(A/N: I have shamelessly borrowed a line from the immortal Bill Watterson in this chapter. Ten points to the first reader who spots it.)
(Disclaimer: Oh, come on, has anything changed since my last disclaimer? Still not my characters. Still not making money from this story.)
*
"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
*
XXXXII: Attack and Counter, Parry and Riposte
*
He'd hinted to a few people, in strictest confidence of course, that he planned to secretly spy on the Hufflepuff and Slytherin practice sessions today, to get an idea of whatever new tactics they might be developing. Thus, without anyone actually saying anything openly, everyone would be unsurprised if he wasn't around, and no one would come looking for him.
Easy part's done, Ted told himself grimly.
He'd tried, last night, to contact Harry. He'd repeated his stunt of flying straight up from Hogwarts Castle on his Levinbrand, until he was far enough from the castle for his mobile phone to work safely. But his call had gone directly to Harry's voice mail, which told him Harry's mobile was turned off… from which he inferred that Harry was now permanently back in the wizarding world. Harry wouldn't be available for phone calls any time soon.
Ted had left a voice message anyway, just in case.
He'd also considered breaking into the Defense Professor's office and using the Floo fireplace without permission, but rejected the idea. Judging from the legends he'd heard, Harry had once done exactly that, back when he'd been a student at Hogwarts - and he'd had Professor Longbottom's help to do it, so Longbottom would be quite aware of the possibility. And Ted didn't think Longbottom was foolish enough to not guard against it, either.
And on reflection, Ted still didn't know for certain where Harry was staying, so unless Harry'd given him personal name status on the Floo Network, he was reduced to taking hopeful pot-shots.
He'd even tried the trick he'd seen a few days ago, of sending a message via Patronus. (Ted hadn't even known one could send a message via Patronus, until he'd received such a message from "Aunt" Hermione.) But, one, Ted wasn't quite sure how to alter the Expecto Patronum charm so that it would carry a message; and two, he was ashamed to admit that his own Patronus wasn't yet corporeal. He could manage a thick mist, which would get the job done in most cases. Somehow, he was quite sure that this wasn't one of the cases.
So now here he was, standing in a hidden niche just outside the Entrance Hall, about to try a stunt he'd never tried before in his life. It should be possible, he reminded himself firmly, my mother could do it; hell, she had to be able to do it. Even if I fail, I have to try.
Of course, if I do fail, this'll be my last day of sunlight for, oh, at least a month.
Ted gave another nervous glance down at his hands. In one hand, he held a small pocket mirror - useful for looking around corridor corners, but today serving another purpose. In his other hand, he held the Marauder's Map, folded to display Professor Longbottom's private rooms. The dot labeled "Neville Longbottom" was still there… right next to the dot labeled "Susan Bones". Ted hadn't known that Madam Bones would be visiting Hogwarts today, but he certainly wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath; held it for a slow count of ten; released it slowly. And concentrated on the form of Professor Neville Longbottom. Concentrated on his hair, his face, every wrinkle in that face; his posture, the way he held himself when motionless; his gait, the way he carried himself when walking; his meals, the foods he preferred when eating at the head table…
And Ted Lupin focused the image inward, and willed himself to become Neville Longbottom - not merely in outward appearance, but deep down to the very cellular level.
When at last his body felt like it had stopped morphing, he opened his eyes and examined himself with great care in his pocket mirror. As far as he could tell, the resemblance was perfect. He nodded, slipped the mirror back into his pocket, and brought out his wand. A quick Transfiguration altered his robes to better fit his new form - and from a student's cut of robes (with Gryffindor trim) to a professor's. Ted even made certain his shoes matched those which Longbottom had worn to breakfast that morning.
Finally, unable to think of any other detail that needed adjustment, Ted straightened his shoulders and walked out the giant double doors, into the outside air… and headed along the path toward the school gates. He wished, for approximately the thousandth time since his first year, that all the secret tunnels and passages leading out of Hogwarts hadn't been sealed up, after the final battle with Voldemort. Not leaving even one passage intact, he felt, was a deliberate slap in the face to future generations of pranksters.
He saw Stull, the castle's caretaker (Filch's successor, and had Ted but known, a vast step up) cleaning some of the ground-floor windows. Ted wasn't certain how Longbottom and Stull dealt with one another, so he gave the caretaker an affable but neutral nod as he continued to walk.
"Off to town, are ye, P'fessor?" Stull hailed him.
Ted smiled and half-raised his hand in greeting. "A quick errand, but I mustn't dawdle. Don't work too hard." He quickened his pace and strode briskly to the great gates. Of course Stull knew he couldn't Disapparate from the Hogwarts grounds; he would have to trust that Stull wouldn't notice "Longbottom" still hadn't Disapparated, once he was through the gates.
And he passed the gates easily. No invisible magic halted his footsteps; there were no alarms, and no pursuit. He'd done it: the wards of Hogwarts saw him as Neville Longbottom, who was free to come and go at will. Mere glamours and body Transfigurations wouldn't have been enough to fool the wards, and Ted had long ago decided not to attempt passing them with his usual level of morphing. But this extra-deep morph, though significantly harder to achieve and maintain, fooled them quite nicely.
Next stop: Hogsmeade.
*
In the meantime, breakfast in the Great Hall had been served, during which the Saturday mail owls had arrived. Ted would have been glad to see that Rose had received no new packages. He wouldn't have paid any attention to the mail received at other Houses' table… such as the Slytherin table.
Lapis Flint was a first-year Slytherin, and so shared most of her classes with the Gryffindor first years. She hadn't paid a great deal of attention to any of her classmates; in particular, as far as Rose Weasley went, she neither liked nor disliked the girl, apart from her obvious mania to be first in every subject. As an owl landed in front of her and offered her an envelope, that was all about to change.
Huh, she wondered as she tore the envelope open, I wonder who'd be writing me. It's too soon for Mummy's weekly letter… She unfolded the page, but before she could begin reading, the letterhead jumped out at her: the stylized logo for Witch Weekly, her favorite magazine!
In growing excitement, she read:
Dear Miss Flint:
We wish to thank you for being a devoted subscriber to Witch Weekly. As such, we felt you would appreciate this special opportunity to help our magazine in the months ahead. With the recent Wizengamot election, Witch Weekly is starting a new column devoted to our new Minister of Magic, Madam Granger.
You, being in your first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, are in a unique position to observe the new Minister's daughter, Miss Rose Weasley. There are many details about the young woman which, our editorial staff feels sure, will shed new light on the Minister's attitudes and actions as she takes office.
Please don't think we would ask anyone to spy upon Miss Weasley, or invade her privacy in any way! Not at all! It's simply that any information which would be apparent to any of her classmates - her favorite foods, what clothes she prefers when not wearing school robes, her opinions on the wizarding world in general - may be considered common knowledge, and therefore shareable to the public.
If you would consider sharing such details, they'll help us make Witch Weekly that much more informative and far-ranging a publication, with the sort of features you enjoy most! We've enclosed some pre-addressed note sheets for your use; and please, accept this small sum as a token of our gratitude. We look forward to a long and illuminating correspondence.
Yours truly,
Madison H. Prewett, Assistant Editor, Witch Weekly.
The five Galleon coins slid neatly and silently into Lapis's palm; instinctively, she clenched her fist to prevent anyone else from seeing them. As nonchalantly as possible, she gave one of the note sheets a quick scan: yes, it seemed she would receive another five Galleons for each sheet she sent in. There were spaces for noting Weasley's dress, her meals, her schoolwork, her habits, her health, what she said in public… all of which, as the letter said, was public knowledge. And really, there wasn't any harm in sharing what everyone already knew, was there?
Already, Lapis was planning what she would do with her newfound wealth. Why, she could send in a report at once: after all, she'd been in classes with Weasley for almost a month, there were lots of juicy details for Witch Weekly to digest.
*
Ted changed his features to a rather bland and unobtrusive face, chosen more or less at random, before arriving at Hogsmeade: he wanted no connection in anyone's mind between this visit and Professor Longbottom. His first stop was the post office. The owls there would be as unable to find Harry as the owls in the Hogwarts Owlery, but the post office at least boasted a Floo fireplace he could use.
Throwing a pinch of Floo powder into the fire, Ted thrust his face into the flames - and once it was safely out of view from the postal clerk, morphed it back into his own features. He really had only one guess where Harry might be. "Enthalpy House!"
Nothing seemed to happen. "Harry? Harry, are you there?" he called. "It's me, Ted!"
Still no response. Well, so much for the idea that Harry might be staying at the Granger residence. Enthalpy House had really been Ted's next-to-last resort; he wouldn't have even tried, had Tori not put the notion into his head that Harry might be getting down with That Woman.
Sighing, Ted removed his head from the fire, hurriedly threw in another pinch of Floo powder, and gave one last try. "Harry Potter!" He didn't expect this to work: simply calling a person's name into the national Floo Network wouldn't generally get hold of that person without their prior permission. But he had to try.
Oh, well, it was worth the try.
Ted resumed his anonymous face before straightening up from the fireplace. "Thanks," he nodded to the postal clerk, and left the building. Well, crap, without Harry covering for me, I don't have a choice. I'll have to tell Professor Longbottom… no, wait a minute, hmm…
Maybe not immediately, though. Maybe I can postpone it with the old 'hide-in-plain-sight' gambit. It's worked before.
And with that thought, Ted altered course and headed for a specific shop on Hogsmeade's main street.
*
Cold, crisp autumn wind in his face. Green sward beneath him, crystal blue skies above him, and a new Nimbus 5000 propelling him. And for the first time in over sixteen years, that once-familiar, all-encompassing exhilaration, born of the freedom he always felt when flying.
Harry soared over the practice pitch of the Holyhead Harpies, reveling in the feel of the broom in his hands. He hadn't realized, hadn't truly realized, just how much he'd missed this; and the problems of house-elf slavery, and of garnering further support for the Wizards Patrimony Act, seemed for that moment to be remote and trifling.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eluned Price, Seeker for the Harpies, easily keeping pace with him, returning a smile to the joyful grin that threatened to split his face. When Price had offered Harry the broom and invited him to a "friendly bout", he'd been sure Price had been mocking him… or at the least, condescending to him. But she honestly seemed to be enjoying the sheer fact of his enjoyment; either Price was a kindred spirit who, like him, loved flight for its own sake, or she was a more empathetic person than she initially appeared. Either way, Harry was grateful.
"Spotted the Snitch yet?" she called.
He laughed. "Haven't been looking!" he hollered back. He hadn't been looking, actually, hadn't even thought of the Snitch - in fact, he promptly did a loop in mid-air just for fun. Just as promptly, Price matched both his maneuver and his laughter.
"Well, one of us needs to catch it so we can put it back in its box," Price shouted eventually, "so start looking!" And she began to fly what Harry recognized as a search pattern, a slow zig-zag down the pitch. He straightened his Nimbus and flew away to her left, so that the sun would be behind him, and began his own search pattern along a line at right angles to hers.
In the end, he was first to spot the Golden Snitch, and almost managed to beat Price to it. They were neck and neck for just a few seconds, and afterwards, he was convinced he'd stood a good chance. But then Price did some sort of fancy barrel roll that caused him to veer and slow just a hair, for just a fraction of a second - but that was all the professional Seeker needed. Her fingers closed around the Snitch and she was arcing away before Harry had quite registered what had happened.
"Good one!" he panted, as she returned to his side with the Snitch struggling in her hand. "Should've known you'd get it first… but man, that was fun! Thanks, Ms. Price!"
"The pleasure was mine, Mr. Potter," Price replied. "C'mon, we'd better head back to the clubhouse." And she dipped her broom and plummeted from the sky. To anyone not a Seeker, it would have looked like a death-defying dive; to Harry, who'd done his fair share of Wronsky Feints in his day, it seemed perfectly natural, and he immediately followed suit.
Gwenog Jones met them as they alighted in front of the clubhouse. "What kept you two? The Chasers and Beaters finished their practice twenty minutes ago."
"Just having fun," Harry said briefly - he and Price were still catching their breath - but he gave Jones a smile to show he'd enjoyed himself.
"Ah. Well, they should be out of the showers by now… I thought we'd all meet and mingle in the lounge, Harry, we'll have refreshments, drinks, whatever you like. The rest of the team's probably already there - shall we join them? Price, you can join us as soon as you've secured the Snitch."
Harry nodded and started walking in the direction Jones had gestured - where, sure enough, there were the sounds of voices, glasses, and cutlery. Jones fell back a pace to stay with Price. "Well?" she asked quietly.
"Well," Price echoed with a shrug, "you heard him. We were just having fun. And he was, too: it's not often you see anyone getting into the flying like that."
Jones relaxed slightly. "Ah. Good. Then you wouldn't call Potter a threat…"
"I didn't say that. He's got no polish yet, but he's good. I beat him to the Snitch today for two reasons, and two only. I had to use one of my special moves, one that I'd been saving for the Cup finals… thank Merlin no scout from another team saw it. And second…" Price smiled wryly. "He was just having fun. He wasn't even trying for the Snitch until the end." With a shake of her head, she trotted away to replace the Snitch in its case, leaving Gwenog Jones pondering whether she might persuade Harry that there were lots of career options more fun than professional Quidditch.
Harry, in the meantime, had made his way to the lounge and the anticipated food and drink: mostly hors d'oeuvres for the food, but the lounge had a well-stocked bar. Harry, wishing to keep his wits about him, declined butterbeer or stronger drink; he received a tall glass of sparkling cider with a touch of pomegranate juice, and carried it to the buffet table.
Most of the Harpies were already gathered around the buffet: at least ten of them, which meant both the first team and the reserves were there. They greeted Harry, but didn't crowd him, for which he was grateful: it wasn't too large a group, he wasn't feeling anxious, exactly, but he still felt more comfortable with groups of two or three at a time. He gathered himself a small plate of food, and withdrew to the side of the room.
As it turned out, whether by accident or design, they did approach him in groups of two or three: to greet, inquire, and socialize. All very friendly and, as promised, low key. Harry felt himself starting to relax, and had to remind himself to keep Constant Vigilance. After all, a certain redhead hadn't yet made her appearance.
He found himself gravitating to those Harpies who were closer to his own age (chronological if not physical). Soon enough, he was deep in discussion with Rae Davies, the reserve Keeper, as she described her first chance at League play: at a game from the previous year. "Hughes, our lead Keeper, was still recovering from a Bludger to the head, so they put me in. So there I was, facing Puddlemere's Keeper, Wood…"
"Oliver Wood?"
"Yeah, that's right, you were on the same team at Hogwarts, weren't you?" Davies grinned. "Wish I could say he's mellowed with age, but no such luck. Because what's happened, he's got our Chasers totally shut out, while I'm trying to be in three places at once, right? And he starts screaming at me - screaming advice. Which I pretty much have to ignore, don't I? I mean, the opposition giving you advice is bad enough, but taking it?"
She was laughing now, an infectious belly-laugh, and Harry had to grin. "Even if it works," he guessed.
"Especially if it works, right. Well, I pretend I'm ignoring him, and he shuts up eventually… but it's Wood, after all, and he is a first-string Keeper. So I wait for a bit, see, and then I start trying out what he said. And in the end," she finished triumphantly, "we only lost to Puddlemere by ten points."
Harry nodded appreciatively: if Puddlemere United was as good today as they'd been fifteen years ago, losing to them by only ten points was a noteworthy accomplishment. "Wish I could've seen it…" he began, but was interrupted by Jones's approach.
"Harry, we've a tradition here at the Harpies for our guests," she told him. "Group photos with the team." She waved at the walls of the lounge, where there were indeed many framed photographs. Harry recognized a few of the celebrities posing with the team: one photo showed the Harpies gathered around Cornelius Fudge, another had members of the Weird Sisters band amongst the team. (One Weird Sister held a set of bagpipes: the image would try to bring the chanter to his mouth to play, only to be smacked by the Harpy standing next to him.)
"For our clubhouse," Jones hastened to add, "not for our publicists."
Harry couldn't think of any reason not to accede. He obligingly allowed Jones to lead him to the center of the room and turn him to face a camera, mounted on a tripod some distance away. He stood in place as Jones arranged her players on either side of him, forming two rows. "Everyone face the camera," she finally called out, taking her own position and pointing her wand at the camera. "Ready… aaaaand…"
At the last moment, Harry felt an arm slip from behind him and across his torso. He had no chance to react before the camera's flash went off, with a burst of brilliance and a puff of purple smoke. As soon as his vision cleared, he turned in place to see whose arm it was.
Ginny had given some thought to this moment, and prepared carefully. Her hair had been brushed until it shone, and was hanging long, as she'd worn it at school. Her face was artfully made up to suggest freshness rather than sophistication. Her Quidditch robes, in the team colors of gold and dark green, suited her complexion perfectly - and were better fitted to her figure than most of the others in the room. Every detail of her appearance was a subliminal connection to Harry's days with her at Hogwarts.
"Hello, Harry," she said softly.
Harry had also given some thought to this moment, but he was unprepared for the jolt to his stomach upon confronting Ginny. On an instant, his newly-teenaged body remembered the long hours it had spent with hers, and demanded more. It took a moment for his adult mind to put down his body's betrayal, but for that moment, he stood staring slack-jawed at his onetime girl friend.
She didn't seem displeased by his reaction. She gave a demure smile and waited for him to respond, quite sure now of her ground.
He decided to take advantage of his reflexive reaction, and play along. "Ginny," he said, making his voice sound dazed. He made no move toward her. "You… you look…"
"Thanks," she said with a broad smile. "It's wonderful to see you, too, Harry. It's like a miracle, isn't it? And look at you…" She reached out and brushed his fringe with her fingertips. "You haven't changed, not at all."
"Well, you've changed a little," Harry replied shyly. "But only a little. I mean, really, you're the same person you were in your fifth year… my sixth… you remember?"
If possible, Ginny's smile broadened. She started guiding Harry away from the center of the room. "How could I forget?" she chuckled. Falling back half a step behind him, she quickly glanced at her teammates - the glance at once requesting privacy and warning poachers. "It's sweet of you to say so."
"Yeah… sixth year… that was quite the year, wasn't it?" Harry continued. "Our last quiet year together, I reckon - except it wasn't all that quiet. What with Cormac McLaggen… or Won-Won and Lav-Lav… or how about the Slug Club?" He returned her chuckle. "Remember Slughorn's first meeting, on the train? How you put Blaise Zabini in his place? I'll never forget that."
Ginny paused at the mention of Zabini. After a brief hesitation, she replied, "Ah. I suppose you've been talking with Ron, then."
Harry turned serious. "We've spoken, yeah, but not about you. And besides, Ron wouldn't know anything about your cute little kimono." He watched in satisfaction as Ginny's face froze into an immobile mask. Plainly, she was ransacking her memory, trying to deduce what Harry might have heard, and where. He gave a diffident shrug and added, "Well, I have been dead. One gets glimpses." No harm in setting a few doubts in her mind, he felt.
"Oh," she said, suddenly subdued.
On impulse, he reached out and touched her forearm. "Ginny… it's not my place to say anything. I was dead. It's only reason that the rest of the world should move on… that you move on. All I want to ask is, are you sure? I mean, Blaise Zabini pretty much stood for everything Dumbledore's Army was created to fight against…" This hadn't been part of the script he'd envisioned in his head, but of a sudden he had to try to dissuade her… for the sake of the younger Ginny he'd known.
Ginny brought up her other hand to cover his. "But it's different now, Harry. Blaise is different now. He understands the need for, for diversity in our society - he welcomes it. Diversity in birth and blood, and diversity in thought… a difference of opinion doesn't make a person a traitor, after all, or even an enemy. He knows this."
Harry sighed. He wished he could tell Ginny about Zabini's statement on the Hogwarts Express, which he'd never shared in detail: "I wouldn't touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like." But he found he couldn't bring himself to repeat the words… and doubted it would help anything if he could. "Ginny, your loyalty to him does you credit… and it's probably better than he deserves. That may be how Zabini acts, these days - but I can't believe it's how he thinks."
"I can," she insisted. "Blaise and I, we've talked a lot. I know how he thinks now, and it's not like at Hogwarts." She took a deep breath, entwined his fingers with her own, and filled her voice with all the compassion and wisdom she could muster. "He's changed. People do change, Harry."
He looked Ginny squarely in the eye. "Yes," he said, quietly, flatly. "People do change." He extracted his fingers from hers, and concluded, "I'm sorry…"
The sentence was never finished. With an all-too-familiar blazing look, Ginny lunged forward, took Harry's face between her hands, and - to the sound of laughter and polite applause from the other Harpies - gave him a fiery, passionate kiss.
Immediately, Harry broke the kiss and backed away from her. "No," he said firmly, refusing to allow anger to seep into his voice. "That's long since over. I'm sorry, Ginny, but we're done." Deliberately, he turned away and began to walk back to the center of the room.
"Harry," called Ginny, and the anger in her voice was very evident. In two quick strides she caught with him and seized his bicep… intent on stopping him from leaving her.
He spun in place, wrenching out of her grip, and his ironwood wand in his hand quicker than the eye could follow. The Incarcerous spell came so fast that no observer could have told whether it was done non-verbally. Thin ropes appeared from mid-air, to bind Ginny's legs from ankle to knee.
Even as she tumbled to the floor, Ginny was crying out in something approaching panic. "Harry, please, no! Not this! This killed Hermione!"
"WHAT?" Harry yelped in shock. A flick of his wand banished the ropes. "I… Ginny, I didn't mean to hurt you… you said 'Hermione'?"
"Yes," she muttered, waiting for a second to see if Harry would help her to her feet. When no help was forthcoming, she rose from the floor, acutely conscious of her teammates' astonished gazes. "Kingsley Shacklebolt used that spell on Hermione, but he lost control of it when he died, and it killed her. You can understand why I'm a little nervous about…"
"Yeah, I do understand now. Hermione's your friend, after all." Harry said it absently, with no trace of irony. "Sorry about that, but I didn't know… I mean, the Prophet didn't go into any details about the incident…"
"Blaise was there when it happened, he told me about it." She dismissed thoughts of that day with a flip of her hair and a pleading outstretch of her hands. "Harry, please, this isn't like you. We're friends - we're almost family - that hasn't changed! What have I done to you to deserve being treated like this?"
You're consort to a Pureblood bigot who thinks nothing of allying with criminals if it'd let him set the clock back twenty years, Harry replied silently. You took advantage of your best friend's generosity to collect evidence for blackmailing her. And I can't talk about those, because I can't tell you how I know.
"You've chosen a path," he finally replied.
From his memory Harry summoned up the youngest Ginny, who once put her elbow in a butter dish; the bold Ginny, who reminded him there was always a way to his goal if he had nerve enough; the fighting Ginny, who battled the Dark Lord's forces in her last two years at Hogwarts. He summoned them, and set them alongside the adult Ginny now before him, professionally successful and socially ambitious; and to all of them he said, with sad finality: "Good-bye."
And amidst the total silence in the Harpies' lounge, he turned away from her and left the room.
*
"Well!" exclaimed Tori as she sat down for dinner. "I was wondering if we'd see you today! You didn't tell anyone," by which I mean you didn't tell me, was the metatext, "where you'd be."
"No," agreed Ted easily, slinging his bookbag from his shoulder, "no, I didn't." She made a circular motion with her fork, her usual signal for him to continue talking. "No one saw me today, which is fine. I got a lot done." He lowered his voice and added with a conspiratorial smirk, "I could fill a book with what I know now about Hufflepuff's new tactics."
Tori nodded, as though to say she'd expected no less. Ted glanced across the table, where Rose was hesitantly approaching them. "Speaking of books…" he said, and reached into his bookbag. He extracted History's Greatest Witches and presented it with a flourish to Rose, as Tori watched with interest. "Sorry, didn't mean to keep it… just, y'know, get it away from Peeves and the ink, and all. And then today, things've been a little crazy." Which was truer than either of the girls knew.
Rose accepted the book eagerly, plopped down at the table opposite Ted and Tori, and proceeded to delve into her new treasure. She stopped at the entry on Granger, Hermione, and immediately became oblivious to her surroundings. Ted and Tori exchanged an amused look.
"So," Tori said after a moment, helping herself to some sliced ham, "our first match is against Slytherin. Learn anything about their tactics?"
"I learned Hill's such a lousy shot with the Quaffle, the hoop's probably the safest thing on the pitch," Ted replied drily. "Merlin, if it wasn't for gravity, he couldn't hit the ground." They shared a chuckle at that.
"It's a capital mistake," came an adult voice from behind them, "to underestimate your adversaries." Professor Longbottom approached them, his manner cordial. "The lesson applies to more than my Defense classes, Mr. Lupin."
"Oh, I know it, sir," Ted assured him.
"Mm, let's hope so. I've grown fond of having the Quidditch Cup in my office, you know." Longbottom looked thoughtful. "I'd like to discuss the Gryffindor team with you, Mr. Lupin… between the two of us. Would you stop by my office some time after dinner? I'd appreciate it." He nodded and continued to the head table.
Tori watched Longbottom leave, then turned curiously to Ted. "Ted? Is there something you want to tell me? No, let me rephrase that: something you ought to tell me?"
He shrugged. "I won't know that," he answered with a perfectly maintained nonchalance, "until I talk with the Professor."
*
As he calmly walked down the corridor, Ted wasn't as calm as he appeared. Professor Longbottom's sudden appearance at dinner was… well, Ted hoped and prayed it was mere coincidence. And Longbottom had given no sign he knew of Ted's absence that day… Arriving at the Defense classroom, he schooled his features into tranquility - easy enough for a metamorphmagus - and told his nerves to get a grip, before he entered the room. A door within the classroom led to Professor Longbottom's office; the door was standing open. Longbottom was sitting at his desk, grading some essays. Ted knocked on the door jamb.
"Ah, come in, Mr. Lupin. Take a seat." Longbottom gestured at the chair in front of the desk, facing him. Ted sat down and waited politely as Longbottom finished grading the essay in his hand, set it on the stack of parchment, and gave Ted his attention.
After a moment of mutual silence, Ted cleared his throat. "Er… you wanted to discuss the team with me, sir?"
"Yes, Mr. Lupin," Longbottom said mildly. "I wanted to know what you thought the team's chances would be this year, given that their Captain and star Chaser is about to be suspended from the team."
"Oh." Suddenly Ted's stomach was twisting, and it wasn't from his dinner.
"You know," Longbottom continued, reminiscing, "I once lost fifty House points and served a night's detention - for being out of bed past curfew. I should take that into account in deciding an appropriate punishment for leaving the school grounds without permission." His eyes, no longer mild, fixed on Ted's face. "The only reason I haven't already assigned your punishment, and docked points, was that I wanted first to hear why. Whatever your reason, I can't imagine it would be sufficient - but I confess I'm curious."
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes still locked on Ted, and waited.
Ted forced himself to clear his dry throat. He knew that, if he tried to spin a story, no matter how plausible, Longbottom wouldn't believe it. And the truth was so fantastic that Longbottom might not believe that, either. Which left him very little to say.
So he was surprised when his mouth, quite independently of his brain, found something to say.
"I need to tell Harry."
Longbottom looked surprised. "Still? Just like last night? Mr. Lupin, if I wouldn't contact Harry for a personal crisis then, I certainly won't do so after you've broken so many…"
"It's not a 'personal crisis', Professor," interrupted Ted desperately. "It's what you said last night: it really is a matter of life or death." Longbottom's gaze had focused and sharpened, like a magnifying lens - appropriate, since it felt like it was burning Ted where he sat - but Ted refused to flinch from it. "Please."
At long last, Longbottom sighed and stood. "You'd best hope, for your sake, that you've not exaggerated," was all he said, as he stepped over to the Floo fireplace. He muttered inaudibly over the pot of Floo powder, then tossed a handful into the flames. "Hogwarts staff. Harry Potter."
Within moments, Harry's head appeared in the green flames. "Neville? What's…" He fell silent as he spotted Ted standing in the background.
"Congratulations, Harry," nodded Longbottom. "It's your very first disciplinary action as a staff member. He insists on involving you. Are you free at the moment to come in? Staff can Floo into the school nowadays."
Harry nodded. His head vanished; seconds later, he emerged from the fireplace in a crouch. "Right, then," he said, straightening. "What's this about? Ted?"
Ted realized belatedly that having Harry at Hogwarts was going to be harder than he'd thought: he couldn't lie to his godfather, it was physically impossible. "I left the school grounds without permission today," he confessed forthrightly. "I went to Hogsmeade, because I had to find some way to contact you. I truly think it's that serious."
Harry and Neville traded looks. "Go on," Harry said evenly.
Reaching into his bookbag, Ted brought out a pair of dragonhide gloves and put them on. "This came in the mail yesterday," he said, and reached again into his bookbag to carefully, oh so carefully, bring out History's Greatest Witches. "Someone sent it to Rose. Don't touch it, either of you, without gloves." He set the book on the desk and took a respectful step back.
He now had the full attention of both the Leader of the Hogwarts Resistance and the Boy Who Lived Again.
"Isn't that the book you gave to Rose at dinner?" Neville asked.
Ted shook his head. "When I couldn't reach Harry, I bought a duplicate copy in Hogsmeade. I gave that one to Rose. She doesn't know anything's wrong. I thought, until we had some idea what was going on, it might be better to keep things close, y'know?"
Cautiously, Harry approached the desk, drawing his wand as he did. A flicked gesture, and the book opened itself; the pages began to slowly turn, one at a time. Harry watched them intently… and Ted licked his lips. "Professor," he murmured, "look at his eyes…"
"I see it, Mr. Lupin," Neville replied, fascinated. For the green of Harry's irises had expanded, to fill the entire eye… and Harry seemed to be using his eyes to see something other than light, some vision beyond optical.
The pages abruptly stopped turning. "One of the legacies of the Deathly Hallows, gentlemen," Harry said softly. "I'm sensitive to the currents of magic. I can see where it's being used… and where it's been used." He smiled at the picture on the opened page: Hermione, somberly accepting the position of Minister of Magic.
At Harry's nod, the pages resumed their turning, stopping again only when they reached the book's index. "You were right to be concerned, Ted," Harry said at last. His voice carried strange harmonics that neither of his listeners had ever before heard. "Some potion's been applied to those two pages - something I don't recognize. Did either of you notice anything unusual about them?"
Neville and Ted shook their heads. "They looked more or less like every other page in the book," volunteered Neville.
"To me, they look… I'd call it oily. A sort of oily grey, like a grease stain." The former Master of the Hallows shook his head sharply, and Harry returned to them. "On the upper corner of each of those two pages. Just where someone would grasp the page to turn it… on the two pages Rose Weasley would almost certainly turn to first."
"The index… and the chapter on her mum," said Ted shakily, as he saw what Harry was implying.
"Dear Merlin." Neville sat down heavily, looking stunned at the news. "Mr. Lupin, I may have to rescind your punishment yet. How on earth did you know?"
And this was the moment Ted had been dreading. He could only pray that his guardian angel was still on the job. "It just… felt like something was off," he said, waving his hands as though they could express what words couldn't. "It just smelled wrong, y'know?"
And he could see at once that Harry understood. "In other words, instinct," he said with a nod of sympathy. "Your subconscious putting together the clues, but not telling you why. I hate to think how many times I had to rely on instinct, during that damned Horcrux hunt… but then, I didn't have a lot of other options."
"So what's this potion supposed to do?" Neville asked, recovering his poise.
"Don't know," said Harry, examining the book again. "I'm not familiar with this specific blend of magics, it's new to me. But it's puzzling: it doesn't look particularly dangerous. I mean, the trace doesn't look good to me, but I don't see quite how…" His voice faded; his eyes narrowed. Another flick of his wand turned the pages of the book again, until Hermione's entry was displayed. "Hold on a moment… that's not…" He fell silent again.
Neville and Ted watched as Harry used his wand to flip the pages back and forth, showing first the index, then Hermione's entry, then the index, then Hermione's entry again. "I need a clean glass phial, Neville," he said at last. "And two scalpels, or styli, that you don't mind throwing away."
Mystified, Neville went into the Defense classroom, and returned with a small phial and two small knives. With a quick Aguamenti, Harry half-filled the phial with water. Then he used one knife to scrape the page of Hermione's entry - taking greatest care to not touch the page with his skin - and dipped the knife into the water. He used his wand to turn to the book's index, and with the other knife, again scrape the page. When he dipped the second knife into the water, he drew a long, hissing breath.
"We definitely need to keep this quiet," Harry announced, in a tone that brooked no contradiction. "And we definitely need a Potions expert… or at least, someone more expert than us." He sighed, and with a final wave of his wand, sealed the phial. "And since this was intended for Rose Weasley, our choice of Potions expert is pretty obvious, don't you think?"