Wherein Harry listens to the Beatles, learns to shave, thinks Hermione has been killed, has a flash back, burns down the Auror Situation Room, faces down Fudge, gets ready for the High Tea, travels on the Knight Bus, and meets the Grangers. Hermione thinks some things through.
Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes "fair use" as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.
Chapter 17 - The Road To Hell
"Breep… breep… breep… bree… BLAM"
Harry flinched as he was showered with bits of alarm clock. It had been such a good dream, and there were so precious few of those.…
He and someone … Eliza? Hermione? Generic teen female…? were doing some quite naughty things on a davenport - only it really was not inside. No, there were all these palm trees about, and the davenport was floating in the air and….
Blast. Now the dream was fading away, dribbling away from Harry's conscious memory like water through his bare hands.
"Reparo," Harry muttered unsteadily as he pointed his wand in the area where his alarm clock had been until a few seconds earlier. As the clock reassembled, Harry read "5:01" on its scowling face. He was glad he did not understand the odd pattern of clicks, ticks, chirps, and buzzes emanating from it. Otherwise he suspected he might have been rather offended by rude remarks in Clocktock.
It was time for him to leave sleep behind, to have his run with Dudley, and then…. He stared idly into space as he contemplated what lay ahead.
Awfully many things were going to happen before the next night's sleep. He refocused himself only in response to direct outside intervention. Specifically, his cousin appeared in the doorway and began pelting him (quite accurately) with rolled up dirty socks in order to get him moving.
The big day had finally arrived. Knowing that he would be seeing Hermione this very evening, Harry decided to start with the Beatles CD that included the song that reminded him of her. The second Walkman selection was yet another of Dudley's unwanted Beatles CDs. It had no name that he could see, but turned out to be a good choice. Whilst the first CD had a long song that spoke to him of Hermione, this new (to him) one had a long song strongly reminiscent of his own predicament.
Dudley was not by nature the contemplative type. He could care less about deeper meanings that Harry found lurking in song lyrics. From him, Harry's mention of this musical find drew only an insult. "It figures," Dudley joked, "patron saint of hopeless causes.… Makes it a spot on description of your love life…. Mine too, for that matter…."
Harry returned an equally sarcastic comment. "Well I wonder what kind of music a cretin like you might fancy?"
Dudley simply handed his own Walkman over without words. A few seconds was all Harry could stand. He cringed as a heavy beat and raucous shouting about "TNT" and "dynamite" (which training had taught him were Muggle explosives) assaulted his eardrums.
A conveniently timed post owl provided Harry with just the excuse he needed to terminate the increasingly useless conversation. The handwriting was unfamiliar; he was guessing as he opened it.
It was from Colin Creevey.
Working under Hermione's very loose guidance, he and Dennis had categorized several bags of the fan mail stored at Hogwarts. Colin had sent drafts of suggested replies to Hermione. She would be editing them and submitting the final product for Harry's approval. Almost apologetically, Colin also inquired about being paid.
`Blast it,' thought Harry. `Another thing on my to-do list.' He jotted a quick note to Bill, and gave it to Hedwig. The post explained how he had no cheques and wanted Bill to take all necessary steps to transfer 25 Galleons a week from Harry's Gringotts account to each of the two Creevey brothers.
The run itself was uneventful. Dudley said little, and Harry less.
After showering, Harry was running a trifle late. Standing in the bathroom holding his wand uncertainly, he contemplated his rather scruffy reflection in the mirror. For once, Harry wished it were a wizard mirror, so it could give him advice and instruction on shaving. From snatches of overheard conversation he knew that wizards shaved with their wands. He had no idea what the spell was. For once, his wand was for all intents and purposes useless.
Harry knew a variety of Severing Charms and the like, but was frankly afraid to experiment with them for this purpose. Whilst incidents that illustrated his persistent ignorance about this or that routine magic were becoming less and less frequent, they still occurred. But even he knew better than to try to shave with any spell taught in Auror-level Defence training. He did not fancy slitting his own throat. `Why save Voldemort the trouble,' he thought.
Then Harry had an idea. He had made his hair grow at a tremendous rate when he was little, and he thought he remembered how that had felt. Perhaps he could apply the same wandless magic in reverse. Setting his wand down, he concentrated on reverse replication of that long-ago sensation. He closed his eyes and….
When he opened them, even the Muggle mirror told its tale quite plainly. The wandless magic had been successful - far too successful. The blood drained from his face as Harry gawked at the image gawking back at him. He was … bald. …Completely, totally, and utterly hairless. Even his eyebrows had vanished.
He looked like a bloody light bulb.
With no hair at all, his scar stood out like a banshee at a beauty pageant. He had no illusions that either Hermione or her parents would appreciate his new ultra-skinhead look.
After recovering from the shock, Harry successfully - if squeamishly - reversed the spell. Once again he might have overshot the mark a bit with his magic, although not by as much. After all the back and forth, the scraggly beginnings of a beard on his chin looked more pronounced than ever. So much for his bright ideas. Magic was not nearly as easy as his Muggle relatives thought.
Of all people, Dudley came to his rescue. Both Harry's predicament and his need for a shave were quite obvious to his cousin. After taking the mickey out of him ("very hairy Potter," "the wizard of pez") mercilessly, Dudley showed him how to use a Muggle electric shaver. Harry was amazed at how simple it was after receiving about thirty seconds of instruction. The whirring, circular motion of the shaver's three heads tickled his face, which was unused to the sensation. In less than two minutes Harry was clean-shaven.
Upon seeing him again, Dudley laughed, and commented, "So tonight you're wearing your Nancy boy outfit to impress the clever girl, aren't you? Hope you have more luck this time - otherwise you've wasted a great deal of Sterling."
Harry found Bill waiting impatiently for him at Mrs. Figg's house. His guardian was impressed with Harry's clean-cut appearance. Upon learning of his dependence upon Muggle shaving methods, Bill promised to teach Harry the "real way" - shaving with a wand - soon, maybe the next time that they were together at Hogwarts. He was somewhat taken aback at Harry's sudden lack of enthusiasm for another trip to Hogwarts, but chalked it up to his ward's satisfaction with the Muggle shaver.
Bill did not catch on that, since his dinner with Eliza, Harry was a lot less interested in mastering Sirius' old GKN.
Today's Auror training involved techniques for fighting whilst outnumbered. The session coincided with the annual reunion day for recent graduates of the Auror Candidate School official training programme. This was no accident. The timing allowed Harry's instructors to recruit the necessary number of witches and wizards with Auror-level fighting skills that this particular lesson required.
His instructors were well acquainted with Harry's propensity for outlandish magical outbursts during the heat of battle. Thus they wanted seasoned veterans - witches and wizards who could test Harry's skill level and handle any erratic response might result from Harry being pushed.
There was no shortage of qualified volunteers. Even within a group that tended to be blasé about such things, Harry's reputation (and recent press hype) was such that the opportunity to meet him - not to mention to duel with him - was all the incentive necessary. A little risk just made things interesting. ACS graduates were trained to handle things far worse than a possibly over-enthusiastic trainee unaware of his own strength.
Training to fight multiple foes was twofold. One aspect was solo duelling against as many as five adversaries at once. The other was pitting Harry and Hermione as a team against an even larger number of opponents.
In solo duelling, attackers could enter from any direction - there were hidden entrances in the floor and ceiling. Harry was more proficient than Hermione at this sort of combat for two reasons.
First and foremost was his uncanny ability to aim his spells better whilst moving than whilst stationary. This talent served him well, as unexpected movement was one of the primary methods of evading multiple attackers.
Second, skilled fighters tended to receive a variety of glancing hits whilst outnumbered - fragments of hexes slipping under shields, and the like. With Harry, the pain from these superficial wounds augmented his ability to perform wandless magic. It particularly helped him cast wandless protection spells with his free hand. Lao Kung, in the separate training he was providing, had made wandless ward casting a priority. Now Harry was starting to reap some crossover dividends from his two simultaneous training regimens.
Whilst the objective in multi-attacker duelling was primarily to buy time until help could arrive, Harry still tried to do more than hold his own. Even though lasting fifteen minutes against multiple, Auror-level opponents was more than satisfactory, he still took it personally each time he was stunned.
Hermione was less successful at solo fighting against several opponents because she had to stop and set herself before casting powerful hexes. She also lacked Harry's raw power that allowed him to bring down ceilings and send large objects flying across the room. Her greatest strengths, as always, were her encyclopedic memory coupled with a creative intellect. She never forgot a spell, and she used them in original combinations.
In this way, she took the prize for the most original manœuvre of the day. Fighting four opponents (all of whom were active-duty Aurors), Hermione incapacitated one attacker, grabbed his wand and started blasting away with both hands. Although the spells she cast from a borrowed wand in her off-hand were not particularly strong, simply being able to throw off different hexes simultaneously in different directions caught her adversaries by surprise. Very few magicals had achieved independent use of both hands simultaneously. Hermione lasted almost fifteen minutes herself during this round, even though groups of opponents had come at her in waves.
Harry was not capable of casting different hexes simultaneously. He wondered where she had acquired such an unusual skill.
When Hermione was training, Harry felt extremely twitchy. On a couple of occasions, despite knowing how affronted she would be at his coming to her rescue, he was on the verge of leaping into the fray to help. Even though he had been told that the attackers were using nothing stronger than Expelliarmus and stunners, he tended to forget such details when Hermione was in trouble. Hugo Halliburton made a point of sitting next to Harry to remind him that he was just watching play-acting - very realistic play-acting, but acting nonetheless.
The second half of the simulation, pitting Harry and Hermione as a team against more numerous attackers, went very well. The Aurors were not aware that the team could communicate by Legilimency. Dumbledore's instruction had involved skills that were outside the standard Auror curriculum. Thus the two of them repeatedly caught their attackers by surprise, as with a glance one of them would silently warn the other of otherwise unseen threats or ambushes.
Hermione had already mastered the technique of multiplying her spells by dividing them. She discovered by accident that she could multiply Harry's more powerful spells the same way by touching the tip of her wand to his in a certain way. The result of this collaboration was especially unpleasant for the group of attackers cut down by a hail of more Nauseo hexes that it possible for anyone to block.
On all sides, the level of intensity ratcheted upwards throughout the afternoon. Harry had not seen Hermione this alive since their rescue of Sirius and Buckbeak in Third Year. She was sweaty, dirty, her hair was mussed, her face was flushed - and she was having the time of her life collaborating with him. They were partners; they were protecting each other; and he could not have been happier. He almost had to pinch himself to remain convinced that this was real. What had he ever done to deserve this?
For their part, the Aurors and ex-Aurors discovered that Harry and Hermione were, if anything, even more skilled than their already substantial word-of-mouth reputations suggested. This increasingly vigorous competition climaxed when the duo got the drop on a new group of attackers that included Clifton Branstone, one of the Aurors who had participated in Harry's initial debriefing.
Harry cast a Serpentsortia Curse. Hermione deftly cut the curse into 25 separate beams - all of which became highly poisonous spitting cobras. Once Harry hissed out an attack command in Parseltongue, most of the attackers chose the better part of valour and Disapparated from the room. Even most Aurors were unwilling to confront a regiment of consciously directed venomous snakes on a lark.
Branstone, however, was quite the dueller in his own right. He banished the snakes that attacked him and hurled himself sideways as the Disapparition pops of other Aurors echoed through the room. Using an Excavating Charm and some noisy Disorientation Hexes, he remained hidden in a hole he dug until he managed to get a clear shot at Hermione. Seeking maximum effect on both adversaries, Branstone disguised the stunner he used so that it resembled the slashing purple flame of the Dark Fire of Tu-Fan.
He got rather more effect than he bargained for.
Harry saw the purple flash from the corner of his eye and whirled around just in time to see a thin line of flame connect with Hermione's torso.
"HERMIONEEEE!!"
He screamed out her name as he saw her collapse. His memory flashed back to the desperate fight in the Department of Mysteries when he thought the same spell had just killed her in front of his eyes. Rationality went out the window.
Maddened by terror and rage, Harry responded as if he were once again facing Antonin Dolohov. With what felt almost like a mental click, he roared out "HELLAS INFERNUM!!" A torrent of flaming material emerged from his wand. This substance was known in classical times (to which the spell dated) as "Greek fire;" the exact formula had been lost, but it resembled modern napalm.
Branstone was indeed fortunate that he was a superb dueller. Anything less and another name would have been added to what Harry called his "body count" when he was feeling particularly saturnine. If Branstone had not managed to get an Auror-quality Protego in place just as Harry's spell found its mark, there might not have been enough left of him to fill a thimble.
As it was, the Shield Charm warded off Harry's furious spell, but only barely. The angry orange burst from Harry's wand deformed Branstone's shield, and drove him feet-first straight into the dirt like a spike hit by a sledgehammer. This deformation was fortunate for Harry, because, instead of reflecting the spell back at him, the contorted shield deflected his fountain of fire into one of the walls at a crazy angle.
Ka-Whoosh!
The powerful magic slammed into the wall with an enormous, blinding fireburst that put George's fireworks from the day before to shame. The impact produced a thundering reverberation. The entire Situation Room throbbed like the inside of a great drum. A large portion of what had been a nondescript green wall was glowing red hot and vibrating visibly.
Regaining his self control, Harry appreciated the magnitude of what he had done. He hastily tried to correct things with a Fluvius Charm. This well-intentioned magic just made things worse, because Greek fire burns even under water. The burst of water simply set the flames in motion. A fiery cascade came pouring down the wall - flames mixed with water and phosphine, topped by a hissing cloud of steam.
Harry instinctively scooped up Hermione's limp body, conjured a granite column, and leapt on top of it to avoid the lahar-like torrent of blazing water pouring towards then. Crackling flames mixed with Disapparition pops as those remaining in the Situation Room escaped incineration.
Suddenly there was a louder, lower-pitched "pop" followed immediately by an intense ripping sound. A fifteen by three metre section of the wall abruptly became transparent, and then shattered - sending broken glass raining into the flaming lake. The sudden temperature change wrought by a curtain of fire followed by a geyser of water had exceeded the physical capacity of even two-inch thick magically tempered glass.
What had appeared to be a plain, blank wall stood exposed as a spacious observation booth. The gaping hole revealed quite an audience. Among those clearly visible were Minister Fudge, Chief Auror Scrimgeour, Madam Bones, Headmaster Dumbledore, Arthur Weasley, Shak, and - seated as far away as physically possible from Fudge - Mad-Eye Moody. Dumbledore and Moody already had their wands drawn and were uttering fire-fighting charms. The others seemed glued to their seats, somewhat singed by the blast of hot air that entered when the glass shattered, but otherwise unharmed.
At that moment it barely registered with Harry that he had unwittingly been giving a command performance before the Minister himself, as well providing a spectacular show for many other highly ranked personages of wizarding Britain.
Harry's mind was focussed on another far more pressing matter. Cradling Hermione's body in his arms, he Apparated directly into the observation booth, which was safely above the conflagration. Ignoring the unpleasant Apparition sensations - ignoring everyone else - Harry addressed his Headmaster:
"A Portkey to St. Mungo's…. Now!" he demanded.
"Mister Potter, please calm down," Dumbledore replied serenely. "You need to understand that…."
"We can talk later," Harry interrupted, "but we've got to get her to St. Mungo's immediately. Don't you understand, that berk used a deadly spell! He wasn't supposed to do that!" Harry's eyes were getting wild, and static electricity was beginning to play around him. Fudge and some other occupants of the booth started backing prudently away.
Dumbledore continued. "It's not what you…."
"Finite," incanted Shak. Hermione started moving. In his rich, low voice, he explained, "You see, Mister Potter, all of your opponents were under strict instructions not to use anything more potentially harmful than your basic stunning or disarming spells…."
Shak's explanation would ordinarily have been of great interest to Harry, as the man was providing the background rationale for the drills he had been performing for the past several exhausting hours. But Harry was not paying him any mind at this particular moment. Hermione's groggy, semiconscious movements captured Harry's full attention - especially because he was still holding her in his arms.
She was still far too dazed for Harry to risk setting her on her own two feet quite yet. She sighed audibly, and mumbled something he could not hear, since Scrimgeour and Bones had now joined Moody in yelling out spells to extinguish the fire. Her left arm slipped underneath Harry's and extended more than halfway around his back. Her right arm reached out and tentatively found his left shoulder.
She was lifting herself up towards him. To Harry it resembled nothing so much as one of Eliza's favourite snogging moves. This thrilled Harry, yet terrified him at the same time - he had quite an audience at the moment and no idea what to do or say. He found himself unable to move as her face came closer to him. All he could see were those lips coming towards him…. Please let this happen…. Please let it not….
Hermione's eyes fluttered open. She slowed - and then her body abruptly stiffened as she reclaimed consciousness. She seemed confused. In that, she could have been channelling him.
"Harry!" she exclaimed, "Thank goodness you're really here…. Oh!" She realised with a start that they were not alone. In the next moment she comprehended that the onlookers included the Minister of Magic and others she knew only from photographs. She kicked her feet out of Harry's arms and dropped them to the floor. Standing was difficult. She slipped, wobbled, and staggered. Harry tightened his grip around her waist to make sure she would not fall.
Hermione was mentally reeling. The boundary between reality and her imagination was most unclear. She felt warm and fluttery with amorous thoughts that she had never been able to act upon before. Harry had just saved her life; she was sure of that. Somehow she had been in his arms, and she had been on the verge of snogging him senseless - or maybe that part had only been in a dream, like in a trashy novel. Now she was at a loss. Where had all these people come from?
"Whatever happened here?" Hermione asked nobody in particular. "We were duelling. I saw purple flame coming at me just like at the Ministry, and I thought I was going to die. How did I get here…? And how did all of you get here?"
"As I was explaining to Mister Potter," Shak offered, "your opponents were under strict orders not to use any spells more dangerous than stunners and disarmers - but they could disguise them as worse. You and he, however, have proven to be far better, particularly as a team, than anyone anticipated."
A frown flashed across Fudge's face, but only for an instant, as his impassivity quickly returned.
Shak continued, "You have been using extracurricular spells and, unless I miss my guess, Legilimency to coordinate your actions."
The looks they gave him let Shak know he was correct, so he went on.
"Don't forget that your opponents are all either Aurors or ex-Aurors, and that they take pride in their own abilities. One of them, a Mister Branstone, took it upon himself to concoct a stunning spell that mimicked the spell used on Miss Granger at the Ministry. He was playing by the rules, but stretching them for all they were worth in an effort to win. I do hope he is alright."
"What happened to him?" Hermione asked. "Oh, sweet Merlin," she gasped, taking in the smouldering wreckage to which most of the Situation Room had been reduced. Instantly she was afraid that Harry had just killed someone. This was serious, and she was worried. Harry was extremely fragile in that way. Killing someone intentionally, even while deceived, might just wreck him as well - spiritually if not physically.
"Mister Potter can answer that better than anyone," interjected Dumbledore sombrely.
For his part, Harry was looking stricken. "I … I … I … guess I went off again, didn't I?" he mumbled with his head down. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all. I could have killed him.… I wanted to kill him after what I thought he did…. I don't know that I should be here. I'm dangerous…." He started to walk away, overcome with guilt over what he had nearly done.
Dumbledore was about to say something. He did not have to because Hermione reacted first. She stepped forward and to put a hand on his retreating shoulder. "Harry, don't go. I'm glad you're here. I want you to stay … everyone does. You didn't do anything except try to save my life - again - for which I will always be grateful. You didn't kill anyone, but if this had been a real battle, you wouldn't have had much choice."
She ignored Dumbledore. She ignored Fudge. She ignored everyone except Harry. She guided him to a less damaged part of the observation gallery, banished shards of glass that remained in the chairs, and bade him to sit down.
Harry was so upset at the idea of almost killing an Auror (or anyone who was not a Death Eater) that he surrendered himself to her guidance - indeed, he welcomed it. His mind was still buzzing with the power that his rage had put behind that spell.
She took his hands in hers, and talked to the top of his slumped head.
"Harry, you were magnificent … as always. If this had been real combat, you would have given me a fighting chance. Everyone here was a volunteer. They knew what they were getting into. There's a reason you're being trained. You're powerful…. You're a force for good. All we have to do is help you learn how to control it…. You have to train like this Harry. You have to succeed. The more skilled you become, the less likely that you will have an accident…."
She left out the corollary - that on a battlefield, the more likely he would be to kill people on purpose. He did not need to hear that now. Logic was not always the greatest virtue, and now was one of those times. There would be enough time for logic later. Right now Harry was hurting, and that was what she needed to reach, and to ameliorate.
Harry replied dully, feeling the need to explain himself. "I saw you get hit. It was horrible. Then…. It was almost like being in a trance…. I thought I was back at the Ministry, facing Dolohov. I responded with the first thing that came to mind … the Greek fire spell from you know where. I'm sorry … I just wanted to obliterate him after that. I never should have learnt those spells…. You told me they were troubling."
"Harry, I asked you to look into those spells," she reminded. "Don't blame yourself."
Harry droned on. "I guess he had a shield up, because I didn't hit him - not flush anyway. The spell ricocheted and hit the wall, and then it was fire everywhere. But the other strange thing was that the wall I hit wasn't really a wall. I guess it is - or was - a hidden window.… Some sort of one-way mirror.…"
"Hey!" Harry forgot about Hermione for the moment and rounded on Fudge and the others. "What are all of you doing here anyway?"
In the background, Hermione was relieved. The soul crisis was passing. Harry would not be falling to pieces this day - not ever, if she had anything to do with it.
"Oversight," said Fudge imperturbably. "Your training involves a considerable investment of resources, both human and matériel, by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and other units. It is my responsibility, as the accountable, authorising officer, to determine if that time and money is well-spent."
Chief Auror Scrimgeour filled in the details. "This session was planned weeks ago to coincide with the annual reunion of the Auror Corps, to which all ACS graduates are invited. The graduates, both active Aurors and those who have moved on to other careers, comprised the attackers whom you have been battling all day. Most of the organisations contributing to bringing about your training sent representatives to observe. You have acquitted yourselves in, in…. Well, let me just say that you were astonishing, particularly at the end. Although we have not been keeping score, like we would have if you had been formal candidates…."
"Speak fer yerself, Rufus" spat Mad-Eye Moody. Harry looked over at Moody and noticed that something resembling a clipboard was hovering in front of the battle-scarred ex-Auror. Harry could not see what was attached, but Scrimgeour could.
"Alastor, you aren't supposed to be doing that any more. You are retired," the Chief Auror spoke sharply.
"I've done it enough times that I'll never ferget how," Moody growled without a hint of remorse. "And I know where the forms are kept. I thought there should be a written record, just in case. If yeh've got a problem with that, yeh'd best explain yerself."
Turning away from Scrimgeour, Moody addressed Harry. "Not bad at all, Potter, particularly given the abbreviated training yer receiving. Of course, yer opponents were pulling their punches, but on my tally sheet yeh were averaging a 92, until I was distracted by yer final stunt. Yeh could start in my old unit today."
Moody then critiqued Hermione. "Granger, yeh still need ta work on yer individual duelling - particularly learning ta react rather than having ta stop and think about what yer doing. Yer teamwork, however, is outstanding, so I scored yeh with an average of 83. That wouldn't make my unit, but it would easily qualify yeh for regular Auror work."
Moody continued his critique, "However, I don't believe that the spell division technique of yers is part of the lesson plan yeh were supposed ta be following…."
"Neither was that Greek fire spell," huffed Fudge.
"Nor, do I believe that the basic Apparition training Mister Potter has received included anything about Apparating with a passenger," added Shak. That startled Harry, because Shak was quite right - and he had not studied advanced Apparition on his own, either. When the need had arisen, he had simply done it.
By mutual consent, an early halt was called to the training session. Harry's destruction of the Situation Room, including the glass front of observation booth, was not something that could be repaired in short order. Reconstruction after magical damage of this magnitude took considerably more than a few swishes and flicks.
Nor were the remaining volunteer attackers particularly keen to continue after learning of Branstone's fate. The force of Harry's incendiary spell had driven the man bodily into the earth up to his shoulders. Fortunately, there had been a rescue squad standing by, and they had extricated him before he had been buried in fiery debris. He was evacuated to St. Mungo's so that both of his legs could be reboned.
Harry had trouble feeling very sorry for Branstone, now that he knew the Auror would live. That had been a nasty thing for him to do, even as a ruse. It had involved inside information. He declined to accompany Hermione to St. Mungo's when she decided she needed to know how Branstone was faring.
She could forgive him; she had not had to deal with the aftermath - seeing her seemingly falling dead at his feet.
Harry did not feel so forgiving, not in the short-term, anyway.
Thus, Harry got home early, much to his relief. His exhaustion and distress at what had already happened lasted only a short time before his nervous energy about what was going to happen began bubbling to the surface once again. It was finally time. He could get himself ready for High Tea at the Grangers earlier than he had planned.
Hermione had hinted that, the earlier he arrived, the more time he could spend with her before having to suffer through the dinner itself. He was confused about what exactly to expect. He was haunted by the image of those lips, the feeling of her arms around his neck, and he wondered - had she been on the verge of kissing him, really kissing him - before recovering her senses?
The more obvious the answer to that question seemed, the more his nervous energy multiplied. `Damn, damn, damn-de damn, damn - what does she want? Damn, damn, damn-de damn, damn - what do I want?' He was grateful for every minute of the extra preparation time.
Harry had been home less than a half-hour when Bill arrived. One look and Harry knew his guardian was anything but happy.
"You look like you could use a Cheering Charm," Harry commented.
"Unless it's cast by a new Minister of Magic, no bloody charm's going to make any difference," Bill grumbled.
Harry took the obvious bait. "What's Fudge bollixed up now?" he asked.
"Well, you know that supposed `oversight' demonstration that he just put you through?" Bill responded. "More than likely it was a set up."
Harry did not understand, but that did not make him any less interested. "I don't know what you mean. Everybody who said anything said I was doing great until I had my … er … accident."
"And look who was talking - mostly Mad-Eye and Kingsley." Bill reminded. "That's just the point; you weren't supposed to do well at all. The whole thing was set up so that you'd fail and your training would be stopped."
"Who told you this?" Harry asked, beginning to seethe a bit himself.
"Oh, let's just say `connections,'" Bill dodged the question. "Other people who were present, and who didn't share the Minister's intent." With that, Bill made an exaggerated facial imitation that let Harry know that the source was the Headmaster.
"Why would he do that?" Harry asked.
"Come on, use that bloody brain of yours instead of depending on her all the time," came the pointed reply. "It's not like you're the most popular person amongst Fudge's long-time supporters. Mostly they're old-line purebloods like the Vice-Auror. They didn't care for your equal rights manifesto - not even a little bit. They're all over Fudge to distance the Ministry from you."
Although he tried to be angry with Fudge, Harry was still at a loss. "Even so, what does that have to do with the training session?" he asked.
"Everything," Bill answered. "Think about it. By approving a session that pitted the two of you - outnumbered at that - against fully trained Aurors in combat simulations, Fudge's friends hoped to ensure that you would turn in a dismal showing. That would have given Fudge the excuse he needed to cancel further training as `a waste of scarce Auror resources.' Here, take a look at this…."
Bill handed a piece of parchment to Harry, who read it through, crumpled it angrily and tossed back the wad.
"See, the Ministry even had a draft press release announcing the cancellation drawn up in advance. Of course, it was never distributed, but thank Merlin Mad-Eye still has his sources inside the Auror Corps."
Now Harry's mood matched Bill's. "What did Moody do?" Harry asked darkly.
"Well, I know you and Dumbledore don't always see eye to eye, but give him credit for looking out for you. As a precaution, the Headmaster put Mad-Eye up to scoring the session. He had been Chief ACS Instructor for several years before the first Voldemort war - until complaints about his being too strict led to his `promotion' back to active duty as head of the elite Auror special weapons and tactics squad. Moody has quite a reputation as a niggardly scorer, so having an evaluation from him was a counter to any attempt to characterise your or Hermione's performance as substandard."
Harry was not particularly happy, even about that. "So, you mean that Moody rigged his evaluation - only in my favour?"
"Hell no, Harry," Bill dismissed that thought. "As events transpired, no such counter-skullduggery was ever necessary. You did spectacularly. Fudge had no idea how much you have been trained. Ultimately, your own merit, not any fix, thwarted Fudge. It was absurdly evident that your performance was anything but substandard. And your finale…. Leaving the Situation Room as a burned out shell only provided the icing on he cake. That room's been used for seventy-five years, you see. It's withstood everything Auror candidates could conjure up. Nobody … I mean nobody … had ever let loose with anything that ever before brought down the magically reinforced concealed window that hides the Ministry's evaluators from those being tested. Not even a scratch…. Before you, that is."
"Served the bastards right," Harry spat.
"Sure did," Bill agreed. "If anything Fudge and his pureblood faction had to come away even more leery of you than before…. One thing's for sure, afterwards, Fudge didn't even bother to try to convince anyone that they'd been witnessing slipshod magic. That would've been worse than futile; it would've driven away all but his most hardcore pureblood supporters. He'd have been hoist on his own petard. After all the weeks of non-stop Harry worship in the press…."
At that, Harry silently gave his guardian a look like a thundercloud.
"Like it or not, it's true," Bill told the boy. "Be thankful for whatever favours you get…. Anyway, the public would've seen through Fudge's pretext in an instant. Whatever else the Minister is, he's a practicing politician - and a good one - to get where he's gotten. Fudge wasn't about to take such a risk with what remains of his base of political support."
Back at Privet Drive, Bill helped Harry get ready for the reception. For starters, he took the opportunity of Harry's early return to teach him the Razus Charm for shaving, even though the barely pubescent Harry was nowhere near sporting a five-o'clock shadow. For once, Harry was not particularly impressed by magic. The Muggle shaver was much more comfortable than the scraping sensations that accompanied the Razus Charm.
After watching Harry fumble inconclusively with his tie for a couple of minutes, Bill took pity on him and taught him a knot-tying incantation, "Nodarus Windsorus." The complicated wand motion was difficult, but after Harry got the knack, it nicely took care of that problem.
Once Harry was fully dressed - and getting more uncomfortable by the minute - Bill helped him heft Athena's cage out of the attic where the Dursleys had forced him to store her ("we will not have this house become an owl hostel") for the night. Harry made sure that Athena was well stocked with owl treats, since it would not do to present Hermione with a starving owl when she was not prepared to take care of it.
Fortunately, Hedwig was out hunting. She could be one jealous bird.
Next, Bill performed an Obvolvus Charm, which looked rather more complicated than its function warranted - to wrap a gift. Harry experimented with various and sundry colourations until he found a turquoise hue that he liked for the wrapping paper. Bill added a bow, and then showed Harry how to conjure an appropriate card. Harry inserted one of Colin's pictures of him and Dumbledore in their dress Ashrak robes.
Bill also produced a pair of Grade 2 Restricted ("approved for Muggle use") Omnioculars designed for select Muggles invited to attend events - graduations, weddings, funerals - that also involved magic. If Hermione became Head Girl, something both thought extremely likely, her parents would be able to witness the spells she would cast in that role at her graduation.
Since the Grangers were Muggles, Bill suggested that Harry wrap it in non-magical paper, something the Dursleys had in abundance.
For party favours, Harry stuffed a couple of the Twins' Portable Holes in an inside pocket. These would appeal both to Hermione's practical and whimsical sides, he thought. He was careful not to use that particular pocket for anything else.
There was only one other thing, the Château Blackwalls bubbly. Bill removed the Shrinking Spell from the Jeroboam-sized bottle. He showed Harry the Château's ancient logo. Harry thought the logarithmic spiral resembled some sort of seashell - which it did, a chambered nautilus. They spent a little time going over the drink's magical characteristics. Then everything was done. It was time to depart.
Travel, unfortunately, presented an unanticipated problem. Muggle homes such as the Grangers' were not connected to the Floo system except in extraordinary circumstances. Given the security the Grangers required - because of Harry - connecting them for the mere purpose of a dinner party was unthinkable.
In any event, on this particular evening Harry absolutely refused to travel by Floo. He was not about to let the only good suit he had ever owned get covered with ashes immediately before the event that had occasioned its purchase.
"I expect we'll just have to Apparate, then," Bill pronounced.
"Can't," said Harry, "I've never seen the inside of her house."
"You Apparate as far a Hogwarts with no problem. You Apparated right through some pretty powerful wards not too long ago - I saw you do it…. They … they said that today…." Bill stammered, becoming increasingly worried. "You mean to tell me you're still only a basic Apparator?"
The not-so-implied criticism of his skill level got Harry's back up. "I only had one measly day of training," he retorted. "What did you expect, Albus Dumbledore?"
"Bugger," said Bill uncharacteristically. "I thought for sure you could Apparate there. We can't Apparate outdoors into a Muggle neighbourhood; the law forbids it. How are we going to get there on time? It won't make much of a first impression to be late."
The choices were few. A Portkey was out for the same reason as Apparition - neither could visualise the inside of Hermione's house, and an outdoors arrival was forbidden by the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy. Besides, Portkeys of the improvised variety were at least technically illegal. Harry was unsure how far his various exemptions extended.
Travel by broom was out. There was the problem of transporting Athena - and they might be seen - and Bill was without his broom - and neither of them knew what Hermione's house might look like from above.
To get all the way from Surrey to Knightsbridge by Muggle means would be a horror all its own. Neither Athena (even wrapped) nor a Jeroboam of magical champagne (even shrunken) would be welcome on the Underground, particularly at peak usage. Muggle black cabs were few and far between in suburban Surrey, and would get stuck in London's abominable traffic. Neither of them knew how to drive, so even stealing the Dursleys' car was out.
Thus, in the end there was no choice. Loaded down with a large decoratively wrapped owl cage in his left hand and an outsized bottle of Château Blackwalls champagne in his right, Harry made his way outside to the curb. Bill followed, puzzled. The Muggles barbecuing minced meat across the drive in the yard at Number Five were startled by Harry's odd appearance - but not for long.
Harry threw out his right hand…. BANG!
The Muggles could no longer see Harry or Bill. They were unable to see much of anything because the violently purple triple-decker Knight Bus, which fishtailed to a stop only a few feet away from Harry and Bill, could only be seen by magicals.
Bill jumped back, stepping into some of the Dursleys' begonias, and protested, "No way! Not in this life or the next."
"What choice do we have?" responded Harry.
"Harry, I've been on this thing before," said Bill. "It's not the way you want to travel. It makes you have to hurl."
"You mean it makes YOU have to hurl," shot back Harry. "I've been on it twice, and whilst there are better ways to get around, in a pinch the Knight Bus is all right. As long as nothing goes around in circles like some bloody theme park ride, I don't think I get motion sickness, anyway. But you don't have to come. I reckon I can take care of myself for one bus ride."
Bill was stuck. As much as he hated the Knight Bus, he had no alternative to offer that would get Harry where he had to go when he had to be there. Although the mere thought of the ride made him queasy, Bill was a member of the Order and had received unequivocal orders not to leave his ward unaccompanied even for an instant. Besides, he was Harry's guardian, and he owed him his company, even against his better judgment.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus," greeted a pimply young wizard in a mouldy lavender uniform that looked like it had been out in the sun for much too long.
"We know what this contraption is," grumbled Bill as he tried to get Harry on board as inconspicuously as possible. That was not easy, as Harry looked like nothing less than a drunken reveler. He was dressed in an expensive Muggle suit, with a large champagne bottle in one hand and an even larger brightly-wrapped package in the other - and that package was hooting loudly at the moment.
"'Ere - Why it's 'Arry!"
"You had best keep that to yourself, if you value your tongue in one piece," threatened Bill. He performed a hasty Colouration Charm that changed Harry's hair from its usual jet black into something approximating Weasley red. Bill could only hope that this impromptu disguise would suffice for the ride. "If you want to go, then go," he spat as he gave Harry an annoyed poke in the back to get him into the bus. Bill was not looking forward to this.
He gave the conductor two gold Galleons. "We're in a hurry. The extra is for you and your driver if you'll move us to the front of the queue."
"'Ou don't say," said the conductor, whom Harry knew to be Stan Shunpike. "I'll take `at up wi' Ern…."
Ernie Prang, the driver, was only too happy for the opportunity to pick up a few extra Sickles. He made an announcement to the passengers, "'Ere's a bit o' an 'mergency," he informed them. "Seems that Neville 'ere 'as to get 'is owl to London for an 'mergency - appendectomy, 'at's right, so 'is owl can deliver this 'ere bottle o' bubbly to 'is … 'is parents' twenny-fif' weddin' annivers'ry. So we've got to make an unscheduled stop in London."
Harry scowled. Even Goyle could have invented a better excuse than that. He did not even have parents. Neither did Neville - not in any practical sense, anyway. Fortunately, it mattered not. The passengers seemed so apathetic (or perhaps so badly afflicted with motion sickness) that nobody protested. He wondered if the Knight Bus actually kept any set schedule. If there were any such thing, it was honoured primarily in the breach.
The Knight Bus was in more or less the same condition as Harry remembered it. The beds were folded away in daytime. Its three decks were jammed with an eclectic mixture of different kinds of chairs that rearranged themselves every time the bus jerked into motion or skidded to a halt. Some of the passengers tried to hold on, but most had simply given up. They sullenly picked up their feet, and resigned themselves to sliding randomly about the bus. A few were still picking up themselves up and gathering their belongings from the abrupt halt on Privet Drive.
Harry was expecting to be stared at, if not worse. He was pleasantly surprised when nothing of the sort happened. Preoccupied with his struggle to get everything on the bus and get himself seated, Harry had not noticed that Bill temporarily camouflaged him in Weasley locks. The few passengers who eyed Harry at all looked reprovingly at him due to his outlandish garb. Very few people rode the Knight Bus dressed in Muggle clothes - let alone in a designer suit.
Bill muttered to himself as he dragged Harry to the rear. Harry sunk into a black upholstered wingback armchair with enough room to hold both him and his champagne bottle. Harry hung the owl cage from a brass hook beneath a candle bracket extending from the wall. There was no danger because none of the candles was lit during daylight. Bill ended up perched on a spindle-topped carved wooden chair, which in due course he discovered had a loose leg.
With another loud bang, the Knight Bus resumed its breakneck course. It shot down Privet Drive and skidded around the corner onto Magnolia Road. Two lampposts bent out of the way and Muggle dustbins (it was rubbish day) flew in all directions to avoid being struck. Harry was more amused than worried, since he knew that everything promptly resorted itself to its original location after the bus had thundered by. Bill had wisely chosen to move to the back, so neither of them was flung any further backwards as the Knight Bus accelerated.
Another pop and the bus went careening down a dual carriageway against traffic. Harry had to grab the candle bracket himself to avoid being thrown from side to side as Ernie crazily avoided oncoming motorcars and lorries. As he did so, Harry lost his grip on the champagne bottle, which rolled onto the floor. Fortunately, all alcoholic beverages bearing the seal of Château Blackwalls carried Unbreakable Charms.
The bottle, however, began to careen crazily around the cabin, and Harry was afraid it would slide the length of the bus. He flicked out his wand and fired off a Summoning Charm. The first time he missed, and ended up with only bits of rubbish flying back to him. On a second try, Harry was luckier and the bottle soared directly into his hand.
Stan wanted only to talk to Harry, who he evidently idolised. "Ye're all over th' papers now, ya are," he said happily, hanging onto a conveniently located strap that just happened to appear. "No more nutter rubbish either. Ye're the bigges' think 'at's 'appened 'is year. "Order o' Merlin a' everythink. "'Oo woulda thunk."
With difficulty, since his chair seemed on the verge of toppling over every time the Knight Bus made a lurch (which was more often than not), Bill managed to shoo the overly loquacious conductor away. Every minute the trip lasted, Bill felt more like toppling over himself. Anticipating the inevitable, he inconspicuously conjured himself a barf bag.
One minute they were on a motorway, the next on a dirty industrial street between seemingly abandoned factories. Trafalgar Square went flying past. Then, for a while the Knight Bus appeared to be travelling through the Tube. Bounding up a staircase, the bus swerved onto a leafy street of massive old houses shaded by massive old oak trees. When the bus skittered to a halt, Bill's face was the sickly shade of old yogurt. He was doubled over in his chair in intimate conversation with his barf bag.
"Thirty-Three Cadogan Place - Knightsbridge," Stan called out. Harry had arrived.
With a groan, Bill motioned to Harry to just get off the bus. He thought it undignified for his ward to see him in his agony, so he never looked up. Bill had no security concerns anymore, since Hermione's house was at this moment being guarded by a healthy contingent of Aurors and members of the Order. Without these special precautions, a Death Eater attack was a distinct possibility. Any gathering of Harry, Hermione, and Hermione's Muggle parents could hardly present a more inviting target for Voldemort's minions, even in a Muggle neighbourhood.
Bill was finally through for the evening. All he wanted was to get to someplace, anyplace, in the wizard community from which he could Apparate home.
Lugging Athena's cage and the Jeroboam of champagne, Harry tentatively approached the front gate in the wrought iron fencing that surrounded Number Thirty-Three Cadogan Place. He was looking for some sort of buzzer or bell to signal his presence when the tall gate suddenly swung open of its own accord. Startled, Harry flicked his wand out his wrist holster - and, in the same graceful motion, once again dropped the bottle of champagne, which clattered to the concrete walk.
Harry thought he recognised a faint giggle, and then heard a whispered, "Wotcher, Harry." Tonks - obviously concealed by Disillusionment Charm - had opened the unlocked gate for him. "Nice disguise," she continued sotto voce.
"It's not a bloody disguise, Tonks," Harry muttered annoyedly as he sheathed his wand and retrieved the now thoroughly shaken champagne bottle. "It's a Muggle suit."
"Suit yourself…. And good luck, Reds." Tonks then apparently took a couple of steps back from the gate, tripped over a root and her invisible behind produced a sizable indentation in one of the Grangers' holly bushes.
In response to her yelps, Harry hissed, "nice disguise, yourself," in a stage whisper. He made for the marble steps that led to a set of elegant white double doors. Tonks' response, as she attempted to extract herself from the holly, was unprintable, but Harry was no longer listening. He was compulsively checking the knot on his tie as he prepared himself to lift one of the gleaming brass doorknockers.
Harry used the knocker, and after a slight pause the door swung open. He took a deep breath and came face to face with - a rather tall liveried butler. "You rang?" queried the butler in a low sonorous voice.
"Er.… Harry Potter, to see the Grangers."
"Very well," the butler intoned as he moved away from the door. "You are expected."
Harry was uncertain if etiquette allowed him to follow the butler inside the house without an explicit invitation, but he reckoned that he would rather be on the inside than remain out front. Laden with his gifts, he haltingly entered the two-storey foyer. Directly before him was a massive marble staircase leading from the ground floor to the first floor. Beneath it were doorways on either side of the base of the stairs. A crystal chandelier glowed overhead.
A booming, "This must be Harry Potter," interrupted his gawking. Harry turned around and saw a burly man who looked to be in his early fifties striding towards him, eyeing him intently. He was a little over six feet tall, with straight brown hair and cold hazel eyes. His jaw could have been carved from granite, except it was clenched so tightly that a small muscle twitched ever so slightly.
Undoubtedly this was Dr. Granger. He was wearing a navy blue suit, but instead of a tie he wore an apricot-coloured silk ascot scarf. Fortunately, Harry lacked a free hand with which to offer a handshake, because Dr. Granger did not offer his. After all, less than six weeks before the man had decided to withdraw his daughter from Hogwarts specifically to excise Harry from her life.
Hermione's mum trailed only slightly behind. She was wearing a dark brown business suit open at the neck. It almost precisely matched the shade of her full and curly hair. Harry could see at once from whom Hermione had inherited her bushy hair. The woman seemed a little tentative and hung back as if confused.
Harry addressed (the male) Dr. Granger," Er…. I brought this - for the dinner." He held out the bottle of champagne, and Dr. Granger took it.
Hermione's dad relaxed just a bit. "Well, I'll be," he said, expertly examining the label. "I've heard it said that all champagne is magical, but now it appears we'll be finding out." Dr. Granger handed the large bottle to an underbutler who had inconspicuously parked himself in the doorway, along with instructions to put it on ice. Pointedly, he said to Harry, "I do hope any magic tonight will be confined to the champagne, young man."
Harry handed the wrapped Omnioculars to Hermione's mum, explaining that it was a gift for them both. He also set down the cage, whilst both Grangers looked curiously at it. There was an awkward pause, as the father looked his daughter's best male friend up and down. Finally he said, without a hint of irony in his voice, "Welcome to my humble abode. Oh, and is that an Armani?"
* * * *
Hermione's afternoon had been troubled. As much out of a sense of obligation as anything else, she had gone to see Clifton Branstone in his hospital room. She had been impressed by his lucidity despite his obviously being in great discomfort. Bone regrowth was always itchy and often painful.
She was taken aback by the Auror's frank analysis of what had provoked his hospitalisation. He bore Harry no ill will, despite having escaped death only by a hair's breadth. Aurors were used to that - one reason why Hermione had earlier been questioning her own (and implicitly Harry's) career choices.
"Both technically and tactically you're a top-notch team, but speaking strictly as an Auror, there is no way in Hell I'd ever partner you two in the field," Branstone forcefully declared. "The both of you would be dead within a month. He can't control himself around you. The Deaters … they'd go after you, just like I did. He would gladly - too damn gladly - lay down his life to protect you."
"They'd do something to you to set him off. He'd do something spectacular but exhausting. But unlike this practice, there'd be another Deater lying in the weeds to curse him in the back whilst he was distracted by your situation. With him out of the way, you'd be dead meat…. Except they wouldn't kill you right away. The Deaters would have you begging for death before being done with you. That's why we don't recruit sixteen-year-old kids no matter how powerful they might be…."
It was a serious, unsettling warning. Afterward, Hermione had excused herself as soon as had been polite. She had maintained her façade of calm all the way back to Knightsbridge, but upon reaching the sanctuary of her own room, she promptly lost it. It was more than just nerves over the upcoming event - although she was worried enough about that. She was questioning everything.
For quite some time, she had known that she had more than friendly feelings for Harry Potter. Her romantic attraction was not so much for the Boy Who Lived - that persona was sometimes insufferable - but specifically for Harry Potter, the boy who had once been a lost-looking, eleven-year-old kid with no inkling of his place in the wizard world.
He had grown up abused and ignored by those horrible Muggles - living in a cupboard and deprived of any exposure to paternal affection, physical or psychological. He had been an outcast, and so had she. She was the "brainiac" who had been teased and friendless throughout her pre-magical life. He had no friends because his bullying cousin chased any potential friends away.
Harry's existence, however, had been incomparably worse, because at least she had had her parents' love. He had had nothing.
Nevertheless, he had been more or less content, sometimes even happy, despite all that. So had she, after the troll incident had commenced her friendship with him and Ron. With Harry, such contentedness and happiness as he enjoyed might have been a perverse example of ignorance begetting bliss. Now Harry was on the verge of having essentially everything - and he seemed less happy and more moody than ever.
That somewhat perverse combination was why he needed her, and why she longed for him - why she depended on his instincts, and he depended on her savvy. She wanted nothing more and nothing less than to be the one who would make him happy. Beyond any girlish fantasy, she was convinced that her lengthy friendship and her intimate acquaintance with his emotions (long preceding their magically induced affinity) uniquely qualified her to succeed in that ambition.
It was a qualification that she cherished every bit as much as her preeminent class ranking, her Prefect's badge, or her O.W.L. scores. She had consciously played the compass needle to his true north for over two years - ever since they had collaborated in rescuing Sirius. There had been premonitions well before that, going back to that first time that he had taken her breath away. It started in First Year, when he had set his jaw, walked through fire, gone alone in search of the Philosopher's Stone, and had faced down Voldemort.
Now Voldemort was back, Sirius was dead, and she had just heard a seasoned Dark Wizard fighter - a totally dispassionate observer - tell her point blank that Harry cared about her as well … so much that he might well meet his death trying to protect her. Could she do that to him? Did she have that right?
She prepared for his arrival almost mechanically whilst wrestling with that question - did she have that right? Her mere presence could put him at risk, even mortal risk. In light of that possibility, could she justify acting upon - or even having - such feelings for him? It was a troubling question.
Even the negative conclusion was problematic. If the conclusion were that the risk was too great - did that effectively resurrect Harry's cupboard under the stairs? Would risk aversion condemn him once again to a friendless and loveless existence?
She was not privy to the prophecy the Death Eaters had been so intent upon acquiring, but she was clever and had her ideas. Loneliness was not conducive to fulfilling prophecies of any sort. Quite the contrary, she was convinced that unrequited love and its attendant despair could only have an adverse effect on anyone's magical power - be it Harry's or hers.
The spectre of recreating the emotional equivalent of Harry's cupboard under the stairs was dispositive. If not her, then who? Ultimately she concluded that her feelings were not overreaching. She had the right, but it would have to be Harry's choice. She had no right to his heart unless he gave it to her, but all the right in the world if he did.
That was a right worth fighting for.
Upon further reflection, she thought that she might have been with him too much recently. She was even starting to think like him. He had always been the one who had tried to push her and Ron away out of concern over their safety. He had almost driven himself to distraction doing that last Christmas - isolating himself from everyone. She had chosen to cut her own holiday short to prevent it. She had gone to the Ministry to prevent it. She had almost died preventing it. As long as he needed her, she would be there. She just hoped he would continue to need her.
As it had been for him, so it should be for her. Letting the fear of what might happen to either of them prevent whatever would - or should - develop between them was a coward's way out. They were Gryffindors. They were friends. Whether he ever ended up loving her or not, she would be there. It looked like a choice, but only superficially. Harry had become part of who she was. She could no more turn that off now, she thought, than she could stop breathing.
She would not compound Harry's problems; she would help solve them. One way or another…. As slowly and as gently as necessary.… Harry had lived such an emotionally deprived youth that he probably did not feel worthy of the kind of feelings she had for him - despite all his fame and fortune….
Oh blast it all…. There was her self-inflicted wound rising up like a Boggart escaped from an armoire. Her greatest error, if not necessarily her greatest fear, was staring her in the face once again. She had to put all that behind her. She would try to reach him, even though she had botched it royally before. Love was about getting back up after falling and giving things another go. She would not give up on Harry Potter anymore than she thought he would give up on her. Now, if only her parents could avoid screwing things up….
Her parents, indeed.
They made this occasion such a bloody tightrope - with no net. She had not, and could not, tell them the truth about Harry, even though it would undoubtedly bring the both of them - especially Daddy - to her side. She knew full well how their attitudes would flip 180 degrees if they only knew about those things that unequivocally turned her stomach, and just as certainly made Harry miserable.
Fame and fortune - especially fortune. Her parents knew he was famous, but had no idea that Harry was rich. Rich as Croesus, maybe richer.…
Richer than the bloody Queen….
Maybe even as rich as J.K. Rowling….
She could just imagine ringing that bell and watching both her parents salivate. She had never breathed a word of it to them and had no intention of starting. For years, she had prattled on about "Harry this" and "Harry that" whenever she was with her parents. More times than she could count, she had portrayed him as a maltreated orphan in ill-fitting, hand-me-down clothes who, despite horrible circumstances, was growing up strong, courageous, and kind (even handsome, she blushed). It had all been true, and yet now it was not.
She plotted, planned, and prayed that her omission to correct this misperception in light of more recent information was the right course. It seemed like the only way that might ensure that everyone got through the evening unscathed. Harry hated being fawned over. He was all too acquainted with that aspect of celebrity. He would see through her parents' charade in an instant, and that would be that - something would happen … someone would say something better left unspoken … and she would be presented with an irreparable breach between Harry and her parents.
She had known, at least since Hong Kong, what choice she would make in that event. She was no longer of her parents' world; she was of Harry's - no, make that both of their - world. She dreaded the prospect of being put to the choice, though. Thus, this evening she thought it preferable that Harry be greeted with honest emotions, even if rather antagonistic. Far better that he face that than hypocritical obsequity. That was her hope, anyway.
She heard voices from the foyer. It was time.
* * * *
Author notes: I thought I needed to make clearer that Harry's alarm clock was magical. It really has to be with all the magic it suffers through.
The two Beatles songs are purposely not identified. One becomes clearer later in this chapter and is identified in the next. The other will not be identified for another 14-15 chapters and plays a key role in Harry rescuing Hermione. True Beatles aficionados already have more than enough information to identify both - such as the patron saint of lost causes
Dudley is, of course, listening to AC/DC
"Mirror told the tale" from "Lighter Shade of Pale" by Procol Harum
It will definitely be a bad hair day for Harry. I had always wondered about a bald Harry. Never seen it in any other fic, so I decided to create something that would portray it, at least for a bit
Pez is slang for facial hair, although not likely slang that Dudley would have heard - but it fit and I didn't care to spend more time on the minor point
The shaver could be a product placement for Norelco
Aiming better while moving. As previously indicated, think Dustin Hoffman in "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid"
Independent hand usage is a skill commonly taught in one area of Muggle endeavor. What that is becomes clear in the next chapter
The description of Greek fire is accurate
A lahar is an avalanche of fire, water, and debris, usually caused by the abrupt melting of large quantities of ice during the eruption of a glaciated volcano
Special weapons and Tactics = SWAT. That was the unit Moody had referred to in his critique of Harry and Hermione
Harry's preference for the muggle shaver will become important later
The Windsor knot is a standard method of tying neckties
The picture Harry slips into Hermione's card figures later
As it turns out, Harry will put the portable hole to far more practical use
A Jeroboam is a rather large bottle size, but hardly the largest
A chambered nautilus inscribes a logarithmic spiral that closely approximates a famous mathematical formula. Its symbolism associated with Château Blackwalls (which Harry inherits) becomes important later
A dual carriageway is a divided highway
Buzzer or bell - from "Pinball Wizard"
Tonks' pratfall was uncomfortable, as holly bushes are known for their thorny leaves
For the front door scene with the Grangers' butler, think Lurch in the Addams Family
The apricot ascot comes from "You're So Vain"
Harry's D&G suit is much nicer than mere Armani
"Deater" is Auror slang for Death Eater
Usage of "true north" is not technically correct, but it sounded better than "magnetic north"
I know the J.K. Rowling reference is not correct timing, but I couldn't resist
The ringing bell references the canine experiments of Pavlov
C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch17 road to hell.doc 02/07/05
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