Rating:
PG-13
House:
The Dark Arts
Ships:
Ginny Weasley/Harry Potter
Characters:
Harry Potter
Genres:
Mystery
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix Quidditch Through the Ages Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
Stats:
Published: 02/19/2004
Updated: 07/29/2007
Words: 410,658
Chapters: 40
Hits: 159,304

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Barb

Story Summary:
Aunt Marge's arrival causes Harry to flee to avoid performing accidental magic again. But when number four, Privet Drive is attacked, he becomes the chief suspect and a fugitive from both the Muggle police and the Ministry. He tries going to Mrs Figg's but finds unfamiliar wizards there. With an Invisibility Cloak and nowhere to turn he hides in the house next door, to keep watch on Mrs Figg's. He has no idea that this will irrevocably alter the rest of his life....
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Chapter 05 - Haunted

Chapter Summary:
A haunted toilet appears in Harry's life again, but this time he's the one doing the haunting. He learns more about his former teacher through pretending to be her father's ghost and also learns that her dad had something in common with Sirius. At St Mungo's, Ron is nearly recovered from Malfoy's attack but now feels like his mother and Hermione are ganging up on him. Will he and Hermione ever stop going from one row to another? And Moody demonstrates to Ginny and Remus why having a magic eye is even more convenient than Extendable Ears when you really want to know what's going on behind closed doors....
Posted:
03/20/2004
Hits:
6,339

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~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Five

Haunted


Harry stood at Tilda Harrison's kitchen window, checking Mrs Figg's house for what seemed the millionth time. He pushed his glasses up on his face and rubbed his dry, burning eyes, staring at the house again afterward. The strange wizards who had positioned themselves at her front and back door showed no sign of their vigilance flagging. They were too stiff and proper to be members of the Order; he had every confidence that if he went to Mrs Figg's house, even in his Invisibility Cloak, he'd be apprehended by the Ministry immediately and probably lose his wand soon after.

Obviously, someone at the Ministry had remembered her involvement in his case the previous summer and assumed that he would take shelter with her, or try to get in touch with Dumbledore through her. He understood now why Dumbledore told him not to surrender his wand the previous summer. Somehow, he'd hoped to feel better about the Ministry now that the return of Voldemort was being acknowledged. If anything, seeing the wizards standing at Mrs Figg's house made him feel worse about it.

Somehow he had to contact Dumbledore and prove his innocence, but he didn't know how to do it without being taken. He still didn't trust the Ministry in general; Fudge had been too close to Lucius Malfoy, and if he were taken into custody, Harry didn't want to know how easily Voldemort could get to him with the aid of a Death Eater who happened to be employed by the Ministry. Why not just run through Trafalgar Square screaming, 'Come and get me, Voldemort!' he thought.

Finally deciding that he needed sleep, he crept upstairs to check on Miss Harrison. (He was almost thinking of her as Tilda now, but not all of the time.) It was two o'clock; she had gone upstairs about two hours earlier, but he wanted to make certain she was really asleep before he dared to sleep himself. As he came closer to the top of the stairs, he heard what sounded like his uncle snoring. When he reached the landing, he found that her bedroom door was open a crack, and in the light shining in the window from the street lamp he saw her lying in the middle of a large bed wearing what appeared to be a man's shirt, her arm flung over her head and her mouth open, emitting the snores he'd heard. He clamped his mouth shut to avoid laughing and crept back down to the living room, trying to curl into a small ball on the couch with the Cloak covering him thoroughly.

He was sure at first that he wouldn't sleep at all, for worrying about how the Dursleys were (he wasn't terrifically reassured by the news), worrying about being expelled from Hogwarts, and possibly being arrested by the Muggle police. He was also wondering how soon Voldemort would work out where he was, in which case he'd have to surrender immediately if there was a chance that he might try to hurt Miss Harrison or Mrs Figg.

And why hadn't he heard from Dumbledore? The previous summer, soon after his uncle told him he didn't want him living with them anymore, there was a barrage of owls, and even the howler for his aunt. This time--nothing. Did Dumbledore think he'd died in the attack? Perhaps he'd given up on him and decided that there was no helping him anymore and he deserved to be expelled for what he'd done. Well, Harry thought ruefully before falling asleep, I certainly HAVE made a mess of things....

For once the thoughts swirling around his head did not turn into dreams; his scar didn't even hurt once. He fell asleep quickly, and if he had dreams during the night he didn't remember them in the morning. Just before seven, the sound of clanking glass bottles made him awake with a start. He looked around Tilda Harrison's living-room in utter confusion. Must be the milkman, he thought, finally remembering where he was.

He hadn't bothered to take off his glasses, in part because he hadn't expected that he'd be able to sleep. Instead they'd fallen off and he'd rolled over on them. When he put them on they sat at an angle, as though his left ear were three inches above his right one, like the Harry that Dudley had drawn on the punching bag. He swore under his breath, then noticed the Invisibility Cloak lying in a silvery puddle on the floor. He swore softly again and hurriedly pulled it on, not caring about his glasses now. When he was thoroughly covered again he checked his watch; in less than a minute it would be seven o'clock.

He walked quietly to the kitchen, then down the corridor to the lavatory. Before he started having Voldemort-induced dreams at night, every morning, like clockwork, he'd always had to use the loo at this time. It was an enormous relief to have had a good night's sleep, dream-free as far as he could tell, and to wake in the morning feeling refreshed (if a little stiff). Strange that it should have been the result of sleeping on a rather lumpy couch. The only time in recent memory that he hadn't minded feeling too tired to get up at seven was when the exhaustion was due to a vigorous Quidditch practice or match the day before. And now I have a life-time ban....

He shook himself, trying to get rid of this thought. I might really have a lifetime ban, he thought, if I get expelled and my wand is broken. He wondered briefly whether his broom had survived the attack, then tried not to think about it as he realised that he should care more about his relatives than his broom. The problem was--he didn't. His broom was far more important to him. This depressed him all over again.

He sighed and prepared to flush the toilet, trying to push this thought from his brain. He froze, however, as he realised that this could make rather a lot of noise. On Privet Drive a toilet flush could be heard all over the house. He went through the kitchen and front hall again, creeping quietly up the stairs so he could tell whether she was still asleep.

Harry almost fell down the stairs in shock when he reached the top and she started walking straight toward him wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around her body. She turned abruptly and entered what Harry could see was the bathroom. He sighed in relief when she closed the door. A few seconds later he heard the shower being turned on. It was perfect; she was making far too much noise in the shower to hear him. He returned to the lavatory and flushed, confident that she would never know he was in the house.

He immediately heard a terrified and angry cry from above.

Harry winced, remembering belatedly that she was in the shower and could be burnt by someone suddenly flushing a toilet. And then, to his horror, after the bowl had emptied and was filling with clean water, it didn't stop. It kept going and going and--

Harry ran from the room in a panic and slammed the door behind him, his trainers squelching with water at every step. Damn damn damn. He didn't know whether he had broken the toilet or it was already broken. Either way, this would be certain to draw her attention now. Sure enough, he heard footsteps on the stairs; he raced down the corridor to the kitchen, so he wouldn't be trapped in the dead-end hall leaving to the lav.

Tilda Harrison was a sight. Her dirty blonde hair was sopping wet on one side and covered in shampoo on the other. Evidently she'd been rinsing the soap out of her hair when Harry had flushed. Her pale, freckled arms and shoulders bore scattered water droplets and she clutched the large pale blue towel that swathed her body with white knuckles as she strode angrily through the kitchen, wet feet slapping noisily on the lino.

This morning Harry was not really surprised about the stream of swear words emanating from the lavatory. He heard squeaking, like someone turning a slightly rusty crank, and soon the sound of running water had ceased. She turned off the water supply to the toilet. I should have thought of that. Next she was slap-slapping into the kitchen again, bending over to take some rags out of the cupboard under the sink, then going to the lavatory with the rags, presumably to mop up the water.

He retreated to the living room, feeling guilty about interrupting her shower and causing her all of this extra work the first thing in the morning. How am I going to do a simple thing like use the toilet if the one down here is broken? he wondered. Clearly this was also the time of day she liked to shower. Dumbledore had better find me soon, he thought. Or those damn Aurors had better leave Mrs Figg's.

He paced nervously, trying to work out how long he should stay in the house, whether he should just leave now to try to find a way to contact Dumbledore, or whether it was worth it to try to get past the Aurors in his Cloak. He couldn't very well walk to London, and it had been risky enough taking the bus to New Stokington, so Mrs Figg was really his best bet if only the sodding Aurors would just go away.

A gasp behind him made him jump for a second. Miss Harrison was standing in the doorway to the living room looking at the carpet where he was pacing; Harry looked down, groaning inwardly. On the intricately-detailed Persian carpet were the very clear imprints of damp trainers. He swallowed and looked up at Miss Harrison, at a loss.

Her soapy hair had started to congeal into a solid mass, while her rinsed hair clung to her skull in a heavy, damp, unmoving curtain of pale brown. Reason number one why you should never be permitted in your teacher's home, Harry thought ruefully. You really don't want to see her with congealed shampoo in her hair.

"D--Dad?" she whispered, which was the last thing he was expecting. "Dad, is that you? Did you do the toilet? Were you--were you trying to get my attention?"

Harry didn't know what to do. She seemed to think she had a haunted toilet. If you want to see someone haunt a toilet, he thought, you should see Moaning Myrtle. He started to laugh at the thought, then bit his lip to avoid making any sound. He also realised that she definitely should not see Moaning Myrtle, or anything else magical. Would they charge me for violating the Secrecy law if a Muggle found out about my Cloak? he wondered. He didn't move but waited to hear what she would say next. If she seemed like she was moving too close to him, he'd back up as needed.

"Daddy," she said now, sounding like such a forlorn little girl that Harry was embarrassed for her; "Daddy, if that's you, could you please tell me?" She wrung her hands together and he saw a tear slide down her cheek, although it could have been water from her hair. "What do they do in séances?" she mumbled, then looked up in Harry's general direction. "Oh, yes! They knock. All right, Dad. If it's you, please knock once for yes. If you're someone else, knock three times for no."

Harry looked about for something to knock on and practically backed up into a low wooden table he decided would do. But just before he bent over to knock through the Cloak, he realised that he didn't know whether he should answer truthfully. What would be most likely to keep her away from him?

Looking at her hopeful face, he decided, and gave the wooden table one loud, solid rap. She beamed in his general direction, which was unnerving to Harry, who was accustomed to being invisible to everyone but Moody in his Cloak.

"Oh, Daddy," she sobbed now, making Harry wish he'd added two more raps; it seemed a bit late now. "I can't believe it! Were you--were you trying to fix the toilet? I was going to get Jack to do it. He's visiting next week. You know how incompetent I am about things like that. You only let me handle things like carpentry," she said, laughing through her tears. "I was always bloody useless with plumbing."

So, Harry thought. It was already broken. At least he hadn't broken it. You could have put a sign on it, he thought grumpily, but then he remembered that she lived alone and this would be pointless. Who's Jack? he wondered.

He rapped three times in quick succession this time, to indicate--truthfully, this time--that he hadn't been trying to fix the toilet. Evidently, Muggles didn't know that only witches and wizards became ghosts. Of course, they didn't know about witches and wizards, and he hadn't known about this himself until Nearly Headless Nick had told him.

She continued to stand in the doorway, clutching her towel around her. "Did you come for some other reason?" Thinking about it for only a second, he rapped once again, for yes.

She bit her lip and looked up at the ceiling, then back to the table Harry had been hitting. "Is it--is it because I'm selling your old things?" she asked quietly, looking like she feared the answer. Harry wanted to reassure her, so he rapped three times on the table for no. Let her sell the stuff, he thought; even if her father would have objected, once you're dead you shouldn't be worrying about things, he felt.

She looked perplexed when she heard him rap three times. "Then why are you here?" she asked, her mystified eyes wide, and Harry realised suddenly who she'd reminded him of since the first moment he'd seen her in the garage. Radish earrings and a hat with a life-sized lion's head on it would just top it off. However, the similarity was mainly colouring, he decided; while she looked a great deal like an older Luna Lovegood, she lacked the vacant expression. He couldn't help staring; it was as though he'd taken a Time Turner into the future rather than the past, seeing Luna as she might be in fifteen or sixteen years' time. If, in addition to growing older, she also grew more alert.

"Are you here to--to help me in some way?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, then rapped the table once.

She sat in a chair, pushing her damp hair out of her eyes. "I miss you so much, Daddy," she said softly. "Audrey and Nick are all right, you know. Audrey misses you too, and Nick is so wonderful with her....I know you didn't approve, but if you could only see how happy they are...And you're a grandfather! They--they named him after you, you know. The last name is hyphenated, Harrison-Priestley. That's not so bad, is it? Audrey really wishes the two of you could have patched things up before...before..."

Audrey must be her sister, he decided. And their dad never approved of her husband, Nick. Tilda Harrison was crying in earnest now, her face red and blotchy, especially her nose. When she turned to the table beside her to find something on which to blow her nose, he quickly pulled his trainers off, as quietly as he could; his socks were relatively dry in comparison, and now he could walk without leaving tell-tale footprints to show where he'd been. While she blew her nose noisily he crept to the stairs and went up as quietly as he could, his sopping trainers clutched to his chest, quickly soaking his shirt and making him shiver with cold.

Downstairs he heard her saying, in a half-choked-off voice, "Daddy? Are you still here?" It was strange to hear a grown woman speaking this way.

He looked around the upstairs hall, which was a large square space at the top of the stairs off of which opened the various bedrooms and one bathroom. I'll just go into one of the other bedrooms and hide until she goes out.

He hoped that she would be going out soon. His stomach felt completely hollow and he feared it might soon be making hungry noises. How would knocking on a wooden table explain his being a ghost with a rumbling stomach?

Unfortunately, the first door he came to was to a room so overflowing with junk that merely opening it a few inches was enough to start what quickly became an avalanche of sound and movement. He slammed it quickly, wincing when he could hear the things he'd disturbed continuing to slide and bang. He hoped nothing was breaking because of him; Miss Harrison seemed determined to sell the things she had stored in the spare bedrooms.

"Daddy?" she called before sprinting up the stairs, still clutching her towel.

Damn, he thought. He tiptoed carefully into her bedroom, as that seemed safe, then stood behind the door, holding his breath. He could see her through the crack between the door and jamb, her ear to the door of the other room.

"Are you sure you don't mind my selling these things, Daddy?" She frowned as she listened at the door. "You said you were here to help me. Is this helping me? Are you trying to tell me what I should sell?"

Harry shook his head. Sometimes he just couldn't believe how superstitious Muggles were. Even with their magic-phobia, his aunt and uncle were deathly afraid of the number thirteen, black cats, walking under ladders and spilling salt. He watched now as Miss Harrison carefully turned the knob and opened the door; everything was quiet for a second, but a moment later the precarious pile of things at the door of the room shifted and something fell out into the hall. She picked it up; it was a strange looking machine of some sort, like binoculars with some additional fittings. Harry was afraid for a moment that it was a pair of primitive Omnioculars. She picked it up gingerly.

"Is this it, Daddy? Is this what I should sell?"

Harry took a chance; he quickly rapped once on the bedroom door. She whirled in his general direction, making his heart leap into his throat.

"It is?" She smiled. "You are here to help me, aren't you?" Her smile grew. "All right, Daddy. I was going to Petworth and Farnham tomorrow, but I'll go today instead and take the stereoscope as well as the other things."

The what? Harry thought.

She laughed and looked down. "If you don't mind now, Daddy, I think I'll finish my shower. Thank you!" she said to the door. Harry wondered whether Old Soberley would continue to employ her if she could see her now, talking to a door and calling it "Daddy."

When he heard running water again, he heaved a sigh of relief, sitting in a chair near the wardrobe, feeling like he'd never been so nervous in his life. She'll be going out soon, he thought. Thank goodness. He was feeling a bit like he could use a shower himself; the amount of nervous sweat he'd produced since he'd made the toilet overflow made him wonder why she hadn't smelled him yet.

When she emerged from the bathroom this time, she looked much better, wearing a crisp blue cotton dressing gown, her hair dry (no shampoo in it), neatly pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. With her hair off her face he thought she looked less like Luna, although the way she'd been conversing with the "ghost" of her father did rather remind him of the dotty things Luna did; he wondered whether she'd ever had conversations with her dead mother. (He didn't think it was odd to speak to ghosts, as he did it all the time at Hogwarts, but he did think talking to dead people who weren't ghosts was strange.) Even if Luna's mother was a ghost, Harry imagined such conversations would be very strange, as all conversations with Luna were bound to be strange.

He was jolted back to the present when she suddenly removed her dressing gown, under which she had been wearing nothing at all. Harry widened his eyes, seeing that there were still glistening drops of water running down the center of her back to her--

Harry shut his eyes tightly, feeling a heat rise from his neck. I should not be seeing this, he thought, feeling very guilty. He opened one of his eyes a crack, looking for the door, but she had unfortunately closed it when she'd come in from the hall. If only I'd been able to hide in one of the other bedrooms....

Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of her moving around, still unclothed. I should not be seeing this. I should not be seeing this, he thought repeatedly, but he was also finding it harder and harder to tear his eyes away. I wonder if my dad did this, he thought. He was the sort who would spy on the girls, wasn't he? Evidently I'm no better. He suspected that a stair that turned into a smooth slide would have presented no obstacle to his dad.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut again, this time seeing in his mind's eye his fifteen-year-old father turning Severus Snape upside down. He hadn't found Remus and Sirius' explanations very satisfactory, somehow. His dad might have improved later, but at fifteen James Potter was a prat who probably would have been elated to find himself in the bedroom of an attractive woman who was wearing nothing and didn't know he was there.

Mum, he found himself thinking, not two minutes after deciding that it was strange to talk to dead people who weren't ghosts; why did you ever marry him?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mrs Weasley put down a letter she'd been reading, shaking her head sadly and tsking. "Oh dear. Your Aunt Georgina has lost Uncle Bilius."

Ginny frowned. "How could she lose him when he's already dead?"

"His ashes. Accidentally knocked them into the fire when she was reaching for the Floo powder...." Mrs Weasley shook her head. "Did you hear what I said, Ron?"

"Yeah, so?" Ron said absentmindedly as he gazed at the chessboard balanced on his legs. Hermione sat on one side of his hospital bed, Ginny on the other. He was ostensibly playing Hermione but Ginny kept telling her what moves to make, which she could see was irking her brother. She was glad Hermione had come to number twelve, Grimmauld Place the night before; Ginny missed talking to her. Hermione's parents were at a dentists' conference in Switzerland and it had been arranged--before Draco Malfoy's attack on Ron--that she would come to stay with them at this time anyway. Hermione had fretted that she'd forgotten to tell Harry she'd be coming to stay with them, but Ginny tried to reassure her about that. She reckoned that this would be the last thing on Harry's mind right now.

"Ron!" his mother and Hermione said simultaneously. Ginny caught his eye and giggled; Ron glared at her.

"You'd think you'd be more interested in your namesake," his mother admonished him.

"He was Bill's namesake, not mine," Ron practically growled, finally making his move. His castle was attempting to beat one of Hermione's bishops into submission.

Hermione looked up from the pitched battle between the chess pieces and said, "Bill's name is really Bilius?" She looked as though she was finding it very hard not to make a horrid face, glancing at Mrs Weasley out of the corner of her eye. Molly seemed oblivious to Hermione's horror.

"Yes," she said, smiling benignly and nodding at Ron. "And Ron's middle name, as well."

Now Hermione was trying not to laugh, shaking with mirth and averting her eyes from Mrs Weasley. Ron looked at her, his mouth twisting in displeasure.

"It's not funny," he grumbled.

"I don't know why you're so upset about it," Ginny said, pointing at the piece she thought Hermione should move next.

"Stop helping her!" he finally complained to Ginny.

"I mean," Ginny continued, sitting on her hand so she couldn't point at the pieces again; "you could do worse than to have more things in common with Bill...."

Hermione made what sounded like a noise of agreement as she moved the pawn Ginny had been pointing at. Ron scowled as it struggled against his own pawn.

"I have things in common with Bill," Ron said defensively, his voice squeaking slightly. Ginny snorted and Hermione smirked; Ron looked deeply offended. "I'm a prefect now! And--and we have the same color eyes and hair. And--and I'm as tall as he is now--"

Mrs Weasley rose and patted Ron on the shoulder. "Of course you are, dear," she said gently. "I'm going to check on Alastor. We're expecting Remus to come and relieve him." Members of the Order were guarding Ron's private room around the clock.

As she left the room Ron's scowl deepened. When she was gone he screwed up his face. "Of course you are," he said in a sing-song imitation of his mother.

Ginny snorted again but stopped when she saw the look on Ron's face. Hermione said, "I don't see more than a superficial resemblance between you and Bill. Fleur Delacour very likely doesn't either, since she turned you down for the Ball, but Bill--"

Ron suddenly threw the chessboard across the room, scattering the screaming pieces. "What's that supposed to mean?" His ears were bright red. "I didn't even--I didn't even want to ask her. If it weren't for the whole Veela thing I wouldn't have done. I suppose now you're going to tell me that Viktor Krum is a Veela."

Hermione looked defiant. "No, he is not a Veela."

"So what's your excuse then for why you went to the Ball with him?"

"He asked, that's my excuse," Hermione said, growing rather red in the face herself. Ginny picked up the chessboard and the squirming, complaining chess men.

"You know, I think there's a great deal of resemblance between you and Bill," Ginny said, to calm Ron down; she remembered how upset he'd been when he had first stumbled into the common room, still looking a bit dazed from the Veela effect, having just asked out Fleur Delacour before a crowd of witnesses. She glanced surreptitiously at Ron while continuing to put the chess pieces back in their box.

"Oi! Nobody's been checkmated yet!" a knight yelled at her, but she pushed him down ruthlessly and slammed the lid of the box.

"Well, I don't see it," Hermione said archly, sitting on the side of the bed again, as though daring Ron to push her off.

"Of course he looks a lot like Bill. At this point all they'd need in order to look like twins would be for Ron to grow his hair long and start wearing an earring," Ginny said loyally, even though she knew this wasn't quite true.

Hermione grimaced. "Exactly," she said, surprising Ginny. "And Ron hasn't done that, so he doesn't look like Bill."

Ron bristled and looked like he might push her off the bed after all. "Well, if you think so highly of my brother, I suppose you can try fighting Fleur for him," he spat at her.

She frowned. "Don't be stupid. You don't listen to anything I say, do you?"

"I don't listen to anything you say?" Ron was incredulous. "What about my telling you that elves like to work? Do you ever listen to me when I tell you that? Nooo. Instead you spend all of your time knitting those ruddy hats and leaving them all over the common room. Well, thanks to you--"

"I'll just check on Mum checking on Moody," Ginny mumbled, rolling her eyes and sidling toward the door as they launched into their row.

"--none of the elves but Dobby want to clean Gryffindor Tower anymore," Ron continued. "All you've done is give Dobby the world's largest collection of really ugly hats!"

Hermione looked horrified; she had her hands on her hips and was completely red in the face. "For your information, you don't listen to me when I talk. When I said you don't look like Bill you failed to notice that I never said that was a bad thing. If you had let me finish, I was about to say that I don't think Bill is the better-looking one! So perhaps you should close your mouth and open your ears sometimes!"

Ginny was at the door by now, her mouth wide open in shock. Ron was looking up at Hermione with an equally shocked expression. Suddenly, a hand grasped Ginny around the upper arm and pulled her into the corridor; it was her mother.

"Oh, dear, are they having another row? You shouldn't stand and gawp at them when that happens, Ginny dear." She heaved a great sigh. "I can't believe this is still going on. I had hoped--" Her mother turned a bit pink and shifted her eyes away from her daughter. "Well, you know how fond I am of Hermione. I had hoped, with her and Ron being prefects last year, they might stop rowing. And I even told her on the way here that Ron was calling her name after they first brought him in and he was a bit delirious...." She turned a deeper shade of pink still while she looked sheepishly at Ginny.

Ginny glanced over her shoulder at the door. "Well, you never know, Mum. They might not go on having rows forever.... Did you hear what they were saying to each other?"

Her mother shook her head grimly. "All I heard was his voice raised in anger. I don't know how he expects--" She trailed off, shaking her head, then patted Ginny's arm. "Thank goodness you're too young for all of that yet."

Ginny swallowed; she hadn't told her mother about Michael Corner. "That's right. No boyfriends here," she said brightly. It was a semi-truthful statement. None at the moment, at any rate. Unless Dean--

"What about Harry?" her mother said softly, raising her eyebrows hopefully.

Ginny grimaced. "Mum, don't--"

"It's just--I thought you fancied him, Ginny--"

Ginny felt herself reddening. She glanced at Moody out of the corner of her eye; he seemed to be looking through the door, his non-magical eye widening in what seemed to be surprise.

"Harry and I are just friends, Mum," she said, wishing her mother would talk about something else.

"Hello, Alastor, Molly, Ginny," Remus Lupin said, turning the corner suddenly and joining them. Ginny was very grateful to see him; Molly nodded.

"Oh, there you are, Remus. How is poor Tonks?"

"She's improving. Poppy likes having her in the infirmary just a little too much, I think. She's lonely," he said, smiling. "And Arthur's downstairs, Molly. He asked me to send you down for a few minutes."

"Thank you Remus," she said, sighing and moving toward the lifts. Ginny knew she hadn't slept the night before; her father was already out on Order business, so her mother had gone up to Hogwarts to meet with Dumbledore. She had come back looking very grim before telling Ginny and Hermione just a bit about what had happened in Surrey. Ginny hadn't slept either, once she knew that Harry was missing and his house had been blown up. Instead, she and Hermione talked until dawn in their shared bedroom, voicing their worries and trying (unsuccessfully) to reassure each other. It did nothing for their peace of mind, either, that Ron was in St Mungo's.

"Alastor, I know it's my shift, but do you mind staying out here for a moment while I pop in and visit with Ron?" Remus asked him.

"It's not a good time," Ginny said quickly. "He and Hermione were having a row."

Moody made a harrumphing noise, making Remus and Ginny stare. "You don't usually see that during a row...."

Ginny frowned. "See what?"

"Kissing."

She dropped her jaw. "Kissing?" Then she remembered the last thing Hermione had said before she left the room. "You--you can see them--"

"Aye," he said gruffly. "Doesn't look like a row to me," he said pointedly, staring through the door with his magical eye. When it rotated and looked at Ginny he didn't turn his head. "Knock first," he advised her gruffly,

She nodded, rapping on the door. "Come in," came Hermione's voice; she sounded strange to Ginny.

Remus and Ginny found Hermione sitting on Ron's bed again; Ginny widened her eyes. Ron was holding Hermione's hand. They both still looked rather flushed, but Ginny didn't think that was from the row. She believed Moody. He didn't make up stories.

The hand-holding wasn't lost on Remus either, she could tell, but he didn't comment. "So! How are you feeling?" he asked Ron, pulling up the chair Molly had been using.

Ron released Hermione's hand and ran his fingers through his hair restlessly. "I'd like to get out of here, mostly." Glancing furtively at Hermione, he said, "Rather recover back at Headquarters, if I have a choice."

Remus nodded. "Dumbledore would like you out of here as quickly as possible, too."

Hermione turned to him. "Speaking of which--is there any news about Harry?"

Remus shook his head. "No, but he says Harry's safe and we shouldn't contact him or we'd endanger him."

Ginny's stomach clenched. He'll be all right. He will. But the anxious tightness wouldn't leave her, no matter what positive thoughts she tried to force into her brain.

"Oh, I wish I didn't have Hedwig!" Hermione said, wringing her hands. "Then he could at least contact us--"

"--and lead Voldemort right to him," Remus said, raising his brows. Hermione frowned.

"If anyone can find him, it's Dumbledore," Ron said, his voice shaking.

Remus nodded. "Yes. He has his ways, no doubt about that. In the meantime, you just concentrate on recovering, Ron. Most of your bones mended now?"

Ron nodded. "Except for my left leg. The thigh bone--"

"Femur," Hermione provided helpfully.

"Yeah. That. Shattered into so many little fragments they just removed it magically. I've been growing it back with Skele-Gro."

Remus made a face. "Ew. Nasty stuff."

"Too right. The Healer said that bone's the biggest--and mine's particularly large--so it has to grow back over a couple of days. Needs about two or three times the dose that you'd use for growing back, say, a small person's arm, like when Harry lost his arm bones because of Lockhart. And you can't take more than one dose per day, so--"

Remus nodded. "Right. I heard once of a witch who took too much at once, after removing her broken arm bones, to have a fresh start." He shook his head at her folly. "Ran an apothecary, thought she knew what she was doing. Now she has arguments with herself all the time. Sometimes I go to that apothecary to buy supplies for Severus to make my potion. The pair of them are so annoying--"

"Pair?" Hermione said, frowning.

Remus cleared his throat. "Yes. She grew another skull after taking too much Skele-Gro. Has an extra arm, too. Some of her brain migrated over into the new skull, so the Healers here didn't dare remove it. She's quite a good organist, though," he added brightly.

"She has two heads?" Ginny gasped.

Hermione looked horrified. She stared fearfully at Ron. "It'll take as long as it takes. Let's not rush it," she said in an unnaturally high voice.

Ron nodded vigorously, his eyes wide.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I know you don't like going to antiques shops with me, but please do it anyway. I don't want to be alone. And if he comes back, you can see that I'm not mad!"

Harry was still stuck in Tilda Harrison's bedroom while she talked on the telephone with her best friend; until she opened the door he didn't dare leave, as opening the door himself would likely make her think the ghost of her father had returned. His damp trainers were still clutched to his chest and the smell of them was assaulting his nostrils; he hoped she didn't pick up on the scent.

Tilda heaved a great sigh. "Fine, fine. I promise that if you come with me to Petworth and Farnham I will come out clubbing with you. All right? When can you get here? Okay. I'm not listening Pip. I'm not. I'm ringing off now. I am. I am. Yes, I am." Yet she continued to listen to her friend for half a minute longer. Harry could vaguely hear Pip's voice but couldn't make out the words. "I'm ringing off now, Pip," Tilda said again, finally doing as she'd promised, staring at the phone after she'd put it down again. "You bloody bitch," she said in an oddly affectionate tone of voice. They seemed to have patched over their disagreement from the night before. The disagreement about him.

She picked up a handbag and opened the bedroom door, not bothering to close it. After he heard her go downstairs he crept out of the bedroom at last, waiting in the upstairs hall. He shifted from foot to foot; his arms ached from holding the trainers.

At last the doorbell rang and from the top of the stairs he saw Tilda Harrison open the door, admitting Pip, who was carrying the milk order.

"He's got it wrong again. How hard is it to understand two bottles of milk and a pot of yogurt? He's given you cottage cheese this time." She thrust the order at Tilda, who took it awkwardly. "All right," she said brightly now, "I'm ready for an exciting day driving round to antiques shops." She rolled her eyes. "Sure you actually want to sell any of your stuff? Your dad might come back to haunt you again--"

"I can tell you don't believe me, Pip, but he was really here!" They left the hall and by pressing himself against the outer wall he could see that they'd entered the living-room. "See? Look at that! Wet footprints on the carpet!"

"I don't see anything," Pip said sceptically; Harry could see her crouching down and touching the carpet. Today she was wearing very tight jeans and a blouse that was half-unbuttoned.

"Not there, here, Tilda said. "I was watching the carpet, too, and the footprints were just appearing without anyone being here to make them! And the broken toilet mysteriously flushed itself. While I was in the shower, no less."

"Ouch," Pip said in sympathy.

"Exactly. He knew that would get my attention--"

No, Harry thought. I just stupidly forgot that it's a bad idea to flush a toilet when someone is in the shower. He would almost think it funny that she was reading so much into this if the way she'd spoken to her "father" hadn't been so sad and forlorn.

Pip crossed her arms and scrutinised her friend. "You know what you need?"

Tilda sighed and walked to the kitchen with the milk order. Harry sat at the top of the stairs, morbidly curious. Their voices carried easily to him.

He heard her place the glass milk bottle on the counter with a loud thunk. "You're going to tell me, aren't you?" she said to Pip, clearly not wanting to hear the answer.

"You need a man."

"I don't! God, that attitude just makes me sick. I mean, if one appeared I wouldn't necessarily turn him away, if he met certain criteria. But I don't see what that has to do with my dad, anyway." Harry heard her open the fridge.

Pip gave a loud sigh. "I know you don't, darling, which is why I'm here to spell it out for you. How many dates have you been on since your dad died? Hmm?"

The fridge was closed again with a loud slam. "I don't see--"

"Eight. I've counted. You've had eight dates in the last six years."

"I haven't met--"

"I know you don't think you've met anyone suitable, including the blokes you dated--and I'm not disagreeing with you, they were dreadful--but you're not even trying. You know why?"

This time it was Tilda heaving a great sigh. "I have a feeling you're about to tell me...."

"It's because you still only have room for one man in your life, and the fact that he's dead doesn't matter."

"That's--that's ridiculous, Pip!" she sputtered. "I didn't--my dad and I--"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. I didn't say you and your dad had an inappropriate relationship, or wanted to. Listen to what I'm actually saying. For you, he was the man in your life. All others paled beside him. Of course it wasn't sexual. If anything, it was worse--completely obsessive, platonic father-daughter love that made it impossible for you to notice other men. After all, dating other men would mean you'd grown up, and grown women don't have obsessive relationships with their fathers."

"You're forgetting one little detail," Tilda said, walking into the living room carrying a glass of orange juice and the cottage cheese. "I nearly got married eight years ago." She curled into a chair while Pip followed her, still pacing, agitated.

Harry was jolted; if Tilda Harrison had nearly married that was news to him. He would have been eight years old at the time. It was the first time Miss Harrison had been his teacher. That she might have a personal life had never occurred to him.

"Yes, you nearly got married, miraculously enough. And why didn't you?"

Tilda spooned some cottage cheese into her mouth. Pip made a face. "What? I like cottage cheese." She put another spoonful into her mouth and swallowed. "You know why we didn't go through with it. He asked me to do something dreadful."

Pip rolled her eyes. "Yes, to choose between him and your dad. And you did."

Tilda put her food down on a table next to the chair. "Yes, I did! I couldn't believe he would ask me such a thing! Who would--"

"Tilda!" Pip cried, getting her attention. "I understand, I do. And in other ways, Monty was a complete prat and you're well rid of him. But your dad's gone now, and you have to get on with your life. Playing with his things isn't a substitute." Tilda clamped her mouth shut angrily. Pip's tone of voice changed to wheedling. "Oh, come on, I need someone else with me when I go clubbing so I don't look pathetic before I meet someone. Last time I was alone I was speaking on my mobile--to no one--to appear to have another person in the world who'd speak to me, and I got caught out. The berk told everyone in the club about it, too. 'Oi, look 'ere, this bird's talkin' on 'er mobile to nobody!' And a really nice bloke was looking at me from across the bar before that, too."

Tilda crossed her arms. "Why don't you talk to them first?" Pip shrugged, sitting on the couch, looking unaccountably shy about this. Tilda laughed. "The last time you stayed over, you had the milkman reduced to tears when you told him he'd got the order wrong again, but you can't walk up to a bloke in a club? I don't understand you."

Pip sat back, clutching a pillow. "It's different. And you're the one we're discussing. You need to realise that there are other men in the world besides Jim Harrison."

Tilda made a face. "But I just--I hate clubs!"

"Where else do you expect to meet someone? At the bloody antiques shops?"

"Well, why not?" Tilda said defensively.

"Why? Because the only men you find in antiques shops are gay or geriatric."

"That's not true! I met this lovely man two weeks ago, David something. He and his wife Debbie run a shop in Petworth and they have an adorable little boy. Debbie is expecting again and they hope to have a girl this time...."

"Well, he's no use then, is he? All right; I stand corrected. Gay, geriatric or married. All bloody useless to you. I'm afraid, my dear, that straight, single men just do not turn up in antiques shops."

"Well, no, not as a general rule," Tilda admitted grudgingly, "but when I meet one who does, he'd probably be a far better candidate than someone I might meet in a club...."

Pip nodded. "Oh, yes, and you'd be waiting so long for that to happen that you'd no longer discount the geriatric blokes, because you'd be geriatric by then as well."

"You're stereotyping," Tilda accused her friend.

"You're avoiding," Pip countered.

"You're terribly good at analysing me, Pip. It's a pity you couldn't put your powers to use analysing why you didn't stay on at university and get your degree. Then I could be paying you thirty quid an hour to tell me all about how I'm supposedly still obsessed with my dad and it's keeping me from meeting a man."

Pip shrugged, standing. "It's no mystery why I didn't stay on. I really only like psychology. Taking all of the other stuff and nonsense for the degree was just a bloody bore to me. I couldn't be bothered. And no shrink worth his or her salt would take thirty pounds an hour; that'd be an insult."

Tilda laughed. "How should I know? I've never needed to go to one." At the look on Pip's face, she said, "I haven't. Listen, Pip, you don't know. You don't! You don't know what it's like to--" She took a great shuddering breath and Harry could tell, from her tone of voice, that she was crying; "--to love someone--and I don't mean in a dirty way, I mean in an utterly pure and complete way--and to have them ripped away from you without a chance to rectify a great injustice. You--you just don't know!"

Harry heard sobbing and when he crept to the head of the stairs he saw that Pip was holding Tilda while she cried on her shoulder. Harry's nose itched; he rubbed it, thinking of Sirius. I know, he thought, his eyes growing moist. I know what it's like.

Tilda Harrison cried on her friend for some time; Pip held her and comforted her, something Harry wouldn't have believed if he hadn't seen it. Perhaps she was a good friend to Miss Harrison after all, he thought. After a while, Tilda wiped her eyes.

"I still don't need a shrink, I'll have you know. After all, why should I pay for what I can get for free?" She smiled through her tears and Pip laughed.

"That's the only reason you're my friend. Free analysis. You're just using me."

"Yes, and next I'm using you to carry that Edwardian desk down the stairs...."

Harry ducked into her bedroom again, as that implied that they'd be coming up the stairs to retrieve something. He sat in the chair near the wardrobe again, listening to them struggle with the desk and thinking about what Tilda had said about her father.

At one point Pip said, "Couldn't you have hallucinated a live bloke in your house, instead of a dead one? Then he could help with this. I'm not a docker, you know."

Tilda laughed.



Author notes: Thanks to Aleph, June and Emily for the beta reading and Britpicking.
More information on my HP fanfiction and essays can also be found HERE. Please be a considerate reader and review.