Questions and Answers

Ron pulled Al into the scullery and handed him a small, clumsily wrapped package. 'Happy Christmas.'

Al fingered a crooked strip of cellotape bisecting the middle of a dancing Santa. 'What is it?' he asked suspiciously.

Ron's hand slid into the pockets of his jeans. 'It's Christmas prezzie, gumby,' he chided. 'Just open it.'

Al gingerly picked at the edge of the cellotape and ripped off the gaily printed paper, dropping it on the scarred table next to Molly's ancient mangle. He lifted the lid of the box and folded back a layer of deep blue silk, finding something that resembled a cigarette lighter. 'Does Dad know you're encouraging me to start smoking?' Al asked sardonically.

Ron coughed. 'No. Things aren't always what they seem, yeah? It's called a Deluminator.'

Al blinked. He had heard of Deluminators. They were beyond rare. He had only ever heard of one in existence, and it was the one nestled in a bed of silk in his hand, created by none other than his namesake. 'What does it do, exactly?'

Ron hesitated. 'It helps you find your way when you need it most,' he said carefully. Al's fingers convulsed around the box, and his mouth opened to object that he didn't need any help to find his way, thank you. Ron quickly added, 'Maybe you don't need it now, but someday. You may need it once, then never again.' Al gazed at the Deluminator with wariness. Ron caught the expression. 'I know we've always taught you lot to be suspicious of tings that can't actually think for themselves, but this can't...' Ron touched the Deluminator with a gentle fingertip. 'This isn't a living thing, really. It's more of an antenna. It can amplify what's in your heart,' he said softly, musingly. 'Listen to it or not, it's your call.' Ron explained. 'Your call,' he repeated. Ron carefully folded the silk back over the glimmering silver device. 'It's your choice when to even use it,' he said casually, replacing the lid, knowing how Al felt about personal autonomy.

Al slipped the box into his jeans pocket. 'When did you...?' He stopped himself. It was none of his business.

The corner of Ron's mouth turned up in a crooked grin. 'I was almost eighteen,' he said quietly, lightly slapping Al on the back by way of a farewell as he left the scullery. Al stared after his uncle's retreating back. Vague memories drifted through his head of the stories his parents and aunts and uncles had told them during his first year. If he was nearly eighteen, then it must have been when they were on that mad quest of theirs, he thought, fingers lightly tapping the outline of the box under the stiff denim. He leaned against the edge of the scullery table, tucking his chilled hands under his arms to warm them, as he watched Ron amble to the paddock so he could join the snowball fight Teddy was organizing. Ron wasn't generally so cryptic in Al's experience. In fact, the man was an open book compared to Harry. It was only then that Al realized Ron hadn't exactly told him -how to use the Deluminator.

Later that night after everyone had gone to bed, Al sat tailor style in the middle of his bed turning the Deluminator over his in hands. He figured if there had been some sort of spell or charm to make it work, Ron would have at least told him that. No, this had to function in a manner that suited its form. Taking a deep breath, and steeling himself for the worst, Al cautiously flicked the Deluminator as if he were lighting an ordinary cigarette lighter. The flame from the lamp burning on his bedside table flew into the Deluminator, plunging the room into darkness. Al clicked it again, and the tiny flame burst back into the room and settled back on the wick of the lamp, as if it had never left. Al's head tilted to the side, but he heard nothing but the wind blowing through the bare branches of the trees. 'This is rubbish,' he muttered, stuffing the Deluminator back into the box, feeling as if he had just been the object of one of his uncles' jokes. 'Ha-bloody-ha.'

XxXxXxX

Maya unraveled a row of stitches with a longsuffering sigh. 'Remind me again why I wanted to learn how to do this by hand?' she grumbled, carefully inserting the crochet hook under the previous row and catching the strand of wool spooling off her index finger with it.

'It's nice to know something like this,' Ginny said tranquilly. 'People appreciate it when you give them something you took the time to make for them. When I really get into making something, especially if it's complicated, time seems to slow down. I don't think about anything except the wool and the crochet hook or knitting needles.' A cheer exploded from the wireless. Ginny glanced at it with a smug grin. 'I love it when Holyhead beats the sh--I mean, snot out of Puddlemere.'

'Aren't you friends with Oliver Wood?' Maya inquired.

Ginny grinned. 'Yes, but Puddlemere and Holyhead have an old rivalry, you know. So for today, Oliver is the enemy!'

Maya's curly head bent over her hands once more. 'Mrs. Potter?'

'Ginny.'

'Excuse me?'

'My name is Ginny. You needn't call me Mrs. Potter. Please, call me Ginny, Maya.'

Maya shifted uncomfortably. 'All right.' She glanced at the wireless. A small replica of the European Cup sat next to it, green and gold ribbons tied to its handles. 'Why did you stop playing when you did? You were in your prime.' She felt her cheeks redden at the personal nature of the question, and hastily added, 'It's only that so many articles and books have about as many theories as there are articles or books. None of their theories seem to... fit... you.'

Ginny's eyes sparked with suppressed amusement. 'Oh?' She had read them all at some point.

Maya let her hands fall into her lap. 'You don't seem the type to just stop doing something you love or do well unless there's a logical reason behind it.' She cast a stitch on the scarf she was making before continuing, 'You freelanced for the Prophet, Which Broomstick, or Quidditch Quarterly while you were on leave after you had Albus and Lily. You didn't stop writing because you happened to give birth. So there must be more to the story than that.'

Ginny leaned back in the armchair. 'Contrary to popular opinion, It wasn't to have a baby, which was the breathless opinion of every gossip columnist in Europe and America,' she said sardonically. 'Getting pregnant with James so soon after I had retired was coincidence.' She cast a few stitches on the lace tablecloth she was making for Victoire's wedding present. 'It wasn't fun anymore. All the training, the games and travel, the cutthroat nature of professional Quidditch. You can't live life on your own terms. It's the team's terms. Something always hurt. I played with broken limbs and fingers. Cracked a rib a time or two. Various bumps and bruises, especially after playing Falmouth.' Ginny flexed her toes. 'I once played a game at school with a badly broken leg. Got hit by a Bludger. Madam Pomfrey fixed it right up, but still... It aches a bit before it rains. Concussions. Those are nothing to play at. One of my good friends got one too many and had to retire. Her memory can be a bit spotty at times. I even remember the exact moment when I knew it was time for me to leave. We were playing Portree and the weather was miserable. Frigid wind, sleet mixed with snow. I even had the bloody Quaffle in my hand. I found myself wondering why I was there. On a broom, in the middle of a bleeding match, about to score a goal. The four previous seasons, I loved every minute of it. The travel, the practices, the pressure. The exhilaration of winning. And one day, it just stopped being fun for me.' She smiled wistfully. 'Still, those were five of the best years of my life, though. I wouldn't trade them for anything. Quidditch forced me to stretch my boundaries. To think before I acted. To trust my teammates.'

Maya frowned. 'If it's so wonderful, why don't you want Al to play?'

Ginny's hands stilled. 'I never said that. I didn't want him to play for England until he was actually of age or had finished school with a handful of N.E.W.T.s.' Ginny stared into the fireplace, watching the orange and yellow flames dance above the logs. 'Al is one of those once-in-a-generation players. He's so good and he knows it. I want him to have something else in mind he could do with has much joy as Seeking gives him, on the very infinitesimal chance that something might happen to him that makes it impossible for Al to play any longer. The mother wants Al to have an identity beyond Quidditch.' She blinked and looked at Maya. 'And I happen to feel that a bit of humility wouldn't be amiss.' She shrugged. 'Of course, the Quidditch writer in me wants him to sign with a team that will challenge him. Come next June, he can make his own decisions about his career. I just want him to be able to make the best decision without letting his ego get in the way. I've seen far too many players flame out because they took on more than they could handle as a rookie since I've worked on the paper.'

Maya slowly cast another stich on the row. 'Does he know that?'

Ginny's head tilted to the side. 'I'd bet my broom that he does. He's studied the game too much not to. I wish he'd tell us that he understands that aspect of it.'

Al pulled the sleeves of his jumper over his hands and quietly retreated back to his bedroom. He had intended to go to the kitchen for something warm to drink and a snack, but Maya's question to his mother made him stop. He was, in fact, completely aware of all his mother's concerns. Like every other time he wanted to speak to his parents, the words died on his tongue.

How could he explain to her he'd rather go out in a burst of light as a Seeker than spend the rest of his life toiling in obscure drudgery?

XxXxXxX

George, Ron, and Harry clustered around the magenta curtain that shielded the back room from the rest of the shop, nervously watching Fred, Jacob, and James try their hand at running it without overt supervision. George reached back into a tin on a nearby shelf and grabbed a piece of shortbread. He anxiously nibbled the edges. 'We really ought to just go upstairs and leave them be,' Harry whispered.

George and Ron both shot him withering glances and George crammed the rest of the shortbread into his mouth. 'Not bloody likely, mate,' Ron muttered while George emphatically shook his head.

'I worked too hard to build this place,' George growled as he swallowed the buttery biscuit. 'They're not going to have the slightest chance of cocking it up if I have anything to say about it.'

Harry peered through the gap in the curtain. The boys seemed to be handling themselves well. Fred and Jacob had all but spent their lives in and around the shop. They knew every bit of merchandise backward, forward, and sideways. James was no slouch either, having spent a good portion of his school holidays working in the shop for pocket money from the age of eight. For the past few months, George and Ron had gradually handed Fred and Jacob more and more responsibilities in the day-to-day running of the shop. The shop bustled with a stream of customers searching for jokes and tricks to take back to Hogwarts or a selection of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to help bring in the new year in a few days' time.

George's hand snaked into the tin once more. Ron nudged him sharply in the ribs. 'Oi! You won't fit into your robes if you keep that up.'

'Shut it, you,' George hissed, tensing as he noticed a large group of Hogwarts students walk through the door. His hand rose to his mouth, and he resumed his anxious nibbling. 'Merlin's bollocks,' he moaned. 'That lot is a handful.' One or two of them liked to try to nick some of the smaller items, mostly the sweets, during the busier times under the cover of their large group. James quickly excused himself, pulling Hugo over so he could help the customer to whom James had been speaking, and made a show of inquiring after the needs of the rowdy group. They tried to rebuff James, but he doggedly followed them around the shop, questioning each member about their likes and dislikes, unfailingly polite and unobtrusive. Between James and Fred they managed to herd the group to the till without them quite realizing they had been neatly managed into honesty until they were standing in the frosty street.

'What are you doing?' Katie asked in amusement, making George jump as if someone had run a hatpin into his bottom. His hand convulsed around his biscuit, crushing it into oblivion.

George whirled around scattering crumbs. 'Where did you come from?'

'Are you checking up on the boys?' Katie inquired, ignoring George.

'No,' Ron stammered, looking wildly around for something to do to hide that he had, in fact, been barely holding George back from tumbling into the shop and micromanaging everything the boys did. Katie gazed evenly at Ron, whose cheeks began to redden slightly. He rolled his eyes. 'Maybe just a little,' he allowed.

'Upstairs,' Katie ordered sternly. 'Leave them alone. Fred and Jacob have been here since they were born.' She grabbed George's arm in one hand, then Ron's in the other, forcibly dragging them up the stairs to the flat they used as an office. 'You, too,' she said over her shoulder to Harry, who followed with alacrity. Katie steered Ron and George to the sofa and dropped their arms. 'Sit,' she said. 'I'm going to make some tea, and the two of you are going to keep your bums on this sofa until it's time to close.'

'But -' Ron started to rise from the sofa, but Katie's sharp glare made him sink back into the cushions.

She strode to the tiny kitchen area and set a collection of old, mismatched, boot-sale mugs on a battered tray. 'You're mad, the three of you.'

'Me?' Harry spluttered. 'It wasn't my idea to hover!'

Katie fixed Harry with a steely eye. 'I didn't see you chivvying those two away from the doorway, did I?'

'Erm.' Harry had the grace to look abashed. 'I'm more of a silent partner,' he said defensively. 'Haven't got a dog in the fight,' he said lamely.

Katie dumped the hot water she'd swirled around the teapot into the sink and dumped tea leaves into it. She added boiling water to the pot and set it on the tray, before peering into the cupboard where they usually kept milk for the tea. 'Rubbish,' she told Harry succinctly. 'Absolute rubbish.' Katie carried the tray to the coffee table and set it down. She casually waved her wand and a squishy armchair landed on the floor with a thump. Katie doled out mugs of tea and settled into the cushions with her own mug. George and Ron looked positively ill, both of them clutching their mugs, identical stricken expressions on their faces. Harry stared into his mug, but Katie could see him worrying his lower lip between his teeth. 'James is a steady young man,' she told Harry gently. 'He's got a good head on his shoulders and while he may not know the shop down to the last splinter like the twins, he's bloody close. He's observant, responsible, learns quickly from his mistakes. Focused.' Harry nodded. 'I'm not telling you things you don't already know,' Katie added.

'No,' Harry admitted.

'And George, love,' Katie began, turning her attention to her husband. 'Our boys have a wicked sense of humor, but they're not malicious. They look at this business as their birthright and feel they have a duty to maintain it properly. By the time you and Ron hand the reins over to them, they're going to be much older and much more experienced than you were when you opened this place,' Katie reminded him, lightly stroking the back of his hand. George opened his mouth to protest, but Katie quickly told him, 'If they think you don't trust them, they won't have the confidence to take over. They'll second-guess themselves. They won't learn,' she said soothingly, but firmly. 'If they do make mistakes, they have to learn from them so they don't repeat it.'

'But I - Fred and me - built this from nothing,' George said despairingly.

'The boys know that,' Katie said bracingly. She exhaled slowly. 'You wouldn't know it from just looking at them, the cheeky monkeys, but they would rather work with Percy than disappoint you.' Katie glanced at Ron and Harry. 'All of you.' Katie looked beseechingly at George. 'We could go on a nice holiday. Maybe go back to Bari for our anniversary like we've always said we would? Or Australia or New Zealand? Have a lie-in and not feel guilty about it?' Katie brushed George's fringe from his eyes. 'I've watched you nearly run yourself into the ground more times than I can count over the past twenty-five years. Let the boys do this, without you lot hovering over them. For their sakes and your own.'

George grimaced and took a large swallow of his tea. 'I hate it when you're logical,' he grumbled.

'You can tell me all about it when we're on holiday somewhere warm and sunny while it's grey and drizzly here,' Katie said with a smile.

George heaved a sigh and flopped back against the sofa cushion. He eyed Ron curiously. 'Do you ever wish that Rosie or Hugo wanted to come into the shop?'

Ron shook his head. 'No,' he stated emphatically. 'They're not suited for it. Rose would drive everyone mad in a matter of hours with her know-it-all tendencies. She'd rather be on a broom, anyway. And Hugo...' Ron shrugged. 'Too introverted. He'd go out of his tree with all the noise and people day after day. He can handle it in short bits, like coming in for an afternoon a few times a week, but not every day.' Ron meditatively sipped his tea. 'Not sure what he wants.' He rubbed his eyebrow. 'Whatever it is, it's going to be a surprise to both Hermione and me. Doesn't let on much, Hugo.'

'I'm still surprised James wants to become a partner in this some day,' Harry mused.

'Be careful there...' George warned lightly.

'He's never really been the prankster that Jacob and Fred are,' Harry explained. 'I guess I wanted something a little easier for him. This is a backbreaking job, even when you have help you can trust to see to things in your limited absences. I've wondered for years how the two of you have coped. Then to add to the pressure of maintaining the legacy?' Harry shuddered slightly. 'Or taking it beyond what the two of you have built, while keeping the high standards you've set?'

'What about Lily?' Katie murmured.

Harry turned his gaze to her. 'You know, I haven't the faintest idea. She gets good marks in everything, even History of Magic. Added Muggle Studies last year. She practices spells constantly when she's allowed to use magic, and studies them or potion-making when she's not.' Harry's face brightened. 'When she was small, she used to pretend she was an Auror. All her dolls were Dark wizards, and she ran round with a stick, waving it like it was a wand.'

'Do you think she wants to be an Auror?' George casually asked, inspecting the teapot before adding more tea to his mug. He exchanged a glance with Ron. They had privately bandied about the idea of Lily becoming an Auror amongst themselves while working in the back room a few times. Certain things added up. Sure, she had outgrown her childhood games, but she had traded them for learning Muggle tricks - escaping from being bound to a chair to picking a lock with a hairpin - under the guise of claiming it was useful information. She took self-defense classes during the summer holidays. Dark wizards might expect a Stunning spell, but not a well-timed blow to the solar plexus. And then there was the matter of her wand. Ollivander had said it was good for defensive magic, and Lily was far too intelligent to become a Hit Wizard.

Harry started, then chuckled. 'No. She's wavered between playing Quidditch or working for Gringotts as a Curse Breaker. She knows how I feel about them becoming Aurors. It's a remarkable career, of course, and I love it, but...' he trailed off groping for an analogy. 'It's like those blokes who play professional sport, but don't want their offspring to do it. It can be lonely, stressful, play havoc with your personal life.' He shook his head. 'Nah. I can't see her becoming an Auror.'

Ron lightly punched him in the arm. 'If you say so, mate. You're the Auror expert here.'

Katie snorted softly into her tea. 'There are none so blind...' she said under her breath.

'What's that?' Harry asked.

'Nothing,' Katie replied with what she hoped was a bright smile. 'Nothing at all.'

XxXxXxX

Lily stared at the notice board in Gryffindor Tower, dismay tugging the corners of her mouth down. 'What's going on?' Lily glanced over her shoulder at Sophie, who had just climbed through the portrait hole.

Lily pointed to the single sheet of parchment pinned to the board. It tersely announced:

Career Advice for all fifth years will commence as scheduled. Fourth years will also receive Career Advice at this time.

Career Advice will move to fourth year permanently after this year.

See your Head of House for more details.

Signed,
Gareth Shacklebolt
Hogwarts Headmaster

'I thought I had another year before someone let something slip to Dad,' Lily sighed, pulling off her glasses and rubbing the space between her eyebrows.

'Makes sense,' Sophie said lightly. 'I'm surprised they never did this before. It gives you a chance to make sure your skills are up to snuff before fifth year and O.W.L.s,' she mused. 'Especially if you want to go into something like Healing and need to take some of the more technical classes like Potions.'

'I suppose,' Lily muttered.

'Oh, come on,' Sophie scoffed. 'Is it really fair to let some poor old bodger who can barely Disarm a sofa cushion wait until a few months before O.W.L.s to start a discussion with their Head that a career as an Auror might not be in the cards for them?'

Lily dropped her bag on a table. 'No. I just wanted a little more time to figure out how to tell Dad I want to be an Auror...'