Stories from the Vault
The Hero, the Widow and the Orphan

The Hero, the Widow and the Orphan

Chapter 7*

The war was over — at least that was the consensus of Magical England. Voldemort was dead, life was beginning to return to the burned out areas that had seen some of the bitterest fighting in ages, and life went on — at least for the civilian world.

Three years after Dumbledore’s death, Harry Potter was living at Grimmauld Place, which was still the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. The Order had not yet disbanded, being occupied with the last tasks of the war, hunting down a few fugitives and assisting the Ministry of Magic in preparing evidence for a number of long overdue trials. His was one of the many lives shattered by the war — he survived his final encounter with Voldemort, but his closest friends did not. Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, were all dead — casualties of the skirmishes before the last battle. Molly Weasley was a widow now, her dream of losing her entire family only half-fulfilled: the twins had survived, along with Charlie, Percy, Bill and his now-pregnant wife Fleur.

Remus had not survived the war, although as his widow was fond of pointing out, he died making a difference. Somewhere in the confusion and chaos of the last battle, Tonks, who now preferred to be known as Dora Lupin, sustained a head injury with a lingering side effect of intermittent vertigo, aggravated by Floo travel and Apparation, placing her on the disabled list of Aurors. The flat she’d shared with Remus after they’d married was destroyed in the Battle of Hogsmeade. Harry had insisted that she stay at Grimmauld Place until she got back on her feet again.

No one knew what to do with Harry after the war. The career path of Auror was certainly open to him, but he seemed to have his fill of fighting — ever since the night he’d accompanied an Order strike team on a clean-up mission months after Voldemort’s defeat and come home with a four year old war orphan. No one knew for sure what had happened to her parents, or why they’d been killed by Bellatrix Lestrange, but she’d been found in the burned-out remains of her home, secured in a closet that had been charmed shut. With a little detective work they’d discovered that her name was Clarissa and she had no relatives to speak of. She’d gone home with Harry that night, sleeping only after being rocked for hours by an awkward black-haired rescuer. The next day Tonks converted one of the bedrooms at Grimmauld Place into a room suitable for a four year old girl. Kingsley Shacklebolt had suggested that she be turned over to Magical Social Services, stopping when Dora explained that Harry had blown the last well-meaning adult out of the room for making a similar suggestion.

Caring for Clarissa seemed to give Harry a focus, which those around him appreciated. This distraction, however, ended most evenings at 8:00 p.m., when Clarissa was tucked into bed.

Tonks shivered as she lit the stove in the kitchen, hoping to make herself a spot of tea before starting on breakfast. She hadn’t planned on things happening this way, but she didn’t regret it either. Where things went from here were up to Harry, who was probably making the footsteps that she heard approaching the kitchen, as Clarissa was light enough that she only made noise when she was running, which was almost all the time she was awake.

Harry was coming into the kitchen — this wasn’t going to be easy.

"Hey," he said, nodding at her before he sprawled into a chair.

"Tea?" she asked.

"That would be lovely," he said, putting his head down on the table. Maybe he didn’t suspect — maybe she hadn’t botched the charm. Then again, maybe she was going to be a backup dancer for Celestina Warbeck.

Her internal monologue was cut off when the tea kettle began to sing. Filling the pot with tea leaves and boiling water was a routine, mindless task — one that she gladly embraced to avoid the stare that she knew was coming from those emerald eyes.

"Dora?" he said, waiting for a response.

"Yeah, Harry?" she answered, pouring a cup of tea that she carefully put on a saucer and slid across the table to him.

"Were you in my room last night?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said.

"Were you in my bed?"

Tonks could feel the flare of colour moving up her neck.

"Yeah, I was," she replied.

"Why?"

"The nightmares," she replied.

Harry didn’t say anything, taking a sip from his still very hot cup of tea. He looked at her and then looked away.

"I cast a sleeping charm on you, but you were still trashing about, so I figured that if I climbed into bed you’d settle down," she explained.

"And?"

"And it worked — you quieted down and got some sleep," Tonks said, which was technically true.

Harry took another pull from his mug of tea. "Is this going to happen again?" he asked.

"It all depends," Tonks answered.

"On what?"

"On whether you keep having nightmares and whether you throw me out of your house," she said with a nervous smirk. "You’re going to go crazy unless you start sleeping more than an hour a night, and I’m going to go crazy worrying about you — which is why I decided to apply a little witchery to help you sleep."

"What was the charm supposed to do?" Harry asked.

"It’s supposed to promote dreamless sleep," Tonks said quietly.

"Maybe it works on normal people," Harry said with a chuckle. "I had a lot of dreams."

"Better than what you had before?" Tonks asked.

"Yeah — no one died in these dreams," he said, putting down his cup before he pushed away from the table. He moved to the cold pantry, pulling out a basket of eggs.

Harry moved with ease in the kitchen — some tasks were done the Muggle way, like breaking the eggs, while others, such as scrambling them, were done with a flick of his wand. He frowned when he looked into the cold pantry for a jar of jam that she’d used up yesterday, shutting the door with some vigour before opening the dry pantry for a new, unopened jar. The toast finished at the same time as the omelette, which was divided wordlessly and put onto two plates.

They ate together in silence. Harry was very predictable — he always ate his toast first, then his eggs, then he’d drink any juice (which only occurred when Tonks made breakfast) and then his tea. He didn’t speak until the eggs were gone.

"Actually, I had pretty lurid dreams last night. Did I end up - groping you?" he asked quietly.

The colour flared up her neck again. "Uh, yeah," she stammered. "It was nice, actually."

Harry covered his face with his hands. "Dora, tell me we didn’t have sex," he groaned.

"I’d have to lie to you if I told you that," Tonks said boldly.

Harry pushed his plate aside and began to gently hit his head against the table.

"Great, just great," he muttered. "Add rapist to my list of many accomplishments."

"Harry, look at me," Tonks said, placing just the tips of her fingers on his elbow. "Please?"

Harry looked up, his eyes red rimmed and brimming with unshed tears.

"It wasn’t rape, Harry — it was quite consensual. You were under a powerful sleeping charm — I on the other hand, was awake and very much in control of my faculties -- and very much enjoying the attention, I might add," Tonks said calmly.

"Did you plan this?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Like plan to have sex with you? No. Did I consider that a possibility when I came to your bed? Yes. Did it bother me a whole lot? No — there’s been a certain frisson underlying our relationship for years — even before I hooked up with Lupin," Tonks explained.

"How long?" Harry asked.

"Since the first time I met you," Tonks said

"What?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Since the very first time."

"I was all of fifteen!" he protested.

"Yeah, and I was all of a very immature twenty-one. I didn’t do anything with it, I might add, because I had issues with a certain Mister Lupin which I thought was a little more likely to pan out," she explained.

"I thought it was all a dream," Harry said, his face suddenly colouring like a Weasley. "Uh, was it — did I --?"

"It was most satisfactory," Tonks said, giving him a wink as she patted his arm again. "I’ll wait until you’ve had your second cup of tea before I share the gory details."

"Thanks — I’m not sure I’m ready to face that yet," he said with an ironic smirk. "Give me a few minutes — this is drastically re-writing my universe here."

"Take your time, Harry," Tonks said. This is going better than expected. Don’t screw it up, Dora.

"Clarissa should be up soon," Harry said.

"What are you two doing today?"

"After breakfast I was thinking of taking her to the Zoo — would you like to come along?" Harry asked, his ears colouring slightly.

"Harry Potter, are you asking me out on a date?" Tonks asked.

"Uh, yeah, I guess I am — although if you wanted to be crass about it, I wouldn’t mind another set of eyes when I’m out with Clarissa," he said.

"Okay, so it’s a cheap date — we’ll worry about getting a sitter later," she said with a broad smile.

"I’m sure that Molly would watch her if we’d ask — it’d probably be good for her — get her in practice for Fleur’s brood," Harry said, smiling before he went quiet again. "I’m not sure where we stand, Dora — what are we?"

"What do you mean? We’re friends," Tonks answered.

"Friends don’t just wake up in the middle of the night and decide to shag each other," Harry protested.

"What? You never poked Hermione?" Tonks asked teasingly. Screwing her face up, she grew her hair out until it was shoulder length, bushy and a familiar chestnut colour. "Would you like to?"

"That is so not funny, Dora," Harry said firmly.

"So, I suppose McGonagall is out too?" she asked, pulling her hair back into an impromptu bun as she changed her features to match those of the current Headmistress of Hogwarts.

Harry bugged his eyes out as he pantomimed a gagging motion with his hand and mouth.

"Okay, those two are out — is there anyone else who shouldn’t come to bed?" she asked impishly.

"Pretty confident that you’re going to get back there, aren’t you?" he countered.

"I’m sorry," she said, suddenly crestfallen. "I shouldn’t presume."

Harry reached across the table, threading his fingers between hers. "Let’s see how it works out, okay?"

Tonks gave his hand a squeeze and then stood up, leaning across the table to plant a kiss on his forehead. "Sounds like a plan. You made breakfast, let me clean up."

"All right with me," Harry said, putting his mug on top of his now empty plate. "Dora, as long as we’re feeling our way into new territory — what do you really look like?"

"Why are you asking now?"
"I never figured it was any of my business before," Harry said.

"Fair enough. I haven’t a clue," Tonks replied.

"You don’t know what you look like?" Harry asked incredulously.

"I don’t remember," Tonks said sheepishly. "I started morphing when I was a little girl, getting good control when the rest of my magic came in around puberty. It’s not like a charm that wears off — it’s more like transfiguration. The beetles that you turned into buttons in school stayed as buttons unless you changed them back, or changed them into something else. Morphing is part of who I am, Harry.   I’m not going to turn back into Andromeda’s little girl again — that was thousands of morphs ago."

Harry sat silently, digesting this thought.   "Whilst we’re at true confessions, I thought you ought to know that I probably can’t have children," Tonks said quietly.   "Morphing and Mummyhood don’t mix so well."

Harry smiled and chuckled. "It’s a little early for that discussion — besides, I’ve already got a sprog."

"Why don’t you get the little sprog awake whilst I rustle up some brekkers for the princess?" she asked, smiling as he left the kitchen, whistling a cheery tune.

Second chances don’t come very often in life. She was going to do everything she could to make sure this one worked.

++++++++++

Copyright 2006 — J Cornell — all rights reserved.

* One of the clichÃ©s in fan-fic is "what does Tonks really look like?" with the answers ranging from something pale and alien, to a curvaceous blonde sexpot. I wanted to write that scene — so I came up with back-story for the setting. I don’t intend to write the story any time soon, having just wanted to play with this one scene.

Stories from the Vault
Stories and Secrets

Stories and Secrets — a follow-on to The Hero, the Widow and the Orphan

I was born in Lindisfarne — but that’s a secret — the story I tell people is that I was born in Lossiemouth, which is where I lived with Mum and Da before they were killed. Now I live in London with Harry and Dora, but I can’t tell you exactly where we live, because that’s a secret too.

I don’t really remember much about Mum or Da — Mum had light hair like mine and she sang a lot. We could see the North Sea from our house and it was almost always cold — or at least that’s how I remember it. I remember the night I met Harry — Mum stuck me in the box room before the screaming started, begging me to be silent, no matter what happened. I don’t know how long I was in there, but, but things had been quiet a long time before it started to smell smoky. When the door opened, Harry’s wand was lit and he looked like he was tall enough to bump his head on the doorway, but the most striking thing was the colours that swirled around him — he was angry and frightened, but when he saw me, veins of gold shot through the colours on the edge, so I knew that he would take care of me. He picked me up and ran out of the now smoke-filled house. That night I was at my new home, although I didn’t know it yet. That’s when I met Dora.

Dora’s a witch, like my first Mum, only she changes how she looks from day to day, but I don’t care, because I can see her colours. Harry’s a wizard, of course, and his colours are sad and angry most of the time, although there’s some lighter colours when he’s with Dora, and always the little threads of gold when he’s with me. That’s how I knew that he was going to become my new Da, because Da always loved me, and he had those colours too. Dora’s colours are happy most of the time.

Harry lives in a big house. There’s lots and lots of rooms — some of which I can’t open yet, and others that I go exploring in when I’m not working on my lessons, which sometimes take me all morning, but there’s almost always things to do in the afternoon. Harry’s room is next to the stairwell, then there’s my room, and then Dora’s room. After I’d been at Harry’s house for a few months, I began to notice that some nights Dora’s bed was already made in the morning when I got up, and I know for a fact that she never makes her bed until after breakfast, because she told me so when she was showing me how to make my bed. After a while I noticed that on those mornings that Harry’s colours were much brighter, and he would have little gold threads in his colours when he was looking at Dora, which made me happy, because Da would look at Mum the same way.

Miss Abbot from Child Protective Services came to visit us at Harry’s house a while ago. She said she was writing a "home study" which is funny, but adults do funny things. She looked at my room, and spent a lot of time in my favourite corner of the library, asking me about my first Mum and Da and about what life was like living with Harry and Dora. Dora had been working with me on letters and colours, so I showed her that I could write my name, although all I could do was my first name, Clarissa, although I like it better when people call me Clare. I told her stories about shopping with Harry and Dora, and going to the Zoo, about flying at The Burrow and the times I’d spend with Granny Weasley.

Before she left, Miss Abbot asked me if I wanted a new Mum and Da. I got very upset when she asked that question. I want to stay with Harry and Dora — I don’t want a new Mum and Da! That night at dinner I asked Harry if he’d marry Dora so they could be my Mum and Da. They both laughed in that funny way adults laugh some times. Dora turned very very red.

The next morning I woke up early to use the loo. I wasn’t snooping much, but I did notice that the door to Harry’s room was open. There were grown-up clothes all over the floor, and Harry and Dora were snuggling together under the covers, asleep. This answers one of my questions — Dora must be rubbing her colours onto Harry, because she’s almost always happy, and now Harry’s happy too — or at least happier.

After I’d been at Harry’s house for a month or so, Dora and Harry decided that I needed to start pre-school, which meant that they’d read to me in the mornings, or I’d do schoolish things like finger-painting or playing with modelling clay or learning my letters and colours. This was fun at first, but the real fun began when I found an album of pictures. If I was really good in my lessons and helped clean up afterwards, Harry would tell me stories about the people in the pictures. At first he’d get all sad — the colours around him would drip with sadness, but then Dora would mention something or other and he’d start to tell a story.

And so I learned about the Marauders and how James and Lily fell in love and had Harry. I learned about Albus Dumbledore and Rubeus Hagrid and Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. I learned about Moony and Padfoot and Prongs and Wormtail, which was a good story until the morning that Dora told me the story about how Wormtail was really a rat in all senses of the word. Dora would tell me stories from the days she was a student at Hogwarts, and then of how she learned to be an Auror.

The bestest stories, however, were the stories that they’d tell me about how Dora fell in love with Moony and how Harry fell in love with Ginny. Ginny and Moony are in Heaven now, which is a good thing, but it’s sad too — because Harry and Dora miss them so much. I learned a lot of stories. I never get tired of hearing them.

My life is full of secrets too. When we go out in the afternoon, Harry and I wear glamours — Harry’s hides his scar — mine hides my face — I usually have dark hair and dark eyes. Dora doesn’t wear a glamour, but she changes before she goes out too — usually she tries to look like my Mum — not my first Mum, but more like a grown-up version of however I look that day. Other kids put on Wellies on a rainy day, we all hide our faces under magic. Some of the secrets are fun — I went shopping with Harry one day to Diagon Alley. Our last stop was a jewellery store where Harry picked up a small, small box. The next day at breakfast Dora was wearing a glittery ring and a very broad smile. Her colours were very happy too. That was when Harry told me that he’d asked Dora to marry him. I knew that was going to happen — it just had to. Then he asked what I thought about being his little girl forever and ever. It seems that Miss Abbot’s home study paper was really good, and whoever decides these things decided that Harry was going to be my new Da. As if anything else would work.

A week ago Harry and Dora and I put on very fine clothes and went to the Ministry of Magic building. They filled out some papers in front of a very scared looking clerk who asked them a bunch of really stupid questions and then they kissed each other. A bit disappointing if you ask me — I’ve seen them kiss each other dozens of times. Then they went into another room and signed some more papers and we talked to a really old, old man who pinched my cheek and told me I was such a lucky girl.

I smiled as I walked out of the Ministry of Magic building — because I know a secret that even Dora and Harry don’t know. Dora’s colours have changed — there’s a new pattern in her colours and I know what it means. I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but in a month or two, I’m going to have a brother or a sister. I’d like a brother, so I wouldn’t have to share a room, but I’ll take what I can get. I figure in a week or two I’ll tell Dora that she has a baby in her tummy. After all, half of the fun of knowing a secret is being able to turn it into a really good story.

+++++++++

Copyright 2006 - J Cornell - all rights reserved

Clarissa can see magic - she was almost five when she came to live with Harry and almost 7 when Harry and Dora married.

Child POV is difficult, largely because of time references - don't try to make the chronology work in this story.

Stories from the Vault
The Phoenix Reborn - Chapter 4 - Lost and Found

A bit of explanation - I've been lucky enough to collaborate with a number of good writers.   My long-time friend Mr.Intel proposed a story to me a while back - it was going to be his big attempt at writing a H-Hr story.   His premise was the Harry won the war, but at a high cost - All of the Weasleys are dead, except Molly.   The Wizarding government is in shambles, and by odd circumstance, Hermione ends up being selected to act as the caretaker in rebuilding the government.  

Harry has gone into self-imposed exile - after defeating Voldemort, his magic was essentially used up.   He travels for a while and then resettles in a town in Endland called, ironically enough, Potter's End.

This is chapter 4 from that collaboration

=======

Lost and Found

I don’t believe the devil,

I ain’t gonna be his slave,

and when I’m finished dying,

I’m gonna bust out of my grave

L. Norman

Serving as Praetor was not all that different from being Head Girl, there were meetings, reports and an endless stream of owls, memos and fire calls. She'd intended to rent a flat of her own, close to the now rebuilt Ministry of Magic building, but Molly had entreated her to stay at the Burrow. One thing led to another, and two years after the war, after he'd turned up missing, she concluded that enough was enough. She talked quietly to her secretary and an appointment was made for her last meeting of the day. Feeling accomplished, she returned to the stack of message slips and parchments on her desk, falling into a now familiar rhythm. Lunch came and went, most days it was a sandwich at her desk, lovingly packed by Molly the night before. Hermione abhorred "working lunches" and the heads of various departments had learned to stop requesting them, as she usually came late and left early, eating nothing. On Fridays, Brigit, her secretary, would convince her to go out for lunch, usually something fast from the kabob shop or the Chinese restaurant in Muggle London, not far from the border between Magical and Muggle sections of town. As today was not Friday, she had the liberty of eating when it was convenient, although if she had not unwrapped her sandwich by 2:00, Brigit would begin to fuss.

Moey sauntered into the office, nodding at Brigit. There weren't many people who didn't know the quiet one-eyed Auror, one of the most senior to survive the war. Rather than taking a seat in the outer office, she fiddled with the window, shuffling through the false views until a facsimile of the view across from St. Mungo's appeared. She had no particular love of the false storefront, but if one looked to the left on this view, one could see not only the street, but the park across the street, which was a reliable indicator of daylight and weather. Moey hated surprises of any sort. A light winked out on Brigit's desk. She nodded at Moey, who pushed the heavy oak door open and walked into the office of the de facto Minister of Magic.

"You called for me, Madam Minister?" Moey said, her fingers unconsciously adjusting the strap on her eye-patch, dyed blue to match her robes.

Hermione looked up from her desk, bristling at the title. "We've been over this before, Miss Knight. I prefer Hermione, if you wish to be formal, Miss Granger will do or Praetor if you must, but I am not now, nor will I ever be the Minister of Magic," she said, pointing to the chair across from her desk.

"Well, now that we have the usual out of the way, what can I do for the Praetor?" Moey asked with a smile.

"My congratulations, for one - a very nice job rounding up the Young Dragons in Brighton; I'm also very pleased with your progress in getting the Auror Apprentice Centre on track. The Privy Council is no longer growling at me every month, for which I am truly thankful," she said, fussing with a Muggle biro on her desk.

"I'm going to assume that you didn't call me into your office to save time writing notes," Moey said. Hermione's notes were legendary within the Ministry - most every employee had received at least one over the past two years.

"No, I didn't. It's time, Moey. I need him back again," Hermione said, leaning back in her chair, rubbing her forehead. There was no need to specify which him she was discussing. Moey had been the case officer who looked into his original disappearance.

"Is that a personal need or a need of the Ministry?" Moey parried.

"Does it matter? I need my friend back. The ministry needs him, he could be a unifying force as we rebuild. He could teach at the Apprentice Centre," she said with a laugh.

"I don't think it's a good idea, Madame Praetor. He's somewhere, living under an assumed name. From what little the Goblins tell me, he made a sizeable withdrawal two years ago, and has made a few odd withdrawals and deposits since then, using several layers of cut-outs. He doesn't want to be found, goodness knows he's earned that right," Moey said.

Hermione stood up, standing behind her swivel chair. "Will you refuse the request?" she asked pointedly.

"When I can no longer serve my government in good conscience, I will tender my resignation, Madam Praetor. I don't see that happening anytime soon," Moey said. "There is one catch, however."

"And that is?" Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued.

"I'll find him, but I'm not bringing him in; that'll be your job, if you're up to it," Moey said.

"Fair enough. When can you begin?" Hermione asked.

"A day or so to wind up things at the Apprentice Centre, let's say a fortnight to find him. I'll need to work through Muggle channels, as he's most certainly not living in any of the Magical villages or settlements," she said.

"Excellent - the bursar will provide whatever you need - if you have need of anything the Ministry can provide, do not hesitate to call me. Brigit knows where I am most days whether I like it or not," Hermione said.

"Yes Ma'am," she said with a smile. "He's out there - I can find him, I'm sure of it."

Hermione nodded, remaining standing until Moey left her office, closing the door behind her. Looking at her calendar, she decided to call it a day. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays she exercised after work, on nice days a run through Muggle London, on less than nice days, swimming laps at a private health club. On Tuesdays and Thursdays she Apparated to the Training Centre, where she would use the combat simulator. She'd raised eyebrows more than once when she regularly scored as high as, and often higher than some of the instructors. It was a pointed reminder to many of the paper-pushers that she'd been appointed Praetor in part because of her grasp of the minutiae of government, but also in recognition of her leadership in battle. She knew what many called her, 'the Iron Maiden' being one of the more complimentary terms. She neither craved nor needed affection from her colleagues, but respect was the coin of her realm. She touched the whisper patch on her desk, calling to Brigit. "Brigit, I'm going to the Training Centre, then back to the Burrow. Do I need to bring anything home?"

There was shuffle of papers on Brigit's end of the connection. "Molly wants a pound of tea and a new tin of Floo powder," Brigit said in a disinterested tone.

"P-G Tips okay, or should I spring for something nicer?" Hermione called back.

"Tips should be okay unless you plan on hosting the Queen this month," Brigit replied.

Hermione closed the whisper patch. "Not very likely," she said, pulling a face. It would be good to obliterate some targets today. It had been one of those days.

The next day at work she put the meeting with Moey out of her mind, confident that if he could be found, Moey would find him. The day assumed its normal rhythm, as did the days that followed. One day short of the fortnight, Brigit smiled broadly when Hermione returned from a meeting with the Exchequer. "Moey called," she said tersely. "She’s found him."

~+~

It was good to get out of the office, doing normal things that normal people did. Following Moey’s instructions, she Apparated to the regional airport and rented an automobile, not her first such transaction, but new enough that she read through all the paperwork very carefully. In the end, she supposed Brigit was right: bumf was bumf in both worlds. She was on the motorway for a very short time before she took the exit, looking for the restaurant Moey had named in her message. As she parked her car, she looked at her watch and smiled — she was five minutes early. Tapping her sleeve, she locked the car and stepped into the restaurant. Although she saw Moey’s distinctive dark hair above one of the booths, she scanned the restaurant before walking to the booth.

"How’s your mother?" she asked.

"All the rain’s been bad for her joints, but she’s otherwise tip-top," Moey replied, the countersign that the meeting was without complications. Hermione sat down, startled for a moment when she looked across the table and saw two eyes looking back at her.

"Is that what I think it is?" she asked pleasantly.

Moey smiled and nodded. "Madeye’s unit was a prototype. The third generation models come in a variety of colours and don’t wobble about as much. I only wear it when I’m in the field," she explained, pulling a large manila envelope from her satchel, pushing it across the table. "It’s all here," she said wearily, "home address, work address and my best guess as to his regular schedule. He seems to be playing house with a Muggle girl."

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"I don’t know what the relationship is — she may be his housekeeper for all I know, but they are in the flat together most nights. She’s a looker, but nothing like Harry’s girl," Moey reported.

"Well, that’s some comfort, I suppose," Hermione said.

"You two could be sisters — she’s maybe five years older and a stone heavier," Moey said, smiling slyly.

"I’m not scouting for rivals, Moey, I’m trying to find a friend, a friend our world needs again," Hermione said without much conviction.

"Yeah, right, whatever. I’d best be going before the Praetor sacks me for impertinence," she said, placing a bank note on the table to cover the cost of her coffee. "Do be cautious when you approach him — he’s likely to be very wary of any unexpected contact from our world."

Hermione nodded, opening the envelope. The waitress came by with her order, dropping it off wordlessly as she read the terse report and scanned the pictures. He’d filled out a little and his hair was definitely longer, but there was no mistaking him for anyone else. Her stomach cramped . What if he didn’t want to come back? What then?

~+~

Hermione shook her head before she entered the shop, hoping to clear her head; it was to no avail, her head felt like her stomach, queasy and unsettled. The shop was apparently a bit of a neighbourhood centre, hardware shop with luncheon bar. As she pushed the door open, a bell jingled. The shop was filled with sounds, a clerk pulling boxes of merchandise for a customer, murmured conversations and the sound of a coffee machine burbling its last gasp of coffee into a waiting carafe. The Muggle girl from Moey’s dossier was behind the lunch counter, wiping it down with a dish cloth.

"Can I help you, Miss?" she asked Hermione pleasantly.

"I don’t know, I’m looking for a bloke," Hermione answered.

"Well, while we do cater to most Do It Yourself projects, we haven’t carried blokes for years," the woman jibed. Hermione extracted an old photograph, one taken from a prior lifetime by the late Dennis Creevy, sliding it across the counter. She noted with some satisfaction the immediate look of recognition on the woman’s face. The woman did resemble her in a superficial way, Hermione thought, watching her face as she studied the picture. The woman pushed the photograph back across the table. "He’s not here. He’ll be up at the flat above the shop for dinner at 8:00, if you don’t have plans you can join us. My name’s Meghan, what’s yours?" she asked, extending a hand. Hermione gave it a perfunctory shake.

"Hermione, Hermione Granger," she answered.

"Oh, you’re the swot!" Meghan exclaimed with a smile. "James tells stories about you, you know. Said you were the cleverest woman in your year. Me, I didn’t do well in school — I was a messed up little bint in my teens. I’m what you’d call a late bloomer," she said, smiling at her own remark. "Come by the flat at half past six, I suspect that we have things to talk about," she said softly.

Hermione nodded and left the store, relishing the opportunity to do something spontaneous and pointless like browse the shops of a small town. The bell tinkled as the door closed.

~+~

A few bank notes and several hours later, Hermione parked her rental car down the street from the hardware store. The stairway to the flat above the store was beside the rear entrance on the alleyway. When she knocked at the door, she heard an intercom squawk, transmitting a tinny version of Meghan’s voice. "It’s open, come on in," she said.

The flat was wide, well lit, and once you closed the door, you wouldn’t know that it was a walk-up over a shop.

"If you need the loo, it’s by the kitchen," Meghan called out from somewhere in the flat. Hermione settled down in what she supposed was the living room. An every day tea service was set out on a low table next to the couch. Hermione put her purse down on the couch and poured a cup of tea.

"Can I pour you some tea, Meghan?" she called out.

"Please do," she replied, "sugar, no cream."

Meghan appeared from the back of the kitchen. She’d changed from the knit top bearing the shop’s logo into an ivory coloured tee shirt that stretched taut across her chest. She took a quick sip from her tea cup and then excused herself into what was obviously Harry’s bedroom, returning with a thin album.

"You’ve changed since school," Meghan said.

"Oh, not so much; I cut my hair, mainly," Hermione replied.

"I’ve watched James since I met him — certain women would catch his eye — redheads and bushy-haired brunettes. The rest of the female complement of the Kingdom is pretty much ignored," she said, tugging on her shoulder length dark blonde hair.

"I wouldn’t say that you’ve been ignored," Hermione said cautiously. "James was always a bit of an idiot about girls, but you made it, eh?"

Meghan’s face changed. "It’s not like it looks," she began.

"I’m not judging you," Hermione interrupted, hoping that she hadn’t ruined things entirely.

Meghan sighed and opened the album. "Fill in some pieces for me, will you? Who are these people?" she asked.

Hermione gasped as she looked at the pictures. Over the years, she’d assembled several albums for Harry, but this album was made up of copies, Muggle copies, of some of his favourite magical photographs. On the first page was a photograph from first year, a tiny Hermione wedged between petite versions of Ron and Harry.

"Is that you?" Meghan asked.

"Yeah, now you know why I had it cut," Hermione said with a chuckle.

"Who’s the other bloke?"

"That’s Ron, he was Harry’s best friend," Hermione said, hoping that she could stop the flood of emotions that was rising up within her.

"Was?"

"He’s dead. He died around the time we finished school," Hermione said softly.

Meghan turned the page. The main photo showed the common room during sixth year final exams. Ron was asleep on the couch, mouth open, and head thrown back. Hermione was using his lap as a pillow, a large book held out in front of her. Harry was standing in the background, his arms around Ginny. She sniffled as she remembered that in the magical version of this photograph, her two friends would steal a kiss when no one was looking.

"And this?" Meghan asked.

"That’s Ron, of course. He was always a sound sleeper. One afternoon he fell asleep before dinner. A few of my roommates decorated him liberally with makeup. We never let on that he’d been altered, so he made his way to the dining hall looking like a seven year old girl who’s been playing with Mummy’s makeup," Hermione said, glad to remember something light from dark times.

"And the bird," Meghan asked.

"Ginny, she was Ron’s sister. They talked of marriage after school," Hermione replied.

"Past tense?"

"Yeah, she died the same day as her brother," Hermione said.

"What, you guys in a war or something?" Meghan asked.

"It’s a long story — I’ll let James decide how much he wants to share."

"What did you call him then?" Meghan asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone in town knows him as James Evanson, but there is no such lad in all of England. What did he call himself then?"

Hermione chewed her lip. She supposed that Harry had his reasons to assume a new name, but she was reluctant to breach his secrets, even those not entrusted to her for safekeeping. "I knew him as Harry," she replied after some deliberation.

"His folks still alive?"

"No, they died when he was just a bit more than a year old," Hermione said.

"When did you meet him?"

"When I was eleven, we met on the train going up to school before the first day of classes. We were friends for seven years before he left," Hermione said, digging into her purse for a tissue.

"Before he became James," Meghan observed.

"Yeah, before that," she replied. "So, how did you meet him?"

"I met him in a tavern before I almost got gang raped," Meghan said before looking away. "I’ve got a medical problem — when my chemistry gets out of whack, I go a little crazy - it’s like an alcoholic bender without all the liver damage, although I was doing a good deal of drinking then too, come to think of it. To make a long story short, I was fairly pissed and a bunch of louts were arguing over who was going to have me first when the tavern closed. I wasn’t terribly opposed to the idea, but I found the biggest lout to be a bit much. He started carrying me out of the tavern; James walloped him and took me off to his flat. When I sobered up a bit the next day I was a bit surprised," she said, looking up at Hermione.

"I’m not, James has always had this thing for saving people," she said.

"He ever save you?" Meghan asked.

"A couple of times — I wasn’t pissed though."

"Is that better or worse?" Meghan asked slyly.

"Worse — I didn’t have any good excuses other than my own stupidity," Hermione pointed out.

"So there I was in a flat I’d never seen before, tucked nicely in bed with a bloke I’d never seen before snoring away on the couch. I didn’t remember any black haired blokes with glasses chatting me up the night before," she said with a giggle.

Hermione giggled too. "No, he wasn’t the chat-up type. He was more of the storm the castle and rescue fair maiden type."

"Well, I hadn’t been a maiden for many years, but he probably saved my life that night. I didn’t have a place to stay, he helped me get dried out and back on my medicine, all the time I’m staying in his flat, wondering when he’s going to try to get into my knickers. I got right peeved after a while, wondering if I’d lost my touch with men," Megan said, uttering a hearty laugh. "I even went so far as to ask him if he was bent. I figured I could set him up with an old odd boyfriend or something," she said, rambling on. "He bought the shop from my grandmother, offered me a job and a place in this flat after we renovated it — said he didn’t want to live alone. Oddest living arrangement since Mum kicked me out of the house when I turned eighteen," Megan said with a sigh. "So that’s my sordid tale."

"So you’re not the girlfriend then?" Hermione asked.

Meghan laughed. "Not for lack of trying. We’ve shared a snog or two and I’ve spent a night or three in his bed, but he’s never done anything other than hold me," she said.

Hermione cocked an eyebrow.

"It was the nightmares. Did he have them before?"

"Yeah - they got pretty bad at times," Hermione said softly.

"The first few times I tried to wake him up — he about took my head off. One week he was going on for three nights running. In desperation, I just slipped into his bed. That quieted him right down. Don’t look at me like that! Of course I hoped that he’d wake up and we’d fool around, but most times he’d wake up before me. I’d find him making breakfast. It made for some awkward mornings, I can tell you."

"Do you care for him?" Hermione asked.

"It depends on when you ask. He saved me from myself, at a time when I was working hard on throwing my life away. He’s been a decent friend and I couldn’t ask for a better flatmate. I thought at one time that I loved him, but he never had any room in his heart for me. I think that spot’s still taken. Now I know," she said wistfully.

"What they had was special," Hermione whispered.

"How about you?"

Hermione let out a breath, as her emotions briefly surged to the surface. "I loved Ron, I really did, but I never thought we’d end up together. We fought too much. After he died... I’ve just been too busy. I’ve gone out once or twice, but nothing’s really clicked."

"So you came back for Harry?" Meghan asked.

"It’s not like that," Hermione protested. "Harry was part of my life for seven years, and the past two years have been a mess without him. I need my friend back," Hermione said, hoping that she sounded convincing.

"Fair enough," Meghan replied. "I knew he had a past, and I always figured that his old life would come for him — I’d watch him in the store — whenever certain people would come in, he’d give them the gimlet eye as if he were looking into their souls. He seemed disappointed more than once. Well, enough of that, I’m glad to meet you, and I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you again. I’ve got things to do in the kitchen to make sure supper is finished."

"Anything I can do to help?" Hermione asked.

"I’m not too friendly in the kitchen — I usually want people to stay out of my way — so no, I don’t need anything other than conversation," Megan replied as she turned into the kitchen, and began to open and close cupboards and drawers.

Hermione settled back on the sofa, digesting their conversation. Meghan was obviously fond of Harry, and he no doubt was fond of her, but chances were good that she could talk him into coming back if she played things right. She had to — she could not fail at this.

Meghan popped back in from the kitchen. "Can you set the table for three?" she asked pleasantly. "The flatware and plates are in the buffet next to the table."

"Sure," Hermione replied. Opening the likely drawers, she found the flatware, setting out the usual plates, cups, flatware and serviettes. "Now what?" she called to Meghan.

"Now we wait," Meghan replied. "Normally he’s as punctual as the Post — I’m the one who is always tardy for one reason or another; it always drives him batty when the shoe is on the other foot. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s kept me waiting, and each time he’s called ahead to let me know."

"If he does call, don’t let on that I’m here, I’d like it to be a surprise," Hermione said.

"He hates surprises," Meghan said doubtfully.

"Yeah, but I think this way is best," she said. Meghan nodded in reply.

A faint click announced his arrival. He entered the flat, tossing a satchel onto the floor next to the door, a coat onto a coat tree and hooked Meghan around the waist, kissing the top of her head when he froze, seeing the back of Hermione’s head. There was an instant of silence before he exploded into action, pushing Meghan under the table and tackling Hermione, straddling her with his legs while pinning her hands to the floor.

"James, what’s going on?" Meghan asked in a frightened voice.

"Meggy, you need to trust me on this — bring me a steak knife from the kitchen and a length of rope from my climbing bag in the wardrobe," he hissed.

"This is your friend, Hermione, James," Meghan protested.

"Please do as I ask. The real Hermione is dearer to me than life, but I’m not sure we have the genuine article here," he growled.

Meghan crawled out from under the table, fetching a length of rope and a knife. Harry calmly searched his captive and then moved her to a dining room chair, tying her torso to the chair, leaving her hands free.

"Meghan, look in her purse — you’re looking for a wooden stick, like a conductor’s baton," Harry growled.

"Sure, James," Meghan protested, "but I still don’t like this."

"I don’t like it either, but the old crowd played rough. If I’m right, I just saved both of our lives. If I’m wrong, I owe her one heck of an apology," he explained.

Meghan searched Hermione’s purse, bringing out a familiar looking wand.

"Yeah, that’s it — keep a hold of it for now. Under no circumstances can you let her have it until I say so, can you do that, Meggy?"

"All right. I trust you, James," Meghan replied.

"Thanks," he said, turning back to his prisoner. "Now, witch, we’re going to have a little talk. Hands flat on the table. I ask, you answer, and nobody gets hurt. Understand?" he asked.

Hermione nodded. She made a sour face as she remembered Moey’s warning. Looking up at Harry a chill of fear passed over her — his face was unreadable, he had on the game face, looking as he did that night two years ago when they lost everything. The questions began.

"What’s your middle name?"

"What did you say when you met me on the train?"

"Name our Defence teachers."

"When did you figure out Lupin’s disease?"

"Who gave me my first kiss and what did I say about it?"

"What did you say to Ron after the Yule Ball?"

Hermione answered each question calmly, and correctly.

"For the smartest girl in our year, you certainly took a risk popping in like this," he said, untying the rope binding her to the chair. Hermione relaxed, glad to be free of the restraints, a feeling not unlike the relief she’d felt when she finished her last N.E.W.T. "By the way," he whispered, "how was Ron in the sack?"

She snapped as the anger surged within her before she could restrain her impulse. It was as if someone else was moving her hand as she tried to slap Harry, someone else who spat in his face after he caught her hand, but it wasn’t someone else who collapsed into his arms, alternately raging and sobbing.

"I’m so terribly sorry," Harry whispered, as he held Hermione tighter. "It was the only thing I could think of to test for Imperius." Hermione’s sobs retreated into wet sniffles and she nodded. "Please forgive me?"

Hermione nodded again into his shoulder and slapped his other one, hard. "I forgive you."

"James, would you mind terribly much explaining just what the blazes happened?" Meghan asked.

"Harry, the statute," Hermione warned.

"Hang the statute," Harry retorted. "I’m sick of the lies," he sighed.

"Uh, James, or Harry or whatever your name is now, I have a little confession to make," Meghan said.

Harry turned to stare at her as if she’d just grown a third arm.

"I know what you are. You’re a wizard, she’s a witch. My Gran’s what you lot would call a Squib. I grew up on stories of wands and brooms and Quidditch," Meghan said sheepishly.

"When did you figure it out?" he asked.

"The second night I was sober in your old flat," she said meekly. "I found a magical picture and a couple of Galleons when I was rooting around in your stuff," she said.

"You never asked," Harry said in amazement.

"It wasn’t my business. You had your secrets, I owed you my life. Staying out of your secrets was the least I could do," Meghan said quietly.

Harry staggered over to Meghan, embracing her and planting a kiss on her forehead. "I’m sorry, Meggy," he said, turning to Hermione, sitting next to her. He took both of her hands in his own. "I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m sorry I didn’t leave a note, I’m sorry I never came back for you. You must hate me for this. Please forgive me," he said, tears beginning to stream from his face.

"I could never hate you, Harry," Hermione said, feeling a shiver of relief.

"Very touching, Harry, but I still don’t have a clue as to what just happened," Meghan said lightly.

"It’s time, I guess," Harry sighed. "Time for my sordid story. You can’t understand tonight unless you understand my screwed up life. My mum and dad were murdered when I was a tot, leaving me as an orphan. The same wizard who killed them tried to kill me, only something screwed up and he lost his power, leaving me an orphan with an interesting scar," Harry said, lifting his fringe. "I was raised by my Aunt and Uncle, who hated me, feared me, and never lost a chance to let me know that I was worthless. It wasn’t a total loss, however, as I learned how to cook, clean and do most anything in the garden, which has stood me in good stead over the years. I discovered that I was a wizard when I was eleven. I went to school, met Ron, met Hermione, learned a lot of magic, and then learned that Tom was alive and well, and bound and determined to kill me before I finished school. Oh, along the way my best friends fell in love and I fell in love with my mate’s sister. There was a war going on — dark magic against light, and I was at ground zero. The final battle occurred the night we finished school, during our leaving feast. It was awful. I lived, the bad guy died, Hermione survived, but everyone we loved was gone. That’s why I left. I lost Ron, lost my girl; I even lost my pet owl. Adding insult to injury, a day later I discovered that I’d lost my magic. I knew I couldn’t stay in the magical world — I’d go mad, so I left. I bummed around a while before I decided that â€˜Potter’s End’ was a fitting place to hide. My parents had left me a spot of money, so I settled and bought a business that didn’t involve cleaning or yard work. I’m sorry, Hermione. If I’d left a note, I would have lost the nerve. I had to get away," he said, placing his hand on Hermione’s.

"Harry, can I have my wand back?" she asked.

Harry nodded at Meghan, who returned it solemnly, grip first.

"Now, listen carefully, Harry Potter. There’s nothing wrong with my magic, and if you try to apologize one more time I’m going to let loose with two years of fury, do you hear me?" she said.

"Loud and clear, Ma’am," he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

"Okay, but can you explain why you jumped your best friend like she was some sort of ninja assassin?" Meghan asked.

Harry pulled a face, seemingly searching for words. Hermione interrupted. "In the magical world, things are often not what they seem," she explained. "There are ways of impersonating someone so accurately that for a short while, even a wife or mother couldn’t tell who was real and who the impostor was."

"Which, of course, is why the brightest witch of my year got asked an embarrassing series of questions that only she knew the answer to," Harry said.

"What about the last question?" Meghan asked delicately.

"Ah, that," Harry said. "There’s another bit of magic in which a person can be controlled, making them do terrible things that they would never do otherwise. That’s the Imperius curse. When you’re under Imperius, you’re kind of blissful — it’s almost impossible to get angry. It was the only thing I could think of on short notice that would make her either spit or cry, or both. I felt lower than a worm when I did it, if that’s any consolation," he said, glancing at Hermione. "I always did feel bad when I made you cry."

"Fascinating, simply fascinating, but are we going to eat any time soon? I’m hungry!" Megan asked in a childish tone.

Harry looked at Hermione before they both broke out laughing. "Yes, Meggy, I think we can stop telling tales long enough to feed your hungry tummy. What’s for supper anyway?" he asked.

"I thought you’d never ask — lasagne, fresh bread from Kallman’s, some steamed green beans and cobbler," she announced proudly.

"Wow, trying to impress our guest or something?" Harry asked.

"Something like that — I didn’t want her to think that you’ve lived on take-out for the past two years," she said with a smirk.

"You’re the best, Meggy," Harry said.

"Yeah, right; that explains the long line of suitors on bended knee," she said sharply.

"Meggy, we’ve been over that before," Harry said warily.

"Yes, dear, and good flatmates are as hard to find as good suitors, so I’ve come out ahead," she replied. Popping into the kitchen she brought out several dishes from the warming oven. "Let’s eat."

Supper was excellent. Meghan and Hermione seemed to have claimed an easy rapport, threading their conversation between numerous topics. Harry and Hermione seemed to have picked up their friendship as if they had been apart two hours rather than two years. Only one topic was never broached, until Harry raised it as they loaded the dishwasher.

"So, who’s left?" he asked.

"From our house and year, just us," Hermione answered sombrely.

"And the Weasleys?"

"Only Molly," she whispered, reopening old wounds for both of them.

"That was her greatest fear," he said, referencing the visions from the Grimmauld Place Boggart, "losing them all."

"She went mad for a while. I’ve been living with her, ever since I got out of the hospital," she said, not pointing out that Harry’s disappearance had hurt her almost as much as the deaths of her husband and children.

"I need to see her," he said resolutely.

"I want you to come back, Harry," she said plaintively. "To stay for good."

"I can’t," he said, avoiding her gaze.

Meghan’s voice rang out from her bedroom. "Harry?"

"Meggy?"

"I need to do laundry tonight, after that I’m turning in. Where’s Hermione sleeping tonight?" she asked.

"Do you have a room at the Bosworth Hotel?" he asked, reluctantly meeting her eyes. "It’s the only one near the village."

Hermione shook her head.

"You can have my room." he offered.

"I can’t do that." Hermione protested.

"How about my couch — it folds out into a fairly comfortable bed I’m told," he cajoled, pleading in his eyes.

"I can stay," Hermione said.

"She’ll be on the couch, Meggy," Harry called.

Minutes later, Meghan walked through, dragging a large bag of laundry behind her. When she returned from the kitchen, she tossed Hermione a flannel nightgown. "If you like them roomy, this should be just fine, I’m not that much bigger than you are." Turning to Harry, she said, "If you two need to talk very long, I need you to take it to your room. I need my sleep tonight; I’m opening the shop in the morning."

"Yes, Ma’am," he answered.

"And Harry?" Meghan interjected.

"Meggy?"

"If you’re, uh, sleeping alone, could you please leave your door open?"

"Right," he said, blushing slightly. Meghan beat a hasty retreat. When he looked up, he saw that Hermione was glowing a bright red herself. Harry opened the door to his bedroom, pausing for a moment. "Desk chair or bed? Meghan seems to think that you have pillow privileges with me," he said, trying to maintain a straight face. "What did you two talk about before I arrived?" he asked.

"Oh, you know, the usual. How we met, how you and she met, which bed she ends up in come morning, that sort of thing," she said lightly.

"I see," he replied.

"Harry," she said, moving close to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, "you haven’t done anything wrong. Meghan says that you’ve been a perfect gentleman. I didn’t expect that you’d pine away as a celibate monk all this time. You’re an attractive man," she said, giving him a squeeze before placing a delicate kiss on his cheek.

Harry pulled the desk chair out from the desk, turning it around so he could use the seat back as an arm rest. "I have," he said simply.

"Have what?"

"Uh, the celibate part, not the monk part. I can’t chant and incense makes me sneeze,   At least I think I’ve been celibate, there were some nights I don’t remember," he said with a nervous laugh.

"Well, Meghan says that nothing happened, so that’s the story I believe," Hermione replied.

"Is that important?" Harry asked.

"To me? No," she said quickly; too quickly. She kicked off her shoes. "Rub my feet?"

"I’m not as good as Ron," Harry protested.

"Hush. Consider this part of your penance."

"Yes, Mother Superior," Harry said with a snicker. He moved from the chair to the foot of the bed, manoeuvring her feet onto his lap, starting with the ball of her right foot.

Hermione let out a throaty purr. "Oh, that feels good," she exclaimed loudly.

"Could you say that again, a little louder, I’m not sure that Meghan heard you," Harry said semi-seriously.

"Oh mercy," Hermione moaned, "what would Rita say? â€˜Boy who lived in Squib/Swot Love Triangle," before dissolving into a fit of giggles. "That is heavenly. I’ll try to keep my appreciative noises to a respectable volume," she said, a broad smile appearing.

"How about â€˜Oi, Harry, nobody does it like you?’"

"No, that was Lavender’s line - she only did it to stoke Seamus’ ego, you know," Hermione said conspiratorially.

Harry worked in silence for a while.   It had been years since he’d done this, for anyone.   "I was pretty numb when I first met Meghan. I didn’t start to feel things for her until we moved into this flat. I had a lot of long chats with Ginny about it," Harry said, looking off into space.

"But Harry," Hermione said, trying to figure out a way to say it delicately, "she’s, uh... dead."

"I’m well aware of that. Some nights she comes into my dreams. I don’t know if it’s her, or just a very active imagination. Either way, it’s a lot better than the nightmares that come on the other nights," he said.

"Is it comforting?" Hermione asked.

"Very."

"So, what did she say about Meghan?"

"Just the usual questions — you know how Ginny learned to do that from Molly. Did I love her? Meghan that is, Ginny knows that I never stopped loving her . Do I want to grow old with her? Do I want her to bear and raise my children? â€˜If the answer is yes, Harry, than by all means go ahead, I’m sure she’s willing. But if the answer to any of them is no, then you’re not ready yet, and you’d just be using her, and you’re not like that’," Harry said in a breathy replica of Ginny when she was lecturing him.

"Spot on, I’d say. Other foot now," she said comfortably, smoothing her skirt down. "So, what about the magic?" she asked.

"Gone, apparently; I tried a simple Accio the day after and it was like squeezing the last drop of toothpaste from the tube," he explained.

"But you still have your wand?" Hermione asked.

"Right here, in my desk drawer," he said, opening the drawer.

Hermione reached for the wand. Harry shrugged and handed it to her. On her third swish with the wand she was able to produce a feeble scarlet spark. "That’s about as good as I could ever get — Phoenix feather core was never compatible with my magic," she said, "I don’t think it’s the wand."

"Roll over."

"Pardon?"

"Roll over and I’ll do your calves," Harry said quietly.

"Do that and I’m not going to leave this bed," Hermione moaned, rolling over slowly.

"Then I’ll sleep on the couch," he said, kneading the large muscles in her left calve.

"Mercy, that’s good, Harry. Does Meghan know that you can do this?"

"Uh, that would be a no. I’ve been trying to keep a lid on things with her. Unlike Ron, I have noticed that she’s a girl," he said, moving to a longer stroke on the left leg before moving to the right leg.

"What about me?" Hermione asked sleepily.

"I’ve known you were a girl for a long time."

"But you’ll rub my feet, but not Meghan’s" Hermione whinged. "That’s not fair."

"Ah, but you were liberally coated with â€˜girlfriend of best mate’ powder, which made you into a non-sexual sister figure," he explained.

"And now?" she asked, slurring her words slightly as she grew more drowsy.

Harry didn’t answer for a long while, watching for the tell-tale signs of sleep. When he was convinced that she was asleep, he answered her question. "Now it’s worn off, completely."

+++++++++++++++++

Stories from the Vault
The Phoenix Reborn - Chapter 5a - Deja vu all over again

DÃ©jÃ  vu all over again

Friends may come and friends may go, but enemies stay for the late show.

L. Norman, I shall survive

She’d been engaged in a silly discussion with Harry when she’d fallen asleep. She slipped into a fretting consciousness several times that night with the niggling sense that something was amiss. She wasn’t sleeping in her room, she was still in her clothes, but it was good to be asleep and she was happy about something, if she could just remember what it was that she was happy about. A voice cried out, but she couldn’t piece together enough energy to figure out who or what, if anything, she needed to do. The sound of Meghan cursing was the next thing to reach her mind.

"Blast it, James, the bleeding chair is not supposed to be here. Bugger all! You’re not James," Meghan exclaimed as she pushed a sleep mask to the top of her head.

"Meghan, what’s wrong?" Hermione asked as she sat up. With a bit of effort, she was lucid again.

"It’s James; he’s winding up to another of his nightmares. So, where is he?" she asked.

"He said something about sleeping on the couch," Hermione muttered.

"Oh, right, well, come on then, let me show you what needs to be done," Meghan said, turning to leave the room in the dark. Hermione ignited her wand with a quiet Lumos . "Thanks," Meghan said, "that must come in handy."

Hermione followed after her new acquaintance, noting the very tight, very cropped tee shirt and the thin sleep trousers that had to be held up with one hand to prevent them from falling off of her shapely hips. Meghan stopped before the couch, watching Harry, who was tangled in the covers, muttering indistinctly.

"James, luv, you need to roll over," Meghan crooned as she kneeled by the bed. When this didn’t gain any response, she pushed on shoulder and hip, forcing him onto his back.

"Why roll him over?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Sometimes if I kiss his scar, I can stop the nightmare in its tracks. It’s always worth a try. James, luv, you’re okay now," she whispered, pressing her lips to his forehead.

"Ginny, don’t be dead," Harry moaned in his sleep.

"Oh, shite! Not this one," Meghan exclaimed. "He goes on and on in that snarly language in this dream. Well, get in," she said to Hermione.

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione said.

"Do you want to help or not? He spoons best on his left side; either get in bed with him or move out of the way," she said.

"I can’t do that," Hermione protested.

"Look do you love him or not? I owe him. I suspect that you do too," Meghan said.

"I — I’m not ready," Hermione whispered.

"Then move aside."

Harry was thrashing again, the sibilant, hissing sound of Parseltongue passing over his lips. Meghan lifted the covers and slid into bed, rolling Harry to his side before she pressed herself against him. Harry coughed once, took a deep breath and was then still, returning to a semblance of normal sleep.

"Shh, James, you’re fine. Meggy’s here," she murmured as she slid her sleep mask down over her eyes.

" Nox ," Hermione whispered, extinguishing her wand.

She returned to Harry’s room where she sat in darkness for an hour before changing into her nightgown and slipping under the covers. She didn’t sleep well.

She woke at dawn, wandering to the kitchen for a drink of water. On the way back to bed, she glanced at the figures entwined on the bed. Their positions had reversed; Harry was holding Meghan, who appeared to be the picture of contentment, a small smile gracing her lips.

" It’s not about sex, it’s about comfort ," she thought to herself.

She woke to the smell of coffee; a bittersweet memory as her Mum and Dad had been coffee drinkers, but they were both gone now. Breakfast at the Burrow with Molly always started with tea.

"Morning," Harry said weakly with a froggy voice.

Hermione didn’t say anything in reply, slipping up next to him and squeezing him with a warm hug.

"Miss me, did you?" he asked with a laugh.

"You have no idea," she said.

"So, you saw the arrangement this morning?" he asked.

"Yeah, it looked sweet, actually," Hermione answered.

An alarm began to beep in the distance of the flat. "Well, it’s time for Meggy to get up. She needs to keep to a rather strict schedule otherwise her chemistry gets out of whack," he said.

"Does her condition have a name?" Hermione asked.

Meghan sat up and stretched, pushing her sleep mask back to the top of her head. "Bipolar disorder," she said. "Bloody pain in the arse is what I call it," she muttered, holding up her sleep trousers as she padded back to her bedroom. The sound of running water announced that she’d begun the first shower of the day.

"Eggs and toast?" Harry asked.

"That would be lovely," Hermione said absently.

"Crack me ten eggs, will you?" he asked, sliding the egg carton towards her as he put fresh water in the kettle.

Meghan joined them later, her hair wrapped turban style with a bath towel. "Urgh, I just barely have enough time to eat before I go downstairs and open up," she said. Looking to Hermione, she asked, "sleep well?"

"Not particularly," Hermione admitted.

"I’m like my dear departed Dad, I can get back to sleep in a wink. It’s stood me in good stead over the years, especially after falling in with this lug. Lord, I’m going to miss you, James," she sighed.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, you are going back with her, aren’t you?" Meghan asked.

"Only for a day or two. I need to pay my regards to an old friend."

"Still, I’m going to miss you," she said.

"I’ll be right back," he protested.

"Don’t be a fool, James. You were born for things greater than running a hardware store," she said.

"Nothing wrong with running a hardware store," he replied.

Meghan pushed the last scrap of toast in her mouth before she unwrapped her hair, trying to comb out the tangles. Hermione volunteered to assist with a simple grooming and drying charm, which delighted Meghan, who exclaimed her thanks as she passed out the door and down the stairwell.

"Tough commute?" Hermione asked with a smirk.

"Well, there are certain amenities living here," he said.

"Including the one that just walked out the door?" she asked.

"Jealousy does not become you, Miss Granger," he said quietly.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night," she said, pouring another cup of tea.

"You were sleeping just fine when I left you on my bed," he said with a smirk.

"Yeah, but I woke up when Meghan came to help. So, how bad are they?" she asked.

"Pretty bad — but it’s not every night. October and June are the worst, of course," he said.

"Getting any help for it?" Hermione asked.

"Meghan helps," he said firmly.

"Is she anything more than a comely plaster? She’s got it bad for you, you know," she said gravely.

"You two discuss it?" he asked.

"Not in so many words, but it did come up," she admitted.

Harry took breakfast dishes from the table to the sink, rinsing them before placing them into the dishwasher. "I can’t give her what she wants," he said.

"She’s grateful for what she gets," Hermione countered.

"That still doesn’t make it right," Harry said.

"Just stop it, Harry," Hermione snapped. "You’re not responsible for every one and every thing. She says that she was a messed up little bint when you found her, and thanks to you she’s alive, functioning and not trying to kill herself any more."

"I suppose so, but I still feel bad about it," he said. "So, changing the subject — what do you say we drive your rental back to the airport and then take a drive to Ottery St. Catchpole after lunch?"

"That would be lovely. Where should I shower?" she asked.

"Meghan’s room has its own shower — stocked with all that girly stuff," Harry said

"Good enough," Hermione said, taking a long pull from her tea cup.

Stories from the Vault
A chat in the dark

He never heard the door open. A whispered " Colloportus " made him grab for his wand. By the time his hand hit the nightstand, the wand was already gone.  

Instead of his wand, his hand found a small, soft, warm hand on the table beside the camp bed.

"You look like hell, Harry," Ginny said softly.

"Glad to see you, too, Ginny," Harry moaned, setting his head gingerly back on the pillow.   He relaxed a bit, but still kept a firm grip on her wrist.   "Why aren’t you dancing with Claude?"

Ginny snorted in reply.

"No, seriously," Harry said.

"Well, let’s tick off the reasons," Ginny replied with some vehemence.   "His breath reeks of garlic; his English is nearly impossible to understand, and when we were dancing, his hand kept wandering down to my bum. When I pointedly let him know that I was not interested, he seemed to take it as an insult to all of France.   So, are you up here pouting because I was dancing with one of my distant in-laws?"

Harry groaned a bit.   "Not hardly.   I’ve had a migraine most of the afternoon.   Not everything’s about you."

"You haven’t been sleeping well," Ginny observed.

"Well, that is about you, if it makes you feel any better," Harry said.

"It might," Ginny replied.   "Is this a regular headache, or snake-lips rattling my skull headache?"

"Uh, the first, I think," Harry said.   Ginny pulled her hand away. He heard rustling behind him and then felt a cool, damp cloth on his forehead.   The throbbing in his head subsided a bit.   "Thanks."

"So, what is keeping you up at night?" Ginny asked.

"Oh, nothing, nothing at all — just the notion that you’re down the hall and one flight of steps away. It has very little to do with the fact that I can’t get to sleep on a hot summer night," Harry replied.

"Thinking that I might be lying on top of my sheets, wearing just a thin, oversized tee-shirt?" Ginny asked.

"Now you’re fighting dirty," Harry said.

"I’m a Weasley," Ginny said.   If he opened his eyes, he was sure he’d see her smirk.   "Plus, I want to make you suffer a bit — I haven’t been sleeping, either."

"Thinking about me lying on top of my sheets on a hot summer night?" Harry asked.

"Worse than that, much worse," Ginny said.   "Silk scarves, whipped cream, the works."

"You always had a better imagination than I did," Harry said with some admiration.

"I’ve missed you," Ginny said plainly.

"I’ve missed you terribly," Harry said quickly.   "When we were together — it was wonderful, like nothing I’d ever experienced before.   Then, I decided that we couldn’t be together any more — I thought it would pass; the feelings would fade away."

"They didn’t, did they?" Ginny asked.

"Nope — it really sucks," Harry said.

"I’m not going with you," Ginny announced.

"Okay," Harry said, trying to understand how the subject had just been changed.

"Only because I’m not of age," Ginny explained.   "So you’ve got a year and three days before I join you."

"Right," Harry said, marvelling at how he’d been outflanked.

"Snape knew about us and he’s probably back with snake-lips again, and if he isn’t, our relationship wasn’t much of a secret at Hogwarts.   Have you taken a good look at the Weasley clock this week?   All the hands are still at Mortal Peril — even Percy’s, which just moved away from Persona Non Grata ."

"Where are you going with this?" Harry asked.

"Breaking up with me isn’t going to keep me safe.   Were you happy when we were together?" Ginny asked.

"Never happier," Harry answered quickly.

"Have you been unhappy to the point of feeling sick since you broke it off?" she asked.

"You know the answer to that."

"Then why don’t you give your girlfriend a kiss and ask her to join you out on the dance floor?   The band’s been paid to play until midnight.   Play your cards right and I’ll even show you what happens when your hands leave my waist," Ginny said with a smirk.

Suddenly his head didn’t hurt any more.

Stories from the Vault
Interview with a character

Interview with a character

Have you ever wanted to know "the rest of the story?"  

All of Kokopelli’s characters are available for question and answer March 4th through Saturday, March 9th, 2007 at the PhoenixSong.net forum.

The URL is http://tinyurl.com/32pn5e

Stories from the Vault
This changes everything

This Changes Everything

Chapter the First

Part 1 - Prologue

When she could, on Saturday mornings, Amelia Bones slept in. Once she awoke, she would brew a pot of coffee, read the paper and then look at any dispatches or logs that had arrived overnight, and then get sorted for the next work week. The headline on the latest edition of the Daily Prophet screamed “CEDRIC DIGORY DEAD IN PORTKEY ACCIDENT – POTTER WINS TRIWIZARD.” She heard a soft gong sound, indicating Apparation near the back gate. The foe glass next to the back door was its normal shade, so no one was approaching with hostile intent.

Amelia heard a knock at the door.

A wizard about her age, named Paxton, was at the door. He’d once been an Auror, and then left the department after the war with Voldemort. He’d ended up working as an investigator for Clovis Bones, her brother-in-law, a lawyer. She’d never been particularly close with Paxton, but she respected the man.

“Amelia, I’m glad I caught you at home,” Paxton said.

“What’s wrong?” Amelia asked.

“I think you and I both need to be sitting down,” Paxton murmured.

Amelia asked if he wanted coffee, received a negative reply and then returned to chair at the kitchen table, pushing the assorted papers into a pile.

“I think Clovis is dead,” Paxton said.

“What?” Amelia barked.

“Clovis works most Saturdays when Hogwarts is in session. Most weeks I drop in by eight o’clock or so and he’s usually been there for at least an hour.

“This morning I went to the office like usual and found it was a mess. His inner office was a shambles. There were scorch marks on the walls and a pool of blood behind the desk. Written on the wall, in blood, was ‘REPAYMENT.’”

“I take it there’s no body?” Amelia asked.

“No body,” Paxton said. “I sealed the office after I did a quick test on the blood – it’s consistent with Clovis, but that doesn’t mean a lot, his blood type is common.”

“Why didn’t you call the Aurors?” Amelia asked.

“What do you think I’m doing now?” Paxton replied. “I took the liberty of visiting his Muggle bank, pulling the grimoire out of the lock box for the law practice. Is there any magic that you can do with it to see if he’s still alive?”

Amelia sat, clenching her jaw. She removed the pince-nez glasses she used for reading.

“I’m afraid not,” Amelia said. “Josiah never read me into the grimoire for access. Legally I’m a Bones, but as far as the grimoire’s concerned, I’m an outsider.”

“Crap,” Paxton said.

“What’s your gut say?” Amelia asked.

“He’s dead,” Paxton replied. “During the war he didn’t exactly play nice with the Death Eaters. There have been rumblings this year that they’re getting active again, so that’s my first guess. I just hope they’re not going to turn his body into an Inferi.”

“Someone’s got to tell Susan,” Amelia said.

“That’s the other reason I’m talking to you,” Paxton replied.

“Can she stay with you?” Amelia asked.

“No,” Paxton answered immediately. “I live in a studio apartment; there’s no room for a fifteen year old witch, and people would talk if I moved in to her Da’s place once she comes home for the summer,” Paxton answered.

“Why would you care?” Amelia asked.

“Because I don’t want people to talk about Missy that way,” Paxton shot back. “I don’t have the greatest of reputations in certain circles.”

Pointing to the newspaper headline Amelia said “Fudge is saying that the Diggory death was an accident.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Paxton said.

“Oh, and what are you hearing?”

“I’m hearing that he’s back.” The “he” was implied.

“Fudge doesn’t think so, and he’s not letting us investigate,” Amelia said.

“Since when does he have the authority to order that?” Paxton asked. “Never mind, forget I even raised the question.”

“Are you sober these days?” Amelia asked.

“I haven’t been drunk since I was asked to leave the Aurors, and I haven’t had a drink since Clovis asked me to start looking out for Missy after her mum died,” Paxton answered.

“Can you work for me?” Amelia asked.

“What?” Paxton asked incredulously.

“Come next week, Susan will be out of school. I’m the closest thing she has to family, so she’ll be living with me, and I’ll need someone to keep an eye on her, the way you did for Clovis. Plus, I think I need to have an experienced investigator working for me who doesn’t have to worry about losing his ministry pension,” Amelia explained.

“So am I working for Amelia or the Director?” Paxton asked.

“The Director may issue you a badge, but you’ll be getting paid by Amelia,” she replied. “If I match what Clovis was paying will that be acceptable?”

“Probably, money’s not been all that important to me if I can pay my bills,” Paxton replied. “What am I investigating?”

“Clovis’ death, primarily, but I think a deep background on Harry Potter is in order.”

“When are we going to tell Missy?” Paxton asked.

“Can you come up to Scotland with me tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll drop by here and we can go together,” Paxton answered.

#@#

Chapter the First - Part 2

Sunday Changes Everything

My name is Susan Bones; I’m fifteen, one of the older girls in my year at school. Physically, the operative word is nondescript. I’m not too tall, not too short. My hair, usually worn in a plait; is “strawberry blonde” which means it’s not really red and not really blonde. My eyes are either dull blue or dull green, depending on lighting and circumstances. The best thing that can be said about my figure is that I kinda have one. I have a waist, and, thankfully, in this boob obsessed world, enough bust that I’m usually not mistaken for a boy.

As of sometime last Friday night, I became an orphan.

A few words about the family I no longer have. My father, Clovis, had two brothers, Josiah and Edgar, both of whom were murdered at the order of the pretender, the so-called Lord Voldemort. Edgar had a wife and children. There are pictures where I’m present with my cousins, but I don’t remember ever being with them; I was a babe in arms at the time. Voldemort got the whole family, Edgar, his wife Priscilla, and my three cousins.

Josiah was a newlywed when he died. His wife of two weeks, Amelia, managed to not get murdered with her husband because she was back to work as an Auror and was responding to a different call on a different Death Eater attack. She learned that she was a widow at the end of her shift when she went home. No one had managed to put two and two together to figure out that Senior Auror Zohar, just back from her honeymoon, was now properly called Senior Auror Bones.

My father survived the first war, taking a behind-the-scenes role as a prosecutor under Bartemius Crouch. He’d married a half-blood he’d met at school and during the last years of the first war, I was born. Oddly enough, given the family history, Mum died of natural causes when I was eight. By that time Da was a solicitor in private practice serving both magical and mundane clientele.

For as long as I can remember, Da had an investigator named Paxton who more or less worked for him full time. After Mum died, Paxton became my nanny, although no one dared to use the title in his presence. Da got me to school in the mornings, and Paxton picked me up at the end of the day. On extremely dull days Paxton would make sure that I’d do my homework in a little office next to Da’s, but the best days were when Paxton took me “out into the field.”

On more than one occasion I’d provide his cover, usually by being a kid, playing in a park or something similar. He’d watch me play and simultaneously keep some miscreant under surveillance. I won’t talk about how useful I might have been in placing magical or mundane listening devices, because that certainly never happened, mercy me, that would be illegal .

This year at school was the spectacle of the Triwizard Tournament, and Thursday, June 24, was the third task. By the end of Thursday, Cedric Diggory was dead, Harry Potter was the Triwizard Champion and rumors began flying through the castle. The leading rumors were: Cedric died in a Portkey accident; Cedric was murdered by Harry Potter after beating him to the goal at the end of the maze, and finally, that Voldemort was back and Cedric died at his command.

#@#

The day after the second task, Friday, was an exam day and I dutifully wrote essays and did practical exercises. Sunday morning I got a summons to the office of my head of house. When I opened the door and saw Paxton and Aunt Amelia sitting there together, the first words out of my mouth were “Da’s dead, isn’t he?”

I don’t know for sure if they ever answered me, because I sat down hard in a chair. I wanted to curl up into a ball, but I probably did something half-arsed stoic like sit there and whimper. I remember Paxton hugging me, and that I blew my nose and wiped my face, thankful that I still had my hair in a plait because I really didn’t want to get snot in my hair. I composed myself and asked Paxton “what do we know?”

Paxton cleared his throat, sat back down and began to report. I’d seen him do it hundreds of times.

“I went into the office on Saturday at the usual time. I’d brought your Da some coffee from the shop he likes around the corner. His office was a mess; there were scorch marks on the walls and a pool of blood behind the desk. I did a quick field test before I left the office; it’s the same blood type as your Da, but O+ isn’t all that rare, so that’s not conclusive.

“Written on the wall in blood was the word ‘REPAYMENT’ in block print, all capital letters. Your Da’s appointment book was missing the page for that day, but Brigit’s book showed the last appointment of the day as being a Mister or Miss Yareva. My money’s on Mister, because it looked like there was a pretty physical fight, wands and fists. No body, no dark mark, but I’m fairly certain that your Da’s not alive,” Paxton said.

“I don’t want to believe that,” I said. “Did you get the grimoire?”

“Yes, Missy,” he said, a note of resignation in his voice. He turned to Auntie, who reached into her bag and pulled out an old, leather bound book. She handed it to Paxton, who then handed it to me.

I felt a spark when I touched the cover of the book.

“Oh, shite,” I muttered under my breath. Auntie shot me a dirty look for conduct unbecoming a lady, but didn’t go beyond that.

“I am Susan Amelia Bones,” I said in my best recitation-in-class voice and then opened the book.

There on the first page in silver ink was a new entry, “Susan Amelia Bones, Bones of Bones” with the day’s date.

“I’m so sorry, Missy,” Paxton said.

“Your father was a good man, Susan and we will all miss him,” Auntie said.

Nothing was said for a while after that. Professor Sprout handed me a box of tissues, my handkerchief being overtaxed for the moment.

“I need your help, Susan,” Auntie said.

“Mine? For what?” I replied.

“Fudge has ruled Cedric Diggory’s death to be due to Portkey accident, without any investigation from my office, and has prohibited us from even opening one,” Auntie said.

“He can’t do that,” I objected.

“You and I know that, but I’m not particularly eager to provoke a confrontation right now, not unless I know that I can win the day and end up with a better Minister,” Auntie said, using her ‘this-is-an-educational-moment’ voice.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“I need to know everything about Harry Potter – I think he can give us information from what happened at the Third Task that may shed some light on your father’s death,” she said.

“I barely know him, and school’s letting out at the end of this week,” I objected.

“I have a suggestion,” Auntie said.

#@#

Chapter the First - Part Three

The Leaving

#@#

Thursday was the leaving feast. It was also the one-week anniversary of the death of Cedric Diggory.

"The end," said Dumbledore, looking around at them all, "of another year."

He paused, and his eyes fell upon the Hufflepuff table. Theirs had been the most subdued table before he had gotten to his feet, and theirs were still the saddest and palest faces in the Hall.

"There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight," said Dumbledore, "but I must first acknowledge the loss of a very fine person, who should be sitting here," he gestured toward the Hufflepuffs, "enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to Cedric Diggory."

They did it, all of them; the benches scraped as everyone in the Hall stood, and raised their goblets, and echoed, in one loud, low, rumbling voice, "Cedric Diggory."

"Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the qualities that distinguish Hufflepuff house," Dumbledore continued. "He was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play. His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about."

Harry raised his head and stared at Dumbledore.

"Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort."

A panicked whisper swept the Great Hall. People were staring at Dumbledore in disbelief, in horror. He looked perfectly calm as he watched them mutter themselves into silence.

"The Ministry of Magic," Dumbledore continued, "does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so - either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory."

Stunned and frightened, every face in the Hall was turned toward Dumbledore now... or almost every face. Over at the Slytherin table, Harry saw Draco Malfoy muttering something to Crabbe and Goyle. Harry felt a hot, sick swoop of anger in his stomach. He forced himself to look back at Dumbledore.

"There is somebody else who must be mentioned in connection with Cedric’s death," Dumbledore went on. "I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter."

A kind of ripple crossed the Great Hall as a few heads turned in Harry's direction before flicking back to face Dumbledore.

"Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort," said Dumbledore. "He risked his own life to return Cedric's body to Hogwarts. He showed, in every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honor him."

Dumbledore turned gravely to Harry and raised his goblet once more. Nearly everyone in the Great Hall followed suit. They murmured his name, as they had murmured Cedric's, and drank to him. But through a gap in the standing figures Harry saw that Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and many of the other Slytherins had remained defiantly in their seats, their goblets untouched. Dumbledore, who after all possessed no magical eye, did not see them.

When everyone had once again resumed their seats, Dumbledore continued, "The Triwizard Tournament's aim was to further and promote magical understanding. In the light of what has happened - of Lord Voldemort’s return - such ties are more important than ever before."

Dumbledore looked from Madame Maxime and Hagrid, to Fleur Delacour and her fellow Beauxbatons students, to Viktor Krum and the Durmstrangs at the Slytherin table. Krum, Harry saw, looked wary, almost frightened, as though he expected Dumbledore to say something harsh.

"Every guest in this Hall," said Dumbledore, and his eyes lingered upon the Durmstrang students, "will be welcomed back here at any time, should they wish to come. I say to you all, once again - in the light of Lord Voldemort's return, we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Lord Voldemort’s gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open.

"It is my belief - and never have I so hoped that I am mistaken - that we are all facing dark and difficult times. Some of you in this Hall have already suffered directly at the hands of Lord Voldemort. Many of your families have been torn asunder. A week ago, a student was taken from our midst.

"Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory."

Dumbledore then sat down; it was obvious that the feast was over. Benches scraped on the stone floor and students began milling around.

Harry startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. His closest friends knew not to come at him from behind.

"Harry, I'm sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to you earlier,” Susan began.

Harry gave her a blank look, and then nodded.

“I – I just wanted to say thanks, thanks for bringing Cedric’s body back,” Susan said, her voice a marked change from her usual chipper tone.

“Not exactly something where I should say ‘you’re welcome’ I guess,” Harry said quietly. “You know, we reached the cup at the same time. I said we should both take it, it’d be a victory for Hogwarts. Now he’s dead.

“Well, anyways, thanks, Harry,” Susan said, nodding her own head before turning and merging back into the crowd of milling students.

#@#

Part IV

Meanwhile, in Little Whinging

It was not quite supper time on Thursday at the Dursley house. Vernon was enjoying his last natural night for the summer before his unnatural nephew came home.

The doorbell rang.

“Could you get it, Vernon?” Petunia called. “I’m covered in flour and I don’t want to interrupt what I’m doing.”

Vernon fumed. He didn’t want to get up, but then again, he didn’t want to jeopardize the pie Petunia was making.

“Certainly, Pet,” he said.

He opened the door, casting an appraising eye at a workman standing on his threshold.

“Mr. Vernon Dursley?”

“Aye, that’s me,” Vernon said.

“I’m Paxton, with Paxton Lawn Service.”

“We don’t need any lawn service,” Vernon said dismissively.

“Oh, I’m not calling about that,” Paxton said. “I’ve heard you have a nephew.”

“Aye, what’s it to you?” Vernon growled.

“I’m looking to hire some more day laborers and your nephew was suggested by one of your neighbors,” Paxton said cheerfully.

“He’s not totally useless in the garden,” Vernon said.

“I’d like to hire him for the summer. I would, of course, remit his wages to you; I wouldn’t want him to squander it and have nothing left at the end of the summer when he goes back to school.”

“Remit to me?” Vernon asked. “How often?”

“Every two weeks on Friday,” Paxton said.

“Cash or check?”

“Cash, but it’ll be in a sealed envelope with a paystub so you’ll know he’s not skimming.”

“I think, Mr. Paxton,” Vernon said with a smile “that we may have a deal.”

“He’ll need to buy a uniform,” Paxton said, “we can deduct it from his wages, or we can see what we have kicking around at the office.”

“Start him off with what’s around the office,” Vernon said “until you know he’s going to work out.”

“I can see you’re a man of business, Mr. Dursley,” Paxton said unctuously.

“Yes,” Vernon said smugly. “He comes back from school tomorrow.”

“I’ll be by the day after then?”

“Excellent,” Vernon concluded.

After the door closed, Vernon smiled broadly.

“Good news, Pet,” Vernon announced.

#@#

Vernon was the only Dursley present at the station. He looked at Harry and then began walking away at what was a fast clip for an overweight man.

They reached the car, Vernon making an off-hand motion that Harry was to sit in the back.

“You start a job tomorrow,” Vernon growled. “Bloke named Paxton is hiring you for lawn work. There’s a package next to you in the seat, it’s your uniform.”

Harry found a brown grocery bag stuffed with tan trousers and shirts, some underwear and some sturdy looking trainers. He didn’t know if it would fit, but after years of wearing Dudley’s cast-off clothing, he was certain he could improvise something . At the station he’d told Hedwig to go hunting, knowing that she’d come back to Privet Drive in the evening, provided that he left his window open.

Once he got home he pulled his trunk and Hedwig’s cage up the stairs, somewhat surprised that Vernon didn’t lock everything up in the cupboard as he’d done in prior years. Once in his room he dumped the contents of the grocery bag on the bed. Out fell two tan colored shirts, a pair of trainers (black), four pairs of socks (two white, two grey), two tan trousers, a tan baseball style cap that had “Paxton” embroidered on the front in red thread and a small envelope that said “Master Harry Potter” on the front of it.

Harry took off his ratty trainers, and put on fresh socks and the new trainers, standing up to assess the fit and feel. The trainers were exceptionally comfortable, although it took some getting used to a shoe that actually fit and didn’t need to be spellotaped to stay together. He then put his finger under the lid of the envelope and tore it open.

Dear Harry,

I will introduce myself properly tomorrow, but for now know that I’m a friend of Susan Bones.

This letter was spelled with Muggle repelling charms, so it’s likely that Vernon will never see it, but I suggest that you destroy it afterwards anyway. Susan gave me her best guess as to your sizes, so I purchased clothing accordingly.

If anything doesn’t fit, we can either make it fit, or purchase new that will fit. Vernon may or may not have told you that I’ve hired you to work for me over the summer. To seal the deal I told him that I’d be remitting your pay to him.

My estimation of the man is that you’ll never see any money remitted to Vernon, so you’ll find twenty quid in this envelope. Every young lad should have some money in his pocket when walking around.

Paxton

#@#

From the extremely confidential diary of Susan A. Bones

Like I’ve said before, I’m used to working with Paxton. On Saturday morning Paxton showed up at Aunty’s house. I was ready, dressed in the tan uniform of Paxton Lawn Service. There really is a Paxton Lawn Service, it’s run by some sort of distant relation to Paxton, and I’ve actually worked for the company in the past when I wanted to earn some pocket money, but usually I’m there as some sort of cover for a surveillance that Paxton was running. The uniform is not particularly flattering uniform if you’re a teenage girl – but then again, I was never particularly impressed in how my backside appears when I’m wearing trousers. I suppose the current Muggle fashion of low-rise jeans is worse, being both uncomfortable and unflattering, so I should be grateful.

This morning I loaded into the pickup truck and we drove out to Surrey.

“Paxton?” I asked.

“Hmm, Missy?” he replied.

“What’s Harry’s family like?”

“Miserable,” Paxton replied. “This is the place – Harry’s not-so-happy-home.”

I let that pass without comment.

Paxton parked the truck by the kerb and stopped the engine. I moved to open my door, but he put out his hand with a cautioning wave.

He then left the truck, walking up the neatly groomed sidewalk to Number Four Privet Drive.

After a conversation I couldn’t hear, Harry stepped out of the house, dressed in the bland tan uniform of Paxton Lawn Service.

Jeepers, it’s so unfair, on him it looked good!

I stepped out of the cab of the truck so as to flip the seat forward and climb into the jump seat in the back. Harry gave me a shy smile and a wave as he stepped into the truck.

“I assume that we don’t need introductions,” Paxton said blandly as he started the truck and headed to the motorway.

We drove for ten minutes or so and ended up in a light commercial area, townhouses that might be doctor’s offices or accountants. After settling into the safe house Paxton was using for Harry’s debriefing (which sounds either pretentious or slightly smutty) I walked down to a little diner to pick up breakfast and coffee.

+@+

Paxton led Harry into the townhouse which might have been a doctor’s office or some other business place. At what looked like a reception desk, Paxton took off his cap and walked into a room cluttered with side tables and a large conference table surrounded by chairs.

On the table top were a Muggle tape recorder, note pads and what Harry recognized as a dictaquill.

“I’m Paxton,” the man said, extending his hand to Harry.

“I kind of guessed as much,” Harry said. “Do you really own a lawn service?”

Paxton laughed.

“There is another Paxton, some sort of cousin of mine, who really does own a lawn service. I’ve borrowed his trucks and uniforms for years,” Paxton said.

Paxton dug into this trouser pocket pulled out an old, battered leather case, opening it and putting in on the table in front of Harry.

“My credentials,” Paxton said.

Harry looked at it, not knowing for sure what Auror credentials should look like.

“Let me tell you a little story about how I got here today,” Paxton said.

“I went to Hogwarts, same as you, but I left after I got my OWLs. I worked for a while in my cousin’s business and then enlisted in Her Majesty’s Army, ending up in the military police as an investigator. I decided that I didn’t want to make that a career, and got out.

“This was about ten years before you were born. Voldemort was beginning to make trouble, and the Ministry was trying to expand the Auror Corps, so I went downtown and applied.”

“How could you get in without NEWTs?” Harry asked.

“Didn’t need NEWTs then,” Paxton said, laughing. “I did about a year of training to learn the Auror way of doing things and then was thrown into the war.

“Nasty business that, although I did manage to meet your Dad once, years later, but we never worked together.

“The war ended, and I was asked to leave the Auror Corps as I’d developed a bit of a love affair with the bottle. It took a while to dry out.

“Clovis Bones, Susan’s father, offered me a job as in investigator in his law practice. At first it was little things, and then it worked into a full time position.

“When Susan’s mum died, Clovis asked me to help out, picking her up from school and the like.

“I’m the guy who discovered the Clovis had been murdered at his office, we’ll get into the details later. I came to Susan’s aunt, Amelia Bones, and she hired me to work as an investigator. Officially I’m looking into Clovis’ death, but I’m also looking into your allegation that Voldemort’s back.”

“Why you?” Harry asked.

“Minister Fudge is playing stupid, thinking that if he can say that Voldemort’s not back often enough, it’ll be true. I’m not counting on working long enough to get a pension from the Ministry, so I have the freedom to tell Fudge to get bent when he discovers that parts of the DMLE don’t buy his manure.”

“What’s Madam Bones think?” Harry asked.

“She thinks you’re telling the truth, but she can’t prove it yet. I’m looking for proof.”

“Okay.”

Thus began an interrogation that went on for two days.

<<Snip this>>

Susan came into the office carrying a large paper bag. She put it down on the table and put a foil wrapped cylinder in front of Harry; she then held her hand out to Paxton and dropped a collection of notes and coins into his outstretched hand.

“The Greek makes a breakfast of eggs and other stuff all wrapped in a thin flatbread. If you have a bit of dexterity, you can eat it with one hand, which made it popular with Aurors on surveillance jobs.

“Coffee or tea?”

“Tea please.”

Paxton got up and headed into another part of the office.

Susan unwrapped her breakfast and began biting bits off one end.

“Hard to eat it in a dainty fashion,” she said “but it’s really good.”

Harry unwrapped his own cylinder, tantalizing smells rose with the steam. He took a bite and rolled it around in his mouth.

“That’s not bacon,” he said.

“It’s lamb,” Susan said.

“Never had lamb, but this is good.”

Paxton returned with tea. Harry sweetened his and sipped cautiously as the mug was steaming.

Paxton returned to his seat and unwrapped his breakfast, murmuring appreciatively as he ate.

When breakfast and tea was done, Harry collected the mugs and found his way to the kitchen, washing the mugs and setting them on the counter to dry. He then visited the loo and went back to the conference room.

Paxton began with a check of the tape recorder and then the dictaquill, making sure that it was picking up their voices transcribing properly.

Paxton began narrating an introduction.

“It’s 10:00 on Saturday the third day of July. I’m Clement Paxton, Special Inspector under Amelia Bones, Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

“With me is Harry Potter, our interview subject and Susan Bones, who is assisting me in this inquiry.

“I have not given Mr. Potter any rights advisements as he is neither a suspect or a person of interest in this inquiry. He is believed to be a potential witness who may have material information pertaining to the disappearance and suspected homicide of Clovis Bones on the twenty-fifth day of June.

“Let’s start with some background. Where were you born, Mr. Potter?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry answered.

“Where are you currently residing?”

“I’m living with my aunt, uncle and cousin in Little Whinging.”

“How long have you lived with this family?”

“Since shortly after my parents were murdered by Voldemort, I was a year and a half old at the time.”

“Do you remember anything about your parents?”

Harry began to squirm uncomfortably.

“Until a year ago, I didn’t remember anything. Last year I was exposed to Dementors. When I’m near them, I hear the last few minutes of my parents’ lives before they were killed.”

“Did you witness these murders?”

“I didn’t see my dad’s death; I remember seeing a green flash from the stairwell, as Mum had taken me upstairs. I remember seeing a green flash in the nursery and seeing Mum fall down. There was another green flash after that, but I don’t remember much afterwards.”

“What’s the name of the family you’re living with?”

“Vernon and Petunia Dursley, my cousin’s name is Dudley.”

“Is this a magical family?”

“No sir, they’re Muggles.”

“How did you come to live with them?”

“I don’t know, sir, Petunia is my mum’s sister.”

“How do you get along with this family?”

“Can we stop the interview for a minute?” Harry asked.

Paxton stopped the tape recorder and then paused the dictaquill looking up at Harry.

“If you’re going to ask me more about the Dursleys, can Susan leave?” Harry asked.

Paxton nodded at Susan, who got up from the table and left the room.

“Before I start up again, why do you want Susan to leave?” Paxton asked.

“Not many people know about what it’s like living with the Dursleys,” Harry replied.

Paxton pondered this, and then started up the tape recorder again.

“Interview resuming. Susan Bones has left the room. Tell me about how you get along with the Dursleys.”

“It’s pretty bad. They hate magic, and don’t particularly like me,” Harry said. “My cousin punches and hits me and chases me with his gang of friends – he calls it ‘Harry hunting.’”

“Do Vernon or Petunia know about this?”

“Yes.”

“Do they strike you?”

“Not as much as they used to – now it’s mainly a lot of yelling and bad talk, saying that I’m unnatural, useless, and that I’ll be a shiftless bum like my mum and dad. I didn’t know that I was a wizard until my Hogwarts letter came when I was eleven.”

“Did you have bouts of accidental magic before starting at Hogwarts?”

“Yeah, and I was usually punished for it,” Harry said. “Before I got my Hogwarts letter I slept in a cupboard under the stairs. They’d lock me in there without meals as a form of punishment. I got a few whippings from Vernon with a belt, and Petunia hit me with a frying pan when she got mad at me once, I think I’d dropped something in the kitchen. That’s when she broke my arm. I was eight at the time.”

“I think we have enough background with the Dursleys, can Susan return?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Harry said.

“It wasn’t your fault, Harry,” Paxton said sympathetically.

“I know, it’s still not very comfortable,” Harry said.

+@+

“Let’s talk about the third task,” Paxton said.

“Okay.”

“What happened when you entered the maze?”

“Well, it was a maze – big hedges. There was a section in which gravity was reversed, another that was total darkness; there was a Sphinx that asked you a riddle to let you go by, some Blast-Ended Skrewts, that’s a monster that Hagrid bred, stuff like that.

“Krum was torturing Delacour, I think he was under Imperius. I stunned Krum and sent up sparks. Close to the end of the maze was an Acromantula, a big spider. Cedric almost got to the cup before me, but he got nabbed by the spider. I blasted the spider.

“I said that Cedric should go first, but he wanted me to go first, so we decided that we’d grab the cup together. It was a Portkey.”

“Where did you arrive?”

“It was a graveyard – I don’t know where. We were by the grave of Tom Riddle – that’s Tom Riddle Senior, Voldemort’s father. Voldemort’s real name is Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Harry explained.

“How do you know that?” Paxton asked.

“It’s something I learned in my second year,” Harry said.

“Okay, we’ll go back to that later,” Paxton said. “What happened when you arrived?”

“I heard a voice call out ‘kill the spare’ and Peter Pettigrew cast Avada Kedavra at Cedric Diggory,” Harry said.

“How do you know it was Peter Pettigrew?” Paxton asked.

“I met him last year,” Harry explained.

“We’ll get back to that too,” Paxton said. “How do you know it was Avada Kedavra?”

“It’s what I heard Pettigrew call, then I saw a green flash, then Cedric was dead,” Harry said, sniffling a bit.

“I was banged up from the Port key landing; Pettigrew dragged me off and tied me up to the tombstone for Tom Riddle Senior. Pettigrew had some sort of Homunculus; it looked like a scaly cross between a snake and a human baby. There was a cauldron brewing, Pettigrew put the Homunculus into the cauldron and then added a bone from Tom Riddle Senior, then he cut off his own hand, tossing it into the cauldron and then he added some blood he took from me.

“The cauldron started spitting out sparks like crazy and then I saw a thin snaky looking man arise from the cauldron – Voldemort had a body again.

“What happened after that?”

“Voldemort took Pettigrew’s good arm and put his finger to the Dark Mark, calling the Death Eaters back to him,” Harry said.

“Then what?”

“They started to arrive – they were in black robes and masks,” Harry said.

“Did you see any of them without masks?” Paxton asked.

“No.”

“Did you recognize any of them?”

“Lucius Malfoy I know, he was there – Voldemort called him ‘Lucius my slippery friend’ or something like that,” Harry said.

“What happened then?”

“Voldemort made a new hand for Pettigrew – it looked like it was silver metal of some sort. Then he started casting Crucio on one of the Death Eaters, someone he called Avery. Avery asked to be forgiven and Voldemort said ‘You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years ... I want thirteen years' repayment before I forgive you.’ At least I think those were his words,” Harry said.

“Did he name any of the others?”

“Lucius Malfoy, but I already said that, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Walden McNair, he’s in the Ministry, I met him last year too,” Harry said.

The interview went on for the rest of the day, telling and retelling the story of what happened in the graveyard. In between recitations, Paxton coaxed the story of what happened to Harry at Hogwarts in his first, second and third year, and in this past year, his dealings with Bartemius Crouch Junior, polyjuiced as Alastor Moody.

#@#

Chapter the First -Part V

Summary Debrief

Wednesday, July 7

Amelia signed her last memorandum, countersigned two purchase requests, and put the rest of the ordinary paperwork into her portfolio for review at her leisure. The majority of Ministry workers had gone home a half hour ago, so the common Floo station should be quiet by now, but she wasn’t planning on departing that way, instead she walked to the executive entrance, hoping that she wouldn’t run into Fudge or any of his minions.

Her hope appeared to be dashed. Walking into the ministry building through the executive entrance was Dolores Umbridge.

“Good Evening, Dolores,” Amelia said to Fudge’s bag lady.

“And a good evening to you, Amelia, I’m so glad you’re able to go home and enjoy spending time with your delightful niece,” Umbridge said.

“Yes, she is a charming young lady,” Amelia said in return.

She walked on into the hallway leading to the Apparation point. People coming into the Ministry Apparated to a location at street level. From there they walked through a guarded hallway that brought them to the executive level of the Ministry. People going out of the Ministry were able to Apparate from this one point that allowed out-bound Apparation only. Amelia had always contended that this point too should be guarded, but was summarily voted down in budget meetings year after year.

Once out of the Ministry building, she Apparated to a Muggle business area, walking into the townhouse office that Paxton had used for his debriefings. She smelled fried garlic when she entered the office; Paxton had procured Chinese take-out.

“Right on time, Amelia, I just got back with the food,” Paxton said.

“Where’s Susan?” she asked.

“She’s safely at the farmhouse, the wards are activated. I think the Abbot girl is coming over tonight,” Paxton reported.

“And Potter?”

“He’s back with his miserable relatives,” Paxton said.

“So, what do we know?” Amelia asked.

“We know a lot, but proving it’s another thing,” Paxton said philosophically. “Harry’s a good witness, I’ve interviewed him nonstop on Saturday and Sunday; his Pensieve memories are quite detailed, and when he’s paying attention his recall of dialogue is almost word perfect. A lot of these facts are from Harry’s testimony, confirmed by his Pensieve memories, but if he’s crazy, like Fudge is saying, his memories are no good as evidence. After the interviews, I spent Tuesday and Wednesday doing investigation, confirming what he’s said – it all checks out.”

“So, here’s what we know.”

“James and Lily Potter died October 31, 1981 at their cottage in Godric’s Hollow in Wales. Potter has a short recollection of that evening that’s consistent with the evidence from the crime scene. It’s not common knowledge that James’ body was found on the stairwell and Lily was in the nursery, but that’s how he remembers it, poor sod,” Paxton said, getting into his storytelling mode.

“Someone spirited him away from the cottage and on the evening of November 2, 1981, Potter was left in a basket, bundled up in a blanket with a note on the doorstep of Vernon and Petunia Dursley. Potter’s location on November 1, 1981 is unknown. He has no memory of the event and we don’t have any witnesses, not yet.

“James Potter used the same solicitor that Charlus Potter had retained, so there was a copy of the Potter will on file there. The old solicitor gladly shared it with me, assuming that the will had already been read and executed. I did not tell him anything to the contrary.

“Under the terms of the will, Harry was to be left with Frank Longbottom, Sirius Black or Andromeda Tonks, but under no circumstances was he to be placed with the Dursley family.”

“Can you speculate why?” Amelia asked.

“Vernon Dursley is a close-minded bigot who makes the most rabid blood-purist look warm and kind; he hates magic in any form. He’s a mid-level manager at a manufacturing company; his wife stays home full time. There’s a boy there about Harry’s age, named Dudley. Vernon and Dudley are morbidly obese, while Petunia is two steps away from anorexia.

“The Dursleys were physically and psychologically abusive to Harry, never buying him anything as ‘spending money on a freak would be wasteful.’ Harry did all the chores while Dudley was spoiled and is turning into a little hoodlum. On at least two occasions school personnel, one teacher and one nurse, reported suspected physical abuse. In each instance, there’s a documentary record of the report, but the complaining witnesses have no recollection of making the report. Harry’s school file was charmed with a notice-me-not charm, a Confundus hex and an alarm ward. I bypassed all of them before I reviewed the file.

“Conclusion?” Amelia asked.

“Someone knew about the abuse and took action to silence the witnesses, probably Obliviating them, but I didn’t examine them long enough to look for evidence of Obliviation. Harry said that Dumbledore was most insistent that he had to stay with the Dursleys, even after he entered Hogwarts, so my money’s on Dumbledore, but I can’t prove that.”

“So Harry’s life is nothing like what John Q. Wizard imagines if he read any of the Boy-Who-Lived stories to his children,” Amelia said.

“Correct. Harry’s very embarrassed about his placement; I won’t dignify it by calling it ‘home life’ and asked that Susan be excused from the room when I asked him about it.”

“Did you?”

“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. She went into the adjoining room and watched through a charmed mirror,” Paxton said. “No way in hell was I going to interview a minor without having a witness.”

“His time at Hogwarts was extremely eventful, and most of the stories haven’t made their way into the public view.”

“Oh?”

“First year, Dumbledore was storing Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone at Hogwarts when he had reason to believe that Voldemort’s agents were interested in acquiring the stone. The former Muggle Studies teacher named Quirrell taught Defense that year. It turns out that he was possessed by a spirit being that identified itself as Voldemort. The possessed teacher tried to kill Harry, and Harry burned him to death, the apparent side effect of some magic that Lily had placed on Harry years ago.”

“That certainly never was made public,” Amelia said, her eyebrows rising.

“Second year an eccentric house elf from the Malfoy family tried to keep Harry from returning to Hogwarts. Gilderoy Lockhart was the Defense teacher that year, and something was set loose in the school that was petrifying students.”

“The petrifaction made the news,” Amelia said.

“It was a basilisk.”

“What?” Amelia said incredulously.

“You heard me correctly. It turns out that Harry’s a Parselmouth and could open Slytherin’s legendary Chamber of Secrets. Malfoy Senior had left a cursed artifact with a student, whom Harry would not identify, and that student was possessed, again by a spirit being that identified itself as Voldemort. Harry killed the basilisk with the sword of Gryffindor and used a basilisk fang to destroy the artifact. The basilisk is still in the Chamber of Secrets, we’re going to try to get Harry into the school this summer and have someone render the body, that is, if you approve.”

“The body’s his, the law is clear on that,” Amelia said.

“Third year, Sirius Black escapes from Azkaban,” Paxton says. “It turns out that Black didn’t betray the Potters, and he wasn’t their secret keeper. Peter Pettigrew is alive. He was an unregistered Animagus, as was Black. Black was a large black dog, Pettigrew was a common rat. Pettigrew, as a rat, had been hiding with the Weasley family for thirteen years. Sybil Trelawney delivered a prophecy that year, let me find my notes for the exact wording,” Paxton said, flipping through a binder of notes.

“Okay, here goes: ‘IT WILL HAPPEN TONIGHT. THE DARK LORD LIES ALONE AND FRIENDLESS, ABANDONED BY HIS FOLLOWERS. HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN CHAINED THESE TWELVE YEARS. TONIGHT,

BEFORE MIDNIGHT. THE SERVANT WILL BREAK FREE AND SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER. THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN WITH HIS SERVANTS AID, GREATER AND MORE TERRIBLE THAN EVER HE WAS. TONIGHT. BEFORE MIDNIGHT THE SERVANT WILL SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER.’

“Now, get this, Harry reports this to Dumbledore after both Black and Pettigrew escape from the Hogwarts grounds. Dumbledore says ‘That brings her total of real predictions up to two. I should offer her a pay raise.’

“Dumbledore’s comment leads me to believe that there might be another prophesy about Harry stored in the Hall of Prophesy at the Ministry. If you okay it, I plan on taking Harry for a little covert field trip and see what we can find.”

“Approved, let me know the details,” Amelia said.

“Of course.”

“What of his fourth year?” Amelia asked.

“I’m not done with his third year yet. Lupin was teaching Defense that year and taught him the Patronus charm. Harry can cast a corporeal Patronus, it’s a big stag. He and Black were attacked by something over one hundred Dementors and he held them off with one Patronus.”

“Impressive,” Amelia said. “Did your debriefing shed any additional light on Barty Crouch Junior?”

“Not much beyond what we know,” Paxton said.

“On the night of the Third Task, the Cup was a Portkey. It took Cedric and Harry up to a graveyard, location as of yet unknown, but I have a lead. Pettigrew killed Cedric Diggory and then used some of Harry’s blood for a ritual that built a new body for Voldemort.

“Voldemort summoned a bunch of Death Eaters: Avery, Malfoy, McNair, Goyle, Crabbe, Nott and some others who weren’t named. Avery asked for forgiveness and Voldemort refused, saying that he wanted thirteen years of repayment ,” Paxton said, looking up from his notes.

“Repayment?” Amelia said. “He said ‘repayment’?”

“Yes, that very word. Harry pointed out that Yareva was probably a phonetic transcription of ‘Avery’ spelled backwards, which is about the level of sophistication for either Avery Senior or Junior. It appears that the lad did a lot of puzzles growing up and word jumbles are pretty easy for him.”

“ Avery – why didn’t we see that?” Amelia asked.

“Because we didn’t want to connect Voldemort getting a new body with the death of your brother in law?” Paxton replied.

“It was a rhetorical question, Paxton,” Amelia said.

“Yes, M’am,” Paxton said meekly, and then winked.

Amelia snorted. “So, Mr. Potter does indeed have material information to assist us in the investigation of Clovis Bones. Well done, Paxton. Any loose ends?”

Paxton fiddled with his biro.

“How many times have you ridden the Hogwarts Express, Amelia?” Paxton asked.

“Well, doing the maths, at least twenty-eight times,” Amelia answered, “not counting the times I’ve seen Susan off, which would be more.”

“So in young Harry’s first year, why would Molly Weasley be wandering around Kings Crossing asking in a loud voice which platform held the Hogwarts Express?” Paxton said.

“Is that what happened?” Amelia asked.

Paxton nodded.

“So either his best friend is Dumbledore’s agent, or his mum is Dumbledore’s agent,” Amelia concluded.

“I’d put money on the second option,” Paxton said, “but Ronald Weasley hasn’t been much of a good influence on Harry, and has done everything he can to keep students from other houses away from him.”

“Susan confirmed that?” Amelia asked.

Paxton nodded again.

“Does he know?”

Paxton shrugged. “I did the maths with him and let him draw his own conclusion. For now he’s not making any decisions, but he knows he’s going to have to do something when he goes back to school. By the way, he’s extremely happy to be getting away from the Dursleys six days a week. On days that I’m not interviewing him, he’s actually working for my cousin’s lawn service. Susan’s working there too.”

“How’s Susan?”

“Is that, ‘how is Susan dealing with her da’s death?’ or ‘are two teens together starting to click?’”

“Both?”

“Susan likes keeping busy. I’ve given some thought to doing some training for them both, physical and magical conditioning with them both. Susan’s doing about as well as can be expected with having just lost Clovis. On the other front, I think Susan thinks that Harry’s cute, but I don’t think either one of them is burning with passion of any variety,” Paxton said.

“Well, you know, nothing propinks like propinquity.”

“I read Fleming too, Amelia,” Paxton said.

Stories from the Vault
Professor Lockhart

Gilderoy Lockhart was many things: vain, covetous, lusty, but he did really care for the welfare of his students. He’d noticed some boys in Griffindor picking on the older Creevey lad and quietly set that to rights. He’d then met with the lad after class one day, taking care to have the discussion in an open space by the castle where he could easily be observed two teachers, one head of house, the caretaker, and any students who happened to be walking back from greenhouse number four.

Standing on the lawn in the last hours of daylight he provided Colin with three quick, free lessons on perspective, lighting and composition that many professional photographers would have paid dearly to attend. At the end of the lesson, he said “Mr. Creevy, a word if I may.”

“Yes, Professor,” Colin said earnestly.

“You are a gifted photographer, and rightly very excited to discover the magical world, but you must always remember that some people are very, very private,” Lockhart explained.

“I don’t understand, sir,” Colin said, a downcast expression forming on his young face.

“Your classmate, Mr. Potter,” Lockhart began.

“He’s great, isn’t he?” Colin gushed.

“He is quite famous, but he’s most famous because when he was a lad a monster killed his parents. I think most days he really wants to fade into the background.”

“Why are you telling me this, Professor?” Colin asked.

“When Harry’s doing something public, like playing Quidditch in a match, he’s fair game for a valiant photographer such as yourself,” Lockhart explained. “The rest of the time, he’s just trying to get by, and he certainly doesn’t want fame, attention, or your flashbulb going off in his face.”

“Really?” Colin asked, trying to comprehend why someone wouldn’t want to have his picture taken.

“Really,” Lockhart.

“Uh, okay,” Colin said.

“I suspect that Harry is quite open to being your friend, and if you ask him for permission, he’ll work with you, but spread the attention around, offer to take shots of the whole Quidditch team, not just Harry.”

“You think he’d go for that?” Colin asked.

“I’m fairly certain that he will, especially if you bring the topic up with his friend Miss Granger first.”

“Why not Ron?” Colin asked.

“I doubt that would work,” Lockhart said. “Trust me on this one.”

“Okay, thanks Professor, you really know your stuff on photos,” Colin exclaimed.

“Good photographs have paid my bills for years, young man. Someday you’ll be taking some of those photographs and we can both get a little richer,” Lockhart said. “Off with you now – you have just enough time to get back to your dormitory and stow your equipment before dinner.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Colin said, stuffing his equipment into a bag before he ran off to the castle.

+=+

He watched the students in his classes, which was much harder than many thought, given that he was simultaneously lecturing and walking the students through scenarios he’d chosen to make a point on Defense against the Dark Arts.

There were the brown-nosing sycophants, always agreeable if they thought that might improve their standing in class; the male and female show-offs who used the class as a stage for their own private dramas, and then there were the students who seemed to be floundering.

Perhaps, like one lad, the student was floundering because he was hard of hearing and it hadn’t yet been noticed by his parents, fellow students, or by any of the other teachers. He’d sent that student to Madam Pomfrey, who’d been able to address the problem with a quick test, charm, and potion. Another student was quite obviously nearsighted and couldn’t see the blackboard unless seated in the very first row. That student, a girl, was now wearing very smart looking spectacles and was faring quite well in the next-to-the-last row. He’d reinforced the lass by complimenting her on her appearance the first time she wore the spectacles to class. By the next week, three competing girls were prominently wearing spectacles; he’d apparently started a minor fashion trend.

Today he was watching yet another student in his first year class. Her clothes were mostly second hand, as were the books in her non-DADA classes. He knew from the binding on her DADA books that she’d been gifted with the complimentary copies he’d given Mr. Potter that day he’d met him in the wizarding bookstore. Her face was pale and sickly, with bags under her eyes.

He finished his last story of the class and dismissed the students, who began to flee the classroom; the class before lunch was never very popular.

“Miss Weasley,” he called, predicting that none of the other students would stay behind to stand beside her.

He had to repeat his hailing. “Miss Weasley, I’d like to speak to you briefly after class,” Lockhart said, collecting his books, notes and props, dropping them into an open-mouthed traveling bag.

Miss Weasley gathered her bag and leaned against one of the first row desks. She wasn’t tall enough to sit on the desk, unless she wanted to look like a gnome.

Gilderoy Lockhart flicked his wand at the doorway. Although the door was still open, no one in the hallway would be able to hear their conversation; a useful trick that had helped him in many an interview. He then flicked his wand lazily in Miss Weasley’s direction. She was now a slumping statute, motionless, and immobilized. Gilderoy poured the contents of her bag out onto his desk. Another wand flick at the items now strewn on the desk confirmed his suspicion. He put all the items back into the bag, save one, and looking into her eyes he quietly said, “Obliviate.”

“We spoke about your parents and your brothers, and then I asked you to speak up more in class,” Lockheart said while her mind was still absorbing the spell. The human mind is an efficient machine that will try to fill in the gaps when the memories don’t quite make sense. Miss Weasley’s mind would seize upon this statement as an anchor, not remembering anything other than the suggestion that backfilled into the void. He released the physical binding with a backhanded flip of his wand.

“Off you go,” he said cheerfully.

Miss Weasley bobbed like a well-mannered witch of an earlier age, not quite a bow, not quite a curtsey, and then disappeared out into the hallway to catch up with her fellow students heading to the Great Hall for lunch.

Lockhart turned the leather bound journal over carefully with his wand, not wanting to touch the item with his hands until he’d run a few more tests. Gilderoy Lockhart was many things, vain, covetous, lusty, but he was careful when examining magical objects.

He ran the usual tests on the journal, and then carefully opened the book to the first page, which was blank. He smiled and picked up his pen.

“Professor Gilderoy Lockhart” he wrote on the first page.

The ink flickered for an instant and then disappeared. Lockhart raised his eyebrow at this; he hadn’t expected that.

A blot of ink formed on the page and a spidery Copperplate hand formed letters.

“Hello, Professor Lockhart, are you a teacher at Hogwarts?”

Stories from the Vault
This Changes Everything - Installment Two

From the very confidential diary of

Susan A. Bones

Very different summer thus far. I’m living with Auntie now. I have gone back to my house, but almost everything reminds me of Da, and how I’ll never see him again.

I’m alternating between paralyzing sadness and berserker level rage at the Pretender. Although I’m living with Auntie, Paxton’s still keeping an eye on me. I make breakfast for Auntie most days, and then Paxton comes by to pick me up, and then at the end of the day, Paxton drops me off, sometimes waiting for Auntie to come home to report.

At the beginning of the summer, I was sitting in on all the interviews with Harry. I guess I’ve gone from being a distant acquaintance to knowing more about him than most of the students at school.

I call the days spent with Paxton, “Paxton Investigation” days in contrast to “Paxton Lawn Service” days. Between the two, I actually prefer Paxton Lawn Service days – I’m really tired by the end of the day and I find it easier to sleep.

I’m very used to sitting in on interviews with Paxton. From the time I was little, I’d sit in the corner, doodling or coloring while keeping my ears on the interview. Paxton says I have a knack, that I almost always know what someone really wants, which helps Paxton with the interview. I’m also pretty good at spotting fibs, half-truths and outright whoppers. Paxton once said that it would make dating later in life difficult for me, but as of yet, that’s been rather theoretical. The boys my age who are interested in dating have been pursuing the prettier girls, leaving me to sit, and listen.

Paxton gave me a Muggle telephone. Harry has one too. When we’re working for Paxton Lawn Service the crew bosses usually will send me a text to let us know that the truck is coming to pick us up, which is a bit of a necessity as neither Harry nor I are of driving age yet.

Well, time to don the fetching tan uniform. Today we’ll be changing some flowers out at a commercial property. When we get there, the kerbside will be looking kind of shabby, and when we’re ready to leave, it’s pretty, so I get a feeling of accomplishment doing it. Cutting grass, however, will always be cutting grass.

#@#

“Good afternoon, Dolores,” Lucius said warmly, as if he were actually glad to see her after leaving the Minister’s chambers.

“Good afternoon to you, Mister Malfoy,” Dolores said, carefully sliding an open book to cover the entries she’d been making in a ledger.

“Would you happen to know if the Unspeakables were still using the Dark Arches to transport Dementors from Azkaban?” Lucius asked.

“Such a curious question, Mister Malfoy,” Dolores said, trying to look knowledgeable. “I haven’t heard that they stopped using it.”

“Thank you, as always,” Lucius said, flicking his hair as he donned his cloak.

=+=

Dawlish still held the origami bird in his hand. He’d been summoned to the Minister’s suite, but instead of finding the Minister, it was only the Under-Secretary.

“Madame Umbridge,” he said, giving the faintest of nods to her.

“Thank you for being prompt,” Dolores said with an overly sweet smile. “What can you tell me about the Dark Arches?”

Dawlish looked surprised for a moment and then stood a bit straighter, hands behind his back.

“There are two arches, made from an unknown metal, which is always cold,” Dawlish began as if reciting in school. “The Unspeakables found them quite some time ago. They seem to be some sort of paired portal – put something through one arch, it comes out the other arch. It doesn’t matter if they’re across the room or across the globe.”

“Most curious,” Dolores said, her head cocked to one side like a dog trying to comprehend a sleight of hand card trick.

“Not very useful,” Dawlish volunteered. “Anything living that goes through either arch comes out dead on the other side. They’ve been used a time or two to transport Dementors from Azkaban, seeing as they’re not really alive, the arches don’t seem to bother them.”

“Where are they now?” Dolores asked.

“Probably Azkaban,” Dawlish replied. “The Warden has them locked up in storage. Division Heads can sign for them, but no one’s bothered with them for years, apart from the time they brought the Dementors to Hogwarts.”

“Thank you, Dawlish” Dolores said, turning back to her ledger. The dismissal was implicit.

Dawlish gave a nod and a nervous grin. Perhaps if he went out the back way he could get home on time for once.

+=+

Wednesday was a Paxton Lawn Service day instead of Paxton Investigations. Harry didn’t mind the work. The tools were top rate, the supervisors made sure that all the workers took breaks and provided a plentiful supply of bottled drinks to keep hydrated on particularly hot days, which had been plentiful that month. Those hot days provided a bonus on the afternoons when Susan would take off her tan Paxton shirt and work in her tan tank top. She wasn’t model perfect by any means, but between her cheerful disposition and hard work ethic, she was usually drenched by the end of the day, making the tank top fetching, to Harry at least, if not the other workers. For reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he found “sweaty Susan” particularly attractive.

Susan had set some boundaries with the other workers early on at Paxton Lawn Service, making very clear that while she was an easy-going, cheerful girl, she was neither interested nor available. A particularly slow-witted worker had given her backside a slap when she was bent over planting some ornamental flowers outside an office. A fuming Susan had hooked his ankle with her hoe and then rested her foot on the inside of the malefactor’s knee as he lay prone on the sidewalk. No one had heard the very low volume dialogue between Susan and her would-be tormentor, but she never faced any harassment after that afternoon.

The morning work had been at yet another office park, mowing lawns, weeding flowerbeds and replacing some spent flowering annuals with newer plants. Lunch was had from a variety of food trucks, and the work teams then broke down into smaller squads to do some work at suburban estates. Susan and Harry, equipped with mowers and trimmers, were dropped off at a particularly large estate.

“I hope there are no dogs” Harry said flatly.

“Better not be,” Susan said without much enthusiasm.

“You okay, Susan?” Harry asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Susan said, bending to pull the starter on the smaller mower.

While they’d never done this estate before, lawn mowing was lawn mowing, and Harry and Susan worked together with familiar efficiency, alternating between the large and small mower, pruning shears and string trimmers until the estate was once again trimmed to perfection, “ready for its glamor shot” Paxton had said one day when he’d picked them up from work.

Harry had parked the large mower at the kerb and then waited under a shade tree for one of the Paxton trucks to collect them and the equipment. He already had a drink open for Susan who came to join him wordlessly.

“Thanks,” Susan said, “for a boy you’re okay.”

“Should I be offended on behalf of Wizards everywhere?” Harry asked, trying to keep things light.

“Nah,” Susan replied, taking a long draw from her drink. “Da’s birthday is on Saturday. I don’t have anything to give him, but he’s not here either,” Susan said, hoping her explanation would suffice.

“Oh,” Harry said. The sky began to get dark as the wind picked up. “Looks like rain.”

“About time,” Susan replied.

“Truck’s late,” Harry said, pulling out the cell phone that Paxton had issued to him a week earlier. “One bar – not enough for a phone call.”

Susan stood up with some effort, dusting off her backside before pulling her own phone out. “I’m going to walk up the hill; I think I saw a tower as we came into the estate.”

“’kay,” Harry said, looking at the storm clouds moving in. While he had no great love for being rained on, it would be a relief from the heat.

Harry walked out from under the shade tree, letting the gentle rain wash away some of the salt and grit on his face. It was pleasant enough, until he felt another sharp drop in temperature that he’d felt once before in a rain storm.

Pulling his wand out from a notice-me-not arm holster, he began looking about, the rain turning to sleet as it began to get dark as night. He heard a screech and then screams.

“Oh, shite!” he exclaimed, sprinting off in the direction he’d last seen Susan walking.

Running was hard. The sleet cut visibility and the feeling halfway between panic and a migraine headache caused by the Dementors didn’t help any.

He had a lock on one of the screams, the one that wasn’t his mum. Susan was up ahead, shrieking “Expecto Patronum” at the top of her lungs, getting only a spray of gray mist out of her wand for her efforts. She’d turned her back against a parked car to keep the pair of Dementors from coming at her from behind.

Harry felt a rage rising. Susan was his friend; they weren’t going to take his friend, not today.

As the rage flared, the pain and noise in his head subsided. He drew his wand, thinking of Prongs and calmly called “Expecto Patronum.”

This Patronus, however, was larger than Prongs, expanding until it was the size of a lorry. Taking shape, it had wings, horns and a spiked tail, presenting a slightly smaller version of the dragon he’d faced in the Triwizard Tournament last year. The dragon Patronus shook its head as if confused and then looked forward, slapping his tail on the pavement as he bellowed platinum fire at the Dementors. One of the Dementors took flight, but the other seemed to be too intent on Susan. The shimmering dragon leaped, bringing a spiked limb down against the Dementor’s back. The Dementor turned in time to get a face full of platinum fire from the dragon Patronus. The Patronus then leaped over Susan and began to run faster than a race horse after the remaining Dementor.

Wand out, Harry looked in all directions as he approached Susan.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No,” she wailed, grabbing onto Harry, burying her face against his neck.

The dragon returned at a brisk trot, snarled something to Harry, gave Susan a nod, and then faded from sight.

“Dragon says they’re gone,” Harry said.

Susan stepped back, giving Harry a curious look. “Was it talking to you?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “It was something like ‘they’re all gone, boss, so I’m leaving.’”

“Your Patronus talks?” Susan asked.

“Not before today,” Harry said, “and that’s not my usual Patronus – mine’s usually a stag.”

“Oh,” Susan said. Her phone chirped, the sound indicating an incoming text. Looking down at the phone she said “Arlo’s coming with the truck.”

The two teens began walking back to their equipment. Harry didn’t say anything when Susan grasped his hand. It was cold and she was still shaking.

The truck arrived just as the rain stopped. They wordlessly rolled their mowers onto the trailer, stowed their petrol cans and trimmers along the side, and then climbed into the cab of the truck. Susan scooted along the bench seat, pulling Harry’s arm around her as she got comfortable. Harry dug out his mobile and punched in a text message to Paxton’s number with one hand. “I think Paxton’s going to want to know about this.” Harry thought Susan was being a little odd, but with her having just narrowly survived the plundering of her soul, he decided to let it ride.

+=+

Paxton was waiting at the garage where all the lawn service trucks parked at the end of the day. Harry nudged Susan awake and pointed. She climbed out of the cab and accepted the steaming cup he offered to her.

“Cocoa?” Paxton offered. “I’ve got some bars in my truck if you’d prefer.”

Harry took a cup, sipping it at first before draining the cup at one go. “Susan seems to be pretty shaken up.”

“You seem pretty placid,” Paxton observed.

“Looks are deceiving,” Harry replied. “It made me mad.”

“Hmm?” Paxton muttered.

“Going after Susan, it made me mad,” Harry explained.

Paxton nodded. “We’ll talk some after I take Susan home. You okay with waiting here for a while?”

Harry said nothing, picking up a broom he began to sweep grass out of the trailer, nodding in Paxton’s direction. A few seconds later he heard a muffled crack. Apparently Paxton wasn’t in the mood to drive home. Under the circumstances, Harry agreed.

Harry’s crew chief looked on appreciatively as Harry wiped down the equipment, cleaned the trailers and then swept the garage, starting a blower long enough to blow the dust, clippings and debris out of the garage and towards the kerb.

+=+

Paxton Apparated to the spot across the road from the farm house Amelia called home. Walking resolutely, he passed the ward line, Susan still hanging onto his arm. Once inside the house, he sat her down on a couch, tossed a blanket in her direction and went looking for medicinal chocolate. Once Susan was situated, he lit the miniature Floo connection to Bones’ office in the Ministry.

Bones’ secretary answered the Floo, ever the picture of unflappable efficiency. “Paxton, don’t be such a stranger,” she chirped.

“Good evening, Charlotte, is Madame Bones available?” Paxton asked.

“I’m expecting her back just about now,” Charlotte replied.

“Please tell her that there’s no emergency, but I’d appreciate it if she got home sooner rather than later, Susan’s a bit under the weather,” Paxton reported blandly.

“Thank you, Paxton, I’ll make sure that she gets the message. Changing the subject, are you free for dinner on Saturday? The old Bridge Club is starting up again and you were suggested as being a competent fourth. I’ll even stock some of that gruesome ginger beer from the Bahamas,” Charlotte said, giving him a wink.

“I’ll see what I can do, can I check back with you tomorrow?” Paxton replied.

“Sure thing, Paxton,” Charlotte said as the Floo connection broke.

Paxton looked at Susan, sleeping fitfully on the couch, putting his wrist on her forehead, trying to gauge her temperature. She wasn’t going into shock, thanks to the chocolate she’d imbibed already, but she was colder than he liked. If she weren’t a girl he strip her out of her wet clothes, but he reckoned that Amelia could deal with that. He put a warming charm on the blanket and then wrote a terse note for Amelia.

The note read “Close call with Dementors – I’ve gone to investigate, Potter’s with me. I’ll report when I know more than I do now.”

Adjusting the wards as he left, Paxton walked across the ward line and Disapparated, returning to the Paxton garage to gather Harry and try to figure out just why Dementors were strolling through a suburban, Muggle estate.

+=+

“We’ll top off the tanks in the morning, Harry,” the chief said, giving him a wave as he left the building.

Harry busied himself with closing the garage, cleaning up and putting equipment back in its proper place. He didn’t have long to wait; Paxton was in his investigator mode when he returned, taking Harry back to the estate by side-along Apparation, Paxton asked him to pace out who was where when the Dementors arrived. They then walked up the street where the one Dementor had retreated; finding a strange dark metal arch at a kerb-cut leading to an unpaved road.

“Don’t touch that,” Paxton warned.

Harry stood and watched while Paxton searched the area for any signs, physical or magical, that might shed some light on the what and possibly lead to the why . After conducting his initial scan, he then repeated the process, having Harry do the scans, explaining each step as he went. Pulling a glove onto his hand, Paxton carefully tacked a small adhesive flag to the arch, touching it with his wand. The arch shimmered and then disappeared.

“Let’s go back down the street, I want to see what we can read where Susan was holding them off before your Patronus arrived,” Paxton said.

Harry nodded and the two walked back down the street.

+=+

Later that night, Paxton again Apparated to the Gazebo across the road from the farmhouse. The front of the house was dark, but there were lights on at the back of the house, so Paxton walked slowly towards the entrance by the sun room, towards the rear of the house. He felt the prickle of the wards as they analyzed him, deeming him fit for admittance.

“Come on in, Paxton,” Amelia called to him.

Paxton had realized too late that the mechanical murmuring he heard was that of the jets in the hot tub.

“Care to join me,” Amelia said, raising one eyebrow. The hot tub was a swirling, bubbling mass, with only the top of Amelia’s head above water. He knew from prior visits that the odds of her wearing a bathing suit at the moment were next to nil.

“No,” Paxton said firmly.

“Well then, turn around and I’ll get decent,” Amelia said, the tub jets going quiet as she exited the tub. By the time he turned around, she was wrapping a towel around her hair, her body now safely covered by a drab green terrycloth bathrobe. She pointed towards a pair of chairs where she had a cooler stocked with a variety of drinks, including his favorite ginger beer, a non-alcoholic drink that she stocked exclusively for him.

“Report,” Amelia commanded.

Paxton reported.

“I went to pick up Harry and Susan, but they were late to the garage, which happens at the end of the day. Harry had sent a text mentioning that they’d had a run in with Dementors, so I had a Thermos of cocoa waiting for them, extra dark. When the last truck came in, Susan looked like a sailor at the end of a bender, leaning up against Harry in the back of the cab. While Susan was the worse for wear, Harry just looked tired and wet, and so I brought Susan home and fire-called your office. I tucked her in on the couch, set a warming charm, and adjusted the wards to a higher defensive posture,” Paxton said, getting into the rhythm of his story.

“I returned to the garage to pick up Harry. He’d spent his time waiting by sweeping and tidying the main bay where the trailers are stored. My cousin has already told me that he wants him for next summer, because he’s clean, polite and a hard worker. Score one for the magicals,” Paxton said, fishing a silver can out of the cooler.

“What’s your cousin’s impression of Susan?” Amelia asked.

“He thinks she’s very decorative and was pleasantly surprised to find that she’s such a hard worker. She’s almost always paired with Harry, and after one particular episode, hasn’t has any trouble with the other workers,” Paxton said, pausing to open the can.

“Oh?” Amelia asked.

“Some dim-wit thought that smacking her bum was a form of flirting. Susan tripped him and threatened to remove his knees the old fashioned way,” Paxton said with some satisfaction. “The dim-wit’s now working somewhere else, and the rest of the boys are friendly, but treat her with a bit of respect. Back to the investigation, if I may? Harry and I went back to the estate. There were traces of magic all over the place. Harry said that there were two Dementors, but wasn’t sure if there were more. I found what looked like a scrap of Dementor cloak in the road next to where Harry says Susan was holding two Dementors off until Harry came in response to her screams. Residue says that Susan and Harry were both producing the Patronus charm. Susan was about as far along as your typical Auror apprentice, Harry’s Patronus was corporeal.”

“The stag?”

“The residue doesn’t indicate one way or the other. Harry says the form changed today, it was, quote ‘a big fricken dragon – kind of a surprise’ end of quote. We followed the residue path down the street. Whole lot of nothing down the street, but lo and behold, in a turn-off for a gravel road, there was an occult piece of Ministry property, a Dark Arch,” Paxton said, pausing for effect.

“Oh, please,” Amelia groaned.

“I tagged it, and then sent it to secure storage,” Paxton said.

“Ministry?” Amelia asked.

“No, mine,” Paxton said with a smirk. “I then grabbed a bite with Harry and sent him home with my sincere thanks for keeping our Susan safe. Then I visited the Warden’s office at Azkaban.”

“I can say without fear of contradiction that the place has lost none of its charm. I found the other arch, standing in one of the courtyards, and lying on the ground next to the arch, one somewhat dead employee of the Ministry,” Paxton said, pulling a photograph out of a pocket.

“Humph,” Amelia snorted. “No one should die like that, but in this case, it’s no great loss. Any notion of what happened?”

“Preliminarily, it appears that Madame Umbridge checked the arch out using her Ministry credentials. The clerk on duty has no memory of the event, but the paperwork is in order. Madame Umbridge is missing a fingernail from her left hand. The arch I found in the estate where Susan was attacked had a human fingernail embedded in the frame. I’m no forensic technician, but I think it’s a match. My working theory is that Madame Umbridge was trying to silence Harry. Whether they intended a close call or a permanent solution I’ll leave to someone else to prove. Harry’s Patronus wounded or killed one Dementor, and chased the other Dementor through the arch. Madam Umbridge was either grabbed by the Dementor as it escaped through the arch, or she was bowled over and managed to fall through the arch – either way she’s most sincerely dead. As I’m merely an investigator, I don’t have to worry about how the Ministry is going to spin this, but I suspect something along the line of ‘Ministry employee dead in accident with occult artifact’ is the line that will be taken, if there’s any mention of it at all.”

Amelia blew out her breath, inhaled, and then growled. “The fact remains that someone in the Ministry tried to kill my niece,” she said grimly.

“Oh, I don’t see it that way boss, I think the target was Harry, our Susan was just going to be collateral damage,” Paxton replied, reaching into the cooler for another can.

A gong sounded from the kitchen, signifying an incoming message for Amelia.

“Oh, bother,” Amelia said, pushing up from her chair.

Paxton followed her silently into the kitchen where the miniature Floo fireplace was burning.

Amelia touched the opening of the fireplace with her wand.

“Bones here -- go ahead,” she said.

“Sorry to disturb you, Madam Bones, but the Undersecretary isn’t answering her Floo,” the dispatcher.

“Oh?” Amelia responded, knowing full well why one particular Undersecretary wasn’t communicative.

“AurorDombrowski called in,” the dispatcher said. Amelia racked her memory, coming up only with “Carl” as the dispatcher’s name.

“Dombrowski?” Amelia repeated.

“The Auror formerly known as Jenkins – she got married last weekend,” the dispatcher said.

“Ah,” Amelia replied.

“She’s on the Sirius Black investigation and requested backup. The standing orders were to call you first.”

“Yet you were trying to reach the Undersecretary tonight?” Amelia asked with a hint of irritation in her voice.

“Talk to the shift supervisor, Madam Bones, I just relay messages,” the dispatcher said blandly.

“I will do so,” Amelia replied.

A slip of paper the size of a calling card passed out of the flames and into Amelia’s kitchen.

“Here’s the address, AurorDombrowski would appreciate some backup.”

“I’ll do my best to not disappoint her,” Amelia said. “Thanks for passing this along, Carl.”

“Yes, Madam Bones. Have a good evening, what’s left of it, and try very hard to stay alive.”

“I’ll give it my best.”

The fire surged blue for a moment and then extinguished, leaving a cold, empty hearth.

“Well, Paxton?”

“Yes, Boss, time to go. How long for you to get dressed?”

Amelia looked down at the card.

“Blast, I’m going to have to get dressed up,” she said, passing the card to Paxton.

“Hmm,” Paxton said. “Looks like it. Sirius Black escapes from Azkaban, evades capture for more than a year, and then shows up at a Muggle night club.”

“If it’s Black,” Amelia cautioned.

“Yeah, if it’s Black,” Paxton agreed. “At least we know he’d not the Bogey Man Fudge paints him out to be.”

“He’s still a dangerous wizard who won’t come peaceably,” Amelia said, disappearing into her bedroom.

+=+

+=+

From the very confidential diary of Susan A. Bones

Harry came to the farm for a picnic today; I think it was the first time he got to meet Auntie. It seemed to be part ‘thanks for saving my niece’s soul’ and part ‘thanks for helping the investigation.’

Officially, Paxton’s done with this part of the investigation – Harry’s provided a link between Da’s death and the contested return of the Pretender.

It’s been fun spending time with Paxton and Harry. As to Paxton Lawn Service – I now am fairly proficient with three different models of Muggle lawn mowing machines, along with a trimming machine and a blowing machine. I don’t care much for the blowing machine as it makes too much noise, even with the big ear-muffs we’re required to wear. My hair is lightening up – it’s mainly blonde now with red highlights. I’ve got a bit of a tan too, but mostly only on my arms and face. I’ve got a wicked tan line in the shape of my tank top. Paxton calls it a “farmer’s tan.”

Keeping busy during the day keeps me from thinking about Da, but it’s still painful to think that he’s not working at the office, or if I go back home, he’s not going to be puttering around in the kitchen.

Hannah has been gushing about how lucky I am to ‘have Harry all to myself.’ I haven’t broken her of the notion that this isn’t a torrid summer romance, and that during all of the time together we’re either chaperoned by Paxton, or we’re working alongside some sweaty Muggles.

I’m going to Hannah’s tomorrow for a girl’s day; Paxton’s off to the Ministry with Harry. Hopefully we’ll be able to talk about something other than Harry – unlike Rumplestiltskin I can’t spin straw into gold, and similarly I can’t tell Hannah how Harry burns for me with an undying passion when in reality we’ve spent most of the time either mowing lawns, doing interviews with Paxton, or helping out with his investigations. Ah well, maybe I can come up with a convincing story – or maybe I’ll get her to talk about something else, like her life – who knows!

#@#

Paxton picked Harry up at the usual time on Monday morning and then drove to the Greek’s place for breakfast. Susan was noticeably absent.

“Susan’s off with a girlfriend today,” Paxton said, not volunteering any further information.

Harry sat down in their usual booth and unwrapped his breakfast sandwich.

“So what are we doing today?” he asked.

“Little field trip to the Ministry of Magic,” Paxton said, swirling his cup of coffee before taking a swig. “I want to ask some questions about the arch, after that, we might take a detour through the Hall of Prophesy.”

“Not quite dressed for it, are we?” Harry asked, pointing to his uniform shirt.

“You leave that to me,” Paxton said with a smile.

After breakfast was finished, they got back into the truck and drove into London, parking in a car park in the business district. Before they left the car park Paxton transformed their clothes into blue button down shirts and dark trousers that seemed to be part of the Muggle uniform for this part of town. Paxton pulled Harry into a phone booth which was significantly larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside. Paxton dialed 6-2-4-4-2, listened briefly and then put the phone back on the hook. The floor of the phone booth began to descend like a lift, stopping when they were in what appeared to be a bustling thoroughfare several stories below street level.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic,” Paxton said dryly.

“Hmmm,” Harry said noncommittally.

Paxton walked forward to a security kiosk, telling the guard their names.

“Wand please,” the guard said in a perfunctory fashion.

Paxton handed over both of their wands which were inspected and then returned with badges that read “visitor – MoM-DoM – no escort.”

Following Paxton’s lead, Harry clipped the badge onto the pocket of his shirt.

“MoM-DoM?” he whispered to Paxton as they passed the security kiosk.

“Ministry of Magic, Department of Mysteries,” Paxton replied, leading Harry into another lift which began to descend when the doors closed.

The sign on the lift indicated that they were on level nine, the door opening to a stark hallway with a black, unadorned door at the end of the hallway. Paxton walked briskly to the door, which opened before he arrived at the end of the hall. Saying nothing he walked through the door, and once Harry had followed him through, the door closed on its own. They were now in a seemingly identical hallway with another unadorned black door at the end of the hall.

Paxton walked up to the door, rapped on it twice with his knuckles, and then opened it, only to slam it shut again. He then opened it again, slamming it again.

“What the blazes are you doing Paxton?” Harry asked.

“Watch what’s beyond the door,” Paxton explained.

The next time the door was opened; there was blackness, like an open elevator shaft. Paxton closed the door again, opening it to a swamp at midnight. He closed the door yet again and then opened it, finally exposing another blank hallway with another unadorned black door.

“The spooks in the Department of Mysteries do love their little tricks,” Paxton explained.

“So is that like Moody’s trunk?” Harry asked.

“Seven locks, seven separate interiors?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“On a larger scale, yes.”

Paxton was about to knock on this door when a mouth formed on the door. The mouth pursed its lips and then spoke.

“You Paxton?”

“Yes, I’m here to see Augustine,” Paxton answered.

“Augustine got called away, but his Deputy can help you,” the mouth said blandly. “Please stand by.”

Moments later the door was opened by a short woman wearing an apron, goggles and thick gloves. She slid the goggles up with a practiced one handed motion while taking off one glove and then the other. She looked hard at Paxton before recognition slid across her expression.

“Clement? Clement Paxton?” she asked.

“None other,” Paxton replied. “How are you Clarissa?”

“I’m wonderful as usual, but you surely didn’t interrupt me at work to pass the time,” the woman replied. “Introduce me to your companion, Clement.”

“Clarissa, this is Harry Potter. Harry, this is Clarissa – is it Strack now?” Paxton said, seemingly at a loss for words.

“No, that didn’t work out,” the woman replied. “Still a Harrell – possibly the last of my line. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter.”

They shook hands in a perfunctory manner. “Well, come on in, if the door is left open too long, the alarm sounds.”

A loud gong began to ring.

“Too late, it seems,” the woman said with a sigh. “Hush, you pernicious machine,” she scolded. “Please come in.”

+=+

Paxton knew that Susan wouldn’t be home, as she was spending the night with the Abbot girl. He Apparated to the gazebo and then walked slowly to the farmhouse, letting the wards do their thorough work, detecting whether he was friend-or-foe and no-doubt announcing him to Amelia within the house.

He walked to the back door and let himself into the house. He was relieved to hear no noise coming from the hot tub. He stopped in the kitchen to liberate a silver can from the refrigerator before walking slowly to Amelia’s study.

“I’d say well met, Paxton, but I doubt that this is a social visit,” Amelia said, looking up from her ever-present satchel of papers from the Ministry.

“Ask me how my day went, boss,” Paxton said.

“Good evening, Clement, how was your day?” Amelia asked.

“Very, very strange,” Paxton replied.

“Report.”

So he did.

+=+

From the very confidential diary of Susan A. Bones

It’s official now; I think I’m losing my mind.

I haven’t been sleeping well this summer, not since Da died. Now it’s worse. Several times a night I’m back at work, it’s raining that cold dark rain, and the Dementors are coming for me. Usually I wake up, screaming, but not always. The dreams where I don’t wake up are really bad.

I spent the night with Hannah. She’s a cuddler, so we slept in the same bed last night. I guess when I have company in bed, I don’t wake up screaming. I could learn to live with that.

When I’m not having nightmares, Harry keeps showing up in my dreams. Not those type of dream, just nonsense that doesn’t particularly make sense – like making sandwiches while standing outside in the rain.

Harry and I aren’t like that – not even close. It’s not that I wouldn’t mind being more than friends – he’s certainly a nice guy, and once he cleans up, half-way fanciable, but we are not-like-that. Friends, maybe, but definitely not not-like-that.

+=+

Amelia was rubbing her temples, eyes closed.

“Let me see if I have this straight,” she began.

“You took Harry to the Department of Mysteries, wanting to get some information on the Dark Arches. You met one of your friends from before the war, and as she brought Harry into the outer lobby of the Department, an alarm sounded.”

“Yeah,” Paxton said. “Clarissa shut it down, tried to play it as a malfunction.”

“She introduced you to some old fossil who didn’t manage to tell you anything about the arches that you didn’t know before, and then the three of you went to the Hall of Prophesies.”

“When Harry excused himself to visit the loo, Clarissa told me that Harry was carrying around something with a powerful Dark Magic signature.”

“Did she ever say what it was?” Amelia asked.

“No, she said she didn’t know,” Paxton replied.

“Then the three of you went to the Hall of Prophesies,” Amelia narrated.

“The four of us, the fossil came too,” Paxton added. “Creepy place, kind of looks like a library – prophecies still active have a light glow, prophecies that are considered fulfilled are dark.”

“What did it say?” Amelia asked.

“I’m getting to that,” Paxton said, wrinkling his nose. “Placard has a bunch of initials – seems it was delivered by SybillTrelawny to Albus-too-many-names Dumbledore concerning our favorite pretender and my cousin’s favorite lawn boy.”

“Details?” Amelia prompted.

“Riddle marks Harry as his equal, Harry has a power Riddle doesn’t know, and only Harry can kill Riddle and vice versa,” Paxton said.

“How did Harry take it?”

“He was pretty quiet at first – then he started muttering about Dumbledore,” Paxton answered.

“Dumbledore?”

“It seems Harry asked Dumbledore why Riddle was after him and Dumbledore refused to answer.”

“No surprise there, Dumbledore isn’t fond of giving information away,” Amelia said.

“That’s not the really weird part,” Paxton explained.

Amelia said nothing, arching an eyebrow.

“The fossil thinks that Harry may be carrying a chunk of Riddle’s soul.”

Amelia was silent for a long while.

“What do we do?” she asked.

“ We don’t do anything yet, but I am going back for a follow-up visit with the fossil,” Paxton explained.

“Does the fossil have a name?”

“Not that he’s given me,” Paxton replied.

“Typical Department of Mysteries nonsense.”

+=+

The second week in August began with a somewhat belated birthday picnic for Harry and Neville, hosted at The Burrow.

+=+

“What did you say?” Ron asked. It wasn’t loud, but the chill in his voice was unmistakable.

“I’m not playing Quidditch this year,” Harry said.

Ron turned his back to Harry, punching the palm of his left hand.

“How could you be so selfish?” Ron shouted when he turned around.

“I beg your pardon.” Harry replied.

“Selfish – this is the year that I have a shot at getting onto the team, Woods is gone, you’re a shoo-in for Captain, and if Gryffindor wins the cup, scouts from the English teams will be looking at our team for recruits,” Ron said, speaking slowly as if explaining something to a blithering idiot. “You’re as good as handing the Quidditch cup to Slytherin.”

Ron walked over to the broom shed, shoving the door aside and grabbed the first broom he saw in the shed.

“I’m going for a fly,” Ron said. “I need the practice.”

“That went well,” Harry said aloud, hands in his pockets. He looked up. “How much of that did you hear?” he asked Ginny, who had just walked into sight.

“Pretty much all of it,” Ginny said. “There might be some people on the other side of the village who didn’t hear it clearly. Weasleys aren’t much for privacy; or subtlety, or tact for that matter.”

“I’ve kind of figured that out,” Harry replied.

“It’s usually pretty easy to suss out where you stand with a Weasley,” Ginny said sagely. “OWL year stuff?”

“Not really. I can’t say that I’m all that concerned about the OWLs,” Harry explained. “I’ll take the tests; I should pass most of them. I’m not trying to set records, like Hermione.”

“Then what?” Ginny asked.

“I’m dropping Care of Magical Creatures and Divination, I’m doing a double tutorial on Runes and Arithmancy, hoping to catch up with the people who started two years ago,” Harry explained, “plus I’m working out, trying to increase my speed, strength and endurance.”

“I can’t imagine why you’d want to do that,” Ginny said with a smirk.

“You understand,” Harry said.

“Yeah, I understand,” she replied. “That doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy with Ron.”

Harry put his hands in his back pockets while watching Ron fly. He was actually doing a good agility drill, flying a slalom course through the orchard.

“So, you and Susan?” Ginny asked.

“What?” Harry asked, looking confused.

“You…and Su-san,” Ginny said slowly and distinctly.

“We’re working together this summer?” Harry replied. “I was hired by a Muggle lawn service.”

“She seems pretty friendly, in a girl kind of way,” Ginny hinted.

“We were attacked by Dementors a week ago,” Harry explained. “She’s still a bit rattled.”

“Right, of course,” Ginny said.

Stupid hero complex she thought to herself. Another maiden saved by the knight.

“Could I borrow your Firebolt for tryouts?”

“What position?” Harry asked.

“I’d like Chaser,” Ginny answered, “but those positions are filled right now, so I might try out for Seeker if you’re not playing.”

“Sure,” Harry replied. “If you make the team, consider it a long term loan.”

“You are amazing,” Ginny said, flashing a brilliant smile.

“No, just stupidly lucky most days,” Harry said. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to hand the Quidditch Cup to Slytherin, would I?”

+=+

END OF INSTALLMENT

Stories from the Vault
The Exchange - Prologue

Cwmgwyn, March 2, 2097

It seemed fitting that the day of the funeral was cold, windy and raining. Despite the weather, an amazing number of people jammed into the old stone church in the village, and then after the service walked silently to the columbarium wall as the brick that constituted Lily Luna’s remains was placed into its opening in the wall.

A slightly smaller number of people gathered at the old manor house, with the number dwindling as the afternoon waned. As the last red-headed relative bent down to kiss his hand before departing, Luna Scamander poured a cup of coffee from the urn on the side table and plopped into the chair beside Harry.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” she said lightly.

“Hello Luna,” Harry replied.

“Could you please take that ridiculous amulet off? I see enough things that other people can’t see; you don’t need to add to my discombobulation.”

Harry did nothing at first, other than scanning the room to see if there were any others remaining. The old man then dug at his neck, fingers finding a fine chain before pulling it over his head. As he did so the appearance of the wrinkled Patriarch disappeared, leaving a much younger body in his place.

Harry draped the amulet’s chain onto the arm of the chair. He bent over and raked his fingers through his dark, thick hair. Sitting back up again, he looked at Luna.

“How long have you known?”

“Oh, probably since Lily Luna’s tenth birthday,” Luna said. “You were hard to look at that day, and it appeared that you’d gone gray over a weekend.”

Harry thought back to that party.

“I’d asked Hermione if you were doing something to your hair.”

“What did she say?”

“She said it was Sleekeazy #7,” Luna said.

“There is no Sleekeazy #7” Harry replied.

“Exactly.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Harry asked.

“Because it was none of my business,” Luna said quietly. “It was obvious, to me at least, that you were doing it for Ginny.”

“Ginny didn’t mind until she started to go gray while I still looked like a teenager,” Harry said.

“I imagine that would make her feel insecure,” Luna replied.

“Something like that,” Harry murmured.

The two friends sat in silence for quite a long time, Luna delicately sipping from her coffee.

“I’m so tired, Luna,” Harry said. “Other than you, my friends have all died, and now their children are dying, and after what feels like two lifetimes working at making a difference in the Ministry, nothing’s changed.”

“You rescued so many, Harry, but no one rescued you,” Luna said sympathetically. “I think it’s time that you gave up the Hallows.”

“I can’t,” Harry objected.

“Fiddlesticks!” Luna replied.

Harry glared at her, eyes showing a glimmer of anger.

“I don’t even know where the stone is,” he objected.

“I picked it up in the forest the day you died,” Luna said, tilting her head back as she pulled the end of a necklace out from inside her blouse. Dangling at the end of the chain was a wire cage pendant containing a familiar dark stone.

“You never told me,” Harry said.

“I didn’t have to; you are Master of the Hallows. It’s like a dog, Harry, the Hallows will come when you call.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, concentrating. With a quiet plop, shimmering cloth appeared in his lap, followed by a rather distinct wand, and then the necklace and pendant.

“Sorry,” Harry said, handing the necklace back to Luna. “I didn’t mean to call that one.”

Harry looked towards the windows, an expression of concentration on his face. Luna sat in silence.

“How do I give them up?” Harry asked.

“You just gave one of them up,” Luna said as if explaining something to a child.

Harry bunched up the cloak and handed it to Luna. She smiled, placing the cloak on her lap.

Harry never saw her wand appear, but he heard a whispered “Expelliarmus.”

Luna nimbly caught the Elder wand, placing her original wand over her ear as she gave Wand of Destiny a flick. A luminous smoky animal figure appeared, looked at Harry, looked at Luna, and then swam out of the room.

“Now what?” Harry asked.

“I can only guess, Harry Potter,” Luna replied. “I think you’ll begin to age now, and eventually you’ll die.”

“What about you?” Harry asked.

“My children are grown, my husband has chosen another woman, and other than you, Harry Potter, I find very little tying me to this time and place,” Luna explained. “I’m assuming that there are things that only the Mistress of Death can accomplish; now I just have to figure out what those things may be.”

“Thank you, Luna,” Harry said earnestly.

“It’s the least I could do, Harry Potter, but in another time if you find yourself to be a student again at Hogwarts and you need a date to the Yule Ball, consider asking me.”

Luna summoned her cloak from the rack by the door, tucking the other wand and cloak into hidden pockets.

“I’ll see myself out, Harry Potter, but we will meet again, soon.”

Stories from the Vault
The Exchange - Act 1 - Scene One

Godric’s Hollow – October 31, 1981

Life at the cottage was boring. It was a relief at first after skirmishes and escapes from not-quite-dead things, but although it was supposed to be safe, it was tedious; every day was the same.

The wireless was some relief, but it worked on batteries, and once her hoard of batteries were exhausted, she’d have to figure out how to resupply. She reckoned that Remus would know what she meant if she asked for “D-cells” but she hadn’t seen Remus for months, and James didn’t seem to be particularly fond of Remus at the moment.

Life really stank when you couldn’t know for sure who was on your side and who would sell you out in a heartbeat.

Harry was happy though, he enjoyed meals and bath time and the snuggles that would come afterwards as she’d dress him in jammies and rock him to sleep before putting him in what Sirius called the “wizard containment bin.” She wasn’t sure it was such a good idea to try to conceive again, but what else was there to do after putting Harry down to sleep?

The squirmy baby was finally limp against her shoulder. She sat still in the rocker. As she stood to put Harry in the cot, she could hear noises from downstairs – James was still cleaning up in the kitchen.

She felt an unnoticed piece of magic snap and then felt a different piece of magic settle into place before she heard her husband bellow.

“Lily?”

Lily put Harry in the cot and then moved toward the door that she’d shut to cut down on the distractions from the bed time routine.

“Lily, he’s here! Take Harry and go! I’ll hold him off.”

There was a bang and a splintering sound, followed by a high-pitched cackle.

Lily began chanting the invocation for the protections she’d scratched into Harry’s skin a week ago. James had never agreed with her plan, but in the end, he didn’t have any better ideas.

Given the flash she saw around the edges of the door and the crash she heard from below, whatever James had in mind to “hold him off” wasn’t meeting with much success. Lily finished the invocation and held her hand over the cot. She could feel a buzz of magic as the protection snapped into place.

Sudden darkness, silence like being in the cellar when Petunia would turn out the lights when they were children. The silence was odd, as she was certain she’d just heard footsteps on the stairs. An odd slippery light then filled the darkness and she was aware of someone else in the room. As her eyes adjusted to the weird light, she saw a short figure in a black cloak, hood drawn. She suppressed a chuckle; she’d always expected Death to be taller.

“So, this is it, then, eh Death?” Lily asked the figure.

“I suppose it all depends on what you mean by it ,” the figure replied, pulling back the hood. The hood revealed a woman with pale hair and skin and protruding eyes that gave off a look of surprise.

“Pandora?” Lily asked, trying to figure out how Pandora Lovegood had managed to find the cottage.

“No, that’s my mum,” the figure replied. “You were closer to being right the first time though.” She made hand motions at the door and then turned to Lily.

“My name’s Luna,” she said. “We need to talk.”

“Not a particularly auspicious time for conversation,” Lily replied.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” The woman who called herself Luna but looked like her old friend Pandora peeked into the crib.

“Oh, Harry, you were such a pretty baby,” she gushed. She turned to Lily. “You might as well sit down, time is stopped right now.”

Lily sank back into the rocker, thinking furiously.

“You’re from the future, you know Harry?” Lily guessed.

“Right on both counts – he was probably my only friend at school, we kept in touch afterwards and he ended up naming one of his children after the two of us, Lily Luna Potter, a very sweet girl, so unlike her mother.”

“So, why are you here?” Lily asked.

“We’re in a bubble right now, and time is passing very, very, very slowly,” Luna explained. “When the bubble breaks, the man you know as Voldemort, which is a rather silly name, given that his given name is Tom, Tom Marvolo Riddle Junior actually, will come in here, kill you, and attempt to kill Harry.”

“I suppose there’s no getting out of here?” Lily asked.

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Luna replied.

“So what’s your plan?”

“You, Lily Potter will die here, tonight; Tom Marvolo Riddle then casts the Killing Curse on your very beautiful son. The curse for all intents and purposes bounces, and disintegrates Tom’s body. In less than half an hour Sirius Black and Rubeus Hagrid show up and have a brief argument as to who is to take Harry; at the end of that spat, Hagrid takes Harry to Dumbledore, Black hunts down Peter Pettigrew. Peter Petrigrew manages to fake his own death, Sirius Black is thrown into Azkaban without a trial, and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore hijacks the magical protection you’ve provided to Harry and ties it to your sister, Petunia Dursley. He grows up with the Dursley family as a scorned, abused child until it is time for him to start Hogwarts.”

“So you’re coming back to change things for Harry?”

“Not directly, although almost anything would be an improvement over the life Harry lives after tonight,” Luna explains. “Your body will certainly die tonight, but if you give your consent, your spirit will go back in time, where you will take over from another woman who is at the end of her life, and if you’re as clever and persistent as I know you to be, you’ll change things.”

“Am I going back to stop Voldemort?”

“Not directly, the real problem is Dumbledore.”

“Let’s talk then,” Lily says, hoping that this isn’t a bad dream.

+=+=+=+

“So, we are agreed?” Luna asked.

“I’m not seeing a lot of better options,” Lily said, pushing herself up from the rocker. “Let’s do it.”

+=+=+=+

Lily felt compression, cold and darkness, something like Apparation, but worse. She then saw the room as if she were behind an oily curtain, watching Luna turn into a twinkling mist that merged with the frozen body of Lily Potter. The woman who looked like Lily snapped her fingers and the room was now filled with normal light. The door exploded, sending a shower of shards into the room. Harry woke with a scream and began to cry.

“Stand aside, woman,” he said.

“No, kill me instead,” she begged.

“I won’t ask again.”

“Have mercy.”

Avada Kedavra

Stories from the Vault
The Exchange - Act One, Scene Two

The Exchange

Act 1 – Scene 2

The Evans family took a holiday to visit the beach the summer before Lily started at Hogwarts. In the grand tradition of siblings everywhere, Petunia persuaded Lily that being buried in the sand “would be fun.” As the day was hot and the damp sand was cool, it was fun, initially, and Lily had drowsed off while Petunia crafted an impromptu seaside sarcophagus. When Petunia finished, she placed several beach towels over Lily’s face “so she’d know where she was” and then went to play in the rising surf.

When Lily woke to the sound of waves coming ever closer she discovered that she couldn’t move. She tried wiggling, jerking and screaming, all to no avail. She then panicked and with a scream performed an unintended, flawless switching spell which resulted in Lily falling face first into the surf and Petunia buried up to her neck in sand in a location inches below the high tide line.

Lily felt immobilized again, reminding her of her childhood torture scene, but this time there were no waves and there was no sand. She couldn’t see anything, but she could hear city sounds, sounds of a street at night.

With a dream-like jerk she felt her body fall against a wall and she could see – well, not much of anything, as it was night and she was in an alley.

A dog approached, a small dog of indeterminate breed and color. The dog approached her, sat and looked up at Lily.

“The boss is delayed, she asked that I take you to a place where you could wait,” the dog said, one ear flopping down while the other tried to point up.

“Oh-kay” Lily responded, walking after the dog as it led her out of the alley.

Lily didn’t recognize the cobbled street, but it could have been nearly anywhere in the world, except there were no automobiles. There were a few horse-drawn wagons and push carts visible in the distance and heaps of manure indicating that if there were any street sweepers, they hadn’t reached this street yet.

The dog stopped at a door, scratching once before looking up at Lily again.

“You’re gonna need to knock, I don’t think they’re going to hear me scratching this time of night,” the dog said.

Lily knocked three times, hearing shuffling sounds before the door opened.

“We’re closed,” the man opening the door said, trying to shut the door, but the dog had already moved in and barked as the door closed, only to be blocked by the dog’s rump.

The dog barked loudly, and the man at the door looked down.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Well, come on in, I’ll put it on her tab.”

The man opened the door to what appeared to be a smoky, dirty tavern where a slow-moving boy was scattering sawdust on the floor.

“This would be a nice time to bring her a beer and something for the good little dog,” the dog said.

The man shrugged and then pointed to a table around the corner from the door. Lily sat down and the dog turned around three times clockwise before lying at her feet.

Lily looked down at the dog.

“You would happen to know what this is about, would you?” she asked the dog.

The dog said nothing, and then started scratching his ear with his hind leg.

Lily never saw the Publican approach the table, but a mug of beer somehow appeared on the table and a small bowl of something vaguely meat-like appeared beside the dog.

The beer wasn’t bad, although she didn’t care much for beer. James would like it though. Would have liked it.

Like a wave, the night’s events caught up with her, leaving her in tears.

+=+=+

Lily’s blubbering subsided and she decided that she’d wipe her tears on her sleeves and finish the beer.

+=+=+

Luna walked into the tavern, dressed in a dark red hooded cloak. She pulled back the hood, looking around for Lily and made towards her table. She pulled a dog biscuit from her pocket, tossing it to the dog, who snatched it from the air. “Thank you for your service,” Lily said, dismissing the dog.

“Think nothing of it, Mistress,” the dog said, dropping a chunk of biscuit as he spoke. He snatched the chunk from the floor and then walked off into the deeper shadows of the room.

“I’m sorry for the delay,” Luna said. “I’ve never died before, I thought I’d come here with you, but apparently management had other ideas.”

“This happens more than once?” Lily asked.

“For most people, no,” Luna answered. “Harry’s done it a few times – he always ends up at King’s Cross Station for some reason.”

“Where’d you end up?”

“A swamp, of all places,” Luna replied cheerily. “It was a nice swamp, as swamps go, and I would have gladly gone exploring, but I knew I needed to catch up with you.”

Luna looked around the tavern.

“How was your passage?” she asked.

“Pretty uneventful – I was in some dark place, and then I was in an alley.”

“Hmm,” Luna replied. “Harry said it wouldn’t hurt. I’m going to have to set him straight on that point the next time I see him. Well, we have to get going.”

“Going?” Lily asked.

“I didn’t die in your place so you could spend eternity in this way station, Lily,” Luna said, smiling with a tough undertone.

“Where are we going?” Lily asked.

“I think the better questions are ‘who’ and ‘when,’’ Luna replied.

“Well then, who am I going to be, and where and when?” Lily asked.

“That’s more like it,” Luna said.

“Lycoris Black,” Luna said, “some time around 1923.”

“You’ve got to be putting me on,” Lily said.

“No, I assure you that I’m quite serious,” Luna said.

“Lycoris is the name of the red Spider Lily,” Lily said, grasping a handful of her hair.

“Well, imagine that, I have chosen well then,” Luna said with finality.

+=+=+=+

Lily followed Luna to the door in the now dark tavern.

Luna grasped the doorknob and jerked the door open.

Outside was a howling blizzard, the cobbled streets were nowhere to be seen.

Luna pushed the door shut and then opened it again.

This time there was a different world outside, a lush, sunlit green lane winding through meadows. “Close,” Luna said, pushing the door shut again.

She stood still for a moment and then pulled the door open for a third time. This scene was similar to the last, but it was night and the road was paved. When they stepped through the doorway, they were in what appeared to be an English village. When Lily looked behind her, the tavern and its city were gone.

Lily followed after Luna, who’d begun to stroll down the road. To the right the ground sloped downward into a wet area where low green plants waved tufts of white floss. She caught up to Luna with a few quick steps.

“Where are we, and when?” Lily asked.

“Wigan, near Manchester, and given the blooming of the cotton sedge, I’d say mid-to-late June,” Luna replied. “Miss Lycoris Black lives in a cottage near here – it was gifted to Lycoris by the groom’s father when both families signed the betrothal contract.”

“Is she going to have to give it back?” Lily asked practically.

“No, as she was ready and able to enter into marriage, it was the groom’s suicide that thwarted consummation of the marriage,” Luna explained. “Mister Arben Dolohov had a snit with Sirius, Lycoris’ father, not our Sirius but great grandfather Sirius, who explained to him that it was the Dolohov family that was in default after the handfasting and that Lycoris would keep the cottage.”

“Did he accept that?” Lily asked.

“Not in the least, he was enraged; angry that his son committed suicide, mad that his son admitted to homosexuality in his suicide note, and furious that Lycoris did not return the bridewealth gift; it’s what led him to kill her,” Luna said.

“When will that happen?” Lily asked with concern.

“Hopefully in a few minutes if my timing is correct,” Luna replied.

They crested a low rise and both saw the cottage. A light was on and the front door was open.

“Oh, pooh,” Luna exclaimed. “We might be a bit late.”

Stories from the Vault
The Exchange - Act One, Scene Three

The Exchange – Act One – Scene Three

Previously in this story:

“Where are we, and when?” Lily asked.

“Wigan, near Manchester, and given the blooming of the cotton sedge, I’d say mid-to-late June,” Luna replied. “Miss Lycoris Black lives in a cottage near here – it was gifted to Lycoris by the groom’s father when both families signed the betrothal contract.”

“Is she going to have to give it back?” Lily asked practically.

“No, as she was ready and able to enter into marriage, it was the groom’s suicide that thwarted consummation of the marriage,” Luna explained. “Mister Arben Dolohov had a snit with Sirius, Lycoris’ father, not our Sirius but great grandfather Sirius, who explained to him that it was the Dolohov family that was in default after the handfasting and that Lycoris would keep the cottage.”

“Did he accept that?” Lily asked.

“Not in the least, he was enraged; mad that his son committed suicide, angry that his son admitted to homosexuality in his suicide note, and furious that Lycoris did not return the bridewealth gift; it’s what led him to kill her,” Luna said.

“When will that happen?” Lily asked with concern.

“Hopefully in a few minutes if my timing is correct,” Luna replied.

They crested a low rise and both saw the cottage. A light was on and the front door was open.

“Oh, pooh,” Luna exclaimed. “We might be a bit late.”

-0101010101-

The cottage front door opened into a kitchen, which was a mess.

A small fire flicked on the hob – an iron skillet lay in pieces on the floor beside the hob. The body of a large man blocked the doorway, the point of what was probably a chef’s knife protruding from his back. A small table was overturned, and the wreckage of shattered chairs littered the floor. Next to the small stone hearth lay the twisted body of a woman, a pool of blood ebbing out around her skirts.

Luna stood at the open doorway, flicked her wand at the kitchen. There was a brief flicker from the room.

“They’re both dead,” Luna announced.

“We’re too late?” Lily asked.

“Dear me, no,” Luna replied, “Death’s handmaiden is never too late.”

While focusing on some detail in the room, Luna pushed the man’s body delicately with her toe, moving his head enough that she could shut the door.

Luna stood facing the door, tapping her foot for seven beats before reopening the door.

The room was now completely changed. The kitchen table and chairs were sitting upright, there were no bodies, there was no blood.

“When are we right now?” Lily asked.

Luna twisted her lips as if doing a particularly troublesome maths problem.

“Very good question, Lily Potter. We’re not exactly in Lycoris’ time stream right now – it’s difficult to understand and even more difficult to explain.”

“To be precise, we’re adjacent to the recent past when Lycoris was living here in the cottage and slightly before Arben Dolohov went ‘round the bend.”

“Oh-kay” Lily responded. “Why are we here?”

“I figured you could use a cuppa while I explained a bit more.”

Lily walked into the kitchen and pulled out a chair.

“Explain away, Mistress of Death,” Lily said.

“Oh, we needn’t be formal, Luna will suffice.”

“Are you Mistress of Death or Death’s handmaiden?” Lily asked.

“Both,” Luna replied while opening cupboard doors, looking for tea as she put a kettle on the hob.

“I am a daughter of the Peverel family; while I hold the three Hallows, I cannot die – not permanently,” Luna explained. “As I am, for the moment, deathless, I may be called Mistress of Death, but that title is a bit misleading, as Death truly has no master or mistress. With this role, I have a duty to balance certain things, which makes me Death’s handmaiden.”

“But you’re a mum,” Lily objected.

“Okay, Death’s hand- matron ,” Luna quipped “if you want to split hairs.”

The kettle began to whistle.

“Oh, goody,” Luna exclaimed. She filled the teapot with boiling water and gave the pot an affectionate pat as she placed the lid on top. Luna leaned back against the counter, which caught her in the middle of her back.

“You know, just once, I’d like to have a kitchen counter where I can rest my backside,” Luna complained. “My husband could do that; Rolf would look so cool , but if I try to do it, I look like a toddler on a precipice.”

“If you’re Death’s hand-matron, what was Harry’s other title?” Lily asked, ignoring Luna’s grumble about the plight of being short.

“He collected them by the bag,” Luna replied. “Boy-who-lived, Man-who-conquered, Master of Death…I think he also called himself ‘Fate’s chew-toy’ once or twice, which was droll.”

“He never spoke the title, but he could have been called ‘Death’s steward,’ entrusted to take care of Death’s household.”

Luna looked out the window and then turned back to face Lily.

“What do you take in your tea?” Luna asked.

“Dab of honey if you have it,” Lily replied.

“I’m certain there’s some here,” Luna said, opening another cupboard door.

“And here we are” she exclaimed.

Luna poured tea, pushing a small jar of honey towards Lily along with a steaming cup, saucer and spoon. She picked up her own cup, cradling it in her hands.

“How well do you know the Black family?” Luna asked.

“I knew Sirius, of course, as he was part of the package of being with James for better or worse; I knew of Bellatrix, and I knew Narcissa and Andromeda, well enough to recognize them in the streets, but we weren’t close,” Lily said.

“So, three generations back from our Sirius was great-grandfather Sirius, who was Phineas Nigellus’ son. Great-grand Sirius had three children, at least three children that the family admits to having,” Luna explained. “Arcturus was the heir, Regulus was the spare, and then there was Lycoris, who managed to make it to adulthood, notwithstanding the urgings of her great-aunt Elladora.”

“Oh, what was her objection?” Lily asked.

“In the Black family squibs and less than physically perfect children were often euthanized,” Luna explained. “Lycoris was no squib, but she was sickly as a child and had a less-than-perfect gait, I’m not sure exactly what the cause might have been.”

“She flourished at Hogwarts, Slytherin of course, and afterwards was apprenticed to a Potions Mistress, although like many sickly children, she grew up wanting to be a Healer. She had a modest debut in society after Hogwarts but was not exactly overrun with suitors.”

“Her aunt Belvina called in some debts owed to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and a betrothal was negotiated with a third son from the Dolohov family. The contract was signed, the handfasting ceremony was performed, and the groom-to-be killed himself that evening after the handfasting.”

“How awful,” Lily exclaimed. “Did she have feelings for the gentleman?”

Luna looked off into the distance. “Unknown,” she answered after a moment of silence.

“That brings us to the day that we will soon visit. Arben Dolohov gave this cottage to Lycoris, and after his son’s death, he wanted the cottage back. He demanded it from Sirius, who refused him. He then came to the cottage.”

“Wait, how do you know all of this?” Lily asked.

“Some of this was piecing together history, but as Death’s hand matron I came back to watch this scene, over and over again – each time it was slightly different.”

Luna walked to the door, opening it and then turning around, framing her body in the doorway, trying to look as large as possible.

“I want this cottage” she said in a husky, threatening voice.

“Lycoris refused, of course, this cottage was independence to her, something she dearly wanted in her life. Arben wheedled and argued, blamed Lycoris for his son’s suicide and cursed her, physically, but she still refused to surrender the cottage. He attempted the Killing Curse, which Lycoris intercepted with a skillet, of all things. Then the spells began flying in earnest.”

“Lycoris was not a fan of the dueling arts, but she was a daughter of the House of Black and was dangerous enough with a wand. In one version of the melee, Arben tries to beat her, but she stabs him with a kitchen knife. No matter how many times I watched the scene play out, both are mortally wounded.”

“So, what are we going to do?” Lily asked.

“Pretty much what I did with you just before you were going to die; I appear when she’s moments from Death and ask if she’s ready to die, and if she’s willing to leave you her body,” Luna explained.

“It sounds simple when you put it that way,” Lily commented.

“Most things are,” Luna replied, giving Lily a slow wink.

-0101010101-

After Lily finished her tea, Luna turned to the sink and rinsed the crockery. Lily rose and helped by drying the cups and saucers, putting it all away in the cupboards.

“It’s time,” Luna said, opening the front door, stepping out into the sunshine.

“Any last-minute advice?” Lily asked.

“I think you’ll figure it out. Once you’re sheathed in Lycoris’ body, you’ll need to call a Black house-elf for help. I recommend that you that you call for Maggy,” Luna answered.

“Will I see you again after this?” Lily asked.

“Oh, from time to time, I have a number of things I must be doing, but few more important than your project,” Luna said, stopping as she looked about, beaming at the sky and surrounding countryside. “Why do wretched things happen on such nice days?”

Luna pulled her shoulders back and stood very straight. She extended her hand to Lily and then pulled the hood of her cloak forward.

The bright sunlight took on silvery cast and the colors shifted before disappearing entirely, leaving everything in shades of gray. Luna snapped her fingers and all light disappeared. She snapped her fingers again and they were back inside the cottage again, but everything looked distorted. Luna led Lily by the hand to the far side of the kitchen. A woman Lily assumed to be Lycoris was puttering about in the kitchen, doing something at the hob.

“We are not quite in the here and now for Lycoris,” Luna whispered, keeping a firm grip on Lily’s hand. She can neither hear nor see us, but she may have some sense that we are here.”

Sound in the cottage was distorted, like being underwater. Lycoris turned to the door, but never had the chance to open it, as Arben Dolohov burst in uninvited.

Lily couldn’t hear the words as the sound was garbled, but she could make sense of the conversation, given the preview provided by Luna.

The shouting and gesticulations ended when Arben drew his wand. There was a flash of green light as he pointed to Lycoris, who had grabbed a skillet from the hob, swinging it backhand like a tennis racquet. The skillet stopped the spell for an instant before it shattered.

Then more spell fire exchanged, most of it parried but Arben managed to land a spell that splashed on Lycoris’ face. Arben laughed and then began to throw spells at a furious pace. Lycoris began to retreat, using the table and chairs as shields. When she was finally cornered by the hearth Arben began to hit her with his massive fists.

Lycoris wandlessly summoned a knife from the counter and thrust the blade into his chest. Arben backhanded her one final time before he began to stagger towards the door. He collapsed before he made it across the threshold.

Luna snapped her fingers again and the sound distortion ended, but the room was still visible only in shades of gray.

“Lycoris,” Luna called. “It’s time.”

Lycoris tried to sit up but was unable to do so.

She did manage to turn her head towards Luna.

“You’re so pretty,” Lycoris said. “Both of you.”

“Why thank you,” Luna replied politely.

“Are you Death? Lycoris asked, her voice sounding confused. “Why are there two of you?”

“Death sent me,” Luna said. “My friend here is a soul out of time.”

“Is Dolohov dead?”

“Yes, Lycoris,” Luna answered. “Your time is almost here.”
“I outlived him?”

“Yes, you certainly did,” Luna said reassuringly.

“You have a question for me,” Lycoris asserted.

“Yes, I do,” Luna said. “If you go with me, this soul out of time would take your place on earth.”

“Who cursed her that she’d want to live my life?” Lycoris asked. She tried to laugh but ended up coughing instead. “Damn, that hurts.”

Lycoris blinked and then tried to focus on Lily.

“I’m ready to go, will she even fit in here?”

“I think so, you’re bigger on the inside,” Luna said with a wink.

“Let’s do it,” Lycoris said.

“Lily, help her to sit up,” Luna said. Lily did so, propping Lycoris up against the hearth.

“Sit beside her and take her hand – don’t let go until you can see colors again” Luna directed.

Luna took a series of deep breaths and then placed her foot between Lycoris’ breasts and grabbed the woman’s free hand with both of her own. With a sudden, savage jerk Luna pulled Lycoris’ soul from her body. Lily, still holding Lycoris’ other hand felt herself pulled and compressed, almost, but not quite like Apparation.

Physically it felt like running into a wall or falling into water from a great height. With the impact, Lily let go of Lycoris and then felt pain -- all over her body.

There was a roaring sound in her ears that made her squeeze her eyes shut. When she opened her eyes the light hurt, terribly, but she saw in color again. The edges of her vision were fuzzy, which prior experience with childbirth had taught Lily was a sign of blood loss usually followed by loss of consciousness.

There was something she had to remember – what was it?

“Maggy? Maggy, I need your help, I want to live,” Lily whispered.

0101010101

“Did you just yank my soul out of my body?” Lycoris asked.

“Pretty much,” Luna answered. “I didn’t have time for the candles, chanting and a pentagram drawn with salt. Maybe next time, but I don’t think so, simple is better.”

“Where to now?” Lycoris asked.

“I need to go settle my tab, how do you feel about a pint?”

Stories from the Vault
The Exchange - Act Two, Scene One

The Exchange

Act Two – Scene One

June 19, 1923

Sirius Black, latest of many men in the Black family to hold that name, was born in the thirty-seventh year of the reign of Queen Victoria, born, in fact on the day that monarch was invested with the title Empress of India . The oldest son of Phineas Nigellus Black and de facto head of the Black family, Sirius was a driven man.

His father was a brilliant wizard, able administrator, and had done much to bring Hogwarts to its place as the preeminent school of magic in Europe (if not the world), but Phineas Black was a miserable businessman and the accumulated Black fortune had been pissed away in a series of bad investments, uncollectable loans and questionable expenditures. In the years after Hogwarts, Sirius had started to rebuild the Black fortune while fostering the influence such fortunes bring.

Along the way he’d married, and with Hester had raised three children.

One of whom almost died this morning.

Funny thing, how almost losing a child put everything in his life into a starkly different perspective.

Maggy had found him in his study and he had been popped away to the cottage. His only pleasure that day had been stepping over the now dead body of Arben Dolohov on his way to rescue his daughter. He’d stopped the bleeding and did his best to patch the collapsed lung. He then secured the room, taking care to lock away both Arben and Lycoris’ wands, as the Aurors would have to investigate.

He’d moved Lycoris to her bedroom in the cottage and then called an old friend for further healing care beyond his first aid. Moving her to St Mungo’s was out of the question, as was taking her home to Grimmauld Place. Egged on by Aunt Elladora, Hester had not had a civil relationship with her daughter in the last decade.

Now it was time to wait; wait for the investigator to arrive, wait for the healer to finish stabilizing Lycoris, and while waiting, ponder all the things in his life that he should have done differently.

He waited for almost three hours; the Aurors arrived, conducted their perfunctory investigation and left, taking the body of Arben Dolohov with them. The healer was working all that time.

A quiet cough interrupted his pondering.

“Master Black, the healer is finishing up and wishes to speak with you,” Maggy said.

Sirius nodded in reply and Maggy disappeared in the manner of well-trained house elves.

The healer closed the door behind her and walked to the kitchen, carrying a tray of medical tools. She set the tray down beside the tap and began to rinse and dry the tools.

“She’s sleeping at the moment,” the healer began. “Her left lung was collapsed, but thankfully nothing major with the heart. I had to do some vascular repair in her abdomen and both legs; she’s not going dancing anytime soon. That’s the good news.”

Sirius met the healers gaze.

“So now for the bad news?”

“I’ve tried to minimize it, but there will be permanent scarring on the abdomen and legs. In addition, the late Mister Dolohov cast a withering curse on her face that, had he lived, would have blinded her. Because he died soon after casting the curse, it did a fraction of the damage intended. I was able to save her sight, but she’ll have permanent dark marks around her eyes. I did what I could, I’m sorry that I couldn’t do more.”

“I called you because I believe that you’re the best,” Sirius said.

“The fact that I owe you a substantial amount of money had nothing to do with it?” the healer asked with a grin.

“That’s joyfully incidental,” Sirius replied.

“I left a list of potions that she should take for the next week, after which I’d like to see her again,” the healer said.

“Of course,” Sirius said. “On behalf of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, I thank you for saving my daughter’s life.”

“That’s why I became a healer, Sirius,” she said. She put the last of the tools into her bag and after a moment’s hesitation lifted on her toes to place a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll see myself out.”

0101010101

Lily opened her eyes and then squeezed them shut again. Everything hurt, from her scalp to her toes. With effort she pushed her eyelids open and tried to focus on the room. A man was sitting next to her bed. Some unfamiliar part of Lycoris’ memory informed her that the man was her father.

“Hello, Daddy,” she said, her voice rough.

“Good morning, daughter,” he said warmly.

“How long have I been here?” she asked.

“A day,” he replied.

“Where’s Arben?”

“I’m not entirely certain, he’s either at the morgue or at his manor house, being prepared for burial,” Sirius said with some satisfaction.

“Well, it seems all those lessons you gave me when I was a slip of a girl paid off,” she said.

“Indeed.”

A long moment of silence passed.

“I’m sorry this happened, after I threw Dolohov out of my house, I never thought he’d come attack you,” Sirius said. “I should have warned you.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No, the Aurors have already closed the investigation. Your wand had mainly defensive spells, while his were all offensive, including the killing curse. I’m curious, how did you dodge that at such close range?”

“I didn’t, I stopped it with an iron skillet,” Lycoris replied, pulling the strange memory forward. “I think it broke the skillet – which is sad because I liked that skillet.”

“Did you know that the skillet would block that curse?” Sirius asked.

“I thought it would, but I’d never had occasion to try it in real world conditions,” Lycoris said.

“I’m quite glad you’re alive,” Sirius said.

“Me too,” she replied. “Even if everything hurts. How bad do I look?”

“You look like a woman who was beaten and cursed by a dishonorable blackguard.”

“Mirror?”

Sirius stood and fetched one from the dresser across the room.

“Oh, keen,” Lycoris said sardonically. “I look like a sugar skull.”

“A what?”

“It’s a new world folk custom – some of the Spanish speaking cultures in the new world celebrate what they call ‘the day of the dead’ which among other things includes make-up that looks a bit like I do right now.”

“Samhain?”

“Just after Samhain,” Lycoris said, “It’s something I learned when I was conducting research for my ritual magic independent study. I think the marking looks exotic .”

Sirius made a disapproving noise.

“Daddy, don’t worry, I was never a beauty to begin with, goodness knows Mumsy told me that often enough growing up; maybe now she’ll stop trying to marry me off to any wizard who can shave. Does Mumsy know?”

“I told her late last night,” Sirius said.

“I’d really rather not see her until I can move a little faster; she and great Aunt Elladora will no doubt tell me how all of this is my fault,” Lycoris said.

“She’s already said that to me, last night” Sirius said. “I corrected her, at length and with much volume; I don’t think either Hester or Elladora will be visiting any time soon.”

“So, there is a bright side to this after all,” Lycoris said, closing her eyes.

“I’ve got to go now,” Sirius said. “Maggy will be caring for you for the indefinite future.”

Sirius stood and brushed hair out of Lycoris’ face. He bent down and placed a kiss on her forehead.

“Get better,” he commanded.

“I’ll try, Daddy,” Lycoris responded in a sleepy voice.

Sirius extinguished the light as he closed the door.

0101010101

When Lycoris next woke she heard Maggy in her bedroom.

“Does Mistress wish to eat?” Maggy asked.

“Mistress would very much like to pee, and then think about breakfast,” Lycoris replied.

With some effort, she managed to sit up, rise from the bed, and shuffle to the commode, stumbling a few times as she did so. Afterwards she washed her hands and then her face, which was quite tender. She was wearing a fresh nightgown, a new one she’d bought in anticipation of her now-cancelled wedding.

“Maggy?”

“In the kitchen, Mistress,” Maggy replied.

Lycoris looked at the table which was spread with a simple breakfast.

“Have I told you recently that you are the best elf in the world?” Lycoris asked.

“A time or two, Mistress. More eating, less talking,” Maggy answered.

Lycoris made quick work of the breakfast and then sipped her cup of tea.

“Now talking,” Maggy said.

“Bossy elf,” Lycoris replied.

Maggy gave a curtsey.

“I thank you for coming when I called,” Lycoris said. “I would have died without you.”

Maggy said nothing in reply but nodded her head as her eyes swelled with unshed tears. She then gulped and said “you, Mistress, are a daughter of the house of Black, and I am a servant of the house of Black, I was glad to hear your call.”

“Thank you again,” Lycoris said.

“I was less glad when I got here,” Maggy continued. “You are Mistress-who-is, may I ask what happened to Mistress who was?”

Lily’s eyes went wide with this question. She thought carefully how to answer.

“Death came for her,” she replied.

“Have you come to harm the house of Black?”

“No, I’m here to set some things right.”

“You are Mistress Lycoris Black, I will keep your secrets,” Maggy said.

“You are a wonderful elf,” Lycoris said.

“You are lucky to have such a good elf,” Maggy said with a sly smile. “Will Mistress have her bath now?”

Lycoris ran her fingers through her hair, trying to gauge whether she could go another day before washing her hair.

“I think that’s a good idea,” she said in reply.