Questions and Answers

Ginny watched Harry and Al stumble off in opposite directions, then stalked to where her brothers had landed, gathered under the apple tree. The closer she came to them, the angrier she got. Throwing her broom down, Ginny glared at them until one by one, they wilted slightly under the heat of her stare. She inhaled strongly through her nose and pinned them with her gaze. 'With what portion of your tiny, tiny brains were you thinking that this would be a good idea?' she asked quietly, her voice lashing over them.

They shifted uncomfortably, until George muttered, 'It was Charlie's idea...'

Ginny's head whipped around. 'I don't care whose idea it was.'

Bill tried to meet her eyes. 'You participated,' he retorted.

'No!' Ginny hissed. 'I didn't participate in that... That... Carnage! I didn't deliberately attempt to cause harm and injury to my son!' Her wand suddenly appeared in her hand and every one of them from Bill down to Ron visibly flinched, waiting for enormous bogies to attack them. Ginny turned on her heel and strode to where Al sat huddled in the grass. She stood over him, her arms crossed over her chest, her shadow draped over him. She waited with a remarkable amount of patience, waited for Al to look up, just the slightest bit. 'Your behavior during the match is exactly why your father and I felt it was unwise for you to play with England. If you taunt the other players, you can be damn sure the rest of the team will make you pay for it. You might be talented enough to play for them now, but as far as maturity goes, you have a long way to go, Albus.' Al lifted his head from his bent knees and looked at his mother with ill-disguised reproach. 'And you owe your father an apology, young man.'

'I owe him an apology?' Al spluttered. 'After that... that...'

Ginny inhaled slowly, and counted to ten. Once. Twice. After the third round, she unclenched her fists. 'Yes. To him. You mocked him, even before he started playing to win. Before that, he and I were merely playing for fun. Like we always do.'

'I don't recall you or Dad doing anything to stop Uncle Charlie or Uncle George from attempting to take my bloody head off,' Al retorted mulishly.

Ginny took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. 'The World Cup's in two years. If you can prove to your father and I that you've grown up, we'll reconsider.' With that, she headed down the lane for a good long walk.

xxxxxx

The house was quiet and hushed, with only the sounds of the crickets drifting through the open windows. James peered into Al's darkened room. 'You all right?' he asked. Most of the bruises had faded, thanks to Victoire's spell-work, but Al still walked with a slight limp, favoring his sprained ankle, and held himself stiffly, wincing from time to time when he took a particularly deep breath.

'I'm fine.' Al pulled the bedding over his shoulders and turned to face the wall.

'You deserved it,' James told his brother. 'Maybe not the thrashing they gave you,' he allowed, 'but you did deserve to see what it's like to play on that level. We've both seen Falmouth play, and what the uncles did to you was child's play compared to that.'

'Piss off,' Al muttered.

James snorted. 'Gladly.' He left the room, and stomped into his bedroom, barely refraining from slamming the door.

Al lay on his back, staring up at the charmed ceiling of his bedroom, gaze fixed on the brightest star. He could hear the water running in his parents' bathroom, and silently hoped they would be content to wash and go directly to bed, and leave him alone. He'd had enough lectures to last the rest of the summer. The shower shut off, leaving an eerie silence. He held his breath as much as he was able and waited, wondering what his parents would do.

Harry slipped into Al's room. Al heard Harry's tread on the floor, accompanied by the aroma of his customary sandalwood-scented soap and squeezed his eyes shut. Harry recognized the signs of someone feigning sleep. He'd done it often enough himself. The set of Al's shoulders was too still for him to be sleeping. He perched on the edge of Al's bare desk and examined his youngest son for several long moments, making Al more and more irritable. Harry sighed. 'I won't apologize,' he began. 'I refuse to apologize for playing my game. And I won't apologize for playing to win. You would have done the same. And you do. I respect that.' Harry settled on the edge of the desk. 'I will apologize for reacting to you taunting me. It brought up a lot of bad memories, but I'm an adult, and I shouldn't react that way. And during high-stress situations, it's a good skill to have to be able to keep a rein on your temper. And, well, you are my son. And your mother's. That's a difficult trick to learn, considering both she and I can have somewhat volatile tempers. It took me a long time to learn that lesson.' Harry ached to sit on the bed next to Al, and to run his hand over his son's glossy shock of hair. But there seemed to be an invisible wall erected between them. 'I had no idea your uncles were going to play that hard. I didn't know...' He slid off the edge of the desk, then, and reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing lightly over Al's head.

xxxxxx

James' fingers tapped restlessly against the table. He stared sightlessly into his Arithmancy textbook, the symbols and numbers blurring into incomprehensibility. The lamp burning in the middle of the table threw flickering shadows over the pages, making the print swim. His O.W.L. year was fast approaching, and he hadn't discussed his future plans with either of his parents. Not that he felt he needed their permission, but he rather wanted to have their blessing.

Lily glanced at him over the rims of her new glasses. 'Will you stop?' she hissed. 'You're making my head hurt.'

James flattened his hand against the table. 'Sorry...'

'What's the matter with you, anyway?'

James shrugged. 'I need to talk with Mum and Dad,' he muttered. 'But after what happened Sunday...'

Lily returned her attention to her Defense book. 'Just do it,' she advised. 'Like ripping off a plaster, yeah?'

'That still hurts,' James snorted.

Lily set her quill down and propped her chin in an upturned palm. 'What did you do, anyway?'

'Nothing!' James said defensively.

'Then why won't you just go tell Mum and Dad whatever it is you need to say?'

'I will,' James insisted feebly. 'After I finish this problem...'

'And you're in Gryffindor,' Lily huffed.

James flushed angrily, picking up his quill, and began to scrawl the numbers and symbols on his parchment. 'Bravery's got nothing to do with it,' he muttered. 'Mum and Dad don't need me to add to their worries.'

Lily's brow furrowed. 'Did you fail half your classes and have to repeat your fourth year?' Horror made the pitch of her voice rise.

'No!'

'Then what could be so bad that you can't go talk to Mum and Dad?' Lily pressed. 'Unless you're secretly being recruited by some Quidditch team, as well...'

'No,' James replied wearily. 'I'm not that good.'

'Steal Dad's broom?'

'Has anyone ever told you you're a bloody busybody?' James snapped.

'Yes.' Lily grinned at her oldest brother, unperturbed by his display of temper. She knew the most he would do was leave some sort of mild prank in her bed or eat all the Chocolate Frogs and offer her an empty package.

'Fine...' James' teeth ground together, while he shoved his chair back. Lily wouldn't stop pestering him until he sought out their parents. He approached the open office door with no small amount of trepidation. Low murmurs of conversation and the sounds of quills scratching on parchment drifted out into the sitting room. James reached out and knocked softly against the door frame.

Ginny glanced up from the article she was editing. 'All right, Jemmy?'

'I know you're both busy,' James began, peering into the room, eyes darting from his mother's desk to his father's. 'But I was wondering if I might have a quick word?'

'Absolutely,' Harry said, shoving the folders to the side with palpable relief. He waved at one of the shabby armchairs between the desks. 'Sit, sit...'

James gingerly settled in the chair closest to Ginny. 'It's just my O.W.L. year is coming up and I know they do that Career Advice thing, and I think I've made up my mind already...'

'Okay...' Ginny said slowly, slightly puzzled. She shared a questioning glance with Harry over James' head. 'What is it you think you might want to do?'

James twisted his fingers together. 'I... I... I thought I could go into the shop...' he stammered.

'You do?' Harry asked in evident surprise.

James nodded. 'Yeah.'

'Are you sure?' Harry persisted. 'It's a great deal of hard work.'

James' head nodded vigorously. 'Yeah. I know. That's why I want to work there over the holiday.'

Harry absently rubbed his jaw for several moments. 'All right,' he said. 'We'll go talk to your uncles in the morning.'

'Why?'

'Their shop,' Harry said with a small shrug.

'But you own part of it,' James argued.

Harry's smile took the sting out of his words. 'Yes, but I've always been more of a silent partner. I've never told either Fred, George, or Ron how to run things. And I don't suggest anything without bringing it up to both Ron and George first. And that includes you working with them during the summer.' He pulled a spare sheet of parchment toward him. 'Which classes are you taking next year? They'll want to know.'

'Arithmancy, Charms, Defense, Potions, History of Magic, Transfiguration, and Herbology.'

Harry contemplated the list and made a small noise in the back of his throat. 'How attatched are you to Arithmancy?'

James' hopeful expression fell slightly. 'But it'll help in the shop,' he protested weakly. 'It explains proportions of things like spells and potions...'

Harry held up a hand. 'Don't tell me. Tell them. But be prepared for them to ask you to give it up, so you can focus more on Herbology, Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration.'

'Fine...' James sighed. He did enjoy the challenge posed to him by Arithmancy. It provided a welcome diversion from the rest of his classes. He started to rise from the chair, but sank back into its squishy embrace. 'One more thing...'

'Yes?' Ginny's brow arched.

'I want to go help Maya's parents in their pub on Fridays before matches.'

'When do you expect to do your summer homework?' Ginny inquired.

'It's just one day a week, and only for a few hours,' James argued. 'And they won't have to pay me. The regular Quidditch season's ending in a month, anyway, and Falmouth isn't in the running for the European Cup. Maya mentioned they need some help, and I told her I'd ask you if I could...' He looked down at the worn run. 'And I don't want Maya's mum to think I'm some rich, spoiled brat.'

'Does she?' Ginny asked sharply, feeling her hackles rise slightly at the implication

James shrugged. 'Dunno. I know she's still not comfortable with the idea of Maya dating me...' He frowned at his mother. 'I thought you'd be over the moon about this,' he told her.

'Oh, you did, did you?'

'Yeah.' James leaned forward a little. 'Thought you'd be thrilled that at least one of your offspring managed to take all those bloody lectures about how we're supposed to earn what we have,' he said mulishly.

'There's earning your own place, Jemmy, and taking on more than you can handle,' Ginny pointed out. 'You're not even sixteen...'

'Why don't you let your mother and me talk it over, and then we'll let you know tomorrow at breakfast?' Harry suggested.

James' shoulders drooped a little. 'Fine...' He left the office and returned to the kitchen. Lily glanced up at him as he slid into his chair.

'Well?' she asked.

James picked up his quill, and began tapping the point in the margin of his parchment. 'I'm almost sixteen,' he grumbled, 'and Mum and Dad are still treating me like I'm an ickle firstie.' He gave Lily a long look. 'No offense.'

'I'm not an ickle firstie anymore,' Lily sniffed.

James pointed his quill at his sister. 'Just you wait,' he predicted darkly. 'When you want to do something, they're going to find a way to make you slow down,' he sighed. 'No wonder Al went barmy.'

'Doesn't excuse his attitude,' Lily said quickly.

'No, it doesn't,' James allowed, his voice flat. He caught a glimpse of the page Lily had been studying. 'Lils, that's fourth year content...'

'So?' Lily hastily covered the book with her arms.

'But you're only a second year...'

Lily worried her lower lip between her teeth, contemplating her options. She took a deep breth and leaned across the table, whispering in James' ear. 'You can't tell Mum or Dad! Especially Dad!'

James' blue eyes widened. 'They're not going to hear it from me...' he promised. 'Might be easier to play Quidditch, like you've let on, though.'

'Maybe.' Lily slipped a scrap of ribbon into her textbook, marking her place and closed it. 'I'm going to bed.'

xxxxxx

Molly Levitated a laundry basket into the garden, and waved her wand at the pile of wet sheets, and they pegged themselves to the washing line. She still wasn't quite accustomed to not having to do copious amounts of laundry every week - even twenty years after the last of the children had moved out. She moved to the bench next to the kitchen door, and eased down into it, leaning back and stretching her feet out in front of her.

It was a beautiful summer morning. The kind she had loved as a child, and later when she'd been a bit older and Arthur had begun to court her. Strange, then, that so many other happy occasions were beset by temperamental weather. Her wedding day, for instance, was grey and drizzly, but even as tears threatened to overtake her, her mother insisted it was good luck. Charlie was born in a howling snowstorm. Ginny's birth occurred in a freak thunderstorm that left the garden sodden and muddy.

Molly's eyes closed and she tilted her face up to the sunshine. The sound of wings made her open her them and a large screech owl hovered in front of her. A large, bulky parcel dangled from its talons. Molly untied it and the owl swooped through the open kitchen door, and lit on the ancient owl perch in the corner, looking exhausted, now his burden had been lifted. Molly followed the owl into the kitchen and refilled the water dish. She laid the package aside on the dresser, and rummaged for the unopened box of Owl Treats in another cupboard.

The owl's immediate needs seen to, Molly returned her attention to the mysterious package. She picked apart the numerous knots in the twine and spread the brown paper apart, revealing a leather-bound photograph album. Lines between her brows briefly deepened. Molly folded the paper back over the album, searching for the sender's address. It came from an April Prewett in San Francisco. Benjamin's wife... Her curiosity roused even further, Molly took the album to the table and set it in the middle, just so, its corners neatly aligning with those of the table.

Molly slowly took a chair and folded her hands on top of the scrubbed wooden table, hand inching forward until the cover swung open.

A folded piece of paper was tucked inside, and Molly reached for it with numb fingers.

June 20, 2020

Dear Molly,

I hope it's all right if I call you Molly. Ben talked about you the most when he came back home in April. He's said so much about you, and your family, that I feel I know you all. It's a little presumptuous, I'm sure, but I'm not one to stand on ceremony with very many people. I've been told we're somewhat on the casual side here in the States.

Sending the pictures to you was mostly my idea, but persuading Lavinia to make copies of pictures of Ben as a child wasn't very difficult. I've included a few of our children, too.

I don't want you to feel obligated to maintain contact with Ben and me. He mentioned your reaction to his sudden appearance. I get it. I do. It's a little disconcerting to find out you've had a nephew all these years. I just thought having a few of the holes filled, in regards to Ben, would be something you might like.

I really hope I get to meet you one day.

Sincerely,

April Prewett

Molly glanced down at the first photograph. An infant Benjamin stared back at her, cloudy blue newborn eyes with a bemused expression, as if he didn't quite comprehend what had just happened. She stroked the curve of his forehead, following the bright sparkle of his hair.

Page after page of Benjamin. His birthdays. His first day of primary school. On the beach, wrapped up in bulky jumpers, with a laughing, dark-eyed girl at his side. The same laughing girl, dressed in a simple white gown, gauzy veil obscuring her shining, dark hair, standing with Benjamin. Then photographs of Benjamin's own children. They resembled their mother, with her expressive dark eyes, but his son seemed to have his nose, and a reddish tint to his dark brown hair.

And in several photographs was his mother. Lavinia. In the early photos, even through the unbridled joy and wonder of becoming a mother, of having this tangible reminder of Fabian, a shadow of sadness and grief lingered in her eyes. But the pride she obviously took in Benjamin was evident, as was her love for Benjamin on his own, and not strictly for his father's sake.

Molly turned the pages to the back, to the last photograph. April, Benjamin, Leo, and Marissa. She eyed them expertly. 'I'm going to need another set of knitting needles...' she sighed. But there was no resentment in her tone. Rueful undertones colored her voice. At some point she was going to have to enlist some of the others to help make Christmas jumpers. Especially when the grandchildren had children of their own.

xxxxxx

Draco unfastened the top three buttons of his shirt, in an effort of expose more of his throat to the cooling breeze that lazily drifted through the open bedroom window. A battered, well-thumbed novel dangled from his fingers, as he stared at the door that led to the bathroom. A bathroom he had shared with Daphne for years. In years past, the doors to the other's bedrooms had been firmly locked, but this summer they were left open and ajar more often than not. They traveled freely between each other's bedrooms, talking, or sometimes sleeping in the same bed. Thanks to the now-unlocked door, Draco heard the faint squeal of the tap turning. He craned his head slightly to the left, peering into the bathroom.

Daphne sat on the edge of the old-fashioned bathtub, her hand held under the running water, testing its temperature, the sleeve of her old silk dressing gown pushed back to her elbow. Draco knew she had newer and nicer ones, but he liked the one she wore now. He liked the way the dusky lavender color brought out the light in her eyes. Not that he'd ever told her that. Perhaps I ought to say something. She untied the belt and shrugged the fabric from her shoulders, then gathered her mane of dark blonde hair into both hands, twisting it into a knot on the back of her head, stabbing a few hairpins into it. Draco's eyes traveled down the expanse of her suddenly bared back. A sharply demarcated line marked the boundary between the honeyed hue of her shoulders and back and the alabaster paleness of the curve of Daphne's bottom. She shifted, turning toward the open door, and Draco's mouth dropped open with shock. When the hell did she sunbathe? And why wasn't she wearing her top?

Draco shook himself, feeling like a pervert. He looked down at the book, interest in the Muggle interpretation of vampires waning. Ordinarily the book was entertaining, but compared with the sight in front of him, vampires weren't nearly as fascinating as his wife's wardrobe choices - or lack of them - when she went to the beach in the mornings. Giving up and tossing the book to his bed, Draco left the bedroom in search of distraction.

The terrace beckoned, with its cool breezes, and Draco burst through the French doors, startling Narcissa, who dropped a letter with an enclosed photograph to the floor. 'Is there something the matter?' she asked, retrieving the letter.

Draco cleared his throat. 'N-n-n-no,' he stuttered, stooping to pick up the photograph. 'Who is this?'

Narcissa slipped the letter back into its envelope, and set it aside. 'Do you remember when I told you that your father had a sister?'

'Yes.'

'She survived and emigrated to America. Lives in California.' Narcissa indicated the photograph in Draco's hand. 'It turns out she was pregnant. That is her son, Benjamin.'

Draco tilted the photograph toward the light. 'Do you want to hear something funny?' he mused. 'I saw someone who looked like this with Arthur Weasley.'

'When?'

Draco frowned. 'A couple of months ago. April... at the Ministry.'

Narcissa's lips twitched, but she managed to school her expression into something more neutral. 'I think you might want to sit down,' she advised.

'Why?' Nonetheless, Draco sank into the chair next to his mother's.

'I told you Lavinia was involved with one of Molly Weasley's brothers,' Narcissa began. 'And Benjamin is Molly Weasley's nephew.'

Draco blinked. 'What?'

The corner of Narcissa's mouth did quirk upward then. 'Benjamin's father was Fabian Prewett, so it seems.'

'I'm sorry... What?'

'Your cousin, Benjamin, is related to Molly and Arthur Weasley.' Narcissa found no small amount of amusement in being able to make that statement. While she might not necessarily like either Molly or Arthur, after decades of listening to Lucius declare how deficient they were, it gave her a tiny thrill of pleasure to tell Draco that he was indirectly related to them.

Draco's expression morphed into something that looked as if he had eaten something slightly disagreeable. He began to slowly massage his temples. 'Let me get this straight...' he began in a pained voice. 'All this time, I've been related to them?'

'Only through marriage, in a sense,' Narcissa said cheerfully. 'It's not the end of the world.'

'Of course it is,' Draco argued.

Narcissa leaned forward and laid a placating hand on his arm. 'Things must change, Draco. I thought you had realized that years ago.'

'Just not so much at once,' Draco complained, with only a slight plaintive note to his voice.

xxxxxx

Victoire tilted Al's chin up with a finger. 'Look this way, please,' she instructed, shining the lit tip of her wand into his eyes. 'There's a good lad,' she murmured distractedly. 'How do the ribs feel?'

'They hurt,' Al said shortly.

Victoire dug into her bag, and emerged with a small jar. 'Try this. Twice a day.'

Al unscrewed the lid and gave the bright orange ointment a cautious sniff. 'What's it do?'

'Helps with the pain.' She sat back in the chair and examined Al's face in the bright sunlight. 'You certainly look better than you did a few days ago.'

Al's mouth puckered and he glowered at Victoire. 'What did I do that was so wrong?'

'You mean other than behaving like a perfect arse? I can't imagine why everyone's a bit short with you just now,' she responded dryly.

'So that gave everyone the right to beat me to a pulp?' Al snorted.

Victoire stowed her wand in her bag and undid the clip holding her hair back and gathered the glossy reddish-blonde hair into a knot, refastening the clip. 'Humility isn't a weakness,' she said finally.

'So I can't be good at something?'

Victoire chuckled and lifted her heavy bag to her shoulder. 'It's not that, Albie,' she told him, using the despised childhood nickname. 'Take a look at Parker and me. Or even Rosie. We're all disgustingly better at things than most people, but you don't see either of us rubbing other people's noses in it.'

'You're good at book work,' Al scoffed. 'Not the same. This is Quidditch. How many fourteen year-olds do you know that have offers to play professionally?'

'None,' Victorie admitted. 'But still, if you don't get that ego under control, chum, someone will do it for you.' She poked him in his bony chest. 'That's a promise.'

xxxxxx

Penelope brushed a strand of hair from her face, and turned in a small circle. Bureau drawers hung open, the wardrobe door was ajar. The bed had been stripped and the quilt folded neatly over the foot. Parker knelt in the middle of the rug, fastening his knapsack - a gift from Percy. It had been charmed to hold two week's worth of clothes and several books and weigh next to nothing. He could even stuff dirty or soiled clothing into one of the pockets, and the enchantments would freshen them enough to make them bearable until he could launder them. Penny's lips trembled, and she passed a hand over her eyes. 'All right, Mum?' Parker asked in concern.

'Mums don't like to see their children leave is all,' Penny sniffed, smiling. 'I can't help it. I still see you as that little boy who followed his father everywhere.'

'Owls will be able to find me, Mum,' Parker reminded her gently. He stood, towering over her.

'It's not that,' she sighed. Penny wrapped her arms around her oldest son's waist and embraced him tightly. 'I will miss you so very much.'

'Me, too.'

'Are you ready to go?' Percy asked from the door. 'Portkey to New York is set to leave at four thirty-two.' He pointedly checked his watch. 'It's after three right now, and you ought to have been at the Ministry half an hour ago.'

'Dad, don't worry,' Parker told him. 'We'll make it.' He shouldered the knapsack and followed Percy down the stairs. 'Listen, I don't want a big fuss made. I'll be back...'

'No fuss,' Penny promised. 'We're just going to send you off.'

Parker paused, on the verge of Apparating. 'Why does that sound like you're going to make a fuss...?'

xxxxxx

Parker allowed himself to be passed from grandparent to aunt to uncle to cousin. Molly handed him a carrier bag laden with enough food for a month. 'You're to send us an owl when you arrive in New York,' she ordered.

'Yes, Grandmum.'

'Don't forget to eat properly,' Molly added, reaching up to pat Parker's cheek.

Arthur clapped the boy on the back, beaming a little. 'You'll do fine, lad.'

And so it went: the hugs and handshakes, the farewells. Before Parker could turn to his parents for the final good-byes, Harry pressed a small piece of parchment into his hand. 'That's Benjamin's address in San Francisco. He wanted to make sure you got it and the invitation to stay with them.' Harry gave Parker another piece of parchment. 'Those are the names of some of the teachers in Salem's schools in Salem, Roanoke, and St. Louis, too. Michael Carter's arranged for you to stay with them, if you like. Just have to make your way down to Salem, and they'll let the others know. And he's got a guest room in his house in San Francisco, too, if you're more comfortable staying with him, than Benjamin.'

'Thank you,' Parker said sincerely, grateful for the efforts extended on his behalf. He tucked the slips of parchment into his trouser pocket, patting it to make sure they were well-protected. He finally came round to his brothers, crouching in front of them. Patrick, the youngest, threw himself into Parker's arms.

'Don't go...' he sniffled.

'I'll be home next summer,' Parker promised, stroking his baby brother's hair. He angled his mouth near Patrick's ear. 'I left a box of Chocolate Frogs under my bed. Better get it before Mum finds them, yeah?'

'Really?' Light suffused Patrick's small face.

'Really.' Parker looked up at Payton, trying so hard to behave like he was of age, and watching his older brother leave the country for a year or more wasn't an emotional enterprise. 'I'm sorry I won't be able to see you off on the train, Pay.'

The boy shrugged with studied nonchalance. 'It's all right,' he said diffidently, but Parker knew better.

'Make sure Mum takes lots of photos,' Parker instructed. 'She can send them to me.'

'Whatever.' Payton darted forward, gave Parker a hard, glancing hug, then just as quickly scurried to stand behind Percy, who automatically reached back to stroke the boy's head. Payton was taking Parker's leaving much harder than the rest of them. Parker had offered to hold off his trip until after Septetmber first, but Percy and Penny had both known he wouldn't have been satisfied to hang about the house or gambol around London for two months. They had insisted he continue with his journey as planned and leave in early July.

Parker shifted his knapsack as he unfolded himself and his parents stood in front of him. Penny hastily swept her fingertips over her cheeks. 'I expect a great many letters from you,' she told him sternly, her gentle smile belying the tone. 'Tell us everything... Well, perhaps not everything,' she amended, remembering what she'd been like at his age, while glancing sideways at Percy, suppressing a chuckle, remembering what Percy had been like when he was Parker's age. Penny embraced Parker tightly before rising on her toes to press a final kiss to his cheek. 'Do be careful,' she admonished, squeezing his hands before stepping back.

Percy pulled off his glasses, and rubbed his stinging eyes. He fished a packet of parchment from the pocket of his jacket and gave it to Parker. 'Put that somewhere safe.'

Parker looked down at the topmost page and his brows rose. 'Dad... that's too much...'

'Shush,' Percy ordered. 'Your mother and I didn't want you to have to worry about something like money while you were traveling. Just don't spend it all in one place, or on beer and racing brooms, eh?'

Parker felt a smile curve over his face. 'Good one, Dad.'

Percy returned the smile. 'It happens from time to time.' Parker held out a hand and Percy looked at it quizzically before grasping it, then using the outstretched hand to pull Parker toward him, slinging his free arm around his son's broad shoulders. When did he get so tall? In his mind's eye, Percy could still see the slightly befuddled expression on Parker's newborn face as if it were mere days, and not years, ago.

'Four thirty-two Portkey to New York!' called the Ministry official. 'Four thirty-two Portkey to New York!'

Percy reluctantly released Parker and nudged him to the door. Parker took a deep breath and resolutely strode to the doorway. He paused, and turned for one more look at his family - his parents and brothers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. All responsible in some way for who he was today. He smiled then - brightly, hopefully - and lifted his hand in a wave before he walked through the door.