1.
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Expelliarmus!"
The two spells met in the middle, and Harry watched as Voldemort crumpled to the floor of the Atrium with a resounding thud, landing on the decapitated body of Nagini. For long moments, no one around him said a word, and Harry knew why. It had all happened so quickly: Harry took the first death curse without even fighting, then rolled to his knees, shouted his spell, and... Voldemort was dead.
How much time had passed while he was making his decision? It did not seem like much time at all…
Harry was shaking. The tips of his fingers on his right hand felt as though dozens of tiny, invisible needles were pricking them. He shook it out, wincing. The Elder Wand rolled to his feet, and he stooped to pick it up.
It was Ron and Hermione who shook off their stupor first, and it was their arms that wrapped around him, and their voices that resounded through the Atrium and deafened him. Then Sirius was there, and Neville, Molly, and Arthur. Even the twins wanted to hug him, and could not even bring themselves to crack a joke. Harry allowed himself to be hugged, allowed them all to wrap their arms around him, but was barely able to think. What he really wanted was a quiet place to go vomit.
It was Sirius who blessedly disentangled him from everyone. "I think Harry needs a moment," he told them. "Wouldn't you?"
Bellatrix Lestrange let out an angry yowl, fighting against the magical bonds Molly and McGonagall had wrapped around her. Harry stared at her as he walked by. Eyes filled with hate looked back at him. Harry nearly tripped over a destroyed section of floor, but Sirius did not even hesitate, grabbed the wand resting four feet away from her, and snapped it in half.
"You won't be needing that anymore," he said conversationally. "Pity Molly didn't kill you."
Then he led Harry around a corner, and politely looked away as Harry leaned against the wall, and gasped for air. It was unbelievable to him how much had happened in the last three hours. Could Voldemort really, truly be dead? Harry's fingertips felt like they were on fire, and he looked at them — but no, they were the same pale, ghostly blue they'd been the last three years.
Harry knew why they were reacting so oddly. He'd been dead. Perhaps they'd wanted him to remain that way.
"Sirius, I..."
Sirius turned back toward him, a compassionate, expectant look on his face. It made Harry uncomfortably aware that however close to death he had been, he was even closer to tears.
"I'm sorry about Remus," he said thickly. "And... and Tonks."
"They would not regret dying to bring about this outcome," Sirius said in a quiet voice.
"But to leave Teddy..."
Teddy was only one, exactly Harry's age when his own parents died.
His parents.
"Sirius, I saw them," Harry said.
Sirius's eyebrows flew up. "You saw Remus and Tonks?"
"My parents." Harry's lips were numb, as though they, too, had been dunked behind the veil. "After Voldemort hit me with the killing curse... they said they came down to meet me, and they could take me home. They wanted to take me home." Harry's insides twisted.
Dying had been easy, to tell the truth. Seeing his parents... he had been prepared to leave with them, to go on with them, as he would have done years ago had Voldemort not torn his own soul asunder. But then... Dumbledore had appeared in that quiet place, and had offered Harry another chance. Still, he might have gone on anyway, had his mother's face not lit with joy.
"I wanted life for you," she'd told him. "I want you to live."
"Go do that," his father'd said.
Still, Harry'd hesitated.
It was Dumbledore's next words that decided it for him. "Harry. You have no idea how loved you are. You can go back."
Harry'd thought of Ron and Hermione, who loved him like a brother, of Molly and Arthur, who loved him like a son. And especially he thought of Sirius, who was an uncle... or an older brother. If Harry died, he did not think Sirius would recover.
So Harry'd gone back to his body, opened his eyes, defeated Voldemort, and was now standing in front of Sirius, trying not to cry.
Sirius seemed to understand that Harry couldn't talk about it. He clasped his shoulder, as James had done to Harry in his vision, and just rested it there. Harry breathed in Sirius's silent comfort, and felt steadier.
Harry only allowed himself another three minutes to gather up his fortitude. He came back around the corner to exactly what he did not want: a large crowd of people filling the Atrium, and all of them raising their hands in deafening applause. There were cracks of Apparition, and witches and wizards toppled out of fireplaces one right after another. At least they left a respectful amount of distance around the dead.
Harry was ready to leave this place.
He felt a deep shudder of alarm when he saw the place where Bellatrix had been sitting was empty. "Where—"
"Kingsley and Percy took her," Hermione said promptly, guessing at what Harry was going to say. "Don't worry. She didn't get away."
It was his turn to leave, Harry felt. He raised one hand in acknowledgment to multitude that had arrived for the aftermath of victory. Then he turned on the spot and Disapparated with a crack.
Grimmauld Place was dim and quiet. The difference was so complete that Harry had a moment of disorientation, and wondered if he had gone deaf. He shook that thought away, but was still relieved when one – two – three cracks of Apparition announced the arrival of Ron, Hermione, and Sirius.
"How long has it been since we've slept?" Harry asked. He felt… ragged. His eyes burned, the spot where the death curse hit him ached, and he could not stop thinking about his mother and father. He sank into a stuffed chair, and put his head in his hands. Remus and Tonks were dead. It kept hitting him, like dull agony pulsing in his stomach.
"Dunno," said Ron. "I lost track after Gringotts."
Harry needed sleep. Sirius was murmuring to the others that he could not believe his brother had stolen a Horcrux from under Voldemort's nose. Harry peered at him blearily. Sirius may be able to joke, but his face was stark and white.
He remembered the moment Remus had died, struck from behind by Dolohov. Sirius had cried out a warning to his old friend, but it had been too late. In the blink of an eye, Sirius became the last of the Marauders. Harry knew his godfather well enough by now that he was in agony that he had not been fast enough. In an odd way, it helped steady Harry. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. At that moment, Crookshanks leapt up and curled up in his lap.
Voldemort was dead. Unbelievable.
A glass was thrust in his hand.
"I don't think I'm up for drinking," said Harry.
"It's a dreamless sleep potion," one of them said. "You need to rest. We all need to rest."
It smelled like hay and flowers, and Harry drank all of it. He set it carefully on the small wood table next to him, sank his fingers – the real ones, not the ghost ones – into Crookshanks' fur, and closed his eyes.
His mind went straight back to his parents.
"Harry!" his dad called.
Harry, who had just pulled on his robes, blinked. "Dad?" he said cautiously.
Some dark shape flailing about under a low table began to cry. Harry winced at the sound.
This strange place reminded him of a stretched version of the Gryffindor common area, with pockets of mist and blankness giving it a sense of otherness. James and Lily stood near a roaring fire. Harry's mouth slowly fell open, and he darted a quick glance around the room, half-expecting to see Ginny in one of the armchairs, waving him over for a game of Gobstones.
Then Ginny was driven from his head as both of his parents wrapped their arms around him. Harry pulled back, looking hungrily at his mother. He could ignore the cries echoing around them. He was no longer interested in what it was, or why it was crying. All he could think about was the miracle of seeing his parents.
"So… that was it? That was all it was?" he finally asked. Death had not hurt at all. The worst was having to leave the living behind, but now he got to see his parents…
"Quicker and easier than falling asleep, wasn't it?" James asked.
"You were so brave," Lily whispered, and stroked his cheek. It warmed him in a way that Harry knew she must have done the same thing to comfort him as a baby.
"I had to do it," Harry whispered. "I had to. He made me a Horcrux… I don't think he did it on purpose. I don't think he would've wanted to make me one… how could he? He turned me into his worst enemy."
"No, you are right," said James. "It was entirely accidental, I think."
The air was growing warmer and warmer. The crying was fading. Harry could still hear it in the distance, but it was fading. Curious, he looked down at his right hand. It was becoming more real, more solid, as though whatever damage the Veil had done to him those years ago was being undone. He could hear whispers around him – he thought he heard Remus chuckle, and Tonks laugh. Harry looked toward where the sound was coming from. Where a blank wall had been, there was now a portrait hole. There were people beyond it, Harry could hear them. He yearned toward it, listening hard for Ginny's voice.
"Are you ready?" Lily asked.
Harry was about to say yes, was about to take one step further, wanted to see Ginny and Remus and Tonks, and Dumbledore, and everyone—
And then Fawkes gave a great cry, and Harry jerked back.
The phoenix appeared in that misty place, looking very real, and very resplendent. Fawkes cried again, spread his wings, and in the suddenly ignited fire beneath him, Dumbledore appeared.
"Harry, wait," Dumbledore said. "My apologies, James, Lily." He bowed to them.
All three Potters were too stunned to say anything.
"Dumbledore?" Harry said cautiously.
"It does not have to be like this," said Dumbledore. "You can go back." There was quiet thunder in his voice. Harry felt it in his soul. Fawkes came to land on his shoulder; his claws pierced it. For the first time since Harry came to this place, he felt discomfort.
"But…"
"When Voldemort used your blood to fuel his own ritual, he unwittingly created a way for you to go back," said Dumbledore. He nodded toward Lily. "Your mother's sacrifice lives on in him, tethering you."
"I… can go back?" Harry said slowly. He was not at all sure he wanted to. He thought of those whispers he'd heard, he thought of leaving his mum and dad. "Do I have to?"
Dumbledore closed his eyes, and shook his head. "It is your choice. But Harry – you have no idea how much you are loved. You can go back."
Harry's thoughts of his friends then were suddenly so real that it was as though Ron, Hermione, Sirius, the rest of the Weasleys, Luna, and Neville were there before him. It was bewildering, uncomfortable. He thought of Sirius.
He looked at his parents. Fawkes pressed down hard on him, then lifted off into the air. "I don't want to leave you."
"Oh, Harry," said Lily. "We never wanted you to join us so soon. We want you to live."
James wrapped his arms around both of them. "We want you to live, Harry. Go. Live."
"I wanted life for you," said Lily. "I wanted you to live."
"Go do that," said James.
They were fading. Harry held on to them as long as he could. Then he turned to Dumbledore, who had grasped Fawkes' plumage. "Until we meet again," said Dumbledore. Harry just stared at him, not sure if he was grateful or angry he had arrived and offered Harry a choice.
"Your signature spell ought to do it."
Those were Dumbledore's last words to him.
Harry woke up, still not certain. He was still in the chair. Crookshanks was gone, and someone had thrown a blanket over him. The dream had been so real, Harry felt like he'd been back in the in between place. Whoever had named the "dreamless sleep" potion thus had been very wrong. Harry had never had a dream so vivid.
He closed his eyes again, and fell into a truly deep sleep.
Harry did not dream.
2.
The funerals began.
Harry felt an obligation to go to all of them, even for the magical janitor Voldemort had killed on his way into the Ministry. It was his penance, he supposed, for living through a curse no one else had a chance to.
Sirius was the only one who came with him to that one.
They stood side by side in the back of a Muggle chapel. Molly Weasley had done some shopping in Diagon Alley, and both Harry and Sirius had very new black dress robes that Molly assured them were "stylish without being ostentatious", whatever that meant. It was difficult to care about something as mundane as clothing. It was wet from the rain, and Harry did not care enough to use a drying spell.
During the ceremony, Kingsley's lynx appeared. "Trial is over. Bellatrix will go to Azkaban."
"My apologies," Sirius told the congregation, who had all turned to stare. "He did not know I was here. I apologize for the interruption."
"No," the janitor's widow said. She'd been sitting, weeping into a handkerchief, but now she stood. "No, Cor would have loved to hear Bellatrix Lestrange got hers."
They ducked out as soon as the funeral was over.
Harry could only be relieved that this one had not been as terrible as Remus's.
3.
He took to wearing gloves.
When it had first happened, he'd assumed that it would be a temporary thing. But his hand never quite returned to normal, even after all of Dumbledore's searching, and a few consultations with workers from the Department of Mysteries. The Weasleys were especially ferocious in their need to understand what, exactly, had happened to Harry's hand, of course.
But now, after dying and coming back, Harry no longer wanted a reminder of death. So he hid his hand as much as he could. He hardly used his right arm anymore, anyway. Once he realized how weird his spells went, he forced himself to do everything with his left hand.
So it was that even at the Burrow, the first time they'd all been back in well over a year, Harry was wearing gloves to hide his ghostly disfigurement.
"You don' have to 'ide it," Ron said. His mouth was full of food.
"Honestly, Ron," his mother said, exasperated.
Ron rolled his eyes and swallowed. "Blimey, you're just like Hermione."
It took everything Harry had not to mention Ron had chosen to fall in love with someone who reminded him of his mother. He fought the urge to smile, and a thought flitted through his thoughts: Ginny would have enjoyed this.
After almost everyone was done eating, Sirius broached a topic of conversation that had Harry laying his fork down, suddenly unable to eat his pie.
"Molly, Arthur… when are you going to bring Ginny out of hiding?" he asked gently.
Harry looked down at his plate.
"As a matter of fact, we are going to go get her as soon as Bellatrix Lestrange is in Azkaban," said Arthur. "We wanted to wait, just to be sure it was really, truly safe. But now we get to bring her home." Despite the words, there was melancholy and grief in his tone.
Harry felt a lump in his throat.
"I've been invited to Petershead, to see her being sent off," Sirius said. He stabbed his pie with unusual ferocity.
"I want to go," Harry said. "I want to see her sent to Azkaban."
"Well…"
"Please," said Harry.
"All right," said Sirius.
It was decided, then. Harry thought it fitting that one witch would leave the shores of Britain, never to return, while another witch was brought home where she belonged.
4.
Neither Harry nor Sirius wanted to be at the Ministry of Magic any day soon, so they did not set eyes on Bellatrix again until she was at a small village the Ministry used as a stepping-off point to Azkaban. Kingsley, who was now the interim Minister, and the rest of the Auror Department had not taken any chances. There were black, thorny bands around her wrists, her face was smooth where her lips and mouth had been, and she was locked in a barred box.
Harry had a feeling they were covered in protective enchantments, and when the box caught the light, he had the satisfaction of seeing dozens of runes imbued with magic illuminated by the sun. Whatever it was, it was powerful. He could feel the air pulsing around it. It intrigued him slightly, and made his fingertips tingle.
Bellatrix stared at him. Her hate had not abated, had only increased. Harry eyed her, thoughtful. There was an unhealthy pallor to her skin, and her eyes were not only burned with rage, but they were… wrong. Her irises were black as midnight, and little tendrils curled out into her sclera. Unnerved, he wondered what dark magics Voldemort had shared with her, and what could have so subtly changed her appearance.
Sirius was quiet beside him. The only sound was the roar of the sea surging against the rocks. "We were a large family once," he said, after five minutes of unbroken silence. The Aurors seemed patient and willing to let Sirius and Harry have their time.
"The Black family?" Harry asked.
"Yeah. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," Sirius said it with the appropriate articulation, making it clear which words were meant to be capitalized. He scuffed his boot against the rough wood of the pier. "Oh, Harry. I don't think there ever was a family so dark." His face fell into pensive lines.
Bellatrix surged against her bonds. She undulated, writhed, and made her last, desperate attempts to escape. They were futile. The translucent box held her.
Sirius looked at him. "Bellatrix is not even the worst of it. Not even the worst."
Then he was silent. The Aurors chose to take to the skies. They all rode brown, nondescript brooms. The enchanted box that held Bellatrix was lashed between their brooms, and no less than four Aurors were given the task to hold their wands on her at all times. "Ready, Sirius?" Kingsley asked. "Ready, Harry?"
They both nodded, and the Aurors took to the sky.
Harry watched them fly away. They did not become smaller and smaller until they disappeared. Instead, it was as though they passed through a doorway Harry couldn't see and shut the door. One moment they were there, the next they weren't.
Sirius took him to a small Muggle establishment. They didn't talk much. Harry thought Sirius might have things to say about his family, about Bellatrix, about the dark witches and wizards who had somehow managed to produce Harry's godfather. But instead he was quiet, drank three pints of ale with determination, and watched Harry eat his shepherd's pie.
"Well, that's that," said Sirius. "Shall we go?"
Harry nodded.
5.
Just as Harry felt honor-bound to be there when Bellatrix left for Azkaban, he felt it likewise necessary to be there when Ginny came home.
Only Arthur knew where she'd been. Her location had been a secret within a secret, and no one had wanted to put her in danger by even knowing where she'd been kept safe.
Everyone had decided independently of one another to relax their funereal dress code and dressed casually in all sorts of Quidditch paraphernalia. Harry wore the Quidditch uniform he had during fifth year, the year she'd been on the team, even though they hadn't played at the same time. He'd been given a lifetime ban by Umbridge, and she'd served the team as Seeker.
The twins were in fine form. They also wore their fifth year uniforms, but paired it with shockingly small hot pink pants, showing off pale, freckled legs with aplomb. "These were always her favorite," said George.
Ron came through the Floo wearing a shocking amount of Chudley Cannons orange, and Hermione came down the stairs wearing a large Pride of Portree scarf. It was flamboyantly purple, and Ron gasped in outrage when he saw it. "Portree! Seriously?!"
"I don't know the teams," Hermione said coolly. "I'm just wearing this for Ginny, and you know it."
"Ginny wouldn't thank you for wearing Portree, woman, honestly," said Ron.
Harry's sleeves were digging into his arms, and he scratched at his neck.
Hermione gave him a look. "You aren't feeling… guilty, are you?" she said tentatively. When Ron tried to pull the scarf off her neck, she swatted his hands.
Harry shook his head, but it was a lie. It was a lie he'd been telling for three years. The hopeless guilt he'd felt had diminished, to be sure. Harry didn't think anyone could sustain that kind of feeling for very long. But it had been his fault they'd been in the Ministry of Magic on a fool's errand. He'd believed the visions in his head, had believed Sirius to be in danger.
Had he not, Ginny would not have fallen beyond the Veil.
Harry was thinking these morose thoughts when Arthur arrived through the Floo, carrying a threadbare old suitcase. "I have her," he said in a quiet tone.
Molly half sighed, half sobbed.
The suitcase was one of those bits of magic that had fascinated Harry to no end when he'd first seen it. Like the camping tents, like Hermione's little beaded bag, it was larger on the inside than on the outside. As they all dropped down into the suitcase, down a rickety old ladder, Harry was once more fascinated. There were a lot of restrictions on this kind of charm, Harry'd learned, and Arthur'd "borrowed it, just until Ginny's better" from an old friend. Whoever that old friend was, the suitcase smelled of the musk of wild beasts, rain, and a multitude of plants.
But now it was all empty, except for where Ginny rested.
"She can come out now, right?" Bill said sharply. "Now that Voldemort's gone. She wouldn't want to be cooped up in here."
Molly hesitated. "It's so much safer in here."
"She'd want to be put in a bed out on the Quidditch Pitch at Hogwarts," said Fred. "You know she would."
"Yes, well, that's… slightly impractical," said Arthur.
Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, and took a half step backward. They'd learned long ago that they really shouldn't get in the way of a Weasley argument. Harry'd been in situations with Death Eaters less tense.
Taking a deep breath, Harry forced himself to look at Ginny.
She lay on a diaphanous bed; it looked more like a cloud than anything else. Molly had made it for her not long after she fell almost all the way through the Veil. Harry remembered Ginny as being… particularly vibrant. Hair, especially. Now, she had a pearly translucence that made her look more ghost than girl. It had been that way since the Ministry, and looking at her, Harry felt that familiar quiver of guilt. Guilt had made a home for itself in Harry's belly that day at the Ministry, and it often flared up. Now, seeing her again in the first time in over a year, it caused him actual physical pain.
Harry tugged off his glove, and stretched out his fingers. They were translucent, and palely blue, just like her.
Surreptitiously – the Weasleys were still arguing – Harry stepped closer to Ginny. His fingertips tingled and burned.
He lightly touched her ankle, and thought he… felt something. It was there and gone too fast to guess what it was. In the next instant, he began to doubt he'd felt anything at all.
"All right, Harry?" Hermione asked softly.
"Yeah," he said, shaking his head. "Yeah, just… I guess this is our next great task, right? Now that Voldemort's gone? We'll need to help the Weasleys get Ginny back." He tried very hard to school his expression, to make sure none of his private doubt was writ on his face.
"Yes," said Hermione. "Yes, it is."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Author's Note: So what did everyone think of Crimes of Grindelwald? I loved it. I think the people who thought it riddled with plot holes have forgotten what it was like to read the books as they came out, when we didn't have all the information, and we were scrambling to figure out what was going on, what was going to happen in the future books. I have read some criticism that makes the critic sound very petulant and amateurish. There are going to be another three movies, for god's sake, stop judging COG by how you thought the duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald went down. It's not like there isn't more story to tell, that we are going to be left hanging after COG, and the only information we'll have about the further adventures of Newt is the bits of information we got in Deathly Hallows.