Dog Day Afternoon

Stoneheart

Rating: G
Genres: Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 06/06/2007
Last Updated: 06/06/2007
Status: completed

After a trying week at work, Harry is looking forward to a relaxing weekend with his wife and family. No such luck. Upon his return, he learns that his daughter did something she shouldn't have done, which was seen by someone who shouldn't have seen. What unfolds then, to use Harry's words, shouldn't happen to a dog. (My first, and last, humor fic.)

Chapters

1. untitled

1. untitled

This story is the result of a circumstance not likely to be repeated. With so many plots vying with each other for my limited time, even the notion of writing a story based on an idea suggested by someone else must be politely but irrevocably declined. But I made an exception when this request was sent to me, because it addressed two areas where I felt I could do with a bit of practice -- humor, and the creation of original characters. Feeling that I could benefit by the attempt, no matter the outcome, I accepted the challenge.

The request was a simple one. I was asked to write a story patterned after a common plot device seen in the 1960's sitcom Bewitched. I was to devise a situation where a child of Harry and Hermione was seen do do magic by a Muggle neighbor, leaving them to find a way to explain things to the other's satisfaction. I was further asked if I could leave the door ajar at the end for a possible sequel, to be written by the one who made the request. I took up the challenge, the results of which are found below. In the end, I found it an enlightening experience, but one I am not disposed to repeat. Comedy is too hard to write, and I'm much more at ease having Harry and company jump through plot-hoops without adding OC's to the mix.

This, then, will be my one and only foray into straight-out humor. I'll leave that arena to warriors better armed than I. Give me good old angsty drama any time. Howbeit, here it is, for better or worse. If you'd like to see the story continue, perhaps the bloke who started it all will oblige you when his current story is finished. His pen name is gl1346.

I hope to return very soon with a work entirely my own. Until then, thanks for being here, and happy reading.

* * *

Dog Day Afternoon

Harry Apparated into the parlor of the Granger house and immediately sank onto the couch with a groan of relief.

“Never again,” he said to the empty room. “You’re a witness! Never again!”

He closed his eyes, sighing at the relief the darkness brought to his pulsing head. Gradually his breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed. His heart was just resuming something resembling a normal rhythm when suddenly it began to race again. A tranquil smile spread across Harry’s face as he opened his eyes to behold the cause of his increased heart rate.

Hermione was sitting on a footstool, her hands extended as she gently caressed her husband’s brow with her practiced fingers.

“I knew there’d be benefits to being married to a Healer,” Harry sighed.

“Hard day?” Hermione smiled sympathetically, knowing the answer before she asked the question.

“If I ever let Arthur talk me into doing a week in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department again,” Harry said, “I want you to call St. Mungo’s and have them take me away in a strait jacket. That’ll be the final proof that you married a raving lunatic.”

“As bad as that, was it?” Hermione said as she continued to massage Harry’s temples.

“I’d rather face a dozen nesting dragons than go through a week like this again,” Harry said. “Thank Merlin today was only a half day or I’d have gone round the twist. I don’t know how Arthur managed it for more than twenty years.”

“Ron seems to have adapted nicely,” Hermione observed.

“He ruddy thrives on that rubbish,” Harry grunted, half in disbelief, half in admiration. “I dunno how he does it. That petty little stuff drives me crackers. I’m telling you, quick as I go in on Monday morning, I’m going to do two things. First, I’m going to tell Arthur off for dragging me out of the Auror division to fill in for Perkins –– ”

“How is he doing?” Hermione interposed, the Healer in her always sensitive to the suffering of others. Perkins had been admitted the day Hermione’s temporary sabbatical began, and she was keen to know how the hospital was carrying on in her absence.

“Fine,” Harry said. “Augustus Pye fixed his ears back on –– after first attaching them to his head in reverse order.” Hermione laughed softly. “Word is he’ll be back in on Monday, thank Merlin.”

“And what’s the other thing you’re going to do, then?” Hermione prompted.

“After I’ve given Arthur a piece of my mind,” Harry said, “I’m going to ask him to raise Ron’s pay, and Perkins’, too. If I learned one thing this week, it’s that they both deserve a lot more than they’re getting to put up with so much bollocks.”

When Harry fell silent, he noticed that Hermione was unusually reserved as she methodically soothed his brow with her soft fingers. Now that he had vented his demons, he cast an appraising eye over his wife.

“Anything special happen today?” he asked. After being married for almost seven years, Harry had learned to recognize certain signals from Hermione. He had the distinct impression that she was keeping something inside, something she didn’t want to burden him with after his trying week.

“Mum and Dad called this morning,” Hermione said, looking thoughtful –– perhaps a little too thoughtful, Harry reflected.

“Having a good holiday, are they?” Harry said.

“Smashing,” Hermione replied. “They thanked us again for house-sitting for them, and they promised they’d be back tomorrow afternoon as planned.”

Another silence fell over the room. Harry cast his eyes about, looking for something amiss. All at once it struck him. The silence. Two children under the age of six, and no noise?

“Where are the kids?” Harry asked.

Hermione hesitated for a moment before smiling, “I just put Janie down for her nap.”

“And where’s Jimmy?”

Hermione did not answer. Instead she withdrew her hands from Harry’s head and placed them in her lap. Harry sat up at once.

“Hermione? Where’s Jimmy?”

Harry leapt from the couch, the action setting his head to throbbing again. He stared down at Hermione, whose face was as motionless as her hands. Harry took his wife’s arms and gently raised her to her feet.

“What are you not telling me?” Harry said, feeling a cold chill down his spine. “Where’s Jimmy?” Alarm flashed in Harry’s eyes. “Has he been hurt? Is he in hospital?”

“No,” Hermione said quickly. “He’s –– ”

The abruptness of Hermione’s silence frightened Harry almost as much as the blank look in her eyes. Drawing on his Auror training, Harry shifted into crisis mode. He forced himself to remain calm as he sat himself and Hermione down on the couch.

“Start at the beginning, Hermione,” Harry said, his voice rigidly controlled. “What happened to Jimmy?”

Hermione stared into Harry’s eyes. The strength and assurance radiating from their emerald depths washed over her, and her tense shoulders relaxed. She drew a long breath, released it slowly.

“We were outside in the back garden,” she began. “Janie, Jimmy and I. Jimmy was playing with the football my dad bought him for Christmas –– you remember, we brought it along so he’d know Jimmy liked his present.” Harry nodded. Hermione took another breath. “Janie was playing on the swing, and she asked me to give her a push. So I came over, but when she saw the book in my hand, she instantly asked me what I was reading. I showed her it was one of my books from St. Mungo’s. I was doing a bit of studying in preparation for my upcoming board certification –– you remember, it’s next month?”

Hermione seemed to be having trouble keeping her breathing under control. Harry gently stroked her hair, and she took his hand and held it with a kind of gentle desperation.

“Right,” Harry said. “Janie saw your medical book, and she was curious about it. What did you do then?”

“Well,” Hermione said, “the book was too heavy to hold open, so we went back to the lounge chair I was sitting in. Janie sat in my lap, and I opened the book to the place I’d marked and showed her what I was reading.”

Hermione paused as if gathering her thoughts. Harry questioned her delicately with his eyes. She blinked a couple of times, as if to clarify the images in her mind, and resumed:

“I was studying the book on human-animal transformation. It’s a field I’m keen to specialize in, you know –– Madam Pomfrey used the same book to bring me back after I drank the Polyjuice Potion with the cat hair in it. It’s very complex magic, employing both spells and potions. I was reading the chapter on werewolves. I keep coming back to that chapter, actually –– I’m always thinking there must be something that can help Remus, if only I can come up with it. Quick as I get my certification, I plan on experimenting with some of the spells in the book to see if I can tweak them a bit. After the breakthrough with the Wolfsbane Potion, I’m sure there are other discoveries just waiting to be brought into the light.”

“What did Janie think of it?” Harry asked calmly, trying to lead Hermione back to the topic at hand. He was always very supportive of Hermione’s career, but something told him that her discourse now was a diversion from a path she feared to tread. Harry prodded Hermione gently but urgently with his eyes, his look conveying his desperation to learn what had happened to their son.

“She was most interested in the pictures of a wizard being transformed into a wolf,” Hermione said. “Only she...called it a puppy.”

Hermione’s meaningful pause was not lost on Harry. Janie had been pestering them all Summer about getting her a puppy for her birthday next month. Just when they thought they’d put the notion to sleep, they’d come here to the Granger house, only to find themselves in a neighborhood filled with Muggle children, every one of whom seemed to have a pet dog in the back garden. Janie had been able to think about nothing else since their arrival on the previous Friday, and it was almost a relief for Harry to go off to the Ministry to escape his daughter’s persistent and seemingly inexhaustible entreaties. He didn’t envy Hermione staying behind while he made his escape every morning (though his routine in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department soon disabolished him of the fantasy that he had done aught but exchange one level of purgatory for another).

“She called the wolf in the book a puppy,” Harry echoed Hermione’s words. “What happened then?”

“Once the idea had been resurrected,” Hermione said, “there was no getting it out of her head. I tried to steer her into another subject, but she was as stubborn –– well, as stubborn as only a daughter of ours could be.”

Harry was straining at his tether. When was Hermione going to tell him what had happened to Jimmy? Reading his expression, Hermione set her jaw and straightened her shoulders.

“Well,” she went on, “while all this was going on, Jimmy was trying to get my attention. He’d been kicking his football around, and I suppose he wanted me to see how many goals he’d scored into the net you rigged up for him. But it was all I could do to keep my wits with Janie pouring her heart out for the puppy she wanted so badly. The next thing I knew, the football came sailing at me. I didn’t actually see what happened, but I think Jimmy must have kicked it my way to get my attention, or maybe because he was angry, or both.”

Harry muttered something unintelligible, his eyes going hard for a moment. They softened almost at once; whatever punishment he’d formulated for his son would be of no value without the subject at hand to receive that reprimand, and Hermione had yet to reveal Jimmy’s whereabouts.

“Did the ball hit you?” Harry asked, his eyes searching Hermione’s face for telling marks.

“I deflected it,” Hermione said almost casually, as if to imply that a runaway football was hardly in the same class as the many and varied Dark spells she and Harry had avoided in their year-long quest for Voldemort’s Horcruxes. “But I wish I hadn’t,” she added quickly. “It bounced off my arm and hit Janie in the face.”

“Was she badly hurt?” Harry asked, his voice pained as only a father’s can be when his child suffers injury.

“It only hit her on the forehead,” Hermione said. “She didn’t even cry. She turned straight around in my lap and started screaming at Jimmy. She –– ”

Again came that terrible, abrupt silence that pierced Harry with nameless dread.

“What did she do?” he said. “Did she throw something at him? She she hit him?”

“No,” Hermione said, her throat catching as if to add, If only she had. “She was screaming at him, shaking her fist at him. She’d turned around so quickly that she tore a page out of my medical book. It was the page with the wolf on it. While she was shaking her fist, she spotted the picture on the page, and –– ”

“And what?” Harry asked.

“At some point, she must have glanced at the picture in her hand,” Hermione said. “She seemed to hesitate for a heartbeat, then she screamed, ‘You’re a nasty little brother! Why couldn't you be a puppy? I wish you were a puppy!’”

Hermione’s voice cut off. Her mouth was hanging open, but no sound was coming out. Harry touched her shoulder, and she jumped.

“Hermione,” Harry said, his voice strained, “what happened then?” For he knew in his heart that something had happened, something that Hermione could not speak aloud. Finding himself unable to repeat his question, Harry stared into Hermione’s eyes imploringly. She swallowed.

“Straightaway after Janie screamed –– there was a flash of light –– and the next thing I knew, where Jimmy had been standing, there was a –– ”

Harry’s mouth fell open. “That’s impossible –– I mean, she couldn’t have –– ”

“She did,” Hermione said.

"Are you telling me,” Harry said incredulously, “that my five-year-old daughter turned my four-year-old son into a puppy??”

Hermione nodded.

“How?” Harry squeaked.

“She’s our daughter,” Hermione said simply.

"I don’t care if she’s the daughter of Merlin Greybeard and Morgan Le Fay!” Harry screamed. “A child can’t Transfigure a human being into a dog!”

“Well,” Hermione said, sounding either oddly calm or dangerously close to insanity, “they’re both mammals. Now, if it had been cross-species –– ”

“Bugger the species!” Harry snapped. “Human-animal Transfiguration is a hard job for an adult wizard with a wand, let alone a five-year-old without one!”

“Actually,” Hermione said, “from a purely technical standpoint, she had a wand.”

“She what?” Harry said.

“She was sitting on my lap,” Hermione said. “My wand was in my pocket. I think her anger caused her internal magic to reach out and touch my wand –– I checked my wand straightaway and I noticed that the tip was a bit warm. That can happen sometimes with a spontaneous surge of magic.”

“Are you saying that a burst of magic just jumped out of Janie and caused your wand to –– to –– ”

“It made what she was thinking happen,” Hermione nodded. “That’s how most young wizards experience their first manifestations of magic. They wish for something deep inside, like all children do, only unlike most children, they have the power to make it happen if they wish hard enough. You set that boa constrictor loose on your cousin Dudley by unconsciously wishing the glass away. Later on, you spontaneously inflated your Aunt Marge so that she floated up to the ceiling, probably because you were thinking of her as an old bag of hot air or something. Both spells came off without a wand, but they were only minor spells, requiring very little magic. No matter how hard Janie was wishing, if she hadn’t been in contact with my wand, most likely nothing would have happened. But she was, and it did.”

Harry groaned. The headache Hermione’s fingers had soothed away was returning with a vengeance. He removed his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose, then replaced them and regarded Hermione wearily.

“How’s Janie?” he asked. “I don’t suppose she understands what happened –– it’s all I can do to get hold of it.”

“The outburst of magic was a bit exhausting on her,” Hermione said. “As I said, I put her down for her nap, and she drifted off almost at once. When she wakes up, she won’t even know what she did.”

“What about Jimmy?” Harry asked. “Did he remember his transformation after you changed him back?” Noting now how still the house was, Harry said, “I reckon Jimmy must be asleep, too. The one thing that boy isn’t when he’s awake is quiet. I suppose the double transformation left him a bit peaky. I think I’ll go have a look to see that he’s okay.”

“Harry –– ” Hermione began. “About Jimmy...”

Harry arrested the motion that was calculated to carry him to the bedroom and turned toward Hermione. He could not hide the slight tremor in his voice as he asked, "What about Jimmy?”

“Jimmy’s not in the bedroom,” Hermione said.

“Where is he?” Harry said, a thrill racing down his spine at the unnatural calm in Hermione's voice.

“He –– ” Hermione said in a barely audible whisper. “He –– ran away.”

“HE WHAT?” Harry burst out. Hermione leapt forward and clapped a hand over his mouth, turning her ear toward the room where Janie was sleeping. When no sound was forthcoming, she removed her hand from Harry’s face, her eyes cautioning him against another outburst. Straining to keep his voice under control, Harry said incredulously, “What do you mean, he ran away?”

“It all happened so fast,” Hermione said. “There was the burst of light, and Janie cried out and collapsed in my arms. I took a moment to look her over to see that she was okay, and when I looked up again...”

“There’s a five-foot fence around the back garden!” Harry rasped. “How in the bloody hell did he get out? Did he flick his tail like a wand and turn the goal net into a trampoline and bounce away?”

“He got out through the cat flap,” Hermione said quietly.

Harry made a sick choking sound. The Grangers owned two cats, strays they had adopted by the expedient of feeding them one day in an act of compassion. The cats helped to fill the “empty nest” created when Hermione left home, first to attend Hogwarts, and, later, to marry Harry.

Being independent spirits, the cats were wont to come and go as they pleased. To facilitate this, the Grangers installed cat flaps in the doors and in the back gate of the fence. Harry gave the cats little or no thought. He hadn’t seen either animal in the week he’d been here. He presumed they turned up sometime during the day to be fed by Hermione, after which they departed to resume their wayward lifestyle.

“He ran away?” Harry said in a ghostly voice. Hermione nodded. “And you didn’t go after him?”

“How?” she returned matter-of-factly. “I couldn’t leave Janie alone in the house, could I? What was I supposed to do, throw her over my shoulder and carry her around the neighborhood like I used to carry my books all over Hogwarts?”

“Couldn’t you have asked one of the neighbors to watch Janie?” Harry asked.

“We don’t know any of these people well enough that I’d place my children in their care,” Hermione said with quiet finality. “And after what just happened, I couldn’t risk another outburst of spontaneous magic. But as you brought it up, there’s a little...er...problem with one of the neighbors, actually.”

“Problem?” Harry repeated. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to handle anything else. Though he didn’t want to ask, he knew he had to. “What problem?”

“They kind of...saw,” Hermione said.

“Saw?” Harry choked, his eyes going wide. “You mean they...”

“They saw the transformation,” Hermione said. “They were outside, and Janie’s screaming drew their attention. I saw them craning their necks over the fence at the exact moment when the spell-burst happened.”

Harry was suddenly overcome with a feeling of dread. “Which neighbors?” he asked, his insides churning over the answer he was certain was coming.

“The McCrimmons,” Hermione said.

Harry groaned, his worst fears realized.

“What did they do?” he said in a stunned voice.

“Mrs. McCrimmon screamed and fainted,” Hermione said. “Mr. McCrimmon carried her inside and slammed the back door. I haven’t seen them since.”

“This can’t be happening!” Harry moaned. “My son is running around God knows where as a bleedin’ dog, and the neighbors saw Janie do magic!” Harry shook his head violently, the action seeming to clear his thoughts. “Bugger the McCrimmons. We can deal with them later. Right now we have to find Jimmy. Now that I’m back, I’ll go look for him. How long has he been gone?”

“About half an hour,” Hermione said, glancing at her watch. “But –– ”

“Okay,” Harry said, holding down the panic in his voice. “I’ll set off straightaway. I learnt a few spells in Auror training that should help me track him down.”

“You don’t have to,” Hermione said. “I’ve already set someone to search for him.”

“You’ve –– ” Harry stammered. “How? How did you get in touch with anyone? The Floo was only connected for an hour last week so we could come here, and it won’t be connected again until tomorrow, so you couldn’t have fire-commed anyone. And Hedwig is still off delivering that letter we sent to Bill and Fleur in France. How did you send a message? You couldn’t have hailed the Knight Bus.”

The image of the purple, triple-decker bus appearing in a Muggle neighborhood in broad daylight was almost enough to make Harry laugh, even in these dire circumstances.

“It’s down to you, actually,” Hermione said. “Apparently, you remembered to deliver the message to Ron that I reminded you about this morning. Pigwidgeon turned up with his answer about five minutes after everything started.”

Harry’s spirits rose. During a break in the day’s activities, Harry had extended a dinner invitation to Ron and Luna for tomorrow night, a “welcome home” to mark their return from their week of house-sitting. Ron allowed that he would have to ask Luna if their schedule was open; a demon on the job, Ron was hopeless when it came to organizing his personal life, relegating that task to his wife. He promised Harry he would send a reply as soon as he spoke to Luna.

“So quick as Pig arrived,” Hermione said, “I scribbled a message and sent him off straightaway. I wasn’t sure where Pig had come from, but I told him to go straight to Ron’s house, because I knew today was only a half-day and Ron would have left the office by the time he got there. And fortunately, it’s a much shorter flight to Ron’s than to London. Even so, I...helped him a bit.”

“Helped him?” Harry said. Hermione nodded.

“I brought along a phial of Energizing Draught, in case I got overtired trying to do too much at once –– I’ve spent every spare moment studying for my qualifying exam, and you know the children have been a handful this week –– though nothing like today,” she added with a strained laugh.

“So you gave Pig some of the potion?” Harry said excitedly. “Brilliant! He must have set off like his tail feathers were on fire.”

“He did,” Hermione confirmed. “He made it back to the Burrow in under twenty minutes, judging from the swiftness of the response.”

For the first time since receiving the news about his son, Harry relaxed. “Thank Merlin! Ron will find Jimmy. The way he’s been setting fire to the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department –– blimey, what a relief.” Harry felt his body going limp. He eased himself back onto the couch just as Hermione spoke again.

“It wasn’t Ron who turned up,” she said.

Harry stiffened again. “What do you mean, it wasn’t Ron? You just said you sent Pig to Ron’s house, knowing he’d be home by then. And Ron left the office before I did, and he told me he was going straight home because Luna had a late lunch waiting.”

“That’s all as may be,” Hermione said. “But he wasn’t there when Pig arrived. A Ministry owl turned up shortly after he got home, and he had to go back to the office to take care of something that couldn’t wait until Monday.”

“But if Ron didn’t –– ” Harry couldn’t complete the thought. It was too horrible to contemplate. “No,” he said, shaking his head, trying to force the thought from his brain. “No.”

Hermione merely nodded, confirming Harry’s fears.

“Luna?” Harry croaked. “Luna bleedin’ Lovegood is out searching for my son?”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Hermione said reassuringly. “Luna’s very responsible now. The Quibbler’s circulation has trebeled since she took over as editor. Her name is very respected –– that’s why she kept it after she married Ron. I have every confidence she’ll find Jimmy. She told me that –– ”

Harry came alert at Hermione’s abrupt silence.

“What did she tell you?” he asked, not sure if he wanted to know.

“She, erm, told me she has a certain –– way with animals,” Hermione said. “And as she was the only one who turned up...”

Harry was now on his feet, pacing the floor like a caged tiger.

“I don’t think I can take any more of this,” he moaned, his thoughts filled with images of Luna leading a herd of Crumple-Horned Snorkaks down the street while Muggles peered through their curtains, and took snaps to sell to the Sun.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Hermione said, “I remembered to mention the McCrimmons when I described Janie’s spell in my note. I told Ron to alert the Ministry to send an Obliviator over to modify their memories. Ron wasn’t there, of course, but Luna told me she sent Pig straight off to Ron with my note before she Apparated over. Ron will have got the note by now, so we should expect an Obliviator to arrive before too long...”

“That’s assuming they aren’t all out on assignment,” Harry said, finishing Hermione’s unspoken thought. “Bloody hell,” he groaned, “I’ll be filling out the paperwork on this from now until Christmas.”

“At least everything’s under control,” Hermione said. “Things can only get better from here on.”

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Harry looked inquiringly at Hermione.

"Would a Ministry wizard ring the bell?” he asked uncertainly.

"We’re in a Muggle neighborhood,” Hermione said reasonably as she glided toward the front door. "When in Rome...”

But when Hermione opened the door, it wasn’t a Ministry wizard who was standing on the step, nor anyone else from the wizarding world. A policeman stood before her, his uniform crisp, his bearing professional. He flashed a requisite smile, essaying a short bow. Straightening, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small spiral notebook. It was already open to a specific page, which he scrutinized momentarily before lifting his eyes back to meet Hermione’s.

“Sorry to bother you, Missus, only we got a bit of an unusual complaint, and I’m here to check it out. Constable Merriweather, at your service. And you are,” he glanced at his notebook again, “the former Hermione Granger?”

“Yes,” Hermione said.

“This house belongs to your parents?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “We’re house-sitting for them while they're on holiday.”

“By ‘we,’” Constable Merriweather said, checking his pad again, “you are referring to yourself and your husband?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, her eyes darting quickly behind her to where Harry was standing in an attitude of total concentration.

“Your husband is Harry James Potter?” the constable said. “Formerly of Number four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, and she saw that Harry’s face was growing tense beneath his composed facade.

“Is he on the premises at this time?” the man inquired.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “He’s just arrived home, in fact."

“From where, may I ask?”

“From his job,” Hermione said evasively.

“Mr. Potter is gainfully employed, then?”

“Of course,” Hermione said, masking her mounting irritation with the professional facade that served her in her duties at St. Mungo’s.

“These are lawful pursuits?” the constable asked probingly.

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione said, taken quite aback.

Once again consulting his note pad, the constable said, “We have it that Mr. Potter once attended St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. Is that information correct?”

“That was ages ago,” Hermione said with a controlled indignation, watching from the corner of her eye as Harry’s shoulders tensed. Harry hadn't attended that institution, of course, but denial would only serve to raise questions regarding Harry’s true whereabouts during the years when he was off attending Hogwarts. Instead, she continued stiffly, “And he never should have been sent there in the first place. His uncle sent him there because he resented Harry being left on his doorstep after his parents were killed. His wife is Harry’s aunt, and it was her decision to keep Harry after her sister –– Harry’s mother –– was killed, along with Harry’s father. That St. Brutus’s rubbish was just that. Harry is a good and productive member of society. His past has no bearing on matters present.”

“Be that as it may,” the constable said stiffly, “we have received a complaint which I am following up.”

“Are you telling me,” Hermione said in astonishment, “that you’re here to investigate Harry?”

“Merely following up on a complaint, Missus,” Merriweather said. “Standard prodedure. May I come in, please?”

Hermione stepped aside to permit the constable to enter. Looking back, she saw that Harry’s attention was focused just over the constable’s shoulder. A quick glance out the door revealed the object of Harry's Auror-fueled scrutiny. A police car was sitting at the curb, no doubt the conveyance by which Merriweather had come. Another uniformed policeman sat at the wheel, his attention fixed unwaveringly on the door through which the other man was now passing. As the constable walked past her, Hermione noticed a wireless radio clipped to his belt. Hermione knew that the touch of a single button would send a signal to the policeman waiting in the car, alerting him that his presence was required. This Harry saw as well, though his face betrayed no sign of alarm. Any worries he may have harbored were carefully concealed behind the solicitous smile with which he greeted the constable as he stepped forward to join Hermione.

“Yes?” he said in an unconcerned voice. “May I help you?”

“You are Mr. Harry James Potter?” Constable Merriweather said, casting an appraising eye over Harry.

“Yes,” Harry said. “What can I do for you, Constable?”

The constable flipped a couple of pages on his notepad and scanned them. Nodding, he looked up and said, “At precisely 1:05 this afternoon, we received a report that something very unusual had occurred in the back garden of this residence.”

“Oh?” Harry said. “And what might that be?”

“According to two eyewitnesses,” the constable said, “a child of approximately four years’ age was...er...”

“Yes?” Harry said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“He was transformed into a dog,” the constable said with as much professionalism as he could muster.

“You’re joking, of course,” Harry smiled stiffly.

“No, sir,” the constable said. “That is the report I have.”

“But,” Harry said with a condescending smile, “isn’t that rather...absurd?”

“That is not for me to judge," the policeman said. “I am here to investigate.” He consulted his note pad again, then said, "The incident in question was reported to have occurred in the back garden. Is that correct?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know,” Harry smiled pleasantly. “As my wife just told you, I’ve only just arrived home.”

Merriweather’s pale cheeks flushed slightly. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Very well, then. If the two of you would please escort me to the back garden...”

Harry affected a casual manner as he led the constable through the house to the doors opening onto the back garden, Hermione following. Harry opened the doors, and the constable passed outside. Casting a backward glance at Hermione, Harry followed the constable, leaving the doors ajar behind him. Hermione cast a momentary glance in the direction of the room where Janie was sleeping, then joined Harry. She closed the screen, leaving the glass door open slightly so she could hear if Janie woke up and called out. Standing on the back step, she flashed Harry a silent look that spoke clearly: We have to stall until Luna gets back.

Nodding, Harry stepped out from under the awning and into the afternoon sunlight. The constable was looking around, scribbling notes onto his pad. Fixing a smile on his face, Harry moved toward the constable, only to be stunned into immobility by a sudden outburst from over the fence on his right.

“About time you got here! I made that bleedin’ call ages ago!”

Harry turned about with a look of unconcealed disgust. He might have known at whose call the constable had appeared on his doorstep. A pair of beady, pig-like eyes lanced his, and a stubby finger stabbed the air, pointing accusingly at Harry.

“That’s him, Constable! He’s the one what done it!”

Harry stared coldly into the face of Angus McCrimmon. The two of them had disliked each other from the moment of their first encounter. McCrimmon reminded Harry of Uncle Vernon; not precisely in looks –– McCrimmon was not as stout as Vernon Dursley, and he lacked the latter’s walrus moustache. But like Uncle Vernon, McCrimmon fancied himself the aristocrat of the neighborhood, from which station he looked down his nose at everyone else (the Grangers being notable exceptions). He boasted openly and often of a distant ancestor who had been an earl (until he was publicly beheaded in the village square for dallying with the wife of the Lord Mayor, which detail McCrimmon conveniently omitted from his narrative).

Having appointed himself as defacto Magistrate for the district, McCrimmon proceeded to judge those around him as uniformly unfit to stand in his presence. The Grangers were an exception. He found them both models of dignity and professionalism, and they had cultivated their daughter to be a quiet, studious and respectful child (unlike the other children thereabouts, whom he deemed not two steps removed from criminals).

From the moment McCrimmon set eyes on Harry, he judged him as unworthy to contaminate the Grangers’ respectability by marrying Hermione. Harry’s perpetually untidy hair, abetted by his scar, branded him a hooligan and a ne’er-do-well in McCrimmon’s eyes. He soon found out about Harry’s life on Privet Drive, having obtained the Dursleys’ address from his unsuspecting neighbors. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been only too happy to regale Mr. McCrimmon with a detained account of Harry’s sixteen years under their roof. From that moment, he made it his self-appointed mission –– indeed, his life’s work –– to purge the Grangers of the scoundrel who had sullied Hermione’s virtue and ruined her life.

Harry was about to respond to McCrimmon’s accusation, but Constable Merriweather glided smoothly between the two antagonists.

“Mr. McCrimmon, it is my understanding that this gentleman was not on the premises at the time of the supposed incident. Mrs. Potter has informed us –– ”

“I don't care!” McCrimmon raged. “He done it as sure as he’s standin’ there, lookin’ all smug, like he was as good as the rest of us. I’ve heard things about him, things that would curl your hair. He done it, I tell you!”

Assuming a superior look, Harry cast a disdainful eye on Mr. McCrimmon and remarked dryly, “Bit early in the day to be in your cups, isn’t it?”

“I seen it with me own eyes, I did!” McCrimmon spat. “And so did me wife. Had to give her a dose of the smelling salts, she was that overcome.”

“A dose of something stronger is more like it,” Harry murmured into the policeman’s ear, just loud enough for McCrimmon to hear.

“Right, then!” McCrimmon barked. “Ask him where his boy is! Go on, ask him!”

“If you please, sir,” Merriweather said politely, “I do know my job.”

Hermione was now standing next to Harry, adding her quiet defiance to his as she cast a withering glance at McCrimmon, who responded with an aristocratic uptilting of his head.

Pad in hand, the constable said to Hermione, “I have the essentials of Mr. McCrimmon’s statement here. Would you please give your account of the incident in question?”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “I was here in the back garden with my son and daughter. Jimmy was playing with his football, and I was reading to Janie.”

Harry saw Merriweather scribbling notes on his pad, recording, among other details, the names of the two children.

“I had my parents’ camera with me,” Hermione went on, “and I decided to take some snaps of the children for Mum and Dad to develop after we’d gone.” Harry tried not to smile. He sensed where Hermione was going with her story, fabricated, he did not doubt, on the moment. He was reminded of the tale she had woven at the end of their fifth year at Hogwarts to beguile Dolores Umbridge and turn the tables on her. Hermione’s cleverness under duress never ceased to amaze him. “I thought I’d switched off the flash attachment,” she said. “It obviously wasn’t needed on such a bright day. When it went off, it surprised everyone, but none moreso than the puppy.”

“Ah,” Merriweather said, and Harry’s ears perked up at this addition. “So there was a puppy, then.”

“It was a surprise for Janie’s birthday next week,” Hermione said. “We’d just bought him, Harry and I –– we haven’t even had time to name him –– we thought we’d let Janie do that –– we were going to have a friend take temporary custody this evening until the big day. He was tied up in the storage cupboard, where Janie wouldn’t see him. He must have slipped off his leash and come outside. When the flash went off, it must have frightened him, along with Janie’s screaming.”

Merriweather’s pencil was scratching over page after page, recording Hermione’s every word. At last he said, “And where is the puppy now, Missus?”

“He ran off through the cat flap,” Hermione said, pointing so the constable could see. Harry grunted. That part of the story was true enough, even if it was only a single thread in a tapestry the nature of which would have staggered the constable. “There’s another in the back door,” she added, inclining her head. “That’s how he got outside in the first place.”

Merriweather nodded, noting this detail on his pad. Then, to Harry’s dismay, he asked the question that must surely follow, the very one to which McCrimmon had demanded answer.

“And where is your son now, Missus?”

Hesitating only a moment, Hermione said, “He’s napping with Janie. He was a bit overwrought. I think he’ll be alright once he wakes up.”

“Right,” Merriweather said. “May I speak to them, please? One at a time, if I may?”

Hermione hesitated for a moment, and Harry glided forward smoothly.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“I would like to speak to the children," Merriweather repeated.

“Really, Constable, is that necessary,” Harry said dismissively. “Do you know what small children are like when their nap is interrupted? They’ll be off their rhythm all night, probably won’t sleep a wink, and they’ll keep their mother and me up with them in the bargain.”

“Be that as it may,” Merriweather said, “it would seem that the children are at the heart of the matter, as it were. I’m sure this can all be cleared up if I can just speak with them. As your son seems to be the point of contention, I would like to begin with him. If you would be so kind?”

“Surely this can wait until the children wake up, Constable?” Harry said with a weak smile. “Especially for something so ridiculous –– ”

“That boy’s no more nappin’ than I am!” McCrimmon burst out, his red face perched atop the fence like a bloated toad. “You’ve done summat to him, Potter! The devil’s in you, and I’m standin’ here tellin’ you you’ll not cause your poor wife any more sufferin’, not while I’ve breath in me body!”

Regarding McCrimmon balefully, Harry said, “My wife has explained –– ”

“You’ve bewitched her, Potter!” McCrimmon spat. “You've done summat evil to her, you have!”

“Really, McCrimmon,” Harry smiled crookedly. “One would think you’d fallen through your telly like the White Rabbit and popped up in an early 60’s American sitcom. What’s next, talking horses and genies on flying carpets?”

“Don’t come that tone with me, Potter!” McCrimmon snorted. “I fought a war for you and your useless lot, not that it’s all the same to you!”

And I fought a war for your lot, Harry thought angrily, imagining how quickly McCrimmon’s lurid face would pale if he knew how Harry had really got the scar at which he was now glaring with his usual air of disapprobation. But Harry’s triumphant vision of McCrimmon cringing at the feet of Lord Voldemort was abruptly punctured by words that cut him more deeply than a Sectumsempra spell.

“I know your sort right enough!” McCrimmon spat, his eyes smoldering like dark coals. “Probably spend your days lurkin’ about playgrounds, pushin’ lads off swings an’ takin’ their pocket money. Well, the law will sort you out this time, you see if it don’t!”

Harry’s mask of self-control flickered dangerously. This was too much to bear. Bad enough to be accused of complicity in his son’s disappearance, but on top of that to be compared, if but blindly, to his cousin Dudley...

“Now, now, gentlemen,” Merriweather said soothingly. “I’m sure we can –– ”

The constable’s assurances were overridden momentarily by the sound of youthful laughter from beyond the back fence. Everyone turned instinctively to see a small group of boys riding along the back alley on bicycles. One of them was waving what appeared to be an old cricket bat, and as he passed he rattled the end along the fence in an almost musical cadence, concluding his “concert” with a melodious clang on the lid of a nearby dustbin. As the boys’ laughter faded with their departure, McCrimmon turned his crimson face after them and scowled in a manner that, Harry judged, Severus Snape could not have bettered on his best day.

“Them ruddy kids!” McCrimmon barked. “No good, the lot of them!” Turning about, he added with bared teeth, “They’ll turn out like you done, Potter! No ruddy good!”

“Really, now, Mr. McCrimmon,” the constable said placatingly. “I patrol this neighborhood, and I’ve come to know most of the boys. The only thing they’re guilty of is youthful enthusiasm. There’s no harm in them. They’re all good lads.”

“Good lads!” McCrimmon grunted sourly. “If I acted like that, me dad would take the cane to me! They’re no good, I tell ye, just like that one!” He stabbed his finger at Harry. “An’ what about him, then? We all know he’s done summat to his son. I’ll see justice done, Constable, an’ if you won’t do it, I’ll go straight to the Chief Inspector, you see if I don’t!”

Turning to Harry with a weary sigh, the constable said, “This can all be sorted out if I can just speak with your son, Mr. Potter. Once I’ve seen that he’s taken no harm, I can go back to the station and report that Mr. McCrimmon’s imagination got the better of him. The matter will be closed.”

Harry hadn’t felt so trapped since finding himself buried behind a wall of stone in the Chamber of Secrets with the shade of Tom Riddle. He didn’t know where to turn. He cast a desperate glance toward the house, and he was startled to see a figure standing just behind the screen door. He blinked once, and suddenly the figure was gone. Had he imagined it?

No. A glance at Hermione revealed that she, too, had seen the same apparition. And like him, she had no doubt noted the long, blonde hair framing a pair of eyes so prominent that they were visible even through the fine mesh of the window screen. Harry quickly adjusted his expression and turned to face the constable.

“Right,” Harry said brightly. “I’ll go see if I can rouse Jimmy without creating too much of a fuss. As you say, the sooner we can sort this out, the better.”

“I’ll come along,” Hermione said. “In case Janie wakes up.”

“You watch him!” McCrimmon snarled at Merriweather as Harry turned toward the house. “He’ll do a runner!”

“I hardly think that likely, sir,” the constable said. He delicately refrained from mentioning the other policeman who was watching the front door, but said instead, “We observed no motor car on the premises, and I daresay the busses would make a poor means of escape, running as they do on the quarter-hour. So,” he concluded with a wry smile, “unless you think the gentleman can toss a pinch of fairy dust into the grate and fly up the chimney like Father Christmas...”

Harry nearly had a choking fit. McCrimmon glared his defiance at the constable before turning to fix Harry with a stare that lacked nothing of equaling that of the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. Had it been backed by a wand, Harry did not doubt that it could have powered the Killing Curse without benefit of incantation. Feeling the man’s eyes boring into the back of his neck, Harry calmly walked to the back door with Hermione at his side. Once inside, they closed the screen, leaving the glass partition ajar to permit any sound from without –– such as the approaching footsteps of the constable –– to reach their ears without delay.

They both passed though the kitchen and into the parlor with hope buoying their hearts. That hope burst into unrestrained joy when they saw the figure sitting on the couch –– and more, when they beheld the tiny creature cradled in her arms.

“Say hi to Daddy, Jimmy,” Luna said, smiling down at the puppy whose long, floppy ears she was scratching affectionately.

“Jimmy?” Harry choked, not knowing whether to be relieved or horrified. He stared into the puppy’s eyes, as if trying to see his son’s face behind the two shining orbs. If this were an Animagus transformation, the resulting creature would bear some identifying mark to betray its human form; when Minerva McGonagall transformed into her Animagus form, the cat she became bore markings around its eyes identical to the square-rimmed glasses she always wore. But as this was a spontaneous transformation, Harry could find no mark on the puppy in Luna’s arms to identify it as his son.

“Are you sure that’s Jimmy?” Harry asked, uncertainty gnawing at his joy.

“Of course,” Luna said, tickling the puppy’s ears again.

“How did you find him?” Harry said excitedly.

“I asked,” Luna replied.

“You asked the neighbors if they’d seen a strange dog running about?" Harry said, alarmed at how many Muggles apart from the McCrimmons might have inadvertently become part of today’s drama. They’d need a veritable legion of Obliviators –– and the paperwork!

“No,” Luna said. “I asked the dogs.”

“The dogs?” Harry repeated blankly. Luna nodded.

“Didn’t Hermione tell you?” Luna said, her overlarge eyes drifting toward Hermione. “I can talk to animals.”

Harry’s astonished look encompassed both Luna and Hermione, the latter of whom shrugged as if to say, “I tried to tell you earlier.”

“Dogs are my speciality,” Luna said. “They’re really very pleasant animals to converse with, if you don’t talk down to them. I walked around, asking every dog I saw if any of them had seen any strange dogs hanging about. Dogs are very territorial, you know, they always take note of a newcomer within their sphere. A few had seen a new dog wandering about, but they always chased him off. So I just kept following the trail, knowing it would eventually lead me to Jimmy. And it did. I finally found him three streets over, chasing some rabbits in a vacant lot. He was having such a good time, in fact, that at first he didn’t want to come with me.”

“He didn’t –– ” Harry started. “He told you that?” Luna nodded again.

“He likes being a puppy,” Luna said. “Of course, he doesn't know he is a puppy. All he knows is that he’s having fun. Children and animals are a lot alike, you know. They rely on their feelings to guide them, listening to an inner voice that tells them what to do. Children lose the ability to hear that voice when they grow up –– well, most of them do.”

Harry had no doubt that Luna’s inner voice was as prominent now as ever it was in her youth. But if it had helped her to find Jimmy before any harm could befall him, he would never say a word against it, nor against Luna.

“Thank you, Luna,” Harry said sincerely. Turning to Hermione, he said, “Quick as you change him back, we can go out and send Merriweather packing, and wipe that bloody smirk off McCrimmon’s face in the bargain. Do you know the spell, or will you need to look it up? At least you have the right book, even if it did cause the problem in the first place.”

A haunted look had crept into Hermione’s expression, so subtle that Harry, his attention once more focused on his son, failed to spot it. Hermione slowly opened her mouth, but before she could draw breath to speak, another voice answered for her.

“I’m afraid it won't be as easy as that,” Luna said.

“What do you mean?” Harry said. “Hermione’s a certified Healer. There isn’t a spell in the book that she can’t do or undo.”

But the bland certitude of Luna’s statement had kindled the beginnings of panic in Harry, which sensation was intensified by the expression he now beheld on Hermione’s face. Though she said nothing, the shadow clouding her eyes revealed that she had not found Luna’s words nearly as surprising as Harry had. This was confirmed when Hermione responded before Luna could open her mouth.

“Luna just said that children and animals don’t use reason,” Hermione said. “They rely on feelings and instincts. And Jimmy’s instinct right now is that he’s having fun as he is, and he doesn’t want that fun to end.” Hermione concluded her prognosis by turning to Luna, who nodded in agreement as she gently stroked Jimmy’s ears.

“Are you saying that we can’t change Jimmy back until he wants to change back?” Harry gawked.

“Not exactly,” Hermione said. “But his resistance to the change will require a much stronger spell, and more time for it to take effect –– and time is something we're running short of.” She nodded meaningfully toward the back door, through which the figure of Constable Merriweather could be seen, his professional bearing evident even at a distance.

“How long?” Harry asked.

“I don't know,” Hermione said. “The Healers’ texts on transformation all confirm that the state of mind of the one transformed is as important to his restoration as the spells and potions involved. A large part of the restoration process is the victim’s desire to change back. Without that, the difference is like opening a door with a key versus picking the lock. Both ways work, but the former is faster, not to mention safer.”

“What can we do?” Harry said, feeling like a blindfolded Seeker trying to catch an invisible Snitch.

“What we need is something to tempt Jimmy to return to his original state,” Hermione said. “Something he can only use as a boy and not a dog. Jimmy needs to start thinking of himself as –– well, as himself again. The moment he does that, the change can be accomplished without difficulty.”

Harry was thinking hard. What would tempt Jimmy to want to return to his human form? Was there anything his son had expressed an interest in, a desire for, recently?

“A broomstick,” Harry said out loud. “I’ve been taking Jimmy up on my Firebolt recently, and he’s been asking me every chance he gets for a toy broom –– you know, one that only goes a few feet off the ground, like we saw at the Quidditch World Cup. Since his birthday’s already passed, I’ve been hinting that he might get one for Christmas.”

“Where can we buy one?” Hermione asked excitedly.

“Quality Quidditch Supplies has them, along with their regular stock of brooms,” Harry said, unsurprised that Hermione’s vast store of knowledge, boundless in nearly every area, did not extend to broomsticks.

“I can pick one up for you,” Luna said. “But I don't have any money with me. Ronald takes charge of the household finances.”

Harry thought that among the wisest moves Ron had ever made. He reached into his robes and pulled out a handful of Galleons. Hermione always reminded him that it was best not to travel anywhere without a bit of extra money. Harry had learned quickly enough at Hogwarts that listening to Hermione’s advice seldom went amiss.

“This should be enough,” he said, pressing the coins into Luna’s hands as Hermione took charge of Jimmy.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Luna said.

“I hope it’s soon enough,” Harry said. “I don’t know how long I can stall those blokes outside. I wish I could just modify their memories and be shut of them.”

“Only a Ministry Obliviator can legally modify a Muggle’s memory,” Hermione reminded him. “Besides, you haven’t been trained in that area. You could seriously damage their minds.”

Harry wouldn’t have minded turning Angus McCrimmon into a drooling idiot –– not that he was that far removed from such a state in Harry’s opinion. The thought of McCrimmon sharing the closed ward at St. Mungo’s with Gilderoy Lockhart was almost worth risking the wrath of Magical Law Enforcement. He wiped that image from his mind to return to the matter at hand.

“You’d better go,” Harry told Luna, jerking his head meaningfully toward the back garden. “We’ll think of something.”

Luna Disapparated, leaving Harry and Hermione to stare helplessly at each other, Hermione still holding Jimmy, who was affectionately licking his mother’s face.

“What are we going to do with –– ” Harry’s voice failed him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to call the puppy in Hermione’s arms “Jimmy.” “What do we do with him until Luna gets back?”

“We’d better think fast,” Hermione said, “because Constable Merriweather is getting impatient.”

A quick glance out the door confirmed Hermione’s observation. Harry grunted, “What I wouldn’t give for a goblet of Polyjuice Potion right now. There must be a loose hair on Jimmy’s pillow.”

“I tried to comb his hair this morning,” Hermione said abstractedly. “Little good it did.” Jimmy took after his father in that regard, his hair being nigh impossible to tame. “There are loads on his comb. But even if we had the potion, who’d take it? If either of us goes missing at the same time ‘Jimmy’ appears, the constable’s bound to get suspicious. It might start him taking Mr. McCrimmon seriously.”

“We need a distraction,” Harry said. “Something that won’t arouse suspicion.”

A light suddenly appeared in Hermione’s eyes. “Harry,” she said, her lips curving into a smile, “go on out and tell the constable that Jimmy and I will be right out.”

“I’ve seen that look before,” Harry said. “It’s the same one you wore when you turned the tables on Dolores Umbridge by setting the centaurs on her in the Forbidden Forest. What are you thinking?”

“No time to explain,” Hermione said as she pushed Harry toward the back door. “Trust me.”

Fixing his smile back in place, Harry ambled toward the constable, who turned at once and lifted an inquiring eyebrow.

“Jimmy –– er –– wet himself when we woke him,” Harry said, saying the first thing that popped into his head. “Hermione’s changing his knickers. Won’t take a minute.”

“A likely story,” McCrimmon grunted. Turning to the constable while keeping a wary eye on Harry, he said, “If they aren’t out here in one minute, go in and have a look. Knock the ruddy door down if you have to. A fiver says he’s done summat to his wife. She’s probably lyin’ in the cellar with her head caved in an’ her heart carved out.”

“Really, now, Mr. McCrimmon,” Merriweather said. “There’s no need for –– ”

Whatever admonition the constable was about to deliver was interrupted in spectacular fashion by a tremendous din just beyond the back fence. There was a series of thumping sounds in quick succession, as if rocks or other solid objects were peppering the wooden planks. A moment later, the dustbins clattered noisily, the sound accompanied by a peal of laughter. Harry and Merriweather recoiled in surprise. McCrimmon’s face turned red as an apple, his eyes bulging from their sockets.

“Them ruddy kids!” he bellowed. “Hooligans, the lot of ‘em! I’ve had me fill, d’y’hear!” Jerking his head around, he snapped at the constable, “Well? What are you standing there for? Get after them!”

“Mr. McCrimmon,” Merriweather said placatingly, “they’re only children –– ”

“They’re criminals, destroying my property! I demand that you go teach them that they can’t harass an honest man in his own home! What do I pay taxes for, eh? So you can stand there and gawk? Go get them heathens, or so help me I’ll ring up your superiors and have you up on dereliction of duty!”

Shrugging resignedly, Merriweather set off, muttering over his shoulder, “Sorry, Mr. Potter. Won’t take a minute.”

“Not at all,” Harry assured him, rolling his eyes toward the fence over which McCrimmon’s face was glowing a lurid shade of carmine.

Merriweather opened the back gate and set off in the direction from which the sound of diminishing laughter was still barely audible. While McCrimmon followed the constable’s departure, Harry quietly slipped back into the house. He found Hermione sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. Her hair was in disarray, and her cheeks were pink, as if she had been exerting herself in some manner. She smiled up at Harry as he entered, and Harry, catching wise on the instant, grinned.

“Brilliant!” he said. But a note of worry crept into his voice as he asked, “You’re sure no one saw you?”

“I Apparated behind the dustbins,” Hermione said. “Even if someone had been looking over the fence at that precise moment, they wouldn’t have seen anything.”

“What about after?” Harry pressed. “That row you made would have roused Winky out of a butterbeer coma. You’re absolutely certain that you weren’t spotted?”

“Well,” Hermione smiled, “I admit I could have done with your Invisibility Cloak –– pity we left it at home –– but in a case like this, a Disillusionment Charm serves in a pinch. Muggles only see what they want to, and the last thing they’d expect to see in a quiet neighborhood like this is someone appearing out of thin air and vanishing the same way.”

Harry had a sudden thought. “This won’t get the boys in trouble, will it? I’m not keen on taking a leaf from Fred and George and letting someone else hold the sack for us.”

“Don’t worry,” Hermione smiled. “When they rode by here earlier, they were on the way to a mate’s house to play some new video game everyone’s keen on. We chatted a few days ago, while you were at work,” she answered Harry’s inquiring look, “and they said they’ve been going every day for two weeks now. There’ll be more than enough witnesses to exonerate them if McCrimmon tries to condemn them in absentia.”

Harry nodded, relieved, but a moment later a deep furrow crossed the scar hovering between his dark brows.

“How much time do you think you bought us?” he asked.

“Not much,” Hermione admitted. “If Luna doesn’t appear soon –– ”

“Where’s Jimmy?” Harry now thought to ask. He realized that he hadn’t seen or heard a sound since leaving Hermione earlier.

“In the guest bedroom,” Hermione said. “I gave him a drop of Sleeping Potion from my pouch. A bit of Energizing Draught will bring him around without any harm done.”

Moved by his fatherly instinct, Harry glided along the corridor and opened the bedroom door. The puppy that had been Jimmy Potter lay curled up on the bed, his floppy ears twitching now and then as if at the behest of secret dreams Harry could not guess. Harry wished he were dreaming. But this was all too real, a waking nightmare that, he realized with a lurch of his stomach, depended on Luna Lovegood for its relief. If that was not the most depressing thought Harry had nurtured in a while, it would do until something worse came along. Harry didn’t know what that something worse might be, but unless Luna returned quickly, he feared he would find out, to his everlasting regret.

Harry was just about to close the door when his attention was drawn in two directions simultaneously. The bedroom window was open against the heat of the day, and through it he heard the voice of Angus McCrimmon remonstrating against Constable Merriweather, who, it transpired, had enjoyed no success in rounding up the hooligans responsible for the recent disturbance. “What do you mean, they got away?” McCrimmon bellowed. “A fine example of law enforcement you are, Constable!”

Harry’s alarm at the too-soon return of the constable was extinguished almost at once when Hermione stepped into the corridor and said hurriedly, “Luna’s back! Bring Jimmy!”

His heart fluttering, Harry swept into the bedroom and scooped his sleeping son into his arms. Returning to the parlor, he found Hermione expressing her gratitude to Luna, in whose hands Harry saw the object of their hoped-for salvation. Handing Jimmy to Hermione, Harry took the toy broomstick from Luna with one hand as his free arm pulled her into a brief hug.

“You’re a life-saver, Luna!” he breathed.

“I hope I didn’t take too long,” Luna said. “There was a line at the check-out counter. I gave three people in front of me a Galleon each to let me skip ahead. I hope that was okay. I still had enough for the broom.”

In that moment, Harry wouldn’t have cared if Luna went to Gringotts and opened his vault and let everyone take whatever they could carry. Clutching the toy broom, Harry turned and saw Hermione placing the sleeping Jimmy on the couch. She dipped a hand into her pocket, and Harry recognized the small bottle of Energizing Draught that emerged a moment later. Working with a professional dispatch that yet bore no undue haste, Hermione pulled the cork and dipped her index finger into the bottle. Kneeling, she worked her finger into the puppy’s mouth, placing a drop of the potion on his tongue. Jimmy’s eyes opened at once, and he sprang to his feet, tail wagging. Expecting at any moment to hear Angus McCrimmon bellowing his name from the back garden, Harry leaped forward, the toy broomstick thrust before him.

“Have a look, Jimmy!” he said. “What have you been asking for all Summer, then?”

The puppy’s eyes seemed to light up like twin torch beams. Tongue wagging, Jimmy leaped from the couch with a high-pitched yelp of excitement. There was a blur of motion as Hermione whipped out her wand and waved it across Jimmy’s path. There was a silent flash of light, and the leap begun by the puppy was completed by a restored, and thoroughly transported, Jimmy Potter.

“Daddy, Daddy!” Jimmy squealed. “You got me my broom!”

Harry gathered his son in his arms and spoke quickly, his smile masking the tension he could barely conceal in his voice.

“I’m glad you like it, Jimmy,” he said. “But you know you can’t ride it here. This is a Muggle neighborhood, and you know what rule number one is for a wizard, don’t you?”

“Never do magic in front of a Muggle,” Jimmy quoted proudly, though with unconcealed regret.

“Right,” Harry said with parental pride. “You’re a good boy, Jimmy. As soon as Gran and Grandpa Granger come back from their holiday, we’ll go home and I’ll give you your first flying lesson. How will that be?”

“Smashing!” Jimmy said, hugging his father’s neck.

“Now,” Harry said, trying to sound casual, “why don’t we let your mum hold your broom while we go out and kick the football around? I’ll be goalkeeper, and you can try to score past me.”

“Yeah!” Jimmy smiled.

Putting his son down, Harry flashed another grateful smile at Luna, blew Hermione a kiss, and strode through the kitchen to open the back screen. As he appeared in the doorway, Angus McCrimmon glared at him accusingly.

“I was about to have the constable get on his transmitter and put out a bulletin for you, Potter,” he glowered. “And where’s –– ”

But before the words could escape his lips, McCrimmon choked as Jimmy Potter darted past his father and into the back garden. The boy saw the familiar face hovering over the fence and waved.

“Hi, Mr. McCrimmon! Dad and I are going to have a match! You want to watch me score off him? I bet I score a dozen goals before Dad can block one!”

Harry followed his son outside, doing his best not to swagger. He spared McCrimmon no more than a cursory glance as he approached Constable Merriweather.

“I take it this is your son, Mr. Potter?” Merriweather said, his eyes flashing unkindly toward McCrimmon, who still had not regained his voice.

“This is Jimmy,” Harry said. “Jimmy, this is Constable Merriweather.”

“Hi!” Jimmy said. “Are you here chasing bank robbers? Or terrorists?”

“No,” Merriweather smiled. “Just, er, walking about the neighborhood, making sure that everyone is safe. That’s a policeman’s job, you know.”

“Have you been watching Gran and Grandpa Granger’s house for them while they’re on holiday?” Jimmy asked.

“I don’t have to,” Merriweather said. With a smile and a nod toward Harry, he told the boy, “I reckon your mum and dad are doing a good job on their own, aren’t they?” As Jimmy smiled proudly at this praise from such a high source, Merriweather said, “In fact, since they’re doing such a good job of it, I think there’s nothing more for me to do here, so I’ll just be on my way.”

But the constable hadn’t taken two steps toward the kitchen door before a disgruntled voice called from over the fence, “You hang on a bit, Constable! There’s summat don’t add up here.”

“And what would that be, Mr. McCrimmon?” Merriweather asked shortly. “You called me in to investigate the disappearance of the Potter boy, didn’t you? Well, here he is, safe and sound (his eyes seemed to add, And my valuable time wasted). I don’t see that there’s anything more to be done.”

“I reported,” McCrimmon said, glowering at Harry, “that this black scoundrel did devilry to his son. With me own eyes I saw him change that boy into a dog! All this proves is that he changed him back again when our backs were turned.”

“Mrs. Potter explained that the dog in question was a birthday present for her daughter,” Merriweather said patiently.

“Where is it, then?” McCrimmon demanded. “It ain’t nowhere, is it? That’s because there weren’t never no dog but the one this blackguard (he jerked his head at Harry) changed his son into! I never seen no dog until after that flash of light, an’ him standing right where the boy was!”

Harry was trying his best to look unconcerned as Merriweather said, “Mr. McCrimmon –– ”

“You show me that boy an’ that dog together!” McCrimmon demanded. "You do that an’ I’ll say no more about it! I’ll put the key to me lips an’ turn it!” Jerking his head toward Harry, he snarled, “What do you say to that, Potter?”

Fighting off the tightness squeezing his chest, Harry said with forced calm, ”My wife told you that the puppy was frightened by the camera flash and ran through the cat flap. Do you intend to stand there while the constable and I search the entire neighborhood for a lost puppy? That could take hours.”

“I’ll wait until Eddie bleedin’ Izzard is elected Prime Minister if I have to!” McCrimmon said, his cheeks going red. “Until I see with me own eyes –– ”

“Excuse me?”

Every head turned as a new voice spoke from beyond the back fence. An old man with snow-white hair was peering over the gate, his pale eyes squinting over the bridge of a very long nose.

“Don’t mean to put my nose in,” the old man said, as if intentionally calling attention to his most prominent feature, “but did I hear someone say that a dog had gone missing? Only I just ran across this little blighter, and I was wondering who he belonged to.”

With a shrug of his stooped shoulders, the old man raised his hands over the fence to reveal a small puppy with large eyes and very long ears. Harry was speechless. He knew that his son was standing not ten feet away, yet the puppy in the old man’s hands looked identical in every respect to the form Jimmy had only just quitted. McCrimmon was scrutinizing the dog as keenly as Harry, searching for some mark that would betray this animal as a fraud. But, like Harry, he was unable to find anything to support this hypothesis. His lips pressed into a thin line, he turned and glared at Harry, looking like one whose pocket had just been picked by some form of Faginesque legerdemain. Harry opened his mouth to speak, having no idea what he would say, when Hermione surprised him by rushing forward with her arms outstretched and a bright smile on her face.

“Oh, thank you for finding him, sir,” she said, taking the puppy from the old man’s hands and cradling it in her arms. “We were so worried.” Her eyes drifted toward Angus McCrimmon, who, like Harry, had still not found his voice, as she continued, “We didn’t know how to explain to our daughter that we’d lost her birthday present, and her heart being so set and all.”

“Not a bit of it,” the old man cackled merrily. “Always glad to see things work out. Happy ending and all that. Know how children can be –– used to be one, didn’t I?" Of course,” he allowed with a twisted smile, "that was quite a bit off –– back when Winnie was running things, it was –– during the war, you know..."

Having turned dismissively from Angus McCrimmon, Harry was now staring at the old man intently, mentally blocking the prattling speech as he focused his attention on that long, oddly familiar nose. If it had been bent in a couple of places, it might have been the nose of Albus Dumbledore, set squarely as it was on that wizened parchment, and framed about by that silvery halo. If he didn’t know that Dumbledore was gone forever, he would have sworn ––

“Won’t you come in and have something cold to drink?” Harry heard Hermione entreating their visitor. “A lemon squash, perhaps? It’s quite a warm day, and as you’ve just done us such a service...”

“Don’t mind if I do,” the old man said, his eyes twinkling from the depths of his pronounced wrinkles. He opened the back gate, shambled inside, and closed the barrier behind him. Constable Merriweather sprang forward at once.

“Allow me to escort you, sir,” he said. “I was just on my way out. A pleasure to be of service.”

“It’s good to see that today’s policemen haven’t forgotten yesterday’s manners,” the old man said pleasantly. Hermione led the way as Merriweather walked beside the old man, taking small steps to match the other’s halting movements, and looking ready to catch the frail-looking man should he stumble. Harry followed the procession with Jimmy at his heels (the boy didn’t seem the least upset about the “football match” being called off abruptly), and they all entered the kitchen, Harry closing the screen just behind Jimmy, who dashed past him and into the parlor. Merriweather helped the old man into a chair, whereupon he nodded cordially to Harry and Hermione.

“Sorry to have troubled you folks,” he said. “Glad everything worked out.”

Harry walked the constable to the front door. As they crossed the parlor, Harry saw that Jimmy was sitting on the couch, happily examining his new toy broomstick. It was obvious now why Jimmy had been so keen to abandon the back garden –– a Muggle football couldn’t compete with a broom in the eyes of a young wizard. His heart in his throat, Harry positioned himself so as to block Jimmy from view as he opened the door and bade the constable goodbye. He stood watching as the man entered the waiting car, which drove away, turned a corner and was gone.

Turning about, Harry was about to admonish Jimmy for playing with his magical toy in full view of a Muggle (and a policeman at that). But instead he merely sighed and cast a grateful look on his son. Jimmy had been through enough today (they all had, come to that), and Harry was inclined to let the incident pass. Smiling at Jimmy, Harry returned to the kitchen, his mind buzzing with questions.

When Harry entered the kitchen, the old man turned his snowy head and smiled at him, his pale eyes twinkling over the bridge of his long (and maddeningly familiar) nose. Hermione was opening the refrigerator, no doubt to procure the refreshment she had promised their benefactor. But before she could reach inside, the old man spoke in a strong, youthful voice decades removed from his former ancient treble.

“Never mind that lemon squash, luv, thanks just the same,” he said, his hand brushing the air dismissively in Hermione’s direction. “But I wouldn’t say no to something a bit stronger,” he added quickly with an exaggerated uplifting of his bushy white eyebrows. He hesitated only a moment, his face assuming a thoughtful mein that might have been lifted directly from Albus Dumbledore’s Chocolate Frog card, then snapped his fingers decisively and turned toward Harry with a nod and a smile. “Oi, mate! Would y’ever toss me a pint of that Guinness Hermione’s dad keeps in the pantry, there’s a good chap.”

Harry’s mouth fell onto his chest.

“Ron?”

“And if it’s not too much bother,” their guest turned his attention back to Hermione, “you might add a few drops of a certain potion from your medical pouch while you’re about it.”

Seeing that Harry was too stunned to move, Hermione pressed the puppy into his hands and reached up to retrieve a bottle of stout from her father’s private cupboard. She filled a mug, but before handing it over, she opened her pouch and pulled out a small phial of dark green liquid. Blowing aside the foaming head spilling over the rim of the mug, she added a few drops to the brown ale and swirled the mixture for a moment. Nodding her satisfaction, she handed the mug to their guest, who took a long, deep pull, smacking his lips loudly. Chuckling, Hermione took the puppy back from Harry, who seemed scarcely to note her presence. His attention was welded on the old man’s face, which was already beginning to change.

The wrinkles lining the ancient parchment began to withdraw, leaving smooth, young skin in their place. Color was returning to his cheeks, not to mention to his hair, which was quickly darkening from snowy white to a brilliant, fiery red –– nearly as red as the freckles which now appeared on the long nose with the return of his normal coloring.

His natural aspect now fully restored, Ron Weasley took another long pull from the mug and, in such fashion as had not altered since his days at Hogwarts, wiped the excess from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Ah, that’s good,” he sighed, setting the mug aside. “Blimey, it’s been that kind of week, hasn’t it? But enough about me,” he said, turning toward Harry as one eyebrow (now flaming red) lifted meaningfully. “I thought Luna was having me on when she told me about Hermione’s letter –– I mean, you never know with Luna, do you? I reckon I’ll have to start listening to her with both ears from now on, won’t I?”

“Are you going to tell me what's going on?” Harry said through a smile nearly as broad as Ron’s. “Or am I going to have to nick some Veritaserum from my own pouch and force it down your throat without benefit of a pint?”

“Ask Hermione,” Ron said with an enigmatic smile.

Harry turned to face Hermione, who was again wearing that very pleased expression he had come to know so well in their long association.

“As soon as I changed Jimmy back,” she said, “I knew we’d still have to answer Mr. McCrimmon’s accusation to his satisfaction. After all, he did see what he claimed, and it was down to us to convince him that he only thought he saw Jimmy change into a dog. I realized that the only proof he’d accept to the contrary was to see the two of them together, Jimmy and the puppy. And the constable had to be convinced as well so he’d write off the incident officially as nothing more than a figment of McCrimmon’s imagination.”

“But how does Ron enter into it?” Harry asked.

“Simple,” Ron said, taking up the narration now that his mug was empty, freeing his mouth for more prosaic endeavors. “Hermione knew we had to have a puppy as quick as possible. And who does she know in the wizarding world who has a working knowledge of Muggle Britain, including the location of the nearest animal shelter? Does anyone in this room fit that description?”

Harry realized the truth of Ron's words at once. In his week as Ron’s temporary assistant, he’d seen that there was virtually no aspect of the Muggle world that Ron did not know, or could not find at need in the copious files in his office. It was easy enough to supply the last piece of the puzzle, and Hermione confirmed his conclusion a moment later.

“Just before I went off to rattle Mr. McCrimmon’s dustbins,” she smiled, “I sent Luna off to London to tell Ron what we needed. I knew if anyone could do it, Ron could.”

Harry and Hermione chuckled as Ron began to hum Weasley is our king with a satisfied smile.

“Did you have any trouble getting the little bugger?” Harry now asked.

“Nah,” Ron shrugged. “We do this sort of thing all the time in the department. It’s almost too easy, really. A simple diversion is all it takes. While Luna kept the clerk occupied out front in her inimitable manner,” he chuckled appreciatively, “I Apparated into the back and found a puppy that we could use. He wasn’t an exact match, but Luna told me what Jimmy looked like after he was transformed, and I added a bit of color here and there to complete the disguise.”

“Good job, that,” Harry said. “McCrimmon’s a bloody nuisance where detail is concerned. He’d have spotted any difference between the two dogs and called us on it.”

“All part of the job description,” Ron said with no small measure of pride. “Dealing with Muggles takes a special understanding of how they think. Fortunately, I shared a school House with a Muggle-born witch for seven years. I know it didn’t always look like I was paying attention,” he winked at Hermione, “but eventually, something was bound to sink in.”

“Did you manage to get hold of an Obliviator?” Harry asked anxiously. “The sooner McCrimmon forgets all about this ruddy mess, the better. Now that we’ve punctured his argument, it should be easy to modify his mind to remove any remaining doubts.” To his surprise, Ron shook his head.

“One of the first pieces of advice Dad gave me when I took over his old job was that it’s always best to solve problems with as little magic as possible. I mean, it’s magic that caused the ruddy mess in the first place, innit, so why muddy the waters with more of the same?”

“But you don’t know McCrimmon,” Harry said guardedly. “This bloke never forgets anything. If you’ll excuse the metaphor, he’s like a dog with a bone.”

“They’re the ones you have to be the most careful with,” Ron said seriously. “Remember that bloke at the campgrounds when we went to the Quidditch World Cup –– what was his name, Robbins? –– anyway, the Obliviators had to keep reinforcing the Memory Charm on him, didn’t they? That’s how it’d be with this sod,” he nodded toward the back garden. “But now he’ll just think he imagined the whole thing, and no more said.”

“No more said?” Harry scoffed. “He’ll throw it in my face the next time he sees me, and every time after.”

“After the way you put his knickers in a twist, and in front of a policeman?” Ron shook his head. “He’d never give you the satisfaction of throwing it back in his face. Anyway, you heard him: ‘I’ll put the key to me lips and turn it.’ That’s one thing about these self-righteous blokes, they’re always as good as their word. All part of their ‘Better-than-thou’ complex, you know.”

“Well,” Harry said grudgingly, “if you’re sure...”

“Messing with minds is a dodgy thing under the best of circumstances,” Ron said with uncommon wisdom. “And do you know how much bleedin’ paperwork is involved in bringing in the Obliviators?” Ron shuddered comically before concluding, “Dad once said that if Muggles knew there was such a thing as magic, they’d want to use it to solve all their problems.”

“Hagrid told me the same thing on our first visit to Diagon Alley,” Harry said, and Ron nodded sharply.

“According to Dad,” Ron said, “if we start thinking like Muggles, we’re all for it anyway –– sorry, luv.” He grinned at Hermione, who responded with a good-natured chuckle. Turning back to Harry, he said, “Remember back at Grimmauld Place, when Fred and George were showing off because they’d come of age and could legally do magic? Remember what happened when they tried to levitate the stew pot instead of just carrying it?” The two friends grinned at the memory of the burn mark on Sirius’ kitchen table, the spilled flagon of butterbeeer, and the knife that just missed piercing Sirius’ hand. Ron’s smile grew resolute as he concluded, “When it comes to dealing with Muggles, rule number one is, unless the situation is dire, it’s always best to find a way of explaining things in their terms.”

In Harry’s biased judgment, his situation had been dire in the extreme. But he supposed that Ron was right, and Hermione’s answering nod to his questioning look settled the matter. With that weight removed from his mind, another thought jumped up from the back of his head.

“But why the disguise?” Even if Harry hadn’t spotted it earlier, it was obvious that Ron had been under the influence of an Aging Potion. The drops Hermione had added to his stout –– unquestionably the antidote –– had removed any doubts that might be lingering in Harry’s brain. Such potions were standard in Ron’s department, where obtaining cooperation from Muggles often meant meeting them on their own level of comfort. Older Muggles usually responded more readily to someone from their own generation, whom they were more likely to trust than one who (as with Ron and Harry) were, in their judgment, scarcely out of nappies. But there had been no need for such subterfuge here. “Why not just come as yourself?”

“Because I’d already taken the potion as part of my assignment,” Ron explained. “Hermione told you I got called back in after you left, didn’t she? I’d just finished up and got back to the office when Luna turned up and told me what Hermione wanted us to do. I knew there wasn’t a moment to waste going down to the Potions department for the antidote. If I’ve learned anything on this job, it’s that Muggles like things tied up in neat packages, and they’re not keen on standing about waiting with their thumbs up their –– ”

“What was so important that they called you back?” Harry asked quickly, lest Ron’s colorful metaphor reach Jimmy’s ears in the next room.

“Well,” Ron began, “there was this old bloke in Kent –– ” But suddenly he sighed and waved his hand. “Ah, it’d take too long to explain. It’ll all be in my report on Monday if you’re still keen to have a look. Anyway, it’s not your worry now, is it? I heard that Perkins was released today, which means you’ll be back in the Auror division on Monday, trading Curses with Dark wizards and all that rubbish.”

And it can’t come a moment too soon, Harry thought with relief. Aloud, he remarked, “All I can say is, you’re lucky Hermione’s a Healer. Not every witch would be carrying the antidote to the Aging Potion around with her.”

“I was counting on it,” Ron said sagely. “Being Keeper at Hogwarts started me thinking about how we need to look ahead, to anticipate where the next Quaffle is coming from from even as we’re blocking the one in front of us.”

“I always told Hermione that Quidditch was good preparation for life,” Harry said with a smug expression. Hermione rolled her eyes, and Ron laughed.

“But as to that,” Ron said, “we both learned something even more important at Hogwarts: When the chips are down, you can always count on Hermione to come through.”

There was only one proper response to that. Crossing the space between them, Harry took Hermione in his arms and kissed her. The puppy still held in the crook of her left arm let out a small squeal, and the two of them jumped back with a laugh.

Taking the puppy from Hermione, Harry brought its face to his and said, “We owe you, little mate. Shame we can’t keep you, but I’m sure you’ll find a nice family to adopt you.” Turning to Ron, he inquired, “Can you get him back where you got him without any fuss?”

“No worries,” Ron said. “I’ll get him back the same way I nicked him. Luna’s a walking Confundus Charm, she is,” he chuckled, his eyes brimming with affection. “They won’t even know he went missing.”

Looking around now, Harry asked, “Did Luna come back with you? I don’t see her anywhere.”

“She Apparated into the house a moment after you and Jimmy ran outside,” Hermione said. “That’s how I knew to expect Ron –– though Luna didn’t tell me how he’d look when he got here. If I hadn’t spotted that long nose under all those wrinkles...” She flashed an amused look at Ron, who grinned.

“Where is she now?” Harry pressed.

“I sent her in to keep an eye on Janie,” Hermione said. “I didn’t want her waking up and tossing a spanner in things. Goodness knows we were up against it enough as it was.”

“What a day this has been,” Harry sighed. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

But, now as in his old Divination classes, Harry proved to be a poor prophet, as he quickly learned when he entered the parlor, Ron and Hermione close on his heels.

“Jimmy!” Harry exclaimed.

“Lookit me, Daddy!” Jimmy squealed happily. “I’m flying!”

And so he was. He had mounted his toy broom and was darting back and forth across the parlor, his feet dangling less than an inch above the floor. Harry opened his mouth to reprimand his son, but any sound that might have escaped his throat would not have been heard over the piercing shriek that echoed from the corridor leading to the bedrooms. Harry jerked his head around and saw Janie standing in the entranceway, her face contorted and her eyes full of tears. Luna stood behind her, confusion in her large eyes.

“Daddy!” Janie squeaked in a hurt voice. “How could you? You bought Jimmy a new broom, but you wouldn’t even –– ”

Janie’s childish remonstrance was cut off at once as her eyes, heretofore piercing her father’s accusingly, fell of a sudden onto the furry bundle squirming in his arms.

“DADDY!” Janie screamed, her anguish transmuted to pure joy. “My puppy! My puppy!”

Janie leaped forward and jumped up to snatch the puppy from her astonished father’s hands. She hugged the tiny creature, kissing its face and ears as it licked her cheeks happily.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” Janie sobbed. “I’m sorry for all those things I said! I love you, Daddy! I love you!”

“Janie,” Harry choked, his breath trapped in his lungs, “that’s not –– I mean, he’s not –– ”

“Harry,” Hermione said softly, placing a hand on his arm. Harry flashed Hermione a desperate look, but even before she spoke, he knew he was lost. “We can’t,” she said. “It’s too late. It would break her heart. And since we did give Jimmy a broom, and it’s not even his birthday...”

Harry sighed.

“It’s moments like this,” he muttered, his shoulders sagging helplessly, “that I almost wish I was still going up against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. I know that sounds stupid, but at least I knew how to deal with all that.”

“We’ll deal with this, too,” Hermione smiled, squeezing Harry’s arm. “The same way we dealt with Voldemort. Together.”

“Well,” Ron said as he dodged a sweeping pass by Jimmy and joined Luna, “I reckon we’ll be off. Oh, and we’re on for dinner tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said dully, his mind whirling from the day’s events. “Thanks, mate. You too, Luna.”

“You know,” Ron said cheerily, “I think this week went smashing, don’t you? If you ever get tired of chasing Dark wizards, there’s a future for you in Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. Just say the word and I’ll have Dad draw up the transfer papers.”

“No, thanks,” Harry smiled weakly. “I wouldn’t live this week again for all the gold under Gringotts.”

“What?” Ron said, both eyebrows jumping up to disappear comically under his flaming hair. “You didn’t think this was the most ripping week ever?”

“For you, maybe,” Harry said. “But as for me, mate,” and his eyes alternated between his son and daughter over a very strained smile, “I wouldn’t wish this week on a dog.”