It's the second week of May before it feels like summer truly lies ahead. It's a mild afternoon. Five weeks are left until the summer holidays and there's a certain drowsiness in the Charms classroom today. Little dust motes float through the amber-coloured sunlight, hardly moving in the warm air, and James watches them idly, his quill resting in his hand, his other hand propped beneath his chin.
"…and now, if you look at page seventy-four, you'll notice the angle of the spell…"
James glances past the dancing dust motes, then looks down at his notes and – with effort – dips his quill into the inkwell and begins writing a new line. The soft scratch of quills against parchment fills the room, punctuated by an occasional rustle or soft cough.
"…so of course, the movement of the wand is extremely important…"
Flitwick's voice murmurs on. James pauses again in his writing and looks out the window at the unclouded sky. In the distance, the rich green valleys and mountains rise and fall like an ocean. If James closes his eyes, he might imagine summer's here already…
Footsteps. James opens his eyes, blinking. The other students raise their sleepy heads. On James's left, Martin stifles a yawn.
McGonagall steps through the doorway.
"Apologies, Filius, but I must speak with Potter."
"Of course," he says, blinking owlishly. "Off you go, Potter. Now, as you can see from this example, the wand movement is a spiral motion…"
James stands up slowly, ignoring the faint whispers of students around him. As he slings his bookbag over his shoulder, Martin turns to frown at him.
"What've you done this time?"
Nothing, James thinks as he leaves the classroom. He hasn't gone near Scorpius for weeks now, hasn't so much as looked at him since the incident in that room with broken quills and dusty floors.
McGonagall takes him to her classroom office. James automatically sits in the tartan armchair and waits for the usual brisk 'ginger newt?' but McGonagall immediately goes to her desk and unlocks a drawer, retrieving something before sitting down.
"Potter," she says, and there's something in her tone that suddenly makes James feel anxious. He seizes ahold of a cushion, just to keep his hands occupied.
"I – I haven't done anything wrong, I swear," he says, mentally running over the past few weeks.
"No, you haven't," McGonagall says quietly. "I'm afraid I received a firecall moments ago from your father. There has been a very serious accident."
James stares at her, not understanding. "An accident?"
She nods. "Your cousin — Teddy Lupin — has been badly injured. Your father has requested your presence at once."
"I…I don't…" He realises he's slowly unravelling a loose thread from the cushion, undoing the stitches, and he stops.
McGonagall places a small silver button upon the desk. It has something engraved in it. A crossed wand and a bone, James thinks distantly. The St Mungo's insignia.
"You may use this portkey to travel directly to St Mungo's Hospital," McGonagall says, tapping her wand against the little button and activating it. "You're excused from the remainder of your classes today."
James stares at McGonagall for a long moment, then looks down at the portkey.
"Potter," McGonagall says quietly, and James looks up.
He reaches out and takes the portkey.
James stumbles slightly when he arrives. It's bright, he thinks, blinking to let his eyes adjust. Compared to the gentle afternoon sunlight of McGonagall's office, with its comfortable chairs and lined bookshelves, the hospital seems to be too bright, too empty, too clean. A long corridor stretches past James, the lights reflecting off the shiny floor.
Then someone's hugging him. His father, he realises, and he barely has time to respond before Harry's stepping away again.
"James," Harry says.
He looks past his father. There's a neat little row of chairs halfway down the corridor. Andromeda sits there, her hands clasped, staring at the wall opposite.
"Where's Teddy?" James asks, his voice sounding far too small, echoing around the corridor. Harry tries to lead him to the chairs but James doesn't move. "Where is he?"
"He's…he's still in transit. We have to wait."
"In transit?" James repeats, at last taking steps forward and following his father to the row of chairs. He looks at Andromeda, but she's still staring at the wall opposite, her mouth a thin line. "But…I don't understand…we're here and he's not…"
"It happened in Wales," Andromeda says, speaking at last. "His friends contacted me at once to let me know. While they were still waiting for the Mediwizards to arrive. But surely the Mediwizards should have already transported him here…"
"It might take them a while to find the exact location," Harry says quietly. "He's in the middle of the wilderness."
"What happened?"
Andromeda doesn't answer James. Harry just looks blankly at him for a moment, as if he's staring at a stranger, and fear begins to creep around James's heart.
"Dad?" he says edgily. "What happened?"
"They were crying," Andromeda says distantly, still staring at the wall. "Somebody was shouting in the background…I couldn't make out much, but they said I should go to St Mungo's at once."
"He'll be okay, though," James says. "Won't he, Dad? Won't he?"
Harry is silent.
"Won't he?" James repeats, and Harry makes a little movement as if trying to shake away his thoughts.
"I…I don't think I should have sent for you," he says, almost as if speaking to himself. "Perhaps it would have been best if…" He blinks and looks up. "Let's just sit and wait."
But James can't stay still. He sits down, he stands up again, he paces around the corridor. Every time a door opens or footsteps sound, he jumps to attention. But it's just a Healer with a clipboard, or an assistant carrying vials.
"They should be here already," Andromeda murmurs. "They should be here…"
James says nothing, just chews on a nail and stares at a poster for first-aid courses on the wall opposite. You Can Save Lives Now! it declares, and he reads it over and over just so he doesn't have to think about anything else.
When he's reading it for the fifth time, there's a loud bang of a door swinging open, followed by raised voices, and James whips around. At the very end of the corridor, there's a team of people rushing in, all surrounding a floating stretcher. For a moment, James catches a glimpse of Teddy's pale face, and then the group disappears into a room, the door swinging shut behind them. James automatically steps forward; he's immediately stopped by an invisible barrier.
"You can't go down there," Harry says. He's standing beside James, gazing down the corridor. "Staff only."
James follows his father's gaze. Beneath the door, he can see the light of spells. The bright flashes increase, each one occurring at one-second intervals. Like little fireworks, James thinks, the little firecrackers and star-rockets he used to set alight in the garden. Roman candles and cherry bombs, flying spinners and bottle rockets…James can almost see them now, bright colours exploding across the quiet summer nights.
James blinks.
"They…they stopped," he says blankly. The bright flashes have faded to nothing. The seconds tick past, but not a single spell is cast. "Dad? Why'd they stop?"
Neither Harry nor Andromeda answer him.
James can't quite remember what happens next. People arrive at some point – Ron and Hermione, Bill and Fleur – but James doesn't know when they arrived or whether they spoke to him. There's a Healer – a quiet man who keeps saying I'm very sorry and James can't work out why he's apologising.
They're walking down endless corridors and he's not sure why. Deeper into the hospital they go, where the hallways become empty and quiet, and finally at the end of a corridor there's a door with a Healer standing beside it. Everybody's going into the room and when James pauses, the Healer asks if James wants to say goodbye to Teddy.
James just stares at the Healer. He still doesn't understand. Say goodbye? He's already said goodbye to Teddy. Thousands of times. Every time Teddy left the house, every time James returned to Hogwarts, every time they parted ways after a Christmas dinner or a birthday party. But why would James say goodbye to Teddy in a little room in a hospital?
Maybe James just thought all of this, or maybe he said it aloud or maybe he shouted it, but the Healer starts looking upset and somebody's taking James by the arm and leading him away. They go farther down the corridor, where there's a row of narrow seats.
"It's okay. We'll just sit here for a while. It's okay," they're saying, and James realises it's Harry. His father.
So they do. They silently sit beside each other. James stares at the opposite wall. There's a framed picture on it. There's a field with mountains in the background, and every five minutes a starling flits across the sky. James methodically counts the seconds and minutes in his head, timing the starling each time.
Footsteps and the sound of someone sobbing. It's Victoire, James realises. Bill and Fleur are either side of her but they're both silent. When did they arrive? He doesn't remember. Did someone send for them? Victoire is the one crying endlessly. He listens to their footsteps fade. The starling flies across the sky again. He's still wearing his bookbag, James suddenly remembers. He was in class, dreaming about the dust motes. Maybe he fell asleep. Isn't that odd, to dream of this?
The starling flies across the sky.
The door opens again. This time it's Ron and Hermione, Rose walking between them. She's crying, but not like Victoire. Quieter. When she sees James she rushes to him and grabs his hands.
"Promise me," she says. "Promise me you'll say goodbye."
James just stares at her, at her bloodshot eyes and crumpled mouth, and he tries to pull his hands away but she won't let go until Ron comes over and pries her away. They disappear from sight too, their footsteps fading round the corner.
The starling flies across the sky.
It flits through the painting six more times before Andromeda appears.
She's not sobbing like Victoire, and she doesn't cling to James like Rose. She just walks slowly along the corridor, step by step, and then she pauses.
"James," she murmurs, her voice soft and thin as tissue paper. "Always his favourite…"
And then she continues on, disappearing round the corner like all the others, but this time Harry stands up and goes to her.
James watches his father leave. He turns his head to look at the painting again, waiting for the starling, but after a long moment he stands up instead and begins walking towards the narrow door at the end of the hallway. The Healer isn't there anymore, he thinks distantly.
He steps into the room.
It's painted blue, a pale blue, like a child's bedroom. There's a vase of sunflowers on a little side-table. And, on a low table draped in dark blue material, there's Teddy.
James studies him. There's a white sheet pulled up to his shoulders. What happened to his clothes? Did they throw them away? That isn't right, he thinks. They shouldn't throw away Teddy's clothes.
His eyes are closed, his skin pale and waxen. James reaches out and slowly catches a lock of Teddy's hair between his fingers. Teddy always thought it was terribly funny that James — always suffering through undignified hair-ruffling — could never seek revenge. No matter how he tried, he never managed to tousle Teddy's hair.
James drops his hand.
Footsteps, and then Harry's beside him, gazing down at Teddy. And then, after a long moment, Harry leans down and gently cups Teddy's face, and then his shoulders start to shake and James realises he's crying. His father, his strong and infallible father, sobbing like a child.
James bolts from the room and gets halfway down the corridor before he throws up.
Teddy died on the eleventh of May. Three weeks after his twentieth birthday.
He was kayaking with friends on the River Tryweryn, deep in the Welsh wilderness. His kayak capsized while he was rounding a particularly difficult riverbend and he struck his head on a rock while underwater, rendering him unconscious. By the time his friends realised something was wrong, managing to locate him and drag him ashore, he had no pulse and wasn't breathing. By the time the emergency Mediwizards arrived, the friends had already been performing manual CPR for some time. It took only three minutes of failed resuscitation spells at the hospital before they officially declared Teddy deceased at 1:07pm.
These are the facts presented to Harry, arranged in neat little Healer's notes. Andromeda gives him the information. There will be a coroner's report later on, she says, but they say it will take months to complete. There are queues, long waits for paperwork. It will be a long time.
They sit at the kitchen table. Andromeda at one end, Harry at the other. Everyone else went to the Burrow after the hospital. Like they needed to be close, together again.
Harry declined to join them. He went home instead, with Andromeda. James went upstairs, to the guest room – Teddy's room – and closed the door.
A clock chimes. It's one o'clock in the morning. Andromeda is gazing down at the notes. Harry stares unseeingly at a cup of tea in the middle of the table. He'd poured it hours ago, seconds after arriving home from work. Moments later, he'd taken an urgent firecall from Andromeda, stating that one of Teddy's friends had just contacted her and said Teddy was very badly injured. It's really bad, it's really bad they'd kept saying over and over.
Harry had made the split-second decision to make a quick fire-call to Hogwarts before leaving for the hospital. In his mind, he saw it all: a worried James arriving, a short wait, and then they would be ushered into a hospital room. Hey cuz, Teddy would say, reassuring James as always, and they'd all smile.
Harry hadn't thought of any other possible ending.
When he saw Teddy lying there, in the room painted the same colour as a childhood lullaby, all he could think about was Teddy's hair colour. Brown. Teddy was always changing his hair colour. Why have something ordinary, he argued, when you could have pink or blue or green? Years ago, whenever Harry visited Andromeda, young Teddy would come tumbling down the stairs to show off his newest hair colour. Harry would crouch down, cup his face, pretend to study him, and then declare Teddy's hair was the most amazing colour he'd ever seen. And Teddy's face would light up with pride and happiness.
Somehow, in that little hospital room, Harry had been waiting for it. Just for a moment, when he leaned down and touched Teddy's face for the final time, he saw a six-year-old Teddy open his eyes and smile at him.
But Teddy's skin had been cold and clammy to touch, his eyes closed, and his hair remained a dark brown, the colour of the earth after rain.
They sit at the table, Harry and Andromeda, and neither of them speak.
It's evident, Draco thinks as he walks across the lawns to the small chapel, that Teddy had been loved. Although Draco arrived early, crowds are already gathering around the doors. He accepts a service program from one of the staff, glancing down at the cover. A photograph of Teddy, and beneath it the words: Edward 'Teddy' Lupin, 17th April 1998 — 11th May 2018.
Only just twenty years old.
He takes his seat, Scorpius beside him. Scorpius had found out about the death on Saturday, from Rose Weasley, and had immediately sent Draco a frantic letter begging for permission to attend the funeral. McGonagall had granted him leave – but looking around the crowded room, Draco thinks McGonagall would have signed many more permission slips. Hogwarts students stream through the doors, dressed in black robes and many of them wearing Ravenclaw badges. At the front of the room, in the rows reserved for close family, the bright hair of the Weasleys is easily visible. All of them knew and loved Teddy, and yet it is Draco who is one of the closest blood relatives.
He looks down at the service program in his hands. He hardly concerned himself with Teddy's existence — Narcissa never spoke of her traitorous sister Andromeda — until Scorpius went to Hogwarts and mentioned, with great excitement, that he'd met a very kind boy named Teddy Lupin who always helped the first years with their homework and once told Scorpius he was going to be one of the most intelligent wizards Ravenclaw had ever seen.
And Draco could sit here now and dream of everything that might have been — an older cousin, growing up beside Scorpius, the two of them best friends — but Draco had fourteen years to make Teddy a part of Scorpius's life, and he let every year slip past without a second thought.
And now that opportunity has disappeared forever.
The service starts twenty minutes after its scheduled time, and Draco only realises why when a hush ripples through the room and the doorway — crammed with people wishing to pay their respects — admits the final two attendees.
Harry and James.
In that moment, Draco sees the striking physical similarity between them. Oh, they've always shared the same dark hair, the same jawline, but there's something in that moment when they walk to the front of the chapel, heads bowed, shoulders hunched as if the world weighs upon them, eyes trained on the ground, faces pale.
The funeral director clears his throat when James and Harry take their seats, and the service begins. A girl with silver hair and a wretched expression delivers the first eulogy. Victoire Weasley, according to the program.
Draco listens to her speak. It's painfully, agonisingly obvious that she loved Teddy. No doubt her own dreams, her own visions of a certain future, died along with him. She trails off halfway through the eulogy and seems unable to continue. As Victoire stands there mutely, her younger sister picks up the notes and reads the rest of it to the silent crowd.
Draco glances at Scorpius. He's staring ahead, the unopened program in his hands. A blue carnation rests on his lap. They were handing them out to those attending. Single carnations. Blue and white.
They sit silently through the rest of the service. At the end, everyone gathers round the family to express sympathy and Scorpius wants to do the same. Draco isn't too sure about that, knowing how James hates Scorpius. The last thing he wants to do is upset James or cause a scene.
But when Scorpius goes to James and offers his condolences, James just nods and says 'thank you' in a politely bland tone, the same tone he's been using with every other person at the funeral. James doesn't care, Draco realises, and that's when his heart suddenly aches for Harry's son. Nothing is important anymore. All the problems in James's life — his fights with his father, his enmity with Scorpius — none of it matters.
The only thing that matters is that his world now exists without Teddy Lupin.
The trip home is silent. Scorpius has received permission from McGonagall to spend the night at the manor before returning to Hogwarts tomorrow. It seems just yesterday that Scorpius was here for the Easter break, walking through the gardens and noticing all the new spring blooms, sketching tulips and reading his books by the orchard-houses.
Now Scorpius stands in the front parlour, unknotting his tie. He'd wanted to make a particularly elaborate tie-knot for the funeral. The Eldredge Knot, it was called, and apparently Teddy was fond of it. Scorpius admired the knot at some point in his first year and Teddy had spent an afternoon teaching it to him. But then, according to the tearful funeral attendees and those who delivered speeches, it was a typical representation of Teddy's generosity of time and energy.
Scorpius lays the tie flat on a side-table and studies it for a moment.
"How did he die?" he asks, his voice quiet. Draco frowns.
"I…I don't know, Scorpius." He'd spoken briefly to Harry and sent flowers from his mother's orchid garden, but he doesn't actually know too many details about Teddy's death. Draco knows too well – thanks to the curious reporters after his mother's death – the pain and anger of unwanted questions.
"Nobody knows." Scorpius lifts his head, looking up from the tie and gazing out the window. "I just want to know if…if it would have been painful…"
Draco follows Scorpius's gaze. The windows offer a view of the beautiful spring day, the gardens bright with flowers, the starlings flitting around the rows of blossoming magnolia trees.
"If he did feel pain," Draco says, "I'm sure it was fleeting. No more than a quick moment before he was given peace."
For a moment they both stand in silence, watching the sunlight cast playful shadows through the leaves and flowers.
If the opposite of a Crucio spell existed – if there was a spell where Harry could take away all of James's pain and misery and despair and endure it himself instead – he would perform it in a heartbeat. But no such spell exists, and this pain can't be fixed with a medicine kit, and Harry won't tell James lies like you'll be fine or time heals all wounds because he knows firsthand it doesn't. It doesn't heal all wounds. Harry still feels the loss of his parents, and Ginny, and Sirius. When someone dies, he knows, they take a little piece of the world with them and although people learn to cope with the absence, they never stop feeling it.
Everyone visits a lot. Mrs Weasley brings over endless casseroles and stews that neither James nor Harry eat. Ron and Hermione visit with Rose, who anxiously asks each time if she can see James, and Harry always has to say no, James doesn't really want visitors, until finally he asks Ron and Hermione to please stop bringing Rose over. They're hurt by his request, but Harry feels too tired to care.
Work fire-calls him. Harry finally accepts an incoming call five days after Teddy's funeral.
"What?"
"You're needed." It's Hopkins.
"I can't come in right now. I applied for bereavement leave."
"Sorry, Potter. But you know how it is. We've got a new lead on – "
"No."
Hopkins pauses. "No?" he repeats at last.
"I have lost my godson." For the first time since Teddy's death, Harry feels something other than a desperate sadness: anger. "He was like a son to me. For twenty years. Do you understand?"
"I do, and the whole department is extremely sorry for your loss. It's an absolutely tragedy. But you're Head Auror, and – "
"What about my son?" Harry says furiously. "What am I supposed to do, Hopkins? What do you suggest I say to James?"
Hopkins is beginning to look very uncomfortable. "I'm sure…I'm sure there's relatives who can mind him…"
"No. No. That is not an option." Harry has missed birthdays, and summer holidays, and Easters, and Christmas too. If there is one time he will be there for James, it will be now.
Hopkins is silent for a long moment. "Very well," he says at last. "My condolences again."
"Thank you," Harry says, and he terminates the fire-call.
He paces around the living room for a while, until he's calmed down, then he goes and finds James. He's curled up on Teddy's bed, asleep.
He hasn't cried once, Harry thinks. Not once. Not in the hospital. Not afterwards. Not at the funeral.
He sits on the edge of the bed and touches a hand to James's head, remembering how he used to stroke James's hair to help him sleep when he was a toddler. It was always Ginny's job, but after she died Harry took over.
James was so young when Ginny died. He didn't understand, even though he'd been told weeks, months before. Ginny was very sick, they told him, and she might go to sleep and never wake up. That's what happens to people when their bodies can't work anymore. But James still kept asking when Ginny was coming back, and he cried all the time and just couldn't understand that his mother was dead. Thank Merlin for Andromeda and Teddy; Andromeda, who babysat James just to give Harry some time alone to mourn, and Teddy, who lifted James onto his shoulders and told him stories and made him laugh, even if it was just for a moment.
Harry sits by James's side for a long time, listening to the silence.
James returns to Hogwarts on the twenty-seventh of May.
They drive to Hogsmeade. Harry could make the journey in a matter of seconds. Disapparating to the village, or arranging for a Floo connection via the Hog's Head or Three Broomsticks, or requesting a portkey from McGonagall.
But he doesn't. He gets up early in the morning and tells James they're driving. James nods.
They leave shortly before midday. The car tyres crunch over the gravel of the driveway. This familiar trip, this same journey Harry has made hundreds of times before. Past the lopsided letterbox, the small gate. Onto the winding country road. Past the lush green fields where James used to play with his Muggle friends, chasing each other over fences and under trees. And further out, the wide swathes of woodland where Teddy used to take James for Quidditch practice, safely hidden from the eyes of Muggles. Over the little wooden bridge where Teddy would take James fishing. The little landmarks, the little souvenirs of lives and memories and childhoods, all flashing past in the blink of an eye.
The little winding lane soon joins an arterial road. Through the local village, past the bakery where Ginny used to buy artisan breads. She'd always come home with a cinnamon bun for James.
Harry misses the smell of cinnamon.
Past the village, and soon the roads become less familiar. They travel through Bristol, the low skyline of the city rising like a grey tide. Onwards, through the sprawling urbanisation of the West Midlands; the green plains of Lancashire, the rolling hills of Cumbria that gradually rise into the craggy mountains and plunging valleys of Scotland. By the time they arrive in Hogsmeade, the evening sunlight is bathing the mountain peaks in golden light, the valleys steeped in darkening shadow.
James has no luggage, only the schoolbag he took with him when he came to the hospital. Just two weeks ago, Harry realises, but it feels like it's been years, as if someone tilted a time-turner when Harry wasn't looking.
McGonagall is waiting by the train station, a solitary figure on the platform, a black cloak draped over her shoulders, both hands resting atop her cane. Overhead, the first evening star appears, crisp and white as a snowflake, set bright against the dark skies of the Scottish wilderness.
Harry and James sit silently in the car for a moment. Then Harry speaks.
"You don't have to go back yet, James."
"I know."
"I can drive us back home again. I don't mind."
"It's okay."
Silence eclipses them again. Then Harry opens his door and steps onto the cobbled street. McGonagall offers her condolences, rests a hand briefly on Harry's shoulder. He's very close to taking James back to the car, insisting they both go home, but McGonagall's presence and kind words are enough to stop him from doing so. Harry always felt better when he was at Hogwarts, and surely it will be the same for James. McGonagall will take care of him, and James's friends will help too.
Harry hugs James, unable to stop himself from clinging to him for a long moment. "I'll see you in a month," he says. Just one month until the summer holidays. That's all. "If you want to come home again...just send a letter and I'll arrange it."
James nods and Harry reluctantly steps away again.
He watches his son walk away into the shadowed streets, illuminated by the soft glow of the street lamps.
McGonagall calls James into her office a week after his arrival. James sits in one of the tartan armchairs. The one with the cushion. He can see a thread unravelling from the corner, from when James unpicked a stitch as McGonagall told him she had received an urgent firecall.
"Potter," she says, "if you would like to continue with your swimming lessons, you are welcome to do so."
"Okay."
McGonagall still sits there, looking at him, and James thinks she's waiting for him to say something.
"Thank you, Professor," he adds after a moment, but McGonagall's frown just deepens.
"Potter…we have a counselling service available for students. A counsellor visits Hogwarts twice a week – you'll have to ask Madam Pomfrey about which days – but an appointment can be arranged."
"Okay."
McGonagall looks at him a moment longer. "Well," she says, "please speak to Madam Pomfrey if you'd like to make an appointment."
"Okay." James isn't really listening. He can't stop looking at the thread unravelling from the cushion.
"Thank you, Potter. You're dismissed."
He stands and leaves.
He goes swimming on Saturday. After all this time…
He wants to feel something. He really does. For eight long months he has longed for the water. He has craved it, and missed it, and tried so hard to win back his swimming privileges.
But in the crisp pre-dawn air, he stands on the end of the pier and stares into the black lake and feels nothing.
A whistle pierces the air. He dives into the water and for a moment he's completely submerged and he can't see or hear or feel anything.
And then he surfaces and swims. Lap after lap. Back and forth.
Saltworth says something to him at the end of it.
"Thank you," James says, but he can't remember whether he's responding to sorry for your loss or good job.
It doesn't matter.
The weeks seem to trickle past like rain. James doesn't really remember much it; their final day of school has arrived before he's realised it.
The students chatter excitedly among themselves, making plans for the long and lazy summer holidays. Martin and Paul tidy up the dormitory and hold a competition to see who can find the most Bertie Botts beans and Chocolate Frog cards; Nate tells anyone who'll listen about his upcoming trip to the Maldives, and Iwan makes one last pot of hot chocolate atop the woodstove. The dormitory is a flood of activity, of last minute packing and searching for lost possessions and ardent promises to keep in touch.
"Can I have a word with you?" Iwan asks James quietly.
"Okay."
"I just want to say I'm really, really sorry – "
"Thank you."
"No, not – I mean, I'm really sorry about forgetting your letters." Iwan holds out a few envelopes. "While you were gone…when your cousin…" He looks uncomfortable. "You got a few deliveries, and I was supposed to give them to you when you got back. But I forgot."
"Oh. Thanks." James accepts the envelopes.
"No problem."
James puts the letters into his trunk, listening as the rest of the boys laugh and chatter.
Across the dormitory, through the window, a beautiful summer day unfolds.
The trip to Hogsmeade is brief. James stands apart from the crowds, watching them mill around on the platform, chasing wayward pets and swapping addresses. He's one of the last to board the train; he chooses an empty compartment.
Rose finds him. She sits opposite him and they both look out the window as the train gains momentum and leaves the village of Hogsmeade. The bright morning becomes a faintly-overcast afternoon and James watches the clouds drift slowly across the sky.
"James," Rose says.
He turns away from the sight of a small village passing by. Rose is looking at him with a miserable expression.
"You haven't…you haven't been avoiding me, have you?"
"No."
"Oh."
They fall silent again. After a long moment, Rose speaks again.
"Do you…do you sometimes…" She pauses. "It's nothing," she says at last.
"Okay." James doesn't want to deal with it, doesn't want to talk to her.
He stares out the window at the passing scenery as Rose begins to cry.
The summer holidays unravel before Harry and James. Harry takes him swimming each day; James doesn't seem to care but Harry knows well the insidious nature of grief. It can creep around hearts and minds like Devil's Snare, suffocating and sapping energy away. James swims lap after monotonous lap while Harry does his paperwork.
Work.
Harry knows it's not going well. He gets firecalls nearly every day. His performance has been patchy since May and now that the summer holidays have arrived, he's barely in the office. His superiors call him into a special meeting a week after the summer holidays have started, and Harry knows exactly what to expect.
He's right. He walks into the Head Auror office and finds himself facing Shacklebolt, five senior Aurors, and a very anxious-looking Cuthbert.
"Hello," Harry says, sitting down and looking at them all.
"Harry," Shacklebolt says gravely. "My condolences for the death of your godson. The last of the Lupin line, I fear, and what a tragedy that is."
"However," Hopkins begins, and Harry shakes his head.
"I'll spare you the speech. A death of a family member is a complete tragedy, of course, but let's face it, it happened two months ago and the Auror Office only allows two weeks' bereavement leave. Nobody wants to be unkind, you all have my best interests at heart, and you think it would be best if I stepped down for a while."
They all exchange glances.
Shacklebolt clears his throat. "Succinct as ever, Harry," he says.
"It's not fair on the team, Potter," Hopkins adds. "You're the Head Auror. We can't afford anything less than a hundred percent commitment. Isn't that what Williamson told you?"
Harry frowns. "I don't recall you being present at that time," he says.
"I wasn't. But Williamson gave me the same speech two years ago. I was a candidate for Head Auror too. I told him no. My wife's health hasn't been too good for these past few years and I knew I couldn't give the commitment the position of Head Auror demands."
Harry falls silent.
"This isn't what anyone wants," Shacklebolt says quietly. "You're a fine Auror, one of the best we've seen. But this job…it takes up your whole life. Work comes first. Rain, hail, or shine – "
" – divorce, death, or disaster," finishes Hopkins. "That old Auror joke."
Harry stares down at his hands. There's a few scars criss-crossing his knuckles, callouses on his fingertips. He remembers thinking, two years ago, that he might end up with hands like Williamson's. Those ruined lumps of sinew and flesh. A sign of good hard work, Harry had thought at the time. A life well lived.
"Have some time to think about it," Shacklebolt says. "There's no shame in changing your priorities, Harry."
Hopkins nods. Cuthbert, diligently scribbling away, glances up and looks at Harry.
"Okay," Harry says, getting to his feet, feeling heavy with the weight of something indecipherable. "I'll think about it."
"We'll speak again soon."
Harry goes home.
He visits Draco on Wednesday, as ever. Scorpius answers the door and Harry is suddenly seized by how much older he looks. When was the last time he saw Scorpius? Christmas, surely? Was he at Teddy's funeral? Harry can't really remember. All he can think of is the first time he took James here, and a little scrap of a boy answered the door, face softened with childhood, hair wispy, shy and uncertain and following Draco about like a frightened ghost.
Now Scorpius is taller – still small for his age, not quite as tall as James – but the gentleness of childhood is beginning to melt away. His jawline is straight and narrow, his shoulders are broader, and he offers Harry a guarded look rather than a shy glance. With each visit, he looks more and more like his father.
"Hello," he says.
Harry blinks. "Hello." He wonders if James looks so drastically different than two or three years ago too. He hasn't really noticed. For him, he supposes, it would seem gradual.
"You're early," Draco complains, arriving by Scorpius's side.
"I'm punctual."
Draco glances at the grandfather clock in the hall. "Well," he says, which Harry supposes is the closest he'll get to an apology. "Tea, then?"
They go to the kitchen. Scorpius disappears, a book tucked under one arm. Harry watches him leave and frowns.
"He's gotten older."
"Yes, it's very concerning. I've made an appointment with the Healer next week."
Harry looks at him. "Thanks, Malfoy."
"You're welcome."
Though, deep down, Harry does owe Draco something. In the weeks following Teddy's death – while everyone else gave him endless advice or brought around casseroles or sent flowers until the living room looked like a garden – Draco didn't say a single word about it. He was at the funeral, Harry remembers, and offered condolences. But apart from that, he's remained silent on the subject of Teddy's death.
And for some reason, Harry's oddly grateful for it.
"Has James changed much?" he asks Draco. "Since first year, I mean."
Draco looks at him as if he's asked if Hogwarts is still standing. "Yes," he says slowly. "He's grown up."
"I know, but…I mean, he's gotten taller…" Harry trails off. "He's fourteen. God, he's fourteen. When did that happen?"
"On the seventeenth of February, I imagine."
Harry has that feeling again, of time slipping through his hands like fine sand. He finishes the meeting quickly, wanting to return home soon, and at the end – as he stands up – he offers Draco advice.
"You should spend a lot of time with your son," he says. "Before you know it, he'll be moving out to start his own life."
Draco gives him a look. "I spent five years searching for my son, Potter," he says. "Believe me, I am grateful for every second I have with him."
Harry nods and farewells him, but those words haunt him long after he's returned home.
When it came to caring for James, he relied so much on other people. Teddy, always there. Always. When James was a baby, Teddy would hold him and carry him everywhere. He's my little cousin, he'd proudly tell people. I'm going to take care of him. That's why I was born first. And when James was a young child, Teddy would keep him company during Harry's long shifts.
But now Teddy is gone.
James is still at the pool, Harry thinks distantly as he arrives home. Hermione and Ron took him there, but they should be back soon. He should start cooking dinner, clean the dishes piled up in the sink…
But instead he goes to the living room and, very slowly, reaches to the top shelf of the bookcase. Here is where they keep the stack of photograph albums. All the family memories, lovingly preserved. Harry carries the albums over to the coffee table, then sits down and stares at them, listening absently to the soft but relentless tick of his watch. He opens the cover of the first one.
James. He's sleeping in Ginny's arms. She looks so tired, but she's happy. This was the day James was born. The next picture shows Harry, the pride and joy so evident in his face as he holds James. Then…
Little Teddy. Six years old, carefully holding his cousin, helped by Andromeda. Careful, now, he can almost hear her saying. Teddy touches James's hand and baby James automatically curls his fingers around Teddy's thumb.
Sometimes, Harry wished the photographs were Muggle instead of magical. Solitary, still pictures of time. Missing moments, not capturing certain movements, expressions, smiles…
He turns the page, wanting to continue despite the tears beginning to blur his vision. James sleeping in his crib…Ginny wrapping him up in a blanket…the photographs soon trace the years, the birthdays and Christmases, the little moments between. A summer night, James and Teddy gazing into the sky with awe as fireworks whistle and explode. Andromeda had taken that photograph, Harry remembers. She'd given it to him a few months later, knowing that Harry disapproved. He was always suspicious of the cheap fireworks and, in consideration of James's curiosity in all things dangerous, banned them from the house.
But despite the many years of summer fireworks, James never came to any harm.
"Harry? Are you home?"
He blinks and stands up quickly, swiping a sleeve across his eyes. He hadn't heard Ron and Hermione arriving; now he can hear them clattering about in the front hallway.
"Be there in a minute!" he calls out, trying to regain composure as he tidies the albums away. He has to be strong for James; it won't do him any good to dissolve into tears now.
He goes to greet them dry-eyed, though Hermione looks a little suspicious.
"Can't believe how much James swims," Ron tells Harry. "Hugo and Rose wouldn't get off the waterslide, but not James – he just went straight to the lanes and did lap after lap!"
"He really is an exceptional swimmer," Hermione says.
"Dinner will be ready soon," Harry tells James. James nods and trails down the hallway. By Ron's side, Hugo is busy trying to stop a damp towel escaping his bag, but Rose looks after James, then hesitates and takes a step forward.
"Uncle Harry, would you mind if…if I stayed for dinner?" she asks.
"Ah, come on, Rose. Bit late notice," Ron says. "Besides, we're supposed to be going to your grandmother's for dinner."
"No, it's fine," Harry says.
"I wanna stay too," Hugo pipes up, but Hermione has a reflective look on her face.
"No, your grandmother won't be happy if no grandchildren turn up at all," she says.
"But that's not fair – "
"Come on, Nan's making your favourite pudding. Treacle tart," Ron says, and Hugo looks mollified.
"Okay," he mutters.
"I'll be back around eight o'clock to pick you up," Hermione says, giving Rose a hug. "See you later."
They all farewell each other. Rose thanks Harry again for letting her stay for dinner, then turns to go upstairs. Harry frowns.
"Rose…I'm not sure if James wants company right now."
Rose pauses and gives Harry a look. "I miss my cousins more than anything else in the world," she says quietly. "Both of them. And I can't talk to Teddy anymore, but I can talk to James."
Harry lets her go.
James sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall. It has a picture on it. There's a family of badgers, smiling as they unpack a picnic basket.
There's a little chip in the frame.
The attic door swings open and James jumps.
"What?"
"It's me, Rose."
"Oh."
She walks over to the bed, then pauses before sitting beside him. "What are we looking at?" she asks after a long moment.
"That." James points to the picture of the badger family.
"Oh." Rose looks at the picture for a long moment and silence eclipses them. After a long time, she speaks again. "James…"
"Yeah."
"Do you…do you ever wish…" Her voice trembles a little but James doesn't look away from the picture. "Do you…wish…it had been me instead? I…I wouldn't blame you if you did…I know you're much closer to Teddy than you are to me, and it would have been a lot easier if…sometimes I just think it should've been me, it – "
James feels like someone's poured a bucket of ice-cold water over him. He turns to Rose, horror coursing through him. "What? Why would you say that? What's wrong with you? God, Rose – no! No, I'd never wish that!"
Rose begins crying then. "I thought you did," she sobs. "I thought you were mad at me because I'm alive and he's not – "
"No, I'd never – I'm not mad at you, I'm not, I just…I'm just…I just want to wake up, that's all, I'm just…" And for the first time, he realises that's what he's doing. Waiting to wake up. Waiting for this nightmare to stop. Waiting for a dusty Charms classroom two months ago with dust motes in the air and a lazy spring afternoon blossoming over Hogwarts. Waiting, waiting, waiting to hear those two words again.
Hey cuz.
He begins to cry.