Some days off. Everyone needed them once in a while. The fresh autumn breeze that messed with their hair was a welcomed change. Two months had passed since she had been forced to reveal her pregnancy to her team. Of course that had resulted in her sacking, but Gwen had ensured her to take her back in once the child was old enough she could leave it to her family for the course of trainings and games. Meanwhile she worked as the Harpies’ press agent, glad she had Luna to give her advices. She would also return to that place every few days, to the place she had called another home for some years, even though it had been as difficult sometimes as living with a bunch of brothers.
Every time she had returned, she had lit a candle at the memorial in the front courtyard. This time there stood two candles – and two arms were wrapped around her body from behind, resting on her growing belly. Two happy smiles gazed over the hills and the lake, ginger and black waves crossing their view at times. A soft, nuzzling kiss on her right cheek made those smiles grow even bigger and cost her a quiet laugh.
“I still can’t think of a name.”, Ginevra smirked.
“I can still think of too many.”, smiled her husband.
“I’m fine with any of them as long as Mum doesn’t force us to name her after someone from my side of the family tree.”
“What’s wrong with a little Muriel?”
“Shut up, will you?”, Ginevra laughed. “Ron’s having too much influence on you!”
“Oh not at all. This is my wicked brain alone.”
“If you say so,”, she sighed, her eyes drifting down on a long trench in which trees were wedged – and losing leaves.
“Aren’t you cold? There’s snow on the hills!”, he was surprised himself by the sight.
“I noticed that. But I got you, haven’t I?”
“You got me. And I’ll never allow any wind to make you shiver or anything else that dares to throw some coldness at you.”, his cloak moved to cover them both now, on his mere will.
“When have you learned to do such?”
“A while ago,”, Harry snickered, his head gently pressed against hers.
“Shall we go down to Hagrid’s?”
“Whatever that is the Ladies’ wish,”
“Oh stop it, whoever you are, using Harry Potter’s mouth to speak.”, giggled Ginevra.
“Who says it isn’t me to use my mouth?”
“Because that doesn’t sound like you.”
“Just because I don’t speak like my best friend?”
“I’m really glad you don’t, but that’s scary sometimes. Funny, but scary. You sound like Nick if you do that.”
“Then I will abandon a formal speech – and talk like that bloody tosspot of a best friend, okay?”
“Hey! Don’t you!”
“Are you afraid she could hear me already?”
“Dunno.”, Ginevra’s smile vanished as her eyes drifted over the landscape once more. “I can feel her at least.”
“I can feel her too.”, also Harry’s smile faded, if though not entirely.
“But she doesn’t really move yet – ”
“I never said I can feel her move. I said, I can feel her. I feel that she’s there. She exists. She’s – I don’t know how to explain – I – I just feel her – like a second sun filling my heart with warm light – ”, Ginevra couldn’t help inhaling the fresh air deeply when her eyes became watery.
“That’s what you feel?”, she gargled.
“That’s how I’d describe if that were the words for it. But they aren’t. I don’t think there are any to describe what it really feels like.”, like her, he couldn’t see the lands anymore. “I thought I was happy when found you looking at me, alive after Voldemort’s diary nearly killed you – or when I kissed you for the first time – or at the pitch after the battle – or when we sat up in the common room and you asked me – or when you told me there’s going to be a third of us – or at our wedding – I – I had no idea of happiness, I think. I’m nearly exploding from that happiness now, and still it’s all that keeps me whole. I’m actually afraid of what happens to me when she’s there at last. I’m afraid of seeing her. What if that happiness kills me and I’ll never be able to see her growing up?”
“Stop – stop saying such rubbish – ”, Ginevra swallowed. “Happiness can’t kill.”
“But what if it can?”
“Then we both die a happy death.”
“That’d be wonderful. I died too many of the other kind.”
“Let’s see Hagrid.”
“Alright.”
“Even if it meant that you’d get late for work tomorrow?”
“As long as I’m with you two I don’t mind missing the world spinning.”
Moving through the castle was an almost impossible task. At every corner they met people who wanted to hear news. So after having recited one and the same story about a hundred times, they passed the Stone Circle seemingly hours later. It was already getting dark, but they had Kreacher to bring them something from the kitchen if hunger should settle down in their stomachs.
Both of them had taken that path to the big hut so many times they didn’t even need to look at the ground. However, it was slightly muddy and slippery from the previous rainy days, so Harry had to hold Ginevra. In addition, her pregnancy limited her abilities already. Slightly staggering and with a slowness and ponderousness that had never been there before, she let herself be supported by her husband. Some laughter later, they reached the wooden door that already stood open for them. Hagrid had heard and recognised them. His big, hair-framed grin welcomed them. It was a miracle he still fitted in that door, but the joyful greet and the warmth of the hut was all they needed at the moment.
~~#~~
Crackling, giving warmth but no comfort, the flames burnt in her eyes, yet couldn’t fully reach her skin. Curled up in a thick knitted blanket she sat on the sofa in the otherwise dark room. In the corner, the glistening Christmas tree. Darkness outside and around, far away it seemed, a handful of white stars dancing down from the clouds. Upstairs, muffled by distance and wooden doors, Ron’s snoring. That though was not what made her unable to find sleep. She was so used to it that she barely heard it anymore. Everyone else had gone to bed as well. All but one. She knew the other was there, hidden in the shadows away from the flames’ light, studying her.
“I know you’re there.”, she whispered, surprisingly not startling the other.
“Thought so.”, replied her friend, equally low, but surprised her instead.
“You?”, Hermione gasped when she went to join her on the sofa, wearing a knitted pullover over her pyjamas. “I thought – ”
“Luna?”, Ginevra chuckled. “No. This one time, no. What’re you still doing up?”
“I don’t know. Can’t sleep. You?”
“Me neither. She’s been kicking me for an hour.”
“She’s kicking already?”
“Yeah. Not much with the little feet she has, but she’s got a talent for hitting a very sensitive nerve.”
“I don’t think I’d be ready for that.”
“What. Becoming a mother?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have thought I’m either, but I got enough people around me to help. And besides the kicking and still very occasionally feeling sick, I can’t wait.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. A year ago I’d have killed myself on the mere thought of ever being a mother. You see, it’s not hard to miss what Mum’s been through and still is going through with the bunch of us. But despite the trouble, she seems to really enjoy it. Somehow I can totally understand her now.”
“That’s nice.”, Hermione sighed, sadly. “I don’t think Ron would ever be ready for that.”
“I think he’d be a good dad. Overwhelmed, of course, but he’s gotten really good with Teddie.”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m sure he’d be there for our child. Or children. Like – ”
“Are you pregnant or what?”
“What?”, her breath got stuck. “No! Well – not that I know. But – ”
“Are you on about that again?”
“What again?”
“Don’t take me for a mug, Hermione.”, she snorted, still quietly. “It’s getting a bit annoying, really.”
“What – ”
“We’re days from hitting a new Millennium. You’ve known for three years and still you keep complaining about affairs that were never yours to bother.”
“Well, forgive me that I keep seeing the secluded result of the secluded role model. I just – ”
“Just what. Why, yes, of course they are more alike than you fancy to see. Especially remarkable given the circumstances of the past. Trust me, if Harry does one thing not, it’s idolising him. He’s become the way he is on his own and it’s neither of their fault that you solely happen to see the congruities. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re giving your best to find every tiny bit they have in common just so you can nag about it.”
“Nag? I’m not nagging!”, Hermione protested hissing.
“’Course you aren’t. Then why are we back at that topic?”
“Because you started!”
“Fine, we’ll let it rest. Or so I will, if you can. But I doubt you can. More than nineteen months ago he told you to live on. He told you to grow happy with Ron, even. And I know as much as you do that you miraculously love my brother. So let him rest. It doesn’t help anyone that you try to correct the past. There are things you can’t mend to your will; not even with a Time Turner.”
“After you’ve confronted him with what you knew about his and Harry’s relation – how openly did you talk about things? I mean, of course I can understand if you still don’t want to talk about anything that happened during that time,”
“Are you honestly asking me if we talked about you?”, Ginevra raised an eyebrow. “Well of course we did! Seems only natural, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t expect me to say that he’s been making up scandalous stories about you or anything.”
“I'm not!”, that really upset her, but somehow she understood how upset the other was.
“Look. No offence, but even Luna gave up trying to tell you to leave it. But while she may possess the ability to ignore others’ ignorance, it drives me mad. It drives me mad that you still blame him for the way he lived his life. After all you’ve seen, all you’ve gotten to know about him, all he did for you, you still blame him. And I’m not really sorry to say that, but it doesn’t help anyone. Especially not you. He was able to adjust to circumstances, very quickly. He was able to make the best out of bad situations he’d gotten himself into, and plan longterm, regardless of how much the universe tried to screw him up. You on the other hand, can’t really. I don’t know if it’s because of that; if you are jealous or something – ”
“I’m not!”
“That you are incapable of doing so, but instead of trying to do that yourself, you curse him to the grave – and beyond, as it is. You know almost all he was capable of and it hurts you so much that you aren’t, that you rampage inside. Hermione. I know you got brains. I know you’re talented. You prove it well enough. There was no need to prove yourself against him. Sure, you did, but there was no need. Because while he may have challenged himself to grand scale, he only did it as he would have gotten bored otherwise. I wouldn’t know myself, but I guess that’s one of the downsides of being born with a photographic memory.”
“A – what?”
“Don’t tell me you – ”
“Of course I know what that is! But – ”
“Well blow me!”, Ginevra chuckled under her breath. “You didn’t know?”
“No.”, Hermione aspirated, lightly shaking her head.
“He never told you?”
“No!”
“Well now you know. That’s why he was so ambitious. He understood that he was born with a rare ability and did his best to advance it, in a playful way. He made everything a challenge. Or why do you think he was able to speak German almost fluently within a few weeks? From reading a dictionary and interacting with his boss and the people in that village? Just because he felt the need to be able to deal with customers, should she be busy otherwise? Or why he’d done the same with Russian just because Igor showed up?”
“Wait – he learned two languages at the same time?”
“Seriously, Hermione?”, she didn’t like the look Ginny gave her in that drab light. “Asking me whether we talked? Did you talk with him at all? He didn’t manage to get Igor a job within a day as well because he used the Confundus Charm or something. He was just making the best of his own abilities and used them well to help others.”
“Hold on, now that you mention it – didn’t Karkaroff already teach at Durmstrang at that time? I never really thought about it – ”
“He did. That’s why Severus knew him in the first place. He was already quite famous. Or rather, notorious. As talented as he was at transfigurations, he was at dissecting living animals out of boredom. Or curiosity, whatever.”
“Excuse me?”, Hermione moaned.
“You know what job he got him, right?”
“Yes.”, she could vaguely remember. “At a butcher’s. Karkaroff told me himself.”
“Well guess why. Severus did know the man had issues and found the best solution.”
“Interesting. So Karkaroff simply decided to stay with him – ”
“Yes. They bonded very quickly, regardless of having been nine years apart.”, and they must indeed have bonded deep, Hermione considered, thinking back explicitly on one of Ginny’s memories Luna had made her watch once. “So deeply that Igor didn’t want to leave anymore. From what Severus told me, I think he found the first person he could be himself with. The first who understood – or most likely, accepted him the way he was.”
“Okay. I know that Severus liked to experiment with animals too. And that he was able to kill at young age. But is that really why they got along so well? That’s kinda – ”
“Gross, you mean?”, chuckled Ginevra. “I don’t think that is why they got along so well. All Severus ever did was testing spells on one single mouse he had somehow managed to duplicate. We talked about that matter. He said it wasn’t even testing on anything that could be considered alive. Yes, he copied the mouse’s anatomy and all and it was apparently breathing and able to bleed, but all copies he could ever create were more like corpses. Much to his liking, as he told me, as they wouldn’t run away. Oh goodness, don’t give me that look. I’m sure worse things’ve been done for science. And wizards are just as much saints as Muggles are in that matter. Also this isn’t about taking apart animals. That was probably just Igor’s vent for all he’d gone through.”
“You mean being a wizard growing up in a Muggle orphanage.”
“Inter alia,”
“Of course – ”, Hermione gasped. “Severus was the strange boy in his neighbourhood. He was always outcast for what he was. And mocked in school because he was so good. And if Karkaroff was also very talented but always treated like scum for it – ”
“Yeah. I’m really surprised he only became an animal abuser rather than an Obscurial. That’s what I meant by vent. I think Severus just felt the need to keep him alive. As he’d already saved his life in the first place. He once told me a saying his mother has told him when he was little. That you’re responsible for the lives you save. He certainly took that to heart.”
~~#~~
“Who’ll betray me?”
“Hmm?”
“What d’you think?”
“If you told me what you mean, it might be possible for me to tell you my opinion, you know?”
“My best friend’s an intolerant git, the guy I used to think of as a big outsider turned out to be a good leader – whom have I overlooked? Who’s followed me on the heels while I ignored them? Who’s my Pettigrew? Who’s my Wormtail?”
“What makes you think that every story repeats itself?”
“Dunno.”, Harry shrugged. “Sometimes things tend to pass on mysteriously in families. Usually in the craziest directions. Oh but well, Hermione and Ginevra are still alive – guess you’re right then. I hit that one pavement and only half of it.”
“You hit nothing, Harry.”, smiled Luna. “You have your own story. Of course some people will make one and the same mistake again and again, but that doesn’t mean that you have to follow their example.”
“I nearly did.”
“Then that’s the difference, isn’t it? You nearly did.”, she winked, but just then, a mew would draw Harry’s attention.
“What the – ”
“He’s lovely, isn’t he? He just slipped in when Arthur left for work.”
“Er – and where does he come from? I can’t recall there’d been a wild cat living anywhere near,”, Harry eyed the tricoloured, spotted cat sceptically.
“I don’t think he’s wild, otherwise he wouldn’t have come in, would he?”
“And she wouldn’t feel like she’s at home here already. Multicoloured cats are always female.”, sighed Molly who just came out of the laundry room under the stairs with a big pile of ironed clothes. “Good morning, dear.”, she smiled to him.
“Morning.”, Harry though had no intentions to fully take his eyes off the cat, especially not as it stood up and scuttled towards him.
“But it seems, Crookshanks isn’t so fond of her.”
“Can’t see – why – ”, the cat had hopped onto the chair next to him and straight up the table. “Oh no.”
“What?”, Molly stopped again, just one step from the now closed door and startled as much as the cat, when Harry sneezed heavily and the animal sped off to the living room so fast, it downright slid around the corner. “Oh bless you!”
“Thanks.”, Harry robbed his nose, squinting.
“You aren’t allergic to cat hair, are you?”, asked the woman.
“I am.”, moaned Harry.
“But you seem to be doing well with Crookshanks?”
“Guess, he’s enough of a Kneazle,”, he had no idea why, but Luna’s quiet giggle coronated his already bad mood eventually. “Probably the reason why I could stand Mrs Figg’s cats, but no one else’s. She must have interbred them.”, a leisurely stomping elephant came striding downstairs.
“What’s up here?”, Ron sang so lively that Harry’s contempt could rise fully again, even before the newly achieved illuminations had swept it aside.
“Down here.”, he quietly growled at the window Ron himself had stared at so many times when he had been in a bad mood.
“You shouldn’t be so mean, Harry.”, Luna meant, but he knew that Ron hadn’t caught his adding anyway. “You only have two brothers.”
“What?”, he listened.
“No matter how mean you are to them, they’ll stick with you. The problem is, you won’t be able to forgive yourself. This way you might break your own heart one day,”
“What’s she talking about?”, Ron frowned when Hermione’s feet came in sight and he turned the frown up at her, stopping her in place. “And where do you suddenly come from?”
“I came from upstairs.”, huffed Hermione.
“I mean, before. Where were you yesterday? It’s the second time you’ve been absent from the celebration – and there’s only been two,”
“I was there.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“She was.”, Harry threw in boredly.
“How can you say?”, Ron kept his frown. “You weren’t there either!”
“I was.”
“But you – ”
“Just because you didn’t see me, it doesn’t automatically mean I wasn’t there. I thought you’d figured that in our first year at Hogwarts already.”
“Sure, but – oh – oh! Blimey!”, Ron smacked his hand on his forehead. “But why going there under the – sorry – forgot you’re not an attention whore,”
“That’s right, naturally I’m not.”, Harry said grim. “Though sometimes I may turn out to be when my best friend seems to miss the basics in life. Then I try to make him as jealous as possible until he wakes up,”
“What’re you – ”
“Just saying,”
“And you?”, he still frowned and squeezed himself to the handrail to let Hermione pass, who skipped the creaking stair as usual.
“I’m hungry. And he’s right. He never sought for attention. He only did what felt right to him. If it took you another five years to get hold of that information, I’m sorry for you.”
“I never said he did – ”
“Don’t make me laugh, Ronald.”, Hermione snorted on her way to the dresser. “And it’s `good morning, Hermione´, not `where do you suddenly come from´. I’m your wife, not some stinky sock you found under your bed after weeks of having been absent from your everyday life.”, someone else snorted from upstairs.
“Yes?”, Ron hissed up to his sister.
“Sounds like you’ve reached the state of living a clichéd Weasley-marriage in all its purity.”, Ginevra chuckled, her extremely big belly bumping along. “If I’d known that Mum’s having so much influence on her, I’d kicked you out two years ago.”
“You. Kicking me out. Tz.”, Ron hissed and stomped back up to his and Hermione’s room.
“You’d be surprised,”, she shook her head and went to finally join the other three.
“You really think, you’d be able to persuade your mother that she throws us out?”, Hermione smirked.
“If I fall to her knees, begging, maybe? I always had more – ”
There used to be times when, if something like that had happened, everybody would have laughed on a cursing person before they had jumped up for aid. But this time it happened so terribly fast, there was no time for a laugh, despite occurring in a span that appeared to be years. Crack. Not even a squeal, only gasps – and a ball of long ginger hair, mixed with the soft green of pyjama pants and a wide T-shirt. The sound of a trunk rolling down a rocky slope and then crashing onto a road that was the small corner below.
His heart had stopped, but in the second before, it had shot enough energy into his legs to make him hurtle up from the chair. Harry had seen much blood in his life. On photos, and a lot in real. And this time it wasn’t all too much either. But it was as if a rock of that slope had hit him too, crushed him beneath and he was now looking at his own blood, his existence, all that had ever been there.
The entire world became a chaos of voices, the calling of her name – a horde of Centaurs running for him as he knelt there, trying to make her look at him, but she didn’t stir, didn’t react. Her eyes were closed as if she was sleeping. She wasn’t, however. No one slept with blood trailing from their mouth and nose – and seemingly everywhere else – hands tried to pull his away, unable to help.
“I'll take her.”
Agreement all around. Agreeing was all that seemed right now, now that simply everything that could go wrong had done so. He felt her rather small, thin fingers taking his. A moment later they were gone.
White halls, like heaven, though hell on earth. More voices flooding his ears, meaning to calm him, but achieving only the opposite. His crimson smeared skeleton-white hands clung to one of Luna’s arms which carried a weight that should have been to heavy for her, as much as this weight meant to him. He wanted to help, assist her carrying; she waved him off, the only calming voice among the hundreds.
More arms came, more voices – and he didn't know what was worse: that they took her or that Luna let them. His pleading remained unheard, ignored. Words that reached his ears, though were considered uncontrolled blabbering by his mind. None of these sounds made sense, none of them were important. All that counted was her and where they would take her. Automatically his feet gained speed once more. Only to be stopped by a pair of strong arms. Way stronger than he was at the moment, they held him back. Even worse, they turned him around to make him look at a face he hadn’t seen before.
Just a second. It was only one of those ages lasting seconds the Healer needed. Unlike the others, he managed to calm him instantly with a single look of his. And though Harry had never seen that face, the look had something utterly soothing. Like a loving father’s concern in a moment of pure need for exactly that, although he hadn’t known he had had that need until the look had told him.
His dazzled eyes wandered down from the tawny hair and amber eyes and catfish beard to his own red handprints he had created next to a shield that decorated the tall Healer’s surprisingly white chest:
HGP. PPPS. VaGAntdS. SpdS. Ob-Gyn. HerbH.
Francis R. Carlisle
Francis. White. A white lily on a grave – a lily in a bowl, sinking to the bottom and becoming – a wee – fish – that should carry the name Francis, until it would be gone – and the lily to the grave.
Like the flower petal in the water, Harry sank. He sank to Francis Carlisle’s chest, onto her blood and into his arms – and cried a kind of sea that hadn’t left his green eyes in a very long time, or probably never before either.
~~#~~
“What’s he doing here?”
Any time spoken by the same ginger, the well known line was all that could tear them from their disturbing thoughts and shoot them like a rocket, back to where they were. Bill and Fleur sat as ashen as each of them by a window in the white room that almost swallowed Luna, whose legs hung slack from the window’s sill, and eyes empty like many others, only slowly drifted towards the newcomer. In a corner, Molly, Arthur, George and even Charlie had crammed together with Neville, Dean, Seamus and the Patil twins, Padma’s wheelchair taking in the most space. A second corner was solely taken by a married couple, of whom one had dropped the harsh words. The other jumped up and stumbled over into her parents’ arms. They had arrived with the blond.
“Sorry I couldn’t come earlier. Hannah’s stuck at the Cauldron. London seems to ignore what’s happened. And Teddy’s fever doesn’t get better either. So Mum and – ”
“No need for apologies.”, Arthur gargled.
“Right. How’s everyone?”
“How’s everyone? How’s everyone?”, Ron gnarled. “You just come here, acting as if that’s a frigging party!”
“I never acted as though it’s a party,”, Draco got seriously angry due to Ron obviously having missed how miserable he looked and felt.
“And how you do! Besides, you’re not invited!”
“She’s my friend too.”
“She’s my sister, you dullard, not just my friend!”
“It’s enough, Ron.”, whimpered Hermione. “There’s no reason for arguing.”
“I’m not arguing! I’m voicing facts!”
“No, you’re acting like a child.”, said Bill. “And I am sure that Draco’s the same as all of us. And no, there’s no news apart from that it must be worse than we hoped.”, Molly gave a horrible, woeful moan. “But we shouldn’t meet the trouble halfway.”
“Then let’s hope we’re overreacting and everything goes well.”, Draco sighed and conjured some chairs for him and Hermione’s parents between her chair and Bill’s in the small room, spotting Harry just when he had sat down already, alone at the opposite wall and crouched up on the floor. “What – ”
“Let him.”, whispered Luna, her voice as empty and hollow as her eyes. “He has left to a different world. We can’t reach him there.”
Though he heard everything that was said, he was glad that at least Luna knew what exactly was going on. His eyes neither saw his glasses, nor the floor they were directed at, away from where still bloodsmeared hands rested which had meanwhile spread the drying essence nearly on all his clothes. Unfocused, they stared into nowhere – and everywhere. There was too much happening behind them as to trouble them with what was in front. He hadn’t even noticed that he was still breathing until that very moment or that his arms had gotten numb from wrapping his knees or his lips dry from standing ajar, covered in salty remains of his tears.
He had thought he had reached a state where he couldn’t spill any more of them, but he had apparently been wrong as more seemed to be willing to dam up under his rigid eyeballs, pushed down by the automated movement of his lids. What were all these functions, all these feelings when they made no sense anymore? When the only sense laid out of reach, behind two double doors connected with an infinite corridor? The only reason to him why his heartbeat had calmed down was that he felt her being alive, probably even asleep already. She was well, that much he knew. But why was there a hole in that heart? Why didn’t it feel complete anymore? The footsteps his ears picked up might carry news. But did he want to hear?
Slowly, one of the doors between their room and the corridor opened and immediately all heads turned, all eyes stared at the healer that had come in, all bodies stiffened. All but Harry’s. Only his lips closed at last and he swallowed down the dryness. Quiet footsteps in a sizzling silence of impatience. They drew near, to him. He however was unwilling to look up until the Healer knelt down by his right and a hesitant hand found its way to his right shoulder.
“Why’s he wearing white?”, he could hardly perceive Ron’s distant hissing. “All healers wear green! Why’s he – ”
“Honestly Ron,”, muttered Hermione, “We’re close to hear news from Ginny and all you can care about is the colour of his scrubs?”
“I’m just saying – ”
“Shut up – ”
The silencing words had come from Charlie this time, though they meant nothing to Harry. Whether he would have continued arguing or not, it didn’t matter to him. Nor that the blood had vanished from the Healer’s clothes. All that mattered was the blank amber eyes that drilled into his – and whispered words of confirmation that made everyone else nearly collapse from their relieved sighs.
“She’s asleep now. She’ll be fine.”, said Mr Carlisle, yet it wasn’t enough for Harry – this time, it wasn’t enough.
A grander silence covered the room when he paused for words. A veil of anticipation, but no glee at all. Harry knew what it meant. He knew when the Healer’s gaze couldn’t close the dark hole that had been blasted into his heart and he didn’t need to carry on his whispering. There was no chance bearing it, and his eyes tore the connection, drifting back at the floor.
“You think, it doesn’t make sense? Well, it doesn’t. That much I can say. But life has to go on. It does; that much I can say as well. Eventually, it does. Yet it’ll always be there, that hole.”, Harry’s eyes returned to Mr Carlisle’s. “And it’ll return any time the slightest memory is reawakened, and worse, any time you’ll find yourself – incapable of – saving someone else’s child, as much – ”, the man swallowed, “As much as you had been – incapable of saving your own – ”
Lips curled, not only Harry’s. And the image of that sad face blurred before his eyes. The next thing he noticed was that he fell against the man like he had before. He fell into his comforting arms, arms that knew what it was like, arms that could give him the only thing that could probably ease him at the moment: understanding.
~~#~~
Lights danced outside the window and tried to reach the white room, but it remained in shadows, only half of its possible brightness visible to the eye, and even less, to her. She imagined there to be trees. She imagined to be sitting in the bed of her room in an old, small manor somewhere among shining meadows and the cooling, soothing shadows of a soft deep green between gently swaying trees, instead of beneath a plain and dark wooden cross on the wall. She imagined the light to be golden, rather than the silvery shine it had due to some hazy clouds dancing across its rays, there, outside the room she really sat in on white bed sheets, against the head of that momentarily too big single bed, even though it was rather small for its kind.
There was a tree, somewhat in front of the window, but below, were nothing but graves and though the room was on the second floor, it seemed, she stood between them, trapped, encircled by those who moved no more. Hesitant, ironic and limp, the little smile was gone from her lips as fast as it had appeared there when the cat had hopped onto the windowsill as if willing to shut the dead out, to build a barrier, a guarding shield.
The tears had dried on her face, beneath her burning eyes. Too many of them had she cried, in the last hours alone and she was tired of crying. So she just studied Crookshanks, the glow of his fur when sunlight happened to fall in. His bottlebrush tail swayed like she imagined the trees around the inexistent exile to be doing in the wind. For a while, he only sat there and stared out, at the church she didn’t see – and didn’t want to see. But then he turned and looked straight at her, before his head turned up to the ceiling.
Her eyes followed his look, just for the hope he had spotted a spider or some other insect up there. It would mean one more life in the room. Though if it was due to the tiredness of her eyes or the size of whatever he saw, she couldn’t perceive it. Even less did she know why he mewed at it.
“What’s it, Crookshanks?”, she raised her voice, quiet and croaking like she had never heard it before, sounding just as if she had aged a few decades in only a day. “What did you see up there? What d’you want?”
“Maybe ’e wan’s me ter stroke ’im.”
She didn’t startle at the voice. Her mind was gone somewhere to a world where everything was possible, for the mere sake of soothingness. Maybe she had expected to hear his voice inside that mind’s ears. Now that it was there, it felt good, but also hurt her so much that she wouldn’t see him. Perhaps, she thought, if she wanted it enough, he would become visible to her, like the forests or meadows that weren’t there. If she concentrated enough, he might shape before her tired eyes, a hallucination that was worth being created.
“Seems ’e’s believin’ it migh’ make me feel better.”, instead, Crookshanks flickered between being there and not, when he stretched up as if really leaning into some caressing touch. “Bu’ ’ow ter tell ’im it doesn’?”, listening to the sighing voice, as hoarse as hers, she watched the cat disappear and appear again several times, thinking how much her brain had really gone round the twist – but after all she had slammed into the corner, and some stairs before – maybe even the handrail. “’E migh’ know anyway.”
Visible once more, Crookshanks’ head turned after that spider or what else on the ceiling, too fast in her opinion and seconds later, the bronze marbles rested almost on her. The bed slightly sunk in next to her. She felt it. As much as she felt the warm hand on her left cheek the moment he actually appeared, no colour left to him, half there, half not. Nevertheless she could see him enough to know he had been crying as well. And it wasn’t even illogical. She had seen Myrtle cry in times.
“I though’ I couldn’ stand lookin’ at ’im – bu’ I should’ve known lookin’ at ye would be worse.”
“What are you, Dad?”, that last word did something to his grieving face she hadn’t meant to cause. “Are – are you – a ghost?”, suddenly that blank gaze was gone, transforming into a faint but warm smile.
“Ghos’s,”, he whispered, shaping more and more, becoming as solid as his touch was, “Are transparen’, me foxy.”, and he wasn’t anymore, sitting there as alive as her; probably exactly as barely alive as her.
“That’s been done to death too.”, Ginevra huffed, unable to keep a straight face either. “I’ll give my vote.”
“Vote?”, he asked when he crawled to her left and pulled her down onto the pillow with him.
“To make that our family motto.”, she sighed when snuggling up to his chest in his arms, deciding to believe it was not just imagination.
“Wha’ ’bou’ tha other?”
“You mean – er - `For the Greater Good´? No. `Ghosts are transparent´ sounds cooler. And I don’t think anyone could interpret that wrong, can they?”
“Tha’ migh’ be righ’.”
“You said, you’ve seen Harry? Hasn’t he gone to work?”
“Why should ’e?”
“Because I’ve sent him.”, Ginevra grumbled with her eyes closed.
“No. ’E’s – ”
“Down in the graveyard.”, she snorted knowingly.
“Yes.”, confirmed Severus.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he stepped into one of those one day for sleeping.”
“Ye ’ave ter understan’ ’im.”
“I try to. And I think, I can – partly. But I can’t see how it can make him feel better.“
“Sum’times a lil chat wit’ tha dead does make ye feel better.”
“You should send him Jeanne.”
“Jeanne?”
“I mean, I can understand that you don’t want to show yourself to him. But I believe, Jeanne can get him back to his senses. He’s grown quite fond of her – and even misses her a bit, if I think about it. And then you can tell me who gave their life for you.”, he needed a moment to grasp that.
“Wha’ d’ye mean?”
“It’s in the family, isn’t it? Surviving – because someone else died instead.”
~~#~~
Charity Burbage. He stored the photo in his Mokeskin Pouch. An old photo of the Hogwarts choir, which he had taken with him, to stare at. A teacher that had never meant anything to him. A teacher he had ignored. But she had cared for him. If his supposed early memories weren’t fooling him, she had. And last night, that dream – or had it been a dream? He was quite certain it hadn’t. The position from which he had watched them laugh and having a happy conversation in the Clock Tower Courtyard, alone on that grey, moist day, goofing around while everyone else; according to the clock he had taken a quick glance at; had been at lunch or the fact that he had woken up face to face with Crookshanks who had laid down between him and Ginevra – he was very certain, it hadn’t been just a dream. He was certain it had been reality, a real occurrence from years ago.
The woman had received a present from her best friend, a golden ring which she had seemed to had seen somewhere but hadn’t had enough money or guts to buy it. He however had bought it, making her incredibly happy, probably not even due to the material value of the ring, but the personal.
“Since it is technically yours, – ”, he had said when her eyes had glistened from tears of disbelief.
Had the ring once belonged to her mother and she had had to sell it? Harry assumed that he would never get to know. But he knew he had seen the ring in other memories, and even in real life, though he had been too focused, distracted or shocked to care about it. Last time, there had been too much blood on it as to care for that ring on the hand that had reached out for him. He had cared for the dark eyes that had drifted away, across the river.
Once again, it had been a wonderful place to go to. Only the bell had told him that he had sat in the grass for more than an hour, doing nothing but silently staring at cold stone. When that little bell made him startle up and pack the photograph, he realised how much he was used to be on his feet. His buttocks were aching, even though the ground was rather soft.
At one point, the old priest had come to somewhat join him from the distance. He had noticed the man, but preferred to dedicate to the graves. So he did when he heaved himself up and went closer for conjuring white flowers. It were always the same, but this time he decided for whole masses. When he turned for the bald Muggle priest who supported himself on a walking stick, a big bush of each decorated the ground in front of the two stones.
“Sometimes the dead can give us the silence we need.”, the priest spoke with his hoarse voice as Harry approached him. “But if you should need the ear of a living,”
“Thanks for the offer, Reverend.”, Harry croaked quietly, hardly able to look at him – the wall behind him was a more pleasuring sight than the man who was slowly falling victim to death as well.
“How is your wife coping with it?”
“She’s kicked me out.”, he shrugged. “Oh – not what you think, Sir.”, he hastily added at the look he received. “She ordered me to go to work to get my mind off. Maybe I’ll do it, dunno. But I think, I’ll just roam the streets for a while. I’ve never done that here. Guess, I should get to know Godric’s Hollow a little better, right?”
“Do whatever feels adequate. Though should you still wish for someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”
“Certainly, Reverend. Thanks for everything. Have a good day.”
“Thank you as well. Make the best out of yours. Our precious time passes faster than we can control the loss. You of all should know. Use it wisely.”, the old man gave him a sad smirk and left the graveyard with Harry’s eyes on his back.
For some minutes he just stared at where the priest had disappeared behind the church’s silhouette before he could persuade himself to do the same, trying not to digest the exact words the man had said. Not willing to be stared at, he got out his Invisibility Cloak and threw it over. There were hardly any people in the streets, but the knowledge of not being seen by them, felt incredibly good.
Godric’s Hollow was actually a very beautiful village with numerous narrow alleys between the main, wound streets and old houses. At some point he already thought he might get lost, but when the bell rang for two o’clock and he heard where the sound came from, he noticed that he had gone in a sort of circuit.
Taking a deep breath, he strolled past another narrow alley to his left. But there was something to this alley, that struck him so fast he believed he had gotten a heart attack. Dazzled, he slouched backwards and stared into it, sure to have seen a black figure standing there. Yet the alley was deserted. It might have just been his mind to play a trick on him, he thought, when he recognised the ruins at its end, in the other street. He stood exactly where his mother had stood with her basket. Lingering there for a little longer, a disturbing thrill grew in him. Some sensation, some curiosity, that eventually won the battle and made him walk through between the windowless, shadowed walls.
On the other side, he was alone. Only him, invisible to – no one, and the ruin of that cottage. He remembered exactly how it had looked like at his first visit. Now the chimney had fallen into the rubble. Ignoring how his stomach crumpled, he stepped forward, swung himself over the low garden door. The moment he had touched it, the sign appeared on the other side, but he didn’t care. He landed smoothly on the long grass that had collapsed onto the path and trudged over it, in the shadows of the hedges that had taken in the rest of the garden. The front door hung askew in its hinges, best held by the ivy, and it was easy for him to push it inside, creaking, cracking, rustling.
Dust owned the kitchen that might have been one of the brightest that ever existed. The ground floor mainly consisted of that one room and there were some dishes left by the sink to his right for drying. They hadn’t gotten to sort them back in. But those were the only intact dishes. The cupboards had lost halt by the explosions and their content had shattered on the tiled floor. Also at that side, a broken window and small terracotta pots lying beneath, the earth spread and the herbs dried and dusty brown, only roots clinging to what was left, caught in time when their own time’s end had come.
Though it was early summer, he found himself reminded of the once hidden second building of Malfoy Manor. The greenhouse and the baths there had looked similar bright but abandoned. On one of the walls hung a clock. Eleven minutes and twenty-one seconds past ten – in the evening, as he understood from what he had been told so often. No one had ever mentioned an exact moment, but that was it. He knew it now.
For a while he just stared at the clock until two more things drew his attention, things that seemed awkward to be standing where they were, after such an attack: there was a flat pot on the stove, dusty like the rest. So was a lone empty baby bottle that stood on the table, its inside smeared with long dried milk. Harry swallowed heavily as he approached it, his fingers held out, but not daring to actually touch it. Blurred images suddenly swam before his eyes, like they had so many times before, like a puzzle completing itself a little more every now and then. Familiar faces he though couldn’t match yet. Voices in his ears. Voices he knew, but was unable to identify at the moment. Someone must have fed him before he had been brought away. He knew of the attack, but what had happened after? After the green flash? What had really happened then?
Before his fingertips could accidentally touch the bottle, they were frozen in place. He could even feel some strange energy between his skin and the dusty object, as if there was a sort of magnetic field, neither attracting, nor repelling his hand, but keeping it within tiny distance. To a greater degree, it seemed to be exactly that energy, which suddenly cleared up the images in his head. Maybe it was the cloak that kept him from touching – he couldn’t tell.
But, Harry was, quite sure of it, suddenly lying on the floor. He could see a torn ceiling, far away above him. A moist, cold breeze tried to devour the warmth that surrounded him and there was this longing for much more comfort than he already received. His head was aching badly, but the pain was distant now, like it was indeed only the memory of true horror. A shaking voice whispered to him, upon his own agonising attempt to be understood.
“Mummy’s h-here.”, said that whisper, the mouth that spoke it, not visible, but a blurred pair of shimmering wet eyes.
Another arm was laid around him. It was cold. Why was it cold? Surely from the air that crawled in from outside. For a moment Harry couldn’t help his consciousness from today drifting in. He knew why this arm had been cold. It would never be warm again. Unsure whether he could stand the awareness, he tried to keep track, to not lose his memories. But all he remembered was that he suddenly was hungry. And someone had been called a traitor and there were thundering sounds, like angry feet leaving. He could also hear a tremendous cry, echoing loudly in his head. It had sounded like when Grawp had been attacked by the Centaurs – Hagrid? He could remember Hagrid’s arrival?
But there was someone else – he could see a grey and brown shimmer that flicked up in some distance, when he felt being carried around. The quiet sound of more shoes on – it must have been the tiles he stood on now. Or did his head only connect the few noises he had made minutes ago, with his memories of that night? But he knew he was definitely hungry. And the person who carried him around, tried to calm him with whispers. He felt a touch against his forehead, soothing the pain – and his present mind was fought off again, another part not truly willing to see one of Hogwarts’ corridors now. Just not now.
A second voice, speaking above someone crying; more than obviously Hagrid; clearly complaining about a story. Yes, the person who had – he could remember, he had been longing for more than just calming words – had he, at that age, already treasured the miracle of a distraction? And had he, upon that being understood, been told a stor- a boiling white surface, like a wild river’s dance – powder being gushed into it with familiar words that were; at that time, spoken by a voice far deeper than Hermione’s; leaving yellowish stains on the calming liquid. Words of love – about lost love – and a spoon was magically, elegantly turned three times by snowy-white fingers. The vessel that carried the now thicker liquid was lifted – playfully moved around, until the substance was poured into a bottle – flowing down its insides, covering the clear material with a fog-like veil – with some kind of cloak – and only seconds after, he could feel his own fingers, then and now, wrapping the bottle.
It had been warm. Now it was cold. Though he could feel the wonderful taste in his mouth – he swallowed multiple times, but did not taste his own saliva – it was this taste of his early childhood, that had been over in course of the same night he had drank from that bottle the last time. Now this bottle of glass was cold, although it was summer. It was cold, like the arm had been. The warmth, only a memory.
Harry felt his fingers glide off, heard the bottle fall over and roll some inches across the dusty table. His grown fingers hooking to the furniture’s edge, with the actual cloak in between, he knelt in the signs of passed time, tears as hot as many years ago, trickling down his burning cheeks, behind his glasses. He had believed to know what sacrifice meant. He had believed to know what loss felt like – even more these days. But when his lids closed, either way unable to hold back the tears, he knew he was, though of the approximate same age, and in spite of all he had gone through, far from understanding, far from actually knowing.
For how long he sat there, he didn’t care. Nor did he care that the blood had left his right hand due to its position. When he caught himself at having stopped shaking and crying, that weak body mattered the least to him. Physical pain was nothing. It could be really bad, but never the worst. Never. And there were still too few people who understood. At least in his surrounding. He couldn’t force them to understand. They hadn’t experienced. And he also didn’t want to force them to accept. It would only make everyone, including himself, even more angry.
With a deep breath that filled and left his lungs, he raised from the floor and climbed the as well dusty stairs, finally having stored his cloak. His wand ready, just in case, he made his way to the first floor, where he ended up in a corridor with some doors that had been blasted open. At its end, bright sunlight fell into the big hole. No cold darkness, but bright warmth. He climbed over torn wood and broken glass of framed paintings of landscapes that had lost some colour. No photos, neither moving nor still. If there had been any, who had taken them? Had it been Hagrid too? Or –
Having crossed a destroyed door on the floor, Harry now stood in the middle of what once had undoubtedly been his room. The room he had been lying in, on the floor, when his dead mother’s arm had been laid around him, merely to please him, to fake a whole world. The light blue walls were singed, dirty and at some areas washed by rain. Like even nature had cried over the crime towards life that had been committed there. Not a single bit of the room was intact. Not a single bit – but a cot. It was dirty as well, yet otherwise untouched.
Careful, he stepped over some burnt looking black heap and gazed over the bars. A dust covered plush owl laid in between still soft appearing pillows under a layer of reddish and brownish grey. The wood creaked a bit when he leant onto it to reach down and get the owl. Beneath the dust, it was white with golden yellow eyes. A Snowy Owl. Hedwig. With an ironic chuckle about mostly Hagrid again, he patted the dust off it and took another look at his unpleasant surrounding, catching himself as he scratched his strangely itching neck with his dirty fingers. In addition, some dust fell off what was left of the ceiling and attic, onto his head. Though he didn’t bother.
There was this sudden idea, a rather macabre idea, but maybe it would cheer Ginevra up. It was time for a change. Time for a new start. But he had to consider it thoroughly. What better place to do that was there than – he hadn’t been there ever since. Not even when they had returned. He hadn’t seen them a single time since. Astonished that he was actually missing them, he stored the plush owl in his Mokeskin Pouch, pushed his wand up his sleeve and turned on the spot.
~~#~~
Kommentar schreiben