The Letters of Summer
Arrangements
By kokopelli
Chapter 11 — Arrangements
Harry was watching a garden. It was night. It took a bit of searching in his memory, but he finally put his finger on where he’d seen this garden before: it was Abelard’s. Judging by the colour of the sky and the starlight, he reckoned that it was a good two hours before dawn, a time that he’d often been awake in the past with the terrors that would visit him during the night.
Jasmine jogged into the garden through the back gate, dressed in tight black shorts and a loose black tank top, her hair in its standard braid. She was drenched in sweat. After closing the gate, she began a series of twisting and kicking exercises, followed by languid, slow stretches. From time to time she’d look over the garden wall, trying to see or hear something in the night. After cooling down, she began a different series of exercises with slow, fluid motions. He wasn’t sure if this were ballet or some martial art; either way, she was very easy on the eyes.
The Burrow came next. It was still morning, well before dawn. Standing in the lane that led to the front of the Burrow, Harry saw a light go on, corresponding to the hallway outside of Ron’s parents’ bedroom. Harry thought of the kitchen, and like pouring cold honey, his vision changed to the inside of the Burrow, facing the Weasley clock. All the hands were pointed to "Home — asleep" except for Arthur’s hand, which had moved to "The Loo." Harry heard a flushing sound and the hand representing Arthur moved back to "Home — asleep." Harry smiled, evidently the labels on the clock changed when greater detail was needed.
He was looking at the image of Hermione’s dining room again. The flower arrangement was gone; the canister of Floo powder was now in the centre of the mantle; there was no pie on the table. Harry turned away from the hearth and looked upstairs. Having never been to the house physically, he hadn’t the foggiest notion which bedroom was Hermione’s, but he took a wild guess that the bedroom that had a small stack of books (bearing the distinctive logo of Flourish and Blotts) leaning against the doorjamb was probably hers.
She was in bed, asleep. She stirred slightly as he looked at her. She’s pretty when she’s asleep, Harry thought. No worries, no nagging, just a pretty girl sleeping. This must be what Ron sees. Harry noted her braided hair, held in place with an orange elastic that was about the colour of Crookshanks who, coincidentally, was sleeping on the pillow next to her, one paw stretched out to touch her forehead. Turning to her desk, he saw an open book, Advanced Problems in Arithmancy, and a parchment lying next to it with equations drawn out in Hermione’s neat hand. On top of the textbook was an open diary. Harry felt no desire to peek, believing that everyone was entitled to privacy, but he made a note to himself that he’d remind her to close it in the future.
He turned his attention again to the dining room. He watched the light spill into the Grangers' back yard as the sun crept to the horizon. A bench swing swayed gently under the maple tree’s outstretched limb. Birds began to chirp and sing. He was tired and felt the need to lie down.
His bed was not as comfortable as most nights. Something was amiss, but it would wait for morning. The first rays of light poured into his own room and he heard the first chorus of birds chirping in reply. He was at number four Privet Drive, in the no man’s land between sleep and consciousness.
He was awake. The alarm had not yet rung — it was set to go off in two minutes. During the school year, he rarely set his alarm clock, as that was what roommates were good for. Outside of the school year he always used it; the alternative to missing his morning chores was a half-hour tongue lashing from Aunt Petunia. He no longer feared the Dursleys, but he did not go out of his way to antagonise them either.
Harry rolled to his back, peered at his watch and sorted out his thoughts. Okay, I’m home, it’s Thursday, and I must have fallen asleep in my clothes. I was at Abelard’s yesterday, and I’ve just had three Farsight dreams taking me to three different locations. I can’t write Abelard, as his home is Unplottable; I’ll see him tomorrow any way. I’m not going to jot off a note to Mr. Weasley saying, ‘Dear Mr. Weasley, did you use the loo this morning at 3:00 am?’ That leaves the obvious: Hermione.
As he sat up and turned his alarm off, a wave of discomfort reminded him that he’d not been to the loo since he’d left Abelard’s. Five minutes and a thorough hand washing later, he was downstairs, loading the coffee machine and examining the state of the laundry. Spending the entire day away had cut into this chore time; he was certain that he’d hear about it at breakfast.
A rebellious grin snuck across his face as he thought about how one could perform the Summoning Charm wandlessly. Building a picture in his mind, he uttered, "Accio dirty towels." Several minutes later, the washing machine was chugging away on a load of towels, there had been no screams from the upstairs inhabitants, and, most importantly, there had been no owls rapping on the window. The Summoning Charm, performed wandlessly, was below the threshold of Hopkirk’s sensor. Harry pumped his arm in the air, fist clenched. Yes!
Breakfast was barely on time. Harry pulled the last slices of toast out of the toaster as Uncle Vernon trudged into the room.
"Where were you yesterday, boy?" he rumbled.
"I was with my tutor, sir," Harry replied, as inoffensively as he knew how.
"Whatcha need a tutor for, boy? School’s already out for the summer."
Dudley grinned nastily. "Repeating a flunked class?" he asked.
"No, more like an extra credit class," Harry replied, his temperature rising slightly.
"I’ll bet," Dudley replied.
Despite this exchange, breakfast ended on a civil tone, and Harry did not experiment with the outer limits of evading the Ministry’s sensors through wandless magic. He’d thought long and hard about a Shrinking Charm on Dudley’s drawers, but was worried about getting too carried away and slicing him in half. There was a difference between rebellious and reckless; he was willing to go out on a limb to tweak the Improper Use of Magic office, but he wasn’t inclined to maim his cousin by accident. Clearing the table, loading the dishwasher, fetching the white laundry and transferring the towels from washer to dryer took very little time at all. Harry was looking forward to his next time cleaning the lavatories; Scourgify, performed wandlessly, should cut the time down to practically nothing.
Returning to his room, he discovered what he’d been oblivious to the night before: all the knobs on his Passbox were lit.
Huh, wonder how long it’s been like that?
Flipping open the doors, he found letters from Hermione, Ron and Ginny, ‘Uncle Moony,’ and McGonagall. He was unsure whether he should be happy that he had so much mail, or apprehensive that he’d committed some transgression that he was unaware of. His stomach lurched a bit when he figured that Ginny was probably replying to his monster-sized letter, telling him off, no doubt, for being a creepy stalker. He’d save that one for last. If it were as bad as he dreaded, he’d just get on his bicycle and ride until his legs fell off. He decided he’d start with McGonagall.
Dear Mr. Potter:
Please stand by your Passbox at 3:00 p.m. for a time sensitive message. A reply to acknowledge this message is expected.
Sincerely,
MM
Moony’s note was a bit less frosty.
Dear Harry,
If you are up for an outing, I’m free on Saturday. If you don’t mind a stay at Padfoot’s old den, it can be an overnight affair, giving us a spot more time. Albus says that you’ll be spending the day after your birthday at the Burrow this summer, so please plan accordingly. It’s not completely clear whether that’s a one-day affair or whether all of August will be spent there. As soon as I hear, I’ll drop you a line.
P.S. Thanks for convincing Tonks to come to lunch as Tonks. You really are fetching as a girl, but you’re the wrong girl.
Uncle Moony
Okay, Moony thought my advice to Tonks was spot on. Maybe I do have a future as an agony columnist — something to fall back on if the Hippogriff breeding thing doesn’t work out.
Ron’s letter was far more interesting.
Dear Harry,
I’m still, as Ginny puts it, "bald as an egg," but at least the bruising is gone, so now my scalp is the normal pink/white colour of the rest of me. I never knew that I had a nervous habit of running my fingers through my hair. I still do it now, but there’s no hair to run through, which makes me all the more self-conscious about it.
Ginny and I made up today. That was very good. Seeing as we’re both grounded, probably for the rest of the summer, it wouldn’t do to be on bad terms with her. I don’t know what got into her, but it’s all for the best, I guess. When she was screaming at me, after she slapped me and before she punched me in the gut, she spent some time screaming about Hermione. I didn’t put that part into my last letter.
According to Ginny, Hermione’s crazy about me, but I keep treating her like she’s an annoyance, and if I don’t make my move, I’m going to lose her, because "girls with choices don’t wait forever." You have no idea how those seven words have haunted me over the past 24 hours. I’ve always had a thing for Hermione, but I thought it was just a one-sided attraction. I’ve ignored it, hoping that it would go away. Now I’m afraid that it will. Why the girl most likely to be Head Girl of Hogwarts would care about a generic Weasley like me is a mystery. I’ve never done anything about it, other than tease her mercilessly and abuse her about S.P.E.W. and other crazy things she’s about. Do you think that Hermione likes me, you know, in that way?
Write soon, I’m going nutters.
Ron
Well, Harry thought, there is a God in heaven. Ginny slapped some sense into her thick-headed git of a brother. It was going to be fun to write a response to this note. He read Hermione’s note next.
Dear Harry,
I feel like I’ve been ignoring you this summer, but I have been busy. I’d very much like to talk to you, maybe by phone, if that could work out. If you’re worried about incurring telephone charges, prepaid phone cards are available at the British Telecom offices and other shops as well. The smallest I’ve seen is five pounds, which should do just fine for our purposes. My phone number is printed in the back of that catalogue that I left you for the clothes.
I’ve placed your order, by the way. To simplify things, the order is coming to my address — I’ll put your stuff in the Passbox as soon as it arrives. Thanks for the reimbursement for the trainers and jeans; it’s nice to have "walking around" money.
The topic I’d like to discuss is a certain Gryffindor Keeper. I wanted your male perspective. I could talk to Dad to get that, but in this particular instance, I’m not sure that’s a good choice. J
I’ve got to go. Write soon.
Love from,
Hermione
Harry stared at the remaining letter. A number of cowardly, craven thoughts came to mind: dropping out of school and joining the French Foreign Legion was at the top of the list. After temporising for a while, he screwed up his Gryffindor courage and opened the envelope. The envelope didn’t explode, and he hadn’t been hit by a remote hex, so he concluded that perhaps it was safe to read the note. With a violent snap he pulled the letter from its sheath and laid it flat on his leg.
Dear Harry,
Please forgive me for taking so long to reply to your most excellent letter. The Big One was worth waiting for. Definitely. Things have been a little hairy here at the Burrow in the last few days for Ron and me. On second thought, that’s a bad choice of words, as nothing’s going to be hairy about Ron for months. According to Mum it will grow back, it’s just a question of when. Thanks to Hermione, I’ve started studying for the O.W.Ls as I have lots of free time these days. Nothing like being grounded for the summer to bring out the studious side of me (NOT!)
You are far more observant than I ever gave you credit for. I suspect that I’ve underestimated you greatly, but then, aside from last year, I’ve been afraid to talk to you, so that’s not too surprising.
I’ve made a number of decisions in the last year based on what appears to be an erroneous assumption. Harry, we need to talk.
Your friend,
Ginny
The letter on the whole, relieved Harry. All except for the last line. It wasn’t a Howler, he hadn’t been hexed, she appeared to appreciate the letter he’d spent weeks writing. So why did she need to talk to him? Hadn’t they just exchanged letters? Wasn’t that communicating? Harry concluded that this was one of those mysterious "girl" things, and he’d ask Hermione to translate next chance he got.
He wrote a quick reply note to Professor McGonagall, checking his watch to insure that he had the current time. He left his room, gathering up the dark coloured laundry, hoping that the towels were dry so that he could move the white load from the washer to the dryer. If they weren’t dry, he knew how to handle that too.
Aunt Petunia hadn’t left him any list of chores, but she was dividing her attention from looking out the window to watching him as he folded the towels. From the look on her face she must find something about the smell of the towels offensive, but then she’s always looked at me that way, Harry thought to himself.
"Aunt Petunia?"
"Yes?" she replied with a brief snarl.
"I need to call my minder — it’s a local call."
"You know where the phone is, boy. Keep it brief; someone may try to call and I don’t want you tying up the phone."
Oh, yeah, bustling hub of social interaction we have here at number four Privet Drive; the Queen may be calling to see if we are available for tea. "Thanks, Aunt Petunia."
It struck Harry as odd that the only phone number he knew by heart belonged to a woman he knew only by her first name, and that only grudgingly given at wand point. This was dismissed quickly, as the number of odd things about Harry’s life was so high as to make cataloguing difficult. He wondered if she could answer the phone while in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic’s underground offices, but in the end, he concluded that he didn’t need to know, and really didn’t care. The number rang this morning.
"Good morning, Harry. Where are we going today?" Moey asked in a quiet, hushed tone.
"Morning, Moey. I need to go downtown today."
"Fine, meet me at the usual place. I’ll be driving my car, same colour as my helmet," Moey said, and abruptly hung up.
Not much for small talk, I guess, he thought, carefully hanging up the phone in its charger. Harry was mildly surprised in his disappointment in not seeing Laurel today. He’d grown fond of the newly-minted Auror, one of the few adults who didn’t treat him like he needed help walking across the street. Equal part surrogate aunt and bawdy neighbour, she knew when to tell stories, when to listen and when to stay silent. Well, at least Moey won’t be asking me about my non-existent love life, he thought as he carried the folded towels to the upstairs linen closet, even though it was exactly that topic that he wanted to discuss with Laurel.
Harry pondered, while he pedalled to the playground, whether he should have brought his bicycle at all. Moey hadn’t said one way or the other, but the urgent tone of her voice led him to believe that she was coming instantly, which meant that he should get there as soon as possible. There were a few mothers and nannies with children at the playground. Harry scanned them with a suspicious eye worthy of Moody himself. All of the women, and indeed all of the children, had the normal number of eyes and didn’t resemble Moey in the slightest.
He rested his bicycle against an oak tree, and sat on a nearby bench, watching the two approaches to the park. After five minutes he heard the quiet sound of a small car approaching. From the corner of his eye he saw a pale blue Volkswagen Beetle, not the old, chattering model, but the new one. Something compelled his eyes to look away from the car, but he found that if he looked with his peripheral vision, he could get enough of a view to identify the driver. Short, dark haired, wearing an eye patch--it was Moey all right. He laughed when he caught sight of the license plate: IMA1IDRR01. Taking care to not look directly at the car, he walked casually to the sidewalk next to the parked car, scanning the playground as the children played.
"Aren’t you going to ask me one of those questions?" Moey asked, the faintest hint of amusement in her voice.
"The license plate convinced me, Moey, but if you insist. Where did Tonks go on her lunch date?"
"Who says it was a date? Can’t a nice girl have lunch with a werewolf without people reading too much into it?" Moey answered, her eyes crinkling a bit.
"Did you help her get dressed?" Harry asked, taking note of the similar clothing that Moey was wearing today: navy blue skirt with matching hose and pumps, long sleeved white blouse that was suspiciously thicker at one wrist than the other, with blue dangling earrings that matched the colour of her eye patch.
"Yeah, the girl has basically no notion of how to dress like a Muggle unless she’s going to a rave. Get your bicycle and let’s get out of here, Harry," Moey said in a quiet tone. "I’m feeling naked out here in this park. Too many trees, not enough ways to get out." Moey went to the back of the car and opened the boot.
Harry knew that the bicycle wouldn’t fit in a space that small, but a long habit of doing as he was told paid off as Moey pulled a round patch out of her purse, peeling the backing off of it like a medicinal plaster. As she put the patch on the frame of his bicycle, it shrank to the size of a loaf of bread. Moey took the petite bicycle from his hands and put it in the boot, where it joined a number of other objects that were covered by a tan blanket.
"Hey, I can see the car now," Harry commented.
"Yeah, the compulsion ends about a metre from the car. It’s a nice trick, but it makes it dicey to drive in heavy traffic. I usually turn it off when I’m driving, but traffic was light today," Moey explained. "Any Muggle in view of me as I put the Shrink-dot on your bicycle would look away, because I’m close enough to the car to be caught up in its Aversion spell."
"Shrink-dot?"
"Nifty tool, eh? One of the pleasures of living long enough is acquiring appropriate tools. Very popular with my magical nephews and nieces; they can shrink most anything without attracting the attention of the Improper Use of Magic Office. It has a companion tool too, the Feather-patch. If I used them together, I could put this car into my pocket and carry it around. Wouldn’t want it in my pocket, though, if the charms wore off," Moey added sagely as she got behind the wheel of the car. "Hop in, Mr. Potter."
"How long does the charm last?"
"Instructions say ‘up to ten years’ but I don’t believe everything I read."
Moey started the engine, checking the rear view mirror before she pulled into the sparse traffic. "I’ve turned off the Aversion charm. It’s bloody difficult to drive with it on; cars keep pulling into your space like you’re not there. So, Mr. Potter, where are we going today?"
"Someplace that sells a British Telecom prepaid telephone card."
"You mean the Global Telecom card, like this one?" Moey asked, fishing into her purse for a small plastic card while she weaves around a double-parked delivery van.
"Yeah, five or ten pounds."
"You get more time for the ten pound card, I never buy anything smaller," Moey said, frowning as she looked in the rear view mirror. Moey let a large sedan pass her as she slowed for a parking space. "Right here," Moey said, shrugging her head in the direction of a very narrow spot between two delivery vans. "Hop out, Harry." Harry did as he was told, gauging the distance with his eyes.
"No way is she gonna fit that car into that space," he thought to himself.
Moey hopped out of the car, grabbing the sleeve of her left arm lightly. She then smacked the side of the car with her hip. The car slid into the space like a well-lubricated drawer on ball bearings, stopping as the tyres hit the kerb. Turning to face Harry, she had a look of triumph in her eye and a smug smile on her face. "There are days that it’s great to be a witch, Harry." Moey slung her purse over her shoulder, scanned the area once and began walking.
"Where are we going?" Harry asked, quickening his pace to keep up with her.
"There’s a BT kiosk near here; they sell the cards. I need one myself," she puffed as she poured on the speed.
"Moey?"
"Yeah, Harry?"
"You worried about something?"
Moey stopped abruptly, looking into his eyes. "Yes," she replied, "but this is neither the time nor place to discuss it. We’ll talk when we get back into the car," she said, resuming her power-walk.
They stopped at a green and yellow kiosk sitting on the sidewalk between a kabob shop and a newsstand. A pleasant looking older Muggle lady staffed the kiosk.
"What can I do for you, dears?" she asked with a slight lilt in her voice.
"I’d like one ten and one twenty pound Global card, please," Moey said, passing three ten pound notes through the window. The woman pulled out two cards, passed them into the tray and into Moey’s waiting fingers. Harry was about to place his own order when Moey grabbed, hard, on his shirtsleeve. "I already bought yours, Harry, let’s get out of here."
"Moey," Harry hissed, "what’s eating you?"
"Not now, Harry, walk," Moey replied, resuming her brisk pace.
Whatever peril Moey anticipated failed to materialise as they made their way back to her parked car. The delivery van was no longer parked in front of her car, leaving the way for them to pull forward out of what had previously been an impossible parking spot. Harry almost regretted it, hoping to see Moey smack the car again out of its very snug space. Moey unlocked the car, and as she got into her seat, checking the mirrors and buckling her belt, Harry handed her a ten-pound note.
"Thanks, Harry. I’ll give you the plastic when we get home. Let me get into traffic before we start talking."
Harry bided his time. He’d never ridden in the front seat of a nice car, apart from his excursions in the Weasley’s mutant Anglia, having spent most of his years as far back in the Dursley’s car as was possible, usually to be pinched and prodded by his cousin. The vantage from the passenger seat was certainly different than from the saddle of his bicycle.
"There was an attempted break-in at Gringotts recently. It was a co-ordinated Death Eater and Dementor attack," Moey said in a flat voice as she bobbed her head, looking in the side mirror, rear mirror and turning her head from time to time.
"Any casualties?" Harry asked, not knowing if he wanted to know names.
"A Muggle fireman."
"What was a fireman doing at the scene of a Death Eater attack?"
"His job," Moey said flatly. "There’s a Muggle office building that sits on top of a portion of the underground chambers of Gringotts. There was an explosion in the building, which brought down one of the weaker warded sections. The explosion was called in by a Muggle policeman, who brought the Muggle firemen."
"What did they get?"
"Not a blessed thing, as far as I can tell. That area was recently upgraded — work of some friends of yours from the Order on their day jobs with Gringotts: Mr. Weasley and Miss Delacour. Please tell me that Bill Weasley is not related to that insufferable prig, Percy Weasley."
"I’m afraid that they are indeed brothers."
"Can’t be. Bill is just so, so, hot," Moey exclaimed, a brief flush of colour rising in her cheeks as she wiggled in her car seat. "I was doing the investigation, found out that the area had been recently upgraded. The attack would have worked if the old wards had been in place, but Delacour had upgraded it with help from Weasley. I was about ready to leave him my card, you know, in case he remembered anything later, when bam, that French Veela comes sashaying into the room. Any progress I’d made vanished as she turned on the old Veela charm. Life is just not fair."
"I know them both."
"She ever turn the charm on to you?"
"Nah, I was just a ‘leetle boy’ who shouldn’t be allowed to compete."
"She played Quidditch?"
"No, she was the Triwizards Champion from Beauxbatons."
"Oh," Moey said, sinking in to her seat. "So, there are three Weasley boys?"
"No, six."
"You’re having me on!"
"Nope, six boys, one girl."
"I never knew that Arthur was that persuasive," Moey muttered as she rounded a turn.
"Bill’s the oldest — you shouldn’t feel too bad, I hear that he and Fleur have been an item for about a year. Next comes Charlie; he works with dragons in Romania. Then there’s Percy, whom I gather you’ve already met."
"If Percy were the last man on earth, I’d strongly consider becoming a lesbian," Moey muttered darkly.
"Ah, yes, you’ve met Percy. Then there are twin brothers, Fred and George; they are the owners of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes."
"I’ve heard of that shop, but I didn’t know they were related to the rest of the lot."
"Yup, then there’s Ron, who’s in my year. We’re roommates. The end of the line is Ginny Weasley. She’s in Gryffindor, too, year behind me."
"Speaking of the end of the line, were you going to go for a ride, or do you want to go back to Privet Drive?"
Harry looked at his watch. "I probably need to go back."
"Yeah, you’ve got an afternoon appointment."
"How do you know about that?"
"It’s my job to know. Harry, do me a favour, will you?" Moey asked, reaching behind her on the floor of the back seat, retrieving a small can. "Have this opened and on a saucer before you open the Passbox," she said, handing him a can of tuna. Coming into the parking area for the Little Whinging playground, Moey stopped the car and killed the engine.
"What’s this for?"
"Just play along, Harry, I want to settle an old score."
"Uh, okay. Changing the subject, were you anticipating an attack downtown?"
"I was worried, Harry. Security is my job; I’m paid to worry about you, unlike many other women in your life. During the First War, the Death Eaters never attacked downtown London; not even during the height of their power. Now they pull this operation off without us hearing a whisper about it in advance. I can’t figure out what they’re up to, and that makes me cranky. But enough about that; you’ve got to run off to a late lunch and your teatime appointment." Moey stepped out of the car and opened the boot of the car. She pulled out a handful of leather circles, some brown and some black, that she wordlessly handed to Harry. Next she pulled the miniature bicycle out, beginning to peel off the Shrink-dot.
"Shouldn’t you do that somewhere, uh, concealed?" Harry asked with some concern.
"Nah, the Aversion charm is back on. I could stand here starkers when it’s engaged and no one would notice," Moey said, peeling the last of the dot from the frame of the bicycle. Pulling a sheet of plastic from her pocket, she covered the sticky side of the dot and put it into a black leather circle, which she handed to Harry.
"I’d notice," Harry said quietly.
Moey looked up, staring at him briefly, a bit of colour coming to her cheeks, "Yeah, well, anyone further away than a metre wouldn’t. The blacks are Shrink-dots; the browns are Feather-patches. You have some fun with them, eh? They don’t work on living things. The leather cover keeps them safe and prevents accidental mishaps."
"Dragonhide?"
"You bet. Harry, you take care now. Laurel will be on duty the rest of the week, so I probably won’t see you again until next week, and that’s dodgy at best," she said, flashing him one of her rare smiles. Digging into her purse, Moey pulled out a ten-pound Global Telecom card. "Don’t want to forget this, Harry."
Harry buckled his helmet on, noticing the collapse of the Aversion charm as he did so. Now free to watch the car, he waved as she pulled away. Moey nodded, and then motored on.
"’I am a one-eyed Auror’ indeed," he snorted, pedalling back to number four Privet Drive.
~+~
Shortly before 3:00 p.m., Harry was back in his room, seated at his desk, writing a note to Hermione about the recent Farsight dream. He had no doubt that she’d confirm the details, but he had a hunch that Abelard would ask him if he’d got it confirmed, so he considered it part friendly correspondence, part homework. He’d opened the can of tuna downstairs and spooned the contents into a shallow bowl. As the label didn’t match the brand that Aunt Petunia stocked in her pantry, she had no cause for screeching at him, and watched with a baleful glare as he carried the bowl up the stairs. He’d offered a morsel to Hedwig, who declined it with a mournful hoot before flapping out the window for a spot of afternoon hunting.
At three o’clock sharp, the Passbox gave a muffled pop and the Hogwarts knob lit up. Not knowing quite what to expect, Harry opened the door with some caution. Out of the box with a stretch and a flick of an ear stepped a large silver tabby cat with square markings around her eyes. The cat walked to the bowl of tuna, ate half of it, carefully washed her face, jumped from the desk to the floor and became Minerva McGonagall.
"That was most hospitable, Potter, thank you," Professor McGonagall said, licking the edge of her top lip briefly before giving him a half-smile.
Harry was glad, very glad, that he’d tidied the room before her arrival. He didn’t think that he could lose House points for having a messy room during the holiday, but one could never tell with Professor McGonagall. "You are quite welcome, Professor. Would you like a chair?" he asked, rising to offer the only chair the room had to offer.
"Thank you, but that will not be necessary. I wanted to discuss a few things for next term. Some things are best said in person, and I do not possess a Muggle telephone. Your O.W.L. results are not yet final, but I did hear that Professor Snape appealed your ‘Outstanding’ score to the examiners. The examiners declined to change the score," she said, her mouth pursed, but her eyes smiling.
"That’s great, Professor!"
"Let’s not get too excited, Potter, that means that you now have the privilege of sitting under Severus Snape’s tutelage for two more years with the advanced Potions classes," she pointed out, eyes still smiling.
"Yeah, well I’m trying to look at the good side of this."
"I came, Potter, to discuss Quidditch. As soon as that horrid woman was gone, the second thing that I did was removing your ban from playing Quidditch."
"What was the first thing?"
"Removing her name from the roster of approved instructors."
Harry laughed heartily. It was good to be able to laugh about Umbridge, now that she was gone. He unconsciously rubbed the back of his right hand with his left thumb, turning to look at Professor McGonagall. "What about Quidditch?"
"Miss Johnson is playing reserve Chaser for the Ballycastle Bats this season," she said, as if that were a complete explanation.
"Well, that’s great!"
"Don’t be thick, Potter. The Gryffindor team needs a new captain."
Harry stopped dead. "Why are you talking to me about this?" he asked, all levity gone from his voice. He had a sinking feeling he knew where this conversation was going.
"Because, Potter, I think you could do the job," she said, a slight smile turning at the corners of her mouth. Pulling a small pewter badge from her pocket, she held up the pin and then placed it on the desk.
Harry didn’t move to pick up the pin. He knew that what he had to say would be difficult enough without touching it. He turned to look out the window, not because there was anything of interest, but because he didn’t want to face Professor McGonagall. The backs of his eyes prickled.
"Do you want an answer now?" he asked.
"That was my intent."
"The answer is no," he said, not turning from the window. The words tried to catch in his throat; he had to force them out. "I’m very honoured, but the answer is no."
"May I ask why, Potter?"
Harry sniffled and swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I love Quidditch, and I’ll play Seeker as long as you’ll have me, Professor. But I want — Professor Dumbledore asked me to think about starting up the D.A. again, next term. I can play and be a student and teach the D.A., but I can’t do all that and be captain too," Harry said, ignoring the tear that was running down his cheek.
"And you think that teaching the D.A. is more important than being captain?" she asked flatly.
I can save some lives — Cho’s family for a start, he thought to himself. "Yes," he answered meekly, "I’m sorry, Professor."
"Don’t be, Harrry," she said, her accent thickening slightly as she stood behind him at the window. She placed her arms around him, enveloping him in a firm, no nonsense hug. "I heard about the Chang family, Harry. I’m verrry prrroud of you."
They stood there in relative silence, each taking turns to sniffle. When she released him, Harry pulled open his sock drawer and pulled out two clean handkerchiefs.
"Thank you, Potter," she said, daubing her eye and giving her nose a discreet blow. "If I’m going to lose out to something, it had better be worthwhile. You’ve made the better choice. So, any suggestions for who should be captain?"
"That’s easy, Ron Weasley."
"Do you think he can handle that job?"
Harry smiled slightly. "Have you ever seen him play chess?"
"No, but I have heard that he’s very good at that sport," she said in an unconvinced tone.
"The man lives and breathes strategy. Other than his pathetic devotion to the Cannons, he’s got a fine mind for Quidditch."
"Weasley it is, then. Would you like to deliver the news and the pin to him?"
Harry broke out into a broad smile. "That would be brilliant. Thanks."
"Don't forget, you needn’t try out for the Seeker position, Potter; your ban is lifted."
"Isn’t that a decision for the captain to make, seeing as the team already has a Seeker?"
McGonagall nodded and smiled cryptically. "Quite so. Before I go, some more letters came in for you," she said, pulling another thick envelope from her pocket. "If you would kindly shut the door after me," she said, and then turned back into a cat. The silver tabby jumped from the floor to the desk, stopping briefly to finish off the tuna in the bowl, licking it clean. She washed her face again, then nudged the Hogwarts door on the Passbox, pressing her whiskers against the edge of the box. Harry opened the Passbox door for her. The tabby blinked at him, then hopped into the box. Harry shut the door with a faint click, andthe now-familiar slurping sound echoed briefly in the sparse room.
Harry palmed the badge, which now brought him nothing more than a bit of cool relief on a hot, sweaty palm. He nicked an envelope from the desk, put the badge into it and chucked it into his school trunk for safekeeping.
He’d take the bowl downstairs for washing, read the letters, write a note to Ron, post the finished letter to Hermione, and sometime this evening he’d try to figure out the mysteries of prepaid calling cards, but for now he was sapped of energy. Checking his watch, he set the alarm to wake him in time for his pre-dinner chores. It was time for a nap.
To be continued....
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Copyright  2003 J Cornell, all rights reserved.
The disclaimer found in the Prologue applies to this chapter, stop looking already.
Author’s note: British Telecom discontinued its prepaid cards in September of 2003, but in July of 1996, it was a viable business line. I don’t know if any private concerns sell them for use within the U.K., but the business for international prepaid calling cards is as thriving there as it is here.