The Letters of Summer
The Big One
By kokopelli
Chapter 7 — The Big One
When Harry woke, he was looking forward to the day: breakfast, chores, a good ride; maybe he’d finish that letter to Ginny he’d been working on since he’d returned to Privet Drive. He stopped short when he saw that the Grimmauld Place knob on the Passbox was lit. Opening the door, he pulled out a lilac coloured scrap of parchment. Written on it in green ink was a terse note:
Harry,
Mrs. Figg’s garden at 8:00 pm.
Tonks
"It must be the tutor," Harry mused to himself.
Harry toyed with the notion of a fancy breakfast because he was feeling good, but concluded in the end that he didn’t like the Dursleys enough to make that much fuss over their breakfast. Breakfast was served, eaten and cleaned up without incident. If the Dursleys had noticed that he’d been gone for the past two days, they took pains not to mention it.
~+~
Another Ride
As was often the case, Harry heard her coming before he saw her. The timbre of the derailleur clicking was deeper on Laurel's bicycle than on Moey's. Looking back in his mirror, he saw the familiar yellow wraparound sunglasses, a gray jacket with matching pants, and, in full Hufflepuff pride, a black and yellow helmet. As Harry banked into the curve, Laurel began to creep closer. By the time he'd straightened out from the turn, she was even with him.
"Good morning, Mr. Potter. Are you under the weather or just woolgathering this morning?"
"I'm feeling fine, so I must be woolgathering, whatever that is."
"It's an old, honorable figure of speech for when your mind is freely wandering. Given the smile on your face, I'd say it's a girl."
"Am I that obvious?" Harry thought to himself. "Did you train as a Legilimens before becoming an Auror?"
"Nah, I'm just three times your age — what I don't remember from being your age, I fill in with what I remember from watching my own kids."
"Tell me about your kids," Harry asked, not because he was particularly interested, but because he knew that most adults of a certain age liked to talk about their children. Harry was better at listening than making small talk.
"Sorry, Mr. Potter, we've got rules."
"What sort of rules?"
"Stupid rules, Mr. Potter, stupid rules."
"How stupid?"
"Aurors on protective detail aren't supposed to tell their principal their last name, or anything about their families, if any. Do you know how hard it is for me to not talk about my kids?"
"That's weird all right."
"Tell me about it, Mr. Potter."
"So, Laurel, what do you tell your bosses about what we talk about?"
"Not a blessed thing."
"How's that?"
"That, Mr. Potter, is one of the rules that makes sense. I'm on a protective detail — if I'm going to protect you, you've got to trust me. You're not going to trust me if you think that I'm blabbing to every Tom, Dick and Cornelius working in the Ministry. By the way, Mr. Potter, you’ve been upgraded from protective surveillance to protective detail courtesy of your first run in with Moey."
"I'm glad that something good came out of that."
"Well, they couldn't very well fire her when she'd warned them that you were likely to take things into your own hands if you thought you were being followed."
They continued to chat as the rode along the river road. It was a pleasantly warm day with just enough cloud cover to keep it from becoming uncomfortably hot. Laurel regaled him with tales from her prior life, before Auror training, carefully eliminating names and dates. Harry concluded that there was a wild child still lurking inside this well-padded grandmother, which explained applying for, and being accepted into, the training program for the Auror reserves when she was well past 40. Harry was comfortable with Laurel, although he felt uncomfortable calling an adult by her first name to her face.
"Laurel?"
"Yes, Mr. Potter?"
"Why don't you call me Harry?"
"It's a point of respect, Mr. Potter. Would you feel more comfortable calling me by my last name?"
"Well, yeah, after all, you are old enough . . ."
"For your information, Mr. Potter, I'm not old enough to be your Grandmother, although I did do childminding jobs for women just a tad older than your mum. I still can't tell you my last name, but you can call me Ms. Laurel if that would make you feel better."
"It would, Ms. Laurel."
"So, Mr. Potter."
"Yes, Ms. Laurel?"
"Who is the girl?"
A month ago any probing questions would have been met with stony silence if asked by strangers, and with a snarl if asked by any but his closest friends. Harry's close friends knew better than to probe. Harry would share, but only when he was ready, not before. Today was different, because Harry had changed over the weekend. The internal, invisible wounds of the last year were at last beginning to heal, and after the events of the weekend, Harry had a glimmer of hope.
The night he'd spent as a dog, howling through the night with his guardian wolf, had cleansed him from the roiling anger and self-loathing that had displaced the rest of his emotions. He had a new guardian, the last friendly link to his parents. All of these changes, though welcome, were not surprising. What caught Harry by surprise was the hope that he'd gained when he'd danced with Ginny. She'd been a good friend this past year, although he hated to admit that he'd ignored her for years. As a general proposition, Harry knew that he liked girls, having the normal complement of hormones common to teenaged boys. His disastrous experience with Cho, however, had led him to the conclusion that he was some sort of freak who would end up as the male version of Mrs. Figg, living alone, talking to himself as he walked down the street. Dancing with Ginny had changed all that.
As he had held her during dances fast and slow he'd felt connected and alive. During the slowest dances she'd molded herself to him and he was painfully aware that she was a girl, soft and curved and warm. As he thought about that night afterwards, he'd concluded that he'd trade his Firebolt to experience that again. He knew, however, that he could never tell anyone about this last conclusion, although he figured that Hermione could and would drag it out of him someday, as she could pry things out of him that no one else could.
Laurel was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger, and certainly not as close to Harry as Hermione or Ron, his normal confidants. She was, however, trustworthy, safe and wise. Harry knew that within limits he could trust her, and he also knew that if he didn't talk about some of the issues roiling around inside of him that he'd burst. This ride was the perfect opportunity, as they were alone, apart from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. Looking straight ahead as he pedaled down the road, Harry surprised Laurel, and himself, opening up to answer her question.
"She's my best friend's sister."
"Miss Granger doesn't have a sister, she's an only child."
Harry smiled. "My other best friend, Ron Weasley."
"What's her name?"
"Ginny."
"Short for Virginia?"
"No, as best as I can tell, just Ginny."
"Do you have feelings for her?"
"I haven't the foggiest notion."
"So what's the problem?"
"I think she's already got a boyfriend."
"That could be challenging."
"He’s one of my roommates at school."
"Oh, now that would be a problem. Girlfriends come and girlfriends go, but roommate changes need to be approved by head of House. Is that the only problem?"
"No."
"What else?"
"Well, there's the family. I don't know how they would feel about me being close to their daughter as I'm not exactly a safe bloke to be around these days."
"Tosh, you're plenty safe. I'm here."
"That's the point, Ms. Laurel, most boys my age don't need bodyguards."
"You've got a point there."
As they banked into another turn they were both silent. They'd gone further down the river road today than he'd ever gone with Moey. As they approached a fork in the road, Laurel pointed to the fork that led away from the river. A quarter mile down this road there were stone benches beside the road, sitting beneath an ivy-covered gazebo. Next to the gazebo was an iron water pump. As they approached the gazebo, Laurel spoke.
"We stop here."
Laurel leaned her bicycle against the gazebo and took off her helmet. Reaching behind her to free her hair from its clasp, she shook her hair from side to side and stretched her arms high overhead.
"Get your bottle, Mr. Potter, the water from this well is always cold and very sweet."
Laurel began to pump the iron handle. On the third stroke water began to gush from the spout. Harry filled Laurel's bottle and then his own. He washed his face and hands in the bracing cold stream of water and then changed places with Laurel, working the pump so that she could wash her hands and face.
"So, Mr. Potter. You fancy a girl, but you're not sure how she feels about you. You're not sure how her family might feel about her being with a high-risk friend. Is that all that's bothering you?"
"No," Harry replied. There was a long silence. Harry stopped pumping and looked off into the distance. "I'm haunted by what happens if we start something and the relationship goes to worms. So many guys at school will go out with a girl for a while, then things blow up and they never talk to each other again. Outside of the Dursleys, who are horrid, the Weasley family is all I’ve got. If things go sour and I can’t see the Weasleys again, I’m wiped out."
"I think I see your situation."
"So, what’s the answer?"
Laurel snorted. "Such a male approach — ‘how do I fix this?’ Girls, we’d spend the afternoon agonizing about this before we’d ever even think of fixing it." She took a long pull from her water bottle. "Let’s break this down into parts — first you need to find out if she’s available and interested. If you’ve got brass balls you’ll just up and ask her. If you’re like the rest of us, you’ll ask one of her close friends. Next, you’ll need to talk to her and to her family, not necessarily in that order, about the dangers you face. The last problem is actually not that difficult. If you are always a gentleman with her and treat her with respect, one or the other of you may decide to pull the plug, but you’ll not crash. It can be done. I buried my first husband and divorced my second. I still have dinner on the holidays with my ex-in-laws, it’s just my ex that I don’t talk to before I’ve had my morning coffee."
"You make it all sound so simple."
"It is simple, it just isn’t easy."
Harry clicked on his helmet, stowing his water bottle in its cage. Laurel took slightly longer to ready herself, as she had to adjust her hair until it was comfortable under her helmet.
"Mr. Potter, I either need less hair, or a bigger helmet."
"Get a bigger helmet, Ms. Laurel, your hair is pretty the way it is."
"Thank you, Mr. Potter, it’s nice to hear that."
"Ms. Laurel?"
"Mr. Potter."
"Thanks. For the chat — it’s been good to sort things out with you."
"Don’t mention it, Mr. Potter, you know I won’t."
"Yeah, I do," Harry said as he flashed a brief smile. He put his shoes back into his toe clips. The talking was over; it was time for a serious ride. Harry took the lead for the first ten minutes, riding hard. Without a word, Laurel overtook him, pulling up close in front of him, allowing Harry to coast behind her in the still air that followed her. They changed places thereafter every ten to fifteen minutes until they reached the outskirts of Little Whinging.
"Tonks says you’re meeting someone tonight."
"That’s right — I got a note from Tonks, telling me to drop by Mrs. Figg’s garden tonight around 8:00."
"Tonks is over at Arabella’s house today, checking the security wards. Mrs. Figg is gone today, visiting her sister in the Midlands. If you’re meeting whom I think you’re meeting, you are in for a treat."
"Who is it?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued.
"I’ve only got a guess — I thought he’d died after the First War with Voldemort. You wouldn’t know him, he’s older than Dumbledore."
"Is he on a wizard card?"
"Nah, he hates those."
"Whom are you going on about?"
"If my guess is right, you’re going to be meeting Abelard tonight."
"Abelard who?"
"No last name, just Abelard."
"What can you tell me about him?"
"That comes under the category of things I can’t talk about, Mr. Potter. Ask Miss Granger, I’m sure she’s got a paragraph on him in one of her books."
"How do you know Hermione?"
"I set up the security wards at her parents’ house last Sunday, the day her fireplace got connected to the Floo network. Never saw a house with as many books as that one. Pretty girl, got her looks from her Mum, her hair from her Dad."
As they passed the Little Whinging playground, Laurel dropped behind Harry. Once again, when he checked his mirror next, she was gone.
~+~
The letter
The house was empty when Harry returned, which was good, because he didn’t want to be interrupted. He ate a quick lunch, cleaned up all traces that he’d ever been in the kitchen and went upstairs. The Passbox was empty; all knobs were dark. He jotted off a quick note to Hermione, asking her what she knew about a wizard named Abelard. He didn’t feel like waiting for a response, but then again, he didn’t want to ring her up on the Dursleys’ phone for such a magical conversation. Harry put this on his mental list of things he hated about living with the Dursleys.
Harry pulled out the last draft of the letter, the one that had been ruined in the rain. He couldn’t make heads or tails of what he’d written in the letter, which was probably a good thing. If Dudley had read this letter instead of Ginny’s note the other day there would have been big trouble. He pulled blank parchment and a new bottle of ink from the desk drawer. Laurel was right: it was simple; it just wasn’t easy. He began to write, slowly at first, and then it began to flow. Having written and rewritten it several times, he did this draft without errors or smudges. His handwriting was no great triumph in penmanship, but it was readable, which was the point. He scanned it over again, folded it in half and wrote her name on the back of the sheets. He began to whistle, stopping himself when he realized the tune he’d been whistling: - "Weasley is our King" - then pulling the Burrow knob on the Passbox. He hesitated briefly before closing the door, and then gently pushed it shut. There was a quiet hiss as the chamber emptied itself. Harry then went to his trunk, pulling out the last of his clean clothes for a quick shower. He’d do his laundry before dinner and then go off to meet the new Tutor. Given Dumbledore’s track record in hiring, Harry had some misgivings about the meeting, but he crossed his fingers and hoped for the best.
~+~
It had been a day of chores and errands for Ginny, hauling a load of produce to Mrs. Miller’s house for sale at the market; returning to the Burrow for cleaning, sorting and counting; another trip into Ottery St. Catchpole, this time with Mum for groceries to replenish the pantry. In between there were breakfast and lunch dishes. There was a bit of a break before dinner, giving her time to head to her room. She’d intended to pull out the Muggle novel that Hermione had sent, polishing off a chapter or two outside while the sunlight was still good enough for reading under a tree. The Passbox had mail; specifically, the Potter knob on the Passbox was lit. Ginny approached the box as if Fred and George had loaded it. She reached out her hand, hesitated, and then pulled the knob, opening the door. Inside was a thick bundle of parchment, folded in half with her name written on the outside in a familiar hand. "He wasn’t kidding, this really is the big one," she thought. As she reached for the parchment the only thing she could think was "I am really going to wet my pants." A quick visit to the loo brought some relief. To maintain her dignity, she waited until she was back in her bedroom, sitting by the window for light. She’d locked the door, wanting to not be disturbed by anyone or anything. "I’m such a coward, this is probably nothing but his shopping list for next term," she thought.
Opening the note, she smiled as she read. As she read on, she was certainly glad that she had visited the loo, as she would have wet her pants if she had had to read this with a full bladder. Some things were jarringly odd, others were touching, others frighteningly accurate, while still others evoked trains of memory that carried her back through the past five years, stopping at stations good and bad. She tucked the letter into her waistband and pulled her blouse over it. Unlocking the door, she went down the stairs as fast as possible without Apparating. Her mind was racing; her pulse was going through the roof. She had to discuss this with someone she could trust, someone who wouldn’t tease her, who understood how her heart had ached for years. She had to talk to Hermione.
"Mum! Can I use the fire to call Hermione by Floo?"
"Of course, dear. Let me set it up, the Grangers are at a restricted address."
"Restricted address, what’s that about?" Ginny thought to herself.
Molly picked up a small stoneware jar from the fireplace mantle, poking the fireplace into a cheery green blaze with her wand. Throwing a pinch of Floo powder into the fire, she spoke softly but clearly "Nexus Silver Otter." Turning to face her daughter, she said, "You forget what you just heard now. The Granger’s Floo connection is code word protected; not just any Tom, Dick or Harry can call them or pop through their fireplace. I don’t think they’d mind Harry, though, now that I think of it."
"Thanks, Mum, I can take it from here," Ginny replied.
Bending down to the hearth, Ginny said "Grangers’" and stuck her head into the flames, fighting the churning in her stomach as her head was transported to a hearth halfway across Britain. She’d been to the house before, so things were vaguely familiar, but the perspective from the hearth was always different.
"Hermione! Are you home? This is Ginny, I really need to talk to you!"
Ginny heard a clatter from the kitchen and the sound of women’s shoes clacking across the tile floor into the living room. Monica Granger walked into sight, startling briefly at the sight of a pert redhead sticking out of her fireplace, which just a moment ago did not have any fire in it.
"Oh, hello, Ginny. Hermione’s upstairs. I’ll go get her."
Monica walked out of sight. Ginny heard Hermione’s mum calling her, followed by the sound of a teenager rocketing down the stairs.
"What’s up, Mastermind?" Hermione greeted.
"Uh, Hermione, can I come over and talk, right now? It’s really, really important."
"Sure, Ginny. Let me ask Mum. Mum? Can Ginny come over for dinner?" Hermione called to Monica, who was somewhere out of sight.
"Fine with me, if it’s okay with her mother."
Ginny didn’t wait for the message to be relayed to her through Hermione. Pulling her head out of the fireplace, she burst into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding knocking her mother over as she was bent over the open oven door. Molly looked at Ginny, holding her hand up for silence.
"First, I heard what you asked and what Monica said, and it’s fine that you go. Your brother doesn’t know that the Grangers’ Floo connection is open, and I’d very much appreciate it if you’d not tell him the code word for opening the connection, or I’ll have to have it changed again, but there’s a price for this, young lady."
"What’s that Mum?"
Poking the barely concealed bulge at her daughter’s middle, Molly said, "I get to read the note when you get back."
"Mum!" Ginny protested, knowing that in the end she’d surrender the letter.
"Off with you! Call me if you want to stay overnight. No code word is necessary for opening the connection on their end. They’ve got Floo powder in a brass jar on their mantle." Molly looked at Ginny briefly, got a kiss on the cheek from her daughter, who dove into the green flames with a shout of,
"Grangers’!"
~+~
The fireplace at Grangers’ house belched a great green fireball into the living room. Skidding out of the fireball, across the flagstone floor was a small,red-haired girl who came to a stop at Monica Granger’s feet, leaving a trail of fine soot behind her. The fireplace hiccupped once and went dark.
"Hello, Ginny, marvelous that you can come visit us. Is Floo travel always like this?" Monica asked.
Ginny coughed once, brushed the soot from her face and stood up with assistance from Hermione. "Pretty much, Mrs. Granger, pretty much. I skid farther than most people in my family, Dad thinks it’s because I’m lighter."
"Oh, very well then, I’m back to the kitchen. Dinner will be at half past six."
"Thanks, Mum," Hermione said. Turning round to her girlfriend she said, "So, what’s the big rush, did you get your Hogwarts letter and make Prefect?"
Ginny stared at Hermione as if she’d slapped her. "What are you talking about? The only way I’ll make prefect is if 16 Gryffindor girls in my year drop dead!"
"Ginny, there are only 17 Gryffindor girls in your year," Hermione answered.
"That’s what I mean, the only way I’d make Prefect would be if the rest of them dropped off of the face of the earth," Ginny replied.
"So what is it?"
"Not here, upstairs."
Racing upstairs, the two friends burst into Hermione’s room, slamming the door after them. Ginny brushed off the remaining soot from the Floo trip, checking her hair in the mirror.
"All right, cough up," Hermione demanded, using her best Prefect’s voice, turning Ginny away from the mirror.
"What you are about to hear never ever leaves this room, okay?" Ginny asked.
Hermione stood at attention, making the Girl Guide salute. "Guide’s honor."
"You were a Girl Guide?"
"Right up to the time I started at Hogwarts. I’d still be one, but they don’t have a chapter at Hogsmeade."
Ginny slowly lifted her blouse, pulling out the letter from her waistband. "It’s happening, Hermione, it’s finally happening," Ginny gushed. She’d discussed over and over again with Hermione how she’d felt about Harry, and how she felt invisible whenever she was around him. It had been the ongoing topic of many of their girl-to-girl talks.
Hermione took the letter from Ginny, sinking down onto her bed. She read the letter through quickly, and then started over again at the beginning. Looking up at Ginny with watery eyes, she asked, "Is all this correct?"
"Pretty much," she answered. "There’s a few things that I don’t recall, but they sound right."
"Well, if you want more confirmation, take a look at the letter he sent me on Sunday," Hermione said, wandering to her desk to retrieve Harry’s latest letter.
Ginny read that letter with great interest, clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter halfway through. "He thinks I’m dating Dean!" she squealed.
"Ginny, I think you’re dating Dean, along with half of Gryffindor! Aren’t you?" Hermione asked.
"Hermione, I just said that on the train to shut my brother up!"
Hermione was silent for a while, looking out the window. Turning back to Ginny she said: "Yeah, well, be a little more careful with your disinformation next time; this fib is getting too much traction. You may have cooked your goose, my friend."
"How’s that?"
"I know Harry, boy do I know Harry, and there’s one thing he’d never, ever do."
"What’s that?"
"He’d never double cross one of his mates, not even for a girl."
"What are you saying?"
"As long as Harry thinks you are dating Dean Thomas, he will treat you like you’re a Blast Ended Skrewt."
"Oh," Ginny said.
She sat at the foot of Hermione’s bed, slumping. Her mind was racing, her hands were picking at the hem of her blouse, pinching and twisting the fabric. "When I came over here, I was the happiest girl in all England. Now I’m toast, Hermione, I’m toast. This is so bloody unfair!" Ginny’s eyes began to glisten. Soon the tears would start streaming.
"Language, Ginny. Who made you lie to your brother about Dean?"
"I know, I know, I’ve dug my own hole and fallen in. That doesn’t mean that I have to be happy about it."
Monica rapped on the door. "Hermione, dear, it’s time to set the table, dinner is almost ready."
"Coming Mum!" she replied. "There’s a solution here somewhere, Ginny. I’m not going to let you get this close just to crash. We’ll talk more after dinner, okay?"
"Sure, Hermione. I’m just glad I have you to talk through all this." She turned to wipe her eyes and compose herself, taking a deep breath.
"Gryffindor girls have to stick together."
~+~
Dinner at the Grangers’ was subdued, but interesting. The conversation alternated between Monica and Albert telling amusing (but slightly embarrassing) stories from Hermione’s childhood and Albert quizzing Ginny on her upbringing at the Burrow and life at Hogwarts. Ginny was in the middle of an explanation of how Quidditch was played, using the centerpiece, two slices of French bread and a salt shaker when Albert’s pager chimed. Albert pulled the offending pager off of his belt, looked at the number displayed and walked away from the table. The ladies remaining at the table could hear him place a phone call from the kitchen wall phone, but were not privy to the details. Moments later, Albert returned to the dining room.
"Monica, I’ve got to go into the surgery and attend to this afternoon’s patient. A wisdom tooth extraction has dry sockets and I’ve got to do something to stop the bleeding. I’m sorry, ladies, but duty calls. Monica, I’ll be out late. Ginny, it’s been a pleasure getting to know you, and I hope we can have you over again soon."
Albert crossed over to the end of the table, bussed his wife on the lips, bussed Hermione on the cheek, grabbed his cap and jacket and walked into the kitchen, exiting through the garage door.
Hermione looked at Ginny, cleared her throat, and said "Ginny, I think we should ask Mum for help with your predicament."
Ginny shot Hermione a look that could have removed paint from a battleship. Hermione returned the glare as if to say "You want to fix this or not?" Ginny surrendered, and then turned her gaze to Monica, with a look reminiscent of Filch examining a Hogwarts malefactor. "Can you keep a secret?" she asked.
Nodding in Hermione’s direction, Monica replied, "I’ve been keeping hers for years."
"All right then," Ginny replied.
Ginny raced up the stairs to Hermione’s room, returning moments later with Harry’s thin letter to Hermione and her thick letter of today. Hermione began to clear the table. Monica re-read Sunday’s letter to her daughter, then read today’s letter to Ginny. She slapped the table and then looked up, first at Hermione, then at Ginny smiling cryptically, saying, "So, I’m right, and you, Ginny, are the amourata."
"The what?" Ginny asked
"The object of Harry’s affections," Monica replied.
"I wouldn’t go that far, Mrs. Granger, but I do seem to have his attention," Ginny answered.
"Well, that’s the first step. Boys are slow, and you have to get their attention before anything else happens. You want the attention, am I correct? So what is the problem?"
"The problem is that Harry thinks that I’m dating one of his roommates from school."
"And are you?"
"No."
"Why does Harry think that?"
"Because I told my brother Ron that I was dating Dean, one of his roommates, so that Ron would get off my back."
"Ah, the light begins to shine. Now you are wondering how you dig your way out of this problem without looking like a lying dirtbag shrew."
"Mum!" Hermione protested.
"Just calling a spade a spade, dear," Monica replied.
"That’s about the sum of it, yeah," Ginny said, her neck turning a shade of red to match her hair.
"Have you discussed this with your mum?"
"My mum? No, not yet, we were going to do that when I got back from your house."
"Hermione, dear, could you fire up the fireplace so we can call Molly on this Floo thing?"
Ginny stood up, a host of emotions flashing across her face as she looked at Hermione, flashing her a "what have you gotten me into now, dear sister" look. Hermione stared back, communicating the calm she never applied to her own life’s challenges.
"I’d better do that, Mrs. Granger. Mum doesn’t want anybody to know that you’re hooked up to the Floo Network, and we don’t know who’s at the Burrow right now," Ginny said calmly.
"That would be fine — I think we need her perspective on this."
Ginny walked to the mantle and pulled down the round brass canister. Opening the container she pulled a small pinch of Floo powder from the can and soon had a smallish green fire blazing in the Granger fireplace. "The Burrow," she commanded. "Mum, are you there?" Ginny asked, sticking her head into the flames. A somewhat lengthy conversation went on for a minute, ending when Ginny pulled her head out of the waning flames. The fireplace went out of its own accord. "Mrs. Granger, could you be so kind as to open the back door? Mum will be Apparating to your back yard in a minute or so."
"Certainly, Ginny."
A moment later Molly Weasley came through the door, dressed in her best cloak over everyday robes, carrying the remains of an apple pie. "Lovely to see you again, Monica. If you can brew some tea, I’ve brought dessert." Turning to Ginny, she said: "So, can I assume that this has something to do with today’s Passbox post?"
"Yes, Mum."
"Hand it over dear, there’s no time like the present."
Ginny brought her Mum the two letters. Molly pulled reading glasses out of a pocket in her cloak, and began to read the mail. Ginny stood behind her, rereading the note while she tortured the hem of her blouse again.
Dear Ginny,
I’ve written and rewritten this letter a half a dozen times since I started it at Hogwarts. I had a pretty good draft going the night I fell asleep with my quill. My window was open, and it rained in the morning, so to add insult to injury, that draft got wiped out in the rain. So, here I am again, writing from scratch. I want to thank you again for the Passbox; it’s been brilliant this summer. I also want to apologize for how I’ve slighted you over the past few years, treating you like you were invisible. You weren’t invisible, at least not to me, but I did ignore you because my world was limited to classes, Ron, Hermione and Quidditch. In spite of all this, you’ve been a good friend to me; but you were wrong about one thing, my mastermind friend. I did notice you.
I noticed you the first day I saw your family on Platform 9 & 3/4 at King’s Cross Station. You were wearing a brown jumper and had a blue ribbon in your hair. At the end of that year I noticed you the morning you came down to breakfast in your nightgown, squeaking when you saw me — your nightgown was pale blue with yellow flowers on the sleeves. I remember your elbow mashing the butter at dinner that week, you seemed a bit jumpy around me; at breakfast, your bowl survived the drop to the floor, but your porridge did not. I noticed, and was grateful, when you took on Malfoy in the bookstore after my first run in with the great Gilderoy Lockhart. I just wish that I’d noticed you more at school that year when Tom had his hooks into you; perhaps I could have saved us both a lot of mess and pain. I’ve noticed a lot of things since that time too. Here’s my little list:
1. When you drink tea, you take sugar but no cream; unless it’s herbal tea, then you just take a tad of honey.
2. When you take coffee you take both cream and sugar.
3. You write right-handed, but play Quidditch ambidextrously (see, hanging out with Hermione has improved my mind; I can use big words properly).
4. When you’re fibbing about small things, you tend to look away; when challenged, you make eye contact, but you don’t blink, ever.
5. At home your hair smells like apples. At Hogwarts your hair smells like bitter melon.
6. You carry a watch, but never wear it on your wrist; instead, it’s in your pocket.
7. When you wear a bracelet, you wear it on your left wrist.
8. When you wear an ankle bracelet (yes, I look, I’m only a bloke) you wear it on your right ankle.
9. You never eat toast without butter.
10. You prefer apple butter to marmalade, and God help those who get between you and the strawberry jam at Hogwarts in the morning.
11. You like to stay up late at night, but rarely past 11:00 p.m..
12. You do not like morning.
13. You carry a tune nicely, and sing harmony on many songs.
14. I think you sing alto, but don’t hold me on that.
15. You know more French than I do (which isn’t saying much).
16. You like to take notes using coloured ink, but never use red ink.
17. You are a very good dancer. On some of the songs, you sing along with the music, singing the harmony part.
18. You prefer dark chocolate to milk chocolate, and think that white chocolate is gross.
19. At dinner you’ll often make a well in your mashed potatoes and fill it with vegetables.
20. You eat broccoli and cauliflower with a light drizzle of balsamic vinegar.
21. You know the difference between balsamic vinegar and apple cider vinegar.
22. At the end of the day, the first thing you do in the common room is take off your shoes.
23. I’ve never seen you wear shoes at the Burrow unless you are getting ready to go outside.
24. When you wear Muggle clothing, you dress modestly (you have no idea how much I appreciate this).
25. You got your ears pierced the summer of your third year, after the Triwizard tournament.
26. You can’t see Thestrals (be thankful).
27. Your Patronus is a dragon; Welsh Green, I think.
28. You didn’t write my singing Valentine, Fred and George are to blame for that.
29. When you buy things, you put the change in your left pocket and the receipt in your right pocket.
30. You don’t particularly like Fizzing Whizbees.
31. You do like Pepper Imps, especially after dinner.
32. You do better in Potions than I do.
33. Your hair is almost always up in a ponytail at meals, down when you’re studying, and dealer’s choice for classes.
34. When you are taking notes quickly, you randomly forget to cross your t’s.
35. You pick the green onions out of Hot and Sour Soup.
36. You don’t care for lima beans or brussels sprouts (I can’t blame you!).
37. Your favorite cake is chocolate.
38. Your favorite fruit pie is cherry, followed by apple. You don’t care much for pumpkin pie.
39. You like corned beef way more than Ron does.
40. You like strong mustard.
41. You drink coffee with your left hand.
42. When you put your hair up in a ponytail, you often miss a wisp of hair at the base of your neck, which is always curled in a semicircle.
43. You never button the top button of your blouse. (One of many salient differences between you and Hermione.)
44. When sunlight hits your eyes at just the right angle, flecks of gold appear in your irises.
45. You do crossword puzzles in ink.
46. You prefer gloves to mittens.
47. In the winter, you prefer scarves to hats.
48. You never wear rings.
49. Your ginger biscuits are as good as your mum’s.
50. On the night of Sirius’ wake you wore honeysuckle perfume. (I had to ask Aunt Petunia the name of the vine that grows on their garden wall after I came back from the wake. I’ve been trimming that blessed vine every spring for years, but never knew or cared what it was called until then.)
In earlier versions of this letter, I got this list up to one hundred items, but I think I’ve made my point. I’m moody, sullen, withdrawn, subject to bursts of anger, not very communicative, not very good at many aspects of social interaction, but I do notice things about other people, and I definitely noticed you.
Ever your friend,
Harry
Molly looked up from the letters. "Where did you get Honeysuckle perfume, Ginny?"
"From Penelope. She put it in my stocking two years ago at Christmas — it’s a Muggle perfume."
"That’s right — I’d forgotten. So, you have his attention. What seems to be the problem?" Molly asked.
Hermione and Ginny burst into a fit of nervous laughter as Monica brought a tea tray to the table. "That’s the same thing I asked, Molly, it must be the Mum line of the evening." Monica announced.
Drinking tea, eating pie, swapping stories, the three witches and one Muggle mum chatted on into the night, making plans that would never be discovered by any male alive. When they left, they had a plan and an agreement. Harry would never know what had hit him.
++++++++++++
Copyright Ó 2003 J Cornell — all rights reserved.
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