II. The Thief
Harry patted his trouser pocket, double checking that he hadn't forgotten his wallet. He had never really gotten into the hang of muggle shopping. He'd never had occasion to do it before he went to Hogwarts, and during the years he was a student and before he met Madeline, he'd dealt exclusively with the wizarding world. But, the muggle world did have its charms, Harry thought. Supermarkets were nice. They were remarkably impersonal. No one paid any attention to the other shoppers at all, particularly not the dark-haired man with the curious scar. Wallets were nice, too, he thought. Not only could you put your money in them, they held pictures of the wife and kids in case you ran into anyone you could show them to. He got into the car, and tossed a small rubber hippogriff into the backseat. Madeline had driven last. She always moved the seat up too close to the wheel.
Harry had met Madeline when he was nineteen. She was all-muggle. That had been her charm. She was a pretty, intelligent young woman. A recent university graduate. He'd seen her in the supermarket the first time. He'd been struck by her charm right away. He loved the way the fluorescent lights brought out the highlights in her shiny brown hair. He'd noticed how green the cardboard cover on the frozen dinner she'd been reading made her eyes look. And he'd followed her home. He'd sat at the café on the corner near her building for hours every day, until one day she'd sat down nearby. The rest was history.
It had been perfect, Harry mused. He wondered why he'd spent a year feeling so lonely before the idea had struck him to look for a muggle girl. After all, the muggles didn't know anything about Voldemort. They didn't know anything about how Harry had been such a huge celebrity. They didn't know how, in that last fateful year, the entire world had built Harry up to be some kind of super savior, and at the very last moment—
A cat darted in front of the car, and Harry slammed on his brakes. The rubber hippogriff hit him in the back of the head. That belonged to Harry's younger son. Their eldest was eight now. Harry and Madeline had named him James Sirius Potter, although Madeline had taken some convincing over the Sirius part. Harry had managed to persuade her it was a good, solid wizarding name. James was definitely magical. Last year, Madeline had yelled at him for drawing on his bedroom wallpaper with purple marker, only to turn around and find that all the ink had fallen off the walls in great curls like potato peels. Their younger son was only four. They had named him Norton Paul after an uncle of Madeline's who had choked to death while trying to perform a magic trick involving a pair of figs and a plastic building block for Maddy's amusement. So far he hadn't shown any signs of being magical, but he was young yet. There was plenty of time. They were expecting a third child in just over a month. Their muggle doctor assured them it would be a girl. They had agreed to call her Elizabeth Lily.
At the last moment, Harry decided to go visit Madeline at work. She was a loan officer at the village bank. Harry was very proud of her. Although his inheritance probably would have supported them comfortably, Madeline enjoyed her job. She jokingly called Harry her "house husband." He didn't mind. It was easy to keep the house clean by magic, and he had plenty of time to play with his sons and pursue his own interests. He lived a fairly solitary life, although he still kept in touch with Hermione via owl. Hedwig had, of course, passed on a few years back, but he could always send return messages with Hermione's owl, Melpomene.
He also read the Daily Prophet cover-to-cover. He mostly liked to keep up with the quidditch scores. The one thing he missed most from the wizarding world was quidditch. Still, it was better to be out of it. After everything had settled down after the war, Harry had suddenly felt like such an outsider. After spending his whole life as The Boy Who Lived, after having the weight of being the one who must finally destroy Voldemort placed on his shoulders, at the very end—
He shook his head. Well, he couldn't be expected to hang around after that. He'd been a laughingstock. Good riddance to it all, he thought. He was happy with his little life. With his wife and his children. Of course, someday soon, James was going to get his Hogwarts letter, and Harry would have to explain.
"James," he'd say, "I need to tell you something important. When you get to Hogwarts, you might find that a few people know your father well, and you might get teased a bit."
"Why, Dad?" James would say.
"Well, you see son, when I was a boy at Hogwarts, there was a very evil wizard on the loose. His name was Voldemort. He's the one who murdered your Grandfather James and Grandmother Lily."
"Did you fight him, Dad?" James would say, wonder in his eyes.
"Yes, son. Six times. Everyone thought I would be the one to defeat him. They called me The Boy who Lived. They built me up as some kind of chosen one."
"Did you beat him, Dad?"
"Er," Harry would say. "Actually, no. In the end, it turned out we'd all been wrong. I faced down Voldemort and nearly got killed. Thank goodness the real chosen one was there. A friend of mine, in fact. A boy called Neville Longbottom. Yes, if old Neville hadn't been there, I'm afraid your old Dad would have been a goner for sure."
And then James would look at him in disgust, and probably go up to his room and read a book or something.
Harry sighed. Still, there were years until he had to have that conversation. And Neville was doing well. The youngest Minister of Magic in history had had his picture in the Prophet that very morning, smiling happily as he cut the ribbon on the new Longbottom Center for Serious Spell Damage at St. Mungo's. He was proud of Neville, of course. He wished him nothing but the best. Neville had tried to present Harry with the Order of Merlin last year, but Harry had refused.
Harry pulled up outside Madeline's bank. He just wanted to ask her if she wanted anything special before he did the shopping. He thought he might make her some lamb chops for dinner, but only if her stomach had settled down. He walked past the particularly beaten up old Ford Anglia parked in front of the bank, its motor still running. It certainly conjured up memories. Poor old Ron. If only he hadn't tried to save Harry, he might have lived. Harry visited his grave once a year. It always had fresh flowers, and generally, a sampling of high-quality magical joke items as well. Harry knew the Weasleys didn't blame him for Ron's death, but he couldn't help thinking that if only he hadn't tried so hard to be the Boy Who Lived, his best friend might have survived.
Harry walked into the bank. It was awfully quiet for this time of day. Usually, there was a buzz of activity around lunch time, what with all the business people stopping in on their lunch breaks. Harry thought initially that it was empty, but he realized that it was, in fact, full of people. For some strange reason, they were all lying face-down on the ground.
Harry heard a loud bang, and then he must have blacked out. The next thing he knew, Madeline was leaning over him. She was crying. Harry couldn't understand why.
"Maddy," he said. It was hard to speak for some reason.
"No, Harry. Don't say anything," she said. "You're going to be all right. The ambulance is nearly here."
Harry reached out a hand and patted Madeline's round belly. He was having trouble concentrating. His mind felt like it was full of gelatin. He noted, in a disinterested way, that he couldn't feel his legs.
He realized that a crowd was standing over them, grave faced and serious. Harry's eyes rolled over the crowd of strangers in their pressed business suits. Strangers. All strangers.
He looked back to Madeline, and suddenly realized there were four figures standing behind her. There was a woman with long auburn hair. There were two dark-haired men, one of whom looked a lot like Harry. Beside the men stood a red-haired boy in his late teens. A grin flashed across his freckled face.
"Stay with me Harry," Madeline said urgently. She leaned close and whispered in his ear. "You stay with me, Harry. I can't raise three little wizards without you."
But Harry's godfather was waving at him. Harry smiled. Harry's father beckoned to him.
Harry smiled at his beautiful wife. "I love you Maddy," he said.
"Stay with me, Harry," she pleaded.
"And I love the kids," he said.
And then he joined his family.
Harry patted his trouser pocket, double checking that he hadn't forgotten his wallet. He had never really gotten into the hang of muggle shopping. He'd never had occasion to do it before he went to Hogwarts, and during the years he was a student and before he met Madeline, he'd dealt exclusively with the wizarding world. But, the muggle world did have its charms, Harry thought. Supermarkets were nice. They were remarkably impersonal. No one paid any attention to the other shoppers at all, particularly not the dark-haired man with the curious scar. Wallets were nice, too, he thought. Not only could you put your money in them, they held pictures of the wife and kids in case you ran into anyone you could show them to. He got into the car, and tossed a small rubber hippogriff into the backseat. Madeline had driven last. She always moved the seat up too close to the wheel.
Harry had met Madeline when he was nineteen. She was all-muggle. That had been her charm. She was a pretty, intelligent young woman. A recent university graduate. He'd seen her in the supermarket the first time. He'd been struck by her charm right away. He loved the way the fluorescent lights brought out the highlights in her shiny brown hair. He'd noticed how green the cardboard cover on the frozen dinner she'd been reading made her eyes look. And he'd followed her home. He'd sat at the café on the corner near her building for hours every day, until one day she'd sat down nearby. The rest was history.
It had been perfect, Harry mused. He wondered why he'd spent a year feeling so lonely before the idea had struck him to look for a muggle girl. After all, the muggles didn't know anything about Voldemort. They didn't know anything about how Harry had been such a huge celebrity. They didn't know how, in that last fateful year, the entire world had built Harry up to be some kind of super savior, and at the very last moment—
A cat darted in front of the car, and Harry slammed on his brakes. The rubber hippogriff hit him in the back of the head. That belonged to Harry's younger son. Their eldest was eight now. Harry and Madeline had named him James Sirius Potter, although Madeline had taken some convincing over the Sirius part. Harry had managed to persuade her it was a good, solid wizarding name. James was definitely magical. Last year, Madeline had yelled at him for drawing on his bedroom wallpaper with purple marker, only to turn around and find that all the ink had fallen off the walls in great curls like potato peels. Their younger son was only four. They had named him Norton Paul after an uncle of Madeline's who had choked to death while trying to perform a magic trick involving a pair of figs and a plastic building block for Maddy's amusement. So far he hadn't shown any signs of being magical, but he was young yet. There was plenty of time. They were expecting a third child in just over a month. Their muggle doctor assured them it would be a girl. They had agreed to call her Elizabeth Lily.
At the last moment, Harry decided to go visit Madeline at work. She was a loan officer at the village bank. Harry was very proud of her. Although his inheritance probably would have supported them comfortably, Madeline enjoyed her job. She jokingly called Harry her "house husband." He didn't mind. It was easy to keep the house clean by magic, and he had plenty of time to play with his sons and pursue his own interests. He lived a fairly solitary life, although he still kept in touch with Hermione via owl. Hedwig had, of course, passed on a few years back, but he could always send return messages with Hermione's owl, Melpomene.
He also read the Daily Prophet cover-to-cover. He mostly liked to keep up with the quidditch scores. The one thing he missed most from the wizarding world was quidditch. Still, it was better to be out of it. After everything had settled down after the war, Harry had suddenly felt like such an outsider. After spending his whole life as The Boy Who Lived, after having the weight of being the one who must finally destroy Voldemort placed on his shoulders, at the very end—
He shook his head. Well, he couldn't be expected to hang around after that. He'd been a laughingstock. Good riddance to it all, he thought. He was happy with his little life. With his wife and his children. Of course, someday soon, James was going to get his Hogwarts letter, and Harry would have to explain.
"James," he'd say, "I need to tell you something important. When you get to Hogwarts, you might find that a few people know your father well, and you might get teased a bit."
"Why, Dad?" James would say.
"Well, you see son, when I was a boy at Hogwarts, there was a very evil wizard on the loose. His name was Voldemort. He's the one who murdered your Grandfather James and Grandmother Lily."
"Did you fight him, Dad?" James would say, wonder in his eyes.
"Yes, son. Six times. Everyone thought I would be the one to defeat him. They called me The Boy who Lived. They built me up as some kind of chosen one."
"Did you beat him, Dad?"
"Er," Harry would say. "Actually, no. In the end, it turned out we'd all been wrong. I faced down Voldemort and nearly got killed. Thank goodness the real chosen one was there. A friend of mine, in fact. A boy called Neville Longbottom. Yes, if old Neville hadn't been there, I'm afraid your old Dad would have been a goner for sure."
And then James would look at him in disgust, and probably go up to his room and read a book or something.
Harry sighed. Still, there were years until he had to have that conversation. And Neville was doing well. The youngest Minister of Magic in history had had his picture in the Prophet that very morning, smiling happily as he cut the ribbon on the new Longbottom Center for Serious Spell Damage at St. Mungo's. He was proud of Neville, of course. He wished him nothing but the best. Neville had tried to present Harry with the Order of Merlin last year, but Harry had refused.
Harry pulled up outside Madeline's bank. He just wanted to ask her if she wanted anything special before he did the shopping. He thought he might make her some lamb chops for dinner, but only if her stomach had settled down. He walked past the particularly beaten up old Ford Anglia parked in front of the bank, its motor still running. It certainly conjured up memories. Poor old Ron. If only he hadn't tried to save Harry, he might have lived. Harry visited his grave once a year. It always had fresh flowers, and generally, a sampling of high-quality magical joke items as well. Harry knew the Weasleys didn't blame him for Ron's death, but he couldn't help thinking that if only he hadn't tried so hard to be the Boy Who Lived, his best friend might have survived.
Harry walked into the bank. It was awfully quiet for this time of day. Usually, there was a buzz of activity around lunch time, what with all the business people stopping in on their lunch breaks. Harry thought initially that it was empty, but he realized that it was, in fact, full of people. For some strange reason, they were all lying face-down on the ground.
Harry heard a loud bang, and then he must have blacked out. The next thing he knew, Madeline was leaning over him. She was crying. Harry couldn't understand why.
"Maddy," he said. It was hard to speak for some reason.
"No, Harry. Don't say anything," she said. "You're going to be all right. The ambulance is nearly here."
Harry reached out a hand and patted Madeline's round belly. He was having trouble concentrating. His mind felt like it was full of gelatin. He noted, in a disinterested way, that he couldn't feel his legs.
He realized that a crowd was standing over them, grave faced and serious. Harry's eyes rolled over the crowd of strangers in their pressed business suits. Strangers. All strangers.
He looked back to Madeline, and suddenly realized there were four figures standing behind her. There was a woman with long auburn hair. There were two dark-haired men, one of whom looked a lot like Harry. Beside the men stood a red-haired boy in his late teens. A grin flashed across his freckled face.
"Stay with me Harry," Madeline said urgently. She leaned close and whispered in his ear. "You stay with me, Harry. I can't raise three little wizards without you."
But Harry's godfather was waving at him. Harry smiled. Harry's father beckoned to him.
Harry smiled at his beautiful wife. "I love you Maddy," he said.
"Stay with me, Harry," she pleaded.
"And I love the kids," he said.
And then he joined his family.