Facing Danger
Chapter 49: What Once Was Lost (Year 6)
By Anne B. Walsh
One second, it was silent in his room. The next, it was not.
Someone was crying.
Only snatches of words were audible between the sobs, but those snatches were enough to bring him out of bed, fumbling for his shoes, swearing under his breath when they weren’t where he expected.
He knew who was crying, and he had to get to her.
The shoes refused to come to his groping hand. Snarling something moderately kinky about what he’d do with them after he found them, he headed for the area where he thought the door was most likely to be. It wasn’t like he had to go far. If the strength of the crying was any indicator, there weren’t even stairs involved.
His fingers encountered a hard substance, and he swore again. No stairs, maybe, but there will be walls. Still, walls mean doors. Right, right, right—ah-ha, panels. Which means about midway down, there should be—
Wrenching the doorknob around, he stumbled into the corridor. The crying was louder here. He turned to the right, following the sound, feeling his way along the far wall until he barked his fingers on the edge of another doorframe. This time he didn’t bother to curse. Instead he found the knob and shoved the door open.
“Hermione,” he demanded, “what’s wrong?”
“E-everything,” came the faltering answer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—Ron!”
“Not expecting me?” Ron grinned in the general direction of her voice. “Where are you? Help me out here.”
“I—yes, of course—come forward. Three steps. That’s good. Now turn left and take just a small step—there, that’s my bed, I’m right—oh!” Hermione broke off with a little squeak as Ron caught her hand in his and pulled her up against him. Her hair tickled in the same place it always did, against the side of his chin, and her breath was warm against his collarbone just the way it ought to be.
But it’s still catching in her throat there. And I think— He slid a hand up her shoulder to her face and brushed it across her cheek. Sure enough. Tears.
“What’s wrong?” he asked again, cradling her against him and turning carefully around so that they could both sit on the bed. “You’re crying. You never cry. What is it?”
Hermione didn’t answer right away, instead turning her face into his chest and wrapping her arms around him, and a nasty suspicion crept over Ron. “Hermione,” he said, tilting his head so that his cheek rested on her hair. “It’s not—you’re not crying over me, are you?”
“Some.” Hermione sniffled once. “Some of it is for everyone else, and some is just for being alone, but a lot of it is for you—and why shouldn’t it be?” Her arms released their grip, and hands clamped onto his shoulders. “Why shouldn’t I be crying for you? You haven’t spoken to anyone in days, you’ve barely even moved! I knew you were awake, I knew you could hear me, but you wouldn’t answer me, you didn’t respond at all! I thought you were going to die, Ron, so I think I deserve to cry a little over that!”
“You thought—” Ron abandoned words in favor of tightening his arms around Hermione until she squeaked. “No,” he said, trying for the firm and unquestionable tone he’d heard his dad use on his mum once or twice. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not going to cry over me any more, Neenie, you understand that? I’m not having it.”
“You made me.” Hermione sniffled again. “Lying there like you were just going to give up. Like you were going to let the Death Eaters win.”
Ron assigned the Death Eaters’ winning to the same category as his shoes, earning a light slap to the back of the head and a shaky giggle from Hermione. “I never thought I’d be happy to hear you swearing again.”
“Me neither.” Ron tangled his fingers in her hair. “But I mean it, Neenie. I don’t want you crying over me. You’ve got enough else to cry about right now. I know what’s going on with Harry and Fox, and with your parents—I was listening all those times you came in to talk to me, I just couldn’t…” He broke off, unable to find words that would explain the turbulent mix of emotions that had held him hostage inside his own mind for the past few days.
“You were scared and you didn’t know what to do,” Hermione supplied for him, laying her head against his shoulder again. “You’ve had something taken away from you, something important, something you never imagined living without.”
“This is why I like having you around. You know what I mean even when I don’t.” Ron felt to one side, ascertaining that they were far enough up on the bed for what he had in mind, then scooted back and turned, bringing his legs up onto the mattress. One of Hermione’s knees touched the inside of his right thigh, and he hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself in front of her.
What the hell, she’s got brothers. She’s seen it before.
Besides, the topic of conversation was sufficiently unpleasant that he thought he could contain himself.
“I still don’t know what I’m going to do,” he admitted, beginning to work through the snarls in his handful of hair. “Meghan can’t heal it, or she would have already, wouldn’t she?”
“She wanted to.” Hermione sighed. “She wanted to try, so much. But the spell they used was Dark, Ron, very Dark, and Healer Young said her magic would have unpredictable effects, it could even backlash and hurt her.”
“That’s out, then. And regular Healing magic isn’t much good against Dark spells.” For a second, Ron wanted to turn away, wanted to lie back down and tell the world to leave him alone again, but Hermione’s breathing against his chest still wasn’t quite even and he could feel the cooler spots on his T-shirt where her tears had soaked through the cloth.
I’m not doing that to her again. She’s not meant to cry. It isn’t right. I can’t fix all the rest of what’s wrong, but I can keep from adding to it.
“You miss everybody, don’t you?” he asked, gathering another handful of hair. “Harry and Draco, Mr. Padfoot and Mrs. Letha, Mrs. Danger, even Mr. Moony—his being around, I mean?”
“Only like I’d miss breathing air.” Hermione’s tone was dry enough to evaporate the Hogwarts lake, but Ron had done enough bulwarking against tears to recognize it when he heard it. “Oh, Ron, I want them back so much—but then, I wanted you back too, and here you are.” Her hand rested against the side of his face, her skin soft and cool to the touch. “Thank you. I can’t tell you what a difference it makes to have you here with me.”
Ron felt an unfamiliar sensation on his face, a twitching upward at the corners of his mouth. It took him a few seconds to realize what had happened. He was smiling.
I didn’t want to be useless—here’s something I can do right here. And it doesn’t matter one bit whether or not I can see. Neenie wants me around, so I’ll be around. If she has to lead me places, so what? She let me carry her all over the castle last year, as my furry little scarf…
“I wonder how well that would work,” he murmured aloud.
“How well what would work?”
“If you sat on my shoulders like we used to do and told me which way to go.” Ron mimed the placement of cat-Neenie around his neck with one hand. “Through the pendants, or…” He broke off as an idea struck him. “Wait, do you think—”
“Only one way to find out.” Hermione seemed to have had the same idea at the same moment, as her voice had suddenly gone breathless with excitement. “Hold still. I’ll change right now.”
The weight within Ron’s arms vanished, and a lighter one on his left shoulder replaced it. Claws dug in for a second, then retracted at his wince, and a cold nose pressed against his neck, nuzzling at his pendant chain.
“Here, let me do that.” Ron scooped the chain off the back of his neck and held it out, feeling a furry ear brush his hand as Neenie thrust her head through it. “Thumbs, you know.”
Yes, they’re very useful. Neenie trod daintily across his shoulders and settled herself into her accustomed place. Now then, let me see. If I do this and that, and open to you here and there…
Ron sucked in his breath, and his hands tightened into fists on the bedclothes.
Are you okay? Did I get it right?
“Better than okay,” Ron breathed. “Spot on, Neenie, first try.” He held up a hand and felt a thrill he’d never imagined getting from such an everyday activity.
He could see.
Everything’s either green, blue, or gray, but who cares? I can see it. I don’t have to feel my way around anymore. People won’t have to do everything for me. I won’t be a burden, I can live like normal—
Jubilant, he reached up to pluck Neenie down and hug her.
You might not want to do that, Neenie warned him, and the world tilted as he felt her shift her weight. Remember, they’re my eyes. I have to stay where I am if you want to keep borrowing them.
“Right. Never mind me.” Ron stroked between her ears instead, his mood deflating somewhat. I should’ve known there’d be a catch.
Don’t worry, I never do. Neenie began to purr. And don’t start fussing, either. We’ve got one solution to the problem, which is better than the none we started out with. We’ll find others. You can’t be the first person who’s been… I mean, that this has happened to.
“You can say it, you know. I won’t melt hearing it.” But he’d been avoiding so much as thinking it, Ron realized. He had to say it himself first. “I’m not the first person who’s been…” He swallowed hard and forced it out. “Blinded.”
That’s right, you’re not. Neenie’s purr increased, and she gave his ear a few gentle licks. So we’ll do some research, check into what treatments have been devised for the people who’ve gone before you. Her thoughts turned wicked. We could always talk to Professor Moody. I’m sure he’d be glad to help.
Ron caught the image accompanying the thought and started to laugh. “Bloody hell, Hermione, you want me scaring the Muggles, don’t you?” He took over the image—his own face, featuring a pair of eyes like the one which had given Mad-Eye Moody his nickname—and made them both stare off to the side, then started spinning them in opposite directions.
Neenie dissolved into mental giggles. It would be useful having someone around who could see through walls. And doors, and desks, and Invisibility Cloaks.
The idea was tempting, but Ron shook his head. “Not unless there isn’t any other option. And definitely not two of them.”
Two does seem excessive, but we’ll put it on the list as a possibility. So. Do you want to root around in the library for a while and see what else we can find out, or shall we go down to the kitchen and show this off to everyone?
“By ‘everyone’ you mean Mum.”
I was thinking of starting with her, yes, since she’s been worried about you and since the fuss she’s likely to raise over you will bring everyone else running.
“I hate it when she fusses,” Ron grumbled, standing up. “And she knows I hate it, and she still does it. Always has.”
She’s a mother. It’s what they do. And there is one thing you don’t have to worry about from her ever again.
“What?” Ron asked warily.
Neenie snickered. You’ll never be able to tell if she got you maroon anything. Cats can’t see purple.
“Forgive me if I’m not jumping for joy.”
But he was smiling again, Ron had to admit. Even the certainty of his mother’s tears and hysterics over him hadn’t taken that away. There was a buoyancy in his chest, like a balloon filled with hot air, that made his breathing feel easier and his steps lighter.
It’s called hope, Neenie said quietly. You’d lost yours. Now you have it back.
“You gave it to me.” Ron reached up to rub the side of her jaw. “Thanks for that.”
Anytime.
Together, cat and human left the room on their way to the basement kitchen.
Evanie looked around the featureless intersection of stone-walled corridors, just like the last hundred she’d passed, and admitted it to herself with a little sigh. She was lost.
I shouldn’t even be out here, I know, but what Peter doesn’t know won’t hurt him… I hope.
The house-elves, she had learned just today, could take passengers on their noisy comings and goings, if politely asked and if not expressly forbidden. Since the only standing order about Muggle prisoners was that they not be allowed to escape the manor, her friends could take her anywhere within its boundaries, and she had asked to see daylight again. Even in only three days—or was it four?—she’d missed the sun.
Maybe, when Peter and I know each other a little better, he will take me on that flying outing he mentioned. I’d like that a lot. But it won’t happen if he doesn’t trust me, and he won’t trust me if I’m not where he left me. So I’d better get back.
Still, she couldn’t stop herself from pouting slightly as she went to one knee, preparing to call a house-elf to take her back to Peter’s rooms. She had so wanted to find her way back to the little chamber from which she’d looked out over the woods and the river, and see if the gray dot she’d sighted in the distance had resolved itself into anything more solid…
“Well, well. What have we here?”
Evanie froze, her throat clamping shut in terror. A heavyset man had just rounded the corner and stood facing her, a leer spreading across his brutish face.
I have to get up—I have to run—I have to—
“If it isn’t Wormtail’s little Muggle, out all by herself.” The man strode up to her and lifted her chin towards him. “Tired of playing with the animals already, sweetheart? You weren’t what I came down here for, but you’ll do—or no, I’ll bring you along and let you both play, how’s that?” His hand closed around her wrist and dragged her upright. “You’ll like this game. All the girls do, once they learn how to play it right. Come on, now, keep up…”
Tiny, gasping whimpers escaped Evanie as she stumbled in her captor’s wake. Her childhood nightmares, the ones that were the worst of all because they had once been true, were waking and rearing their ugly heads again. Worse still, this time what her long-ago tormentor had told her was true. This time it really would be her own fault.
I should have stayed where I was. Peter would have taken me out if I’d just asked. But no, I had to go out on my own, I had to see the sun for myself, and now… and now…
One corner of her mind refused to take hold of the “and now.” There could still be a rescue, it babbled. The unthinkable hadn’t happened yet. She’d had one miracle, in Peter—why not two?
Because the world doesn’t work that way. She almost lost her footing and saved herself only by grabbing hold of a vertical bar, part of a set caging off a deep alcove in one wall of the corridor. Because people who’re foolish enough to throw away their miracles deserve what they get from it…
Well, finally.
Danger plopped down on her stomach under a handy bush and let her aching paws throb in time with her heartbeat. She had never traveled so far in wolf form before, and her pads weren’t as tough as they should have been.
Not a mistake I will make again, trust me.
The journey to this spot, wherever it might be—she suspected it was Unplottable, like Headquarters and Hogwarts were—had been filled with frustrating detours and pauses. As Alex had warned her, the pointer in her mind showed her only the current direction in which Sirius and Aletha were located, and took no obstacles into account. At first, she had tried Apparating past these obstacles, but after she frightened a pair of fishermen into jumping out of their boat by appearing on the bank of the river beside them, she’d stuck to foot travel.
Besides, Apparating isn’t much good when the only coordinates you’ve got are “the other side of this bloody lump of rock in my way.” But I’m here now, and I can get started on figuring out how to get in there as soon as I get my breath back.
“There” was a rambling manor house, built up along the outer wall to resemble a fortress and warded with some nasty spells, one of which made her sure of why Alex had told her to come alone. She was going to have enough trouble convincing the Gubraithian Fire Charm not to tell its master about the unburnable object it had encountered without having to try to sneak someone else through it as well.
But at least I’m here. She closed her eyes, letting the birdsong and the sunny afternoon soothe her. I’ll get through the wards and find a permanent place to hide, or better still two of them, once I’m rested. And once I’ve set up a certain pair of messages…
Harry was frowning over an essay for History of Magic (“Name three breaches of the Statute of Secrecy and use them to support an argument either that the Statute is necessary and should be maintained or that it is wrongheaded and should be abandoned”) when a muffled yip from under the bed broke his concentration. You all right? he sent via pendant chain.
Just fine. Great, actually. Fox emerged and shook his head hard, flapping his ears. I heard from Danger. She was going to leave a dream-message for me, but I happened to be dreaming at the same time so we got to talk face-to-face. So to speak. She’s made it to the place where Padfoot and Letha are.
Grinning, Harry punched the air. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance she could call in a strike by the rest of the Order?” he asked, leaning back in his chair to stretch.
She wishes. Fox sat down and scratched the back of his neck with a hind foot. But you know the security on these pureblood manors. Paranoid lot, our ancestors were.
“They had plenty to be paranoid about.” Harry tapped the book he was referencing. “Muggles would mob them on even the suspicion they had magic, and other wizards saw them as competition. Families would get wiped out, or nearly so, from witch hunts, and then the rest of the wizarding world would claim the survivors had been asking for trouble and lock them up for the rest of their lives.”
Somehow I have more sympathy for them than I used to. Trotting over to the desk, Fox looked up at Harry. You’re getting itchy too, right? It’s not just me?
“It’s not just you.” Harry let his essay roll up and set it aside for the moment. “I’m sorry I got you into this. You ought to be—oi!” He pulled his ankle out of the way just in time as gleaming teeth snapped near it. “All right, point taken. None of us knew what we know now, it isn’t my fault we’re stuck in here, and you don’t want me apologizing for it.”
Fox leapt into Harry’s lap, and from there to the desktop. Amazing how you can read my mind that way. And all from a little chomp. He pulled his lips back from his teeth in a Fox-grin. Honestly, Harry, who’d have expected this? I know I never thought Dursley had the brains for it. One of the other Slytherins must have fed him his lines.
“‘Potter wants to tear the walls between us down, get the worlds mixed up more than they already are,’” Harry muttered, quoting what they’d heard through the heat register on their first night in the Dursleys’ master bedroom. “‘Freaks everywhere, magic in the streets, happening right under everyone’s nose. My Master wants to build those walls back up, to keep the worlds separate, the way they’re supposed to be…’”
It’s like the lie about you and Sangre. Just enough truth in it to make it impossible to refute in one word, or even ten. Fox scratched idly at a dried spot of ink on the desktop. We want to encourage mixing, to some extent, but we don’t want to shove magic in anyone’s face if we can help it. As for Voldemort, I’m sure he’d rather have the Muggles as ignorant as possible—there’s nothing as scary as the unknown.
“Until he’s ready to put his final plan into action, anyway.” Harry ran his finger around the edge of his textbook’s page, moving it in further and further with every circuit. “Box off a few enclaves of Muggles and cast confusion spells on them to make them think the rest of the world is still the same as it ever was, just for the entertainment factor. Snatch one or two of them every once in a while to watch the others panic.” His finger traced the smallest possible circle at the center of the paper. “All the rest… slaves, animals even. Livestock. Good for experiments, for grunt work, and for a few other things he doesn’t do himself but he knows some of the Death Eaters like…”
Grey eyes flicked a sidelong look at Harry. Please tell me you’re making this up.
“Wish I was.”
Another dream?
Harry didn’t bother answering.
Damn it, Wolf! I thought you said you’d wake me if you had another one of those! Fox thumped Harry on the shoulder with his muzzle. There might be something I could do about it, you know, dreams, I have a little experience with them—
“Not with this you don’t,” Harry snapped, keeping his voice low with an effort. “And by the time I can tell you what’s going on, it’s already over. Unless you’re planning on monitoring all my dreams, which would wear you out and might let Voldemort know we have someone here who can do that for me, there isn’t anything you can do, so lay off, all right?” He plucked Fox off the desk and lofted him across the room to the center of the bed. “Go do your reading for Transfiguration or something. Merlin knows you always need three more times through it than anybody else to get it down.”
Fox bared his teeth again before disappearing under the bed. Next time, his mental voice floated back, I won’t miss.
Harry sighed and laid his head down on the open book.
All I wanted was one quiet summer…
As Hermione had expected, the fuss made over Ron’s descent from his silent exile was greater than that which had greeted Fred when he’d returned from St. Mungo’s, but it was over now, and Ginny had taken her brother back upstairs to the Pride’s den to read him Harry and Draco’s letters from Privet Drive. Hermione had intended to go along, but Mrs. Weasley had asked her with a hand motion to stay, and she had made her excuses to Ron and was now sitting across from the older witch at the table.
Mrs. Weasley reached over and covered Hermione’s hand with her own. “I owe you an apology,” she said softly. “I’ve been holding back from you these last few days. Partly because I didn’t want to push in where I wasn’t wanted, but also, I’m afraid, partly to bring you to the point I heard you at earlier.”
Hermione stiffened, but held her temper in check. “You… wanted me to cry?”
Her eyes beginning to brim, Mrs. Weasley nodded. “It was wrong of me, I know,” she said, her voice unsteady. “But I couldn’t bear to see Ron the way he was any longer, and I knew if anything could break through his barriers, it would be you needing him. So I waited until I knew you were about to cry it out, and then I took down the Silencing Charm on his door. I do hope you can forgive me, but if you need to be angry, I understand.”
Whether or not she needed to be angry, Hermione thought, she was.
She manipulated me. She used me. How is that any different than the Death Eaters and the way they just take people away from their lives and put them anywhere they want them and—
Unasked, a saying of Moony’s slipped into Hermione’s mind, breaking off the flow of her furious thoughts.
“Sometimes anger is right. Sometimes it’s the only proper answer to what’s going on. But a lot of times, it’s the equivalent of saying, ‘I already know what I think, how dare you confuse me with a lot of stupid facts!’ Always make sure of what kind you’ve got before you let yourself go.”
“I wish you’d told me what you were doing,” she said out loud, trying to keep her tone calm, factual, adult. “I thought you were just too busy to see I was upset.”
“Never.” Mrs. Weasley squeezed her hand tightly. “Especially not now, with your own parents all gone. I should have trusted you, I know, and told you what I wanted to do, but I was afraid it wouldn’t work if it were contrived.”
Hermione thought over Ron’s likely reaction to discovering the distress he’d dragged himself out of his bed to comfort had been fake. And he would have found it out sooner or later. There’s nothing the matter with his ears, and secrets get out.
“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted. “Except that I wish I weren’t angry, but I am, still, some.”
“I thought you might be.” One more squeeze, and Mrs. Weasley let her hand go. “If you ever find out you’re not and you need help with anything, my door is always open to you. Always.”
“Thank you.” Hermione stood up and left the kitchen, getting herself back under control before she went upstairs to link up with Ron once again.
She did what she thought was necessary, and it did work. Ron’s up, he’s fighting back, he’s not letting this drag him down anymore. I just wish she hadn’t used me to do it with…
But then, she was certain Mrs. Weasley wished the same thing.
And she did it anyway, because she knew it was the only way to bring Ron around.
I wonder, will I ever be that strong? Or that ruthless?
It disturbed her slightly that she couldn’t decide which of the two possible answers she preferred.
Inside the alcove which had brought Evanie and her captor to a halt, a shaggy shape sat up. A low growl brought her captor’s head around, and the thunderous series of barks that followed it made him swear. “Shut up!” he bellowed, yanking out his wand and firing a spell which cut off the dog’s last bark in a yelping howl. “Stupid mutt, never could keep his nose out of things that don’t concern him…”
Evanie was still trying to work out how a dog could be concerned with anything when her captor hauled her through a swinging door into a kitchen, and one look at the woman who knelt beside the fire made everything plain. Aletha. But Aletha without her memories, so she won’t know me, and she doesn’t know Sirius—that’s who the dog must be, Peter said he had an alternate form—
“Hello, lovely,” her captor crooned, strutting across the floor towards Aletha. “You must be tired, all this work to do. What say you leave the rest and come back to my rooms with me and this little girlie here?” He yanked on Evanie’s arm, wringing a gasp from her, and reached for Aletha’s hand. “We can play some nice games together, and I’ll square it up with your masters later—”
His skin made contact with Aletha’s.
Evanie screamed.
Harry had no idea how long he’d been napping on his textbook, but it was long enough that his neck was sore and his back aching when Hedwig’s impatient hoot roused him. She was hovering just outside the barred window, letter in one talon.
“Coming,” Harry said, shoving back the chair and crossing the room to her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you wait. I know hovering’s hard, Ron’s told me so…” He trailed off, plucking the letter free rather than let that train of thought leave the station. Ron hurt, Ron blinded, was outside of his experience, and he’d hoped it would stay there.
Well, maybe this is good news. Hedwig hooted a goodbye and winged off, and Harry tore open the envelope, addressed to him in Ginny’s writing. Her usual letter came by Pigwidgeon this morning, so it must be something big…
He read the few lines contained within the note three times, then dropped down onto the bed and reached under it. His fingers contacted fur, and he tweaked. Wake up.
Not ‘sleep, that hurt, go ‘way, told you I’d bite you next time and I will soon’s I—wait, what? Fox’s mental voice moved from a grouchy mumble to his usual clear tones with the last two words. You feel different. What happened?
“Good news.” Harry waved the parchment in the air. “Want to hear it?”
Always. What is it? Moldywarts self-destructed and we can all go home now?
“Not quite that good, but close. Ron’s up and about again, borrowing Neenie’s eyes for the time being, thinking of getting an eye like Moody’s for the longer term.”
Oh, huzzah, just what I wanted to hear. Ron Weasley, able to see through walls.
“You don’t fool me.” Harry poked the parchment under the bed so that Fox could see it for himself. “You two haven’t had a serious fight in years. You just think it’s fun to poke at each other and get Hermione all riled up about it.”
Well, it is. The parchment rustled, once, twice, and then reappeared, clamped in Fox’s mouth. Sorry for being pushy, he said, depositing the letter on top of the bed and jumping up beside it himself. I worry about you, is all.
“I know you do, but I wish you wouldn’t. It’s annoying, especially when there’s nothing you can—”
Ssh! Fox accompanied the command with a mental image of finger on lips, and Harry clamped his shut immediately. Someone’s outside… I think. They could be in one of the other bedrooms, I can’t be sure. Wish we could see through walls.
Harry pushed his glasses up his nose reflexively, then stopped with his finger still on them. An idea had started to blossom in a back corner of his mind.
Fox worries about me, I worry about Ron, Hermione worries about everyone, and we all need to keep busy or we’ll go barking mad, but especially Ron, especially right now. Seeing better, seeing through walls, seeing at a distance, they could all be the difference between life and death for us in this war… and Ron’s always been our builder, our tinkerer, even Fred and George come to him when they can’t figure out the problem in one of their gadgets…
Maybe we can, he said. Care to help me start tomorrow’s letter home?
Padfoot lay with his nose resting on one paw, trying to get the stitch in his side to go away. He was quickly becoming an expert on how to recover from the Cruciatus, especially when one had no magic of one’s own to call on.
Fortunately for me, this pair of magic hands comes along every so often and scratches me, and all my aches and pains disappear. Really quite nice. Not something your average Auror can count on, though.
Her scent wafted into his nose, cutting through the leftover self-satisfied stink of Rabastan Lestrange and the stark terror Evanie had been exuding. He sat up, craning his neck anxiously. I hope Letha handled him all right—I tried to give her a heads-up, she doesn’t smell hurt—
But she did smell different, he realized. She smelled… smug was the wrong word, but it wasn’t far off. Gratified, perhaps, or even relieved, though he didn’t know what she’d been worrying about.
Other than being alone in a house filled with Death Eaters, with no way to know who she is or where she came from, and being stuck doing scut work, of course. But if any of that has changed, I’d like to know about it. Especially that middle bit…
“Thanks for the warning, Prince.” Aletha stepped around the corner, carrying the bowl of meat she’d promised him and a fresh bowl of water. “How did you know he was coming after me, though?”
Padfoot shrugged, unwilling to try pantomiming “Because I know Rabastan Lestrange and his favorite weakness, and besides, the only things any of them come down here for are to hurt me or go after you” with fresh Cruciatus aches.
Aletha slid the meat and water through the slot in the bars designed for bowls. “In any case, I sent Mr. Lestrange back to his bedroom with a headache, or rather the house-elves did it for me. They assure me Mr. Lestrange often has a headache when he awakens, due to gross overindulgence in various vices, and shouldn’t know the difference between tomorrow morning and any other.”
She may not remember who she is, but her sarcasm’s still right on target. Padfoot panted his appreciation. Wonder what she did to Rabastan, though. Bashed his head in with a mop?
“And the girl, Evanie, they took her back where she belongs too, but she shouldn’t have a headache.” The not-quite-smug smell redoubled. “Neither should you, you handsome Prince you. Come over here and let me make sure of it. That’s if you’re not starving, and I hardly think you would be after that…”
Padfoot thrust his head under her reaching hands. You’re so right, love. Cruciatus always leaves me queasy. Food’ll still be there when I wake up, and right now what I want is one of your magic head rubs and a nap.
“That’s a good Prince,” Aletha crooned. “What a good boy. You go to sleep, now, and when you wake up and my work’s done, we’ll have that talk and see if we can’t figure out some better way for you to get your points across than just nodding your head at me.”
If I could just get you to pull your pendants out for me… later, we’ll try that one later. Padfoot let the probing fingers dig deep into his skull, pull out the aches, move down to his shoulders and start to work away the pain in his spine and ribs. The stitch unkinked, and he moaned with pleasure, then opened one eye to get a last look at Aletha before he slid into sleep.
The other eye shot open in shock.
“Oh, you like this?” Aletha chuckled, stopping what she was doing for a moment to hold up her hands for his approval. “I’ve just found it out. It’s part of the reason I need to find a better way to talk with you. I have a feeling you know a lot more about it than I do, and I want to know everything, if only so I don’t try to use it all wrong and hurt somebody who doesn’t deserve it. But that can wait until you’re feeling better, and for that you need to sleep.”
The hell with sleep, I have to talk to you! Padfoot strained to keep his eyes open, but the hands returned to their relentless massage, and he felt himself drifting away. No, you don’t understand… this answers so many questions, you have to know what it means, I’ve got to…
“…got to tell you who you really are…”
Sirius stopped, startled at the sound of his own voice. At the sight of his own body, human again and standing in the middle of the backyard at the Marauders’ Den. “What the—”
“Hey there, stranger,” said a different voice from behind him. “Nice of you to drop by.”
“Danger!” Sirius snatched his baby sister into the tightest hug he could manage, hauling her up off the ground and spinning her around, not bothering to hide the tears that had gathered in his eyes. “What’s going—no, never mind, I get it. Letha sent me off to sleep, and you caught me on the edge of dreaming, didn’t you?”
“Right first time.” Danger pecked him on the cheek as he set her back on her feet. “As for real life, I found a nice hollow tree on the grounds of whoever’s manor it is they’ve got you two locked up in. And you would not believe what I’ve been through finding it, but that’s a story for another day. Who are you trying to tell who they really are? Letha? We heard what happened, I’m so sorry, Sirius…”
“No, it’s not that.” Sirius shook his head irritably. “I mean, it is that, of course it’s that, but it’s bigger than that. It’s something none of us ever knew, we never understood, but we should have, we should have seen it a long time ago…”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Meghan. Meghan, and which side she gets her Healing powers on.” Sirius snapped his left wrist, calling up his wand, and painted an image of Aletha as he’d last seen her on the air. Danger gaped at it, and Sirius couldn’t blame her.
Aletha’s hands were glowing. His dog’s eyes hadn’t been able to see a color in the pale light shining from them, but Sirius would have bet his last Galleon it was blue.
“We all thought it was me, but it’s not, Danger, it never was.” He reached up a hand to lay it opposite the image’s. “It’s Letha. Letha’s the Heir of Ravenclaw. And do you know why she can Heal now when she never could before?” The laugh hurt his throat getting out. “Because of me. Because she’s lost all her memories and she doesn’t know she shouldn’t be able to. That’s why.”
Author Notes:
Yes, irony is annoying, but hey, now they know. And now you know. A lot of you had already guessed it, so kudos to those who had, and to those who hadn't, surprise! Go back and reread, and you should spot the hints, anvil-sized and otherwise…also, thanks are due to one Zanne for coming up with exactly what Dudley's been telling his parents. Muchos gracias!
Now, as to the title of the next story. Thank you to everyone who voted, and especially to those who supplied me with new title ideas, but the grand prize (unless you all hate it, of course) goes to a young lady with fanfiction.net penname "That Fragile Capricorn", whose winning suggestion is:
Surpassing Danger
Opinions, as always, are welcome, but please do find a polite way to say whatever's on your mind. If you don't like it, you can say exactly that—"I don't like that title"—and then give me a reason why, or a different suggestion, or stop right there if you like. If you do like it, please tell me that as well, and I shall do the happy dance around the apartment and be all the readier to write Chapter 50 next week!
Just kidding. I'll be working on Chapter 50 no matter what. Thanks for reading as always, everyone, and here's to a good Super Bowl tomorrow! (Everyone from the Midwest, you can stop reading now…) GO STEELERS!