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Life of the Legend- Harry Potter Fan Fiction

2007-07-07T23:31:09Z

Title: Life of the Legend: A Year Six Story
Site: Mugglenet Fan Fiction
Rating: PG13
Notes: Written before HBP was released.

Chapter One

The thin, bespectacled boy lay reclining, staring up at the ceiling. In the corner, the alarm clock flashed midnight in bold, red numbers. Harry Potter blinked at it, uncomprehending.

He had been trapped in his upstairs bedroom- otherwise known as his cousin’s former second bedroom. His phobic aunt and uncle only gave the room to their nephew out of fear that he would perform magic on them or their son.

There had been a nasty event several years before involving Harry’s cousin, Dudley Dursley, and a pig’s tail. It was an incident where he had been guilty by association, even though he hadn't actually performed the spell. Strictly speaking, Harry wasn’t allowed to do magic outside of school at the time.

This summer, however, he was. Due to the rise of Voldemort, previously underage wizards were now allowed to perform magic outside of school. It didn’t matter to him now, although he and his friends had been anxiously awaiting such perks for ages. Nothing that used to matter to him seemed important anymore. His life was divided into the time before his godfather’s death, and after.

He sighed heavily as he flicked his lighted wand through the air, tracing naughty words above him. Each stroke left a trail like a comet. It was a new moon, and an utterly black night crept into his bedroom, effectively stifling what energy was left in the bare light bulb hanging off of the ceiling. Harry didn’t mind. The same thick shroud coloured his thoughts and emotions.

Several books lay across the floor in his room, among numerous other items forgotten or uncared for. All were on the subject of Quidditch, which was his favourite sport and the only one he was any good at. They all went unread; he hadn't been able to enjoy them lately. To anyone else, he had only been at the Dursleys’ a short time, but to Harry it felt like it had been centuries. He looked old. It was as if time was the only one who kept him company, paling his complexion and deepening his eyes. He now had the gaunt look of a starving child who has known only misery. It was a long stretch from the emotionally battered, but generally happy boy everyone knew towards the end of last term.

As he began writing ‘F-U-‘, there was a light rapping on the window. Sluggishly, Harry rolled over and saw a snowy white owl perched on the windowsill outside. “Hedwig!” said Harry, feeling slightly uplifted.

When he pushed out the glass pane, she quickly flew in. The owl promptly dropped the newspaper and letter she was carrying, and flew over to her cage. Rustling her feathers, she looked dolefully at Harry. “Well, eat up. You’ve been gone a while,” he said, and strode over to her dropped cargo on his bed. He decided to read the letter first.

Dear Harry,
I am glad to hear that you and They-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named haven’t had any confrontations. However, it might be a good idea to move about for a bit of fresh air. It may do you some good. Don’t get angry, it’s just a thought.

Everyone writes and asks about you. We all care. Perhaps you’re not ready to talk at the moment, but we will listen whenever you are ready. Ron says he expects to see you soon, so that’s certainly some good news! Some celebrations might be in line when we see you.

Love From,
Hermione

P.S. I got my O.W.L.s back yesterday. I’ve got all O’s! Isn’t that wonderful? Mum and Dad have decided to take me on a holiday to Greece as a reward. We have family there, so that will be fun as well. I hope to see you as soon as possible!

“Let’s talk about it,” mimicked Harry. “Why does everyone want me to talk?” he asked himself as he fell back onto the bed. "How can I talk? They wouldn't really understand anyway. This is my burden. O.W.L.s? Who the hell cares about test scores at a time like this?" he thought. Harry was always in a perpetual state of angst these days and didn’t know how to crawl out of it.

A small voice in his head, sounding a lot like his good friend Hermione’s, gently admonished him for being angry. She’s just trying to help. She’s trying to take your mind off of Sirius.

He looked curiously down at Hermione's crumpled letter, tightly clutched in his fist. When did that happen?

He got a little something in his eye as he straightened out the letter, and put it in the top drawer with the others. He didn't know when she would be off for vacation, so he decided to wait to write her back. Usually, he did so immediately. At the end of last term, Mad-Eye Moody threatened the Dursleys with harm if the Order didn't hear from Harry often.

There were quite a few letters. Some were from various Weasley family members. Some were from his two best friends, Ron and Hermione. The rest were from various members of the Order of the Phoenix, a group that worked against the most evil wizard on earth, Lord Voldemort (or “You-Know-Who” to most of the magical world). All offered help, laughter, comfort, and sympathy. At the end of last term, Harry lost his godfather, whom he loved dearly as both friend and surrogate father.

Sirius died in a dueling battle with a Death Eater, a follower of Voldemort. Harry was having a hard time dealing with the fact that he had led his godfather to his doom. He knew he would probably never fully forgive himself.

It happened only weeks ago, Harry remembered with a pang. "It’s my fault you died...” he whispered into the cold night. He felt like crying, but couldn’t. He was tired of the sadness.

He lay there for a moment, recalling the moment of his death, and shaking slightly with pain. In his mind’s eye, he watched as Sirius fell back through that mysterious archway; his once handsome face agape with shock.

Even as Harry agonized over his loss, he couldn’t resist the vague, nagging feelings about the archway. He had heard voices from the other side. His classmate, Luna, said she heard it too. Did falling through really mean death?

As ideas pestered his exhausted emotions, he eventually realized he had been staring at Hedwig. She had finished her meal and was gazing intently back at Harry.

“Hello, old girl,” Harry said as he stood. He absently began scratching her neck the way she liked and then realized he hadn’t yet looked at the newspaper lying on his bed. “DAILY PROPHET,” it barked out in blocked letters across the top.

Last summer, Harry would periodically become enraged because he wasn’t privy to all of the news, as his friends were. This summer, he hoped there would be more information included within the folding pages. The Order could not deal out crucial intelligence, so the paper was his only source.

At least Hermione wasn't at headquarters. She could at least give him more personally relevant information.

It was depressing to look at the front page. Instead of covering different stories as usual, the writers had taken to putting a full obituary on the front page every day. When the word finally spread about Lord Voldemort’s return, he and his followers pulled down all barriers, and were killing several wizards and Muggles every day.

Harry wanted to throw it down. All those pictures of people smiling, winking, and all the time moving toward their doom depressed him. “Disgusting,” he growled.

As unpleasant as the task was, however, he had to see. He had to make sure it was no one he knew. It was bound to happen one day. However, each day that passed he was able to think to himself, "Not today."

Fortunately, today, all the named dead were unfamiliar to him. He hastily refolded the paper and threw it in the bin. He didn't care to read the rest today. Another day was hard fought and won. He’d made it through one more time. Grief overtook him often, but each minute was a triumph over the death that shadowed him. He decided he would not succumb, and he would not give another friend over so carelessly if he could possibly stop it.

These days he slept a lot. What energy he gained from moving around quickly diminished, and again he collapsed onto his bed. He watched the cracks in the wall until they broke open to reveal dreams of the archway and the only father he had ever known.

##########

Chapter Two

Harry awoke with a start. What was happening in his mind was not dreaming. Like a wooden dummy, he was being forced to relive all of his most terrible memories. Lord Voldemort was still controlling his thoughts, he knew. The scar he'd received as a baby was from a killing curse. Instead, it rebounded onto the Dark Lord, and Lord Voldemort nearly died himself. Unfortunately, because the murderous lord still lived, there was a deep connection between the two that surpassed the knowledge of even the most wizened old wizards.

Only last year, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, did Harry find out Voldemort could access his mind at times when Harry’s defenses were lowered. Last night, Harry could hear him laughing, mocking his tormenting memories.

Harry’s scar prickled. “I sure could use Mum or Dad right now,” he mumbled.

At least he felt he could handle these dreams- if that was what they could be called. It was almost as if dementors surrounded him whenever he fell off to sleep, sucking the happiness from the room, and forcing him to remember- with all of the inherent imagery- all of his most terrible experiences. He’s just trying to get to you, to hurt you however he can. Block him out! the Hermione-like voice urged.

It may have been easier if Harry had actually tried to learn Occlumency last year. Yet, how could he have been expected to clear his mind of emotion when Snape was deliberately making it difficult? “Damned Snape,” cursed Harry under his breath.

It was only after a moment of staring at the ceiling, that he realized he had been talking to himself an awful lot lately. A rare shade of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. Sirius would have thought it was hilarious. Sirius would also have known how Harry felt, being cooped up all of the time. Ability to perform magic was cutting into his social life on Privet Drive. Of course, the kindly snoops of Privet Drive all thought Harry was a criminal, because the Dursleys didn’t want anyone to know Harry was a wizard.

The only difference between Sirius’ situation and his was that his godfather WANTED to get out. Harry didn’t care. He was as haunted inside as he was out. Plus, the sun would probably burn his retinas, as he hadn’t had a breath of fresh air in some time.

Harry grudgingly let his feet slip to the floor, but when he tried to stand, his feet rolled over something hard, and he fell with a mighty crash to the floor. “Ouch” was an understatement. He was inspecting his bodily damage when an almighty roar rose outside his bedroom door. “You! You sniveling little criminal! What the hell are you doing? You nearly woke up Dudley-“

Harry snorted while he slipped on his glasses. Wild centaurs couldn’t have woken up his dolt of a cousin, Dudley.

“You know he has a boxing competition! We should have let him practice on you . . . yes! That’s what we’ll do.”

“That’d be a bit difficult-“

“What do you mean, difficult?”

“Well, he has no head. He made me angry last night, you see, and-“ he said, quite conversationally.

“WHAT?”

“On second thought, his aim is bad enough with his head. Maybe it has improved without it. You know how his brain has been holding him back. I suppose I’d better bring my wand to fight against such a strong, headless adversary.”

“Don’t you talk about your . . . freak equipment! I’ll have you thrown out of this house!”

Harry only laughed in reply. This sent Uncle Vernon into a wild frenzy, spitting out all sorts of obscenities. Eventually, he ran out of steam, and settled for raging at Petunia downstairs.

Lately, he'd been venting his fury on the Dursleys. They so rarely actually spoke to him, so the moment they did, he hit them with every taunt in his arsenal.

With his anger still pulsing, Harry went over to the mirror. The knob on the bed had smacked him right in the eye. At least he didn’t have his glasses on at the time. His right butt cheek seemed to have suffered a similar fate as his eye. There would surely be bruising.

Harry groaned. He didn’t want to explain to anyone how he slipped- he looked to the floor to find his broom sitting amongst other items uncared for, looking not at all disheveled. Oh well thought Harry. At least the Dursleys are too afraid to come in my room, let alone be close enough to see my eye.

Mad-Eye Moody, a suspicious ex-Auror and a current member of the Order of the Phoenix, would probably curse Dudley, Vernon and Petunia to Hades if he thought they gave him a black eye. So the morning wasn’t a loss after all.

Thinking about Moody reminded Harry that he needed to write the Order and let them know everything was all right, while it still was.

Just as he began to unroll a bit of parchment, there was a loud “thunk!” at the window. A generic-looking tiny brown owl fluttered there. He was overly excited, and just a little stupid. “Pig!” he started as he went to open the window. “I wasn’t expecting you for a couple days.”

Harry allowed Pig to eat at Hedwig’s dish. It was something Harry’s owl was never thrilled about. She squawked her displeasure, but moved to the side nevertheless.

Harry opened the letter he had retrieved from the tiny owl, and plopped down on his littered floor to read the letter.

-Be ready at 5 O’clock tonight.-

A true smile broke across young Potter’s face for the first time in weeks. He was leaving Privet Drive- the setting of all of his terrible childhood memories- and much sooner than expected. Although, remembered Harry, Hermione did mention something like that in her letter the day before. He was so happy, he thought the slice of bread Aunt Petunia left under the door for breakfast looked positively appetizing. "Not even a speck of mold!" he said to himself, happily.

While scarfing the food with utmost indecency, he looked again at the letter. It was Ron’s handwriting, of course. He couldn’t wait to be back with his good friends. Wait! he thought, It doesn’t say anything about the Dursleys. Are they going to be here?

The thought of another confrontation between the Dursleys and the magical world they tried so hard to ignore wasn’t pleasant. He didn’t really care about how the Dursleys felt, or how frightened they would undoubtedly be. He only didn’t want them to insult any of his friends.

It was already late morning, judging by the rumble of Saturday activity occurring outdoors. Privet Drive was nestled in a very quiet, standard neighborhood. Men were washing their two cars while their 1.2 kids ran around screaming. Wives were sipping tea in the shade, admiring the view. Harry wished things were so simple for him, but he mustn’t think about that. On to happier thoughts . . . I’m leaving!

Harry decided he’d better send Pig on his way back to his friend, Ron. He stood and found an old tissue clinging to his bottom. “Gross!” he said, and tossed it on the floor. Looking around the trashed room, he thought it might be quite a task to pack, and so, got started early.

#######

Chapter Three

Several hours - and many sticky tissues - later, Harry found himself sitting on his old, beaten mattress. The sun was still three quarters of the way through the sky so he thought five o’clock must have been quickly approaching. He rather resented going downstairs. It was something he had managed to avoid thus far. “Well, here goes,” he sighed, fighting the excitement welling in his abdomen. He wondered how Uncle Vernon would negotiate the feelings of elation that Harry was leaving and the anger at being in the presence of wizards.

“What are you doing down here?” bellowed Dudley (Diddykins to his mother). He had heard the horrendous thunk, thunk, thunkof Harry’s trunk coming down the stairs. Harry was saved from comment when Hedwig, stuffed into her cage, picked that moment to beat her snowy wings and screech in an attempt to get out. Dudley’s face blanched at the bird, who seemed to be more than a little mad, and he ran from the stairs.

Harry chuckled. Ever since Dudley had watched the movie The Birds a few weeks before, he'd been even more frightened of Harry's powder-white owl.

As Harry rounded the corner, his aunt, uncle and cousin were all standing together behind the couch, no doubt to put a bit of distance between them and the boy. All eyes were narrowed. “We’d prefer that you stay in your room,” said Vernon bluntly. He seemed to register something a minute later and continued. “Why is your trunk packed?”

Harry didn’t mistake Vernon’s question for anything except suppressed glee. Harry had never left this early. However, they didn’t want him there as much as Harry didn’t want to be there. “Well, I decided to move into the kitchen, you see-“

“Oh no you don’t!” screamed Petunia. Everyone knew the kitchen was still Dudley’s favorite room.

“I was kidding you. I’m leaving, in case you couldn’t tell by my packed trunk and the fact that I’m carrying my owl in a cage,” said Harry, annoyed with how slow they were to catch on.

Vernon’s eyes bulged, which was rather disquieting because his eyes were rimmed with red and bloodshot. “They’re . . . No! They’re not coming here!”

“Well, yes,” replied Harry coolly. “Seeing as how I’m here and they’re coming to get me. Hmm," he said, screwing up his face. ”Yep, makes sense to me.”

“Don’t you get smart with me, boy. If your aunt and I didn’t generously take you in, you’d be-“

“Dead, yes, I know. Big deal.”

Vernon seemed shocked at such a casual answer. Harry’s eyes met Petunia’s and for an instant he thought he saw sadness in her eyes. Just then a hard, echoing knock came from the back door in the kitchen. Vernon set his jaw- Harry could almost hear his teeth grind- and strode pompously toward the door. As soon as he unlatched the lock the door burst inward and in streamed four fully-grown wizards: Moody (with his roving magical eye), Tonks (who was looking quite ravishing with long blond hair and purple eyes), Kingsley (regal as always), and Arthur (looking nervous and apologetic).

Arthur Weasley stuck out his hand. “Mr. Dursley. We meet again. Sorry for the rush. We didn’t want to be seen and cause a commotion.”

Harry felt Moody’s eye on him.

The Dursleys were shocked into silence. Mr. Weasley seemed to be making a determined attempt to be pleasant to the Dursleys. The last time he was there he blew their fireplace all over the living room. However, in his defense, that was an accident.

“It’s no problem, Mr. Weasley,” Harry said. “Let’s just go.”

“Not just yet, Harry,” said Tonks. Harry groaned, waiting to witness another scene.

Moody, the one who threatened Vernon the most, stepped forward. “Why does Harry have a black eye?” he growled.

“What? I have no idea!”

Harry desperately wanted to see Moody set his uncle straight, but as he wanted to leave, he opted for the truth. “I fell earlier, Professor. The Dursleys didn’t do anything.”

“He’d better not be lying, Dursley. You and I don’t like each other much, “Moody growled. Dudley scoffed at this and Moody glared at him before continuing. “But there are things more important than your animosity. I’ll put it simply: The more helpful you are to our cause, the safer your family will be. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Vernon turned a pretty shade of puce. “You want MY help? You threaten my family in the first place by dumping HIM on my doorstep, and then try to say you can save me from the danger he brings us?”

“Enough, Dursley,” Kingsley said in a booming voice. “We think it’s time you recognize our kind and stop unleashing your misplaced anger on Harry.”

Petunia started, as if to say something, but then the sour look quickly returned to her face as Vernon bellowed, “GET OUT!”

Harry could tell his uncle would love to resort to physical assault at this point, but he knew he would not win against wizards. He contented himself with screaming over their shoulders while Mr. Weasley grabbed Hedwig’s cage. Harry grabbed the handle of his trunk, and the group scuttled into the back yard. The door slammed behind their backs. Fortunately they were safe from prying eyes by the thick shadows and the tall fence Vernon installed.

“I’m sure glad I made my backside small today,” said Tonks. “That door would have taken it right off!”

“This is no time for humor,” growled Moody. “These are dangerous times. Harry, have you learned how to Apparate yet?”

His blank look was answer enough. “Thought as much,” Mad-Eye grunted. “Over to the Frisbee then.”

The truth was Harry had read the Apparition Guide, but the words left only the vaguest impression on his mind. He was always thinking. . . about other matters.

“Ten seconds to go,” said Arthur, looking at his watch. “And three- two- one-“

The familiar feeling of a hook behind his navel took hold and off Harry flew through space.

###########

Chapter Four

Harry found himself lying on a floor. Above him, he saw only the wooden beams of the ceiling. When he heard Fred and George’s raucous laughter, he rolled over to see what was going on. The sight of Ron’s face was immeasurably hilarious.

As it turned out, Harry had lost his grip on his trunk and, when they arrived at their destination, it took aim at Ron. It ended up flying into the bench at the table, knocking over Ron, who was holding some kind of stinking liquid. This liquid poured all over him and the surrounding floor emitting fumes that were so strong, they were visible.

“Oh! Revolting!” shouted Ron.

Harry scanned the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place and his stomach dropped. Somehow, he hadn’t really expected to arrive here but, after a moment of thought, it made sense. Voldemort was still alive, and the Order was still active. It was only Harry’s world that seemed to have ended. Then Harry stopped the thought. I can’t keep doing this, he reflected. I’m still here for a reason. I have a job to do.

Only then did he notice the kitchen was full of people he cared about. Fred and George were rolling on the floor in silent laughter while Ron was screaming at them to shut it. Ginny was doubled over in silent giggles. Mrs. Weasley, Ron’s mum, rushed over and was attempting to clean him up, scolding her children for poking fun. “Honestly!” she huffed in exasperation. “I thought you lot had grown up a bit. Apparently, I’m mistaken! No one has even bothered to welcome Harry!”

She was right, but Harry didn’t care. Besides, no one really made a fuss about his arrival. Even his travelling companions had already settled down at the table, engaged in a deep, private discussion.

“Sorry, Harry,” said Ginny, who got up from her seat to give him a close hug. “It’s just that . . . well, look at him!”

When she pulled away, everyone in the room was looking at Harry, all with varying expressions of anger. “What?” he asked.

“Who gave you that black eye?” asked Mrs. Weasley, her eyes flashing.

“Yeah, nice shiner!” said George.

Harry only smiled, “Well, if you must know, my bed.”

Fred laughed, “Yeah, things get a little rough in my bed too.”

“Fred!” scolded Mrs. Weasley.

“I’d get up, but there’s sludge all over me,” Ron said while scrunching his nose.

“It’s not sludge!” said Mrs. Weasley, hurt. “It’s a very delicious gravy!”

“Oh!” said Tonks, pulling away from her conversation momentarily. “I thought it was Doxy poison.” She had a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“Well then, I suppose no one wants dinner!” Molly threatened.

There were murmured apologies. Everyone knew Mrs. Weasley was an excellent cook. “All right then,” she said, satisfied. “Welcome, Harry,” she grinned and pulled him into a hug.

Fred and George were waiting for her to move. “Great to see you, Harry.”

“Yeah, it was getting a bit dull without you,” George said while shaking his hand.

“Well, George, we had better get going.”

“Too true. See you, Harry!”

“What’s the rush?” Harry asked.

“Oh, they’re just up to the usual. You know, joke shop stuff,” said Ron, taking off his soiled shirt. “They’re trying to find a new way to cheat on tests,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Ginny leaned over to join their conversation. “Yes, but Mum’s been obliterating their work every night, so she thinks they’re having to start over every day. They’ve been making loads of copies, though, so it doesn’t matter,” she said and smiled.

Harry couldn’t help but notice that Ginny was turning out to be quite pretty. Her long, red hair had begun to get a curl at the end, among other changes he didn’t want to think about at the moment. Ginny blushed lightly at the look Harry was giving her.

“So, um, did you notice Ron’s new look,” she asked quickly.

“Ginny, will you stop talking about that?” Ron said, obviously annoyed. “I’m sick of it!”

“Well, Ron,” said Harry. “You do look . . . er . . . have you been working out?” he asked, holding back a snicker.

“Well, I’ve been practicing keeping every day-“

“I catch him doing sit-ups and push-ups. Don’t let him lie to you,” she laughed.

Ron turned a lovely rosy shade. “It’s to improve my game!”

“Sure,” she smirked. She said to Harry under her breath, “If the game involved catching a certain someone we know, instead of a Quaffle.”

Ron made to lunge at her, but she quickly side-stepped him and ran over to sit next to Tonks. The members of the order were immersed in a private conversation and stopped immediately when Ginny sat with them.

“Ron?” said Mrs. Weasley, “Why don’t you and Harry go upstairs to change and wash for dinner?”

As they trudged into the bedroom, with Harry’s trunk and cage in tow, a silence fell over them. The last time Harry was in this house and in this room, it was still Sirius’ home. He was alive and his moody, yet vibrant self was talking, laughing, walking around like any other. Harry’s throat tightened.

He also distinctly felt a presence in the empty portrait. No doubt Phineas Nigellus reported his arrival to Dumbledore and even now, was paying close attention.

Ron looked at a loss for words. He had a good idea of what was going through Harry’s mind and thought it best to stay quiet. He didn’t know what to say anyway. He hadn’t talked about what happened that night in the Department of Mysteries. It was a sore subject for everyone, but it had to eventually be broached or there would never again be the level of comfort the close friends had enjoyed for so many years. “So . . . how was your summer?”

For a moment, Harry was disgusted with Ron. It must have shown in his face, because Ron spoke again. “I - look. Before you get mad, I want you to know that I’m sorry for- for everything. You don’t have to talk about it. I guess you’ll tell me when you want to,” he said, looking defeated.

Harry’s anger died as quickly as it had risen. “I know. Can we talk about something else?”

“O.W.L.s?” Ron asked with a wry grin.

“Nothing yet, actually,” he replied.

“That’s strange . . .”

“Not if Dumbledore knew I would be coming here soon. He probably didn’t want to upset the Dursley’s by summoning owls to poop all over his car. By the way, why is everyone being so nice to them lately? Not blowing up their living room? Speaking cordially? It’s disgusting!”

Ron shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, mate. Maybe they think they’re people.”

Harry laughed. Ron continued, “Your scores should be arriving sometime soon, then. Yep . . . scores,” Ron deliberately hesitated.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Ok, what did you get?”

“Passed them all!” he beamed.

Harry was quite surprised. “All of them? Wow, that’s really - “

“Well, all except Divination, but I didn't exactly have a talent for the crystal ball or anything. Then there was History of Magic. We slept through his classes anyway. What could anyone expect, with that drone? I suppose we could have tried to stay awake sometimes, eh?”

“Imagine Hermione’s face if she heard you say that.” They both laughed. Ron did an excellent impression of her face lit up with schoolwork fervour.

A shock went through Harry’s mind. Ron’s imitation of Hermione reminded him of the look on his face, right before many tiny brains began to wrap their tentacles around his body. “Ron, what happened to you that night?” he asked with a sinking feeling. Dumbledore had told him that the scarring from the incident would go much deeper than skin.

“Boys!” they heard from the bottom of the stairs, “Hurry up and get down here. Everyone’s waiting on you!”

Mrs. Weasley was notoriously impatient. Ron seemed to be thankful of the interruption, and so Harry took the hint. Ron changed into a stunning jeans and t-shirt ensemble, and gestured toward the door. "Shall we go?"

The boys headed downstairs.

###################

Chapter Five

Wafting through the kitchen was the mouth-watering scent of potatoes and steak. “Mrs. Weasley, that smells great!” Harry complimented.

“It’s nice to know someone appreciates my cooking!” she huffed. She was still miffed about the stinking "gravy" incident.

Mr. Weasley sought to console her. “Molly, Darling, you’re a wonderful cook. We all appreciate the things you do for us.”

She rewarded him with a warm smile as she set the food on the table. Fred and George were back, and hungry, if the greedy looks on their faces were anything to go by. Lupin said, “Accio Butterbeer!” and a steamy, hot cup of the brew flew to the front of each plate. As soon as Molly was settled into her seat everyone started to eat.

Harry suddenly felt more at home than he had in quite some time. He looked at his family- his real family- as they gracelessly shovelled food into their mouths. Moody’s magical eye was on him and he suddenly felt uncomfortable. Harry tucked into his food and didn’t come up for air until half an hour later.

Tonks asked Molly what the unusual spice on the potatoes was. “A great chef never tells her secrets,” she boasted, and with a wave of her wand said a charm to refill everyone’s glasses.

Fred leaned towards Harry. “We were experimenting with dragon claw, hoping to get some burn. It didn’t combust very well but it turned out to have a nutty taste, so we gave it to Mum.”

“But we told her it was Bungledek weed,” winked George, and resumed his gorging.

“So business is good?” Harry asked.

“Very good. We have to supply the demand and the demand is great, my friend.”

“Yeah,” said George, “and we found that our little brother’s wardrobe demanded an update, so we gave him a load of new clothes.”

“That was very generous of you,” smiled Harry.

“Now you can go out and impress the ladies, eh, Ronny?”

Ron blushed. “Shut up.”

“Watch out! Hormones raging!”

The Weasley’s had never had much money through the years. Arthur Weasley’s job at the Ministry of Magic never paid too well. Since the twins started up Weasley’s Wizard Weezes in Diagon Alley a bit more money was available to them. Contrary to what they always said about Ron, and their incessant teasing, they liked him. Enough, apparently, to buy him more new clothes. The hand-me-downs he usually wore were nearly three inches too short. Fortunately for Ron, old, grungy t-shirts were now in style, so he didn’t have any need for more.

An occasional loud burp punctured the contented air around Grimmauld Place. The house looked nothing like it did when Harry first arrived there last year. It looked like a home, and he felt quite safe thanks to all of the protective spells cast on the house. Just then, Harry noticed something. “Where is Kreacher?”

Fred spoke up first. “He was so excited about-“

Arthur interrupted with, “He’s gone.”

“Where did he go?” asked Harry, though Kreacher’s absence was no loss, really.

“He died. Heart attack,” said Arthur, just as quickly.

Everyone looked at Mr. Weasley and looked down. It was a lie. Harry didn’t care much. The house elf was the most foul creature of his kind that Harry had the misfortune to meet. Instead of helping Sirius while he was living there the last school year, he only made life more miserable for Harry’s godfather. Kreacher didn’t have anything nice to say to the rest of the house’s occupants either.

“So, what’s new?” asked Harry.

Everyone visibly relaxed with the subject change. Ginny talked about Dean Thomas, her current boyfriend. He was in Harry’s year, sharing a room with him and Ron at Hogwarts. It was bound to be an uncomfortable year in their quarters, as Ron was slightly overprotective of his little sister. Ron had only heard they were going out after they left Hogwarts for the summer. When her youngest brother was looking quite red in the face, Ginny paused. “So Harry, do you want to practice with Ron and me tomorrow afternoon?”

Harry was trying not to laugh at Ron. “Wait, Ginny, I’m not on the team anymore, remember?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You know Professor McGonagall will put you back on the team.”

“Yeah, probably. All right. We can practice.”

“Ginny, please help me do the dishes,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Mum, they wash themselves!”

“Don’t you take that tone of voice with me. Come!” Grudgingly, Ginny followed her mother.

“Let’s go up to our room,” said Ron, and the two began to walk upstairs. They soon noticed Tonks, Arthur, Kingsley, and Moody following them.

“I- uh- don’t need everyone to come up here. I could do it on my own. I don’t need a guard to get to my room, you know,” said Harry, perturbed.

“You don’t take a hint, do you Boy?” said Moody, “We’re coming up to talk.”

“We didn’t want to involve Ginny,” sighed Tonks,” but I suppose she’ll soon find out anyway. Between her tricks and her friends telling her everything they know, it’s a wonder we keep anything secret!”

“Little cow. She's too clever for her own good,” said Ron.

“Ron,” said Mr. Weasley warningly. He then focused on Harry in an unsettling way. This couldn’t be good news. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has begun-“

“Killing a lot, I know,” said Harry with a bitter edge.

“Yes. But some of his Death Eaters are focusing specifically on targeting members of the Order. There have been instances of direct battle. We want you to be prepared for the fact that some of us may come to some harm. Also, Dementors have been hovering in Muggle neighbourhoods. In some instances they have been found to be administering the kiss.”

Harry thought about the dark, hooded figures looming over him and Dudley last summer. The cold, unhappy air sucking at every happy memory he ever had. “I know that this is war. I know bad stuff has been happening, and will happen,” Harry felt a pang of regret. “I have been reading the Prophet and know who’s been getting hurt and dying. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Well,” began Arthur, looking uncomfortable, “we think Voldemort knows the prophecy-“

“What? How?” Harry interjected, genuinely shocked.

“Well . . . we know you never learned Occlumency, and V- he had plenty of time to access your brain while you were sleeping. As that probably has been at the forefront of your mind, it was probably something he learned on your first night at home.”

Harry felt a little guilty. “So this means . . .”

“Two things. For one, you are in more danger now than ever before, because you are the only danger to him. Secondly, he knows he can do anything because no one else can kill him. Not even Dumbledore.”

The repercussions quickly filtered through his mind. How many people would be hurt because he wanted to know what was in the Department of Mysteries? How many atrocities would be committed? In how much danger were the people he cared about?

"So, what is he going to do? Barge right up to the castle and knock?"

"Of course not. Dumbledore can't kill him, but he can certainly protect you," said Tonks.

The adults all glanced at each other, and shared the same thought. Then they stood. “Well, Harry, we should be going,” said Arthur.

“Important business to intend to,” said Moody gruffly.

Harry just stared at the floor. He knew that wasn’t all the news. There would always be a lot going on behind the scenes that he wasn’t privy to. It was probably better that way. What he heard was enough knowledge for one night. Everyone had left the gloomy room to Ron and Harry.

“Er- Harry?”

“Not now. I don’t want to talk. Can we just go to bed?”

“Sure, Mate,” came Ron’s simple reply. He could wait to talk with Harry, but he wasn’t keen on going to bed so early.

#########

TRC May Challenge Update

2007-05-02T15:39:04Z

TRC May Challenge Update

Everyone,

We've changed the submissions process to allow you to enter your stories into a challenge subcategory AND the genre you would normally put your story in.

Also, there is now a 'referred by' space on the registration form. If you get 5 people to sign up, one of your stories will become story of the week!

Good luck on the May Challenge!

Beautiful Slumber

2007-04-20T19:15:33Z

Ginny reflects on the life and love she's known.

Most people never see the beauty in death.

I saw it more times than I ever dreamed as a child on the cusp of wartime. My own brothers suffered their fates in such a shatter, it sent me into great fear of the unknown. A strange thing, as I am among those that dabble in all things feared an unknown. I am a witch. I say it with such conviction, but it means nothing in my world. I am one among many. I am nothing.

I am a witch and I am nothing.

Voldemort. Such a powerful name. I have no doubts that it sent a lustful shiver down the boy’s back as his eyes rolled back and the word formed a solid hate in his mouth. His serpent mouth. And that only reminds me of the beauty.

I come from a large, happy family. I recall playing with chickens and mud as a girl, before magic mattered. Before I worried about anything other than my letters. Back when streams were wild, sparkling rivers waiting to carry me away in a basket. When my mother was a force of nature and my father was my midday treat. When my brothers would tease me and I would pull tricks on them of equal measure.

I miss them.

I miss simplicity.

Death is simple.

He rose — the one cloaked in his own darkness — and he rid the world of another brother. Another heart of my own passed with the loudest scream that I still hear in my dreams, after these many years. It was terrible. Blood, ignorance, fear and regret all clouded the scene of chains and unshaved wood. So complicated, but it was nothing to him. He wanted what He wanted and that was as clear as a motive could be.

My world twisted then. My heart broke as I felt the ground tearing from my feet, recoiling from my sweat and tears, ashamed of what I felt. I would do it, I knew. I could do it. Of all my family, I was the first girl among centuries. I was only special in my darkness, though. While trotting and chattering, playing the role of a top notch girl, something brew within me. I felt it during my disastrous times. Once, I broke a vase and it shattered all over me. Flecks of blood appeared in my skin days later, but I mentioned this to no one. What would they have thought of me if they’d seen me smiling and licking it from the tips of my fingers.

But I did not let the darkness consume me.

Perhaps I wasn’t all I appeared to be, but I certainly was not evil. Is it possible to use darkness for good? I’d like to think so. For what is an Auror? What of Muggle policemen? I’ve killed not for my own protection, but for the protection of others who would not stand on their own. For those too weak to try to muster a hex in their own defense. Did these people need to be protected, or was I avoiding the inevitable demise of a race that wouldn’t stand on its own?

I suppose it’s not my place to guess their place in the universe.

I watched my friends and comrades fall, one by one. Some went peacefully, from the deterioration of their own minds and bodies. Some screamed in the way my brother, Percy, did. Most did not know what was coming, and had no opportunity to make deals with their lives, or offer a thank you and a goodbye.

It was when she went that I realized not even the sheltering, coddling castle walls could ever be safe enough. The darkness was everywhere, lurking in every corner, scheming in every stairwell, stirring in every ink pot. Even the lovely things in life that humans adore — birth, marriage . . . the kiss of a first love, they’re all housing the criminal evil that clings tenaciously in places it does not belong.

I felt it didn’t belong in my life, but then I knew it surrounded me. I began to wonder if it was me. Then I knew I was the one spurring it on.

I was the darkness, because the darkness took the last thing that mattered to me in its jealously. Its green eyes struck me as ironic in a way that I couldn’t laugh. I only felt the doom of everything settling into granules of dirt around me.

My Harry was gone.

He was always mine. Fate gave him to me so quickly, so effortlessly. Harry avoided the purpose for some time, then embraced, then forgot. How could he have forgotten fate?

I watched him die. I hated the world and my existence in it. I saw no reason or function for all this — war, drama, death, life, and love.

But then his lids fluttered that last time, and in that tiny movement I realized death is quite beautiful. The world calms to a pace for someone to really relish the last moments. I thought of what he saw there, in that wicked place. His world appeared to me in tints of green. The sun only brought out the richness in those colors. My hair would have been as a halo of fire in that light, and he may have thought me, or saw me for the demon that I was. My own eyes would have appeared tiny black holes. For all this that he must have seen, he didn’t recoil from my cold touch. He didn’t even shudder.

So long of a fight for so little.

So little I thought at the time. But Harry showed me the truth. He didn’t have to fight anymore. In those last moments, he was the purest creature on Earth. No worries crowded his mind, or any regrets. He only felt the love that I had for him in that moment, I’m sure of it. I think he found the simplicity he always craved. He was loved, and I was there until the end in the most literal way.

In his death, we were married.

Devil's Advocate

2007-04-20T19:14:05Z

Set in the universe I wrote before book six came out, Hermione and Draco are ill-met by moonlight.

Hermione strolled the corridors, pleasantly engaged with her own thoughts. It was a perpetually stormy Sunday. Such weather was her favorite. Other grumbling students were stuck catching up on homework while they bemoaned the lack of sunlight. Hermione, on the other hand, could amble through endless hallways in virtual peace. Serves them right for putting it all off until the last minute. They’re lucky the weather offered no temptation today, she thought while taking in the rushing sound of a waterfall.

Everyone needed a time to feel free. Hermione’s free moments occurred in coincidence with great, bloated clouds letting loose their ponderous loads. She enjoyed the spray through windows that were opened to let in the gusty breezes. The very scent of wet stone sent her senses into a peaceful contentedness. She closed her eyes, and absorbed the sensory melody.

“Ouch! Hey! Watch where you’re going, you buck-toothed banshee!”

Her eyes flashed open immediately upon colliding with the side of another human being. It took her a moment to realize who the speaker was. Draco Malfoy had just turned a corner, having obviously been out in the rain. He sported drenched locks that reminded her of Crookshanks after he’d been thrown into the bath. His own robes clutched him as if they feared the wind would take them. This was no reason to pity him, however. She scowled at his cross words.

Once again, he had somehow managed to ruin the moment.

“For one, how could I have been expected to know you were sneaking around corners in the dark? Sure, you resemble a rat, but there’s no need to behave like one. Second, your insult could at least apply to me if you were going to send spittle with it!” She dragged the back of her hand across her cheek for emphasis and narrowed her eyes with pointed disgust.

Draco appeared to be surprised at such a retort. Apparently, he’d never been asked to work on his rudeness. He scoffed as he circled her. “And just what’s that supposed to mean. Oh,” he imitated a condescending pout. “Do you disagree, Miss Know-It-All?” he mocked in a condescending tone.

She made no attempt to follow him with her eyes. She stared straight ahead and crossed her arms. “As a matter of fact, yes. If I was a banshee, I would have shrieked to my heart’s desire years ago to rid the world of you. In case your brain has been addled, you should also know that my teeth are rather well-aligned; they have been since a certain incident in our fourth year.”

“It’s too bad the improvement in your teeth didn’t make you any better looking.” His lip curled as he came around her right side.

“Oh, did you want me to look better for you?” she asked sarcastically, her eyes wide with feigned innocence.

“Oh please. It would be your lucky day, Granger. I don’t associate with Mudbloods such as yourself. Not even the ones who look far more fetching than you- which is everyone, by the way. You’ve got the nastiest bush for hair and always play in the mud. One might think Mudbloods should at least look nice, as they have nothing else going for them.”

Hermione had heard the slur so often from Malfoy that it no longer fazed her very much. “If you had even two brain cells, you could use them to come up with a clever insult. It’s too bad, really.”

“- It’s not an insult. It’s just what you are,” he snorted, and stood directly in front of her.

“I don’t see why you insist upon shoving your misguided value system down every witch’s and wizard’s throat. Just because a few inbred, Neanderthal, idiotic Purebloods believe some silly thing, doesn’t make it true, nor does anyone need to listen.”

“It’s not mine, and it’s not misguided. Everyone thinks it when they look at you,” Draco purred. He leaned in just slightly; it was a nearly imperceptible attempt at intimidation. “Do you want to know what they say?” he whispered. “Hermione Granger blows her snot all over her books day after day, because she’s Muggle-born. She has no natural talent. She only wishes she were a real witch.”

She pushed a hand against his chest in a cold manner, distancing him from her just enough. “Someone should give you some literature on halitosis,” she replied with an apathetic air. It was true that it hurt her and the question nagged at her. Who would say those things about me? However, she would never allow herself to display weakness in front of the ferret.

“Malfoy.” The name slipped around her tongue like a sloth. “Your cronies’ half-witted, ignorant remarks have no bearing on my magical talent.”

“Let’s talk about ignorance . . .” he rumbled.

“You know enough about it for the both of us,” she stated, turned, and began walking with long, proud strides.

Malfoy rushed and cut her off, grabbing her arm roughly. She jerked her arm away, looking scandalized and incensed with her mouth agape.

“You’re not getting away that easily. You want to complain that I impose my value system on all wizard kind? The fact that you think my range of influence extends that far, I’ll take as a compliment,” he grinned nastily. “You impose your value system on house elves.” He flicked her shoulder in point.

“And how would you know about S.P.E.W.?” she snarled.

“You’ve been jangling those silly little badges around for ages. Did you think you wouldn’t be the subject of a few good jokes?”

Her mouth gaped open. Just as quickly, she snapped it shut, her eyes narrowing into fiery slits. “Your system brings people down. I’m emancipating-“

“- Creatures who don’t want freedom?” he smirked.

“They do want it! They’ve been drilled into believing otherwise!”

He rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly. “My point, Muggle, is that you are a hypocrite.”

“I am not!” she shouted furiously. It was one thing to be called “Mudblood;” it was quite another to be accused of hypocrisy. It was a brooding, terrible trait. It was the real insult. “How dare you equate freedom with your sick version of segregation! I have a moral position.”

“Oh, and is it moral because you believe it?”

“N-no . . .”

“How can you tell what is moral and what isn’t, if all morality is based upon individual opinions? I can assure you, there are myriad opinions. What makes your version of ‘values’ superior? Hm?” He visibly gloated at his ability to make her squirm.

“It’s obvious! You try to make people believe that only pure-blood wizards are worthy; as if the thought of anyone else having powers is wrong!” she spat.

“And you try to make house elves believe that everything they believe and enjoy in their world is wrong. Pushing . . . imposing . . . It’s all wrong, right?”

“Not when it’s for their own good!”

Malfoy nodded, satisfied that he lead her straight into a corner. “And how do you know what’s best for everyone?”

“I . . . I . . .” It just felt silly to say that she ‘just knows’. That would be a terribly pompous answer. Her brow furrowed, and she stared through the tall Slytherin as she sought and rejected several retorts.

Malfoy only stared, awaiting her response with amusement clear in every line upon his face. His very presence sent her into a riled anger. They’d never actually verbally fought in this manner. The more she pondered the strangeness of the situation, the more flustered she became. It occurred to her that he’d never had a true, verbal argument with her. He usually regressed into childish reactions. Why the hell did he even bother her about this anyway? They’d always hated each other. What was the point, then, in hashing out the differences between right and wrong — and the two were surely and clearly separate ideas.

The vibrating antagonism reached her extremities as she felt her fingers shaking in rhythm with her core. She was more angry than she could ever remember being. How dare he question my moral fiber?

She caught his eye. He was leering, of course; the self-obsessed brute. For a moment, nothing but cold silence passed between them. Then it gave way to something much more pervasive and sinister. She became less aware of the pounding rain, and the fact that she was quite chilled, or that it must be getting close to curfew. Something lurked and kissed the former silence. It giggled in her ear. Yes. I could. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

As Malfoy opened his mouth to release another demon, Hermione spat a growling shriek at him and stalked off, her robes fluttering behind her.

Disregard for Safety

2007-04-20T18:44:46Z

Missing scene in my year six story. Harry finally stops playing the hero and goes with his gut.

Harry was thankful for the distraction of food in the Great Hall. Even in his storming anger, he was aware of the snickers and whispers that would surround him if this talk took place during a less convenient time.

The breeze caught beneath Ginny’s robes as she spun around, causing them to billow girlishly. “What?” she snapped.

“Wha- huh?”

“What do you want?” she repeated with a pestered tone.

“I . . . don’t want you to go about with Dean’s arm around you. It’s not right. I thought you had broken up!”

“What does it matter to you? Maybe he can manage courage enough to swallow his pride and ask me to go with him, unlike someone I know!”

“-You’re going with him again?”

“- Instead of running away as if his shirt tail’s on fire!”

“I didn’t run,” he grit his teeth.

“Did.” She crossed her arms.

“Look,” he began while pacing to and fro, “there’s something you don’t know about. I can’t . . . you . . . because . . . Because of a lot of reasons!”

“A lot? Or just one really stupid one?”

He growled at her, causing her to lean back in repugnance at his behavior.

“Why do you always have to make things difficult?” she egged. She would put an end to all of this, one way or another.

“I do not make things difficult. I have to think everything through. I don’t have the same luxuries as you! I have to protect everyone!”

“It’s not a luxury when it comes to this. It’s a right. Not everything is meant to be thought through,” she said bitterly. “And you don’t have to be everyone’s hero.” She stuck her chin out, daring him and waiting for the inevitable raging rebuttal.

He rounded on her. “Think I play the hero too much, Ginny? Maybe I do! Maybe I shouldn’t have saved you from Riddle. Maybe . . . maybe Sirius.” His voice squeezed on the name he avoided uttering. This time, the low sound emanating from his throat was directed toward himself. “He’d . . .”

Harry sat on a step behind Ginny, who quietly rested herself beside him. She glanced down at the step visible between them, and regretted what it symbolized. Her gaze drifted upward. His forehead was pressed forlornly into his hands. His lackadaisical hair peeped between his fingers. His aura pulsated with repressed grief. For the sake of decency, she turned her attention to her own interlocked fingers.

“Why did you bring this up?” Grogginess and tortured emotions infused his speech with a rough edge. “I knew what I wanted to say when I came out here.”

She ignored the fallacy of his first statement and latched onto his second. “And?” she asked sympathetically.

“And it’s gone.”

A worry gripped her chest. She was so sure the plan would work! “It’s not gone. I’m here . . .” His silence as a response crawled like iron nails beneath her skin. “God,” she groaned, “stop thinking about what might happen! Stop thinking at all!”

“How can I not think?” he asked coldly. It was chilling to her spine. She saw the unwanted resolution forming in his eyes, even with only the sidelong glances he was offering.

“No . . .”

He gave the tiniest of nods. Patches of red grew beneath his eyes. Ginny screeched in rage, shoving him as hard as she was capable and standing, moving in front of the object of her newfound petulance.

“You bastard! You can’t stop thinking about your destiny long enough to see what’s here right now!” She stomped the floor with emphasis, sending a clap ringing off of the walls and ceiling. “I’m here no matter what. So why does it matter if we’re together? Why? Why can’t you stop your sulking, self-pity long enough to try - to try! - to be happy? Huh? It’s pathetic!”

She raged up the stairs in a gush of frustration. She had to leave before the tears won. In her rush, she tripped only once, sending streaks of pain up her calf. Wordlessly, she continued on without a look back. She didn’t see Harry pull himself to his feet, following her at a slower speed. All she knew was that a consuming darkness was enveloping her chest, constricting her air so that it only came out in gasps.

She suddenly stopped cold upon seeing a lone student strolling in her direction. She wasn’t sure why, but was horrified at the prospect of someone knowing she was upset. She twisted her torso and followed it back in the opposite direction. Damn! Harry’s coming! Oh god, what do I do?

Trapped, she impotently turned toward the wall, averting her face from her offender.

“Ginny?” It came softly, regretfully.

“What the hell do you want?” She waited. “What!” she shouted, seemingly at the wall itself.

“I . . . don’t know.” She snorted. He continued. “I just . . . followed you.”

“Just leave if I’m not all that important to you. You don’t have to like me. I don’t need you to like me.”

“I know you don’t.” Her chest seized up when he didn’t negate the first bit. “But . . . I don’t want to think of how it would be without you . . . around. And I . . . I do . . . I’ve said it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she shook her head. “It means nothing if you do nothing about it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to.”

“Then do it!” she sighed, exasperated. “I’ve taken care of myself before all of this. You know it. It’s just . . . it’s difficult now, I know. But we . . . can’t forget to live.”

Harry scoffed amiably. “Look who’s talking.”

She finally turned to face him. Her skin felt hot and blotchy. Her eyes rested on his chin. “Then help me remember as well,” she said cheekily.

“How am I supposed to do that? I’m the obsessed dolt on a self-pity holiday, remember?”

“Harry.” Silence hung between them. “Are we going to be together?”

A frightened look crossed his features as his eyes widened and his mouth clamped shut.

“We’ll try it for a bit, yes?” she spoke quietly. She’d prodded him this far, and didn’t want to lose it all at the last second. The moment was fading. Her last effort was upon her. “Now or never, Harry.” Her voice softened on his name.

Thoughts flittered across his features. She waited impatiently with the outward image of undisturbed calm. Finally, the air between them flattened and died. His face was empty and indiscernible. She bit the inside of her lip and turned to leave, the heat beneath her eyelids burning anew.

“Ginny?” he squeaked. She stopped at her second step away. She waited for the clear end. “Now.”

“What?”

“Now. Never sounds like a long time.”

Dragons in Fact and Spirit

2007-04-20T18:42:45Z

Charlie Weasley embarks on a new chapter of his life when he applies for a magical creature training camp through PUC. There, he finds himself in a different culture altogether, and thrown into something he's not sure he can handle. On the way, he'll discover a little more about himself, and maybe a little about others.

He’d been shocked when the letter had come from Romania, of all places. After focusing on Care of Magical Creatures all throughout his Hogwarts years, he’d applied to an international training organization called the Preservation and Understanding Cooperative. It was a shot in the dark, applying for the position, as the application had made clear that he wouldn’t get a choice in where he would end up, nor would he be told which creatures he would be training with.

Charlie didn’t care. Getting his hands dirty was his specialty, as his mother had always told him.

Still, Romania of all places?

Now, he couldn’t honestly say that the shock had worn off. Or if it had, it was replaced by the nasty feeling that he would chuck up his lunch at any given moment.

The land was very clearly far away from home. Hillsides like none he’d ever seen in England were pushed upward by tectonics as far as the eye could see. The grass was of an ethereal green, punctuated by tiny shacks of those people who lived here for centuries, unchanging in their ways, living off the land. It was as if it came straight out of a story book his mother had read to him as a child.

This grand view was given to him courtesy of PUC, who said that Muggle transport was the only way to arrive at the Camp without arousing curiosity. While the place he would live for the next who-knew-how-many-years was hidden from view, sound was not muffled. The pops of Disapparating would disturb the grazing animals of their quaint neighbors, though few they were (and likely as surly as most hermits). So there he sat, pursing his lips to avoid spewing out something also less than neighborly, upon the cracked, wooden seat of a transport cart, pulled by those Muggle beasts- horses. No offense to them, of course.

Privately, Charlie wondered about which strange creature would be his life’s passion. If he did well enough with them, he might move on to full-on Trainer. He was not sure if that was his life’s dream- he’d have to see the animal first. He certainly hoped it was not some illegally crossbred monstrosity. Those were often more dangerous, not to mention more detrimental to the environment as a whole.

I wonder what sort of havoc they would do to this beautiful countryside… he mused.

“Do you like it here?” Charlie ventured into a friendly conversation with his driver. Sallow, his face was, with wispy white hairs waving over his head like water. His skin was deeply tanned from working outdoors in the summer sun.

“Ce?” the man grunted. Charlie knew very little Romanian, and what he did know, he learned from his father. That made the information very unreliable. Charlie tried again in English.

“You….like,” here, he grinned broadly, “it…HERE?” he finished, gesturing at the landscape.

“Puteti sa vorbiti mai incent?” he replied, and began laughing in his croaking, coughing voice. Charlie gave up. Clearly the man had no idea what Charlie was saying at all. He contented himself with staring at his new environment. Eventually, he came to the sign he was told to watch for: a hideously coloured rock in the shape of a crow’s foot.

“Stop!” Charlie said jovially.

“Tu oprire!” the old man hacked, but reluctantly slowed the horses anyway.

“Erm…multumet,” Charlie attempted to pronounce, hoping he was not telling the driver his horse’s head was fat or some other grotesque insult. He assumed so, as the man growled something indistinguishable and pushed Charlie out of his seat.

“Well, that’s just nice,” he said to himself as he thankfully landed on his feet after stumbling a bit. He put his hands to his mouth, shouting at the cart driver, “Way to treat guests in your country, old man!”

Sour now and still nauseous, he sat on the muck-stained rock, resting his head in his hands and elbows on his knees. It suddenly hit him that he was so far from home- where he could talk without wondering if someone could understand his language. Everything looked so different, felt so different and he ached for the familiar. You’ve only been gone for a day. Don’t be a wet blanket. Blowing dry air into his eyes and trying to put images of his last handshake with his father out of mind, he turned his thoughts to the possibilities ahead of him. There could be pretty girls at the training camp. Charlie had never had a huge problem with the ladies, but that was mainly because he’d only dated one his entire 7 years at Hogwarts. Maria May. She had dumped him sixth year in order to go with Arthur Heap. Course, Charlie had rubbed that in his face when he won the House Cup the year after that.

And then he felt back on top. No more remorse, thought he. This training is a whole new world for you, and you’ll never know where you’ll end up! It was his adventurousness that drove him to applying to this strenuous program. New place, new friends, new work. Charlie eyed his freckled, fair hands, holding them out in front of him. He wondered how they would look in a year’s time.

Finally, some swishing caught his attention. Clothed in very long, simple, brown tunic, stood a rather enchantingly beautiful woman. Her hair flowed halfway down her back in tendrils of sunny brown hair, with matching brown eyes. He couldn’t help his mouth going slack. “Careful, young man. I’m older than I look, and if you don’t learn to keep your reflexes about you, you’ll be burned before you can say ‘I am stupid.’”

He laughed in what he hoped was an impossibly charismatic voice. “You couldn’t be more than..oh…25. And what is age but a number anyway?”

“Think magic, kid. Get your things,” she said without looking at him, checking something off on her sticky board.

“Have it right here.” Out of his jeans pocket, he pulled a wallet. He opened it just a peak when the woman raised her eyebrow. “Expandable.”

“Well, if I haven’t encountered a genius…” She rolled her eyes. Turning around, the woman strolled forth, apparently expecting Charlie to follow her. “You are late!” she called over her back.

“The driver was slow.”

“The driver was the same speed he always was. You just got started late. Don’t blame the townspeople for your mistakes.”

Ouch. “Is this a town? I thought it was an outcrop of the alien bottomfeeders.” It was rude, yes, but he was annoyed that she had called him kid and scolded him all in less than a minute.

She whirled, her brown hair catching the light quite attractively. “If you expect to not be deported immediately, you’ll keep your tongue and uppity airs to yourself! These townspeople have been very gracious toward us given our limitations and the dangers that lurk near their front doorsteps! Perhaps in England they hold those upper class attitudes, but they are completely,” she stepped toward him menacingly, “totally, without question, intolerable.” She finished with her eyes narrowing into slits. “Is that clear, pompous boy-child?”

Charlie clenched his teeth together so hard, he thought he might shift them out of place by sheer force of anger. Who is this bitch? “You're American.”

“You are in hot water if you want to take that road, mister.” She spun on her heel and marched forth with continued aggression, heading toward what looked like a hundred-year-old outhouse.

Great. My first English-speaking contact, and she hates me, and I’m going to spend time with her in a shit-hole...literally. This is turning out to be so great.

First Smile

2007-04-20T18:41:11Z

Ginny and McKee have an uncomfortable conversation about romance and Harry Potter. AU, as part of my McKee series.

I was once again cursing my decision to study in the library. A girl managed to place herself directly across from me at my table. Granted, there were no chairs left besides the ones near me, but I would have rather had her sit on the floor . . . across the room.

She was continuously dropping great blotches of ink on her parchment, grunting in frustration, then clearing them away with a simple spell.

I was attempting to write an essay for Care of Magical Creatures. I didn’t particularly care about my marks in the class, however, as I spent most of my time staring at the large professor. It wasn’t that he was particularly attractive — far from it. There was just an aura about him. It was almost as if he lived a secret life.

I digress...

As I didn’t care to write an essay that night, I openly watched the troubled — annoyingly so — red-head. I recognized her from the classes the Slytherins shared with the Gryffindors. I chewed on the rounded end of my quill and watched her struggle absurdly with the thick black ink.

“You’re Ginny Weasley.”

She jumped and looked at me as if I only just popped up for the sole purpose of pestering her. Recognition set in, and her face settled into that grimace I’m so used to seeing. “Yes. That’s my name.” She rolled her eyes exasperatedly.

I smirked. Endlessly observant, I noticed her eyes flick down to my mouth. A thought visibly crossed her features. That too, was something I was accustomed to. Thankfully, no one had yet understood or admitted where the particular curl of my thin lips came from. “You’re right,” I said with double meaning.

“I know.” Another disappointment.

She tended to get right to the point, but she obviously misunderstood what I was implying. Was everyone in the castle an imbecile that didn’t listen to their intuition?

“Why are you in such foul spirits?” I asked as I leaned back, crossing my arms and resisting the urge to throw my legs atop the table. Madam Pince, the Librarian, was an old maid who’d never found love in life, and so, clung desperately to the books that had become her existence. By extension, she appeared to care about the tables. Her protectiveness over them sickened me. “I know the problem isn’t those few Transfiguration questions you’re answering.” I indicated her parchment.

She practically hissed. It was amusing. “I’m a little busy here. Go bother someone else.”

“Busy cutting holes in your parchment, you are.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you bothering to talk, McKee?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You know my name?”

“Of course I do,” she snapped. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Most people in other houses don’t pay attention.”

“Isn’t it enough that Slytherins know you?” She said ‘Slytherin’ with a familiar tweak of the nose. It was as if she’d caught the scent of something foul, but civility kept her from consciously showing her abhorrence to the odor.

“I don’t like to associate with tittering, plotting morons.”

The corners turned up on her closed mouth. I was bothered, at first, because I hadn’t said anything remotely funny. “What?”

“Nothing,” she responded with an amiable huff of air. “I agree with you.”

“They are bothering you as well, then?” I pointed without remorse or tact at a young Slytherin girl, giggling in what she probably thought a feminine, delicate manner. I thought it had all the delicacy of a drill breaking through my eardrum. The boy next to her held a haughty posture. One could almost see the sheets fluttering across his mutated adolescent mind.

She pursed her lips in thought as she stared in the direction I indicated. After a long (dead) pause, she said, “No. It’s not them.”

Immediately, I became quite irritated that she wasted all that time for such a simple statement. I was so dearly hoping she wasn’t a blubbering idiot like so many others I’ve had the misfortune to meet. I looked over at the couple once more in a desperate attempt to find a deeper meaning in her pause.

“O.W.L.s are this year. I suppose I’m frustrated about that.” She pulled her legs up onto the chair and crossed them. One arm slithered around her middle, propping up the elbow of the other. I didn’t think she realized she was mimicking me by chewing on her quill.

Some electrical current in my brain sparked a realization. The couple wasn’t working on O.W.L.s or any other homework. Her hypnotic stare at the couple was brought on by a preoccupation with a boy. I could see it in her vulnerable posture and the shallow ‘v’ between her eyes.

“You’re lying.” I never was one who possessed tact. I’m not sure if I never learned or never cared. It was probably the latter.

“What?” she shot back angrily. She was quite impressive with her enunciating. I could tell she was clenching her molars together by the tiny muscles in her jaw bulging.

I opted to bypass stating such an observation in order to get to the heart of the matter. “This is about a boy. Is it that one?” I gestured to the couple.

Suspicion crept into her eyes. “What do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t you have an essay to write?”

“The benefit of not being at the top of my class is that I don’t have to worry about such silly things as assignments and marks.”

“Won’t your parents be in a mild rage if you get no O.W.L.s?” She was leaning forward slightly. I felt a bit awkward. A part of me thought it was a rude question, but another part of me wanted to spill all of the beans — come what may. A surge of excitement rattled my gut at the prospect.

Instead, I answered, “My parents are dead.” I felt as if I were squeezing hot air out of my lungs. It must have showed, because a shadow suddenly seemed to hover over us. Don’t be stupid, McKee. There’s no damn cloud.

“Voldemort?” she asked as casually as if she’d mentioned an ice cream I liked. This one . . . this one surprised me.

I found myself rather liking the bravery of Gryffindors — wise or not. I was tired of people being frightened of me simply because I didn’t coddle them or sit in on their idle gossip. I nodded, impressed. “That was a quick guess.”

“It wasn’t totally a guess.”

At first, I thought she somehow knew about me. Just as quickly, I realized she couldn’t have known. No one knew the whole truth about the matter of the death of my mother and . . . biological father (the title was far too kind for an animal such as him).

“Can you read minds?” I asked as a precaution. I didn’t need this young one to know my personal affairs. I would end this silly conversation just as quickly as it began if I felt compromised.

She shook her head and said matter-of-factly, “Auras.”

“Interesting.”

She shrugged.

“So what about the boy?” I was never deterred from a goal for long. It was one of the traits people found most annoying. You’d think they enjoyed yammering on about themselves. It was almost always the case. Ask someone a question, whether you care or not, and they’ll blubber their innermost secrets. Keep at it, and they’ll give you knives to use on them, if need be.

Ginny Weasley rolled her eyes. “Will you let it go?”

“Easy answer. No.”

“What does it matter to you?” she shot at me.

“Call it a curious whim. I don’t see anyone else here paying attention. No one will see.”

She actually looked a bit insulted at that. “It’s no one here. Even so, give me a little credit, McKee. I’m not utterly shallow.”

I cocked my head to the side and put a hand out, motioning for her to continue. I was actually welcoming this distraction.

“Well.” She looked directly into my eyes without inhibition. “Fine,” she decided, setting down her worn quill and testing her forearms on the table. In a millisecond, I realized that someone was confiding in me. It was odd, having someone’s trust. Then again, I couldn’t blame anyone for withholding. I normally actively discouraged conversation of all types. It was nice, being in on something. Even if it was a little school girl’s crush, I somehow warmed at the thought that someone thought it would be ok to tell me. Yes, she tells you because you have no other friends to tell.

“There’s this person that I’ve . . . cared for, for some time. I knew he felt the same and a while ago, I got him to admit it. When I told him how I felt, he stomped out of the room.” I raised an eyebrow as she continued. “We haven’t spoken since. Now it seems that his friends have turned against him. I didn’t really want that to happen.”

“Yes you did. It probably felt satisfying, as well. Why do his friends care, though?”

“Well, one is my close friend and the other is my brother.”

“Harry Potter.”

“What?” She curled back in her seat, recoiling from my revelation. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together. Everyone knew the green-eyed boy. “How’d you know?”

I settled for a simple, “Word gets around.”

She comically glared at the room as a whole, hoping to catch sight of the sneak. At least, it was ludicrous to me. I nearly smiled. “I feel the same way.” I was actually beginning to like this feisty Gryffindor. I coyly glanced at the table. “I don’t know what everyone sees in him.”

“Who is everyone?” she whispered shrilly.

I grinned. She was so utterly predictable. Much to my enjoyment, she was quite extreme in her emotions. Her jealousy could have permeated the room with a dense, green fog. “Don’t tell me you had no idea?” She shook her head. I was enjoying pressing her sensitive buttons. Her face was a lovely rosy shade now. It would have been attractive if there wasn’t the hint of sleep deprivation in the puffiness beneath her eyes. “Well, he’s rather famous, isn’t he?”

“So?” she grunted, perturbed. “It was for something he couldn’t control.”

I threw my shoulders back. “It doesn’t matter. Fame and power are strong aphrodisiacs, and he’s got a fair bit of power.”

“Not that much power,” she muttered. I could see the little girl in her, angry for being scolded.

“Well, if you’re getting flustered about it, go claim him.”

Social politeness crawled under our table and spoiled her thoughts, stiffening her petite figure. “You can’t claim anyone,” she said indignantly.

“Don’t lie for the sake of being politically correct. Claim him by taking him off of the market.”

“Even if I could claim him,” she whispered hastily. “He wouldn’t let me. He’s afraid I’ll get hurt as his girlfriend.” She’d said it in mockery, but I could tell it bothered her. It irritated me. I was tired of males believing they had the market cornered on bravery and a passionate warrior spirit. What a moron.

“Would you get hurt?”

“Probably.”

“You’re all right with that?”

“I’ll get hurt anyway. I don’t really care. I can take a bruise every now and then. I have a . . . knack for getting into . . . awkward situations.” She could no longer hold a gaze with me, insisting on picking a loose thread in her robes instead. After sufficient pause, she smiled a half-smile, then said, “All right. I might run into situations on my own.”

“That sounds about right.” I locked my fingers together. “Well, you have to talk to him.” It was that simple. However, her ego wanted to see shading where there was none.

“But he embarrassed me!”

“That’s not what you’re angry about. You would have said this before hand if that was the case. If you like him, work at it. Your other option is to deal with it and watch him be with someone else.”

She sighed and rested her cheeks in her hands.

“Is that all then?”

“No. I'm worn from practicing for my first Quidditch match as Chaser.”

“Against Slytherin.”

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“I despise futile activities.” To my surprise, she didn’t react with the seething hatred I’d come to expect. She actually laughed.

“I think you’ll watch the game.”

“Why should I?”

“I’ll be in it, and I’ll prove to you how useful ‘futile activities’ can be.”

“I’ll not watch,” I said defensively. “It’s a waste of time.”

“What are you going to do? Homework?” I saw her glance at my pathetic essay. I picked up a glare and focused it on her laughing eyes.

“See you there, then.” She collected her belongings and walked out of the library. I held my stubborn pose until she wasn’t looking, then found myself wearing a relaxed smile. Shaking my head at my gnawed quill, I knew she’d won. Damn it. I loathe Quidditch!

Gravity

2007-04-20T18:39:42Z

Fits into the universe I've created in JKR's. Meet the side of McKee she rarely lets show.

Perhaps Tomorrow.

McKee wandered the corridors like no explorer. She stopped not at giggling portraits, nor murderous ghosts. The many enticing mysteries of the castle did not tempt her. She strolled along in a death march, a swerve of her hips jutting out the stiff wool of her black robes.

Hiding beneath the folds of the hood was a face containing nothingness. The skin only gave away its taught, peach-fuzzed texture to two deeply set lines swooping down from her flared nostrils.

Breathe in, Breathe out. Repeat as desired.

Her wiry hair crept out from beneath the hood as weeds would from a garden. While a lovely shade, it was almost always tainted with an unwashed appearance. A wayward tendril waved with delight at the ancient tapestries Margaret neglectfully passed.

It was often said of McKee that should she shut her eyes, her only claim to beauty was the glow in her cheeks. So often, the Slytherin girls would circle up and guffaw to jokes about her many awkward traits.

Her mother had always said she would grow into attractiveness. Her mother was now dead. She'd been a recent casualty of the war with Voldemort. The death was unintended, for whatever comfort that offered her.

Not a tear had escaped her eye since she'd heard. What good would crying do?

McKee prided herself in being able to avoid useless emotional rubbish. Even as a fifth year, she had yet to make a friend. Useless emotional rubbish.

However, she wasn't sure if she could believe her own thoughts anymore. Her temples pulsated as she struggled to remember when the last time was she was touched by anyone. Lately, she's been feeling like she was more mirage than matter. It was a deadly image.

She stopped, noticing a sparkle in her peripheral vision. These days, she noticed the sparkles. She allowed her gaze to slide over to the arched window. Near the top lay and embedded image of a hippogriff in flight.

Deciding the stone ledge would lend enough room for perching, she brought her hidden knees up and used her arms to pull her body the rest of the way. She hugged her legs, grateful for the human touch, even if it was her own.

McKee often wondered why it didn't seem that she cared. She despaired the loss of her mother. It came as a crushing loneliness, and the realization that she was human. Humans were social creatures that depended upon one another for survival.

She stared out the window, toward the lake that had donated a sparkle to her night. It didn't seem particularly special upon sight, but people enjoyed looking at it. It was as if it made them feel better just to know the rippling vastness was there. They couldn't live without it. It was the same with Mum. I felt better just knowing she existed. I'd feel better if I existed.

She sympathized more with the Giant Squid than she cared to acknowledge. It could never hope for the companionship of its own kind. McKee knew it was the same isolations that bent her ear and left her lying cold at night.

She longed to feel a part of a great human unconscious. Instead, she dwelled in a world that didn't know her. Only gravity recognized her presence and held her close, tying her down as if she were a ward in a home for the mentally diseased.

The Squid rippled a tentacle above the water. She thought it was beautiful and mimicked the waving motion. She watched her fingers dip and flow. She wanted to be the hippogriff in the window, free to fly.

Damned gravity, always holding me to a life no one cares for.

She stood on the ledge, her forehead pressed into the cold, hard glass. Her fingers splayed out on either side, as if they were the gnawed feathers of some Dream Master's headdress. She glared the several stories down at the black blanket of grass. For someone who wants to fly, why do I stare at the ground?

She squatted momentarily to liberate the latch and let the towering glass swing outward. She breathed deeply and the air filled her torso with the iciness of cold water. Her brown eyes quickly dried in the gusty mountain breeze. She blinked, and her lips tweaked upward as the wind playfully ran it's fingertips through her eyelashes. Now, this is better.

Margaret stepped closer to the edge to better glimpse the steep drop to the ground. Would it brake my legs, or would it be more? Would I fly?

Her arms rolled up over her head and she rocked forward onto her toes, smiling peacefully. She glanced at her striving, stretching arms and caught another flash of a sparkle.

The moon shone brightly for the sliver there was left. It peeked and scampered as the linty clouds aided its efforts. You wax. You wane. You're there in circular glory, then you're gone. How can you keep coming back? What keeps you here?

She laughed as the answer wafted through her mind. Gravity. Of course.

The shadow-infested grounds aroused her curiosity once more. Yes, I know how persuasive gravity can be.

Her lanky arms dropped back to her sides. She knelt and pulled the pane of glass closed. There was a finality in the click. It resounded in her mind as a warning.

Not today.

McKee sat, allowing her legs to swing out to the side. She blew a frizzy tendril away form her eye. Her nail tapped the glass, as if poking the abused moon awake.

You've made your point. I, too, shall go through it all and meet you back at this spot. We'll see then who wins: flight or gravity. Remember me. It may be tomorrow.

Yes, perhaps tomorrow I shall fly.

Lily's Eyes

2007-04-20T18:36:58Z

What if everyone was quite mistaken, and Lily was not Harry's mother?

Lily’s Eyes

Monday morning found Harry Potter scraping butter onto a slice of toast. He started to take a bite of it, but the lingering stench of rotten Flobberworms on his hand made him feel sick. He must have washed his hands a hundred times since Snape’s detention on Saturday night, but the smell would simply not come off. Dropping the buttered toast to his plate, he glared at the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor who, if Harry was not mistaken, smirked at him.

Ron had obviously seen who his friend was glowering at, because he uttered a single, very offensive word. Harry looked almost automatically over at Hermione, expecting her to voice a protest, but all she did was to look up from her brick of a book and roll her eyes at Ron.

Wondering if a spoon would provide enough distance between his nose and stinky hand, Harry returned to his thoughts. His second lesson with Dumbledore was scheduled for that evening, and he speculated on what he might find out about Voldemort’s past this time. His initial disappointment at not learning something more significant was almost gone. Also, he still did not see the whole point of getting to know the history of the creature who had murdered his parents. Even if he trusted the headmaster, he could not quite understand how this was going to help him fulfill the prophecy.

Harry was interrupted in his attempt to eat porridge without breathing by the arrival of the morning post. Pretty much by habit at this point, he and Ron turned to Hermione as she unfolded her copy of the Daily Prophet Harry did not get to hear her report though, before something nudged his elbow. Looking around, he found himself facing a plain barn owl that was holding out its leg to him. Surprised to say the least, Harry untied the thick envelope and the bird took off.

“Who is it from, Harry?” Hermione asked, book and morning paper forgotten.

He examined his own name and house on the front before admitting, “No idea. I’m not expecting a letter from anyone.”

“Maybe it’s from Dumbledore,” Ron suggested and nodded towards the Headmaster’s empty seat.

“No. I’d recognise his handwriting,” Harry said and flipped the envelope over again.

“Perhaps if you opened it, you would find out?” said Hermione pointedly.

Shrugging, Harry reached for a clean knife and slit the letter open. He pulled out several pages of thick Muggle notepaper, not parchment, and noticed they had writing on both sides. It was quite an essay he had received.

“What does it say?” Ron leaned forward to find out.

But without really thinking about it Harry sat back out of his friends’ reach and started reading the unfamiliar handwriting.

Dear Harry,

I know this letter will come as a shock to you, or at least it will be a shock when you have finished reading it. I have been keeping these secrets for so long, determined not to tell anyone and especially not you. But I’m growing old and I’m alone, and I can no longer be the sole judge for whether these memories should die with me or not. I have had plans on writing this letter for a long while, but it seems now that the entire Wizarding World knows about you being the Chosen One, the time is growing short. I wanted you to get to read this before you face the Dark Lord, before he is bound to kill you. I rest assured that you will share the contents of these pages with no one, because being as protective as you are, you wouldn’t want me to be in danger for my words, would you?

It pains me so much that I, a person you don’t know, am the only one who can tell you the truth. I’m sure that everyone from your Aunt Petunia to Albus Dumbledore has told you stories about your parents, of the love they shared, how brave they were, and how delighted they were when they had you. It pains me to be the person who has to smash these pretty memories you have been fed. Because they are not altogether true. Lily and James might have shared some feelings, she was certainly in love with him. But James only ever got his second greatest love. Lily never found out though, that her husband had really preferred another woman --- me. In the same way did she never find out the truth about the child she nourished, that he, or you rather, was never her own. You will have undoubtedly been told how much you resemble your father, I can see it so clearly from the photos I have collected of you. But those eyes you carry that look so like Lily’s, didn’t come from her ... but from her sister. Me. I hardly think it’s appropriate to even call them ‘Lily’s eyes.’ I am - was - her elder, after all.

“Harry?”

He looked up from the notepaper, and stared at Hermione.

“I need to get going or I’ll be late for Runes. Tell me about the letter later, will you?” she asked earnestly.

“Yeah…” he nodded numbly and barely caught his friend’s smile before she rushed off.

The Great Hall was being quickly deserted as students and teachers all set off for classes. Ron was eyeing Harry, looking like he was searching for the right thing to say.

“Well, if you don’t want to talk about your letter I think I’ll go get my broomstick and fly for a bit,” he said and stood up.

Harry looked up at his curious friend. He knew he had to finish reading before discussing it with anyone. „You go ahead. I might come down when I've read this,” he said and waved the pages.

“Okay,” Ron nodded and went to join some of the last students leaving the Hall.

Harry returned to the letter.

I was the first one in my family to come to Hogwarts, and there I was sorted into Ravenclaw. I was always told what a quick learner I was, and the classes I didn't have a knack for, the professors’ respect for me made up for it. Really, I excelled naturally in many things. Sharp as a tack, as they say. Already in my second year I was hand-picked by Professor Slughorn to be a part of his special group, a great honour, of course. I was delighted when, just before my second year, Lily also got an acceptance letter from Hogwarts. I was no longer the only one hated by our older sister, Petunia. We were always close, Lily and I, and very much alike. Had she not had a slightly redder shade of hair and been so curvy, we could have been twins.

And with her to Gryffindor tower came James Potter. Naturally, just a boy at the time, but in the years to come he grew in both size and confidence. . . not that there was ever much wrong with his confidence, I will give him that. I can see why he was so attracted to me. He clearly found me exciting, being a year older and possessing the Evans‚ spirit. It was partly this age difference that made us keep our relationship very private. That and the fact that I knew Lily was harbouring very secret feelings for James. I just couldn't hurt her with the knowledge of us. I loved her so very much. She was very sweet and naïve. And I swear it would have hurt her badly to know, because there was never a love like the one between me and James. He cherished me, and I remember he was a very quick learner himself when he needed to be. Our love blossomed during my sixth year and kept growing strong during my seventh. We, nonetheless, kept it very quiet. Rumours began circulating that he was dating dear little sister, but I chalked it up to misinformation, mistaken identity.

I think I was right in believing him when he said he would miss me when I left Hogwarts (short of completing my seventh year), and that he would stay true to me. But men can probably not help themselves, and it still makes me sad to think that he could not endure our separation as well as I could. Mother always said I had an unusually strong fortitude. Instead, I found out that he had gone behind my back and begun dating Lily after all at some point. I wasn't so surprised, even if very hurt, because she did take after me in so many aspects.

Lily was a fool too - I’m sorry to tell you - not to appreciate James. In my absence he became quite eager for her. All that silliness through the years before was merely horseplay, but he surely felt so deprived, he turned to the next best thing. Lily was too unsure of herself around men to know how to deal with him. Instead she kept rejecting him until she finally managed to give in to her girlish dreams. Oh, it still hurts so badly. If I could only have been there, who knew how to make the most of James! Although we met occasionally during his holidays and days off, he never spoke of my little sister and it was as though our love ignited all over again during these scarce hours. He was always supremely tender and adept during those fleeting times. I felt sorry for him, not being able to have me by his side and having to face unsure reactions of my sister, over and over again. It was so clear during our times together that he did not love her, that she was simply a substitute for me.

I had to leave England at one point, and clearly it became too much for my beloved. I still don’t know what he did to convince her, but somehow Lily had come around and accepted a more serious endeavor with him. When I came back, I had to endure all the sweet words of them being a couple. Lily, being so inexperienced, would probably have fallen head over heels for James. It’s even possible that she became so attached to him that she started providing him with a love potion. I wouldn't have put it past her.

Well, the two of them left school together and it was, of course, natural for them to come to me, seeing as Lily was my baby sister and we were the only witches of our family. James’ parents were both dead by then, so he came along with her. I’m quite sure he missed me dearly, and only agreed to go with her because of that great flame in his heart he held for me. We all got involved with the Order of the Phoenix (those misguided young people perhaps more so) and did some really outstanding work for it. Lily and James got married, but he proved to me over and over again that he was still deeply in love with me. It was not until after our first encounter with Voldemort that he decided to be true to her. Knowing my sister better than anyone else, I told him that it was best if she never found out, as she would certainly not forgive us. James agreed, and quite unceremoniously he ended things between us and, I will admit it, broke my heart at last. Their marriage was beautiful, but I was crying inside.

“Potter! What do you think you’re doing here at this time?”

Harry jumped slightly and looked up to face the abnormally large nose of Professor Snape. The man looked inordinately pleased to find his least favourite student in a place he should not really be.

“I'm just reading a letter. Sir,” he added quickly, remembering just what had caused the detention that still had his hands stinking of putrid Flobberworms.

As if reading his mind, Snape sneered and replied, “You are holding up the House-elves’ work. Five points from Gryffindor, and I suggest you remove yourself from this table or perhaps your hands will smell of something much worse tomorrow morning.”

Harry stood up and turned his back at the former Potions professor without a word. He was positive there was no school rule against spending the morning in the Great Hall, but he was not about to debate it with Snape either.

With the thoughts that were roaming his mind, he was surprised to find such a clear single conclusion that the common room was probably full of sixth- and seventh-year students by now, working or wasting away their free period. Instead he decided to head for Hermione’s domain. It was easy to find a secluded corner in the library, and after a quick glance around the shelves to make sure he was alone, he bent over the letter once more.

We shared the house in Godric's Hollow at the time, the three of us, and I could not leave just like that without making Lily suspicious. We were all working very awkward hours and for some reason, my sister often ended up on the night shifts, leaving your father and me alone in the flat. We tried to deny our feelings for what felt like an eternity, until the day I finally told him I was going to leave, that I could not take it anymore. We knew it was our last night together, perhaps that was why we were not so successful with the usual contraceptive charms. In my heart I knew it straight away that I had become pregnant. I pushed back my departure a little longer, waiting for proof of my condition. One silly plan after another formed and was dismissed in my head. I had thoughts of getting rid of the child, as well as leaving the country to raise it on my own. I was desperate for someone to confide in, so I went looking for one man I knew I could trust. We were old schoolmates. Once, Severus even confessed a bit of fancy for me. Back to the subject at hand, we met, he listened to my problems (I left out names, of course. I’m not a gossip like Petunia) and was more understanding than I could ever have hoped for. It was not until I told him when I had conceived that he looked troubled. If I thought that things had been complicated before, it was nothing compared to what would come after hearing his words.

He told me of a prophecy that had been made, that Professor Dumbledore had informed him of. A prophecy foreseeing a child being born to parents who had defied the Dark Lord at three times, a child who would have the power to forever destroy him. And this child was going to be born at the end of the seventh month. . .just like the baby I was carrying.

You may be wondering when I defied the Dark Lord thrice. Well, I certainly lived with dear Lily and my heart, James, long enough to be involved in umpteen moments of defiance.

Pretending to be worried for my sister, who could so obviously have been a mother of the said child in almost any other circumstance, I went to speak to my old Transfiguration Professor. He did nothing to calm my nerves. On the contrary, he also told me that the Dark Lord was supposed to somehow mark the child as his equal. You can understand now, how scared I was. The thought of Him coming after me (me!), simply because of an unborn child! How could I ever care for and protect such a being on my own? How was I supposed to survive? And even if I had wanted to at some point, there was just no way I could get rid of the unborn, as the child was the only one who could ever defeat the great Dark Lord. I realized that my only solution was to give the child to Lily and James, who could raise it and prepare it for what was to come. I decided to speak to James.

I did, of course, not mention the prophecy because I realized that no one would want a baby who brought such danger with it. I just told him that I was pregnant, that I did not wanted to remove it but knew I could never raise this little person on my own. He was shocked, and scared, and it was not hard to convince him that my plan was the only way out. He had to take care of it together with Lily, but she must think it was her own baby. James said this was impossible, but I already had everything figured out. The Evans sisters had always been talented at Potions, and I knew just of the one that would cause her a severe phantom pregnancy. I would brew it secretly and James would give it to her, and then I would go away before my own state was beginning to show. I would not return until the time had come for me to deliver, and then we would knock my little sister out (gently, of course) and give her the child when she woke up. It was all figured out, and that was how it happened.

I went away up north with the only company of a young Squib called Liz. She took care of me, if somewhat reluctantly. It was a hard time but I persisted, knowing that the fate of the whole Wizarding World was resting inside me. Let me tell you that you were not an easy burden to carry, both in terms of responsibility and of pain.

Liz and I Flooed to Godric's Hollow on the last of July that year. James made sure that Lily was fast asleep, but apart from that, he was useless. Liz helped me give birth and I will never forget the agony of it. They say that the birth of a magical child is easier, but if that is true I have no wish to find out how hard it is for Muggle women. You were born on Lily’s bed, and while I gathered myself, James and Liz cleaned up a bit but left
the bloody sheets for evidence. As I was getting ready to leave again, you were placed by her side. The scene before us was suddenly so idyllic, and I saw Liz shed a tear of joy. I looked over at James, and he looked back at me. I saw it shine through his eyes, the happiness over his son, over his wife who was sleeping safely on the bed. He saw that I was happy too, but he never knew that it was because of relief, that I was no longer responsible for the end of the world as we knew it. And during that moment, during the never-ending look we shared, I made up my mind. I could no longer go on living like this, and the first step of my new plan was completed by the time I left my sister’s house. James and Liz no longer knew that Lily was not the mother of the boy in her arms. I did not even leave you a name, they chose “Harry” for you. I have always liked the name Thomas; that is what I would have called you.

As for my next step, it’s not difficult for a skilled witch to stage her own death. The only problem is to make it believable. I succeeded, however, and wearing an Invisibility Cloak, I saw them all coming to my funeral, dressed in their best blacks. I could hardly believe my eyes when even my oldest sister, Petunia, turned up. I almost changed my mind when I saw them all, every person who would possibly remember me had turned up, and I realized that they all loved me. But there was no turning back, and when they were all gathered around what was supposed to be my body, I executed the last stage of my plan.

Have you ever heard of a charm called Ensconcia? It is very complicated in its various forms and only very few people know that it has ever been performed. It will force out the strongest thought within the target person’s mind, and this thought will gather to itself all the other memories and thoughts of a similar nature. With all these fragments gathered, you can remove yourself from their knowledge. Perhaps not totally. I was only able to dim that mass memory of me. It was quite a good job, and better than I’d ever read about. That was what I did, and by the time they left the funeral, they could not quite remember who had died. They only thought it was a friend of Lily’s. There were so many funerals in those days.

I spent several months erasing traces and memories of myself, but it was worth the effort. At long last I was free, free from the ongoing war and the burden of your prophecy, free from James’ unstable love. I left England and made my way over the continent where no worries existed and where I met my other great love, a man in a black leather jacket.

I was devastated to hear of the deaths of James, my old lover, and Lily, my baby sister. What hurt the most was probably the fact that I couldn't even go to their funeral, as it was very private and I was forgotten by everyone. This was of course also the reason why I couldn't ask to have you back. The Ensconcia spell is irreversible, so there was no possibility to convince anyone of my existence. I heard that you ended up with my older sister, the always-so-correct Petunia, and I knew that she would care for you. It was probably a lucky thing she thought you were Lily’s, as she had liked me even less.

I tried to move on with my own life with my European wizard, and in a way, I think I managed to repress my experiences in England. All until the day you began at Hogwarts.

There were so many newspaper articles from that year onwards. I know, because I have kept them all. I've followed you through the years and seen what a man you are growing into, how much you resemble your late father. You've got that same serious expression he used to flash at me when he was feeling particularly unsure. Oh, believe me when I say that James would have been proud of you. I don’t think that anyone knew him, or Lily, better than I did. If only I could have ceased being a person and become a glue of understanding instead, I would have used it to fix their relationship together to be the strongest the world had ever seen. Not that they weren't lovely together.

Larg (the one with the jacket that entranced me) left me a few years ago, like I think all men do to their women eventually. My only reason to go on, to live, has really been you. I know how you must struggle, of the pressure you must feel. It’s so like what I experienced myself all those years ago. Everyone’s time is growing short as your destiny is catching up with you, and I can no longer keep this truth within me. Because I don’t doubt that you do believe it now after reading all of this, when you have all the facts.

I know that it feels much easier for me now that I know you share my knowledge, and I’m convinced that even though it’s a harsh truth to be faced with -that your mother never was who you were told- that you prefer it to the illusions they have given you.

I hope this letter has found you in good health and that you are still fighting. My life and your life depend on it, as does the rest of the Wizarding World.

With much love,

Holly Evans

Harry let the last page fall onto his lap. He could not make out a single thought or emotion within himself, it was all so utterly confusing. Could this be true? Who was this woman?

He remained in the library with his disarray of thoughts for several hours, not becoming any wiser.

He was early for Professor Dumbledore’s lesson that evening, being tired of trying to avoid Ron and Hermione’s questions, he had left the common room as soon as he could. But upon speaking the password, the gargoyle sprung swiftly to the side at quarter to eight and the stairs carried him up to the office door. The Headmaster’s voice asked him to enter before he had even had time to knock upon the solid wood. A few rays of light were still finding their way into the office when he entered, and they set sparks reflecting off the various silver instruments, twinkling merrily in the rays of a dying sun.

“Harry,” Dumbledore smiled as the student took his seat. “Are you ready for our second lesson?”

“Yes, Professor. Or, well, that is to say - I've got something I would like you to look at first, if it’s all right.” Harry fumbled with his robe pockets and pulled out the stuffed envelope.

“Now, what might this be?” Dumbledore asked and reached out his undamaged hand to fetch it.

“I got it with the morning mail today. There’s some odd stuff in there,” Harry nodded towards the letter, “and I’m not sure what to believe.”

The white-bearded wizard nodded thoughtfully, pulled out all the pages and started reading immediately. Harry noticed quite soon the speed with which his Headmaster could read, but it still took him quite some time to go through all the confusing words. The sun had long since disappeared behind the mountains, and Dumbledore’s half-moon spectacles had slid down to the very tip of his nose, before he looked up.

“I must say Harry, that this is quite a remarkable story.” He put the letter down on his desk and pushed the glasses back up his crooked nose.

Harry waited for the Headmaster to continue, but the old man seemed lost in thought. Impatient for an answer he spoke, “Do you think it could be true, Sir?”

“I cannot give a fair answer to that. I have searched my memories for the faintest trace of a Holly Evans, but found nothing. Although if this letter speaks the truth I would, of course, not have been able to.”

“What about that spell she mentioned, Sir? Is there such a thing?” Harry continued.

“Oh yes. However, it is a very complicated one. It is difficult in timing and concentration - and to perform it on all the original Order members, myself included, would have required some definite skill.” Dumbledore paused and nodded towards the parchment. “But if we were to believe this woman, she certainly appears very able.” Dumbledore’s left eyebrow lifted only slightly.

Harry nearly snorted but quickly became serious again. “What do you think I should do, Professor?”

He was answered with a question in return, “What do you wish to do, Harry?”

“Er,” Harry had to admit to himself that he had not thought about that yet. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if I even want her to exist.”

“If I may say so, I believe that the days when you were in great need of a parent are gone. Even if this Holly Evans turned out to be real, I get the impression that her acquaintance would not benefit you. I will leave it for you to decide if you wish to believe this letter, but remember that it could just as likely have been an attempt from someone to confuse and unsettle you. My advice would be for you to let this pass for now, as I think we both agree that there are more pressing matters at hand?”

Harry nodded and accepted the letter back. He pocketed it and looked back at Dumbledore, expecting him to commence with the lesson, but the Headmaster was yet again gazing into nothingness. Harry did not need Legilimency skills to know what was distracting his thoughts.

“Professor?”

Dumbledore’s eyes refocused quickly. “I’m sorry Harry. I think we need to cancel tonight’s lesson as we both have other matters on our minds. Perhaps you would be willing to return in two nights time?”

“Of course,” Harry agreed, feeling a little relieved.

“Good. Let us say eight o’clock again. The password will be the same.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Sir,” he stood up and felt the weight of the thick envelope in his robe pocket.

“Goodnight, Harry,” the headmaster replied.

Harry glanced back before he closed the door behind him. Dumbledore was already staring unseeingly through the high windows.

Deep in thought, he slowly made his way back to the Gryffindor tower. He passed several students rushing to get back to their common rooms before curfew, but was too distracted to greet any of them. A staircase moved conveniently for him, but he barely noticed.

His mentor was right of course. There were more important things going on than this letter which was probably just written by a Death Eater anyway. It was just too unbelievable. And even if she was real, why would he want anything to do with a woman who gave him up? Who was a selfish coward? What would he ever say to her, apart from harsh words and accusations? No, she could not possibly exist, and he would do his best to forget about her.

Feeling light and content with his decision, Harry approached the portrait of the Fat Lady, waiting patiently for her to pause in her gossip with the painting next to her. It was not until he was about to give her the password that the thought struck him.

How on earth could the writer have known the whole Prophecy?

McKee's Betrayal

2007-04-20T18:34:37Z

McKee, a well unliked Slytherin, finds a way to return the bad hand she's been dealt by joining the D.A.

I barged into the Slytherin common room. The downpour outside seemed to have transferred its dismal mood to the dungeons that house the Slytherin dormitories. The green light emanating from the lamps along the wall offered little comfort or warmth. The low ceiling always made me feel like I was six feet under, suffocating from the tons pressing down on me from the lake above.

It was more than asphyxiation that sent me into extreme bouts of irritation, however. The people that surrounded me at all times created a very adept noose. I’d just whirled out of the library. It was difficult enough to master certain Transfiguration techniques without the incessant twittering of the fourth years sitting at the very next table. My nose had been studiously pressed close to the book. The chapter focused on how to make buttons from beetles, but that was all the information I managed to read, over and over again.

“- And did you see that twit practically squeal?”

“Ug. It really is disgusting, you know. You’d think she gets off on giving the right answer!” one snickered.

“No, she gets off on the attention. She’s just like all those other Gryffindor prats.”

The giggling ensued, followed by a lovely, off — key performance of “Weasley is Our King. ”

“How in bloody hell am I supposed to accomplish anything while listening to little girls whose lives are so boring, they can only talk about everyone else?” I’d shouted rather cruelly. Their pathetic ramblings had gone on for far too long without complaint.

I fumed for a bit in a large, overstuffed chair. Most days, I thought the green was a lovely colour. That day, I thought it added a putrid sheen to those faces that held the pallor of a vampire’s glossy skin. As I thought of blood—sucking parasites, I spotted the haughty, pompous gait of Mr. Draco Malfoy.

I always recognized the boy by the way he strolled. Strolling was putting it politely. He had more of a swagger that invited vomit into my throat. He’d barely noticed me over the years I’d been coming to Hogwarts. That, of course, was no loss to me. I could do without being on speaking terms with him and his goons.

“McKee, that’s my chair. Go somewhere.”

I looked up with a cocky grin. “No,” I answered simply.

“Just who do you think you are, half — blood? Surely you’re aware that I’m a prefect. I won’t tolerate insubordination,” he snootily said. He’d obviously thought he had something to hold over me, because he crossed his arms in a thoroughly satisfied manner.

“You may be a prefect, but you are not my master. Therefore, you really have no grounds to charge me with insubordination. I’ll not move. Go find another place to perch your bony behind.”

He was surprised at my audacity, but said nothing in return. He glared at me for a moment until he realized I would not return the gesture. He flung his cloak in what he surely thought was a dramatic fashion and stalked away. Delightfully, I swung my legs over the arm of the chair, and reclined. Most would be shocked with my attitude regarding the aristocratic prefect. No one knew the real pull I had over him. The fact was, we were related.

Back when his beloved Draco was only one, Lucius Malfoy thought it would be a good time to have an affair. You—Know—Who had just fallen to his inhuman, powerless form and all eyes were glued to the Malfoys’ activities. At the risk of insulting his sour—faced wife (as if he cared), he began to court Ardra McKee. She was known for her trustworthiness and kindness. She worked in a type of adoption agency for wizards and witches. When any magical children were abandoned or orphaned, she would help place them in reliable homes. Ardra was known by reputation, and Lucius saw her as a prime candidate to help ease the suspicion from his shoulders.

It was only several years later that he found out there was a child born of their long-ended tryst. It was also then that the elder Malfoy discovered that the name that helped drag his out of the mud was also born of Muggles. He found me, and forbid me to tell anyone of my parentage. For one, he didn't appreciate such close associations being brought into the spotlight once more. The purity of wizard blood had always been important to him, and new publicity on an old matter would not have helped him. Second, he didn't want to risk my being able to siphon his son's inheritance.

I kindly agreed, so long as he supported me by whatever financial means necessary while I was in school. Now that he was dead, it was up to his acrid wife to fulfill the obligations of her former husband. I thought it was rather ironic that she should be paying for the silence of her husband’s bastard child.

They say I gained Lucius’ attitude, but not his good looks. I, personally, always thought he looked a bit too girlish. If he thought long, platinum blond hair was equated with virility, he was sorely mistaken. I’ve the look of my mother. She had a very round, cheerful face and that is what I acquired, despite my usually sour mood. My hair was neither hers nor his. The wavy brown hair merely rested atop my head as if it had nothing better to do any day. Most of the time, I tossed it up into a wretchedly messy bun.

As I rested in my newly claimed, velvety green armchair, I took down my hair. I’d been so careless putting it up, that I had to tear out a few good hairs in order to remove the circular band. I swung it around my finger, wondering if I would ever go bald for lack of follicle care, when yet another clique of Slytherins thought it was high—time for more Gryffindor/Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff bashing. I rolled my eyes contemptuously. They rarely ever discussed more important matters than gossip. The only other subjects so thoroughly dissected were the Ministry of Magic and the rise of You—Know—Who.

It was never outwardly spoken who was with the Dark Lord, but everyone knew anyway. Many member of Slytherin House had family members involved with the Dark Side. Most hoped to follow in the footsteps of the blood that marched before them. Those who didn’t see an advantage of joining You—Know—Who’s ranks kept very quiet. The price of standing up for any other cause was grounds for a beating, in the least. Many had learned this early on during discussions that took place the year before, when the Ministry had yet to open its eyes to events unfolding.

They blabbered on in their useless droning voices. “Do you remember Percy Weasley, the old Gryffindor Head Boy?”

They murmured assent and encouraged her to divulge. I, tired of the same tirade, threw my lanky legs down, and stood on my clunking boots. I went to throw the hair band in the bin. About halfway across the room, I heard the continuation of the girls’ conversation. “He died the other day.”

The revelation caught me mid—step and I nearly tripped. I spun around to listen more intently, not caring who saw me eavesdropping.

“You—Know—Who killed him personally.”

Gasps resounded in high—pitched voices. Why would he put so much effort into a recently graduated Hogwarts student? I wondered as I continued on my path. Images of a super—powerful Percy flooded my mind and were immediately dismissed as ludicrous. The last time I’d heard, Percy was too far into the faulty Ministry to even remember his family. I doubted he had any pull over the Dark Lord, as he was called in the common room.

When I went to throw out the band encircling knots of my ratty hair, I saw what looked like a note in the garbage. My insatiable curiosity got the best of me. I fished it out quickly and moved to a less visible area of the room. Smoothing the crumpled paper, I realized it was a notice torn down from the boards; so few remained at the end of the day. Slytherin House was so intrinsically set against other houses, they couldn’t bear to have news of them on the notice board. Pathetic, thought I as I read.
Let the Houses Unite!

Ask your Head of House to put you in the D.A. class this year! You’ll be learning charms, hexes, and defensive spells to aide you in these dark times.

Remember, we can only be as strong as we are united!

For more information, please contact Hermione Granger or any instructor.

It was an interesting idea. Hermione Granger wanted to invite Slytherins? I turned to stare at the common room full of power—hungry, moronic hypocrites. Draco caught my eye in a corner and sneered at me. I shot a strikingly similar look back toward him as a plan took hold. He visibly gulped and diverted his gaze as if I was an illusion.

If I dislike these poor excuses of students, why should I not associate with others? My brown eyes twinkled mirthfully as I decided that it was time I made a first friend. It would be the most satisfying way to dig at the gossipers, and thought my benefactors could appreciate the irony.

I will join the D.A., and make the contemptible lot woe their meaningless efforts.

I shot a gleeful grin over to the prestigious, prodigal son and strode off to fulfill my duty.

Meeting Nott

2007-04-20T18:23:59Z

No weather is too contrary in a pregnant woman's eyes. The story of how Ron left to fetch a bit of food, and found himself somewhere entirely unexpected at Christmastime.

“Ginny. You remember that Nott bloke? I’ve been thinking about him…”

“Why?” she asked curiously, popping a leftover Christmas chocolate into her mouth.

“I saw him the other day…”

*******

“I’m sick of it! Every time I ask you for a small favor, you grumble and complain about it as if I asked you to bring China back to me!” Hermione screeched.

“I went grocery shopping this morning — all for you — and I haven’t even got to eat a morsel of it. You’ve been eating everything! And there’s a blizzard out there; we’re probably snowed in. You want me to go out in that?” Ron retaliated at his pregnant wife. She was seven months along, but she behaved as if it was her ninth year of pregnancy. If she was bossy while they were in school, she was positively tyrannical as his wife.

Hermione was having dreams about the baby’s sex, as most witches with child do. Even without one single dream, though, Ron knew it was going to be a girl. Surely a boy wouldn’t be this pushy and demanding?

“Yes,” she cocked an eyebrow and sat back on her heels while triumphantly folding her arms. “You’re a wizard. You can Floo. And don’t come back without pickled pigs’ feet.”

“I may not,” he grumbled while trudging to the door, slipping a scarf around his bare neck. He glared at her as he pulled on his heaviest wool cloak. She only scoffed back with a shadow of a grin hiding behind her mask. He hunched over in preparation for his very chilly Floo experience, but his wife stepped in front of his path before he reached the powder. “What?” he muttered, annoyed.

“I love you,” she said softly and kissed the end of his nose.

“Bloody….mad…women,” he said under his breath and tossed a flick of Floo powder into a burst of flame, rendering it a violent green color. Stepping into it, he gave Hermione a flicker of a smile before saying, “Bernhart’s Cabinet.”

He was off more quickly than he expected. The wind was quite strong — very dangerous while Flooing. He blew hard to the left for three seconds before he managed to control himself somewhat. But then a burst of snow blew across his path and he could no longer see. There’s a reason why no one travels during blizzards, Hermione! A furious howling filled his ears and he saw his ankles fly above his head, and then he was tumbling down. Gravity caught hold of him, and his brain screamed in panic as he saw the rich-colored bricks of a foreign chimney.

Ron landed hard on his knee and elbow, only barely softened by a intricately woven rug. When he stood, he found himself on the inside of a grand house. The most impressive place he’d ever been was Hogwarts up until this point, but the grandeur of this mansion clearly eclipsed the castle. He turned to inspect the fireplace out of which he toppled like a wadded-up spitball. The mantle was made entirely of white marble. The flooring was hard wood, but obviously waxed continuously to bring it to a reflective shine. The sitting room was beyond formal. The dark gray furniture lurked in the room like a cognizant entity, creepily biding its time.

Ron moved sideways against the wall, crossing one foot in front of the other slowly, afraid that he might creak the floorboards and find himself face-to-face with some ancient weapon. In some effort to find out where he landed, he looked curiously at the tapestries adorning the imposing walls. One look told him he was at least in a wizard’s household, as the figures on the tapestry were engaged in some odd ceremony that apparently required quite a bit of blood.

The next was a family tree — or something like that. Here and there were dark holes where a name might have been, and in truth, it reminded Ron a lot of the tree in Grimmauld Place. Skimming quickly to the bottom, the names he saw there caused an involuntary spasm of nerves to creep along the back of his neck. Malfoy! He turned back toward the receiving room, less afraid now. Surely no Malfoys would be here now. Draco (a.k.a., the would-be-murderer) would no longer be here. He’d run off a few years before on the infamous night Dumbledore died. No one had ever seen him or even heard from him since. Not that that was a huge loss. Malfoy senior of course was killed right around the same time. Everyone saw that coming and Ron didn’t feel the least bit terrible for thinking so.

Narcissa Malfoy could have possibly been here, of course. But what mother in her right mind would want to stay in this old, dusty house — least of all at Christmastime?

He moved through the room, less cautious, but not overconfident. He wanted to search through the entire house and unearth some previously unknown fact, but … Hermione jumped into his brain just then, and he realized he’d wasted entirely too much time. He wasn’t exactly keen on jumping right back into the Floo Network only to be thrown out again. Who knew? Next time he could land in a Muggle house, and Merlin knows how bothersome that would turn out to be!

I should really go, though.

Yes, you should.

Ron turned back toward the dominating mantle in the room, but a spark caught the corner of his eye. It looked as if it was veinwork inside the walls. He wandered closer and saw a dark figure hunched against the wall, his cold fingers stroking the wallpaper carefully.

“Oi. What are you doing here?”

The figure stood straighter.

“None of your business. I could ask the same of you and would get the same answer.”

He was right. That was the reply waiting in his throat. “Right. So we’re both here illegally. I’m here by mistake and….what is it that you’re doing?”

“Oh hell. Don’t you irritate me now. I would worry about you if you didn’t look the doormat type.”

Ron could feel his face heating up against his will. “I am not a doormat!”

“It’s a bad blizzard out there,” he stated nonchalantly. “Why would a randy bloke such as yourself be out in a blizzard…unless….he was ordered to run out to get something for his witch?”

Ron narrowed his eyes in response and huffed to the side. The man chortled mean-spiritedly. “That’s what I thought. Now step back. This wall here will open soon.”

“Oh, and is a great magician like you going to coax it open by molesting it, then?”

“Pathetic insult from a pathetic Weasley. Listen and learn. Everything in this life will accommodate you if you only please it a little. Some things are harder to please, like this door here. All that means is that,” he tapped his forehead, “you’ve got to think a bit harder at what it will like more.”

Ron watched the cloaked man fondle the wall for a bit longer with a disgusted twist to his nose before it occurred to him to ask, “Who are you?”

“No one,” the man snorted. “I know you, of course. Ron Weasley. The real question is who’s the lady — Ah! Here we are!”

“Er…It’s a wall.”

“No, moron. Come here.” As Ron suspiciously moved closer, the man’s face became more visible. He recognized it from somewhere…but couldn’t quite place it without seeing more. While he was distracted by the pockmarked skin, the man grabbed Ron’s wrist and thrust it though the wall. He expected it to hurt and even closed his eyes, but instead, it was as if his hand slipped through a cold fog. Amazingly, when he dared to crack his lids upward slightly, he couldn’t even see his fingers. “Walk through.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re expendable. Go.”

“You-“ he tried to shout but he was quite unceremoniously shoved through the wall. On the other side, he waited only moments before the thin man slipped calmly in behind him. “Where are we?” he asked in awe.

“Well, a secret storage chamber, I suppose.”

A light inspection of the many shelves and cases proved something solidly fearful to him, and his lungs clenched, causing him to gasp. “These are dark magic!”

“Don’t be stupid. All these things exist on their own, or come from things that exist anyway in nature. It’s not the materials that are evil, it’s the wizard who weilds them for harm.”

Ron ventured to ask the question that had been on his mind the entire time. “And..” he swallowed, “are you a dark wizard?”

The hood of his cloak was grasped by a calloused hand and pulled down. A young man was revealed, about Ron’s age. He was thinner than Ron previously thought, and looked disheveled, as if caught at doing something naughty. He was even around Ron’s height, which surprised him, as the figure looked much taller before now. “Theodore Nott,” he said more to himself than the other.

“And hello to you too.” Nott’s cloak flowed with the breeze behind him as he moved to look at all the various items in turn.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ron shouted, far too loudly in the small room. It echoed back at him tenfold, making him cringe.

“Am I a dark wizard? I don’t think so. I do what I have to do, and it’s as simple as that.”

“And that isn’t evil?”

“Isn’t it survival? It doesn’t matter, all this philosophical nonsense. I will get mine, and you will get yours, and it’s as simple as that.”

“Fair enough, I guess.”

“You didn’t answer my question either,” Nott said quietly without turning to face Ron in any way.

“Which?”

“Who’s the lady, and what are you getting for her?”

Ron narrowed his eyes and was painfully aware that he was right near the door…if only it hadn’t closed up on him already. Now would not be a good time to run smack into a wall. “Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity is all.” With a chuckle, he added, “I’m not going to attack her. I had a witch of my own a short while ago. She broke it off though.”

“Erm…sorry to hear that.”

“Doesn’t matter. She was good in bed and that’s what matters. So…if you won’t tell me, I’ll guess Hermione Granger.”

“You knew that anyway then.”

“No. But it was pretty obvious in school.” Ron found himself blushing once again. And he hated it. “So are you off getting a light potion for her cramps?” Nott snickered.

“No! She wanted pickled ….something….”

“Ha! Good job of her for sending you for it!”

“I’ll just bring her something else.”

“You know I envy you.”

“Whu-?” the red-head gaped disbelievingly, going over in his head to make sure he didn’t hear it wrong.

“You always had your friends and your close family. That’s more than a lot of people have. I saw someone in my family die a long time ago, and I never forgot it.” The dark boy turned to finally look Ron in the eye from beside a large jar of red floating things in a jar. “The problem was that no one else forgot it either. I have spent my whole life feeling like and being made to feel like I was at a funeral. No one thought, ‘Perhaps he’s over it and would like to move along!’. See, you’ve coasted through life — yeah, I know you’ve done some extraordinary things and whatnot, but you’ve had it pretty easy. Family to adore you no matter how stupid you act, friends who would do anything for you, though I never understood why. Even if I don’t necessarily see your charms, someone else did. Many people did. And that’s far more riches than one man should have in his life. It’s more than I have…”

Nott returned to his inspection. After several minutes of hearing nothing but the taps of Theodore’s shoes and an occasional scuffle as he moved one item or another, Ron realized his presence was no longer noticed or wanted. Slowly and as soundlessly as possible, he backed toward the wall, feeling for it so he didn’t thud his head on an impenetrable object. However, before he knew it, he was back at an intersection of corridors, with the receiving room sitting elegantly as ever on his right. He all but ran to the fireplace and threw the Floo powder in.

“My house in Mary’s End!”

He had to concentrate hard, and felt his body being jerked in many directions. His muscles tensed as he worked his hardest to hold true to his destination. Finally, he fell out of a fireplace and recognized the sitting room as his own. Hermione stood before him looking like hell froze over.

“Where have you been?” she shouted in a voice reminiscent of Mrs. Weasley.

Instead of showering her with excuses though, his heart began to beat wildly. The tangled web of her hair, those beautiful brown eyes…that swollen belly from the child she carried — his baby. Hermione was the woman he loved, and he appreciated her in a fresh, new light. Wordlessly, he swept her up into a close embrace, kissing her neck as he held her tight.

“What’s all this about?” she mumbled into his chest.

“I don’t appreciate you the way I should…or I haven’t. But I will. I love you so much.”

With a squeeze back, her hunger forgotten, she said sweetly, “I love you too. Merry Christmas, Ron.”

Purgatory

2007-04-20T18:20:04Z

One-shot. Directed by a prompt given to me by SPEW'S Deputy General, Jenna (Power).

Kingsley Shacklebolt finds himself on a vague mission to both protect the Muggle Prime Minister, and to glean as much information from the privileged setting as is possible. When the Prime Minister agrees to travel to France to learn about a Muggle massacre, the unexpected happens.

“You have reached the office of the Prime Minister,” Kingsley answered in a silken tone befitting the secretary of a man more powerful than most of the world’s Muggle leaders. “No, sir. The Prime Minister is in South America on a peace mission. How may I direct your call?”

He rather enjoyed receiving phone calls from various people who refused to tell him their names, their occupations, or their business. It gave him an opportunity to create a new destination and mission each time. In less than five minutes, the Prime Minister had crossed the globe no less than three times. He had even cured world hunger. “Yes, sir. I shall direct you to his voice mail.”

In fact, Britain’s esteemed leader was currently en route to the Charles de Gaulle International Airport. Kingsley sighed as he recalled hearing the news only moments before. An entire Muggle village in rural France had been demolished. Above the smoldering ruins were the cryptic skull and snake. In broad daylight this had occurred, and a motive was unclear. While Aurors worked frantically to discover the perpetrators, the Muggle Relations office and Spell Reversal Squad out of Paris were diligently working to rid the sky of the cursed spell. Kingsley was sure they managed to turn it into a green blob, which was far better, as they could blame it on chemical warfare rather than having to admit to a wizard-on-Muggle massacre.

It was difficult, to say the least, to constantly lie to the press, Parliament, and everyone else about the truth of the war at hand. Constantly, he heard his grandmum in the back of his mind, scolding him for the life he’d chosen, one of cruelty, pain, death and ruin. It was true that he believed he’d chosen the good side, if ever a thing existed during dark times. Still, the voice of his grandmum could not be consoled, aware of the invisible blood on Kingsley’s hands.

He stared at those same hands now. One hung upon the neck of the phone, the other resting on the cherry wood desktop, beside it.

Your eyes have the look of a frozen monster, Shackles. The devil himself would want for them, if you would only willingly give yourself to him.

He got a chill down his spine and shook it off with a deep breath. Now was not the time to question the fate of his unresting soul. The ticking of the clock reminded him of his limited time. He would need to prepare to Apparate to Paris, meeting Prime Minister Geoffrey at his gate. He’d never asked Kingsley how he always managed to arrive before even the fastest airplanes on earth, though the latter guessed it had something to do with the late-night visit from Scrimgeour. Though he would never admit it to another breathing being, Mr. Shacklebolt had stolen one of the Extendable Ears from the Burrow and used it that night.

Shackles…

Three minutes.

He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and smiled to himself. Gertrude Giovanni. There was never anything quite like a beautifully rounded arse to distract a man from undying guilt.

“Fine day, innit, Mr. Shacklebolt?” She smiled at his suddenly mischievous demeanor with equal coyness. Her eyes flitted between him and the cherry wood desk until he understood that he was in her way.

“Yes, very fine. Did you need me to move?” he asked, standing and stepping off to the side of his desk while she sashayed around and squatted to pull out the bin from under his desk. While he had the opportunity, he got a good look at her rear, and admired it quite brazenly until he could spot the blush in her cheeks. She often got so rosy, she clashed with her bark-colored hair. Brushing a waving tendril behind her ear, she rose with the bin in hand. He started just as a tiny ting went off on his watch. Returning his attention to Gertrude, he said, “You really are lovely, Miss Giovanni. Unfortunately, I must be going. Goodbye.”

He stalked off at a rapid pace, still feeling those flashing eyes on his skin, and wishing it was her lips.

As he rounded corners and meandered through the hallways, he thought about his mission today. Prime Minister Geoffrey’s airplane had only taken off approximately ten minutes prior. Kingsley planned to leave exactly ten minutes after the former, timing it so that he would have the perfect amount of time for securing the premises and checking on the situation in the village of Châtel without any curiosity from other guards. He would be waiting at the gate as the Prime Minister arrived, impeccably dressed and ready to assist. He felt at his front pocket for the pad and pen he kept on hand to appear the dutiful secretary, but felt no lumps.

He cursed to himself before dashing a retreat around the corners, angry that his schedule would be off for the rest of the day. He would have to get a quick update in Châtel now to make up for time lost. Blasted desk, clear on the other side of the building! Of course, it was too risky to Apparate in a building such as the Prime Minister’s residence. It would be a death wish. The Muggles would likely put torches to the walls.

Finally, he turned the last corner, but paused and threw himself back against the wall so he wouldn’t be seen. Just past Kingsley’s own desk was Prime Minister Geoffrey’s office door, and just outside his door was Gertrude, gently closing and locking the door, a paper in hand.

There is no time!

Deciding to go without, and to leave the silly girl to her silly devices, he closed his eyes, concentrated, and felt himself being pulled toward the Alps of France.

In but a moment, he found himself strolling down the wildflower-covered hill toward a tent where the Headsman of the Spell Reversal Squad stood, drinking a cup of tea. It was too beautiful a day to be standing just outside a site where nearly 50 deaths had occurred. The wind carried a slightly sweet scent, and picked up and dropped like a child plays with a ball. It was warm enough for summer robes, though it was only spring.

“Salut, Yemir. How is it? Comment vas-tu?” Kingsley asked to the Headsman.

"Il restera jusque le matin," the paunchy Yemir replied, shaking his head.

“Keep at it, then,” he said. With that, he bid adieu and Apparated just along the road toward Charles de Gaulle International Airport and found a steady pace until he had gone entirely through check in, past the shopping area, through security, into the shuttle, through more security, and finally at Gate G. Due to his privileged status of being the secretary of arguably the most powerful man in the world, he was able to move fairly quickly, only having to suffer a pat-down at the second security stop. Even then, he suspected the Muggle man was going above the call of duty to take a little pleasure.

Finally, there came the noticeable change of tempo in the air, where every particle of life energy emanating from every person picked up on it and vibrated with a renewed intensity. There came an excited squeal from a woman in a red pantsuit, as she jumped up and shouted, “It’s landing!”

Surely enough, the Prime Minister’s plane had landed and was lumbering its way toward the extended arm of the walkway. Kingsley stood ramrod straight, and appeared to be the picture of patience and regality while his mind was churning and ticking away inside. He watched as the workers anchored the great plane to the walkway, watched as the reporters all set up their cameras and gave last instructions to their parties. It had turned into a silent circus as the blood rushed through his mind and blocked out all sound. It was nearly a comedy, watching the excited faces of the paparazzi. Prime Minister Geoffrey finally came into view, and into a flurry of flashing lights, rolling cameras and a garbled collage of voices.

Geoffrey’s eyes widened slightly when he spotted Kingsley, just as they usually did. The man that used to be known as Shackles was certainly a formidable sight. Tall, dark, and with a shining smile, he was usually the most noticed person in a room; unless he was in a room with a world leader, that is. No words passed as Kingsley sidled up to the Prime Minister, falling in step with his stride. They kept their eyes focused forward to avoid conveying any meaning to their trip. The best thing to do was to keep Muggles in the dark. The less they knew about the other reality that controlled their lives, the better.

Focus maintained, they finally reached a simple, black car. Kingsley opened the door for the Prime Minister just as a young woman, clothed in what could only be the ugliest paper sack to land on earth, bumbled up to the car, recording device held out before her like the Holy Grail. With a quiet nod, Kingsley and the other body guards eased and let her speak.

“Oh gosh. I didn’t think you’d let me talk! Um,” she coughed, “Prime Minister, are you here to give your condolences to the ailing President of France?”

Geoffrey leaned in to the recorder. “I am here merely on a pleasure trip. I wish to extend my deepest regrets toward the President for being unable to visit during this time, but I wish him a speedy recovery from his flu.”

“Nice job, sir,” Kingsley whispered, impressed.

Geoffrey was not entirely keen on the circumstances of his office, given the times, but after a hard brandy, he embraced his new role in a way that gave Kingsley new faith in Muggle-kind. In the interim, he’d learned many things about the Wizarding World and had even learned some of the nuances of their culture.

They all crawled into the car and held their silence. The Paparazzi really would put a camera nearly anywhere, and there was nothing to be said just yet. Whenever Geoffrey had seen the damage….well, then he would have to formulate an idea on how to deal with the issue. Normally, this would be in President Marcoux’s realm of power, but given his mysterious and debilitating illness, Prime Minister Geoffrey was asked to take care of the matter in his stead. Most of the world was unaware of the green cloud over Châtel, but that wouldn’t last for long.

Kingsley could feel it as they drove through the protective barrier the Muggle Relations office had erected around the site of the massacre. Looking at his companions, they could feel it too, but likely had no idea what had just happened. Often, it seemed to strike Muggles as a turn of the air or a sudden chill.

They had arrived at the tent, the green fog hanging over the small, dead village like an acid ceiling. One of the burly body guards opened the door, eyeing the land, taking in its many corners and shooting wary looks at the workers a hundred meters away. Kingsley stepped out between yet another guard, the Prime Minister, and another guard. Sure that the first guard had done his job properly, Kingsley stretched and took in the air. It was then that he smelled something….rotting…

Something small caught his eye on the ground. A few steps brought him upon a dead bird of the small variety. He felt it, and it was still warm. A bit to the right was another….and another…

Target practice.

He was trained well enough to know what a death curse looked like when he saw it. He whipped his body around to tell the Prime Minister to get back inside the car when he saw the figure on the hill behind the black vehicle. He knew from the position the attacker was taking that it was nearly the end.

“Prime Minister, down!”

Kingsley whipped out his own wand and forced the Prime Minister into a subjugated bow using the only spell that popped into his head at that moment. Everyone else had already hit the ground, and the erstwhile Shackles landed on the ground, his huge body landing with a thud. He moved closer to the Prime Minister by crawling along the ground, careful to be sure the car offered some protection from the villain behind it.

“What the bloody hell was that?” cursed Geoffrey, who had understandably gone quite red and angry.

“Pinprickers,” Kingsley answered absentmindedly, trying to find a peeking spot between the wheels.

“What the fuck is that?” he spat like a local drunkard.

“They strike so fast you don’t know what hit you until you see the blood. They’re what you people call ‘sharp-shooters’,” he said seriously, watching the Prime Minister’s face for some reaction.

“Kill him,” he said matter-of-factly. Kingsley suddenly stood up, eliciting a hiss from the Prime Minister.

“There is nothing to be done. They’re gone.” The other body guards had many words in response to that, but the Prime Minister hushed them.

“If Shacklebolt says they’re gone, they’re gone.” The guards fell silent.

Kingsley didn’t say a word about it, but judging by the mane of black hair he saw in the wind, it was not a man at all.

Back in his office in London, the Prime Minister had no easier time with the events of that day.

“But why? Well, I’m not a man without enemies. That much I know. But…but no one knew where I was, right? D-didn’t they?” He paced the blue carpet before his oak desk. “President Marcoux is a good friend of mine. He would not have asked for my help if he’d known there was a possibility of an assassination-“

“Sir, there’s always a possibility of assassination,” chimed in one of the guards.

Geoffrey threw his hand up to silence him, and the guard fell dutifully quiet.

Kingsley thought of Gertrude. The sweet girl with the beautiful arse. Then he thought of the paper she had been holding as she left the Prime Minister’s office- which she should have never had access to.

“Sir, I have a reason to believe that someone had been in your office, and had stolen a document of some sort.”

Geoffrey stopped pacing and faced Kingsley directly, his eyebrows pursing inward. “What document?”

“I …don’t know, sir,” he replied. He was not entirely sure why he was not saying her name. This was the Prime Minister for God’s sake! He should have been willing to divulge the color of his fecal matter!

Geoffrey was too deeply entrenched in thought to notice Kingsley’s moral dilemma written across his face. “If someone was in my office, digging through it…then they must have set up a reason for me to be gone… But Marcoux wouldn’t do that.”

“But he’s sick, sir,” the annoying guard unhelpfully pointed out.

“I know that, Crunfel.”

Something clicked in Kingsley’s head. Of course! “Sir, perhaps the president …” he eyed the other people in the office, “was poisoned?”

“What?” jumped the guard defensively. “I didn’t do it!” Kingsley only rolled his eyes at the man.

“But if they just wanted the document, they would have sent you off on some expedition …there is no need for poisoning.”

“Perhaps…this really was meant to be an assassination, and the paper is evidence of it.”

“If I’d read a document about my own assassination, I would have noticed,“ the Prime Minister said. Clearly, he was offended. “And I read every single piece of paper that goes through my office!” He seemed to think for a moment, and an expression of deep frustration entered his features, pulling his face into a full-facial pursing. “No, the only documents regarding this visit were my flight schedule, Marcoux’s certified letter, my packing list…”

“Prime Minister…what did that letter say?”

“Just that there was a disturbance in Châtel that he could not attend to due to illness, and asking if I would fulfill his duties on the matter, as it was so pressing.”

“Was it sent just before you notified the airport of your departure?”

“About three in the morning. I didn’t check my mail until five.”

Marcoux is notoriously never awake in the morning hours. He wouldn’t have been up at three.

“Sir, President Marcoux is ill. Did it say what sort of illness he suffers from?”

“Yes…actually….no. Well, here, read it yourself.” Geoffrey looked around his desk, opened his drawers one by one, checked them all once more. “I can’t find the letter.”

Kingsley’s face went deadpan. His hand moved to his forehead, kneading his temple. Unthinkingly, he rambled his thoughts aloud in a tone no stronger than a steady, gutteral whisper. “The letter was what was stolen. The letter is evidence that Marcoux wrote him to act in his stead…but Marcoux is very ill, and could not have sent it himself. In fact, he very likely hasn’t been conscious in the last 24 hours.” He took a deep breath, alternately opening and closing his eyes to the rhythm of his thoughts, not acknowledging the other people witnessing this interlude with so much as a mental tick. “So who would send him a letter but someone who wanted him there, who wanted him to witness what happened at Châtel? Someone who wanted to be sure there was an event significant enough that it would require a head of state to personally visit the site. And that person happens to be keeping hold on the Muggle population at the center of activity- in Britain. This someone knew that the moment he is gone, British Muggles will be leaderless, and a leaderless group is as good as dead.” As he came out of the images racing across his mind, he watched the faces of those in the room turn from disbelieving, to wonder, to the basest emotion: fear.

“And the most terrible part is that they’re right. But why couldn’t the Pinpricker do it here, in England?”

“Your home is well guarded. You rarely even leave your home.”

“Why in France?”

“I don’t know.”

Prime Minister Geoffrey turned to face Kingsley in a way that forewarned of his seriousness. “Mr. Shacklebolt, I expect you to move your belongings into the room adjacent to mine. Now, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Kingsley turned to leave and got all the way to the door before he turned around once more, his stomach twisting, knowing what he was doing and still hating himself for every bit of sureness. “Sir? Gertrude Giovanni took the letter. I will testify if need be.”

A short nod was all that came in answer before Kingsley left the room, let out all the air in his lungs, and hated himself for every step he took away from that room, knowing he assigned a woman to her death without knowing her circumstances. Such power over a person’s life felt grotesque. Grandmum would have been ashamed of him.

Kingsley arrived on the hill above Châtel. Here was where she stood, the Pinpricker. He kneeled down on the grass, running his fingers through it. She had nearly made history again, Bellatrix Black. He frowned as he spied a bit of discoloration amidst the green. Upon closer inspection, it was…

Blood.

The Faces Unforgotten

2007-04-20T18:18:25Z

Hermione is faced with an onslaught of feelings as she walks down the altar, completely alone with her thoughts. It has been very hard since Harry died. How will she ever start a new life when she has no idea how she arrived where she stands?

It was difficult to see the path she had followed. This moment had been years in coming, and yet, she felt as if she had just turned a corner and found herself so alone in a world of change.

How long ago was it that she was fighting along side her two best friends? How long since she had held Ron while he was off in one of his drunken stupors? How long since she had seen the last of Dumbledore’s pale face?

Perhaps her path taken was indiscernible from the leaves and branches sewn together in the wood. The very wood that was once so dangerous and wondrous at once now stood as plain as the one surrounding her parent’s home in the countryside. The life, the magic evaporated like some beautiful, shimmering liquid from a pensieve. Hermione felt a loss of comfort in the warm embrace of the magically charged air. Hogwarts, the home for so many young witches and wizards from bygone centuries, lay in desolate ruin. The gate no longer existed, the spells gone. Her guests whispered about the beauty of the castle they’d never seen, but all she saw was the sadness seeping between the laid stones.

The path before her was evident, patted down with a running carpet the same shade as the surrounding grass. At the end stood a man whose love was entirely unexpected, yet welcomed as a meal for a dying man. Was Charlie her path? Was he a means to an end? She was not sure how she arrived here, how he came to be. Confusion was only enhanced by the memories freeing, fleeing across her mind as the flutes began to hum their sweet melody, and her feet moved forward on their own accord.

”Why does it hurt?” Ron slurred into his mug.

“What are you talking about? You’ll be all right,” Hermione soothed in her low tones.

“No. I won’t. What is it all for? Harry’s dead! And he’s been dead for three years, and it still hasn’t stopped. I want to die. I want to go with him, and maybe I can sleep one fucking night’s peace.”

Hermione sat beside him at the bar, unclear on what to say. The mature, adult part of her wanted to comfort him, to take him out and show him that life is worth something even without Harry. But in all honesty, she had no more heart to do so. She stared at Ron, wondering where her love for him went. She felt betrayed, ridiculously betrayed, by his mortal love for Harry. It was not even a romantic love, but so obviously stronger than the one he held for her. Suddenly, she was so angry, she needed a leather strap between her teeth to keep them from shattering.

“You would give everything up for Harry, when he gave everything up for you!” she screamed, standing and unconcerned with her stool clattering on the ale-soaked floor.

“That’s right!” he shouted right back. He faced her, shoulders sunken in, red-faced and sweaty. “He gave it up for us, and all you can do is whine and say how we should move on. Well there is no ‘moving on’! The world has completely changed, and we are like some left-over trinkets from a gravesite! We are supposed to be stuck here! And you are bloody selfish for trying to ignore it!”

The heat boiled in her belly and her air was fiery. “How can I be selfish when I’ve been taking care of you…you drunk! Every day you drown your sorrows, and for what? Everything was pointless. You know, a lot of people are gone, and all you think about is Harry. You do not give one shit about anyone else but Harry. God, it’s like you loved him instead of me!”

His look at her was hollow. There was hardly any flesh left on his cheeks, giving him an appearance that said he was already long gone. His eyes held a sheen that had nothing to do with emotion, and all to do with lack of thought.

A chill ran down her spine, unseen through her white dress. The very idea of a white wedding was ludicrous. She was no innocent. She had killed more than one witch. The dress, if to be correct, would be as drenched with the blood of the dead as much as her virgin blood, so long gone to the boy with the dead eyes.

It was at that inopportune moment that her eyes fell upon the upturned, smiling faces of her mother and father, so blissfully unaware that the world had changed. All they knew was that for a few years, life was dark and frightening, and suddenly, colors amplified and the world grew fresh, anew. They did not know of Voldemort. They had nary a thought for terrible wizard politics. They knew Ron was her love, that after the turning point, she refused to let them touch her. They knew she suffered through his death exactly one year before.

Two weeks after the bar fight, Hermione got a call to check on Ron, as the family was on holiday in France. Ron stayed behind, as he often did in order to spend time with his old lover, alcohol. She chose to take a train and a stroll to his London flat. It was a beautiful day, and she was just beginning to feel all right. In fact, she was considering trying to heal Ron again. Show him what life could be. The life would, she hoped, include the baby that had been growing in her belly for a month now.

She smiled as she opened the door, waltzing in with the air swirling behind her. It took her a moment to feel the emptiness of the home. The dust could be smelled. Her feet clapped against the floorboards in a way she was never previously aware of through all the bustle that normally accompanied the location. It soon became apparent he was not in the house at all. She dashed outside, her hand slipping unconsciously to her lower abdomen. She checked near the chicken pen and the shed. No sign. A scan of the horizon, and she noticed something in the woods.

It was the red hair. They were his old Chudley trainers. It was his body. Dangling. Then it all went black.

Hermione watched her feet as they dragged her to the inevitable conclusion. She spotted her stomach on the way to the ground, and her face twisted at the gruesome memory of the weeks afterward. Days were spent sipping cocoa with Mrs. Weasley, crying and attempting to find some direction. She needed an emotional compass, and everything she knew seemed to be rearranged into a Picasso painting.

She lost the baby in a flurry, from the depths of her own personal Hell. She never told a soul about it, and no one bothered to guess. They just didn’t seem to care.

Then, Charlie had come home for the Christmas holiday, looking healthy and happy….or happy enough, anyhow. He had sent Mrs. Weasley on her way, deftly sidestepping her cheeky comments (she had never liked Hermione much).

He took her away to Romania. She was there as his little sister for some time, watching practices and bringing sandwiches for the Dragon Tamers. Then, after a day spent lying in the hot dirt, he came to her and asked her to marry him. It was awkward. She knew he didn’t know her heart the way she’d dreamed a fiancé would. He brought no flowers. But his hands were strong, and knotted themselves in her hair, and quickly her head bent to bring her face to his. He kissed her lips, her eyes, her nose, her neck. He placed them all over her skin, and at each place, it was as if the pain in that one spot was wiped clean. They met on the floor of his personal bunk. She, covered in dirt. He, covered in God-knew-what. But his kisses were sweet, pecking, gentle. He was not overwhelming. He held her left hand in his right as he cleansed her soul. She squeezed hard on that hand when she was scared, when he got to a part that was as full of tears as her streaming eyes. Still, he persisted.

He kissed the side of her smallest toe and crawled up to lay on her, his heavy weight on her small frame. His eyes were blue. She had never really thought on the color, but now they shimmered from the little light emanating from the lantern in the corner.

“You’ll do it?” he asked, his face unmasked but still plain. He was not worried about rejection. It was the flat look of total comfort and total certainty. Hermione only nodded.

He buried his mouth in the nape of her neck and pulled her up. He took her to his tiny cot, lay her down, and covered her in his embrace, the musky scent of his skin permeating hers.

She was at the altar, and Charlie slipped an arm through the crook in hers. “I do love you,” he whispered calmly into her ear. “I will kiss you until it’s gone.”

She didn’t have to ask what it was he was referring to. They knew. His frown showed the effects of what he saw in her gaze as she strolled to the altar. Her eyes were as empty as Ron’s used to be, and he saw the cringe, the twisting of her features. He also must have seen her arm circle protectively around her middle.

“We’ll start a new one,” his warm breath weaved into her ear, “just as soon as you love me too.”

The Impure Pureblood

2007-04-20T18:13:06Z

A bit of a ghastly tale about when Lucius and Narcissa first became an item. A story that investigates the inside of Pureblood mania.

There was a coming-out party for all witches who were coming of age. It was a pureblood tradition, and so, few knew about such things. Even fewer were actually involved.

Narcissa was a late bloomer. She only became of age just before returning to Hogwarts. Now, it was two weeks before Christmas, and the party had arrived. She and the only other pureblooded girl who recently came of age, Loraine, were required to become the picture of purity. In a room decorated luxuriously just for them, with large, encompassing mirrors and softness all around, they donned their large, white dress robes. The girdles beneath, fitted with shaven dragons’ teeth, cut into their bones and drew gushes of breath from their abused lungs.

They’d been required to sit in complete opulence in the red room for three days beforehand. They did not fast. Fruits, meats and desserts were brought to them every hour as the two reclined on their chairs. Every so often, a bumbling old woman would sashay next to the low, velvet furniture and interrupt the self-obsessed laughter with tales of the tremendous ceremony.

The day before, the same old woman — who was named Agatha, they’d found — purified the girls’ young, agile bodies. She spoke of sin that comes naturally to teenage girls, and how she could wash away the filth of their thoughts, swirling beneath groomed manes and smooth foreheads. She warned of times when young witches had been physically befouled, and how they were shunned.

“In the ancient days,” Agatha droned while prodding Loraine’s knees apart with her wand, “if a witch turned up broken, she was taken before the Wizengamot. It was they who decided her punishment.”

“What punishments? I thought the ancient ones encouraged witches to love their fellow wizards,” Narcissa remarked, feigning aloofness. She’d been thinking of the days when the witches would celebrate the blooming season with a secretive, hedonistic romp in the woods.

Great bursts of violet bubbles came from Agatha’s wand onto their bodies as she worked incessantly. “The more recent ancient ones, lovely. Punishments? Oh, that depends, really. Some were drowned, some were stoned. Some, even, were enchanted so that every time they looked in the mirror, they saw only a hideous monster there. Any wizard who looked upon her face would see but the same. It was fair punishment for their wrong-doing, you know.”

Saying such things had no effect at all on her soft features, but they froze the young Miss Black. Surely they wouldn’t ruin pureblooded girls for one mistake? We are a rarity in Britain!
“I cannot think that would happen in our modern day,” the young one said calmly, more to reassure herself than to speak factually from some objective point of view.

“Too right, Narcissa. Such an event has not occurred for many years.” She gazed off at the wall just then, and accidentally jolted Loraine with one of her ‘special’ cleansing spells that burned and made an unusual frying sound. Loraine hissed through her teeth until the pain died down. Agatha came to remember her place only after the girl fixed her with a disgruntled scowl. “Ah, but you girls have nothing to worry about,” she scrubbed from afar. “Both from such prominent families. Your father likely kept you under lock and key, Narcissa. You have such great beauty!”

The radiant, blond young woman had been sighing ever since then. She wished she hadn’t spoken at all of the ancients. The girls were rather enjoying the velvet reclining seating and eating, and the adoration of servants, of course. Narcissa’s father never let her eat terribly much. As he’d said, “Narcissa, you shant ruin your market value.”

It was as if she were some wild boar to be sold on the corner.

And yet, as Narcissa Black rubbed a potion on the stray hairs that were jostled and sticking to her tiara, she felt ever more fearful of the ceremony to come. While she hated to admit it, in her heart, she knew the frightening truth.

I am not pure.

It had been mere weeks before. She’d always had a soft spot for him. He was handsome, eloquent, sleek . . . and a pureblood. It was exquisite, melting into his voluminous blankets. Everything was so clean. He laid there, every fiber of him aroused by her, and she couldn’t resist. He groaned over her lithe figure, tracing loving fingers across her untouched skin, across her sinewy muscles. He made her tremble in a manner she’d never before been aware of.

Then, she didn’t hear from him. Silence and waiting had become her consorts.

It was difficult getting through that first week afterward. She’d thought she’d given him an extraordinary gift. He’d shared the pleasures of the House of Black, after all! They were an ancient house. Alas, no word. Narcissa forced herself to believe that he was merely busy, and that he often thought about her, nude in his bedchamber, every minute of the day.

And that was how, when Agatha, looking furiously tried, bustled in and ushered the trembling girls to the door. Loraine and Narcissa stood there for what seemed five minutes, just looking at one another. Her dark eyes searched, yet found no solace in those of the blond. The latter was merely searching for an answer, a companionship that Loraine could not provide. They both looked pure. The white was nearly glowing, and their cheeks were rosy from blushes that would not leave their faces. Pureblooded women grow their hair long, and those who had come of age had to wear it loose in the ceremony, in a sign of youth and fertility. The delicate strands of the pureblood hair adorning their pampered crowns spilled over their shoulders and onto their backs. They had to look the part. After all, this was to be their wedding day.

The door opened, and a large crowd clipped around the floor of the ballroom. At that moment, all her fears fell from her chest, and she simply felt beautiful. They clapped and grinned, as was expected of them, but much of it felt very genuine. Loraine was ahead of the Black daughter, giving her the opportunity to focus on keeping her head up and following the movements of the dark-eyed girl. Once they were on the floor, they were to focus on no man, so that their hearts would remain pure, and the two strolled quickly to the platform set up, so all could see.

The Master of Ceremony was a stout bit of a wizard, with a slightly cone-shaped head. He was an unfortunate being Narcissa recalled from her younger years. He’d always been very brusque, but she felt he had a kind place in his heart for her. She used to love it when he called her ‘Cissy’. The fact that he would be overseeing her awkward bid for marriage made her infinitely more comfortable, and for the first time, she smiled with an easy grin.

It fell from her face completely when the little man announced that she was to be first. Her blue eye began its customary twitch, and a loud gurgle grunted from her pressured stomach. She was never told the specifics of what would happen, and as Loraine took the first step on the stairs, Narcissa had assumed the other would go first.

The little man grabbed her wrist as if it were a thin sausage and pulled her to center stage. She felt naked, even beneath all five layers of white linen, silk, and a few threads of unicorn hair. Breathlessly, she stared at the crowd that now seemed more leering than benevolent. Only then did she notice it was mostly comprised of middle-aged wizards. It was often a joke among the purebloods that the women were sold off at their first blood to a man who could no longer display prowess in the bedroom, yet now, it became a chilling reality. While the lithe blond was far from her first blood, she suddenly felt the weight of her youth upon her head.

Her breath — already constricted — grew even shallower and an inescapable dizziness settled behind her eyes. The song the Master began to sing was filled with a sway and beat that pulled her heart straight from her bosom. She shook and looked frantically back at Loraine, throwing all public demeanor aside. She, too, was swaying, but one could spot the passion in her eyes and the provocative movement in her hips. Guffaws and giggles emitted from the prowling crowd below, skulking and hunting like beasts. Narcissa’s own belly heaved and contracted in time with the music. It burned and pained in a dull ache from her navel to her thighs. She heard her own panting, and felt herself licking her dry lips.

It stopped so abruptly that despite the pain, she wanted the ancient song to continue. The air was alive with what looked like fairy lights, but was really the combined energy of the room. Some of the men were groaning with need. The women had retreated to the back of the room, merely present to oversee the completion of the coming out of the pureblood girls.

“Who will have young Narcissa Black, come of age in August?” he shouted over the many-headed creature after amplifying his voice. “Her first blood came three summers ago. She has been fed in moderation, in compliance with pureblood qualities. Her bosom is yet growing, yet is already befitting for a mother-to-be. Her hips are wide — she will bear many children without damage. Her father says she speaks little and never utters a false word toward her superiors. What say you? Who wishes to own Narcissa Black, of the most ancient and noble House of Black?” He shouted the last with such ferocity, the named jumped, much to the amusement of the monsters below.

“I will have her!” shouted a bald head that bobbed to the front with all the grace of an apple core. He was sweating profusely as he grinned like a house elf.

“Come up, then, Habeneicht.”

Narcissa was furious that the German purebreds had managed to arrive to disrupt the proceedings. She’d hoped that this would be a British affair, so that she would not have to leave the country. Her father was contemptible, but she adored her mother beyond all reason.

“Narcissa Black, are you prepared to accept the test, given by Mr. Habeneicht?”

“T-test? . . . Y-yes, I believe.” She stuck out her chin in a way she’d hoped would be displeasing to him, but his great belly only seemed to mirthfully jiggle along with his second chin. What will he do to me?

With little ceremony, she was flipped onto her back in mid air, her ankles wrenched magically away from one another. She cried then, with little else she could do. Her body was completely frozen, except for one spot low on her belly, and she knew what was coming. If her nerves were allowed to sense anything, they surely would have screamed at the lumbering fellow, frightening him like only those of the Sidhe could.

She closed her ears to his grunts, laboring away at discovering her secret. When he pulled away from her, Narcissa finally opened her eyes and looked at the dirty, old Habeneicht. He seemed to be staring down at his legs, then glared at the girl with daggers. He let the hem of his robes fall and, with a scowl, spun around to face the crowd. “She is impure!”

The crowd shouted indignantly, as one, and she felt fate seal itself around her as she was allowed back onto her feet. Miss Black would die; she knew this. The Master tried to regain control, and when he did, it only served to further her torment.

“She does not bleed! This has not happened for nigh on seven hundred years!” She could nearly imagine the torches they carried in their hearts, serving only to burn her at the stake. “None will take an impure witch. You are no better than a half-breed! No one will have you!”

His wand pointing at her was no better than a death sentence. Would she die for a simple night with the handsome wizard? Her eyes were dry with how wide they stared out at the undulating creature that was the male crowd. She chose, instead, to stare at the ladies in the back, who gathered together in their fright. Her own mother stood at the fore, her face blotchy and tears running down her cheeks. ‘Cissy’ saw her love in her, and knew her caring mother held no disgust for her actions.

“According to the ancients, there is only one way to deal with witches who are slaves to lust . . .”

Mother and daughter were locked in eternity. She wondered if she should have told her. Perhaps there was a magical method of concealment, of . . . enclosure. Mentally, she reached out to the older woman, and found their hands interlocked. They were warm, and she knew her mother loved her still; it was enough to take her through what would come of this.

“ . . . By show of hands, what is the preferred method of punish . . . Lucius Malfoy? What did you need, son?” the Master asked, stooping to get an eyeful of the man that made his way to the edge of the platform.

It was the same voice the old man once used for the young Miss Black. Lucius was, of course, several years older than her, and it seemed ludicrous that the Master would speak to him in the same manner he spoke to children. They whispered for a moment with the world watching them, Narcissa included.

Then, to her surprise, the tall man with a strong jaw leaped on stage and purred, “Sonorus,” with his wand at his throat. “Who, here, would cast a stone at one of the few pureblood witches left in Britain? Our race is dying, and you would kill off a girl merely because she partook in pleasure!” He turned to Narcissa and asked, “Was it at least a pureblood who took your first?” He was grinning maliciously even as she nodded solemnly. “She even had the decency to withhold for someone of her own stature. Who here is without error? Mr. Habeneicht, I have heard tales of your virility . . . with servants of another wizard’s home!” Chuckles sprinkled throughout the grand ballroom. “That is nothing compared to the rest of you.

“Will no one else have Narcissa Black? After all, she’s proven she’s quite taken to the bedroom, unlike some wives here . . .” He sneered caustically at the ladies in the back of the room. The blond locked eyes with her mother, and again felt shame. She could not speak up for herself, or she would doom her only chance at being taken. If she was not taken, she would be killed. “No one? Why, then . . . I will take her.”

“You are but a boy,” growled the Master of Ceremony.

She worked hard at containing the smiles she wished to shower upon Lucius Malfoy. Handsome Lucius Malfoy of the prestigious line. She already wanted to kiss him with a ferocity unequaled.

“And I’ve deferred to my elders in this room. If none will take the scraps, I will. I’ll make a good woman out of her. It is my belief that it takes more of a man to make something out of nothing, than to work with perfection.” He raised a condescending eyebrow at her. She thought he surely must have been putting on a tough show, just to make himself look like a martyr. Narcissa certainly didn’t care to believe he thought her rubbish, a charity case.

Silence greeted the air unpleasantly. A murky distaste found itself in her mouth until the Master spoke once more.

“She is yours.”

The Meeting

2007-04-20T18:11:30Z

Ardra drags her young daughter, Margaret McKee, to Malfoy mansion in efforts to reclaim Lucius' love.

A tiny elf greeted her at the door with wider eyes than was usual for its species. Surely, she and her mother were not all that peculiar-looking, even if Margaret McKee’s clothes were torn on her bottom and arm…and perhaps there were some smudges of soot on her face. A quick, upward glance told her Ardra’s state of shame and apprehension. They were not meant to be there; of that, she was sure.

“Hello, elf,” McKee said with what she hoped sounded like the voice of a cultured, well-bred woman. In truth, she knew she was anything but. The apple-red face of the woman told her what people on the street did not — she was illegitimate and totally unwanted in wizarding society. Someday, she decided she would do something about that.

“I will be Dobby, Misses,” the stout creature muttered quickly, bowing so low, his ears scraped the ancient, wooden floors inside the doorway. McKee giggles awkwardly until Ardra gave her a sharp look.

“Do not laugh, Maggie. He doesn’t like it. Stand up straighter. Oh, heavens, I wish you wouldn’t have glued yourself to the chair before we left! We had no time to fix it and now you look so —“

“That’s why I did it, Mummy.”

Ardra paused, thumped her head against the heel of her palm in exasperation and said, “Sometimes I wonder if you are my child at all.”

McKee tweaked her nose, unsure of what to say or how to react to such a statement. Dobby watched this exchange with a pensive, slack grin. When the older woman returned to face him, though, his reserved obedience regained his features. “Dobby will take Misses inside and get Master for them.”

The green mass with bubbly eyes led them through the narrow doorway and McKee’s eyes went wild. They passed by an odd tapestry that had a strange tree with writing on it. Turning a corner, her eyes fell on each portrait in turn. They were evenly spaced, and soon, she began to hum a song with the beat of her echoing steps and crescendos with each glowering portrait.

They came to a sort of sitting room, but it didn’t look anything like the one at the orphanage. The furniture all had high, straight back, and there were books lining one wall. Reading Room, thought McKee. The room also had one other thing her own sitting room did not. A tall, lanky woman with beautiful hair waving down her back. She didn’t seem terribly happy to see them. In fact, her hands were shaking, she had her fists clenched so tightly over one another. Her eyes were squeezed into blue slits and her feet seemed rooted to the floors in a clench elderly trees would admire. McKee thought her very pretty, but clearly, Ardra did not. In a feat of likeness, her mother adopted a ramrod tall stance, a challenging dare clear.

“Dobby presents Mistress,” Dobby said with another bow. This one, however, seemed stiffer and more formal than the last.

“Narcissa,” was all Ardra said. The atmosphere grew thick and difficult to breathe. McKee glanced back and forth between the two, trying to understand how her normally happy, skipping, carefree mother could transform so quickly into someone that resembled herself so much.

“And you need no introduction at all, because thieves like you have no name but Dirt, you nasty, Mudblood girl!” the woman screeches with her shoulders slumped forward and an accusing finger jabbed harshly.

“She called you Mudblood…Mum, you stole?” McKee’s heartbeat rose. Her mother had sent her to do her duties with Shalank, the evil groundskeeper, the moment she stole a coin purse from some stupid girl, but her own mother was doing the same thing without any penalty?

Ardra never looked down as she grumbled, “Some people believe who your parents are mean everything. Some people think that if something is given to someone willingly, and they do not like that, that they have somehow stolen something. Some people, like Narcissa Malfoy, here,” Ardra finally met her daughter’s eyes, but no sight entered the mother’s mind through the enveloping memories, “Cannot understand that they never possessed that which they pined for.”

“Is a marriage not possession?” she screamed, her voice piercing, causing the men in the surrounding portraits to cover their ears and run.

“Lucius is a victim of your family, and of circumstance!” her own mother’s rich vibrations met the air discomfortingly.

“Lucius has not been a victim of anything in his life! You do not even know him if you do not know this, creton!”

“You be quiet!” McKee glowered at the veela-like mistress.

“Langlock!” The spell hit McKee straight on and so hard, the little girl fell down and nearly vomited from the shock of having her tongue forcefully stuck to the roof of her mouth.

“How dare you touch Lucius’ daughter!” Ardra’s wand was out, and pointed directly at Narcissa’s chest.

“I will dare to do anything to save my marriage from a slag like yourself,” Narcissa droned quietly. McKee watched as her rail of a body relaxed into itself, and she noticed the woman had an actual slump as she walked. It was something she had not expected from a woman who lived in such a nice house.

“I trust I’m not interrupting anything important,” floated a smooth voice from the doorway.

Narcissa’s face went ashen. “Lucius, darling! A..Ardra,” it sounded like a belch, “has come to visit you with her bastard five-year-old. I thought Dobby should lead them out rather than disturb you; I thought it best to avoid ruining your appetite.”

He waved his wife’s comments off with his arm, his eyes falling on the round-faced, brown-haired woman of his past. “Good morning, Ardra.” McKee swore she saw a sparkle in the man’s eye. “Why would you feel the need to see me? I thought I made it clear…”

Her mother stepped toward Lucius, a painful grimace of rosey cheeks and tightly focused eyes sitting on her features. “Yes, Lucius, but I thought you should meet your daughter.”

“Why would I want that? I have a wife; I have a son.”

Ardra’s face transformed into a caricature of itself. Her eyes and lips fell into long lines. Her eyebrows danced a bit to far up her forehead. A red rim highlighted her irises and a pool of water reflected in the quiet firelight. “You have a daughter. Your daughter…our daughter? Don’t you care? How could you not?”

Suddenly, McKee was the center of attention in a room she wanted to disappear from immediately. The blond woman stared hatefully, obviously cursing the little girl’s existence. Her mother seemed to be trying to Imperius her into saying or doing something brilliant and talented. Lucius, she couldn’t look at with more than a flicker of a glimpse. His penetrating stare made her uncomfortable. She felt like her lunch was coming back up again.

“Ardra, my blood would look me in the eye without the pathetic look of that Pettigrew.”

“Who?...No, she’s yours! How could she be anyone else’s? You are the only one I’ve touched in years, and I know the night it happened,” she said with assurance in her rising tone.

“Do not talk about animal coupling in front of my wife.”

“But…what? You never loved her! You told me that! You said she was just a token-“

“Do not say another false word.” Thankfully, his gaze returned to the dark-haired woman to continue the conversation McKee didn’t understand. What happened? What night? Love? Mum loves someone? “I have performed the Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa, and I have no desire to kill myself over you.”

“You can’t have!”

“It’s time to stop living in the past. You have duped me. I will not let your childishness get in the way of my life again.”

“We had a child!” McKee noticed, around her mother, Narcissa was glowing with a twinkling smile. It looked a bit like a leer, even on her pretty face. “How is that childishness? How is that living in the past?”

“What is it you thought to accomplish by coming here? Do you want money?”

Ardra gasped, scandalized. “No I do not ‘want your money’! I thought you would want to meet the girl you created. She looks just like you-“

“She looks like she was dragged through pig droppings on the way through the fire.” McKee glowered at the man. She was quiet sure now that she didn’t like him, especially as Ardra now had tears flowing freely down her blotchy face. He happened to capture McKee in the precise moment of her determined hatred, and unwillingly, the corner of his mouth twisted upward.

“We had a bit of trouble on the way,” her mother blushed ashamedly, with a scornful frown thrown at her daughter. “She’s hotheaded and she fights all the other children.”

“What do I care, Ardra?”

“She doesn’t have to be a part of your life! She represents the love we share! I know you still love me. We can be together, and you’ll never have to see her if you do not want to!”

Somewhere in her chest, a pain flared. Did her mum just say she didn’t want her? It didn’t seem so. Still, she felt horrible and betrayed by her mother for a reason she couldn’t understand.

“You’ve come here to ply me with not seeing a daughter I didn’t create?”

“I’m not plying! I’m letting you do what you really want to do!”

“Enough!” screamed Narcissa from the forgotten part of the room. “Get out of my home! You’ve defiled the floors. The elves will need to scrub them for a month!” Ardra’s eyes pleaded with Lucius, sure he would come to her defense, but he merely crossed his arms and stared out the window in the back of the room.

“Lucius?”

“Get out!” Narcissa raised her wand at the bewildered mother.

“Expelliarmus,” Lucius incanted lazily.

“Filthy. Horrible. Scarlet woman!” Her white hair flew out behind her as she launched herself toward the woman, her arms outstretched. “If I ever see you again, I will pull out your innards and wrap them around your nasty little girl’s neck!” shrieked Narcissa, just before Ardra and McKee were shoved unceremoniously out of the room and around the corner.

“Dobby will see the Misses out. Yes. Dobby must not upset Mistress.” The little elf shuffled along behind them, his hands pushed firmly on the backs of Ardra’s knees. McKee hustled along just to keep up with his little green legs. The door opened on its own accord and the green hands pulled back. “Goodbye, Misses!” and the door slammed shut so violently, a tremor shook the ground beneath their feet.

“Mum…?”

“Not now. I do not want to hear a word at all.”

McKee looked back at the grand house for which she had such high hopes. Something bright white in the sunshine caught her eye, and she pulled back on her mother’s hand. Ardra pulled back with a quick jerk, mumbling something about ungrateful children. The white, flapping thing came right to her anyway, and McKee captured it in her tiny hand. It was a note, with a neat, tidy scrawl moving across it in straight lines.

Pocketing the note, which had turned back into normal parchment, she eyed her mother, determined to make the woman teach her how to write at once.

She would learn more about this man.

To Deny Duty

2007-04-20T18:09:37Z

Harry considers just giving it all up.

Training had drained the marrow from his bones. He hung his right arm over the opposite shoulder, hoping to pull the joint so hard that it would either wrench a shriek from his lungs or finally pop back into place. Either would have been a welcome relief. There were sores long embedded in his body. It was somehow joyful to prod one; to feel the nerves protest with a fiery burn.

He sat on his smooth, velvety quilt. It seemed ironic that he should sleep in such luxury, when he spent the rest of his day with the dirt and grime of the world. Spells, curses, hexes and charms flowed from his wand now, as rain. Determinately, they spit out from all- to all- directions. The manipulation of postures and poses was like the martial arts videos he’d loved in his former life. Oh, his former life. Had he really died?

A creak in the cartilage that had thinned over the years shot a grimace to his jaw and a crease in his brow. There was nothing to do about it. There were more important matters at hand, as they say. Removing his trainers had proven to be a task. His fingers were slick with a lubricating combination of bodily sweat and coagulated blood. His socks emitted the smell of fungus and unwashed, flaking skin. It rivaled the smell of ammonia.

There was something pleasing about looking at his own muscles, he noted. He’d removed a yellowed T-shirt, soaked through the armpits. There was something to be said for being fit, even if it meant you lost blood, or in some cases, your meal. Muscles bulged, but did not yield. They were hard; the most basic and literal meaning for the word ‘power.’ He could be nothing but. His mind had resigned to this fact long ago. His thick, cotton pants fell to the floor, as did his shorts.

He stood, interlocked his fingers, and stretched upward. It’s a shame that I should be stuck in a home with a ceiling. It so limits the possibilities. His body rocked upward, onto his toes. He stared up, willing to see through the glass he saw there. There are no options for life when everyone watches; expecting for you to fulfill their dreams for them. It was a bitter thought, but the edge had long since worn away.

A breeze swam in through the cracked glass panes. A falsely cheery sky stared at him like an unattainable mirage. The childish urge to say “shut up,” filtered through his mind, and got caught before it hit the outgoing post. He’d spent the day becoming increasingly parched; beads of liquid streaking, drying and staining his skin. Outside was evil. For now, the shower could be his god.

The water squeaked on. Wrenched from its happy slumber, it poured forth myriad tears. It was one of the greatest inventions Muggles had bothered with and he was grateful for it. For a moment, he wondered how far back in the pipe the water waited. If he never had need of it, would it be stuck, hiding just behind the bend of the shower head? Would it, too, be stuck for all eternity?

The water warmed and sprays of steam wet the curtain, or escaped through the clouded window. He tested the waters with one brave leg. It was a soldier on the front lines. The leg didn’t say that the hot fluid relaxed the tightened muscles. Finding the environment to be adequate, he slipped stealthily inside and pulled the curtain closed beside him.

He let it wash over him, like misery and angst had so many years back. He felt inhuman every waking moment. He harbored no solid, tangible memories of ever touching another person. Have I ever been so physically present? The useless musing distracted him momentarily, but his mind was not kind enough to forget. He didn’t feel human, because humans remembered what it was like to touch someone. They remembered what soft skin felt like. They remembered caring about anyone else. To him, there were only two people in the universe; him and Darkness.

He leaned forward to let the current careen into his face. Lately, he’d become a part of the darkness. At the forefront of his frontal lobe, was one thought only: he must die. It had made him into a monster he never used to believe in. He was a far cry from the older version of himself he’d idolized without remorse. Then, as he stood there, vulnerable to all, a striking thought peaked its head from a long-closed door in his mind.

Why don’t I just quit?

It was a dangerous thought. It would turn the world upside down. But why does it have to be that way? He’d never been able to simply leave. It wasn’t a difficult concept, just foreign. How do I leave? This is all I’ve known.

Just leave, repeated the child-like voice within. Those feet. They move.

He looked through his dripping coif. There they were, scarred and malformed as they had become. He’d given his life, his body, his soul, and his hope to this cause. Who would he be without battle? Would he continue to exist? Where would he go?

Anywhere. Anywhere I’ve ever thought of.

Visions of an isle drifted before his sight as if he were in a Muggle theater. There were lush green grasses of variety. Plunging cliffs and mighty stones shaped by artists of baser origins made up for lack of trees. Cobbled fences lined property- put up hundreds of years past. The land had no master, as none had yet tamed it. The people there reached a truce with the forces of Mother Nature. She would allow them to exist in a land shrouded in mists, so long as they served only her. Generations of servants continued to live up to the ancient vow.

Go.

His head rested against the decorated tiles. It was so simple, his desperation refused to recognize any complications. He could walk. He would put one foot in front of the other, and somehow, he would end up on the lovely isle. But what would I work for? What would I hope for? Why would I continue to live days on end?

I wouldn’t.

He was stopped cold in his thoughts. Suddenly, the ceramic and the tile were too frigid to the touch. He took one breath in. It didn’t come out right away. Instead, it lingered, filling every tiny cavity in his sensory organs. It was so much like the hope he thought he’d lost. Just a little. It holds on. It doesn’t die as we plead it to do, when our souls are weak, and our minds shut down in revolt. When the air burned within his lungs, he released it.

He imagined he could see the tiny bits of magic that so long resided in his cells; drifting with the steam out the window. Through the opening, he saw a bit of blue sky, smirking at him from its throne. Perhaps it hovers there, with such a pleasant smile, to force us to climb however we can. Only so that we might punch it in the face.

Harry winked at the stray, seeping rays of sunlight.

Unwitting Violation

2007-04-20T18:07:34Z

Response to SPEW007 prompt: regret. Kingsley has ventured to France for a vacation, but can't seem to shake his thoughts and inhibitions until he comes across a young street urchin.

Kingsley Shacklebolt skimmed his hand over the crown of his head and sighed. It seemed he’d been bald forever. When people asked, he often told them it was the only choice for a stylish man such as himself. The truth, however, was a bit more to the left. He’d lost his hair in an unfortunate Potions experiment, first year at Hogwarts. Still, he felt blessed to have a rather round skull.

He pumped the soap into his hands, glad to have finally been able to take a piss for the first time in years without checking over his shoulder. He ran his hands under the chilly water and gave himself a once-over in the mirror. No need to shave today, he decided. He was, after all, in France, where a goodly amount of hair on the body was a sign of manliness.

The tall man turned from the attached bathroom and returned to the closet of his hotel room. It felt almost strange to be back there, after all the difficult times they’d had in France during the war. His mind drifted to the witchhunt for Bellatrix Black. They had found out where she was holed up, suffering from gangrene. Blasted Death Eaters spend so much time killing people, and yet, have no idea how to even heal themselves. They had indeed reached her, but only found a carcass. Bellatrix had taken herself with the killing curse- as fierce and difficult a spell as one could possibly do to herself. Still, even the sympathetic, human part of Kingsley couldn’t bring himself to feel badly about Bellatrix’s anticlimactic end. She was one of the most monstrous witches he’d ever met, and if she hadn’t done it, he would have.

He heard a knock at his door and moved across the room in easy strides to answer. A quick pop of the lock, and Charlie Weasley was in his room, for all the world appearing like a Muggle film celebrity. “A bit overdressed, aren’t you, Charlie?”

“Mate, there is no such thing in Paris. And why, pray tell, are you still in a towel? I expressly told you to be dressed and ready to go at ten on the dot!” A playful grin crossed his face and Kingsley had to remind himself that he was not standing before a young boy of eleven any longer. Charlie had grown up.

“And since when to tadpoles order frogs about?” he said in his deepest, most intimidating voice, pulling his shoulders back. He expected an obliging backing-down, but instead, Charlie clapped him on the shoulder.

“Since tadpoles became better-versed in the ways of ladies.” The young Weasley gave him a wink and plopped himself on the double bed. He thumbed through the gentlemen’s magazine that was sitting there while Kingsley pulled a pair of pressed pants out of the closet. “How long will you be staying here?” he asked without looking up from the glossy pages.

“So long as it takes to get the images of death out of my mind.” He hooked his pants and located a dress shirt. “I don’t see why I have to dress like a Muggle. There are wizard establishments in Paris.” He eyed the young one.

It took a moment for Charlie to see the look in his eye, and pulled himself away from a particularly buxom witch on page nine. He sighed. “I…don’t really want to see wizards. They’re the reality. When I want to go back to talking about You-Know-Who, then I will go back to the wizarding pubs.”

Kingsley blinked and moved into the bathroom to continue buttoning his fuchsia dress shirt. Charlie hadn’t had an easy time during or after the war. He truly was a man of his occupation, and worked diligently to save the dragons he loved. Particularly, a Ridgeback named Norbert. Then, after sleeping around with local girls more than he would likely ever admit, he came to the Burrow to find Hermione. He’d been committed to saving her since that day. They’d married last year. Finally, now, after so much turmoil and throwing his life into others’, he seemed at peace. Still, every now and again…particularly now, Kingsley could see the pain and the escape the second-eldest Weasley still sought.

And it isn’t as if I shouldn’t try to take a mental holiday either.

Pictures of the destruction flashed into his mind, clouded through his eyes. There’d been so much blood. Some reports listed the casualties of the war, worldwide, at ten percent of the human population- Muggles and wizard-kind alike. Considering there were billions, this was an amazing percentage of people gone. Shacklebolt shook his head to clear it of thought.

“Let’s go,” said Charlie in a commanding voice. Kingsley turned from the mirror and raised an eyebrow at him, but let slip a sly smile. “Won’t your wife be upset you are going out?”

“Not at all. Hermione understands what her man wants.”

“She had plans too, didn’t she?” Kingsley broke out in one of his consuming, white grins.

Charlie hung his head in mock shame. “Yes, sir.” Both laughed, and after Kingsley slipped on a pair of black leather shoes, they were out the door.

They’d stopped in a pub initially, but found it too quiet for their liking, and left to find a disco. As soon as they stepped in, it was a cacophony of lights, mechanical music, screeching, bass beats and thumping floors. Kingsley felt immediately out of his realm, even though there were such places when he was younger as well. Still, he did enjoy what he could see through the blue and red haze. He found the bar in the middle of the packed floor, and ordered up a vodka on the rocks. He watched Charlie dance with a young, red-headed Muggle with a bad dye-job for a while, amused at the abandonment the music was allowing for Charlie.

Kingsley did enjoy a dance every once in a while, but not this type of flailing, disorganized contortion. A classic man, he preferred a waltz to a grind.

The drink had quite a bite to it, but after the first sips, it went down smoothly. His mind began to fuzz, and for the first time in a good many years, it didn’t make him wary. Soon, he was enjoying the music, and eyeing the ladies seated around the bar like pigeons, waiting for a bit of bread.

I always like to feed the birds.

A blond caught his attention from around the barkeep. Gulping down the rest of his drink, he stood and walked toward the girl. She couldn’t have been more than 21, but she would do for a bit of frolicking and light-heartedness. He moved beside her, asked for a scotch and flashed her a grin that felt a bit animal-like to him. She looked sidelong at him, and her mouth tweaked on the side. She smelled like gin.

“You are a beautiful girl.”

“Well, you are a handsome man,” she replied. Her voice was light and girlish, and it turned him on. “I haven’t seen you before. You’ve not been here long from England?”

“Am I that obvious?” he asked jokingly.

“The accent will reveal you every time.” She turned in her circular seat to face him. Cocking her head to the side, her hair fell to her right, revealing the sinuous lines of her neck. It had only a little peach color there. His eyes squinted at her appreciatively before he took a sip of his scotch.

“What reveals you?”

She grabbed his hand and loosely held it between her fingers before saying, “Gisellia. Is my name.” Her knees very subtly and alluringly touched his legs and she held them there in a gesture as old as mankind. Taking the hint, he leaned forward and placed his lips on her neck, suckling just a bit before pulling back. He looked down at her for her response. “Did I say you could kiss me?”

“Yes,” he laughed. God, this feels so good.

She stood from her stool, uncaring of what part of her body brushed his, and lead him to a somewhat unoccupied corner. In a flurry of motion, their lips met, tongues explored, and hands ravaged each other. It was unlike him to do this in public, but when in the midst of a heavy crowd, one always felt the thrill of anonymity. He felt his pants loosen at the waist, felt his zipper moving downward, and that’s when he pulled away. It was not fear of being caught. It certainly was not her, with her chest crushed against his…he could not describe the problem, but it was wrong. He shouldn’t have kissed her. When he told her so, she spat at him and shoved him off, reclaiming her seat at the bar in a huff.

He felt terrible for leading her on. He felt even more terrible for himself. Angry, he fixed himself, turned and stalked straight out of the disco, cursing himself for being somehow unable to perform every time he wanted to. He didn’t notice the stare Charlie left in his wake.

There certainly was not mechanical failure. Emotionally, however, he couldn’t bare it when it came down to the wire.

He shoved open the door, ignoring the protests from the bouncer and stomped onto the sidewalk. It was raining, and the fresh smell of water helped to ease his turmoil. Facing the sky, he allowed the water to wash into his eyes and cool his forehead. He nearly fell into the street, but was warned of his stupidity by a blaring horn from a passing car. Resolving to focus on the sidewalk instead, he headed in the direction of his hotel. Thus far, his first day in Paris was not turning out to be as carefree as he’d hoped, but it was better than it could have been. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he thanked God for Charlie for dragging him out. Perhaps he didn’t a bedmate, but in the least, he had someone to imagine while he was alone. Finally, he stood just outside his hotel.

A pair of black boots and the switch of a black hem caught his downcast eyes, but he was elbowed before he could even look up. Taken aback, he stared at the back of the girl- for surely it was. Long, black hair. Obviously, she was a witch, but there was something else about her that caught his eye. “Excuse me?”

“You are excused for taking up half the damn sidewalk,” the girl shouted back at him from all of a few steps apart.

He couldn’t believe the mouth on her! “You really ought to work on respecting others. You are not the only person who exists in this world.”

The girl sneered, pink lips looking like paint against white skin. “And I suppose you think you are too important to have to move for others?”

Kingsley’s eyes narrowed in thought. “You look familiar…have we met before?”

“I’m sure we haven’t. I would remember an ugly brute such as yourself.” Her posture said nothing kind about her. She wanted a fight. Curiously, Kingsley was perfectly fine with entertaining this. He moved toward her, and in answer, she stepped back.

“Afraid I will see your face?” he said dryly, knowing what will get a rise out of her.

“You’ve never met me!” she snapped back. “What the hell do you want from me?” Still, she was not moving. Through the rain it almost looked like…

Is she crying?

He thought about asking her that very question when the Auror part of his brain chimed in to announce that she would very likely turn and run. It seemed that part of him never took a vacation. And it was that part of him that suddenly wanted to see what was wrong with her, and to make her better despite her complete lack of charm. He did the only thing he could think of: breaking the space between them, he took one step forward and bent down to kiss her. One arm slid around her waist, the other around her upper back, and while she was stiff and unresponsive at first, soon she bent, her back sagged, and she cried into his mouth, gasping just once.

He pulled away for just a moment in order to slip his arm beneath her knees to lift her up, where she wept into his chest. She was light, and Kingsley privately wondered when the girl last ate. Her hair was disheveled in a way that had nothing to do with the rain. Her boots were scuffed and worn, with holes in the toe area on the left. He carried her up the entry steps, through the heavy front door and up to his room.

He set her down as he retrieved his room key, and when the door clicked open, he took her tiny, delicate hand and led her to the bed, where she dutifully sat, her eyes wide and numb. He knew what he was feeling when he went into the bathroom and took off his shirt. Whatever was not there with Gisella, was there with this street urchin. He took a bath towel off the peg and brought it to where the girl sat on the end of his bed. Holding either end, he wrapped it around her shoulders. She shivered strongly now, and his body responded on its own accord, pulling his own arms around her torso, squatting before her in his soaked dress pants.

Finally, she leaned forward, burying her face in his neck, and that was all the permission he needed. He kissed her then, long and luxuriously, pressing his lips lightly against hers in some sort of mutual comfort. His hands moved from her back to her shoulders to her neck as his lust slowly took over. She began to scoot further back on the bed, taking him with her. He felt like a huge beast on top of a small body, and was constantly careful to not crush her. He pulled his face back and watched her features as he carefully, slowly undid the clasps on her robes. Slipping one side off her shoulders, he found a simple t-shirt and blue jeans beneath- something Muggle-borns often did.

His fingertips found her abdomen, and they stroked there for a moment before climbing higher on her torso. His mouth her neck and began to offer small licks and kisses there. A loud sob wracked her whole body, and it made him need to comfort her more. Somewhere behind his lust, he wondered how he knew this girl, but the thought was quickly quieted. After a sniffle, she reached down to unbutton and release her legs of the binding fabric of her pants.

Her skin was soft, if wet. Though her salty tears continually fell upon his rented bed, her hands found his chest and skimmed his own dark skin with her own form of lust. His hand gripped her backside and brought her hips against his. Perhaps he was imagining it, but he imagined he heard a response from her.

His hunger growing strong now, he finally removed his remaining garments. Looking at her again, he held her hands, light in the darkness of the room. Pulling them above her head, he positioned himself between her legs and lost himself in her unending sorrow.

Kingsley awoke in the morning feeling incredibly rested. For the first time, he truly felt like he was on vacation. He turned to whatever kind of angel lay beside him who released him from his sexual demon. Her head was turned away from him. Her eyes were open- he could see her eyelashes move with each blink. She looked even more ill, set against the white of his sheets. His hand crept to her shoulder, but she jerked it away and sat up, attempting to hide her body from his eyes.

“Turn away!” she ordered as she stood. He did as he was told, utterly oblivious as to why she was behaving so angrily. He heard the scuffle and zip of the blue jeans, and the light tink of her robes being clasped back together. He sat up in the bed and watched her as she struggled with her boots. In the morning light, he saw that her hair was brown, not black. It hung toward the floor as she struggled with her footwear. When she managed to get on the other boot as well, she set her glare upon him. “You are a repulsive, disgusting creature, and I hope you burn in hell,” she growled at him.

Suddenly, it occurred to him: White dress. ‘Giant’. Bill…wedding. McKee.

She must have seen something in his eyes then that frightened her, because she whipped around and was at the door before Kingsley could blink. Shit! Unfortunately, just then, the door opened.

“Just wondering what happened to you last….” Charlie began. He fell silent as he spotted the girl at the door. His eyes grew wide. “Bill!” he shouted in instant shock.

She leaped at him at that. “You say one fecking word, and I will gut you until you bleed out of every orifice!” With that, McKee…who had supposedly died several months before, shoved Charlie aside and ran full blast down the hall, out of the hotel, and out of their lives.

Charlie’s eyes, betrayed beyond measure, bore into Kingsley’s, and he’d never felt more defeated. Shit…What have I done?

What She Was

2007-04-20T18:05:24Z

Post WWIII, Charlie returns home for Christmas and finds at least one person who has changed. Hermione/Charlie.

“Charlie Weasley, don’t you ever stay gone so long!” Mrs. Weasley screeched at her son in mock anger as he entered the Burrow, the swish of the wind sounding at his back. “With this horrendous blizzard…” she chattered on while taking his coat and other outerwear.

The place had changed over the years. During the war, it had been ravaged by a band of Death Eaters who were sure it was the meeting place of the Order of the Phoenix. They were wrong, of course, but ruined many items that were passed through the Weasley generations in their maniacal ignorance. He’d seen the scorch marks on the walls, the blasted bits of glass, and the pages of ancient books strewn about the floor. Now, however, there only lingered a distinct smell that managed to creep its way even through the delicious scent of his mother’s roast. It was an intoxicating, insidious scent. It was the smell of remaining torment. The stain of malicious intent.

Perhaps it was all in his head, though. The place seemed to be cheerful enough for its occupants. There were twinkling lights everywhere — the product of participatory fairies, he supposed. Gifts wrapped in heavy, red, glittering paper could be seen lurking just under the stairs. They would be for him. The wood all around had a warm hue, as if tiny, unburning fires resided in the very grain. He unthinkingly kicked some of the slush he’d brought on his clothing out the door, and managed to close up the threshold just before his mother smothered him in an overly excited embrace. He returned it eagerly.

There was not much affection to be had in Romania, among the treacherous dragons. They worked from dawn until the bright disc in the sky decided to hang low for the night. They took few breaks, as the dragons did not rest nearly as much as was portrayed in literature. Silly Muggles. They certainly did not know much about dragons. The glorified lizards were rough, unforgiving creatures. Wizards like Charlie trained them for games, and served as, essentially, babysitters for the giant reptiles. Otherwise, they would have been running about the world unfettered, virtually indestructible. One had to know the right touch . . . their weak spots.

“I don’t exactly plan on staying away for so long, Mum. I’ve got a job to do . . .”

“I know, darling, I know,” she said with a moist shine in her eye. “You’ve got adult responsibilities now — “

“ — And have for many years, Mum.” Charlie rolled his eyes. Every time he returned to his childhood home, his mother behaved as if he’d just run in from playing in the mud. He supposed he always knew this about Molly Weasley, and he hated it as equally as he craved it.

Just then, young Hermione padded softly into the sitting room. Her eyes caught his and she gave him a weak smile. “Hello, Charlie.”

“Oh, Hermione, dear. Would you please get Charlie some hot tea? It’s so dreadfully chilly out there —“

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley,” she said and returned to the kitchen.

“Mum, I can get my own tea,” he protested quietly. With a sigh, he continued, “You’ve had a busy day. Why don’t you go on to bed?”

“Yes, that does sound wonderful. I’ve spent so much time wrapping gifts and —“

“I know, Mum.” Charlie gave her a warm kiss on the cheek.

“You’ll get me if you —“

“No, I won’t. But if you go to bed, I’ll say yes.”

She chuckled lightly and kissed his cheek. “You’re too tanned, you know,” she said before walking to the lowest stair.

He shook his head. “It’s not a tan, Mum, it’s the Weasley freckles.”

She only grinned back at him before taking each step more warily than the next. It was all show, of course. His mother used quite a bit of magic, and while it could be mentally draining, the simple tasks she normally performed weren’t physically draining. She liked to pretend and play the part of the old grandmother, tired from life and needing much help. Not that she hadn’t had a rough several years, what with Harry . . .

He exhaled loudly and flopped down on the couch as Hermione reentered the room with two mugs of tea, the steam curling in front of her face and evaporating into her hair. “A bit rough-looking, Hermione. Are you all right?”

Charlie was one always given to stating the obvious, for better or worse. She frowned as she handed him his drink, but didn’t complain otherwise. She pulled the long, unkempt hair back from her face and embraced her mug with both hands, seemingly drinking in the scent with her eyes closed. She would have looked rather sweet and natural there, if there weren’t large black circles plastered just under her eyes. “Life’s been better,” she murmured.

“What’s been keeping you up at night?” His freckled arm rested lengthwise along the back of the sofa and he faced her in effort to get her to open up. He remembered the many nights when he would lie awake and wonder what he could have done to change things . . . things that had hurt him . . . ways he’d hurt others. The Burrow itself brought up many wonderful memories, yes. However, there were more poignant ones lurking in the shadows of his mind. He’d never been the Weasley Golden Boy like Bill…

“That’s a very frank question, don’t you think?” she countered.

“Yes, it is. But I’ve just come off a long journey from a place where the magical folk prefer to emit gasses and drink Firewiskey than talk to someone who obviously needs to talk.”

“I wouldn’t say I need to.”

“How about I talk first, and then you talk. Magically binding contract?” She grinned wryly at him and reluctantly shook his hand. “Now, where to begin?”

“Why have you taken so long in coming to visit your family?”

“During the war, You-Know-Who was attempting to use dragons for his cause. He’d concussed many of them . . . others,” he shook his head sadly, “he managed to train. Those were the ones that burned homes in York and Liverpool. They were used to target Muggle populations.”

“How terrible! I thought they’d set fire themselves, not used defenseless creatures to do their dirty work!”

“Well, they’re not defenseless,” he chuckled. “If you ever have to treat the fungus that grows under the scales of ill dragons, you’d never think twice that they weren’t as dangerous on their deathbeds as they are while they’re healthy. Still, when You-Know-Who wants something, he’ll stop at nothing to get it. His idiot Death Eaters didn’t even know how to handle them properly. Many dragons are mentally addled. Others were slain; we had to collect what we could from those because many parts of a dragon can be used for dark magic. Others — and this has been taking up most of our time — had to be retrained to be around humans. Mind, they always blow fire and gnash a bit, but really, they’re good creatures. They just have very strong instincts.”

Charlie always purposely spoke with a jolly tone, especially when talking about something that disturbed him. The dragons were, in fact, abused greatly. He’d dedicated his life to helping these creatures and training them, and the Death Eaters came around only to unravel all his hard work. Most had great, bloody gashes across their flanks and necks. All of the female dragons’ eggs had been smashed before their eyes in order to crush their spirits. Some eyes had yellowed. Some dragons’ fire-breath had been dwindled to hot ash.

One, Newbriar - a Chinese Fireball that had come to him as a tiny, angry, baby dragon — hadn’t been able to walk when they rescued him from a Death Eater compound. It had torn him up. Charlie hadn’t had a family since leaving The Burrow so many years ago, and so, he’d adopted Newbriar as a sort of child. He’d spent many nights sitting up, watching the Chinese Fireball with an eagle-eye just to make sure he didn’t pass away in the shadows of the night.

Hermione seemed to sense his underlying tension and responded kindly, “I’m sorry for your dragons.” She took a sip of her tea and looked him in the eye over the top of the rim.

“It’s all right,” he said, inspecting the fabric of the sofa and picking at the frays. “Your turn.”

“I’ve been having nightmares.”

Charlie laughed aloud at that. “Surely you didn’t think you could get away with just that?”

She grimaced and took a long dreg before continuing. “Well … everyone knows why I’m here. Mrs. Weasley used to pity me quite a bit, and that bothered me, but now she’s behaving as if I’m her maid —“

“Why are you staying here? You’ve gone off and done some jobs for Gringotts. The commissions can’t be that bad.”

“I can’t be alone.” She daren’t lift her eyes and see that inevitable tweak in his face. “I was with Ron. We’d been together for some time. But somewhere along the line, we grew apart. He just realized it before me. Now… I feel trapped, because this is the only family I have left, but I want to leave. I don’t belong here.”

“No one belongs anywhere. It’s like it’s a part of being alive. You live, knowing full well you’ll never fully be a part of anything around you.”

“It’s not fair,” her toes wiggled in the cold air and Charlie levitated a log into the fire that was crackling intermittently. “I feel like I’ve been chasing something … special, something different all my life. I never felt like I was really friends with Harry and Ron. We were always fighting at different times. It only really seemed peaceful when we were…fighting a common enemy, I suppose. That ended last year when Harry defeated Voldemort. Then, it was like my life fell apart. A part of me wishes Voldemort would have won, so we could keep fighting. But then … Oh, I don’t know.”

“If You-Know-Who had won, I think your parents would have had an even more difficult time accepting you than they did already.”

He could tell this hit her hard. Hermione had had a rough time immediately after the final battle. She’d finally balled up enough courage to tell her parents the intimate details of her years at Hogwarts, and they heard far more than they were ready for. They’d bellowed at her about rule-breaking, and willingly putting her neck on the line for wizards who could hold their own with their magic’. What horrified them more than anything, was that their daughter could and did perform a killing curse. They saw her as a killer, and cut her out of their lives. She was a frantic, sobbing mess when the Weasleys found her on their doorstep.

“They thought magic was so wonderful in the beginning…” she thought aloud. Hermione rested her cheek against the back of the sofa. “I had to do it,” she said as a tear rolled down her face, and Charlie knew without asking to what she was referring.

Charlie moved closer to her and allowed her to adjust herself so she could rest on his shoulder, never looking at him. A little tension left her shoulders with the simple offer of human contact…human embrace. How long had it been since Ron took care of her?

“I didn’t know how I would manage — the battling - at first. It was suddenly upon me, and I knew it was the only way. They fear death, after all . . . it made so much sense. And now . . . now I’m a criminal among my own family.”

“You’re not a criminal. You were fighting for your life as much as anyone else’s. Your parents didn’t understand the depth of the war. They didn’t see the danger there. They never felt it.” His shirt was now wet; he could feel her tears through the cloth. He rested his chin on her head, red freckles transposed against her brown, messy hair. “And as for Ron, you two just weren’t meant to be. You’ll find someone new.”

“I know. But it seems so far away. Everything is so far away.”

“Not me. I’m right here,” he half-joked.

She sniffed before attempting her own jest. “Are you going to take me away to your land of dragons then?” she asked sarcastically.

“I could …” When she curiously looked up, he grinned at her.

“You’re serious?”

“If I can help, why shouldn’t I?”

She was silent for a moment, snuggling closely to Charlie. He thought about whether he’d managed to wash his jumper before putting it on that morning. He wondered if a bit of dragon dung scent had clung to his hair. He worried about quite a bit while she mulled over his offer, handed to her on an off beat.

“What about my parents?”

“When you have no family, you make one.”

“With you?” she replied quickly.

“With me? I dunno . . .” He’d panicked at her serious tone. Underneath it all, he just realized he’d all but proposed to her, and she was seriously considering it. Considering him. All of a sudden, coming home for Christmas seemed a bad idea. He was taking advantage of her. True, she and Ron had broken up well over six months ago. And she didn’t entirely seem bothered at her available status so much as her loneliness.

The image of the shacks built specifically for married Dragon Handlers floated into his mind. Somewhere inside, he imagined Hermione sipping her tea by the window and grinning as he stepped over the threshold looking like hell. He imagined them coming back to The Burrow together next Christmas and confronting beaming smiles and congratulations…

“Eh, you know … I was just joking with you.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Well, not that I wouldn’t let you come if you need some time away —“

“Yes, Charlie.”

She smiled then, and it made his lungs burn … or his heart beat fast; he couldn’t tell which at this moment. “Yes?” His eyes lit up and he felt completely stupid, but didn’t care. They were looking at each other, and suddenly he felt a sense of obligation toward Hermione. She looked terrible right now. Her hair was bushing up at odd places, her eyes were dark, and she was clothed in some Muggle outfit that did nothing for her figure. He didn’t care that she didn’t look her best. All he cared about was turning her into the woman she was before.

He would always make her smile like that.

“When are we going?” He felt a small thrill at the word ‘we’.

“Well, Mum will be horrible if we leave tomorrow. So we’ll leave the day after. Sound good?”

“It all sounds perfect,” she blinked sleepily at him. In a smooth movement, she lifted and kissed him lightly on the underside of his jaw. “What will you tell them?”

“That you’ll explain everything in a letter,” he smirked, shirking any responsibility in the escape of Hermione Granger.

She made some movement with her eyes that he couldn’t quite see, and settled more comfortably into the soft nook his torso and arm provided. Soon, she was breathing in slow, steady breaths. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. He didn’t want to wipe at the sparkling tear streaks that remained on her skin for fear of disturbing this pocket of peace that he stumbled into.

I will love you some day, Hermione.

Masterlist of Harry Potter Fan Fiction

2007-04-20T18:01:55Z

This is for posterity.

All's Fair- 24 Chapters
Away from Midnight- 4 chapters- work in progress

Beautiful Slumbler- one shot
Devil's Advocate- one shot
Disregard for Safety- one shot
Dragons in Fact and Spirit- 1 chapter- work in progress
First Smile- one shot
Gravity- one shot
Life of the Legend- A Year Six Story- 43 chapters
Lily's Eyes- one shot
McKee's Betrayal- one shot
Meeting Nott- one shot
Purgatory- one shot
The Faces Unforgotten- one shot
The Impure Pureblood- one shot
The Meeting- one shot
To Deny Duty- one shot
Unwitting Violation- one shot
What She Was- one shot

New Community for The Red Chair!

2007-04-17T23:13:31Z

Please visit my new community here:

http://community.livejournal.com/the_redchair/

It's another way to get involved in a way that you pretty much already are!