The Letters of Summer
Letters from Elsewhere
By kokopelli
Chapter 9 Letters from Elsewhere
Harry woke in a fog. It was still quite dark, his head was aching, and his mouth tasted like some small swamp creature had crawled into it and died during the night. He touched his scar after sitting up. "Ok, it’s not my scar that’s hurting, it’s the rest of my head that feels like it was the Bludger at Beater practice," he thought to himself as he got to his unsteady feet. He shuffled into the lavatory, flicked on the light and looked for Dudley’s bottle of ibuprofen. Harry had spent quite a bit of time reading up on Muggle medicine, as two chapters of Combat Charms and Countercurses dealt with the subject. He’d supplemented this knowledge, at Hermione’s suggestion, with some late- night readings from Aunt Petunia’s copy of The Physicians’ Desk Reference. Armed with this self-taught knowledge, Harry was confident that he would not kill himself taking two tablets, although if Dudley found out he was nicking his favorite analgesic, there would be hell to pay. Washing down the tablets with a splash of water cupped in his hand, Harry turned out the light, dashing the hopes of the birds that had started chirping, and returned to bed.
No position in bed was comfortable. Harry shifted between half a dozen positions before settling in his last position by default: hands behind his head, legs flat, ankles crossed. He smiled briefly, thinking that Ron often fell asleep in this position. With that smile on his lips, he himself fell asleep.
The dreams came back, with a vengeance. Colours were lurid, as if paint cans in primary colours had been randomly poured into the memories of the past few days. Harry was poking the fly of Dudley’s lime green trousers while sitting in Harry’s flame orange bedroom. Making breakfast in Aunt Petunia’s eggplant purple kitchen with lemon yellow table and chairs, frying up a breakfast of green eggs and blue toast. Riding alongside Laurel on the river road; Laurel was attired in yellow and black from head to toe, the trees overhead were covered by blue, gold and black leaves.
It was a small relief that the final dream scene was normal-coloured. Harry was looking at a Muggle dining room. Behind the dining table was a large fireplace. On the mantle of the fireplace was a dried flower arrangement and a round brass canister, the size of a one-quarter kilo coffee can. The dining table was empty, except for a pie pan containing half a slice of apple pie. The slice of pie had the distinctive crimping on the crust that he had previously seen on Molly Weasley’s pies. In the dream Harry watched the sun rise through the open window. The birds began to sing their morning songs.
He sat up, fully awake now, wiping the crud out of his eyes and stretching his arms. The headache was gone, thank goodness. "What a vivid dream," he thought.
He pondered the scene. The room had looked familiar, he’d seen it before, but he didn’t know where. Checking his watch, he got moving to start his morning chores.
Whatever he’d done the day before to provoke the headache @had has left him feeling as weak and sore as if he’d been smacked several times in Quidditch scrimmage. He visited
the loo, washed up, and began that day’s breakfast.
The imagery from the dream was tantalizing the back of Harry’s consciousness as he cooked. It was the sight of Dudley waddling down stairs that dislodged the evasive piece of memory. ". . . like that bushy haired girl . . ." At Grimmauld Place, last summer, Hermione had kept a candid family portrait on her dressing table; a snapshot of her with her mum and dad, standing in front of a fireplace. As Harry searched his memory, he was sure that the portrait didn’t have the extraneous details from his dream: the brass canister; the dried flower arrangement; and the lone half-piece of pie in a pie plate on the table. Harry resisted the urge to smack Dudley in celebration of finding the missing dab of memory. Dudley wasn’t the high-five type, and Harry was certain that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would not perceive it in the spirit in which it was given. Instead, Harry was more pleasant than normal, smiling as he polished off breakfast.
The Dursleys scattered after they'd eaten: Vernon to work; Petunia to a meeting with her friends; Dudley to a sale at the video game store. Harry cleaned up the remains of breakfast in an empty house. Whistling as he wiped down the counters, he took the dishtowel up the stairs and tossed it the length of the upstairs hallway to sink perfectly into the white laundry hamper. It wasn’t quite as complicated as sinking a Quaffle though the Keeper-guarded goal ring, but it would do for a pinch on a Tuesday morning. Harry inspected the laundry bins and reckoned that the white load could do with a trip to the washing machine. Minutes later he was back in his room. The Hogwarts knob on the Passbox was lit. Opening the door, Harry found a large envelope, addressed to him in Professor McGonnagal’s bold, flowing hand.
Harry,
Several students have written to you, care of Hogwarts, asking that I forward these notes to you. I hope these notes find you well and in good spirits. I expect to write you soon about business for the coming year. MM
Harry slit the envelope open with his thumb. Inside were three more envelopes, each addressed to "H. Potter c/o Hogwarts, Attn: M. McGonagall." Two of the envelopes were written in neat, feminine hands, the third was a rougher, masculine hand that looked vaguely familiar. Harry took this last letter to read first. Opening the envelope, he quickly turned to the tail of the letter to see that Dean Thomas wrote it.
Dear Harry,
I hope you are faring well with the Muggles this summer. Hermione and Ginny were rounding up members of the D.A., asking if we could drop you a line this summer. They set up mail drops from their addresses and c/o McGonagall. By the time I’d unpacked, I’d lost both of their addresses, but I figured I could reconstruct McGonagall at Hogwarts, seeing as I’ve been living there off and on for five years.
My summer has been brilliant thus far. Dad managed to snag primo tickets to the home games of the West Ham football team. Enclosed you will find a picture of Mick, scoring the winning goal at last week’s game. Speaking of scoring, I’m back with my old Muggle girlfriend, Gina. What a hottie! I don’t think that I’ll be able to walk straight by the end of the summer, but I’ll find a way to deal with it. Just to increase your suffering, also enclosed is a pic of me with Gina.
Keep safe, old man; I want to hear you tell me about your summer on the Express.
Your mate,
Dean Thomas
Inside the envelope were two Muggle snapshots. The first was a very nice shot of West Ham playing on their home field. Harry remembered something about Dean’s dad being a sports photographer for one of the major daily papers. The next picture was a shot of Dean standing behind a very pretty black girl with more than a passing resemblance to Angelina Johnson. Harry could tell that Gina was shorter than Angelina, however, as she was half a head shorter than Dean. Harry blushed when he saw where Dean’s hands rested in the picture. Molly Weasley would have smacked any of her boys if they’d posed like that, not to mention incinerating the picture afterwards. Harry folded the letter over the photos, placing them carefully back into the envelope which he put safely away with the rest of his summer correspondence.
Harry was glad that Dean was safe and apparently happy back in the Muggle world, even if he didn’t want to think about what Dean was not-so-subtly implying in his note. "Let’s think about that later," he thought to himself. The remaining envelopes he took to his bed, sprawling across it Ron Weasley style. The envelopes were of identical size; the only salient difference was that one was written in black ink, while the other was written in green. Feeling whimsical, he opened the green ink envelope first. Scanning it quickly, he was surprised by the signature at the end: Marietta Edgecombe.
Dear Harry,
I hope your holiday is going well thus far. I bet you never expected to get a letter from Marietta-the-sneak, but here I am. I’m doing well, all things considered. The doctors at St. Mungo’s are clueless, saying that I should be fine by the end of summer. They, of course, don’t have to live with my current face.
If you could find it within yourself to ask Hermione about the hex she used, I’d be forever in your debt. The odd thing about this all is that there’s a hole in my memory between going to see that Umbridge woman and finding myself in Dumbledore’s office with the Minister of Magic and a squad of Aurors.
On the positive side, I’ve continued to practice what you taught in the D.A. class. I can now produce a corporeal Patronus, not just a wisp of smoke. Mum is scared these days. The Dementors are far more active than the Prophet is reporting.
Bye for now,
Marietta E.
Harry had mixed feelings after reading Marietta’s letter. On one side, she’d betrayed all of the D.A. to Umbridge, nearly getting the entire lot expelled and his closest friends tortured or killed by Umbridge and her stooges. On the other side, the endless humiliation of wearing SNEAK across your face all day, seven days a week was pretty severe. To top it all off, she didn’t remember how it had happened. Harry told himself that he would write to Hermione this morning, but first he’d read the remaining letter. Pulling the last envelope open, he caught the faintest of whiffs of perfume, a spicy smell that he associated with one girl in particular. A falling feeling passed across his stomach. Looking to the tail of the letter he saw that this was a note from Cho. His immediate reaction was to close the letter and send it back, but curiosity won out and he read the note. He was glad he did.
Dear Harry,
Hermione let me know how to forward mail to you, so I finally got around to writing you a note before I ran out of July. I’ve been seeing a lot of Michael Corner this summer; he’s been helping me deal with a lot of things. Among other things, he set me straight on your relationship with Hermione. I AM SO SORRY about how I treated you over that girl!
Looking back over this past year, I conclude that I didn’t treat you very well. We need to talk some time. The boy/girl thing didn’t work for us, but I do want to be your friend. There are dozens of girls at Hogwarts who would sell their knickers to be your girlfriend. I had the chance and I blew it. The timing was all wrong, I guess. The fact that I was playing widow to Cedric didn’t help things at all either. But enough emotional flopping.
My summer is going well. I’m helping Mum out in the office two days a week and spending most weekends at the beach. Last weekend there was a minor Dementor attack. You were right. It’s a lot harder summoning a Patronus when the sky’s gone dark, all is quiet and the cold of the Dementor is driving you mad with fear and dread. I got it right on the third try and my swan banished them all. (There were three!)
Afterwards I got a short note from Hopkirk’s office, to which my mum sent a Howler in reply. I’m turning seventeen next week; I’m not too worried. I owe you big time, Mr. D.A. Instructor.
Let’s talk on the Express, and if not then, the first day after the Sorting Feast. (Once I get back on the grounds, I’ll have way too much to do the first day, given my Prefect duties.) I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to throw a good one away.
Love from,
Cho
Harry was pleased to hear from Cho, but the stomach fluttering that had plagued him for two years when he’d been within ten feet of her was gone, apparently for good. He was happy for Cho, especially that she was getting along well with Michael Corner. Apparently the "boy/girl thing" was working for them. Good, it should work for someone; Cho had lived through enough pain that she was due for some good times.
Harry was fiercely proud of Cho’s performance during the Dementor attack. Knowing that under real-world circumstances one of his students had executed something that he’d taught made him feel like his wretched fifth year at Hogwarts had been worthwhile.
The urge to get his bicycle back on the road was strong, but Harry felt that he needed to jot a quick note to Hermione before he hit the road.
Dear Hermione,
I had the oddest dream this morning; set in your parents’ dining room. There were no people about, just the stuff that’s normally there: dried flowers on the fireplace mantle along with a brass canister, a pie pan on the dining table with one small slice of apple pie. Nothing happened in the dream, other than watching the sunrise through the dining room window.
I got notes from Marietta, Cho and Dean today — all are doing well. Marietta wonders if you know how to reverse the hex that’s currently decorating her face. Dean has a Muggle girl friend (wasn’t he dating Ginny?) and Cho successfully routed some Dementors last weekend.
Did the chocolate hit the spot, or did your mum intercept it?
I’m hearing the road calling me. I’ll write again, soon.
Harry
Harry called Moey’s number, the only one he now knew by heart. It was busy. Harry had not made all that many phone calls in his life, so he didn’t know if this were unusual or not. He posted Hermione’s note in the Passbox, closed up the house and grabbed his bicycle from the garage. Just to keep things interesting, he chose a different route out of Little Whinging, meeting up eventually with the river road. It was another perfect day for a ride; not too hot, not too bright, not too windy. Harry gave the dark cloud front a worried look, but figured that a little rain wouldn’t destroy his morning ride. From time to time he’d check — in front, on the sides, behind him; no other riders were visible in any direction. Pacing himself, he set a goal of getting to the gazebo by the well before he took a break. Bending forward, he pumped the pedals at an even pace. He reckoned that he could keep this pace for an hour or more without flagging. His mind was idle, he was drinking in the signs and sounds in time and in tune with the rhythm of his bicycle. As he approached the gazebo he felt a stand of something across his face; evidently he’d snapped a thread of spider silk. Harry lifted a hand to stroke both sides of his face; whatever it had been, it wasn’t there any more.
As he got closer to the gazebo, he noticed Laurel’s bicycle propped up against one of the pillars. It was odd to find her out here all this way from Little Whinging, but nothing about her surprised him anymore. She was sitting down on one of the benches, pouring some steaming liquid from a vacuum bottle. Looking up as he came under the arch of the gazebo she said "Latte?"
Harry’s first response was caution. "I took a gin-gin from Abelard last night and had weird dreams all night long," he thought to himself, but Laurel was safe. "Sure, if you have enough," he replied.
"I’ve got a quart, I think I can spare a cup. I was on a stakeout last night, got in this morning, and was just about ready to turn in when I got Moey’s call. Teach me to leave my fireplace connected to the Floo network."
"I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a burden for you."
"You’re not, Harry. I’m just a cranky old lady this morning, rankled that my superiors don’t look at my schedule before calling me. Riding with you is a pleasure; I’d do it even if I wasn’t getting time and a half for every hour over 18 that I work on one shift." Laurel smiled wanly and handed Harry the cup she’d just poured. She poured herself another, this one twice the size of Harry’s cup. "Pay attention to the blue band at the bottom of the cup — twist it to the right and your latte gets hotter, twist it to the left, it’s colder. Twist it all the way to the left and you’ve got a wonderful latte Popsicle without a stick."
"So what happens if I twist it all the way to the right?"
"You get boiling coffee all over your lap — guaranteed way to ruin your morning, which is why I never use these cups at home."
The oldish woman and the youngish man sipped hot coffee for a while. Laurel broke the silence.
"So, what’s the matter, don’t like our company any more?"
"What do you mean?"
"Taking off without letting us follow."
"I called. Moey’s line was busy."
"She didn’t tell me that."
"So, how did you find me?"
"Maps."
"Maps?"
"Yeah, neatest thing, those maps. Some guy named Remus from the Order developed them."
"Remus Lupin, you mean. He’s my guardian," Harry said with some small measure of pride.
"That’s him. Didn’t know if you knew him or not." Spreading out several parchments for Harry’s review, Laurel pointed to the smallest map. "This shows a 50 kilometer radius from number four, Privet Drive; major roads and geographic landmarks are indicated; all magical creatures and persons show up too." Harry looked at the map, which bore more than a passing resemblance to the Marauder’s Map. There was a tiny marking at the edge of the map for "Pump house Oasis" which was accompanied by two black dots with labels: "Laurel, Auror" and "H. Potter, Student."
"Fascinating," Harry said, not letting on that he had the predecessor to this map in a carefully wrapped bundle in his school trunk.
"Yeah, we have a more detailed map of the five kilometer radius around your aunt’s estate and a couple of maps that are in-between. I got the call from Moey, scrambled to find you on the map, figured that you were heading here, Apparated here with all my gear and settled in for a refreshing power nap."
"You weren’t sleeping when I got here," Harry protested.
"Old Auror trick, Harry. After Apparating here, I set a charm on the 50 kilometer map so that if any new magical creatures or persons appeared, an alarm would ring. Next, I set a Gossamer ward on the roads leading to this pump house a tenth of a mile off. When you broke the Gossamer ward, it set off a different alarm, letting me know that company was coming."
"Does the Gossamer ward feel like snapping a strand of spider silk?" Harry asked.
"Sure does."
"I felt that on my face as I rode here. Thought it was odd that I could feel it, but never saw the spider silk."
"Well, it’s called a Gossamer ward for a reason, Harry. Unlike other wards, it doesn’t keep a blessed thing out, but it’s right useful when you know how to link it to other charms. You won’t find it in the standard charms book at school, it’s only taught in the Auror apprenticeship."
"Ok, I can say that I learned something today."
"Not a total waste, eh?"
"Good day for a ride."
Laurel looked to the sky and back at Harry. "Aye, that it is. How was your meeting with Abelard?"
"About as bizarre as having tea with Tonks, except that he’s not nearly as charming or good looking."
"He always was a bit odd, that one."
"You know him?"
"He saved my first husband’s life during the First War. I met him briefly when he was visiting my husband at St. Mungo’s. After that, I pleaded with Winston to quit Magical Law Enforcement. He refused, of course. He died a year later, apprehending the Lestranges after they tortured the Longbottoms."
"Bit of a waste, wasn’t it, saving his life only to have him killed a year later?" Harry asked. As the words left his mouth, he knew that he’d uttered something horrid, but had no power to take the words back.
"I thought so at first. I kept a journal the first year that I was widowed. I tallied up all the times that we ate dinner together that year, how many times I made him breakfast, how many times he’d told me that he loved me before we fell asleep, how many times we kissed. It was the best year of my life." Tears were welling up in Laurel’s eyes. "How much would you pay for another year with Sirius Black?"
"I’d give all the gold in Gringotts just to have him back for another day," Harry replied, choking up as he said it.
"So," Laurel said, blowing her nose and taking a long draw on her coffee, "it wasn’t a waste by any means. He’s as odd as they come, but I think the world of Abelard."
"He’s going to be my tutor — I’ll be working with him for the rest of the summer."
"I’m surprised that he took the job."
"Why’s that?" Harry asked, remembering Tonks’ comment from the prior night.
"Word has it he had quite a row with Dumbledore a number of years ago. Showed up at his office, started smashing things right and left. He destroyed most every tool and trophy in the office before he stomped out, saying he was leaving Britain. As far as I know, he’d kept that promise until last night."
"What was the row over?" Harry asked, remembering his own evening, smashing up Dumbledore’s office.
"Dumbledore’s told you nothing about it?"
"Apparently it’s one item on a long list of things that he’s never told me about. I’d never heard Abelard’s name until you mentioned it yesterday."
"Have some more coffee, Harry, this is going to be a bit of a tale." Laurel topped off Harry’s cup and refilled her own. "How much do they teach about the First War in school?"
"Practically nothing — the rise of Voldemort isn’t covered until seventh year in History of Magic, and by then not many students are taking the class."
"I can’t say it’s changed any since my day; it was worthless then too." Laurel took a long slurp from her cup and began her tale. "When the War began, the British Ministry of Magic had five Seers in its employ, a record number, I might add. Four of the lot had apprenticed under Abelard. The Department of Mysteries recognized Abelard as a Seer, but he had no official standing with the Ministry and intended to keep it that way. The Death Eaters had three Seers, two of whom had apprenticed under Abelard. Voldemort’s first blow against the Ministry was murdering all of the Ministry’s Seers. Took four the first night, killed the fifth the next night. Abelard was abroad, some say in India, others Africa. I don’t have a clue as to who’s right on that one. The Ministry refused to believe that these murders were anything other than a freakish bit of crime. Dumbledore saw them as the opening salvo in a larger war."
Laurel took another gulp of coffee. "Dumbledore reached out to Abelard and convinced him to assist the Order of the Phoenix for a time. There was a joint task force between a few Aurors who saw what was happening and the Order of the Phoenix. The task force tracked down and eliminated the Seers working for the Death Eaters."
"Eliminated?" Harry asked.
"They left in body bags, Harry. It wasn’t our finest hour in the war, but after that, the tide started to turn. That was the end to Abelard’s involvement, apart from the incident with my husband. He’d made a deal with Dumbledore."
"What sort of a deal?"
"In return for eliminating the Seers who were under Death Eater control, Dumbledore was responsible for the safety of Abelard’s last student."
"Who was that?" Harry asked, dreading that he already knew the answer.
"Your mum, Lily Evans. Abelard had spotted her during her seventh year at Hogwarts. She’d agreed to apprentice under him, but before she took her pledge, she changed her mind, married your dad and got pregnant with you. My sources say that Dumbledore and Abelard had many long, long arguments about that, but in the end, Dumbledore assured Abelard that he could keep Lily safe."
"The Fidelius Charm," Harry murmured.
"Exactly. Would have worked, too, if they hadn’t switched Secret Keepers at the end." Laurel stood, stowed her gear in the panniers of her bicycle and stretched like a very well fed cat. "Enough history for one morning. I believe that you came here to ride."
In silence they took off, rejoining the river road, going further north than Harry had ever gone before. Laurel showed him how to cross the river and get to the road that ran parallel on the other bank, riding south to the next bridge, backtracking until Harry knew where he was again.
It was a good thing that Laurel was leading, as Harry’s heart was breaking again. Losing his parents had been the first wound in his life, and this primal wound never seemed to heal. It seemed that every year he spent in the magical world brought a new layer of pain where he’d find out yet more of the darkness that surrounded their betrayal and death.
It began to rain.
There are many types of rain that can fall on riders. Some rains reduce visibility to a few feet, causing all who are not lunatics to seek refuge until the rain passes. Another type of rain will stop and start again, never declaring its intentions until it disappears in the same manner as it arrived. Today’s rain was a slight, steady rain that provided a welcome cooling. Other than the bother this rain caused with Harry’s glasses, it was entirely welcome, as it covered the tears on his cheeks quite nicely.
Laurel took her leave wordlessly as they entered the estate near number four, Privet Drive. If she’d noticed the tears on Harry’s face among the raindrops, she didn’t mention it. Harry seldom cried, and never in public, but he didn’t feel exposed in front of Laurel, as long as she didn’t say anything about it. As he parked his bicycle in the garage, he noted that Aunt Petunia had returned. Harry looked down at his shoes and resigned himself to the inevitable. He was soaking wet. The only way into the house from here was through the kitchen, past Aunt Petunia. Standing on the bristling doormat in the garage, Harry stripped off his shoes and socks, hoping to drip less water when he came into the house. He opened the door, holding his shoes before him.
"MY FLOOR!" Aunt Petunia screeched. Harry scrambled past her, ignoring the rant that followed him up the stairs. He’d heard it hundreds of times during his years at Privet Drive, and no doubt would hear it a dozen or so times more before he turned 17 next summer. Once in his room, Harry stripped until he was starkers. Toweling off, he hurriedly dressed, tossing his wet clothes into the dark clothes hamper, dragging it down to the laundry. His socks, which were white before the ride, should really be washed with the white clothes, but if he put wet socks into the hamper, he’d never hear the end of it. Better to get gray, motley socks than put up with more screeching from Aunt Petunia. A Drying charm could solve all of these problems, but that was out of reach for another 13 months.
Aunt Petunia’s rant had run its course by the time Harry reached the kitchen; all that remained was a sour expression on her face. She watched him wordlessly as he mopped the entryway leading to the garage. He rinsed the mop expertly, put it away and disappeared up the stairs. "Well, nothing like a little screaming to make a bloke feel better when he’s blue," he thought to himself as he made his way up to his room.
Two knobs were lit on the Passbox when he entered his room: Granger and Weasley. Harry pulled both notes out, feeling his mood lift without even opening them. He started with the Granger note first — this note was from the younger Granger.
Dear Harry,
I’m not ignoring your little notes. We had company last night and I didn’t check the Passbox until it was quite late. There’s not much written on Abelard that I can find here at my house. I know that he wrote the definitive text on Divination and Probability Theory. I haven’t read it, but I’ve picked it up from time to time when I’d wait in Professor Vector’s office over the last three years. Given the copyright date, I’d assumed that Abelard was dead already, but apparently he’s very much alive.
Yes, I did get the chocolate. THANK YOU! No, I did not eat it all at one sitting. It meant a lot, first that you sent it to me, and second, that I got it when I needed cheering badly. It was almost as good as seeing you, in person, when you’re happy.
Your dream shocked me. It’s an exact depiction of my parents’ dining room as of this morning. I ate the last piece of pie as part of my breakfast (it was delicious, had you been here I’d have shared, but you weren’t here, so I ATE IT ALL!) Apparently hanging in with Trelawney’s class has paid off; it looks like Farsight to me.
As to Marietta’s hex, it will resolve itself if and only if she expresses remorse to one or more members of the D.A. To do that I suppose that she’s got to regain her memory. Otherwise she doesn’t really know over what she’s expressing remorse.
I’m not surprised about Cho. There are many who think she’s a lightweight hose pipe, but I’ve always thought she was resourceful, notwithstanding her taste in men. Dean? I have no opinion either way. I, too, thought that he was dating Ginny, but I’ve often been wrong about that type of thing.
Well, I’ve got to run. Mum is calling me, the roads of England beckon, I’m off to spend more time behind the wheel.
Love from,
Hermione
Dear Harry.
How are the Muggles treating you?
I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. We’ll start with the bad news.
I’m grounded.
I’m not quite sure how long I’m grounded, but definitely for the rest of the month, and maybe for the rest of the summer. The short story is that I was fighting with Ginny and Mum caught us. The long story is a bit more interesting, although I’m not really proud of it.
I was chatting with Mum about things, and she asked me about Dean. One thing led to another, and it hit me that Dean hasn’t written Ginny all summer. I started talking to Ginny about this after breakfast, trying to point out that a proper boyfriend would have written by now, when BAM, out of the blue, Ginny slaps me. She stared at me; looking like she was going to hyperventilate or something, and then she started screaming at me. She screamed for quite a while, letting me know what a lout I’ve been to her, how I used to be her best friend, but that now I’m just trying to run her life and stick my nose into her business. She said something about how she’d never been dating Dean, and had only told me that she was when we were on the Express so as to shut me up, then she took quite a tangent and said a lot of other hateful things. When she ran out of things to say she was staring at me, still panting. Next, she hit me with a left to the gut and kneed me in the crotch. Then she ran away.
I chased after her. All right, I lay crumpled on the floor for a moment and then I chased after her. We ran though the house, out of the house, around the sheds and the chicken coop, past the lake and into the orchard. In light of current events, I always have my wand with me, so it’s not too surprising that I started throwing hexes at her. I finally cornered her by the grain crib. She pulled out her wand and blasted me with the scalping hex.
As you probably haven’t run across that one yet, it’s a real stinker of a hex. For about 30 seconds the skin on your scalp expands like your head is a balloon, then it snaps back to its normal shape and size. By the time it does this, however, all the capillaries under your scalp have ruptured and your hair, (other than your eyebrows and eyelashes) has all fallen out. Let me tell you, it hurts. I was on the ground again, blinded with pain.
To Ginny’s credit, she ran to Mum for help. Mum did what she could to stop the bleeding and start healing my scalp, but I now have a shiny head without a speck of hair. The hair will grow out, eventually.
Ginny’s grounded too.
I haven’t had a chance to talk to her since then. I waited until I knew she was out degnoming the garden to post this letter. Mum advises that I not speak to Ginny until tomorrow, at which time I think she’s going to mediate between us, but then again, maybe I’ll just be shut up in my room for the rest of the summer. I really feel bad about this. I’ll probably feel worse after Dad gets home.
On the flip side, the Cannons are doing really well this week, not that I’ll be likely to be hearing any of their games for the rest of the summer — Mum hasn’t cut off reading the Prophet’s sports page yet, so I can still follow their progress.
I started off stating that this was good news and bad news. You have quite a complete picture of the bad news. Being a smart guy, you can figure out the good news yourself.
With any luck, you’ll be visiting the Burrow for your birthday. I expect that I’ll be writing lots more letters, so get ready to write me back, as I need all the encouragement I can get right now, I’m feeling lower than Dobby’s drawers right now.
Your stupid friend,
Ron
Harry got a few good laughs over this note, thinking of what he’d say to Ron to tease him about his new hairstyle or lack thereof. There were definite drawbacks to having two hot-tempered teens living under one roof. Harry wondered when Molly was going to go white with worry. He supposed that if the twins hadn’t done it by now, she must be somehow impervious to the stress of it all. Perhaps it was that she didn’t suffer in silence. He remembered reading something in Combat Charms and Countercurses about the Scalping Hex. Maybe there was a treatment listed in that book, he’d have to check it after dinner.
Harry jotted off three quick notes: to Hermione, to Ron, and to Marietta. Harry figured that Cho’s note didn’t require an immediate reply — responding too quickly might send the message that he was desperate to get back into her good graces, which was not the case. She was all right as an ex-girlfriend, and Harry would definitely have a chat with her once school began, but the status quo was just fine right now.
Hermione’s note was a brief condensation of Ron’s story — he suspected that she’d hear full-length tales from one or both of the guilty parties, but news like this had to be passed on. Ron got a brief note of encouragement. Marietta’s note was a bit longer. Harry spelled out that she needed to be checked for the effect of a Memory charm, and that once her memory was intact, she needed to find a member of the D.A. and apologize.
All three notes were posted to the Passbox. Feeling like he’d had a full day already, Harry worked a bit on the family laundry, volunteered to polish off his pre-dinner chores, and then curled up in his room for some applied research in Combat Charms and Countercurses before dinner. It was as he recollected, there was no countercurse for the hair loss, just a simple Healing charm for the burst blood vessels, which Molly had already applied.
Dinner was uneventful and not in the least memorable. After cleaning up from dinner, Harry went back to his room for another session of study. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and he needed to pay attention once his tutor arrived.
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Copyright Ó 2003 J Cornell, all rights reserved.
Author’s note: In the UK, houses aren’t located in neighborhoods; they are set in estates. (Don’t ask me what the British Mr. Rogers sings at the beginning of the show, I don’t know.) My brit-picking friend (the steadfast Werff) pointed this out to me, and I’ve been trying to apply it consistently, but my Beta (the wonderful Aibhinn) pointed out that the word usage looks funny to the American reader.
The disclaimer found in the Prologue applies here; stop looking for it already.
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