Hunted

Chapter 11: The Gift of the Animagi

The adjustment to residing at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was not easy for Angela. On week days, she had her work at the Ministry of Magic to occupy her. But the weekends and evenings when she was confined to headquarters were difficult.

Attacks on members of the Order continued unabated. Consequently, the former Black mansion became a veritable hotel for the victims. Not a single weekend passed without someone spending the night there. The unremitting string of incidents served as a constant reminder of the tragedy that had just befallen her. And the ever present danger only heightened her husband's concern for her safety.

The other consequence of this arrangement was that Remus was always in demand. Private moments alone with him were a rarity, except for the very end of the day, when they were both quite exhausted. However, Dumbledore had ordered Remus to keep up their scheduled dueling lessons. So Angela was guaranteed at least a couple of hours of her husband's undivided attention every Saturday afternoon. This soon became the highlight of her week. Thus a gray and dreary November passed to a soggy and miserable December.

On the afternoon of December twenty-third, two days before Christmas, Angela entered the hallway of the mansion. She marveled at the measures that Remus had taken to prepare the house for their first Christmas as husband and wife. Evergreens and holly berries festooned the hallway chandelier in the flickering gaslight. But the heads of the cast-iron serpents protruded through the branches, like some sinister presence lurking just under a thin veneer of holiday cheer. Even the festive décor could not disguise the grim reality of this house. She sighed.

She set down her parcels just inside the door. Her fingers worked on the clasp to her cloak. She reached to hang the garment on the coat rack near the door and stopped. Remus' worn and shabby old cloak was hanging there. He was home oday, not out on some errand.

Just then, she heard voices and laughter coming from the sitting room across the corridor. Leaving her purchases by the door, she walked to the parlor and peered inside. Tonks and the elder Weasleys, along with Ron, Ginny, and Hermione Granger, were in the sitting room with Remus. And there was Harry Potter.

"Oh, darling," Remus said, when he saw her. "Look who's here. It's..." His words died on his lips. He just stared at her for an awkward moment. "You've done something to your hair."

"I thought I needed a change," Angela remarked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"It looks very nice, dear." Molly glanced from Remus to Angela. "Very modern."

Remus continued to stare, at a complete loss for words. He was unable to hide his disappointment. Angela smiled nervously and backed toward the door.

"Well, I've just come from shopping," she muttered, motioning toward the hallway. "I'll go put the packages upstairs and come right back down. Please excuse me."

She turned and exited the room in hasty retreat. Her hands grasped the parcels and she bounded up the stairs. Once in the bedroom, she dropped the packages on the bed and walked to a large looking glass in a carved cherry frame.

Her eyes surveyed her reflection in the mirror. She ran her fingers through her bobbed haircut. Her long chestnut tresses had been shorn. Masses of short, fine curls now covered her head. Her fingers straightened one of the tendrils, willing it to be longer. But the curl sprang back to her scalp as soon as she released it, as short as ever. Tears welled in Angela's eyes.

"You're really starting to show now," the mirror commented in a motherly voice. "Just look at you."

Angela turned her body sideways, presenting her profile to the mirror. Her hands ran across her abdomen and pulled the folds of her linen dress in close to her body to accentuate her burgeoning belly. Her thoughts strayed to the little lives growing within her. A wistful smile tugged on the corners of her mouth.

She was nearly five months along now. The nausea that had accompanied the first months of her pregnancy had passed, along with the fatigue. She had much more energy, but her body was rapidly changing form. She could no longer hide her condition under loose-fitting clothing. Instead she had used Tailoring Charms to alter all her dresses and trousers to fit. And she would have dearly loved to raid her husband's wardrobe for a comfortable old shirt, but he had so few decent ones to spare, and even fewer since the attack that had devastated their home. Sadness filled her green eyes at the memory.

The door to the bedroom creaked open. Through the reflection in the looking glass, Angela could see her husband standing in the doorway. She watched as he entered the room, shutting the door behind him. Her gaze flickered to the lost and helpless expression on his face. A palpable silence fell across the room, a heaviness that settled over everything like a thick blanket of fog.

"The others...er..." Remus stammered, pointing back over his shoulder. "I...er...I just came to see...how you were doing?"

His shoulders slumped. He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on her hair. Obviously, he wanted to ask, but did not appear to have the slightest idea how to broach the subject.

"My mother and Ravena took me to a Muggle hair dresser," Angela blurted out. "They make wigs for Muggle children who are sick and have lost their hair. She said that my hair was beautiful. That it would make some child very happy." She sniffled and blinked back her tears. "And they gave me a very good price for it."

She turned from the mirror to look into his face. He wore a look of puzzlement, as if he were struggling to comprehend what she had done. Her gaze turned back to her reflection. Her fingers tugged on a curl.

"I know that you liked my hair long," she whispered, her voice quavering. "But it will grow back in time. And it seemed the best way."

"I don't understand," he said, finally finding his voice.

Angela pointed to the largest parcel on the bed. The gift was wrapped in festive foil paper and tied with a bright red bow. "It's your Christmas present," she said. "Go ahead. Open it."

"But it's not Christmas yet." He shook his head.

"It's all right," she replied, casting him a feeble smile. "I think I could use a little Christmas now."

He walked to the bed and sat down. A reluctant hand reached for the package and tore away the paper. His mouth fell open. He pulled out the garment and held it up to the light, a gray woolen cloak.

"I got it second hand and it's a bit old-fashioned," she apologized. "But Mother helped me alter it for you. And the material is very good. A nice heavy worsted wool. It'll keep you warm. I hope you like it."

He nodded, his fingers running over the material. "Thank you," he said. "It's wonderful. But it must have been expensive." He gazed back at her and whispered, "You shouldn't have done this for me."

"You're always thinking of others, never giving a thought to yourself." Angela cast him a doting look. "But I couldn't let you go another season in that tatty old cloak of yours. What kind of wife would I be?"

"You didn't have to sell your lovely hair," he protested. "We still have some of the money that Sirius left me."

"Yes, but soon we'll have two more mouths to feed." She rested her hand on her stomach. "We'll need cribs and prams. And there's the house to repair. Please don't be angry with me. It was the only way."

"How could I be angry with you for so selfless a gesture?" His blue-gray eyes glistened.

Remus dropped his gaze, now staring down at the bed. He laid the cloak down on the coverlet. His fingers ran through his hair. Then he turned back to his wife, staring at her with wonder.

"Look at you," he whispered, gazing at her with adoration. "You're radiant. You glow. I don't think I've ever seen a more beautiful woman."

Angela blushed. An enormous grin lit up her face. She cast her husband an admiring glance.

"Come," Remus said, holding out his hand. "As long as we're opening presents, you must open mine."

Angela went to his side. Remus knelt down, pulled his trunk from under the bed, and extracted a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with string. He handed the parcel to his wife, an eager look of anticipation on his face. Angela took the package, feeling through the paper with her fingers.

"It's a book," she ventured. "Another dueling text?"

"You'll see," Remus replied, grinning. "Well, go on. Open it."

Angela tore the paper from the package. The parcel contained a book, but not a text book as she had surmised. Her fingers brushed across the padded blue cover embossed with the word Memories in glittering gold letters. Her impatient hand opened it. There on the first page was a wizard photograph of a plump baby boy, cooing and bouncing on the knee of a youthful Julius Lupin. She giggled with delight.

"It's you," she exclaimed, her voice tinkling with laughter. "How did you get this?"

"I've been collecting old photos from our parents and friends," he explained, his blue-gray eyes sparkling. "You were so upset by the loss of our wedding photo. And what with the expectation of our new arrivals, the project kind of grew."

"It's marvelous," she gushed, now turning the page.

"This is me." Remus pointed to a picture of a six-year-old boy with tousled sandy hair romping in a field with two shaggy sheepdogs nearly twice his size. They turned the page. "And you know this picture," he added.

Angela's eyes studied the familiar dog-eared photograph of Remus and his three Hogwarts companions. All four young men were posed in front of the castle, dressed in their uniforms emblazoned with the Gryffindor logo on their lapels. Sirius Black winked cheekily from out of the photograph, a rakish grin on his face. James Potter, with thick black hair that stuck up at odd angles just like Harry's, played with a golden snitch. With a quick flick of his wrist, he would release the snitch, only to snatch it back again. Peter Pettigrew stood in the middle, dwarfed by his comrades. He watched James with rapt attention. A young Remus Lupin stood at the end, that winsome smile on his face. Angela glanced over at her husband. Her eyes filled with tears of joy.

"What's wrong?" Remus asked, furrowing his brow. "Is it something I've done?"

"Yes." Angela nodded her head. "This is too wonderful for words. I don't know what to say. I don't deserve you."

"Oh, is that all." Remus sighed with relief. His face sported that grin once more. He pointed back to the album. "But you're missing the best part. I've got pictures of you, and your brothers, your family, and our wedding. And I've even left pages in the back for photographs of the children..." He glanced over at her with a perplexed look.

Angela wasn't looking at the book at all, but staring into his eyes with a rapturous gaze. She allowed the keepsake album to slide from her lap onto the bed beside her. Her arms encircled his neck. Her lips met his with a tender kiss.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You're quite welcome," he said, chuckling.

"I've just had a thought," Angela said.

"Yes," Remus prompted with an eager stare.

"We haven't really discussed names for the babies," she broached, casting him a hopeful glance, "but if they are boys, I think we should name them for your best friends. In tribute."

"James and Sirius," he mused. "An excellent idea! And Harry would make a fine godfather. What do you think?"

"Brilliant!" Angela replied, that blithe smile back on her lips. She glanced at the door. "Well, I suppose that we should get back downstairs. We have been gone for a while. We might be missed."

"I think we have some time yet," Remus replied, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Fred and George arrived a short time ago. They were describing their Rubber Chicken Hex to the others when I left to come up here. That should keep them entertained for a while." Angela giggled. He smiled. "And Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Harry, and the twins are staying here at headquarters for a few days, while Arthur and Molly go to Romania to see Charlie." Remus cast her a wistful stare. "Besides, I haven't had much time alone with you lately."

Angela heard raucous laughter coming from somewhere down below. She ignored it, preferring her husband's company. Remus pulled her onto his lap. She closed her eyes and drank in his passionate kiss.

* * * * * * * *

Angela stooped over the heavy table in the kitchen and rolled out the dough for the Christmas pies. Her nimble fingers moved the wooden pin back and forth, forming a perfect circle of dough. She flipped the pastry into the pan and pressed it to the sides of the pie plate, working her way around the edge with a practiced hand. With a house full of guests this year, she had plenty to do to prepare their holiday dinner. Besides, it was best to keep busy and not dwell on things too much.

Christmas should have been a happy time. But she had not wanted to spend her first Christmas with her husband in this gloomy, oppressive house. And with Remus trying so hard to make it a happy holiday, she only felt worse. Guilt mingled with her misery. She poured the mince filling into the crust, a wry smile on her lips. She was just like that Christmas pie, her diced up insides hidden under a pretty veneer of lattice pastry.

Eudora Hawkins, Angela's mother, worked beside her, tearing bread into small pieces for the stuffing. Her mother hummed a little tune as she worked. Her snow-white head nodded in time to the music. In spite her mother's off-key rendition, Angela recognized the tune as one of those old Muggle love songs that her father used to sing. She had heard them so often that she knew every word by heart. Had this been her cottage in Beecher's Knoll, she would have broken into song along with her mother. But there was something about this horrid home that stifled the music in her. So she listened, incapable of singing a single note.

Angela heard a loud bang from overhead, followed by a string of obscenities. She recognized the voice as that of her brother Paul. There were more angry words. A female voice joined the fray this time. Tonks! And then the portrait of Mrs. Black let loose with a stream of her own choice words. That damn portrait!

Upstairs, Paul, Tonks, Ron, and Harry were making repairs to Sirius' old motorcycle. Somehow they had managed to magically maneuver that monstrous machine into one of the spare bedrooms and had been working on it all morning. From all the commotion, Angela surmised that Tonks had had another little mishap.

When Angela had peeked in earlier, a disassembled brake system was laid out across the floor. Paul was giving a detailed lecture about the internals of hydraulic brakes, illustrated with conjured three-dimensional holographic engineering diagrams. As he launched into a discussion of push rods, pistons, and caliper assemblies, Angela had smiled and nodded, but had understood none of it. That is until Tonks had given the hand brake an accidental squeeze, causing the caliper assembly to close right on Paul's finger. That had been just the first incident of the morning.

The portrait stopped screaming. Angela heard approaching footsteps. Moments later, Ginny Weasley strolled into the kitchen with a despondent look on her freckled face.

"What happened this time?" Angela inquired with a quizzical stare.

"Tonks dropped a socket wrench on Paul's foot," Ginny answered, sighing.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hawkins remarked. "I do hope he's all right?"

"He can't be too badly hurt, Mum." Angela gazed up at the ceiling and listened to the voices floating down from above. "He's still up there working on that motorcycle. And listen, he's trying to patch it up with Tonks." She smiled and shook her head.

"Can I do anything to help?" Ginny asked, looking around the kitchen.

"Of course," Angela replied. "That lot of onions and celery needs to be cooked for the stuffing." Her hand pointed to a pile of vegetables on a wooden cutting board. A large cleaver was dicing them into fine pieces. "Take down a cauldron. The butter's already out on the table."

Ginny waved her wand and the cleaver fell idle. Then she dumped the vegetables and butter into the cauldron, added some water, and ignited the flame. As she stirred the pot, she glanced over at Angela as if she wanted to ask something.

Angela looked up from her cooking and shot Ginny a coaxing look. "So what's on your mind?" she asked. "Or did you just come down to help out?"

Ginny sighed again and hesitated. "How...er...how do you get boys to notice you?"

Angela laughed, eyeing the attractive sixteen-year-old. "Is there a particular boy that we're discussing? Or just boys in general?"

Ginny blushed and smiled shyly, but didn't answer.

"Isn't it obvious, dear?" Mrs. Hawkins rejoined, shooting Angela a knowing look. "It's a certain modest hero with a lightning-shaped scar. It's written in her eyes."

Ginny's mouth fell open. She stared down into the pot and prodded the mixture of onions and celery with a wooden spoon. But Angela could see the color on her freckled cheek deepen to a bright rosy hue.

"Harry?" Angela mused. "My sources told me that you fancied Neville Longbottom."

"No, Neville and I are just friends." Ginny's eyes popped open wide. She shook her head. "He's easy to talk to and all, but I don't fancy him. Who told you that?"

"Maybe I misunderstood," Angela replied, furrowing her brow. "Maybe it was Neville that fancied you?" Her fingers put the finishing touches of pastry on the last pie.

"No, Neville fancies someone else." Ginny giggled and shook her head.

"And how do you know?" Angela probed. "Did he tell you?"

"He doesn't have to," Ginny replied, sniggering. "He gets all tongue-tied. And when he does manage a word, his voice cracks and gets all squeaky and high whenever he's around Luna Lovegood." She giggled again.

"Poor dear," Mrs. Hawkins said, but she was wearing a broad smile. "So what about you and Harry? He doesn't get tongue-tied around you, does he?"

"No," Ginny rejoined with a frown. "He doesn't notice me at all. He treats me like a kid sister."

"Ah," Angela replied with a look of understanding. "So that's the problem."

Angela walked to the old cast-iron stove. Her hand opened the grate, grasped the poker, and probed the embers. She waved her wand and increased the flame. She thrust her hand inside the oven to check the temperature. Then she popped the pies inside to bake.

Ginny nodded. "So do you think you can make me pretty?" She cast Angela a hopeful glance.

"But you're already beautiful," Angela responded, studying Ginny's warm brown eyes and long red hair that cascaded halfway down her back. She watched as Ginny's face fell. Angela approached the young lady and gathered Ginny's hair in her fingers. "Well, my cousin is much better at this than I, but I suppose we could try a new hairdo and maybe a little makeup?" Ginny's face lit up. "What do you think, Mum?" Angela asked. "An upsweep with a twist or maybe a French braid?"

"The French braid," Mrs. Hawkins replied with a motherly smile.

Angela surveyed the kitchen, taking a quick inventory of the Christmas dinner preparations. Then she turned to her mother. "Mum, things look pretty much in order. Do you think that you could spare us for a half an hour?"

"You go right ahead," Mrs. Hawkins assured. "I'll manage."

A short while later in an upstairs bedroom, Angela had just finished plaiting Ginny's long tresses. Her fingers tied a green ribbon to secure the ends. A smile worked on Angela's lips as she surveyed her handiwork. Then she handed Ginny a small pocket mirror and spun her around so that she could check her reflection.

A lovely French braid trailed down Ginny's back, her face framed with wispy tendrils of ginger hair. The young girl's complexion was made up in soft natural shades. A dab of shiny gloss graced her lips. Ginny beamed back at her reflection in the looking glass.

"Just lovely," the mirror proffered.

Then Angela heard a scream rising up from the kitchen. Again the portrait of Mrs. Black in the hallway added to the cacophony. Angela sprinted from the bedroom, her feet pounding the stairs on her way down to the basement kitchen. Ginny followed hot on her heels, stopping only to silence the shrill screeches of the painting on her way past.

Angela raced into the kitchen. Her eyes stared at the scene before her with a look of disbelief. The cooked turkey, the centerpiece of their dinner, was hobbling around the kitchen table balanced on its drumsticks. Drippings from the carcass had left a telltale trail all over the tabletop. The bird's browned wing somehow held a large carving knife, which it brandished at Mrs. Hawkins with threatening gestures. A saucepan of gravy on the old pot-bellied stove hissed and spat. A large cauldron nearby spewed out great lumps of mashed potato. Mrs. Hawkins faced the fowl, a helpless look of horror on her face. Her snowy hair and clothing were spotted with bits of mashed potato and splotches of browned gravy.

"Stupefy!" Angela uttered, pointing her wand at the miscreant bird. The knife fell to the table with an ill-omened clatter. The turkey rolled over onto the tabletop and lay still. Ginny and Angela uttered more incantations, disabling various kitchen pots and utensils that had sprung to life.

Angela surveyed the damage. Tragedy was averted, but the kitchen was a horrific mess. She checked the pots, wondering what portions of the meal could be salvaged and what they could possibly serve in place of that murderous fowl. Mrs. Hawkins sank into a nearby chair.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hawkins muttered, eyeing the state of the kitchen and her best suit. "I'm so sorry, Angela. I don't know what happened. Everything just went berserk."

"It's not your fault, Mum," Angela soothed. "It's probably just this house." She shot her mother a sympathetic look. "Why don't you go upstairs and get changed. I'll clean up here."

Mrs. Hawkins rose slowly to her feet. She walked past the table, mumbling under her breath and casting suspicious glances at the fowl. When she'd gone upstairs, Angela tuned to Ginny.

"We'll eat in the formal dining room today," she said. "There should be a clean linen tablecloth in the old credenza. Kindly set the table up there please."

Ginny nodded and exited the room. An exasperated gasp escaped Angela's lips. Her gaze swept the cavernous kitchen. She raised her wand and motioned to a mop in the corner, sending it sloshing across the floor with a rhythmic splish-splash.

Her feet marched to the bead-board cupboard to fetch a few serving bowls, taking care not to tread on the mop or slip on the wet floor. She reached for the handle of the cupboard and pulled the door open. A large, hairy spider, the size of a dinner plate, scurried out.

Angela screamed and scrambled away from the cupboard. She slipped and fell on the hard stone floor. The spider scuttled across the flagstones, heading straight for the pantry, out of sight.

Angela swore. She rose to her feet and rubbed her bruised hip. Tears welled up in her green eyes.

"This damn, decrepit, old house," she spat, sobbing. "I hate it!"

"Are you all right?" a young man's voice asked from the stairs.

Angela spun around to see Harry standing in the doorway, a smudge of grease on his nose from his work in the motorcycle. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. His brilliant green eyes watched her with concern. An air of melancholy hung over him.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Angela muttered, casting him an apologetic glance. "I didn't know that you were there."

"It's all right," he answered. "He hated this place too."

"Who?" Angel dabbed her eyes with the corners of her apron.

"My godfather, Sirius Black," he explained, running a hand through that unkempt hair.

"Well, then I think I would have liked him," Angela replied with a weak smile.

"Yeah," Harry said, grinning. "Can I help?"

"Actually, Ginny's upstairs setting the dining room table for Christmas dinner," Angela suggested, a twinkle appearing in her eyes. "She could use some help. As you see, we've had a little accident here in the kitchen, so we'll be eating up there."

"Help Ginny?" Harry fidgeted with obvious discomfort.

"Why?" Angela probed. "Is something wrong?"

"No...er...nothing," Harry stammered. His shoulders drooped.

A smile flashed across Angela's face. "You like her, don't you?"

Harry didn't answer. He blushed and stared down at his shoes. His hand pushed his glasses back up his nose.

"It's no use," he insisted, turning back to stare at her. "She fancies Neville."

"And who told you that?" Angela inquired. "I happen to know differently."

Harry shot her an incredulous look. "Ron told me."

"Ron?" Angela burst into laughter. "Since when has he been an authority on girls? Everyone can see that Hermione fancies him, but he hasn't got a clue."

A broad smile broke over Harry's face.

"See, you know what I mean," Angela replied with a wink. "You noticed the way that she looks at Ron over dinner, those shooting glances. But he misses every one. By the end of the evening, Hermione's sitting with her arms crossed, glaring at him for being so thick."

"So...er...what do girls want?" he stammered, blushing again.

"It's simple really," Angela replied. "They want to be noticed. Pay her some attention. A sincere complement every now and then. Show some interest. If she's not interested in you, you'll know soon enough." Angela nodded toward the door. "Now go on. Ginny's up there in the dining room all alone. Just wash up first." She tapped her nose. "And don't forget that smudge."

Harry grinned. He swiped his nose with his sleeve. Then he turned and walked up the stairs, almost smacking into Remus who was on his way down.

"What happened in here?" Remus remarked, surveying the kitchen.

"Oh, we had an accident. And there's a large spider in the pantry." Angela grimaced. "Would you mind getting rid of it? I think I spotted a canned ham in there. We'll need it for dinner."

Remus glanced at the bird on the table and then back at Angela. "What's wrong with the turkey?"

"It armed itself and tried to attack mother," she explained.

"That's very odd." Remus' brow shot up in a look of surprise. He approached the bird, bent down, and peered inside the cavity. "Ah ha," he remarked. He whipped his wand from his back pocket. "Stupefy!"

His hand reached inside the bird and extracted something small and brown. He opened his palm to show Angela a scaly, mud-colored creature with large webbed ears, eyes that glowed like lanterns, and a malicious grin.

"A gremlin," he explained. "Apparently, he intended to make off with our main course."

Angela peeked into his hand at the curious-looking creature. "That little thing created all this mess?"

Remus nodded. The gremlin blinked back at Angela and then let out a high-pitched squeal. She jumped back in alarm. Remus' fingers clamped shut around the creature and jerked, as he struggled to keep hold of it. He pointed his wand at the troublesome beast and uttered "Egressus!"

The gremlin howled. Then it shot out of Remus' hand and up the fireplace flue. Puffs of black soot and ash filtered down from the chimney and landed on the hearth.

"They're pesky, but not particularly dangerous," Remus explained with a reassuring smile. He checked out the cooked bird. "And I don't see why we can't eat this turkey. There appears to be no harm done."

Angela sighed. Here was yet another reason to despise this place. No shortage of obnoxious pests.

"So what did Harry have to say?" Remus inquired.

"We discussed girls," Angela replied with an amused smile. She wiped up the spills on the table.

"Just what I would expect from a seventeen year old." Remus raised his eyebrows and grinned.

"But I suspect there's more on his mind than girl problems," Angela replied.

"Yes," Remus said, the smile fading from his face. "He's still having visions of Voldemort."

"Oh?" Angela responded with a look of surprise. "The same one?"

"Same location," Remus said, the crease deepening on his brow. "But the message was different this time." Angela flashed him an inquisitive stare. He hesitated and swallowed hard. "Get the Phoenix."

"What?" she exclaimed, a worried look now on her face.

"Dumbledore believes that it refers to the Order. And with all the attacks of late, it makes sense." He gave her an encouraging look, but she could see the doubt lingering in his eyes. "Don't worry," he added. "There's nowhere safer than Grimmauld Place."

A feeble smile crossed Angela's lips. That's all she needed to hear. She desperately wanted to return to Beecher's Knoll, not spend more time in this hellish abode.

"Oh, did I tell you what Francis and I found up in the attic?" Remus' eyes lit up.

Angela shook her head.

"A spinet," he remarked. "We moved it into the sitting room. Your brother is in there tuning it now. We'll have carols after dinner. And I know how you love to sing."

Angela flashed another wan smile. She didn't know how to tell him that she couldn't bring herself to sing. Not tonight.

"Well, dinner is ready." Angela handed him the carving knife and fork. "I'll start dishing the food, if you'll carve the turkey."

* * * * * * * *

After dinner, the group assembled in the parlor of Grimmauld Place. Harry and Ron retired to one corner for a game of wizard chess. Hermione looked none too pleased with the arrangement. She watched them with her arms crossed and a slight scowl on her face. Ginny sat behind her brother and watched as well, but with a far different expression. Angela noticed that Harry wasn't paying much attention to his game. Ron easily out-maneuvered him on the chess board. Harry's players exploded with alarming frequency. Harry made his next move.

"Are you mental?" Ron blurted out. "Check," he said, moving his knight and blasting Harry's rook into tiny bits.

But Harry didn't seem to mind in the least. He was too busy exchanging looks with Ginny over Ron's shoulder. Angela smiled and sniggered to herself, marveling that Ron seemed completely oblivious to the courting game going on right under his nose.

Meanwhile, Fred and George were engaged in a game of Exploding Snap. Mad-Eye and Remus conversed in another corner of the room. They spoke in low whispers, too quiet for any to overhear their conversation. Angela surmised that they were discussing the Order's business.

Paul conversed with Tonks, but she was doing all the talking. He gazed at her with lovelorn looks and nodded in agreement every so often. Mrs. Hawkins surveyed them both from the comfort of a squashy old chair, her feet propped up on an ottoman. Paul's twin brother, Francis had settled in a comfortable chair next to his mother and was reading a book.

"I think it's time for a song," she suggested, with a loving pat on her son Francis' hand.

Francis strolled across the room and settled himself on the stool to the spinet. He flexed his fingers and played a few scales and arpeggios to warm up. Music filled the room. The guests looked up from their conversations. Then Francis turned and faced his mother.

"What will it be, Mum?" he queried.

"When I Fall in Love," Mrs. Hawkins requested.

"Right," Francis replied with a nod. "Are you ready Paul? Hey, mate?"

But Paul, enamored with Tonks, ignored his brother. His gaze was still locked on her face. Mrs. Hawkins tapped Paul's shoulder and pointed to Francis. Paul's head whipped around to face his twin's jovial grin.

"You'll get your chance to serenade Tonks next," Francis intoned, with a chuckle and wink. "But it's Mum turn now. When I Fall in Love."

Francis' fingers flew over the worn ivories of the aged spinet. Paul dropped to one knee at his mother's feet. Both men launched into a sonorous rendition of the 1950's standard by Heyman and Young.

Angela surveyed them both. Her brothers looked and sounded just like her dearly departed father. His spirit clearly lived on in them, especially when they serenaded her mother, just as her father had done for all those years. A bittersweet tear trickled down her cheek at the remembrance. Then halfway through the song, she crept unnoticed from the room, overcome with sorrow.

Angela stood in the darkened hallway of the ancient manor just out of sight. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Feelings of hopelessness flooded over her. She moved away down the hall, not wanting anyone else to hear and unable to stifle her sobs.

Strains of another tune floated down the hall. Angela recognized the words of the Rodgers and Hart classic "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered." She froze, realizing that her brother must be serenading Tonks. She sniffled, retraced her steps, and stopped to listen just outside the doorway.

Her eyes peered into the room to see Paul on bended knee, singing to Tonks with ardor. Tonks just rolled her eyes, screwed up her face, and changed her appearance with every line. Buck teeth, pig snout, horns, pointed ears, and other features morphed on her face. Midway through the song, Paul stopped singing and let out an exasperated sigh. Francis kept playing for a few bars, until the tinkling of the keyboard trailed off in the vibrations of a single minor chord.

"Why do you always do that?" Paul huffed, shooting Tonks a hurt look.

"Why do you always sing such old songs?" Tonks countered, shaking her spiky pink hair. "Don't you know anything new?"

"Like what?"

"I dunno." Tonks shrugged. "Maybe something by the Weird Sisters?"

Paul met her with a blank stare and shook his head.

"The Zombies?" she ventured. Noting the puzzled look, she tried again. "Graveyard Shift?" Paul shook his head.

"He knows some Big Bad Voodoo Daddy," Francis volunteered, plinking out a swing tune on the spinet.

"No! No! No!" Tonks insisted, giving her spiky head another shake. "More like this!" She whipped out her wand and conjured an electric guitar. Her finger strummed the strings and the guitar emitted a wailing note. "You make my flesh crawl," Tonks belted out.

A broad grin of amusement appeared on Angela's face. But her laughter would prove short-lived. The whine of the guitar awakened the portrait of Mrs. Black in the hallway.

"FILTH, DISEASE, HALF-BREEDS, MUDBLOODS," the portrait screeched. "HOW DARE YOU BESMIRCH MY HOUSE WITH YOUR PRESENCE? BE GONE!"

Angela trembled with rage and despair. She had endured all that she could of this grim house. With gritted teeth and clenched fist, she strode through the dimly lit hallway toward the portrait. The words of the old crone rang in her ears, drowning out all other thoughts or sounds. Her eyes locked on the figure of a wizened, screaming woman. The old hag, dressed in black, drooled spittle, face twisted with hatred.

Angela's hands gripped the tattered drapes that normally concealed the portrait and jerked them closed. But they ripped open in spite of her efforts to hold them shut. In frustration, Angela released her hold, threw up her hands, and stepped away from the picture.

"SHUT UP!" she screamed back at the portrait. "JUST SHUT UP! YOU DESPICABLE PILE OF DUNG!"

She flung out her foot in a heel hook and slammed it into the center of the canvas. Her kick hit the image of the hag right in the chest. The heel of her shoe caught on the linen, punctured the canvas, and left a jagged tear across the middle of the picture. The old woman's mouth hung agape for a moment or two, silenced by the shock of the blow. She clutched at her stomach, as trails of scarlet coursed down the canvas from the tear.

Angela recoiled to the other side of the hallway in horror. When her back met the opposite wall, she slid down to the floor. Her head dropped into her arms. She dissolved into a pool of sobs.

The commotion sent the others running into the hallway. The lights flickered on. Exclamations of surprise and curses mingled with the renewed diatribe of the old hag. Screams from other portraits in the hallway joined the dissonant clamor. She heard a string of incantations, as one by one the portraits fell silent. Angela felt her husband's arms close around her. He pulled her to his chest.

"Hush," Remus soothed, stroking her head.

Angela rested in his arms for a moment of two, as her racing heartbeat returned to normal. Then she glanced up through moist eyes to see a cluster of legs gathered around the portrait. Mad-Eye Moody knelt on the hallway floor. His fingers dabbed at the scarlet substance that oozed from the portrait.

"Paint," he concluded, sniffing the substance that now stained his fingers.

"Look at this," Hermione said. "The portrait is attached to the wall by the frame, not the canvas."

"I have an idea." Ginny's voice piped from among the group. "Stand back."

The huddle of legs around the portrait widened. Angela could glimpse Ginny's wily smile, not unlike that of the older Weasley twins. Her youthful and joyous face stood in stark contrast to the dour expression of wrinkled old crone silently mouthing obscenities at them all from her position on the wall. Ginny rolled her wand between her fingers and then pointed it at the corner of the canvas where the linen was attached to the frame. "Lacerus!"

"Clever girl," Remus mused, with a look of admiration.

Angela watched as Ginny's spell cut through the linen, separating it from the frame. More red paint splattered on the floor and dribbled down the wall. The old hag's mouth opened in a scream of terror as she was cut from her perch in the frame, unable to escape from the picture. A cheer erupted from the group, as the charm cut through the last threads. The canvas rolled and fluttered to the floor with Mrs. Black's image imprisoned inside it. On the wall, a wooden rectangle stained with red paint framed a blank section of plaster.

"That was bloody brilliant!" Ron exclaimed.

"What do we do with this?" Harry asked, picking up the rolled canvas from the hallway floor.

"I think a bonfire is in order," Remus suggested, his face breaking into a wide grin.

Amid shouts of triumph, the teens raced down the corridor and disappeared down the stairs that led to the basement kitchen. The other adults followed, leaving Angela and Remus alone, still crouched on the floor of the hallway.

"Are you all right?" Remus whispered. He studied her face, a careworn expression on his own.

"No," she whispered, her eyes refilling with tears. "I can't stay here any longer, Remus. I've tried, but I just can't."

"I'll speak with Dumbledore tomorrow," he said. His fingers brushed away her tears. "We'll make other arrangements."

Angela nodded and cast him a grateful smile. He helped her to her feet. For a moment, she stood staring at the empty frame. She could hear shouts of jubilation rising up from the basement kitchens. Then her brothers' voices rang out in a chorus of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." Outside, a dog barked, a laughing howl that hung on the night air. Remus froze. His face lit in an odd look of recognition.

"Happy Christmas, Padfoot," he whispered, as a smile crept across his face.