"Take to the Heather" (Ernie, Justin, Hannah, Snape, Nev, Blaise)
Author: Anonymous
Prompt/Prompt Author: Justin needs help during the war (perhaps even before he goes on the run). Ernie never thought he'd have to "activate" his Pureblood connections, but to save his friend he might have to engage in things he hadn't considered before. / alley_skywalker
Title: Take to the Heather
Characters: Ernie; Justin; Hannah; Snape; Nev; Blaise; Carrows and other dodgy sorts.
Rating: BBFC 12A.
Warnings: Buchan; Chesterton; Kipling; Larkin; Saki; scenery; Scots, broad; Stevenson; Test cricket; weather; wildlife.
Word Count: Just shy of fifteen thousand.
Summary: Respectable people, as a matter of course, protect the persecuted and hide the hunted. And the Macmillan motto is, after all, miseris succurrere disco.
Author's Notes: A largely epistolary tale, with interruptions. And scenery. And of course some very unlovely people. I am obliged to M for editing this balls despite his distaste for fannish activities, as B, N, and F should have been far too busy.
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Part 1
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Rory Macmillan-Trype-Black to Ernie Macmillan, 23 October, from Nadder Priory, nr Salisbury:
My dear young Ernest,
We had rather a queer episode here yesterday. A band of what I can only called Chavs With Wands turned up on my doorstep demanding to know, Had I seen any Muggles? Well, I ask you: they're all 'round. Unprepossessing lot they were, wearing silly little armbands of some sort; called themselves 'Snatchers' and claimed to be working for the Ministry(!). Presuming that the gobbiest and most impertinent one was the leader, if they have leaders, which I doubt, I Summoned an old copy of Nott I'd somehow failed to chuck out when we were going through some of the Black heirlooms, and a copy of Nature's Nobility, told them my name in full, and said I'd answer their questions when they'd each of them told me the surnames, including maiden names, of their people back six generations. Well, they looked damned shifty at that, I can tell you, and went off, muttering about coming back with Aurors.
And of course it was after they buggered off that Parnesius, hopeless as ever, finally came down to breakfast - he's stopping with us just now, meaning, he potters about looking at voles and dormice and his incessant otters he watches, and then battens on us for a bed and a feed - and asked, What was all that about? Vexing man.
Predictably, Parnesius had just wandered off into the woods or somewhere when the same buggers showed up, with a couple of Aurors I'd have cashiered in my day as an Auror, and began asking questions again. I made the two Aurors make the running, after they satisfied me of their antecedents (no connexions of ours, naturally, but one was able to claim a Fawley link, and the other, a Selwyn, which is hardly saying much. They seemed a bit restive about the entire thing, but they were hardly going to argue with a Macmillan and a Black). They said they were looking for a young man of about your age, a Muggle going about with a wand(!), rather curly of hair and cheerfully what-ho-ish of demeanour, with a public-school sort of manner, and, Had I seen anyone meeting that description?
Well, of course I had done, bar any visible wands and what not, and I directed them to where they were certain to find scores of Muggles amongst whom such a young man might hide by blending in; and they Apparated to the coordinates I gave them.
And now the MoD are in a furious bate, and the Royal Artillery are in a swivet, and what's left of the silly bastards must be sat upon by the Coroner. You'd think that two Aurors and a gang of louts claiming to be in Ministry employ should've had the nous to Apparate into the middle of a firing range on Salisbury Plain only after making certain it wasn't in actual use, would you not? Very poor intake, the Aurors must have these days.
And now of course, just when he might be useful, that damned fool Parnesius has gone off again, no doubt to be a very much Non-Paying Guest with yet another of our connexions.
I do hope school - even with exams conventionally looming in that clichéd fashion that is the prerogative of exams - is less annoying than is the daily round of
Your affectionate cousin,
RMTB
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'Macmillan.'
'Headmaster.'
'Read it again. The passage about the Snatchers, Salisbury Plain, and the Muggle artillery. And don't snigger this time.' Snape paused, with an evil smile. 'That's my job.'
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Alys, Lady Bloet to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 12 November, from Llansantffraid House, nr Pencelli:
My dear young Ernest,
If you are not ashamed to take advice of a cousin considerably your senior in years, I implore you to write - kindly - to Rory, who is now in a state of utter horror at having told you that Parnesius was a Non-Paying Guest, only to find two hundred Muggle pounds on the chimney-piece after the silly bugger left Nadder Priory, which I call handsome. (Mind, it does mean poor Rory must go up to Town to change it at Gringotts, and you know how he hates London - or indeed stirring a step.) The poor man is in a state of abject horror at having - probably for the first time since he was a Firstie at Hogwarts - dropped a socially resounding brick, and I fear he'll worry himself positively into a decline.
Speaking of Parnesius, he stopped here for a bit and was perfectly charming. Sadly, my enjoyment of his visit - after all, I, unlike dear Rory, am interested in badgers and Usk otters - was somewhat marred by an Incident nearby. I know of course that we must all acknowledge that The Ministry Knows Best, but if one may trust what one hears from Rory, one cannot think they are wholly well-served. Naturally, we are somewhat overrun with Muggles at this time of year; but we simply cannot all of us live at Hogsmeade or Mould or Godric's Hollow or Flagley. I've never bothered my neighbours, nor they, me: even when, as happens twice in the year here in the Beacons, we are positively up to our gunwales in the Muggle SAS. And of course they are beginning to arrive in flocks, now, the SAS, in advance of the next Training Exercises and All That.
These 'Snatchers' - and I really must agree with Rory that they are simply Chavs With Wands - seemed not to grasp that. There was a Muggle - not SAS, a civilian, but evidently with military connexions and known to a few of the SAS officers, socially - rambling and camping out - in this weather, my dear! Hardy is hardly the word, and it's not as if he were on A Course, although I don't believe him when he says he's a timorous sort of lad: I put him up for a night myself, I'd not have left a beast out in this weather, let alone a Muggle, even if Muggles aren't quite Wizards - at any rate, there was a Muggle who seemed to attract their attention, and they, as I suppose, felt it incumbent on them to justify their silly name. Well, as I said, dear, the lad was known to several of the officers, socially, and the SAS were hardly likely to attend to claims of employment by and authority from a 'Ministry of Magic' - shocking breach of the Statute of Secrecy, really. I expect the Snatchers might have been in for something of a departmental wigging had not events intervened.
The funerals are in three days. The Muggles are hushing it up as a terrorist incident, naturally. (I wonder if the Ministry realise that a machine-gun shall always beat an Unforgiveable?)
Parnesius is off on his travels again - weather or no weather - and seems to flourish of them, although he is pining for some Italian whose name I did not quite catch. I remember Uncle Roderick and that mezzo, or, as the case may be, Uncle Tam and that tenor, and all I ask is that no one frighten the Thestrals, and it takes all sorts, doesn't it.
I do wish, though, he'd not tried to fix the wireless: it works, if one can call it 'working', in the most peculiar manner now.
I trust at least that you, young man, are working in a manner that is not at all peculiar, and preparing yourself this year. Your success in all you undertake, which shall be aided so far as possible whenever you ask, is the fond of wish of
Your affectionate cousin,
ALYS BLOET
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'Shocking casualty rate amongst the Snatchers,' said Snape. 'Pity, that.'
'Oh, quite, Headmaster,' said Ernie.
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Alun Griffiths Lewis Vaughan Pryce to Ernie Macmillan, 21 November, from Plas Nedd, nr Ystradfellte:
Cousin Ernest, what in buggery are the Ministry playing at? Parnesius has had to give over pottering about after badgers and otters and all sorts - and he'd been so looking forwards to the shake holes and the falls - a sgwd 'round every corner - but dodgy buggers with brassards claiming to be Ministry sorts keep tangling with our jolly Muggle SAS neighbours. Very tiresome. (I wish he might be out and about: he keeps fiddling with the wireless, and setting it to the most peculiar programmes.)
Hastily,
ALUN
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'You're very … pertinacious … in writing to your family, Macmillan. This cousin Parnesius seems to be a constant theme.
'Where is Finch-Fletchley?'
'I can look you in the eye and my answer is the same. Headmaster. I don't, actually, know. For all I could say, he's wherever Potter is.'
'Oh, I think not, Macmillan. I really do think not. If I thought that, I should have to resort to more direct measures. And it's not as if he's particularly heroic, Finch-Fletchley. Timorous and easily led, I recall. Hardly likely to be at the sharp end.
'Even so, I suppose I had perhaps best mention the possibility to the Ministry. Finding Potter is much more important, after all.'
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'Aye, Ern. Happen Snape's your Amal. He bides a Winged Hat, sithee, for all that, and has his orders. Don't trust him.'
'Well, hardly, Nev. Horrid little man, really.'
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'Macmillan, you are not a Badger. You are Rabbit, with all his friends-and-relations. Must all of the innumerable Macmillan connexions write to you so regularly and with such mind-numbingly boring news?'
'Actually, I think, personally, this might divert you, actually. Headmaster.'
Euan Macmillan-Bourke MCH to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 3 December, from Mains of Blainslie, nr Galadean:
My dear grandnephew,
You're far and away the most level-headed loun in your generation, and I want your advice. Some daftie - or it may be more than the one, but I could not say - speiring about in the night appears to have, as Hamish my Whip says, 'lowped the wa' and breuken intae the kennels' in the wee hours afore the morn. I need not tell you, oe, what falls to a man who gets into a kennel with a pack of hunting Crups and they not knowing him…. What we found, the morn, too haggled for a flesher's shop, were a few bones, half a boot, and a chewed red rag that might syne have been an armband of sorts.
Well. They'd never have gone for him if he - I say, 'he', but there was not enough to tell - had been a Wizard, save and but he were a Dark Wizard; and the Ministry are aye telling us there are none of those about, and it's the Undesirable, that halfblood who was your school yearmate for a time, is the threat, trying to fear the folk with havers anent Dark Wizards on the rise. I jalouse the deceased, then, maun have been a Muggle. And what I misdoubt is, Can we tell the Muggles - who may be missing him - he's dead, with the Statute of Secrecy and all? I can ask an advocate for the law of the thing, but what I want to know of you is, Is that the proper thing to do or not do, in an auld Pureblooded family?
We can at least be certain the dead was not the Muggle who wandered through a few days afore, a young lad rambling, swathed in wool as fair as any of Gemma's work, and so muffled against the weather a Wizard might hardly see his mop of curls. I doubt me but that he's from South the Border, to be so wrapped up against what I call mild weather enough, for where we are.
Weel-a-weel, as Hamish is wont to say, it is what it shall be, and it is for me to take and make kirk or mill of it. I was fashed, though, indeed 'sair mistrystit', that Parnesius, who had stopped with me for a few nights, had to witness it. Not that I am of the same mind as they who say Parnesius is wanting courage. He's rather a lad who thinks the best of everyone and believes what they tell him until they prove themselves fause, and so he seems easily led. But I mind me your Uncle Jamie when he was a bairn was the same way, and when he was man grown there was not a braver Auror in the Service, you'll ken.
And you cannot call a man coward who's off now in this weather for to ramble the Cuillins - in the weeks afore Yuil, at that - can you. I doubt me but he'll end by having brose spooned into him by your Aunt Christian: Kirsty always entangles folk in the web of her hospitality.
Your mother tells me you are stopping at the school for the Yuil holidays. I mind me what Seventh Year was like in my day, and I think you're wise; but I regret that I shall not see you for Sowans Nicht and Yuil and Hogmanay. The enclosed, as an early handsel, may cause you to think affectionately of the giver, an affection aye returned by
Your aye-loving auld eme,
EUAN MACMILLAN-BOURKE
Snape was perfectly affectless when he said, 'The Snatchers do seem to have the most shocking ill-luck, do they not. Were I you, Macmillan, I should advise your great-uncle not to mention the matter to the Ministry - or the Muggles. As he wisely says, there are no Dark Wizards abroad unless one accepts … Potter's … wild claims, and alerting the Muggles should breach the Statute of Secrecy.
'Parnesius - if I may so call him; I trust you don't find that too familiar in me - would appear from this to be following in Bonnie Prince Charlie's footsteps, over the sea to Skye. I trust he shan't make a right Charlie of himself.'
'I imagine not, Headmaster.'
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Christian Macdonald-MacNichol-Innes of Balnaknock to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 19 December, from Glenconon House, Glen Uig, Skye:
My dear nephew,
What a week we've had here, you'd not credit it. Father always said that I was daft to leave Galadean for the wild and savage Gaeltacht and the Inner Isles when I wed Angus, and I never thought I should agree with him - for all the Fifth Commandment says - until now. My memory may not be quite what it was when I was your age, but I mind perfectly well what Seventh Year is like, and so I pass these news on as a diversion, and a proof That Things Might Always Be Worse - although no one ever believes that with exams stooping upon them like an eagle on a cushat.
We had had the whole of the fowk - the hail closhach - to a cèilidh (but the Wee Frees, of course, though they were bade come). Even Parnesius had come off the mountains - the great daftie - although all he did was stand like a stoukie next the wall on his lone, naturally, hanging his lugs: leave it to Parnesius to take the dorts at a celebration, he'll neither dance nor hold the candle - and, my dear, just as we were all having a grand time, the Deil went ower Jock Wabster! The Skye folk, of course, being Skye folk, were certain that it was the Last Day and the Doom, or, alternately, that a taghairm was being performed, and I will say it sounded like the roasting of a score of live cats. In fact, it was the Kneazles yowling like the lemures et manes of the sheeted dead, and then the Crups began to bay and screich. Well, whoever it was in the policies - prowling about in the dark: I don't imagine they were up to any good - went crashing through my poor undeserving shrubberies - abuse, I call it - and away - I jalouse they were frichted of the Crups, for some reason, though the Dear knows that the Kneazles are dangerous enough - and into the River Conon, just where the Lòn Airigh-ùige joins it beneath the falls. Well, bar one, who went the other way, towards Castle Ewen and the Fairy Glen, and all they found of him was a Wizard's hat and a scrappie red clout that might have been an armband, in Lòn Millahors. (He must have been fou' as a piper - although our musicians, at the cèilidh, were sober as any minister or dominie at the kirk of a Sabbath, and your Uncle Angus' piper, by Dod, is a MacCrimmon on his mother's father's side.) And of course, what with the wailing of those who vanished in the water, and so near the falls, everyone's certain they've heard a caoineag - and if Parnesius calls it a 'banshee' once more, I doubt but Angus shall hurl an ashet at him at dinner. He's been too long out of Scotland already, bar visits, has Parnesius.
And now folk are saying that whoever they were, the Bull of the Water took them (and I'd liefer face an each-uisge, myself, than its taurine counterpart), and no one will walk abroad so soon as the light thickens for the gloaming, and what I shall do for all my dinners and wee feasts that I'd asked everyone to I do not know.
Parnesius says it's all silliness, of course - he would - and intends to remove to the mainland after Ne'er's Day, but if he expects folk there to be less mad - well, we're all Jock Tamson's bairns together, and I see little to choose between us.
So, you see, Seventh Year and exams, my dear nephew, are actually less tiresome than adult life! I am sorry we'll not see you for Christenmas, but I think you're wise to stop on at school and cleave to your books, and after this upset I don't imagine there shall be any parties worth the missing here 'the hail Yuil' in any case.
With undiminished affection, I remain your loving
AUNT KIRSTY
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Rabbie Macmillan to Ernie Macmillan, 22 December, from Glenreasdell House, nr Blackhouse:
My dear cousin Ern,
Whilst I regret that I shan't see you over the hols, I am relieved that you chose to stop at school and concentrate on your Seventh Year studies. All the talk in our circles is of the shocking abduction of cousin Lovegood - is she in your year, or the lower? I cannot credit that Undesirable Number One could be so bold as to sow fear and spread alarm and despondency by such tactics; I wonder if the Ministry realise just how bad it looks for them that a Pureblood child can be thus taken from under their noses, when they have assured us we are all safe and that Undesirable Number One is no more a threat than are the Dark Wizards he falsely alleges - as the Ministry are aye telling us - are about.
Stick to your buiks like a sutor to his last.
Yours aye,
COUSIN RAB
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'Macmillan. Have you any reason to believe Finch-Fletchley dead?'
'And a happy Christmas to you as well, Headmaster. I most assuredly do not.'
'If, as I presume, you wish that state of affairs to continue, and as you are one of the few senior prefects stopping here at Hogwarts for the season, I strongly commend to you as the course of wisdom that you not comment in any way upon my possible absence on Boxing Day.'
'I shall be silent as the - grave. Headmaster.'
'I trust so. Very well: I fancy we understand one another. Dismissed, Macmillan.'
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Isobel Mackintosh-Gordon to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 3 January, from Corlarrick House, nr Achranich:
My dear nephew,
Much though I regret not seeing you for the holidays, I must say you were well out of it here. The Muggle ferry from Fishnish in Mull to Lochaline went down on New Year's Day in the Caolas na h-Àirde - although with no loss of life. No one can fathom why it happened. I chanced to be in Loch Àilann myself just as it occurred, and bore some hand in aiding the rescued (I ken fine they were but Muggles, but one couldn't have left even a stirk in that condition, truly). One young fellow, a curly-haired lad with a public-school manner, bought me lunch on the strength of it, which I thought surprisingly well-bred of a mere Muggle.
Predictably, Parnesius missed the crisis, turning up here with his usual cunning, some hours after and just in time for tea. I'm as pleased as any guidwife to have my scones - well, Bauchan's, who is a most excellent Elf and indispensable in the kitchen - extravagantly appreciated, but Parnesius has the appetite of a healthy youth of seventeen summers. One who's been living rough on short commons, at that. Yet healthy he rather annoyingly remains - tramping about in all weathers. He was off with the frost at dawn this morning, with a Kneazle on his shoulder - one of those Kirsty is forever foisting upon all and sundry, or I miss my guess - and a Crup at his heels, which I know for certain Old Uncle Euan gave him. At least with Parnesius one needn't worry that he's off to seduce maids at main and mill (although I'd not go bail for his being reliable or at all trustworthy with the local lads, mind, but, good Heavens, he can't get them with child, at least, so that's a comfort); just now, though, he seems - I suppose because otter-watching is tapered off for a time in this season of the year - bent on a celibate, indeed positively Cluniac, existence somewhere in the wild near Ben Alder. If he wishes to face a Highland winter on Creag Dubh, as a troglodyte reliant on Gemma's weaving to keep him warm, I am not inclined to say him nay: not when you look at the inroads he made on my butter and tea and jam whilst he stopped here for but two nights. I should think the Crup eat less.
I trust that you at least accomplished what you wished by stopping at school; and that the New Year shall be better to you than the last.
Yours aye,
AUNT ISOBEL
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'Macmillan. Abbott. I fear I must dispense with the amenities this evening. Professor Carrow is invigilating this detention: Amycus, I shall test the Veritaserum on you. Oh, don't panic: I shall ensure your response is not overheard. Try to resist, please, when questioned.'
Snape cast Muffliato, then prevailed upon Carrow to accept three drops of Veritaserum.
'Name?'
Through clenched teeth, Carrow answered, after a good twenty seconds. 'Amycus Carrow.'
'Where is the Lovegood girl?'
'Malfoy Manor.'
'Is the Dark Lord … in charge, shall we say, at Lucius Malfoy's residence?'
'Yes.'
'Are you satisfied that this is in fact Veritaserum?'
'Yes, damn you.'
'You didn't mean to add that apostrophe, did you?'
'N-no. Bugger.'
'Rather a potent brew, is it not?'
'Yes.'
'Are you sitting comfortably?'
'Yesss….'
'Then,' said Snape, cancelling the Charm, 'let's begin. Macmillan first. Three drops - do not force me to immobilise you, Macmillan. There we are.
'Name?'
'E… Ernest Macmillan.'
'Are you Slytherin? Try to lie.'
'Absolutely not.'
'Do you know where Justin Finch-Fletchley is?'
'No.'
'Have you given him shelter?'
'No.'
'Is he in England?'
'No.'
'Is he instead out of the country?'
'… I believe so.'
'Did you see him over the Summer hols?'
'Yes.'
'Did he discuss leaving the United Kingdom?'
'Yes.'
'What other countries did he mention going to?'
'Ind … India. Ceylon - Sri Lanka. Australia. New Zealand.'
'Do you know if he is in any of those countries?'
'No.'
'Do you know where he is?'
'No.'
'Have you seen him since the Summer hols?'
'No.'
'Have you written to him?'
'No.'
'Has he written to you?'
'No.'
Snape cast a wandless and nonverbal Silencio upon Ernie, surreptitiously.
'Very well. Wise of you, really. Abbott - put out your tongue. I make certain you're longing to put your tongue out at me in any case. When we are done here, you can write a thousand lines in consequence, both of you - you'll not need to remain for that, Professor Carrow.'
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Hon. Agatha Macdonald to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 27 January, from Levenford House, Eilean Dubh:
My dear nephew,
My regret at having not seen you over the holidays - although I think it wise of you to have stopped at school with your books, this being Seventh Year - has only grown since. It was unfortunate enough that I missed your young face around the festal board; it is the worse in that I have been festally and ferially bored by having to see others. I say nothing against your Aunt Maud - which reminds me, do give my love to your cousin Morag - but the fact is, Mistress MacDougal is a positive magpie. She chatters, and she attempts to cozen me out of shiny things. All she wished to speak of - and I have had four mortal days of her stopping here - was that poisonous new biography (if one can call it that) of Albus Dumbledore; the only times upon which I was granted a respite, in the form of a change of topic, was when she returned briefly to her usual theme, not so idly wondering why grandmother had devised certain sets of siller to her and others to me, and insinuating that some of the Meissen and the Dresden - and the Ming porcelain, which I do call cheek - 'wanted to be reunited' with her pieces. As your Aunt Maud shouldn't be able to tell a pair of Sheffield wally-dugs from a famille rose vase, save for her unerring ability to place an auctioneer's estimate upon them, I am not inclined to gratify - one cannot, of course, hope to sate - her unsleeping acquisitive instinct.
By contrast, we had Parnesius to tea three days in four. I realise the man could not hope to get a word in whilst your Aunt Maud nattered on, and on, and indeed on, but he was as silent as Cluny's cave even when she was blessedly outwith the room. I cannot imagine how he ever got on with the Beauxbatons people, the French being as incessantly talkative as Maud MacDougal; still and all, he at least speaks French like a Frenchman, which I suppose to be useful, although now that the Auld Alliance is dead and gone - not that I am not a Unionist, mind, but it does seem a pity the Stuarts are not on the Throne, at least as to Wizardom, whatever the Muggles choose to do - I should imagine there's less call for it nowadays than formerly. In any event, he seems healthy enough, if sober as a Kirk minister and as glum as John Knox - I thank God daily that we are all sound Piscies - and seems to prefer his solitudes. Well, if a man insists upon spending January in a hide, watching wildlife on the heights of Ben Alder, I suppose silence is in order: it shouldn't do to scare the birds and hares and all that; but there is something unnerving in seeing Parnesius, who never used, as I recall, to be tongue-tied, going about as silent as a windcuffer in flight.
It's been days syne we've seen even the hardiest of young Muggle ramblers, and I suspect, in this weather, we'll hardly see any before Bannock Nicht, now that Burns Nicht is ahint us.
Do keep up your marks, and write on occasion, to your undeserving Aunt Maud and, the more, to
Your aye affectionate aunt,
AGATHA
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Archibald Hamilton-Gordon to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 1 March, from Levenford House, Eilean Dubh:
My dear cousin,
I am writing in your Aunt Agatha's stead - do not be alarmed: we are all well, bar her having caught a wee bittock cold in the head - to acquaint you with events here afore you hear them misrepresented and alarming from any other quarter, or, the likelier, rumour painted full of tongues.
We had something of a clan gathering upon the slopes of Ben Alder yestere'en for the Candlemas term day, the civil cross-quarter day. Your Aunt Maud was there, and of course Parnesius, and Cousin Isobel, Aunt Kirsty, Cousin Rab, and even Grand-Uncle Euan, amongst others, with Agatha and me. Well, you may imagine our surprise when, just in the midst of a pìobaireachd, the ceòl mór was interrupted. First the Kneazles, then the Crups, and then a gang of Southron, Sassenach tinkers with dirty red clouts to their sleeves, Apparating in like so many neds fu' with Buckie. It was all that Grand-Uncle and Parnesius might do to keep the Crups off them - and they were cream-faced louns with goose-looks, the Sassenachs, what time they saw the Crups: cowardy custards unfit to be called as Wizards - and by the time we were done, Auld Euan at least was ready to set the Crups on them after all. They claimed to be looking for a Muggle lad carrying a wand and pretending to be a Wizard, and they actually had the neck to begin questioning Parnesius, Was he the lad? (Some English name they had for him, double-barrelled but clearly Muggle, the lad they were after.) They said he looked the youngest of us, and had curly hair like the lad they sought. Well, your Aunt Agatha … no one has ever denied - she least of all - that she's a tongue like a flesher's knife, and she flayed into them before Parnesius could draw a breath. How dare they interrupt a Pureblood gathering? Least of all of Macmillans and their kith? If they were Purebloods themselves, they'd have had better manners and more wisdom, and did they not ken that Purebloods, at least, aged differently to Muggles, and look at Uncle Euan, would any Muggle in his one hundred and eleventh year look so hale? The least craven of the English rabble cut in then and asked Parnesius what House he'd been at Hogwarts, then, and - tach! It is a great pity you weren't to hand to hear Aunt Kirsty damn them as Cockney dafties who'd never heard of the Auld Alliance and that half the Wizards in Scotland yet went to school at Beauxbatons as they'd done since afore the Reformation - and it's a good thing, I tell you, I'm the only one of us bar Rab has any colloquial French, as the joke Parnesius cracked at that point when Aunt Kirsty had paused for breath was as obscene as it was funny, and I will tell it you when I see you alone and in unmixed company, for it was the funniest thing I've heard in any language in years, that's how obscene it was - and then Rab capped it, although in terms suitable for the leddies, with a pun in the Gaelic; and all the whiles, Auld Euan was raving and ramping, and daring them to construe, if they'd a bit Latin to their uneducated noddles, which he prayed leave to misdoubt, Nemo me impune lacessit, which if their lineage was worth a groat they'd be able to do, and, Weren't they the ones who were clearly not of reputable Wizarding ancestry, and it might be our motto to succour the unfortunate, we Sons of the Tonsure, miseris succurrere disco, but that didna mean we were bound to tolerate the impertinence of the feeble-minded and a gang o' impudent hedge-wizards…. Oh, it was a scrap, all 'round the houses, and away off they went in haste, fleas in their ears and the Crups at their heels.
I don't think they'll fare well: they seemed to be headed for Glencoe when they Apparated - well, but one of them, who splinched, and the Crups took him afore we could do anything: Euan's furious, he's always fed them carefully and now his whole system is overthrown, they weren't to have had more than half a donkey yesterday, and he doesn't know what he'll say to his Whip, Hamish - and Aunt Agatha's owl will have been afore them or at the least not far ahint of them, telling Cousin Iain they're a pack of Campbells and Hanoverians from over the Border…. Well, as you'll mind, Iain has no more forgot than he's forgiven, so I jalouse they'll have a warm reception, not to say, hot as the hobs of Hell.
And of course Parnesius now is complaining bitterly that they've roiled and put up and frichted awa' the wildlife, and is leaving his cosy spot on Ben Alder for the peaceable wild of Rannoch proper. Aunt Agatha insisted that everyone bar herself have Pepper-Up so soon as the dafties fled, she saying that brazen tinkers of that sort were certain to be disease-ridden and contagious; naturally she was - she would be - the one then to fall ill; but afore she went to bed with whisky, tea, and her own belated Pepper-Up, she insisted that Wee James 'paper' the Muggle the fools were searching after, from the description they'd had of him. I cannot imagine how that should help the Ministry - it could be anybody, from puir Parnesius to Wee James to me, really - but we've done our duty, and the Ministry may be kennt of it.
I intend to go home tomorrow myself, when Aunt Agatha shall be recovered. Chances are that Parnesius shall be outwith my door awaiting tea - and shall that not be a wonder to the full of the folk, as we are, truly, like to be mistaken one for another, but that I'm a trifle the taller and a wee bittock the darker of hair. I suppose I shall be questioned by roving bands of Sassenachs with red clouts on their sleeves, now, but there was no gainsaying Aunt Agatha.
I trust things are much the quieter at the school, as upsets in Seventh Year are always an annoyance? Do let me know.
Yours aye,
ERCHIE
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'I hadn't realised, Macmillan, that your people were not merely Romantic Jacobites - you do seem to have an affinity for lost causes - but sent some of your sons and daughters to that pretentious French finishing school.'
'I'm not certain whose cause is lost. Headmaster. Nos traditions sont très ancient, et, notre activité, c'est à nous de décider.'
Snape winced. 'I do trust, for the sake of all concerned, that Parnesius' grammar and accent are better. I am not precisely certain you shall get his joke when Rab tells it you.
'Mind you, as jokes go, I must say the wastage in the Snatchers is becoming a running jest. Although of course one mustn't laugh.'
'Oh, of course not. Headmaster.'
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Archibald Hamilton-Gordon to Ernest Macmillan Younger, the Sabbath afore Pace [Holy Saturday, the day before Easter, 29 March 1997], from Invergaur Lodge, nr Finnart:
My dear cousin,
Did I not tell you? Rannoch Barracks, Brig o' Ericht, Camghouran, Talladh-a-Bheithe, and away to Kinloch of Rannoch; frae - in the language of the country - Cam Chreag tae Beinn Mholach, these damned Snatchers are forever speiring abune. They've o'errun Perthshire, the dafties, and no matter how aften they hail me or Parnesius or the baith o' us at ane time, what maun we do but gae o'er the hail thing again. In better Inglis, it's past a jape, now, and they know it as well as we. They recognise us now, and we've reached the point at which we and they pretend not to see the other, simply so they needn't go through the same rigmarole yet again. (I suppose they've their orders to follow, but you'd think, would you not, even the Ministry might take the hint. Although the Auld Jacobite Romantic in me is best pleased, mind, that there's not a better way of it than asking people who they are and getting someone to attest to it; I hear the poor Muggles have identity cards and all manner of intrusive things they must carry to deal with the Muggle counterpart of the Aurors. No doubt but that some Ministry jack-in-office is slavering to institute the same measures for us: it should, I confess, make it easier for them to catch the Undesirables of whom they rabbit on in every news bulletin.)
Parnesius, brigaded with and supported by Aunt Agatha, has told the chief Snatcher to his face, in English and in idiomatic French (which added a few choice comments to the English text, I may tell you, although it was wasted on the man) that that man was near to raising the countryside, beginning with Clan Macmillan but by no means limited to it, from Knapdale to Iona and back to Dunkeld, with Clan Cameron, Clan Donald, and all, holding in with us. He told him as well that so long as his pack of brazen tinkers were blundering about putting up all the wildlife, he, Parnesius, intended to take day trips - by Muggle transport, as he was tired of Flooing or Apparating places only to have to explain all over again, to a Snatcher who already knew him, who he was - to 'where, beyond these voices, there was peace'. I don't think the chief Snatcher is a very clever chiel, but he seems at least to have got the gist of it, if not all the references, and was almost polite in response. (He goes - I think wisely - in fear of Parnesius' Crup and of Aunt Agatha, who, being restored in health, is a regular visitor now.)
Auld Euan is stopping here also for Pace - a project he announced only last week, when I'd have wanted since Ess Wadensday to redd up for that - and has not been shy in passing remarks on the unchurched states, unwashed turnout, and unsaved souls of the gentry of the red armbands, points he preserves so that he may make them in their hearing. Commonly in the merkat square or just without the kirkyaird. And loudly. They don't quite dare to resent them, he being a Macmillan who kens the ancestry of every Wizard in Britain. (In fact - and this will amuse you - both he and Rory have been approached by our thick-but-pious Minister for Magic, in person, to advise the Ministry on blood status issues and to assess lineage claims. That man does not look well; he looked a good bit less well in himself after getting the answers you'd expect they'd have returnit and did return to him. Rory, I'm told - I'd the privilege only of actually hearing Euan's answer - was if anything more scornful than Eme Euan, if you can credit that prospect. But of course, no one dare touch either of them, or any Macmillan, not and claim to be acting in the interests of the Auld Families o' Puir Bluid.)
I am in hopes that the weather shall turn soon. In any event, I trust that it is not so cold at Hogwarts as to keep you from your Seventh Year tasks.
Yours aye,
ERCHIE
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Agrippina Macmillan, Mistress of Gairloch, to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 10 April, from Andun House:
My dear grandnephew,
I have heard from your Aunt Tullia and from young Rory that there was some sort of ugly incident in the West of England, involving various of our Weasley connexions, those appalling oiks and poons the Malfoys, and a House-Elf. Father is as hale as a man in his one hundred and fortieth year may be, but I have not mentioned the distressful matter to him. He is sufficiently vexed at being bedridden as is, and should wish to be up and about and doing something, though he's no more idea than I what that might be. At the very least, the news has relieved my mind as to why our own Elves have been creeping about in tears: remarkable, the bush-telegraph the wee creatures have.
Whatever one may say about the Weasleys and their views, they, like the Longbottoms, are Pureblooded connexions of ours. I think that wants to be more widely appreciated amongst your contemporaries: see you to it. And give them what comfort as may be appropriate to whatever the incident was; I certainly have had but the most confused reports. Parnesius had stopped for a day - I make certain that much as he enjoys young Archibald's company, Agatha is only slightly less wearing than Maud can be, so I quite understand his taking a day to come here - but of course he had nothing to add. In fact, he was so silent and distracted, I asked him the old question, Had he seen a wolf? Silly of me, really, although it gave him a sudden startle: a man who has been spending most of his time on ben and moor and corrie since the Simmertide should certainly have been rather voluble than silent, had he in fact seen a wolf. He murmured some tag about Remus and Romulus, but then fell silent once more, and went on with demolishing the cakes and the cress sandwiches. I oughtn't to pretend surprise at that. Still, even if it was youthful greed and a perfectly understandable wish to avoid young Agatha - at my age, you, she, and Parnesius seem equally young - it was kind in him to spend a day with an old woman.
I hope that, when your Seventh Year is behind you, you shall occasionally do the same, thus gratifying
Your affectionate aunt,
AGRIPPINA, MISTRESS OF GAIRLOCH
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Ernest Macmillan Younger of Asknish to Ernest Macmillan of Asknish, 12 April, from Hogwarts:
Father,
I suppose that you'll have heard from your Aunt Agrippina. It occurs to me to ask, Should Parnesius, for all his pottering about and otter-watching, know a wolf from a werewolf? I have, naturally, no knowledge, personally, of how critical this distinction might be made in a Beauxbatons tuition, or of whether a Beauxbatons Old Boy might know of any werewolf other than, perhaps, Lupin. As Parnesius is out in all weathers at night in wild places, it strikes me as a matter to draw to his attention.
With respectful affection, I remain,
Your dutiful son,
ERNIE
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Margery Macmillan of Asknish to Ernest Macmillan Younger of Asknish, 12 April, from Asknish House:
Dear, your father is in fact out rambling for a few days with Parnesius, who is in his customary rude health and perfectly able to look after himself. Dinna fash yersel', as your auld nurse should say.
I enclose a few Galleons for tuck, and a lighter jumper now that the weather has moderated somewhat.
All my love,
MUMMY
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Ernest Macmillan of Asknish to Ernest Macmillan Younger of Asknish, 29 April, from Asknish House:
Son Ernest,
I hear from Archibald that Parnesius, now that Hogwarts is to break up, is on his way there to see you. I suppose you shall take the train down together, after. That man - even and aye where the badger rolls at ease - can find his way fine through the woods, even if there is no way through the woods.
Mind what I am saying, lad. As your mother told you a few weeks syne, dinna fash yourself for Parnesius. I've spent a fortnight with him and Cousin Tam Urquart in the wild, living rough and admiring Nature, and - let any say who likes, for they don't know him - there is steel in yon laddie. Thinking the best of others and trusting them until they prove false is no sign of a want of courage, in him any more than in you or your mother.
Kept I a piper any longer, I should have sent one with him, as if for a laird going into battle.
I trust exams went well, and I await with some eager impatience the news of your final marks as a school-leaver. Your mother and I look forward to seeing you soon, duly come home in triumph.
Yours aye,
FATHER
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Ernie and Hannah exchanged a look: they could hear Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout from the corridor above, and Snape's hacking, sneering voice.
'You'll do no more murder at Hogwarts!'
Ernie was a fair and just man: he knew fine that Snape had done none yet. He resolved to make certain, afterward - and he never doubted for a moment that there should be an afterward - that Harry and all the world knew this. But now, he, personally, and Hannah, with all Hufflepuff ahint them, were all of them wanted for battle, and must make haste.
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In Hogsmeade, Professor Slughorn rallied the 'hail, leal toun'. Those Slytherins (and others, such as that disgrace to Hufflepuff House, Smith) who wished to fight on the other side, or wished not to face family members in battle, or were pure pute cowards, were secured; the weans sent into hiding; and those Slytherins willing to bear a wand against Voldemort were marshalled. So also were those, of all Houses and none, and of all ages - including a number of Macmillan connexions, some with pipers and fighting tails, from Auld Euan (Crups and all, and Hamish rolling his eyes as Whip) to Rory and Erchie and Alun, Watkin to Terence to Gemma and the Formidable Aunts - Flooing and Apparating in from all quarters: amongst them, a lean and berry-brown Hufflepuff, Smith's counterweight, with an unchanged languor of manner, a sprig of heather pinned to his irreproachable tweeds, and air of positively Etonian superiority, lightly worn.
'Caro!'
Justin found himself with an armful of uncharacteristically un-slinky and un-cool Zabini.
'Hullo, Blaise.'
'I knew you'd come to me.'
'What? Oh, quite. Of course, darling. But first, I've a fight to win -'
'No, carissimo: we've a battle to win.'
Justin kissed him for that, even though they were in public and he, unlike Blaise, was not Continental in manner. 'Yes, of course. We've a battle to win, and then I've a friend - two, really, I mustn't forget Hannah's efforts - to thank; after that, love, I'm all yours. To the victors go the spoils, you know.'
As Blaise licked his lips, thinking of all that that implied, Justin, at the head of the Macmillan contingent, turned cheerily to Professor Slughorn and his scratch command of rather gobsmacked troops.
'Well, Professor? Let's go and bowl the buggers out before tea. I rather feel I owe that to Ernie-Pertinax and Clan Macmillan, you know.'
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FINITE
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Prompt/Prompt Author: Justin needs help during the war (perhaps even before he goes on the run). Ernie never thought he'd have to "activate" his Pureblood connections, but to save his friend he might have to engage in things he hadn't considered before. / alley_skywalker
Title: Take to the Heather
Characters: Ernie; Justin; Hannah; Snape; Nev; Blaise; Carrows and other dodgy sorts.
Rating: BBFC 12A.
Warnings: Buchan; Chesterton; Kipling; Larkin; Saki; scenery; Scots, broad; Stevenson; Test cricket; weather; wildlife.
Word Count: Just shy of fifteen thousand.
Summary: Respectable people, as a matter of course, protect the persecuted and hide the hunted. And the Macmillan motto is, after all, miseris succurrere disco.
Author's Notes: A largely epistolary tale, with interruptions. And scenery. And of course some very unlovely people. I am obliged to M for editing this balls despite his distaste for fannish activities, as B, N, and F should have been far too busy.
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Part 1
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Rory Macmillan-Trype-Black to Ernie Macmillan, 23 October, from Nadder Priory, nr Salisbury:
My dear young Ernest,
We had rather a queer episode here yesterday. A band of what I can only called Chavs With Wands turned up on my doorstep demanding to know, Had I seen any Muggles? Well, I ask you: they're all 'round. Unprepossessing lot they were, wearing silly little armbands of some sort; called themselves 'Snatchers' and claimed to be working for the Ministry(!). Presuming that the gobbiest and most impertinent one was the leader, if they have leaders, which I doubt, I Summoned an old copy of Nott I'd somehow failed to chuck out when we were going through some of the Black heirlooms, and a copy of Nature's Nobility, told them my name in full, and said I'd answer their questions when they'd each of them told me the surnames, including maiden names, of their people back six generations. Well, they looked damned shifty at that, I can tell you, and went off, muttering about coming back with Aurors.
And of course it was after they buggered off that Parnesius, hopeless as ever, finally came down to breakfast - he's stopping with us just now, meaning, he potters about looking at voles and dormice and his incessant otters he watches, and then battens on us for a bed and a feed - and asked, What was all that about? Vexing man.
Predictably, Parnesius had just wandered off into the woods or somewhere when the same buggers showed up, with a couple of Aurors I'd have cashiered in my day as an Auror, and began asking questions again. I made the two Aurors make the running, after they satisfied me of their antecedents (no connexions of ours, naturally, but one was able to claim a Fawley link, and the other, a Selwyn, which is hardly saying much. They seemed a bit restive about the entire thing, but they were hardly going to argue with a Macmillan and a Black). They said they were looking for a young man of about your age, a Muggle going about with a wand(!), rather curly of hair and cheerfully what-ho-ish of demeanour, with a public-school sort of manner, and, Had I seen anyone meeting that description?
Well, of course I had done, bar any visible wands and what not, and I directed them to where they were certain to find scores of Muggles amongst whom such a young man might hide by blending in; and they Apparated to the coordinates I gave them.
And now the MoD are in a furious bate, and the Royal Artillery are in a swivet, and what's left of the silly bastards must be sat upon by the Coroner. You'd think that two Aurors and a gang of louts claiming to be in Ministry employ should've had the nous to Apparate into the middle of a firing range on Salisbury Plain only after making certain it wasn't in actual use, would you not? Very poor intake, the Aurors must have these days.
And now of course, just when he might be useful, that damned fool Parnesius has gone off again, no doubt to be a very much Non-Paying Guest with yet another of our connexions.
I do hope school - even with exams conventionally looming in that clichéd fashion that is the prerogative of exams - is less annoying than is the daily round of
Your affectionate cousin,
RMTB
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'Macmillan.'
'Headmaster.'
'Read it again. The passage about the Snatchers, Salisbury Plain, and the Muggle artillery. And don't snigger this time.' Snape paused, with an evil smile. 'That's my job.'
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Alys, Lady Bloet to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 12 November, from Llansantffraid House, nr Pencelli:
My dear young Ernest,
If you are not ashamed to take advice of a cousin considerably your senior in years, I implore you to write - kindly - to Rory, who is now in a state of utter horror at having told you that Parnesius was a Non-Paying Guest, only to find two hundred Muggle pounds on the chimney-piece after the silly bugger left Nadder Priory, which I call handsome. (Mind, it does mean poor Rory must go up to Town to change it at Gringotts, and you know how he hates London - or indeed stirring a step.) The poor man is in a state of abject horror at having - probably for the first time since he was a Firstie at Hogwarts - dropped a socially resounding brick, and I fear he'll worry himself positively into a decline.
Speaking of Parnesius, he stopped here for a bit and was perfectly charming. Sadly, my enjoyment of his visit - after all, I, unlike dear Rory, am interested in badgers and Usk otters - was somewhat marred by an Incident nearby. I know of course that we must all acknowledge that The Ministry Knows Best, but if one may trust what one hears from Rory, one cannot think they are wholly well-served. Naturally, we are somewhat overrun with Muggles at this time of year; but we simply cannot all of us live at Hogsmeade or Mould or Godric's Hollow or Flagley. I've never bothered my neighbours, nor they, me: even when, as happens twice in the year here in the Beacons, we are positively up to our gunwales in the Muggle SAS. And of course they are beginning to arrive in flocks, now, the SAS, in advance of the next Training Exercises and All That.
These 'Snatchers' - and I really must agree with Rory that they are simply Chavs With Wands - seemed not to grasp that. There was a Muggle - not SAS, a civilian, but evidently with military connexions and known to a few of the SAS officers, socially - rambling and camping out - in this weather, my dear! Hardy is hardly the word, and it's not as if he were on A Course, although I don't believe him when he says he's a timorous sort of lad: I put him up for a night myself, I'd not have left a beast out in this weather, let alone a Muggle, even if Muggles aren't quite Wizards - at any rate, there was a Muggle who seemed to attract their attention, and they, as I suppose, felt it incumbent on them to justify their silly name. Well, as I said, dear, the lad was known to several of the officers, socially, and the SAS were hardly likely to attend to claims of employment by and authority from a 'Ministry of Magic' - shocking breach of the Statute of Secrecy, really. I expect the Snatchers might have been in for something of a departmental wigging had not events intervened.
The funerals are in three days. The Muggles are hushing it up as a terrorist incident, naturally. (I wonder if the Ministry realise that a machine-gun shall always beat an Unforgiveable?)
Parnesius is off on his travels again - weather or no weather - and seems to flourish of them, although he is pining for some Italian whose name I did not quite catch. I remember Uncle Roderick and that mezzo, or, as the case may be, Uncle Tam and that tenor, and all I ask is that no one frighten the Thestrals, and it takes all sorts, doesn't it.
I do wish, though, he'd not tried to fix the wireless: it works, if one can call it 'working', in the most peculiar manner now.
I trust at least that you, young man, are working in a manner that is not at all peculiar, and preparing yourself this year. Your success in all you undertake, which shall be aided so far as possible whenever you ask, is the fond of wish of
Your affectionate cousin,
ALYS BLOET
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'Shocking casualty rate amongst the Snatchers,' said Snape. 'Pity, that.'
'Oh, quite, Headmaster,' said Ernie.
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Alun Griffiths Lewis Vaughan Pryce to Ernie Macmillan, 21 November, from Plas Nedd, nr Ystradfellte:
Cousin Ernest, what in buggery are the Ministry playing at? Parnesius has had to give over pottering about after badgers and otters and all sorts - and he'd been so looking forwards to the shake holes and the falls - a sgwd 'round every corner - but dodgy buggers with brassards claiming to be Ministry sorts keep tangling with our jolly Muggle SAS neighbours. Very tiresome. (I wish he might be out and about: he keeps fiddling with the wireless, and setting it to the most peculiar programmes.)
Hastily,
ALUN
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'You're very … pertinacious … in writing to your family, Macmillan. This cousin Parnesius seems to be a constant theme.
'Where is Finch-Fletchley?'
'I can look you in the eye and my answer is the same. Headmaster. I don't, actually, know. For all I could say, he's wherever Potter is.'
'Oh, I think not, Macmillan. I really do think not. If I thought that, I should have to resort to more direct measures. And it's not as if he's particularly heroic, Finch-Fletchley. Timorous and easily led, I recall. Hardly likely to be at the sharp end.
'Even so, I suppose I had perhaps best mention the possibility to the Ministry. Finding Potter is much more important, after all.'
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'Aye, Ern. Happen Snape's your Amal. He bides a Winged Hat, sithee, for all that, and has his orders. Don't trust him.'
'Well, hardly, Nev. Horrid little man, really.'
_______________________
'Macmillan, you are not a Badger. You are Rabbit, with all his friends-and-relations. Must all of the innumerable Macmillan connexions write to you so regularly and with such mind-numbingly boring news?'
'Actually, I think, personally, this might divert you, actually. Headmaster.'
Euan Macmillan-Bourke MCH to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 3 December, from Mains of Blainslie, nr Galadean:
My dear grandnephew,
You're far and away the most level-headed loun in your generation, and I want your advice. Some daftie - or it may be more than the one, but I could not say - speiring about in the night appears to have, as Hamish my Whip says, 'lowped the wa' and breuken intae the kennels' in the wee hours afore the morn. I need not tell you, oe, what falls to a man who gets into a kennel with a pack of hunting Crups and they not knowing him…. What we found, the morn, too haggled for a flesher's shop, were a few bones, half a boot, and a chewed red rag that might syne have been an armband of sorts.
Well. They'd never have gone for him if he - I say, 'he', but there was not enough to tell - had been a Wizard, save and but he were a Dark Wizard; and the Ministry are aye telling us there are none of those about, and it's the Undesirable, that halfblood who was your school yearmate for a time, is the threat, trying to fear the folk with havers anent Dark Wizards on the rise. I jalouse the deceased, then, maun have been a Muggle. And what I misdoubt is, Can we tell the Muggles - who may be missing him - he's dead, with the Statute of Secrecy and all? I can ask an advocate for the law of the thing, but what I want to know of you is, Is that the proper thing to do or not do, in an auld Pureblooded family?
We can at least be certain the dead was not the Muggle who wandered through a few days afore, a young lad rambling, swathed in wool as fair as any of Gemma's work, and so muffled against the weather a Wizard might hardly see his mop of curls. I doubt me but that he's from South the Border, to be so wrapped up against what I call mild weather enough, for where we are.
Weel-a-weel, as Hamish is wont to say, it is what it shall be, and it is for me to take and make kirk or mill of it. I was fashed, though, indeed 'sair mistrystit', that Parnesius, who had stopped with me for a few nights, had to witness it. Not that I am of the same mind as they who say Parnesius is wanting courage. He's rather a lad who thinks the best of everyone and believes what they tell him until they prove themselves fause, and so he seems easily led. But I mind me your Uncle Jamie when he was a bairn was the same way, and when he was man grown there was not a braver Auror in the Service, you'll ken.
And you cannot call a man coward who's off now in this weather for to ramble the Cuillins - in the weeks afore Yuil, at that - can you. I doubt me but he'll end by having brose spooned into him by your Aunt Christian: Kirsty always entangles folk in the web of her hospitality.
Your mother tells me you are stopping at the school for the Yuil holidays. I mind me what Seventh Year was like in my day, and I think you're wise; but I regret that I shall not see you for Sowans Nicht and Yuil and Hogmanay. The enclosed, as an early handsel, may cause you to think affectionately of the giver, an affection aye returned by
Your aye-loving auld eme,
EUAN MACMILLAN-BOURKE
Snape was perfectly affectless when he said, 'The Snatchers do seem to have the most shocking ill-luck, do they not. Were I you, Macmillan, I should advise your great-uncle not to mention the matter to the Ministry - or the Muggles. As he wisely says, there are no Dark Wizards abroad unless one accepts … Potter's … wild claims, and alerting the Muggles should breach the Statute of Secrecy.
'Parnesius - if I may so call him; I trust you don't find that too familiar in me - would appear from this to be following in Bonnie Prince Charlie's footsteps, over the sea to Skye. I trust he shan't make a right Charlie of himself.'
'I imagine not, Headmaster.'
_______________________
Christian Macdonald-MacNichol-Innes of Balnaknock to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 19 December, from Glenconon House, Glen Uig, Skye:
My dear nephew,
What a week we've had here, you'd not credit it. Father always said that I was daft to leave Galadean for the wild and savage Gaeltacht and the Inner Isles when I wed Angus, and I never thought I should agree with him - for all the Fifth Commandment says - until now. My memory may not be quite what it was when I was your age, but I mind perfectly well what Seventh Year is like, and so I pass these news on as a diversion, and a proof That Things Might Always Be Worse - although no one ever believes that with exams stooping upon them like an eagle on a cushat.
We had had the whole of the fowk - the hail closhach - to a cèilidh (but the Wee Frees, of course, though they were bade come). Even Parnesius had come off the mountains - the great daftie - although all he did was stand like a stoukie next the wall on his lone, naturally, hanging his lugs: leave it to Parnesius to take the dorts at a celebration, he'll neither dance nor hold the candle - and, my dear, just as we were all having a grand time, the Deil went ower Jock Wabster! The Skye folk, of course, being Skye folk, were certain that it was the Last Day and the Doom, or, alternately, that a taghairm was being performed, and I will say it sounded like the roasting of a score of live cats. In fact, it was the Kneazles yowling like the lemures et manes of the sheeted dead, and then the Crups began to bay and screich. Well, whoever it was in the policies - prowling about in the dark: I don't imagine they were up to any good - went crashing through my poor undeserving shrubberies - abuse, I call it - and away - I jalouse they were frichted of the Crups, for some reason, though the Dear knows that the Kneazles are dangerous enough - and into the River Conon, just where the Lòn Airigh-ùige joins it beneath the falls. Well, bar one, who went the other way, towards Castle Ewen and the Fairy Glen, and all they found of him was a Wizard's hat and a scrappie red clout that might have been an armband, in Lòn Millahors. (He must have been fou' as a piper - although our musicians, at the cèilidh, were sober as any minister or dominie at the kirk of a Sabbath, and your Uncle Angus' piper, by Dod, is a MacCrimmon on his mother's father's side.) And of course, what with the wailing of those who vanished in the water, and so near the falls, everyone's certain they've heard a caoineag - and if Parnesius calls it a 'banshee' once more, I doubt but Angus shall hurl an ashet at him at dinner. He's been too long out of Scotland already, bar visits, has Parnesius.
And now folk are saying that whoever they were, the Bull of the Water took them (and I'd liefer face an each-uisge, myself, than its taurine counterpart), and no one will walk abroad so soon as the light thickens for the gloaming, and what I shall do for all my dinners and wee feasts that I'd asked everyone to I do not know.
Parnesius says it's all silliness, of course - he would - and intends to remove to the mainland after Ne'er's Day, but if he expects folk there to be less mad - well, we're all Jock Tamson's bairns together, and I see little to choose between us.
So, you see, Seventh Year and exams, my dear nephew, are actually less tiresome than adult life! I am sorry we'll not see you for Christenmas, but I think you're wise to stop on at school and cleave to your books, and after this upset I don't imagine there shall be any parties worth the missing here 'the hail Yuil' in any case.
With undiminished affection, I remain your loving
AUNT KIRSTY
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Rabbie Macmillan to Ernie Macmillan, 22 December, from Glenreasdell House, nr Blackhouse:
My dear cousin Ern,
Whilst I regret that I shan't see you over the hols, I am relieved that you chose to stop at school and concentrate on your Seventh Year studies. All the talk in our circles is of the shocking abduction of cousin Lovegood - is she in your year, or the lower? I cannot credit that Undesirable Number One could be so bold as to sow fear and spread alarm and despondency by such tactics; I wonder if the Ministry realise just how bad it looks for them that a Pureblood child can be thus taken from under their noses, when they have assured us we are all safe and that Undesirable Number One is no more a threat than are the Dark Wizards he falsely alleges - as the Ministry are aye telling us - are about.
Stick to your buiks like a sutor to his last.
Yours aye,
COUSIN RAB
_______________________
'Macmillan. Have you any reason to believe Finch-Fletchley dead?'
'And a happy Christmas to you as well, Headmaster. I most assuredly do not.'
'If, as I presume, you wish that state of affairs to continue, and as you are one of the few senior prefects stopping here at Hogwarts for the season, I strongly commend to you as the course of wisdom that you not comment in any way upon my possible absence on Boxing Day.'
'I shall be silent as the - grave. Headmaster.'
'I trust so. Very well: I fancy we understand one another. Dismissed, Macmillan.'
_______________________
Isobel Mackintosh-Gordon to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 3 January, from Corlarrick House, nr Achranich:
My dear nephew,
Much though I regret not seeing you for the holidays, I must say you were well out of it here. The Muggle ferry from Fishnish in Mull to Lochaline went down on New Year's Day in the Caolas na h-Àirde - although with no loss of life. No one can fathom why it happened. I chanced to be in Loch Àilann myself just as it occurred, and bore some hand in aiding the rescued (I ken fine they were but Muggles, but one couldn't have left even a stirk in that condition, truly). One young fellow, a curly-haired lad with a public-school manner, bought me lunch on the strength of it, which I thought surprisingly well-bred of a mere Muggle.
Predictably, Parnesius missed the crisis, turning up here with his usual cunning, some hours after and just in time for tea. I'm as pleased as any guidwife to have my scones - well, Bauchan's, who is a most excellent Elf and indispensable in the kitchen - extravagantly appreciated, but Parnesius has the appetite of a healthy youth of seventeen summers. One who's been living rough on short commons, at that. Yet healthy he rather annoyingly remains - tramping about in all weathers. He was off with the frost at dawn this morning, with a Kneazle on his shoulder - one of those Kirsty is forever foisting upon all and sundry, or I miss my guess - and a Crup at his heels, which I know for certain Old Uncle Euan gave him. At least with Parnesius one needn't worry that he's off to seduce maids at main and mill (although I'd not go bail for his being reliable or at all trustworthy with the local lads, mind, but, good Heavens, he can't get them with child, at least, so that's a comfort); just now, though, he seems - I suppose because otter-watching is tapered off for a time in this season of the year - bent on a celibate, indeed positively Cluniac, existence somewhere in the wild near Ben Alder. If he wishes to face a Highland winter on Creag Dubh, as a troglodyte reliant on Gemma's weaving to keep him warm, I am not inclined to say him nay: not when you look at the inroads he made on my butter and tea and jam whilst he stopped here for but two nights. I should think the Crup eat less.
I trust that you at least accomplished what you wished by stopping at school; and that the New Year shall be better to you than the last.
Yours aye,
AUNT ISOBEL
_______________________
'Macmillan. Abbott. I fear I must dispense with the amenities this evening. Professor Carrow is invigilating this detention: Amycus, I shall test the Veritaserum on you. Oh, don't panic: I shall ensure your response is not overheard. Try to resist, please, when questioned.'
Snape cast Muffliato, then prevailed upon Carrow to accept three drops of Veritaserum.
'Name?'
Through clenched teeth, Carrow answered, after a good twenty seconds. 'Amycus Carrow.'
'Where is the Lovegood girl?'
'Malfoy Manor.'
'Is the Dark Lord … in charge, shall we say, at Lucius Malfoy's residence?'
'Yes.'
'Are you satisfied that this is in fact Veritaserum?'
'Yes, damn you.'
'You didn't mean to add that apostrophe, did you?'
'N-no. Bugger.'
'Rather a potent brew, is it not?'
'Yes.'
'Are you sitting comfortably?'
'Yesss….'
'Then,' said Snape, cancelling the Charm, 'let's begin. Macmillan first. Three drops - do not force me to immobilise you, Macmillan. There we are.
'Name?'
'E… Ernest Macmillan.'
'Are you Slytherin? Try to lie.'
'Absolutely not.'
'Do you know where Justin Finch-Fletchley is?'
'No.'
'Have you given him shelter?'
'No.'
'Is he in England?'
'No.'
'Is he instead out of the country?'
'… I believe so.'
'Did you see him over the Summer hols?'
'Yes.'
'Did he discuss leaving the United Kingdom?'
'Yes.'
'What other countries did he mention going to?'
'Ind … India. Ceylon - Sri Lanka. Australia. New Zealand.'
'Do you know if he is in any of those countries?'
'No.'
'Do you know where he is?'
'No.'
'Have you seen him since the Summer hols?'
'No.'
'Have you written to him?'
'No.'
'Has he written to you?'
'No.'
Snape cast a wandless and nonverbal Silencio upon Ernie, surreptitiously.
'Very well. Wise of you, really. Abbott - put out your tongue. I make certain you're longing to put your tongue out at me in any case. When we are done here, you can write a thousand lines in consequence, both of you - you'll not need to remain for that, Professor Carrow.'
_______________________
Hon. Agatha Macdonald to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 27 January, from Levenford House, Eilean Dubh:
My dear nephew,
My regret at having not seen you over the holidays - although I think it wise of you to have stopped at school with your books, this being Seventh Year - has only grown since. It was unfortunate enough that I missed your young face around the festal board; it is the worse in that I have been festally and ferially bored by having to see others. I say nothing against your Aunt Maud - which reminds me, do give my love to your cousin Morag - but the fact is, Mistress MacDougal is a positive magpie. She chatters, and she attempts to cozen me out of shiny things. All she wished to speak of - and I have had four mortal days of her stopping here - was that poisonous new biography (if one can call it that) of Albus Dumbledore; the only times upon which I was granted a respite, in the form of a change of topic, was when she returned briefly to her usual theme, not so idly wondering why grandmother had devised certain sets of siller to her and others to me, and insinuating that some of the Meissen and the Dresden - and the Ming porcelain, which I do call cheek - 'wanted to be reunited' with her pieces. As your Aunt Maud shouldn't be able to tell a pair of Sheffield wally-dugs from a famille rose vase, save for her unerring ability to place an auctioneer's estimate upon them, I am not inclined to gratify - one cannot, of course, hope to sate - her unsleeping acquisitive instinct.
By contrast, we had Parnesius to tea three days in four. I realise the man could not hope to get a word in whilst your Aunt Maud nattered on, and on, and indeed on, but he was as silent as Cluny's cave even when she was blessedly outwith the room. I cannot imagine how he ever got on with the Beauxbatons people, the French being as incessantly talkative as Maud MacDougal; still and all, he at least speaks French like a Frenchman, which I suppose to be useful, although now that the Auld Alliance is dead and gone - not that I am not a Unionist, mind, but it does seem a pity the Stuarts are not on the Throne, at least as to Wizardom, whatever the Muggles choose to do - I should imagine there's less call for it nowadays than formerly. In any event, he seems healthy enough, if sober as a Kirk minister and as glum as John Knox - I thank God daily that we are all sound Piscies - and seems to prefer his solitudes. Well, if a man insists upon spending January in a hide, watching wildlife on the heights of Ben Alder, I suppose silence is in order: it shouldn't do to scare the birds and hares and all that; but there is something unnerving in seeing Parnesius, who never used, as I recall, to be tongue-tied, going about as silent as a windcuffer in flight.
It's been days syne we've seen even the hardiest of young Muggle ramblers, and I suspect, in this weather, we'll hardly see any before Bannock Nicht, now that Burns Nicht is ahint us.
Do keep up your marks, and write on occasion, to your undeserving Aunt Maud and, the more, to
Your aye affectionate aunt,
AGATHA
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Archibald Hamilton-Gordon to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 1 March, from Levenford House, Eilean Dubh:
My dear cousin,
I am writing in your Aunt Agatha's stead - do not be alarmed: we are all well, bar her having caught a wee bittock cold in the head - to acquaint you with events here afore you hear them misrepresented and alarming from any other quarter, or, the likelier, rumour painted full of tongues.
We had something of a clan gathering upon the slopes of Ben Alder yestere'en for the Candlemas term day, the civil cross-quarter day. Your Aunt Maud was there, and of course Parnesius, and Cousin Isobel, Aunt Kirsty, Cousin Rab, and even Grand-Uncle Euan, amongst others, with Agatha and me. Well, you may imagine our surprise when, just in the midst of a pìobaireachd, the ceòl mór was interrupted. First the Kneazles, then the Crups, and then a gang of Southron, Sassenach tinkers with dirty red clouts to their sleeves, Apparating in like so many neds fu' with Buckie. It was all that Grand-Uncle and Parnesius might do to keep the Crups off them - and they were cream-faced louns with goose-looks, the Sassenachs, what time they saw the Crups: cowardy custards unfit to be called as Wizards - and by the time we were done, Auld Euan at least was ready to set the Crups on them after all. They claimed to be looking for a Muggle lad carrying a wand and pretending to be a Wizard, and they actually had the neck to begin questioning Parnesius, Was he the lad? (Some English name they had for him, double-barrelled but clearly Muggle, the lad they were after.) They said he looked the youngest of us, and had curly hair like the lad they sought. Well, your Aunt Agatha … no one has ever denied - she least of all - that she's a tongue like a flesher's knife, and she flayed into them before Parnesius could draw a breath. How dare they interrupt a Pureblood gathering? Least of all of Macmillans and their kith? If they were Purebloods themselves, they'd have had better manners and more wisdom, and did they not ken that Purebloods, at least, aged differently to Muggles, and look at Uncle Euan, would any Muggle in his one hundred and eleventh year look so hale? The least craven of the English rabble cut in then and asked Parnesius what House he'd been at Hogwarts, then, and - tach! It is a great pity you weren't to hand to hear Aunt Kirsty damn them as Cockney dafties who'd never heard of the Auld Alliance and that half the Wizards in Scotland yet went to school at Beauxbatons as they'd done since afore the Reformation - and it's a good thing, I tell you, I'm the only one of us bar Rab has any colloquial French, as the joke Parnesius cracked at that point when Aunt Kirsty had paused for breath was as obscene as it was funny, and I will tell it you when I see you alone and in unmixed company, for it was the funniest thing I've heard in any language in years, that's how obscene it was - and then Rab capped it, although in terms suitable for the leddies, with a pun in the Gaelic; and all the whiles, Auld Euan was raving and ramping, and daring them to construe, if they'd a bit Latin to their uneducated noddles, which he prayed leave to misdoubt, Nemo me impune lacessit, which if their lineage was worth a groat they'd be able to do, and, Weren't they the ones who were clearly not of reputable Wizarding ancestry, and it might be our motto to succour the unfortunate, we Sons of the Tonsure, miseris succurrere disco, but that didna mean we were bound to tolerate the impertinence of the feeble-minded and a gang o' impudent hedge-wizards…. Oh, it was a scrap, all 'round the houses, and away off they went in haste, fleas in their ears and the Crups at their heels.
I don't think they'll fare well: they seemed to be headed for Glencoe when they Apparated - well, but one of them, who splinched, and the Crups took him afore we could do anything: Euan's furious, he's always fed them carefully and now his whole system is overthrown, they weren't to have had more than half a donkey yesterday, and he doesn't know what he'll say to his Whip, Hamish - and Aunt Agatha's owl will have been afore them or at the least not far ahint of them, telling Cousin Iain they're a pack of Campbells and Hanoverians from over the Border…. Well, as you'll mind, Iain has no more forgot than he's forgiven, so I jalouse they'll have a warm reception, not to say, hot as the hobs of Hell.
And of course Parnesius now is complaining bitterly that they've roiled and put up and frichted awa' the wildlife, and is leaving his cosy spot on Ben Alder for the peaceable wild of Rannoch proper. Aunt Agatha insisted that everyone bar herself have Pepper-Up so soon as the dafties fled, she saying that brazen tinkers of that sort were certain to be disease-ridden and contagious; naturally she was - she would be - the one then to fall ill; but afore she went to bed with whisky, tea, and her own belated Pepper-Up, she insisted that Wee James 'paper' the Muggle the fools were searching after, from the description they'd had of him. I cannot imagine how that should help the Ministry - it could be anybody, from puir Parnesius to Wee James to me, really - but we've done our duty, and the Ministry may be kennt of it.
I intend to go home tomorrow myself, when Aunt Agatha shall be recovered. Chances are that Parnesius shall be outwith my door awaiting tea - and shall that not be a wonder to the full of the folk, as we are, truly, like to be mistaken one for another, but that I'm a trifle the taller and a wee bittock the darker of hair. I suppose I shall be questioned by roving bands of Sassenachs with red clouts on their sleeves, now, but there was no gainsaying Aunt Agatha.
I trust things are much the quieter at the school, as upsets in Seventh Year are always an annoyance? Do let me know.
Yours aye,
ERCHIE
_______________________
'I hadn't realised, Macmillan, that your people were not merely Romantic Jacobites - you do seem to have an affinity for lost causes - but sent some of your sons and daughters to that pretentious French finishing school.'
'I'm not certain whose cause is lost. Headmaster. Nos traditions sont très ancient, et, notre activité, c'est à nous de décider.'
Snape winced. 'I do trust, for the sake of all concerned, that Parnesius' grammar and accent are better. I am not precisely certain you shall get his joke when Rab tells it you.
'Mind you, as jokes go, I must say the wastage in the Snatchers is becoming a running jest. Although of course one mustn't laugh.'
'Oh, of course not. Headmaster.'
_______________________
Archibald Hamilton-Gordon to Ernest Macmillan Younger, the Sabbath afore Pace [Holy Saturday, the day before Easter, 29 March 1997], from Invergaur Lodge, nr Finnart:
My dear cousin,
Did I not tell you? Rannoch Barracks, Brig o' Ericht, Camghouran, Talladh-a-Bheithe, and away to Kinloch of Rannoch; frae - in the language of the country - Cam Chreag tae Beinn Mholach, these damned Snatchers are forever speiring abune. They've o'errun Perthshire, the dafties, and no matter how aften they hail me or Parnesius or the baith o' us at ane time, what maun we do but gae o'er the hail thing again. In better Inglis, it's past a jape, now, and they know it as well as we. They recognise us now, and we've reached the point at which we and they pretend not to see the other, simply so they needn't go through the same rigmarole yet again. (I suppose they've their orders to follow, but you'd think, would you not, even the Ministry might take the hint. Although the Auld Jacobite Romantic in me is best pleased, mind, that there's not a better way of it than asking people who they are and getting someone to attest to it; I hear the poor Muggles have identity cards and all manner of intrusive things they must carry to deal with the Muggle counterpart of the Aurors. No doubt but that some Ministry jack-in-office is slavering to institute the same measures for us: it should, I confess, make it easier for them to catch the Undesirables of whom they rabbit on in every news bulletin.)
Parnesius, brigaded with and supported by Aunt Agatha, has told the chief Snatcher to his face, in English and in idiomatic French (which added a few choice comments to the English text, I may tell you, although it was wasted on the man) that that man was near to raising the countryside, beginning with Clan Macmillan but by no means limited to it, from Knapdale to Iona and back to Dunkeld, with Clan Cameron, Clan Donald, and all, holding in with us. He told him as well that so long as his pack of brazen tinkers were blundering about putting up all the wildlife, he, Parnesius, intended to take day trips - by Muggle transport, as he was tired of Flooing or Apparating places only to have to explain all over again, to a Snatcher who already knew him, who he was - to 'where, beyond these voices, there was peace'. I don't think the chief Snatcher is a very clever chiel, but he seems at least to have got the gist of it, if not all the references, and was almost polite in response. (He goes - I think wisely - in fear of Parnesius' Crup and of Aunt Agatha, who, being restored in health, is a regular visitor now.)
Auld Euan is stopping here also for Pace - a project he announced only last week, when I'd have wanted since Ess Wadensday to redd up for that - and has not been shy in passing remarks on the unchurched states, unwashed turnout, and unsaved souls of the gentry of the red armbands, points he preserves so that he may make them in their hearing. Commonly in the merkat square or just without the kirkyaird. And loudly. They don't quite dare to resent them, he being a Macmillan who kens the ancestry of every Wizard in Britain. (In fact - and this will amuse you - both he and Rory have been approached by our thick-but-pious Minister for Magic, in person, to advise the Ministry on blood status issues and to assess lineage claims. That man does not look well; he looked a good bit less well in himself after getting the answers you'd expect they'd have returnit and did return to him. Rory, I'm told - I'd the privilege only of actually hearing Euan's answer - was if anything more scornful than Eme Euan, if you can credit that prospect. But of course, no one dare touch either of them, or any Macmillan, not and claim to be acting in the interests of the Auld Families o' Puir Bluid.)
I am in hopes that the weather shall turn soon. In any event, I trust that it is not so cold at Hogwarts as to keep you from your Seventh Year tasks.
Yours aye,
ERCHIE
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Agrippina Macmillan, Mistress of Gairloch, to Ernest Macmillan Younger, 10 April, from Andun House:
My dear grandnephew,
I have heard from your Aunt Tullia and from young Rory that there was some sort of ugly incident in the West of England, involving various of our Weasley connexions, those appalling oiks and poons the Malfoys, and a House-Elf. Father is as hale as a man in his one hundred and fortieth year may be, but I have not mentioned the distressful matter to him. He is sufficiently vexed at being bedridden as is, and should wish to be up and about and doing something, though he's no more idea than I what that might be. At the very least, the news has relieved my mind as to why our own Elves have been creeping about in tears: remarkable, the bush-telegraph the wee creatures have.
Whatever one may say about the Weasleys and their views, they, like the Longbottoms, are Pureblooded connexions of ours. I think that wants to be more widely appreciated amongst your contemporaries: see you to it. And give them what comfort as may be appropriate to whatever the incident was; I certainly have had but the most confused reports. Parnesius had stopped for a day - I make certain that much as he enjoys young Archibald's company, Agatha is only slightly less wearing than Maud can be, so I quite understand his taking a day to come here - but of course he had nothing to add. In fact, he was so silent and distracted, I asked him the old question, Had he seen a wolf? Silly of me, really, although it gave him a sudden startle: a man who has been spending most of his time on ben and moor and corrie since the Simmertide should certainly have been rather voluble than silent, had he in fact seen a wolf. He murmured some tag about Remus and Romulus, but then fell silent once more, and went on with demolishing the cakes and the cress sandwiches. I oughtn't to pretend surprise at that. Still, even if it was youthful greed and a perfectly understandable wish to avoid young Agatha - at my age, you, she, and Parnesius seem equally young - it was kind in him to spend a day with an old woman.
I hope that, when your Seventh Year is behind you, you shall occasionally do the same, thus gratifying
Your affectionate aunt,
AGRIPPINA, MISTRESS OF GAIRLOCH
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Ernest Macmillan Younger of Asknish to Ernest Macmillan of Asknish, 12 April, from Hogwarts:
Father,
I suppose that you'll have heard from your Aunt Agrippina. It occurs to me to ask, Should Parnesius, for all his pottering about and otter-watching, know a wolf from a werewolf? I have, naturally, no knowledge, personally, of how critical this distinction might be made in a Beauxbatons tuition, or of whether a Beauxbatons Old Boy might know of any werewolf other than, perhaps, Lupin. As Parnesius is out in all weathers at night in wild places, it strikes me as a matter to draw to his attention.
With respectful affection, I remain,
Your dutiful son,
ERNIE
_______________________
Margery Macmillan of Asknish to Ernest Macmillan Younger of Asknish, 12 April, from Asknish House:
Dear, your father is in fact out rambling for a few days with Parnesius, who is in his customary rude health and perfectly able to look after himself. Dinna fash yersel', as your auld nurse should say.
I enclose a few Galleons for tuck, and a lighter jumper now that the weather has moderated somewhat.
All my love,
MUMMY
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Ernest Macmillan of Asknish to Ernest Macmillan Younger of Asknish, 29 April, from Asknish House:
Son Ernest,
I hear from Archibald that Parnesius, now that Hogwarts is to break up, is on his way there to see you. I suppose you shall take the train down together, after. That man - even and aye where the badger rolls at ease - can find his way fine through the woods, even if there is no way through the woods.
Mind what I am saying, lad. As your mother told you a few weeks syne, dinna fash yourself for Parnesius. I've spent a fortnight with him and Cousin Tam Urquart in the wild, living rough and admiring Nature, and - let any say who likes, for they don't know him - there is steel in yon laddie. Thinking the best of others and trusting them until they prove false is no sign of a want of courage, in him any more than in you or your mother.
Kept I a piper any longer, I should have sent one with him, as if for a laird going into battle.
I trust exams went well, and I await with some eager impatience the news of your final marks as a school-leaver. Your mother and I look forward to seeing you soon, duly come home in triumph.
Yours aye,
FATHER
_______________________
Ernie and Hannah exchanged a look: they could hear Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout from the corridor above, and Snape's hacking, sneering voice.
'You'll do no more murder at Hogwarts!'
Ernie was a fair and just man: he knew fine that Snape had done none yet. He resolved to make certain, afterward - and he never doubted for a moment that there should be an afterward - that Harry and all the world knew this. But now, he, personally, and Hannah, with all Hufflepuff ahint them, were all of them wanted for battle, and must make haste.
_______________________
In Hogsmeade, Professor Slughorn rallied the 'hail, leal toun'. Those Slytherins (and others, such as that disgrace to Hufflepuff House, Smith) who wished to fight on the other side, or wished not to face family members in battle, or were pure pute cowards, were secured; the weans sent into hiding; and those Slytherins willing to bear a wand against Voldemort were marshalled. So also were those, of all Houses and none, and of all ages - including a number of Macmillan connexions, some with pipers and fighting tails, from Auld Euan (Crups and all, and Hamish rolling his eyes as Whip) to Rory and Erchie and Alun, Watkin to Terence to Gemma and the Formidable Aunts - Flooing and Apparating in from all quarters: amongst them, a lean and berry-brown Hufflepuff, Smith's counterweight, with an unchanged languor of manner, a sprig of heather pinned to his irreproachable tweeds, and air of positively Etonian superiority, lightly worn.
'Caro!'
Justin found himself with an armful of uncharacteristically un-slinky and un-cool Zabini.
'Hullo, Blaise.'
'I knew you'd come to me.'
'What? Oh, quite. Of course, darling. But first, I've a fight to win -'
'No, carissimo: we've a battle to win.'
Justin kissed him for that, even though they were in public and he, unlike Blaise, was not Continental in manner. 'Yes, of course. We've a battle to win, and then I've a friend - two, really, I mustn't forget Hannah's efforts - to thank; after that, love, I'm all yours. To the victors go the spoils, you know.'
As Blaise licked his lips, thinking of all that that implied, Justin, at the head of the Macmillan contingent, turned cheerily to Professor Slughorn and his scratch command of rather gobsmacked troops.
'Well, Professor? Let's go and bowl the buggers out before tea. I rather feel I owe that to Ernie-Pertinax and Clan Macmillan, you know.'
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FINITE
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