Honor Your Father, Don't Mourn Him
Albus Potter knocked on the door of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. It still felt a little odd not to just walk into the house where he'd grown up, but he'd lived away for almost 40 years. It was his parents' house, not his anymore, and he didn't feel right just walking in, no matter what his mother said.
"Master Albus!" squeaked Borog the house elf as he opened the door. "You is welcome, sir, you is indeed." Kreacher's son bowed so low he almost mashed his nose into the porch, while his long bat-like ears brushed Albus's legs.
"Thank you, Borog," Albus said, grinning. "How are things?"
Borog straightened up. His face fell into a sad grimace as he replied, "Borog is sad but fine, Master Albus. And the Mistress is fine, too. But the poor Master…" He shook his head. "It is so sad to see, Master Albus."
Albus nodded, a grim look on his face. "I know it is, Borog. But I'm sure you're doing whatever you can, and I know you're being a great comfort to Mother. She told me so the last time I talked to her."
"Borog loves the Master and Mistress, Master Albus," he said proudly. "Borog would do anything for them, including giving up his life, sir. If that could help poor Master, Borog would die happy." A tear formed in his eye. "But Borog can do nothing, and it makes him sad, sir. Why, just this morning the Master gave Borog a book, sir, and when Borog opened it, it contained a sock, sir. And-" tears were starting down his cheeks- "Master said, 'There you are, Dobby, you're free.' Master does not even know me and thinks Borog is the great Dobby, sir. But don't worry. Borog knows Master is not right, and does not consider himself free, sir. And even if he was free, Borog would continue serving the Master and Mistress."
Albus handed the grieving house elf a handkerchief, and patted him on the back as he wiped his face and blew his nose in great loud honks. He waved it away when Borog tried to give it back.
"Albus! I didn't know you were coming." The voice had lost some of its vigor and forcefulness, but Ginny Potter hadn't yet acquired the quavering querulousness of so many people her age. Albus suspected it never would; Grandmother Molly has been strong and forceful up to the day she died.
"Hello, Mum," he said, crossing the hall to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "How are you?"
"Not bad for an old lady," she replied, smiling at him. "How are you and Heather? And my grandchildren?"
We're all fine. Heather sends her love, and the kids want to know when you're going to come see them. Little Harry said he hopes you'll be there when he goes to Hogwarts next month. I think he wants to show you off to his friends," Albus added with a grin.
Ginny snorted. "You'd think after 60 years, people would've forgotten about us, and just let us be ourselves. But you tell him I'll be there. I wouldn't miss my youngest grandchild's going off for his last year at Hogwarts."
"You'll never be just yourself, Mum," Albus said with a grin, "or Dad, either. Harry says Professor Binns spends at least a week on the Voldemort wars. You know Harry had to appeal his O.W.L. score in History, because he answered the questions with what you and Dad told him, not what Binns taught."
Ginny grinned. She did indeed remember; she'd had to write to the Ministry, the Board of Governors and the aged wizard scoring the History O.W.L.s to convince them Harry was right and Binns wrong. She still had fame and respect and she didn't use it often, but when she did, she usually got results.
"Come into the kitchen," she said, "and I'll make some tea. I think there's even a few of Borog's muffins left."
Albus smiled. No one could make muffins like Borog.
Borog was already making tea when they reached the kitchen. Albus held a chair as Ginny gingerly lowered herself into it. Much as she tried not to, she had to make some concessions to age. The tea was served in minutes, along with a selection of muffins and homemade biscuits.
Mother and son chatted for a while about inconsequentials- Albus's children, his wife, his job, what James and Rose were up to, the latest cute things Rose's granddaughter (just turned three) had gotten up to. Neither really wanted to broach the subject of Albus's visit; it was just too painful.
When Albus was just about to bring it up, the kitchen door swung open and Patricia entered, her stiff white dress almost crackling when she walked.
"Oh, hello, Mr. Potter," she said, smiling at him. "I didn't know you were coming today."
He'd tried for months to get her to call him Al or Albus, but she'd always smiled and nodded when he did and continued to call him Mr. Potter. Albus wasn't sure if it was him (he didn't feel intimidating) or just professional standards of conduct, but he'd finally given up ever getting the young witch to change.
"Hello, Patricia," Albus said. "How are you today?"
"I'm fine, thank you," she replied. "I've just come down to fetch him some tea."
"I'll go up with you, then," he said. "How… how is he today?" Patricia's smile looked more than a bit forced; professional standards again, Albus thought. Don't upset the family.
"He's doing fairly well, sir," she said. She didn't add, but Albus knew there was an "all things considered" on the end of that sentence.
Borag handed the young nurse a tray with a cup of tea and a single muffin on it. It wasn't good to offer the elder Potter too many choices; he didn't deal well with choices any more. He didn't deal well with much of anything any more, Albus thought sadly.
Giny stayed in the kitchen, sipping tea as Albus followed Patricia up to the drawing room on the second floor. He felt guilty that he dreaded doing this, but it was why he'd come and putting it off wouldn't make it any easier. He braced himself and threw back his shoulders as Patricia opened the door.
Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the Hero of Hogwarts, sat in an overstuffed chair near the window. He wore an old dressing gown over silk pajamas, with a comfortable pair of old yellow carpet slippers. Silvery hair lay thin on his scalp, but still managed to stick up in back. Age creased his face and hands, and the bright green eyes he'd inherited from Grandmother Lily were flat and dull behind thick black glasses.
"Look who's come to se you, Mr. Potter," Patricia said brightly, as Harry looked at him dully. "It's Mr. Albus, sir."
"Albus?" he asked in a quavery voice. "You don't look like Albus. Where's your beard? And your eyes are blue, not…" Harry squinted "not… whatever those are." A sudden look of cunning came over his face. "Ah, I see. You've used Polyjuice Potion for a disguise. Are we off after another Horcrux, Professor? Can I come with you? We'll beat Tom yet, eh, sir?"
This wasn't the first time his father had confused his son with his son's namesake, Harry's old Headmaster and mentor. It didn't make it any easier for Albus to deal with, but at least it wasn't a surprise. Offhand, Albus couldn't remember when his father had last recognized him as his son, but Albus guess it had been a year or more. It did to good to try to set Harry straight, either; once an idea had fixed itself in his crumbling mind, it was impossible to dislodge it.
"That's right, Harry, we'll beat Tom soon," Albus said, struggling to sound cheerful and not let out the grief welling up in his heart. "You can't come with me this time, though. I'm just going to collect another memory, and we can talk about it when I get back. I just wanted to check on you and see how you're doing. Are you feeling alright?"
"Never better, sir," Harry replied, a note of eagerness in his voice. "Fawkes's tears fixed me right up, you can't even see a scar or anything, see, sir?" Harry fumbled at his sleeves, finally managing to push up the gown and pajama to show a wrinkled but unscarred patch of skin- on the wrong arm, Albus noted. "See, Professor, as good as new. Is Ginny still in the Hospital Wing?"
"No, Harry, she's fine. Madame Pomfrey fixed her right up."
"That's good, sir." Harry seemed to blush slightly. "I really like her, you know. If she ever dumps that Michael Connor, I think I'll ask her if she wants to go to Hogsmeade with me. Do you think she will, sir?"
"I'm sure of it, Harry," Albus said. "But for now, Madame Pomfrey wants you to rest. You should have that tea Patricia brought you and one of Bor- Dobby's muffins. You'll feel much better when you do."
"Alright, sir," Harry said, as Patricia set the tray down on a little table. Harry needed both hands to guide the cup to his lips, and even then it shook slightly. The tea was barely warm, so when some of it slopped down his chin and splashed on the stained gown, he didn't notice.
Unable to stay any longer, Albus made excuses to leave and at Harry's pleas, promised to return soon with a new memory and let Harry know when they'd go off together to find the next Horcrux.
Albus was nearly in tears when he returned to the kitchen. After he'd thrown himself heavily into a chair, head down, Ginny reached over and silently squeezed his hand. He raised his head, eyes moist.
"How can you do this?" he asked, agony in each word. "How can you be around him every day while he just slips away like this?"
"I've known your father since I was 10, Albus," Ginny replied softly. "And I've loved him since the day I met him. Even before I met him- when I was a little girl, your grandmother used to tell me stories about the Boy-Who-Lived, and I thought what a wonderful hero he must be. And yes, it hurts to see him like this, especially when he doesn't remember me. But oh, it would hurt so much more if he wasn't there for me to see."
"Remember that when he goes into the past, it's my past, too. Sometimes when I sit with him, he's the scared little boy who fought a basilisk to save a foolish little girl from her own stupidity. Sometimes he's the brave teenager who walked into the Forbidden Forest knowing he was going to die, so his friends and family could live. Sometimes he's the man who became the youngest Head Auror ever, or the youngest Hogwarts Quidditch seeker in a century, or the smiling man introducing his first-born son to his best friends. When he goes back into the past, he's not alone, because I'm with him and we can relive it together."
She sighed.
"The worst times are when he doesn't go into the past. The times when he just sits and stares, and no one knows what goes on his head, and no one can bring him out again. Those are becoming more common and lasting longer. It won't be too much longer before he goes in there and never comes out again."
"The Healers can't do anything about it, and neither can Muggle doctors. They've been trying to find a cure for Alzheimer's for decades, and they still can't do anything more than slow it down a little. Healer Monroe says he thinks your father has maybe six months or so before he enters the last stage, and then maybe another six months before he… before the end. There's nothing we can do for him, Al, except try to remember him as he was, not as he's become."
"Your father would be horrified if he could see himself now. When they first diagnosed it, he begged me to put him in St. Mungo's when he reached this point, so I wouldn't have to see it and you kids wouldn't either. I promised him I would, even though I knew I was lying. I think he knew I was lying, too, but it made him feel better." She patted Albus's hand. "Harry's had a great life, and he's done many great things anyone would be proud of. He's a true hero, not just because he stopped Voldemort but because of the way he lived his life, always putting his family first, helping people whenever he could, being a decent human being. He always tried to make life better for everyone, Albus, don't ever forget that. Honor your father, don't mourn him."
Albus sniffed and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve.
"You're right, Mum," he said, his voice a little unsteady. "I've always been proud of Dad, and I've always honored and loved him." He grinned wryly. "Even if it's sometimes frustrating that every time I meet someone, they ask, 'Oh, are you Harry Potter's son?' "
Ginny smiled and patted his hand. "Being famous isn't easy. I guess you sometimes forget being the child of someone famous can be just as hard."
"It's OK," Albus said. "I wouldn't have it any other way." He sighed. "But I'd better be going. I promised Heather and the kids I'd take them to Diagon Alley today so they could spend all my paycheck, so I'd better get them there while the shops are still open." He and Ginny both stood, and he hugged her tightly and kissed her forehead. "I'll be back in a few days. Take care of Dad," he said, looking sternly into her eyes, "but don't forget to look after yourself, too."
"I won't, Albus, dear," she said with a smile. "Love you. And give my love to everyone else, too."
"I surely will, Mum. And I love you, too."
Ginny sat back down as Borog showed Albus to the door. She took a sip of tea, then made a face when she realized how cold it had gotten.
"I've taken care of Harry Potter for 60 years," she said to herself quietly. "I reckon I can do it a little longer. But after that, who's going to take care of me?"
Author's Note: This story was inspired in part by Terry Pratchett, author of the Discworld series and (in my not-so-humble opinion) one of the greatest living authors today. If you haven't experienced the Discworld yet, run don't walk to the nearest library or bookstore and get yourself going.
The reason Mr. Pratchett was the inspiration is that he has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's and is beginning to feel the effects of it. Alzheimer's is a terrible disease; it's not quick, its victims can see and feel themselves slipping away, and it's a horrible strain on everyone who loves them as they watch their loved one slowly become a vegetable. Billions are spent every year on cancer research, and many types of cancers can be cured or at least controlled. NO ONE has ever been cured of Alzheimer's, and the amount spent on research is a pittance.
If you can, please go to and help fund a cure for this horrible disease. If you don't want to do it online, there's probably an organization in your community. Please help if you can.