It's been over two years since I updated this. That was never my intention but I lost my way with it completely. This chapter is something that has been burning, burrowing inside for quite a while, but only since reading the Cursed Child has it come out to play. I think that this might well complete this fanfic. Review and tell me what you think because there might be one final chapter in it somewhere. I'm not sure. Anyhow. This is somewhat different and yet the same from the rest. Two years on, here is what I believe to be the conclusion to Giving Up. Please review. They make my day!
Chapter 6
Sat in my office, surrounded by piles of parchment and marking that reach higher and higher each day, I stare blankly at the amassing paperwork. It's been well over a week since that fateful call in the middle of the night, the frightened teenagers clutching a crumbled slip of paper and desperately hoping that I would be able to save their friend. It's been a week and for the majority of that week it has seemed to me as if time has stood still. Meals have been subdued and classrooms silent, even the Slytherins unwilling to break the sombre atmosphere.
Everyone of course knows what happened although no formal announcement has been made to the school as a whole. I am not sure if that is a mistake. The Hogwarts rumour mill can be vicious at times and I personally would have preferred a school wide announcement; minimal information but completely factual. As it is, I can only control what has been told to my Gryffindors. There was little point not telling them when they would only find out from my sixth years. What has been spreading around the other houses, I dread to think. Considering a fair proportion of them were turfed out of bed by house-elves that night, the rumour mill must be going strong.
Time is clearly passing, shown mainly by these ever increasing piles of parchment on my desk. At some point I am going to have to put aside time in order to get this work done; my sixth and seventh year students deserve that of me. They are the ones who are most likely to pay for my inattention. Yet, time stands still and all I can think about is my courageous, selfless young Griffin, still confined to the Hospital Wing. Confined for his own safety; one of my own who chose death over reaching out. Because he didn't think I would act, would help, would try. And another of my young charges who is hurting so badly that he carved up his own flesh and skin believing nobody cared about him. Two of my own so afraid, so vulnerable and I didn't even notice. Two sixteen-year-old boys under my care, making those decisions.
Every time I look down at those piles of parchment, my thoughts start whirling and all I can see is the blood, all that blood, the frighteningly small and frail boy, so white and yet so peaceful. All I feel is the gut-wrenching panic at the real fear that we had lost him. And if I shake those images, those feelings, then the panic stricken face of young Longbottom forces its way into my mind's eye instead, the jagged cuts and scars showing how long I had overlooked his anguish and his pain. If I have missed two, two in the same year, how many other youngsters are struggling to get through each day, an hour at a time, believing they have nowhere to turn, no one they can trust. How many tears are shed that I know nothing about? Not tears of childish homesickness, but fearful, anguished tears.
It is unbecoming of me to be so distracted. I am more than aware of this. And yet, every time I stop for a moment long enough to think, my mind wanders down those paths. So I am sat here once more, staring blindly at the piles in front of me, getting no further through the mounds of tasks that are calling for my attention when an owl swoops through my open window and lands carefully on top of one of the piles of parchment. It wobbles slightly, but somehow doesn't collapse as I remove the parchment from the owl's leg.
Professor McGonagall,
May I speak to the boy?
Amos
The words are written in a slightly shaky hand and despite the simplicity of them, I find myself reading them twice and then a third time. I haven't had any contact with Amos since that dreadful day over a year ago now when Harry brought Cedric's body back from that graveyard. I will never forget his heart-rending cry on seeing his son's dead body; "That's my son. That's my boy. That's my boy." Words that are etched somewhere deep in my heart and will likely remain there until I pass from this world. Pomona has spoken to the man fairly frequently over the last year, getting his wishes and approval on the small memorial garden that is dedicated to Cedric. I have had no part in that however.
By 'boy' Amos can only possibly mean Harry Potter, the one who brought Cedric's body home. I can't see how he could possibly do any harm and it might even possibly do some good. Amos made it clear he didn't blame Harry for Cedric's death, he thanked him for his consideration. I don't even ask how Amos knows; the Daily Prophet may have been mercifully silent on this matter but the students would have told their parents and who knows who has then told what. All of Cedric's old classmates have now graduated but there are always younger siblings with information from the gossip mill. Younger siblings with parents who still remember Cedric fondly and have stayed in contact with his parents. And anything that does not do harm might well do good. So I send the reply owl and then open my floo up for visitors before sitting and waiting.
Amos, when he arrives, is no longer the tall, proud man I remember from the Triwizard tasks; his back is slightly stooped making him seem smaller than I remember, his skin is far paler with none of the ruddy healthiness that comes from good food and firewhiskey. He's also lost a significant amount of weight and his hair is more than peppered with grey, if anything grey hair is peppered with brown. When he looks at me silently I can see the grief that still shadows his face and must never leave his eyes. My son, My boy, My boy. He smiles slightly but it doesn't shake the grief in those eyes and steps forwards with a hand outstretched.
"Thank you for permitting this, Professor," he says, his voice quieter than I remember and with none of the passion or power. Somehow, I get the impression that a part of him died along with his son and it isn't something that can ever be replaced. "I heard rumours… that Harry Potter…"
"Tried to kill himself, yes." My voice is curt and sharp to hide the pain those words still cause me, but judging from the look on Amos' face I wasn't successful. He understands loss all too well. My boy, My boy. "Was very nearly successful. If it hadn't have been for the quick wittedness of his best friend Mister Weasley, the remarkable reactions of the house elves and the medical knowledge of Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey… He would have been successful."
I leave out the help of Hogwarts itself; there are some secrets that are worth keeping and that I believe is one of them. Even Albus doesn't have the full story there. One of these days I will tell Filius. But there was something deeply personal in that, what I can only call communication, between the castle and me. It responded to me with memories that only the child should have access to. I still don't know what to make of it all.
"Would I be able to speak to him?" Amos isn't that much older than Severus, he was a couple of years above if memory serves me right, yet looking at him now he seems far older, far frailer than my colleague. "I need to let him know… He has to know that he wasn't to blame. I said it at the time. I need to make sure he understands."
"I don't know how much you'll get out of the boy," I reply with a slow, sad smile that can't possibly reach my eyes. Young Potter is more engaged with us now; Severus was successful in getting through to him, but the child still alternates between listless emptiness and sorrow with occasional bursts of anger. Out of all of the emotions, I find the anger the easiest to deal with. The emptiness is by far the worst. It does not take Severus' skills at Legilimency to know that the boy is still a severe risk to himself. That I can see with my eyes alone. "But I can't say it will hurt him to hear that."
We walk down to the Hospital Wing and I find myself having to slow down to keep pace with Amos; he even walks like an old man although he can't yet be forty. But then I suppose, even old men don't expect to have to bury their children. Certainly not in peace time. Amos has earned the right to be an old man before his time if anyone has.
Stepping into the Hospital Wing, Amos' eyes fly straight to the young Potter boy and his breath whistles through his teeth at the sight of him. This isn't the fit, lean and determined young man who went head to head with adolescents several years older than him and came out fighting; Harry is thin, far too thin even under the ministrations of Poppy. The bandages that had covered his arms have been removed but there's no escaping the perfectly straight scars that virtually take over his arms. Poppy could have removed even those, that reminder of what he did, what we all went through but has decided not to. But most of all, it is the child's eyes that are the most different, even though Amos' gaze is locked on those two virtually identical scars.
"Perfectly aimed cutting charms," he murmurs, brown eyes fixed on Harry's own, mirroring grief back at each other. He steps silently across the room until he's right next to the youngsters bed, eyes never leaving Harry's. I linger uncertainly near the door, feeling like an intruder in my own school for some reason that I cannot quite place. "You really weren't messing around, were you lad?"
Harry doesn't answer him, but Amos doesn't seem to have expected or required an answer. Instead he perches on the end of the bed, looking ridiculously oversized next to the child, regardless of the weight he himself has lost. My heart clenches as I look between the boy and the man. Both have lost something so very precious to them. Both have suffered so terribly at the hands of You-Know-Who. Amos from the first shot of this new war. Harry has been suffering almost from the moment he was born. The wizarding world expected him to be their saviour. A child. A babe in arms. A teenager. So vulnerable. So alone.
"I know my words will mean little to you, but I felt I had to say something Harry," Amos speaks quietly, his words only just reaching me even as I step closer to the bed. I shouldn't listen in, this conversation isn't for my ears and yet, Amos never asked me to leave. "I don't know why you did what you did. I don't pretend to know your reasons. But I know grief. I know guilt. I know shame."
Young Potter's eyes seem to fix on the man with more intensity than I have seen since Severus baited the boy so effectively. Unlike then however, there is no anger on that young face; there is grief and something else, guilt. Guilt and shame. Amos has hit the nail on the head. Harry opens his mouth soundlessly, wordlessly, but Amos seems to understand what he cannot say.
"No." Amos' words are still quiet, yet there is a force behind his tone that is more like the man I knew before the tragedy. "On that you are incorrect, Harry. You did not kill my Cedric, my beautiful, brave Cedric. Lord… Vol…" He stops, stutters and swallows hard before trying again. "Lord Voldemort. That monster killed my son. Not you."
"Kill the spare." Harry's voice seems to be dragged out of him from a distance, the words rattling from his lips like pebbles cast adrift on the shore. "The spare. Cedric wouldn't have been there if it wasn't for me. He wouldn't have been the spare."
I don't imagine the flinch that Amos gives at those words, those two words that must haunt his nightmares and his every waking moment. The spare. His child, the joy and the pride of his life reduced down to those two words. Those two cruel careless words. The spare. That's my son. That's my boy. That's my boy. Of all the insults, that careless dismissal of everything that boy could have been, all his talents, all his abilities, killed simply because he wasn't Harry Potter, that must hurt the most.
"I'll be honest with you Harry," Amos says and there is no mistaking the real pain in his voice, the heartache in his expression. "When my Cedric died, I was angry. I was absolutely furious. I was heart-broken and grief-stricken. I was devastated. My whole world fell to pieces on that one turn of the die."
I step forwards slightly, but Amos meets my worried gaze solidly with a single shake of his head. I have to take it on trust that whatever he is going to say, he isn't going to hurt my boy any more. My child. My boy. My boy. What a lot to base on trust alone. Trust of someone who has become a virtual stranger to me. Yet, I trust him. He has no intention of hurting young Potter. And if he does, then Albus is not the only person I am willing to string from the Astronomy Tower from a sensitive area of his anatomy.
"But I was never angry with you Harry. Not once, through those terrible hours that stretched into days. Days that became months until we stood at a memorial garden to commemorate a whole year since my Cedric died. Three hundred and sixty-five days, two thousand and eighty-seven hours, five hundred and twenty-five thousand and six hundred minutes since my dear, brave boy left me and his mother."
Amos' gaze stay locked on the emerald green eyes in front of him, both sparkling with unshed tears. He reaches out silently and clasps the youngsters hand in his own, Harry jolts slightly but surprises me by not flinching away. He hasn't even permitted Albus to touch him, actively flinching away from any physical contact where required. But for now he stays completely still, not moving a muscle, not looking away from the older man.
"I was furious with the Ministry for battening the hatches and refusing to accept that our darkest fears had been realised and my boy's death was no accident. I was furious with Albus Dumbledore for letting a Death Eater walk free around his school, without which none of it would have happened, my boy would be alive. I was furious with the world, with the Death Eaters, with any Gods I could think of to be furious at. But I was never furious with you, Harry."
Finally, Amos' voice breaks and he pauses for a moment, clearing his throat noisily as he swipes at the tears standing in his eyes. He always was an emotional man; never afraid to hide his feelings even as a boy at Hogwarts. I oft felt it was a good job he had been sorted into Hufflepuff; Gryffindor and Slytherin would have eaten him alive and Ravenclaw was never on the cards. Bluff and gruff, honest and caring, he wore his heart on his sleeve in a manner that you don't often see in pureblood families.
"How could I be furious with the boy…" He stops, corrects himself openly, voice cracking once more. "The man who brought my child home to me? How could I ever be angry at the young man who, even in the face of death, had enough compassion and respect to bring my boy home? You deserve… so much more than I could ever give you… and it still wouldn't be enough."
The tears in those brilliant green eyes fall, the boy's breath hitches and he looks down at last, away from the grief and the compassion in Amos' expression. He looks lost, forlorn, hopeless. I feel moisture prickling in my own eyes at Amos' impassioned plea and look down, unwilling to let the child see the tears.
"I may be completely mistaken of course. You may feel nothing at all about my boy. But if you are in any way burdened by guilt or shame or fear, I would ask you to stop." He smiles faintly, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. It's been a long time since happiness reached his eyes, I feel. "You have earned nothing but my gratitude, and I should have said that last year. With everything that happened, with the Daily Prophet and the lies, I should have said something… But I was lost in a world of grief and pain and nothing could shake me from it. For that… for that I apologise. You deserved better."
"You don't owe me anything," Harry's voice is small, thin and anguished. "I told Cedric to take the Triwizard Cup with me. He wouldn't have taken it if I hadn't insisted. He felt that he owed me, that he wouldn't have got through the maze without me. But I wouldn't have got through the second task without his help. He was honest and honourable. He deserved the cup. He didn't deserve what happened. I killed him. The moment I convinced him to take the cup with me, I signed his death warrant."
"You cannot think that," Amos counters with real passion in his voice. "And you can't throw your life away like this. I understand. I understand more than you could perhaps imagine. But my brave, upright boy was never a spare. He was so much more than that. My dear boy died, the first shot in this war. You have been given a great gift, a great, great gift. You have a life for you to live, to love, to hope and to grieve; yes, even that last is a gift. It means you have a life. You have a heart. You have a soul."
Those same silent tears flow freely down the boy's face. He looks so forlorn curled up on the bed that my heart goes out to him. It would require a heart of stone not to blink away tears right now. That I am not equipped with.
"Don't throw away what my precious boy had torn from him, Harry," Amos continues brokenly, wiping at his eyes once more, his voice cracking and breaking unevenly. "Please. I know it doesn't seem fair. It isn't fair. It isn't right. I can't make it right. But please. Your life is worth more than that."
There's a long silence and then Amos stands up slowly and offers his hand to the young man in front of him. For a horrible moment I think that Harry won't take it, that Amos is going to be left standing there until he gives up in embarrassment, but thankfully the youngster eventually reaches out himself. Amos walks quietly to the door and then stops, looking back at the forlorn heap on the bed with real sadness in his gentle brown eyes.
"I also wanted to offer… I don't know if you'd be interested… But perhaps…" He stops, fumbling for words before starting again. "I know the Ministry can't be flavour of the month with you right now, but I can offer you a shadowing placement with me in the holidays… Only if you're interested of course."
Amos doesn't wait for a response to his offer, instead turning and walking out of the Hospital Wing without looking back. Outside the room however, he stands, leaning heavily against the wall, tears falling down his face. I stand silent witness, unsure what to say or do as he gets his sobs under control. It seems wrong somehow, to be standing and watching a grown man cry. But then, why should it be? Why do we expect men not to grieve, not to cry, not to express emotion? Because that's what 'real men' are like? Somehow, I have the feeling that what just transpired in that Hospital Wing was an example of a 'real man' if there ever was one.
"Thank you," I finally say softly, when he seems to be somewhat more under control. "That will have meant a lot to the boy. He feels like he's to blame for so much."
"He's not, you understand?" There's strength hiding behind the anguish in Amos' eyes. He starts walking down the corridor, leaving me to follow him rather than guide him. I don't know where we are heading but I know I can't leave the man like this. "My Cedric was a grand boy, he was brave and he was beautiful. He grew from such a bright child into an honourable man who took nobody for granted. Harry shouldn't have even been in the Triwizard Tournament; he was a boy up against men. And yet he acquitted himself well. He did well. And at the last. He gave my boy a choice. The honourable choice."
With another sob, Amos winds down into silence and he stays in silence as we walk through the hallways of Hogwarts. He takes a winding path, but doesn't seem uncertain or lost so I follow. It's only when we are out onto the grounds that I realise where Amos must be heading. The memorial garden. I feel a fool for not having realised it immediately. Amos walks almost on auto-pilot and we reach Greenhouse Six without another word being said.
The memorial isn't large, it doesn't even scream out that it is a memorial. But that perhaps is how Cedric would have preferred it. There are a selection of flowers, all of them ones which Cedric preferred according to Pomona, surrounding the centrepiece; three shining roses. They are the magical equivalent to a common muggle flower I believe, but are notoriously hard to tend and give off a light that few other plants can rival. We stop in front of them and Amos kneels down.
"My beautiful boy," he croons brokenly. I hear the greenhouse door open and shut behind us and turn to see Pomona coming slowly, quietly towards us. "My brave, upright boy."
That's my son. That's my boy. That's my boy.
Pomona nods at me silently as she approaches and I don't need anything else, we've worked together long enough for me to recognise that look. Let me handle this, he is one of mine. So I move back softly, trying not to disturb either of them, Pomona with her arms immediately around the distraught man or Amos, his grief so frighteningly large in this enclosed space.
I know where I am needed. My son. My boy. My boy. I can't make things better. I can't fix the giant hole in my child's heart. But I can be there for him. I can listen or I can sit in silence. I can offer a shoulder to cry on or scream at. For both of my boys.
My sons. My boys. My boys.
