NEVER FORGET

Disclaimer: I am, regrettably, not JK Rowling. I am only doing this for my own dorky pleasure.

Relaxed conversation was flowing around the Weasley dinner table. The combination of being stuffed to bursting point with blueberry crumble and the scent of warm spring air in the garden made everyone pleasantly drowsy. Harry didn't really say much as he sipped coffee and held Ginny's hand under the table, simply enjoying the company of the people he liked most. Bill and Fleur had come to dinner, as had George, Kingsley, Hagrid, Hermione, and her parents (recently restored to their memories and returned from Australia). It might have been a few days prior to the start of a fresh school term. It felt normal, something Harry had been longing to feel for quite some time.

"Harry?"

He looked over to the seat from which the deep voice emanated. "Yes, Minister?"

"Harry, we've talked about this. We're not at the Ministry."

Harry grinned. "Right, sorry. Kingsley, then."

"You know what the day after tomorrow is, right?" Kingsley's voice had become quiet, but everyone heard the question.

The relaxed, sleepy atmosphere vanished from the table instantly. The gloom that settled over the group was intense enough to delight several dementors. Just as quietly, Harry answered, "Do you really think I could forget? It will be one month… since the battle." Thoughts like this one had been crossing his mind ever since that night: tomorrow it will be a week… a fortnight… three weeks…. He had managed to lose track of them for the past several hours as he helped Mrs. Weasley prepare and enjoyed the company, and did not altogether appreciate having it brought up. Kingsley was looking a little too formal, and Harry suspected he was about to be asked to do something. He was right.

"There's going to be a memorial service to honor those who died in the war. We'd hoped to have it sooner, but the memorial itself was just completed yesterday." Kingsley paused. "I would like you to speak."

Heads swiveled in Harry's direction. Alarmed, he hesitated, "What? No, I- I don't think I'd…" He trailed off as a series of images flashed through his head in very quick succession: Sirius' face as he pulled Harry into a half-hug at the end of Christmas holidays; Fred Weasley cheerfully declaring it a nice night to fight back; Dumbledore with a tear rolling down his cheek upon finally having told Harry about the prophecy; Tonks, grinning as she held up her left hand to show off her wedding ring; Remus alight with joy as he announced the birth of his son. And suddenly, although the two tables they had set up were crowded, Harry felt the gaps where faces should have been. He swallowed, and spoke despite the ache in his throat. "Yeah, of course… of course I'll speak, Kingsley."

Harry felt Ron and Hermione's gazes still on him. He met their eyes and, knowing they read him perfectly, managed a small smile. They returned it, and he was sure they had read the same sadness in his as he read in theirs. Out of sight, Ginny squeezed his hand and he tightened his grip on hers. The light atmosphere couldn't be brought back to life after that, and it was not long before everyone drifted off. First Kingsley, followed by Hagrid, Bill and Fleur, George, and finally Hermione and her parents. Although he owned Grimmauld Place, Harry was still staying at the Burrow. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to really live at Grimmauld Place, and in any case he wasn't ready to live alone yet. Besides, every time he so much as alluded to feeling badly about impinging on the Weasleys, Molly stamped the guilt away with her sincere proclamations of delight at having him, as she called it, "home".

Harry and Ron put away the tables and candles while the others washed the dishes. Given the use of magic, this did not take very long and soon they were all climbing the stairs to bed. Harry now stayed in what was once Bill and Charlie's room. It had been very odd at first not to be sharing with Ron, but tonight he was glad for the solitude. He pulled on pajamas and climbed slowly into bed. He had been obliged to tell the story of his past year's mission several times since the battle, first for the Order and the Hogwarts staff, then for an interview to be published first in The Quibbler (as he felt was only appropriate) and then The Daily Prophet (which he grudgingly allowed at Kingsley's personal request). This did not include the various groups of friends he'd told in person, mostly DA members. Speaking at a memorial service, however, Harry felt would be very different. A recitation of his activities was not what was required there, and though he had many things he knew he would like to say, he was not sure how to translate them into words. He had been to far too many funerals recently, but he had never been required to do more than offer, and sometimes accept, condolences. He tried to remember what the presiding wizard at each of them had said.

First had been Fred's, four days after the battle. He was buried in the cemetery on the other side of Ottery St. Catchpole from the Burrow, along with generations of Weasleys. Harry recalled the huge crowd that had turned up, from red-headed relatives to members of the Order to Hogwarts staff and students. The village church, in which they held the service, was standing room only, and that at very close quarters. They had given up the plan of holding the reception in the garden, and had it in the field beyond, performing Muggle-repelling charms to ensure privacy. There had been a lot of laughter among the sorrow, especially at the gathering afterward; Harry recalled this clearly. However, all he remembered of what the speaker had said was a comment about the tragic ending of a promising young wizard, which he had felt did not do Fred justice.

Next had been Tonks and Lupin's funeral, a few days later. Harry remembered walking in on McGonagall, Arthur, Molly, Andromeda, and Kingsley discussing where they should be laid to rest. Most of the Blacks were buried in London, but Andromeda was the first one to say that her daughter would not want to be beside them. Lupin had no surviving family, and by McGonagall's account he had no attachment to his boyhood home. Listening to this, the solution had come to Harry in a flash of inspiration he was still pleased with. He suggested that they be placed in the cemetery at Godric's Hollow, next to his own parents, and that a marker for Sirius be placed there as well. The adults had been impressed with the idea, and quickly agreed.

That service was much smaller, consisting of the Weasleys, Harry, Hermione, most of the Order, and some of Hogwarts staff. Again, while he was sure someone had spoken, Harry could not recall anything they'd said. Instead, he could feel the weight of his own grief and guilt pushing on him once again; it was similar to being smothered in a heavy cloak. He could see in his mind's eye the four three white marble tombstones in a row. First his parents', with its epitaph of The last enemy that shall be defeated is death. He understood the words better now. Next to them, above a stretch of empty ground, was Sirius' marker. Harry had chosen the epitaph himself: You cannot love without giving. Tonks and Lupin's markers were beside it. He visualized the words.

Nymphadora Tonks Lupin

Born 2 March 1968

Died 8 May 1998

Love knows no boundaries

And beside it:

Remus John Lupin

Born 17 November 1960

Died 8 May 1998

A man's worth is measured by his character

For a while, Harry's mind dwelt on the tombstones. Then he smiled. As he had stood by the graves, Andromeda had come up to him with little Teddy in her arms. Godfather though he was, it was the first time Harry had seen the child. He remembered, hesitantly, nervously, taking the infant from her and the emotion that had unexpectedly gripped him. Looking from the grave to the baby, he'd promised himself that he would be the godfather Remus would have expected him to be, and that Teddy would grow up knowing the bravery of his parents. He loved the child with a fierceness he would not have dreamed possible for someone he'd just met. Another ray of understanding had hit Harry then: he began to grasp what Sirius felt for him, and why it had been completely necessary for him to come racing to the Ministry that night.

Swallowing hard, Harry cast his mind over some of the other funerals. He remembered faces seen and words exchanged at each one, but whatever the speakers had said eluded him. Colin Creevey's parents gave him a Muggle funeral. Severus Snape had been another person who had no real home. After great consideration, Harry had agreed to Hermione's suggestion that he also be laid to rest in Godric's Hollow. They buried him on Lily's other side. Harry was not sure how his father would have felt about this, but decided that after all Snape had done to protect James' only son (even if it was because he was Lily's son), he might not mind too much. Or that he would at least be able to tolerate it. Harry still held no love for Snape, but he understood him better now as well, and was not alone in being of the opinion that in light of his loyalty to the cause, allowing him to rest beside the woman he loved was something he deserved. McGonagall, Harry suspected feeling rather guilty about her treatment of him, had chosen his epitaph: Perfect courage means doing unwitnessed what we would be capable of with the world looking on.

Try as he might, all Harry could come up with from his too-fresh memories was an intensifying of the guilt that had been with him for years now, and a painful re-awareness of how very gaping the hole inside him was. He picked up the pocket watch the Weasleys had given him for his birthday. It was now past 1 AM and he was no nearer to having any idea of what to say at the memorial. He wondered suddenly if Hermione remembered what any of the speakers had said at the funerals. She had a head for that kind of thing; she was always able to quote Dumbledore's opening speeches. In any case, she was a girl and ought to have more of an idea how to handle these emotional things than he ever could. He resolved to talk to her tomorrow (well, later today, rather). That decided, and realizing he was exhausted, he rolled onto his side and lay back down. The last thing he did before falling almost immediately alseep was to flip his very damp pillow over to the dry side.

Harry munched a piece of toast with strawberry jam, not really hearing the words that formed the buzz of talk surrounding him. He had not slept well, his dreams being filled with an assortment of laughing people who would suddenly turn to ghosts and point accusing fingers at him. The buzz was nonetheless comforting, having the familiar ring of home to it. He wasn't sure when exactly the Burrow had become truly home to him, but he suspected it had been sometime in the first fortnight after Molly brought him there following the battle. The concentration with which he was trying to come up with what to say at the service made everything else into white noise. A thought tripped across his consciousness, surprising him that it hadn't before.

"Mr. Weasley? Where is the memorial service going to take place tomorrow?" he asked.

"Hogwarts," Arthur answered, "They've built the memorial on the grounds, and the service itself will be held in the Great Hall. There was some debate about putting it there, considering that Hogwarts is a school and undoubtedly wizards from across the world will want to visit the memorial for years to come. But in the end, there was really nowhere else for it. After all, that's where it finished and where it really began, isn't it?"

Harry nodded, musing that Mr. Weasley was right. Everything had begun with a young orphan named Tom Riddle arriving at the school to start his magical education. Briefly, Harry tried to envision a world where the child wizard Riddle never attended Hogwarts and honed his skills, never learned of Horcruxes. However, the enormity of the differences there would be made this overwhelming to even contemplate.

He was now distracted from thinking about his speech by the prospect of returning to Hogwarts. He hadn't been back since the evening following the battle, when he along with Hermione accompanied the Weasleys back to the Burrow. He knew that much had happened since then. Teams of witches and wizards were repairing the damage. Just last week, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had received letters from McGonagall. They stated that, after much consideration, it had been decided that Hogwarts would remain closed for the rest of the term and reopen in September as if (academically speaking) the previous year had not happened. Every student would repeat the year they had been in, accompanied by those who had not been able to or were not allowed to attend under Voldemort's reign. The reason given was that during the past year the school had been forced to deviate too far from its usual teaching policies (unstated but implied was "particuarly in Muggle Studies and Defense Against the Dark Arts") to consider any student at the level at which they were supposed to be. This had taken one huge weight off Harry's chest, and reading the letter had been one of his few purely joyful moments since the battle.

Harry gave up trying to plan for the time being. All that was happening was the gloom that had been with him since he woke was steadily thickening. In any case, Hermione was due to arrive that afternoon and stay the night to accompany them to the memorial. He would be able to get her opinion. So when Ron suggested a game of chess sometime several pieces of toast later, he gladly accepted the excuse to otherwise occupy his mind.

As the day wore on, however, Harry withdrew into himself more and more. He still didn't have any idea how to tell the friends and families of those who died, many of whom he did not even know, how sorry he was. That it was all his fault, that they had been fighting because they believed in him, and that if could have died in their places he would have. He wanted to corner Hermione and try to explain this to her, sure she'd be able to help, but from the moment she arrived Ron had not left her. Harry could only take so much of their too-cheerful presence, and consequently was spending large portions of time in the garden, alone. He fought against the ache in his chest as flashes of the dead seared mercilessly across his brain.

"If you're wondering what to say tomorrow, I'd start off by not blaming yourself. No one is going to believe you, and most people have already heard that particular line." Ginny appeared in front of him.

Harry looked up, startled. Why was she the only person who could sneak up on him? He shook his head, beginning, "But it is. If I hadn't come to the castle-,"

"- you wouldn't have found the last of the Horcruxes and You-Know-Who would still be out there murdering people right now," Ginny finished, "If anyone's to blame, it's him. And trust me, apportioning blame isn't what people are going to want to hear about at a memorial service. They do enough of that on their own."

Harry stared at her. She was a girl; she was dealing with the losses just like he was, only more. Why hadn't he thought of her? A small, truthful inner voice told him that Ron and Hermione were still his primary confidantes, the sole people he'd been completely open with in his life. Yet he and Ginny… well, it had been awkward to piece their relationship back together. He'd endured more than one shouted monologue about what he'd put her through for ten months. But their feelings hadn't changed, and they were taking baby steps forward. He could ask her.

"What would you say?"

"I'd remind them that it wasn't in vain. I'd say that as long as one person remembers, it was worth it. I'd say that I knew what it is was to feel loss, too." Ginny stopped, the last part of the sentence wavering, her eyes suddenly overbright.

Harry put an arm around her waist, his own throat tight, and felt his waist encircled in return. She put her head on his shoulder, and he laid his own on top of it. Quietly, he murmured, "Yeah, I reckon that sounds right." He finally succumbed to the burning sensation that had been plaguing his eyes periodically throughout the day, allowing himself and Ginny to share in mutual comfort as the garden darkened.

Harry stepped out of the fire into the Headmistress' office at Hogwarts. Automatically, he looked toward the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, which smiled at him encouragingly, and murmured, "You'll do just fine, my boy."

Before he had a chance to respond, Ron stumbled out of the fire, closely followed by Hermione, Ginny, George, Arthur, and finally Molly. The seven of them trooped out of the office and down a number of staircases. Being back was doing strange things to Harry's insides. The first sensation, upon arriving in what he still thought of as Dumbedore's office, had been warmth. The kind of warmth that can only be brought by the first place you were ever happy in. Now, however, walking past portions of wall that were still blackened, portraits that were slashed and empty, and holes surrounded by the debris of crumbling rock, all Harry could feel was horror. He hadn't realized the extent of the damage to the castle that night, nor the following day; he had been in too much of a state of shock to notice much of anything. But now, taking in this destruction to the first home he'd ever known, Harry was almost in physical pain; he felt slightly sick. It was the same thing as seeing George, bloodied and missing an ear, or Ron after he'd splinched himself.

They met Kingsley and McGonagall in the Entrance Hall. After everyone exchanged greetings, Kingsley led the way into the Great Hall. The Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione stopped abruptly just inside the door. After a few paces the other two looked back and stopped as well. Rather than say anything, they waited quietly. All of the House tables had been replaced by hundreds of rows of chairs, with three aisles running through them and a perimeter just large enough for two or three people to walk side-by-side surrounding them. On the platform where the teachers' table usually stood was only a podium, draped in black. All around the walls at roughly eye-level were photographs. Not terribly far to the right of the door were James and Lily Potter.

"What…?" asked Ron, echoing Harry's own sentiments.

"Everyone," Kingsley said simply, "Everyone, as far as we know- and that's a great deal- who died fighting for the cause. From the first time he was in power until one month ago. It's starts to the right and goes in a basically chronological order all the way around. It didn't seem right to honor only those who died in the last battle; this has been going on much longer." He paused, glancing around the hall, his eyes moist. Then he cleared his throat. "If I could have just a moment, Harry…"

Harry followed him over to the podium, asking, "This is where I'll speak from?"

"Yes. I'll introduce you; you're first. The podium is enchanted so that the voice of anyone speaking from it is magnified; you don't have to perform 'sonorus' or anything like that." Kingsley indicated the second row of chairs dead center. "You'll sit there, with the Weasleys and Hermione. Take the aisle seat, please, unless you want everyone watching while you stumble over your friends."

Harry nodded. He glanced at his watch; the memorial didn't start for another hour. "Mini- Kingsley. Where is the statue?"
Kingsley appraised him for a second or two. He motioned towards the south. "On the edge of the lake. Under a tree. You'll find it easily enough."

Harry went over to where Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were standing very near the left of the doors. An invisible hand squeezed his chest as he saw the picture they were watching: Fred, grinning and laughing at them. Next to it and unavoidable to catch in his peripheral vision, were those of Remus and Tonks, both smiling fondly. He looked at the photographs for a moment as well, but the hand around his chest was tightening its grip, so he murmured quietly, "Fancy a walk by the lake?"

The three of them turned to him and, as one, read his expression. They nodded. The four left the castle and headed across the lawn. They needed only a few paces before an indistinct white object could be seen shimmering in the shade of a tree on the bank. As they got closer, an electric jolt ran through Harry when he realized that the memorial had been placed in the shade of the very same beech tree that four young Marauders (as well as himself, Ron and Hermione, more recently) had once sat under. For one wild moment, Harry thought it must have been done on purpose, but then reason caught up. All four Marauders were now dead; there was no one left to arrange such a tribute. Nonetheless, to him it felt appropriate for the shrine to be there, and he decided to tell the other three of the scene he had witnessed in the Pensieve in Snape's office that day (one of the few things he'd kept to himself). At least the four of them would know about this last, unintentional homage to the three faithful Marauders.

The base of the memorial stood at waist-height. Extending from it were three oversized wands, tips together. From the wands came a solid but perfectly round hollow circle, rather like a Quidditch goal post, but only a foot in diameter. On the top of the base, between the foremost two wands, was engraved: Never forget, and stand united evermore. Around the sides ran names, etched in gold, separated by year. They began with just three names under 1972. Harry began to circle the base, the others following, reading the too-many names, all feeling pangs at the ones they recognized. After 1981, there was a long gap in years; the next label was 1995. Finally, back at the front next to 1972, under its own label, was "Battle of Hogwarts". 54 names, the largest of any grouping, followed. Having made the circle, the group stood quietly in front of the statue. Hermione leaned forward and brushed the base with her fingertips.

Immediately, an image flickered to life in the hollow circle above the wands. A face smiled at them, as if it were a Wizard photograph but in color. Seconds later, it was gone, replaced by another. Transfixed, they watched. It was like an odd, somber cross between a home movie and a slideshow. It wasn't until James Potter flickered into view that Harry realized they were watching the casualties. After that, many more of the faces were recognized. When Sirius came into the circle, Ginny took Harry's hand; a minute later, when it was Dumbledore's turn, Hermione took the other. The four remained hand-in-hand, silent but for the occasional soft sound of sorrowful recognition and shuddery breaths, until they saw the tree trunk through the empty circle once more.

After a moment, Harry turned to Hermione. But as at Godric's Hollow, she was a step ahead of him. She twirled her wand in mid-air, and a large bouqet of white roses appeared. She caught them and laid them gently at the foot of the statue, joining the small pile already there despite the memorial's newness. In the distance, they heard the hum of voices and turned to see a trickle of people moving up the walk, through the gates. The four shared a look that exchanged all the words they hadn't said, then headed back up the sloping lawn for the castle. Behind them, unseen beyond the invisible veil, three Marauders and two wives watched their shrinking figures, smiling with a radiance seldom seen this side of forever.

"Told you," muttered James goodnaturedly, eyes on his son's and future daughter-in-law's clasped hands. Sirius sighed melodramatically.

"And I told you, Prongs," Remus whispered back, eyes on the other pair of clasped hands. James huffed. Lily and Tonks, exchanging a glance, rolled their eyes and sighed.

But the exchange under the beech tree reached the retreating foursome only as a late spring breeze.

"I don't recongize many of the faces that are hanging on the walls today. Even fewer of them did I have the privilege to call friend. You all know who I am, and what I've done, so we don't need to go through any of that again. Today, I want to talk to you just a little about some of those faces I did know." Harry took a deep breath, seeking the eyes of the three in the second row. All of them nodded, prompting. He raised his gaze again to stare over the crowded Hall, and continued. "I met Sirius Black, my godfather, at the end of my third year here. I had barely learned the truth, learned of his loyalty to my parents, when he asked me something. He asked me if I wanted to live with him, when he was free. Never before could I remember someone wanting to claim me as their own. And this, along with his barking laugh, is what I always remember about Sirius. Above all else, he was proud to claim me not for what I'd done, but for who I was.

"Another laugh I remember well is that of Fred Weasley. Always mischevious, but also clever and brave, when paired with his twin he was able to make the whole world laugh in the darkest of hours. There are too many examples of him getting a laugh of out me just when I needed it most to pick only one."

The burning that had been creeping up his throat spilled over through his eyes. Short of choking and losing his voice, he had no option but to let the tears fall. Somehow, it didn't seem to bother him just now. He went on. "The names I could mention are endless- Alastor Moody, Severus Snape- but I'll tell you about just one more. Remus Lupin became my professor in Defense Against the Dark Arts in my third year, and it was then that I learned he was also a friend of my father's. It was years later that I would come to understand just how extraordinary his bravery, and especially his gentleness and genuine warmth, were in a world that shunned him for something he could not control. In remembering Remus, who ran unhesitatingly into battle days after his son came into the world, I will always see the kindness of a man who didn't hesitate to invite a lonely thirteen year-old boy into his office for a cup of tea."

He breathed deeply again. The hardest part was over. "All of you sitting here today know the pain of this reminiscing. All of you are here because there are holes- some old, some new- inside of you. Although I did not understand him at the time, Albus Dumbledore once told me this was called love. And, as usual, he turned out to be right. This grief, the reason for which we have gathered here, is all because of love. It is why we are sitting here, and Tom Riddle is dead, his survivng followers scattered. And it- this love- is why we are going to remember. We are going to remember those who gave everything in the hope of making a better, happier world. And we are going to honor them by making their dream come true. Their sacrifices will not have been in vain. The only way to move is forward. It is true that, decades from now, there will still be sudden moments when we feel the empty space of someone who should have been present. But they will come when we are celebrating births, weddings, Christmases, and Quidditch victories. Which is exactly how it should be. The faces lining the wall, all of them- they died so that we could have those things; so that we could live the fullest life possible. The pace is slow, and healing takes time, but it must always be forward. There is no better way to honor those whom we have come here, in love, to remember today."

Harry stopped, and stepped back from the podium, trembling. Strangely numb now, he returned to his place next to Ginny, who took his hand once again as the next speaker stood. It seemed that already he could not remember half of what he had said, and wondered if it had come out better than the garbled mess of thoughts that had still been pelting around his head this morning. He glanced down the row. Ron, Hermione, George, Bill, Fleur, Arthur and Molly all looked back at him, smiling despite their wet faces. He nodded once, reassured, and turned back to the podium.

Separated from the mourners by the unseen veil, a small army of figures was moving between the rows. In a sharp contrast to their somber counterparts, the members of this army all beamed. Gideon and Fabian Prewett hugged their sister Molly, who moved closer to Arthur upon what she percieved as his slight shift. Teddy Lupin's tiny hand gripped Andromeda's shirt more firmly, the infant stirring in his sleep as his parents kissed him. Kingsley's eyes moved to the left when he heard the witch beside him exhale particularly heavily, as Alastor Moody leaned down to whisper constant vigilance in his ear. The beaming army chattered among themselves as the made their way through the chairs, each seeking particular loved ones to touch briefly or murmur soft words to.

Oblivious, the seated crowd listened on. Their attention was rapt as person after person spoke of sorrow, and remembrance, and love. When the formalities were over, they gathered into knots, exchanging handshakes, hugs, words of comfort. Behind the veil, the army continued to linger on the fringes of the groups. No one seemed to want to leave the Hall. A particularly small group made its way to stand in a corner, attempting a few moments apart from the rest.

"You did really well, Harry," Hermione said sincerely, "I knew you could do it."

"It was brilliant," Ginny said, "I told you that was all you had to say."

"Thanks, guys." Harry was looking at the picture of Sirius, not far from where they stood.

Ron followed his gaze, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You did them proud, mate." He paused, still looking at the photo. "Funny thing, though. The whole time, this whole memorial service thing, it almost feels like they're here, doesn't it?" When they merely stared for a moment, he added, somewhat defensively, "I'm not crazy!"

Harry shook his head slowly. "No. No, I get what you mean. I guess because we're all thinking about them so much… it does feel like they could almost be here."

A few feet away, parted by the thinnest of curtains, three Marauders laughed.

A/N: Reviews greatly appreciated!