Questions and Answers

Harry strode down the street, scrutinizing the neat row of houses that lined the quiet street in a sort of bland neutrality that reminded him of Privet Drive. Except for one at the end. Its door was painted a bright, vivid blue. Ravenclaw blue,' Harry thought to himself ruefully. He knocked on the door, knowing the occupant would be home on this gloomy Saturday. His old supervisor, Peter Wilson, had retired the summer before Al had started school. The party that marked that auspicious occasion had been a mellow affair in a private room over the public room of The Leaky Cauldron. The last thing Peter had said to Harry before he left the party was, 'Once an Auror, always an Auror, lad. You know where to find me.' Peter had nurtured and guided Harry through those first few years in the Aurors, through his promotion to supervisor and trainee instructor, and finally as Head. It had been Peter's lead in accepting Harry's promotion to Head that made the entire process a smooth transition, something for which Harry was eternally grateful to Peter.

'Hit a dead end, have you?' Peter asked, as he opened the door, motioning for Harry to come inside the house.

'Just a bit,' Harry replied dryly. 'I need to ask you about how others left Britain during the last war. Or even the first one.'

'Ah.' Peter made his way into the bright kitchen, and pointed his wand at the kettle on the stove. 'It's a pity Marianne isn't here today,' he remarked. 'She'd be able to tell you more.' Marianne was Peter's wife, also a retired Auror. 'She worked in the Ministry long before I did. I didn't even apply to join the Aurors until a few years after Voldemort disappeared. But the last one...' Peter poured boiling water over the leaves he'd spooned into a pot and set the kettle down. 'Marianne joined me in Perth a few months after the Ministry fell. She got out of Britain like the others, even though she's a half-blood.' He poured tea into a cup and pushed it to Harry. 'Somehow, they or the Order of the Phoenix got messages to the other Ministries. The French one, mostly. People would take a Portkey to Normandy and from there...' Peter shrugged. 'I really don't know. They scattered. If they didn't have the means to make arrangements to go elsewhere, they were hidden in France.'

'What happened when they left France?' Harry asked.

'I don't really know. Marianne used an assumed name to travel to Australia. She had forged documents from the French Minister, but they were marked with a phoenix so the Australian Minister would know she was a refugee. She said the Order started spiriting people across the Channel in a matter of days after the Ministry fell. I'm sure if they had a system to get Muggle-borns out of Britain in the first war, it was similar to what they used in the second one.' Peter Summoned a biscuit tin to the table and pried the lid off, offering the tin to Harry, before taking a handful. 'Why are you interested in this? It's old history.'

'Old history, new case,' Harry muttered. 'Missing person. She disappeared in August of nineteen eighty-one.'

'Sure she wasn't just murdered by Voldemort or the Death Eaters?' Peter asked skeptically.

'Yeah, I'm sure. It's like she just... vanished.'

Peter thoughtfully chewed a biscuit and took a sip of his tea. 'Well, lad, you'll have to find a member of the Order from the first time around.'

'That's easy enough,' Harry said. 'Arthur or Minerva ought to know.'

'You seem awfully intent on finding this bird,' Peter told Harry. 'Why?'

Harry cradled his cup between his palms. 'It's sort of personal.'

'It's not family, is it?' Peter asked sharply. 'It's not ethical -'

'It's not ethical to investigate family, I know,' Harry said over him. 'It's not really family, and if it were, I doubt my family would consider her as such. I owe the person who asked me to do this.' Harry quietly drank his tea, and let Peter digest that bit of information.

'So I hear you still don't let Avery near the trainees,' Peter said, smoothly changing the subject.

'Merlin, no!' exclaimed Harry. 'Avery's a good Auror, but the entire concept of working with a team still seems to elude him. Still can't help making cutting remarks if the newbies get something wrong or don't do it the way he thinks they ought.' He shook his head. 'Some things never change.'

xxxxx

Draco searched the house for his mother after breakfast. She was still with them and if he was going to try apologizing to people, he wanted to begin with her. It wasn't something he thought he could do in a letter. He found Narcissa in the small conservatory, repotting seedlings. She looked up when she heard his step on the gravel pathway. 'I trust you slept well?' she asked, returning to the clump of lavender she held in one hand.

'I did, thank you.' Draco replied, his hands jammed into the pockets of his trousers. His fingers were icy from nervousness. He stood stiffly across the tall table from her, his mouth opening, and as the words died in his throat, closing once more.

'Is there something you wanted, Draco?' Narcissa asked curiously. He didn't normally care for gardening, fastidious as he usually was.

Draco's lips pressed together tightly, as if he was attempting to stem a tide of nausea. 'Do you remember my trial?' he asked tightly.

'Yes.'

He inhaled deeply and continued, his voice pitched high with tension. 'Do you remember when Potter said Dumbledore had offered sanctuary to the two of us, to you and me with the Order of the Phoenix?'

Narcissa slowly set the trowel in her hand down on the table, next to the half-potted lavender. 'I do,' she said quietly.

'And how he said I refused it?'

Narcissa nodded, her face a mask of preternatural calm that didn't fool Draco for a moment. He knew she was angry.

Draco's head bowed. 'It's true,' he whispered. 'All of it.'

'I see...' Narcissa's voice was even, never betraying what seethed below the surface.

He looked up at her and felt the blood drain from his face. 'Mother, I'm...' Draco choked. 'I'm sorry... I was too afraid to accept the offer. I wanted to succeed where Father had failed,' he admitted shamefacedly, waiting for Narcissa's reply. 'I didn't think they could actually protect us.'

Narcissa gripped her shaking hands together behind her back. 'Are you telling me that we could have avoided that year?' she demanded. 'And all the indignities that followed after that?'

'I... Yes...'

Narcissa stepped away from the table and took the few paces necessary to stand in front of Draco. She said nothing, and Draco cringed inwardly, almost hoping she would indeed slap him. It would be better than the silent figure that faced him now. Her face twisted, and for an instant, she bore a striking resemblance to her sister Bellatrix. Draco took a step back, his eyes widening in shock. No matter how angry his mother had been about something, she'd never let that particular expression cross her features. 'M-m-m-mother?' he stammered. 'Say something,' he pleaded.

Narcissa glared at Draco for a moment, then brushed by him wordlessly as she left the conservatory.

xxxxxx

Harry strode into Arthur's office and closed the door. 'I know the Order had a system to help people escape from Voldemort during the first war,' he stated without preamble. 'What happened when they left England?'

If Arthur seemed surprised by Harry's questioning, he didn't show it. Harry often used Arthur as a source of Order activities in the first war. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I just know there were certain places that the Portkeys went. I don't know what happened to them once they got there.' Arthur smiled kindly. 'It was for our own protection, you see.'

'Of course it was,' Harry muttered, cracking his knuckles irritably.

'In case we were captured. Then they couldn't trace the Portkey or the people who fled,' Arthur reminded Harry. 'You'd have to try and find out who worked in the British Ministry offices abroad,' he added. 'We expunged a lot of those files in the first war. And the second. Seemed the best way to hide our tracks. And after the wars were over, they were transferred to other positions.'

'So there's almost no sure way for me to find anyone who worked for the Ministry on the Continent?' Harry asked incredulously. 'Other than hearsay?'

'I'm afraid so,' Arthur murmured apologetically. 'That's the way we did things.'

'For their protection,' Harry groaned.

'Either war, we weren't sure which way things would turn, so we made sure there would be no chance of reprisals against them if we lost.'

Harry sighed and nodded. 'I know,' he said, the bitter tang of defeat coating his tongue. This case is hopeless... 'Thanks...'

'Why do you need to know about the smuggling system?' Arthur asked, as Harry's hand landed on the doorknob.

Harry pulled a photograph from his trouser pocket and handed it to Arthur. 'Did you ever help this woman leave the country?' he asked baldly.

One of Arthur's brows rose infinitesimally. 'No.' He met Harry's gaze and returned the photograph. 'I take it I ought not to let on to Molly that you're looking for her,' he stated.

'Probably not.' Harry tucked the photograph back into his pocket and left Arthur's office.

xxxxxx

Al looked up from his dinner, eyes narrowed at his cousin. It wasn't the Rose he knew - the Rose who vociferously supported the Cannons with a fervor matched only by Ron; the one who liked to tease him by calling him her much younger cousin, even though a mere four months had separated their births; the Rosie who was weeks ahead of the rest of the class in their studies, but still thirsted for more. This Rose - the one sitting on the other side of the table - listlessly poking at a bowl of soup, rarely volunteered information in class and had to be prodded to say something. Her marks suffered, because she only did the bare minimum to pass the assignment. Isabella had been forced to shift the Gryffindor Quidditch team around, moving Fred back to Keeper, because Rose refused to attend team practices. And while Nicky, Alex, and Sophie were passable reserve Beaters, they were all rubbish at Keeping, mostly because they weren't very tall yet, although it seemed as if Sophie was going to end up petite like her mother.

Rosie gave the soup a final swirl with her spoon and pushed it away. Al dropped his fork and swung his feet over the bench. 'Meet you in the library later,' he told Scorpius, and followed Rose to the staircase that would lead them to Gryffindor tower, catching up with her easily, since she was plodding up the stairs. 'Come on,' he told her, grabbing her hand and towing her toward an empty classroom.

'Albus, I'm not in the mood...' Rose began weakly, trying to pull her hand from Al's grasp.

'Too bad,' Al replied crisply. 'It's been weeks now. I'm not saying you ought to snap out of it -'

'Sounds like it,' Rose muttered sullenly.

Al's face grew still and he dropped Rose's hand. 'At least you knew her,' he informed her coldly. 'Some of us have never had the chance. I'd give anything to have one bloody day with one of Dad's parents. I understand you're upset that your grandmother died, but do you really think this is what she would have wanted?' Al glared at Rose impatiently. To his surprise, Rose's chin trembled and she threw her arms around him.

'D-d-d-do y' wan' to know wha' I thought th' las' time we saw her?' she wailed into Al's skinny shoulder. 'Tha' I couldn' wait to leave, 'cause she didn' know us anymore!'

Al awkwardly patted Rose's back. Like most males of his family, he was at a loss as to what to do with a crying female. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief and coming up empty, used the edge of Rose's cloak to wipe her face. 'Shhh. Calm down...' He made her sit on the edge of a desk. 'Do you really think quitting Quidditch or not doing as well in class is going to change any of that?'

Rose drew the sleeve of her jumper under her nose. 'No,' she admitted in a quavering voice.

Al sat next to her, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. It was a little ungainly, since Rose was somewhat taller than he was. 'I didn't mean to say you can't be sad,' he said softly, Rose's sniffles echoing in the empty classroom. 'You have every right to be sad. But if you keep on like this, you're going to let yourself down... You'll lose your place on the team, you'll get behind in class.'

'I know...' she sighed mournfully.

'Besides,' Al added, 'it's not as if you could give up magic and become a nun. They wouldn't have you anyway.' He stole a sidelong glance at his cousin. 'Too barmy.'

Rose gasped and giggled, then guiltily clapped a hand over her mouth.

'We're all worried about you, Rosie,' Al continued. 'None of us think you should just keep on, as if it all didn't happen, but packing it all in's a bit extreme, eh?'

Rose shrugged, but rested her head against Al's shoulder. 'Thanks, Albie...'

Al made a moue of distaste at his childhood nickname, but squeezed Rose's shoulder all the same. 'Anytime, Rosie...'

xxxxxx

Draco yanked open a drawer of his desk, and reached into the back of it until his fingers brushed against the wood at the back. He hadn't had anything more than the single glass of wine he allowed himself at dinners since he'd come skulking back to Wiltshire in September. But after seeing the way his mother looked at him, like he was something foul she needed to wipe from her shoe, Draco craved the familiar oblivion he had so often found in the bottom of a bottle. If that's the way she looked at Father after the war, no wonder he sought solace in cheap whisky.

'Looking for something?'

Startled, Draco peered over the edge of the desk. Daphne stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob.

'Not particularly,' he muttered, hauling himself into the large chair behind the desk, resting his elbows on the large blotter, and propping his head in his hands. 'Andrew was wrong,' he grumbled.

'Who's Andrew?' Daphne asked curiously, stepping into the darkened room and crossing to a chair near the fire, but still close enough to the desk so she could easily talk to him. She gracefully sat on the edge, her head tilted to the side expectantly.

'The Healer I talk to,' Draco supplied. 'I suppose I never did tell you his name, did I?'

'No...' Daphne turned slightly in the chair, so she sat sideways, her back braced against one arm of the chair, and her feet dangling over the other. 'What was he wrong about?'

Draco stared at her, then a bark of laughter escaped him. 'If your brother...' he began, than trailed off in acute embarrassment.

'If Ian could see me now?' Daphne snorted. 'Properly brought-up girls aren't supposed to sit in such an un-ladylike posture,' she sniffed. 'So... Andrew?' she prompted.

Draco took a deep breath. 'You don't want to know.'

Daphne's hands clenched into fists under the folds of her skirt. 'I do,' she insisted.

'I wanted to try and apologize for some of the things I've done,' Draco sighed. 'So I started with Mother.'

'Didn't go well, I take it?'

Draco shook his head. 'I think if she had her wand with her, she might have hexed me worse than anything Potter might have done in school.' Daphne's brows rose. She remembered the journey to London at the end of their fifth year and how many hexes Harry and his friends had aimed at Draco and his entourage. It hadn't been pretty and removing the myriad hexes and jinxes had taken several fully-trained wizards and witches. Crabbe had ended up in the hospital for a night or two. 'He was wrong,' Draco repeated dully, the intense need for alcohol to dull his senses dissipating. 'He said it would be "liberating" for me admit and own up to the awful things I did to people.'

Daphne leaned forward a little. 'What did you say?'

'That a lot of the things that happened to her and me the year the Dar...' Draco shook himself like a dog. 'Voldemort,' he amended firmly. 'The year he was in power... A lot of those things could have been avoided. I foolishly turned down an offer of sanctuary. My pride wouldn't let me accept it. I needed to be more - better - than my father. I needed to show I wasn't useless.' His gaze fixed on a tassel holding back the heavy curtains at a window. He waited what seemed like endless minutes for Daphne to walk out with that same expression of scorn that his mother had given him. But she remained in the chair, waiting for him to continue. 'She didn't say anything,' he finished. 'Just walked out of the conservatory.'

'That certainly explains a lot,' Daphne murmured. She'd never seen Narcissa behave so coldly toward Draco. She had all but ignored Draco at dinner that evening. 'Do you wish you hadn't said anything to her?'

Draco leaned back in his chair, scrubbing his hands over his face. The Quaffle's in Mother's hands, so to speak,' he mused. There had been something sort of like relief at finally confessing that he was partly responsible for the hellish turn their lives had taken, if not the liberation of which Andrew had spoken of so highly. 'No,' he told her so quietly, it was barely audible over the crackle of the fireplace.

xxxxxx

Ron pursed his lips in dismay as he surveyed the table in the kitchen of the flat. Without Rose and Hugo to help them eat meals, he always cooked enough to feed an entire Quidditch team. He could hear his mother in his childhood memories muttering about not wasting food twisted around memories of the year looking for the Horcruxes when hunger constantly gnawed at his insides. Hermione's plate sat at her place across from his, and he examined the half-eaten dinner left behind.

Ron remembered all too well the distress she'd felt when her father died, but since the Jane's funeral, Hermione had been her usual self, even returning to work mere days after the funeral. He didn't feel as if this ought to be normal behavior. Ron pointed his wand at her plate and Vanished the remains of Hermione's meal, before he put the leftover steak-and-kidney pie away for another time. He set the dishes to wash themselves and padded into the sitting room, where Hermione frowned at a large tome. 'Why didn't you eat your dinner?' he demanded.

Hermione looked up at him, her attention half on the book in her lap. 'What?'

'You left half your dinner on your plate!' Ron said accusingly.

She slowly blinked, trying to bring her thoughts into focus. 'But I don't like steak-and-kidney pie,' she said vaguely. 'I've been telling you that for more than fifteen years...'

'No, Rose doesn't like it,' Ron objected.

'I don't like it,' Hermione corrected. 'Never have.' She shut her book and heaved it to the side table. 'What are you going on about? You haven't been this concerned with my eating habits since...' She stopped talking and pushed herself to her feet. 'I don't want to talk about this,' she sighed. 'I'm fine. I had my chance to deal with Mum ages ago.' She walked into the kitchen to put the dinner dishes away.

'Hermione,' Ron called after her. But she didn't respond. Ron had his doubts about whether or not she had actually dealt with losing her mother. He didn't think she had, given the equanimity with which she'd planned Jane's funeral. It had been done with the same ease she gave reading Hogwarts: A History for the thousandth time. It amazed Ron that Hermione was guilty of the thing she'd often accused Harry of doing, namely suppressing the inner turmoil of emotions, and couldn't see the same behavior in herself.

xxxxxx

A tall man ambled through the maze of cubicles with a careless grace that belied his age. He wasn't old, not by wizarding standards, and more than a few women's heads turned to watch him make his way to the door at the end of the corridor. He knocked on Harry's office door once, then walked inside the office. 'Hiya, kid!' he said cheerfully.

Harry looked at the visitor over the rims of his glasses. 'I'm nearly forty years old, you know,' he said mildly. 'Do you have to call me "kid"?'

Michael Carter, the former Hogwarts professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, retired member of the American Auror Department, and current Head of the Salem Institute, San Francisco, plopped into a chair across from Harry's desk. 'Kid, no matter how old ya are, you're always goin' to be that scrawny eighteen-year old who had the cojones to write to Salem and question my credentials to teach,' Carter chuckled.

'Don't you have a school to run?' Harry asked idly, enjoying the verbal banter.

'Mid-term holiday,' Carter said blithely. 'Thought I'd come over and see how you're doin'.' He craned his head to study the photograph on the edge of Harry's desk. His long fingers reached out and slid it around so he could see it more clearly. Carter frowned for a moment, then his face cleared with recognition. 'I know her!' he crowed.

'That's impossible,' Harry countered, reaching for the photograph.

Carter laid his hand flat over the photograph, preventing Harry from sliding it away. 'I know her,' he insisted. 'I've known her for... God, almost as long as I've known you.'

Harry felt the room begin to spin.