Just a short blurb before the last book comes out, basically how I see the end of it all going, unless J.K.R. actually does kill him off which I find unlikely (unless it's a martyr's death). That being said, characters herein are not mine but belonging to a certain wealthy writer in England (who I hope goes into hiding for her own safety; not a threat on my part, but no matter what that woman does, she's going to have thousands of mobbing fans. 'Tis the nature of the beast).
Harry had known since his fourth year. There really wasn't another way around it. But he didn't remember any of that anymore. There were a great many things Harry Potter didn't remember.
It bothered him sometimes, the strange looks from all the strange people on the train. Never the normal folks but always the weirdos staring at him as though he had a neon sign jutting out from his shoulders inviting everyone to stare and whisper excitedly instead of applauding. It was better after he'd had his scar removed; less people stared then though there were still a few. Most of the time though, Harry didn't know that he'd forgotten anything. A face might seem particularly familiar for a moment but his mind never turned anything up. A particular head of long red hair appeared in his dreams from time to time but it didn't belong to anyone Harry currently knew or could recall ever knowing.
He was content if not necessarily happy in his job at Grunnings, somehow managing to step far away from his uncle's (figuratively) small shadow and make impressive headway in the research and development department. Uncle Vernon had even bestowed a gruff congratulation, though he turned three shades of purple in order to achieve such. Harry didn't dream of drills but of more fantastical things—belonging to a younger imagination, he often told himself. Halloween held a strange resonance each passing year, a time he allowed that imagination out on a longer leash for some much needed exercise. The neighborhood kids particularly enjoyed his displays, often arguing with Harry as to whether or not his depictions of goblins were wholly accurate. At least it was better than Christmas, though somehow he'd always had wonderful luck on those days, his desk at work laden with many small gifts when he returned to work after Christmas break.
Sure, Harry had friends at Grunnings and the occasional fling but he could almost sense his strangeness, whatever it was that all the weirdos stared at him for. Something was not quite right.
One odd day in September, a gentleman with red hair sat next to a woman with tightly reined but obviously bushy hair; the woman was much more discreet than her companion, though such was not difficult as the man stared openly and without blinking.
"What?" Harry asked, a bit too snappish to be polite.
"Blimey," the man said, finally blinking and resting back in his seat.
Unsatisfied with this answer, Harry studied the face. The mustache was perhaps not right but the freckles seemed familiar somehow, in an odd way. Harry shook his head and the familiarity was gone.
His irritation rising, Harry asked, "Would you knock it off?"
The woman took hold of her companion's hand and the man turned to look at her. She shook her head sadly and said no more.
The man turned back toward Harry, his face scrunching in thought. "If I said Gryffindor, would it mean anything to you?" he asked in a quiet voice.
Harry blinked, the word sounding like a name of some foreign city and certainly nothing Harry had heard of. He said as much and the man dipped his head, staring at his hands, one still holding the woman's.
Fully frustrated with his situation, Harry stood set his hand on the woman's shoulder. She looked up at him with her eyes sparkling with fear at first and several other emotions Harry didn't know how to sort out, never having been good at reading anyone's eyes. The fear was plain, though.
"Can you tell me what's going on?" Harry implored in a much more cautious tone.
She bit her lip and just as the train pulled to a stop, she whispered, "I swore to you that I never would."
The couple left at the next stop and Harry snapped out of his confusion long enough to mind the gap and dash after them before the doors closed. They were gone, somehow.
Harry avoided public transportation as much as possible for the next three weeks. From then on, however, every time someone stared at him, he thought back to that strange word, "Gryffindor," and almost asked the stare-er what it meant.
He saw the couple again, some time later. It had to be them; the man had still failed to learn any lessons regarding subtlety. Harry picked up the conversation where they'd left off.
"What did I make you swear?"
"Pardon?" the woman asked.
"I remember you."
Their faces brightened for a moment. "You do?" the man asked excitedly.
Harry glanced at them warily. "From last September. You were staring at me."
They were both visibly disappointed, shoulders slumping and everything.
"Look, I know I've never known either of you properly, but, though you're not the only ones who've stared at me, you're the first who've said something to me. Care to fill me in?"
"I'm sorry, Harry," the woman mumbled, tears forming in her eyes.
"How did you know my name?"
The woman covered her mouth but the man was there to cover for her. "It's a long story."
"I've got time," Harry assured him.
"This is one better left untold."
"Let me be the judge of that."
"If I thought you'd ever forgive me, Harry, I would." The man and the woman conveniently exited at the next stop but Harry refused to let them go this time.
"You can't leave it there," Harry insisted. "There's a lot more to all this." He pulled on the woman's arm but she wrenched it from his grasp, her desperation matching his as she fled.
"Please leave my wife alone."
Harry was about to start an angry rant but the plea in the man's voice stopped him.
"It's best just to forget, Harry. You told us that yourself." The man walked off, catching up with his wife at the corner where she stood crying until welcomed by his embrace.
Harry took two steps to follow but then thought better of it. Sighing, he decided to take a taxi home; it was more expensive but it allotted a bit more privacy.
Ron and Hermione met Remus Lupin inside of the Leaky Cauldron. His crutch rested against the chair but he calmly placed it on the floor when his company arrived. "Magical prosthesis look fantastically real," he commented when Hermione raised an eyebrow, "but they still don't feel very comfortable. Who's afraid of a gimpy werewolf anyway?"
"Never us, Remus," Hermione smiled.
Ron flumped down heavily in his chair across from Remus.
"Something wrong?"
"We saw Harry again today."
"Did you say anything to him?"
"Yes."
Remus sighed. "We may not have agreed with Harry's decision but we still need to honor it, Ron. By talking to him, you're only going to make him curious. You know Harry."
"I used to."
Remus closed his eyes for a moment. "I know this is hard. We all lost so much. But this was all more than Harry could take. He's an outsider by choice for perhaps the first time."
"Have they figured out why his magic stopped working?"
"Something with Voldemort's final curse; perhaps he wrote his own squib-making spell as a final injustice. The Ministry has long stopped the investigation without Harry to pester them. Those two years were really hard on him, on all of us."
Hermione focused on her hands and said nothing. Remus took her hands into his own scarred palms and gently spoke: "This was one of the hardest things Harry's ever had to do, Hermione, and he's had quite a lot to pick from. Leaving us behind made all the harder the more we stuck to him. He'll always carry a piece of that and a piece of us, even if he never realizes it."
Love it or hate it, please let me know. Take care, all.