The First Day

Harry perched on the edge of the table in the examination room in Leighton's office. He shivered a little, staring at a chart of the human skeletal system. He'd already been waiting for twenty minutes and the delay was starting to grate on his nerves. He noticed he'd been somewhat more irritable than usual since the explosion. He initially thought it was due to his enforced inactivity immediately after he'd been discharged from the hospital, but as he was able to do more, Harry found small things still disproportionately annoyed him. Like not being able to find the instructions to repair the gearbox of the motorbike in the manual right away. Or dropping a spanner on his toes. Harry had been so irate at that, he'd chucked the spanner across the shed and then had to spend nearly an hour poking around the rubbish in the shed looking for it. 'Why does it have to be so damn cold in here?' he grumbled, pulling his hands inside his jumper.

'I ask myself that every day,' Leighton said, as he walked through the door, after perfunctorily knocking. He spread Harry's chart on a counter and began firing questions toward his patient. 'Any dizziness?'

'Some. Especially if I'm tired.'

'Blurred vision?'

'With or without the glasses?' Harry shot back.

'With,' Leighton said dryly.

'No.'

'Fatigue?'

'No.'

'Nausea?'

'No...'

'Impaired physical coordination?'

'Sometimes.'

'How often?'

Harry sighed gustily. 'The last time was... three? No, four days ago.'

'And how long was it after the last time you had difficulty walking?'

'Couple of days...'

'Any difficult concentrating or amnesia?

'It's a little hard to focus on something for an extended period of time...' Harry said, beginning to worry.

'Define "extended period of time".' Leighton cocked en eyebrow at Harry, long familiar with the way Aurors tended to hold an exaggerated view of things.

'More than a couple of hours,' Harry said with a shrug.

'Increased irritability or aggression?'

Harry's lips thinned. 'Yes,' he said, clenching his teeth.

Leighton merely nodded and continued to make a few notes in Harry's chart. 'Very good,' he murmured, lighting his wand and shining the light briefly into each of Harry's eyes, making approving noises.

'Is this going to keep me from working?' Harry asked anxiously.

'Not in the long term, no. Unless you intend for this to be a regular occurrence,' Leighton said.

'No.'

'Concussion takes a bit of time to heal completely. You're doing well, all things considered. I won't clear you to go back to work or testify at the trials until then.'

'And how much longer will that be?' Harry asked nervously.

'Depends. Could be a couple more weeks. Could be another month. Just takes time.' Leighton set the quill down and gazed at Harry. 'Well, since you're not experiencing blurred vision, what do you say to tossing those things into the dustbin?' he suggested, indicating the large glasses on Harry's face.

'I'd love to.' Harry slid off the table and followed Leighton to a doorway that opened into a dim staircase. 'Could I get two pairs? Have a spare?'

'Of course. I'm surprised you didn't have one before.'

'Yeah, well...' Harry jammed his hands into his pockets, thinking of the fuss Vernon or Petunia would have raised had anybody ever suggested Harry ought to have a spare pair of glasses. 'Didn't think about it before.'

Leighton noted the edge in Harry's voice and wisely let the subject drop. He climbed several flights of stairs and opened a door into a bright, airy room. 'I want to see you again in a week. Sooner if any of your symptoms get worse. And you're still restricted on travel. No Flooing or Apparating by yourself. If your physical coordination improves by your next visit, I'll reconsider it.'

'Fine.' Harry slipped through the door and blinked, the bright light making his eyes water after the dark staircase. He walked around the room, peering at the selections. They ranged from the somewhat old-fashioned horn-rimmed frames favored by Arthur and Percy to round wire-rimmed frames Harry and his father preferred. Harry plucked a pair of frames off a rack that resembled his old ones, but were smaller. He tried to hold them up to his face, but the larger ones hindered his view. Growling in frustration, he yanked the replacements off and leaned so close to the small mirror, his nose nearly smudged it.

'Those'll look smashing,' a witch said admiringly behind Harry.

Startled, Harry turned around. 'You think so?'

'Don't mean to be pushy, but these will look better.' She pulled the round frames from Harry's face and set a different pair on his nose. 'Have a look at that, then.'

Harry turned back to the mirror and squinted. 'Would never have picked these,' he murmured. The oblong frames did make him look less like a little boy trying to look older, giving him a more mature look. 'I'll take them.'

The witch took Harry's replacement glasses and tugged the new frames from his face. 'Be back with these in five minutes.'

'Erm... yeah...' Harry squeezed his eyes shut then opened them. 'Could I get two pairs?' he called after her.

'Sure thing,' she replied over her shoulder. 'See you in a mo.'

Harry groped short-sightedly for a chair and dropped into the first one his hand landed on. 'Ow!' said a disgruntled voice.

Harry sprang from the chair and gaped in shock at the wizened witch glaring at him. 'Oh... Sorry... Didn't see you...' he stammered in apology.

'Hmph!' she sniffed. 'No respect from the younger generations,' she grumbled, settling her large handbag more firmly on her lap.

Harry rolled his eyes and moved down a few chairs and settling in an empty one. Muted music played on a large, ornate wireless in the corner. It was the sickly sweet instrumental kind of music that made his teeth ache. Presently, the old witch's name was called and she shuffled off to collect her glasses and left, throwing a baleful glare at Harry as she stumped out of the door. Harry crossed his arms over his chest, and sighed. It felt as if more than five minutes had passed.

'Here you are Mr. Potter!' the witch trilled. She carefully slid one of the new pairs of glasses over his nose. 'How is that?'

Harry blinked and the witch swam into focus. She was stunningly beautiful. Glossy dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and bright blue eyes were surrounded by thick, sooty lashes. 'Brilliant...' he breathed.

She smiled and pressed a small carrier bag into his hands. 'Your spare glasses are in there, along with a case for those,' she told him, adjusting the frames slightly.

'Yeah, thanks.' Harry watched her walk off and slipped his coat from his shoulders. He held it in front of him and carefully stood up.

'If you'll come with me, Mr. Potter, there's a lift that will take you back down to the reception area,' the witch said cheerfully.

Harry gulped. 'Right.' He followed the witch, carefully keeping his eyes trained on the back of her head. She was waiting for him in the lift by the time he managed to make it through the doors. The witch punched a button for the ground floor and grinned at Harry.

'So do you have plans for this weekend?' she asked.

'Erm... Sort of.'

She turned to him and toyed with the pendant of her necklace that rested in an expanse of bare skin, exposed by the deep V-neck of her robes. 'My girlfriends and I are going to a club for a bit of dancing Saturday night. Want to come with?'

The carrier bag rustled at Harry gripped it tightly. 'Erm... I...' Thankfully the doors opened and Harry darted out of the lift to where Arthur sat, paging through a ragged magazine. 'Okay, I'm done,' he mumbled to Arthur.

'Harry!' The witch tucked a scrap of parchment into his shirt pocket. 'In case you change your mind.'

Arthur looked up at Harry, who was furiously blushing, then craned his head around him just in time to see the witch walk into the lift. 'Hm. The witch that does my glasses reminds me of my aunt Hilda,' he commented mildly. 'And she's never asked me out, either.'

'I didn't do anything!' Harry said defensively.

Arthur chuckled, as he tossed the magazine aside and got to his feet. 'You're not dead, Harry,' he said. 'It's perfectly acceptable to notice a pretty woman.' He patted Harry firmly on the back. 'Just don't do it in front of Ginny, eh?'

Harry cleared his throat and cut a quick glance at Arthur. 'So, you think she's pretty?' he asked with forced casualness.

Arthur laughed outright and squeezed Harry's shoulder. 'I'm not dead, either, son.' He led Harry out to the street. 'Do you want to go back to the Burrow, to the Ministry, or to Diagon Alley?'

Harry inhaled deeply, grateful for the cold crisp air. 'I think I'd like to stretch my legs a bit,' he allowed. When Arthur looked at him doubtfully, he added, 'I am allowed to use the Underground by myself.' Arthur's expression still didn't clear. 'I'll meet you in the Ministry atrium at five.' Arthur's eyes narrowed. 'Arthur, please...' Harry begged. 'I just need a few hours to myself.'

'All right,' Arthur said reluctantly. 'If you start to feel iffy, you get a message to me and I'll come fetch you.'

Harry nodded assent, and checked his coat pockets for Muggle money. 'Thanks.' He headed for the Underground station and got on the first train that arrived at the platform.

*****

Harry dodged a line of chattering schoolchildren making their way into the aquarium as he left. He stood in the middle of the walkway, chewing his lip thoughtfully, an island in an eddy of people. The reptile house was just on the other side. Grinning slightly to himself, he crossed the walk and headed into the dim, humid interior.

Harry drifted from exhibit to exhibit, wondering what ever became of the boa constrictor he'd inadvertently freed nearly eight years ago from the zoo in Surrey. Had he actually made it to Brazil? Harry hoped so. He'd quite enjoyed the congenial conversation with the snake, but it also reminded him snakes in of themselves weren't the embodiment of evil, as he'd come to see so often the past few years.

There was a large python drowsily curled up in its enclosure. Harry leaned closer to the glass, so that his breath misted over it. 'Must get boring in there,' he commented. The snake remained still and silent. Harry frowned. 'Must not be in a chatty mood today,' he sighed. He continued on, making a slow circuit around the reptile house, stopping occasionally to speak to the livelier snakes.

None of them ever replied.

Am I actually speaking Parseltongue?, he wondered. He didn't know. When he'd spoken or heard Parseltongue, it didn't sound much different than English to his ears most of the time. There were very few instances where he heard what everyone else surely had. With a last thoughtful glance at the snakes, Harry left the reptile house and trudged toward a kiosk for something warm to drink. Cradling a paper cup of tea between his hands, he found a bench in a sunny spot and sat down with his feet stretched out in front of him. Not being able to distinguish between English and Parseltongue had nearly gotten both him and Hermione killed on that Christmas Eve they'd encountered Nagini hiding inside Bathilda Bagshot's body. And while the chances of anyone else ever making a Horcrux out of a snake were slim to none, not being able to detect English from Parseltongue was a serious liability.

Finished with his tea, Harry got to his feet and made his way to the exit.

*****

Harry reached across Ron for his toothbrush and squirted a blob of toothpaste on to it. He started to brush his teeth, staring sightlessly at the taps on the sink. 'All right?' Ron asked, nudging Harry.

'Do you notice other girls?' Harry asked. 'Besides Hermione?'

Ron choked and leaned forward, spitting toothpaste into the sink. 'What?' he wheezed, his eyes watering.

'Girl walks by, and she's got a nice bum...' Harry mumbled. 'You look?'

'Well, yeah. It's not like Hermione doesn't look at other blokes,' Ron reasoned, poking his toothbrush back into his mouth. 'Remember how she got all moony over the Defense professor last November when we went to see her and Gin in Hogsmeade?'

'Yeah.'

'Well...' Ron cupped his hand under the faucet and slurped up mouthful of water, swishing it around for a moment, then spitting it out into the sink. 'As long as she doesn't touch and it's my name she says when we're...' Ron made a vague gesture. 'You know...' He shrugged nonchalantly. 'She can look all she wants.'

Harry aped Ron's actions, cupping his hand under the faucet and rinsing his mouth. 'What about you?'

'What about me?'

Harry wiped his mouth on a towel and dropped his toothbrush in its glass. He went to the open bathroom door and peeked out onto the landing. Satisfied it was deserted, he closed the door and put a Silencing charm on it. 'Let's say you see that girl with the nice bum, does it make you... Well...' He felt a flush crawl up the back of his neck and spread over his face. 'Tingly?' he mumbled.

'Yeah.' Ron lifted the charm and opened the bathroom door. 'Makes you miss your school robes, doesn't it?'

'Just a bit.'

*****

Charlie walked out of the bathroom, toweling his hair dry. He didn't have to be at work until midnight and it was only six in the evening. George had disappeared sometime earlier around noon. As quiet as George tried to be during the day, he couldn't quite manage not to let the front door of the cabin slam shut. It wasn't really his fault - the door had a tendency to slam as it was, and Charlie hadn't gotten around to putting a Cushioning charm on the door, seeing as he was the only one who ever used it on a regular basis.

He headed into the kitchen for a glass of water and was greeted by a scrap of parchment stuck to the cupboard door with a weak Sticking charm.

Dinner at the pub in the village. My treat. Does seven work for you?

Charlie shook his head as he filled a glass. 'I suppose seven will have to work for me,' he said to the empty kitchen, hitching up his boxers. He drained the glass and set it in the sink, then returned to his bedroom and quickly dressed in a pair of jeans and his latest Christmas jumper. He smiled a little as he donned it, the slightly acrid scent of the Fireproofing charm Molly put on the yarn drifting into his nose. It was the only presentable one he had. The others were pockmarked with burns. 'I really ought to get some decent clothes,' he murmured. Most of his clothes bore the marks of his job's hazardous nature, so he rarely bothered to replace anything, and only bought anything new when something was damaged beyond repair. He shoved his feet into the bulky dragon hide boots and strapped his watch on his wrist.

Checking the time on his watch, Charlie realized he had some time to kill and wandered back into the sitting room. George's bag slumped next to the sofa and the blue leather-bound book balanced precariously on the back of it. Curiously, Charlie grabbed the book and lowered himself to the sofa, flipping through the book. He stopped every so often, skimming the poem on the page, one auburn eyebrow rising slightly at the rather erotic nature of some of the poems. Frowning, he turned to the flyleaf, searching for a clue as to who had given George such a book.

18 April 1997

To Katie - Happy birthday. Love, George

'Fascinating,' Charlie murmured. He supposed George hadn't needed to write anything else in the inscription. The book itself was all he needed. But it made him wonder: had George never given this Katie the book at all? He stood and grabbed his coat from a hook by the door, and slipped it on, sliding the book into a pocket and left the cabin to meet George.

By the time Charlie managed to slog his way through the snow to the pub, George was already ensconced in a tiny booth in a corner, a half-full glass in front of him. Charlie went to the bar and ordered a drink for himself and wound his way through the crowd to the booth, nodding at George by way of a greeting.

George set his glass down and gestured with his chin to a spot across the room. 'Who's that?'

Charlie followed his gaze and quickly spun around. 'Healer for the reserve,' he replied, gulping his bitter.

'What'd you do to her?'

'What makes you think I did something?' Charlie huffed, consulting the small, stained menu card on the table.

'Because she's been glaring daggers at you since you walked in the door,' George responded promptly.

Charlie sighed and set the card down. 'I haven't a clue,' he said. 'She's been annoyed with me for almost a month and I have no idea what I said or did.'

'Blimey,' George said mildly.

'Women,' Charlie snorted. He shrugged off his coat and draped it over the back of his chair. He regarded George with a bit of consternation. They hadn't talked much since last Saturday evening, beyond ordinary things. 'So, I know I was pretty harsh with you when you got here.'

'Yeah.'

'I'm not sorry,' Charlie said shortly. 'But you're the one who gets to decide if you're going to continue to live in your grief or not. Just because Fred's gone, it doesn't mean you can't keep the shop going or take it in a different direction. Or ask other people for help. Think about it, yeah? What would be a bigger disservice to Fred - letting it all fall apart or keeping the dream going, even if it isn't entirely what he envisioned?'

'Yeah...' George shifted a few times. 'The one good thing about this place... Lots of quiet to think over things. Thanks for letting me stay and not insisting I go home right away.'

'You're my brother, George. It wasn't a problem.'

George picked at the corner of the menu. 'Yeah, well... Bill would have glared and rumbled disapprovingly and Percy would have lectured me until gravity yanked the pole out of his arse.'

Charlie grinned. 'Thanks.' He signaled to a passing barman. 'Bangers and mash for me,' he said. 'And whatever he wants,' he added, pointing to George.

'Pie and mash, please.'

As the barman left, Charlie rummaged in his coat pocket. He pushed the book across the table. 'Who's Katie?'

George snatched the book from the table and glowered at Charlie. 'Friend,' he mumbled. 'Remember that blonde girl with me at Ginny's birthday last summer?' Charlie nodded. 'That's her.'

'Did you ever give her the book?' Charlie was highly aware of the irony, considering he'd made a fuss about George looking through his sketch books.

'Yeah. I sent it to her for her birthday two years ago.'

Charlie coughed, choking on a swallow of his drink. 'Were you trying to get into her knickers or something?' he asked incredulously.

'No, of course not!' George gasped.

Charlie gave him a skeptical look. 'Really?'

'Not that I haven't thought about it,' George admitted. 'But she doesn't want me.'

'I find that hard to believe.'

'She said three people in a relationship were a little hard to take.'

'She sounds like a wise girl.'

George waited while the barman delivered their meals, and picked up his fork. 'She has her moments.'

Charlie ran the tines of his fork through the mound of mashed potatoes on his plate. 'Was it hard to leave her?' George picked at his dinner and didn't reply, so Charlie thought he hadn't heard him. He repeated, 'Was it hard to -'

'Yes,' George said in a low voice, barely audible in the bustling pub. 'Yes, it was.'

*****

George waited for Charlie to get home from work, his toes tapping a nervous tattoo on the floor. He did want to leave without saying goodbye. The door creaked open, admitting a drained Charlie. 'Heading off?' he asked wearily.

'Yeah.' George played with the strap of his bag.

Charlie dropped to the sofa next to his brother. 'Scared?'

'A little.'

Charlie nodded and ruffled George's hair. 'Dealing with family's much more terrifying than facing a dragon.'

'Is that why you stay away?'

'We're not talking about me,' Charlie muttered. 'We're talking about you.' He draped an arm around George's tense shoulders. 'It'll be all right. Dad doesn't pry too much and once Mum gets the fussing out of her system, she'll be fine.'

'It's not Mum and Dad I'm worried about,' George said pensively. 'It's Ron...'

'Ah.' Charlie understood what worried George so much. Ron felt the most casual slights from his brothers as if they cut him to the core. 'I'd go with groveling. If you do keep the shop going, get him involved with it more. Maybe you can work with him like you and Fred did. He's not as thick as the two of you seemed to imagine.'

'I've thought about it,' George said slowly.

'Better get on with it, then. Thinking isn't doing you any good.' Charlie pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand to George, hauling his younger brother off the sofa. 'What time's your Portkey back to London?'

'Fifteen minutes.'

'Right.' Charlie pulled George into an embrace, hugging him tightly. 'Take care of yourself.'

'Yeah...' George pounded Charlie's a back a few times. 'If you come for lunch on Sundays more, we're not so scary.'

'I'll think about it.' Charlie drew in a shuddering breath and nudged George to the door. 'You're going to miss your Portkey.'

'Bye, Charlie... ' George picked up his bag and ducked out of the cabin.