Facing Danger
Chapter 47: Fears and Desires (Year 6)
By Anne B. Walsh
Harry lay quietly in the red bedroom, his eyes closed, his glasses on the bedside table. He had awakened several minutes before, and the grogginess and odd taste in his mouth that always resulted from one of his potion-induced naps had passed off, but he was still trying to come to terms with a new and strangely disquieting development.
He wasn’t afraid.
But no, that’s not exactly true. I’m still afraid for Padfoot and Letha, and for Moony, and even Danger, all for their different reasons. I’m just not afraid for me anymore.
He thought it might be because the thing he had been dreading most since he was ten had finally happened. Three of the Pack-parents were gone, and he suspected the fourth one would be leaving soon as well. By right of seniority, that would put him in charge. The burden of final decision for the Pack, whatever that decision might happen to be, would rest squarely on his shoulders.
And that isn’t as impossible to handle as I used to think it was.
Or maybe I’ve grown into it, what with leading the Pride and the DA, and just plain growing up. There’s a long, long way between half-past-ten and almost-sixteen.
Whatever the reason, he couldn’t help but be grateful. Keeping his siblings out of despondency and away from each other’s throats until things improved promised to be a full-time job. Doing so while seriously doubting himself would have been twice as hard.
And what about doing it while keeping Voldemort out of here, hmm? gibed a little voice at the back of his mind. How’re you going to manage that one, bright boy? Especially now that he’s got two great big buttons he can push whenever he wants to see you react, one labeled “Padfoot” and the other one “Letha”…
Rather than try to argue with himself, Harry opened his eyes and reached for his glasses. “I can always stay here,” he said under his breath, testing the idea against his current mental state. “I know he can’t reach me in here.”
But I also know I don’t want to be stuck in here for days and weeks and months again. More importantly, we can’t be sure how strong the wards are that keep him out of here. The longer I stay out of his sight, the more likely it is that he’ll focus his attention on finding a flaw and breaking through.
So I need another place. Somewhere my mind is protected, but Voldemort can see me and thinks he has me safely stashed until he cares to come pick me up…
The obvious answer came to him, and he groaned and flopped back against the pillows. “No. Not again. Not another summer with them. Please.”
It makes as much sense now as it did last year, pointed out the same little voice, now using a tone of sweet reason. More, really. Last year you didn’t know how you were going to keep Voldemort out of your head at all. This year it’s just a case of waiting for Moony to recover.
“I’d be abandoning everyone else. Neenie and Fox, Pearl, they need me. Ginny and Ron too, even Luna, and Neville more than anyone. We have to stick together.”
Can you stick together from here? Because that’s all the further you’re going unless your Occlumency suddenly and miraculously blossoms. And that would be a miracle, considering how much you practice it.
Harry rolled over and stuck his head under the pillow, but the voice wasn’t having any. There’s not much difference between being here and being there, except that here you might see the rest of the Pride a few times a week. Until it gets too dangerous to use the Floo Network, which could be any day now.
“All right,” Harry mumbled. “All right…”
The voice continued, its energy unabated. You can at least go outside there, and have things to do and people to avoid. It’ll keep you from going mad with boredom. Which, let’s face it, is something you need to be thinking about—having long conversations with yourself is seldom a good sign…
“All right!” Harry sat up, flinging the pillow across the room at the door.
Which obligingly opened.
Draco caught the pillow an inch shy of his face and raised an eyebrow at Harry.
“Not you,” Harry said shortly. “Thinking.”
“Come up with anything?”
“Maybe. Why, did you?”
“You won’t like it.”
“I don’t like mine either. Let’s have it.”
“If you insist.” Draco came into the room, shut the door, and sat down on the bottom of the bed, tossing the pillow to Harry. “You’re probably going to have to go back to—”
“The Dursleys’,” Harry finished. “I got that far myself. You have anything to add?”
Draco shrugged. “Me.”
“You?”
“I want to come along. Well, ‘want to’ is a bit strong, but as long as you don’t flat out tell me no, I’m going to come along. I’m sure Neenie and I can fake something up to make me look like a cat when we first get there, and after that I’ll just stay out of sight.” Draco scowled momentarily. “I wish we’d finished the year already. The Trace means I can’t transform and neither can you, not without tipping the Ministry off we’re illegal underage Animagi, and we don’t need that kind of trouble on top of everything else…” He trailed off, noticing the way Harry was looking at him. “What?”
You just volunteered to spend an unknown amount of time stuck in a stuffy little room, in a body that isn’t yours, with only one person around who knows what you are, never mind who. That’s what. But I can’t say that, so let me try this.
“Thank you.” Harry swiped two fingers across his cheek and touched them to the back of Draco’s wrist, the part most conveniently within reach. “I’d say you don’t have to, but you know that already, and I’m sure I can’t talk you out of it so I won’t bother trying.”
“Damn right you’re not.” Draco preened briefly, then sobered. “I remember being away from the Pack, that summer I was stuck at the Notts’ for a while. The thing that helped the most, more than the letters or even the dream nights, was having Neenie there with me. And she’d volunteer to go with you in a heartbeat too, but Dursley’s not so thick he won’t spot her for the cat Ron’s been toting around the past two terms. I’d rather he not get any bright ideas about how to get in good with the Dark Snarkers.”
“He has enough of them on his own.” Harry plumped the pillow and set it back in its place. “It’s ‘the Dark Lord’ for him, just like it is all the other Slytherins.”
“Not all,” Draco objected. “There’s Blaise and his crowd, and Selena and hers. Most of them, I’ll grant you, but not all.”
“You know that’s what I meant,” Harry began, but cut off at the warming of his pendants. “Who’s—” He hooked them out with a finger and stared at the glowing carving. “Hermione?”
“Hermione,” Draco confirmed, looking up from his own pendants. “But she’s here. What could be so wrong—”
The brothers locked eyes for one second, then scrambled for the door.
Hermione sat cross-legged in the middle of the main room floor, her eyes closed, her Zippophone open in her hand. “Yes, I’ll come as soon as I can,” she was saying as Draco yanked the door open, Harry on his heels. “Thank you for telling me. Goodbye now.” She flipped the Zippo’s lid shut.
“Who was that?” Draco demanded, on top of Harry’s “What’s wrong?”
“It was George.” Hermione’s voice was still outwardly as calm as ever, but Harry could hear the cracks beginning in the underlayers. “He and Crystal and Ginny and Ron decided to see if they could follow the pendants to find Percy, and maybe the other prisoners the Death Eaters took. They borrowed their dad’s car and went, just went, without telling anyone.” She drew a long, ragged breath, and Draco knelt beside her and slid his arms lightly around her. “Ron Aged himself to look like Percy. To make the Death Eaters think Percy had escaped and chase him. Well, they chased him all right.” Her laugh sounded like shattering glass. “They caught him. They used Dark magic on him. On his eyes. Oh, Harry, he’s blind!”
Harry shut his own eyes and leaned his head against the doorframe. The voice at the back of his head was mercifully silent.
Ginny was trying to keep busy. Keeping busy meant she didn’t have to think, didn’t have to remember, didn’t have to go on seeing it all over again.
He just hung there, limp like he was dead, blood all down his face and soaking into his robes, and his eyes, oh Merlin’s wand, his eyes—
She slapped herself on the back of the hand, breaking out of the memory, and returned to her mental checklist. Corona volunteered to take Mrs. Robertson home, and Maya should be back any minute from the Smythes’. Percy’s up in the third-floor bathroom, I made sure Dobby got him fresh robes and took away the ones that were stained, and Winky’s gone home to clean up the car…
A scream like she hadn’t known any boy could produce, least of all her tough and masculine Quidditch-Keeper brother, and George’s snarled command to the crate of fireworks in the boot, reducing the wall around the window to rubble and dust so that they could all see what he had seen—
Enough! Another slap on the hand, this one harder. Ron knew what he could be letting himself in for, we all did, and going over it won’t change what happened, but it very well could drive you mad! Now stop it right this instant, or I’ll—
“Yelling at yourself?”
Ginny spun around, her wand in her hand and pointed at the speaker before she recognized Crystal. “Sorry,” she said with a grimace, sliding the wand away again. “But yes. How did you know?”
“Experience.” Crystal pointed towards Ginny’s wand pocket. “Don’t apologize for that, by the way. It’s reflexes like that will keep you alive. In any case, I’ve done my share of shouting inside my own head. Are you to the stage yet where you’re trying to make it out as all your own fault?”
“No, but it probably won’t be long.” Ginny leaned against the wall, her knees beginning to quiver as the successive shocks of the day caught up with her. “If I don’t fall over first.”
“That might not be a bad idea, as long as you do it on a bed or something else suitable for the purpose. When you do get to the blaming-yourself stage, try and remember that no one made Ron go on this little trip, especially not you.” Crystal came up beside Ginny and slid an arm around her shoulders, giving her a tight, older-sisterly hug. “And we saved three lives by going out there today. That has to count for something. Now I’m off upstairs to tell your big brother—your other big brother, the one I didn’t get yet—exactly the same thing. If you see Winky, would you ask if she’ll come up and do me a favor?”
Ginny nodded, and watched with some envy as Crystal mounted the stairs two at a time. The way I feel right now, I’d be lucky to manage one…
A soft thump sounded behind her. Ginny whirled once more, only to find herself confronting Luna over a cloth-lined wicker laundry basket. “What’s that for?”
“Lynx delivering.” Luna drew her wand. “Maybe to the Hogwarts Den later, if your mum says you may, but for right now down to the den room so you can rest.”
“I’m your alpha. You can’t boss me around.”
Luna’s tiny smile said Want to bet? as clearly as words could have done. Ginny sighed, and a few moments later Lynx was allowing herself to be levitated down the corridor toward the stairs.
I’ll remind her how the Pride hierarchy works some other time.
Not that she’s ever actually cared.
Downstairs, the door from the kitchen creaked, and two pairs of feline feet pattered against the steps leading to the first floor.
Hermione skidded to a halt outside the door of the guest room where her nose told her Ron was. An argument was going on inside.
“—very good idea under normal circumstances, but I can’t condone it today.” The voice, male, slightly pompous, cracking somewhat with age, belonged to Letha’s friend Healer Albertus Young, an expert on curses and the damage they could do. “Dark magic can injure even Healers who attempt to counter it in the usual manner. Your special power is much more intimately tied to your magic as a whole, and to your life. If you meddle with this, you could destroy your Healing abilities, perhaps even kill yourself.”
“But I’ve done curses before!” The half-wail was Meghan, and Meghan well on her way to a full-blown case of precocious-thirteen-year-old-Healer pique. “I know how to talk to them, they’ve never hurt me, just tired me out like Healing always does!”
“That’s just the trouble.” Healer Young sounded tired to Hermione’s human ears as she regained them, tired and old and unhappy with the things he had to say but determined to do his duty. “You have dealt with curses, but this is not a curse. It is a Dark spell. It has no quasi-consciousness that you can negotiate with, and no price that can be paid. It is simply a shattered maze of mirrors. If you try to fight it, it will suck your magic into itself and reflect it back on you unpredictably. You will do no good, and you may do harm, to both this young man and yourself.”
“You’ve been wrong before,” Meghan spat. “And you’re not the boss of me.”
That sounds like my cue. Hermione pushed the door open and stepped into the room. “Maybe not,” she said, drawing Mrs. Weasley’s eyes away from Ron, who lay motionless on the twin bed, and Healer Young’s and Meghan’s eyes away from each other. “But I am.”
Meghan drew breath for a defiant growl. Hermione favored her little sister with what she hoped was a reasonable facsimile of Letha’s trouble-stopping look. Meghan wilted, hiccupped once, and bolted across the room into Hermione’s arms.
What do you know. It worked.
Though Healer Young was too well-trained to do anything so obvious as sag in relief or wipe his brow, Hermione caught the thankful glance he gave her before returning to Ron’s bedside. She would have liked to be there as well, but a wide-awake and crying little sister trumped an unconscious boyfriend. Ron would have to wait.
“Everybody’s leaving me,” Meghan sobbed into Hermione’s robes. “Dadfoot and Mama Letha are gone, Moony’s hurt, Neville’s with his mum and won’t come out, even Danger’s going away now…she has to find them and save them from the Death Eaters, Alex said she was the only one who’d have a chance…and Harry can’t come home until Moony wakes up, and you and Draco have to stay with him…”
“No, we don’t,” Hermione said, making up her mind on the spot. “Harry shouldn’t be alone, but he doesn’t need both of us. I’m not going anywhere.”
Meghan squeaked and hugged Hermione tighter than ever. “Neenie, oh, Neenie, thank you!”
“No crushing ribs, please,” Hermione wheezed, peeling Meghan’s arms loose.
The little giggle that escaped Meghan contrasted oddly with Ron’s quiet groan. Mrs. Weasley gasped and was about to snatch at her son’s hand, but Healer Young touched her shoulder. “Maybe let her handle it,” he suggested, nodding towards Hermione.
Me? But…
Hermione sat on that thought before it could go any farther. Letha had often mentioned that trained and experienced Healers developed a sense for the best ways to speak to their patients, to be sure that their instructions would be heard and followed. Healer Young had been following his profession for more than twice as long as she’d been alive. If he thought she was the right person to talk to Ron, she was willing to give it a try.
But he’s not going to be happy about this, no matter who tells him.
She crossed the room with Meghan clinging to her hand and went to her knees beside Ron’s bed. “I’m right here, Ron,” she said, sliding her free hand into his. “You’re going to be all right.”
“Neenie?” Ron turned his head towards her, the white bandage bound lightly over his eyes showing a few spots of blood. “Neenie, no, it’s too dangerous…you shouldn’t be here…”
“You’re back at Headquarters,” Hermione interrupted. “Percy made sure you got safely home.”
“Percy.” Ron’s shoulders relaxed. “We found him?”
“Yes, you found him, and two of the Muggle women with him. They’re all safe now, and so are you.”
“Good.” Ron produced a weak parody of his usual rich chuckle. “Would help if someone turned on the lights…”
Hermione swallowed against her protest that surely, surely she was the wrong person to say these words, there had to be somebody else. “No,” she said. “It wouldn’t.”
“Can’t tell where I am in the dark, can I?”
You’ll have to. From now on, you’ll have to. “Ron, I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this. The lights are on. They just won’t do you any good. Not anymore.”
“Not…” Ron stopped and drew his hand out of hers, reaching up to his face. Hermione focused on keeping her breaths slow and even, hiding the painful tightness in her chest. Ron hated crying at any time, and would never forgive her for shedding tears over him.
Fingers found the bandage, ran along its length, formed into a fist, then dropped limply to the pillow beside Ron’s head. “Go away,” he said, rolling onto his side so that he faced away from Hermione and pulling the sheet over his head.
“Go away?” Mrs. Weasley echoed, reaching for him. “Ron, really—”
“Please go away, then! All of you, however many there are!” The words had the savage force of an Unforgivable Curse, but Hermione heard what was under them, and that hidden sound had her beckoning urgently to Mrs. Weasley.
“He’s going to cry,” she mouthed, careful to make no sound, and Mrs. Weasley rose immediately, hand over her own mouth though her eyes were spilling over.
Then again, she only has five other sons. No chance she’d know how boys feel about crying in public, is there?
Healer Young was already at the door. Mrs. Weasley followed him out into the corridor. Meghan was next, pausing as though she wanted to say something, but Hermione’s look sent her on her way without a word.
Which is unusual for Pearl at any time. Right now, it’s on the order of a miracle.
“I won’t be far, Ron,” she said into the silence. “Call if you want me.”
“The only thing I want you to do is leave me alone.”
Hermione stepped deliberately past the threshold, shut the door with a thump, and laid a careful charm around it to keep noise from escaping. That done, she laid her forehead against it. When her legs started to shake, she went to one knee, pillowing her head in her arms.
“No, you don’t,” she whispered into her right sleeve, the tears getting away from her at last. “But your stupid male pride won’t let you say that, will it?”
He had never wanted her so much.
Her soft hand, her quiet voice, were the reassurance he’d been desperate for, that he hadn’t been left behind. His brother’s frantic hands and furious, frightened voice had been real, not a hallucination brought on by pain and terror. He, the supposed rescuer, had in his turn been rescued.
Five seconds too late. Some timing there.
He knew in a back corner of his mind that his family had come the instant they knew he was in peril, that only bad luck and his own foolhardiness were to blame for this, but the knowledge brought him no comfort. Nothing would ever bring him comfort again. He was useless, worthless, a burden on his family and his Pride, and the war and the world would go on without him.
Harry’ll get a new best friend. Someone who can hold his end up in a fight, who knows when to run for it and remembers to look behind him. Hermione’ll move on, find somebody else, somebody who’s good enough for her this time…
The edges of the red spots on the bandage began to soften and run together.
Why couldn’t I just have died?
Why couldn’t it have been me?
Percy paced up and down the length of the third-floor hallway, unable to stay still for more than a few seconds. He’d taken a long, hot shower, had changed every piece of clothing he’d been wearing, and still he was sure he could smell the copper-iron tang of blood.
Ron’s blood. For one nightmare instant, he was there again, snapping the chains off short with his wand and catching Ron in his arms, cradling him close and running for the car, unable to see more than a few feet around the tears of pure rage in his eyes. My brother—my little brother—I’m supposed to protect him, not the other way around. And it was me they thought they had. Me they thought they were torturing, they were blinding.
I wish it had been.
Two brisk raps from behind him made him jump and turn. Crystal Huley stood on the stairs, regarding him closely, a book in one hand. “All right?” she asked.
“Not really.” Percy returned the regard. He had met Crystal only in passing until today, when Penny had pointed out to him that George’s introduction of his Muggle girlfriend into the magical world had definite implications about the seriousness of the relationship. As a result, he and Penny had dropped by the twins’ shop with the intent of getting to know Crystal better.
And if we hadn’t… no. I refuse to play that game. If we blame one another for what the Death Eaters do, they win, and I will not allow that.
“I didn’t think you would be.” Crystal mounted the last few steps and nodded towards one of the doors. “George says we can use his room. Come talk with me?”
About to refuse, Percy paused. Something about the way Crystal had planted her feet, the set of her shoulders and the direct look in her blue-gray eyes, hinted that she wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer. For his part, he wasn’t in the mood to argue, and what harm could talking do?
Whatever it is she wants, I can always say no.
“If you like,” he said.
“I do like, and thank you.” Crystal pulled open the door she had indicated. Percy followed her into the small, neat bedroom with its stacks of WWW boxes everywhere. She pulled out the desk chair for herself, and he sat on one of the beds. “So. Hell of a day, wasn’t it?”
That… is putting it mildly. “You could say that.”
“I did say that. Thank you for noticing.” Crystal ran her finger along the spine of her book. “I was talking with Mrs. Robertson and Mrs. Smythe, Sue and Grace, on the drive back. They told me a few of the things you discussed while you were together. Nothing personal, but it got me thinking.” Again her eyes swept him head to foot, and seemed not dissatisfied with what they found. “If you’re as angry with the Death Eaters as you seem to be, and—excuse the phrasing, but it’s just what I see—as clueless about what to do with that anger… well, I might have an idea for you. That’s all.”
Percy surprised himself considerably by laughing. It was dry as dust and bore more resemblance to a snort, but it was a genuine, unpremeditated laugh. “Clueless is a good word for it. Any and all suggestions are welcome at this point.”
“Oh, good,” Crystal murmured, smiling sweetly. “I did hope you’d say that.” Standing up, she extended the book to him. “When George told me what his next-older brother was named, this was the first thing I thought of. I remember reading it when I was ten and being fascinated by it. The idea that someone could hide so much under a mask, could be so different from the person everyone thought he was… I think you’ll like it. And I think it might give you the same idea I had. If not, come talk to me again. We can work it out.”
Percy accepted the book, nodded in thanks, and watched Crystal out the door, then turned his attention to the little volume in his hand. It was a slender paperback, its edges stained from handling and both covers battered from long use. The cover showed a picture of a small red flower with five petals, and the title, he recalled after a few moments ransacking his memories of first-year Herbology, was that flower’s name.
What does a book about plants have to do with Death Eaters?
There was only one way to find out. Transferring himself to the desk chair Crystal had left pulled out and flicking on the room’s lights with his wand, Percy settled in and began to read The Scarlet Pimpernel.
Wormtail unlocked his door, checking behind himself to make sure no one was watching. He’d got sloppy about that the past few months, with the other Death Eaters making it clear that harassing a little vermin like him was beneath them unless they were bored clean out of their skulls. Now that he had something worth taking, he was going to have to become more vigilant.
Though there’s a new first stop for any of them who want someone to kick around. It isn’t automatically me anymore.
He was glad enough of that fact, but he wasn’t certain how he felt about the people whose post that had now become.
All of a sudden I’m not certain of a lot of things. And most of them aren’t things it’s wise to not be certain about.
I’d better get certain, and fast.
He stepped into his room, shut the door behind himself, and turned around.
His certainty level went into free fall.
Did I unlock the wrong door?
He had left a small, drafty, stone-walled and -floored bed-sitter, furnished only by an iron bedstead and a rickety wooden table and chair, with a pile of dirty clothes in one corner, a stack of dirty dishes in another, and a heap of books and papers in a third. This room was neat and cozy, insulated by draperies in soft shades of red and yellow and a light brown carpet. The bed seemed to have been stretched, nearly doubling its width, and it was covered with a brightly-patterned quilt. Two overstuffed armchairs, upholstered to match the drapes, sat in front of the fireplace with its cheerful blaze, and the table had sprouted not only a second chair but a tablecloth and a pair of place settings. An armoire stood where the clothes had been, and a business-like desk with a well-loaded bookshelf beside it filled the opposite corner.
Kneeling in front of the fireplace, a teapot on the floor in front of her and a kettle in her towel-swathed hand, was Evanie.
She looked up, saw him, and smiled. “You look tired, Peter,” she said, hanging the kettle back on the hob and swinging it away from the flames. “Come sit by the fire.”
The invitation scrambled what few brain cells Wormtail had working. While he was still trying to decide if there were a hidden meaning in it, his feet began moving forward, and he came back to full awareness as he took a seat in the red armchair. He opened his mouth to ask where all this had come from, how she had obtained it without magic, why she had done this—
“Do you take your tea weak or strong?” she said before he could speak.
“Er.” It required thought. No one had asked him that question in a longer time than he cared to remember. “Weak, thank you.”
She poured him out a cup, then one for herself. “Milk, sugar?”
“Yes, please, both. Two lumps.” The ritual of question and answer was returning to him now, giving him a paradoxical sense of understanding what was going on at the same moment it undercut all his sureties. A kidnapped Muggle in the presence of a wizard was supposed to be awed, frightened, perhaps even a little worshipful. There was no place for kind, matter-of-fact competency.
In theory, that is. In practice, I think I like it better this way.
Wormtail hastily took a sip of the tea she handed to him, hoping to drown that particular thought. It was blasphemy, it was heresy, it was against all the principles his life was bound to adhere to.
But, his mind whispered in the barest of tones, it was also true.
“Thank you for telling me about the house-elves.” Evanie set the teapot on the table, then returned with her cup to the yellow chair across from Wormtail’s own. “They are very helpful if you ask them politely. I hardly had to do any of the cleaning myself, and when I asked if there was any furniture around that no one was using, they found all of this for me. They even put the drapes up, and levitated the furniture—and me—while they laid the rug down.” She laughed. “I’ve always dreamed about flying, but I didn’t think it would be on a carpet!” Her face turned inquisitive. “Are there really such things? Flying carpets?”
“Oh yes.” Peter set his cup down in the saucer, to have both his hands free to gesture. “They’re banned in Britain, because they’re Muggle-made and under a major enchantment, but they are real. When we fly, we use broomsticks. I haven’t got one just now, but I can get one to show you, and maybe we can go out on it sometime so you can see what it’s like. I’m not the best flyer in the world, but I promise not to drop you.”
Evanie’s eyes sparkled. “Thank you for that.”
A loud crack signaled the arrival of a house-elf with a basket, its contents mostly covered by a tea towel but delicious-smelling steam escaping through one crack. “Here you be’s, miss!” the elf chirped, handing the basket to Evanie. “Be’s having nice nights now!”
“Thank you, and you do the same.” Evanie folded back the towel as the house-elf vanished again. “How nice, they’ve sent us up a selection. Cinnamon, blueberry, and plain. What would you like?”
“Blueberry, please.” Peter held out his right hand, and Evanie deposited a blueberry scone in his silver palm.
What he had hitherto considered the prudent, sensible portion of his brain went into screaming overload at the sight. Don’t you see what she’s doing? She’s corrupting you, leading you astray, eroding your faithfulness to the Dark Lord! He can see into your mind, he can watch you anywhere he wants to, he’ll find out about this and—
And what? asked another voice, quiet but nonetheless insistent. He’ll find out that the woman he gave me for my reward is obedient, pliable, and devoted to me. That she makes my life comfortable without even needing to be prompted. She isn’t trying to change my loyalties or stop me from following my Master’s commands. She’s simply doing what she was brought here for. That hardly makes her a threat.
The flashing thoughts took only a fraction of a second. He was able to set the scone down on his saucer and say his “Thank you” before Evanie had noticed any hesitation on his part.
I have nothing to fear from her. He watched as she chose a cinnamon scone for herself. And neither of us has anything to fear from the truth.
She covered the scones with the towel again, set the basket aside, and looked up at him. “What happened while you were gone?” she asked quietly.
His stomach clenched. I always did have a genius for being wrong. How am I supposed to tell her what I saw today without—
“I’ll be more upset by trying to imagine it than by knowing the truth, whatever it is,” her voice broke into his thoughts. “And you look like you need to tell someone about it. Please, Peter?”
Damn it. Damn her. How can she know me this well already? “It isn’t pretty,” he began haltingly. “Not fit for—”
“For me to hear?” Evanie shook her head with a smile. “There isn’t much I haven’t heard at one point or another. I promise I won’t faint or scream, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
What I’m worried about? What I’m worried about is that this will end. That you’ll wake up from this dream you’ve somehow fallen into, and see the real me and how much less than all of this I’m worth, and everything will go back to the way it was. That’s what I’m worried about.
“I can’t promise not to be angry about what I hear,” Evanie added. “But I can promise to hear you out, and to try to be fair about it. Will you give me a chance?”
A chance. Peter nodded slowly. I can do that.
I hope.
“I saw you with Sirius,” he said aloud. “How well do you know him?”
“Hardly at all. He was kind enough to open the entrance to Diagon Alley for me and Annette.” A flash of pain crossed Evanie’s face. “Annette was the little girl I was bringing to get her school supplies. She died in the attack. But that’s not important now. I saw Sirius again when we were both prisoners, a little while before I saw you first. We exchanged names, but not much more than that.” She broke a small piece off her scone and began to crumble it into her saucer. “I think you might know him better.”
“We knew each other at school.” Before I made the worst choice of my life, and left him to take the blame for it. “Aletha, his wife, was a year below us. They used to row terribly, every chance they got, but it was just their way of flirting. They were married a few years out of school…” After I’d done my best to wreck their lives, that is. “…but Sirius comes from an old pureblood family, and they never accepted Aletha because she’s Muggleborn—her parents didn’t have magic. So they argued that because the marriage ceremony hadn’t been magical, it didn’t count, and Sirius could still marry a ‘proper pureblood girl’.”
Evanie grinned. “I didn’t see much of them, but I can’t imagine they’d take kindly to that. They seemed very devoted.”
“They are. To each other and their children—they have a daughter, she’d be about thirteen by now, and Sirius’ godson will be sixteen soon.” A flash of Sirius in dress robes, holding Meghan on one hip and Harry standing by his side, crossed Peter’s mind and was gone. “So to shut the purebloods up, they were married again magically last summer. They wrote their own vows, and one of the things they promised was that they would never use magic against each other, on the penalty of losing it themselves.” He swallowed, surprised by how tight his chest had become. “But they forgot to say that they had to use it against each other freely. So when my—the Dark Lord captured them, he thought it would be funny to force Sirius to use magic against Aletha.”
Nothing says I have to call him my Master, even if he is.
Evanie’s eyes were fixed on the slowly dying flames in the fireplace. “What kind of magic was it?”
“What’s called a Memory Charm. It’s often used on Muggles who’ve seen magic, to make them forget, because it will affect their lives badly if they know magic exists and they can’t have it. But the Dark Lord told Sirius to use the strongest version of it, the kind that would destroy all Aletha’s memories, everything that makes her who she is.” He rubbed his left hand in small circles on the arm of the chair. “And if he said no, the Dark Lord was going to put him under Imperius, magical compulsion, and make him do it anyway.”
“I see.” Evanie reached for another piece of scone and slid out of her chair onto the floor, folding her legs under her and tossing crumbs into the fire rhythmically. “Did he? Sirius, I mean?”
“It was strange.” Peter joined her on the floor, watching her hands move. “He was about to say no, that the Dark Lord would have to force him to do it, but Aletha stopped him. She told him to do it, that it was all right. And then she started to hum, and to… dance, I suppose. It was a spinning step, around and around the room, and all the time she was humming, always on the same note, like this.” He hummed a few times, varying the lengths but never the pitch. “Finally, she stopped, right in front of Sirius, and looked at him like she was expecting him to finish whatever she was doing. She put her hand up against her chest, then touched his cheek, and…”
“Yes. ‘And.’” Evanie flicked her last few crumbs into the fire. “He must love her very much, to do that to her because she asked him to.”
“He does.” Peter drew a knee up to his chest and laced his fingers on top of it. “He always did. I envied him that, him and James—another school friend, who married a girl from our year. They both had what they wanted right there beside them, and all they had to do was reach out and take it. Even Remus, our other friend, he found someone just a few years out of school, but I…”
Alarmed, he bit down on the words, but his thoughts rushed forward to complete the sentence anyway.
I was so afraid for my life that I made it barely worth living.
What would have happened if, back when I was in school, before any of this began…
He shook off that line of thought before it could go into dangerous territory. It didn’t happen, and now it never can. I am what I am, and so is she.
“What happened to them?” Evanie asked, so softly that Peter barely heard her. “Sirius and Aletha. Afterwards.”
“They’re still here.” Peter stood up, brushing a bit of soot off his robes. “Sirius is an Animagus, he can take the form of an animal when he wants to, so after his magic left him the Dark Lord changed him into his other form and caged him up like that. Aletha is down in one of the secondary kitchens. She’ll be serving a few of the inner circle who think house-elves aren’t much to look at.”
And who also think you can’t take liberties of a certain sort with house-elves.
He found himself hoping that Sirius had neglected to wipe that section of Aletha’s memory which dealt with her training as a Beater.
“Enough talking for one night,” he said, both to Evanie and himself, and jerked his head towards the other side of the room. “Let’s get to bed.”
Evanie flinched. It was a tiny motion, quickly camouflaged under her leaning forward to get to her feet, but Peter was sure he hadn’t been mistaken. Now why would she…
One possible reason came quickly to mind, given what he had just been thinking about Aletha.
She’s been hurt before.
The last thing I want to do is hurt her, especially now that I’ve seen what she does without prompting, but how can I make sure she knows that?
“You can have the bathroom first,” he said, waving a lordly hand in that direction. “Just don’t take too long about it.”
“Of course not.” Evanie didn’t look up from her hands once as she unhooked the door of the armoire, collected a nightdress from one of the drawers, and vanished into the bathroom with it.
“Where did she get…” Peter wondered aloud, then shook his head. “House-elves. I should have known.”
Drawing his wand, he strolled over to the bed. It looked a good deal thicker than he remembered it, and there were definitely more blankets on it. Sliding his free hand under the quilt, he whistled quietly at the feel of the sheets against his skin, and spent one moment wondering where his old bedclothes had gone before returning to the task at hand.
She’s done so much to make me comfortable.
Let me see if I can’t do something for her.
Evanie fastened the last button of her nightdress with trembling fingers.
I agreed to this. That means I have to take what comes.
At least Peter looks like he’ll be gentle.
Straightening her hair one more time, she stepped out.
“Oh, there you are.” Peter straightened up from where he’d been bending over the bed. “Pick a side. I’ll put the light out when I finish.”
Evanie nodded. “Second drawer, left side,” she said quietly as he headed for the armoire.
“Is that—ah.” He pulled a pair of striped pajamas from the named drawer and turned to smile at her. “You think of everything, don’t you, Evanie? Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She watched him into the bathroom, then steeled herself and turned to look at the bed.
Her hand went to her mouth as she stared at what Peter had done. A raised partition ran down the exact center of the bed, marking it off into two separate halves. The sheets and blankets had stretched to accommodate, tucking themselves in neatly around it.
This means… it must be…
She sat down limply on the bed as the full meaning of it dawned on her. Peter knew. He had seen her fear, and had given her the clearest possible reassurance that it was groundless. She might not sleep easily here, but she would sleep in peace.
“Thank you, Peter,” she whispered, and blew a kiss towards the bathroom door before crawling over the partition to take her place on the far side of the bed. “Good night.”
And may all your dreams be pleasant ones.
In a nook under a curving staircase, Mare regarded what she had made and found it good.
A small greenish-brown creature had delivered her a pile of ragged bedding after her request for such to the white-blond man, and she had chosen this spot after discovering that one of the “blankets” was actually a curtain, rings and all. Once she had trimmed it to fit, it looked as though it had been hanging under the stairs since the manor was built. No one was likely to pull it aside and discover the cozy nest she had constructed for herself.
At least, I hope not.
I would hate to have to hurt anyone.
Yawning, she lay down on the thickest part of the bedding and pulled a stained sheet over herself. It’ll do for now, but when the weather starts to get cold, I might freeze. I wonder if they’d let me bring the dog along, just for warmth? He likes me, if the way he kept looking at me while he was eating is any indication…
It was an interesting set of thoughts to chase into sleep, and into dreams.
Author Notes:
Surprise!
Okay, there's more to this update than just my desire to get the story moving along, though that's important too. I completely forgot to put my news on Chapter 46, and that news is this:
I'm a published author!
That's right, you heard me! Several well-known fan fiction authors, including yours truly, have contributed stories to an anthology entitled "Horror, Humor, and Heroes 2: New Faces of Fantasy," available now on Amazon (dot) com and Smashwords (dot) com! It's only $3 as an e-book, so please, go check it out! The more copies we sell, the more likely it is we'll do this again!
And, of course, please do continue to give me the wonderful review love. Who knows? There's another weekend coming…
Incidentally, if you aren't familiar with The Scarlet Pimpernel, it's a lot of fun, and available free online from Project Gutenberg. Go check it out.