"Whether 'Tis Nobler"
Author: bennmorland / spqr_4_the_dead
Title: "Whether 'Tis Nobler"
Challenge: Harry boards the Hogwarts Express with Ginny on September 1 to take the 7th year he never got.
Rating: PG; for adult themes dealing with death and loss.
Word Count: 3,887
Notes/Warnings: Wow, I really got away from myself here. See if you can’t wade your way through all the introspection and DH summary to get to the H/G at the end. This is my first time inserting an original character, too.
As per usual, all characters (except for Eliot) and the world in which they live belong to J. K. Rowling; Warner Bros. and their crack-canon can bite me.
Any constructive criticism you have is more than welcome, but should be emailed to bennspqr@gmail.com.
Special thanks to my very patient betas: belladonna_tb and madoldmrsfigg.
Harry had been spending most of the summer deep in thought, the only respite being when Ron and Hermione had come to Grimmauld Place to help him and Kreacher prepare the house for his absence. He had moved into the house soon after the battle at Hogwarts, wishing to be left mostly alone with his thoughts. Mostly alone; Ron and Hermione had always been welcome during their regular visits. Whenever they returned to the Burrow, however, Harry had retreated into a constant state of reverie. It was therefore probably because he had much more to think about before he began the day’s journey that he decided to take the twenty-minute walk from Number Twelve to Platform 9 ¾. Harry Potter was headed back to Hogwarts for one last time.
A couple of simple charms Hermione had taught him made it possible for Harry to amble down London’s streets without worrying about his trunk bringing him unwanted stares and questions. It merely floated along behind him, shrouded in his Invisibility Cloak. Of course, the trunk didn’t have a cage atop it, so the cloak fit well enough.
Hedwig’s absence still pained him, but there were so many faces that he would never see again. Harry silently cursed Tom Riddle. Every time he thought of that wretched soul, his resolve to become an Auror grew firmer still. Although Lord Voldemort was dead, the wizarding world could not let itself become complacent. There were bound to be more wizards and witches who would consider it a fine thing to pursue the Dark Arts. Harry intended to hunt them down before they became powerful; better to imprison a Riddle than kill a Voldemort.
Nevertheless, to become an Auror he needed to sit his NEWTs, and pass them. He needed to return to Hogwarts. Until three days before, it had been uncertain whether or not Hogwarts was going to reopen in time for the new school year. The timing was close, but the house-elves and countless volunteer wizards and witches had gotten the ancient castle in a more or less adequate condition for classes to be held. Mercifully, the Houses’ dormitories had been untouched during the battle, so accommodation for students had never been a worry. As he thought of Gryffindor’s cozy common room, Harry remembered that he would be facing the coming year nearly alone. Neither Ron nor Hermione were going to be boarding the Hogwarts Express this year.
Hermione had informed Harry during the summer that she was choosing to delay her Seventh Year in favor of recruiting more witches and wizards for S.P.E.W. She had spoken eloquently about how the Hogwarts house-elves had been instrumental in retaking the Great Hall from the Death Eaters at the Battle of Hogwarts; even if they had not done a great deal of “real” damage, they had opened the Death Eaters’ defenses in such a way that wanded spellcasters could deliver the killing blow. She stated her intention to return to Hogwarts once she was able to move S.P.E.W.’s operations from her bedroom to an office of its own. Harry was bemused by it all, since Hermione had been the one who had seemed to prize academics above all else. He supposed, in the end, that this was a manifestation of why she’d ended up in Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw.
Furthermore, there seemed to be a groundswell of support for Hermione’s campaign. The Daily Prophet, once it had regained some editorial credibility, had published a detailed account of the Battle of Hogwarts, and “Kreacher’s Corps” had received its own paragraph. When Hermione assented to an interview, she made it a condition that the photograph used for the piece would be of her wearing a S.P.E.W. button. The letters sent in by the readership had been enough for the Prophet to justify a follow-up piece, in which Hermione had described S.P.E.W.’s platform. Not long afterward, the Ministry announced that it would be revisiting the centuries-old treaty that had served to castigate the house-elves. Harry wished he’d paid more attention in History of Wizardry, since then he would be able to enter the debate himself. He was finding, much to his interest, that his words were being heeded at the Ministry of Magic. He supposed this had more to do with Kingsley Shacklebolt having acceded as Minister of Magic than it did to any feelings of culpability on the part of Ministry bureaucrats, but he did not begrudge the fruit its fertilizer, so to speak.
In Ron’s case, he would be staying behind to help George run the shop in Diagon Alley. Harry was saddened that neither of his two best friends would be with him at Hogwarts over the coming year, but he was glad that George would not lack company. Harry suspected Ron’s decision was based more around the notion of looking after his brother than looking after the Weasley twins’ enterprise.
As Harry made his way through Muggle London’s busy streets on that seasonably dank September morning, his thoughts meandered to The Daily Prophet’s coverage of the war’s aftermath. Dolores Umbridge was to stand before the Wizengamot, charged with knowingly and zealously taking part in the suborned Ministry’s racist endeavors. She faced several years in Azkaban. The Dementors hadn’t all been returned to the island prison yet, but Harry had little doubt that Minister Shacklebolt would eventually get around to personally leading the campaign to recapture the renegade evil still laying waste to happiness throughout the land. Regardless of the lifting morale of the wizarding community, Dementors still had the depression of Muggles to feed off of, and there was simply no way to lift their spirits without breaking the International Statute of Secrecy. The Muggle Prime Minister continued doing his best to hearten his constituents, but without wizards’ and witches’ Patroni, it seemed a hopeless business altogether.
A woman screaming after a pickpocket brought Harry out of himself. He felt tempted to Stun the thief, but a burly man put paid to the criminal in a suitably abrupt Muggle fashion. Smiling at the pickpocket’s just desserts, Harry kept on his way, hands in pockets and wand slipped inconspicuously through his belt.
He arrived at the station without further incident, and traipsed, cool as you like, through the enchanted barrier to Platform 9 ¾. Walking a ways further, he turned and lifted the Invisibility Cloak off of his trunk in one movement, making a show with his wand at the same time; he had made sure he would arrive before the majority of students and their families, but if he had learned one thing in his life, it was that caution was a good side to err on. Not the only side to err on, mind, but a good one nonetheless. He then donned his school robe over his Muggle clothing and stood with one foot flat against the platform wall, arms crossed and vigilant.
It was another fifteen minutes or so before a familiar gaggle of red-headed wizards and witches appeared on the platform. In their company was also a bushy-haired witch, holding hands with one of the taller redheads. Ron and Hermione seemed utterly oblivious to their surroundings, lost as they often were in each other, but Harry had the suspicion that they would be just as habitually vigilant as he. You don’t go through what they had without developing eyes in the back of your head, or at least learning how to better use the eyes and ears you were born with.
That thought brought Harry’s eyes to George. He was smiling, though not as brilliantly as Harry remembered from the past.
“All right, George?” asked Harry. Sure enough, George Weasley had easily spotted him as he came through the barrier and was already headed toward him.
“Yeh, I s’pose.” He winked and tilted his head just a bit. “Never thought I’d be yearning for a bit of extra flesh, but there you go, then.” He pronounced the word ‘yearning’ a bit oddly. It was a truly pitiful attempt at keeping a brave face, Harry realized. George was missing much more than a left ear, and the whole world knew it. Fred Weasley’s name was easily the most shocking inclusion on The Daily Prophet’s alphabetized roll of the Hogwarts dead. He had not been an Auror, nor an old veteran. He had been vibrant, life-loving, an up and coming businessman; and while he was certainly not the youngest of the dead, he had been, in some ways, the most youthful. The loss was evident in George’s lackluster attempts at humor.
“Good morning, Harry,” said a softer, more worn voice. Tall and with thinning hair-less of it now than ever, Harry thought, and less red, too-Arthur Weasley approached the two and pointed behind him. “George, see that your mother doesn’t smother her daughter, will you?”
“See you, Harry.”
“See you, George.”
Mr. Weasley’s hands went to his pockets as he peered up and down the platform. Harry didn’t know quite what to say, so he said nothing. Finally, after what seemed an age, Mr. Weasley spoke.
“Neville Longbottom’s done well on his NEWTs, I hear. Top marks in Herbology.”
It was small talk, and Harry doubted he’d ever been more thankful for it. He nodded as he replied.
“Yes, that’s what his last letter said. His grandmother was very pleased. I wrote back and told him he should think about a position at Hogwarts once Professor Sprout retires.”
Mr. Weasley chuckled. “I doubt he’d even considered her retiring. True, she’s not as long in the tooth as Professor McGonagall, but she’s no spring chicken, either.”
“Professor McGonagall won’t be retiring anytime before she’s forced,” Harry said, his lips quirking up in a smile as he thought of the scene that would accompany such an event. Harry allowed himself to daydream of many highly illegal Transfigurations of Ministry hacks. Hermione laughed further down the platform, and Harry wondered why his two best friends had not come over to greet him.
Arthur Weasley sighed. “The last year’s been tough on a lot of us in the old guard, Harry. With young people as upstanding and valiant as yourself and your friends being ready-and able-to take up the banner, don’t be surprised to see quite a few early retirements sooner rather than later.”
Harry was shocked into a new appraisal of the man standing beside him. Mr. Weasley seemed to be gathering up the wherewithal to say something important, and it occurred to Harry that Ron and Hermione had maybe refrained from pouncing on him out of respect toward Mr. Weasley. The man seemed thoroughly careworn, his shoulders bent and his breathing irregular, as though he had to remember to take a breath now and then. Harry reminded himself that Arthur Weasley had buried a son not more than three months earlier; a son who had not been exploring the world, raising dragons, or hunting horcruxes. Fred Weasley had had no greater ambition than to run a premier joke shop with George, who had been just as chaotic and upbeat, but now seemed a shadow of his former self. Harry suspected that his life, like his joking, was at best half-hearted; a piece of his very soul must be missing; as there was also, surely, from Arthur Weasley’s.
In addition to the gray in Mr. Weasley’s hair, there were lines on his face that Harry did not remember; sad lines. The face looking down at him-for Arthur was a tall man, still-was neither carefree nor happy. There had been moments of triumph for the whole wizarding community in Britain, but most of them had passed Arthur Weasley by. Mrs. Weasley was lauded for having vanquished Bellatrix Lestrange, Tom Riddle’s sadistic and most avid deputy. Percy Weasley had acquitted himself marvelously at Hogwarts during the night that took Fred and so many others: not least of whom were Remus Lupin and his wife, Tonks. Harry saw again, in his mind, Neville and Oliver Wood carrying the body of young Colin Creevey into the Great Hall of Hogwarts.
Mr. Weasley seemed to have read Harry’s thoughts on his face. “I regret so many lives lost, Harry, but we should never regret what was accomplished. Voldemort,” Mr. Weasley’s face solidified as he said that name, and he had to swallow before he carried on, “Is vanquished. The Death Eaters are dead, imprisoned, or in flight. Yes, we’ve lost people we loved dearly, but we’ve also gained the freedom to make those deaths worth something. Never forget that, Harry.”
Arthur Weasley fixed Harry with a determined gaze, his eyes showing more warmth than Harry would normally have given such a stern glare credit for. It was rather like the look he’d received when Dumbledore had berated him for losing his temper.
“Love your life, Harry. Bask in it. Don’t dwell on death while you still live.”
With that, Mr. Weasley ambled back over to his wife, who was weeping as she made sure Ginny had all her items properly secured in one of the train’s luggage compartment. Harry hadn’t even noticed the Hogwarts Express arrive, but looking at the clock mounted on the platform wall he saw it was well past time to begin boarding.
Ron and Hermione used Harry’s tardiness as an excuse to break away from Mrs. Weasley, and jogged over to help Harry with his trunk.
“Blimey, Harry, this trunk’s got to be heavier than Gringotts.” The charm Harry had cast earlier in the morning had long since worn off, and the trunk was most definitely no longer floating. George came back over, and together the four of them managed to get the trunk aboard in record time.
Harry exchanged quick goodbyes and promises to write Hermione and all the remaining Weasleys before hopping aboard the train as it began its chugging journey north.
Harry walked into the first compartment he found. Four Slytherin Second Years were already seated inside, but Harry was lost in his thoughts. Mr. Weasley’s remonstrance in favor of looking ahead instead of brooding on the past had struck a chord in Harry. Noting the appearance of Harry Potter, the Slytherins quickly departed for alternative accommodations.
Eleazer Eliot, a Ravenclaw Sixth Year-no, Harry reminded himself, he had been a Sixth Year; he would have to get used to all the students he remembered in the year below him now being his classmates-entered the compartment and sat opposite. Harry reached into his memory for something, anything, about Eleazer. He preferred to be called Eliot; he spurned Quidditch; he was fascinated by Muggles, and often befriended them, much to the agitation of his parents. Eliot had received three Howlers over the years, screaming about Muggle children coming round the family home asking after him.
Eliot nodded a greeting and pulled out a paperback book, the cover of which read The Once and Future King. “I got to know one of my Muggle neighbors over the summer, and he recommended me this book,” Eliot said. He had a somewhat archaic way of speaking, Harry remembered.
“It’s rather quaint, what with Merlin living backwards through time. Still, an interesting idea on which to retell the Arthurian history. Did you know that the Muggles have a subgenre of what they call ‘science fiction’ that is wholly concerned with divergent versions of history? Astounding, is it not, that anyone would have the gall to suppose they could dictate how history would differ if but one thing be changed?”
Harry was not at all astounded. It was a particular pastime of his to imagine alternative outcomes if certain events in his life had occurred differently. “If” was one of Harry’s favorite words. Still, he could not bring himself to become interested in Eliot’s prattling. He was about to excuse himself quietly when Eliot spoke.
“You and Ginny Weasley are almost like Launcelot and Guinevere, according to this author’s imaginings.”
Harry blinked.
Looking up from his reading, Eliot explained himself. “I’ve been watching you this past while, Harry-if I may call you by your Christian name?-and you seem to wrestle with your conscience too much. Furthermore, you will spurn the woman you love in the name of honor and duty, pretending yourself that it is in her own interest. That’s Launcelot, a typical Gryffindor.” He sniffed.
“I misspoke when I likened Ginny to Guinevere, upon further thought. No, their only similarity lies in how patient she has been. Any dolt with half an eye and a quarter-brain knows she’s been chasing after you for years. But, unlike Guinevere, she won’t wait forever. Your life as a knight errant is finished, Harry, and now is the time to put your mind toward more domestic concerns.”
Harry was about to challenge Eliot as to just where he thought he could get off intruding, when Luna Lovegood entered the compartment, with Ginny. Any thoughts of anger he had toward Eliot were washed away like shadows under a red-haired, brown-eyed rising sun.
“Hello, Harry, hello, Eliot,” Luna’s greeting came out in one breath. Her breezy voice seemed to flow through the door after her. She sat down beside Harry. Ginny, Harry noticed, stopped cold for a few moments before sitting on Luna’s opposite side.
“I do believe we are all Sevenths this year,” Eliot said, closing the evil book.
“Dean will also be in our year,” Ginny said, almost like an afterthought. “Cho’s gone, of course.” That last was said with a measure of satisfaction.
Dean Thomas, having been unable to establish a pureblood pedigree to satisfy Dolores Umbridge’s cabal of Muggle-born-haters, had been forced to live on the run for most of the previous school year; this had not kept him from fighting at the Battle of Hogwarts after having escaped with Harry, Ron, and Hermione from the Malfoys’ mansion. Harry blinked as his mind’s eye resurrected the sight of Dobby reeling with a knife stuck in his chest.
Cho Chang, being pureblood enough to establish her pedigree, had graduated from Hogwarts the year before at the end of Harry’s Sixth Year. It was odd that Ginny should bring her up now. Harry didn’t begrudge Cho any longer for Marietta Edgecome’s betrayal of Dumbledore’s Army; it had been outside of her control, after all. Still, things had remained awkward until Harry lost sight of her completely after he and Ginny had kissed after the Gryffindor Quidditch victory the next year.
He shut his eyes again, savoring the far better memory associated with that day.
“Daddy says he’s very sorry, Harry,” came Luna’s voice. Her unblinking gray eyes fixed on Harry’s as she continued. “I don’t know why. I think a Screwbolt Poddingweel has bitten him, though, since whenever I mention you, he can’t look anyone in the eye. But he did want me to let you know.”
Harry couldn’t help but smile. He pitied Xenophilius Lovegood, for as he looked across Luna at the other girl, he understood perfectly what might make such a loyal servant of right and justice cave to the wishes of an evil such as Voldemort. Mr. Weasley’s words echoed in Harry’s mind.
Love your life, Harry. Bask in it. Don’t dwell on death while you still live.
“Ginny, could we talk alone?” The words were out of his mouth before he knew what he was doing.
“Oh!” cried Eliot suddenly, “Luna, let us away and inquire after the pumpkin pasties.”
Luna wasn’t a Ravenclaw for naught. She picked up on the cue immediately. “Bye, Harry, bye, Ginny.”
The door slid shut behind the pair as Harry was left alone with Ginny for the first time since-it took him not a moment to remember-that day at the Burrow, in her bedroom, where she gave him his birthday present.
“Muffliato.” Ginny had spoken the spell quickly. She’d turned 17 over the summer, and could cast magic outside of school now. Being Ron’s sister and a friend of Hermione, and having a much more capable brain for magic than Harry, he was not surprised to see her utilizing one of the Half-Blood Prince’s spells. Still, he did not think it boded well that she was silencing their compartment to the outside world.
Ginny sat still for a moment, as if casting the spell had frozen her. Then, with quick flick of her wand, the blinds were drawn closed. Harry swallowed, and began to regret his purposeful unavailability over the summer. What diabolical situation had he gotten himself into, scorning this young lady in favor of his privacy?
Slowly, she turned her head and considered him with a haughty stare. He felt himself being weighed, measured, found wanting. He felt very much the little boy.
In an instant, the sternness in her face melted, and she smiled a bit. Her hand reached up, and she batted a finger on the underside of his chin.
“I’m not going to kill you, Harry. I wanted to scream at you, but that would be pointless. I think I’ve screamed enough at you inside your own head.”
Harry nodded, smiled gratefully. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by the way she could so easily see the nature of his troubles. When he had done the noble thing, as Eliot had called it, after Dumbledore’s funeral she had seen right through him. And she had let him know, his next birthday, that she wasn’t going to have any of it. It had been a parting gift, that kiss, but also a message in and of itself. It had helped to sustain him while he marched, alone and invisible, into the Forbidden Forest that night at Hogwarts.
Harry had thought he could put his gratitude into words, but now that he looked into those brown eyes, framed by eyebrows that he suddenly wanted to trace with his fingers and a nose whose tip his stomach was ordering him to lay a kiss upon, his tongue and lips would not work for words.
His body was betraying his brain. His arms wanted to wrap around her body, his lap to feel her weight, his fingers to feel her hair. Why had he not visited her at the Burrow? Why had he not invited her to Number Twelve? Why must their reunion be on a train full of students wending their way north?
So he could not find the words right now. Mr. Weasley had reminded Harry that he had time, that he did not have to live all at once. But Harry had to let her know, had to tell her that he wasn’t quite done torturing himself with the visions from his memory.
“I have a lot to tell you.”
“Tell me tomorrow.”
She sat closer, her thigh touching his. His hand rose of its own accord and lay on the back of her neck, feeling the familiar contours there. He stroked the skin there lightly, feeling her hair, reassuring himself that his journey was done, that he was headed home.
She put her head back, shutting her eyes, and leaned to place her head on his shoulder, her head sliding after a moment so that her cheek rested on his chest.
He would not be so alone this year. And it was his personal tradition to miss the Sorting Ceremony, was it not?
Title: "Whether 'Tis Nobler"
Challenge: Harry boards the Hogwarts Express with Ginny on September 1 to take the 7th year he never got.
Rating: PG; for adult themes dealing with death and loss.
Word Count: 3,887
Notes/Warnings: Wow, I really got away from myself here. See if you can’t wade your way through all the introspection and DH summary to get to the H/G at the end. This is my first time inserting an original character, too.
As per usual, all characters (except for Eliot) and the world in which they live belong to J. K. Rowling; Warner Bros. and their crack-canon can bite me.
Any constructive criticism you have is more than welcome, but should be emailed to bennspqr@gmail.com.
Special thanks to my very patient betas: belladonna_tb and madoldmrsfigg.
Harry had been spending most of the summer deep in thought, the only respite being when Ron and Hermione had come to Grimmauld Place to help him and Kreacher prepare the house for his absence. He had moved into the house soon after the battle at Hogwarts, wishing to be left mostly alone with his thoughts. Mostly alone; Ron and Hermione had always been welcome during their regular visits. Whenever they returned to the Burrow, however, Harry had retreated into a constant state of reverie. It was therefore probably because he had much more to think about before he began the day’s journey that he decided to take the twenty-minute walk from Number Twelve to Platform 9 ¾. Harry Potter was headed back to Hogwarts for one last time.
A couple of simple charms Hermione had taught him made it possible for Harry to amble down London’s streets without worrying about his trunk bringing him unwanted stares and questions. It merely floated along behind him, shrouded in his Invisibility Cloak. Of course, the trunk didn’t have a cage atop it, so the cloak fit well enough.
Hedwig’s absence still pained him, but there were so many faces that he would never see again. Harry silently cursed Tom Riddle. Every time he thought of that wretched soul, his resolve to become an Auror grew firmer still. Although Lord Voldemort was dead, the wizarding world could not let itself become complacent. There were bound to be more wizards and witches who would consider it a fine thing to pursue the Dark Arts. Harry intended to hunt them down before they became powerful; better to imprison a Riddle than kill a Voldemort.
Nevertheless, to become an Auror he needed to sit his NEWTs, and pass them. He needed to return to Hogwarts. Until three days before, it had been uncertain whether or not Hogwarts was going to reopen in time for the new school year. The timing was close, but the house-elves and countless volunteer wizards and witches had gotten the ancient castle in a more or less adequate condition for classes to be held. Mercifully, the Houses’ dormitories had been untouched during the battle, so accommodation for students had never been a worry. As he thought of Gryffindor’s cozy common room, Harry remembered that he would be facing the coming year nearly alone. Neither Ron nor Hermione were going to be boarding the Hogwarts Express this year.
Hermione had informed Harry during the summer that she was choosing to delay her Seventh Year in favor of recruiting more witches and wizards for S.P.E.W. She had spoken eloquently about how the Hogwarts house-elves had been instrumental in retaking the Great Hall from the Death Eaters at the Battle of Hogwarts; even if they had not done a great deal of “real” damage, they had opened the Death Eaters’ defenses in such a way that wanded spellcasters could deliver the killing blow. She stated her intention to return to Hogwarts once she was able to move S.P.E.W.’s operations from her bedroom to an office of its own. Harry was bemused by it all, since Hermione had been the one who had seemed to prize academics above all else. He supposed, in the end, that this was a manifestation of why she’d ended up in Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw.
Furthermore, there seemed to be a groundswell of support for Hermione’s campaign. The Daily Prophet, once it had regained some editorial credibility, had published a detailed account of the Battle of Hogwarts, and “Kreacher’s Corps” had received its own paragraph. When Hermione assented to an interview, she made it a condition that the photograph used for the piece would be of her wearing a S.P.E.W. button. The letters sent in by the readership had been enough for the Prophet to justify a follow-up piece, in which Hermione had described S.P.E.W.’s platform. Not long afterward, the Ministry announced that it would be revisiting the centuries-old treaty that had served to castigate the house-elves. Harry wished he’d paid more attention in History of Wizardry, since then he would be able to enter the debate himself. He was finding, much to his interest, that his words were being heeded at the Ministry of Magic. He supposed this had more to do with Kingsley Shacklebolt having acceded as Minister of Magic than it did to any feelings of culpability on the part of Ministry bureaucrats, but he did not begrudge the fruit its fertilizer, so to speak.
In Ron’s case, he would be staying behind to help George run the shop in Diagon Alley. Harry was saddened that neither of his two best friends would be with him at Hogwarts over the coming year, but he was glad that George would not lack company. Harry suspected Ron’s decision was based more around the notion of looking after his brother than looking after the Weasley twins’ enterprise.
As Harry made his way through Muggle London’s busy streets on that seasonably dank September morning, his thoughts meandered to The Daily Prophet’s coverage of the war’s aftermath. Dolores Umbridge was to stand before the Wizengamot, charged with knowingly and zealously taking part in the suborned Ministry’s racist endeavors. She faced several years in Azkaban. The Dementors hadn’t all been returned to the island prison yet, but Harry had little doubt that Minister Shacklebolt would eventually get around to personally leading the campaign to recapture the renegade evil still laying waste to happiness throughout the land. Regardless of the lifting morale of the wizarding community, Dementors still had the depression of Muggles to feed off of, and there was simply no way to lift their spirits without breaking the International Statute of Secrecy. The Muggle Prime Minister continued doing his best to hearten his constituents, but without wizards’ and witches’ Patroni, it seemed a hopeless business altogether.
A woman screaming after a pickpocket brought Harry out of himself. He felt tempted to Stun the thief, but a burly man put paid to the criminal in a suitably abrupt Muggle fashion. Smiling at the pickpocket’s just desserts, Harry kept on his way, hands in pockets and wand slipped inconspicuously through his belt.
He arrived at the station without further incident, and traipsed, cool as you like, through the enchanted barrier to Platform 9 ¾. Walking a ways further, he turned and lifted the Invisibility Cloak off of his trunk in one movement, making a show with his wand at the same time; he had made sure he would arrive before the majority of students and their families, but if he had learned one thing in his life, it was that caution was a good side to err on. Not the only side to err on, mind, but a good one nonetheless. He then donned his school robe over his Muggle clothing and stood with one foot flat against the platform wall, arms crossed and vigilant.
It was another fifteen minutes or so before a familiar gaggle of red-headed wizards and witches appeared on the platform. In their company was also a bushy-haired witch, holding hands with one of the taller redheads. Ron and Hermione seemed utterly oblivious to their surroundings, lost as they often were in each other, but Harry had the suspicion that they would be just as habitually vigilant as he. You don’t go through what they had without developing eyes in the back of your head, or at least learning how to better use the eyes and ears you were born with.
That thought brought Harry’s eyes to George. He was smiling, though not as brilliantly as Harry remembered from the past.
“All right, George?” asked Harry. Sure enough, George Weasley had easily spotted him as he came through the barrier and was already headed toward him.
“Yeh, I s’pose.” He winked and tilted his head just a bit. “Never thought I’d be yearning for a bit of extra flesh, but there you go, then.” He pronounced the word ‘yearning’ a bit oddly. It was a truly pitiful attempt at keeping a brave face, Harry realized. George was missing much more than a left ear, and the whole world knew it. Fred Weasley’s name was easily the most shocking inclusion on The Daily Prophet’s alphabetized roll of the Hogwarts dead. He had not been an Auror, nor an old veteran. He had been vibrant, life-loving, an up and coming businessman; and while he was certainly not the youngest of the dead, he had been, in some ways, the most youthful. The loss was evident in George’s lackluster attempts at humor.
“Good morning, Harry,” said a softer, more worn voice. Tall and with thinning hair-less of it now than ever, Harry thought, and less red, too-Arthur Weasley approached the two and pointed behind him. “George, see that your mother doesn’t smother her daughter, will you?”
“See you, Harry.”
“See you, George.”
Mr. Weasley’s hands went to his pockets as he peered up and down the platform. Harry didn’t know quite what to say, so he said nothing. Finally, after what seemed an age, Mr. Weasley spoke.
“Neville Longbottom’s done well on his NEWTs, I hear. Top marks in Herbology.”
It was small talk, and Harry doubted he’d ever been more thankful for it. He nodded as he replied.
“Yes, that’s what his last letter said. His grandmother was very pleased. I wrote back and told him he should think about a position at Hogwarts once Professor Sprout retires.”
Mr. Weasley chuckled. “I doubt he’d even considered her retiring. True, she’s not as long in the tooth as Professor McGonagall, but she’s no spring chicken, either.”
“Professor McGonagall won’t be retiring anytime before she’s forced,” Harry said, his lips quirking up in a smile as he thought of the scene that would accompany such an event. Harry allowed himself to daydream of many highly illegal Transfigurations of Ministry hacks. Hermione laughed further down the platform, and Harry wondered why his two best friends had not come over to greet him.
Arthur Weasley sighed. “The last year’s been tough on a lot of us in the old guard, Harry. With young people as upstanding and valiant as yourself and your friends being ready-and able-to take up the banner, don’t be surprised to see quite a few early retirements sooner rather than later.”
Harry was shocked into a new appraisal of the man standing beside him. Mr. Weasley seemed to be gathering up the wherewithal to say something important, and it occurred to Harry that Ron and Hermione had maybe refrained from pouncing on him out of respect toward Mr. Weasley. The man seemed thoroughly careworn, his shoulders bent and his breathing irregular, as though he had to remember to take a breath now and then. Harry reminded himself that Arthur Weasley had buried a son not more than three months earlier; a son who had not been exploring the world, raising dragons, or hunting horcruxes. Fred Weasley had had no greater ambition than to run a premier joke shop with George, who had been just as chaotic and upbeat, but now seemed a shadow of his former self. Harry suspected that his life, like his joking, was at best half-hearted; a piece of his very soul must be missing; as there was also, surely, from Arthur Weasley’s.
In addition to the gray in Mr. Weasley’s hair, there were lines on his face that Harry did not remember; sad lines. The face looking down at him-for Arthur was a tall man, still-was neither carefree nor happy. There had been moments of triumph for the whole wizarding community in Britain, but most of them had passed Arthur Weasley by. Mrs. Weasley was lauded for having vanquished Bellatrix Lestrange, Tom Riddle’s sadistic and most avid deputy. Percy Weasley had acquitted himself marvelously at Hogwarts during the night that took Fred and so many others: not least of whom were Remus Lupin and his wife, Tonks. Harry saw again, in his mind, Neville and Oliver Wood carrying the body of young Colin Creevey into the Great Hall of Hogwarts.
Mr. Weasley seemed to have read Harry’s thoughts on his face. “I regret so many lives lost, Harry, but we should never regret what was accomplished. Voldemort,” Mr. Weasley’s face solidified as he said that name, and he had to swallow before he carried on, “Is vanquished. The Death Eaters are dead, imprisoned, or in flight. Yes, we’ve lost people we loved dearly, but we’ve also gained the freedom to make those deaths worth something. Never forget that, Harry.”
Arthur Weasley fixed Harry with a determined gaze, his eyes showing more warmth than Harry would normally have given such a stern glare credit for. It was rather like the look he’d received when Dumbledore had berated him for losing his temper.
“Love your life, Harry. Bask in it. Don’t dwell on death while you still live.”
With that, Mr. Weasley ambled back over to his wife, who was weeping as she made sure Ginny had all her items properly secured in one of the train’s luggage compartment. Harry hadn’t even noticed the Hogwarts Express arrive, but looking at the clock mounted on the platform wall he saw it was well past time to begin boarding.
Ron and Hermione used Harry’s tardiness as an excuse to break away from Mrs. Weasley, and jogged over to help Harry with his trunk.
“Blimey, Harry, this trunk’s got to be heavier than Gringotts.” The charm Harry had cast earlier in the morning had long since worn off, and the trunk was most definitely no longer floating. George came back over, and together the four of them managed to get the trunk aboard in record time.
Harry exchanged quick goodbyes and promises to write Hermione and all the remaining Weasleys before hopping aboard the train as it began its chugging journey north.
Harry walked into the first compartment he found. Four Slytherin Second Years were already seated inside, but Harry was lost in his thoughts. Mr. Weasley’s remonstrance in favor of looking ahead instead of brooding on the past had struck a chord in Harry. Noting the appearance of Harry Potter, the Slytherins quickly departed for alternative accommodations.
Eleazer Eliot, a Ravenclaw Sixth Year-no, Harry reminded himself, he had been a Sixth Year; he would have to get used to all the students he remembered in the year below him now being his classmates-entered the compartment and sat opposite. Harry reached into his memory for something, anything, about Eleazer. He preferred to be called Eliot; he spurned Quidditch; he was fascinated by Muggles, and often befriended them, much to the agitation of his parents. Eliot had received three Howlers over the years, screaming about Muggle children coming round the family home asking after him.
Eliot nodded a greeting and pulled out a paperback book, the cover of which read The Once and Future King. “I got to know one of my Muggle neighbors over the summer, and he recommended me this book,” Eliot said. He had a somewhat archaic way of speaking, Harry remembered.
“It’s rather quaint, what with Merlin living backwards through time. Still, an interesting idea on which to retell the Arthurian history. Did you know that the Muggles have a subgenre of what they call ‘science fiction’ that is wholly concerned with divergent versions of history? Astounding, is it not, that anyone would have the gall to suppose they could dictate how history would differ if but one thing be changed?”
Harry was not at all astounded. It was a particular pastime of his to imagine alternative outcomes if certain events in his life had occurred differently. “If” was one of Harry’s favorite words. Still, he could not bring himself to become interested in Eliot’s prattling. He was about to excuse himself quietly when Eliot spoke.
“You and Ginny Weasley are almost like Launcelot and Guinevere, according to this author’s imaginings.”
Harry blinked.
Looking up from his reading, Eliot explained himself. “I’ve been watching you this past while, Harry-if I may call you by your Christian name?-and you seem to wrestle with your conscience too much. Furthermore, you will spurn the woman you love in the name of honor and duty, pretending yourself that it is in her own interest. That’s Launcelot, a typical Gryffindor.” He sniffed.
“I misspoke when I likened Ginny to Guinevere, upon further thought. No, their only similarity lies in how patient she has been. Any dolt with half an eye and a quarter-brain knows she’s been chasing after you for years. But, unlike Guinevere, she won’t wait forever. Your life as a knight errant is finished, Harry, and now is the time to put your mind toward more domestic concerns.”
Harry was about to challenge Eliot as to just where he thought he could get off intruding, when Luna Lovegood entered the compartment, with Ginny. Any thoughts of anger he had toward Eliot were washed away like shadows under a red-haired, brown-eyed rising sun.
“Hello, Harry, hello, Eliot,” Luna’s greeting came out in one breath. Her breezy voice seemed to flow through the door after her. She sat down beside Harry. Ginny, Harry noticed, stopped cold for a few moments before sitting on Luna’s opposite side.
“I do believe we are all Sevenths this year,” Eliot said, closing the evil book.
“Dean will also be in our year,” Ginny said, almost like an afterthought. “Cho’s gone, of course.” That last was said with a measure of satisfaction.
Dean Thomas, having been unable to establish a pureblood pedigree to satisfy Dolores Umbridge’s cabal of Muggle-born-haters, had been forced to live on the run for most of the previous school year; this had not kept him from fighting at the Battle of Hogwarts after having escaped with Harry, Ron, and Hermione from the Malfoys’ mansion. Harry blinked as his mind’s eye resurrected the sight of Dobby reeling with a knife stuck in his chest.
Cho Chang, being pureblood enough to establish her pedigree, had graduated from Hogwarts the year before at the end of Harry’s Sixth Year. It was odd that Ginny should bring her up now. Harry didn’t begrudge Cho any longer for Marietta Edgecome’s betrayal of Dumbledore’s Army; it had been outside of her control, after all. Still, things had remained awkward until Harry lost sight of her completely after he and Ginny had kissed after the Gryffindor Quidditch victory the next year.
He shut his eyes again, savoring the far better memory associated with that day.
“Daddy says he’s very sorry, Harry,” came Luna’s voice. Her unblinking gray eyes fixed on Harry’s as she continued. “I don’t know why. I think a Screwbolt Poddingweel has bitten him, though, since whenever I mention you, he can’t look anyone in the eye. But he did want me to let you know.”
Harry couldn’t help but smile. He pitied Xenophilius Lovegood, for as he looked across Luna at the other girl, he understood perfectly what might make such a loyal servant of right and justice cave to the wishes of an evil such as Voldemort. Mr. Weasley’s words echoed in Harry’s mind.
Love your life, Harry. Bask in it. Don’t dwell on death while you still live.
“Ginny, could we talk alone?” The words were out of his mouth before he knew what he was doing.
“Oh!” cried Eliot suddenly, “Luna, let us away and inquire after the pumpkin pasties.”
Luna wasn’t a Ravenclaw for naught. She picked up on the cue immediately. “Bye, Harry, bye, Ginny.”
The door slid shut behind the pair as Harry was left alone with Ginny for the first time since-it took him not a moment to remember-that day at the Burrow, in her bedroom, where she gave him his birthday present.
“Muffliato.” Ginny had spoken the spell quickly. She’d turned 17 over the summer, and could cast magic outside of school now. Being Ron’s sister and a friend of Hermione, and having a much more capable brain for magic than Harry, he was not surprised to see her utilizing one of the Half-Blood Prince’s spells. Still, he did not think it boded well that she was silencing their compartment to the outside world.
Ginny sat still for a moment, as if casting the spell had frozen her. Then, with quick flick of her wand, the blinds were drawn closed. Harry swallowed, and began to regret his purposeful unavailability over the summer. What diabolical situation had he gotten himself into, scorning this young lady in favor of his privacy?
Slowly, she turned her head and considered him with a haughty stare. He felt himself being weighed, measured, found wanting. He felt very much the little boy.
In an instant, the sternness in her face melted, and she smiled a bit. Her hand reached up, and she batted a finger on the underside of his chin.
“I’m not going to kill you, Harry. I wanted to scream at you, but that would be pointless. I think I’ve screamed enough at you inside your own head.”
Harry nodded, smiled gratefully. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by the way she could so easily see the nature of his troubles. When he had done the noble thing, as Eliot had called it, after Dumbledore’s funeral she had seen right through him. And she had let him know, his next birthday, that she wasn’t going to have any of it. It had been a parting gift, that kiss, but also a message in and of itself. It had helped to sustain him while he marched, alone and invisible, into the Forbidden Forest that night at Hogwarts.
Harry had thought he could put his gratitude into words, but now that he looked into those brown eyes, framed by eyebrows that he suddenly wanted to trace with his fingers and a nose whose tip his stomach was ordering him to lay a kiss upon, his tongue and lips would not work for words.
His body was betraying his brain. His arms wanted to wrap around her body, his lap to feel her weight, his fingers to feel her hair. Why had he not visited her at the Burrow? Why had he not invited her to Number Twelve? Why must their reunion be on a train full of students wending their way north?
So he could not find the words right now. Mr. Weasley had reminded Harry that he had time, that he did not have to live all at once. But Harry had to let her know, had to tell her that he wasn’t quite done torturing himself with the visions from his memory.
“I have a lot to tell you.”
“Tell me tomorrow.”
She sat closer, her thigh touching his. His hand rose of its own accord and lay on the back of her neck, feeling the familiar contours there. He stroked the skin there lightly, feeling her hair, reassuring himself that his journey was done, that he was headed home.
She put her head back, shutting her eyes, and leaned to place her head on his shoulder, her head sliding after a moment so that her cheek rested on his chest.
He would not be so alone this year. And it was his personal tradition to miss the Sorting Ceremony, was it not?