Warning: Certain content in this chapter may be triggering to certain individuals. Read at your own discretion.


Chapter 4

Memories of The War


[31 October 2011]

It was raining.

He was standing under a bare tree, its charred branches bowing from the force of the downpour. Wisps of hot breath escaped his gritted teeth as he stood shivering, soaked to the bone. His knees creaked every time he tried to move, and his arms were plastered around himself as he tried to preserve whatever warmth was left in his body.

The rain fell in sheets, razor-sharp needles falling from heaven and piercing the earth. He could barely see for a few feet around him, his rain-splattered glasses further reducing visibility, and he ached to find shelter and warmth, but something was keeping him there. He didn't know what, but it was as though some powerful force was bearing down on him.

He didn't know for how long he stood under the dead tree, but it didn't matter because the rain had already frozen him from the inside out. His senses were numb from the frigid temperature and the relentless downpour, ruthlessly eating away at whatever little willpower he had left.

Wishing to escape the merciless torture, he peeled his arms away from around himself. He trembled uncontrollably as he patted himself down, looking for his wand, or a matchbox, or something that would allow him respite from the ceaseless rain.

All he found was a shard of a mirror, and he stared at it, the reflection of his emerald eye looking lifeless and grey. He wondered if he could use it to escape his unending agony. Holding his arm out, he slowly drew the edge across his forearm, watching as beads of crimson appeared on his pale skin, only to be dashed away by the rain.

He watched as every time his blood managed to seep out of the cut, it was wiped clean by freezing droplets. Soon, the gash had sealed itself shut, and, as he watched, veins of black twisted outward from the closed wound. He would have been startled, or at least unnerved, if he weren't so numb.

The veins began to form a recognisable pattern, and once they stopped moving under his skin, he was able to identify the mark engraved into his arm.

It was the Dark Mark. The mark of Voldemort's loyal supporters. The mark of the Death Eaters.

The next thing he knew, the sound of the rain had been replaced by incessant screaming.


2:34 AM

"—arry! Harry! Wake up!"

He gasped and turned over, falling off the bed and lying sprawled on the floor. He shuddered, eyes tearing up as his heart beat rapidly in his chest. There was scrambling, and Ginny's arms were around him, helping him up.

"Harry, Harry!" She was saying his name, but he could barely hear her over the ringing in his ears.

"Ginny," he choked, and she gasped as she hugged him, whimpering softly into his shoulder.

He held her, staring straight ahead, alarmed and confused. The remnants of his nightmare were slowly leaving his exhausted mind, but he could still feel an itching on his arm where he had dreamt the Dark Mark had been. He wanted to check his arm to make sure it wasn't still there and slowly pushed Ginny off of him.

She helped him to his feet and got on to the bed. Looking up at him with worried eyes, she asked, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

Her gaze fell on his arm, and she swallowed. "You were groaning and sighing, and I wondered what was wrong when I found that you'd nearly scratched the skin off your arm."

He raised his forearm and looked at it, and just as Ginny had said, his skin was raw and bleeding, confirming the itch he had felt before.

"Was it another nightmare?" she asked softly as he continued to stare at the wound.

"No, I think I got bitten by something at the beach," he deadpanned. "It's been bothering me for a while now but I assumed it was sunburn. I should probably go see a Healer first thing in the morning."

"Harry…" He looked up at her, and she shook her head. "You can tell me, you know, if they're back—"

"They're not," he snapped and bit back a sigh when she flinched.

"OK, but I'm just saying—"

"Gin, it's late. Can we have this conversation some other time? I'm really exhausted and I have an early day at work."

She nodded after a long moment and got under the covers. He forced a smile onto his face as he kissed her forehead and turned away, staring at his arm. It itched, and he wanted to pick at it, but he knew that would only make things worse, so he continued to stare at it till the first rays of sunrise spilt through the gap in the drapes.


7:19 AM

Ginny had apparently decided that after the previous night's events, she was going to have to be overly bright and happy in order to make up for his sullenness and irritability. He appreciated the effort, really, but if she made one more remark on what a beautiful day it was, he was going to lose it.

"Daddy, bow me?" Lily came up to him and turned around, holding out the satin ties of her dress. He tied them together in a neat, big bow and kissed her hair when she hugged him.

He had just turned back to his large mug of coffee when James and Albus burst into the room, covered in dirt.

"Boys!" Ginny scolded, hurrying towards them and pushing them back out the way they had come in. "What have I said about cleaning up before coming into the living room?"

"But Mum, we need to show this to Dad!" James said, leaning around Ginny and beckoning to Lily.

"Absolutely not. You're going to get into the bath and then we can talk about why you're covered in mud first thing in the morning."

Just before Ginny ushered them away, James managed to toss a small bundle, and Lily caught it deftly, making Harry raise his eyebrows. I see she's got her mum's Chaser skills, Harry thought as she ran towards him, holding out whatever it was that James had been desperate to show him.

"What's that?" he asked as he bit into a muffin.

"'Dunno," Lily said innocently, and he Levitated the bundle onto the table, unwilling to get dirt on his hands.

Lily placed her hands on the edge of the table and got on her tiptoes, eyeing the bundle curiously. "What is it?" she asked, fidgeting when he didn't seem like he would open it anytime soon.

"'Dunno," he said in imitation of her, and Lily stuck her lip out and frowned up at him. Hiding a smile, Harry reached over and ruffled her hair, causing her to shriek and slap his hand away.

"Mummy!" she screamed, running out of the room. "Daddy ruined my hair! Fix it!"

Chuckling to himself, he finished his muffin and downed the last of the coffee. He could hear Lily shrieking as she ran up the stairs, and Ginny's voice as she tried to placate the little girl. He reached forward, gingerly opening up the tattered piece of cloth the object was wrapped in. Curious, he peered at what looked like old photographs, now faded and worn.

He stared at the picture on the top of the pile idly, wondering where he had seen it before. Flipping it over, he read the familiar, narrow scrawl, his mind taking a moment to catch up with what he was seeing.

Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley—the war has ended and we are alive.

He sat up suddenly, his eyes narrowing as he picked the picture up. Flipping it over, he eyed the solemn faces of six exhausted and wounded teenagers as they stood on a destroyed bridge with Hogwarts at their backs. He ran a hand down his face and through his hair, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh.

"What the bloody hell…"

Ginny walked in just then and broke into a smile as she made her way over to him. He plucked the bundle off the table, cloth and all, intending to hide it, but he hadn't noticed the small pouch that had been part of the bundle and watched as Ginny picked it up and eyed it curiously.

"What's this?"

"The boys found it in the garden; I'm not sure what it is, yet," Harry said quickly, making to grab the pouch from her hand.

But she was too quick for him and dodged out of reach, holding the pouch at arm's length. "Well, let's find out, then."

"No, Ginny—" he started, but she had already untied the pouch and held it upside down, watching as several objects fell out of the small cloth bag.

They stared at the objects, Harry's heart in his mouth, and Ginny let out a soft gasp. "Harry… is this…"

He placed the pictures down beside the trinkets from the war and Ginny stared at them wide-eyed.

"Why in heavens were these buried in our garden?" she asked breathlessly, her hand hovering over the pictures as though she was too afraid to touch them.

Harry reached over and pulled her close as the memory of him burying a bundle that looked almost exactly like the one before them flashed through his mind. "I probably buried it when we first bought the house or something," he said, his voice quiet.

She gave him a weird look and asked, "Why the hell did you bury it?"

He sighed in frustration and shrugged. "I probably didn't want to burn them or something so I must've buried it with the intention of finding them some day when I was ready." He couldn't be held responsible for the actions of his stupid past self—or so he would have liked to believe.

"Oh, Harry," Ginny said, her eyes full of pity, and he instantly felt a fire light up in the pit of his stomach.

This was probably the reason why he'd buried it. Because he hadn't wanted someone else to find these pictures and other mementoes from the war and look at him with those eyes full of pity. Harry loathed the idea of people thinking he was pitiful and needed help. He always had and always would. And Hermione still wonders why the hell I haven't told Ginny that my nightmares are back, he thought, bitter.

"I think I'm going to take these to my study," he said crisply, gathering everything up and striding out of the room before Ginny could stop him. Not that she would've; he was sure after that look of pity, she thought he needed time to recuperate from the shock or whatever.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he all but ran to his study, nearly slamming the door behind him in his hurry to examine the bundle. He made sure to lock the door and clear his desk before gingerly placing the objects down on it. Unfolding the dirty cloth, he spread all its contents out so he could examine each.

He arranged the pictures in a neat pile and the objects from the pouch in three rows. Making sure not to touch any of them, his heart thrumming with anticipation, he took a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath before he started.

Once he was reasonably sure that he wouldn't be shocked sick by what he found on further inspection, he slowly picked up the picture below the one he'd already seen.

It was a photo of him and Hagrid, their arms around each other—or rather, him trying to not be crushed under Hagrid's weight—the half-giant bawling his eyes out. He turned the picture around and read the message Hargrid had written in his narrow handwriting.

Harry—the Boy Who Lived again and again. The little lad I watched grow into a fine young man with me own eyes. Never thought I'd get to see you again, after that—but here you are and here I am, and no matter what, Harry, here is where I'm always gonna be.

He swallowed thickly, his eyes burning. Harry remembered what these pictures were. He remembered how he'd found Colin's body with the rest of the dead and how his little brother Dennis had begged Harry to take Colin's Polaroid. He'd relented when the boy had said Harry had always been his big brother's idol and he would've wanted Harry to have his camera.

Deciding that he was going to do Colin justice, he'd taken it upon himself to go around taking pictures with as many people as he could, in an attempt to lighten the heavy air of doom that had fallen over Hogwarts just after the war had ended. He'd gotten everyone to sign the pictures, to leave a message on the back of them. At the time, it had just been a spur of the moment thing, something he had done out of desperation, and everyone had just gone along with it.

But now… although everyone was attempting to smile in the pictures, it physically pained him to see how hard they were trying to get over what had just happened. It had been painful, the war, more so for those who hadn't fought in it but had lost loved ones and the survivors because of how many casualties the wizarding world had sustained from it. It was painful.

Harry sniffed as he put the picture down and picked up the next one. This one was of him with his arms around George and Percy's shoulders—and they looked devastated. Percy was at least attempting to smile, although he looked extremely uncomfortable, but George was just staring off to the side, like he didn't even realise someone was taking a picture of him.

Placing the photo on the table, Harry stared at it unseeingly, barely noticing the tears falling down his face. He was too afraid to flip it over. He was too afraid to see what message was written on the back.

You chose not to burn them, Harry, so man up and do what you set out to do.

Inhaling deeply, he braced himself, and before he could wimp out again, he turned the picture over. Harry read the lines very fast, and then, realising he hadn't registered what it said, reread them. Percy's message was very formal, to the point, and short.

Harry, good luck. Thank you.

He remembered feeling confused about why exactly Percy was thanking him, and reading this so many years later, he felt the same way. If anything, Percy should've blamed him for what had happened, not thanked him. Rubbing his eyes, he slowly moved down to George's message. He remembered asking George to write it and then almost forcing him to write something when he refused to. He wanted to hit himself for that, now.

George's message was longer, but was more of a punch in the stomach than he had wanted. It read:

I finally know what it feels like, to lose someone you thought would always be by your side. You've been so brave, Harry, and I don't think anyone's ever thanked you for that. Well, I don't think I'm the one that's going to do it, but Fred probably would've. Too bad he's not here, eh?

Harry groaned, wiping away the tears as he held his head in his hands, wishing, for the millionth time, that he could just Obliviate himself.

It took him a long time to be able to move on to the next picture. He steeled himself as he picked it up. It was a picture of him and a group of students from various Houses. They were all laughing as they picked him up and threw him into the air. Behind the photo were signatures from all the students with good luck wishes and the like.

The next few pictures were more of the same—him with different groups of people: some students, some from the Order, some professors, some Aurors, some younger students. There was one picture of him and McGonagall, and he couldn't help but smile at the triumphant look on her face as she laughed and patted him on the back.

He flipped it around, eager to read the message, and he felt a sense of pride as he read it.

I have known you since you were but a babe; I have watched you grow, and I have never been prouder to know such a brilliant, brave and kind young man. Your courage has moved thousands of hearts since even before you've known, and it has continued to move thousands more every single day. May you continue to move hearts, may you continue to be brave, and may you continue to make me proud.

With immense love and blessings,

Minerva McGonagall.

P.S. I pray that, for once in your bloody life, Potter, you stay out of trouble. But not for too long; I daresay that would do the world more harm than good.

Harry laughed as he read the postscript, deciding to ignore his tears because they didn't seem to want to go away anytime soon.

Placing the photograph back with a small smile, he picked the next one up.


9:23 AM

By the time he had gotten through the entire pile, he had cried enough to make up for the past decade, and he was exhausted. He eyed the last picture that was left, sighing as he picked it up. His eyes widened as he saw it, though, and his heart thudded in his chest.

It was a picture of him with Draco and Narcissa Malfoy.

Harry frowned, trying to remember when this picture was taken. By the time the camera had run out of magical paper, he had frankly been overjoyed that he could stop, much too exhausted to bother with anything else, but he still remembered every single photo he had taken—except this one, apparently.

Humming in thought, he stared at the picture, cringing at how rigid both Malfoys were, his own smile looking painfully fake in contrast to their expressionless faces. He flipped the picture over, curious to see what was written, and was disappointed that there was no message. He was just about to put it back in the pile when something caught his eye.

At the very bottom, almost swallowed up by the frayed edges, was a single, incomplete sentence in slanted, elegant handwriting. He assumed it was Narcissa's, but only when he saw Malfoy's name did he realise it wasn't. Curious, he squinted as he tried to decipher the faded writing.

It took him a while to manage to read what was written, and when he did, it made him roll his eyes. He couldn't make out a lot of the words because they were too small and were half gone because of how close to the edge they'd been written. It said something along the lines of a life debt having to be repaid and ended with best wishes, probably, but a lot of the sentence wasn't legible, so he couldn't be sure. It sounded just like Malfoy—holding onto a life debt or something of the like even though they'd reached the point where such things were so trivial in comparison to everything else.

Shrugging, Harry placed the picture back and then turned to the objects he had lined up.

They consisted of trinkets, memorabilia, keepsakes, and other odd pieces of junk that he was sure he'd only kept because of their sentimental value. He picked up a mirror shard and instantly recognised it as being part of the mirror Sirius had given him. Dispelling thoughts related to Sirius, he set the shard aside and turned to the other things.

There was a broken quill that he was sure was the one he had used through his years at Hogwarts; an odd-looking pair of spectacles that he recognised as having belonged to Luna; there was Neville's Remembrall, which he honestly didn't know why he had (he reckoned Neville had forgotten about it); there was an empty vial with remnants of golden liquid that he presumed must've contained Felix Felicis; the Snitch Dumbledore had left him and a spiral stone he guessed he must've picked up from the Pumpkin Patch outside Hagrid's hut; a weird fragment of coloured glass and a torn piece of parchment with printed words on it that he didn't recognise; there was a whole pile of newspaper cut-outs from The Daily Prophet; a round, green badge with Potter Stinks on it, and a whole bunch of other stuff he recognised and those that he didn't.

Sighing, he took a moment to inspect each object before putting them all back into the pouch—that now, when he looked at carefully, he recognised as being one that Hermione had enchanted to hold countless things, just like the drawstring bag she had. He tied it up and placed it beside the pictures. Deciding that the cloth was too dirty to use, he discarded it and locked the pouch and pictures away in his desk drawer, deciding to think about what he would do with them later.

For now, he wanted to take a much needed—and definitely well deserved—nap.


He was standing in the middle of a very familiar courtyard, rubble and debris scattered all around him. There was a sudden rumbling, and he only just managed to jump out of the way as a huge chunk of rubble crashed down. The rumbling continued, and he looked up to see pieces of debris raining down on him.

Yelling, he ran for cover, but despite how far he ran, he never seemed to get anywhere. The huge chunks of stone and broken pillars continued to crash to the ground, with him barely managing to escape each time.

He kept running and running and running and the debris kept falling and falling and falling. Finally, he heard the loud toll of a bell. He counted how many times it rang—one, two, three… eight, nine, ten… fourteen, fifteen, sixteen… twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…

Frowning, he dodged around a beam as it fell in his path, wondering how many times the bell would toll. Every time he thought the sound got distant, the next time it would ring louder.

He kept running, not feeling exhausted in the least, although he sensed something was about to happen. Just as the thought crossed his mind, a huge chunk of a wall fell right in front of him. He stopped in his tracks, staring at it, and a door materialised in the middle. Curious, he walked towards it and pushed it open.

The moment he stepped through the doorway, the wall and the courtyard were gone, replaced by a forest, fires from all around lighting up the night. He could hear people screaming, but he couldn't see anybody, and he made his way around the fires, wondering where he was.

A loud scream pierced the night, and he automatically ran towards the sound, his heart pounding against his ribs. He was sweating from the heat of the fires, but he persevered. A sudden burst of orange flames appeared before him, and he turned left as the screaming continued.

He kept running, trying not to get burnt by the lashing tongues of fire, intent on saving whoever was screaming. He finally stopped when he spotted a person crouching on the ground, trembling and whimpering. Slowly walking towards whoever it was, he reached over and laid a hand on the person's shoulder.

A platinum-blond head whipped around and stared at him wide-eyed, his expression fearful and the reflection of the flames dancing in his silver eyes.

"Malfoy?" he asked incredulously, his voice sounding like that of a young boy.

Malfoy, who was also much younger, opened his mouth and spoke in a ghostly whisper.

"You chose to save the life of a person who's given you nothing but misery from the very start. You came back even though the others didn't want to. You gave me the chance to choose between fear and courage. And I choose to stand up and fight."

He stared, unsure of what the blond was talking about, but the fire was raging and the bell was tolling—they didn't have much longer. If they didn't go now, they would die. He tried to pull Malfoy up, but the fellow was adamant about remaining there.

"Save those who need saving. You've already saved me; now go to the others."

He didn't understand, but there was no time. Malfoy refused to move, and Harry could hear other people screaming. There was a burst of fire from the side, and he jumped out of the way—except he was the only one. He watched as the burning beam fell on top of Malfoy, and even as he shouted out, the fire engulfed the blond and there was nothing he could do.

People were screaming. The bell was tolling. Time was ticking.

There was nothing he could do but leave. Even as he turned around and started running, he could hear Malfoy's voice echoing in his head.

"There are people who aren't worth saving, but such people are the ones that will never forget the second chance they were given."


10:30 AM

Harry woke up feeling like he'd forgotten something, except he wasn't sure what. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa in his study again, and he smacked his lips as his stomach grumbled. Groaning, he pushed himself up and stood, yawning and scratching his head. He unlocked the door, quickly cleaning himself up with his wand and scolding himself for making a habit of it.

Trudging downstairs, he paused as he listened to Ginny's voice coming from the living room. He could hear the kids playing outside, so he wondered whom she was talking to. Stifling a yawn, he shuffled inside, grumbling about his need for another mug of coffee.

Ginny looked over her shoulder, her back to him, as he came to sit at the counter.

"What've you got there?" he asked when he heard the rather familiar high-pitched twittering.

Ginny turned sideways to reveal Pigwidgeon, and it became very clear as to why the—still-tiny—owl wasn't creating utter havoc. It was too busy munching on the snacks Ginny was holding out for it.

She handed him a letter, and Harry unfurled it quickly, scanning the contents. He raised his eyebrows when he saw who the addressee was, rereading the short letter to see if there was anything specific he should have noticed.

"Who's it from?" Ginny asked, stroking the owl and smiling as it tittered happily.

"Neville," Harry murmured, propping his chin on his hand and scanning the letter for the third time.

"Really? That's surprising. We haven't heard from him in quite a while. What does it say?"

"He wants to meet with me," Harry replied, eyeing the time and date. "Today. Now."

"Now?" Ginny asked in surprise. "Don't you have to go to work?"

Harry shrugged and Summoned his self-inking quill. "I'll send a letter to Buxley and tell him I'll be late. It's going to be more paperwork for me, anyway."

Ginny hummed and stepped forwards, peering at the letter, but Harry had already wiped it clean with his wand and picked up the quill as it fluttered down on to the counter.

"How come he sent the letter with Pig?" he asked as he wrote a quick letter to his deputy.

"Oh, Hannah sent Angie some really nice wine when we were away, and Angie wanted to send a thank-you note back."

"What happened to Perseus?" Harry asked, signing the letter.

Ginny rolled eyes and crossed her arms. "George probably sent that bloody bird off to some obscure location to procure illegal ingredients, no doubt."

Harry grinned as he tore the parchment in half and wrote a second letter addressed to Neville. "Sounds about right."

"Can you believe George sent Percy a huge package of Wheezes and a lengthy letter introducing him to his namesake?" Ginny huffed. She'd been very protective of Percy ever since the war, and they'd grown awfully close since he got married, especially after Molly and Lucy came along.

Harry laughed, and Ginny smacked his arm. "Don't laugh. It isn't funny! Poor Percy got so upset about the fact that George considered the owl his namesake instead of the other way around."

Harry threw his head back and guffawed as Ginny fumed. "How can I not laugh? That's bloody brilliant!" he said as she shot him a withering look.

"You're terrible, all of you," she sniffed as he signed off the second letter, still chuckling.

Harry rolled the pieces of parchment up and gave them to Ginny to tie to Pig's talons. Somehow, the obnoxious bird hadn't quite taken a liking to him, even after all these years. It adored Ginny, though, and seemed oddly possessive of her. He made a face at Pig when it stared at him and could've sworn it had an evil glint in its eye as it took off.

"That bird is out to get me, I'm telling you," he remarked when it disappeared out the window.

"Stop bullying Pig," came Ginny's instant retort, and he rolled his eyes. "If you don't like him, get an owl of your own."

She seemed to realise her mistake as soon as the words left her mouth, but the damage had already been done. She blustered and went red in the face, but he pursed his lips and stood, nodding curtly.

"Well, I suppose it's about time I got changed, then."

"Harry—"

"I'll make sure to buy Pig a larger pack of owl snacks next time," he called over his shoulder as he exited the living room, leaving Ginny with a dumbfounded look on her face. Although it had been years, Hedwig's death was still a touchy subject for Harry, and he had vowed that he would wait until the kids were old enough for Hogwarts to get a new owl.

Shaking his head, he padded to the bathroom to get dressed. Now to see what Neville's up to…