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Chapter 20

The Boy Who Lived – And Died

John closed the rather large, old library book he'd been reading with a sigh. He looked at its front cover, thoughtfully. Hogwarts, a History, it said in gold letters. It had been a fascinating read.

He looked up to see Lizzie watching him. They were sitting in the Gryffindor Common room, close to the sparkling fire, the first real autumn rain rattling against the window panes.

'Finished it already?' she asked. John nodded. 'You were quick,' she said, looking impressed.

'It's an interesting book,' said John.

'Yeah, I suppose,' said Lizzie, 'not exactly light reading though. I bet neither Ron nor Jamie have read it yet – and Jamie has been here for a whole year, after all.'

John looked over at the two of them. Ron was reading a battered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, and Jamie was polishing the handle of his Nimbus 2020. John knew he was aiming for the position as beater on the house team next year – the beaters they had now were both in their seventh year and he'd probably stand a good chance, judging by the way John had seen him fly.

John still felt a bit rootless in the Wizarding World, and therefore found he had the need to read up on things. He had read all his course books, but that wasn't enough; he was wondering about so much in this strange world. At first he'd constantly pestered his friends with questions, but as the questions grew more detailed, he found that his peers neither could nor wanted to answer them, and had finally realised that he could find a lot of answers in books.

He picked up the next book in the pile on the table, eyeing it thoughtfully. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived – And Died, by Rita Skeeter. On its cover was a photograph of a young man with rather messy black hair, startlingly green eyes and glasses. On the back there was a picture of a heavy-jawed blonde witch with jewelled spectacles. That had to be the author, John mused – Rita Skeeter.

John flipped through the pages, looked at the chapter headings and the pictures. So this was the man who had killed Voldemort. Harry Potter. He looked at the picture on the front cover again. Harry Potter didn't look happy in it; he looked serious, John thought, almost brooding. There was something vaguely familiar about him; John couldn't tell what it was. He'd seen Harry Potter on the Chocolate Frog cards, of course, and there were photographs of him in some of the school books as well, so John would have recognised him on a photo any time, but there was something else ... this was the same familiarity one might have with a childhood friend whom one hadn't seen for years, and who had changed so much since then that there was only a vague sense of recognition left. He could never have met Harry Potter though, John thought, since 'The Boy Who Lived' had died quite a while before John was born.

He shrugged slightly and began to read. He skimmed through the first chapters, entitled 'The Rise of Lord Voldemort' and 'The Prophecy', rather quickly, but read the next one – 'The Potter Family' – more closely. There was a picture of James Potter as a boy there, and John spent some time looking at it, seeing the same familiarity in it as in the photos of Harry; not so strange, perhaps, since the two of them looked very much alike. On the next page there was a picture of a young woman with thick, dark red hair and green, almond-shaped eyes. This had to be Harry Potter's mother. She didn't look much like him, but ... John suddenly shivered. There was something eerie about these pictures of people who had all died prematurely. He turned to another page, closer to the middle of the book. Here there was a photograph of two school boys who seemed to be his own age; one of them strikingly like Ron, the other one a younger version of the man on the front cover. John was feeling even more uncomfortable now, seeing this boy who clearly had to be Ron's dead uncle – by the same first name – and was about to close the book and take a break from reading when he realised that Ron himself was standing behind him, also looking at the photo.

'That's my uncle,' he said quietly to John as he turned around.

'That's what I thought,' said John.

'People keep telling me we look alike,' Ron said thoughtfully. 'It always used to annoy me, but when I look at pictures of him I can see what they mean.'

Now Jamie was coming over to take a look at the picture as well. As he leaned over the two of them to get a look, he opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. He stared at the photo, where Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were smiling and – did John imagine this? – looking rather smug. Jamie then looked at John, and then over to Ron and back at the photo again. He looked stunned, more so than John had ever seen him, for Jamie was not one to get surprised easily.

'What's so remarkable about The Boy Who Lived?' said Lizzie amusedly as she looked over at the three of them. 'You look as if you'd seen a ghost, all three of you,' she went on, smiling, then came over to have a look herself. The boys were still at a loss for words. 'Oh, uncle Ron,' she said as she got there, 'yes, you really look very much like him, Ron, but you knew that, didn't you ...' she fell silent, looking, for the first time, at Harry Potter. She then looked at Ron and John, who were standing next to each other, looking at her just as intensely as she was looking at them. She looked back at the book, then at the two boys again.

'Th-this is strange,' she stammered. 'You two ... when you're next to each other, you really look like Uncle Ron and ... and ... Harry Potter.'

They all looked at John, who felt his face go warm. That was it, he thought; that was what was so familiar with Harry Potter. He looked like him. But how was it possible? Was he related to Harry Potter, perhaps? But why, in that case, wouldn't his father have told him about it? On the other hand, John thought, there was still so much he didn't know about his father, so maybe it wasn't so strange that he hadn't told him about this. And then again, it might not even be the case; perhaps the four of them were just imagining things ...

They all started as the portrait hole opened and Professor Tonks came in with some official-looking sheets of parchment. She was heading for the notice board when Lizzie called out, 'Oh, Professor Tonks!'

Professor Tonks turned around and smiled at them. 'Yes, Miss Weasley?' she said.

'Er ... Professor Tonks, could you ... I mean, we were wondering about something ...' Lizzie, for once, seemed to be at a loss for words. Tonks came over to them, now looking slightly puzzled.

'Trouble with your homework?' she said, glancing at the book in John's hands. Then she stiffened, almost imperceptably. She cleared her throat, then said, 'Oh, I see you've got Rita Skeeter's book about Harry Potter ...'

'Professor Tonks,' said Lizzie hesitantly, 'Don't you ... don't you think Ron and John ... that they look kind of like ...' she lowered her voice to almost a whisper, 'like Ron Weasley and – Harry Potter?'

Tonks didn't reply straight away, but was looking intensely at the picture in the book, bending forward slightly as if to get a better look. John looked at her, realising that she had to have known Harry Potter; she had, after all, been a member of that resistance movement he'd read about, The Order of the Phoenix. John looked at her. She looked flustered – or did he imagine it? Well, it was no wonder if she became upset at seeing her dead friends, John thought. At that moment, Tonks straightened up, took a step backwards and knocked down Jamie's bottle of Branston & Browne's Brushless Broomstick Brightener from the small round table next to his chair.

'Oh dear, I'm so sorry!' she exclaimed, then muttered 'Evanesco!' pointing her wand at the mess she'd made. 'I'll get you a new bottle of course,' she said as she bent down to check that everything was clean, 'I'll order one tomorrow from Quality Quidditch Supplies ...' She looked back at them. There was nothing in her expression that suggested that she might be upset anymore. On the contrary, she seemed quite calm, cheerful even, and, looking at the picture again, said, 'Oh yes, of course! Creevey, you must have heard a thousand times that you're the spitting image of your uncle ... And you, Evans, standing next to Creevey with your black hair, that would be a bit like Ron Weasley and Harry Potter ...' she gave a laugh – did it sound just a little over-cheerful, or was John's imagination playing him a trick again? – and went over to the notice board to finish what she had come there to do.

Ron, Lizzie and Jamie also laughed nervously and all looked away from the picture in the book as if in quiet agreement. It was only John who was still following Tonks with his gaze, and noticed the slight shake of her hand as she raised the sheets of parchment to put them onto the notice board.

The other three went back to what they had been doing, Jamie picking up his broomstick to take it back to the second-year boys' dormitory. John sat back and picked up the book which Lizzie had slammed closed when Tonks had left. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he opened it again, but he didn't look at the same picture. Instead, he looked at the photo of Harry Potter's mother once more. There was something about her, too ... something puzzling ... John looked at the text beneath the picture. There were only four words there: 'Lily Potter, née Evans'.

John froze. He looked at the names again, unable to believe what he had seen. this was Harry Potter's mother, and her name ... her name had been ... Lily Evans. John looked at the photograph again. Lily Evans, just like his sister. But how could this be? He scrutinised her face, closely. Those eyes ... those eyes were the same as his sister's. They looked exactly the same – how come he hadn't noticed before? Harry Potter's mother had had the same eyes as his sister, and also the same name ... John didn't know what to think anymore. He had always thought Lily had her father's eyes – their father's eyes, of course. There had to be an explanation for this, there had to be something. James Potter's family were all dead, he'd read that in some book or other; he had no living relatives, but maybe they were somehow connected to Lily's family?

Staring ahead of him, stonily, John quietly closed the book. He remained sitting for a while, unable to move. The others had resumed their previous activities, and didn't seem to notice him as he got up a few moments later and left the Common room.

John's thoughts were swirling as he half walked, half ran to the Defence Against the Dark Arts Quarters. His feet seemed to steer him in this direction automatically, yet as he came closer, he became increasingly aware of the fact that he had no idea what he was going to say to his father. Where to begin? What to ask? He swayed, all the way there, between thinking this was a figment of his imagination and thinking that it was all true, making an intense feeling of anger and distrust towards his father seep through his veins.

He was slightly out of breath when he got there, but knocked on the door straight away. He simply couldn't wait another minute. There was a moment's silence, then a few quick steps, and the door opened.

John had already opened his mouth to speak, although he hadn't decided what he was going to say, but at the sight of Harry he closed it again. Harry looked dreadful, there was no other word for it. His face was an ashen grey colour and his eyes were blood-shot; he clearly hadn't shaved or washed his hair that day, and his voice, as he said 'John!' was hoarse.

'Er ... Hi, Dad,' said John hesitantly. 'Can I come in?' He went past Harry into the normally rather cosy, welcoming room. It wasn't like that now, however; it was cold and dark and John thought he had felt a whiff of stale drink as he walked past his father. What on earth had he been doing? Had he been out drinking last night? It had, after all, been Saturday ... But his dad never used to drink, and anyway, he wouldn't have left Lily on her own – would he? But then, Lily didn't seem to be here ...

'Dad, where's Lily?'

'She went to the Macmillans, she spent the night there,' Harry replied. Did he sound flustered? John eyed him suspiciously. 'You know, in Hogsmeade; that's where she's being tutored. She's become friends with Susie, they seem to like each other rather a lot,' he went on, looking at John, his eyes weary as if he hadn't slept for ages. He gave a forced smile, then said, 'So, John ... what brings you here?'

John didn't reply, but went over to one of the armchairs beside the empty fireplace and sat down. He shivered. He looked at Harry again, more closely now, scrutinising his facial features, looking for signs of likenesses with the Potter family. There were none. – But yes, there were – the eyes, his blood-shot, weary eyes, were like... like Lily's. Like Harry Potter's mother's eyes ...

'It's funny, Dad, I saw a picture of Harry Potter's mother,' John blurted out, not able to stop himself. 'And ... her name was Lily Evans. Isn't that strange?' He looked at his father again. He was bound to explain everything now. Maybe ... maybe there was a perfectly natural explanation. John saw his dad look at him quickly, calculatingly. It was a strange look.

'Oh, yes ...' said Harry. 'Yes, they're namesakes ...'

When he didn't elaborate, John went on talking. 'So what's up with that?' he asked, a slight note of impatience in his voice. 'It can't be a coincidence, don't tell me that ...'

'Well, yes, that's precisely what it is, said Harry with an unnatural-sounding laugh. 'Your mother, who didn't know anything about the Wizarding World of course, really wanted her daughter to be called Lily, and since we happened to have the same surname ... It's strange how those things happen. But it isn't an uncommon name, after all. Neither of them are.' He was smiling now, looking at John reassuringly. 'Cup of tea, John?' he asked. John merely shook his head, staring at him again, unbelievingly. He was lying, he had to be. Or ... or was it like he said? After all, the names weren't uncommon ... and their eyes, were they really so much alike? Perhaps they weren't after all. No, perhaps they weren't.

Ignoring the fact that John didn't want tea, Harry waved his wand, producing two steaming mugs, and John was about to take one of them in spite of himself and drink when he happened to glance over at his father's desk. There was a pair of glasses lying there – his spare glasses perhaps, in case he mislaid his ordinary ones – only these weren't like the rectangular ones Harry usually had. John was sure he had never seen his father wear these glasses. They were round and steel-rimmed, and seemed horribly familiar. He rose abruptly, letting go of his mug so quickly that some scalding tea came on his hand and made him wince. He had to leave; he couldn't stand this. He didn't know what to say, and he felt he couldn't face his father anymore.

As he reached the door, however, he turned around, and looked at Harry who was staring at him alarmedly. 'I can't believe you didn't tell us, Dad,' John said tonelessly, the door already open. 'I can't believe you lied to us all this time. All our lives.'

'I – I don't know what you mean,' Harry said lamely. John could tell, however, that he knew perfectly well what John meant. But Harry went on, 'I've explained to you why I didn't tell you about the Magical World, John ... Surely you understand ...' he looked at him pleadingly, as if to beg him not to take this any further. Pathetic, was all John could think.

'You're Harry Potter, aren't you!' His voice was no more than a hiss, and he could see his father flinch at hearing these words. He hesitated for a moment, but then, without waiting for a reply or a reaction, he strode out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.