The Letters of Summer
The Day Before & The Evening After
By kokopelli
Chapter 6
The day before
&
the evening after
It was Friday. Harry had the card from Moey in his pocket. After breakfast and the morning chores, he waited in the kitchen until everyone was occupied elsewhere, then quietly picked up the phone, dialing the number Moey had given him. Harry heard one ring, a click and a quiet voice say "Hello, Harry."
"I'm leaving in five minutes, shall I meet you at the playground?"
"Make it fifteen minutes — look for two blue helmets," Moey replied cryptically. The line was dead. Evidently Moey was as talkative on the phone as she was in person. Harry puzzled about the two blue helmets, then figured that maybe one of the new Aurors was coming onto the security detail.
The bicycle tyres spat, making a zipping sound as they rolled across the pavement, still wet from the previous day's rain. Harry hadn't expected the trail of dirty water that sprayed up his back while he pedaled to the playground rendezvous, but he didn't care; he was out of the house and in motion again. He was not conscious of the elapsed time between when he’d left Privet Drive and when he reached the Little Whinging playground by a serpentine route — he was engaged in moving meditation, mulling over the twisted symbols of his prior night's dream. Harry scanned the playground before he coasted to a stop — no blue helmets; no humans of any age or size were on the lot. He leaned against the trunk of a middle-sized yew tree — he wasn't in the mood to sit down; the ground was still too damp. Harry closed his eyes briefly and heard the zipping sound of tyres spitting water on the pavement. He touched the handle of his wand, hoping not to embarrass himself as he did the first time he'd met Moey, but still wanting to be prepared. Moey was dressed much as she was two days ago, except that she wasn't yet wearing her wraparound sunglasses, and she had a thin blue jacket today. Moey's companion was an older, heavier woman, wearing yellow wraparound glasses. Harry noted that she was wearing three quarter length sleeves, and a wand was tucked into the inside of her right sleeve. Moey's wand, Harry reckoned, was in her hidden pocket again. Moey stopped a respectful distance away, facing Harry. He heard her whisper to her companion that she should keep her hands on her handlebars.
"Morning, Harry," Moey said.
"G'morning. What was the last thing I saw you eat?"
"Crisps. I handed you the bag and told you to keep them away from me. Do I pass Harry?"
"You pass, but I think you ate the apple for dessert after tossing me the crisps. You going to introduce your companion?"
"I was getting to that, Harry. Harry, this is Laurel, Laurel, this is the schoolboy who got the drop on me this week, the boy who intends to keep on living."
"It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Potter," Laurel said, extending her hand. She had a firm, businesslike grip. Harry tried to guess her age, but floundered — probably older than Aunt Petunia, but he wouldn't put any money on making a more specific guess.
"You a new Auror?" Harry asked diplomatically.
"Yes, Mr. Potter, but it's not my first career. I'm in the Reserves, non-stipendary."
Harry had no idea what a non-stipendary Auror did, or any notion that the Aurors had a reserve component, but he wasn't in the mood to talk. He'd come to ride, and he'd accommodate minders, but still chafed at being on a leash.
"Don't be fooled, Harry, she's not a socks knitting Granny, although she does knit, and she is a Grandmother — she busted a smuggling ring by spotting discrepancies in shipping documents during her apprenticeship, right nice piece of work, top of her class in surveillance. Changes the colour of her helmet on a regular basis without being told." Moey said with a deadpan expression.
Harry could tell that the banter was meant to put him at ease, but he didn't want to play Moey's games, no matter how witty. Harry put his right foot into his toeclip, pointed at the road he intended to take, got back onto the saddle of his bicycle and shoved off. He rode hard for a mile, checking his mirror from time to time to see the blue helmets bobbing behind him. He did crack a smile when he looked back and saw that the colour on each helmet had changed: Moey was now sporting a deep burgundy, Laurel was now wearing a yellow and black helmet that resembled a Hufflepuff scarf. He'd seen Cho wearing a Hufflepuff scarf on and off through last year — a gift from Cedric no doubt. He wondered briefly if Michael would convince her to wear his Ravenclaw colours. For Cho's sake, he hoped he would. Those random thoughts were banished as he leaned into a curve. The roads were beginning to dry up as the rising sun burned off the dampness. The next time Harry looked back, Moey's wraparound glasses were back on. As the glare on the road increased, Harry made a mental note to look into finding a pair of his own — hobbies became expensive, even when the big pieces are hand-me-downs.
They rode in silence, taking several short connecting roads until they had looped around and were headed back in the direction of Little Whinging. Laurel came up on his right; Moey came up on his left, riding silently as a six wheeled beast.
"Short ride today Mr. Potter?" Laurel asked.
"Yes, Ma'am. I've got to get back as soon as the grass is dry to mow the lawn — I've got to get that chore out of the way before the weekend," Harry answered. Although Laurel was much heavier than Moey, she kept pace with Harry's ride without puffing. Moey was making enough noise to let Harry know that he should dial the pace down, which he did, grudgingly.
"Ride much, Laurel?"
"I haven't done much in the last three years, during my apprenticeship, but before that I used to tour on weekends — best thing to clear the mind." Laurel smiled. "I thought it was a bit odd when everyone in my class was asked if they could ride a bicycle — five of us Muggleborns said yes along with a sixth who wasn't — a distant cousin of Arthur Weasley." Harry nodded at the last comment, the Weasley mania for all things Muggle needing no introduction.
"I'm heading back now," Harry said. When he looked in his mirror again, the women were gone. He pedaled into the estate leading to Privet Drive. The ride wasn't long enough for Harry's purposes, but the mowing would be good too. Busy was good, he could keep his mind away from recursive trains of thought when he was busy — it was the idle times when he'd get trapped, like the day before when he was lost in the abyss. He rolled up the driveway and dismounted, not as fancy as Moey, but nothing to be ashamed of either. He stowed the bicycle and broke out the mower. His new trainers would be green with grass stains by the time he finished, but that was inevitable, so as long as they were dry by the end of the day, Harry didn't mind.
After the lawn was mowed and the last clippings swept from the driveway, Harry stowed the mower and went for a shower. He thought of writing more letters but wasn't in the mood. He looked at his books, but wasn't in the mood for that either. With a grin, he pulled out the Wizard Wheeze Chess set. The white pieces behaved like Muggle pieces, at least until they were arranged on the board. The black pieces marched out in formation in response to the Queen's commands. Harry smiled when he noticed that the Queen had more than a passing resemblance to a certain Gryffindor prefect. As he stared at the details on the Queen, he noticed that she wasn't wearing the normal crown, but instead had a head of bushy hair and a tiara. This led him to examine the white King, who appeared to be the normal player. The kingside Knight, however, had more than a passing resemblance to another Gryffindor prefect, down to the tiny freckles on his shiny nose. Harry reckoned that Ron had never noticed, as he tended to tune certain details out — but he was sure that the twins had noticed - after all, they put the details in the pieces in the first place. Three games later, Harry had won a game, lost a game, and ground the last game to an inconclusive stalemate. It was a better day.
~+~
Sunday night was a cool, crisp night, more like fall than summer. The moon would rise soon, but it was waning now, having waxed full the night before. Remus Lupin, along with every other Lycanthrope on Wolfsbane Potion, was safe tonight, although his nerves were still pleasantly on edge. He walked with a dark haired boy, half a head shorter than himself, walking and talking in a pleasant conversation. They walked to the end of the driveway at Number 4 Privet Drive, laughed and walked around the block again. When they returned to the Dursley house this time, they walked up the driveway, entering the house through the kitchen door. Both men were dressed as Muggles for the occasion, although Harry carried a knapsack which contained, among other things, a new set of formal dress robes, complete with scarlet piped black mourning bands on the sleeves, the sign of a wizard mourning a death in the family. Once inside the kitchen, the two talked for another half hour, leaning against the refrigerator and stove respectively. They were aware of three pairs of eyes that were taking peeks at them as they talked, but they didn't care. If the Dursleys wanted to snoop, that was their concern. Remus finally drew himself straight, extended a hand, shook hands with his new ward, and left the house with a gentle click of the kitchen door. Harry lifted the curtain on the kitchen door, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lupin as he left the estate, but there was no trace of him, as he was already gone. Harry sighed, went to the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of milk, drank it, rinsed the glass, loaded it into the now full (and dirty) dishwasher, put soap in that machine, started it, and headed up the stairs to his room. The Hogwarts knob on the Passbox was lit; the others were dim. Harry withdrew a long, large envelope from the Passbox, sealed with Albus Dumbledore's personal seal. Breaking open the seal, Harry found copies of several lengthy documents that he glanced at briefly. Attached to the documents with a silver paperclip bent into the shape of a dragon was a brief note.
Harry,
I regret that I was not able to stay longer at the Wake, but pressing business called me elsewhere. Enclosed you will find copies of the documents appointing Remus Lupin as your guardian until you attain your Wizarding majority next year. It just so happened that a friendly member of the Wizengamot was on duty this weekend, and the petition was granted without hearing. Remus has already filed papers at Hogwarts granting you permission to attend Hogsmeade weekends, so there is no need to concern yourself on this topic.
I have it on good authority that we have obtained a suitable tutor in Occlumency — lessons will probably start this week. Until that time, you would be well advised to continue with your programme of exercise, along with suitable meditation before retiring to clear your mind. Darkness is still afoot, and the Second War has already begun. Your tutor may be trusted to the same extent that you trust me — your mother was once engaged to apprentice under him, but that was cut short when you were conceived, a happy, but fateful disruption of plans. Tonks will arrange the introduction.
I remain ever yours,
APWBD
Harry looked about, determined that he had no chores that couldn't wait until morning, and pulled out parchment to write a letter to Hermione.
~+~
Hermione was a creature of habit. To the best of her abilities, each day began and ended the same way, whether at home or at school. Crookshanks was perched in her bedroom window, looking like a ginger striped sphinx; he too was a creature of habit. He would watch Hermione prepare for bed until she turned out the lights. The moment the lights went out, he would jump out of the window and then jump onto the bed. Depending upon the season of the year, he’d either curl up at her feet or next to her head, purring like a small bus until Hermione was asleep, after which he would roam the house. He did the same thing during the school year, only then he’d wander the grounds. Hermione had often wondered how he got in and out of the Gryffindor Tower, as she had certainly never seen the Fat Lady open the portal for any one or any thing that didn’t have the proper password, but she’d never solved that mystery. She was ready for bed, dressed in a long, sleeveless cotton nightdress. Her teeth were brushed and flossed and now she was preparing herself for the hair ritual. Her hair was growing ever longer, and if she hoped to not look like a circus clown in the morning, she had to brush it out and braid it before falling asleep. Monica Granger took advantage of Hermione’s open door and wandered in while Hermione was attempting to break apart a particularly nasty knot at the end of her hair with her fingers.
"Let me do that, I haven’t brushed you out in ages."
"Oh, Mum, that would be wonderful."
If Hermione could purr, she would be purring to beat Crookshanks now. Time alone at the end of the day with her Mum was one of the few things she missed from her pre-Hogwarts days. Driving behind the wheel of the family Ford wasn’t quite the same thing.
"Your hair is about as long as mine was when I married your Dad. I never braided my hair at night until I got married."
"What changed, Mum?"
"Oh, on our wedding night, your Dad fell asleep on my hair. I tried rolling over in my sleep, but my hair was still pinned under him. I screamed, and then boxed his ears soundly for pulling my hair. By the time I woke up I was mortified. After that, I braided it every night until after you were born, then I went for the short cut that I’ve worn ever since. One less thing to fuss with in the morning."
"Do you mind brushing me out, Mum?"
"No, not at all, it’s part of what I love about having a girl."
Monica finished brushing out Hermione’s chestnut coloured mane and began to braid it.
"Mum, was your wedding night your first time with Dad?"
"Well, it was the first time we got married, last time too."
"Mum! You know what I mean. Did you . . . wait?"
"Yes, we did."
"Why?"
"Actually, it was your Father’s idea. I was going mad during the last few months of our engagement. I wanted to call off the wedding and just have him move into my flat. He refused, said that I was worth waiting for."
Monica twisted a hair elastic around the end of the thick, fuzzy braid she’d just made. Hermione dashed to the hallway bathroom and brought back a caddy of nail polish and supplies. She looked up at Monica with dark brown eyes.
"Do my nails, Mum?"
"Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?"
"I am a girl, Mum, I’m entitled to do girly things from time to time."
"Get one of the old towels, I don’t want to spill polish on your bedspread."
Monica started with the emery boards and then began a precise application of an undercoat using a small bottle Hermione had selected.
"What’s this colour?"
"Starry night — I got it at Hogsmeade — after it dries the sparkles will twinkle, just like the stars at night. Are you glad you waited?"
"In a word, yes. All my very smart, oh so sophisticated sisters and cousins who hopped from bed to bed in college and moved in with their boyfriends thereafter are all divorced now, and I’m still married to the man I love. End of sermon, Hermione, I didn’t come up here to talk about that."
"What did you come up to talk about?"
"Can’t I come up to spend time with my only girl at the end of the day?"
"Mum, every day you’re not at the surgery, we’re spending two to four hours together driving across all of England, it’s not like we’re lacking quality time this summer!"
"I was wondering why you haven’t received any letters this weekend."
"They’re away," Hermione whispered.
"I’m sorry dear, these old ears didn’t catch what you just said," Monica replied softly.
"Ron and Ginny and Harry are all away this weekend," Hermione said in a voice only slightly louder than a whisper.
"They are taking a holiday together?"
"Hardly, they’re at a funeral in London."
"Whose funeral?"
"Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black."
"Why weren’t you there, Hermione?"
"Oh, Mum . . . ." Hermione moaned.
"Is there something you’re not telling me, Hermione?"
"Oh, Mum . . ."
"You’re repeating yourself, dear."
"Mum, I love you madly, but sometimes you are really annoying!" Hermione pulled her hands back, looked at the freshly painted nails, and then looked out the window.
"When I came home last week, I didn’t think that there was going to be a funeral. Then when I got the notice from Tonks, when she came to set up the Passbox, I wrote Harry and told him that I wasn’t going to attend."
"Hermione, he’s your friend, you should be there for him."
"I know that, Mum, I told Harry that if I were to come to the funeral, I’d have to tell you everything, and if I told you everything, I was worried sick that you’d pull me out of Hogwarts." Tears were streaming down Hermione’s cheeks. She sniffed loudly and began to pick at her thumbnail.
"I just painted that nail, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d wait a day before destroying it." Monica looked archly at her daughter.
Hermione looked down at her thumb, up at her mother’s stern face, back down at her thumb and then up again at her mother, who winked at her.
"Mum!"
The Passbox was sitting on Hermione’s nightstand. Both women heard a gentle pop. Within a moment the Potter knob lit up.
"I suppose you’d like me to leave now so you can read that in private?"
"No, Mum, no more secrets."
"None?"
"No more secrets about Harry," Hermione qualified, blowing her nose and smiling weakly at her mother.
Watching Hermione read the letter was pure entertainment. As a small child, she’d been somber beyond her years. By the age of eight she’d cultivated an impressive poker face. The poker face was gone tonight and a range of emotions could be read. She was sad, pensive, her eyes flickered with rage, she brought her hand to her mouth to stifle laughter. When she finished the letter, she daubed her eyes and wordlessly passed the letter to her Mum.
Dear 'Hermy,'
No, I haven't heard from Grawp, but I thought I'd catch you up on what's gone on since our last note. I'm glad that you had such a good chat with your Mum. I didn't retain a copy of the letter, but in short your Mum asked if I was your boyfriend (I said no) and whether or not you are safe at Hogwarts (I said you were). Speaking of boys who are your friend, Ron was quite distressed that you were not at the funeral, and even more distressed that you were not at the wake, but I’ll get into that later.
Remus and I have spent pretty much the past 36 hours together, which included, among other things, the full moon. As of noon yesterday, Remus Lupin is, according to papers I just got from Professor Dumbledore, my guardian for all purposes in the Wizarding world. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I’m still at the Dursleys', but life is very rarely perfect. The mixed news is that instead of "Professor Lupin" I may now call him "Uncle Moony" until next year, when I become an adult. I’m not sure that this is an improvement or not, but in light of the last three days, I’m not complaining.
Thursday was wretched — just about as bad as it’s been since Sirius died. Weird as it may seem, but that’s the first time that I’ve written what my heart refused to believe, that Sirius is dead.
Friday was about normal if you are a grumpy guy like me, but Saturday, what a day! Tonks picked me up shortly after breakfast; I took the Floo from Mrs. Figg’s house to Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Remus and I did various errands in the morning (Gringotts, the Ministry of Magic, Gladrags, the Solicitor's, Century Hardware) lunch, and the memorial service. The service was pretty much a 1662 Book of Common Prayer funeral service, except for the "commitment" portion, in which they had to change the words, as there was obviously no body to commit into the ground. The priest in charge at St. Simon’s is a fellow who knew Mum and Dad — he officiated at their wedding. I never knew there were such things anymore, but Fr. Martin is a Greyfriar, and former student at Hogwarts (Hufflepuff, left about 10 years before Mum and Dad started.) Afterwards, there was a wake at the Parish house, which is where things got interesting.
Aside from me, the only students there were Ron and Ginny, Susan Bones, Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom. There was food and drink, and after the first rush of guests disappeared (Dumbledore left around the same time with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley) there was dancing. Once Fr. Martin announced that the band was arriving, Luna Lovegood made a beeline for Ron (I take it she’s fancied him for some time now — the feeling is definitely not mutual.) Ron turned to Susan Bones and asked if she’d dance with him. Susan, sharp girl that she is, knew the score and was willing to save Ron from Luna. Ron’s comment to me as Luna was advancing across the Parish hall was "Where’s Hermione when I really need her?" Luna ended up dancing with Neville; I asked Ginny to dance.
Things with Ginny were a bit awkward at first, as I’m fairly certain that Ginny has something going with Dean Thomas, but Ginny didn’t want to talk about it. I was my usual clumsy self on the dance floor but Ginny didn’t seem to mind. Dancing with Ginny brought to mind one of Sirius’ more cryptic proverbs "never dance with a Slytherin." When I asked him to explain that one, he’d said that you should be careful never to dance with someone you don’t want to develop feelings for. It didn’t mean much to me at the time, but it came back to me on the dance floor as I was getting a buzz from Ginny’s perfume. I’ve noticed that she’s a girl (well before Ron noticed that you were a girl, Hermione) but dancing with her seemed to focus my attention. She’s brave, smart, has a wicked sense of fun, she’s pretty — I just wish I knew where she stood with Dean! Timing is everything — in my life, I show up at the dock after the ship has already set sail.
Tonks joined the service mid-way through, and was glued to Remus for most of the wake. Unless I’m quite mistaken, I think she fancies him. What does Remus think? Who knows? He’s very hard to read. Tonks had a bit too much to drink that night. The wake was timed so that Remus could depart before the moon rose that evening. He tarried too long, and instead of taking the Floo to Grimmauld Place, Fr. Martin offered the use of St. Simon’s sanctuary for the night.
When it’s not being used as a church, it seems that the sanctuary is a bit like the Room of Requirement; it becomes what people need. Fr. Martin knew that Remus is a Werewolf, and knew about the Wolfsbane potion as well. Before he locked the sanctuary, he turned to me, rubbed some stuff into my scar and said, "I suppose you need to join him." With that he shoved me in the door and locked it shut. Whatever he’d rubbed into my scar was buzzing like mad — powerful, like when I’m feeling Voldemort, but not painful. By the time my eyes got adjusted to the darkness, I sorted out all the changes. Remus was now a wolf — he’s pretty much all silver in colour now. The sanctuary was a forest. I was a large white dog. Fr. Martin had transfigured me into a shape where I’d be safe with Lupin for the night, even if the Wolfsbane failed. It’s difficult to express in words what happened that night. We chased through the woods and howled at the moon, mourning Sirius, mourning our loss.
I don’t feel empty inside anymore. It still hurts when I think about him, and how I’ll never see him again, but it’s not as bad as it was. I’d talked with Lupin a lot before the wake — ever the Professor he told me a lot of things that made sense in my head, but after the night in the woods, they made sense in my heart too.
By the time morning came, we were both asleep by a river in the woods, until Fr. Martin unlocked the sanctuary and it became a church again. Fr. Martin changed me back into my usual shape and then prodded Remus with the tip of his shoes until he transformed too. We hung around through the early service, went to breakfast, walked through Muggle London and then Diagon Alley, a late lunch and another walk, ending the day at the Dursleys’ (see, nothing’s perfect).
Please don’t kill Ron. I need him, just like I need you. I go mad when you two aren’t getting along.
Ever your friend,
Harry
"So, why aren’t you killing Ron?"
"Be awfully hard to make you a grandmother if I kill my future husband for dancing with one of my classmates, Mum."
"You’ve got it that bad?"
"Mum, I’m almost sixteen, I’m not ready to marry anybody yet. If I still feel this way about Ron when I’m twenty and he hasn’t yet proposed to me, I’ll . . . I’ll knock him off his broom, wrap my legs around him and squeeze him until he does."
"That’s an awfully direct plan of action, Hermione."
"Yeah, well, he’s a boy, they’re awfully slow at times - subtle stuff is lost on them," said Hermione in her best deadpan expression. Mother and daughter locked eyes for a long moment until Monica Granger could contain herself no longer — she began to snigger, then snort and after giving up all pretenses of control, dissolved into hooting laughter. Hermione held her composure just a little while longer, and then gave into the same hacking, hooting, and gasping laughs. It was at that moment that her father, Albert Granger, pushed the bedroom door open.
"Everything all right here ladies?" he asked.
Monica, still heaving with laughter, tried to compose herself, looked silently at her husband, hooted some more, and then gasped.
"Yes, dear."
"Are you going to explain any of this to me?" He inquired.
"No dear, some mysteries are beyond male comprehension."
Albert crossed over to Hermione, who was now merely giggling, and bussed her forehead.
"G’night, ‘Mione."
"Goodnight, Daddy."
"I’m off to the showers, am I waiting up for you, Monica?"
"Please do. Are we locked up downstairs?"
"Of course."
"I’ll be in by the time you’re done."
"I’ll believe that when I see it," said Albert, as he turned to go out the door.
Monica looked at the door and shook her head.
"Boys are so awfully slow."
"Mum!" Hermione protested.
"Just agreeing with you, dear."
Picking the letter up off of the floor, Monica looked at Hermione.
"Is romance blossoming for your friend Harry?"
"Hard to say, Mum. Harry wouldn’t know what he was feeling half of the time if I didn’t tell him."
"Take care of him, Hermione. Friends like that don’t come along too often in life."
"I will, Mum, Goodnight."
Monica gathered Hermione in her arms, bussed her cheek, hugged her soundly and left her room.
++++++++
Copyright Ó 2003 J Cornell — all rights reserved
Author's note: a reserve, non-stipendary Auror is an Auror who came into the service either late in life (as Laurel did) or who otherwise doesn't intend to make the service a career. The reserves are often skilled in some other area, which may be an earlier career, or their "real job" which supports them when they aren't off playing Auror. When they are on duty or attending training they are paid according to rank, and can contribute to a pension plan much like an American 501(k) plan, but they do not participate in the normal Auror pension plan, unless disabled in the line of duty. Chapter seven is written, but needs more work. Please be patient. Standard disclaimer from the prologue applies to each and every chapter of The Letters of Summer, so stop looking for it here.