It was six a.m. in the morning, and the sun had only just begun to peek into Gracie’s bedroom window. Here, over at this side of town, that glaring ball of light took its sweet, sweet time moving from one end of the spectrum to the other; with all the speed of something very much lacking it, sunlight oozed from a cool, neutral gray into warm, blinding territory. It was still a bit too early to be early, but that was a small, almost insignificant technality that, very soon, would no longer be a detail. Already the furred and feathered denizens of the surrounding wood were coming out from their dens and nests, preparing to go about the day as they had the day before, the day before that, and, if they were lucky to last that long in proximity to someone like Gracie's grandfather, the year before that. It was an age-old way in which many days had begun.

Quite naturally, some of the feathered ones had just begun to break out into song.

In that one particular bedroom, a lump under no less than a dozen pillows quietly went, “Eugh.” It was six a.m. in the morning, and Gracie was trying—rather desperately—to get back to sleep. So far she was failing.

She couldn’t even blame it on something as stupid as sleeping too early, that was the problem. For one, on those occasions when she actually did, it was really a kind of ‘late’ that approached ‘early’ from the other side—by at least several hours too early. Nor could she blame it on any naps taken way before they should have, because normally they were never a problem; three days out of seven she had a brief shut-eye, whenever she felt like it and sometimes more than once a day at that, so it definitely wasn’t that, either.

The problem, Gracie knew, as she scrunched her eyes shut in vain, was that she’d be having guests over today. One, really, and the person in question was a he. That sort of thing could easily pose all sorts of trouble, under her roof. . .

But if there was anything to be done about it, it was too late. The most she could do now was hope that her granddad remembered he liked Huck. Smothering a yawn, Gracie (eventually) made it out of the bed (although in this case ‘tumbled’ was more like it) and staggered into the bathroom next door. It would be quite some time until she finally entered the kitchen, but at least when she did, she’d be fully-dressed and awake.

At least, awake enough to get through the kitchen before Eamon could get in a word edgewise about her too short shorts and that oversized shirt he swore he’d lost in the laundry last week—

“Hey Granddad morning Granddad nice apron Granddad-”

—before she was out the back door, all boots going thudthudthud and cackling laughter, only stopping to swoop up an eye-blindingcatching green beach towel and a book before heading out to wait by the road. . .

Huck lobbed his bookbag unceremoniously in the backseat after making sure, for the fiftieth time, that he had packed The Great Gatsby. He had. "That's it, then," he said, sounding mildly uncertain, kicking the tires of his beat-up 1976 Ford Bronco. It was with a small twinge of irony that he noted that his car was done in Slytherin colors. It wasn't as though he'd even had a choice in the matter; the car had been his dad's and had merely been handed off to him.

Stubborn arse he was, Huxley had been adamant on driving the six-ish hours down to Exeter to visit Gracie rather than use floo powder. He was eager to show off his weird old car (which technically he should not have been driving) and to get to cruise around looking cool. "C'mere, midgets," he said tenderly to the two younger girls straggling around reluctantly near his car, and dropped to his knees in the grass to scoop them into a fierce bear hug.

He could hear Frankie sniffling a bit, and gave her forehead a bracing nuzzle as he set them both down. "If you get into trouble while I'm gone, I'm gonna have to slap you around when I get home, you know," he told her.

Ronnie had left only about a week before to go to Egypt, and him leaving so soon after (even if it wasn't for a long trip) must have been a lot for the younger girls to deal with. His second-youngest sister clicked her tongue. "She's already taken your wallet while you were hugging her," Penny said in exasperation, yanking it away from her little sister. "You are such a klepto," she scoffed.

"Am not," Frankie said dejectedly. "You're always tryin' to get me in trouble!"

Normally Frankie's sticky-fingered tendencies got on his nerves, but at that moment he found it almost unbearably endearing. Funny how things like that work. Taking his wallet back from Penny, he ruffled both of their hair (much to their chagrin) and popped into the front seat. He waved and blew kisses to the girls as he started the engine, remembering suddenly to add- "Stay out me room or I'll bust you!"

Huxley had chosen wisely to leave home while his parents were both working. They hadn't had any idea that he was leaving, and he'd left them a sappy note and a little drawing of a cat. He had his cell phone, too, and was hoping they wouldn't be too cross with him. There was no camp that week anyway!

Six hours later, he found himself heavy-eyed with road hypnosis and clamping a piece of paper between his lips bearing Gracie's address. He was in unfamiliar territory, as far as Britain went, and had to look around rapidly at all the landmarks to figure out where the hell he was going.

He turned off down a rather pretty road littered with trees and was thrilled to discover that he'd finally arrived. Just as well; his backside was beginning to feel like a stress ball.

Letting his engine die as he removed his keys, he leaned out the driver's side window and took in the area for a moment. "Jeez, Gracie," he said to himself, looking about.

It made his house and his town seem rather unimpressive.

She had passed out eventually, when the lethal combination of books and sunlight and warmth proved too much for her; there was just that something about having the sun warm your face that did it. It had a way of causing thoughts to slow down, quieting to a lull until all there was were the red glare through your lids and the sound of your own breathing. Maybe if she’d had a bit more shade—The Fallout really was a good read, honest, definitely not the kind to lull anyone to sleep—she could have lasted longer than she had. . . but she hadn’t.

And so, for a while, there was quiet.

Of course that didn’t last long. When the sound of rubber on asphalt reached her ears, green eyes peeked open—and widened at the green and silver of the car that looked all too much like a boat. No one she knew would drive something like except-

Gracie couldn’t help it; she laughed. Lazily, she rose to her feet. “Glad to see you could make it in that thing,” she called out when he was close enough. She was grinning from ear to ear as she dusted off her bum, and forced herself to stay put as she waited him to get out. . . for about five seconds. In a matter of less she was there was his side, arms loosely held out in a rare, rare hug. “I’ve never seen anything so square-ish on four wheels ‘cept a goddamn truck, I swear. Did you get lost at all?”

As soon as he spotted her, Huck scrambled to unbuckle himself and nearly took a tumble out of the side of his car doing so. He regained his footing and hoisted her up slightly in a gleeful hug that made him feel rather silly. It had only been two weeks, after all, and he was supposed to be a *manly man*. Hearing her jabs at his baby- er, car- however, he dropped her on her feet and stepped back with a look that artfully blended horror and offended laughter. "A boat?!" he cried indignantly, motioning to it with frantic arms. "It's me shaggin' wagon! Fer Christ's sake, don't tell me you don't think it's the most handsome bastard on four wheels you've ever seen!"

He glanced at his car with an appraising eye. ...Yep. Still awesome.

"Men don't get lost while they're driving, thank you," he said with mock superiority, "they just make up better and more interesting ways to go."

As he finished his sentence, he folded his arms and smirked. "Were you just laying by the side of the road? Like a rubbish-bin Christmas tree?"

Muffled laughter—a very faint squeal—and then a curve of the mouth that matched his smirk for smirk as she rolled her eyes at his theatrics. He was such a queen. “Not just any rubbish-bin Christmas tree,” she retorted, smacking his arm. Haughtily she plucked off a blade of grass from her shoulder and flicked it at him. “An expensive one. Very expensive.”

Gracie paused. “And I bet you a quid tha’ you did get lost, and it so is a boat,” she added, that smirk wide wide wide. “I bet the trees got you, didn’t they? ‘Interesting ways to go’ my ass-”

And who knew how long they would’ve stayed out there if she hadn’t remembered one certain detail. Sheepishly, she scratched her cheek. “Just so you know,” she drawled, suddenly shifty-eyed, “I didn’t. You know. Tell Granddad you were coming over until Friday.” Which was only. . . three days ago, if she counted right. Bugger. “So. Just so you know.”

Erm.

Gracie glanced behind her. Was it just her, or did the kitchen curtain just twitch? Damnit, it was hard to see from there- “We’d better go inside. . .” she trailed off, craning her head for a better look as she cautiously tugged at his hand.

"Expensive, eh? That's not what I've heard," he replied, giving her a cheeky grin. "Four quid, five quid tops," he added.

In all honesty, though he would never have said it, it probably was the lack of omnipresent railroads that threw him off his game. Shrugging, he folded his arms. "C'mon, dingus, if I got lost don't you think I'd be man enough to admit it? Sheesh."

Though he had been a smiling fool, when she started seeming antsy about her granddad Huck knew to cast a worried eye subtly toward her house. "Oh, jeez, well..." he started awkwardly. "Is it okay, d'you think? Me bein' here? 'Cause I'm not tryin' upset anybody's kinda crazy granddad today." But he took her hand without complaints as he was dragged up to the majestic house. It made his own house seem a little lame by comparison.

...Ok, a lot lame.

“Granddad’s not crazy,” said Gracie, briefly glancing over her shoulder to roll her eyes at him as she led him along. “He’s unfriendly.” Which was putting it rather lightly, she had to admit. It was the sort of understatement one ought to get arrested for, because if people had one of their biggest personality traits stamped on their foreheads, Eamon would have that on his forehead. “Mum’s crazy.”

And she didn’t mean the ‘good’ kind of crazy, either.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, she turned around fully to give him the most reassuring smile she could muster. “Look, don’t worry-”

Actually, considering this was her giving said smile, maybe he did have a reason to worry.

“Don’t worry,” Gracie tried again, this time a little more firmly. Had she been any other girl, she would have patted his cheek while she was at it, too. “If he tries that ‘Which one would you like to be shot with’ thing again I’ll sic Great-aunt Heppie on him. You remember her, right?”

"Fine, unfriendly, murderous, whatever," he conceded nervously. "For some reason male relatives just aren't too fond of me. An' I don't get it. I'm a well nice guy. I'm bleedin' handsome, is what I am. They should be thrilled to see me cavorting with their daughters and/or granddaughters. It just don't add up."

Huck gave her his best 'confidence smile' and patted her free hand with his free hand. "I'm just being a git," he said reassuringly. "It'll be okay. There's gotta be at least something they find redeeming about me. Right?"

He squinted. He thought vaguely that he remembered her, but it had been a long time. "Oh, God. Heppie. Ummm..."

Gracie watched him struggle to remember. Solemnly, gently—pityingly—her face broke out into a smile, and this time she really did pat his cheek. Redeeming. Right. “You’ll remember her,” she said, as she led him up the stairs again. She couldn’t imagine anyone forgetting her aunt.

Remembering, though—that was easy. You might forget a traumatic experience once, but never twice.

She led him up to the deck, and when she heard him make that last step, Gracie let him have a moment to let the sight sink in. All around them evergreens rose up to the sky, their very tips a stark dark green against clear blue. . . Say what you wanted about isolated homes and Muggle horror movies, but living miles away from one’s closest neighbor, she felt, would always be preferable to one who could just peep right over the fence. And there was that something, too, that came with knowing that all that land—as far as your eye could see—was yours. . .

“Nice view,” she murmured by his shoulder, “isn’t it?” The smile she gave him right then and there was wide and unabashedly brilliant, before she stepped inside and into the hall. “Come on,” she said. “Granddad’s waiting in the kitchen.”

Huck always got slightly defensive when he visited big fancy homes like Gracie's. His own home was so dorky and quaint that he felt scared that everyone around him was going to figure out that he didn't belong in the company of old money. "I hope so," he agreed tentatively. "I hate when I can't remember people. I don't want 'em to think I don't care."

However out-of-place he felt at the huge house, he had to admit that it was perfect for Gracie. Wood reminded him of her; it was stately and elegant, even more so than materials like marble in his opinion, but also warm and soft. And it smelled nice, too, as she always did.

"Nice view, isn't it?"

Her question caught him a little off guard. Without breaking eye contact, his confused face melted into a warm smile. "Gorgeous," he replied quickly. "Always."

And he took a deep breath, swallowed it, and nervously tagged along behind Gracie like a baby duck.

With a sort of grim-faced determination and a fierce, lopsided grin, Gracie let the front doors slam shut and strode into kitchen. It was important to go on in as if she hadn’t just set off all of her beloved, overprotective granddad’s internal alarms; it leveled the playing field, for one, and she need that—especially when she was suddenly remembering exactly what he’d said last time Huck had visited (“Looks like trouble.”) and the look he’d had in his eye.

Yes, her gut told her. Very important.

Voice ringing with charm and cheer and innocence, Gracie descended upon that lone figure in the room sitting in front of the telly. Leaning in, disheveled hair fell into a curtain around her face. “Grannnddad,” she cooed. That same smile not moving an inch, she gestured at Huck urgently. “You remember Huck, right?”

From that leather chair, the figure stirred. The glass in its—his—hand was set on the end table beside it with a quiet, final-sounding clink. With the slow but inevitable speed of glaciers and tectonic plates, Gracie’s grandfather rose from his seat and turned around.

It should not be noted that Eamon Slant was a big man, although he was a big man. Barrel-chested, ham-fisted, and just giving off that impression of big-ness as he was the way a large, sleepy wolf did not have to advertise those powerful jaws without more than a yawn, there was little else but to think of him as. That chest looked like an iron cage for a powerful set of lungs, and those hands, although wrinkled, were thick and calloused and massive. With those hands the word ‘dwarf’ came to mind, in the sense that that was the effect it had on other people’s hands.

Neither all of the aforementioned should be noted, because that meant your eyes were not on his face. Staring from underneath perpetually down-set, bushy brows were sharp eyes that burned.

“I do,” Eamon rumbled, inclining his head a good three inches down. “Ward, yeh? I rem’mber yeh.”

And whether that was a good thing for Huck remained to be seen. It was a very direct stare, and those eyes had yet to leave the boy’s face.

Huck could feel his heart slamming against his ribcage, and the adrenaline pounding through his veins made him lightheaded. Oh God, he prayed silently, please for the love of all that is holy, don't let me pass out. He made his way admirably towards the old man as Gracie spoke, trying desperately to rattle through all the possible ways he could greet the guy to filter out the best one. A firm handshake would certainly be a man-to-man greeting... but was it really in Huck's best interest to let the grandfather of his stunningly attractive female friend know that he, Huxley Ward, was in fact a man and not just a kid?

He thought vaguely about giving the man an enthused hug, but he was sure he'd piss himself and that would definitely make a poor impression. For sure. And a friendly wave? That would make him seem... slow in the brain. ...Which might not be as big a lie as a hug or a handshake would convey.

It became quickly clear to him that his brain now only had room for a few little thoughts before it shut off in total survival mode, so he saved it for later and decided to stick with what made the most sense. "Yes, sir," he said emphatically, extending his hand to the older man, his muscles tauter than a tightrope for how nervous he was. "Huxley Ward, sir, Mr. Slant. It's brilliant to see you again. How have you been?"

He swallowed harder than he ever had before.

Gracie did not look apprehensive when Eamon gave Huck the stare-down, and she most definitely did not chew her lip when the (clearly) younger of the two stuck out his hand. Her granddad wasn’t some kind of Muggle savage, she knew; he was the kind of man who, in winter, on really cold, biting nights when the snows were just too thick to see past, liked to kick back with a beer and watch reruns of Keeping Up Appearances with the most serious face ever. But Huck didn’t know that.

So when he took Huck’s hand and gave it a slow, solemn shake, she most definitely, without a doubt, did not release the breath she had not been holding.

Still, that “Bin better,” Eamon replied with got a wince. Those two simple words gave off the general feeling that things had been a lot better four days ago and had gotten only worse today. “Was aboot tae go out onna run,” he said, still solemnly shaking Huck’s hand. Then his hand (—not Huck’s, because at this point it was pretty clear whose hand had any control over the situation) stopped moving and, by the slightest margin of an inch, tightened its grip in a twitch. “Changed me mind,” he rumbled levelly. His tone hadn’t changed at all. “Though’ I’d ‘ave a bit o’ a lie-in instead.”

Gracie took that as her cue to step in, and she did. “That’s really too bad, Granddad,” she said, looking honestly dismayed as she stepped in between them. Never taking her eyes off him, she continued to look at Eamon with wide, innocent eyes while she delicately but firmly set about extracting Huck’s hand from his. “Because Huck and I—” A grunt. “—Were going—” She gritted her teeth. “—Out,” she finished triumphantly, finally succeeding. “I’ll be re-acquainting him with the rest of the town.”

Eamon nodded, withdrawing his hand into a pocket. “Yer Aun’ Heppie’ll be stoppin’ by fer dinner,” he said, for once not looking too displeased about it. Prolly because he knows Huck’ll distract her, Gracie noted sourly. But with one potential crisis averted (there were guns everywhere in the house), she took what victories she could get and kept on smiling. “Marvelous,” she grinned, unfazed. “Tell her to bring her minestrone. We’ll be back soonish—before dinner,” she added, when that piercing look was turned onto her. “Six-thirty at the latest?”

After a moment’s pause, Eamon nodded, and returned to his seat. A few seconds later, the television’s volume went up. It was clear that they were dismissed. “Let’s go,” she whispered to Huck, heading towards the living room and out the archway.  Unsurprisingly, she didn’t have to yank on him at all. “You can wait in my room while I go change...”

   

Huck could feel every hair on his body stand on end when the old man grabbed his hand. Oh, and also, he was crushing all his delicate phalanges. It was the most award-winning acting he'd ever done, but he managed to keep his face not only from looking like he was in pain but also looking like he was terribly glad to be in his current predicament. "I'll tell you this, sir," he said with a pained grin, "If I lived 'round here I'd be a runnin' man, meself. 'S nought but coal mines and railroad tracks up my way. None too breathtaking."

His hand, despite being crushed in a fierce grip, felt incredibly cold. He realized somewhere in the non-panicked part of his brain that it must be due to the blood supply being cut off. He didn't suppose he had ever been as grateful to Gracie as when she came over, casual as could be, and attempted to pry him loose. There was no way he'd have tried to do it himself. When he popped free, finally, he immediately cradled his hand to his chest, both for warmth and for security. His face remained steadfast. Bless it.

Eamon was terribly hard to read. It was generally easy for the boy to zero in on peoples' personalities and then decide how to best endear himself to them; Eamon was a different story entirely. A cold, unwelcoming enigma. And he knew that at least some of it was affected to spook him into keeping his hands off Gracie, but it was still bloody hard to crack. "That sounds absolutely canny," he said affably, sticking his wounded hand into his pocket. "I'm well excited to see her again." And, at Gracie's insistence that they leave the room, Huck put on his absolute best smile and stuck up his hand in a weird little wave. "Enjoy your programme, Mr. Slant," he offered weakly, and trailed behind Gracie.

He mouthed OH MY GOD at her when they were out of eyeshot. Still, he felt a little accomplished. He hadn't cried, nor had he puked. And his reward was getting to hang around in Gracie's bedroom. Aw yeah.

Gracie was not, almost by principle, one for apologies. While she did believe that honesty was relative (as well as a luxury), and she did, in fact, think that ‘sorry’ was best used as a prelude to another cause for apologizing, there were still some aspects of the idea she felt were. . . sacred, for a lack of a better word. She might hold truth in contempt, but flat-out insincerity was another ugly road altogether.

And so she generally avoided saying sorry at all.

But then—now was a different case. Because her Granddad was wise to th’ things tha’ lurk in men’s heads, Huck had just risked having his fingers squeezed the life out of them. When her bedroom door clicked shut, she leaned against it, her own hands dragging halfway down her face. “I’m so sorry,” she groaned, briefly squeezing her eyes shut. “I didn’t think he’d actually try to break your hand.”