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HP after Hogwarts >> 2. Rye by Northumbrian

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2. Rye

It wasn’t the first time Lavender had told me something which rendered me speechless, and I knew that it wouldn’t be the last. As I silently processed Lavender’s words, a few spots of rain began to fall.

‘Mary Moon!’ I said, embarrassed and annoyed. ‘Merlin, Lavender, of all the…’ Words failed me, so I simply shook my head in humiliation and despair. Despite my obvious discomfort, she began to laugh. It seemed that she was oblivious to my feelings. My mortification was merely a joke to her. Why, I wondered, why did I let her do this to me? She grabbed my arm and looked anxiously up into my face as the descending droplets increased in frequency and it began to rain in earnest.

‘Sorry,’ Lavender told me earnestly. ‘I didn’t want Mum to think I had a boyfriend.’

‘Having a girlfriend is okay with her, is it?’ I asked sarcastically.

‘I’ve got lots of girl friends,’ said Lavender, giving me her best smile. ‘Parvati, Padma, Susan, Bobbie, lots.’

The rain, which had been steadily getting heavier, decided that it was time to really dampen my spirits and the downpour began in earnest. I considered making for the pub, but it was still a hundred yards away. The water was falling in drenching torrents, and Lavender’s shoes weren’t suitable for running anywhere. I looked for, and found, the nearest sheltering doorway.

‘Hold tight,’ I told her. I firmly grabbed her hand and strode rapidly up the side street towards the dingy alcove.

For me, it was a brisk and very wet walk, for Lavender it was a fast trot. She clung silently to me, leaning on me, holding me with both hands in order to maintain her balance. She didn’t even attempt to put up her umbrella. By the time we reached the doorway my duffle coat was soaking and the cold rain had penetrated through to my shirt. Despite my hood, my hair was wet too. Lavender’s trench coat was rain darkened and dripping, and her hair was plastered to her skull. For a split second I took comfort in the fact that she, like me, was obviously physically uncomfortable. But she looked so miserable that I couldn’t stay annoyed with her. She shivered, and so did I.

‘Och, noo we’re drookit,’ I said.

‘Aye, drookit, the noo,’ she said, making a pathetic attempt to copy my accent. She began to laugh. It was an edgy, nervous braying noise which I’d never heard before, and I looked worriedly down at her. Seeing my concern, she stopped making the unnerving noise and put on a rather brittle smile.

‘It’s really sweet the way you turn into a full blown Scot when you’re angry or annoyed, Mark. I assume that drookit means wet.’ She paused thoughtfully and a worried look curled at the corner of her mouth. ‘I hope it means wet. It doesn’t mean finished, does it? You aren’t going to leave me, just because I told my parents you were a girl called Mary, are you?’

She lowered her shoulders into a slump, pushed out her bottom lip, allowed her head to droop to one side and looked contritely up into my face. I had seen Lavender manipulate men before, and I knew that she was good at it, so good that I wasn’t certain whether what I was witnessing was genuine or not. I knew what was coming next, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist. Inwardly, I cursed at the manipulative wiles of Lavender Brown. Outwardly, I smiled with the certainty of a man resigned to his fate.

‘Wet means wet, Lavender,’ I told her. I paused, but saw her anxious remorse and took pity on her. ‘Drookit means soaked to the skin,’ I said.

She impetuously threw her arms around my waist, and I wondered if she really had been worried. She couldn’t have been. Surely she knew that she had me caught, hook, line, and sinker. I once again wondered how, and when, she’d gained complete control of me.

She pulled herself in tightly and rested her cheek on my chest. ‘Little Lavender is vewy sowwy, big Mr Marky,’ she began, in her little-girl voice. ‘Vanda didn’t mean to upset her lovely Emmsy-wemmsy. Vanda didn’t think; she’s a vewy silly girl sometimes.’

As she spoke, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her wand. Suddenly my clothes were warm and dry, and so were we.

‘Is nice Mark all warm and snug and better?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Aye, it’s aw braw, hen,’ I told her.

‘I have no idea what you just said,’ she told me. I watched her puzzle over the words.

‘And that’s why you should never attempt a Scot’s accent, Lavender,’ I told her, as I again moderated my accent. I looked over her head and out onto the street. The rain continued to lash at the pavement, and the gutters were becoming streams. ‘Your attempt at drookit was rubbish, and simply adding “the noo” onto the end of a sentence makes you sound less Scottish, not more. You might as well say “it’s a braw bricht moonlicht nicht the nicht”.’

‘Braw means fine,’ she observed. Her eyes lit up when she realised that I was both teasing and translating for her. ‘It certainly isn’t bright, or moonlit, or night.’ She turned and looked out at the grey skies, and the rain. ‘It’s wet and dank and miserable, and…’

‘Dreich,’ I told her. ‘If you really want to know, it’s a richt dreich day, Lavender. One thing we do have in Scotland is good short words for horrible wet weather.’ I looked down into her eyes and kept my face straight. ‘I wonder why that is?’ I asked her.

She burst out laughing, slipped her arms over my shoulders, and pulled me down for a kiss.

It was a very long kiss, and it seemed to me that it was in turns tentative, forgiving, tongue-tanglingly passionate, and determined. About halfway through it, when she had pushed her tongue into my mouth, I had cupped her buttocks in my hands and lifted her from the ground. When we finally separated, panting, she briefly nibbled at my lower lip before I lowered her carefully back down. She looked up at me thoughtfully.

‘I’ve decided that I don’t want to be in York any longer. It’s much too dreich. Hold tight,’ Lavender ordered, offering me her arm.

I did as I was told. The moment she was sure that my grip was firm, she Disapparated.

We arrived in a secluded little nook; there was a brick wall to our left, and a steep and overgrown embankment both to our right and behind us. It wasn’t raining and, in fact, the sky above was a pale blue. The clouds, however, were the dirty, icy grey of week-old snow and the sky subtly shaded into grey as it approached the horizon. Even here, the weather looked vaguely threatening. It wasn’t surprising, after all April was the month of showers.

As I inhaled the subtly different air of yet another location I discerned the faintest whiff of the sea, but the overwhelming smell was of the fumes of Muggle cars. I wondered where we were. I’d assumed that she was taking us to her place, or possibly to mine, but she hadn’t. This was neither Edinburgh nor Appledore.

I did not recognise the place, but wherever it was, it was warmer, and drier, than York. I unfastened my duffle coat. Lavender turned to face me, and gave me a critical once-over.

I looked down at myself, wondering what she was thinking. My old and rather faded shirt was a predominantly green tartan. To be precise, it was Stewart Hunting tartan. My olive green corduroy trousers were past their best too. They were, however, comfortable, and at least my brown suede desert boots were new. Most of my Muggle clothes were old, because for the past six months I’d spent most of my money going out with Lavender.

‘Well?’ I asked when she looked up into my eyes.

‘I suppose you’ll do,’ she told me, and then she sighed.

‘Damned by faint praise,’ I told her sadly.

‘It’s my fault, Mark. I was never really bothered about your appearance, because we weren’t going out with each other, we were only…’ she paused, trying to decide what to call it.

‘Going out together?’ I suggested. She gave me an odd little wistful smile. It was a smile I’d seen a lot of over the past week, ever since we’d moved from being friends into being … whatever it was we were.

‘This way,’ she said. She took my hand and led me through a garage court and out onto a narrow road. We walked only a short distance along it before turning right and ascending a peculiar Muggle street, leaving the traffic behind. I looked at the name plate, high on the wall.

Mermaid Street was narrow and steep. It was a jumble of mismatched properties, every one unique. I found my eyes flicking from property to property as I tried to make sense of the different shapes, sizes and materials. Many of the walls sloped oddly and some were uneven. Even the precipitous rooflines were at odds with each other; some properties were gable fronted, others showed the street their eaves. The upper floors of the black-timbered Tudor buildings thrust out in front of their timber clad, brick, or oak shingle neighbours. Everything was different, some houses were large, others small; some were a few steps above the roughly cobbled street, others a few steps below.

As we strode up the street, hand in hand, I looked down at Lavender and continued reflect on our relationship.

We’d been “together” for six months, we’d taken each other to restaurants and to the theatre. I’d even taken her to the cinema; the first film we’d ever seen had been something called “Ladies in Lavender” which she chose simply because of the title. It made her cry, and it affected me too, if I’m honest. Despite, or possibly because of, her tears, she thought that it was wonderful.

On our first not-a-date we’d agreed that we’d go Dutch, and we had, always. But an Auror gets paid more than a Law Office Bailiff and once, when money was tight for me, I’d hesitantly suggested that we simply go for a walk on the beach. We discovered that we both loved watching the sea, and spent several pleasant evenings walking on various beaches around the country.

But during all those months, we hadn’t really been “together” I was not “Lavender’s latest bloke” at least not in the sense most people who knew Lavender would understand that phrase. In fact, by that definition, despite the sudden change in our relationship, I still wasn’t. That fact continued to gnaw at me. I wasn’t sure why.

I wondered where she was taking me but, foolishly, I didn’t ask.


Lavender kept to the narrow flagged footpath, her stiletto heels making rapid taps on the stones. The regular tik—tik—tik of heel against granite slab was the only noise she made as we climbed the narrow street. It was so quiet that I could hear myself breathing. Behind us there was the occasional sound of a Muggle car; above, a few seagulls cawed raucously; otherwise, there was nothing.

Her silence began to worry me. She had been quiet all morning, I realised, and she was never quiet. Her constant stream of chatter was my barometer. I tried to listen to her every word; although often I didn’t need to, a random sample was sufficient. Monitoring the general tone of her speech allowed me to assess her mood; her current silence left me adrift in a sea of uncertainty. As we passed underneath a swinging sign which announced the location of The Mermaid Inn, she finally spoke.

‘Relax, Mark, they don’t bite,’ she told me.

‘Who don’t bite?’ I asked.

‘My parents, of course,’ she said. ‘This is “the Ancient Towne of Rye”, one of the Cinque Ports. It’s where my parents live. Where did you think you were?’

‘Don’t know,’ I said. ‘I know I’m next to you, and we’re somewhere less wet than York.’ I didn’t know, I didn’t care, and I hadn’t bothered to ask, I thought to myself, I really was pathetic. Nevertheless, Lavender had squeezed my hand and smiled when I’d said “next to you.”

It was not until then that I realised exactly what else she’d said. Now I had something much more serious to think about. Her parents! I began to panic. I was trapped. I could not run away, I could not even plan. We had never talked about our families, not until last week. That was another of Lavender’s rules. I knew nothing about her parents. This was important, and she’d sprung it on me.

I consoled myself with the thought that she obviously wanted me to meet them, but I worried that my clothes weren’t new, that Lavender’s reputation for unsuitable boyfriends might prejudice them against me and, worst of all, that they thought I was a girl called Mary.

‘Turn right here,’ she directed as we reached the top of the street. She released my hand, and grabbed my upper arm with both of hers. She held me tightly as she tottered across the uneven cobbles to the path opposite. Once she was safely across to the opposite pavement, she released my arm, and reclaimed my hand.

‘Interesting shoes, but a wee bit impractical for a cobbled street,’ I told her, trying to take my mind off our destination.

‘They’re new, and they were very expensive,’ she said. ‘They’re taupe leather ankle boots.’

‘Taupe? What’s a taupe? Is it the make?’ I asked.

‘It’s the colour, silly!’ she scolded.

I’d been right, her shoes weren’t brown. I filed the word “taupe” alongside the word “hydrangea” which was, I knew, her favourite shade of pink, and wondered if I’d remember it. I forgot so many different colours, because, so far as I could tell, taupe was brown, and hydrangea was pink.

‘They look brown to me,’ I said. ‘Why aren’t they brown?’

She stared up at me quizzically. I could tell that she knew from the tone of my voice that I was teasing her again, but she wasn’t sure where my comment was leading.

‘Brown is boring,’ she said, falling into my trap.

‘Not in my experience, Lavender,’ I told her. ‘Brown is anything but boring. Or have you decided that from now on you’ll be Lavender Taupe?’

She laughed, and she pulled me to a halt, and we kissed again.

A week ago, I was happy to simply make her laugh. Whether it was a tinkling giggle or that dirty, raucous snort she gave when I said something close to the knuckle, it didn’t matter. The laughter that creased the corners of her eyes had always been enough reward. That was no longer the case. Now, laughter brought kisses, too. I concentrated on the kiss, trying to make it gentle and mature, trying to stay calm and in control.

Lavender was still smiling when she pushed herself free, so it must have been another reasonably good kiss. She slipped her arm around my waist, and I reciprocated the gesture. We continued down the street which, only a few dozen yards ahead, turned sharply right. As we approached the corner I made out a church ahead. I glanced down at Lavender. She had lapsed back into silence; her bright red lips (Rich Berry, she’d once told me – I’d told her that I’d thought that Rich Berry was a rock and roll singer) were pursed and she looked anxious. Somehow sensing my gaze she caught my eyes and smiled reassuringly.

‘Not far now, it’s almost straight ahead,’ said Lavender, as we turned the final corner. I followed her contented gaze as she lost herself in memories. The church was a typically grand early English building; it was now on our left, on our right was another terrace of old buildings, brick at one end, Tudor at the other. Like Mermaid Street, the road past the church was uneven cobbles, which had been polished by centuries of use, but unlike Mermaid Street, it wasn’t steeply sloping.

‘This is the town where I grew up, Mark. What do you think of it?’ asked Lavender nervously.

‘It’s picture-postcard pretty,’ I observed. ‘It feels like it’s really old, like we’ve stepped back in time,’ I told her.

‘It is old,’ Lavender told me. ‘There’s something a little magical about Rye, even the Muggles can feel it. It used to be a port when the Tudors were on the throne, but since then it has managed to crawl two miles from the sea.’

We reached the end of the street, passed through a narrow gap between two houses and strolled towards the gable wall of a third property. I examined the house carefully.

The roof sloped steeply and dormer windows jutted out haphazardly, but it was no more unusual than the adjacent properties. It was, however, almost as though the house was trying to hide and I wondered if Muggles would be able to see it. It was set back from the street, partially behind the adjacent houses and crouching half-a-storey below them. The red painted front door in the centre of the old brick wall was down a flight of seven steps. Fancy lace curtains prevented me from seeing anything but a vague blur through the glass panelled door.

Lavender led me down the steps, rang the doorbell, and then entered.

‘It’s me, Mum,’ Lavender shouted, her voice rather more shrill than usual. ‘I changed my mind. I’ve brought … someone … to meet you and Dad.’

Lavender shrugged off her trench coat and hung it on a hook next to the door. I followed her example, hanging my duffle coat alongside it.

I stared at her. Her sweater was light brown (or more likely a similar colour with a much more exotic name). It had a high round neck and sleeves which ended above the elbows. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of cleavage. By Lavender’s standards it was demure, despite the fact that it was tightly hugging her curves. Her skirt had a high-waist and was longer than the ones she usually wore, almost knee-length. It was tight at the hem and the brightest blue suede I’d ever seen.

‘Wow,’ I murmured.

She smiled and winked at me.

First impressions were important, I reminded myself. She obviously hadn’t forewarned them; she was as worried as I was. I wondered if she’d ever brought a boyfriend home to meet her parents. I thought rapidly back over weeks and months of conversations, complaints and confessions, and decided that she almost certainly hadn’t, at least not since Seamus.

I needed to find a distraction, something to calm my nerves. I looked around the hall.

The pale pink room was bright and busy. The walls were bedecked with paintings, mostly stormy seascapes, on which a tiny single-masted yacht bobbed rather precariously. The shelves were fussily full of vases and ornaments. To the left a narrow flight of stairs curved up. On the right hand wall was an open door; a second door was directly ahead and to its left, partially under the stairs, was a lace covered table on which stood a large vase of flowers and dozens of photographs. I had to smile to myself; Lavender’s passion for frills and clutter was obviously a family trait.

‘Just a moment, darling,’ a female voice called worriedly from through the open door.

I stared at the nearest photograph. The Lavender in the frame was four or five years old and sitting on a wooden floor. Her curly and beribboned hair was in tight ringlets and she stared back at me curiously. The flouncy lilac robes she wore were spread in a carefully arranged circle around her, and she was twirling a parasol.

The door to next to me was pulled open and a burly, shaven-headed man of about fifty stepped out. My worries immediately fled. They were driven out by panic and fear. He was shorter than me, most people are, but he was a lot wider, too. The man glared at me as he fought, and failed, to keep the look of disapproval from his face. I stared back but my attempts to calm myself were failing, mainly because his eyes were, disconcertingly, the same shade of violet-blue as Lavender’s. Worse, he somehow seemed vaguely familiar. But when, and where, could I possibly have met him before?

‘Hello, Daddy,’ said Lavender, failing to keep the nervousness from her voice.

‘Lavender,’ he nodded politely to his daughter, his face impassive. Then he turned to face me. ‘Who’re you?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Mark Moon, Mr Brown,’ I held out my hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’

Lavender’s father’s hand was beefy and calloused. He took my outstretched hand in a vice-like, bone-crunching grip and, under the pretext of shaking it, attempted to crush me to death.

‘Huh,’ he said as he continued to squeeze my hand. I didn’t even attempt to return the squeeze, because I knew that I’d never win. I held my breath, clenched my jaw, and simply concentrated on keeping the pain from my face.

‘Please, Daddy,’ Lavender whispered.

‘That’s enough, Don,’ another voice said. Mr Brown finally released my hand.

When I looked over my shoulder towards the other voice I saw a curvy, curly haired woman wearing colourful robes and a white, lace-edged apron. I stared at her, looked back at her husband, and wondered why I was having a strong feeling of déjà-vu. There was something nagging in the back of my mind, but my brain was busy with more important things, like urging some feeling back into my fingers.

‘Come though into the parlour, please,’ said Lavender’s mother. ‘Did I hear you say that your name is Mark?’

‘That’s right, Mrs Brown,’ I said. ‘Mark Moon. I’m very pleased to meet you.’ I again held out my hand and she gave it a gentle, and perfunctory, shake.

‘Mar-K Moon,’ I heard Lavender’s mother murmur thoughtfully to herself as I followed into the room, while behind me her father gave a snort of annoyance.

The parlour was a long room, with windows at each end. It stretched the entire length of the house. At the end which overlooked the street was a dining table. It was covered in an ornately embroidered lace cloth and was set for two people. At the other end of the room, with a good view over the rooftops of the Muggle town and across to the sea, was a chintz three-piece-suite, and a low table covered in lace doilies.

‘Sit down, please,’ said Lavender’s mother, indicating the sofa. It was a two-seater, but it was filled almost to overflowing with an abundance of fancy embroidered cushions. I was forced to hastily rearrange them in order to clear enough space to park myself.

The moment I dropped onto the seat, Lavender daintily perched herself on my knee. She’d only sat on my knee a couple of times before, and never in front of anyone else. I was unsure where I should put my hands, so I settled for placing one on the arm of the sofa and grasping a cushion with the other.

‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ shrilled Lavender.

Trying to ignore the distraction created by Lavender’s presence on my lap, I determinedly concentrated my gaze on her mother, who appeared considerably less hostile than her father.

‘You said that you wouldn’t be here today, Lavender. You should have told us that you were coming to dinner, and you certainly should have told us that you were bringing a guest,’ said Mrs Brown firmly. Her voice was light, almost polite, but from the way her lips were pursed, I could tell that she was not happy.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ said Lavender. ‘We were going to eat out, in York. But it the weather was horrible, and I decided that it was time for you to meet Mark.’

Lavender’s mother gave me a brittle smile. ‘I’m forgetting my manners, and so is Lavender, she hasn’t introduced us.’ she said. ‘I’m Carmine Brown, Mark. Call me Carmine, please. I’m pleased to meet you. You’ve already met my husband, Donald. But I don’t think that he introduced himself properly.’

I didn’t know what to say to that. I was certain that Donald Brown had introduced himself exactly as he wanted me to remember him. He hadn’t told me his name, but my still throbbing fingers definitely wouldn’t be forgetting him any time soon. Lavender wasn’t helping. She remained uncharacteristically silent. As she leaned to whisper in my ear she pushed her breast against my upper arm and I was forced to disguise my groan as a cough.

‘Sorry,’ Lavender said. ‘But it had to happen sometime.’

‘Have you known Lavender for long? Did you go to school together? Do you work together? Am I right in thinking that you’re Scottish? Where are you from? Would you like a cup of tea?’ Lavender’s mother asked.

Almost swept away by the flood of questions, I attempted to regain my footing by answering the easiest one. ‘A cup of tea would be nice, thank you, Mrs … Carmine.’

Carmine Brown smiled triumphantly. ‘Lavender, be a good girl and make us all a pot of tea, please. And keep an eye on the beef joint for me. And you’d better set another two places at the table, too. And prepare some more vegetables for yourself and Mark. Your father and I will look after your friend, don’t worry.’

There was only the vaguest glimmer of the hint of a threat in Carmine Brown’s final sentence, but it was enough to worry me.

‘Sorry,’ Lavender whispered in my ear as she lightly kissed my cheek and stood.

‘Okay, Mum,’ she said. ‘Mark’s a wizard, by the way. You don’t need to wonder about whether or not I’ve brought a Muggle to meet you.’

‘That was obvious,’ said Mark’s father. Mrs Brown looked at her husband quizzically. ‘He didn’t react to the paintings and photographs in the hall, Carmine,’ he explained to his wife.

‘I won’t be long,’ said Lavender with exaggerated brightness. With that, she strolled from the room swinging her hips, and leaving me alone with her parents. ‘Oh, and remember my friend Mary, Mum?’ she called over her shoulder. ‘There is no Mary, there’s only Mark. I’m sure he can explain what’s been going on better than I could.’

It was obvious from Carmine Brown’s expression that she’d already figured that out. Her husband, however, was a different matter.

‘What?’ Lavender’s father began. With that, Lavender made her escape. The moment she left the room, he clenched his fists and began to stand.

‘Donald,’ her mother said sharply. He sat back down and contented himself by glowering at me from under his brows. Carmine turned and smiled at me. It was the smile of a tiger about to pounce.

‘Have you known Lavender for long, Mark?’ She asked me again.

‘That depends on what you mean by known,’ I said unthinkingly. She looked at me askance.

‘Don’t try to be clever, son,’ Donald Brown growled. I heard his knuckles crack.

‘I mean, it’s complicated,’ I said hastily. ‘The first time I actually met her was the day after she was bitten. But that was once, five years ago. We didn’t meet again until last October. I’m a Bailiff in the Law Office, Department for Magical Law Enforcement. I was working in York when the vampire arrived in Whitby. I was assigned to the Auror liaison duties by the Sheriff, so I was waiting for the Aurors when they arrived. I recognised Lavender the moment I saw her, but she didn’t remember me. When she closed the vampire case, I … asked her out. We started seeing each other.’

‘Six months,’ Lavender’s father grumbled under his breath. I turned to face him.

‘Just as friends,’ I added.

Don Brown continued to glare at me. ‘Friends! Six months! Are you gay? Do you like to be called Mary?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘I… No!’ I said. ‘It’s…’

‘Complicated, you told us,’ said Carmine, laughing. Her laugh was disconcertingly like Lavender’s.

‘So, why are you here, Mark?’ she asked.

‘I’m here because Lavender brought me. It was raining in York. She said that she had an idea. We Apparated to some garages near the bottom of Mermaid Street,’ I said. ‘I know that she didn’t tell you we were coming. She didn’t tell me, either. I think it must have been a spur of the moment decision. You must know what she’s like.’

‘I thought I did,’ said Carmine thoughtfully. ‘You’ve been with Lavender for six months, Mark. Why hasn’t she told us about you? Why Mary? I must say that you don’t look like anything like any of the men Lavender has been photographed with over the years.’

‘I, er, I hope that I’m not like any of them.’ I said. ‘And I think that Lavender has told you about me, about us. I wasn’t her boyfriend, just a bloke she was friends with. We were just going out together but sort of not, if you know what I mean. It was … we just did things we liked … but instead of doing them alone, we did them together … no pressure, no … er…’

I paused, but Lavender’s mother did not speak. ‘I think that, probably, whatever she’s said that she did with Mary, that’s what she actually did with me.’ I hesitated. ‘The usual Lavender exaggerations and distortions apply, of course,’ I added. ‘After all, she seems to have given me a sex-change. You’d think I’d have noticed.’

Carmine laughed, and even her husband was beginning to relax a little. ‘You said “I wasn’t her boyfriend,” past tense, why?’

‘Tea,’ Lavender announced proudly, shimmying back into the room with a laden tray. ‘I was at the door, listening to that last bit. Mark’s right, pretty much everything I said I’d been doing with Mary, I had really been doing with Mark. I lied about his sex because I didn’t want you to think I had a boyfriend.’

‘And have you?’ her father asked.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I nodded in agreement and tried not to look uncomfortable as they scrutinised me carefully.

‘Moon,’ said Lavender’s mother eventually. ‘It’s not a surname I know. I don’t suppose you’re a Pureblood, are you?’

‘My Ma’s a Muggle, and Dad was a werewolf, so he couldn’t go to Hogwarts,’ I said. I saw Lavender’s father tightly grip the arm of his chair. ‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘It isn’t hereditary.’

What house were you in?’ Carmine asked. ‘If you’re a Ravenclaw, we’ll have the set.’

‘The set?’ I asked.

‘Lavender was a Gryffindor, but Don was a Hufflepuff, and I…’

‘Mum was in Slytherin House,’ interrupted Lavender as she poured the tea into delicate, flower-patterned china cups. ‘She was a Greengrass, before she married Daddy.’ She handed her father a cup and saucer. ‘Mark was a Hufflepuff, just like you Daddy.’

Carmine smiled broadly at her daughter as she, too accepted a cup and saucer from her.

‘They wear you down, Hufflepuff boys, don’t they, Lavender?’ said Carmine. ‘When they set their mind on something they simply won’t stop working until they get it.’ She smiled fondly at her husband.

He said nothing, but I thought I discerned a twinkle in his eye. I didn’t know what to say. Lavender looked at me in amazement. The silence was making me nervous, so I spoke.

‘My sister was the Ravenclaw,’ I said. ‘Lillith had the brains; she was in Lavender’s year.’

‘Merlin!’ said Lavender’s mother. ‘I thought that you looked vaguely familiar. You were at Hogwarts, at the battle. You were outside the gates, at dawn.’

‘So were you,’ I almost shouted when I realised why they’d seemed familiar. ‘You were looking for—you were looking for your daughter—you were looking for Lavender.’

Carmine nodded and turned eagerly to her husband. ‘There was a lanky young Scotch boy outside the gates who spoke to us. Do you remember, Don?’ she asked. ‘You were looking for your sister, Mark. Did you find…’ she left the question unfinished. My face had told her the answer.

‘Lillith was killed at Hogwarts, Mrs Brown,’ I said. There was an embarrassing silence; I foolishly filled it with a trite correction. ‘And, it’s Scots, or Scottish,’ I told her. ‘Scotch is a drink.’

‘I’m so sorry about your sister, son,’ Don said. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘It was a long time ago,’ I said. ‘Next month it will be seven years, but…’

Lavender leaned over and kissed my cheek.


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