Unplottable

1 - Harry

The Ceremony Hall on Anglesey, not far from the ancient and sacred site of Bryn Celli Ddu, was one of the most prestigious and exclusive places in magical Britain. Its smooth sandstone walls were hung with dark-blue velvet tapestries decorated with intricate silver-and-gemstones embroideries. Large oval windows let in the bright early-afternoon sun, giving a festive gleam to the treasures displayed in small niches and to the polished mosaic floor of black and green marble, displaying Celtic patterns.

As Hermione had told Harry, the Hall had been erected in 1674 on the foundations of an older hall with a similar function. A Ceremony Hall was the place where witches and wizards held their most important celebrations. And how could there be a nobler occasion for a celebration, Hermione asked with the slightest trace of irony, than the wedding of a witch and wizard who could both prove to be entirely pure-blooded for at least six generations?

"It is, of course, no place where the likes of you or me would get married," Hermione whispered with unobtrusive mock-cheerfulness.

Harry bit his bottom lip, keeping his eyes firmly on the wall on his right. He denied her the satisfaction of an answer. A few tapestries were woven in gobelin fashion, displaying couples of magical beasts - unicorns, Common Welsh Greens, griffins and phoenixes, romping through colourful textile forests or plains together. Even though Harry was well used to moving photographs and talking paintings, he was fascinated by the way the magical beasts moved through the woven fabric. Undoubtedly, Hermione had read something about the way the tapestries were made, but he did not feel like asking her.

Hermione knew a lot about the place; obviously, even a friend's brother's wedding was an occasion for which she did her homework. Harry sighed inwardly. It wasn't even that he was not interested in the things she had to tell; for once he could almost understand why she was fascinated, and, well, upset. He only wished she would not express herself so freely right here, among the créme de la créme of pure-blooded magic nobility. Alright, among those of pure-blooded magic nobility that were not sufficiently créme de la créme to be seated elsewhere than here, in one of the back rows, just like Harry and Hermione were.

"The Clearwaters have made the seating arrangements," Ron had said to them apologetically. He was sitting with the rest of the Weasley family in the first row on the left, of course. Harry could see the broad stretch of coppery blaze from afar: Arthur and six of his children seated in one spot looked conspicuously red in the sombre blue-and-silver atmosphere of the Ceremony Hall.

"Arthur said he would have liked to ask my parents to accompany me, but Muggles are not allowed in here," Hermione whispered, nudging him with her elbow.

Harry nodded impatiently. "I know, and I understand that you are upset, but could we maybe discuss this another time?" he hissed back. "You are not exactly inaudible, and the people around you might not agree with your opinion. It's not really like you to care so little about decorum and ...."

"Embarrassing you, am I?" Hermione breathed, her eyes flashing. Harry shook his head, though, of course, he was a little embarrassed by her anger. The formidable middle-aged witch next to him shot them a reproachful glance - it wasn't the first one.

"We're in a Ceremony Hall," he reminded her softly, using the word as if it had meant something to him all his life. It had been Hermione who had explained to him that witches and wizards traditionally did not get married at a Muggle church, as there had always been a certain amount of tension between the magic community and Muggle religion: Both had been competing for the same sphere of influence for too long, namely the influence on the common Muggles. No, witches and wizards had their very own way of celebrating a wedding. Conservative, pure-blooded witches and wizards in particular still stuck to the special ceremony performed in a Hall as exclusive as their parentage allowed.

"I am Muggle-born; I could never get married on Anglesey," Hermione had told Harry yesterday, when they had first discussed the details of the wedding. "Your mother was Muggle-born, too, which makes you a half-blood, as the pure-blood-obsessed so kindly term it. You wouldn't be wanted here, either. If you managed to secure yourself a first-rate pure-blooded bride from an influential family, you could write a petition, and maybe they would consider your case."

Harry cast a sidelong glance at Hermione. She looked elegant, but annoyed - wearing a plain, but well-tailored blue dress robe, a bun almost as sleek as she had worn on that dratted Yule Ball a year and a half ago, and a rather unbecoming scowl. Even when she was silent, he could still hear her voice, lamenting over the arrogance of the conservatives. Harry wondered why she should care so much. He hadn't ever really thought about getting married himself, and if he ever did - briefly Cho's face flashed before his eyes - if he ever did, the least of his worries would be....

A murmur went through the rows of seated witches and wizards. Then, an awed silence fell: Here came bride and bridegroom. Harry craned his neck to get a proper look at the wizard walking into the Hall from behind. Percy Weasley had never been a friend of his, but he was Ron's brother and a Gryffindor. His scarlet, silk ceremony robes clashed violently with his red hair; the golden insignia of the Ministry of Magic, hung from a gold chain around his neck, made him look very official, if not well-off. Penelope Clearwater entered from another door and walked to meet her bridegroom in the centre of the Hall, right in front of the Master of Ceremony. She was dressed in a heavy, dark blue robe which looked expensive; Harry could see the numerous golden stars glisten on her sleeve. From Hermione he knew they symbolised the number of pure-blooded generations of ancestry. The Clearwaters, it seems, had been all witches and wizards for centuries. Percy's sleeves, he could not help noticing, were decorated in a similar fashion. He would witness the wedding of a couple as pure-blooded as any fanatic could wish for - a good head start for their potential children, too, Hermione had said with a trace of bitterness: No one would ever call them Mudbloods.

Percy and Penelope came to a halt in the middle of the Hall. The knelt down right in front of the Master of Ceremony, an elderly, slightly pompous wizard dressed in silver robes. Now he extended both hands in greeting to the couple.

"Percy and Penelope," he addressed them, "you have come here to become part of the ongoing and immortal stream of magic that runs through the community of witches and wizards. You have come here because your family is flawless, because your reputation is flawless - and because you want to give the community of witches and wizards children of whom the same can be said."

The Master of Ceremony raised his silver-sleeved arms and held his hands over their bowed heads.

"Percy Weasley and Penelope Clearwater, I am asking you," he said, "do you come here pure of mind, pure of conscience and pure of blood?"

Harry stared down at his knees, which poked out under the flowing fabric of his new, green dress robes. Then his eyes strayed to Hermione's clenched hands, to her white knuckles. He could practically feel her vibrate with wrath, though their bodies were not touching in any way. Harry turned his eyes back to his knobbly knees, wondering why Hermione was so upset. True, the speech of the Master Of Ceremony was rather sickening; but what did that have to do with Hermione? Yesterday she had said that no matter what happened, she would never want to get married in such a conservative Ceremony Hall anyway. Then why was she getting all worked up about the fact that she couldn't?

When he looked up, Harry saw the Master of Ceremony conjure up a cloud of glistening sparks which hovered about Penelope's head for a moment, danced around in a mad swirl of light for a moment, and then settled on her shoulders. The wedding guests were emitting soft oohs and aahs.

"It's a spell to prove she's still a virgin, so they know that she won't bring a sub-standard child into the connection," Hermione murmured almost inaudibly. "They're sexist on top of everything else."

Harry pretended he hadn't heard. As much as he liked Hermione as a friend, virginity (or its opposite) certainly wasn't the kind of thing he would have chosen to discuss with her, or with anybody else, in fact. Again, Cho's face came to his mind unbidden. After the events at the end of the last school year he had owled her, asking how she was. She had replied kindly but briefly that she was recovering and would be out of hospital soon. It was nice of Harry to take an interest, she had written. Of course Harry took an interest; in fact, he took more than one, so he had owled back - twice. So far, she had not replied again. Harry felt embarrassed by the letters he had written her. Of course he had not mentioned his feelings for her - he might be daft, but he wasn't that daft - but he had spent hours brooding over each sentence. He was sure she did not think about him half as much as he thought about her.

Meanwhile, Hermione was murmuring something under her breath, probably disagreeing with another minor detail of the ceremony. Harry wasn't quite sure what to think about the event he was witnessing. On the one hand, he agreed with Hermione that it was an obnoxious demonstration of pure-blood fanaticism coupled with wealth and power. On the other, he was impressed by the simple beauty of the ritual; getting a glimpse of the ancient magical culture connected with it seemed to be a rare treat. He watched Percy and Penelope being joined by a shiny, magical tie. Divorces, Hermione had told Harry, were looked upon unfavourably among the old wizard families: You remained with your spouse all your life. Of course, if a wizard was bored, he could always take Muggle mistresses, she had said derisively. All the while, Harry felt Hermione's deep frustration about something he could not and she would not name. He shrugged, hoping she would come off it. Since the end of the last school year, many things appeared to have changed almost imperceptibly. One of those 'things' was Hermione; another was Ron.

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For the first three weeks of the holidays, Harry had not been allowed to see his friend, but they had owled each other a few times. These weeks had been troubled times for the Weasley family. Like Cho, Ron and Fred had been hit by mysterious ice missiles during the feast at the end of the last school year; Ginny had caught pneumonia due to the searing cold of the Icy Fingers curse. While Ginny and Ron had recovered fairly well and were up and about again after little more than a week, Fred had stayed at St. Mungo's until last week, drifting in and out of consciousness, constantly shivering. It was a scary thought: Nobody knew what effect the ice missiles had on the human organism, or how they were made. They had melted the moment they were removed from the body, leaving only ordinary water behind. However, it was clear that they did not consist of mere water: Harry had seen their effect on Lupin, he knew that Dumbledore had not fully recovered from his icy injury, and he could still see how ill Fred was. Although he was out of bed and attending the wedding, Fred did not quite look like he was cured yet. He had lost more than a couple of pounds, most of his freckles, his mischievous spirit and with it a large part of his resemblance to George. Anybody could tell the twins apart now, because even though George looked drawn and worried, he was at least physically sound.

Harry understood how upsetting the last weeks had been for the Weasley family, not the least because they had had to decide whether or not to put off Percy's wedding to a later period. Since it was evident that Fred wasn't likely to die of his injury any time soon, the Clearwaters had been all for celebrating the wedding as scheduled, Ron had told his friends with a bit of an edge in his voice. It seemed that the two families were not on the best of terms. At the same time, there had been severe disagreements between Ginny and her mother: Since the girl had come home half-recovered, with her newly shorn hair and her aspiration to become a rock drummer, Molly had found faults with virtually everything her daughter did and said, Ron had reported, siding with his sister.

After staying at Hogwarts with Sirius and Remus for the first three weeks of the holidays, Harry had spent a week at the Burrow. He had found it changed, too, overshadowed by recent events. Not even Ron's cluttered and noisy home was a sanctuary for him anymore; like many other witches and wizards, its inhabitants seemed edgy, even looked slightly haunted. It was as if the familiar place had lost its lustre. Arthur and his three eldest sons were so busy that they came there mostly for their brief hours of sleep: When they were not visiting their sick family members, they were working overtime, trying to prevent further attacks on Hogwarts, on the Ministry or on any other magical institutions. Bill and Charlie were working in Britain again; while Charlie's work seemed to be some kind of secret, Bill had told Harry that Gringotts needed him as a curse breaker to enhance the security of their main branch in London.

One thing was certain since Voldemort's attack on Hogwarts: Nothing and nobody in the witching and wizarding world was safe anymore. Voldemort had declared war upon all those who weren't willing to follow his rule; stopping him would be difficult. Even Fudge had publicly acknowledged that there might be cause to worry, talking of an attack 'allegedly attempted by former supporters of You-Know-Who.' Now the Daily Prophet was printing disturbing news on a daily basis. Rita Skeeter had made her come-back as a journalist, and had written a number of articles which despite of their blatant lack of correct information sounded very alarming. Yet, in spite of the apparent threat on their whole world, the witches and wizards who had come to the Anglesey Ceremony Hall to celebrate the wedding of a pure-blooded couple did not seem too worried. They looked like they were enjoying themselves, Harry thought, commenting on the 'earnest and original beauty of the bride' (Harry himself thought that Penelope looked like a horse, but of course, his opinion wasn't what mattered here) and on the career prospects of the bride groom. Maybe some of the wedding guests did not have as much to fear as others, Harry mused: Maybe some of them were secretly supporting Voldemort themselves, pure-blood fanatics as they seemed to be.

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After the wedding ceremony was completed, the newly joined married couple left the Ceremony Hall in a slow, dignified stride; their families followed. First came a group of Clearwaters and Davies, relatives of the bride, then the Weasleys. It was obvious that the last few weeks had taken their toll from thin, balding Arthur and plump, lively Molly; both of Ron's parents looked like they had not gotten much sleep recently. Bill and Charlie appeared to be deeply immersed in a quiet conversation; Harry suspected that the wedding of their younger brother wasn't the first thing on their mind. Behind them walked the twins, looking conspicuously unidentical, then Ron, taller than Fred and George, and Ginny - with her ultra-short copper stubbles and plain pearl-grey dress robe, she seemed alarmingly unlike the little girl Harry once used to know. After the Weasley children followed a group of mainly red-haired witches and wizards which Harry assumed to be Arthur's siblings and their families. Idly he wondered if Ron's single squib relative, the accountant, had been invited.

The family walking behind the Weasleys were the Lobbets, Harry knew - Molly's family, followed by a couple of red-headed witches and wizards who had to be related to Arthur Weasley, but whose place behind the Lobbets suggested that they were distant cousins or something like that. After that, the other guests started to get up, following the procession.

Harry rose from his seat. Hermione put a constraining hand on his arm. "Wait," she said. "Everybody has their special place here, according to the degree of relation to the couple, and according to the status of their family. As we have neither," she said with the newly-familiar trace of irony in her voice, "we will leave this place last, and at the feast, we will sit at the table assigned to us."

Harry frowned, half-rising in spite of her words. "That's stupid," he said. "I want to sit with Ron. He wants to sit with us, too, I suppose."

Hermione shrugged, still firmly resting in place as if glued to her seat. "Ron will have to sit with his family. That's the way it is in the society of the pure-blooded. Know thy place, live the life befitting to your birth, and shut up." The middle-aged witch on Harry's side shot them another reproachful glance. Obviously, she deemed neither of their utterances the right thing to say.

Harry sighed and slumped back into his seat, evading the interested looks of the witches and wizards who had to pass him on their way out. So I've got a scar, he thought mutinously. Ron's got a scar now, too, and a really impressive one. It's a blue, perfectly round mark on his shoulder, courtesy of Voldemort and his followers. Go and gawk at him for a change, you nobly-born pure-blooded idiots!

Conveniently near the Ceremony Hall was a Banquet Hall where feasts and the like could be held. The numerous tables were laid out with beautiful tableware for probably more than a hundred and fifty witches and wizards. Lavish flower decorations covered the tables and window sills; the table for bride and groom looked like the inside of a magical greenhouse. The air was heavy with a seductive smell of food. The guests were ushered to their tables by dozens of house-elves artfully draped red tea-towels, who were moving noiselessly on the thick carpets and disappeared as soon as their task was fulfilled. Harry and Hermione were led to a small table on the side. It was laid for four, but the other two seats remained empty for a while. Harry shrugged and helped himself to some pumpkin juice, wondering if a wizard who had passed his OWLs might be entitled to some wine. While he was still musing about this question, Hermione craned her head backwards. Harry noticed that quite a few guests looked in the same direction as her; conversations around them died abruptly. He followed their gaze.

"Excuse me, I think I might have sat down on somebody else's seat. I'd better go and find myself another table." Penthesilea Finnegan, Percy's youngish boss at the Department of International Magical Co-operation, rose from her chair. Although she was smiling at the wizards seated around her, as far as Harry knew all of them members of the Davies family, it was obvious that she was fuming. While she pushed her chair back to the table and adjusted the silverware she might have touched, a house-elf flitted towards her, asking if he could be of service.

"No problem," Penthesilea replied curtly, took her dragon hide purse off the chair's back-rest, shot one of the Davies another annihilating glance and looked around for another place to sit. The wizard who appeared to have caused her displeasure blushed scarlet, but did not move to stop her.

Moments later the tall witch with the shortish, brown curls and the silver nose stud approached Harry's and Hermione's table. "Is this seat taken?" she asked nonchalantly as if nothing had happened.

Harry shrugged; how was he supposed to know who else was to come, and which strange etiquette the witch might be breaking? "Suit yourself," he replied, not altogether politely. Hermione reached out and pulled a chair back for the witch. "Please sit," she said kindly, while the rest of the guests were murmuring loudly again.

Penthesilea sat and smiled warmly at Hermione. "Miss Granger, Mr. Potter, it is nice to meet you again." She glanced over her shoulder as if to ensure that nobody was listening in. "It is also nice to have found a place with people whose loyalties are indisputable."

Harry wondered what the Davies wizard had said to her. He knew Penthesilea Finnegan from Dumbledore's secret 'order;' she was a member of the secret guard of Azkaban and of the radical pro-Muggle organisation League. As head of a department in her mid-thirties, Percy's boss seemed to have made it already in the Ministry - because of, or in spite of her political affiliations, Harry wondered briefly before helping himself to some of the delicious starters. He thoroughly enjoyed the food while Penthesilea and Hermione were making polite conversation; the witch asked Prefect Hermione about her OWLs, which, of course, had been outstanding. Harry couldn't help feeling bored; when asked about his own OWLs, he replied as briefly as the basic rules of politeness permitted. After he had cleared the main course off his plate, he felt slightly tempted to enquire about Penthesilea's view of the current events: As a Ministry official, she might have insider information about the newly awakened threat of Voldemort. Of course, he would certainly hear about it at the next 'order' meeting, Harry decided; maybe it was not the time and place to discuss such things.

"Hey, Harry, coming outside with me to get a breath of fresh air?" Harry looked up from his plate, glad to see Ron next to his chair. He gulped down the last piece of his treacle tart. "Sure, I'm coming," he answered with his mouth full. "Hermione?"

Hermione shook her head, demonstratively spooning up some custard. Her frown said that it was impolite to leave before everybody else had finished their desserts. Ron replied with a faked dry cough, as if to say that he had not quite recovered yet and that the whims of the sick had to be humoured, something Harry had seen him do repeatedly during the last couple of days.

"Alright, I'll join you later," Hermione promised, then turned her eyes back to Penthesilea, asking her to continue her sentence. Feeling dismissed, Harry rose, pushed in his chair and followed Ron out into the blazing sunshine.

"Muggles can't see this place," Ron said after they had walked a few minutes in silence. Harry looked around the expanse of grass and clumps of trees which surrounded the Ceremony Hall and the Banquet Hall. The area seemed too large to be overlooked.

"What do they see?" he asked Ron.

"Oh, they come along the street over there, and then they walk between these hedges -" Ron pointed north, and surely there were a few hedges lining a path - "when they go to see the old monument over there. The rest looks like meadows to them, normal, boring Muggle meadows with normal, boring Muggle cows. The whole place is heavily protected with Muggle-repelling charms. And of course the Halls are unplottable."

Harry was glad to be out here with Ron, he thought as he followed Ron towards the small mount. Since he had arrived at the Burrow, he found Ron - well, changed. Harry couldn't say what exactly was different, only that Ron wasn't the Ron he used to know. Of course, he was still Harry's best friend. Yet, even though Harry couldn't pin down his impression on anything palpable, he felt as if Ron was a bit distant with him - as if Ron had grown up in the meantime, and Harry hadn't. Maybe Ron's illness was to blame, maybe the worries of his family, or maybe Harry was fobbed by the fact that Ron was towering almost nine inches over him, still continuing to grow. Whatever it was, it wasn't much of a problem, but somehow it bothered Harry. He wanted things to be the way they had been in spring, or even before that, maybe before the Triwizard Tournament. Taking a walk with Ron towards the ancient site of Bryn Celli Ddu would maybe help them put behind whatever seemed to be dividing them.

"This place is a Wildlife preserve for many magical creatures," Ron said in a low voice. "If we're lucky, we might see an Augurey, a Murtlap or a wild Kneazle."

Harry nodded. Ron, it seemed, had studied Harry's worn copy of Fantastic Beasts well. He couldn't for the life of him remember what a Murtlap was, so he looked around to see if anything unusual romped the calf-high grass. To his disappointment, they arrived at the hedge surrounding the mount before he could spot any magical animal.

"Let's go and see some Muggles instead," Ron suggested. Harry replied: "Sure."

Breaking through the breast-high hedges, Harry had the impression he could feel the illusion charms they were crossing. Picking some twigs out of his hair, both boys stood in front of the monument. There were no Muggles around; the site was utterly deserted. So seemed the fields and meadows that appeared to be surrounding the place: Looking over the hedge, Harry saw that the Ceremony Hall had disappeared.

The ancient monument of Bryn Celli Ddu was a small, grassy mount covering a stone burial chamber. It could be entered through an opening between two large standing stones. On the opposite side, a window-like opening let light into the tiny, low chamber. To get inside, Harry had to bend down, while Ron almost had to crouch. There wasn't much to see, as a matter of fact: On the side, a small stone ridge could be imagined to form some kind of altar; a few wilted flowers lay on it like offerings. Through the window, a white engraved stone could be seen.

Ron turned and left the small chamber first so Harry could get out, too. The tall, red-haired boy rubbed the back of his neck.

"It's really not much," he said. "Charlie took me here a week ago when we accompanied Percy to make arrangements for the wedding. I guess he came here for the animals mainly, but we didn't see anything interesting. Charlie showed me this place, too. He said it was built for a shaman or druid or something like that during the time of the 'Ancient Order,' when wizards and witches were still serving their Muggle tribes. When the shamans died, the Muggles honoured them with such mounts, hoping they would come back in times of need."

Harry nodded; he faintly remembered having heard about such things in Binn's class - or was it Sirius who had told him about the 'Ancient Order?' Ron and he climbed the mount, then went down on the other side to look at the white stone engraved with spirals.

"Do you know why the place is considered sacred?" Harry asked.

"Sacred? Why should it be?" Ron replied, indisputably answering Harry's question.

"Hermione said something like that when she talked about the Ceremony Hall yesterday - that it's the finest in Britain because this is supposed to be some kind of special place," Harry answered.

"Hermione - if she came out to look for us, she might not find us here, right? Maybe we'd better head back." Ron looked worried.

Harry shrugged and went towards the hedge to cross it. Not for the first time, he wondered whether perhaps Ron liked Hermione the way he liked Cho. It was a topic that intrigued as well as worried him; all in all, it was the kind of subject he didn't dare to breach with Ron right now, if ever. He struggled through the twigs and the slightly cob-webby feel of the illusion charms. When he had arrived at the other side he gasped. Behind him, Ron made a similar noise of astonishment: Face to face with them stood the most beautiful creature Harry had ever seen.

A huge, winged horse with a glistening black coat was towering over them; its large wings, folded on its sides, were covered with onyx-coloured feathers. Harry took in every detail in a second or two - the magical beast's intelligent hazel eyes, its shiny, but unkempt black mane, its nicked silver hooves. The winged horse neighed softly. Charmed, Harry stretched out his hand, and was rewarded with a warm nuzzle of the animal's soft lips.

"Harry, I think we'd better try to walk back - very, very slowly, I mean," Ron whispered next to him. Trust Ron to find such a lovely creature a threat, Harry thought, and patted the horse's gracefully arched neck. The animal uttered a tiny whinny; its ears flicked forwards, signalling no evil intentions. While Harry patted the creature's large head, Ron urged: "Let's get going, Harry, this is a wild creature and possibly quite dangerous."

The winged horse looked wild and powerful alright, but far too noble to be a potential source of harm, Harry thought. "I think I have to go now," he told it regretfully. The creature approached its head to Harry's, not to bite, as Ron was undoubtedly assuming, but to put its cheek to Harry's. Then it disappeared into thin air.

Harry was awed. "Did you see that? It became invisible!" A swish of large wings told Harry that now the winged horse had taken to the air. He sighed longingly. "What a fantastic, lovely creature!"

"I think it was a Thestral," Ron said as they walked back to the Banquet Hall. "They are very rare, and they can become invisible. Charlie will become nuts when we tell him that we've seen one."

"So will Hagrid," Harry said, casting a glance over his shoulders. The Thestral had not re-appeared.

Inside, they stormed towards Hermione to tell her what they had seen. The girl was still immersed in conversation with Penthesilea Finnegan, it seemed.

"Hermione, we've seen a wild winged horse outside. We think it might have been a Thestral! It became invisible right before our eyes," Ron interrupted.

"A Thestral?" Hermione smiled at them with mild interest. "How nice. They are very rare."

"They've got a Wildlife preserve for many magical creatures here," Penthesilea Finnegan commented.

"Are you coming? Maybe it will be back," Harry said hopefully. "We could ask Charlie to accompany us - he should know how to handle a Thestral, so it won't be dangerous," he added to mollify Ron.

"Charlie will be really excited," Ron said enthusiastically and went off to fetch his brother.

Hermione looked undecidedly from Harry to Penthesilea and back again to Harry.

"Go ahead with the boys - I'll owl you," Penthesilea Finnegan said to Hermione in a kind voice. Briefly, Harry wondered why she should. Hermione gave Penthesilea a parting nod and went with Harry to meet Ron, Charlie and Bill by the exit of the Banquet Hall.

"I'm glad to get outside - it's getting stuffy in there, and I don't just mean the air," Bill said to Charlie, slightly frowning.

"Yep." Ron's dragon-taming brother gnawed his bottom lip and turned the door handle.

The Thestral was waiting for them right outside the door, large, coal-black and full of animalistic dignity.

"Whoa," Charlie commented, "that's one beautiful beast!" With conspicuous caution, he approached the winged horse, holding one hand outstretched for the beast to smell. The Thestral's ears flipped backwards; its eyes rolled in a way that was most certainly a warning.

Charlie backed up a step. "Testy, I see. Well, the wild ones usually are. It's better to keep your distance - they have no fangs or claws, but if they bite, kick or slap you with your wings, you will certainly not forget it any time soon."

Harry looked at the Thestral. It had not seemed dangerous when he had first met it. He wondered if he should maybe reduce his blinking and bow to it like to a Hippogriff, but obviously such rituals were not needed: The Thestral stepped towards him, and before Bill or Charlie could intervene, it had put its large, heavy head on Harry's shoulder. While the two younger wizards hurried to help and Hermione stifled a gasp, Harry patted the creature awkwardly. "I don't think it's dangerous or anything," he said. The Thestral breathed noisily into his ear.

"Be careful, Harry," Hermione whispered. Bill chuckled. "It doesn't really look like this big fellow is planning to bite Harry," he said in a low voice.

Now that the winged horse seemed calmed, everybody admired it - or rather, him, because Charlie remarked that it was a winged stallion. After a moment of apprehension, they came nearer to touch the animal: Carefully, Ron ran his fingers over the large, black wings, while Hermione stroked its nose. "It's the finest living being I've ever seen," she murmured dreamily. The Thestral neighed gently.

The Weasleys and Hermione agreed that it was an awe-inspiring creature, absolutely remarkable. "Even more extraordinary is the way it appears to have taken to you, Harry," Charlie said. "The wild ones don't usually seek human company." He checked the horse's hooves and stroked its fur. "Yet I'm sure it doesn't come out of a stable - it certainly doesn't look like it has recently been groomed by a human hand."

"With his affectionate behaviour, let's hope he'll be able to live his life in freedom," Bill remarked. "I'm sure there's a lot of people who would like to own a Thestral like this one - he would certainly fetch a fair price."

"Er, I'm not sure," Charlie remarked. "They are rumoured to be quite unlucky."

Hermione stepped back; then she laughed. "That's superstition, isn't it? There's no such thing as an unlucky animal, right?"

Charlie sighed and tousled the Thestral's mane. "I'm not sure, actually. There's a number of anecdotes about owners of Thestrals who were indeed hit by very tough luck, or sometimes their friends and families were. These stories are not an absolute proof, of course, and I'm sure you won't have bad luck just because you touched the fellow. Not a lot of bad luck, anyway."

"Hey, Charlie, are you coming back inside any time soon? - They are getting ready to dance in there. - Hey, where did you find this beautiful Thestral?" Harry turned and found that the voice belonged to Vanessa Craydon, a dragon-taming friend of Charlie who had been at Dumbledore's 'order' meeting once or twice. The blonde, strong-looking witch approached the horse very slowly. "You haven't tamed a wild one, have you?"

"If someone has tamed this creature, it was Harry," Charlie said, blushing. Vanessa, he and Bill discussed the beauty of the animal and the dwindling stock of wild winged horses in Britain for a while; Harry, Hermione and Ron listened. Every now and then, the Thestral affectionately bumped into Harry.

"There's nothing more irresistible than a creature who loves you unconditionally and with no apparent reasons. That's why we all love animals so much," Hermione remarked drily. "By the way, Harry, you've got Thestral hair all over your dress robes, not to mention Thestral spit." She took a clean handkerchief from her pocket and started cleaning him up as well as possible. Harry considered asking her to leave him alone, but realised he needn't bother, because he would probably lose that battle anyway.

When everyone went inside to watch bride and groom open the dance floor, Harry followed, though reluctantly. He did not like dancing very much. After the end-of-year feast, he had danced with Cho briefly; it might have been enjoyable, but the terrible things that had happened afterwards blotted out all pleasant memories of that evening. As he sat on the side, watching Percy and Penelope swirl around the dance floor, he could not help wondering if Cho really was alright.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The celebration went on late into the night. Many witches and wizards danced; in the evening, another meal of snack delicacies were served. Harry, Ron and Hermione sat with Ginny, Fred and George for a while. Fred said very little and ate less. The twins, George told them, had signed a contract with Zonko Productions; they would work for the well-known firm as product designers, market some of their own products independently, and get to know the important people in the magic joke business. They had planned to start a few weeks ago, but since Fred was ill, Sir Zonko himself had agreed to wait a while.

"Why don't you go and work there on your own for a while, you know, get started, while I get back into shape?" Fred asked his brother.

"Didn't we discuss this sufficiently?" George snapped back, fear in his eyes. "We've always worked together, and I see no need to change that. You'll get well really soon, and we can start at Zonko's together."

Nobody said anything for a while, until Ginny clumsily changed the subject. "They - er - they booked a really horrible band for this event, don't you think? They should have invited some Muggles to play, if no better magic musicians could be found. I'm going to start a band as soon as I get back to Hogwarts, by the way."

Harry shrugged; he hadn't taken any notice of the band that went beyond merely acknowledging their existence. While the twins brooded, while Ron stared into nothing, apparently bored, and Hermione was trying to make polite conversation with Ginny, he went to check on the Thestral.

Outside, dusk was falling; the sky had turned a blackish purple in the west, while in the east, the first stars were visible. The air was still warm and perfumed with a heavy smell of cut grass and flowers. Cicadas were humming their never-changing tune in the grass.

It was not easy to spot the Thestral in the darkness, but it was still there, grazing peacefully. When it noticed Harry, it came over to be patted. Harry stroked its neck, its back and its wings, thinking longingly of the possibility of riding such a noble animal. Could he? Could he really?

He put both hands on the horse's back, hoisted himself up and carefully arranged his feet in front of the Thestral's wings. Then he slung his arms around its neck. The Thestral bore all this patiently. It waited until Harry was comfortable, then broke into a thunderous gallop, flapped its huge wings a few times and took to the air in a graceful upwards arch.

Harry was familiar with flying, of course - he practically lived on his broomstick, and had even ridden an unruly Hippogriff twice. Flying a Thestral was different. The broomstick offered swiftness and autonomy; riding a Hippogriff was far more shaky and awkward. The Thestral's flying style, however, was graceful and powerful at the same time. Harry could feel the warm body of the animal move beneath him, while the wings fanned his back. The wind blew into his face; now and then, a few hairs from the winged horse's mane blew into his face. Suddenly he realised he was laughing out loud: Flying through the starry night on the Thestral's back was nothing short of fantastic. Happily, he ran his fingers through the Thestral's mane. "You are a lovely steed, do you know that?"

They landed neatly in front of the Banquet Hall's entrance. A crowd had gathered there: Harry recognised not only Ron and Hermione, but the complete Weasley family except Percy, as well as a few Lobbets, Clearwaters, Vanessa Craydon and Penthesilea Finnegan. They all looked very impressed.

"How did you do that, Harry?" Charlie was impressed! Harry realised he must have indeed done something great. He shrugged in reply and let himself slide off the Thestral's back. "I just sort of climbed on, and off he went," he said in a small voice.

"Most remarkable! Hope he hasn't adopted you as his rider, Harry - you know you can't keep him," Charlie said. Now he looked a little worried.

Keep him? Harry hadn't really bargained for this, but now that he thought about it - why not? He looked back to the Thestral's intelligent eyes. Keeping this animal would be nothing short of a dream.

"I'm sorry, but I can't let him in the Burrow grounds," Molly Weasley said gently. "He's a Thestral, you know - and they are unlucky."