanfare.”

“Perhaps we should reconsider!” Hestia Jones cried. “Umbridge will just make it look like we’re ashamed of our actions.”

There were enough murmurs of assent in the room to convince Kingsley this might just be a popular alternative. “The Ministry has a budget for such ceremonial events. Perhaps Percy could give us a bit more information.”

At Kingsley’s expansive gesture, Percy took to his feet and adjusted his glasses self-importantly. “I have staff who can put such an event together. At rather short notice, even. But it would be ideal if some of the former Order members agreed to make personal appearances. Something that would generate public interest. Regretfully, the Minister is hardly the most compelling speaker.” Percy seemed to relax noticeably in response to the appreciative chuckles.

“The Auror Department will provide security detail to the Minister as well as any other participants,” Kingsley reminded them. “No one need fear for their well being.”

“Just their privacy,” Remus muttered to no one in particular.

“Any volunteers?” Percy urged as he withdrew his ubiquitous notepad and self-inking quill.

“I think the youngest heroes would create the largest draw,” Mrs. Figg announced with a self-conscious smile.

Waiting for it, Harry caught the almost imperceptible signal that passed between Remus and Kingsley. This was it then: the hook by which they would measure Mundungus’ loyalty. Not needing another cue, Harry rose to his feet and proclaimed with an incandescent smile, “I’m willing to do my part, provided we schedule the event at the weekend.”

Hermione and Ron echoed their willingness to participate, followed in quick succession by Ginny.

“We’ll have to contact Neville somehow; he’s still combing the jungles of Thailand,” Luna remarked. “Can he even be persuaded to make such a long trip?”

“Perhaps if I couched it as a special request from his employer,” Snape volunteered. “He could hardly turn it down then.”

“Are you still that poor lad’s boggart, Severus?” Elphias Doge had the temerity to suggest loudly enough that the whole room was riveted.

“At least I’m not my wife’s,” Shape shot back without turning his head.

The absolute silence in the room was broken by a single loud chortle from Fred as George leaned over and patted Severus’ shoulder appreciatively and whispered, “Good one!”

Snape did his best to hide the persistent curl of his lip as the room broke out in laughter around him.

“You never told me your professor had such a rapier wit,” Xenophilius whispered to Luna. “ ‘His countenance is always as black as his frock coat,’ you always said.”

“Ssssh, Father! He was never like that in class.”

“We were always certain he would hex us before the year was out,” Harry whispered to appease Luna’s worried look.

“Don’t forget the persistent rumor that he would hasten our mastery of antidotes--” Hermione began.

“�”by poisoning one of us to act as the control,” Ron finished with an avid nod.

“I understood we would be racing against the clock to prepare antidotes to our own individual poisons,” Ginny supplied.

Luna nodded sagely. “He said that way we would all be self-motivated but couldn’t cheat!”

Xenophilius looked at each of them in turn as if they might be taking the mickey out of him.

“That interchange you just witnessed would have gotten any of us a one-way ticket to Azkaban,” Harry assured Luna’s father. “After he’d hexed us within an inch of our lives and given us six weeks’ detention.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered that he out-cheeked the student, either,” Hermione attested solemnly.

By the time the meeting broke up, it had been decided that Tonks, Mad-Eye and Kingsley would also make personal appearances at the museum opening to represent the solidarity of the Anrors’ commitment in trying times. Harry thought it somewhat ironic as the Minister would never have tolerated their extra-curricular activities had he known about them at the time, but kept that wisely to himself. No need to tip Mundungus that the trap was being baited.

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Seven
Insomnia


“To think you passed up a chance to be the new cover-boy!” Ginny giggled as she poked Remus gleefully in the arm.

Remus buried his face in his hands and shook his head. Lifting playful eyes, he moaned, “How do I get myself backed into such corners?”

“Don’t make such a fuss,” Tonks commented wryly as she joined the merry group around the kitchen table. “You managed to side-step quite deftly.”

“Rather like a matador, I would say,” Harry ventured as he made a mock flourish with his arm, nearly spilling his half-filled mug in the process.

The pot of cocoa rattled ominously on the table as Tonks tried to levitate it towards her cup while her arm still shook with pent up laughter. With a tiny grunt, Remus lowered her wand in precaution and simply reached over to grab the handle manually.

“I’m just glad I didn’t offend Luna with my refusal,” Remus remarked.

“I’m certain she didn’t mean it…that way,” Harry attested.

“You mean the way everyone else took it?” Tonks teased.

“Luna has a good heart,” Ginny agreed. “She just idolizes her father…”

“… and in her eyes he’s a true visionary,” Remus finished.

“Well, you have to admit, he certainly sees things others overlook! Imaginary beasts and beings, for instance!” Tonks snorted.

“Can you imagine being ‘outed’ by The Quibbler?” Remus laughed heartily.

“A public stoning would be preferable,” Harry quipped.

“Unfortunately, that would follow!” Remus noted. “Once the mob dragged me from Hogwarts’ hallowed halls.”

“You don’t think Minerva would be able to argue your case before the Board of Governors?” Ginny supplied with a grin.

“There’s only so much back-pedaling she could do against the tide of ignorance.” Remus sighed in resignation, his previous merriment having fled.

Tonks laid a comforting hand on her husband’s shoulder. There was no use thinking about how tenuous everyone’s position in life was when you got down to it. “Come, it’s time I tucked you in just like the others,” she whispered in his ear. “Before the laughter wakes them up and they sneak back with their little mugs clasped in their hands like Oliver Twist.”

“Didn’t your folks make sure everyone got cocoa before bed?” Remus inquired as he slowly got to his feet.

“Yes, but that won’t stop them from demanding a second �“ or third �“ round!” Tonks asserted knowingly. “I had enough trouble getting them to calm down as it was.”

“Perhaps they’ll have a bit of a lie-in tomorrow,” Harry suggested with a wistful smile.

“If only,” Tonks whispered. “They’ll be pestering me bright and early to go to the Burrow now that they know Uncle Xeno lives just over the next rise.”

“He made quite an impression on them,” Ginny affirmed. “Spook’s eyes were fit to burst from his head at the vivid descriptions of fantastic beasts.”

“Victoire assured him such creatures grazed freely in the next pasture,” Remus noted with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, they’re bound to be disappointed when they discover nothing more than sheep and shaggy Shetland ponies,” Ginny confirmed sagely.

“Ponies?” Tonks paused to make sure she’d heard correctly. “Teddy may be disappointed, but Phoebe will be in heaven! I’ll be sure to owl Xeno tomorrow and see if we can visit before the December snows set in.”

“Ponies, for real?” Harry breathed to Ginny as the door shut quietly behind Remus and Tonks.

Flashing him a mischievous smirk, Ginny warned, “Both of us have outgrown them.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry protested.

Ginny demonstrated she’d know his import all along. “You were just hoping someone else would be the beast of burden for awhile.”

How many times had the children pestered him to assume his Animagus form just so they could ride on the back of a tame zebra? He could hardly refuse, especially knowing how Remus always indulged them when they found a secluded stretch of seashore. “Something like that,” Harry remarked as he drained the last of his cocoa. “Do you think she’ll be disappointed that ponies have no stripes?”

“I doubt it; they have spots instead,” Ginny proclaimed, pressing a tantalizing kiss to his temple as she dragged him to his feet.

With a flick of his wand, Harry deposited the used dishes in the sink for Dobby to see to in the morning. He could just as easily have finished the clean-up with a slightly more complex spell, but then he would offend the work ethic of house-elves the world over �“ and he was not about to make that mistake again.

“Tell me this, Ginny,” Harry implored once they had reached the relative privacy of their own bedchamber. “Why didn’t you offer your services with the WWN this evening? I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she responded as she kicked off her shoes. Catching Harry’s expectant look, she elaborated, “This whole situation with that pig, Umbridge, is nothing but a turf war. It’s not news. The best thing is to just let it blow over.”

“That hasn’t really worked.”

“Some things are more persistent than others,” Ginny affirmed. “The bigger the lie, the bigger the following. Mum used to always say that to us when we were little.”

“Who would have ever figured Molly for a great philosopher?”

“Don’t tell Remus,” Ginny breathed with a giggle. “He’ll seek to engage her in esoteric debate and we’ll never get fed at the Burrow again!”

Harry chuckled appreciatively at the image. “So what would make it news?” he persisted.

“Something unique that no one has ever heard before,” Ginny shot back succinctly. “Not a rehash that just lends credence to the absurd.”

“You would’ve had a difficult time maintaining your journalistic integrity under Fudge’s tenure, don’t you think?”

“I shudder to think of it. But truthfully, Harry, the WWN reporters who do personal interviews are too caught up with the human interest angle to do this issue any good. We don’t need anyone else sympathizing with Umbridge.”

“What about sympathizing with us? The Order is the injured party here!”

“Assuming we could totally disregard my personal involvement, how much sympathy do you think a band of renegades who took matters into their own capable hands will generate?”

“People will support the ideals for which we fought…”

“That’s old news. Voldemort has been defeated. Unless you’re planning on doing a retrospective, how does it affect people now?”

“I see your point,” Harry conceded with a weary sigh as he flicked off the lights.

“Trust me, I won’t hesitate to pounce on a news story when it materializes. But until then, I have to allow others to work their particular brand of magic.”

---

It seemed like it was only minutes later that he was being shaken awake.

“Please, Harry Potter, sir, I didn’t know where else to turn!”

In a sleepy fog, Harry felt for his glasses on the nightstand then focused on the stricken face of the house-elf hovering at his bedside.

“What is it, Dobby?” he croaked, swallowing the inclination to add, ‘What is it that requires you to wake me up in the middle of the bloody night?’ as he noticed the elf was wringing his little hands in distress. “Is it anything to do with the gentleman you followed tonight?”

“No, Master. Mister ‘Dung left the premises immediately after the meeting. He looked everything over with his dingy little eyes, but nothing accompanied him home in his pockets. Dobby is certain of that.” Dobby hesitated as he looked feverishly at Ginny’s still sleeping form. “It’s Mistress Phoebe, sir, she’s not in her bed and her mother would be most aggrieved.”

“I’m sure Remus or Tonks would prefer if you alerted them, Dobby.”

Dobby nodded his head morosely. “Of course! But their door is warded; Dobby would be overstepping himself if he barged in. Harry Potter does not seal his bedroom with personal magic.”

Harry sighed as he carefully eased himself out of bed and slipped his feet into warm slippers. There was no point in arguing with a distraught house-elf. Remus would just have to give Dobby clearer instructions in the future. He found his quilted dressing gown waiting for him as the elf obligingly levitated it within easy reach. Belting it tightly against the winter chill, Harry soundlessly herded the elf out into the short hallway and down the stairs.

The main area of the house was even colder than the hallway. Harry suppressed an involuntary shiver as he surveyed a surreal world rendered in shades of violet and lavender. Only a quarter moon tonight, he noted by rote.

Now that he was less likely to disturb Ginny, Harry whispered with concern, “Dobby, do you always check up on the children while they sleep? You’re entitled to sleep yourself, you know. Your body demands it and we don’t expect ‘round the clock vigilance.”

Dobby nodded, his protuberant eyes shadowed with misery. “I wake up when one of my charges is outside the perimeter. It’s something house-elves do instinctively. It has not happened before.”

“Where exactly is Phoebe?” Harry posed as he felt the first tingling of unease in the pit of his stomach.

“In the back garden. The walled area that adjoins Master Remus’ suite.”

“Outside in the cold? You just left her there!” Harry gasped. Remus would have gone ballistic if it had been a full moon.

“No! No! Dobby covered her with a warming charm. But it is not wise to wake a sleepwalking child…”

“Then how do they return to their beds?”

Dobby’s large eyes expanded even wider as the error in his reasoning became clear. His tiny chest heaved with a large sob as he anticipated his Master’s displeasure.

“Now, now,” Harry soothed. “Remus won’t eat you alive over this. But we really should go wake him.” Dobby made as if to protest, but Harry insisted, “I’ll take responsibility for knocking him up; you stand watch over Phoebe.”

“Harry Potter is very brave!” Dobby cried in gratitude.

“Rubbish. I’ve just faced Remus down before and lived to tell the tale.”

With a deep bow, Dobby Disapparated to his assigned station, leaving Harry to wind his way carefully among the unfamiliar lumps in the main drawing room. The short hallway leading past the children’s rooms was easier to navigate as it was clear of furniture except for a small decorative chest at the far end which was easy enough to avoid. He didn’t dare light his wand tip and disturb Teddy who was a notoriously light sleeper. Before making the turn at the end of the corridor, Harry sent a silent Muffliato in the direction of the lad’s door as an extra precaution.

The air temperature dropped noticeably as he traversed the long bank of windows lining the hallway before the master suite. The avenue of yew trees adorning the adjacent path had transformed into skeletal hands of deepest black against the night sky, threatening to crush the inhabitants of the wooden house without a spare thought. No doubt about it, if Spook managed to sneak up on him right now, Harry’s heart was likely to seize permanently.

Turning his back on the indistinct shapes that seemed to dwell among the shrubs, Harry raised his fist to knock soundly on the double doors before him. “Remus!” he whispered with his lips pressed to the joint. “Please wake up! Dobby didn’t dare disturb you.”

Almost instantly, Harry heard the padding of feet on the other side of the thick door. Lupine paws creeping stealthily upon their prey, Harry’s overwrought imagination whispered even though it was not a full moon.

Harry nearly lost his balance as the carved door silently opened inward to reveal Remus’ rumpled features. Instantly alert, Remus quickly checked the hallway in both directions before pulling Harry inside and lighting the wall brackets in one swift motion.

“Are we under attack?” he breathed in Harry’s ear as Tonks issued a dreamy sigh before drifting off to sleep once more. Harry looked down at the hand gripping his upper arm like a vise, betraying an inner tension Remus’ carefully modulated voice did not.

“Nothing as dreadful as that,” Harry assured him with a small curl of a smile. “Dobby was afraid to anger you by invading your personal wards.”

Remus’ brow furrowed in bemusement. “When have I ever been cross with him?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, but apparently his former master was less forgiving.”

“Ah, of course. Malfoy taking out his frustrations on the defenseless. How very manly of him.”

Harry broke into a grin at Remus’ sarcasm. “Nor is it a full moon. Any other personal boggarts I don’t know about?”

“Very funny. You don’t strike me as the type to have a midnight yen for Muggle pizza like Sirius, so what’s up?”

“Dobby found Phoebe sleepwalking in the garden,” Harry began as Remus dashed out the door without waiting for anything else. With a weary grimace, Harry grabbed the man’s dressing gown and followed after him.

In the shadowy gallery, he directed Remus through the French doors that opened into a small brick-walled patio. The flagstones glistened like square puddles in the moonlight, the natural variations in the stones giving each a unique shading.

Dobby looked up expectantly and then took a step back as he sensed their urgency. Remus was still shrugging his shoulders into the dressing gown, the ties forgotten and flapping behind him like a set of dorsal wings. Wordlessly, he scooped up the small child curled upon the delicate wooden bench. The effectiveness of Dobby’s warming spell was evident by the pink soles of her tiny feet poking out from under the white flannel.

The solemn procession returned indoors with Dobby trailing dismally behind. His large ears drooped sadly as he conjured Remus’ fur-lined slippers in his long fingers and passed them silently forward to Harry. Tonks was waiting for them at the open doors to the master suite, wrapped tightly in a fuzzy white robe that left most of her legs uncovered.

“What happened?” she whispered as she fell into step beside her husband.

“Sleepwalking,” Remus breathed without turning his head as he marched resolutely down the corridor leading to his daughter’s room. Not another word was spoken until Phoebe was tucked securely into her warm bed and Tonks was satisfied the new proximity warning they’d added to the door would alert them the second her tiny feet crossed the threshold. Phoebe had not stirred during the whole incident other than to snuggle into the deep quilt and curl her hand under her pillow more securely.

Once returned to the welcoming confines of the kitchen, Tonks put a kettle on while Remus addressed Dobby directly. “I’m not mad at you, Dobby,” he admitted in a patient tone of voice. “I was concerned, panic coloring my features more harshly than I would have liked.”

Dobby nodded without looking up from his knobby knees.

“Here, have some tea, Dobby,” Tonks offered as she pressed a child-sized mug in the elf’s trembling hands.

“You should not be doing that,” Dobby scolded immediately, then relented and perched dejectedly on a tall wooden stool. “Dobby is to be replaced?”

“No, it was just a misunderstanding,” Remus soothed. “I’m at fault for not making my wishes known more clearly.”

“Master Remus is not wanting the Spook to slink into his bedchamber at night.” Dobby’s head bobbed knowingly. “Dobby understands.”

“Well, yes,” Remus noted with a sheepish grin. “He’s uncanny enough in the daylight. Can you imagine him at night?”

“Smelling salts all around,” Dobby opined solemnly.

“At the very least!” Tonks supplied with a chuckle. “Why don’t you go off to bed, Dobby? Morning will come soon enough.”

“What if Dobby’s services are needed in the kitchen?” the elf proposed uncertainly.

“The world would conclude that a grown man such as Harry was unable to forage for his own midnight snack,” Remus noted wryly. “His reputation would never recover.”

“Why do I always have to be the scapegoat?” Harry cried with mock indignation.

“Because I’m handier with a ready hex!” Tonks shot back.

“Not that you have any place to hide a wand, cherub,” Remus observed as his eyes washed over her ardently. Wrenching his attention back to Dobby, Remus whispered, “You wouldn’t want to displease me by arguing about your bedtime, now would you?”

With a quick look at the stern faces around him, Dobby Disapparated with a resounding pop.

---

Harry padded up the stairs to his own bed, the taste of tea with lemon still lingering on his lips. The thick covers had been thrown back and Ginny’s auburn mane was no longer splayed across the pillows. He found her leaning against the window that faced the rear of the house. The cool moonlight streaming through the diaphanous folds of her gown gave her an ethereal appearance as if she had been carved of marble.

The illusion was broken when she inquired, “Crisis averted?”

Harry nodded. “She didn’t even wake up as we tucked her into bed.”

“Remus would have woken the entire village if it had been a full moon.”

“You should’ve stayed in bed,” he whispered as he drew his arm around her waist.

“He won’t be able to get back to sleep,” Ginny observed, her eyes drawn to the indistinct shadows on the back patio.

Following her line of sight, it took Harry’s eyes a few moments to distinguish what had drawn her attention. “What’s he doing out there?” he cried as he recognized Remus’ silhouette seated in one of the garden chairs. The figure turned its face to look up at the heavens after taking a long drink from its mug.

“He’s communing with James and Sirius would be my guess,” Ginny commented.

“He’ll have icicles dangling from his sleeves at this rate!”

“He doesn’t feel the cold like we do. Different metabolism. Or so he told Ron and me when we found him reading a book by the dying embers at the Burrow. Sacred me half to death when I tried to sneak past him.” With a small nostalgic smile, she added, “Luckily, he was usually in the mood for a midnight snack as well.”

“Did that prompt him to go back to bed?”

“Not always, but many times Dad came downstairs himself and kept Remus company. I remember falling asleep many times with a full tummy and the soft drone of their whispered conversation in the background.”

“So this is normal behavior for him, you’re saying?”

Ginny shrugged inconclusively. “Dad told us that the Order members had often been woken to duty in the middle of the night during Voldemort’s first bid for power. Remus, it seemed, learned to jerk instantly awake. Falling back to sleep, however, was a different matter.”

“He hasn’t been able to readjust after all these years?”

Ginny gave him a small cryptic smile. “So Dad claimed; it isn’t necessarily the whole story.”

Harry nodded sagely. If there’s one thing he’d learned, it was that there was always more going on with Remus than he allowed the world, or even his family, to see.

‘Surely, a Healer would--”

“Remus has never been one to just grab a potion from the medicine cabinet, you know that. Not now, not then.”

Had Remus been curled up in front of the hearth, Harry would have hardly been concerned. But it was almost winter, for Merlin’s sake. Instantly, Harry made his decision.

“Go back to bed, Gin. You have a Saturday shift tomorrow, even if it’s just a half-day. I can lie in until noon if need be.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Heat the flagstones for a brainless werewolf!”

“Here, take this,” she suggested as she handed him the afghan she had wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the chill.

Harry ran his hand appreciatively across the soft mohair yarn, the cornflower blue color that so complimented Ginny’s hair muted to an indistinct grey. It had been one of the first things he’d bought her on their honeymoon.

“An overcoat would make more sense,” Harry argued.

“He won’t accept that; but make sure you follow your own advice,” she implored as she gave him a quick kiss.

---

Harry eased himself out the kitchen door before hastily replacing the nighttime wards. Even bundled in his winter overcoat, the cold seemed to rise from the very ground and work its way past his bare ankles and up the loose legs of his pajamas. He redoubled his efforts to cast a warming charm on the flagstones until he saw the first tendrils of steam rising from the joints. Next he manipulated the Protego charm so it expanded to form a fragile bubble enclosing the elliptical patio area. At least that would help to keep the heat from simply dissipating into the atmosphere.

“It’s not necessary to go to all that trouble just for me,” Remus noted dryly from where he sat at the wrought iron table.

“Self-preservation,” Harry corrected.

“If you were intent on that, you would have stayed inside.”

“If you weren’t such a thoughtless berk, I would have! Here, Ginny insisted on sharing this with you,” he added as he draped the mohair wrap across Remus’ shoulders.

A deep chuckle issued from Remus’ throat as he buried his hands in the soft yarn.

“Reading the stars?” Harry nodded towards the velvety expanse of the night sky before them.

“Never had the pleasure of taking Firenze’s Divination course,” Remus admitted. “You?”

“Only for a few months. Rather had my fill of prophecy, if you know what I mean.”

“Do I ever.” Remus grinned as he directed his wand in the direction of the metal chair Harry was just pulling out. “Didn’t want you to catapult yourself into orbit.”

“My backside thanks you,” Harry retorted as he swung himself into the chair with a small grunt. “Let me return the favor, “ he added as he drew forth a bottle of leftover mulled mead. Easing the cork open, he briefly heated the contents before pouring some into Remus’ empty tea mug.

“Quite an improvement.” Remus sniffed appreciatively at the slowly curling wisps of steam before taking a tentative swallow. “How did I manage to miss this among the refreshments?”

“It was in the wassail bowl.”

“Ah, yes. Where the twins were hovering.”

“Their reputation does precede them,” Harry acknowledged with a dry chuckle. “This was an unopened bottle I found in the kitchen.”

“Self-preservation indeed.” Remus held his mug up in a toast towards the brightest star on the horizon.

Recognizing the unspoken homage to Sirius, Harry’s eyes were drawn involuntarily towards the black chasm on the other side of the patio. The site of his father’s last stand. Or so Bellatrix Lestrange had ranted, although he’d been unable to confirm she’d actually been present on the night of Voldemort’s attack. They had decided against erecting any sort of memorial plaque, preferring to leave the concrete pond cracked and empty in tribute to James’ sacrifice. Despite the dark maw yawning in the moonlight, the pond was no more than a foot deep and was unlikely to be a menace during the day.

“Do you feel more closely connected to those who have gone before or just insignificant before the vastness of the cosmos?” Harry posed.

“Neither. I find the serenity strangely calming. As if, for a few moments, I can slip outside my existence. Does that seem strange to you?”

“You’re being wooed by the moon, my Aunt Petunia would say. Right before launching into an extensive tirade on the origins of the word ‘lunacy’.”

“Despite her Muggle leanings, she might not be so far off the mark in my case,” Remus allowed ruefully. “No potion will ever quell the pull of the moon I feel coursing through me �“ even though I choose to ignore it.”

Harry recalled how Remus had once confided that he could always tell the moon phase, without a calendar, without a view of the outside world. He might have been imprisoned in the dankest subterranean cavern for months on end and his bones would still know. With that memory came the realization of why Remus was unable to go back to sleep.

“You’re worried about Phoebe’s sleepwalking, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have been if she’d stayed inside the house. Andromeda told me Tonks was much the same as a child; they would find her curled up next to her dollhouse in the playroom or cuddling the dog in his wicker basket under the kitchen table. Any place where she could find some solace in the stillness of the night when the world around her didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“What would draw Phoebe into the garden?”

“That’s what puzzles me.” Remus sighed heavily. “And then there’s Spook…”

“He didn’t wake up, did he?”

Remus shook his head grimly. “He’s just so curious about everything, Harry. Every blade of grass, every overturned pebble, nothing escapes his scrutiny. What if he climbs out of bed…”

“He’d have to be a self-levitating cat to climb out those bedroom windows,” Harry attested, visualizing the long row of shallow casements that met the ceiling in each of the children’s rooms. The design was ideal to bathe the room in light without giving rise to unnecessary safety issues.

“What’s to keep him from finding another escape route? Even without a Marauder’s Map.”

Gazing into the hollowness of Remus’ expression, it all made sudden sense. He was recalling that fateful night from his own past when the child had been drawn to explore by the intoxicating rays of the full moon. Harry had never known the exact details, had never felt the need to pry into such a painful memory; yet it was all laid out in the haunted depths of Remus’ eyes. And Teddy was so very like his father.

“It will never come to pass,” Harry confirmed with a vehemence that caught him momentarily off-guard. “The grounds are protected with a Fidelius Charm on those nights; Tonks sets it herself. Who can get past gates they can’t see?”

“James and Lily--”

“Had other enemies; powerful, vindictive ones! In a war that is over, Remus. Anyone who might wish you harm is in Azkaban. And that includes Fenrir Greyback.”

“Even with Tonks as temporary Secret-Keeper, I can’t help but worry,” Remus replied morosely. “They’re protected from the beast outside, but what about the beast within? Ordinary spells just bounce off a werewolf’s hide.”

They’d gone over this many times before, but it was clear Remus needed some reassuring. “In the unlikely event something went wrong with your potion, and in the even more unlikely event that your bones didn’t sound an internal alarm, I promise you none of us would have any compunctions about tossing your vexatious body beyond the confines of the charm.”

“Where I could not turn back and attack anew,” Remus confirmed with grim satisfaction. Catching Harry’s concerned furrow, he added, “You’ll better understand when you have children of your own.”

“I understand enough,” Harry continued in a more modulated tone. “Things won’t seem so bleak in the morning. In the meanwhile, you shouldn’t feel obligated to stand as a lone sentinel against the world at large.”

“Are you planning to leave me to my lunacy?” Remus retorted.

“No. At this point, the term would have to apply to both of us!” Harry insisted as he re-warmed the mead before pouring generous portions into both mugs. Taking a long swallow, he felt the glow spread pleasantly to his extremities. “Though I warn you, I haven’t much practice against an army of heliopaths.”

“They can only attack during daylight hours,” Remus scoffed.

“Are you certain?”

“My delusions, my rules,” Remus shot back with a playful smirk.

“What delusions were you guarding against with all the personal wards on your bedroom? Dobby was thoroughly confused.”

“You don’t set a privacy charm before…retiring?” Remus ventured hesitantly.

“No, but my room is on the other side of the house from yours.”

“And you don’t have children sleeping down the hall, either.”

“No, but even so…Why is this such an issue with you?”

“I forgot once. Sirius ribbed me incessantly.”

“Knowing what he was like in his youth! I’m surprised he wasn’t too preoccupied to listen.”

“It was later…” Remus admitted, self-consciously staring into his mug.

“How much later?” Harry prodded, allowing that the mead had made him more reckless than was strictly polite.

Remus took a long, fortifying swallow before responding, “At Grimmauld Place…I was with Tonks.” Catching the amusement dancing in Harry’s eyes, Remus felt the color rising to his face. “It wasn’t so funny at the time.”

Not to you, Harry thought inwardly. Recalling how Sirius had chafed at being restricted to that dreary townhouse, had the man turned discreetly away from the racy wireless drama playing out in the next room -- or had he pressed his ear to the wall? Of their own volition, the words tumbled out of Harry’s mouth, “It’s a wonder Sirius didn’t demand to be included!”

For the smallest moment, Remus’ eyes registered shock but then he threw back his head and laughed outright. “I suppose Tonks being his cousin was the only thing saving me!”

Harry waited until he was able to catch his breath before venturing, “Is that why you never said anything to me…about Ginny, that is?”

“Why would I? I’ve seen you cast a Muffliato charm hundreds of times!” Remus chortled.

“That’s not what I meant!” Taking a deep breath, Harry amended, “I meant it as a serious question.” Suddenly on the spot, he felt the air leave his lungs without any intention of returning.

“Why does it matter?”

“I suppose it doesn’t….now.” Harry stared down at the wedding band on his hand and berated himself for feeling like an errant schoolboy. “It’s just something I’ve always wondered,” he mumbled.

“Were you expecting me to knock on your door and offer you some pointers?” Remus replied mercilessly.

Harry shook his head in defeat, hoping vainly that the motion would ease some of the embarrassment from his cheeks. Stars, they’d been tiptoeing around the ruddy hippogriff in the room for years, why should it totally unnerve him to acknowledge it? “I suppose I deserved that for the remark about Sirius…” he muttered.

“It was a non-issue, Harry. You and Ginny were both of age and it seemed pointless to condemn you to meeting at the Three Broomsticks when half of this house is yours. I suppose I might have objected if you’d had a revolving door like Sirius once did…But it was clear you were both committed to one another in your own way. Not to mention that I didn’t want to come across as a hypocrite in front of my own children.”

“You think you might have felt differently if it were Teddy or Phoebe?”

“Merlin, I hope not! Tonks would never forgive me if I turned into a desiccated old prune with opinions to match.” Giving Harry an indulgent smile, Remus admitted, “Just so you know, I’d be mortified if you repeated that bit about Sirius overhearing.”

“Who am I going to tell? Tonks was there and it’s hardly the sort of thing I would recount to Ginny.”

“Ron?”

“He’d laugh too much �“ and then ask for more details,” Harry admitted with a chuckle of his own. “Best you tell him yourself.”

“Perhaps when we’re old and grey. Snape?”

“I’m not on such good terms with him as you are.”

“Still you have to admit, he’d relish having that sort of ammunition,” Remus considered in a thoughtful tone. “Probably trot it out as proof that I didn’t know when to keep my mouth shut. He’s been doing variations on that theme for years.”

“Really?” Harry sniggered. “A man with so many eccentricities of his own should trend more carefully. What exactly did he say to you?”

Remus shrugged noncommittally. “There was the one time at the teacher’s table when he said something to the effect that I must be at a loss when I’m alone. That I probably talked to myself in the shower. To which I replied, ‘Really, Severus, everyone knows people talk to themselves in the mirror; the shower is for singing.’

“ ‘Spoken like a man who’s familiar with both,’ he replied acerbically.

“ ‘I’m not above humming a bit of Gilbert and Sullivan on occasion. Pirates of Penzance, perhaps.’

“Before he could zero in for the kill, though, his wife, Rolanda, leans over and whispers, ‘Severus prefers Puccini.’

“ ‘Turandot, no doubt.’ I nodded sagely, picturing how hard-pressed he’d be to get those heavy brocade robes to billow menacingly.”

“Madame Butterfly,” Harry supplied with a snigger.

“Tonks whispered much the same as she joined the conversation. It was only later that I realized she hadn’t really said that at all. What she’d said was, ‘A regular M. Butterfly, he is.’” At Harry’s blank expression, Remus elaborated, “M. Butterfly, as in Monsieur Butterfly, is a totally different production. Tonks took me to see it in the West End before we were married. It’s about a clueless French diplomat who has a long-time affair with a dainty Oriental cross-dresser.”

Harry laughed uproariously. “The one where he claims to not have known?”

“Exactly. You can see why people bought tickets simply to fathom how this could be. So there I am in my office, alone, and laughing my fool head off as Tonks’ comment finally hits home. All I can think about is Neville’s boggart coming out of that wardrobe--”

“�”only he’s dressed as a geisha instead.”

“A rather unattractive geisha, I might add!”

“No need for the pasty make-up, though,” Harry squeaked out between his laughter. “Remus, perhaps you should share that one with Neville.”

“You think I can trust him not to let on to Snape directly?”

“Perhaps not,” Harry conceded with a humorous twist to his mouth. “What was the conclusion about the diplomat?”

Remus’ face split into the Marauder’s grin. “Language barrier.”

Ginny’s going to think we’ve lost our minds, Harry thought as he doubled up with laughter. Hopefully, she’d heeded his advice to get some sleep and was no longer peering at them through the window sheers.

“What did you add to the wine?” Remus posed as he squinted at the last half inch of golden liquid remaining in the bottle.

“I didn’t drug it, if that’s what you mean,” Harry assured him as he divided the last portion between their two mugs. “Nothing more than a few drops of clove oil. I thought it improved the flavor, didn’t you?”

“Most definitely; but my eyelids are beginning to droop.”

Harry nodded that he felt much the same. “Ginny said her mother swore by it when they were little. Said that bunk about warm milk was grossly overrated.”

“Molly’s unique brand of deviousness never ceases to amaze me,” Remus acknowledged as he rose rather shakily from the table and turned to go back inside the house.

At the door, he turned back to Harry. “Tonks has some fairly graphic manuals if you’d like to borrow them.” With an irreverent twinkle in his eye, he added, “Minerva did promise you could select your own avenues of study.”

Feeling self-conscious all over again, Harry moaned, “Aren’t you ever caught short without a reply, Professor?”

With a self-depreciating chuckle, Remus conceded, “All the time; I just refuse to show it.”

“Let others throw in the towel?”

“Something like that.”

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Eight
A Respite in the Weather



Having tested their mettle with a soft dusting of snow the night before, a frosty winter sun shone forth that morning. By nine, the last wisps of snow had melted into the ancient cracked sidewalks surrounding Grimmauld Place. Leaden clouds promising a more enduring display hung poised on the horizon, held back by the sheer force of will of those dedicated Ministry employees who had worked tirelessly to organize the day’s activities.

“Right this way, ladies and gentlemen!” Percy Weasley was at his obsequious best, his Ministry robes starched so crisply it was a wonder they didn’t flap like sails on a schooner.

Nimbly, he directed the small group of important guests towards the wooden bleachers which had been cleverly erected for the Minister’s speech. Bearing in mind the townhouse was sandwiched in a Muggle neighborhood, a small stage had been situated at the rear of the house, covering much of the overgrown brick patio. The elevated seating actually straddled the fence bordering Mrs. Figg’s property, allowing guests to Apparate directly into her heavily wooded side yard so as not to create a disturbance on the sidewalk. As an extra precaution, Ministry employees were posing as paving crews and sanitation workers along the adjoining streets in order to further divert traffic.

Percy barely managed to scamper back to his post at the open gate before he was called upon to assist an entourage of several ancient matriarchs. Quick reflexes prevented him from colliding with one of the WWN crew who was double-checking the connections for the live coverage of the dedication ceremony. Like glistening fish beneath the surface of a frozen pond, the catering crew was intent on setting up a lavish buffet inside the glass solarium which had been refurbished to exacting Victorian standards in preparation for this event.

Raised voices near the spot where wands were being tagged according to standard Ministry procedures drew Percy’s narrowed eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary there, he decided, just an elderly gent who was convinced they were trying to confiscate his wand instead of just weighing it. A common misconception among citizens who had never had cause to visit the Ministry of Magic in person.

Little by little, the assembled crowd grew to cover the reviewing stands with a living quilt of boisterous colors, murmurs of anticipation growing to a fever pitch as they awaited the show. As the last chime of the noon hour reverberated within the narrow confines of number twelve, attendants pulled open the double doors to the solarium and Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic, strode pompously towards the podium.

---

“There’s really no need to stand so far away from the windows,” Luna chided. “They’ve been coated with a reflective surface on the outside.” At Harry’s doubtful expression, she added, “No silhouette will show. Not during daylight hours, not even when back-lighted at night.”

“Forgive me for not wanting to be an easy target,” Harry retorted with a nervous smile.

He barely hazarded a glance towards the skies; he was more concerned with the stark outlines of the armed guards who stood, watchful and silent, on the surrounding rooflines. Everyone who could be seen was nothing more than a decoy, placed there to give the public a sense of security among the tightly packed group of dignitaries. The true sharpshooters -- to steal a phrase from the Muggle Westerns favored by his cousin, Dudley -- were cleverly spelled by a Disillusionment Charm to blend in with their surroundings like human chameleons. No need to worry about camouflaging their shadows today, as hazy clouds had suffused the weak sunlight by the time the guests started arriving.

“I’ll alert the guards that the shooting gallery won’t be operational until after the refreshments,” Mad-Eye Moody grumbled from the doorway as he gave them a disconcerting wink with this non-magical eye. “I’m joining the others in the green room, if you need me.”

“That’s fine, Alastor,” Mrs. Figg returned. “The Apparition bubble near the door has already been tested; you should have no resistance launching from there.”

“Too much effing fanfare, if you ask me,” Moody groused under his breath as his wooden leg clunked down the staircase towards the ground floor.

“I was hoping to see Neville,” Harry ventured as he took a few tentative steps towards the tall attic windows. He had a bird’s eye view of the stage as well as the teaming spectators. Belatedly, he regretted not bringing Omnioculars for a bit of people-watching.

“He’ll be here soon,” Luna assured him as she stood shoulder to shoulder. “I didn’t think his invitation to take morning tea with Minerva would delay him this long; but you know how passionate he gets about her private garden.”

Harry chuckled in appreciation. “He won’t have to Apparate into the middle of this mess, will he?”

Mrs. Figg shook her head indulgently. “We made sure to pin the extra curator’s badge securely to his robes before he Flooed out this morning. He’ll be able to return via the hearth in the master suite.”

“All other Floos have been disconnected since we first opened our doors to the public,” Luna supplied with a dreamy nod. “Oh look, Figgy, there’s Scrimgeour himself strutting towards the stage. It must be time.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll just watch from the relative safety of this desk chair,” Mrs. Figg allowed. “I’m not one to launch myself from a balcony astride a broom, thank you very much.”

“You and Tonks, both.” Luna sighed. “Couldn’t get her to join us up here at all this morning.”

“I think she prefers pacing backstage and going over her mental costume changes,” Harry observed with a wry laugh. “The crew in charge of the presentation were regaling her with their ill-conceived ideas when I left her in their capable hands.”

“Do you think we’ll be called upon to reverse any curses?” Luna giggled impishly.

“Not if Mad-Eye gets there first!” Harry shot back with a snigger.

A sharp crackle issued from the snow globe which had been configured to provide them with an audio feed. Amid the swirling bits of glitter surrounding a miniature Westminster Cathedral, Scrimgeour’s voice intoned, “Wizards, witches and honored dignitaries: welcome. Today’s events are only the tail end of a project that began many years ago with the vision of a small group of dedicated witches and wizards. Heroes in every sense of the word, many giving their lives so the wizarding world could rise from the ashes once again. Like the venerable phoenix who is no longer with us, Albus Dumbledore did not live to see this day. But he would have been proud of the private citizens who saw to it that his dreams did not die with him. Many were his former students, full of idealism; some were veterans of earlier skirmishes which had failed to end the war once and for all. We owe them our freedom, ladies and gentlemen. The biting air we take into our lungs is no longer tainted with shadow due to their valiant efforts.

“But it was a long and bitter struggle, punctuated with many sacrifices along the way. No one’s efforts were too small to be insignificant. And despite their humble protests, this edifice behind me which once served as their clandestine headquarters has been lovingly refitted as a museum to commemorate each small step which led to victory. Believe me, they are not a group who seeks the public limelight and it took a fair bit of persuasion to entice some of these heroes to be with us for today’s dedication.

“So without further tongue-wagging on my part, I present one of the senior veterans of the former Order of the Phoenix, Alastor Moody.”

As Scrimgeour backed away towards the rear of the stage, a deft motion by one of the stage hands Vanished the podium in a dramatic puff of white smoke. Instead of dissipating into the atmosphere, the wispy tendrils swirled into strangely pulsing shapes, restless and beguiling at the same time.

With a sharp cough, grizzled hands waved the smoke aside impatiently as Mad-Eye stepped through to a sharp intake of breath among the onlookers. His magical eye surveyed the crowds in a dizzying manner as he silently encouraged them to get a good look at his ravaged physique. With one last swat at a persistent patch of smoke, he coughed loudly enough to be heard in the back row.

“I told them backstage I’d given up smoking years ago,” he growled amicably as the audience broke out in laughter. Having won them over, his fierce glower no longer seemed like anything other than his natural expression. “Despite my outward appearance, this was not a one person fight against a band of militant banshees,” he proclaimed with vigor. “I spent many a year chasing down dark wizards in the Auror Department before joining forces with a more youthful crowd. As a matter of fact, some of my former trainees have come to eclipse me with their unique talents. One such is Kingsley Shacklebolt, the current department head.” With a wave of his gnarled walking stick, Moody turned sideways as he motioned towards the back of the stage.

At first nothing happened, but little by little gusts of wind started to snap at the spectators’ scarves and hats, the skirting along the edge of the stage rustling ominously.
Dust motes that had settled to the ground after Moody’s entrance came to life once more, swarming faster and faster into a small wind spout that hovered at mid-stage. With a mighty crack, the funnel was gone and Kingsley stood tall and proud in its wake.

“Hard to believe that very man regularly sneaks up on his co-workers,” Harry noted dryly at the over-blown special effects.

Applause greeted Kingsley as he assumed a wide-legged stance in polished black boots which contrasted sharply with tan trousers and a flowing dark blue Auror’s cloak. The distinctive shape of the Order of Merlin shone against the simple lines of his short, belted jacket. Not that any of them had ever worn such militaristic trappings; the standard Auror dress was nothing more than an official Ministry-type robe over Muggle street clothing. Nothing too ragged or trendy unless one was undercover. But this was theatre, Harry reminded himself, and the crowd was eating it up.

A wide grin split Kingsley’s dark features as he leaned over to address the crowd in a practiced stage whisper, “I may be in charge these days, but Moody here is still the star attraction at all the cocktail parties. It’s his adventures they clamor to hear, not my pedantic reports on exploding toilets and rampaging garden gnomes.”

“Don’t forget the gang of demonic house-elves, all dressed in black leather,” Moody prompted.

“Turned out to be a bunch of Muggle schoolmates sporting their rugby jackets, the eldest no more than ten or twelve,” Kingsley confided to much laughter. “But we wouldn’t want you to think we were just a pack of male elitists. Moody has long been an avid bird-watcher, so it came as no surprise when he introduced us to his star protégé…”

Amid the expectant hush, Tonks Apparated silently at the rear of the stage with her back to the audience. She was dressed much as she had been when Harry had first met her: a sweatshirt with a rock band’s advert, artfully torn jeans that hugged her legs, and bright purple combat boots. Harry caught just a flash of her wicked smile before she whipped around and looked about her in mock consternation.

“…who still seems to have a problem with Stealth and Tracking,” Moody finished over the chuckles and belly-laughs. “Tonks is undercover today,” he explained. “Totally blends in with the Muggles luxuriating in the park among the pigeons.”

Harry’s sharp eyesight noticed she had just added a number of rather garish ear piercings.

“No one would give her a second look except to chat her up,” Kingsley took up the narrative. “Never realizing her deadly accuracy with a wand and a ready hex.”

Tonks drew her wand from her sleeve with practiced ease as she scrunched up her pert nose briefly �“ and then turned her hair a bright bubble-gum pink. The audience ooh’d on cue.

“I’m going off duty, mates,” Tonks announced as she sauntered over. “Hold this for me while I tie my laces,” she instructed Kingsley as she tucked her wand visibly into his top jacket pocket.

Kingsley shared a slightly perplexed look with the audience as Moody conjured a small footstool with a lazy flick of his wand.

Tonks nodded her thanks as she placed her boot on the seat and bent over it intently. “Fancy hoisting a few at the pub?” she posed, looking up at each of them in turn. “Can’t wait to get out of these work clothes,” she moaned as she righted herself and stretched her arms languidly over her head. In the next instant, she was dressed in a simple black cardigan over a sparkly top, her boots replaced with spiky heels. Without a second’s hesitation, she added and discarded a number of necklaces to her ensemble as it slowly dawned on the assemblage that she was not using a wand.

She waited for the applause to die down before offering, “Best not to draw too much attention to yourself, my mum always said.” With a snap of her fingers, she Vanished the jewelry entirely and changed her hair into a shiny blue bob.

With a deep sigh of forbearance, Kingsley returned the wand to her in a courtly manner as Moody continued, “What they didn’t realize was how many birds I had to interview before I found one who was a Metamorphmagus!”

“Don’t forget the graceful part,” Kingsley admonished as the audience tittered appreciatively.

“Absolutely!” Tonks shot back. “My parents paid extra for those lessons, you know.” Catching her companions’ eyes once again, she dared, “Last one there…” She took two tentative steps towards the front of the stage, letting her gaze linger over the rapt faces before her. With a blissful expression on her face, she opened her arms wide in a classic Disapparition stance. Harry waited for her to bring her tight little turn in for a second revolution with a small swing of her leg, marveling anew as she disappeared amid a small shower of sparkling stars.

A sharp gasp undulated through the crowd as Moody noted, “Not to mention her winning ways with an exit.”

“Or entrance, depending upon your viewpoint,” Tonks volunteered as she peeked out from behind Scrimgeour’s chair to thunderous applause. “It’s best to keep enemies unaware of your comings and goings.” Without any additional fanfare, she Disapparated again, leaving the trademark faerie lights in her wake.

She reappeared among the shrubbery lining the solarium walls and asked, “Did I miss the stars again? Blimey, that’s the best part!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at how artfully she had appropriated Ron’s awed assessment as her own. Hopefully, Ron was chuckling to himself at he listened in via the wireless in his cozy kitchen.

“Time to get ready for the tours,” Luna breathed as she dashed down the stairs.

Mrs. Figg followed more sedately, commenting on her way out the door, “I’ll just let Luna take the first group.”

Even though he had been well briefed on what would come next, Harry still bristled as the journalists and other curiosity seekers clustered around the stage for the question and answer session. Percy was urging those who wished to take the first tour of the museum to please follow him as other assistants herded the uncertain towards the buffet tables inside the solarium. Suddenly, Harry felt lost without Ron or Hermione at his side, knowing Ginny was keeping a close eye on things at the main broadcasting studio.

At the sound of a small avalanche, Harry dashed out into the narrow corridor and followed the noise into the dilapidated master suite Sirius had once occupied. He was caught short when the room no longer looked as he remembered. The dark wood of the large four-poster bed had been buffed to a high gloss, its worn curtains and bedspread replaced with silver damask to match the polished granite of the hearth. The gilded mirror no longer reflected the worn patches on the ceiling and the cracked plaster beneath the moldy wallpaper. He suspected the adjoining room which had once been Buckbeak’s lair was no longer open to the elements, but he did not have a chance to explore very thoroughly.

A rather rumpled Neville was furiously shaking a decade’s worth of ashes from his robes as he coughed furiously. Harry added a wordless Evanseco spell to urge the last of the debris to detach itself and float harmlessly towards the white dust cloth laid upon the shampooed carpeting for that very purpose.

“You make quite an entrance, Neville,” Harry greeted him with a cheery slap on the shoulder. “Mad-Eye did much the same on stage.”

Neville chuckled light-heartedly as he continued to shake the sparkling Floo powder from his fringe. “So that was his entrance? Couldn’t tell so well on the wireless.” To demonstrate, he extracted a tiny snow globe key chain from the inner pocket of his robes. Inside rested the diminutive dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral as black specks represented the ever-present flock of pigeons congregating on its wide steps. “Luna got me this so I could listen in even when I was abroad.”

Harry looked skeptically as the personal wireless set. It was the latest fad for wizarding gadgets to resemble innocuous Muggle objects; just one more way to thumb their noses at the Statute of Secrecy, Harry supposed. The snow globes had been modeled after the twin’s proximity alarm prototype Ron had unveiled so many years ago. “Can you really get the WWN half a hemisphere away?” he inquired with a dubious frown.

“Not really,” Neville admitted rather sheepishly. “But I feel closer to Luna every time I use it anyway. The sound quality is great throughout Britain, though. I was listening in to the whole dedication ceremony as I hiked to the Floo connection at the Three Broomsticks.”

“Yeah, Luna was wondering what had delayed you.”

“Tons of stuff. Great news, really. Is she about?”

“She’s tied up leading the tours right now,” Harry advised, watching the enthusiasm in Neville’s eyes dim. “Why don’t you keep me company in the Crow’s Nest so we can stay out of sight? The question and answer session was just beginning when you arrived.”

With an eager nod, Neville allowed himself to be escorted back down the hall just as the mingled voices of the tour drifted up the stairs. Soundlessly, Harry closed the door behind them and applied a Muffliato charm as an extra precaution. The success of their plan depended upon not being seen by anyone other than their co-conspirators. That was in large part why Hermione and Ron had elected to stay at home, inviting Remus and the children to join them so they could all listen in together.

Seeing through Remus’ initial hesitation, Harry had volunteered to accompany Tonks to Grimmauld Place and keep a close eye on the proceedings. “After all,” he’d reminded Remus before the man could come up with any other objections, “I’m still the official landlord of number twelve.”

With the wireless feed Ginny had arranged for them, every word uttered on stage came through loud and clear.

“…was a bit of a power vacuum after Dumbledore’s death,” Kingsley was saying. “That was to be expected. But no, I did not become the de facto leader of the Order.”

“Mr. Moody?” an unfamiliar reporter’s voice prodded.

“Nor I, laddie,” Mad-Eye rumbled heartily. “I may be a man of action, but I was not the visionary tactician which Dumbledore had been.”

“Is that such an important point for your story?” Scrimgeour interjected impatiently. “I always got the impression the Order operated more along the lines of a committee where everyone’s voice was heard equally.”

“That’s a fair way to put it,” Kingsley acknowledged diplomatically.

“The Order recognizes no generals,” Tonks agreed, echoing a phrase which had clearly come from Remus.

Move on, Harry urged inside his head, if Remus had wanted you to fawn all over him, he would have come in person.

“Is it true your group of patriots originated the practice of verifying a person’s identity by Patronus?” posed yet another reporter.

“Can’t say we originated it as such,” Kingsley drawled. “But we found it to be a much more efficient method than anything the Ministry was espousing at the time.”

“You’re referring to the brochure suggesting we quiz each other before opening the door,” came a crisp voice.

Moody’s gravely voice responded, “Considering that attempts were made to infiltrate our organization by those whom we'd considered friends and allies, you can see how that might be a less than reliable method.”

“But Patronuses can change, can they not?” the same journalist persisted.

“Yes,” Kingsley allowed, “but it’s not a common occurrence by any means. It usually requires a traumatic event that would have already primed the rest of the group.”

“No method is entirely foolproof,” Moody elaborated. “We just considered it a superior method for our needs. All of our agents had mastered the charm so that was not an issue.”

“They also started using this method at Hogwarts,” Scrimgeour volunteered with a note of pride.

“Yes, we did,” Tonks acknowledged. “My main objective when I took over the Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum was to empower each student, down to the most introverted first year, to defend himself in an emergency. We also addressed methods of avoiding conflict and hiding in plain sight by blending in with the surroundings. But when faced with an immediate threat, the Patronus charm would provide them with the best chance of holding out until help arrived.”

“But they were so young…” protested an obviously feminine voice.

“War does not ask the age of its victims,” Kingsley expounded solemnly. “It is barbaric just as much as it is egalitarian. That is one of the harshest lessons of all.”

“As for teaching the first years,” Tonks continued, “I admit it was a bit of an innovation. But one which paid off, even if a student was only able to produce a partial Patronus �“ one composed only of silver smoke. Without a distinct shape it could not chase away its tormentors, but still provided a viable shield.”

“And no protests were heard?” posed a voice which reminded Harry of his Aunt Petunia’s patented self-righteousness.

“From whom?” Moody growled. “Parents are hardly going to complain about their children being taught how to survive in a time of war!”

“Yet many parents felt the need to keep their children at home during the final year of the war, did they not?” prodded the ersatz Petunia. Harry could just envision the grim line of the lips which accompanied that particular tone.

“Yes,” Scrimgeour admitted candidly. “But that was a symptom of the uncertain times, not a condemnation of the teaching methods employed at Hogwarts. One has only to review the bulging class rosters in the years after Lord Voldemort’s defeat.”

“So the school continues to teach first years how to produce a Patronus?” strained a voice from the back.

“Absolutely,” Tonks affirmed. “We found the increased concentration required to master the charm gave students an extra boost of confidence in all areas of their schoolwork.”

“How did you counter the resistance in the first group?” came another.

“All students whing about the assignments put before them,” Moody expounded. “The same holds true for Auror trainees, although they are more clever about avoiding my magical eye.” He waited for the smattering of laughter to die down before continuing. “But in the end, they achieve what we expect of them. The question you should be asking is why the wizarding community had long held so little confidence in their children’s abilities.”

“The fault lies with us and not with them,” pronounced a disgruntled sounding voice.

“Not anymore,” Tonks replied in her usual upbeat manner. “We have seen the error of our ways. As to our methods, I was lucky to have an able assistant in none other than Harry Potter himself. Circumstances required he learn the charm in his third year for his very survival. He simply convinced the younger ones that if he could do it, so could they.”

“The students found that motivating?” came the voice of a skeptic.

“Oh, yes.” Tonks was obviously warming to her subject. “What first year wouldn’t relish a compliment and a broad smile from a seventh year? No one wanted to disappoint Harry.”

“But Harry graduated soon after that.”

“Yes,” Moody took up the slack. “But a new crop of first years will bristle if you try to tell them they are not capable of the same achievements as the prior class. They will do everything in their power to prove you wrong.”

“So it’s self-fulfilling,” surmised another journalist.

“All success is,” Kingsley concluded with aplomb.

“What about you, Ms. Tonks?” another unfamiliar voice, this time a woman’s, spoke up. “Are your children watching today? I didn’t see any young faces among the spectators. What about your husband? He was part of your group as well, wasn’t he?”

There was a long, tense pause as Harry and Neville rushed to the window to view the interactions first-hand. Tonks turned her head to look imploringly at Moody and then Kingsley. Scrimgeour was shaking his head reproachfully at the reporter, his lips pursed with displeasure. “I understood there were to be no personal questions,” the Minister remarked in a glacial tone.

“My apologies, Minister,” the reporter back-pedaled. “I represent Witch Weekly and we’re always interested in a woman’s point of view.”

“Do you wish for me to have this reporter removed, sir?” Percy offered as he scurried up with a self-important puff to his chest.

“What do you think, Nymphadora?” Scrimgeour suggested as he threw poor Tonks to the sharks -- or so it seemed to Harry.

Tonks hesitated, her mouth hanging open as if she couldn’t quite fathom how the Minister himself could have reacted in such an ungentlemanly fashion. In the deafening silence, Tonks’ navy cloak snapped sharply in the wind as the Order of Merlin shone forth from her cravat. Harry noted she had changed her attire to echo Kingsley’s, yet somehow her unique details gave her more of an equestrian look.

“Remus is surely gnashing his teeth,” Neville breathed.

Flexing his claws and swishing his tail, Harry added inwardly.

Even from their angle, they could distinguish Tonks' throat working feverishly. “I believe I’ll answer the question,” she remarked very carefully. “But you will have to be satisfied with my words.”

The reporter nodded briskly to acknowledge that a crumb was better than nothing.

In a carefully modulated tone, Tonks replied, “My children have absolutely nothing to do with today’s events. They were not born -- nor even conceived -- at the time when the wizarding world stood on the brink of being consumed by dark forces. If anything, my children are a testament to the hope for the future that we all share; but they are not, and never will be, a subject for your readers’ interest. As for my husband, he is a very private man who does not require the adulation of the world to believe in his own self-worth.”

With those quiet words, Tonks excused herself to get some refreshments, even though any of the Ministry’s attendants would have been happy to fetch something for her.

Unperturbed, a small mousy gentleman elbowed his way to the front of the crowd. “Please, Mr. Moody, my readership would be most interested in all the exploits of your long and varied career. Frankly, I’m surprised you have not considered penning an autobiographical …”

Harry’s attention was diverted by the quick tread up the last flight of stairs leading to their hiding place. Could it be Luna? He exchanged a glance with Neville who obviously was thinking the same. They both jumped at the soft knock which echoed through the door.

“Luna will have a key,” Harry breathed in Neville’s ear as he pressed a finger to his lips.

A smoky lupine shape jumped nimbly onto the desktop before them, causing Neville to grab Harry’s arm fearfully as it became clear the slavering jaws were those of a werewolf. “I told you Remus would be angry,” Neville whispered as apprehension led him to the wrong conclusion.

“It’s me,” came Tonks’ voice from the smoky jaws. “Some familiar faces would really…”

Before allowing her tremulous words to finish, Harry swirled his Invisibility Cloak over himself and opened the door. Tonks slipped through gratefully, flashing a weak smile at Neville. Before she had time to get her bearings, Harry allowed the Cloak to drop to the floor and enveloped her in a comforting hug. “You were magnificent,” he affirmed softly. “A lioness defending her cubs.”

Tonks uttered a weak laugh in relief. “Considering I wasn’t in Gryffindor, I was hoping for a comparison with a badger…”

“A veritable wolverine, more like,” Neville added with a wry chuckle.

Harry bade her to sit in Luna’s comfy chair as she unbuckled the heavy cloak from her shoulders. He poured her a small goblet of the purple wine an intrepid house elf had delivered to them moments before.

Tonks obligingly took a sip and then screwed her face in displeasure. “What is this stuff? You didn’t try to save money by having Severus’ students prepare the punch, did you?”

“Thimbleberry wine,” Harry supplied as he took a small sip of the cloying liquid himself. “They thought to stay with the Victorian theme for the refreshments as well.”

“Here, have a stuffed olive,” Neville offered her a small ivory toothpick. “They’re quite good, stuffed with bleu cheese.”

Tonks nodded gratefully as she helped herself to some of the other delicacies from the lavish silver tray before them. “Still need something to wash it down with, though. Does Luna keep any Butterbeer in that cold cabinet of hers?”

“We can check,” Harry offered as he opened the filing cabinet Tonks had indicated. “Some pumpkin juice…wait, what’s this? Two bottles of champagne. Rather good quality, I might add.”

Neville cleared his throat self-consciously. “I believe those are mine, Harry.”

“Planning for a bit of celebration later?” Harry added with a small suggestive smirk.

Neville flushed noticeably. “Not a seduction, if that’s what you mean,” he muttered as Tonks laughed merrily.

“Give him a break, Harry,” she spoke up in Neville’s defense. “What’s a dedication without a bit of champagne? And you can’t expect those dolts with the Ministry to buy anything decent, now can you?”

“Actually, if you’ll permit me,” Neville took the glass of thimbleberry wine and poured it into a tall flute he took down from the adjoining cupboard. “My Gran is a big fan of thimbleberry wine, hardly allows anything else past her doorstep. So Luna and I have learned to improvise.” With practiced moves that left Harry speechless, Neville uncorked the champagne without spilling a drop and then splashed some over the purple congealing along the sides of the elegant flute. With a small motion of his wand above the rim, he caused the liquid to stir slightly. “No more than one and a half revolutions,” he warned, “or you’re liable to bruise the bubbles.”

“Since when did you become so adept at Potions?” Harry asked in awe.

“Since I discovered the only true objective was to satisfy my taste buds,” Neville shot back with a wide smile. “And Luna’s, of course. We call this a Haley’s Comet.”

Tonks took a sip, then returned for a much longer swallow. “Very good, Neville. Has a bit of a tickle at the end.”

“That’s the tail of the comet,” Neville explained as he mixed cocktails for Harry and himself. “It’s a shame we don’t have any fresh spearmint leaves. Coat them with coarse sugar and they make the perfect garnish.”

“Are you getting this down, Harry?” Tonks urged. “You know how Dobby loves new recipes.”

Neville blushed at the compliment. “Perhaps a toast,” he suggested hesitantly. “If you promise not to say anything to Luna, the Headmistress offered me the Herbology post. Once Professor Sprout leaves to get married, that is.”

Amid congratulations all around, Neville admitted his desire to accept immediately was tempered by his fear of how Snape would react. “There’s absolutely no way I can scour the world for exotic potion ingredients for his pharmaceuticals and maintain a teaching post. Even if Minerva did warn me she had already promised the Head of Hufflepuff House to Tonks here.”

“Sshhh,” Tonks warned. “It’s still a secret.”

“Did I let the Kneazle out of the proverbial bag?” Neville asked as he hung his head playfully.

“Of course Harry and Remus know, so does Ginny. But no one beyond our house,” Tonks explained. “It’s Minerva’s privilege to make the official announcements.”

“She said much the same to me,” Neville admitted. “But then she sprung her surprise guest on me. Said she’d already taken the liberty of paving the way with Sna… I mean, Severus, on my behalf. I nearly slopped my tea all over myself at that. But he was very gracious, said he had plenty of specimens to keep him busy for a while. Suggested it was time we started seeing which ones could be propagated in our own greenhouses. ‘Which makes your appointment to the Herbology post ideal,’ Minerva finished with self-satisfied smile.”

“She certainly believes in stacking the deck, doesn’t she?” Harry laughed.

“Rumor is she’s one of the investors in Snape’s fledgling enterprise,” Tonks supplied as she downed the last of her cocktail. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“What’s Severus calling his business these days?” Harry inquired. “Would I have seen any of the products on the chemist’s shelves yet?”

“Oh, no, Harry. We’re still in the experimental stage. But he plans to revolutionize medicinal potions. Pharmaceuticals he calls them, taking a page from the Muggle world.”

“Like the reworked Wolfsbane Potion?” Tonks ventured as her eyes scanned the embossed business card Neville handed her.

Incomparable Solutions
…a natural way to approach life’s problems

“So Snape’s decided to go green now?” Harry quipped. “Not that it doesn’t match his House colors.”

Tonks laughed. “Just following the latest Muggle trend, would be my guess. But it ties in well with potion-making as a whole. Do you think he’s planning to expand into the Muggle market?”

Neville shrugged. “Dunno. It would certainly make him a millionaire if he figured out how to get around the Statute of Secrecy. But as for the Wolfsbane Potion you asked about, that’s destined to be a highly controlled substance. Available only under the strict supervision of a Healer.”

“You don’t think everyone would be as meticulous about sticking to the calendar, do you?” Harry ventured.

“Let’s just say the details still need to be ironed out,” Neville issued with care. “Not all patients are as adaptable as Remus. And this is a course of treatment which definitely requires the patient to rework his life to accommodate the medication �“ and not the other way around.”

“So what sort of products do you plan to launch?” Tonks inquired.

“Our first goal is to introduce over the counter type remedies,” Neville explained. “Draughts which don’t lose their potency if they haven’t been freshly brewed.”

“Quite an undertaking,” Tonks acknowledged.

“That’s where all the exotic ingredients come in,” Neville explained. “Tell me though, Tonks, what exactly did you do to revolutionize Hufflepuff House? Both the Heads couldn’t say that enough, yet I really got zero details.”

Tonks laughed self-consciously. “It was really nothing, just a bit of tweaking with the House attributes. You were both there when it all started during your seventh year.”

“The Hufflepuff Boys?” Harry posed with a chuckle. “They were a hoot. I always wondered how you were able to round up such a group. It’s not everyone who’s willing…”

“…certainly not without the inducement of Firewhiskey,” Tonks rejoined. “Or so Remus always claimed.”

“So what’s your secret?” Neville urged.

“Hufflepuffs are always portrayed as loyal and hard-working,” Tonks elaborated. “Sort of gives the impression they have second-rate brains and have to study constantly just to keep their heads above water.”

“I can’t say I haven’t heard those jokes,” Harry admitted.

“But Ravenclaws have turned extra research into a hobby of sorts,” Neville supplied. “Even Luna has her moments when she’s glued to a book.”

“And Remus doesn’t?” Tonks added merrily.

“At least Remus reads literature, quite a bit as a matter of fact,” Harry clarified. “You should see what Hermione considered light reading in our first year. A wizard’s encyclopedia!”

“Perhaps she was just trying to catch up after having lived among Muggles,” Neville posed in a kindly manner.

“You didn’t see me trying to wean myself from the Dursleys in such a manner, did you?” Harry shot back.

“Gentlemen, you made my point for me,” Tonks allowed with a trilling bit of laughter. “Traits don’t just cleave to one House. So I decided to turn the hard-working part into an asset instead of a liability. And what could require more constant dedication than practicing for a performance? Turns out the increased stamina and coordination translates into better control on the Quidditch pitch, so it has appealed to the sports-minded as well.”

“Not to mention the number of girls who are attracted to men who know how to dance,” Harry added with a knowing lift to his brow.

“I’d forgotten about that!” Neville exclaimed. “Why, when I went to the Yule Ball…”

“Ginny told me about Snape,” Harry confided. “In a dreamy voice that was rather unsettling, I might add.”

“He was much the same when I was at school,” Tonks volunteered. “Although he once admitted he’d learned to dance to avoid the insipid small talk at parties. In a very dark, confrontational tone which dared me to question his motives.”

Harry nodded. “At least that puts it into perspective.”

“Not so out of character, after all,” Neville acknowledged with a nervous chuckle.

---

They finished the second bottle of champagne as the voices of Scrimgeour and Kingsley droned on in the background. The current role of the Auror Department was Kingsley’s main theme, only the inherent warmth of his personality making the subject remotely palatable to reporters who were determined to uncover some angle to justify themselves to their publications. Tonks had long since muted the volume as Scrimgeour went on and on ad nauseum; nothing but self-serving drivel in Harry’s estimation. But since the Ministry was bearing the cost of today’s event, it was not unexpected that the Minister’s ego would demand to be fed just as much as the guests prowling the buffet.

Tonks commented that Mad-Eye was likely pedaling his tales among the elegant matriarchs who had been included in the guest list. “Weaving effortlessly among the bodies gathered next to the refreshments has always been one of his well-honed social skills,” she noted wryly.

“If he hasn’t convinced that one reporter to grant him a personal interview,” Neville opined with a sharp laugh.

“I feel really bad about guzzling all your champagne,” Tonks apologized with a giggle. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll just Floo Dobby and have him bring some replacements from our cellar.”

“Have him sent some of the good stuff left over from the wedding,” Harry insisted.

Neville made as if to protest, but Tonks would have none of it.

“The connection is just as the end of the hall,” Harry explained. “The double doors leading--”

“Sirius’ old room? Stars, that brings back dreary memories of him holed up with a bottle of Firewhiskey and Buckbeak for company.” She sighed softly.

“Wasn’t that about the time you and Remus found one another?” Neville suggested as he tried to steer things in a less melancholy direction.

“It probably would have been easier on both of us if we hadn’t been so worried about Sirius half the time,” she admitted candidly. “Somehow his mournful exits never seemed to put me in a flirtatious mood.”

“So how did you ever…?” Harry left his words hanging as he realized he was likely delving into personal territory.

Tonks shrugged to convey she didn’t think his question was out of bounds. “So we spoke of serious things, more than we probably should have in the beginning of a relationship. Not that either of us saw it for what it was. We were just trying to keep the dark thoughts at bay, thinking of things other than the latest news report or the grim reality that our next mission for the Order might be our last. Yet we’d laugh at the oddest things sometimes; Remus’ sense of humor being skewed the way it is. He would wax philosophical and somehow in his simple words I would always find a soothing sort of eloquence…”

“He made you feel safe, in other words,” Neville supplied.

“Very much so, although I didn’t realize that at the time, either. All I knew was that I could relax after a grueling day at the office and just be myself and somehow nothing else would be required of me.”

“I suspect you made Remus feel the same way,” Harry noted. “The sort of acceptance he’d sought all his life, but never found.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t realize it either. Or perhaps he did, but was too hardheaded to accept it for what it was. Looking back now, it seems as if the ravages of war marked the ebb and flow of our courtship.”

“That’s one of the reasons why I didn’t want to rush into marriage with Ginny," Harry attested. "War creates an atmosphere of urgency about everything and I didn’t want my love for her to be just a by-product of that.”

“Yet you broke with wizarding tradition and gave her an engagement ring,” Neville prompted.

“Only because I wanted to mark what was in my heart with something other than words. I didn’t want her to think I was just toying with her affections.”

“Why all these questions, Neville?” Tonks posed with a vague idea gnawing at the back of her brain. “Did you suspect Minerva was planning to make you a job offer?”

“No,” Neville admitted with slight blush. “That came as a complete and utter surprise.”

“Then why the bottles of champagne?” Tonks asked pointedly.

“I suppose it’s too late to go with Harry’s earlier suggestion of a seduction, isn’t it?” Neville posed as he refused to meet anyone’s eyes.

“Not unless you’re going to confess to an unrequited yen for Mrs. Figg,” Harry shot back. “What gives?”

Neville couldn’t help breaking out in nervous laughter as Tonks elbowed Harry and muttered, “I swear there are days when I don’t know who is worse, you or Remus!”

With a deep breath for courage, Neville pulled a small box from his pocket and placed it on the worktable before them. “I’ve been carrying this around for months, trying to get my courage up. So when Severus requested my participation for this event, I knew the time had come. Besides, if I carried it around too much longer, I was afraid I would end up losing it in the jungles of Malaysia or someplace even more inaccessible.”

“May I?” Tonks ventured as she gingerly reached her hand out.

“Please,” Neville implored. “I might feel like less of a total git if I could get someone else’s opinion about my choice. A decidedly female opinion.”

Harry crowded ‘round to get a closer look as Tonks slowly lifted the lid, revealing a delicate silver ring in a very unusual design.

“What kind of stones are these?” Tonks asked in awe. “I’ve never seen anything quite them.”

“They’re from a magical volcano, or so I was told. Snowflake diamonds, they’re called. The setting is platinum.”

Tonks turned the box so the ring caught the light at various angles. The small irregular cluster of bluish stones almost pulsed in their intensity, never repeating their sequence. “You picked the color to match the pale blue of Luna’s eyes, didn’t you?” she uttered with a note of reverence.

Neville nodded. “That and their brilliant sparkle.”

“It was an inspired choice,” Harry asserted. “I didn’t think engagement rings were very traditional in the wizarding world… or so Ginny informed me as she slipped the amethyst I bought her onto her finger.”

Tonks laughed. “Didn’t keep her from accepting it, did it?”

“I’m hoping Luna feels the same way,” Neville confessed. “She always said that Harry’s gesture was so romantic�”even if it did betray his Muggle upbringing.”

“Coming from Luna, I’m going to assume she didn’t mean it in a derogatory way.” Harry chuckled. “But Neville, you’re a pureblood.”

“You don’t think she’ll hold that against me, do you?” Neville exclaimed with genuine anxiety coloring his features.

“I’m sure not,” Harry confirmed. “Why you and Luna have been together almost as long as Ginny and I.”

“Not really,” Neville noted.

“If you disregard that hiccup at the end of sixth year when I was so brainless to think I could break up with her. My heart berated me daily for months until I made things right.”

“Ginny’s loved you much longer than that,” Neville observed solemnly.

“And you would know this how?” Tonks slipped in.

“Ginny was my date to the Yule Ball in our fourth year,” Neville explained, directing his remarks to Tonks. “While Harry was vacillating about whom he should invite once he found out that as one of the Triwizard Champions, he couldn’t just boycott the event entirely.”

“Really, Harry?” Tonks noted with a smirk. “You would have rather gone alone than screw up the courage to ask a girl?”

“I would have rather skipped the event entirely,” Harry clarified. “Cowardice at its most paralyzing.”

“I won’t deny Harry’s position was more difficult than mine,” Neville elaborated. “Harry had a crush on an older girl with whom he hadn’t shared more than two words. Admiring her from afar when she wasn’t looking at him and practically dribbling food into his lap when she happened to look his way.”

“It was hardly my finest moment,” Harry conceded as he shook his head in chagrin. “At least Ginny’s had the decency to never bring it up.”

“Ginny knew about this?” Tonks inquired.

“All of Gryffindor House knew,” Neville supplied. “Perhaps most of the school, as well. When Harry finally screwed up his courage to ask the girl, she already had a date. So Harry chose another girl practically at random and just sat there on the sidelines all night mooning over his dream date.”

“Don’t forget how she arrived on the arm of the most handsome guy at school,” Harry added with a note of petulance.

“I’m sure that didn’t help,” Neville sympathized. “I, on the other hand, had no illusions of finding my heart’s desire, but I was determined to overcome my shyness anyway. So I found a friend who would be my date, who would even practice the dance steps with me once or twice ahead of time so we wouldn’t look like total idiots. In return, my invitation allowed her to attend an event which was restricted to older students. I ended up having a great time, dancing until the wee hours of the morning!

“But despite how polite and attentive Ginny was to me, I couldn’t help noticing that every once in a while she would steal a look at Harry. Finally, I asked her about it, in the non-judgmental way only a friend can ask another. I didn’t really expect her to be so forthright, but she told me that just as Harry dreamed of a date with Cho, she dreamed of Harry more than anything. Then she apologized for implying she wasn’t having an excellent time with me.

“‘It’s all right, Ginny, we both know this is a negotiated date between two friends; I don’t have any false illusions.’ But then it was as if her candor inspired me to speak my mind as well, ‘But, if you don’t mind me saying, why didn’t you just ask Harry to go with you? Wouldn’t that have cut through all the red tape?’

“She thought for a long time before she gave me her answer. ‘Well, it certainly isn’t because I stand with such outdated customs as waiting for the boy to ask me out,’ she began, then garnering her courage, she added very solemnly, ‘It would kill me inside if I were Harry’s date and he was pining over another girl. I may be ready, but he’s not. Believe me, there will come a day; and I assure you, I won’t think twice before taking the plunge. Merlin knows, I’ve had years to gear myself up for it.’

“And I realized how very astute she was in her assessment of the situation, although it must have smarted to be so brutally honest with herself. She knew she couldn’t compete with a fantasy girl who Harry hardly knew, nor did she want to be the object of a schoolboy infatuation which would melt like yesterday’s snow. And I knew then that someday, I wanted to find someone who would love me truly, despite all my shortcomings. Even if it took years, I would wait for them just as Ginny was willing to wait for you, Harry. So you see, Ginny loved you even back then, when you were too pre-occupied to even give her a second look.”

“Is that what you feel you’ve found with Luna?” Tonks posed through the heavy silence which had descended over Harry.

Neville nodded with just the ghost of a smile playing over his lips. “I think I finally feel as lucky as Harry.”

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Nine
The Jaws of the Trap


Ginny paced impatiently from one end of the small room to the other, clenching and unclenching her fists with each step. The special acoustics in the recording studio allowed the voices from Grimmauld Place to come through as if the persons were present before her, yet she avoided glancing at the video screen. After listening to the Minister drone on at excruciating length, she had no desire to look upon his smug, grandstanding face as well.

Just because the news team had agreed to provide live coverage of today’s dedication did not mean he owned the airwaves. Did he not realize the WWN had a broadcasting schedule to maintain? Not to mention paid advertisers who expected their pre-recorded spots to be aired according to contract. No, such things were too mundane for the Minister for Magic to remember; but his media staff should have been more on top of things. Percy was certainly going to get an earful the next time she saw him.

Instantly, her head jerked up at the abrupt silence. On the video screen, Scrimgeour was bending over slightly as one of his assistants whispered urgently into his ear. He nodded as he continued to smile broadly at the small crowd encircling him then began avidly shaking hands. In the background, Ginny caught a glimpse of her brother’s stern countenance. Well, perhaps he was doing his job overseeing today’s events, after all. Managing celebrities, even political ones, was never easy.

Deftly, Ginny switched audio channels and caught the tail end of an advert for a new tearoom in Diagon Alley. Following a brief burst of musical fanfare, the transmission through the wireless system was now originating from their main studio. Ginny confirmed they were only running ten minutes behind schedule. Through the wide glass window which separated her from the next studio, their special guest was entranced by the life-sized video feed that had been set up especially for her.

Time for Act Two, Ginny noted wryly. With a quill infused with a Protean Charm, she sat down to rework the interview script, confident that the shortened version would appear before Eunice just as soon as the ink dried.

---

Harry cringed every time the tour took to the stairs on the floor below, the muffled conversations funneling through the narrow stairwell reminding him that the party was still going strong. From their aerie, they could distinguish the guests drifting like schools of brightly colored fish seeking refreshment in the solarium below. Aided by the elongating shadow of the tall townhouse itself, the temperature outside had been dropping steadily since mid-day. Not that anyone had taken it as a sign to depart; they had simply regrouped near the buffet so they could continue to rub elbows with the celebrities. Idly, Harry watched the steam heat escaping from the vents along the glass roofline. Delicate wraiths drifting into the darkening cloudbank, never to be seen again.

“You don’t think they’ll complain about my skiving off?” Tonks tittered nervously at his elbow.

“And what if they do?” Harry shrugged.

“I’m sure your intrepid agent will set them straight,” Neville added with a boyish grin. “After he reminds them this was a benefit appearance.”

“But the Minister…” Tonks started to protest.

“It’s not a command performance unless it comes from the Queen herself,” Harry reminded her with a twinkle in his eye. “And Her Majesty remains blissfully ignorant of the wizarding world in her midst.”

A sharp crackle from the snow globe caused Neville to increase the volume on their receiver unit.

“I think Ginny’s part of the show is just beginning,” Harry whispered.

“Curtain rises on the second act,” Tonks echoed as she pulled her chair closer.

“Thank you for joining us today, Ms. Umbridge,” came the well-pitched tones of the WWN interviewer. “As a long-time employee of the Ministry’s Cultural Affairs Office, your analysis of today’s events has been much anticipated.”

“Thank you, Eunice,” Umbridge issued with a totally inappropriate giggle. “But I must point out that things were much simpler in my time. No fancy titles or divisions, just two Undersecretaries. Besides my duties to the Wizengamot, I also interfaced with visiting dignitaries while the Junior Undersecretary kept track of the Minister’s calendar of personal appearances. Nothing like it is today: ten employees to coordinate with the media and plan parties to showcase the Minister’s wisdom. Is that really necessary?”

“Bet Scrimgeour wishes he hadn’t made her wait for his overly long remarks to wrap up,” Tonks breathed.

“So you think today’s events were overblown?” Eunice followed up.

“Overblown is a brass band and some fireworks,” Umbridge simpered. “This was a media circus.”

Leaving the Minister as the chief clown? Harry considered inwardly. But that question wasn’t posed on air.

Eunice was going for a more diplomatic approach as she returned, “The attendees we interviewed were quite pleased, though.”

Umbridge cleared her throat in that artificial way of hers which made Harry grit his teeth. “Wouldn’t you be if you’d been fed lavishly? A satisfied stomach is a great motivator. Would it surprise you to learn that the curators’ salaries are paid by the Ministry?”

Harry bristled as the insinuation. Flaming dragon’s spit, wasn’t it enough that he’d donated the property? Who did she think paid the effing bills for the renovations which came addressed to the Estate of Sirius Black, Esquire?

Eunice hesitated only briefly before replying, “That was actually in my researcher’s notes, so it’s not really news to me. What’s more, it seems to be common practice for the Ministry to provide personnel to oversee areas they consider to be of importance to the wizarding world.”

“And who determines what is important?” Umbridge persisted.

“Ultimately, the Minister himself.” Refusing to be put on the defensive, Eunice elaborated, “But surely you can’t question the park keepers who are on hand at the Welsh Dragon Preserve near the Berwyn Mountains? Keeping that area fully Disillusioned from Muggles is a full-time undertaking. There’s also the wild hippogriff sanctuary near Pentland Firth--”

“Yes, yes,” Umbridge acknowledged shortly. “No one would question those expenditures. I oversaw much of that when I worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. But why is this particular crumbling townhouse of such importance to wizarding culture, I ask you? It doesn’t mark the site of an actual battle, so why is it being turned into a shrine?”

Having been well rehearsed, Eunice expounded, “Due in large part to the Statute of Secrecy, the wizarding community has limited ability to commemorate its victories. Grave markers are about the only things routinely allowed. The townhouse which served as Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix is unique in that it has been hidden by the Fidelius Charm for decades. It provided an ideal opportunity--”

Like poisoned treacle, Umbridge softly interjected, “So the Ministry’s dossier would have us believe.”

They could almost hear Eunice take a deep breath as she attempted to steer the interview back on track. “Now you don’t want to have our listeners think you haven’t visited the museum yourself. Can you tell us a bit about that, Ms. Umbridge?”

“Of course. I was sent an invitation to today’s dedication, but not being one for crowds, I contacted the curators directly and arranged for a tour for me and my knitting circle. It was just a few days ago so things were a bit chaotic. I only got a peek at the solarium as the glass panes were being repaired by four wands in tandem. Some which had sustained too much weather damage were prone to shattering, like the tinkling of wind chimes in the background.”

“And as we announced at the beginning of this segment, you have been our guest in the main studio this morning where we have all been watching the ceremonies on our life-sized screen,” narrated Eunice.

“It was so kind of you to invite me. The weather seems rather nippy to see how the spectators were all bundled up in their wooly scarves and hats,” Umbridge observed conversationally.

“Any comments on the dedication ceremony itself? Did you find it entertaining?” Eunice posed exactly as she had been prepped.

“Oh yes.” Umbridge produced her fake sigh. “It was very enjoyable. The three Aurors who participated were clearly crowd favorites.”

“I sense a bit of hesitation there…” Eunice maneuvered Umbridge expertly.

“Well, after seeing the actual exhibits within the museum, I was a bit disappointed the Ministry only used its own employees for the dedication. Couldn’t any of the other Order members be bothered to come? Please don’t give me the humility line; surely a direct request from the Minister could not be so easily ignored.”

Harry held his breath, his heart hammering in his ears. Would she allow herself to be baited?

“Technically, Ms. Tonks no longer works as an Auror,” Eunice supplied in a neutral tone. “She is employed by Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“Isn’t the infamous Harry Potter part of Mr. Shacklebolt’s department?” Umbridge pressed. “He was at the time of my retirement last month.”

Right on cue, Eunice provided, “It was determined it would be a huge undertaking to guarantee his safety.”

“But not that of the Minister?” Umbridge gasped in exaggerated outrage. “Doesn’t that seem a little skewed to you?”

“The Ministry determined today’s participants had enough experience to handle any untoward situations which might arise,” Eunice enunciated. “It was a cost savings measure; surely you must appreciate that?”

“Touché!” Tonks nodded approvingly.

Clearing her throat again, Umbridge pronounced, “I had been led to believe the youngest heroes, those who had been dispatched under the guise of a school field trip for the final battle, would be present.”

It was as if the earth’s motion had stopped, Harry noted as he caught everyone’s eyes. This was the moment…

“Not all of those faced Lord Voldemort directly,” Eunice artfully protested. “While these three--”

Umbridge cut across her with an imperious demand, “When did the change of plan come about?”

“There was no change of plan,” Eunice maintained evenly. “The Ministry laid the groundwork for these three from the start. Did you have different information from your contacts within the Ministry?”

Draw it out of her, Harry urged silently.

“No, they were rather close-lipped about the whole thing,” Umbridge responded curtly. “Claimed I was no longer entitled to that information since I was not a member of their department… I received my information from a different source.”

His worst suspicions confirmed, Harry tasted bitterness rather than vindication. He’d forgotten how betrayal felt like taking a red-hot iron to the gut.

He barely made sense of Eunice’s words as she continued, “I can’t deny those five heroes would have been a huge draw. Perhaps too large a draw if the word got out ahead of time. This event is in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood, no less.”

“The Ministry didn’t have any concerns about the heroes presenting themselves to receive their medals--” The last of Umbridge’s words were cut off by a sharp burst of static.

---

Scrimgeour was not pleased. It was disconcerting enough to smile and shake hands with the public while he was trying to listen in to the live feed from WWN in his other ear. But the cloying voice of that Umbridge witch was enough to set anyone’s teeth on edge.

Easing his way as unobtrusively as possible towards the entrance to the main townhouse, he caught the eye of one of his staff members. Outside of the men’s washroom, he hissed in her ear, “Find Weasley. NOW!”

As she scurried off to comply, the Minister cast a quick Homenum Revelio spell to ascertain the W.C. was empty before he pushed inside. As the swinging door closed, he placed his own personal ward that could only be breached by his high-level retinue. For all intents and purposes, the gents had just been appropriated as an official Ministry field office.

Scrimgeour had barely finished straightening his tie in the long gilded mirror when Percy entered on silent feet. The skills he had honed to perfection as the Minister’s personal assistant served him well as he stood in perfect stillness, patiently awaiting instruction.

“Can you get me an audio feed?” Scrimgeour demanded of Percy’s reflection in the mirror.

“With the WWN?” Percy hesitated. “In mid-broadcast?”

“Of course in mid-broadcast!” Scrimgeour seethed inwardly as the sharp steps of his pacing were muted by the deep green carpeting. “Someone’s got to take that cow by the tail!”

“I’m sure it can be done,” Percy briskly promised. “Shall I bring the technician here, or would you like to set up before the universal transmitter so your image will be visible inside the studio as well?”

“No need to disturb our honored guests,” Scrimgeour intoned. “Here is fine.”

As Percy dashed off to his task, Scrimgeour briefly considered whether it would serve any function to stare Umbridge down as he cut into her interview. Deciding that it was pointless if he couldn’t savor her blanched face in return, his ego reminded him that the necessary rebuke could be imparted by voice alone.

As the WWN technicians arranged for their particular brand of magic, Percy hovered in the background in a supervisory capacity. Truth be told, he knew nothing about the details of the process, but he knew the Minister would be reassured by his presence. To avoid disturbing the tours which continued in other portions of the townhouse, the sound engineers handed each of them headsets to patch them into the program from the main studio.

Umbridge’s strident voice was blaring forth unchecked, “…didn’t have any concerns about the heroes presenting themselves to receive their medals--”

A sharp burst of static drowned out her words momentarily as the Minister signaled he was ready.

After a second of silence, Eunice took up the reins once again. “Please bear with us, Ms. Umbridge, we have another transmission from the remote site… Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic, you had a comment you wished to make, sir?”

Scrimgeour cleared his throat to create an expectation among the listeners �“ or so it seemed to Percy from the periphery. “Let me remind Ms. Umbridge that in her former post as Undersecretary, her department arranged for any ceremonial duties of the Minister.”

No mention was made of the Death Eater investigation that had taken up much of Umbridge’s time during those days. Much to Percy’s frustration, the allegations of her involvement with Voldemort had never been substantiated, not in a way that had allowed them to prosecute. Not that he doubted the contents of the destroyed Horcrux, but it could hardly be called as a witness before the Wizengamot. Without any corroboration, testimonies from Harry, Ron or Hermione would just be categorized as hearsay. The most he’d been able to achieve was to have her shuffled into a department where she could do the least harm. Her self-important attitude fully accepted that a posting to the International Floo Commission would allow her to rub elbows with highly-placed officials on a regular basis.

“I had my staff to deal with that,” Umbridge protested lamely to the Minister’s unspoken reprimand.

Undaunted, the Minister stressed, “Then I’m certain your staff would have advised you that a decoration ceremony held in the enclosed Ministry courtyard does not create the same security problems as an outdoor event in a predominantly Muggle neighborhood. Access to the Ministry itself can be easily controlled, not to mention the ancient spells guarding against assassination attempts within its walls. The open sky and rooftops embracing the museum grounds were much more difficult to secure.”

“Yet the Minister himself was present today,” Umbridge observed.

“As is my job,” Scrimgeour fairly growled. “Along with a contingency of bodyguards from the Auror Department. Need I remind you of the added expense of having an even larger retinue present?”

“It is not the Ministry’s place to guard private citizens,” dismissed Umbridge.

“Then you see why I couldn’t have imposed upon others to participate,” the Minister replied silkily. “Surely you can’t deny they remain controversial even to this day.”

A controversy largely stirred up by Umbridge herself, Percy noted inwardly as he kept his features impassive. If only the listeners could be counted upon to discern the nuances.

---

Like a small army of woodpeckers, the hard pellets of cold winter sleet bombarded the translucent walls of the solarium. So involved in flowing wine and conversation, most of the guests were caught short when the afternoon light dissolved into charcoal gloom. As the sound technicians and Ministry staff scurried to dismantle or protect their most sensitive equipment, the well-heeled herd simply migrated into the ground floor parlor of the townhouse.

Finally freed from her duties, Luna retired to the Crow’s Nest where Kingsley and Mad-Eye had joined the others. Her smile widened when she caught sight of Neville mixing more cocktails with the champagne Dobby had replenished.

“How did it go this morning?” she breathed in his ear as he pressed a tall glass into her hand.

“Gloriously!” Neville beamed. “Sorry I was so late getting back. I have absolutely tons of news to tell --”

His words were cut short by Mrs. Figg poking her head in to announce, “The weather conditions are such that our guests will be drenched if they try to Disapparate from the side yard. I’m going to allow them to Floo out via Sirius’ old room.”

“Do you need help setting up the one-way connection?” Luna inquired.

“I had one of the security details set it up as an emergency exit,” Kingsley supplied. “Just unlock it with the password Poseidon.”

“Do you need my help ushering them up the stairs?” Luna volunteered as she placed her half-empty glass on the desktop.

“No need, dear,” Mrs. Figg assured her with a grandmotherly smile. “Enjoy a nice visit with your young man. I’ll get some of the Ministry staff to help. You wouldn’t believe how many of them there are now that they’re not spread out among the grounds.”

“Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea if we departed first,” Moody suggested.

“Give us a chance to double-check the connection as well,” Kingsley added.

Mrs. Figg nodded in agreement. “Will a fifteen minute window be enough?”

“Plenty,” Tonks assured her.

Flashing Neville a knowing smirk, Harry made him promise they’d get together again soon. “Have a regular class reunion,” he insisted as he gave Neville a friendly pat on the back.

“I’m not going back into the field until after Boxing Day,” Neville assured him in parting. “The foliage in the southern hemisphere is at its peak when it’s mid- to late summer there.”

With a quick glance down the stairs, Luna waved them forth with Harry making up the rear under his Invisibility Cloak. She summoned an armful of additional drop cloths which they smoothed over every corner of the generously sized room. As an extra precaution, she added a dirt repellant charm to the pristine bed coverings to avoid greasy fingerprints.

“Eventually, we will have this room roped off as an exhibit,” Luna explained. “Perhaps we should have held off with the final renovations until then.”

Harry was about to ask her about the adjoining room when a silvery giraffe Patronus galloped through the wall and stopped before Tonks with a graceful dip of its long neck. “We were wondering how much longer you would be,” Remus’ voice issued forth. “We returned to Godric’s Hollow to find Dobby had laid out a lavish high tea worthy of Queen Victoria herself. Left to his own devices, he went into a baking frenzy this afternoon. I’ve already invited every available Weasley I could find. The children are demanding you re-enact your presentation with complete visual effects. Please feel free to invite the remainder of the cast as I’m laying out extra libations in light of the stormy weather.”

“Righto by me,” Moody growled amicably. “But I’m not playing the Dowager Queen this time, no matter how much Phoebe begs.”

“I’ll just Floo my wife that I’ll be delayed,” Kingsley remarked.

“Better yet, why don’t you bring her along?” Tonks proposed with a winning smile as she looked forward to seeing her children. If this wasn’t a command performance, she didn’t know what was.

---

“Don’t forget,” Ginny whispered as she sent Harry off to work that Monday. “Percy’s article is on page three. Mum Flooed while you were in the shower, complaining that he’d drifted in at two in the morning after working non-stop for close to 36 hours!”

The words echoed in his head as Harry headed down the marble corridors of the Ministry, nodding towards familiar faces along the way. The sensation of Ginny’s parting embrace was still fresh in his mind as he settled down at his desk. With a wordless command, he sent his heavy overcoat towards the rack and smoothed out the crisp pages of the Daily Prophet before him. Reviewing the morning’s edition was standard practice on Monday morning in the Auror Department �“ unless an emergency situation meeting was announced, that is.

The extra duty at Saturday’s dedication ceremony likely meant Kingsley and Mad-Eye would be enjoying a leisurely breakfast before arriving for work that morning. Consequently, most employees were cocooned in their offices savoring the last memories of their weekend.

Just as in Sunday’s edition, the cover story was still about the War Museum. Harry smiled unconsciously as he found the sole reference to Dolores Umbridge as “outside sources who disagreed with the Ministry’s priorities.”

The Division of Publicity and Protocol, headed by one Percy Ignatius Weasley, was showcased on page three just as Molly had promised. Loosening his tie, Harry settled back to review the lengthy article before him.

Is a Cultural Revolution Called For?
How Soon Before Eeylops Emporium Only Sells Toy Owls?

It’s inconceivable that wizarding society could become a thing of the past. Our glorious achievements and history transformed into nothing more than a ghost story full of imaginary figures who traveled in make-believe worlds as Muggles trample over the ashes of our deeds.

But as we rub elbows daily with Muggles, in closer proximity with each passing year, is it really so far-fetched that Diagon Alley might someday be nothing but a memory? Eeylop’s Owl Emporium selling nothing but stuffed toys in plastic cages as a souvenir of glory days that have slipped through our fingers.

Not so, the Ministry’s new Cultural Affairs Office proclaims. “It’s time we made a conscious effort to preserve our wizarding heritage,” Penelope Clearwater, newly appointed coordinator vigorously attests. “Muggles do it all the time, even lend their royalty to the task. It’s about time wizards started doing the same before they out-pace us -- if they haven’t already.”

Not that the Ministry hasn’t struggled to maintain sanctuaries for magical creatures despite the never-ending difficulty of concealing them from Muggles who often surround even the most remote sites. The basalt columns of the sacred manticore breeding ground on the Isle of Staffa is one such place. Long avoided by superstitious Muggles who believed it to be the true site of Pluto’s escape with Persephone into the Underworld, it has become increasingly difficult to keep boatloads of curious tourists from cruising by at a safe distance.

But for the first time, the Ministry is turning to preserving sites important to wizards and witches themselves, not just for magical creatures.

As head of the Minister’s Publicity and Protocol Division, Percy Weasley is pleased that what started as a minor offshoot of his department is growing exponentially. “It all started with the War Museum,” he explains. “A unique site donated for our use with Muggle-repelling charms intact. It was not so easy to find other locales, however. Many important sites have been lost in the cobwebs of history. More modern ones often remain in the hands of private owners.”

Only recently, however, a rather unique tract of land was auctioned off by the village of Little Hangleton in Lincolnshire. A once sprawling house now derelict and overgrown, the family line of its owners untraceable. Muggles often drove past the barred gates just shaking their heads. Employing an intermediary company to complete the paperwork required by the courts, Ministry officials were able to obtain clear title.

“It’s bound to be a controversial landmark once it’s developed,” was the official word from Rufus Scimgeour, Minister for Magic. “But that just drives people to visit, doesn’t it?”

In a world where the stark meadow marking Dumbledore’s defeat of the evil Grindelwald has been paved over for the autobahn, it is a rarity that any land once held by a wizarding family is put up for sale. Doubly lucky that no heirs to the estate of Lord Voldemort, née Tom Marvolo Riddle, are likely to surface.

“It’s all here,” Ms. Clearwater assures us. “The boarded-up house where Death Eaters plotted long into the night. The bleak cottage where the aged caretaker maintained a solitary vigil, hobbiling down to the rusted mailbox each month to retrieve the cheque from his unseen benefactor.”

Although it may be as long as a year before the structures are refurbished sufficiently to be opened to the public, the adjoining site will be accessible within the next few months. The Cultural Affairs Office has also purchased the surrounding woods where young Merope Gaunt and her family, the last direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin, lived in a one-room cabin with a dirt floor. Those squalid conditions stand in stark contrast to the once palatial Riddle estate just visible over the hedgerows.

The infamous graveyard where the Riddle family mausoleums and baroque statuary bore witness to the Dark Lord’s gruesome resurrection has proven to be more problematic. Although the rusted iron fence is securely padlocked against those who cannot simply Apparate onto the site, that has not stopped Muggles from gawking at the spooky gravestones from the relative safety of the country lane.

“This presents a challenge,” Percy Weasley remarked. “But we are fully confident we will be able to employ special charms to protect our tour groups from being seen by Muggle motorists. As anyone who has ever attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry knows, the castle appears as a crumbling ruin to Muggles who wander too closely. We intend to employ similar charms with the entire Riddle estate.”

One has to ask, however, why the Riddle property? Why commemorate the origins of the most malevolent wizard ever to threaten the British Isles?

Penelope Clearwater shines a different light on it. “It’s a dark page in wizarding history; no one can deny that. But that’s not to say it’s a tale which should be buried, either. I see it as a cautionary tale: a fable of Cinderella tempered by gritty reality. Being a witch herself, Merope Gaunt didn’t need the services of a fairy godmother to ensnare her handsome neighbor; she could brew the love potion herself. Once the potion wore off, though, Tom Senior made it quite clear he wanted nothing to do with poor, heartbroken Merope. She wandered homeless and pregnant until she died giving birth to Tom Marvolo Riddle, the humble orphan who would grow up to proclaim himself Lord Voldemort.”

But it’s not just a bitter tale of unrequited love, Ms. Clearwater emphasizes. “The poignancy of Tom Riddle’s tale is that of unloved children worldwide, forced to grow up in sterile orphanages instead of being sheltered within a caring family. Would this child have matured into a respectable citizen if he’d had loving parents? I’d like to think so. But please don’t think I’m deriding orphanages; most are run by dedicated employees who do their best to provide these abandoned children with the best they can. But these children need the remainder of society to step forward, to offer them places in their homes.”

Accepting a job right out of school in a Ukrainian orphanage, Ms. Clearwater is clearly familiar with her subject matter. Hired to teach wizarding children to speak fluent English before their enrollment in wizarding schools, most notably the Durmstrang Institute, she has been a major advocate for child placement as well as the preservation of wildlife habitats worldwide.

---

Click, click, click. The heels of Harry’s polished loafers echoed in the cavernous confines of the Ministry Atrium. The soothing sounds of the golden fountain provided the only backdrop as inter-departmental memos commanded the air like miniature Harrier jets.

As if stepping out of a tomb, he passed through the glass doors leading to the employee courtyard. Often a sunny haven in spring and summer, it had been closed over by a translucent magical shield in deference to today’s brisk temperatures. Through the milky haze of cigarette smoke, a large flock of brownish geese dissolved into nothing more than dry leaves scattered by the bitter wind.

Harry spotted Ron almost immediately, his bright ginger hair eclipsed by his orange Chudley Canons tie. Despite a woolen jumper, Harry found himself huddling over the steaming cup of cocoa Ron pressed into his hands in greeting.

“Blimey!” Ron groused. “Must be a thousand wizards in this place and no one can cast a proper warming charm.”

“ ‘Gainst regulations,” the witch manning the concession stand assured them. “Don’t want ye ta vacillate away from yer desks fer long.”

“Good for business,” Ron shot back as he fastened his thick warm-up jacket. “So what’s up, Harry?” he posed once they were out of earshot.

“Just practicing my folding technique,” Harry returned lightly. “You make it sound like you’ve never received a memo before.”

“Sure, but not from you.” Through his fringe, Ron's look conveyed that Harry was as transparent as glass.

“Did you read the article in the Prophet?”

“The one quoting Percy? Mum sent me a copy while I was still in the shower. Ruddy owl sprayed water all over the bathroom tiles!”

Harry chuckled as Ron re-enacted trying the shoo the owl away with a wet towel. Refocusing on the subject at hand, he ventured, “The new head of the Cultural Affairs Office, her name sounds vaguely familiar…”

“I’d expect so!” Ron affirmed. “Penelope Clearwater was Percy’s main squeeze while he was Head Boy. You probably looked away in disgust whenever you caught them snogging in the shadows.”

“That could apply to a major cross-section of the student body,” Harry complained good-naturedly. “Could you describe her in a different way, please?”

Ron screwed up his face. “Well, since I usually saw her from the back, I remember she had long wavy hair. Rather like a dark waterfall over Percy’s scrawny arms.”

“House?”

“Ravenclaw, I think. Yeah, definitely Ravenclaw. Percy used to moon over the dark blue jumper bringing out the sapphire in her eyes.” Ron swooned like a love-sick teenager who had just swallowed a love potion, but Harry wisely avoided mentioning that particular incident.

“Wasn’t she also one of the students who was Petrified by the basilisk?” Harry recalled with sudden clarity.

“In the bed next to Hermione,” Ron amended as the fog cleared in his mind as well. “Frankly, I was surprised she used her maiden name. In the article, that is.”

“Now you’ve really lost me.”

“Penelope Clearwater married that star Quidditch player from Sweden, Umbriel Olin. Tall blonde chap. Percy must have been fit to be tied.”

“I suppose Percy denied it,” Harry acquiesced with a knowing smile.

“Can’t say,” Ron clarified with a small shrug. “All that happened while he was estranged from the family, as they say.”

“He was undercover with the Order,” Harry corrected.

“I know, but it makes for a more interesting story my way,” Ron maintained.

“What was the name of her husband again?”

“Olin. Only he’s not her husband anymore. Remember that freak Quidditch accident a number of years ago? Made all the record books.”

“Lots of accidents in Quidditch,” Harry replied. “I confess I don’t follow it as closely as you.”

“You would have read about this one. Bloke got creamed by two Bludgers to the head at once, from opposite directions. Threw him straight into the goal posts where his team mates rescued him as he was hanging by his fingertips.”

“Didn’t he walk away from that with only minor injuries?”

“If you call a dislocated shoulder minor,” Ron supplied. “But you’re essentially correct. The Healer set him right with a well-placed spell; wished him on his way with a supply of Pain Relieving Draughts for his head. Then two weeks later, he loses consciousness in the dressing room.”

Now Harry remembered; brain trauma, the Healers had called it. Olin had never regained consciousness. He remembered pictures of the grieving widow being splattered all over the papers, a small son clinging morosely to his mother’s hand. How could he have failed to make the connection before? Harry chided himself. The Olins had been the golden couple, caught in the spotlight as they devoted much of their free time to humanitarian causes.

“The International Quidditch Board gave her a hefty settlement. Rather generous insurance policies on one of their star players,” Ron added. “Not that it was reported in the papers. It was not too long after I joined the Games Department. I understand she divided the Galleons among a number of different foundations. Wildlife preservation, I think.”

Harry did a quick calculation in his head. That would make Penelope’s son about a year older than Teddy.

“How did Percy react?” Harry inquired more out of concern than a need to pry into another’s misfortunes.

Luckily, Ron thought nothing of his best friend’s question. “Can’t say for certain. He got all quiet like, but you know Perce. Clamming up is just business as usual for him. He was much the same when they broke up after graduation, although Mum was a lot more vocal about it.”

“Lots of people drift apart after they leave school,” Harry put in diplomatically.

“Right. Well, this was nothing like that. She told him right off, said he was only concerned about his own career and treated her as an accessory. The twins overheard.”

“So what did Molly say?”

“That he should give her a chance to cool off. Give her some time to get used to her new job abroad and then Floo her. Invite her for Christmas at the Burrow.”

“That would have been the year of the Triwizard Tournament,” Harry mused as he recalled a very stuffy and self-important Percy talking his ear off at the Yule Ball.

As if reading his friend’s mind, Ron continued, “Mum kept urging him to invite her to the Yule Ball. Said his boss could hardly object as Mr. Crouch had planned to bring his own wife. Mrs. Crouch visits the same hair dresser as Mum does.”

“So did Percy get cold feet?” Not that he was one to talk, Harry reminded himself.

Ron shook his head ruefully. “I’m fairly certain he never elaborated one way or the other. You’d have to ask Ginny, though, I’m sure she has a much better memory of it. She and Mum spent hours dissecting all our foibles on a regular basis. And believe me, Percy had more faults than anyone during those dark days.”

As they were getting ready for bed that evening, Harry asked Ginny to fill him in on the rest.

“It’s really not that complicated,” she observed with a dismissive shrug. “Typical male reaction; couldn’t get off the bloody fence. Too dense to admit to himself how much she meant to him and even more tongue-tied to actually voice it aloud.”

“Rather like Ron and Hermione you’re saying,” Harry allowed with an amused chuckle.

“That’s certainly one example. Luckily, Hermione had more common sense than Pen and simply cut through all that rubbish!”

“Hermione was quicker with a handy hex.”

“A witch has to have a ready arsenal these days. Love potions are just an elaborate way of lying to yourself.”

“So you think Percy was really broken hearted?”

“Remember those months when he wouldn’t speak to the family? Buried himself in his work to the point where he practically aped the Ministry’s most narrow-minded views?”

Harry nodded, recalling only too clearly how Percy had counseled Ron to distance himself when the Ministry wanted to discredit Harry’s account of Voldemort’s return. “I always remember how shocked I was that he didn’t see through Umbridge almost immediately.”

“Exactly. Bearing in mind that Percy’s probably the most cerebral of my brothers, it just didn’t make sense. Had me wondering for a while whether he’d been the one to be Imperiused.”

“You weren’t far off the mark, Gin. Percy’s boss was.”

“Right. Can’t say that didn’t give me nightmares,” she admitted in a hollow voice. “But Mum told us all along we were just overreacting. Said Percy was just dealing with his heartache in the best way he knew how �“ and being a man, he got it all backwards yet again.”

Harry laughed weakly, dreading the comments that must have been made behind his own back.

“Despite the brave face, I’m certain Mum expected Percy to come running back to the Burrow at some point so she could help him put the pieces back together again.”

“Sublimating his sorrow into an undercover assignment for the Order took a tremendous amount of courage,” Harry defended.

“Too bad he wasn’t as successful as he would have liked. I think he would have relished being hailed as a conquering hero, at least in Penelope’s eyes.”

Harry nodded grimly as he recalled the frenzied weeks in the wake of Voldemort’s defeat. Everyone working non-stop to secure evidence of Death Eater activity so the guilty wouldn’t just melt away as they had before. At least, Mad-Eye’s obsessive study of the lingering signs of the Imperius Curse had prevented anyone from claiming the same excuse as before.

But in the case of Dolores Umbridge, luck had turned against them. Granted, it had been largely in part to the mismanagement of the archival subsection which had once been overseen by none other than Umbridge herself. It was not unusual for there to be confusion in the wake of a transition of power, as when Fudge had resigned as Minister in favor of Scrimgeour; but the paperwork usually settled after a few months, old documents finding their way into reorganized filing systems as a new order was established. In this instance, the process had been greatly streamlined by the absence of large chunks of documents which supposedly had been squirreled away to prevent them from falling into the wrong hands. Most people had assumed Umbridge meant Voldemort’s hands, but the fact that none of those files had resurfaced in the six years since just made Harry all the more certain Dolores had meant to keep them out of the hands of anyone who sought to impose justice.

“So what do you think about Percy working so closely with Penelope these days? Do you think it will spark any old feelings?” Harry posed conversationally before turning off the lights.

“Considering how many women he’s dated in the past three or four years…” Ginny began.

“You don’t buy that it’s his new-found confidence and connections forged at work?”

Ginny snorted derisively. “Percy wishes everyone believed that, but I won’t deny he’s grown up a bit in the intervening years.”

“Molly’s whispered to me that she thinks Percy’s desperate to finally settle down.”

“She’s letting her own hopes color the facts,” Ginny pronounced with conviction.

“You sound distinctly like Remus when you say such things,” Harry noted with amusement.

“Too many years in the same house, I suppose. But I can’t deny he has a very analytical mind.”

“So what’s your own personal analysis, Ginny?”

“That Percy’s simply marking time as he moves from one woman to another. No one passes muster because they’re not sufficiently like Penelope.”

“But in the years they’ve been apart, Penelope herself may no longer match Percy’s idealized memory of her,” Harry pointed out.

“True, it may not work out the way he’s always secretly hoped,” Ginny pronounced in a philosophical tone. “But deep down in the romantic smidgen of his heart that he refuses to acknowledge, I think Percy still holds a candle for Penny.” She fluffed up her pillow before cuddling up next to him for the night. “Only time will tell.”

As he wrapped his arms around her rib cage, Harry couldn’t help considering his recent insights about how Ginny herself had yearned from afar for so many years. Perhaps her assessment of Percy’s motives weren’t so far off the mark, he decided. It was fair to say she was probably speaking from personal experience.

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Ten
The Jackal and the Wolf



Gerard Mortimer, senior partner of Mortimer & Mortimer, Ltd., took a moment from his busy day to gaze at the manicured square outside his office. Tremont Street it was called, although it was hardly more than a short alley adjacent to Charing Cross Road, a stone’s throw away from Diagon Alley. Harking from a time when even Muggles traveled mostly on foot or perhaps in horse-drawn carriages, its wide sidewalks were abundantly dotted with shade trees to provide a peaceful promenade. Long the preferred address for wizarding solicitors and high-priced investment bankers, it was protected from Muggle view by a wrought iron archway that displayed nothing more than a dark lair of rusted dustbins.

To witches or wizards, however, the view adjusted itself to the inviting square Mr. Gerard beheld outside his window. As one of the few literary agents catering to the magical community, Mortimer & Mortimer, Fine Purveyors of Magical Tomes, had long held a virtual monopoly on all manner of fictional and biographical material marketed to witches and wizards throughout Britain.

Mr. Gerard’s father had been nicknamed ‘the Bloodhound’ for his unerring ability to find the gems among the stacks of drivel arriving via owl post each day. His particular coup had been to sign the hugely popular Gilderoy Lockhart whose books had gone into numerous printings. Not that they hadn’t long ago suspected the man was a complete charlatan, albeit a very profitable one; but as the elder Mr. Mortimer had often said, “Our firm deals in fictions as well as biographies. As long as we don’t label Lockhart’s books as one or the other, the public is free to make up its own mind.” Such was the marketing genius Mr. Gerard did his daily best to emulate.

At first he had been relieved his father had not lived to see the day the firm’s premier client managed to end his own career by Obliviating himself with a malfunctioning wand. Mr. Gerard paid Lockhart the occasional visit in the Incurable Ward, brightening up the poor man’s dreary existence with a few requests for autographed copies of his books. Lockhart was beside himself with joy at complying and Mr. Gerard had a few more collector’s copies he could sell at a premium. That was the most peculiar thing of all: now that the public had become aware that Lockhart was an outright liar, they continued to buy his books as works of light fiction.

Mr. Gerard had been totally thunderstruck by this phenomenon although he suspected his father’s spirit was chuckling down at him in amusement. It was only when they took on a Muggle-born wizard as one of their newest bookbinders that Mr. Gerard learned of ghostwriters. Not dead souls as in the wizarding world, the young man had been quick to point out, but anonymous writers who sold their services to celebrities and others whose name alone was enough to guarantee a book’s profitability.

“Despite that celebrities themselves are barely able to pen a thank you note to their aunt without the services of three personal assistants,” the young bookbinder had confided under his breath.

Unlike Lockhart in his prime, Muggles did not Obliviate their ghostwriters in return for their services. But only, Mr. Gerard suspected, because they did not know how.

Pacing the elegant rug, he conceded that the restlessness he felt in his legs, the very frisson of excitement, was anticipation. It had been a long time since his firm had discovered a new voice in the wilderness; one who was sure to set the literary world on fire �“ at least in wizarding circles. As much as he longed to parlay his find among the Muggle booksellers as well �“ they would just categorize it a fantasy fiction, anyway �“ he feared his client would insist on pushing the Statute of Secrecy beyond its limits. Best he keep his sights upon the wizarding world �“ for now.

A knock on the door caused him to whip around expectantly as an assistant arrived with the mock-up of the book cover for final approval. With a critical eye, Mr. Gerard unfurled the thick parchment and tacked it briefly on the wall before him with a few gentle taps of his wand. Then he backed up a few steps to gauge the impact it would have in a shop window.

The yellow feral eyes were arresting to be sure, drawing the attention of passersby as their breath invariably would catch in their throats. The velvety black of the background was broken by the trajectory of an alabaster moon as it progressed through its phases, only subtly lingering as it reached the full moon at its zenith. Timed to coincide, the pupil of the right eye dissolved into an indistinct moving shape guaranteed to entice the viewer closer. Depicted in a shadowy half-light, the slightly hunched figure walked on two legs but was clearly not the silhouette of an ordinary man. The details were wisely left to the reader’s imagination. There were those who would want to envision the protagonist as a brutal maniac without conscience or remorse. But Mr. Gerard’s experience told him there would be many, mostly women, who would romanticize the demon and endeavor to paint him in a more favorable light. He also knew that both types of readers were necessary to guarantee the success of a book.

With a curt nod of approval, he quickly re-rolled the parchment sample and placed it into the waiting hands of his assistant. “It’s perfect, Marcus,” he intoned with satisfaction. “Please let me know when the first volume comes off the press so I can forward it to my client. I will be drafting him a short note in the meanwhile.”

With that in mind, Mr. Gerard set his quill to parchment and began:

My esteemed sir:

With great pleasure, I am enclosing the first copy off our presses. I cannot thank you enough for bringing the uniqueness of your tale to our attention. As you will see, your words required very little editing; just a twitch here or there to make the story flow more logically. Yours is such a singular voice we are all certain it will reverberate among wizards everywhere.

Please do not concern yourself with your current circumstances. We have opened a Gringotts vault in your name where we have deposited the sum of your advance as well as any royalties that will accumulate according to further sales. As you requested, we will also forward to Gringotts all documents recounting in detail all sums paid to you.

Although new authors customarily embark on personal appearances to promote their works, we believe you are better served to remain a mystery in the reader’s eyes. If allowed, we may bring a small quantity of volumes for your autograph at a later date. Please be reassured that should you decide to grant any interviews, these can easily be routed via wireless communications so only the timbre of your voice is revealed.

We look forward to a long and profitable partnership.

With an elaborate signature in royal blue ink, Mr. Gerard added his name in representation of the firm and applied a quick drying charm before placing the letter aside.

The task complete, he was once again drawn to the scene outside his window. A practiced flourish of his wand released the sash so he could savor the very air of the vibrant city poised to make him an even richer man. To the less discriminating, the sharp smell of acrid car exhaust and smoke would have been off-putting, but to Mr. Gerard the air smelled of success. Why, the Christmas holidays were just around the corner and he would have his newest sensation in Flourish & Blotts’ window display by mid-week. Despite the rheumy eyes behind tiny glasses that gave him the look of a timid mole surveying the world outside its burrow, Mr. Gerard was anything but. After all, it was a known fact that Mr. Gerard’s Patronus assumed the shape of a jackal.

---

In retrospect, Kingsley Shacklebolt could not say what had made him stop at the small kiosk outside the Ministry’s employee entrance that day. Perhaps it was the aroma of the witch’s legendary scones which combined the bite of crystallized ginger with the subtle spice of ebony gooseberries.

Perhaps, if he was totally honest with himself, it was the feeling of being watched; an invaluable sixth sense to an Auror, particularly one who had witnessed so much in a mere decade’s worth of service. The yellow eyes on the cover were both compelling and unsettling at the same time. A combination that to an Auror always spelled danger. Had it been winter’s first bite of freezing rain that sent an involuntary shiver down his spine that morning? Or was it a feeling of premonition? The book had no title to draw the eye, but was it really necessary? Hadn’t his eye already been mesmerized, curiosity compelling him to shell out his Galleons so he could tear the clear wrapping off and fervently flip to the first page?

The author’s desire for anonymity was evident from the first words that leapt from the page:

There isn’t a single werewolf who will tell you that his enhanced abilities are a curse. That is the view of an outsider, one who has not felt the power course through his veins in time to the elusive music of the moon. It is a melody our unique hearing allows us to appreciate as we are disposed to obey her every wish.

When he reached his office, he instructed his assistant to clear his calendar for the day, no exceptions. By the time he had finished the first handful of pages, he was Flooing Minerva McGonagall and requesting permission to visit. She assured him Remus had classes until after lunch, but that he had a free period at two. Kingsley made arrangements to join her for an early tea in her private garden; she promised she would have Remus join them.

---

“Surely you don’t think this is my doing?” Remus asked as he looked up from the first explosive passage.

“Is it accurate?” Kingsley probed, not allowing the other man to turn uncomfortably away. “I apologize if these things are too private.”

“It’s my own personal purgatory, Kingsley. I have no desire to share it with the world.”

“Not even if you thought the world might loosen its prejudice if it had a more complete picture?” Kingsley suggested.

“These are hardly the words of one who wishes to promote understanding.”

“Perhaps not, but sometimes a dialog is begun by crude means. It does not make the person any less sincere,” Minerva proposed in a diplomatic manner.

“What I need to know, Remus, is whether these words ring true?” Kingsley implored. “Or could they be the work of a writer who has simply put himself into someone else’s shoes?”

“A gifted author can still make his words ring true,” Remus argued. “That’s what research is all about.”

“True,” Kingsley allowed as he considered Remus’ words. “In your opinion, could someone have penned this tale without speaking with a werewolf?”

“I don’t think so. Others may have felt the need to share their tribulations in such graphic detail with strangers; I have not.”

“Perhaps if you read a little further you might get a better idea of what I’m getting at,” Kingsley urged. “I apologize for putting you on the spot like this.”

“But I’m the only pet werewolf you have on hand, eh?” Remus shot back with a self-deprecating lift to his eyebrow.

“Something like that.” Kingsley chuckled mirthlessly in the face of reality as was often Remus’ habit.

The Headmistress called for some additional sandwiches as she excused herself to deal with the ever-present paperwork. “Do you wish me to see about Serenity, Remus?”

“If you would, Minerva. I left her a stack of papers to mark but I don’t want her to think I’ve abandoned her to her drudgery.”

With a flick of her wand, Minerva levitated a choice selection of items from the tea tray onto a small plate. “A little snack works wonders, I always say.”

---

An hour later, Remus raised haunted eyes to Kingsley’s inscrutable face. “This is monstrous,” he hissed succinctly, barely suppressing a desire to toss the book high and set an Incarcerous Hex to it while still in mid-air. Only his inherent respect for books in general halted him. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel like I can go any further today.”

“I’m sorry to dump this on your doorstep, Remus. If there was any other way…”

Remus waived the protestations off as inconsequential. “To answer your earlier question: I would think this is a firsthand account. It may have been dictated to another, that I would have no way to determine. But the words clearly come from the gut.”

“A factual tale, then.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. The facts may be accurate, but their inflammatory tone changes everything.”

“You don’t think the frustration he feels with society’s prejudices is palatable?” Kingsley posed.

“These are the words of a bully complaining he is misunderstood, not the words of a reasonable man who rails against injustice.”

“You don’t think it’s just that he lacks your eloquence?”

“Hardly,” Remus scoffed. “Speaking from the heart requires no eloquence, just unwavering self-honesty. This is someone who has deluded himself into a case of righteous anger.”

“Like a criminal who blames society for leading him into a life of crime?”

“Indeed.” Remus pursed his lips in thought before expounding, “A brute with more skill at persuasion than I’ve ever been able to muster, unfortunately.”

“What about his descriptions? Do they strike you as reticent in their starkness?”

“If you mean to suggest: are they the words of someone who abhors violence to the point he wishes to dwell upon it as little as possible? No, this person is so inured to violence that it deserves only a cursory glance.”

“Forgive me for asking this, Remus, and please understand I do not think of you in this way…” Kingsley waited for Remus’ imperceptible nod before venturing, “Are all werewolves this ruthless?” He was not prepared for the candid response he received.

“I have no bloody idea! Pardon the pun. I don’t remember anything that transpires when I’m in an altered state. Even when I was running for my very life, I had to piece the facts together like a jigsaw puzzle. That he doesn’t make that clear to his readers is a gross omission of fact.”

“What if this fiend remembers…” Kingsley considered. “Could he be different?”

“Could it be that since he embraces his alter ego so fervently, he is able to remember?”

“You think it might be possible?” Kingsley gasped.

“Anything is possible. There is so little known about werewolves it’s a joke! But if you were to ask me, I might hedge my bets by suggesting this man is immersed in violence during all phases of the moon.”

“An assassin?”

“Perhaps. A butcher in every meaning of the term.”

“Why does he feel a need to pen his tale then?” Kingsley mused, not expecting the ready answer he received.

“It is his manifesto,” Remus intoned. “Like Hitler’s Mein Kampf.”

---

It had become required reading in the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures by the time Hermione returned from maternity leave. Granted, they were not a group so easily swayed by an upstart’s words. Most employees had interacted with those they protected enough to have formed their own opinions.

“Take it with a grain of salt,” was the most common expression. Yet Hermione couldn’t help but think that to Remus, it was tantamount to rubbing salt in his wounds.

Seeking a bit of comfort in the midst of her reading assignment, she sought out the most trusted veteran of all: Amos Diggory.

“Lass, don’t give it another thought,” Amos soothed her frayed nerves. “Wouldn’t surprise me if someone was exploiting some poor creature. Making money off the backs of the less fortunate is nothing new.”

“But to think that so many innocents have suffered so…” She stopped as she felt the sting of angry tears.

“A quick death almost seems preferable, doesn’t it?”

She nodded tearfully before she realized her faux pas. “Oh, Amos, please don’t think….Cedric didn’t deserve to die at all!”

“Nor do werewolves deserve to suffer,” Amos intoned quietly. “But Remus would be upset to think you pitied him.”

“How did you know I was thinking of him? Do you two even know one another?”

Amos gave her a small enigmatic smile. “Our paths have crossed once or twice. He’s the best in all of us, Hermione. That he’s a werewolf is no more significant than the color of his hair, when you get down to it.”

“I’ve always thought so, too.” Already Hermione felt heartened by Amos’ benevolent gaze.

“Pain is the way of life, unfortunately. The pain of childbirth…”

“But I wouldn’t write a volume glorifying it!”

“Not even if such realistic depictions would inspire others to be more responsible with unwanted pregnancies?”

“No, it’s much too personal an experience. Let my memories fade.”

“That’s precisely the way Remus would have reacted. Perhaps we should dwell upon the commonality of our experiences and not our differences.”

“Thanks, Amos. You’re a gem.” She leaned over and gave him a quick hug as she got to her feet.

“Remember that next time promotions come around, dear.”

---

Harry waited until they had walked far enough down the cobbled lane that Teddy’s forlorn face was no longer visible in the window. The boy had not totally understood why he was being excluded from the man-to-man talk when Harry and Remus had excused themselves.

Looking down at his small figure with a bemused crease between his childish brow, Teddy remarked, “Don’t I qualify?”

“Not just yet, Spook,” Remus intoned with a barely contained smile.

Only the seriousness of the subject matter at hand kept Harry from chuckling outright. Teddy was such a carbon copy of his father at times that it was a constant source of amusement.

“Hermione came by my office today,” Harry began hesitantly. “The book’s become required reading in her department…She was concerned about you.”

“I take it she wasn’t looking for a bit of literary conversation?” Remus replied as he tried to make light of things.

“She left me this note for you.” Harry held out the small envelope.

Wordlessly, Remus unfolded the creamy parchment, his footsteps slowing as he read.

Dear Remus,

Forgive my stumbling words at a time like this. Any attempts to empathize throughout the years have been woefully inadequate, of that there can be no doubt.

Do not let others hold up a mirror to you that is tainted. Rest assured that those who are fortunate enough to call you friend will never think anything but the best of you �“ as you have demonstrated time and time again.

If there’s anything I’ve learned while working in the Department for the Regulation and Control, it is that these kind people are motivated by compassion and an unwavering sense of the injustice that has long been meted out to segments of our population who do not have political clout. Despite being entrusted with the enforcement of archaic laws which seek to delineate who may be considered a being or a beast, everyone here believes that we are all part of the same complex cloth and that labeling is counterproductive.

Like all tempests, this will soon blow itself out. All you have to do is hang on. We are here if you need us in any way.

It was signed by both Hermione and Amos Diggory. Remus felt his heart hitch as he lowered the parchment to his side.

“Please thank Hermione for her kind words,” he entreated Harry through dry lips. “I will Floo her personally as soon as I am able.”

Their quiet footsteps continued along the disused track that has once been an elegant drive leading horse-drawn vehicles up to the gates of the front garden. With all the leaves gone from the trees, the two of them were as wraiths in a wood full of faceless sentinels, protected from the eyes of the world yet finding no inner peace.

In the far distance, they could just see the sloping roof of the caretaker’s cabin situated immediately inside the outer walls to the property. Beyond, the country lane wove among disused meadows surrounding the township of Godric’s Hollow. So close to dusk, there was no smoke drifting up from the cabin’s chimney, but Harry had no doubt Dobby would soon be stoking up the fire when he retired for the night.

The house-elf had not hesitated to claim the small cabin for his own from the start, setting up a pair of small cots to entertain guests in the single whitewashed room. A child’s set of drawers and a miniature table and chairs had followed as the elf learned of the fabulous London flea markets from Tonks.

Much to everyone’s surprise, Hagrid had found instant kinship with Dobby and often stayed in the cabin when he came to visit the family. Remus had shaken his head at the improbable tableau of the half-giant with the tiny elf as they sat companionably under the small overhang, blowing twin plumes of cigar smoke towards the sky. With a few well-placed charms, Remus adjusted the interior dimensions of a broom cupboard to create an additional room with an extra large bed for Hagrid. Fang had instantly taken to flushing every last songbird and squirrel from the adjoining woods while barking happily non-stop. Unlike the Forbidden Forest, no dangerous creatures lurked within the shelter of the estate’s enclosing walls �“ not now that the Death Eaters had been dispatched.

“I finished reading the book,” Harry ventured, stealing a look at Remus out of the corner of his eye.

Remus gazed casually at the horizon before returning his focus to the uneven cobbles at his feet. He waited for Harry to continue.

“Thankfully, it wasn’t too long. There’s only so much diatribe a person can take in one sitting.”

“You can imagine how I felt,” Remus replied woodenly.

“I marked the more telling sections if you want to avoid the ordeal of finishing it,” Harry offered helpfully.

“Very considerate. I promised I’d get back to Kingsley if I had any other thoughts.”

They continued in silence for another few yards as the purple sky of evening encroached upon the final brushstrokes of the setting sun. With a slight shiver, Harry zipped his woolen parka closed against the cold of night.

“Have you?” Harry posed.

“Have I what?”

“Have you had any other thoughts? About the book, I mean.”

“Other than running down the soulless degenerate who penned it?”

“Admittedly, my thoughts were dominated by images of a huge bonfire,” Harry allowed in spirit. “But then I remembered the Inquisition.”

“Having a conscience can be a real bugger, don’t you think?” Remus returned sardonically. “Why don’t you read me the sections you marked? Then at least I won’t hear that demonic snarl inside my head.”

“You’re convinced it’s Fenrir Greyback, aren’t you?” Harry posited, recalling vividly the menacing aura of the man he’d encountered briefly at the scene of Dumbledore’s murder.

“Unless you have another suspect…” Remus raised troubled eyes to Harry’s face.

Harry shook his head glumly. “Not really, but I don’t really know…”

“You think I might have encountered others during my undercover assignment?” Remus supplied as he sensed Harry’s discomfort.

“Something like that.”

“There are a few possibilities, but no one who I can confirm is still alive--”

“�”while Greyback is in Azkaban,” Harry finished for him. “The Daily Prophet featured him being hauled off in chains, practically foaming at the mouth.”

“Can you imagine what type of monster he becomes with the full moon?” Remus observed so quietly Harry had to strain to hear.

“One that bears no resemblance to you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Harry. I wish the rest of the world thought the same.”

“No one associates you with Greyback, Remus. That’s all--”

“�”a figment of my overactive imagination?” Remus cut across him sharply. “I owe the pathetic state of my existence to him!”

“Actually, I was going to say it was all a great big pile of bunk,” Harry reprimanded softly. “But, Remus, unless you’re swearing vendetta, let it go. And I suspect Tonks might take offense at your description of your married life as pathetic.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Remus conceded in a hollow tone.

They climbed the two steps leading onto the shadowy porch of the cabin. Sitting themselves on overturned crates, Remus sent a spark towards the metal lantern hanging from the rafters. As the worn stones were bathed in warm amber, the twinkling stars in the night sky made their earthly troubles seem less overpowering.

Instead of digging gloves out of his pockets, Remus’ hand emerged clasping the neck of a small bottle of Irish whiskey. “Can’t have a man-to-man talk without some sustenance,” he remarked with a hint of the Marauder’s grin. “It’s one of Padfoot’s bylaws.”

Harry did not question the reference to a man dead for close to a decade; Remus often spoke as if he’d just had a conversation with Sirius. Likely, the man’s guardian star was shining down upon them even as they spoke if Harry recalled anything from his Astronomy lessons.

Taking a small swallow to clear the cobwebs from his throat, Harry found the first passage he had marked.

Not everyone has the fortitude to survive a transformation into our ranks. Is it the mark of a lesser being who succumbs to death rather than embrace his new existence? I do not seek to pass judgment upon others; I’ve had enough of that heaped upon my own back, more than enough to have shattered a lesser man.

To be a werewolf is to experience a pain so profound that it sears the breath from our very lungs, leaving us weak from oxygen as the power in our limbs is increased tenfold. The moon’s gentle caress becomes the merciless rapier of transformation as we are remade. What is life without pain? All childbirth requires it; even the rebirth which we experience with each lunar cycle.

Harry stopped for a moment to catch his breath, stealing a look at Remus’ implacable expression before pressing on to another section.

What does life hold for those like me? Not the narrow horizons society wishes to impose. One faction promises us incarceration for the sake of our own well-being as it tightens the yoke with the hand it holds behind its back. Be the vanguard to wipe out oppression, the opposition offers us. Vague promises, both reeking equally of betrayal. Hollow dreams that will be twisted in such a way that werewolves are excluded once again.

No one to offer an olive branch, a chance to coexist as magical beings all. Heresy? To think of werewolf rights is to hitch one’s wagon to the mercurial whims of Beelzebub himself. But at the heart of lies, one finally finds the kernel of truth. They fear us. They fear what they make no effort to understand, what they cannot subjugate, what they cannot break. It is our strength as much as our Achilles’ heel.

Remus’ lips were pressed tightly together, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he willed the primal scream building in this throat to chain itself in the dungeon once more. The shadows of unacknowledged demons flitted soundlessly across sightless eyes.

Yet Harry forced himself to read on. Only the conclusion remained.

But the answer is clear: we do not need the others. We are an army onto ourselves. What does it matter that we make worthless treaties with conflicting forces? Both plan to leave us broken in the middle, the vicious shield that brings their enemies to their knees in submission.

The power is in our hands; we have but to use it to our own ends. In a world that does not want us, that is not to say we don’t want the world. If others will not share, then they leave us no choice but to wrench our due from their lifeless hands.

Join ranks with us if you dare, for we are the future. We are man’s next step in their evolutionary journey. Despite the perfidy surrounding us on all sides, we will endure while others perish.

Harry closed the volume firmly once he had finished, his voice fading into the silent woods like a cluster of insubstantial bats. Next to him, Remus sat hunched forward, staring off into the darkening horizon. There was no doubt he had heard every syllable, weighed it and considered it, and it had been a far from pleasant experience. Harry could feel the vortex of Remus’ roiling thoughts as he waited for some reaction.

Whatever he was expecting, it didn’t come. With a weary sigh, Remus simply rose to his feet and waited for Harry to follow him down the steps. They hiked the familiar track back to the distant glow of the house windows. No need to light wand tips to act as kindly will-o’-the-wisps to guide them home.

A sudden break in the cloudbank shrouding a tentative moon cast a sinister glow on trees in their path. Even Remus, who treated the night with natural insouciance, was momentarily caught short.

“What the bloody he--” he gasped as he feverishly cast a Homenum Revelio spell. There was no one. Not even a nocturnal animal to be flushed away as their soundless steps inched closer.

Just as abruptly, Harry doubled up with laughter. “A deep-seated fear of wood you didn’t tell me about?” he wheezed with a grin. “Perhaps a childhood encounter with a rabid bowtruckle that left you traumatized?”

Catching on almost immediately, Remus chuckled weakly in relief. “You mean that’s just Hagrid's woodpile? Looks completely different in the moonlight.”

“Even in a Muggle horror movie, we would need a lightning bolt to shear down and animate it to life,” Harry observed with a snigger. “Looks like he’s been getting more supplies together since the last time I checked. No wonder we didn’t recognize the contours.”

“What sort of project does he have in mind?” Remus posed as he circled warily around. “All I know for sure is he’s being very secretive.”

“Too many little ears everywhere, if you know what I mean,” Harry breathed. Then extracting a promise that Remus would keep the information to himself, Harry detailed Hagrid’s plans in a bare whisper.

“A tree house?” Remus was clearly not expecting this.

“Don’t say anything to Spook or Rabbit,” Harry cautioned. “Hagrid wants it to be a surprise for the spring. He was concerned Tonks might think it too dangerous.”

“Perhaps Fleur will, but not Tonks,” Remus asserted with a wry chuckle. “You’re more likely to find her climbing up right behind them.”

“I’ll tell Hagrid to make it extra sturdy then.”

“I can just see them,” Remus mused with a crooked grin. “Sitting with crossed legs in a circle as they make elaborate plans for conquest. The perfect embodiment of the Lost Boys; Phoebe as the youngest Tinker Bell on record.”

Harry stopped himself from asking additional questions as the reference to Peter Pan sank in. Of course. How many times had Ginny been roped into playing Tiger Lily so she and Spook could go skulking around the wooded grounds? It was eerie how well that boy could sneak up on just about anyone. Not that his own lame attempts at impersonating Captain Hook had met with much success, Harry allowed; not even after Remus devised a spell to transfigure his wand into a large hook. Ginny was right: he was better suited to the role of d’Artagnan in such an outfit. Tonks had practically laughed herself into a puddle when his stab at Hook’s villainous �“ yet comical �“ swagger had reminded her of a mincing transvestite.

Remus had taken pity on his humiliation at that point and offered the large plumed hat to any other of the adult birthday guests who were assembled on the back lawn. Instinctively, everyone’s eyes settled on Snape where he stood absently sipping from his mug. Harry had only to squint his eyes to envision white lace adorning the sleeves just peeking out from the man’s black frock coat. With the addition of the hat, the illusion would be perfect.

“Don’t even consider it,” Snape drawled dangerously without turning his head. “I don’t do cheap theatrics for children’s parties. There are professionals you can hire for that sort of thing. Surely you’re aware of that, Lupin?”

“But would they have your inimitable style?” Tonks had crooned.

“Perhaps not,” Snape allowed as he pursed his thin lips to convey that flattery would not work. “But the answer is still no.”

Really, if he just channeled all his disdain and sarcasm into the role, he would be superb, Harry couldn’t help but think. Not that he was brave enough to suggest it to a man already fingering his wand.

“What if it were your daughter?” Remus persisted in a jovial tone. “Could you turn her down so easily?”

“Thankfully, we will never know, will we?” Snape returned sharply. Then lowering his voice to a menacing whisper, he hissed, “Or perhaps I would just buy her a red capuchin and invite you over, Lupin. How would that be?”

Totally unfazed, Remus had thrown his head back in irreverent laughter as he mockingly saluted Snape for the well-placed barb. Snape did his best to hide his self-satisfied smirk as he took a long swallow of the pirate’s grog billowing dangerously about his features.

Their arrival at the gate to the front garden brought Harry back to the present. He could tell that the plans for the tree house had put Remus in better spirits as well.

Barely stopping to leave his coat in the Mud Room, Remus swept his two children into his arms and settled them on the sofa before the roaring fire. While Tonks implored them to drink their cocoa so they could go to bed, Remus regaled them with fantastical tales of the giant bowtruckle he and Harry had defeated in valiant combat.

---

Although the month of December had barely begun, Diagon Alley was awash in an orgy of Yuletide decorations. Even on a dingy day when the icy wind alone would keep shoppers at bay, Kingsley was always heartened by strings of artificial faerie lights dispelling the afternoon gloom. Not that it made his errand any less ponderous, he considered inwardly, but at least it reminded him that happier times were now the norm rather than the exception.

The noxious scent of diesel fumes assaulted his nostrils as he exited the Leaky Cauldron. Somehow Muggle London always seemed dingy and grey after the riotous cheer of the wizarding world. The elegant Georgian fronts of the offices lining Tremont Street lay peaceful beneath a fresh blanket of snow, the brick sidewalks studiously plowed but devoid of life nonetheless. It was only as Kingsley mounted the wide stone steps leading up to the premises of Mortimer & Mortimer that it hit him: the holly wreath adorning the shiny black door was the only concession to the holidays within sight.

Knowing he was expected, he stepped into a tall receiving area with deep carpeting that seemed to swallow his boots and muffle all sounds from the outdoors. The walls were adorned with autographed covers of the past decade’s most popular books, a testament to the agency’s acumen in choosing their clients. Kingsley ignored the images of Gilderoy Lockhart which followed him from frame to frame as if desperate for an encouraging word from one of their fans. In the place of honor stood a golden easel with the fiery eyes staring defiantly at him, daring him to assault the curtain of anonymity.

“Mister Shacklebolt, it’s truly a pleasure,” oozed a smallish man dressed impeccably in charcoal grey pinstripes. “Gerard Mortimer at your service. I can only imagine what important inquiries must have drawn you away from your desk at the Ministry today.”

After a wordless handshake, Kingsley allowed himself to be ushered into a sumptuous office with dark furnishings which looked as if no one ever sullied their polished surfaces with mundane paperwork. Refusing to be intimidated, Kingsley leaned back into the deep confines of a leather chair and crossed his long legs before him. Having brushed off an assistant’s offer of tea or perhaps something stronger to keep out the cold, he waited for Mr. Gerard to assume his position behind the desk.

Breaking with custom, however, Mr. Gerard simply rested his manicured hands on the back of the desk chair and remained standing. Locking eyes with the dark skinned Auror, he ventured, “Surely a busy man like yourself didn’t come by for a social visit. Your demeanor suggests you have something on your mind.”

“Don’t play the innocent with me, Mortimer,” Kingsley rumbled. “You know very well why I’m here.”

“To parlay an opening chapter to a very engaging autobiography?” Mr. Gerard suggested artfully. “Even a rough outline will suffice, we have many assist--”

“Enough!” Kingsley’s voice was no more than a whisper, but it reverberated against the paneled walls. “Your semblance of respectability can’t hide the fact that you’re harboring a criminal.”

“Really, Mr. Shacklebolt! You’re welcome to search the premises if you like. Call an entire squad to comb the area, as the expression goes.”

“You know exactly what I mean. That book…that abomination…was hardly penned by an imaginative widower living on a pension.”

“No, it would not be selling so well if it had. It was a rare stroke of luck to sign the genuine article to our client list, but he insisted on anonymity.”

“So the book would suggest. No author, no title.”

“Just a cover,” Mr. Gerard affirmed. “A bit of marketing genius by one of my rising stars in the distribution office.”

“Who is the author? I’m here as the official arm of the Minister for Magic himself,” Kingsley intoned solemnly. “The request comes directly from him.”

“So that explains the Head Auror being sent out to do a bit of legwork.” Mr. Gerard chuckled lowly. Looking at Kingsley directly, he added, “I’ve never met the man.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to believe that!” Kingsley raised his eyebrows to convey his skepticism.

“Believe whatever you like. The man you seek is locked away in Azkaban. What he chooses to pen in his ample free time is really no concern of yours.”

“He speaks of raising an army.”

“An army of like-minded individuals. He may dream of repopulating the world with werewolves, but I doubt the guards would allow the penitents access to his cell block. Not that anyone is likely to seek him out.”

“Come now, readers often seek out authors; be they inspiring or controversial, it matters not. Surely you’ve organized enough book signings to know that,” Kingsley urged expertly.

“So that cretin at Flourish & Blotts would have you believe, no doubt!” Mr. Gerard scoffed.

“I won’t deny I made a slight detour there. You wouldn’t begrudge me a bit of holiday shopping, would you? After all, your firm was very careful to time the book’s release to coincide with the Yuletide season, wasn’t it?”

“Surely the Auror Department doesn’t want to suggest there’s anything untoward about a literary agent finding a niche for a unique client.” Mr. Gerard smiled in a decidedly feral manner.

“No interviews, either?” Kingsley provoked. “Those are pretty standard in the case of a book that’s been selling steadily. The public must be hungering for more.”

“Let them clamor. My client prefers to remain in the shadows, mysterious and aloof. Such were the terms of his contract.”

“A contract you’re unlikely to let me see,” Kingsley prodded.

“I’m under no obligation to do so, as you are well aware, Mr. Shacklebolt. Your authority exists only when a crime has been committed.”

“Peddling Lockhart’s misrepresentations should qualify.”

“Perhaps, but my father was unaware of the man’s duplicity when he signed him on. Another victim of Lockhart's dazzling smile, one might say. The volumes have since been labeled as fiction; therefore, they are free to depart from reality in whatever way they please.”

“Your current client is hardly a gormless egotist,” Kingsley countered. “His words clearly convey that.”

“No one’s ever been endangered by ink on paper alone �“ except perhaps the ignorant.” Mr. Gerard chuckled at his own joke. Seating himself in the oversized chair behind the desk, he steepled his hands carefully before raising his eyes.

Pressing his advantage, Kingsley posed, “If your client is the ‘genuine article’ as you claim, don’t you find it unsettling when he insinuates of dark plots and convoluted loyalties?”

“Paranoia. Hardly an unexpected phenomenon within the forbidding walls of Azkaban.” Looking at Kingsley over the rims of his narrow glasses, Mr. Gerard added in an artful whisper, “The ambient temperature inside is so frigid that one is constantly on the lookout for dementors �“ even today.”

“So I’ve been told,” Kingsley rejoined with a dark scowl. “But Aurors have official reasons to travel there, regardless of how odious a task… What could possibly draw a man of letters like yourself?”

“One hears rumors. A turn of phrase here or there. With as much owl traffic as they allow, descriptive phrases from within are bound to escape.”

“See to it that’s the only thing that escapes.” Despite his even tone, Kingsley’s dark eyes burned ominously.

“Mr. Shacklebolt, please. I’m hardly a black marketeer sneaking off to meet his clients in Knockturn Alley.”

But I just bet you have a lackey who would, Kingsley noted inwardly.

Suddenly eager to appease, Mr. Gerard offered with strained humility, “If an escapee were to show up here, I quite assure you he would be turned over to Magical Law Enforcement immediately. That is not the way this firm does business.”

A reputation to maintain among the neighboring firms, Kingsley amended. Yet he still remained silent. It was an interrogation technique that had yet to fail him, although he’d been unable to train others to maintain the necessary stillness.

“What would you have of me?” Mr. Gerard proffered.

“Other than the contract?”

“I would lose any credibility among my clients.”

“How about the truth for once?” Kingsley shot back.

Much to his surprise, Mr. Gerard threw back his head and emitted a high-pitched laugh. “What ever would I want with truth?” At Kingsley’s steady look, he expounded, “If you came here looking for truth, then perhaps I should refer you to my textbook division. Steady income and all that, but not very exciting. Sold it to a relation over a decade ago.”

“We all have our own versions of the truth,” Kingsley avowed. “That’s the first paradox an Auror must master: the fluidity of the truth.”

Mr. Gerard gave him a sharp, appraising look before he returned, “I deal in entertainment, my good man. The truth or reality or plausibility of it is irrelevant. Be it the housewife who seeks an illicit romance with a swash-buckler or a studious armchair type who imagines himself an intrepid explorer, they’re seeking to escape reality. No one wants to be faced with their true limitations.”

“Still you have to admit, this new book of yours is selling a rather edgy daydream, don’t you think?” Kingsley commented.

“A bit of harmless danger in a time of peace,” Mr. Gerard clarified. “Such a phenomenon is nothing new. Humanity is rebellious to the core, always seeking what it doesn’t have at hand.”

“You’re deluding yourself, Mortimer,” Kingsley intimated darkly. “You dangle a carrot before a madman who won’t think twice of simply taking your arm off. His excuse will be that it’s more expedient that way.”

“Sounds like you know my client better than I do.”

“Let’s just say I’m better acquainted with darkness. Familiar enough to recognize it when it wraps itself in a fancy package.”

“My client is already serving time for his errors. So I would ask you, Mr. Shacklebolt, why are you so intent on pursuing a man who has already owned up to his guilt?”

“I believe he may hold the key to other more insidious crimes. Infractions committed by others who have been able to escape prosecution.”

“I was under the impression the Great Wizarding War was over. Big dedication ceremony to commemorate the heroes and all that. You showed quite a different side of yourself.” Mr. Gerard waited patiently for his barb to hit home.

“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents, some of which don’t get much of a workout in my line of work.”

“It would be unethical for me to suggest to my client that he incriminate himself further.”

“So now you’re a lawyer as well?” Kingsley volleyed back. “Many talents indeed…”

“There’s at least a dozen within this very square. Should I put one on retainer on behalf of my client?”

“That’s not necessary at this juncture,” Kingsley maintained evenly. “Let me just put it this way, Mr. Mortimer: if your client decides to capitalize on his popularity as a modern day Quasimodo, I would like to arrange for the interviewer to pose some very specific questions.”

“Leading questions?”

“Aren’t they all? I promise you, your readers will only find his answers that much more compelling.”

“I’ll bear your words in mind,” Mr. Gerard acquiesced, his beady eyes glowing with new possibilities.

Once again, Kingsley declined the offer of a brandy as he took his leave. Despite the grime of the city, the bracing winter air was like a restorative to his lungs.

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Eleven
The Snows of Winter


Harry squinted into the dusty confines of the Leaky Cauldron. With a wide grin, Ron was waving them over to his booth. Hermione weaved her way among the empty tables and slid into the bench next to her husband as Harry shook the icy raindrops from his cloak before hanging it on one of the pegs by the door. His eyes always needed a few extra seconds to adjust to the pleasant dimness of the pub’s interior.

For a single heartbeat, he felt like they were back at school, huddling over a problem late into the night in the Gryffindor common room. Their faces had often been lit only by the dying fire in the huge grate then, their voices mere whispers so as not to be overheard in the adjoining dormitories. A furtive movement from the corner of his eye brought him back to the present with a heavy thud. But it was only Tom, the proprietor, approaching with the luncheon menus in hand.

Harry ordered a Butterbeer for himself, well aware that he was expected to return to his desk later that afternoon. His request for an extra hour to accommodate a small birthday luncheon for an old school chum had not been questioned, but he didn’t want to look like he’d been over-celebrating, either. Kingsley might be looking for him after the account he’d given earlier of Remus’ state of mind.

“You seem uneasy, mate,” Ron observed as Harry darted a look around the deserted room. “Would you feel more comfortable sitting so you could keep your eye on the front door?”

Harry issued a sharp laugh. “If I can’t trust you two to watch my back after all these years…”

“Besides, you can see the door leading to Diagon Alley without any trouble,” Hermione added.

“That too.” Harry sighed. “Things have been tense; I don’t have to tell you that. Remus is being drawn into this more than is good for him.”

“Is he convinced it’s Greyback?” Hermione posed, her features laced with concern.

Harry nodded glumly. “Kingsley still wants him to review the roster of all those who’ve been sentenced to Azkaban and see if he recognizes the faces of any other werewolves. The data is still being compiled.”

“Blimey! That’s a lot of folks!” Ron protested. “It’s been six years �“ seven if you consider when he was last undercover. Wouldn’t it be easier to just work through those belonging to other werewolves?”

“If that bit of data was included in the court records,” Harry allowed. “All too often, it’s not.”

“How could such an important fact be missing?”

“Any competent defense attorney would have seen to that,” Hermione stressed. “Such information is prejudicial, to say the least. A skilled advocate would want to ensure his client was judged impartially under the law.”

“But what if he’d bitten someone?” Ron threw out. “Surely it’s not irrelevant then.”

“Most cases were brought for different reasons,” Harry explained. “Being a Death Eater or just consorting with them to overthrow the government was the most common charge after Voldemort’s defeat.”

“No one would want the tribunal to assume the defendant was involved in treasonous activities simply because he was a werewolf,” Hermione supplied.

“But that’s grossly unfair!” Ron shook his head in disgust.

“It was established that Greyback recruited followers from among those amassed in the werewolf encampments. Although such evidence is circumstantial at best, you see how the Wizengamot might associate one with the other.” Hermione’s tone held steady despite the distress than made her eyes glisten wetly.

“And you’re all right with this? Both of you?”

“It does no good to call them a bigoted bunch of blowhards,” Harry commented softly.

“Despite the fact that Harry’s being quite charitable,” Hermione noted with a hollow laugh. “I can’t just turn my back on these people because our justice system is flawed.”

“I thought your career goal was to change all that,” Ron insisted.

“It still is, sweetheart. But sometimes change has to come in small increments so it’s not rejected outright,” Hermione pronounced stoically.

“Official Ministry line,” Ron dismissed as he took a long draw from his glass. A brave shaft of sunlight penetrating the golden lager belied the seriousness of the conversation.

“Remus’ words,” Harry attested solemnly.

“Idealism tempered with realistic expectations, I believe he called it,” Hermione echoed. “He warned me that I wouldn’t be able to chuck the entire legal system out the window despite the temptation.”

“Just be glad you didn’t have to plough through the regulations firsthand, mate,” Harry allowed. “It’s even worse when you see such ignorance wrapped in the trappings of justice.”

Briefly, he outlined what his recent research had unveiled: how werewolves were held fully liable for any acts performed under the full moon, even though they could not recall the incidents themselves. Ignore that they could not testify in their own defense or provide an alibi, they were considered guilty by virtue of not taking precautions to property contain themselves. An attack resulting in the creation of another werewolf was automatic grounds for imprisonment, provided the victim could identify his assailant. In this, werewolves could sometimes get a break as most victims were too traumatized to be able to differentiate one snarling snout from another. Yet Harry couldn’t help but think how easy it would be for someone to be unjustly railroaded by an unscrupulous victim. If a bite victim died, the sentence was absolute: the werewolf was executed for murder most heinous. No life sentence in Azkaban, no extenuating circumstances that might label the actions as self-defense or subject to a lesser charge of manslaughter or wrongful death.

“Even more unsettling is that many feel these same guidelines should apply to werewolves at all times,” Harry concluded grimly. “Even when the events in question did not occur during a full moon.”

“A rabid dog receives more consideration!” Ron ranted.

“No, a rabid dog is treated exactly the same,” Harry argued. “Euthanized for the protection of society at large without being made to feel the pain of death �“ or so they say… Except that a werewolf would know what was coming.”

“As long as there are those who would classify them as beasts, it will not change,” Hermione pronounced with a grimace. “Thank Dolores Umbridge for that. It was her legislation which ignored the requirements that a werewolf must be able to reproduce to be considered a beast. It has long been the standard by which naturalists confirmed the presence of a new species: it had to be able to give birth consistently to one such as itself. If it required two different species to achieve the result, then it was classified as a cross-breed.

“If they had remained under this classification, werewolves would have been considered part human �“ giving rise to the argument that they should be entitled to human rights for 28 out of 29 days. But instead, Umbridge countered that because werewolves and vampires could create their own kind by the transference of blood and saliva, this was synonymous with live birth as required for all other magical creatures including elves, goblins, giants, hinkypunks, merpeople, centaurs, thestrals…well, you get the picture.”

Ron urged the conversation in a less stressful direction. “I’m beginning to see how a slimy git like Greyback could escape prosecution all these years. Who fingered him in the end? I remember Remus categorically refusing to become involved in what he claimed was a losing battle.”

“That’s the most ironic thing of all,” Harry whispered as he swung his head about to make sure they remained the pub’s sole clientele. “Greyback confessed. Proudly proclaimed how he’d viciously gone about recruiting others to his lifestyle.”

“Even targeting children, if you can stomach that,” Hermione interjected.

“To read his book, he must have considered it a great honor to be selected,” Ron scoffed.

“Just a ploy to win his victims over,” Hermione clarified. “Convince them that they were being admitted into an elite force.”

“Didn’t the Wizengamot also convict him of being a Death Eater?” Ron pressed.

Harry shook his head to the negative. “No tattoo.”

“No one dared to denounce him would be my guess,” tendered Hermione.

“A regular agent of retribution, he was,” Harry remarked sourly. “More of Remus’ words.”

Ron caught Tom’s eye for a refill as they all took a moment to place their lunch orders. Once they were alone again, Hermione took up the threads of the conversation. “So has Kingsley recruited your assistance in this assignment, Harry?”

She was caught short by the dejected look Harry gave her. “Hardly,” he grumbled.

“But all the research…” Ron prompted.

“For my own enjoyment apparently,” Harry admitted with a mirthless chuckle. “Kingsley said I was too close. He’s only allowing me to provide very limited, peripheral assistance.”

“That must smart,” Ron commiserated.

“He’s right, though,” Hermione maintained in a thoughtful tone. “Kingsley, I mean.”

“Remus is his friend also,” Harry argued. “He and Remus worked very closely to organize Voldemort’s defeat.”

“In a professional capacity,” Hermione pointed out.

Harry was not giving in so easily. “He’s been a guest at our house countless times.”

“That’s just it…” Hermione began tactfully.

“I see her point, mate,” Ron cut across. “Despite their years of association, Kingsley doesn’t face Remus over the breakfast table each morning, doesn’t play with the man’s children each evening.”

“All the more reason I want to help him,” Harry moaned.

“I think your companionship alone will do that,” Hermione soothed “Trust in Kingsley’s judgment.”

Undaunted, Harry turned his attention to Ron. “What’s the view on the international front, Ron? You’re the only one of us who has access to such information.”

“Any ideas we can incorporate ourselves?” Hermione posed.

Ron shrugged noncommittally. “There’s not as much as you’d think. Werewolves are banned from competing in Quidditch matches unilaterally. Bulgaria does allow them to coach, however.”

“And the reasons for these regulations?” Harry inquired, recognizing that inspiration often lurked in the most innocuous corners.

“Altercations during the full moon?” suggested Hermione.

Ron gave her a look of withering contempt. “How difficult would it be to schedule matches so they avoided the full moon? Even at Hogwarts, we barely competed once a month; the Quidditch pitch was used only for practice at other times. It’s not like they have to share the field with any other events �“ that’s true in professional leagues as well.”

Catching on to Ron’s tone, Harry prompted, “You have a theory. I can see it lurking in the corners of your eyes.”

“Nothing I can prove,” Ron harrumphed.

“Let’s have it anyway.”

“I think it has to do with parity,” Ron offered tentatively. “Werewolves have abilities the rest of use don’t share.”

“Their resistance to cold and disease,” Hermione encouraged.

“Their stamina under all sorts of adverse conditions,” Ron elaborated. “Madam Pomfrey said as much when she tended to Remus’ injuries in the cave.”

Hermione shook her head slowly as she tried to grasp the elusive tendrils of memory. “All I remember is being terrified that we had only condemned him to a slow and lingering death; that drowning would have been preferable.”

“Think back on all the good-natured scolding Madam Pomfrey gave him,” Ron recalled. “Claimed that anyone else would have been more cooperative by allowing such pain to render him unconscious.”

“But that would have trapped him in his Animagus form!” Hermione sought to follow.

“And she said she understood the tremendous fortitude it must have taken Remus to hang on, to not succumb to that which was easy,” Ron continued.

“Tonks warned that his stubbornness caused him to imperil himself needlessly,” Harry volunteered as he remembered snatches of conversation between the two concerned women at Remus’ bedside. “But that doesn’t make any sense…”

“Yes, it does!” Hermione surmised eagerly. “Remus willfully turns his back on the fact that he’s a werewolf. You’ve seen him do it time and time again. It’s more than just his insistence that he’s just like everyone else. He wills it to be so. Any extra abilities he might have gained in the process are tainted by his self-hatred and he refuses to acknowledge them.”

The sensation of Remus’ iron grip rose unbidden in Harry mind. Remus had been distraught, frightened at having been woken up from a deep sleep. When the same thing had occurred at Hogwarts, he had been practically begging Harry not to leave him alone with his inner demons. Hermione was on the right track; Harry was certain of it.

“So Remus’…condition is not without differences,” Ron attested. “Added stamina and visual acuity…”

“Prowess,” Harry supplied.

“Factors that might give an unequal advantage in Quidditch,” Ron concluded.

“So their exclusion may not be simply prejudicial?” Hermione mused.

“Not initially, no,” Ron confirmed. “As to the different attitudes in Bulgaria, I can only conclude it might have to do with the greater concentration of werewolves in the remote mountainous areas.”

“You have census data?” Hermione’s eyes lit up.

“Only rumors, I’m afraid.”

---

The glow from the hearth provided little warmth deep within the dungeons of Hogwarts castle. Still, it was considerably warmer than the conditions outside where an arctic wind had been howling among the ramparts since mid-day, depositing a thick blanket of snow. Hard to believe it was only afternoon to gauge by the iron grey skies just visible through the long, narrow slits at the end of the corridor.

Surveying the expanse of his domain, Severus Snape was satisfied that all was as it should be. The thick wool rugs covering the stone floors and the deep leather upholstery provided their own sort of comfort; not to be surpassed by the excellent vintage he had just uncorked. The luxury of unbroken solitude was something to be savored at the end of a long day of supervising inattentive hordes bent on their own destruction.

The low flames caught the deep glint of the emerald ring he wore on his index finger. It was the sole adornment he allowed himself, yet somehow fitting to his position as Head of Slytherin House. His wife had instructed the jeweler to design it to look like an heirloom, or so she had told him when she presented it to him. It had pleased him very much that she should go to so much trouble to accommodate his idiosyncrasies. In return, he made an effort to dress in less funereal fabrics when at home; but he had long since concluded that black was the only practical color to resist all manner of potion stains. If the students found the color intimidating, so much the better. Did they not see that school robes were traditionally black for the very same reason?

As he raised the goblet to his colorless lips, the jewel glowed in sharp contrast with the blood red wine. Green and red, the traditional colors of Christmas. Even in his own chambers, he couldn’t escape it, Snape’s inner voice complained; the entire ruddy castle seemed intent on force-feeding everyone with holiday cheer. Not that he wasn’t looking forward to three blessed weeks without the daily army of dunderheads, mind you. Even though his overly gregarious in-laws would descend upon him before long, he could always find an excuse to leave them to their own merrymaking. Perhaps he would even accept the invitation from his distant cousin in Romania to go ice fishing in the mountains. He had no doubt that copious quantities of the potent local vodka would be involved, but who could begrudge their attempts to keep winter at bay?

His pleasant contemplations were interrupted by a flash of evergreen flames among the crackling logs. Snape’s scowl deepened when he recognized Lupin’s features among the embers.

“Severus, could I impose upon you for a moment of your time?” Remus proposed genially. “Minerva suggested I would find you here.”

Snape instinctively defended his turf. “I don’t take kindly to being interrupted in my private enclave, Lupin. Is this about the Headmistress’ infernal holiday tea party? If I had known attendance was mandatory, I would have removed myself to the Hog’s Head.”

Even amid the coals, Snape could discern Lupin’s features were perplexed. “Forgive me, Severus, I had totally forgotten about that…” he hesitated.

Such confounded indecisiveness was not part of Lupin’s usual demeanor. Snape would have expected the man to be annoying everyone left and right with hearty wishes for a joyous holiday. Making an immediate decision, Snape drawled, “If you’re intent on skiving off today, I have no overpowering objections to you joining me.”

With a curt nod, Lupin’s face crumbled into molten ashes as the fire flamed high with holly green flames. Damn his traitorous subconscious for succumbing to the Yuletide conspiracy surrounding him, Snape grumbled to himself.

In the next instant, Remus was standing among the flagstones before the hearth and shaking the last of the Floo Powder from his hair. He looked around with a rather dazed expression. “You’ve remodeled,” he observed succinctly.

“Minerva’s doing mostly,” Snape acknowledged with a shrug. “She’s convinced everyone benefits from her meddlesome ways.”

Remus smoothed his palm over the buttery softness of the wing-backed chair to which he had been directed and wisely kept his mouth shut. He tried to decline Snape’s offer of wine only to be told rather gruffly, “Only a boor drinks alone in front of another. Is it your intent to insult me?”

Unable to counter such an argument, Remus accepted the heavy goblet. Sirius had preferred red wine as well, the thought rose from the depths of his memory. Tonks gravitated almost exclusively to white so he was pleasantly surprised when the dark tincture proved to be particularly mellow and agreeable. “Very nice,” Remus muttered. “Can’t say I’ve ever encountered a red that didn’t pucker my mouth with dryness.”

With an amused half-smile, Snape turned the bottle in his hands so the label was visible. Then he waited for Lupin’s jaw to drop.

“That’s hardly table wine!” Remus protested. “Surely a grand cru like that deserves to be saved for a special occasion.”

“And here I thought you knew very little about wine,” Snape offered sardonically. “As everyone seems intent on celebrating the season, why should I begrudge myself a little indulgence?”

“Severus, I…”

“Just enjoy the wine, Lupin. Perhaps it will put us both in a better mood,” Snape suggested smoothly, the resonance of his voice seeming to compliment the wine lingering on their tongues.

“I’m surprised you didn’t volunteer to guard the front doors if you weren’t interested in attending the tea party,” Remus remarked conversationally.

“Consider it my Christmas gift to the students. With no one hovering in their wake to deduct house points, fogging up the windows with longing will be that much more enjoyable.”

“They’ll be out the great doors by now. The snowfall was winding down last I looked.”

“So they’ll be building snowmen in effigy,” Snape noted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m hardly an art critic. Are you?”

Remus laughed in spite of himself. “Can’t very well set fire to snow, can they?”

“Not without Flitwick’s help!” Snape shot back. “The Incendiary Charm is notoriously finicky in cold weather.”

Refilling their goblets, Snape crossed his ankles upon the small footrest. “Why aren’t you celebrating with the others, Lupin? It’s so unlike you.”

Remus looked into the fathomless eyes that betrayed nothing, yet he sensed the man before him already knew the answer to his query. Hadn’t Snape had his privacy stripped away as a lad when the Daily Prophet had zeroed in on his less than ideal home life? Granted, it had been a relevant fact in his legal case, but admitting it before the Wizengamot would have been humiliating enough; the Prophet had paraded it before all of Britain.

“I was hoping you could enlighten me on Greyback’s role in Voldemort’s hierarchy,” Remus began tentatively.

“Quite an imposition, wouldn’t you say?”

“I tried to find the information elsewhere--”

Snape cut across him impatiently, “�”but the Order failed to locate the secret archives where the Dark Lord spelled out his plans for world domination so anyone could betray him.”

“How ever did you manage to keep your head in that maniac’s presence?” Remus commented with a wry laugh.

“Wine has a tendency to unleash my tongue,” Snape allowed with a dark laugh of his own. “Obviously, I avoided drinking anything in the Dark Lord’s presence.”

“Healthy fear of poisoning, too.”

“Lupin, what makes you think anyone is going to take Greyback’s ranting seriously? It’s nothing more than his attempt to lay down a nest egg while he’s incarcerated.”

“There are things he says that lead me to wonder…”

“Wonder what exactly? We’ve already established that he’s drunk on his own ego!”

“Perhaps among his disjointed braggadocio there might be a kernel of truth.”

“Other than his twisted odes to the misunderstood torture of the moon?”

“So you have read it,” Remus whispered through dry lips.

“One would have to be living in a vacuum to have failed to notice it. If I didn’t know it was illegal for merchants to employ Compelling Charms…”

“He seems to imply he was playing two sides against the middle,” Remus posited with a frown.

“Self-aggrandizing delusions.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. It could be two factions within Voldemort’s camp.”

“An often fractious lot,” Snape conceded.

“Who coordinated his activities? Surely someone so crass would not have dealt with Voldemort directly.”

“Do your memories of that regrettable night fail you? His main cronies were the Carrows. Crabbe and Goyle might have dealt with him on occasion. Genetic throwbacks all.”

Could Alecto Carrow be the woman Greyback was referring to? It just didn’t seem right to Remus. “Was the Carrow sister in a position of power; could she have offered him a deal behind the others’ backs?”

Snape chuckled derisively. “She was lucky to find her shoes in the morning. What do you think?”

“What about Bellatrix? She was powerful in her own right.”

“She would not have sullied her aristocratic fingers,” Snape maintained. “Any descriptions of the woman in question?”

“Not really,” Remus allowed with a note of regret. “He mentions her wide-mouthed smile in one place… Let me see if I can find it for you.” Remus started to draw the book from his jacket pocket only to be forestalled by Snape.

“No need. Your powers of observation have always been thoroughly reliable. Such wording doesn’t quite fit Bellatrix. Now if he’d mentioned how her cherubic mouth belied the demonic presence within…”

Remus chuckled appreciatively at Snape’s dead-on characterization. “He described it like the maw of a snake.”

“Words that would make any Slytherin proud.”

“Except that snakes can unhinge their jaws to swallow their enemies whole,” Lupin volunteered solemnly.

“Could it be he was referring to Bella’s temperament?”

“Doesn’t strike me as a figurative description. Greyback’s more a visceral type.”

“Yet he waxes poetic about the moon,” Snape pointed out.

“Only because he sees it as a deity outside of his sphere,” Remus clarified. “His opinions of his associates are much more down to earth.”

“There were no other females at the meetings. Narcissa was never a Death Eater, just chained to one �“ or two, if you consider Draco.”

“I’ll just have to keep looking,” Remus conceded with a weary sigh. With a start, he looked around the room in confusion. “Did you finish grading all the end of term exams already? I didn’t think you had an assistant.”

Snape smiled enigmatically. “Seems rather unsporting to present them with their inadequacies right before the holidays, don’t you think?”

“But to give them false hope…”

“Is still better than no hope at all,” Snape retorted.

“Perhaps you have a point,” Remus capitulated. Had his own performance been that hopeless in Potions, he wondered. Years later, the only thing he remembered clearly was how he could barely stomach Slughorn’s lessons, the stench of all the misbrewed potions permeating his very skin by the end of class. Scalding water and a scrub brush were often required to make him feel clean again.

“I don’t suggest you follow this line of inquiry from home,” Snape suggested with a knowing lift to his eyebrow. “You haven’t been this morose since… Bloody hell, Lupin, I can’t even come up with a proper put down. That’s how out of character it seems!”

“So it’s my fault you’re caught at a loss for words?” Remus gave a hollow laugh. “Afraid I’ll usurp your special niche with the students?”

“It’s a contest you would lose.”

“Undeniably.”

“And confuse your own children in the process. I bet you haven’t even been to see them today, have you?”

“They’re at their French lesson this afternoon,” Lupin announced matter-of-factly.

“A tutor already? Really, Lupin, aren’t they allowed to just be children? Miscreants, if one believes Filch’s grumbling.”

“The two of you have pretty much sewn up antisocial behavior for the entire castle.”

“Glad to know my efforts didn’t go unnoticed,” Snape returned with his viperous smirk.

“As for tutors, they’re with Bill Weasley’s wife one afternoon a week. It’s more of a play date; but Fleur likes to speak with her girls in French and, well, Phoebe and Teddy are like little sponges at that age.”

“How old were you?”

“Closer to eight or nine,” Remus allowed. “My grandmother insisted I learn to read English first. The other languages I added after finishing school, when I found myself with extra time on my hands.”

Snape nodded knowingly. “I, too, felt at loose ends after Voldemort’s first fall. So much in my life had changed irrevocably.”

Remus took a long thoughtful swallow as Snape refilled his glass. “You’re right that I should probably put things aside for a few weeks, gain some perspective.”

Snape resumed his relaxed pose in his chair, allowing the comfortable silence to permeate the room. Lupin was free to speak of what was troubling him if he wished or maintain his wall of privacy. It was no more consideration than Snape expected for himself.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have to describe lycanthropy to a three-year old?” Remus muttered as he stared dismally into the depths of his glass.

Despite Snape’s stony face, those quiet words struck a chord with his own decision to remain childless. Garrulous gargoyles, he would be blaming the infernal wine tomorrow as he dared to respond, “You’re a man who thinks things to death, Lupin. Surely you considered this scenario when you decided to start a family.”

“Of course, but I expected the issue would come up when they were a little older. With Teddy, it happened quite naturally; I was able to ease it into the conversation when he asked about the origins of our family name. But with Phoebe…I was so afraid someone might say something to her in passing and then it would be a hundred times worse.”

“Because of Greyback’s manifesto?” There was no telling how many nutcases would attach themselves to the coattails of the latest fad. He couldn’t deny Lupin was right about that.

Remus nodded, the flames from the hearth lending his eyes an amber glow not unlike those on the cover of the damnable book. But the haunted look that blazed forth was clearly that of a man of conscience, not a maniac. “I couldn’t even find the words,” he admitted in a strangled voice. “Tonks had to do it. Phoebe is always clamoring to help with the preparation of the Wolfsbane Potion so that allowed her to lead into it.”

Severus couldn’t help but think Lupin was wrong to suppose his children would see him as a monster. He could transform before them, threaten them with slavering jaws, and after their screams subsided, they would wonder what they had done to provoke him. Hadn’t he done much the same during his own childhood? Hoping to be the unmagical son his father desired above all else, as if simply wishing to be a Squib could make it so. It was only later when he realized the futility of his childhood fantasies that he had come to embrace the inevitable, daring to hope that as a wizard he would be able to escape this purgatory where no correct response or action existed. If only he could fade away into the cracks in the wall, perhaps that action alone would satisfy both his parents equally. For as long as he tried to embody what his father desired, he earned his mother’s derision for being so much less than what he was. Yet at the same time, she would punish him for angering his father with his blatant displays of ‘oddness,’ as his father called it.

How could they not think the constant contradictions would lead him to despair of ever being accepted, let alone happy? Certainly not while he remained at Spinner’s End. Yet it had taken him years to harden his resolve to the point where he could envision himself leaving everything behind. The small, disconsolate child in him would always resurface and demand its due. Such was the innate trust and love which came to children as naturally as breathing. Not that he was about to bare his soul to anyone, grand cru or not. He would just have to trust Lupin was the sort who would embrace his sacred paternal duty to not abuse his children’s unwavering devotion.

Steeling his resolve, Snape provided, “It could have been worse, Lupin. At least you didn’t have to admit to your child that you were a shameless, unmotivated drunkard and a wife-beater.” Or worse, Snape thought to himself, but left it unsaid. “Not that my father was ever that forthright with me.”

“Somehow it’s not the same…”

“Sure it is. You wanted to be left alone to live in your own private hell while you were at school and so did I.”

“But I was wrong to think that way. It literally changed the way I looked at life �“ and my place in it �“ once I knew that others accepted me after learning the ugly truth. No one would have classified you as less than human once they discovered your family secret.”

“No, I had that all sewn up myself.”

“And nobody knew? All the time you were a student…”

“I’m sure Dumbledore knew, but he was practically omniscient.”

“What about Lily? Did you ever confide in her?”

“More than anything I wanted to keep that reality separate from the brief moments I spent with Lily. She was part of the wonderful wizarding world that would be my ticket away from my squalid existence. Even her Muggle home was a golden paradise compared to my dingy house at the arse end of the earth.”

“Something tells me it didn’t work out that way.”

“No, paths cross in all different ways. And even though she never said anything, never indicated she didn’t wholly buy into any excuse I’d given her, Lily knew.”

Amid the seemingly eternal stonework of the dungeons, it was remarkably easy to lose one’s self in nostalgia. Like it was only yesterday, Snape silently recalled that it had begun even before he had boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time. His long-awaited letter from Hogwarts arrived and his father, Tobias, had not been pleased. It was one thing to have a son who had nothing in common with him and quite another �“ make no mistake �“ to have one who was just like her! In his alcohol-soaked brain, Tobias had seen all mother and son chats as nothing more than collusion against him.

It was all laid bare in the man’s eyes when he’d grabbed Severus by the neck and shoved him into the brick wall by the fireplace. Severus had blocked out the incoherent ramblings being shouted into his ear as he did his best not to gag on the smell of stale Firewhiskey on his father’s breath. He struggled to remain still so his father would forget about his presence just as he hoped the man would forget about the Hogwarts letter before his mother returned from work. Luckily, he didn’t have long to wait before his father lurched into the next room for some spare change for the pub. At the slam of the backdoor, Severus could finally relax; but with his first deep breath came an agony which literally sickened him with its intensity.

In a haze of pain, he stumbled out of the stifling house and sought refuge in the only place he knew: the leafy green cathedral of the nearby park. He struggled to sit with his back against a familiar tree in the shade, hoping the gentle breeze would soothe the rivulets of sweat running down the sides of his face.

It might have been hours, it might have been minutes later that Lily found him. She spied his familiar form from a distance and waved joyously to him.

“It came just like you said it would! My letter to Hogwarts!” she breathed as she threw herself happily on the ground beside him. “I would have been here sooner but Professor Dumbledore himself came to inform my parents that I was a bona fide witch!”

It was only then that her eyes had truly focused on him and noted he was practically delirious with pain. “We need to take you to hospital!” she insisted.

“No!” he barely croaked as he squeezed his eyes shut. He reached out to catch her arm only to be engulfed in a wave of agony that left him panting for breath.

“Severus, please be reasonable,” Lily implored. “You need to be looked at by a doctor.”

“A Healer,” he corrected her weakly.

“Can you at least tell me what happened?” she begged as she gently brushed his overlong fringe from his forehead. The look of concern in her eyes deepened as she touched his clammy skin.

“Bullies, ambushed,” he managed, trying to cover up for the indignity of having shamed his father once again.

“Will you at least let me take you to my house?” she beseeched. “My mum will know what to do.”

“No hospital,” he’d made her promise over and over again as he allowed her to guide him the two blocks to her home.

Mrs. Evans had taken one look at him and insisted they call his mother at the nearby mill.

“Please, Lily, don’t let her call,” Severus had struggled to form the words. “They’ll dock her pay and then claim she’s unreliable. Please, Lily….”

A whispered conference had followed in the next room as Severus lowered himself shakily onto the nearest chair. It was all he could do to keep the room from spinning.

When Mrs. Evans returned, she guided him gently but firmly into the kitchen to try to ice down his injuries. “Where does it hurt, Severus? Can you tell me that?”

“Not sure," he’d gasped as a gentle pull on his upper arm practically made him collapse. With expert fingers, Mrs. Evans gingerly examined his upper torso through his threadbare shirt, finally determining that he seemed to have cracked his collarbone.

“I’m not sure a doctor could do much for that,” she explained with kind eyes. “Much the same happened to my younger brother when he fell out of a tree.”

“How did they treat Uncle Howard?” Lily asked as she flashed a reassuring smile at Severus.

“Put his arm in a sling to keep him from moving the bones unnecessarily,” Mrs. Evans replied as she returned with an old pillowcase. “Despite the pain, the bones will actually knit themselves in about two weeks time. Not that anyone was able to convince Howard of that over his screams that day.” Mrs. Evans had looked at Severus very curiously at that point, but then added in a light-hearted tone, “But Howard was much younger than you and somewhat of a cry-baby, as I recall.”

“Severus is preparing to step out on his own, Mother,” Lily announced. “He got a letter today just like I did. Didn’t you?”

Severus nodded. Through gritted teeth, he tried to add a smile �“ only to abandon the attempt when the shiny stove hood reflected more of a grimace.

Taking Lily’s cue, Mrs. Evans chattered on about the astounding news that kind Professor Dumbledore had imparted to her today. In no time, she had Snape propped up in a sea of pillows on the sofa before the ‘telly’ as she called it. She left Lily to find some old movies to pass the time as she returned with a plate full of oatmeal and raisin biscuits and two tall glasses of milk punch.

“I took the liberty of crushing some aspirin into yours, dear,” she advised Severus in a reassuring tone. “You won’t taste the bitterness over the honey and allspice. Let me know if you need a refill, though. Lily’s not familiar with the recipe.”

With that and a stern look in Lily’s direction, Mrs. Evans left them alone for the remainder of the afternoon. Between sips of the sweet concoction Severus was certain contained a generous measure of brandy, his pain was muted to a manageable roar.

At some point, Petunia wandered by and gave him a disparaging look on her way to the kitchen. She returned with a mug of tea just as Severus was asking Lily a question about the ‘cowboys and Indians’ who were galloping across the screen.

“I don’t have to ask whether he received a letter also,” she huffed at Lily, ignoring Severus as if he were nothing but an unsightly stain. “Totally unfamiliar with our world.”

“There’s no need to be rude,” Lily issued crossly to Petunia’s back before returning her attentions to Severus. “She’s just jealous, Mum said.”

Snape nodded wordlessly in return, too weak to retort to Petunia that he knew plenty about the Muggle world, practically grew up in it; he was just unfamiliar with television.

They fed him tea and sandwiches before Mrs. Evans insisted on driving him home. “The pain will return tenfold if you jostle yourself with walking the distance on foot. I’ll let you off at the end of the block if you prefer.”

He remembered waving awkwardly to Lily with his free hand as the car had driven off into the distance. When he was certain they were out of sight, he carefully untied the makeshift sling and folded the pillowcase into his pocket. Cradling his arm in the same position as best he could, he walked to the end of the lane just in time to see his mother emerge from her double shift. Hardly daring to breathe, he waited for her to cross the rickety bridge spanning the roaring river.

One look into her son’s unfocused eyes told Eileen Snape much of the story. She motioned for him to wait on the front steps as she made sure there was no one else waiting for them inside the somber house at Spinner’s End. Once inside, a quick motion of her wand located Severus’ injury and repaired the fracture.

Her last words to him before sending him off to bed were, “I don’t care how bad the pain is. If I catch you drinking again, I’ll break your other collarbone!”

But it had not ended there. He remembered another instance when Lily had found him staring glumly out at the river. They were fourteen or fifteen and she had brought a summer picnic to enjoy while the boats floated by in the lazy current. Work at the mill had been scaled down and many of the nearby residents were now employed in transporting goods downriver. Catching a familiar face on the shore, the workmen often waved merrily as they passed by Severus’ favorite spot in the lee of the weathered iron bridge.

The bright colors hurt Severus’ eyes, or so he told Lily as he squinted through gauzy lids to maintain his composure. A pointless exercise in nobility as she had noticed him cradling his right wrist almost immediately.

“It’s nothing, Lily,” Severus insisted. “I tripped like a berk on the stone steps at the top of the levy. Here I was feeling like I had avoided that drunken lout �“ can’t believe he was only two years ahead of me in grammar school �“ and I do something like this!” He smiled ruefully into her eyes as he artfully spun his story. “The worst part was that he laughed himself silly until he threw up his beer. The smell was worse than the humiliation, I assure you.”

She had not truly been fooled; deep down Severus had known that. But she had been kind enough to let him believe for a little while longer. She giggled at his story and then asked him point blank if he knew how to knit bones with his wand.

“Don’t give me that under-aged magic tripe, Sev. That’s only for small children. I know full well the Ministry can’t tell who’s done magic, not without examining the wands in question. All you have to do is use my wand and perform the spell inside your house where your mother routinely uses magic.”

Severus thought it best not to correct her as, technically, her explanation was true. In reality, his mother rarely worked magic as it so enraged his father that it was akin to facing a rampaging hippogriff. Instead, he’d shaken his head ruefully. “I might manage if it were my left wrist that needed mending, but I can’t wield a wand except with my right hand.”

“Something to remedy next term,” she suggested matter-of-factly. Then she excused herself to go to the nearby chemist.

He’d tried the wordless numbing spell his mother had insisted he master, drilling him until he felt his eyes would cross. In his frustration, he’d been tempted to ask her if she used it on her heart, but self-preservation won out. Not that it was of much help in this instance, Severus grumbled to himself; its effects were transitory and superficial at best.

Lily returned minutes later with a stretchy bandage and some fat wooden knitting needles that she wrapped tightly around his wrist. The relief had been so immediate he almost grabbed her up and kissed her impetuously. But he’d never taken that irrevocable step as his bandaged arm lay awkwardly between them.

“Perhaps I should go see if I can get a wee bottle of peppermint schnapps to dampen the pain a bit,” she suggested, but her smile turned into a frown when she saw his frightened eyes. “You think I’ll get busted? The worst they can say is ‘no’.”

“Please, Lily, everyone around here knows my mother,” he pleaded. “I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea about how we spend our summer afternoons.”

“Right. Forgive me for not thinking that one through,” she responded lightly as she dung out some Butterbeers from her hamper and generously uncapped his.

He would have never forgiven himself if she’d run into his father at the pub. No doubt after he made some ungentlemanly remark as the barkeep dispensed her the schnapps with naught but a sly wink.

It was a few days later when his mother was double-checking his wrist had healed properly that he’d been put on the spot.

“Evelyn told me what happened the other day,” she began conversationally.

Severus stiffened immediately as Evelyn’s husband was the local chemist.

“Don’t twist so or I won’t be able to make a right assessment,” his mother scolded. “Then you’d have to rewrap your wrist all over again.”

She’d known all along, Severus’ mind screamed as he willed himself to remain impassive.

“Good thing your friend had the foresight to seek out a Muggle remedy,” Eileen continued unhurriedly. “Evelyn asked me how your sprain was and I told her it was healing nicely.”

How had they connected Lily with him, though? He never got the chance to pose the question as in her next breath, his mother added, “Your schoolmate is quite memorable with her thick red hair and easy smile. Lots of idle tongues in this town that would be better served with other hobbies.”

“Yes, Mum. I promise to be more discreet,” Severus heard himself say. “Her name is Lily Evans, she’s in the same class as me.”

“I don’t want to suggest you shouldn’t have any friends, Severus. Merlin knows, you won’t find anyone suitable at Spinner’s End. Just meet her on her side of town from now on.”

She did not have to mention that the less his father knew about his friends, and anything else having to do with Hogwarts, the better.

“I’ll remember, Mum,” he’d promised solemnly, not daring to give her a quick hug. Hugs were for small children only, he’d gotten that icy message years ago; but somehow it had never totally taken root.

“And. Severus, take this bit of motherly advice: choose the mates who accept you for who you are. Those who fear wizards are just as intolerant as those who are jealous of their abilities.”

She had not met his eyes as she left the room, but her message had been clear: don’t make the same mistakes I did. Don’t marry someone who will revile you for what you cannot help being.

It had been advice he had taken to heart, doing his best to avoid the misconceptions that had destroyed his parents’ lives. But had he really succeeded? Human nature was too prone to repeat itself. Just compare Petunia’s jealousy with the feelings of inadequacy that had made his father detest his own son. Nor could it be argued that Petunia’s attitude was nothing more than a teenaged pique; he knew full well her beliefs had hardened even more in adulthood. Was his father’s drunkenness any different than his own misguided desire to lose himself among the delusions of power offered by the Death Eaters? Hadn’t they both ended up destroying their wives and offspring in the process? No, he hadn’t avoided his father’s legacy at all; he’d just found a pathetic way to apply it to the wizarding world.

He downed the last swallow of the fabled Bordeaux and caught Remus regarding him patiently. “I never claimed to be as rousing company as one of the Headmistress’ get-togethers,” Snape noted dryly.

“Quite all right,” Remus replied. “I’m not complaining about a bit of fine wine and contemplation.” Then amid the soothing susurrus of the cracking fire, he added, “Harry doesn’t blame you, you know.”

Snape sat bolt upright in his chair. He’d felt no feather touch of Legilimency; there hadn’t even been any direct eye contact. The intensity of the look he raked over Lupin said it all.

Remus emitted a soft chuckle. “Not as inscrutable as you thought, eh?”

“And you’re an infernal incubus, you know that!”

“Truly, Severus, how many times have you gone down that well-worn path? It was a foregone conclusion on my part.”

“No wonder the Gryffindors can’t get any pranks past you.”

“That’s just past experience,” Remus scoffed. “You were more of a challenge…I take it I was right.”

“Not exactly, but I wasn’t far from it,” Snape admitted. “I suppose my trail of self-flagellation is rather predictable.”

“My point is that it’s incorrect. Harry no longer blames you. True, there was a time in his youth when he jumped to some conclusions without seeing the complete picture, but he’s grown beyond that.”

“He has every reason to blame me,” Snape allowed in a hollow tone. “I was the agent who delivered the prophecy to his parents’ murderer.”

“An ambiguous prophecy that could have been interpreted in a myriad of ways. You were a pawn just like Harry himself when he was lured to retrieve the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries. It was Voldemort who decided how he would interpret its meaning and decided to put stock into it in the first place.”

“Now you sound like Dumbledore. You didn’t find an old hairbrush of his, did you?”

“I’m hopeless at potions, you know that. And Polyjuice is hardly one for amateurs.”

“Still, it was never my intent that Harry discover that particular truth. Dumbledore was of the opinion that it should have been expunged once I joined the Order.”

“The two of you put your great minds together and no one considered Sybill Trelawney might just be a loose cannon?” Remus laughed at the absolute irony of it.

“If I’d known of her insatiable thirst for cooking sherry, I might have. Still, who was she going to tell while barricaded in her stuffy tower? Her crystal ball?”

“I take it Dumbledore was against a Memory Charm, then?” Remus chortled.

“As scatter-brained as she’s always been, who know what kind of damage would have been wrought?” Snape argued.

“Would that have been damage to her or to the poor schmo who had to penetrate her foggy mind in order to cast the charm?” Lupin shot back.

Snape laughed outright, a rich sound that reverberated against the stone walls. “Perhaps that’s why Dumbledore was so dead set against it!”

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

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Twelve
Trials and Tribulations


Penelope Clearwater. The name was like a siren song in his mind. Winsome and alluring in memory, yet her final recriminations still haunted him if he wanted to be honest with himself. Not that self-appraisal was one of Percy’s greatest qualities; it only got in the way of his grand plan. Dust yourself off and move on, he’d always told himself, never allowing that the heart often had a logic all onto itself.

Years later, he could still smell the sunshine on the placid Black Lake as they sat upon the flat boulder and discussed their futures. The graduation celebration was still going full tilt upon the broad lawn behind them but they had somehow managed to find a moment to slink off by themselves.

“I have an interview for a post at the Ministry,” Percy had whispered into her ear, her raven curls tickling his face as he drew close. “My dad claims I’m just signing on for a life of drudgery and frustration, but I really want to make a difference.”

“That’s wonderful, Percy.” She’d smiled with the warmth of summer shining in her eyes. “They’d be fools not to take you on, Head Boy credentials and all.”

“I’m a bundle of nerves every time I think about it,” he confessed to the one person who would not belittle him.

“Yet I expect you have your suit and tie already laid out, don’t you?” Penelope chided him lovingly.

Percy nodded wordlessly, not adding that he didn’t have much of a wardrobe to choose from in the first place.

“I’ve found a posting myself, you know,” she added with a wry twinkle. “Your ambition must have rubbed off on me.”

He should have expected nothing less, he reminded himself later. She was at the top of her form in Ravenclaw House, no less. Of course she would want to prove herself to the world. But his adolescent dreams had never taken that into account. He’d assumed she would always be within his orbit, a fixture in his life just as much as he longed to be one in hers.

Magnanimously, he urged, “You’d be an asset anywhere, Pen. I’m surprised there wasn’t a virtual tug of war.”

She’d blushed in a very fetching fashion, he recalled vividly, the rosy tint complimenting the azure flecks in her eyes. “I don’t know about that. I don’t think they had many applicants to tell you the truth; well, certainly none who had the stringent credentials they preferred…” He smiled into her eyes as she delivered the news which caused his heart to immediately cloud over. “I’m going to be teaching English to orphans in the Black Sea area, traveling among a group of government run institutions. It’s ever so exciting, Percy. I’m going to make an impact on the world just like you!”

“Are those Muggle orphanages?” he stammered, unsure what to say exactly.

She shook her head vigorously. “Wizarding establishments with the highest recommendations from our own Ministry. The Department for International Cooperation has been working closely with their recruiters to guarantee native English speakers.”

“But that’s Durmstrang territory…”

“Please tell me you’re not that type of a snob, Percy. They’re children; little witches and wizards, just like those in Britain. The government wants them to have full access to the same education available to others who can already speak basic English by the time they get their acceptance letters.”

“But you don’t speak a word of their language…” he threw out the vague roadblock.

“Not fluently, no,” Penelope admitted with a self-satisfied smile. “But I’ve been studying it. Professor Lupin was a great help �“ he speaks a number of languages himself, you know. He outlined the procedure he uses when he begins a new immersion; that’s how he refers to learning a new language. The Ministry provided me with basic language ampules so I could practice inside a Pensieve. It's the latest innovation, makes you feel as if you’re right there in the middle of the conversation!”

Then as it had done a thousand times before, the images began to distort. Not that the memory was any less vivid, quite the contrary, but the intensity of his feelings seemed to leech the colors from the surroundings until what was left was a bare shadow of reality. A sepia-toned photograph, if you will. In the background, he could still hear her enthusiastic voice detailing all her plans, expounding about how kind Professor Lupin had been so intrigued that a Pensieve could be used as a study aid for languages. Although the conversation ampules were ever so expensive, she had discovered, and surely beyond what one should spend to supplement a hobby. But then none of this should be news as hadn’t Percy said that Lupin was a frequent visitor to the Burrow for Sunday dinner and a veritable fixture at Christmas and Easter celebrations?

He had tried to keep his smile bright and breezy to match her tone; he owed her that at least �“ even though the last thing he felt was happiness. Truth be told, he felt an icy dread in his gut that no one else would ever understand him like Pen did, that if he looked down at his hands he would find that he had become as insubstantial as a ghost.

Even though his mother often claimed he was the most like his father, Percy had always found this to be a superficial analogy at best. Sure, they both aspired to the bureaucracy, but he didn’t share his father’s complacent nature. No shuffling paper in some backwater office dealing with nuisances no one else wanted to handle, not for him. What had he to offer the world except his ambition? His oldest brother, Bill, had found a posting to indulge his adventurous spirit as he unlocked the secrets of antiquity. Charlie had always been the athletic one, the big Quidditch hero who turned down a chance to play professionally to follow his dream of working with dragons. The twins were, well, they were the twins. A combination of energy and wild imagination and what was looking to be good heads for business. Even easy-going Ron had made his mark, even if it was as nothing more than by being Harry Potter’s best mate. And as for Ginny, being the only girl and somewhat fearless to boot, she stood out in every way. But what was he, Percy? Even Bill had been Head Boy before him. The only thing he had to make him unique was driving ambition, the very ambition Pen had derided as being singularly selfish.

She’d also called him narrow-minded and provincial. He recalled the adjectives precisely with a dull echo of the pain they has caused him.

He had countered by calling her secretive and scheming.

“Obviously, I couldn’t expect you to understand or be supportive,” she seethed.

Abandoning all pretense of civility, he hissed in return, “I could say the same for you!”

It had been the intransigence of youth. Wounded pride rearing its ugly head and shouting down all other emotions. As much as Percy had tried to rein it in, there was no denying he had inherited his mother’s fiery temper. He just liked to think it took more to provoke him, but perhaps he’d been wrong about that, too.

Since that moment, his life had been a pale imitation of what he’d envisioned. A common enough phenomenon, he conceded. Reality was a world-class bitch, always had been; and ambition was a poor substitute for love. A quick succession of promotions were hardly a substitute for being wrapped in someone’s arms.

He supposed he could have sought solace among his family. No doubt his mum would have only been too happy to oblige. But Molly’s idea of consolation was too close to being babied for his taste. Mollycoddling, he thought wryly. So he let his work drive a wedge between them just as Penelope’s words had driven a spike he did not fully understand through his chest.

And now, there she was before him. Working in an ancillary division where their paths were sure to cross again and again by virtue of their work assignments. He wouldn’t even have to fabricate excuses to stop by her desk or worry that he was being too obvious.

She had handled the reporters from the Prophet majestically when they had worked side-by-side long into the night, insisting with unwavering sincerity that they stick to the heart of the story. Deftly deflecting interest from her own short-lived celebrity and maintaining that her previous involvement in humanitarian concerns was irrelevant. Gently chiding the reporter for subjecting her to another round of qualifying queries for her newly created position in the Preservation branch of the Cultural Affairs Division.

And despite the fact that her undulating mane had been fashioned into an elegant twist at the nape of her neck, she still looked every inch the young woman Percy remembered. Her face still lit up when she latched onto a new idea. Her cobalt eyes still shone brightly �“ they just no longer shone for him.

---

Great Godric’s beard! How did that…witch…always manage to worm her way under his skin? Like little itchy bits of tartan that chafed until he could take no more!

For the umpteenth time he considered how a quick death at the Dark Lord’s feet would have been preferable �“ then reminded himself that Voldemort’s “mercy” was just as twisted as everything else.

Slamming the dungeon door mightily, Snape barely caught one of his crystal goblets before it tumbled to the floor. With a snarl, he hurled it into the hearth, taking perverse pleasure in the musical sound it made as it shattered. With a quick Reparo, it was whole again in his hand and ready to accept the last half-inch of brandy. A few quick sips did nothing to quell his irritation.

Another growl and he had a cheery fire burning among the fragrant logs, reminding him of the fiery pit where he’d like to consign the Headmistress and all her innovative ideas. Dumbledore had never been this vexatious. Well, perhaps he had, in that maddeningly calm way of his that brooked no argument. At least he could rail at Minerva. It didn’t do any good, mind you; but it helped to clear the air. She still expected him to capitulate but at least he didn’t feel so manipulated.

She’d transfigured his contract; there could be no other explanation as he was virtually certain the offending language had not been there when he’d signed it over the summer. It had just been a formality anyway as she had long been courting him to resume his Potions post once Slughorn decided to retire for the second, and final, time.

Frankly, he’d been surprised Horace had hung around so long after Voldemort’s defeat -- considering Hogwarts had mainly been his refuge from Death Eaters who thought all former Slytherins were aching to join their ranks. But no, the Headmistress’ new vision for the school had energized Horace, allowed him to spread his wings in ways he had never imagined. The man actually enjoyed socializing with the students, striving to entertain not just those in his own House with lavish parties, but inviting the whole bloody school as well.

And now she expected him to do the same. Claimed the Slytherins had come to expect it from their Head of House. He’d teach them to expect anything but detentions from him! But even as he thought the words, he knew they were false. Inter-house camaraderie had done much to smooth everyone’s feathers in the wake of the failed coup, making everyone feel like they were on the same side again.

The dancing flames caught the edges of the cut glass decanter on the side table, taunting him with its emptiness. Pray there was another bottle in the cupboard as he was in no mood to summon a simpering house-elf to fetch one from his private stores in the sub-basement. He’d just as soon retrieve it himself, even if he had to single-handedly hew his own steps through the granite foundations of the ruddy castle.

“Severus!” came Rho’s throaty voice from the adjoining chamber. It was the private name he’d used since he found her signing documents with the Greek symbol as shorthand. She turned disapproving eyes on the decanter he held over his head. “Despite your spell mastery, I’d really rather you didn’t toss that against the bricks. It was my great-grandmother’s after all. Can’t you find another substitute for your anger?” With a quick movement, she Summoned the decanter and set it safely on the far side of the room.

Snape huffed as he threw his lean frame into the armchair once again. “I can’t very well roast Minerva on a spit, despite the overwhelming desire to do so!”

Rho laughed heartily, a deep velvety sound he found so appealing amid the giggle of children’s voices that seemed to follow him everywhere. “You’re too much alike, you know. Both too set in your ways.”

“If that were the case, she would have just let things be when she took over from Dumbledore. Instead she has to change everything, leave her mark on--”

“Would you have done otherwise?” she posed rhetorically. “You just would’ve made different changes is all.”

“So you support this ridiculous notion of Quidditch parties?”

“Having dealt with their high spirits in the wake of a game, it’s not such a bad idea to channel their exuberance--”

“�”in a way they can be supervised by their Head of House,” he finished for her. “Yes, yes, Minerva already sang that tune for me. Said she’d made excuses for me after Slytherin defeated Hufflepuff last week. Damnable baby-sitting service!”

“Pretty catchy. Perhaps if you got some engraved cards, you could drum up some extra business at the weekend. “ At the glower he trained on her, she relented. “Did Minerva mention these parties keep the losers from resorting to mean-spirited pranks?”

He nodded glumly. “As well as drinking their sorrows away, if they’re intrepid enough to lay their grubby paws on some Firewhiskey.”

“Did she not stress that anything stronger than Butterbeer is prohibited on school grounds? Even students who are of age must have the express invitation of faculty or staff before partaking.”

“So now I’m their nurse-maid as well?” Snape sneered.

“They just need a little guidance, dear. Perhaps you could lead them in a contest of lobbing glass receptacles against the stones; see who could repair the most in the least amount of time.”

“Those dunderheads are likely to drown themselves in a river of blood!” he scoffed.

“Well, a chamber of horrors would make a good theme for a party, don’t you think?” She gave him a long-suffering look as she settled herself into the opposite armchair and propped her feet companionably on the same small footstool as his.

“Hardly! Too much like a convocation of Death Eaters for my taste. All we need is Pettigrew’s ghost to stumble in with his severed arm leaking all over the place. Why do they have to have a theme anyway?” he grumbled. “A few purloined snacks from the kitchen was all we needed in my day.”

“Horace spoiled them, that’s true,” she commiserated. “And in the process set the bar rather high, I’m afraid. All those years of currying favor among the rich and powerful gave him a certain flair for that sort of thing.”

“And I’m an emotionally stunted rube, you mean?” he groused with the first curl of a smirk on his lips.

“No, my prince. But not everyone appreciates your dark sense of humor, either. You can’t expect students to engage in rapier repartées. Only you and Remus have the speed and vocabulary for that.”

“I’m not giving them Vlad the Impaler in his Transylvanian castle!” he shot back as a shade fell over his hooded eyes. “My ancestors fought that bastard’s iron-fisted rule �“ or so my aged grandmother used to say.”

“Forgive their infantile minds, Severus. You know they can’t possibly know….” She left the remainder unsaid as she laid a gentle hand on his.

He nodded grimly as he fixed unseeing eyes on the fire before him. Almost twenty-five years and the memory was still fresh in his mind. The wound never healed, not with the constant reminders he heard whispered in every corner as he walked past. Only Constance was allowed to make light of his bat-like robes. The Carpathian Prince, she had called him �“ at least until Voldemort cut her down in a gruesome test of loyalty. His conscience would forever bear the blame for that. But it was not the sort of story one told to one’s students; better to endure their unintentional barbs than subject himself to their pitying looks.

“I know I’m a difficult man, Rho,” he breathed lowly as he covered her hand with his. The obsidian eyes boring into hers petitioned for unspoken forbearance.

She shrugged to indicate her background was not without flaws. A divorcée, twice over, practically scandalous in conservative wizarding society. Who else would have wanted her but a reformed Death Eater with dubious tastes? Yet he’d been entranced by her gross-grain voice and dexterity on the dance floor; she had found unplumbed humor in his scathingly wicked remarks. As her sharp eyes softened in response to his, she commented, “They always try to include you, the very dunderheads you decry on a daily basis. Not just the Slytherins, I might add. You’ve become an object of speculation for many.”

He issued a sharp, mirthless laugh. “The nut they can’t crack! I hardly want them eating out of my hand like Lupin’s do.”

“Even while you were in deep hiding during Voldemort’s final days, they still spoke of you. Remembered you in your darkest incarnation. Don’t forget that was the first year I took over Muggle Studies…”

“The papers they turned in after the Circus Maximus,” he finished. “Even then Minerva was intent on fostering broad displays of indecorum by the faculty.”

“She just wanted the students to see learning in a new light. No one was forced to participate.”

“You recall I had more pressing matters at the time. While the lot of you were gamboling in sheets and what not, I was trying to short circuit the Dark Lord’s plans for immortality.”

“And I was only too happy to provide you with a diversion so no one would interfere,” she reminded him gently. “Still, even though they had no real idea where you had gone or even your true loyalties, many students still included you in their essays.”

“Inspiration is a fickle thing,” he dismissed.

She wondered what he would say if he knew of Harry’s likening his tribulations to those of Odysseus, but knew she would never betray Minerva for having shared that. It had taken a heady amount of bargaining for Remus to allow her to read Harry’s actual words which rang so eloquently of compassion and objectivity.

“There was one who compared you to Vulcan,” she put forth.

Recalling her Muggle upbringing, Snape barely avoided making a passing reference to pointed ears. “Not even if he were a burly young man,” he scorned. “You’re just looking for an opportunity to play Venus in my wake.” Considering the love goddess had traditionally been portrayed as a woman of wily experience, he had no doubt Rho would relish the role too much for Hogwarts’ standards.

“A number of them suggested Pluto overseeing his kingdom in the Underworld.”

“Red demons with pitchforks aside, pet, the ancients saw their most hellacious nightmares realized in a world of utter blackness without end. Puns notwithstanding, Minerva would raise the roof if I gave them such a blatant opportunity for their sophomoric trysts.”

“There’s always the Elysian Fields,” she proposed.

“That’s a boulevard in Paris; just ask Lupin if you don’t believe me,” he noted wryly.

“I’m sure we can come up with something suited to your singular style,” Rolanda Hooch assured him. “The next Slytherin match isn’t until January after all.”

“Ravenclaw,” Snape attested sourly. “They’re surprisingly strong this year.”

She cocked an elegantly groomed eyebrow in query.

“I overhead the conversations in the common room,” he clarified.

---

Fisting her heavy tartan skirts, Minerva McGonagall took the last steps more slowly. It had been an exhausting day and she longed for nothing more than the privacy of her office. Perhaps she would even toast the never-ending stack of paperwork with a small glass of sherry.

After having fought Voldemort’s dark forces not once, but twice, the pettiness of Umbridge’s recent prevarications needled her more than she’d like to admit. That woman had been a thorn in everyone’s side when she’d insinuated her way into the Hogwarts faculty, but Minerva had assumed they were well rid of her. But no, like a stray mongrel cat no one would claim, Umbridge had more than her share of peevish lives.

As Minerva turned the last corner, the password ‘Culloden’ poised on her lips, she was met with a small delegation congregating at the feet of a rather put-out looking gargoyle. Mostly seventh years, she noted, with the exception of one sixth-year Prefect from Ravenclaw. As a matter of fact, the Head Boy and Girl were both present. Obviously, the movers and shakers of the Hogwarts student body.

“What can I do for you?” she offered, barely suppressing a small sigh of exhaustion.

“A brief moment of your time, Headmistress,” Cyrus Findlay, the Gryffindor Prefect, implored.

With an indulgent nod, Minerva allowed them to precede her up the curving steps as a quick flick of her wand coerced the thick door to open inward. They waited patiently for her to assume her post behind the massive desk.

“Now, what has you wandering so far from the Great Hall when supper is due to start any moment?” she urged with a small curl of a smile.

“We were concerned about the current situation,” Cyrus began then seemed to lose steam as he sought guidance among the surrounding grim faces.

“What exactly would that be?” Minerva inquired. “Has there been some glitch in your plans for the Yuletide break?”

“No,” Beatrice Grady, the Head Girl, supplied. “We’re all looking forward to the hols… It’s just that your speech at the Sunday feast… well…”

“It was intended to be inspirational,” the Headmistress allowed. “I apologize if my frustration came across as well.”

“Are teachers to be held to the same standards as students?” Henry Middlestone ventured as he worked his way to the front. “Today’s Prophet…”

“Did that story finally run today?” Minerva posed quietly. “I confess I’m often too busy to review the newspaper until bedtime.”

“Then you knew about it?” Beatrice inquired with a set to her jaw.

“Of course, they quoted me as well. Or did they edit me out? One never knows for sure with the press…”

“No, you’re included,” Henry supplied as he smoothed the front page of the Daily Prophet on the desk before her. The lurid headline seemed to jump right off the page.

Umbridge Spills Many-Flavored Beans,
Can Scrimgeour Clean-Sweep Them Away?

Cyrus pointed to a smaller article in the corner entitled:

Hogwarts Remembers Umbridge

Although she was once numbered among them, the faculty and staff of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry each recall Dolores Umbridge in their own way. Appointed to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts under an impromptu Ministry mandate, Ms. Umbridge arrived on school grounds in the fall of 1995 intent on conveying Cornelius Fudge’s unique view of the world. It was an approach that did not sit well with the students and teachers alike.

In spite of all the changes that have occurred in the intervening eight years, much of Hogwarts’ staff is still comprised of the same familiar faces, reshuffled with new duties and new responsibilities. Many were only too glad to offer their comments for our readers.

Recalling the repressive attitudes of the government at the time, Sybill Trelawney, Divination instructor, remembers her colleague as possessing “the loyalty of her convictions �“ or rather those of her superiors at the Ministry.”

Rolanda Hooch, currently in charge of Muggle Studies, was Quidditch Coordinator and Games Mistress during the time when Ms. Umbridge was intent on reworking Hogwarts’ traditions. Her description echoes a common theme: “Unwavering loyalty even in the face of facts which might have led a more reasoned person to reconsider.”

Even though Ms. Umbridge was appointed over the late Headmaster Albus Dumbledore’s objections, there were some who welcomed a change in the status quo. Argus Filch, Hogwarts’ caretaker for most of his adult life, had only praise for Ms. Umbridge’s innovations. “Great mind for discipline, she had, yes indeed,” he maintained. “The castle never ran so smoothly. She was a hammer disguised in velvet.”

Poppy Pomfrey, school matron, recalls treating numerous students who had crossed Ms. Umbridge and offered up this commentary, “Many students were still traumatized by the tragedy of the Triwizard Tournament which resulted in the death of an innocent classmate. Compassion and willingness to lend a sympathetic ear would have gone a lot further than totalitarian methods.”

Rubeus Hagrid, Care of Magical Creatures, recalls Ms. Umbridge did not espouse the basic principles the school strives to instill in all its students. “Makin’ friends is more important than makin’ enemies; Dumbledore always held to tha’. The House system is intended ta foster ties among students not ta transfer a healthy rivalry from the Quidditch pitch ta the castle corridors.”

Venerable Charms instructor, Filius Flitwick, had this to say, “Hogwarts has always exemplified the diversity of wizarding society in a microcosm by employing those with dwarf and giant blood, Squibs, centaurs and even a ghost. Ms. Umbridge did not always demonstrate a willingness to treat everyone with the same regard she demanded as her due.”

Potions Master, Severus Snape, remembers those tense months with great clarity. In his customary succinct manner, he proclaims that Ms. Umbridge had “the courage to bring education to a standstill.”

Pomona Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff House and current Deputy Headmistress, recalls Ms. Umbridge daring to inspect her Herbology lessons with an undeniably condescending attitude. “She disbelieved everything she did not understand. Teachers are the visionaries of society; it is our duty to distill the incomprehensible into learning. Otherwise, it is we who fail and not the students.”

These sentiments were echoed by members of Hogwarts Board of Governors who issued the following statement: “There is a very good reason why the Ministry does not have a Department of Magical Education.”

But perhaps the most illuminating testimonial came from Minerva McGonagall, current Headmistress and deputy under the august Albus Dumbledore until his death seven years ago. She describes Ms. Umbridge’s presence as “a dark time in the history of Hogwarts. Students forced to learn in secret. Study groups banned as seditious. The Headmaster’s role usurped amid false allegations of treason�”all because he was dedicated to furthering the cause of learning.”

The Headmistress skimmed the words until she found her own name, then assured them she had not been misquoted in this instance.

“You told us to stay out of it,” Winifred Sloane, a Prefect from Hufflepuff, complained. “Yet here your lot is trotting out--”

Her words were cut off by a gentle hand on her arm. Seeing that it was the Head Boy, Winnie gave him a contrite look as she backed down.

“Please, Headmistress, we just want to understand our proper role in this,” Patrick Mulvaney, Head Boy, offered with quiet gravitas.

Despite the dark curly locks and vibrant blue eyes identifying his Black Irish heritage, Patrick was steadfast and seldom ruffled. He was a natural leader who commanded with a calm self-assurance Minerva had not seen in one so young since she’d had the pleasure of teaching Cedric Diggory. What a tragedy that had turned out to be, she sighed inwardly.

“It was my intent you be spared participating in this petty skirmish entirely,” the Headmistress intoned as she gazed at each expectant face in turn. “Yes, the teachers spoke to reporters. It was important those present during Ms. Umbridge’s brief tenure acquaint the world with the truth. What’s more, as adults, the teachers are free to use their own judgment when it comes to these things.”

“But many of us are of age!” came a strident voice from the back Minerva was not quick enough to identify.

“That, ladies and gentlemen, is not the issue,” the Headmistress proclaimed. “None of you were present at the time in question, none had parents who were involved or even siblings….A few distant cousins at best. Try as you might, any quotes you give to the Prophet would only be your opinions. Opinions are not news.” Should she warn them of the last time students had been urged to spout off to the press? Not only had the coverage been entirely one-sided, but it had also escalated the hostilities within the school to near breaking point.

“Our feelings are to be discounted then?” cried Alice Bridges, the only sixth-year, as she flung her long braids over her shoulder.

“Of course not, my dear,” the Headmistress soothed. “Any concerns you have can be addressed to me as well as any of your teachers. Other than Professor Snape who has a rather formal view on what constitutes acceptable decorum between teacher and student, have any of us ever turned you away? Belittled you in any way?”

Amid a sea of shaking heads, Beatrice poked Henry in the ribs. “You should say something,” she muttered.

Henry looked helplessly at Patrick who cleared his throat meaningfully and volunteered. “We…a group of us present today…attempted to offer our support to Professor Lupin. He reacted as if he wished we’d said nothing at all.”

So this was the crux of the matter, Minerva surmised. Aloud, she prompted, “Can you remember the exact words?”

“I believe so, Headmistress,” Henry offered humbly. “It was us seventh years, you see. He’s always joking and laughing with us. Except for the last few weeks, there’s been a pall over him.”

“As if he’d had a death in the family,” Beatrice supplied. Then realizing her blunder, she added, “That hasn’t been it, has it?”

“No,” the Headmistress assured them. “I would have found a way to let everyone know if it had.”

“Look, there’s no use sugar-coating it,” Cyrus argued. “We know about the book. The one with no name and no author. We just wanted Remus -- I mean, Professor Lupin -- to know that none of us took those words to heart. That’s pretty much what was said.”

“After class, when no one but our small group was present,” Winifred clarified.

“How exactly did Professor Lupin react?” Minerva beseeched.

“He seemed shocked as if someone had just dowsed him with a bucket of ice,” Patrick remarked. “And then in a very formal manner, he reminded us that he was enjoined from discussing personal matters with his students.”

“All true,” the Headmistress maintained diplomatically.

“He then stood up abruptly and left the room, barely stuffing his papers into his briefcase,” Millicent Humphries added.

“Did he deduct any house points or set any other punishments?”

“It’s not that,” Patrick argued. “We…I wouldn’t have cared about that. Not that he did…”

“What did he do then?” the Headmistress delved.

“He just had the saddest look on his face,” Beatrice noted.

“Misty-eyed,” Millicent interjected.

“He looked like he needed someone to tell him a joke, more than anything,” Henry opined. “Only the lot of us were afraid to go after him.”

“But you felt someone should have,” the Headmistress finished intuitively to a chorus of nodding heads. “First of all, none of you did anything that was inappropriate. But you have to realize Professor Lupin is a very private man. Yes, despite his good-natured joking and easy-going manner…. Life has often been unfair to him. He guards his hard-earned happiness with a iron fist, is the best way I can put it. And in his eyes, this book you mention is a threat to all he holds dear.”

“Wouldn’t he welcome our support then?” Beatrice asked incredulously.

“Not in this case, I’m afraid; it just makes him feel more vulnerable.”

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Thirteen
Christmas at the Burrow


“Dobby, it’s Christmas! You did a wonderful job with the Christmas Eve dinner for my family last night. Now you’re allowed some time off to spend with your friends,” Tonks insisted as she trained her other eye on the children’s last minute preparations.

“Weren’t you going to visit Winky at Hogwarts?” Harry inquired genially, sitting down on the closest chair to be more at eye level with the house-elf.

“Yes, Master…but…all those guests at the Burrow…” Dobby hesitated. “What if Mistress Molly needs another pair of hands and Dobby is with his feet up at the great castle?”

“Molly has dealt with a house full of children for years; a few extra guests are hardly going to put her out,” Remus supplied as he levitated a stack of brightly wrapped gifts towards the slate tiles before the hearth. “Do all house-elves suffer from such a large dose of guilt?”

“It’s not guilt exactly…” Dobby protested. “It’s duty.”

“My mum used to say much the same thing when she felt Dad and I weren’t helping out enough around the kitchen,” Remus joked. “Especially at holiday time.”

“Mine did too, until I burned the Christmas biscuits for the two hundredth time!” Tonks laughed unabashedly at the memory.

“Wish I’d thought of that,” Ginny sighed wistfully.

“Molly would never have accepted you were a hopeless case,” Harry observed snidely. “Whereas Tonks--”

“�”had a natural, or should I say unnatural, aptitude!” Remus finished for him.

“Look, it was all Mum’s fault,” Tonks offered in mock defense. “If she’d only let me dance around the kitchen, my clumsy gene would have been lulled into submission!”

“And you wonder why Dobby is concerned?” Remus countered. “You lot just convinced him we would die of our own ineptitude without him!”

“Not die!” Dobby interjected with a smirk. “Just make poor Mistress Ginny do all the work.”

“Oooh, shades of Cinderella,” Ginny echoed with an overly dramatic swoon.

“Actually, I was thinking of a little French maid outfit,” Harry whispered in her ear loudly enough for everyone else to hear.

Despite the blush noticeably creeping up her throat, Ginny was not so easily trumped. “Why me? Remus is the one who speaks the language; let him wear the outfit!”

Amid the hilarity, Remus still managed to deadpan, “I haven’t got the legs for it.” With a wicked grin, he turned to look at Dobby, eyeing the elf carefully up and down. “I wonder….” he muttered as he rubbed his chin between thumb and forefinger.

“You think maybe holiday colors?” Harry suggested with a wide grin.

Caught in the crosshairs, Dobby didn’t hesitate to remind them to take the large hamper of rolls and baked goods to the Weasleys as his gift before he promptly Disapparated.

“If only I could motivate the children that way,” Tonks sighed as she excused herself to go check on their progress.

“I’ll get the snowsuits and boots from the Mud Room so they can frolic outside with the boys,” Ginny volunteered as Harry and Remus hurried to lend a hand.

---

There was a unique smell to the Burrow at Yuletide. It was more than the perfume of cinnamon and spices wafting from the kitchen or the rich smells of roasting turkey and bubbling gravy. Harry could not quantify it exactly, but somehow it always made him feel safe and secure. Other than Hogwarts, the Burrow had been the only true home he had know throughout his youth.

The fragrance of pine mingled with the woodsy scent of the crackling fire as Harry stumbled through the Floo Connection, bringing up the rear of the Godric’s Hollow brigade. Arthur was there with a steadying hand to help relieve him of the mountain of coats and galoshes. Molly caught him in a fierce hug that practically swung him off his feet, cooing her thanks to Dobby for his superlative skills with dough and yeast. Teddy was recounting to anyone who would listen how he had peeked at millions of different Christmas trees in the other drawing rooms whooshing by, heady with pride that he had been allowed to speak the destination himself. Phoebe practically sprung from Remus’ arms to go in search of Hermione and Eleanor once Molly explained that Victoire and Yvette were visiting their Aunt Gabrielle in London but would be back in time for supper. Ah, sweet chaos!

Remus was already uncorking the day’s first bottle of wine as Ron’s heavy tread was heard on the stairs. “Harry!” he cried as he took advantage of Molly’s inattention to jump over the lowest part of the banister rail. “I thought I heard your voice! Fred and George set up the Quidditch pitch early this morning. We’re all set for a match.”

“Snow rules?” Harry clarified, instantly on alert.

“Absolutely! Mum won’t let us play any other way with the little ones. Claims they’re not as hard-headed as we were at their age.”

Harry suspected Molly meant that figuratively, but saw no reason to correct his life-long pal.

“Where’s the Spook?” Ron swung his head around as he pretended not to notice Teddy who was tugging on his sleeve.

“You’ll give yourself a headache, Ron,” Ginny warned. “That little brain rattling around that thick skull.”

Ron looked like he wanted to retort, but relented at Teddy’s carefree laugher. Making a big production out of turning his back on his sister, he crouched over to be at eye level. “Did you bring the whistle I got you for Christmas?”

Teddy nodded eagerly as he grabbed the shiny whistle hanging from his neck. Harry stopped him before he could demonstrate indoors.

“Remus wants your head for that whistle, mate,” Harry issued out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t encourage his headache to return or I won’t be responsible.”

“Right.” Ron nodded happily as Fred and George stomped in, showering everyone with ice crystals as they shrugged out of their coats. Harry caught the sharp scent of the snowy landscape before the back door banged shut.

Fred diverted attention by scooping Teddy up and offering to help him get his galoshes and coat buttoned properly.

“Charlie sent us in for a refill,” George breathed in Harry’s ear as he palmed a small flask from his jacket pocket. “Medicinal use, as they say in the Romanian mountains.”

“Would that be vodka?” Remus posed as he squeezed himself into the conversation.

“Nothing as manly as that,” George confessed. “Some nasty licorice stuff that warms you down to your toes.”

“Sounds appealing,” Remus allowed. “I’ll go get my coat and scarf. I’d love to learn the local pronunciation from Charlie.”

“So it’s just an intellectual exercise for you, you’re saying?” Ron commented with a skeptical squint.

“Especially if Tonks or Molly ask,” Remus shot back as he flashed the Marauder’s grin.

“I would have given anything to be in Gryffindor during his reign,” George issued wistfully as Remus went to double-check that Teddy’s cold weather gear passed muster.

“To hear him tell it, Sirius and James were much worse,” Fred amended from the doorway. “Face it, bro, we were born at the wrong time.”

“Considering the ranks of the Marauders have grown mighty thin, you might want to rethink that,” Harry noted dryly.

“He became quite a legend when he took over as Head of Gryffindor House as well,” Ron volunteered.

“Oooh, I’d forgotten about that,” George remarked. “That was in your final year, right?”

“Bet he had eyes in the back of his head like McGonagall did,” Fred added.

“Didn’t need to. Nothing got past him; he’d already seen it all,” Ron attested.

“He would just out-prank us. Nothing will put you in your place quite like that,” Harry agreed as he went to advise Molly they’d be in the meadow.

“Fine, dear.” Molly gazed up at him from where she had a sleeping Eleanor cuddled in her arms. “Just remind everyone there’s hot cocoa and soup on the stove for when they get cold and a whole tray of snacks and sandwiches on the sideboard if they get hungry.”

Harry nodded that he understood. With Bill and Fleur not arriving until dusk, Molly had rescheduled the traditional Christmas feast from mid-day to suppertime to accommodate everyone. Not that it had been her intent to give them the entire expanse of the afternoon to romp in the snow like school children, but it was nice it had worked out that way, Harry thought.

---

“I wondered if we were having an air raid,” Arthur remarked as he sidled up next to Remus along the fence. “Teddy does seem to like that whistle.”

“Not as much as the twins like to stage outrageous fouls,” Remus shot back.

Arthur chuckled heartily. “We’re all insurgents at heart; what can I say?”

“I’m surprised Ginny isn’t down here showing them how it’s done.”

“She will be as soon as she can extricate herself from the girl talk.”

“I’m surprised Tonks is still with them. She and Charlie were quite close when they were at school.”

“Hermione spent the day with Luna going over wedding plans earlier in the week,” Arthur explained.

“So it’s the review and rehash session.” Remus nodded sagely. “Did you invite Xenophilius? Teddy is quite taken with him.”

“He’s probably still bustling about the kitchen, preparing some exotic delicacy for tonight. After his wife passed away, he discovered he had a real flair for cooking. I suppose it was his way of making Luna feel she was loved that much more.”

“Was she very young when her mother passed?”

“Nine or ten,” Arthur replied solemnly.

“You call that Quidditch?” Ginny yelled from the porch. “You look like a bunch of crows swooping in response to Teddy’s bird calls. There’s no bird seed in Quidditch!”

The addition of Ginny into the mix energized the game and caused Charlie to be pulled from Remus’ language lessons and onto a broomstick to even up the teams. Being on opposite sides just made the twins more determined than ever to foul one another, leaving Phoebe to giggle continuously as she tried to keep track of the goals with lines in the snow like Arthur had shown her. Teddy, on the other hand, was more intent than ever on imposing order to the game and kept up with the whistle �“ even though the wetly sounding trills indicated he was laughing along with everyone else.

A silvery beaver scampered upon the nearest fencepost to admonish them in Molly’s voice: “You’re going to wake young Eleanor with all that racket. You’d think we’d relocated the Burrow to the middle of Piccadilly Circus!”

As the Patronus dissolved into the nearest snowdrift, the game was reorganized to give Remus referee duty. When no one was looking, he pocketed Teddy’s whistle with a mumbled imprecation to Ron that had Arthur chortling with a knowing crinkle to his eyes.

Inspired by the earlier comparison to a blitzkrieg, Ginny agreed to mount Phoebe before her on the broomstick as Ron took Teddy. Meanwhile, the twins summoned an old torn net to house the snowball ammunition. As an added precaution, Remus and Harry volunteered to spot the two passengers from the ground in case anyone’s fall needed to be cushioned magically. Charlie created impromptu targets on the ground as Arthur recalled a spell to temporarily dye the snowballs so they could keep score. But it was much more fun to hit the erratic targets the twins supplied as they ran around waving their arms wildly and even Apparating from spot to spot. Each time they got hit, they would obligingly stiffen up and collapse backwards into the snow much to the delight of the young bombardiers.

A small huddled figure caught Remus’ eye as it approached down the snowy lane. A neighbor intent on making a holiday house call? Arthur shook his head that he didn’t know, but whoever it was had not triggered any of the protective charms surrounding the Weasley property so he must have been issued an invitation.

“Probably Percy,” Charlie breathed with a knowing smirk.

“I thought he had plans with his girlfriend,” Remus observed conversationally.

“Precisely,” Arthur commented. “Which is why it’s probably him.”

“Another one bites the dust,” Charlie added. “How many is that this year?”

Arthur shrugged with a crooked grin. “Only Ginny can keep up with the score. All I know is this one’s name was Elspeth.”

“What about Molly?” Remus suggested. “She always knows what’s gong on in every room of the house.”

“That she does!” Arthur chuckled wryly. “Which is precisely why Percy never brings his girlfriends to our gatherings.”

“Not since Penelope Clearwater,” Charlie affirmed in an undertone. “And he was still at Hogwarts then.”

Remus was about to interject that he remembered Penny as being a very adept student, but Percy’s hunched figure was too close to risk him overhearing. Remus clearly recalled how easily affronted Percy had been in class as well.

“Did I miss Christmas dinner?” Percy posed as he looked warily towards the house. “Mum won’t mind me picking through the leftovers, will she?”

“Nothing as dire as that, son,” Arthur supplied, catching Percy up in a one-armed hug. “Bill and family couldn’t make it until later, so your mother has us feasting at supper this year.”

Percy’s face broke into a wide grin. “So you’re all cavorting like savages just to work up an appetite, right?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself!” Ron announced as he and Teddy skidded to a halt before the others.

Ginny was still spiraling down in tighter and tighter circles that had their hair whipping in the wind amid Phoebe’s gleeful encouragement.

Tonks was a bright bundle of contrasting mittens, hat, and boots as she distributed spice biscuits still warm from the oven. Harry caught Hermione’s eye as she stood gazing at them from the front window. He waved and flashed her a buoyant smile to indicate he’d join her later for some quiet conversation.

---

Harry looked up from the Muggle board game he was playing as the front door admitted Tonks and her two giggly children. With a firm nod, she sent them up the stairs to change out of their wet clothing.

“I’ll be up in a minute to make sure everything’s hung up in the shower,” she called after the tromping of snow boots. “Where’s Remus?”

Hermione looked up from counting the paper money Harry had just grudgingly handed over to her. “Arthur was mixing up some rum punch; said he had a new recipe from Xeno in order to make it flame invitingly. Remus was muttering various incarnations of the Aguamenti Charm in his wake.”

“Ron and the twins are trying to build a blast-ended skrewt out of snow,” Tonks supplied with a laugh. “The tail keeps melting down to the….er, quick…every time they try to animate it!”

“Flares designed for mountain climbers at high altitudes would probably work,” Hermione put forth. “But I don’t want to ruin their fun by interfering. I’m sure Weasleys Wizard Wheezes has a product which employs the same basic principles.”

She returned her attention to the board laid out on the low table before them after checking Eleanor was still sleeping soundly in the portable cradle at her feet. With a definite gloat in her smile, her dice roll was greeted by a triumphant whoop from Harry who held out his hand in anticipation.

He looked up again to find Ginny stomping her boots on the front porch as she tried in vain to reconfigure a long silk scarf into woolen Gryffindor stripes. Letting herself in, she muttered, “Remus will just have to reverse it himself,” as she draped it over the end of the banister.

“What kind of aerial game has you playing the role of Sybill Trelawney?” Harry posed with amusement.

“Once Percy joined in, we turned it into something called a ‘dogfight’,” Ginny explained as she brushed the last of the snow from her long hair. “I was Snoopy; all I know is he’s an ace. Teddy’s explanation of the game was a bit murky. There was something about a flying camel …” She shook her head in consternation as she started up the stairs to change. “Must be another incomprehensible Muggle custom.”

Hermione turned reproachful eyes towards Harry’s wide smirk. “You could straighten her out,” she chided lowly.

“I could…” Harry whispered back. “But this is much more entertaining. Kind of like a warm-up to Luna.”

“Luna and Neville will be by later. You couldn’t just wait?”

“An aperitif, as Remus would say,” Harry returned mischievously. “Besides, it’s your fault anyway.”

“Moi?” Hermione added her own wry imitation. “I was inside the whole time!”

“I’m sure Remus will agree that you were the instigator,” Tonks announced as she leaned a hip on the armrest. “You brought those Snoopy bed linens back from the States.”

“Perhaps someone needs to explain the back story to Teddy then,” Hermione sniffed airily.

“The grandiose plans he thinks up in his head don’t always convey themselves very artfully in his words,” Tonks acknowledged. “Give him time.”

As Tonks excused herself to teach Arthur the charm to produce a localized avalanche �“ just in case�”Hermione turned to Harry “There’s going to be hell to pay if you don’t come clean with Ginny.”

Harry nodded as he laughed light-heartedly. “I know. But now that we’re married, even the punishments are fun.”

Percy walked in just then, resplendent in garnet from head to toe. “Does anyone know how to undo this frigging clothing spell? I don’t want to spend the rest of the day looking like Godric Gryffindor’s comic sidekick!”

Hermione burst out laughing at his plight. “Here,” she offered as she returned all but the scarf to its former muted shades. “I must admit you make a rather impressive Baron von Richthofen.”

“He was the only one who could do justice to the Prussian accent,” Ginny supplied sweetly as she danced down the stairs.

Not to mention the stiff posture, Harry thought to himself but wisely kept silent.

“Uncle Xeno! Uncle Xeno!” came the high-pitched calls as Teddy and Phoebe careened down the stairs.

Only Molly’s quick thinking managed to summon the roasting pan from Xenophilius’ hands to hers as he was nearly bowled over by sheer momentum.

“We saw you coming!” Phoebe attested as she pointed her little stubby finer towards the first floor landing.

Considering the loud fabric of his robes, he could probably have been identified by orbiting satellites, Harry chuckled inwardly. Aloud he offered, “Happy Christmas, Xeno! We were just talking about Luna.”

With a broad smile, Xeno promised, “Luna and Neville will be here shortly. Last minute gift-wrapping. I just wanted to bring my masterpiece over while it was still warm.”

“Is that heavenly aroma your renowned roast goose?” Ron intoned from the doorway. “Drew me forth like a hound on the scent.”

Xeno laughed heartily as he clasped Ron’s hand in greeting.

“Curried fig and blackberry dressing?” Molly inquired as she tried to sneak a peek under the lid.

“Don’t forget the smoked filberts!” Xeno intoned happily.

Catching Harry’ dubious expression, Ron leaned over and whispered, “It tastes a lot better than it sounds!”

“Really, Xeno, you didn’t need to go to all the bother,” Arthur supplied in greeting. “We would have welcomed you empty-handed even.”

“Nonsense,” Xeno protested “It was a labor of love, it was. Neville’s gran, Augusta, doesn’t much care for goose so there was no point in making it for Christmas Eve. But that’s no reason to deprive the rest of us!”

Catching on, Hermione politely inquired, “How did it go last night at the Longbottom residence?”

“Grand old house indeed,” Xeno supplied as he took a seat opposite Hermione. “Hasn’t changed much since Neville Chamberlain’s time, though. And that thimbleberry wine…” He screwed up his face humorously, much to the delight of the little ones.

“Perhaps you could help us light the punch then,” Charlie suggested. “The brandy keeps going out--”

“And Molly won’t let me apply the Incendio charm to the grain alcohol Tonks recommended,” Remus finished for him.

“That’s because you’re missing the secret ingredient,” Xeno announced as he held up a bright red bottle from the pocket of his robe. “Imparts the perfect holiday coloring as well.”

“Children’s cough syrup?” Hermione exclaimed as she caught sight of the label.

Xeno gave an insouciant shrug. “Apparently Muggles feel that a bit of intoxication helps to suppress a cough.”

Tonks licked her lips in anticipation. “Did you bring the cherry flavored one?”

“Of course,” Xeno remarked. “Everyone knows that grape’s only for Easter!”

The twins took that very moment to enter through the back door, gaily showering everyone with bits of snow and ice from their hats and gloves. “Got it working finally,” Fred announced. “Pyrotechnic display is set for after supper.”

“All we needed was a bit of our fireworks rated especially for low ambient temperatures,” George explained as he smacked his palm playfully again his forehead.

“Show us!” Phoebe squealed with delight as she tried to outrun Teddy into the kitchen. The sound of the scraping chairs indicated they had climbed onto the sink to peer out the window into the back yard.

---

“Percy seems in fine spirits,” Harry noted as Ginny cuddled up next to him on the sofa.

Ginny appraised the group on the other side of the room, Percy laughing at the twins’ exploits as he precariously balanced his flaming goblet. “Fred won the wager you know. He had Christmas Day. George was pretty peeved that Dad put in for Christmas Eve so he had to settle for Boxing Day. He was actually considering how to slip Perce a sleeping draught so he’d sleep right through Christmas Day entirely.”

Harry laughed along merrily at their outrageous antics. Only the Weasleys would think to bet on their hapless brother’s failed romances.

“You know Percy’d probably skin you if he knew about it,” Harry whispered.

“Not if Mum caught us first!” Ginny giggled. “That’s one of the major reasons the twins insisted we had to include Dad.”

“Poor Arthur running interference again,” Harry moaned playfully.

“Hardly. If it weren’t for us, Dad would never get to indulge his inner rebel.”

“So what day did you have?”

“Not until after New Years’�”that’s when the requisite one month and thirteen days tolled. I prefer a more scientific approach.”

“Why that particular increment?” Harry posed, intrigued by her devious nature and pleased that she never seemed to use it against him.

“Just long enough for him to plumb the shallows of her personality and vice versa, but not long enough for Mum to demand he bring her by for Sunday dinner.”

Harry nodded in homage to her powers of observation. In the past four or five years, Percy had only brought one girl to the Burrow �“ and that was only because she had been a classmate of the twins and was anxious to get caught up. “So what was the name of the fallen?” he posed. “Lost my scorecard.”

Ginny tapped her head with a small knowing smirk. “Have to keep all those secrets in the safest vault of all. Elspeth Macabee.”

“He certainly had a cloud over his head when he slouched over to join us in the meadow,” Harry noted. “You suppose Molly tried to give him some advice again?”

Ginny shrugged. “Seems like the cloud lifted after all that flying. Impersonating the Bloody Red Baron must really suit him.”

“He nearly swallowed his scarf when you took a nose dive and didn’t let up until you were parallel with the fence line!” Harry chuckled at the memory. “I was watching through the window.”

“Serves him right for never attending any of my Quidditch matches at Hogwarts. Everyone knows the Wronski Feint.”

“Perhaps so, but very few people can pull if off without having to be carried away in a stretcher,” Harry noted dryly.

“It was pretty stupid on my part, I admit it,” Ginny allowed with a tiny wince that only made her look cuter in Harry’s estimation. “Can’t very well lob snowballs from underneath.”

“Good thing Percy was too busy trying to get the air back into his lungs to empty his whole cache on you. The look in your eyes when you realized that was priceless!”

“And here I thought the lot of them were giggling like loons due to that Romanian firewater Charlie was passing around.”

“So what do you think about Percy?” Harry reminded her with a nod towards the tight group near the punch bowl. “Is he just giddy from the rum?”

Ginny tilted her head in consideration. “You’re recalling the conversation we had about Penelope Clearwater, aren’t you?”

“Um �“ hum,” Harry breathed as casually as possible as Percy briefly glanced in their direction.

“I’ll find out before much longer,” Ginny promised. “Just wait ‘til he leaves the room so I can get him on his own.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Molly announced to the whole room at large as she leaned over the back of the sofa.

Harry’s heart made as if to leave his chest as Ginny replied smoothly, “Newlyweds, Mum. Need I say anything else?”

“That excuse won’t work forever, Ginerva,” cautioned Molly, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

They were saved by Tonks leaning in from the kitchen doorway. “I think it’s time we put those last two pies in the oven,” she advised Molly. “Don’t bother yourself; I’m at least a dozen paces closer to the oven.”

With a hint of panic in her eyes, Molly hustled off to lend a hand as Tonks flashed a saucy wink at Harry and Ginny.

“That’s my cue to finish up the last wedge of pie, mates,” Ron intoned with preternatural hearing as he crept down from the first floor landing.

“There’s at least enough for two,” Percy countered as he followed on his heels.

“Now’s the time,” Ginny whispered in Harry’s ear as she eased herself onto her feet. “I could use another cup of cocoa anyway. Get one for you, too?”

Harry nodded happily as Teddy and Phoebe catapulted onto the other end of the sofa to keep him company.

“I thought you were cozying up with Uncle Xeno?” Harry posed to their flushed faces.

“He wouldn’t let us have any of the fiery drinks,” Teddy complained with a small pout.

“That’s no reason to run you off, though,” Harry considered in return.

“Mum did,” Phoebe asserted solemnly.

Harry leveled his eyes on Teddy for confirmation. “Bad move on your part?”

Teddy hung his head in chagrin. “Everyone was saying I would burn my fringe. But I told Uncle Xeno I wasn’t as clumsy as Mum.”

Harry screwed up his face in displeasure.

“Mum made the same face!” Phoebe squealed.

“Yeah, right before Dad chucked us out into the hall.”

“Not very tactful, Spook,” Harry admonished him with a wide grin. “You can have some of my cocoa when Ginny gets back.”

They both broke into smiles as they held out their hands for Harry to magically summon their mugs.

---

“So, Percy,” Ginny began casually as she leaned on the kitchen counter.

“Whatever it is, no,” Percy responded instinctively without looking up.

“Is that your holiday spirit?” Ginny countered with an innocent smile.

“Self-preservation,” he asserted through a mouthful of pie. “Sorry, I didn’t get much lunch.”

“Surely the Macabees didn’t indulge in a traditional Christmas food fight?”

Percy laughed sharply. “That’s only a tradition in this household. Most people prefer to air their political views in a more civilized manner.”

“I was a child; what can I say?”

“If you’ve come to convince me you’ve grown up in the meanwhile, I’m going to need some corroborating witnesses,” Percy argued but his wide grin gave him away.

Double-checking that Ron had melted away after retrieving his pie ration, Ginny ventured, “So how’s it going in the Cultural Affairs Department?”

“Office,” he corrected automatically. “It’s a branch of my division. Serpentine bureaucracy.”

“The multi-armed beast as Dad used to call it when we were little.”

“Why do you want to know? Wondering why they put up with a gormless git like me? Mum beat you to the punch hours ago.”

“Did she mention that the totality of your cultural knowledge is encompassed in your little finger?” she added with a wicked smirk.

Percy laughed outright at her audacity. “You’ve been hanging around Remus too much. But no, Mum just stuck to the basics like a broken phonograph record.”

“Sorry to hear about Elspeth. I rather liked her.”

“You met her once in the Ministry Atrium,” Percy corrected.

“She made a lasting impression,” Ginny confirmed with a wry twist to her lips. “Still, I suppose there was no other way…”

“Get to the point, Sis. I’m not susceptible to your wheedling ways.”

“I assume Mum already tried the subtle approach.” She waited for him to snort at her obvious sarcasm. “Penelope Clearwater.”

“What about her?”

“She’s working in your division.”

“So you read the article in the Prophet.”

“Is it the same Penelope Clearwater who was at school with us?”

“What if it is? I would hardly expect you to remember her seeing as how your first year was so traumatic. Such a thing would have never transpired if I had been Head Boy that year.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” she allowed generously. “But you forget that Penny visited the Burrow a number of times after that. Saw you off quite spectacularly on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters �“ even if she was about to board the same train herself. Not to mention the other incident that required me to keep silent….”

Percy blushed copiously. “Not one of my most guarded moments. I suppose you’re going to say you didn’t recognize her photo as you only remember the back of her head.”

“Sounds like something Ron would say.”

“It was. More vitriol than imagination. Laughed himself silly when the color drained from my face. Claimed my freckles practically pulsed at him with anger. Like he’s one to talk.”

“Self-delusional, Hermione claims. Filthy hypocrite, I always say.”

“If I admit it’s the same person, then what?” Percy urged as he speared some cheese cubes with his pie fork.

“Have you asked her out yet?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.”

“So that’s why you had to clear the decks with Elspeth.”

“I wish! It was more like Penelope mopping the deck with me. And all I asked was if she wanted to stop by the pub �“ as colleagues, mind you. Said she had responsibilities to her son at home.”

Ginny shook her head in commiseration. “Wrong approach, is all.”

“Really, Ginny, wouldn’t Veritaserum be more efficient?”

Without missing a beat, she shot back, “Mum used up the family’s allotment. Can’t buy any more until after the first of the year.”

“Have Harry bring you some from the Auror Department then!” He relented as he watched her fingering her wand in an all too familiar manner from their childhood. “Look, if you’re here to meddle, I’m just about pathetic and desperate enough to listen.”

With a wide smile, she proposed, “Invite her to dinner at my house.”

“With Harry and Remus and Tonks there as well?” he countered incredulously.

“Don’t forget Rabbit and Spook.”

“How would this be any different from being subjected to Mum’s inquisition?”

“Remus and Tonks will put her at ease and her son will be entertained by Teddy and Phoebe,” Ginny supplied with alacrity. “Remus will still test her, but since she was in Ravenclaw, I’m sure she’ll pass.”

Recalling how fondly Penelope had spoke of Remus’ Dark Arts classes, Percy conceded Ginny might just have hit upon a workable angle. “It’s worth a try,” he mumbled as he toasted her with the last of his Christmas punch.

---

Bill and family arrived amid a huge cloud of Floo Powder.

Laughing merrily, Bill scolded Victoire, “Now will you believe me when I say only one handful is required?”

“But ‘er ‘air!” Fleur laughed as she noticed the cascade of sparking lime green locks on her daughter’s head. “ ‘ow festive, cherie!”

“Mummy!” young Yvette demanded from where she had scrambled to the floor. “Tonks,” she announced proudly as she pointed to her sister’s hair.

“Yes, indeed,” Molly agreed as she swept Yvette into her arms in greeting. “Your sister looks just like Tonks. But you shouldn’t track Floo Powder all through the house,” she fussed with a wide playful grin.

A quick flick of Arthur’s wand returned Victoire’s hair to its natural blonde shade. “With my luck, Floo Powder will turn out to be flammable,” he muttered.

Instantly, Harry was reminded of the Muggle cartoons he had enjoyed as a small child. As he imagined a long trail of emerald green particles snaking through the living room in his mind’s eye, one of the twins went up in smoke the second he made contact with the gunpowder-like substance while holding a mug of flaming punch. A shared whisper with Hermione soon had her laughing uproariously as well.

“Don’t think such a thing won’t happen in the wizarding world,” Neville warned as he joined in. “My entire first year is living proof of that!”

“Good thing they managed to graduate you anyway,” Luna proclaimed in an ethereal tone as she came up behind him. “Have you two been indulging in Father’s punch already?”

“So there are my little mademoiselles!” Xeno exclaimed as he squatted down to hug Victoire and Yvette, one in each arm. They allowed him the briefest squeeze as they caught sight of Phoebe and Teddy already examining the brightly colored packages under the Weasleys’ giant tree.

“To think we would ever pass out presents like right Muggles,” Molly exclaimed as she quickly dried her hands on her apron. “I was going to wait until after supper, but--”

“Père Nöel, ‘e ‘as visited ze Burrow!” Fleur exclaimed as she joined the children on the carpet to sort through the tags before the paper started to fly in earnest.

---

The glow of the flaming goblets painted the snow skrewt’s face with a ruddy reflection. Ron had taken a bit of artistic license and added antennae made from long branches of curly willow and spent coals wrapped in shiny gift paper to serve as eyes. To imitate the creature’s exoskeleton, the finished sculpture had been cleverly sprayed with a thin layer of water that had since hardened into an icy shell. The stinging tail arched over its back, shining a deadly shade of blue in the moonlight.

Over the heads of the crowd, Fred and George nodded wordlessly to one another and both directed their wands towards the skrewt. A small sizzle started deep within the hollow tail as the spectators wisely took a few steps back. With a mighty shudder, colored balls of fire shot out, reflected as a moving rainbow upon the sparkling blanket of snow. Once spent, the beast collapsed upon itself in exhaustion as Ron and the twins were hailed with an enthusiastic round of applause.

“Did you really have to take care of such creatures at school?” Teddy asked the twins with wide-eyed delight.

“Trust me, Spook,” Fred admitted with rare candor. “They were a singularly bad mannered lot �“ worse than the Slytherins even.”

“Not even Hagrid could really warm up to them and that’s really saying something,” George volunteered.

“Without a doubt, the arctic variety is much tamer,” Harry acknowledged as Molly herded them back inside the warm house.

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Fourteen
Making Merry


Their stomachs still full from the magnificent feast that had preceded the fireworks, no one was anxious to call it a night just yet. Victoire and Yvette had boundless energy, something which convinced their weary parents the afternoon nap had been a bad strategy.

“Now, Bill,” Molly reminded him with a fond smile. “Don’t you remember how you were at Christmas?”

“I always had to navigate around little sleeping bundles if I needed a snack in the middle of the night,” Arthur recalled.

“Per’aps a quiet game would be best, non?” Fleur suggested as the children caught sight of the abandoned Muggle board game.

“Let me get you started,” Harry proposed as the children took their places around the low table.

Intrigued by the brightly colored pieces before her, Fleur listened to Harry’s explanation of the rules. “Ah, I remember a similar game from my youz,” she revealed. “Alzough ze names were more familiar.”

With a convoluted bit of wand waving, she transfigured the board so it was full of French landmarks much to the delight of the children. “Zis iz better,” she allowed with a satisfied nod. “Now at least one of us will know ‘er way about ze town!”

Much to Harry’s amazement, the board was no longer the familiar square shape, but had been reconfigured into a city map with irregular borders, its center bisected by a winding river with a small island in the middle. The pattern of squares on which the players’ markers rested made a serpentine loop around the city, traveling through all the major Parisian neighborhoods. Even though all the names were in French, he recognized the familiar railroads had been transformed into the Métro, the Arc de Triomphe, the Moulin Rouge, and of course, the Eiffel Tower. The iron bars in the corner square signifying the jail had been relabeled as the Bastille.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Harry demurred. “You don’t mind if I leave the rest of you to it then?”

“Here, allow me,” Remus offered as he claimed Harry’s top hat game piece. “This might work great in my classes at Hogwarts. Want to explain the rules to me, Fleur?”

---

With the cadences of rapid fire French in the background, Harry retreated to the next room to claim another cup of the excellent rum punch. He bypassed Hermione and Ginny who were admiring Luna’s unique engagement ring as Arthur looked on with a snoozing Eleanor nestled expertly in his arms.

Harry found a rather pensive Tonks on the nearby loveseat. “You’re surprisingly quiet,” he offered tentatively.

“Just worn out. I was hoping to have a bit of a lie-in this morn--”

“�”but it’s Christmas,” Harry supplied.

“Does that make me a spoil-sport?” she decried in a rhetorical tone of voice. “Not a single gift needed refrigeration or had an expiration date, I might add!”

Harry opened his mouth to empathize but then reconsidered. After all, he and Ginny had not worked their way downstairs until very late morning.

From the other room, Remus’ voice could be heard explaining that Montmartre, St. Germain, and the Left Bank were all different sections of Paris. “Or arrondissments,” he clarified in his best professorial tone.

“What do you think, George?” Fred posed as he joined the group gathered around the lively Paris map.

“Seems a bit unfair to me,” his twin agreed. “Victoire and Teddy can hold their own, but poor Phoebe and Yvette are at a definite disadvantage.”

“Don’t you girls want to be included as well?” Fred proposed.

To the avid nods he received, George supplied, “Then you are in luck, mademoiselles. For today only, we are offering free financial advice.”

“Get real, George,” Ron took a shot in passing. “No one would hire you to mind their finances. You still need Bill to help you convert from Euros to Galleons.”

“Not anymore,” Fred announced with a wide flourish of his wand. Instantly, the prices on the board and play money were converted to familiar coins of gold, silver and copper.

“A knut for your thoughts?” George volunteered as he folded his long legs before the low table and allowed Yvette to scamper onto his lap.

Fred did likewise with Phoebe as he tossed his twin the Scotty dog game piece. “Don’t you worry, Rabbit; I saved the best for us. Do you know what this is?” He displayed the small object in the palm of his hand.

Phoebe nodded happily. “Tea cup.”

“Not just any tea cup. This is a biting tea cup from Zonko’s. They used to supply novelty products to the students at Hogwarts.”

“Before they were forced out of business by two very intrepid, very handsome, very redheaded entrepreneurs,” George finished for him.

“Don’t you want to join in?” Harry posed as he nodded toward the boisterous group which had now switched back to English.

“Perhaps I’m a little too familiar with Paris,” Tonks signified.

“I’m not sure I follow…”

“You see that hotel Teddy is working towards in the Pigalle District? That’s so inaccurate.”

“You mean in light of Remus’ insistence that it be a cathedral on the Ile de la Cité?”

“What’s Paris without Notre Dame?”

“Don’t forget the gargoyles! Teddy didn’t; he’s going to charge them rent.”

Tonks broke out in melodic laughter. “He would remember that detail. As for the Pigalle…” She lowered her voice to a mere whisper. “…I don’t think they’d much appreciate my pointing out that any hotel was likely to be a brothel. For the sake of accuracy, mind you.”

“Not even if you used a euphemism?” Harry suggested with a snigger.

“What do you have in mind? A rooming house for the easily corrupted?”

“Sounds like a retirement home for Death Eaters!”

“See what I mean?” She hesitated briefly as she listened in to the others. “Besides, it appears as if Teddy is mounting his own campaign for truth in packaging.”

From the other room, Teddy’s high-pitched voice rose in volume. “�”not right! If I’m stuck with a ruddy cathedral, then Victoire can’t put a hotel in the Louvre. It’s a museum.”

“It is now, Spook,” Remus interceded in a conciliatory fashion. “But did you know it used to be a medieval fortress that housed a large military garrison? That’s very similar to a hotel.”

“Here?” Phoebe spoke up. “Can I build?”

“Let’s zee,” Fleur intoned as she leaned over for a closer look. “Ah, ze Latin Quarter.”

“Don’t they speak French like us?” Victoire chimed in.

“Oui, cherie. Eet’s ze district for ze université…” Fleur began only to be cut short almost immediately.

“Where they teach them to speak Latin?” George interjected.

“Don’t be such a fool, bro,” Fred chastised him. “Who’d want to learn a dead language?”

“Is that what they speak in the catacombs then?” Teddy eagerly broke in as he waved the corresponding deed card picturing a jaunty skeleton in a tuxedo.

“Not quite, Spook,” Remus corrected him as soon as he was able to stop laughing. “Paris is a very old city and many of its customs originated long ago. In medieval times--”

“�”ze Dark Ages,” Fleur clarified.

Unperturbed, Remus continued, “Large segments of the population were uneducated and could not even read or write. The books in the library were all written in Latin so scholars used that as a common tongue among them.”

“Is that where Beauxbatons is?” Victoire implored.

Fleur laughed. “Non, cherie. Eet would not be possible to keep eet a secret from ze Muggles in ze ‘eart of a busy city. La Sorbonne ees located zere.”

“Student dormitories,” Fred surmised.

“Maybe even different Houses,” George contributed to Phoebe’s delight.

Tonks turned her attention to Harry. “In the interest of international cooperation, I think they‘re doing just fine on their own,” she remarked. “Besides, I had something I wanted to ask you.”

Harry took a long swallow of his punch as he waited for her to elaborate.

With a quick look to double check that everyone else was occupied, she urged in an undertone, “That story Neville told us about the Yule Ball. Did he get the facts right?”

“Fundamentally,” Harry allowed sheepishly. “I wasn’t aware of the part about Ginny, obviously. I finally got a date with Cho the following year. Any initial attraction abandoned us after one rather calamitous Hogsmeade visit.” Tonks made as if to sympathize, but Harry held up a hand to forestall her. “It’s Cho who deserves your sympathy; it was her boyfriend who died during the Triwizard Tournament. I couldn’t even stop that from happening, how could she have wanted to be friends with me?”

“Perhaps she didn’t blame you.”

“How could she not? I brought Cedric’s body back; she had only my word for what happened.”

“Yet she believed you,” Tonks suggested softly.

“Yes, but it didn’t make things any easier for her, did it?” Harry retorted in a hollow voice.

Attempting to turn the conversation into something more upbeat, Tonks observed, “Leave it to Neville to find a bit of hope among all that despair.”

With a mirthless smile, Harry agreed. “He’s turned out to be an extraordinary friend.”

---

Once Eleanor awoke, Molly instantly appropriated her from Arthur and carried her newest granddaughter among the guests who were present for her very first Christmas. Even at such a tender age, Eleanor’s dark eyes were fascinated as Molly narrated a personal documentary of the diverse activities going on throughout the Burrow.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Xeno exclaimed in an exaggerated fashion which brought a tiny smile to the baby’s lips. “Another usurper for the throne of the fair?”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Molly glowed proudly. “After all the generations of boys from Arthur’s side and me the only girl on my side, our children seem to have no trouble producing females. Poor Teddy’s going to feel just like Ginny did while she was growing up.”

Xeno saw no reason to point out that Teddy was not technically a Weasley, at least not as far as his genes were concerned.

Molly made to walk the circuit of the room to where Hermione was idly watching Charlie trounce Bill at wizard’s chess. But Eleanor seemed to have other ideas as she craned her small head around to keep Xeno in sight.

Noticing this, Luna remarked directly to Eleanor, “Father’s robes are rather memorable, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps you’d like to hear the tale behind them?” As Eleanor’s eyes swiveled from daughter to father and back again, Luna waved Xeno over to join them.

As Eleanor’s proxy, Molly encouraged the conversation, “Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like them. I would have sworn they were a totally different color when you arrived.”

Xeno bobbed his head happily for Eleanor’s benefit. “Oh, yes! They change color according to the time of day. Too bad winter sunsets are so muted or you would have been blinded at dusk.”

“Rather like the ceiling in the Great Hall at Hogwarts,” Neville commented.

“I suppose so,” Luna supplied in a thoughtful tone. “Somehow the stars and moon are always represented regardless of the season. Just be glad it’s not storming outside.”

“Does it show the lightning bolts?” Ron asked excitedly. “Wicked!”

“A veritable light show!” Xeno affirmed. “Wouldn’t dare come that close to a lightning bolt without frying myself otherwise.”

“Thunder too?” Ron urged.

“Blessedly, no,” Xeno confirmed.

“Leaks quite a bit when it rains, though,” Luna confided. “He walks around in his own puddle, beseeching others to keep up the Quick Dry charms.”

“A minor fault which allowed me to purchase it at a very reasonable price,” Xeno asserted with a satisfied twinkle to his pale blue eyes.

“And where exactly was that?” Hermione asked, thinking to herself that Xenophilius Lovegood personified the meaning of the word eccentric. “I’ve not seen anything remotely like it in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley �“ and it’s obviously not from a Muggle store.”

Assured he had amassed an avid audience, Xenophilius outlined how he had traveled to the Salisbury Plain on a pilgrimage of sorts. After despairing of finding any relief for his arthritic knee joints from any mainstream Healer, he’d sought the advice of a mid-wife who specialized in ages old medicine.

“Sacred knowledge handed down from mother to daughter from the time of the Druids, or so she claimed,” Xeno chuckled. “She promised the unseen rays of the new moon had great restorative powers to those who believed in what they could not see.”

“Sounds like a lot of dragon dung to me,” Ron attested. “Please forgive me for saying so.”

“Quite all right, I was of the same opinion myself. But nothing else had worked, you see. No potions or draughts or much-touted poultices. What did I have to lose? I reminded myself. Might get a bit of a holiday in the process.”

“I suppose it’s not really that different from bathing in the sacred waters at Lourdes like Muggles do,” Hermione indulged.

“Exactly,” Luna agreed. “And wizards trust in that which we cannot see all the time.”

“But magic had visible results,” Ron argued.

“Believers will say the same about a miracle,” Hermione maintained.

But following his mid-wife’s detailed instructions was not so easy, Xeno continued. “One’s body had to be oriented precisely on just the right surface to draw forth the shy moonbeams. And it couldn’t be a boulder that had been contoured by modern manufacturing techniques, so forget just Apparating to the nearest rock quarry. Mother Nature’s cooperation was essential.”

“The assistance of the Goddess,” Hermione amended.

“Precisely, or so the New Age mystics in Glastonbury assured me. The strangest mix of Muggles you ever saw. Might have even been wizarding folk among them; their garb was certainly outlandish enough. Some marketing genius discovered you could sell robes to Muggles as long as you called them ‘kaftans.’ For a rather shaky moment, I wondered whether the Statute of Secrecy had been repealed when my back was turned.”

Hermione laughed openly. “So no one would have looked twice at a true wizard in their midst.”

“Even that chap in the kilt and sandals that Tonks likes to trot out might have passed unnoticed,” Luna confirmed.

“So on the night of the new moon, I Disillusioned myself so I could sneak past the ropes Muggle authorities have placed around the sacred site to keep it from being overrun by the unenlightened. That’s the term the mystics were using; anyone who was not a follower of the Goddess was unenlightened.”

“Muggles and wizards,” Molly shrugged as if to say that categorization was nothing new.

“Christians and Philistines. Muslims and infidels,” Hermione philosophized.

“Forgive me, Xeno, but why didn’t you just Apparate past all the Muggle barriers?” Ron considered. “Why risk stumbling about in the dark and twisting your foot among the broken boulders?”

“Didn’t want to get hauled off to jail. I’d been warned that Muggle Law Enforcement was often on hand to enforce their arbitrary ban on the Stonehenge site.” Xeno spread his hands to indicate the rest was obvious.

To Ron’s obstinate look, Hermione whispered, “Surely you haven’t forgotten that Apparition while in a Disillusioned state makes you instantly visible when you materialize. Severs the charm completely.”

“Right,” Ron affirmed with a sheepish grin. “Not much call for that in the Magical Games Department.”

“Certainly not now that Ludo Bagman isn’t trying to hide his ill-gotten gains from the goblins,” Ginny quipped as she joined the group.

From Ginny’s side, Harry claimed, “Face it, Ron; you wouldn’t last a day in the Auror Department.”

“Spoken by a man with an Invisibility Cloak,” Ron retorted playfully.

“Just because I can’t be seen doesn’t mean I can’t be hit by a stray spell,” Harry countered.

“That’s what Protego charms are for,” Neville interjected wryly. “Lesson number one, Dumbledore’s Army.”

Amid the good natured chuckling, Hermione squeezed in, “As Muggles say: you would be toast in the Auror Department, Ron.”

“A roasted marshmallow,” Luna echoed in such a papery voice no one would ever accuse her of being malicious.

“So did the treatment work?” Molly prodded as she bounced Eleanor in her arms to elicit a toothless grin.

Xeno wasn’t certain. “Damnable night I spent on that ruddy rock! Every irregularity felt like a miniature mountain range. Then close to dawn, I finally dropped off from sheer exhaustion only to be blessed with an early morning rain shower. Dripping and miserable, I just gave it up and Apparated back to my hotel room so I could dry myself in relative comfort. Gave myself a chill in the process and was laid up for two extra days after that.”

“And your arthritis?” Molly pressed.

“After two days of room service and judicious amounts of Firewhiskey, it felt much better!”

“Not to mention all that enforced hiking amid the Muggle throngs allowed him to exercise his joints as his regular Healer had recommended,” Luna observed.

“Had to do a fair amount of reconnaissance before I located a true wizard’s shop,” Xeno attested in his own defense. “Tucked away at the end of an alley; if I hadn’t felt the familiar tingle of magic I would have bypassed it entirely. And that, my friends, is where I acquired the stellar robes you see before you today.”

---

“Excuse me, Xeno,” Charlie implored. “Didn’t you and I play wizard’s chess many years ago?”

“Aye, lad,” Xeno affirmed. “I hardly think your mind’s playing tricks on you.”

“I remember, too,” Bill affirmed. “Mum shooed us off so we wouldn’t wake the twins who were so difficult to put down for a nap.”

“Where was Percy, then?” Ron demanded.

“I was reading peacefully in the orchard, I’m sure,” Percy attested with a small snort.

“You told us funny stories about your childhood,” Charlie elaborated. “Can’t remember the details, only that we laughed more than we played chess.”

“Probably because we were pathetic at chess,” Bill noted wryly. “Not that we’ve improved much in the intervening years. It only took Ron a few modest moves to best us both.”

“Really?” Xeno posed with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Ron’s that good?”

“I got a lot of practice at Hogwarts,” Ron replied modestly. “My personal advisor was a chess master and we ended our lessons with a match more often than not.”

“Are you familiar with the Astral Plain variation?” Xeno suggested as they worked their way towards the kitchen. The chessboards were still set up on the worn trestle table before them.

“Is that the three dimensional version?” Ron scoffed. “I thought that was a Muggle invention. Sort of a novelty, really. Flitwick has to devise his own rules to make it work.”

“Not really, we never had such fancy trapping where I grew up on the farmstead,” Xeno expounded. “Although it would facilitate things if we had one of those sets with the pieces which are trained to sit on shot glasses…”

“Got one upstairs,” Fred offered.

“It’s been one of our best sellers,” George supplied as his twin’s heavy footfalls could be heard on the floor above. “You really should accept a percentage for giving us the idea, Xeno.”

“Wouldn’t hear of it,” Xeno demurred as Fred returned with the required chessmen.
“Now yer sure Molly’s off on ‘er own?” he conspired in a whisper.

“If there’s a baby in the room, she wouldn’t notice if we were hauled off by a herd of predatory nifflers,” Bill breathed in return as his brothers nodded with conviction.

“The secret’s in this wee bottle here,” Xeno began as he extracted what looked like a tiny perfume flask from his robes. One tap of the wand, though, and it enlarged to the size of a whiskey bottle.

“But it’s green,” Bill protested.

“Like the Slytherins.” Ron grimaced with distaste.

“Nothing of the kind,” Xeno scoffed. “Think of this as one of those green dragons that are the most pacific of the lot.”

“Only in comparison to the others,” Charlie countered.

Unperturbed, Xeno meticulously poured no more than a thin green layer in each of the shot glasses. “Trust me, this will catch up with you sooner than you think. But be warned, the astral plain is full of traps rather like invisible bogs.”

“What happens if I trip into one?” Ron asked with wide-eyes.

“You’re bound to get a deadly dose of hilarity,” Xeno promised. “I recommend you other boys take very judicious sips if you want to come along for the journey.”

Fred leaned around the doorframe into the other room where the tour of Paris was still in full swing. “I believe our services are no longer required, George. Our investors seemed to have returned to their native language.”

“Cheerio, then,” George toasted him with the merest sip as Fred happily accepted a tiny glass of his own.

“Where was I?” Xeno posed as he waited for Ron to make the first move.

“You were telling us about the farmstead where you grew up,” Bill supplied avidly.

“Not much of a farm, mind you. Mostly sheep and a few goats. No crops to speak of in that harsh climate. Nothing but the thick stone walls of the one room house to protect us from the icy gales. For years I was convinced we had a regular banshee living in the small crawl space between the rafters and the thatch, although my sainted mother kept telling me I was too fanciful in the head.” Xeno slipped effortlessly into his native burr as he warmed up to the tale.

“ ‘An’ ya think a banshee’d leave the marshy bogs o’ the mainland ta visit this barren rock?’ Mum posed with a wry twinkle in her eye.

“Convinced of what I’d heard in the night, I countered fearlessly, ‘Perhaps it’s on holiday.’

“ ‘Then i’d be lookin’ fer its own kind in the graveyard,’ Mum maintained.

“ ‘A busman’s holiday o’ sorts,’ I stubbornly argued. ‘Does ‘is duty to the souls o’ the departed and then comes for a bit o’ sightseein’ on the bluffs.’

“ ‘And this is supposta explain why ya never hear the bleedin’ things in the summer?’

“ ‘Can’t say I’ve studied their migratory habits an’ all.’

“I left her hanging up the laundry to flap in the blustery weather, the wind carrying her parting words to my young ears, ‘Banshee colony in Capistrano will be next, ya mark my words.’

“But as I stood on the rock outcropping that made me feel like I was at the very brink of civilization, I heard the mournful wailing song once again. Perhaps the banshees were off exploring the sea caves below. They’d certainly have them to themselves in this choppy sea. I remember thinking it would be suicide to launch a boat from the squalid little beach and there was no trail down the sheer rock face.”

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Charlie commented. “But having worked with magical creatures all my life, wouldn’t a banshee have caused your livestock to run away?”

“Does it work that way with dragons?” Bill inquired.

“Surprisingly skittish those animals can be,” Charlie attested. “You’d almost think they were superstitious in their own little minds the way they can get spooked.”

“And what would possibly spook a ten ton dragon?” Xeno inquired with sparking interest.

“The howling of wolves among the foothills,” Charlie explained. “It’s rather unsettling when the mist blocks your visibility.”

“Is it a full moon?” Ron pressed in a bare whisper.

“Not usually,” Charlie answered. “Mist is more likely to form on cloudy nights anyway.”

“But a dragon could easily fry any predator that came within twenty yards of it,” Fred protested. “Take to the air even.”

“Incinerate it from aloft,” George agreed.

“Well, I can’t say I speak for dragons,” Xeno took over, “but my mother made a similar point about the sheep on a regular basis.

“ ‘Don’ ya think the sheep ‘uld run rough shod over anythin’ in their path ta get away from such a harbinger o’ death? Make no mistake about it, laddie, a banshee’s no harmless apparition set on befriendin’ ya.’

“ ‘Where are the sheep ta go, Mum?’ I reminded her with a roll of my eyes. ‘They’s not likely ta take ta the deck o’ one o’ the tugboats churnin’ over from the mainland.’

“That image always made her look up from her chores and laugh outright.

“ ‘An’ they’d freeze their wooly hides if they’d tried ta make a swim for it,’ I extrapolated with the full gravitas of my nine years. ‘A’ least give the stupid beasts credit fer knowin’ tha’.’

“That always set us off in peals of laughter as we visualized the sodden sheep crawling on the pebbly beaches of the mainland with woolen igloos on their backs.”

“Might have started a controversy among naturalists who insisted it was a rare form of prehistoric tortoise,” Charlie supplied amid much merriment.

“Aye,” Xeno agreed. “Might o’ made a name fer meself if I’d thought it through properly at that! But by the time I was old enough to begin my magical training, I’d already concluded the vacationing banshees were nothing more than the north wind howling through the joints in our cottage. A few days worth of re-plastering and our rooms were much warmer and blessedly quiet.”

“So where was this, Xeno?” Ron urged merrily, allowing his blurry vision to stray from the chess pieces who seemed to be dancing the conga in another dimension. Blimey, he’d only captured a few of Xeno’s pawns, a rook and a knight. Best to play a conservative game, he reminded himself.

“The Outer Hebrides,” Xeno supplied. “Two glorious seasons: winter and a hiccup of summer.”

“Now that would make a great slogan on a T-shirt,” George acknowledged.

“Not much call for tourism on that particular rock,” Xeno commented. “But if ya can convince the sheep to wear ‘em, I believe I might just agree to take a commission on that one!”

---

“So you were able to catch the entire dedication ceremony?” Percy asked Harry as he accepted another mug of flaming punch from Luna.

“Bird’s eye view,” Harry attested. “Didn’t have to deal with the crowds, either.”

“See, that’s true celebrity,” Luna confirmed softly. “You don’t even have to show your face and they come anyway, hoping to get a glimpse.”

Harry colored slightly at those plaudits. It really had been in large part to the false expectations fostered to entrap Umbridge.

He was saved from having to mutter some feeble response by Ginny leaning over his shoulder. “See if you can sneak out onto the back porch, I have something to show you…” She left the tantalizing warmth of her breath on his earlobe as she melted away into the escalating festivity.

“….not quite finished with the section featuring your contributions,” Luna was saying to Percy as Harry returned his attention to the immediate conversation. “Did you not feel the display was lacking somewhat?”

Percy laughed openly. “Was that a zing, Luna? I know I didn’t really accomplish as much as the rest of you, but it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying.”

“No, silly,” Luna giggled. “I didn’t mean it that way at all. I wanted to contrast you as the Order’s mole within the Ministry with Voldemort’s mole.”

“And for that you need to be able to tell the truth about Umbridge without fear of being accused of libel.” Percy nodded sagely.

“Mrs. Figg was ever so helpful in obtaining some background information about Umbridge’s school days to round out the data, but I still can’t get it to work. She seems totally irrelevant…”

Certain that they would not miss his input, Harry worked his way towards the door leading into the kitchen. Xeno was setting up Bill and Charlie for the next round of chess. Ron looked a little dazed as he sat slumped in a nearby chair with a faraway expression in his eyes.

“How did it go, Ron? Did you win?” Harry asked.

Ron took a few extra seconds to refocus on Harry’s face. “Stalemate,” he returned with a goofy grin. “Turns out my king was in exile while the government was being run by a viceroy.”

Playing along, Harry supplied, “And no one noticed?”

“Used Polyjuice Potion. Only noticed after it began to wear off as we neared the end of the hour.”

Harry was about to remark how wizard’s chess had gotten a lot more realistic since he’d played it at school when Xeno straddled the adjacent chair rather sloppily and confided, “You think you had problems? My king was a cross-dresser!”

“So it wasn’t just my imagination that your queen was stepping out on him?” Ron chuckled with relief.

“The captain of the guard was her lover,” Xeno contributed. “Why do you think I sacrificed my knights so early?”

Before he had time to phrase a compliment to the twin’s newest editions, Harry noticed the half empty bottle on the table. Absinthe. Needing no further explanations, he casually deposited his empty punch mug in the sink as he made his way towards the back door. In the background, he could hear Bill commenting in an overly awed voice that his pieces all looked like goblins and giants.

Barely giving him time to shrug into his heavy parka, Ginny grabbed his glove in hers and took off at a trot across the yard. Harry struggled to keep up as his breath came out in huge white puffs. The snow was awash in dazzling white from the three quarter moon as they moved as muted shadows into the overgrown orchard.

Ginny held her finger to her lips as she slowed her pace to follow the barely visible path winding up a slight incline. Had the trees been in full leaf, they would have been out of view by now, Harry noted.

“Mum would kill me if I’d done anything to the cherry and apple trees she’s been nurturing since we finished school,” Ginny confided. “But she really couldn’t complain about the ones that haven’t recovered.”

“I thought she’d asked the twins to chop those down for firewood?”

“They managed to put it off until the snows set in for yet another year.” Ginny smiled into his eyes and spun around to indicate their surroundings.

“How?” was all Harry could manage in awe as he was embraced by sparkling diamonds hanging from every tree limb. The crystal chandeliers in Remus’ newly acquired Versailles Palace were but a pale imitation in the face of Mother Nature. The softest rustle of wind caused the icicles to shimmer and dance across Ginny’s face as he drew her close. It was many heartbeats later when they broke apart, the warmth of their entwined bodies keeping the bitter cold at bay.

“Did this form naturally?” Harry asked reverently.

“With a little help from an Aguamenti Charm,” Ginny confessed. “I snuck out a few hours ago.”

So that’s how she had kept it in an unspoiled state, Harry marveled inwardly. “No chance of using a warming charm then?”

“Not unless you want the crystal cathedral to melt,” she confessed as she held him tighter.

---

They returned flushed and breathing heavily to the back door, the light of the diamond chandeliers still dancing in their eyes. Ginny tried to smooth down her hair as much as possible as they let themselves inside.

They needn’t have bothered with any precautions as it was doubtful anyone had noticed their absence. The chess game between Bill and Charlie had dissolved into chaos as everyone was clutching their sides in laughter. Intrigued by the glistening puddles dotting the table and the slightly smoking chessboard, they drew up for a closer look.

“Who won?” Ginny asked only to set off a fresh wave of laughter.

“Who cares?” George replied as he wiped a tear of mirth from his eye.

“Never seen anything like it!” Fred wheezed.

“And the look on Bill’s face when one of Charlie’s pawns took out his entire front line!” Xeno roared.

“That’s not strictly supposed to happen!” Charlie laughed.

“How was I supposed to know that a lowly fire-lizard could ignite the dishtowels on all my house-elves at once?” Bill countered. “And here I was concentrating on his long row of pacing dragons!”

“Let that be a lesson to you,” Luna commented as she drifted in from the living room. “Never underestimate the importance of your pawns. Professor Flitwick claims that’s the first sign of an amateur.”

“Not that Flitwick has ever visited the astral plane,” Neville intoned with a knowing smirk.

“Take at least two bottles,” Ron mumbled happily from where he was slouched over the table. “Or so I’ve heard.”

Fred and George allowed Xeno to pour the last remaining drops into their tumblers, but declined to play the next round.

“Something tells me my pawns would try to usurp the authority of the crown,” Fred offered as an excuse.

Much to Harry’s surprise, Xeno agreed, “Civil war is an indication you have reached your limit. Another time then.”

George barely had time to nod in agreement before they were interrupted by an altercation in the next room.

“Fred, George, I know the two of you are behind this,” Arthur maintained from the doorway, failing to hide the twitch of a smile.

“Wait ‘til I get my hands on those two!” Remus bellowed from the next room.

Everyone jostled for position as the twins marched proudly towards their tribunal.

“Did you have a question about our financial dealings?” Fred posed with as much solemnity as he could manage with unsteady knees.

“What iz ze meaning of zis?” Fleur demanded as she pointed to the contract Phoebe was claiming belonged to her and Yvette.

“I believe it’s a contract for deed,” George explained with a quick glance at the parchment. “Duly witnessed by the two of us. Is something amiss?”

“It means the girls, Yvette and Phoebe, can only sell to one another…” Remus began.

“�”and in the case that one goes bankrupt, the other automatically enacts her lien to take over all properties free and clear,” Fred finished for him.

“Zere is nothing about zis in ze rules!” Fleur argued.

“Nothing to forbid it, either,” George argued. “Any financier would have advised similar safeguards when surrounded by hungry land sharks like the rest of you.”

“Besides, is the game not called ‘Monopoly’?” Fred proclaimed as he held up the box lid.

“I believe they have you in a quandary, Remus,” Hermione remarked as she barely managed to suppress her laughter.

“They just found a more underhanded way to combat that long row of luxury condominiums Fleur erected along the Voie Georges Pompidou,” Tonks interjected.

“You should have rented out the Hall of Mirrors, Dad,” Teddy suggested. “Victoire gave you good advice.”

“Too costly,” Remus shot back stubbornly.

“So grease ze palm of ze inspector,” Fleur urged. “Zat always works for me.”

“Does this mean we win, Uncle George?” Phoebe beseeched.

“Very likely,” Remus agreed. “We’ll need a full accounting, however.”

With a firm nod of approval from Fleur, he whipped out his fountain pen and summoned the box lid with his other hand. To the rules which were still printed in English, Remus amended: Any type of private contracts between players are prohibited unless said players are part of a team which has been established by all prior to the start of the game.

“The game’s not over yet,” Percy announced as he worked his way nearer the low table. “I represent a cartel of foreign investors--”

“What type of investors?” Teddy demanded with renewed interest.

“From the Far East,” Ginny supplied as she and Harry both made formal bows from the waist. “We wish to infuse your city with capital from Asian markets.”

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Fifteen
In with the New



The halls echoed with longing as she made the long traverse towards her office. The students would return from their Yuletide break soon, drifting in like a rising tide until all of Hogwarts was engulfed in their presence for the fledgling year.

In the meanwhile, Tonks could hear the ringing laughter rising from the stairwell as Remus tried to teach the children how to turn the long gabled passageway into a Muggle bowling alley, the absurdity of the notion originating with Dumbledore’s ironic assertion on his Chocolate Frog card. It was amazing that a few months shy of his sixth birthday, Teddy was already learning to read written words on his own, so eager to match his father’s reverence for books. How he hungered for the trivial facts that accompanied his vibrant picture books. The more arcane, the better; somehow Teddy always found a way to integrate the new knowledge into his life.

Which is where he had taken a notion to learn ten-pin bowling. Being nothing but an ebullient child at heart himself, Remus promised he knew the perfect spot. What did it matter that snow had drifted past the open archways? A simple spell Vanished it just as easily as the summer sun; a warming charm on the worn stones kept any more from accumulating. Originally designed to sluice excess rainwater, the ancient channels lining both sides of the hallway were ideally suited to capture errant gutter balls.

Amid an intermittent curtain of half-hearted snow, Hagrid had distinguished the sounds of life returning to the somnolent castle. The sconces in the long corridor created a welcoming row of orange marzipans to lure him and Fang from their sleepy cottage. His booming voice was easy to distinguish from the children’s and even Remus’ more mellow tones. Fang’s barking had died down to an occasional yelp when he got too close to the bowling ball. Not that he hadn’t quickly learned to seek sanctuary on one of the broad stone stairways that funneled into the colonnade. A perfect perch from which to enjoy the antics of his humans without becoming an unwitting target.

Other than the Headmistresses who were bogged down by the inescapable tower of paperwork that accompanied the start of a new term, there was not much activity in the castle today. The better to reorganize her office while she had ample time to enjoy the task instead of just rushing through it, Tonks concluded. The new photos were sure to spark conversation among her students, but she certainly had no qualms about discussing her children. Most of them knew Phoebe and Teddy by name as they were often about during school hours in the care of one or another faculty member. Some students even included the children in their activities so it was not unusual for Teddy to be found in the midst of Muggleborns reviving a bit of football or cricket in an unused courtyard or Phoebe fashioning daisy chains in the meadow with a gaggle of first years.

With that in mind, Tonks contemplated just what she would say to students who inquired about how resplendent Phoebe looked in the lilac gown from Harry’s wedding. Flanked on either side by Hermione and Luna dressed in the dusty violet shades of the encroaching dusk, she was captured smiling at each of them in turn as they sought to entertain her. Waiting for Fleur and Molly to put the final touches on Ginny’s hair and gown had made them all impatient; but Hermione did her best to hide her furtive looks from Phoebe who was enthralled by the story Luna was weaving for her, the excitement of the wedding all but forgotten momentarily.

“Tell me a story about two princesses,” Phoebe had demanded in deference to their clothing for the day. She’d long ago become bored with the ramblings of Beetle the Bard.

“How about the one about the two roses growing side by side along the fence line?” Hermione posed tentatively.

Phoebe gave her a doubtful look. “Roses, like in the garden?” she questioned with more than a hint of displeasure.

“It’s an allegory,” Hermione corrected her, knowing the term would surely not register in the child’s mind. But she’d never seen Remus talk down to his children in any way, and if they could cope with his elegant wording, she was not about to insult them. “One princess was fair of hair, like Luna here, and the other had dark hair. Thus the white rose and the red rose…”

Phoebe had listened to the story, captivated as she fingered the end of Hermione’s brown ringlet ever so carefully as to not mar its beauty. But all too soon, the story ended and Hermione was looking helplessly for assistance from Luna.

“Much to my surprise,” Luna began serenely, addressing her words more to Hermione than to Phoebe, “my mother had an ancient tome of Muggle fairy tales in her extensive library. Mother was so outwardly disorganized it was not unusual to find treasures tucked away in the most unlikely places. Father always saw it as an endearing quality, claiming that a woman whose analytical mind was always categorizing so much knowledge couldn’t spare a moment for the mundane chores in life. He was always straightening up in her wake, gasping with delight when he came across an unexpected surprise amid the chaos.

“Mother was quite startled when she found me trying to sound out the words in the first story, a rather realistic detailing of Little Red Riding Hood. She gently removed the book from my fingers and reminded me that some books were meant for sharing, for reading aloud to one another. So she cuddled next to me on the window seat and proceeded to read the tale to me in her own words. She explained that this was a very old book, maybe even one of the first editions, written in a time when fairy tales were considered to be cautionary stories for the local peasants. Some of the animals like the ferocious wolves had indeed existed in the nearby forests. Although they were unlikely to speak in a language people could understand, they were greatly intelligent beasts that could easily outsmart the unwary. So the story portrayed that in words and dialogue to make it easier for simple folk to understand.”

“That’s an allegory,” Hermione repeated gently, watching Phoebe turn the new word over in her mind as she mouthed it.

“Like a lesson from your Mum so you won’t get hurt?” Phoebe ventured.

“Precisely,” Hermione praised her. “Your father would be very pleased you caught on so easily.”

“Is there more to the story?” Phoebe beseeched Luna directly while cuddling the familiar stuffed rabbit in her lap.

“It became a welcome ritual every other afternoon,” Luna continued in a nostalgic fashion. “We would sit in the window seat, with warm cocoa if it was cold beyond the windowpanes, and she would retell me the stories in the book. Always the tales were embellished in her own words, using the printed version as a guide to remind her of the plot. When I learned to read enough to notice this, she reminded me that the tales had been penned by the Brothers Grimm.

“ ‘Were they named after the fearsome black dog?’ I ventured timidly.

“ ‘Quite the opposite,’ Mother replied. ‘The omen of death, the Grim, derives his name from these very tales. So full of dark tidings some of these warnings were.’

“I gulped noticeably, my eyes wide with fear.” Luna demonstrated only to elicit giggles from Phoebe.

“The word ‘grim’ also derives from those imaginative brothers,” Hermione supplied.

“What does it mean?” Phoebe posed. “Grim?”

“Dark and foreboding like a rainstorm you know is coming,” Hermione provided.

“Serious and unsmiling,” Luna added. “Just like the poor existence people lived in those times. Thatched roofs and dirt floors didn’t do much to keep out the winter’s chill. Not even the beds were warm, the mattresses stuffed with scratchy goose feathers that often poked through the covering.”

“Did your mother share all of the tales with you, Luna?” Hermione asked as she got swept into the story as well.

“Every last one,” Luna attested. “Although I suspect she paraphrased quite a bit. Adding euphemisms beyond just the standard ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

Considering how many marriages fell apart due to divorce or infidelity, it was an utterly simplistic ending. Not that Hermione was about to share that thought with a three year old. “Such as?” she prodded Luna.

Choosing her words carefully, Luna extrapolated, “Well, if there was a lot of… devastation… she would just say: ‘and everyone saw thestrals.’”

“Everyone saw thestrals,” Hermione echoed. “What lovely phrasing, so simple and yet so eloquent.”

“That was Mother, without a doubt,” Luna admitted. “It became one of my favorite sayings and, of course, thestrals became one of my favorite animals. Father finally had to draw one for me from memory as no picture book showed them. They consider them too grim.”

Having heard from Harry how Luna’s mother had died of a spell gone awry, Hermione was not sure she should urge Luna to continue.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Luna offered in a dreamy tone that couldn’t possibly alarm Phoebe. “For years, I was the only one in my year at school who could see them.”

Phoebe’s eyes danced happily as she tried to imitate the fluttering fingers which had accompanied Luna’s words. “What’s a testral?” she posed innocently.

“Thestral,” Hermione corrected gently, hoping to give herself time to think. How stupid of her to not have anticipated such a question.

Unfazed, Luna replied honestly, “It’s rather like a winged horse, actually. But very skinny. If it turned sideways, it could slip through the cracks in your windows and doors.”

“As black as the night,” Hermione added. “But very shiny so they stand out in the moonlight.”

“But sad, too?” Phoebe inquired with unfailing intuitiveness.

“Yes, sweetheart, they transport our spirits into the heavens when we can no longer live among our fellows,” Luna allowed.

Phoebe’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Like a dark angel?”

Hermione sighed with relief that Phoebe’s curiosity overcame her childhood phobias. Obviously influenced by both her parents. “Yes, Phoebe, exactly like a dark angel.”

Tonks had been floored later as Phoebe confided she knew a number of dark angels. Shaken to the very core, Tonks returned as evenly as possible, “The four footed kind? Or should I say four hoofed?”

Phoebe shook her head vigorously. “People.”

“Which people?”

“The men who danced at Harry’s wedding,” Phoebe presented with unfailing logic.

Tonks laughed with obvious relief. “Only because formal wear for men practically dictates they wear black.”

“Not just that,” Phoebe insisted. “Freddy moves like an angel.”

“Of course he does, dear. Freddy dances with the ballet. Remember when we went to London, just us girls, to see him perform. It’s his job to move gracefully.”

“Not just him. The other.”

“Can you give me a name? Harry, Ron, Bill?” Merlin, every single man except Mad-Eye had been dressed in black that night and that was only because Moody had worn a formal kilt and evening jacket instead.

Phoebe scrunched up her face in concentration. “The teacher. Always wears black in the halls.”

“Do you mean Professor Snape?” Tonks felt as if she was grabbing at straws. “Always looks like he smells something foul?”

Phoebe giggled. “Grim,” she supplied with aplomb. “Smiles when he dances.”

“He does indeed. Professor Snape is a very accomplished dancer. You remember how everyone wanted to have a dance after he displayed his skill.”

Phoebe smiled gaily at the memory. “You danced with the Dark Angel.”

“Yes, I did. I danced with both of them,” Tonks affirmed with fond recollection.

She couldn’t help recalling how Freddy, too, had watched Severus parlay his skill on the dance floor.

“Don’t even think it,” she’d hissed in his ear. “Not even if everyone else is too intoxicated to notice.”

“Afraid of a little scandal?” Freddy teased back. “What’s a party without a few raised eyebrows?”

“Save those for the women’s necklines,” she’d warned. “That man will hex your eyebrows off and permanently relocate them to parts of your body where they will chafe incessantly!”

“Now you’re just trying to get me interested,” Freddy drawled dangerously as he allowed his chocolate eyes to rake ardently over Snape’s physique.

“I’ll hex you first,” she promised, allowing him to see that her dress had a long pocket for her wand along the seam. “Care to pit your jetés against my wand arm?”

Freddy had finally desisted, only to be totally caught off guard when it became clear the Snapes had indeed noticed his overt attention.

“Would you care for the next dance?” Rolanda offered huskily as Tonks made the necessary introductions. “The ballet? Really? If only I could get Severus to attend. He much prefers the opera…”

Tonks schooled her face into impassiveness as Freddy flashed her a private look over Rolanda’s shoulder.

“You danced rather well with him yourself,” Severus oozed suggestively into Tonks’ ear. “I’m surprised Lupin isn’t jealous of his skill.”

She barely suppressed the urge to retort that Remus’ skills lay in other areas, but reminded herself to not lose the round by letting Snape get under her skin. Instead, she responded with cool daring, “Care to see if you can measure up?”

With a flash in his obsidian eyes, Snape had bowed formally over her hand as he led her out onto the dance floor.

On this snowy January day, she suspected Snape was holed up in his favorite dungeon grading the last of the exams from the fall term, his lips pursed in dour disappointment. The pleasure would be all his when he trounced returning students with the dismal results on their first day back. How Snape thought such a demoralizing speech was motivating to his students, she would never know. Suffice it to say, he had been much the same when she had been a student, even though he had looked youthful enough to give rise to more than a few errant daydreams among the older female students. If only they had known of his self-imposed mourning for the tragic death of his young wife, she mused. Would Severus have set them detentions for their inappropriate sympathies? Not unless he wanted to give them the perfect opportunity to spend time alone with him, she smiled at the unexpected irony. More likely, the Hospital Wing would have been inundated with hexes to be reversed while the victims claimed emphatically they had been jinxed from behind and did not know the identity of their assailant.

Years later, only a handful of teachers knew the full truth; Snape had never been one to socialize readily among his peers. Although Rolanda served as a humanizing presence in his life, Tonks suspected he would have preferred to keep his second marriage just as much a secret from the staff as the students �“ were it not for the impossibility amid such close proximity. Only with Dumbledore had he ever discussed subjects beyond his teaching duties, yet those had been of concerns such as Order business or the threat of Voldemort’s return, hardly the stuff of friendship.

To this day, Snape maintained a spartan office with few knickknacks to spark any conversation with students who might be brave enough to enter of their own accord. Not that his baleful glare wasn’t off-putting enough. As an adult, only her own stubbornness to no longer succumb to his studied theatrics had allowed her to stand up to him, earning her a bit of disdainful respect that allowed her to seek out him out on occasion. Even then, it was only for assistance with potions or some other academic subject, never for just a chat.

Remus’ tolerant nature had somehow worn down Snape’s resistance as they had grudgingly formed an uneasy truce in the days after Voldemort’s demise. She could only speculate that at some point they had each sought out an intellectual equal and found that, without Dumbledore, they would have to make do with one another.

Yet somehow, Remus had gotten through that somber façade, reviving the rivalry they had never truly outgrown from their school days. Only the verbal threat of hexes were thrown out these days, their barbed words serving as a game of poisoned darts which seemed to satisfy them both. Not that Minerva hadn’t warned them that such sparring was likely to be seen as uncivilized arguments in students’ eyes. But behind her glasses, her eyes had twinkled indulgently as she warned them to keep their debates private.

---

Tonks stared at the iridescent raven’s feather in her hand. The frisson of magic within was unmistakable, but she could discern no harmful hexes or jinxes involved. She had no idea of its origins; when she walked into her office that January morning, there it was in the center of her empty desk, practically winking at her.

At lunch, Remus confessed he, too, had been accorded a feather.

Minerva leaned in with an enigmatic smile. “I see you received an invitation to the next post-Quidditch party. It’s being hosted by Slytherin House.”

“Should I get my sheets laundered?” Tonks quipped in deference to the Roman theme Horace Slughorn had honed to perfection in prior years.

Minerva shook her head. “I think not.”

Filius Flitwick wormed his way into the conversation at this point. “Word was the Slytherin Prefects had the presence of mind to actually dye the toga fabric in deepest black before presenting it to Severus. No charm to change its color; it had to be indelible.”

“Hopefully, Severus awarded them House points for studied self-preservation,” Remus noted dryly.

“The way I heard it,” Professor Sinistra interjected, “Severus threw his head back and laughed in their faces.”

“That would have scared them more than anything else he could have done!” Tonks giggled.

Pomona Sprout took up the tale. “ ‘Not this time,’ he’d said. ‘I have something else in mind.’”

“So you think it’s harmless?” Reggie Smithwick posed, closing the thick tome of ancient runes he’d been studying.

“Blimey! I hope not,” Filius exclaimed as he brandished a feather of his own. “We could use a memorable event. Barely two weeks into the new term and the winter blues have already set in!”

---

Over and under they had flown like multihued beetles, the intensity of their House colors contrasting sharply against the austere frozen landscape. The wind howled over the spectators in the stands, whipping scarves into dancing pennants in support of their teams. Excitement was high as two well-matched teams fought for dominance.

Without warning, the wind died down after the first hour of play. Accusatory heads turned in Snape’s direction as his team was fifty points behind and desperately needed to capture the Snitch. His gaze was as inscrutable as ever as he sat straight and immobile, cocooned in black amid the riotous sea of color. Only the quick movements of his eyes belied the fact that he was not drowning in boredom.

A triumphant whoop from the Ravenclaw Seeker announced to the ants in the bleachers below that he had captured the Golden Snitch. With perfect control, he swooped down towards the middle of the pitch, holding his price aloft. His victory circuit around the cheering stands was eclipsed by a sudden shower of multicolored feathers exploding like fireworks from the very hands of the losing team. With curious precision, red rooster feathers rained upon Gryffindor House, royal blue jay feathers on Ravenclaw, and most glorious of all, golden pheasant quills upon the Hufflepuffs.

Anticipation for the evening’s event grew to a fever pitch as wild speculations were traded back and forth. The Slytherins remained stoically silent, small curlicues of smiles decorating otherwise impassive faces. As Head of Ravenclaw, tiny Professor Flitwick could be seen rounding up the members of his house and reminding them that a victory celebration was to be held in their common room until tea time. Rubbing his hands with glee, he reminded them that he, too, had received a feather for tonight’s gala.

At eight o’clock sharp, the Slytherin Prefects arrived outside each common room to retrieve their guests. Taking a different route through the castle, each lead their contingent in a solitary procession through a maze of dimly lit dungeon corridors until they arrived at various unmarked doors. Making up the rear of Gryffindor House, Remus was entranced by the theatricality of it all. Someone would definitely need to extend an emeritus invitation to Horace for the next event.

Catching her husband’s eye, Tonks extricated herself from where she was keeping Pomona company at the end of the Hufflepuff queue, allowing Enzo to take over as escort.

“What’s the consensus?” she breathed in Remus’ ear, the sparkly gel in her hair catching and reflecting the candlelight.

“That the Headmistress wouldn’t allow them to consign us all to Purgatory,” he returned sarcastically.

“Is that all?” She screwed up her face to show she had found his response particularly childish.

“You’re as bad as Teddy and Phoebe,” he chided her. “Can’t you wait and see how we’ll be surprised?”

“I overheard one of the students saying that the Chamber of Secrets is around here somewhere.”

“I heard that rumor also,” Remus dismissed. “Also about the great feathered basilisk that’s been tamed into submission with a giant blindfold.”

Tonks nodded eagerly as she licked her lips in delight.

“You’re all going to get yourselves so wound up that reality is going to come as a disappointment. I prefer to think of a blank slate �“ black, of course �“ and wait to be dazzled.”

The students were being admitted in small groups of three or four into what appeared to be an undecorated antechamber. To maintain the suspense, the door leading to the party itself was not visible or was very cleverly closed before the entrance of the next group.

After what seemed like hours, Remus and Tonks were allowed to join the last of the Gryffindors to complete a group of five. Once inside the anteroom, the small door leading to the corridor slammed shut with finality. As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, it was clear they were in a storeroom with discarded boxes and jars of all sizes stacked haphazardly against the walls. A large wooden crate, not unlike a Vanishing Cabinet, leaned precariously in one shadowy corner. Its interior displayed the bones of the last hapless fellow who sought its secrets.

Down a dark winding stair they were led �“ well, actually prodded �“ by the silent Slytherin guard holding a golden staff. Shuffling like prisoners in chains, they made their way forward until they reached an oasis of sorts at the foot of the stairs. In an amber pool of light sat a silent Grim, wordlessly placing each feather onto an oversized brass scale. As a counterweight, his winsome assistant used an oddly glowing stone, deep emerald at its core. If the feather was lighter than the stone, the guest was shown to the gilded door on the right. Inexplicably, some feathers seemed to be heavier than the rock which represented Salazar Slytherin’s heart, he heard on whispers of exotic wind. Those whose feathers sank were grabbed from behind and dragged off down a side passageway to the sounds of eerie chanting from the shadows themselves.

Remus suspected the area must be riddled with passageways and those who ‘failed’ the first test were simply being channeled into a separate entrance �“ but the effect was quite harrowing in its own right.

“Have you ever had occasion to examine the Book of the Dead in the Antiquities Room of the British Museum?” Remus whispered after setting a wordless Muffliato Charm. As Tonks’ eyes grew wide in wonderment, he added, “That tableau before us is ‘the Weighing of the Heart.’ Those with heavy troubles are culled out.”

“Then they must likely face the riddle of the Sphinx in the next chamber,” she surmised. “I take it that’s not the Grim…”

“Anubis,” Remus clarified.

Much to his relief, Remus’ feather rose higher than the serpent’s heart which Slytherin’s handmaiden was petting in the most unsettling fashion. Tonks’ rose even higher and the emerald heart sank to the very bottom with a metallic clang. With a brief flash of magic, the feather was transformed into a gold serpent cuff. Tonks grabbed Remus’ arm anxiously as its metallic body wound itself around her forearm of its own accord. Although he had not witnessed it, Remus knew she was remembering Harry’s final confrontation with Voldemort’s treacherous serpent ring.

They emerged into a violet dusk in a land of undulating sand dunes, strange constellations remaking themselves periodically in the domed sky above. The brownish walls to either side of them ended in gigantic carved claws anchored to the misty floor. Craning his neck, Remus recognized they had emerged from between the front legs of the mighty Sphinx. Despite the solid wall he knew to be behind him, a trick of wizard’s space made it appear as if the landscape continued to the lion’s tail and beyond.

Bluebell frames in tall brass torchieres emitted light without heat as their otherworldly host rose regally from his golden throne at the far end of the cavernous room. A wide pectoral encrusted with green stones to denote resurrection was draped across his shoulders as it anchored shifting folds so black they seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Pointing a short scepter to his throat, the voice of Osiris rang out to the assemblage.

“Welcome to Abydos!” Snape intoned deeply. “Let the souls of the just be rewarded in the afterlife!”

---

Percy didn’t know how he’d managed it. Somehow it had turned out to be as effortless as talking to Ginny or Harry or even Remus. Just a few words around the water cooler about the antics of his family at Christmas and how he’d been called upon to do a lame impersonation of a Tokyo investor and Penelope was laughing like old times.

“Oh, Percy,” she finally managed. “Those stories make me feel like I’m a carefree girl again, back at school with no responsibilities weighing down on me. It almost seems a shame to go back to my dreary desk.”

He encountered her in the Atrium returning from lunch later and the conversation had taken off of its own volition. Before he had time to stop himself, he was inviting her to dinner at Ginny’s.

“It’s the first time she’s had guests over since she got married, so don’t be too hard on her,” he joked.

“But you said Professor Lupin, I mean Remus, would be there as well?” she inquired.

“Yes, he shares the house with Harry.”

“Harry Potter?” She’d been incredulous. “Why he’s practically a household name!”

“I’m not certain he’d relish that description in general, but there’s no denying it’s true in my family. Harry’s my brother-in-law. Married my sister, Ginny, just a few months ago. After a scandalously long engagement, I might add.”

“But Remus can’t be an in-law; you have nothing but brothers left,” she considered with an impish giggle.

Percy grinned at her predicament. “For lack of a better description, think of Remus as Harry’s godfather once removed -- although they have a unique dynamic of their own. James' and Lily's will left the estate to both of them. Remus has always been like family to us Weasleys, so it’s not as awkward a situation as you might think.”

“I can’t say I knew Harry much while we were at school,” Penny allowed. “He always seemed like he was somewhat lost on the sidelines. I suppose with his parents killed like that, he would have been looking for a family.”

“Then he’s more than made up for it. Remus’ small children live with them as well.”

“Remus got married? Not to someone from Ravenclaw?”

“A Hufflepuff, I believe.”

“Oh, there’s a whole contingent of girls from my House who are going to be sooo disappointed.”

“Even after all these years?” Percy was taken aback.

Penny lowered her lashes as she shrugged self-consciously. Then in the next heartbeat, she agreed to go.

---

Ginny was surprised to find Percy at her elbow when she excused herself to serve the dessert personally. Once beyond the kitchen door, she whispered, “We have it all planned out for after dinner. Harry will take the boys to play billiards upstairs, Tonks will divert Phoebe into her room for girl time and Remus promised me he had a stack of papers to mark in the library.”

“What about you?” Percy asked suspiciously.

“Did I not mention girl time with Tonks and Phoebe?” Noticing Percy was still shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, she breathed, “Everything’s been going fine; no one’s been stuck for conversation. What’s got your knickers in a proverbial knot?”

Percy straightened himself into Head Boy posture. “For one thing, I wear boxers. Knickers are for girls, like you or Tonks…or Phoebe,” he finished lamely, not liking where the conversation was heading.

“Anyone else you left out?” Ginny posed with a wicked smirk.

“Mum’s not here,” Percy shot back as his face colored despite his best efforts. “Look, Sis, I’m nervous enough as it is and earlier in the week Penny told me there were a lot of girls in her year who rather idolized Remus. In his professorial robes, that is.”

Or out of them? Ginny considered, but saw no reason to embarrass Percy even more. She remembered such a possibility had been quite a shock to her when she’d artlessly arrived at the tail end of Remus’ seventh year class at Hogwarts.

Avoiding the knots of students still congregating in the middle of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, she had slipped into an empty seat near the perimeter. She always preferred a panoramic view as so much of the intriguing byplay between teacher and students was lost if she was having to face front or risk being accused of inattention. Naturally, the choicest seats were the first to be claimed; that’s why she had fairly trotted from her previous class �“ even though it was just on the floor above.

Her attention was consumed with arranging her parchment, quills and making certain she had sufficient ink. Feeling the temperature in the room was a bit close, she shrugged out of her robes and draped them carefully over the back of her chair where they would not be trampled by inattentive clods.

By now, almost all the older students had drifted off to their next classes yet a small knot, all girls she noted, still hovered around Remus’ desk. With the room devoid of other noises, it was impossible not to overhear.

Remus smiled encouragingly at the circle of intent faces before him. “I’m sure all of you will do fine. Just remember to block out the extraneous noises as much as possible. Try to imagine you’re the only one in that cavernous hall and it’s much easier to relax.”

“But what about the extra questions they can throw at you during the practical?” the tall dark-haired one posed as she chewed her lip �“ in a rather flirtatious manner, Ginny decided with a slight frown.

“Ah, yes,” Remus replied with that open earnestness of his. “It’s no secret those extra questions often mean the difference between a high E and an O.”

“But how can you prepare for something that may or may not come?” the light-haired girl on the end pressed.

Was he really that clueless? Ginny considered as her eyes were drawn magnetically to the tableau.

Remus leaned back in his chair a bit before responding, “Unfortunately, it’s somewhat like real life in that respect. You never know what obstacles are going to be thrown in your path and what obscure soupcon of knowledge is going to be required.”

“So you’re saying it’s impossible to prepare for the unexpected?” the first girl moaned.

“You’ve had seven years of preparation, Harriet,” the third girl interjected as she tried to draw her companions towards the door. She almost succeeded, too, but at the last minute Harriet whipped around with a hint of determination shining in her eyes.

Making the most of the few seconds in which Remus’ attention was diverted with reordering his desk, Harriet silently perched on the edge of the nearest chair, her features schooled into an overly innocent expression �“ at least in Ginny’s estimation. When Remus remained oblivious, Harriet sighed ever so softly.

Remus looked up and immediately apologized for unwittingly ignoring her. “Was there anything else I could help you with?” Ginny could see his eyes dart towards the other two girls who were lingering with rather put upon expressions on their faces.

“If you’ll forgive me for being so bold.” Harriet began hesitantly. “Are you married, Professor?”

There was a fleeting moment of consternation in Remus’ face, but Ginny was certain Harriet had been too busy lowering her eyelashes coquettishly to notice.

“Need I remind you that the classroom is not the place for personal questions?” Remus returned evenly.

Undaunted, Harriet started to say, “But where--”

Despite his smile, Remus cut her off firmly, “Teachers do not make a habit of discussing such things with their students.”

Emboldened by Harriet’s actions, the blonde girl, Caroline, came to her defense. “Professor McGonagall has a photo of her sons and grandsons on her desk for everyone to see.”

“Professor McGonagall would deduct House points if she overheard this conversation,” the third, more sensible, girl asserted as she drew up. “And since she’s my Head of House, I would thank the two of you to stay off her radar.”

Remus pushed back from the desk as if to stand and then relented, “There are no photos on my desk or anywhere else in my office. Draw from that whatever inferences you will.” Catching Ginny’s eye, he didn’t give her a chance to be embarrassed about her blatant eavesdropping. “Ah, Miss Weasley, so glad you arrived a bit early today. I wanted to take a moment to go over your last assignment. If you’ll follow me into my office, please.”

With a polite nod in the direction of the trio of seventh years, Remus’ long legs took the short staircase two or three steps at a time. Studiously closing the door behind them, he practically collapsed in relief. Ginny giggled at the look of blind panic on Remus’ face as he leaned heavily against the door.

“I suppose I should offer you some House points for saving my last shred of dignity,” he breathed, only to make Ginny laugh outright.

“Except I’m already in violation of Mum’s strict laws about not letting on that you’re a friend of the family.”

“I don’t expect you to rat me out to Molly,” Remus warned with a grin.

“And catch myself in the net? Hardly!”

“They think they’re so worldly because they’re of age but they’re just overgrown children,” Remus acknowledged. “I finally understand how Rosmerta must have felt when Sirius tried to chat her up. He was so relentless, too; I’m surprised he didn’t get all the Marauders banned from the Three Broomsticks.”

“Sirius Black?” Ginny gasped. “The escaped mass murderer who everyone’s looking for?”

Remus nodded with a sad smile. “You forget we were all friends at school. Poor Peter Pettigrew and Harry’s parents, as well.”

Determined not to let him slip into a dark reverie, Ginny added in a teasing tone, “Really, Professor, you should be flattered by their attentions.”

Remus snorted derisively to her taunt. “What is it about a man’s privacy that so compels women to try to invade it?” he muttered more to himself than anything. “Despite being repelled by the truth.”

“Perhaps you should ask Professor Snape how he deals with similar situations?” Ginny suggested rakishly.

“I’m not that self-destructive,” Remus shot back. “Besides his situation is … dissimilar … to mine.”

“You think any students have ever been so bold?”

“Ill-advised, you mean,” he corrected with a mischievous smirk. “How else do you explain the gruesome specimens he keeps in those jars?”

Ginny burst out laughing at the image.

With a widening grin, Remus supplied, “And it’s a testament to the many years he’s been teaching here that he has walls upon walls of glass specimen jars!”

“And he thinks no one knows his secret, either!”

With a quick glance at his pocket watch, Remus nodded towards the door leading to the classroom. “Come. Why don’t you grab those third year parchment rolls on the back table?” He Levitated a similar stack before him with precision. “It’s next to impossible to direct them to their owners if they get mixed up with the second years’.”

“I remember a lot of Gryffindor girls mooning over Moony that year,” Percy admitted as he drew Gunny’s attention back to the present. “Terrible pun, isn’t it?”

“Really?” Ginny feigned innocence, not wanting to betray the confidence Remus had placed in her at such a young age.

“Don’t you recall the group who used to huddle in the far corner of the common room? As Head Boy, I had to break up their unrestrained giggling on more than one occasion.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “I’m sure they thought you were a terrible prig.”

Percy shrugged nonchalantly. “They were more devious than that, though. Claimed they were an official Dark Arts study group.”

“You mean like Dumbledore’s Army?” Ginny couldn’t believe she’d overlooked something as pivotal as that.

“No, precisely not like Dumbledore’s Army,” Percy clarified. “All sixth and seventh year girls and not a boy in the bunch.”

Ginny nodded knowingly. “Just the sort of hen party I would have avoided. Why did you make it your mission to make their lives miserable? Sorry they excluded you?”

“It was part of my official duties that year,” he returned with just a hint of the puffed up importance she remembered. “But they weren’t studying; they were just gossiping about ‘Professor Lupin.’ Feeding their adolescent fantasies.”

Ginny laughed at the picture. “Did it not occur to any of them that the surest way to get noticed by their dear professor was to excel academically in his class?”

Percy looked at her very directly. “None of them had the advantage of having gotten to know the man over holiday dinners like we had. Good thing they didn’t include you in their group or who knows what kind of mayhem your advice would have caused?”

“Remus would have hexed me into oblivion for one!” Ginny giggled girlishly. “Did you break it up?”

“I didn’t dare,” Percy acknowledged. “Although I was outraged enough, that’s for sure. But then when I thought things through, I decided I didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to Remus. He didn’t need anyone looking over his shoulder anymore than they already did.”

“McGonagall would have gone ballistic if she’d overheard,” Ginny supplied with a slight curl to her lip.

“No doubt about it,” Percy agreed with a grin. “I would have enjoyed that.”

Reading the last vestiges of worry in Percy’s eyes, Ginny was fairly certain she could put his mind at ease. “I once had occasion to witness some Ravenclaw girls from your year attempting to flirt with Remus. Penelope was not among them.”

---

“I took Sean to the War Museum,” Penny remarked, suddenly self-conscious now that they were alone in the spacious sitting room at Godric’s Hollow.

“Oh, Pen, was I too caught up in the fanfare of the dedication to notice?” Percy would berate himself later for the oversight.

She shook her head, studying her hands folded in her lap. “On a different day, when it wasn’t so crowded. When I could recount to Sean what I knew of these people who were being profiled as heroes.” She slowly raised her eyes to capture his, her expression so vulnerable yet unreadable at the same time. “I was surprised to find you mentioned.”

“I’m no hero, Penny,” he attested with all sincerity. “A blip on the Order’s radar at most.”

“Considering how uncertain things were at the Ministry for a time, being the Order’s mole couldn’t have been easy.”

“See that’s where you’re wrong. It was surprisingly easy for a tosser like me; estranged from my family, living a monastic existence in a squalid cold water flat, the perfect lackey to spout Ministry rhetoric as easily as breathing. I was so good at it, I almost managed to brainwash myself into believing it.”

“Yet there you were �“ inexplicably.”

“Alastor Moody was just twisted enough to see the mess I had made of my life as being ideally suited to the Order’s purposes.”

“But all the other members of your family were involved in the fight…”

“Even assuming their membership in a secret organization was widely known, which it wasn’t, who was going to suspect the one son who was heartless enough to send back his mother’s Christmas jumper?”

“You didn’t!” Penelope giggled uncertainly.

“More for appearances sake at that point. But I’d burned my bridges pretty thoroughly by suggesting to family members that they temper their generosity with a more pragmatic approach to the political climate.”

Penny winced noticeably. “I see what you mean about being the Ministry’s mouthpiece.”

“Oh, no, I could be pompous all by myself,” he confirmed with a self-deprecating air. “And if anyone doubted my credentials as the family’s black sheep, the chilly reception I received during an impromptu Christmas visit spoke volumes. Not to mention the Minister was there to witness it firsthand.”

“Your family had the Minister for Magic over for Christmas dinner?” Penny gaped.

“Hardly,” Percy shot back. “They had better taste than that. He just wanted to use me as an excuse to share a few words with Harry. To try to convince the lad that the same Ministry which had been denouncing him as a raving lunatic for the past year was now his friend.”

“Harry doesn’t strike me as the type to be manipulated so easily.”

“No, Harry’s always been determined to stick to his guns �“ even if it made him miserable in the process. That’s bravery. I just went with the flow.”

“Don’t try to package yourself as an opportunist, Percy,” she returned in that level-headed manner of hers. “You would have been sorted into Slytherin if your heart was as black as you say. Besides, your family seems to have taken you back.”

“Families are like that,” Percy replied. “Never willing to write you off.” He drained the last of his wine, suddenly feeling as if he were standing naked in an icy gale.

But somehow, Penny read the unspoken words between them. “I can’t say my life worked out the way I planned, either. It may have been portrayed as a fairy tale existence, but I pretty much blended into the background before Umbriel’s rabid fans. Too many lonely nights with only books to keep me company in foreign lands. Thank goodness, Sean came along to give me purpose.”

“Didn’t you make friends with any of the other Quidditch wives?” Percy ventured hesitantly.

“Not really. The closest would be Viktor Krum.”

Percy laughed sharply. “Somehow Krum doesn’t strike me as the girlfriend type.”

The unflinching gaze she trained on him brought him up short. “See, that’s where you’d be wrong.”

Surely the wine must be going to his head. “Come now, Penny; Krum’s been married three times now.”

“Why do you think his marriages don’t work out?”

“Because he’s a self-centered egotist like most sports celebrities! Trust me, my brother, Ron, works in the Magical Games Department; I’ve met enough to know the type.”

“I won’t deny he’s a bit self-centered,” Penny admitted with a wry chuckle. “But that’s mostly because he’s always brooding about how he’s made chop-suey out of his life. That’s one of his favorite expressions �“ it’s particularly humorous in that Slavic accent of his.”

“But surely the media would have gotten word of this,” Percy offered as he floundered for the proper euphemism. “Lots of sports figures have come out.”

“Not Viktor. Not even after his venerable grandmother passed away, although he did stop agonizing about providing an heir then. He was so desperate to adopt at one point that we became friends. That’s how I met my husband actually; Viktor introduced us.”

Still at a loss for words, Percy blurted, “But my sister-in-law has corresponded with Krum since she was his date to the Yule Ball. Surely she would have mentioned….”

“Not if he asked her not to.”

Could Hermione have known all these years and yet said nothing? Let Ron get all flustered and jealous every time Krum’s name came up in conversation, even though he was never a true rival. The more he thought about it, the more Percy saw that it was just the thing Hermione would laugh about in private. And if Ron got all bent out of shape, he deserved it for having been such a clueless berk for so long. Percy felt his admiration for Hermione grow tenfold.

Unable to stop himself, he filled Penny in just so he could watch her dissolve into breathless laughter. Merlin, he’d practically forgotten how good it felt to make someone else laugh like that!

“I promise the secret’s safe with me,” Penny wheezed. “And Viktor’s so deeply into the closet, he’s in Narnia!”

Percy could not contain his laughter at her insouciance. “That’s one I hadn’t heard before!”

“I wasn’t certain you’d get the Muggle literary reference, even though there’s a witch in the story,” Penny confided. “It’s required reading at Durmstrang. Figures prominently in a course entitled: Debunking Muggle Christian Propaganda.”

In his own defense, Percy elaborated, “You forget that I was home-schooled before Hogwarts and, if anything, Mum insisted we have a strong literary background. Only the British classics, of course. She insisted Muggle writers would provide us with a window into their world that much more readily.”

He was surprised when she responded, “Molly never struck me as such a visionary. Is that where you got it?”

“I don’t know about that, I suspect she enjoyed reading aloud to us just as much as we enjoyed listening. It allowed her to delve into a world which has always fascinated my father as well.”

“What else did she read to you?”

“Well, she followed themes somewhat. With Bill, she started on Charles Dickens, although there was enough of his works to tide her through Charlie as well. With me, it was The Chronicles of Narnia, but she didn’t get very far into the series before the twins learning to walk turned the household upside down. Since the twins and Ron were so close together, she concentrated on Robert Louis Stevenson for them. Special emphasis on Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, mind you.”

“You don’t think…?”

“Absolutely!” Percy affirmed. “Mum would have thought the irony of it to be particularly fitting. Ron, I remember, adored Kidnapped! Wanted to act out all the dialog in a Scots accent.”

“And Ginny?” Penny posed as she did some quick calculating on her fingers.

“Agatha Christie. Miss Marple at first since Ottery St. Catchpole had obviously been used as a template for the village of St. Mary Mead.”

“Such a charming rendition makes it difficult to believe you were ever on the outs with your family.”

“Politics can be a great divider,” Percy confirmed. “Not to mention my hard-headedness.”

“So what made you turn around?”

“A combination of things really,” he replied off-handedly, more certain than ever that some of the inner workings of the Order should remain confidential. If Luna had chosen to gloss over them in her museum displays, it was probably best if he kept those details close to his vest for now. “I have to say I’m intrigued that you mention Durmstrang so easily in conversation. Despite their participation in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, they’re still very much an enigma to us.”

“Probably due to the fact that Umbriel attended it as well. Told the most amazing tales of skiing the nearby mountains at the weekend.”

How rich! Percy thought to himself. “So you know where it’s located?”

“Sadly, no. That’s an iron-clad secret.”

“That’s too bad, I would have liked to be the one to tell Teddy once and for all.”

“Remus’ son? Why is he so fascinated with Durmstrang? One of those childish fixations?”

“Perhaps because Mr. Filch offers to send his irascible little hiney there on a regular basis,” Remus offered from the doorway. “Forgive me for intruding...” He waved his empty goblet in explanation.

“Not at all, Remus,” Penny replied graciously. “I could use a refill myself.”

“What team did your husband play with?” Remus posed conversationally as he filled Percy’s glass from the decanter of port wine as well. “I’m afraid I don’t keep up with Quidditch much.”

“The Helsinki Hellcats,” Penny answered.

Remus laughed as he leaned against the sideboard. “For real?” Lowering his voice, he added, “James used to refer to the Hufflepuff team as the Hellacious Hinkypunks just to get a rise out of their hot-headed captain. I didn’t realize the parody hit so close to home.”

“Why are you whispering?” Penny whispered back.

“Tonks is a Hufflepuff. Set to take over as Head of House next year,” Remus explained in a more normal tone.

“Please congratulate her for me if I forget,” Penny urged.

“Absolutely,” echoed Percy. “I understand Hellsinki sells more shirts than any other team in the International Quidditch League.”

“Only because most wizarding schools ban them,” Penny explained. “My husband used to say that alone accounted for seventy percent of their sales.”

“I believe the same passive strategy has done wonders for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes,” Remus noted wryly.

“And to think I thought the twins would end up as washed up entertainers for children’s parties,” Penny confessed, then blamed her tactlessness on the wine.

Percy brushed her off with a carefree laugh. “Ron’s the undisputed king of the unguarded remark. Fred and George would just give you a sympathetic look as they awarded you an honorable mention.”

“And offer to appear personally at Sean’s next party if they were guaranteed a certain minimum of merchandise sales,” Remus predicted.

“Does Teddy really manage to get under Filch’s skin?”

“In new and inventive ways,” Remus issued with a hint of exasperation. “He’d be a permanent resident in the Hospital Wing if Filch wasn’t a Squib.”

“What’s to keep Filch from strangling him with his bare hands?” Percy teased.

“Speed and dexterity, mostly,” Remus volleyed back. “I don’t know what to do to dissuade Teddy.”

“Dissuade him?” Penny snorted. “I was thinking of canonizing him!”

Remus shook his head ruefully as he joined in the laughter.

“By the way, my theory is that Durmstrang is in Finland,” Penny volunteered with a sage nod. “Not that I can actually prove it.”

“Really? I always pictured it in the Ural Mountains,” Remus countered.

“What makes you so adamant about Finland?” Percy posed.

“The Hellsinki Hellcats recruit most of their players there,” Penny confirmed.

“I’ll be sure to tell Teddy,” Remus promised as he toasted his guests with the last of his wine.

---

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Sixteen
A Trail of Breadcrumbs


The unusual spices were like a symphony to his nose, waiting to be experienced and savored. Percy could not believe he had holed himself up in his flat like a hermit for so long when just a short Underground ride away, he could be transported into an exotic land with a musical language of its own. Now that he had a good idea of the area, he could even Apparate directly into a secluded spot.

He dismissed the stack of papers waiting for him on his rickety dining table. He was so accustomed to filling in his empty hours with inconsequential drudgery his conscience tugged at him if he failed to cram his briefcase full before leaving work each evening.

Only one thing needed his attention that day and he had already taken care of it over his breakfast tea. A note to Ginny attesting to her exceptional match-making skills was already en route with his trusty owl, Hermes. Sean had babbled on about how they should invite Teddy to the upcoming Quidditch match; the small satisfied smile Penny had given in return when she’d admonished her son to ‘wait and see’ had made Percy’s heart sing with possibilities. Despite all the promotions which had come his way at the Ministry, he felt as if the world was opening up to him for the very first time.

Heady with happiness, he located a sunny spot in one of the small parks ringing the main thoroughfare and settled down for a bit of people-watching. Muggles mostly, but their unfamiliar style of dress make it particularly entertaining. He found enough Londoners dressed in jeans and jumpers just like he was to not feel like he stood out, but there were clearly enough variations in hair color alone that no one would have spared a second look at Tonks -- or even Teddy.

The pigeons scrambling for the last bits of his flatbread sandwich reminded him of the portions of his past he’d left intentionally vague. Granted, he was not proud of his early career with the Ministry, but it was hardly the sort of thing he would have hidden from Penny. Likely her inside knowledge of activities at Durmstrang was just as innocent as she had presented it, but Remus had been prudent to recommend caution. The subtle timing of the man’s entrance into the drawing room had not been lost on Percy. Remus had left the door to the nearby library open as an invitation to his guests so it was no surprise portions of the after dinner conversation with Penny had been overheard. After all, it would have been extremely rude of Percy to set any sort of privacy charm in his own sister’s home.

His father’s attack by Voldemort’s villainous snake outside the Department of Mysteries was not common knowledge, Percy reminded himself. The Order’s covert surveillance of that particular passage could have been brought into question, no doubt about it. And Percy’s first contact with Alastor Moody had come within hours. Had they been recruiting him already at that point or just sizing him up? It was difficult to say. All he could recall clearly was Moody’s glower as he knocked on Percy’s door long after the other Ministry employees had left for the night.

Truth be told, he’d been expecting Jules, the night watchman, to stick his head in as part of his nightly rounds. Instead Percy’s call of, “Enter!” had been met with the renowned Auror stalking ferociously into the small office. Percy barely had time to gasp as Moody drew forth his wand and directed it at the arcane wireless set. As Celestina Warbeck warbled in the background, Moody drew up a chair and pulled out a bottle of Firewhiskey accompanied by two small glasses.

Without looking up from pouring, Moody growled, “You might as well stop looking for your wand; if I had been intent on causing you harm, you would already be dead.”

“Really, Alastor,” Percy uttered, unable to hide the nervous quaver in his voice. “You could find a less dramatic way to wish a chap a happy Christmas.”

“Why?” Moody volleyed back as he indicated the other glass. “Brought my own liquid Enervating Charm and all.”

Percy glanced briefly at the paperwork strewn all over his desktop; but in the next instant, the documents stacked themselves into three separate piles.

“You’re done for the night,” Moody announced with a grim set to his lips. “Now drink up.”

Percy hesitated briefly before complying. Recalling the file on Barty Crouch, Junior, he had been annotating earlier that evening, he sputtered, “How do I know you’re really who you say?”

Moody appraised him critically. “I’m an ancillary member of the Auror Department. The guard at the end of the corridor passed me through.”

“How do I know poor Jules isn’t lying in a pool of blood?”

“Because no wizard worth his salt would create such an unnecessary spectacle.”

“You stunned him, didn’t you?” Percy demanded wildly, searching his pockets once again for the wand poking out of his cloak -- which hung on the coat rack on the far side of the room.

Moody chuckled darkly. “Why don’t you grab your wand and check for yourself? I won’t stop you.”

Percy gulped noticeably as he rose to retrieve his wand and then directed a wordless Alohamora in the direction of the door. The heavy wood responded by swinging open sharply, the echo reverberating down the empty corridor as the holiday music jangled in the background. Polished to a mirror finish, the black tiles reflected the green and red garlands on the shores of a long ebony river. From the guard post at the far end, Jules turned around and waved cheerily, issuing Percy his signature gap-toothed smile.

“Satisfied?” Moody suggested with a slight lift to his visible eyebrow.

“He could still be--”

“Yes, yes!” Moody cut across impatiently. “I could have Polyjuiced him, Imperiused him, etc. Time’s wasting, boy. If I had wanted you dead, you would be. I assure you only the real Mad-Eye Moody would know that on your seventh birthday, your twin brothers played the most despicable prank…”

As Moody spun out the details in rather humiliating glory, Percy concluded the man must have been present at the celebration himself. True, the twins were infamous, but only a biographer could have amassed such minutia.

Sagging from relief as much as anything, Percy finally allowed, “Happy Christmas, Alastor. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

“Not at all,” Moody chortled gruffly. “Now drink up!”

Percy was momentarily perplexed by the empty tumblers before them only to notice in the next moment the shimmering lilac mist of a Privacy Charm. His eyes widened in alarm as Moody leaned in closer and hissed, “Grab you cloak; your presence is needed at St. Mungo’s. There’s been an attack and your father has been seriously wounded….”

The details were lost in the pounding of blood in Percy’s ears as he obeyed robotically. He stumbled down to the lifts, barely noticing Jules’ cap still bore the decorative holly sprigs from the afternoon’s holiday celebration.

Knowing no further details would be forthcoming until they were well-beyond the Ministry’s shadow, Percy staggered toward the end of the lonely sidewalk where Moody clamped onto his upper arm to direct the Side-Along Apparition.

The clock above the sterile Dangerous Bites Ward read 9:32, but Percy could not have told anyone whether it was night or day. Through the small observation window, Arthur looked pale and somehow diminished against the stark and cavernous ward. Only an occasional quiver in his fingers indicated he was alive.

“Can I see him up close?” Percy squeaked through the rising lump in his throat.

“This is as far as we can go, I’m afraid,” Moody confirmed softly. “You can thank Remus Lupin for alerting me to retrieve you �“ despite your current situation. Arthur’s wound is having trouble knitting and the Healers felt anything that caused his blood to pump unnecessarily, be it from joy or agitation, would only complicate matters.”

It took Percy a few moments to find the words. “Will he make it?”

“It’s too soon to tell,” Moody admitted somberly. “Let’s hope we got to him in time.”

“What happened?”

It seemed like a simple question, but Moody’s answer took Percy by surprise. “We’re not entirely sure. Arthur’s the only eye-witness and his words have been somewhat disjointed.”

“But how--”

“I don’t have all the answers, son. Suffice it to say this happened on Ministry grounds; inside the building, as a matter of fact.”

Percy felt his knees start to give way as he considered how many evenings he’d spent working alone in his office.

“Where exactly?” he wheezed as Moody’s grizzled arm kept him from sliding to the floor entirely.

“Not on the same floor as your office. Thankfully, the Minister’s wing is the most heavily guarded area of the building. But you should be more cautious in the future, Percy. Bureaucrats aren’t expected to give their lives in the line of duty.”

A thousand unanswered questions swirled through his mind, but Percy was too tired to frame them into words.

Sensing this, Moody offered, “Let’s get you back to your flat. I’ll come for you tomorrow when I’m able. I take it you don’t particularly want to encounter the remainder of your family, am I correct?”

“Not right now,” Percy mumbled as Moody guided him firmly towards the outgoing Floo in the Receiving Area. His meager flat did not have a fireplace, but he could Floo to the lobby area before ascending the five flights on foot.

After fitful dreams of being chased by shapeless phantoms, Percy awoke the next morning bleary-eyed but with the determination that he would find some scrap of information about the attack among the mountain of parchment filtering daily for the Minister’s attention. In his mind, it was an amorphous enemy he faced �“ perhaps nothing more than bureaucratic ineptitude �“ but his father would not be without an advocate who could work behind the scenes.

---

By late afternoon, he gave it up as impossible. Not even a report of an accidental tumble on the over-waxed floors: nothing which related even peripherally to the attack. Percy didn’t for one moment suppose Moody was lying; the evidence of his father helpless in hospital was irrefutable. Even if he allowed his incipient paranoia free rein, Percy could only conclude he was too unimportant for anyone to go to so much trouble to deceive him.

Mechanically, he went through the motions of attending the holiday reception for the Minister’s inner staff he had helped organize. What was one more plastic smile in a veritable ocean? With a heavy heart, he allowed everyone to think he was anxious to leave for Yuletide celebrations with his family. The untouched paperwork remained in the same neat stacks as he slipped out precisely at quitting time �“ a first for him.

He hardly felt the chill wind moaning through the concrete canyons of greater London that evening, clasping his winter cloak closed as his leaden legs found their way home of their own accord. Thankful for the single amenity the run-down building of wizarding flats offered, he crawled with icy limbs to sit heavily on the cracked leather settee before the hearth. It was only days later that he wondered why he hadn’t simply Apparated or Flooed home directly that night.

Hours later, Moody’s features materializing in the coals awoke him from a stupor. The glacial dread in his bones made him briefly consider whether the lobby had been ringed with dementors while his mind had been elsewhere. Some of that must have conveyed itself to Moody as his face disappeared in mid-sentence and in the following heartbeat, the man himself was at Percy’s side.

“Is he?” was all Percy could manage before a strangled sob shook his body from top to bottom.

Grasping him firmly by the shoulders, Moody stressed, “The worst is over, Percy. Arthur’s wound finally responded to treatment and they expect to release him in a few days. He’s going to make a full recovery but he’s still very weak from all the blood loss. An extensive course of Blood Replenishing Potion will have him sorted out, you’ll see.”

“Will he be returning to the Burrow in time for Christmas?” Percy demanded through fevered lips.

“No, the entire family has made alternate arrangements to stay nearby.” Moody took a deep breath before adding, “Somewhere safe, but you won’t be able to visit them there.”

Before he had a chance to protest, Moody was hoisting him to his feet. “Come,” he growled in encouragement. “The others just left St. Mungo’s and I want you to be able to see Arthur before he falls asleep. It’s been a long, but joyful day for him. After that, you and I are going for a pub meal and some liquid fortification. It’s not like you have to report to work tomorrow.” At Percy’s blank look, Moody rolled his magical eye spectacularly. “It’s the weekend, you dolt!”

---

“You didn’t ask me to identify myself,” Moody chided him gently.

Percy gave a grim sort of smirk over his fish and chips. “Seemed rather ungrateful to doubt someone who overlooked the bad blood between me and the rest of my family.”

Moody waved him off. “We all have a shorter trigger for those closest to us �“ which is why political debates between family members are always a bad idea. But these are uncertain times, lad, and we shouldn’t let politeness stand in the way of safety issues.”

“Did you stop to think I wasn’t exactly in the mood to relive another embarrassing escapade from my youth?”

Moody’s chuckle was like the rumble of a volcano. “There are other ways to establish identity. Although the Ministry is too mired in a long tradition of ineptitude to employ them.”

“Alastor, even as an adjutant Auror, you’re still considered a Ministry employee,” Percy returned with mock seriousness.

“How else would my observations have any weight? Not going to denounce me to the Minister himself, are you?” Moody appraised the rather rumpled young man sitting across from him.

“Not until I hear you out first,” Percy retuned with a glimmer of interest.

Moody took a long swallow from the tankard as his magical eye turned so only the white was visible. Tom, the barkeep, exited through the side door leading into the storeroom before Moody swiftly withdrew his wand. With scarcely a breath, a smoky whale was thrashing among their dinner things.

As it faded into the brick wall, Moody whispered, “You remember the Patronus Charm, don’t you? The results are unique for each wizard.”

Seeing Tom return with a bevy of full bottles levitated before him, Percy muttered under his breath, “Can’t a person’s Patronus change?”

“Let’s just assume you haven’t experienced such a cataclysmic upheaval in your life.”

Noting that Tom had his back to them again, Percy concentrated on the scene of his father sitting up in bed and talking animatedly with the lime-garbed Healer at his bedside. A scintillating creature erupted from his wand tip and waddled comically across the room. It dissipated among the legs of the tall stools just as Tom resumed his perpetual polishing of the bar surface.

“A platypus, very original,” Moody rasped into his lager. “If I were the betting sort, I would say you’re somewhat ambivalent about your life.”

Percy locked eyes with Moody’s. “A conclusion that could apply to anyone. How do you even know it’s me?”

Moody barked a sandpapery laugh. “Because Lupin is a close friend and your N.E.W.T. level training came from him.”

---

The next time he ran into Moody, the answers Percy demanded only gave rise to more questions.

Seeing Percy’s dejected expression, Moody growled, “Come, it can’t be as bad as that.” Percy made room as the veteran Auror lowered his battered body onto the other side of the bench.

Nothing was said about the worn clipping from the Daily Prophet Percy hastily folded and stuffed into his pocket, but Moody couldn’t have missed the banner headline announcing the escape of a major Death Eater contingent from Azkaban. Truth be told, his magical eye could probably distinguish the faded photo of the Weasleys’ Egyptian holiday as well. The world had seemed so rosy then.

“I’ve made a total dung heap out of my life!” Percy blurted before he realized it.

“And you think I haven’t?” Moody’s gravelly voice was surprising sympathetic. “Four ex-wives notwithstanding, how asinine do you think I felt after being ambushed by a blathering degenerate like Barty Crouch, Junior? After years of preaching constant vigilance, no less!”

“It’s often rumored the mentally deficient have amazing physical prowess,” Percy volunteered helpfully.

“Wish you’d been on hand to defend me before Dumbledore,” Moody grumbled.

“Surely you weren’t brought before the Wizengamot?” Percy decried.

“Facing Dumbledore alone was much worse,” Moody attested. “Those sad eyes that seem to know everything… What was I to do afterwards? Waste away in my cramped flat? Fight the bastards, I always say.”

“Just who are the bastards, Alastor? That’s what I want to know,” Percy confessed, finally giving voice to the vague disquiet that had slowly been stirring in his gut.

“A question that has troubled much greater minds for a number of years, I dare say.”

“If I wanted cryptic games, old man, I’d just owl Dumbledore directly,” Percy retorted.

Moody chortled as he patted Percy companionably on the shoulder. “For that, you owe me a meal. It’s your turn to buy anyway.”

It should have been obvious to Percy then that they were trying to recruit him. For when they arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, Remus was waiting in a roomy corner booth.

“The better to survey the surroundings,” Moody noted in approval as he led Percy over.

Much to Percy’s surprise, Remus was not alone.

The bright-eyed woman was not too much older than he was, Percy noted, as she held out her hand invitingly. “Wotcher. With that shock of hair, you must be a Weasley.”

“Percy.”

“Forgive my manners, this is Nymphadora Tonks,” Lupin managed as he cleared his throat self-consciously. “From the Auror Department.”

“Can’t say I’ve seen you around, er, Nym--” Percy hesitated on the name long enough for Tonks to cut him off with a radiant smile.

“It’s Tonks. Easier to remember and won’t demand that I fling a curse at you in return.”

“Join us, please,” Remus offered magnanimously.

Tonks screwed up her face at Moody’s impassive features. “I know, I know…Time to get back to my post. Can’t a girl escape your ball and chain anywhere, Mad-Eye?”

Moody chortled in response as he took the spot she had just vacated, motioning for Percy to follow suit.

Looking up from draping his work robes over the bench back, Percy caught an unreadable expression on Remus’ face. In the space of a heartbeat, it was gone as Tonks offered in parting, “I don’t have to tell you what it’s like to be low man on the totem pole. Nice to meet you, Percy.”

“Likewise,” Percy returned as a tall ale he hadn’t ordered arrived before him.

“First round’s on me,” Moody grumbled amicably as he took a quick swig of Firewhiskey then chased it with a long pull of golden ale.

Ignoring the tumbler Tom placed before him, Remus addressed Percy directly, “So how’s life in the front office?”

“Long hours and little recognition,” Percy replied. “Just like Tonks said.”

Remus chuckled at Percy’s irreverence. “She gets recognition enough. Only Auror on staff who’s a Metamorphmagus. You’ve probably crossed paths millions of times and not recognized her.”

“So her hair isn’t naturally pink?” Percy issued with a laugh of his own.

“It won’t be tomorrow,” Moody predicted as the late winter rain drummed a soothing rhythm on the roof.

“You’ll forgive me if I wonder how you and Alastor are acquainted,” Percy remarked in a non-confrontational tone.

The vagueness flitted across Remus’ features once again, but he responded with candor, “We once worked together with your uncles, Gideon and Fabian. I was just out of school.”

Percy remembered the heroic tales his mother had spun about her brothers who had died to rid the world of Voldemort’s influence. They had taken at least five Death Eaters with them while Percy was still in nappies.

“Doesn’t surprise me you never knew,” Moody added. “Remus is much too modest for his own good.”

Ignoring the scarred veteran before him, Remus took a tentative sip of the Firewhiskey before setting it down with a small shudder.

Breaking the heavy silence, Moody ventured, “Percy was looking for answers.”

“In a philosophical sense?” Remus rejoined.

Percy shrugged noncommittally. “I’ve made a right hash of my life �“ but I suspect you know that already.”

“I’m not one for recriminations,” Remus answered. “But before we speak plainly, don’t you think you should verify who I am?” Without the slightest concern for the bustling pub around them, Remus pointed his wand towards the base of the tall pilsner glass before him. In the next instant, the unmistakable silhouette of a giraffe galloped within the golden liquid.

“You’re a mighty fine wizard, is what you are!” Percy gaped.

“Just practice.”

“Show him the newspaper clippings that had you shaking your head,” Moody urged. “Both of them.”

Considering he’d been steeling himself to seek Moody’s advice earlier, Percy complied without hesitation.

“Quite an achievement, don’t you think?” Remus commented enigmatically as he gazed upon the photo of Azkaban’s grim façade. “Or does it make you wonder who’s guarding the prisoners? Good thing you’re still handy with a Patronus. Platypus, I believe.”

That last statement alone would have established Remus’ identity in short fashion, Percy considered inwardly. Aloud, he voiced more immediate concerns, “Sirius Black seems to have become the Minister’s favored scapegoat and rallying cry. He’s too many places at once, it you ask me.”

“Perhaps he’s able to replicate himself at will,” Remus joked.

“You tell me. Ron once said you were at school with Black.”

Remus composed his thoughts before proposing, “You have the answer before you.” Gingerly turning the worn photo of the Weasleys on holiday, Remus pointed sharply at the wriggly bundle in Ron’s hands. “There.”

Percy was at a loss for words. “Scabbers?”

“How fitting!” Remus laughed wholeheartedly. “Ron never shared what you’d named him. But wasn’t he your pet first?”

Percy nodded, although he had no idea where Remus was going with this. “Another Weasley hand-me-down, I’m afraid.”

“How exactly did he come to be part of your family?” Remus posed.

Percy gulped as he momentarily considered whether the man before him had totally taken leave of his senses. But no, Remus’ gaze was just as warmly intelligent as ever.

“Before you consign me to the nut house, hear me out,” Remus implored.

Right, make that a Legilimens with reality issues. This was just getting better and better. “Is he on the level, Alastor?” Percy urged.

“Saner than most,” Moody rasped. “Just likes to take the scenic route. But he’ll likely make it worth your while.”

“Dad brought him home from the Ministry one day,” Percy capitulated. “Said he’d felt sorry for the scrawny thing, always sniffing about his office. Mum said Dad was just tired of sharing his meager lunch with a creature even more pathetic than himself.”

“Sounds just like Molly,” Moody commented in encouragement.

“Do you remember when that was?” Remus prompted.

“I was five and Ginny was just a few months old…” Percy hesitated. “Do I need to be more specific?”

“That’s sufficient. It was a few months later that Arthur first invited me to the Burrow. Molly was only too happy to misrepresent large portions of pie as the surest antidote to the grief I felt over the Potters.”

“Right, Harry’s folks. I recall Dad claiming that Scabbers must have had a close call with a Roman candle on the night everyone else celebrated the downfall of You-Know-Who. It was how he justified that Scabbers was terrified of loud noises and was missing a front toe.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised you remember all this from such a young age.”

“Tales retold among my brothers,” Percy maintained. “In retrospect, it was my father’s attempt to legitimize a pet others would have abandoned to the Ministry’s exterminators. But despite his best campaign, neither Bill nor Charlie showed much of an interest, so he became officially mine. I was most likely to remember to feed him anyway. When I was named Prefect in my fifth year, they bought me an owl; so Scabbers was passed along. Ron was only too happy to have a pet of his own when he started his first year.”

“Why were the twins bypassed?” Moody rumbled. “Just curious.”

“Didn’t I mention Scabbers’ pathological fear of loud noises? Even the clanging of pots in the kitchen made him blanch. If Dad hadn’t given me permission to remove his cage to my room early on, I don’t think he would have made it.”

“Yet he held his own against Hermione’s cat,” Remus countered.

“Don’t even remind me!” Percy rolled his eyes dramatically. “I don’t know which was worse during my tenure as Head Boy: the constant search for Scabbers while Crookshanks looked on with those restless eyes or Ron and Hermione arguing about it!”

“My vote goes to Ron and Hermione,” Moody mumbled under his breath.

“It was a tough year for me as well,” Remus commiserated. “And I don’t just mean the resignation of my post at year end. All my assumptions of the previous twelve years came crashing down around me.”

Percy looked bewildered. “I’m not sure I follow, Remus.”

“Perhaps if you’d spent more time at the Burrow, Ron would have told you the rest.”

“You mean how the mangy rat bit him and then ran away? Mum was rather relieved when she told me,” Percy admitted sheepishly. “And Ron got that ditzy little owl, Pigwidgeon, in the bargain.”

“Couldn’t have told it better myself. Managed to hit all the salient points,” Remus concluded with satisfaction. Then catching Tom’s eye, he ordered Firewhiskeys all around.

“Let me get this one,” Percy uttered as he slid a small stack of silver Sickles to the edge of the table. He studiously avoided looking at the threadbare cuffs of Remus’ faded jumper. “Considering I felt like I was wandering in the mist prior to the Firewhiskey, what precisely are the highlights?”

“May I?” Moody jumped in as he took a generous sip.

Nervously, Percy followed suit only to find the liquid fire streaming down his gullet fairly distracted him from the hypnotic effects of Moody’s damnable eye.

Moody counted off on his weathered fingers. “The timing of the acquisition. The missing toe. The irrational fears. The timing of the escape.”

“Don’t forget Arthur’s propensity to offer a kind hand to the disenfranchised,” Remus added. “Or to use the more common term: strays. Me among them. But I only saw what was before me. It took a wrenching moment for me to drop everything and avert disaster that night when I left without waiting for my potion to follow Ron, Hermione and Harry into the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow.”

“Sure, Remus, you wanted to save them from Sirius Black,” Percy dismissed the well-worn tale.

“Quite the contrary. Ron was pursuing a much more dangerous enemy; one who had lain dormant, biding his time like a virus.”

“Sirius Black plotting in Azkaban,” Percy echoed with a hint of impatience.

“Ron was chasing Scabbers that night; Scabbers was trying to hide from Sirius Black. Had been all year. Crookshanks was likely frustrated that he had no one to chase more than anything else.” But Remus’ next words brought Percy up short. “Your father befriended a true rat those many years ago, an escapee from the debacle which claimed Harry’s parents. A rogue Animagus who could assume the shape of a rat.”

“You’d have to be demented to hide as a rat for such a long time,” Percy scoffed.

“Precisely,” Moody agreed. “Mentally unhinged, had been for years. That’s what made him so bloody dangerous.”

“So what happened to the wizard �“ or witch, I suppose �“ who was not really a rat? And aren’t Animagi supposed to be registered with the Ministry?” Percy contributed, feeling his thoughts careen out of control.

“Found a different hiding place, I suppose.” Remus shrugged with indifference. “And being an unregistered Animagus was the most minor of his infractions, trust me. For that night he revealed his true identity as the betrayer of Harry’s parents. We thought he’d been our friend, too, but he sold us all out to Voldemort.” At Percy’s blank expression, Remus delivered his coup de grace, “Peter Pettigrew.”

Unimpressed, Percy sighed indulgently. “All that build-up and the culprit is a dead man, long buried and honored posthumously by the Minister himself.”

“Hardly buried,” Moody provided. “Pettigrew’s body was never found, only his finger. Cornelius Fudge was head of Magical Law Enforcement at the time and I remember it well. First on the scene and declared the case was closed. No one brought Black to trial, no evidence was presented. Remus was questioned incessantly by a short-sighted bunch of wankers who could only conceive of a werewolf as being the villain, not an innocent bystander.”

“Nothing’s changed in that respect,” Remus uttered with a hollow laugh. “They’re still convinced I know where Sirius Black is hiding his cache of escaped Death Eaters.”

“Do you?” Percy posed with mounting interest.

“In their fetid imaginations!” Remus replied scornfully. “I would suggest Malfoy Manor as a more likely destination were it not for the wretched landlord’s close ties to the current administration!”

“I can’t say that hasn’t bothered me also,” Percy admitted. “Knowing the son, I feel I know the father. Is that prejudicial?”

“Perhaps,” Moody confirmed. “But in this case, your first instincts are correct. Malfoy slipped through our fingers the first time, claimed he’d been Imperiused…”

“If there’s a first time, then you’re implying there will be a second!” Percy gasped.

Moody’s face was solemn as he pronounced, “Evil never sleeps, son. Didn’t Voldemort take over when Grindelwald was deposed? It’s a deathless beast whose eggs are exceptionally fertile.”

“Do you have any evidence of this?” Percy demanded.

“Only my first-hand testimony,” Remus answered openly. “And I’ve already established how much weight that carries with the powers that be.”

“What about Ron, Hermione or Harry?” suggested Percy.

Remus’ eyes burned with fervor. “Witnesses also, but Harry has been systematically discredited in the press.”

“No one else was present?”

“Snape swooped in but managed to get himself shot with a Confundus-Expelliarmus combination.”

”You?” Percy considered.

Remus shook his head gravely. “Harry. An untrained wizard whose emotions often amplify his spell power.”

Percy was about to decry Harry for having used deadly force against a teacher, but then reconsidered when he remembered it was Snape. Likely, Harry was not the only student who had dreamed of wiping that mocking jeer from Snape’s face �“ he’d just had the right set of circumstances.

“I don’t know what to say,” Percy stammered.

“Say this conversation goes no further than this room,” Moody insisted.

“You have my word on it,” Percy promised. “A one way ticket to Bedlam is not in my future, I’ll thank you to remember.”

“That’s a Muggle institution,” Moody reminded him.

“Long dismantled, I believe,” Remus added wryly.

“I doubt they’d care!” Percy proclaimed as he drained his glass.

So what he’d intended as a edifying conversation had turned to mush in his very hands, Percy concluded in retrospect. But one fact remained clear: neither Moody nor Remus thought like other men �“ and Percy was in need of a fresh approach.

---

From there, try as he might, he couldn’t get the details of that evening’s discussion to leave him alone for long. A bit of diversionary dialogue, he told himself in the cold light of morning, nothing more. Remus had always been a rather entertaining houseguest; the man had certainly wiled away enough hours at the Burrow.

Perhaps his judgment had been altered by the unfamiliar presence of Firewhiskey, Percy chided himself. Yet every salient point from the Scabbers’ discourse burned clearly in his mind; so unlike the fuzzy, disjointed memories that often accompany alcohol consumption. But Percy had little experience with liquor, so the distinction was not so readily apparent to him.

Despite immersing himself in an overhaul of the Minister’s entire filing system, the disquiet still simmered in the back of his mind. Too many new questions had sprouted like weeds from the few provocative answers he’d received. What’s more, he had no idea how to contact Remus directly for any type of illumination; he’d been too caught up in his own concerns to even offer the basic banalities of inquiring after Remus’ current circumstances. Never had he berated himself more thoroughly for his deplorable social skills.

It did not help that tantalizing segments of the puzzle would come across his desk in the regular course of the Ministry’s paperwork, either, teasing his overwrought brain to the point of distraction. Fudge had made the capture of Sirius Black a number one priority and reports from the Auror Department were routinely channeled through Percy’s office. His job was to organize the information into binders for succinct review by the Minister whose time was extremely limited. For this very reason, there was very little that went on in the Ministry that didn’t pass, sooner or later, through Percy’s overworked hands.

Not that he’d paid much attention to the contents of many of the reports in the past. Route them into the correct folder so anyone could simply flip to the appropriate pages in a matter of moments. Suddenly, he found himself engrossed in the minutia, reverting to his long-standing habit of arriving at his flat only to tumble wearily into bed.

He had long recognized that it was in his nature to be thorough, obsessive even; it was a trait he’d inherited from both his parents. Much of his father’s contentment in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office stemmed from his reverence for all things Muggle-related; that was hardly a secret. Was it that unusual for Percy to have found a similar calling?

A few lines in the daily interrogation logs revealed just how often Remus had been subjected to a repetitive line of questioning about his involvement with Black. Each time, Remus had given the same stoic responses: they had been friends at school; he was present when Dumbledore had advised the Potters to go into hiding. Regretfully, he’d not witnessed when their fate had been sealed by establishing Sirius Black as their Secret-Keeper. He had no knowledge of Black’s actions the next morning; he himself had been recovering from a particularly debilitating transformation the night before. Luckily, Remus had witnesses to attest that he’d been properly confined during the full moon or who knows how else he would have been implicated? Always the transcripts of the questions ended the same: Black had not contacted him during all those months when the man had been stalking Hogwarts; their only confrontation had come on the night Remus had forgotten to take his Wolfsbane Potion.

No mention was made of Pettigrew’s presence. Was Remus hiding this from the Ministry? Percy considered briefly; then decided they wouldn’t have believed him without any proof and the last thing a werewolf needed was to appear mentally unstable.

More recently, they’d grilled Remus about whether Black had tried to coerce him into joining his band of renegades and whether he had been aware that Black was planning to orchestrate the largest mass escape from Azkaban in history. It was a foregone conclusion that since Black had engineered his own escape, he would return to free his dark colleagues. Yet other than the betrayal of the Potters, there was nothing to link Black to any other Death Eater activity. But surely all that would be forthcoming when they apprehended him and forced him to give a full detailing -- except no one had seen Black in public since he’d escaped from Hogwarts nearly two years ago. If Percy were to theorize, he might suppose Black had fled the country. But if that were the case, the man couldn’t have been involved in all the random lawlessness the Ministry was determined to pin on him.

Much to his surprise, Percy discovered that Nymphadora Tonks had also been brought in for questioning although she’d been in the midst of her Auror training at the time of Black’s escape from Azkaban. Questioning a Ministry employee was irregular enough to spark Percy’s concern. Only through due diligence did he arrive at the connection: despite the difference in their ages, Tonks was Sirius Black’s cousin. She, too, denied any knowledge of Black’s grandiose plans. She’d met him once or twice as a child, but her side of the family had been estranged from the other Blacks since her mother eloped to marry Ted Tonks, a Muggle-born wizard.

Over and over, the reports mentioned that only Pettigrew’s finger had been found at the scene. Mass mayhem, annotated by the accounts of numerous Muggles prior to their memory modifications. The Obliviator Squad had been under Fudge’s direct control when he headed the Magical Law Enforcement Department. Percy tried to dismiss Scabbers’ missing toe as a coincidence, nothing more, one of those serendipitous moments that peppered life in general.

There was no doubt that consigning a wizard to Azkaban without a trial was somewhat unusual, though. The Blacks had been a powerful family in wizarding circles; surely, someone would have spoken out on behalf of their self-acknowledged black sheep. Percy was absolutely certain his own parents would not have washed their hands of him so cavalierly had the situations been reversed. So many holes in the story, so many elements that could be made to fit Remus’ retelling just as easily as the Ministry’s official version.

He tried to take the snippets of information and weave them into another plausible alternative; if Remus could do it, why couldn’t he? This would provide the antidote, Percy convinced himself. For days, his dreams were haunted by images of gnarled kite strings he painstakingly untangled only to watch the first gentle breeze undo his hard labor. None of the alternative explanations held up under scrutiny. Even the most promising scenario, that once freed from his rat shape Pettigrew had aided Black in his escape from Hogwarts, seemed too unlikely. An accomplice who had cleverly avoided capture would have tried to assist Black’s escape from Azkaban, not cower in his cage. And why frame his partner in the first place? A territorial dispute perhaps? Even if the rat had taken advantage of Arthur’s benevolence, he’d had ample opportunity to fade away into the woods surrounding the Burrow. He could have then assumed an alias in human form. Remaining in rat-face for twelve bloody years didn’t make any effing sense!

Even more unsettling was that having cut himself off from his schoolmates along with his family, Percy had only Remus’ word that Pettigrew was still alive. But if that were indeed true, then his father’s over-reaction about a spy being introduced into the Burrow was not so unreasonable. It still rankled Percy that Arthur would accuse him, his own son, of allowing the Ministry to manipulate him in such a fashion; but for the first time, Percy could understand why.

He had to get some perspective, Percy reminded himself sharply. Tossing the burgeoning Black file into his credenza for later, he turned his attention to more immediate matters. Merlin, that Umbridge woman seemed to be mired in quicksand at Hogwarts! He fully allowed they could be a bunch of miscreants, his Head Boy duties attested to that, but she had unleashed a virtual civil war. A backlash for her totalitarian methods; but as the adult in the equation, she should have anticipated that. Hadn’t the Minister placed full confidence in her managerial skills?

The next document brought him up short. The Auror Department was submitting an emergency requisition for Veritaserum. He was looking at a duplicate showing that Fudge had already signed off on it two days ago. The request came directly from Rufus Scrimgeour, the current head, but something about it didn’t sit right with him. Pulling the Hogwarts folder towards him once again, Percy riffled feverishly until he found another document which chilled him to the bone.

Perhaps he’d take a stroll down to the Auror Department, Percy decided. After all, the overview of supply requisitions fell within his job duties. The clock showed it was only a quarter hour past quitting time. With luck, he would encounter someone other than Scrimgeour who could provide him with an unbiased assessment. If he was really lucky, he would find Moody still at his desk.

Halfway down the corridor leading to the double doors, Percy encountered Moody just leaving for the day.

“No one left but the cleaning crew, I reckon,” Moody grunted as he awkwardly swung his cloak over his shoulders. “Late night yesterday.”

“More arrests?” Percy asked casually.

“Dead ends. Chasing phantoms, if you ask me.” At Percy’s determined expression, Moody added in an undertone, “Is there something I can help you with?”

With a self-deprecating sigh, Percy admitted, “I feel a bit like that hapless classmate of Ron’s, to tell you the truth. Neville Longbottom. His most intent actions always go up in putrid smoke before his eyes.”

Moody scowled for a moment. “Only Longbottom I know is Frank. One of the most deadly Aurors to ever tread these halls. His wandwork was legendary; that is until Bellatrix Lestrange took it into her barmy head to torture him and his wife into madness.”

He hadn’t known then how a recent visit to the Incurable Ward had disturbed Moody just as much as Harry. But at that moment, the man’s words felt like a strange affirmation of sorts. Percy nodded grimly as he hefted the heavy portfolio under his arm.

Catching the subtle signal, Moody proposed in a jovial tone, “You look like you’ve spent too many hours at your desk, son. Why don’t we both stretch our legs? Looks like winter has finally given it up for another year; but I don’t suppose you rate an office with a magical window, do you?”

Locking the files in his office, Percy grabbed his own overcoat and dimmed the wall sconces in case he felt a need to return later. Truth be told, he could use a breath of fresh air himself.

Once past the employee entrance, the blustery wind threatened to snatch Moody’s bowler hat but he managed to Summon it just in time. A judicious application of a Sticking Charm kept the problem from recurring. Even fully buttoned, Percy’s coat tried to wing itself from his frame until they turned the far corner and the wind died down to a dull roar. The first purple fingers of dusk were reaching out to them, but the sidewalks had already been deserted by Ministry workers eager to return to their homes and families.

“Seems like a ghost town,” Percy remarked conversationally as he cast his Patronus inside a dark storefront as they passed.

“Preferable to be surrounded by wraiths without ears and mouths,” Moody rumbled in return as he followed Percy’s example. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Veritaserum,” Percy replied succinctly. “An emergency requisition from Scrimgeour.”

“Got to be ready for interrogations. Veritaserum is considered to be humane.”

“Scrimgeour established a redundancy when he first took over. He was very careful in that respect,” Percy explained.

“And you’re wondering whether we’ve completed an inordinate amount of interrogations within the past, what?”

“Six to nine months.”

“Not that I’m aware of. Do you think an employee may be siphoning some off to sell on the black market?” Moody suggested.

“Actually, I hadn’t considered that,” Percy mused. “You have a suspicious mind, Alastor.”

“I’m paid to be suspicious. What about you?”

Percy was caught unprepared. “Me?” he stammered. “I’m the Minister’s entire clerical department; I review all sorts of documents before filing them.”

“Is this what you wished to bring to my attention before?” Moody shot back. “When I found you moping in the halls?”

“Geez, Alastor, does that magical eye allow you to see into my brain?” Percy decried nervously.

“No, I’d have more success with entrapment if it did. I found you in a corridor that leads nowhere but the Auror Department. Unless you were leaving, which didn’t seem to be the case…” Moody let his words trail off into the evening shadows.

“Am I that transparent? First Remus practically yanks the very words from my lips and now this!”

Moody chuckled deeply. “I’m also paid to be observant. And Lupin’s no Legilimens, if that’s what you’re implying. He would find delving into another’s private thoughts unseemly.”

“Then how does he do it?”

“Can be a bit uncanny, I admit. Reads the little tics everyone else overlooks.” Moody shrugged. “Suspect it’s just an outgrowth of having too much time on his hands. Idleness doesn’t really agree with him.”

“Has he been unable to secure a position? Dumbledore doesn’t seem the type to give him a bad recommendation.”

“Have you even read the laws your august Ministry has been spewing out in the past decade?” Moody growled. “Dumbledore could give him the most glowing review and the anti-werewolf legislation would still slap him to the ground. Dumbledore was the only one willing to give him a chance.”

“He was a superlative teacher,” Percy affirmed with gnawing unease.

“Tell that to Dolores Umbridge who thinks werewolves aren’t fit to lick her boots!”

“How does she figure into it?”

“The most restrictive laws were penned by her poisonous quill. Check the archives. I doubt anyone would question the Minister’s right-hand man reviewing such documents.”

With a sinking feeling, Percy admitted, “The Wizengamot records are in total chaos. I’d be flummoxed if the clerks even know how to alphabetize!”

“Doesn’t surprise me one bit.”

“You don’t trust anything with Umbridge’s name attached, do you?” Percy ventured.

“Part of my job.”

“Well, she’s also at the heart of the problem I encountered and I’m fairly certain the Minister himself is unaware of the ramifications.”

His interest piqued, Moody urged, “Veritaserum again?”

“A rather large portion of the Aurors’ backlog was diverted to Hogwarts just months ago.”

“Can’t say I have much intimate knowledge of the inner workings at Hogwarts,” Moody muttered in a self-deprecating manner. “But I trust Dumbledore.”

“Despite those who wish to paint him as senile, I’ve never doubted him either.” Remembering his rather pompous words to Ron, Percy added, “But I’m not paid to speak my mind, you know how it is.”

“Minerva McGonagall has a heart of gold.”

“If the request had come from her, I would be less worried. Some clumsy student smashing an entire tray, perhaps.”

“Then who?”

“Dolores Umbridge at both ends. She submits the request, then approves redistribution from the Ministry’s stores. Stores that should be sacrosanct.”

“Sounds like a clerical snafu,” Moody commiserated. “Right up your alley.”

“There’s more to it than that! Brewing Veritaserum was part of Snape’s curriculum for his seventh year N.E.W.T. classes. Something he muttered under this breath as he berated our efforts kept tugging at me. So I checked the Ministry’s ongoing contracts for Veritaserum. We buy it from Hogwarts; Snape brews it in his spare time as extra income for the school as well as himself.”

Moody laughed sharply at the absurdity of it all. “Do you think it’s like one of Mundungus Fletcher’s schemes to get the Ministry to buy back its own Veritaserum?”

“That I could handle. I’m wondering what prompted such an unprecedented need for Veritaserum at Hogwarts when they are capable of brewing enough for their own needs!” Percy stopped in his tracks to emphasize his point. “The faculty is not that large; and the one thing I was able to discover in the legal archives is that it’s illegal to administer Veritaserum to anyone who’s not of age. Not without the express consent of their parents. Not even a Healer can administer it.” Percy took a moment to catch his breath, then wailed, “Did they somehow manage to capture Sirius Black and forget to inform the Ministry?”

“The Auror Department has no jurisdiction over Hogwarts,” Moody testified grimly. “Why seek me out?”

“Am I seeing evil intentions where there are none?” Percy moaned as he took off again at a brisk clip.

Moody struggled to keep up as he cautioned, “You’re asking a man with a propensity to question every shadow.”

“I’m asking a man whom I trust, someone how knows evil when he sees it,” Percy corrected.

“Do you want me to relay this to Remus?”

“I would have brought it to him myself if I knew how to owl him,” Percy conceded. “Even the records of his interrogations don’t show his current address. Just London.”

“You’d have to ask Dumbledore about that,” was Moody’s enigmatic reply.

“Dumbledore?”

“He’s the Secret-Keeper,” Moody supplied. “That’s all I can say.”

As their footsteps echoed hollowly among the concrete storefronts, the implication rose unbidden in Percy’s mind. “Remus’ residence is being protected by a Fidelius Charm?”

“It’s more for the benefit of the owner of the house, not Remus.”

“I should have drawn him out when we were at the pub,” Percy muttered under his breath.

“If it’s any consolation, laddie, Remus is as tight-lipped as they come. You’d likely not get anything out of him that he wasn’t ready to share. And werewolves are impervious to Veritaserum.”

“And what exactly puts Remus in a sharing mood? Large quantities of alcohol?”

“He’d never fall for that.” Moody thought for a moment before suggesting. “You could begin by asking him about the tail end of your previous discussion.”

“About the rat who’s not really a rat?”

“Ask him where Ron got Pigwidgeon.”

Percy had always wondered how that conversation would have gone, but he never got the chance to initiate it. The night he was to meet Remus for a friendly game of darts at a nearby Muggle pub, he received an urgent Patronus message advising that an emergency with Harry had come up. After a few hours of fitful sleep, an owl arrived from the Minister himself alerting Percy to meet him in the Atrium as soon as possible -- the Ministry was under attack.

By the time he next heard from Remus, Rufus Scrimgeour had assumed the post of Minister for Magic in the wake of Fudge’s resignation. This time, they met in the tony flat Dumbledore had provided and Remus introduced Percy to Kingsley Shacklebolt, on temporary leave from shadowing the Muggle Prime Minister.

Percy sighed deeply as he took in the Muggles basking on the nearby park benches. Licking the sticky honey from the baklava off his fingers, he smiled as he imagined doing the same for Penny. Soon, he promised himself. If he couldn’t yet share the secrets from his past, he’d share a bit of the present. As for the paperwork that awaited him in his flat, it would still be there when he returned. But today, he’d been afforded a rare gift indeed: the opportunity to daydream.

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Seventeen
In Voldemort’s Shadow


The timid February sunshine caressed the rustic windowsill as Penelope gauged the effect of months of hard work. Visitors would stand at the very spot where poor, doomed Merope Gaunt had likely prepared the love potion she would later administer to Tom Riddle, Senior. The trees in the surrounding woods had been artfully trimmed to allow a gabled corner of the roofline to be glimpsed in the distance, serving to contrast the grand Riddle house with the rustic Gaunt cabin. From there, visitors would be led past the hole in the floorboards where Tom Marvolo Riddle had hidden Salazar Slytherin’s ring, a despicable trophy of young Lord Voldemort’s burgeoning skill at murder and deception.

The trail through the woods was left dark and foreboding, trees encroaching from both sides as if to grab visitors with wooden tentacles. It was particularly eerie on a wintery day such as this; but even in full summer foliage, the high canopy kept sunlight from penetrating this deeply and the branches retained their sinister look. The public would have to traverse in single-file, only to burst out onto the wide country lane bordering the high wall of the Riddle estate.

It had been Penny’s inspiration to refurbish the grand house from this side only so visitors could visualize the splendid façade that had lured young Merope. A short walk down the lane stood the small caretaker’s cottage with the main portion of the house looming behind it. From this angle, the once stately structure retained the derelict look from the time of Lord Voldemort’s residence.

Again, it was the contrasts that made a lasting impression: the sparkling outer appearance of the far side of the house belied the disdain with which Tom Riddle, Senior, would reject the young witch who had attempted to magically ensnare his love.

The track from the caretaker’s bleak cottage to the main house had been fashioned to wind sinuously through the overgrown grass in an unspoken tribute to Voldemort’s monstrous serpent. Once atop the slight rise, the rickety steps to the main house were left with gaping holes that had been invisibly reinforced from beneath but which allowed visitors to witness Voldemort’s festering psyche. Sanitizing the area without losing the abandoned look had been more difficult than Penny had originally supposed, but her budget allowed her to hire experts in the field who had preserved every discolored stain and feathery cobweb for posterity.

The true challenge had been the graveyard. The historic site would be open to visitors during daylight hours only, so she could not hope to capitalize on its spooky atmosphere in the fading twilight. In the stark light of day, it was merely a scraggly spot with tumbled gravestones and overwrought baroque statuary. A testament to bad taste, perhaps; but hardly indicative of the true horrors Harry had witnessed the night of Voldemort’s resurrection. Penny knew that, somehow, she would have to make the graveyard appear menacing.

Here’s where her extensive conversations with Harry had paid off. Although hesitant to revisit those painful memories, Penny’s gentle persistence had finally convinced him that she had every intention of treating matters just as sensitively as Luna had.

“I want to get it right,” she’d attested fervently. “I’d be positively thrilled if you reviewed my efforts and made any necessary adjustments.”

As Penny recalled the details of Harry’s truncated duel with Voldemort, a small grassy knoll bordering the property drew her like a magnet. It would be ideal to recreate the Priori Incantatem phenomenon, but that proved to be a more daunting task than anyone had envisioned. Obtaining wands with a similar core had been a simple matter; getting them to react with one another was nigh impossible, Penny decided in despair. Although the literature indicated it was a rare phenomenon, that should not preclude her from recreating it under controlled laboratory conditions, as it were.

In frustration, she sought out her counterpart in the War Museum, one Ravenclaw to another. She knew Luna had researched related issues in order to notate a photograph of Voldemort’s wand broken in two upon a spreading pool of blood. True, the blood had been mostly Harry’s, but it had not changed the startling impact of the photo taken by Ministry officials in the wake of the final battle.

As the focal point of the gruesome exhibit, the silvery lumps that remained of Voldemort’s serpent ring were encased in an impenetrable glass vial. Set atop a small turnstile, the strange crystal eyes blinked at visitors in a most unsettling fashion. The curator in her couldn’t help but be disappointed that the broken pieces of Voldemort’s wand had been burned in the hearth at Godric’s Hollow that very night. But as Hestia Jones described how she had fed all the Death Eater wands into the strangely smoking fire, the necessity of such drastic precautions was all too clear.

Luna’s eyes lit up at the new challenge. “Research is all find and good,” she began, “but nothing can compare to practical knowledge. I found Mr. Ollivander to be an invaluable resource. I’d be glad to introduce you to him.”

“You’d do that for me, Luna?” Penny pleaded.

“Of course, Mr. Ollivander can seem a bit off-putting at first,” Luna admitted. “But his stories are ever so entertaining once you get him to open up.”

Penelope thought the description was rather apt for Luna herself, even though she had since revised her opinion of the reclusive second year she’d known at Hogwarts.

Once past the jangly bell on the door, Owen Ollivander was just as Penny remembered him from so many years before. His penetrating eyes seemed to bore into hers as he nodded emphatically. “Yes, indeed, I remember: beech wood, ten inches long, mermaid hair core.”

Warned of his peculiar recognition ritual, Penny smiled broadly and patted her wand pocket with assurance. “Hasn’t let me down yet.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t recall your name, though,” Ollivander remarked with the slightest air of chagrin. “But any friend of Luna’s…”

“Penelope Clearwater,” she supplied. “I don’t really use my married name of Olin very much anymore.”

“Luna said you needed some information about wands,” Ollivander supplied. “I just might know a thing about them.” With a quick flick of his wand, the curtain to the back room drew open to reveal a gangly young man atop an exceptionally tall ladder. “Milo, could you cover the shop? I’m taking these nice young ladies to Florean’s for some cocoa.”

“Right-o, Mr. O!” Milo flashed a ready smile. Then in the next heartbeat, he slid down the ladder using only his hands for guidance. “I’ll be sure to wave out the window if I get swamped.”

“I didn’t know you’d taken on an assistant,” Luna commented as Ollivander ushered them past the merry awning of the ice cream parlor in the facing row of shops. Despite the nippy temperature, there were a number of folks enjoying elaborate concoctions inside the glass-fronted shop.

“Business had been booming,” Ollivander volunteered as he pointed to one of the metal tables which had been brought inside for the winter. “Seems back-up wands are all the rage since it became known that the intrepid Harry Potter used such a subterfuge to defeat the Dark Lord himself.”

“I couldn’t very well omit such an important detail,” Luna confided.

No one mentioned that Harry had never retrieved his auxiliary wand from Voldemort’s corpse. It had remained as a solitary sentinel imbedded in his nemesis’ ribcage as the remains smoldered atop a pyre in the Ministry courtyard. Officials estimated that most of wizarding Britain had filed by in silent witness until the carcass had been reduced to ashes. Fighting the ignobility of death to the very end, Voldemort’s body had smoked for three days and nights, the repugnant creosote smell attributed to a nearby Muggle demolition site. As if on cue, a fierce summer thunderstorm had doused the lingering stench and scattered the last stubborn remnants to anonymous corners of the planet.

Ollivander gave her a self-satisfied smile. “I couldn’t pay for such a recommendation. I really should offer you some sort of recompense.”

“Please, Mr. O,” Luna demurred. “We established that the last time. Any sort of kick-back makes me look unprofessional. Besides, Harry’s auxiliary wand was fashioned by Gregorovich; he didn’t want to risk it bearing any similarity to Voldemort’s.”

Penny noted how Luna artfully avoided mentioning that Harry had been so shaken by the Priori Incantatem phenomenon, he’d begun to wonder about Mr. Ollivander’s true loyalties in the process. With total dispassion, Harry allowed how easy it would have been to maneuver him, a total rube when it came to all things magical, into accepting a wand which could not be used against Voldemort. It was just another example of how Harry’s determination to face his demons head-on had strengthened his position in the end.

“I won’t complain if Mr. Gregorovich is getting extra business these days,” Ollivander offered magnanimously. “But I assure you, he doesn’t have such an alluring supply of wands in tropical woods such as teak, tamarind, and gumbo-limbo.”

At Luna’s urging, Penny ordered a lava flow sundae, the sharp cinnamon syrup warming her insides as it smoldered over a field of white chocolate ‘snow’. It was a fit accompaniment to Ollivander’s engrossing recount of the two years he’d spent in exile as the wizarding war heated up throughout Britain. He assured them that while he was certain good would eventually prevail, he had used his enforced vacation to create a whole new product line.

“Granted, the accounts I received in exotic ports of call were so full of rumor; the Daily Prophet often weeks late and so incomplete that I often wondered whether I was just trying to keep my fingers busy. I had no idea a new fashion would come about at the direct result of Harry’s cleverness.”

“What made you decide to leave?” Penny ventured. “It was so disheartening when I made a trip home over Christmas and Diagon Alley seemed such a pale imitation of itself.”

“I understand completely,” Ollivander empathized. “It was not by choice, I assure you. There has been an Ollivander’s in this very spot for centuries.”

“It looked like your shop had been ransacked,” Penny added.

“It had,” Ollivander confessed in a low tone. “But I did the handiwork. What better way to keep the vandals away than if it looked as if someone had already absconded with the choicest items?”

“But you must have had to leave so much behind,” Luna considered.

Ollivander shrugged. “It was unavoidable. I could always make more. But if these hands were destroyed…” He held his graceful fingers up to the light and examined them reverently. “Well, think of the legacy that would have been lost.”

“Weren’t you afraid someone would track you?” Penny posed.

“Absolutely. That’s why I had to make certain the echoes of magic left behind could not be traced to me.”

“But if you did the deed...?” Luna countered.

“Ah, yes, but think of all the wands I had at my disposal. Some the likes of which had not been used in hundreds of years. If a truly clever wizard tried to read my clues, he would have been totally stumped.”

“Who would have been up to the task?” Penny pondered.

“Certainly Albus Dumbledore,” Ollivander claimed. “He could stick his finger in the wind and taste the very air. Seen him do it on countless occasions.”

“Anyone else?” Luna wondered.

Ollivander just shrugged in reply. “Doesn’t do to underestimate the enemy, if you take my meaning. Those goons from the Wand Parity Division didn’t need to come to my back door more than once for me to know that the climate had gone sour.”

“Wand Parity Division? Never heard of it,” Penny confirmed.

“Neither had I,” Ollivander continued. “Undoubtedly a trumped up name that rattled off their tongues after Apparating amid a cloud of blackest smoke. But someone had certainly tipped them off about my contracts with the Ministry. Aurors and other magical law enforcements units can go through a lot of wands in short order, but I was to make sure I supplied an equal number of wands to the private citizenry before I could fill my next order for the Ministry.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Penny protested. “What did they hope to gain?”

“Other than intimidation,” Luna added breathlessly.

“I suspect they had a whole army of private citizens waiting to snap up wands. Wands that would then be supplied to those who were not permitted to buy them outright. Trolls, giants, elves.”

“Goblins aren’t allowed to carry wands, either,” Luna mused. “They’ve been contentious about it for centuries.”

“Did you fear Gringott’s would dissolve into anarchy?” Penny asked.

“Not deep down,” Ollivander considered. “The goblins would be giving up a lot of power by abdicating control of the wizarding banks. But it made me nervous that someone would be trying to tempt them away from the little fiefdom they had rightfully carved out for themselves. It was not the way I wanted the Ollivander name to be remembered for centuries to come.”

Mr. Ollivander tasted his newly replenished cocoa as he idly watched a mother with a young child enter his shop. “Looks like Milo might get a chance to demonstrate his Muggle magic tricks for a willing audience. The Weasley twins have been teaching him in their free moments.”

“Just no fireworks inside,” Luna reminded him with a small giggle.

“Set off the wands for sure.” Ollivander laughed at their private joke. “Luna suggested I try that if I ever needed to escape while the world thought my shop was under attack. Could have used a mind like hers during the war.”

Penny waved away the offer of cocoa in order to savor the cinnamon still tingling pleasantly on her tongue. Taking the opportunity, she explained the problems she’d experienced with the Priori Incantatem recreation for her historical site.

“They don’t teach much about wandlore these days, do they?” Ollivander noted with a tiny frown. “Much more interesting than History of Magic, if you ask me. As a matter of fact, you can outline the fall of Rome and all the great upstart civilizations by tracing the path of certain influential wands. Think of them as barometers of enlightenment and culture. But you won’t be able to duplicate the Priori Incantatem effect. Not unless you’re extremely lucky �“ or unlucky, as it were.”

“If you map out the stumbling blocks, perhaps we can figure out how to circumvent them,” Penny proposed as she flipped open a notepad.

Ollivander nodded with a grim set to his lips. “Brother wands. Must share a certain similarity in the core. Not just both unicorn hair, mind you, but from the same animal. Unless the wandmaker harvested the cores himself, you have no way to know. Even I can only tell unicorn hair apart by color, nothing else.”

“How did the other brother wands come to be?” Penny questioned.

“They were a rare gift to me from Dumbledore. His phoenix had just been a baby �“ the first time around �“ and with the mindlessness of youth had flown carelessly into one of those magical contraptions in his office just as the ruddy thing came to life. Yanked two feathers from its glorious tail. Must have been painful, too. Dumbledore said how the bird had struggled to twist his body to use his own tears on the wound. Needless to say, the bird was never that clumsy again.”

“But you fashioned the wands to look different on the outside,” Penny prodded.

“Of course, no two people are alike. Each a unique combination. I suppose I could deliberately create the two wands for you. Do you have a source for any possible core materials? Something unique to your enterprise would be ideal.”

“We’ll put that issue aside for now,” Penny decided as her quill flowed over the page. “What else?”

“What about the accuracy of the duelists?” Luna suggested.

Ollivander nodded encouragingly. “Also an essential component. The spells must intersect one another in mid-stream. There is no magnetic pull to attract one to the other; remember the brother wands are actually trying to resist one another.”

“Accuracy,” Penny mouthed as she added to her checklist. “What about the type of spell? Does it have to be particularly virulent in nature?”

Ollivander shrugged with sad eyes. “I'm not completely certain. Clearly, Voldemort had no moral constraints about using one of the Unforgivables. What about Harry?”

“Can’t say about the final battle as those spells were both issued non-verbally,” Luna spoke up. “But at the Riddle graveyard, Voldemort voiced the Killing Curse while in the same breath, Harry attested to calling forth, ‘Expelliarmus.’ It was as if the maniac made a point of announcing the spell in order to savor the fear in Harry’s eyes at the recognition that doom was upon him.”

“Arrogant git!” disparaged Ollivander as he shook his head. “Gave advance warning so even an untrained duelist could neatly bisect his spell.”

“So all we can say, for certain, is that one of the spells must be non-defensive in nature,” Penny summarized.

“Yes, but let’s not forget the underlying animosity existing between the two participants,” Ollivander clarified. “In magic, intent is often the most important thing of all. What’s more, there has to be a tie between the persons or the brother wands won’t consent to their acquisition in the first place.”

Penny gulped noticeably as it occurred to her that Ollivander was equating Harry’s potential with Voldemort’s. With a tongue like sandpaper, she issued, “What linked Harry to Voldemort?”

“Why his scar, of course,” Ollivander responded immediately. “Not that a tie existed at the time the boy-who-would-become-the-Dark-Lord bought his wand from my father. Which is why the brother wand sat collecting dust for so many years in the back of my shop.”

“What about the fact that Voldemort killed Harry’s parents? Would that have been a tie as well?” Luna prodded.

Ollivander took a long sip of his cocoa, looking between the two women with glittering eyes. Satisfied that their open expressions conveyed just how fascinated they had become with the subject, he proposed, “I take it neither of you are familiar with the history of the Priori Incantatem. Wizard scholars had long theorized that such a thing was potentially possible. It was a pronouncement met with the same awe and indifference that often accompanies a prophecy. They would believe it, when and if, it ever came to pass. And for many hundreds of years, it didn’t. It was just an arcane theory that fascinated magical scholars but left laymen unmoved. Then came the tale of the two brothers, an all too familiar situation as their childhood closeness exploded into rivalry when they both fell in love with the same woman.”

“Hamlet,” Penelope breathed. “A tale of one brother who murders the other just so he can marry the Queen himself and secure the throne. Throws the son/nephew into a huge identity crisis.”

“Can’t say I’m familiar with that one. A Muggle tale?” At Penelope’s acknowledgement of her Muggle parentage, Ollivander consented, “Countless examples exist in all cultures. It’s the dark side of love which leads to obsession and despair. The fact that it’s such a universal theme is what made scholars ponder why the Priori Incantatem was, inversely, such a rare occurrence.

“As to the two brothers immortalized in wandlore, they had been close all their lives. Their father gained renown by capturing some sort of magical beast and he presented the local wandmaker with matching cores so brother wands could be fashioned for his sons. The resemblance between the two brothers was remarkable and they were often taken for twins once they grew into adulthood and the age difference was not so noticeable. It was a major source of confusion until one brother, the younger, consented to grow a moustache so they could be told apart with ease.”

Penny suppressed a smile as she thought of Fred and George who would have then alternated whose turn it was to sport the moustache and made the whole contrivance irrelevant.

“A young soldier and his wife settled nearby and both brothers, still unmarried, became smitten with the young woman. While her husband was away on prolonged campaign, the brothers did not hesitate to offer her assistance in a neighborly fashion, especially once it was discovered she was with child. Then the day came when the husband’s body was borne home on a litter by his men and the brothers both converged on the young widow to offer their condolences. Society being less civilized in those days, the young mother-to-be was urged to take a new husband so she’d have a ready protector by the time her child was born. The account does not say what part the woman played at this point; whether she encouraged them, or even pitted one against the other. The fact was that the acrimony between the brothers increased to the boiling point until they faced each other down in a duel.

“Forced to duel against their will, the brother wands resisted with the Priori Incantatem phenomenon, taking their own measure of the brothers. Much to the young widow’s surprise, her husband’s wraith emerged from the wand of the brother deemed to be less worthy by the magic. She married the other brother and was rewarded with the birth of a son not too much later, a son who bore an uncanny likeness to her new husband.”

“Which brother was the true father?” Luna considered. “Did she even know, considering the resemblance?”

Ollivander shook his head regretfully. “Such a pertinent fact, but the answer has been lost. To wandmakers, it would have been irrelevant. All that was handed down was that the murderous brother escaped in the night and was never seen in those parts again. As for the Priori Incantatem effect, it did not recur until many hundreds of years later when Harry Potter faced off against Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Ollivander,” Penny put forth, “but that tale is hardly illuminating. Other than the presence of the brother wands, the two situations are totally dissimilar!”

“Are they though?” Ollivander drawled in a manner which seemed almost predatory. “It’s true that one set of facts may not be a blueprint for the other, but think of the underlying emotions. Betrayal, murder, retribution. The unfathomable power of love twisted into hatred in the first instance; in Harry’s case, his mother’s loving sacrifice repelling death.”

“I would suggest good versus evil, but we don’t really know whether the victorious brother was an adulterer or whether that crime should also be laid at his brother’s feet,” Luna presented as she looked expectantly from one face to the other.

“Does it really matter?” Penny considered. “A child conceived of love, illicit though it may be, can hardly be compared to murder.”

“And in each case, the universe seeks equilibrium. So the cosmic scales of justice are calibrated,” Ollivander maintained. “Evil versus good, light versus dark. These things are always in flux. But you’d be wrong to conclude that the brother wands act as agents of retribution; that’s just a case of projecting our own feelings onto a magical, but still inanimate, object.”

Perplexed even more than when she started, Penelope stammered, “Then how does the Prior Incantatem work?”

“To this day, no one knows for sure,” attested Ollivander. “With only two examples to study, you see why many questions are unanswerable. But my understanding of wand lore tells me this: it was a foregone conclusion that Harry would be victorious against Voldemort’s wand in each instance.” To the incredulous expressions directed at him, Ollivander amended, “Not that he couldn’t have been killed in another manner. Harry himself instinctively sought a different wand to do the dark deed, if it came to that.

“Wands operate by very simple rules. Once defeated, the wand recognizes the victor as his true owner, regardless of whose hand actually wields it. It is not so noticeable if the wand is used against another, unrelated person. But it will not allow itself to be used against he who it recognizes at its true owner. When the killing curse rebounded from Harry’s forehead as a baby, that wand recognized Harry as the victor. And it would not turn on its master. Add to this the natural resistance of brother wands to be used against one another and you can see how the cards were stacked in Harry’s favor.

“But if Voldemort had bothered to study wandlore, he would have known that the first step to victory demanded that he abandon his wand and seek a replacement. Snapping it in two himself would have ensured another wand would readily agree to serve him. But instead, his ignominious followers found their way back to the invisible mansion at Godric’s Hollow with the express goal of retrieving their master’s wand and preserving it for him.”

“Why didn’t Riddle make wandlore a part of his individual study program?” Penny postulated. “I can’t believe Dumbledore wouldn’t--”

“Dumbledore knew all right,” Luna confirmed. “He was the one who recognized the Priori Incantatem when Harry first described it. Immediately knowing the lad before him had been shaken to the very core by seeing his dead parents emerge from Voldemort’s wand.”

“And Dumbledore wasn’t about to reveal his trump card to Voldemort’s followers,” Ollivander supplied.

“But he didn’t tell Harry either!” Luna protested.

“The better to maintain the secret, my dear,” Ollivander claimed with a mirthless smile.

Penny looked up from her scrawled notes as sudden inspiration struck. “Didn’t Harry hand his wand off to Neville at the last second during the final duel? Yet the Priori Incantatem still took.”

“But Mr. O didn’t sell Neville a wand; Neville used his father’s,” Luna protested. “Still uses it; it’s a family heirloom.” And had been a final testament to Neville’s grandmother that the son was a true reflection of his father, Luna thought proudly.

“But surely you’re not implying….” Penny left her words trailing off as the swirling possibilities threatened to engulf her.

“We will never know, will we?” Ollivander issued in an eerie, ethereal tone.

Penny shook her head to clear it as the words of the prophecy rose unbidden. The mark of the Dark Lord; Neville bore it too. Harry himself had reasoned that his classmate possessed the internal scars of visiting his parents in their vegetative state, alive on the outside but as good as dead inside their injured brains. Would the brother wand have chosen Neville as its owner if he had called on Mr. Ollivander before Harry had?

After deliberate consideration, Penny tabled the idea of recreating the duel. Perhaps once she knew more about the phenomenon. The closest thing to a rivalry she had been able to postulate was the twin brothers who Umbriel had known at school; both destined to play Keeper for rival Quidditch teams. But somehow arguing over the possession of the Quaffle, or who got to wear the Keeper’s mask for Durmstrang during their school years, were exceedingly petty squabbles at best. Even if she circumvented the wand’s propensity to choose its owner by having Ollivander construct custom wands with the singular cores she supplied, she didn’t think it would be enough. Not to mention the number of zeros in the custom price she’d been quoted.

Instead, she would recreate the horror of having an innocent bystander cut down before Harry had time to draw a breath. If Amos Diggory didn’t object to his son’s tragedy being memorialized in this fashion, Penny was fairly certain she knew how to pull it off.

Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.

---

Eighteen
Diplomacy


Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers, hoping to stave off the impending headache. What a god-awful mess the Wizengamot had made of the laws during the last decade! She pondered why she had been so certain she could solve the problem without a truckload of dynamite. Thinking like a Muggle again, she chided herself half-heartedly. What she really needed was a bushel of paper-chomping worms, or insects, or whatever magical beast could be specially bred to devour bad legislation; surely Hagrid would know. Perhaps she’d send him an owl.

She sullenly closed the heavy cover of the wizarding law book. A bit of fresh air would clear her mind, perhaps a cup of tea in the employee courtyard even. But before she could summon her all-weather cloak, there was a knock at her office door.

“Enter,” she called out absently, her mind still lost in an indeterminate fog.

Amos poked his curly grey head inside and whispered, “You have a visitor to request a special favor. A temporary assignment of sorts.”

Hermione nodded in resignation as she pasted an amicable smile on her lips. Probably another Unspeakable seeking a consultation about the newly created Dementor Containment Area. Really, if they were that unsure of what they were doing, they should have just assigned the Dementor Unit to the Magical Creatures Department in the first place; created an auxiliary division if they wanted to maintain a bit of autonomy. Just think of the shoe leather that would be saved when they didn’t have to unwind their way past the disorienting corridors of the Department of Mysteries and take a lift to another floor.

She was caught short when Percy Weasley walked in and seated himself in the nearest chair, leaning over intently.

“Did Amos brief you?” he asked, getting right to the point.

Merlin, he barely warned me! Hermione thought to herself. Aloud, she clarified, “Just that it was a pre-approved assignment. Something for the Minister?”

“More of a diplomatic issue. Last minute shuffle in personnel and suddenly we have no one to escort the visiting Bulgarian Quidditch team through the War Museum.”

“I’m sure Luna will do just fine…” Hermione began, only to wind down when she caught Percy’s unblinking stare.

“There was a special request made for your presence. Penelope was going to handle it originally since she’s technically part of my staff, but she’s been called away to deal with an emergency on her own turf. Viktor Krum specifically asked for you; said your Yuletide greetings mentioned you were working at the Ministry.”

“I thought Viktor retired from the team,” she replied, recalling how Ron had made fun of the unflattering photos in Which Broomstick.

“The Bulgarians seem to be a bit looser with those designations than we are,” Percy harrumphed. “Last minute injury to their new Seeker and the second string wasn’t ready for an important international match, so Krum steps in to save the day. And as the senior member of the team, he is accorded certain privileges.”

“What exactly would my assignment be?”

“Keep him company for the day, be his own personal tour guide through the museum and any other London sights he might want to visit. Have high tea at the Connaught; the Ministry has an account already set up there. Only restriction is that you finish up in time for him to have cocktails with the Minister at half past five.”

“What about the rest of the Quidditch team?” Hermione demanded, not wanting to be stuck being nursemaid to a bunch of disinterested broom-jockeys.

“We have other personnel from the diplomatic corps to herd them around the sites. You’ll be assigned to Krum exclusively. The War Museum’s been closed to the public until two so you won’t have to worry about dodging any autograph hounds, either.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the thought of having to deal with Viktor’s fans; Ron had been such a rabid fan until he’d actually come face to face with the man. “I don’t know, Percy….”

“Look, Hermione, I know it’s an imposition. Trust me, I do. But Eleanor’s with Mum today. She won’t mind watching her a bit longer; you know how single-minded she is with infants. And Penny really is caught in a bind: her site just opened to the public a few days ago and she gets word today that Umbridge wants to bring her ‘knitting group’ by for a private tour.”

“Have you suggested burning oil? It proved very successful with the Visigoths.”

“If only Umbridge were that civilized!” Percy scoffed with just a hint of a smile.

It would be nice to see Viktor in person after years of short notes and infrequent updates. He had always been a stalwart friend. “Will there be press there? I’m hardly--”

Percy glanced quickly at his watch; it was just barely past nine. “I’m here to escort you home to change. We’re due to meet them in roughly ninety minutes for elevenses. That should give you ample time.”

Hermione nodded curtly as a quick motion with her wand stowed all her paperwork neatly in a self-locking desk drawer.

Percy’s sharp footsteps rang along the corridor as he assured Hermione that her supervisor had already approved her loan and, no, it was not necessary to alert any of the assistants of her absence. He’d already taken care of those details for her.

“Think of me as your personal assistant until I deliver you into Krum’s capable hands,” Percy placated.

Ron’s just going to love this, she groaned to herself. Just more groundless suspicion for a fire that wouldn’t catch flame with a herd of dragons blowing on it. “Will you make sure to let Ron know?” she pressed, keeping her face as neutral as possible.

“Of course,” Percy allowed. “As part of the Magical Games Department, he’s probably been assigned to greet the team when they arrive at the Ministry for cocktails. An honor guard of sorts before they adjourn to the Minister’s private rooms. Set to coincide with quitting time.”

Once at the bank of lifts, Percy flashed his official insignia to commandeer one for their own private use. In a matter of seconds, they were exiting into the Atrium and headed for the Apparition point just past the main doors.

“It will save a lot of time if you just Apparate us directly to the upstairs of your house,” Percy suggested with a slight blush. “I can’t say I’ve been further than the kitchen myself.”

With an amused grin, Hermione deposited them directly in the hallway outside the master bedroom. As Percy leaned against the banister to regain his footing, she sent a silent charm into the next room to smooth the bedcovers.

“No need to be embarrassed, Percy,” she offered as she walked through the doorway and waited for him to follow. “You’re my brother-in-law, remember?”

“Right.” Percy tried to use briskness to cover his self-consciousness, then gave it up as hopeless. “I’m not exactly used to inviting myself into a woman’s bedchamber, all right.” He sat himself down on the settee at the foot of the bed and cradled his face in his hands. “Just laugh and get it over with. I live for humiliation.”

Hermione couldn’t help it. As much as she tried to maintain a straight face, the laughter just bubbled up. “I’m sorry, Percy, I truly am. But if you could just see yourself!”

“I’d feel like I was part of Fudge’s entourage, I know. Just promise me you won’t call me Weatherby.”

Hermione joined in with Percy’s wry chuckle, then suggested, “Why don’t you find something in my closet you think is suitable? I know the Ministry has female assistants for this kind of thing, but right now you’re all I’ve got �“ and I have no idea what would be appropriate.”

When she returned from the bathroom with her hair sleeked back into an elegant French twist, she found that Percy had laid out the royal blue taffeta dress she’d worn to Eleanor’s christening.

“You don’t think it’s too--”

“Elegant?” Percy supplied. “Krum doesn’t want to see you in one of Mrs. Figg’s tweed ensembles. This is perfect. Now where do you keep your Order of Merlin? Boggarts, I should have remembered to ask you while we were still in your office! You don’t have it--”

“Framed on the wall like Remus, you mean? No, Hogwarts is a lot safer than the Ministry when it comes to personal belongings. There’s a small red box in the top dresser drawer.”

Uncertain why Percy was so concerned with the medal, she grabbed the dress and retired into the bathroom to change. She was just slipping her feet into elegant pumps when Percy approached with the velvet box in hand.

“Percy, really, it’s not something I take to wearing in public. I have a vintage brooch that’s just perfect…” She trailed off as she saw the determined look in Percy’s eye.

“It’s part of your official credentials,” Percy explained. “Or at least I’ve charmed it to serve that function for the day. It’s much too late to improvise anything else. Besides, diplomats routinely wear the decorations awarded to them by their governments.”

“Men do,” Hermione acknowledged as she remembered clipping the medallion just under Ron’s black tie for Ginny’s wedding. Harry and Remus had also been wearing theirs; Ginny and Tonks had not. “But even that’s only for formal occasions.” Fondly, she recalled the unstuffy wedding she and Ron had shared in the back meadow at the Burrow. The summer breeze had caused an ocean of wildflowers to undulate amid flowing pastoral gowns. There had been no call for fancy medals to adorn Ron’s crisp linen shirt.

“I guarantee you every other member of the diplomatic corps would be proudly displaying their decorations, if only they had any,” Percy mumbled as he concentrated on the spell that would painlessly attach the Order of Merlin to the shimmering taffeta of Hermione’s bolero jacket. “Krum needs to recognize he’s getting the cream of the crop here.”

With a radiant smile, Hermione tucked her own wand into the hidden pocket along the seam of her full skirt. It was a little awkward with the dropped waistline, but the body-skimming bodice accentuated how quickly she’d regained her figure after nursing Eleanor for the better part of four months.

---

“Is like Yule Ball all over again,” Viktor whispered in her ear as he drew her away from the boisterous buffet arranged in the refurbished solarium. “Diamonds on roof instead of snow on silver trees, but it sparkle just the same. Like your eyes.”

Hermione giggled nervously as she surveyed the crowded room around them, but no one was paying them the least mind. Following Viktor’s finger, she shaded her eyes at the dazzling display as the sun sliced between the tall townhouses surrounding Grimmauld Place. The morning’s rain had indeed wreathed the glass roof with a generous smattering of moisture to refract the sun’s rays into their own private light show.

“You forget you’re a married man,” she joked.

“Vife number three moved out last week,” he confided lowly.

“I’m sorry, Viktor. I thought you had ironed things out ahead of time.”

“Me, too. But I get it wronski once again.”

Hermione laughed at his use of the nickname she had given him after he butchered her name for the ninety-ninth time. “But you told her the truth…”

“Ya, Vicky,” he replied using the pet name he’d bequeathed to her upon discovering Ron had likened him to a female. A bit too prophetic for his own taste, but perfect for Hermione. “She accepted everything. But she vant too much from me, more than I’m villing to give.”

“You know the solution,” Hermione whispered as she allowed him to draw her into the deserted hallway outside the roped off basement kitchen.

Instantly, a uniformed attendant was at Viktor’s elbow with a tall glass of dark ale and a more dainty cup filled with crushed ice for her. “Taste,” he suggested with an encouraging smile. “I bring bottle from home. Is like mead only made from elderberry blossoms.”

Hermione took a tentative sip of the pale yellow liquid. It was pleasantly sweet and cold as it slid down her throat �“ and thankfully, not very high in alcoholic content. “Very nice indeed,” she noted as the glass studiously refilled itself. She leveled her gaze on Viktor who gave her a casual shrug.

“It vas either self-filling charm or they’d be at our elbows all afternoon,” he defended as he took a long pull of the dark beer. “Is good, too. Reminds me of local brew at home. Vat is name?”

“Thestral Ale, it’s called. They have the audacity to market it with the slogan that it will disappear before your very eyes.”

Viktor issued a deep chuckle. “Clever. Cheeky, as they say. See I learn English slang.”

“Cheeky monkey.”

“Vat’s vith monkey? A comparison to my prehistoric ancestors?”

Hermione laughed as she felt herself relaxing in his effortless company. “That would be a Neanderthal. A comparison I have made with many men, I assure you. But the slang expression for something that’s outrageous but engaging at the same time is ‘cheeky monkey.’ Cheeky by itself is more akin to mouthing off at the teacher.”

“Ah, grounds for detention.” Viktor nodded that he understood the distinction. “Many teachers make you stay after class?”

“Never. It’s only in novels that schoolgirls are seduced by their professors. At Hogwarts, it would have been automatic grounds for expulsion for the student and an inglorious sacking for the teacher.”

Viktor cocked an eyebrow to convey ‘only if they’re discovered.’ He was such a romantic at heart, no wonder women fell for him regardless of his protestations, Hermione thought to herself.

“Ya, officials vould have looked down noses at such proceedings at Durmstrang as vell. But being boy’s school…”

“It isn’t anymore,” Hermione corrected him. “Welcome to the twentieth century, I say.” Feeling a bit more courageous, she dared, “But being a boy’s school must have been heaven for you.”

Viktor laughed deeply at a side of him that so few people knew. “More like child in candy store who is diabetic. Touching only vith eyes.”

“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have been so flippant.”

“Naw,” Viktor allowed happily. “Is no different than me making joke about you keeping nose in book. Does this offend you, Vicky?”

“No, but I don’t live in the shadows between every heartbeat like you do, Viktor. You’re entitled to be happy.”

“Vas happy vith vife number two. She make jokes like you.”

“Then what happened?”

Viktor sighed in resignation. “She fall in love vith fashion designer she claim vas perfect for me. And I not von to stand in vay of true love. She send me lovely designer clothing on regular basis. Viktor is best dressed Quidditch player, no?”

As he stood back for her appraisal, Hermione had no choice but to admire the cut of the black suit and slate grey shirt he wore. The smooth folds of the pleated trousers attested to the training regimen he’d resumed in order to fill in for the injured Seeker.

“Very continental,” she complimented him.

“And the color of twilight sky. Vat do you call it?” he demanded as his eyes drank in the iridescent fabric of her dress.

“Sapphire. Like the gemstone.”

“Of course. I alvays buy diamonds. Go vith everything; first vife train me vell.”

Hermione took a determined breath, “Viktor…”

“No,” he replied. “I know vere you are heading ven you use proper first name. And answer remains no. The vorld is not ready for this truth.”

“But many other sports figures--”

“Is their decision. I support them. But is not answer for me.”

“I have a close friend who’s a werewolf and feels quite the same,” Hermione conceded gracefully. “So please believe me, I do understand.”

“This friend, is Quidditch coach?”

Hermione shook her head as she recalled Ron’s assertions that only in Bulgaria were werewolves treated with at least a scintilla of dignity. “No, he’s more of an intellectual.”

“Yet he has job?”

“Yes.”

“Different customs in England, then.”

“Not so much. He presents himself as being like everyone else, even though it’s a lie.”

“But he finds lie necessary.”

“Only because laws are skewed so that employers are practically required to reject werewolves or submit themselves to constant Ministry overview.”

“These laws are enforced by current administration?”

“Not really, but they still remain on the books. It’s enough to dissuade any employer who doesn’t want his business to be painted with a bullseye, even if it’s more paranoia than anything else. They foster fear of werewolves and that’s enough.”

“How does friend maintain job then? Superlative skill?”

Hermione nodded with a fond smile. “Versatility and an indomitable spirit. Not to mention that his employer is a rather plucky woman who might actually relish lobbing brimstone onto the Ministry’s front porch, if it came to that.”

“Yes, you have surrounded yourself vith heroic friends,” Viktor remarked as he gazed at a group picture taken the night of Voldemort’s defeat.

They were a motley bunch, held together by ragged bandages just as much as their victorious smiles. She redirected his attention to the vintage photo of the Order that contained so many who had died in that first campaign, the Potters and Ron’s uncles among them. “We wanted to recreate a similar pose,” she explained. “Even though it was an incomplete grouping; some were in the Hospital Wing.”

Viktor peered more carefully at the photo. “You look fresh as daisy, no? Ron, too.”

Hermione felt a hint of embarrassment rise to her face as she explained their clothing had been “scandalously disheveled” as the Headmistress had put it before she sent them to their dormitories to change. “Believe me, we were plenty scratched up on our knees and elbows �“ you just can’t see it under those robes.”

Mindful of the abbreviated facts contained in the museum display, Hermione recounted her role in the final confrontation omitting any mention of werewolves.

“So you and Ron never faced Voldemort directly?” Viktor pressed.

Hermione shook her head at the irony of it all. “Just the Minister for Magic,” she conceded, swallowing the urge to add that a career politician could be just as underhanded. Such undiplomatic comments did not suit her assignment for the day, she reminded herself.

Of his own accord, Viktor came to a similar conclusion. “Ah, the snake in grass. He should have known that in intellectual duel, he vould not measure up.”

Hermione glanced around nervously, but they were alone on the first floor landing. The faint voices below indicated the others were just beginning with their tour, though.

An unfamiliar exhibit caught her eye and she drew closer to review the photos under a heading that read: The Obstructionists. Photos of Cornelius Fudge and Dolores Umbridge stood side by side. The verbiage about Fudge discussed the climate of fear that had persisted during the last year of his tenure as his denial of Voldemort’s return bordered on the pathological. An ostrich burying its head in the sand, Hermione thought to herself; but Luna’s words were more charitable as they outlined how Fudge’s policies doomed his administration to eventual collapse.

Beneath Dolores Umbridge’s portrait were miniature versions of the infamous Educational Decrees, each prominently featuring Fudge’s florid signature at the bottom. The legend read:

As Senior Undersecretary for then Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, Dolores Umbridge was given the important task of furthering the administration’s agenda. Ms. Umbridge was assigned the duty of calming fears among the student populace at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with a temporary posting to the faculty. As demonstrated by the long list of Ministry Decrees, Umbridge’s mission to teach the students what to think backfired spectacularly; requiring more and more stringent methods as control slipped like sand through her fingers.

As the sole eyewitness to Voldemort’s harrowing resurrection, Harry Potter became the final obstacle that needed to be overcome. So Ms. Umbridge made it her goal to squelch any support he may have found among the other students. Misinformation was routinely funneled into news reports which sought to paint Potter as a spoiled attention-grabbing adolescent, at best-- and a delusional maniac with a tenuous hold on reality, at worst.

But totalitarian methods are often the impetus for the very insurrection they seek to suppress. As Umbridge helmed the Defense Against the Dark Arts classes that taught it was not necessary to defend against an imaginary foe, students turned to another teacher, one who was ready to teach them to defend their integrity as well as their very lives.

Demanding their due, a small group of students threw their loyalty behind Potter and formed a Defense study group that was intentionally given the ironic name of Dumbledore’s Army. Their attempts to lampoon Fudge’s most paranoid fear that the school’s venerable Headmaster was intent on usurping political control led to unexpected consequences. For when the students were discovered by Umbridge’s pogroms, Aurors were sent to detain Dumbledore for treason…

Hermione’s attention to Luna’s overview was arrested by a sharp tug on her sleeve.

“That voman,” Viktor began with a distasteful scowl towards Umbridge’s portrait. “She vas Toad Queen vat gave you so much grief? Your letters vere full of anger about her vengeful methods for many months.”

Hermione nodded with a grim set to her lips. “She’s still giving us grief. Now that she’s retired from the Ministry, she’s set herself up as an informal export on anything and everything.”

“Vouldn’t be so bad if newspaper didn’t quote her at every opportunity. But she should not give you grief �“ she’s pompous buffoon, nothing more.”

“She had amassed a following, Viktor. People who buy into her lies that Harry’s still seeking attention to compensate for the parental love he never knew. She wishes to portray this very museum as nothing more than a gigantic folly fueled by his twisted narcissism.”

“A ready diagnosis vat applies to Toad voman herself. She should look in mirror more often. Even if Reparo Charm needed each time.”

Hermione burst out laughing at Viktor’s wry commentary.

“See,” he offered with amusement dancing in his dark eyes, “that is how ve take Umbridge’s vords. Lies so outrageous are to be met only vith derision.”

Hermione considered that Viktor’s honorable view of the world was perhaps a bit naïve, but accepted it was part of his inherent generosity.

“Did I tell you, Vicky, that Toad Voman vonce visit Durmstrang?”

“Not until this moment,” Hermione attested with rising interest.

“Vell, vithout picture, I not know vas same person.”

“You mean my description wasn’t apt enough?” she teased.

“Should have mentioned unnatural attachment to color pink!”

“Forgive my oversight. How did she manage to visit your school, though? I thought only alumni and students were permitted to know its location.”

Viktor shrugged to indicate it was obvious. “Headmaster allowed to break own rules. He bring visitors in by Portkey. Not necessary to disclose Unplottable location.”

“Was the purpose of her visit a secret as well?”

“She come to lay groundwork for Trivizard Tournament. Accompanied twitchy man who vas in charge of International Cooperation.”

“Barty Crouch, Senior,” Hermione supplied as she recalled Percy had started his Ministry career as Crouch’s assistant. “When was this?”

“I vas deep in training for Vorld Cup, so it must have been previous spring.”

That would make sense, Hermione mused. Percy had not been hired until the summer. “So did the Minister accompany them as well? That would have been Cornelius Fudge.”

“No, she come vith other man; man I assume to be Quidditch coach. I not meet Minister until after First Task complete and he valtz down from reviewing stand.”

It was probably Ludo Bagman then, Hermione surmised. The scandal that had forced his resignation as head of the Magical Games Department had not yet occurred. His swaggering bravado could easily have led Viktor to think of him as a coach, but she never had the chance to ask if it was the same man who had served as one of the tournament judges.

“Now vat man, he is hero,” Viktor announced, appraising the still incomplete exhibit on covert activities.

Hermione could not believe he was referring to Percy, but then she noticed Viktor’s eyes were devouring the words detailing Severus Snape’s dangerous dossier.

“I take Potions classes from him and never knew… All I know he vas related to our Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff.”

This was news to Hermione. “Really? But Snape attended Hogwarts as a lad, not Durmstrang.”

“Very distant relation, but such distinction is not often made in my corner of vorld. Family is family, no matter vat.” He frowned slightly before adding softly, “Things did not turn out so vell for Karkaroff. He try to shake off yoke entirely and there vas no place distant enough for him to hide.”

“I was sorry to hear about that,” Hermione sympathized although she knew very few of the details. “Such an anonymous death is always difficult.”

“Karkaroff alvays have students’ best interests at heart. He vas only von to convince Bulgarian Quidditch team to grant me sabbatical to finish schooling after Vorld Cup.”

“I remember you saying you’d been recruited after what would have been our O.W.L. year.”

“True, and I vas able to keep up vith coursevork for a time through private tutors, much like you did during final year. But ven Bulgaria see it has chance at Vorld Cup, all accommodations cease. They vant to lock me into contract so I vould have to resign to finish schooling.”

“It’s a sad commentary on sports figures that often repeats itself here as well,” Hermione empathized. “So what happened in your case?”

“Vell, my grandmother not happy at all vith Quidditch Association. And no von should vant to see my gran unhappy; she only look frail and harmless.”

With a small snigger, Hermione interjected, “A regular 100 pound Gorgon.”

“Karkaroff say she more like enraged veela vithout beauty and charm,” Viktor confided with a nostalgic grin. “He say he rather face Quidditch Association than her any day.”

“So he smoothed things over for you to return for your final year.”

“Even more, he make sure no vind of coming Trivizard Tournament get past valls of Durmstrang. Quidditch team vould have not liked me to risk their future by becoming contestant.” Magnetically, his eyes scrutinized Snape’s saturnine likeness once more. “But Karkaroff not have nerves of steel like your professor. He realize error of vays and vant to change, stay out of vizarding var entirely.”

Tiptoeing around the very private moments she had witnessed, Hermione expounded, “Snape endured a rather unhappy childhood and the mask he learned to assume served him well. Otherwise, his duplicity would have been rewarded with a prolonged and painful death.”

Viktor shuddered noticeably before changing the subject with determination. “Sean’s new friend, Teddy, he is son of heroes?”

Hermione pointed out the photo of Remus coordinating a training session that had been studiously staged to include all of them. The brightly colored spells and jinxes flashed intermittently amid a whirl of motion. “And his mother is there,” she added as she located a photo of Tonks from the recent dedication ceremony that showcased her Metamorphmagus abilities.

“So turquoise hair is not fault of bad stylist,” Viktor commented with a wry chuckle.

Joining in, Hermione quipped, “Just a misplaced sense of fashion, I’m afraid. You know how children are.”

“But Teddy’s parents do not share same last name. Not married?”

“Very much married, just not cleaving to conventional custom.”

Viktor nodded sagely. “Very vise. Media less likely to interfere vith scarcity of facts. You know Sean’s mother, Penny? She vas at Hogwarts, different year. Can’t remember name before marriage.”

“You’ve always been hopeless with names, Wronski! Her maiden name was Clearwater, Penelope Clearwater. She uses it as her professional name as well.”

“Naturally, she vould vant to minimize irrelevant ties reporters might vant to dredge up. I made suggestion.”

“Good advice. Also capitalizes on those who remember her from school. She was in Ravenclaw House, top of her year.”

“Vere you friends, then? I can’t imagine you not being at head of class, Vicky.”

“Believe it or not, I spent a number of months next to Penelope in hospital during my second year; she would have been a sixth year.”

“So much girl talk?”

“Virtually none.” Hermione laughed at the vagaries of life. “She and I had both been Petrified by an encounter with a basilisk and were awaiting an antidote to be brewed.”

“So close and still strangers!” Viktor doubled over with merriment at the absurd coincidence.

“At school she was Percy’s girlfriend,” Hermione supplied as she pointed out the photo hanging shoulder-to-shoulder with Snape’s. “Percy is my brother-in-law, Ron’s middle brother. Penny’s not really what I would call a stranger, either.”

“Good, so you come join Penny and Sean at Saturday’s Quidditch match.”

“I’m sure Ron will be there. He works for the Magical Games Department, you recall. They command a rather rowdy section of the stands.”

“Not sit vith commoners, Vicky. Come sit in skybox. Penny has privileges and she give extra skybox tickets, see? You have friends you can invite?”

“Well, yes,” Hermione stammered. “But I wouldn’t want to intrude upon Penny…”

“She’s been much too lonely lately and you practically family.”

“How do you figure that, Viktor?” Hermione looked him dead in the eye.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Penny already invite Percy; Sean invite Teddy. Box belongs to me, too. I invite you and Ron and Harry. Anyone else you know? It’s not much fun to float among clouds vithout friends.”

Hermione considered briefly before supplying, “There’s Harry’s wife, Ginny. She’s a great Quidditch fan. And I’m sure Teddy’s parents and little sister would like to attend.”

“Then is date!” Viktor smiled broadly. “I take men to exclusive Quidditch pub aftervards. If ve vin, fans buy us drinks all night.”

“What if you lose?”

“Ve drown sorrows. See, is vin-vin situation.” At Hermione’s indecision, he soothed, “Vould you feel better if Penny sent owl to you directly?”

Hermione nodded as Viktor insisted she take the stadium passes with her. “It vill be all right. You must learn to trust Viktor. I not wronski about everything.”

“Come, let me show you the room where Sirius kept the renegade hippogriff,” Hermione whispered as she drew him past the velvet rope and up the final staircase. “It’s not really open to the public yet, but the curators are both close friends.”

“They keep hippogriff in townhouse?” Viktor whispered under his breath. “Must have taken true hero to face down cleaning lady.”

“The house elf was a bit senile.”

“Ah, that explain everything,” Viktor scoffed. “Then after, you show me other London landmarks, no? I spend vay too much time vith rest of team as is �“ and none of them is my type!”

---

“Where did you take Krum?” Percy posed without preamble.

Taken aback by his directness, Hermione hesitated. “Sightseeing in London, just like you said. If there was a specific agenda, you should have briefed me.”

Percy shook his head, his lips a firm line too much like McGonagall’s for Hermione’s taste. “Please don’t think I’m accusing you of anything untoward, but the two of you were seen ducking into a Muggle taxicab. I barely managed to keep the photographer sent by Witch Weekly from snapping your picture.” He lowered his voice to a mere whisper. “It would be difficult to justify why you were both looking around so furtively.”

“To make sure we weren’t observed by anyone who would pose a threat to the Statute of Secrecy,” she shot back with more venom than she’d intended. “I managed to transfigure my cloak so I wouldn’t stand out.”

“No, I’m certain you fit right in. What do you call that type of coat? It seems so quintessentially British.”

“Burberry. They make understated styles for both men and women. I didn’t think Viktor’s black leather overcoat looked out of place.”

“Where does he come by Italian couture?” Percy inquired much to Hermione’s surprise. “You work with diplomats, you tend to notice those details.”

“His second wife remarried an Italian designer. Viktor is a walking billboard of sorts.”

“Why a Muggle taxi? You still haven’t told me where you went.”

Hermione sighed in frustration at the unexpected interrogation. “Does it really matter? London is a big city and Viktor wanted to go somewhere he could relax without having to worry about Quidditch fans.”

“Krum has been praising you rather lavishly to the Minister. My report will look suspicious if those details are omitted �“ besides you need to submit an expense voucher.”

“When I told Viktor I had grown up in London, he insisted we visit some of the places I enjoyed as a child. Growing up as a Muggle, I wasn’t entirely certain of the proper Apparition points. There’s so much construction and road closures all over the place.”

“So the taxi was a necessary precaution to blend into Muggle society. Not a problem,” he noted with a reassuring smile as he made a small notation in his notepad. ”Did you just happen to have Muggle bank notes on hand?”

“No, but Viktor did. He confessed that melting away into Muggle crowds is something he does on a regular basis when he can’t take the celebrity anymore.”

“You let our diplomatic guest pay his own way?”

“It was only a few pounds, Percy. You can always reimburse him if your conscience bothers you that much; I assure you Viktor’s doesn’t. Besides, it would have been far worse if he had gotten caught in the rain, don’t you think?”

“You could have ducked under an awning or into a shop,” Percy countered stubbornly.

“Not in Hyde Park. That’s where we went first, although we just had the driver do the circuit when the rain started. We tried the British Museum next but the long queues of schoolchildren were rather off putting. It would have taken us an hour to get to the ticket booth. So we settled for someplace which appealed less to the standard British school system, the Tate Museum.”

“That’s the big, airy one with the giant Acromantula sculpture in the courtyard, right?”

“Viktor was convinced it was the work of a Squib,” Hermione chuckled at the memory. “ ‘A distant relative of Hagrid’s, no doubt,’ I replied.”

“Well, certainly not by Ron, at any rate,” Percy conceded with a wry chuckle of his own. “Please tell me Krum didn’t have to shell out more bills for museum admission.”

“My family has a membership,” Hermione explained. “Even allows you to bring guests once or twice a year.” She was so relieved she’d been able to recall the member number after all these years.

“Aren’t you restricted to certain days? For guests, that is.”

“My parents pay for the upgrade that doesn’t impose any such pointless restrictions.”

“Why the Tate? Modern art hardly seems like the kind of thing that would appeal to youngsters.”

“Is this going into your report as well?”

“Not necessarily. I was just curious, is all. I’ve never actually been there myself.”

“You’re wondering if you should take Penny.”

Percy blushed slightly at her acumen. “Let’s just say I want to know what I’m getting into. At my age, coming across as a total rube is not something women generally admire.”

Hermione offered him a gentle smile as she described the tall, vaulted ceilings and cavernous rooms that always made her feel insignificant as she walked in the footsteps of visionary giants. The hushed reverence that had everyone speaking in whispers invoked the atmosphere of a cathedral.

Krum had asked if her parents had explained the paintings to her as a child.

“Not really,” Hermione responded thoughtfully. “They taught me to appreciate even that which I did not understand in the hopes that with maturity, I would come to see.”

“So vat do you see, Vicky? Bright colors very engaging, lots of motion. Reminds me of child-like exuberance.”

“Art is such a personal thing,” she demurred.

“Particularly ven the subject is not clear,” Viktor joked, but she could see by his sharp eyes that he was nonetheless intrigued by the unfamiliar world opening up before him. “Now this, I recognize.”

Hermione caught up to where he had stopped to admire a tall abstract. “You’re familiar with Kandinsky, then?”

“Sure. Ve have Constantine Kandinsky that play on school team; two years younger than me.”

Hermione laughed at his devilry. “Perhaps it’s a relative. Did your school chum have a talent for art? Not that those things always run in families.”

Viktor shrugged playfully. “Art not part of curriculum at Durmstrang, but is possible. He vas certainly no Quidditch player, that for sure. Quaffle slip through hands like coated vith oil.”

“Or wet paint?” Hermione supplied as Viktor broke out in a deep belly laugh.

“Tell me vat you think of this modernistic art,” he urged in her ear. “I keep secret. Obviously, there’s no single right answer.”

“It was only after I went to Hogwarts that it came to me,” Hermione began. “But I knew I could never share it with my parents. These artists strained to picture that which they witnessed all around them. Not just visual sights, but emotions, fears, hopes, sounds, smells. Everything. They would just pour it into their canvases or whatever medium they were using. And somehow, the end result is magic.”

“Magical, you mean.”

Hermione shook her head emphatically. “No, I mean it just that way. Magic. In their hyper-perceptive state, these Muggles somehow felt the currents of magic that they were taught didn’t exist -- not to a rational mind, anyway. Abstract art is a way to portray that which they cannot name in words. Yet in their hearts, they could not deny its presence to a world who would think them mad.”

“Magic? It’s a wonderfully unique explanation,” acknowledged Percy as he brought Hermione’s thoughts to the present. “But I don’t think I can pass it off as mine. You have to have the passion behind it, you see. Penny would never buy it.”

“There are numerous art books providing tried and true explanations from the experts,” Hermione suggested. “No one would question you if you tucked one under your arm for reference. Make it a self-guided tutorial of sorts.”

Percy conceded that might be the best approach in his case. “Back to Krum for a moment. Did you go anyplace else, after the museum? You didn’t join the group at the Connaught.”

“Was that obligatory? Sorry if I mistook my instructions. I took Viktor to a nearby tea shop my parents always favored. The three sisters who run it are ever so pleasant and there’s always something to everyone’s liking. Dainty soups and salads for the ladies and hearty sandwiches and stews for the gents �“ and meringue vol au vents that float in the very stratosphere!”

“A Muggle establishment? You didn’t happen to keep a copy of the--”

She pulled a neatly folded receipt from her dainty purse. “It’s all here. Not to worry, I used a Muggle bank card to pay for it so our guest was not inconvenienced. That was not an option with the taxi, you see. The three vodka negronis are Viktor’s; I just had the chamomile tea. We shared the assortment of sweet and savory pastries.”

Nodding his approval, Percy smoothed the receipt before he attached it to his clipboard. “I’ll get a conversion table from Gringotts. You don’t mind if the Ministry repays you in galleons, do you?”

“Not at all,” Hermione allowed. She’d just have to reconvert it into pounds when she repaid her mother, but that’s what she got for living in the wizarding world.

“By the way, Hermione, I can’t thank you enough for helping me out at the last minute like you did. I’ll make sure my report includes some mention of Krum’s eccentricity about mingling with Muggles. No one will give it a second thought; celebrities can have the most peculiar habits.”

Hermione accepted his thanks graciously, never mentioning that his own father, Arthur, could tell the diplomatic corps a thing or two about the hypnotic allure of the Muggle world. Too bad, really, that the man’s slack-jawed wonderment made it practically impossible to suggest a similar outing for him.