Without Wand or Wire

[Dumbledore, in his office ...]

"So what is it you wanted to tell me, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, after having Harry sit and offering him tea and biscuits.

The clock on the mantle struck noon. Was that all? It seemed like it had been such a long day already …

"My scar hurt when you were fighting Voldemort -- hurt so much, I guess I passed out a few times. But I'm sure Professor Snape or Fae told you about that?" Dumbledore nodded. "At one point I think had a vision of the battle, and … and I thought saw Uncle Vernon get killed. Did … was that real?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I'm afraid it is. I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry seemed saddened, but surprisingly calm about it -- to the point where the hairs on Dumbledore's neck were threatening to stand on end. "Have you told my Aunt Petunia?"

Again, Dumbledore nodded.

"And my cousin?"

"We’ve looked, but I regret to say that we have not found him yet. It is my hope that he is just hiding somewhere, but … I fear Voldemort has him -- and Miss Parkinson."

Harry was silent for a moment. Then, "Sir? Don't you think … well, that maybe it would be safer if I were kept away from everyone?"

Dumbledore looked slightly alarmed at this. "Harry,” he began firmly, “you can't go blaming yourself for these things--"

"Oh, I don't exactly," Harry told him, still icily calm. "It's just that … well, it's like before, when you didn’t tell me anything because you were afraid Voldemort would read it in my mind. What if that's how he found Dudley and Uncle Vernon? What if that's why he attacked The Burrow? Ron and I were there this afternoon, and my scar burned for a moment -- maybe that was him sort of homing in on us …"

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "I suppose it is a possibility, but it could also be coincidence. Voldemort could have learned where the Dursley home is, or tailed your uncle and cousin … And it wouldn’t have been too hard for him to learn where The Burrow was; he could have just been seeking retaliation for last night, when Percy saved my life. …"

Harry's eyes grew wide, and a grin came to his face, unbidden. "Percy? Really??"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Yes, I’d say his relationship with his family has been mended." The twinkle faded, and he looked tired again, enough that Harry felt a twinge of worry before he could stifle the feeling. "No, I don’t think we need to go to so drastic of measures as to seal you off from the world, Harry. Everyone in the order has made an enemy of Voldemort and the Death Eaters at one point or another -- he might go after any one of us, for reasons that are entirely exclusive of you. If you are our only hope against him, I’d much rather see you have the strength of your friends behind you than not. We'll have you start up the Occlumency lessons with Snape again, though, just to be safe."

Harry nodded, though Dumbledore suspected that he was just trying to be agreeable.

"Was there anything else you needed to tell me, Harry? Or anything you'd like to talk about? I have nothing but time on my hands at the moment -- until it's time for cake and ice cream!"

Harry smiled. He was about to say no, but then thought of something to ask. "Sir … is it true that Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson are really on our side? I mean … I think they are, and Hermione's cat seems to think so -- well, Draco, anyway -- but … well, how can we know for sure? They've done so much that would make me think they could be Death Eaters -- Malfoy's certainly threatened us often enough …"

Dumbledore smiled back, albeit a bit sadly. "Well, to be honest, I feel we have to believe people can change -- otherwise, when we make mistakes in our lives, what hope do we have that we can do better? But in order for people to be able to change, we have to first give them a show of trust. Sometimes that trust is misplaced, true, but then, those we believe to be good from the very beginning can turn out to have been playing us false, or turn 'bad'--"

"Like how we thought Barty Crouch was the real Mad Eye? Or how my parents trusted Pettigrew …" Harry trailed off, struggling with a flare of anger.

"Yes, those are both good examples of how those we trust can prove undeserving. And yet we often don’t place trust where it should be given, either. Everyone thought Sirius was a murder for so many years, yet he turned out to be a friend after all. Professor Snape was a Death Eater, but he had a change of heart, betrayed them, and saved countless lives at the risk of his own. Admittedly, he doesn't have the best disposition in the world, but he's on our side all the same.

"Draco Malfoy might have been his father's son for many years, but that was all he knew. Who knows what his life might have been like if he'd had you as a friend, Harry?"

Harry felt the flare of anger again. There was a lot of things he felt were his fault, but he'd be damned if he'd let the life of Draco Malfoy be one of them. "He didn’t exactly give me good reason to want to be his friend -- he put down Hagrid the first time I saw him, and Ron the second, and is vile to Muggleborns!"

Dumbledore raised a hand. "I'm not saying that you are to blame for how he turned out, Harry -- certainly Draco is ultimately responsible for that. But let us say he did not have the good fortune that you'd enjoyed when it came to making friends." Dumbledore pursed his lips. "Harry, you've had Coca-Cola before, I presume?"

Baffled by the question, Harry nodded. "But I don’t want any right now, I think it would taste a bit funny after the tea."

"And why is that, do you think?"

Harry shrugged. "They don’t go well together?"

"But you wouldn’t be drinking them at the same time, so what does it matter?"

"Be…cause I would still have an aftertaste of tea in my mouth!" Harry wondered if the old man's mind was getting a little addled.

Dumbledore had a triumphant look in his eye. "What about that Coke -- have you ever had it in a bottle?"

Getting even more confused, Harry nodded.

"And from a can?"

Another nod.

"When you have it in a can, does it taste different than it does from a bottle?"

"… Yeah, 's sort of metallic-tasting."

"So you’d say the Coke retains the taste of the environment it had been sitting in for so long? That it's … ‘tainted’ by it, so to speak?"

Completely lost, Harry nodded.

"Why did you drink the tea I gave you, Harry?"

"Um. I was thirsty?"

Dumbledore nodded. "When we're thirsty, we drink whatever's handy. Knowledge is like that, Harry. When we're thirsty, we take what we can get. If I'd have offered you tea or Coke before you’d started drinking, what would you have chosen? Be honest."

"Er, I think I’d have taken the Coke, actually."

"So why did you take the tea, rather than asking for Coke?"

Harry blinked. "Was Coke an option?"

Dumbledore smiled, very pleased. "I didn’t offer it. And because you see me as an authority figure, you didn't question, you simply accepted what I offered, trusting that I would give you a choice of options if there were others available. Which there wasn't -- Severus drank the last of my stash."

Harry goggled.

Dumbledore laughed. "Yes, don’t let him know I told you -- it's his secret vice," he said with a wink. "*Ehem* But that is neither here nor there. My point, Harry, is that Draco was not given any choices when he was growing up. He accepted his father's rhetoric because he loved his father and trusted that the man would do right by him, as all children tend to trust their parents. Draco became a product of his environment, taking on the flavor of it much like Coke takes on the taste of the can. He had the aftertaste of his upbringing in his mouth, and when he was faced with other 'flavors' of thought, as it were, he found them unpalatable when mixed with those which he was already used to consuming. He has been through so much recently, though, and tragedy has a habit of changing people -- not always for the better, true, but in Draco's case I think it was. Think of his experiences as … clean water, washing away the residue of his father's teachings from his mouth -- and, for the first time in his life, giving him a chance to choose what he will consume. But we have to extend our cup to him, and trust that he won't dash it to the ground, as it were, if he’s ever to have a chance to change his ‘diet.’

"All life is risk, Harry; every moment we risk our hearts in the hands of those we care about, and trust they will do their best to keep it safe. Every day we trust strangers to make decisions that could have far-reaching effects for our own health and safety. Trust is a gamble that doesn’t always turn out for the best, but if we don’t play the game, so to speak, then what do we do? Lock ourselves up and hope the whole world goes away? That isn’t living!" he told Harry pointedly.

Harry nodded, but said nothing more. Dumbledore had settled his mind on Malfoy at least: he would give the boy the benefit of the doubt.

Dumbledore waited for Harry to speak, and was palpably disappointed when Harry simply rose, thanked him for the tea and the insight, and left.

Harry knew what Dumbledore wanted, for him to talk about his feelings, but Harry remembered something Dumbledore had told him the last time he had been in that office. Dumbledore had confessed that he had cared too much about Harry's well-being. Apparently that was still the old man's worst flaw: he cared more about Harry's emotional well-being than the Occlumency The Boy was supposed to be practising. And Harry was still fairly certain that Voldemort had plucked the Dursley men's destination out of his head, had attacked The Burrow because Harry had been there. Harry apparently still hadn’t been trying hard enough to keep the Dark Lord from his mind. Voldemort might kill for other reasons besides getting to Harry, but Harry wasn’t about to give him any more reasons. He was just going to have to work harder than ever at Occlumency.

So Dumbledore might want Harry to live a normal life, might be willing to risk the lives of others in order to try to give him one, but Harry thought the old man seemed to be forgetting an important thing: according to the prophecy, Harry couldn't have a life until Voldemort was dead. Then he could have all the "normal" a wizard could want -- if he survived -- but not before.

No, Harry wasn't about to confess anything, especially not the fact that he felt nothing at all -- not sadness, not anger, not even relief -- over the death of his Uncle. He also wasn't about to let Dumbledore discover that the death of his godfather, which had grieved him so before, brought forth no reaction in him at all anymore. As far as Harry was concerned, that was a good thing.

Wasn't it?

* * *
* * * * * *
* * *

The things that had already been salvaged from The Burrow's ruins had been brought to Grimmauld Place. The presents and food that had already been prepared had, in turn, been brought from Grimmauld place to Hogwarts. Petunia had gotten a quick shower in, grateful that wizard plumbing seemed to work like the ordinary kind, even if the water was heated by magic. Mrs. Figg had kindly helped several Order members gather some fresh clothes for Petunia from the Dursley house, along with Harry's school trunk, books, and Firebolt. The last of the wounded were declared well enough to travel to the party, though some of them were expected to spend the night in Madam Pomfrey's hospital wing afterwards. Soon no one was left at Grimmauld Place but Kreacher, who was fast asleep in his nest under the boiler.

The twins had stopped at their shop, collected Lee and the girls -- as well as Oliver Wood, who'd stopped by to visit -- and closed up early. Percy also stopped at his own flat, before arriving with Penelope shyly in tow. Percy himself unusually subdued, but Molly was so happy to have him back that she didn’t complain. Ginny was a bit cranky at first, thanks to the day they'd all had thus far, but having Percy around again quickly perked her up.

The house elves at Hogwarts had set to work fixing a feast for the party, leaving Molly free to treasure some quality time with her loved ones and all their friends. Out by the lake, they set up a picnic of cold sandwiches and kettle-cooked crisps, with pumpkin juice to wash it all down. After lunch, Professor McGonagall had challenged Ron to a game of chess, and the rest of the picnickers were half watching, half conversing amongst themselves as they digested their repast. Ginny had brought the wireless with, and it played a quiet tune.

Hermione shared the trunk of a tree with Faelyn, both of them resting their backs comfortably against it (with the help of a blanket) as they watched the battle. Ron and McGonagall were well-matched, though, and the tournament began to drag on.

Hermione noticed Fae's eyelids begin to droop. She nudged the elder girl in the side. "Why don't you go to your room and take a nap?"

"Oh, I'm comfortable enough here," Fae replied. "I'm of the 'There'll be plenty of time to rest when I'm dead' school of thought anyway. I’d rather not leave the party." She smiled and closed her eyes, then continued, "Speaking of which, when are you two going to get on with it already?"

Hermione had been watching the game -- or Ron, rather -- and jerked her head back towards Fae so fast she pulled a muscle in her neck. "Ow! What are you talking about?" she asked, rubbing her neck. Thankfully no one else seemed close enough to hear their conversation.

The wireless seemed to want to help, suddenly playing a livelier, more vocal tune, one that would drown out their conversation for any possibly prying ears.

How the hell'd we wind up like this?
Why weren't we able
to see the signs that we missed,
and try to turn the tables?

Fae opened her eyes again and stared at Hermione for a long moment, her expression wistful. "I'm sure I don't need to remind yeh that until He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is destroyed, the rest of us are basically living with an axe over our heads," she said finally. "But even if that were no' the case … even if yeh lived to be older than Nicholas Flammel, a moment wasted is always a moment wasted. Tell 'im, Hermione. Don’t lose another moment that ye can never get back. Don’t let it become too late."

Now the stories bleed out like this,
just like a paperback novel
Let's rewrite an ending that fits,
instead of Hollywood horror

Hermione drew up her knees, feeling miserable. Fae was right; why couldn’t she seem to get out the words she wanted to say to Ron? Things seemed to keep getting in the way, but … why did she let them? "When on earth did Ginny and Fleur find the time to talk to you?"

Fae closed her eyes again and smirked. "So you had a chat with them, did yeh? I didn’t talk to them; I didn’t need to. My little cousin might be oblivious to yer feelins for 'im, but nobody else is -- to yer feelins or his."

Nothin's wrong,
just as long
as you know that
someday I will ...

Hermione's complexion would have served her well in the stands at a Gryffindor Quidditch match. She didn't like feeling this way, didn’t like not having total control over her emotions, didn’t like feeling like she couldn’t find her footing. Fae had her unbalanced; it was time to turn the tables on this conversation! "Well what about you?" she asked shrewdly. It didn’t occur to her until the words were already out of her mouth that she was speaking in such a way to a teacher. She clamped a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, Professor!" came her muffled apology.

Fae waved a hand dismissively, her eyes still closed. "Nay, nay, school hasn't started -- I'm no' a teacher yet, as far as I'm concerned. In fact … I rather hoped ye’d come to think of me as yer cousin, too." Fae opened one eye and smirked. "I mean, if yer gonna to marry into the family and everythin' …" She closed her eye again, the smirk already faded. "But yer right, I'm bein' hypocritical. It's just … the right time came and went and never seemed to come back. You still have a chance -- that's why I’d hate for yeh to lose it."

"But … aren't you all basically telling me that I can’t wait for 'the right moment'? That I should throw caution to the wind and just go for it?"

Fae nodded ruefully. "Because there may never actually be a right moment, yes … but at the same time, there is such a thing as that moment having passed yeh by, and if it does …"

"It's too late? How can it be too late, if you’re both single and still alive?"

Someday, somehow
I'm gonna make it all right,
but not right now
I know you're wondering when
You're the only one who knows that ...

Fae opened her eyes and glared at the wireless, before regarding Hermione with a peculiar look in her eye. Hermione was afraid she'd offended the woman, until Fae finally remarked, somewhat wryly, "It's been easy enough for me to give advice to someone else, but I'm pretty sure there's some cardinal rule somewhere that says that, as the advice-giver, I’m no' allowed to apply my own advice to m’self. So consider me finally on the receiving end of advice -- from you. Thank yeh." She seemed sincere, despite her dimpled smirk.

Hermione smiled back. This was more like it. Now to just keep the conversation from turning back to her and Ron. …"Fae, can I ask you something a little… personal?"

"Of course! Anything yeh like!" Fae unfortunately assumed that the younger woman was going to ask something "birds-and-bees"-related.

"Why Professor Snape? I mean … i-is there some side to him that he doesn’t normally show, but you've seen?"

Fae's jaw dropped. Then she smiled, baring her teeth, and scrunched her face, her shoulders shaking in a silent mirth. Finally she gasped for air, and wiped a tear from her eye. "If I had a sickle for every time someone's asked me that! … But to be honest, I've never really been sure what people mean when they ask it! I mean, why not? He's attractive, intelligent, witty, a talented wizard. … We have a lot of the same interests. … I mean, I know he's a wee bit stand-offish, but … really, I think that just makes him sexier. Kinda like playing hard-to-get, yeh know?" By this time she had a dreamy, faraway look in her eye.

It was Hermione's turn to have her jaw drop. Snape? Sexy??M She wondered if maybe Fae had been drinking some funny potions or something. …

Meanwhile, on the other side of the wireless (and the buffer of sound it provided), the most rousing chess match since the Philosopher's Stone incident was well in play -- and with essentially the same players. While Fae and Hermione had been having a heart to heart, the chess masters had been having an interesting conversation of their own.

"I must say, Mr. Weasley, it's been a very long while since anyone other than Albus has managed to capture that many of my pieces. …"

"Are you trying to distracted me, Professor McGonagall?" Ron asked, a vague expression in his eyes, as if he were watching all the board at once, seeing every possible strategy simultaneously, rather than studying all the possible moves of one piece at a time.

"Oh no, Weasley,” Minerva assured him. “I'm simply giving credit where it's due."

Ron blushed a little as he made a move.

McGonagall nodded in approval. "Weasley, might I bend your ear regarding our Quidditch team for next year?"

Ron looked up at her and blinked. "Um, sure, I guess. …"

"What are your thoughts on our roster, now that Angelina, Alicia, and your brothers have all left?"

"Well … you’re going to let Harry back on as Seeker, right?"

McGonagall nodded, and made a move.

"Ginny's said she wants to stay on the team, as a Chaser; I think she'd make a good one -- and that's not just because she's my sister!" he added hastily. "She's been a more than decent Seeker, so it would be good to have her around as a back-up for Harry, but I think her speed on a broom from her Seeking days would help her as a Chaser, too. And she's always been good at taking things, then keeping them away from their owner," he added somewhat darkly.

"So Mr. Potter as Seeker, Miss Weasley as Chaser -- and I assume you'd keep Miss Bell as Chaser as well?"

Ron nodded, and after biting his lip a moment, moved his knight.

"And what about you, Mr. Weasley?" she pressed, her eyes on the board. "Do you wish to stay Keeper?"

Ron paled. "I-I'd like to … but I understand if you don’t want me."

She looked up at him, brow raised. "Mr. Weasley, as I recall, you made some spectacular saves in your last match -- why on earth would I want to replace you?"

Ron blushed, and made to move a piece but decided against it. "Oh! Just thought … well, maybe that game was a fluke, you know? I did so badly for most of the season. …"

McGonagall pursed her lips, but waited till Ron had finally made a move before speaking. "Weasley, have you ever heard of an 'accidental wizard'?"

Thrown a bit by the sudden shift in conversation, Ron simply shook his head no.

"The thought is that, while some wizards and witches excel at learning magic through practise and focus, others are better at just letting things happen … instinctually. That is to say, magic works best for them when they aren’t concentrating on it, because if they are too consciously aware of what they are doing, they then get too nervous to actually complete their task. But if they just relax, and sort of unfocus, they find themselves performing even complex spells as easily as breathing -- that is to say, without even really thinking about it.

"Now don’t think I'm telling you that you shouldn’t practise your spells or do your homework," she continued, moving her queen, "because I'm not! But I think you are very much that kind of wizard -- you and Mr. Potter both. If anything, I think that you need to practise more -- to the point where you get into a sort of … rhythm, or trance, where you are no longer actively focused on what you're doing, but are just learning to do it by rote. And after you become successful at doing a spell that way, you can go backwards and examine how it works. I think, if you try this method, that you and Mr. Potter both might bring your grades up a bit."

Ron nodded, a bit chastened, but also thoughtful. It seemed to him that, from what Hermione had told him, Harry had learned to perform Accio in much the same way: Harry hadn’t gotten it right until he'd done it almost half-heartedly, when he was personally past the point of giving up but Hermione had pushed him onward nonetheless.

"And I want you to try this approach during Quidditch practise, as well," McGonagall said firmly. "Your brothers told me that you would often start out practises playing wonderfully, but one small mistake would throw you completely off your game. The Slytherins took advantage of that; they were able to unnerve you because they called attention to your failures. You need to unfocus, forget about your self and what you’re doing, let your instincts control your body, and don’t let the moments when the ball gets past you retain your attention! Your concentration needs to be on the ball that's coming towards you, not the ball that you missed! And you can't let yourself get so worked up about the future that you become frozen with fear. You have a very unfortunate tendency to over-think things!"

He moved a bishop. Over-think? No one had ever accused him of that before. Weren't Hermione and his mother always saying that his problem was that he didn’t think? The thought of Hermione led him on another track -- namely that McGonagall's words might as easily be applied to his relationship with the bushy-haired witch in question as Quidditch or his transfiguration lessons. …

"Bra-vo, Weasley!" McGonagall commended him. "I didn’t even see that move coming!"

Confused, Ron looked at the chess board. Her king was in check, and she had no way out of it. He'd won.

"I noticed, Weasley, that when you look at the board, your eyes don’t wander around it, like most people's do. Tell me, how do you go about planning your moves?"

He shrugged. "I dunno, I guess … instead of concentrating on one piece at a time, I can sort of see all the pieces at one. I just sort of … know how the movement of each one, yours and mine both, will effect the others. I don’t even have to think about it, it just appears in my mind as a big chart, clear as day. Then it just becomes a matter of choosing which move would give me the most advantage, and weighing that against its cost. To tell you the truth, I don’t normally have to think much about it -- you're the best player I've played against in a long time!"

She smiled. "And yet you beat me while obviously distracted just now. That's exactly the state of mind I was talking about. You know, aside from the fact that he never got into chess, you remind me very much of Oliver Wood."

He blinked. "You think I'm that good?"

She laughed. "You weren't here when Wood first joined the team, Mr. Weasley. Did you know he got hit by a Bludger five minutes into his first game? Didn’t make a single save that game -- and didn’t make very many for the rest of the season, either. But he had potential, we all knew it; he just lacked confidence. He was as passionate about Quidditch as I've heard you are, and he had an eye for strategy that I've seldom seen a match for. You could be a match for him, I think, Mr. Weasley," she told him, an appraising look in her eye. "That's why I've chosen you to be Captain of the Gryffindor's Quidditch team this year."

Ron, who was taking a sip of pumpkin juice, began coughing. Alarmed, McGonagall and Molly (who was at the far end of the table) both got to their feet, but he waved them off.

When he could breath again, he croaked, "Captain? *Cough* But Professor, what about Katie? She's the oldest on the team!"

McGonagall sat back down. "Ability, not seniority, is the deciding factor when it comes to deciding on a team captain, Mr. Weasley. Katie is an excellent Chaser, but she's shown no inclination towards leadership. I believe she's happier being led -- as most people are."

"But … but what about Harry? Surely he's more of a leader, he headed the DA club. …"

She nodded. "But surely you must agree, Mr. Weasley, that, even as you and Miss Granger are his best friends, Harry is still very much a loner. He would rather keep others out of his battles altogether, if he can help it. Even his position on the Quidditch team, as Seeker, is a sort of solitary role -- the others fight the battle for points together, while his success is dependent largely on him alone. A Captain needs to be aware of the entire game, rather than chasing single-mindedly after one thing. That's why Keepers, being in a position to spend so much time just watching, have always been the ideal Captains."

Ron didn’t know what to say at first. Part of him suspected that she was offering him the Captaincy because she felt sorry for him, having lost his house and much of his meager possessions -- but he wasn't about to accuse her of just being charitable!

"Well, Weasley? What do you say?"

"He says yes!" Ginny called up from where she had seemed to be sleeping, on the ground nearby. She sat up and sighed dramatically. "Even if it does give him one more excuse to push me around!"

Ron grinned, then nodded to McGonagall. "How can I pass up an opportunity like that?"

"Pass up an opportunity for what?" Charlie asked, as he and Bill came up to the table, in search of more victuals.

"Ron's the new Captain of the Quidditch team!" Ginny exclaimed, bounding up to the table herself.

"Oh, Ron!" Molly cried, throwing her arms around her youngest boy.

"Bwiwwian!" Bill cried, sending crumbs everywhere in an apparent attempt to say "Brilliant!"

"Well done, Runt!" Charlie, using his (no longer accurate, as Ron had a good six inches on him now, at least) pet name for his youngest brother. He then slapped the new Captain on the back, nearly knocking the poor lad face-first into his pumpkin juice.

"What's going on?" George called out, finally noticing the commotion at the table. He and the other ex-Gryffindor Quidditch teammates had gathered under a tree to play poker with an Exploding Snap deck.

"Ron's the new Quidditch Captain!" Bill called back, his mouth empty this time.

As if they were all one being, the twins and their friends rose to their feet and swarmed in on Ron. A moment later, the rest of the picnickers gathered around as well, Arthur beaming proudly but unable to even reach the boy.

Hermione didn’t let the crowd stop her: she shoved her way through the throng, unapologetically. Once she reached Ron, she threw her arms around his neck, squealing in girlish delight. She kissed his cheek, soundly yet lingeringly.

Bill and Charlie each stepped on the toes of one of the twins, to keep Fred and George from cat-calling, or wolf-whistling, or giving Ron any other reason to feel embarrassed at Hermione's display.

Ron looked a bit dazed when Hermione drew back from kissing him, her hands trailing down his shoulders to rest on his chest. She seemed equally flustered; when she had kissed his cheek before his first match, it was largely a contrived effort, to keep him from seeing the Slytherins and their "Weasley is our King" buttons. This time there had been no thought behind the kiss -- just a total loss of control. As she composed herself, she reflected that maybe acting on impulse wasn't such a bad thing. … The hesitant lovebirds eyed each other shyly; the rest of the crowd might as well have been off in Siberia for all the notice the two paid them.

"What's all the excitement about?" Harry's voice carried over the crowd, startling even himself. He hadn't intended to shout, didn’t even think he had, but he might as well have pulled a Ludo Bagman and used Sonorus on himself.

Fae smiled knowingly. Potter seemed to be getting a handle on his wandless magic without any help. …

"Ron's been named Captain of the Quidditch team," Arthur announced proudly.

Internally, the statement had no effect on him. He didn’t feel glad for his friend. He didn’t feel jealous that Ron had once again been awarded a title instead of him. He was completely indifferent -- as he wished to be. But when he smiled a wide grin of congratulations, Ron could see that there was nothing behind it, and it hurt the red-headed boy, deeply. Ron's own smile faltered, for a split-second. Harry saw the falter, and felt an answering jolt of alarm, of guilt, at the hurt in his best friend's eyes. He fought the emotions down, locked them in that dark cupboard in his mind. It might hurt Ron to withhold affection, but it would also keep the Weasley boy alive.

"Hey, why don't we have a Quidditch match before dinner!" Charlie suggested, unaware of the sudden tension between his brother and Harry. "Ron can head one team, and Oliver the other, test Ron's mettle!"

"You just want a chance to play Seeker against Harry," Bill accused him.

"Damn straight!" Charlie said, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

"I think we should give Ginny the present we bough her first," Fred said pointedly. His brothers, sans Ron and Percy, nodded in agreement. Ginny, having moved to the back of the crowd to chat with Harry, was oblivious to the exchange.

"Boys!" Molly scowled. "Presents are for after dinner, during cake!"

"Awww, Mum!" Fred protested. "Don’t be such a spoilsport!"

"We've got hours to kill before then!" George pressed. "Why waste them?"

And Molly was sorry she'd ever said no in the first place. Such a silly tradition anyway. George's words about wasting time echoed in her ears, re-igniting the fear that every second might be their last. She shut the words out and smiled bravely. "Oh, all right then."

Ginny figured there was going to be trouble when Lee and all her brothers (Ron and Percy following out of curiosity), gathered before her, each and every one of them with a strange gleam in their eye. She got ready with her Bat Bogey Hex, thinking she was in for birthday spankings from each and every one of them. Her brothers stared at her drawn wand, alarmed themselves in turn. Even Harry, who wasn't in her line of fire, backed away for good measure.

"Whoa, hey, take it easy, Ginny!" Bill said, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Just put. The wand. Down. …"

"What, so you can all spank me? I wouldn’t be able to play Quidditch for half the season!"

Charlie smirked. "Funny you should mention Quidditch." And he handed her the long, slim package that he had conjured behind his back.

Eyes wide, she accepted it with trembling hands. There was no question that it was a broom. Expecting a Cleansweep, like Ron's broom, Ginny was speechless when she removed the wrapping and revealed the shiny red-stained handle of a Firebolt II.

Ron was likewise struck dumb, torn between jealousy (both in that she now had a much better broom than he did and that he did not get to contribute to this excellent present with the rest of his brothers) and gladness that Ginny was given something could bring such joy to her on her birthday, especially after such a horrible start.

Harry felt some unnamed emotion tickling at his heart -- but he suppressed it, of course, the grin he wore now every bit as hollow as the last one. This time it was Hermione who noticed it. The warmth she'd felt over Ginny's joy couldn't keep her from shivering a moment when she'd looked into those empty eyes.

Draco sat quietly alone, watching from under a nearby tree. The young Slytherin couldn't help being affected by the wholly unfamiliar scene. Slytherins never let themselves go like this, and for the first time in his life he wondered why not. He followed the goings-on before him with more than a little envy, not over Ginny's present, but over the obvious affection her family had for her -- and the fact that she still had a family at all.

* * *
* * * * * *
* * *

Buckbeak sighed wistfully as he watched birds pass overhead through one of the grimy attic windows. He stretched his own wings as best he could, but he couldn't fully extend them in the close quarters. He flapped them a little, stirring up dust.

Crookshanks sneezed, while Hedwig trilled in irritation. Pigwidgeon flew about the room in what he thought was an encouraging fashion, but only served to remind the hippogriff of what he'd long been denied. Still, he was thankful for the other animals' company -- far too often, the humans seemed to forget about him utterly.

In a sudden burst of smoke and light, the number of his companions increased by one.

* * *
* * * * * *
* * *

Bellatrix nodded to the Malfoy ancestors as she passed portrait after portrait; she might not have been related to them herself (or maybe she was, to some of them) but the House of Black and the House of Malfoy had long been allies. The same was true, if to a lesser extent, of the Lestranges; the paintings called out greetings to the two men trailing behind her as well. They didn’t stop to visit with any of the paintings, but continued to the end of the hall, where the likenesses of Lucius and Narcissa were playing Wizard's Chess.

"Sister mine," Bella addressed the image.

The image of Narcissa turned its attention away from the board and smiled warmly back. "Bella, darling! How goes the war?"

Bella blinked in surprise, while Rudolphus and Rastaban exchanges alarmed glances. "Cissy," Bella asked, "hasn't your flesh-and-blood counterpart been keeping you informed?" Bella knew that her sister held very true to that aspect of her namesake, speaking frequently with her own portrait.

It was Narcissa's turn to be alarmed. "I haven't heard from her in days! I assumed she was off mourning Lucius! Haven't you seen her somewhere about the Manor?"

Bella felt a sharp pang of worry. "No, we haven't -- we haven't seen anyone, not even a house-elf! We were hoping you could tell us where Draco was; the Dark Lord sent us here to fetch him!"

"The last time we saw Draco," the painted Lucius began, "he told us that the Dark Lord had killed my counterpart. And then he spoke rather impudently to me!"

Narcissa stood and came to sit on the arm of Lucius' chair. She stroked her husband's hair soothingly. "We assumed Draco was off on a mission himself these past few days, but … he seemed so disturbed last he was here. Bella, you don’t think …" Narcissa's eyes filled with tears. "You don’t think … he's abandoned us? What if … what if that's why the Dark Lord needed you to look for him? Because Draco wasn't answering his call?"

Bella had a sinking feeling that Narcissa's theory was actually exactly what had happened. She didn’t bear a terrible amount of love for Lucius, but it had shaken her, hearing of his death. If the Dark Lord had killed the elder Malfoy, then, if she failed him, would he kill her this time?

Except something didn’t seem right about all this. "Cissy, did you say that my sister hasn't visited you in days? Nor has Draco?"

Portrait Narcissa nodded.

"And yet Draco told you Lucius was dead?"

Again she nodded.

Bella and her companions exchanged a smile. "Well, you can take comfort in knowing that was a lie -- we just saw Lucius yesterday, before he left with our master on a mission."

Lucius indeed seemed cheered by that revelation, but Narcissa was far less so. "While I'm relieved that the flesh-and-blood Lucius is alive and well, this isn’t exactly good news, sister mine. If you find Draco, the Dark Lord may very well be planning to kill him!"

"And so what if he does?" Lucius protested. "Draco has the Mark, we saw it! And yet he lied to us, and now hides from our master! Who knows how else he has betrayed us!"

"Draco has the Mark already?" Rudolphus asked, scowling.

Lucius and Narcissa nodded in affirmation. Then Lucius seemed to consider something. "You saw how Draco looked, Narcissa! There was blood on him -- mixed in with the dirt, unless I miss my guess. If he is capable of such duplicity … what if he has killed your counterpart?"

Narcissa grew pale. "Then … dead or alive, I suspect you will find your sister in the gardens," she told Bella, hollowly. "By the rose bushes, at the heart of the garden. She spends much of her time there, trying to get the bushes to bloom; if she's not in the Manor, then that's where I would look. …"

"Bella?" Rudolphus laid his hands on his wife's shoulder and turned her to face him. "We may have to … dispose of your nephew. Maybe you should wait here while Rastaban and I …"

She shook her head. "No. Death should be kept in the family. I killed Andromeda, I killed Sirius, I killed Regelus by our lord's command. I can do this, my love. If … if Draco really has taken my last sister from me, then I owe her that much. And I owe him." She turned back to the painted Narcissa, kissed her own fingerstips, and touched them to the canvas, her sister's replica mirroring the motion.

She turned and stalked down the hallway without another word, her long, ebony locks and black robes billowing behind her like a racing storm cloud.