American Royalty III

Part 12: Not This Bitch Again

The rain streamed against the windows in fluctuating bursts, the heavy drops sliding down in uneven patterns, as if mirroring the uncertainty within Grimmauld Place. Connor sat cross-legged on the floor by the window, his gaze fixed on the storm outside. The rhythmic pounding of the rain was soothing, but the way it surged in unpredictable waves captivated him. He tilted his head, watching the patterns shift, as if searching for meaning in their erratic dance.

The radio on the side table crackled with static as Ron fiddled with it. The eerie, dissonant whistles occasionally broke the quiet, but Connor seemed undeterred, his focus on the rain unwavering. Hermione sat nearby on the couch, her brow furrowed as she thumbed through a well-worn book, her thoughts far away.

"You think it knows what it's doing?" Connor asked suddenly, his voice soft and thoughtful, as if speaking more to himself than anyone else.

Hermione glanced up, startled out of her reverie. "What?"

Connor gestured toward the window. "The rain. The way it falls... it feels deliberate sometimes, like it's trying to tell us something."

Hermione studied him for a moment, her lips curving into a faint, wistful smile. "It's just water, Connor."

"Maybe," he replied, still watching the rivulets racing down the glass. "But sometimes, things that seem simple have a way of hiding something bigger."

Hermione closed her book, resting it on her lap. "Speaking of things hiding something bigger... I've been meaning to ask you. How do you handle it all? The uncertainty, I mean."

Connor finally tore his gaze from the window and looked at her, his expression thoughtful. "I don't think you ever really handle it. You just... keep going. And when you can't anymore, you lean on the people around you." He smirked faintly. "That's what we're here for, right?"

Hermione blinked, surprised by the depth of his words, then nodded. "Right."

Their quiet moment was interrupted as Harry stirred on the couch nearby. He was lying on his side, his fingers curling around the Snitch in his hand. Its delicate wings flapped faintly, the motion almost hypnotic in the dim light. Hermione's attention shifted immediately, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

"Harry," she said, leaning forward slightly. "They have flesh memories."

Harry turned his head, looking at her with confusion. "What?"

"Snitches," Hermione explained, her voice soft but insistent. "They're never touched by bare skin until the Seeker catches them. Even the wizard who makes them wears gloves. That way, if there's ever a dispute, the Snitch can identify who first touched it."

Harry sat up, turning the Snitch over in his hand. "So you're saying... it remembers me?"

Hermione nodded, her mind working quickly. "When Scrimgeour gave it to you, I thought it might open at your touch. That Dumbledore might have hidden something inside it."

Connor, intrigued now, got up from his spot by the window and moved closer, his shadow stretching across the room. "So why hasn't it opened yet?" he asked, his eyes on the golden ball in Harry's hand.

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe there's more to it. Something we're missing."

The room grew still, the air heavy with expectation. The sound of the rain outside seemed louder, punctuating the silence. Harry stared at the Snitch, his brow furrowed, as if willing it to reveal its secrets.

Then, out of nowhere, a sharp crack echoed down the hall. Everyone froze, the sudden noise sending a jolt through the room.

"What was that?" Percy asked, his hand instinctively brushing against the sword hilt at his side.

Without waiting for an answer, Harry leapt to his feet, Hermione close behind him. Connor exchanged a quick look with Annabeth, who nodded grimly. The others followed as they all dashed out of the room, the faint echoes of chaos pulling them toward the kitchen.

The group raced into the kitchen, the sound of crazy shadows spilling from a far door, and pots crashing echoed through the room. Suddenly, a tiny, wet and ragged figure tumbled into view, slamming into the wall opposite before scrambling to his feet.

As he started back for the kitchen, he stopped, his eyes locking onto Harry's. His face broke into a wide grin.

"Harry Potter!" Dobby exclaimed, his voice full of excitement. "So long it's been—"

Before Harry could respond, a rough hand shot out from the shadows. Kreacher's hand clamped around Dobby's neck and yanked him backward, sending the two house-elves tumbling from one side of the kitchen to the other. In the chaos, Mundungus Fletcher rolled to his feet, dripping wet, his wand flashing in his hand.

"Expelliarmus!" Hermione shouted, her wand flicking. Mundungus's wand flew into the air and landed neatly in Hermione's hand.

Kreacher sneered, wiping his hands as if he had done something commendable. "As requested, Kreacher has returned with the thief, Mundungus Fletcher!"

Dobby, still a bit dazed, huffed indignantly. "Dobby has also returned with the thief, Mundungus Fletcher!"

"What are you playing at, setting a pair of bleedin' house-elves on me!" Mundungus snapped, looking furious.

"I was only trying to help!" Dobby protested. "Dobby saw Kreacher in Diagon Alley, which Dobby thought was curious. And then Dobby heard Kreacher mention Harry Potter's name, which Dobby thought was very curious. And then Dobby saw Kreacher talking to the thief, Mundungus Fletcher, which Dobby thought was very, very—"

"I'm no thief, you foul little git!" Mundungus cut in, his face red with frustration. "I'm a purveyor of rare and wondrous objects!"

"You're a thief, Dung," Ron said, stepping into the room. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Everyone knows it."

Dobby's face lit up at the sight of Ron. "Master Weasley! So good to see you again!"

Ron nodded, his eyes glancing at Dobby's bright red shoes, clearly trying to hold back a grin. "Wicked trainers."

Mundungus scowled, throwing his hands up in the air. "Listen, I panicked that night, alright? I didn't volunteer to die for you, mate. Can I help it if Mad-Eye fell off his broom?"

"Stop lying!" Hermione stepped toward Mundungus, her hands clenched at her sides.

Ron reached out, placing a hand on Hermione's shoulder to stop her. He shot Mundungus a warning look. "Piece of advice. Let's not rehash old times. Got it... mate?"

Harry's gaze locked on Mundungus. "When you turned this place over—don't deny it!—you found a locket, am I right?"

Mundungus glanced nervously around, clearly trying to downplay it. "Why? Was it valuable?"

"You've still got it," Hermione said, her voice cold.

"No," Ron muttered. "He's worried he should've gotten more money for it."

Mundungus grimaced. "Wouldn't be difficult, would it? Bleedin' gave it away, didn't I? There I was, pitching me wares in Diagon Alley, when some Ministry hag comes up and asks to see my license. Says she's of a mind to lock me up and would've, too, if she hadn't taken a fancy to that locket."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Who was she? This witch?"

"Well, she's right there, in't she?" Mundungus pointed, his finger shaky, at a yellowed Daily Prophet on top of a nearby stack. The front page featured a familiar squat woman with the face of a toad, her beady eyes blinking up at them.

The headline read: DOLORES UMBRIDGE: NEW UNDERSECRETARY OF MAGIC.

Percy's voice was filled with irritation. "Of course it's her."

"Just brilliant," Piper mumbled.