Nineteen Years Later, Part I: Patrick the Muggle
Title: Nineteen Years Later, Part I: Patrick the Muggle
Author: kanedax
Spoilers: Deathly Hallows, Previous Chapters ( timeline)
Rating: PG-13 for mild language and discussion of violence
Characters: ??? and various OCs
Summary: Meghan Cullen gets her letter
Notes: Nineteen Years Later begins here, with a little bit of a format change to finish up the series.
I own these characters. The others belong to JK Rowling.
Patronus / Previous Chapters / Andromeda's Proposal
“Lovely day outside, isn’t it?”
“Hmm?”
Ellen Cullen turned away from the sink to speak to her husband. “Lovely day,” she repeated, pointing out the lace-draped window with her potato peeler to the sharp blue July sky. “We should go for a walk later.”
“Sounds lovely, dear,” said Patrick Cullen, who was currently slaving over the stove, frying eggs and sausages. It was Saturday morning in the Cullen household, and familiar sounds and smells wafted through the house. Like most families, the Cullens found very little time for the family to sit down together for a meal. Even during the summer, with their daughter Meghan on holiday from classes, they still usually found themselves scrounging through leftovers, digging into the bottom of McDonalds bags, or simply saying “forget it, let’s go out for Chinese.” But every Saturday morning Patrick and Ellen made sure to cook a good, hearty breakfast for the entire family before the usual weekend madness began.
Even if breakfast was usually at ten thirty or eleven in the morning. Meghan liked to get her beauty sleep, and Patrick and Ellen Cullen found it difficult to deny their only child the pleasure of sleeping in while she still had the ability.
“I’m going to go out this afternoon,” said Patrick, a short, middle-aged man with a thick beard and an ever-heightening forehead. “Go to the hardware store.”
“For a new ladder?”
“For a new ladder,” said Patrick, rolling the sausage across the skillet. “Almost killed myself on it last weekend trying to trim the tree.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Ellen. “While you’re out, do you want to price out some door handles, too? The back gate is looking rusty.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Okay, okay, so it wasn’t you,” came a voice from the hall.
Ellen turned to Patrick with a smirk. “Sounds like Meghan’s up.”
Meghan Cullen entered the kitchen. At eleven years old, she had acquired her mother’s brown eyes and straight brown hair, and her father’s height. She was consistently one of the shortest in her class. This morning she was still in her summer pajamas, which today consisted of pink boxer shorts and a Hello Kitty t-shirt, holding her mobile phone to her ear with one hand and clutching a small pile of envelopes in the other.
“Post is here,” she said to her parents.
“Good morning to you, too,” said Patrick with a small smile as Meghan set the mail down on the table and sat down, returning to her early morning phone conversation with one of her friends that the elder Cullens had difficulty keeping track of.
“I promise I won’t blame you anymore,” said Meghan, putting her legs up on the chair next to her, still holding an opened letter. “Then, no, I don’t know who sent it. Who do we know that has a stupid sense of humor?”
“Anything good?” Patrick asked as Ellen finished peeling the potatoes and picked up the mail.
“Might have been Kelly,” said Meghan to her mobile phone, taking an apple from the basket in the middle of the table and taking a bite. “She seems the type… Yeah, I know…”
“Nothing much,” said Ellen, flipping through the envelopes. “Adverts. Adverts. Adverts.”
“It’s kind of stupid, really,” said Meghan. “Like I’d actually fall for it, or something. I’m surprised you didn’t get one, seems like something Kelly would send to as many people as possible.”
“Oh, here’s a postcard from Terry and Jill,” Ellen said.
“Where are they again?” asked Patrick. “They go on holiday every summer, and I can never keep track of where.”
“Get this part,” said Meghan, “The list that she came up with is priceless. A History of Magic. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Magical Theory, by Adalbert Waffling.”
“I guess they’re in Norway this year,” said Ellen, flipping over the postcard to look at the picture on the front. “It’s a picture of one of the fjords.”
“I know, it’s completely stupid,” said Meghan with a sniff. “Like some name made up in a Dr. Seuss book.”
“It’s pretty,” said Ellen. “They seem to be having a good time.”
“Meghan?”
“Parents are reminded that first years are not allowed their own broomsticks,” read Meghan, imitating a schoolmistress before breaking into laughter.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to go to Norway,” said Ellen.
“Meghan.”
“The equipment list is even better, though,” said Meghan. “A wand? A cauldron? A toad? Yeah, a toad! Like with warts and… Oh, yeah, a cat, too.”
“We should think about that next summer,” said Ellen. “Or maybe during Christmas holiday. I think the three of us could…”
“Meghan.”
“Hang on just a second,” said Meghan, covering the receiver of the small phone with her hand. “Yeah, Dad?”
“Where did you get that?”
“What, this?” Meghan asked, holding the two pieces of paper up.
“Yes,” said Patrick slowly. “That.”
“It was with the rest of the mail this morning,” said Meghan, returning to the phone. “Yeah, Cindy, I… no, it doesn’t say black cat, but it probably should have.”
“Can I have it, please?”
“Heh, yeah,” Meghan giggled. “Bubble bubble, toil and trouble. God, what an immature…”
“Meghan!”
“Dad, what?” Meghan retorted shortly. “It’s just a joke. Someone from school sent it, like I’d actually believe it.”
“Pat, are you alright?” asked Ellen, looking nervously at her husband, who looked far from all right. The hand holding the spatula hung limply by his side, the other hand held out in front of him. His eyes were wide, and his face was pale white behind his blond-brown beard.
“I said, can I have it, please,” Patrick repeated.
“Dad, I…”
“Meghan, give me the letter. Now.”
Meghan sighed. “Look, Cindy, I’ll call you back, alright?”
“Patrick, what’s wrong?” Ellen asked as Meghan pushed the disconnect button on her telephone and stood up.
“Thank you,” said Patrick as Meghan handed the letter to her father.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” she said quietly. “It’s just a prank.”
“That’s right,” said Patrick, as though in a daze, as he read at the letter. “It’s just a prank. Just a prank.”
“Pat, the sausages!”
“What?” Patrick said, pulling his eyes away from the parchment.
“The sausages!” Ellen repeated, jumping up and running to the stove. “They’re burning!”
“Oh,” said Patrick, returning to the letter.
“Oh, God, and the eggs are ruined,” Ellen sighed, taking the spatula from Patrick’s hand and flipping the black-singed eggs.
“Burning,” Patrick muttered, his eyes boring into the letter.
“Dad?” Meghan asked. “Dad, you’re getting kinda scary.”
Patrick looked up at his daughter. “Sorry, love,” he said, forcing a twitch of a smile. “It’s just… Meghan, if you get any more of these letters, I want you to give them to me immediately, do you understand? Don’t open them.”
“Why not?” asked Meghan, looking between her parents in confusion. “I mean… they’re just a prank, right?”
“Yes, they are,” said Patrick. “They’re a very dangerous prank, and… Just do as I say.”
“How can they be dangerous?” asked Meghan. “It’s just a letter.”
“Meghan, I…” Patrick stumbled, searching for words. “Just do as I say.”
“Alright?” she said, looking at her father with downright befuddlement.
“Well, these are ruined,” said Ellen with a sigh, turning off the stove. “We’re out of eggs now. Want to just go to the café, see what kind of seats we can get this time of day?”
“Of course,” said Patrick. “Meghan, go get dressed.”
“Dad, you’re being all weird…”
“Just get dressed,” said Patrick. “And keep giving me any more of these letters and I’ll be fine.”
Meghan stared at her father for a few more moments and then, with a shake of her head, left the kitchen. As Ellen heard the stomping of footsteps going up the stairs to the floor above, she turned to her husband. “Patrick, what is going on?”
“Nothing of importance, dear,” said Patrick, slowly walking towards the stove.
“Nothing of importance?” she replied with disbelief.
“That’s right.”
“Pat, it looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You’ll give me any of those letters, as well?”
“Why?” Ellen asked. “Why are they dangerous?”
Patrick didn’t answer. Simply turned the stove back on.
“Patrick?” Ellen repeated. “Why are they dangerous?”
“Anthrax, dear,” Patrick said quietly, staring down into the blue flame of the gas range, letter clutched in his hand.
“Anthrax?”
“I heard about it on the news report,” said Patrick. “They’re saying… that some group is copycatting what happened after the 2001 attacks. Sending out anthrax letters.”
“I don’t remember them saying… That’s… that’s an anthrax letter?” Ellen asked, backing away. “Should we call someone?”
“No,” said Patrick, holding the letter up to his face. “No, this one was just a dud. But just in case…. They… they said that they’re being sent with this seal, this type of ink. Better safe than sorry.”
“I suppose…” Ellen said. “Better safe than sorry. Patrick, are you sure we shouldn’t call someone?”
“Absolutely sure,” he said, touching the corner of the letters to the flame and tossing it into the skillet with the sausages. Watching them, along with the envelope and its wax seal, burn to black ashes.
The Cullens received three more letters by the end of July. Three more the week after that. Five more the week after that, and five more in the weeks that followed.
With each letter, Ellen Cullen grew more and more agitated. “Patrick,” she said on more than one occasion. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call someone? The police? The hospital?”
“I'm sure,” said Patrick, tossing the unopened letter into the fireplace. "Don't worry about it, love."
Ellen still hadn’t heard the BBC mention any terrorist copycats since Patrick told her about the report. This worried her. It seemed like something that would be of vital importance to repeat to the community on a daily basis, at least until those responsible were brought to justice. Unless...
It was almost like Patrick had made the story up. That, combined with the almost eerie calm that he carried with him ever since the first letter arrived, made her even more nervous about this situation. Like he wasn’t telling her something.
Like there was more to those letters than he was letting on.
At last, the summer was nearly to a close. With the exception of the letters, for which Patrick still refused to take any action, things went on as normal. On the last Wednesday of August, Patrick took the day off from his job at the bank, and the Cullens drove into Wick for their traditional pre-school shopping trip, buying new clothes and supplies for Meghan’s final year of primary school. Patrick, with great reservation, even opened up his pockets and allowed his daughter to buy her first pair of heels. Heels that, he muttered to his wife, looked like something that no eleven-year-old should ever own.
“You know I spoil you,” he said to his daughter as he gave his charge card to the cashier.
“I love you too, Daddy,” said Meghan, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
Patrick didn’t feel quite so disgruntled after that.
After they returned home, though, their attention was drawn back to the mysterious letters with a ring of the doorbell.
Meghan, who was in the sitting room watching television when the bell rang, was the one who answered. On their doorstep stood two men, silhouetted against the orange and yellow early evening sky. The man in front, the shorter of the two, was brown-haired with a rumpled suit. He was well-built, but his round face, which despite the scars lining his cheeks and brow appeared pleasant, showed hints that he had lost more than a bit of baby fat in the past few years.
Behind him stood a tall, black man in sunglasses, his dark hair cut short and his goatee neatly trimmed. His suit seemed to match his demeanor: gray with a plain red tie, it appeared to be tailor-made and, to Meghan's eyes, very expensive.
"Miss Cullen?" the shorter man asked.
"Yeah?"
"Are your parents at home?"
"Yeah, just a second," Meghan replied, turning around. "Mum! Someone's at the door!"
"Who is it, dear?" Ellen called from the kitchen.
"Someone asking for you," Meghan said, walking away from the door. "I think they're Jehovah's Witnesses."
"Jenovah's what?" the short man asked as the screen door swung shut with a clatter.
"Don't worry about it," said the taller man with a smirk as it swung open again. "I'll explain later. Maybe. Not important."
"Good evening," said Ellen, leaning against the doorframe.
"Good evening," said the shorter man. "If I may introduce..."
"Before you begin," said Ellen, raising her hand to silence the man, "I should say that our family is very strong in our faith. We attend church regularly, and, while we respect other beliefs, we currently are very comfortable and do not wish to change our denomination at this time."
The tall man's eyebrows raised behind his sunglasses. "Good answer," he said to the short man. "My Mum usually just slammed the door."
"Denomin..." the short man muttered, looking back and forth between Ellen and the tall man. "Oh... oh! No, you misunderstand me, Mrs. Cullen. We don't represent a church, no.”
“You don’t…”
“Actually, we represent a school,” he continued. “We're here to discuss your daughter's scholastic future, and wish to offer Meghan the opportunity to attend a very special, very exclusive school for someone with her unique talents and abilities."
“Unique talents?” Ellen asked with an arched eyebrow. “Like what? I love my daughter like no one else, but it’s no secret that her grades are average at best.”
“If you could just give us a few moments of your time…”
“Who is it, Ellen?”
“Mr. Cullen?”
“That’s right,” said Patrick, standing next to his wife. “What is this all about?”
“They’re from a school,” said Ellen. “They say that they’re…”
“Meghan’s finishing her primary schooling this year,” said Patrick to the two men, “and will be going to Thurso High School next fall. We’re not interested in talking about other schools.”
“Are you sure, Pat?” asked Ellen. “If they’re seeing something in her that the other schools haven’t…”
“We’re not interested,” Patrick repeated.
“Have you received any of the letters we’ve sent?”
Ellen stopped in mid-word and turned to the pair. “Excuse me?”
“The letters,” said the short man. “We’ve attempted to contact you numerous times in the last month regarding your daughter.”
“I said we’re not interested,” Patrick said, even more firmly this time.
“The… the letters?” Ellen stumbled, looking around the three men. “The… Patrick, the anthrax letters?”
“What’s anthrax?” asked the short man.
“Oh, Lord,” the tall man said with a shake of the head. “That’s the excuse he used?”
“Patrick, what is going on?”
“Mrs. Cullen,” the short man said, regaining his composure, “if we could just have a few minutes of your time…”
“Now you listen here,” said Patrick, stepping out onto the front stoop and facing the short man, who was still a good four or five inches taller than he. “I told you, Meghan is not interested in your school.”
“So Meghan is fully aware of the school, then?” asked the tall man. “Fully aware of what we’re offering her? And she still wishes to turn it down?”
“She doesn’t know, and she won’t…”
“Patrick, what are they talking about?”
“Mrs. Cullen,” said the tall man, remaining calm. “When Meghan was eight, she wanted nothing more in the world for Christmas than a toy horse. She took that package from beneath the tree for weeks on end, shook it, wished every day that that’s what it contained.”
“I’m warning you…” Patrick said flatly.
“Patrick, be quiet,” Ellen breathed.
“On Christmas Day,” the man continued, “she opened it, and there it was: the toy horse she had been dreaming of.”
Now Ellen was standing in the doorway, her mouth agape.
“You never bought her that toy, did you, Mrs. Cullen?” he asked. “And did you ever find out what happened to that sweater that you had wrapped in that very box? The sweater that magically disappeared?”
Ellen fell back against the doorframe, but now it was because she didn’t have the strength to stand. “How did you…?”
“When I say your daughter has unique talents,” said the shorter man, “I mean it. Now, may we have a few moments of your time?”
“I’m a what?”
“You’re a witch,” said the shorter, more pleasant man, who had introduced himself as Neville Longbottom. He was a professor at Hogwarts, the school they were now promoting to the Cullens’ only daughter. Dean Thomas, who Neville introduced as an official from a branch of the government that Ellen had never heard of, stood behind Professor Longbottom. He didn’t speak a word after the two entered the house, only idly looked around the sitting room as Longbottom gave his presentation, which had included more than a few displays to prove that, yes, magic is real.
“A witch,” Meghan whispered, tasting the words in her mouth as she kneeled in front of the coffee table, the weasel that had once been the remote control curiously sniffing the drink coasters.
“Not a very nice thing to say about a person, is it?” asked Ellen, glancing uncomfortably at her husband, who had remained silent and withdrawn throughout the passing minutes.
“Oh, I know,” Neville sighed. “Muggle propaganda, I’m afraid. You can call a Muggle man a wizard and it says that they’re skilled and talented and smart. But call a woman a witch, and… Well, in our world, it’s not derogatory.”
“What’s a Muggle?” asked Ellen.
“Someone who can’t use magic,” said Neville.
“I always thought there was something,” Meghan breathed. “It’s like I always felt…”
“Different?” asked Neville with a smile.
“Yeah,” said Meghan, returning his grin. “A witch. Wow. I always thought I was a mutant.”
“Excuse me?” Neville asked as Dean Thomas burst into laughter, the first noise that had come out of his mouth since entering the house.
“You know, a mutant,” Meghan said. “Like in that old Hugh Jackman movie that’s on television all the time.”
“Wow,” said Dean, trying to put down his chuckle. “You know, I’ve been living in the wizard world for over twenty five years, and that’s the first time I’ve ever thought of comparing it to the X-Men. Fits, though.”
“So what do you think, Meghan?” Neville asked. “Are you interested in attending Hogwarts? Pursuing your skills? Becoming a witch?”
“That would be really cool,” said Meghan. “What do you think, Mum?”
“I… I don’t know,” Ellen said. “I mean, it’s certainly a lot to take in… When do you say classes start again?”
“September 1st,” said Neville. “Which I know is in, oh, dear, two days? But, in all honesty, we had assumed we would be hearing back from Meghan sooner…”
“We thought the letters were a joke,” Meghan admitted.
“…But if she says yes,” Neville continued, “we can make arrangements for her. You all can meet with a Hogwarts representative tomorrow who will assist you with purchasing supplies and can also help with any packing of Meghan’s things. It can be myself, if you wish, or we have many other qualified professors who would be happy to help. And any money that you’ve put towards her Muggle schooling will be reimbursed and put towards her Hogwarts materials.”
“How about tuition?” asked Ellen.
“None beyond the need to purchase supplies,” said Neville. “The Ministry of Magic sees training and educating new witches and wizards as one of their top priorities. All Hogwarts students get a free ride.”
“Ministry of Magic…” Meghan said with quiet wonder.
“So, what do you think?” asked Neville. “I would normally say that you have a few days to mull it over, but time is of the essence in this case, I’m afraid.”
“Can I, Mum?” Meghan said, spinning around.
“But what about your friends?” asked Ellen. “Won’t you…?”
“I can keep in touch with them,” she insisted.
“She won’t be the only new student, either,” said Neville. “We’re expecting a nearly full class of first years this year. She’ll have plenty of opportunities to make new friends.”
“And besides, I’m a witch! Isn’t that cool?”
“No,” said Patrick.
It felt as though the air was let out of the room as Meghan turned to her father. “Daddy?”
“I said no,” Patrick repeated. “She’s not going.”
“But, Daddy…”
“You’re not going,” he said, more firmly this time. “You have no idea how dangerous these people are.”
“Well, neither do you?” said Ellen. “Do you? I mean… Patrick, how much do you know about this?”
“This isn’t up for debate,” said Patrick, standing up and facing Neville. “I’ve sat here and let you spew your tripe. Just like a good little boy. And now I’m saying no.”
“Mr. Cullen…”
“And now I want you out of my house.”
“Mrs. Cullen,” said Dean quietly, his back to the group, looking at a collection of family pictures. “Meghan. Could we have a moment alone with Patrick, please?”
“Why?” asked Ellen, suddenly worried.
“We just need to have a talk with him.”
“You’re not going to…?”
“Of course we won’t,” said Neville with a smile.
“Just a few minutes,” Dean said. “If you need assurances, I can give you my wand.”
Ellen and Meghan looked around the room, at Dean Thomas’s calm study of the photographs, Neville Longbottom’s comforting gaze, and Patrick Cullen’s…
Lord, I’ve never seen him like this before, Ellen thought. So angry.
“Patrick?”
“Give us a few minutes, love,” Patrick said, his eyes never leaving Mr. Thomas’s back.
“If… if you say so,” said Ellen. “Come on, Meghan.”
“But, Mum…”
“Listen to your mother, Meghan,” said Patrick. Meghan Cullen hesitated, then allowed her mother to escort her into the kitchen, where they closed the door behind them.
Dean turned for the first time, looking flatly at the closed door. “Neville?”
“On it,” said Neville, pointing his wand at the door.
“What did you do to them?” asked Patrick.
“We didn’t do anything to them,” said Neville, standing up. “I just cast an Imperturbable Charm on the door. For you more than for us.”
“What are you…?”
“Cullen,” said Dean, looking back at the pictures. “It’s a nice name you picked for yourself, Patrick. Fitting. Chose it as soon as you turned eighteen, right? As soon as you could get away from your parents and find a shady character that could make you a false identity? Moved as far away from London as possible without having to cross borders?”
“I…” Patrick stammered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do,” said Dean. “You know exactly what we’re talking about. We know who you really are, Mr. Cullen, just like you know that this isn’t the first time the three of us have met.”
“But don’t worry,” said Neville. “You want to keep your identity secret. That’s fine. It was your choice, and we’ll respect that. But this isn’t about you. It’s about your daughter.”
“I told you,” Patrick said, “Meghan’s not going to that school.”
“And if that’s your ultimate decision, then we’ll respect that, as well,” said Dean. “But not before you know the full extent of your options. Of her options.”
“I know my options,” said Patrick. “She goes to that slaughterhouse or she doesn’t. End of story.”
“No, that’s not true,” said Dean. “Patrick, your daughter is a witch. A powerful witch. The things that she’s already done without training…”
“What are you talking about?” said Patrick. “So she made a sweater turn into a horse. I did more.”
“This is your second house in the last few years, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Patrick.
“What happened to the last house?”
“It…” Patrick trailed off.
“What happened to your last house?”
“It burned down,” Patrick said quietly. “But it was an electrical fire. In the basement.”
“That’s what you were told?” asked Dean.
“Of course that’s what I was told,” said Patrick. “It’s what happened!”
“Then why were you able to rescue your daughter from her burning bedroom before the lower half of the house had even caught?”
“How… how did you know?”
“The Muggle Liaison Department has been tracking you, Patrick,” said Dean. “Every witch and wizard who goes Muggle has the same thing happen to them. To make sure that they don’t let out about our identity, and to step in when it does happen. Our surveillance has gotten very sophisticated in the last few years.”
“But…”
“Also, your daughter was born a witch,” Neville continued. “So she had the Trace placed on her as soon as she was born.”
“Your daughter caused that fire,” said Dean. “Had a nightmare, and started the fire while she was asleep. We modified the memory of the investigators so that that information wouldn’t slip. Let them think it was an electrical fire.”
“That’s impossible…”
“And your neighbor, before the fire,” Dean continued. “How their dog mysteriously died?”
“Torn in half…” Patrick said, falling into one of the cushioned chairs. “Police said…”
“Animal attack, right,” said Dean. “What else would they say? They didn’t know that that dog had taken a vicious bite out of your nine-year-old Meghan’s arm minutes before. She probably didn’t even know she did it until after it happened. When we’re young we have very little control over what magic comes out of us.”
“But she wasn’t bitten!” said Patrick. “She never…”
“She’s an extremely talented, extremely powerful witch,” said Neville. “She transfigured a sweater into a toy horse without even knowing the sweater existed. She set fire to her room while most witches her age wouldn’t be able to do more than Incendio a napkin. She healed a horrible wound faster than a highly-qualified Healer and tore apart the attacking dog without blinking.”
“That’s why you need to listen to us, Mr. Cullen,” said Dean. “The Ministry has had an eye on your daughter for quite some time. The Muggle Liaison Department has been keeping tabs on you, but has also been filing reports to the Aurors about her. Power like hers… Short of Dumbledore and Voldemort…”
“Don’t say that name!” Patrick cried out.
“Patrick,” Neville said slowly. “Our world… Our world isn’t like it was back then. It’s not like it was when the Death Eaters were running the Ministry and Snape and the Carrows were running Hogwarts. Voldemort is dead, plain and simple. The danger’s passed.”
“Why should I believe you?” Patrick snarled. “It wasn’t safe when…”
“That’s because we happened to be at Hogwarts in a historically turbulent time,” said Neville. “There was a war going on, even before Vol… even before You-Know-Who returned to power. That war’s done. It ended nineteen years ago. Hogwarts is stable, the Ministry’s stable. There’s peace now. There’s… there’s happiness again. Things are right again, Patrick. Your daughter can come to Hogwarts without being afraid.”
“If she attends Hogwarts,” said Dean, “she can be trained. Like I said, her power is… well, it’s possible she’s peaking early. But if she’s not…”
“I can still say no,” said Patrick. “I don’t trust...”
“Then you say no,” said Dean with a shrug. “And we have an untrained, unpredictable half-blood on our hands. And Meghan’s situation gets handed up to higher authorities than myself.”
“Are you threatening…?” Patrick said, standing up again. “Are you saying you’ll do something to my daughter?”
“Not threatening, no,” said Dean. “But you must remember that the Ministry is a government body. They have laws for witches and wizards, and it doesn’t matter if that witch or wizard doesn’t recognize their authority. And having a witch like Meghan, who will only get more powerful as she grows older, out in Muggle public… Well, in all honesty, it puts the Statute of Secrecy in serious jeopardy, not to mention the danger to the Muggles themselves.
“I was sent with Neville because I’m a member of the Muggle Liaison Department,” he continued. “I'm in it, along with some other people you may remember from Hogwarts. We handle communications between the Ministry and the Muggle governments, but we also monitor and clean up messes made by wizards around Muggles. We’re the soft hand. If Meghan or her family decline training, then we have no choice but to bring in the hard hand: the Aurors.”
“But there are plenty of witches and wizards who never attended Hogwarts…”
“Most Muggleborns say yes when asked to attend,” said Neville. “Those who decline… well, they’re Muggleborns. We keep an eye on them, but their natural abilities only reach a certain height without the proper training and equipment. But halfbloods and purebloods who don’t go to Hogwarts or Beauxbatons or wherever are usually trained by their parents, who are themselves witches and wizards.”
“But this is a unique case,” said Dean. “A witch of this power, being raised by a Muggle and by a wizard who left school early, who broke his wand, who doesn’t want to be a wizard... It can only spell trouble for everyone.”
“So what do you propose would happen?” asked Patrick. “If we say no?”
“As I said, the Aurors will step in. What they do, I couldn’t say. Memory modification, most likely, for you, Ellen, or Meghan. Possible prison time for you, if you knowingly allow your daughter to continue to live around Muggles. Removing custody of your daughter and placing her into a foster home in the wizarding community.”
“You wouldn’t…”
“I don’t want it,” Dean said softly. “No one wants it. That’s why I’m here and not Seamus. He’s an Auror now, you know. Damn good one, too.”
“That’s why you should say yes to Hogwarts,” said Neville, nearly pleading. “It’s the best option for everyone. She’ll learn how to be a proper witch. She’ll be pursuing a better life than she will in her high school with her average grades. Better job prospects, a much better economy. She'll meet new friends. And, most importantly, she’ll be happy. You heard her. I only talked to her for a half hour, and she wants this. She knows she’s special, she knows she has potential.”
“I didn’t want to say it, Pat,” said Dean Thomas, “but it’s what the old you would want. And it’s what Colin would want for his niece.”
Patrick lowered his head in resignation. He sat silently, his eyes closed, as the minutes ticked by and the sun finally set outside. Neville glanced nervously at the kitchen door, wondering just how the two other Cullens were doing. If they were growing worried about their father and husband.
Dean continued to stare calmly at the man in the chair, who had grown so old… So unlike the little boy in Hagrid’s giant jacket…
“Fine, I give,” the wizard formerly known as Dennis Creevey sighed, looking back up at his former classmates, his former comrades in Dumbledore’s Army. “Where do I sign?”
Patronus / Previous Chapters / Andromeda's Proposal
Author: kanedax
Spoilers: Deathly Hallows, Previous Chapters ( timeline)
Rating: PG-13 for mild language and discussion of violence
Characters: ??? and various OCs
Summary: Meghan Cullen gets her letter
Notes: Nineteen Years Later begins here, with a little bit of a format change to finish up the series.
I own these characters. The others belong to JK Rowling.
Patronus / Previous Chapters / Andromeda's Proposal
“Lovely day outside, isn’t it?”
“Hmm?”
Ellen Cullen turned away from the sink to speak to her husband. “Lovely day,” she repeated, pointing out the lace-draped window with her potato peeler to the sharp blue July sky. “We should go for a walk later.”
“Sounds lovely, dear,” said Patrick Cullen, who was currently slaving over the stove, frying eggs and sausages. It was Saturday morning in the Cullen household, and familiar sounds and smells wafted through the house. Like most families, the Cullens found very little time for the family to sit down together for a meal. Even during the summer, with their daughter Meghan on holiday from classes, they still usually found themselves scrounging through leftovers, digging into the bottom of McDonalds bags, or simply saying “forget it, let’s go out for Chinese.” But every Saturday morning Patrick and Ellen made sure to cook a good, hearty breakfast for the entire family before the usual weekend madness began.
Even if breakfast was usually at ten thirty or eleven in the morning. Meghan liked to get her beauty sleep, and Patrick and Ellen Cullen found it difficult to deny their only child the pleasure of sleeping in while she still had the ability.
“I’m going to go out this afternoon,” said Patrick, a short, middle-aged man with a thick beard and an ever-heightening forehead. “Go to the hardware store.”
“For a new ladder?”
“For a new ladder,” said Patrick, rolling the sausage across the skillet. “Almost killed myself on it last weekend trying to trim the tree.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Ellen. “While you’re out, do you want to price out some door handles, too? The back gate is looking rusty.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Okay, okay, so it wasn’t you,” came a voice from the hall.
Ellen turned to Patrick with a smirk. “Sounds like Meghan’s up.”
Meghan Cullen entered the kitchen. At eleven years old, she had acquired her mother’s brown eyes and straight brown hair, and her father’s height. She was consistently one of the shortest in her class. This morning she was still in her summer pajamas, which today consisted of pink boxer shorts and a Hello Kitty t-shirt, holding her mobile phone to her ear with one hand and clutching a small pile of envelopes in the other.
“Post is here,” she said to her parents.
“Good morning to you, too,” said Patrick with a small smile as Meghan set the mail down on the table and sat down, returning to her early morning phone conversation with one of her friends that the elder Cullens had difficulty keeping track of.
“I promise I won’t blame you anymore,” said Meghan, putting her legs up on the chair next to her, still holding an opened letter. “Then, no, I don’t know who sent it. Who do we know that has a stupid sense of humor?”
“Anything good?” Patrick asked as Ellen finished peeling the potatoes and picked up the mail.
“Might have been Kelly,” said Meghan to her mobile phone, taking an apple from the basket in the middle of the table and taking a bite. “She seems the type… Yeah, I know…”
“Nothing much,” said Ellen, flipping through the envelopes. “Adverts. Adverts. Adverts.”
“It’s kind of stupid, really,” said Meghan. “Like I’d actually fall for it, or something. I’m surprised you didn’t get one, seems like something Kelly would send to as many people as possible.”
“Oh, here’s a postcard from Terry and Jill,” Ellen said.
“Where are they again?” asked Patrick. “They go on holiday every summer, and I can never keep track of where.”
“Get this part,” said Meghan, “The list that she came up with is priceless. A History of Magic. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Magical Theory, by Adalbert Waffling.”
“I guess they’re in Norway this year,” said Ellen, flipping over the postcard to look at the picture on the front. “It’s a picture of one of the fjords.”
“I know, it’s completely stupid,” said Meghan with a sniff. “Like some name made up in a Dr. Seuss book.”
“It’s pretty,” said Ellen. “They seem to be having a good time.”
“Meghan?”
“Parents are reminded that first years are not allowed their own broomsticks,” read Meghan, imitating a schoolmistress before breaking into laughter.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to go to Norway,” said Ellen.
“Meghan.”
“The equipment list is even better, though,” said Meghan. “A wand? A cauldron? A toad? Yeah, a toad! Like with warts and… Oh, yeah, a cat, too.”
“We should think about that next summer,” said Ellen. “Or maybe during Christmas holiday. I think the three of us could…”
“Meghan.”
“Hang on just a second,” said Meghan, covering the receiver of the small phone with her hand. “Yeah, Dad?”
“Where did you get that?”
“What, this?” Meghan asked, holding the two pieces of paper up.
“Yes,” said Patrick slowly. “That.”
“It was with the rest of the mail this morning,” said Meghan, returning to the phone. “Yeah, Cindy, I… no, it doesn’t say black cat, but it probably should have.”
“Can I have it, please?”
“Heh, yeah,” Meghan giggled. “Bubble bubble, toil and trouble. God, what an immature…”
“Meghan!”
“Dad, what?” Meghan retorted shortly. “It’s just a joke. Someone from school sent it, like I’d actually believe it.”
“Pat, are you alright?” asked Ellen, looking nervously at her husband, who looked far from all right. The hand holding the spatula hung limply by his side, the other hand held out in front of him. His eyes were wide, and his face was pale white behind his blond-brown beard.
“I said, can I have it, please,” Patrick repeated.
“Dad, I…”
“Meghan, give me the letter. Now.”
Meghan sighed. “Look, Cindy, I’ll call you back, alright?”
“Patrick, what’s wrong?” Ellen asked as Meghan pushed the disconnect button on her telephone and stood up.
“Thank you,” said Patrick as Meghan handed the letter to her father.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” she said quietly. “It’s just a prank.”
“That’s right,” said Patrick, as though in a daze, as he read at the letter. “It’s just a prank. Just a prank.”
“Pat, the sausages!”
“What?” Patrick said, pulling his eyes away from the parchment.
“The sausages!” Ellen repeated, jumping up and running to the stove. “They’re burning!”
“Oh,” said Patrick, returning to the letter.
“Oh, God, and the eggs are ruined,” Ellen sighed, taking the spatula from Patrick’s hand and flipping the black-singed eggs.
“Burning,” Patrick muttered, his eyes boring into the letter.
“Dad?” Meghan asked. “Dad, you’re getting kinda scary.”
Patrick looked up at his daughter. “Sorry, love,” he said, forcing a twitch of a smile. “It’s just… Meghan, if you get any more of these letters, I want you to give them to me immediately, do you understand? Don’t open them.”
“Why not?” asked Meghan, looking between her parents in confusion. “I mean… they’re just a prank, right?”
“Yes, they are,” said Patrick. “They’re a very dangerous prank, and… Just do as I say.”
“How can they be dangerous?” asked Meghan. “It’s just a letter.”
“Meghan, I…” Patrick stumbled, searching for words. “Just do as I say.”
“Alright?” she said, looking at her father with downright befuddlement.
“Well, these are ruined,” said Ellen with a sigh, turning off the stove. “We’re out of eggs now. Want to just go to the café, see what kind of seats we can get this time of day?”
“Of course,” said Patrick. “Meghan, go get dressed.”
“Dad, you’re being all weird…”
“Just get dressed,” said Patrick. “And keep giving me any more of these letters and I’ll be fine.”
Meghan stared at her father for a few more moments and then, with a shake of her head, left the kitchen. As Ellen heard the stomping of footsteps going up the stairs to the floor above, she turned to her husband. “Patrick, what is going on?”
“Nothing of importance, dear,” said Patrick, slowly walking towards the stove.
“Nothing of importance?” she replied with disbelief.
“That’s right.”
“Pat, it looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You’ll give me any of those letters, as well?”
“Why?” Ellen asked. “Why are they dangerous?”
Patrick didn’t answer. Simply turned the stove back on.
“Patrick?” Ellen repeated. “Why are they dangerous?”
“Anthrax, dear,” Patrick said quietly, staring down into the blue flame of the gas range, letter clutched in his hand.
“Anthrax?”
“I heard about it on the news report,” said Patrick. “They’re saying… that some group is copycatting what happened after the 2001 attacks. Sending out anthrax letters.”
“I don’t remember them saying… That’s… that’s an anthrax letter?” Ellen asked, backing away. “Should we call someone?”
“No,” said Patrick, holding the letter up to his face. “No, this one was just a dud. But just in case…. They… they said that they’re being sent with this seal, this type of ink. Better safe than sorry.”
“I suppose…” Ellen said. “Better safe than sorry. Patrick, are you sure we shouldn’t call someone?”
“Absolutely sure,” he said, touching the corner of the letters to the flame and tossing it into the skillet with the sausages. Watching them, along with the envelope and its wax seal, burn to black ashes.
The Cullens received three more letters by the end of July. Three more the week after that. Five more the week after that, and five more in the weeks that followed.
With each letter, Ellen Cullen grew more and more agitated. “Patrick,” she said on more than one occasion. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call someone? The police? The hospital?”
“I'm sure,” said Patrick, tossing the unopened letter into the fireplace. "Don't worry about it, love."
Ellen still hadn’t heard the BBC mention any terrorist copycats since Patrick told her about the report. This worried her. It seemed like something that would be of vital importance to repeat to the community on a daily basis, at least until those responsible were brought to justice. Unless...
It was almost like Patrick had made the story up. That, combined with the almost eerie calm that he carried with him ever since the first letter arrived, made her even more nervous about this situation. Like he wasn’t telling her something.
Like there was more to those letters than he was letting on.
At last, the summer was nearly to a close. With the exception of the letters, for which Patrick still refused to take any action, things went on as normal. On the last Wednesday of August, Patrick took the day off from his job at the bank, and the Cullens drove into Wick for their traditional pre-school shopping trip, buying new clothes and supplies for Meghan’s final year of primary school. Patrick, with great reservation, even opened up his pockets and allowed his daughter to buy her first pair of heels. Heels that, he muttered to his wife, looked like something that no eleven-year-old should ever own.
“You know I spoil you,” he said to his daughter as he gave his charge card to the cashier.
“I love you too, Daddy,” said Meghan, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
Patrick didn’t feel quite so disgruntled after that.
After they returned home, though, their attention was drawn back to the mysterious letters with a ring of the doorbell.
Meghan, who was in the sitting room watching television when the bell rang, was the one who answered. On their doorstep stood two men, silhouetted against the orange and yellow early evening sky. The man in front, the shorter of the two, was brown-haired with a rumpled suit. He was well-built, but his round face, which despite the scars lining his cheeks and brow appeared pleasant, showed hints that he had lost more than a bit of baby fat in the past few years.
Behind him stood a tall, black man in sunglasses, his dark hair cut short and his goatee neatly trimmed. His suit seemed to match his demeanor: gray with a plain red tie, it appeared to be tailor-made and, to Meghan's eyes, very expensive.
"Miss Cullen?" the shorter man asked.
"Yeah?"
"Are your parents at home?"
"Yeah, just a second," Meghan replied, turning around. "Mum! Someone's at the door!"
"Who is it, dear?" Ellen called from the kitchen.
"Someone asking for you," Meghan said, walking away from the door. "I think they're Jehovah's Witnesses."
"Jenovah's what?" the short man asked as the screen door swung shut with a clatter.
"Don't worry about it," said the taller man with a smirk as it swung open again. "I'll explain later. Maybe. Not important."
"Good evening," said Ellen, leaning against the doorframe.
"Good evening," said the shorter man. "If I may introduce..."
"Before you begin," said Ellen, raising her hand to silence the man, "I should say that our family is very strong in our faith. We attend church regularly, and, while we respect other beliefs, we currently are very comfortable and do not wish to change our denomination at this time."
The tall man's eyebrows raised behind his sunglasses. "Good answer," he said to the short man. "My Mum usually just slammed the door."
"Denomin..." the short man muttered, looking back and forth between Ellen and the tall man. "Oh... oh! No, you misunderstand me, Mrs. Cullen. We don't represent a church, no.”
“You don’t…”
“Actually, we represent a school,” he continued. “We're here to discuss your daughter's scholastic future, and wish to offer Meghan the opportunity to attend a very special, very exclusive school for someone with her unique talents and abilities."
“Unique talents?” Ellen asked with an arched eyebrow. “Like what? I love my daughter like no one else, but it’s no secret that her grades are average at best.”
“If you could just give us a few moments of your time…”
“Who is it, Ellen?”
“Mr. Cullen?”
“That’s right,” said Patrick, standing next to his wife. “What is this all about?”
“They’re from a school,” said Ellen. “They say that they’re…”
“Meghan’s finishing her primary schooling this year,” said Patrick to the two men, “and will be going to Thurso High School next fall. We’re not interested in talking about other schools.”
“Are you sure, Pat?” asked Ellen. “If they’re seeing something in her that the other schools haven’t…”
“We’re not interested,” Patrick repeated.
“Have you received any of the letters we’ve sent?”
Ellen stopped in mid-word and turned to the pair. “Excuse me?”
“The letters,” said the short man. “We’ve attempted to contact you numerous times in the last month regarding your daughter.”
“I said we’re not interested,” Patrick said, even more firmly this time.
“The… the letters?” Ellen stumbled, looking around the three men. “The… Patrick, the anthrax letters?”
“What’s anthrax?” asked the short man.
“Oh, Lord,” the tall man said with a shake of the head. “That’s the excuse he used?”
“Patrick, what is going on?”
“Mrs. Cullen,” the short man said, regaining his composure, “if we could just have a few minutes of your time…”
“Now you listen here,” said Patrick, stepping out onto the front stoop and facing the short man, who was still a good four or five inches taller than he. “I told you, Meghan is not interested in your school.”
“So Meghan is fully aware of the school, then?” asked the tall man. “Fully aware of what we’re offering her? And she still wishes to turn it down?”
“She doesn’t know, and she won’t…”
“Patrick, what are they talking about?”
“Mrs. Cullen,” said the tall man, remaining calm. “When Meghan was eight, she wanted nothing more in the world for Christmas than a toy horse. She took that package from beneath the tree for weeks on end, shook it, wished every day that that’s what it contained.”
“I’m warning you…” Patrick said flatly.
“Patrick, be quiet,” Ellen breathed.
“On Christmas Day,” the man continued, “she opened it, and there it was: the toy horse she had been dreaming of.”
Now Ellen was standing in the doorway, her mouth agape.
“You never bought her that toy, did you, Mrs. Cullen?” he asked. “And did you ever find out what happened to that sweater that you had wrapped in that very box? The sweater that magically disappeared?”
Ellen fell back against the doorframe, but now it was because she didn’t have the strength to stand. “How did you…?”
“When I say your daughter has unique talents,” said the shorter man, “I mean it. Now, may we have a few moments of your time?”
“I’m a what?”
“You’re a witch,” said the shorter, more pleasant man, who had introduced himself as Neville Longbottom. He was a professor at Hogwarts, the school they were now promoting to the Cullens’ only daughter. Dean Thomas, who Neville introduced as an official from a branch of the government that Ellen had never heard of, stood behind Professor Longbottom. He didn’t speak a word after the two entered the house, only idly looked around the sitting room as Longbottom gave his presentation, which had included more than a few displays to prove that, yes, magic is real.
“A witch,” Meghan whispered, tasting the words in her mouth as she kneeled in front of the coffee table, the weasel that had once been the remote control curiously sniffing the drink coasters.
“Not a very nice thing to say about a person, is it?” asked Ellen, glancing uncomfortably at her husband, who had remained silent and withdrawn throughout the passing minutes.
“Oh, I know,” Neville sighed. “Muggle propaganda, I’m afraid. You can call a Muggle man a wizard and it says that they’re skilled and talented and smart. But call a woman a witch, and… Well, in our world, it’s not derogatory.”
“What’s a Muggle?” asked Ellen.
“Someone who can’t use magic,” said Neville.
“I always thought there was something,” Meghan breathed. “It’s like I always felt…”
“Different?” asked Neville with a smile.
“Yeah,” said Meghan, returning his grin. “A witch. Wow. I always thought I was a mutant.”
“Excuse me?” Neville asked as Dean Thomas burst into laughter, the first noise that had come out of his mouth since entering the house.
“You know, a mutant,” Meghan said. “Like in that old Hugh Jackman movie that’s on television all the time.”
“Wow,” said Dean, trying to put down his chuckle. “You know, I’ve been living in the wizard world for over twenty five years, and that’s the first time I’ve ever thought of comparing it to the X-Men. Fits, though.”
“So what do you think, Meghan?” Neville asked. “Are you interested in attending Hogwarts? Pursuing your skills? Becoming a witch?”
“That would be really cool,” said Meghan. “What do you think, Mum?”
“I… I don’t know,” Ellen said. “I mean, it’s certainly a lot to take in… When do you say classes start again?”
“September 1st,” said Neville. “Which I know is in, oh, dear, two days? But, in all honesty, we had assumed we would be hearing back from Meghan sooner…”
“We thought the letters were a joke,” Meghan admitted.
“…But if she says yes,” Neville continued, “we can make arrangements for her. You all can meet with a Hogwarts representative tomorrow who will assist you with purchasing supplies and can also help with any packing of Meghan’s things. It can be myself, if you wish, or we have many other qualified professors who would be happy to help. And any money that you’ve put towards her Muggle schooling will be reimbursed and put towards her Hogwarts materials.”
“How about tuition?” asked Ellen.
“None beyond the need to purchase supplies,” said Neville. “The Ministry of Magic sees training and educating new witches and wizards as one of their top priorities. All Hogwarts students get a free ride.”
“Ministry of Magic…” Meghan said with quiet wonder.
“So, what do you think?” asked Neville. “I would normally say that you have a few days to mull it over, but time is of the essence in this case, I’m afraid.”
“Can I, Mum?” Meghan said, spinning around.
“But what about your friends?” asked Ellen. “Won’t you…?”
“I can keep in touch with them,” she insisted.
“She won’t be the only new student, either,” said Neville. “We’re expecting a nearly full class of first years this year. She’ll have plenty of opportunities to make new friends.”
“And besides, I’m a witch! Isn’t that cool?”
“No,” said Patrick.
It felt as though the air was let out of the room as Meghan turned to her father. “Daddy?”
“I said no,” Patrick repeated. “She’s not going.”
“But, Daddy…”
“You’re not going,” he said, more firmly this time. “You have no idea how dangerous these people are.”
“Well, neither do you?” said Ellen. “Do you? I mean… Patrick, how much do you know about this?”
“This isn’t up for debate,” said Patrick, standing up and facing Neville. “I’ve sat here and let you spew your tripe. Just like a good little boy. And now I’m saying no.”
“Mr. Cullen…”
“And now I want you out of my house.”
“Mrs. Cullen,” said Dean quietly, his back to the group, looking at a collection of family pictures. “Meghan. Could we have a moment alone with Patrick, please?”
“Why?” asked Ellen, suddenly worried.
“We just need to have a talk with him.”
“You’re not going to…?”
“Of course we won’t,” said Neville with a smile.
“Just a few minutes,” Dean said. “If you need assurances, I can give you my wand.”
Ellen and Meghan looked around the room, at Dean Thomas’s calm study of the photographs, Neville Longbottom’s comforting gaze, and Patrick Cullen’s…
Lord, I’ve never seen him like this before, Ellen thought. So angry.
“Patrick?”
“Give us a few minutes, love,” Patrick said, his eyes never leaving Mr. Thomas’s back.
“If… if you say so,” said Ellen. “Come on, Meghan.”
“But, Mum…”
“Listen to your mother, Meghan,” said Patrick. Meghan Cullen hesitated, then allowed her mother to escort her into the kitchen, where they closed the door behind them.
Dean turned for the first time, looking flatly at the closed door. “Neville?”
“On it,” said Neville, pointing his wand at the door.
“What did you do to them?” asked Patrick.
“We didn’t do anything to them,” said Neville, standing up. “I just cast an Imperturbable Charm on the door. For you more than for us.”
“What are you…?”
“Cullen,” said Dean, looking back at the pictures. “It’s a nice name you picked for yourself, Patrick. Fitting. Chose it as soon as you turned eighteen, right? As soon as you could get away from your parents and find a shady character that could make you a false identity? Moved as far away from London as possible without having to cross borders?”
“I…” Patrick stammered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do,” said Dean. “You know exactly what we’re talking about. We know who you really are, Mr. Cullen, just like you know that this isn’t the first time the three of us have met.”
“But don’t worry,” said Neville. “You want to keep your identity secret. That’s fine. It was your choice, and we’ll respect that. But this isn’t about you. It’s about your daughter.”
“I told you,” Patrick said, “Meghan’s not going to that school.”
“And if that’s your ultimate decision, then we’ll respect that, as well,” said Dean. “But not before you know the full extent of your options. Of her options.”
“I know my options,” said Patrick. “She goes to that slaughterhouse or she doesn’t. End of story.”
“No, that’s not true,” said Dean. “Patrick, your daughter is a witch. A powerful witch. The things that she’s already done without training…”
“What are you talking about?” said Patrick. “So she made a sweater turn into a horse. I did more.”
“This is your second house in the last few years, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Patrick.
“What happened to the last house?”
“It…” Patrick trailed off.
“What happened to your last house?”
“It burned down,” Patrick said quietly. “But it was an electrical fire. In the basement.”
“That’s what you were told?” asked Dean.
“Of course that’s what I was told,” said Patrick. “It’s what happened!”
“Then why were you able to rescue your daughter from her burning bedroom before the lower half of the house had even caught?”
“How… how did you know?”
“The Muggle Liaison Department has been tracking you, Patrick,” said Dean. “Every witch and wizard who goes Muggle has the same thing happen to them. To make sure that they don’t let out about our identity, and to step in when it does happen. Our surveillance has gotten very sophisticated in the last few years.”
“But…”
“Also, your daughter was born a witch,” Neville continued. “So she had the Trace placed on her as soon as she was born.”
“Your daughter caused that fire,” said Dean. “Had a nightmare, and started the fire while she was asleep. We modified the memory of the investigators so that that information wouldn’t slip. Let them think it was an electrical fire.”
“That’s impossible…”
“And your neighbor, before the fire,” Dean continued. “How their dog mysteriously died?”
“Torn in half…” Patrick said, falling into one of the cushioned chairs. “Police said…”
“Animal attack, right,” said Dean. “What else would they say? They didn’t know that that dog had taken a vicious bite out of your nine-year-old Meghan’s arm minutes before. She probably didn’t even know she did it until after it happened. When we’re young we have very little control over what magic comes out of us.”
“But she wasn’t bitten!” said Patrick. “She never…”
“She’s an extremely talented, extremely powerful witch,” said Neville. “She transfigured a sweater into a toy horse without even knowing the sweater existed. She set fire to her room while most witches her age wouldn’t be able to do more than Incendio a napkin. She healed a horrible wound faster than a highly-qualified Healer and tore apart the attacking dog without blinking.”
“That’s why you need to listen to us, Mr. Cullen,” said Dean. “The Ministry has had an eye on your daughter for quite some time. The Muggle Liaison Department has been keeping tabs on you, but has also been filing reports to the Aurors about her. Power like hers… Short of Dumbledore and Voldemort…”
“Don’t say that name!” Patrick cried out.
“Patrick,” Neville said slowly. “Our world… Our world isn’t like it was back then. It’s not like it was when the Death Eaters were running the Ministry and Snape and the Carrows were running Hogwarts. Voldemort is dead, plain and simple. The danger’s passed.”
“Why should I believe you?” Patrick snarled. “It wasn’t safe when…”
“That’s because we happened to be at Hogwarts in a historically turbulent time,” said Neville. “There was a war going on, even before Vol… even before You-Know-Who returned to power. That war’s done. It ended nineteen years ago. Hogwarts is stable, the Ministry’s stable. There’s peace now. There’s… there’s happiness again. Things are right again, Patrick. Your daughter can come to Hogwarts without being afraid.”
“If she attends Hogwarts,” said Dean, “she can be trained. Like I said, her power is… well, it’s possible she’s peaking early. But if she’s not…”
“I can still say no,” said Patrick. “I don’t trust...”
“Then you say no,” said Dean with a shrug. “And we have an untrained, unpredictable half-blood on our hands. And Meghan’s situation gets handed up to higher authorities than myself.”
“Are you threatening…?” Patrick said, standing up again. “Are you saying you’ll do something to my daughter?”
“Not threatening, no,” said Dean. “But you must remember that the Ministry is a government body. They have laws for witches and wizards, and it doesn’t matter if that witch or wizard doesn’t recognize their authority. And having a witch like Meghan, who will only get more powerful as she grows older, out in Muggle public… Well, in all honesty, it puts the Statute of Secrecy in serious jeopardy, not to mention the danger to the Muggles themselves.
“I was sent with Neville because I’m a member of the Muggle Liaison Department,” he continued. “I'm in it, along with some other people you may remember from Hogwarts. We handle communications between the Ministry and the Muggle governments, but we also monitor and clean up messes made by wizards around Muggles. We’re the soft hand. If Meghan or her family decline training, then we have no choice but to bring in the hard hand: the Aurors.”
“But there are plenty of witches and wizards who never attended Hogwarts…”
“Most Muggleborns say yes when asked to attend,” said Neville. “Those who decline… well, they’re Muggleborns. We keep an eye on them, but their natural abilities only reach a certain height without the proper training and equipment. But halfbloods and purebloods who don’t go to Hogwarts or Beauxbatons or wherever are usually trained by their parents, who are themselves witches and wizards.”
“But this is a unique case,” said Dean. “A witch of this power, being raised by a Muggle and by a wizard who left school early, who broke his wand, who doesn’t want to be a wizard... It can only spell trouble for everyone.”
“So what do you propose would happen?” asked Patrick. “If we say no?”
“As I said, the Aurors will step in. What they do, I couldn’t say. Memory modification, most likely, for you, Ellen, or Meghan. Possible prison time for you, if you knowingly allow your daughter to continue to live around Muggles. Removing custody of your daughter and placing her into a foster home in the wizarding community.”
“You wouldn’t…”
“I don’t want it,” Dean said softly. “No one wants it. That’s why I’m here and not Seamus. He’s an Auror now, you know. Damn good one, too.”
“That’s why you should say yes to Hogwarts,” said Neville, nearly pleading. “It’s the best option for everyone. She’ll learn how to be a proper witch. She’ll be pursuing a better life than she will in her high school with her average grades. Better job prospects, a much better economy. She'll meet new friends. And, most importantly, she’ll be happy. You heard her. I only talked to her for a half hour, and she wants this. She knows she’s special, she knows she has potential.”
“I didn’t want to say it, Pat,” said Dean Thomas, “but it’s what the old you would want. And it’s what Colin would want for his niece.”
Patrick lowered his head in resignation. He sat silently, his eyes closed, as the minutes ticked by and the sun finally set outside. Neville glanced nervously at the kitchen door, wondering just how the two other Cullens were doing. If they were growing worried about their father and husband.
Dean continued to stare calmly at the man in the chair, who had grown so old… So unlike the little boy in Hagrid’s giant jacket…
“Fine, I give,” the wizard formerly known as Dennis Creevey sighed, looking back up at his former classmates, his former comrades in Dumbledore’s Army. “Where do I sign?”
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