(A/N: No, I didn't get as far with this chapter as I'd intended, but I thought it better to post this now, rather than make everyone wait for a giant chapter in a few weeks. Mea culpa.)
(Disclaimer: So far as I can determine, the new "Pottermore" website would be better named "Pottersame". Fanfiction, now, that's Pottermore.)
*
"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
*
XXXXI: Guardians On Duty
*
Standing in The Ossuary's vestibule, Harry looked again at the sheaf of photos in his hand. "I still can't decide whether to preserve these forever or Incendio them right now."
"Well, given what Canby and Sheryl went through to retrieve them," smiled Hermione, "it seems a pity to simply destroy them." She nodded at the clearest one, which showed them hugging in bed, and added, "Besides, they're comforting in a way. They're a constant reminder to me that you only look like a callow youth."
"Oh, ha ha ha." The photos themselves had been saved by Canby, who had spotted them on Hermione's desk the day she'd been killed and revived - fully visible to anyone who might have entered the room - and had squirreled them away before they were spotted. Canby had gone on to find the original negatives in Zabini's manor house - practically under Zabini's nose, had he but known! - and rescued them as well. Though the photos were less scandalous now than they'd been when they were shot, they were still an embarrassment - or, as Canby had phrased it, "nobody's business but Miss Hermione's."
"Yah, well," rejoined Harry, "to me, they're a constant reminder that we shouldn't trust Ginny."
"We've been over this already, Harry. We can't punish her: she's been Obliviated, she's lost her memories of that entire week. We can't in fairness punish her for doing something she doesn't remember doing."
"You're ready to punish Lovinett for something he doesn't remember doing."
"Lovinett committed murder, and we can prove he did it whether he remembers or not. Ginny may have betrayed our trust, but that in itself isn't a crime. And as for the attempted blackmail… I'm not bringing charges." Hermione flapped one hand in a gesture of finality. "Which isn't to say I disagree with you: she's not to be trusted. You'll keep that in mind Saturday?"
"When I visit the Harpies? Of course. I'm pretty sure it was Ginny's idea, too. Poor Gwenog Jones was sincere enough, but…" Harry squared the sheaf of photos into a neat stack, which he tucked into his pocket. "The tricky part," he added thoughtfully, "is going to be sticking to our cover story. I'm not supposed to know anything of what's happened while I was 'beyond the Veil'… except maybe what I might've picked up in the Prophet."
"Oh, yes, the Prophet. That reminds me…" Hermione proffered half a dozen envelopes, each addressed to him. "The Ministry's had to set up a mail drop for you: once people figured out that owls wouldn't come to you, they decided to send the owls to us instead. It's not part of anyone's duties, really, but I've had several volunteers: to sort and store your mail, until you can come to collect it. These? These, I thought you'd want to see sooner." She handed him one envelope with a flourish. "This, for instance, is from Hogwarts, and it feels like a prefect's badge. I'm guessing it's a staff badge, so that you can walk through the castle safely." She waited until he'd accepted the envelope and tucked it into his pocket, with the photos, before offering the others. "And these are from various newspapers: the Prophet, the Moniteur, some others. I've no doubt they're requesting interviews."
Harry eyed the second set of envelopes but didn't immediately move to take them. At length he said, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, "What do you want me to say to them?"
"Whatever you… oh! No, Harry, I'm not trying to pressure you into giving interviews! Not at all. Talk to reporters, or don't - say anything you like, or say nothing at all. It's entirely up to you."
"I thought Fleur'd told you," he continued, in the same dull tone, "why I decided not to go back to Hogwarts. Because I thought you might need me… need my support."
"But not if it means doing things you hate, like interviews," Hermione insisted firmly. "I wouldn't ask that of you."
Harry shrugged resignedly and reached out for the envelopes. Hermione moved them away from his hands, out of reach, as she suddenly recalled their bedside conversation, earlier in the month. "You're thinking you're useless now, aren't you? That the prophecy's fulfilled, and you don't have a reason to exist anymore? That's it, isn't it?"
He shrugged again and looked down at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. "I just need to earn my… I mean, I don't feel right accepting charity." He felt a pang as he realized he was echoing Ayesha's sentiments. At that moment, they matched his own perfectly.
"Oh, honestly!"
Those words had been the closest a schoolgirl Hermione would ever come to an expletive, and they brought Harry back to earth immediately. He looked up again to see the Minister of Magic standing two feet away, hands on waist, one foot tapping impatiently, and a very no-nonsense scowl on her face. "Let's get something straight, Mr. Potter," she told him sternly. "You are not being offered charity. I expect you to pull your own weight - and not as a cheerleader for my policies as Minister!" She stepped closer to him, poked a finger into his chest, and added in a lower voice, "And not as my gigolo or my boy-toy, either."
Briefly, his sense of the absurd broke through his despondent mood. "Aww, you never let me be your boy-toy…!" Turning somber again, he lowered his voice to match hers and continued, "I know we'd talked about me being caretaker, sort of, for The Ossuary… but I won't be moving in until next week. Besides, with house-elf help that'll take up maybe five minutes of my day, tops. And at least I know I can be a cheerleader for your policies. I can do that, talk to Tiberius Ogden and any fence-sitters in the Wizengamot…" He reached for the envelopes in Hermione's hand. "Influence public opinion…"
"But not because you think you have to," Hermione insisted. "I mean it, Harry."
"Have to?" He snorted in amusement. "Hermione, look at all the people I helped while I still had the Elder Wand. Did I have to? Of course not… I had a choice in the matter, every time. But…"
"But being who you are, you couldn't have chosen otherwise," she finished softly. "I understand that, Harry, but… but the cases aren't parallel…"
"Hermione." He looked her in the eye and spoke quite simply. "Let me help."
She didn't say anything. After a moment, he reached again for the envelopes, and this time she didn't move them away from his hand.
"Don't worry," he said after another moment, "I'll try not to be too obvious."
"I appreciate that." Hermione glanced nonchalantly over Harry's shoulder at her Auror escort, who had withdrawn to a discreet distance to allow them privacy while still keeping Hermione in view. "Not being too obvious is so rare these days, don't you think?"
"It won't last," Harry tried to console her. "This is just Gawain Robards reacting to the Prophet's story, the one about you in Athens, that's all. There aren't enough Aurors to spare one as bodyguard… otherwise Fudge would have insisted on having one. Yours will be around just long enough for Robards to make his point, then she'll be reassigned. You'll see."
"I don't know… Gawain seemed adamant." She smiled and added, "At least he admitted that Enthalpy House has better protection than anything the Ministry could provide. I'll be guard-free at home… or rather, I should say, Auror-free." Her smile had turned anticipatory.
*
Harry gave his first interview that very afternoon. While he might have granted it to any British publication, for personal reasons he'd decided on le Moniteur Magique: as he saw it, he had a bone to pick with the French newspaper, on Hermione's behalf.
Nemo me impune lacessit, after all.
Consequently, he Apparated to Paris and sought directions to the Moniteur's editorial offices with a certain gleam of determination in his eye.
M. Chretien, the Moniteur's managing editor, was surprised but delighted to see Harry, and quickly arranged for a private conference room for himself, Harry, and a senior reporter, a M. Sondeur. "And perhaps a quick photo session when we're done," he added hopefully, waving Harry to a seat.
Harry remained standing. "Oh, and speaking of photos," he said pleasantly, "I was wondering if you know the name of the photographer who provided you with that artistic photo of our Minister of Magic. You remember, the one you published Monday?" He held up a hand. "I don't need to know his name, I just want to be sure you know the fellow."
"Ah, yes," said Chretien, whose delight was now suddenly tempered with caution. "Yes, I'm familiar with the young man. He is not one of our staff photographers, you understand, but we have purchased samples of his work from time to time."
"Even when they're pretty obviously faked up?"
Chretien spread his hands and gave Harry a most Gallic shrug. "What can one do? We accepted the photograph at its face value. Le Moniteur made no alterations, we would never do that. And of course, there is no way to tell if the photographer himself has altered a photo…"
"Actually," Harry interrupted, "there is. I mean, Muggles can tell if a photo's been changed, and I assume anything Muggles can do, a wizarding organization such as yourselves can do better." He waited a beat, to see if the gauntlet would be picked up. When Chretien said nothing, Harry continued, "Moreover, there is the rather simple solution of asking. Or even, y'know, requiring the bloke to sign a Magically Binding Contract that his work hasn't been, shall we say, enhanced." Harry still hadn't taken a seat, and his body language said plainly that he was prepared to walk out on the spot - without giving the coveted interview.
"I seem to recall our publisher making that very point, just this morning," Chretien recovered with aplomb. "Before now, you see, we had always accepted our staff at their word… but it's clear now that sterner measures are needed. I assure you, M. Potter, henceforth any photograph purchased by le Moniteur must be accompanied by a sworn declaration of authenticity - magically sworn."
"I am satisfied to hear it," replied Harry, at last taking his seat and turning to Sondeur. "Shall we begin?"
The interview itself proved to be a double conversation. Rather to Harry's surprise, Sondeur and Chretien weren't as much interested in his personal life as they were with his afterlife: they wanted details about his fifteen years spent in the Realm of Death. Harry, for his part, tried to steer the discussion so he could bring up the Delacour family and, more especially, Olympe Maxime. "French wizards and witches have entrusted their children to her care for generations," he pointed out. "No sane person could think her a threat merely because of the conditions of her birth. In that regard, France is far advanced over my own country." Harry knew that last bit would cause his praise of Mme. Maxime to be printed in full. So Britain, learning of the high regard in which this "hybrid" was held, would be readier to pass Hermione's new law. And once Britain had passed such a law, could "advanced" France do less?
"Yes, yes, but this land beyond the Veil," pressed Sondeur, "le domaine de la Mort…"
"All I can tell you is how it appeared to me. Which, by definition, will not be accurate: I was a living person, I wasn't in my proper place, any more than ghosts are in their proper place on our side of the Veil. But to me, it was… well, think of a train platform."
There was a moment's pause. "A train platform."
"It's a metaphor," Harry said as charmingly as he could, and as though it explained everything. He wished he could make his eyes twinkle, as Dumbledore was always doing.
"Mmf, yes. It would have to be." Chretien regarded Harry skeptically, and apparently decided that he would get no further information. "Well," he said, rising from his seat, "we do appreciate your speaking to us, M. Potter. Thank you, and if you should recall any further details of your experience…"
"I won't hesitate to contact you," Harry finished, as they shook hands. With a smile and a nod, he left the conference and wended his way out of the building to the nearest Apparation point.
While back in the Moniteur's conference room, Chretien allowed himself to smile only once Harry had left. "Of course," he reflected to Sondeur, "my concession to M. Potter only applies to photographs we buy after today. It would not apply to any photos we may have already bought from a certain paparazzi, n'est-ce pas?"
"No professional takes only a single picture," agreed Sondeur. He hesitated, then continued, "But perhaps I should make sure there were no further alterations made… just to be safe. Not that the best of the photos needed any."
*
Hufflepuff booked the Quidditch pitch all morning tomorrow, Ted thought in disgust, as he stomped into the Great Hall for breakfast. And Slytherin booked it for the afternoon. Their teams aren't that bad… they're just trying to keep us from getting any practice before the matches begin. Ted had to schedule some solid practice time for his Gryffindor team, and soon; evening practices on weekdays were hardly a decent substitute.
Mechanically, he served himself eggs and bacon, with a purpleberry muffin on the side, while he pondered his next steps. Ted knew he should be worrying about his classes that day - it might be Friday, and less than a month since term began, but every professor was already harping on about his OWLs at year's end - but frankly, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain had other priorities at the moment.
He paid no attention to Peeves, cackling somewhere in the rafters; Peeves wasn't bothering the Gryffindor table, after all. And he barely registered Rose's arrival, as she took a seat beside him, until she tapped his arm and cleared her throat nervously. "Ted? I… I was wondering… if you could, erm, do me a favor."
"Hm?" Maybe I should talk to Ravenclaw, we can double-book for next weekend, that'll show 'em…
"Can you show me what Harry Potter used to look like?"
Quidditch was immediately forgotten. Ted looked sternly at Rose, and injected just a hint of frost into his voice. "What's this, then?"
"Well…" Rose twisted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. She extracted a week-old copy of the Daily Prophet from her bookbag and lowered her voice to barely a whisper. "Most of the time you knew him, he was an adult. He only turned our age when he rescued Mum. I know what he looks like now… I, erm, just wanted to see what he looked like before."
Ted said nothing, and kept his expression neutral, while he thought quickly. The request seemed harmless enough… still, Tori had warned him against doing it… but then, Tori hadn't considered that Rose might actually ask… He glanced around the Great Hall: he and Rose had arrived a bit early, so there weren't many students at the tables yet. And nobody seemed to be paying them any particular attention…
"Okay, but just for a moment," he told her. "You'll have to imagine that I'm wearing glasses." And with that, he restyled his hair into an unruly jet-black mop, changed his eyes to emerald green, and morphed his features to that of his godfather at a mature thirty years of age. Rose watched intently as he morphed, comparing his face with the photo on the Prophet's front page - showing Harry and Hermione embracing, just after they'd returned from the dead.
Ted held Harry's image for a few seconds, turning his head slightly from side to side, giving Rose a good look. Then he abruptly resumed his usual appearance. "That should do, I think."
"Uh huh." Rose was still staring at him intently. She didn't seem to have blinked at all; Ted wasn't quite sure she'd heard him.
He snapped his fingers in front of her face, and had to smile as she seemed to awaken from a trance. "Oh! Erm, yeah, erm, that'll do, thank you, yes…" By now she was blushing scarlet in embarrassment. Ted made a gesture at the food on the table, and Rose immediately began serving herself, grateful for the diversion.
"And good morning to all," came a new voice, and Tori came up behind Ted to caress his neck as she slid into her seat beside him, on the other side. She smiled warmly at him, leaned forward to look past him and greet Rose - and paused in mid-crane. Immediately she turned an accusatory glare on Ted. "What did you do?"
"Why do you always assume I've done something?" Ted responded, in a completely unbelievable voice of injury.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't specific: what did you do to make Rosie blush like that? Since you are the only person sitting near her…"
Ted sighed. He really didn't want a ruckus this early in the morning. Fortunately, he'd evolved several time-tested strategies for dealing with Tori; he settled on Deflection. "I think if Rose wants people to know, she'll tell them."
Tori's sharp eyes flicked back to Rose's red face, scanned the rest of her immediate surroundings, and came to rest on the Prophet's front page, where it lay to one side of Rose's plate. Half a second later, she drew in an angry hiss of breath and turned back to Ted. "You didn't!"
There are definite disadvantages, he complained internally, to only associating with super-geniuses. He made a valiant effort to look her in the eye, and not to cringe.
"'smy fault," Rose mumbled into her plate. "I asked him to. I just wanted to see something, 'sall."
"Rose," Tori began, her voice an odd mix of patience and exasperation.
"Look, can we not talk about it? Please? I know, okay? I'm not stupid. I know that's just how he looks now, and I know how old he really is, and I know he'd never… with… but… but…" Rose brought her gaze up to meet Tori's. "He's just so… so…" she finished in despair, for once rendered almost totally inarticulate.
"Yes," Tori agreed gently, "he is." She elbowed her boyfriend in the ribs. "Switch places with me, would you? Rose and I need to chat by ourselves."
Obligingly, Ted slid his plate to one side, and rose to allow Tori to take his seat. He tried to tell himself that he should feel relieved that Rose had transferred her crush from him to Harry; still, there had been something undeniably flattering about being the object of a girl's fantasies. Even an ickle firstie's fantasies.
Before he could take his seat and continue his breakfast, they were interrupted by the arrival of the morning mail owls. They artfully dodged Peeves, who was trying to make them drop their packages, and descended to the tables. One owl was headed for the Gryffindor table, and for a moment, Ted wondered if Harry were sending him a message.
Instead, the owl landed before Rose, and dropped in front of her a large flat package wrapped in brown paper. Rose and Tori broke off from their discussion in surprise.
"For me?" Rose asked the owl. It bobbed its head and gave the package a little push with its beak. Intrigued, she rewarded the owl with scraps from her plate, and waited until it had eaten and flown away before inspecting her new possession.
"Addressed to me, all right," she told Tori, who was watching with interest, "but there's no return address. Let's see…" She carefully unwrapped the paper without tearing it (a trait she'd learned from her mother) to reveal an impressive looking book with a glossy cover. "History's Greatest Witches," she read the title aloud. "Newly Released Second Edition! Wow, I think someone sent it to me because of Mum! It probably has a chapter about her becoming Minister of Magic!" Growing more excited, she shoved her plate away from her, plunked the book in its place, and prepared to open it and read.
"Can I see that, Rose?" Ted said from directly behind her, and his long arm reached over her head to pluck the book from the table. Ignoring her indignant protest, Ted keenly examined the book's cover, taking great care not to open it. "Sometimes they'll say more about the book on the back cover," he said cheerfully, his face showing only friendly, casual interest.
Behind his face, it was another matter altogether. Ted's stomach was churning and his mind was racing. Oh Merlin, now what do I do? I can't give it back to her but I can't explain why but if I have to I will and dammit Tori's watching me she still doesn't suspect I need a Deflection!
He could think of nothing better than fomenting chaos by casting hexes - at the Slytherin and Hufflepuff Quidditch captains, he decided, that at least would be vaguely plausible - but in the next instant, the decision was taken out of his hands.
"Ha ha haaaahh! Gotcha!" cried Peeves, throwing water-balloons filled with ink at the Gryffindor table.
There was immediate shrieking and dodging, with various degrees of success. Tori was hit in the back of the head; the ink stained her hair dark blue, and droplets splattered both Ted and Rose. Enraged, Tori whirled, brandished her wand, and cast a series of furious curses at the poltergeist. He dodged and launched another water-balloon.
"Iacto!" cried a new voice. The water-balloon reversed course in mid-air and hit Peeves squarely in the face. Sputtering and snarling, his face indigo, Peeves flew from the Great Hall.
Headmistress MacGonagall lowered her wand. "Every year I promise myself I'll rid the school of that pest," she said to no one in particular, "and every year ends with him still in residence. This year, I swear…" She eyed the stained students and addressed them. "Is anyone hurt? Does anyone need assistance removing the ink…? The incantation is Dealbo. Miss Weasley-Major, you seem to have taken the brunt of it; if you hurry, you can change your clothes before classes begin."
"Oh no, classes!" cried Ted. "I'm almost late for Potions! Tori, Rose, I'll see you both later." He turned and trotted out of the hall, and fortune continued to be with him: no one took notice that, amidst the confusion, he'd stuffed History's Greatest Witches into his bookbag.
*
Ted made a point of lingering after his afternoon Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Professor Longbottom seemed to read his mind: he waited until everyone else was gone before saying, "Is something on your mind, Mr. Lupin?"
"Sir, I was wondering… well, that is to say, I need to talk to Harry. Right away." When Professor Longbottom didn't react, Ted added, "It's very important."
"Has there been an accident in the Owlery?" Longbottom asked mildly.
"Not as such, but… the problem is, the owls still don't seem to've figured out that Harry's alive again. I tried to send him an owl, lots of students have tried, but the owls won't even try to deliver messages to him." Ted's eyes flicked meaningfully to the door leading to the Defense Professor's office, which contained one of the few fully functional Floo fireplaces at Hogwarts.
Again, the Defense Professor seemed to read his mind. "We don't normally encourage such direct contact during the school year, Mr. Lupin. If this is truly an emergency…" He paused. "Has Harry told you where he could be contacted?"
Ted shook his head.
"Then I can't very well tell you, either. I can pass on any messages, if you like."
"It's… sir, I need to talk to Harry about it."
"Important and secret? If this is an issue regarding your personal life, I'm afraid that doesn't qualify as an emergency. I know it seems like the world to you," Longbottom said sympathetically, "but it's not as though lives were at stake here, after all." He paused again, giving Ted another opportunity to explain, but Ted remained silent.
"Well," said Longbottom at length, "if it helps, Harry will be substituting for me next week, on Wednesday, and you can speak to him then in perfect privacy. Is there anything else, Mr. Lupin?"
"No, sir. Thank you," said Ted steadily, and left the classroom.