Restitution

"Restitution"

by Paracelsus

Chapter 5: Here Be Fearsome Creatures

It was getting on towards lunchtime, and Harry was puttering absent-mindedly in his kitchen. He was still mulling over the dream he'd had that morning... it had been a long time since he'd had any dreams. This one almost wasn't a dream, for nothing had happened: there'd been only a vision of grey formless mist, and a low murmuring sound just at the edge of audibility. A non-threatening, totally meaningless dream, thought Harry. What a novelty.

He came out of his reverie when he heard the sharp crack! of someone Apparating into the entrance hall. He was pleased to discover that he wasn't worried by this... not much, anyway. The Fidelius Charm was still in place; the number of people who could Apparate into his home could, quite literally, be counted on one hand. And given the proximity of lunchtime, Harry had an excellent notion of who'd just arrived.

Nonetheless, he called out, "Hello? Anybody there?"

"Harry, mate? Where are you?" came Ron's voice, as expected. Moments later, Ron followed his voice into the kitchen. "What's up? Didn't you get my owl this morning...?"

"About having lunch today?" Harry gestured at the pot on the stove, the meat he was in the process of dicing, the vegetables waiting their turn. "Obviously, yes I did."

Ron blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Uh, Harry - I was thinking, you know, a pub or something. I wasn't trying to suggest you should cook for us..."

"I don't mind. If nothing else, it'll prove to certain people that I do know how to cook." Harry turned back to his knife and cutting board. "And if you think I'm setting one foot in a public establishment, you are sadly mistaken."

"Ahhh, the price of fame," smirked Ron.

"I'm serious! Have you seen today's Prophet!?"

"Yeah. Smith's really taking the Quaffle and flying with it, isn't he? I certainly didn't know you were turning into a vampire..."

Harry groaned. One offhand remark from Madam Pomfrey, added to the welcome witch at St. Mungo's remembering the words 'persistent anemia,' and somehow he'd become the next Nosferatu. "They didn't even bother to talk to the Healer. Smethwyck out and said I'm not vampiric...! And anyway, that isn't the worst of it."

"Speak for yourself. I'm rather enjoying the continuing saga of who will be the love-o'-life for The Man Who Triumphed." Ron snorted and added confidentially, "Which is a lot better than 'The Boy Who Lived.' More assertive, y'know? Anyway," he resumed, "I don't think the Prophet's managed to turn it into a contest yet, but there's a definite 'contribute-to-your-favorite-charity' feel to today's installment. You know, 'we must do something for the Valiant Hero Who Has Saved Us Countless Times Over...'" Ron put his hand over his heart.

"Sod off," grumbled Harry, and began to energetically attack the meat with his knife. "I'll tell you this, though," he continued after a moment. "Fred and George are officially dead when I see them again. Smith wasn't in the infirmary with us, so who told him about what happened there? It had to've been Tweedledum and Tweedledumber."

"Oh, lighten up, Harry. It's just a little column in the Daily Prophet. Give it two weeks... they'll grow tired and forget all about you." Ron watched Harry chop more savagely at this, and he began to worry. "And after all, it's just a date..."

"And we all know what a sterling success rate I've had in that department." Harry slid the (now finely minced) meat into the pot and adjusted the flames beneath it.

Ah. Ron began to understand what was bothering his friend. For years Harry had deliberately avoided society in general, and female society in particular, for fear of making targets out of innocent people. That, at least, was his professed reason. Maybe he actually believed it to be his only reason - the only reason he consciously acknowledged, anyway. Still, Ron suspected that, inside Harry, some more mundane anxieties might be rearing their ugly heads...

"All right," he said, taking up the challenge, "let's have a look at your success rate. Starting from the beginning, right up to today."

"From the very beginning?" Harry snorted. "That's easy. The Yule Ball, our fourth year. I went with Parvati. I think you'll agree that it was an unmitigated disaster."

Ron couldn't deny it. "Okay, moving on... Fifth year. In fifth year you were snogging Cho..."

"We kissed once," said Harry icily. "She cried the whole time we were kissing. And our one date was, again, a disaster... Fifth year was a disaster all around, come to think on it. I was screaming mad at the world, and sometimes I felt the world was mad right back at me. I had to deal with Snape, and that foul toad Umbridge, and then Sirius was..." He set down the knife... he didn't think he should talk about this while he was wielding a big knife. After a moment he continued, "I'd like to just forget our fifth year, if you don't mind."

"Okay, fair enough." Ron smiled and tried for a lighter tone. "You were better in sixth year - quieter, anyway. A lot less shouting. You actually dated Luna a couple of times that year, as I recall."

Harry responded with equal lightness. "You know as well as I do that one doesn't date Luna. One arranges to be in the same place at the same time as Luna. It's nice if she actually recognizes you in the process, but it's optional."

"She's not that bad!" Ron protested automatically. He immediately realized he'd made a tactical error, and began to hunt for cover. "I mean, that's a harsh thing to say about one of our friends, who's fought alongside us and all..."

"No, no, do go on," Harry grinned, glad to turn the tables. "Not that bad, is she? And we would know this how? I don't think you've been exactly forthright with us, Ron..."

"We aren't talking about me," Ron said hastily. "We're talking about you. Right, that was sixth year. Seventh year..."

Harry's face went perfectly blank. "Seventh year was Hogsmeade," he said briefly. He didn't have to say anything else; he was sure Ron knew how much was contained in that one word.

Ron would never know everything contained in that one word:

Seventh year was when we had to fight a pitched battle in Hogsmeade on Christmas morning. Seventh year was when I was arrogant enough to think I could lead an army of my friends against overwhelming odds and not have anyone get hurt. Seventh year was when you were injured so badly you had to spend five solid months in the hospital wing. Seventh year was when Hermione started spending every waking moment in the hospital wing to be with you, nursing you, studying with you, bringing you sweets and gifts.

Seventh year was when you and Hermione became what Teen Witch calls "volved."

And seventh year was when I was involuntarily inducted into the Auror Corps. I didn't try very hard to find a way to avoid it, either.

"And since then, well..." Harry shrugged with what he hoped was nonchalance. He looked up to discover an odd expression on Ron's face. For a moment, Harry thought Ron was going to ridicule him about his lack of a social life. He was prepared to give as good as he got... but Ron's next words weren't what he expected.

"Harry," said Ron hesitantly. "I know this is ancient history, but back in seventh year... when I was with Hermione... well, Hermione always insisted I sit down and talk with you. About us. About me and Hermione, I mean."

"And of course, it's taken you four years to get around to doing it," replied Harry with a slight smile.

"Yeah, well, I sort of got the feeling that you didn't exactly want to talk. And as I said, it's ancient history now."

Harry looked closely at Ron. "You could still get back together," he observed. "If you decided to..."

Ron looked away, beginning to blush, and shook his head. "We were driving each other crazy. We're fine as friends, so let's keep it that way." He was watching Harry out of the corner of his eye. "Were you mad at us when we got together after Hogsmeade?" he asked abruptly. "I know how upset you got when you saw us together at Grimmauld Place..."

"I thought we weren't going to talk about fifth year," Harry replied. It was eerie how Ron's thoughts sometimes seemed to parallel his own. Harry was determined that Ron would never know how miserable he'd been... "I was mad because I thought you two were working with the Order, fighting Voldemort, while I was kept ignorant and useless and locked up at Privet Drive. All right?"

He took up the knife for a moment, set it down again and continued, "You and Hermione - you were, are, and always will be my best friends. Just tell me this - when you were together, did she make you happy?"

Ron nodded. Harry continued, "Did you make her happy?"

"I did my best, mate."

Harry spread his hands. "If my best friends were happy, how could I not be happy?" It was the same question he'd asked himself at the time. And it wasn't a lie, after all, not technically. Harry was getting very good at misleading without actually stating falsehoods.

Ron looked hard at Harry for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "Glad to know it. Anyway, not to repeat myself or anything, but it's ancient history."

"Too true, mate. Our current concern is how we're going to make Zacharias Smith's death look like an accident," said Harry, glad the discussion was over. He picked up the knife and began to slice a large onion.

There was a pop and a crack in the entrance hall, and Harry looked inquiringly at Ron. "That'll be the girls," he said with a grin. "I left a note for them to follow me... In here!" he called.

Ginny and Hermione's voices grew louder; they were evidently continuing a discussion they'd started before coming to Harry's cottage. "...and scrubbing out the stains has left my nails in an awful state," finished Hermione as they arrived in the kitchen. "Look how raw they are."

"Next time, don't let Ron clean up your messes," said Ginny with a smirk. "Evanesco only got the blood from your hands, not the bloodstains. He should've used Scourgify, but he always gets that wrong... Oh, hello, Ron!" she added brightly, as if just noticing his presence.

"Hello, brat," he said affectionately. "Cheers, Hermione."

"Hi," sniffled Harry in greeting. His eyes were watering from the onion as he slid the pieces into the pot with the meat.

"Oh, Harry, don't tell me you're trying to cook?" asked Hermione in incredulous tones. "That's really not necessary, you don't have to prove anything to us... And keep your hands away from your face when you're handling onions." She reached over and wiped the tears from his face with her fingertips.

"And why're you doing this by hand, anyway?" added Ginny. She flicked her wand at the knife, which began to dice a small green pepper. "So what are we having?"

"It's..." Harry looked at the meat sizzling in the pot and gave it a stir with a wooden spoon. "It's..." He cast an eye over the remaining ingredients around the cutting board. "Goulash," he finally decided.

Ginny and Hermione looked at him skeptically. "I don't see any paprika," Hermione challenged.

"Added after the meat's browned," replied Harry promptly.

"Hmmm. This from the man whose Potions classes were..." At Harry's glower, Hermione smiled and left the sentence unfinished.

"Well, when you've reached a stopping point with lunch, come join us," said Ginny. "We've brought some goodies for you to open." She and Hermione exchanged a quick conspiratorial glance, then left the kitchen with Ron in tow.

Mystified, Harry finished sautéing the meat and onions, added the pepper and a tomato and spices, and set it to simmer. He wiped his hands on a towel and walked into the dining room, where Ron, Hermione and Ginny were seated around the table. On the table was a pile of some twenty envelopes, each bearing his name.

"Looks like you've been getting mail, Harry," Ron greeted him. "Despite your best efforts and your Fidelius."

Harry picked up a couple of the envelopes. "Well, they cheated. They didn't address them to me, here. This one's addressed to 'Harry Potter care of the Burrow'. And this one... 'Harry Potter care of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft'. I reckon it's about the only way I could get mail, actually."

"Put it this way," suggested Hermione. "These are the ones intelligent enough to know that mail sent straight to your home wouldn't be delivered."

"Returned unopened," Harry agreed. "I hate to think how many letters might be waiting for me at Auror HQ." He stared at the envelopes he held with a growing dread. He knew full well what they were likely to contain... no wonder Ginny and Hermione were smirking. "Y'know, I've changed my mind," he told Ron. "To hell with making it look like an accident. I want everyone to know how Smith died."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell, Harry! Don't you think you're overreacting just a bit? It's a lark! It's not like you're proposing marriage, for crying out loud!"

Harry glowered back at Ron. "Do me a favor, Ron. Try not to say those words any place Smith can hear you, okay? Just try. Otherwise, tomorrow's headlines will have me picking out the rings."

"Harry, if you really want the Prophet to leave you alone, just pick a witch and take her out! One date and this becomes old news. The only reason they're able to promote this at all is because you're not cooperating."

"If I do go on a date," Harry answered heatedly, "it'll be because I want to, not because I was pressured into it by Smith or your idiot brothers!"

"Well then," said Hermione in a practical tone, "you should ask someone whose company you enjoy - " She stopped abruptly. Ginny, sitting next to her, was examining the pile of envelopes curiously.

"Such as?" asked Harry.

"Well, there must be someone interesting in this crowd," replied Hermione in a rush, waving a hand at the pile. After a moment, Harry shrugged and opened one of the envelopes.

"'Dear Mr. Potter'," he read aloud. "'I hope you won't think this forward of me, but I read in the Prophet how you are having trouble adjusting to your new life after defeating You-Know-Who. You have been very brave, but you need not face this alone. I would be delighted to help you in any way I can. I will be available any evening this week if you feel the need for company. Yours sincerely, Mabel Prescott.' Well, that was delicately phrased, wasn't it?"

He tossed the letter aside and picked up another. "Go ahead," he told his friends resignedly. "Start in opening them. I've a feeling they're all going to say pretty much the same thing..."

His friends needed no further encouragement. "Here's one from Kent," said Ginny. "Ooh, she sounds sweet. 'Dear Harry Potter, I think you are very sexy looking and all my friends think so too. They said I should write to you so I am. Would you like to have dinner? I know a new Indian restaurant near my home and you could pick me up here. Yours, Dira.' No last name, I see, and she uses little hearts to dot her I's. I'm not sure, Harry, but I think she may be too young for you."

"This one's from Ayreshire," declared Ron. "'Dear Mr. Potter, having read of your exploits in the Daily Prophet, I am surprised that a young man like yourself should have such difficulty in finding a suitable partner.'" Ron snorted. "That's 'cause she doesn't know you, mate. 'If you need a woman of experience to guide you in these matters, I would like to offer myself as your companion for dinner and afterwards. Please let me know...', blah blah blah, 'ever yours, April Abercrombie.' Hah! Woman of experience? Probably a grandmother."

"Oh hush, Ron," said Hermione as she tore open an envelope. "From London, Harry. 'Dearest Harry...' Well, that's rather presuming of her. 'Dearest Harry, if you are looking for an evening of romance, then I am the witch of your choice. I have admired you for as long as I can remember. I've dreamt of the day when we could be together. Please owl me as soon as you can for I know I can make you very happy...' Oh look, she even included a photograph of her... self..."

Hermione's voice died away. Her face turned scarlet as she stared at the photograph in her hand. "Oh my," she whispered. "Well, she certainly is... limber, isn't she?"

Ginny gave a yelp and snatched the photo from Hermione's hand. Her eyes grew huge. "Er," she said in an attempt at sang froid. "Um. No tan lines, either. I must say I'm impressed." She flicked a glance at Hermione and saw the infinitesimal nod of her head.

"Oh boy," laughed Harry. "This one I have to see." He held out his hand for the photo.

"No," said Ginny calmly.

Harry blinked. "No, what?"

"No, you may not see this," said Ginny, as though explaining to a child that he couldn't have chocolate cake for breakfast. She handed the photograph back to Hermione.

"Excuse me," said Harry, no longer smiling, "but I believe it's addressed to me."

"Yes, Harry, it is," said Hermione solicitously. "But it would be bad for you to see this picture in your current state. You're still recovering from your injuries, after all... and you're rather, well, delicate. This would put too great a stress on your health." She slipped the photo with its letter back into their envelope, which she resealed with a wave of her wand. "No, no, we both agree this is for your own good..."

"Accio letter!" The envelope flew from Hermione's hand into Harry's. "Hah," he said triumphantly, and tugged at the envelope. And tugged again. And tugged and tugged, vainly trying to tear the envelope open. He was still trying to open it when Hermione walked up behind him and plucked it from his hands.

"You see, Harry?" she cooed. "You're just not strong enough yet to deal with letters like this. We only want what's best for you, Harry. You just rest right here and don't exert yourself, while we take care of these."

Ginny was busily scooping up the pile of envelopes. "Yes, Harry," she agreed, "let Hermione and me protect you from your... admirers. No, no, don't thank us. We know you'd do the same for us, after all." They were halfway to the door before Harry realized what had happened.

"Heyyy, wait a minute!" he cried, starting to follow them, but Ron put a hand on Harry's arm and pulled him back down into his chair. Harry turned on Ron. "Don't tell me you're in on this, too!"

"Oh, I wasn't consulted," grinned Ron. "But you can't very well object to their wanting to protect you..."

"Ron, let go my arm..."

"Ten minutes ago," Ron reminded him, "you didn't want to be getting any letters at all." His grin threatened to split his face in two.

"Yeah, but... but..." Harry looked helplessly at the backs of the girls as they left the room. "But..." He slumped down in his chair. After a moment he looked back to Ron with a defeated air. "This is payback, isn't it?" he sighed.

"Go check your goulash, Harry," Ron managed to say before laughter overcame him.

*

Outside the door, Ginny and Hermione were likewise howling with laughter. "Oh, Ginny, that was brilliant!" crowed Hermione. "You are an evil genius, and I'm proud to know you!"

"We are evil geniuses," Ginny corrected. "Your Unbreakable Charm on the envelope was inspired!"

"Thank you, thank you," Hermione accepted the compliment with a slight bow. She glanced at the letters in Ginny's arms and sniffed. "I suppose we should hold onto those for the moment... Harry had a point, though, they are his property."

"He can have them back after this is over," Ginny said. "After this whole furor over Date-a-Harry has died down."

"Mmmm, yes. That." After a moment, Hermione said more seriously, "You didn't have to kick me quite so hard, you know."

"Got your attention, didn't it?" Ginny was still smiling, but her manner was earnest as she continued, "Hermione, I know what you were up to, and I know you meant well. But honestly - I've got a Mum who treats Harry like a son-in-law already, I've got one brother who's been making sly hints since my fourth year, and now I've got two more brothers who've tried to force Harry into dating me and turned it into a media circus instead!" She gave a short exasperated sigh and caught Hermione's eye. "Am I being clear, sis?"

"Crystalline," Hermione said meekly. "Sorry, Ginny, I didn't mean to meddle in your personal affairs. It's just that... I know you love him."

"So do you," said Ginny in a low voice. It wasn't an accusation, or a challenge. It was a statement of fact.

Hermione seemed to accept it as such. "Yes," she agreed, looking away from Ginny. "That's why I want what's best for him. He likes you, and you're very lovely... and you love him. You're sure to make him happy..."

"STOP." Ginny interrupted. "Stop. Right. There." Her voice was still low, but it had turned forceful - almost fierce - in a way that silenced Hermione at once.

Ginny thrust the pile of letters into Hermione's arms. Startled, Hermione received the letters by reflex. She looked up to see Ginny drawn to her full height, towering over her. It was almost as though she were angry at something, but her expression seemed... searching. Ginny seized her shoulder and held it fast as she regarded her friend for another moment.

"That last bit is so wrong, on so many levels, that I don't even know where to begin," Ginny finally told her. Her gaze continued to probe Hermione as if looking for signs of incipient madness.

After a moment more, her features relaxed. She released her grip on Hermione's shoulder and squeezed her free hand in a pacifying gesture. "Maybe we should just agree to let Harry be the best judge of what's best for Harry, okay?" she said more calmly.

"O-okay," replied Hermione, taken aback. Have I done something to offend her? she wondered. I was only trying to help them! She stood bewildered for a moment longer before glancing down at the letters clutched in one arm. "So... are you saying we should give these back to him, then?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Certainly," said Ginny. A pause, then she added, "As a birthday treat." She gave Hermione a speculative look.

A wicked smile tugged at Hermione's mouth in response. "Yes, he does have a birthday next month, doesn't he? We must think of how we can make it his special day..." She was still looking at the letters she held when she noticed something odd...

The hand Ginny had briefly clasped was no longer raw and chafed from scrubbing out old bloodstains. The cuticles had healed, and the skin fair and unblemished.

*

"I still don't understand why they just didn't give you a portkey," shouted the helicopter pilot over the whine of the engine.

"Probably because I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about!" yelled Margaret, looking out the helicopter window.

As she'd promised, Ms. Fairbourn had arranged this trip to the "reserve" where her father had worked. Margaret gathered it was in a remote area, not easily accessible except by air - and by magic, but that means of travel wasn't available to Margaret. But while individuals might be able to travel to this place magically, transporting tonnes of supplies required Muggle technology.

Margaret had been given a letter of introduction to Mr. Llewellyn, the pilot who ferried supplies for the Ministry of Magic. Though not magical himself, his brother had been born a wizard; he was used to dealing with magic, and the Ministry trusted him with the occasional job in the Muggle world. Now she was flying with him out of Queenstown, heading northeastward into the Southern Alps of New Zealand.

"Been here before, doc?" asked Llewellyn. He was a short, wiry man, young and pink-faced, with wispy blond hair and a ready laugh.

"Never," replied Margaret with a shake of her head.

"Oh, then you're in for a treat," Llewellyn yelled grinning. He pushed the control stick and the helicopter accelerated sharply toward a large mountain ridge extending north.

Margaret tried not to look concerned, but it seemed like the pilot was heading right for that mountain. She expected him to veer, or pull up, or whatever helicopters did. Instead, they continued to head RIGHT FOR the mountain... He's the pilot, she told herself firmly, gripping the arms of her seat, he must know what he's doing... he's just trying to rattle me, I'm not going to say anything...

But if we crash, he'd better have a saint or two on his side, because he's going straight to the Seventh Circle if I have any say.

Despite clenched teeth and held breath, Margaret still gave a short but utterly sincere shriek of terror when the helicopter collided with the mountain. Terror turned to astonishment as the 'copter passed through the mountainside, which faded away behind them like fog on a sunny day. She looked out the window: the mountain ridge was gone, replaced by a long lush valley stretching north to the sea.

"They used t'have some spells on this place to keep ordinary folk away," explained Llewellyn cheerfully. "They never reckoned on satellite photos and the like, but. So now they have to project some visual illusion over the valley, too. A real image, not just a mental sending - makes the valley look like another mountain instead. Don't ask me how it's done, I just fly where they tell me."

He flew along the valley's length, oblivious to Margaret's incensed glare, and soon began to descend. There was a helipad near a low square building, about halfway down the valley. Llewellyn circled the helipad once (he can't use his radio here, Margaret suddenly realized) and landed smoothly. He cut the engine, unbuckled his harness, and turned to help Margaret.

"Doctor Pohuhu - welcome to Awamotu," he said grandly.

Margaret looked around as she stepped out of the aircraft. The valley floor was grassy, and in the distance she saw sheep grazing. The valley's sides were richly forested, verdant and charming - she could hear birds calling in the trees. It was altogether a lovely setting, and she had to wonder why the magical bureaucrats had spent so much effort to keep people away.

Together, she and the pilot walked from the helipad to the low building, which appeared to be some sort of ranger station. In the shelter of its porch two men were carrying on a debate.

"... tracers are simple to use. They solved the problem in Romania, and they should work here too," said one, a tall burly fellow with red hair.

"They're a tool to solve the problem." The other man, though shorter, was older and more authoritative; decision sounded in his voice as he continued, "They only track patterns of movement; they don't show why the patterns may've changed. We'll have to dig deeper before we learn what's upsetting our charges. But," he overrode the objection the red-haired man seemed about to make, "I agree the tracers will help. If you'd like to demonstrate on Duchess, I can learn the spell today."

He turned and greeted his new guests. "Morning, Rhyence. I hope you've brought us something edible this trip. The last batch of pasties were only good for feeding to taniwha." His dark eyes settled on Margaret. "Ah, Margaret Pohuhu? Lucilla wrote to say you'd be coming. I'm Roark Haldane, I'm in charge of this reserve..." Hesitantly he extended his hand, and Margaret took it briefly. He added, "...and I knew your father well."

She had a thousand questions; she hardly knew which to ask first. Something that might set Mr. Haldane more at ease, perhaps. Margaret decided to start with the locale. "This is where he worked, then? This valley?" she asked. "I remember he was gone from home for weeks at a time..."

Haldane nodded. "Dragon keepers spend tours of duty here at Awamotu. How else can we respond immediately to problems that might arise?" He gestured for Margaret to follow him and the redhead as they walked around the station. "Problems like this little lady..."

Rounding the corner of the building, Margaret felt her heart give a lurch. Lying on the ground was... not a myth, not a fantasy, but a real live dragon. A huge dragon, over six meters long... just as in the stories, with large bat-like wings and a long sinuous neck and four legs and, and... It moved sluggishly, as though falling asleep or just awakening. Three people stood around it, lowering wands from a respectful distance.

"This is Duchess," said Haldane with a hint of affection. "Our grande dame, I suppose you'd call her. Looks like they've just finished sedating her, Weasley, so if you care to look her over, we can cast that tracer of yours. I'll join you in a minute."

The redhead nodded and kept walking towards the dragon. It seemed impossible that anything could be so enormous, so dangerous - and yet so beautiful. Its scales shone with an iridescent gleam, as though it had been carved from mother-of-pearl (if one could carve a multi-tonne carnivore out of mother-of-pearl!).

"It... it's one thing to be told that Dad was a dragon keeper," Margaret managed to say. "But to actually see a dragon he was supposed to have kept is quite... erk..." Words failed her abruptly. The dragon seemed to have heard her voice. It (she?) groggily raised her head, opening one eye to stare at Margaret curiously.

The eye looked like a giant opal, glittering with flashes of rainbow color that appeared and winked out as the dragon moved its head.

"Opaleyes," Margaret whispered. That's what Dad called me... but only when I was angry!

Haldane looked at her in surprise. "Yes, that's right. Duchess is an Antipodean Opaleye. I'm sorry, I was under the impression that nobody'd told you about dragons..."

"They haven't. It was... something Dad used to say." Perversely, she wished her father were alive for a moment so she could slap him silly.

"Ah, your dad." Haldane's expression grew reflective. "Rawiri was a good man. I'm still sorry about his death... I can't help but feel responsible. I'm the one who sent him out, after all. I had no idea..."

"I don't understand." No one had ever described to Margaret the details of her father's death. She'd only been five years old when he'd died; she'd given it no thought for years. Now she suddenly found herself curious... "What exactly happened?"

"It started as a minor disturbance - it was Duchess, as a matter of fact, having a facedown with a young male. I sent Rawiri to see what was happening." Haldane seemed almost reluctant to tell the story, but he pressed on. "Before anyone knew it, all the dragons had grown wilder, more dangerous than normal. They attacked one another, attacked other creatures... and your father was killed trying to get out of the way."

He closed his eyes, reliving the moment, and slowly continued, "Duchess drove the male out of the valley. He ended up in Australia, still killing... we had to fetch him back against his will, while altering the memories of everyone who'd witnessed anything... there was no chance at the time to tell your family exactly what had happened. And later, your mother'd decided she didn't want anything to do with the wizarding world."

Haldane looked at Margaret and added, "She said she didn't blame me for what happened. She didn't need to... I've blamed myself enough for two. Miss Pohuhu, I need to know: do you blame me?"

She was moved by the stark honesty in his voice. "I... I don't know, Mr. Haldane," Margaret replied candidly. "I have to think, this is all so new to me... I don't know that it's fair to blame you. You sent Dad out... and he died..." She paused and considered. When she continued, she spoke slowly as though feeling her way through a puzzle. "I'm mostly hurt that nobody told me any of this. And yes, you sent Dad out... but you had no way of knowing... and I can't hold you responsible for an Act of God." She looked up and met his gaze. "Can I?"

"Thank you," said Haldane, and it was clear he meant it. His gaze went back to Duchess, who was drowsily watching the redhead as he circled her. "Though I don't believe it was an Act of God, as you put it. Something caused them to act up in '79." He smacked a fist into his open palm. "And something's causing them to act up again. But this time will be different. I'll not let any more good men be killed if I can prevent it."

"Of course," said Margaret. "I understand." In truth she only understood about half of what the dragon keeper had told her, but it seemed to help him to talk to her about it.

He was silent for a moment longer, lost in thought. "Look," Haldane said, "there's a spell I need to learn, and I can only do it while Duchess is sedated. And that won't last long - dragons are too powerful to keep controlled for long. Would you mind waiting for me inside, Miss Pohuhu? As soon as I'm done here, I'll join you... and if you'd like, we can talk about Rawiri and his work." He smiled for the first time since Margaret had arrived. "I'm sure you've been told this often, but you mostly take after your mum. Except for your eyes - you get those from Rawiri."

"Thanks. Yes, my grandmother has mentioned something about it." Margaret couldn't keep from smiling back at Haldane. "I'll see you presently." She started back for the station.

He's been worried all these years that I hold him responsible for Dad's death. Poor man, what a burden to carry... small wonder he looked uneasy when he met me. Blame him? I might have done, if I'd been told all this back when I was five...! But now... now I'm confused. She looked up and down the valley - and half-horrified, watched a flying dragon swoop down on the flock of sheep and carry one away in its forefeet. What exactly do dragon keepers do, I wonder? What did Dad do while he was here?

She noticed Llewellyn back at the helipad, directing some other people as they unloaded cargo from the helicopter. I can only stay until he's ready to fly back, she thought. Perhaps I can persuade him to stay a while longer. I need to learn so much about this new world... and decide whether I want to be a full part of it, or stay at the hospital and be a... a 'Muggle' physician.

Fine word, that. 'Muggle.' The wizards use it so casually. Muggle and wizard - a new dichotomy in my life, ranking alongside pakeha and Maori. Why must they work so hard to keep themselves secret? I don't understand. Nana would understand, but she wouldn't explain it to me. She'd expect me to know.

Perhaps, mused Margaret as she entered the station and found a seat, perhaps someone at this wizard school will be able to explain it to me. I'm to visit the place once second term's ended. Fairbourn mentioned a Headmaster... he sounds like the most likely person to ask...

She craned her neck to peer out the window. Dragon Duchess was still lying in a torpor, with Haldane and his colleague waving their wands over her. Opaleyes, she smiled. My name when I'm in a fiery temper. Thanks, Dad... My pakeha tohunga saw it at once, of course. He's probably seen lots of things that are strange to me. I wish I could ask him.

I hope he's feeling better.

Outside, Duchess gave a sudden roar. Margaret watched as the two wizards jumped back as a jet of scarlet flame shot from the dragon's mouth. She gave a louder roar, spread her wings, and took to the air. The two wizards conferred for a minute, then began walking back to the station. The redhead was gesturing broadly, while Haldane replied with short but emphatic jabs.

From her purse, Margaret took the magic photograph of her father. The image smiled and waved at her, as though it could see her directly; she found herself giving it a smile in return. O brave new world, she quoted to herself, and mentally reviewed her list of questions she wanted to ask.