EDITED: October 14th, 2022.
Dedicated to the lovely Robbie Coltrane. Hogwarts will never be the same without you.
17 - Loss
"What do you hear when a Dementor is near?"
CRACK!
"Shit." I shook my hand, watching as blood dribbled a little. "Ow."
"I'm so sorry," was Harry's rushed apology. He knelt next to me and, after a frantic search through his satchel, took my hand and wrapped it around a dirty piece of cloth.
"Please tell me that's ink."
"It's ink."
I kept shaking my hand, expecting the pain to fade. It did, eventually, but the skin around the cut stung every time I flexed my fingers.
"You're drawing again."
Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. I reorganized the colors and the notebook, shaking off the broken pieces of quill into a piece of parchment and bunching it up. Harry sounded disbelieving—rightly so, of course. I just didn't want to acknowledge his surprise.
"Yeah. It was time I did."
"Why? There's no rush. No one was pushing you... or is there?" His face scrunched up in indignance on my behalf; he looked half-ready to go and find the possible culprit.
Which prompted the question— "How did you find me? Nobody knows about this place." I'd found this corridor during my time as Tom's puppet, accidentally falling through an invisible wall. A teacher probably thought it would be a convenient solution so that no student would meet a fatal end by falling off the castle but leaving a blind spot in the middle of the building just screamed terrible security measures. Still, in spite of the giant wall holes that faced the Black Lake, I found I liked it.
Harry's eyebrows rose in faint surprise. "I haven't told you, have I? With this." He offered me an old piece of parchment. It was blank. I threw him a frown. "What? Don't look at me like that, I'm not finished." He pulled out his wand, cleared his throat, and said in a clear voice, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
A dark drop of ink sprouted from the page. I dropped the paper in a panic, backing into the wall.
"Hey, hey, it's okay, it's harmless!" Harry shook me a little. "Anya, look. Look at it, it's a map. It's harmless. Fred and George have been using it for years, they gave it to me... they gave it to me the day I found out about Black."
I was holding my chest with both hands, as if that could stop my heart from bursting out. I almost muted him out, but I focused on the map and his words. It's a map. It's harmless. Fred and George.
The drop had banished in the meantime, thinning, becoming one line that bore others, lines that spread and crisscrossed neatly, forming different shapes. Words blossomed after, letters curly and proclaiming: "Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present the Marauder's Map."
"It's a map," I said hollowly, reaching for it.
Harry sighed in relief. He leaned on the wall, sitting properly. A ridiculously small space separated us; when he adjusted, his knee accidentally touched mine.
Wide-eyed, I turned the parchment in my hands. It was a map of Hogwarts and its grounds; the drawings being detailed and passages shown in corridors I had gone to but hadn't seen anything abnormal. The most impressive thing about it were the tiny moving dots with small banners attached to them and labeled with different names—as if they were real people. If they were, then Filch was in the dungeons chasing after Peeves, with Mrs. Norris trailing behind them; Percy Weasley was on his way to the Ravenclaw tower. And after staring and turning, I found my secret corridor, our names frozen at the dead end. Even Otto, who was lounging by the edge of one of the openings (this passage was deserted because of its lack of safety), appeared on paper.
"This just confirms the level of idiocy of the twins," I muttered. "How could they just give it to you like that?"
"Oi." Harry smiled humorlessly. "You better?"
I sighed. "Define 'better'. But yeah. Sorry for almost panicking on you... again."
"Better me than anyone else. I doubt Neville could've handled it."
I squinted at Harry; there was an air of smugness about him. "There you go again. You just couldn't help it, could you?"
"What?"
I shook my head. "Never mind. So, this is how you found me. And why—" I coughed. "And why, you already said."
Harry smiled nervously, looking around. He suddenly pointed at where Otto hung.
"What is he doing?"
Otto had his face turned up to the sky, eyes closed, as if he were soaking up the sun. It must have taken him a lot of effort to hold on, but it was the only way there was for him to want to fly again. It broke my heart to see him there, fragile, and suddenly too old. Too weak. The clerk from the Magical Menagerie had said Otto wouldn't pass through Christmas and yet, it was almost the last week of January.
"I suppose he's enjoying the scenery while he can."
"Sorry," he mumbled out. "I forgot."
"Me too, for a while. But nobody can escape death, right?" I hugged my knees to my chest. "All right, I'm ready. Ask again."
"Anya."
I rolled my eyes. "Fine. What do I hear when a dementor is near? I hear Tom. But I hear other things too. Things I thought I forgot. Mostly, it's just stuff from the orphanage when I brawled with Carol. It's like all the bad thoughts I ever had of myself, all my insecurities, are there with me. All at once."
"It's hard to imagine you fighting," he said. I snorted. Fighting was all I did back at the orphanage. If the letter from Hogwarts hadn't reached me, I probably would still be fighting Carol. "You haven't... you haven't reacted the way you did at the train again then?"
"The dementor touched me, Harry. Touched me. It's obvious the reactions are different."
He nodded to himself. "Right."
I eyed him. "What do you hear when a dementor's near?"
He tapped his hands on his tights, rubbing them.
"My mum. And my dad. Right before Voldemort kills them." He looked at me then, right in the eye. I couldn't escape his gaze. "Today I had my first lesson with Lupin to learn how to ward off the dementors. It's called the Patronus Charm, and you're supposed to think of a happy memory to make it work. But all I could hear were my parents' last words."
"Harry," I swallowed. "I'm sorry." Because that was my grandfather of whom he was speaking. Because Tom killed his parents and Harry got to hear it happen.
He continued. "I also hear your mum." His eyes shifted a little. "She sounded a lot like you."
I got closer. Our arms were pressing now. "And how do I sound? Not squeaky, I hope."
Harry chuckled, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "No. She was brave. She was... very scared. But brave. She held him off till the end." He sighed. His fingers played with a loose string from his jumper. "And I've been dreaming about that. A lot. But instead of seeing her, I see you. Because it already happened." He smiled wryly as he caught my frown. "Back in first year, remember? When we tried to stop Voldemort from getting the Philosopher's Stone. You... you jumped through the circle of fire from the trap. Then you asked me to leave and waited with your hand in the air, while he watched, until I listened to you. And" —a shaky sigh escaped him as he brought my left hand up to our faces. He pressed the smooth patch of skin inside my palm with his thumb, outlining it — "this happened.
"You did it again in the chamber. When you were possessed by him."
"That wasn't me, that was—"
"Your grandmother's spirit somehow, yeah. I remember. But you fought him all year by yourself. And when he found out who I was, you fought harder. Now I know your mum died trying to save my dad and—and all I can see is you. Dream or not. Because if it happened again, you wouldn't hesitate."
I was mesmerized by the play of emotions on his face. The conflict. My heart skipped at the idea of me being the reason behind that; at the same time, my stomach gurgled, sensing something was going downhill in this conversation. But what?
"The Minister said I shouldn't trust you, but I do. I trust you completely. You're my best friend... my closest—but don't tell Ron." His smile fell. "And I don't want to put you in danger. I don't want Black to—" He cut himself off, fists tightening. I ignored the pain.
"Harry, where are you going with this?"
Harry took a deep breath. Closed his eyes.
"I don't think we can be together anymore."
I blinked. Did he just...?
"What does that mean?"
Harry stood. He pocketed the map as he walked to the invisible wall. When he spoke next, he didn't look at me at all.
"Black will use you to get to me," he said flatly. "The way Riddle did. I'm not going to give him that chance."
Then he vanished.
I processed the information slowly, replaying the scene in my head.
"Son of a bitch!" I scrambled to my feet, running after him. But I couldn't find him anywhere in the other corridor. "Harry!"'
There was no flutter in the air that could've told me if he was hiding under the invisibility cape. And if he was there, right next to me, he ignored my frantic calls.
•••••◘◘◘◘•••••
I couldn't believe I was friends with a bunch of idiots. But I was. And I probably was one too.
It was drama after drama throughout the holidays. Hermione and the boys weren't on speaking terms because she told Professor McGonagall about the Firebolt possibly being sent by Sirius Black. This prompted Professor Flitwick to discreetly ask me if I received any anonymous gifts and, even more discreet, if he could scan our dorms. Nothing popped up, but Hermione and I now jumped at every shadow next to our beds.
So, Harry was angry with Hermione because of that, and Ron followed swiftly. Harry wasn't speaking with me, and Ron, because I spent most of time with Hermione, didn't either.
But Harry's behavior was bloody infuriating! He didn't speak to me, but he acknowledged my existence. He helped me pick up my books the one time I was tripped by Peeves; during Potions, he gathered our ingredients and always gave me mine first before Ron; he handed me the bloody jar of strawberry marmalade at the Great Hall when I couldn't find it. And he did it all without a word or a glance.
It pissed me off. So much that I snapped at Professor McGonagall without meaning to and won myself a detention. I was mortified.
"That's it! We're going to Hagrid's!" I told Hermione that very same afternoon, dragging her out from her pile of homework and out of the common room.
Hagrid greeted us smelling strongly of alcohol, but once he saw Hermione's tearstained face (because Ron and Harry had walked by, and the latter almost shoved her) he sobered and let us in. He gave us a teacup each and served Earl Grey, which I discovered had a spicier taste when made with magic.
"Why is Ron so stupid?" Hermione sobbed, cupping her drink.
I inhaled—coughing and eyes tearing up because spicier meant thick particles of tea that burned the tongue.
"He's always been like that," I gasped. Fang, Hagrid's hound, whimpered and lay his head under my feet, propping them up.
Hagrid conjured two handkerchiefs—clean, thank the Lord—and handed them out. Hermione and I snorted into them noisily.
"Now, now—is just boys been foolish." Hagrid's sage smile disappeared behind his cup. "I was like tha' when I was yer age."
"But not as insensitive as Ron, I bet!" Hermione wailed.
"He's an idiot," I agreed. "What business does he have getting angry with you about Harry's broom? Harry, I get, but him?"
The girl threw me a look so dirty I hid behind my teacup—which was the proper size for me, but laughable in Hagrid's hands.
"Neither of them should be angry at me! Black could have sent the broom, and where would that leave Harry? And you—!"
I waved her off. I didn't want a repeat of her rant about our ride. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I shouldn't have flown on that broom."
We fell into a moody silence. Hagrid's bushy brows shifted as he glanced at each of us constantly.
"So... what yeh are gonna do about this?"
"Ignore them," we said together, and drank noisily.
Hagrid shook his head with a belly-deep laugh.
•••••◘◘◘◘•••••
Ignoring the boys was a nightmare. Hermione's overall mood was a nightmare. I considered myself a ticking bomb at times, but she took the cake this year. With midterm fast ending, workload was increasing in every class, getting harder to understand and harder to turn in time. It was ironic then that everyone except Hermione was beginning to complain.
Every single night, I woke up to find a pile of books between our beds, the floor full of parchment pieces and those extravagant quills she'd complained about. More than once I rose on the wrong side of the bed and wrestled for five minutes at the showers rubbing off the ink, but I didn't say anything to her directly.
"Doesn't she know she can buy a fold-it-yourself desk at Hogsmeade?" asked Parvati one day, handing out a loofa that she claimed was the best in her homeland for erasing black spots—a fact that was painful to feel.
"Those are real things?"
Lavender harrumphed from one of the stalls, her head appearing under its door.
"Why don't you just tell her to slumber at the library? All the Ravenclaws do it."
Parvati clucked her teeth. "That's a myth—they've got their personal library in their tower."
"That's easy, then! Find someone who can sneak her in, Anya! And all of us will sleep, at last."
Her dark-haired friend rolled her eyes and lowered her voice. "Whatever you do, do it fast. I don't think your feet's going to take it any longer." She eyed my very red soles.
The stall at the end opened, and Fay Dunbar came out meticulously dressed, her hair damp but not frizzy. After two years in a half, she had mastered the art of waking up early on Mondays looking like she didn't give a damn.
"It's Ron Weasley's fault," she stated. "It is, right? It always is. Because of him we have to deal with Granger's temper, because her crush on him doesn't allow her to retaliate as he deserves."
I scoffed. "That can't be right." Hermione in love with Ron? It was ridiculous—not with the way he treated her.
"But it makes sense, weirdly. It's probably the most toxic infatuation to have ever existed."
Lavender's head popped out again. "If she's crushing on him, I'm going to eat my shoes! I thought it was Harry she fancied."
"No," Fay shook her head, "that's Anya only."
"Excuse me?"
"It's the eyes, right?" said Parvati, much to my growing embarrassment. "Green's your favorite, so it makes sense if that's what you like the most about him."
"I don't—" I took a deep, deep breath. "I don't fancy Harry."
"No, you're head over heels for him," were Fay's parting words.
"By the way, why aren't the two of you speaking?" Parvati asked.
"Because Harry's an idiot too." I threw the loofa at her.
They were right. It was Ron's fault. Somehow, if Hermione was involved, he made sure to worsen every argument. And because I couldn't find anything to deny this, I chose to throw it on the pile of problems in my head to ignore. And the Harry bit too.
Once classes were back in session, I threw myself out fully, dragging Hermione down to Hagrid's hut occasionally. We worked on Buckbeak's case diligently, using Hagrid's words as a baseline to build a steady argument. We went through his defense over and over, rewriting it separately first and then meshing it together. Then Hermione made most of the corrections and handed it to Hagrid, whom I forced to read it every day we visited until his voice stopped wobbling. Amidst that, Hermione and I showed interest in salamanders, and as a thank you, he prepared a lesson plan dedicated to them for an entire week.
In comparison to the other classes, his was the best for that short period and there was no arguing. Not when Trelawney introduced us into palmistry and went into full panic-mode once she saw that the burns on my hands had erased my lifelines or when Lupin put us to run—yes, run—through the Quidditch pitch, all for the preparation of his upcoming assessment.
I tried bribing him with chocolate. It didn't work. He kept the chocolate, anyways; it was like he wanted to rub it on my face whenever he ate a little piece during class.
And life went on. The days ran fast.
There was no answer from Natasha.
And when I thought life couldn't get worse, it did.
Crookshanks ate Scabbers. I was almost sure of that. Almost, because Crookshanks so far hadn't eaten mice since Hermione adopted him. But his hellbent crusade in hunting Ron's rat made him the likeliest culprit.
I was smart and kept my mouth shut once the argument exploded. It was horrendous. The whole common room got to hear it and by next day the whole castle knew about Ron's outburst. If it weren't for her dedication to her classes, I would've lost Hermione somewhere deep in the Forbidden Forest.
Sometimes, I bothered to look under the girls' beds and earned myself a few strange looks and once a shout of "Pervert!" from Lavender, but there was no sign of a dead rat or whatever had been left of Scabbers. I no longer tried to make a grab for Crookshanks and instead let him roam freely.
But now, I didn't let myself think much of the trio. Otto was worsening as the Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw match neared, and I feared for him. This was it.
I was more careful with the way I held him, or when I fed him. Most of the time I kept checking he was still breathing when his eyes were closed. Neville said I was paranoid; I told him I was being logical.
Then the day came and I knew.
I told Hermione and Neville I wouldn't go to the Quidditch match and made them go away with Ginny's help. With Otto wrapped in a blanket, I went to the grounds and sat on my favorite place at Hogwarts—the tree near the lake.
When I was a first year, staring at the lake had been boring; unless I was drawing, I couldn't stay still back then. But now, after Tom, I noticed the beauty of silence and stillness. The Black Lake, although not still, was calm: ripples broke once in a while when the giant squid's tentacles surfaced briefly. My favorite moment was when the sky was clear and the sun shone over the grounds; when dusk began to settle, its light made the lake change colors with hues of purple and orange.
Twice, I'd seen this happen with my friends. The first time, we'd been awed: our voices had lowered until we were silent. Harry had stared for a long time, mouth open in surprise and the colors of the water reflecting on his glasses; Hermione and Ron's argument had died, turning into a soft speech of the physics of dusk; and I looked at all of them, marveled.
("Why are you smiling?" said Ron out of the blue. The other two turned at his voice.
My face relaxed. "I'm not." I had no doubts I was using Natasha's trademark expression of unamusement.
"I didn't know you have dimples," Hermione commented in surprise.
"I don't." When I saw Harry's slight smile, I wrapped my hands around my knees and tucked my face into the crook of my elbows in hopes of hiding my red cheeks. "Shut up.")
How couldn't I be? I had friends who liked me—or at least respected who I was. But I don't think they remember this tree at all. Maybe that's why I decided to bury Otto here, knowing that none of them would ever come to this spot.
Loud cheers filled the air, interrupting my train of thoughts but never ceasing to scratch through the owl's feathery head.
But then, my hand began to stop as I realized—
Thump... thump... thump...
Slow. Too slow. Like a light flickering until I was left in the dark.
And that was it. There was no beat. No rise of his small chest. In seconds, Otto had died. But the tears didn't come.
I had to be in shock. I had to. How couldn't I cry when this creature, one of the few constants in my life, had vanished—had left me alone? Was it a late reaction, perhaps?
Minutes passed; I had yet to cry.
A dark thought occurred to me. What if this was part of Tom's influence? What if I couldn't cry because of him?
Rage like no other flowed through me. Your fault, your fault, your fault, it's all your fault—
I howled; closing my eyes tightly, I tucked my face on Otto's still body, hugging the rest of the blanket to my chest. I really, really tried to stop the quivering of my jaw, but each time felt like I couldn't breathe.
And yet, I couldn't cry. The pain was there, like a bunch of pins pricking my skin deeply, and I couldn't breathe.
Otto was gone. Is gone. And I wasn't going to get him back. My dear companion, my loveable pet—no. He was my friend. The one who had seen me at my worst and stayed by my side despite it. He was the one who had gotten himself annoyingly attached to me and slowly gotten under my skin without me knowing it. And I had lost him just as easily as I had lost Tom, but the battle against death had been slow and painless unlike—
Eventually, I managed to pull myself together. I began to dig with one of Hagrid's garden shovels he had let me borrow. When I thought it was deep enough, I carefully set Otto (cocooned in the blanket) in the hole and started to throw in the dirt with my bare hands.
He's gone, he's gone, he's gone.
I searched inside my bag, pulling out a heavy-looking stone board. Not only had he understood my want to do this but Hagrid had given me this tablet stone, carved by himself. Fat tears had leaked down towards his bushy beard, his black kind eyes showing nothing but sheer sadness.
"He 'as seen a lot," Hagrid had sobbed, snorting into a big handkerchief. "'as been through a lot."
Whatever that meant, our enormous friend didn't add further to the vague comment, which was a feat, considering Hagrid had a very loose tongue.
Grunting, I pushed the stone down in the grass. Down, down it went, until it didn't tilt.
Here lies Otto: may your wings soar in the heavens. Short, simple, and fluffy... and it didn't feel like enough. Would it ever?
"I'm sorry, Otto," I murmured, patting the ground tenderly. "I'm so sorry..."
Sorry, yes. For what? I wasn't so sure anymore. There was no certainty for me these days.
