Written for Round 7 of QLFC. BEATER 2: An Anniversary. Opt prompts: [object] glass bottle, [plot point] making a discovery, [colour] bright yellow
N/b: Eilean Na Mòine (pronounced ALE-an nah MOAN-yah) is an island in Scotland which was the filming location for Dumbledore's grave, so I'm using that as its canonical location too.
Thank you to Autumn for beta-ing!
Word count: 3000
Eilean Na Mòine
One cool summer morning, Harry found himself staring across Loch Eilt at the small island at its centre. It was a surprisingly cold day for the end of June. Then again, he was deep within the Scottish highlands, where the wind whipped across vast plains without a care in the world.
Wrapping his cloak tightly, he inhaled the crisp morning air and returned his attention to the islet.
Eilean Na Mòine.
Another icy breeze flitted past, sending ripples through the lake, making the sun's reflection on the dark waters glitter and dance. Harry squinted and, for a moment, thought he spied the marble grave tucked between the group of pines. That was impossible, of course. Powerful enchantments masked Dumbledore's grave and protected it from prying eyes.
Harry shuddered, from more than just the wind, as memories of the battle came unbidden. With a sigh, he checked his watch and scanned the horizon, watching as a skiff materialised a few metres away. The rickety-looking vessel barely held the burly boatsman squatting in its centre, and Harry wondered if it would manage to get them across the loch without capsizing.
"'Pologies guv'na," the man hollered over the wind as the skiff slid to a stop along the water's edge. "Been a busy mornin' in these parts, if ya catch my meaning."
Harry didn't pay too much attention to what the man was saying, too focused on getting onto the unstable boat. After a bit of a struggle, and nearly face-planting into the lake, Harry managed to squeeze himself behind the boatsman and clutched the cold wood of the skiff with both hands.
He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the short journey to the island was uneventful. The boatsman, Graham was his name, kept up a steady flow of conversation, providing Harry with the white noise he needed to drown out his thoughts. He felt a warm tingle as they passed through the magical barriers, and the island shimmered into focus. As the stark-white stone perched amidst the tall, straight pines drew closer, Harry's heart raced.
Exhaling shakily, he willed himself to remain calm. It was the first time since the war that he'd mustered up the courage to visit Dumbledore's grave by himself. Three years had passed, but the heartache and loss washed over him anew, images from that night playing in his mind in slow motion.
"Take yer time," Graham said, managing to step off the skiff without rocking it. "I'll be here when ya need me."
Heart thundering, chest tightening, Harry did his best to breathe and regulate himself as his Mind Healer had taught him. Once he felt more stable, he raised his head, steeled himself, and marched up the slight slope to the grave at its peak.
The white marble gleamed in the sunlight, as though emanating a light of its own, and Harry swallowed thickly. The more he'd processed and analysed his childhood experiences, the more he'd come to have a love-hate relationship with the memory of Dumbledore. He was certain the man in question would've been thoroughly amused nonetheless, which further infuriated Harry.
He gave the unmarked grave a onceover, then did a double take. There, at his feet, was a slender, plain glass bottle with a single, long-stemmed yellow rose inside. The sunlight seemed to make the rose shine, giving it a golden halo. Harry looked around, wondering who could've left flowers at a secret, protected grave.
Graham was the only one who came to mind, and Harry wondered if the man tended the grave alongside his ferrying duties. It would make sense.
With a sigh, Harry stared at the grave. His mind was blank but there was a buzzing of activity in the background—of images and memories from the past. When the sun had moved to shine directly in Harry's eyes, making him squint, he decided it was time to go.
Without a word, he waved awkwardly and returned to the skiff. Graham was there, as promised, and resumed his upbeat chatter as they returned to the far shore. Just as Harry disembarked, he recalled Graham saying it had been a busy morning. With a jolt, Harry wondered if someone else had visited the island.
"Graham," he said, turning to ask the boatsman of his suspicions, but the skiff had disappeared.
With a sigh, Harry turned and trudged through the moors, deciding to leave his unanswered questions behind with the rest of his woes and worries of the past.
June the 30th arrived bright and sunny, bringing with it uncharacteristic warmth and joy for most. Not for Harry, though. As he stood watching Eilean Na Mòine once again, he reminisced about the year gone by.
Nothing much had changed on the outside, but on the inside… Harry felt he'd grown. Of course, he'd have loved for the growth to have occurred on the outside as well, but at least his emotional growth made up for the lack of a physical one. It was no easy feat, mind—but all those months in therapy seemed to be paying off. He'd really hit it off with his Mind Healer and had stayed for much longer than the departmentally mandated requirement.
Rubbing his eyes, exhaustion clinging to him from the long night shifts he'd been rota'd on, he wondered why he'd even come. It wasn't like Dumbledore cared one way or another if Harry showed up on the anniversary of his death. Still, Harry knew he was there for more selfish reasons. As it did every year, the Ministry threw a fundraiser in Dumbledore's name on the last day of June. And every year, Harry was invited as one of the guests of honour.
He'd never gone, of course, not even to inaugurate the memorial foundation created in Dumbledore's name. He knew the man better than any of those flaunting his memory, and he knew Albus Dumbledore was not one for grand gestures. Dumbledore flaunted his stature and prowess when people least expected it.
Harry felt it more appropriate to make anonymous, annual donations rather than show up all glitzed and glammed up. Of course, it could never be that easy to get out of attending such a soiree, so Harry had made it very clear that June the 30th was reserved for a pilgrimage to Dumbledore's grave. Nobody had the gall to talk him out of that.
With a yawn, Harry watched the skiff appear out of thin air, Graham waving. Harry couldn't help but smile at the giant man balancing in the centre of the tiny piece of wood, and it was always nice to let Graham's light-hearted chatter fill the empty space as they journeyed across the loch.
"Take yer time," Graham said as he had the year prior. "I'll be here when ya need me."
Harry approached the grave with much less ado than the previous year—another sign of that growth he kept going on about—and the only thing that made him falter was finding another glass bottle at the foot of the large marble monument, a single yellow tulip in place of the rose. Harry scratched his chin as he looked around, wondering how someone had beat him to it yet again. Clearly it was the same person—the signature was far too similar to be someone different—and Harry decided that this time, he would get an answer out of Graham.
The entire time he sat before the grave, Harry's mind was full of theories and possibilities of who the mysterious leaver of yellow flowers was. It couldn't be anyone he knew—Ron and Hermione were the only other two who knew the location of the grave, and they were both attending the fundraiser. McGonagall was too busy losing her sanity as Headmistress, and…
The sun blinded Harry as it appeared directly behind the grave, and with a jolt he realised he'd spent hours thinking of everyone but the person he was there to see.
"Er…" he said, getting to his feet. "I'll come again next year."
His curiosity overpowering any guilt or remorse he could've felt, he jogged down to the skiff. Once he'd squeezed in behind the burly boatman, he asked, "Who left the flowers?"
"Flowers, you say?" Graham replied, shrugging one enormous shoulder. "Beats me."
Harry frowned at the back of the man's head, knowing he was lying. Graham was the only one who ferried visitors to and from the island—he was the grave's sole keeper—so nobody would've come or gone without his knowledge.
Sulking the entire way back, Harry wondered if he'd really grown as much as he believed he had. Well, not that it mattered. He would be back the next year, and the year after that, and surely he would run into whoever it was sooner than later.
For the third year in a row, Harry stood watching Eilean Na Mòine. This time, it was with mild irritation, foot tapping impatiently. He had arrived much earlier than his usual time—just after dawn, in fact—braving the unexpected rainfall to find the mysterious leaver of yellow flowers.
His hopes had been dashed by more than just the rain, however, as there was no sign of anybody around Loch Eilt—something Harry checked for himself by wandering around the perimeter of the lake—nor was Graham and his skiff anywhere to be seen.
He was aware of the rules to visit the island—he arrived at a designated time and left before a designated time. Of course, he had informed the necessary parties that he would be arriving earlier than usual this year, and they had—very unhelpfully—informed him that he may have to wait as Graham operated on his own schedule. Harry wanted to know who in Merlin's name this boatsman was, that he was allowed to operate of his own volition in regards to such a highly protected location, but he knew he would get no answers from the Ministry.
Harry had wandered over to the island beside the one where he was normally picked up on, skipping stones to relieve some of his frustration, when he thought he spotted the skiff disappear behind a copse of pines. Heart racing, he ran towards the trees, but there was no sign that the little boat had ever been there.
Biting his thumbnail, Harry considered the possibilities. Either he was hallucinating and needed to have his prescription potions reviewed, or… there was a different pick-up and drop-off point from where others journeyed to the islet.
How had he not considered this sooner?
Grinning to himself, Harry swung his arm in a smooth arc and watched with satisfaction as the stone skipped several times across the still surface of the lake. He checked his watch and realised it was time for him to meet Graham and disapparated to the neighbouring isle.
Thoroughly distracted his entire journey there, Harry arrived at the grave on tenterhooks. Lo behold, just as he'd expected, there was a squat glass bottle, with a single lily inside. He grinned, suddenly feeling just as bright as the yellow flower, and rushed back to where Graham was standing by the skiff.
Harry paused, wondering if the man had somehow known he'd return so quick, then cast the thought away as he said excitedly, "I would like to visit earlier next year."
Graham watched him with mild interest. "'Fraid that winnae be possible, guv'."
"Why ever not?" Harry demanded.
Graham scratched his head and shrugged. "I dinnae make the rules."
"That's bollocks and you know it," Harry said, incensed. "I have it on good authority that you do make the rules!"
Graham's expression never changed as he said, "S'pose I could make an exception."
Harry exhaled. "Thank you."
"You'll 'ave to be 'ere much earlier, though."
"Yes, yes, that's fine," Harry said as he boarded the skiff.
"Much earlier than t'day, mind," Graham said, and Harry stared wide-eyed at the back of the man's head.
Dawn broke on June the 30th through overcast skies and ghoulish winds. Harry's teeth chattered as he watched the pallid sunrise and wondered if the universe was punishing him. He wasn't there to visit Dumbledore, after all. Well, he was, but he was also there to catch the other visitor.
He'd done extensive research this past year and found out some things, both relevant and random. For instance, Graham had been chosen by the Minister himself to guard Dumbledore's grave, leaving a decree of no uncertain terms that Graham had full authority on how to handle the management of the island and its surrounding areas.
A seemingly less relevant snippet of information he'd learnt was the symbolism of the flowers being left at the grave. Certain yellow flowers apparently signified an intimate apology—a plea for forgiveness. Perhaps the single flower in a clear bottle symbolised simplicity—that there was no duplicity in the offered remorse. Of course, this piece of information proved more useful than Harry'd originally thought by helping him narrow down the suspects.
There were a few likely candidates, but the three at the top of the list were Aberforth Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and—well, this one was a surprise even to Harry—Draco Malfoy. Aberforth was the likeliest option, but Harry was unsure if he had sensitivities delicate enough to understand floral symbolisms. McGonagall was an unlikely option, as Harry knew she preferred to express her remorse in less subtle ways. Narcissa Malfoy had been a close contender, but Harry couldn't see her doing something so obviously remorseful.
That just left…
Harry's thoughts trailed off as Graham and his skiff arrived. He did what he always did, brooded in silence, but there was something different about this journey. It was only when they slid to a stop on the opposite shore that Harry realised Graham hadn't spoken a word the entire way.
Harry started to walk away when Graham addressed him. "I cannae stop you doin' what you've set yer mind on, but I winnae stand for any desecration."
Harry looked over his shoulder at the boatsman, trying in vain to read the man's expression. Finally, he nodded and made his way up to the grave. He paused at the apex and smiled to himself at the empty spot where a yellow flower would soon sit, then settled down. Glancing at the grave beside him, Harry reached over to place a hand on it. He didn't think he'd ever truly understand all the motivations and lamentations of a man like Dumbledore, but he wondered if there was a different man he could come to understand.
He heard Graham drag the skiff around to the other side of the islet. With bated breath, Harry found a hiding spot in the copse of pines surrounding the grave and settled in. The rhythmic sloshing of the waves against the shore caused him to doze off briefly, and he came to with a start when crunching footsteps sounded behind him.
Rising soundlessly, he watched a hooded figure place a tall, rectangular bottle with a single yellow flower in front of the grave. Harry watched in silence as the hooded form stood before the grave, head bowed. As he started to leave, Harry stepped out.
"Wait."
The figure froze. Unsure what to say, Harry blurted, "What flower is that?"
The other person was quiet for so long that Harry wasn't sure if they'd respond. Finally, they pulled the hood back, and silver hair shone in the sunlight. Malfoy turned around and fixed Harry with a long, searching look.
"A hyacinth," he finally said.
Harry nodded. "I'm sorry for trespassing on your time here. I just… needed to know."
Malfoy remained silent for a long time, then turned and descended the slope. Harry felt vaguely disappointed but followed after the man. The skiff was tied to a short stake by the water's edge, but Graham was nowhere to be seen. Harry looked around, surprised by the boatman's uncharacteristic absence.
"It seems Graham deems our business here unfinished," Malfoy said.
Harry looked at the blond, who'd perched on a nearby rock. Hesitant, Harry came to stand beside Malfoy. They looked out across Loch Eilt in silence, the cool breeze their only companion.
"I don't know how you convinced Graham, but I can't give you whatever you seek."
Eyeing Malfoy sideways, Harry said, "Why do you think I seek something from you?"
"Why else would you corner me like this?"
Harry looked back towards the lake and watched the wind form gentle ripples across its surface.
"Dumbledore was never a man to hold grudges," Harry said. "Definitely not against those truly remorseful."
Malfoy was silent.
"Take Snape, for instance—"
"I get it."
Harry gritted his teeth.
"I have more selfish reasons than you think," Malfoy admitted.
Inhaling deeply, Harry nodded. "Me too."
"I see."
Harry settled down on the pebbly ground, and they remained in silence until Graham appeared, seeming to materialise out of the water. For a moment, Harry thought he saw gills disappear around the man's neck and wondered if he was a merperson. With a smile, he stood and looked back at the grave glistening in the sun.
A mysterious island with a mysterious keeper and mysterious visitors… it would be just what Dumbledore would've liked. Turning to Malfoy, he pulled something out of his cloak.
"You seem to know a lot about yellow flowers, so you must know about this one too."
Malfoy accepted the daffodil and stared down at it.
"And I'm sure you also know what else it's called."
With a small smile, Malfoy murmured, "Narcissus."
Hiding a smile, Harry nodded at Graham and stepped into the skiff. Looking over his shoulder as they passed through the barriers, he watched Malfoy and his yellow flower disappear. Harry closed his eyes and revelled in the warmth of the sun on his face and the gentle sloshing of the loch around them.
If Harry had learnt anything, it was this: time truly did heal. He pictured Dumbledore's smiling face and the twinkle in his eyes, and decided that love or hate, the man would always have a special place in his heart. And that was the real mystery to solve.
P.S. yellow roses, hyacinths, tulips, and lilies symbolise an apology/remorse and yellow daffodils symbolise forgiveness. Daffodils are also Genus Narcissus, which I thought was a lovely little detail. :)