"He must speak to the bereaved, clasp their hands, witness their tears, receive their thanks, hear the news now creeping in every quarter as the morning drew on."
::LUMOS::
When the war ended, the wizarding world wanted to erase the damage from existence. Fighters and Survivors – all heroic in stance – were escorted from the pain. Wounds cleaned, dead mourned, and evils cleansed, and then, forgotten. Children of the generations to come would only know of the devastation through stories in books.
And the candles that were lit in reverence.
The memories clung to those that survived; the survivors clung to those that remembered. What their world wanted to forget, they rebelled against. Those who wanted to remember formed a secret group among themselves that met infrequently at memorials and on the streets and in one another's homes and took into their arms, one another, and held to that which was living proof. Most of all, they met in bars (most infamously, The Three Broomsticks) – the limitless supply of people, stories, and drinks. Every story needed a candle to be lit. They lined the walls of Rosmerta's inn, no sooner then to be blown back out; it was all about forgetting the terrible stories they couldn't stop telling.
The lights of the candles were drowned by their sorrow.
The stories found Harry when he begun remembering. He wandered into the inn one evening and never to leave. He drowned himself in the stories; listening to every story twice. The stories wanted contributions, but his own were seldom. He had lost a mother, a father, a godfather, a mentor, and friends. He lit candles for every dear name he could remember and kept them close to his heart, away from the wind. The painful loss was far greater than the glory of victory. Scars were visible memories forever. But, half-heartedly:
He lit candles that promised recovery.
When Ginny found Harry and the stories and the candles, she moved about the small room and followed the line of forgotten wicks. Which candle is yours? She asked all in turn. They told her, one by one, and she lit them with a fire that refused to be easily lost. She carried the stories until she could bring a pensive to carry them with the promise of eternal security from the loss of memory and the distortion of time. Inevitably:
She lit candles that promised sanctuary.
They made a team – one that was willing to hear, one that was willing to remember; strength to speak, strength to listen. And, above all, to never forget.
"What the Ministry wants," Harry told the listeners, "is to mentally bury all the bad memories."
"And if we forget what happened and why, "Ginny would add. "It could happen again just as easily. Furthermore..." and her voice would break slightly and Harry would pick up once more.
"Furthermore, we can't forget our friends and family that fought for our freedom – because that would be a..."
He would search for the word a moment, but it was Ginny that found it.
"A disgrace."
The company of misery and tragedy completed them.
-They would have rejoiced-
Ginny thought there was something selfish about them finding happiness with one another. When their fellow storytellers continually moved from room to room, seeking short-lived comfort for the night, they had one another. Harry counted it a blessing. He lit candles; a soft glow of red – so neither person could fall into the darkness of their minds– and he held her to his chest and smelled the faint scent of hibiscus flowers she washed her fire-red locks with. She said it wasn't fair when he kissed her – but he did it anyway. Kisses, fair and few – she always stopped the passion.
You, she whispered, are trying to forget again.
If she knew how much it meant for him to cradle her in his arms, she wouldn't have allowed it either. The scent of her hair, the silk of her bare skin against his own, and the slow and rhythmic thuds of her heart – they would all lull him into a world far from their own. Something fantastical and promising and full of a hope of tomorrow. He couldn't help it if he was beyond himself with the feelings of love.
-They would have remembered happier times-
There were some days that Harry was sure a witch or wizard had been missing for quite sometime and when he would ask Ginny if the same thought had occurred to her, she led him to see a new addition to the line – another soft glow; another story. But one day (more notably than in the past), he was reminded that the new addition did not mark a notions of recovery or rememberance or even comfort – but of the silence from the stories that were left unspoken.
He spun around quite suddenly and called for the others' attention. He began to tell them about the nightmares that had followed him throughout his life; the green light, the screams, the terror. He told them about the Mirror of Erised and the photo album he now kept in the vaults. He told the stories of his parents that had been told to him – murmurs of agreement were the only interruptions. He told any open ear about his father's friends – the murderer, the werewolf and the betrayer. He told them the truth (his intent was the story). He told them about the house elf he befriended, his beloved owl – the tens of people he watched die and blamed himself for. He told them every story that came into mind.
As he spoke, he let the memories follow into the pensive. As he spoke, he lit candle after candle, enough light to make night and day indistinguishable from one another. Words were the liberation and the flames were the proof. Peace would be the relief; they could only reach for hope.
When the candles dried their tears, they could finally rejoice.
And when the illumination poured through their guarded walls, they could finally remember happier times
-+-
Written for: A very special (and beautiful) lady
Beta-ed by: An incredible (and coherent) Swede
-Part 1/2- //Review?