When Push Comes to Toppling Shove
5.
In one very secure room in one very remote place, the top names in the United Kingdom when it comes to internal defence and external relations gather with a tense air about them.
All of their number have reported odd things and happenings throughout their jurisdiction: people who quitted their jobs and packed up and were gone without a trace in the span of just three days, a handful of other individuals doing the very same thing outside of Great Britain, large wathes of empty land or waters in the Common Wealth and outside of it that almost seamlessly appeared – reappeared? – within those bloody three days, their pesky magical counterparts bleeting about big losses of money and resources at the same time and denying that it’s caused by their recently concluded war….
“Is their war not finished yet in truth, then?” wonders one.
“Ruddy freaks,” another mutters lowly, tired and anxious and confused and on the edge of his tether.
“It’s high time we find out for ourselves and not depend on those wizards, I propose,” yet another speaks up, with a side glance at his now-chastised colleague. “It’s high time we get to the bottom of this and get justice for all mundane people who died because of their war.”
“Including our citizens who were drawn into their world?” the Prime Minister perks up hopefully. His beloved niece nearly died in the rampant and enforced persecutions that has been going on in that bloody backward society for all too long.
How glad, relieved and vindicated he feels that this gathering agrees!
6.
“Ron? Something wrong?”
Charlie Weasley – well, Charles Weasley, but really – crouches beside his youngest brother, who is wanly, listlessly watching his youngest sister fly about in the orchard but not joining in. Compared to Ginny, who is not chipper let alone her usual fiery self but at least alive, Ron looks dead, blank eyes and greyish skin and all.
And his expression still doesn’t stir, when Charlie nudges at him with an elbow. He just scoots away on the log that is their “garden bench.”
It makes Charlie wonder sickly if he might lose three brothers soon, what with how George has been behaving since… since Fred.
It also makes him wonder what happened in the Ministry that Ron is this way. Wasn’t Ron there to meet with Harry and… “Oh. Ron. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about Harry. Wish we could do something to overturn that stupid law.”
He flings an arm round his youngest brother. But it’s like he’s hugging a clothed statue with spungy surface instead, really.
Just like George.
And, come to think of it again, Percy, too, who made up with the family via the twins only to lose one of them under his watch a moment after.
`The deaths didn’t end with the war,` he realises, remembers, and has to straighten up with how sick he feels.
Oddly, it’s only then that Ron speaks – whispers, rather, and his words are nearly blown away by the late-afternoon breeze that is picking up all round the orchard.
Charlie hopes that he has misheard because of it, and blames the wind for good measure.
But still, he cannot unhear what he has heard.
“The baby’s gone. Tonks’ and Professor Lupin’s kid. Hermione pushed him on Harry at the Veil. I can’t believe it….”
Charlie has heard about Harry’s hypothesis that the Veil of Death actually leads not to death. But it remains a theory. And, if what Ron said is true, if what Harry said is false, Hermione has condemned a baby to death, a werewolf’s son or not.
On top of what Ron told him yesterday, about her Obliviating her own parents, now Charlie is in the firm opinion that his family had better be far, far, far away from that girl. Who knows what she will do next! Her name might just be equal to – or even exceed! – Bellatrix Lestrange someday!
Well, the Burrow hasn’t been rebuilt has it? They’re still living in tents in the orchard, while the grounds are cleansed and the foundation is checked over for damages. Then, perhaps it’s time to join forces with Bill and persuade the family to move somewhere – somewhere Hermione will never know.
7.
Blaise Zabini is not human.
Well, not all human.
And they are proud of it.
Not that anybody ever suspected them, thus nobody ever asked… or accused them.
Not that anybody would dare, with the might of Agnes Zabini looming ready for those who would.
Blaise is not alone, either, being this special kind of mixture. They went to school with one, in fact.
They went to school in dreary Scotland highlands for that person, to be exact, though Dumbledore and his ilk had gotten their claws into that person before they could move in to scoop the other up.
And, recently, that person got snuffed out. Blaise could literally feel it in their soul. Every milaða soul is… “linked with another of their kind” is perhaps not accurate, but the accurate thing would involve a long, in-dept explanation of theory, history and anecdotal evidence. So, basically, one who bears the soul of a milaða will recognise another who bears the same, even if they are physically halfbreed or reincarnated or deeply unconscious.
Abý warned them about this, long ago, and told them it’s why a civil war or any war involving milaðen is ugly because of this factor alone.
Abý is one such survivor, in fact.
Abý was part of the Royal Guard and is still considered an elder sibling by the reigning monarch. And one of the Monarch’s twin children was murdered in cold blood at the end of the last war, only to be reborn round the time of Blaise’s own birth. Abý never asked them to befriend the other child, let alone take a more serious role, but Blaise knows that the Royal Family is Abý’s family, if neither legally nor culturally, hence they are Blaise’s family, so Blaise asked Mama for permission to study at Hogwarts.
They just never thought that they would be separated so soon and so far from the so-called “mascot of Griffindor.” With no chance whatsoever to intermingle, at that, given to which House they had been sorted into, and how quickly the other was poisoned against “the slimy snakes,” including their own kin.
`Eh, no. Harry is definitely a he now… right? Given what Daphne said about that year? Or do they just prefer to snog a certain gender? Bleh, these genders are confusing!`
But thinking about genders is far better than thinking about the reborn Loki dead before Blaise can have a chance to meet with and get to know them. Dead because of a laughably faulty law, at that.
`Never again. That society needs to go down and be reborn. Abý said old and tired people who can’t get on living anymore get to be reborn anew and afresh, so maybe it is what these prejudiced, unthinking, antiquated, mindless, herd-like, inbred people need. Now, better ask Mama if she will help, and Abý, and Daphne, and perhaps Susan?`
8.
Dudley Dursley freezes as he passes beside the living room that is also his bedroom.
His mother is there, seated on the edge of his camp bed, and sobbing quietly.
Over a letter.
She is clutching the letter, in fact.
“What’s wrong, Mum?” He rushes towards her, abandoning his bookbag by the front door of their one-bedroom flat. “Did Aunt Marge – is Aunt Marge all right? Are you okay? Did you go to the doctor or something and that’s the result?”
He is working himself up in a panic, but he can’t help it! Dad died just a few months ago from heart failure after ranting too much at the freaks sharing their safehouse. He only has Mum now, as he can’t afford Smeltings anymore and his friends have all abandoned him, and Harry no longer lives with them, and he can’t bear even the prospect of Mum leaving him because of anything, let alone death.
He seats himself right by Mum, then, and hugs her with one arm even as he tries to gently pry the paper out of her hands because she hasn’t even reacted to his presence.
It takes a little while, but he is patient, he must be patient, because this is for his mum, his only anyone left aside from Aunt Marge and Harry.
When he manages to get the paper and unwrinkle it, though, it turns out not to be an unfavourable bloodwork report or a letter from Aunt Marge or her friend.
No, it’s a letter from Harry. And it reads:
Dear Aunt Petunia,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am certain you thought you would never hear from me. Me, too. But the current situation has forced my hand. I hope you will bear with me for at least a little while more.
Voldemort is dead. Mum’s killer is dead. But apparently his death is not the end of everything. I got snagged in Voldemort’s last law that says I am public enemy number 1. Apparently the first task of the new government is to finish the last orders of the previous one, including this one.
I had to choose between being tossed back to the mundane world with my memory and body wiped of all traces of magic, being tossed into Azkaban (the magical prison) for life, or being tossed through the Veil of Death. I have my own hopeful theories of the Veil, so I have chosen it.
Whether my theory is right or not, this means I will never see anyone on earth ever again. And this means I can no longer watch out for you. Or rather, your line. Because whether you like it or not, ours is a magical line, and there is a possibility that Dudley or his child might get a magical child one day. So I am begging you, Aunt Petunia, for all the fondest memories of your little sister instead of the bitter ones, please treat that child well, unlike how you treated me. If you find it hard, just remember that that child comes from your Dinky Duddy Dums, not your unwanted nephew. And thank you because, for all you and Uncle Vernon and Dudley did to me, for all the abuses that Hagrid and Dumbledore have done to you, you still took me in.
I have asked Hermione (a Muggleborn witch, like Mum) to help you, in case my prediction becomes reality. I have also set aside a trust vault for the child’s or children’s schooling needs, because their abilities MUST be schooled in some way, or they will hurt themself and others round them. again, I hope you will treat them well.
This is my last wish. You will be rid of me forever after this, whether I am dead or transported elsewhere. I am not certain if I can forgive you, and I certainly cannot forget my childhood, but I certainly have no wish to go with this unsaid and unplanned, and I will not take revenge on you via another magical child down the line.
Just, take care, Aunt Petunia. Move out of UK or even the common Wealth maybe. Things are still not good here for everyone, especially muggleborns and muggles, and the government proves to be just as horrible and nonsensical. Make new roots and new memories. In Majorka maybe? The point is, save yourselves.
Harry
Now Dudley knows why Mum is crying so. and he feels like he wants to cry, too. And rage. Oh how he would really like to lash out!
`Harry is dead. Because of the freaks.`
He bears his teeth at the drab wall of the living room opposite where he and Mum are seated, and vows to himself, `Well, the freaks will just have to die too, then.`