The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301
Chapter Twenty-Six
No evidence of bad dreams or unhappiness marred Ginny’s sunny manner when she sat down beside Harry at lunch.
“This term is going to be fun,” she said. “Fred and George are perfectly brilliant in Potions, aren’t they? And just wait till you have Snape for Dark Arts. He really knows what he’s doing!”
“That would be because he is a dark wizard,” Harry said dryly.
“You’re just prejudiced against him,” Ginny said coolly. “He’s not all that bad if you do your work properly, you know.”
“I could do my work perfectly and he’d find a reason to fail me or take off points,” Harry rejoined. “He still hates me and I …”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t learn from him,” Ginny responded. “You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Colin Creevey piped in. “Harry’s not afraid of anything.”
“Yeah,” Fred said, as he slid in next to Harry, “he’s dating you, isn’t he?”
Harry started to deny that, but Ginny said composedly, “I am dating him. And what are you doing here anyway. You should be sitting at the head table, shouldn’t you?”
“No thank you,” Fred said. “I wouldn’t want Dumbledore to get any ideas that this is a permanent position and I don’t want Snape jinxing me and George when he decides he really likes Potions better than Dark Arts.”
“That is a bit much,” Harry said. “What are you saying – Snape’s actually jinxed the Dark Arts job? He’s responsible?”
“Stands to reason,” George said as he took a seat opposite his twin. “Who else wanted the job forever? Who else didn’t get it, even when the only idiots available were Lockhart? Who didn’t get it even when Umbridge was foisted on us by Fudge?”
“I dunno,” Harry said. “As much as I loathe him, it seems to me it’s more likely a series of coincidences isn’t it?”
“I thought you’d spent enough time in the wizard world by now to know things like that are never coincidences,” Ron said.
“There are limits to what you can do with magic,” Harry said. “Magic is limited by both space and time.” He frowned then and said with unwilling amusement at their disbelief, “It was Snape who taught me that.”
He felt a whole lot better when Ginny kissed him on the cheek, as they were about to set off for their afternoon classes.
George looked at Harry sympathetically and said, “I’ll still like you if you run far and fast from her.”
Fred, however, said, “Impossible. She’s made up her mind. He can’t run far enough or fast enough. Come to think of it, Harry, I think you’re wrong. When a Weasley woman decides to do something, there are no limits in space or time to what she can achieve.”
“What makes you think I want to?” Harry said serenely.
Ginny smiled and the twins gawped. “She’s worse than Mum,” Fred whispered with awe.
Rather than sitting in the front of the class as he usually did in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry secured a seat at the very back, though he was quite sure this wouldn’t shield him long from Snape’s malevolent attention. Ron and Hermione followed him leaving the middle seats in the front row unoccupied. As the other students filtered in, Harry saw that they too were filling up the seats from the back to the front rather than the opposite. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who viewed Snape’s presence as the teacher in this class with apprehension.
At precisely the start of the hour, Snape entered. The class stilled and watched him sweep toward the front. “Wands out,” Snape said. “Clear the desks to the side and divide into pairs. Today’s lesson will not require notes.”
Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Hermione. At least they wouldn’t be sitting in their seats taking notes or reading a textbook. It occurred to him, though, that taking notes from Snape might be a whole lot safer. Harry started to pair up with Ron, but immediately, Snape’s voice rang out.
“Potter! Weasley! Split up. That was not an open invitation to friendly chatter and playtime with your chum.” Annoyance rose. He looked around for another partner. Neville had already paired off with Ernie Macmillan, however, and Justin Finch-Fletchley, who was sometimes willing to partner him, had already paired off with Terry Boot. Everyone else avoided his gaze except Hermione. When he moved toward her, Snape shook his head and motioned him forward with the crook of one long bony finger.
“You may partner me for demonstration purposes, Potter,” Snape said. “The first spell you will learn to use and defend against,” he continued, “is one you almost certainly will face if you encounter a Death Eater. I will demonstrate first on that chair so that you can see its effects.”
Without any flourishes, Snape drew his wand and a purple light struck the chair, boring a hole clean through it. Harry stared and swallowed. The spell was the one that had injured Hermione quite badly when they had gone to the Department of Mysteries. He saw now, that had she not silenced the Death Eater who attacked her first, the full effect of the spell might well have killed her. The entire class gawped at Snape. Their expressions said they were as appalled by the spell’s effects as Harry was.
“That could kill you,” Seamus Finnigan said.
“If it strikes you in a vital organ, yes,” Snape acknowledged.
“Why isn’t it an Unforgiveable, then?” Neville asked.
“It can be defended against,” Snape answered. “It is important that you recognize it and move to defend before the spell can strike. Even a non-lethal strike can have unpleasant consequences, as Professor Moody can testify.” Apparently satisfied that he had terrified the class sufficiently, he turned to Harry and said, “A demonstration, then, Potter. I will attack. You will defend. A shield spell is one effective means. Try what you can make of it.”
Harry drew his wand and tried to pretend he wasn’t scared. He didn’t think Snape would aim for a vital spot, but the thought of losing a chunk off his nose or a limb like Mad-eye Moody was quite unpleasant. Snape aimed and Harry threw out a shield spell as soon as the first syllable of the dark spell was out the teacher’s mouth. For a moment he thought the purple light would drill right through his spell, but it bounced off and made a hole in one of the windows instead. With a careless flick, Snape repaired the hole. Harry was sure that a hole in a person wouldn’t be healed as easily as the hole in the window.
“Adequate,” Snape said. “But use even more force in your defense next time. Controlling the power of your spells, whether offensive or defensive, is essential.”
Ernie Macmillan raised his hand. “Why are we learning to perform an actual dark spell?” he asked. Snape gave him a look that would have withered a summer in the tropics.
“When you are dueling for your life, Macmillan, you can’t afford to worry about the classification of a spell. There are no dark spells or light spells then. Only effective spells. The only ones forbidden in such a fight are the Unforgiveables. And historically, even those have been authorized when the cause was sufficient.” Snape returned his attention to the class and said, “Each pair will perform the spell twice, once on the offensive for each of the partners.” He paused and added, “and do try to control your efforts with precision; especially, you, Longbottom.”
It could have been worse, Harry reflected afterwards. There were only two injuries and those were minor. Seamus had failed to block Dean’s attack effectively, and was now sporting a permanent part in his hair. Lavender Brown had a hole in the sleeve of her robe and she was looking surprisingly furious. Parvati, on the other hand, who had been responsible for the hole and for the bloody cut beneath it, was positively tearful.
“This is horrible!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, it is,” Snape said. “If you have to battle a real dark wizard, Miss Patil, do not expect him to aim for your arm. Expect him to aim for your heart.”
As they were collecting their book bags and leaving class, Harry realized that for the first time ever, Snape had given them no written homework at all. He was just thinking that he had got off quite easily – no points taken off, no detention, no injuries – when Snape called him back. Ron and Hermione also turned back, but Snape pointedly gestured for them to leave. Heart sinking, Harry waited wondering what he had done wrong this time besides simply existing.
“Professor Dumbledore requested me to tell you that you will no longer be required to continue with Divination lessons.” Harry stared at Snape in surprise. He started to ask why Dumbledore hadn’t told him directly or Trelawney even, but Snape continued. “You will, instead proceed to the Headmaster’s office. He wishes to see you there.” Harry nodded and turned to leave, but the question he had been hoarding for most of the class popped out.
“Do you really believe there is no difference between the Dark Arts and regular wizardry?” he asked Snape.
Snape frowned and said, “I might have expected that question from you.” Harry did not reply. He simply waited for the answer.
Finally, Snape said slowly, “If you are asking whether there is a difference between good and evil, then yes, there is. But in magic, there are many kinds of spells that are neither one nor the other. And many spells that are very powerful attack spells are not classified as Dark Arts. I should say that the subject is much murkier than you would think and that one must be careful not to make snap judgments in these matters. An evil wizard may use what is considered “good” magic to do harm. A good man may use what is considered “dark” magic for good.”
Harry gazed at Snape and wished he could see through him, to know for certain, what the man’s motives were, whether he was truly loyal to Dumbledore or not. He answered then, almost as a challenge, “Voldemort tried to convince me once that there is no good or evil, only power. I didn’t believe him then, when I was eleven, and I don’t believe that now. And I think you should be careful, Professor Snape, sir. I think there are some magics that are so dark and evil that using them corrupts the user. Have they done that to you?” He stared at Snape, who did not seem particularly impressed, and added, “I think you should be very careful. I don’t know why you left Voldemort, if you really did, or why Voldemort has let you stay, when he must suspect you, but you need to be very careful. If I were you, I would not return at his next call, not even if you think you can do good for the Order by it.”
Harry made his way to Dumbledore’s office trying to figure out why he was no longer required to take Divination. Not that he minded very much; it just seemed odd, especially when only he was being let off of the class while Ron was not. The door to the Headmaster’s office swung open before he had lifted his hand to knock. He supposed one of the portraits had reported his arrival to Dumbledore. Or perhaps the Headmaster had other ways of knowing who was visiting: a Foe Glass, for instance.
Dumbledore was seated at his desk, his hands clasped before him, blue eyes alert. He motioned for Harry to be seated and studied him with that, oh, so penetrating gaze. Harry shifted uncomfortably and wondered whether he had any of chance of getting the elderly wizard to answer a few of his questions. No matter how many were answered, more remained, especially the most puzzling ones of all.
“Are you feeling quite well?” the Headmaster asked.
“Yes, sir,” Harry answered. He couldn’t imagine why Dumbledore would begin with such a conventional and empty question, the sort of courtesy that Aunt Petunia exchanged with her garden club friends. Next they’d be talking about the weather.
“Has your scar been hurting lately?” Dumbledore continued.
“No, sir,” Harry replied. He frowned and added, “It’s funny you ask, sir, but it hasn’t hurt at all recently. What do you suppose it means? How did you even know to ask?”
“A guess merely,” Dumbledore, replied. He considered Harry again and again Harry had the feeling that Dumbledore was assessing him, testing him almost, but for what?
“How come I’m not taking Divination anymore?” Harry asked hurriedly.
“I believe your time can be spent more profitably on other studies,” Dumbledore answered. “I don’t think Professor Trelawney has anything more to teach you.”
“What studies?” Harry asked dubiously. He hoped that didn’t mean he’d have to take more Occlumency lessons. He’d rather spent his time writing dream diaries or listen to Trelawney predict his imminent death than go through that again.
“Not Occlumency,” Dumbledore said with a twinkle. Harry twitched uncomfortably and wondered whether his defenses were so low that Dumbledore was reading his mind. Dumbledore smiled further and said, “I’m not reading your mind. Your face was an open book and I know how little you liked that.”
“I’ll have to work on that,” Harry responded. He schooled his face to a polite, curiosity and waited for Dumbledore to explain. Dumbledore sighed and muttered, “I fear you may have learned some of those lessons too well.” Thinking this might be a test, Harry did not answer this time.
Dumbledore sighed again and he regarded Harry more closely than ever. “I’ll explain about the extra lessons shortly, but first I want to talk to you about something. About Miss Weasley, in fact.”
“About Ginny?” Harry asked. He was frankly amazed, and after a second, both embarrassed and nervous. “What about her?”
“About your feelings for her,” Dumbledore said calmly.
“My what?” Harry said. The heat climbed up to his face and he knew he must be bright red. So much for Occlumency; so much for not revealing one’s feelings he thought.
Dumbledore raised his snowy eyebrows and his blue eyes were particularly twinkly. Then he sobered and said, "You understand me perfectly. I am curious to know your intentions."
This time Harry's jaw literally dropped. "My...intentions? Sir? As in...?" He could not complete the sentence. He would have expected this from Mr. Weasley, if anyone. Even Mrs. Weasley, even Bill, had never asked him that.
"Well?" Dumbledore prompted, as if it were quite ordinary for a Headmaster to ask such a question.
Harry shrugged. "I dunno," he answered, seeking refuge in prevarication.
"You have not acted as if you did not know," Dumbledore said.
"How do you know? No, don't answer that, I don't want to know that," Harry said. "Why do you ask? What's it to you?" he added almost rudely.
When Dumbledore did not answer immediately, he rushed on, "I'm only seventeen. Ginny's only sixteen. She's not even taking her NEWTs until next year. Why do you ask?" he repeated. "Why does it matter?"
Dumbledore considered him very keenly again and Harry had the inkling that the Headmaster was in two minds whether to go on. He thought he might have insulted the old man as the blue eyes were no longer amused. "It appears that Slytherin has a new heir," Dumbledore answered.
"Slytherin? You mean Voldemort?" The reminder of Malfoy's new brother cooled his anger, but he still could not fathom what this had to do with him and Ginny. Unless it was a warning for Harry to be careful, to do as he ought to have done, to lock up his feelings and control himself so Voldemort would not have another victim to focus on, to seize, to dangle in front of Harry as the bait for his next trap. Fear rendered him momentarily speechless and he knew without question that he would enter the trap willingly if Voldemort were to do such a thing.
"Yes," Dumbledore answered. He continued to observe Harry and a frown cleaved his forehead impressing deep vertical lines. "You do not know?" Dumbledore said. "I would have thought you knew by now."
"Know what?" Harry all but shouted.
A knock on the door interrupted and a black shadow slid across the wall and entered the portrait of Phinneas Nigellus. "It's Fudge again," the dry voice of Sirius's great-grandfather announced. "The stupid man is in a panic over something. Again."
"Confound it!" Dumbledore roared, making Harry jump. "By Merlin's Sword, can I not conduct a simple conversation without interruptions?"
Harry stared at Dumbledore in astonishment. He could not ever remember the Headmaster losing his temper quite so completely. They both stared at the door when the knock sounded and then Dumbledore took a deep breath and his face returned to its normal calm so that Harry could almost believe he had imagined the angry reaction.
~~***~~
Edgar Bones cursed the sluggish handling of the ancient Ford Taurus he was driving and wished he were at the wheel of his own sleek silver Miata, which was the closest thing in the Muggle world to a really fine broomstick. Unfortunately, Miatas are easily recognized and remembered and no good at all when one wants to tail a suspect as inconspicuously as possible.
In this case, the suspect, whom Bones had been keeping an eye on since his release from prison the previous week, was acting extremely fishy. He had hovered in the vicinity of Diagon Alley, though he was a Muggle thug and drug runner, and Edgar had tailed him to a brief meeting with a probable Death Eater. The Death Eater was hooded and cloaked and had disapparated after only a minute and the thug, a heavy-set red-faced man who went by the unimaginative nickname of Big Jock, had disappeared out of the back exit of the dark and grimy Muggle pub before Edgar could stop him.
They wound through the narrow back streets and then toward the open motorway south where the thug’s SUV leapt through the traffic as if it were possessed. Or maybe its driver was, Bones thought, though not in the sense that Muggles normally thought of it. The chase went on and Bones considered calling in a uniform or two to stop the fellow for a traffic citation. But then, it wasn’t likely they’d get much out of him, as he was too much of a pro to talk when a copper nicked him. It wasn’t until the big car shifted across three lanes to exit suddenly in Surrey that Bones became alarmed. He followed, swerving, tires screeching, giving up all pretense of anything but open chase. He fumbled for his mobile and hit the speed dial, but Faye did not answer. Cursing again, and wishing he’d learned how to apparate, he fumbled for the small two-way mirror that was his link to the Order.
“Tonks!” he bellowed. “Tonks! Show your face, whichever one you’re wearing!” He whipped the Taurus around the corner nearly fishtailing into someone’s neatly kept shrubbery and noted with panic that they had entered the tidy precincts of Little Whinging.
“Wotcher, Edgar!” Tonks said cheerily from the compact mirror.
“There’s an—“ His warning was cut off by the sound of loud shots, which he heard doubled, both through the open window of the car and echoing through the mirror. He wrenched the wheel once more around the corner, sideswiping a large green van, which was stopped in the middle of Privet Drive. The SUV was already pulling away, but a streak of red light from a prone figure on the tidy green lawn of Number Four blew out a tire and the large vehicle rolled over and over and came to a rest upside down against a tall magnolia tree. Heart racing, Edgar flung himself from the car and stopped to check on the fallen woman.
Tonks opened one dark eye and whispered, “Wotcher, Bonesy. I didn’t know them Muggle weapons hurt so much.” She closed her eyes again and he saw the spreading blood on her chest.
With a shaking hand, he picked up her fallen wand and said, “Tonks! Where are they? The Dursleys?” But she didn’t answer. Warily he looked across to where the SUV was still overturned. Big Jock had made no attempt to get out of the vehicle, so Bones ignored it and turned his attention to the big green van. On the right behind the wheel, a large beefy man was slumped forward and next to him a very fat older woman was sprawled to the side. The bullet had caught the older woman in the neck and her head hung wobbling weirdly off-kilter. Bones reached out and gently touched Vernon Dursley on the neck looking for a pulse. There was none. He peered in closer and saw that the bullet had struck him in the head drilling a neat hole in the forehead and leaving an unspeakable mess at the back.
Controlling the sickness that always threatened at a murder scene, no matter how many he saw, Edgar checked the rest of the van and saw that it was empty. He called in for back-up and returned to check that Tonks was still alive. She was. He waited until the ambulance arrived and had taken Tonks to Surrey General. It only occurred to him later that he ought to have had her taken to St. Mungo’s.
A fat, fluffy cat sniffed at the overturned SUV and meowed at Edgar. The raspy sound was in the nature of a complaint. He saw with disappointment that Big Jock was quite dead too, his neck broken despite the white balloon of the air bag that ought to have protected him. From other neat houses, window curtains twitched, but no one came out to ask questions. A car accident, he supposed, would have drawn the morbid. A shooting, on the other hand, was way too unrespectable. Even the curious would stay away afraid that they too might be infected by mere association with the now scandalous Dursleys. The only one who ventured near was a batty looking old lady with wispy white hair. She called to the cat, which went trotting to her just like a trained dog meowing loudly.
The Greater Surrey Police had sent back-ups and the Detective took a comprehensive look at the scene. “You don’t think this has anything to do with that son of theirs?” he asked a uniformed constable.
“Could be,” the constable said. “He hung round with a rough crowd last year. That Polkiss kid’s down in the lock-up right now for assault. Course,” he added, “it could be something to do with that that nephew of theirs. He did have a hang-dog look. Maybe he just lost his temper with ‘em.”
“I’ll handle this,” Bones said to the officers. He showed them his identification and the detective gave him a look.
“I remember you. Hot shot from the Met, aren’t you? What’s it to do with you?”
“I was tailing the suspect,” Bones answered, “when he did the job. The fellow in the SUV over there, Big Jock, he’s called.”
“What’s he want with someone like Vernon Dursley, then?” the constable asked. Bones didn’t answer. He considered his options carefully. This would have to be handled delicately and kept secret.
He shrugged and said regretfully, “The fellow was round the bend. Been in the lock-up and just got released. Could have been anyone, I guess.” The little old lady with the white hair was gaping at him and waving her hands wildly.
He ignored her and said casually, “What about the family? Where are they? They’ll have to be informed.” The constable peered into the van and looked sick.
“That’s Dursley’s sister in there with him. The one that was living with ‘em cause she was ill. The wife won’t take this well at all. Whiny sort of woman, she is.”
“Wife?” Bones asked casually.
“Yeah,” the constable answered. “Petunia Dursley. She went to see the son at some out of town boxing match. A great big lout, the kid is, but at least he’s using his fists in a boxing ring these days instead of on the neighbors’ kids.”
He waited until the lot from Surrey cleared out watching the squashed green van and crumpled SUV being towed. When the tidy street was restored to its former condition, only the wild looking old lady remained.
She flapped up to him and said, “What are you waiting for boy! You’ve got to tell Dumbledore right away. And poor little Nymphadora, hurt! She should have been wearing the Invisibiblity Cloak. I told her that, but she insisted she could blend in just as well by just looking like a Muggle.” She made flapping moving movements with her hands, and Bones was hard put not to shake the woman.
“Be quiet, Mrs. Figg!” he hissed. “I’ve got the police covered with a fake story. You’ll undo everything with all that flapping.”
She looked so taken aback and forlorn and the cat’s ears had flattened back at his tone. He found himself apologizing profusely as he tried to leave. “What about Petunia?” Mrs. Figg said. “Someone’s got to be guarding her when she comes back.”
“Who’s guarding her now?” he asked.
“Molly Weasley,” Mrs. Figg responded. “Poor woman is fair worn out following Petunia around. I don’t like to speak ill of my neighbors, especially those who’ve had misfortunes, but Petunia is not the friendliest sort and she does like to look down on people. And I don’t know what poor Harry will think.”
Bones had time to worry about that and other things as he made his report. Superintendent Masters was not happy. The Prime Minister was not happy.
“Although,” he said, “at least you were quick on your feet with the cover story. And why were you tailing the man in the first place?”
“He was one of the lot that was involved with Riddle’s gang last year. I’ve had my eye on him since,” Bones answered.
“Not closely enough.” Edgar could not disagree. Guilt squirmed in his insides. He ought to have stopped big Jock sooner. He ought to have had him pinned before the man had ever left the bar.
Minister Fudge was not happy either and not inclined to believe You Know Who had anything to do with the attack. “I don’t see why you assume You Know Who was behind it. A Muggle shot the man, right? They were Muggles, weren’t they?”
“They were Harry Potter’s relatives,” Bones said loudly. “The man met with a Death Eater just before the hit. And he shot a witch, a Ministry auror. You can’t ignore this, Minister.”
“I’m not ignoring it,” Fudge said. He wiped his perspiring forehead with a lavender handkerchief and said fearfully, “It could be a coincidence. And you did say the man was deranged from being in the Muggle jail.”
“That was the cover story,” Edgar said. “The Prime Minister is not happy, Minister Fudge. Your attitude isn’t helping either. You’re going to have to say something to reassure him that you’ve got things under control, even if you haven’t.”
“No magic was used,” Fudge said stubbornly. “You Know Who would have sent a Death Eater and used magic.” Bones stared at the man who was the wizard leader and wondered what could possibly be going through the man’s mind.
“I’ve got to go to Hogwarts,” he said abruptly. “Someone has to inform Dumbledore and Harry will have to be told.”
“Very well,” Fudge said. The air seemed to go out of him and he looked smaller and suddenly old. “The Boy didn’t like them anyway you know. He blew up his aunt and ran away once, you know.”
“It’s the only home Harry’s ever known,” Bones said sharply. “At least the Aunt and cousin are unharmed.” Fudge’s face firmed, but not pleasantly.
“It appears the Boy Who Lived will have to become the Man Who Lived. I think he owes the Prime Minister that much. That ought to satisfy the Prime Minister for a while, if he gets a genuine wizard hero to work for him. Won’t it?”
“You aren’t going to tell him that now,” Bones said coldly, “when his family’s just been killed.”
“No, no,” Fudge said hurriedly. “A few weeks more will do no harm…If the Prime Minister can wait?”
“He’s waited this long,” Bones answered. “You might at least let the kid finish school.” He tried to keep his tone polite and failed miserably. Politicians, he thought were all the same, Muggle or wizard.
~~***~~
The sun was sinking low in the sky by the time the door swung open to admit them into the headmaster’s office at Hogwarts. Dumbledore was seated at his desk and his blue eyes focused with interest and with a faint flare of alarm as he noted that Edgar was with the Minister. An untidy black head turned to look at them. Potter looked at them curiously and Edgar saw the thin face tighten with expectation at the sight of the Minister. He stood and Edgar noted that the boy was indeed closer to being a man. He had grown since last winter and stood nearly as tall as Edgar now, though he was still too lean for a teen that age.
“Shall I go?” Harry asked.
Edgar shook his head and wished there were some way to soften the blow. Cutting in ahead of the Minister, he said, “I’m sorry to tell you, Harry, but your Uncle and Aunt have been killed.” The face did not crumple as another youth’s might, but the color slid away leaving him pale and the green eyes were like those of a soldier’s with battle fatigue, old, and tired.
“Both?” he asked hoarsely.
“Not your mother’s sister,” Fudge clarified. “Your Uncle and the other one, his sister. The one you blew up.”
Edgar noticed that Dumbledore’s face altered very slightly at that, but the boy’s did not. “Aunt Marge, then?” he said. “Voldemort killed them,” he added. It was not a question.
Bones nodded, but Fudge said, “A Muggle killed them. Shot them with one of those Muggle weapons.”
Edgar was surprised, however, when the boy said matter-of-factly, “Voldemort will be behind it though.”
“Yes,” Edgar said. “He was one of the Muggle gang last year. A big heavy-set fellow.”
“What about my Aunt Petunia?” Harry asked. “Where is she? Was she hurt?”
Edgar shook his head. “She was out of town. Seeing your cousin at a boxing match.” The boy turned and looked out the window. His hands clenched and unclenched unconsciously as he stared out.
“She’ll say it was my fault,” he said after a moment. “I reckon it was, too. She’ll say she should never have taken me in, and I reckon she’s right about that, too.”
~~***~~
Harry stared at the open grave into which they were lowering his Uncle's coffin. The bright sun and cheerful blue sky mocked the day. The Muggle minister was saying something about peace and leaving wordly sorrows behind, but none of it made sense. Harry knew perfectly well that his Uncle would have rather lived than died and that if he were there to express his opinion, he would have little patience for the clergyman's empty phrases. He would, of course, have put on a proper black suit with the starchiest shirt he owned and he would have pretended to be very solemn and sad for the neighbors' benefit.
Harry could not say how he felt. There was no grief in him really, but he felt still that another hole had been added to the numerous gaping ones in his life. Uncle Vernon had always seemed larger than life to him: loud, bullying, large, yes, very large, and very nasty. Not a quiet presence; not one to disappear. And now there was nothing but a closed wooden box going down into the ground to rot.
He had always had an unspoken, nearly subconscious belief that life was magical. He wondered now whether death was the absence of magic, or whether there was something also magical there, but unseen and unfelt by the living. He wondered now whether Sirius was really dead. Sirius had talked to him from beyond the veil: was he, perhaps, alive in some way that his Uncle was not? In some kind of limbo from which he might yet escape? Wishful thinking, he knew. If that was a limbo, there was no returning from it. Hadn't Nick told him that? If Uncle Vernon had been a wizard, Harry thought, he would have stayed on as a ghost to haunt the living rather than to go on, to what?
Dudley's black suit, hastily rented just for this, strained at the shoulders as he knelt and tossed the first scoop of dirt onto the wooden coffin. His pink face was bewildered, lost. Off the side, Aunt Petunia wept behind her veil. She had been weeping when Harry had returned to Privet Drive for the funderal and she had continued to weep ever since. He could not tell whether it was that she had truly loved his bullying Uncle or whether she, like Dudley, simply was utterly lost without Uncle Vernon to tell her what to do.
Oddly, the only other persons at the funeral were all wizards. They were there, of course, at Dumbledore's instructions to guard Harry and Aunt Petunia. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were there in Muggle dress as were Lupin, Moody in his bowler hat, and Inspector Bones. There was also a Muggle policeman from the Surrey Constabulary, but he was there at the fringe of the cemetary, not really attending.
Perhaps he suspected Uncle Vernon had been a gangster. Perhaps he thought Dudley's gang had been behind it somehow. Harry didn't much care. What he knew, with absolute certainty, was that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Marge would both have lived longer and would both have died in a different fashion if it weren't for Harry. It was his fault that he had not left and cut himself off from his family long before.
At Number Four, the dining table was laid out with trays of food and the minister attempted to talk quietly to Aunt Petunia, but she only howled more loudly than ever. The others pretended that she was behaving quite normally and perhaps she was. Harry had never been to an actual funeral before. Dudley had sunk down at the table and was absently eating a huge ham sandwich, one like he hadn't eaten since he had begun the diet that trimmed him down into fighting shape. Harry eyed the table and considered whether he ought to fill his own empty stomach. It seemed obscene that they should be eating just after his Uncle had been laid into the ground forever.
"What're we going to do now?" Dudley said. "How're we going to live? How'm I going to go to university with Dad dead?" Aunt Petunia wailed even more loudly.
Embarrassed, Harry said, "Isn't there money? I mean, what about Grunnings? That's all right, isn't it?"
"Without Dad to run it?" Dudley said incredulously. "It'll go bust, won't it? And then where will we be? I mean, you don't think Mum's going to run it, do you?"
"What about...did he, Uncle Vernon, did he leave a will?" Harry asked.
"There's nothing in it for you," Dudley said rudely.
"Like I'd take anything if there was," Harry answered. "I meant, did he specify who was to run the business if he died? Did he leave instructions?"
"Me," Dudley said. Panic lit the piggy blue eyes. "I don't know anything about running a business." Harry almost felt sorry for him.
Casting around for something to encouraging to say, because anything else would be inhuman, he said, "Sure you can."
"That's all you know, Potter," Dudley answered. "Like you learn accounting at that...that wizard school of yours." Harry smiled grimly.
"Transfiguration," he said coolly. Dudley gawped, but at least the panic had slipped away in his habitual contempt for all things magic.
"That's right," Harry said. "And Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts." A flare of panic returned to the mean blue eyes. A sidelong glance at his weeping Aunt brought back the guilt even worse.
Striving for something positive to say, Harry said, "Don't worry, Dudley, you already know how to run a business. You've got it down pat. You're a natural."
Dudley gawped at him and said, "I failed math last term."
"That doesn't matter, Big D," Harry said. Dudley's eyes narrowed at the mention of the gang's nickname for Dudley. He looked nervously at Inspector Bones as if he might bring out the handcuffs and take Dudley away just for having the nickname. "It's the same thing," Harry said. "Running a gang, or running a business. You tell the others what to do. They do the math for you. You let them tell you what to do and then you pretend you were going to do that all along. Just like in the gang."
Dudley shook his head and then he looked at Harry, his eyes narrowed and his pink face frowning at the effort of thought. A shrewd light came into his eyes, and he said, "You're smarter than I thought Harry. I dunno why you bother with that wizard stuff. Why don't you take off, that Voldy guy'll forget about you if you disappear."
Harry sighed and looked at Mrs. Weasley, who was patting Aunt Petunia on the arm and making little crooning noises. Aunt Petunia looked up. Perhaps she felt Harry's gaze on her. She ripped off her veil and her pale eyes locked on him.
"It's your fault," she said, "Lord Voldemort killed them. It's your fault."
"Mum," Dudley said. "It was a nutter. He had a gun, not one of those wand things."
Aunt Petunia ignored Dudley and stared at Harry. Her sallow face was a pale yellow and her nose was red from weeping. "It was him, wasn't it?" she demanded.
Inspector Bones stepped forward and started to say, "it was a Muggle criminal." But Harry cut him off. "Yeah," he said. "It was."
The others started talking all at once and Dudley stood knocking his sandwich to the floor. Aunt Petunia didn't shriek about the food staining the carpet. She stared at Harry and nodded.
"I knew it," she said. "I've always known it. From the first moment I saw you, I knew you'd be no good. I knew you'd bring us trouble. I knew it."
All the guilt he'd been hoarding shivered through him, sickening him. All thought of eating fled, all possibility of happiness collapsed out of him.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm really sorry. He didn't deserve to die, I know. It wouldn't have happened but for me, I know. There's no way I can make it up to you. There's no way I can repay you. But I will make sure he pays. Voldemort. I give you my promise on that. I'll make him pay."
Aunt Petunia held his eyes and her weeping ceased. "Keep your word then," she said. "We always keep our promises, we Evanses. I'll hold you to it, like she held me to my promise."
Harry could think of nothing more to say. He laid his hand on his chest above the heart and bowed his head to his Aunt. She had given him shelter, she had given him more, protection against Voldemort, and he had given nothing back. "I think we'd better go," he said to Mrs. Weasley. The others were all staring at him as if they would shake him, as if they would make him take back his words, as if some great disaster was upon them that could not be stopped.
Harry looked around at the house he'd grown up in, and thought he'd never return. He moved over to his Aunt and struggled to say the thing he ought. Looking at her hard, bitter face, all the bitter things he'd ever wanted to say welled up in him. But when he looked more closely and saw the traces of weeping and behind the bitterness the long road of loneliness that awaited her, he said instead, "Thank you." Then he did something he had never done before. He kissed her on the cheek and added, "My Mum thanks you, too." He did not wait for an answer, but turned and walked out the door.
On his return to Hogwarts, Harry resumed taking his classes as usual, but he felt as though he were going through the motions, as though he were separated from his classmates by an invisible yet impenetrable bubble and would never truly be one of them again. His scar had begun to trouble him against as well and his nights were punctuated by nightmares of dark creatures feeding on unwary Muggles and wakings into searing pains in his scar and the certainty that Voldemort was in the midst of another kill or act of terror.
After a particularly brutal night, Harry sat wearily rubbing his forehead and muttered as much to himself as to Ron and Hermione, "I don't get why I didn't know what Voldemort was up to with my Uncle. Why didn't I know? My scar didn't hurt even when he was killed."
"Not at all?" Hermione asked with interest. Harry shook his head and wished he hadn't.
"Voldemort wasn't the actual killer," Hermione said hesitantly. "He wasn't even there. Maybe that's why you didn't know."
"Maybe that's why he used a Muggle," Ron suggested. "So you wouldn't know and couldn't stop him, like last time."
"I suppose," Harry responded. "But it still doesn't explain why my scar wasn't bothering me for days and then it started up again afterwards."
"Maybe that's more to do with you than with Voldemort," Hermione suggested. "Have you been blocking your thoughts and emptying your mind before you sleep since...well, since."
Harry nodded and didn't bother to say that his attempts at blocking out Voldemort lately were failing miserably. He had thought he had control. He had thought he would no longer be vulnerable that way. But no matter how hard he tried lately; he could not empty his heart of its anger, or his mind of his promise to his aunt.
On a balmy Saturday at the beginning of May, Harry arrived in the common room to find the seventh years crowded around two new notices. The first poster said in large letters, Career Day, June 20. The Ministry of Magic will conduct on campus interviews in anticipation of final hiring decisions. A list of interviews with times and locations will be posted on June 15, after NEWT scores are in. Please note that NEWT scores will be the primary initial determination of which students are interviewed. Interviews, however, will be used to determine final offers for positions. Not every student interviewed will receive an offer.
The second notice stated in bold letters, take a Tour of St. Mungo's, consider joining the staff of the pre-eminent wizarding healing instituion. Applicants will attend an on-site tour on June 12. Students with outstanding scores in Potions, Herbology, Charms, Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts will be considered qualified applicants.
"You will take the tour, Harry?" Neville asked quietly.
Recalling his promise to go with Neville, Harry nodded and said, "Sure."
He tried to smile and work up some enthusiasm, but he found it hard to imagine himself working or doing anything but attending Hogwarts. He was sure he had no aptitude for healing at all, and he was equally as sure that Fudge would never hire him for the Ministry. Not that that mattered these days. He would worry about a job after he fulfilled his promise to Aunt Petunia. Until then, he had a house and money in the bank and only pride told him that he'd look pathetic if he were the only seventh year who didn't get a job.
The interviews and NEWTs kept everyone busy through the morning and through lunch. Harry let the talk swirl past him and nodded and agreed when asked his opinion on either. After lunch, he waited impatiently for the others to collect in the Great Hall. They were due for a Defense practice and Harry was anxious to start. Snape entered the Hall looking rather annoyed. Behind him were Dumbledore and McGonagall. The students fell silent at the sight of the Headmaster as he rarely attended the practices.
"As you know," Dumbledore said, "no other Hogwarts class has been trained to duel in this fashion. No other class, however, has faced the prospect of potential attack of the kind you may when you leave the protection of school this summer. You are not ignorant that Lord Voldemort has increased his attacks on both Muggles and wizards in recent weeks. Therefore, in order to better arm you, I shall be selecting groups of students to work with and practices will be increased to weekly on Saturdays rather than every other week. Those students whose names are called will follow me. The others will stay in the Hall and work under Professor Snape's and Professor McGonagall's excellent tutelage." Dumbledore inclined his head toward the other two teachers and then called the students' names from a list.
"Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Neville Longbottom, Lune Lovegood, Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley and Ron Weasley. Those students will join me today. I shall see a different group of you next week."
Harry looked at the others and wondered if Dumbledore had some new information about Voldemort that made things even more urgent and dangerous than they had thought. He glanced at Snape, but no emotion could be read from his perfectly controlled features. The only expression on Professor McGonagall's face was worry. Her beady eyes met his and she gave him what was supposed to be an encouraging nod. He nodded back at her and tried for a smile, but he thought it had come out as a sort of a grimace instead.
Dumbledore led them down to the dungeon classroom in which they had studied alchemy the previous year. The enormous fireplace contained a roaring fire and bent over the fire was the ancient wizened form of Nicholas Flamel. Flamel straightened up at their entrance and peered at them out of alert bright eyes that were centuries younger than his twisted six hundred seventy year old body. Dumbledore nodded at Flamel and the ancient one brought out, one by one, a succession of beautifully wrought swords.
“Nicholas has been observing your work in class and in practice,” Dumbledore explained. “I have asked him to make for each of you a sword that is suitable to your talents and personality. Like a wand, a wizard does best with a sword that is his own.” The Headmaster considered them keenly and added, “These are a labor of great power such as have not been made in centuries. Guard them and use them well.”
Harry felt a wave of excitement and relief. An anxiety he had buried and no longer acknowledged re-surfaced and dissipated. Having a new a sword, one of his very own, might be his only chance of defeating Voldemort. Dumbledore held out his hand and took the first one from Flamel.
He drew the sword, which had a black enameled hilt decorated with a light green stone and said, “Mr. Malfoy?”
The blond Slytherin went forward eagerly. His pale face was flushed with pleasure and the gray eyes held a gleam that was both happy and vindictive at the same time. Dumbledore examined Malfoy’s face and paused. He reversed the sword and held it out hilt first, but did not hand it off.
“Lay your hand on the hilt,” Dumbledore directed. Malfoy complied wordlessly. “You will now give me your word, a wizard’s promise, which will bind you magically, to serve the cause of justice,” Dumbledore commanded.
“I will,” Malfoy said. He tried to take the sword, but Dumbledore would not yet surrender it in to the keeping of its new owner.
“You will make one further promise,” Dumbledore said. “You will swear, on your honor as a wizard, that you will not raise this weapon against your father.”
For a moment, Harry thought Malfoy would refuse and that he would dash the sword to the floor. A spasm of fury and resentment lit his face, but it was replaced by a look of forced calm. “Very well,” Malfoy said. “I so swear. So long,” he added, “as that does not mean I may not use this against the Dark Lord.”
Dumbledore examined the Slytherin with that knowing gaze and then nodded and released the sword to its new owner. Malfoy raised the sword and saluted the Headmaster in a curiously old-fashioned air and a faint green glow lit the steely blade of the sword. “It’s a real magic sword, then,” he said.
“Cool,” Ron and Neville whispered.
Harry said nothing. He had reason to know what kind of damage a real magic sword could do. Dumbledore called each of them in turn and made each of them swear the same, that they would serve the cause of justice. Each sword was a work of art, embellished with such stones and decoration as suited the owner’s personality and as, Flamel, explained, each, like a wand contained a unique magical core. Ron’s contained a unicorn hair and was decorated with a large purple amethyst. Hermione’s contained a dragon heartstring and was decorated with an amber cat’s eye. Ginny’s also contained a dragon heartstring and was inlaid with garnets and sapphires. Both Neville’s and Luna have contained unicorn hair. Luna’s had large turquoise set in silver and Neville’s was decorated with gold and topaz. Harry was last.
He waited patiently for Dumbledore to call him forward, but after a glance at Flamel, Dumbledore said apologetically, “Yours isn’t ready yet, Harry. I’d appreciate your assistance with the practice though.”
Harry tried not to show his disappointment, but he could not help wondering why he, who was the one most likely to be facing Voldemort himself, should have to wait to get a sword. He swallowed down his distress and tried to persuade himself that he was wrong to even consider that Dumbledore might have decided he shouldn’t have a sword at all. Reminding himself that he was not the only one who opposed Voldemort, Harry concentrated on giving Neville and Ron polite criticisms on their fighting. Neville had no trouble producing a dark golden light with his sword, but he could not seem to control its direction and Harry had to duck fast several times to keep from getting singed by its fire.
Ron jumped in with an enthusiasm that reminded Harry of the time they had been told off by McGonagall for fighting with a pair of Fred and George’s fake wands. Of the girls, Ginny had taken to the sword the quickest. Hermione was comfortable producing the magical energies that gave hers a reddish glow. But she seemed to dislike the actual physical engagement as much as she disliked using a regular sword.
Luna, however, drifted in a world of her own, and seemed to avoid Malfoy’s attack in a weird, ghost-like manner. Harry repressed a grin at that. He was sure the Slytherin must feel insulted that he could not easily outdo a girl, especially one as odd as Luna.
At the end of an hour, Dumbledore called a halt and said, “We will continue with your instruction next week.” The others chattered happily as they carefully sheathed their new weapons and all of them avoided Harry’s eye.
As they exited, Dumbledore said softly, “Wait, please, Harry.” He stepped back away from the door, feeling his heart speed up with hope. Hermione and Ron and Ginny all stopped, too, but Dumbledore waved them on out, and they complied, though all of them looked back curiously as they left.
“You were wondering why you were not given a sword with the others,” Dumbledore said.
“Yes, sir,” Harry replied.
Dumbledore sighed and said, “Nicholas wanted you to be present when he made yours.” Harry looked at Flamel and the old one looked back at him gravely. Neither of the two old wizards seemed particularly happy.
“I cannot recall in all my years,” Flamel said, “being so anxious that a thing I made should be made right, not even when I made the Philospher’s Stone for the first time. I hope you will forgive me, child, for any flaws or errors that I make.”
“Are you joking?” Harry said blankly. “I -- it’s an honor, sir, to have anything made by you.”
Flamel smiled, yet his eyes held a great melancholy that Harry could not interpret. He held out his old, old hand, one covered with the spots of age and twisted the ropy veins and deformed bones of a man who had long ago outlived his time. Dumbledore handed Flamel the pieces of another sword. They were blackened and twisted and had outlived their use. Disbelieving, Harry saw a single word picked out in ancient letters down the ruined shaft of one piece: Gryffindor.
Flamel dropped the pieces of the ruined Sword of Gryffindor in with the molten steel that glowed white hot in the great alchemist’s chamber. The pieces melted and swirled and became one with the newer steel and on the fiery surface of the liquid metal, the letters spelling Gryffindor danced.
Flamel caught Dumbledore’s eye and said, “Now, Albus!” and Dumbledore seized the chamber and poured the molten metal into the mold that would from the new-born sword. Flamel waited, counting beneath his breath to seven times to seven. Then he nodded and Dumbledore brought out a single golden feather, a phoenix feather. Flamel laid it into the still soft metal and nodded again and Dumbledore flicked his wand and a breath of icy air swept across the surface of the hot metal, cooling it instantly and leaving behind a mist on the silvery surface.
Another flick of the wand removed the mist and the surface of the newly forged sword shone so bright it nearly blinded Harry’s eyes. Faintly beneath the surface of the upper shaft, the outline of the phoenix’s feather could be seen, and on below it, as if they had been there always, the letters spelling Gryffindor appeared.
Dumbledore and Flamel smiled grimly then and Dumbledore turned the mold over and released the re-born sword from its confines. He held as if to check its weight and balance and then passed it on to the old master for inspection. Flamel nodded again and reached for another smaller pot of liquid metal. This one shone brilliantly gold.
On the pommel, Flamel used the tip of his wand to inscribe a shape and then drew the golden liquid out to fill in the shape and fuse it with its steel underlay. He hummed tunelessly and then held out an ancient hand. Dumbledore laid a glowing red object into Flamel’s hand and Flamel set it into the hilt and again waved his wand so that the golden setting now embraced the red stone. Smiling, Flamel used his wand delicately, one final time, to inscribe down the shaft of the blade, the words, HARRY POTTER. He ran a crooked finger down the edge and used the wand to refine the sword’s edges and then passed it back over to Dumbledore.
“I believe this is even finer than then the original, Nicholas,” Dumbledore remarked gravely. He turned to Harry, who was gaping at the sword that now bore his a name together with that of Gryffindor, and said, “I think you’ll find this suitable.”
Harry put out a hand to touch it and then drew it back again. He was sure he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life, nor more frightening. The golden shape on the hilt, he saw, was a lion just like the one on the Gryffindor arms. And between the lion’s paws was set a heart shaped ruby, the Heart of Gryffindor.
“I can’t take that,” Harry whispered. “Not to keep. That’s his – Godric Gryffindor’s.”
“I told you once,” Dumbledore answered softly, “that only a true Gryffindor could have drawn that sword out of the Hat. Take it. It belongs to you.” As if hypnotized, Harry reached out and took the sword. It felt light and perfect in his hand and he could almost hear the sound of a phoenix’s song vibrating in his head as he raised it. A red-gold glow illumined the sword and a faint wind seemed to run through the dungeon room, though there were no windows in the room at all.
“You didn’t make me swear before you gave it to me,” Harry said.
“No,” Dumbledore replied. “You’ve already given a promise. You have already embraced your destiny. I think you have been bound as securely as any one man ought to be.”
“I see,” Harry said. He let the sword fall so that it pointed down and faced the elderly wizard who had guided him, subtly at times, and at other times by main force, but always with purpose toward this moment.
“This is why Voldemort wanted to kill me then. Not just because I’m a half-blood like him and fit the prophecy.”
“He saw in the half-blood heir of Gryffindor a mirror’s image of the half-blood heir of Slytherin, or so I believe,” Dumbledore answered. He hesitated and said, “I had thought that by now your curiosity about your parents would have led you discover this. The information was always there. It’s public record, in all the wizarding histories and genealogies. You never suspected? It did not occur to you to look up your father’s antecedents, though you knew he was a pure-blood?” Harry shook his head.
“It never occurred to me. All my relatives are dead except for Aunt Petunia. It didn’t seem important to know if I were related to twentieth degree with Malfoy say, or even with Sirius. I mean, I’m not a pure-blood, so – well, there were always more important things to worry about.” He looked down at the sword again and could not begin to feel that it was real or even true. “I was usually more worried about staying alive,” he added dryly, “than trying to find out what dead people I might be related to.”
“Or keeping someone else alive,” Flamel amended gently. The ancient wizard held out a leather sheath tooled with silver and gold.
“For safekeeping,” he said. Then he waved his wand and said something very softly in Latin. “No one shall draw the sword but you, unless you will it,” Flamel said. “And if any try, they will find the sword shall burn them to the quick for their temerity.” He smiled and added, “It becomes you. Use it well.”
“I ought to thank you,” Harry answered. He hesitated and went on. “But you see, if I use it well, I’m afraid I shall be the murderer that the prophecy says I may be.” He went out before either of the old men could object. He knew, as they did, that he could not afford to simply disable Voldemort, not even in the way that Dumbledore had disabled Grindelwald, by wiping his mind of any ability to do magic at all. Unlike Dumbledore, Voldemort was connected to Harry, a part of him, his very life and mind entwined with Harry’s own. Neither could live while the other survived. So long as Voldemort lived, Harry was condemned to a cursed life; a kind of half-life, just as if he had drunk unicorn blood, for Harry too had lived when he should by all rights have died.
When he returned to the common room, Ginny jumped up and said excitedly, “You did get one, then! Let’s see!”
Harry nodded and tightened his grip on the Sword. He felt both possessive of it and as if he were in possession of stolen goods. He shrank from showing it to the others as he was very unsure how they would react.
“It’s different than ours,” Hermione said, “that’s why they gave you yours separately.”
“Of course, it’s different,” Neville, said matter-of-factly. “He’s got to fight You Know Who with it.” Harry opened his mouth to respond and then shut it again. Neville had only said what they all knew. Voldemort would attack again eventually and Harry would have to fight him.
“Go on, then,” Ron said. “Let’s see it. You’ve seen ours already.”
With the most minute of shrugs, Harry sighed and undid the leather straps that closed the sheath. He drew out the sword and faced them all, feeling again more strongly than ever, that he was different and separate and not one of them. He had been chosen from birth and he had been marked, scarred, and cursed by his enemy. Now they would all know it. Harry looked up to meet their eyes, but none of them looked particularly surprised.
“I thought they might do that,” Hermione said with approval.
“You what?” Harry said. “How did you know?”
A faint smile hovered at Hermione’s mouth. “Am I still the only one here who ever reads? It’s in that genealogy book I borrowed. And in half the histories of the Dark Arts that mention you. Everybody knows it.”
“Everyone?” Harry said. “Everyone?”
“What? That you’re a Gryffindor?” Ron said. “Course everyone knows. It’s common knowledge, isn’t it?” He stared at Harry and said, “You mean nobody ever told you? Not Dumbledore?” Harry shook his head, feeling more bewildered than he had since his first ride on the Hogwarts Express.
“How odd,” Neville said. “They must all have expected you knew. Well, it’s like knowing the earth is round or something. In the wizarding world, everyone knows who’s related to whom. It’s just, like, something you grow up with.”
“Yeah?” Harry said, feeling nothing now but sheer annoyance and bad temper at the surprise. “Well, I grew up with the Dursleys and they didn’t admit magic even existed, and if they knew who Godric Gryffindor was, they never mentioned it to me.”
“Poor, Harry,” Ginny said. “You still don’t know how special you are. Maybe that’s why we all love you.” She kissed him ever so lightly and he wished with all his heart that he wasn’t special or destined for anything more than an ordinary, quiet life.
