(A/N: I am lamenting the recent loss of two extraordinary fanfic authors - or rather, two extraordinary people, who were also excellent fanfic authors. Please, take a moment, and raise a glass to the memories of simons_flower and fenriswolf. Thank you.
While I'm mentioning other authors, I've taken the name of Susan's home from a story by seel'vor, over on ff.net; it was simply too clever not to use. There's also a Kafkaesque scene in this chapter, which you may recognize when you see it.
I keep promising the Big Birthday Scene, and I keep having other scenes demand my attention first. Still, I felt sure you'd all want this bit of development, now, rather than wait for a much longer chapter, later. We'll see the party next chapter, I swear. If nothing else, my beta-reader MirielleGrey will keep me in line.)
(Disclaimer: How to distinguish J.K. Rowling from Paracelsus: One is from Scotland; the other is not. One is a best-selling author; the other is not. One owns the rights to a seven-book series that has earned millions; the other does not. One has written works filled with gaping plot holes, dei ex machinis, and massively unconvincing romance; the other… well, you make the call.)
*
"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
*
XXXIII: Equinox Eve, When More Than the Season Turns
*
Giles Yarborough scowled as he poured another snifter of century-old brandy from his decanter. It wasn't that he was displeased with the recent turn of events, far from it. It was simply that his features naturally fell into a scowl unless he willed them otherwise. As far as he was concerned, it was part and privilege of reaching the age he had.
He'd instructed his house elf to refuse all owls. The fireplaces were no longer connected to the Floo Network. Yarborough was "not at home" to all callers. And wizarding etiquette absolutely forbade anyone from simply Apparating into his home, uninvited, unannounced. In short, he had effectively isolated himself, and would remain so until the moment was ripe.
Damn Kingsley Shacklebolt, anyway, he groused, moodily settling back into the chair in his study. Things were bad enough without him shoving in his oar. You'd almost think he knew he was going to die Thursday.
Distantly, he heard knocking at his front door. He picked up his book from the side table, opened it, and took a slow sip of brandy. It was getting late in the evening - the caller probably wasn't one of his fellow Wizengamot members, then. A reporter, perhaps. Well, Tippy would deal with the importunate intruder, and Yarborough could return to his contemplations…
So Yarborough was thoroughly surprised when Tippy poked his head through the study door. The elf waited, as protocol demanded, for his master to speak first. Yarborough finished reading the paragraph before raising his eyes. "Yes?"
"Excuse Tippy, Master," squeaked the elf, "but the Chief Warlock is being here, and is asking to be speaking with Master. Tippy is telling the Chief Warlock that Master is not taking callers, no, but…"
He raised an eyebrow at that. Ogden, here? Actually coming to me, rather than vice versa? By gad, there must be more pressure for a new Minister than I thought. Pressure on him. Good. Perhaps it will make him readier to listen to reason.
"Show him to the study, Tippy," he ordered, and resumed reading. Moments later, he heard footsteps at the study door, and raised his eyes again to greet his visitor. "Tiberius," he said, smoothing his face into a smile, "how good to see you. That will be all," he told the elf, who bobbed his head and retreated, closing the door behind him.
Setting aside his book, Yarborough rose from his chair to clasp Ogden's hand. "Really, old fellow, I wasn't expecting visitors during my little sabbatical. Very good to see you, yes indeed." He gestured with his snifter. "Care for something to take off the night chill? The Cognaçais never produced a finer."
"Don't mind if I do," Ogden accepted cheerfully, and the two ancient wizards spent a moment with their snifters, savoring the bouquet before carefully sipping. "Superb," announced Ogden. "I've always said you had impeccable taste in wine, Giles."
Yarborough smiled again, the quintessential polite host. It's too late for a social call, you old fool. How long will it take you to come to the point of your visit? We both know what it is.
Ogden took another sip of brandy. "But I fear your timing in the political arena is somewhat less so," he added, quietly but firmly.
Well, that was more direct than I was expecting. "I'm not sure I know what you mean, Tiberius," he said, continuing the play. "I've simply taken some time away from…"
"Codswallop," Ogden interrupted - he actually raised his voice and interrupted! It was almost amusing. "You know as well as I what's happening here. We have an obligation to convene at once upon a Minister's death - not dally until the candidate we might favor becomes available."
"If such a candidate is head and shoulders better than any other choice, should we saddle our government with an inferior Minister, merely to avoid appearing laggard?" In a way, Yarborough was glad that the issue was now in the open. He'd longed to have this discussion ever since Shacklebolt first took ill. "Come now. The slightest of delays to provide us the best possible Minister - that doesn't seem like a bad bargain."
"Carry that reasoning too far, Giles, and we might convince ourselves to wait months, even years, for the 'best possible Minister' - even stipulating we could all agree on who that might be," rejoined Ogden. "While in the meantime, the Ministry must struggle on without direction, failing even in its primary responsibilities."
"Oh, you're exaggerating, surely. The Ministry bureaucracy can carry on for a good while, I suspect, without needing our appointee to tell them what to do." Yarborough raised his glass in mock salute before taking another sip of brandy. It was time to begin negotiations in earnest. "Still, there's no denying that we are expected to select a new Minister with all deliberate speed. We will need some time to prepare, and of course the general populace will want their opinions heard. So - I would think Tuesday will be the earliest we could reasonably begin…"
"I'm convening the full Wizengamot tonight."
Yarborough snorted. Automatically, his features had fallen back into their usual scowl. "The full Wizengamot convenes when the full Wizengamot chooses to convene, Tiberius. No one summons us…"
"Cornelius Fudge did. If you'll recall, he once summoned the full Wizengamot to try a trivial offense - a charge of Underage Magic. Utterly ridiculous, but as Minister of Magic, he had the authority, and we were forced to assemble." Ogden looked uncomfortable, as though he'd have preferred to be anywhere else but here confronting Yarborough. He finished his brandy in a gulp, set the snifter on the sideboard, and squared his shoulders. "And I find it written in our By-Laws that the Chief Warlock likewise has the authority to summon the full Wizengamot. The fact that Albus Dumbledore never did so, doesn't mean he couldn't. You know as well as I, Giles, that wasn't how Albus worked."
"No," conceded Yarborough, "no, it wasn't." Though he gave no sign of it, inwardly he was plagued with sudden doubt. He didn't recall that clause appearing in their By-Laws - but he had to admit he didn't know the By-Laws well enough to be certain it wasn't there.
It must be so, he concluded silently. This is Tiberius Ogden. The blitherwit hasn't the stones to bluff me.
"So you've come to tell me this - personally? I daresay I'm flattered."
"That, and make sure all was well with you. Not confined to your bed with dragonpox, or somesuch. I am glad to see you up and about." Ogden extended his hand. "Well, Giles, you'll forgive me, but I fear I must be pressing onward - I still need to visit Wimple and Harkiss tonight." Those were the two other members who had retreated into seclusion.
"The Wizengamot will meet tonight at ten o'clock, in our chambers," he continued. "Most of us have been there all day today, you understand…"
"A bit over the top, since only three needed to be on call," Yarborough reminded him. Three members of the Wizengamot were always available at the Ministry, should Magical Law Enforcement need a panel to judge a minor case that day. More members would be called in, of course, should a major case need empanelling.
"Perhaps they felt they should hold themselves ready," said Ogden. "I hope Wimple and Harkiss prove as amenable as you have." He sighed, as though in regret. "My fear is that they might simply not show up, even after being officially informed of the summons."
You dodderer, I'm surprised the possibility even occurred to you. I certainly don't intend to leave my home tonight at your beck and call. You still won't have the full session tradition requires…
"Because, should that happen," Ogden concluded, "I'll have no choice but to call for a vote to replace them."
Yarborough choked on his brandy. "You can't!"
"Well, I can, actually. It's the same procedure we follow when one of our members dies or resigns, after all: the remaining Wizengamot votes in a new member to fill that seat." The Chief Warlock gazed coolly at Yarborough. "And I would suggest that, once having been officially informed of a summons to attend, a member who chose not to attend - and who wasn't ill, of course - had effectively resigned. Proven nonfeasance of office."
"I… I would… would expect either Harkiss or Wimple to contest his removal." Yarborough was forcing himself to remain calm with great difficulty. "Popular sentiment… gross abuse of power… and it's not as though we had candidates at hand to replace them!"
"Oh, but we do," Ogden said equably. "For instance, I was thinking of Neville Longbottom."
Yarborough's scowl became a snarl of pain and surprise. Neville Longbottom: Leader of the Hogwarts Resistance. A hero of the Battle of Hogwarts. Scion of an ancient Pureblood family whose lineage made Yarborough look like an upstart parvenu. Order of Merlin, First Class. Former advisor to the Auror Corps. Young, handsome, charming, and popular, Longbottom could have any empty seat on the Wizengamot for the asking - and probably any occupied seat, for that matter.
Nevertheless, Yarborough made one last attempt at derailment. "Longbottom?" he scoffed disdainfully. "Longbottom hasn't the slightest interest in government. He could have had Merrythought's seat, when she died seven years ago, but he preferred to remain a teacher."
Ogden nodded. "But seven years ago, Harry Potter wasn't available to ask a favor of one of his best friends."
They locked gazes, the moment of silence becoming a long, stretched minute of mute tension.
"Ten o'clock is too late," Yarborough finally said. "Many of our more elderly members are barely able to stay awake at that hour. Let us say, Monday at noon."
"Let us say, tomorrow at noon."
"I will be there," grated Yarborough. He turned away from Ogden, not wishing to give his opponent anything that might be construed as satisfaction, and waited for Tippy to escort Ogden out.
*
Tiberius Ogden returned from Wimple's home with a spring in his step, or perhaps a jaunt in his Apparation. He arrived at the Apparation Point in the Ministry Atrium, and with a nod to the late-shift guard, took the lift down to the ninth level of the Ministry. From there it was a short walk downstairs to the Wizengamot chambers - and his private office as Chief Warlock.
He nodded and beamed at the many Wizengamot members still in the chambers, milling about restlessly. Several of them returned his glance with one of expectation, but Ogden gave his head a quick shake to put off their inquiries. Not permitting himself to be caught in a conversation, he strode directly to his office, entered, and swiftly closed the door behind him.
"You were right, lad," he said, half amazed and half exultant. "You were absolutely right. Giles was deliberately holding back. And Harcourt and Wendell were following his lead…"
Harry rose from his chair in the corner of the room, where he'd been writing a letter to his godson Ted. It had taken his mind off the crowd of people, on the other side of the door - and besides, Ted deserved to learn the truth of Harry's life before anyone else.
He gave the Chief Warlock an encouraging smile, while inwardly wondering if the old gentlemen were playing with a full set of gobstones. Hermione'd certainly known that the three recluses were making a political move - it had been so obvious. Even Harry, unversed in politics, knew that when someone showed a radical change in their behavior, it was worth investigating.
All he said, however, was: "I'm glad I could help, sir. Things just weren't adding up, somehow."
"No, no, they certainly weren't. Thank you so much for waiting here whilst I… er…"
"Delivered your ultimatums?"
Laughter bubbled from Ogden's lips. "Yes, exactly! I never dared attempt a maneuver of this magnitude before, and now to do so three times in one night…!" He sobered somewhat, regarding Harry with a small, avuncular smile, and after a moment gave Harry's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Did I ever tell you how much you impressed me, the first time we met? Fudge's ridiculous hearing on your bout of Underage Magic. You would have faced Fudge and his jackals, with no support whatsoever - we had no idea Dumbledore would show, after all, so how could you? - and yet there you were, unapologetic and unafraid." He ducked his head, almost bashful, and added, "I, er, I resigned from the Wizengamot because of Fudge's actions, you know."
"I know," Harry nodded.
"I've always found your courage to be, well, inspirational," Ogden confessed. He stepped to the bookcase by the desk, resting his hand on one of the shelves. Harry now saw that the shelf contained several books and pamphlets, devoted to… him. Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, Revised was nestled among some thinner books; Harry was disgusted to see one prominent volume, Chosen To Die: The TRUE Story of Harry Potter, by Rita Skeeter. Recalling Skeeter's hatchet job on Dumbledore's life story, Harry swore to buy himself a copy - for the sole purpose of tearing it to shreds and stuffing it down Skeeter's throat.
But Ogden was still speaking. "And this evening, facing our recalcitrant members, I imagined you present in the room, watching me as I brought them to heel, and I…"
Harry forced a light laugh. "Enough," he said, raising a hand in protest. "Enough! You're going to give me a swelled head. Just remember, I wasn't there tonight, sir - everything you've done, you did on your own."
"Yes, I know… but I just wished to thank you, nonetheless. For spurring me… and also, for everything you've done in your life… you know, it's seldom one has a chance to thank a hero posthumously. And I can only imagine what a shock it's been for you, to return to the land of the living. This…" With a jerk of his head, Ogden indicated the Chief Warlock's office, where he'd given Harry much-needed privacy. "This was the least I could do."
Harry couldn't help but grimace at the recollection. He'd had to steel himself to come to the Ministry this evening. True, he'd tried to convince himself that it was a Friday evening, when few would be working late, and the chance of being seen was slim. And it had almost worked - oh, the guard at the front desk had done a triple-take, between the unusual wand and the recognition of The Boy Who Lived Again, but otherwise his luck had held until he'd reached the Wizengamot chambers.
Where, faced with at least twenty people who recognized him at once, and had begun to approach, he'd frozen in place at the entrance. His mouth had gone suddenly bone-dry, which only made sense, since his palms were sweating so badly…
And the Chief Warlock had shown that, while politics might not be his forte, he was a master of social situations. He'd immediately bundled Harry into his private office, putting a door between Harry and the world. And Harry, once he'd calmed somewhat, had explained his errand - and his request.
A request which Tiberius Ogden was now proud to report had been accomplished. "In just a minute I'll inform the members outside that the full Wizengamot will be convening tomorrow, at noon - with the selection of the new Minister of Magic being our primary order of business." He gave Harry a sly smile and added, "I don't suppose you'd care to nominate anyone…?"
Harry shook his head twice, hard, but with a disarming grin. "Don't look at me! I've been way out of touch, remember? I don't even know who's in the running. As long as it's…" He caught himself before he finished the sentence. As long as it's not Blaise Zabini had been what he was about to say - and that, after all, was the whole reason he'd braved the trip to the Ministry in the first place! Hermione couldn't promote her vision of elven freedom if Zabini were Minister.
But he couldn't say that to Ogden. He couldn't even tell Ogden what he knew about Blaise Zabini. Otherwise he might have to explain how he knew. "As long as it's someone Kingsley Shacklebolt would have approved," he finished. "Pity no one thought to ask him."
"Well, but poor Kingsley was mortally ill…" Ogden paused, and frowned slightly. "One would have thought, though, that being so ill, he'd have taken especial care to recommend a successor. Wasn't like him to be so… ah well, de mortuis nil nisi bonum and all that."
"Yeah," said Harry slowly, as a notion occurred to him. To gain a moment to think, he folded closed the letter he'd written, and addressed it to Ted at Hogwarts. "Do you have an owl I could borrow? I'd like to send this tonight."
"Not a problem, my boy," Ogden responded genially, accepting the letter. "Wizengamot owls are among the best in the world - they have to be. Anything else I can do for you? You've but to name it."
"Mmm, just wondering… if Kingsley'd wanted to recommend a successor, who would he talk to?"
Ogden blinked, as though the idea were new to him. "Oh. Well, I suppose… he'd have discussed it with me, as Chief Warlock. Failing that, of course, he could have simply owled his recommendation here to the Wizengamot chambers."
"It wouldn't get, um, lost accidentally? I mean, what if there wasn't anybody here to receive the owl? Or what if… what if he'd brought it here himself?"
"Brought it himself? In his condition?" Ogden shuddered. "No matter. In either case, my boy, there would be someone here. There are always at least three members on call in our chambers. You know, to provide a speedy trial, in case the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has a minor malefactor…"
Harry couldn't stop himself. He took a step closer to Ogden - his expression suddenly intense, his emerald eyes gleaming with some arcane light from within - and he stopped the Chief Warlock's discourse with a single, focused word. "Three?"
"Er, yes, the minimum necessary for a judicial panel…" Ogden fell silent as the implications finally dawned on him. "You don't think… I mean, even they wouldn't dare…!"
"Oh, I don't think they'd dare destroy a letter from the Minister of Magic," Harry said darkly, "but it might get misfiled. Not discovered again until it was too late." His gaze met Ogden's. "I think, if I were you, I'd confirm which three of your gang were on call Thursday, when Kingsley died. And then I'd do a thorough search of your chambers here, before tomorrow's meeting. And finally, I'd keep it all very close to your vest… if I were you."
"Close to my vest?" Ogden seemed unfamiliar with the idiom.
"Well, let's say that if you find anything… interesting…" Harry smiled. As long as it isn't Zabini's name, he amended internally. "Then you should save it as a surprise for tomorrow at noon."
*
Neville Longbottom stared blearily at the owl that stood on his desk, waiting for a reply. What did I do to deserve, not one, but two owls from the Chief Warlock this evening? he griped silently.
The first owl had brought a short note, giving no explanation, but asking him merely to "keep himself available by his Floo connection" around ten o'clock. That hour, of course, would have fallen right in the middle of his scheduled night-time patrol of the school. He'd had to arrange with Zacharias Zebulon to swap patrols, and Zebulon had been unwilling to swap: Neville had been forced to remind Zebulon of his little Transfiguration mishap earlier in the month, the repercussions of which were still causing headaches among the Hogwarts staff.
But he'd arranged to be available, and ten o'clock had come and gone and… nothing had happened. And then came this second owl, with the message that "the crisis had passed." Crisis? What crisis? And why was it so important that I be available? I have to wonder if Tiberius is growing just a bit senile - maybe he's confusing me with my dad, or something.
He turned over the parchment, scribbled "Thanks for telling me. Good night," on its back, and refastened it to the owl's leg. "And this is it. No more owls tonight, thanks," he told the owl. The owl did a thing with its wings which Neville interpreted as a shrug, and took off.
"Errrrrrgh…" Neville sighed and tried to rub some of the fatigue from his eyes. "I suppose it's not too late to find Zebulon, and swap back," he muttered to himself. "Finish tonight's patrol…"
"Or you could come to bed," said a voice from behind him, as two slim hands found his shoulder muscles and began kneading them.
He felt the tension begin to melt away, and his good humor return. "Ah, Miss Trollope," he smirked, "putting in for another private tutoring session?"
A thwap to the back of his head was his reward. "That had better be the only thing anyone's putting in anywhere," his lover scolded him. "Prat." She softened the sting of her words by circling around to Neville's front and planting herself on his lap, her arms around his neck.
"Strangely enough," he said mildly, "so far this year, I've had almost no seventh-years ask for some 'one-on-one' time with the Defense Professor. By a remarkable coincidence," and he smiled as she settled into his lap, wiggling her bottom as she did so, promising more to come, "the news about us seems to've made the rounds with amazing speed." He pulled her close to him, and they shared a passionate kiss - while he combed his fingers through her hair.
Susan Bones had preferred to keep her hair plaited while they'd been at Hogwarts. A few years ago, she'd considered cropping it short, in the style of her late Aunt Amelia. That, of course, was before Neville had remarked in passing how much he'd always liked her hair. She'd ended up not cutting her hair, rather the opposite: now it was a cascade of long dark tresses, flowing past her waist.
She still kept it plaited during the day - it was too long to manage, otherwise - but she let her hair free at night, so Neville could admire it. As he was now…
"Anyway," she continued, "let Zacharias finish tonight's patrol, since you've already swapped schedules." She paused, tilting her head, considering. "What exactly did he do, by the way? To be beholden enough to you to…"
"He was sloppy." Neville tried to return to the kissing, but Susan pulled back slightly - wearing the expression he recognized as her I-want-explanations-mister-and-I-want-them-NOW look. She probably learned it from her aunt, years ago, he decided. Sooner or later, he'd have to find a way to resist it.
"Zebulon decided his fourth year Transfiguration classes needed a change from the established curriculum. Instead of Transfiguring guinea fowl into guinea pigs, he decided it would be fun if they were Transfigured into aardvarks instead." He couldn't keep the disgust out of his voice as he continued, "And, with his usual foresight, he made no provision for caging the bloody things once they were Transfigured. So naturally, they escaped. The entire staff's spent the last two weeks hunting them down - and we still haven't caught them all."
Susan began to giggle. "You mean to tell me, that somewhere at Hogwarts there's an aardvark…?"
"Actually, somewhere there are two aardvarks… humph." Neville sighed in exasperation.
"In any case," said Susan, refusing to be diverted, "Zacharias doing the rounds tonight means you can be rested for Hermione's party tomorrow. But only if you come to bed now." She rose from his lap, took him firmly by the hand, and tugged him from his seat. Obediently he followed her into the bedroom.
"Bossy witch," he growled as she began to unbutton his shirt, "are you going to be like this when we're married?"
She paused in her ministrations, and gave him a wry half-smile. "From your mouth to God's ear," was all she said, but Neville knew she was as bothered by their situation as he was. They loved one another, they'd discussed marriage for years - and this summer, they'd finally decided to take the plunge - but ironically, precisely because they were both Purebloods, their path was barred by practical difficulties.
Both Neville and Susan were the heads of their bloodlines. Extensive holdings came with those positions. Neville had and held Longbottom House, which had been his family's home for more than 700 years; he spent every summer there, though he had quarters at Hogwarts during the school year. Susan likewise owned her family's ancestral home, The Ossuary. It was unthinkable that either should sell their house: both felt a strong filial obligation to keep the property in the family.
It made planning for a life together somewhat difficult.
Their mood more somber now, they finished preparing for sleep. No more was said between them until they were in bed together, with the lights out. Neville held Susan close in his arms, while she used his shoulder as her pillow. "Something odd did happen today, though," Susan finally said softly. "I was asked if The Ossuary was for let."
"You really think someone's interested?" Neville murmured.
"Hard to say. I mean, whoever it was, they only sent their house-elf to inquire, which doesn't exactly inspire confidence, does it?" She sighed deeply and snuggled closer.
"Ah well, we'll see," he said sleepily. "Wish I could bring you with me tomorrow…"
"I wasn't invited, love," she reminded him. "And anyway, didn't you say you're going to have your hands full with your Three Little Gryffindors?" Susan smiled to herself as Neville's breathing grew regular. "I'll be fine. Now sleep, darling. You'll need your strength in the morning. Trust me."
*
Harry didn't know exactly what reception he expected upon his return to Enthalpy House, but he was fairly sure that a frenzied tackle wasn't it.
He stumbled backwards against the wall, but managed to stay upright as Hermione wrapped her arms around him. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said as soothingly as he could. "I wasn't leaving for good, honest. I told you I had some errands…"
Hermione loosened her grip slightly, just enough to draw back and look him in the face. Her expression, oddly enough, showed none of the anguish or concern he might have imagined, given the greeting he'd just received. No, her expression was… well, fierce. Harry was uncomfortably reminded of how many times she'd been described as brilliant but scary, and always aptly.
She brought her hands from behind his back to seize the front of his shirt. Without saying a word, she walked firmly backward, drawing him along, until they arrived in the corner of the living room she used as her study. Standing on the desk was a standard postal owl, with a small scroll tied to one foot.
Releasing her grip, Hermione turned and addressed the owl. "Go ahead, deliver it." The owl gazed steadily at her. "Harry Potter," she prompted it, "care of Enthalpy House. You have the address. Please deliver it." As though puzzled, the owl cocked its head at Hermione. It didn't so much as glance at Harry.
After a moment, Harry tried for a light remark. "Ah, me. Snubbed again…"
Her fierce gaze, transferred back to him, cut off any further comments. "You've been back in the wizarding world for a full day now, at least. Have you yet received any mail?"
"Er…"
"As I recall, after your Quibbler interview, you received dozens of owls. I would have expected ten times that for a hero returned from the dead. Offers of business deals, offers of support - hell, offers of marriage! But you've received nothing." Hermione gestured at the postal owl, still waiting patiently. "That gave me an idea… so I set up this experiment to verify it. This owl doesn't seem to sense your presence - even when you're standing right in front of it!"
With something akin to anger, she turned back to the owl and untied the scroll from its leg. Then from her pocket, Hermione pulled out another small scroll and offered it to the owl, which took it in its beak. "All right, then, you can take this one," she muttered. With a flap of her hand, she shooed the owl off the desk and watched it fly out the window.
"I can only conclude," she finished, confronting Harry once again, "that disposing of the Hallows didn't quite eliminate their effect on you. Owls couldn't find you for fifteen years - and it looks like they still can't." She thrust the scroll at him almost like a dagger. "Here."
With a certain trepidation, Harry unrolled the scroll to read:
Madam Hermione Granger requests the presence of Mister Harry Potter at a celebration to be given in honour of her being brought back to life by him on Saturday that's tomorrow at noon and don't let's even bother with the favour of a reply because if you so much as consider not attending I will cancel the entire party because there is no way in hell I would have it without you. Git.
He looked up from the scroll to discover Hermione standing very close. He couldn't understand why she was still glaring at him - or why she'd begun jabbing at him with her finger. "The next time you think there may be a problem," she told him frostily, "with your returning, with your friends, with us, talk to me about it. Don't. Just. LEAVE!" She maintained the furious look for another few seconds… then softened, and added more quietly, "Please, Harry. I'm always so scared you'll go away again. Please, please, talk to me?" The last word was no longer a demand, but a humble request.
"I'll…" Harry swallowed nervously. "I'll try, I promise. I mean, I know my reaction these days to trouble is avoidance… but I've already promised I wouldn't leave you." The words caused them both to relax slightly. He gestured with the scroll. "And… er, I would of course be delighted to attend. I can shop for a gift tomorrow… but I'll be there. Thank you, Hermione."
Only after he'd seen the broad smile spread over her entire face did he relax completely.
"Right, I think we should assume that Ron tried to invite you, but that his owl couldn't find you," Hermione said, embracing him again. "Not that it matters, since this is my party and I can invite whomever I please. Honestly, Harry, did you think Ron would deliberately exclude you? Of, if by some mental lapse he wanted to, do you think I'd let him?"
Put that way, it did sound a little juvenile. Harry was about to say so when he found further speech impeded… Hermione's mouth being pressed against his, and all. The cognitive portions of his brain gave a figurative shrug and went on holiday for the next several minutes.
"So," she said, once they'd relocated to the couch, "I didn't finish telling you about my day. Ron brought me a birthday present." She paused dramatically, and finished, "A divorce."
"He… what? But I thought…" Harry was taken aback, but only for a moment. "Oh! You mean… he figured out, just like you did, that your wedding vows were gone?"
"And he thought he'd surprise me with a formal notice for the Records Office," Hermione nodded. "I am now officially, as they say, foot-loose and fancy-free. Or I would be," she added thoughtfully, "if my fancy weren't already taken. I blame you for that."
"Yeah, that's me, always striking while the iron's hot… well, something was hot," he grinned.
She blushed slightly, but continued, "I guess I'm bringing this up because, well, we will both be at my party tomorrow. Along with Ron… and Rose."
Harry sobered at once. "Ah, I see. You plan to tell Rose…?"
"Ron and I need to tell her that we're still her parents, and that we still love her - but that we're no longer married." Hermione bit her lip worriedly. "I doubt it will come as much of a shock to her. I mean, we've worked hard to keep our, er, frictions out of her sight, but I'm sure she's aware of them." She met Harry's gaze evenly and continued, "But in the interests of minimizing her distress, I'd like to hold off telling her about us."
"'Hold off'?" Harry was momentarily unsettled. "Not tell her…?!"
"Not because I'm ashamed of being with you, Harry, or because I don't think she'd approve! It's not that at all! Only, I don't want to force too many changes on her all at once. Once she's accepted that Ron and I are no longer married, we can ease her into the concept that you and I are together."
"Um, all right. How long do you reckon that will take? Maybe… tell her at Christmas?"
"Even that may be too soon… but let's tentatively plan on that, yes." She moved closer to him and put one arm around his waist… her body language reassuring him that she still wanted him with her, that any issues with Rose would pass. "You could continue to stay here, if… if you want. I know I'd love it. But… but it might make it easier for Rose to accept us if, at least at first, you were to live somewhere else. I'm hoping you'll still spend most of your time here, because goodness knows I can hardly bear to be separated from you, and I can only hope you feel the same way…"
He chuckled, and cut off her rambling with another kiss. "Hermione my love, I don't want to cause any problems between you and your daughter. I suppose I can find someplace else to stay for a while. Clayman's flat is probably out, but… oh." He cut off abruptly as he recalled the earlier scene at Clayman's flat.
"Harry? What is it?"
"Er. Well, I didn't finish telling you about my day, either. When I was at Clayman's flat this morning, Brillig showed up. She, er, she offered to… um… bond with me."
There was a moment of eloquent silence.
"You said no, of course," Hermione finally said flatly.
"I certainly tried to say no, but, er, you know, elves don't speak English all that well…" At Hermione's indignant glare, Harry sighed and looked away. "Right. I wasn't emphatic enough. I will be, next time."
"For your sake, I hope so." She reached out a finger to his chin and turned his head to face her. "Because let me remind you: if our reforms become law, Brillig will be legally human. She won't be able to 'bond' with you as a slave. Your idea, I might add."
Hermione told herself it was ridiculous to be concerned about Harry losing his heart to… to an elf. Still, for the moment she avoided mentioning the fact that, as a legal human, Brillig would be free to marry any wizard who fancied her. That was a fact best left unspoken until after their reforms were made law.
For now, she made her voice stern. "And I would strongly suggest you not consider hiring her as a free agent. I've seen the way she looks at you, Harry Potter, and while I know you'd never take advantage of her, she'd certainly try to take advantage of you."
"Plus, it would break poor Canby's heart." He leaned forward until his face was a scant inch from hers. "But more important, there's only one female of any race I want sharing my bed, and I'm looking at her now."
Hermione laughed at that, a laugh born of relief and a pure, bubbling joy. "Is that so?" she asked, artfully maintaining the distance between their mouths, despite his efforts to merge them. "I will point out, good sir, that we haven't actually done it in a bed yet."
Harry joined in her laughter. "Is that so?" he asked, and repositioned his hands until they touched her bare skin.
The next instant, he'd Side-Along Apparated her from the living room to the bedroom - from the couch to just an inch above the bed - and, clean contrary to all known theories of magic, he'd Apparated both of them out of their clothes. They fell onto the bed, still laughing, still holding one another, as Harry concluded, "Well, we'll just have to remedy that, won't we?"
And they did.