Maybe
Chapter 10
By Anne B. Walsh
Chapter 10
Miss Anderson smiled at him. "You’re a wizard, Harry. That’s the word for it. And where we’re going, just about everyone is a wizard or a witch. I think you’ll like it."
Harry nodded. "I think I will too."
Something occurred to him. "Are your glasses a disguise too?"
"Yes. Would you like to see my real face?"
Harry nodded.
"I think I can risk it for a moment." She took the glasses off.
Harry gasped.
"What is it?"
"You’re in my dream. About my family." He stared at her, a sudden excitement growing in him.
If she’s real... does that mean all of it is?
Miss Anderson quickly put her glasses back on, and Harry had to bite back a very Dudley-ish whine that he didn’t want her to, that he liked her other face better. "Will you tell me more about this dream?" she asked.
Harry looked out the window, embarrassed. "I... don’t remember very much," he confessed. "I told you most of what I remember back at the school."
"But you recognized my face. Would you recognize the other people if you saw them?"
"I think so."
Miss Anderson (that couldn’t be her real name, Harry realized, recalling that in the dream she was married) dug around in her bag, coming up with what looked like a blank piece of stiff paper and a polished stick. She tapped the paper with the stick, and suddenly it wasn’t blank — there was a picture on it, it was a photograph — except that the little people in the picture were —
"Are they moving?"
"Oh — yes. Don’t worry about it. All magical photos move. They’ll hold still when they see you want to look at them. They’re rather vain."
Harry accepted the photo and looked at it with intense interest. To his amazement and delight, every face he saw was familiar. The two men: one taller, darker, and very energetic — he was Miss Anderson’s husband, Harry remembered, when he saw her, as she really looked, kissing the man in a back corner of the picture — and the other with brown hair going slightly grey and intense blue eyes that Harry stared at for a few moments, almost mesmerized. He wanted the real versions of those eyes to look at him and approve of him... he wanted to be accepted by their owner, accepted as one of the...
He stopped, confused. One of the what?
He went back to looking at the photograph. The other woman in the picture, besides Miss Anderson (he’d have to ask her for her real name soon, Harry thought) was also brown-haired, but hers was wavy and bushy and stood out from her head a bit on all sides, making her look slightly unkempt in a nice way. She and the blue-eyed man danced a few steps together, and Harry recalled that they too were married in his dream.
And then there were the children. A girl who looked a lot like the white woman, who ran into the picture and to the blue-eyed man, who picked her up and twirled her around before mock-tossing her to the darker man. A littler girl, dark like Miss Anderson, who ran to the other man to be likewise picked up, and he did throw her into the air and catch her again. And a boy with a pale, pointed face and very light hair, who walked into the picture politely but with an air of knowing exactly where he was going.
That was everyone from the family Harry recalled from his dream. He handed the picture back to Miss Anderson. "They’re all there," he said. "Everyone’s there. Can I ask you something?"
"Yes, you may."
"Is — Miss Anderson — is that your real name?"
"No. Would you like to know what to call me?"
"Yes, ma’am."
"Ma’am is out, for one thing. It makes me feel as old as I look." She winked at him, lightening the severe tone in which she had spoken. "You can call me Letha. In here, that is. When we change trains — which we will in just a few minutes — you should call me Mum, and I’ll call you James. Just to be safe. There are probably still people looking for us, and will be until we get to where we’re going."
"Where are we going?"
"To a school, up in the north. A magical school called Hogwarts. It’s a secondary school, and everyone with magic in the British Isles gets accepted there when they turn eleven." She correctly interpreted Harry’s amazed look and chuckled. "Yes, even you. Especially you. You’ll be getting your letter on 31 July, don’t you worry."
Harry hid his surprise that she knew his birthday. "Why are we going there now?"
"Because we’re living there. We’ve been allowed to use one of the guest suites. I think you’ll like it."
Harry nodded. Something seemed to be tightening inside him. A question, it was a question he had to ask, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t much like the answer, but if he didn’t ask it soon he wasn’t going to be able to ask it at all. "Miss — Letha?"
"Yes?"
Harry swallowed hard against the tightness. "Why didn’t you ever come for me before?"
"What?"
"If you really — want me — why didn’t you come and get me when I was little?"
For a moment, Miss Letha (the combination of names seemed to have stuck in Harry’s mind) scowled angrily. Harry couldn’t quite suppress a wince.
"I’m not angry with you, Harry, I’m angry with me," she said hastily, her face clearing. "You don’t understand. And that’s my fault. I’m sorry, I’ve probably confused you terribly. Let me try to explain?"
Harry nodded.
"Harry, we did come to get you when you were little. Before you were even two. Moony and Danger — they’re the other couple in this picture, the ones with brown hair — they went to your relatives’ house and stole you away from them in the middle of the night, and brought you home to me. Padfoot — my husband, your godfather — joined us there a couple of days later." She smiled wryly. "This is the incredibly short and quick version, by the way, I’ll expand on it later. We lived there, in my home in London, for five years, until you were almost seven. Then we traveled abroad for a few months, visited my aunt in America, and then we moved to Devon and lived there until this past December."
Harry stared at her, utterly baffled. "I don’t remember," he said slowly. "Why don’t I remember?"
"Because of what happened in December." The anger was back on Miss Letha’s face, but Harry was quite sure it wasn’t directed at him. "You were stolen from us. All of our — children — were. And the people who stole you used magic on you to lock away your memories of us and make you think you’d spent your entire life with your relatives. The truth is, Harry, you’ve only been living with them for three months."
"Since Christmas?"
Miss Letha nodded. "Since Christmas."
Harry felt his breathing coming faster with excitement. "I thought there was something wrong with me," he said carefully, "because I couldn’t remember anything that happened before Christmas. It was all fuzzy in my mind. It still is."
"Yes. That’s the Memory Charm working on you. It couldn’t get rid of those memories entirely — we were so much a part of your life for so long that I don’t think there would have been anything left. So it blurred them and made them hard to understand, and someone told you what you were supposed to believe — and because of the spell, you did."
Harry’s stomach churned. He didn’t much like the sound of this magic. "Is there any way to get it off me?" he asked hesitantly. "So I can remember again?"
Miss Letha nodded again. "We have a Healer friend who says she can reverse it. But I’m afraid it may be a few days until we can get in touch with her." She reached across and placed a hand on Harry’s knee. "I’m sorry, Harry. We’ll do everything we can to make it soon."
Harry stifled a sigh. Complaining wouldn’t do any good. "I know."
An announcement echoed through the train. Harry couldn’t make much sense out of it, but Miss Letha started gathering her things. "This is our stop," she said. "We change trains here. Ready to go?"
Harry picked up his schoolbag, and they watched the station come into view out the window as the train slowed down and stopped. Miss Letha led Harry from the compartment, down the aisle, and out the door at the end of the carriage onto the platform. "Our next train leaves from platform 4 in fifteen minutes," she said. "Are you hungry, Jamie?"
"Yes, Mum." It felt weird saying it, but Miss Letha winked at him as they made their way into the station and found a place that sold sandwiches.
Ten minutes later, they were boarding their new train. The hunger was gone, but Harry was grappling with a new feeling — worry. What if the magic on his memory was permanent? What if his family decided that they didn’t want him without his memories and sent him back to the Dursleys?
He tried to tell himself that was stupid, that Miss Letha would never have come after him if his family didn’t want him back, but the worries kept coming, and new ones arose every minute. What if Miss Letha was lying, and this was all a joke or a game? Or what if she was really kidnapping him for some horrible reason?
As the announcement of the different stops the train would be making crackled over the intercom system, a man opened the door of their compartment partway. "Excuse me, ma’am," he said to Miss Letha, "but do you have room for myself and my little girl in here?"
Miss Letha sat up very straight, her eyes sparkling. "I do believe we can manage that," she said.
The man opened the door farther and motioned the girl in before him. She wasn’t so little, Harry thought — she was about his own age, a bit timid-looking, with long, bushy black hair. She took the seat beside Miss Letha. The man, likewise black-haired, came into the compartment, shut the door, and sat down beside Harry just as the train began to move.
"So, Letha, I see you were successful," said the man with a warm smile.
Miss Letha smiled back. "Indeed I was, Remus, and I see you were too."
"Yes, Danger and I both — and I was more successful than I could have hoped. Letha — she remembers."
Miss Letha’s face lit up, and she turned to the girl expectantly.
"Yes," said the girl, her voice a bit hoarse but firm and joyous. "I remember. I really do. I remember the Pack and the Den and everyone and everything."
"Oh, Neenie, I’m so glad!" Miss Letha embraced the girl, holding her tightly, and Harry experienced a sudden and almost stunning flash of jealousy. It shook him so much that he nearly fell off the seat — he would have fallen, if the man hadn’t grabbed his arm.
"Harry, are you all right?" the man asked him. No, he wasn’t just ‘the man’ — Miss Letha had called him something —
"Is your name Remus?"
"Yes, that’s me."
Harry frowned, thinking back to the playground, and the man who had showed him something. "Do you know someone named Sirius? Like the star?"
"Yes."
"I saw a piece of paper that said you were both dead." He looked at Remus. "You don’t look dead."
Remus chuckled. "I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor. No, I’m not dead, neither is Sirius. You usually call him Padfoot, by the way, and me Moony. But you can use my name if you like."
"Moony." Harry tried it out. It felt... right, somehow. "I think I like that better, sir."
"Then use it. No ‘sir.’ Please. It makes me look around for the old man you’re talking to." Moony smiled at him, and Harry looked at his face and noticed that his eyes were the same as they were in the picture — intensely blue, almost captivating — but they were different as well. The picture hadn’t shown the little swirls of brown in them. And the picture hadn’t shown — hadn’t been able to show — the way they could seem to look right down into one. Harry found himself half-wanting to run away from those eyes, but his other half wanted to stay right there and meet them face on — he had nothing to hide...
But he did. He was jealous. That was a bad thing. He didn’t want Moony to see that. As soon as he realized that, Harry tried to hide the fact that he was jealous of the girl called Neenie, who was now lying on the seat with her head in Miss Letha’s lap, having her hair combed and a song sung to her...
"Harry," said Moony quietly. "What’s wrong?"
The feelings magnified a hundred, a thousand times, and the compulsion to hide them likewise — they were so intense that Harry wanted to scream and shout, or writhe on the seat, or run away and hide and never come out again —
"Come here." The command was quiet and gently stated, but it was a command, and Harry’s body obeyed it while his mind was still trying to figure out why it should or shouldn’t do so, moving him over to sit right next to the man. Moony took out a polished stick like Miss Letha’s and waved it around the two of them, saying something Harry didn’t quite catch. Abruptly, the air between them and the other two occupants of the compartment seemed to thicken.
"Privacy Spell," explained Moony. "Now they won’t hear or see what happens over here."
Harry nodded to show he understood.
"Harry." Just the calling of his name seemed to have power. He looked up into Moony’s eyes and was caught by them again. "Tell me what’s wrong."
Harry licked his lips. "Nothing," he said quickly.
Moony raised an eyebrow. "The truth, please, Harry."
It was uncanny, Harry decided, how well these adults could tell when he lied. None of his teachers had ever seen through his lies about his aunt and uncle, even though he hadn’t tried very hard to make them believable — he’d been secretly hoping one of the teachers would see through them, would find out what was going on and do something about it —
Before he knew it, Harry was blurting out everything that was in his mind. His worries about not being wanted if he didn’t get his memories back, his jealousy of the girl, his little nagging fear that this was all some kind of joke or game or that something awful was going to happen —
"May I show you something, Harry?" Moony asked when Harry paused for breath.
"Er — all right."
Moony pulled a fine gold chain from his shirt. Hanging from it were four small medallions. Harry stared at it. "You’ve got one like mine!"
"Yes. We created these the night before all of this started. We didn’t know why, then. Now we do. These necklaces are magical, Harry. May I show you one thing that they do?"
Harry nodded.
"Hold still, then." Moony tugged at the chain, and Harry watched in amazement as it grew longer in his hands — or was it just a trick? No, the chain on the outside of his hands wasn’t moving, but the section in between them was definitely longer than it had been —
And while Harry was still working that out, Moony slipped the chain, which he was still wearing, over Harry’s head, and something changed.
Do you hear me, Harry? Moony’s voice said. But the man’s mouth was closed, he hadn’t moved his lips at all...
"Yes, I can hear you — what is this?"
This is magic. It’s connected our minds in a very small and limited way, just enough for us to talk like this, silently. You try it. Just think towards me.
Like... this? Harry sent, surprised by how easy it was. It did feel just like talking.
Yes. Exactly. Now I want you to try something. Tell me that this seat is green.
Harry looked down. But it’s not green. It’s kind of a burgundy color.
Try it anyway.
All right. This seat is green... Harry stopped. The word "green" had had an odd sort of echoing sound to it, as if someone had shouted it into a cave or an empty auditorium.
Now say what it really is.
This seat is burgundy colored. This time, nothing happened.
Do you understand what this means?
Harry shook his head. Not really.
Listen to me try it. Harry, you have brown eyes.
This time, "brown" had that echoing sound to it. Harry frowned. He felt as if he should be able to figure this out, but it just wasn’t connecting for him —
And then suddenly it did.
We can’t lie, he said. We can’t lie, talking like this. You can tell if I lie.
Exactly. And so would you be able to tell, if I were to lie. So you will know that everything I am about to tell you is the truth. Are you ready to listen?
Harry took a deep breath, nerving himself up for the blow. Yes.
Harry James Potter, I love you. You are my son in every sense of the word except the one about blood. I know that you don’t remember me at the moment, and I don’t care. The last words echoed slightly. Moony looked amused. All right, I suppose I do care, to the extent that I want to find whoever did this to you and kill them in several slow and painful ways.
He went on. If you never get back your memories of me, I will tell you about them, and then I will help you build new memories in the rest of your life. This is not a joke or a game, Harry. This is real. Do you believe me?
Except that once, none of the words had echoed in the least. Harry gulped against the lump in his throat and nodded.
Our family is not just a family, Harry. We have a special name for ourselves. We’re called the Pack. And we have certain special things that we do that help us remember being Pack. One of them is this.
Moony rubbed the first two fingers of his right hand down the side of his face, from just in front of his ear to the corner of his mouth, then pressed them gently against Harry’s cheek. That’s called a scent-touch. It means that you belong to me. You are mine to protect and love and take care of. And I will always come to find you if we are separated. Now you do it back.
Feeling awkward, Harry swiped his fingers across his cheek, then reached out tentatively and tapped them against Moony’s. The man nodded. Now you are Pack again, he said with certainty. And now it’s all right to do what you want to.
Harry frowned. What was the man talking about?
Remember the Privacy Spell? They can’t see us, they won’t hear anything. Moony’s voice was gentle in his mind. It’s all right to cry, Harry. I know you want to, I can feel it.
That’s unfair. No one should be able to know that.
But Harry couldn’t very well deny it now — not when the mere mention of the word "cry" had set him off, and he was already bawling like a baby. Moony reached over and pulled him closer, and Harry, obeying an impulse he didn’t really understand, buried his face in the man’s chest and sobbed, clinging to him.
You have nothing to be jealous about, murmured Moony to him, holding him close and rocking him. Letha would do exactly the same for you as she’s doing for Hermione — she has, actually, and I’m sure she will again.
Hermione?
Neenie. Hermione is her full name.
Oh.
Moony holding him like this felt good, Harry discovered. It felt right. It felt like being home.
And all of that just made him cry harder.
Moony hummed to him as he cried, and he recognized the song after a few moments. It was "Maybe."
So I was wrong.
Someone did come for me with another necklace like mine.
He smiled tearily. And just like Annie, I got a family where I wasn’t expecting them. They’re not a maybe anymore. They’re a yes.
He closed his eyes and let himself rest against Moony’s shoulder, which, he noticed as he drifted off to sleep, smelled slightly of smoke.