A/n: So, last chapter. Granted, it should've come much sooner, but at least it's here. And HBP still hasn't come out (although it is basically here—no complaints!) so I'm doing all right. This chapter is what I like to call either a long epilogue or a short chapter. In all honesty, I have no means by which to make this chapter long and it is definitely lacking in some points that I'd thought I'd make. But it makes the main point I wanted to bring with it, and I think it does it strongly enough so that the length can be overlooked.
I've had a good time writing this fic, although I see definite room for improvement. I don't mind the way I've written it so much, but the plot has been a bit dodgy here and there. Well, I've got time, I'd say, to practice. And my next fic should be a blast: a Lily/James fic already in the works. Sort of. Anyway, thanks to everyone who put up with my wonky updating and who took the time to read anything I wrote. It's highly motivating, even if it doesn't seem that way, with my lack of updating. Till next time, enjoy.
Disclaimer: Sure, it belongs to JK, but if she were to be compared to a baker, we would be her minion bakers and even though she does make pretty scrumpdiddlyumptious bread, we're learning to do so ourselves, while still enjoying her way with bread.
NSH Chapter 13: Heterogeneous HopeA great fire had erupted in Professor Dumbledore's office.
It was quite uncommon for such a thing to occur within the old wizard's office. Dumbledore was a man who lived by the light of his wand, or possibly the moon, if he was in the right mood. As far as warmth went, well…it wasn't a primary concern of the headmaster's.
But on this particular New Year's Eve, scalding flames appeared in the middle of the room, directly in front of Dumbledore's desk and just to the left of Fawkes's stand. They were blinding. Although they were quite obviously Fawkes's flames (and all the past headmasters and headmistresses could recognize them by now), they were reaching such elevations that the figures in the multitude of portraits could not help but shriek and shirk away, yanking their hats over their eyes. Yet the conflagration burned ever brighter, emanating a heat unlike any other from a fire within the castle, until it dissipated just as quickly as it had begun.
The congregation that had suddenly appeared inside the office was an interesting one, even comical, one might say, if only the circumstances were different. But, as is the way of things, the circumstances were what they were, and the not a single person in the group could begin to understand them.
Tonks, her face pale as milk, was gripping Kingsley's right arm very firmly. Kingsley was staring fixedly at his left hand, in which he held his wand. Lupin was standing behind Kingsley with Harry, his hand on the boy's shoulder. Harry's face was quite blank, and there were visible drops of sweat lining his temples.
Neville stood in front of the group, holding his phoenix feather aloft like some sort of beacon. His hand, shaking madly, brought only more attention to the solitary feather, thrust into the air while its companions remained clutched in the hands of Neville's group. Neville, breathing unevenly, turned his head to look at the people behind him. One look was all it took for him to see that nobody else was holding their feather like he was. He promptly brought his arm down by his side and cleared his throat.
"I think we're supposed to—"
His mumbles were cut short, however, by another burst of flame, which exploded from a spot on the ground to the right of where they were standing. Neville and Tonks shrieked, and they all took several steps back, shielding their faces from the heat. A bird squawked, and the fire was extinguished. In its place stood five people.
Mr. and Mrs. Granger were holding each other's hands, their wide eyes darting about, drinking in their surroundings. Dumbledore stood beside them. His hands were behind his back, and he was bouncing on the balls of his feet in severe contrast to the solemn look on his face.
Ron and Hermione were huddled close together just behind the headmaster, their arms around each other. Neville felt a chill roll down his spine when it occurred to him that Hermione might be crying. After such a night, it could only be expected, but he hoped not. He never knew what to say to people who were crying, and even if he didn't have to say anything to them, he always had trouble finding a suitable expression to wear on his face. He couldn't even get a hint from Ron's, as his face, too, was hidden, buried into Hermione's hair.
Neville's eyes strayed to Ron's arms, clasped tightly around Hermione's back, jerking here and there with the indication of touch. The pinkie of his left hand was moving just the slightest bit, a light pat on her back, not forceful enough to be pitiful but noticeable enough to know he did it intentionally. Neville found himself watching their embrace in the deafening silence and wondering why he had never been hugged that way by anyone. He wondered why he'd never wondered this before.
"This," Dumbledore's voice said, a boom that ripped through the silence so suddenly, it was all Neville could do not to yelp. "This is what we strive for, and what many can only imitate."
The silence seemed even more profound after he'd spoken, buzzing furiously at the absence of words now that it knew they could be uttered. Nobody seemed to be moving, or even reacting to the words. Neville felt a drop of sweat drip down the center of his palm. He blinked and thought of asking if Dumbledore was referring to the hug, when Harry spoke.
"What? That mode of travel?"
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "No, Mr. Potter. Not at all."
Harry blinked at him, and he looked almost angry. His brow was furrowing ever so distinctly. Everyone could see it, and they were holding their breaths.
Dumbledore began to move towards Ron and Hermione, who were still embracing, unfazed by Dumbledore's words. His shoes clicked against the smooth floor, and it echoed in the office, suddenly much larger than it had been when Neville had arrived in it earlier to report his dream of a Death Eater attack. There seemed to be no ceiling to this office, just paintings and walls that disappeared into darkness. There, too, the echoes of Dumbledore's shoes went.
The old wizard stopped in front of the couple. Ron finally raised his head, slowly, like it required endless amounts of energy. Neville was actually startled by his expression; it was one of calm, not a wrinkle in the brow or a hint of consternation. Hermione turned her head to look at the headmaster without lifting it from its place on Ron's chest. Her cheeks were free of tears, which gave Neville a pang of relief, and she, too, looked almost eerily nonchalant.
"This?"
Ron's voice sounded like a croak, most unbefitting to one with an expression like his. Neville had just enough time to gather that Ron was referring, indeed, to the embrace before Dumbledore said, "Yes, Mr. Weasley. It's just that."
Those words, it seemed, released the binds they'd all been unaware of having. Steady breaths could now be heard from around the semicircle of people, Dumbledore, Ron, and Hermione in the middle. Weight was shifted from one foot to another, and Mrs. Granger sniffled. Neville looked at Harry. He was standing completely still, his back so straight it was almost arched, and he was looking intently at Ron and Hermione. There may have been tears in his eyes, but Neville was pretty sure it was the glint of one of Dumbledore's trinkets shining off his glasses.
Ron and Hermione had parted; they were now standing next to each other, albeit quite close, and Neville had an inkling they were holding hands. They still looked blank and calm. He wanted to ask them why, but he didn't want to interrupt anything Dumbledore might venture to say.
Dumbledore put a hand on Ron's shoulders. "I'm afraid, Mr. Weasley, that our companions have quite lost us. I'm not entirely sure they understand." Then he made a sweeping motion to the wide-eyed group.
Ron's expression finally changed. His mouth opened and he looked questioningly at Dumbledore. "Oh. Er…?"
Dumbledore smiled, but Neville noticed that it only made him look tired; the bags under his eyes suddenly seemed particularly dark, and it occurred to Neville that maybe Dumbledore shouldn't smile so much. Not now, at least.
"What I meant to say is that I think it would be appropriate if you could explain to them."
There was silence again. Someone—possibly Tonks—cleared their throat. Neville turned the phoenix feather over in his fingers, waiting to see how Ron would respond. So far, for what seemed like hours, he had only blinked and stared at the ground.
Finally, Ron brought his left hand, which was holding Hermione's right, forward from behind his back. Then he held it up between the two of them, the fingers interlaced and linked firmly.
Dumbledore nodded and brought his hands together. He laced his fingers, almost in an imitation of Ron and Hermione's. Then he said, "This is what we need, and why we fight. There have always been barriers between people, whether intensified by situations or general environment, or fueled by purely feelings. Human beings—and I know this to be a Muggle characteristic as well, not just appearing in wizards—have the tendency to create walls to separate each other, sometimes willingly and sometimes unintentionally. And sadly, cases where the walls cannot be torn down are much too common."
Neville felt his heart skip a beat. Barriers he had no control over, no matter how hard he wished or tried…he knew all about those. He noticed Tonks ran a hand through her hair, a weary and distant look on her face, and he wondered what could be going through her mind, and how peculiar it was that he'd never known any barriers but his own.
Dumbledore was gazing at him almost sadly, and Harry, he observed, was too. For once in recent times, he did not feel the need to vindicate himself.
"In fact," Dumbledore continued, after what had seemed like hours, "it is one of these barriers—a particularly massive one—that has brought us here, and has caused terrible misconceptions about our world. Voldemort—" Neville noticed that no one flinched "—has built his regime around it, for he has created it himself, and his refusal to bring it down is the very essence of this war."
"What do you mean?" Harry interjected. "He's out to kill me, and he doesn't care what damage he causes along the way. That's his motive."
"That is his ultimate goal, Harry, not his motive. I do not claim to know the true motive of his actions, but I do believe I can detect his drive—what compels him to achieve his goal."
"Hatred?" asked a quivering voice from the back of the room, and Neville turned to see that Hermione's mother had spoken. Her hands were tightly clasped in her husband's, and she looked about ready to collapse.
"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Granger," Dumbledore said, kindly but firmly.
"You lament that his drive isn't hatred?" Harry asked incredulously.
"You must understand that he has no room for hatred. He has made no room for love, and thus has lost room for true hatred. I believe he does not hate you, Harry. This, of course, does not mean he feels in any way amiable to you. It only means he views you in the same shade of gray in which he sees everyone, but with much more fervor. You are his final enemy—he knows this, and so he faces you with all the potency he has, with intention to sublimate himself for his drive."
"Fine," Harry said tonelessly. "So if hatred isn't his drive, what is?"
Dumbledore breathed deeply through his nose. Neville shivered; he got the feeling Dumbledore seemed angry at Harry, something Neville had never thought possible.
"What I believe it is," Dumbledore said slowly, "is the separation in his mind between Muggleborns—or Muggles—and purebloods." And with that said, he swept his hand towards Ron's and Hermione's intertwined ones.
"His barrier," Ron croaked.
"His barrier," Dumbledore said, nodding.
"What—I mean to say, why—does he feel that way?" asked Mr. Granger timidly.
Dumbledore sighed and nodded to himself. "It's difficult to pinpoint exactly where this intolerance for anything but pure blood came from, because even before he truly became Voldemort, Tom Riddle was a reserved boy, sequestered and seemingly shy. But from what I know of him, I believe it comes from resentment towards his Muggle father."
"He killed him," Harry said suddenly. "His own father and grandparents."
"That he did," said Dumbledore softly. "Tom murdered his family because they were Muggles. I think he has believed, all this time, that his blood has been stained by the presence of Muggles. I sense he saw them as the reason he wasn't pureblood. Because of them, he felt ashamed to be a half-blood heir of the great Salazar Slytherin, a man who, though undoubtedly great, had no tolerance for mixed blood."
"V-Voldemort's descended from Slytherin?" Neville asked, eyes wide.
"Oh yes, and it is something he takes great pride in. But the fact that he is a half-blood, by no means a pureblood himself, depreciates that pride, and he blames his father for this, for tainting blood that came from Slytherin himself."
"And now he wants to purge our world to leave only the purebloods," Ron said darkly.
"And while he's at it, he wants to kill me," muttered Harry. There was a short moment of ringing silence at his words, and Neville saw Hermione turn away, staring sharply at the ground.
Lupin, his upper lip very obviously sporting drops of sweat, replied, "But we won't let that happen."
"There is much to fear in this world," Dumbledore said, almost as if he hadn't heard what Harry and Lupin had said. "But in my opinion, we should not let that fear deter us in any shape or form. We are all aware of the danger we're in, and the danger all persons of mixed blood are in. But we must not let fear of the outcome of Voldemort's resolve keep us from believing in what we have been believing: we must always hold strong the bonds between each other. We cannot allow ourselves to become intolerant of others because of something as trivial as the blood that runs in their veins, something no man has never and will never be able to control."
From across the room, Neville saw Tonks hold a hand to her eyes as Kingsley placed his hand firmly on her shoulder. Ron and Hermione were looking down at their hands with a sort of wonder.
"Blood is not a measure of our worth. It is merely a product of our past, and our past does not define who we are," Dumbledore continued resolutely. "What we do with the present and our values in the present does, and we must learn that, like we coexist in the world—Wizarding or Muggle—, so we must learn to work together and achieve some semblance of acceptance."
"So it counts when we show we do accept each other," Ron said tentatively.
"Yes, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore said, nodding and smiling with a twinkle in his eye. "You've done so without needing to be asked, and that, above all, is what we want to achieve, and what separates us from Lord Voldemort."
"Professor," Harry said, "If you are suggesting we try to convince Voldemort—well, I mean—I just don't think—"
"Harry, there is no doubt that his mind is made up and his views of our world will not change merely because we try to persuade him for the better," Dumbledore said. "Nevertheless, we will fight this war with the intent of preserving our ideals about each other, so that in the future, we can hope our posterity will not follow in the unfortunate steps of Tom Riddle."
"So we're going to die for an uncertain possibility of a better future?" Harry said skeptically. "Well, it's not like I have any choice…"
"HARRY!"
Hermione's voice, all the while absent in the room, now sounded strange and almost ethereal to Neville. She had stepped forward, still holding onto Ron's hand, and was glaring sharply at Harry. Her voice shook very slightly when she spoke.
"Don't say that," she said, shaking her head slowly. "Don't say that."
"Hermione, please. We might as well stop lying to ourselves while we're ahead," Harry replied, but Neville noticed his eyes were remarkably red.
"Well, maybe that's what you make of this, but I assure you the rest of us don't," Hermione murmured, "and I'm glad to tell you that your stubbornness will not change that." She stepped back to where she'd been standing, half in shadow, and said, so softly it was nearly inaudible, "You will not die, Harry Potter."
Neville's eyes trailed to Harry, who had lowered his head with a grimace, but soon they darted back to Dumbledore, who was speaking again.
"Uncertainty cannot be avoided. Never will you find a time in your life when you are completely certain about the future; I can assure you that not even the most gifted of Seers can say they have ever felt that way. But when something is so important, so vital to your world and your very being, you must step into uncertainty with all the certainty you can muster. That is what we're doing here." Dumbledore turned his head to look at Neville, and at the same time, he took his hat in his hands and lowered it from his head. "Already we have lost some, in more ways than one, and it has hurt us deeply—that we cannot deny." His gaze returned to its trajectory around the semicircle, which Neville was glad of, as it had been much too intense to hold for very long. "And we know, as much as we can hope against it, that we will lose others. But it is what life deals our way, and no protesting can change it."
Dumbledore lifted his hands and pointed them at the youngest members of the group: Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville. He took a mighty breath and said, "Your destinies, although linked, are by no means the same. However, your friendships and principles—which, inevitably, you have gained from each other—are your connecting assets, so that no matter what happens, you will never be alone. They are what will give you strengths in the times to come, when you step into the world and decide what you want your purpose to be."
Harry finally looked up, face indistinctly tear-stained, to look at Ron and Hermione. Ron's chin was trembling like Neville had never seen it do before, and Hermione had silent tears running down her face. Neville felt cold sweat on his palm, drenching the phoenix feather he held there. However, quite peculiarly, the constant anxiety that was always pressing down on him lessened. He felt almost like it had facilitated his breathing, being addressed in such a way by Dumbledore. He knew that, had this been a few months before, he would never have believed he'd prove to be of any significance, of any meaning to anyone or anything in the world. But things were much different now; he had a destiny, and he knew now more than ever that he could not let it slip away.
"Times like none any of us have ever seen before are fast approaching. There is no space for hesitation or doubt. Hold on to what you know and, as always, what you love. We will make it through."
So was the final preparation that four very special (albeit very different) members of the sixth year Gryffindor house received before embarking on an adventure to surpass all that they'd experienced before. Unavoidably fearful but irrevocably determined, they stood together at a window near Gryffindor tower on that very night, looking at nothing in particular and integrating themselves into the passage of time.
A/n: It's been an honor. Thank you.