A Network of Spittle - Part I
Title: A Network of Spittle - Part I
Summary: July 31st, 1980 was a very curious night, indeed. The news of young Mr. Potter's birth, though technically secret, made its way from hidden cottages to private meetings all across the country through a network magic and spittle. 100% canon compliant, including Pottermore and interview details.
Characters/Pairings: Gen. Ensemble, including all Marauders, several members of the original Order of the Phoenix, Voldemort and Death Eaters
Genre: Drama/comedy.
Rating/Warnings: All ages
Word Count: 13,862
Can the Order post to Tumblr?: no
Your soul was like a network of spittle
*
James could not remember the charm to bewitch the wooden spoon into stirring on its own, nor the charm that would set the Chinese fans flapping against the slight breeze floating in through the kitchen window. That these were both first-year spells straight out of Goshawk's Standard Bookwas either a sign that he ought to give it up and move straight into St. Mungo's, or a mark of his own incompetence in the face of impending doom and/or parenthood. Either way, he stirred the pot vigorously, watching the string thrash in the bubbles like a flag in a rainstorm.
That thing under the sink better not be a Devonshire pixie, he thought.
What was the string for again? Didn't Muggles boil things to clean them or something? Seemed a trifle odd and not particularly relevant to a wizarding birth, but then again, Lily was Muggle-born. She'd know things like that. And Raymonda the healer had set him up with a job to do (in his mind's eye, he could see Lily mouthing the words you had ONE job) and by Merlin, he was going to do it right.
On second thought, maybe a Devonshire pixie might be nice.
It might take his mind off... other small and squealing creatures. That, and the heat. It was seven hundred and thirty-one degrees Flamel outside, and possibly more in the stifling kitchen. Of course Lily had to go off on the hottest night of the century. Of course it had to be the night the Cannons went up against the Kestrels for the semi-finals. Of course it had to be-
"AAAAH!" He whipped his wand out of his pocket with sweaty hands and rather less finesse than he might have hoped. It was either a Padfoot, a vengeful pureblood in a cloak or-
"Raymonda?" he asked in a small voice.
A friendly-faced witch with waist-length grey hair was motioning frantically and mouthing something at him. He raised an eyebrow. She gestured from her mouth to his ears, her wand waving in the air and emitting a few accidental red sparks.
"What? Is something wrong? Did something happen? Or not happen? That was, er, supposed to happen? Or not happen yet?" he shouted.
She scowled at him and lunged for his wand, grabbing it out of his startled fingers and muttering "...tatem." James heard a noise like a vacuum-sealed jar being popped open.
"Oh," he said sheepishly, "Muffling charm, nice and simple, y'know... keeps me focused on all that, er, string that-"
"Potter." Raymonda reached for a rag to wipe the sweat off her brow, then changed her mind at the last moment when she realized how dirty the rag was. "Ye might wanna turn off that stove and have a look at yer son."
James' wand set off a crackling bolt of electricity of its own accord.
"Go on then," she laughed. "And I'll take care o' this pixie nest. Nasty things, they are."
***
The one thing Wendy and David Marks disliked about the old half-timbered cottage in Cokeworth was the bird problem. There must have been an owl's nest of some size in the abandoned barn across the river, because an unholy number of owls seemed to use their barbecue as a latrine and their Ford Capri as a urinal. The morning that Wendy found feathers of at least twenty-one different colours in the girls' inflatable pool was the last straw. It simply wasn't hygienic.
***
Mr. Evans was simply too old, too awkward and too male to be sorting through a rainbow of rubber soothers in an attempt to determine which particular soother his grandson was screaming for. He chose a cheery-looking yellow one with little ducks on the ring and held it up. "See, little tyke? See the duckies?"
"NNYYYYEAAAAAAARGHHGHG!"
He attempted a blue soother with a particularly large and sparkly ring. "Come on then, Dudley. Be a good boy and-"
He felt the warm, gooey spray of mucus trickle down his face. Wasn't there some sort of trick with babies, he wondered? Something that made them quiet? Petunia hadn't screeched like this when she was small. But perhaps that was because her mother was around, he thought, feeling a lump form in his throat.
Dudley was now sobbing and spewing spittle at the walls with an amount of force that simply didn't seem probable for a five-week-old. And it was a surprising amount of strength. No wonder Vernon medaled in heavyweight in college. Mr. Evans attempted to clean up the mess with a dishtowel patterned with beryoza leaves. Dudley attempted to bite off his thumb as he wiped around his mouth. Mr. Evans blinked. Did that leaf just detach from the twig?
"MAAAAAAAA!" Dudley screamed. A globule of snot dripped out of his nose. Mr. Evans sighed. If his wife were here- but she wasn't, and that was that. Best to stay in the moment, carry on. Strong upper lip and all that. He pulled a random soother out of the plastic container and shoved it into Dudley's mouth with some unnecessary force. A top-notch babysitter he was not, but he doubted his daughter and son-in-law would even notice Dudley's mess when they returned from the kennel club.
Mr. Evans glanced up out the window at a glimmer of white in the sky- surely an airplane, off to take the holiday-ing couples to Spain and Portugal. But when he peered out at the sky, he saw only a sliver of crescent moon.
Mr. Evans shook his head and turned on the faucet, trying to scrub some porridge out of the dish towel. Dudley was now pounding on his high chair's little table and kicking the air but the soother seemed to quiet him somewhat. Mr. Evans watched a beryoza leaf redden and drift down from the branch- the branch that was woven into the pattern of this entirely static dish towel. These things had once been shocking, not to mention a little disturbing, but now Mr. Evans only thought: Lily. But it was half-two in the morning and-
He felt a grin spreading over his face like a rising moon. Dudley burped.
***
"Shhh!"
"Have you-"
He felt a hand slap over his mouth in the dark. His muscles tensed, wand hand ready, held at shoulder height as they had been taught by McGonagall when they were inducted into the Order. He heard the quiet moan of a shutter's hinges. A siren sounded off in the distance.
"Can you see what's behind me?" whispered McKinnon.
"Nothing."
"I heard something."
"Right, well, it's not like we're in the midst of a city of twelve million odd people or anything," he hissed back. She slowly rotated in position. He felt the cool ripple of the cloak slide over the two of them.
"Hush!" she murmured. "Sometimes you're as dimwitted as your brother, Black."
He held perfectly still, straining to see in the darkness. They'd put out all the street lights on the block, just in case any Muggles got the wrong idea. Sirius felt his heartbeat slowly increase. He pushed away the panic and fear and settled into a kind of alert trance, his mind narrow and focused, his reflexes taut. This was what he was good at; not being afraid when by all means, he really ought to be. His attention flowed around him, a pool of total awareness of his surroundings forming a ring around the two of them. Four stories above the street, Frank and Alice Longbottom - newly delivered of a baby boy- and Dedalus Diggle were creeping through an apartment with only a single wand between the three of them. Their mission was a secret; it was unwise for the Order's intelligence to be spread amongst more people than was absolutely necessary. Sirius had a single task and a single partner and his job was to do that task whilst keeping himself and his partner alive.
An air conditioner shut off. The sudden absence of white noise made both of them jump.
"What was that?" he whispered.
"Muggle device. Don't worry." Sirius noticed the tiniest glint of light on the white of her eye.
Then they both heard it. A soft noise- familiar. The flapping of wings and a gentle hoot put Sirius' mind slowly at ease. The owl was a splotch of black against navy sky. He was briefly able to glimpse its outline, backlit by a car's headlights as it passed through the intersection. Then the shape disappeared, but its flapping was becoming louder.
"Merlin," muttered McKinnon. "Who'd owl us on duty?"
Sirius could think of quite a few people who would take a risk like that, but two of them were dead, one had disappeared mysteriously and one was incapacitated, which left only two others.
"D'you think it can see through the cloak?" he asked, realizing that if the owl was somehow able to see in the darkness of the alleyway, perhaps its vision was quite a bit keener than his own.
His question was answered when the owl landed on his shoulder, digging its claws into the cloak. Its talons were sharp and painful.
"Damn! Get off-" he felt McKinnon's hand smother his exclamations once again. The owl dropped the envelope on his shoulder and he caught it instinctively with reflexes born out of years of Quidditch drilling. He thought to tear it open, as if he were a Legilimens, he could hear McKinnon's thoughts: Don't. Rip. It. Open. And definitely, don't light your wand. The two of them paused, breathing heavily with anticipation and uncertainty.
Something sounded, like a spark. He heard a crackling and, with a dreadful sinking in his stomach, smelt smoke.
"This better not be what I think it is!" hissed McKinnon. "I'll honestly murder whoever-"
Sirius hurried to make sure the letter was entirely covered by the cloak, even as it grew hot under his fingers and flames burst out, illuminating the red of the envelope. The flap opened on its own.
"No!" he tried to stifle it with his hands, blisters bubbling from the heat, but the envelope yanked its way out of his hands, opened its mouth and wailed.
"What?" whispered McKinnon, uncomprehendingly. She wheeled around to face the letter, her wand held out behind her. She and Sirius listened in horror as the envelope- which was unusually small as envelopes go- cried. It hiccupped briefly and then began to yelp like a wounded puppy.
No, not a puppy. "It's Prongs!" Sirius exclaimed, forgetting to keep his voice down. "And Lily! The baby must have-"
"Oh!" McKinnon whooped as quietly as she could muster. It was not often that an owl in the middle of the night brought good news anymore. She laughed. "I should've known. Only one of yours would be stupid enough to send a bloody Howler while we're on guard-"
"Eh, that's Prongs," Sirius half-whispered, half-laughed as he dusted ash off his hands. He winced at the burns. "How far away do I need to get to Apparate without blowing this thing?"
McKinnon grabbed his arm and pulled him somewhat violently beneath the eave of the apartment building. Another car was passing the intersection, this time somewhat slowly. "You're not Apparating anywhere. You're on duty until they're finished."
"But it's Prongs", whined Sirius. "And Lily. And we don't know how long it'll be or what they're even doing in there."
"And your feet hurt, and it's past your bedtime and blah, blah, blah," she said sternly. "D'you know how important this mission is?"
"D'you know how important my best mate becoming probably the most unsuitable parent in the universe is?" he said haughtily. "What type of friend would I be-"
"-if you blew off Moody's explicit request to stand guard over this mission that he's been planning since April and which could quite possibly attract several ticked-off Death Eaters?"
The Howler began wailing again, as if in response.
"You know," said Sirius, "if I know Prongs, and I do, he'd have that thing bewitched so that it won't stop crying until I get on over there."
McKinnon inhaled sharply, as if to consider his point. The letter began making high-pitched squeals. She glanced back and forth around them.
"We'll get rid of it," she whispered. "You're staying put." She reached for the remains of the burning letter and it jerked out of her reach at the last moment. It fluttered in the air between them, dodging its way out of McKinnon's attempts to grab it.
"So's the letter, I suppose," said Sirius, with a smirk creeping up his cheeks.
McKinnon grimaced. She sighed heavily and eyed the letter with a narrow squint.
Sirius patted her shoulder. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'll get Caradoc to cover for me. Or someone else. It's going to be alright."
"But is it?" she asked quietly. Their eyes met in the dim light of the smoking letter. Her knuckles were blanched white over her wand.
Sirius put on what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "For you, at least. I've got to get vengeance for the Howler. Poor kid's going to be a ward of the Ministry when I get through with Prongs and Lily," he said and slipped off the cloak quickly, blinking in the dark as Marlene McKinnon disappeared.
***
Like glass balls like cold streams of logic
*
Albus Dumbledore was pacing back and forth in his office. A small, ugly winged cherub was hovering above him, waving a fan and occasionally emitting a little fart. The portraits behind him were all sleeping, most of them genuinely- for it was three in the morning- but a few were twitching just a little too frequently.
"Are we to wait here for twenty-four hours, Albus?" asked Minerva. "Surely it's not that urgent that we can't wait and see."
Without looking up at her, he replied, "We are waiting and seeing right here, in my office. When it happens, I want to be the first to know." He glanced up and saw her critical look. "The first to know between myself and Lord Vo-
Cringing, she interrupted him. "But there's nothing to be done either way. This won't change anything."
He paused and picked up a small glass instrument in which coloured beads of light rose and fell rhythmically . "On the contrary, Minerva. There is quite a lot that will change. I know him. Voldemort never fails to be proactive. He will want to know everything he can about this child and compare it to the other."
Minerva fell silent. She sensed his anticipation, his excitement, even. He was fiddling with the glass instrument, clearly eager to make use of whatever lay inside.
"Does timing make a difference?" she asked.
He paused and gently unhooked the end of his beard from his belt. Stroking the fuzzy tip, Dumbledore said, "Well. That is a question, isn't it."
"I don't understand."
"I expect that Lord Voldemort- oh, for heaven's sake, Minerva, it's only a word- will be particularly attuned to the timing, yes. Perhaps I will sound parochial saying this, but Lord Voldemort is somewhat- shall we say, superstitious." Minerva could not help emitting a sniff. He adjusted his spectacles and fixed her with a gentle smile. "My apologies. What I intended to impart to you was just how deeply Tom Riddle reads into symbols, omens of any kind. I realize your father was a minister and a very educated man."
Minerva looked away from Dumbledore and out the window. The scarlet brocade curtains were tied open and no glass stood between the office and the warm midnight gale. Outside, the grounds of the castle were deserted. Hagrid was out in Aberdeen on Order business for the summer, and Dumbledore no longer utilized owl post. A potted larkspur on the windowsill waved in the slight breeze, the only moving thing in the night. Minerva remembered staring at this window, on a warm September night nine years prior, as ten little white fingers curled around the stone corbel's precipice. Another ten fingers, browner and slightly dirtier, appeared at the side of the window. She remembered Pomona's one raised eyebrow as they exchanged looks while a pair of bespectacled eyes rose slowly over the sill. She had said nothing while Filch lectured the staff on the importance of regular corridor inspections, allowing only a small smirk when the bespectacled eyes met with her own and hastily disappeared, along with all twenty fingers.
"Would you like something to drink? Tea? Moonmead?"
"No thank you, Albus."
"Very well, then. I shall have to consume this excellent sangria Horace has prepared on my own." Dumbledore sat down at his desk and jerked his wand quickly. A golden pitcher appeared. He poured a bright pink liquid into a mug patterned with exploding gobstones, which gave occasionally gave off real puffs of smoke. He raised the mug, nodded at her, and took a swig. "Ah. Excellent, as usual. How I do love essence of mulberry." The cherub farted loudly, and then covered his face with one chubby hand in mock embarrassment. He winked at Minerva's glare.
"Albus," she said, hesitantly. "Are you quite sure about the Potter's child? I mean- in terms of the importance..."
Dumbledore smiled cryptically. "Of course not. I am not the least bit sure of anything at all. For all we know, I could have hired a Muggle carnival performer to read palms for us in a tent."
Minerva narrowed her eyes.
"However, I am certain that Voldemort is quite certain, as he tends to feel. Therefore, it is imperative that we pay heed to anything to which he may pay heed. And, yes- there are other reasons. I knew Tom Riddle as a child, as a student and as a young man. And I have cause to believe that this child will be of some considerable significance to him. And that," he said, taking another long sip of the sangria, "is why we are waiting up all night. Umph. Sorry," he said slyly. "Swallowed a whole grape there. I forgot how tricky Horace can be."
But she had not forgotten how tricky Potter could be, especially when he was with Black. And how mischievously innocent their upturned faces had been, as she stood over them in the corridor later that night nine years ago, her wand casting an ethereal glow over their matching expressions. She had never had children, Minerva, though not entirely for want of trying. And many times, in those midnight hallways or stormy rooftops, in exploded storage rooms or even on the midst of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, she had thanked Merlin for having had the sense to refrain from becoming a parent.
"Well, look at that," said Dumbledore quietly. He was eyeing the glass device again, watching a green spark float upward slowly, as a white spark floated down. "Interesting."
It had been two long years since she last stayed up a night brainstorming for punishments without loopholes to exploit. Now she sat in a straight backed chair in the wee hours of the morning of the last day of July and thought she saw, for a split second, the spectre of twenty small fingers once again before her, some smeared with jam, others blotted with drink ink, clinging to the window sill, or snatching up a broom, digging into Christmas pudding, writing two hundred and fifty lines in Minerva's office. It was an odd sensation, the yearning to once again feel her blood pressure rise as she opened a classroom door to find all the furniture stuck to the ceiling with a frustratingly complex charm. Minerva watched sparks exchange places in Dumbledore's machine. Several sparks seemed stuck in the midst, unable to decide which way to go. Meanwhile, one spark was glowing brighter and brighter, making its way right up to the top.
"Minerva," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye. "I do think I ought to pour you a drink. Actually," he stroked his beard, "knowing the house of Gryffindor, I think seven or eight might do the trick."
"Is it- has it-?"
"I think it has, Professor. Or rather, he has."
"He..."
Dumbledore nodded and with a flick of his wand, a brass tankard of Moonmead appeared before her.
It was at that moment, precisely three twenty-one in the morning, when Minerva nearly suffered a coronary embolism at the realization that fighting Lord Voldemort was probably going to take less out of her than rearing another Potter boy.
***
Several hundred miles away in Kent, in a small village called Lower Humphrey Bog, Hestia Jones wiped the sweat off her brow with a scarlet handkerchief. She was labouring over a steaming potion, adding one petal of belladonna every thirty-four seconds. The potion had been simmering since the previous afternoon, and as resident potioneer to the Order of the Phoenix, her job was to brew mysterious concoctions day and night, rather than, say, fly to exotic locales to fight off Dark creatures and duel with her old school rivals. Unlike some people, Hestia's schedule was ordinary and unyielding and required her to wake up at any hour of the night to tend to complex elixirs, draughts as demanding as newborns. There were about two thousand things Hestia would prefer to be doing than plucking petals over the hearth of Dedalus Diggle's cottage in the wee hours of a humid July night, but nobody else in the Order had her patience or her facility with a cauldron. Or rather, nobody but Lily, and as Lily was nine months pregnant and could not bend her waist by more than a 30 degree angle, not to mention tolerate the various smells and the awful heat of the ancient 24-gallon pewter pot which served as the Order's trusty, if rusted over communal cauldron, Hestia was left alone to stir the Victory Vat, as she had taken to calling it in bouts of particularly bitter frustration.
She heard a loud thump, followed by several muttered swear words. Without flinching, Hestia sighed and said, "Edgar, I warned you that the stairs are jinxed? Can't you just learn to use the ladder?"
"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Keep forgetting. Are we going to get that fixed then, or just keep on climbing like we're in a bloody tree house?"
She felt her cheeks burn slightly at the sound of his voice. It was a good thing the fire was so hot. "I think Dumbledore's going to come around and see about it. Mad-Eye tried, but you know he's not much at domestic charms. Did you remember your wand, this time?" she asked, pivoting to face him.
Edgar said "Oops," in such a delightfully embarrassed tone that Hestia felt a near-uncontrollable urge to take off his inverted Muggle baseball cap and turn the brim right-side up.
"Sorry 'bout that. Terribly foolish move and all, I left it in the loo. I don't know what's wrong with my head these days," he said and stepped onto the first stair as Hestia lunged to stop him. "Whoops- damned jelly steps! Whose idea- oof!" he exclaimed as the gelatinous stair broke his fall like a jiggling trampoline.
Hestia smiled and gave him a hand up. "Where are you off to then?" Seeing his expression change, she added, "Or am I allowed to ask?"
"I-" he hesitated, fiddling with the curling brim of his cap. A sprig of reddish-blond curls hung over his forehead, matted own by the hat.
"Eddie," she said quietly. "If you can't tell me... Just please be safe."
He smiled lopsidedly at her. Hestia felt the familiar mixture of fear and panicked love bubbling inside her skin like a potion about to froth up and out of her body.
"I'll be perfectly fine," he said cheerily. "I've got a real top drawer partner and it's no big deal- just stand guard, extra pair of eyes, not too complex. Good thing, seeing as my head's on backwards today."
"Who's your partner? I mean- if you can tell me," asked Hestia.
"Kinney, actually. Yeah, she had another partner but I've got to fill in for Sirius Black," he added upon seeing Hestia's brow furrow. "Don't be too concerned, he's fine. Just needed a substitute."
The cause of Hestia's concern was not related to the wellbeing of Sirius Black- if he were harmed, Hestia was pretty sure she would find out by the massive Dark Mark rockets that would explode all over Britain to the tune of "Ding, Dong, the Snitch Is Dead"- but she merely said, "Look out for yourself, Eddie. Be careful."
"Thanks! Now, I'll use the ladder- yes, I remember," he muttered, jumping onto the second rung from the floor. "Kinney's pretty good at keeping her ears open, so I should be alright. Plus, " he added, crawling onto the landing of the second floor, "she's got Potter's cloak."
"Right," said Hestia. She suddenly remembered her potion, and hurriedly plucked several more petals of belladonna to add to the stew. It bubbled and the colour deepened from pale yellow to a rich emerald green. It hissed over the heat and a droplet splashed out and hit her in the eye. Hestia resisted the urge to cast a deep-freezing charm over the potion, the fire and probably Edgar too. Perhaps McKinnon could be tempted into doing it herself, if Edgar forgot his wand, or his brain, once again.
"Oh, and I just remembered!" he shouted from upstairs. Edgar emerged from the hallway in a pair of hideously checkered Muggle pants and an orange nylon diving shirt. His wand was tucked awkwardly into his overly-tight back pocket. "Sirius- he's gone to Godric's Hollow to see Potter- and Evans, I mean Lily Potter- she had the baby!"
"You forgot to mention that?"
"Erm," he blushed. "Well, see, it's just that Marl- Kinney only sort of mentioned that-"
"Is Lily alright? How's the baby? Is Sirius completely barking, to ditch a Mission at three in the morning!" Hestia shouted over the sinking lump in her throat.
Edgar startled at her yelling and stepped back and to his left in one abrupt gesture...right onto the first step of the enchanted staircase.
Hestia was about to remand him when a loud crack sounded and a gruff voice beat her to it. "BONES! What did I say about being AWARE OF YOUR SURROUNDINGS at ALL TIMES!" The grumpy older man was standing on the coffee table in the middle of Dedalus Diggle's living room, one boot dripping swampy water onto the 18th century lacquered inlay. Hestia and Edgar exchanged anxious looks as a wooden leg popped out of its socket with a nasty squelch.
"Sorry 'bout the stairs, I-"
"I should not have been able to Apparate effortlessly into this county, never mind an Order safe house!" hissed Moody. "You lot are fixing for a right good sneak attack by any Azkaban-addled maniac with a wand." He hopped off the coffee table and grabbed his wooden leg off the floor, shoving the knee back into its socket right before Hestia's repulsed grimace.
Edgar Bones looked up from where he lay, half-submerged in wood grain patterned jelly, and smiled half-heartedly at Moody's roaming blue eye. A chunk of wobbly carpet-jelly glistened on the brim of his baseball cap. Hestia conjured a limp handkerchief and handed it to Moody to clean the coffee table. He promptly blew his nose into it.
"Hello, Mad-Eye, er, sir," whimpered Edgar. "Enchantments went a bit awry, tonight, I'm afraid. We were short staffed 'cos Remus is away."
"Tha's no excuse for negligent safety precautions!" Hestia noticed how bloodshot Moody's natural eye was as his giant blue eye whizzed around the cottage. He looked distressed, well- more distressed than usual. She stirred the cauldron, aware of Moody's gaze boring into her through the back of his head, even as he glared at Edgar's collapse behind her.
Edgar said in a small voice, "Potter had- I mean, Lily," he started again. "It's a baby."
"Well, I guess it wasn't going to be a Kneazle now, would it?" Moody said belligerently.
"A boy, I mean. " Edgar pulled himself up onto his elbows. In spite of herself, Hestia smiled at the mess of jelly staining the diving shirt. It was a boy. James would be glad, Sirius probably even more so. Lily would be glad that she would not have to trust James with handling a daughter. The daughter-that-never-was was probably glad not to have been born to James Potter.
Moody knocked the floor with his staff and said, "Ah, well. Life doesn't stop for You-Know-Who. Or kids. I'm going to take a knock about this place and cast some decent defensive spells." He took off for Diggle's kitchen, wand held out in front of him at shoulder height like a torch.
She turned around and caught Edgar's wink. Blushing, she said, "Mad-Eye's always been so sentimental."
"Aah, children. Only thing he loves more than surprises." They giggled in unison. She tried not to think about babies, particularly babies with reddish peach fuzz and dazed expressions. They were in a war, after all. She was not the only one who would have to make sacrifices, not that she really had anything to sacrifice anyway.
"Well, then." He cleared his throat. "Duty calls. I'll be back by this afternoon, hopefully in one piece. Or at least Kinney will be."
Hestia nodded and swallowed her thought. She returned to the hearth to check on her potion's progression. It was inching along, though her neglectful timing would lessen the potency by at least ten percent. She turned and opened her mouth to remind Edgar to take his Remembrall but he had already disappeared to the garden, ready to Apparate off into another world.
***
Read Part IInederlandergirl/Ravenclaw/125 points
Summary: July 31st, 1980 was a very curious night, indeed. The news of young Mr. Potter's birth, though technically secret, made its way from hidden cottages to private meetings all across the country through a network magic and spittle. 100% canon compliant, including Pottermore and interview details.
Characters/Pairings: Gen. Ensemble, including all Marauders, several members of the original Order of the Phoenix, Voldemort and Death Eaters
Genre: Drama/comedy.
Rating/Warnings: All ages
Word Count: 13,862
Can the Order post to Tumblr?: no
Your soul was like a network of spittle
*
James could not remember the charm to bewitch the wooden spoon into stirring on its own, nor the charm that would set the Chinese fans flapping against the slight breeze floating in through the kitchen window. That these were both first-year spells straight out of Goshawk's Standard Bookwas either a sign that he ought to give it up and move straight into St. Mungo's, or a mark of his own incompetence in the face of impending doom and/or parenthood. Either way, he stirred the pot vigorously, watching the string thrash in the bubbles like a flag in a rainstorm.
That thing under the sink better not be a Devonshire pixie, he thought.
What was the string for again? Didn't Muggles boil things to clean them or something? Seemed a trifle odd and not particularly relevant to a wizarding birth, but then again, Lily was Muggle-born. She'd know things like that. And Raymonda the healer had set him up with a job to do (in his mind's eye, he could see Lily mouthing the words you had ONE job) and by Merlin, he was going to do it right.
On second thought, maybe a Devonshire pixie might be nice.
It might take his mind off... other small and squealing creatures. That, and the heat. It was seven hundred and thirty-one degrees Flamel outside, and possibly more in the stifling kitchen. Of course Lily had to go off on the hottest night of the century. Of course it had to be the night the Cannons went up against the Kestrels for the semi-finals. Of course it had to be-
"AAAAH!" He whipped his wand out of his pocket with sweaty hands and rather less finesse than he might have hoped. It was either a Padfoot, a vengeful pureblood in a cloak or-
"Raymonda?" he asked in a small voice.
A friendly-faced witch with waist-length grey hair was motioning frantically and mouthing something at him. He raised an eyebrow. She gestured from her mouth to his ears, her wand waving in the air and emitting a few accidental red sparks.
"What? Is something wrong? Did something happen? Or not happen? That was, er, supposed to happen? Or not happen yet?" he shouted.
She scowled at him and lunged for his wand, grabbing it out of his startled fingers and muttering "...tatem." James heard a noise like a vacuum-sealed jar being popped open.
"Oh," he said sheepishly, "Muffling charm, nice and simple, y'know... keeps me focused on all that, er, string that-"
"Potter." Raymonda reached for a rag to wipe the sweat off her brow, then changed her mind at the last moment when she realized how dirty the rag was. "Ye might wanna turn off that stove and have a look at yer son."
James' wand set off a crackling bolt of electricity of its own accord.
"Go on then," she laughed. "And I'll take care o' this pixie nest. Nasty things, they are."
***
The one thing Wendy and David Marks disliked about the old half-timbered cottage in Cokeworth was the bird problem. There must have been an owl's nest of some size in the abandoned barn across the river, because an unholy number of owls seemed to use their barbecue as a latrine and their Ford Capri as a urinal. The morning that Wendy found feathers of at least twenty-one different colours in the girls' inflatable pool was the last straw. It simply wasn't hygienic.
***
Mr. Evans was simply too old, too awkward and too male to be sorting through a rainbow of rubber soothers in an attempt to determine which particular soother his grandson was screaming for. He chose a cheery-looking yellow one with little ducks on the ring and held it up. "See, little tyke? See the duckies?"
"NNYYYYEAAAAAAARGHHGHG!"
He attempted a blue soother with a particularly large and sparkly ring. "Come on then, Dudley. Be a good boy and-"
He felt the warm, gooey spray of mucus trickle down his face. Wasn't there some sort of trick with babies, he wondered? Something that made them quiet? Petunia hadn't screeched like this when she was small. But perhaps that was because her mother was around, he thought, feeling a lump form in his throat.
Dudley was now sobbing and spewing spittle at the walls with an amount of force that simply didn't seem probable for a five-week-old. And it was a surprising amount of strength. No wonder Vernon medaled in heavyweight in college. Mr. Evans attempted to clean up the mess with a dishtowel patterned with beryoza leaves. Dudley attempted to bite off his thumb as he wiped around his mouth. Mr. Evans blinked. Did that leaf just detach from the twig?
"MAAAAAAAA!" Dudley screamed. A globule of snot dripped out of his nose. Mr. Evans sighed. If his wife were here- but she wasn't, and that was that. Best to stay in the moment, carry on. Strong upper lip and all that. He pulled a random soother out of the plastic container and shoved it into Dudley's mouth with some unnecessary force. A top-notch babysitter he was not, but he doubted his daughter and son-in-law would even notice Dudley's mess when they returned from the kennel club.
Mr. Evans glanced up out the window at a glimmer of white in the sky- surely an airplane, off to take the holiday-ing couples to Spain and Portugal. But when he peered out at the sky, he saw only a sliver of crescent moon.
Mr. Evans shook his head and turned on the faucet, trying to scrub some porridge out of the dish towel. Dudley was now pounding on his high chair's little table and kicking the air but the soother seemed to quiet him somewhat. Mr. Evans watched a beryoza leaf redden and drift down from the branch- the branch that was woven into the pattern of this entirely static dish towel. These things had once been shocking, not to mention a little disturbing, but now Mr. Evans only thought: Lily. But it was half-two in the morning and-
He felt a grin spreading over his face like a rising moon. Dudley burped.
***
"Shhh!"
"Have you-"
He felt a hand slap over his mouth in the dark. His muscles tensed, wand hand ready, held at shoulder height as they had been taught by McGonagall when they were inducted into the Order. He heard the quiet moan of a shutter's hinges. A siren sounded off in the distance.
"Can you see what's behind me?" whispered McKinnon.
"Nothing."
"I heard something."
"Right, well, it's not like we're in the midst of a city of twelve million odd people or anything," he hissed back. She slowly rotated in position. He felt the cool ripple of the cloak slide over the two of them.
"Hush!" she murmured. "Sometimes you're as dimwitted as your brother, Black."
He held perfectly still, straining to see in the darkness. They'd put out all the street lights on the block, just in case any Muggles got the wrong idea. Sirius felt his heartbeat slowly increase. He pushed away the panic and fear and settled into a kind of alert trance, his mind narrow and focused, his reflexes taut. This was what he was good at; not being afraid when by all means, he really ought to be. His attention flowed around him, a pool of total awareness of his surroundings forming a ring around the two of them. Four stories above the street, Frank and Alice Longbottom - newly delivered of a baby boy- and Dedalus Diggle were creeping through an apartment with only a single wand between the three of them. Their mission was a secret; it was unwise for the Order's intelligence to be spread amongst more people than was absolutely necessary. Sirius had a single task and a single partner and his job was to do that task whilst keeping himself and his partner alive.
An air conditioner shut off. The sudden absence of white noise made both of them jump.
"What was that?" he whispered.
"Muggle device. Don't worry." Sirius noticed the tiniest glint of light on the white of her eye.
Then they both heard it. A soft noise- familiar. The flapping of wings and a gentle hoot put Sirius' mind slowly at ease. The owl was a splotch of black against navy sky. He was briefly able to glimpse its outline, backlit by a car's headlights as it passed through the intersection. Then the shape disappeared, but its flapping was becoming louder.
"Merlin," muttered McKinnon. "Who'd owl us on duty?"
Sirius could think of quite a few people who would take a risk like that, but two of them were dead, one had disappeared mysteriously and one was incapacitated, which left only two others.
"D'you think it can see through the cloak?" he asked, realizing that if the owl was somehow able to see in the darkness of the alleyway, perhaps its vision was quite a bit keener than his own.
His question was answered when the owl landed on his shoulder, digging its claws into the cloak. Its talons were sharp and painful.
"Damn! Get off-" he felt McKinnon's hand smother his exclamations once again. The owl dropped the envelope on his shoulder and he caught it instinctively with reflexes born out of years of Quidditch drilling. He thought to tear it open, as if he were a Legilimens, he could hear McKinnon's thoughts: Don't. Rip. It. Open. And definitely, don't light your wand. The two of them paused, breathing heavily with anticipation and uncertainty.
Something sounded, like a spark. He heard a crackling and, with a dreadful sinking in his stomach, smelt smoke.
"This better not be what I think it is!" hissed McKinnon. "I'll honestly murder whoever-"
Sirius hurried to make sure the letter was entirely covered by the cloak, even as it grew hot under his fingers and flames burst out, illuminating the red of the envelope. The flap opened on its own.
"No!" he tried to stifle it with his hands, blisters bubbling from the heat, but the envelope yanked its way out of his hands, opened its mouth and wailed.
"What?" whispered McKinnon, uncomprehendingly. She wheeled around to face the letter, her wand held out behind her. She and Sirius listened in horror as the envelope- which was unusually small as envelopes go- cried. It hiccupped briefly and then began to yelp like a wounded puppy.
No, not a puppy. "It's Prongs!" Sirius exclaimed, forgetting to keep his voice down. "And Lily! The baby must have-"
"Oh!" McKinnon whooped as quietly as she could muster. It was not often that an owl in the middle of the night brought good news anymore. She laughed. "I should've known. Only one of yours would be stupid enough to send a bloody Howler while we're on guard-"
"Eh, that's Prongs," Sirius half-whispered, half-laughed as he dusted ash off his hands. He winced at the burns. "How far away do I need to get to Apparate without blowing this thing?"
McKinnon grabbed his arm and pulled him somewhat violently beneath the eave of the apartment building. Another car was passing the intersection, this time somewhat slowly. "You're not Apparating anywhere. You're on duty until they're finished."
"But it's Prongs", whined Sirius. "And Lily. And we don't know how long it'll be or what they're even doing in there."
"And your feet hurt, and it's past your bedtime and blah, blah, blah," she said sternly. "D'you know how important this mission is?"
"D'you know how important my best mate becoming probably the most unsuitable parent in the universe is?" he said haughtily. "What type of friend would I be-"
"-if you blew off Moody's explicit request to stand guard over this mission that he's been planning since April and which could quite possibly attract several ticked-off Death Eaters?"
The Howler began wailing again, as if in response.
"You know," said Sirius, "if I know Prongs, and I do, he'd have that thing bewitched so that it won't stop crying until I get on over there."
McKinnon inhaled sharply, as if to consider his point. The letter began making high-pitched squeals. She glanced back and forth around them.
"We'll get rid of it," she whispered. "You're staying put." She reached for the remains of the burning letter and it jerked out of her reach at the last moment. It fluttered in the air between them, dodging its way out of McKinnon's attempts to grab it.
"So's the letter, I suppose," said Sirius, with a smirk creeping up his cheeks.
McKinnon grimaced. She sighed heavily and eyed the letter with a narrow squint.
Sirius patted her shoulder. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'll get Caradoc to cover for me. Or someone else. It's going to be alright."
"But is it?" she asked quietly. Their eyes met in the dim light of the smoking letter. Her knuckles were blanched white over her wand.
Sirius put on what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "For you, at least. I've got to get vengeance for the Howler. Poor kid's going to be a ward of the Ministry when I get through with Prongs and Lily," he said and slipped off the cloak quickly, blinking in the dark as Marlene McKinnon disappeared.
***
Like glass balls like cold streams of logic
*
Albus Dumbledore was pacing back and forth in his office. A small, ugly winged cherub was hovering above him, waving a fan and occasionally emitting a little fart. The portraits behind him were all sleeping, most of them genuinely- for it was three in the morning- but a few were twitching just a little too frequently.
"Are we to wait here for twenty-four hours, Albus?" asked Minerva. "Surely it's not that urgent that we can't wait and see."
Without looking up at her, he replied, "We are waiting and seeing right here, in my office. When it happens, I want to be the first to know." He glanced up and saw her critical look. "The first to know between myself and Lord Vo-
Cringing, she interrupted him. "But there's nothing to be done either way. This won't change anything."
He paused and picked up a small glass instrument in which coloured beads of light rose and fell rhythmically . "On the contrary, Minerva. There is quite a lot that will change. I know him. Voldemort never fails to be proactive. He will want to know everything he can about this child and compare it to the other."
Minerva fell silent. She sensed his anticipation, his excitement, even. He was fiddling with the glass instrument, clearly eager to make use of whatever lay inside.
"Does timing make a difference?" she asked.
He paused and gently unhooked the end of his beard from his belt. Stroking the fuzzy tip, Dumbledore said, "Well. That is a question, isn't it."
"I don't understand."
"I expect that Lord Voldemort- oh, for heaven's sake, Minerva, it's only a word- will be particularly attuned to the timing, yes. Perhaps I will sound parochial saying this, but Lord Voldemort is somewhat- shall we say, superstitious." Minerva could not help emitting a sniff. He adjusted his spectacles and fixed her with a gentle smile. "My apologies. What I intended to impart to you was just how deeply Tom Riddle reads into symbols, omens of any kind. I realize your father was a minister and a very educated man."
Minerva looked away from Dumbledore and out the window. The scarlet brocade curtains were tied open and no glass stood between the office and the warm midnight gale. Outside, the grounds of the castle were deserted. Hagrid was out in Aberdeen on Order business for the summer, and Dumbledore no longer utilized owl post. A potted larkspur on the windowsill waved in the slight breeze, the only moving thing in the night. Minerva remembered staring at this window, on a warm September night nine years prior, as ten little white fingers curled around the stone corbel's precipice. Another ten fingers, browner and slightly dirtier, appeared at the side of the window. She remembered Pomona's one raised eyebrow as they exchanged looks while a pair of bespectacled eyes rose slowly over the sill. She had said nothing while Filch lectured the staff on the importance of regular corridor inspections, allowing only a small smirk when the bespectacled eyes met with her own and hastily disappeared, along with all twenty fingers.
"Would you like something to drink? Tea? Moonmead?"
"No thank you, Albus."
"Very well, then. I shall have to consume this excellent sangria Horace has prepared on my own." Dumbledore sat down at his desk and jerked his wand quickly. A golden pitcher appeared. He poured a bright pink liquid into a mug patterned with exploding gobstones, which gave occasionally gave off real puffs of smoke. He raised the mug, nodded at her, and took a swig. "Ah. Excellent, as usual. How I do love essence of mulberry." The cherub farted loudly, and then covered his face with one chubby hand in mock embarrassment. He winked at Minerva's glare.
"Albus," she said, hesitantly. "Are you quite sure about the Potter's child? I mean- in terms of the importance..."
Dumbledore smiled cryptically. "Of course not. I am not the least bit sure of anything at all. For all we know, I could have hired a Muggle carnival performer to read palms for us in a tent."
Minerva narrowed her eyes.
"However, I am certain that Voldemort is quite certain, as he tends to feel. Therefore, it is imperative that we pay heed to anything to which he may pay heed. And, yes- there are other reasons. I knew Tom Riddle as a child, as a student and as a young man. And I have cause to believe that this child will be of some considerable significance to him. And that," he said, taking another long sip of the sangria, "is why we are waiting up all night. Umph. Sorry," he said slyly. "Swallowed a whole grape there. I forgot how tricky Horace can be."
But she had not forgotten how tricky Potter could be, especially when he was with Black. And how mischievously innocent their upturned faces had been, as she stood over them in the corridor later that night nine years ago, her wand casting an ethereal glow over their matching expressions. She had never had children, Minerva, though not entirely for want of trying. And many times, in those midnight hallways or stormy rooftops, in exploded storage rooms or even on the midst of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, she had thanked Merlin for having had the sense to refrain from becoming a parent.
"Well, look at that," said Dumbledore quietly. He was eyeing the glass device again, watching a green spark float upward slowly, as a white spark floated down. "Interesting."
It had been two long years since she last stayed up a night brainstorming for punishments without loopholes to exploit. Now she sat in a straight backed chair in the wee hours of the morning of the last day of July and thought she saw, for a split second, the spectre of twenty small fingers once again before her, some smeared with jam, others blotted with drink ink, clinging to the window sill, or snatching up a broom, digging into Christmas pudding, writing two hundred and fifty lines in Minerva's office. It was an odd sensation, the yearning to once again feel her blood pressure rise as she opened a classroom door to find all the furniture stuck to the ceiling with a frustratingly complex charm. Minerva watched sparks exchange places in Dumbledore's machine. Several sparks seemed stuck in the midst, unable to decide which way to go. Meanwhile, one spark was glowing brighter and brighter, making its way right up to the top.
"Minerva," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye. "I do think I ought to pour you a drink. Actually," he stroked his beard, "knowing the house of Gryffindor, I think seven or eight might do the trick."
"Is it- has it-?"
"I think it has, Professor. Or rather, he has."
"He..."
Dumbledore nodded and with a flick of his wand, a brass tankard of Moonmead appeared before her.
It was at that moment, precisely three twenty-one in the morning, when Minerva nearly suffered a coronary embolism at the realization that fighting Lord Voldemort was probably going to take less out of her than rearing another Potter boy.
***
Several hundred miles away in Kent, in a small village called Lower Humphrey Bog, Hestia Jones wiped the sweat off her brow with a scarlet handkerchief. She was labouring over a steaming potion, adding one petal of belladonna every thirty-four seconds. The potion had been simmering since the previous afternoon, and as resident potioneer to the Order of the Phoenix, her job was to brew mysterious concoctions day and night, rather than, say, fly to exotic locales to fight off Dark creatures and duel with her old school rivals. Unlike some people, Hestia's schedule was ordinary and unyielding and required her to wake up at any hour of the night to tend to complex elixirs, draughts as demanding as newborns. There were about two thousand things Hestia would prefer to be doing than plucking petals over the hearth of Dedalus Diggle's cottage in the wee hours of a humid July night, but nobody else in the Order had her patience or her facility with a cauldron. Or rather, nobody but Lily, and as Lily was nine months pregnant and could not bend her waist by more than a 30 degree angle, not to mention tolerate the various smells and the awful heat of the ancient 24-gallon pewter pot which served as the Order's trusty, if rusted over communal cauldron, Hestia was left alone to stir the Victory Vat, as she had taken to calling it in bouts of particularly bitter frustration.
She heard a loud thump, followed by several muttered swear words. Without flinching, Hestia sighed and said, "Edgar, I warned you that the stairs are jinxed? Can't you just learn to use the ladder?"
"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Keep forgetting. Are we going to get that fixed then, or just keep on climbing like we're in a bloody tree house?"
She felt her cheeks burn slightly at the sound of his voice. It was a good thing the fire was so hot. "I think Dumbledore's going to come around and see about it. Mad-Eye tried, but you know he's not much at domestic charms. Did you remember your wand, this time?" she asked, pivoting to face him.
Edgar said "Oops," in such a delightfully embarrassed tone that Hestia felt a near-uncontrollable urge to take off his inverted Muggle baseball cap and turn the brim right-side up.
"Sorry 'bout that. Terribly foolish move and all, I left it in the loo. I don't know what's wrong with my head these days," he said and stepped onto the first stair as Hestia lunged to stop him. "Whoops- damned jelly steps! Whose idea- oof!" he exclaimed as the gelatinous stair broke his fall like a jiggling trampoline.
Hestia smiled and gave him a hand up. "Where are you off to then?" Seeing his expression change, she added, "Or am I allowed to ask?"
"I-" he hesitated, fiddling with the curling brim of his cap. A sprig of reddish-blond curls hung over his forehead, matted own by the hat.
"Eddie," she said quietly. "If you can't tell me... Just please be safe."
He smiled lopsidedly at her. Hestia felt the familiar mixture of fear and panicked love bubbling inside her skin like a potion about to froth up and out of her body.
"I'll be perfectly fine," he said cheerily. "I've got a real top drawer partner and it's no big deal- just stand guard, extra pair of eyes, not too complex. Good thing, seeing as my head's on backwards today."
"Who's your partner? I mean- if you can tell me," asked Hestia.
"Kinney, actually. Yeah, she had another partner but I've got to fill in for Sirius Black," he added upon seeing Hestia's brow furrow. "Don't be too concerned, he's fine. Just needed a substitute."
The cause of Hestia's concern was not related to the wellbeing of Sirius Black- if he were harmed, Hestia was pretty sure she would find out by the massive Dark Mark rockets that would explode all over Britain to the tune of "Ding, Dong, the Snitch Is Dead"- but she merely said, "Look out for yourself, Eddie. Be careful."
"Thanks! Now, I'll use the ladder- yes, I remember," he muttered, jumping onto the second rung from the floor. "Kinney's pretty good at keeping her ears open, so I should be alright. Plus, " he added, crawling onto the landing of the second floor, "she's got Potter's cloak."
"Right," said Hestia. She suddenly remembered her potion, and hurriedly plucked several more petals of belladonna to add to the stew. It bubbled and the colour deepened from pale yellow to a rich emerald green. It hissed over the heat and a droplet splashed out and hit her in the eye. Hestia resisted the urge to cast a deep-freezing charm over the potion, the fire and probably Edgar too. Perhaps McKinnon could be tempted into doing it herself, if Edgar forgot his wand, or his brain, once again.
"Oh, and I just remembered!" he shouted from upstairs. Edgar emerged from the hallway in a pair of hideously checkered Muggle pants and an orange nylon diving shirt. His wand was tucked awkwardly into his overly-tight back pocket. "Sirius- he's gone to Godric's Hollow to see Potter- and Evans, I mean Lily Potter- she had the baby!"
"You forgot to mention that?"
"Erm," he blushed. "Well, see, it's just that Marl- Kinney only sort of mentioned that-"
"Is Lily alright? How's the baby? Is Sirius completely barking, to ditch a Mission at three in the morning!" Hestia shouted over the sinking lump in her throat.
Edgar startled at her yelling and stepped back and to his left in one abrupt gesture...right onto the first step of the enchanted staircase.
Hestia was about to remand him when a loud crack sounded and a gruff voice beat her to it. "BONES! What did I say about being AWARE OF YOUR SURROUNDINGS at ALL TIMES!" The grumpy older man was standing on the coffee table in the middle of Dedalus Diggle's living room, one boot dripping swampy water onto the 18th century lacquered inlay. Hestia and Edgar exchanged anxious looks as a wooden leg popped out of its socket with a nasty squelch.
"Sorry 'bout the stairs, I-"
"I should not have been able to Apparate effortlessly into this county, never mind an Order safe house!" hissed Moody. "You lot are fixing for a right good sneak attack by any Azkaban-addled maniac with a wand." He hopped off the coffee table and grabbed his wooden leg off the floor, shoving the knee back into its socket right before Hestia's repulsed grimace.
Edgar Bones looked up from where he lay, half-submerged in wood grain patterned jelly, and smiled half-heartedly at Moody's roaming blue eye. A chunk of wobbly carpet-jelly glistened on the brim of his baseball cap. Hestia conjured a limp handkerchief and handed it to Moody to clean the coffee table. He promptly blew his nose into it.
"Hello, Mad-Eye, er, sir," whimpered Edgar. "Enchantments went a bit awry, tonight, I'm afraid. We were short staffed 'cos Remus is away."
"Tha's no excuse for negligent safety precautions!" Hestia noticed how bloodshot Moody's natural eye was as his giant blue eye whizzed around the cottage. He looked distressed, well- more distressed than usual. She stirred the cauldron, aware of Moody's gaze boring into her through the back of his head, even as he glared at Edgar's collapse behind her.
Edgar said in a small voice, "Potter had- I mean, Lily," he started again. "It's a baby."
"Well, I guess it wasn't going to be a Kneazle now, would it?" Moody said belligerently.
"A boy, I mean. " Edgar pulled himself up onto his elbows. In spite of herself, Hestia smiled at the mess of jelly staining the diving shirt. It was a boy. James would be glad, Sirius probably even more so. Lily would be glad that she would not have to trust James with handling a daughter. The daughter-that-never-was was probably glad not to have been born to James Potter.
Moody knocked the floor with his staff and said, "Ah, well. Life doesn't stop for You-Know-Who. Or kids. I'm going to take a knock about this place and cast some decent defensive spells." He took off for Diggle's kitchen, wand held out in front of him at shoulder height like a torch.
She turned around and caught Edgar's wink. Blushing, she said, "Mad-Eye's always been so sentimental."
"Aah, children. Only thing he loves more than surprises." They giggled in unison. She tried not to think about babies, particularly babies with reddish peach fuzz and dazed expressions. They were in a war, after all. She was not the only one who would have to make sacrifices, not that she really had anything to sacrifice anyway.
"Well, then." He cleared his throat. "Duty calls. I'll be back by this afternoon, hopefully in one piece. Or at least Kinney will be."
Hestia nodded and swallowed her thought. She returned to the hearth to check on her potion's progression. It was inching along, though her neglectful timing would lessen the potency by at least ten percent. She turned and opened her mouth to remind Edgar to take his Remembrall but he had already disappeared to the garden, ready to Apparate off into another world.
***
Read Part IInederlandergirl/Ravenclaw/125 points