(no subject)
Title: A Network of Spittle - Part II
See Part I for details
"I don't think I can drink any more of this," burbled Thomas Trelawney. "You can't just-"
"No! Heavens, no! One does not simply vanish the steeped sustenance of fate ! Go on, drink up, go on."
"Ulp," he swallowed heavily. Tea was dripping down his neck, staining the white collar of his robes. The robes were bewitched to repel stains, but apparently not dampness and smells.
"I see you are nearing the end of your drink, dear brother. How extraordinarily close we are!"
"I hope so," he whimpered. The teacup- more like tea cauldron- was growing lighter in his hands, even as his bladder grew heavier. He felt nauseated. The incense burning beneath Sybill's tented ceiling was supposed to be essence of ambrosia but it smelled quite a bit more like dragon refuse.
Sybill clapped her hands together excitedly, causing the wand in her right hand to emit a pathetic little spurt of rose-tinted water, which dripped onto her skirt. "How close we are! Soon, we will find out," she inhaled deeply and lowered her voice to a stage whisper, "whether your belovedreturns your affection or whether you are condemned to the life of solitude, celibacy and loneliness!"
"Erm, it's not that serious."
Her eyebrows shot up above gigantic round-rimmed glasses. "Thomas! Love, that most mysterious of all elements of the universe, the uniting force of destiny, the drive that summons-"
"Yeah, I know, I mean, but... I just wanted to know if it's worth asking her for a go round Hogsmeade this fall," he said timidly. She glared at him through magnified eyes and he hastily swallowed the rest of the tea. Thomas felt a sinking feeling that had little to do with his bladder (though that was also sinking.) He knew this would be a bad idea. He knew that this was a capital B, capital I, Bad Idea.
But Nana had asked him to look in on his older sister, make sure she was safe from harm, not anywhere that the Death Eaters could find her. Or at least to make sure that the Death Eaters did not want to find her. And Sybill had been so glad to see him, so excited for any kind of company at all that he would feel terrible about leaving without letting her read his leaves. It had been more than half a year since they last saw each other at Christmas. Sybill had had to go into hiding in the spring for mysterious reasons. Thomas had only found out she was living in what appeared, from the outside, to be a rusted-out camper caravan in Cannock Chase Forest two days ago before. He had received a cryptic letter written in deep violet ink and stamped with the unmistakably misshapen wax seal that read TBZ- Sybill had never quite figured out that the letters had to be reversed.
Thomas drained the last few dregs in the giant teacup and set it down on the chipped glass end-table before him. Sybill was bustling about the caravan, charming shut the faded yellow curtains with her wand. The inside of the caravan was living-room sized, spacious if mostly empty. A small camp bed with a fold-out canopy sat next to an old-fashioned wood-burning stove, its cold oven stuffed with books.
"Hominem revelio!" whispered Sybill, her wand pointing out the window from between a crack in the curtains.
"There's nobody around here for miles," he said lightly to her, and burped.
"You may not see anybody," she whispered, "but the Inner Eye reveals! Darkness everywhere-"
"It's the middle of the night."
"-all around us, there are those who would wish us harm!, Well," she adjusted her spectacles with a trembling hand, "wish me harm. I do not take readings lightly."
Thomas considered saying something to assuage her fears- perhaps something along the lines of "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is unlikely to care about whether or not Miranda Malkin is interested in going on a date with a teenaged Ravenclaw boy come fall, regardless of whether or not he is the great-grandson of Cassandra Trelawney"- but just as he opened his mouth, he noticed the pale tan lines across Sybill's fingers- her rings were gone, and she wasn't wearing any earrings either. In fact, Sybill was dressed in an uncharacteristically plain fashion, wearing only one gauze scarf, her magnified eyes strangely naked without any makeup. She came towards him and reached for his teacup, turning it over onto a cracked saucer. A dribble of brownish water fell onto the glass table top.
"Let us see," she breathed. A quiet crack, like the snapping of a branch, sounded from somewhere outside the caravan. Sybill's head snapped to the side and she made a jerking movement, as if to head to the window and then decided not to. Thomas felt his pulse deepen, though he could not say why. There was no reason to be afraid.
Her pupils had grown large. Sybill quickly removed the overturned teacup with a quivering flourish. She leaned over the saucer and squinted at the sludgy remains of the tea. Thomas could smell her heavy breath under his nose; something like cherry and liquorice and broom polish. She bit her lip and furrowed her brow at the leaves, which looked like little more than the shape of an old boot to Thomas.
"Alright, Sybill?" he asked hesitantly.
She ignored him and reached into her pocket to remove her wand. She poked the grit of tea with it and for an instant, the cup glowed with bright white light.
"Aaah," she said. "Excellent. Wonderful."
"So, she's interested then?"
"What?" Sybill jerked back from the cup, her curly hair swinging wildly close to a stick of burning incense.
"Miranda. You know? The girl I asked about...."
"Haha. Miranda. No, no, something so trivial cannot be asked of the spirits!" She choked out a nervous laugh. "The fates have alerted me to the presence of a visitor approaching my home! A presence..."
Thomas felt his hand close on his wand instinctively, and glanced about the caravan. He wasn't used to getting this anxious about strangers- he was a pureblood, after all- but Sybill had gone into hiding, presumably for a reason. "D'you need me to- I'm of age now, you know-" he stammered.
"Not at all, Thomas! I am feeling a spirit," she closed her eyes and stretched out her hands above the teacup, absentmindedly dropping her wand into the sludge, "a benevolent presence. There is news."
Thomas fell silent. He felt uncomfortably unsure of this latest development in the unending drama of his sister's life- drama which was usually of her own making. In the dim light of the caravan, a shadow flickered over the camper stove, cast through the crack between the curtains. He continued to grasp his wand, feeling somewhat young and incompetent. Sybill was gazing down at the tea leaves and fiddling with the index finger of her right hand, where a rose-shaped ring carved from elm usually rested. Usually, she also wore the silver and opal ring handed down from Nana, gifted to the eldest daughter of the youngest generation upon her first vision. It was also gone; and Thomas wondered uneasily if she had had to sell off these few valuable possessions or if they had been taken from her by force.
Thomas heard a abrupt sound, like crab apples falling from a tree in the wind. He startled upon realizing that it was actually a person knocking on the window by the driver's door. Sybill rushed to the window and peered out, moonlight painting a streak of silver across her curls. He got up and rushed to her side. The knocker was an old woman, hunched and wrinkled. She wore a grey pointed hat and carried a large dragon-skin bag with one shrunken hand.
"Care for a look, my dear? Only twenty Sickles for the lot," the woman wheezed to Sybill, smiling as she lifted an ivory comb and matching mirror out of her bag. Her teeth were small, with noticeable gaps between each one. Thomas felt a shiver run up his spine. Sybill squinted at the mirror, and reached to unlock the door. He grabbed her arm instinctively.
"Are you mad?" he hissed. "You're supposed to be in hiding! How on earth-"
"Don't be foolish! That was the code!" she said dismissively and opened the door. The old woman stepped inside and feebly rested against the table, placing her bag down onto Thomas's chair. She handed the mirror to Sybill.
"This is from Albus," said the old woman briskly in a much less creaky voice. "Mad-Eye would also like me to remind you that your defensive precautions leave much to be desired."
"Mrs. Bagshot, I assure you that my vision permits me to screen my visitors well in advance of their arrival!" said Sybill peevishly.
Mrs. Bagshot smiled again. "Sybill, while Albus has faith in your Inner Eye, I would like you to remember that even the Inner Eye has an eyelid."
"I have spoken to Professor Dumbledore myself, and he has assured me of his confidence in my abilities-"
"Abilities which will prove much more helpful while you remain alive, Sybill," said Mrs. Bagshot dryly. Thomas threw his sister a sympathetic look, though he privately agreed with the old woman. She withdrew a shiny red apple from her bag and proceeded to shine it with a satin handkerchief. Sybill turned over the mirror, examining it in the candlelight. Thomas crept behind her and peeked at it over her shoulder. It appeared to be a normal hand mirror, although it was clearly old. The glass was sepia-tinted and several dark speckles marred the surface. Sybill tilted it left and right, then aimed it at her mouth and spoke into it questioningly.
"Catoptici alveni?"
Thomas wondered how she was casting a spell without her wand; however his thought was interrupted by the voice emerging from the glass.
"Why, Sybill dear, you are not so unfortunate looking yourself!"
"What?"
The man's voice chuckled. "Never mind- Muggle reference there...I forget how far apart our cultures find ourselves, living side-by-side as we are."
Thomas recognized the Headmaster's voice; but why would he want to speak to Sybill personally? He was a very busy man...
"Who have you got there behind you? Are you safe?" he asked, sounding concerned.
"Only my brother, sir. " She turned around and scowled at him, motioning with her arm for him to step out of sight. "He's fine, sir. Mrs. Bagshot is also here."
Mrs. Bagshot raised her eyebrows and bit into the apple, crunching so loudly that Thomas felt as though his own head was being crushed into pulp by that terrifying set of tiny yellow teeth.
"Hello, Bathilda. Thank you for responding to my message so quickly. I realize the hour is quite late. I would express my apologies for waking you at this most unmagical time in the night but my sensibilities tell me it is unlikely that sleep found you in its tender grasp this evening."
Thomas found his elderly Headmaster's use of the phrase "tender grasp" distinctly unmagical. He reached for the comb lying on the chair, eager to examine what magical properties it had.
"Sybill," said the voice from the mirror, "the matter we discussed several months ago has come to full fruition tonight. I will wish to speak with you once a suitable time can be found in the morning. Do not attempt to contact me, and do not leave your home; I will come to you personally."
She looked taken aback. Scratching her head, with one hand, Sybill said, "...the matter we discussed? Has Jupiter-"
Thomas tried not to look shocked that Dumbledore would want to discuss anything with his sister, let alone come to see her personally. What on earth were they talking about?
"The other topic of discussion. Bathilda, if it is necessary, please remind Sybill of the importance of this matter. Privately," added Dumbledore. Sybill nodded vigorously, as though she suddenly remembered. Though he possessed only the Outer Eyes, Thomas felt Mrs. Bagshot's gaze boring his downcast head. He heard her swallow and cough significantly towards his sister.
Sybill turned to him, and snatched the comb from his hands. "Don't touch that!"
"It's just a comb-"
Mrs. Bagshot snickered delicately.
"It was delivered specially to me!" she snapped. Twin flames flickered in the reflection of her glasses as if her eyes were alight.
"Albus," said Mrs. Bagshot as she spat the pips of her apple into an embroidered handkerchief, "Do you want me to send for Alastor? He might provide additional security." She tapped her handkerchief with her wand and whispered "Evanesco."
Sybill handed the mirror to Mrs. Bagshot, who continued her conversation with Dumbledore more quietly, her lowered voice echoed in Dumbledore's whispered instructions. Thomas could not hear what they were talking about, but it sounded Serious, Important and Secret, like most of what Dumbledore did. He knew that Dumbledore was leading the movement against You-Know-Who, but why a creaky old scholar like Mrs. Bagshot was important, he did not know.
"Sybill," came the voice from the mirror more loudly, addressing his sister through Mrs. Bagshot's knobby knuckles. "Please use the comb and then return it to Bathilda." Dumbledore's voice was calm, quietly authoritative.
"Now?"
"Yes."
"Here? But why-"
"I can't think of where else," Dumbledore cut her off, the humour in his voice still belying a darker undercurrent.
Thomas noticed her shooting a glance at him and then at Mrs. Bagshot, who nodded slightly. Sybill's fingers trembled somewhat as she slowly raised the comb to her hair. The teeth were long and fine, the comb's back edge carved into a pattern of swirls broken up by rigid whiplashes, vaguely Celtic in design. Sybill raked it through her hair at the scalp, and though her hair was kinky and surely full of knots, it glided through effortlessly, forming a ghostly trail of perfectly straight, shining locks that shone silver and then faded away a second later. When she drew it away from her hair, a faint trail of silvery steam seemed to stretch from her scalp, tugged along by the comb. Thomas watched her facial expression morph from anxious concern to something neutral as if anaesthetized. A small smile grew across her lips and she handed the comb, inexplicably, to Thomas.
He took it and examined it closer to a candle. The ghostly steam formed a little puddle in the palm of his hand. It had no texture- no feeling at all; yet the comb felt strangely cold, more than he would expect. A strange feeling twisted Thomas' stomach- part defensive urge, and part mesmerizing curiosity. The Ravenclaw in him took hold.
"What is this...sir?" He asked. Mrs. Bagshot scrutinized him with a narrow eye, and then held up the mirror to his face, so that he could look directly into the piercing blue eye reflected in it. "What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Mr. Trelawney- Thomas, isn't it?" Dumbledore asked in a gently unreadable tone. "Ravenclaw, if I am not mistaken. I am surprised that you do not know. It is a comb. One uses it to neaten one's hair, though it also proves useful to those with beards of a certain length. I have even heard rumours of its utility as a back-scratching device, for more adventurous sorts." The eye twinkled. Thomas raised an eyebrow unconsciously. There were quite a few answers he had been prepared to receive, and none of them involved his one hundred-fifty year old headmaster explaining to him he purpose of an ordinary hairbrush.
"You know, Mr. Trelawney, at my age, one can be forgiven for assuming that certain things are, shall we say, common knowledge. But even the wise can be mistaken. The young man who gave loaned me this delightful mirror, for example, was also unfamiliar with the concept of hair care."
At this, Mrs. Bagshot coughed significantly, and Dumbledore said, "Well, now, I suppose I am getting off track. Go on then and give it a try. It doesn't hurt- well, not if you practise decent hygiene, anyway."
As if in a trance, Thomas felt himself raise the comb to his head. His curiosity overtook his misgivings and he gently combed his hair down from the part. A lovely, cooling sensation spread across his head and through his mind, settling around his thoughts like a dawn's mist. It occurred to him gradually that he no longer felt any curiosity whatsoever about Mrs. Bagshot's visit, nor the reason Dumbledore was contacting his sister via two-way mirror. In fact, for the first time in his life, he felt no curiosity whatsoever. It was simply none of his business what Dumbledore chose to get up to during the summer holidays and Thomas knew that whatever reason the Headmaster had for contacting his sister did not concern him.
He took the dragonskin bag off his chair and handed it to Mrs. Bagshot with the comb, then sat down numbly.
"You will wait for the Headmaster to contact you in the morning, won't you Sybill?" she said sternly in a tone disturbingly reminiscient of Thomas' Transfiguration professor.
"Yes," she responded, still looking vaguely relaxed.
"You will not discuss this matter with anyone other than the Headmaster, including your brother or even me."
"Of course not, Mrs. Bagshot."
"You will blow out these ridiculously smelly candles and get a decent night's sleep, at least as much of the night as is left."
"...what?" she asked, running her fingers absentmindedly through her hair. Thomas felt very sleepy all of a sudden. He thought blowing out the candles was a perfectly good idea.
Mrs. Bagshot rose and went to the door, the tip of her pointy hat knocked askew by the love beads hanging from the low ceiling.
"Thomas," she paused at the doorway, "Please put up some halfway protective wards, or at least make sure that herbal Stinksap rubbish takes out any errant Death Eaters along with you two. And keep this safe. Goodnight, dear." And with that, she sent the hand mirror to him with a flick of her wand, shut the caravan's door and Disapparated with a bang that rattled the love beads against the window, her wand imprinting a flicker of lightning where it disappeared into thin air. Thomas walked over to the camp bed and sat down in a daze, feeling the cool ivory of the mirror's handle in his palm, not noticing how it reflected the illusion of lightning just a split second too long, at an angle just a wee bit improbable for an ordinary two-way mirror.
***
And I prayed as the lightning attacked
*
"Dolohov," called out the cloaked figure sitting by the window.
"Present, my lord.
"Crouch."
"Present."
"Rodolphus."
"Present."
The cloaked figure sighed with pleasure. "Bella..."
"Right here, my lord," she whispered throatily from her place on the floor by his armchair. A light breeze ruffled the figure's cloak and skirts He wore rather too many layers for a sweltering midsummer's night, but did not appear to be sweating.
"Several gentlemen in this room could learn something about punctuality from Bellatrix over here. I called you to this meeting at this hour because I meant to speak with you now. Already, I see there is an absence," said Lord Voldemort.
At that moment, the heavy oak door swung open. For a brief moment, there seemed to be no one standing in the doorway. Then the moon emerged from behind a cloud and cast a ray of bluish light across the slouching man with the long, greasy hair.
"Snape," said the Dark Lord. "To what do we owe the honour of your tardiness?"
Snape swallowed. For a moment he considered not answering, simply running out and Disapparating into the dark. "My lord. I was- temporarily indisposed. Forgive me," he said with a curt bow.
The Dark Lord's eyes seemed to flash redder for a moment, but he merely exhaled and turned his chair towards the window, away from the assembled men and Bellatrix. Gazing out at the waxing moon, he tapped his wand on the woven leading between the windowpanes. Several blue sparks shot out of it and travelled along the perimeter of the diamond shaped panes and one by one, each paned fogged over until only a faint haze of moonlight glowed through.
"Our meeting here tonight is private," said Voldemort quietly. "I have only summoned my most loyal, most trusted of servants. Dolohov. Bella. Rodolphus. Bartemius. You should feel honoured to have earned such trust."
He was answered with silence. Bellatrix grinned wickedly and then gave him a pout. Rodolphus reached over to pat her hand. A ghost of a smile flickered on Crouch's lips. In the dimly lit room, he looked even younger than he was. Snape glared at him and then looked down.
"Snape. I am not impressed by your most recent performance, nor by your presumption in requesting exemptions from certain duties to which your peers are consigned. This is not to be made habit. I will not have my vassals think themselves above common duty.""
Bellatrix's laughter was cut off abruptly by Crouch's silent incantation. She shot him a challenging look, but his expression was stony.
"However, the intelligence you have gathered on my behalf was most useful. Lord Voldemort rewards his servants for their achievements." The Dark Lord paused, as if to gather his thoughts. Snape drew a breath, hoping against hope, wishing for a window, if not a doorway, to appear from solid rock.
"You ought to reward him with a nice Tortus Curse, my Lord," said Bellatrix. "I think Sevewus would love to take it on behalf of his-"
"Enough, Lestrange," said Crouch firmly. "You think you can interrupt the Dark Lord?" She pointed her wand at him, but he was quicker; both were about to fire when Voldemort calmly slashed his wand through the air. Twin gashes appeared on each of their wand arms. Crouch winced and grabbed his arm, while Bellatrix only stopped to look at hers with mild interest.
"There will be no further interruptions tonight," said the Dark Lord loftily. "I will not repeat myself. As all of you know, I was made aware of a prophecy several months ago, a prophecy which concerned myself and one other person. Do not interrupt, Rodolphus. The full contents of the prophecy are known to myself and whomsoever I have chosen to convene with, but all of you know that we have been awaiting the birth of a child which it mentioned. Bartemius, Dolohov and I have discussed the matter and we have narrowed it down to two possible children who fit the Seer's description. Lower your hand, Bellatrix, I have Legilimency enough to ignore your questions for the moment." He paused.
Rodolphus was smiling at his wife, who gazed at Voldemort with a rapturous expression. Snape swallowed his own bile. He tightened his mind, inviting the learned blankness to conceal his thoughts. That Voldemort referred to Crouch of all people on first-name terms-well, it was to be expected of the Lestranges, as there were three of them, but a freckly teenage boy... Crouch stared forward at the wall, his eyes fixed on nothing, though Snape could tell he was thinking hard. He was arguably the most intelligent in the room, aside from the Dark Lord. His youth was his strength, aside from his family connections; nobody would suspect such a sweet young man of anything, unlike Severus. It was not in Snape's nature to fear the brilliance of another his own age and he despised his own lack of confidence in Crouch's presence.
"What all of you must know, and what I will explain later to all my Death Eaters, is that the child must be killed and that I will do it personally. Before I reveal the names of the parents, I will warn you: if the child is found and killed by one of my Death Eaters, the repercussions will be most severe." Voldemort turned away from the window to face the group. His pale white face was devoid of sweat, but a single vein pulsed by his temple. How strange it was to see this proof his own humanity- that he should have blood, and veins and a heart.
"But, my lord-" Rodolphus began.
"Silence!" Voldemort cut him off, then flicked a tongue-tying jinx his way. Bellatrix giggled and the Voldemort gave her a look which Snape could only interpret as the Dark Lord's version of a smile.
"A week ago, the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom had a baby boy. He is one possible subject of the prophecy. Tonight, I received intelligence that the second boy was born, to the wife of James Potter."
Snape struggled to maintain the wall of blankness in his mind. It took all of his Occlumency training and then some to avoid noticing that Voldemort had chosen to word the messsage so cruelly.
Voldemort look Snape right in the eye and he quickly looked away, feelings the laser-sharpness of his Legilimency honing in. "I want both children found and I want them taken alive directly to me. The parents I would like to have questioned, so capturing alive is my preference- however, if their efforts are threatening to impede the children's capturing, they may be killed. This task will not be as simple as it seems. Make no mistake- Dumbledore's minions will be doing all they can to prevent the children from being found. Frank and Alice Longbottom are extremely well-trained and powerful Aurors, both from ancient pureblood families. They are not to be underestimated. The Potter couple is less known to me, but they have proven themselves skilled in battle over the past two years. Both couples are under Dumbledore's fullest protection. It will take some effort, but they will be found and I will personally reward any of my servants who does the finding."
Bellatrix slowly licked her lips and leaned closer in to the armchair. Snape could see the cogs and gears of her insane mind working at lightening speed. Her gaze bored into him and she tossed back her head, shaking a lock of black hair off her face. She was beautiful, in a terrifying way, her heavy eyelids overshadowing eyes liquid-grey as diamonds sunk into a dark lake. She had the Black family high cheekbones, and a devilish grin nearly identical to that of Snape's old school tormentor, now mortal foe.
Then, in a quiet, nearly gentle voice, the Dark Lord spoke. "Bellatrix." She turned to look up at him. "The parents will likely need some persuasion when they are questioned. You will be responsible for this. Refrain from the Cruciatus as long as there is something of use left in their minds. When there is not anything of value to us left, you may do as you see fit. I will have faith in your judgement."
It was very hot in the room. Voldemort issued a high, cold laugh, and said, "I am finished here." He slipped one hand into the pocket of his robes and withdrew a single scrap of paper, barely larger than a postage stamp. It was red, with charred edges burnt black. Voldemort lifted it up, as if to display it to the group, though his voice was barely audible when he said, "Happy birthday, little Potter."
***
Several rays of sun sliced their way between the barred windows, illuminating floating puffs of dust. In the basement flat on Vallance Road, Doxies nibbled at a folded pile of afghans on top of a Muggle washing machine which had never seen much use. The air smelled metallic, rife with something earthy and sharp.
With a wince, Remus Lupin crooked his elbow up to shield his eyes from the sunlight. A salty dribble of essence of Murtlap ran down his arm and into his mouth. The sunlight was bright but not yet overly warm; it must have been early in the morning, he reasoned. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the pain spark through his wrist. The bandages cut off his range of movement, but he was still able to reach for his wand with the injured arm, though leaning over made his half-healed ribs twinge unpleasantly. While lying in bed, he went through his morning ritual of wand-flicking and quiet muttering. Lupin was undoing various protective spells and wards, the odd tangle of ancient words, muscle memory and arcing beams of light that protected him while he slept alone.
The doorless refrigerator he used as a bookshelf shimmered slightly as Lupin removed the final enchantment. Bruegel, the goldfish that swam in the vegetable crisper eyed him suspiciously.
"Go on, then," he said. "Eat your potato peels and do laps or whatever it is you creatures do and let me suffer my injuries in peace."
Bruegel narrowed his eyes in a distinctly un-fishlike manner and then swam up to the surface of the crisper to nibble on floating biscuit crumbs.
Lupin relaxed back and gazed at the stains on the ceiling. He could have charmed it clean, but then, where was the fun in that? The Death Eaters would find him anyways and subject him to various unpleasantries much worse than living in a one-room basement flat in Whitechapel. That is, if the other werewolves didn't turn on him first.
He considered getting up to brush his rancid-smelling teeth, but his ribs disagreed. Not that it was anything he wasn't used to, but the curse Rookwood had thrown him was making the healing process take much longer than usual. Lupin hadn't behaved like such a child about his injuries since he was one.
"Accio thermos!" he said. The thermos zoomed towards him and knocked him on the brow of his already-blackened eye. He had taken to putting his food and drinks into portable containers for this very purpose. Lupin unscrewed the thermos and gulped down the last two mouthfuls of cold tea left over. A childhood half-spent as an invalid had taught him a few handy tricks when it came to the art of recuperating in bed.
"Bruegel," he said lightly, "are there any biscuits left that aren't waterlogged?"
Bruegel exhaled a stream of bubbles at him.
"Don't you remember what happened to my Paris toast?"
The fish became very interested in cleaning out a corner of the crisper, which funnily enough, was already spotless.
"Aaah, well," Lupin sighed, "I suppose I'll just starve until Dearborn-yesterday comes to play Healer. I know, I know, Bruegel, that wasn't a very nice thing to say aloud to a goldfish in my private home."
Brueghel's gills flared open and shut convulsively as his belly shook.
Lupin shut his eyes and imagined a nice tomato and egg sandwich on rye zooming towards him. The fantasy did not include soggy tomato bits getting flung all over his walls, although Lupin knew from experience that that was what would indeed happen if he were to Summon a sandwich from bed.
"How is magic so utterly useless?" he asked the dusty air. A Doxy buzzed at him aggressively. The truth was, if he weren't so useless at charms, magic probably could solve the sandwich-summoning problem. That was the sort of thing Lily was good at. "Oh, Prongs," he said drily, "where are you when I need your wife?" And with that, Lupin felt a gentle nuzzling at his uninjured hand by something velvety soft and cool. He cracked open an eye and saw the bluish-white spectre lick at his palm.
How queer that Prongs should appear right at the moment. It was almost like magic.
Lupin lazily petted the stag's nose, his hand occasionally dipping through the Patronus's permeable skin. He felt a smooth antler worry his pillow, prodding it. Neither solid nor entirely vaporous, the pillow was dislodged only slightly, just enough for Lupin to ask, "What is it? I haven't got the Cloak."
The Patronus snorted a stream of dust at Lupin, who had closed his eyes again. He opened them, squinting at Prongs' glowing head. He nudged at Lupin more insistently and then jerked his head towards Lupin's doorway. James never had quite gotten the art of sending a speech with his messenger Patronus, probably because he had been spoiled by his reliance on the two-way mirrors. Interpreting James' and Sirius' nonverbal Patronus messages, which were conveyed via charades, miming or interpretive dance, had become something of an inside joke amongst those members of the Order who were not yet ready to send an Avada Kedavra their way.
"Alright, alright...keep your antlers on..." he murmured, following the stag's gaze. The glowing white was more difficult to see in the sunny, striped light cast through Lupin's window, but he could tell that another Patronus was lingering in front of the door by the light reflected off his toaster.Hunter's camouflage, he thought- how that would annoy James! (He was surprisingly sensitive about hunting jokes.) It was difficult to see exactly whose it was, as the thing seemed to be leaning over and was partially obscured by the foot of the bed. He watched the stag walk over to join the second Patronus. It leaned over to look down at whatever the other thing was nosing at, its long neck tracing an elegant curve that echoed the sloping neck of the smaller Patronus.
It was a doe. Lupin found himself smiling mildly as the stag's vaporous antlers accidentally impaled the doe when he took a step closer to it, but the doe took no notice (did it even feel such things?). It was paying attention to whatever was hidden by the bed and had not even looked up when Lupin spoke. The stag took another step towards the doe and then looked up at Lupin imploringly.
"I'd get up if I could, mate," he said. "Sorry."
The stag nudged the doe, nuzzling its neck with a tenderness that made something warm and deep and sad wash through Lupin's chest. How odd to observe a moment so private, a moment belonging to a friend, in one's own home.
The doe finally looked up at Lupin. He gave it a gentle nod. Meanwhile, the stag was prodding at something as if to urge it forward. The doe joined it, moving along slowly around Lupin's bed, past the open trunk and the bicycle leaning against the wall. Lupin caught the stag's look of curiosity at the bike, its shimmering white tail flaring upward for a moment.
They two Patronuses made their way around the side of the bed at last, and the doe leaned forward to nibble at Lupin's pillow affectionately. It looked at his injured arm and bandaged torso, then back at the stag, who was urging forward something small and dotted with brightly glowing spots.
Two big eyes looked up at him with startling frankness. Its head was small, with huge ears twitching in the sunlight. It was barely tall enough to look at Lupin over the bed without its throat brushing the sheets. Lupin reached forward to pet the fawn, but it quivered and jerked back instinctively. The stag reassured it with an uncharacteristically gentle nuzzle to the rump.
Lupin opened his mouth, but somehow, the words didn't come out. He flattened his hand, palm upright, and watched the fawn approach it slowly, cautiously. It bit his thumb, but there was no pain as the fawn sucked on his fingers. Its little mouth felt like wind and fog and swirling water. The stag stood tall, gazing down at the fawn with barely concealed pride.
He found a hoarse breath. "Hullo," he whispered. "You're a precocious one, aren't you?"
It occurred to Lupin then how much he wished his Patronus form did not make him ashamed.
***
That something would make it go crack
*
"Ow!"
"What's wrong?"
"He nearly bit my finger off!"
"Well, maybe you ought not to put it in his mouth, then," said Sirius almost earnestly.
"I don't- but how does he even have teeth yet?"
"They'll shrink down in a half hour, or so, Lily," said James casually. "He's just fussy over being woken up."
"Looks more like fangs to me," observed Peter Pettigrew, as he climbed up the steep wooden steps and into the cottage's loft. The baby's teeth were visible from across the room.
"Is this normal? Should I be concerned?"
Lupin smiled. "You should've seen my mam, when I was growing up. You think being Muggle-born is bad enough..."
" S'not so bad. In my family, babies would fart actual mustard gas-" began Sirius, but Lupin cut him off with a gentle shake of the head. Lily gave him a grateful smile, her hair falling over her face as she leaned down to give the baby a kiss on the cheek. He responded by breaking into a fresh round of tears. James, who looked befuddled and dead tired and radiant all at once, patted her arm and smiled down at the baby, his crooked glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
"At least we know he's not a Squib," said James. "Not with those chompers...though it might still be your magic wearing off."
"James! If he were a Squib, we wouldn't be in- in all this mess," she chided and turned to the baby."Mummy loves you, my little turnip, even if you're no good at potions and think Quidditch makes no sense from a game theory perspective-"
"Ahem!" sniffed James, in mock offense. "The line. There it was, see? You have crossed it. The line that was not to be crossed. There it goes."
"Goodbye, line!" cried Sirius and the baby joined him in a wail of deepest sorrow. Pettigrew thought the baby's red face was more tomato than turnip-like, but he kept his thoughts to himself, and poured himself another shot of Ogden's greatest. He needed it.
"I'll have another too, if you don't mind," said Lupin. He handed his glass to Pettigrew, who refilled it to the top. Lupin looked even more beat than James, and that was saying something, as James had been up for something like forty straight hours. The new bruises and scars he sported didn't look like the ordinary claw marks of their childhood; Lupin must have had at least one broken rib and his right arm was bandaged from bicep to palm. Pettigrew tried to focus on James' more domestic brand of exhaustion so as to avoid the ache of ambient fear that surrounded them now whenever his friends met all together.
"C'mere, Peter," said Lily, kindly. "You haven't met him proper, have you? Go on..."
Pettigrew came over to join her, sitting down on the bed beside her. The mattress sunk down uncomfortably beneath him- it was old-fashioned and had no box springs. Pettigrew smiled at the blanket-wrapped squashed tomato Lily was holding tenderly, its juices running from from eyes squeezed shut and wide-open mouth. Pettigrew was not terribly fond of babies, but it was James' baby and he had half-expected it to be born with a knowing smirk and a miniature Quaffle in its tiny hands, mugging for Lily's attention and soiling itself intentionally when things got dull. But from up close, it looked more like an angry vegetable than James Potter.
"Hullo," he said awkwardly, and gave it a wink. "Aren't you, er...a handsome one, then..."
The snicker he heard was probably Sirius, but James was also a possibility.
Lily was flushed and looked tired, but she smiled broadly and rocked the baby back and forth, jiggling him in her arms. James gave Pettigrew a sheepish grin.
"He's, uh, been a bit cranky this morning...and, er, last night as well," said James. He was tossing up and catching a plushie dragon neurotically; each time he caught it, it squeaked and let out a breath of red steam. "I s'pose he's not so chuffed about the whole 'being born' thing, but Lily can get him to calm down for a bit with the bouncing."
"Shake the tears out, Prongs," said Sirius evenly.
"That's the idea, yeah."
"You two," said Lily, shaking her head with a smile. James leaned over to peck her on the cheek and his glasses slid off entirely. "I ought to get bunk beds and put you up with him in the nursery. But Padfoot would probably enjoy that way too much. Maybe a shared cell, then."
"That is much more wise, Lily," said Lupin. "Speaking from experience, I do not recommend those two share a room with your son unless you wish for him to asphyxiated by unspeakable odours." James put his glasses back on and shook his bangs out of his eyes instinctively.
Pettigrew felt more comfortable with this line of familiar banter, and joined in. "Prongs is married, Moony. You forget he showers at least monthly now." The stuffed dragon hit him square on forehead with a loud squeak before he could even shrink back. This seemed to please the baby, as it stopped crying abruptly and made a much more pleasant gurgling noise.
"Alright, alright, give him here," said Sirius and he reached to take the baby from Lily. "Godfather's privilege. Well, he's quite a bit heavier than I expected! And I thought you were just hogging all the treacle tart while Prongs had Spattergroit."
James turned ashen-faced. "We don't speak of that."
"I think," said Lupin mildly, "you meant you don't speak of that." Peter reached for a glass. It was awfully stuffy up in the loft, but the window was glued shut with something like mashed squirrel guts and couldn't even be blasted open. It was only a temporary home- one of the many safe houses Lily and James had gone through in the past seven months, ever since they they had found out about the prophecy.
Sirius tickled the baby, but he didn't seem all that amused. His mouth hung open, drooling onto the blanket. Only his big eyes moved, darting around the room, following the sounds of the voices.
"Well," said Sirius, "turns out the secret's simple. Just nail Wormy in the head with a projectile object and it turns the sound off."
James grinned at him. "I'd have no trouble with that, except we'd have to get Peter to stay with us all day and night."
"You mean, turn our home into a schoolboys' dormitory? No thanks," said Lily, tweaking James' ear with an affectionate smirk. "And before you ask, Peter, no, we haven't settled on a name for the turnip yet."
"We're waiting 'till he doesn't look like a vegetable anymore, see," said James. "Give him here, Padfoot."
"And make him bawl again?" Sirius said cynically. "I think not. He likes me. Don't you, turnip?" He crossed his eyes at the baby and stuck out his tongue. Peter saw a tiny fist reach out and attempt to grab it. "Isn't it funny when I have lazy crossed eyes like your Daddy?"
"Let's play a game," said James. Lily eyed him warily, looking even more fatigued. "The way it works it that the person holding my son when he soils himself gets to change the nappy. The winner is everyone who isn't holding him when that happens."
Sirius glared at him.
"Sounds fun to me!" Peter offered lamely. He was already half-sloshed, on only two glasses. Maybe it was the empty stomach, or maybe he wasn't sloshed and it was just that people were having duels and having babies and nothing made sense anymore anyway.
Lily yawned. "I'm about to drop dead," she said, "I'm going to evict you all to the living room. If my turnip falls asleep, bring him up to the cradle, okay? I'll probably be asleep already."
Lupin got up to give Lily a hug. She patted him on the back fondly. "Congratulations, again," he said softly. "Really. It's nice, you know...." he trailed off.
"To have some good news," she finished. "Thank you, Remus. I know it was a stretch for you to get over here today, after-"
"Everything," James cut her off, with a look of warning. He raised an arm towards Lupin, and they embraced. Peter went over to join them. Sirius lagged behind; he was still coddling the baby. He raised his wand and conjured a little fuzzy dog, which popped into confetti when the baby grabbed at it.
"Congratulations, mate," said Peter, clapping James on the shoulder awkwardly. "You too, Lily."
"Thank you, Peter. We're so glad all of you could make it here to meet the baby," said Lily.
"Yeah, thanks, Pete, Remus," said James and he slung one arm around Peter and one around Remus. Peter felt the familiar glow of James' charismatic aura touch him, a feeling of importance and acceptance and gratitude that radiated out of James' grin and his crooked glasses and hurricane of black hair. "Lily and me wanted to say that, er, y'know Padfoot is godfather and all-"
"-you bet I am!"
"-despite our better judgment, well, Lily's better judgment, but anyways-"
"To the point, love," interjected Lily.
"-we wanted to say that both of you are-are, y'know, sort of like family, yeah?"
Lily gently took Peter's arm, and added, "All of us in the Order have become like that, but you two and Sirius...especially since my mother died and James' parents were killed..."
Remus placed a hand on her shoulder sympathetically. The four of them were now linked, all connected through a network of clasped hands and pats and embraces and Jame's bare foot resting on Lily's freckled one. Peter cleared his throat and said something he wasn't even conscious of and Sirius chuckled in the background while Lily smiled her soft, radiant smile. James was right; even shiny with sweat and puffy with water retention, she was unfailingly beautiful.
Afterwards. Sirius followed them with the baby down the cramped staircase to the cottage's ground floor. It was quite a bit homelier than James' old apartment in London and much smaller than the Potter family's manorial home back on the farm in Godric's Hollow. Peter knew it was "borrowed" from a Muggle family of landowners, who had conveniently forgotten that they owned this old property, nor noticed that a mysterious benefactor was paying their utility bills. Lily had been opposed to the idea on principal, but in the end it had been agreed that borrowing a home from any known wizard was too much of a risk; a home belonging to Muggles with no personal connections in the wizarding world would be much harder to track down.
Eventually, the baby fell asleep before its nappy needed changing, and Sirius handed him to James, who took him back upstairs. A stillness fell on the house. It was only mid-afternoon, but everyone was bone-tired. They had all stayed up through the night, though only James and Lily could be open about the circumstances. Lupin stared blankly at a copy of the Daily Prophet he had brought on the Potters' behalf; they couldn't receive owls to the house anymore.
"Anyone we know?" asked Peter grimly.
"What?" replied Lupin. "Oh...I wasn't really reading. Here," he held out the paper to Peter, who turned it down with a wave of his hand.
"No thanks," he said. "Eh, Padfoot-what'd you think?"
"Think of what?" Sirius was rifling through the icebox. "Bloody Prongs hasn't gotten anything stronger than water in here. Must be 'cause of Lily."
"The baby, you dolt. What else?"
Sirius turned to Peter, gripping an ice-cold pitcher of pumpkin juice. "He's brilliant. Going to be a real genius some day-or a gnome if those teeth are any indication."
"Well, you're proud as punch," said Lupin, with a tired sigh.
"Oh, come on! It's James! He has a kid! If James is allowed to have children, there must be some hope for the rest of us!"
"No hope for humanity is more like it," Lupin said, unbuttoning his collar. He fanned himself with the Spectre & Society section of the Prophet. "Would you please bring me some ice in a towel?"
Sirius took a scaled-down iceberg out of the icebox and placed it on the waxed wooden countertop. "Diffindo," he said, pointed his wand at the iceberg. It shattered into several pieces, which exploded across the room, hitting the walls and floor with several loud thuds.
A high-pitched wail issued from upstairs. Sirius wrapped a few small pieces of ice in a dishrag and handed it to Lupin, who pressed it to his forehead. James bounded downstairs, wand in hand, looking wild and strangely exposed without his glasses. He squinted, pointing his wand at the nearest person, which was Peter.
"Watch it, Prongs-that's Wormtail you're aiming for," said Sirius quickly. "It was me-I blasted a bloody iceberg apart, I didnt realize it would explode."
"Sirius," said James slowly, without lowering the wand. "I, I can't see-prove it." There was an uncharacteristic tremour in his voice. Peter inched away from James' wand, down the sofa.
"First year, after the detention we spent picking fleas from Mrs. Norris' coat, you tried to make me swear an Unbreakable Vow not to get caught duelling in front of Dumbledore again-think we might have succeeded, actually, but..." said Sirius.
James exhaled thickly and put his wand into his pocket. "Sorry," he breathed. Sirius nodded with understanding. Lupin surveyed James with a worried look. "Lily slept through it. I don't think anything could wake her right now," he said. "I should go calm down Turnip." He shook the sweaty hair out of his eyes and walked back up stairs, shoulders slumped. Sirius quietly picked up the pieces of ice melting all over the room.
Peter felt something swirl in his stomach. It had to do with the tremour in James' voice and Lupin's odd disinterest-in the way Sirius cleaned up the room and brought him and Lupin glasses of pumpkin juice without a word. Ambient fear, or maybe it was the way Lily had altered everything when she came along, like the one extra newt's eye that made a potion froth up and change colour. The alchemy of their group was shifting once again with the addition of this baby and it was not even a real person yet. More like half a person, or the idea of a person.
"Alright, Pete?" asked Sirius. "I think Remus has fallen asleep." Peter realized the baby's wailing had also died down.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. What a night, eh?" he said. Sirius smiled and leaned back against the cushions.
"I'm with you on that, mate. I could use a kip too."
***
Mrs. Wendy Marks woke up early on the morning of the 31st, intent upon registering the girls for free swimming lessons before the classes filled up. She had learned, upon moving to Cokeworth, that it was never safe to wait when it came to signing up her children for any sort of program. The nursery school application had been an absolute nightmare-how was she to know to register her daughter before the child was even born? Of course she had come to expect waitlists for the free government programs, but honestly-either the other mothers were lining up at the community centre at the crack of dawn or using some kind of sorcery. Having lost out on registering the girls for swimming classes for two summers in a row, Mrs. Marks had every intention of being first past the post this time around.
Scowling at the owl droppings on her neighbour's overgrown strip of lawn, she rummaged through her purse to find the right application forms. The Ford had not been spared by the wretched birds, either, which was disgusting. Mrs. Marks considered starting a petition to have the barn torn down. She disliked the neighbours across the street, who had absolutely no respect for the way other peoples' property values had gone down when they neglected to care for their own home, but she knew they had at least one young child, because she so often heard the high-pitched screams coming from the house. Anyone with children ought to know how much disease those birds carried, and how unsafe it was to have so many near one's family.
As she unlocked her car, Mrs. Marks thought about how much better off the neighbourhood could be with several small improvements, and how much higher her home's value might go if she managed to get rid of the owls and maybe save up enough for the dining room extension she and Mr. Marks were planning. She thought about many things that morning, none of which had to do with the screaming woman-who was not a child-inside her neighbour's house right now, or about the real reason why it was so hard to get your children into swimming lessons. As she made a tight left turn onto the main street, she was certainly not thinking about the eagle owl so often perched on her gables who was, at the moment, flying towards a house many miles away where several young people were raising their glasses and toasting to a stag, a doe, and inexplicably, a turnip-for these things would have made no sense at all to her either way.
***
Something would make it go crack
*Note: The italicized quotes are from the song "Kimberly" by Patti Smith.
See Part I for details
"I don't think I can drink any more of this," burbled Thomas Trelawney. "You can't just-"
"No! Heavens, no! One does not simply vanish the steeped sustenance of fate ! Go on, drink up, go on."
"Ulp," he swallowed heavily. Tea was dripping down his neck, staining the white collar of his robes. The robes were bewitched to repel stains, but apparently not dampness and smells.
"I see you are nearing the end of your drink, dear brother. How extraordinarily close we are!"
"I hope so," he whimpered. The teacup- more like tea cauldron- was growing lighter in his hands, even as his bladder grew heavier. He felt nauseated. The incense burning beneath Sybill's tented ceiling was supposed to be essence of ambrosia but it smelled quite a bit more like dragon refuse.
Sybill clapped her hands together excitedly, causing the wand in her right hand to emit a pathetic little spurt of rose-tinted water, which dripped onto her skirt. "How close we are! Soon, we will find out," she inhaled deeply and lowered her voice to a stage whisper, "whether your belovedreturns your affection or whether you are condemned to the life of solitude, celibacy and loneliness!"
"Erm, it's not that serious."
Her eyebrows shot up above gigantic round-rimmed glasses. "Thomas! Love, that most mysterious of all elements of the universe, the uniting force of destiny, the drive that summons-"
"Yeah, I know, I mean, but... I just wanted to know if it's worth asking her for a go round Hogsmeade this fall," he said timidly. She glared at him through magnified eyes and he hastily swallowed the rest of the tea. Thomas felt a sinking feeling that had little to do with his bladder (though that was also sinking.) He knew this would be a bad idea. He knew that this was a capital B, capital I, Bad Idea.
But Nana had asked him to look in on his older sister, make sure she was safe from harm, not anywhere that the Death Eaters could find her. Or at least to make sure that the Death Eaters did not want to find her. And Sybill had been so glad to see him, so excited for any kind of company at all that he would feel terrible about leaving without letting her read his leaves. It had been more than half a year since they last saw each other at Christmas. Sybill had had to go into hiding in the spring for mysterious reasons. Thomas had only found out she was living in what appeared, from the outside, to be a rusted-out camper caravan in Cannock Chase Forest two days ago before. He had received a cryptic letter written in deep violet ink and stamped with the unmistakably misshapen wax seal that read TBZ- Sybill had never quite figured out that the letters had to be reversed.
Thomas drained the last few dregs in the giant teacup and set it down on the chipped glass end-table before him. Sybill was bustling about the caravan, charming shut the faded yellow curtains with her wand. The inside of the caravan was living-room sized, spacious if mostly empty. A small camp bed with a fold-out canopy sat next to an old-fashioned wood-burning stove, its cold oven stuffed with books.
"Hominem revelio!" whispered Sybill, her wand pointing out the window from between a crack in the curtains.
"There's nobody around here for miles," he said lightly to her, and burped.
"You may not see anybody," she whispered, "but the Inner Eye reveals! Darkness everywhere-"
"It's the middle of the night."
"-all around us, there are those who would wish us harm!, Well," she adjusted her spectacles with a trembling hand, "wish me harm. I do not take readings lightly."
Thomas considered saying something to assuage her fears- perhaps something along the lines of "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is unlikely to care about whether or not Miranda Malkin is interested in going on a date with a teenaged Ravenclaw boy come fall, regardless of whether or not he is the great-grandson of Cassandra Trelawney"- but just as he opened his mouth, he noticed the pale tan lines across Sybill's fingers- her rings were gone, and she wasn't wearing any earrings either. In fact, Sybill was dressed in an uncharacteristically plain fashion, wearing only one gauze scarf, her magnified eyes strangely naked without any makeup. She came towards him and reached for his teacup, turning it over onto a cracked saucer. A dribble of brownish water fell onto the glass table top.
"Let us see," she breathed. A quiet crack, like the snapping of a branch, sounded from somewhere outside the caravan. Sybill's head snapped to the side and she made a jerking movement, as if to head to the window and then decided not to. Thomas felt his pulse deepen, though he could not say why. There was no reason to be afraid.
Her pupils had grown large. Sybill quickly removed the overturned teacup with a quivering flourish. She leaned over the saucer and squinted at the sludgy remains of the tea. Thomas could smell her heavy breath under his nose; something like cherry and liquorice and broom polish. She bit her lip and furrowed her brow at the leaves, which looked like little more than the shape of an old boot to Thomas.
"Alright, Sybill?" he asked hesitantly.
She ignored him and reached into her pocket to remove her wand. She poked the grit of tea with it and for an instant, the cup glowed with bright white light.
"Aaah," she said. "Excellent. Wonderful."
"So, she's interested then?"
"What?" Sybill jerked back from the cup, her curly hair swinging wildly close to a stick of burning incense.
"Miranda. You know? The girl I asked about...."
"Haha. Miranda. No, no, something so trivial cannot be asked of the spirits!" She choked out a nervous laugh. "The fates have alerted me to the presence of a visitor approaching my home! A presence..."
Thomas felt his hand close on his wand instinctively, and glanced about the caravan. He wasn't used to getting this anxious about strangers- he was a pureblood, after all- but Sybill had gone into hiding, presumably for a reason. "D'you need me to- I'm of age now, you know-" he stammered.
"Not at all, Thomas! I am feeling a spirit," she closed her eyes and stretched out her hands above the teacup, absentmindedly dropping her wand into the sludge, "a benevolent presence. There is news."
Thomas fell silent. He felt uncomfortably unsure of this latest development in the unending drama of his sister's life- drama which was usually of her own making. In the dim light of the caravan, a shadow flickered over the camper stove, cast through the crack between the curtains. He continued to grasp his wand, feeling somewhat young and incompetent. Sybill was gazing down at the tea leaves and fiddling with the index finger of her right hand, where a rose-shaped ring carved from elm usually rested. Usually, she also wore the silver and opal ring handed down from Nana, gifted to the eldest daughter of the youngest generation upon her first vision. It was also gone; and Thomas wondered uneasily if she had had to sell off these few valuable possessions or if they had been taken from her by force.
Thomas heard a abrupt sound, like crab apples falling from a tree in the wind. He startled upon realizing that it was actually a person knocking on the window by the driver's door. Sybill rushed to the window and peered out, moonlight painting a streak of silver across her curls. He got up and rushed to her side. The knocker was an old woman, hunched and wrinkled. She wore a grey pointed hat and carried a large dragon-skin bag with one shrunken hand.
"Care for a look, my dear? Only twenty Sickles for the lot," the woman wheezed to Sybill, smiling as she lifted an ivory comb and matching mirror out of her bag. Her teeth were small, with noticeable gaps between each one. Thomas felt a shiver run up his spine. Sybill squinted at the mirror, and reached to unlock the door. He grabbed her arm instinctively.
"Are you mad?" he hissed. "You're supposed to be in hiding! How on earth-"
"Don't be foolish! That was the code!" she said dismissively and opened the door. The old woman stepped inside and feebly rested against the table, placing her bag down onto Thomas's chair. She handed the mirror to Sybill.
"This is from Albus," said the old woman briskly in a much less creaky voice. "Mad-Eye would also like me to remind you that your defensive precautions leave much to be desired."
"Mrs. Bagshot, I assure you that my vision permits me to screen my visitors well in advance of their arrival!" said Sybill peevishly.
Mrs. Bagshot smiled again. "Sybill, while Albus has faith in your Inner Eye, I would like you to remember that even the Inner Eye has an eyelid."
"I have spoken to Professor Dumbledore myself, and he has assured me of his confidence in my abilities-"
"Abilities which will prove much more helpful while you remain alive, Sybill," said Mrs. Bagshot dryly. Thomas threw his sister a sympathetic look, though he privately agreed with the old woman. She withdrew a shiny red apple from her bag and proceeded to shine it with a satin handkerchief. Sybill turned over the mirror, examining it in the candlelight. Thomas crept behind her and peeked at it over her shoulder. It appeared to be a normal hand mirror, although it was clearly old. The glass was sepia-tinted and several dark speckles marred the surface. Sybill tilted it left and right, then aimed it at her mouth and spoke into it questioningly.
"Catoptici alveni?"
Thomas wondered how she was casting a spell without her wand; however his thought was interrupted by the voice emerging from the glass.
"Why, Sybill dear, you are not so unfortunate looking yourself!"
"What?"
The man's voice chuckled. "Never mind- Muggle reference there...I forget how far apart our cultures find ourselves, living side-by-side as we are."
Thomas recognized the Headmaster's voice; but why would he want to speak to Sybill personally? He was a very busy man...
"Who have you got there behind you? Are you safe?" he asked, sounding concerned.
"Only my brother, sir. " She turned around and scowled at him, motioning with her arm for him to step out of sight. "He's fine, sir. Mrs. Bagshot is also here."
Mrs. Bagshot raised her eyebrows and bit into the apple, crunching so loudly that Thomas felt as though his own head was being crushed into pulp by that terrifying set of tiny yellow teeth.
"Hello, Bathilda. Thank you for responding to my message so quickly. I realize the hour is quite late. I would express my apologies for waking you at this most unmagical time in the night but my sensibilities tell me it is unlikely that sleep found you in its tender grasp this evening."
Thomas found his elderly Headmaster's use of the phrase "tender grasp" distinctly unmagical. He reached for the comb lying on the chair, eager to examine what magical properties it had.
"Sybill," said the voice from the mirror, "the matter we discussed several months ago has come to full fruition tonight. I will wish to speak with you once a suitable time can be found in the morning. Do not attempt to contact me, and do not leave your home; I will come to you personally."
She looked taken aback. Scratching her head, with one hand, Sybill said, "...the matter we discussed? Has Jupiter-"
Thomas tried not to look shocked that Dumbledore would want to discuss anything with his sister, let alone come to see her personally. What on earth were they talking about?
"The other topic of discussion. Bathilda, if it is necessary, please remind Sybill of the importance of this matter. Privately," added Dumbledore. Sybill nodded vigorously, as though she suddenly remembered. Though he possessed only the Outer Eyes, Thomas felt Mrs. Bagshot's gaze boring his downcast head. He heard her swallow and cough significantly towards his sister.
Sybill turned to him, and snatched the comb from his hands. "Don't touch that!"
"It's just a comb-"
Mrs. Bagshot snickered delicately.
"It was delivered specially to me!" she snapped. Twin flames flickered in the reflection of her glasses as if her eyes were alight.
"Albus," said Mrs. Bagshot as she spat the pips of her apple into an embroidered handkerchief, "Do you want me to send for Alastor? He might provide additional security." She tapped her handkerchief with her wand and whispered "Evanesco."
Sybill handed the mirror to Mrs. Bagshot, who continued her conversation with Dumbledore more quietly, her lowered voice echoed in Dumbledore's whispered instructions. Thomas could not hear what they were talking about, but it sounded Serious, Important and Secret, like most of what Dumbledore did. He knew that Dumbledore was leading the movement against You-Know-Who, but why a creaky old scholar like Mrs. Bagshot was important, he did not know.
"Sybill," came the voice from the mirror more loudly, addressing his sister through Mrs. Bagshot's knobby knuckles. "Please use the comb and then return it to Bathilda." Dumbledore's voice was calm, quietly authoritative.
"Now?"
"Yes."
"Here? But why-"
"I can't think of where else," Dumbledore cut her off, the humour in his voice still belying a darker undercurrent.
Thomas noticed her shooting a glance at him and then at Mrs. Bagshot, who nodded slightly. Sybill's fingers trembled somewhat as she slowly raised the comb to her hair. The teeth were long and fine, the comb's back edge carved into a pattern of swirls broken up by rigid whiplashes, vaguely Celtic in design. Sybill raked it through her hair at the scalp, and though her hair was kinky and surely full of knots, it glided through effortlessly, forming a ghostly trail of perfectly straight, shining locks that shone silver and then faded away a second later. When she drew it away from her hair, a faint trail of silvery steam seemed to stretch from her scalp, tugged along by the comb. Thomas watched her facial expression morph from anxious concern to something neutral as if anaesthetized. A small smile grew across her lips and she handed the comb, inexplicably, to Thomas.
He took it and examined it closer to a candle. The ghostly steam formed a little puddle in the palm of his hand. It had no texture- no feeling at all; yet the comb felt strangely cold, more than he would expect. A strange feeling twisted Thomas' stomach- part defensive urge, and part mesmerizing curiosity. The Ravenclaw in him took hold.
"What is this...sir?" He asked. Mrs. Bagshot scrutinized him with a narrow eye, and then held up the mirror to his face, so that he could look directly into the piercing blue eye reflected in it. "What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Mr. Trelawney- Thomas, isn't it?" Dumbledore asked in a gently unreadable tone. "Ravenclaw, if I am not mistaken. I am surprised that you do not know. It is a comb. One uses it to neaten one's hair, though it also proves useful to those with beards of a certain length. I have even heard rumours of its utility as a back-scratching device, for more adventurous sorts." The eye twinkled. Thomas raised an eyebrow unconsciously. There were quite a few answers he had been prepared to receive, and none of them involved his one hundred-fifty year old headmaster explaining to him he purpose of an ordinary hairbrush.
"You know, Mr. Trelawney, at my age, one can be forgiven for assuming that certain things are, shall we say, common knowledge. But even the wise can be mistaken. The young man who gave loaned me this delightful mirror, for example, was also unfamiliar with the concept of hair care."
At this, Mrs. Bagshot coughed significantly, and Dumbledore said, "Well, now, I suppose I am getting off track. Go on then and give it a try. It doesn't hurt- well, not if you practise decent hygiene, anyway."
As if in a trance, Thomas felt himself raise the comb to his head. His curiosity overtook his misgivings and he gently combed his hair down from the part. A lovely, cooling sensation spread across his head and through his mind, settling around his thoughts like a dawn's mist. It occurred to him gradually that he no longer felt any curiosity whatsoever about Mrs. Bagshot's visit, nor the reason Dumbledore was contacting his sister via two-way mirror. In fact, for the first time in his life, he felt no curiosity whatsoever. It was simply none of his business what Dumbledore chose to get up to during the summer holidays and Thomas knew that whatever reason the Headmaster had for contacting his sister did not concern him.
He took the dragonskin bag off his chair and handed it to Mrs. Bagshot with the comb, then sat down numbly.
"You will wait for the Headmaster to contact you in the morning, won't you Sybill?" she said sternly in a tone disturbingly reminiscient of Thomas' Transfiguration professor.
"Yes," she responded, still looking vaguely relaxed.
"You will not discuss this matter with anyone other than the Headmaster, including your brother or even me."
"Of course not, Mrs. Bagshot."
"You will blow out these ridiculously smelly candles and get a decent night's sleep, at least as much of the night as is left."
"...what?" she asked, running her fingers absentmindedly through her hair. Thomas felt very sleepy all of a sudden. He thought blowing out the candles was a perfectly good idea.
Mrs. Bagshot rose and went to the door, the tip of her pointy hat knocked askew by the love beads hanging from the low ceiling.
"Thomas," she paused at the doorway, "Please put up some halfway protective wards, or at least make sure that herbal Stinksap rubbish takes out any errant Death Eaters along with you two. And keep this safe. Goodnight, dear." And with that, she sent the hand mirror to him with a flick of her wand, shut the caravan's door and Disapparated with a bang that rattled the love beads against the window, her wand imprinting a flicker of lightning where it disappeared into thin air. Thomas walked over to the camp bed and sat down in a daze, feeling the cool ivory of the mirror's handle in his palm, not noticing how it reflected the illusion of lightning just a split second too long, at an angle just a wee bit improbable for an ordinary two-way mirror.
***
And I prayed as the lightning attacked
*
"Dolohov," called out the cloaked figure sitting by the window.
"Present, my lord.
"Crouch."
"Present."
"Rodolphus."
"Present."
The cloaked figure sighed with pleasure. "Bella..."
"Right here, my lord," she whispered throatily from her place on the floor by his armchair. A light breeze ruffled the figure's cloak and skirts He wore rather too many layers for a sweltering midsummer's night, but did not appear to be sweating.
"Several gentlemen in this room could learn something about punctuality from Bellatrix over here. I called you to this meeting at this hour because I meant to speak with you now. Already, I see there is an absence," said Lord Voldemort.
At that moment, the heavy oak door swung open. For a brief moment, there seemed to be no one standing in the doorway. Then the moon emerged from behind a cloud and cast a ray of bluish light across the slouching man with the long, greasy hair.
"Snape," said the Dark Lord. "To what do we owe the honour of your tardiness?"
Snape swallowed. For a moment he considered not answering, simply running out and Disapparating into the dark. "My lord. I was- temporarily indisposed. Forgive me," he said with a curt bow.
The Dark Lord's eyes seemed to flash redder for a moment, but he merely exhaled and turned his chair towards the window, away from the assembled men and Bellatrix. Gazing out at the waxing moon, he tapped his wand on the woven leading between the windowpanes. Several blue sparks shot out of it and travelled along the perimeter of the diamond shaped panes and one by one, each paned fogged over until only a faint haze of moonlight glowed through.
"Our meeting here tonight is private," said Voldemort quietly. "I have only summoned my most loyal, most trusted of servants. Dolohov. Bella. Rodolphus. Bartemius. You should feel honoured to have earned such trust."
He was answered with silence. Bellatrix grinned wickedly and then gave him a pout. Rodolphus reached over to pat her hand. A ghost of a smile flickered on Crouch's lips. In the dimly lit room, he looked even younger than he was. Snape glared at him and then looked down.
"Snape. I am not impressed by your most recent performance, nor by your presumption in requesting exemptions from certain duties to which your peers are consigned. This is not to be made habit. I will not have my vassals think themselves above common duty.""
Bellatrix's laughter was cut off abruptly by Crouch's silent incantation. She shot him a challenging look, but his expression was stony.
"However, the intelligence you have gathered on my behalf was most useful. Lord Voldemort rewards his servants for their achievements." The Dark Lord paused, as if to gather his thoughts. Snape drew a breath, hoping against hope, wishing for a window, if not a doorway, to appear from solid rock.
"You ought to reward him with a nice Tortus Curse, my Lord," said Bellatrix. "I think Sevewus would love to take it on behalf of his-"
"Enough, Lestrange," said Crouch firmly. "You think you can interrupt the Dark Lord?" She pointed her wand at him, but he was quicker; both were about to fire when Voldemort calmly slashed his wand through the air. Twin gashes appeared on each of their wand arms. Crouch winced and grabbed his arm, while Bellatrix only stopped to look at hers with mild interest.
"There will be no further interruptions tonight," said the Dark Lord loftily. "I will not repeat myself. As all of you know, I was made aware of a prophecy several months ago, a prophecy which concerned myself and one other person. Do not interrupt, Rodolphus. The full contents of the prophecy are known to myself and whomsoever I have chosen to convene with, but all of you know that we have been awaiting the birth of a child which it mentioned. Bartemius, Dolohov and I have discussed the matter and we have narrowed it down to two possible children who fit the Seer's description. Lower your hand, Bellatrix, I have Legilimency enough to ignore your questions for the moment." He paused.
Rodolphus was smiling at his wife, who gazed at Voldemort with a rapturous expression. Snape swallowed his own bile. He tightened his mind, inviting the learned blankness to conceal his thoughts. That Voldemort referred to Crouch of all people on first-name terms-well, it was to be expected of the Lestranges, as there were three of them, but a freckly teenage boy... Crouch stared forward at the wall, his eyes fixed on nothing, though Snape could tell he was thinking hard. He was arguably the most intelligent in the room, aside from the Dark Lord. His youth was his strength, aside from his family connections; nobody would suspect such a sweet young man of anything, unlike Severus. It was not in Snape's nature to fear the brilliance of another his own age and he despised his own lack of confidence in Crouch's presence.
"What all of you must know, and what I will explain later to all my Death Eaters, is that the child must be killed and that I will do it personally. Before I reveal the names of the parents, I will warn you: if the child is found and killed by one of my Death Eaters, the repercussions will be most severe." Voldemort turned away from the window to face the group. His pale white face was devoid of sweat, but a single vein pulsed by his temple. How strange it was to see this proof his own humanity- that he should have blood, and veins and a heart.
"But, my lord-" Rodolphus began.
"Silence!" Voldemort cut him off, then flicked a tongue-tying jinx his way. Bellatrix giggled and the Voldemort gave her a look which Snape could only interpret as the Dark Lord's version of a smile.
"A week ago, the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom had a baby boy. He is one possible subject of the prophecy. Tonight, I received intelligence that the second boy was born, to the wife of James Potter."
Snape struggled to maintain the wall of blankness in his mind. It took all of his Occlumency training and then some to avoid noticing that Voldemort had chosen to word the messsage so cruelly.
Voldemort look Snape right in the eye and he quickly looked away, feelings the laser-sharpness of his Legilimency honing in. "I want both children found and I want them taken alive directly to me. The parents I would like to have questioned, so capturing alive is my preference- however, if their efforts are threatening to impede the children's capturing, they may be killed. This task will not be as simple as it seems. Make no mistake- Dumbledore's minions will be doing all they can to prevent the children from being found. Frank and Alice Longbottom are extremely well-trained and powerful Aurors, both from ancient pureblood families. They are not to be underestimated. The Potter couple is less known to me, but they have proven themselves skilled in battle over the past two years. Both couples are under Dumbledore's fullest protection. It will take some effort, but they will be found and I will personally reward any of my servants who does the finding."
Bellatrix slowly licked her lips and leaned closer in to the armchair. Snape could see the cogs and gears of her insane mind working at lightening speed. Her gaze bored into him and she tossed back her head, shaking a lock of black hair off her face. She was beautiful, in a terrifying way, her heavy eyelids overshadowing eyes liquid-grey as diamonds sunk into a dark lake. She had the Black family high cheekbones, and a devilish grin nearly identical to that of Snape's old school tormentor, now mortal foe.
Then, in a quiet, nearly gentle voice, the Dark Lord spoke. "Bellatrix." She turned to look up at him. "The parents will likely need some persuasion when they are questioned. You will be responsible for this. Refrain from the Cruciatus as long as there is something of use left in their minds. When there is not anything of value to us left, you may do as you see fit. I will have faith in your judgement."
It was very hot in the room. Voldemort issued a high, cold laugh, and said, "I am finished here." He slipped one hand into the pocket of his robes and withdrew a single scrap of paper, barely larger than a postage stamp. It was red, with charred edges burnt black. Voldemort lifted it up, as if to display it to the group, though his voice was barely audible when he said, "Happy birthday, little Potter."
***
Several rays of sun sliced their way between the barred windows, illuminating floating puffs of dust. In the basement flat on Vallance Road, Doxies nibbled at a folded pile of afghans on top of a Muggle washing machine which had never seen much use. The air smelled metallic, rife with something earthy and sharp.
With a wince, Remus Lupin crooked his elbow up to shield his eyes from the sunlight. A salty dribble of essence of Murtlap ran down his arm and into his mouth. The sunlight was bright but not yet overly warm; it must have been early in the morning, he reasoned. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the pain spark through his wrist. The bandages cut off his range of movement, but he was still able to reach for his wand with the injured arm, though leaning over made his half-healed ribs twinge unpleasantly. While lying in bed, he went through his morning ritual of wand-flicking and quiet muttering. Lupin was undoing various protective spells and wards, the odd tangle of ancient words, muscle memory and arcing beams of light that protected him while he slept alone.
The doorless refrigerator he used as a bookshelf shimmered slightly as Lupin removed the final enchantment. Bruegel, the goldfish that swam in the vegetable crisper eyed him suspiciously.
"Go on, then," he said. "Eat your potato peels and do laps or whatever it is you creatures do and let me suffer my injuries in peace."
Bruegel narrowed his eyes in a distinctly un-fishlike manner and then swam up to the surface of the crisper to nibble on floating biscuit crumbs.
Lupin relaxed back and gazed at the stains on the ceiling. He could have charmed it clean, but then, where was the fun in that? The Death Eaters would find him anyways and subject him to various unpleasantries much worse than living in a one-room basement flat in Whitechapel. That is, if the other werewolves didn't turn on him first.
He considered getting up to brush his rancid-smelling teeth, but his ribs disagreed. Not that it was anything he wasn't used to, but the curse Rookwood had thrown him was making the healing process take much longer than usual. Lupin hadn't behaved like such a child about his injuries since he was one.
"Accio thermos!" he said. The thermos zoomed towards him and knocked him on the brow of his already-blackened eye. He had taken to putting his food and drinks into portable containers for this very purpose. Lupin unscrewed the thermos and gulped down the last two mouthfuls of cold tea left over. A childhood half-spent as an invalid had taught him a few handy tricks when it came to the art of recuperating in bed.
"Bruegel," he said lightly, "are there any biscuits left that aren't waterlogged?"
Bruegel exhaled a stream of bubbles at him.
"Don't you remember what happened to my Paris toast?"
The fish became very interested in cleaning out a corner of the crisper, which funnily enough, was already spotless.
"Aaah, well," Lupin sighed, "I suppose I'll just starve until Dearborn-yesterday comes to play Healer. I know, I know, Bruegel, that wasn't a very nice thing to say aloud to a goldfish in my private home."
Brueghel's gills flared open and shut convulsively as his belly shook.
Lupin shut his eyes and imagined a nice tomato and egg sandwich on rye zooming towards him. The fantasy did not include soggy tomato bits getting flung all over his walls, although Lupin knew from experience that that was what would indeed happen if he were to Summon a sandwich from bed.
"How is magic so utterly useless?" he asked the dusty air. A Doxy buzzed at him aggressively. The truth was, if he weren't so useless at charms, magic probably could solve the sandwich-summoning problem. That was the sort of thing Lily was good at. "Oh, Prongs," he said drily, "where are you when I need your wife?" And with that, Lupin felt a gentle nuzzling at his uninjured hand by something velvety soft and cool. He cracked open an eye and saw the bluish-white spectre lick at his palm.
How queer that Prongs should appear right at the moment. It was almost like magic.
Lupin lazily petted the stag's nose, his hand occasionally dipping through the Patronus's permeable skin. He felt a smooth antler worry his pillow, prodding it. Neither solid nor entirely vaporous, the pillow was dislodged only slightly, just enough for Lupin to ask, "What is it? I haven't got the Cloak."
The Patronus snorted a stream of dust at Lupin, who had closed his eyes again. He opened them, squinting at Prongs' glowing head. He nudged at Lupin more insistently and then jerked his head towards Lupin's doorway. James never had quite gotten the art of sending a speech with his messenger Patronus, probably because he had been spoiled by his reliance on the two-way mirrors. Interpreting James' and Sirius' nonverbal Patronus messages, which were conveyed via charades, miming or interpretive dance, had become something of an inside joke amongst those members of the Order who were not yet ready to send an Avada Kedavra their way.
"Alright, alright...keep your antlers on..." he murmured, following the stag's gaze. The glowing white was more difficult to see in the sunny, striped light cast through Lupin's window, but he could tell that another Patronus was lingering in front of the door by the light reflected off his toaster.Hunter's camouflage, he thought- how that would annoy James! (He was surprisingly sensitive about hunting jokes.) It was difficult to see exactly whose it was, as the thing seemed to be leaning over and was partially obscured by the foot of the bed. He watched the stag walk over to join the second Patronus. It leaned over to look down at whatever the other thing was nosing at, its long neck tracing an elegant curve that echoed the sloping neck of the smaller Patronus.
It was a doe. Lupin found himself smiling mildly as the stag's vaporous antlers accidentally impaled the doe when he took a step closer to it, but the doe took no notice (did it even feel such things?). It was paying attention to whatever was hidden by the bed and had not even looked up when Lupin spoke. The stag took another step towards the doe and then looked up at Lupin imploringly.
"I'd get up if I could, mate," he said. "Sorry."
The stag nudged the doe, nuzzling its neck with a tenderness that made something warm and deep and sad wash through Lupin's chest. How odd to observe a moment so private, a moment belonging to a friend, in one's own home.
The doe finally looked up at Lupin. He gave it a gentle nod. Meanwhile, the stag was prodding at something as if to urge it forward. The doe joined it, moving along slowly around Lupin's bed, past the open trunk and the bicycle leaning against the wall. Lupin caught the stag's look of curiosity at the bike, its shimmering white tail flaring upward for a moment.
They two Patronuses made their way around the side of the bed at last, and the doe leaned forward to nibble at Lupin's pillow affectionately. It looked at his injured arm and bandaged torso, then back at the stag, who was urging forward something small and dotted with brightly glowing spots.
Two big eyes looked up at him with startling frankness. Its head was small, with huge ears twitching in the sunlight. It was barely tall enough to look at Lupin over the bed without its throat brushing the sheets. Lupin reached forward to pet the fawn, but it quivered and jerked back instinctively. The stag reassured it with an uncharacteristically gentle nuzzle to the rump.
Lupin opened his mouth, but somehow, the words didn't come out. He flattened his hand, palm upright, and watched the fawn approach it slowly, cautiously. It bit his thumb, but there was no pain as the fawn sucked on his fingers. Its little mouth felt like wind and fog and swirling water. The stag stood tall, gazing down at the fawn with barely concealed pride.
He found a hoarse breath. "Hullo," he whispered. "You're a precocious one, aren't you?"
It occurred to Lupin then how much he wished his Patronus form did not make him ashamed.
***
That something would make it go crack
*
"Ow!"
"What's wrong?"
"He nearly bit my finger off!"
"Well, maybe you ought not to put it in his mouth, then," said Sirius almost earnestly.
"I don't- but how does he even have teeth yet?"
"They'll shrink down in a half hour, or so, Lily," said James casually. "He's just fussy over being woken up."
"Looks more like fangs to me," observed Peter Pettigrew, as he climbed up the steep wooden steps and into the cottage's loft. The baby's teeth were visible from across the room.
"Is this normal? Should I be concerned?"
Lupin smiled. "You should've seen my mam, when I was growing up. You think being Muggle-born is bad enough..."
" S'not so bad. In my family, babies would fart actual mustard gas-" began Sirius, but Lupin cut him off with a gentle shake of the head. Lily gave him a grateful smile, her hair falling over her face as she leaned down to give the baby a kiss on the cheek. He responded by breaking into a fresh round of tears. James, who looked befuddled and dead tired and radiant all at once, patted her arm and smiled down at the baby, his crooked glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
"At least we know he's not a Squib," said James. "Not with those chompers...though it might still be your magic wearing off."
"James! If he were a Squib, we wouldn't be in- in all this mess," she chided and turned to the baby."Mummy loves you, my little turnip, even if you're no good at potions and think Quidditch makes no sense from a game theory perspective-"
"Ahem!" sniffed James, in mock offense. "The line. There it was, see? You have crossed it. The line that was not to be crossed. There it goes."
"Goodbye, line!" cried Sirius and the baby joined him in a wail of deepest sorrow. Pettigrew thought the baby's red face was more tomato than turnip-like, but he kept his thoughts to himself, and poured himself another shot of Ogden's greatest. He needed it.
"I'll have another too, if you don't mind," said Lupin. He handed his glass to Pettigrew, who refilled it to the top. Lupin looked even more beat than James, and that was saying something, as James had been up for something like forty straight hours. The new bruises and scars he sported didn't look like the ordinary claw marks of their childhood; Lupin must have had at least one broken rib and his right arm was bandaged from bicep to palm. Pettigrew tried to focus on James' more domestic brand of exhaustion so as to avoid the ache of ambient fear that surrounded them now whenever his friends met all together.
"C'mere, Peter," said Lily, kindly. "You haven't met him proper, have you? Go on..."
Pettigrew came over to join her, sitting down on the bed beside her. The mattress sunk down uncomfortably beneath him- it was old-fashioned and had no box springs. Pettigrew smiled at the blanket-wrapped squashed tomato Lily was holding tenderly, its juices running from from eyes squeezed shut and wide-open mouth. Pettigrew was not terribly fond of babies, but it was James' baby and he had half-expected it to be born with a knowing smirk and a miniature Quaffle in its tiny hands, mugging for Lily's attention and soiling itself intentionally when things got dull. But from up close, it looked more like an angry vegetable than James Potter.
"Hullo," he said awkwardly, and gave it a wink. "Aren't you, er...a handsome one, then..."
The snicker he heard was probably Sirius, but James was also a possibility.
Lily was flushed and looked tired, but she smiled broadly and rocked the baby back and forth, jiggling him in her arms. James gave Pettigrew a sheepish grin.
"He's, uh, been a bit cranky this morning...and, er, last night as well," said James. He was tossing up and catching a plushie dragon neurotically; each time he caught it, it squeaked and let out a breath of red steam. "I s'pose he's not so chuffed about the whole 'being born' thing, but Lily can get him to calm down for a bit with the bouncing."
"Shake the tears out, Prongs," said Sirius evenly.
"That's the idea, yeah."
"You two," said Lily, shaking her head with a smile. James leaned over to peck her on the cheek and his glasses slid off entirely. "I ought to get bunk beds and put you up with him in the nursery. But Padfoot would probably enjoy that way too much. Maybe a shared cell, then."
"That is much more wise, Lily," said Lupin. "Speaking from experience, I do not recommend those two share a room with your son unless you wish for him to asphyxiated by unspeakable odours." James put his glasses back on and shook his bangs out of his eyes instinctively.
Pettigrew felt more comfortable with this line of familiar banter, and joined in. "Prongs is married, Moony. You forget he showers at least monthly now." The stuffed dragon hit him square on forehead with a loud squeak before he could even shrink back. This seemed to please the baby, as it stopped crying abruptly and made a much more pleasant gurgling noise.
"Alright, alright, give him here," said Sirius and he reached to take the baby from Lily. "Godfather's privilege. Well, he's quite a bit heavier than I expected! And I thought you were just hogging all the treacle tart while Prongs had Spattergroit."
James turned ashen-faced. "We don't speak of that."
"I think," said Lupin mildly, "you meant you don't speak of that." Peter reached for a glass. It was awfully stuffy up in the loft, but the window was glued shut with something like mashed squirrel guts and couldn't even be blasted open. It was only a temporary home- one of the many safe houses Lily and James had gone through in the past seven months, ever since they they had found out about the prophecy.
Sirius tickled the baby, but he didn't seem all that amused. His mouth hung open, drooling onto the blanket. Only his big eyes moved, darting around the room, following the sounds of the voices.
"Well," said Sirius, "turns out the secret's simple. Just nail Wormy in the head with a projectile object and it turns the sound off."
James grinned at him. "I'd have no trouble with that, except we'd have to get Peter to stay with us all day and night."
"You mean, turn our home into a schoolboys' dormitory? No thanks," said Lily, tweaking James' ear with an affectionate smirk. "And before you ask, Peter, no, we haven't settled on a name for the turnip yet."
"We're waiting 'till he doesn't look like a vegetable anymore, see," said James. "Give him here, Padfoot."
"And make him bawl again?" Sirius said cynically. "I think not. He likes me. Don't you, turnip?" He crossed his eyes at the baby and stuck out his tongue. Peter saw a tiny fist reach out and attempt to grab it. "Isn't it funny when I have lazy crossed eyes like your Daddy?"
"Let's play a game," said James. Lily eyed him warily, looking even more fatigued. "The way it works it that the person holding my son when he soils himself gets to change the nappy. The winner is everyone who isn't holding him when that happens."
Sirius glared at him.
"Sounds fun to me!" Peter offered lamely. He was already half-sloshed, on only two glasses. Maybe it was the empty stomach, or maybe he wasn't sloshed and it was just that people were having duels and having babies and nothing made sense anymore anyway.
Lily yawned. "I'm about to drop dead," she said, "I'm going to evict you all to the living room. If my turnip falls asleep, bring him up to the cradle, okay? I'll probably be asleep already."
Lupin got up to give Lily a hug. She patted him on the back fondly. "Congratulations, again," he said softly. "Really. It's nice, you know...." he trailed off.
"To have some good news," she finished. "Thank you, Remus. I know it was a stretch for you to get over here today, after-"
"Everything," James cut her off, with a look of warning. He raised an arm towards Lupin, and they embraced. Peter went over to join them. Sirius lagged behind; he was still coddling the baby. He raised his wand and conjured a little fuzzy dog, which popped into confetti when the baby grabbed at it.
"Congratulations, mate," said Peter, clapping James on the shoulder awkwardly. "You too, Lily."
"Thank you, Peter. We're so glad all of you could make it here to meet the baby," said Lily.
"Yeah, thanks, Pete, Remus," said James and he slung one arm around Peter and one around Remus. Peter felt the familiar glow of James' charismatic aura touch him, a feeling of importance and acceptance and gratitude that radiated out of James' grin and his crooked glasses and hurricane of black hair. "Lily and me wanted to say that, er, y'know Padfoot is godfather and all-"
"-you bet I am!"
"-despite our better judgment, well, Lily's better judgment, but anyways-"
"To the point, love," interjected Lily.
"-we wanted to say that both of you are-are, y'know, sort of like family, yeah?"
Lily gently took Peter's arm, and added, "All of us in the Order have become like that, but you two and Sirius...especially since my mother died and James' parents were killed..."
Remus placed a hand on her shoulder sympathetically. The four of them were now linked, all connected through a network of clasped hands and pats and embraces and Jame's bare foot resting on Lily's freckled one. Peter cleared his throat and said something he wasn't even conscious of and Sirius chuckled in the background while Lily smiled her soft, radiant smile. James was right; even shiny with sweat and puffy with water retention, she was unfailingly beautiful.
Afterwards. Sirius followed them with the baby down the cramped staircase to the cottage's ground floor. It was quite a bit homelier than James' old apartment in London and much smaller than the Potter family's manorial home back on the farm in Godric's Hollow. Peter knew it was "borrowed" from a Muggle family of landowners, who had conveniently forgotten that they owned this old property, nor noticed that a mysterious benefactor was paying their utility bills. Lily had been opposed to the idea on principal, but in the end it had been agreed that borrowing a home from any known wizard was too much of a risk; a home belonging to Muggles with no personal connections in the wizarding world would be much harder to track down.
Eventually, the baby fell asleep before its nappy needed changing, and Sirius handed him to James, who took him back upstairs. A stillness fell on the house. It was only mid-afternoon, but everyone was bone-tired. They had all stayed up through the night, though only James and Lily could be open about the circumstances. Lupin stared blankly at a copy of the Daily Prophet he had brought on the Potters' behalf; they couldn't receive owls to the house anymore.
"Anyone we know?" asked Peter grimly.
"What?" replied Lupin. "Oh...I wasn't really reading. Here," he held out the paper to Peter, who turned it down with a wave of his hand.
"No thanks," he said. "Eh, Padfoot-what'd you think?"
"Think of what?" Sirius was rifling through the icebox. "Bloody Prongs hasn't gotten anything stronger than water in here. Must be 'cause of Lily."
"The baby, you dolt. What else?"
Sirius turned to Peter, gripping an ice-cold pitcher of pumpkin juice. "He's brilliant. Going to be a real genius some day-or a gnome if those teeth are any indication."
"Well, you're proud as punch," said Lupin, with a tired sigh.
"Oh, come on! It's James! He has a kid! If James is allowed to have children, there must be some hope for the rest of us!"
"No hope for humanity is more like it," Lupin said, unbuttoning his collar. He fanned himself with the Spectre & Society section of the Prophet. "Would you please bring me some ice in a towel?"
Sirius took a scaled-down iceberg out of the icebox and placed it on the waxed wooden countertop. "Diffindo," he said, pointed his wand at the iceberg. It shattered into several pieces, which exploded across the room, hitting the walls and floor with several loud thuds.
A high-pitched wail issued from upstairs. Sirius wrapped a few small pieces of ice in a dishrag and handed it to Lupin, who pressed it to his forehead. James bounded downstairs, wand in hand, looking wild and strangely exposed without his glasses. He squinted, pointing his wand at the nearest person, which was Peter.
"Watch it, Prongs-that's Wormtail you're aiming for," said Sirius quickly. "It was me-I blasted a bloody iceberg apart, I didnt realize it would explode."
"Sirius," said James slowly, without lowering the wand. "I, I can't see-prove it." There was an uncharacteristic tremour in his voice. Peter inched away from James' wand, down the sofa.
"First year, after the detention we spent picking fleas from Mrs. Norris' coat, you tried to make me swear an Unbreakable Vow not to get caught duelling in front of Dumbledore again-think we might have succeeded, actually, but..." said Sirius.
James exhaled thickly and put his wand into his pocket. "Sorry," he breathed. Sirius nodded with understanding. Lupin surveyed James with a worried look. "Lily slept through it. I don't think anything could wake her right now," he said. "I should go calm down Turnip." He shook the sweaty hair out of his eyes and walked back up stairs, shoulders slumped. Sirius quietly picked up the pieces of ice melting all over the room.
Peter felt something swirl in his stomach. It had to do with the tremour in James' voice and Lupin's odd disinterest-in the way Sirius cleaned up the room and brought him and Lupin glasses of pumpkin juice without a word. Ambient fear, or maybe it was the way Lily had altered everything when she came along, like the one extra newt's eye that made a potion froth up and change colour. The alchemy of their group was shifting once again with the addition of this baby and it was not even a real person yet. More like half a person, or the idea of a person.
"Alright, Pete?" asked Sirius. "I think Remus has fallen asleep." Peter realized the baby's wailing had also died down.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. What a night, eh?" he said. Sirius smiled and leaned back against the cushions.
"I'm with you on that, mate. I could use a kip too."
***
Mrs. Wendy Marks woke up early on the morning of the 31st, intent upon registering the girls for free swimming lessons before the classes filled up. She had learned, upon moving to Cokeworth, that it was never safe to wait when it came to signing up her children for any sort of program. The nursery school application had been an absolute nightmare-how was she to know to register her daughter before the child was even born? Of course she had come to expect waitlists for the free government programs, but honestly-either the other mothers were lining up at the community centre at the crack of dawn or using some kind of sorcery. Having lost out on registering the girls for swimming classes for two summers in a row, Mrs. Marks had every intention of being first past the post this time around.
Scowling at the owl droppings on her neighbour's overgrown strip of lawn, she rummaged through her purse to find the right application forms. The Ford had not been spared by the wretched birds, either, which was disgusting. Mrs. Marks considered starting a petition to have the barn torn down. She disliked the neighbours across the street, who had absolutely no respect for the way other peoples' property values had gone down when they neglected to care for their own home, but she knew they had at least one young child, because she so often heard the high-pitched screams coming from the house. Anyone with children ought to know how much disease those birds carried, and how unsafe it was to have so many near one's family.
As she unlocked her car, Mrs. Marks thought about how much better off the neighbourhood could be with several small improvements, and how much higher her home's value might go if she managed to get rid of the owls and maybe save up enough for the dining room extension she and Mr. Marks were planning. She thought about many things that morning, none of which had to do with the screaming woman-who was not a child-inside her neighbour's house right now, or about the real reason why it was so hard to get your children into swimming lessons. As she made a tight left turn onto the main street, she was certainly not thinking about the eagle owl so often perched on her gables who was, at the moment, flying towards a house many miles away where several young people were raising their glasses and toasting to a stag, a doe, and inexplicably, a turnip-for these things would have made no sense at all to her either way.
***
Something would make it go crack
*Note: The italicized quotes are from the song "Kimberly" by Patti Smith.