Chapter 3: The letter

Disclaimer: All characters belongs to J. K. Rowling!

3- The letter

After the owls disappeared into the sky, Harry sighed and headed to the front of the store. He felt liberated, he didn't remember ever writing such a letter to anyone, but definitely expressing his feelings and anxieties in that way seemed to help. He smiled at the thought that Hermione was still helping him despite the distance, this time to alleviate the heavy psychological burden he had been carrying for some time. The knot in his throat that he felt when writing it had already disappeared, and more animated he crossed the shadowy corridor that led to the front, again noticing the newspaper on the table.

He located Mr. Laffitte, who was ordering small boxes on shelves, and after he asked him if he needed anything else, Harry said:

"Mr. Laffite, can you tell me where I can buy a newspaper?"

The man saw the boy's hand pointing to the newspaper in question, and smiled. Harry thought he saw a notch of satisfaction, as if he had waited a long time for that question.

"They send it to me by subscription, it's not a newspaper you can buy anywhere."

Having said that, he went into the corridor and a few moments later returned with the newspaper in his hand, opened it and handed it to Harry.

"Here you are. It's two days old." Laffitte said, interrupting an attempt at denial by his client.

Harry took it and looked at the page he saw before. His eyebrows arched in a gesture of surprise as he saw his own face in a half-page photograph. He couldn't understand the title or the note as it was in French, but he remembered the context of that image. It had been taken in the courtroom of the Ministry of Magic, during one of the many hearings against the death-eaters or against those who claimed to have been victims of the Imperio curse, shortly after the battle of Hogwarts. Every time he remembered those hearings and how some of the most perverse wizards or witches were saved from being sent to Azkaban arguing that they had acted against their will (he especially remembered a witch whose toad-like face he would never forget) Harry got heartburn.

Harry looked up, understanding Laffitte's smile, though he said nothing.

"Don't worry, Mr. Potter, I don't understand your reasons, but if you want to go unnoticed, it won't be me who finds out." Laffitte said, still smiling. He spoke English correctly and Harry always appreciated it, not too many people used to speak his language in France.

"You knew me? Why didn't you ever say anything to me?" he replied, feeling ridiculous. Apparently not even in France could he avoid being recognized, and he insulted himself for not having gone to Malaysia or even further.

"Oh, I did, for a couple of weeks I think. I have seen photographs of you several times in the paper, although I must admit that I never related them to you before, Mr Martans." He gestured in inverted commas when he said his false surname, and went on. "Perhaps I am too old to detect subtleties, but since the last time you came here was more than two weeks ago, I did not have the opportunity to show it to you."

Harry nodded without saying anything, obfuscated. He didn't know what to say. Would Mr. Laffitte think he was an outlaw? He liked the shopkeeper, he didn't want him to think he was a fugitive from justice.

"Hmm...sorry, Mr. Laffitte. I had no intention of hiding my identity from you. I came to France to escape ... from many things in reality. I assure you that I am not a..."

"Don't worry Mr. Martans, from what they published in the newspaper it is clear that you are not a fugitive from the magical law of your country." He added.

"This photograph is from May. Why did they publish this on August?" asked the boy.

"I don't know for sure. What I do know is that those trials seem to have been very important in England, as there continue to be repercussions on them." The old man put on a pair of glasses and focused his eyes on the note. "The next piece of news refers to a trial against ... hmm, here it is, against a certain Albert Runcorn, two weeks ago."

The news surprised Harry; he had hardly remembered that name again. He had replaced him when the three of them broke into the Ministry in a desperate attempt to obtain the Slytherin's locket.

Harry's head was thinking fast. He didn't remember anyone who related him to Runcorn or to the chaos generated during their escape.

"Can you tell me if this Runcorn was sentenced?" asked the boy, eager for curiosity. He clearly remembered that this sinister man seemed to be respected within the Ministry during Voldemort reign of terror, and he even remembered his interaction with Yaxley and Mr. Weasley's fury when he came across him in the elevator.

Laffitte read to the end of the note and said, "Well, it looks like he was saved from prison and set free." He looked up just to see the boy's gesture of hatred, and continued. "Apparently several witnesses affirmed that many…hmm ...muggles... (He gestured, not understanding the word) had escaped a death sentence thanks to him.

A mocking smile escaped Harry's mouth. It was he who had helped them escape, not that idiot pure-blood supremacy believer. But no one knew that, it was noticeable that the followers of Voldemort who at that time controlled the Ministry completely covered their intrusion very well.

Right now, another criminal who had surely committed atrocities and injustices was free, but this time the paradox was that thanks to the Polyjuice potion Runcorn had been saved from Azkaban because Harry risked helping some condemned Muggles, committing an act of good perhaps for the first time in his (Runcorn's) life.

Subtly shaking his head in disbelief about the events and their consequences, Harry said goodbye to Laffitte and left the store with the newspaper in his hands, disgusted by another immoral injustice.

***HP***

Several hours later, Harry sat down on one of the many wooden tables in the square in that remote Gap area, leaving several bags resting on the floor and sighing with fatigue. His feet ached from walking so much, as he had decided to walk around the town to try to forget the bad news of Runcorn. As he toured the historic part of Gap and its small commercial center (where he took the opportunity to buy some items and groceries he could not get in Toulon, such as several boxes of British tea and some small bottles of butterbeer), he was constantly looking at the newspaper he was holding in his hand, resisting to sit somewhere and check it out.

He was all sweaty because of that hot and dry day. It had been worth the effort and tiredness, for he had never been to the center of Gap or to the Luyen River. He liked the Cathedral very much, something like Notre-Dame-et-Saint-Arnoux de Gap or something similar. But he especially liked the commercial center, and especially the Saint Arnoux Square, surrounded by beautiful constructions of the same medieval style as some photographs he had seen in books.

Again Harry had discovered himself trying to detect wizards or witches there, but it was impossible for him. At first he believed that the magic people of that little community of Gap knew how to dress muggle style and therefore went unnoticed. But it was much more likely that the magical population in France and particularly in Gap was scarce and concentrated in the square area. And he ended up being convinced when he remembered that in England the magic population was only a few thousand, distributed mostly in London and in some very small towns in the rest of the country like Hogsmeade, Ottery Saint Catchpole or Godric Hollow.

"Probably a few hundred less, because of Voldemort and his death-eaters madness." He reasoned corrosively with his sight lost somewhere on the other side of the square, as he raised his hand calling for the nearest waiter. In fact, Harry not only counted the dead in the final battle, but all those who in one way or another perished or were killed since his last return to the "physical" world a few years ago.

"Bon jour monsieur. Que voudriez-vous manger?" The waiter had taken Harry by surprise, immersed in his lucubrations and, as always, had to take a few seconds to answer. But what else could the waiter have asked?

"Bon jour. Un raclette et une bière s'il vous plaît."

"Tout de suite."

Harry always felt a certain pride whenever he could have an exchange of phrases and understand himself in French. He had never studied that language but more than two months in the south of France were helping him to begin (very slowly) to understand, even if it is the minimum necessary to make himself understood.

In an unconscious impulse, he reached into one of the bags and took out the newspaper. He had been waiting for several hours for that moment, not only because he wanted to read it sitting somewhere quietly, or because he wanted to try to understand the reading even though he was sure he would understand almost nothing.

He had decided to live for a while in France, far from the Magical World he knew, and that included not wanting to receive letters or news from anyone, not even magical radios or newspapers, although in the Toulon outskirts where he lived it would have been impossible to find it. As far as he knew, he was the only wizard for miles around, and he did not believe that there were magic people living in Toulon either.

Opening that newspaper and looking for news about "his" world meant that he was kind of giving up, that the power of his decisions could no longer withstand the onslaught of his curiosity.

He looked at the cover of the newspaper "La Provence Matin" and eagerly looked for the name of the town or city where it was published, but could not find it. The cover was half-occupied by a photograph he liked very much: some players dressed in the uniform of a Quidditch team from France called "Les Sauterelles Vertes. The title said something about the "Hautes Alps" league, and it was possibly the champions of that league. Seeing the image, Harry felt an intensification in his desire to play Quidditch professionally, and a tingling in his stomach as he recalled his games at Hogwarts with Griffindor.

The waiter suddenly appeared again, leaving the order on the table and standing there without saying a word.

"Merci beaucoup." Said Harry, and the waiter left. He still had the smile on his face from his memories of Quidditch's games, and when he began to remember the times when he shared the team with Ron and Ginny his smile faded and became a bitter rictus. He remembered all the games he had played and all those he lost because he was locked up in the infirmary or punished. Only twice had not been able to catch the golden snitch: when McLaggen broke his head with a bludger, or in that memorable match (not for the happy) against Hufflepuff where the dementors had knocked him down from his broom at great height and almost killed himself if it had not been for Dumbledore.

"Dumbledore..." He sighed, evoking his image in his mind. What was happening to him? His memories made him feel nostalgic and sad, since many of his dearest memories were related to people who had died or with whom he had fought. He had been trying to avoid them, mentally closing his head so as not to be affected by them, but as time passed he was finding it was getting harder and harder.

He shook his head trying to scare away his memories as if they were flies and set out to eat his favorite dish since he arrived in France: scrambled potatoes with pieces of meat seasoned with some spices, sprinkled with olive oil and covered with melted cheese.

After a long drink of "muggle" beer (Harry missed butterbeer so much), he took the newspaper and looked for the page with his photograph. There he was, surrounded by reporters and magic feathers, leaving the courtroom at the end of some of the many hearings he had to attend. Her eloquent gesture indicated he was annoyed.

If Harry Potter was already famous before Voldemort's defeat, after that historic event he simply never had peace or tranquility again. At first he tolerated it stoically, despite the mockery of his two best friends, who noticed his effort in it. But in a few days he got so mad that managed to distance himself from Ginny and fight bitterly with Ron, not to mention strong discussions with members of the Ministry, the Wizengamot (those who survived) and the press, or the sporadic but lacerating accusations of some parents of students killed in the last battle.

He remembered his outbursts of fury and his continuous search for isolation and silence, trying to escape from everything and everyone whenever he could. And how on May 10th the Ministry had decided to transform May 2nd into "Revolution Day of our Heroes in the Battle of Hogwarts"; it was much more decent than another proposal he remembered most and which fortunately was not chosen: the "Day of Harry Potter and his Crusade Against Who-You-Know."

He finished his late lunch and realized that he was still looking at the same picture, absorbed in his thoughts. The sun was falling quickly and hiding in the beautiful green mountains around, which would surely be covered with thick snow during the winter. He decided to continue reading the newspaper when he arrived at the hotel room where he was staying those days. Having the last drink of beer he looked at the previous page before closing it and almost drowned.

In it, there was a small photograph of Ron with a satisfied face hugging his brother Bill. Still coughing, he tried to read the article, but there was almost no light. He could barely distinguish anything but yet he could see his soul mate after many days. He seemed happy and proud, and Harry had the impression that he was the main subject of the image, although he might be wrong.

Unlike him, Ron was fascinated by his role as a hero, and always looked into the newspapers for any mention of him or any of his images. He did it sneaking around, and when he found some news related to him he would not stop talking about it, something that Harry enjoyed at first but then became more and more annoying.

What was certain was that as the days passed after the final battle, Harry began to become remarkably irritated by the harassment of the press, which was beneficial for Ron as he began to receive more attention from reporters. Far from keeping a low profile (in relation to the secrets and dangerous information they had discovered about the horcruxes and hallows), Ron seemed to take on the role of a celebrity and began declaring things he shouldn't have. Harry knew positively that his friend deserved his reputation as a hero for his enormous contribution to the crusade against Voldemort, but he had crossed certain boundaries that both Harry and Hermione were careful not to trespass.

The poor artificial lighting in the square didn't help and it was getting darker and darker, so he folded the newspaper and took the bags, his backpack and left towards the outskirts of Gap.

He arrived at his hotel room about eight o'clock at night, tired. He was able to disapparate and only after two attempts he managed to apparate in the dark alley he knew behind the hotel. The bags were heavy and he could not perform the enchantment Hermione had shown him when he moved to his house in Godric Hollow, and he couldn´t magically extend his backpack either.

He threw himself into the comfortable armchair, took off his snickers with his feet and rested his head on the backrest. In a few minutes his eyes began to shut until he fell asleep thinking about a white owl.

***HP***

That same night, at the same time, the light of the full moon flooded a dark room with its pale light, filtering through the open window. No noises were heard because of the late night, only the sounds of the leaves of the trees moving to the rhythm of the gentle night breeze.

It was a spacious room on the upper floor of the house, its walls almost entirely covered by shelves filled with books of all sizes. Some portraits were spread between the shelves, and in some of them the portrayed people moved and greeted each other.

Except for the bed, located under the window, there were only two sections of the walls that were not covered by books. On the opposite side of the window there was a wide wardrobe flanked by a narrow shelf (full of books and a few more portrait-holders) which remained closed although it seemed to have no lock or handles of any kind.

In the other section free of shelves there was a desk, with an upper shelf with tons of books.

At the same desk, crammed with open books, feathers and parchments, an owl rested on a small pedestal. It was beautiful, and its plumage seemed as soft as cotton and pale white due to the moonlight.

A girl had fallen asleep on the desk, her brown hair scrambled and untidy scattered over it. She wore a white nightgown and short stockings, but two details stood out in the light: her face, white and pale, seemed covered with tears, as if she had been crying for a long time. And his sleeping hand was still holding a small sheet of white paper, written in pen ink:

"Dear Hermione:

I hope you are well, as are your parents. As I told you several times, the fact that you were able to recover them was my greatest happiness after the end of the battle, almost as much as when we were able to get rid of Voldemort. I still remember our trip to Australia with Ron, how nervous you were and your tears of joy and relief when you were able to recover their memories. As you may have heard many times, you are really talented!

For my part, I don't have much to tell. The same as the last time I wrote to you, still not knowing what I'm going to do with my life. I still think about being an Auror, but lately playing in some Quidditch team is an idea that I like more and more.

I confess that sometimes I would really like to hear news from you and Ron and his family. Sometimes I look out the window of my new house and I imagine to see some owl arriving with news of you or Ron, and to read that you are fine and that at last you are happy. But I know it's impossible, since no one knows my address. It's what I decided and I don't regret it, only that sometimes it's impossible not to remember you all...

I miss you a lot, maybe that's why this letter is longer than the previous ones. I'm not good at writing, am I? Surely you know, I was never good at expressing myself, surely I owe it to the Dursleys!

As in the other letters I've sent you, I can't say how sorry I am that I left you that way. It is what I regret the most, I would give anything to change things and have said goodbye to you in another way. Remembering you crying sitting on the floor tortures me, makes me feel even worse than I felt. I know you wanted to try to make me feel better, because you were the only one who knew everything that was making me suffer. The deaths of loved ones and friends, the fights with you and Ron, the unbearable siege of the reporters, the death-eaters who managed to escape, all the people who reproached me for having gone to Hogwarts to "hide" me, all that (believe me, there is more) managed to blur my happiness and satisfaction for defeating Voldemort and for the fact that all three of us have survived.

Again, I hope you'll forgive me. Please say hello to Ron for me (I've written to him, although I don't think he read my letters) and the Weasleys. I'll write to you again soon, but I don't know anything about you, so I don't know if you'll want another letter from me.

Harry

PS: I deeply wish you had read this letter all the way through, and don't throw it in the trash when you see my name on the envelope."