The Letters of Summer
Dinner with Abelard
By kokopelli
Chapter 13 - Dinner with Abelard
Harry was dressed for flying, helmet strapped in place as he waited on the ground, eyes turned to the sky. He gripped his Firebolt with one hand and shaded his eyes with the other against the glare of the setting sun. "Start now," he said aloud, although there was no one in the immediate vicinity.
He saw a black dot appear in the distance, becoming ever larger as it hurtled towards him. He could hear the screaming, first on his charmed helmet, next with his unaided ears as he pulled the helmet off - the screaming had grown too loud. Speaking into the helmet, he said sharply, "Hard turn — now, now, NOW! Yes!"
A shrieking bolt of fury flew past Harry at a blinding speed. Raising his helmet in a salute, he cheered as Jasmine shifted out of her racing stance and let her toes skim the surface of the meadow. "Bloody brilliant, Jasmine!" he called, grinning in delight.
Jasmine turned sharply and flew oh-so-slowly back towards Harry, hovering high enough to put their eyes on level. She peeled off her helmet, and tossed it to the ground. Her face was flushed, but her eyes sparkled with delight. Reaching out with her left hand, she touched his cheek lightly, hesitantly, as if his face might scald her fingers. "Harry, thanks," she said seriously. "You’ve no idea what it means to me to be able to do that manoeuvre without falling to pieces, figuratively or literally." Dismounting from her broom and letting it drop to the ground beside her, she pulled him into a hug, her forehead pressed into his shoulder.
At first Harry was stiff, not knowing what to do with his hands. After a moment he relaxed; not wanting to look like a total fool, he moved his hands to the middle of her back, which he figured was safe. Harry’s mind was racing, trying to figure out just what the heck was going on at the moment, trying hard not to let his confusion show. They lingered there in the fading light until Jasmine broke away. "Oh, pooh, Abelard’s awake."
"How do you know?" Harry asked, picking up Jasmine’s helmet and broom.
"It’s a side-effect of the pledge. It doesn't matter where I am; if he wakes up, I can feel it. Same for when he falls asleep. I can sense his mood; I know when he’s hungry or thirsty; at times I can even tell what he’s dreaming about." She took her helmet and broom back with a smile of thanks. "Let’s head back to the house — we need to get dinner on."
"Doesn’t that get to be oppressive?" Harry asked, shouldering his Firebolt and falling into step beside her.
She shrugged. "It depends upon the principal. Since school I’ve been pledged to three principals, all older men." She gave a small half-smile. "It should come as no surprise that Abelard’s the best of the lot."
No, not really - I haven’t a clue. "How long have you known him?" Harry asked curiously.
"There was never a time when I didn’t know him — Mum returned to his service when I was about two." The half-smile became a full-fledged smirk. "If he ever spouts off on how he changed my nappies, he’s telling the truth."
Harry frowned. "Doesn’t that make it hard to be pledged to him?"
"Actually, no, it makes it easier." She grinned sideways at him. "I’m going to tell you a deep, dark, girly secret, Harry. When I was little, after my dad died, I wanted Abelard to marry my mum so that he could be my father. When I saw that wasn’t going to work, I hatched my own plans for how I’d snare him as my husband once I finished school."
Harry snorted.
"Yeah, well, I was eleven at the time."
They continued towards the house in silence for a few minutes before Jasmine spoke again. "There are three things that I can’t do when I’m pledged, Harry."
"Oh?" Harry lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.
She ticked off a finger for each point. "I can’t get drunk, I can’t conceive — although that’s been purely theoretical in my life — and I can’t fall in love."
"So when do War Witches marry?" Harry asked, then flinched slightly when he remembered that Jasmine hated that title. He was trying to figure out where this conversation was going.
Jasmine ignored the slight, taking Harry’s free hand in hers, lacing her fingers between his. "We marry at any time, Harry, but we do have to wait between pledges to form any emotional bond with our mates. The pledge does funny things to my metabolism. I’m not going to get into details, but it makes a big difference."
Panic struck Harry. He had never known that the skin between his fingers was particularly sensitive, but now every square centimetre seemed to be packed with nerve endings that were all sending messages back to his brain. "A singularly beautiful girl who’s ten years older than you is holding your hand, Potter. Why is this happening, and what are you going to do about it?"
Keep talking Harry, otherwise you’ll look like a prat. "So, which is better, pledged or unpledged?" he asked, desperate for something, anything, to say.
She shrugged again. "Apart from the limitations I just mentioned, pledged is better. It’s like the colours are sharper, the sounds are brighter, and everything is more intense. When the time is right, I’ll take a break from that, but there are no men in my life that are tugging on my heart right now, so it’s a bit of an academic discussion."
He had to ask. He hoped his voice wouldn’t break. "Jasmine?"
"Harry."
"Are you exercising your Legilimency right now?"
"Every time I touch anyone I’m exercising Legilimency; I can’t turn it off when I’m pledged. But that’s not why I’m holding your hand."
"Why are you holding my hand?" Gadzooks. My voice had to crack right then, didn't it?
"Is that a problem?" She wasn't looking directly at him, but he could sense all her attention was on him.
"Not particularly," he said, wondering just how truthful that was. "I’m just wondering what you mean by it."
Jasmine sighed. "I come from a fairly demonstrative family, Harry. This is how I’d walk with my brother, especially after flying. He didn’t have to say a thing, just hold my hand and I’d feel like all was right in the world. I got a lot of comfort from his touch."
"Is that what you feel with me?" Harry asked. He didn’t mind being a brother; after all, Hermione was his sister, sort of, so what was one more? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be anyone’s security blanket though.
She thought for a moment. "Subjectively, yes. I feel very safe when I’m with you — it’s kind of odd, but I like it. I like it a lot. Objectively, I’m well aware that there’s a war brewing in your end of the Wizarding world, which is why you’re here in the first place." She smiled. "Some things aren’t meant to be analysed, Harry. It’s a lovely day, we’ve just finished some brilliant flying, you’re holding a pretty girl’s hand, and in a matter of minutes, you’ll be enjoying a lovely meal. Enjoy the here and now, Harry Potter."
"All right then." Pinch me, I must be dreaming.
~+~
"Could you light the candles, please, Jasmine?" Abelard asked.
Jasmine looked around for matches, but there were none. She patted her pockets, but her "delicate" wand was elsewhere. Harry saw the familiar leather thong on her left wrist, but evidently battle wands were not useful for this task. Jasmine screwed up her face with concentration and snapped her fingers. A bright yellow flame danced above her thumb. Keeping her focus on the flame, she lit the candles. As she relaxed her hand, the flame went out. She smiled as she turned to Harry. "I haven’t done that since school - nice to see that some things come back to you when you need them."
Dinner was a simple affair. A nice green salad, rolls left over from lunch, meatballs, spaghetti with chunky vegetable marinara sauce, a bowl of freshly grated Parmesan cheese and, cooling on the buffet table, mango crisp for dessert. With the candles lit, the simple table looked like it was prepared for a noble feast. The chitchat at the table stopped long enough for Abelard to bow his head.
"Give us grateful hearts, Our Father, for all thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen." Jasmine and Harry both looked up, and he smiled. "A lovely meal you two. Tuck in."
Harry wasn’t exactly sure how she did it, but while he was working his way through his salad, taking care to use the shorter fork beside his plate, Jasmine polished off a plate of pasta and the salad. Fortunately they’d made a triple batch of meatballs; Harry knew that they’d have enough.
"So, Jasmine, was he of any assistance in the kitchen?" Abelard asked.
Jasmine wrinkled her nose while spreading butter on a roll. "Not bad. He’s better on a broom though."
"So, you two went flying again?"
"Oh yeah," she said, breaking out into a big grin. "I can do it now, the Wronski Feint, that is. Your student is not a bad teacher."
"No surprise that," Abelard said, pushing his salad plate away and spearing a meatball with his fork.
"Are you feeling better now, Abelard?" Harry asked.
"Much better. My sleeves are all ravelled now."
"What?" Jasmine asked before popping the rest of her roll into her mouth.
"Literary allusion . . . Shakespeare." Abelard answered.
"Something about sleep knitting up the ravelled sleeve of care." Harry volunteered.
"Very good, Mr. Potter." Abelard beamed. "If I could, I’d award house points, but alas, I am merely a tutor."
Yeah, and I’m the Prince of Wales, Harry thought.
The small talk at dinner moved from the events of the day to a discussion of the fine points that distinguished Apparition and Assisted Apparition. Harry finally broke this stream of discussion. "Should I be taking notes, Abelard?"
"That’s not necessary, but I’d be disappointed if you were surprised to find out what our next study session will cover," Abelard replied.
"Apparition?" Harry asked, startled. "I’m too young, I can’t study that until I’m of age."
"Actually, Harry, under British law, Apparition instructors are forbidden to instruct students under the age of seventeen, and the Ministry will not grant a license to any applicant under that age."
"That’s what I meant."
"The only flaw in that argument, Harry, is that I’m not a British Apparition instructor and you’re not applying for a British license."
Harry thought about that for a moment, and then grinned. "You can teach me?"
"Jasmine, where do I hold licensure?"
Jasmine looked up from her second helping of mango crisp, licking off the back of her spoon. "Japan, Australia, India, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, Zimbabwe, Uganda, Benin and Colombia. Your Canadian license lapsed last spring."
"You’re licensed to Apparate in all those countries?"
Jasmine laughed a sparkling tinkle of a sound. "Not to Apparate, Harry, to teach Apparition!" she said.
Abelard cleared his throat. "Dumbledore and I have generated a little list of topics that he agrees you should learn before school starts in September."
"Like what?"
"Well, having dealt with the majority of your Occlumency issues, next on the list is Apparition, which shouldn’t be too much of a strain, provided that you get in touch with your inner dragon; magical duelling skills; armed and unarmed combat; some more wandless magic; healing charms; some social skills. I have a rather full syllabus, I’m afraid. What I lack is time."
Jasmine had told him once what Abelard charged paying clients. Abelard had already spent enough time with him this summer to put a serious dent in any Gringotts vault. He didn't mean to blurt out what he'd been wondering since the first day he'd met Abelard, but it came out anyway. "Why are you doing this?"
Abelard picked up his spoon, tracing it around the rim of his bowl of dessert. "That’s a long question to answer, lad. First and foremost, because Dumbledore asked; second, because I owe it to the memory of your mother; and finally, because you need the help. You’re a very capable wizard, Harry, and a fine young man. Alas, capable and fine character are not enough in this hour, you must become dangerous."
Abelard looked to Jasmine and smiled briefly. "Between the two of us, we can make you…" he paused, and finished in a whisper, "…very dangerous."
Abelard took a spoonful of his dessert, swallowed, sighed and put his spoon back on the table. "Believe me, Harry, it’s not what I want to be teaching you. I’d rather take up where I left off with your mum and make you a Seer. You’ve got the gift; it’s as strong as she had it, and she was two years older when I first met her. Jasmine, would you be so kind as to turn the coffee on? It’s time that Harry and I finished a most unpleasant conversation."
Harry looked down at his own dessert, concluding that he wasn’t hungry anymore. He rose and cleared the table, putting leftover food into containers for the refrigerator, and filling a tray with items for coffee service. When the coffee had finished brewing, Jasmine filled a thermal carafe, delivering the coffee service tray to the table. She then gave a slight bow and left the room.
Abelard sighed again. "Jasmine does not like to hear this tale."
"Why is that?"
"Do the math, lad. Jasmine was living under my roof when your mum began her apprenticeship."
Harry did the math in his head. That would make her, what, eight or nine when Mum was here. Jasmine knew my mum.
Abelard tipped his empty coffee cup towards him, attempting to balance it on the saucer. "No two apprenticeship programs are the same, but in all mentoring programs master and student make commitments to each other. I found that I needed about three years to turn a reasonably gifted student into a competent Seer. It was my practice to have a prospective student under my roof for a month, after which I would ask them to commit to their Apprenticeship, taking their pledge. Some students never got that far. They, or I, would decide that they were lacking in aptitude or attitude. Your mum was lacking in neither. When she was here she started off having visions, visions of the future. True Foresight. I tried to help her sort through the visions, weighting the possibilities and weeding out the desired outcomes versus the true visions, a difficult task under the best of circumstances." Abelard paused to fill up his coffee cup.
"She saw, quite rightly, that the crucial junction coming up in her life at that time was whether to stay and finish her Apprenticeship or leave and marry your father. She chose to leave."
"You wanted her to stay?"
Abelard struck the table with one hand. A small spray of coffee hit the table from Abelard's cup. "Of course I wanted her to stay!" he snapped. "She’d still be alive if she had stayed."
Abelard reached for his coffee cup, took a sip, put the cup down and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "She rightly saw that if she stayed, James would die. She also saw that if she married and conceived, Voldemort would be crushed. She saw great risk to both James and herself if she left. I pointed out that my visualization of the future showed that they both would most certainly die. She argued with me that she didn’t see James' death as a certainty. She couldn’t see her own, of course. She finally saw a vision after Voldemort’s defeat that convinced her to leave."
"What was that?"
"Some time after Voldemort’s defeat, she saw James dancing with a red haired girl in the Parish Hall of St. Simon’s."
Jasmine entered the dining room without knocking, carrying a Pensieve not much bigger than a coffee cup. She placed it on the table in front of Abelard, fetched a plate from the cupboard and put it down next to the Pensieve before she left as she came, without a word.
Abelard peered into the Pensieve, swirling his fingers over the top of the shallow bowl. He then dipped a teaspoon into the Pensieve and poured several spoonfuls of liquid onto the plate. Waving his hand over the plate, a murky picture began to appear. Although the quality of the image was poor, like peeking through a particularly dirty window, it was fairly plain that the snippet from the Pensieve showed James dancing with a red haired girl. Only James’ face was visible, but given the way he was holding her, it had to be Lily.
"This is Lily’s vision as she stored it in the Pensieve. I’ve studied it and studied it until I couldn’t stand to see it any more. Over time I’ve refined the image a bit." Abelard moved his hand over the plate. The resolution improved, the figures got brighter and bigger. Harry could see other couples dancing in the background. His attention was riveted when one particular couple passed by in the background. There was a distinctive sucker scar on his arm, and he’d recognize those hands anywhere. The couple in the background was Ron Weasley and Susan Bones. He couldn’t see the faces, but he’d recognize those hands and that particular caboose anywhere. He turned his attention back to the couple in the foreground. It wasn’t James dancing with a red haired girl; it was Harry.
"She didn’t see Dad dancing with her," Harry said in a faint whisper.
"Of course she didn’t. She saw you. That’s why I was so gobsmacked the first time I saw you in Arabella’s garden. Has this happened yet?"
Harry was silent for a long while. He had no idea what he was feeling, as his mind and his guts reeled from seeing this vision other than that it felt remarkably like being tied into knots. "It happened at the beginning of this month," he said at last, quietly. "That was at my godfather’s wake. So she died because of a false vision?"
Abelard didn't answer at first. Picking up his napkin, he blotted the islands of coffee that had escaped from his cup. "Not at all, lad. Her vision was true; it was her interpretation that was slightly off. She married the love of her life, she had you, Voldemort was crushed, and she saw you, the fruit of her union, alive and well after Voldemort’s defeat. At the time she had this vision, you hadn’t yet been conceived, so it’s not all that surprising that she didn’t stop to think that not all dark-haired men dancing with beautiful red-haired women answered to the names of James and Lily." Abelard paused. He then asked, in a near whisper: "Who is the girl, Harry?"
"She’s my best friend’s sister."
"Do you have feelings for her?"
"I . . . I don’t know. When I was dancing with her I felt — I felt at peace with myself. It was wonderful."
Abelard didn’t reply immediately. Harry wasn’t listening to him at that moment anyway; he was staring at the Pensieve picture on the dinner plate, repeating the scene of dancing couples again and again. Abelard picked up his coffee cup and drank several swallows of coffee. "Your mum took great comfort in that vision, Harry," he said at last. "It convinced her that I was a constipated old codger who couldn’t see the future as clearly as she could; it convinced her that if she returned to a war zone she could live with love rather than merely staying alive. She knew that she could risk everything and in the end everything she held dear would survive."
Harry swallowed, hard. He felt his eyes begin to burn. "But she was wrong — she died, Dad died."
"Was she wrong?" Abelard countered. "She lived with love, she defeated the darkest wizard of her day, and a little bit of Lily and James lives on in you, Harry. She would have been proud of you." Abelard reached across the table and placed his hand on Harry’s. "You asked me once why Voldemort killed Lily. I don’t really know, but I can hazard a good guess. He knew that she’d never bend her knees to him while she was alive. It was better for him to cut off the life of a potential Seer than allow her to grow her gift to the point that it would be dangerous to him. He underestimated her; so many people did." Abelard took in a deep breath and sighed. "You look like hell, lad. Let me have Jasmine take you home; you’ve had enough for one day."
Harry’s mind was whirling with emotions and thought. He didn’t remember passing through the doorway, or Jasmine holding his arm as she walked him to number four Privet Drive. He didn’t remember ringing the doorbell to gain admittance to his summer sanctuary, or the speechless look Aunt Petunia gave when Jasmine kissed him on the cheek before walking back into the shadows that surrounded the house.
Part of his mind was playing the "what if" game. What if Ginny had been sick on the day of the wake? What if he’d been dancing with Luna or with Susan instead of Ginny? Another part of his mind was struck by the realization that before he’d been conceived, his mum had seen him dancing in the parish hall of the church where she’d made her own wedding vows. He pondered the thought that Abelard said that vision had given his mum courage. He was proud of that for some reason — he hadn’t done anything, but he’d given her hope to face the darkness. He found himself in bed, staring briefly at the ceiling before taking his glasses off and setting them on the desk. He didn’t remember the voice calling to him across time, but he felt waves of comfort rolling across him as he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Goodnight, Harry. I am proud of you.
+++++++
Copyright Ó 2004 - J. Cornell — all rights reserved
The disclaimer found in the prologue applies to this chapter, too.
Author’s Notes: A few readers asked some questions about Jasmine, which I’ll attempt to answer. Being pledged does strange things to her metabolism. Although she’s 26-27, she’s physically 18 and can pass for an old 16 when she puts her mind to it. How does she feel about Harry? I asked her that one day. Her reply: "I’d loved to be loved by someone like Harry. He’s powerful without being a jerk, and he treats me like a lady. As far as anything between us, that’s not going to happen and I know it, so for now, I enjoy his company and flirt with him a bit. If my boss croaks anytime soon, Harry will be my new boss, which would make things very messy if I let things get out of hand this summer. Harry’s a lot of fun once you get past the moody brooding."