The Letters of Summer
Lessons
By kokopelli
Chapter 10 — Lessons
Hermione woke when the Passbox popped softly. Lifting her head to see the time on her alarm, she concluded that now was as good a time as any to start the day. By the time she had her clothes on, she was able to walk without staggering. With one practiced swoop she popped the doors on the Passbox open, snapped up the letters and flapped the doors shut with a backhanded flick of her wrist. With one hand on the banister, Hermione slid down the stairs using the rubber-legged stance she had perfected as a child. When wearing slippers, if she hit the first stair just right, she’d bounce from step to step, slippers sliding on the carpeted stairs. It brought back memories of her childhood, before Hogwarts, when surfing the stairs was the height of rebellion against her parents’ rule.
"Hey, daughter of mine, no surfing on the stairs! How many times have I told you that?" Monica asked rhetorically.
"In the recent years, none. The last time you told me that was August of 1991. I was eleven," Hermione answered in her best swotty voice.
Monica poured herself a cup of coffee. Evidently she’d been up for a while.
"What do you want for breakfast, dear?"
"Dunno. Let me wake up first."
"Coffee?"
"Ugh, Mum! You know I don’t drink coffee! That’s — that’s disgusting."
"Tastes change dear, you didn’t like boys in the past either."
"It’s not the same thing," Hermione said, sitting as straight as she could. "Do you have any strong tea?"
"Darjeeling strong enough for you, Captain Granger?" Monica asked in an odd, accented voice.
Hermione grinned. This was a game they used to play together, before she went away to Hogwarts. "Arrrr, matey," Hermione replied in her very best pirate voice, "let me drink a cup before I make ye walk the plank," she said before she stretched and yawned.
"Magical Post arrived?" Monica asked.
"Yeah, short note from Harry, long letter from Ginny. I want to read them after I’ve had my tea."
"Well, sit down, I’ll make your tea. Do let me know if there’s news on The Plan."
"Arrr."
Hermione stared out the window while her mum made tea. Monica set the mug in front of her and returned to the stove to work on breakfast. Hermione took a long swig of her tea and slit open the note from Harry with her butter knife. She made a few faces at that note, the last of which was a smile and then opened the letter from Ginny. She read and sipped until she sprayed a bit of tea on the table. Adding insult to injury, she inhaled a few drops of tea at that moment, sending her into a spasm of deep bronchial coughs. Monica kept a close eye on her, and noted with some satisfaction that after the coughing subsided, Hermione finished the note with a slightly wicked grin on her face.
"How goes the plan?"
"Arrr," Hermione said again, distractedly.
"Is that good ‘ar’ or bad ‘ar’?"
Hermione paused as she thought on her answer. "The plan’s working, but the execution was a bit wonky. Harry now knows that there never was anything going on with Dean, and he’s quietly happy about it. Ginny’s note is quite, quite - something, I’ll think of a proper word for it when I’ve had my second cup of tea."
Monica slid into her place at the table, spreading out slices of mango, pineapple and melon on a large plate. In front of her was a second plate of buttered toast. Monica nibbled on her first piece of toast while snatching the longer letter from her daughter’s place.
Dear Hermione,
Maybe you’ve heard by now — I don’t know if my mum has talked to your mum or not. Our plan, our beautiful plan, went down in flames yesterday. I don’t have a lying dirtbag shrew problem anymore. Nooooo, now it’s a psycho harpy problem. I feel sooooo bad, and now I’m never going to get past being Ron’s sister. But I digress.
One of Bill’s roommates at Hogwarts was Muggle-born and taught him how to fish, Muggle style. Bill went into town one summer and returned with a Muggle fishing pole — Dad thought it was fascinating. His favorite lure was a little oval of metal, shiny on one side, painted red and white on the other. One end of the lure was connected to the fishing wire; the other end had a wicked three-pronged hook on it. Bill would throw the lure out into our pond, you know- the one behind the pasture, and then reel it in using the little clicking machine on the handle of the fishing pole. The lure would spin around, flashing in the water. I’d sit on the bank and watch Bill — he’d throw out the lure and reel it back in. When he did it right, you could see the fish rise up and chase the lure. Poor fish never knew that they were biting into a mouthful of hooks. They sure were tasty though.
Baiting Ron was about that easy. Mum made an innocent comment about Dean before breakfast. It twirled around in front of Ron, who couldn’t resist swimming after it. I was prepared. I was more than prepared. I was OVER-prepared. I’d spent the night thinking of every rotten thing my brother had ever done to me, or failed to do, so that when I launched into my tirade I could be fresh and authentic and believable. I was fresh, I was authentic, and boy was I believable.
Ron started needling me about Dean, saying that he wasn’t a proper boyfriend, hadn’t written me all summer, was probably dating some Muggle girl, blah, blah, blah. That was my cue. I didn’t mean to slap him, really, I didn’t. It did feel good, though. The look in his eyes after I smacked his face was priceless. I had his total, undivided attention. I launched into my prepared rant. I told him that I’d never been dating Dean, had no intention of dating Dean and that I’d told him that I was just to SHUT HIM UP. I probably should have stopped there. I didn’t. I was on a roll.
I gave him verses two, three and four about how he’s an insufferable git who should leave his nose out of my business. Next I launched into how he’s mistreated you over all these years; how he’s so blind that he can’t see that you’re crazy about him, and that if he doesn’t make his move he’s going to lose you forever, because girls with choices don’t wait forever.
After that, I returned to my favorite topic; how I used to love him, how he was my closest friend until he went to school and then he didn’t have time for me any more. Around this time that little voice in the back of my head started screaming stop, Stop, STOP — but I couldn’t. Finally I ran out of things to say, so I hit him again. This made him angry, so I kneed him in the privates and took off. I had a good half-minute head start, but boy is he fast when he’s angry!
Ever since last summer when Harry ran into the Dementors in Little Whinging, Ron’s never without his wand. Did you know that he has a little holster on his wrist for his wand? Did you know that I normally don’t carry my wand, unless I’m leaving the Burrow? Ron’s chasing me all over the grounds like a maniac, and I don’t have my wand. Some witch I am. It was just fine until Ron started throwing hexes at me. Something in me welled up and protested against the unfairness of it all. I did wandless magic — I summoned my wand.
As a Muggle-born you probably aren’t aware of the fact that most wizards and witches can’t do wandless magic after puberty hits. Contrary to what certain parties might say, puberty has hit the youngest Weasley, shortly before I started my second year at Hogwarts, although I don’t have as much to show for it as some girls I know. I shouldn’t be able to do wandless magic at all. But I did. I ran out of places to run and Ron had me cornered. Things were out of hand, so I knew that I had just one shot at disabling him. Why I didn’t do a simple Stunning spell, I don’t know. The first spell that came to mind was one that I’d been reading up on in Combat Charms and Countercurses: the Scalping Hex.
It’s a gruesome hex. It stopped Ron though — he was rolling on the ground, grasping his head, all of his hair was lying on the ground. I ran to get Mum. Mum is funny — there are occasions when she launches into immediate tirade mode, and others when she is utterly silent. I knew I was in big trouble when she didn’t say a thing. She took one look at Ron and started in with Staunching charms, stopping the subcutaneous bleeding from the Scalping hex. Then she did a Cooling charm, followed by a basic Healing charm. She put Ron in a magical stretcher and I towed him back to the Burrow. Once Ron was safely in bed, she turned to me and said in a very calm voice, "You went too far, Ginny. Go to your room. We’ll talk about this more when your father gets home." Personally, I would have preferred being screamed at.
Ron’s grounded.
I’m grounded too. I’ll let you know for how long, but Dad hasn’t come home yet.
I did get to leave my room after lunch: I degnomed the garden. I set several personal records today for gnome tossing, and I suspect that some of the gnomes are not returning to our garden, as they went so far that they wouldn’t be able to find their way back.
I’m sorry, Hermione. I’ve probably bollixed things up for you too. There’s probably a lesson in here, and sixty years from now when I’m still living at the Burrow as a spinster, I’ll know what it is. Right now things look pretty bleak.
If you’re going to reply to this letter telling me how stupid I am, please save your effort — I already know that I’m stupid, and impulsive, and have real big issues with my temper.
My brother will live. If you must know, he looks kind of sexy with a smooth scalp.
Your very frustrated friend,
Ginny
"So, can you picture it?" Monica asked.
"Picture what?" Hermione replied.
"Ron, with a sexy bald head."
"Muuum!" Hermione took another bite of toast, speared a slice of melon which she transferred to her own plate, carefully carving off hunks. "Actually, I can. I can’t wait to see him," she told her mum. To herself she said, "I want to touch his head so bad, I ache."
"So, what’s with Ginny? She doesn’t strike me as the psycho harpy type."
"Method acting, Mum."
"As in Stanislavsky?"
"That’s the one. She had to appear angry to make the scene believable. So, she dredged up everything she has to be angry about with Ron and let that fuel her little tirade. It worked, too, but she got a bit carried away. Embarrassing as all get out for her, but I don’t think it affects the plan at all."
"I think you’re right."
~+~
"Ginny?" Ron paged, as he paced in front of her door, hoping that he could carry this off.
"What do you want, Ron?" Ginny answered, sounding like she was still really torqued off.
"Can I come in?" Ron said, waving his arms as he talked, even though Ginny couldn’t see him through the closed door.
"Are you armed?"
"No, Mum has my wand."
"The door’s open."
"Thanks."
Ron walked into her room. It hadn’t changed all that much over the years. A Quidditch poster from the last World Cup was tacked up over her desk. The Passbox sat on a tiny table next to her desk. Her lamp was out; the only light in the room was that from the early morning sun which collected in a puddle on a rug next to the bed. The far wall had bits of matted artwork hung here and there. Her corsage from the Yule ball was preserved under glass on a corner of her desk. Her bed was no longer cluttered with stuffed animals as in years past; they had been banished without ceremony into the attic at the beginning of the summer. Books snaked across the bed and onto the floor. Several wadded up balls of parchment sat beside the rubbish bin, with a few more inside the bin, along with a lot of wadded up tissue. Ginny was lying down, facing the wall, and not looking up at him as he came in. Ron’s heart clenched when he saw the tissue debris. "She’s been crying," he thought. "I’ve got to do this."
"Ginny?"
"You’ve said that already."
"I’m sorry."
"Sorry about what?" she said, obviously put out by this conversation.
"Sorry about the things you’ve said."
Ginny sighed. "I’m sorry about the things I’ve said too, but I’m still grounded and you’re still bald as an egg," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Ron ran his fingers through his hair, out of habit; rudely discovering that particular motion didn’t work well on a smooth scalp. "I’m not doing this very well."
"No, you’re not. I haven’t a clue what you’re trying to say."
"I’m trying . . ."
"Yes, you are trying," Ginny snapped. "That’s been a big part of the problem for the past five years," she said, sitting up, holding her head in her hands.
Ron crouched at the foot of the bed, hoping that this was a safe distance. "What you said, after you slapped me."
"Yes?"
Ron hung his head. "It was true."
"WHAT?!?" Ginny barked. Ron stood again, wringing his hands as if he were trying to explain a not particularly convincing lie to Professor Snape.
"It’s true. I’ve been a lout, I’ve been trying to run your life like I’m Mum and you’re six years old; I haven’t been treating you like you’ve grown up. I’ve, I’ve been a prat, Ginny," he said, hanging his head again.
Ginny swiveled off of the bed, standing up, staring silently at Ron. Without warning, she sprang, grabbing Ron about the middle, burying her face in his shirt. She was shaking, sobbing without sound. Taking a deep breath, Ron wrapped his arms around her and held her until she calmed a bit. Whatever hole he’d dug was now behind him. His real sister, the one who used to come and crawl into his bed when she was frightened by thunder, was back. The sobs slowed, she began to breathe deeply. She squeezed him, hard. "Ron, I love you so much. I feel awful."
Ron smiled, eyes bright for the first time that day. "Yeah, but you look great. I merely look bald."
"I wrote Hermione this morning. I told her you looked sexy with a smooth head."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh."
He felt his grin spread even wider across his face. "I can’t help it, I guess. I am a sexy beast."
Ginny punched him lightly in the stomach and flopped down on her bed.
"You are impossible!"
"No, I’m ravenous. I didn’t have dinner last night."
"Me neither. If you let me use the bathroom first, I’ll make your breakfast."
"Deal!"
~+~
Tonks was dressed, well, differently. Gone were the questionable tank tops and battered jeans. She was wearing Muggle clothes: a nice blue skirt with matching purse, nylons, blue pumps with a very low heel, and a white long sleeved blouse with a peter-pan collar. Harry didn’t know any of these details by name, only that she looked, for once, like a normal person, a real grown-up, not like an extra from a documentary on techno music in the 1990’s. Her hair was a rich brown, very close in shade to Hermione’s hue, but straight, falling in bangs on her forehead and pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail in back, extending several inches past her collar. Harry noticed with some pleasure that she was wearing the agate necklace and earrings that she’d received from Abelard.
"Well, well, well," Harry said appreciatively. "Are you having tea with the Queen after you’re done with me?"
"No, much worse than that," she replied. "I’m having lunch with Lupin."
"You’ve eaten with him before."
"Yeah, but this is - this is a — a — date," she said, her voice trailing off into a whisper. "Do I look okay? Should I change my clothes? Should I change me? Would he prefer to go to lunch with Harriet? I can do that, you know," Tonks said, her hands wringing while she sped up her pacing.
"Tonks, knock it off!" Harry exclaimed. He put a hand on her shoulder. "He thinks the world of you. You make him laugh, and there’s not many who can do that these days." It made an odd picture in his mind, the gray, sad, wise academic paired with the clumsy, goofy, spontaneous Auror, but Harry reckoned that they’d be good for each other in a ying and yang fashion.
"But my clothes — my hair, surely he’d prefer Harriet . . ."
"TONKS! It’s you he wants to spend time with, not a gender-bender vision of me in drag!"
Tonks was silent for a while, looking at the ground. Harry could see the colour of her hair throb from brown to red to blonde to brown while the length bobbed back and forth several inches. She took a deep breath, straightened her skirt and looked Harry in the eye. "Thanks, little brother."
"Don’t mention it. I have such a wealth of experience playing Aunt Agony," Harry said, rolling his eyes.
"Yeah, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day." Tonks sat down, took an emery board from her purse and began to attack a nail on her left hand.
"So, are you going to tell me what you were so worked up about last time when we were waiting for Abelard?"
Tonks snorted. "Oh, that. We don’t have any pictures of him in the Order. The Aurors don’t have any pictures either. He’s one of the most famous Seers of this century, and we don’t have a single penny-photo to identify him. Our communications before the meeting were spotty, so we didn’t have any sign and countersign to confirm who it was that was coming for a meeting with you. Then he goes and takes you away from the estate."
"How was the beach?"
"Quite nice, thank you, once I resigned myself to killing two hours there," she said, the sarcasm dripping from her voice. "Actually there’s a wonderful stand for Mango Lahsees right on the beach. I sucked down two of those and watched the sun set over the ocean. If Remus had been there it would have been perfect," she sighed.
Harry’s retort was forgotten as he saw the bronze doorframe appear in the fashion of the Cheshire cat in front of him. The squiggly handle was the last part to appear.
"Think it’s safe, Tonks? Abelard said the door handle was tuned to accept me."
"Give it a try. If it looks dodgy, keep the door open and I’ll be in behind you, otherwise I’m staying right here."
Harry put his hand on the door handle. There was a crackle and a tingling in his hand. The door began to appear, shining magnificently in the morning sun. Harry twisted the handle and pushed the door open. The door opened into a garden, much like Mrs. Figg’s. Abelard was sitting in a wooden Adirondack chair, metal cane grasped in his hands. A familiar looking large, white, shaggy dog sat at his feet.
"Welcome, Harry. Madam Auror, I’ll have him all day today. The door will reappear in 12 hours. Is he free to walk home, or should he wait for an escort? By the way, the jewelry looks smashing on you, I’m honored that you choose to wear it."
"I’ll have someone here to meet him this evening. Thanks, I’m honored to have received it," Tonks said, a slight blush rising in her cheeks.
"Enjoy your lunch, Tonks," Harry said as he passed through the door, which disappeared as he closed it.
"I plan on it, little brother, I plan on it."
~+~
Abelard beckoned to Harry. As Harry approached, Abelard stood, reaching out for Harry’s elbow. "Welcome to my humble abode," Abelard said, turning away from the chair and walking to an arbor next to the house. As Abelard stood, the dog also stood, tail wagging in a steady beat. The dog sniffed Harry’s crotch, not too diplomatically. Harry scratched it between its long floppy ears.
"Hello, pooch," he said with some warmth. This dog was much nicer than any of his Aunt’s dogs. "Wait, Abelard, I was this dog! The night of the wake!"
Abelard laughed. "You were like this dog, but not this dog. Trans-species transfiguration is hard enough without making it trans-gender too. Rosie, go to your place." Rosie trotted into the house; tail wagging in time to her lope. "Fr. Martin told me about borrowing Rosie’s form for that particular transfiguration."
"It was a very enlightening evening."
"It was supposed to be."
"Where are we?" Harry asked, changing the subject, looking around at the walls surrounding the garden.
"You don’t need to know that, Harry. Suffice it to say that you’re in roughly the same time zone as Little Whinging, but much farther south. What you don’t know, you can’t give up. Mrs. Paprikash! He’s here."
An older woman wearing a peach coloured sari walked out of the house and stood under the arbor. Nearly as tall as Abelard, she moved much more quickly. If Harry were to guess her age, he’d say that she was older than Hermione’s mum, and younger than Professor McGonagall, but wouldn’t put money on which end of that age spread she really occupied.
"Welcome sir," she said, bowing slightly with her palms pressed together. Her voice was the high, nasal accent Harry associated with India. "May I introduce you to my daughters?" As she said this, two women came out of the house and under the arbor. Both women were taller than their mother, and each resembled her, but neither looked like the other. The older of the two was dressed like her mum, wearing a yellow sari with her hair loose; the younger was wearing baggy black jeans and a gray tee shirt, and her hair was in a thick, black braid. Both women were strikingly beautiful. The older resembled a character from one of Dudley’s video games, something about a pistol-packing archeologist. The younger looked a bit like a heroine from one of Dudley’s dreadful comic books. Harry shook hands with the older woman, who called herself Roopangi. The younger merely nodded in his direction and said that her name was Jasmine. Both spoke flawless English, with a cultured Oxford accent.
"Mrs. Paprikash has been in my employ for ages, Harry, along with various members of her family. Roopangi recently left my employ, Jasmine is her replacement." Abelard cleared his throat and stood tall, as tall as he could, being a good three inches shorter than Harry. "I am ready to teach you, Harry James Potter. Will you apply yourself to learn from me this summer?" Abelard asked gravely. Abelard, Mrs. Paprikash and her daughters were all solemnly silent, watching Harry. He felt magic crackling in the air; the hairs on the back of his arms were tingling.
"Yes, sir," he replied. "I am eager to learn from you, and I will apply myself to your instruction." Harry was slightly baffled at his words; he hadn't meant to speak so formally. As he spoke the words, he felt a release of the magical tension in the air.
"Very good, lad," Abelard responded.
Mrs. Paprikash and Roopangi dismissed themselves, returning into the house. Jasmine moved to a chase lounge in the shade of a large tree, curling her legs under her body, sitting straight, and watching the arbor and the garden.
Abelard was sitting back in his chair, absorbing the sunlight like a thin old tomcat on a windowsill. "We’ve got a lot of work to do, and not much time to do it, Harry. From time to time I’ll cut a few corners, just as I did yesterday with the gin-gins, but you will come to no harm while you are in my charge. Speaking of which, did anything unusual happen after you made it home last night?"
"Well, I had a whanging headache that woke me in the early morning. After that, I had some really lurid coloured dreams that made no sense at all, and then I had a Farsight dream. This was my first Farsight dream that had nothing to do with Voldemort."
"Tell me about that dream."
"Not much to it, really. I had a bunch of dreams, things I’d done in the last few days, full of strange colors, then I saw my friend’s dining room — it was early morning. I saw the sun come up, heard birds chirping. I might have heard a clock chiming as well. It was very, very vivid, lots of detail," Harry said, picturing the quiet dining room in his mind.
"How do you know it was a Farsight dream?"
"I wrote my friend that morning, telling her what I saw. She wrote back and said that’s exactly how her dining room looked when she got up that morning."
"Who’s the girl?"
"Hermione Granger. She’s in my house and year at school. We’ve been thick as thieves since our first year. She’s like a sister to me, which is a bit odd, as she fancies my other best friend, who happens to be my roommate at school. Everyone around them can see that they are more than just friends, but they’ve never admitted it to each other, at least as far as I can tell," Harry said, smiling.
"It must be difficult having two best friends with such a dynamic between them." Abelard said, raising one eyebrow.
"Only when they’re not getting along. I go mad when that happens."
"What did you notice about the room that your friend Hermione confirmed?"
"Details — the dried flower arrangement on the fireplace mantle, a Floo powder canister sitting next to that, a pie plate with a single slice of pie sitting on the table, things like that," Harry explained, wondering where this was going.
"Hermione confirmed those details?"
"She ate that piece of pie for her breakfast."
"Excellent, I was always fond of pie for breakfast. Drove my mum mad at times, but she got over it, bless her departed soul." Abelard rose and walked over to Jasmine. Whatever he said was so soft that Harry couldn’t hear it. Jasmine walked into the house. Harry noted with some distraction that parts of her bounced when she walked.
"Sweet Merlin," he thought to himself, "why couldn’t she be flat-chested and ugly?"
Jasmine returned, carrying two stone cylinders and a small wooden box.
"Can I help you with those?" Harry asked.
Jasmine turned, looking surprised. "I don’t think so, but thanks anyway," she answered, flashing a bright smile.
Not deterred by her answer, Harry tried to right one of the cylinders that toppled after Jasmine had set it down. It was dense, cold, and very, very heavy. "How did you lug these out here by yourself?" he asked incredulously.
"I’m not as dainty as I look," she replied, hoisting the cylinder aloft and dropping it on the ground to seat it properly. Opening the box, she took out two sticks. They were either the fattest unsharpened pencils that Harry had ever seen, or wands of some unknown design. "Put these into those holes," she said, pointing to a horizontal hole in the top of the cylinders. Harry did so, noting that the sticks seemed to click into the holes when they were pushed in a certain depth.
Abelard stood, stretched in the sun and faced Harry. "This is your first lesson. We’re not doing anything with Occlumency or Farsight or Foresight right off the bat, as we have to fill in some gaps in your training first. Imagine if you will, that those stones are your enemies and they are pointing their wands at you. What is your first move?"
"That’s easy, Expelliarmus," Harry said, remembering his first D.A. lesson.
"Try it, Harry."
Harry pointed his wand at the two small pillars and invoked the charm. The stones tottered briefly, but the wands stayed in place. "Okay, what’s the problem here?"
"The problem, Harry, is that the Disarming charm works best in academic settings, not in real world application. A wizard who has a death grip on his wand will not be disarmed with that spell. A properly configured wand will not respond to it either."
"Properly configured?"
"Jasmine, please show Harry your wand."
Jasmine approached Harry, arms out slightly from her sides. With a sudden blurred move she brought her left arm up. As she turned her hand over, Harry saw that she was holding a short, stout wand; about an inch thick and four or five inches long. The base of the wand was connected to a leather thong that was wrapped around her wrist. Her pretty smile was gone, now, and a blank expression was on her face.
"I’ve never seen a wand like that."
"Hope that you never see one in action, Harry. That’s a battle wand. It’s no great shakes for fancy charm work or transfiguration, but there’s nothing more effective in an all out shooting contest," Abelard explained. "You may stand down, Jasmine."
Jasmine returned to her chaise lounge, tucking her legs under her, smiling a faint smile. A shudder ran up Harry’s spine as he remembered one of Laurel’s stories about War Witches. "Ungodly beautiful women, fast as lightning and twice as destructive," she’d said. Harry figured that whatever Jasmine did to earn her keep with Abelard, it probably didn’t involve gardening and keeping house.
"So what’s the answer, Abelard?"
"If you have a wand, you’d use Fractus, the cleaving charm."
"What does that do?"
"Jasmine?"
Without getting up, Jasmine flipped out her wand and softly uttered the spell. The pillar closest to Harry rocked briefly as it was covered by a small puff of smoke. When the smoke cleared, Harry noticed that the stick was shattered into splinters. Jasmine came up behind him, passed him and replaced the splinters with a new stick, walking slowly back to her perch on the chaise lounge. "Keep your mind on the lesson, Harry, not her caboose."
Harry pondered what Abelard had just said. "What if you don’t have a wand?"
"Good catch, lad, there’s hope for you. Without a wand, you’ll do a whistle charm, specifically the splitting whistle charm." Abelard pursed his lips, giving a sharp whistle. The stick shattered. Abelard gave a second, louder whistle, shattering the stone pillar.
"Abelard!" Jasmine exclaimed. "I don’t have any more of those. Stop showing off!"
"Sorry, Madam," he replied. Whistling a brief trill, the shards of stone came back together, minus the splinters of the target wand. "Jasmine, please drill the lad on the Fractus charm until he’s got it, then see if you can coax a proper whistle charm out of him before lunchtime. I’m expecting a call. I’ll be in my study if you should need me."
"Oh, great, Abelard’s gone and I have to practice combat charms with a War Witch. What am I in for today?" Harry thought to himself.
Fortunately, for Harry, Jasmine was a kind, if economical, teacher. She sounded just the slightest bit like Hermione when she adopted her instructor mode, which made it bearable. She also walked differently when playing instructor: her hips didn’t roll. They spent a brief amount of time mastering Fractus. "See the target splitting in two, now, make it so."
From there they went on to the whistle charm, which Harry adamantly could not produce in any fashion until Jasmine came up behind him. She placed her left hand on his belly, placing her middle finger on his navel. She placed her right hand above that one, balled into a fist. Harry could feel the heat radiate from her compact body, and her breath on his shoulder (along with what all else was pressed into his back) was quite distracting. When Harry attempted to invoke the whistle charm, Jasmine moved her left hand to her balled fist and gave Harry a swift squeeze. His whistle lasted a brief moment before he opened his mouth in surprise. The target wand disappeared in a cloud of smoke, along with a tree limb behind the target.
"That’s better, Harry. Do you think you can do it on your own without me squeezing the chi out of you?" Jasmine asked.
"Let’s see," Harry answered, hoping that it was approaching lunchtime. Harry stood, facing the remaining target. It was distracting to practice magic without a wand, which provided such a natural focus: point your wand and speak. Harry took aim at the target wand, visualizing the split. He whistled, pushing from his diaphragm. He felt a surge of warmth from his middle, heard a sharp crack and saw a cloud of smoke. When the cloud cleared, both the target and the stone pillar were in splinters and shards.
"Suffering Shiva, you’re as bad as he is, Harry!" Jasmine exclaimed.
Harry didn’t know if he was in trouble or not. At that moment, Mrs. Paprikash appeared under the arbor.
"Lunch is served," she said, returning into the house.
"I’ll deal with you after lunch," Jasmine said, tossing her braided hair behind her, turning on her heel and padding into the house in front of Harry. She was no longer in her teacher mode.
"Don’t stare, Harry. If she catches you doing that, she’ll hurt you for sure," he told himself as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "I wonder what’s for lunch?" he said, snickering that he sounded so much like Ron when he said it. Turning to the shattered pillar, Harry dug out his wand and spoke "Reparo." Moving quickly, he followed Jasmine into the house.
~+~
"Bless us, O Father, thy gifts to our use and us to thy service; for Christ’s sake. Amen." Abelard opened his eyes. "Dig in."
"Uh, Abelard, what is this?"
"This is lunch, lad. The dish with the bean sprouts on it is a Thai noodle dish known as Pad Thai; the green and red dish is a vegetable popular in these parts, tomatoes and spinach, garnished with peanuts; in the green bowl is some applesauce, and for dessert, rice pudding. Eat it or not, it’s what’s for lunch."
Harry concluded that he was going to like eating at Abelard’s house. The food, although like nothing he’d ever had before in his life, was delicious, filling, and in seemingly inexhaustible supply. Jasmine and Mrs. Paprikash were at the table with Abelard and Harry. He noted with some amusement that Jasmine ate more at one sitting than Ron would, but where she put it was another question. Remembering the wave of heat he’d felt when she was behind him, he concluded that she must have the metabolism of a shrew.
"So, how did the lad do, Jasmine?"
"Not bad, picked up Fractus like he’d been doing splitting charms for years. Had no clue on the whistle charm until I squeezed the chi out of him."
"You must have enjoyed that," Abelard said, his eyes twinkling.
"Please. I’m sure that the girls at his school have to be restrained to keep away from him, but I prefer my men a bit older, and I don’t poach on the job, ever," she said, a hint of colour coming to her ears. "They must not teach wandless magic at that school of his," Jasmine said, reaching for the bowl of rice pudding for her third helping.
"Uh, no, they don’t. I was taught that after, uh, puberty, I wouldn’t be able to do wandless magic any more."
"Well, you were taught wrong, lad. At Jasmine’s school, they have an entire year devoted to the subject, taught in the last year, well past the time when the students have all, eh - blossomed," Abelard said, finding something of interest at the bottom of his water glass.
"What school is that?" Harry asked.
"The Shiva Institute, training institution of the Shiva Guild," Jasmine answered.
"What’s that?"
"That, lad, is what the War Witches call themselves," Abelard explained.
"So you are a War Witch."
"No, I’m a journeyman member of the Shiva Guild." Nodding to Mrs. Paprikash, "Mum is a fellow of the Guild, has been since waaay before I was born. One more year on the job and I’ll be eligible for fellow."
"Why is what you’re called a touchy subject ?" Harry asked boldly, hoping that Jasmine wouldn’t take him apart with her spoon while Abelard was sitting at the table.
"The words ‘War Witch’ carries such a bad reputation in the West, I guess. We’re all supposed to be sooo beautiful, and we’re aaall deadly, and we’re aaaall roundheels, kinda like a witch version of the girls from James Bond movies."
"Well, you are pretty." Harry offered.
"Yeah, and I’m deadly too, but I’m not a roundheel. In fact," she said, rising from the table. "I’m still intact."
After Jasmine left, Mrs. Paprikash began to clear the table. Harry turned to Abelard and said, "That was way more information than I wanted to know about her."
"I think that was for her mother’s benefit, not yours. Before she came into my employ, she was spending an inordinate amount of time with a young man that her parents didn’t like. There are some lingering issues there, but I’m trying to stay out of them."
"Probably a good move."
"I thought so," Abelard said, smiling to himself.
~+~
Abelard spent the majority of the afternoon discussing and demonstrating wandless magic. Harry’s pique at being taught things seemingly unrelated to Occlumency dissipated as the practical side of him saw the immediate application of what Abelard was imparting. "The magic is in the wizard, not the wand, lad," Abelard warned him. "Don’t ever forget that." He then explained at great length how the sensor system worked for the Improper Use of Magic Office. All magic performed within a small radius of the home address of a known underage Muggleborn was presumed to be performed by the underage witch or wizard. Outside of that radius, spells of significant power were checked against the wand signatures of underage witches and wizards. When Harry gave him a blank look at the mention of wand signatures, he gave a brief lesson on the arcane topic of wand signatures, and how they could sometimes be detected, and sometimes spoofed.
"So, once I get the hang of wandless magic, I can do what I want, as long as I’m further away than a half-kilometer from number four, Privet Drive?" Harry asked, starting to plot what he could do with this new freedom.
"I wouldn’t go that far, but you can do it without worrying about the Improper Use of Magic Office," Abelard replied, with a slight grin on his face.
"What about stuff at the Dursleys’?"
"Small stuff, like household cleaning charms, drying charms, and the like, will never trip their sensors. You give off more of a magical signature in your sleep than those charms produce. Transfiguration is so high energy that it almost always trips the sensors, so kindly refrain from turning your cousin into a pig, however much he may deserve it," Abelard said in an absolute deadpan.
"Whoa, that’s brilliant. How come no one’s ever told me this?"
Abelard spread his hands in a ‘who knows’ gesture. "Your Wizardborn friends pick this up by osmosis and assume that everyone knows — your Muggleborn friends are just as much in the dark as you are. Back to the lesson, Harry: with a few rare exceptions, anything that can be done with a wand can be done wandless, the problem being that the wizard or witch is used to the efficiency of using the wand, and has forgotten how to channel those magical energies without it."
"So wandless magic is more exhausting than magic with a wand?"
"At first, lad, at first. Once you develop control and skill, though, the efficiency matches or exceeds that of normal wand use."
"But there are exceptions."
"There’s always exceptions, lad."
"The Unforgivables?"
Abelard nodded. "Almost impossible to perform wandlessly, they take so much energy. The countercurses can be performed wandlessly, though."
"Professor Moody said there was no countercurse to Avada Kedavra."
"He was partly right — once performed, there is no way to undo that curse, but while it’s being cast, it can be neutralized; not blocked, but absorbed."
"Can you teach me that?" Harry asked eagerly.
"Not today, but we can work on the precursor to that countercurse — it’s useful in its own right. Close your eyes, lad. See the center of your guts, where your magic lives, where you felt the burn and tingle when you were doing the splitting whistle charm. Watch the magic flare into light. Now, push that light up your chest, down your arm and into your hand. Keep it there, right in your hand. Now, open your eyes, lad."
For a moment, Harry saw a ball of brilliant light the size of a marble sitting on the palm of his outstretched hand. He lost his focus on the energy and felt it flow back into his hand, up his arm and into his chest. He was flushed with heat, as if he’d been sitting in an oven. "Wow, that’s hot."
"That’s the Lesser light, lad. You’re a powerful wizard, Harry, don’t let anyone tell you different. That’s a hot piece of magic. Be careful who you show that to; it can do real harm if you can’t control it."
"What kind of harm?"
"Bursting into flames, Harry, spontaneous combustion."
"Weren’t you worried that I’d burst into flames?"
"Not a bit."
"Why’s that?"
"One, I knew you could control that bit of magic if you could learn the splitting whistle charm in one morning; two, I have a very good Quenching charm that I’ve been casting since I was a wee lad myself."
~+~
Mrs. Paprikash brought them drinks at 4:00, and after finishing them, Abelard quit his instruction and walked into the kitchen, Harry in tow. With Harry’s assistance they made a simple dinner that they shared with Jasmine. Mrs. Paprikash had left Abelard’s house after serving the drinks, going back to her own home. After dinner, they took a walk in the park-like woods that surrounded Abelard’s walled estate, Jasmine following twenty paces behind.
In their walk, Abelard showed Harry native spiders, and compared how natural webs were similar to and different from Gossamer wards, which he also demonstrated, with and without a wand. They watched bats flying in the waning light of dusk, and Abelard compared their own talents for echolocation with active and passive sensing charms that could be performed magically; again, demonstrating the charms with and without a wand. Every moment with Abelard was a teaching moment. Harry felt like a huge dry sponge thrown into the ocean. He was taking on a lot of information, but there was so much to take in and absorb and relate to what he’d already learned in his years at Hogwarts. His brain was full — he couldn’t learn anything more today.
They were back in the garden behind Abelard’s house.
"That’s it for today, lad. It’s time to send you back to Little Whinging."
"But Abelard, we never talked about Mum," Harry protested.
"Remind me on Friday, lad. Same time, same place."
Abelard summoned the door. When Harry grasped the handle, it materialized in all its brown and gold glory. As he opened the door he saw Tonks standing in Mrs. Figg’s garden. He thought back to this morning when he’d seen her last, only now it was evening; it felt like it had been a lifetime ago.
"Good night, Abelard."
"Good night, Harry."
Harry closed the door. As he let go of the handle the door disappeared.
"So, Tonks, how was lunch?"
Tonks said nothing, her face aglow with a smile, a most normal blush starting to come to her cheeks.
"Tonks?"
"It was brilliant, Harry, it was brilliant."
He grinned. "Take me home, sister dear, I’m knackered."
"Do I need to tuck you in?"
"I wouldn’t go that far, but make sure that I get in the house, as I’m about ready to keel over."
"Can do," Tonks replied. With a blink and a wand swish, she was Mrs. Figg again, holding on to Harry’s arm. To the casual observer, he was holding her up, but in reality the reverse was true. They walked the short distance to Number Four Privet Drive, Tonks escorting him to the back door. She waited until she heard the door lock from the inside, and then shuffled off into the darkness herself.
Harry walked upstairs to his bedroom, ignoring the sour look that Aunt Petunia shot him as he passed through the kitchen. He entered the room without turning on the lights, falling into his bed, not bothering to take off any clothes, not noticing that all of the lights on the Passbox were lit. With his last snippet of energy, the door to his bedroom closed, although he was across the room, in bed when that happened.
He was a student again, and school was in session.
+++++++++++
Copyright  2003 J Cornell, all rights reserved.
Kokopelli20878@yahoo.com - write me, I write back.
Author’s notes: The Shiva Guild (known in the West as War witches) was developed at length in a prior fic. The guild includes both wizards and witches, but it is the witches that are most famous. Members of the guild usually work for hire, under contracts that are as short as a month and as long as five years. They are exceptionally well paid, and very effective at keeping their principal alive and safe. Not much is known about them in the West, and what little is known fits neatly into Jasmine’s lunchtime complaint. A "roundheel" for those not familiar with the old term is what Molly Weasley would call a "scarlet woman" or, as my better dictionary says, a woman who says "yes" very easily. For those wondering about Lahsees, it’s rather much like a fruit smoothie. Rosie and Jasmine are recycled from an earlier fic. If you want see what Rosie looks like, take a good look at Ginger on the following URL:
http://www.labradoodles.com/_wsn/page8.html
This chapter was a lot of fun, but it will take a while to pump out Chapter 11, as I’ve been collaborating with another author on a chapter for her fic, and that’s taken a wee bit of my writing time. Please be patient.