The Book of the Dead: Chapter 1-10

A Sad World

“Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy? May I introduce your new intern, Miss Astoria Greengrass?” That was the smooth voice of Theodore Nott, the new assistant of the Minister of Magic. And the cool draught laced with a hint of ambergris and honey heralded the entrance of Miss Astoria Greengrass, the newest “prisoner” in the archival dungeons of the Ministry of Magic.

Harry wondered what crime Astoria had committed to end up in the darkest bowels of the Ministry. Not that he was in a position to judge just how dark it was down here.

He heard a female gasp. Next to him, he felt the slight ebbing and flowing of magical energy that accompanied Draco’s ghostly manifestation. Then long, slender fingers curled around his right hand.

“Mr Potter.” Her polite smile was audible. He wondered if she was as blond as her older sister. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Harry snorted softly. “I rather doubt that. Your sister died fighting for the other side.”

The hand dropped away.

“I am not my sister.” The syllables were suddenly tight, almost hoarse, squeezed through a throat constricting with tears.

All of a sudden, Harry felt weary. Five years, and still the wounds of the war were not healed or forgotten. He inhaled deeply. He realised that he rather liked her perfume. “I’m sorry, Miss Greengrass. Welcome to the dungeons of the Ministry.”

♦♦♦◊♦♦♦

“Do you think her sister’s and her parents’ unfortunate affiliations were enough to get her dumped down here in the dungeons?” Harry asked later.

Draco sighed, an audible shrug. “Shouldn’t think so, really. It’s been five years. She’s two years younger than Daphne, and she wasn’t in Slytherin.”

Five years. Harry rubbed the snitch-shaped scar on his forehead. It certainly didn’t feel like that to him. Maybe it never would.

“She wasn’t?” Harry raised his head, curiosity roused.

“No.” A faint breeze whispered toward him as the ghost shook his head. Draco’s every move was accompanied by a faint chill. Harry turned his head in Draco’s direction.

“She was in Hufflepuff. Like Hannah. An ‘embarrassment’, Daphne called her.”

“You like her,” Harry stated with a slight smirk.

The icy blast that made the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end was answer enough.

“You really do!”

The silence lengthened.

Then: “She … offered to shake my hand. And she didn’t flinch when I touched her. Most live ones do, you know. Except you and Severus. And Headmistress McGonagall.”

“Guts, huh?” Harry grinned. “Are you sure she was in Hufflepuff?”

“Quite,” was the curt answer. “I wonder how she ended up as an archive intern …”

♦♦♦◊♦♦♦

Ginny was in a snit. Harry could smell it, before she even said the first word.

Somehow, her scent changed when she was angry. He still couldn’t quite say how, but it did. It tasted red and acrid.

He tried to remember red. The light of the evening sun on his lids. The way he’d stared at it through the bars of his window in Privet Drive. Juicy, sweet, watery water melon, shared with Ron and Hermione on a hot summer’s day at the Burrow. Pain searing through his scar and his forehead.

The soft flesh between Ginny’s thighs …

“What?” he asked distractedly.

“WHAT?!” his wife yelled, loud enough to wake James-Hermes, who’d had trouble falling asleep that night anyway. Harry flinched.

“I asked if the results from that Muggle specialist have arrived yet.”

Harry winced. So that was why he’d had the feeling that he had forgotten something important for the last three days.

“Uh… Ginny … I’m really –”

A fwap! of silky Quidditch robes hitting the leather of the old sofa told him that she was slumping against the backrest.

“You didn’t go,” she stated. Her voice sounded harsh and disappointed.

“I … uh… Ginny –”

“Sometimes I really don’t understand you, Harry,” she said wearily. “We’ve been waiting for that appointment for months! Do you want to stay blind? Don’t you want to see your son’s smile?”

♦♦♦◊♦♦♦

“Oh, bloody hell,” Ron sighed and rubbed his eyes, before blinking blearily at the latest stack of parchments specifying the regulations applicable to ‘magical items intended to cause amusement and/or entertainment through Charms and spells of standard 1b) and below, registered with the local wizarding authority and the European Office for Fun and Filking’.

“That’s OFF indeed. And why is it called ‘Filking’ anyway?”

“Are you done with the accounts?” George ducked into the back room of Weasleys’ Wizards’ Wheezes.

“I wish,” retorted Ron and awkwardly rolled his shoulders. Since he had lost his arm, the balance of his upper body was off. When he was stressed, he suffered horrible shoulder pains. “I haven’t even figured out which of these new regulations and restrictions actually apply to our products.” He groaned, trying to stretch an arm that wasn’t there, and grimaced. “Gred, I’m no good at this Legalese. I think we need an appointment with Loxweild-Spalt.”

George grimaced. “Is that really necessary?”

“If we don’t want to lose our concession, I think so.”

“Merlin’s hairy bollocks!”

“And the crab lice in between.” Sometimes part-owning a shop for practical jokes of the magical kind was not half as much fun as Ron had once thought it would be. “And what’s all that stuff you’ve got there?”

George’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he dumped an armful of magical candies into the garbage bin. “Campaign gifts,” he explained, his voice rife with loathing. “Though I can’t see why perfectly good chocolate that suddenly turns into the letters F-U-D-G-E in your throat should make you vote for him. Really. If you ask me, that stuff is bloody dangerous.”

He cast a quick Evanesco at the bin. “I bet somewhere a nice little old witch has already choked to death on that fudge. Or at least lost her teeth. And all because of Bertie Botts and his new investor from the States. I tell you, little brother, it’s a sad world we live in. A sad world.”

*** TBC ***