Facing Backwards

Chapter Seven--Lumos

The really horrible thought--the one he had been avoiding for days--finally struck Harry in the face the next morning.

He woke early, not particularly rested but relieved not to have missed his first class. As he was about to head down to the Great Hall for breakfast before many of the rest of the faculty were there, he remembered that he hadn't told Minnie what Ginny had said to him about the animagus exercise she was working on. After lighting a fire--three tries--Harry knelt, tossed a handful of Floo Powder in, and called out "Twelve Grimmauld Place!"

When the spinning stopped, Harry was staring up at his son zooming around in a kitchen chair, just below the rafters, waving what Harry desperately hoped wasn't a wand.

"Albie! Get down now!" he found himself shouting. Blithely, the four-year-old banked the chair into a dive and brought it in for a landing in front of the fireplace. Harry's pulse was racing and his temples throbbing.

"Hullo, Daddy," Albie said, smiling. "Actually, I'm not s'posed to fly."

"Actually, sweetie, no, you're not. Because you don't want to fall and hurt yourself. And because you love your daddy and don't want him to have a heart attack here in the fireplace."

Albie frowned, then decided Daddy was being funny, and started to giggle.

"Albie, sweetie, where's... what's her name? The babysitter? And what's that in your hand?"

"Ruler," Albie sang, waving it around. Then he pointed it at Harry. "Eat slugs!" Albie giggled madly.

It was seeing Albie waving Percy's ruler, shaking the locks Harry knew to be reddish brown when not tinted by the green of the Floo, that made the terrible thought blossom in Harry's mind like an evil flower: what if Albie is Percy's son?

But no, of course not. Ridiculous. Impossible.

Behind Albie, the door to the kitchen opened and a disgruntled Minnie and a thoroughly harassed-looking Celestine Smith clumped in. "Hello, Mr. Potter," said the pink-haired young lady through clenched teeth. In her hand was a small stack of scrolls.

"Something wrong, Celestine?" Harry asked.

"Oh, no, the Minister called and asked me to bring her something from her office upstairs. Minerva here wants to stay in the house while Albie and I Floo this lot over to the Ministry. But I've been telling her that's not possible."

Minnie rolled her eyes.

"Come on, Minnie darling. You know you're too young to be in the house by yourself," Harry sighed. "There have been doxiesand imps up in the sitting room again, and, believe me, you don't want to tackle them on your own."

His daughter fixed him with a look of annoyance that might have been stolen from Sidi's tirade two nights before. "Fine."

"Is there anything you need, Mr. Potter?" Celestine said breathlessly. "Because I've got to get these scrolls to the Minister, and then we need to get Minnie here off to school."

Harry had a twinge of guilt. Usually it was he bustling the children inefficiently but, ultimately, effectively out the door, answering his wife's Floo calls, running all of the errands. "Just an answer to that question, Minnie. The question you asked the other night? About the animagus exercise? Aunt Ginny... Professor Longbottom said you shouldn't try to decide the animal, you should just let it come to you."

Minnie's face fell. "But, Dad... The pictures I'm getting... They're scary."

"It's okay, Minnie. You'll be sweet no matter how long your fangs."

"Mr. Potter?" Celestine urged. At least she didn't call him Mr. Granger, as most younger employees of the Ministry did.

"Of course, Miss Smith. Thank you. Bye, Minnie. Bye Albie."

As Harry pulled his head out of the fireplace, he found the image of Albie's face still there, and that terrible idea, bubbling away inside his brain, in spite of it's absurdity, in spite of fact that he loved and trusted his wife, in spite of the fact that none of the Grangers or Weasleys had green or hazel eyes to explain where Albie's grey-green might have come from.

Harry stumbled into the Great Hall and sat next Ron, who was looking barely awake, and was moving his eggs around his plate dispiritedly.

"Rough night?" Harry asked.

Ron shrugged. "Luna couldn't sleep. Woke me up to tell her stories." He gave a huge yawn. "Bloody unfair. We're going to be up all the time for a few months once the baby is born. Seems like she should be able to sleep now at least."

"Yeah. Unfair." Harry refrained from telling Ron that the sleeplessness could last a lot longer than a few months. That the term was something closer to eighteen years to life. It seemed as if it would have been cruel to reveal at this late date just what a horrible mess his friend had gotten himself into. He piled some scrambled eggs onto his own plate, and was about to ask Ron if he thought it even possible that Hermione and Percy might feel anything for each other besides hatred when Ginny glided onto the dais and seated herself, not two seats away, as she had been doing, but immediately next to Harry.

She said "Good morning." Her tone was so neutral and so blandly pleasant--so unlike Ginny--that Harry knew she was as uncomfortable as he was. And in spite of himself, he began to laugh.

Ginny and Ron both looked at him in alarm. Harry gestured to them both to lean in, and whispered, "I've just been having this really ridiculous guilt fantasy that Percy and Hermione were having a fling while I was here."

Ginny's eyes opened wide in recognition--yes, she was struggling with the same guilt that Harry was. But Ron simply began to laugh. And soon Ginny and Harry joined him.

"That's.... whooo! That's the silliest thing I've heard in years!" Ron guffawed.

Luna, who had just sat beside her husband, grunted as she tried to fit her distended abdomen behind the table without the rear legs of her chair falling off the dais. "What are you laughing about?"

"Oh!" Ron said, wiping his eyes. "Harry's just been saying something very funny about his wife and Percy being sweet on each other..." He began to chuckle again.

Luna caught Harry's eye and smiled; Harry felt lighter than he had in days, relieved finally to have realized how his own guilt over his behavior with Ginny had been clouding his mind. "Well," Luna said, "I've always thought your brother was enamored of Hermione. Of course he is. And he's a very handsome man. Not as handsome as you, of course," she murmured to Ron, whose face had fallen. "What, you didn't believe all of that bickering between them, did you? Of course it's just for show..." And Luna turned blithely to her tofu.

Harry felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He glanced to Ron, whose teeth seemed to have become stuck on his mouthful of egg, and then at Ginny, who was looking even more uncomfortable. At least she was no longer even trying to maintain the bland expression.

He ate three bites of egg and pushed the plate away.

At the Gryffindor table, Harry Weasley was still hiding among the first-years, who were charming wads of paper to fly around his head like birds in those old cartoons, when someone's been knocked silly. Sidi was sitting next to Circe Taylor, who was speaking animatedly in her ear. Sidi's glum expression mirrored her father's mood.

* * *

At the morning break, a mop of red hair flared through the classroom doorway, and Harry's breath caught--Ginny? Young Harry? Ron?

But it was Alithea Weasley, her strawberry locks framing a face set in grim annoyance. It was an expression he was getting quite used to facing.

"What can I do for you, Alithea?" Harry sighed.

"I hear you've been training that little prat Taylor," Alithea spat, and Harry was forcibly reminded that Veelas bore quite a different face when they were angry.

"Uh, yes," he answered, as calmly as he could manage. "Is there a problem?"

"Yeah, well, I'm the Hufflepuff seeker," Alithea fumed. "I'm the only flyer left from last year's starting side, and the only chance we had of holding on to the Quidditch Cup and the House Cup this year was if I grab the Snitch before the Gryffindors ran the score up too bloody high. So you helping her... It's favoritism, that's what it is."

"What?" Harry stammered. "I assure you..."

"I know how it works. All you Gryffindors watch out for your own, I know. Merlin's beard, even our bloody House Head and his bloody wife are bloody Gryffs..." Her face, usually so stunningly pale, was red and blotchy.

"Look, Alithea, I promise it isn't that. I promise. Your uncle coaches you all, doesn't he? He just felt she needed some one-on-one work with a broken-down old seeker because her confidence is so low." She arched an eyebrow at him. "Look, you're much taller than she is, and much more, uh, sturdily built. You've got four years of experience on her. Two evenings' work with me isn't going to overcome all that." Her lips were pursed, but she was listening. "Would you like me to work with you tonight? Do you have practice?"

"Yeah, but it's just supposed to be a short one." She was eying him skeptically.

"How about I work with you while the rest of the team is going through formations." As her face faded to its normal alabaster glow, Harry felt his own blood pressure decrease. "I can run you through most of the drills Miss Taylor and I worked on, okay?"

After a moment's consideration, Alithea uncrossed her arms and said, "Okay."

"You know," Harry said, as she began to sidle back out of the door, and his class of first-year Ravenclaws began to shuffle in, "I forgot you were a Hufflepuff..."

"Yeah," Alithea sighed, "everyone always does."

* * *

At lunch, Harry was still trying desperately to shove the image of Albie waving the ruler out of his mind. Neville sat next to him before Ginny had even gotten into the hall, his usually open face seemed preoccupied, at the very least. "Something up, Neville?" Harry asked, dreading the answer. Had Ginny spoken to him? Had Neville finally noticed that she and Harry had been avoiding one another?

"What?" Neville asked. "Oh, no, no. Just, well, wondering if I could tempt you to join me for a walk around the lake this afternoon. I need to check whether the Gillyweed I've been trying to cultivate on the north shore has survived the snowmelt, and I'd love the company."

"Of course," Harry said, "I'd love to." In his mind, however, Harry wondered what it was that Neville wanted to get him away from the castle to discuss. And Harry knew that, if it came to wands, Neville would be able to hex him nine ways to Sunday before Harry could even manage a flurry of sparks.

At that moment, Ginny came in from the entrance hall, listening politely to a very animated Professor Mundy, who was telling a rather giggly story that seemed to hinge on the meaning of the verb, 'to hoover.' Neville sprang up, moved out of the chair beside Harry, and, with that full-faced smile that seemed to light the whole hall, gestured for his wife to sit. Which, with a look of some trepidation, she did.

* * *

By the time Harry had finished his final double session with the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw second-years, Harry was so thoroughly exhausted that he collapsed on the stairs and stared at the arched ceiling for a good fifteen minutes before soft, steady footsteps stopped just inside the classroom door.

"Hullo, Neville," Harry said, not shifting his gaze from the ceiling.

"Hullo, Harry. Ready for a walk?"

"Sure, Neville," Harry moaned. "As soon as I can find my legs again. How the hell do you lot do this, week in and week out?"

Neville smiled coyly. "With great difficulty." He offered Harry a hand. "Come on. Let's go."

As Harry followed out of the entry hall onto the lawn that led down to the lake, he realized just how warm it was. Before he had passed the huge old beech under which a dozen students were pretending to study, as had Harry and his friends and their parents before them, he could feel beads of sweat on his brow. "Mind if I take off my robes, Neville?" he asked.

"No, no, excellent idea," Neville said, striding towards the beech, pulling off the heavy black robes. "It's hot and we're going to be getting wet anyway." As they strode up to the tree, Harry saw that it was a group of Hufflepuff third and fourth years. "Miss Harris," Neville called out to one of the girls, "would you mind watching our robes for..." At the back of the crowd, there was a rustling, as the students attempted to hide something.

Seeing that these were students from the Longbottoms' own House, Harry chose to let Neville decide whether or not to call the students on whatever they were up to. But the field of innocent faces that gazed up at the two professors was almost enough to make Harry burst out laughing.

Neville sighed. "What have you got there, Miss Goldstein?"

A plain-faced girl gulped, looked around, and then reached behind her. The other students shrank back as she lifted up what was, quite clearly, the head of Albus Dumbledore.

"What the hell is that?" Harry spat out.

"Oh, one of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. They're the latest rage--a fully lifelike mask of one of a number of famous wizards," Neville tisked, taking the mask from a mute Felicity Goldstein. "Though I must say the one of me is less than flattering."

The students tittered.

"Are they contraband?" Harry asked.

"Oh, yes, well, unfortunately, poor Madam Crotchett, the caretaker, ran into three Severus Snapes the day after your godson began selling them, each of whom ordered her to open another restricted area of the castle to students from a different house. By the time the real headmaster arrived, she yanked on his nose to make sure it was, in fact, him."

At this, the students laughed out loud.

"I can see that Professor Snape would see fit to ban these, under those circumstance," Harry said, trying not to laugh himself at the image of Madam Crotchett, who was built like a Quidditch Beater, twisting Snape's long nose.

"Yes," Neville said, blandly, tucking the remarkably lifelike mask into his belt, from where it gazed, blue-eyed. "Now, Miss Goldstein, by way of penance, I expect you and your friends to watch Professor Potter's robes, and mine, until we return in about an hour. Understood?"

Felicity Goldstein nodded, and took Harry and Neville's robes.

"Ought you to have docked points, or something?" Harry asked as they walked along the glittering lake.

"Oh, I suppose," Neville sighed. "If it had been someone at the school--someone alive--I would have done, I think. But having someone walking around in the guise of old Albus would have done no more harm than to render a few of the faculty a tad misty-eyed."

They walked along the edge of the water in silence, and for a time, Harry was completely transported by the beauty of the lake and of the mountain, and of the sight of the castle rising behind them.

Then Neville cleared his throat, and Harry was pulled back into the anxious present. "I've been thinking about you a lot, lately, Harry."

"Oh?" Harry asked, as casually as he could manage.

"Yes, I've been thinking about how unfair it is, just because I'm the one who happened to cast the spell that destroyed the construct that had called itself Voldemort, that everyone makes such a fuss over me, when you gave up so much to make that happen. You were the only reason I had the ability or the opportunity to cast that spell, we both know that. And yet I'm the one who gets all the credit..." Neville looked shyly back over his shoulder, as if searching for a reaction.

"You know I don't care about that, Neville," Harry answered. "You deserve the praise, and you're more than welcome to the fame. I spent seven years with people making a fuss over me because I was the bloody Boy Who Lived. Because my parents had died, and that was so tragic." He snorted. "But you had lost your parents too, even if they were still alive, and no one made any fuss about that."

"Not that I gave them the chance," said Neville. "But for you not to be resentful at all, it's really quite remarkable, Harry."

"I've got as wonderful a life as a wizard could ask for. An amazing wife, a loving family..." Harry bit his mouth shut. That was a road that Harry had meant not to tread.

"Yeees," Neville mused, "when it comes to that, I must say I've always rather envied you, Harry. Ginny and I..." Neville stopped and looked out toward the castle, his ears pinkening slightly. Oh, damn, thought Harry. Here it comes. "Have you ever wondered why Ginny and I don't have any children?"

At that moment, Harry would rather have been fifteen years old again, and facing a furious Severus Snape in his dungeon, than answering his sweet-faced old friend's question. "Uh, well," he stuttered, "I'd always assumed it was, you know, a choice..." This wasn't a lie. He had assumed that. This was the answer he had given to Ginny when she had asked the same question of him the previous autumn. Of course, he now knew that choice had nothing to do with it at all.

Neville looked over to Harry, and then looked back out to the lake. The squid trailed a tentacle in a lazy circle around a seagull far out in the middle. "Harry. I... can't have children. I'm impotent, but I'm also infertile. It's because of when my great-uncle dropped me out the window, you remember? I wasn't badly hurt, except in that one way, and everyone was so excited that I'd done something magical at last. Didn't even know there was anything wrong until, you know, much later."

Harry stared at his friend mutely.

"Ginny, she knew, when we first..." Neville stopped again. Harry nodded. His stomach was tying itself in knots. "The thing is, Harry, since last fall, Ginny's been moody." Neville gave a sad chuckle. "I mean, even for her. Ever since that night when we had dinner at your place. And I knew what had to be bothering her. It's what's been bothering her for so long, though she's been a good enough wife never to mention it...

"With you and Hermione so far away, it had never been a problem. Out of sight, out of..." Neville's voice was thickening and Harry felt the guilt and horror chewing at him, driving desperately to want to throw himself at his friend's feet. "But then when Ron and Luna..."

"Ron and Luna?" Harry coughed.

"Yes, no, no, it was Luna telling us all she was pregnant at that dinner. She and Ginny have always been so close. And as I said, we never really watched Hermione be pregnant, the babies just sort of, well, happened. But we've watched Luna growing from day to day, listened to her go on in her own peculiar fashion about the baby kicking or rolling over, or morning sickness, and I've watched it eat Ginny up. I love her so much, you see..."

Now Neville began to weep in earnest, tears dribbling down onto his beard. "I love her so much. And that's why... That's why I'm going to ask you something, Harry, I swore I would never ask."

"Merlin, Neville," Harry said, his voice barely a whisper, "ask."

Neville gave Harry a damp smile. "She was always... fond of you, you see. And I've always thought of you as all but a brother..."

The realization of just what Neville was about to ask broke upon Harry with such force that he couldn't manage to form the words: Stop, Neville, don't.

"I'd like you to help Ginny get pregnant, Harry." Neville was staring out at the lake again. "It's an absurd thing to ask, I know. I know you never exactly... fancied Ginny, which I consider to be your one bit of poor judgment."

"Neville, I..." spluttered Harry.

But Neville gave a weak smile and waved him back into silence. "Believe me, I am very capable of appreciating what you saw in Hermione. I was quite in love with her myself for a while. But I would like you to consider helping Ginny and myself. It would be a greater kindness than I can possibly tell you."

They stood in silence for few long seconds. Up on the mountainside, a raven croaked. "I... don't know what to say, Neville. Have you spoken with Ginny about this?"

Neville's brows contracted. "No, no, I haven't. I thought I should raise the issue with you first. I'm fairly certain this is why she's been acting so coldly towards you, you see. I think she's been thinking the same thing. I don't want to dash her feelings..."

"You really should..."

"Think it over, Harry, please. If it's something you feel at all comfortable with, please talk it over with Hermione. But consider my proposal seriously, I beg of you." Neville dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief, and began to walk again. "You know," he said, "all other considerations aside, if you were a plant, I would consider you extremely good breeding stock. Your children are quite delightful."

"Thanks."

To be given permission to do the one thing he most wanted to do... But Ginny would never agree. Nor would Hermione. Though it would serve her right...

What if Albie were Percy's son? And Minnie? She always looked so much like Hermione, who could tell... No.

And no. It was wrong. He had chosen not to sleep with Ginny twice when the opportunity had presented itself. It felt like the worst kind of lie to take advantage of Neville when he had totally misread the situation.

"So," Neville said, the brightness back in his voice as they came to a spot on the lake marked with poles, "I was talking to someone else about you. Do you remember Gabrielle Delacour? Bill's sister-in-law?"

Harry must have nodded, though he was unaware of doing so.

"Well, she's the one I've been working with on this Gillyweed project. She's the assistant professor of Herbology at Beauxbatons."

"Assistant professor?" Harry muttered.

"Yes, they take their Herbology very seriously at Beauxbatons." Neville had rolled his trousers up and was wading knee-deep into the lake, poking at the fronds of Gillyweed there with his toes, talking to them. "Oh, you're doing very nicely. Very nicely. I was worried about you in the cold, and the fresh water... But the Salinas charm, yes..."

It was calming to watch Neville in his element, stroking the plants as though they were some particularly slimy family pet.

"Anyway," Neville continued, as he stepped out of the water, his feet muddy and his hands dripping, "I told her you would be coming up and she wrote me this lovely, very gushy letter about what a wonderful person you are, and how meeting you has affected her whole life, and how the Minister was a very lucky woman to have a husband such as you. It was quite marvelous. I should have shown it to you, I'm sorry."

"That's all right, Neville," Harry said. "I don't think I could have read it just now anyway." And for reasons too subtle for Harry to discern, the image of Albie flying in the kitchen chair flared up once again.