A Strange Visitor

"A year. I can't believe it's been an entire year since Voldemort died." Ginny Weasley leaned against the doorway, looking at the four people inside. Four people, all of whom were barely healing from the scars the war had left. Four people who were just beginning to move on. Four of the only people who understood her.

Neville Longbottom was filling out an application to become the assistant Herbology teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione Granger was rereading The Tales of Beatle the Bard for the millionth time, while her boyfriend, Ron Weasley, read over her shoulder and Harry Potter, Ginny's boyfriend, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the most famous wizard of the century, frowned over a piece of parchment. Upon hearing Ginny's voice, he looked up and beckoned for her to come to him.

"And Merlin, what a year!" Hermione said, looking up. "Why anyone would ever want to be famous…" she trailed off, shuddering as she remembered the past year.

It hadn't been a good one. First, there had been the nasty, tiring job of hunting down the remaining Death Eaters and cleaning up the huge mess that Voldemort had left. And when that all was done, all the heroes of the war had found themselves swamped in fame. As the generally acclaimed "Most Heroic" witches and wizards, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and their friend Luna Lovegood got the worst of it.

They all dealt with it in different ways. Hermione had become stressed and irritable, but had difficulty sending people about their business. Ginny had no trouble with that, but she hated the whisperings that followed her wherever she went. Neville hid behind the others, giving them all the credit, flinching from the spotlight. At first, Ron had enjoyed the fame, but once the novelty wore off, he grew petulant to the point of being rude to anyone who talked to him. Luna simply packed up her things and left the country to go searching for Crumple-horned Snorkack. With her went the only non-Lovegood in the country (and maybe the world) who thought that the Snorkack might actually exist, a researcher named Rolf Scamander.

But of course Harry got most of the publicity. He could scarcely leave his house (he was residing at Number 12, Grimwald Place) without someone stopping him on the street to ask him a question or just say hi and, wherever he went, hundreds of eyes and whispers followed him. He was always polite to the people who spoke to him, but it drove him insane.

"Don't tell anyone not famous that you don't like being famous," he advised Hermione now. "Believe me, I've tried it enough. They always give you that look, like 'Are you insane? You're the most famous wizard in the world! What could be better?'"

"Why don't we just take the day off?" Neville asked. They all stared at him in disbelief. "We attend the memorial, but don't take any questions, comments, interviews, or anything like that. Get a day of peace. There's no law that says we have to talk to all those people. It wouldn't work for every day, but we can say that we're honoring our fallen friends."

For a second, there was silence as everyone in the room processed what he had just said. Then,

"Neville, you're a genius!" Ginny bounded across the room and hugged him.

"We've got four hours before the memorial," Harry said, looking at the old dented watch that had been Fabian Prewett's. "I, for one, intend to spend those four hours here, instead of out, like we'd planned."

"And if anyone comes to the door, we'll just send them away!" Hermione said, getting excited. "Neville, you're a genius!"

Their resolution was tested five minutes later when the doorbell rang. The five of them looked at each other, then simultaneously shrugged. Ron spoke for them all when he said, "Oh, just let it ring. They'll go away soon enough, and it's not like we have to deal with Mrs. Black anymore."

They all laughed, remembering the difficulty they had had when Harry had decided that the portrait of Sirius's mum just had to come down. It had taken them weeks of research, but in the end they had compiled a list of things to try. Three months after they had started, they finally managed to get the portrait down.

In the next half hour, they found that whoever was ringing the doorbell might be just as hard to get rid of. Finally, Hermione went to go send them away.

When she opened the door, she saw a witch standing there, with a ridiculous looking bag at her feet. Her long black hair was escaping her French braid, and she seemed to be about 35 years old. There was something vaguely familiar about her face, as though she were related to someone Hermione knew well.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said. "But we're not taking questions or comments or anything today."

The woman nodded. "Very understandable. But would you do me a favor and relay these letters to Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom?" From her bag she drew out two pieces of folded parchment, one with each boy's name on it.

"We're not taking fan mail, either," Hermione said. "I truly am sorry, but we're taking today off."

"Very understandable," the woman repeated. "However, this is not fan mail. It's very, very important. Will you please give them the letters and then tell me their responses?"

Rather flustered, Hermione said, "Well…I suppose. Who should I tell them the letters are from?"

"Harry's is from his mum, and Neville's is from me."

"This letter's from Harry's mum? How did you find it? We've looked everywhere for things of theirs!"

The woman laughed. "It was left in my care before she died."

"Why in the world didn't you come forward with it before?"

The woman's back straightened and she fixed Hermione with a piercing look. "There are some promises that you never break, even 18 years later when the people you promised have been dead 17 years."

Hermione looked at her, rather astonished. "What does that have to do with this letter?"

"Please, just give them the letters," the woman said, holding them out. "Then I can explain."

Hermione sighed. She really didn't want to ruin their perfect, publicity-free day, but it seemed as if she had no choice. Her gut was telling her to trust what this woman said. "All right," she said, and took the letters. "I'll be back in a moment."

Shutting the door, she didn't go straight back to the others. Instead, she went into a small room to her right. There, she tested the letters thoroughly, making absolutely certain that there was nothing in them that would harm anyone. Only when she was 100% sure they were safe did she take them to Harry and Neville.

When she told them what had happened, they protested, just as she knew they would. But the instant Harry saw his letter, he grabbed it.

"This is my mum's handwriting!"

Hermione nodded. "That woman said it was from her."

As Harry ripped his letter open, Neville shrugged. "I might as well read mine, I suppose," he said, reaching for it.

As they read, the other three watched them, curious. Neville finished first, as his was shorter.

Dear Neville, it read.

You have never known me, but I was an old friend of your parents'. For the complete story, refer to Harry's letter. In the last days of the first war, we all knew that we were in grave danger. Therefore, we came up with a series of potions and spells that would retrieve our minds if we were tortured. If you are willing, I would like to give you the ones made for your parents. I cannot say if they will work, as we were unable to test them, but none of them are harmful. If this sounds agreeable, please let me know. Alice and Frank were two of my best friends, and I would love to see them themselves again.

Harriett Black

Neville showed it to the others. "Is it possible, what she's talking about?" he asked. "Could my parents really come back?"

"Well…" Hermione said. "It's been tried before, in hundreds of different ways. In theory, it could work, but it never has in practice. There's a chance it could work this time."

"Why didn't the Healers try it before?" Ron asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Because you have to do all the prep work before they lose their minds, Ronald," she said as though she were talking to a two-year-old. "Otherwise, it doesn't work."

"How'd you become the expert on magical remedies?" Ron retorted.

"Honestly, Ron!" Ginny said. "What do you think she did in her spare time for six years?"

"Oh, knock it off," Hermione said. "I just did some research after the war ended, to see if I could find anything to help Neville's parents." Turning back to Neville, she said, "I think you should go get these potions and spells. We can test them, make sure they're as harmless as she says. There's always the chance that it'll work."

Just then, Harry rose from his seat and walked quickly out the door. His letter lay on the floor next to the chair he had been sitting in. Ginny picked it up and read it aloud.

Dear Harry,

If you are reading this, it means that we are dead, and Lord Voldemort was defeated a year ago. If you were given this from a woman who looks about my age, then that is your godmother, your dad's cousin, Harriett. You were named for her. Listen to her and take what she has to give to you. She will explain everything to you.

If, despite all our precautions, Harriett was killed, then this letter was delivered to you by muggle post. It has been spelled so no one but you can open it, so you don't have to worry that it was not safe. Take the key that came with this (if Harriett gave this to you, don't worry about the key; just do what she says) and go to the Head's common room at Hogwarts. Find the door that hasn't been opened since 1979 and open it with the key. If you need help, go to teachers or previous Head Boys or Girls.

Inside that room, you will find a pensive, a big jar of memories, and a case that hold vials of memories. Pour the big jar into the pensive and dive in. The vials contain the same memories, just separated and labeled.

If Voldemort is truly dead, and you were the cause of his death, you've already seen more pain and suffering than anyone should see in a lifetime. I hope you know that we all stood behind you the entire way. I may be dead by the time you read this letter, but that can't diminish my love or you father's love for you, Harry. We know that you life has most likely been hard, and that that is due in large part to choices we made. We want you to understand those choices. If we are dead, it's probably been hard for you, not knowing us. But we had to make sure it was safe before we gave you this information. Now, we can show you who we are.

I love you more than you can possibly imagine.

Your loving mother,

Lily Potter

Dear Harry,

Your mum basically said it all, but I just wanted to get a word in here to tell you to not think too badly of my friends and me when you see what we were like. I hope you have enough of Lily in you to not act like I did.

Also, I just wanted to give you a little advice, man to man. I have no idea how old you're going to be when you read this, but if you ever are in love with a girl, do not, I repeat DO NOT ask her out every chance you get and when she refuses (if she does, though if you're anything like me, she shouldn't) ask her why, telling her she's getting a great catch. Believe me, it doesn't work. I should know.

The third thing I wanted to say is that I am depending on you to keep up the Potter tradition of a) being in Gryffindor (though I suppose Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff wouldn't be too bad. If you get in Slytherin, though…) and b) playing on the quidditch team. Chaser would be best (that's what I play) but really, as long as you're on the team, its fine.

But the main thing I want to tell you is that I love you. If you're reading this, Voldemort's dead, and you brought about his downfall. I'm proud beyond belief that my son did that! However, I'm probably dead. So say hi to everyone who's still alive for me, and remember that I love you with all my heart.

Lots and lots of love,

James Potter

P.S. I hope you killed more Death Eaters than Neville did. I've got a bet with Frank about that.

Just as Ginny finished reading, Harry walked in. "Guys, I'd like you to meet my dad's cousin, Harriett."

Once all the greetings were done, Ginny asked Harriett what she had for them.

"Memories," Harriett said, pulling a pensive and a jar of liquid silver out of her bag."

"Of what?" Hermione asked.

"You'll see," was all Harriett would say. She poured the memories into the pensive, then gestured for all of them to go in.

The teenagers looked at each other, then, one by one, dove into the past.