PhoenixSong.net :: A Harry/Ginny Fanfic and Fanart Archive

Author: MyGinevra

Story: The Hog's Head

Part: 10: The Inn

Rating: Teens

Setting: Pre-OotP

Status: WIP

Warning: Extreme Language, Sexual Situations, Violence

Reviews: 14

Words: 6,413

Updated: March 26, 2008, 5:05am

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10: The Inn

Harry Apparated in a small field behind The Hog's Head Inn. Off to his right was Dervish and Banges’ magical equipment shop, and beyond it the High Street ran down through the village to Hogsmeade Station. Behind him and to his left stretched the orchards and meadows of wizarding farm families that lived nearby.

He looked up at the back of the inn. The trim had been painted a bold red and the walls were freshly whitewashed. Sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall off to one side, was the gruesome sign with the bloody hog’s head that had hung over the front door. Harry hadn’t replaced it yet because he had not decided whether or not to keep the name. When he had bought the inn the goblins asked if he intended to rename it, and he had answered that he wasn’t sure, but no matter what, he would be getting rid of the sign. They asked for it, and he told them they were welcome to it. They hadn’t removed it yet, so there it was.

Harry had been coming to the inn once a week all summer, directing the changes he wanted, which were extensive. He wanted a bright, friendly, cheery place where he could bring Ginny, a place that Ginny would want to come to. He knew what she liked: cozy rooms, fireplaces, friends about her. He kept the image of her foremost in his mind while the walls were being stripped and re–paneled, while a real floor was laid, while new furnishings and a new bar with an ornate mirror behind it were installed, and while crystal chandeliers with hundreds of candles were hung. It would be a place of light and camaraderie; Ron and Hermione would visit often, and maybe it would even become the post–war headquarters of Dumbledore’s Army.

And now the work was finished. Harry stepped through the back door and found Tony Trostle — the wizard contractor he had hired to do the job — putting finishing touches in the kitchen. Tony was broad–chested and muscular, with a large, black handlebar mustache and a head of bushy hair. He was directing hammers that were pounding brackets into the walls of the fireplace from which the cooking cauldrons would hang.

“‘Morning, Harry,” Tony called over the racket of the clanging hammers. “The cauldrons got delivered two days ago. They’re in the back cupboard. I’ll have ‘em all hung before lunch.”

Harry nodded and looked around. He saw spiffy new counter tops, stoves, shelves, racks of utensils, a large sink, and other accouterments. He walked around, inspecting knives, opening drawers, running his hand across marble cutting boards. Tony was a proud craftsman; he took his time and he supervised his workers carefully, and it showed in the final result. “This is all beautiful, Tony,” Harry said.

“Did you find a cook yet?” Tony asked as the hammers flew through the air and slipped neatly into the loops on his belt. He pulled on the bracket in the fireplace; it held securely and he turned to Harry. “We’re just about done in here. Carlos found some loose flashing around the middle chimney, he’s up there now taking care of it. We had a thunderstorm come through on Sunday and it leaked into the attic a bit. Nothing serious, though.”

Tony liked to hire wizards and witches who had recently immigrated to England; his wife had come to the country from South America, and Tony felt a kinship with people who were experiencing in a new land what she had gone through. His current crew were mostly from Argentina. Harry found them interesting, although he knew no Spanish and they spoke little English. When Tony wasn’t around to translate they communicated with gestures and smiles. They had all heard of Harry Potter, though, and Tony told him that they all considered it an honor to work for him.

“No, no cook yet, or a barkeep, either,” Harry replied to Tony’s question. He left Tony in the kitchen and went up the back stairs to the flat on the second floor, where he would live. The stairway led to the door of the flat which opened into the sitting room; it was in this space that Harry, Hermione, and Ron had spoken to Aberforth Dumbledore after they had Apparated into Hogsmeade just before the Battle of Hogwarts. But that slightly rundown and shabby room had been transformed. There was a large fireplace at one end, and a large picture window that looked out over the field in back. The walls were paneled in lightly stained walnut, and a new hardwood floor was laid. And the portrait of Ariana Dumbledore was gone; Aberforth had taken it with him when he vacated the inn. In its place was a landscape showing the Black Lake with Hogwarts Castle in the background.

Harry had spent a lot of money on the fireplace. He had sneaked out a photo of the fireplace in the Burrow’s parlor, and Tony had used it to design and build this one. The only difference between the two was the mantelpiece. The one in the Burrow was discolored with decades of soot and candle drippings, and was gouged with dozens of scratches and dents. This one was a smooth and polished slab of oak, stained a dark, rich brown that glowed when the room was lit by candlelight. Harry couldn’t wait to show it to Ginny. He was going to put a love seat in front of it, just the right size for two people to snuggle in.

A smaller casement window opened directly above the front door of the inn. To its left was a door into the bedroom which had its own fireplace. And today the bed would be delivered. It was a surplus four–poster from the Gryffindor tower, and was in mint condition; it had been ordered for the castle a year ago but had never been used because so many Muggle–born students had been expelled or never showed up. The canopy coverings and the hangings were a deep velvety red with threads of gold running through them. Professor McGonagall was perfectly willing to sell it to Harry, especially after the thrifty Scotswitch heard his offer. But Harry still had to put up with Argus Filch’s scowls and muttering while he levitated the unassembled bed out of its storage locker and into the Great Hall, where it would be out of the way until he brought it to the inn.

At the other end of the parlor was a door to the kitchen, a smallish affair with a stove, fireplace, sink, some cupboards, and a small table. Harry intended to take most of his meals in the dining room downstairs, but he anticipated late night snacks and late breakfasts on the weekends when he had company.

He wandered around the flat, admiring Tony’s detail work and testing the water supplies in the kitchen and bathroom, which was located off the bedroom. He found himself looking out the picture window and day–dreaming about lazy weekends in the flat with Ginny. He began fingering the Bouquedelle inside his shirt and was about to take it out, when a wizard in work clothes floated down past the window and waved at him. It was Carlos, who had finished patching the roof and was descending with the help of a Wingardium Leviosa from Tony, standing on the ground below.

Harry went downstairs and out back, where he spoke briefly to Tony about the arrival of the bed. Then he walked back through the inn and out the front door, and proceeded down the High Street to the Three Broomsticks. Madam Rosmerta had been helping him organize the business end of things, showing him how to order supplies, plan meals, and all the other little details that had never occurred to him when he got the inspiration to buy the inn. He found those things exceedingly tedious; he just wanted to wave his wand and have all the food and drinks and settings appear on the tables. At first Rosmerta had been sympathetic, but after a while, when Harry’s mind kept wandering from the task, she began scolding him, telling him that if he wanted to run a business he would have to do some work, even if it was boring.

So Harry had tried to buckle down. He told himself that it was for Ginny, and for a while that was sufficient motivation. But then his interest in all those annoying, grubby little details flagged again, and Rosmerta yelled at him again, and Harry tried once again to apply himself. So it went for several weeks, Harry’s interest and energy rising and falling, until finally Rosmerta had told him, two weeks ago, to leave her alone until he decided what he really wanted to do.

In desperation, Harry went to the only businesswizard he knew, George Weasley. He told him in confidence about the inn and his problems getting it set up, and George was only too happy to help. First, he was eternally grateful beyond measure for Harry’s gift of the Triwizard gold; and second, he and Fred had kept their eyes on the old Zonko’s shop, so anything that might attract customers to Hogsmeade, like another decent inn, would make a joke shop there more likely to succeed. George suspected that Harry’s real motivation was to be close to Ginny, and that also pleased him.

Last week George had met Harry at the inn, and by the end of the morning Harry had acquired a large, leather–bound ledger book from Scrivenshaft’s with neatly labeled columns for income and expenses; a meal plan for the first month that the inn would be open; and a list of contacts in Diagon Alley and other wizarding shopping districts who could sell him the supplies he needed. They ate lunch at the Three Broomsticks, and when Harry showed Rosmerta the ledger book and the meal plan — the results of his being a good little wizard — she relented and offered to help him find a barkeep and a cook.

So now Harry was on his way to meet the friend of one of Rosmerta’s waitresses who had worked in a tavern, and also a local witch who was looking for work and was interested in becoming Harry’s cook. The Three Broomsticks was almost empty, and Harry saw Rosmerta sitting at a table in back with two other witches. She waved him over and he greeted her and one of the other witch, her waitress Harriet Smythe.

Rosmerta cleared her throat. “Harry, this is Turquoise Southeby,” she indicated the third witch sitting across the table. He turned to her; she was young, maybe two or three years older than himself, blond, very pretty, and was wearing a frilly blouse that was cut a little too low around the neckline for the occasion, in Harry’s opinion. But then she took a deep breath, in and out, and smiled, and Harry had to reconsider the neckline and its purpose.

“Hello,” he said, trying to be friendly despite his instinct, which was to tell her to leave him alone. “I’ve seen you in Hogsmeade before, haven’t I?”

Turquoise nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, and of course I’ve seen you, Harry.” She giggled. “Madam Rosmerta told me you’re looking for a cook at your inn. It’s just beautiful, what you’ve turned it into. It looks very inviting on the inside.” She giggled again. “I haven’t been in it, of course,” she answered his questioning look, “but I’ve peeked through the windows. Everyone has.” She blinked several times and smiled again.

“Well.” Harry didn’t know how to deal with the her. Her demeanor was very familiar; he had gone through many periods at Hogwarts, before he and Ginny started dating, when gaggles of girls would stare, giggle, and whisper as he walked past in the hallways and even in the Gryffindor common room. Their looks and behavior were identical to this witch’s. At Hogwarts he could just ignore them, but this one was more or less forcing herself on him; he did not want to be rude, but he wanted nothing to do with her. She might be a good cook, but he wouldn’t be able to stand her for five minutes, and he would not consider for five seconds what an insult it would be to Ginny if he hired her.

“Well,” he said again and turned to Rosmerta for help. She saw immediately his look of dislike.

“Turquoise, what Harry’s saying is that he has a few more people he wants to talk to before he decides who to hire. He’ll be getting back to you, won’t you, Harry?”

“Oh, sure.” He turned back to Turquoise. “I’ll let you know, but it’ll be a few more weeks till I decide.” He tried to sound pleasant, but he wished she would just leave.

Turquoise looked at him for a moment, then she brightened. “That’s great, Harry. I can wait. And thank you for talking to me, I really enjoyed it.” She stood and curtseyed, which looked strange in jeans that were a size too small. At the lowest point of her dip she leaned forward and Harry couldn’t help but notice the large amount of cleavage on display. She glanced up at him and smiled sweetly, then nodded to Rosmerta and left.

“I’m sorry about that,” Rosmerta said to Harry after they watched Turquoise sway her tightly clad hips out the door. “I knew her parents. She worked in a hotel restaurant in York until this summer, and I thought she might be able to help. Obviously not, at least not in the kitchen.”

“I remember seeing her on Hogsmeade weekends,” Harry said. “She is kind of noticeable. What does she do here?”

Rosmerta frowned. “That’s another reason I thought you might be interested in hiring her. Her parents were killed during the first war when she was a couple of years old. They got caught in a cross–fire. Incidental non–combatant damage, the Ministry called it. More like Ministry stupidity, if you ask me. She had older relatives who took her in, and they retired here a couple of years ago, but they died last year and she’s lived alone ever since.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe if she wasn’t so... “

“So obvious?” Rosmerta finished for him.

“Yeah, I guess. I still need a cook.”

The whole business with the Southeby witch had been unpleasant. He disliked the fawning attention that strange females tried to pay him, and this one didn’t act as though she would give it up so easily. It made him a little angry, because he knew that it would upset Ginny if the witch started showing up at the inn and behaving the way she did this morning. It was another aggravation to add to the list.

“Well,” Rosmerta glanced at Harriet who had sat silently through Turquoise’s interview. She turned to Harry a little nervously. “Harry, there’s a friend of Harriet’s who needs a job. He worked at the Leaky Cauldron for a while, and, well, you know him. Harriet and I told him there might be a... a problem, but he wanted to see you, and... and, well, please, just hear him out.”

Harry was puzzled as he listened to Rosmerta’s stammering, and he noticed Harriet, who he knew fairly well by now, fidgeting in her seat. “Who is it?” he asked.

Rosmerta nodded to Harriet who stood and went to the kitchen door behind the bar. She went inside and a moment later emerged with a lanky, pale–faced wizard who was holding a grimy cap in his hands and looking down at the floor. Harry did a double–take when he recognized Stan Shunpike.

Stan raised his head and looked at Harry. He did not have the blank, Imperiused expression that Harry had seen last year in the skies over the English countryside, but Stan was frightened. He quickly averted his eyes, glanced at Harriet, then looked down again and started twisting his cap in his hands.

Harry rose and walked slowly toward him. There was no question in his mind that Stan had been under Voldemort’s control, and the Ministry must also be certain of that, otherwise Stan would not be standing here. Harry put his hand on Stan’s arm. “How are you, Stan,” he said quietly. “The Ministry let you go.”

Stan nodded, and looked up. “‘Arry, I’m s–sorry. I never would ‘ave done that to you, but they put an Unforgivable Curse on me. I– I couldn’t ‘elp it,” he said beseechingly.

Harry took Stan’s shoulders. “You don’t have to apologize to me. You didn’t get hurt when I shot that spell at you, did you?”

Stan shook his head. “No, but when you did it, they knew it was you and not one of those decoys, ‘cause you didn’t kill me. Maybe you should ‘ave.”

“No, never,” Harry said. “I could tell you were Imperiused. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Harry,” Rosmerta called from the table, and Harry and Stan turned. “There was something else. They had Harriet. They told Stan they would kill her if he didn’t cooperate.”

Harry looked from Stan to Harriet. So, he realized, they had put Stan up there deliberately, once they saw the decoys, using him as bait to get Harry to reveal himself. He gazed at Harriet, then touched the Bouquedelle under his shirt. What would he have done if Voldemort had taken Ginny?

He took Stan’s arm again and led him to the table. Stan sat and looked at Harry earnestly. “‘Arry, they were using everyone who might ‘ave some kind of connection to you. They knew you tried’ to get me out of Azkaban so they figured we were mates. Then they found out that me and Harriet were... good friends, and they... they kept ‘er locked up in a basement somewhere and wouldn’t let me see ‘er.”

“It was a nightmare for everyone,” Harry said, “but it’s over.” Harriet put her arm around Stan’s shoulder and leaned her head against him.

“You worked at the Leaky Cauldron?” Harry asked.

“For three years, before I started on the Bus. Tom’ll tell you I was the best barkeep ‘e ever ‘ad, too.”

“I don’t need Tom’s word for it. If you have the experience, the job at the Hog's Head is yours.” Harry sat down and leaned back and smiled at Stan; half of his staffing problem was solved. Finally something had gone right, and he had a barkeep who he liked and who would be working with him for more reasons than just a paycheck. Stan took Harriet’s hand. She beamed at him, and Harry’s grin grew wider when he saw the look between them.

His next task for the day was to get the bed to the inn. He thanked Rosmerta and bid her and Harriet goodbye, then asked Stan if he wanted to come with him to the castle. Stan eagerly said yes; he had never been inside Hogwarts, although he had seen it from the gates many times when he worked on the Knight Bus. He didn’t speak as they went up the curving drive. He gazed at the soaring towers and pitched roofs, at the hundreds of gargoyles perched everywhere. All the damage from last spring’s battle was repaired, and the castle stood intact and solid against the blue sky. Harry saw the awe on Stan’s face, and thought to himself that it was an impressive sight, one that he might have come to take for granted over the years. He could remember his own open–mouthed reaction when he had first set eyes on it.

They climbed the steps and came into the entrance hall. Stan’s head swivelled as he tried to take it all in. “I never saw anything like it,” he finally said. “I wish I could ‘ave come ‘ere to study, but it didn’t seem to work out, somehow.” Harry didn’t ask why. He knew there were funds available for students whose families couldn’t afford the tuition and expenses, so it probably meant that Stan didn’t come because of family problems, or maybe inability — academic or magical. But it didn’t matter to him, and he wasn’t about to pry into Stan’s personal life.

They walked up the stairs to the Headmistress’s office. The portraits all turned to look as they passed, and many greeted Harry. In front of the office Harry called out, “Firth of Forth!” and the gargoyles sprang aside. Stan was a little shaky on the spiral staircase; he steadied himself but seemed glad when they reached the top. Harry knocked on the massive door, and they entered.

Over the summer Professor McGonagall had finally begun to transform the office into a place that was more to her own taste, and things were starting to take on a tartan motif; the furniture and rugs, the crossed swords and shields decorating the walls, and many of the portraits — aside from the former Heads — all conveyed a Scottish flavor to the room. Most of Professor Dumbledore’s tiny silver objects and whistling devices were gone. In their places were many of the objects that Harry recognized from Professor McGonagall’s Transfiguration classroom: assorted tea cups, match boxes, goblets, and several live cats sleeping on tables and chairs — including a gray tabby stretched out in the middle of McGonagall’s large, inlaid desk. The cat was purring contentedly on top of a parchment that the Headmistress was trying to extricate from underneath it as Harry and Stan came in. Harry also noticed that the cabinet in which Professor Dumbledore had kept his Pensieve was still there, and he could see a silvery glow around the edges of the cabinet doors. The Sorting Hat was still perched on top of a cabinet, inside which lay the sword of Godric Gryffindor, its inlaid rubies sparkling in a ray of sunshine that was streaming in a high window.

The Headmistress was sitting behind her desk smiling at them over her square glasses. “Are you here to get your bed, Mr. Potter?” she greeted them.

“Yes, Professor. And this is Stan Shunpike. He’s working for me at the inn now. I just hired him.”

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. Shunpike.” McGonagall extended her hand and Stan took it, then quickly let go; he was totally overwhelmed by the office and its contents. McGonagall continued. “Most of us were very upset about your incarceration and your misadventures with Tom Riddle, and it’s good to see you well. You’ll be moving up north?”

Stan nodded and visibly relaxed; McGonagall’s friendliness was more impressive to him than the imposing ramparts of the castle. “Yes, ma’am. I understand it gets cold up here, too,” he said without a trace of his accent, and Harry smiled to himself when he heard Stan speak.

“That it does, Mr. Shunpike,” agreed the Headmistress. “But from what I hear about your employer’s work on the inn, you will be quite snug there.” She smiled at him, then turned to Harry, “The bed is where you left it. Will you be needing an elf to help you?”

“That’s what I was planning on,” Harry replied. “Kreacher is here, and he was going to handle all the arrangements.”

“Well, you may find him a little preoccupied at the moment. It seems that one of the other house–elves had a breakdown of some kind, and Kreacher has been caring for her since none of the others will.”

Harry knew that it must be Winky, and he felt another twinge of annoyance; every day of the week was always smooth with nothing but an occasional insect bite to annoy him. But every Wednesday brought a fresh irritation, even if something good also happened, like finding Stan Shunpike. All he wanted was a cozy place to bring Ginny, where they could be alone, but there always seemed to be an obstacle, or at least an irritation.

He frowned and started to leave. But then he caught the expression on Stan’s face as he was taking a last look around at the wonders of the room. He paused, and an idea came into his head. It was completely unrelated to the problem at hand, but he knew that it would please Stan. He leaned across the reclining cat and beckoned to Professor McGonagall. He whispered in her ear, and she nodded. “It will be done by the time you get there,” she smiled. “Good day to you, Mr. Shunpike, good luck with your new employer. And I will be seeing you from time to time, I’m sure, Harry.”

“That’s right,” Harry nodded. “I’ll be taking private lessons from Professor Flitwick, so I’ll be coming up to the castle a couple of times a week.”

“I was thinking more of your friend in her seventh year, actually,” McGonagall said drily. “But I know that Filius is looking forward to the lessons. Well, good day.”

Harry and Stan left for the Great Hall where the bed was being stored. Stan gawked at the portraits, suits of armor, and moving tapestries along the way. Harry paused at the doors to the Hall and grinned at Stan. “Look up at the ceiling,” he told him.

He pushed the doors open and Stan gasped as he gazed upward at the enchanted ceiling which Harry had asked Professor McGonagall to activate. Stan gaped at the deep blue sky and white clouds sailing across. “That’s beautiful,” he murmured.

“It shows the weather outside,” Harry explained. “No need even to look out the window. Very convenient.”

Stan nodded. “Beautiful,” he repeated.

Next to the door was a neat stack of bed parts: head– and footboards, slats, sideboards, posts, box spring, mattress, canopy, and hangings. Next to it stood Kreacher. As he bowed to Harry, he cast a nervous glance toward the bed. Harry looked and saw, lying on the edge of the box spring which was leaning against the wall, the rumpled form of another house–elf. He recognized Winky. She was asleep, snoring loudly, and one arm dangled down the side of the box spring.

“Hello, Kreacher.” Harry frowned at the sleeping form. “Is she... has she been drinking again?”

Kreacher sighed. “Kreacher must say yes, Harry Potter. Winky has found out that there will be two nieces of her former master, Mr. Barty Crouch, starting this year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Kreacher is afraid that Winky still is wanting to be taken back by that family.”

There was a loud hiccup, and Harry saw one of Winky’s large, brown, bloodshot eyes staring bleakly at him. His frown deepened. “Winky, what are you doing up there?”

She hiccuped again, then closed her eye and rolled over. She fell off the box spring with a shriek and thudded to the floor. Harry, Kreacher, and Stan rushed over to her. They helped her sit, and Winky looked at Harry hazily with her eyes crossed. He took out his wand and pointed it at the large, egg–shaped lump forming on the top of her head. He muttered the charm he had learned from Ginny for healing bruises, hoping it would have the same effect on a house–elf’s lumpy noggin.

Winky rubbed her eyes, then her head. When she took her hand away the lump was gone. She smiled at Harry and hiccuped again. “Thanks you, Parry Hotter,” she mumbled. “Harry Pro– Plo– Potter is too kind to Winky, and she...” Winky’s eyes closed and she began snoring again, still in a sitting position. She slowly sank down into a green heap, hiccuping between snores.

Kreacher sighed again. “Poor Winky. Kreacher does not know what will become of her.”

But Harry had been thinking, and a wild idea had occurred to him. “Kreacher,” he said, “she has to get away from Hogwarts or she’ll just drink herself to death. Do you think... do you think she would come work for me?”

Winky snapped into a sitting position, her eyes wide open. They all jumped back, startled. She hiccuped once, then pulled herself up next to the box spring until she was standing more or less erect. She swayed forward, then backward, pushed herself away from the box spring, and fell against Harry. She peered up at him, clutching his jeans to keep herself upright. “Winky will come with Sparry Spotter... Potter, and be his house–elf, if Sp– Spa– if he wants her.” She stood up straight and let go of him. “Winky is the best cook at Hogwarts!” she shouted at the enchanted ceiling, then fell backwards into the box spring and slid down to the floor. Her eyes closed and she began snoring again, but this time quietly; a tiny smile was on her lips.

Harry stared at her for a moment, then looked at Stan; he was gaping at the house–elf with his mouth hanging open. “What do you think?” Harry smiled at the look on Stan’s face. “She’s really quite sane when she isn’t drinking. Do you think you could work with her?”

Stan nodded, although he was still bemused. “Sure, why not? I never had no problems with house–elfs on the Bus. Good folk, if you ask me.”

Harry smiled and felt very satisfied; this had worked out perfectly. He had gotten his staff for the inn with almost no effort on his part. Maybe this would turn out to be a trouble–free Wednesday, after all. He turned to Kreacher. “Let her sleep it off, and when she wakes up tell her to go to the inn and fix a place for herself wherever she wants. We’ll set up something permanent for her next week when I come with Ginny. I’ll go talk to Professor McGonagall now. I’m sure there won’t be a problem with her leaving the school.”

“Uh, ‘arry.” Stan had a somewhat concerned look. “What about that Turquoise witch? I saw ‘er before you got there, and she’s not gonna be ‘appy about losing ‘er job to a house–elf.”

Harry frowned; he had completely forgotten about her. “Well, that’s her damn problem. I never promised her anything.” Stan looked skeptical, but said no more.

Then Kreacher cleared his throat, and Harry looked at him. Kreacher was peering up, looking very serious. “What is it?” Harry asked.

“Does Harry Potter know what he has done?” Kreacher asked solemnly. “Winky is now Harry Potter’s house–elf. That is why she sleeps so peacefully. Mr. Barty Crouch’s family is no longer her master. Harry Potter is now her master.”

Harry turned around and stared at Winky. She was stretched out on her side, her hands tucked under her cheek, and her breathing came in a slow, steady rhythm. She looked very peaceful. Harry swore. “I don’t want another house–elf! I want a cook! Kreacher, tell her she is working for me. She’s not my house–elf!”

Kreacher shook his head. “No, Harry Potter, there was only one elf who worked for wizards and witches, because he wanted to, your friend Dobby.” He spoke the name with evident distaste. “Winky doesn’t want to work for someone, she wants to be your house–elf. She is your house–elf.”

Harry looked up at the ceiling, then ran both hands through his hair and shook his head. Why is this happening to me, he thought. Why can’t it be simple? He looked at Winky and sighed and turned to Stan. “Well, we have an inn–elf now. Help Kreacher get the bed ready, if you don’t mind. He’ll show you what to do, you won’t have to lift anything. I’ll go talk to McGonagall about this one.” He looked at Winky and sighed again. “All I want is a bloody place for me and my girlfriend to live,” he muttered as he walked out the door. Stan and Kreacher could hear him grumbling as he walked away.

Kreacher piled the bed parts in a neat stack, first lifting up Winky and moving her onto one of the dining tables, where she continued to snore peacefully. Stan offered to help, but Kreacher ignored him. He produced a large rug out of thin air and flung it over the bed, then sat down on the bench next to Winky.

Stan sat next to him. “You’ve been ‘Arry’s mate for a long time, aincha?” he asked. “I knew ‘im since ‘is third year ‘ere. ‘e’s quite a bloke, ain’t ‘e?”

Kreacher glanced at him, then looked away without answering.

“You really ‘elped ‘im, they say,” Stan continued. “You ought to be right proud of that.”

“We is,” Kreacher said. He looked up at Stan with narrowed eyes for a moment, then got up from the table and went back to the pile of bed parts and put the slats, which had been leaning against the wall, on top of the box spring. He stood there with his back to Stan for ten minutes until Harry returned.

“It’s all done,” Harry announced. “She can come as soon as she wants.” He peered at the sleeping elf. “Tell her there’s no rush, though,” he said to Kreacher. “I’m not planning on opening up until right before school starts.”

He took out his wand. “Ready? Get the doors. I don’t want to try opening them while I’m holding this bed up in the air” He flicked his wand and the bed pieces rose and the rug wrapped itself snugly around them. Harry directed it with the wand and it moved toward the door, which Stan had opened, then it sped across the entrance hall ahead of Kreacher and crashed loudly into the large oak doors. “Whoops!” called Harry, running after it. “This wand... It doesn’t take much to get it to do anything.” He grinned sheepishly at Stan as Kreacher rushed to open the entrance doors.

The package of bed parts floated down the drive and through the gates, followed by Harry, Stan, and Kreacher. The procession went out the tall castle gates, then down the lane and across the train tracks at the station, and up the High Street through Hogsmeade. People stepped outside to watch them pass, grinning at each other when they recognized what was underneath the rug. Harry ignored them, and directed the bed around to the back door of the inn, then set it down on the grass. “We’ll carry it up from here,” he said. “I don’t want to take a chance on damaging anything.”

They brought the parts up to the bedroom one at a time. When they had assembled it Harry stood back and smiled to himself; he knew that Ginny would love it. He touched the Bouquedelle inside his shirt, then glanced at Stan and Kreacher and blushed. “Uh, okay guys, thanks a lot. Why don’t we go downstairs? You can start figuring out how you want to set things up,” he said to Stan. He pushed them out of the bedroom, and they trooped downstairs.

Loud clanking noises and shouts were coming from the kitchen. They looked in and saw Winky and Tony Trostle, each holding onto the same cauldron, whose handle was banging against its side as the two tried to wrestle it away from the other.

“You is not the cook here!” shouted Winky. “Let Winky have it!”

Tony looked up and saw Harry. “She says you hired her, Harry,” he said, holding off Winky who was now trying to beat him with a ladle. “I never saw her before.”

“Winky! Stop!” Harry and Kreacher both called at the same time. “I did hire her,” Harry said to Tony, laughing. “She’s my house–elf now. Winky, this is my contractor, Tony. Let him finish setting up the kitchen, then it’s all yours.”

Winky yanked the ladle away, then went and sat in the open fireplace with her arms folded and a scowl on her face directed at Tony. Harry patted Tony on the shoulder. “Sorry,” he said. “She’s a little temperamental.” He turned to the others. “Listen, I’ve had a long day, and I need to get home. I’ll be back next week with, uh, with Ginny, so...” He blushed again, “So... I’ll see you then. Just do whatever you feel like doing around here today, okay?”

Stan, Kreacher, and also Winky looked at him uncertainly, but Harry was now anxious to leave. At the moment he didn’t want to think about what needed to happen at the inn, or whether it would be ready to open on time, or anything else about it. It didn’t take much for him to start missing Ginny, and seeing the bed in the bedroom had done the trick. He hesitated when he saw his new employees looking at him strangely. “Well, just take the week off, then. We’ll worry about it later.”

“Okay, ‘Arry,” said Stan. “I’ll be moving up ‘ere over the weekend. ‘arriet’s gonna put me up in ‘er folks’ ‘ouse until I get a place of my own.”

“Fine. Sounds great,” Harry said. Stan nodded to Tony, then left through the dining room. Kreacher bowed to Harry, then vanished with a loud crack. Winky lay down in the fireplace, curled up, and started snoring.

Tony picked up a tool belt from the counter. “I have a couple of things to take care of in the dining room,” he said, and smiled at Harry. “You go on home. Someone’s waiting for you.”

“Right,” Harry grinned; his mind was already on dinner at the Burrow, Ginny, and wandering around the countryside with her on a warm summer’s evening. He went out the back door and turned to take a final look at his inn before he Disapparated.

He froze, staring at a spot above the lintel of the door he had just come out. His heart hammered and he couldn’t seem to get enough air in his lungs. “Tony!” he shouted, and drew his wand. “Come here!”

Tony appeared in the doorway, and for a moment stared at Harry’s wand. Then he took a step out the door and turned to see what Harry was pointing his wand at. There, in black paint on the newly whitewashed wall, was the image of a skull with a snake emerging from its mouth. The carpenter gasped. “Harry, that’s... that’s...”

“The Dark Mark,” Harry said in a low voice between clenched teeth. “Scourgify!” The Mark vanished.

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