Questions and Answers

Draco's fingers beat a nervous tattoo against the side of his thigh. Hermione's assistant made him jumpy. She had a way of keeping one eye on Draco, as if he might make off with the collection of handsome eagle quills in a crystal vase on the corner of the desk, while the other firmly remained on her work. It reminded him uncomfortably of the first year of his probation, and the team of Hit Wizards that transported him to and from the Ministry for those first interviews.

He squirmed on the hard chair outside Hermione's office door, the parchment containing his probation terms crinkling loudly in the hushed confines of the office of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. His palms began to sweat, and he rubbed them over the knees of his trousers. His pulse began to pound, and Draco fancied he could see the veins that stood out on the backs of his hands throb in time with his heartbeat.

'Draco?'

Draco visibly jumped, biting his tongue. He stood and faced Hermione, looking at him quizzically. 'Thank you for seeing me,' he muttered, ducking into her office, while he pulled the sheaf of papers from the inside pocket of his jacket. 'I need to ask you something,' he began without preamble, holding the parchment out to her.

'Good morning, Draco,' Hermione said. 'Lovely weather we're having,' she added, reminding him of the niceties of civilized conversation.

Draco's jaw worked a couple of times, then he opened his mouth. 'Granger,' he said stiffly in greeting. 'And yes, the weather has been particularly fine.'

Hermione grinned then circled her desk, sitting in the large leather chair behind it. 'What can I do for you today?'

Draco slid the parchment across the scrupulously tidy desk. 'I need to know if I can have something published anonymously.' He frowned. 'No, that's not right. Under a pseudonym...'

Hermione took the much-creased document and began to read it carefully, scrutinizing each line. 'The Ministry has final approval of what you'd want to publish,' she finally said. 'But I'd have to talk to Kingsley about whether or not you'd be able to do it under an assumed name.'

'Figures,' Draco sighed, reaching across the desk for his papers.

'What do you want to write?' Hermione asked interestedly.

Draco heaved a long-suffering sigh and busied himself with tucking the parchment back into his pocket. 'Potions textbook,' he mumbled.

'I'm sorry, I didn't quite...'

Draco flushed a bright, painful red. 'A Potions textbook,' he said, slightly louder, through clenched teeth.

'About time someone tried to write a new one,' Hermione huffed.

Draco gaped at her in astonishment. 'What did you say?'

'Someone needs to write a new one,' Hermione declared. 'Magical Draughts and Potions hasn't been edited since Dumbledore was a lad. Clarity in the instructions would be helpful. And a cross-reference of ingredients and how they react would be most excellent.'

Draco shook his head, as if a bothersome gnat tickled his ear. 'Are you saying I should undertake this rather mad endeavor?'

Hermione rested her elbows on the desk, and leaned forward. 'Truthfully?' she stated. 'Truthfully, it needs to be done. Snape wasn't completely awful as a teacher, but he didn't explain things very well, andMagical Draughts doesn't have much in the way of reference. If Snape didn't describe it in much detail when he introduced that day's lesson, we had nothing to fall back on in class to assist us. Certainly would have made things easier for someone like Neville, who froze every time Snape said "Boo" to him.'

'The techniques are awkward,' Draco said, eagerness lighting his face. 'I've been doing research and trying some things out...'

'Does it work?'

'Yes. It does,' Draco replied, letting a hint of pride creep into his voice.

'How long will it take to finish, do you think?'

Draco's fair brows drew together slightly, as he tried to picture the work he'd already put into the project. 'Another year, perhaps. Within two, I would imagine.'

'Brilliant,' Hermione said with a small smile. 'Can you illustrate it?'

Draco shook his head. 'I can't even draw straight lines...'

'No matter. I know someone.' Hermione sat back in the enormous chair. 'Why did you decide to do this?'

Draco studied his nails while he determined the best reply. 'I needed something to occupy my time,' he told her, unwilling to say that it had been Andrew's prodding to find something - anything - that he enjoyed and did well.

Hermione rose gracefully to her feet. 'You'll keep me informed of your progress?' she asked, gesturing to the door.

Recognizing a polite dismissal, Draco sprang to his feet. 'I will.'

'I ought to have a response from Kingsley by the end of the week,' Hermione added. 'I shall send an owl to you with the particulars. I can't say for certain, but vetting your manuscript might take the entire Wizengamot,' she said softly. 'Or it could be me, Kingsley, and Harry.'

Draco's lips pressed together in a line. 'I appreciate... your... assistance in the matter,' he murmured haltingly. 'I am traveling to Nice in a couple of days,' he said tightly, as he opened the door. 'Please direct anything you send to my mother's house.'

Hermione held out a hand. 'Good-bye, Draco.'

As he had before, Draco briefly shook her hand, as if it burned, then stumbled from the room. Hermione chuckled a little, but sobered at the thought of what it cost a man with as much pride as Draco to condescend to seek out her advice in particular. A line from one of her father's old albums drifted through her head.

How many times must a man look up? Before he can see the sky?

It seemed appropriate.

xxxxxx

'Hang on...' Jacob rubbed his temples in the manner of one with a raging headache. 'You want to do what?'

Ron crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed the children clustered around the rickety table in the flat above the shop. 'Sunday's game,' he said heavily, hating that they even had to contemplate such an action. 'We're going to attempt to teach Albus a bit of a lesson in humility.'

'By beating him to a pulp?' Victoire exclaimed doubtfully.

'We're not going to maim him,' George sighed.

'Pity,' Fred murmured.

'Frederick Arthur Weasley!' George snapped. 'We don't maim relatives.'

'But disgracing them is perfectly acceptable?' Fred shot back.

'In this case, it's the only feasible option,' Madeline murmured. 'He's past listening to anyone.'

Teddy glanced uneasily at Victoire, winding his fingers though hers. 'Do Harry and Ginny know?'

Ron shook his head. 'No. And we're not going to tell them.'

'Plausible deniability,' Parker said evenly, marveling inwardly at the simplicity of the plan. 'If Al confronts them later, even if they participate in the... advanced level of play,' he coughed, 'then they can deny they were involved in the planning of the event.'

'Why aren't you going into International Magical Law again?' Isabella asked.

'Because I sound like a pompous arse,' Parker snorted.

'Oh, right,' she agreed. Isabella eyed her cousins. 'How are we going to tell the younger ones that they can't play Sunday?'

'I'll take care of James and Lily,' Teddy told her. 'You can tell Aiden and Owen. Maddie or Vic can inform Nicky and Alex. Tweedledum or Tweedledee over there can take care of Sophie...'

'Oi! I resemble that remark!' Jacob objected.

'Then that would make you Tweedledum, no?' Teddy said loftily. He smoothly resumed his thought. 'Parker, you'll tell Payton and Patrick. And that just leaves Rosie and Hugo...'

'I'll see to my own children,' Ron said dryly.

'It really ought to come from one of us, Uncle Ron,' Victoire said earnestly. 'I'll go later.' Ron shrugged, then nodded in agreement.

'Oh, and Vic?' George interjected. 'We'll need you to provide any sort of medical attention Albus might need.'

Vic flipped her hair over her shoulder. 'Well, seeing as how there isn't any maiming involved, I ought to be able to handle it.'

Ron and George looked at each other. 'I believe that covers it,' George murmured.

'I believe it does,' Ron concurred. He started for the door, but paused. 'Just one more thing... We can't go easy on you lot, either. It would look too suspicious otherwise. We won't be as rough as we will with Al, but...'

'Have to maintain the illusion,' Victoire said sardonically.

George twisted his hands together. 'Yeah,' he said to his interlaced fingers. He looked up at his niece. 'None of us particularly like that we have to do this...' He opened the door and walked steadily down the stairs, his footfalls echoing loudly.

It seemed like the ticking of a clock, counting the minutes and hours until Sunday afternoon.

xxxxxx

Daphne sat on the edge of Scorpius' bed, while he layered clothing into the bag next to her. 'Are you certain you don't mind going to your grandmother's so soon?'

Scorpius nudged a drawer shut with his toes and turned back to his mother, clutching an armful of socks. 'No.' He stuffed them into the bag and yanked the zipper closed. 'It's all right.'

'You usually spend a few days with Al,' Daphne said bemused.

'Not this time.'

'Did you have a falling-out of some sort?' Daphne persisted.

Scorpius sighed and heaved the bag to the floor. 'No.'

'Scorpius, darling...' Daphne hesitated. He had few friends outside of Al and his extended family, and she worried a rift in his relationship with Al would make him retreat behind walls, much like Draco had done. 'Did something happen between the two of you?'

Scorpius dropped into the window seat, pulling his knees into his chest. 'You talk to his mother, right?'

'I do.'

'So you know about England and all of that?'

'Yes...'

'Well, he's acting like a spoilt child,' Scorpius declared. 'And I'm going to say something I'll regret.' He turned his gaze to the sweeping lawns surrounding the mansion, flashes of lightning briefly washing out the features of his face. 'I keep hoping that with the holiday, he'll see reason.'

'And if he doesn't?' Daphne countered shrewdly.

'I don't really know, Mother. But I won't stand idly by while he insults and alienates everyone around him.' He shrugged. Thunder rumbled ominously, rolling away into the distance.

Daphne sighed and stood, stepping to the window. She ran her hand over the back of Scorpius' head, smoothing the rumpled blonde hair. 'You need a haircut.'

'I'll get one in Nice...'

Daphne kissed his cheek. 'Better get to bed soon. It's going to be a long day tomorrow.'

'Good night, Mother.'

Daphne slipped into her bedroom and lit the lamps with a careless wave of her wand. She moved quietly around the room, preparing for bed. She removed her clothing, dropping it neatly into a basket in the bathroom, and pulled on her oldest nightdress, then brushed her teeth. The impending storm had arrived when she emerged from the bathroom, the thin cotton of her nightdress swirling around her knees. She doused the lamps with another wave of her wand, and dropped into the rocking chair in a corner, turning it so she could look out the window. Daphne loved thunderstorms - their unpredictability, the wild surges of rain, and buffeting winds that sometimes rattled the windows.

That was not the case in the bedroom just down the corridor.

Draco used to enjoy watching lightning streak across the sky when he was younger. The night he'd received the Dark Mark, a storm raged around the mansion. He could see the rain and wind lashing the massive windows in the ballroom, while intermittent bolts of lightning highlighted the growing monstrosity on his forearm.

He huddled in the middle of his wide bed, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, flinching with each flash of lightning or rumble of thunder. Draco's eyes darted around the room. There was nothing in the room that indicated he lived or slept in there. There were no photographs of Daphne or his mother. Not even one of Scorpius as a baby. No bits of rubbish that he'd picked up and kept because they were interesting. No potted plants. Even the draperies and bedding were nondescript shades of brown. It was a thoroughly depressing bedroom. And immensely lonely.

As the next barrage of thunder faded, he clambered off the bed, snatching his dressing gown from the foot and tiptoed to Daphne's bedroom door. He tapped softly, gripping his dressing gown tightly in one hand. 'Daphne?' he called. He opened the door and craned his head through the narrow opening. 'Daphne?'

Daphne looked around the edge of the rocking chair. 'Are you all right?'

Draco drew a deep breath. 'Could I... I thought perhaps I might...' Thunder crashed overhead. Draco blundered into the bedroom and closed the door, leaning against it. 'Could I sleep in here tonight?' he muttered tightly.

Daphne looked at him, one brow raised slightly. 'Of course...' She pushed herself out of the rocking chair and crossed the room to her bed, turning it down. She slid under the bedding and beckoned to Draco. 'Aren't you coming to bed?'

'Yes.' Draco carefully hung his dressing gown on a hook next to Daphne's inside the wardrobe, and gingerly joined his wife in the bed. She turned to him, snuggling into his side, her arm flung across his chest. Draco's head turned and he was met by Daphne's soft kiss. He felt the tension slowly ease and brought up one hand to brush her hair from her face. 'In that book you read to me,' he began hesitantly.

'Yes?'

'The second level of Hell... with the people blowing around in the wind?'

'Ah, the one with people who succumbed to lust...'

'Do you think they ever got to touch each other?'

'No. They were being punished for their inability to keep their hands to themselves,' Daphne chuckled. 'Could you imagine? Wanting something as simple as the touch of another person, but never able to feel it. At least not until you'd been deemed to have suffered enough and could move on to Purgatory.'

The room brightened momentarily, flickering with unnatural light. Draco mentally counted to himself. One... two... three. He winced as the expected thunder rolled around the mansion.

He turned to his side, propping his head on his upturned hand. 'I know it's not the same, but it's like I've been living like that with you. I don't want to live like that anymore.'

Daphne inhaled slowly. 'You do realize this means you'll have to make amends with Scorpius.'

'I do...' Draco let his head fall back into the fluffy pillow. 'But what if he doesn't want to...?'

'You'll just have to keep trying. It won't happen immediately or because you will it so...' Daphne's hand blindly sought Draco's and she slid her fingers through his. 'Try to get some sleep.'

xxxxxx

James folded his lanky frame to the grass next to Rose. 'So what do you think?' he muttered from the side of his mouth.

'You look like a gangster in some American film,' she scoffed. She shielded her eyes from the sun, watching Al fly around the paddock. He was fearless, supremely confident. She could see the smirk on his face, even from where she sat with her back against the stone fence. 'Hugo thinks it could backfire on them.' She shrugged. 'He might be right. But don't tell him I said so!' she added hastily.

'Won't hear it from me...' James leaned against the sun-warmed stones. 'But how could it backfire? Isn't the point to teach the little git a lesson?'

Rose bit her lip and glanced up at the figures flying in formation over their heads, warming up for the game. 'He's already angry,' she murmured. 'And humiliating him might have the opposite effect from what Uncle Charlie intended. It could make him angrier that his own family did this to him, rather than letting him practice with the English team. If it's England that does it to him, they're more or less neutral. At least that's what Hugo said...' She glanced sideways at James. 'You didn't tell your parents, did you?'

James shook his head, sending his shaggy hair flying. 'No.'

Sophie joined them, her small face set into tense lines. 'This is not going to end well...'

'What makes you say that?' James asked. She pointed to George, striding toward the group under the spreading branches of a tree. He twirled the Beater's bat around his hand nonchalantly as he walked. James had tried to learn how to do it, but it required a great deal of practice, and manual dexterity to do it. He more often than not ended up smacking himself in the face. George's expression was grim and determined. 'Looks like he's about to do some serious damage,' James breathed in awe. He'd never seen his uncles look quite so competitive.

'Jacob's not too pleased about this, either,' Sophie commented. 'Fred, on the other hand, wishes he were playing for the other team, so he could take Al's head off with a Bludger.'

Ginny wrapped her wrists in thick, white Spellotape, using her teeth to tear it off, smoothing the end over the insides. She grabbed her shin guards and nudged Harry in the ribs. 'Is it just me or does it seem a bit... off... today?'

Harry looked around. Charlie, George, Bill, and Ron stood together in a clump, whispering, throwing furtive glances their way. Victoire nervously toyed with her wand, muttering under her breath. Teddy's hair was an indeterminate muddy blue. Fred had already mounted his broom, and swung his bat around, eyes gleaming in anticipation. In that, he very much resembled his namesake. Jacob looked as if he were going to be sick, gripping his bat so tightly, his knuckles were white. Parker stood ramrod straight under his goalposts, idly slapping his gloved hands together. Maddie and Isabella each held their brooms, arms wound around each other's waists. They looked so serious, it might have been comic, had they not both been pale.

'Yeah, it's a little intense...' he agreed.

Percy blew his whistle, signaling the start of the game. Harry shrugged and mounted his broom, kicking off and soaring into the air. He held out a hand to Ginny and drew her closer, kissing her soundly. 'For luck, eh?' he said cheekily, as he flew to the opposite end of the field to wait for Percy to release the Snitch. Harry grinned at the prospect of a good game to release some of the stress he'd been feeling lately. He looked across the paddock and saw Al studying him. Harry met his youngest son's gaze and nodded once. One player to another.

Percy hovered on his broom over the middle of the paddock, and met Charlie's sober blue eyes. Charlie's head slowly inclined. Do it. Percy closed his eyes, and opened his gloved hand.

The Snitch shot into the air and Harry and Al simultaneously darted after it.

Charlie shifted the bat in his hand and coiled his body, the muscles in his arm straining. He quickly gauged the distance between the Bludger and his nephew, then swung the bat. The sound of it slamming into the Bludger echoed around the paddock, making everyone go silent for a moment.

Al's gaze swiveled to his left and his eyes widened at the sleek black ball streaking toward him. He jerked his broom handle up, and narrowly missed being hit in the ribs. The Bludger glanced off his shin, making him hiss in genuine pain. Bill came barreling down the makeshift pitch, the Quaffle balanced easily in his large hand. He drew his arm back, and threw the ball to Ginny, who caught it with her fingertips. Al realized Bill was going to slam into him, and attempted to dodge the expected collision. Ginny threw the Quaffle back to Bill. Bill's forearm crashed into Al's nose. 'Sorry. My fault,' Bill murmured, non-apologetically.

Al raised shaking fingers to his face and pulled them away. Bright red blood coated his fingers. He didn't have time to ponder why two of his uncles had deliberately aimed to injure. Another Bludger zoomed toward him. It wasn't hit with quite the force Charlie had managed, but it was expertly placed. George had hit it just ahead of Al, so it intersected with his flight path. The Bludger hit him in the shoulder, temporarily making him wheeze for air.

Ginny stilled on her broom, watching the game in bewilderment. Her brothers usually played hard, but never this hard. The mother in her wanted to stop the game and check Al for broken bones, to wash the blood from his face.

That is, until Al pulled a stunt that made every adult gasp.

Harry was reaching for the Snitch, when it suddenly switched directions, and hurtled into his face, bouncing off his mouth. He smiled a little, remembering the first game of Quidditch he ever played. Harry recovered and his eyes darted over the pitch, looking for the Snitch.

Al saw the Snitch fly into his father's face. Harry's head shook and his hand passed over his mouth, as if brushing something foul away. Al grinned evilly, and began making retching noises, pretending to spit something into his hand.

Hermione's face paled. She gasped and covered her mouth. 'Oh, Godric...' Katie breathed.

'You can say that again,' Hermione replied in a low voice.

'That was entirely inappropriate.' Penny's voice broke into their thoughts. Then in a harder tone, 'I will be shocked if they let that go without penance of some sort.'

Harry froze on his broom. He recalled with vivid clarity the days after his first game, and Draco cruelly mocked him at every turn, and his mouth went dry at the thought his own son was capable of such taunting. His eyes narrowed. Right, Harry thought. The gloves are off. Gone was the genial father, and in its place was the cold, narrow focus of a professional player. The player Harry could have been, had he chosen to accept any of the numerous offers that littered his desk in the days after the war, instead of the Aurors.

Ginny saw the Quaffle hurtled toward her from the corner of her eye. She caught it without looking, and aimlessly flew toward the goalposts. Pieces began to fall into place. Her brothers' solemn demeanors during lunch. The tense atmosphere. The atypical physicality of the game. Something she hadn't experienced first-hand since her last game with the Harpies. They're telling him what it's like to play with the professional players... She looked back over her shoulder. Al was still mercilessly aping Harry and the manner in which he'd caught his first Snitch. Torn between wanting to protect her husband and her son, Ginny floated uncertainly halfway to the goalpost. But when Al's scathing laughter reached her ears, the decision was made. I won't slam into him, she vowed. But I won't make it easy for him, either. She slung the ball toward the goalpost, Parker watched it fly through, making no move to stop it.

'Oops.' He looked at Ginny and let the corner of his mouth turn up.

The game rapidly deteriorated from there.

Ginny readily handed the Quaffle to either Teddy or Bill when they were close to Al, forcing him to change his course. It kept him distracted and off-balance.

George and Charlie pounded Al with Bludgers every chance they got. Some he managed to avoid, others unerringly found their mark, leaving him bruised and aching.

Harry jostled with him in competition for the Snitch, ruthlessly shoving his arm out of the way. A few times, Harry executed a perfect Vronsky feint, and Al fell for it, narrowly missing slamming into the ground. Once, as he pulled up, the toe of Al's trainer caught in the grass, and he twisted his ankle. It throbbed painfully as the game wound to its conclusion.

After more than an hour of play, Harry saw something glint in his peripheral vision. He looked up without moving his head, and saw the Snitch fluttering overhead. I'm still taller than Albus. He brought his feet up, and crouched on the broom handle, then stood, balancing for just a moment. With one arm held out to maintain his perch, Harry swept the other one up in an arc and snatched the Snitch from the air, feeling the wings beat furiously against his hand.

There was no joy, no exhilaration in the victory. Harry's stomach grew even more hollow when he saw Al slump to the handle of his broom in defeat. Harry slowed the broom, and resumed his seat slowly zigzagging to the ground. Ginny landed next to him, flushed and breathing hard. She stared up at him, then gazed at Al, limping away, ignoring Victoire's entreaties to stop, so she could treat his injuries. 'Did you know they were going to come down so hard on him?' she asked.

'No...' Harry struggled to keep his temper controlled. He wasn't quite sure to whom to direct his building ire - Ginny's brothers or his particularly thick-headed son. Or himself for allowing Al's taunts to bother him to the point where he forgot himself and ceased to see Al as his child and saw him as another competitor. 'For the bloody greater good,' he spat softly and stalked off toward the relative safety of the Burrow.

xxxxxx

'Al, stop!' Victoire cried.

Al scrubbed a hand over his face, tears mixing with the dried blood, smearing the resultant mess over his cheeks. 'Leave me alone!' he roared.

Victoire debated Stunning the ungrateful brat, but she tried another tactic. 'You might have injuries that could harm your chances of playing professionally if you leave them untreated!' Al came to a stop and turned to face Victoire. She closed the distance between them and waved her wand over his head. 'No internal bleeding...' She motioned for him to sit in the tall grass. 'Let me see your ankle,' she ordered, cool professionalism taking over. She carefully manipulated it, mindful of the swelling. 'It's not broken,' she pronounced, jabbing her wand at it. His trainer and sock inched off his foot, and a crepe bandage unfurled from the tip, wrapping around his ankle in elegant figure-eights. She used a Sticking charm to hold the end in place. She gently ran a finger down the bridge of Al's nose. 'Can you breathe through your nose?' Al dutifully complied. 'Good.' Victoire lit the tip of her wand and aimed the light into each of his nostrils. She tilted his chin up, bringing his face into the light. 'No bruising around your eyes or swelling... I don't think it's broken...' She sat back. 'Where else does it hurt?'

Al said nothing, but indicated his side. Victoire quickly ran her fingers over it, and asked, 'Can you lift your shirt for me?' Al silently gathered the side of his stained t-shirt in one hand, raising the hem.

A livid deep purple bruise blossomed over his right side. Victoire murmured, 'Rivelarosso.' A ghostly image of Al's ribcage floated between them. Victoire used her wand to rotate the image. 'Doesn't appear to be broken either...'

'Then why does it hurt so damn much?' Al said between clenched teeth.

'Because you can't stop breathing,' Victoire murmured. She pointed her wand at his ribs. 'You ought to feel better in a week. But it's a slower process than anything else. Even with magic. You really can't keep the muscle from moving, so that's why it takes longer.' She made a small circle with her wand and yet another crepe bandage wound around Al's skinny ribs. 'You can take that off in a couple of days.' She stood, tucking her wand into her pocket. 'Grandmum has some analgesic potions in the kitchen. Go take one. No more than every eight hours, though, all right?' She started to walk back to the group clustered under the towering elm tree. 'I'll come see you in a few days to check...'

Al huddled miserably in the waving grass, unwilling to face anyone just now. Not even his grandmother, who would have clucked with concern over his various scrapes and bruises, then plied him with tea and sympathy. His vision swam with unshed tears and he buried his face in his knees.

Rose lifted her curly mane of hair from her neck and let the breeze play over the heated skin, as she plopped on the grass next to Al. 'I get it. I think you're going about it the wrong way, but I get it. My parents are just as famous as yours, and I do understand what it's like to be the child of heroes. You have to live up to the expectations of them at school, because every bloody teacher either knew them personally or taught them. And yet, we're still treated by our own parents as if we can't come inside from the rain without help. Like we haven't got brains. And Godric knows, it's insanely difficult to find something you can do in this barmy family that somebody else can't do just as well...

'But if you could see yourself... You're acting just like that Greengrass wanker. The Al I used to know would have done the same thing on that pitch that they just did to you.' Rose unfolded her body and looked down her nose at him. 'But I promise you... If I had been up there playing on their side, you wouldn't have been able to walk away.' She stalked away, leaving Al alone with his misery.

xxxxxx

Molly levitated a tray laden with tea and biscuits up the stairs and knocked softly on Ron's old bedroom door. 'Harry?' There was no reply, so Molly tried the door. It was unlocked.

Harry sat on the floor, back braced against the wall, hands dangling between his drawn-up knees. The Snitch darted to and fro in the small room. Molly sighed and set the tray on the top of the old bureau, and poured a cup. She handed it to Harry. 'I don't want any tea,' he muttered.

'Drink it,' Molly ordered mildly. 'You'll feel better.'

Harry glared at the tea. 'Damn it, Molly, I'm thirty-nine, not twelve!'

'You're acting like you're twelve,' she snapped. Harry reared back, and his head smacked into the wall. Molly ran her hand over his hair. 'Let me see...' Harry reluctantly bent his head forward for Molly to examine. 'You're fine,' she said, dropping a kiss over the tiny bump anyway. 'Biscuit?'

'Sure...' Harry took a handful and sipped the tea, the soothing warmth creeping into veins.

Molly prepared her own cup, then settled on the edge of the bed. 'He's just like you, you know...'

'Who?'

'Albus. He inherited far more than your good looks.'

Harry's eyes widened. 'His behavior out there was appalling!' he protested.

Molly snorted. 'He's you,' she repeated. 'The person you might have been if you hadn't been kicked about so much as a child.'

'I never behaved like that!'

'Oh no?' Molly said in disbelief. 'You were never that confident in your decisions, convinced you were right in spite of what others told you. Had to learn lessons the hard way?' She calmly sipped her tea. 'If you had waited five minutes, instead of barging into the Ministry, Sirius might still be alive. You might not have nearly been killed, not to mention Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, or Luna...'

'That's not fair,' Harry objected.

'You're going to try and deny that you made mistakes?' Molly countered archly.

'No...'

'You try,' Molly mused. 'You try to teach them what's ethical and moral. You try to guide them when they're young into doing what will be best for them right now and in the future. Sometimes, it works, and others... Others it can cause a rift...'

'What do should I do...?'

'He's trying to find his place in this life,' Molly said finally. 'You just have to be patient...'

xxxxxx

A/N: The lyrics from Blowin' In the Wind are courtesy of Bob Dylan...