The Trunk by Ava Monroe

Disclaimer: Knock, knock… door opens… "Hello, Ms Rowling, can Harry and Friends come out to play?" (Was there really any doubt that I could think this is mine?)

Author's Notes: I wrote most of this in June 2006 while I was living in France. I was trying desperately to pack 10 months of my life into 2 suitcases (that could weigh only 50lbs each). Needless to say, I called home to Canada about 3 times a day while packing up my apartment to double check with my family that it was okay if I were to leave some things behind. I waited a couple months, after my reverse culture shock (aka homesickness for France) disappeared, then I cleaned this story up (as much as I could) and decided to share it. I hope you like. If you don't, either way, it was cathartic for me in a very weird way to know that those 2 suitcases did not represent the sum total of my year abroad. Enjoy!! (and R&R if you have time!!)

It's an interesting feeling to pack up one's life into a small compartment. It's mystifying to see how much "stuff" a person collects over the course of his life. It's frustrating trying to make it all fit. And it's sad, depressing when it does fit. How can trinkets, clothing, shoes, a small number of collectibles and maybe a few pictures sum up a person's life? And in looking at the contents of a small compartment, can we evaluate and judge a person's life? Harry Potter most certainly hoped not.

He was orphaned almost 16 years ago by the cruel hand of a self-promoted demigod. He had had parents for just over the first year of his life. That's it- a whole year of his life. And yet, what did he have to show for it? A handful of pictures? A memory flash that cannot be shared with anyone? Over 365 days represented by a small number of snapshots? It was disappointing and inadequate.

But at least it was something.

For the next 10 years, Harry was fostered by his mother's sister's family. Aunt Petunia grudgingly took over as his primary caregiver. Without really caring, she fed him, somewhat regularly. She clothed him halfheartedly. She interacted with him daily. In theory, she taught him all the essentials of life. She taught him to tie his shoelaces. To dress himself in the morning. To get to school without being hit by car. Under her influence, his language skills developed, his personality was formed, and his morals were instilled. She witnessed birthdays, Christmases, Easters, first days of school, illnesses, injuries, tears.

And yet Harry did not have a single memento of these years that made up the majority of his young life. He had no pictures, no toys, no souvenirs. He had nothing to call his own from this period, from his formative years. Most children have closets and cupboards full of nicknacks, drawings, stuffed animals, maybe even the occasional report card. Most adults can nostalgically leaf through photo albums full of pictures that silently tell the story of their lives. Harry had none of these things. He had no documented history.

So here he was at the mid-point of the summer. He had turned 17 only the day before. When his uncle had threatened him with the pain of death only that morning, Harry had noted somewhat ambivalently "At least it'll be marked 'in my eighteenth year' in the obituaries." He was proud to have lived so long.

He had grown up in an indifferent household. He had been slightly neglected materialistically and completely abandoned emotionally. Still, despite the violence that marked and was still marking his teenage years, Harry was a survivor. He had survived where many better people, stronger people than him, had not. And he was proud to be alive. Of course he was, at times, overwhelmed when thinking of all the losses he had suffered, but he was an ordinary boy who was surviving extraordinary situations- constantly. And still, he was staying on top, or at least far enough from the bottom, for it all to mean something. Not thriving, but hoping that one day he would have the belated chance to make up for what was lost or what was deprived of him. However, sometimes he did hope that he wouldn't.

Now this small compartment - a suitcase, a satchel, a trunk - but did really mean something? Did the simple token of surviving replace all the physical items that were missing from his life. Shouldn't he have a favourite stuffed animal? Shouldn't he have report cards and their random comments ("Harry must learn to raise his hand before speaking") to laugh over 10 years from now? Shouldn't he be able to roll his eyes over the quality of his illustration of a whale… or was it a blue lumpy thing? Shouldn't he need to sort through his things and decide what was worth keeping and whether it was time to part with certain objects?

He had tokens of his mother's life. He had mementos of his father. Even though they were dead, he had physical reminders that proved to the world that they had existed, that they had breathed, that they had loved, that they had been here. And Harry had nothing of the sort. At least, not until he got to Hogwarts.

So on the 1st August, Harry, a grown wizard according the law, was packing up his life into a small compartment. And with the smooth click of the latch, it all fit easily.

He was sitting on his trunk in the middle of his room waiting for his escorts. Aunt Petunia stopped the doorway.

"Are you leaving then?"

"Shortly."

"Strip the sheets from the bed, put them in the hamper. Make sure you haven't left any odds and ends around the room for us to trip over later. I have no desire to package up any loose items because you're forgetful."

"That shouldn't be a problem."

"Good." Aunt Petunia looked around the empty room with its single bed and simple wardrobe. "Well… What time did you say you were leaving at?"

"I hadn't said. Shortly. When Ron and Hermione get here."

Aunt Petunia's nose curled in disgust at the mention of his frequent guests for the last month. "I can have Vernon help you carry your trunk downstairs if that's why you're waiting."

Harry snorted. "My trunk isn't a problem."

Aunt Petunia sighed heavily and clicked her tongue. "Fine. Don't forget about the sheets." Quickly turning from her nephew, Petunia made her way downstairs.

Raising his eyes skyward, Harry laughed, "I am definitely not going to miss this place." Checking his watch and realising it was time, Harry easily lifted his trunk with both hands and made his way downstairs. Pausing in the front hall, he turned to Petunia, who was looking out one of the front windows, to say his goodbyes.

"I'm off, then. Goodbye, Aunt Petunia."

"Goodbye, boy. I suppose someone will let us know if you don't survive this "thing" of yours… Good luck."

Harry turned with a look of slight disbelief after his aunt's almost caring statement. Seeing his confusion, Petunia impatiently continued, "Well, really. If you survive I'll never have to hear of you again, shall I?"

Again, Harry laughed while shaking his head. A knock at the door cued his departure. Opening it, stepping outside and pulling his trunk with him, he turned to greet his best friends.

"Hey. All right?"

"All right. Let me get that for you, mate" Ron reached for the handles of the trunk.

"Really, Ron, it's not that heavy."

Noticing Harry's sad tone of voice, Ron said, "In that case, let me get that for you, mate!"

Harry laughed softly and followed his friends. For the next ten minutes or so, walking beyond the neighbourhood of Privet Drive to a slightly less populated area to catch the Knight Bus, the three friends were quiet. Occasionally Ron would make some comment about the cars "with their blinky lights" ("Turning signal, Ron," explained Hermione). And Hermione would cover the basic generalities of small talk: "How has the weather been in Surrey? … We've had quite a nice start to summer at home. … How were the Dursleys? Did you have a chance to finish that Transfiguration book I recommended? Where's Hedwig? Oh I imagine you sent her on ahead to the Burrow. … "

Suddenly, Harry, who had been silent since leaving Number 4, turned to his classmates. "Do you have any pictures from last Christmas, Ron? Hermione? Or the one before. How about from the Quidditch matches? Summer holidays?"

"Um-- Mum should, she's mad about keeping things like that."

"I know I do," Hermione interjected. "Chronologically, too. Mostly Muggle photos. But I'm sure there's a charm to animate them. So if you think of something specific that you would like photos of, it should be rather easy for me to find. Oh- Colin Creevey would for sure. Why?"

"Just have pages to fill. Ron, do you think your mum would have doubles?"

"Extra copies? If not she'll make them for you. She'd probably even frame them or make one of those Muggle carpbooks that my dad's always talking about. Just ask her."

Harry smiled to himself as Hermione corrected Ron ("Scrapbooks, Ron.") and made a promise to himself. Right now it was probably for the best that he wasn't being weighed down by heavy trunks and excess baggage. But he was determined. Next year, or maybe two years from now, the trunk's lid wouldn't close and it would take 2 of them to carry it downstairs. Harry was going to make history. Not in the Boy-Who-Lived sense, he was going to make a documented history for himself- trinkets, pictures, mementos. History in the academic sense of creating physical proof of his experiences. And this history would stand up to the harshest of critics. Proof of a well spent life. Proof that he was worth it. Proof of Just-Harry.

"But maybe you should wait until after the wedding- she's not exactly civil right now."

La fin.

End Notes: thanks for taking the time to read my little fic. I would really appreciate some feeback if you have a moment- if not, well, thanks clicking on my story when you already have so much to chose from. Happy Holidays :D