HP FIC: Lost among Our Winnings (1/3)
Title: Lost among Our Winnings
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Multiple; Harry-centric
Summary: Twenty-one things that happened between the end and the epilogue.
Rating: Teen and up.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is all JKR's; no claim or commerce here.
Author's note: Special thanks to aurorawest, an excellent beta. Any remaining errors are my own.
I. May 1998
It took less time than Harry had expected to get word out about Snape. People wanted answers, or they wanted their curiosity satisfied. One way or another, within ten days the Ministry, reconstituting its higher offices from the remnants of the Order, gave Harry permission to make the arrangements.
“Put the grave near Dumbledore’s, if you can manage it,” he told Hagrid.
“‘Course I can manage it,” Hagrid said. “Ye’ll be wantin’ ter give him a big stone, like the Headmaster’s?”
Harry shook his head. “No, I don’t think...” He was about to say I don’t think Snape would’ve liked it, but he had no idea what Snape would have liked. “Something small seems - I don’t know, better.”
The burial was a small affair as well, attended by the staff and a few members of the Order. Draco and Narcissa Malfoy stood at some remove, as if waiting for a gesture of the opprobrium that was, by now, mostly directed at others. Harry was glad that the Weasleys, sequestered in mourning, had declined to attend; whatever punishment Narcissa had earned, it would have been too much to demand that she maintain a polite distance from the person who had killed her sister the week before.
The Malfoys looked drawn and cast their faces down, although Narcissa took her son’s arm as Professor McGonagall delivered the eulogy. Harry was grateful that the task had not fallen to him. He could not say that Snape had not deserved what happened to him, but he felt a great sorrow that he could not describe. He was not sure what to do now, and Luna and Hermione, sitting on either side of him, offered little guidance, beside Hermione’s conjuring of a funereal bouquet.
In the end, he asked for a moment alone as they all departed, and knelt by the marker. The stone was cool and gritty to the touch, almost sharp at the edges of the inscription:
SEVERUS TOBIAS SNAPE
b. 9 Jan. 1960
d. 2 May 1998
‘Cineri gloria sera venit.’
Harry found that he wanted, absurdly, to say something, as if Snape could hear it and be comforted. He thought instead of all the times in Potions class when he had cast about for any answer he could think of, wishing he had the choice of not giving one, and he thought now that silence would have to do.
II. June 1998
It seemed a bit strange to Harry to be the one accompanying Hermione to retrieve her parents, but it was, as Kingsley - Minister Shacklebolt - had said, the sensible thing to do. The summer would be filled with nothing but funerals and cleaning up, tasks from which, he insisted, Harry would best recuse himself. “You’ve had a long few years,” the Minister had said, “and you’d best have a spot of rest from all this before training starts in autumn.”
Surges of guilt struck him at times, for being away from everyone and everything at such a time, but Hermione wouldn’t hear of his returning early. “The Minister’s absolutely right, you’d only exhaust yourself,” she insisted. “And besides, I need you here in case we run into trouble. I’m rubbish in a duel.” Left unspoken was the need to give the Weasleys time and space to mourn among themselves, undisturbed by well-intentioned sympathy from those who hadn’t taken Fred’s existence as a given for as long as he’d been alive. Harry did not want to intrude on their grief.
So he and Hermione took the Grangers along a popular itinerary of scenic Australia, Hermione gradually lifting the charms she’d placed on them. Harry received near-daily correspondence about the situation in Britain, but otherwise he and Hermione, as far as possible, avoided distinguishing themselves amongst the tourists. Harry felt it got easier when, having been surprised by an errant snake, he found himself unable to talk to it. “Go away,” he said, in English, and the snake did not budge from its place on a picnic bench. He tried again, and ventured close to other snakes as well, before he was confident that the Parseltongue was gone.
“Oh, but you’ll miss that, it’s so useful,” Hermione fretted, to which Harry laughed: “Trust me, snakes and I haven’t got much to talk about. I’m glad to have it gone.” And he was.
So they went along, taking in modern architecture and strange landscape, shorelines and desert scrub unlike any terrain that Harry had known. “I can’t believe I’m really sitting on a strand that’s got kangaroos on it,” Hermione said one afternoon, as she lounged in the sun on Pebbly Beach.
“What d’you mean, you can’t believe it?”
“I mean, here we are at the shore - and there are kangaroos here! Look at the way they hop!”
“Um, Hermione, you have seen - you know, things that are a bit more impressive than kangaroos.”
“Yes, but I’ve never seen actual kangaroos before. Although some of these are wallabies. I’ve wanted to since I was three years old.” She gave Harry a sidelong glance. “Do you ever think about - just not going back?”
“To Britain?”
“Maybe. But really to wizards and magic and everything else. If you’d never got your Hogwarts letter, or anything else.” She looked out over the water. “It might be simpler to live as a Muggle. Safer, anyway, at least for Mum and Dad...”
Harry, who was all too grateful to have left his Muggle life behind, thought it over for a few minutes. “It would be lots easier,” he admitted. “Probably safer, even now. But... it wouldn’t work, Hermione. It could never last.”
“I know it couldn’t.”
“It’s not who we are. It isn’t what we are. You could try to live as a Muggle, but... it would fall apart, Hermione. It wouldn’t be you.”
“Of course it would,” she said. “It’s just... sometimes I can’t help but imagine if things were different.”
“Would you want them to be?”
“Not really,” she said. “I mean, I suppose if you offered me a really powerful Time-Turner and memory charm... I wouldn’t take it, no, but I’d always wonder if perhaps I should have.” Then she shook her hair. “Lucky thing you can’t offer it, then. Come on, let’s have a swim.”
III. 8 August 1998
Harry had a fairly good idea of what his birthday celebration would look like in Britain, and so made a point of remaining in Australia through the end of July. He allowed the Grangers to take him to a fancy restaurant in Sydney and received a number of owls, including one forwarded by the Ministry on Dudley’s behalf. That, he thought, was the most surprising thing that had happened on his birthday since he’d turned eleven. With Hermione’s help, he managed to compose a reply.
He left Australia only when a full week had since passed since his birthday. He arrived at the Burrow just in time for Ginny’s. Having reached seventeen, she’d decided to go up for Quidditch tryouts rather than return to school. Harry was grateful to have missed, very narrowly, the row that Ginny’s announcement provoked. Mrs Weasley had hardly begun to recover from Fred’s death - nor, perhaps, from the shock of becoming a killer - but she was Molly Weasley nonetheless, and Harry could imagine all too well how things had unfolded.
As it was, the Burrow was tense, and shrouded in a somberness. The Weasleys, and George especially, seemed to haunt their own house like ghosts. As quickly as he could, Harry excused himself and found Ginny storming along the fields. “I’m not going back there,” she said determinedly, as if it were Harry trying to persuade her. “To Hogwarts. I’m not. After the diary and everything last year, and then Fred - ” and she burst into the tears she had been fighting back.
Harry’s own tears had all dried up, or else hadn’t come yet. He could think of nothing to say that might dry Ginny’s. “Well, you don’t have to go back,” he managed at last. “And you’re a magnificent Chaser, you know that.”
Ginny nodded against his shoulder. “Fred - Fred and George taught me - ” and she descended into sobs once more, while Harry stroked her hair.
When she’d finished crying, Harry conjured cold water for her to splash on her face. “Do you want a cup of tea as well?”
“No, thanks,” she said, with the barest hint of a smile. They sat there in comfortable silence for quite a long time, watching the stars appear. Eventually she said, “Harry? Do you still want - us...”
“Are you mad? Blimey, Ginny, of course I do! I mean, if...”
She gave another tiny smile, which was quickly replaced with a more serious expression. “So do I. But - no more playing the hero with me, all right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean keeping away from me, keeping things away from me, for my own protection. Deciding for me what is and isn’t safe.” Harry wanted to interject, but Ginny went on: “I’m of age now. You gave Ron and Hermione their moment to turn, and you gave me mine. I think we can only be together if you realize I won’t take it either.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve got to mean that, Harry. You were almost eighteen when you walked into the forest to let Voldemort kill you. When the same thing happened to me, I was eleven.” Ginny did not have to say the rest: And I knew less than you did, and I had no one along the way. Still she went on: “And I wasn’t on holiday while you were looking for horcruxes last year. It wasn’t all laughs trying to hide first-years from having to learn Dark magic, or getting used for curse practice.”
She had not spoken much of any of these things, but Harry could guess more than he liked. He could not defend himself to her. Instead, he only nodded and took her hand. “Right,” he said, “if we’re together, we’re in everything together. And if I start to play the hero with you, you hex me so that I’ll sneeze live bats for a month.”
“At least.”
“At least. But Ginny... it’s got to go both ways, you know. You can’t keep from telling me things because you think I’ll be - upset, or angry, or because you think they’ll make me want to play the hero. Your job’s just to hex me if I do.”
Ginny gave a moment’s thought as well. “So we tell each other... everything we can tell, past and present.”
“Agreed,” Harry said. They sealed it not with a handshake but with a kiss that went on for longer than Harry suspected was traditional. He had no inclination to complain.
IV. October 1998
Malfoy Manor was beginning to get overgrown and dusty when the DMLE finally got round to surveying it. They’d had it heavily warded and under guard for months, but with the Malfoys being held, it wasn’t a high priority. “You reckon it’ll be as bad as Grimmauld Place?” Ron asked.
“No, Malfoy was always socially acceptable, he’ll have locked some things away. Git probably doesn’t even know all he has, he didn’t know Riddle’s diary for what it was, did he? What’s in the stipulation?”
Ron flicked through the pages in his dossier. “About a million specified things that the DMLE picked up, then ‘other Dark artifacts, nature and quantity unspecified’ for us. Same for all three, and they haven’t been allowed to speak, either. Pity, because if they’d just left something off, we could’ve sent them to Azkaban.”
“Figures, though, doesn’t? They squeal on everyone else and save their own skin. Honestly, it had to be someone, and they’re probably the least threat of the whole lot.”
“S’pose so,” Ron said unhappily.
Harry himself was not thrilled by the arrangement, but he’d known it was inevitable. As it was, the Malfoys stood to lose their house and goods - Voldemort having expended their fortune - recompensing the harms they’d confessed, and had cells reserved in Azkaban should any more come to light. But Harry felt quite certain that they must have additional resources hidden somewhere, as he was that they’d been scrupulous in recounting as many of their crimes as could ever be proven - clever of them to lose their wands, he thought angrily.
But he could not allow the feeling to distract him. There was too much to do. The grounds and manor were old and massive, known to hold more harmful things than could be tallied. There was little hidden in plain sight, which did not surprise Harry. Lucius Malfoy was cunning, not bold. But there was a great deal to be turned up. Neville located a patch Black Mercy concealed amidst the tirlis, and in the potion brewery were jars that held what looked like parts taken from corpses - or, worse, more recent victims. At one point Parvati cooed at a pair of baby sloths carried by Mrs Longbottom, who snapped, “Keep away, it’s Jugson and Rowle, I’ll need cages - ” which Parvati hastened to conjure.
For his part, Harry proved adept at finding hidden books and concealed objects. In the first morning alone, he turned up some frightening-looking masks that whispered in seductive tones, along a cache of jewelry that was likely there instead of Gringott’s because it carried active curses. In the library, glamour-disguised and camouflaged by the merely nasty books, there were heavily annotated copies of Deathe Stopper’d, A Pure-Blood’s Guide to Restricted Arts, and Runes as Darke as Night. “You’ve got a knack for searches, Potter,” Savage said, gruffly approving.
“Makes up for being rubbish at Occlumency, then?” Ron joked.
“Nothing could make up for it, he’s worse than Nymphadora Tonks.”
The day’s searching left them all tired, Ron to the point of asking whether they might not Apparate back instead of going by rail. “Of course not!” Savage snapped. “How d’you think you’ll learn to blend among Muggles if you can’t do it half asleep?”
Ron looked more than half asleep as he searched for his rail ticket, Harry thought, and finally he just handed Ron ten quid for a new one. “What’s got you like this?” he asked.
“Late nights at the shop,” Ron said, stifling a yawn. “George is having trouble with magic, but helping out... I don’t mind it, but let’s face it, I haven’t got the same knack as Fred.
Harry did not know what to say at that, and was a bit sorry he had asked. “Well, you can sleep on the train, I’ll wake you in London,” he said.
“Thanks, mate.”
“No problem.” But though Ron’s eyes closed as soon as they’d taken their seats, Harry doubted that he slept.
V. 25 December 1998
Holding Christmas at the Burrow was more than Molly Weasley felt she was up to so soon after... so soon after Fred had died, Harry forced himself to think. He did not blame her. Being on his own for the holiday would certainly be preferable to any of the Christmases he’d spent with the Dursleys.
He did not get the chance to test his hypothesis. Andromeda Tonks invited him instead, and Harry resigned himself to the impending indignity of getting himself up as Father Christmas for a baby who would not understand the goings-on. Perhaps Teddy would enjoy grabbing tiny fistfuls of temporary beard - or stuff them into his mouth, as he did with nearly everything these days. It had taken Harry little practice to become adept at preparing a bottle or changing a nappy with the flick of a wand, but there seemed to be no means, magical or otherwise, to prevent the boy from trying to eat chess pieces, or from slipping out of grasp in his bath.
Come Christmas morning, Harry was unsurprised to find that Mrs Weasley had also broken the tradition of jumpers. Perhaps she would have kept it if the twins had not always received ones with their initials, and delighted in switching them. Fleur had, however, bought in France a wine-coloured one with a golden bear on the front. Harry had no sooner wrestled the jumper onto Teddy than his godson’s hair turned a brilliantly clashing, near-fluorescent shade of blue. Andromeda burst into tears, and Harry did not have to ask why.
He spent the remainder of Christmas Day looking after Teddy or, while his godson had his nap, reading and answering post that had arrived earlier. Along with the expected greetings, it included a card from Dudley, wishing Harry holiday cheer and asking if they might have tea together in the new year. Not knowing what else to do, Harry sent belated greetings and agreed that they might do. There had also appeared at his bedside a wrapped parcel from Kreacher, containing a hairball that had been spat up by Filch’s cat. Harry supposed it was an improvement on maggots.
Andromeda was feeling up to a bit of celebrating once again by dinnertime, and she produced a splendid meal. Harry was not sure if the mulled wine he had brought - Madame Rosmerta’s; whatever else he might owe Aberforth Dumbledore, Harry could not stand what he brewed - would be to her taste, but Andromeda seemed to like it well enough. They exchanged gifts afterwards. Harry’s present was, he thought, one of the most useful he’d ever received: Essential Spells for the Wizarding Home, personally autographed by Alruna Aiskew. “You’ll find it’s gently used,” Andromeda said. “It was the first thing I ever bought with money that wasn’t given me by the Black family.”
“Tonks - er, Nymphadora said something once, that you were brilliant with household spells.”
“I made it my business to do,” Andromeda said, with a tight smile. “Imagine, a daughter of the Blacks doing an elf’s work! ...Of course, Nymphadora was hopeless.”
Harry took her hand in his. “Thank you, Mrs Tonks.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Mr Potter. Just keep yourself in one piece so you can give Teddy a bit of extra help with them in time.”
“I’ll do my best. I’m in one piece to give him his present, anyway.” Harry had chosen a toy broom for him, and for Andromeda a tea set. Tonks had broken her old one so often that it no longer took Reparo, but Andromeda, tidy though she was, refused to discard it.
After Teddy was asleep, Andromeda put tea on, and Harry sat with her by the fireplace, lost in memories of Christmases past. His own parents had at least witnessed his first Christmas, his first birthday, but Tonks and Lupin had been denied even that. The thought was so bitter that Harry could hardly stand it. He did not let it overcome him, though. If there was nothing else he could do, he could remember the first ten Christmases of his life and do everything in his power to make sure Teddy’s at least were happier.
VI. February 1999
Harry checked the address of the tea shop on Broomhouse Road against the one he’d written down before going inside. It did not look like the kind of place Dudley would invite company. But, Harry supposed, it looked very much like the sort of tea shop Aunt Petunia would prefer, and that was probably Dudley’s only metric for choosing an acceptable meeting place.
Before he could think on it further, he made out the figure of his cousin waving at him in a corner and went in. They shook hands awkwardly and for several minutes sat reading the tea list with more attention than it really warranted. Once the waitress came over, though, they had to order and give up their menus, which left them with nothing to preoccupy them until their tea arrived.
Dudley cleared his throat. “So. You - got through everything all right, then?”
“Well enough. You?”
“Bit of a dull year, but fine besides.”
A dull year sounded pleasant to Harry, all things considered, but he doubted Dudley had enjoyed it. “How’d you keep from going spare?”
“Your wi- erm, they set up a television, and a gym.” Dudley leaned closer. “Fit a bit more equipment into half a basement than you’d expect, I’ll tell you.”
“I’ll bet,” Harry grinned. “You haven’t gone back to Smeltings, I take it?”
“No, I don’t miss the place. I was never much of one for school, was I?”
The honest answer was no, but Harry merely shrugged. “So. Er. Well, are you working, or...”
“Employment training. I’m going to become a fitness coach,” Dudley said proudly.
Harry felt a genuine smile tug at his mouth. “That’s great, Dudley. It’ll suit you well, that.”
“Hope so.” Dudley seemed at a loss for what to say next, as did Harry. Their tea arrived, which provided another temporary distraction. An idea seemed to strike Dudley, and he looked up and said, “So. What do wi- er, what do you lot do for exercise, then?”
Harry glanced around and satisfied himself that no Muggles were within a few yards of them. He cast a wordless Muffliato just to be safe. “Doing magic uses energy, and there’s a lot more walking to Appari- er, there’s more walking day-to-day.” Harry decided to save the more arcane details for another conversation. “A lot of people do sport as well, and for some jobs there’s physical training.”
“Including yours?”
“Including mine. Law enforcement.”
Dudley looked to be thinking the whole thing over for a minute. “Law enforcement, like inspector’s work?”
“Something like that.”
“Sounds about right for you,” Dudley said, cracking a smile. “What’s it like?”
“Being an Auror?”
“Is that what they’re called?”
“Yeah. The training keeps me pretty busy, but I like it that way.”
“Go on,” Dudley said hesitantly, “you know, if you’re allowed - ”
“I can tell you some stuff, yeah,” Harry said. He thought of how best to begin. “There’s a lot of physical stuff. I mean, even with magic, you need to be quick. Agile.” And to fight your way out of a tight spot even if you got disarmed; Harry had sustained more bruises than he could count in hand-to-hand, and he was the best one at it, too. Without thinking of it, though, he added, “I like the way it wears me out a bit. Helps me sleep a lot better than it would otherwise, I’ll tell you.”
“You have trouble sleeping, then?” asked Dudley.
Harry was taken aback by this bit of keenness. It wasn’t a matter he often discussed, but he supposed Dudley wouldn't start gossip about this sign of the Chosen One’s touching sensitivity - or dangerous instability. “I’ve seen some things,” he said. “Makes sleeping hard.” He suspected Ginny’s enthusiasm for the punishing regime of professional-level training had a similar origin. The two of them were about evenly matched at arm wrestling now, although Harry wouldn’t challenge the Harpies’ Beaters if his life depended on it.
Dudley seemed to pick up on Harry’s discomfort, because he faked a cough badly and said, “So. There’s the training, and what else?”
Dudley listened to a few of the tamer anecdotes with apparent interest, and Harry kept on with them. He was surprised when he saw that nearly three-quarters of an hour had passed. “Blimey, Dudley, sorry to keep you,” he said. “Probably bored the pants off you as well, didn’t I?”
“Not really. And after all that we went on about Smeltings... Anyway, I’ll tell you about the new models of rowing machine next time, how’s that?”
“Sounds brilliant,” Harry said. He didn’t mean it in the least, but was surprised to realize that he’d agreed, more or less, to there being a next time. It wasn’t the strangest event of his life, but as something to owl Ginny about while the Harpies traveled, he thought it would still rate.
VII. 1 April 1999
George Weasley made no plans to celebrate his birthday, as he had done - as he and Fred had done - every year since they turned three, and no one agreed how to manage it. Charlie returned his mother’s owl with a suggestion to ignore it altogether - “It’s what I’d want; everything else seems worse” - but Percy thought they should acknowledge the occasion, if nothing else, to give some consolation to Mrs Weasley. Bill and Fleur thought they might as well go all out, if it came to that; Ginny and Arthur suggested a family dinner. Ron and Molly changed their minds every other moment.
They compromised, in the end, on a modest party at the Burrow, with close family and friends invited, and Harry quickly became of the opinion that even that had been a mistake. There was a tense, sepulchral air about the whole thing. George feigned delight in gifts that, Harry was sure, he would have really enjoyed sharing with Fred. After the first round of Ogden’s, people offered toasts to George, or to Fred’s memory, that became increasingly awkward, until Mrs Weasley, obviously close to tears, rushed to bring out the cake well ahead of schedule.
The crowd dwindled quickly after that, and soon the only ones left in the garden were the three youngest Weasleys, along with Harry, Hermione, and Angelina Johnson, who had spent a good deal of time with George in the last eleven months. George poured another round of champagne and raised his glass unsteadily. “Well, here’s to another fucking horrible year,” he said. “Let’s hope it doesn’t go by as slowly as the last one, unlikely as it is.” And he downed his glass in one gulp.
The rest of them shared an uncomfortable glance and sipped at their own drinks, not knowing what else to do. After a tense silence, Hermione cleared her throat and said, “How’s the shop, then?”
George let out a mirthless laugh. “Oh, the shop,” he said, and poured himself more firewhiskey. “Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. The one thing Fred would want me to carry on with, and I can’t do it.”
“Can’t do it?”
“Hasn’t ickle Ronniekins told you, Hermione? He does all the magic himself now.”
“Now, that’s not true - ” Ron protested.
“Right, Bill helps out, and the girls when they’re not travelling.” He slung one arm around Angelina and the other around Ginny. “It’s a good thing everyone’s taken a sudden interest in Muggle things as well, or I’d be out of business. I’m about as much of a laugh as Percy.” There was another tense silence, and then George spoke again too loudly, his speech slurred: “But on the bright side, if Mum had to lose a son, at least it’s the one she won’t miss, isn’t that right? Perfect fucking Percy back in the bosom of the family, and all it cost was the one least like him. What’s to complain about, am I right?”
There was another, much more uneasy glance between the rest of them, although Ron and Ginny appeared less shocked. Surely George was being unfair - for all the grief the twins, and Fred especially, had given Molly, there was no doubt that she loved them. But no one dared to contradict George in the mood he was in.
George refilled all their glasses again. “To fucking Percy!” he shouted, and, having downed the drink in one gulp, threw his glass against a stone. It shattered loudly, but no one tried to repair it.
(----> part two)
(Credits
Title: Nick Cave
Images:
i_rise_inside, falloutoftrees, sanskyicons, bloomyicons, frogxprince, olivejuice_icon, idylled.
Inscription: Martial
Black Mercy: Justice League Unlimited
Tirils: Leo Lionni)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Multiple; Harry-centric
Summary: Twenty-one things that happened between the end and the epilogue.
Rating: Teen and up.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is all JKR's; no claim or commerce here.
Author's note: Special thanks to aurorawest, an excellent beta. Any remaining errors are my own.
I. May 1998
It took less time than Harry had expected to get word out about Snape. People wanted answers, or they wanted their curiosity satisfied. One way or another, within ten days the Ministry, reconstituting its higher offices from the remnants of the Order, gave Harry permission to make the arrangements.
“Put the grave near Dumbledore’s, if you can manage it,” he told Hagrid.
“‘Course I can manage it,” Hagrid said. “Ye’ll be wantin’ ter give him a big stone, like the Headmaster’s?”
Harry shook his head. “No, I don’t think...” He was about to say I don’t think Snape would’ve liked it, but he had no idea what Snape would have liked. “Something small seems - I don’t know, better.”
The burial was a small affair as well, attended by the staff and a few members of the Order. Draco and Narcissa Malfoy stood at some remove, as if waiting for a gesture of the opprobrium that was, by now, mostly directed at others. Harry was glad that the Weasleys, sequestered in mourning, had declined to attend; whatever punishment Narcissa had earned, it would have been too much to demand that she maintain a polite distance from the person who had killed her sister the week before.
The Malfoys looked drawn and cast their faces down, although Narcissa took her son’s arm as Professor McGonagall delivered the eulogy. Harry was grateful that the task had not fallen to him. He could not say that Snape had not deserved what happened to him, but he felt a great sorrow that he could not describe. He was not sure what to do now, and Luna and Hermione, sitting on either side of him, offered little guidance, beside Hermione’s conjuring of a funereal bouquet.
In the end, he asked for a moment alone as they all departed, and knelt by the marker. The stone was cool and gritty to the touch, almost sharp at the edges of the inscription:
SEVERUS TOBIAS SNAPE
b. 9 Jan. 1960
d. 2 May 1998
‘Cineri gloria sera venit.’
Harry found that he wanted, absurdly, to say something, as if Snape could hear it and be comforted. He thought instead of all the times in Potions class when he had cast about for any answer he could think of, wishing he had the choice of not giving one, and he thought now that silence would have to do.
II. June 1998
It seemed a bit strange to Harry to be the one accompanying Hermione to retrieve her parents, but it was, as Kingsley - Minister Shacklebolt - had said, the sensible thing to do. The summer would be filled with nothing but funerals and cleaning up, tasks from which, he insisted, Harry would best recuse himself. “You’ve had a long few years,” the Minister had said, “and you’d best have a spot of rest from all this before training starts in autumn.”
Surges of guilt struck him at times, for being away from everyone and everything at such a time, but Hermione wouldn’t hear of his returning early. “The Minister’s absolutely right, you’d only exhaust yourself,” she insisted. “And besides, I need you here in case we run into trouble. I’m rubbish in a duel.” Left unspoken was the need to give the Weasleys time and space to mourn among themselves, undisturbed by well-intentioned sympathy from those who hadn’t taken Fred’s existence as a given for as long as he’d been alive. Harry did not want to intrude on their grief.
So he and Hermione took the Grangers along a popular itinerary of scenic Australia, Hermione gradually lifting the charms she’d placed on them. Harry received near-daily correspondence about the situation in Britain, but otherwise he and Hermione, as far as possible, avoided distinguishing themselves amongst the tourists. Harry felt it got easier when, having been surprised by an errant snake, he found himself unable to talk to it. “Go away,” he said, in English, and the snake did not budge from its place on a picnic bench. He tried again, and ventured close to other snakes as well, before he was confident that the Parseltongue was gone.
“Oh, but you’ll miss that, it’s so useful,” Hermione fretted, to which Harry laughed: “Trust me, snakes and I haven’t got much to talk about. I’m glad to have it gone.” And he was.
So they went along, taking in modern architecture and strange landscape, shorelines and desert scrub unlike any terrain that Harry had known. “I can’t believe I’m really sitting on a strand that’s got kangaroos on it,” Hermione said one afternoon, as she lounged in the sun on Pebbly Beach.
“What d’you mean, you can’t believe it?”
“I mean, here we are at the shore - and there are kangaroos here! Look at the way they hop!”
“Um, Hermione, you have seen - you know, things that are a bit more impressive than kangaroos.”
“Yes, but I’ve never seen actual kangaroos before. Although some of these are wallabies. I’ve wanted to since I was three years old.” She gave Harry a sidelong glance. “Do you ever think about - just not going back?”
“To Britain?”
“Maybe. But really to wizards and magic and everything else. If you’d never got your Hogwarts letter, or anything else.” She looked out over the water. “It might be simpler to live as a Muggle. Safer, anyway, at least for Mum and Dad...”
Harry, who was all too grateful to have left his Muggle life behind, thought it over for a few minutes. “It would be lots easier,” he admitted. “Probably safer, even now. But... it wouldn’t work, Hermione. It could never last.”
“I know it couldn’t.”
“It’s not who we are. It isn’t what we are. You could try to live as a Muggle, but... it would fall apart, Hermione. It wouldn’t be you.”
“Of course it would,” she said. “It’s just... sometimes I can’t help but imagine if things were different.”
“Would you want them to be?”
“Not really,” she said. “I mean, I suppose if you offered me a really powerful Time-Turner and memory charm... I wouldn’t take it, no, but I’d always wonder if perhaps I should have.” Then she shook her hair. “Lucky thing you can’t offer it, then. Come on, let’s have a swim.”
III. 8 August 1998
Harry had a fairly good idea of what his birthday celebration would look like in Britain, and so made a point of remaining in Australia through the end of July. He allowed the Grangers to take him to a fancy restaurant in Sydney and received a number of owls, including one forwarded by the Ministry on Dudley’s behalf. That, he thought, was the most surprising thing that had happened on his birthday since he’d turned eleven. With Hermione’s help, he managed to compose a reply.
He left Australia only when a full week had since passed since his birthday. He arrived at the Burrow just in time for Ginny’s. Having reached seventeen, she’d decided to go up for Quidditch tryouts rather than return to school. Harry was grateful to have missed, very narrowly, the row that Ginny’s announcement provoked. Mrs Weasley had hardly begun to recover from Fred’s death - nor, perhaps, from the shock of becoming a killer - but she was Molly Weasley nonetheless, and Harry could imagine all too well how things had unfolded.
As it was, the Burrow was tense, and shrouded in a somberness. The Weasleys, and George especially, seemed to haunt their own house like ghosts. As quickly as he could, Harry excused himself and found Ginny storming along the fields. “I’m not going back there,” she said determinedly, as if it were Harry trying to persuade her. “To Hogwarts. I’m not. After the diary and everything last year, and then Fred - ” and she burst into the tears she had been fighting back.
Harry’s own tears had all dried up, or else hadn’t come yet. He could think of nothing to say that might dry Ginny’s. “Well, you don’t have to go back,” he managed at last. “And you’re a magnificent Chaser, you know that.”
Ginny nodded against his shoulder. “Fred - Fred and George taught me - ” and she descended into sobs once more, while Harry stroked her hair.
When she’d finished crying, Harry conjured cold water for her to splash on her face. “Do you want a cup of tea as well?”
“No, thanks,” she said, with the barest hint of a smile. They sat there in comfortable silence for quite a long time, watching the stars appear. Eventually she said, “Harry? Do you still want - us...”
“Are you mad? Blimey, Ginny, of course I do! I mean, if...”
She gave another tiny smile, which was quickly replaced with a more serious expression. “So do I. But - no more playing the hero with me, all right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean keeping away from me, keeping things away from me, for my own protection. Deciding for me what is and isn’t safe.” Harry wanted to interject, but Ginny went on: “I’m of age now. You gave Ron and Hermione their moment to turn, and you gave me mine. I think we can only be together if you realize I won’t take it either.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve got to mean that, Harry. You were almost eighteen when you walked into the forest to let Voldemort kill you. When the same thing happened to me, I was eleven.” Ginny did not have to say the rest: And I knew less than you did, and I had no one along the way. Still she went on: “And I wasn’t on holiday while you were looking for horcruxes last year. It wasn’t all laughs trying to hide first-years from having to learn Dark magic, or getting used for curse practice.”
She had not spoken much of any of these things, but Harry could guess more than he liked. He could not defend himself to her. Instead, he only nodded and took her hand. “Right,” he said, “if we’re together, we’re in everything together. And if I start to play the hero with you, you hex me so that I’ll sneeze live bats for a month.”
“At least.”
“At least. But Ginny... it’s got to go both ways, you know. You can’t keep from telling me things because you think I’ll be - upset, or angry, or because you think they’ll make me want to play the hero. Your job’s just to hex me if I do.”
Ginny gave a moment’s thought as well. “So we tell each other... everything we can tell, past and present.”
“Agreed,” Harry said. They sealed it not with a handshake but with a kiss that went on for longer than Harry suspected was traditional. He had no inclination to complain.
IV. October 1998
Malfoy Manor was beginning to get overgrown and dusty when the DMLE finally got round to surveying it. They’d had it heavily warded and under guard for months, but with the Malfoys being held, it wasn’t a high priority. “You reckon it’ll be as bad as Grimmauld Place?” Ron asked.
“No, Malfoy was always socially acceptable, he’ll have locked some things away. Git probably doesn’t even know all he has, he didn’t know Riddle’s diary for what it was, did he? What’s in the stipulation?”
Ron flicked through the pages in his dossier. “About a million specified things that the DMLE picked up, then ‘other Dark artifacts, nature and quantity unspecified’ for us. Same for all three, and they haven’t been allowed to speak, either. Pity, because if they’d just left something off, we could’ve sent them to Azkaban.”
“Figures, though, doesn’t? They squeal on everyone else and save their own skin. Honestly, it had to be someone, and they’re probably the least threat of the whole lot.”
“S’pose so,” Ron said unhappily.
Harry himself was not thrilled by the arrangement, but he’d known it was inevitable. As it was, the Malfoys stood to lose their house and goods - Voldemort having expended their fortune - recompensing the harms they’d confessed, and had cells reserved in Azkaban should any more come to light. But Harry felt quite certain that they must have additional resources hidden somewhere, as he was that they’d been scrupulous in recounting as many of their crimes as could ever be proven - clever of them to lose their wands, he thought angrily.
But he could not allow the feeling to distract him. There was too much to do. The grounds and manor were old and massive, known to hold more harmful things than could be tallied. There was little hidden in plain sight, which did not surprise Harry. Lucius Malfoy was cunning, not bold. But there was a great deal to be turned up. Neville located a patch Black Mercy concealed amidst the tirlis, and in the potion brewery were jars that held what looked like parts taken from corpses - or, worse, more recent victims. At one point Parvati cooed at a pair of baby sloths carried by Mrs Longbottom, who snapped, “Keep away, it’s Jugson and Rowle, I’ll need cages - ” which Parvati hastened to conjure.
For his part, Harry proved adept at finding hidden books and concealed objects. In the first morning alone, he turned up some frightening-looking masks that whispered in seductive tones, along a cache of jewelry that was likely there instead of Gringott’s because it carried active curses. In the library, glamour-disguised and camouflaged by the merely nasty books, there were heavily annotated copies of Deathe Stopper’d, A Pure-Blood’s Guide to Restricted Arts, and Runes as Darke as Night. “You’ve got a knack for searches, Potter,” Savage said, gruffly approving.
“Makes up for being rubbish at Occlumency, then?” Ron joked.
“Nothing could make up for it, he’s worse than Nymphadora Tonks.”
The day’s searching left them all tired, Ron to the point of asking whether they might not Apparate back instead of going by rail. “Of course not!” Savage snapped. “How d’you think you’ll learn to blend among Muggles if you can’t do it half asleep?”
Ron looked more than half asleep as he searched for his rail ticket, Harry thought, and finally he just handed Ron ten quid for a new one. “What’s got you like this?” he asked.
“Late nights at the shop,” Ron said, stifling a yawn. “George is having trouble with magic, but helping out... I don’t mind it, but let’s face it, I haven’t got the same knack as Fred.
Harry did not know what to say at that, and was a bit sorry he had asked. “Well, you can sleep on the train, I’ll wake you in London,” he said.
“Thanks, mate.”
“No problem.” But though Ron’s eyes closed as soon as they’d taken their seats, Harry doubted that he slept.
V. 25 December 1998
Holding Christmas at the Burrow was more than Molly Weasley felt she was up to so soon after... so soon after Fred had died, Harry forced himself to think. He did not blame her. Being on his own for the holiday would certainly be preferable to any of the Christmases he’d spent with the Dursleys.
He did not get the chance to test his hypothesis. Andromeda Tonks invited him instead, and Harry resigned himself to the impending indignity of getting himself up as Father Christmas for a baby who would not understand the goings-on. Perhaps Teddy would enjoy grabbing tiny fistfuls of temporary beard - or stuff them into his mouth, as he did with nearly everything these days. It had taken Harry little practice to become adept at preparing a bottle or changing a nappy with the flick of a wand, but there seemed to be no means, magical or otherwise, to prevent the boy from trying to eat chess pieces, or from slipping out of grasp in his bath.
Come Christmas morning, Harry was unsurprised to find that Mrs Weasley had also broken the tradition of jumpers. Perhaps she would have kept it if the twins had not always received ones with their initials, and delighted in switching them. Fleur had, however, bought in France a wine-coloured one with a golden bear on the front. Harry had no sooner wrestled the jumper onto Teddy than his godson’s hair turned a brilliantly clashing, near-fluorescent shade of blue. Andromeda burst into tears, and Harry did not have to ask why.
He spent the remainder of Christmas Day looking after Teddy or, while his godson had his nap, reading and answering post that had arrived earlier. Along with the expected greetings, it included a card from Dudley, wishing Harry holiday cheer and asking if they might have tea together in the new year. Not knowing what else to do, Harry sent belated greetings and agreed that they might do. There had also appeared at his bedside a wrapped parcel from Kreacher, containing a hairball that had been spat up by Filch’s cat. Harry supposed it was an improvement on maggots.
Andromeda was feeling up to a bit of celebrating once again by dinnertime, and she produced a splendid meal. Harry was not sure if the mulled wine he had brought - Madame Rosmerta’s; whatever else he might owe Aberforth Dumbledore, Harry could not stand what he brewed - would be to her taste, but Andromeda seemed to like it well enough. They exchanged gifts afterwards. Harry’s present was, he thought, one of the most useful he’d ever received: Essential Spells for the Wizarding Home, personally autographed by Alruna Aiskew. “You’ll find it’s gently used,” Andromeda said. “It was the first thing I ever bought with money that wasn’t given me by the Black family.”
“Tonks - er, Nymphadora said something once, that you were brilliant with household spells.”
“I made it my business to do,” Andromeda said, with a tight smile. “Imagine, a daughter of the Blacks doing an elf’s work! ...Of course, Nymphadora was hopeless.”
Harry took her hand in his. “Thank you, Mrs Tonks.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Mr Potter. Just keep yourself in one piece so you can give Teddy a bit of extra help with them in time.”
“I’ll do my best. I’m in one piece to give him his present, anyway.” Harry had chosen a toy broom for him, and for Andromeda a tea set. Tonks had broken her old one so often that it no longer took Reparo, but Andromeda, tidy though she was, refused to discard it.
After Teddy was asleep, Andromeda put tea on, and Harry sat with her by the fireplace, lost in memories of Christmases past. His own parents had at least witnessed his first Christmas, his first birthday, but Tonks and Lupin had been denied even that. The thought was so bitter that Harry could hardly stand it. He did not let it overcome him, though. If there was nothing else he could do, he could remember the first ten Christmases of his life and do everything in his power to make sure Teddy’s at least were happier.
VI. February 1999
Harry checked the address of the tea shop on Broomhouse Road against the one he’d written down before going inside. It did not look like the kind of place Dudley would invite company. But, Harry supposed, it looked very much like the sort of tea shop Aunt Petunia would prefer, and that was probably Dudley’s only metric for choosing an acceptable meeting place.
Before he could think on it further, he made out the figure of his cousin waving at him in a corner and went in. They shook hands awkwardly and for several minutes sat reading the tea list with more attention than it really warranted. Once the waitress came over, though, they had to order and give up their menus, which left them with nothing to preoccupy them until their tea arrived.
Dudley cleared his throat. “So. You - got through everything all right, then?”
“Well enough. You?”
“Bit of a dull year, but fine besides.”
A dull year sounded pleasant to Harry, all things considered, but he doubted Dudley had enjoyed it. “How’d you keep from going spare?”
“Your wi- erm, they set up a television, and a gym.” Dudley leaned closer. “Fit a bit more equipment into half a basement than you’d expect, I’ll tell you.”
“I’ll bet,” Harry grinned. “You haven’t gone back to Smeltings, I take it?”
“No, I don’t miss the place. I was never much of one for school, was I?”
The honest answer was no, but Harry merely shrugged. “So. Er. Well, are you working, or...”
“Employment training. I’m going to become a fitness coach,” Dudley said proudly.
Harry felt a genuine smile tug at his mouth. “That’s great, Dudley. It’ll suit you well, that.”
“Hope so.” Dudley seemed at a loss for what to say next, as did Harry. Their tea arrived, which provided another temporary distraction. An idea seemed to strike Dudley, and he looked up and said, “So. What do wi- er, what do you lot do for exercise, then?”
Harry glanced around and satisfied himself that no Muggles were within a few yards of them. He cast a wordless Muffliato just to be safe. “Doing magic uses energy, and there’s a lot more walking to Appari- er, there’s more walking day-to-day.” Harry decided to save the more arcane details for another conversation. “A lot of people do sport as well, and for some jobs there’s physical training.”
“Including yours?”
“Including mine. Law enforcement.”
Dudley looked to be thinking the whole thing over for a minute. “Law enforcement, like inspector’s work?”
“Something like that.”
“Sounds about right for you,” Dudley said, cracking a smile. “What’s it like?”
“Being an Auror?”
“Is that what they’re called?”
“Yeah. The training keeps me pretty busy, but I like it that way.”
“Go on,” Dudley said hesitantly, “you know, if you’re allowed - ”
“I can tell you some stuff, yeah,” Harry said. He thought of how best to begin. “There’s a lot of physical stuff. I mean, even with magic, you need to be quick. Agile.” And to fight your way out of a tight spot even if you got disarmed; Harry had sustained more bruises than he could count in hand-to-hand, and he was the best one at it, too. Without thinking of it, though, he added, “I like the way it wears me out a bit. Helps me sleep a lot better than it would otherwise, I’ll tell you.”
“You have trouble sleeping, then?” asked Dudley.
Harry was taken aback by this bit of keenness. It wasn’t a matter he often discussed, but he supposed Dudley wouldn't start gossip about this sign of the Chosen One’s touching sensitivity - or dangerous instability. “I’ve seen some things,” he said. “Makes sleeping hard.” He suspected Ginny’s enthusiasm for the punishing regime of professional-level training had a similar origin. The two of them were about evenly matched at arm wrestling now, although Harry wouldn’t challenge the Harpies’ Beaters if his life depended on it.
Dudley seemed to pick up on Harry’s discomfort, because he faked a cough badly and said, “So. There’s the training, and what else?”
Dudley listened to a few of the tamer anecdotes with apparent interest, and Harry kept on with them. He was surprised when he saw that nearly three-quarters of an hour had passed. “Blimey, Dudley, sorry to keep you,” he said. “Probably bored the pants off you as well, didn’t I?”
“Not really. And after all that we went on about Smeltings... Anyway, I’ll tell you about the new models of rowing machine next time, how’s that?”
“Sounds brilliant,” Harry said. He didn’t mean it in the least, but was surprised to realize that he’d agreed, more or less, to there being a next time. It wasn’t the strangest event of his life, but as something to owl Ginny about while the Harpies traveled, he thought it would still rate.
VII. 1 April 1999
George Weasley made no plans to celebrate his birthday, as he had done - as he and Fred had done - every year since they turned three, and no one agreed how to manage it. Charlie returned his mother’s owl with a suggestion to ignore it altogether - “It’s what I’d want; everything else seems worse” - but Percy thought they should acknowledge the occasion, if nothing else, to give some consolation to Mrs Weasley. Bill and Fleur thought they might as well go all out, if it came to that; Ginny and Arthur suggested a family dinner. Ron and Molly changed their minds every other moment.
They compromised, in the end, on a modest party at the Burrow, with close family and friends invited, and Harry quickly became of the opinion that even that had been a mistake. There was a tense, sepulchral air about the whole thing. George feigned delight in gifts that, Harry was sure, he would have really enjoyed sharing with Fred. After the first round of Ogden’s, people offered toasts to George, or to Fred’s memory, that became increasingly awkward, until Mrs Weasley, obviously close to tears, rushed to bring out the cake well ahead of schedule.
The crowd dwindled quickly after that, and soon the only ones left in the garden were the three youngest Weasleys, along with Harry, Hermione, and Angelina Johnson, who had spent a good deal of time with George in the last eleven months. George poured another round of champagne and raised his glass unsteadily. “Well, here’s to another fucking horrible year,” he said. “Let’s hope it doesn’t go by as slowly as the last one, unlikely as it is.” And he downed his glass in one gulp.
The rest of them shared an uncomfortable glance and sipped at their own drinks, not knowing what else to do. After a tense silence, Hermione cleared her throat and said, “How’s the shop, then?”
George let out a mirthless laugh. “Oh, the shop,” he said, and poured himself more firewhiskey. “Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. The one thing Fred would want me to carry on with, and I can’t do it.”
“Can’t do it?”
“Hasn’t ickle Ronniekins told you, Hermione? He does all the magic himself now.”
“Now, that’s not true - ” Ron protested.
“Right, Bill helps out, and the girls when they’re not travelling.” He slung one arm around Angelina and the other around Ginny. “It’s a good thing everyone’s taken a sudden interest in Muggle things as well, or I’d be out of business. I’m about as much of a laugh as Percy.” There was another tense silence, and then George spoke again too loudly, his speech slurred: “But on the bright side, if Mum had to lose a son, at least it’s the one she won’t miss, isn’t that right? Perfect fucking Percy back in the bosom of the family, and all it cost was the one least like him. What’s to complain about, am I right?”
There was another, much more uneasy glance between the rest of them, although Ron and Ginny appeared less shocked. Surely George was being unfair - for all the grief the twins, and Fred especially, had given Molly, there was no doubt that she loved them. But no one dared to contradict George in the mood he was in.
George refilled all their glasses again. “To fucking Percy!” he shouted, and, having downed the drink in one gulp, threw his glass against a stone. It shattered loudly, but no one tried to repair it.
(----> part two)
(Credits
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Inscription: Martial
Black Mercy: Justice League Unlimited
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