(A/N: For those of you who've requested to see other members of the Potterverse: this chapter's for you. My thanks as always to MirielleGrey, my beta Who Can Fix Anything.)
(Disclaimer: Credit must go to Jo Rowling for creating the characters; but I take some small credit for the situation in which they've found themselves.)
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"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
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XI: Fresh Perspectives
*
Roswitha, the proprietress of the Three Broomsticks, met Neville as he came in. "Thanks for coming," she said in a low voice. "He's actually been fine so far, but I just didn't want things to get, you know, out of hand."
"Understandable," Neville agreed. Roswitha had taken over the Three Broomsticks following her cousin Rosmerta's retirement; though she was capable enough, she was years younger than Rosmerta, and hadn't her experience in handling potential crises. "Where is he? What's he had?"
"He asked for a private room in the back. So far, three firewhiskeys and a plate of sandwiches. He hasn't touched the sandwiches."
Neville thought quickly. "Bring us a couple of butterbeers, please, and put it all on my tab." He made his way to the back room and entered with an air of confidence. Ignoring the sour look from the room's sole occupant, he took a seat at the table opposite him, picked a sandwich off the serving plate, and began to eat.
Ron glowered at Neville. "I'm not drunk."
"I didn't say you were. Hello, by the way."
"No, but you're here because I'm drunk, aren't you." Ron considered his words for a moment. "Or on the way."
"Maybe a little." Neville knew it would, in fact, take more than three shots of firewhiskey to get Ron really drunk. Their only visible effect so far had been to make his speech more emphatic, if anything. "Of course, if you insist on getting pissed, I can't very well stop you - I have one more class to teach this afternoon. But at least have something to eat first." He offered Ron the plate of sandwiches.
Ron took a sandwich and bit into it, just as Roswitha bustled into the room with two butterbeers. She left them on the table, deftly scooped up the used shot glasses, and made a graceful exit before Ron could swallow enough to ask for stronger drink.
"Hmph. It's a bleedin' conspiracy," Ron muttered. Nonetheless, he accepted the butterbeer. They ate and drank in silence for a few minutes.
"I'd planned on meeting Hermione here for lunch," Ron finally said. "She sent word this morning, she was too busy. Something about a big case on Monday."
"Sorry to hear it," said Neville. "When did you ask her to lunch?"
Ron rolled his eyes. "Okay, it was this morning. I get it. She couldn't change her schedule that quick, I should've planned ahead, I get it."
"Her work for the Wizengamot is pretty important," Neville noted mildly. "It'd be hard for her to drop it on the spur of the moment, even for family."
"Yeah. Family." Ron took a deep swig of butterbeer. "Or even for me."
Not knowing what to say to this, Neville said nothing. He was startled when Ron straightened in his seat and declared, "She dropped everything quick enough earlier this week, though, didn't she?"
"Slightly different circumstances," Neville extemporized. He knew exactly what Ron was talking about - it had been on his mind for the last two days, too.
"Not from where I sit." Ron thumped the bottle onto the table and met Neville's gaze challengingly. "So what did you think about that dog-and-pony show?"
Neville opened his mouth to reply, but Ron surged onward. "He can't be alive, Nev! It's… it's crazy! You were there when You-Know-Who marched on Hogwarts - hell, you were closest! Was that or was that not Harry's body?"
"It looked like it… but then, I was kind of preoccupied at the time." Neville sipped as he regarded Ron thoughtfully. "I do remember how broken up Hagrid looked, when he carried Harry's body out of the forest. And, well, Hagrid's no actor."
"Exactly! Exactly! And… and look at Kreacher! I mean, I like Teddy Lupin well enough, but there's no way Kreacher would consider Teddy his master if Harry were still alive! And Merlin's beard, the goblins track inheritances better than anyone - they wouldn't have passed Grimmauld Place to Teddy if Harry were still alive!"
"Nor, for that matter, would you and Hermione have received your bequests," said Neville.
Ron deflated slightly at that. "I didn't want his damned money," he said after a moment. "It was… just one more Harry-hand-out…"
"I really don't think that's how Harry meant it, Ron," protested Neville firmly. Which Ron already knew, and they both knew it - but Neville also knew there were moments when Ron believed the truth of what he'd just said, even if he wouldn't normally admit it.
After the Final Battle, Ron had chosen not to return to Hogwarts with Hermione and finish his schooling. Instead, he'd joined with George to reopen Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. He made good money… but if he'd thought George would accept him as a partner, as a replacement for Fred, he seriously miscalculated. Ron worked hard, he contributed good ideas for new gags, and he helped the business to flourish - but his brother's employee he would always remain.
Once Hermione had received her NEWTs (setting a modern record), she'd accepted Minister Shacklebolt's personal offer, to help with codifying wizarding laws with an eye to making them fairer. Between that, and Neville's own year with the Aurors in an advisory role, Ron had seen a window of opportunity: he applied for Auror training, convinced that his exploits fighting Voldemort and Death Eaters would make up for his lack of NEWTs. He quickly learned otherwise. The Aurors would have accepted Harry, without question, and Ron might well have got into Auror training on Harry's coattails… but certainly not on his own merits.
It would be all too easy for Ron, in his darkest and bitterest moments, to credit Harry Potter for anything he had in his life - including his failures. Small wonder, then, if Ron looked askance at the possibility that Harry might not be dead.
"Look, Nev," said Ron, shaking his head as though to clear it. "Look... if Harry miraculously came back to life today, I'd be happy. You know I would. I mean, you and I've been good friends over the years, but Harry was my best friend all through school. I'd be glad to hear he was alive - but he's not." He picked up the bottle again, but didn't drink from it… instead, he stared at it moodily. "He can't be. So why was Hermione so all-fired sure he is?"
"Well…" Neville scratched his chin. "At a guess, because Ted Lupin said under Veritaserum that he is."
Ron shrugged. "Only proves that Teddy honestly thinks Harry's alive."
"Why would he think that, though? It can't be some idle fancy on Ted's part. The amount of detail in what he told us…" Neville scowled. "I think we have to assume an imposter, Ron. Someone representing himself as Harry to Ted. The question is why."
"An imposter? Huh. I suppose, yeah…" Ron finished his butterbeer quickly and raised his voice. "Roswitha, darlin'! It's gettin' pretty dry in here!"
The door opened, and both Ron and Neville turned to greet the Broomsticks' landlady. But Roswitha had someone else beside her as she entered the room. "Hello, Neville," said Ginny pleasantly. "Cheers, Ron. A bit early in the day for ruining your liver, isn't it?"
Ron goggled at his sister for a second, before giving Roswitha a reproachful look. "Anyone else I should expect? Madame Pomfrey? The Temperance League, maybe?"
Roswitha blushed, but stood her ground. "See, here's how it is, Mr. Weasley: I'll keep serving as long as you can keep ordering them, but only if there's someone to see you home after. Or I can stop right now. Your choice."
"I think, between the two of us," Ginny smoothly interposed, "Neville and I can take care of this. Why don't you bring Ron one for the road, as it were? And a Cliodna's Choice for me. Neville? No?" She joined Ron and Neville at the table as Roswitha left to fill their orders, flipping her waist-length hair over the back of the chair as she sat down.
"You're lucky, actually," she continued cheerfully. "Play-off training doesn't begin until next week. So when I got Roswitha's owl, I was free to pop over." She smiled at Neville. "I haven't seen you in a while, Neville. How're you and Susan doing?"
"As well as always," replied Neville. Whenever their paths crossed, Ginny never failed to ask after Susan. His relations with Ginny were currently friendly enough - on the surface, certainly - but neither of them could forget their history.
"Glad to hear it," said Ginny. "So… what were you talking about so intensely when I showed up?"
Neville couldn't help giving Ron a warning look. Ron responded with an almost-but-not-quite roll of the eyes, to say that he didn't need the warning. "We were playing 'what-if' games," Ron said. "You know, what our lives would've been like if Harry hadn't died."
Ginny blinked, obviously not expecting that answer. "Well, I probably wouldn't be Chaser for the Harpies," she said candidly. She didn't need to elaborate; her pursuit of Harry before he'd died was well known to the other two. "And Neville probably wouldn't be a professor," she added.
"Oh, I imagine I would," Neville objected. "I enjoy working with students, after all."
She shook her head pityingly. "Harry would be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, not you. I mean, think about it. If he'd lived, he'd be… well, the Boy Who Lived. Not to detract from what you did," she added reassuringly, "but compared to Harry? He'd have put you in the shade - even if you weren't letting him. Which you would've - you let The Witch Who Won do it to you, after all."
"Hardly a question of 'letting'. We both played our parts - but in the Final Battle, people will remember that I killed Voldmeort's snake and she killed Voldemort. She earned her title, I'd say."
"You organized the resistance at Hogwarts - even after Luna and I left," Ginny insisted. "You fought as well as anybody in the Battle. You could have parleyed that into some major clout, if you'd wanted. You could have been a real mover and player in today's world, and you know I'm right."
Neville sighed. They'd been over this ground many times during their brief relationship, before it fell apart, and he felt not the slightest desire to go over it again now.
Their drinks arrived, putting a hold on the discussion. As soon as Roswitha left the room, however, Ginny picked up the thread. "And what about you, Ron?" she asked, turning to her brother. "D'you reckon you'd be an Auror by now, if Harry'd lived? You and Hermione could've made a great team: you'd catch the dark wizards, and she'd try them."
"I think," Neville interrupted sharply, "we've just about played out this game. Let's drop it, shall we?" He was irritated by Ginny's jibe at Ron - with its catty reference to Ron's and Hermione's estrangement - and it showed in his voice. This was his classroom voice now, the one that expected immediate compliance.
Rather to his private surprise, he got it. "Sorry," murmured Ginny shamefacedly, looking down at the drink in her hands. "I was being mean, wasn't I? I'm sorry, Ron… Neville…"
Neville's expression showed he agreed. All he said, however, as he rose from the table, was, "No worries. Well, I need to get back to Hogwarts. Ginny, you sure you can see him home? He's really not…"
"Not that pissed yet," Ron confirmed. "And I am sitting right here. No, Gin and I will finish our drinks, catch up on our lives, and then she'll take me back to my rooms in Diagon Alley. I'll be right as rain in the morning." He caught Neville's eye and nodded in appreciation. "Thanks, Nev."
Nodding back, Neville took his leave of the Weasley siblings. He couldn't help but feel a little sorry for Ron: his life hadn't turned out at all the way he'd hoped, at the end of the War. Neither had Neville's, come to that, but in Neville's case it had turned out better than his hopes. In particular, while he and Ginny had grown close as comrades-in-arms during the War, and after the War sought comfort with one another for their losses, he'd realized in time that it would be a huge mistake for them to marry.
In that respect, he'd avoided Ron's mistake.
*
Well, that went a little better than I expected, thought Hermione as she Apparated back to the Ministry. At least we have options now.
Her afternoon meeting with Shacklebolt had included Robards; between the three of them, they'd finalized her strategies for the Swivingham trial on Monday. Several strategies, in fact, depending on whether the exploited house-elves would testify or not. There was still other evidence that could be presented - financial records, surveillance reports - and humans in Jack Swivingham's organization that might cooperate in exchange for a reduced sentence.
And as they left Shacklebolt's home, the Minister had quietly pressed a sealed envelope into her hand, murmuring "From Croaker" as he did so. Hermione suspected it contained more information about the blocked door in the Department of Mysteries - perhaps even the newly appeared runes that Croaker had mentioned. Not that Hermione thought she could decipher them more easily than the Unspeakables' own rune-readers, but she'd already agreed to help however she could.
It would all make for a busy weekend, but Hermione was used to being at the Ministry on weekends.
As she approached her office, she heard a familiar voice waft through the open door. "… don't worry, it's a common mistake. I don't know why anyone would think Rolf would even be interested in me that way - after all, he is older than me. And I'm still taking care of Daddy, you know…"
"Hello, Luna," Hermione called out, before entering the office. Luna Lovegood stood chatting with a bemused Sheryl. Her blonde hair had been bleached almost white by the sun, which had unfortunately left her skin slightly burnt. As Hermione approached, Luna turned and reached out for Hermione's hands, smiling broadly.
"I heard this summer's trip was to Morocco," Hermione said. "Welcome back! What did you find?" Hermione had long since learned that, every once in a while, one of Luna's strange imaginary creatures wasn't all that imaginary. Her annual summer trips with Rolf Scamander had brought several new species to light, such as the ypotril two years ago.
"Nothing definite. We visited the Atlas Mountains, looking for tragopans. We found some spots that might have been nests, but no other signs." Luna shrugged and smiled. "If we go back next year, we'll keep looking."
Once upon a time, Luna would have taken those indefinite nests as positive proof. Time has tempered her, too, Hermione reflected. Aloud she said, "Well, come inside then. What brings you here? I'm always happy for a visit, but I have to keep it brief…"
"The Jack Swivingham prosecution," nodded Luna. "Yes, that's why I'm here."
Hermione paused. "Do you mean… are you the Magical Creatures' expert on house-elves?"
"Well, as much as anyone can be. I'm not officially an employee of the Department, but I do hire out to them on special occasions." They entered Hermione's rooms and took seats as Luna continued, "I gather Mr. Diggory sent an owl to Morocco to find out if I was available. Luckily, I'd arrived home days earlier than I expected - in fact, I came to the Ministry today to check on the status of plimpie overfishing. Mr. Diggory promised he'd do something about the plimpies, which are close to extinction, you know…"
"Yes, no doubt, no doubt. Now about the elves, Luna…" Quickly Hermione summarized the current situation with the six elves she hoped would give testimony. "They won't even say why they won't testify," she concluded. "But given the timing of the 'depositions', I'm assuming some sort of pressure was put on them."
"It would be easy enough to do," commented Luna. "Probably the most important motivation in house-elf psychology is the desire to serve humans. Certainly it's one of the strongest. I'd even say it was genetic, just as some breeds of dog are naturally-born retrievers." Luna paused, curling her hair around her finger in thought. "Their desire is to serve, mind you, not necessarily to please. I've known cases where an elf would risk his master's displeasure because the elf was sure it was serving faithfully."
"You're thinking of Dobby, I assume?"
"Dobby's the prime example, yes - but then, Dobby was extraordinary in so many ways." She tapped her teeth with her fingernail, considering. "Perhaps I could speak with one or two of them? Sometimes the questions they won't answer are more instructive than the ones they will."
"Of course. Sheryl, is Canby at hand?" Even before Sheryl could reply, Canby had appeared by Hermione's side with a puff of displaced air. "Oh, Canby! Good. Miss Lovegood would like to talk to one or two of our guests… probably Whimsy and Chalice…"
"Will be no need, Miss Hermione!" chirped Canby. "All our guests have told Canby they will testify at trial!"
There was utter silence, which Luna seemed compelled to fill. "Well, that's wonderful! Your name is Canby? You must have been very persuasive to have convinced all of them!"
"Oh, no, miss. They is deciding on their own! Brillig is telling them…"
"Telling them?" Luna prompted. Hermione had still said nothing.
"T-Telling them the great Dobby would have wanted this! It is… it is as Miss Hermione said at Dobbywatch. Dobby fought to save Harry Potter, fought for right, and now we all must fight for right. And so they will."
"This… this is very sudden, Canby," Hermione managed to say. She broke into a warm smile, wrapped her arm around Canby and gave him a quick squeeze. "But very, very welcome."
Canby blushed as Hermione released him. "Thank you, Miss Hermione. But Canby did nothing. They are wanting to help Miss Hermione, because she has done so much."
"I don't know about that… but in any event, this is splendid news." Hermione paused and cast her mind over the commitments she'd already made for the weekend. "I like to review the prosecution witnesses' testimony one final time before the trial begins, just so there are no surprises. We'll have to do that Monday morning very early… shall we say, six? Canby, will you be here then to help me?"
With nods so enthusiastic that his head looked in danger of falling off, Canby assured Hermione that he would do all in his power to help. Upon Hermione's nod of dismissal, he teleported out of the room. Hermione glanced at Luna happily. "Well, I'm sorry you came in here for nothing, but I do thank you! Perhaps after this trial's done, we can get together and just talk…"
"Of course," said Luna absently - or rather, more absently than usual. Puzzlement creased her brows.
"What?" asked Hermione, noticing.
Luna shook herself. "Oh, probably nothing. But it's… I can't help but feel Canby's not being strictly forthright about the elves' sudden change of heart. Remember, what they don't say is more important than what they do… and Canby wasn't any too specific about their reason for switching."
*
When Hermione arrived home, the first thing she noticed was a bit of parchment on the low table where all her case notes had been spread. It wasn't like Canby to leave an item behind… Upon closer inspection, it was a stiff card made of pasteboard, not parchment, with the words For Emergencies neatly handwritten on it.
The handwriting seemed familiar, somehow, but for the moment, Hermione couldn't identify it. She went to the kitchen, expecting to find Bottlebrush waiting by his dish as always. But Bottlebrush wasn't there.
"Bottlebrush?" called Hermione, walking rapidly back to the living room. Bottlebrush was settled on the sofa - she'd been so wrapped up in her usual evening routine, she'd missed seeing him - looking steadily at the bit of pasteboard. Now thoroughly mystified, Hermione picked up the card to get a better look at it.
Even as she recognized the handwriting as the same unnaturally perfect script in the flyleaf of Rose's book, the letters began to change shape. They quickly reformed into a telephone number, followed by a glyph: a bisected circle within a triangle.
Only a handful of living people, including Hermione, knew that glyph to be the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. And of those, only one would be using it as a signature - on a piece of Muggle pasteboard.
She dropped the card back onto the table and watched the pen-strokes flow and reform into the words For Emergencies. Evidently it took the touch of her fingers to cause the phone number to appear. Hermione was willing to bet that the Transfiguration was keyed to her fingers alone. Which would require a sample of my tissue… blood would work best. But where could he have… ah, of course. Hair from my comb, saliva from my toothbrush, any number of sources once he had access to the house.
And how did he gain access to my house? she wondered. Like all high-level Ministry officials, Hermione had several levels of magical protection on Enthalpy House; the memory of Scrimgeour's assassination, though it was sixteen years earlier, had never been forgotten. After a moment, she shrugged it off as another example of the Hallows' power.
So Harry's decided to share his phone number with me. Great. Maybe after another fifteen years, we'll start trading Christmas cards.
She walked back into the kitchen, her emotions turbulent. Harry had made it very clear he'd never rejoin the wizarding world. That was certainly the impression he'd given! Why, then, would he seem to open the door to the possibility, by giving her a means of contacting him? He had to know that, sooner or later, there would come a crisis that needed Harry Potter's aid.
And in such a crisis, he'd left the decision to come back in her hands.
I don't want it to be my decision! If Harry's going to come back, let him come back of his own free will! Not under duress, or "for emergencies", but because he wants to come back.
I want him to want to come back.
The thought brought her up short in the midst of feeding Bottlebrush. He had regretted staying away, once the Cloak was no longer deadening his feelings. She could see the remorse on his face. But he also believed he was doing the right thing, the only possible thing under the circumstances - and for the life of her, she couldn't see any other way to break the Hallows' power.
She pondered the question for a moment longer. The Hallows themselves would have to be well-nigh indestructible, to have survived intact all these centuries; the only power capable of destroying them was the power that had created them, the power of Death. There was no way around it: to eliminate the Hallows, Harry had to die… without transferring the mastery to anyone else.
Either way, Harry wouldn't be returning.
Dejected by her analysis, Hermione quickly ate a light snack and returned to her sofa. She picked up the card again, and watched in a detached way as the lettering reshaped itself into the phone number. It's just as well he keyed the Transfiguration to me, she thought randomly. Most people wouldn't understand the sign of the Deathly Hallows… they'd think it was…
For one second, she froze in place, staring at the card. Then she dashed to her briefcase and scrabbled through it, eventually finding the envelope from Croaker. Ripping open the envelope, she snatched out its contents: a folded packet of parchment, sealed with black wax.
She was familiar with the seals used by the Department of Mysteries… they were made of the same wax as in their candles. "I am Hermione Granger," she told the seal, and with a spurt of blue fire it cracked open at once. Impatiently she shook off the wax fragments, unfolded the parchment, and scanned it for the item she was absolutely certain must be there.
*
Ten minutes later, she was standing in a call-box in Soho, dialing frantically. "The party you are calling - Howard Seaker - is not available. At the tone, please record your message," came the unemotional voice-mail recording.
"Howard Seaker? Oh, please. Fine, you know who this is, you were at my house today. Come back there the moment you hear this message - because I may have a way for you to safely lose those three crosses you've been carrying."