Thanks (or possibly fault ;)) goes to the author Aebbe for this one, after our conversation about the happy-go-lucky ending of the second wizarding war, which got me thinking about all the poor souls who didn't have a hundred friends around them to mourn with, and didn't receive special honours from the Ministry, and weren't inducted into the Auror Office straight away.
Reviews appreciated and welcome :)
Time Heals All Wounds
Though it seemed he no longer had a need for it, Harry James Potter knew all too well the expression 'time heals all wounds'.
After seventeen years, he could think of his parents without bitterly wondering why me? After two years he could accept that Sirius had died the way he would want to: with his boots on, or more accurately, with a wand in his hand. It took less than a year for little Theodore Lupin to learn not to cry when his Godfather and Grandmother, rather than his Mother and Father, fed him and dressed him and played with him every day. It took a little over a year for George Weasley to be able to look in the mirror without flinching a little.
Yes, Harry was more than ready to believe time would heal all wounds.
The first six months had been the hardest. Charity based clean up programmes cropped up everywhere to help smooth over the disturbances in the muggle world, whilst every Auror and able volunteer became a part of the operation to take down the last of the Death Eater rebellion.
It wasn't an easy task, and was gruelling at times – Ron looked close to tears at the news they would be using tents on occasion – but a sense of true accomplishment started to spread throughout the Ministry, and consequently Britain entirely, starting from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. St Mungo's slowly released more and more of its patients, until wards were not overcrowded, stuffed from wall to wall with casualties; Hogwarts was rebuilt and reopened, with extra courses available for overage students wanting qualifications – much to Hermione's delight, and was the cause of more than one argument between the feisty brunette and her hot-headed boyfriend.
Harry and Ron, on the other hand, took up their posts as Aurors (junior at first, but there was little doubt that the positions would change soon). Training was minimal, mostly firsthand experience; and to Ronald's delight, the pay was excellent.
So it was, on the twelfth of June, half a decade after the end of the war, Harry Potter found himself scouring the wizarding villages of London, looking for a jeweller's shop, eventually coming across a tiny shop, run down with age, above which slanting letters read Miller's Moonstones. He entered, causing the bell over the door to tinkle merrily.
He was about to call for an assistant when a young girl appeared from behind the counter.
"Can I help you?" she asked politely, her h barely pronounced, and Harry stared at her. She couldn't have been more than twelve.
"Err, yes," he replied after a moment's hesitation.
"What is it you would like to purchase, sir?" the girl prompted after another few seconds of silence. Harry couldn't help but notice that her wide staring eyes did not seem to quite perceive him, as they remained fixed a little to the left of where he stood.
"A ring," he said hastily, "an engagement ring," he exacted, and the girl nodded, milky blue eyes unblinking and long strawberry blonde hair waving a little.
"Along the top shelf to the right of the door you'll find our most beautiful collection, all hand crafted by my brother, except for the one in the middle, which is more expensive, but is Goblin made." She informed him dutifully; her tone sounded briefly mechanical, is if reciting a paragraph from an instruction manual. Harry thanked her as he approached the indicated rack which glittered with gemstones and winking bands of silver and gold. His eye was immediately drawn to the centrepiece, a unique shine of silver all but glowing from it, holding in place an exquisite diamond set between two pearled moonstones. He glanced at the price card.
Almost two thousand galleons.
Something told him they were strapped for cash, or were reluctant to part with the prize. Perhaps both, he thought to himself briefly, but turned as the sound of heavy footsteps approached from the back room.
"Briony," and Harry took in the stocky form of a young man, whose stride was purposeful and his expression somewhat grim. "I need to go out and get more- holy Merlin, Harry Potter!" the young man cried, suddenly flustered and for a moment he looked angry, but in place he managed to slip on a mask of slippery admiration and sickly hero-worship. Harry registered the way he held onto the girl's arm, unsure whether to push her forwards or hide her. "Hello there, sir, do you need a hand at all? Can I help you with anything?"
Harry surveyed the sharp crystalline stare, large puffed out chest and head held high, jaw clenched and fists balled, and one word sprung to mind: pride. Not, however, the aristocratic pride that caused young Draco Malfoy to strut around his school like a Prince, nor was it the pride that gave Walburga Black's portrait the right to scream Grimmauld Place to the ground at the prospect of mudbloods entering her home.
No, this was pride of a much more deadly and stubborn kind, this was a poor man's pride. Behind the silky façade of friendly attention Harry could feel the bitter resentment festering in the man's eyes, and for a moment wondered if he should be afraid.
"No, nothing, thank you," he said firmly, and the man made a gesture somewhere between a nod and a bow.
"Well, in that case I'd best be off, my sister can attend to you if need be. Sir, a pleasure," he repeated his respectful gesture, his tone indicating a very different emotion than pleasure, and scuttled away onto the main street.
A minute was yet to go by before Briony spoke again. "Don't worry about Oscar, sir, he's harmless really, "Briony promised, smiling, eyes still directed a little too far left.
"Yes," Harry agreed distractedly, resuming his inspection of the rings.
"He's real nice usually," she carried on vaguely, "he just gets his-self in a flap over 'them toffee nosed heroes'". She imitated her brother's voice well, emphasising the cockney twang that was less prominent in her own voice.
"What do you mean?" Harry asked softly, banking on the girl's naivety to not know better than to keep talking, and Briony shrugged half heartedly.
"You know, how all them folk with their Order of Merlins and stuff. Oscar, he thinks they should ban all rewards for war efforts and do things proper like. You know, help the ones who need it." The girl seemed totally at ease now, even smiling slightly. "He says, he does, if it was up to him, he'd take one of those awards and exchange it for some proper coreenas for me, he says."
Harry frowned, unsure what she had said, but seeing the flippant gesticulation towards her eyes asked, "Do you mean corneas?"
"That's them. Yeah, he says they'd be far better than some badge, any day." She smirked proudly, as if quoting a wise man. Harry, rings totally forgotten, took a step closer.
"What happened to your eyes?" he asked delicately.
"I can't really remember," Briony admittedly, blushing in embarrassment. "Only that me and Oscar was listening to the wireless when all of a sudden the door breaks down and these men, they came in, pushing in mam and dad too. Then they was shouting and one of them pointed a wand at me and did that Conjitis Curse." Her voice lowered a little, like a parent telling their child an epic fairy tale.
"Conjunctivitis Curse?" Harry corrected, and Briony nodded eagerly, beginning to njoy her story.
"Yeah, that one, but something went wrong because now I can't see no more. Oscar says it's bad because I could barely walk two steps without tripping over my own feet anyway." She giggled fondly at her brother's words, but Harry did not share her amusement.
"But what about St Mungo's?" he urged, and Briony rolled her unseeing eyes condescendingly.
"They was busy!" she sighed in an obvious tone. "People was only getting in if they could bid the highest for a space. It's ok though, Oscar fixed me up real good so it don't hurt no more at least. He still gets mad sometimes though," she shuddered dramatically, feeling around the desk until her slim fingers brushed against the feathery edge of a quill, and she began fiddling with it absently, fingertips skilfully avoiding the sharp point.
"And…and your parents?" he asked, feeling almost compelled to know, but wished she would not answer, for fear of her reply.
"They both died. Them men…they killed them, and hurt Oscar, but he's ok now. And we have dad's shop to look after." She sounded proud of herself and her brother for the life they had built, and Harry felt his heart rush with affection, and then sink at her childish grin.
"Why aren't you at Hogwarts?" he asked meekly, now stood right at the counter, hands lying flat against the cool wooden surface.
"Ain't got a wand no more," Briony stated plainly, "Those men who broke into our home, they smashed it up. But I don't need Hogwarts. Besides, who would help Oscar in the shop if he didn't have me?" the blonde shook her head firmly, almost patronisingly. "Oh no, I won't let him do everything by his-self!" She pouted defiantly to signal the end of her speech, but the silence that seemed to Harry to stretch, like a deep abyss of reality and understanding seeping through him, did not last long. "So sir, have you found a suitable ring?" her tone remained casual. As if her tale was nothing special, nothing to talk about.
Okay, story time over, back to the job.
Harry turned back to the row of hand crafted rings and opened the glass of the casing to remove the Goblin made ring. Holding his wand to it he muttered a brief incantation annoyed he was still yet to fully master non-verbal spells – and inspected it again.
"What were your parents' names?" Hary asked, and Briony answered without thought or question.
"Jake and Tracy."
Harry ran a finger over the concealed engraving on the Goblin silver ring, wondering how the Goblin's had ever allowed their creation to be blemished by human hands in the first place.
To my first and last love, Tracy Sparks, love your not to secret admirer, Jakey
The sentence filled the entire inside of the ring, and Harry smiled a little as he placed it back in the velvet dimple designed to keep it standing upright. He ran his fingers a few inches above each piece until they came to rest over his favourite that, once viewed more closely, he knew was the one.
It was small and gold, en emerald tourmaline in central place, three diamond chips resting on either side. Subtle, elegant and very much Ginny.
"I'll take the green tourmaline one," he stated firmly, placing it before Briony who, blind eyes having finally come to rest on his face, reached to a drawer and extracted a small crimson box and inserted it, wrapping it decoratively by hand.
He handed a pile of galleons over and Briony stored them without counting, but if she had, she would have found several too many for such a petite ring.
And with one last glance at the battered old shop Harry apparated back to the Burrow, where awaited his exceedingly large family (most of whom were redheads), a hot dinner, and a feeling of warmth and welcoming.
But he did not enjoy and entertain his company that night without a thought for a pair of siblings, one who had lost her sight of the world, the other losing his sight of the goodness in it.
He did not forget his mistake, and chose to use his once true phrase, that time heals all wounds.
Because inevitably, it does not.