Chapter Eleven
In which there is healing
Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Ginny woke early and, as she always did, spent a moment lying with her eyes closed, enjoying a private moment of peace. Then, for a brief, horrible moment the absolute silence scared her, and she had half-way rolled over to make sure nothing had happened to Harry before she realized that of course she wouldn't hear his breathing.

She let her eyes fall closed again, although she could still see her surroundings in her mind. The whitewashed walls and polished wood floor were more in keeping with a cottage by the sea than a castle. The white armchairs, with their pattern of light blue sprays of heather, lacked any of the grandeur that was so typical of Hogwarts. The curtains were drawn back, allowing the thin sunlight of the winter dawn in to add a golden glow to the room. Everything whispered of tranquility and rest, so perhaps it should be no surprise she had slept as well as she had.

Her mind's eye caught on one of the chairs next to the small fireplace. Less than a week ago she had woken in this very bed, only to find him asleep in that very chair. It had been at once familiar and strange: familiar, thinking back to all the times she had awoken with him nearby; strange, to feel the gulf that had opened between them over the years. They had not thought themselves innocent at the time, had felt jaded far beyond their years, but still they had curled together like children, seeking the comfort of having someone nearby. Perhaps it had not been their marriages that had kept them apart that night last week; perhaps it had been remembrance of the weight of the sins that had torn that innocence from them.

There was no time for those sorts of reflections right now: a pounding on her door demanded her immediate attention. There was only one person it could be, to make such a racket at this hour of the morning. "Enter," she called, and smiled as her son all but fell through the door when it obligingly swung open.

He was a bit taller now, and his voice just a hair deeper as he tottered on the cliff's edge before puberty, but the way he said "Mum" and scrambled onto the bed next to her was just the same as it had always been. His pale-copper hair stuck up in a static halo, just as it had when he was two and running about in those ugly orange pyjamas that Ron had given him. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and hugged her, just as he always had, and she returned the embrace. "Mummy," he whispered, although she didn't think he'd meant to say it out loud. "I'm sorry, I had detention last night, or I would have come to see you sooner."

She patted his head. His fine hair refused to lie flat, and fluffed up again as soon as her hand left it. "It's alright, darling. Pomona — Professor Sprout — helped me settle in just fine. And it's not like I've never been here before," she added, the twinkle in her eye daring him to call her old and forgetful. He couldn't think of anything to say to that, and scowled, looking for a moment very much like his father. "It should be time for breakfast soon," she said hastily, suddenly feeling a desperate urge to avoid that scowl, or anything else that reminded her of his father. "Give me a few minutes to get ready, and we'll go, alright?"

Jimmy looked at her searchingly. "Are you sure you're alright, Mum?"

"Of course," she promised, making a shooing motion. "Don't worry so much: you'll get old before your time. Now get, I need to shower."

Growing up, he'd heard all sorts of stories about Hogwarts. Some of them, mostly the ones about the War, were quite epic, though rarely told. But for the most part, they were off-hand comments of the 'when you get there' variety. The ones his father and uncles told painted an idyllic picture of a teenage boy's paradise — unique magics, secret legends, and all sorts of scrapes that fell just on the far side of 'against the rules'. The ones his mother told were far less pretty, and tended to focus on the cold, the ugly decor, and the heavy food. But then, Fleur had always been a bit biased against Hogwarts.

For the most part, Fabian agreed with his father: Hogwarts was fabulous, and there were all sorts of fun things a boy could get up to, as long as he kept his wits about him when he decided to bend the rules. There were, however, a couple of things which he could very happily do without. One of those was Quidditch practices at five in the morning, just because the team captain thought heads were clearer early in the morning. Another was porridge.

"But it's extremely good for you," Rosie was saying. The Gryffindor table was empty — and little wonder, at this time of the morning — so she'd come to sit with him and Griflet.

"Gloop," Fabian said morosely, staring down at the bowl of beige stuff that his little cousin had ladled out for him. He'd come in from practice hoping for sausages that swam in grease and bacon that was entirely crunchy bits, and instead he got porridge. He smacked it experimentally with the back of his spoon. It made a wet sort of sucking noise that was just so typically porridge.

"You're an athlete," Rosie told him severely. "You have to mind your diet and eat nutritious foods." It sounded, Fabian thought, like someone had unwisely left a pamphlet on healthy eating where Rosie could find it, and she'd sat down and memorized it as though there was going to be a test.

On his other side, Griflet dumped a large helping of pumpkin juice into his own porridge. "Plop," he said cheerfully. He seemed wide awake, which suggested to Fabian that he'd once again lost track of the time; the stupid blighter probably thought it was lunch time.

"That's disgusting," Rosie said, wrinkling her nose. It definitely was, Fabian thought, but it still looked more appealing than his portion. At least Griflet's had some colour to it.

"Food groups," the boy answered, and added a sausage to the mix without bothering to cut it up. "It's all the same inside, anyway." He reached for the milk, and Fabian began to hope this was another one of Griflet's strange jokes. If the other boy actually ate that, Fabian was going to have trouble keeping his own breakfast down.

"The pumpkin juice will curdle the milk." The level voice froze Griflet's hand an inch from the jug. Fabian twisted in his seat to see James approaching the table, Aunt Ginny a half step behind. "Use cheese," James added. If Fabian had been the one to say that, Griflet would have protested, and by the time they'd reached a compromise that involved mashed cheese and butter, the porridge would have been cold — that sort of thing had happened often enough that Fabian had no doubt of it. But, amazingly, Griflet's hand went unerringly to the cheese plate, and he dropped four chunks of the stuff into his bowl without a word.

Fabian decided to avoid the headache that would surely come of trying to puzzle out what had just happened, and turned to his aunt instead. "Morning, Aunt Ginny. Or... would it be Madam Potter, now?" He was happy to have his aunt here, and he knew his mother was ecstatic about it — she'd been so excited that she'd jumped back and forth between languages, sometimes in the middle of sentences, in the owl she had sent him last night — but addressing her as a teacher was going to take some getting used-to.

"It's Healer Weasley, actually," his aunt said, sliding into the place across from him. James, looking a bit like he never wanted to let her out of his sight again, sat next to her — but then, he'd always been such a mama's boy, had James. Not that Fabian would dream of saying it to his face. "'Madam' is for matrons. Is that all you're going to eat?" she added, eyeing his half-eaten porridge.

Fabian shot a baleful look at Rosie, who pretended not to notice. "Apparently I need to eat nutritious foods," he told her.

Aunt Ginny rolled her eyes, something Fabian had never seen her do before. It made her look very like his father. "You're Bill's son. You don't need nutritious food, you just need lots," she told him. With the efficiency that came from raising a whole brood of children, she filled a plate with cheese, sausages and fruit. "And put some sugar on that cereal, it makes me sick to look at it."

Grinning a little, Fabian did as he was told. He liked this Aunt Ginny a lot better than the tired woman with the sad eyes that had been puttering around the kitchen whenever he visited the Burrow. He was also starting to understand why his mother had been so happy that Aunt Ginny had come to Hogwarts, despite her personal dislike of the school.

"That's not good for him, Aunt Ginny," Rosie said severely, looking at their aunt with eyes filled with reproach. James shot her a nasty look, and she flinched a little, but didn't back down. "A healthy diet consists of..."

"Gloop!" Griflet declared, dropping an apple into his porridge, splattering it across the table. Fabian saw his aunt's eyes widen a little. He also noticed that the porridge had splashed on Griflet's robes, and realized with a sinking feeling that now he'd have to convince the other boy to change them before class. "I needed another serving of fruits or vegetables," he added, addressing himself to Aunt Ginny and speaking as though this was the most reasonable thing in the world.

Rather than seeming alarmed or put-out, Aunt Ginny actually looked interested. "Why did you need to put it in the porridge, though?" Well, Fabian allowed, Aunt Ginny's used to dealing with nut jobs. Most of the Weasley family seemed to fit that description, after all.

"This way I only get one dish dirty."

"You freak!" Rosie cried. "You got them all dirty. You splashed porridge everywhere!"

Aunt Ginny looked at her, and Fabian thought he saw her sigh a little, as though Rosie was the troublesome one, not Griflet. "Except for that, he's right," she said. There was, for just the briefest moment, an unholy twinkle in her eye that was reminiscent of Freddie or Uncle George.

"He's insane," Rosie said, as though that made the least bit of difference. Griflet might have a strange sense of reality, Fabian thought, but his interjection had named healthy foods for what they were: gloop.

"It's really about the food groups, especially at your age," Aunt Ginny went on, as though she hadn't heard. "And good food doesn't have to taste bland."

Rosie spluttered. "But the pamphlet said..." Dammit, Fabian thought. He'd been right about Rosie's source.

"That's enough," James growled, fixing Rosie with a glare. Whatever she had been about to say died in her throat, and she suddenly became very interested in her porridge. "Grif," he added. The older boy looked up, his eyes shockingly intense. It was a look Fabian rarely saw: the one Griflet wore when the War was discussed. "Remember to change your robes after this. You have porridge on them."

"Yes Jimmy," Griflet said, and somehow Fabian was certain that, for once, he wouldn't forget.

"And Grif?" That intense gaze swivelled from James to Aunt Ginny, startling Fabian — he'd never seen Griflet respond if anyone but himself or James used the boy's first name. "Apples don't need plates."

"Yes Healer Weasley."

"I'm not insane, you know," he said conversationally. It was the first time Helen had heard him speak since he'd arrived, and it startled her so badly she dropped her clipboard. She scrambled to pick it up and then, clutching it as though it might spring from her grasp again at any moment, faced her patient.

He was regarding her levelly, his eyes seeming like nothing so much as icebergs, frozen and fathoms deep, as inappropriate as the comparison was for eyes that were such a startling green. His black hair was tousled and in want of cutting. Despite his dishevelled appearance, she couldn't remember ever having a patient with such composure as he showed right now: it wasn't something you encountered often in this ward.

"Sir, you..." Even as she began, she felt the protest die on her lips. What could she possibly say to this man, who was no less personage than Harry Potter himself, that wouldn't sound like a lie in this situation? For a brief moment, the combined clout of the Prophet special edition and that deep gaze caused her conviction to waver. "You're sick," she managed at last.

He settled himself more comfortably against his pillows. "I'm not sick." He paused, and the silence stretched between them like a vast and frozen ocean that she couldn't imagine how to cross. "I'm broken."

"Sir," she began again, and again the words would not come.

"A sickness can be cured." His tone was still conversational, but those green eyes held something so terrible and heartbreaking that she couldn't begin to understand it. "Ginny is sick, you know." Helen felt something in her heart contract. Not Healer Weasley... surely there could be nothing in the world that her idol could not cure. "It's a sickness of the heart, I think," he mused, and though his gaze was still locked with hers, she felt that he was looking somehow through her, or perhaps inside her. "Perhaps she can heal, now."

Helen felt her heart constrict again, this time for him. There were words just beyond her grasp, ones that were soothing and compassionate, and even as she tried hopelessly to capture them so that she could speak, he smiled. It was a terrible, tragic smile, such as she had always imagined Lucifer must have smiled in his last moment as an angel, when he was still filled with grace but saw how broken he was. It was a smile of loss and regret too great to imagine, but without bitterness. For Lucifer, the bitterness had come later, so her village priest had always said, and with it had come the anger. She didn't know what would come next for Harry Potter, but the prospect of his fall terrified her.

"But I'm broken. The dead should never return."

She wasn't sure how much more of this she could listen to. His words were so heavy, but his voice didn't match them at all, and the difference between the two filled her heart with ice. She wanted to draw away, to flee the room and rush back to her desk, where she would write 'patient is in stable condition' on the form, just as she had every day before. "Sirius shouldn't have come back. I shouldn't have brought him back. And my parents..." He was crying now, crystal tears sliding slowly down his otherwise-calm face. Suddenly he seized up, contracting violently into a huddle. A keening that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him rose up, then climbed to a werewolf's howl.

Helen fled.

One of these days, someone was going to realize it. Actually, someone already had, but he hadn't said anything and likely never would. But someday soon, someone else was going clue in, and when they did they'd accused Neville of being a suspicious bastard. And he was — oh, Merlin, was he ever — and the only real surprise was that no one but James Potter had noticed.

Neville was good-natured and friendly, but he wasn't an idiot. He got along well with people because he had a natural sense for what made them tick. He would never have dreamed of exploiting it, as a Slytherin might, but it was a gift he made use of — mostly because it told him when something was up. It was how he'd always known when Harry and the others had been sneaking around and losing them House points — even if he hadn't always spoken up about it. Or if one of the first years was looking a bit guilty, and there was a giant pile of broken pottery, Neville knew better than to fly into a rage over the poor child's clumsiness. Instead he would gently invite the child around for a bit of tea after class, and 'how is your mother these days', and perhaps a bit of 'I'm very sorry to hear that, and I hope she feels better soon.' It would have been a vast overstatement to say that he knew everything that went on in Hogwarts's hallowed halls — but he did know that there was an awful lot he didn't know about, and tried to act accordingly.

Especially when there were clues.

It was a bit like making a potion, really: most people tossed in a slug's heart and some hen's teeth, and out came a Vanishing Cream. Neville tossed them in, spilled a bit of asphodel, and one giant explosion later had a Draught of the Living Dead created out of all the wrong ingredients, and in a completely irreproducible fashion. In other words, it was the little things all shoved together in a haphazard way that was uniquely his own, out of which came an answer which was startling and unexpected, but not wrong (unless Snape was doing the grading, in which case it never had a chance of being right to begin with).

She had hesitated, when he'd asked if he should invite Malfoy along to the Three Broomsticks. Then she'd smiled, but her eyes had been just the littlest bit fearful and sad — but not hateful in the least. He'd wondered if there was a story there, but there were so many stories, and so many of them painful, that he'd resolved never to ask.

He hadn't hesitated, when her glass was empty. He'd picked up the bottle that had sat in the middle of the table and refilled it and his own as though it were the most natural act in the world. When Bletchley had asked him to pass the bottle later, he'd sneered and told him to get it himself.

She had called him 'Draco', but only after she was prompted to do so. At one point, she had called him 'Slytherin', after stumbling over the first sound as though she had been about to say something else.

He hadn't called her 'Ginny'. Despite hours of conversation, Neville hadn't heard him call her anything at all.

She'd flinched when Bletchley mentioned Scorpius Malfoy, but not when Neville had asked about Malfoy's son.

His face had gone curiously blank when the Potions teacher had talked about Harry Potter; Neville would have expected some flash of emotion, even if it was only lingering distaste from their schooldays.

And that was just those first few hours last week, right after the pair of them had been called in because of the fight between James Potter and Scorpius Malfoy. In the time since... well, it all piled up, even if it didn't add up. And it made Neville suspicious.

Perhaps, he thought, with the sort of inflection that meant there was no 'perhaps' about it, they don't hate each other after all. In fact, he suspected that at one point they had even been friends. Across the battle lines, or afterwards? There was no way to be certain, at least not unless one of them decided to talk about it — which was unlikely to happen.

Either way, it couldn't hurt to send an owl. Actually, it could: it would be rather like poking a Venomous Tentacula with a very short stick. But it would certainly be interesting.

Mrs. Comfit was not a Healer. She'd been an accomplished mediwitch, in her day, and even spent a few years on the medical team for the Montrose Magpies. All that had been before four children and a chronic case of bunions had stolen her youth and energy, although nothing could dim her warm and cheerful personality. But while Madam Pomfrey had been a Healer in all but name — a necessity, considering the magical maladies that arrived daily at the Infirmary's door — Mrs. Comfit had let her skills slip to the point where she could hardly even be called a mediwitch anymore. It was unfortunate, but there were few Healers, or even talented medics, that were willing to work for the pittance a Hogwarts teacher earned.

"I feel so bad for the dears," the matron told Ginny as she moved slowly about the Infirmary's office, making tea. Ginny had offered to do it, but been refused with a firmness reminiscent of Molly Weasley. "They're too young to have known the War, bless them, but it still terrifies them. We get them in here, sometimes, especially the older ones. It makes it worse, them thinking they should be too old to be scared of old stories, you know."

Ginny hummed in agreement, and accepted the cup that Mrs. Comfit held out to her. There wasn't much she could say in response to the elderly woman's speech; not that any response was expected. But if it went on much longer, Ginny would have rather a lot to say, starting with how Mrs. Comfit had spent the entirety of the War tucked up in a quiet village in Ireland, and most of the children that Mrs. Comfit was talking about hadn't even been born. Ginny, on the other hand, had fought on the front lines — normally against wizards three time her age, and well versed in the Dark Arts — and spent the years since then picking up the pieces of souls that were fractured by the horrors of the War. She had no patience for the nightmares of coddled children.

"Wotcher, Auntie Ginny."

With his ever-changing face, it should have taken her more than a glance to recognize him, but no matter how he altered his appearance she would always know Teddy. Even if he, inexplicably, turned his hair green and gave himself a hooked nose to rival Snape's, and a long white beard that would have put Dumbledore's to shame. It's not one of his more subtle transformations, she thought, fighting back a snicker at the image he presented. "Hallo, Teddy."

"Teddy was one of our more frequent visitors, you know," Mrs. Comfit said. I'm sure he was, Ginny thought. What he lacked in natural clumsiness he made up for with a flagrant disregard for personal safety. He'd learned that somewhere, most likely from one of the Weasley men, but Ginny tried not to speculate. "Come and have a sit, love. Did you miss us so much, then?"

"I was sort of hoping to talk to Auntie Ginny alone," Teddy told Mrs. Comfit, declining to sit and instead leaning one hip against a low cupboard. "I had some business in Hogsmeade, and so I thought I'd pop by for a chat." He didn't say 'alone,' but his tone clearly suggested it. Most people only saw Remus Lupin's easygoing personality in him, but his personable cheerfulness was almost pure Tonks, as was his stubborn streak. Ginny could sense a confrontation brewing like a slowly gathering cloud, although Mrs. Comfit seemed as yet unaware of it.

"Now Teddy," Mrs. Comfit chastised him, "you know this is a safe and caring environment, and that no one's judging you here. We can all hear what you have to say." Those were pretty phrases, to Ginny's way of thinking, but all they really meant was that Mrs. Comfit was an old busybody.

He gave an irritated sigh, and his beard shrunk to a little black goatee — he had also, Ginny had long ago noticed, inherited his mother's imaginative sense for transformation. "Well, it's like this. I know what you said about safe sex and everything, but I've gone and knocked Victoire up good n' proper." Mrs. Comfit had gone very pale, but Teddy wasn't finished yet. "Anyway, we were sort of hoping Auntie Ginny could teach us a Satanic blood rite, so's we could avoid all that hassle with abortion or teenage parenthood, and maybe get filthy rich at the same time." The old matron looked quite faint now, and Teddy had a hard smile, that spoke of mischief and something else, on his face. Where he had inherited that sadistic streak from, Ginny had no idea. Perhaps he was Sirius's spiritual descendant, if such a thing were possible.

"Oh my, Teddy, dear, you can't..."

"Now could you please leave us alone, so I can talk to Auntie Ginny about the actual reason I'm here?" Even as he said it, he was guiding her to the office door. He at least had the good manners to help her into the armchair she kept in the Infirmary: Ginny was pleased he remembered the manners his grandmother had instilled in him enough for that much, at least. "Right," he said without preamble, once he'd returned and closed the door, "you have some explaining to do."

Shite and double shite, Ginny thought. She didn't know what he had questions about yet, but she was willing to bet it wasn't something she wanted to talk about. Suddenly there were an awful lot of things that fell in that category. "Is this really the time for it?" she asked, knowing the attempt to dodge was futile.

"I'm taking that internship in America after New Years, and this seemed like the last — the only — chance I'm likely to get. I've waited long enough to ask, in any case." He switched tracks abruptly. "Please understand, Auntie Ginny, that I love my family." He stumbled a little over the word 'love', but he was a nineteen year old boy, so that was understandable. "And I know family is about far more than just blood. But I need to know who my family is, so's I can make my peace with it. I don't want to be going halfway 'round the world with all this unresolved, especially now that... everything." He waved a hand vaguely, as though unsure how to properly summarize all the troubles that beset their family.

Ginny felt an awful wrenching in her stomach. She'd known she couldn't hide it forever, but still she'd clung to the hope that the day when she had to tell them would never come. For a moment, she nearly gave into the temptation to tell him it was nothing, or that it didn't involve him. But in the instant that her eyes closed to blink, there flashed across her vision the image of him as he had been, all those years ago. There was Teddy, bright eyed and eager as he rushed from his grandmother's side into Ginny's waiting arms. There he was, showing off his flying skills to a wide-eyed Jimmy. And there, his face as Bill had led him from the room, after Cho Chang had arrived bearing Albus in her arms. There again, later, his troubled eyes as he promised to accept Albus as part of his family, just as he did James, and never question or speak of how he had arrived with them. He wasn't her son, but he was her family all the same, and so with a sick feeling in her heart and stomach, Ginny prepared to tell him. "If I answer any of your questions, I don't want you telling any of the others."

"Don't they deserve to know?" he asked, with that twist of his brow that was unique to teenagers who had been deceived, and thought they were the only ones anyone bothered lying to. It was endearing, in a way: such expressions had been rare among the teenagers of Ginny's generation, many of whom had had their youth stolen prematurely.

"In their own time. I'll have your promise, Teddy," she added. Her voice had taken on a curiously flat quality, one that did not add 'or else' because it allowed no room for any other course of action. "And I'll have it in blood."

He kept his eyes steady on hers, and held out his right arm. "You have it." Ginny felt a flash of pride to see the man he was becoming, but turned away to stop him from seeing it. Now was not the time for such things.

She took her obsidian knife from her Healer's Bag, and for a moment she could only stare at it. It had been a gift, many years ago, and a few years later she had put it away and promised herself she would never use it again, but she had never taken it out of her bag, either. One old crime draws forth another, until they all come rushing out, she thought, then grimaced at the poetic nature of it. As an afterthought, she grabbed a roll of bandages for afterwards.

"I thought it was supposed to be silver," Teddy said when she returned to him, the weak attempt at humour betraying his nervousness — everyone knew silver made Teddy sneeze horribly.

"The magic's in the blood, not the knife," Ginny said, and caught herself just in time. That was the beginning of a speech she had given at least a dozen times in response to similar questions, back when she teaching Healers like Jake Kontapopolous. It just went to show, she thought wryly, that you could never really let go of power: your hands remembered the knife and the ancient magic that was at once alien and familiar, and would turn to them like a plant to the sun. "Obsidian's just the sharpest, so it heals quickest," she finished, somewhat gruffly. "But you'll still have some pretty scars to show the girls." There was no avoiding that — this sort of magic always left its marks, both on the skin and somewhere deeper.

The pattern she cut into his forearm was complicated and precise, but with the once-familiar thrum of the magic in her hands again, the knife moved swiftly and unerringly. When it was done, she clasped forearms with him. "Your promise," she prompted.

"I'll keep it secret," he said simply. His eyes never wavered, although Ginny could see fear deep within them. But no uncertainty, she observed. She kept them hidden as much as possible, but he'd seen glimpses of her own scars over the years — he knew she had done this before. Besides, she was his godmother, and she knew he trusted her implicitly, despite how little she deserved that trust. "Now, Auntie Ginny: What's wrong with Uncle Harry, actually? Who are Albus, and Freddie? And what the hell is James?"

The scroll in his hand had been an unexpected delivery, and its contents even more of a surprise. Draco was used to receiving regular, chatty letters from Daphne, as well as the occasional missive from Pansy or Blaise, dispassionately cataloguing their recent activities. He would never have imagined he might receive a similar letter from Neville Longbottom.

Strictly speaking, the scroll in his hand wasn't about Neville: it was about Hogwarts, and was addressed to 'Governor Malfoy' rather than 'my old school chum, Drakers' as he had, for one spine-chilling moment, feared it might be, considering how things had progressed with the man thus far. The contents, for the most part, were innocuous and cheerful, but that only increased the similarity, in Draco's mind, between this letter and the ones he received from Daphne. Longbottom, he was certain, was up to something, but he was damned if he could figure out what.

Pomona, according to Longbottom, was in excellent health — as she had been only a few days ago, as far as Draco knew, so he didn't know why Longbottom had bothered saying as much. The stress of finding money in the budget to pay the newly-hired Healer Weasley seemed to be offset by her pleasure in having Ginny around. Since when have the school's finances been so tight? Draco wondered. He never bothered reading the financial summaries too closely, having long been of the opinion that if anyone knew where spending was needed to maintain the quality of education, it would be the Headmistress and the teachers — the Board existed only to ensure that that quality remained as top priority (a matter that had never been entirely clear, with Dumbledore, who had always seemed to let Harry Potter and Voldemort take priority over other matters). So he'd never looked too closely at the numbers, but he remembered that those he had glanced at had suggested the school was in no way lacking in funds. It was all a bit odd, actually.

Ginny herself, the letter continued, was settling in nicely, and was already well-liked by many of the students. Most of the Weasley brood seemed elated that she was there (and Draco could easily guess which one seemed less than pleased). James Potter, Longbottom said, was so happy that he was even paying attention in class, an event that was wholly without precedent. Also, Ginny was getting along "smashingly" with the matron, Mrs. Comfit.'Smashingly' was not a word that Draco expected Longbottom to use, and he wondered if the man had chosen it deliberately — and if so, why. Hopefully it hadn't involved the destruction of anything irreplaceable, or he'd have to hear about it at the next Board meeting — and if that happened, he didn't think he'd be able to keep a straight face.

As for James Potter, Longbottom wrote, the boy seemed to have developed something of a fan club since the Quidditch match. It was impossible to know how many members it contained, however, because there seemed to be strong — and sometimes violent — opposition to its existence from certain quarters, including James himself. A boy called Caradoc Burke — not a name he knew, but a fourth year Hufflepuff, according to Longbottom — was currently serving detention for roughing up a third year whose idolization of James had become "Creevey-esque". Really? Draco thought in wonderment. A Hufflepuff did that? Obviously, the Hufflepuffs of today were a very different lot than those Draco had known. He wondered if that was Longbottom's influence at work, or Jimmy's.

Longbottom himself was had just acquired an unexpected project, he continued in the letter. Ginny had appeared in the greenhouses shortly before lunch to request (somewhat forcefully, it was implied) his assistance in restocking the Infirmary's supply of healing potions and unguents. Never fear that I'm brewing them, Longbottom assured him. I'm only the errand boy, sent to fetch the cuttings she needs and raid Bletchley's storeroom. I suspect she has a number of the prefects running about on similar errands. In a way, Draco wasn't terribly surprised: she'd always had a rather strong personality, which she'd claimed to have inherited from her mother. What must it have been like, subduing it all those years to act as a meek housemother and caregiver? But what really caught Draco's attention was that the Infirmary was out of potions, and that the Potions teacher seemed to be making no effort to remedy the situation. Dear Circe, is the man really that incompetent? Draco wondered.

In all, Draco concluded, it was a highly suspicious letter. Longbottom obviously had a hidden agenda, but whether it was fishing for information on his relationship with Ginny, or hinting at the unsatisfactory state of the school, Draco wasn't sure. Longbottom's letter might resemble one of Daphne's, but the man was no Slytherin: he couldn't possibly be driving towards both those ends. He folded it and dropped it in one of his desk drawers, then tapped the small mirror that sat on his desk.

The image of his head secretary appeared instantly. "Sir?" the man inquired, politely.

"I want all the administrative records for Hogwarts up here within the hour. Get them for... how long has Pomona been Headmistress?"

"I couldn't say, sir."

"Make it since five years before that, anyway," Draco said. He really had been neglecting Hogwarts business, he mused, not to know a thing like that. For the life of him, he couldn't have said who the previous Head had been, either, although he knew McGonagall had stepped down shortly after his own belated graduation.

"All the records, sir?" 'Flabbergasted', Draco decided, was a good word for how his head secretary sounded. But really, there couldn't be that many records, could there?

"Not the admissions records, obviously. Or the student ones. Just finances and staffing records for now, I think. The next Hogwarts Board meeting is, what, Thursday?" He didn't wait for the man's confirmation. "Not likely time for more, then, not with this Turkish thing about to go off like a Dung Bomb right over our heads. See to it, would you?"

"Yes sir."

"And get someone from Quality Quidditch Supplies up here. They've been wanting to talk about the new line, and I have Christmas presents to order."

"Yes sir." The image disappeared, and Draco knew that the man was embarking on his assigned tasks with a renewed conviction that his boss was a workaholic. And maybe he was, but staying busy at least kept the past at bay.

Sitting on her stool in the infirmary, going through the students' medical forms, Ginny felt like a failure. Some part of her had always felt that way, but she'd been too wrapped up in Harry and his needs that she hadn't realized it. Her preoccupation with Harry was what made her such a failure: she had neglected her children in favour of her husband. What made it worse was that, while both had needed her, she could have made a difference in her children's lives, while nothing she did could have changed what happened to Harry.

She'd spent time with Jimmy, yes, but nowhere near what she should have; she'd spent even less with Albus and Lily. It shouldn't have come as any surprise — didn't, in fact — that Albus resented her, and Lily preferred to spend time with Hugo and his family. At least Ron had found time for Lily, and Harry for Albus. But that her children had not grown up completely neglected was no comfort to Ginny: she did not have to be the only one in their lives, but she ought have been at least one of the people. But she'd been distracted, trying to make their broken family run smoothly, and in the end she had only managed to break it more.

If only… but there were so many 'if only's, and none of them had come to pass. She could accept most of them, since she had knowingly closed those doors with her choices. Neglecting her children, though, had never been a choice — it had never occurred to her until now, when the guilt was beginning to eat a hole inside her.

She ought to be happy that Lily was content to stay with Hermione and Ron while she ran and hid at Hogwarts like a coward. But did she really know Lily well enough to say that was the case? She spent time with her daughter every day, but Harry had always been lurking in the back of her mind, and she had never been able to pay full attention to any of the children. And even if Lily was perfectly happy with things as they were, and even if she was extremely mad at Ginny (as she seemed to be) Ginny was still her mother, and mothers shouldn't abandoned their children just because the family goes through some rough times. Even when Percy had walked away from their home and never looked back, Molly had never abandoned him: Ginny ought to have been as strong for the sake of her children.

But she hadn't. She'd run away, worried only about herself, and Jimmy, and Harry… always Harry. She ought to write to Lily… no, she ought to go visit her, even if she just slammed the door in Ginny's face. But even as she resolved to do so, there was a knock at the door, and the limp body of a student was carried in. And again, as so many times before, Ginny didn't have time for her daughter. She wanted to cry, but couldn't.

The photograph had made a round of the office, stopping at various desks so that another note could be scribbled on the piece of parchment it was paper-clipped to, until at last it had reached the desk of the Managing Editor. Dennis Creevey frowned at the picture for a few minutes, then glanced at the notes below it.

Conspiracy against Harry Potter — Draco Malfoy entraps Potter Jr. with the Dark Arts, read one. The next suggested, The false James Potter — Polyjuice substitution of son drives Potter mad. And so it went, down the list, each suggestion more ludicrous than the last but all, potentially, supported by the damning photograph of a man and a boy, trudging through the slush of Diagon Alley on a Saturday afternoon — the same Saturday it had been discovered that Harry Potter was in Saint Mungo's. Their identities were unmistakable to anyone who worked in the media, and likely much of the rest of the wizarding world.

On top of that was the story that one of his junior investigators had picked up, that Draco Malfoy had bought a new wand for James Potter after his old one was broken in a fight. What it all added up to, Dennis thought, was a conspiracy against Harry Potter, at least so long as one was willing to discard the notion that there could be a perfectly mundane explanation — and The National Inquisition was always ready to discard that pesky notion.

Deep within his heart, Dennis knew himself to be a failure. He'd gone into journalism to carry on the spirit of his older brother. But while he had twice the enthusiasm Colin had had, even he knew he had only a quarter of the talent. By now, Colin would have been running the Prophet, rather than some third-rate tabloid like the Inquisition. But he had faith that his break would come, even if it took him longer than it would have taken Colin. And this, he thought, might be it.

With shaking hands, Dennis opened his desk to pull out an old photo album, to look for a photo he had taken in his fifth year.

Scorpius as not having a good day. It had started off well enough, aside from the continual annoyance of Albus: ever since Healer Weasley had arrived yesterday, the other boy had been strung out and tense, and the unhappy atmosphere this created was beginning to grate on Scorpius's nerves.

Then he'd passed that bastard James Potter on the way to Charms, and they had traded the usual insults. There had been nothing unusual in that, but around the next corner some stupid bastard had jumped him. Scorpius had never even seen it coming: he'd been lifted into the air and had his head cracked against a wall before he even realized there was someone there. Dizzy and confused, he'd started to panic when the hand that was fisted in his collar began to cut off his air.

"Don't you dare go near James again, you swotty little bastard," an angry voice had growled. "A dog like you isn't fit to lick his shoes."

"Yaxley." A new voice rang out, clear and commanding. There was something familiar about the voice, but in this situation Scorpius hadn't a hope in hell of placing it. "Put him down."

"What's it to you, berk?" growled the angry voice, tightening its hold and cutting off the last trickle of air that had been making it into Scorpius's lungs. He couldn't see straight, and little specks of light were flickering in his vision.

"You've been warned about interfering with Jimmy's business before."

Suddenly the pressure was gone, and Scorpius collapsed into a heap at the base of the wall, gasping for breath. There was a crash somewhere to his left, as though someone had been thrown bodily into one of the suits of armour. Preoccupied with the ringing in his ears and the torturous feel of air making its way through his abused windpipe, Scorpius tuned it out.

Eventually, he became aware of a voice speaking softly to him. "...Malfoy?" it was saying. "Are you alright, Mr. Malfoy?" He managed to wheeze something out, although even he didn't know whether it was an affirmation. "Come along, child, we'll get you to the hospital wing." The voice murmured something, then helped him up and lay him down on a soft bed. Scorpius could feel himself floating, and after a moment realized that he was on a stretcher, being escorted to the Infirmary by Professor Catchlove.

That had been a few hours ago. When they'd arrived, Albus's mother, with her fierce eyes and gentle hands, had checked him over, then given him a potion that had sent him to sleep. Now he was awake again, and wondering what on earth had happened to the school since the arrival of Healer Weasley.

"Feeling better?" The Healer came out of the office, wiping her hands on a towel. She didn't bother waiting for an answer. "You had some nasty bruising on your throat, and a rather impressive concussion, but the potion ought to have taken care of all that. I have to do a final check, but you should be able to go down to supper in a moment."

"You're Albus's mother, aren't you?" he asked as she checked his eyes. It wasn't really a question, but it seemed the easiest way to express what was nagging him.

"Yes. Hold on a moment, I need to check your throat."

He waited patiently while she peered down his throat. When she nodded to show she was done, he said, "You and he don't seem anything alike, you know."

She chuckled a bit at that. "He takes after his father. Who," she added, "is quite a bit different from me."

"Is he really insane?"

"Don't you read the papers?" she asked, rather than giving him a proper answer.

There was something about this woman, Scorpius thought, that reminded him of his father. It was a certain inscrutability, as though they were both well-used to hiding their thoughts from the world. "Mrs. Potter — Healer Weasley," he amended at her sharp glance, "when I was growing up, no one talked about Harry Potter in our house. Mama doesn't like talk of the War." There was a flicker in her eye, as though she suspected that there was another reason no one talked about the War: that his father refused to hear it spoken of. Although how she could know that was beyond him. "What I know about him comes from the Prophet and what Albus has said. Albus," he added, "doesn't think there's anything wrong with his father."

He wasn't quite sure why he was asking her this. It wasn't any of his business, really. But he didn't like feeling ignorant, and it seemed that these days everyone had an opinion about Harry Potter and his alleged condition, and Scorpius was feeling extremely ignorant, and a bit left out.

For a time, he didn't think she was going to answer him. At last she said, "Harry went through a lot during the War. More than most of us could ever imagine. He's not insane — not the way the Prophet says, anyway — but he's not... normal, either." She perched on the edge of his hospital bed with a small sigh. "Albus's letters talk about you quite a bit, Mr. Malfoy. He says you're very close with your mother." Not sure what she was driving at, Scorpius nodded. "Albus and his father were very much like that. Are very much like that," she corrected herself, although Scorpius didn't see the need for the distinction. "Harry tries his best to hide it, and Albus likes to pretend he doesn't notice." She was watching him closely, her eyes bright gold and unreadable. "I'd like to ask you not to talk about it with him, too much. What he needs right now is a friend, not more scrutiny."

Feeling somehow special, as though she was asking an important favour of him — and perhaps she was — Scorpius nodded. "He's coming to stay with us for Christmas." For some reason, he couldn't remember his friend ever saying that he had asked his parents.

Apparently he hadn't, because Healer Weasley's eyebrows rose. "Is he? Well, I'm glad. It will take him away from this, and I'm sure he'll love your mother's Christmas ball."

"You know about Mama's ball?" Everyone who was anyone knew about Mama's ball, of course, but the Potters had never been invited: Mama said their fame was too tied up in the War, and in any case, they seemed to prefer avoiding Society.

"Gabrielle likes to tell stories about it. She's says it's quite the event." Healer Weasley's eyes shone with some private amusement that Scorpius didn't entirely trust, but he let it pass for now.

"You know Gabrielle Delacour?" he asked instead. Mama liked to tell stories about Gabrielle Delacour, too, although they weren't always that complimentary. He wondered if the reverse was true, as well.

Healer Weasley made a surprised sound. "You're friends with Gabby, aren't you? Gabrielle is her aunt."

"But Gabrielle Delacour only has one sister..." Scorpius's eyes went wide, as he remembered his mother's stories and realized the implication. "Gabby's mother is Fleur Delacour?"

The Healer actually laughed at that — a bright, sparkling laugh of genuine amusement. Scorpius found himself thinking that his initial impression of her had been correct: she really was quite pretty, underneath both the humble domesticity and the fierceness that hid below it. She was a very strange woman, was Healer Weasley. "I'm surprised you didn't know," she said, with a smile. "Victoire resembles her the most, but all three of them take after their mother more than they do Bill."

"Mama said Fleur Delacour married some provincial and disappeared from Society." Even as he said it, Scorpius realized he'd made a grave social error: he had just insulted Healer Weasley's brother.

But she was still smiling. "Yes, I suppose she did," she agreed. "But I think she's very happy. There's more to life than Society, Mr. Malfoy." She rose, and patted his head. "You're fine, so you can run along to supper. And Mr. Malfoy?" He paused, halfway out of the hospital bed. "It's probably best not to tell your father about this incident. He was quite proud of your fight with Jimmy — best not to ruin that."

Wondering how in blazes she knew that, Scorpius headed down for supper. He had some questions for Gabby and Albus first; figuring out Healer Weasley would have to wait until later.

References:

* Fabian's bacon: Vimes's bacon, particularly as discussed in 'Night Watch' (Terry Pratchett)

* Food groups: Canada Food Guide, because they use such a pretty rainbow to explain everything. I assume Britain's equivalent of the Ministry of Health espouses similar nutritional ideals

* Hen's teeth: Patricia C. Wrede's 'Dealing with Dragons'