Awakenings
Chapter-9 — Sanctuary Surrendered
By Lady Alchymia
"Harry!" called a man, shaking him. "Harry, look at me!"
Sitting bolt upright, Harry whacked someone’s head with his own then collapsed into his pillows, shielding his eyes against the too bright light. He could still hear screaming, but it wasn’t him. He felt utterly disoriented. He blinked upwards and found Remus’s blurry face.
"Who — who’s screaming?" he rasped.
"It’s just Mrs Black. You were having a nightmare."
Cold with sweat, Harry knew it was no ordinary nightmare — that demon looked horribly familiar. Figures were silhouetted in his doorway, and one electric-blue eye.
"Just hold still," Remus murmured. He sent the guests away, reassuring them Harry was fine. Closing the door, he returned to Harry and felt his forehead. "Can you tell me what happened? Did you have a vision? Is it Voldemort? Are you in pain?"
Harry was barely listening. His earlier demons were all versions of himself, but this one was black — not to mention female — and this time he was the victim. Harry’s mortification escalated; was all this fuss just because he was jealous of George and Cho? He was just so sick and tired of his subconscious messing with his head.
"What? Sorry — not a vision, just a dream," he said, feeling foolish. "Sorry I woke everyone up. What time is it?"
"Bit after one. I don’t think too many people were asleep yet," Remus said, though Harry didn’t find that particularly reassuring. Had the girls heard him screaming? Had Cho?
Remus looked just as worried, though possibly not for the same reasons as Harry. He left to fetch a sleeping draught, and Harry felt a fresh dose of terror when he realised that the photos of the girls getting undressed were strewn all over the floor! Had Remus seen them? Harry leapt out of bed, scrambling to pick them up and shove them under the sheets before Remus came back. He only just made it. Accepting the potion, he drank it down in one long swig. The last thing he saw as sleep claimed him was his guardian’s anxious face.
******
Next morning, Harry blearily opened his eyes then groaned and shut them again against the morning light. Rolling onto his back, he stretched out under the covers, trying fruitlessly to fall back to sleep, then tensed; someone was in the room.
"Remus?" mumbled Harry. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and swallowed down a stale taste in his mouth.
"Morning," said Remus, rising from his wingchair. He offered Harry a slight smile and a hot cup of tea. "I can’t believe how fast your hair has grown back."
Harry felt his hair; it grew quick, but not usually this quick, then he remembered all the fuss he’d caused the night before. Sitting up he realised there were photos stuck to his legs under the sheets. He really didn’t want to know who was looking at what down there. Reaching for his glasses, he assembled his best innocent expression and meekly accepted his tea. Remus sat quietly on the edge of the bed — for a little while — before asking about his nightmare.
"You cried out a name …" he said leadingly.
"We really need to stick a Dumber on my room," muttered Harry.
"Does Megaera ring any bells?" prompted Remus. "A friend of yours?"
"No," Harry said quickly. "I mean I dunno — sometimes I just get bad dreams."
"Megaera’s the name of an ancient and unforgiving justice demon," Remus offered helpfully; he’d clearly been thinking about this all night. "Maybe you read about her some place?"
"Yeah, maybe," Harry conceded. He didn’t think so, but he’d seen a lot of weird things in the library, looking for answers about death.
"Megaera is known as The Jealous Fury," Remus continued thoughtfully. "According to the myth, she and her sisters are inspired by righteous fury to punish wrongdoers."
Heat flushed Harry’s cheeks; he had a fair idea what inspired his latest demon.
"Do you mind if we talk about something else?" he mumbled.
"I was chatting with Anthony and Hermione last night," Remus remarked casually. "They said something about preparatory NEWT essays needing to be done over the summer. Perhaps we could talk about that?"
Harry’s lips twisted into a crooked smile, and he kicked at Remus from under the blankets that had somehow found their way back onto his bed. "It’s just — last night I was feeling a bit — I was kind of upset, and I didn’t clear my head, and it just sort of spilled over into my dreams. It’s nothing — it’s stupid. I don’t want to bother you with this stuff."
Remus set down his coffee cup. "Bother me," he insisted earnestly. "That’s what I’m here for. You’re not alone, Harry."
Harry felt his face grow even warmer. "I know — it’s just — I mean it’s kind of personal ..."
"Oh," said Remus, pulling back, abashed, "right." He pulled back and was silent a moment. "Do you think you could talk to Bill?"
"Sure," Harry said blankly — anything to get off the topic.
Remus nodded with relief and allowed the conversation to shift towards small-talk about the party.
"So, you and Hestia ...?" Harry said leadingly.
Remus’s eyes narrowed. "What about me and Hestia?"
"Don’t you glare at me," Harry said, smirking, "I saw you two on the dance floor — very cosy."
"Time to meet the day, I think," Remus decided.
Harry grinned up at his guardian, knowing he’d touched a nerve. "Why don’t you go back to bed? I can get breakfast sorted."
Remus regarded him appraisingly. "Are you sure you’re up to it?"
"I’m perfectly fine!" Harry said indignantly, waving him away. "Quit fussing and go back to bed!"
After dressing in jeans and a green, rune-decorated T-shirt, Harry refilled Hedwig’s water then peered inside his python’s basket.
"Morning, Frank," he offered tentatively. Frank opened one misty blue eye, lifted his head and turned away. Harry felt a twinge of remorse. "Sorry about last night. I’ll bring you some tuna later, shall I?"
Frank’s tail gave the tiniest flicker of acknowledgment. Harry figured that was probably the best he was going to get. He was almost out the door when he heard a distant voice call out.
"A little lemon would be lovely!"
******
Black House was deadly quiet except for Mad-Eye, who was heading out for yet another patrol. Down in the kitchen, feeling oddly full of energy, Harry decided everyone could eat quiche! He tied on a chef’s apron and was soon kneading huge mounds of dough into his black granite countertop. By the time Remus and Mrs Weasley came down, Harry had two quiches in the oven and several more ready to go. Mrs Weasley looked around in bewilderment at all the tasty-looking dishes.
"Are you feeling well, dear?" she asked, checking Harry’s forehead. Harry assured the woman he was fine.
"It’s all sorted down here; why don’t you go back to bed?" he suggested. "I’ll send your breakfast up when the quiche is ready."
Mrs Weasley squinted blearily around the empty room.
"Oh, if you think that’s best," she said, stifling a yawn. "Maybe a little lie in would be just the ticket. All that dancing last night ... haven’t done that in years. Didn’t you have a haircut yesterday?"
Harry shooed the woman from his kitchen and sent Remus for more supplies. "We need more eggs, bacon, bread — maybe some croissants."
Remus bent down and eyed the quiches in the oven. "Okay, but I want some of that mushroom one when I get back."
"Yes, Moony," Harry agreed, waving him off as well.
Remus had not been gone long when a flock of Ravenclaws swooped into the kitchen: Padma, Terry, Anthony, and Michael.
"Morning!" Harry greeted them cheerfully as they came up to the counter. The guests eyed each other warily before mumbling their good mornings.
"What happened to your hair?" asked Padma.
"It just grows really quickly," Harry said, turning sizzling bacon.
"You seem awfully jolly after last night ..." remarked Anthony.
Harry’s face fell. "Oh that. Yeah — sorry about that. Hope I didn’t wake you."
"Not at all," said Terry.
"Made getting to sleep a bit hard," Padma admitted, adding leadingly, "not knowing if You-Know-Who was up to something."
"Look, it wasn’t Voldemort," Harry assured them. "Nothing to worry about — just an ordinary nightmare."
"I don’t imagine there’s anything ordinary about your nightmares," Anthony insisted, shaking his head.
"Did you notice that painting of the old woman downstairs went off first?" Terry said to his housemates.
"Yeah, and then Potter starts screaming," Anthony noted.
"Portraits have scraps of old souls in them," mused Michael. "Maybe she felt something."
"Or someone," Terry noted meaningfully. He mouthed ‘You-Know-Who’ to the others, who all nodded wisely.
"Look, just drop it, all right?" Harry muttered. That was all he needed: more conjecture about what was happening inside his warped little mind.
"And then he called out a word — what was it?" Terry continued as if Harry had not spoken.
"Megaera," Michael said, squinting. "You know, that name sounds familiar …"
"She’s just a girl I know," Harry lied, shoving a plate of sausages at him. "Sit," he ordered, waving them off.
Yanking two quiches from the oven, Harry slid the next batch in just as Susan and Hannah wandered into the kitchen, calling out their good mornings. Then Hannah saw Harry.
"Oh no!" she cried. "What happened to your hair?"
Harry rolled his eyes, growing impatient with all the questions. "I said it’d grow back."
"I didn’t think you meant straight away!"
Harry smirked. "Did I forget to mention that?"
"It’s almost as long as it was before Lavender touched it!"
"What did I do?" Lavender said, walking into the room with a group of fellow Gryffindors. She shrieked in horror, "What happened to your hair?"
She rushed to the stove and yanked at Harry’s jet-black locks.
"Stop that!" Harry laughed, ducking and raising his spatula in warning.
"Apparently," Hannah grumbled, throwing her hands up in disgust, "it grows back the very next day!"
"You mean to say," Lavender checked incredulously, "I could cut your hair every day, and it would just grow back again — straight away?"
"Whoa, hang on!" Harry cried, backing away as Lavender, a maniacal gleam in her eye, reached for the kitchen scissors.
Laughing, Harry and Lavender circled each other. Stools flew as Harry vaulted the floury bench-top, only to be set upon by Hannah on the other side. The guests laughed and cheered the chase. Harry thought he was quick on his feet, but Hannah managed to out-dodge him. Ably assisted by Neville and Seamus, Hannah and Lavender finally pinned Harry down in a far corner. Lavender raised the scissors in triumph and Hannah grinned wickedly at the boy-who-so-needed-another-haircut.
"Gotcha!" declared Hannah victoriously, laughing and patting his cheek. "You should see your face!"
Lavender pushed off Harry’s chest and strolled casually away.
"I mean, really," she sniffed, holding up the chunky kitchen scissors disdainfully, "as if I would ever use these things on someone’s hair."
The room was still applauding when Remus Apparated back into the kitchen with groceries in both hands and the Sunday Prophet tucked under one arm. Bemused, he glanced around at the upturned chairs then spied Harry on the floor in a corner (still armed with his spatula) grinning back at him.
"Oooh, Sunday papers!" Lavender squealed in delight. "Are you done with the Good Witchly Weekend Supplement?"
Remus raised his arm a little for Lavender to extricate the Sunday Prophet and watched with dismay as his thick paper thinned from people grabbing sporting sections, comics, and classifieds. Harry scavenged what was left and handed it to him.
"Why don’t you go down to the library?" he suggested soothingly, relieving the man of his shopping bags. "I’ll make a tray for you."
"Mushroom quiche," Remus reminded Harry as he let himself be nudged out the door, "and a couple of croissants!"
"Yes, Remus," Harry said, waving him off. He busied himself making up a tray for his guardian whilst half-listening to the happy banter around the table.
"Mornin’, all!" Oliver called out cheerfully. He spotted Harry and frowned with concern. "Feeling okay, laddie?" he said, his frown deepening. "And what happened to your hair?" He felt the length of his own, just to be sure. Harry let out a pitiful groan and the table burst out laughing.
"He’s fine, it was just a bad dream," grinned Michael.
"Nothing to do with You-Know-Who," declared Terry.
"His hair just grows fast!" finished Anthony.
"Right ..." Oliver said dubiously, looking back to Harry, "are you sure you’re okay?"
Before Harry could repeat for the nth time he was fine, Seamus piped up.
"So, Harry, were you sweatin’ and thrashin’ around in your bed?"
"No," said Harry through gritted teeth. He picked up Remus’s tray and headed towards the door.
"Did you throw up?" asked Dean.
"No."
"Was someone able to wake you?" checked Neville.
"Yes."
"Yeah, he’s fine ..." said Seamus dismissively, tucking into another sausage.
After delivering Remus’s breakfast, Harry dutifully made up Frank’s tuna, making sure to add a wedge of lemon.
"Harry!" exclaimed Lavender. "You have got to see this!"
Harry groaned. Someone from the Prophet had photographed him and Natalie holding hands in front of the joke shop. A second photo showed them kissing goodbye. It was only on the cheek, but the angle made it look like a lot more was going on. A third photo showed Harry and Cho, her hand pushing playfully against his chest, whilst Natalie looked on, her brow creased. The last photo showed Harry and Natalie in front of Ollivander’s wand shop with Natalie looking upset and Harry looking decidedly uncomfortable. Already annoyed, Harry read the accompanying article and swore furiously. Calls of, "Show me!" erupted around the table, but Lavender held the article out of reach.
"Very pretty," she observed impishly then read out the accompanying text for the whole room, much to Harry’s chagrin.
THE BOY WHO LOVED AND LOST!
By Livy.
Harry Potter (hasn’t he grown!) and girlfriend Miss Natalie Ramsay break up after a lovers’ spat. Sources close to the couple say they used to be inseparable, but Mr Potter just couldn’t resist flirting with other girls. Quite a harem he has there! The blonde stunner and young Mr Potter enjoyed a cosy interlude out shopping, and all was just peachy for Natalie until a coven of lovely young witches caught Mr Potter’s roving eye. Then it’s bye-bye, Natalie! Pity the next young lovely who falls for the charms of the Boy-Who-Lived. Let’s hope she’s not the jealous type!
Over much sniggering and laughter around the table, Lavender grinned evilly and said, "Oooh, Cho’s just gonna love this."
"Cho’s gonna love what?" said the lady herself, smiling as she strolled into the kitchen.
Lavender slammed the newspaper shut. The laughter stopped immediately. Everyone looked like children caught with their fingers in the lolly jar. Cho ambled around the table towards Harry.
"You grew it back for me!" she cried gleefully, running her fingers through his hair.
"Yes!" Lavender said. "I was just saying you’d love that. You know — all messy and all ..."
Harry slid his arms around Cho and twirled her around and around, stopping only when her back was to the table. Cho laughed inside Harry’s arms and kissed him full on the lips, the previous evening’s tension forgotten. Anthony made a grab for the paper.
"Anyone mind if I do the crossword?" he called out.
Harry gave Anthony a minute nod of thanks over Cho’s shoulder. Despite the article being a pack of lies, Harry knew Cho would explode if she saw it. And it wasn’t just Cho he was worried about; he didn’t know if they got the Prophet in Canada. What if Natalie thought he was making up stories about her? Tugging Cho away from the table, he grabbed Frank’s breakfast and thrust it towards her.
"Do me a favour and take this up for my snake? I’ll have your breakfast ready when you come back down."
A look of disdain flitted across Cho’s face, but she accepted the chore. As soon as she was gone, Harry flew down the table, skidding to a stop behind Anthony.
"Where is it?" he demanded crossly.
Anthony tried to find it again. Harry ripped the whole supplement from his hands and strode down the room to set it alight on the kitchen stove. Two seconds later, he was yelping in pain after burning his fingers because he was watching the door instead of what he was doing. Swearing black and blue, he shoved his hand under a running tap. Ron leapt to the rescue, swatting at the fire with a tea-towel. He succeeded in setting alight a box of napkins. Viktor, happily munching on a fat slice of quiche, casually shot a jet of water across the counter, dousing both the flames and quite a bit of Ron Weasley. Hermione crawled through Harry’s legs to retrieve the first-aid kit from under the sink.
"Well, that was a stupid thing to do," she observed, puffing as she stood up again. "Lucky Viktor was here."
"Just because he’s got a wand," Ron muttered irritably. "What’s so lucky about that?"
Harry held up two fingers. "In pain here," he said testily.
Hermione was already squeezing orange goo from a tube of Brandon’s Burn Quenching Cream. Applying it to Harry’s fingers, she stifled a giggle at the way Viktor was making puddles of water evaporate into clouds and rain on Ron. Ron stormed off to change; the clouds chased after him. Harry tried flexing his fingers. The sharpest pain receded immediately, leaving a general stinging that faded more slowly.
"All better now?" Hermione said kindly. "Come on — go sit down and eat something. The quiche is really good."
The show over, the room bubbled over once more with chatter, the hottest topic being the big game to be held that afternoon between Oliver’s old Gryffindor side and a mixed team of members and teens led by Viktor. Harry still felt very hard done by. He squeezed into a spot at the end of the table between Susan and Michael and stabbed his fork into a plate of sausages.
"How are your fingers?" Susan asked at once.
"Fine," Harry said grumpily.
"So," Michael started delicately, "you broke up with that Natalie —"
"No," Harry cut in crankily. "We were never even going out."
Zacharias snorted a laugh. "Sure looked that way to me."
"Well, we weren’t," Harry said shortly, savaging a mouthful of sausage. "I was just showing her around. Why do they have to keep making up such stupid rubbish about me?!"
"You sell papers," Susan said frankly.
"Maybe you should buy shares in the Prophet," Anthony suggested, ever practical. Susan shot him a withering glare.
"It’ll be okay," she said to Harry. "It’s obvious you’re crazy about Cho; she’s got to know that. She’s not going to believe a gossip rag."
Michael gave that the delicate cough of disbelief it deserved.
"You know she’ll see that article eventually," he said to Harry. Harry did. He finished one sausage, then another, tasting nothing, brooding.
"I’m gonna tell her," he said, pushing back from the table; he was sick of playing games. He tried not to look too pleased at the proud smile Susan gave him.
Upstairs, he could hear Cho and Mirabella in his bathroom, having a good giggle over something. Harry had a shrewd idea it was him. He had to tell her, that was all there was to it. Just get it over with. Just sit her down and tell her.
"Got a minute?" he said, leaning into the bathroom doorway.
Cho smiled and let Harry lead her over to his wingchairs to talk properly; there were a good many things Harry wanted to get straight with the girl. Sitting down, he steeled himself for battle. Cho countered that by climbing onto his lap, which Harry considered deeply unfair. Every sensible word in his head flew out the window.
When the lad failed to make a sound, Cho pressed closer and whispered in his ear, "Everything okay?"
Her lips slid across his cheek. Harry’s head tried to say no, but his lips rebelled, finding themselves a little too busy to talk right now, thank you very much. Just tell her, urged an extremely annoying voice in the back of his head.
"Cho," said Harry determinedly, pulling back, "there’s something I need to tell you." Cho nodded curiously. Harry moistened his lips. "In the paper this morning — there was this stupid gossip thing about us."
Cho looked surprised. "Us? Where’s the article?"
"I was so angry, I burned it," said Harry. "They had photos from Diagon Alley. With you and me and Natalie. They made up all this rubbish about us." Cho started to say something, but Harry pressed on, wanting to get it all out. "They said I dumped Natalie, but I was never even going out with her. The paper made out we were having some big romance, and I dumped her because you’re the one I really want. Which is true, but not the bit about me and Natalie."
Far from blowing up, Cho just waved it off, or maybe she was waving off Bruce. In any case, she said no more on the topic. Instead, she smiled softly and snuggled into Harry’s chest, amusing herself by tracing her fingers around the runes printed on his T-shirt.
"Listen, I’m sorry about last night," she offered out of the blue, "but they really do look alike, and George did let me think he was Fred, rotten little snake."
A sharp hiss sounded from Harry’s desk, but Harry was too busy trying to cope with the girl on his lap to worry about Frank’s feelings. When Harry made no comment, Cho smiled sweetly at him and stretched up for a huge yawn, revealing a tempting glimpse of belly-button. All sorts of red started shooting through Harry’s moodstone. His hands slid inside her pyjamas then climbed as high as they dared up her silken back. Her skin felt amazing.
"Stop that," she said, laughing and pulling her arms down before his hands could travel anywhere more interesting. "Hmmm, I don’t suppose I could have my bath in your tub this morning, could I? I’d just love to try out all those — bubbles."
Harry’s head nearly fell off from nodding. Where had that camera gotten to?
Cho smiled and Disapparated off his lap, leaving the lad grasping at nothing. When his heart started beating properly again, he rose unsteadily to his feet, not at all sure what just happened. A few minutes later, she skipped back into the room with toiletries and towels, and Harry fussed over showing her the bath settings. Cho nodded patiently and started undoing the top buttons of her pyjamas. A thrill of panic hammered in Harry’s chest. Not for the first time he remembered that sixteen was legal for all sorts of things for Muggles. And he was practically half-Muggle.
"I suppose next you’re going to tell me your bath’s big enough for two?" Cho prompted coyly.
When Harry failed to move, Cho laughed and pushed him out of the bathroom. The lock clicked shut and the lad drew a deep steadying breath. Then his breath caught in his throat. Horrified, he lunged for his bedside table and snatched up his incriminating Snapparazzi photos. With fumbling fingers, he locked them in Hermione’s treasure chest, pocketed the key, and fled the room. He didn’t breathe easy again until he was safely back in the kitchen, scrubbing pots and pans.
Cho Chang: drive him to distraction though she might, Harry couldn’t help remembering she was overage, gorgeous, fancied him, and, while he was down below, she was up above in his bathroom, stepping one slender leg at a time into a pile of steaming bubbles. Harry had a feeling taking a bath in that tub was never going to be quite the same again.
"You okay?" Ron said quietly to Harry over his shoulder.
Harry shook his head — hard — to clear it. "Nah, I’m good."
"So, who’s this Natalie?" Ron asked. "I’d have thought you’d tell me if you had a new girlfriend — let alone you broke up with her."
Harry didn’t like the hurt look in Ron’s eyes one little bit. He nodded towards the pantry for a quiet word.
"Look, you’ve got it all wrong," started Harry. "Natalie was never my girlfriend; I only met her last week. I met her that day Fleur took me and Hermione out shopping. The paper just made up all that rubbish about us. I wasn’t trying to shut you out, honest."
"So you’re not still mad — about Bruce and Viktor and all?" checked Ron.
"Can’t say I was thrilled," Harry admitted. Then he smiled ruefully and added, "But like I’m one to talk about being daft about a girl."
Back in the noisy kitchen, Remus was clearing his throat at the door, waiting for the noise to settle down.
"I just thought you might like to know …" he paused to smile around at his young guests, "… Professor Dumbledore’s in the bowling alley."
******
Bowling with Dumbledore, training tips from Viktor Krum, partying and laughing with his friends — Harry couldn’t have been happier. By Sunday afternoon, he’d all but forgotten about his nightmare with the jealousy demon, but his guardian hadn’t. Harry was getting dressed in his Gryffindor kit for the big game when Remus stopped by ‘for a chat’. Bill Weasley was with him.
"All ready to defeat Bulgaria?" asked the Curse-Breaker.
"I wish," Harry said ruefully.
Remus picked up Harry’s Omnioculars from the mantelpiece and said, "I’ll just go charm these to record the game. Erm … Harry, why don’t you and Bill have a chat?"
Remus was gone before Harry even got his head through his red and gold jersey.
"Subtle little werewolf, isn’t he?" said Bill.
Harry eyed the man warily, left now in no doubt that Remus blabbed about his nightmare. In an effort to avoid talking about himself, Harry dug out Tonks’s door-bolt and asked Bill to install it for him. Bill was pleased to oblige. He seemed oddly familiar with such devices.
"Yes," Bill agreed when Harry mentioned this, "six nosy little brothers and sisters will do that to you. Now, you can just close the bolt yourself, or it’ll engage for you when ... ah, let’s just say if circumstances warrant it. It won’t stop a wand, or Apparition, or Floo entry — just ordinary doorway transit. Oh, and it’s voice activated, as well. It’ll unlock if you invite someone in. It’s a pretty low security thing really — just keeps polite people where you want them."
Harry was just fine with that.
"Has the swan gone?" sounded a voice from the desk.
Harry twisted around to see Frank peeking from his basket. Confused for a moment, Harry then remembered Cho’s Patronus. He wondered if animals could sense other animal’s spirit guardians.
"Yeah, she’s gone," he said to Frank.
Frank brightened considerably and slithered down from the desk, sped across the floor and up into Harry’s welcoming arms.
"He really is a beauty," Bill said admiringly.
"Oh please, stop," Frank hissed coyly.
"Bill, this is Frank," Harry said. "Frank, Bill." Harry switched to Parseltongue and added, "Bill’s trying to be subtle about checking whether I’m completely nuts."
"He must have met Cho," observed Frank.
Harry choked back a laugh and grabbed his shin guards. Plonking down in a wingchair, he started strapping them on. Not wanting to be left out, Hedwig fluttered over to perch on the wing of Harry’s chair. Bill sat down, too, offering small talk about the upcoming game, seemingly unperturbed by Harry’s monosyllabic responses.
"Look, I’m fine, Bill," Harry said. "I don’t know what Remus told you, but it was just a dream — nothing to do with Voldemort."
"Sirius?" Bill suggested quietly. Harry shook his head. Bill guessed again. "Cho?"
Harry stiffened. "Maybe ..."
"Something bothering you about her?" Bill prompted.
"Can one even count the ways?" hissed Frank from Harry’s lap.
Harry gave it a good shot. He started small, but soon a long list of grievances came spilling out, things that even he wasn’t aware of until he started venting: Cedric’s memory always hanging between them; her jealousy; her erratic moods; her always doubting him ...
"I mean, one minute things are great," Harry finished with exasperation, "and the next it’s all gone nuts again."
"Have you tried talking to her?" said Bill.
Harry’s head fell back in defeat. "I try, but when I’m with her — I dunno — I just can’t seem to think too straight."
Bill nodded. "When she’s in your arms, reason flies out the window?"
"Exactly!" Harry said vehemently, leaning forward and squishing Frank, who squirmed free and climbed around his boy’s neck. "Like, I know what I should say, right? But then we kiss or whatever and then it’s gone and it’s too late and I’ve no idea what just happened!"
Bill chuckled. "Tell me about it; Fleur’s part Veela!"
Harry smiled reluctantly and toyed with Frank’s tail.
"So, what do you do?" he asked.
Bill sighed the sigh of many men. "Whether they mean to or not, girls are very good at messing with your head. But if something bothers you, then you have to talk to her about it."
"But what if she blows up?"
"Then we’ll very gently puncture her."
Harry snorted a laugh and Bill smiled a crooked smile.
"She might blow up," he conceded, "at first anyway. But listen to her, show her you’re trying to see things from her point of view — but don’t cave — you can’t be afraid to let people know when they’re hurting you." Harry nodded, but privately thought that was easier said than done with Cho. Bill nudged Harry’s knee with his own and added, "Mind you, if you really want to get something off your chest with a girl, then it kinda helps if you’re not holding her in your arms at the time."
Harry considered that very sound advice.
"You know, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this," Bill said delicately, "but George was the one who put Cho’s name on the guest list even though Ginny insisted you wouldn’t care one way or another. I think he was hoping something might happen between them."
"Ah," said Harry; that explained a few things.
"We Weasleys aren’t always the most gracious losers," Bill admitted wryly. "If you want, I can have a word with him …"
"Nah, it’s okay," Harry said and smiled a little; sour grapes he could deal with.
"If this George wants the swan …" Frank hissed delicately.
"That’s enough from you," Harry said with a laugh. Hedwig hooted in agreement.
Bill smiled at Harry’s pets.
"Shame you can only take one to Hogwarts," he said in a whisper.
Harry’s smile faded; he’d been growing rather fond of Frank and didn’t fancy leaving him behind.
Bill checked his watch. "I promised to pop out and pick up a couple of bottles of vodka for Viktor for tonight, but you come find me if you want to talk some more. Any time. Okay?"
"I will — thanks, Bill," said Harry. He did actually feel better having gotten a few things off his chest.
Bill was just leaving when Colin Creevey came rushing down the corridor, breathless as ever and bearing a new stack of photos.
"Get in here!" Harry hissed, yanking the boy into his room before anyone else saw him. Harry wasted no time in letting Colin know he’d rather do his own developing from now on. He tried to be nice about it, but the look on Colin’s face indicated a professional’s pride being deeply wounded.
"I would never betray your confidence!" Colin breathed, appalled at the very idea. Harry regarded the boy appraisingly: no, he probably wouldn’t … and he was very good at it. Harry decided to trust his instincts.
"Okay then, I appreciate your help. But remember, no one sees them before me!"
Harry sent a relieved Colin on his way and went to put the photos away in his treasure chest. Frank was still around his neck and keen for a peek, reminding Harry that the rest of his friends would expect to be seeing some photos, too. He decided he should make up a nice safe set to share around. Soon, the entire Potterfest weekend was laid out in a neat matrix of moving pictures across his bed: happy snaps ranging from Wheel of Destruction dares to cake-cutting with Neville to the olds swing-dancing to Quidditch games and such. Liberally scattered throughout were dozens of beautiful photos of Cho, bright-eyed and full of laughter, but there were shots of other girls, too, and these gave Harry greater pause, for he realised that shot after shot revealed Cho in the background looking jealous whenever he was enjoying another girl’s company. This was hardly news to Harry, but it did startle him to see the exact same thing happening in reverse any time Cho was chatting or laughing with other boys. Seeing all the images concentrated together drove home a rather uncomfortable realisation about how alike they actually were.
Harry just didn’t get it; he thought love was supposed to be this happy, wonderful thing. And yet it was like that when they were alone together. Deciding that reason was really not helping things, Harry divided up the photos and locked away the if-anyone-sees-these-I’m-dead pile, confident that if he could just make the rest of the world disappear, then him and Cho Chang would be just fine.
"Who’s that?" asked Frank, nudging a Chocolate Frog Trading Card in the top tray of the treasure chest.
Harry plucked out the card and explained to Frank who Elizabeth Ramsay was. Frank looked between Harry, who was frowning slightly, and the witch in the photograph but made no comment.
"I’m hoping she might write to me," Harry said with a quiet kind of longing, "but I dunno; she’s probably really busy."
It was a shame she lived so far away, he thought, she probably knew heaps about his mum — especially about how she and James Potter got together. The incident in Snape’s Pensieve had really thrown Harry. Remus and Sirius hadn’t wanted him to judge his father too harshly, but they were hardly objective. Returning his godmother’s Frog Card, Harry carefully locked up the chest and headed back down to the pool room with an optimistic spring in his step. Hermione always seemed to notice more about relationships than he did; maybe Elizabeth would be able to explain what his mum had seen in his dad. She used to be a girl.
******
Saturday evening, dining alone on the balcony of her Muggle hotel room, Elizabeth Ramsay savoured a well-earned Saint-Amour cru Beaujolais, knowing that big-brother Julius would be utterly appalled. He would never consider serving an insouciant young red with smoked trout. But Julius was off in Europe with wife Dominique and daughter Natalie. Rebelliously, Elizabeth poured herself a second generous glass and gazed out into the twinkling dark. Low clouds puddled on the horizon, their frothy peaks illuminated by a smudge of crescent moon. Stretching between her and the horizon lay a dense forest, the fresh scent of crushed pine needles wafting pleasantly on the evening breeze.
After two months stuck in the wilds of Nova Scotia, the Auror had finally bested the last of a rather intransigent tribe of Aquitainian trolls that had somehow managed to turn up in Canada. The troll drool was out of her hair and soon would be heading back to base in Montreal, where the first order of business would be a much needed manicure. Whilst picking at her trout, Elizabeth tried to make sense of her hotel telephone bill — she never could work out Muggle currencies. It was worth it, though — this time she heard his voice. He even sounded like James; the shock of it had stilled her tongue. Not that she would’ve spoken to him; she wasn’t about to risk giving Petunia Dursley another reason to break Albus Dumbledore’s sanctuary charm.
After the fall, Dumbledore made it very clear baby Harry remained at risk, insisting his place was with his family, under the inviolate protection of Lily’s blood sacrifice. After what happened to the Longbottoms, no one, least of all his godmother, could argue with that. But then peaceful years began to accumulate and still Petunia refused access. Elizabeth tried forcing the woman’s hand when Harry was three years old but only succeeded in frightening the poor child to death. In hindsight, appearing as a disembodied head in the Dursley fireplace had perhaps not been the cleverest of ideas. Lily’s sister had been ready to break the sanctuary charm then and there, and innumerable apologies failed to pacify the hysterical woman. A few judicious Memory Charms, an expensive new electric heater, and a solemn vow that Elizabeth would never again seek out Harry without Petunia’s consent, did. Elizabeth took her vows very seriously, and every year she’d ring the woman, hoping Petunia would relent and let her introduce herself to the child, but she never did. Elizabeth did manage to secure one concession; Petunia promised she would tell Harry about her, and that if he asked for her, she could visit him, but he never had.
And now … and now Petunia’s sanctuary was more crucial than ever. A Ministry dispatch six-weeks earlier confirmed what Dumbledore had been saying for the last year to anyone who’d listen: that Voldemort was resurrected. The details were vexingly sketchy, but he was definitely back — even Fudge admitted that. As soon as she saw the dispatch, Elizabeth rang Petunia to check Harry was all right. The woman confirmed he was safely returned home for the summer. Elizabeth didn’t believe her until she heard his voice.
After carefully smoothing a crease in her fluffy towelling robe, Elizabeth poured herself a third glass of Saint-Amour. Two was usually her limit, but she had nowhere to go and no one to be the least bit responsible for. Next door, a pair of honeymooners was busy being alone. They were very sweet, but after their third night of wedded bliss, Elizabeth felt obliged to make a discreet a gift of a Silencing Charm on their room. How she envied them, fresh-faced young things full of hopes and dreams. Staring out into the night, she nursed the ‘wine of love’ against her lips, automatically identifying floral whiffs of strawberry and — was that violet? She could feel her cheeks going a little numb, and if she sank into her director’s chair and squinted, she could pretend the clouds were the shoulders of a man, and the Moon his puny little head. She raised her glass to Mr Moon then downed it in one lengthy choking swig.
Her mind turned back to Petunia Dursley. For the longest time, Elizabeth suspected her of reneging on her promise to tell Harry about her, but that doubt had been put to rest two summers ago. Within hours of Sirius’s escape from the Dementors at Hogwarts, Fawkes delivered news of his innocence to what was left of the old Order of the Phoenix.
Elizabeth slid even deeper into her canvas seat, her red-painted toes stretching across the cold concrete. Her gaze fell again on the Moon, her constant, wretched companion. Mr Moon stared back at her impassively.
Sirius’s innocence came as no surprise to Elizabeth; she’d known Sirius Black since they were toddlers fighting over toy brooms in the stuffy corridors of the Most Noble and Ancient Houses of Black and Ramsay. She’d been in Egypt when Fawkes delivered the news, and went straight to the late Alphard Black’s secret-island sanctuary. There, off the ancient city of Carthage, she found the shattered shell of the man she’d known — blessedly sane if not whole. Sirius revealed he’d been hiding in the Forbidden Forest all year, and when he told Harry he was his godfather, Harry said he already knew. After learning of Petunia’s restrictions, Sirius immediately offered to tell the boy to write to Elizabeth, but Elizabeth just as swiftly promised to curse him to Hades if he did any such thing. For one thing, the boy was nearly fourteen-years old and well capable of deciding for himself who he wanted in his life. And for another, Petunia would surely find out. And then there was Remus. Elizabeth eyed Mr Moon broodingly.
"Another?" she said to him. "Don’t mind if I do." With a limp flick of her wand, she floated the Saint-Amour off the table and had it refill her glass. From what Sirius told her before returning to England, Remus was teaching at Hogwarts. Elizabeth knew she’d be no more welcome there than at Privet Drive. "To your health, sir," she said dully.
She sipped her fourth glass more slowly, rolling the wine of love around her tongue, savouring both the taste of strawberries and the blessed numbing of her senses. She could use a little numb tonight. By the time her glass was empty again, she was feeling a good deal more than a little numb. The Saint-Amour nudged her shoulder, keen to be of further service. Elizabeth flicked it away, but misjudged and sent it arcing over the balcony.
"Shit!"
Lunging across the handrail, she caught the bottle by the neck and dangled there, doubled over like a rag doll, watching her wand and her wine glass go tumbling into the trees below. She just hung there for a few minutes, content to watch her red toes wiggling at her. Dragging herself to a standing position, she rolled away from Mr Moon and clutched at the handrail behind her. There was still some love left; no point in wasting it, she thought, taking a swig straight from the bottle. Wiping her mouth off on the back of her hand, Elizabeth giggled to think of how perfectly scandalised brother Julius would be if he could see his baby sister right now.
On her table-for-one, a handsome slice of Black Forest cake waited patiently beneath a single red candle. Elizabeth didn’t know what had possessed her to order it. Maybe Mr Moon would like it? She laughed humourlessly and took another swig of velvety wine. Mr Moon just loved the Black Forest. Dessert plate in hand, she wheeled around, arms swinging, and magnanimously offered it to him.
"No?" she said, listing drunkenly; the world was spinning in a most impertinent way. "Pity."
She took another swig of love and glared at fuzzy Mr Moon, so puffy and smug.
"I’m not afraid of you!" she declared boldly.
Mr Moon knew she was lying.
Her head bowed, Elizabeth spotted something in the tree below her; was that her wand? Pine needles swam in and out of focus. She had to get closer. With her dessert plate in one hand and the now empty Saint-Amour in the other, she leaned across the rail, squinting into the trees, balancing across her belly, her toes curled under the foot rail. If she could just reach a bit further … just a bit further —
A great yelp sounded, followed by the rustling of branches then a thud. Winded, Elizabeth reached under her back to dislodge a pinecone. More rustling sounded and something hard and pointy fell on her forehead.
"Ow," she moaned pitifully, rubbing her head, but at least she had her wand back. Rolling onto her stomach, she jammed her throbbing forehead into the forest floor and held herself as still as a mouse, willing the world to stop spinning. The world flatly refused to cooperate. She knew she had to get up. She’d get up in a minute, just a minute.
******
Evil licked her awake.
Elizabeth pushed the Kneazle away and rolled onto her back, blinking blearily as she tried to gain her bearings. It was still dark. Twigs were stuck to her face, and one of her elbows was deep in something horribly moist and squishy. She staggered to her feet only to fall to her hands and knees again. Evil scampered out of the line of fire. The world reeled and Elizabeth lunged for a tree, pressing her flaming cheek into the bark. Squeezing shut her eyes, she Apparated back to her room. The tree came with her. It made rather a mess of the carpet — and the ceiling — but she’d fix it in the morning, the morning. Fumbling in the dark, she fell with relief onto the bed, inspiring three horrified screams.
The honeymooners awoke next morning nestled blissfully in each other’s arms, remembering only that they were happier than they’d ever been. Their good mood only increased on discovering that the nice lady from number three sent them an enormous hamper of Krug Champagne and Belgian chocolates. The ‘nice lady’ herself sat slumped on her balcony behind a pair of very dark sunglasses, clutching an extra-strong cup of coffee and nibbling on a dry water-cracker. It was all the breakfast she could stomach.
A flutter of something caught her bloodshot blue eyes, which narrowed to track an owl incoming — an express owl at that. She groaned inwardly, wondering who she’d managed to tick off this time. Her French Quebecois boss at the Canadian Ministry of Magic had been delighted to send her trolling through the mountains for months, and she was certain that this owl would send her off on yet another trivial matter, yet again chasing down something very green or very slimy or both. Going over the heads of her superiors to push through the Wolfsbane Programme Legislation had come at a price but well-worth it. The barn owl that landed on her table looked even more worse for wear than she did. Elizabeth untied a lumpy letter and noticed it was Werewolf Registry business, postmarked from London. She felt a small rush of adrenaline, but set the letter aside in order to give the tired owl some treats and water.
"You have come a long way," she murmured sympathetically. The owl hooted in agreement and settled down to wait for a response.
Picking up the jangling letter, Elizabeth turned it over and froze in shocked surprise on seeing the Black family seal. She took off her sunglasses and held up the envelope gingerly, as if a Howler lurked inside, ready to explode. As a schoolgirl, a lumpy letter from the House of Black meant being drenched in Stinksap, or showered with flaming confetti, or, if she was really lucky, being set upon by drunk Cornish Pixies. Elizabeth really didn’t think she was up to one of Sirius’s pranks this morning.
Ten minutes later, the Auror had thrown every poison and jinx detection charm she could think of at the envelope and still found nothing amiss. Opening it at last, she found ten English Galleons and a note addressed to ‘Dear Madam Ramsay’, which she read with growing bemusement until she realised it wasn’t from Sirius.
… Any help you could give me would be greatly appreciated!
Yours sincerely,
Harry Potter
"YES!" yelped Elizabeth, startling the barn owl and sending cold coffee flying. "Oh, sorry, sorry. No, no, stay, please!"
The owl stayed but hooted disapprovingly at the excited ruckus the woman continued to make. When Elizabeth calmed down a little, she picked up Harry’s letter again; there was a postscript:
P.S. I’ve enclosed return postage — I hope English Galleons are okay. Please send your reply care of the Post Office in Diagon Alley, London, UK (sorry, I’m kind of in hiding and my house is under a Fidelius Charm).
A Fidelius? Elizabeth glanced again at the Black House seal. The sanctuary charm would go wherever Petunia was, of course, but she couldn’t see Petunia living willingly in Sirius’s house. Wherever Harry was, it must be a temporary situation. There could be no question of allowing Dumbledore’s charm to break — not with Voldemort at large. At least she and Petunia could agree on that. And then there was Lily’s secret curse to consider. Cast when her baby was still in the womb, Lily’s over-protectiveness meant Harry had a second reason for needing Petunia. Elizabeth shuddered to think what ancient magic might awake in the child should he lose his surrogate mother before he came of age.
There was one simple way to find out what was going on. Elizabeth reached for the telephone and dialled the Dursley’s home number. A boy answered.
"What d’you want?" he said rudely.
"Hello," Elizabeth said, forcing a bright tone, "may I please speak with Harry Potter?" The boy snorted something unintelligible; Elizabeth tried again. "May I speak with Mrs Dursley?"
"MUM! Someone’s after Harry!"
There was a lengthy pause, filled with muffled, angry voices.
"Mum says you can just piss off!" snarled the boy and he hung up, just like that.
Livid, Elizabeth could do no more than glare impotently at the telephone. This was getting her nowhere; she needed to deal with the wretched woman in person. Harry had at last asked for his godmother’s help. And even if he did just want some potions tips, Elizabeth was more than delighted to oblige him. Petunia Dursley was not going to stop her this time!
Impulsively, she sat down and wrote a quick note begging a leave of absence from the Canadian Ministry. She wrapped it up with her report — and a small biscuit tin containing the offending trolls — and sent it off with the owl (adding a small pouch of coins for postage). Firing her wand impatiently at her few possessions, Elizabeth quickly shrank them and sent them hurtling into her Graphorn-hide rucksack. Evil reared his golden-flecked head out of the faded-purple bag, growling with displeasure as tiny books and shoes whizzed past his tufted ears.
She was going home.
Elizabeth suddenly realised her hands were shaking. Stopping herself, she pulled Evil out of the bag to give him a cuddle. He accepted her apology and snuggled into her chest. Elizabeth paced around the room, stroking Evil’s ears and assessing her options. She was authorised to create Portkeys for emergencies, but she somehow doubted that paying a visit to her godson to teach him triple-handed stirring methods would be viewed as a life and death situation — even if he was Harry Potter. It was a Sunday morning, so none of the Ministry Transportation Centres would be open. She did some quick calculations on the flying distance to England. It would take a week to cover the distance at ordinary broomstick speeds, but Elizabeth had no intention of doing that. Not when she could Hyper-Fly.
Hyper-Flying involved a complex combination of Apparition and flying that allowed broomstick flights over international distances. It was a dangerous choice, since people were known to grow very weak and dizzy from repeated Apparition, and having to search for a lost leg or eyeball somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean would not be fun. Still, it would mean she could reach London the same day, even with all the jumps and navigation checks. If she opted for public transportation, she’d need to wait until the next Friday. Waiting a week was much more logical, much safer, much more sensible, she just had to exercise patience. Elizabeth was never very good at patience.
Two hours later, she lost an eyebrow over the Mid-Atlantic; at the three-hour mark, she started losing fingernails; after five hours, her right hand grew worryingly wobbly. At last she spotted the wonderfully relieving sight of land. Ireland or Cornwall — she didn’t care; it was close enough. Landing atop a coastal cliff, she sat down on the grass and assessed her options. She could push on, or she could rest and try to visit Harry after supper. A sudden gust of wind and a wave of nausea from her multiple Splinchings helped make the decision. Long years of practice in the field saw the Auror running now on autopilot. She found a sheltered field, unclipped a tiny tent from her charm-bracelet, and enlarged it to set up a medium-security base. Soon, if any Muggle happened to pass by, they would merely see a rather tired old cow grazing by a tree, but the tired old cow would, in fact, be comfortably ensconced in a two-bedroom tent, regrowing her fingernails and other minor body parts.
When she was more of herself again, Elizabeth packed up her tent, miniaturised it, and clipped it back onto her charm-bracelet. Evil crawled back into the rucksack whilst she cast a few more spells to disguise her travel-worn clothes. She couldn’t help throwing in a few extra illusions to give the impression (at least to the Muggles) she had impeccably groomed hair, make-up, and nails.
It was after eight o’clock on Sunday evening when Elizabeth drew a deep, settling breath, threw caution to the wind, and Apparated the full distance to a certain Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.
******