Chapter Text
Harry and Ginny’s party was the first Saturday after school ended. Hermione Firecalled Ginny the day before, to ask if she needed any help with preparations.
“Well, Kreacher is barely letting me do anything for the party, as it is,” Ginny laughed. “So that’s all taken care of. But come by a bit early, if you’d like. You can tell me how your interview at St. Mungo’s went before the crowd arrives.”
On Saturday night, Hermione arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place half an hour before the party was to start. Because this was an informal occasion with friends, she had chosen to wear a slip dress in a butterfly print, rather than robes. Kreacher, who was never going to warm to her, eyed the dress disapprovingly, and stiffly informed her that the master and mistress were in the drawing room. Hermione made her way up the stairs to find Ginny arranging flowers into a large vase while Harry finished up an incantation with his wand aimed at the far wall.
“Room-expanding charm?” she asked when Harry was done.
“One of the reasons I love magic. Let’s just hope it holds,” he said as she handed him the magnum of French champagne she’d brought. “Thanks. I’ll go put this on ice and check the preparations Kreacher is making while you ladies catch up.”
“The room looks wonderful,” Hermione told Ginny after he’d left. The drawing room had been cleaned up, cleared out, and thoroughly updated. Gone were the decaying wallpaper and rotting velvet drapes, the dark and heavy Victorian furniture, the heavy chandelier and the worn Turkish carpet. They had been replaced by fresh paint and silk curtains, modern seating arrangements designed with comfort in mind and recessed lighting in the ceiling. The rug on the floor was a lovely Persian in varying shades of blue that complimented the light blue of the walls. One other change was immediately noticeable. “What’ve you done with the Black Family tapestry?”
“Banished it to a bedroom, until Andromeda decides if she wants it,” Ginny said and looked up from where she had been scrutinizing the effect of a pale pink hydrangea in an arrangement overflowing with roses, snapdragons, sweet william and sprays of ferns. “What do you think? Hydrangea, or no hydrangea?” Hermione considered the vase and its contents.
“Keep it, but add another snapdragon to the left for balance,” she decided. Ginny nodded, slip a purple snapdragon into place, and studied the whole.
“I like it,” she said, and banished the unused flowers and greenery before floating the vase onto an end table. She looked over at Hermione. “You’re not surprised to see me using magic before my birthday?”
“Specialty in Wizarding law, remember,” Hermione said. “I am familiar with the concept of emancipated minors as it affects persons married before they turn seventeen. I expect the Ministry wants you to be able to use your wand to do household magic.”
“Probably, although Kreacher gets offended if I so much as start water boiling for tea. I really do wish house-elves believed in retiring. We’d dearly love to pension him off, but he’d probably kill himself from despair.”
“Exactly why I abandoned S.P.E.W. At least for the moment. Anyway, you did a great job arranging the flowers. They’re lovely, and so is the robe you’re wearing. Is it new?” The robes in question were of a thin silk in a shade of yellow that shifted with the light, and brought out amber flecks in Ginny’s eyes. The sweetheart neckline, cap sleeves, and handkerchief hem combined to create a flattering silhouette. Ginny laughed and twirled to make the full skirts of her robe flare about her.
“I know! I love it, but I would never have spent the galleons on it if Harry hadn’t insisted. He’s being ridiculously indulgent, she confided, taking Hermione’s arm and leading her over to one of the couches. We’d gone to Diagon Alley, and this was in the window at Gladrags. Of course I was drooling over it, but I was just window shopping, with no thought of buying it. But Harry saw how much I liked it, and insisted we go in so I could try it on. Well, even then, I wasn’t expecting anything to come of that, just a bit of dress-up, but Harry said no, it was perfect for me and I ought to have it, so here I am.” Hermine was charmed by the story and completely approved of Harry’s actions.
“Well, any husband who isn’t ridiculously indulgent of his wife while they’re newlyweds ought to be tossed back and exchanged for a better model,” she told Ginny, “So, well done Harry!”
“As always,” Ginny said. “Now, tell me how things went at St. Mungo’s.” Hermione told her what had happened during her interview. When she described her conversation with Chairwizard Melp, Ginny grew thoughtful.
“Healing the soul,” she said. “And that’s part of the reason why you’re going to Avalon?”
“Yes. I don’t mean to tell everyone about that, but you and I went through quite a lot together in Cornwall, so I thought you would understand. Oh, and you needn’t keep it from Harry or Ron. I know they won’t spread it about.”
“No, they won’t,” Ginny nodded. “Besides, you’re not the only one still looking for healing.” She gave Hermione a wry smile. “I made an appointment with Healer Alvarez for next week. I thought I was doing well, even after I found out about the baby, but once school was over and we came home…well.”
“There was nothing to distract you, keep your mind occupied,” Hermione said. “You’ve had too much time to think and you aren’t happy with the things you’re thinking.”
“Same for you?” Hermione gave a mirthless chuckle.
“Very much so.”
“The biggest thing for me is the baby,” Ginny went on. “I already love it, and we’re doing everything we can to protect it, but I’m terrified that somehow, the secret will get out, and then everyone will have expectations, for good or ill, about what a living child of Voldemort’s will do or be. I told you once before, I don’t know how a child can help turning into a monster, if everyone treats them like something monstrous.”
“We’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Hermione said firmly. “We’ll surround this child with all the love and support it will ever need.” Ginny smiled.
“That is the plan. I can’t face sharing memories in a Pensieve, at least not yet, but I think talking my fears over with the psyche Healer will help me deal with things, prepare myself. I want to be the best mother I can be.”
“I have every faith that you will be,” Hermione smiled. “After all, you have Molly Weasley as a role model.”
“There is that,” Ginny allowed. Just then they Harry returned.
“Well, Kreacher isn’t keen on the crisps I’m having him put out,” he began, “but they should be—ah, yes, that’s done it.” A popping sound heralded the arrival of the snacks in various bowls about the room.
“Yum,” Hermione commented helping herself to a slice of salty goodness. “I was telling Ginny how much I like what you’ve done with the house.”
“This room, at least,” Harry said, taking a chair opposite them, “and some of the others. But the dining room is still a mausoleum and we really need to bring the basement kitchen out of the 17th century.”
“If Kreacher will let us,” Ginny sighed.
They spent a few minutes telling Hermione about the renovations that had been done, and the ones they hoped to do, like an expanding charm on the small outdoor garden so that Ginny could grow herbs for cooking as well as flowers, before a knock sounded at the front door and Kreacher could be heard going off to admit the first guests.
“Time to do the honors,” Harry said, getting to his feet. A moment later he was shaking hands with Neville, who had arrived with Hannah Abbott. Ron and Lavender were only a moment behind them, soon followed by the Patil twins.
It didn’t take long for drawing room at Grimauld Place to fill up with their former schoolmates, though Harry’s charm made sure the space was comfortably cozy, without being crowded. Magic also ensured that as more chairs, sofas, or floor pillows were needed, they would appear. Unusually, all the Hogwarts houses were represented. In fact, it seemed like almost everyone who had been in their year had come, along with several underclassmen. Hermione hadn’t known her friends had invited any Slytherins, and was delighted to see Blaise and Theo arrive. She immediately went to greet them when they appeared at the drawing room door, kissing each young wizard on the cheek.
“Well, this is a lovely surprise,”
“Figured any party celebrating leaving Hogwarts being thrown by the red faction could do with a touch of green,” Blaise said, before turning to shake hands with Harry and hand over a bottle. “Just for you and the missus. Don’t need to waste it on this lot, here. Figured they can make do with the honey mead Theo sent.”
“It got here all right?” Theo asked, shaking hands in turn.
“Delivered this afternoon,” Harry said. “Just the thing for a party this size. Thanks for thinking of it, Theo.”
“Thanks for having us.”
“Hermione was hanging out with you so much we decided you couldn’t be that bad,” Ginny laughed. “We even invited Pansy, but she said she’s doing a night shoot, and couldn’t come. Sent us that lovely crystal punchbowl on the sideboard as a housewarming gift, though, which was very sweet.” She added in a whispered aside to Hermione, “It wasn’t even cursed.”
“You checked it for curses?” Hermione giggled. Ginny shrugged.
“Force of habit.”
“I see.” As the witches whispered, Harry had continued to talk to the Slytherin wizards.
“— said they’d come, so we’ll end up having a reasonably large touch of green.” he was saying when Hermione returned her attention to that conversation.
“Yes, Daphne told me she and Astoria would be coming when I mentioned my invite,” Theo nodded. “Anyone else?”
“Tracy Davis and Adrien Pucey,” Harry said.
“Oh, and Arabella Rosier,” Ginny added.
“As long as you didn’t extend your hospitality to Crabbe, Goyle , or Bulstrode, I’m delighted that you are advancing the cause of interhouse unity that the sorting hat was going on about,” Blaise drawled. “Speaking of which, I see a flock of ravens congregating near the punch bowl. The lovely Mandy Brocklehurst, the delightful Lisa Turpin and the scintillating Padma Patil are clearly in need of someone to appreciate the charming picture they present. If you will excuse me, I shall take it upon myself to do the honors.” He left them with a courtly bow and made his way over to the three young witches.
“Born to be hanged, that one,” Theo, watching him go, shook his head sadly.
“I’m leaning more toward slaughtered by an outraged husband, myself,” Hermione told him.
“Also a distinct possibility,” Theo allowed. The others laughed, then Harry and Ginny excused themselves to greet more arriving guests Hermione drew Theo aside.
“First off, I want to know how your dinner with Tia went. It was last night, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and it was splendid,” he said, leading her to a chair at one end of the drawing room and sitting on the arm. “I would have brought her to the party, but Pansy has a night shoot and Tia is, naturally, doing her make-up. She has some other projects booked, so we’re not going to see each other again until next week. I’m thinking of a quick dash to Paris. There’s a charming little bistro around the corner from the Louvre that serves the most wonderful escargot. And then we can wander around that enormous palace and admire all the Muggle artworks, even if they can’t move or speak.”
“You do know it’s only the art from the end of the seventeenth century, when the Statute of Secrecy was passed, that’s purely Muggle, right? The Louvre’s collection goes back millennia, and there are plenty of Wizarding works to be seen, if you know how to look for them. The magic they contain is simply invisible to Muggles, but perfectly apparent to rest of us. Although I will say, there’s a lot to be admired in perfectly static Muggle art.”
“Tia agrees. That’s why we’re going the Louvre.”
“Good. Anyway, I want to ask you about something,” she told him. “It’s about the family token you gave me.”
“Ah. Noticed it disappeared, had you?”
“Yes. I realized it wasn't where I'd been keeping it when I was packing to leave school, and that I hadn't seen it for months. Does that mean that the debt you think you owe me is paid?”
“Well yes, only not so much paid, as canceled.”
“How do you mean?”
“What I mean is, if it were a question of the debt being paid and the scales balanced, the token would have floated up in front of your eyes, spun on its edge, and disappeared, back to the family it came from. That’s the usual signal it gives that you’ve done your part and set things right. But when it just sort of vanishes on its own with no fanfare, that’s because a different kind of balance has been struck. When that happens, you know the token recognizes the parties have now formed a bond in which debts are not counted.”
“Ah,” Hermione smiled. “You mean the token recognized we’ve become friends.”
“Good friends, I hope,” he returned with an answering smile.
“Very good friends,” she agreed just as Seamus came up to her to say hello. With Hermione to act as buffer between the two wizards from rival houses who’d never interacted much at school, the three soon fell into an amicable conversation concerning their plans for the summer, and were soon joined by several other party goers, including the Greengrass sisters. Daphne was reserved at first, clearly not sure how she felt being surrounded by so many Gryffindors, but Theo, sensing her discomfort, made an effort to draw her out, and she was soon laughing and chatting with the others.
Astoria was more open, greeting Hermione warmly.
“I’m very jealous of your being able to go to Avalon, you know,” she confided.
“You’re interested in deep magic?” Hermione asked.
“Not that, so much. It’s the arts workshops I’m keen to take. Hogwarts spends so much effort on all the branches of magic, that we’re left to figure the more mundane things out on our own. I mean, yes, we’re taught charms to make photographs move, and spells that imbue a painted image with a person’s memories, and how to use magic to help us construct a photograph or painting, or what have you, but we aren’t really taught the basic mechanics of it all. At Avalon, though, you can really explore matters in depth. I’m very much hoping I’ll be able to take a poetry workshop after I leave school.”
“Oh, you’re a poet?” Hermione said, impressed. “But that’s wonderful!”
“Well I’m more an aspiring poet than an actual one,” Astoria said, blushing. “I mean, I have my favorite poets, and I try my hand at expressing myself similarly in verse, but I don’t know how good I am at it.”
“Don’t you have friends you can share your work with?” Hermione asked. “Or your sister?” Astoria shook her head.
“I love Daphne to bits, and she’s a wonderful big sister, but she’s like our parents. Wouldn’t know Neruda from Naidu. I can’t say any of my friends have much interest in the writers I like either. I read Dirge Without Music to my dorm-mates last month, and they said it was morbid and I should read things that were more fun.”
“Oh, dear,” said Hermione, who was rather fond of the poem in question. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to share your work with them. And you’re right, Hogwarts doesn’t really have courses in art appreciation. Any of the arts. On the other hand,” Hermione fell silent, thinking, then nodded to herself. “Come with me,” she said, and led Astoria over to where Ginny and Luna were talking.
“Just the witches I need,” Hermione said. “Do either of you know any people in your year who like poetry? People who might like to form a club at school to talk about their favorite poets, and maybe read their own work?”
“What a lovely idea,” said Luna. “Keith Montague would like that. He’s a Ravenclaw in the year below me, but I know he like’s poetry. He recites it all the time.”
“Does he?” Ginny asked.
“Oh, yes. When he feels a line is apt, he’ll use it and then he’ll tell you who wrote it and what poem it’s from. I don’t know why people tell him to stop. It’s all quite fascinating. When the prefects were trying to make the younger students go up to bed while the older ones were still celebrating our house leaving party for the seventh years, he recited a poem about a candle burning at both ends and refused to go.”
“That sounds like the First Fig from Edna St Vincent Millay’s Figs from Thistles,” Astoria said excitedly.
“Yes, I think that’s what Keith told us,” Luna said.
“Oh, but that’s wonderful!” Astoria went on. “I haven’t had anyone to talk to about poetry. I mean, I know who Keith is, but as we’re in different houses, we’ve never really spoken. I’ll look for him on the train when we go back to school, and see what he thinks about starting a poetry club. Maybe we can find others to join us.”
“Why wait for the train?” Ginny asked. “Send him an owl. Maybe the two of you can start planning your club over the summer, and write to the headmaster before school starts. That way, you’ll be ready to start your club right away.”
“I, oh, yes,” Astoria stammered. “That is, if…well. If you think he’ll open a letter from a Slytherin he barely knows.”
Hermione was struck by that, of how hostile most of the other houses were to Slytherin. Certainly, there were plenty of Slytherin who were arrogant enough not to care how anyone outside of their own house felt about them, but it clearly affected the more sensitive souls, like Astoria. Ginny was unfazed by Astoria’s qualms.
“Put a line of poetry on the return address,” she suggested. “One from that Fig-poem. That should pique his curiosity enough to open it.”
“Oh. Yes. That might work,” Astoria said. “Thank you.”
“I haven’t read much poetry,” Luna said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should try some over the summer. Who would you recommend?” Astoria’s face flushed with pleasure and she began to ask Luna questions about the kinds of things she did like so as to recommend a poet that might appeal to her.
All in all, it was a very pleasant evening. By the end of it, the Slytherins, who had tended to congregate together, were mingling comfortably with members from all the other houses. Justin Finch-Fletchly and Anthony Goldstone were in an animated discussion with Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass on something Quidditch related, while Adrian Pucey was making Susan Bones laugh uproariously.
Later, Theo, who had been speaking with Ernie Mc Millan drifted back to her side.”
“Where’s Blaise got to?” Hermione asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen him for a while.”
“Nor Lisa, Mandy, or either Patel twin,” Theo responded. She stared at him in disbelief.
“Theo, can you possibly be telling me Blaise left with all of them?”
“Said that as the Potters were doing their part to foster interhouse cooperation, it behooved him to do his best to further the effort,” he said blandly. The two exchanged a speaking look, then simultaneously said one work.
“Hanged.”
“Though he’s not wrong about interhouse cooperation,” Hermione went on, nodding in the direction of the knots of conversations happening between people of differing houses, all throughout the Potters’ drawing room. “It should have been like this at school.”
“I’m all for reform,” Theo told her, “but doing away with the houses might be a bridge too far.”
“I don’t want to do away with the houses,” Hermione said. “It’s good for children leaving home for the first time to have a sort of surrogate family, to give them a feeling of belonging. Not even sure I want to do away with the house rivalries. A bit of competition can be a good thing, spurring people on to do their best. But it’s gone to extremes, hasn’t it? We’ve been at school together for seven years ago, and have only got to know each, and find out how much we like each other, in the past seven months. If I’d never confronted Pansy, never forced her to come to Muggle London with me, never used your family token to help me with that, I’d never have got to know the three of you, or anyone else from your house.”
“And you’d have regretted that? Never getting to know us.”
“Merlin, yes. How can you even ask? And we’re not the only ones who nearly missed out on potential friendships. Tonight, Astoria Greengrass whose very keen on poetry but doesn’t know anyone who shares her interest, found out that Keith Montague in her year is at least as keen on it as she is, because, according to Luna Lovegood, he is always reciting lines of verse to other Ravenclaws. But they’re in different houses, so they don’t know they have this shared passion. It’s sad, and it’s wrong, and it needs to change.”
“All right. I can see that. But what sorts of changes are you proposing, if we’re still sorting people into separate houses. What would you do differently?” Theo asked.
“I suggested forming a poetry club to Astoria,” she told him. “Maybe that’s the sort of thing to start with, some common interest clubs. Things that aren’t in the curriculum, and definitely, not segregated by house, like the gobstones clubs.”
“Well, the gobstones team is interhouse, and so is our choir,” Theo pointed out.
“But that’s not enough. We need more. Places where people can share their love of dancing, or music, or drawing, or anything, really. Writers’ groups, sewing circles, acting workshops, bands and orchestras, a glee club. Anything else people want to get up to. Not just sports and games, but arts and crafts. Anything where people can find common ground.”
“At which of those clubs do you think you and I would have met, if we’d had them in first year?” he asked. She favored him with a raised brow.
“Really, Theo. Book club, obviously,” she told him. Theo threw his head back and laughed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From a letter dated the morning of June 21, 1998, written by Astoria Greengrass with Re: Edna St. Vincent Millay at the bottom of the return address.
Dear Keith,
I imagine you’re surprised to receive a letter from someone in Slytherin House, and hope you don’t mind. I’ve just learned that we share an interest in poetry, though, and wanted to know if you would like to start a poetry club when we return to Hogwarts in September. I haven’t found anyone in my own house with whom I can talk about my favorite poems and poets, and certainly no one with whom I would wish to share my own poor attempts at verse. From something Luna Lovegood said, I wonder if it might not be the same for you.
As to how I learned of your own interest, it happened at a party given by Harry and Ginny Potter to which they were kind enough to invite me. Hermione Granger was there, of course, and as you may know, she has been accepted for a retreat at Avalon. When I mentioned to her that I, too, hope to take a retreat at Avalon in order to study poetry there, and explained how I’ve got no one to talk to about it, she suggested I start a poetry club, and asked Luna and Ginny if they knew of anyone who was interested. That was when Luna mentioned your own interest, and told us about your having recited the First Fig of Figs from Thistles at the Ravenclaw leaving party. This gave me hope that at least one other student at school might like to meet and talk about the poems we like, and encourage each other in our own efforts to create lines worth reading.
I will of course understand if you would prefer to take a solitary course in your own pursuit of the art. Sometimes writing requires the most intense solitude, doesn’t it? Nevertheless, I hope you will give the idea of forming a poetry appreciation club serious consideration.
Yours truly,
Astoria Greengrass
From a letter written by Keith Montague on the afternoon of June. 21, 1998.
Dear Astoria,
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree
Joyce Kilmer wrote. I disagree
The poem’s the thing, for all of me.
The written word gives lasting fame
To subjects as it doth proclaim
Eternal wonders, or explain
Life’s mysteries in rhymed refrain
In other words, oh classmate mine,
I think your plan almost divine
And forward look unto the time
When we our happy thoughts combine.
Your obedient servant,
Keith Montague
P.S.
Bother Slytherin House. You recognized Edna St. Vincent Millay! Water to a man in the desert, that. What do you think about Dirge Without Music or do you prefer Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas? They both died young, at 58 and 39, respectively, and I don’t know whether that’s tragically ironic, or exquisitely fitting. I only know I wish they’d had more time to write, or had written more in the time they had. And I don’t really disagree with Kilmer, in the sense that of course the natural world is awesome and produces wonders that we mere humans will never equal. Which doesn’t mean that the loveliness of our poems has no value. Another one who died young, cut down by a stupid war at 32. Merlin, what is it about poets dying young? Keats, Plath, Shelly. Are we risking our lives, do you think? And yet, if I could write but a single poem, just one, worthy of the world’s remembrance after my passing, I think I could go to an early grave without complaint.
Of course, I might change my mind if I saw the tomb yawning open at my feet.
Anyway, your idea for a poetry club is brilliant and of course I’m all for it. Do you have any ideas on meeting times? This is exciting! Maybe we should discuss things in person. Would you be able to join me at Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor next Saturday? Eagerly awaiting your reply.