Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I'm only playing.
A/N: Thank you everyone who read and reviewed the prologue. I appreciate every word you left me, especially the questions/wonderings because they help with where the story goes. I know it's hard work with WIP's, when you have to stick around a long time to see any sense. I will be updating every week, that's a promise, hope that helps. And please feel free to nitpick!
And kisses for miconic for the beta, as always.
***
--Chapter One--
Light stretches over the landing, thin and pale, clawing for a hold. The window has been scoured many times; twice by Mrs Weasley herself, but the glass recovers the thick layer of grime overnight each time. The winter afternoon parades in a brilliant icy blue outside, but reaches the inside of the house swathed and smothered like an invalid.
The thing is, Harry doesn't remember how Number 12, Grimmauld Place ended up being home.
He certainly didn't plan it that way. One morning after…everything, he simply looked around and thought it was natural to just stay where he was. So easy. His few belongings were in the house, Ron didn't seem inclined to return to the Burrow, nor Hermione to her mum's. And he himself had nowhere else to go.
They tried half-heartedly to make changes, a dab of colour, a splash of light, but the house prevailed. A flock of starlings drummed their way inside the roof at the start of winter, their flighty cacophony resounding in the street at dawn and dusk. Apart from that, the only form of life bright enough to flout the gloom are Ron's fish.
Ron draws a deep breath and dispels the stillness around the tank.
"They don't seem to like each other very much, do they?" he mutters in dismay, his eyes on the water choked with silk tropical grass, peat moss and pale stones.
"Give them time, Ron. They've only just met." Harry keeps a straight face.
Hermione huffs, a loud, well-articulated huff despite being hampered by a hissing, wriggling Crookshanks in her arms. "They are called fighting fish, Ron."
"They haven't only just met, it's been a month! And only one of them's a fighting fish." He threads a tentative finger through the water. His thin shoulders stretch his faded shirt, the bones protruding like the ends of clipped wings. Puddles and streams of reflected light rearrange themselves over the ceiling and walls. Crookshanks paws at a sliver of light spitefully. A set of resplendent turquoise fins and tails sway warily from behind a miniature hill of shingles.
"And he's the one who's hiding," Ron continues to wail.
"Look, the mollies are quite happy to be out and about." Two coats of translucent gold navigate the water above the hidey-hole of shingles and silk grass, keeping a wide berth of each other.
Harry turns towards the stairs. "Come on, leave them be. They're probably feeling the pressure with you clucking over them."
A key turns in the door, the sound amplified in the empty hallway, followed by a loud oath and a thud. The door clatters open, and a vase on the dresser next to the door falls over as a thatch of red hair stumbles into view.
"I swear I'll take a hatchet to that sodding door one day!"
"Hey, Fred." Harry slides his wand back in his pocket and Hermione's shoulders relax. "Good to see you too."
Fred stands in the doorway, scowling and blinking to adjust his eyes to the gloom. "Why the hell do you keep changing the charm on it?"
"We don't. It just keeps changing on its own." Harry leans over the railing. Ron limps over to join him. "We've tried doing another Fidelius but it didn't work."
"Yeah, if it's any consolation, Harry was locked out twice last week." Ron chuckles and earns a glare. Fred raises a hand in mock salute.
"Hey, little brother. Playing with your fish, are you? You know, keen as you are, I'm not sure keeping fish is a fitting enterprise for a wizard."
He pulls off his cloak, revealing an old knitted jumper with the letter G on it and drapes it over the umbrella stand. As he makes his way across the hall, the strained light picks out bleary eyes and an almost skeletal face.
"But anyway, about the door, what, not even she-who-knows-everything can figure out why a tatty old door's not behaving itself?"
He yawns hugely, peering up at Hermione. Harry and Ron exchange a glance.
Hermione lets the sneer pass by. "Well, the whole house is behaving very oddly. Not that it was ever normal, but this is even stranger. Last Friday the dining room table cracked in the middle while we were having dinner--and no Ron, it wasn't because of the way I cook cauliflower--so, no doubt the door itself is part of Mrs Black's grand plan to kick Harry out."
She reaches for her wand, waves it at the fish-tank and sets Crookshanks free. He promptly bounds towards the tank, scrabbles up the tall, bandy legged stool and reaches gleefully into the water. Then he drops back to the floor in great haste.
While the kneazle stalks off with a wounded glare in her direction, Hermione brushes her skirt and stands up. Her hair hangs around her pale face in untidy clumps.
"Anyway, how's things? Haven't seen you in a couple of weeks." She turns to Fred.
Fred passes the portrait of Mrs Black, backtracks and gingerly lifts the grimy curtain. "Ah, I see you've managed to silence her."
Harry follows Hermione down the stairs. "Actually, she just went quiet all of a sudden. We didn't do anything. We didn't think we could do anything. It's like Hermione said. The house is doing strange stuff."
Fred regards the portrait thoughtfully. "But if the house was really trying to kick you out…"
Ron clatters down the stairs slowly. Hermione watches Harry's neck become stiff with the effort to not look around. Her own fingers are flexing. Harry clears his throat.
"Yeah, we thought about that too. Frankly, I have no idea. And I don't think I want to know." He shrugs. Ron makes it to the bottom of the stairs and sighs heavily, pausing to let the world stop rocking around him. Harry and Hermione let out a breath. Hermione wanders over to the dresser and picks up the ornate brass vase that fell over with Fred's entrance, fingers its twined serpents and sets it down half-heartedly.
"Well, if things get out of hand you could always move into the Burrow. There's plenty of room there." Fred laughs, a terrible sound. "Which is why I'm here, Ronnie. Mum wants to know why we haven't seen you around for a while."
Harry slides his hands in his pockets. "How is Mrs Weasley?"
Fred cocks his head. "How do you think?"
Silence pushes into the space around them, trying to stopper the emptiness between words. Everyone stares carefully at nothing. Hermione grinds the heels of her palms into her eyes and shakes her head.
"Come on. Let's have some tea."
*
A guttering fire lights the basement kitchen. Out of all the rooms in the house, this is the one they frequent most. A pile of books stand in one corner of the large uneven table, next to a couple of bottles of ink. A broken glass tank languishes in the far end, remains of Ron's first attempts at keeping fish. A dishcloth rests on a stack of plates on the dresser, waiting to be put away. Crookshank's curled in the cushioned warmth of armchair in the corner near the fire. Fred sits at the table, leaning his head on his hands. Harry gathers crockery and sets them out while Hermione tends the stove. A wand lies forgotten on a chair. Ron sits across Fred, looking at his brother thoughtfully.
"You been in Diagon Alley?"
Fred nods. "Went to look at the shop." He fiddles with a chipped mug on the table, ignoring Ron's pointed look.
"How's Ginny?" Ron tries again.
Fred shakes his head. "Haven't seen her for a while. She left with Tonks a couple of weeks ago. Or maybe three, who knows. Tonks said something about Snape being seen somewhere in Amsterdam and wanted to check it out."
Harry drops a teaspoon with a loud clatter. "What?"
Hermione turns from the kettle which is beginning to whistle.
"What, what? Ginny or Snape?" Fred sneers. "What's Ginny doing hunting Snape or what's Snape doing still alive? Which part concerns you the most, Harry dear? Is it--"
"Fred. Don't start." Ron's voice is even.
"Oh, I'm not starting ickle brother. I'm just sticking around to see how it's all going to end. Five down, four to go."
"Well, you can stop acting like it's Harry's fault. Or Hermione's for that matter."
"Actually, five and a half. Must count your leg." He tips his chair back and threads his fingers behind his head.
The kettle hoots persistently through the thick silence. Hermione jumps up and turns the stove off. Harry drops to a chair.
"Why didn't Tonks tell me she had a lead?" he croaks.
Ron looks over at Hermione. She avoids his glance with practiced ease, turns around and begins pouring out the tea. Its warm, homely smell wafts over the kitchen; their throats thicken with it. Hermione brings the tray over to the table and sets it down.
"Harry, it was my idea." She looks away quickly when he raises his head.
"What was?"
She pulls a chair and sits down, her hands out of sight on her lap. A gathering wind slaps at the loose floorboards, pipes and windows. The house snarls like a wild thing caught in a snare.
"Harry, wherever Snape is, he won't rest until he's--he's got you--"
"Thanks a million, Hermione."
"And the Order is in shambles and you--you don't have the Ministry's protection any more--"
"I don't need their protection!"
"Right. I knew you would say that," she mutters to herself.
"What did you do, Hermione? What did you say to Tonks?" He leans across the table. She meets his glance with a stony look of her own.
"I asked her to keep you out of it."
His jaw tightens, his face going paler. He rounds on Ron.
"Did you know about this too?"
Ron sighs. Hermione answers before Ron can speak. "I only told him a couple of days later. But the point is, Harry--"
He pushes his chair back savagely and stands up. "The point is that I look like a fool, Hermione, sitting here having a tea party while someone else is out there looking for that bastard who's after me!"
"Harry, she has a--"
"Shut up, Ron! How could you do this, Hermione?"
"Harry, stop yelling--"
"I said shut up, Ron--"
"No, you listen to me, you idiot! You don't have a lot of people left to watch your back when you go gallivanting on these little missions of yours, you hear me? The Ministry doesn't care two hoots what happens to you anymore--"
"The Ministry never gave a fuck what happened to me!"
"And people are too busy trying to fix their own fucking lives to worry about how the Ministry's treating you or even what happens to you. London's a pile of ash, in case you haven't noticed. You see, you've won their bloody war for them, so it's thank you and goodbye. Snape and Malfoy are only after you: they're not a threat to anyone else, and no one's going to have time to worry if they get you." He clutches the table, leaning across at Harry.
"So you're in more danger than you ever were, Harry, because always before there was an army of people ready to do something to save you--"
"That's bullshit!"
"To at least make a noise about it, because you were meant to be their fucking saviour in the end! Now you only have just the few of us, and I don't know if it's going to be enough."
Harry gazes steadily at Ron for a moment. Pale fingers of steam rise from the teapot on the table. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.
"But I always only had just the few of you."
Ron draws a deep breath and lets it out slow. He leans back in his chair.
"Yeah, whatever. You know what I mean. The point is--listen, you have to stay safe, mate." His fleeting glance wavers around the table: Fred's flat stare, Hermione's red-rimmed eyes, the empty chairs and the forgotten tea things. He swallows.
"You've got to stay safe, Harry. There's not very many of us left."
Harry drops back to his chair and lays his head on his arms. The teapot cools on its tray, droplets running down its sides. Several old rings of tea or coffee stain the table. They managed to repair the wood but a faint uneven line still runs through the middle, marking where the wood had snapped. A deep silence brews in the empty cups, scented with other times, other conversations long gone now, lost with the voices they belonged to. They weren't exactly times of great happiness or peace; his life's always been stained with fear, but he remembers laughter, and hope that when it's all over, there would be time. And now it's all over, and no time left. He gropes for his voice.
"But how's sending Ginny off with Tonks going to help? Tonks hasn't been herself for ages now--"
"Has anyone?"
"--and your sister--"
"Knows how to look after herself when she puts her mind to it. Listen--" Ron nods his head in Hermione's direction. "At first, Hermione was going to go, but we couldn't figure out what to tell you so you wouldn't get suspicious. Anyway, Malfoy broke into the house, so we figured it was better to have her stay here." He holds up his hands at Harry's look of incredulous indignation. "I know, I know, it was terrible of us and we're sorry." He turns to Hermione meaningfully.
Harry turns to her. Firelight burnishes her hair gold and conceals half her face. She shrugs and quickly hides her eyes from him. Harry sighs.
"Okay, do you two see how wrong all of it is? First of all, you can't keep me under your noses all the time just to keep me safe, clucking like a pair of bloody hens. We're not in school anymore." An uncomfortable look passes between Ron and Hermione; Harry's hit home.
"Secondly, this house isn't exactly my friend, so I'm not really in any less danger by being here as we've already seen. Thirdly, someone else shouldn't be out there risking her neck for me while I sit here. Snape maybe after me but that doesn't mean he's no danger to anyone else."
"Mate, Ginny offered to go," Ron says in a strained voice. "You know her, she can't be stopped when she makes up her mind."
"That still doesn't make it right, Ron." His voice drops several notches. "In fact, that makes it even worse."
He stares for a moment at his hands. Elongated shadows tread the dirty kitchen walls, giant chairs, teacups, pots and pans.
"Besides, Voldemort's gone, remember?" he's almost speaking to himself. "You said it, Ron. No one needs a saviour anymore, certainly not one who botched the job. And no one has to bring in the entire Auror ranks to protect me because I don't need to be protected anymore. I've done m--"
"Oh, for god's sakes!" Hermione gets to her feet so fast her chair flies backward. She strides over to the door and wrenches it open.
"When you've stopped feeling sorry for yourself, Harry, come find me!" The door slams behind her. The cutting board on the dresser slides down with a thud to the floor.
Harry drops his head into his hands. A log splits in the fire, sparking a shower of embers. A car alarm rings out dully from the street, a thick, strangled sound.
"Great." Ron leans back in his chair. "Now you've put her in a mood. You're a moron, Harry."
Harry opens his mouth to speak but changes his mind. The fire crackles, spitting sparks into the gloom.
"You know what, she's right." Ron grabs the table for support and hoists himself up. "It's bullshit, the way you carry on sometimes." He secures the crutch and hobbles across the kitchen. The door swings shut once again.
Fred, whose presence Harry had almost forgotten, jumps up. "Well, what a fine tea party it has been." He makes a mock bow at Harry, bending and straightening like a wound up puppet. "Thank you very much indeed for the fine brew and scintillating conversation, but I must now be on my way, places to go, people to see--no, no, don't exert yourself, I shall show myself out--and good evening to you too." With the vicious flourish of an imaginary hat, he too is out of the door.
Various footsteps stab through the house and various doors slam. The wind hitches, the house snarls louder, and gloom goes back to sharpening its nails.
--end chapter one--