Replay

Replay

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Chapter Nine

Special Delivery

"Jack! I wasn't expecting you yet. You're early!"

Tilda stared at her brother, standing in the doorway looking as he always did, as though he had every right to be wherever he was, as though he owned the world. It was both a convenient and a strange demeanour for someone who was essentially a Traveller, going about the country staying with anyone he had any passing acquaintance with who would put him up for a bit while he scrounged about for odd jobs before moving on again. Tilda had thought more than once, At least Dad lived in one place long enough to do up a house and sell it. Jack Harrison had taken the travelling bug to a higher level.

"I'm not, Til. Today's the twenty-eighth. This is what we agreed. The others here yet?"

"The twenty-eighth? It's not the twenty-eighth."

"'Course it is. Look here, have you been reading the newspaper?" he asked, pushing past her into the front hall and picking up one of the copies of the Times sitting stacked next to the door. "Doesn't look like it," he commented, examining its pristine state. It was true; for several days she and Harry had only listened to some news on the radio and television to make certain the hunt for him by the police was no longer of interest to the media. They'd been searching the papers for that at first, but stopped when they repeatedly came up dry.

"The twenty-eighth?" she said, her mind spinning. Oh, good God. That means--

"Happy early birthday!" a familiar voice cried. Tilda looked up and forced her face into a smile. Pip appeared in the doorway bearing a box that seemed likely to contain a cake.

"Erm, yes, Pip. Hello. Jack's just got here," she managed to choke out, trying to sound as natural as possible and wondering what on earth Harry was going to do and where he was. Would he leave? No, probably not, she thought. Not without that cloak of his, and it was upstairs at the moment. How could she have lost track of time so badly?

Pip was moving unerringly toward the kitchen with the cake. "When are Audrey and Nick getting here? And are they bringing the baby?"

"Little Jimmy? Yeah, 'course they are," Jack said to her. "How are you, Pip? You look more shaggable every time I see you," he said, giving her a smacking kiss as she passed. She gamely puckered up, then made a horrid face at Tilda behind his back afterward.

"And you look more and more like a gypsy every time I see you," she responded, her mouth twisting, continuing toward the kitchen, where Tilda had last seen Harry.

Tilda stepped abruptly in front of Pip. "Erm, why don't you let me take the cake, Pip?"

Her brother laughed so loudly it made her head ache. "Take the cake! Well, we always did say you took the cake, Til, didn't we, Aud?"

Tilda saw now that her sister Audrey was standing in the open doorway, tiny Jimmy attached to her in a little quilted baby sling. Tilda was torn between squealing and running to hug her sister and nephew collectively and continuing to bar Pip's access to the kitchen.

"Tillie!" Audrey cried, and Tilda had to go to her instead of taking the cake box from Pip, hugging her sister firmly and including the baby. She pressed her lips to little Jimmy's smooth, warm brow; he was sweating a bit in the heat, fast asleep in his snug cocoon. Something moved within her at the touch and smell of her sister's son. Baby lust, she thought. She'd experienced it before, often at the most inconvenient times. And with her birthday drawing nearer she had been thinking about it more and more--at least, until Harry had appeared. She hadn't admitted it to him, but it was another reason she'd brought Tom home. Stupid biological clock, she thought. I'm not even that old.

And then she realised that Pip had swept into the kitchen with the cake. She turned from her sister without a word, dashing after her friend, feeling like a madwoman.

"Pip! Where are you going?" she cried, stumbling and barking her shin on a chair in her haste. When she arrived in the kitchen she tried to appear casual about it, leaning on a counter as though she had all the time in the world when she wanted to be doubled over, holding her shin and howling. "Erm, Pip!" she said again, her eyes moving about anxiously for any clue about Harry's hiding place. Her shin throbbed with pain.

"What?" Pip said in irritation, her hands on her hips. She'd put the cake on the kitchen table and was glaring at Tilda.

"Oh, um," Tilda responded, not having had anything in mind to say. "I'm just--I'm glad you're here. I'm glad everyone's here...." Now if only my voice would stop shaking...

Jack and Audrey entered the kitchen just as Pip was saying accusingly, "Oh, you're glad I'm here now, eh? Is that why you've been giving me the brush-off for the last week?"

She looked guiltily at Pip and tried not to notice her siblings' surprise. Focussing instead on Audrey, she said, "So! Where's Nick?" She did not answer Pip.

"Parking and getting the baby gear out of the car. Why've you been giving Pip the brush-off?" she demanded. Tilda sighed; she wasn't going to squirm out of this.

"I just--I've just needed some time to myself," she said defensively, edging toward the doorway leading to the lavatory and garage. "If that's all right with everyone."

Audrey shook her head and brushed her hand over the baby's soft pale hair. "Oh, Til. Tell me you haven't been getting maudlin about your birthday..."

Tilda stopped, appalled by the accusation. "Maudlin? Since when is needing some time alone code for 'maudlin?' I'll have you know I am perfectly fine with my birthday, my age, my marital status, all of it, so there's really no call for anyone to be 'maudlin' about anything." She knew she sounded defensive again, but she couldn't help it. She never lied about her age. Yes, she'd been feeling the pull of motherhood since she'd turned thirty, but she certainly wasn't spending time brooding about it. And Harry had distracted her from that, as well.

The three of them gave her pitying looks, making her want to scream. But she couldn't tell them that a nearly sixteen-year-old boy wanted by the police had been staying with her and that she'd been spending her days getting to know him in a way she never had when he was young. Now that she thought about it, she had also opened up to him in a way she usually didn't with strangers, or even her family and Pip. He'd prised secrets out of her she'd long ago forgotten and made her laugh more than she had in a very long time....

She shook herself, looking up at the three of them, at the pity on their faces. "Stop looking at me like that!" she said irritably, trying to think quickly. How could she get Harry out of the lavatory or garage, or wherever he was? She'd need the cloak....

"All right, now, we're going to have a little birthday party," she said with determination. "Fine. But first I need to use the loo...."

She started to leave the kitchen, but her brother put his hand on her arm. "Where you going, Til? Why not use the one down here?"

"Can't. Out of order."

"Oh, yes!" Pip said cheerfully. "In fact, it overflowed thanks to the ghost of your father--"

"Pip!" Tilda said abruptly, trying to stop her. She wished she'd never told Pip that she believed her dad was haunting the downstairs loo.

"What?" Audrey and Jack said together.

Pip was laughing so hard she was having trouble speaking. "She called to tell me that she'd been communing with your dad's ghost. He made his presence known by overflowing the loo down here--"

Tilda felt her face grow hot. In her self-imposed seclusion she'd never had the chance to tell Pip that she realised that she was just being wishful about her dad's ghost. When they'd gone out to lunch or talked briefly on the phone the subject of her father hadn't come up and Tilda had forgotten that there was damage control to be done.

"Dad's ghost?" Jack said, frowning. "More likely to be some tree roots stopping up the drain. I'll take a look--"

"No!" Tilda cried, knocking Pip out of the way as she dove for the doorway, blocking his access. Everyone turned to her again as though she was mad. "Erm," she said again, "I mean--you can fix the loo some other time. Right now we're having a party. You know how you are--once you start working on the bloody thing you'll have it sitting on the floor next to the hole while you muck about for hours on end. This isn't the time."

He shrugged. "All right. It isn't the time. That's all you had to say. Tomorrow, then."

Pip rubbed her hip, where Tilda had knocked her painfully against the table. "Yes. You didn't have to maim me to make your point."

"Just--just everyone promise me you'll wait right here. I'll be back in a shake."

She bolted from the room, praying to whatever god would listen to her, Please let Harry be safely hidden. She quickly found the cloak, wrapping it in a towel, and arrived at the foot of the stairs just as Nick was entering the still-open front door carrying a folded-up swing for the baby, several bulky pastel bags and a folding playpen. Tilda felt terribly awkward about not helping but dashed past, calling out, "Hello, Nick! I'd help but I'm in a tearing hurry," she said, brandishing the towel as though that explained everything. "I'll send Jack," she promised, crashing into the swinging kitchen door.

Once in the kitchen, she said breathlessly, "Jack. Go help Nick." A moment later she realised how rude she sounded, not having said 'please,' but she couldn't dwell on that and just barrelled on. "And actually--Pip and Audrey, if you could help Nick, too, that'd be brilliant. Go on," she urged, making a shooing motion at them. The three of them stared at her. She thrust the towel behind her; she'd been gesturing with it, not realising. "Erm. I'll be right back." She dashed from the room, down the corridor to the lav. A jumble of confused voices erupted in the kitchen, obviously talking about her very queer behaviour, but to her relief she also heard the kitchen door opening as the three of them went to help with the baby gear. She'd never felt more shaky and less like herself in her entire life, and she wondered how on earth Harry had hidden in her house for even a couple of days without having a heart attack. Knowing that he was so close to them and that they might discover him at any moment had very nearly driven her round the bend, and her brother had only arrived fifteen minutes earlier. It had been the most insane fifteen minutes of her life.

She opened the lavatory door and heaved a sigh of relief when she didn't find him. Then she panicked. He's not here. Where was he, then? Probably the garage. She hoped that he was in the garage, that he hadn't simply bolted and left the cloak behind. She opened the garage door and stared into the dark, petrol-smelling space suspiciously, trying to see into the black corners by the light spilling through the doorway from the corridor. "Harry!" she hissed. Please be here, please be here... "I've got your cloak! Promise me you won't run off! I'm putting it here, on the bonnet of the car, under a towel. I'm sorry about all this; I'll save some cake for you and we'll work out what to do about the sleeping arrangements after the others have gone."

Sleeping arrangements. Bloody hell. They'd been cleaning out one of the spare rooms for him to sleep in, but it wasn't even close to being ready. Anyone trying to sleep in there would be taking his life in his hands. And Jack would be on the couch.

She couldn't think about this right now. Tilda closed the garage door without getting a response, hoping that that was only because he didn't want to risk making noise someone else might hear. She couldn't wait to find out, unfortunately, as she had to return to the kitchen and deal with her family and best friend, who were probably thinking now that she was the last person whose birthday they wanted to celebrate. They're going to think I'm barmy, she thought grumpily, walking slowly back toward the kitchen. Probably think it runs in the family, because of Dad. Lovely.

When she returned to the kitchen it was empty, so she stacked five plates and forks, along with a knife, atop the cake box and carried it into the living room, plastering a smile on her face and trying to remember how to behave like a normal person instead of a lunatic.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Peter awoke when the foot kicked him in the ribs again; his Master had need of him. He lifted his eyes to the strange, pale face, the glowing red eyes.

"Lestrange is here, Wormtail. Meet with us."

"Which--?"

"Rodolphus," his Master said impatiently, as though Peter ought to have known.

Peter nodded and stood up from his nest on the floor, on the rags that constituted his meagre bed. He'd tried conjuring a proper bed for himself, but he couldn't concentrate properly lately and was never very good at conjuring, anyway. Rubbing his silver arm compulsively, he followed his Master down the corridor to the room he favoured, the room where Frank Bryce had found them two years earlier, just before his untimely death.

Rodolphus Lestrange was standing before the fire, as though he appreciated it, despite the stiflingly hot summer evening. He turned at their approach and nodded at them both.

"M'Lord," he said to Voldemort. He gave no spoken acknowledgement to Peter.

"So. Lestrange. What news do you bring us?"

"I have had word," he said without preamble, "that Potter was seen in Swansea."

Voldemort surveyed him thoughtfully, then nodded. "I see. And you trust this--word?"

Lestrange nodded. "I do," was his only response. Peter's nose twitched; sometimes his sense of smell was still acute, even when he was not in his rat form. He knew that his Master's senses were not so acute, and this was one reason he asked Peter to join them. He was a master Legilimens, as ever, but his other inborn senses were dulled by the magical experiments over the years, and by his near-death and resurrection. He glanced at Peter now, awaiting a corroborating opinion.

Peter hesitated; the man didn't smell right. He didn't smell like Rodolphus Lestrange. And yet--he was bringing them news of Harry. He also was uncertain of his own status and couldn't be sure whether casting doubt on another would help him curry favour or be cast out, punished. Explaining his doubt could be complicated... it was a delicate balance.

He ended up nodding; it was the easiest route. His Master noted his subtle head movement, then turned to Lestrange. "Do you have any other information?"

"I need to get back to find out more," he said gruffly. Their Master nodded.

"Very well. I want--you and Snape on it. Keep watch, both of you."

Lestrange gave a small bow with just his head and said, "Yes, M'Lord."

"You may go," Voldemort said, dismissing him with a casual wave of his hand. Lestrange nodded and took out his wand, Disapparating with a pop!

Peter turned to his Master uncertainly. "Snape, M'Lord? Won't he alert Dumbledore, to protect Potter?"

Voldemort shook his head; what might pass for a smile stretched across his gruesome visage. "No. Because Potter is not in Swansea."

Peter frowned. "He isn't?"

Voldemort red eyes bored into Peter's.

"No, Wormtail. He is not."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A rectangle of light was suddenly thrown up onto the ceiling of the garage, illuminating a strange section of beams supporting what seemed to be oars and a small rowboat. She even has junk stashed in the ceiling of the garage, Harry thought. He crouched down behind the car even further, wondering if he could possibly worm his way under the car quickly enough to avoid being seen, if necessary.

However, when Tilda hissed his name and said that she was putting his cloak on the bonnet of the car, he heaved a sigh of relief. He was about to answer her when she abruptly closed the door and left again, taking the rectangle of light with her. He stood cautiously, blinking in the pitch darkness, feeling his way around the car and biting his tongue when his hip banged into something hard and painful that seemed to be a lawnmower. He finally reached the Invisibility Cloak, throwing the towel aside and hugging the Cloak to him, then edging toward where he thought the door was.

He could remain in the garage until the others left (he'd heard the voices coming from the kitchen and had worked out that it wasn't just Jack Harrison he had to worry about now), but he thought that one person--Jack--would be more likely to notice the sound of someone climbing the stairs in an empty house, whereas, with the noise all of them were making to cover his exit, he should be able to safely climb the stairs to the bedroom.

If he could get through the living room first.

That would be the tricky part. Harry finally found the door into the house and felt about for the knob, then put on the Cloak and slowly opened the door. Moving swiftly through the corridor, not liking the idea of being trapped in the narrow space, he quickly reached the deserted kitchen. He tried to slow and quieten his breathing, although the thing he most wanted to do was to let out a noisy sigh of relief. The dangerous bit now was going to be entering the living room; he couldn't open the door on his own or the ghost issue would come up again, so he had to wait for an opportunity. Luckly, he didn't have to wait for long; a moment later Tilda entered the kitchen. Harry was enormously glad to see her.

"Tilda," he hissed. She whirled, her eyes moving frantically about the room.

"Harry?" she whispered, still casting about for his location.

"Over here," he said quietly. "By the fridge. I need help getting across the living room."

"Right. Of course. Let's see..." Her eyes darted around as though she'd forgotten why she'd come into the kitchen. "Oh, right! I was getting drinks," she whispered. "Well, I'll have to back up against the door to get out with the drinks, so you can squeeze past me when I do..."

"Great. Thanks. Need help?"

She laughed softly. "No, and you're not exactly in a position to help, are you?" She smiled in his general direction and his heart leapt at the sight. Get a grip, he immediately scolded himself.

She gathered a bottle of wine, some orange juice from the fridge and several glasses, putting them on a small tray. Sure enough, when she backed up against the swinging door so she could re-enter the living room, she paused, holding the door open far longer than necessary. He slipped past her and heard her soft gasp as the silky Cloak brushed her legs.

"Ah, drink!" Jack cried, walking straight toward Harry and blocking his access to the stairs. Harry panicked and backed up into a bookcase near the kitchen door, letting out an involuntary grunt of pain. Jack stopped, staring at his sister. "You okay, Til?"

She smiled feebly, hoisting the tray and then forcing a pained groan that was not really similar to Harry's. "My arms are really aching from this. Can you take it for me, Jack?"

He shrugged and took the tray, nearly flinging it across the room when he felt how light it was. "This was too heavy for you?" he said, incredulous. Unfortunately, Pip heard this and strode over, eyeing Tilda suspiciously.

"A tray of drinks is too heavy but you can lift half of an enormous antique desk?" she said sceptically, glaring at Tilda, her arms crossed on her chest. Jack gawped at his sister now, still holding the drinks tray.

"Er, well, you know, I think I hurt myself trying to move that desk," she said quickly, holding her right wrist. "You were right, Pip, we should have got some help with that..."

"Well, I only said about a hundred times. But don't listen to me," she added.

Harry decided that it was safest for him to remain where he was for the moment as no one seemed inclined to go near the bookcase. He stood as still as he could while the others bustled about, opening up the cake box and pouring wine. The orange juice was for Tilda's sister, Audrey.

Harry was fascinated to see her siblings at last; Audrey resembled Tilda a great deal around the eyes and had the same dirty blonde hair, but her nose was a perfectly formed upturned button, small and pert, instead of Tilda's longer pointed nose. Jack looked remarkably like their father and had the same nose as Tilda, only the length was even more pronounced. And the brother-in-law--

"Here you go, Nick. Have some cake," Tilda said, handing a plate to a sturdy-looking middle-aged woman in jeans and a large plaid button-down shirt. Harry froze in surprise. Nick was a woman? She had very short spiky brown hair, not unlike Tonks the first time he saw her, and small round glasses perched on a nose that could charitably be called mushroom-like. She smiled at Tilda and reminded Harry a great deal of Professor Sprout when her round apple cheeks sprang up as she smiled. She seemed like a very pleasant person, but Harry was still digesting the information that Nick was a woman.

"Doesn't my son get cake?" Jack said, reaching out to stroke the top of the baby's head.

"Nephew," Audrey corrected him, taking a pinch of cake between her thumb and forefinger and putting it in the baby's mouth; he closed his lips on her finger and then chewed the cake for a bit with his mouth open.

"Son, nephew, scion of the house of Harrison. It's my stuff helped make him, after all."

"Jack!" Tilda said, looking scandalised. "Do we have to discuss this now?"

"I'm only saying...."

"Jack," Audrey said in a placating voice with a slight Australian lilt. "We've gone over this. He's here because of your 'stuff,' Nicola's egg, and my womb, but when it comes to parents Jimmy has two mums. That's it. No father. You're officially his uncle, not his dad." She took a sip of juice and then brushed her lips across the top of the baby's head.

Jack shrugged, sitting down with a plate of cake on his lap and taking a large gulp of wine. "I know, I know. Still. Good to know the family genes are being carried on by someone." His eyes slid over to Tilda who stuck her tongue out at him before sitting next to the baby, watching him eat with a dreamy expression on her face.

Her sister smiled affectionately at her and said quietly, "Would you like to hold him?"

Tilda nodded and put her hands under his arms carefully, picking him up in the air and making him laugh, then cradling him close to her, a sigh escaping her and a soft expression in her eyes as she gazed and gazed at the baby. She finally sighed again and handed him back to Audrey after kissing him on the top of the head. "You're so lucky, Aud."

Her sister snorted. "Are you envying me now? I'd tell Mum except that she always did think that you should envy me. And I always told her how mad she was. Before I came out, of course." Audrey laughed again. "She had no idea how her plan to make me a proper young lady backfired spectacularly. All of those teas with the other young social-climbers of Melbourne and lessons in comportment, learning to get on with the 'right' girls. Well, if only she knew how many of the 'right' girls are actually dykes..."

"Audrey!" Tilda said, admonishing her.

"What? I'm allowed to say it. And did you know Mum actually told me you'd probably turn out a dyke? She thought that by giving you power tools and teaching you carpentry Dad was turning you into a lesbian," she said, laughing so hard tears were rolling down her cheeks.

"Is that what happened to me?" Nick said with wide eyes, as though this had finally been explained to her. "I had no idea that if I got rid of my spanner collection and stopped working on my car I'd begin to fancy men," she said in mock-wonder.

They all laughed even harder at that and Harry smiled; they were having such a good time together. Even Pip was laughing at this, and he had come to think of her as the keeper of the status quo when it came to relations between men and women. He noticed, however, that she didn't seem terribly interested in Tilda's brother when he would have sworn that she'd be likely to throw herself at anything male. Perhaps he'd judged her unfairly. Or perhaps a penniless drifter wasn't worth even considering and he hadn't misjudged her.

Pip seemed fine with Audrey and Nick, at any rate. Audrey was evidently the only one who called her partner "Nicola." He suspected that she was the only one permitted to use her full name, and that she did it out of affection. Nick clearly adored the baby as much as everyone else present; Harry didn't think the child was out of someone's lap for more than five minutes all evening. The baby gear sat in a corner, unused.

It was strange to simply stand there observing the party--he'd completely forgotten about going upstairs--but he appreciated the opportunity to observe Tilda with others. She seemed to be a different person around her brother and sister, and whenever she had the chance to hold her nephew there was no mistaking the longing in her eyes.

When it was finally time for presents, Tilda discovered that Pip had given her a rather racy negligee. She turned the same bright red as the silky nightgown and Harry's mouth went dry, thinking of her wearing it.... or perhaps not wearing it....

"Erm, thanks Pip," Tilda said, stuffing it back into the box.

"For the future," Pip said, toasting Tilda with her third glass of wine; Harry thought she looked a bit glassy-eyed.

"Are you sure you girls don't want to tell the rest of us something--?" Nick said suggestively, waggling her eyebrows. Pip guffawed.

"I wish. If I could fall for Tilda my life would be a lot easier than it is. That prat I met at the club last week still hasn't called me back," she whinged. Tilda glanced down at the boxed nightgown, then up at Pip, and Harry had a feeling that she was having the same thought he was having: Pip had bought the nightgown for herself, for the benefit of her own Club Creep. She both gave up on him and decided to take care of her birthday obligation to Tilda in one fell swoop.

"Well, thanks," Tilda said, looking more sympathetic toward her friend. "And it's his loss," she said emphatically. Pip smiled ruefully at her.

Audrey and Nick gave Tilda a photo album. It had numerous pictures from their childhood, before their parents split up, and also had a lot of photos of Audrey growing up in Australia. At the end were baby pictures of little Jimmy with both of his mums.

"Oh, Aud and Nick! Thank you!" she said, hugging it to her.

"Did you see the one right up front? You started about half-way through," her sister said. Tilda opened the album again and even Harry could see, across the room, that this first page had a picture of their parents on their wedding day. He crept a little closer, so he could see better. Tilda traced her finger over her mother's elaborate lacy gown, over her father's smart suit. They appeared to be very young and very happy.

"Ah, well. That was a long time ago," Tilda whispered, her eyes moist. Audrey put her arm around one shoulder and Jack, looking a little less scattered, put his arm around her from the other direction. She smiled at her brother and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then turned and kissed her sister, too. She smiled sadly at Audrey.

"Are you sure you can't put off your flight for a day at least?"

Audrey sighed. "You know Mum. She arranged for tickets for the twenty-ninth for a reason. That's what she does every year."

Tilda nodded and snorted. "Just so you won't be here on my birthday. Because she'll never forgive me."

Audrey sighed and put her head on Tilda's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Til. I've tried to talk sense into her for years--"

Tilda shook her head and extricated herself from her siblings, starting to move around the room, cleaning up. "It's not your responsibility, Aud. She's the one who won't forgive."

Audrey raised her eyebrows. "Just out of curiosity, have you ever told her that you forgive her for leaving Dad?"

Tilda stopped picking up plates and glasses, her mouth very thin. "Well, no. The trouble is, I'd be lying if I did."

Audrey grimaced. "Well, there you go. You're two of a kind, aren't you? It's no wonder you don't get on...."

"I'm nothing like Mum!" Tilda cried, clearly outraged. Audrey smirked, sceptical.

"No, nothing like her at all," she said with mock-innocence, rolling her eyes for Nick's benefit when Tilda turned back to the cleaning up. Jack grinned but Audrey kicked him, making him wince. Harry stifled a laugh and remembered the goings-on at the Weasley house; watching the Harrisons reminded him of Fred, George, Ron and Ginny. Missing all of the Weasleys suddenly hit him like a punch in the stomach, and he wished he knew how they were, whether poor Ron and Ginny were being made to do more cleaning at Grimmauld Place, wondering how the twins' joke shop was faring and whether they were all still trying to eavesdrop on Order meetings with the Extendable Ears....

"I can't believe you finally got all of these organised, Aud," Jack said, thumbing through the album while Tilda was cleaning up; he didn't offer to help.

"Well, if I didn't do it, no one would, since I'm the only organised one in the family," Audrey said without irony. "That's clearly something Mum and Dad had in common; living with Mum finally made me an organised person. I couldn't have tolerated her if I didn't take the flat in hand and do something about the clutter...."

Tilda laughed. "Well, sadly, neither Jack nor I reacted that way to Dad's clutter. I'm of the stuff-it-all-in-a-cupboard school of housecleaning." Harry tried not to laugh; it was true.

She carried the plates and glasses into the kitchen and the moment she was gone, Audrey hissed at her brother, "Well? What did you get her?"

"The usual. I'm going to do stuff around the house for her. Sounds like that 'haunted' loo is the first thing."

"Oh, right," Audrey said, then lowered her voice to a whisper. "Does anyone else think she was barmy when we first arrived, though?" She glanced nervously toward the kitchen door. "She's fine now. Has been. But at first--"

"Oh, yeah. Definitely," the other three all agreed.

"She's been especially queer whenever I've tried to come see her in the last week," Pip whispered irritably. "And I've needed terribly to vent about the pillock I met..." She sighed. "I have a bad feeling he may be married."

"Oh, poor Pip," Audrey clucked at her. Nick put her hand on Audrey's shoulder and Audrey put her hand over Nick's, beaming up at her lovingly.

Jack sprang up and pulled a reluctant Pip into a bearish hug. As he squeezed her shoulder for emphasis she winced. "I'm still available though, love." He grinned at her but she sighed, looking up at him and then away.

"Yes. Yes, you certainly are," she said, as though this would be a worse fate than loneliness. Tilda returned to the living room while his arm was still around her.

"Going slumming now, are we, Pip?" she asked her best friend, grinning when her brother hurled a pillow at her; she ducked and laughed.

As Audrey, Nick and Pip prepared to leave, Harry started to panic; he'd been intending to go upstairs while there were still enough people present to mask the noise of his going. He eyed the hall nervously; there was no way he was going to get past Audrey and Nick with all of their baby gear. Finally, they were gone and he crept to the hall just in time for Jack to turn suddenly and walk right into him. Harry backed up abruptly, falling onto the stairs, but luckily still staying covered by the Cloak. Jack's eyes widened and he jerked his head about, as though he'd lost track of a fly he was trying to kill.

"What was that?" He turned to Tilda. "I thought Pip was joking about you saying you'd seen Dad's ghost, but--"

Tilda frowned nervously. "What--what are you talking about, Jack?" Harry inched his way up the stairs, and just in time, for Jack was flailing his arms about, trying to repeat the physical contact he'd made. His fingers closed on empty air, however, and Harry continued inching up the stairs on his bottom, step by step, as slowly and silently as he could. However, when he landed on a creaking tread, Jack's eyes opened even wider and he looked up, right at Harry, it seemed. Harry stared back, a lump in his throat.

Tilda tugged on her brother's arm, pulling him away from the stairs, also glancing nervously in Harry's direction. "You've had too much wine. Lie down; get some rest..."

"I've had too much wine plenty of times in my life, but I've never experienced that," he declared, pointing at the stairs. Harry still sat on the creaking step, afraid to move.

"I never told Pip I'd seen Dad's ghost. I--I thought I felt his presence, that's all--"

"Yeah, well, I felt his presence too. I bloody bumped into him," Jack insisted, his voice shaking.

Tilda shushed him and helped him get settled on the couch. "Get some rest. You'll be right as rain in the morning."

"I'll need a hair of the dog in the morning," Jack said sleepily, making Harry think of Sirius, both the way he'd been drinking far too much during his last year of life and also making him think of his dog form, bounding happily along Platform Nine and Three Quarters on the day he'd seen Harry off to his fifth year of school...

"All right, whatever you need," Tilda said wearily, as though she'd say anything to get him to settle down. "Good night," she said, patting his cheek. She went to the hall and started climbing the stairs; now that she was on them Harry dared to stand and walk up the rest of the stairs, going ahead of her into the bedroom.

As soon as he entered the room he remembered that he had nowhere to sleep but the bed, with Tilda, which was suddenly making him sweat bullets. What were they going to do about that? She'd said they would work out 'sleeping arrangements.'

She closed the bedroom door and hissed at him, "Harry? Are you here?"

He removed the Cloak, running his hands through his hair afterward. "Yeah. Sorry about that. He moved too fast..."

"Ssh! Whisper! And you'd bloody well better move faster than him in future," she chastised him quietly. He looked at her sheepishly and she relented with a sigh. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just--Jack's not the most predictable person in the world. About some things he is, but the rest of the time he's sort of--random. You need to be very careful."

Harry sucked in his breath. "Would he come up here?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "No, except to use the loo and shower. He won't actually come in here, though. We're safe."

Harry swallowed, wondering whether this is what she had told Tom about her father the time he'd caught the two of them together. He started sweating even more.

She went to the wardrobe and pulled down a strange bundle, thrusting it at him. "There you go--that's my sleeping bag. Haven't used it in donkey's years, but it should be fine. Lay it out on the far side of the bed, so it's not visible from the door, in case he were to come up here. After all, I can't very well have him finding you in my bed and me on the floor next to it," she said reasonably.

Harry nodded. She'd never intended for us to share the bed. Of course. What was I thinking? But he knew what he was thinking. He was finding it very hard to stop thinking of the red nightgown....

He wore his Cloak to go into the bathroom with her so that they could both brush their teeth. As they were later settling down to sleep (she wore an old tee shirt and some jogging shorts, not the gift from Pip, which disappointed him but did not surprise him) he glanced up at her, lying peacefully on the large bed, her face in repose.

"Good night, Tilda," he whispered.

She didn't open her eyes. "G'night, Harry," she answered sleepily.

A few minutes later she was snoring away. Harry smiled, turning over onto his back, unsurprised by the snoring. However, he was surprised by how difficult it was to get comfortable. The sleeping bag was completely inadequate. No matter what he did, he could not ignore the hard floor under his body. If he had Dudley's sort of padding he might be able to sleep on a floor, but his sharp bones were a poor fit for this, and the sleeping bag was thin and insubstantial. He glared up at the ceiling, picturing her brother on the comparatively comfortable couch and hating him. Tilda continued to snore.

Well, at least one of us will get a good night's sleep, he thought grumpily. He continued to stare at the ceiling until his eyes finally closed from sheer exhaustion and he forgot everything else.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

If Harry thought it was difficult to hide in Tilda's house without her finding out about him, it was nothing to hiding from her brother, who was still suspicious after coming into contact with Harry in the front hall. He had to tread very lightly when walking around her bedroom, without his trainers on, lest Jack should detect two sets of footsteps overhead. Tilda told him that Jack was constantly looking around wildly and making abrupt gestures, as though he would catch out the ghost of his father. She found it very difficult not to laugh about this; after Jack went out to find what he called some "real" coffee, she came up to the bedroom, laughing uncontrollably before she had even entered, as though she'd been restraining herself for as long as she could and a dam had broken.

Harry was mystified, but quite liking the way she looked when she was laughing so uncontrollably. He found it quite infectious, besides. When she had finally regained the power of speech, she told him (her laughter threatening to overtake her again) what her brother had been doing, re-enacting it for him with all of the wild gesticulation before collapsing once more in hysterics, sitting next to Harry on the bed, where he'd retreated to get some real sleep after she'd gone downstairs. It was impossible not to laugh at her enthusiastic performance, although he did chastise her a little: "I didn't laugh at you for thinking I was your dad's ghost." He didn't admit that he did think she was a bit dim.

She wasn't the least bit abashed about that. "If you'd grown up with my brother, you'd be laughing, too," was all she said. He didn't understand quite what she meant by that, but he assumed that brothers and sisters had certain inside jokes about each other that outsiders would never get. (He'd experienced this with the Weasleys, as well, but in their case most of the jokes seemed to be at Ron's expense, and Ron was not interested in telling embarrassing stories about himself.) Harry certainly had enough things concerning Dudley that made him laugh in private, up in his room, that other people would probably not understand.

When their laughter had subsided Harry realised that they were sitting very close together on the bed. They simply sat gazing at each other for a long minute before Tilda abruptly stood and mumbled something about getting him some food. She practically ran from the room. Harry watched her go, his heart thumping very quickly. Before she'd stood, her face had been so close to his...

With Jack out of the house Tilda was able to smuggle food up to the bedroom for him and he was able to use the bathroom, but just as he was about to step into the shower, Jack returned and she ran into the room to warn him not to turn on the water; Harry was still wearing his jeans and shirt (he'd been planning to let the water warm up while he undressed) and he was glad that she'd run in before he'd undressed, although a part of him wondered what she would have done if she'd caught him about to step under the water...

Despite the fact that he was still fully clothed they were both bright red afterward, and she later apologised for his not being able to shower. "No, I'm sorry," he said, grimacing. "I can't smell me nearly as well as you probably can..."

She patted him on the arm. "Oh, you're fine," she assured him. A tingle remained where her hand had been after she removed it; he tried not to think about this.

Jack spent much of the day working on the downstairs toilet, so Tilda was able to spend some time upstairs with Harry on the pretext that she was cleaning out her wardrobe, and she was able to smuggle some food up to him for dinner with only a little difficulty. When they went to sleep that night Harry lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling again, willing himself not to stare at her as she slept. It was finally sheer exhaustion once again that overwhelmed him and made his eyes fall shut.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tilda Harrison opened her eyes, taking in the familiar shapes in the still room, bathed in a gentle grey pre-dawn light. Two days. For two days her every thought had been to keep her brother from realising that there was an almost-sixteen-year-old boy in her house, and more specifically, in her bedroom. What would Jack think of that? What would anyone?

She peered down at Harry now; he was sleeping with his mouth open, snoring loudly. She smiled; he was such a typical teenager in some ways, and yet quite atypical in others. His face was far more angular than she remembered it being when he was young; he'd lost all of the soft roundness of childhood, and she'd found it especially strange the first time she'd noticed facial hair, although he hadn't needed to shave since. Without his glasses, the scar she remembered so well stood out even more vividly, the hair falling back while he was in repose, and she thought about his poor parents, betrayed by someone on their own side...

Then the thought of Harry, the little boy she'd known and taught, becoming a spy, of all things, made her simultaneously want to laugh and cry. She'd been able to get to know him far better than she ever had when he was her pupil and she had quite enjoyed laughing with him, talking to him for hours on end, and even cleaning with him. The one thing she couldn't reconcile was the image of him as a secret agent, a spy. She tried to picture him as James Bond but failed; in her head he wore an immaculate tuxedo and was smirking in a rather un-Harry-like fashion, but when he tried to drink the martini in his hand he spit it out abruptly upon realising what it was...

She laughed aloud at this mental image, then clapped her hand over her mouth when Harry mumbled in his sleep and started to turn onto his side; he grimaced, then returned to reclining flat on his back. Two lines appeared between his brows and did not go away. She remembered then that she'd found him in the bed every time she'd left him upstairs by himself and had returned; he'd always been fast asleep and had appeared quite startled when she'd woken him. Was he catching up on his sleep? Was he really getting enough rest sleeping on the floor? She was starting to doubt it.

Poor Harry! she thought, suddenly feeling terrible about making him use the sleeping bag on the floor. Bloody hell, what are you afraid of? she demanded of herself. Old prude. He's just a kid. The bed is enormous. There's no reason he couldn't use it, too. This is stupid. She decided that she should wake him, invite him to use the mattress, but she also didn't want to stop watching him. He was definitely one of the most interesting people she'd ever met, which was sad, really. The rest of her life was unspeakably boring compared to the time she'd spent sheltering him in her house, and she certainly didn't remember ever opening up to anyone else the way she had with him, telling him everything about her life. He was a good listener and very sympathetic.

She continued to watch over him as he slept, trying to imagine him at her age, how he would grow into those sharp cheekbones, how he would hold himself when he was a man. His arms are already quite nice, she found herself thinking rather against her will; not really big, just--capable-looking. He was sleeping in his jeans and T-shirt and it was easy for her to see his thin-but-not-too-thin arms. He'd only shown a little strain when lifting some rather heavy things while they were cleaning; she knew that his thinness didn't mean he was delicate.

But then she noticed something strange on his right arm; she lay at the very edge of the mattress and reached down, running the tip of her finger very lightly along the thin but distinct line. Another scar. This one, however, was better camouflaged than the one on his brow. She could feel the rough, raised skin with her fingertip, but if she squinted while looking at it the skin was all the same colour, whereas there were times that Harry's other scar stood out so vividly he appeared to have received it only recently.

Poor Harry! she thought again. He'd had such a hard life and seemed to be so alone in the world, the Dursleys nothwithstanding. (Or perhaps it was partly because of the Dursleys that it seemed to her that he was so alone.) She continued to run her finger along the rough contour of the scar on his arm, wishing she could make everything all right for him, wishing...

Dreadful things, she suddenly realised, snatching her hand away.

Oh, God. I am a dreadful, dreadful person... She looked at his face again. It's just that he's so thin. He wants feeding up, she thought, suddenly wanting to make him more eggs, or anything that would stick to his ribs, which were very slightly visible through the thin material of the shirt. However, the maternal feeling passed and she found herself looking at his arms again, followed swiftly by a feeling of disgust sweeping over her. Bloody hell, she thought. What am I doing, looking at his arms? Why couldn't I have a thirty-two year old spy hiding in my house? But she didn't. She had Harry, and he was going to be turning sixteen on the same day she turned thirty-two. It wasn't fair. She never got on this well with anyone, and when she did, it was a boy exactly half her age. Why couldn't I still be sixteen? she thought instead, then sighed. Maudlin. Audrey was right. If I'm not careful I'm going to spend all of my time worrying about getting old. Next thing I'll start actually considering surgery on my eyelids or some such nonsense...

THUD!

She looked up in alarm; an owl had just flown straight into the bedroom window! She watched it swoop in a circle and prepare to fly at the glass again. Her heart in her throat, she watched it smash headlong into the heavy glass, wincing when it made contact.

THUD!

What on earth--? she thought, springing to her feet, realising that if the owl ran into the glass again it could very well concuss itself. What kind of mad bird is this? she wondered, even as she prepared to open the window; the owl was flying in a circle again, preparing to approach once more.

Mad bird? I must be the one who's mad for letting it in, she thought, ducking instinctively as the bird swooped successfully through the open window this time, landing on top of the wardrobe, hooting loudly. She glanced at Harry, who was so exhausted that he was sleeping through all of the racket. She hoped Jack wasn't awoken by the owl.

Then she noticed that there was an envelope tied to the owl's leg and she glanced at Harry again. Was it possible that their government was using trained owls to contact their spies-in-training? It didn't seem impossible. But then again, she did seem to remember occasional news reports of overactive owls flying about in the daytime....

"Here, pretty owl," she cooed to it, uncertain of what to do. "What have you got there, then? Is it something for Harry? I'll take it for him," she tried to say in as soothing a voice as possible, keeping an eye on the bird of prey's sharp talons. She was shocked that this actually worked; the bird flew down from the wardrobe and perched on her shoulder, but didn't dig its talons into her flesh (only her shirt). She untied the envelope from its ankle and had no sooner done this than the bird did dig its talons into her shoulder, making her grunt in pain. It took to the sky again, sailing effortlessly through the open window. She glanced out at the neighbourhood for a moment, holding the letter, to see whether anyone else had noticed the owl, but this window faced her neighbour on the side away from Mrs Figg, and the entire street seemed still to be drowsing in the pre-dawn light.

She frowned down at the envelope, which was a yellowing parchment colour. Harry Potter was written in swirling green ink on the front. At the bottom edge of the envelope were the words OWL Results. OWL? Well, she thought, it was delivered by an owl... She didn't know what to make of this, but there was no question it was for him. She thought it looked rather queer for a communication to a spy, though. Turning it over, she saw that it was sealed with purple wax. The seal itself was quite elaborate, but she couldn't quite make out the pattern because of the dark colour. Creeping to her desk, she pulled out a magnifying glass she still had from when she and her dad had been stamp collectors and she used this to peer at the design.

Ministry of Magic, it read.

She blinked, wondering if her mind was playing tricks on her. She peered through the magnifying glass again. Ministry of Magic? She glanced from the envelope to the peacefully sleeping Harry and back again, thinking about his explanation for the Invisibility Cloak and for the odd things he'd done as a child. She thought about Mrs Figg, who was decidedly odd, and how it seemed even odder for her to be a retired spy. She remembered the way Harry had seemed genuinely baffled as a child by ending up on the roof of the school kitchens, not as though he had done it by using some spy-prototype trainers left to him by his parents, but as though some ability he'd previously not suspected had suddenly manifested itself...

Something was clicking into place in her brain. Something was whispering in her ear, This is why you thought he was an alien. And he was telling the truth when he said that he's not, but it's something else again...

She remembered also that he'd looked quite panicked when she'd said that he wasn't like other people, and then shocked when she'd accused him of being an alien. He thought I'd guessed the truth, she realised. And then he fed me that load of rubbish about being a spy-in-training...

She glared at him now, wondering whether he thought her to be the stupidest person on the planet. Probably. Her chest tightened at the memory and she felt like kicking something. How could I have believed all of that? But then she looked down at the Ministry of Magic seal again. Feeling suddenly disgruntled and not very friendly toward Harry, Tilda Harrison set her jaw and opened the seal, thinking, It's not exactly the Royal Post, now, is it?

She withdrew a thick piece of yellow parchment from the envelope, pausing for a second when Harry snuffled in his sleep, but as soon as she'd scanned it she no longer cared about being rude and waking him, nor about how he might react to her opening his letter.

Angry. She felt incredibly angry, both with herself and with Harry. He'd played her for a fool. An utter fool. She felt like a dunce and an idiot. And yet, she also thought--if he'd told her the truth, would she have believed that? Well, she had proof before her now, didn't she? In black and white.

Or green and yellow.

She strode to the sleeping bag, crouched down and shook him roughly awake, holding up the letter so it was the first thing he would see upon opening his eyes. Unfortunately, she didn't count on his not being able to read it without his glasses.

"Hunh?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. Tilda withdrew the letter so that it was no longer touching his nose. She stood, pacing angrily, not caring whether her footsteps woke her brother in the living room below.

"Wake up, Harry. A letter has come for you." She glanced down at it, at the strange but also strangely familiar turns of phrase. "It seems that you took some examinations for your Ordinary Wizarding Levels," she read carefully. "Isn't that right? And your Ministry of Magic," she said, drawing it out, "has sent you the results now." Her voice was shaking as she spoke.

Harry gawped at her, then fumbled to put his glasses on, still unable to do anything but stare at her open-mouthed. She glared at him, although she could also tell that he felt terrible for lying to her. She still could not help her anger, even seeing his remorse.

Harry swallowed now, taking in her expression. He could tell that she knew he'd been lying to her. Well, I can't possibly get in trouble for this, can I? he thought. After all, it's because of the Ministry itself that she knows the truth....

He smiled feebly, still sitting on the floor, while she continued to glare at him.

"So," he said with an awkward, forced smile, his voice pitched higher than he would have liked. "How'd I do?"

---