The Phoenix and the Owl

It was a very hot day at the end of June, and the young woman standing in front of the small bookshop could feel her thin, cotton dress sticking to her back. There was not a single cloud in the sky, and she hesitated before entering the shop. It had to be stiflingly hot inside, since there was no air conditioning. She pitied the salesgirl, who had to put up with this for hours every day.

When she entered, a small bell rang a surprisingly clear note, which hung in the air for a moment. Inside the shop, it was much cooler than she had expected; perhaps the thick, stone walls of the old building kept the heat out. The bookstore was very old fashioned: old brass lamps gave warm light, furniture was heavy and dark, and the passages between tables and shelves were very narrow. The books were sorted as in any other bookstore; books for children near the cashier, expensive albums behind it; the novels, thrillers and poetry were all sorted into the different shelves. In the back there were two alcoves - one with a small table and two worn-out, but cozy, armchairs, where customers could take their time browsing and deciding on their purchases; the second one was empty, except for a famished palm in a big pot and a large door bearing the notice "staff only".

The salesgirl smiled pleasantly and motioned her further inside to have a look around. This was a nice change from the all bored and disinterested "Can I help you?" she was sick of hearing from most shop employees. She walked slowly along the shelves, scanning the titles. There were the usual titles, some older ones, too, and even some books that looked second-hand. It was not a very customer-friendly bookstore; the books were packed very tightly, with usually no more than a single copy of each title. Very few books were displayed cover-front, except for those lying on the table. But even there, no bestsellers, recent Pulitzer-winners or Times-praised titles were to be found. One got the impression that the owner displayed what he personally liked best, not what sold best. Yet, business was good; during the quarter-hour she spent browsing through the poetry, several men entered and asked for books, received what they requested almost immediately from the competent salesgirl, who seemed to know exactly where to find everything.

"Do you have anything by Elliot?" asked the woman.

"Thomas Stearns Elliot?" asked the girl. "Yes, of course. What would you like? There are Collected poems, The best of - silly title if you ask me, ma'am - and The Waste Land, Faber's first edition, but second hand, I'm afraid."

"Oh. I haven't noticed them among the poetry."

"They are up there, just a second, ma'am." The girl pulled on a heavy ladder, which slid on the rails built into the ceiling, and brought it close. She scuttled up, and half-disappeared into the darkness above the lamps.

"My, it's high! Aren't you afraid?"

"It is, ma'am, almost next floor, but I've gotten used to it. What would you like?"

"Do you have Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats?"

"Only second hand, too, ma'am, but nice edition and in good shape. There is also an Estonian translation," said the girl, sliding down.

"Estonian? You keep books in Estonian? Does anybody buy them?"

"Well, just yesterday I sold a collection of Croatian ghost stories, but you're right. It's mostly the boss's quirks," said the girl, energetically dusting the slim volume. "Here you are."

The book was indeed in good shape and contained rather nice pictures.

"I'll have it, please. And speaking of the boss, he must be an interesting man."

"Three pounds fifty, ma'am. Oh, yes, he is." The salesgirl took a five-pound banknote.

"Is it possible to meet him? Or is he away?"

The girl gave her change. "Well, yes, why not, I'll ask if he's not busy."

Located in a tall, narrow building in a side street, The Phoenix and the Owl bookstore had already become part of the landscape. Some people still considered the name rather strange, but almost everybody enjoyed the atmosphere there. Some said it reminded them of Victorian Christmas stories. Though not located in the strict centre of the town, it was doing good business. The owner of the much bigger and more modern bookstore at the main square was not jealous, although quite surprised. He had inherited his bookstore from his father, and honestly didn't think there would be enough of a market for another one in the town. He didn't wish that the owner of the other store would go bankrupt; but he had surely expected it when this young man arrived almost twenty-five years ago and bought the house in Needham Street. But somehow, the P&O, as it was called by some, survived, and seemed to do quite well. He didn't lose many of his customers, and he got a few new ones, mainly people who came from further abroad to shop at The Phoenix, but who also dropped by at his place. He respected the other bookstore owner - a calm man, now in his fifties, pleasant enough to talk to. He seemed to read a lot and knew his business well. They exchanged visits from time to time, even bought books from one another, giving each other a 10% discount "for the sake of old competition." But there was hardly any. And Mike Rolland had to admit that several inhabitants of the city, whom he would never expect to see with a book in their hands, became quite devoted readers after visiting The Phoenix and the Owl. Since he profited from this too, it was all for the better.

He put last package into the box and brought the heavy thing to his car. What he liked best about the P&O was that they were able to get him any book he ordered and never tried to steal his customers, something they could easily do, since these were things he didn't really deal with. Old books, out-of-print editions and the like. But they were fair.

"I'm going. Be back before closing," he called to the girl at the counter.

"Fine, Mr Rolland, have a nice trip." Mike started the engine and sighed. He had an ugly feeling about Becky. She was very knowledgeable about books, the best salesgirl he'd had in two years. She would end up at The Phoenix as soon as they had a vacancy. This was the only thing that really bothered him. Except for Mrs. Lawn, who seemed stuck to him for life - she was an excellent seller, mind you - he had to change the other shop assistants quite often. They didn't have the knack for the work. They were lazy, untrustworthy or... or they moved to the P&O, if there was an opportunity. He'd lost three excellent girls this way and he would loose Becky, too. He heard Mathilde was going to start her own shop in her home town. All the previous salesgirls who left for The Phoenix did so, and all were quite successful, he heard. He couldn't blame the guy, he thought. I am too soft, I should put a clause in the work contract, so they couldn't move there. He had tried it once, but after three months of looking into the sad eyes of - what was her name - Tricia, of course - he told her it was okay, that she could leave his bookstore.

"I'm too damned soft," he swore, hitting the driving wheel. But, what the hell? It had been nice when she invited them both for the opening of her own shop and thanked them in public. He still got a card from her, every Christmas and on his birthday.

"You want to see the boss? Yes, why not, I'll ask if he has time. Just a second, please." The girl went to the door in the alcove and knocked.

"Boss? You have a moment? Somebody to see you."

The answer was muffled, but the girl smiled.

"OK, I'll tell her to wait."

More muffled sounds followed.

"Yes, a nice looking lady. OK, OK."

The salesgirl came back to the counter. "He'll be out in a moment. I hope you don't mind waiting."

The door in the alcove opened soundlessly and both girls turned towards it. The salesgirl flashed a smile, gave the other girl a wave, and went to greet another customer at the door. The guest swallowed hard, trying not to panic. He was tall, much taller than she had expected him to be, and quite lean. Large, old-fashioned glasses, messy hair, jet black, but peppered with silver, rather more than she expected. His face also had a few too many wrinkles. His smile was warm, although guarded. Suddenly she felt horribly nervous, but took in a large breath and extended her hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter, nice to meet you."

"Good afternoon... " His grasp was strong, businesslike, and warm and dry.

"Gwen Guilleaume."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Guilleaume. Is it Gwendolyn, or just Gwen, if I may ask?"

"Gwendolyn, actually... " She hesitated for a second and the man cut in.

"Are you from the press?"

"Well, yes..."

"Then I'll ask you to meet me after we close, Miss Guilleaume. I hope that's all right with you. I make it a point never to mix business with interviews. I'll be waiting for you here at seven and then I'll invite you to share a cup of tea and we'll talk, all right?"

"Oh, excellent, thank you very much." Harry smiled, but his eyes were serious and seemed to take her in very carefully.

"Do you have a place to stay, in case we talk late?"

"I didn't think..."

"Mathilde, be so kind as to make sure Miss Poultry has a room ready, just in case." He turned to Gwen again. "It's a simple place, but you'll like it. Of course, there is also a motel and also a camping ground with several cabins. If you prefer, Mathilde will phone them for you."

"That's very kind of you..." He waved away her thanks, nodded, and disappeared into the back of the bookstore. Gwen finally exhaled.

"I'll call Miss Poultry for you, OK? And if you want a snack, there is a nice cafe on the market square, just look for the green umbrellas. Green, not blue. Blue is Peter's and they have foul coffee there."

"But what if I decide to leave tonight after all?"

"Miss Poultry loves to fuss over her sheets. She will be pleased to have something to do. Don't worry."

The Green Umbrella made good ice-coffee and stocked a lot of newspapers. Reading nonsensical news about Hollywood stars and train accidents served Gwen well. The short meeting with Harry Potter had unnerved her more then she ever would have supposed it would. She had expected something of the kind, she had done her homework by contacting several reporters who had talked to him. During the first years after Voldemort's defeat, he had been hunted by the press, and several nasty incidents had not done anything to alleviate his general distrust for anybody with a pen and paper. Finally, taking the advice of his friends, he had... well, "matured" was the word, and started to dictate his own terms. After all, he was the celebrity, and if somebody wanted to interview him, they would have to play according to his rules. Several reporters treated him very well - they now had easy access to him. Those who wrote badly - not criticism about him, but lies and unfairness - were never given a second chance. All interviews had to be authorized, all pictures screened. He might be a small bookstore owner, but he still was a very powerful wizard. One nasty accident with a paparazzo (who almost lost his eyes when his camera triggered wards around the 'Phoenix' backyard and exploded), served as a reminder. The paper had tried to lodge a complaint, but dropped charges when it was charged with infringement of privacy. Everything had been settled peacefully - the reporter was now a clerk in a shop in Birmingham and the paper had turned its attention to other stars.

Reporters could drop by at the bookstore and make an appointment, but the interviews always took place later, when the shop closed. Nobody was to pry and Harry chose questions to answer. No biography had been authorized; out of four published, one was very good, the result of two years of painstakingly interviewing all the people who knew him. Well, except for the most important people, because they flatly refused to say anything. But the overall picture was interesting and Gwen laid down The Sun and fished out her earmarked copy. Two others were decent and the fourth one was, well...Skeeterish. The swift legal action, backed firmly, but informally, by the Ministry, ruined the publisher (Ink! Inc.), and the author. Harry had not lifted a finger: all was done by his friends, Hermione Granger and Remus Lupin mostly. The money was the beginning of the "Granger - Potter - Weasley" Foundation, commonly known as "TRIO". Gwen smiled, thinking about the people, who after all those years, were still so fiercely loyal, to the point of being dangerous, or even far beyond it. She became nervous again. Trying to keep her mind off it, she ordered a soda and began to read.

Harry Potter was a good host: he ushered her into the small garden behind the bookstore, made sure she was comfortable in a wicker, rattan armchair and well protected from the evening wind, and only then he excused himself to bring tea and cakes. She was a little surprised that he had no house elf, but well, he was Harry Potter, and she shouldn't expect that everything would be normal where he was concerned.

Her first surprise had come when they went through the "Staff Only" door. She expected an office, but instead found herself in a hall much bigger than the front room, just as tightly packed with books. In the back there was a large iron cage, where especially nasty books were kept. Instead of one small alcove with space to read, there were four bays with huge, gothic styled windows, each one with the crest of a different Hogwarts house. When Harry noticed her looking at them with awe, he murmured something about being sentimental, and just shrugged when she inquiringly pointed at the green and silver snake. She had heard about the magical section of The Phoenix and the Owl, but there were no pictures published, and people who had been there simply shrugged and said, "nice place, better to go there and see it for yourself." Low-hanging lamps lit only the lower parts of the shelves whose tops disappeared somewhere in the ceiling shadows. The sheer number of books was enormous and she had heard it was the third-best-stacked magical bookstore in Britain, so the quality must match the quantity. Harry came back with the large tray packed with toasts, cold meats, a bowl of jelly and another one with salad.

"I don't know if you're hungry, but I haven't brought anything sweet to spoil our appetites, so if we talk longer, we may have something more substantial. Unless you'd prefer..."

"No, it's fine, really. I didn't come to invite myself for supper."

Harry smiled. "It's my pleasure. I enjoy having a little company for meals sometimes." He poured her a cup of tea and offered sugar, to which she shook her head. He also took his tea without it.

"My," she murmured after biting a piece, "I didn't expect you to be such a good cook."

"Well," he lowered his eyes modestly. Something snarled in the corner of the garden, and Harry laughed. "All right, sorry, I didn't mean to brag. I'm not the cook," he explained to Gwen. "My house elves are. They're quite adept." He cast a short glance into the corner and hastily added, "actually they are marvellously adept and they also do a magnificent job in the bookstore." The corner started to radiate a deep satisfaction.

"I didn't know you had house elves. Nobody has ever mentioned them."

"Is it a part of the interview?" Harry's voice became more businesslike.

"Only if you want it to be. I'll send you the text for authorization anyway. I just asked, because it's a rather large place and managing it by yourself would be hard, and yet nobody mentioned them..."

"They're a bit shy, still quite young, but very good at what they do."

"How many of them do you have?"

"Just two. They came together just after I started P&O. Whacky was most helpful..."

"What? What's his name?" Harry tightened his lips, but it was too late anyway.

"Well, they are Whacky and Stiffy."

"Why did you give them names like that?"

"I didn't. I was struggling with a huge load of new books, and all the people who were helping, went away for a moment, and I was at a complete loss, and the doorbell rang. So I went to open, thinking who the hell and there they were. 'Me is Stiffy and that is Whacky, Harry Potter, sir!' one of them squeaked. 'Me come together to work for sir! Me has the letter!' and then he gave it to me." Harry closed eyes and recited the obviously well memorized text.

"Potter,

Since you have decided to bury yourself alive among dust and worms, I have sent you these two to keep you in shape, in case you should ever be needed again. Do with them what you choose. If you want to send them back, please know that you're welcome to. I'll boil them alive. D.M."

"Did he really say that?"

"Yes. I didn't want to find out if he meant it...."

"He did, probably."

"Possibly. Besides, I was so tired that I couldn't even think straight, so I just told them, 'okay, okay, find yourself a place to live and make me some tea.'"

Harry smiled to himself and poured some more tea to the cups.

'And there I was,' he thought, 'sitting on the floor because there was nowhere else, among the stacks of dusty, unpacked books, trying to think about what to do, and then she came in. This must have been a sight....

"What are you doing, Harry?"

"Just resting for a moment. I'm dog-tired, please Hermione...."

"All right, but since you made tea, why not drink it in the kitchen? There's a table...."

"I didn't make it, Stiffy did."

"Who?"

"Or maybe Whacky. I'm not sure. My new house elves."

Her brown eyes turned completely round.

"Harry? You have the house elves? And why did you give them such awful names? Oh, Harry, of all people, I would never...how could you?" She was on the verge of tears, and I scrambled from the floor trying to explain. Fortunately, a loud banging from the kitchen saved me. We rushed there and found Whacky (or maybe it was Stiffy, I couldn't tell them apart yet) banging his head with the biggest pan he'd been able to find, convinced that it was his fault Ms. Granger was crying and that he must punish himself immediately.'

"To be honest, I still haven't found out where they do live. After all these years they're still shy and rarely come out when we have visitors. But they are an enormous help." Gwen took another snack.

"I am surprised you're not fat as an elephant, they cook so well."

"Stiffy does. Whacky mainly helps in the bookstore. Funny thing is, they still have many ideas from their previous owner. I tell them not to do something, or do it in some way and what I get is, 'But Harry Potter, sir, Master Draco said....' and that's usually the end of the discussion. I tried 'I am the master of this house,' several times, and they said 'Yes, Master Potter, we known this, sir', but still they do things their own way. So I've decided it's best to drop the matter."

Gwen giggled and had another biscuit.

"But then, Miss Guilleaume, I am not sure if this was what you wanted to talk about." His tone became businesslike again. "Come to that, you haven't told me what paper you're from."

"Northumbria Weekly. It's a very small local, you might not have heard of it."

"Indeed I haven't."

"It cooperates with Stonehenge Weekly, but it's independent. We just share some stories."

"And what about me do they want to know?"

"Well, if you allow me to write something about the elves, they would be most delighted. You know, human-interest story."

Harry smiled. Human-interest stories were always popular during the slack holiday season. Gwen was just the first one. He expected reporters coming in herds soon. They didn't get bored after twenty-five years of writing the same stories. . Neither did people get bored of reading them.

"It'll be up to them, actually. I don't know if they want much publicity."

Gwen smiled too, but inwardly. After so many years it was still obvious he'd grown up among Muggles. No one from a wizarding background would think about what his house-elf would want to do. Or maybe it was not because of the Muggles, but simply because of Harry's own personality?

"But the thing I really wanted to talk about was your bookstore, and your friends."

"You know, Miss Guilleaume, that I do not answer some questions," Harry said, becoming very serious.

"Yes, Cleo told me."

He lifted his brows inquiringly, hearing the name of the long standing Witch Weekly reporter, the only one from that magazine who had managed to get an interview with Harry, and some twenty more afterwards.

"Yes, I did my homework. No, I wanted to ask you how your friends helped you to establish the bookstore."

"Well, of course, Hermione Granger helped me with the books - both the Muggle and Wizarding sections, to be sure. And all of the Weasleys put a lot of work into rebuilding and redecorating, not to mention that Molly cooked for the whole crowd for the good part of the month it took us to finish. This is a nice house, but it was in bad shape. And then others helped, too. Like the people who trusted me with money, so I could start buying books."
"And they are...."

"And they shall remain anonymous, as they wished. But you may note down that I paid them all back, and I manage to make my living."

"What is surprising is that it was you who started the bookstore and not Hermione Granger."

"Hermione reads books, writes books, works with books and lives with books, but I'm not sure if she likes to sell books."

Harry looked at her for a few seconds, as if thinking, if he should answer the question. "Yes, mainly. Again there were people who helped me with details. And some things - simply were done. The furniture, for example."

"Furniture?"

"Two years before I started The Phoenix and the Owl, I ran into a small bookstore in Aberdeen. Once it was one of the better, bigger bookstores, but by then it was partially closed. The city had changed, fashions too, and it started to lose customers. The owner, a very old and grumpy man, refused to make any changes in his shop, although he had enough money and his children were full of plans on how to turn the place around to get more business. For some reason, he became fond of me. He was the one who suggested that I start my own bookstore. And told me he would sell me all of his furniture, but only if I used it for books.

I thanked him and went my way, but three months later I went back and I said that yes, I would have a bookstore. We struck a deal. You saw the shelves, didn't you? Black oak, almost hundred years old, untouched by worms. I won't tell you how much I paid, but the lorry that carried them cost more."

"Lorry?"

"I didn't tell you? The man was a Muggle. These shelves were made without any magic - pure craftsmanship."

"Oh.

"I brought him here two years later to see. He liked it."

Gwen had been a small girl then, but older wizards remembered a grumpy, slightly bent-over man with a fierce glare, who for three years reigned in the bay with the Hufflepuff-badger window. Many were surprised seeing a Muggle among books of magic, but nobody dared to protest. This man bore a dangerous resemblance to Madam Pince. Harry invited him for the opening. He came and fumed about, but was pleased to see his old shop in some way restored. Two months later he came again, and announced that his children not longer needed him, so he had bought a small cottage down the street and decided to teach Harry about bookselling. To say that Harry was most surprised would be an understatement. But they got along and after a while Harry let the old man visit the magical section of the bookstore. The man told him off at first for waiting so long and then immediately settled into the badger alcove. Whacky was most afraid of him, as he scolded him mercilessly, but he also trained the poor elf up into an excellent bookkeeper. When he died three years later, Harry felt he had lost not only a mentor, but also a friend. But, at least the man had spent his last days in peace amongst his beloved books, doing what he did best, and had died calmly, not brutally murdered by Death Eaters.

"It seems today's memory day?" Gwen's voice snapped Harry out of his trance.

"Beg your pardon?"

"I said, it seems to me today's memory day. It's the third time you've started to remember things and..."

"And forgotten you're here?"

"No, just slipped away, you know, into memories."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't know you had guests." In the door stood a middle aged, not beautiful, but certainly very attractive witch. A large canvas bag hung from her left shoulder. Harry started to get up, but she shook her head impatiently.

"Go on, talk, talk. I'll get myself a cup of tea and look through your newest acquisitions." She disappeared inside very fast.

"I don't want to..." Harry waved Gwen's protests away.

"Go on, go on."

She took a deep breath.

"There is one really important question, Mr Potter, I really want to ask."

"Yes?"

"Would you help fighting a new Dark Lord?"

"You should know, Miss Guilleaume, that I don't answer such questions." Harry was clearly disgusted.

"I won't write about it, I promise. It's just for me. It's really important."

"For you? Why?"

"I don't remember the Dark Lord," she said in low voice, "but I fear him anyway. I read many books, I remember how Dumbledore had seen his coming early and tried to do things. And the fights and everything. And then, during second war, how the Ministry was blind towards the whole thing. I fear such blindness."

"And the question is?"

"Would you help, if there was a new Dark Lord?" Harry looked at her and spoke very calmly.

"This is strictly off the record, Miss Guilleaume. Yes, I would fight again, although I certainly wouldn't like to. However, we have a good Ministry now. I don't think there is need for lonely heroes. And I am not one, anyway, whatever people may think."

"Last year," said Gwen very calmly, looking into her palms, "I went hiking in the Lake District. I slept in an abandoned hut. It was a full moon. I heard a werewolf. I also heard somebody calling it. I didn't show myself, but I tried to find the traces next day of what had happened. I found the werewolf's paw marks, but no traces of anyone else. Only traces of magic. I don't know what kind. It felt hideous...nauseating." Harry leaned against his armchair and looked at her pointedly.

"You are not from the press, Miss Guilleaume."

"Of course she isn't! Isn't it obvious?" came a voice from the inside of the bookstore. Harry grinned involuntarily, hearing all-too-well-known phrase.

"And why, pray?"

Hermione walked briskly through the minute garden and sat in the other chair.

"I walked into your interview by chance. Have you ever seen a reporter who wouldn't jump and grab me, too? Have a Potter and Granger story, instead of Potter only?"

"She might not have recognized you."

"More proof she isn't from the press."

"All right, Miss Guilleaume." Harry turned to Gwen. "Who are you and why did you lie to me?"

"I didn't exactly. You assumed I was a reporter on your own. And I did do several pieces for the Northumbrian, albeit on a free-lance basis."

"But they didn't send you here."

"No. I didn't protest, because it was a good cover story for Mathilde to hear. I didn't know if I could trust her."

"The same can be said about you."

"Well, Hermione, you left me alone with her and now you don't trust her?"

"Alone? I was right behind the window, with her on the tip of my wand. If she'd even thought about harming you, I would've turned her into a blast-ended skrewt."

"That might not have helped me much," Harry pointed out.

"Fried, blast-ended skrewt," Hermione clarified.

Harry smiled and shrugged. Gwen didn't feel like smiling.

"So, back to my first question. Who are you, Miss Guilleaume?"

"Everything I said was true. My name is Gwendolyn Guilleaume. I'm a researcher for Westmoreland Institute. Occasionally I write for the Northumbrian, and sometimes other papers, for fun and for a bit of money. And while travelling through the Lake District, I found traces of dark magic. People didn't want to talk about it, I was always hushed. I learned more by overhearing things than through direct answers, about the Dark Lady."

"Why didn't you warn the Aurors?"

"I did."

"They asked for proof," guessed Hermione. "And that is..."

"Null. Void. Non existant. None whatsoever."

"So they took no action?"

"They said they'd investigate."

"Fair enough."

"But, Mr Potter, I am afraid of something really terrible. Something is hiding, is hanging above us all."

"How do you know that, Miss Guilleaume?"

"Well, it's not a mere feeling. I didn't get much information. Just picking out the useful bits. But connecting them together, I got something really bad." Harry looked at Hermione.

"The analysis of her voice, perspiration and aura pulsation shows that she speaks complete truth. Of course, all the Veritaserum clauses remain valid. So she believes it, even if it's not true."

"Well, thank you, Miss Granger."

"No need to thank me, Miss Guilleaume. We still have neither any proof for the things you are claiming, nor any reason to trust you."

"But you have no reason to mistrust me, either." Her curiosity won and she couldn't help asking, "how did you manage to use pulsativus aurae charm without speaking loudly?"

"We don't, that's true. And I didn't. I cast it when I was inside. Just left it working. Will you give us the whole story?"

"Would you believe me?"

"No reason to be offended. Give us all the facts you know. We will choose whether we'd like to believe you or not." Harry's voice was surprisingly cold. Gwen toyed with her cup for a moment and then started to speak.

She said it all in a very straightforward manner, just plain facts: traces of dark magic, mostly indirect; few witnesses, mainly Muggles, not really understanding, what's going on, but afraid and subdued; pieces of several magical creatures, dead from unknown causes, possibly natural, were found. She told them about the Auror she contacted, and that she stayed away from field while the Aurors worked; about the next meeting, when the official thanked her for her help, but said that the case seemed to be closed, or rather, unopened. And finally about the feeling of anxiety, fearing the "official blindness" and some unseen force gathering momentum. When she finished, it was completely dark and they could hardly see each other's faces.

Harry got up and brought a lantern back with him. He seemed to be very tired.

"What do you think?"

"I don't like it. Ms. Guilleaume, did you talk about this with anybody except the Auror and us?"

"No."

"So the cat might not yet get out of the bag. Listen, Harry, there is one point Miss Guilleaume didn't mention, but it's quite important."

"Namely?"

"She was second brightest Raven of the class of '34. The best in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Arithmancy. They say she is being wasted in Westmoreland."

"Defence, well. But what does Arithmancy have to do with it?"

Hermione sighted. "Arithmancy, contrary to Divination," she explained very patiently, "requires a lot of logical thinking and careful combination of small factors into bigger structures. So she could be right about the whole thing."

"You remembered that the whole the time and didn't say a word?" Gwen was angry.

"I was curious to see if you'd bring it up."

"Well, I didn't."

"Ladies, please," Harry lifted a hand. Ms. Guilleaume, I have a great favour to ask you."

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"May we continue this discussion tomorrow? I think I need to digest the things you've said. It doesn't seem as though one day would make much difference. Can you stay in town for another day? Mathilde booked you a bed, didn't she?"

"She did. I am prepared to stay, but...please Mr Potter, believe me, it's serious. And bad."

"I know. That's why I am asking you to stay."

"Well...we'll talk tomorrow. Good night. Good night, Miss Granger. And Miss Granger? I was third best in my year, not second."

Hermione smiled crookedly. "I didn't say 'best of the year', and I didn't mean N.E.W.T.s. I said 'brightest'. Good night, Miss Guilleaume."

When Gwen left, Harry came back and found Hermione still sitting in the armchair, just behind the circle of the light.

"Let's go inside" he said. "Leave the lantern."

Harry closed the door behind them. They stood in silence at the large book table. Hermione stroked a book cover absentmindedly. He looked into the bay windows, dark now, no lights shining through the stained glass.

"I always wondered why you started this bookstore," said Hermione, slowly walking along the table. "Not that I was unhappy when you did, but it was such an...anticlimax. Everybody expected you to be an Auror or a Quidditch star."

"Did you too?"

"When the war ended," Hermione continued, walking slowly around the table and tracing the books with her fingers, "I was so scared, tired and weary, that I just wanted to curl up somewhere and cry. And in a way I did."

'What a way it was,' thought Harry, 'throwing herself into studies as if she hadn't read a book in her whole life.'

"All of us just tried to shake it off. I studied dead people's thoughts, instead of thinking for myself. You roamed the country, looking for the home you never had, except for Hogwarts. McGonagall worked on repairing the castle, when she should have just gone and gotten well and truly drunk. Some people were drinking themselves to death, other went whoring. Some worked like crazy, none of us really did what we wanted to. And we settled. And you settled in the bookstore. Following advice, you said, from some stranger you met three months earlier, for half an hour. You didn't listen to any of your friends, us, who almost died for you. You listened to an unknown Muggle."

She said 'Muggle' as if it was a swearword. She was still walking, taking narrow steps leading onto the balcony that surrounded the shop on three sides. She took one step at a time, as if punctuating her speech.

"You found a place. And the shelves. The Weasleys slaved here every weekend, together with the rest of the crowd. I spent my afternoons looking for books and nights doing accounting. Even that git Malfoy helped, sending these two. And so 'The Phoenix and the Owl' was born. After all these years, can you tell me why? Why did you build the bookstore?"

Harry didn't answer. He walked around the table and stood facing the balcony, but the lights were off, so they couldn't see each other. Both of them knew the place so well, they could move not hitting anything.

"You wanted a home. And a family. And now you live alone, above a bookstore."

"You don't like my place?"

"I've slept here often enough that you shouldn't need to ask."

"I thought that was because of me. I didn't know it was because you liked my house." Hermione narrowed her eyes, but it in the complete darkness the effect was lost.

"You never asked me if I liked the place before, you know," she said, her tone almost conversational.

"Do you?"

Hermione unconsciously tapped her fingers on the balustrade, so softly that even she didn't hear the sound.

"Except for Hogwarts, it's the best place in the world."

"Doesn't it look too much like an imitation?" he asked, more anxious this time.

"It has very strong character," she answered, looking around. Even in total darkness she still could see - remember - the windows, tables, books, ladders... she'd always thought Harry had unknowingly created a living monument, a place which commemorated all of those who hadn't made it through the fight, even the Slytherins. But it was a living place, not one you came to mourn and then leave after a quarter of an hour. She'd been so happy he had found peace and settled, and so astonished that he wanted to open a bookstore, that she'd never really wondered why.

"Were you happy?" he asked, all of a sudden the thirteen-year-old boy he had been breaking through. He had never asked her this before. She'd always told him herself. When coming to "The Phoenix" with her first book published. When they were breakfasting and Hogwarts' owl arrived, with the invitation to teach there. When she woke up with him and knew she had nothing to do for the whole day. When she was clearing up the mess he'd made with the accounting books and Ministry owled her about the Special Secret Reward for the work she had done for the Unspeakables. Instead of burying herself alive in books, as everybody had expected her to do, she was travelling and researching and living an active social life, while he was staying calmly in this small, predominantly Muggle borough, selling and buying and actually reading all those books.

Wherever she was, wherever she went to, the happiest moments had always happened here, she realized, and almost hit the balustrade in silent fury. And now this place, built for her, obviously, how could she not have seen it before, was endangered because of some Dark... Lady? Bitch!

"I'll give her Dark Lady!"

"Whom? Gwen?"

"Oh, forget Gwen! Harry, we have to fight this 'Lady', or whoever, whatever it is!"

"I thought about it, Hermione. I don't know if we can. Grindewald was Dumbledore's, Voldemort mine, but this 'Dark Lady?' Our time is over."

"Your time, Harry, will only be over when you are forgotten."

"I am forgotten, Hermione. I know these reporters are coming every year, but it's the same among Muggles. They have UFOs every summer. But nobody relies on UFOs, when it's time to go to war."

"Remember the old, crazy dinosaur, that Dumbledore was, Harry? Ridiculous old fool wearing stuffed vulture hat at Christmas? Stuffing himself with toffee and lemon drops? Remember, Harry? He had his Dark Lord. He knew that it was not for him to defeat the next one. Did he keep out of the way?"

"I am not Dumbledore, Hermione."

"No, you are Potter, Harry. And that's why Gwendolyn came to you. To the forgotten, moth-bitten, bookseller."

"Are you asking me to be Dumbledore for her?"

"No, she asked you herself. Maybe not for her personally, but for somebody."

Harry was silent for a long time. "If it is a Dark Lady, maybe you should...."

"It takes more than books and brains to create a great wizard. I told you that in first year!"

"But...Hermione, I love this place, I built it...well, never mind why, but I did and then I learned to live here and it became dear to me as...never mind as who...I mean what. I don't want to leave it."

"Oh, stop gibbering, I know what you're talking about anyway."

"You were always the smart one." He smiled in the darkness.

"Oh, please. Besides, nobody said you had to leave the place. You can't hide, you know. We can make this into our headquarters. Call the old crowd, Weasleys, Fletcheys, Patils, Creeveys..."

"Malfoy..."

"Even that jerk."

"Longbottom... "

"You want to help us or them?"

Harry snorted. "Don't be horrible, Hermione."

"If you taught Neville's daughter, Harry, as I did, you would start admiring Snape's patience. I certainly did."

"And what, then? Want to call it 'Order of the Phoenix and the Owl'?"

"Could be. Or just 'The Owls', for short."

"Do you have badge sales planned already? We could issue several varieties, with Hedwig, Pig, and Erroll for collectors," a new voice said.

"Good Merlin! When did you get here?"

"Apparated seconds ago. Just in time for the name planning, obviously. Why are you two sitting here in the dark? What is this, a tomb? Too early for that. Incendio." Flames jumped high in the huge fireplace grate. Warm, yellow light stroked the familiar red hair. "I have some news from the Ministry, but it seems that you got it too. A leak?"

"No, independent sources."

"Let's hope there won't be too many of them. Ah, well. So, Harry, we're in it again? Potter's fan club back in action?"

"It's not a joke, Ron."

"I am not joking, Harry. There is something coming. If goes away, no one will be happier than me. But if not...yes, Harry, somehow it's always about you, in some way or another."

"Great. What I need now is a letter from Malfoy, telling me exactly the same thing, just in much meaner way. And sent by a vampire bat."

In the silence that followed, they could hear the cracking of the wood in the fireplace. And small claws scratching on the window pane.