Hurrah for a repost.
I have this major pet peeve, and it's called character bashing. These characters are human (well, more of a majority), and they can be prone to human error, mistakes, and misjudgments. James Potter trusted Pettigrew when People rarely did. Ron Weasley came back. Albus Dumbledore lost everyone he loved. Are you seeing a pattern here?
And then you have writers make little-known minor characters into...well...the 'perfect' replacement. Insert my head hitting a desk here. I'm sorry that these characters are human, and act like you and I. But let's be serious, you feel overshadowed by other people like Ron; you care deeply for your family like Molly; you know when to draw the line between what is right and what is easy, and you hate it like Albus.
Please do try to step out of these clichés that anyone that commits a wrong must be evil.
Let me know what characters you want to see next.
Disclaimer: Last time I checked I am an American, sarcastic, and fun-sized. Nice try, but I know that I'm not JK Rowling.
Title: Ad Lucem
Word Count: 5K
Summary: They are all human, they all made mistakes. They made the future that we have now. So let's at least treat them as human beings.
Part I: Moon's Ashes
But friendship is precious; not only in the shade, but also in the sunshine of life, and thanks to a benevolent arrangement the greater part of life is sunshine.
-Thomas Jefferson
When Peter accidentally made Rookwood's cauldron fall in Potions was when he eventually knew the truth about Remus.
The contents of the potion quickly snaked over the floor; thick masses of it eagerly got caught on the hems of robes and the soles of too-large shoes. The hideous stench reminded Peter of the chicken coop that he had back home. And it was completed with a fine, sulphuric smell that heavily coated the air.
Peter copied his classmates as they all jumped to their desks. Students screeched and hollered, their high-pitched voices sharply bounced off the stonewalls. Peter crammed his large hands over his ears so that it wouldn't sound so painful.
Slughorn shouted at them all to be quite and to stay calm. But Peter found it to be ironic that the heavy professor could sound shriller than they did. Peter turned to his housemates, hoping that this situation could help him make some friends.
"P-pr-etty c-c-ool, eh?" he stuttered to a scar-stained boy with sandy hair
The boy didn't respond. Peter bit his lower lip, wondering what he did wrong besides knocking the cauldron over. He followed the other Gryffindor's gaze and noticed that he was starring at the cauldron.
Rookwood's cauldron was silver. Even though in the letters that were given out months ago clearly said brass, Rookwood's father was one of those Ministry-types that could get anything that he wanted. And Rookwood apparently wanted silver. A pompous idiot was what Peter's mother would had called him.
The sandy-haired boy had a fresh burn on his hand, and he stood still disturbingly quiet. Peter wanted to ask what was wrong, but the paralysing fear of ruining a friendship that hasn't even started scared him too much. Maybe the burn came from the potion? Peter looked down at the soles of his ruined shoes and saw only muck. The stone floor cooled the potion off, which was a small blessing. If it wasn't from the potion, then maybe from the cauldron? He looked again at the burn and thought how that may be true.
The other boy caught him looking and raised an eyebrow. "Did you really mean to knock the potion over?" he asked in a quiet voice.
Peter flushed, half-tempted to lie and say yes, maybe that would help him make some friends? But seeing those serious eyes made it hard to form anything like that. "No," he said truthfully. "I-I just tripp-p-ed and..." the stuttering words trailed off into silence as the boy nodded.
"I get that," he held out his hand. The burn had now turned to a shiny pink that reminded Peter of the healing tonics that his mother would like to brew. "My name is Remus Lupin. What's yours?"
Peter took it; the skin was patched with spidery scar. "P-peter P-p-pettigrew.
And that was how a friendship was made.
Later on in life when Sirius and James were trying to figure out what was wrong with Remus. The boy was in the Hospital Wing and with a new batch of painful-looking scars and other pleasant injuries. Peter looked down at his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework and struggled to answer some of the problems.
What are some of the common facts about werewolves?
Peter bit the end of the quill, tapping his foot in a constant rhythm. The notes that he took that day were sloppy and the ink smudged all over from being stuffed in his bag. He could only makes out a few words. A reaction to silver and the transformation on a full moon. Peter closed his eyes and tried to think.
Something clicked in his mind, and the image of Remus' burned hand from their first year came flashing from under his eyelids. Last night was also a full moon, right? And come to think of it, wasn't Remus in the hospital last month?
That meant that Remus Lupin was a werewolf! It was frightening to know that the boy that Peter became friends with was actually a kind person. And if he wanted to eat Peter, wouldn't Remus had done that ages ago? So did that made Remus a kind werewolf?
Peter wouldn't be making that choice for Remus. It was for Remus and only Remus to tell. Which meant that Peter decided to keep his mouth shut about telling the whole school. Some of the students of Hogwarts were too mean. Like Malfoy and Rookwood, once they could see your weakness, they would exploit it. And being a werewolf could even topped being a Muggleborn.
So that's what Peter did. And it made all the difference in the world
Part 2: Of Quills and Ink
They would not stop staring.
—Tzadikim's Dad when this situation happened to him.
Ron awoke to see his son, Hugo, drawing pictures with a ruffled quill. Smeary lines of ink decorated the little boy's skin like tribal tattoos, connecting his freckles in a bizarre mess of colour. Today was Bring-Your-Child-to-Work day, Hermione brought Rosie to her department, and Ron obviously took Hugo.
The redhead yawned and pushed himself out of his chair, instantly regretting that he took a nap. "What d'you drew there, Hugo?" he asked
The boy's eyes grew with happiness as he held out a large piece of parchment in the air. To the untrained eye, it looked like a mess that any toddler can produce. But Ron was used to the hodgepodge of colour. He could vaguely see a blob that was him (the spots and abnormally large nose gave it away) and a scrawl of dark colours that could either be an elephant or a knarl. Parts of the parchment were stained with varying shades of red that reminded Ron eerily of blood.
"That's...lovely, Hugo. And what am I doing in your picture?" he knelt near his son, taking the paper in his larger hands.
"You 'ere." Hugo pointed a chubby finger to the caricature of him. "You stop big baddie." Hugo's adorable fingers were now pointed at the knarl-elephant that was crouching in terror of caricature-Ron's awesomeness.
Ron felt himself grinning at the piece of art. He ruffled his son's hair and said thanks for drawing such a pretty picture. He then made a mental note to frame it later. Ron picked Hugo up and carried the boy on his shoulders. Hugo griped tightly on his father's hair, making him wince a little.
"How about we go find Mummy and the others?" he asked.
Hugo nodded excitedly. "Lunch! Mummy! Lunch!"
Ron laughed and walked out of his office with Hugo shouting out random types of food. As they marched down the hall and to the elevator, Ron noticed how some people would stop and laugh a little. He figured that it was because of Hugo who was chatting loudly. The Auror shrugged it off and hunched over so that Hugo wouldn't hit his head on the elevator ceiling.
Hugo continued babbling, making efforts to become friends with everyone inside. People would laugh and ask him how old he was and if he would like a biscuit. Ron said yes to the biscuit.
"Daddy?"
Ron ducked again when their stop came, he bent over and wobbled out of the elevator shaft, his back and neck was aching, but his son's sunny mood was contagious. "Yeah?
"Mummy 'Ike owange?"
Eh? Did Hugo ask if Hermione liked to eat oranges? Or if she liked the colour? Either way, the answer was no to both.
"Sorry, bud," said Ron, "Mummy doesn't like orange." he could hear the toddler groaning. "Why did you ask?"
Hugo opened his mouth to answer something else. "Mummy!"
Ron grinned as he saw Hermione holding hands with Rosie. Both had their hair in plaits and wore matching blue robes. He thought it was adorable.
Hugo scrambled down from his shoulders and ran to hug Hermione. Ron was almost toppled over when Rosie threw her arms around his lanky legs and squeezed tight. "DaddyDaddyDaddy."
"RosieRosieRosie." he laughed and picked her up in the air. "How's my rosebud?"
"Mummy and I played office," the auburn-haired girl said, "and I got to fired someone!"
Ron looked to his wife for an explanation. Hermione pinched her lips together, but her quivering shoulders showed that she was trying not to laugh. He put Rosie back down once she complained that he was ruining her 'Bossy robes.'
He leaned over to give her a kiss. "Hiya," he greeted, ignoring the 'ewwws' of the children.
Hermione then burst out in peals of laughter. Ron raised an eyebrow, confused. "Eh? Hermione. Did someone got you with a Cheering Charm?"
"Sorry, Mate," Harry walked out of the elevator with Ginny and their kids. They, too, were laughing. He Conjured a mirror and handed it to Ron. "But you've been walking around like this."
Ron looked in it, and swore that he felt more hairs going grey, and then white. His face was covered with lurid orange ink, fitting for the Chudley Cannons, he supposed. But it was as if someone had the bright idea of dumping the contents of an inkwell on him. He mouth dropped opened and he looked to Hermione for an explanation.
Hermione was still laughing.
Really? Ron thought, but then again, that would explain the snickers that he kept hearing. "Hugo," he said slowly. "Did you drew on Daddy's face when he was taking a nap?"
The little boy squealed yes—and that Uncle George promised him a Chocolate Frog.
Ron inwardly gulped.
Later that night he still couldn't get that blasted ink off.
Part 3: Here Comes the Sun
We all grow up with the weight of history on us. Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiralling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies.
—Shirley Abbott
The Australian sunshine was unbelievably bright. Hermione's eyes watered as she looked at her watch for the fifth time since her airplane landed. She was relieved to be back on solid ground, but that relief faded once she realised that the Australian Ministry was running late.
The English witch sat on the hard bench with her back straight and luggage waiting by her feet. Time ticked slowly on her timepiece, mocking her even. The worry about the Ministry, the fear of seeing her parents, and the more complicated mess of emotions that she was feeling was making her miserable. The heat wasn't helping.
Hermione was vaguely tempted to cast a Cooling Charm, but Muggles surrounded her. Getting in trouble with the Australian Ministry before she even properly met them would not go well.
She checked her watch again and grimaced as she saw that barely a minute had passed. She turned her gaze to the open land and watched as Muggles got into cabbies. It was strange to be traveling without magic. After seven years of moving through Floo, Apparation, Portkey, brooms, and even a dragon- Hermione couldn't place it in words for how she felt being on an airplane.
Mr Weasley was animated when she told him about her travel plans. They spent money on books to answer his endless questions, and she was just as amazed to find them. Mrs. Weasley gave her plenty of food for her and her parents to eat ("They would need a proper English breakfast.") Harry and Ginny gave her a guidebook on the magical attractions in Australia. And Ron gave her what Hermione thought was the sweetest: his prized Chudley Cannons shirt.
Hermione used it as a pillow as she slept on the plane. The warm smell of him calmed her down and eased most of her troubled thoughts. And she wished that she could grab it from her beaded bag and hold onto it. But it may look strange to the Muggles if she put her entire arm in such a small bag.
Hermione tsk'ed herself for thinking about doing that and continued watching to see where the officials could be. The intensity of the hot sun and the hours of sitting and doing nothing had created a drowsy feeling. As she just sat there and basked in the heat, Hermione could feel her eyelids drop and sleepy yawns whispering out of her mouth.
Maybe sleeping wouldn't be such a bad idea? After all, it would only be for a few minutes...
"Are you usually this sensitive to the sun, ma'am?"
Hermione tried to glare at the man, but the action caused her sunburnt face to crinkle in pain. So, maybe sleeping wasn't the best of ideas, but it sure did past the time. The Australian Ministry come after she woke up, and let her ride with them as they drove to her parents' house. It wasn't until she looked in the review mirror was when she saw how badly her skin got burned.
It was a peculiar shade of red that rivalled the intensity of the Gryffindor Common Room. Splotchy areas were shaded either a lighter or darker tone, making her face more appealable for a Quidditch game. Hermione knew that she forgot to do something, but it had to be a simple Sunblock Charm.
"No," she answered to the Ministry official, Mr Davus. "How much longer until we are there?"
The driver, a very accomplished Obliviator, made a curt nod in her direction. "Don't worry, Miss Granger. Just'll be five more minutes now."
Hermione nodded and picked at the beads of her purse with worried fingers. This was it; her parents would be getting their memories back. And with an Obliviator who she'd been told who was better at retrieving memories than erasing them, meant that very little could go wrong. But why was she still worried?
"What's Potter like?" Davus asked; his eyes brightened in anticipation of knowing.
Hermione really did glared at the man that was sitting next to her. "He wants peace and quiet. Not some nosy people digging into his life," she snapped. It was a nightmare that past few months with the reporters. They were like vultures descending on recently deceased cattle.
Davus shrunk back to his seat and remained quiet for the last few minutes of the drive. Hermione was eternally grateful for that.
The car drove up a winding driveway. Flowers were wilting in the heavy summer air, but Hermione recognised the types that her parents adored. As the seconds moved by, she could feel her heart beating wildly and the anxiety increasing. It was when the Obliviator parked the car was when she jumped out of her seat and ran to door.
Her father answered and was greatly confused to see her—especially when she hugged him.
Hermione didn't cared that she frightened her own father, all that mattered was that her family was together again. Even if they couldn't remember her.
Part 4: Mea Maxima Culpa
Guilt is the price we pay willingly for doing what we are going to do anyway
—Isabelle Holland
It was all his fault. Every death, every betrayal, every sacrifice. All his fault.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
Albus walked through the graveyard in the inky darkness. The trees had leaves shimmered with reds and golds. Those bright colours swirled like birds over the tombstones, decorating them for Halloween night. The half-moon hung low in the sky, most of the light came from the stars and his wand rather than that of sliver than white.
The tombstones that looked newer screamed their names at Albus. Faces haunted him, names, dear memories; they were only ghosts of his past now. He stopped by a white tombstone of his mother and sweet Arianna. With a small tear falling from the crook of his nose, Albus Conjured a rose and placed it on their grave. The epitaph mocked him, because he failed everyone. His family, whatever friends he had left, and Harry. Dear Merlin, poor Harry.
The growing death of his hand felt more real than the Elder Wand in his hands. The curse was growing; he could feel it. Such growing darkness brought back the painful memories of his past self. How horrible he was then, and how horrible he was now.
"I am sorry that I could not be a better son and brother," Albus said to the block of cold stone. Emotion clogged his throat. "I failed you."
He slowly walked away and didn't looked back. It would be too painful. He walked some more, and the grief came back sevenfold when he saw the grave of Lily and James Potter.
His back protested in pain as he knelt over to cleared the leaves away. No magic he would do on their tombstone. It had to be done the Muggle way. Once that was done, he sat down, not caring about the state of his robes or the pain that grew.
"Your son deserves to hate me," Albus said in a low tone. "He really should, but why does he still care? Lily, James, your son is worth twelve of me. He will always be the better man, and I am the weak one." he looked at his slowly dying hand. "Fear not, I shall be receiving my judgment soon. All that pain I caused will come back to me."
A strong gust of wind rattled through the land of the dead. Leaves moved up and down, trees shook off their colours, and Albus could had sworn that he heard something. Looking at the time, the ageing headmaster painfully stood up and walked to the kissing gate. Before closing it, he looked one last time at their grave.
I'm so sorry, Harry, he thought.
Death came quicker than Albus expected. There was just a bright flash of light, and then he was at a...where was he? It looked like his now-former office. Everything to the portraits were still the same, even the perch that was made especially for Fawkes.
Albus looked at his hands, they were white, whole. No curse, no aching pain. With his workable fingers, he traced the outline of some stars on the wall. Was he dead or was this just merely a dream? Lost in his thoughts, he never noticed that the door opened.
"Hello, brother," said a small, waif-like girl. Her blue eyes darkened with emotions.
Albus felt the many years of his age crashed down on him. He felt so old, so very old. "Ariana," he breathed. "Why are you here?"
"I'm dead, silly." she gave him a hug, her spidery arms wrapped around his middle, squeezing the life out of him. "I miss you, Alby. Mum misses you, too."
Albus froze, and tears threatened to escape. "I-I killed you, Ariana. Should you not hate me?"
Ariana looked up, she was smiling. "You didn't." she let go and walked to the door, "are you coming or not?" his sister asked innocently. "People are waiting for you."
And for the first, Albus felt forgiven.
He followed his sister to meet his fate, and as he walked, he never noticed how he slowly started to de-age. White melted away to an auburn and his beard recessed. Wrinkles and scars vanished, and when Albus was outside, he was a young man again.
He was free.
Part 5: Amor Vincit Omnia
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
—Pablo Neruda
Harry sunk onto the soapy water, his head resting on the side of the tub and the rest of his body submerged in water that was so hot that the skin was turning to a pale, dusky shade of pink. One hand still had a grip on his wand; Harry let go and watched it fall to the fluffy carpet. He stretched his hand to get the cramp out, but even the hot water wouldn't work.
Today was just one of those horrible days. Four times a year Harry had to question the Death Eaters that weren't in Azkaban. Most of them were harmless now, living on the frayed edges of the Wizarding World. But as Mad-Eye once said, "Constant Vigilance!" Though, Harry was unlucky enough to get the ones that did caused the occasional bout of trouble—one even came in drunk.
Harry closed his eyes and tried to find a way to let all of that negativity leave his mind. He tried stretch his body out. But that was hard in a tub that could easily fit two squirming toddlers, but not a full-grown parent.
Sighing, Harry gave up and returned to being a brooding idiot.
Through closed eyes, he could hear the soft footsteps of Ginny and the slight pop of her unbuttoning her clothes. Then there was a slight splash and the water gently rocked back and forth. Warm lips grazed on the inside of his wrist. Harry opened his eyes to see her.
"Harry," Ginny said, half-bemused and half-serious. "Do you want to drown in the tub?"
Harry blinked as he realised that the water was sloshing a little onto the floor. Guess he added too much than he expected. "Um. No."
"Good," she started to play with the fingers on his hand, spreading them apart and pushing them closer together. "James is at a friend's house, Al is with Teddy—and who knows what those two are up to. Which means that you are free to brood."
Harry raised an eyebrow. There was a catch in that mind of hers, but he was too tired to figure it out.
"But, Harry."
"Mhm." he took his hand that she was playing with and wrapped around her shoulders. The smell of her flowery shampoo was calming, and it already started to ease his senses. "I'm listening."
"I'll let you be your moody self for another second, and then we're going to talk it through."
He silently cursed, wondering why she never became a Mind Healer. "Thanks, love," Harry muttered sarcastically.
Ginny smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. Long strands of her hair turned darker with the water, and a warm pink had already settled onto her skin as the water's heat started to dwindle down. It was a tight squeeze for the two of them to fit, but they managed it rather easily.
"Anything to get you out of your funk," she kissed a spot of skin below his ear. "Time's up, Potter. Start talking."
Did he really had to talk it out? Sure it worked several times before, and it did made him feel better. But why did it had to be talking? Why not Quidditch or something else entirely that's not talking?
Ginny snorted through the silence. "Here, let me help." she raised her head to talk to him properly. "Who did you got today?"
"Rookwood. Malfoy senior. Umbridge." Once Harry said the last name, the scars on the back of his hand twanged with the memory of the Blood Quill still fresh in his mind. "Lestrange came in drunk," he added.
"And anything that you're allowed to tell me?"
Harry paused to think. The bathwater and the feel of her skin against his had muddled his mind. "Nothing out of the ordinary. They've been quiet."
"And you're brooding because..?" Ginny's lips twitched into a smile and then she shook her head sadly. "Merlin, Harry. You heard yourself speak, right?"
Harry nodded, not really hearing what she said. He wanted to sleep, but his wife's quest on making him feel better was starting to work.
"You have nothing to worry about," she continued. "Just Lestrange, of course, but there is nothing for you to brood about."
The words sunk in his foggy mind. Oh. Oh. And just like that his brooding mood vanished, but he still felt like an idiot.
"So, force of habit, then?"
"Pretty much so."
"And when did you say when the kids will be back?"
Ginny grinned and cupped his face, her lips ghosting over his own. "Let's start with the 'hello kiss' that I never got."
Part 6: Rage Against the Dying Light
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
—Dylan Thomas, Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night
James heard the door burst into pieces. His mind went to autopilot as he shouted at Lily to take Harry and run. He wasn't thinking when he forget to take his wand. He wasn't thinking when he ran to face a monster. He wasn't even thinking of the man who had betrayed them.
…Have to get them out. Not my family. Have to get them out. Not my family…
Yet there was only one unconquerable truth echoing in his mind. Which was why the last thing he thought of wasn't of You Know Who's eyes gleaming victoriously. It was this:
You would have to kill me to get to them.
Death was happy that night that someone greeted him as equals.
And Voldemort killed him. The corpse of a brave man laid on floor, his sacrifice made. Later his wife would join him and they would watch helplessly as their son cries out for them. They would watch him grow, watch him learn, and watch him live. Perhaps it was a sadder fate for the dead who watched the living? To be separated from family and loved ones when you have no power might as well be a fate worst than death.
Part 7: Chosen
It is always different! It's always complicated. And at some point, someone has to draw the line and that is always going to be me
—Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Harry felt himself materialising into the land of the living. Senses filled him as he smelled the earth of the forest, felt the cold air on his skin, tasted the fear in his mouth, and saw a girl that looked like him holding the Resurrection Stone. Their shared green eyes stared at each other not knowing what to say.
"I'm going to die." Her voice was webbed over with exhaustion and sorrow. "Does it have to end like this? Do I really have to die?"
"It's a part of being a Potter," Harry said softly. "We greet death like a friend even when we don't want to. But it doesn't have to end like this. You don't have to do what I did." His words were somber.
"I have to," she said, "if I don't do it he will kill them. Even you said death was painless."
His eyes become even more faded as he remembered that night. "That's what I said, and look." He spread his transparent arms out. "I lived."
The girl sighed, he was right, but it could end differently for her. "How did you live?" she asked, knowing the answer.
Harry ran a hand through his thick hair. "We've been through this."
"I want to know again."
"Fine, when I did this, I was ready to die. Ready to look at death and let it take me. My last thought was of the woman I loved, that's when he killed me." He paused momentarily to allow the flashback to end, he continued with a thicker voice. "When I was dead. I was in this limbo. Neither life, nor death—Purgatory if you wish. For Merlin's sake, it looked like a train station. My mentor appeared and filled in a few holes for me. Then he gave me a choice. I could stay and move on to see my family, or I could go back to fight and maybe die again. You know the rest."
"Yeah," her fingers tightened the grip on the Deathly Hallow. "I do."
"And I'll stay with you," Harry promised. "Until the very end."
There was so much of him in her that it made it so painful to look at her face. Was he like that when he walked to his death? So calm and young?
The girl held a tighter grip on the Invisibility Cloak. Her knuckles turning white. She said softly, "what a world we made, then."
Harry outstretched his hand to the heart of the forest. What a world indeed it now was. "After you."
Harry saw the girl reveal herself to the new Dark Lord. With the Invisibility Cloak hanging from one shoulder, it gave her the appearance of a ghost.
She locked eyes with Harry once more. Then with a slight nod from him, she dropped the stone. The world might be the same now, but the players were different. Yet they always acted the same when the circumstances arose.
Harry watched the green light flashed, thinking how this world was so similar to his own time.
And everything went dark.