Normality was one of the mysteries in the world. People seemed to simply be able to go back to it, regardless of what had happened. But looking beyond those veils, one could clearly see that they did it for their own distraction, so as to not be reminded of the horrors they had been through.
So of course education went on, workers arrived at their offices at appointed times and family members took care of one another. Draco had minimised his outbursts of tears in lessons to two a week, even Dumbledore had gained an amount of control over his own guilt. Ginevra spent her free time on the Quidditch pitch or wandering the castle in search for a certain painted person, Hermione had reduced herself to a library addict again and Luna was mostly hanging about the Astronomy Tower or in the forests with Thestrals, if the three girls weren’t out together for visiting Hagrid. Neville travelled between Hogwarts and London several times a week and was therefore almost constantly covered in ashes. Every evening when Harry and Ron returned to The Burrow, Harry would get to the point where he went outside for a walk or locked himself in, not bearing Ron’s constant nagging about Mrs Malfoy sharing their house.
Hallowe’en came, was spent at a crammed Burrow by half the people who had been at Hermione’s birthday party and went by as fast as little Teddy Lupin was changing his hairstyle. A specific wooden box had lost its last inhabitant to a Chosen person and his fiancée, Hermione finally having figured out with enormous upset where Draco had gotten the condoms from he was so generously dividing among the three couples, leaving the big house the morning after with only half her breakfast eaten and outraged mutters about Dumbledore having served the entire wizarding community with toiletries, then Apparating to Hogsmeade for buying wool.
The very evening, they had been delivered the news that not a single Death Eater who had been awaiting trial in Ministry cells, had survived the previous night.
Thick snow was falling now and everyone was gathered in said house again, for a combination of Christmas- and After-N.E.W.T.-Celebration. On a white Christmas Morning with silvery grey clouds outside, they sat together by the fire and a blinding tree; Luna had insisted on decorating it; having been too tired from the dinner that still filled their stomachs, for passing on any presents on the previous evening. Luckily there had not been any murders or other horrendous accidents overnight, so even Kingsley was able to enjoy his two days off.
Ginevra had just smacked a bright neon pink and blue striped rompers at George’s equally broad grin and then unwrapped an expected refilling of what she had gotten for the last two birthdays, with their mother’s note that he was becoming uncreative; in between her outbursts of tears when she noticed it was the first Christmas with one of her sons missing forever. But Ginevra had dismissed it with amazed moans at some new products. Harry had received such as well, lastly quite tempted to follow Ginevra’s first example when he found himself with a bottle in hand that contained nothing but reeking lard and its label read `Essence of Snape – the new wonder tonic for men that suffer from Quidditch-Hair´.
Of course, Luna’s presents had been the most challenging – in terms of understanding. But they were so individual and perfectly chosen that none of them dared to exchange their opinion and only mumbled their thanks to her, trying not to look at the shimmering bright green woollen skirt with orange bobbles Hermione had knitted her. The rest of them had been forced into typical Weasley-Jumpers, even Kingsley and Fleur, having received complaints about theirs being far more elegant and of better colours. Harry had only gotten socks from her this year, proudly wearing the differently coloured warming pieces, occasionally snatching the one or other sweet from Ron’s lap. Hermione’s was meanwhile loaded with books. Therefore it was Hannah to jump up when Errol crashed into the window, what seemed to be the millionth time in his surprisingly long life. She carried the disorientated owl over to the fire along with the letters which she only eyeballed.
“What’s it?”, Draco asked over one of the unbearable Christmas songs of Celestina Warbeck, but received his letter from her, his mother sliding closer immediately. “Don’t say – Minerva’s overtrumped herself. Torturing us at Christmas.”
“Oh no – ”, Neville moaned, just staring at his envelope while Draco already tore his open.
“What is that one?”, Arthur asked when she sat back down with it and opened it as well.
“It’s for all of us.”
“Yes!”, Draco cheered, earning himself a thick kiss on the cheek from his mother. “An E in Herbology! I thought I’d fail that!”
“Seems, my advices were of use at last.”, chuckled Neville. “Now everyone look at that! I beat Draco Malfoy! An O!”, the applause was of course big, but he silenced it quickly. “I even managed to get an E in Charms as well. And I don’t think D.A.D.A. needs to be questioned here.”
“Same as I?”, grinned Draco.
“If it’s a beautiful circle, then yes.”
“Yeah. I mean, I’d have been fired, if it wasn’t. right?”
“What’s your rest?”, Neville got up and slouched over for a look. “Braggart. Four Os in whole. I mean, look at that crap!”, he passed it on along with his own results.
“When is the presentation?”, Hermione asked eagerly.
“Er – ”, Ginevra leaned over to Draco’s lap where his second sheet laid, but Kingsley answered the question.
“On the twenty-seventh, at seven o’clock in the afternoon, in the Great Hall. What does Minerva write?”
“That she’s spending the holidays in Southern France with Aberforth, but will shortly return for the presentation, before they’re moving on to Rome.”, Hannah summarised, looking quite pale.
“You reckon, he’s searching for new breeds of goats there?”
“Ron!”, Hermione laughed louder than everyone else. “Not everyone’s life is as primitive as yours,”
“Hey!”
~~#~~
“Harry? Where is Harry? Has anyone seen him? Oh that boy – why does he always have to be there last second – ”, Molly muttered, her hands on her hips by the murmuring group.
They were all wearing dress robes already, standing by the fireplace in the kitchen, waiting for being allowed to dig into the pot with Floo powder. Molly bustled around, checking her children’s clothes, as nervous as if it was one of them to graduate.
“I’ll go looking for him.”, meant Ron and ran upstairs before she could touch his askew collar or warn him of not stepping on the creaking stair.
“Goodness, Ronald! How often – ”
“What about repairing it,”, suggested George, just loud enough for him to catch.
As expected, he found Harry in his room. A room he hadn’t been granted entry a single time within half a year. The door to the dim lit chamber stood ajar, but he knocked. Though as he didn’t get an answer, he slowly pushed the door open. On the desk, in the shine of the small lamp, he saw him sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring out into the dark, seemingly counting the few snowflakes that danced against the window.
“Bloody hell – ”, he aspirated when his eyes travelled over the walls.
One was covered in newspaper articles, the opposite appeared to have been painted in chequered red. But only a closer look showed that it was rows and rows of still photos. Slightly reflecting the light, a mirror shard was attached to the window frame above the lamp. Further above it; Ron still remembered his mother’s yells when Harry had manually nailed it to the frame at one summer’s morning; Sirius’ knife that had melted in the Ministry. That window-side wall contained slightly more lively objects, like a drawing of Harry Dobby once had made, but also quite a number of letters and a large pencil rubbing of runes pinned next to a list of names and dates in the same size.
There was hardly any spot left to make out the original wallpaper of the room. Ron turned to find a bookshelf behind the door in height of the wardrobe it stood next to, containing all school books they had ever had, and many more. By the wall with the articles to his right, stood the untidy bed. At its foot that pointed at the outside wall, Harry had carefully leant his old Firebolt into the corner, which he had been able to summon without much damage inflicted, even though it had laid in some woods for about a year.
From another lamp that hung in the middle of the ceiling, dangled a sort of Dreamcatcher that had enjoyed the full force of Luna’s artistic freedom. It held shells, wooden and glass pearls, seeds of some bushes and trees, crow feathers, five small grey stones from the Black Lake’s shore, buttons, dried Dittany buds, a single Thestral tooth in the centre and was woven together with various differently coloured yarns.
Giving it a quiet chuckle, his look fell back on Harry who was properly dressed and had obviously tried to bind his freshly washed long hair together. A busted black rubber band laid by his feet that once again stuck in one red and one yellow woollen sock. His shoes stood neatly below. On the chair, hung the Invisibility Cloak.
“Harry?”, Ron whispered, but he didn’t take his eyes off the window, in which his friend too was mirrored like some ghost. “You coming with us?”, no answer. “What’s that all?”, he studied the articles, but in the scarce light he could only read some headlines. “And that here?”, he slouched closer to the rubbing. “What are those runes, mate? Harry?”, Harry still didn’t move apart from his calm breathing and occasional necessary blinking or swallowing. “Hang on – Dunnahar? Peverell? Prince? What the – Eileen Amalia Prince – she – she died twenty years ago – exactly tomorrow – what’s – Tobias Franklin Snape – three years ago – and – and the same day – Harry – what is this!”
He hadn’t seen the wand Harry held, but he saw the little ball of white light that was coming from it, staying floating by the translation of the last lines. Ron read them aloud again.
“Our Hearts beat as one ever on – ’cross Time’s rivers of agony – and when the road hath reach’d its ending and we there meet our Master – unit’d forever we shall be, and block the well to stop the rivers’ flow – what does that mean? Did you get that from a gravestone, or what? When did you – ”
“It means that death is nothing to be feared.”, Harry said quiet, though hollow. “That we all meet again at the other side and that together we can make our pain end.”
“Did Hermione tell you that?”
“No. She doesn’t even know I copied her runes book. She’s never been in here.”
“Copied her – book?”
“I wasn’t as mad as to write down the whole content. A quick Gemino Curse. That’s how she duplicated the DA coins. Realised that when we broke into Gringotts. I’ve been training it for quite a while with some stones before – and eventually with that stupid tonic, if you can remember.”
“Yeah. Your acne. How couldn’t I.”
“Yes. But I hadn’t laid hand on it ever since. Until I went for Hermione’s book at this Hallowe’en. She’d had it with her all the time anyway. And though it’s your room too,”
“It’s mine actually,”
“I don’t often get the chance to sneak in and find exactly the book I need, lying openly on her bed. Maybe she’s put it there purposely, maybe Luna’s had her fingers in the pie, I don’t know. I copied it and left it like I found it.”
“You could have bought a copy, honestly.”
“You think they’d have a copy at Flourish and Blotts with her scribbles in?”
“Hermione scribbles into books?”, Ron chuckled. “She’s defiling sacred vessels of knowledge?”
“Guess, she’s learned from a Prince.”
“Tz. Where did you find that grave anyway?”
“Godric’s Hollow.”
“Godric’s – what? Really?”
“Hermione and I have been right there. We’ve been standing right next to it, but we didn’t see it. We were too focused on another.”
“Hang on – they’re lying next to – ”
“Yes.”
“Wicked.”, aspirated Ron.
“Not really. It’s a Peverell grave. You just read it yourself.”
“No. No way. You’re not – no – you’re no way related to – Snape – ”
“And if I was? Would it be so much of a problem? Remember? All Pure-Blood families are somehow related.”
“But he was a – ”
“Half-Blood. Yes. Because his father was a Muggle. He’s told us long before he confessed his – alias.”
“When.”
“Same year, January. Hermione asked for Cliodna Dunnahar. He’s corrected Slughorn.”
“Wait – there’s something – ”
“He was right. You just read it.”, Ron did it again, silently this time. “Slughorn didn’t want to believe him, but of course it was the truth. It was his family, after all.”
“But apart from the Peverells he didn’t say anything – ”
“Of course not. He already knew I’d had his old book. He didn’t want to be brought in connection. I suppose the reason why Hermione didn’t find any valuable articles on Eileen was because he had scanned the library before she could have. They’re on the wall, by the way. He must have – passed them on to that `J´.”
“Crazy!”, Ron aspirated at the articles again. “But they both died shortly after Christmas – even on the same day! Eileen and – ”
“Yes. No idea whether that’s a coincidence or not. There’s not a single written down thing on Tobias’ death. Nothing. The only knowledge I could retrieve from papers and J is that he must have left the two, but kept collecting articles from the Prophet he somehow managed to get. And that he must have regretted what he had done because otherwise – ”
“And how come you know he’d done that?”, Harry only shrugged.
“Just a feeling.”, Harry lied.
“And Eileen?”, the light ball flew across the room and came to halt at an article that was twenty years old and not even big, but big enough to have made it to the International Section of an edition of the Prophet. “A blizzard in Northern Germany? You think she died there? A bit far away, isn’t it?”
“Not far away enough when running from war. And why else would that article have been – ”
“So she’s left him alone too?”
“No. He went with her. I don’t know anything about the circumstances, just that she died in his arms.”, in the reflection, Harry could see Ron’s broad shoulders sink. “Just in case you still want to know what we’ve argued about before Hermione stormed after him to the docks. Yes, he’d lost his parents too, and if I’m not mistaken, he even buried them. And call me mental, but I think he might have even buried – ”
“Them?”
“Yes. Peverells next to Peverells. Who else could know, apart from a proud family member.”
“But didn’t you say Ignotus – ”
“Was buried alone, yes. But the same kind of runes are written around his grave’s slab.”
“You think, they gave him an individual grave to honour him?”
“Quite likely. And if you look at the dates, those Peverells all died after him. The first not too long after. I assume it’s been his son who married a Dunnahar. It would fit the dates and he would lie with his wife then. The next Peverell is a woman, see? She was born around his time.”
“Yeah. But why weren’t they placed in the same grave then? Honour again?”
“Perhaps. Or to break the connection. That no one goes after me for the Hallows.”
“If you want to tell me – Snape might have really done that – ”
“Very good, Hermione.”
“Hey! You know you can’t spend years with her and not get some of her brains injected,”
“Want to know how I got my glasses?”
“Er – what’s your glasses got to do with it, mate?”
“I can barely remember it, but when I noticed my eyesight to become worse, I believe I complained a lot in class. So one day, Aunt Petunia came to me with those glasses; the same I’m still wearing; telling me that one of my teachers must have felt some sympathy for me. She’d said they’d laid on the newspaper in front of the door and if she hadn’t been annoyed by how I – whimpered about my sight, she’d have thrown them away. So she’d let me try them.”
“Okay?”
“Tell me, how could a random Muggle teacher know how much I could actually see? How could they guess my dioptre?”
“Hmm. Yes, that sounds curi- second – ”, Ron stared up at the small article carrying a photo of Eileen Prince from her school days. “Holy shit!”
“Yes?”
“And I even told Hermione! That they look like – you really reckon he’s – ”
“Yes. I really reckon he’s delivered her his mother’s glasses.”
“And they fit?”
“Ron, I can’t see a thing without them, but with them I can detect a Snitch at full speed, no matter if it passes my nose or whatever two hundred feet away.”
“Guess that means yes. But – Snape – ”
“He cared for me, Ron. Much more than you or anyone else might be able to imagine.”
“And why did he treat you – ”
“You think, he would’ve been able to work against Voldemort with me clutching to his sleeves?”
“Good point.”, Ron sighed. “And hating your father had been quite a plus to make it easy for him.”, Harry said nothing on that. “Listen – Mum’s feet are probably already digging a tunnel to China into the kitchen floor. You’d better get your shoes on and come with us. We should be there in – ”, he checked a pocket watch, “Ten minutes! Blimey! Get going, mate!”
“I’m not coming.”
“Er – what?”
“I said, I’m not coming.”
“Hey, I can understand if you don’t want to go because of Malfoy, but it’s Neville’s graduation ceremony too. And Parvati’s and Padma’s. You should really be there.”
“For getting all the attention when they should? No, thanks. They deserve better. Tell that your Mum.”
“And why are you dressed then?”
“I thought I’d come, but I decided differently.”
“Okay. Well, take care of the house then.”
“I will.”
“And don’t drown in paper.”
“Hermione’s still alive.”
“Yeah.”, Ron laughed flatly. “See you.”
“See you.”
Harry listened to the sound of his shoes moving further downstairs and the short verbal battle he fought against his mother about the decision and having stepped on a certain stair again. Then, one after another spoke the words that would bring them to the fireplace in the Great Hall, which had been connected to the Floo Network just for that night. Last to go was Arthur. Harry felt some securing spells be cast from inside, then there was only silence. He could hear his breathing, his heart beating against his chest, the blood rushing through his body – then, plodding. Soft plodding on the stairs, getting louder, as loud as it could, which wasn’t much. He didn’t even startle when Crookshanks hopped onto the desk, though he was so big that he just fitted there next to the young man. But he purred immediately, gently flapping his bottlebrush tail against Harry’s legs. Harry moved his wand into his left hand for stroking the cat.
“Watch the house, please.”, he whispered.
As if understanding, Crookshanks mewed once, prodded his pansy face to his ribs and hopped off again, trudging over to Harry’s bed which he climbed equally nimble-footed and curled up. Harry slipped off into his clean black shoes and knelt down for lacing them. Wordless, he called back the light that was still hanging by one of the news articles and turned off his lamp with a flick. In the light now shining from the tip of his wand, she shortly went over to Crookshanks, stroked him another few times, straightened his black suit, grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and the winter cloak beneath and threw both over.
Covered almost entirely, he lighted his way downstairs quietly and left the house through the backdoor, which he locked magically. Once outside, he heard the quiet sound of Arthur’s protections closing back over. Then he dug his way through the fresh fallen snow on one of the paths in the garden they had created over the last days, passed the barrier of the Fidelius Charm in complete darkness and Disapparated with a soft pop.
Equally thick snow, untouched, but in a little lighter atmosphere. Candles or other sources of lights were burning in the windows of the old houses, here and there some fairy lights decorated a window, or, as it was with the pub down the alley, the edge of the roof. Some people were passing him in the falling snow, having quiet conversations. Harry stepped back into darkness and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak which he stored in his pouch. His wand however, wandered up his left sleeve. He had developed quite a habit for that now, and it wasn’t hindering him at all, nor did he have any troubles pulling it quickly. After all, he had once been told that if he continued carrying it in his rear pocket, he would end up without buttocks one day. Losing a hand due to sitting onto it was less likely as well.
He waited for another group to walk past and followed them to the church in the dim light of some streetlamps, a safety gap between. As he went through the front gate in the mural, his thoughts were with the graves on the other side. But he would go there later. For now, he scraped his shoes before the church doors, shook some snowflakes from his hair and cloak and entered the warmly lit hall.
It wasn’t big, but it was comforting. People filled the benches from the front. He decided for a back row in the left half of the small church, away from those he didn’t know. Only one came after him, visibly freezing under his coat and he shortly knelt down, made the sign of the cross and scurried to the fifth row where he squeezed himself to a woman that only shook her head, but greeted him in a whispering tone. Slowly, silence fell. And when the organ began to play, everyone raised, for a chant.
This was the first time Harry was knowingly in a church. Of course, his parents might have had him baptised here, but he had been too young to remember. There were other memories from that time he valued more, memories that were stronger, strong enough they had been imprinted somewhere in the back of his head. If he thought about it now, he had even been to Hogwarts.
The blurred image of a worried, young but familiar face swam before his eyes and he remembered some pain at the right side of his head. He remembered it so well now that he even felt a sting. As if a wasp had attacked him. And he knew that he had been brought there by his mother. There was also this image of a blonde trying to distract him, her hair worn most awkwardly and the memory amused him. It amused him enough to cast a smile on his lips. A smile, faint but honest, like hers had been, any time their eyes had met. Yet he had been too busy all the years to realise or even question why she had used to greet him with a smile. And now she was gone. They all were gone. All that was left were memories.
He had never been to a mass. Had never received Communion, knew no prayers, no chants, nothing detailed about any religious traditions. The only alike he had attended had been Dumbledore’s and last summer’s funerals. Walking slowly, the priest came in with a server. Harry studied them, his lips closed, but his hands folded in respect. He listened to the song that felt almost like magic.
Wondering why each of them had decided to attend the evening mass, he studied their backs, their heads, every movement, like a child that tried to learn from its parents. Hermione’s words mixed into the song. Yes, they might have been in there, with him. But they weren’t. Cursing himself, he lowered his head the moment his eyes had begun to look for long dark ginger hair, but closest he could spot in these seconds, were only black and shorter than his mother’s had been anywhere he had gotten to see her, and those of a little lighter natural red, in a ponytail, belonging to a slightly taller man with full beard who stood by her right. To her other side, was a slightly crouched woman, her silvery grey head decorated with a knot.
One row behind, another woman had her dark blond silk woven to a delicate plait. Some more women at different ages with simple hairdos, only two girls and a boy. The majority of the people that filled the front half of the church was male and definitely none of them had short messed black hair, or messed at all, apart from an old man with scarce frizzles that looked like the remains of a forgotten bird’s nest.
Only seconds. But his senses were so trained that he needed not much more to know the appearance of every person in the church and where they stood. So as to not attract attention, he tried his best to imitate them. The routine fascinated him. The devotion. Torn between memories, considerations and his studying, drunken in time, he was startled when the rows started emptying after a long while that had passed like mere seconds for him, though somehow had felt like days as well. They raised, one after another, shortly knelt down by their benches and lined up before the priest and his server, accompanied by the organ. The blonde on the right, that one with the plait, waited for the last two of the row in front of her to be out. The elderly woman had considerable problems with walking and was holding onto a stick, supported by the black-haired. The man didn’t move. Harry noticed the confused looks of the blonde before she left her row, followed by more people.
Should he go? Should he receive Communion? Should he just watch and listen and imitate the people once more, just like that red-haired man? It didn’t feel right. He had only come here for an excuse to not sit alone at The Burrow, with Crookshanks – and Arnold, if Ginevra hadn’t taken him with her so as to not having to look for him again, which normally took her days once he disappeared.
But by the moment he meant to leave his bench, the last were already returning. Sighing deeply but quietly, he resigned himself with the fact that some higher power had settled it for him. So he sat down, with his head lowered and gazed at his knees for the rest of the mass. At the one or other occasion he had to rob his eyes that had gotten tired; the aftermath of the snowball-fight before they had had early supper, was sinking in now. All he actually wanted was to go to bed, but he had come for a purpose. He wouldn’t let himself be beaten by little tiredness.
As the priest was gone with his server, people raised another time, one by one or in groups, grooming themselves for returning home. Scarves were being wrapped around necks or thrown over to cover heads, some hoods and hats were sat in place. Gloves found their ways onto hands and though the organ still played, they left the church, softly chatting in a humming cloud like they had when entering. Just one of the children was cheerful, a girl with dark brown pigtails and a soft pink woollen cap on top. She was eagerly talking to her parents. His head still lowered, his eyes on them, a smile drifted over Harry’s lips and he raised too, for the left, for an alcove that gave shelter to a number of candles on an iron stand, a statue of a female saint behind.
He felt some looks in his neck, but why bothering, when the shine of the candles was all he needed? Harry approached them slowly, drawn to them like a moth. The front row was empty, apart from some burnt down candles. He took and carefully threw them into a box that was placed there for the purpose. Silence. Loneliness. Not a single pipe of the organ was playing anymore. He was alone in the church, but somehow there was still this feeling of not being – of being – home, if he was honest. A number of new candles picked, he turned his head, only to find the woman with the black hair adjusting the hood over her friends; or relative’s; head, before she covered hers with her own. He hadn’t seen their faces, but it didn’t matter. They might have watched him, he believed to be able to tell from the younger one’s hasty moves, but that didn’t matter either.
Solely a weary smile on his face about the care, he watched them leave. With a thud, the church door fell shut and it was only him and the candles at last. Harry sighed once more and started setting them, slightly surprised that he had filled exactly that one row. He pulled a long match from a box, struck it and lighted the candles, not needing another. By the moment he was done, tears were running from his eyes, a sort of tears he knew so well by now, but nonetheless had cried again and again. His fingers crossed, he watched the little flames dance on their wicks.
Someone came walking towards him, approached him slowly. For a minute or two, the man just stood by his side, supposedly praying silently with him. Harry swallowed, then addressed him, in whispering volume.
“Good evening, Reverend.”, he gargled.
“Mine appears to be filled with much more delight than yours, but still, I wish you a good evening as well, in hope it may become one.”
“Thanks.”
“That is quite a number of candles you lighted there, my son,”
“For my uncle,”, Harry explained quiet, “My godfather and his best friend, for that one’s wife, for my best friend’s brother, another very dear friend of mine, two of my mentors plus the sister and mother of one of them, for a good friend’s father, my grandparents, my parents, and three for all others that went on the other side of the river too early. Eighteen. For every year of my life. For every year I was granted only by their sacrifice. I hope, I repaid them enough by doing the same.”
“Love does not ask for repayment.”
“But it wishes to repay.”
“That is right.”, the pastor sighed. “It seeks for prosperity to be spread.”
“And it would be just horrible if it had been in vain, only because people repress the memories of what happened.”
“I am assertive, the memories will stay long.”
“But how long. I mean, will it be long enough that they don’t revert back to their old habits? That they start anew? Make the same mistakes again?”
“That is on everyone to pass on. How we teach those that come after, is what their future will look like. Do not fear failure, Harry.”, his head zoomed up to the faintly taller, old man that had hardly any of his grey hair left. “Yes, I may be what you call a Muggle, but I have lived long enough already to have seen witches and wizards come and go in my community. I have known your mother and father very well, and I can gladly say, it does not need a memorial outside these walls or the ruin of their home to remind people of the love that saved their son, of the love that saved us all at last.”
“Yes.”, Harry nodded to the candles.
“You will become legend, dear boy, if you haven’t already. The actual monument, in everyone’s memory, the strongest of all. Do not fear, son. Look ahead with positivity; help build a world of light by showing how to learn from the past. A thought can be plain, can be simple. But it can lead to an idea, a dream, and if shared, it can move worlds. What matters, is the content of this idea and the will to apply it.”, he fatherly patted on Harry’s shoulder. “I wish you the best of all evenings and good luck for your future. Godric’s Hollow will always have at least one open ear and eye and a pair of arms for you.”
“Thank you, Reverend.”, Harry smirked. “Have a good evening as well.”, he only nodded, turned and left.
One more little while, Harry bathed in the silence, in the glow of the small flames. And as if finally being able to let them go, he gave the row of candles a smile, without tears, threw his hood over and went for the door. Outside, he was alone as well. Nevertheless, it didn’t feel that way when he carved his path through the snow, around the church, to a certain stone. A floral wreath leant against the resting place of Ariana and Kendra, some snow having fallen on it, but the magic kept them blooming as if they were growing just there, and he knew that Aberforth had been here as well, probably before they had left for France.
Harry walked on, to a flat tombstone, a thick slab, remembering the place well. A wave of his hand and the snow fell off, baring the sign, the runes at the edges and only one name. Ignotus Peverell. Now he had to pull his wand. He had never done that without. Tracing the lines in one fluent move, chains of little black flowers filled the engraved sign then, Harry not even knowing what sort of flowers they were, but he had thought of such. It didn’t matter anyway as he paced on, his throat constricting with every step. No, he hadn’t been able to let them go yet. But maybe it was the fact that the snow had been wiped off the two graves as well and it was clear that someone had walked in the area.
Like in summer, a bush of white hyacinths laid there, a little differently arranged. By the other grave, three white roses, three white lilies. Unable to hold it back, a quiet laugh escaped him. And ignoring the feeling, he stood there for some minutes until he turned for the shadowy figure, only a silhouette against the dim, few streetlights further away from the dark fingers of the old tree. He couldn’t see the face in the distant. There was no need. He wasn’t to see yet. A white mask was lifted and attached. The hood stayed in place. Routine.
He gave the silhouette a grateful nod. It turned on the spot and was gone without a single sound. A very faint pop later, he stood in moonlight, under a small number of clouds that had no snow to share. The moon was almost full, up there by the distant hills. Similar far away, it seemed, golden light shone through high old windows. He himself, stood by a gigantic heap of black rubble, playfully decorated by nature’s white glamour, a wire fence erected around and warning signs dangling from it. Harry stepped across, cautious not to get caught in it. The cooler air felt good, so he freed his long hair, shook his head like a dog – or a bird its feathers. He didn’t dare to climb up. First he had wanted to place a single of them right on top, but the heap looked dangerous. That wasn’t worth the risk. He wouldn’t want it. But for sure, he wouldn’t mind some exaggeration.
So Harry swung his wand a couple of wide times, until he was satisfied. Whoever would find it, it would definitely be a grand surprise. Retrieving his new broom from the Mokeskin Pouch was a bit more difficult, he came to realise. The old Firebolt was nothing more than a relic. It was too dangerous to even try using it again. Not worth the risk. Life was too valuable. Laughing inside about his childishness, he mounted the broom and pushed himself off the ground. In no time he had left the hill of white tulips behind and felt squeezed through a bubble as he crossed the enchantments around the school grounds.
The front gates were closed, but he entered through an open corridor in the near, flew towards the Entrance Hall and landed in the shadows away from the light falling into it. Some troubles more, the pouch was back under his dark red shirt and his ancestors’ cloak covered him flawless. Invisible, he peered into a warming shine. Some were sitting in the rows of equally orientated chairs, others standing. Up on the podium, a buffet had been set and the servings travelled around everywhere. The ceremony was over.
Knowing himself safe, he stepped back into the dark, stored both cloaks and snuck inside, straight through the chatting masses that didn’t really notice him. Familiar faces greeted him though and he gave them a wave or call in return. A little slow but quicker than he had expected, he arrived at the buffet, all his tiredness swept away by the sight of the bright smiles of his friends and fiancée.
“And I thought I had a problem with my ear. Seems it’s my eyes now as well.”, George had spotted him.
“Hey.”
“Now that’s not true, is it?”, Ginevra chuckled and welcomed him with a mutual kiss, her hand brushing through his cold hair then. “Did you fly here or what?”
“Just up from Hogsmeade.”
“Didn’t you say – ”, Ron started, but was cut off.
“I had to do something.”
“And what?”
“Oh, nothing too special. It might make it to the Prophet, but if not, I don’t really care either.”, Harry shrugged casually.
“Harry,”, Hermione warned with a leery half-smirk.
“Hermione,”, he sung back with big eyes, causing everyone to laugh.
“Please be honest.”
“Well, it seems, I actually deserved my NEWT in Charms, I think.”, she frowned, not very pleased with the answer. “And Herbology – or Herbologic Charms – Charming Herbs – whatever – ”
“Harry, dear.”, Molly moaned. “What did you do.”
“As I said, nothing too special. Planting some candles and flowers, that’s all.”
“Who planted what here?”, Aberforth had joined them arm in arm with Minerva.
“Hi!”, Harry beamed. “How’s France?”
“Simply wonderful!”, the Headmistress was no less joyful.
“Honestly, pal, what did you do?”, Ron mumbled from the corner of his mouth. “Ow!”, he hissed then as Hermione had stomped on his foot, huffing him a warning, but her expression slid off the moment hers and Harry’s eyes met.
~~#~~