Chapter 37: Waiting Game
Grimmauld Place, August 21st 1997
"You're not mad at me, are you?" Potter asks for the second time in a short while.
I lift my head up, slowly taking in his features; he's standing at the bathroom door, freshly showered, his clothes slightly sticking to his frame, and his hair plastered against his neck and forehead. He's watching me with worry in his expression, gnawing his lower lip.
I'm not mad at him. I am feeling somewhat dismayed by Potter taking such a risk, putting himself into such danger...If I'm mad, then all that is directed to myself, for not being there.
Like I wasn't when I lost my brother.
"…Regulus?" Potter asks quietly, walking up to me and hesitantly sitting on the bed next to me.
I let out a small sigh and glance at him. "I'm not mad, Harry. I regret that I wasn't there."
Potter lifts his brows up. "I asked you not to come. You didn't really have a choice," He says simply, giving a nudge to my arm, a small smile on his lips.
My eyes trail over the faint cuts and bruises on his visible skin, before finally moving up to meet his bright green ones. "Then I'm glad that you are well," I say quietly.
Potter gives me a searching look; the same one I've seen many times over the past days. I know what he's thinking. What he's about to ask.
The memory.
I clear away the sudden tightness in my throat. "We should go downstairs," I mutter and stand up, grimacing inwardly at the disappointment that flickers into Potter's expression.
An hour later, we are sitting in the library. The events of today have been gone through and chewed over by the group.
"Why did you hide Ron?" Potter asks from Hermione, a small frown between his brows.
Hermione gives her friends a sad smile. "Well…after we saw what happened to Xenophilius – they kidnapped Luna because he has helped you, Harry – I thought if they didn't see Ron, they might leave his family alone…"
"Hermione…" Ronald mutters quietly, a grateful look in his eyes. "But…what about your parents?"
Hermione glances at the coffee table with a tight smile on her lips. "They don't…know who I am. And they're in Australia. They should be safe there."
I wonder if she knows the risks of what she's done to her parents. Even if we all survive this, it is possible that they are not coming back. Memory charms are like that. One can reverse them, but there is no certainty that the person who was under the spell will be the same. And the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that she is in fact aware of what might happen, but has decided not to include her friends with the small bit of information.
"You're amazing…" Ronald breathes, throwing an arm over her shoulder and pulling her closer to him on the sofa.
"Yeah, you are," Potter agrees, nodding quickly, leaning his elbows against his knees as he sits in the armchair. "I don't even want to think what would have happened if you hadn't been there…"
Hermione's bashful expression turns quickly into a solemn one. "I hope Luna is going to be all right…I can't stop thinking if they'll do what they threatened, after what happened today, if they'll…" She whispers, blinking hard, as her eyes fill with tears.
If the Dark Lord knows that the girl is a close friend of Potter's, then no – the girl will not be killed. Not until they have Potter.
"…They won't," Ronald says slowly, supposedly thinking along the same lines. He gives us a tentative look. "She – she'll probably be in Azkaban. We'll get her out, one way or another…if she survives the place."
Hermione swallows hard and presses her hands against her eyes.
Potter too looks anguished at the thought. "Sirius did. Luna will too." Potter says determinedly.
None of us comment on the fact that my brother wasn't exactly in his right mind after he escaped, and he never really fully recovered from it.
Hermione sighs wearily. "I only hope that the Death Eaters seeing us didn't make her situation worse."
There's a short silence.
"The whole trip was a mistake." Hermione mutters, staring at the coffee table in disbelief. "We didn't learn anything useful. Xenophilius probably came up with all that Hallows nonsense just to keep us there for the Death Eaters!" She says, shaking her head with a frustrated expression.
Ronald hums thoughtfully. "I don't think he came up with it. I think he believes in them. And based on what he said, there're others as well…"
"Whether he or someone else believes it or not, I don't see how that helps our situation," Hermione says wryly.
"Well, if the Hallows exist – "
"They don't!"
As Hermione, Ronald and eventually, Potter too start arguing over whether or not the Hallows exist, I think over the events of their unfruitful visit. It seems that they had risked their lives to no avail. Even if the Hallows exist, the information doesn't benefit our mission, as we do not have access to those objects.
"– But there is no proof of an unbeatable wand, Harry!" Hermione says with an incredulous look in her eyes, her voice rising from frustration, pulling me out from my thoughts.
Potter huffs. "You said yourself that there have been powerful wands in wizarding history!"
Hermione lets out a deep sigh. "Yes, there have. But nowhere it says that the wands were one wand. Or that they were actually more powerful than other wands, and not the wizard or witch carrying them," She says simply. "And let's not even start talking about the Resurrection Stone," She continues, her nose scrunching up at the name. "There is no magic that can do that."
Potter lifts his brows at his friend. "My wand did, at the cemetery – the same kind of pale forms that were mentioned in the story. I saw my mum and my dad. And Cedric. I talked to them. And in the story, the second brother even lived with the girl from the tale." He says slowly.
I watch Potter closely. There's a shadow behind his eyes, and something close to sadness…and despair in them. It makes me feel uneasy. And it all sounds too familiar – like the connection I have with my brother.
But would that be enough? Would a mere imitation be enough?
Potter's friends stare at him with concern edged into their expressions.
Hermione gives Potter a small smile. "You just said it yourself, Harry. They were merely pale imitations of them…"
Potter glances at each of us, before clearing his throat and then quickly continuing, "So, um, what about the Peverell brothers Xenophilius mentioned? The ones he believed were the first ones to own the Hallows? …Do they even exist?"
Hermione frowns slightly. "Well, when Xenophilius mentioned them, I knew that I'd heard the name before. I wonder if…" She says, her eyes moving to meet mine with a questioning look.
I give her a nod. "They were a medieval pure-blood wizarding family, one of the first to become extinct in the male line," I explain, recollecting the information that was drilled into me and my brother in our childhood.
"What does that mean?" Potter asks, watching me curiously.
"It means that the Peverells didn't have any descendants through male line, to keep the name from dying out. They might have had descendants through female line, but I doubt that they were kept in a record at that time," Hermione says, and glances at me.
"Not that I'm aware of." I say, and at the same time, Potter gasps loudly.
"The Gaunts!"
All of us turn to look at Potter with mixed expressions of bewilderment and curiosity.
"Dumbledore showed me a memory of the Gaunts! Marvolo Gaunt – Voldemort's grandfather – he told some Ministry employee that he was descended from the Peverells!" Potter says excitedly, ignoring Ronald's huff as he mentions the Dark Lord's name. "Marvolo was boasting with the ring, the one that became a Horcrux, telling the Ministry wizard that it had the Peverell coat of arms on it!"
I am aware that the Gaunt family – one of The Sacred Twenty-Eight – was recorded to be the last known descendant of Salazar Slytherin. I am also quite convinced it is their only admirable achievement. The members of said family were known to be violent and unstable, due to generations of inbreeding.
The Gaunts undoubtedly had a fair share of the Slytherin heirlooms in their possession, some of which, like the locket, have been recorded in wizarding history, but I haven't heard of anything that has belonged to the Peverell family.
"Peverell coat of arms…" Hermione mutters, staring at the table in contemplation. "It that their sigil? Did you see it?" She asks finally from Potter.
Potter shakes his head, staring into distance as he supposedly tries to remember the memory. "There were some scratches upon the stone in the ring. I only saw it properly after Dumbledore had cracked the ring open," Potter mutters, and then his eyes widen with realisation.
He blinks at us for a second. "It's the stone! It has to be! The scratches…weren't scratches – they were the Peverell coat of arms; the sign of the Deathly Hallows!" Potter says excitedly, jumping to his feet before he starts pacing in front of the fireplace.
I want to stop him right there, as everything he says, is mostly speculation. Before I can say anything, Ronald curses under his breath, giving his friend an amazed look.
"Blimey. You reckon Marvolo knew about them? About the stone being…the Resurrection Stone?"
Potter stops in his tracks and turns towards us before he shrugs at his friend. "Probably not. He didn't seem like a person who reads children's stories to his kids – or a one who has studied wizarding history."
"Could it…could it still work, even after Dumbledore used the sword –"
Hermione scoffs loudly, interrupting Ronald. "You can't be serious, Ron. The Resurrection Stone – nor the Deathly Hallows – do not exist!" She speaks with a shrill voice, and then turns her exasperated gaze at me. "Please tell me you don't buy this nonsense, Regulus! That you actually believe in facts and logical reasoning."
Potter scowls at her. "Don't prompt him."
I let out a weary sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose as Potter and Hermione continue arguing over the stone. I block away the bickering sounds and try to think this through.
It could be possible. The Deathly Hallows. Even if I have never heard of them. If such things as the Chamber of Secrets, or the Philosopher Stone exist, then the Deathly Hallows…not quite impossible.
Or, the symbol could mean something else entirely. But I can't deny that it is meaningful.
"…you want it to be true, so much, that you try to force everything to go with the story! There's no proof that there is a wand more powerful than others, nor that there is a stone that can bring back the dead. The only thing we know exists, is the cloak, and for what we know, there could be others –" Hermione says sharply, her voice filled with ire and frustration, before it falters, "…what is it?"
I glance up at Potter to find him staring at Hermione with amazement and fear in his eyes.
"Harry?" I ask quietly, watching him closely.
"He's after the wand," Potter says slowly, then looks each of us in turn, realisation in his eyes. "Voldemort's after the wand…"
Hermione lets out a loud groan of annoyance, while Ronald frowns at Potter. "How d'you know? And you mind stop calling him that?" Ronald asks with a grimace, hint of irritation in his voice.
Potter shakes his head slowly, and turns to stare at the flickering flames that bring light and shadows to the darkened room. It must be getting late.
"That's why he has Ollivander. And why he killed Gregorovitch. He's after the wand. Even if he doesn't know about the Hallows – and he probably doesn't, if he's changed a Hallow into a Horcrux – he must've heard about an unbeatable wand…" Potter mutters at the flames, his body tense, and his jaw clenched.
There's a short silence, before Potter continues. "Dumbledore had my father's cloak – he gave it to me in my first year. Why would he even have needed it? He was powerful enough to use magic to disillusion himself. I bet he had it because he knew what it was…"
Hermione sighs deeply. "Harry, we don't know that it is…a Hallow," She says, scrunching her nose up slightly. "Yes, it quite fits Xenophilius's description, but – "
"And then there's the stone," Potter mutters, and starts to hurriedly dig through the mokeskin pouch on his neck – and what a ridiculous place to store your belongings – and pulls out the Snitch. Potter stares at the golden ball with a contemplative look on his features, that are partly obscured by the fireplace. "What if…?" He whispers, and then turns to look at us. "What if Dumbledore left it to me? In here?" He says, green eyes filled with both certainty and shock.
"…Harry, you're making assumptions, of things you wish were true. We don't have any proof." Hermione says tiredly.
"How can you not see it, Hermione?" Potter asks, shaking his head in frustration. "The Deathly Hallows are real, and we've got at least one of them – maybe two. If we can get the third one before him –"
" – Harry, stop," Hermione grits through her teeth. "You're getting carried away! If Dumbledore knew about them, he would have told you!"
Potter shakes his head heatedly. "Not necessarily. He's left loads for me to figure out myself!"
"Not things like this!" Hermione nearly yells back at him. "We need to focus. On Horcruxes," She says forcefully.
She gives a mild scowl at Ronald and me. "Feel free to jump in and express your views on the matter," She says bitingly.
Potter stares at us with his brows lifted in expectation. "Well?"
Ronald opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. "Um…some of it seems believable, but…I dunno, mate…I mean, maybe Mione's right. Maybe we ought to focus on Horcruxes first. Then…then the Hallows…"
Potter lets out a small huff and arches a brow at his friend. "Figures…" He mutters, before turning to look at me with a defiance in his eyes. "You've been awfully quiet the whole time. I suppose you're with them then?"
I blink at Potter, somewhat speechless as I feel a sudden twinge of familiarity. I know the look, and what happens after I give him my answer. Because I have experienced it several times in my childhood. Yet, whenever Potter acts in a way that reminds me achingly much of my brother, it always takes me by surprise.
I let out a small sigh and level Potter with a serious look. "Destroying him is our priority. If we hope to achieve that, you know that it is crucial to find the Horcruxes."
Potter watches me with disappointment in his eyes. He nods slowly, then looks around us. "Right. Well. Good to know your thoughts on this…" he mutters, and then clears his throat, his expression hardening. "It's getting late. Think I'll turn in…" He says and leaves us, walking towards the door. "…G'night." He voices right before the door closes softly behind him.
Grimmauld Place, September 16th 1997
I stare at the canopy above the bed, my heart still drumming against my ribs. There was only shadows and coldness in my dreams last night, but I know it was him. That I was in his mind again.
It's different than before – has been for quite some time. The visions are not clear anymore, but blurred, and I can't make much out of them, even if I try very hard. It is as if the connection is not as strong as it once was.
The thought of it being a result of the Occlumency and compartmentalising I have been trying to practice every day, has been gnawing on me. And still, I haven't stopped.
I rub my eyes and glance around the room. Sirius's room. It kind of…happened, not intentionally; spending the night in here instead of Regulus's room. It all started a couple of weeks ago, when I couldn't sleep, and came here to think.
After staring at the now familiar photographs for quite some time, I needed to know more. I needed to know more than just what my parents looked like. I was sure that Sirius – having been so close to my father – could maybe have something that was missed by Regulus and me when we went through Sirius's things. Perhaps there still were letters, or a diary.
Turned out there was something. A letter from my mum to Sirius. And yeah, it felt a bit…wrong to look something as private as a letter, but the fact that I saw my mum's handwriting, which was as neat and beautiful as she apparently was herself, it…changed something in me. Somehow, it made her more real. Not just an idea, but an actual person who existed, and who – who loved me. My mum had sent Sirius a picture of one-year-old me, flying across a sitting room with a toy broom – something Sirius had apparently bought me for my birthday – laughing merrily as a pair of legs chased after me.
Reading the letter didn't really make me feel better. Quite the contrary. It brought up all that longing and injustice I only rarely feel when I think about my parents, consuming me with the thoughts of what was taken from me.
But, there was something else in it. Apparently, my parents were friends with Bathilda Bagshot; the author of A History of Magic, the woman who told Skeeter everything about the Dumbledores, and the woman who, according to Ron's Auntie Muriel, still lives in Godric's Hollow.
The woman who evidently told my parents bits and pieces about Dumbledore's past.
…I don't know how much to believe, actually, because it seems incredible that Dumbledore could ever be friends with Gellert Grindelwald.
And that is essentially how I started to, and I quote Hermione's words; 'obsess about something that is not there'.
The Hallows.
The past weeks have gone over quickly. I've tried to find more clues about Bathilda, the Hallows, the Cloak and the Stone. Tried to find out if there is any way to test that my cloak is The Cloak. Tried to find out if there is any way to open the Snitch. Even after the only reactions I got from the others, after I showed them the letter and the attached photograph, were smiles of sympathy.
And in Hermione's case; a couple of pointed words, urging me to focus on what is important right now.
The Horcruxes.
But the truth is, we don't have anything to go on with. At this point, every single book has been read that even mentions historical artefacts. Every memory I viewed with Dumbledore has been perused and discussed thoroughly. Hermione, Ron and I have been taking turns to skulk around in Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley, and even some known Wizarding villages under my cloak, but there's nothing. It's eerily quiet everywhere. There are people, briskly walking down the streets but nobody stops to chat with the others. Apparently, everyone just wants to take care of their business and return their homes as soon as possible. And the Death Eaters – or Snatchers, in some cases – they merely stroll down the streets, quietly, but…with a threatening purpose.
Then there's Regulus, who is still…inattentive, has been ever since he saw the memory. Sure, he has joined our research sessions and discussions, and after the whole Xenophilius incident, he even told us what is important and what should be our priority right now. Nevertheless, there's still something off with him. His thoughts are somewhere else – a lot like mine, I suppose. He hasn't even commented on the matter of me staying the nights in Sirius's room. At first, I wondered if he was even aware of it, since he too tends to spend his nights away from his room, sometimes returning close to midday to freshen up, occasionally reeking of Firewhiskey. But then, after the second night, during breakfast, he gave me this long, contemplative look. And I knew that he knew. But the problem is, that don't know what to do with him, or what to say to him. It seems that every time I have tried to approach him, he manages to deflect me.
And I hate that. I hate that there're these…things between us, dividing us further apart. And I don't know how to stop that from happening. But I know that I miss him.
I move slightly in the bed and something hard presses against my spine. "…Ouch," I wince and pull the offending object from under me. It's the Snitch.
I fell asleep with it. Again. I just wish I could understand what the inscription means. What is the close? I've been thinking this over for many nights now. Weeks even. If the Stone is in there. And the possibilities of having it in my possession.
What if…what if the Stone is actually what we need to pull Sirius back into this world? If Sirius is between the worlds, between the living and the dead, could the Stone actually bring him back? And not just as a pale imitation of life, but the whole, solid, complete wizard that is my godfather?
Last week, I mentioned this to Regulus. He wasn't overly delighted by my theory, and instead, was bitter and very sceptical about the possibility. In the end, he told me it was best if I went to bed and stopped bothering myself with children's tales.
If we had Sirius – he would know what to do. He would see the sense in searching first the Hallows and then Horcruxes. What I'd give to get him back…probably anything.
But then, I remember the fact that as long as Voldemort exists, there's no chance of going to the Ministry and getting my godfather back. And then, I remember Luna, writhing away in Azkaban.
And, as if summoned, the guilt washes over me. I know what I should focus on, I know. But even if I focus on destroying Voldemort, I just, I can't stop thinking how much it would help to have all the Hallows in my grasp – or even just the wand – before I actually face him.
I swallow through the thickness in my throat and glance towards the windows, and watch for a long while as the yellow stripe of dawn nudges back the night sky between the red and golden curtains.
With a deep sigh, I force myself up from the bed and after a quick freshening up, I make my way downstairs.
"Morning," I mumble and take my seat opposite to Hermione. Regulus and Ron are most likely still sleeping.
Hermione eyes me studiously before she nods at me. "Good morning," she says with a quick smile and continues to fix her tea.
The paper's not yet here, nor the usual breakfast Kreacher usually prepares for us.
I stand up from the table and walk to the cupboards, flicking my wand to the kettle to prepare myself some tea, feeling Hermione's eyes on my back the whole time. "You want toast?" I mutter without turning to look at her, summoning a large plate, marmalade and several slices of bread.
"Um…yes, please. Thank you, Harry."
There's a long silence as I continue to prepare breakfast. When I return back to the table, with a plate stacked up on toast and a cup of tea floating in front of me, I can't stay quiet anymore. "What is it?" I ask bluntly, feeling a hint of frustration as I see the discontented look in her eyes.
"You have to talk to him," she says, giving me a pointed look.
I look at her, chewing the inside of my cheek in thought. I know I should do something. But what? How can I fix this? I let out a weary sigh and trail a hand through my hair. "I've tried. He doesn't want to talk."
Hermione arches a brow at me. "Have you really?" She asks curiously, sipping her tea. "It looks to me like you're…spending all your time in Sirius's room, thinking Merlin knows what," she mutters, an edge to her voice, before her focus is trained at the small window, where a brown barn owl is tapping the glass softly, the morning paper between its beak. Hermione moves quickly to the window and opens it up a bit to pay the owl and grab the paper.
As soon as she sits back opposite to me, I level her with blank look, feeling the twinge of annoyance. "The Hallows. And you know, there's a possib –"
"For Godric's sake, Harry!" Hermione moans exasperatedly, slamming the paper against the table. "Why can't you understand that the sooner you stop your – your obsession – the sooner all of us can return back to normal, and do what is important!"
I let out a huff. "You don't even know what I was about to say!"
Hermione takes in a deep breath, evidently trying to calm herself. Her eyes move across the front page, and a deep frown takes place between her brows. She swallows hard and then turns the paper around so that I can see the headlines.
'Three Muggle-borns imprisoned after proven guilty!'
There's a picture of the familiar courtrooms in the Ministry, and under that, a short article about three children; two witches and a wizard, who had been caught boarding the Hogwarts Express, on their way to Hogwarts for the first time. And now – now they have been tried and found guilty. For…for not having Wizarding relatives.
Nausea stirs inside me. Those were children. Barely eleven years old, thrown into Azkaban, because of him.
Hermione takes in a shaky breath. "Do you need a better reminder?" She asks with a sad voice, before standing up and turning to the cupboards, to fix herself another cup of tea, sniffling as she moves.
I swallow deeply, gritting my teeth in anger and frustration. This is wrong. This is so. Bloody. Wrong. And then my eyes flicker to another article, in the bottom corner of the front page.
'New Headmaster brings Ministry approved order to the school"
And all the anger and frustration turn into white hot rage as I see the hook-nosed, black-haired man, staring sullenly at me from the small picture attached to the article. Fucking Snape.
I almost let out a menacing growl, but then I glance at Hermione, who is taking her seat again at the table, the look in her eyes weary and…hopeless. And I can't have that. I can't have her going hopeless. Not her.
I clear my throat, trying to swallow down the fury. "I'll talk to Regulus. We'll – we'll figure something out. We'll have something to move on to," I say to her, trying to reassure her.
Hermione gives me a tight smile in return before she takes back the paper and starts rifling through it. And we both know there's a very small chance of any one of us figuring out something that could help us.
Nevertheless, I reckon it is time to revisit the idea of Regulus trying to access his thoughts.
The mattress dips slightly close to my feet. I crack an eye open, feeling the weariness washing over me.
Messy black hair, and bright green eyes.
"Potter," I mutter, closing my eyes again.
I don't really remember the events from the previous night – there was probably alcohol included – but I am quite certain I did take a Sober-Up potion, since I do not feel completely decaying.
"Hey," Potter says quietly.
A short silence.
"Can we talk?"
Ah. Talking. Something grave, I presume, from the tone in his voice. I tell him this, my eyes still closed, and Potter lets out a small snort.
"Did you see him?" He asks carefully.
I blink my eyes open and give him a scrutinising look. I wish I fucking did. I've tried. And the more I fail to see him, the more agitated it makes me. "I didn't."
Potter nods slowly, watching me with a worried expression. "When will you stop?"
Never. I clench my jaw and remain expressionless, even though in my head, I'm screaming with frustration and despair. "I'll stop when I have my brother back," I say harshly, and Potter flinches. Brilliant.
He lets out a deep sigh and covers his face with his hands, leaning his elbows against his knees. I move slightly upwards to lean against the headboard, as the silence stretches on.
"What good will it do?" He whispers after a short moment, sounding tired.
And I want to pull him closer, to tell him how it will do good, how it will give hope. It will give me the assurance that he is still there. At the same time, I want to tell him how every time I've seen my brother in that place, it haunts me. It makes my skin crawl for days. Weeks even. Seeing him makes it hard to return to live in this world, knowing that he's there, alone, waiting.
Instead, I close my eyes and swallow down all the…feelings, locking them down somewhere deep.
"You know what I did there? In his room?" Potter asks, his voice still slightly muffled by his hands.
I open my eyes to look at him. "Hm?"
His hands move upwards, until the heels of his palms rest against his forehead, his fingers tangling into his hair.
"I kept thinking about the Stone. And how, if we'd have it, maybe…maybe we could have Sirius as well." Potter lets out a mirthless laugh. "But then. Then I remembered what needs to happen before we can even think of going into the Ministry. And then, I realised – even though at first, I was sure he'd back me up – what he would do. Sirius would try to destroy Voldemort. He would focus on the job that Dumbledore gave to us."
I know he would.
I watch Potter studiously for a moment, before he turns his gaze at me, his expression bordering on desperate.
"I need you. I need you to read my mind again. To read his."
Several emotions flicker past my mind, and I compile my thoughts before I give him an answer. "I can't do that, Harry," I say quietly, looking away from him. Away from the pleading, impossibly green eyes.
"Why?" He asks, quietly, insistently.
I shake my head slightly, glancing back at him. "What you're asking, has never been done. Has never been tried by anyone. Accessing one's mind, navigating in it, it is a very complicated and delicate practice. And what we'd be doing; adding an entirely new dimension. The uncertainty and vulnerability it brings – the consequences could be…disastrous."
Potter watches me steadily, his jaw hard. Merlin forbid. He's not backing out on this, is he?
"I might not possess the skill to perform such Legilimency, Harry. I could ruin everything. Or you could, if your mind is not strong enough," I tell him, trying to make him see that even a small slip could be detrimental. "The Dark Lord is too powerful."
Potter continues to stare at me, before his eyes widen slightly. "Not every moment. You said…when he opens the connection – "
"That seems to be a time when his guards are down. When the barriers of his mind are weakened. This is merely an assumption." I tell Potter impatiently.
When the Dark Lord accidentally opens up the connection between his and Potter's mind, that could be a way in.
In the event that it is accidental.
Potter looks somewhat enthusiastic. "Could we – next time I'm in his mind, you could, I mean, we could try it?" Potter asks hesitantly.
I give Potter a look. There is quite some practice to be done before we can even tempt ourselves with the thought.
Potter gives a sheepish nod, understanding my line of thought. "Yeah, probably not. We need to practice. So, um. Have a go."
I groan and drop my head back against the headboard. "Potter. Let me wake up first."