Getting Harry Back

Chapter 9
Surprises

“I can remember two -- no, three times that I’ve been this furious. But I know that I’ve never been more furious.”

He tightened his lips.

“In fact, I don’t think I could get more furious. And I can’t see that I’ve calmed down any in the past three days.”

Arthur Weasley, outwardly bland to those who didn’t know him well, was seething.

He looked over at Harry, Ron and Hermione, who were gathered around a chessboard on the bedroom floor. He watched Harry carefully, decided he was fine, and went back to his internal woolgathering.

He was seething, first, at the Dursleys. He’d told Dumbledore he was going to have what he called “a chat” with them. Dumbledore protested. Arthur ignored him; he didn’t even bother to argue.

Apparating at the Dursley front door, he hadn’t knocked, but had used “Alohomora!”

All three Dursleys were in the front room, motionless in pure terror.

“They had reason,” Arthur grimly conceded.

“I am Arthur Weasley,” he had said, softly but ominously. “You may remember that I once picked up Harry. And then, of course, we had our conversation earlier this summer at the train station.”

By their looks, Arthur was sure their memories needed no further refreshing.

“You may think of me, now, as Harry’s guardian. And with very little encouragement, I would be delighted to take revenge on his behalf.”

“The chat” had been brief and entirely one-sided, except for many open-mouthed, tear- streaked and wet-panted nods. It had ended with:

“And if you ever again so much as touch Harry, if you ever do or say anything to cause him even the slightest distress, I will make your worst nightmares seem like a pleasant stroll through the park. You will spend the rest of your miserable lives in pain and horror.”

Arthur paused, then went on even more quietly and ominously:

“Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

Arthur could readily see that he had left no room for misunderstanding.

In the previous war, Arthur had killed, more than once. In several battles, he and another Order member – once, he and Molly -- had double-hexed a Death Eater in such a way as to kill him. Or her. Perhaps it was the double-hex, perhaps the Death Eater’s body was over-strained. But however it happened, Arthur lived with knowing, in his heart, that his hex had contributed to killing another human being. Both he and Molly had been sick over this, and sometimes they talked about it. Arthur still had nightmares, especially of the young woman he had unintentionally killed. “Little more than a girl, about Ron’s age.” He knew this had forever changed him, like a little death. He felt a permanent wall between himself and others who had never killed.

“You can’t kill,” he thought sadly, “without a part of yourself dying, too.” He sighed. “And maybe that’s not such a bad thing, that killing has its costs.”

Yet he was fully prepared to pick up where he’d left off in this new, upcoming war.

Arthur had never used the Cruciatus curse, because he knew that it required the caster to enjoy the pain he caused. Arthur loathed killing, though he knew it had been unintentional. But he loathed even more those who enjoyed causing pain. He had considered it beneath contempt.

Until now.

Arthur was still seething at the Dursleys.

He was seething, too, at Dumbledore.

“A great man, yes, an immensely powerful wizard,” he thought-muttered. “But like everyone, sometimes a damn fool.”

“To be a damn fool and pay for it yourself, well, that’s no more than to be expected, and no one’s business but your own.” He certainly knew all about that. To be a damn fool and cause harm to others, that, too, he knew, and he knew how to apologize, to take responsibility, to make amends.

“But to be a damn fool and practically destroy a child, over and over….”

For this, Arthur had no words.

He knew, absolutely, that he would forgive Albus in time. But he knew, even more absolutely, that he would never, ever trust him again with Harry’s well-being.

“No matter what he swears.”

So, yes, he was seething at Dumbledore.

But Arthur reserved his greatest seething, what he suspected might be an unforgivable seething, for himself. More seething than at Dumbledore, “who knows nothing, absolutely nothing about families and children, and I knew that!” Even more seething than at the Dursleys, “who are clearly monsters and cretins, and of whom little else could be expected!”

Most of all, Arthur Weasley was seething at himself.

“I should have known. For me, there is no excuse. I should have known. Worse, I did know! And I allowed myself to be bamboozled by Albus’s palaver about safety.”

“Safety!” he mind-roared. “This was done in the name of Harry’s safety. It isn’t irony, it’s obscenity, it’s beyond obscenity!”

For a while, Arthur’s fury took over, scattering words and demolishing all rational thought.

Memories of Ron brought him back, Ron and Hermione right after they’d all convened in Harry’s room, seeing Harry beaten almost beyond recognition.

“I’ve never been more proud of any of my children.”

Arthur had been about to speak up about leaving Harry alone at the Dursleys when Ron spoke. He’d backed off, giving Ron his center stage – something Ron so rarely got – but he’d kept himself in instant readiness should Ron need support.

“Ron was magnificent, as was Hermione. Both of them. Brilliant!”

Arthur had made a point of talking privately to them afterwards.

“Ron looked prouder than when he told me about becoming a Prefect or about his Quiddich victory.”

Arthur had always been scrupulous about praising his children. “And,” he thought with a deeply satisfied smile, “they’ve all of them given me many reasons for doing so.” He knew, too, that he’d been even more scrupulous with Ron, “after everything that happened to him.”

He smiled grimly.

“With his brave defense of Harry, I thought that I might have caught a glimmer of his gifts, his powers, coming through at last. Maybe something like this,” he wondered, “ghastly as it was, this is what he’s needed to finally free himself.”

“That and Hermione.” He smiled. “Oh, I do so hope that grows and lasts. I can see that he needs her, just as I need my Molly.”

But Arthur brought his attention back to Harry, and to Harry’s even greater needs.

Ever since Harry and Ron had become friends, and Arthur had learned of the Dursleys, he’d felt that Harry should be part of his family. After Harry saved Ginny’s life, Arthur knew that Harry was a part of his family. But now, after seeing Harry beaten, after witnessing Harry’s near-inability to feel loved or even loveable, Arthur was as clear as he’d ever been in his life. He looked over at Harry, who was still playing chess with Ron.

“Harry,” he silently pledged, “you’re my son. I am fully responsible for you. And I will not only protect you – Albus isn’t the only one who’s sworn this – but I will also bring you into my family and give you a loving home. So help me, Merlin, if it’s the last thing that I ever do!”

Anyone who knew Arthur Weasley knew that, when it came to his family, there was no more determined, powerful or crafty wizard.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Have all your stuff, Harry?”

In the bedroom at Number Four, Hermione had just arrived right after Mr. Weasley left. She and Ron seemed to be smiling more than usual. Harry liked it that they were in love; he liked that a whole bunch. After he’d opened up to them, something had changed inside him. Now he just reveled in and soaked up their love for each other, as much as he did their love for him and his for them.

With Harry’s okay, Hermione had left in the morning and been gone all day. She told him that she had some extra work to do at Headquarters. Harry had been really looking forward to her return. Neither she nor Ron wished him a happy birthday, but Harry had already figured that with all this planning about killing and then finding him after he was beaten, they’d forgotten. So it didn’t bother him much.

“Yes. All packed and ready.” He’d packed right after Hermione left that morning. Just in case plans changed and they could leave early.

“I’ll take Hedwig.” Hermione went into Organizing Mode. “Ron, you take Harry’s trunk. Harry, can you handle your broom and all the stuff that doesn’t fit into your trunk?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Ron and Harry looked at each other; Ron winked, they both smiled.

“Okay.” Hermione was still organizing. “Harry, do you still think it’s best for you to tell Ron’s parents?”

Harry looked at both Ron and Hermione, who looked back. “Yeah, I’d rather do it, if you two don’t mind. It’s about me and I think maybe I should? I don’t know though.” Harry’s face scrunched; he was pretty nervous.

Hermione walked over and put her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, Harry. If you get stuck, just look at us and we’ll help. You’re not alone; you’ve got us. Remember?”

“S’right, mate,” Ron chimed in.

A lump blocked his words. All he could do was look at his friends, smile and nod.

“Well,” he said when the lump finally cleared, “best get it done now.” He brightened. “The sooner we talk, the sooner we eat.”

“You never spoke truer,” Ron grinned as his stomach grumbled. Ron’s appetite was legendary.

“So Harry, Ron, get a little closer and we’ll Portkey to the Burrow.”

All three of them put their hands on the Portkey, and Harry felt the familiar behind-his- naval pull. Suddenly he and his friends were in the front yard of the Burrow. Immediately, Mrs. Weasley rushed forward, Mr. Weasley right behind, both all smiles.

“Harry!” Harry found himself enveloped in her stout hug. “Oh my, it’s so good to see you, dear.” When she broke their hug, which was prolonged, she examined him carefully. “You look so thin – I hadn’t taken that in. It’s like you’ve hardly eaten. Arthur, look at him. Next summer we’re definitely going to check on him every week to make sure he’s getting enough food. Ron, why didn’t you tell me he wasn’t eating enough? I would have sent more packages. Harry, here, let me take those things you’re carrying. Arthur, help Ron with Harry’s trunk. Supper’s ready, so just put it right there next to the door and we’ll take it up afterward. Hermione.” She gave the girl her own enveloping hug. “You know, of course, you’re the best thing ever to happen to Ron. Now if you could get him to be a bit more attentive to his studies. He’s such a bright young man, really, and if he just--”

“Aw, Mum, c’mon.” Ron smiled, as did everyone else awash in the short woman’s fussing and love.

Mrs. Weasley continued as they walked to the door. Even though he wasn’t looking forward to The Talk about the prophesy, now put off until after supper, Harry felt more content than he had in years. “In a way,” he thought, “I feel like I’m home.”

The wound gave a twinge.

“Okay,” he nodded inside, “I know that I need to see my parents’ home in Godric’s Hollow. At least what’s left.” Harry hadn’t mentioned this or the wound to Ron and Hermione. So much had happened, there had been so much to do, so many things to talk about, so many plans to make, there just hadn’t been time. And he had to admit that it didn’t feel right yet.

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, “you go on in while I take Hedwig from Hermione.”

“Sure,” he replied, and he opened the door.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!”

Harry couldn’t believe the people: all the Weasleys, half the Order, all Gryffindor’s sixth years, most of Dumbledore’s Army, Hagrid, Dobby, Professor McGonagall. And beaming from the center of the room, wearing the most ridiculous party-hat imaginable, was the Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore himself.

Harry couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t anything.

Everyone rushed forward, pounding him on the back, ruffling his always-untidy hair, hugging and talking, all at once. Harry found himself picked up by Fred and George, put on their shoulders and danced around the room while music played and everyone laughed.

Harry had never had a birthday party. He was grateful for the chaos because his throat had the Mother of All Lumps. He just clung to the twins and smiled. Never in his life had he been so happy. It felt like how he’d always imagined a family would feel.

“Maybe this is my family, too,” he hoped. “And it’s bigger and better than I ever thought.”

“Supper’s ready!” Having severe and extensive training with six boys and one girl, Mrs. Weasley’s voice easily topped the noise, which she directed out the back door and into the yard filled with tables piled with food. One table was loaded with more presents than Harry had received in his entire life.

“Sit down by me, dear,” Mrs. Weasley ordered, “and Ron, you and Hermione sit there on his other side. I’m going to make sure that this young man finally gets enough to eat.”

Which she did. Magnificently.

After all were stuffed beyond capacity with splendiferous food, including the biggest birthday cake Harry had ever seen – Gryffindor colors, with candles also sparkling red and gold -- and after the food and dishes had been magically whisked away, Mrs. Weasley smiled at Harry. “Your presents, dear?”

Overwhelmed by it all, Harry walked slowly to the gift table, wide-eyed like a very small child, to the smiles and gentle encouragement of all who gathered round. One by one, Harry opened each present as if it were precious. And of course to him, they all were; they were all from family, his family. He carefully examined each one, saved each card and ribbon, each piece of wrapping paper. He thanked every giver so genuinely that, had they not been told that Harry had never had a birthday party, they would have been confused, even embarrassed. Knowing this, though, they all basked in Harry’s complete and perfect joy, even Mundungus Fletcher, whose gift Molly had very reluctantly agreed to add to the pile.

Harry didn’t hear the many infuriated comments at how this good and true friend, or this dear and brave boy had been mistreated, abused. Many pledged that never again would Harry Potter go without a birthday party. And nothing is quite so never as a Gryffindor never.

Much later, a small stack of four medium-sized thin rectangles and one much smaller one were all that remained, saved for last. These Dumbledore presented.

“Harry, on behalf of all of us here, and many more unable to come, we wish you most sincerely A Very Happy Birthday!” The Headmaster beamed again, and Harry got another round of applause and good cheer. As things quieted, Dumbledore continued, his tone now grave. “One in particular, who was unable to come, asked me to make sure that you received these, shall I say, final gifts. As he has written a letter, I shall let him speak for himself.”

He presented Harry with a letter addressed in a vaguely familiar hand. Harry looked up from the letter to Dumbledore, then to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and to Ron and Hermione, as if asking for help or permission.

“Go ahead, mate,” Ron encouraged. “Open it.”

As soon as Harry broke the seal, again oddly familiar, the letter floated out, unfolded and began to speak:

“My Godson, My Dear Harry,”

“Sirius,” Harry gasped.

The letter in Sirius’s voice continued: “If you receive this letter, I know it must speak for me because I’ll be dead. I’ve been through one war, and with the start of another, I know nothing is certain. I fully accept that; no responsible witch or wizard could choose otherwise. What I can’t accept is to be one more person leaving you, Harry, you who have already lost so many. It’s my greatest anxiety.”

“I love you, Harry, I love you so very much.”

The letter paused. Harry was frozen, his mouth open, his eyes longing and fearful. Dumbledore, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ron and Hermione came up beside him and put their arms around him. Harry, who had been craving touch, now didn’t feel them at all. He knew only the letter and his own feelings.

“As my godson and only heir,” the letter continued, “you inherit everything I have. It’s yours, Harry. Do with it as you like, this with my blessing.”

“I have taken the liberty to spend some of what is now your money for a few presents. Professor Dumbledore promised to see that, in my absence, all is carried through. He loves you too, Harry, and I thank him most especially for that.”

Harry looked up at the Headmaster who smiled back.

“Harry, I wish you all good things. Know that if love can pass through the veil – and I truly believe that it can -- you still have my love, joining the loves of your mum and dad.”

Tears began flowing down Harry’s face.

“I leave these presents as a reminder of our loves, that they can remain with you on this side, even though I, much to my sorrow, cannot.”

“You are the best of all Godsons. I not only love you, I respect and admire you. And I take your love with me back to your parents, to James and Lily.”

“We will all be together again, Harry. I promise.”

“Until then,”

“Sirius”

Tears filled all eyes while Harry, looking far-too-young for sixteen, stood surrounded by his family, now and finally crying his loss.

Molly Weasley held him.

“Why?” Harry asked in a small voice. “Why?”

She held him tighter. Ron and Hermione, Mr. Weasley and Dumbledore joined her, speaking to the unanswerable with their hands and hearts. Harry’s family, his whole family gathered closer, joining his loss, his sorrow with theirs, the hideous, enraging, ever-growing sorrow of a people at war.

“Come,” she said as Harry calmed. “Let’s open your presents.”

In a daze, Harry let himself be guided toward the stack. He picked up the top rectangle, again looking up at those around him as if slightly afraid and asking what he should do.

“Go ahead, dear.” Mrs. Weasley smiled. “Open it.”

Harry pulled off the bow, unfastened the paper and saw: a painted portrait of his parents’ wedding photo, the one he had in his album, with Sirius. As with his photo, all three were smiling and waving.

Then from the portrait, his dad said, “Hello, Harry. I love you.”, and his mum, “Hello, son. I love you.”

Harry was speechless. None of his photos -- his so-very-precious photos, the photos he talked to every-every day, each time his heart aching to have them talk to him -- none of his photos talked. But here, here were his mum and his dad speaking to him! Their voices! Speaking to him! And those three words – he could hear them, not just see them, he could hear them!

He looked at the Headmaster, barely able to ask, “How?”

Dumbledore smiled. “Harry, these and, as you will find, the rest, are magical portraits, which are very different from magical photographs. Photographs capture the life of the wizards, portraits capture in addition their essence and character, and so they may truly speak.”

“You know, of course, the portraits at Hogwarts and in my office?”

Harry nodded in awe.

“These portraits are similar. They are rare, Harry, as the talent of wizard portrait painting is very rare indeed, only one or two each generation. Painting a wizard portrait takes a long time, because it is very deep and complex magic. As soon as Sirius escaped on Buckbeak, he set about to have these portraits made for you. Sirius, I and many of your parents’ friends spent much time with the artist, so she could draw on your parents’ magic still within us. Sirius had hoped, perhaps this Christmas, to present them. The artist, in consideration of the circumstances, was gracious enough to set aside all other projects so that you could have them today.”

“Please, Harry.” Dumbledore put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Open your presents.”

Harry unwrapped his remaining presents. All of them, including the smallest one, were his parents’ wedding picture. From each portrait, from each mum, dad and Sirius, he heard, “I love you.” And to each mum, each dad, each Sirius, he smiled and said his own, “I love you.” It was the most content, the most at peace he ever remembered feeling.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Harry asked as he soaked in his treasures.

“Yes?”

“I love them all, I really do. But why so many of the same picture?”

Dumbledore said gently, “Can you not think that through, Harry? Give it a try.”

Harry was quiet, then it came.

“Wizards in wizard portraits can go from portrait to portrait, can’t they? Both to different portraits in the same building and to their own portraits in different buildings?”

Dumbledore smiled and nodded.

“So if I put up the portraits in different places, they can take my messages back and forth – Mum, Dad and Sirius -- all three at once.”

“It is, Harry, the magical world’s most secure and reliable form of communication.”

“And the small one? I can carry it with me, can’t I?”

“Yes, Harry. The magic in these portraits is very powerful. They are immune to fire, water, indeed everything except specially-charmed knives. The small one has an additional charm that allows you to shrink it even further, should the need arise.”

“I need to think about this,” he said quietly.

“By all means, Harry, please do.”

Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and, for the moment, set aside his thoughts about the portraits. Now, once again, he keenly felt those around them and the wonderful magic they’d brought him today. He opened his eyes, and spoke,

“I’d like to say something? To everybody, if I could?” Harry looked around and saw nods. He took another deep breath.

“I want to make two toasts.”

All got glasses. Mr. Weasley brought a glass for Harry.

“First, please remember my godfather Sirius, my parents, Cedric Diggory, Parvati and Padma Patil… and the others.”

Glasses were solemnly raised, with everyone mumbling, “We remember.”

“Second – and I hope it’s all right to do this – I want to drink a toast by myself. To all of you for giving me a birthday party.”

Harry drank alone, looking at faces with small smiles and sad eyes.

“This is my first birthday party ever. That’s because I grew up without a family, or at least a family who cared.”

Faces again looked solemn. Most had heard of Harry’s beating.

“I don’t have good words, ‘cause thank you, that doesn’t even make a start on what I feel. But I don’t know any better words, so I guess I’ll have to use them. And I have to say something. Especially with the war, I reckon if there’s something to say, best say it now.” Harry paused. “There are already too many things I wish I could say and I can’t because....” Harry stopped and said softly. “Because they’re gone.”

Harry swallowed and hoped the lump he could feel would hold off a little. He straightened his shoulders and looked around.

“So. I want to thank you all for my first birthday party. Maybe it’s hard for you understand what it means to me, ‘cause you grew up with families and birthday parties. For me, you see, it’s… really big.”

Heads nodded, small smiles returned.

“But I want to thank you for something else that’s more important to me, even more than that….”

Harry swallowed again. It was going to be close.

“Thanks for being my family, my family who cares.”

Harry paused, then managed to push the last bit, the most important bit through.

“I love you all so very much.”

He smiled, and the lump took over, but that was almost okay, ‘cause he’d said all he wanted to anyway.

There was more cheering, more hugging, more laughing and congratulating, and more loving. Then, reluctantly, people started to go.

Harry was sorry to see it end, but he knew he still had The Talk. And of course a Gryffindor always follows through on his duty. Especially after all this, he felt he massively owed it to the Weasleys.

“Mrs. Weasley?” Harry asked as the last guest left.

“Yes, dear?”

“First, I want to say that what I said out there about thank you? And it not being enough?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I mean that even more for you and Mr. Weasley.”

“Oh, Harry, it really was our pleasure.”

Harry nodded. “I know. That’s why it means so much to me.”

Mrs. Weasley was always breaking into tears, so of course she did now, and she cried over Harry. Harry didn’t mind. He knew that was part of love and family. Yes, it was kind of embarrassing on the outside, but inside he liked it, he really liked it.

When she sort of stopped and wiped her eyes, Harry asked again, “Mrs. Weasley?”

“Yes, dear?”

Harry wished that Ron and Hermione were around, and Mr. Weasley, too, but he didn’t want to wait. He decided to charge ahead, that way he knew he’d make it through. “I’ve got something important to tell you and Mr. Weasley. That’s what I thought we were going to do, and I want you to know before anybody else, except Ron and Hermione and, of course, Professor Dumbledore. It’s about me and Volde – sorry, You-Know-Who – and a prophesy that Professor Dumbledore heard before I was born--”

“Harry,” Mrs. Weasley gently interrupted.

He looked worried. “What?”

The short woman smiled. “I already know. Ron told me.”

“Oh.” Harry didn’t mind, but it took him a while to take this in and to let go of telling.

“And Harry?”

“Yes?”

“What Ron and Hermione told you about ‘We’re killing Voldemort, not just you?’”

“Yes?”

Mrs. Weasley’s kindly face hardened into the most stern and powerful face Harry could imagine.

“Arthur and I are part of your ‘we’.” Her face hardened still more. Harry could feel rage and love and magic swirl around him. “If we ever have a chance at it, we will be first-in- line to cast that death spell. You have our word.”

She looked at Harry, holding her power just to be sure that Harry got it. Harry, who hadn’t thought much about her magical power, was impressed.

Then she softened. “I hope you don’t mind, dear. But you see, I think of you as part of our family.” A tear came to her eye, a smile to her lips. “As one of my sons.”

For several moments, Harry couldn’t speak. Yes, he’d known that on the inside, or at he’d least hoped it. But it was different to hear it clear and out loud. It made it so true, so real. The lump, of course, came back, and Harry had to wait for it to go down again.

“Mrs. Weasley?” he asked urgently.

“Yes, dear?”

Harry felt as scared as he had ever felt, wide-eyed and heart-pounding scared. But he knew, he just knew that he had to ask, and he had to ask now. He gulped, then said in a very small voice,

“Can I, please… call you… Mum?”

“Oh, Harry!” Mrs. Weasley sobbed. “Of course you can! I wish with all my heart that you would!”

So Harry got cried over again, but he didn’t mind at all.

“Mum,” he said, tasting the word all over his mouth and heart. “I’ve wanted a mum and a family more than anything else in the whole world.” It was his very-best-of-all-that- ever-could-be birthday present.

“I love you, Mum.” Eyes closed, Harry hugged and rocked and whispered, again, “I love you, Mum,” trying to make up for all his long Mum-empty years.

Harry decided right then that if he had more money, and even if he didn’t, he was going to get a wizard portrait of his new mum, first chance.

When in the morning’s wee hours, Harry and Ron finally got to bed, Harry was floating and sparkling. As usual, he shared Ron’s bedroom. For the last five years, except for when he was at the Dursleys, he and Ron always shared a bedroom. Harry was relieved, though he felt a bit silly about it. But being in the Burrow and having Ron there felt so… -- and the wound confirmed the words – safe and home, finally and at last, safe and home.

Before lying down, Harry insisted on putting all his portraits, every one, lined above his bed. At first Ron was good-natured, but he quickly got serious when he saw how much it meant to Harry, who handled each portrait as if it were holy. To the row, Harry added a wizard photo of Mrs. Weasley, that newspaper clip from Egypt, which he always carried with him.

Lying on the bed, Harry felt love throughout the whole house. “Love for me.” Ron’s and Hermione’s and his new mum’s and the love of everyone who came to the party. “A party for me,” Harry thought, almost unable to believe it was real. He lay there and felt all these loves which lingered in an emotional twilight that didn’t fade.

And Harry could feel that part of these twilight loves came, through the wound, from beyond the veil.

He looked up at his portraits and saw his own first mum and dad, and Sirius and his new mum, all looking down at him and smiling. He wanted to talk to them, he so wanted to talk, but Ron was already snoring. The portraits nodded, seeming to understand.

His first mum said gently, “Sleep now, my darling son. We’ll be here all night and in the morning.”

Then to Harry’s everlasting astonishment, she began to softly croon a lullaby that Harry knew, but didn’t know how he knew. His dad put his arms around his mum, and Sirius came up and put his arms around them both. All three stood smiling while his mum sang a lullaby to her son.

Lullay, lullow, lully, lullay,
Baw, baw, my barne, (baby)
Slepe softly now.

I saw a swete seemly syght, I saw a sweet, virtuous vision,
A blisful birde, a blossum bright, A blissful maiden, a blossom bright,
That murnyng made and mirth of mange, Who mourned and rejoiced together,
A maydin moder, mek and myld, A maiden mother, meek and mild,
In credil kep a knave child, In a cradle kept her boy child,
That softly slepe; she sat and sange. Who softly slept, she sat and sang.

Lullay, lullow, lully, lullay,

14th/15th c. English Carol
Recorded by Anonymous 4,
“On Yoolis Night: Medieval Carols and Motets”