Without Wand or Wire

Ron's sudden pallor made it seem as though his head was on fire, his hair contrasted so much with his skin. He'd just asked Hermione who she fancied, and she's said Harry. He felt as though his heart had simply stopped beating in that moment. Wasn't it enough that Harry stole the spotlight wherever he went, without even trying? Did he have to take Hermione's affections, too?

"Over here, Harry!" Hermione was waving her arms about, staring up the street.

His mind numb, Ron instinctively looked in the direction Hermione was waving.

There was Harry, walking towards the Tower's ticket window, with a strange woman beside him. He didn't seem to notice them.

Oh. Harry! Ron's heart started beating again, or so he felt. Hermione hadn't been answering his question, she'd been trying to get their friend's attention!

Or had she been answering, and Harry's sudden appearance was just a coincidence?

Ron shoved his paranoia aside, hard, and joined Hermione in hollering. "OY! HARRY!"

Was it just his imagination, or had Harry flinched and tried to hid behind the woman?

"Harry, are those your friends, Ron and Hermione?" Petunia asked her nephew, slowing to a stop and pointing to the young pair by the wall, who resembled the young pair from Harry's photo album.

"Oh … yeah …" Harry didn't look too pleased to see them.

Petunia couldn't understand it. He'd spoken so fondly of them yesterday! Maybe if we talked to them, I can get to the bottom of whatever's bothering him. … Determined, she smiled and began to walk over to his friends.

Harry stifled his protest, and followed, offering his best friends as hearty a smile as he could muster. Judging by their puzzled expressions and the way they lowered their hands, they obviously weren't fooled. Well, maybe they were just stymied by the presence of Petunia. At any rate, he hoped they had the sense not to ask him any awkward questions for now.

"Hello!" Petunia smiled at the pair, trying to keep a firm reign on her fears. Yes, these were young wizards, but so was Harry, and these were his friends! "I'm Petunia Dursley, Harry's aunt." She put an arm around his shoulders. "You must be Ron and Hermione! Harry's told me so much about you!"

Ron and Hermione shared a baffled glance. "Uh … yeah, that's us," Ron replied. "We've, ah … h-heard a lot about you as well." Although nothing Harry had ever told them made sense now, talking to her like this. She certainly seemed pleasant enough.

Petunia looked stricken for a moment at Ron's words, and Hermione elbowed her companion sharply in the side. But Harry's aunt quickly regained her composure, and held out her hand to Ron. "How do you do?"

Ron looked at it a moment as if it were a snake about to bite him. Hermione elbowed him again, and he quickly grabbed the hand, shaking it. "Er, good, thanks! N-nice to meet you as well. …" It almost sounded like a question.

Petunia then took Hermione's hand, and they both said a quick and nervous "how do you do?" Harry waved at his friends, weakly, but said nothing, and quickly put his hand back in his pocket.

"Well, are you both here to see the Tower?" Petunia asked, a little too brightly.

"Well, we were ..." Hermione began tentatively, looking at Ron, her eyes asking what she should say.

Ron didn't see any way around it. They were going to have to go in with Mrs. Dursley, if only for Harry's sake. There was something seriously wrong, here! "But we can't get in without an adult," he finished.

"Well, then it's good luck that we came along!" Petunia said, not quite looking as cheery as she sounded. "We can all go together!" And she led them all to the ticket window.

* * *

"Oh, do you have to go?" Tonks pouted, resting her cheek on one hand, her arm propped up on her pillow. "We could both call in sick, just this once!"

Sarah gave her girlfriend a wry smile. "Don't tempt me. There's a particularly awful lot staying on the grounds this week, and I'm not looking forward to going back there. One of the fat bastards keeps making passes at me! An' he's supposed to be a bloody parent! His son's a right prat too, total chip off the old block; I shudder to think of what he'll be like grown up." She laughed. "Come to think of it, I don't think he can grow up anymore. He's already big as a house! We keep hoping he'll get mistaken for a bear and get carted off as a trophy by a hunter or something!"

Tonks barked a laugh. "So don't goooo!" she pleaded, grabbing hold of Sarah's leg.

"Well, unless you can turn lead into gold or you've gotten a major promotion that you haven't told me about, I'm afraid I have to, don't I? I mean, what with rent food and utilities and all. Besides, I think you've missed quite enough days yourself, my little Nympho."

Tonks grinned at this play on her first name, the only use of it she would let anyone get away with (although the only person who could actually use it was Sarah.) Then she went back to pouting. "You weren't here most of the time then, though, and even when you were, I was too injured to be of much company!"

"Yes, well, I'm sure Mad-Eye won't see your logic, even with that magic eyeball of his. But you can certainly call me if work is slow for you; just because I have to go to work doesn't mean there's going to be anything to do. And if you call when that massive git is hitting on me, I can pretend you're making a reservation and get away from him. ..."

* * *

Molly Weasley glanced about with a failed attempt to hide her disdain as she entered Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. She tried to focus on the fact that her sons were immensely successful at a task they were working hard at, and not so much on just how much she hated the task they had set themselves to.

George, meanwhile, nearly had a heart attack when he turned from the shelf he was stocking to greet what he thought was a customer.

"Mum!"

There was a sudden crash from the back room, and George knew Fred had heard him. He only hoped Fred could get their more ... questionable merchandise out of sight quickly.

"George," Molly nodded in greeting, her eyes peering in the direction of the sound.

"So, ah, w-what brings you here?" George continued, attempting to look casual as he leaned against a shelf, and failing miserably.

She narrowed her eyes. "Did you think I'd forgotten about this morning?"

I sure as hell hoped so ... "Th-this morning?" he asked, his voice cracking.

Molly rolled her eyes. "Oh, give it up, George." But there was a rueful smile on her face.

George let out a small sigh of relief. Apparently she was only there to lecture, not yell. It was the difference between going out into a light rain without an umbrella, and going out without that umbrella during a hurricane. The first may not be pleasant, but at least it wasn't potentially fatal. And with the second, protective gear wasn't likely to help much.

Fred was taking so long, George began to suspect that his twin was hiding. Which, were their roles reversed, George figured he would be guilty of himself. And under those circumstances, George was also sure his twin would, in response, do what he himself was about to.

"Do you want I should go fetch Fred, Mum?" There was no way he was going to suffer through this alone, storm or no.

There was an audible sigh from behind him, and Fred followed the sound a second later. The look he gave his brother could have melted their entire Snackbox inventory.

Lee and the girls wisely busied themselves in other areas of the shop, out of earshot.

"Oh really, you two!" Molly began, sounding more exasperated than actually angry. "Running off like that! Own up to your mistakes like men!"

"As opposed to what, women?" countered Fred. Living under a different roof than his mother had made him even more reckless than usual.

Of course, that didn't keep Molly from boxing his ear. "If you had the sense of a woman, we wouldn't even be having this conversation!" she growled.

"Ow!" Fred told her, cupping his ear. It hadn't really hurt that much, but he figured at this point it was best to play up being put-upon. "Anyway, what mistakes? I don't really see what we've done that was so bad!"

George wisely kept his tongue still. He's done his best to protect his brother that morning, but now decided discretion was the better part of valor. Just because they were twins didn't mean they should both be stupid, or suffer the same ill fate.

Molly crossed her arms and glared at Fred. "Whatever it was you said -- and don't tell me, because I don't want to be any more disgusted with you than I already am -- would you have said it if I were there?"

"Er ... no?"

"Then it was probably something you shouldn't have been saying at all, now, wasn't it?"

Fred opened his mouth and tried several times to reply, but he didn't really have an answer for that one. At least, not one that wouldn't get his ears boxed again.

Molly's face softened. "Really, is it too much to ask you to lay off your brother a bit? Whatever you said, it ended up making Hermione cry! I thought you wanted to make people laugh!"

"But it was probably what Ron said that made her cry, not Fred!" George protested.

Molly's brow furrowed. "What did he say?"

"That ... Hermione was only like a sister to him ..." George knew there as logic in his argument, but somehow, speaking it aloud made it not so convincing.

Molly, thankfully, knew exactly what he meant. She nodded. "And we all know how absolutely untrue that was, don't we? But he never would have said it if you hadn't goaded him into it. You never know who might be listening, and how they might take things the wrong way! You're old enough to be more thoughtful, more considerate, and more responsible than that!" She looked about to make sure no one else was near, and lowered her voice for good measure. "Honestly boys, I would think, being in the Order, you would have finally come to understand the importance of being careful what you say and when you say it!"

Each boy bit his lip and lowered his head, ashamed. "Were sorry, Mum," they said in tandem.

She cupped a cheek with each hand. "I know you only tease your brother because you love him, and you want him to stop being such a thick-headed prat." The twins shared a shocked look over her language. "Heaven only knows why boys tease as a way to show affection," she continued. Then she laughed a little. "And it's hard for me to be angry, since your little stint this morning might have actually done some good."

The boys exchanged another baffled look.

Molly sighed. "I'll probably regret telling you this, but ..." And she told them about the "discussion" that was held in the kitchen after they had beat their hasty retreat, and how Ron had set off, hopefully to set things straight with his lady-love.

Fred and George let out a whoop, startling their co-workers. "It's about time!" they told Molly.

Molly gave them a quizzical look of her own. "I thought you didn't like Hermione all that much?"

"Hermione can be a real pain in the arse--" Fred began,

"--but that just makes her that much more fun to annoy," George continued,

"And since we don't share a common room with her anymore--"

"--she's easier to like!"

"Not to mention she'll make sure Ron --"

"--passes his N.E.W.T.S.--"

"--and keeps that temper of his in check!"

"Besides, we do love our Ickle Ronniekins--"

"And we want to see him happy!" they finished together.

Lee stared at the twins in amazement; he couldn't help but hear the end of the conversation. Anyone else might have thought they were being cheeky with that last bit, but he knew them better than anyone.

They well and truly meant what they had said.

Molly seemed to know it, too. "Oh, you two really are good boys, when you put your mind to it."

Not sure whether to be pleased or insulted, the twins settled for a look of wry amusement.

"Well, I better let you get back to work," Molly told them, turning to leave.

"'Ey mum?" Fred called after her, in afterthought, "Did you ... you know, need anything? From the grocer's?"

He and George had tried several times to give their parents some of their earnings, to no avail. So Fred and George had taken to bringing groceries with them to Grimmauld Place, on the pretense that if they were going to eat there, it was only right for them to share in the expense. And anytime Arthur or Molly had mentioned needing a specific item when unknowingly in reach of an extendable ear, the item had often inexplicably found itself on the kitchen table more often than not. Molly had, much to her surprise, found a new rocking chair in the drawing room, just perfect for knitting Weasley jumpers in.

Molly smiled. "Not today, boys. I think you've done enough spending for one day."

The boys split a baffled expression.

"I just happened to run into Bill and Charlie out on the street. I think your sister's going to really love the new broom Charlie was carrying, don't you?" she mentioned before heading out the door.

* * *

Pansy Parkinson walked through the dim and silent halls of the Malfoy manor, each step getting harder and harder as every fiber of he screamed to turn around, to run, not walk, out the door and never return. But she had to know if he was all right. Because Dumbledore had asked her to, of course. She did not love Draco Malfoy. She was not in love with a Death Eater. Being a Slytherin did not automatically make one a Dark Wizard.

Pansy wasn't entirely sure of what she was trying to convince herself of, as she meandered through the manor. It didn't really matter. She had a job to do. A job that she had essentially been doing since she'd arrived at Hogwarts, though she hadn't known it at the time. Her parents had warned her that the Malfoys were powerful -- and therefore dangerous. It was wise to get on their good side, as her parents had done, although the Parkinsons and the Malfoys weren't more than acquaintances, really. At any rate, when the Sorting Hat had been deliberating where to put her, she'd done as her mother had suggested, thinking Slytherin over and over.

The Hat had chuckled at her. "A chip off the old block, are you? It seems every generation of Parkinsons have been intent on Slytherin, despite my suggestion that they go to Ravenclaw -- or in your case, maybe even Gryffindor. Granted, your line's always been a rather conceited lot, and purpose-driven to a point that could easily be mistaken for being power-hungry -- and you seem no exception. ... All right, then, if you insist, far be it from me to break tradition!" And with that, the hat had put her in Slytherin, as she'd wished. Now, she sometimes wished it hadn't.

Oh, wasn't hard to ingratiate herself to the Slytherins. Hers was a proud and noble bloodline; many automatically assumed that made her and her family supporters of Voldemort -- including the Dark Lord himself. People like that couldn't fathom the difference between familial pride and bigotry. It was a perception that had served the Parkinsons well, as they'd acted as Death Eater spies for the Order of the Phoenix, over a decade before, a role they dutifully reprised now.

Pansy might have been too young to actually be in the Order, but that didn't mean she couldn't be useful. Being the most popular girl in her house, Draco had obviously gravitated towards her. As they grew older, and began dating, he had started confiding things to her about his family, bragging about the dark magical heirlooms that would one day be his. He was keen to talk to someone about it, really, it didn't even have to be her. He would have posted signs about it all over their common room, if he hadn't been so afraid of what his father would do if word leaked back to him that Malfoy the Younger had been blabbing family secrets all over Hogwarts. So Draco made up for his restraint in public by confiding everything to her and his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. Pansy had become quite the actress, hiding her disgust, both with the company Draco kept and at his insufferable vanity.

At least their dates afforded her time alone with him, apart from Crabbe and Goyle. As time passed, she managed to chip away some of Draco's snide exterior; he seemed a little more human then, his near-perpetual mask of righteousness slipping more and more often. She found it increasingly easier to be in his company -- at times, he was even likeable, when he wasn't raving about Potter or Mudbloods. (To be honest, she didn't find it all that difficult to loathe the know-it-all Granger herself.) And every now and again, she'd found him in a vulnerable moment, holding back tears after a harsh rebuke from his father. It wasn't hard to see why Draco was the way he was: coldness and cruelty was all he'd known. No wonder such ice had formed around his heart, leaving it impossible for him to feel the warmth of love or compassion -- or pity.

What must it have been like, being a baby in this mausoleum? she wondered. Had Draco been kept in a sterile, empty room? Had they put him far enough away that only the house elves could hear his cries at night? Did his mother ever rush to the side of his cradle? Did his father ever bounce him on his knee? Or was Draco just another object, kept on display in this museum masquerading as a home? Had Draco ever been allowed to run through its halls? Has this place ever known real laughter?

"Master is in here," the house elf she'd been following told her, as it cowered by the closed door. "Perhaps Mistress might get him to eat something? We have tried and tried, but now that. ..." The elf looked at her with wide, fearful eyes. "Oh, Peaky has said too much!" The elf began to bang its head against the door.

"I TOLD YOU I DON'T WANT ANYTHING!" came a snarl from somewhere beyond the entry, followed by a loud bang and a shattering sound. Draco had apparently thrown something at the door.

Pansy wanted very much to turn around and leave right then. Draco didn't sound like he would be very welcoming of company, and she didn't think it was wise to give him a living target for his ire. But Dumbledore himself had asked her to do this. Draco's father had been murdered in Azkaban, and the Hogwarts headmaster believed Draco might know if it was Voldemort himself who had done it, or some rogue vigilante wizard who'd decided to take justice into his or her own hands. And there was a second reason to talk to Draco -- with Lucius dead, it seemed likely Voldemort would recruit the younger Malfoy, if he hadn't already. With any luck, her visit would determine that as well.

"There is another reason that I'm sending you," Dumbledore had confided in her. "Whatever your true feelings for Draco, remember that he is just a boy -- one who has just lost his father. Someone who has suffered such a loss deserves compassion, regardless of how deserved you may feel his father's death may have been. And Draco deserves a chance to choose a different path in life than the one his parents set him on when he was just a babe. But he can only do that if we give him the room to step into the light, and don't force him into a direction we assume he's already taken. If we treat him like a monster now, we cannot expect anything better of him. I need you to help me give him that chance to leave the shadows."

So here she was, right outside Draco's door -- and she had no idea what to do next. Even if she could get him to calm down enough and confide in her, how was she supposed to help him? Especially if he really had become a Death Eater?

She drew a deep breath. One step at a time, Pansy! She turned the handle and slowly opened the door.

Draco sat at the head of a long table. His hair was as far from its usual state of perfection as was humanly possible, an unwashed and horribly tangled mess. His face was buried in his hands -- hands that were spattered with some dark substance. The spartan room, with its heavy black curtains drawn closed, was dark too -- save for a roaring fire in the massive fireplace. It was an ominous thing, like some great maw with sharp yellow teeth, and gave off little heat, despite the vastness of it.

Pansy took a tentative step in, pausing at the crunch of glass under her feet. Draco did not look up; indeed, if not for having heard him yell just before coming in, she could have easily believed him dead. She stepped over the remains of his fury, and quietly padded over to him. She sat in the chair next to his, her determination giving her the strength to ignore the sharp tang in the air around him, and to refrain from asking why he had obviously been neglecting to bathe. She simply waited, watching the firelight attempt to pry the shadows from him. She restrained herself from the desperate urge to try the same feat.

"Nothing can grow here," he finally said, his hands still over his eyes, his muffled voice as hollow as the hall itself. "I thought maybe if I buried her in the garden, she might be reborn as a flower. But I forgot. It wasn't that she'd never tried to plant anything there; it was that everything always shriveled and died, if it ever even grew at all." He lowered his hands, staring at them. "Even her blood couldn't nourish the ground."

[Draco, saying, "Even her blood couldn't nourish the ground."]

Her blood? Buried her?! It took several tried before she found her voice, which sounded terribly small in such a vast, empty place. "W-who died, Draco?" She has a suspicion; the question was more a matter of how. But unless she wanted to set him off, it was best not to sound accusatory. He seemed on the edge of madness as it was; who knew how little it would take to push him over?

But there was no tell-tale sign of crazed laughter. Only a soft, sad, "Narcissa. My mother. H-he came. Hurt her. Hurt me." The words were getting harder and harder for him to say as his voice thickened in his throat. "He g-gave me this ..." He bared his arm to her.

She swallowed hard as she stared at the Dark Mark that now stained his limb. Was this it? Had he joined You-Know-Who? Killed his mother? Would he kill her now? Oh, how she wanted to run, but her parents had taught her well. Running attracted the attention of hunters. Better to sit still, and try not to be noticed. She knew all too well how true this was; at Hogwarts, Pansy was a bit of a predator herself. But in the Dark Lord's circle, she would definitely be at the bottom of the food chain.

"I carried her up to her room after he'd gone," Draco continued, his eyes and voice growing distant. She knew he wasn't seeing her at all, but reliving the final moments of his mother's life. "I sat with her, all night, all the next day, and the next. When she was awake, she wouldn't speak, but only stared at the ceiling. It was like she was already ... g-gone. It ... it wasn't long before she really was.

"The next morning, when I woke up, her window was open. I stepped out onto the balcony, and heard a moan coming from below. When I looked down ..." He shuddered. "I went down to her. The ground was covered in red, but she still lived, still breathed. It wasn't until I gathered her up in my arms, and she looked at me, that it happened. I ... I saw her light go out." He was silent a long moment, then looked Pansy in the eye. "I'd never actually seen death before," he told her quietly. A tear rolled down from his glittering eyes. "I never knew ..." he whispered.

Pansy knew he was thinking of all the times he'd talked about killing Mudbloods. Like so many boys, he'd treated it as a game, had never really understood what it meant to kill ... or to die. In her death, it seemed Narcissa had given him the only worthwhile gift she'd ever given her son: understanding. Seeing the horror in his eyes, Pansy knew no one need ever fear Draco Malfoy again. He might bear the Dark Mark, but he would never truly serve He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The Dark Lord had made a fatal error.

For now, though, it was too soon to talk to Draco of allegiances. She just held him in her arms and let him grieve. There would plenty of time to talk of war later. And when he finally fell asleep, for the first time since the death of his mother days before, Pansy whispered softly in his ear, "If nothing can grow here, maybe it's time to go where something can."

* * *

After picking up a few odds and ends and buying Ginny's present, Charlie had Disapparated, taking the broom with him to hide in his room before he popped off to help his dad with some things at the Ministry of Magic. Bill, meanwhile, found himself bit of time to kill before going to work in the vaults of Gringotts.

He lounged at Fortescue's for a while, and ended up reflecting on the events of the morning in the kitchen of number 12. It was sweet that Ron had found his One True Love so early in life, and amusing that it had taken him so long to actually realise it. Much like their parents, really. He wondered if Ron would ever know how lucky he was -- some people went through their entire lives without ever finding real love, instead simply settling for the closest approximation they could find.

Which brought him back to a station on his railroad of thought that he'd been spending a great deal of time at of late: his own love life. He loved for Fleur Delacour; she was everything he'd ever wished for, and even more that he'd never considered but had come to adore all the same.

But she was part Veela, so for a long time there had been a nagging part of him that worried that perhaps none of it was real. Not to mention him constantly worrying about what would happen when he grew older, fatter, bald even, and she remained as radiant as ever, attracting younger men with ease. And if he couldn't be totally certain of his own feelings, how on earth could he be sure of hers?

He'd discussed the situation with Fleur, who oddly enough seemed happy to hear him talk about it; he'd thought for sure she'd be upset. But she told him that the very fact that he even worried about it proved to her that he cared more deeply for her than any man she'd ever known. For no one else had ever bothered to consider what the future would be like. Unfortunately, as they both knew all to well, acknowledging the truth in one's head was one thing, but convincing one's hearts of it was quite another.

Thankfully, Fleur came up with an idea to satisfy their hearts, too. "You are a cursebreaker, no? Can you not find a way to 'break' ze Veela curse? Zen you would know for sure how you feel, at least! And zen maybe you could believe me, too!"

So Bill had done exactly that. He came up with a charm, then had his brothers (sans Percy), whom he knew weren't immune to Fleur's own "charms", test it out for him. When they all reported a lack of attraction (well, at least nothing more than was normal to feel for a beautiful woman, and definitely nothing like they usually felt around her), Bill eagerly tried it out himself.

His feelings for her were completely unchanged. Well, no, that wasn't entirely true. It seemed that, now that he knew his love was real, it was stronger than ever. And then Fleur had done something to cement their bond, proving her love just as strong as his. She found a way to cast the charm so that it protected everyone else from her power, rather than requiring others to have the charm cast on themselves. No man would ever inadvertently fall for her ever again.

It had been a few days since Fleur had cast the charm, but they had been so busy doing things for the Order that it hadn't really sunk in yet. Now he found himself with a moment to stop and breathe. That happy circumstance, coupled with the memory of Ron's own earth-shattering realisation that morning, finally put things into crystal-clear perspective for Bill. There was nothing more standing between him and the woman he loved. What the hell was he waiting for?

* * *

Voldemort dozed lightly in his favorite chair by the fire. Nagina sat in his lap like a cat, hissing contentedly as her master ran a hand down her scales. They would have been the picture of serenity, if not for the aura of danger and decay about them.

It was this menacing aura that made Wormtail so very reluctant to approach the Dark Lord, even with what he knew were glad tidings. Peter Pettigrew knew all too well how easy it was to invoke the dark wizard's wrath. He waited patiently for his master to address him. It was not even possible for him to contemplate doing something untoward to the most dangerous being in the world while the man was asleep. It didn't do to dwell upon the impossible -- especially with a being who could, it seemed, pluck your thoughts right out of the air!

Pettigrew didn't have to wait long. Sensing the nervous presence of his flunky, Voldemort's red eyes slowly slid open.

"Report," Voldemort commanded, his voice dry and dusty.

"M-master! I have found them! It's even better than we'd hoped! They're staying at the place where that Metamorphamagi's muggle friend works, some campground a fair distance away from civilization! The same area where the Quidditch World Cup was held two years ago, in fact!"

The Dark Lord smiled. It was a terrible thing to see. "And therefore far away from any help, Muggle or magical!" He turned his attention to the fire. "Now, Potter, let's see if we can't finally do something about that annoying little protection spell of yours. ..."