Facing Danger
Chapter 27: Tears and Tokens (Arc 6)
By Anne B. Walsh
Author Notes:
A note on the chapter numbering. You may have noticed it's gone from "Year 5" to "Arc 6". This is because we're still technically in Year 5 in Harry's school time, but this is very much a new
beginning for the story itself. When we actually get to Year 6, that's what it'll go to, but for now it's "Arc 6". Thank you for your patience.
Danger opened the top of the blender, dropped a double handful of sliced strawberries in with the chilled milk and yogurt, shut the lid again, and pressed the button to start it going. Aletha had barely eaten for the last two days, and that had to stop.
Grieving is perfectly normal. Starving herself because she thinks she’s responsible for Marcus’ death is not.
Or rather, it may be normal, but we can’t let her do it.
She was alone in the basement kitchen of Headquarters except for Sirius, who was sitting at the table rearranging scraps of parchment with his wand. Danger had a feeling they might be bits of story, but hadn’t asked. When he was ready to show her, he would.
He gets bitten by the writing bug at the oddest times, though...
Slow footsteps on the stairs made her turn and Sirius look up. There’s barely anyone else here, almost everyone’s out on missions or errands or working—
Aletha pushed the door open, her eyes bloodshot but steady. "Good morning," she said, turning her head enough to include them both in the greeting. "Have I overslept?"
"For what?" Sirius pushed his chair back and went to his wife’s side, holding out a hand for hers. "You’re off from your shifts at St. Mungo’s for a week, and I’ve got the same time away from the Auror Office."
"So we can sit at home and brood?" There was bitterness in the words, but also some real humor, as though Aletha were unable to decide what she felt and had settled for a touch of both.
"If we must." Sirius put his free arm around Aletha’s shoulders. "I’d prefer talking, or sitting together, but if you really want to brood, I’ll brood." He lowered his eyebrows and glowered at her.
Aletha slapped his ear, a little harder than her usual playful smacks, and Danger cleared her throat. "You can brood, or fight, or do whatever you’d like after you have something to eat, Letha," she said firmly. "I’ve been watching you. A few mouthfuls of soup and a mug of tea are not going to keep you going."
"And what if I don’t want to keep going?" Aletha shot back.
She’ll try to bait us, Remus’ memory-voice cautioned in the back of Danger’s mind. Don’t rise to it. "Then, for today at least, you’re out of luck. Now sit down and eat some of this."
"What is it?" Sirius said, guiding Aletha to the table.
"It’s called a smoothie. Aunt Amy gave me the recipe when she was here for your wedding. Very soft and cold, good for a sore throat, and if I understand it right, very tasty as well..." Danger reached behind her and pressed a button on the blender.
With a soft phut noise, the top of the cup came off.
The pinkish semi-liquid substance within promptly distributed itself liberally all over the kitchen.
"I think," Danger said after a moment of dripping silence, "I may have pressed the wrong button."
Sirius scowled. "I think that thing may have been pranked again."
Aletha licked her lips. "I think you’re right," she said.
Sirius and Danger both looked at her. "Which one?" Sirius asked after a moment.
"Both." Aletha smiled, a real smile for the first time in two days, if a bit shaky. "And I also think you both look ridiculous."
Danger laughed aloud. "Did you ever see the picture of ‘We Three’?" she quoted. "Sirius, can you clean this up? I left my wand upstairs."
"One of these days we’re going to teach you to be a real witch," Sirius grumbled, picking up his wand from where he’d left it on the table.
"Why should you?" Aletha said. "She’s so much more fun as she is."
Three brisk wand-waves sent the smoothie back into the blender, and Sirius turned to look at his wife. "I’ve been a bad influence on you, haven’t I?"
"Only in the best of ways." Aletha closed her eyes and laid her head against his shoulder. "I’m sorry," she said indistinctly into his robes. "I shouldn’t be..."
"Hard on yourself?" Danger interjected, detaching the blender cup from its base, taking a moment as she did to peer at the buttons. "No. You shouldn’t be." The smoothie went into a tall glass, and she carried it over to the table and sat down across from the Blacks, pushing it across to them. "You have a perfect right to grieve. If it’s hard on us sometimes... well, we’ll live. For right now, though, I think we need to be worrying about something else."
"Like what?" Sirius asked.
"Like finding out exactly who relabeled one of those buttons as ‘Eject.’"
Eject, is it? Remus’ voice said in the back of her mind, chuckling as he reviewed the last few moments through her eyes. Now why does that sound familiar, I wonder...
xXxXx
Harry poked his sausage with a fork.
"Not hungry?" Ron asked from across the table.
"You can’t have it."
"I wasn’t going to ask."
"Sure you weren’t," Draco said from two places down.
Ron flicked a vulgar Marauder-sign at Harry’s brother. "Sideways," he added aloud. "Twice."
"Wouldn’t that hurt?" Hermione said without looking up from her own breakfast.
"I think that’s the point," said Ginny, slicing off a lump of eggs. "Harry, why aren’t you eating?"
Harry grumbled under his breath—he’d been hoping Ron and Draco would pull everyone’s attention off him for once. "Not hungry."
"There are too many people looking at you," Luna said, pouring herself another glass of milk. "You’ve been by yourself for a long time, except with the DA, and that was different. Now everyone is staring at you again, and you don’t like it."
"I could stop them," Neville offered. "Or at least make them look away for a while."
"Thanks, but..." Harry sighed. "I think I’d better get used to it again. It’s not like it’s going to stop."
"But you can’t do it all at once," said Ginny, squeezing his wrist. "And you have to eat."
"Because I’m not taking care of you if you don’t," Meghan said, glaring at her big brother with eyes almost as bloodshot as her mother’s. "I’ll just let you starve. You watch."
Neville put an arm around Meghan briefly. "It won’t be flashy," he said to Harry. "You won’t disappear. Everyone will just forget there’s anything interesting over here."
"It won’t drain you too far?"
Neville shook his head. "Not at Hogwarts, not something this simple." A momentary smile crossed his face. "If I could do it for myself for most of my life, I can do it for you for a few days."
Harry chuckled once. "All right. I could do with a break."
Neville shut his eyes and put his arm back around Meghan, who leaned into him. His lips moved, and a ripple of magic wafted past Harry, salt-mint-stone-smelling, with a flicker of gold patterned with purple and gray.
Harry sighed in relief as the palpable pressure of ‘people watching’ lessened to almost nothing. It was as though the entire student body of Hogwarts had decided collectively that he wasn’t important enough to look at anymore. He still didn’t want to eat, but he thought now he could probably manage it.
"That’s not all that’s troubling you, is it?" Ginny asked quietly.
Silently, Harry cursed observant girlfriends. "No, but I don’t want to talk about it right now."
"I understand. When you do, I’m here." She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, then returned to her own food.
Sometime, maybe I will. But right here, right now, today, you really don’t need to hear that I’m still blaming myself for my baby brother’s being dead.
Harry swallowed against the bitter thought, skewered the formerly offending sausage with his fork, and flicked a bit of fire at it, burning it in half. If no one was supposed to be looking at him, he might as well take advantage of that.
Besides, it tastes better when it’s a little charred.
He shoved the bite of sausage into his mouth and chewed.
At least holidays start soon.
xXxXx
When holly wand met wand of yew,
The endless fight began anew;
A third there is, with cloak and stone—
Who’d win must call them first his own.
But they shall come, as shall those shells
In which unhallowed spirit dwells;
Your task is now to other ways,
To end a spell of ancient days.
A curse once on your best-loved gift
Should start your thoughts in proper drift,
For why had hawk to take it on?
What stopped the wolf in days agone?
But ere your thoughts can reach their peak,
The far-off Seeker must you seek.
Do watch him, yet do not mistrust,
For justice sometimes strikes unjust—
As you shall know when winter’s through,
For sorrow is not done with you.
Sleep not the year’s first night of care;
Of old safekeepings now beware;
For much has changed, though some’s the same,
And naught’s yet come of one old game.
Do what you must, wolf’s darling kit,
And shed no tears for doing it;
Save tears for those who hold you dear
And fall as seen by owlsight clear.
So help the new-turned nymph be brave
And save the one you’ve power to save,
For lion’s line continue must
Ere elder serpent’s fall to dust.
Remus looked once more at the paper in his hand, then up at Danger. "Another one already?"
"I guess we got through a ‘year’ a little faster than they thought we would." Danger grinned. "Possibly because our cubs drove Umbridge so crazy she left ahead of schedule."
Remus winced. "I hated her as much as you did, love, but I still wouldn’t say ‘left’ is the best word for what happened to her."
"Right." Danger stopped, frowning. "Wait a second..."
"No, don’t." Remus scanned the paper again. "These first lines are easy enough. Harry’s wand is holly, and Voldemort’s could easily be yew. It fits him. So when they fought, the war started again."
"Officially." Danger closed her eyes, and Remus felt her slide in behind his. "‘A third there is’—a third what? Fight?"
"No, only one fight was mentioned." Remus tapped the word. "But two wands. So a third wand."
"A wand that has something to do with a cloak and a stone." Danger grumbled under her breath. "Have I mentioned lately that I really hate riddles?"
Remus chuckled and kept reading.
xXxXx
Ron slumped in a chair in front of the common room fire and stared at the flames.
There are days I hate being me.
Why couldn’t I have been somebody else? Somebody who doesn’t have problems like this? Somebody like... like Neville, maybe. He never had to wonder about what he’s got. He just got it, and he’s never had any real trouble with it. And it’s an awfully nice thing to have, too.
Harry had it like this once, but he figured it out somehow, and of course everything just worked for him. It happens like that when you’re The Boy Who Lived. The thought was grouchy but without much rancor in it. I still don’t really want to think about him with that, though, not with the way it came out in the end.
Even Draco has it good. All he has to do is pick. He doesn’t have to worry about what happens if the answer’s no. And he knows how he feels about them both already, so he doesn’t have to wonder about it every damned day!
His hands clenched momentarily on the arms of the chair. Then he sighed and let go.
It’s my problem. I’ll deal with it. Eventually.
"There you are!" cooed a syrupy voice behind him. "I’ve been looking everywhere!"
Or it’ll deal with me.
"Hullo, Lavender," Ron said, turning around and grinning. "Sit down?"
"But you’ve got the only—oh!" She squeaked as he hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her down onto his lap.
A moment later, neither of them were in a position to make any further noise.
What the hell. At least she’s nice.
Worry later. Snog now.
xXxXx
Draco stood at the top of the Astronomy Tower, looking off into the distance. The wind whipped up around him, and he leaned into it, feeling invisible snowflakes brush his cheeks.
If I jumped off the Tower right now, would something save me? I’m not supposed to die for another year and a half—does that mean I’m immortal until then?
He snorted. Right. With my luck, I’d survive the fall and cling to life in terrible pain for eighteen months before finally succumbing to the mercy of oblivion.
"And why I’m thinking of it in those particular terms, I have no idea," he said aloud. "Probably Padfoot’s fault."
A soft footstep crunched the snow behind him. "Probably," agreed a feminine voice. "Everything is, you know."
Draco half-turned with a smile. "’Morning, Neenie."
"Good morning, Fox." Hermione finger-combed his hair back into order where the wind had disarranged it. "Looking forward to the holidays?"
"I think so. But we have something else to do before then."
Hermione nodded somberly. "I know. I was just making sure I had all my homework in order so I don’t fall behind."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Only you, Neenie. Only you."
"Oh, don’t give me that. I’ve seen you studying like mad the week before a Quidditch match so you wouldn’t have to do any work while you were practicing."
"That’s different."
"How?"
"I don’t know. It just is." Draco turned back to stare into the wind again. It would make a good excuse. "I don’t really want to go," he said quietly.
Hermione came up beside him and slid her gloved hand into his bare one, pressing the skin of her wrist against his. I don’t think any of us do. It hurts to even think about it, doesn’t it?
Yes. Draco tugged at Hermione’s glove, cutting off the mental connection before she could see why it stung him particularly. "It isn’t fair," he went on aloud. "We should have been getting excited about him, playing jokes on Letha and Padfoot, laying bets on when he’d be born. Not getting ready to go to his funeral."
Hermione sniffed once. "It almost seems silly to cry," she said, her voice distant. "We never saw him or held him or had a chance to love him. Except we did start loving him, the minute we knew he was there. And now he’s gone..."
Draco reached around and turned her so that she was leaning against him, and she buried her face against his cloak, her shoulders shaking.
And this just makes me more afraid for you, for everyone, because if this is what happens to us now with Marcus, what’ll happen to you when...
He shied away from the thought, as though it could somehow leap through the layers of cloth between him and his twin. Of all the people in the world, she was the one he least wanted to know about that.
It’ll hurt her enough when it happens. I can’t make her live through all the waiting too.
Instead he brought to mind the images of a grey-eyed baby from the restored memories Harry had shared with the Pride.
He looks like a sweet kid. Probably trouble, but he’s a Marauder’s cub. We’re all trouble in the end.
A tear fell into Hermione’s hair, freezing solid like a crystal woven into her wild curls.
He never even had a chance...
xXxXx
Harry stood outside a small church, staring across the square at the war memorial in its center. It was an illusion, he knew; if he walked a few steps closer to it, he would see what it really was, but Ginny was working and he didn’t want to disturb her.
I hope they like it. When Moony told me what was here, it popped up right away, like somebody put it in my head. Maybe somebody did...
He glanced upward, but no answer was forthcoming from any source, worldly or otherwise.
All right, be that way. Maybe I’ll just go and dance on your grave.
Harry smiled a little at his own mock indignation, but the joke was less funny than it could have been. Somewhere in this place, possibly in the very graveyard behind him, were buried the mortal remains of Godric Gryffindor, probably of his wife and children as well. If so, though, the gravesites were long lost.
Good thing it’s not them I’m here to visit, then.
He turned away from the square and started for the graveyard. Danger was waiting for him just inside the kissing gate leading into it, holding it open for him.
"Aren’t you supposed to be watching both of us?" Harry asked as he stepped through the gate.
"Help is on the way." Danger looked past him and smiled. "Hello, help."
Harry turned and smiled. "Hello, Mrs. Weasley."
Tonks planted her hands on her hips and glared. "There are only four people in the world who’re allowed to call me that, and you’re not one of them."
"It’s your name, isn’t it?" Harry ducked a swat. "All right, all right. Hello, Tonks."
"Better. Wotcher, Danger. Ginny back in the square?"
"Just head for the memorial. You’ve been here before, you said?"
Tonks nodded. "One of those places you have to go if you grow up magical. Well, maybe not in some cases," she amended, glancing at Harry again.
"We had reason to stay away," Danger said. "See you in a few minutes."
"See you." Tonks wrinkled up her face, and a moment later there was a Danger on either side of the kissing gate. They nodded to each other, Tonks started for the square, and the real Danger looked at Harry.
"You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to," she said.
"No." Harry shook his head. "I should have done it a long time ago."
Danger inclined her head silently, and they set off into the graveyard.
The snow was deep around the gravestones, and Harry glanced over his shoulder more than once to see the deep furrows his feet and Danger’s left. Some of the names engraved all around were familiar, ones he knew from Hogwarts, Abbotts and Goldsteins and Cauldwells, a Boot or two, one solitary Lamb—
And then he stopped dead, staring at a particular stone.
Who—
"Harry?" Danger was at his side, her hand on his shoulder. "What is it?"
Numbly, Harry pointed.
Danger turned, and her eyes went wide. "Oh my."
Gently, she knelt and brushed away the snow from the spotted granite stone, then ran her fingers over the numbers which were carved under the names. "I knew he had a brother," she murmured, "but not about this..."
Harry blinked several times, coming out of his momentary shock. "Who were they, do you think?" he asked.
"From the dates, I’d guess his mother and his sister. Kendra and Ariana... pretty names, both of them..." Danger chuckled suddenly. "And his parents seem to have had an obsession with the letter A."
Harry peered past her. "‘Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also,’" he read aloud, then frowned. "Wait. If this is his mother and his sister, then where’s his father buried?"
"We’ll have to ask sometime." Danger stood up, brushing snow from her knees. "For now, let’s make sure we know where we’re going tomorrow."
They set off again, plowing through the snow with their heads down, but now Harry’s mind refused to let go of the headstone they’d stopped by. Why had Dumbledore never mentioned, in all the years he had known the Pack, that he had family members buried in Godric’s Hollow just as Harry did? For that matter, why were they buried here? Had they lived here at some point?
The mathematical part of his brain had been quietly ticking away at the dates it had noted, and now presented him with a different conundrum to puzzle at. Kendra Dumbledore had died in what, for a witch, was the prime of her life, and Ariana...
She was fourteen. Younger than me. And she died only a few months after her mother did.
Was that why Dumbledore never spoke about his family, other than a few jovial references to his eccentric brother? Did he still hurt for their deaths, still miss them and long for them, even after all these years?
"Harry." Danger’s hand closed on his arm, halting him. "We’re here."
Harry nodded, head still bowed, and closed his eyes for a second to remember his father’s smile, his mother’s laugh. He could see them again, he could remember the way they’d looked and spoken to him...
I just can’t remember what it felt like to have them hug me. How Dad shook me to stop me panicking, or how soft Mum’s hair was when we compared heights. The way it felt to laugh when they joked with each other, like I’d known them forever, the way it should have been.
For the memories he’d received back from Dumbledore were not the same as the ones he’d given up to fool Voldemort. They were at one remove, secondhand, as though he’d seen them through someone else’s pendants or in a Pensieve. He could see and hear everything that had happened between himself and his parents, but he saw it and heard it only as an onlooker. Their touch, their scent, the moments they had shared were forever denied to him.
I knew it would happen. I agreed to it. Beating Voldemort was more important.
I just wish...
Harry turned to his right, lifted his head, and opened his eyes before he could finish that thought.
The stone’s clean edges were the only thing that let him differentiate it from the untouched snow around it. He reached out a hand and touched it, obscurely disappointed when all he felt was the chill of winter-kissed marble.
"Dad was born in March," he said, his eyes roving across the carvings. "Like Moony."
"They used to have a big party near the beginning of March for all four of them," Danger said, her voice distant, as though she were speaking across the years. "Peter was born in the summertime, so they were never at school for his birthday, and they split the difference for the other three, the way Aletha and I do with ours."
"And Mum..." Harry turned to look at Danger and winked. "My mums were all born in a row. November, December, January."
"Brat." Danger tweaked a lock of his hair, her eyes swirling with blue and suspiciously bright. "You’re going to make me blubber, you know."
"I know." Harry looked back at the gravestone, at the quotation carved under the two names and lists of dates, and his eyes misted until he could barely see.
He had wondered, sometimes, what it would be like to stand at his parents’ grave. Would he be sad, or awed, or proud? Would he cry, or say something, or would he just stand and look at it? Would it even be right for them, for all they had been and all they’d done?
Now he was here, and discovering that it was entirely possible to feel all those things at once. He was crying, yes, and standing and looking, and yes, it was right for them, it was enough, as much as anything earthly could be enough. All that remained was to say something.
Something that isn’t silly, that is.
"‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death,’" he read slowly, out loud. He turned back and looked at Danger, and smiled through his tears.
"It already is," he said. "Somewhere, it already is."
Danger smiled back through her own tears, and reached out and pulled him close, and they held each other and cried together there in the snow, mourning two people who had touched their lives deeply but whom neither of them had ever truly known.
xXxXx
Meghan sat beside her bubbling cauldron in Potions, half-listening to Natalie murmuring the directions aloud as she followed them. Her mind was in a snow-filled graveyard far away, where she knew Danger and Harry and Ginny were getting ready for tomorrow.
I’ve never been to a funeral before. Am I supposed to cry? I’m probably supposed to cry, especially since he was my baby brother, but I don’t want to cry where everyone can see me. Every time I’ve started crying for him when I’m alone, I haven’t been able to stop. What if that happens again tomorrow?
"Meghan." Natalie’s fingers snapped under her nose. "Meghan. I need your help."
"Oh." Meghan blinked a few times. "What is it?"
"Stir three times clockwise," Natalie said, handing her the stirring stick. "Then stop, wait five seconds, and stir twice counterclockwise."
Meghan lowered the stick into the cauldron and stirred. One, two, three, stop. One no more Marcus, two no more Marcus, three no more Marcus...
A tear rolled down her face and fell into the potion before she could stop it. Another followed, and she forgot about stirring, forgot about everything except the storm sweeping through her.
The stick dropped from her hand and clanged into the cauldron, the potion hissed ominously, and Natalie turned around. "Meghan? Are you—oh no. Professor! Professor Snape!"
Meghan barely heard the shout, or the rumble from the cauldron at which she still stared through blind eyes. Some part of her, deep inside, wished it would explode. It might take her away from the pain in her heart.
She hated that pain. It was the first pain she had ever met that she could not heal. She hated it and feared it and raged against it, and it only hurt her more every time she did. Worse than that, it wasn’t just her pain, it was her Dadfoot’s and her Mama Letha’s and everyone else’s pain too, and some of theirs had even sharper edges than hers. Harry’s pain, in particular, jabbed at her every time she was near him, because Harry thought... she didn’t know what, but something bad. About Marcus, and him, like a knife in his heart, and hers too, whenever she was close by.
She didn’t know what dying was like, but she couldn’t live like this, not anymore, not with so much hurt. Maybe dying would be better. Harry’s parents would meet her on the other side, and take care of her the way they were taking care of Marcus, and she would never have to hurt again...
Strong hands closed around her arms and drew her away from the empty cauldron. A deep voice over her head spoke calm words she heard distantly. "Macdonald, Pritchard, my office. The rest of you, dismissed. Homework, sixteen inches on what nearly happened to Miss Black’s potion and why."
She went where the hands took her, her feet feeling their way across the floor, until she was lifted bodily and set in a chair, and the hands released her. More words, undecipherable, and the sound of a bottle opening...
Suddenly something horrible and acrid and bitter was under her nose. She threw herself back in the chair, gasping for air, as her eyes flooded completely in reflex. A handkerchief materialized in her hand, and she scrubbed desperately at her face, coughing and choking on just the memory of that terrible stench.
Finally she blotted her eyes one last time and looked up. She was sitting in a wooden chair in Professor Snape’s office, Graham and Natalie standing to one side, watching her anxiously. Snape himself was sitting behind his desk, his black eyes on hers, unreadable.
"I..." Meghan coughed again on the word, and had to spend a moment breathing deeply before she could trust herself to speak. "I’m sorry, Professor. I didn’t mean to."
"Miss Black," Snape said, "I have given weeks of detentions to students for less than the chaos you nearly caused in my classroom just now."
"I know." Meghan turned her head away. "I’m sorry."
"So you said." Snape rose abruptly and came around his desk. "Hold out your hand, Miss Black."
Meghan looked up at him, startled. "Why?"
Snape glared at her. "Do as you are told, Miss Black. For once."
Timidly, Meghan extended her hand, and Snape seized it in his own. Leaning over her, he stared into her eyes.
"It is time you learned," he said softly, "the meaning of real pain."
xXxXx
"What is he doing to her?" Graham hissed to Natalie.
"I don’t know, but I don’t like it." Natalie fidgeted. "Should we get someone?"
"To do what? They’re just standing there. Well, standing and sitting."
It was true. Neither Professor Snape nor Meghan had moved since Snape had grabbed her hand, leaned over her, and said something neither Graham or Natalie had heard. Meghan was crying again, but the only things moving were the tears rolling down her face.
"They are breathing, right?" Natalie said nervously. "I mean, you see them breathing too?"
"They’re breathing." Graham shivered. "If it were any colder in here, you’d be able to see their breath."
"I always wondered about that—why don’t they..."
Why they didn’t do whatever they didn’t do would never be known, as Professor Snape picked this moment to drop Meghan’s hand and whirl away from her as though she’d burned him. Meghan went limp, falling forward onto her own lap, her whole body shaking convulsively.
"You two," Snape said without turning. "Take her. Get out."
Graham and Natalie hesitated, looking at each other.
"OUT!" Snape roared, still with his back to them.
That settled it. Graham ran forward to lift Meghan out of the chair, throwing her arm over his shoulder and hoisting her half-upright, as Natalie snatched up their three bags, then raced to help on Meghan’s other side before her near-deadweight pulled Graham down. Three abreast, awkwardly, they stumbled out the door of Snape’s office, out of the dungeon, and up the stairs to the entrance hall, where they collapsed next to a suit of armor in a weary heap.
"Meghan?" Natalie said tentatively. "Are you all right?"
Meghan blinked, her eyes coming slowly into focus. "I don’t know," she whispered. "It was another hurt, a hurt like my hurt, but it was a hurt my hurt could help, and it could help me..." She laughed a little shivery ghost of a laugh. "That doesn’t make any sense, does it?"
"Not much," Graham said. "Do you need the hospital wing?"
"No." Meghan took a deep breath, in and out. "I think I just need to rest. I feel like I’ve been healing. Except I haven’t, I don’t think..."
Out of the corner of his eye, Graham saw a flicker of familiar movement. "Stay with her," he said to Natalie, and jumped to his feet. "Excuse me!" he shouted, running across the hall. "Baron, sir!"
The Bloody Baron stopped and turned, still most of the way through the wall, so that all Graham could see was his face and one of his knees. "Pritchard," he said in his coldest tones. "To what do I owe the... pleasure?"
"Please, sir, my friend’s not well, and I don’t think we can get her upstairs by ourselves." Graham pointed towards Meghan, praying he’d caught the Baron in a good mood. "Can you please find her brother Draco and ask him to come down to the entrance hall to help us?" Draco and Meghan at least had the same last name, even if they looked nothing alike.
The Baron looked past Graham to Meghan and Natalie, and his eyes narrowed. "Gryffindors," he said softly.
"Yes, sir, but..." Graham’s words dried up on his tongue as the Baron looked back at him.
"But what, Pritchard?" the ghost said after a fairly large fraction of forever.
Graham swallowed hard. "They’re my friends, sir. They helped me when no one else would."
"Friends, are they?" The Baron looked piercingly at him. "Friends change. Turn away. Lose their nerve at the most crucial moment. Don’t rely on them."
"I, er, I won’t, sir. But right now, Meghan needs help." A tiny stroke of inspiration shot through Graham’s mind. "Besides, if I help her now, then she’s indebted to me. And so is her family. She’s related to a lot of people."
"I see." The Baron glanced once more from Graham to the girls, Meghan now with her head pillowed against Natalie’s bag, then nodded once. "I will see to it Draco Black gets your message. Be careful of your friends, Pritchard. And even more careful of what enemies your friends may make you."
"Yes, sir." Graham bowed. When he straightened up, the Bloody Baron was gone.
I hate talking to him. You never know when he’s going to come over all prophetic on you.
Dismissing the shudder which had come over him at the Baron’s last words, Graham jogged back to the girls. On his way, he recalled what he had tucked into his bag.
"Meghan, I have something for you," he said when he was sitting beside them again. "Or for you and your family, really."
Meghan opened her eyes. "What is it?"
Graham dug into his bag and produced it.
"It’s beautiful!" Meghan pushed herself more upright to get a better look at the small bouquet of flowers. "Did you make it?"
Graham shook his head. "No, but I wish I had. It’s perfect. All the right meanings."
"Meanings?" Natalie said, taking the dark red and blue bouquet from Graham and sniffing it. "Oh, it’s spicy."
"That’s the greenery. It’s—"
"Rosemary," Meghan finished before Graham could. "Danger uses it in her cooking." She smiled sadly and reached out to touch one of the long, spear-like leaves. "It’s for remembrance."
"That’s right. And the sweet peas are for goodbye, and this color of rose is for mourning."
"Flower language," Natalie said, stroking one of the tiny, deep crimson roses. "I learned about that in school. My old school. Before... everything." Her hand encompassed Hogwarts, magic, and the entire wizarding world. "I liked the idea. A secret language." She stopped, frowning. "Except if everyone knew it, how could it be secret?"
"Well, if you sent bouquets back and forth to each other’s houses, it could be," Graham said. "Or if you wore flowers and nobody knew who they were meant for. But I always thought it wasn’t so much secret as it was shy. A way to say things without having to make the words come out of your mouth. Especially if they’re things you might be embarrassed about."
Like telling a girl you might really like her.
He sat on that thought before it could go any farther.
"But Graham," Meghan said, pulling his attention back outside his head. "If you didn’t make this, who did?"
"You’re not going to believe it."
"Tell me anyway."
"It was Nott."
A second and a half of silence.
"Well." Natalie pouted. "If you aren’t going to tell us..."
"But I just did tell you—" Graham broke off and scowled. "You’re taking the mickey, aren’t you?"
Natalie glanced at Meghan, and they both went into fits of giggles.
Graham leaned down and very slowly beat his head against his bag.
I will never learn. If I live to be a hundred, I will never learn.
And the saddest part was, he actually thought he preferred it that way.
xXxXx
"Potter!"
Harry froze halfway out of his seat at the Gryffindor table and turned slowly around. "Dursley," he acknowledged.
"Glad I caught you." Dudley Dursley had something in his right hand and a worried, determined look on his face. "Er—can we talk?"
Harry glanced at the table full of Gryffindors all watching avidly, then at the rest of the Great Hall, all with their heads turned. "We can talk," he said. "I don’t know how private it will be."
"Um." Dursley reddened. "I... well..."
"Let’s try down at the end of the table," Harry said, swinging his leg over the bench and standing up. Behind his back, he gestured to Neville. Take us down slowly. Two coughs were his acknowledgement, and he turned his attention back to Dursley. "Walk with me?"
"Sure. Thanks." Dursley glanced down at the small circle of wood he was holding, an amulet of some sort, Harry thought. "I... well, it’s sort of..."
"Walk." Harry pointed down the table. "You know, make the feet move. One in front of the other."
"Oh. Right." Dursley started in the right direction, and Harry followed, after a moment to sign his bewilderment to the Pride, most of whom answered in kind.
"So," he said when they’d reached the end of the table (and when most of the heads had turned back to their dinners). "What did you want to talk about?"
"This." Dursley held up the amulet. "I heard about your brother, and... this is going to sound stupid, I know it is, but I almost feel like it could have been me. Being your brother. I mean, I know we’re not, we’re cousins, and we barely know each other, and I was a berk to you over the summer, but..." He flushed again, but kept talking. "It’s Dad, he hates magic, I had to be like that so he wouldn’t hate me too, I don’t like him much but he’s the only one I’ve got, and I just felt like... like I owed you somehow." He extended the amulet. "Here. It’s a sort of magic ‘I’m sorry’ thing. I got it by Express Owl Order."
He has got to be kidding.
Harry inhaled cautiously, expecting to be flooded by the porcine scents of deception and self-satisfaction—
He coughed in surprise. Dursley’s scent held only truth, laden with an undertone of desperation and a tinge of shared sorrow, both muted but definitely there.
All right, maybe he’s not...
"What does it do?" Harry asked, looking at the amulet again. Up close, he could see the small signs of runes carved into it, similar to the talismans they’d once made in Defense Against the Dark Arts, back when Padfoot and Letha had been teaching it.
"It doesn’t do anything. At least, it shouldn’t. It’s just a message. It says the person who’s wearing it is sad, because they lost their son, and everyone around them should be sorry and hope they have more sons soon." Dursley shrugged. "I thought maybe you could give it to your godfather. To wear. I mean, if he wants to."
I don’t believe this. I would have thought...
Harry cracked a smile. "Thanks."
Then again, I’ve seen him on a broom. Proof enough. Pigs really can fly.
He lifted his hand and accepted the amulet from Dursley’s.
And if he’s going to be decent, I probably shouldn’t think about him as a pig anymore.
Even if it is what he looks most like.
"You’re welcome." Dursley glanced back up the table at the rest of the Pride, who had their necks unabashedly craned to see what was happening. "I hope everything goes well. With the funeral. I mean..." He shook his head. "I’ll see you."
"See you," Harry answered.
Dursley turned away and headed for the door of the Great Hall, nearly bumping into Theodore Nott along the way. They stared at each other for a long moment. Even as far away as he was, Harry could smell the distrust and hate boiling off them both.
I’ve never been happier not to be a Slytherin.
Have to ask Zabini what’s going on between them...
He turned and started back towards the Pride. This one, they were never going to believe.
xXxXx
On the clear and frosty morning of the thirteenth of December, Marcus James Black was laid to rest in the churchyard of Godric’s Hollow, in a tiny plot next to his namesake. His father wore a carved amulet around his neck on a bronze chain, and his mother carried a bouquet of roses and sweet peas. His godparents each spoke a few words, and his siblings and their dearest friends held one another and cried as the earth was shoveled over the small coffin.
Afterwards, they made their way to the center of the village, to the war memorial which had another meaning hidden beneath it.
"I have been here before, you know," Sirius said to no one as their small procession moved forward. "I’ve seen what it does."
"You’ve never seen it like this before," said Remus. "Trust me."
"This had better not be some silly plan to make us laugh," Aletha warned.
"Not at all," Danger said. "This was Harry’s idea."
Sirius and Aletha both stopped and turned to look at Harry, walking with Ginny on his arm just behind Remus and Danger.
Harry looked away. "It was Ginny who actually did it," he muttered.
"Working from your memories," Ginny countered. "And with your permission." She met Sirius’ eyes, then Aletha’s. "Just go and see if you like it. Please."
The Blacks glanced at one another, then moved forward together the last few steps to reveal the statue as it truly was. James Potter, one arm protectively around Lily’s shoulders; Lily, smiling out at the world; and in her arms—
Aletha’s hand went to her mouth. Sirius simply looked, filling his eyes with the sight.
The child Lily held was no longer Harry, but Marcus.
After a long, long moment, Aletha turned and found Harry and Ginny both there beside her. She took them into her arms and held them close, and Sirius embraced them all, and Meghan ran to cling to the outside of the hug and look up at her brother’s face until Sirius shifted an arm and pulled her in.
As though that had been a signal, the entire Pack closed in on one another, and the three remaining members of the Pride held back only for an instant before joining them. They held each other, and shivered in the winter chill, and cried, most of them, for what was lost. But one long and lanky arm dared to slide around shoulders draped with brown curls, and was not shoved away as it had feared might happen, and its owner shed his tears for what was found.
xXxXx
Far away, a man smiled in satisfaction at the tiny, steady pulse of magic being put out by his enchanted token.
I thought they wouldn’t be able to resist it. Too perfect, too apt for the moment. And I was right.
Come next full moon, we’ll see just how well its little secret works...
Author Notes:
Uh-oh.
Yes, I’m back! I’m alive! I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth! I’ve just been swallowed by a couple different monsters, one called "work" and the other called "life", and I’ve been fighting my way back out... what makes it hard is that they take turns, see...
I should save the metaphors for the stories, shouldn’t I? Hope you enjoyed it. Let me know! The more people figure out bits of prophecy properly, the sooner the next chapter comes! And no, I haven’t forgotten about the Christmas carol question. Next chapter, I promise!