Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I'm only playing.
A/N: Because you've been so good and I've had more time on my hands with a 4-day weekend, an early post. Less than happy chapter still, though. Once again, thanks to miconic for the beta. Which reminds me, any typos, grammar, odd stuff are entirely my fault, not hers. Feel free to point, nitpick, question--the usual.
***
--Chapter Two--
They visit him every night. Vernon Dursley, quivering with rage, Aunt Petunia with her wide, unreadable stare and Dudley, angry and frightened. They crowd around his bed, peering down, waiting, accusing, a ravenous yellow glare at their backs. He burrows further and further into the clammy sheets, but there's no getting away.
We raised you, we fed and clothed you, but what did we get for thanks?
He clamps his hands over his ears and screws his eyes shut. But he can still see them, hear them, even louder and clearer than before.
I was right, wasn't I? You never had it in you.
You're coward. Do you hear me, boy? A coward!
The fire treads closer, high enough to reach above his uncle's head. Petunia begins to scream, pulling at Dudley sleeve. Smoke fills the room. Harry tries in vain to move, get up, breathe--
You're coward and you left us to burn. You left all London to burn! Look--
His feet kick out against the bedstead, the pain finally startling him awake. He gasps for air, lungs full of phantom smoke. He gropes for his glasses. The luminous face of the clock reads twelve minutes past six; he's slept for less than three hours. The house is full of small creaks and rustles of the wakening day. He sits up and stares at the dark which smells foul with fear and guilt. Leaning over, he tugs open the heavy curtains at the window. Outside, dawn breaks slowly. Another January dawn, washed-out and nervous, its cold skin mottled with the black veins of stripped trees.
Slowly, he gets to his feet and shuffles out.
*
Hermione has a page-a-day desk calendar on her bedside table. Each page is the size of half a piece of standard parchment. The pages are marked at the top with the date, month and year in large letters, and finer print at the bottom mentions holidays.
Hermione detests this calendar.
It's currently the recipient of a morose glare over her bastion of tepid bedclothes. She hears the soft creak of floorboards across the corridor from her room and wonders how long Harry has been up. A whole white day, empty. Winter sits gleefully over everything, cackling with rain and frost, shaking its cold fist over an empty city, a city she turned into ash--
She swings her arm and the calendar flies off the table. It hits its neighbouring glass of water. A pale stain spreads over the old wood and shards of crystal glint in the sallow light. Hermione closes her eyes.
*
Ron starts up at the sound of shattering glass. He listens for a moment and closes his eyes again. He was up, up in the air and the wind was rushing madly along his arc across the sky. He reaches for the lightness again but the dream's vanished. He sifts and prods the shapes in his head desperately but they're all earthbound, hobbling carelessly through his mind, trampling everything in their way. Where is his broomstick, anyway? At the Burrow? No, no, Ron, don't go there. Not the Burrow, empty in a way only the Burrow can be empty. He hears the shower running and wonders if it is Harry or Hermione. Under the mountain of blankets, it's as if his legs aren't there. In a sudden rush he feels again the bite of magic in his muscles, the burning, blinding ache. He didn't bleed much, not after the first instance, but wishes he had. He'd have had something to show for all the pain afterwards.
Something rattles downstairs, probably the door. He blinks slowly. Someone else will have to get it, thank you very much, for he's trapped for the moment, beneath the lumbering shapes in his head.
*
Harry walks down the stairs slowly, pulling on a jumper, his hair thoroughly damp. Sleeplessness has given him an odd clarity of mind, and he picks out every bend and mottle in the wood on the banister, every uneven rasp under his palm. The rapping on the door is persistent but even. He has a good idea who it might be. He takes off his glasses and rubs a hand over his eyes. The inmates of Ron's tank gulp and bubble in their pale-green prison. Harry feels sorry for them suddenly, left to each other and their own reflections. Hermione's been against the idea from the beginning but held her silence.
He gets to the bottom stair and blunders down the dark hallway. He straightens his glasses and pulls open the door.
"Hi, Luna."
Bursts of colour and cold trail her and Harry catches a glimpse of a cluttered sky behind her.
"Goodness, Harry, you look awful." She pulls off her bright green cloak and hangs it over the umbrella stand. "It's freezing, close the door, will you?" She stamps her feet and rubs her hands together, her breath forming clouds in the air. "Oh, and I found these wedged into a brick outside the door." She hands Harry a couple of damp envelopes. "Where is everyone?"
Harry looks at the runny St Mungo's crest on the battered envelopes and shoves them in his pockets. "In bed, I suppose. Haven't seen either of them yet."
Luna's fair hair is clamped down with a tasselled beanie, a knitted scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. Her gloves have tassels too, little woollen balls that bob with every small movement. Beneath her cloak she wears another knee-length coat, and underneath that what looks like a woollen jumper. Her feet are encased in tightly laced boots.
"Is it really that cold outside?" Harry gestures at her winter gear.
"Oh, it'll freeze the crest off a white-horned trundledanger."
At Harry's raised eyebrow, she waves her hand vaguely.
"It's a vulture-type bird that nests in the Karakoram range. You know, in Tibet, where it's really cold. Anyway, why do you ask? Are you going anywhere?"
Harry takes off his glasses and rubs the lenses with a corner of his jumper. "No, not me. But it's Hermione's day to see her Mum." He looks away.
"Oh." Luna looks at him sympathetically. Harry rubs his arms briskly and turns towards the basement. "Come on, let's go have some breakfast. And it's much, much warmer in the kitchen."
*
Hermione opens the kitchen door, holding it wide for Ron. A fire roars in the grate and the smell of frying and toast fills the air. Hesitant warmth tries out all the nooks and crannies in the room. The small window has been propped up fractionally to let smoke out faster. The ground is level with the bottom panel of glass, lined on the outside with a few bedraggled weeds and a breath of black mould spreading from the lone burnt tree in the backyard. Luna sits at the table, teasing Crookshanks with a tasselled glove. Ron gives her a wide grin.
"Hi, Luna." He hobbles to a chair.
"Good morning, Ron. How's your leg today?"
Hermione greets Luna and moves to the dresser to pull out plates, trying to smother a small smile. Harry catches her eye briefly over his shoulder, smirking. Only Luna can ask after Ron's health and not get her head bitten off.
Ron grimaces. "Like a big lump of nothing. I hate this stupid crutch." He reaches for the pot of coffee. "But it pains from time to time and they say it's a good sign. I've another appointment at St Mungo's this week. I'm waiting for them to confirm the time."
Harry turns from the stove, rummaging in his pocket.
"That reminds me, Luna picked up the mail for us. St Mungo's for both of you."
He tosses one envelope across the table, holding the other in Hermione's direction. She pretends not to notice, laying out plates and cutlery on the table. Harry crosses his arms and leans against the counter, still holding the letter out pointedly. Finally, she rolls her eyes and turns to him, snatching the envelope off his hand with a scowl. Harry turns back to the bacon.
"Friday, ten o'clock." Ron groans. "And it's that old codger Ethelbert who's going to be there."
"Healer Bellamy is the best in the field for magical impairments," Hermione says loftily.
Ron glares. "All he does is prod and poke, and by the time I come home, it pains all the worse." He accepts a mug of coffee from Luna.
"Besides, I'm not 'impaired', thank you very much. And if you think he's so good, how come you turned down his offer of an Apprenticeship?" He takes a sip of coffee and waves an airy hand at the letter in Hermione's hand. "And I see they're still after you."
Harry cuts across with a plate of eggs and bacon and sets it down on the table in great haste.
"Toast, Hermione?"
He's sure she hasn't forgiven him for last night but decides to risk severe damage to his vitals to prevent a small war and steers her firmly by the shoulders to a chair. Hermione complies reluctantly. Ron butters his toast with great nonchalance. Luna, who has been watching the exchange with mild interest, reaches for the marmalade.
"Of course you're not impaired, Ron. I'm sure that's not what Hermione meant. In fact, my dad says the curse the Dark Lord used on you is actually a ceremonial war curse in the ancient Pacific Islands. For them, it was actually an honour."
Ron goggles over a hurried gulp of coffee. Luna elaborates.
"It's like a bestowing of a sabbatical. When you're a respected warrior and you'd been around a long time, keeping your tribe safe and fighting all their wars and all, they'd hold a ceremony for you and hit you with the Crippling Curse, so you get to stay home for a while. You know, enjoy all the finer things without feeling any guilt about not putting yourself in danger for your people. A sort of justification for taking time off."
Ron gapes at her, fork halfway to his mouth.
"Forever?" Crookshanks tumbles around the room, engaged in a one-sided chase with one of Luna's gloves.
"Of course not. Just for a while. And then the curse is lifted, once again ceremonially."
She takes a bite of her toast with a small sigh. "It's a pity we don't know how to do that. But then, it seems you were hit with a modification of the original curse, so we don't know how that works."
Harry looks across at Hermione, aware of Luna breezily talking herself to a corner, a dark corner where no one wants to go. Especially the two of them.
Hermione takes the hint. In a corner of his mind, he notes that she is indeed still angry at him, but not as much he thought she'd be. "How is your dad, Luna? The Quibbler must be doing well, now that the Prophet's almost vanished."
Luna munches a bit of bacon. "Well, the Quibbler always held its own, you know, no matter what the Prophet was doin--ouch, Harry, are you all right?"
Harry rubs his eyes, looking blindly around him. He'd left the table to get more coffee and passed too close to the wall that held the old bolt-shooting grandfather clock. His glasses lie in a nest of shards on the floor.
He mutters under his breath, squinting as he makes his way back to his chair.
Hermione picks up the shattered frames. "We really have to get rid of that clock. Nothing in this house is more dangerous than that cursed thing."
Harry thinks suddenly of the bike hidden upstairs and tries not to look guilty. Hermione looks around for her wand and spots it on a chair where she'd left it last night. She lays the glasses on the table and holds her wand at it, muttering a Reparo under her breath.
Nothing happens.
She spits out the charm again, a little louder this time, but the glasses remain shattered. Annoyed, she holds the frames up and tries again. Still nothing happens.
"Oh, the stupid thing!" She passes the wand to Harry, along with the glasses. Harry mutters the charm and the frames assemble back together. He puts them on and sets the wand aside, glancing at Hermione.
"Thanks."
"I didn't do anything," she hisses. She moves away to get coffee. Silence coils like a rope until Luna tugs it down.
"I wouldn't worry about it too much if I were you, Hermione. Spells and charms have been doing very strange things lately." She ignores Hermione's smouldering scowl and takes a bite of toast. "Dad thinks it's because magic's running out."
Ron splutters on his coffee. "Magic doesn't run out!"
Hermione returns to the table, rolling her eyes. "Of course it doesn't. Don't be silly, Luna. Magic's not something that runs out like, like coal or water or something." She sets down the pot with a thud and coffee sloshes over the rim. "It's too farfetched even for you," she mutters under her breath.
Luna gazes at her with maddening serenity. Harry feels laughter struggling in his throat despite the tension in the room. He throws another log in the fire and returns to the table. The fire roars and a glossy skin of warmth stretches over the table.
"Of course, I wouldn't expect you to be familiar with the idea, Hermione, as well-read as you are." Her tone is entirely without inflection and therefore offence, and Harry watches Hermione surreptitiously as she struggles to stay frowning. "It's not something mentioned in many books. Remember how there was next to nothing about Horcruxes when you were researching them? Well, this is like that. It's not something people want to think about."
Luna reaches for a napkin and stalls Hermione's next question. "I only know about it because Dad is friends with an Unspeakable from the Ministry who's doing some work on it." She starts as if she's just remembered something and turns to Harry.
"That reminds me that I almost forgot that that's why I'm here."
"And here I was thinking you were here just to see me." Ron grins and spears the middle of an egg.
"Of course I am, Ron." She pats his arm. "Harry, Dad's friend's speciality is the Room of Magic in the Department of Mysteries--you did know there was such a room there, didn't you? So, anyway, she asked Dad--because he knew you and I were friends, you see--if I could ask you if you wouldn't mind helping her out with her work--"
"No!" Ron's and Hermione's mugs slam on the table in unison. Luna, her eyes stretching their limits, looks around in consternation. Harry sets his fork down and ducks to pull Luna's glove from between Crookshanks' paws.
"Absolutely not." Ron mauls a bit of bacon emphatically.
"After the way they treated Harry, Harry doesn't want anything to do with the Ministry, do you Harry?" Hermione takes a fortifying gulp of coffee.
"Exactly. Luna, you do know they blame him for London burning down?"
"They refused to give the slightest bit of support when we were looking for the Horcruxes--"
"And despite all he did to save their sorry hides, that swine Scrimgeour refused Harry a Ministry patrol when we found out Snape and Malfoy were still at large--"
"His resources are stretched too thin, he told Tonks--"
"Resources, my arse! He doesn't have any, except a bunch of morons running the place, but the least he could've done is show Harry some support--"
"Oh, but he was peeved you see, when Harry didn't want to go into Auror training, he--"
"Can Harry remind everyone that Harry's sitting right here?"
His ears ringing, he glares at the two of them. Ron gulps guiltily and mutters. "Sorry, mate." Hermione looks away. Luna sits up straight in her chair. A stray cat passes across the window and Crookshanks rushes to scratch ineffectually at the glass.
"Well." She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. "I had no idea you felt so strongly about it," she says faintly. Harry wonders vaguely if he's ever seen Luna thrown or surprised.
"I don't." He returns to his breakfast savagely. Hermione opens her mouth to speak and he stops her, without even looking up.
"Don't, Hermione. Luna, I don't know, I'm not sure. Why do they want me? If this is some sort of publicity stunt cooked up to make the Ministry look good, well, you know what I'm going to say. Can you get me more information?"
Luna looks again at Ron and Hermione and clears her throat. "Actually, all Dad told me was that it was something to do with the theory of depletion of magic." She raises her voice to be heard above Hermione's disgruntled muttering. "I'm sure I can get him to find out more."
Harry nods and speaks around a mouthful of eggs. "Thanks. If it's something worthwhile, I'm sure I wouldn't mind."
Ron frowns at his tepid coffee. Hermione takes her half-eaten breakfast to the sink. Crookshanks trails after her. Harry lays down his fork and props his face on his hands.
Luna reaches for her glove, now a little bedraggled after Crookshanks' attentions. She doesn't seem to mind.
"Did you really turn down the offer for entry into Auror ranks, Harry?"
Harry grunts.
"But why? You'd make a great Auror too--I mean, you already practically are…"
Harry lifts a shoulder and reaches for a lie. "I'm sick of Scrimgeour and his lackeys."
Luna makes a small sound of assent and straightens up. "Oh well. I'd better be going. I'm meant to be doing some interviews for Dad. Thank you for the breakfast, Harry."
"I'll walk with you, Luna," Hermione says quietly, drying her hands on a tea-towel. Ron and Harry turn to look at her. Feeling their eyes on her, she colours a little.
"Where are you going?" Ron pipes up. A small gust slips under the window and the flames shiver.
"Home." She doesn't meet anyone's gaze.
"Oh. I forgot today's Sunday."
Ron looks cowed for a moment. Then he glances at the clock.
"But you've only just had breakfast. Lunch is still a long while away."
Harry winces.
"I'm not Apparating, Ron. I'm catching the train." Her voice is quiet and brooks no questions.
She turns to Luna. "Could you give me a minute to grab my things?"
Luna nods, pulling on her gloves. "Of course. I'll be at the door." She turns to Ron. "Bye, Ron. Take care." She takes his head in both her hands and plants a kiss on the top of his head. At any other time, the look of Ron's face would have made Harry smile. "Bye, Harry. I'll be in touch." She smiles at him and follows Hermione out the door. When the door shuts behind them, Harry pushes away his cooling breakfast, takes off his glasses, and lays his head on the table, in the cradle of his crossed arms.
--end chapter two--