Rated for language, violence, and mild sexual references.
Disclaimer: If you recognize any names, terms, or concepts, that's because they are not mine.
CHAPTER 10 – Tragedy and Trepidation
Harry was awoken the next morning by the smell of bacon frying. He was confused momentarily, before remembering that he was in Grimmauld Place for the next couple of days, and Kreacher would be making breakfast. He didn't bother to stifle his grin at the thought of the pampering he was in for. Throwing on a dressing robe and slippers, he eagerly made his way down the stairs to greet the old elf.
"Morning, Kreacher," he said brightly, normal morning grogginess dissipated in the face of bacon.
"Good morning, Master Harry!" he croaked, breaking off his cheerful whistling. "Would Master like two eggs, or three?"
"Load me up, if you don't mind. If you haven't eaten yet, put on a couple more eggs for your self," Harry said. As much as Kreacher badgered Harry about not eating, he knew the elf was equally likely to forgo a meal in favor of preparing something for Harry. The elf grumbled a bit to hide his suddenly more watery eyes, but complied.
As Harry sat enjoying his savory breakfast, he heard a crisp knocking on the window and turned to see a regal-looking barred owl waiting on the other side of the glass. Harry crossed the kitchen to let it in, untying the elaborate silk ribbon from its leg. The thick, creamy parchment was sealed with the mark of the British Ministry of Magic.
Dear Mr. Harry J. Potter,
As you may or may not be aware, England's own National Quidditch Team has earned a place in this year's illustrious Quidditch World Cup, to be held in three (3) months' time in Zurich, Switzerland on the Fourteenth (14th) of August, against the Luxembourgian National Quidditch Team. Our great Nation would be honoured to have you helm the entrance of our star players into the Coliseum on this date. If you are amenable, please enclose a list of dates you are available for practice sessions. If not, then we hope to see you there! Regardless of your decision, please enjoy these four (4) complimentary tickets for seats in the Ministers' Box.
Yours most sincerely,
Ackley J Morrard
Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports
British Ministry of Magic
Harry sat down, stunned. He re-read the letter twice more to check that he was truly comprehending what was written.
Ptolemy's tainted tea towel, Harry thought, utterly flabbergasted. They want me to be their bloody mascot! Despite his severe distaste for being objectified, Harry couldn't deny the tremendous allure of the thought of being able to fly with the national team at the Quidditch World Cup. If not for the tremendous crowd of people sure to be there… Maybe if I take a few shots of Ogden's before I fly out, the sight of the crowd won't send me into palpitations. Harry sighed, conflicted. He would definitely be in the stands at the very least, probably under the Invisibility Cloak if Kingsley would let him get away with it.
That only left the dilemma of whom to invite along. Ron and Hermione, of course, but the last one... He wondered if Teddy would need a ticket, being a toddler, and if not, then he could hand the ticket off to Andromeda. Or maybe one of the other Weasleys, or even Luna or Neville. For a guy with so few real friends, Harry was having a terribly difficult time trying to choose amongst them all.
Harry was shaken from his thoughts by a second owl swooping excitedly through the still-open window. It circled hyperactively over the head of the elegant Ministry owl – making it ruffle its feathers in a distinctly disgruntled manner – before settling half on the edge of Harry's plate.
"'Lo, Pig," he greeted Ron Weasley's excitable little messenger. He expertly ignored its fidgeting as he pulled the letter off its leg.
Hey Harry, the letter read,
You'll never believe it! I've just won free tickets to the World Cup! A bunch of Ministry workers have been getting them for the past week or so, seeing as we've made it all the way to the finals this year. It was supposed to be a lottery deal, but Mione reckons it was rigged since it seems like most of the people who've gotten them were blatantly on the Light side during the war. She's all up in arms, of course, over the 'corruption,' but as far as I'm concerned the Ministry can be as corrupt as it wants if this is the way they bribe people. I'm sure you've gotten tickets too, being Harry Potter and all. If you've got extras don't worry about using them on us or the rest of my family, we're all set. You should invite some of those muggle-mage friends you've made over in Japan!
Harry snorted. Ron hadn't even taken the time to sign it, and there were little drops of ink liberally splattering the parchment. Harry was willing to bet he'd had the letter in the air before Hermione had even finished reading the invitation. But, that helped solve his dilemma, at least, and took quite a few people out of the running to be his guests. He wondered if Bakura and Ryou might be interested.
Passing his plate back to Kreacher to wash with a grateful grin, he cast a Tempus charm and made his way back upstairs to get ready for the day. His good cheer faded a bit as he thought about the morose ceremony he would be attending later on.
At noon was the private ceremony for those who had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, who had been students at the time, or who had lost family and friends in the conflict. It was held at the battle's monument on the side of the Black Lake opposite to Hogwarts, a great white marble tablet that listed the names of the deceased as well as the inscription The triumph over evil is never without sacrifice. In honor of those lives lost on the Second of May, 1998.
It was tasteful and understated and did not mention him, which Harry appreciated immensely. He didn't have any right to be held in higher esteem than those who had died – permanently – for the cause. McGonagall had apparently agreed with him, choosing instead to emphasize the loss, rather than the victory.
After that intensely personal ceremony would be the Ministry-sponsored event, which was open to the entire public and foreign officials, and which Harry would absolutely not be attending, no matter how Kingsley wheedled at him. He'd gone for the first memorial ceremony, before his anxiety had kicked in, and it had been hellish and shallow even then.
Harry sighed as he stepped into the musty room he had claimed as his own, moving over to the wardrobe to don a set of rather severe black dress robes. He tightened the collar around his neck, glanced once in the mirror to make sure he was buttoned up correctly, and pointedly ignoring the mirror's comment, "It doesn't matter how neat your clothes are, dear, if your hair looks as though you've just finished fornicating."
Harry stepped up to the Floo in the sitting room beside the kitchen, waving goodbye to Kreacher, and tossed a handful of powder into the roaring flames, turning them bright emerald green. "The Three Broomsticks, Hogsmead!" he called, and disappeared in a swirl of ash and Avada Kedavra green.
He stumbled out, coughing out bits of soot and tripping over the threshold. It was only Madame Rosmerta's not inconsiderable experience with drunken, stumbling oafs that allowed her to deftly avoid a collision. She tossed him a nod and a Butterbeer as she regained her footing, and continued on her rounds as though nothing had happened.
Harry sipped on the chilled drink as he walked down the main road and up towards Hogwarts Castle. There were several other people walking in the same direction with the same determined stride as Harry, all intent on reaching the memorial grounds. Far up ahead Harry could make out Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, and he vaguely recognized a couple Hufflepuffs who had been in the year below him.
There was a bit of a crowd gathered around the gate to the grounds, where Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Slughorn were stationed at the heads of four lines, manually checking each guest entering with the help of a small unit of Aurors. Harry had just settled into line to wait when Slughorn caught sight of him.
"Harry! Great to see you, just great! Here, now, come up and we'll get you checked in straight away!" he called boisterously. McGonagall gave the Slytherin Head the stink eye, and Harry flinched when the entire crowd turned to stare, then summarily parted for him. He flushed and stepped up. He knew from experience that there was no use trying to sink into the background now – no one would move forward until he did.
"Good day, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said primly, watching him from over the tops of her spectacles, lips pinched with displeasure over the unnecessary commotion.
"Hi, Professors," he said quietly, trying to ignore how the small crowd leaned forward as one to try to hear him. McGonagall passed her wand over him, as did an Auror he vaguely recognized but whose name he could not remember. They both nodded and stepped to the side to let Harry pass, and as he did Slughorn gave him a slap on the back the nearly sent him careening into Flitwick. The small man squeaked and stumbled out of the way, and Harry barely caught himself. He glanced back to see McGonagall give a sheepish-looking Slughorn a poisonous glare while Sprout steadied Flitwick.
"Er. Good to see you too, Professor," Harry said weakly to Slughorn. The man smiled back, his smile slightly less broad and bright, but somewhat more genuine than before. McGonagall, too, took the opportunity to place a strong, bony hand on his shoulder and give him a thin smile.
Harry moved deeper into the Hogwarts grounds, strolling over to the far side of the Black Lake towards the much larger group of people gathered around the great white marble slab. Not entirely willing to immerse himself within the crowd, he found a tree on the edge of the lake to settle against and people-watch.
He saw Luna, who seemed to have attached herself as an unwitting third wheel to Neville and Hannah Abbott. His eyes tracked them as they walked, then skittered to the side to watch Cho Chang, holding hands with a man he didn't know, murmur quietly to a group of Ravenclaws from Harry's year. Behind them, Hagrid stood towering like a monolith, talking with Charlie Weasley and Hestia Jones. From the direction of the castle, a group of several dozen students – a combined mass of years and houses, even Slytherin – were ambling across the grass towards the memorial.
A glimpse of glowing silver flickered in the corner of his eye, overtaking the shadows that lived there, and Harry turned to see Fleur, Victoire and Bill approaching.
"Bill, Fleur. And Victoire, happy birthday," he tried to smile at the young girl, but judging from the grave looks on her parents' faces, he hadn't succeeded.
"I put some flowers on Dobby's grave this morning," Bill said without preamble. Harry's throat tightened, and he gave the tall man a sharp nod.
"Thanks, Bill. He- he would have cried, probably. He tended to do that."
"I put out a fresh pair of socks, too," Fleur murmured, bouncing Victoire when she fussed a bit. Harry's eyes burned.
"Thank you. If you don't mind, I'd like to stop by, later today maybe?"
"Of course, 'Arry. You are always welcome with us." She swooped down to plant a kiss on his cheek and Bill clapped him firmly on the shoulder, before they moved on to the other side of the lawn where Molly and Arthur had just arrived. He watched them go, contemplating whether or not he wanted to join the family quite yet. His decision was made for him.
"Hello, Harry," Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt said from behind him. Despite speaking quietly, his deep voice resonated, and several witches and wizards around them turned to look.
"Afternoon, Minister," he replied bleakly. Normally, he was on quite good terms with Kingsley, and he would have liked a nice chat with the man after so long without seeing him, but this occasion made him edgy – both for the memories, and for the crowd that was steadily growing larger. The man offered him a grim nod, understanding without words Harry's dark mood.
"For some reason, I always expect it rain on this day," he murmured, staring up at the clear blue sky, then closing his eyes against the faint, sweet-smelling breeze that rolled across the grass. "But it hasn't yet. Nature seems to want us to see the hope in this day."
"But it's not that easy to see past the loss," Harry finished tightly. The sight of the sun made him angry, shining so brightly down on the survivors and family of the deceased. It seemed disrespectful, somehow.
"Hmm," Kingsley agreed. "Your new position seems to agree with you. You're less tense."
Harry cast his eyes in Shacklebolt's direction, wondering if there was an implication hidden there somewhere, as was often the case with the clever man, but it seemed he was just making a simple observation this time. "Yeah, I like it. Good location, good company. But you know I'll come back if you need me."
Kingsley sighed. "Yes, I do. I just wish some of my other department heads knew that, too. They're getting rather agitated by your absence." Harry frowned.
"Er, is there some problem, or…?" The Minister waved him off.
"It's nothing to concern yourself with, I'm sorry I brought it up. Just a bunch of old people stuck in their ways and wanting their symbol back. I'm looking forward to your generation growing up a bit more, I have a feeling the new Ministry will be much improved by their presence."
"Hermione's already on a revolutionary warpath, down in DRMC."
"I'm not quite sure the world will ever be ready for that witch. And I'm not quite sure the stacks of paperwork in my Aurors' offices will ever be ready for Auror Longbottom," he finished humorously. Harry couldn't help the chuff of laughter that escaped him, grateful for the attempt at humor, but did not offer further response. They stood in silence for a moment longer before the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation called the Minister over for an update, leaving Harry on his own. He contemplated moving over to the bulk of the crowd, where the gathering of Weasleys had swelled, but decided to meet with them later.
He drifted closer to the Forbidden Forest, eventually stopping just on the outskirts. He couldn't quite bring himself to step inside. Instead, he plopped down against a tree, the bark rough and dragging at his skin through the cloth of his robe. It was grounding, though, and Harry appreciated the way the physical sensation distracted his mind.
And then there was something else to distract his mind, as he heard clopping footsteps approaching from within the dark embrace of the trees. Harry watched as a golden head and palomino body emerged at the treeline. Firenze did not step out onto the grass, but stopped beside him and cocked one of his legs into a relaxed position.
"Well met, Harry Potter," he murmured, staring down at the wizard with intensely blue eyes.
"'Lo, Prof- Erm. Firenze. How's the herd?"
"As well as can be expected. As well as ever. But it is not the centaurs who should occupy your thoughts, Harry. You have concerns of your own to attend to. But the Seven Sisters have been unusually bright these last few months night, so take comfort in the assistance you will receive." Well. That was rather more straightforward than Harry would have expected of a centaur. Any other would have only said 'The Sisters gleamed last night' or some such and left it at that. Humans had rubbed off on Firenze, seemed like.
"Yeah, I suppose. Thanks for the advice." The blond centaur nodded as amiably as was possible for the typically dour race and settled back, content to let the conversation flow into companionable silence as they looked out over the crowd.
Isolating themselves on the outskirts was a woman with Lavender Brown's eyes and a man with her chin. They were silent and still and pale, staring over the heads of the crowd at a single spot on the great memorial tablet. Harry gulped and averted his eyes, feeling that he was intruding on something terrible and private, even from his place on the other side of the lawn.
Unfortunately, averting his eyes brought his gaze to another horrible scene. There was Dennis Creevey, short and scrawny as ever, sniffling quietly in between his equally overcome parents, both of whom looked very out of place in their muggle suits. Harry shuddered and stared down and the ground, bringing up his knees to rest his arms across them, and then his forehead against those. He'd had quite enough people watching, now.
Harry glanced up, some time later, as he heard a tinkling, bell-like sound echo around and looked to see a shower of silver sparks erupting over the monument, calling the guests over for the ceremony to begin. Harry stood, brushed off his robe, and extended his hand to Firenze. The centaur met him with a firm grip and a grave nod, and disappeared back into the dense forest. Harry made his way over to the array of chairs set up before the podium in front of the marble tablet and slipped in between Hermione and Percy. Up front, Kingsley stepped onto the podium and began to speak, his deep, slow voice echoing across the deathly still lawn.
"Survivors, friends, family. We are gathered here to today to honor and mourn…"
Immediately after the ceremony, Harry found himself enveloped in Molly's warm hug and Side-Alonged to the Burrow, where they all sat and talked and cried about Fred and Remus and Tonks and Moody and Emmeline Vance. Hours later, Harry hitched a Floo with Bill and Fleur back to Shell Cottage to pay a quick stop, that actually turned into an hour long vigil, at Dobby's grave, and finally stumbled out of the Floo into Andromeda's kitchen.
"Sitting room, Harry!" the witch called from the next room over. Harry stepped in and was promptly knocked back by the projectile of hyperactive energy that was his godson.
"All those cookies at Molly's, of course," Andromeda sniffed, secretly gone gooey inside over Teddy's trilling giggles as Harry hefted him into the air.
"Of course," Harry grinned back, his dour mood lifting in the presence of the happy child.
"He's missed you so much, Harry. Are you sure you can't stay longer?"
"I don't think I should, I've missed a lot of work lately. But you'll be visiting later in the month, right? And I'll be sure to come over here more often," he responded.
"I suppose that's the best I can hope for."
"Oh! But I can guarantee you'll be seeing me again in three months at the latest. The Quidditch World Cup is on this year, and I've just got some tickets-"
Andromeda shook her head, and Harry couldn't help but notice the way the new strands of gray danced and mixed with the lustrous black, so very much like her psychopathic sister's.
"No, we've already got tickets. The direct family members of those who've earned an Order of Merlin, First Class were given them. And, well, Remus, you know," she said. And he did know. Remus was the first werewolf in history to have earned an Order of Merlin, let alone a First Class, and there had been a swell of opposition to the award based on his classification as a half-breed, especially after the way so many werewolves had sided with Voldemort after the war. Harry had taken advantage of his fame and status to give an interview with the Daily Prophet, casting his full support behind the award. Opposition had died almost instantly.
"Well, anyway, now that you're finally here, you can help me put Teddy to bed."
"Wha- but I just got here! I wanted to play with him a bit…" Harry said despondently, before lightening up again as he tickled Teddy's belly. The little boy giggled and slapped at his fingers.
"No, he needs to keep to his routine, you can play in the morning," Andromeda said firmly, eyes narrowing at him the same way he'd seen Molly's eyes narrow at Sirius whenever the man had suggested something reckless. And knowing how well those confrontations had ended, Harry decided discretion was the better part of valor and toted the struggling toddler up to his aqua-colored bedroom.
Some time later, having finally convinced Teddy that it was, in fact, bedtime, Harry returned downstairs to keep Andromeda company for the rest of the evening. He sat himself at the kitchen counter, chin resting on his palm, watching the woman as she kneaded a great pile of dough – with her hands.
"Not sure if you've forgotten, Andromeda, but there's this thing us magical folk have. Called magic?" he said with a sarcastic grin.
"I'm not sure if you recall, Harry, but there's this thing us women have. Called work ethic," she shot back imperiously, nose high in the air. Then her shoulders seemed to sag a bit from their normally strong, stiff posture, and she spoke again, the cadence of her words resonating with quiet grief. "…I've started doing a lot of things with my hands, now. The novelty of it keeps my mind busy. Keeps me from thinking too much."
Harry grimaced. He started to open his mouth to offer some words of solace, but he could think of nothing to say. He'd never been good at comforting people – Ginny could attest most ardently to that – and anyway, his words would have rung hollow; he hadn't lost half as much as she had during the war. He was unable to comprehend the anguish of losing a child or a partner, let alone both within a few months of each other. Andromeda didn't give him the chance to try at comfort, anyway.
"Oh, listen to me, acting as though I don't have quite enough on my hands with Teddy running about," she said, voice back to normal, prideful poise regained. "Especially now that he's got that toy broom. He's been quite insistent about riding it everywhere we go." Harry detected a hint of reproach in her tone.
"You're never too young to be struck by Quidditch Fever," Harry snickered.
"You say that now, but I'll know just who to blame when his legs become atrophied from disuse," she sniffed.
"Who needs legs, anyway? Just a load of deadweight in the air. Could probably fly quite a bit faster without them," he said in a mock-contemplative tone, thoughtfully stroking at an imaginary beard. He grinned unrepentantly when she tossed a scowl at him.
"Well, you've certainly got the right mind-set to pick the perfect gift for a toddler. Proper mental age, and all that," she said coolly. "But speaking of gifts, Harry, what on earth were you doing in Poland of all places?" Andromeda asked, shooting a brief glance at him over her shoulder.
His previous good humor fled as a spike of cold, icy dread shot down Harry's spine. "What?" he asked cautiously. "How did you know I was in Poland?"
His tone must have alarmed her in some way, as she dropped the dough and turned to regard him fully. "The shirt, Harry, dear. You sent Teddy a shirt that had 'I Love Lublin' written on it in Polish."
"No. I didn't."
AN: Hmm I can't seem to stop writing Harry interacting with various people. I don't know if you guys like all the conversation or find it boring, but I sort of enjoy working with all the little facets of Harry's personality that come out when he's around different people. I'd like to think I'm keeping him in character, without making him the angsty angst ball of teenage angst he was in books 5 and 6. Although, I must admit that this chapter turned out rather more angsty and sad than I had intended. Hope you enjoyed it regardless!