Draco's Other Delicate Condition

Chapter 04 - A Six Letter Word

Vincent Crabbe knew his Draco well enough to stay out of his way. He stood in the hallway outside of Draco's office, nervously cracking his knuckles, a habit his wife, and for that matter his husband, did not approve. There was important news from an important source and Crab did not dare set foot in Draco's office to deliver it. Instead, the post lay in Crabbe's pocket. He took another look into the office to see if things had cooled down enough for him to risk interrupting Draco's tryst, but one look convinced Crabbe that his wait was to likely to be a prolonged one.

Inside his spacious office, although tired, Draco was taking his time. The evening had gone poorly and he had returned to his mansion, restless and unwilling to retire to his bed for some rest. Instead Draco went straight to his office suite. He had been smoking his favourite hookah, filled with his preferred mix of various intoxicating magical herbs and a generous dollop of treacle, but the principal ingredient was scarce, pricey, finely ground and shimmering blue.

A side effect of smoking the dubious mix through a hookah was a rampant randiness that Draco often found difficult to control. Some years ago he had fallen asleep smoking a hookah and woke next to his mother's pet Crup, a small terrier-like creature. The animal had whinging piteously, licking its little pink vent and glaring reproachfully at Draco.

The hookah worked its surreptitious effects on Draco, slowly. Just now, the mist from the hookah in his lungs, Draco was temporarily detained in a kiss that had turned - not altogether unexpectedly - into a delicious snog. He stood now, his eyes shut, enjoyed feeling feminine fingers brushing over his muscular expanse of chest and gently tracing his manly nipple. Draco moaned slightly and squeezed the witch so tightly around her waist she could hardly catch her breath, and when she protested Draco hungrily ran his tongue into the reddened lips enjoying the forbidden eroticism of the moment. With some alarm Draco felt the witch's ribs beneath her pale skin.

'Mother you are too thin.' Draco spoke in an accusatory voice but gently, so as not to vex his mother. You are not dieting again, are you? The skeletons in your closet have more fat to them than you.'

Narcissa gazed into her son's eyes through pale eyelashes and frowned. Draco and his bonne mère had just exchanged an embrace of the sort one might view along the Champs-Elysées in Paris by lovers reunited after a long absence that each feared might become permanent. Seeing his mother's dismay, Draco hastily added 'but you do wear your bones well Mother,' and he meant it. Just as when he was a boy, Draco still found his mother more than a little erotic.

Narcissa seemed pleased with Draco's reappraisal. 'How like your father you are my dearest,' Narcissa never tired of telling Draco so. She ran a finger over her son's lips. 'Lucius. I miss you so.'

'Yes Mother, I know how you miss father.' Disquieting thoughts flashed through Draco's mind but he dismissed them unexamined, and therefore all the better for his mental health.

For an octogenarian Narcissa was dazzling. Aging was of little consequence to a witch who could afford to soak in vats of fresh virgin unicorn milk. To even begin to appreciate the considerable expense of Narcissa's routine beauty regime you must consider the nearly unbreakable rule that virgin creatures do not produce milk.

'Your father was a stunning man,' crooned Narcissa and she pressed herself against Draco, savouring the feel of her son's hard muscles and allowing her hand to explore. 'He had no equal, save for you my dear boy.'

Draco removed his mother's refined hand from his remaining buttock. 'Mother... perhaps I may dine with you today at lunch? Later we can stroll in the north gardens to see if the bluebells are in bloom?' He flashed a hopeful but false smile. 'Perhaps we can sit among the blossoms. I can compare your eyes to the new buds.'

'Draco...' crooned Narcissa, 'the ladies of the auxiliary are staying in the south wing. I dine with them at noon. Oh, if only I could conjure up more hours to the day so I might "accommodate" my darling boy. Perhaps breakfast tomorrow?'

'Mother, give the ladies some... excuse... dine with me. Please?'

'No my dearest, Mother cannot disappoint the ladies. They depend on my guidance.'

Draco resisted the temptation to heave a great sigh of relief. As he expected, his show of neediness, though false, did the trick, triggering his mother's long standing and deep seated habitual neglect for him. He had fooled her again. Draco was indeed his father's son.

'Yes Mother, I shudder to imagine how the Ladies Auxiliary would fare were you not there to "lay a steadying hand on the cauldron".'

'I will see you... perhaps this evening,' said Narcissa. She coquettishly ran a hand through her wheaten hair which by virtue of potions was still thick and as silky as when she was a girl. She frequented an apothecary that in ancient times had provided beauty enhancements for some wealthy Muggle called Cleopatra. Narcissa gave Draco a - for once - motherly kiss on the cheek and departed.

As soon as Narcissa cleared the doorway, Crabbe raced in shouting, 'Here Gov'ner! Something is come up!'

Draco turned angry eyes to poor Crabbe. Draco spent the previous evening trying unsuccessfully to access the contents of Hermione's heart, and her knickers come to that; he was sincere about wanting the matched set. Yet despite his every possible advantage of wealth, health and attractiveness he had failed. Draco growled at the nearest scapegoat.

'What the devil is so sodding urgent that you disturb me without asking my leave to do so Crabbe?' Having managed a better snog with one's mother than with one's intended sweetheart was apt to put a fellow in a shirty mood.

'I am sorry Sir, but you wanted to be told on the spot when news arrives from the front, offered Crabbe apologetically. 'A huge eagle-owl flew in from the Ukraine an hour ago.'

'Why didn't you say so?' Draco snapped. 'What happened?'

He knew better but Crabbe suddenly lost concentration. He stared over to Draco's huge desk, his eyes fixed on a small crystalline hookah from which a thin thread of fragrant smoke rose. 'Mind if I have a go Sir?'

'I've told you time and again Crabbe, you haven't the mental capacity to handle the effects of smoking this "blend". I am doing you a great service keeping you from it.'

Truth was, Draco was not willing to risk finding out what sort of things Crabbe - who was decidedly bisexual - might try if exposed to hookah smoke. Draco did not fancy waking to find himself whinging piteously, rubbing his hind quarters and glaring reproachfully at Crabbe.

Spit it out man, what happened?'

'Some bloke on a hippogriff was spotted in your... in the Lucius Malfoy Memorial Ukrainian Ironbelly Dragon Reserve Sir.'

'Damn.' Draco lifted the hose of the hookah and drew in a lungful of the potent and cool blue smoke. He blew a series of smoke rings into the air. 'Any evidence the intruder found any interesting... specimens?'

Crabbe snorted. 'Saw an Ironbelly? That's rich. No. Couple of the Reserve Guards took after the intruder but the bloke was gone before he could be killed... murde... duh... detained.'

'Tisk, tisk, Crabbe,' Draco admonished, 'nasty cock up there. You ought to have said "permanently detained", not the "K" or the "M" word. I am aware "detained" is a large word but you will soon have the hang of it,' said Draco pedantically. 'Pay the till.'

Remorsefully, his head down, Crabbe removed two Sickles from his trousers pocket and crossed the room to an old jam jar on a side table, marked:

Fund for Understatement of CaustiK Idioms

Wicked Words = 1 Sickle Each.

'Pecker up Crabbe,' Draco said wearily and he motioned in the direction of the private bar. 'Help yourself to a glass of something. The less expensive stuff, on the bottom shelves, yes. You deserve better than the nasty overpriced swill I drink to impress my inferiors.'

Crabbe galumphed over to the bar and helped himself. 'You're too good you are Malfoy,' said Crabbe, happy again as was his nature, 'generous to a fault.' He downed the drink and turned to pour himself another glass, his face nearly thoughtful. 'Lovely bouquet this merlot's got. Cannot say much for its feel on my tongue but it is not bad. Not bad at all.'

'That your sensibilities and vocabulary now extend beyond scratching your arse and grunting is truly amazing,' Draco grudgingly admitted to himself that Crabbe's exposure to the heinous witch Messalina had done his underling a world of good. Draco continued intermittently yawning and blowing interlocked rings into the air, amused to see Crabbe's eyes hungrily trace the path of the azure smoke. 'Sit. I want to discuss that messy business at the front. But first, tell me, are my godsons enjoying their summer holiday?'

'Oh yes Sir, the boys are enjoying the new model racing broomsticks you sent them, right generous of you,' said Crabbe. He poured himself another round and hurried to seat himself as bidden. 'And our Brutus has a boyfriend who's come to have a stay with the family.' Crabbe winked and Draco made a valiant attempt at hiding his revulsion. 'And our little girls are bright as newly minted Knuts.'

'Yes, my dear godchildren.' Gloomily Draco sucked in a long draw from the hose and continued speaking in a rare show of sincerity. 'Crabbe, you are quite lucky to have your family. I mean, your children, not the rest of that disgusting mess.' Draco leaned back in his chair. 'Bloody lucky,' he sighed and opened his eyes; sixty seconds was quite enough time to ponder life's squandered opportunities.

'Now, hand over the post from my constituents in the Ukraine. There is a great deal for me to catch up on. These troubling reports from the east, and the upcoming subcommittee hearings at the Ministry. Hum... I wonder Crabbe. How many Galleons would it take to give my views on the matter a push in the right direction?'

Crabbe took his cue spot on, laughing at Draco's observation, as should any good minion.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Waking, after the previous evening's unexpected turns was unpleasant for Ron; his head ached and he had vague recall of leaving his stomach contents strewn on various corners in Diagon Alley. As he recalled the greatest event of the previous night he vacillated between dire mortification and extreme elation. He peeled open a gritty eye and sorted any evidence that might have indicated the bartender at the Supple Wand Pub may have slipped him some hexed ale. Perhaps the entire evening was composed of only thin strands of enchantment. Ron sat up. By his side the duvet covered a petite soft mound. The only noteworthy enchantment was the strands of golden hair cascading over a pillow. The mound shifted, stretching graceful arms as the woman rolled to face Ron snuggle at his side. She snoozed on, flesh and blood, no mist of tainted ale about her - she was real.

Still, perhaps all was not as it seemed. Ron remembered, with dread, one morning after a rare night on the town with his twin brothers, waking up in the bed of a hag. The details of that frightful morning are absolutely of interest but are far too frightening even for someone who might wish Ron harm. Suffice to say, there was good reason Ron seldom imbibed anything stronger than premium grade butterbeer.

Ron drew his knees to his chest, keeping the duvet over body parts that for now at least, he would keep to himself. He had completely missed morning, it was now afternoon and fresh guilt filtered through the fog in his tired mind. Ron took his work at the Ministry of Magic seriously, some of the time anyway. It was a Friday afternoon and he had bunged off his job - a first. He debated the pros and cons of dressing and racing off to work or hiring an owl to carry excuses to his superiors.

Various other sources of guilt clambered about in Ron's thoughts. There had been no guilt whatever when he lost his virginity to Messalina Zabini at Hogwarts but there was a great deal of guilt some years later when he finally took to Hannah Abbott's bed and claimed her virginity. It was like that now. This new blonde had been happy, eager even, to take him to bed, but Ron could not help but feel he had somehow tricked her. She hadn't realized whom she was dealing with. She seemed to have formed a belief that Ron was a wonderful man - pissed, but wonderful. What might she think by light of morning... afternoon?

Ron stared longingly at the rarity at his side and cautiously stroked her hair not wanting to waken her. Everything about him ached; his head, the wondrous and nearly painful throb of the former 'Pride of the Gryffindor Dorms', and there was another, less definable ache - that of his culpability. What sort of depraved shite would take to the bed of a girl young enough to be his daughter - a niece - only a scant few hours after making her acquaintance?

'... a pissed pervert,' Ron said aloud, and he winced as the sound sent a sharp pain through his head. Mind, there was also an undeniable portion of Ron's masculine psyche that wanted to shout 'Hurrah for me' and pass out celebratory cigars to every male of his acquaintance. Or was it only the girl's scant years that recommended the passing out of cigars?

'Mummmm...' murmured Perdita and she flung a pale arm over her forehead and dropped off to sleep again.

Ron sighed - softly. The woman looked sweet, angelic, innocent and unbelievably fuckworthy. With a twist of his gut Ron wondered if the management of the Leaky Cauldron ever actually arrested anyone based on the centuries old indecency laws that forbad fornication between unmarried persons - consenting or otherwise. And what if someone saw him rat-arsed; stumbling into the inn with the girl? Worse, what if they knew his family and told his Mum? Ron's cheeks burned beneath his scarlet beard. He jerked in panic at the sound of Perdita's sleepy voice by his side.

'Good morning Ronald,' the young woman chirped. Her lashes fluttered open and she stared nervously at Ron who looked much the way he felt - uneasy and pained. 'Are you all right? Are you hungry?' she whispered and pointed to her lady's owl, a Scops owl that was settled on the back of a chair by the window. 'I can send Vesta out for room service. Do you fancy tea or coffee? There is so much I want to learn about you.' Perdita rumpled her hair and stared expectantly at Ron.

'I'm sorry,' Ron whispered, awkwardly fumbling with the bedclothes. 'Listen, you don't have to feed me.' He reasoned there was no way he could keep breakfast down, and anyway how could the girl eat with a rheumy-eyed pillock gawking at her? 'I'll go. I ought not to have stayed in the first place.'

'I'm pleased you did,' Perdita insisted in a voice loud enough to make Ron wince. The young woman pushed herself to a sitting position, causing the duvet to fall, exposing her breasts with their rosebud nipples, one of which bore a gold ring.

'Oh Merlyn,' Ron gapped in wide eyed wonder and dismay at the fetching sight. He had taken to the bed of a modern sort of girl, a modern sort of girl who probably had an 18 stone boyfriend who was going to return any minute and murder him. Ron's eyes flicked quickly around the room; there were no signs of masculine clothing or what not. So far so good.

'What?' asked Perdita in a disappointed voice. 'You don't have to go, do you? It is Friday, almost the weekend. Do you work weekends?' She saw no hints of Ron's situation in his face. 'Do you work at all? Could you fancy staying here? With me?'

'Of course I want... no... this isn't right,' said Ron, feeling all the more guilty for his throbbing willie. Ron though if the girl knew what was crossing his mind she would not send her owl for room service, she would send it for a vice squad.

'Look, perhaps I ought... I mean last night, well I was pissed as a parrot wasn't I? Uh... excuse me a second.' He turned his body from Perdita and took a quick peek under the duvet; another worry confirmed - he was starkers. Looking anxiously around, he noted it was not only the clothing of an 18 stone boyfriend that was missing from the scene, but his own clothing as well. On second thought had his clothing actually made it into the room? Was his clothing strewn around Diagon Alley with the remnant puddles of his sick? 'Uh... could you turn your back? So I can nip into the toilet?'

'Oh, you are wondering where your kit is? In the wardrobe,' Perdita whispered. She looked uncertain about doing so but she sidled up to Ron sliding her hands under the duvet and down his stomach. Ron gasped as the soft warm hands trailed to his navel and progressed south along the ridge of wavy ginger hair. 'Too late to be shy really,' said Perdita softly. She misinterpreted Ron's expression. 'Oh - you're cross with me. Think I am common, dragging you up to my room while you were so vulnerable. You must think I do this sort of thing all the time.'

'Yes, no, well, no,' said Ron, rather pleased to hear a different take on the previous evening's events. He thought he would be more than happy to allow her to take the blame for his misconduct if it pleased her, but again his guilty conscience won out. 'No, my fault I'm here. Meself, I do not do this sort of thing ever. I mean, I am so, I mean, you are so bloody young and I - '

Perdita listened solemnly to Ron's confession. 'No, I brought you here. And it's not I'm so young... it's you are so very old.'

A fire engine, its siren screeching, raced by in the nearby streets outside of Diagon Alley and Ron nearly leapt out of his skin; the vice squad seemed imminent.

'I don't mean "old" really, I mean, you are... sophisticated,' Perdita said, explaining her side of things; a comment that in itself indicated Perdita's general naiveté. 'I love... like... that you are experienced... mature.' She pressed herself against Ron's side, leaning her head on him. 'I am making a fool of myself. I don't know how to act with you. See, I've never had a boyfriend before - well, not really a "boy" friend.'

'Do you mean you are a virgin?' blurted Ron, his stomach twisting anew.

'No, not a virgin,' Perdita blurted, 'I... I just never had a real boyfriend, but I have had loads of sex. No. That doesn't sound right either, does it?'

There followed several minutes of dead-awkward silence. Finally, Ron spoke hesitantly. 'Perdita?' It had occurred to Ron he had only heard the young woman's name once or twice the previous evening, and as he had been pissed, perhaps he had got it all wrong. Happily the girl did not look shocked or inclined to slap him so he continued. 'I really would like to stay with you. I could. No great plans for the weekend. I mean, other than staying - here - with you.'

Perdita answered by climbing onto her knees and setting her smooth pink cheek affectionately against Ron's shaggy beard. 'Your beard, it tickles. It's given me a bit of a rash already.'

'Is your wand handy?' asked Ron, awkwardly twisting about to face her.

'Yes.' Perdita reached over to the night stand for her apple-wood wand.

'Do you know the charm for shaving a man?'

Perdita nodded.

'Right then. You said you went to Beauxbaton. Then let's see just how top drawer your wand work is. You can have a go at shaving me, all right?' With a good deal of trust, Ron shut his eyes and tried to relax or at least keep his shaking at a minimum.

Sitting back on her haunches, Perdita cleared her throat and tapped Ron's chin with her wand. 'PILO-CAPILLUS!' With a squeak of dismay, she hopped off the bed and returned with a mirror she rather guiltily held up to Ron's face.

Ron opened his eyes and peered warily into the mirror. There was a long moment of silence. Finally Ron started to laugh. He ran his hand over his closely shaved chin. 'No worries Perdita.' He winked one brow-less, lash-free eye at Perdita. 'They'll grow back, no harm done.' He gave the young woman a little kiss on the forehead for her amateurish but adequate - more or less - services. 'Lovely shave Perdita, thank you.'

'I am sorry.' Perdita climbed back onto the bed. She traced a finger where Ron's eyebrows had been moments earlier. 'The correct spell must have "pilobarban" or was it "pilovisiosus"? Charms and Latin were not my best subjects.' She sat back, tossing her wand aside. 'Do you know, I much prefer your beard after all. Without it you look too young... maybe by ten years? I rather prefer your beard, made you look so... wise. I mean, not that you look stupid or...' Perdita looked dismayed by her own words.'

Ron smiled. His headache seemed to be receding. 'For you I'll grow the thing back! For you I'd grow the beard back and plait it if that would strike your fancy.' Ron looked into the mirror one more time, running a hand through his mercifully spared, fox-red hair. Risking all he leaned toward Perdita gently kissing her. He whispered, 'I want to stay with you this weekend, every weekend. I want to... bloody hell Perdy, I want you.'

Perdita had turned her head as if embarrassed, as if she had only just realized she was naked with a near stranger. He took a deep breath and continued kissing her on the neck, gently, so he would at least have good memories if perchance a vice squad did burst in. He eased his body over Perdita's and when she did not scream or push him away, he allowed himself the boon of feeling his chest hairs brushing languidly over the dove soft breasts and their wicked golden hardware. He noted for the first time a small tattoo of a little orb, possibly a snitch, on her shoulder and he touched it with his lips.

'Perdy, you are so pretty,' Ron crooned.

Perdita put her arms, and more importantly, her legs, around Ron

'Would you mind very much Perdy?'

'Not at all Ronald, let's.'

'I won't muck it up this time round,' Ron 's voice suddenly sounded a tad desperate, his reddening cheeks, no longer shrouded behind the beard heralded his embarrassment as Perdita wriggled in an enticing manner that set Ron ablaze.. 'I'm not pissed now and honestly, I know it is hard to judge from last night but I really am good; really, really, good. I mean, I can go for a long time and all. I can make you feel things. Make you feel wonderful. I can... I, I, damn!' Ron explosively flung himself backwards, his face screwed up with horror, 'BLOODY HELL!'

Perdita sat up and crawled after Ron, who sat defeated at the side of the bed, facing away from her. He was livid at his unexpected and premature... eruption. Ron's cheeks were so hot it is well he had just had a shave because had he a beard it would have probably burst into flames.

'I think we both have a case of nerves,' said Perdita affectionately. 'I would like it if you just held me.'

'Bloody hell,' Ron said, wishing he could just die and get it all over with. He had often heard others comment that hanging with "young" people made older people feel young again. Ron now knew that was quite true; he felt exactly like a thick, gawky, teenaged boy with spots and an uncontrollable willie.

'Here, let me help, I'll clean you up.' Perdita took up her wand again and knit her brow. 'What is that cleansing charm we were taught? Visca-obliterate?' Biting her thumb nervously, she purposefully pointed her wand at Ron's groin and opened her mouth to utter the charm.

'NO!' Ron leapt up nimbly and skittered across the room, his hands clamped over his privates. 'Uh, really, I'm fine Perdy, really!' He felt wretched when he saw Perdita's disappointed face. 'This is awkward as fuck. I mean, bloody hell. This is all my fault. I am making a muddle things. I ought to have apparated home last night.'

'But you couldn't have done that, could you? You were smashed weren't you? Would have apparated yourself into a lamppost or something.'

'Right,' said Ron. It was true. He had heard of such things happening and splining was a gruesome business. 'I'm standing here minging while you're probably catching your death. Say, would you... maybe we can take a hot shower?' He eyed Perdita for any sign of disgust on her part. 'Together? The two of us?'

Perdita looked coquettishly up at Ron and smiled for the first time that morning. 'Brilliant!'

~*~*~*~*~*~

'Charlie's back,' Fred announced. 'He stopped by the Wheezes to say hello to George and me.'

The "Wheezes" was Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, the successful shop Fred and his twin George ran together in Diagon Alley. While Fred had brought his bride Angelina to live at the Burrow where they raised their brood, George, a bachelor, took a different path, living in a flat over the Wheezes.

It was a Sunday afternoon at the Burrow. Fred and Angelina were comfortably side by side, slouched on the couch reading the Quibbler. Thirteen year old Ned, one of their four sons, lounged at his father's side, slung over the couch upside down, reading a comic book; their only daughter Beth was draped across her parent's lap, fully engaged in play with a sock puppet her Gran made for her. Their other three boys, and the Potter's raven-haired boy Gareth were all off enjoying their Sunday, terrorizing the countryside with dung bombs.

'Charlie 'spects to be in our part of the world for a couple of weeks at least. Not staying with us. Says he's staying with a bit of fluff he fancies, over in...' Fred stopped speaking. He winked at Angelina and he nodded at little Beth. 'I mean, Charlie is staying with 'a mate' in Diagon Alley while he is in town. Says his "holiday" went "well enough". That's Charlie's code; something is dodgy.'

'Mummy, Dad,' asked Beth. She carelessly flung her legs about and idly played with her sock puppet. 'When the new baby comes must I sleep in the barn?' She rolled her eyes in juvenile disgust.

'Baby?' said Fred, lowering the racing section of the Quibbler. 'What baby would that be?'

'Didn't the boys tell you Dad? Mum?' Beth sat up, and placed her podgy little hands on her hips. 'Ned and the others say a baby is coming but won't let on who is bringing it. They said after the new baby comes I am to sleep in the barn with the chickens and geese.'

'Shame on you Ned - ought to be ashamed, you boys putting such ideas into your baby sister's head,' said Fred, pretending to smack Ned. 'Your Mum and I are the ones who work out things around here. We thought if more room is needed, what with a new baby and all, we can hire Beth out to keep house for some nice family in the Ottery.'

'Stop your teasing.' Angelina dropped the newspaper and playfully swatting Fred. 'Yes, Beth, there is going to be a baby, just in time for the Christmas. You will keep your room. The baby will sleep in the room with your Dad and me. Now Fred, about Charlie, is he to come round for dinner?'

'I reckon. Maybe Charlie'll bring Beth a dragon pup, do you think?'

'Dad!' shouted Beth, showing far more enthusiasm for a baby dragon than the prospect of a new baby brother or sister.

'Beth dear, your father is winding you up. At best your Uncle Charlie might bring you a lovely dragon scale.'

'What good is a stinking dragon scale?' said Ned and he burrowed his nose further into his comic book - The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle.

There was a noise from around the corner at the back stairs and Lily yawning and still in her dressing gown at 2 o'clock, slowly dragged herself into the room. She had had a late night out with... mates the previous night and was a bit hung-over, as usual.

'Morning everyone,' Lily mumbled and was greeted by all. Lily's uncombed auburn hair stuck out all over her drooping head, giving her an even stronger resemblance to her father than usual. She wended her way through to the kitchen where her mother, father and Gran were enjoying tea and the Sunday paper. After a round of 'good morning', with a noisy yawn, Lily dropped onto a chair.

After peering non-judgementally at her granddaughter, Molly quietly rose and set to work preparing her time honoured hangover remedy; she fished hair from a jar marked 'SPANIEL' and waved her wand to set a half dozen raw eggs to spilling their yolks into a large empty mug.

Harry idly wand-worked the Quibbler crossword puzzle, the letters of the puzzle floating in rows and columns in the air over the table. 'Mmm - eight letters with two "Ks" in it... a highly improbable beast. Ah!' Harry said triumphantly, 'that would be S-N-O-R-K-A-C-K. So what time I spent with old Luna Lovegood was not for naught!'

Ginny shifted her eyes to glower at Harry. 'Your "time" with good old Luna Lovegood? And just what "time" did you spend with Luna "Melons" Lovegood?'

'W-W-What,' Harry stammered, taken off guard. 'She was your mate dear. I spent no time alone with that pair of... I mean I...'

It was no good; come bedtime it would be the couch again for Harry. He gave a glance over to a worn needlepoint hung nearby over the sink by a window.

IF MUM IS NOT HAPPY

NO ONE IS HAPPY.

How abysmally true. How all the more dismal living in a household containing three "mums". The discord between the Burrow women had grown worse. Harry and Fred were in the dark about the source of the ongoing row between Molly, Ginny, and Angelina; the source of which, in part, was Molly's stubborn resolve to keep the identity of her beau a mystery as well as her insistence that her health was dead grand, thankyouverymuch.

For nearly two weeks Harry and Fred had eaten meals all of which were either underdone or burned. Worse, their wives remained unresponsive, if not outright hostile concerning their "wifely duties". Harry was near to bursting with randiness and on his morning broom ride he noticed the Burrow sheep were beginning to look... well, if not good, at least interesting.

'Lily,' Harry waved his wand to keep the tubby crossword letters from settling onto the kitchen table like spilled alphabet soup, 'so, what are your plans this sunny summer's day?'

'Nothing Dad,' said Lily flatly. She gratefully accepting the mug of hangover remedy from her Gran and wrinkling up her nose as she stirred the brew so the hair floating on its surface would quickly dissolve. 'I think I will hang about the house. No need to do much.' She added testily, with a glance at her mother, 'It is summer hols.' She took a sip of her Gran's brew and made a disagreeable face as greenish smoke rose from the mug and from her ears.

'It is lovely having you home for the summer Lily,' Harry added thoughtfully. 'Can you tell your poor old Dad what is a five letter word for a "quick fix"?'

'Reparo,' said Lily.

'My brilliant girl,' said Harry. He used his wand to conjure and fit plump new letters into the puzzle.

Lily's eyes narrowed. 'Don't patronize me Dad! Even little Beth and Rose know that answer. Enough things around this house need fixing up.'

'I am not patronizing you,' said Harry. He felt his heart clench at the irritated look in his daughter's slightly bloodshot blue eyes.

'Lily, you know how dreadful your father is with the crosswords; he meant no harm.' There was no response but Ginny had her cap set for a conversation so she addressed her mother next. 'Mum, I noticed you were out late last night too. Have a lovely time? See anyone... "special"?'

'Yes Dear.' Molly clunked her teacup on a cracked saucer. 'I was out late last night too, lovely time, bloody end of discussion.'

The chances for a pleasant conversation now seemed less likely than un-enchanted rain falling up but Ginny persisted. She pulled a small package wrapped in brown paper from her lap and passed it over to Lily, 'A present for you dear.' She said in a sing-song voice. She helped herself to a ginger biscuit from Harry's saucer.

With an angry sidelong glance at her mother, Lily grudgingly accepted the package but dropped it, unexamined, on the table cloth. 'Thanks Mum.' She gave her mother a rude look.

'Came this morning, special owl post order,' Ginny pulled an iridescent green feather from another pocket, 'all the way from Haiti, delivered by a beautiful tropical bird. Mostly green the bird was, with a long tail like a Phoenix. You know what a Phoenix is Lily...'

'Yes, I know what a Phoenix is Mum,' said Lily hotly. 'I saw a Phoenix once in Diagon Alley at the Emporium, remember?' Her eyes down, she sipped some of the hangover remedy and stirred it again, the spoon click, click, clicking out her irritation.

'Right you are Lily,' said Harry in an attempt to steer the group from an oncoming explosion. 'So... any plans for the day Lily? Oh, I asked that already...'

'Your package Lily,' coaxed Ginny expectantly, 'open it.'

With a sidewise scowl at her parents, Lily tore the package open and viewed the contents - a small book. Her expression grew darker yet, as though the package contained fermented cat shite.

'Oh joy, another instructional book,' Lily said with honed sarcasm. 'I only hope you all can imagine my delight. Thank you so very, very much mother.'

Ginny slammed her biscuit on the table and the crumbs scattered. 'You rude brat!'

'Ginevra Molly Weasley-Potter, don't you call my granddaughter a brat,' Molly snapped. She slammed her teacup on the saucer so hard the saucer spit with a loud crack. 'Stop tormenting the child. Oh! And me thinking I raised all of my children to take things as they are, but you Ginny-'

'Lily is my daughter Mum and really, you must stay out of this.' Ginny's red brows were furrowed and the teacup she rested her hand on tinkled beneath her trembling hands. 'I think I know what is best for Lily.'

'So,' interrupted Harry nervously. 'What might be a six-letter word for "distress"?'

'Shut it!' snapped Ginny, kicking Harry under the table. Harry yelped and clasped his shin, pulling back too vigorously. He and the chair that contained him tipped arse over tit with a crash. He rolled to one side, holding his shin, grimacing and making painful little 'ooo, ooo, ooo' noises.

Viewing her father writhing on the floor, Lily leapt to her feet, upsetting her mug of hangover remedy. 'STOP IT! STOP IT!'

'Lily, Ginny, Molly, please!' Harry said in his most authoritative voice as he slowly stood up from the floor and set his chair straight again. 'Lily, your mother loves you; she wants what is best for-'

'For her. Mum only wants what is best, to keep her little world perfect,' shouted Lily in a furious voice. 'And I am dead sick of your excuses for mother! I will not read another one of these damned books!' Lily pointed at the little leather bound volume as though it were coiled and about to strike. 'That is the sixth book Mum has given me since I came home for summer holiday. I revised the others, only to please Mum but, but, but, this is an end to it! NO MORE BOOKS!'

'Lily, you may have given up...' said Ginny, her angry voice shaking with despair, 'But your father and I will never, ever give up on you.'

'No matter.' Angry tears streamed down Lily's cheeks. 'I gave up on me, years ago! You hound me day and night to be what I am not.'

'You are just a child, you have no idea what you are capable of,' shouted Ginny.

'You heard the child,' yelled Molly. 'You are making her miserable. Will you give it a rest? '

Ginny's voice answered, shrill and hysterical. 'This is not your business Mum, Lily is my daughter, not yours! I'll not have anyone interfering with me and my daughter in my house!'

'Whose house?' mocked Molly sarcastically, her hands on her hips, shaking with rage. 'This is my house and as long as you live under my roof...!'

The shrieking, yells and discord were now going full tilt. Upstairs in the attic, the Burrow's ghoul hid in an old wardrobe and quivered.

Harry was frantic, torn. 'Ginny? Lily? Molly?' He suddenly longed for the "good old days". That happy time when he had only to draw magical swords from manky old hats, slay the odd rampaging basilisk and receive a hardy pat on the back for his troubles. 'Please everyone; do not say things you will regret later.'

Fred appeared in the kitchen doorway and held up his hands. 'Oi! Listen, I know you all are a bit worked up but...'

'SHUT IT!' Ginny, Lily and Molly yelled, rattling the kitchen rafters. The Burrow cat sprang out of the kitchen window and raced for the barn.

Fred bravely made a second attempt to end the battle. 'Here now! I know the oestrogen levels in this kitchen are soaring but -' Unfortunately for Fred, his Angelina was not too pregnant to manage giving the boot to her soul mate. Fred stumbled into the kitchen and slammed into the kitchen table.

'Oestrogen is it?' snarled Angelina. 'This argument has nothing whatever to do with oestrogen levels you pig!' Angelina's gestational rant added a lovely alto soprano note to the escalating chorus of shouts and flaring tempers.

Lily shouted to her mother's scarlet face. 'Do you know what it feels like? Being the daughter of the world famous Harry Potter, the greatest wizard of our time, and me... me... a squib?' Lily turned and raced out of the back kitchen door. Her grandmother, looking pale, headed out the door after her.

'Lily! Mum! Come back here!' shouted Ginny, darting for the door, but Harry was too quick and took her arm in a firm grip.

'No, Ginny, please; Lily will be all right,' said Harry. 'You are both upset. Lily will calm down and -'

Ginny lowered her eyes angrily and shook off Harry's hands. She turned and headed up the stairs. Harry gave his brother-in-law a plaintive look but Angelina was still engaged in giving Fred a piece of her mind.

'Oh well Harry,' said Fred sighing good naturedly and ignoring his furious wife. 'You take the couch this time Harry. I'll take the comfy chair, all right? Or maybe I'll sleep in the barn with the sow. She's a might sweeter on me just now than my Angie here.' Fred's comment only resulted in Angelina renewing her rant. With a nonchalant shrug, Fred returned to the living room, Angelina hot on his trail.

'That went well enough,' said Harry dismally to no one. He used his wand to tidy up the wreckage of the cluttered kitchen. He flicked his wand at the crossword letters that lay sprawled over the table like deflated balloons. The letters rose up again into the air. 'Mmmm, let's see... a six letter word for distress.' Harry sighed. 'Family?'

~*~*~*~*~*~

Lucius Malfoy had greatly enjoyed every aspect of his dominion which included the occasional murder and mayhem required to keep one's inferiors and straying peers, in line with "expectations". A late night of torture and the application of the Cruciatus Curse to a noisome do-gooder always put a spring in Lucius' step and a gruesome song in his questionable heart. It had been early in his life that Draco Malfoy came into his own in the questionable fine arts of taunting, harassing, and verbal abuse of the weak, the base and the inferior; but unlike his father he drew a line at dismemberment and murder. No nancy boy, Draco could stomach blood and gore only so long as it was not his own, which was likely because he lived under such a threat for the first fourteen years of his life. And anyway, Draco was a gentlewizard first and foremost; the disorder, and worse, the screams and the pleading resulting from a drawn out death was hardly a proper pastime for a wizard of his refinement. He preferred to leave that sort of unseemly enterprise to his employees.

It was nearly 2 in the morning and Draco slowly stumped across the carpet of his Malfoy mansion office. He wore a dressing gown and shuffled back and forth in his yeti-fur carpet slippers. He would have murdered for a smoke but the night's labours required him to keep his wits sharp.

Crabbe, dressed in a somber shade of green sat nervously watching Draco pace to and fro. Goyle appeared in the gloom of the open office doorway as though he had materialized but in fact he had been too worn out to apparate and had walked the long twisting stone passages all the way up from the dungeons. Seeing him, Crabbe sat up and straightened the folds of his robes.

'Still up Malfoy?' asked Goyle and as he stumbled into the office he pulled off his dark hood and used it to wipe the sweat from his heavy brow. Here and there, suspicious reddish-brown stains spotted the front of his robes.

'You look done in Goyle.' Draco motioned towards a large, heavily cushioned chair on the opposite side of the room from Crabbe. 'Have seat. You look as if you could use a bracer.' Draco moved to the sideboard.

'I'll fetch it myself, thank you sir,' said Goyle gratefully.

Crabbe eagerly leaped up. 'I'll fetch it for him!'

'Wouldn't hear of it. Sit down Crabbe,' Draco said sharply. He decanted a shot of brandy. 'How is Lisvoy, our honourable Head Grounds Keeper holding up?' He limped over to hand Goyle a bracing brandy which was gratefully swallowed in one gulp.

'Thanks,' grunted Goyle. He snorted and gave a harsh unkindly laugh. 'Not as well as he thought he would, I'll tell you that much. Tell you the truth though; I thought he'd be proper dead by now.'

'No, no,' Draco explained. 'Those woodsmen are tough; have to be. Father once told me he saw one woodsmen get his leg burned entirely off during a skuffle with an Ironbelly. Both Father and the woodsman lived to tell that tale.' Draco and Crabbe chuckled.

Goyle shifted heavily in his chair. 'I'll tell you sommat else too. That one down in the dungeons pisses me off. Deserves what he's getting. All he had to do was keep an eye open for intruders. You paid good brass but him and his good for shite guards fucked up. Couldn't... "Permanently detain" one bloody trespasser. I think the Lisvoy was bribed I do. Him. Maybe one of his guards. Either way the git is paying for it thought ain't he? Face like a wet weekend.' Now Goyle's vicious bassoon laugh filled the room. 'Don't know what he was playing at; must have thought his fancy, la-dee-da, Head Grounds Keeper title would keep him safe if things went pear-shaped. Next time he might just take the time for a little think before he accepts coins from your coffers, eh Malfoy?'

Draco enjoyed a laugh and poured Goyle another round. Crabbe watched enviously.

'Right you are Goyle. So. Has Lisvoy any idea who might have been nosing around the Ironbelly Reserve? Any idea if the status of the "non-existent" Dragons were compromised?'

Goyle grunted. 'Not as we can tell. We're going to wake Lisvoy in a bit. Have another go at him. Would help if you came down - pissed on his hope. I mean, if you're of a mind to. What's left of his mind is scared shiteless of you and that could do a lot.'

Draco had known all along his presence would be necessary at some point and he did not hesitate to pull his wand. Shutting his eyes, he tapped himself on the head and muttered under his breath. He was enveloped in a dark glowing fog and when the fog cleared, he was shrouded in black robes - he looked like a medieval headsman - the sort that earned silver coins by the decapitation of noble personages.

'That'd make Lisvoy piss his proper drawers,' snorted Goyle, 'if we'd let him wear any.'

Draco laughed and adjusted his black, Thestral skin hood. 'I'm going down now,' said Draco. 'Gods, my father loved this sort of histrionic folderol. I think it is a right pain in my arse.' He eyed both Crabbe and Goyle and said quietly, 'crack a smile and die.'

Goyle was a hulk of a man, but his glass shook slightly and he kept his face straight. 'Wasn't saying anything Malfoy.' He gulped his brandy.

'Fine,' said Draco. 'Give it fifteen minutes then both of you come on down.' There were times when one putting the fear of the gods into a captive, was very much the equivalent of putting Galleons into one's own pockets. There was a dull coppery thud, as Draco's apparated away to the dungeons.

'We got fifteen minutes,' said Crabbe, eagerly springing up and sprinting across the room.

'Vinnie,' muttered Goyle. He pulled Crabbe onto his lap. 'I'm sorry Love. Not tonight, Dad is dead knackered.'

Crabbe smiled. He was always happy to settle for a cuddle.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was Sunday. Ron and Perdita strolled, hand in hand, away from the Leaky Cauldron. The sky was foggy and dismal but they took no notice. The pair had finally quit their bed for a chance to stretch their limbs in a different manner. They had talked so long and so hard their voices were a bit hoarse, but that did nothing to stop them. There seemed to be no end to the fascinating information they found out about each other, that Ron favoured goose over swan quills and Perdita had no use for cherry flavoured jelly slugs - they stained her teeth pink - and that they both much preferred missionary, it being cosier. It had taken a while for the pair to get around to more meaningful comparisons and titbits of information.

'So, you have no idea who your people are? No idea at all then?' asked Ron sympathetically.

'No,' Perdita was comforted by Ron's gentle squeeze of her hand. 'I was born during the wizard's war. My parents, I imagine, died in the war. I grew up in institutions - not orphanages, I mean, expensive public schools.

'Then surely your parent's left money to pay for your education then. Have you ever traced who funded your upkeep?'

'Oh I know who funded my education. He - he is a wealthy philanthropist. He funded the education of many war orphans.'

'Been meaning to ask; when you are not at the Leaky,' Ron interrupted, 'where do you live?'

'Nowhere, I mean, I am here at the Leaky, for now.'

'That must cost a bomb. You must work then? Do you work at the Leaky? Have free room and board?'

'Never had a job, I have money. Well, not as much money now that I've bought that Quidditch team, the Chuddley Cannons. I...' Again Perdita seemed to run out of explanation for her situation. 'It is not what you think. I did nothing wrong to get the money. It was just given to me. I could explain but...'

'I am prying Perdy,' Ron apologized. 'Do you know? I have such a wonderful feeling about you, as if I have known you for longer than what? One day?' Ron snorted derisively at his own comments. 'I sound like some second rate romance novel, don't I?'

'Third rate,' said Perdita cheekily. A light rain began to fall and they ducked into the doorway of a small shop.

'I've been thinking Perdy, there are people who remember things. There are records, parchments. I imagine there must be a way to puzzle out who you are, your parents, or who knows, perhaps you have siblings. I work at the Ministry. I can ask around. I can find out where I can begin a search.' Self-consciously, because the shop owner was glowering through the window at him, Ron caressed Perdita's cheek. His hand traced to the dimple at the base of her throat. 'I want to do something for you; something important, something that will mean something to you.'

'You are doing that for me now,' said Perdita.

'Listen, I know this is rather fast... but why don't you move in with me at my flat? That would save you loads of quid and you can meet my little niece and nephew, the ones you saw in the photo, the little elves. Their mother is my flat mate, you two will get on.'

'You have a woman for a flat mate?' Perdita sounded suspicious.

'Now, she's only my old school mate. You'll get on, trust me. So, might you fancy moving in with me?'

'I should like that Ronald,' said Perdita, brightening.

'You can meet my family, in Devon. I have scads of nieces and nephews there. They would love you, how could they not.' Ron winked. 'And you could meet me Mum. She'll dote on you.'

'Oh,' said Perdita. 'We only just met Ronald, what will your family think of some silly creature who pops out of nowhere and wants their son? Their brother? Their uncle?'

'No need to worry. My family is huge and I have loads of mates. They'll all love you though not nearly as much as... anyway, they'll love you.' Ron could feel Perdita's heart thumping against his chest and it was the nicest thing he thought he had ever felt, including every one of the sensations he felt in his groin over the past day.

It is good to note here that Ron gave a sudden thought to unpocketing the engagement ring that he still carried in his pocket, the ring he meant for Hermione. He impetuously thought he might ask Perdita for her hand, but he dismissed the idea. He opted to wait and to, should the time come, sell Hermione's ring and buy one he would choose specifically for Perdita. Instead he grinned, crushed Perdita to his chest and gave the young woman a snog to remember. It is good to note that for once it may at last be stated, Ron Weasley's timing was spot on.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Like the Burrow the Burrow barn was held together as much by dust and cobwebs as magic charms. As one would expect on a summer day, the barn was hot, uncomfortably so for most anyone not raised in tropical heat. Harry purposely refused to cast cooling spells on the barn, even though the temperature sometimes reduced his wax moulds into yellowing puddles. He enjoyed a good sweat. Harry was quite unaware that his enjoyment of sweating was because profuse perspiration subliminally reminded him of the sweating to be had as a side effect of good sex; something that of late was for Harry, an increasingly scarce commodity.

Harry's dishevelled hair was stuck to his face by sweat. He straddled a low wooden bench, with a tray balanced clumsily across the narrow bench in a way that tempted the fates, but Harry had a better sense of balance than most performing circus seals. The tray remained upright. He picked through long twigs, tossing aside those without just the correct of aerodynamic twist.

As he worked Harry was surrounded by his personal line of handmade broomsticks in various points of production - Potter's Lightning Scar Series. Raw piles of various woods hovered near the ground, low enough to escape the overheated rafters, high enough to defeat gnawing rodents. Green woods hung near the rafters where the warm air slowly seasoned the poles. There was no magic that could shorten the processing time or improve the quality of broomsticks as well as patience. In carefully sorted stacks around the dusty barn raw materials for tempering the broomsticks were set in labelled paper bags on racks that once held harness for farm horses and carriages.

It took a nearly a decade for Harry to bring his small home-based business out of the red. Extreme frugality was all that had kept him from depleting his inheritance. But now, gradually, his broomsticks were being universally acknowledged as first rate. The Potter coffers at Gringotts overflowed once again.

There was a burst of flapping wings and Harry jerked upright and smiled. Overhead the pigeons streamed out of the barn windows. Lily and the Burrow's boisterous six-year-olds, Harry's Rose and his niece Beth, were walking up the hill to the barn.

Lily was not quite through the barn doors before she began to rant. 'Dad, I'm sick of Mum ordering pamphlets, books, instruction card games!' Days had passed since the last fight between Lily and her mother, but Lily was still furious. 'Mum's bought me another book; The Power Within You - Squib No More.'

'In all fairness Lily, your mother ordered that book ages ago. It is not her fault it arrived now.'

'Why can't Mum just leave it?' Lily nervously jerked at a thin chain around her neck that dipped into her baggy t-shirt. 'I'm sick of Mum always at me with stupid, useless books. I think I will move to the city and take up a flat with friends. I do not have to live here.'

'We know you do not "have" to live here Lily,' said Harry. 'I don't know what I will do when you finally move out for good. When you marry.'

'Marry - as if,' snorted Lily. 'I ought to move to the city. Even if I wanted to marry, I will never marry if I only have the berks in Ottery to choose from.'

'Daaaad,' whinged Rose, unbothered by her older sister's strife, 'can I play with the hog?'

'No you can't play with the hog,' said Harry, always taken aback by the child's fearlessness - a born Gryffindor that one. 'She's to have her piglets any day now and you girls were told to stay well clear of that sow.'

'But Uncle Harry, simpered Beth, leaning on her uncle, 'I am so bored.'

'Why don't the pair of you play make believe? Go play pretend. Pretend to be birdies in the loft,' suggested Harry. Were Ginny present she would have skinned Harry alive for making such a suggestion. She hated that the children adored climbing up in the loft but short of tying the children up, it was impossible to stop them from doing so.

'I'm the mummy bird,' shouted Beth to Rose. 'You have to eat all the bugs and worms I bring you!'

'DO NOT,' screamed Rose and the afternoon's tussling was begun as the girls climbed up to the loft.

'Careful you two,' Harry cautioned and when he looked up the giggling girls were already half way up the ladder to the loft. Harry sighed as he again tried to oil the waters between Lily and her mother. 'You have to understand, your mother will never give up on you. She wants what's best for...'

'The best for her,' Lily fumed. 'You do not go on and on about me coming into any magic.' Lily plopped herself onto the narrow bench facing her father. 'And who really needs magic anyway? I've done well enough at university without any magic. Not like Mum notices.'

The tray tilted but Harry pushed up on it, sparing it from crashing to the sawdust covered wooden floor.

'I know,' said Harry, 'and I... I mean, we are proud of you.'

'You love me as I am Dad,' Lily leaned forward beseeching her father. 'Mum loves me for the witch she wants me to turn into. Why is Mum so pigheaded?'

'Don't speak that way about your mother. She loves you for yourself same as I do. How can I explain? Your Mum... she can't bring herself to give up...' Harry's heart ached to see Lily's hurt look as he defended her mother. He opted instead to put the girl to work to take her mind off her worries. 'Lily, I could use your help.'

'Can't you cast a cooling spell in here,' fussed Lily. 'The girls are going roast up in the rafters, steeped in their own juices like little pot pies.'

Harry smiled. He wiped his damp forehead and pointed towards a spinning wheel near one of the ancient stalls. The wheel sat next to a large baskets containing unspun flax in dyed batches of bright colours. 'I am nearly out of binding for attaching twigs to the broomsticks. Spin some for you old Dad will you?'

'I thought you promised Uncle Fred and Uncle George you would contract the twigs out for sorting.' Lily teased. 'You do too much Dad. You really ought to hire more help.

'Shussh,' Harry winked. 'You don't want to get Dad in trouble with your uncles, do you? Your Mum's been a lot of help this past year. I couldn't have kept things going without her. And this lot,' Harry picked up a twig. 'I have a few experiments to work on this rowan wood.'

'Dad, rowan wood is too heavy for racing broomsticks, isn't it?' Lily's keen interest in racing broomsticks matched that of her father and uncles. 'Hum... but rowan does have perfect flight symmetry...' Lily raised her eyes upward as she mentally accessed the potential problems with the rowan wood's properties.

Harry encouraged Lily. 'What do you reckon... if lime wood twigs were added into the mix?'

'Well,' Lily stalled. 'Lime is dead fast... but too light for stability, even if you balanced it with rowan wood. Dad, what if you added cherry wood?'

Harry almost upset his tray. 'Brilliant! Your uncle's have nothing on you for inventiveness. I wish...' Harry stared off into space. 'But on the other hand, cherry wood has no more balance or smoothness than the ale at the local pub.'

'Dad,' Lily laughed. 'You and your improvements you're giving me a headache!'

'Cheeky monkey. Go spin. We can both have a think.' Harry was dreadfully sorry Lily had decided to not work with him in his racing broomstick business. She had been his only hope; interested in the mechanics of broomsticks from when she was little more than a toddler. Neither Harry's Garath, nor Rose showed interest in the business. Nor did Harry hold much hope one of his Weasley nephews or niece would suddenly take an interest in the crafting of world class broomsticks - unless Harry invented a broomstick less prone to flying than exploding.

Still, perhaps because it was too warm to quibble and argue, the afternoon passed happily enough. As the sun crossed the barn door leaving them in semi darkness, the late afternoon whipped up a cool breeze from the low lying river in the nearby valley. After the first hour of squeals and loud play the two little girl cousins, as expected had fallen asleep in the loft. As the refreshing cool air cooled the barn the cousins stirred overhead. The quiet would soon be just a memory.

Her spinning completed, Lily stood carefully finished hand wrapping the last of her spun twine onto a pair of crossed sticks.

'DAAAAAAADDD,' wailed Rose. 'COME UP HERE DAD! LILY!'

'When I was an adorable little lass Dad, was I that loud?' asked Lily as she wound twine.

'You? No dear, you were much louder,' said Harry. He took his time nipping the ends off twigs with a Muggle tool that once belonged to his late father-in-law. No one could beat Muggles for hand-tools. 'And no one thought to call you "adorable" Lily,' teased Harry, '"bratty" maybe.'

'I'M TELLING UNCLE HARRY,' scolded Beth overhead. 'GET DOWN.'

'DAAAAAAAD! LOOK!' shouted Rose. 'LOOK DAD!' the child's voice echoed off the rafters.

'Our barn still has the only pigeons and bats in Devon that keep cotton in their ears,' Harry muttered. 'Rose, Beth, come down here right, stop sky larking about!' Harry went into the tack room to put away his tools.

Lily laughed. She hefted up the spinning wheel and stepped out from under the loft, meaning to put the wheel away. Just as she cleared the overhang, her sister screamed.

'I'M FLYING!' Rose's called out in a descending shriek. The child tumbled off a bale of straw overhead and plummeted towards the barn floor.

Lily gasped, dropped the wheel and threw open her arms beneath her sister. 'ARESTO MOMENTO!'

Rose stopped in mid air, a scant foot or two above her sister.

Harry tore out of the rack room and froze at the sight: Lily, her arms up reaching upward and her baby sister hovering gleefully. They looked like snapshot, a wizard photograph.

'Weeee,' shouted Rose naughtily, unworried by her narrowly avoided disaster. 'I was falling Dad! Lily did magic, she stopped me!'

'I did not,' said Lily, her voice shakey. 'I couldn't have. I did not feel anything. That cannot be magic? I am a squib.'

'Oi!' shouted Beth from overhead, her tiny face peering down from a bail of hay. 'Lily can I have a go next?'

Harry could not have anticipated effect of the little scene had on him. He rushed over to pluck his precious little Rose out of the air. He placed the child on the floor and gave her a swat on her disobedient little bum that sent the child racing down the hill screaming for her Mum. Then Harry threw his arms around Lily.

'Lily... I told your Mum this would never happen. I gave up.'

'But Dad,' said Lily. 'I felt nothing. Surely I would know wouldn't I?' She could not comprehend her father's words. She could not be expected to realize the hundreds of nights her Mum and Dad lay awake worrying about her. The countless times Harry woke to find his Ginny, sobbing and the many hours he comforted his love; 'She will lead a normal life Ginny, a normal Muggle life; don't take on so. Please, Ginny, don't be unhappy, please don't be sad. Our Lily can still attend Muggle schools; she is smart, she will make a life for herself, find a career. Marry. Have our grandchildren. Please Ginny...'

'My daughter,' Harry tried to fight the waves of emotion but it was no use - the dreams he thought were long ago forgotten, abandoned, rose up to overwhelm him. He squeezed Lily tightly, knowing he embarrassed her but he was unable to stop. 'Wait until the family hears Lily, our mates. Wait until your mother hears, my baby, my darling girl.'

~*~*~*~*~*~

To their credit, the subcommittees for the International Confederation of Wizards laboured as diligently on the less interesting matters, as they did on the flashier, more media "worthy" agenda items. The subcommittee hearings were into a second day and the meeting room was no longer packed to the vaulted ceilings with interested spectators. Final resolutions were voted on and, as expected, largely passed without comment to be presented to the Confederation in a week's time. All wanted the final meeting over and done. There were more important tasks to accomplish and other more important issues to settle.

A prominent advisor and committee member, a dignified witch, currently held the floor. She looked to the Ministry Chairman who nodded, granting permission for her to continue her presentation. She cleared her throat and holding up an official looking document, spoke in a loud clear voice.

'Next on the agenda - the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau subcommittee wishes to put forth resolution number 122, for the Committee's consideration next week. We recommend adoption of a declaration as follows: The Dragons, known as the Greater and Lesser Ukrainian Ironbellies, the last of which formerly roamed the Ukraine on the Lucius Malfoy Memorial Ukrainian Ironbelly Dragon Reserve are hereby declared extinct.'

The resolution declaring the extinction of the ancient and venerable species of magnificent magical dragon was met with neither dismay nor objections. Ironbellies had not been observed for close to fifteen years and frankly, their demise was good news indeed. The rare Ironbelly Dragon scales were still occasionally to be found on the black market. The scales were legendary in their potential for serious mischief of the sort that kept New Azkaban prison a going concern. The demise of the formidable species was the stuff of celebrations at the Control of Dangerous Magical Substances Bureau - an all night keg party was already in the works.

'... therefore,' the advisor said solemnly, 'it is with great sorrow the subcommittee in conjunction with the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau of the Ministry of Magic recommends the International Confederation of Wizards declare the species, and all subspecies of the Dragon heretofore called by the name Ukrainian Ironbelly extinct...'

CRASH! The honourable members of the Committee jumped. The heavy oak meeting room door swung back wide on its hinges a slammed into the wall.

'NOT SO FAST! THE UKRAINIAN IRONBELLIES ARE ALIVE AND WELL and Hell - AND belieVE ME - those bloody great beasts are SOMETHING TO RUN INTO!'

Down the centre aisle marched a queer figure, dressed for the outback, wearing a pointed hat constructed from green dragon scales sporting a Chimera feather worn at a jaunty angle. The wizard's weatherworn face was so heavily freckled it appeared tan and his hair was the colour of a sun-faded ginger cat. His muscular, brown arms and legs stuck from his khaki shirt and shorts in all their hairy glory. His many pockets were busy affairs jammed full of the tools of his trade. Over one shoulder the stocky man carried a pair of dragon hide saddlebags, and over the other shoulder he bore a coiled Wandwhip.

It was the Wandwhip that gave away the man's identity; it was the trademark of the Charlie "Dragon Master" Weasley. The Wandwhip was Charlie's best invention. The Wandwhip handle held a thick core of magically enhanced dragon heartstring, capable of delivering a powerful blast of magic. Three wizards armed with Wandwhips could control the nastiest of dragons that would take a dozen wizards armed with ordinary wands to control. Charlie could have chosen to retire long ago from the profit of his Wandwhip and others of his inventions but Galleons just were not within Charlie's scope of interest; Charlie loved Dragons.

As the accomplished dragon wrangler marched down the aisle to the centre of the grand assembly room, his dragon hide boots left large muddy impressions and with each step he grinned, his great white teeth gleaming in the dimly lit room like diamonds.

'Order! Order!' shouted the subcommittee Chairman, banging down his gavel. 'Remove that man from these proceedings! He is out of order and he is mucking up the Ministry floor!' The easily riled Chairman was furious at the intrusion.

'G'day Sheila!' Charlie boomed, ignoring the Chairman and addressing the Chairman's head advisor. Over the years Charlie suffered hearing loss from years of close contact with roaring, fire belching dragons. He normally spoke at a shout, a habit he shared with his Weasley and Potter nieces and nephews.

The lady advisor looked to the Chairman. 'Chairman, sir, if I may have a word with this - "gentlewizard" I am sure I can come to the bottom of this... intrusion.' Taking his arm firmly, Sheila pulled but Charley was firmly planted and as immoveable as any of the statuary on the Fountain of Magical Brethren in the Ministry Atrium.

'Oh, so you want to come to my bottom Sheila?' said Charlie with a wink and a foiled attempt to pat the Advisor's bottom.

'Charlie,' hissed the good lady in a desperate whisper, 'come along now. You simply cannot burst into a Ministry subcommittee meeting and... Merlyn! What is that odour? Charlie Gideon Weasely, you reek! 'Sheila's nose wrinkled involuntarily. 'Where the hell have you been? The Chairman himself has declared you to be A.W.O.L.! You could lose your position!'

'No worries Sheila,' shouted Charlie flashing his bright smile. 'I was on a Holiday jaunt darling! 'Knight Busman's tour, field research! Took a might longer than I expected but I am back in HQ now; no worries my darling.' Charlie leaned over in an attempt to kiss her but she ducked and gave him a dignified and indignant glare.

'And let me guess,' Sheila screwed up her eyes suspiciously, 'by any chance was it you nicked off... took illegal possession of Scamander's favourite hippogriff?'

'What? Me take old Newt's poor, unfortunate, under-exercised, "Widowmaker" for a bit of an outing? A crying shame how Newty leaves that poor hippogriff mopping in its stall,' said Charlie in a whisper that came out in normal volume. 'Had a fair bit of flying to do and I had to have the best Hippy in the barn. Really, I had no choice in the matter.'

'You were on your own time Weasley and the Ministry stable is not for your personal use! Why didn't you floo or use a broomstick?'

Charlie held up a finger and boomed, 'Number one! There were no fireplaces where I was headed.' He held up a second finger. 'Number two, needed the extra pair of sharp hippogriff eyes looking out for both of our arses. Number three, a broomstick couldn't smell a fucking great dragon flying up behind and getting ready to fricassee my arse, now can it?'

Those members of the assemblage who were close enough to hear Charlie's boisterous comments were all either outraged or consumed with laugher - the mix being 40/60 respectively - Charlie was the likeable sort.

'Fuck you Charlie,' Sheila hissed, giving him a look that threatened his life were he dared to actually think on the general concept. 'You were warned Charlie. You were specifically ordered by the Minister himself to not to go off on some wild Thestral chase, searching for Ironbellies. The Ministry has not got proper permitting to enter the Lucius Malfoy Memorial Ukrainian Ironbelly Dragon Reserve! Oooo, Charlie, tell me, you did not trespass onto that private reserve in search of Ironbellies?' said the witch, pleading for an answer in the negative.

'Oh now darlin' you know I would not dream of breaking the law. Let's just say I took Widowmaker for a jolly little holiday to the Ukraine and had a few very interesting stops to unload me bladder along the way. No one can blame a bloke for taking the odd piss now can they?' Charlie winked. 'And I had to land in the Reserve sweetheart didn't I? Couldn't fly by the reserve having a piss off the back of the boss' favourite hippogriff could I? Nasty yellow urine stains all over Newts' snow white hippogriff - shameful!'

'Charlie,' Sheila continued to hiss, 'many are the times I have tried to save your sorry arse with the Ministry but this time you are on your own and what happened to your arm?' She looked at him with genuine dismay.

'Well I was burned by a fucking great lizard your lot here thinks is non-existent then wasn't I?' said Charlie dismissively and he bellowed, 'Permission requested to approach the bench! Here, what do you make of this?'

Before anyone could open their mouth to comment, Charlie flung the huge saddlebags up on the Chairman's podium. As the bags landed a huge mess of billywigs rose up buzzing noisily over the bags. The Chairman almost fell over backwards and several Ministry officials leapt up and backed away. All held their noses shut and most, but not all, glared at Charlie with great disgust.

'What the...' fussed the Chairman. 'Weasley, what is this?' Again, the chairman furiously pounded his gavel.

'No need to flatten that desk to match your head Chairman,' Charlie laughed. 'We take your meaning.'

'Out - of - order!' growled the Chairman, continuing to hammer. 'I have the authority to place you under arrest for interrupting this hearing.'

'Chairman, Sir,' Sheila broke in. 'May I interrupt? I would like to ask Mr Weasley why these... heavily "scented" saddle bags are on the podium.'

'Glad you asked Sheila. Here in these very saddle bags is documentation concerning the place I didn't go, for proof of Dragons that are no more,' said Charlie wisely. He opened one of the bags and both Sheila and the Chairman backed sharply from the loathsome stuff.

'Charlie! You did not just dump a load of dragon shite on the Chairman's podium," said Sheila suitably horrified.

'No,' laughed Charlie, smiling at attention commanded by the pile of poo. He held up a finger. 'Number one, this here by definition of the subcommittee is not dragon shite because you sadly ignorant lot are about to declare the Ironbelly Dragon that shat this here pile is non-existent, as if,' explained Charlie.

With great panache, Charlie pulled a large forceps from a shirt pocket. He sunk the tip of the tool into the massive stool sample and dug around. Carefully, Charlie teased a fragmented but complete skeleton from out of the seething pile of faecal matter. The skeleton resembled that of a small boulder, that is of course, if stones had bones. A second of Charlie's fingers rose in the air. 'Number two, you see here in this shite, a mostly digested Ukrainian Pogrebin! Number three, as you all know, the little Pogrebin blighters are found only in one spot on the whole of this fucking great planet, smack dab in the middle of the Lucius Malfoy Memorial Ukrainian Ironbelly Dragon Reserve.

A buzz of hurried whisperings and urgent talk filled the chamber.

'Now, my final point, Number four is...' Charlie thumped his index finger on the Chairman's desk, making a noise near as loud as the Chair's gavel. 'From when time began until this very day there has only been one creature known that eats Ukrainian Pogrebins - Ukrainian Ironbellies.'

'Out of order Weasley! Ukrainian Ironbellies are extinct, we all know that,' said the Chairman. 'You just heard my advisor recommend the International Confederation of Wizards declare that Ironbellies are extinct! The Beast Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures International Division came up with zero dragons on their last ten annual surveys.' The Chairman snorted huffily and looked down his glasses at Charlie. 'And for all the trouble the Ironbellies have caused over the ages, I say, good riddance to them; good riddance!'

'Really?' said Charlie, holding up his fingers in sequence. 'Number one, this great load of Ironbelly shite under your nose says you are wrong, because - Number two - the annual dragon surveys are led by a lot of ignorant nincompoops who couldn't find their own willies in their own trousers. Number three, seems to me someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to get Ironbellies declared extinct. And numbers four, five and six - I intend to find out how, why and just for the sake of revenge - who that someone may be.'

'This is intolerable', raged the Chairman. For want of any good counter arguments he began pounding the podium with his gavel again which made the poo to shift and the set the billiwigs to angrily buzzing all the louder. 'Out of Order!'

Charlie leaned over the great desk placing himself nose to nose with the infuriated Chairman. 'I'm out of order? Says who and what army?'

'This is the Ministry Weasley, a meeting is in session and I have the authority to place you under arrest and have you thrown into New Azkaban!' The Chair glared angrily at Weasley.

Charlie whispered to the Chairman in as perfect a whisper he had ever been known to utter. 'Well, I have the authority to kick your arse if I catch you outside of your fucking authoritative robes Radgerman, you bribe-taking git.' Charlie snatched the gavel from the Chairman.

'I am warning you Weasley, if you-' Radgerman's rant was interrupted as a short, angry, red-faced wizard, a Ministry guard marched into the hearing room and growled, 'Anyone know why there is a white hippogriff tied to the Fountain of Magical Brethren in the Atrium? The beast shat... "soiled" the floor. One of the guards slipped on it. Almost broke his neck!'

'Well, can't leave Widowmaker waiting. We can have a chat later', said Charlie with a wink at Sheila. He turned and headed for the door. 'Crikey. The shite around here just keeps piling up, doesn't it?'