Getting Closer to Fine

Five

You performed your story: Noiselessly across the floor, dancing at the funeral party. - The Cure

*

Ron was drowning. That had to be it. He couldn't catch his breath; there were white spots dancing behind his eyelids; something - one of the giant squid's tentacles, perhaps? - was increasing pressure on his neck with every gasp for air he made.

He opened his eyes, resolved to face death head-on - and blinked.

Okay, maybe not drowning.

But definitely in deep. Very, very deep.

His current companion was not the giant squid, but instead a rather short, thin girl, with long brown hair and brown eyes that were usually quite beautiful. Right now, though, the eyes were assessing. Cataloguing. And waiting for an answer.

"Er. . .what was the question again?"

"What. Kind. Of. Coin. Is. This?" Sarah held a Knut between two fingers.

"It's. . .foreign." Ron dug in, removed the entire contents of his pockets, and added them to the few coins he had already laid out on the table. Lint. Wizarding coins of every denomination. A few suspicious-looking Every Flavour Beans that he planned to have Harry taste-test. And that was all. Nothing suitable for paying his pub bill.

"What country? That looks like Latin writing on it," Sarah said.

Ron inserted a finger between his neck and the collar of his shirt and tugged. "Er. I don't really know. One of my brothers gave it to me. I meant to change it before I left work." Really, really, really meant to. Ron took a deep breath before making a final, painful admission. "And it's all I've got on me."

Sarah was still staring at the Knut, her brow furrowed. "You know, I took Latin a few years ago. I bet I can translate this. . . . "

Ron opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Which was a good thing, because his internal monologue was something along the lines of Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh I'm so fucked. . . .

"Okay," Ron said, when he finally regained use of his voice, "okay, look, I'll tell you all about it, please can we go back to my flat first?"

"All right," Sarah said slowly. "Shall I pay, then?"

"Yes, please," Ron said distractedly. He was eyeing the solid wooden table, wondering if he could possibly slam his head into it hard enough to knock himself out. If only he were Harry, he would know exactly what part of the head to aim for, to do the most damage.

*

Sarah stood alone in the corridor outside Ron's flat. He'd asked for a minute to tidy before she entered, and knowing how disgusting twenty-something males could be when living on their own, she'd gladly granted it. But there were very strange bangs and thuds coming from the other side of the door, and she was getting twitchier by the second.

Curiosity was going to be her undoing, one day - and today might just be that day. Being here was a bad idea for too many reasons, like how weird Ron had acted in the pub, those mysterious noises, and the fact that none of her friends knew this address in case she turned up missing.

And then, too, there was the wrinkled bit of paper in her handbag. She didn't need to pull it out to remember what it said:

Sarah,

STAY AWAY FROM HARRY POTTER.

Point 1: He is a freak.
Things I have seen him do with my own eyes:
Talk to a snake!!
Make this huge pane of glass disappear, letting a gigantic snake loose on me and his cousin.
Turn a teacher's wig blue (from across the room).
Many, many, more.

Point 2: He is dangerous.
You want to know where he went to school? St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.
I have more to say about #2. But, Malcolm just brought in the beer.

Piers

PS RING ME

PPS Would ring you. But, do not have money for long distance. Give us a hand?

Sarah shook her head. It's just his way of getting you on the phone so he can beg for cash. It's just his -

The door swung open. "Sorry it took so long," Ron said, ushering her inside.

This was presentable? The room she stepped into was a sea of take-away cartons and boy-clothes, with furniture that had definitely seen better days. Not so different, then, from half the dormitory rooms she'd ever been in - although where was the really big telly, the Playstation, and the computer?

"Erm - why don't you sit?"

Sarah did, rearranging a few couch cushions and a jumper in the process. "Huh," she said, pointing at a pile of small brown feathers she'd unearthed. "I didn't take you for the bird type."

"Well -" Ron was pacing, now. "Okay, here goes. The thing is. . . . " And, apparently giving up on verbal communication, he walked over to the wall and began banging his head against it.

"Ron!" Sarah lost most of her nervousness at the complete misery on his face. She got up, grabbed Ron's hand, and dragged him over to the couch. "Just. . .tell me. It'll be fine, whatever it is."

"You say that now," Ron muttered. He took a deep breath. "Right. I reckon you think that some of the things I've done are. . .odd."

"Oh - well -" Sarah was torn between honesty, and trying to make Ron look less wretched. "Maybe a few things."

"Like the money?"

"Yeah."

Ron looked away. "Bloody hell, this is hard."

Sarah wondered if grabbing Ron by the shoulders and shaking very hard would make the words fall out. She decided to try a verbal earthquake instead. "It looks pretty simple from where I'm sitting," she said. "Either you're a thief, a counterfeiter, or both."

"What? Where did that come from?"

"Well - you work at a bank and probably run into all different sorts of currency, all the time, but you're being very strange about this money, like you're not supposed to have it." A happy thought struck her then, and she smiled. "But if you are a criminal, you're really kind of crap at the sneaking and lying, aren't you?"

"I promise," Ron said, hand over his heart, "I'm not a criminal. At least, I haven't broken any laws that weren't stupid."

"Fair enough," Sarah said. "So. . .hypothetically, if someone were to say that you and Harry went to a school for criminal boys, that someone would be lying?"

"Huh - oh. I forgot that was the story."

That had to be one of the least reassuring sentences Sarah had ever heard.

Ron pulled a few coins out of his pockets and handed them over. "What do you think they say?"

Sarah tilted her hand so the coins caught the light. It was easier to see the tiny lettering here than it had been in the pub. "Well, Knut, Sickle, and Galleon seem English enough. Are those are the different denominations? Now magus, that's got to mean magic, I'm sure, and aes signatum - is that money?"

Ron's voice was tight. "Go back to magus. That's the important one."

"Magic?" Sarah asked, and Piers' words raced through her mind - snake - wig - blue - snake -

"Er, yeah." Ron's eyes were serious, and she clenched the coins, heavy in her hand. "Me and Harry - and Hermione, Dean, and Seamus - we're all wizards. Well, Hermione's a witch, obviously."

"Ah," Sarah said faintly, "obviously." She took a deep breath. "Okay, then. You're a wizard. Let's see some magic."

Ron disappeared.

Sarah spun in her seat, looking right, left, and over her shoulder. Then she bent down to look under the couch.

No Ron.

"Oi! Can I come back in?"

Ah. He was out in the corridor. Because he had done magic. Of course.

Sarah walked to the door, which, she noted, was still latched on the inside by a security chain. "Is that you, Ron?"

"Of course it's me!" She spun round again, because this time the voice didn't come from the corridor - it came from the couch.

"Bloody hell!"

"Sorry," Ron said, looking anything but. "That's called Apparition. Very difficult, that is."

Sarah sank down onto the floor, not trusting her legs anymore. "So it's true, then."

"Yup." Ron crossed the room to sit on the floor beside her. He pulled a polished stick out of his pocket. "Want to see me do something else?"

Sarah closed her eyes. "Not just yet." She opened one eye and looked at Ron carefully. "What is that? A magic wand?"

"Yup."

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, pinched herself, and opened them again. Ron and his wand were still there. "So. Where do wizards go to school?"

*

Harry's Friday night didn't involve a date or a pint or even a meal, just a confiscated dragon egg or two. Back at headquarters, eggs safe in the care of the resident magical creatures specialist, he filled out post-arrest paperwork and tried not to fall asleep in his chair.

"Something up?"

"Moody's going make Avery talk," Dean said.

"He is, huh? What's going to be different this time, from all the other times we tried?"

Harry was already standing. "Let's go - where are we going?"

"Room four."

That was the first difference. Room four reminded Harry of an interrogation chamber from a television police drama, with an illusion charm and some complicated sound spells in place of the one-way glass. It meant one-on-one, no witnesses, at least from Avery's point of view, and while Harry didn't doubt Moody could appear pretty threatening in that sort of situation, he wasn't so sure it was going to be enough to do the trick.

Moody and Avery were already present when Harry and Dean slipped into the room, on the other side of the illusion. Both men were seated, Moody comfortably, Avery secured at the wrists and ankles by a chain that hummed quietly with magic. Harry gave a short nod after readying the dictation quill; Moody, watching with his magical eye, returned it, then turned his full attention to the matter at hand.

"Tell me about Edinburgh."

No response.

"You're going to, you know," Moody said, rising from his chair. "You see, I have this." He held up a small vial that Harry knew must contain Veritaserum. "And I'm going to find out, one way or another. And if I have to use this," Moody bent down so that his face was inches from Avery's, "I'm not going to be very happy." Moody leaned even closer, and Harry could only imagine exactly how the Auror was elaborating on that threat.

If that eye was whirring and spinning that close to his face, Harry reckoned he'd give up almost anything.

"Okay," Avery said, "I'll tell you what I know. But you have to keep me safe. They'll hurt me for telling, I know they will."

"We'll see about that," Moody said, straightening, "after you talk."

Harry's quill was soon furiously scratching, making a list of all the things Avery didn't know. He didn't know if the items were Voldemort's. He didn't know what they could be used for. Yes, okay, he knew where he'd got them - from the elder Vincent Crabbe, who'd also supplied dates, times, and plans for the transactions. Oh, no, he'd didn't know where Crabbe lived, or how to get in touch. Crabbe had simply appeared at his home one morning with a proposition.

Ten minutes, and it was all over. Well - a week, and ten minutes.

After feeding him a few drops of Veritaserum and re-confirming his story, Moody led Avery out of the room. Harry and Dean joined them in the corridor, and helped escort Avery to a group cell where, as Moody pointed out cheerfully, he would be quite safe from his ex-partners in crime.

Back in the office, Moody read through the transcript while Dean swallowed his yawns and Harry tried not to check his watch. "Well, then," Moody said, looking up, "what do your young minds make of this?"

It was Dean who replied, finally. "It's a bit like a Python sketch, isn't it? Two bumbling evil henchmen, one scared, one stupid, wandering around selling their evil wares in broad daylight."

That was a refreshing point of view, Harry thought. "It is a little absurd," he said.

"Absurd," Moody echoed. "Yes. Perhaps. But never forget, the weak will always be puppets for the strong. And if you are still, and quiet, and keep your eyes open long enough, you may just make out the shadow of the man pulling the strings."

*

Every October morning was a little wetter, every night a little darker. Harry hated being at work, doing tedious surveillance and studying reports on Crabbe's movements, and he hated being at home, where his flatmate was coming perilously close to driving him mad. Things had gone well with Sarah; Harry could tell by the humming, the singing, and the hours Ron spent attached to the telephone.

Mr. Weasley would, Harry thought, be proud of his son's new proficiency with Muggle technology. Hermione would say pleased things about cross-cultural understandings and, possibly, add metaphors involving crumbling walls. But all Harry could think was that he wanted to know exactly what Ron had said to Sarah about the Dursleys, without having to ask - or preferably, without even being part of the conversation. And, oh yes, that the singing needed to stop.

The dreary march of days went on until one morning, one particular morning, Harry left the flat at the regular work-time but went somewhere else entirely.

He stood on a cliff above the sea, breathing in cool, salty air. There was no nostalgia in it for him, no bucket-and-spade memories, but he liked it, liked the freshness of it all. There was something, too, about the sheer vastness of the sea that appealed to Harry, as it stretched out to meet the horizon, something that made him feel tiny, unimportant.

His eyes lingered on the magical line where sea and sky met, grey on grey, until he found himself picturing a completely different place, a completely different time. Sunshine, amusement rides, ice lollies, and Hermione, her sticky fingers entwined with his.

Not a real time, not a real place. Harry gave his head a firm shake, and turned away.

Behind him lay the reason for this trip. The cemetery was small, but open, with no trees to break the wind whipping through the gravestones. Harry trod quietly and carefully, not wishing to rouse any lurking ghosts. He came at last to a simple stone, its two names and single date a permanent reminder of his parents' lives, and of the hand he'd been dealt, the one he'd been playing for the last eighteen years.

Harry knelt there, pushing wayward hair out of his face. He hadn't brought anything. Flowers would seem wrong, somehow, splashes of cheerful happy colour that didn't belong in these bleak surroundings, or suit his mood. Placing flowers here would mean that this was fine, that he was fine, and it wasn't, he wasn't, and couldn't be.

No matter what people seemed to expect. It was there in the smiles of strangers and the throwaway remarks of friends, the assumption that watching Voldemort die had somehow made up for the losses, balanced the columns.

People, Harry thought, were clueless. Clueless, and damn lucky to be that way.

*

Hermione opened the door quickly upon hearing the knock. "Hi, Harry - oh, what happened?"

"Rain happened," he said, wiping his muddy feet on the mat.

"Apparently! Shoo, go drip in the kitchen while I get a towel."

Hermione bustled off down the hall as Harry squelched his way onto the lino floor. "I'm sorry to just pop in," he called. "But I Apparated into an Olympic-caliber snogging session at our flat. . . ."

"No problem," she said, returning with a fluffy yellow towel. "I'm glad you came." She hesitated a moment, then decided to go for broke. "Now, take off your glasses."

Harry blinked, and Hermione held her breath. If he so much as mumbled the words "drying charm," she would make a joke about her so-called Muggle instincts, and let it go. . . . But he was removing the glasses, now, and closing his eyes, ready to submit himself to the hands-on approach.

Hermione rubbed Harry's face gently with the towel, willing it to say things she wasn't sure he was ready to hear. . .Or maybe he is, she thought with a thrill, as he leaned his face into her hand.

She looped the towel behind his head, and used both hands to rub his hair carefully, creating black spikes that pointed in all directions. His eyes were still closed, his face leaning towards hers. . .it was a perfect moment, and in a romance novel, their lips would have met in the best of first kisses.

Instead, Harry turned his head and sneezed.

"Bless you," Hermione said, keeping all cursing to herself.

"Thanks," he said, peering at her myopically. "I should probably get out of this wet jumper before I catch cold, huh?"

"Colds are caused by germs, not by weather," she began automatically, stepping back and lowering the towel. She watched as Harry flailed his arms about, sodden jumper stuck around his neck, damp T-shirt plastered to his chest, then reached up and to help him remove the jumper completely.

"Thanks," Harry said, putting his glasses back on. "Er - do you want to go get something to eat, maybe?"

"Sounds good."

Harry gestured towards the loo. "May I?"

"Of course," Hermione sighed, watching as Harry retreated down the corridor, already unpocketing his wand to no doubt finish the job with a little magic.

*

Harry sipped his pre-dinner drink and listened while Hermione talked about anything and everything. He was grateful to her for that. He had a strong feeling that she somehow knew exactly where he'd been all day, maybe even had been waiting for him to get back, but she hadn't mentioned it and he didn't think that she would. Somewhere along the way Hermione had got amazingly good at reading his moods, at knowing when a little prodding would make him talk and when it would make him clam up altogether. Maybe it came with the territory of knowing someone for eight years.

They were digging into their chips when a voice from over Harry's shoulder said, "So this is what you stood us up for, Hermione."

Hermione turned a little red as someone Harry vaguely recognized came into view. "Roger! Er. Well, sort of, I suppose. I mean -"

Roger Whoever-he-was grinned and cut her off. "Oh, I'm just winding you up. Don't know whose idea it was to have a meeting on Halloween anyway. . . ." He waved a goodbye and headed towards the back of the pub.

Harry felt uncomfortable, for a variety of reasons. He chose to focus on the guilt. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I shouldn't have just shown up like that."

"Oh, stop. That meeting was long over by the time you came by. I chose to miss it all by myself. Okay?"

"Okay. If you say so." Harry poked at a chip. "Who was that, anyway?"

"Roger Davies. You remember - a few years ahead of us at school, Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain."

Harry nodded. "Right. What kind of meeting was it?"

Hermione leaned forward on her elbows. "Well. You've heard of the Muggle Human Rights Act, of course?"

"Er. . .no."

She rolled her eyes. "You really should keep up with Muggle life more. Parliament passed it a couple of years ago. It covers the most basic rights, like the right to life, freedom from torture or slavery, freedom of expression, fair trial procedures. . . ."

"I get it," Harry said hastily. "So you and Roger want a wizard version of this?"

"Not just me and Roger. There's a whole group of us working on it. And ideally, our act would protect beings and many beasts as well as wizards."

Harry scratched his head. "So what are you all doing, exactly? I thought laws were written by Ministry officials. Like Ron's dad and his Muggle Protection Act."

"Too true," Hermione said, waving a chip about dangerously, "and that's a whole other problem. We have no say in our government, in who our leaders even are, or what laws they write."

"It's terrible," Harry agreed, scooting back in his chair to avoid death by potato. "But - I still don't understand what you lot are actually doing."

"At first, it was a lot of reading." She grinned. "Yep, I know you're shocked. Government histories, magical and Muggle political developments - the Australian wizarding community is doing some fascinating things - and then we started writing. Coming up with a dream law, so to speak."

She took a breath. "But now, we're working on public relations strategies. We're scheduled to be published in a small magazine. It's not the Daily Prophet, yet, but it's a start. If we can get everyday witches and wizards behind us, some Ministry official will jump at the chance to author the law. It would be a huge career boost."

Harry stared at her. "Wow." His head was spinning, although he wasn't sure why he was so surprised. It was Hermione, after all, and when she wanted something, she went for it. Maybe it was just that he didn't know anything about this, something so important to her, something she'd been working on for a long time. He felt hurt, and unreasonably angry with Roger Davies for knowing when he didn't.

"Hermione? Why didn't you ever tell me and Ron about this?"

She sniffed. "You two haven't exactly been supportive of my political endeavours in the past, now have you? And I know this is a pretty ambitious thing, and the odds are pretty high we're going to fail. I didn't need you two telling me that I was wasting my time, that it couldn't be done." Hermione's chin was held high, and Harry was strongly reminded of the thirteen-year-old with the Time Turner.

She was right. That was exactly what would have happened. He was a horrible friend.

But he was still annoyed with Roger Davies. No question about it.

*