DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER! ALL RIGHTS BELONG TO JK ROWLING AND WARNER BROS! I AM NOT MAKING MONEY FROM ANY OF THIS!
They had no right to squabble as they did. Arguing over semantics and memories, tiny fragments of their world that had no place in his. They had no right to fight over times past when he had a piece of the puzzle and deny him the rest of it. He owned that puzzle. It was his. There was nothing about the entire affair that gave him satisfaction. Occasionally he was given snippets, and it was never enough. The pieces were biased memories, fuelled by grief, hatred, and misery. They were never fuelled by nostalgia. He had a right to know, a right to fight. He had every right they did not. He had the right to know who they were. And so he told them. When he was sick of their fighting he told them. They stared, tried to shut him up by calling him disrespectful, and he silenced them. Where was their right to argue with him, he asked. They tried to shut him up again, but how dare they when his only memory of his parents was his father screaming at his mother to save him and herself. When his only memory of his mother was her dying. When the only things he remembered about them were little feelings like safety and love. He did not remember their faces, he had never known their names.
He appealed to Ron. To his pseudo brother. To the person who could understand the least and yet still could. How did it feel to be held on your mother's lap after a nightmare and be given hot chocolate and comfort? And Ron answered, he felt safe and secure. He asked them all the same question but it was only Ron who answered him. He asked them if it was bad that he had never been held on his aunt's knee and the only thing he was given after a nightmare was a reprimand and an order to shut up or else. He asked why they, who had known his parents had the right to argue over them when he could not remember them. Sirius tried to argue. Tried to explain. He screamed. They had no right to scream over a man fourteen years dead, buried with his wife. They had no right to keep all they knew of the couple from him. They lost that right. He had the right to ask, he had the right to fight. Where was theirs? Did they not remember them? Did they not have years? Old eyes stared at him trying to explain, and he cut him off with a gesture, defiant and angry and they feel from his gaze like rain from a cloud.
He asked them how they could be adults when they quibbled over dead and faded words, and haunting memories when he had one sentence and a memory to make up for an entire lifetime. How dare they call him pampered and spoiled and assume that he was like his father? How could he know? He never knew the man. He never knew his mother. How dare they insult him by saying these things so unapologetically? How could they? How dare he assume he was spoiled when a cupboard was his bedroom for ten years? How dare they assume they would be forgiven? They had no right. He ranted and demanded, and explained. He gesticulated wildly and screamed out words, switching from one place to another. He mocked and taunted and threw back every word they'd ever used, and when he calmed he asked them how dare they throw a lifetime of knowledge away so carelessly when he was left with the scraps and then he was accused of the very things they had done? How dare they? They had no answer. He had known this. He had known the stunned silence would come. He had known their anger at his presumed arrogance, and when again they tried to protest he spun on them.
He was like an angry dog nipping at everyone's heels, whirling this way and that and stubbornly continuing in his fury. Cold emerald eyes stared behind glasses frosted with rage. Everything they accused him of he now denied. He denied the arrogance, the knowledge, the hatred, the violence, the ridiculous faults he'd never acquired, the love for fame. And finally he turned on them. Tongue, sharp and bitter, again he mocked. He threw comparisons and realities, memories and tales, everything he'd known and learnt and heard he threw at them all bitterly mocking them, and when it ended he stood there. His face pale and drawn secrets exposed for the world to see, vulnerability clearly written on his face, and the anger in his entire soul glinted in his eyes, and he held their gazes until they looked away or down. Five sets of eyes stared proudly back, four blue and one brown, and smiles were on their faces. He grimly returned it. He'd laid his every secret bare, his every shame, his pain and suffering and torment.
And then he spoke. It was soft, deceptively so. He lulled them into a state of hope and then proceeded to berate them. Every thing they'd ever said he picked apart and left hanging in the air like a cloud. And when he was finished the shame was palpable in the entire room. And then he turned to the two who had started and asked them again. How dare they argue about his father and mother and squabble like children when they had no right? How dare they? This time he did not scream. He choked it out with a sob-wracked voice, those flinty eyes glittering with tears at their betrayal, at their stupidity, at their arrogance, when he was left with crumbs and scraps, pieces of a life that had never been. And when he was finished the entire order was gaping, tears and shame in every eye. The Order of the Phoenix cast their eyes down and did not try to protest. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were openly sobbing, shame and self-loathing deep in their faces. And then he commanded them. Powerfully, voice filled with undeniable control. And they looked. He stared into their eyes and forgave them. He pushed away the pieces and the shards and the hurt and he forgave them. And as he did so they saw him swallow his pride and push away the dignity he should have embraced. And they saw that in his eyes revenge was stupid, and he forgave them. His soul was damaged and racked with pain. He should have demanded vengeance, but he never did. And the two who fought met his gaze and barely held it. The rest were the same.
And when he was finished staring, he turned and looked at his best friends. Shame, anguish and love were in their eyes and he smiled. Breathing deeply he forgave them. And suddenly there was a lightness that had never been there. He had forgiven them despite it all, when they were so sure he would push them away. He had made them feel all his powerful emotions and now he forgave them. His soul was at peace now. He could rest easy. And so he breathed deeply and asked for a hug. He buried his face in the shoulder of his best friend, and inhaled her vanilla scent and felt his best mate hold them both tightly unable to let go just then. And three more sets of arms surrounded him, all familiar in different ways. He never saw the awe in their eyes. Never knew that Mad-Eye Moody held him in the highest esteem. Never knew that McGonagall and Dumbledore held him in awe. Never knew that Severus Snape regretted every hurtful action he'd ever made or ever would have to make. Never knew that the oldest Weasley's regarded him as the most mature young man they'd ever known. Never knew that every adult in the room had their opinions changed. Never knew that the paragons of Light and Peace held him in the highest awe and esteem. He never knew that his magic had shown him his memories, never knew they had forcefully felt his pain, his anger, his grief. He never knew that when he had forgiven them they had felt his magic wrap around them and calm them. Never knew as they did that in a second if he had wanted to his magic, glowing out of his eyes, could have torn them to shreds. Never knew that as they did that the most powerful display of magic ever made had been made by a fifteen year old. Never knew that their allegiances changed. That those who witnessed transferred their awe from the oldest wizard in the room to the most widely known. Never knew that he was believed and loved. Never knew that in that moment, Harry Potter truly became Gryffindor's Golden Boy. Never knew that everyone in that moment hoped Voldemort never antagonised him badly enough. Because Harry Potter never felt the localised earthquake that had passed through. All he knew was that he was safe in the arms of his best friends, and he rested. Never knowing just how much had changed.
The End.