𝐋𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐑𝐞𝐝 {𝐇. 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫}

100

The sun was coming up: The pure, colorless vastness of the sky stretched over him, indifferent to him and his suffering. Johnny sat down in the tent entrance and took a deep breath of clean air. Simply to be alive to watch the sun rise over the sparkling snowy hillside ought to have been the greatest treasure on earth, yet he couldn't appreciate it: His senses had been spiked by the calamity of losing his wand. He looked out over a valley blanketed in snow, distant church bells chiming through the glittering silence.

Without realising it, he was digging his fingers into his arms as if he were trying to resist physical pain. He had spilled his own blood more times than he could count; this journey had already given him scars to his chest and forearm to join those everywhere else, but never, until this moment, had he felt himself to be fatally weakened, vulnerable, and naked, as though the best part of his magical power had been torn from him. He knew exactly what Hermione would say if he expressed any of this: The wand is only as good as the wizard. But she was wrong, his case was different. She hadn't felt the wand shoot golden flames at his enemy.

And his fury at Dumbledore broke over him now like lava, scorching him inside, wiping out every other feeling. Out of sheer desperation they had talked themselves into believing that Godric's Hollow held answers, convinced themselves that they were supposed to go back, that it was all part of some secret path laid out for them by Dumbledore: but there was no map, no plan. Dumbledore had left them to grope in the darkness, to wrestle with unknown and undreamed-of terrors, alone and unaided: Nothing was explained, nothing was given freely, they had no sword, and now, Johnny had no wand. And

"Johnny?"

Hermione looked frightened that Johnny might curse her with her own wand. Her face streaked with tears, she crouched down beside him, two cups of tea trembling in her hands and something bulky under her arm.

"Thanks," Johnny said, taking one of the cups.

"Do you mind if I talk to you?"

"You're my fiancé, of course I don't," Johnny smiled, watching Hermione take a seat next to them.

"Harry, you wanted to know who that man in the picture was. Well... I've got the book," timidly she pushed it onto his lap, a pristine copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.

"Where- how-?"

"It was in Bathilda's sitting room, just lying there.... This note was sticking out of the top of it."

Hermione read the few lines of spiky, acid-green writing aloud.

"'Dear Bally, Thanks for your help. Here's a copy of the book, hope you like it. You said everything, even if you don't remember it. Rita.' I think it must have arrived while the real Bathilda was alive, but perhaps she wasn't in any fit state to read it?"

"No, she probably wasn't."

Johnny looked down upon Dumbledore's face and experienced a surge of savage pleasure: Now he would know if all the things that Dumbledore had never thought it worth telling him and Harry, whether Dumbledore wanted them to or not.

"You're really angry at me, aren't you?" said Hermione; he looked up to see fresh tears leaking out of her eyes, and knew that his anger must have shown in his face.

"No," he said quietly. "No, baby, I know it was an accident. You were trying to get us out of there alive, and you were incredible. I'd be dead if you hadn't been there to help me."

Johnny managed to return the watery smile by giving her a sweet kiss, placing a hand on the four month old baby bump, then turned his attention to the book. Its spine was stiff; it had clearly never been opened before. He riffled through the pages, looking for photographs. He came across the one he sought almost at once, the young Dumbledore and his handsome companion, roaring with laughter at some long-forgotten joke. Johnny dropped his eyes to the caption.