“Love the moment. Flowers grow out of dark moments. Therefore, each moment is vital. It affects the whole. Life is a succession of such moments and to live each is to succeed.”

-Corita Kent

I Floo to work extra early the next day with the hopes of catching my charge as he wakes up. From what I can tell when I enter the staff room, everything seems quiet. Hell has not broken loose. I assume that our resident Death Eater has not woken up yet.

Slowly, I put my things away in my locker and head down the hallway to room 174, glancing into 136 as I go by—the patient there appears to be sleeping, which is good because he’s a right bastard when he’s awake these days. Things are fairly quiet today and I manage to dodge Mae by slipping around the corner at just the right moment.

Leslie smiles at me as she passes by and I smile back, feeling fairly refreshed and ready to work, despite the serious conversation I had with Dad last night. Perhaps remembering our better days has helped him a bit, as he got through his morning routine today without me having to help him.

As I get close to 174, my thoughts stray from my father and back to the room’s occupant. I’m a bit nervous, as I don’t really want to put him to sleep again if he goes mental again—he’s only got a short while left to live and I’d like to make sure he’s awake for a portion of it, especially since he seems very coherent.

Quietly, I peek in the door to see what if he’s asleep or not. I am surprised to find that he is awake and appears to be looking through some paperwork over tea. He senses my presence and looks up at me with dark eyes that have seen many evils over time.

“Potter,” he states in greeting, seeming much calmer than yesterday. Perhaps he has resigned himself to living here after all. Whatever has happened, I am relieved he’s not throwing curses my way again.

“Who brought you tea?” I ask curiously as I step in the room. I had thought no one else would be willing to approach him while he was awake.

“I summoned it from the kitchen,” he says, looking back down at the documents before him. “It took a few tries to get the pot and cups here in one piece, but it was worthwhile.”

My eyes widen a bit as I imagine several tea services crashing through the hallway and shattering to pieces. I can only guess what the first shift nurses think of him after that stunt.

“What are you reading?” I ask, suddenly suspicious.

“Nothing that concerns you,” he states without looking up from the papers.

Seeing as no one has been in here to visit him, I decide I had better figure out where the papers came from. Wand in hand, I approach his bed and glance over his shoulder. He tries to cover the papers with his hand while glaring up at me, but I’ve already seen all I need.

“Where the hell did you get my work file? This information is supposed to be confidential!” I exclaim, ripping the folder out from under his fingers.

“I summoned it, of course. If it wasn’t meant to be out, it should have had an Anti-Summoning Charm on it,” he says, seemly unconcerned about his invasion of my privacy.

“How did you know which one was mine anyway? I know I didn’t tell you my name last night,” I state, my eyes narrowing at the sneaky and remorseless old Death Eater.

“You look like Harry Potter,” he replies with a roll of his eyes. “It certainly wasn’t hard to deduce that you were a close relation.”

I glare at him, instantly assuming the worst. He knows about my dad, though I suppose most Death Eaters do. His desire to know more about me, however, makes me wonder if he was responsible for the incident or perhaps knows who was responsible. The fact that he’s looked at my information and now knows where my father and I live really bothers me.

Unfortunately, I’ll get canned if I cast Obliviate on him. Otherwise I would.

“Well, did you find the information you were looking for?” I ask uneasily. I had thought I could handle this, but clearly this wizard was more of a handful than I had originally thought.

“Yes, I did Albus Severus Potter, born on February 8, 2006 to Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter of Godric’s Hollow. You are 38 years old and at 187 centimeters tall, you weigh 84 kilograms, which is healthy for a man of your age. You are still single and are, much to my surprise and disgust, a Hufflepuff. You make $5,418 galleons per year and-“

“Okay, okay, that’s enough! For fuck’s sake, now that you’ve memorized my life story, perhaps you could tell me a bit of your own,” I counter, annoyed that he could memorize that so fast.

“My, my…such filthy language from a Hufflepuff. What’s next, a voice of reason in Gryffindor?”

I decide to ignore his sarcasm and try to press for information once again. “Can you at least tell us your first name?” I ask, trying my best to remain kind and reasonable.

“No, I don’t think that’s any of your business,” he states coolly. Having spent a lot of time with Scorpius during my seven years at Hogwarts, I can tell that the Death Eater is doing his best aggravate me on purpose. However, he’s succeeding and I don’t like it because I cannot manage to produce any scathing comments in return. At least, not without a lot of thought, which I don’t have time for right now.

Annoyed and needing a break from his nonsense, I start to walk out of the room. Perhaps he wanted someone to speak with after all because he calmly stated as I went out the door, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“You never know until you try,” I tell him after turning around and raising one of my eyebrows, “but if you’re going to tell me something, you had better do it now. I’m not going to stand around here all day while you lead me in circles.”

“Very well, all I shall tell you is that I knew your father very well when he was a teenager.”

“You knew him because you were targeting him,” I say, not amused by the Death Eater’s attitude.

“No, we spent plenty of time together at Hogwarts,” he replies, then makes a shooing motion with his hand, “I thought you had work to do, boy! Get out!”

“You spent time…at Hogwarts?” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “But that’s not possible-“

“OUT!” he yells, clearly annoyed with me. I obey, not wanting to let him get worked up any further. The last thing anyone here needs right now are curses flying out of room 174.

As I go about my first task of moving witches and wizards into the grand parlor for some scheduled entertainment, I cannot take my mind off of the conundrum the Death Eater has provided me with. How could this man have known my father? From what I had read, Professor Albus Dumbledore had never allowed any Death Eaters entrance to the school, aside from the occasional parent or board member. However, most of those wizards and witches would not have been around nearly as often as the Death Eater was suggesting.

There was, of course, the possibility that the Death Eater was simply having me on. After all, he hadn’t said much about my father; but then again, I hadn’t asked and had allowed him to shoo me out of his room upon command. Therefore, while there was a chance that he was currently having a good laugh at my expense, there was also a chance that he was telling the truth.

Unfortunately, because I am lost in my thoughts, I do not hear Mae approach me and suddenly find myself subjected to yet another lecture about how I need to marry a pure-blooded witch and how if I wait to propose much longer, Vivian will be too old to have children.

Merlin have mercy—the old witch is driving me mad.

Luckily, a twiggy finger touches her shoulder to get her attention. “Oi! You’re going to miss those kids singing if don’t stop dawdling! Off you go now!” a tall old man says, pointing a freckled finger towards the grand parlor.

By the look on Mae’s face, I can tell she’s a bit offended, but the man has made a correct assumption about her: she does not wish to miss the show. Put in her place for a change, the old witch slowly walks away from us, using the hallway rail to support a large amount of her weight.

As soon as she’s a ways away, I turn and give my brightest smile to the visitor. “Thanks Uncle George,” I say with a smile, feeling genuinely happy to see him. It’s been nearly a year since I last saw him and I find that I’ve missed his happy-go-lucky demeanor.

“Happy to help, young Headmaster Potter,” Uncle George replies, taking off the ridiculous top hat he’s wearing to give me a proper bow. I snort at the nickname that I daresay I’ll never be without.

“Have you been in to see-“ I start to ask.

“No,” he says, looking serious suddenly. “You’d have heard him yelling if I had. I figured I might wait a bit so he doesn’t disrupt the performance down there…”

“I can shut the door and silence it,” I say with a shrug, “Maybe he’ll actually appreciate a visit from you.”

“I imagine he tore Harry to pieces when he came in, right?” he asks, staring at the floor with an unnatural frown on his face.

I frown as well, not enjoying this darker demeanor of his. “Yes, he did,” I answer quietly, “I told Dad he needs to wait a while before trying to visit, but I’m sure he’ll be in to try again by the end of the week.”

“Merlin, I’m sorry Al… Tell Harry I’ll do everything I can to get him to use his brain… He never does think things through before he says them; never has, never will.”

I hesitate before mentioning this, but then decided it would be better for Uncle George to know. “Uncle George, he…well, when he yelled at Dad, he blamed him for ‘the incident’ as well. I think that is what has affected him the worst, seeing as he already blames himself for what’s happened to your brother. Could you try and tell him not to say anything about that again? Dad’s been wrapped up in memories all week because of it and I think they’re making him depressed.”

I’m feeling a bit on edge after; I admit that. Life with my father for the last few years has been anything but easy and I don’t really enjoy admitting that to anyone else, even family. I suppose my family already suspects that though, but it was still hard to say it out loud.

Part of me feels like it’s my job to safeguard my dad’s privacy, as he has certainly not been in good enough shape to do it on his own these days. It always seems like someone is asking about the infamous Harry Potter, or worse, lurking behind hedges to snap photos of him doing something that is easily misinterpreted. Then, he gets the joy of waking up and seeing lies about himself splashed across the Prophet.

Since ‘the incident,’ he has more reason than ever to hate his fame. I have gone to extra lengths to ensure that he does not come into contact with the press at any time because I know that he really can’t handle it. Paying extra for extraordinary wards on my house are well worth if it allows my dad to stay safe and sane.

George seems to understand my confession all too well and gives me a hug. “He doesn’t really believe that, Al. You know he just says whatever comes to his mind when he’s angry. I think he understands that it was in no way your dad’s fault.”

“I know, I know…” I say, feeling an explosion of chaos within myself. “I’m just upset because Dad was talking about James last night for the first time in Merlin-only-knows how long and I’ve had him on my mind ever since.”

George senses that I’m about to lose control and he silently grabs my medical robes and pulls me into the nearest men’s room. He hands me a handkerchief and I turn away as I try to get a hold of myself. After I’ve used it to wipe away my stray tears, I briefly wonder if it’s hexed.

“I’m sorry about that, Uncle George; it’s just a lot to deal with,” I say softly, handing back the damp handkerchief.

“It’s okay Al, we’ve all been there. I’ll make sure I stop by and visit your dad this week, okay? Maybe I’ll have better luck with convincing him to stay home.”

“Thanks—I really appreciate it,” I reply, feeling uneasy because of how much emotion I’ve shown about the current topic. I’m used to keeping my feelings to myself.

“Al, I’ll do anything to make sure your dad isn’t feeling guilty over something that isn’t his fault. You know, it’s not the first time my brother has blamed someone for an unnatural death in the family. When Fred died, way back when, he blamed Percy—said it was his fault for making him laugh. And then, when that got old, he blamed me for not being around to save him. None of his arguments ever made any sense though; they never do because he’s never being rational when he says these things.

“You can’t let him get to you,” he reminds me, his kind brown eyes meeting my own. “I know it’s hard because he’s a bloody tosser, but sooner or later, he will let it go.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but I think you’ve become a wise old man…” I say, half-joking and half-sincere.

George, however, takes it as a joke. “Of course I’m wise! I’m also incredibly beautiful, powerful, witty, and manly! Especially manly!” he exclaims, then proceeds to overzealously flex his arms in an array of ‘macho’ poses.

Even in his 60’s, Uncle George still knows how to act like a kid.

Laughter escapes my lips as I watch his shenanigans. “So, how’s your shop doing, Uncle George? Is there any new merchandise that I need to know about?”

“Headmaster, you know I can’t tell you that information! You’ll ban my products from the school!” he exclaims wildly. Jokes having to do with my names never seem to get old to him.

I roll my eyes at him and he straightens up a bit. “My shop is doing quite well, as it always is, my dear nephew. Oh, but I do have a bit of news though! Po and Sagi made their first trip into my shop this past month!”

I feel as though I’ve been hit in the face for a moment while a blast of shock runs through my system. “Po and Sagi came in? How were they? Did Lily bring them there?”

George chuckles a bit and says, “From the look of things, they were disobeying her by entering the shop. She stomped in a few minutes after they arrived and called for them using their full names—I imagine they got quite the verbal lashing for coming in without permission, the poor little tots.”

“Did she look well? Was her husband there?” I ask, trying to picture what she might look like now, after all of this time.

“She looked fine to me,” he replies with a grin, “albeit a bit too grouchy for my tastes, and no, he wasn’t with her.”

I sigh and look down. A hand touches my shoulder.

“It will all work out, Al. No more frowns,” he says, then waves his wand at me.

Shite.

“What on Earth did you just do to me?” I ask as George pushes by me and exits the washroom. I follow him speedily. “George? George!” I call after him, suddenly worried that I might be tattooed or dyed in some unearthly fashion.

George turns around, pats his pocket, and then walks away.

Pocket.

I pat my own and am surprised to feel it bulging with something. Ah, lemon drops… I didn’t know he knew how much I like them. I pop one in my mouth and damn my gullibility, I end up spending the remainder of the day walking around with neon yellow hair.