Author's Notes: Sorry for the wait. I've been busy with getting the nursery ready and other honey-do's. 8 weeks or so until the little guy arrives.

Anyway, without further ado, the next chapter.

Cheers.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Minerva's Burden

August was an uneventful month for Harry, Ron, and Hermione as all the tenderly-cared-for lawns and gardens of Britain baked beneath the late summer sun, leaving behind patches of brown and brittle grass and drooping leaves that welcomed September's first morning greeting. It was quiet inside Grimmauld. They were each contemplating the truth in their own way; the Hogwarts Express would depart Kings Cross without them for the first time.

Ron talked with Kreacher about all the usual food choices of the welcoming feast. Despite Hermione's objections about Kreacher's work load, Ron was determined that if he couldn't sit in the Great Hall, he would at least celebrate his favorite tradition in spirit. Hermione lay on the couch in the living room, the Standard Book of Spells, grade 7, propped open and resting against the top of her thighs. But she did not read; rather, her hands fumbled with the small silver Prefects badge she had proudly worn since fifth year. Harry, having seen both their reactions, retreated to Sirius' bedroom and welcomed the sanctuary it offered.

However, it was only a temporary one; alone, sprawled across Sirius' bed his thoughts wandered to unpleasant places. When he tried to understand his wand's strange, unheard-of-before behavior, his thoughts returned to the graveyard and his parents' ghostly echoes. When he considered the equally unique occurrence of his Patronus, Dumbledore's words of emotionally-driven magic sent a shiver down his spine and a recognized but wholly different sensation would erupt in his chest where his heart resided. When he tried to focus on Horcruxes, he would only think of the one laying dominant within him and wondered how long he would continue to walk the earth. He further didn't like that something within him stirred and compelled to be near the Horcrux hidden away.

The thought that consumed Harry most, however, was telling his friends he had to walk willingly to death to see victory over Voldemort. Did he have the courage to say anything at all? Harry shook his head. That wasn't entirely truthful. The question that burdened him most was how to tell Hermione. Again his heavy heart beat against his chest. No, he would not entertain the truth he kept buried at the center of his soul. He had buried it long ago, long before he had known it was there. He would take that truth to the grave, burying it one more time.

For the last time.

The revelation that his death had been Hermione's Boggart affected him deeply. That his worst fears and nightmares had become hers pierced him in a way nothing else ever had or ever would. Hermione's confession that she believed herself useless had left him far more vulnerable than the Dursleys or Voldemort had ever managed. His thoughts wandered back to his parents.

His parents had left him provided for; his education, his heritage, and what it meant to be a Potter. Their sacrifice spoke to him more clearly than it ever had before. His heart calmed for a moment; If James Potter could find the courage to face certain death, than he could find the courage to stand tall and walk the path before him. If Lily Potter could find the courage to give her life for her son, than he could find the courage to do the same. He would lay down his life for his friends.

Sirius had likewise given everything; the gold in his vault, a house, twelve years in captivity, and lastly, his life. He spent nearly a year in a cave, living on rats, risking capture and a Dementor's Kiss. And though it had been Harry's doing, Sirius had come after him at the Department of Mysteries. Sirius had given him a truth that no one else could; any sacrifice was bearable for a loved one.

Most profoundly, Dumbledore had given him his strangest thought; that one need not fear death, for it was, to the well-organized mind, the next great adventure. Dumbledore had also given him a glimpse into a source from which he could reach into and find the courage for the course ahead; that by holding a loved one more valuable than yourself could you find a quiet strength unmatched in the world. Harry did not know what would await him on the other side of death. He only knew in the depth of his heart that whatever it was must be good. Sirius had gone on, as Nicholas once said. He knew Dumbledore would never return to live a half-life, nor would his parents. There was nothing concrete to grasp, but it was enough to bring him peace in the moment.

Since the conclusion of his first year at Hogwarts, Harry was vaguely aware of his own mortality. Now that he could see a definitive end to his time on earth, his mortality made him consider what most people overlooked until it was too late. What would his legacy be? What would he leave behind? What would he leave her?

He considered the contents of his vault hidden deep beneath Gringotts; where would the inheritance he received go when he was gone? He didn't care about the modest stacks of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts; money had lost all meaning since his conversation with Dumbledore inside the Pensieve and he couldn't take it with him. He at last began to understand Sirius. Sirius had known he wouldn't want more gold or a house; Sirius had simply carried out his duty as Godfather as best as circumstances had allowed. All these thoughts came together as morning gave way to the noon hour; he needed to produce a will.

He knew they wouldn't want any of it; but what choice did he have?

So, as the noon hour ticked away, Harry left the comfort of the bed in exchange for the uncomfortable chair at the desk in the corner of the room and began to compose the most important letter he would ever write.

He first addressed Hogwarts, the only place he considered home. He could only think of one legacy to leave the school. He then addressed the Weasley Family. He expressed as best he could the gratitude and affection he had for them and appropriated a portion of the contents within his vault. Now knowing the value of his vault, he could only divide his possessions in percentages. It would have to do.

He considered Hagrid; his first friend and gatekeeper into the world of magic. He smiled as he gave Hagrid the means to buy the one pet he'd always wanted. He knew it was unwise, but if Hagrid survived the war, he deserved the opportunity to see one dream fulfilled.

Ron had been the first friend of his age; funny, self-conscious, partner-in-crime, prone to jealously, and at times, victim of his own fears. Ron was not perfect and neither was he. That Ron had followed him on his quest for Horcruxes told him everything he needed to know about Ron; he was loyal, courageous, and will to share in Harry's burden. That was enough and more than he had the right to expect.

He left most to Hermione. He had only two requests of her: one, that she finish her exams and pursue the changes she desperately sought to see in the wizarding world, and two, when the dust of war settled, she would tell the truth; that Harry Potter was as ordinary as anyone else. That the Boy Who Lived survived because of a mother's love. That his accomplishments were due not of his skill, but the efforts of those before him and the best friends who walked beside him now; the imperfect but loyal heart of Ron, and the dedication, selflessness, and brilliance of Hermione. If he was successful, it was because he had never carried the burden alone.

Once he was finished composing his requests, he turned his attention to another problem. Who could he trust to see his expressed wishes carried out? Only one person came to mind; Minerva McGonagall. As the noon hour expired, he signed his name to the letter and rolled both pieces of parchment into a tight scroll.

"Kreacher," he said, his voice low but steady and clear. There was a soft pop behind him and Kreacher appeared, bowing low.

"What request does Master have of Kreacher," asked the elf.

"I have an important task that must requires your immediate attention," said Harry, giving the elf the scroll. "Deliver this to Minerva McGonagall, at Hogwarts. Be sure to do so only when she is alone. Reveal yourself to no one else, and speak to no one else. Do you understand what I'm saying, Kreacher?"

"Kreacher is to deliver the letter to Minerva McGonagall, not revealing himself nor speaking to anyone but to Minerva McGonagall," repeated the elf. "Kreacher will return home once he had delivered Master's note."

"Thank you, Kreacher," said Harry. Kreacher gave him another bow and Disapparated with another pop. Harry leaned back into his chair and released a long, slow breath as another weight fell from his shoulders. Not long after Harry had sent Kreacher on his errand, he heard a knock on the door. Hermione leaned against the wood trim, her hands resting against the wall on either side.

"Strange, isn't it," she said with a half-hearted smile. "The train is already on its way to Hogsmeade."

"Yeah," said Harry. He had a suspicion Hermione had more on her mind so he turned the chair around as she entered the room and took a seat at the edge of the bed.

"Don't tell Ron, but I'm actually quite glad he's having Kreacher put on a feast for us." Harry smiled. He felt the same way.

"I won't tell a soul," he said. She returned his smile and crossed her legs.

"I've been thinking," she said after a moment.

"What about?"

"About your Patronus," she said. "And my lack of one." Harry waited.

"I need your help," she said finally, biting her lower lip.

"You just need practice is all," said Harry, encouragingly.

"Maybe," she said. "But I've tried a few times this morning and it's the same as last night. It's just a large wisp of silver. When you taught us this spell, you told us we needed a strong, happy memory. I've thought of every happy memory I can recall and none of them ever seem adequate."

"I'm not sure I can help with that," said Harry. "Lupin couldn't help me either, come to think of it."

"What memory do you use," she asked. "It must be really special."

"Truthfully," asked Harry. Hermione nodded.

"I don't really think of a memory anymore," he said. "I don't know if it's because I've performed it so many times and my body just knows the emotion I'm supposed to feel or what, but I don't think of any one thing. Dumbledore told me the memory isn't what triggers the charm—it's the emotion. The memory just helps us to feel it so we can use it. In almost every instance, I was pushed with no other choice but to make the spell work. Down by the lake with Sirius, the alleyway with Dudley, and—"

"In the Ministry with us," finished Hermione. "Because you needed to save someone."

"I suppose," said Harry. "But to answer your question, there was a memory I used to rely on."

"What was it," asked Hermione. "Maybe it will help me find something comparable."

"The thing is, Hermione, it wasn't a memory—it was something I imagined—something I've imagined ever since I saw my parents in the Mirror of Erised. I imagined them talking to me—just talking. And smiling and standing around me. But those things never happened. It's not exactly a happy thought. And yet, it's the happiest I've ever felt." Harry was suddenly caught unaware as Hermione had leapt from the bed and hugged him.

"I'm so sorry, Harry" she whispered.

"It's alright," he said.

"But it isn't," she insisted. "You should have had eleven years at the least of happy memories."

"Let it go, Hermione," he said with slight pleading. But Hermione didn't let things go; not until they were made right. And he loved her for it.

"When this war is over I'm taking you on holiday," she said, her face flush with determination, "just you, me, and Mum and Dad. We'll go somewhere nice and warm. We'll make up for all the years you lost."

"I think you've already done that," said Harry truthfully. "That and more."

() () ()

Minerva McGonagall sat at her desk reviewing the list of new and returning students. Numbers were down but not as much as she had expected. Most of those not returning were Muggleborn. But Minerva did not think long on them. Instead, her thoughts labored over the three students she knew would not return. Her heart was heavy with worry. How could it not be? They were her students. They were her trouble-makers. In six years, they had become the life-blood of the school. Though most would say Minerva McGonagall did not pick favorites, she knew deep down three young adults had penetrated that invisible wall. Albus had been right; they had been destined to do great things.

Ronald Weasley was every bit the red-headed Weasley she had expected. A penchant for mischief, overly competitive in Quidditch, and a fierce stubbornness inherited from the Weasley matriarch that revealed itself most when faced with a difficult obstacle. She had been frustrated several times over the years with his academic under-achievement, but she knew even now the absence of his humored wit and sarcastic commentary would be felt by all. Most of all, he shared a quality she admired most in the Weasley family; a strong dislike for the dark arts and those who perpetuated the supremacy of pure blood.

Hermione Granger was the ideal student; punctual, attentive, inquisitive, and brilliant. Everything could be questioned and nothing was set in stone. But Hermione was much more to the aging professor; she had blossomed from the over-bearing, bossy bookworm into a fierce proponent of social justice and moral clarity. Hermione was a goal setter and not easily deterred. She was the wind of change most in her world would never see approaching. But today, all these things were nearly insignificant in Minerva's eyes, for they did not reflect the bushy-haired woman's heart—a heart that was forever bound to Harry Potter. Not that Harry knew.

Harry Potter; The Boy Who Lived. The babe she and Albus had left on a doorstep on a cold October night. It had been for his protection and the semblance of family. There had been no such thing, Minerva discovered, after a conversation with Hestia not long after Potter's extraction. She wanted to murder those Muggles. She wanted to murder Albus. She wanted James and Lily's forgiveness. She wanted Harry's forgiveness. She wanted to turn back time and sign his Hogsmeade form. She wanted to believe his warning about the Sorcerer's Stone. She wanted most of all to give him back his innocence. There was no question; Harry Potter was Minerva McGonagall's favorite. Not because he was The Boy Who Lived, or the boy who'd been forced to bear the burdens of adults, but the boy who loved to fly on his broom. She loved the man whose courage and outstanding moral fiber would echo in the castle halls for years to come. Minerva was so deep in her thoughts that she hardly registered the sound of Apparition within her office.

"May I help you," asked Minerva, giving the aged elf a shrewd glance. The elf bowed to the professor.

"Kreacher at your service," he said, offering the scroll to McGonagall. She took it reluctantly but did not open it.

"And who has sent you," she asked.

"Kreacher does the bidding of his master, Harry Potter."

"You know where Harry is? Is he alright? Does he need anything?"

"Master Harry and his friends are home," said Kreacher. "Kreacher was ordered to deliver the letter to Minerva McGonagall and return home. Kreacher has delivered the letter. Good day to you, madam." Before McGonagall could protest or inquire further, Kreacher Disapparated once more. She unsealed the scroll and read:

Professor McGonagall,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I wish I could say that I'm writing to confirm my return to Hogwarts for my seventh and final year, but that is not the case. Instead, I'm writing to you to ask for your assistance—a favor if you will. I cannot express how important it is that you speak to no one regarding the contents of this letter except for those named in the attached parchment and certainly not before the conditions indicated are met. I realize this sounds strange, but it isn't—you'll understand once you've read it. And I'm sorry to say you'll need to read it because there is no one else I trust to see it done properly.

I don't know if I'll see you again before the end; just in case, I just wanted to say thank you for the Nimbus—I know it was you—and giving me my freedom even if it was only for a little while. It meant to world to me. When my task for Dumbledore is finished, I will confront Lord Voldemort. While I can't disclose the details of this quest, I can promise you that I will see it finished, and with it, Lord Voldemort's defeat will be assured. But the price is heavy, and I am happy to pay it.

I have one more favor to ask—the last favor. When it happens—and I am certain that it will—please be there for Hermione. Help her achieve her dreams. She can make the world a better place. I'm certain of it.

Harry

Minerva wiped the tears from behind her spectacles. She read the letter twice, convincing herself the words on the parchment couldn't possibly be saying the things she read. But they were. Hands shaking violently, she examined the attached parchment and read the scribbled heading:

The Last Will and Testament of Harry James Potter

The parchment slipped from her fingers and landed on the desk without a noise and McGonagall buried her face into her folded arms upon the desk and wept. She wished for a countless number of things, but mostly, she wished she had signed Harry's Hogsmeade letter.

Author's Notes: Next chapter - Magic Always Leaves Traces (an Alan Rickman tribute). Stay tuned.