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The Next Generation
By werekitten

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Category: Post-DH/PM
Characters:None
Genres: Angst, Drama, Fluff, General
Warnings: None
Story is Complete
Rating: PG
Reviews: 202
Summary: “I won’t! I won’t be a Slytherin!” So says the youngest son of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley just before he leaves for his first year at Hogwarts. Albus Severus Potter’s worst nightmare is to be sorted into Slytherin, house of the Dark wizards. Despite reassurances from his father, he still worries that it might come true… and it does. How does little Al cope with being a Slytherin? And can his family accept it? *This is actually a H/G story, although it doesn't sound like it from this summary*
Hitcount: Story Total: 55778; Chapter Total: 4805





Author's Notes:
I'm sorry! I don't know why this chapter took so long, but it did. Next chapter will come faster, I promise.
And while we're on promises, I did say that this chapter would contain the first step in the healing process for all our characters. Well, it does! Except not exactly who you're all hoping for, not yet.
A ginormous thank you goes to Helen, my Britpicker who has quite suddenly taken on the role of beta as well. I think this story must be cursed -- that's two beta's who have had to leave. Staci was amazing, and I'm really grateful to her, but alas, the pressures of RL proved too great. Thanks, Staci! And Helen... okay, I admit, she practically wrote a large section of this chapter for me, and I'm eternally grateful. As always, she found and corrected my multitude of typos. Thanks!
As usual, I'm going to send out a desparate plea for reviews. Please! They'll make me want to write the next chapter a lot faster... And don't worry, I already have an argument planned out for those of you who are going to say that Ron is OOC. Thanks in advance!
And so, without further ado... Ch. 9:




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“Something smells good!”

Hermione smiled as she heard Ron come home from work, commenting as always on what was cooking for dinner.

“Nice to see you too, dear,” said Hermione, as she always did. She heard the familiar sounds of him dropping the cloak on the floor and kicking off his shoes.

Ron came into the kitchen, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek accompanied by a short “Hello, Hermione,” and eagerly checked the dish oven. “Mmm, beef casserole, looks delicious!” he exclaimed.

Hermione smiled to herself. She had hoped that a good dinner would put Ron in a more receptive mood for her news. Of course I’ll tell him about Al, she thought, but the question is whether to tell him that Harry and Ginny are fighting. For there was no doubt in her mind that they were fighting. Lily was a precocious girl, she knew, and at nine years old, she was plenty bright enough to understand if her parents argued. More importantly, Lily was a skilled enough liar to tell when Harry was hiding something. Hermione was positive that she had been meant to pick up on Lily’s thinly veiled hints.

She sighed and stirred the contents of the pan as Hugo came bounding down the stairs to say hello to his father. I guess I’m already too worried about Ron’s reaction… I think I’ll skip the fact that his sister has run away from her husband. she decided. As for how to convince him that Slytherin is good… well, if he starts ranting, I’ll let him rant away for as long as he wants, then use logic to convince him otherwise.

Dinner was more peaceful than she was used to — with Rose gone, the number of arguments and noisy conversations at the dinner table were down by a lot. Throughout the entire meal, Hermione tried not to fidget or steal nervous glances at her husband. She knew just how prejudiced he was against Slytherin…

Hermione forced herself to eat normally; making light conversation about how everyone’s day had been; listening to Ron rave about how ridiculous it was for Jeffery Clarkson to pretend that he hadn’t given a Muggle socks that made his toes turn purple; smiling encouragingly when Hugo chattered excitedly about how he’d made six shots through his practice goal hoop for Quidditch.

Finally, dinner was over. Hugo anxiously excused himself to his room, saying something about his model Quidditch set. Ron stood up to clear the dishes, but Hermione motioned for him to sit back down.

He did so, puzzled. Ron gave his wife an inquisitive look, and noted with some concern the seriousness of her expression.

“So,” he said, reaching out for his nearly empty glass of pumpkin juice, “what is it?” He took a large gulp, draining the last of the juice.

Hermione took a deep breath. “Al got Sorted into Slytherin.”

Ron spluttered in shock, spraying juice over the table. Roughly wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he shouted “What? Slytherin?”

Hermione winced. “Yes. Slytherin.”

He gave a snort of incredulous laughter. “Hermione, that really isn’t funny.”

“No, it’s not,” she said calmly. Inside, she was quaking. So far, this wasn’t going very well. “It’s true.”

Fear dawned in his eyes. “Al? A Slytherin.” It was not a question. Ron’s eyes narrowed.

“How can be one of them?” His voice was more shocked than angry. “I’ve known that boy all my life, Hermione. He’s not lying, or traitorous, or deceitful, cruel, treacherous… he’s just not Slytherin!”

Hermione slumped. Ron hadn’t exploded yet, but he wasn’t taking this as well as could be hoped. “But Ron, not all Slytherins are like that. Think of Snape. Think of Slughorn!”

Ron gave a snort of disapproval. “I don’t care how noble Snape was, he was still an insufferable git. And Slughorn…” Ron scowled. “You know I never liked him.

He rounded on Hermione, anger mounting, as if the news had finally sunk in. “Where were they in the final battle, huh? Where were they? Hiding, saving their sorry skins, or behind those masks! While we were out there, fighting, dying!” Hermione knew that Ron still hurt from Fred’s death, but even so… Ron was taking the news of his nephew even worse then she’d expected. Just listen, don’t talk, she told herself firmly, trying to stick to her plan. It was a lot harder than she’d expected.

Ron took a deep breath. “Where were they after the war? Apologizing, protesting, pretending everything from the Imperious Curse to ignorance! Never taking responsibility for their own actions, always lying, sneaking, hiding… always Slytherin.” His voice was filled with a deep loathing.

“Ron!” shouted Hermione sharply, unable to listen anymore. “Al is your nephew! You’ve known him all his life! Is he really like that?”

“If he was Sorted into Slytherin, then yes,” snarled Ron. “He’s just like all those other nasty, selfish…” He continued with another string of angry adjectives.

Hermione fingered her wand in her pocket. This isn’t going well, she thought, but I’ve seen him in this mood before, many other times. This isn’t really worse then that time in our fourth year, or when we were hunting the Horcruxes… He just needs to be taught a lesson.

Recalling old memories brought an idea to mind, and she smiled slightly

“Ron,” she said firmly, cutting off whatever he was saying, “You’re wrong.” She steamrolled on, ignoring the fact that he was trying to speak. “And you know that you’re wrong, somewhere deep down. You just need a little help figuring it out.”

She brought her wand out of her pocket in one swift motion and pointed it at him

Oppugno!

~*~* ~


“Hermione, I thank Merlin every day that I’m married to you,” said Ron in amazement as he felt his smooth face carefully. Only seconds before it had been covered in deep, bloody peck-marks from Hermione’s birds — her skill with healing spells had greatly improved over the years.

“I don’t know why I did,” Hermione teased, then shook her head seriously. “Honestly, Ron, your own nephew?”

He bit his lip nervously. “I said sorry, didn’t I? And I am.”

Hermione snorted. “Of course, but you’ll do it again. This will not be the last time you lose your temper and say irrational things.”

Ron took on a remorseful look. “Can I say sorry in advance?”

Hermione smiled. “You can… but it won’t get you out of making up afterwards.”

Ron smiled back. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want it to.” A different sort of smile spread across his face. “Speaking of which… I don’t think that you healing my cuts really counts as making up properly.” He stepped closer to her.

“I agree. Completely.”

~*~*~


“I’ve known him my entire life. Al is not like that.” Rose paced around her dormitory, exasperated with Miri.

“Not yet,” said Miri stubbornly. “He could be. He is, almost certainly. He’s a Slytherin, and of course we all know what that means.”

“What?” snapped Rose, knowing she wouldn’t like the answer. “What does that mean?”

“Well, he’s power-hungry, for one thing,” said Miri nonchalantly, as if insulting a fellow student was the most natural thing in the world. “And selfish, and he has no loyalty. Slytherins are cruel, and bloodthirsty. Ambitious, of course, but way past the point where that’s a good thing. Way past. And they’re prejudiced against Muggles, obviously. Basically, your cousin’s a traitor to the entire wizarding race,” she finished. Miri crossed her arms over her chest, silently daring Rose to respond.

She did. “Miri,” growled Rose, trying not to sound angry, “Al is my favorite cousin! You won’t find a sweeter, more innocent boy anywhere.”

Miri raised an eyebrow skeptically. “I’m sure that’s right.” It was quite clear that she didn’t mean it.

“It is, honestly,” said Rose, but she knew it was useless.

“Just face it, Rosie. Your cousin isn’t really the person you think he is.”

“No, he isn’t really the person that you think he is.”

“I think I know rather more about how Slytherins behave than you do, seeing as my mother has had, erm, hands-on experience with them.” She smiled bitterly.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” said Rose gently, “but that was just a few Slytherins, not all of them.” It was not the first time she had said that. “You know that, Miri. They’re not all like that. Al isn’t.”

“They do all act the way those few did. Even Al, despite what you may think.”

Rose let out an exasperated sigh. She closed her eyes for second to regain control of her temper. “Miri,” she repeated, calmly but firmly. “Please promise me something?”

“What?”

“Give Al a chance. He’s not as bad as you think he is. Apologise for yelling, forget your ideas about Slytherins, and start over with him?”

Miri looked at her friend incredulously. “Are you crazy? He’s a Slytherin! But more than that, I have my pride!”

Rose sighed again. “He won’t think any less of you — he’s a nice person.”

“Just forget it, Rose.”

Rose bit her lip, thinking. “Okay. How about this? If you make a genuine effort to make friends with Al, and still end up hating him, I’ll give you a chocolate frog.”

Miri snorted. “So not gonna happen.”

“Fine then,” said Rose as a better idea came to mind. Miri doesn’t know that Neville is an old friend of my family, she thought, so… “I’ll confess my undying love to Professor Longbottom if you hate Al after trying to be his friend.”

Miri’s eyes widened, and she giggled at the mental picture. “Really?”

Rose nodded.

“Alright, you’re on! Now, can I get that bet in writing?”

~*~*~


H ermione stood in front of the Potters’ door and knocked, nervous about visiting for the first time that she could remember. She was planning to ask Harry exactly what had happened between him and Ginny. Though she thought that the loss of his wife would have brought Harry to his senses, one could never be sure.

Within a few seconds, Harry answered the door. Hermione saw that Ron was right — Harry looked unusually haggard and unkempt, a sure sign that something was wrong. Still, Hermione took it as a good sign. Harry’s appearance probably meant that he wasn’t still angry with Ginny or with Al.

Harry forced a smile on his face when he saw her. “Hermione, come in.”

She stepped inside and followed him to the living room, choosing a large armchair. “So,” she said, trying to sound casual. “How was work? Ron said it was a difficult day — something about purple toes?”

“Yes, purple toes,” said Harry rather absently.

She shook her head. “We’ll be getting the case soon enough… purple toes. If it was really done by the sock he enchanted, then we might get him on Misuse of Magic on Muggle Objects, but if it was just a charm… What do you think, Harry?”

“Mmm.” Harry clearly hadn’t been listening. He straightened in his chair. “Say, Hermione, did Ginny go to your house to dinner?” Suddenly he seemed much more interested in the conversation.

This was her opportunity, and she knew it. “I thought Lily said she went to Australia?”

Harry winced. “Erm, yes, I… I just wasn’t sure if she was leaving before or after dinner.” He looked at her hopefully, praying that she wouldn’t spot the lie.

She did, of course. Hermione shook her head, a small smile on her face. “Harry, you never could tell a believable lie, and you know it. Australia? Had you done your research, you’d know that there’s a convention this week in Romania that Ginny might have actually gone to, and I might have actually believed you.” She grinned. “But probably not.”

“So,” she continued. “I have a few questions for you.”

Harry slumped back, resigned. “Fire away. I take it these aren’t related to the purple toes?”

“No.”

He sighed. “I should have guessed that I can’t keep a secret from you.”

She nodded approvingly. “That’s right. Now, what exactly did you say that made Ginny leave?”

“Who says she left?”

“Harry…” warned Hermione. “Don’t even try.”

“Okay! Truth be told, I don’t exactly remember what I said. We were arguing about Al — I take it you know he’s in Slytherin?” Seeing her nod, he continued. “I got angry, and said some stupid things.” He sighed again. “Not the first time that’s happened. I think I said something about Al being like Voldemort… you know, deceiving us, pretending to be nice when he was really nasty.”

He looked at Hermione, and winced at her look of horror. “I know, I know!” he said. “I messed up! But it gets worse — I said something about not wanting Al as my son.” He refused to meet her eye again. “And then… then Ginny said she didn’t want to be my wife, if Al wasn’t my son.” He drooped, leaning his head on his hands. “Then she Disapparated somewhere, I don’t know where. I was hoping she went to you, but clearly she didn’t. And it’s been two whole days… basically, I’m waiting for the owl with the divorce papers.” Hermione had never heard anyone sound so dead or hopeless.

Hermione knew that Harry probably deserved to think that Ginny would really leave him — after all, he had said some perfectly horrid things -- but he looked so pitiful that she couldn’t help but reassure him. “Don’t worry,” she said in what she hoped was a comforting voice. “Ginny loves you. Surely you know that by now?” Harry’s sense of relationships was greatly improved, but he sometimes still reminded her of the awkward fourteen-year-old who had tried to ask Cho Chang to the Yule Ball.

“But doesn’t she love her son more?”

“She can love both of you at the same time! Ginny will forgive you… eventually.” She had to make Harry suffer at least a little, didn’t she? “Now,” she continued, trying to regain a business-like manner, “you honestly don’t know where she went?”

Harry shook his head miserably, and Hermione sighed in exasperation. “Honestly, Harry, where would Ginny feel safe and comforted, that isn’t my house?”

“I don’t know! I’ve wracked my brains…”

“Have you really?”

“Hermione, can we pretend that this is another one of Snape’s essays?”

“Meaning… meaning that I do it for you?” She smiled ruefully. “You really should do your own homework…” The look in his eyes pleaded so eloquently that she had to give in. “All right. She must be at the Burrow, don’t you think?”

“The Burrow! Why didn’t I think of that?” Harry stood up and strode over to the table where his wand rested.

“Harry, wait!” called Hermione. “Don’t you think she went there for a reason?”

Harry paused mid-stride. “Your right,” he said, gloomy again. “She went there to escape me — she probably doesn’t even ever want to see me again.”

Hermione sighed. “Harry, that’s not true, and you know it. Do you want my suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Wait another week. She’ll have come back by then, and it’ll be because she wants to, not because you want her to.”

“And if she doesn’t come back…”

“If she doesn’t come back, then you really haven’t improved since fourth year!” Hermione grinned, trying to lighten the mood.

It didn’t work. “If she doesn’t come back, then I’ll let her go,” said Harry bravely. “Whatever she wants is best.”

Hermione sighed again. “Just give it a few days, okay?” With that, she walked out of the front door and Apparated home to give Hugo his good-night kiss.

~*~*~


The next morning, Al scanned the rush of owls for his father’s pitch-black one, as always. His parents had promised to write, but, thus far, he had only received that very strange letter from his mother.

But today, finally, he saw Kasha’s black feathers amongst the sea of tawny, grey, and tan owls. Inwardly he cheered as she swooped down to him and landed on the edge of his plate, sticking out her leg so that he could untie the attached scroll.

He did so as quickly as possible and eagerly unrolled it. The first thing he checked was the signature, and when he saw it, he wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad. His father had signed in his bold, messy stroke, and Lily’s unsure cursive was next to it. There was even a smudged paw print from Athena. But his mother hadn’t written anything…

Al gave a mental shrug and read the letter. It, like the other, began with a simple statement of how glad they were that he was in Slytherin. We were so glad to get the news of your Sorting, and Slytherin is a really great House to be in, lots of interesting history, and Slytherins have a tradition of being high-achieving, which is always wonderful. it read. Somehow, Al thought the tone was different from his mother’s letter. The sentence sounded more forced, almost as if it was covering something, though Al was not sure why he got this impression. Perhaps it was the too-enthusiastic tone, uncharacteristic of his father, or maybe the abundance of positive adjectives. Al shrugged and, deciding that he was over-analysing a simple sentence, continued to read the letter. It contained general news of home: the tomato seedlings were doing well in the garden, Nini had caught a gnome, and Winky was experimenting with French foods. His father even wrote about how glad he was that Al was making friends with the people in his dormitory that Al had described in his letter home — these were the very people that his mother hadn’t gotten news of, to judge by her last letter.

Then there was a section in Lily’s handwriting. Al grinned a bit as he read it — he could just picture her speaking the words, grinning happily as she described her day. A wave of homesickness washed over Al for the very first time — he longed to be sitting around the Potter’s round open table, with Lily one side of him, and James on the other — a smiling James, one who was glad to be near his brother. And his father and mother would be sitting across the table, looking at the three of them lovingly as always.

But it wasn’t until the very last paragraph that his mother was even mentioned. A single line, scribbled in his father’s hand: Your mother had to take a business trip to Australia this week, and since it’s so far away, she may not write to you. And that was it.

It was very odd. His mother had already written, and she’d used her parent’s owl — what would Clyde be doing in Australia? For that matter, what would Ginny be doing in Australia? A business meeting? But she had mentioned no such thing before…

His mother and father were clearly not writing their letters at the same time: so much of the information in one contradicted the other. Al’s letter had arrived at home, that much was clear from his father’s letter. But his mother hadn’t read it. And wouldn’t she have told him what she was doing in Australia when she wrote to him?

A sense of dread grew in the pit of Al’s stomach. Dad is lying about where Mum is, he thought, and Mum isn’t in the same place as Dad… and Dad’s with Lily and Nini, so he’s probably at home, which means that Mum isn’t... and she didn’t tell me why she left, or where she is now…

An idea struck him, and awful idea. Could they possibly have quarreled? Al shook his head, trying to dislodge the notion. That only happens to other people’s parents, he thought, trying to convince himself. Not to mine. Mum and Dad aren’t fighting, of course not.

But as he read the letter again, it became much harder to convince himself otherwise.
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