The students may have been too wrapped up in their own little melodramas to notice, but the professors certainly wondered about their absent Headmaster. Many assumed he was busy working through his pile of neglected paperwork, as he was wont to do or had simply gone off on one of his 'adventures'. Either way, it meant that none of them would have to deal with his absurdly cheerful manner in the morning when most of them would rather have been dead asleep in their beds.
The students may be able to get away with only losing a few House points and a detention but any staff who did the same would be hanging themselves by their own rope; Dumbledore somehow always knew when they were lying about being sick and skiving off from work, and would make them supervise detention for the next month or be assigned double-duty on patrol.
They shuddered in remembered horror and promptly went back to their breakfast, determined to enjoy a Headmaster-free morning.
Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes at the scene before her.
The Headmaster was sprawled on the ground with a suspicious-looking bottle clutched in his hand, surrounded by a dozen of the same, and snored into the fluffy, tartan coat she had been missing for over a year. Stepping delicately over days-old candy wrappers and catching sight of her initials stitched onto the hem sticking out from under him, she looked upon him through eyes narrowed into slits.
Funny—the Headmaster had told her that he had never seen it before.
She picked up a bottle and took a quick sniff. As she had suspected: dreamless sleep potion mixed with firewhisky—a potent mix. She pulled her leg straight back and came down on the bottle hard.
It shattered from the force of her kick, the sound of its impact echoing loudly around the room.
She was tempted to let the shards reach the sleeping wizard, but allowed this one mercy because it would be the only mercy she would allow him. She spelled a decent shield to protect his vulnerable and tender parts, and despite how tempting it would be to let some shards find their way through, held it firm.
With a yowl of pain, the Headmaster scrambled up and away from the loud noise—the sharp ache in his head—what kind of monster—what—
And saw her standing there, as stern and disapproving as always, a glint of something truly fearsome in here eye.
"Minerva?" He croaked, throat dry.
A glass of pumpkin juice appeared floating before him. With a fervent thanks to the wonderful witch before him, he drank it all in one long swallow. Then coughed, pounding on his chest, as he had drank much too fast. He clutched at his head in pain and only then noticed the broken bottle and her viciously satisfied smile.
"Why?" He asked plaintively, wondering what he had done to incur her wrath. He hadn't played any pranks on her in months or foisted off his Headmaster's duties on her—did he? He frowned. His mind was so fuzzy from sleep and the effects of his drinking that he wasn't sure.
"Why?" She began and he heard the fury she was holding back. "Perhaps it is because of this disgraceful mess around me." She waved her arms around her to indicate the candy wrappers, the bottles on the ground and the dirty clothes. "Perhaps it is the mountain of paperwork you dumped on my desk last night while I was on patrol and came in this morning to find." From within her robes, she withdrew roll after roll after roll of parchment—and threw them at his feet.
He began to hastily make his excuses, attempting to placate her to no avail.
"Err, I admit I shouldn't have left you all of my paperwork to do and I certainly shouldn't have drank so much—of course not, what kind of an example would I be?—but Minerva—"
But she ruthlessly cut him off.
"Or maybe," she continues. "Maybe it is because of your absence this morning which resulted in me having to deal with the howler from the Minister—your deputy headmistress—as someone was out of commission. The one which required—demanded—an immediate response or an investigation would occur that would find this school in violation of some bureaucratic rule or another!"
She stepped closer and hissed, "I had to send out a reply right that second because the bloody owl refused to leave until I did and kept pecking my fingers!"
She thrust her hands forward to show the bloody marks left on her by one stubborn owl.
"Well, Albus?!"
He fidgeted, unable to come up with anything to say before he suddenly—desperately—started babbling things like "I didn't plan this. Really. No, really." or "Lemon sherbet, Minerva, they're really quite good—no? No. Right, what was I thinking?"
She listened to him talk, not saying a word; he'd better keep talking because so far—he wasn't making things any better—just making himself look even more pathetic.
Her second time here and she still couldn't believe it.
Hermione Granger looked around at her room and wondered. Was this really the same Hogwarts she had left behind—crumbling walls and broken statues—surrounded by a graveyard as vast as the ocean?
Of course, it wasn't.
It was just still so unbelievable that they could have gone to another world and found a Hogwarts whole—a world that hadn't been devastated by war—people who didn't know the meaning of war. It was all just a story in the history books for them.
In this world, the only war they knew of—if they even knew of that one—was of the war with Grindelwald and that was so many years before their generation that they couldn't fathom what it was like to live in that kind of world.
Even the children she had raised in the safety of Hogwart's walls—picked up from the streets, bought from slavers, trapped in their family manors—even they didn't know the horrors of war, only the result of it.
And that was horrible enough, would be all they knew of it, if it was up to her. But she had felt the rumblings of discontent; the jealous whispers of those shut out of the Remnants and Sanctuaries and Institutions, and knew that the fragile peace they had cobbled together would not last.
Their world would not have lasted another War.
If they didn't destroy themselves, the non-magical world—once her people—would have slaughtered them. By missile or poison or army, they would have killed them all. They wouldn't be satisfied until every last wizard and witch had been killed: Until every bit of magic was stomped out of the world. That was the fear and hate Voldemort had created when he had broken the Secrecy Laws and didn't bother to mask his presence.
With every battle, every new horror he had unleashed on a citizenry that had no protection against that kind of power—he called up an answering darkness within them, pushing them to strip back all the trappings of civilization for survival—and he had awakened a sleeping dragon.
Voldemort should have known better than to have brought any magic to their attention. He was a half-blood and grew up in an orphanage as the only wizard there—he should have known what would have happened as soon as they realized it wasn't faked or staged or a joke.
He should have known that they would have wanted to find out more and try and control it; and restrict it if they couldn't control it; and then finally seek to destroy it once they realized it couldn't be controlled—that they didn't have the power to control it—and the witch-hunts would return.
And they did…the Hunt—the searching and burning and drowning and stoning—of innocent children who had never even known they had magic until their first accidental bout; of students who could not hide what they were and were tortured for the locations of wizarding enclaves, of magical schools and villages and homes; of the price those wizards too ignorant to know how to disguise themselves well enough to pass for 'normal' suffered.
They all paid the price for Voldemort's actions and he hadn't cared—until they came for him. They weren't strong enough to destroy his forces in one quick stroke or kill him—no, they couldn't get anywhere near him—but they could ambush his smaller ground troops with specialized magic-seeking missiles and wipe them out in second. They could and did capture careless solitary wizards too drunk or stupid to protect themselves, interrogating them and making successful surgical strikes against unprotected safehouses and the like.
It was just bad luck that sometimes some of those captured happened to be on the Light side and likewise gave up information on their safehouses and supply lines.
Her hands gripped the table before her, using the pain to ground her.
She remembered that that was when the experiments began.
Hidden in the darkness of the corridor and concealed in his dark green cloak, Evans stood outside their rooms and listened to his Victoria, his Regina, cry out—in anger, shame, sorrow and grief.
He stood so still none would have seen him if not for the glaring emerald eyes staring out from the shadows that dared anyone to disturb her, if and when they had come down to see her for some reason or another.
Only Black, who had come by with a stack of lists and documents in his arms had seen him and not fled. Instead, he spelled the ground dust-free and sat down against wall, concentrating intently on the papers before him. When the next trespasser had come by, Black had only to sneer and speak a few sharp words before they went scurrying away, and he returned his gaze back on the work he had to finish.
Evans did not thank him and Black did not bother asking why he should have had to turn anyone away in the first place, as most people would have done: they simply existed in that corridor for one purpose—to keep all intruders out—and nothing else for the moment mattered but that.
Done crying, making sure that she looked presentable enough—Harry wouldn't care one bit if she was covered in snot and tears, but she would—she unlocked the door.
She wasn't surprised to see Harry enter moments later or for Black to follow behind; she had felt Harry's presence through their bond and she had scheduled a meeting with Black for tonight.
He held a bunch of papers she probably needed to read and look over and was more than grateful for it.
She needed the long hours going over lists of necessary supplies; urgent messages; notices of new Familes that'd formed, wishing to be added to the Registry; requests for an audience with the Council—to keep her mind off of memories better left alone.
She was glad that the searching glance Harry gave her had no pity in them. He gave her a quick kiss on the nose and nuzzled his face against her cheek. She giggled, momentarily distracted and nuzzled him in return. He gave her a cute little growl and nipped her chapped lips, licking them gently—
"As much as I don't mind the two of you being, well you two, I would still very much appreciate it if you'd let me know if this is going to turn into a snog session."
Harry growled at Black, the sound coming from deep within his core.
"Yes, yes, growl back at you, too. Now, there are a few discrepancies in one of our supply lists that'd I'd like for you to take a look at…" He waved a sheet of parchment in front of her face.
She snorted.
"You should be glad Harry considers you to be something of a friend, Black, or he would have done more than growl at you, you know. He's cursed people for less."
"Yes, I know. But that's no reason for me to let your honeymoon ruin my deadline, is it? You did say that you wanted the list of possible relocations by tonight?"
The frown that curled her lips was answer enough.
"You're doing it now? Black, I asked you to get on that before we even left—why is this only getting down now?"
"I know." He gave a tired sigh then. "But Isabella was being fussy—I don't think traveling through alternate realities is at all child-friendly, you know—and she was still a little sick from the cold that went around a few weeks ago." He scowled. "Stupid little snots bringing their sick little selves near my daughter. Wait 'till I get my hands on them…!"
She shared an amused glance with Harry; Black had been saying the same thing for the last week and a half but he hadn't done anything to the ones who had spread the sickness, despite knowing exactly who they were.
He was such a teddy bear, though he would never admit it and would deny it if anyone claimed otherwise.
"Is she feeling better now? I know that she's still a bit weak but she looked fine when we came through…" Hermione trailed off, concerned.
Harry laid a comforting arm around her. She cuddled into him, feeling safe and loved as always in his embrace. And when Black smiled with such genuine happiness she could not help but return it.
"She's fine now. I was worried the trip through had brought back her cold but it turned out to be nothing." He paused then. "And how's your son doing?" He asked in return, remembering that he wasn't the only one that'd come through the portal with a child.
"A bit tired and annoyed that he can't wander around as freely as he's used to but he's fine otherwise. I caught him trying to sneak out the entranceway last night, in fact, and had to place a special locking charm keyed to my magical signature just for him. Poor Liz," she sighed, referring to their personal house elf, "She was in such a state, looking for him."
She shook her head in disbelief. "Somehow, Severus managed to trick her by copying his magical signature on a toy and leaving it in his place. You know that's how the house elves track us, right? Luckily, that bit of accidental magic wasn't very strong and disappeared after a few minutes. Liz felt that and immediately went to check on him. When she found him gone…well, we left it to him to explain why he had 'betrayed' her."
"You didn't!" He gasped out, desperately trying not to laugh out loud.
He imagined how Severus must have stared at the elf, wide-eyed and guilty, faced with her tears and recrimination. The very elf, after all, that had kept him alive when his own mother had died just days after giving birth to him, already weak from malnutrition and made weaker by the childbirth. Oh, how his excuses must have seemed so feeble then!
Sometimes the best way to teach one's child was through experience: Severus would learn the very important lesson of the consequences of betrayal, though not as damaging as it may have been in this instance.
But it never hurt to start young.
After all, age did not discount betrayal and retaliation was swift and brutal. Better he learn now than be faced with no alternatives but death—or worse. For the Remnant did not tolerate traitors.
"…everywhere she walked, the ground burned; she slayed with one quick thrust of her sword, dripping with the blood of her Enemies."
"Because she had a heart of fire—crying out for vengeance, for the children lost to her—she was pitied by the Spirits and gifted with the ability to wield that fire. Now the flames which had burned inside of her were given earthly form. With this power, she hunted all those who had had a hand in her tragedy.
"All those Marked by evil were now marked for Death.
"It is said that only one escaped her wrath but that it might have been better to have died by her blade—for his fate is far crueler than mere Death—he who lay bound to the Forbidden Lands."
Around her, the children gasped in fear and shock. Minder Kendra hid a smile—she could practically hear them thinking, 'the Forbidden Lands were forbidden!'—and mentally agreed. Passage through those lands meant being prey to Slavers, Witch-Hunters, Mercenaries and any other number of nasty things. Only a fool—or a very skilled individual—could get through safely.
"But though her vengeance was now wrought—her mission fulfilled—she was left with an emptiness that brought her to her knees. What was left for her in this world? She asked herself. Indeed, what more could there have been for a witch who had thrown herself into vengeance and bloodshed, leaving behind a Family?"
They leaned forward, squirming eagerly on their cushions.
"And a Spirit answered thus: "You have honored us, but we have never desired this. We beg you remember—see that there are those who need you still." And when she listened to the voices carried on the wind, she heard them: 'Mother, mother, return to us! We live and we breathe—we need you.'
"And so she flew to them with wings of fire—love and hope and devotion now the flames that burned in her heart. And when she appeared before them—more creature than witch, stained with life's blood—they embraced her without fear.
"They breathed life back into that scarred and fearsome soul—
"And she was Mother, Matriarch of Clan Weasley…but deep within her, the Dragon laid patiently waiting until a time when vengeance once again burned in her heart."
She waved her hands in and the candles that had been floating around with a soft, ethereal light then brightened considerably. Enough so that the children were now clapping their hands over their eyes and wincing somewhat.
"Now that's enough for tonight. Time to go to sleep!"
She ignored their grumbling and shepherded them all back to the Inner Sanctum—not that they'd moved too far away from them in the first place—and to the communal sleeping quarters for the children, and cast the usual protective and alarm spells.
Then she took her position outside the entryway to guard them, wand ready in her lap and all traces of the playful Minder gone. In her place was Mercenary Stone, Soldier of the Guard, determined to protect the vulnerable children behind her. Shadows flickered at the edges of her vision, knowing her magic had manifested to form a lethal shield around her.
Let the enemy come if they dared—she would guarantee that none would be left alive to try again.
The three of them spent some time talking about their experiences as parents and going over any necessary documents that needed to be filed; she had tried to keep instill some order into the chaos that was the Aftermath and documenting everything seemed to be one way to do that.
Ron joined them later, after his last shift for the night and brought drinks. "You always have the best presents!" She'd exclaimed.
It was late when they all retired for bed, the sky just hinting at the clear, blue sky of the day ahead, but they had worked hard all night and morning and so they allowed themselves this one indulgence.
Mercenary Stone looked up two sets of footsteps headed her way. It was about time for a change of the Guard but even here, deep within the Inner Sanctum, one did not relax just because they were "safe". When they turned around the corner, she already had her hand up and ready to cast any number of spells, from a mildly debilitating hex to one that removed one's vital organs.
"Halt." She barked. "State your name, rank and purpose."
They straightened their already-stiff postures and dutifully answered.
On the right, tall and thin, hair a wild tangle around his scarred face, he spoke: "Gregory Jones, Auror of the Guard; to safeguard the peace, stand watch and defend the Vulnerable, Ma'am."
To his left, hair fashioned into rainbow-colored spikes, his partner spoke: "Melanie Smith, Auror of the Guard; to safeguard, stand watch and defend the Vulnerable, Ma'am."
Stone nodded in approval at their prompt reply and equally-ready stances, the wariness leaving her at last. As soon as they took her place in front of the entrance to the children's living quarters, she headed for the corridor furthest on the right, the smell of freshly-cooked breakfast calling to her.
And just before she disappeared around the corner, she added over her shoulder: "Oh, and I told them the story of the Dragon's Beginning, so be ready for the lot of them begging you for more of where that came from when they wake up in, ohhh...three minutes from now?"
She smirked at the twin groans of frustration she heard behind her.
"And don't feed them sweets again just because you think they're adorable—there's a reason no self-respecting parent gives kids sweets so early in the morning, you know—not unless you want an irate Commander breathing that Weasley dragonfire down our necks!"
The two "No, Ma'am!"s that echoed down the corridor told her that they had heard her warning, even if they might not follow it.
She stepped through the threshold into the dining room. She was practically salivating as the smell of eggs and rashers came to her. It had been a long night for her; the children had demanded story after story until the one about the Dragon had finally satisfied them—too captivated by the story to realize how close to bedtime it was.
She was grateful for that; they usually sulked and made a huge fuss about it.
"The usual, Ma'am?" The server asked from behind the counter.
"The usual, Freedman." She replied, eager to start on her breakfast.
If Jones and Smith were still foolish enough to give in to the whims of the children they were supposed to be guarding, then they should know to ready themselves for a talking-to from the Commander, himself.
The next morning, Hermione woke up to sweet kisses and gentle touches. She sighed, humming in pleasure, still more than half-asleep and said drowsily—
"So what did you do this time?"
The hands paused and then continued, but that hesitation was enough to confirm her suspicions and she reluctantly opened her eyes. Laying face down on their bed, she turned her head to the side, but refused to move any other part of her body. If they went over this quickly enough and it wasn't anything too bad, then she would sneak in another hour of sleep.
Mmm….sleep.
"Nothing. Why would you think that?"
She snorted.
"Harry, I love you, I do—but you never ambush me like this so early in the morning without some reason for it—and usually it's because you've done something you think will annoy me."
"Maybe I just felt you deserved to be woken up like this every once in a while."
"And maybe you should tell me what's going on before I hear it from someone else."
He sighed and she braced herself for the news—it could have been anything from misplacing some important document to having ruined her breakfast.
"Dumbledore knows I'm a parseltongue."
She groaned.
"Harry."
"I know."
"Pleasetell me it was just him?"
"…him and a couple of Ministry employees? Plus Professor McGonagall and Sirius?"
She had to haul herself up to lean her head back against the headboard for this one, rubbing the last of her blessed sleep out of her eyes. "And that's all you did?"
"Well…there was an…'incident'." When she narrowed her eyes at him, he hastened to explain. "Umbridge was there being her stupid self and then she tried to get me to treat her like an Ally, all 'the Ministry might not want to be friends with such scary people'—like I care about the Ministry in any way—and she wouldn't shut up and I just snapped."
"We've talked about your anger issues."
"We have."
"I thought you were in control now."
"I am!"
She looked at him.
"Umbridge, Hermione—Umbridge!"
He protested, knowing it was a weak argument to make.
"I hate her too, but that doesn't mean I would have given Dumbledore any ammunition to use against me—granted this one isn't as far gone as the other, but they're not that different—and something like this, like you being a parseltongue, could change our situation entirely if we let it. I doubt the stigma of being a parseltongue isn't just as strong here as it was back in our world."
The only reason they'd gotten over it in their world was because they'd no other choice; it was a good weapon in the War and the Aftermath was no safer, so it'd been a useful skill to have. Still, these last two years had been relatively peaceful and people had remembered—they hadn't forgotten exactly, more like deliberately set aside the thought for another day—that Voldemort was a parseltongue, too. And a Slytherin.
She sighed, "Tell me the rest of it and let me see if I spin it into something manageable—"
"She deserved it, she did—" He muttered petulantly.
She rolled her eyes.
"So long as you didn't actually kill anyone…"
She listens to the rest of the 'incident'—making a note to ask Ron how he'd seen it happen, not that she thought Harry was lying to her, but sometimes he focused so much on what was right in front of him that he didn't catch every detail—and reminded herself to send another note to Dumbledore.
If she didn't love him as much as she did…well, she wouldn't leave him or anything as dramatic as that, but maybe she would kick him out of the bed for a few days. Or maybe just the one, she thought hastily.
The sex was too good to go without for more than a day or two.
Headmaster
I send you this note so soon after the first, not to inform you of our readiness to face the student's curiosity but to beg your pardon; my Bonded has only just informed me this very morning of the circumstances which occurred on our return.
Rest assured that he has been thoroughly chastised for his omission.
I am sure you are curious about his ability to speak to snakes and I can tell you with utmost sincerity that he is not Dark—he is Grey, as most of the Remnant are. War did not allow for petty things like morality to stand in the way of sheer survival.
Evans and I are childhood friends and I have known of his being parseltongue for long enough to know that his abilities does not induce madness, as some rumors say of Slytherin's demise. They are merely a skill unique to him and a useful one at that! Some things would not have been possible or some battles lost, were it not for his parseltongue abilities.
I remind you, not because I think you have forgotten but perhaps because your memories have clouded your perception, as sometimes happens, that abilities do not make one Dark or Light (or Grey)—their choices and their convictions do.
Granger
Miss Granger
I did lose myself in memories that have no bearing on the present reality or the circumstances of which we speak of. I thank you for the timely reminder.
However, I and the others would be much assured, I think, if we were able to have a face-to-face discussion about Evans' parseltongue abilities, preferably before you present yourself to the students, so that I may have some time to calm a few of the legitimate concerns of those on my staff.
It was quite a shock to watch as he expertly bound Undersecretary Umbridge as he did, ingeniously using snakes for ropes!
If Evans would be willing to answer a few questions, may we meet this Friday evening, say 6 O'clock in my office?
Dumbledore
"Did you hear that Stone told the story of the Dragon's Beginning again?"
Hermione nudged Ron, smirking at him.
He rolled his eyes and grunted. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "I heard. I don't know why they aren't tired of it yet. What is it, the third—fourth time now?"
"Not even," Harry said, clearly amused. "This is the fifth time."
Draco snickered, sipping at his goblet. "I thought you'd be happy about being famous, even if your mum's the reason why."
Ron sighed tiredly. "Yeah, well, I don't mind them telling the story so much as what happens after; interrupting my training for Merlin's sake and asking me question after question after—"
Hermione slapped her hand over his mouth.
"Alright already—we get it."
"I still don't get it." Draco added.
Ron looked at him in disbelief. "Malfoy," he said. "Do you like it when people ask about the Rogues and expect you to answer every bloody question even if they're a bit personal and you've got better things to do than satisfy someone's curiosity and they just won't leave you the hell alone?"
A thoughtful expression crossed his face.
"Point taken." He cocked his head to the side. "I never thought of it that way."
"I know you didn't. You're just self-centered like that."
"Well, what isn't there to love about me?" He preened.
"Honestly, I have no idea how Luna puts up with you."
Draco gave his own little smirk then.
"Well, Weasley, when two people love each other very, very much—"
"Shut it, Malfoy—"
"What, can't get over the fact that I have a sex life and you don't—"
Evans slammed his hands down—hard—on the table.
"Shut up, the both of you—you're giving Hermione a headache." The scowl on his face disappeared when he looked at his Bonded. "Want me to smack 'em around a bit? Would that make you feel better, love?" He cooed to her.
Draco and Ron shared identical looks of disgust—and nervousness. They were friendly with Evans but that didn't mean he wouldn't do something…regrettable…if Granger asked him to.
Or even if she didn't, he might go ahead and do it anyways: 'preventative measures', he called it. They usually just called it overkill.
Hermione didn't stop rubbing her fingers against her brows—there was a dull throbbing and the fight hadn't made it any better—and looked at him gratefully. "They were a bit noisy," she said. But hastily added, when it looked like Harry was about to jump right over the table to strangle them or something: "But, so long as they don't shout next to my ears, I'm fine."
"Thank Merlin for that," muttered Black.
Ron nodded, thankful as well.
"And remember what we're working on?"
Immediately a mulish expression crossed his face and it seemed that for a moment, he wasn't going to answer her, but he grudgingly answered: "Anger management."
The scowl was back on his face.
Both snickered and this time they were not even fazed by the implicit threat in his gaze, as the very idea of Harry taking any kind of anger management class or the like was just too funny not to laugh about, apparently.
"I know it's bothersome, Harry, but it's something you need to do. Something you promised to do. And not just for me but for Severus and everyone else who's counting on us."
The scowl didn't go away, in fact, it looked worse.
"I just don't see how the way I feel, is in any way, relevant to my leadership abilities—or lack thereof, for that matter."
Hermione pursed her lips, ancient memories prodding her own anger awake.
"Harry," she said, her eyes sparking. "How many times have treaties fallen because a certain someone felt he just had to say something? How many times have potential allies simply refused to meet with us because they knew or found out you were part of the delegation?"
Harry wavered, just the slightest bit, under her anger—and the truth of her words.
'Good,' she thought. 'Sometimes he is so focused on protecting me, he forgets that I'm no fragile Pureblood girl, needing his attention every second. I'm a survivor, just like him.'
"Harry," she tried again. "Anger isn't bad exactly and you certainly need to vent sometimes, we all do, but it has its downfalls. This place…this world…doesn't need our anger. Our anger was born from a struggle they can hardly imagine, much less understand and if we let it, it would ruin everything."
"I agree."
Ron smoothed the down the creases of his robes and didn't look up at any of them, but they all turned to him and waited. Ron never joined any of Harry and Hermione's 'arguments', either for the fun of it or seriously, but when he did, it was because he had something important to say, or felt that there was something he should say. And since he hardly ever refused anyone, much less argued against them—except in his position as Commander of the Guard and even that, a position for which he was well-suited and had earned, still took him quite a while to get used to—they listened.
They always did.
"I…can't say I don't understand where you're coming from, Evans. Because I do. You know I do." A wry smile accompanied his words. "But I have to be honest—I'm tired of War. I'm good at it, I can admit that now, and I do feel something when I'm in the middle of it all—nothing but Blood, Blade and Wand—but afterwards, I always feel empty. I try and forget and the next time, the next battle, I do. But after, without fail I—"
He breathed in sharply, gripping his robes tightly.
"I never can. Get that feeling back. Only in blood, in death-dealing, did I ever feel that way and I can't—can't become like Her." He said, abruptly changing the conversation. No one had to ask who he was talking about. There was only one person he referred to as simply 'Her'.
His mother, Molly Weasley, Matriarch of Clan Weasley—the Dragon.
"They tell stories about it but they don't know what it was really like, to see her like that. She was—ravaged—and there was almost nothing human about her. It was like the magic, the lives she had taken, had stolen pieces of her in return. And she—she—couldn't even remember us at first; she just knew we had meant something to her once. That whole 'breathe the life back into her" crap, that took years to happen and even now she doesn't…"
He swallowed hard.
"Sometimes I think she wants to go back. No—I know she does. She looks at the skies and any open flame around her always burn brighter. Always. She's never forgotten and there are days she refuses to leave the bed, no matter how much we beg, like she can't live without the Blood, like we weren't enough—her Family—and it hurts, but I see how much more it hurts my father. He loved her, loves her still. But it's not the same—she's not the same.
"She isn't the woman he had fallen in love with and married and had children with. That woman died a long time ago. And you know what makes it worse?"
They knew. But they wouldn't say it aloud; some things aren't meant to be spoken. And this—his father?—is one of them.
The father who had died protecting his wife in battle, as his last act of love.
His death had been the final blow against a woman who had already lost so much. Her only daughter had been brutally beaten and raped; she had barely survived and when she had discovered she was pregnant, killed herself by poison. One son was permanently disabled and possibly infected with lycanthropy as well, another was missing and yet another had been severed from their twin. And Ron…Ron was on the very frontlines of battle with Harry, as always, loyal to the end.
She lost control.
And in her madness, her grief, she did something no one before her had ever done—she tamed the Fiendfyre that had raged on the battlefield, wielding it with deadly skill against the Enemy.
It was just one more tragedy for the Weasley Clan that her husband, still contemplating the choice before him—to travel on to the afterlife or to stay as a ghost—witnessing her grief and the destruction she wrought, chose to stay and watch over his family.
And so he did—through her madness, her Hunt, her return and her rehabilitation—he had watched and guarded, willingly binding himself to an eternity of only ever watching, never again able to sleep or embrace the woman he loved…ever.
"The fact that he won't—can't—move on until he knows she's better, knowing bloody well that she might not ever be." He snorts. "I don't she ever will be 'better'. Not like before. And he knows this, and he just smiles, and—Merlin! It's so frustrating to watch and I—"
He cut himself off, struggling, obviously, to find the words to say—"And I just can't do that, Evans. I can't let myself get that angry. I can't. I'll lose myself in it, just like Her."
He looked up then, when it seemed that Evans was about to interrupt and said, "I can't do that to my Family, Evans, not again. They won't survive a second one—I won't survive a second one."
"That's right, Harry."
She placed a gentle hand on his face. And suddenly, it seemed as if the harsh lines of his face had been softened, smoothed down somehow by her touch. She spoke in a gentle voice, painful in its understanding. "Anger was good for the War—we needed that anger to keep us going when hope wasn't enough anymore—but the War is over. We came here to make a life for ourselves—for our Families, for our children—and anger won't help us do that…you know that."
She pleaded, begging him to understand—to honor the chance that fate had given them.
Black spoke then: "She's right, Evans. We needed that anger to fight. We needed it to survive. But the time for anger is over now. If we don't move on—if we don't leave that anger behind in the world we left, let it fester and grow—we'll never be able to get past simply surviving to actually living."
Harry shook his head in wonder.
"How did a talk about my issues turn into a talk about the War?"
"Harry—" Hermione started.
"Mate—" Weasley reached forward, as if to set a hand on his shoulder.
"Evans—" And Black just looked at him.
Harry held up his hand.
"I know, I know, I'll have to deal with this someday soon—get a real grip on my anger—but I have time." He looked around at all of them. "We all have time. This is a new world, a new beginning, and we can build our new home in peace. No Enemies, no Rogues, no Slavers—just the stupidity of the Wizarding World."
"Oh, is that all?" Black snarked and the conversation turned to lighter, less upsetting topics.
It wasn't forgotten but merely set aside until they could all properly deal with their own anger and "move on", like they all wanted. It'd be so much easier to turn back and just let their anger become their source of strength once more, but they had to let it go—let the desire for peace, for a safe and happy home for their Families, for the Remnant, and all the people under their care—overcome that anger.
It was time for their new lives to begin.
Soon enough, daily life intruded on their table with the first person seeking an audience with the Council for some grievance or another, his adversary not far behind. Later, when Hermione showed Harry the letter from Dumbledore, he only made a token argument before giving in.
As they lay down to bed that night, legs and arms tangled together, he held her tight and whispered into her ears, "For new beginnings."
In his dreams, he said the words he could not say aloud: For the rest of our lives together in this strange, new world. For our children and our children's children. For the peace we fought for and should have known but were denied.