Summary: Centuries pass; memories fade. No one remembers the sacrifices made to win the war. Only the portraits on the Headmaster’s wall, and one portrait in particular, is able to tell the story.
Categories: Dark/Angsty Fics Characters: None
Warnings: Character Death
Challenges: Series: None
Chapters: 3
Completed: Yes
Word count: 10467
Read: 6123
Published: 10/19/06
Updated: 10/31/06
1. Prologue by Rhetor
2. Main Story: On the Headmaster's Wall by Rhetor
3. Epilogue by Rhetor
Author's Notes:
This story is composed of three parts: Prologue, Main Story and Epilogue. The Main Story was intended to stand alone; the Prologue and Main Story can, collectively, stand alone as one piece as well.
This Prologue has some markings of Frank Herbert in it; they’re not really intentional but he was such a master of describing premonitions in the mind that anyone who tries it sounds like they’re imitating him. Also, an important realization of Ginny’s near the end of the Prologue is an idea I got from reading from C. S. Lewis.
I had a great deal of kind, thoughtful, expert advice on this story from Antosha, Sovran, Viridian, SomethingFlowery, Runsamok, and my dear friend the Madwoman of Valley Village. I don’t know the precise definition of “beta” in fan fiction, but the influence of these readers was transformative “ it’s a much better tale because of them. Many thanks.
It is as if she has been called out of sleep by a loud voice. She gasps and sits upright, looking around for the one who called her.
But there is no sound. The dormitory is as dark as blindness and her roommates are stonily asleep. No one has awakened her. Occasionally during her life she has come awake suddenly, gasping and disoriented, probably because she was sleeping in the wrong position and had been breathing badly. When such things happen she usually lies back down and goes immediately back to sleep.
But this time is different.
She has the strongest sense of being summoned, of being pulled from her dreams by something or somebody urgent who will not be gainsaid. She cannot place it, but she feels sure that something terrible is happening and that she must help. Confused and bewildered, she opens the curtains of her bed and swings her bare feet onto the floor.
As she begins to dress in the darkness, the sense of urgency intensifies. The feeling is familiar, like a strain of music one almost remembers but cannot not quite place. This music might be a march, or paean, or a call to arms, or a dirge; it is insistent, it is frightened, it is sad, it is hopeful. She begins to hurry, slipping her feet quickly into trainers and throwing her robes over her head. As she seizes her wand, she herself is suddenly seized by the most powerful feeling of déjà vu she has ever experienced. She has picked up this wand, with this hand, from this table, in this darkness, with this same odd feeling of feet without socks in her shoes and this same fuzziness in her head, a dozen times before.
She walks quickly to the door of the dormitory and leaves in silence.
Now she can place the déjà vu. This is the dream she has had, usually several times a year, since she was old enough to remember. It is relentlessly consistent: Always she grabs the wand, she hurries down the stairs (as she is doing now), she runs down a long corridor, faster and faster in order to face “ something. But she has never found out what it is she must face, nor why it is so desperately important, before awaking. All she has known, in the dream, is that everything somehow depends on getting where she is going, that she, and only she, can do what must be done, and that the consequences if she fails are so terrible that they cannot be named.
Now she is frightened. She does not know whether she has ever believed in “destiny,” but the awful, consistent clarity of her dream, and the fact that it matches every movement of her feet and every breath in her mouth, gives her to understand that her life, somehow, has been leading to this moment. This will be the thing she was born to do. But she has no notion of what she is supposed to do, and the weight of it is terrible and lonely.
She picks up her pace as she crosses the Common Room; she is no longer merely walking; she begins to trot. She pushes her way through the portrait-hole as though the Furies are behind her. Which way to go? In the dream she has always been certain, but now she is not sure.
All at once she knows who has called her.
He is here. Somehow, somewhere in the castle, he has returned to her. She cannot say how she knows, but she is certain. Her heart would sing with joy if her certainty were not coupled with a cold, piercing understanding that he is in grave peril. Without her, she is sure, he will fall, and he is “ that way. Still not knowing how she knows, she turns left and heads in the direction of the lowest dungeons near the roots of the castle.
Her steps echo as she jogs down stone passages and rushes down stairs. She tries to calm herself, to think rationally, to plan out contingencies for what she may find when she arrives at her destination “ wherever her destination is. But it is futile. She is completely and fully in the Now, and her dreams, though they have surely happened in the past, seem but reinforcements of this current moment. The future does not exist. The past does not exist. There is only this instant, in which she is hurrying along a darkened, subterranean hallway to find the man she loves and save him from some fate she cannot see.
It briefly flashes across her mind that she has never used that phrase “ “the man I love” “ to describe him, whether to herself, to him or to anyone else. She has spoken of their closeness and affection so lightly, as if using easier words would make the doing easier. But now she longs to look him in the eyes and say that precise old cliché, “I love you.” Desperately she wonders whether she will ever get the chance.
She knows she is heading in the right direction; but she begins to sense the ticking of a clock, the whisper of sand in an hourglass, the creaking of a mighty tree as it begins to fall. Time is not her friend.
She is running flat-out now, grateful for the conditioning of her Quidditch practice. Ahead, she begins to hear vague shouts and cracks and explosions, as of a struggle fully underway. She sprints even faster, knowing that she is almost there, that just around the corner she will see what she needs to do. With all doubt suddenly gone, she knows that she will be able to do it. Her fear, desperation and love mingle with a strange, fierce kind of joy.
Flying down the darkened hall, Ginny does not see the portrait of the ancient witch whose eyes follow her as she runs. The portrait’s eyes are filled with terror, and with pity, and with old, old sorrow.
Main Story: On the Headmaster's Wall by Rhetor
Author's Notes:
As mentioned in the Prologue, this story is intended to comprise three chapters: Prologue, Main Story and Epilogue. I originally wrote this chapter (the Main Story) as a stand-alone piece. The Prologue was added later (on the advice of my reviewers) and the Epilogue still later (on the further advice of those readers).
As a comparative beginner in the writing of fanfiction, I have benefited greatly from the advice and experience of Antosha, Sovran, Viridian, SomethingFlowery, Runsamok, and my dear friend the Madwoman of Valley Village. In selfishly using the time of such beloved authors as betas, I feel like I’m stealing from the public treasury. But without them this piece wouldn’t nearly be nearly as good as it is.
Some readers may recognize some resemblances (in tone, anyway) to one of the threads in Fred Pohl’s excellent novel, Beyond the Blue Event Horizon, as well as to David Marusek’s startling and sad story, “The Wedding Album”, and even to parts of Jean-Paul Sartre’s classic play, No Exit. I wasn’t thinking of Pohl, Marusek or Sartre when I conceived this piece, but looking back on it I can certainly see how their various takes on the idea of preserved memory have influenced me.
On the Headmaster's Wall
Linda Norfolk-Howard approached the stone gargoyle with trepidation, rearranging her arms around the pile of parchments she was carrying so that they wouldn’t fall. She felt foolish, but this is where she’d been told to go.
“I have a note from Professor Binns telling me to see the Headmaster,” she told the gargoyle.
There was a slight pause; then a massive stone door slid open, and a revolving spiral staircase revealed itself within. Linda entered.
She had never been to the Headmaster’s office before. It was a huge room, filled with thick books on transfiguration and potion making. An apparatus that looked like some sort of distilling mechanism filled a table in one corner of the room. The walls were covered with portraits, most of which appeared to be asleep. Professor Alvaric rose from his desk when she entered.
“Good afternoon, Miss Norfolk-Howard”, smiled the Headmaster. It was a bit disconcerting; goblins have carnivorous teeth and their smiles, however well-intentioned, are sometimes alarming. “Do sit down. May I offer you some tea?” She shook her head while she sat. “Then to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Well sir, you know that I’m preparing for my NEWT in History of Magic.”
“Indeed, one of the very few. I must commend your devotion to your studies.” Again he grinned, showing those teeth.
“Thank you, sir. I’ve been working on a project on the Dark Wars of the late twentieth century, and Professor Binns suggested that I come to you for help.”
Professor Alvaric looked uncertain. “I am pleased that Professor Binns thinks so well of me, but I cannot say that I have any expertise in that particular period. History of Magic isn’t really my field, and what study I did in that area was related to the Goblin Wars…” He shrugged apologetically.
“I’m sorry, sir; I wasn’t clear. He didn’t suggest that I ask you for help, yourself. He suggested that I speak to one of the portraits.”
Alvaric frowned, which made him resemble the stone gargoyle outside his office. “The portraits. The portraits of former Headmasters on the wall?”
Linda nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Are there eminent historians among the former Headmasters or Headmistresses?” He swiveled his head, surveying the eighty or more portraits that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. “I had no idea.”
“Neither do I, sir. Professor Binns said that some of the portraits might actually remember the Dark Wars.”
Professor Alvaric’s frown deepened. “Remember? From when they were alive?”
“Yes, sir; I think so.”
“Doesn’t Professor Binns remember the Dark Wars himself? I believe he was on the faculty, living and dead, for at least a century before them.”
“Yes, sir, he was. But he was here at the School the whole time, and I gather that he didn’t pay too much attention to events in the outside world.”
The Headmaster was scandalized. “Events in the outside world? My dear girl, Hogwarts Castle was invaded and some of its staff were killed during that war!”
Linda was embarrassed. “Yes sir, but I don’t think those things happened in Professor Binns’s classroom, you see.” She was unhappy putting it this way, but there it was.
Alvaric gave her a sympathetic nod. “I think I understand you.” He paused. “Miss Norfolk-Howard, you do understand, I hope, that a portrait does not have a complete living mind “ that it does not even have a complete dead mind, as, say, a ghost would have?”
Linda nodded uncertainly.
The Headmaster continued, “A portrait is an imprint of the major characteristics of, and the beliefs held by, a living person. It cannot really think “ or at least, not think originally or creatively. It is more like a lengthy song, performed by a virtuoso “ the song might be several hours long, perhaps even several days long, and might be exquisitely complex, but every time you heard it, it would still contain the same music and the same lyrics.”
Linda chewed her lip. “I understand, sir. But if the particular music and lyrics happened to contain information that was useful to my project...”
Alvaric nodded slowly. “I see. Since you are researching the Dark Wars, I presume you wish to speak to Albus Dumbledore? He was Headmaster during both of the Dark Wars.” A portrait about halfway up the left-hand wall of an ancient wizard with a long, white beard, purple robes and half-moon spectacles, awoke as if from a nap.
“Good afternoon, Alvaric! How can I be of service?” The portrait beamed.
“Um, actually, Professor”, interrupted Linda, feeling uncomfortable. “Professor Binns suggested that I speak to one of the later Headmistresses.” Alvaric’s weighty eyebrows slowly lifted in surprise, and the portrait of Dumbledore looked a bit disappointed.
“Indeed?” The goblin looked at her expectantly. “Which one?”
“Hermione Granger-Weasley.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, dear,” said the Headmaster in a very soft voice, his eyes darting upwards for a moment. “Are you sure?”
Linda lowered her own voice too, though she wasn’t sure why. “Yes, sir. Professor Binns said that she was an eyewitness to the final events of the last Dark War, and saw its very conclusion. That’s the series of events on which my essay is based.”
He nodded again and continued in the same soft voice. “Yes, I think that’s true. However, it may not be the easiest interview you have ever conducted. Hermione has a bit of a temper; from what my predecessor told me, she’s had it for at least 200 years.”
“I understand, sir. Still, if she can help…”
Alvaric sighed. “Very well.” He raised his voice. “Hermione?”
A portrait about six feet off the ground, behind Linda and to her right, of a bareheaded witch in Gryffindor red robes with a mass of bushy grey hair, opened its eyes and smiled. “Hello there, Alvaric. How have you been?” Linda twisted around in her chair to look.
The Headmaster said, “Very well, Hermione, thank you. I have a student who wishes to see you.”
The portrait wrinkled its brow. “Am I doing student counseling now? Is this something you can’t handle yourself? I hope it’s not because she’s a girl “ I mean ‘girl’s issues’ and all that, I was never very good at that. Maybe Minerva “ ” Across the room, a stern-looking female portrait in green robes and square spectacles scowled.
“No, no, it’s not counseling. She’s a History of Magic student and she wants to ask you about things you saw when you were alive.”
The portrait looked interested. “Oh, I see. That’s a new one. I can do that.”
The Headmaster looked a bit uneasy. “Well, Miss Norfolk-Howard, I think I will leave the two of you to discuss this by yourselves. I should probably be ‘walking about’ to observe the various classrooms anyway. The office entryway will seal itself when you leave. Will an hour be sufficient?”
“I think so, sir. Thank you.” Alvaric rose and walked (somewhat hurriedly, Linda thought) to the door.
“What’s your name, dear?” asked the portrait kindly.
“Linda Norfolk-Howard.”
“Hm, Norfolk-Howard”, the portrait muttered. “Probably descended from Thomas Howard, Fifth Duke of Norfolk. Are you Muggleborn?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“So am I. You don’t have to call me ‘Ma’am’. I’m not alive. Call me Hermione. Can I call you Linda?”
“Yes, Ma’am “ I mean, yes, Hermione.”
“That’s better.” Hermione frowned. “Alvaric did explain to you about portraits, didn’t he? I mean, I don’t have a real mind, not like the one I used to have. I’m pretty much a compendium of attitudes, slogans, and random data. The data’s accurate, I’m pretty sure, but ask me to generate an answer to a new problem and I’ll probably be stuck.” She looked glum.
“That bothers you, “said Linda.
“Of course it bothers me. I used to be the smartest person I knew. I was smarter than all my friends, smarter than all the other teachers “ well, it was the main source of my self-respect.” The portrait looked even sadder. “I wasn’t afraid of death; I never would have left a ghost behind me to wander the hallways. But because I was Headmistress,” she grimaced. “I get stuck up on this wall for all eternity with a sorry excuse for a brain and endless boredom. Two hundred seven years, six months and ten days, and counting.” She sighed. “And I miss my friends and my family. I mean, I knew Albus and Minerva and Matthew, who served before me “ ” The portrait of Dumbledore smiled at her in a kindly way. “And I knew Ursula and Randall and Marion, who served after me “ ” A portrait of a beautiful, tall witch with jet-black hair winked at Linda. “But it’s not the same thing. I had a husband and sons… ” She looked as if she would have cried if she could.
Linda was feeling slightly alarmed that the portrait was becoming so unhappy. She tried to think of a way to distract Hermione from her self-pity. “You had sons? No daughters?”
“Right.” Hermione seemed to recover instantly. “Four sons, no daughters.”
“Really? What are the odds of that, I wonder?”
“Fifteen-to-one, for most women,” answered the portrait promptly. “Rather the opposite if you’re married to a Weasley.” She grinned.
“Weasley was your husband? And Weasleys don’t have daughters?”
“I was married to Ron Weasley. Weasleys have very few daughters. I had four sons, seven grandsons, fifteen great-grandsons and not a female descendant in sight. Molly, my mother-in-law, had a similar record: fourteen grandsons and thirty-three great-grandsons, and no girls either. She had only the one daughter.” The portrait looked wistful, then said matter-of-factly: “I think it was an inherited miotic transcription error.”
Linda blinked. “A what?”
“Never mind; you’re not planning to be a Healer, are you?” Linda shook her head. “Then it’s probably not relevant.” She paused. “But it means, I suppose, that Ginny would have had daughters.”
“Who was Ginny?”
“Ginny Weasley,” replied the portrait, as if this explained everything.
When Linda looked at her blankly, Hermione tried again: “The daughter; Ron’s sister; Ginevra M. Weasley.”
After another silence the former Headmistress elaborated, apparently trying to jog Linda’s memory: “Born 1981; attended Hogwarts when I did; present at the end of the last Dark War.” She looked as if the last part was difficult for her to say. There was still no reaction and Hermione began to look irritated. “See here: Am I to understand that you are attempting a research project on the end of the Dark War and the defeat of Voldemort and have reached the stage of conducting an interview with a primary source,” Hermione gestured at herself, “and yet you’ve never even heard of Ginny Weasley? Exactly how much preparatory research have you done?” It was now easy to believe that Hermione had once been the formidable Headmistress of Hogwarts School.
Linda hurriedly shuffled through her notes, looking up names and dates and facts. She turned red. “I’m sorry, I “ ” She stopped. “Wait a minute. I don’t remember telling you what exact events I was researching! I only told Professor Alvaric, and you were asleep!”
“I was only pretending to sleep. ‘A temper for 200 years,’ indeed! Answer the question.” The portrait was not exactly unkind, but she was very much the tough teacher.
“Er, I read the relevant articles in Hogwarts: A History “ ”
““ Incomplete, tangential, misleading,” said Hermione.
“And I looked through Gordon’s Struggles with the Dark Powers “ ”
““ Completely misses the point, pays no attention to detail, no critical judgment whatsoever,” fumed Hermione.
“And Lockhart’s Wrangle with You-Know-Who.”
“You’re kidding! ” Hermione looked shocked.
“Just as background reading.” Linda said hurriedly. “And,” she added shyly. “I read your own book, Racist Origins of the Dark Wars. ”
“That’s “ ” the portrait was brought up short for a moment. Then she recovered herself. “That’s very flattering, Linda, but I ended that book with the events immediately following the Quidditch World Cup of 1994.”
“I know.”
“How about primary sources?” Demanded the former Headmistress.
“You’re my primary source.” Said Linda brightly.
“Linda, Linda, I mean primary written sources. Have you even read the issues of The Daily Prophet from the relevant dates? I’m sure they have them in bound volumes in the library.”
Linda turned red. “I’m afraid I haven’t.”
The portrait’s lips pressed together in a prim line. “Very well. I will give you this interview, on the condition that afterwards you proceed immediately to the library, where you will read every issue of The Daily Prophet from April, May, June and July of 1998. You will also check out Luna Lovegood’s Dangerous Youth “ it’s a bit confusing to read, but Luna was an eyewitness and you should be able to tease out one or two important details from it. You will also contact the Ministry for Magic and obtain a transcript of the trial of Lucius Malfoy from 1999. Then ask Professor Binns for permission to use the Restricted Section to find the Collected Papers of Minerva McGonagall.” The portrait of McGonagall rolled its eyes, but said nothing.
Linda was furiously writing all of this down, thankful that she had brought a self-inking quill. It seemed a bit odd, on reflection, that she would be taking orders from a painting. But the authority and certainty conveyed by Hermione’s portrait brooked no disobedience, and anyway she really wanted that interview.
But the portrait started by interviewing her. “Please tell me what you already know about the end of the Dark War and the defeat of Voldemort.”
Linda swallowed, and began. “Well, Voldemort was really Tom Riddle, the son of a Muggle and a witch, and the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin. Like Slytherin, he favored a strict separation between the Wizarding and Muggle worlds, and he “ ”
“ ‘Favored a strict separation,’ ” repeated Hermione in an astonished, stony-faced whisper.
“Excuse me?”
“Go on,” the portrait said grimly.
“Um, he attempted to gain control of the Ministry for Magic in order to put these policies in place, largely through violent means. He started his campaign in about 1970 and continued it steadily until 1981. During that time he successfully gathered a large group of like-minded followers and eliminated opposition wherever possible “ ”
“You mean he killed people.”
“Yes. He was a very powerful and skilled wizard, and it appears that nobody was able to stand against him in a single duel. His followers were also extraordinarily devoted to him, often taking great risks and committing extreme actions in his interests.”
“In his service”, corrected Hermione.
“Um, yes. Aurors of the Ministry for Magic, in order to protect the interests of the current administration, opposed Riddle and his followers “ ”
“Death Eaters,” said Hermione.
“What?”
“His followers: they called themselves ‘The Death Eaters.’ ”
Linda wrote this down. “How strange. Why ever did they choose that name?”
“Because Voldemort told them he had defeated death and become immortal,” said Hermione tiredly.
“And had he?” Asked Linda, interested.
“Depends on what you mean by ‘immortal;’ you tell me. But not yet. Finish your recitation first.”
“Okay. Aurors opposed him; there were severe casualties on both sides. Eventually Riddle vanished for a period of fifteen years, from 1981 to 1996 “ ”
“Fourteen years,” said Hermione.
“I’m sorry?”
“Fourteen years, not fifteen. Voldemort returned in June of 1995, but the Ministry for Magic publicly denied it for an entire year. Probably dozens of lives would have been saved if the Ministry had announced his return and helped the public to prepare for it.”
“Can one truly know what would have resulted if things had happened differently?” asked Linda in her best objective-sounding historian’s voice.
Hermione looked at her bleakly. “Perhaps one can’t. But I can. Or at least I can hope. Dozens of people were killed by Voldemort when he suddenly began his reign of terror again. Eventually I lost some of my best friends. Maybe things could have happened differently…”
Linda made a wild guess. “Friends such as, was it your sister-in-law, Ginny Weasley?”
Hermione frowned. “Yes, like Ginny. But she was never my sister-in-law. We’ll get to her in a moment. Do you know why Voldemort vanished for fourteen years?”
“The books I’ve read all say that he tried to kill Harry Potter, an infant, and that his use of the Killing Curse backfired, but that he wasn’t actually killed; they called Potter ‘The Boy Who Lived.’ I don’t really understand either of those things, though: Killing Curses don’t backfire, and if one did, wouldn’t it kill the wizard who cast it?”
“Harry’s mother deliberately interposed herself between Voldemort and Harry when Voldemort was going to kill him; he made it clear that he wouldn’t hurt her if she got out of the way, but she stood her ground. Voldemort had to kill her to get to the baby; have you ever heard of a Sacrificial Blood Charm?”
“Yes, we studied them as part of the NEWT preparation in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. But that charm hasn’t been used in over a thousand years!”
“I don’t think Lily Potter meant to use it; she was just trying to save her son. But Voldemort attempted to kill Harry immediately after killing Lily, and the magical inertia from the Charm was still extremely high. Ramachandra’s Fourth Hypothesis “ ” Hermione began.
“ “ says that the Sacrificial Blood Charm will have a magical inertia equal to twice the inertia of the spell that provoked it, but that it decreases geometrically over time.” Linda jumped in. “So if Riddle tried to kill the baby immediately after the Charm was invoked, say, within twenty or thirty seconds, and if he used the Killing Curse to trigger it in the first place “ ” Linda’s lips moved soundlessly for a moment and her eyes unfocussed as she did Arithmantic calculations in her head. “ “ yes, yes, it would have to make the curse rebound! And “ wait “ the rebound would slow down the decay of the charm inertia. You could convert the charm into a shield or ward that would last for years!”
Hermione paused, clearly impressed by how fast the girl’s mind worked in this highly technical and obscure area. “It did last for years. Harry was fostered with his mother’s only living relative “ ” Linda nodded vigorously, recognizing the application of Ramachandra’s equations “ “ and Dumbledore performed the charm vector transformation to apply it to the freehold. Harry was essentially untouchable by violent magic within the confines of his aunt’s house for the next sixteen years.”
“You knew him?”
“He was my best friend; my husband’s too.”
“I see.” Linda’s felt herself smiling without meaning to. If Hermione had known Harry Potter as a close friend, then she was precisely the person who could tell her about the end of the war. “Why would Riddle want to kill a baby in the first place?”
“There was a prophecy. Voldemort only knew the first half of it, the part that said a baby was to be born at the end of July who would have the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. If he’d heard the rest of it, he’d never have tried to kill him.”
“Why not?”
“The rest of it said, in part, the Dark Lord shall mark him as an equal, but he shall have power the Dark Lord knows not. By trying to kill an infant as though he were an armed opponent, Voldemort marked Harry as his equal “ indeed, arguably as a superior “ and began the chain of events that led to his own destruction.”
“Did he really have power Riddle didn’t?”
Hermione looked sad, and suddenly much older. “Oh, yes. No question.”
There was a long pause during which Linda expected the portrait to elaborate. When she didn’t, Linda took a slightly different tack. “I don’t understand. If the curse rebounded on Riddle, why didn’t he die? The curse should have killed him.”
There was another pause while Hermione’s portrait regarded Linda with an appraising eye. Finally, she said, “Have you ever heard of something called a Horcrux?” At least ten portraits snapped awake upon hearing that word.
“No, I’m sure I haven’t. I’d remember a name like that.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it. At least they are still maintaining the old curriculum standards to some degree. This is a kind of magic we never teach, and which is almost never discussed out loud or in print if it can be avoided. I’m going to give you a highly edited version to help you understand what happened, and you’ll probably have to use some of it in your essay, but you must promise me that you won’t seek any further knowledge “ ” She was interrupted by loud objections from several portraits.
Eventually the portrait of Dumbledore prevailed over the others. “Excuse me, Hermione, but do you think that even a highly edited version of this topic is wise? After all, if the Hogwarts prohibition on the subject had been strictly followed in the first place a great deal of bloodshed might have been avoided.”
“I disagree, Albus. Riddle independently found out about the ritual and its effects; the only information he really acquired from Slughorn related to the question of multiple Horcruxes, and Slughorn didn’t give him new data on that point either. In any case, how can I explain either Voldemort’s survival in 1981, or his demise in 1998, without saying something about Horcruxes? What did I spend most of my nineteenth year doing, after all?”
“I take your point, Hermione. But please be extremely careful.”
“I shall.” She turned to Linda. “Well? Do I have your promise?”
At this point Linda was unsure of whether she really wanted to know this information, while at the same time she was dying of curiosity. She said, “I promise.”
“Very well. A Horcrux is an object containing a severed fragment of a mutilated human soul. Such a fragment can be created only at the cost of essentially destroying the internal integrity of the soul, and the subject is not really human “ isn’t even fully alive “ after it is performed. However, so long as the Horcrux exists, physical death of the body of the subject will not result in absolute death, because the fractured fragment of the soul remains.”
“But that’s awful! It would be like living with your insides ripped out, or half your brain shut off! Are you saying that Riddle actually created one of these things out of his own soul?”
“Several of them.”
“Several?” Linda repeated, feeling sick. “But why?”
“Have you considered what the name ‘Voldemort’ means? Do you know enough French? Vol de mort.”
Linda paused. “That’s not really idiomatic French , is it? I make it out to be either ‘theft of death’ or ‘flight from death.’ ”
“Just so. Riddle was terrified of death; he felt that it was proof of the weakness of humanity. His own mother’s death in childbirth was proof, to him, of her fallibility. He sought to conquer death to prove his own dominance over the world. Ironic, isn’t it, that someone who so feared death could cause so much of it? But really, that was the point: Riddle could deal out death but death could never touch him; this proved, in his mind, that he, and not death, was the master.” She grimaced. “Now go on.”
Linda continued. “Well, my sources aren’t very clear, but it appears that Riddle reappeared again after, er, fourteen years. But if, as you say, he was hit by the spell rebound and survived in any form at all only because of the Horcruxes, then how did he reappear?”
“He used Harry. One of Riddle’s followers, a man named Pettigrew, located the disembodied shade and created a temporary body surrogate for it. Then they found a way to capture Harry, and used his blood in the Ritual of Bone, Flesh and Blood to recreate a body for Riddle. Do you know of the ritual?”
“Only from passing references, but I think I understand what you’re saying. How did Potter survive? I know he lived longer than that.”
“It’s a long and complex story, but even after reanimation using Harry’s blood, Voldemort couldn’t beat Harry at a direct contest of power. Harry escaped. What else can you tell me?”
“Well, of course I know about the invasion of Hogwarts and the death of Dumbledore; I know that Harry Potter eventually killed Riddle, but what I don’t understand is how that’s possible. If the Horcruxes prevented Riddle’s death the first time, why didn’t the same thing happen later?”
Hermione took on a haunted look. “We destroyed them.”
“ ‘We?’ ”
“Harry, Ron and I. It took us most of a year. It’s absurd, really; three teenagers “ I was eighteen, Harry and Ron were seventeen “ searching England for booby-trapped, highly toxic fragments of the soul of our greatest enemy. The job was a little easier because Harry had already destroyed one Horcrux without realizing it, and because Dumbledore destroyed another. But there were still four more. There was a locket, which Mundungus Fletcher stole from Twelve Grimmauld Place after Regulus Black hid it there; he’d resold it, and we found it back at Borgin & Burkes in the case where Borgin had originally kept it more than seventy years before.” Linda was furiously writing down all of these names and places. “The explosion when we destroyed it took out most of the shop. None of us was hurt, though I don’t really understand why.
“There was a cup, which was actually secreted in the graveyard in Godric’s Hollow, although that made absolutely no sense, since Voldemort didn’t even know about Godric’s Hollow until shortly before he attacked the Potters. The cup required an actual death to obtain. Severus Snape “ ” Here she shook her head as if to clear it. “ “ pursued us to Godric’s Hollow and “ and died there.” Hermione looked like she was about to say more on the subject, but apparently decided against it. “The cup splintered into dozens of pieces when we destroyed it, and it cut me and Harry pretty badly. I had the scar on my arm for the rest of my life.
“The statuette “ you’re a Ravenclaw, aren’t you?” Linda nodded. “There was a gold statuette of an eagle, with Rowena Ravenclaw’s mark on it.” Linda’s eyes grew wide. “It was buried in the walls of Hogwarts Castle in 1970, the same day Voldemort cursed the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.”
“He “ what? You can’t curse an intangible! That violates Garrett’s Principle of Magical Manifestation.”
“I know. Never mind. There was no way of getting at the statuette without deactivating practically every protective ward and spell surrounding the castle. We weren’t up to it ourselves, but the combined forces of the faculty, plus several expert curse breakers, allowed us to do it. Two teachers and three of the curse breakers died, including Ron’s brother Bill. I’ll bet they didn’t mention that in Hogwarts: A History, did they?” Hermione looked to be lost in thought for a moment.
“Was there one more Horcrux?” Prompted Linda.
“Yes: a snake. It accompanied Voldemort when he came to Hogwarts to kill us. Do you know how it all ended?”
“Not really; that’s why I needed to see you. All the books say is that the war ended when Harry Potter murdered Voldemort; then he committed suicide.”
Hermione looked sick. “That’s really what you think? That Harry would commit murder? That he would commit suicide?” Linda nodded. “Harry didn’t commit suicide, and he didn’t murder Voldemort.” Hermione said grimly. “I was there. I saw. Voldemort came to Hogwarts to kill Harry. Somehow he knew that the wards of the castle had failed, that he could get in without trouble. I’ve always thought that that meant he must have known we’d destroyed the Horcrux there, but he didn’t act as if he knew. He brought a gang of Death Eaters and his pet snake.
“All hell broke loose,” she said in an expressionless, faraway voice. “There were so many people there, so much fighting. Harry was a Parselmouth, and he somehow talked the snake into attacking Voldemort, who killed the snake in self-defense."
The portrait took the equivalent of a long breath. “I don’t know how Ginny knew Voldemort had come; I don’t know how she even knew exactly where we were. But you have to understand this “ Ginny and Harry loved each other deeply. I don’t think either of them ever actually told the other, not in so many words “ ” Her voice caught and she had to swallow a few times. “But I knew. And they knew. The only reason Ginny didn’t go with us on our hunt for the Horcruxes is that Harry couldn’t bear the thought of putting her in danger; he knew he’d be a wreck, that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate, if he thought she was at risk. He knew he’d do anything to protect her, even letting Voldemort win…” Her voice caught again.
“Ginny came rushing in,” Hermione continued shakily. “Ron and I were each fighting a Death Eater and were unable to move. Voldemort’s wand was raised, and he was about to use the Killing Curse on Harry. Ginny ran directly in front of him “ ” She stopped, her voice soft. “It was like what his mother did for Harry all over again; she stepped in front of the Killing Curse to protect him. Voldemort killed her. That’s when it happened.”
Her eyes took on a troubled, abstracted look, as if she were still trying to understand a confusing passage in a book she’d read many times. “Voldemort killed Ginny, and Harry loved her, and he couldn’t stand it, and something happened. I don’t know what happened. He gave a great cry; it broke my heart; I’ve never been able to forget it. And his grief “ it was as if his grief was something physical that came pouring out.” She sighed. “Technically I think it was a burst of wandless magic; that’s what Minerva said anyway.” The portrait of the green-robed witch nodded. Hermione continued, “It was the color of sunlight at sunset, and it was the brightest thing I’ve ever seen, and it came right out of Harry’s chest. It blinded me. When I could see again, Harry and Voldemort were both gone. We never saw either of them again. Ginny’s body was still there, though.” She paused thoughtfully. “The prophecy said that Harry would have a power the Dark Lord knows not, and Dumbledore always said that power was love. I think Harry had so much love for Ginny that he simply could not contain it when she died; it came out as a flood of magical energy that carried him right along with her. He had to go where she went.”
“But why did it kill Voldemort?” asked Linda.
“Voldemort could never tolerate love; he suffered agony when he tried to possess Harry because of the love Harry felt for his godfather. And Voldemort and Harry were linked; they could never completely avoid one another’s thoughts and feelings. When Harry simply overloaded with love, I think it obliterated Voldemort. Or maybe, well, Voldemort resurrected himself using Harry’s blood; perhaps when Harry disintegrated Voldemort went with him.”
Linda was quiet for several minutes, trying to think of something else to ask. She knew that there were pertinent details she should be asking, things about political developments and public opinion and tactics, but somehow all of that now seemed trivial. Finally she said awkwardly, “It must be an honor to have memories of such brave friends.”
“The memories,” said Hermione with a voice of desolation, “are all I have.”
“But you were Headmistress, you were a great witch and a famous teacher “”
“Once, maybe,” said the portrait, becoming increasingly agitated. “But now I’m an echo, an after-image, a repeating recording, an incomplete book.”
“Is it that bad?” Linda knew it was a mistake as soon as it came out of her mouth.
“I hate being a portrait! It’s so lonely! It’s so boring!” Hermione cried. “How can any of you stand it?” she demanded of the other portraits.
“You’re the only one it bothers,” said the portrait of the black-haired witch.
“But why? I can’t be the only one for whom this seems like torture!”
“Hermione,” the portrait of Dumbledore reminded her gently. “A portrait does not have original thoughts or feelings. You cannot feel anything that the original Hermione Granger-Weasley did not feel herself. If, therefore, you feel intense pangs of boredom, loss, loneliness and longing, it is not because you are a portrait; it is because Hermione, when she lived, felt those things herself.”
Hermione looked sullenly at him, but did not reply.
Dumbledore continued, “It means that Hermione was lonely and longing while she lived. It cannot be from missing Ronald and her sons; Ronald and she died within a few weeks of each other, and her sons survived her. What did you miss, Hermione? What were you longing for?”
Hermione’s portrait did a good imitation of taking a deep breath. “Harry and Ginny,” she said quietly.
“Ah.” Dumbledore nodded.
“They were so happy when they were together,” she continued, “and they were together for so short a time. Every day when I was with Ron “ loving him, loving our children, loving our life together “ every day I saw Harry and Ginny before my eyes, I imagined them “ ” And now, contrary to everything Linda had been taught about wizard paintings, the portrait began to weep in earnest. ““ I imagined them looking at me from across the room, looking at me with longing and with envy, asking me, Why didn’t we have this? Why couldn’t we have loved each other for a lifetime? Where are our sons and daughters?” She was unable continue and gave herself over to bitter, impossible tears.
For a few minutes there was no sound but Hermione’s sobs. Linda didn’t know what to do or to say. Many more of the portraits on the wall seemed to be awake now, and most of these were staring at Hermione with horror or pity. Linda, who had never lost a grandparent or even a pet, tried to picture what it was like: to lose dear friends “ more than friends, really, more like a brother and sister “ and then to feel their sad presence for the rest of your life, dogging your steps, making every sweetness bittersweet. It was beyond her ken, but it made her sadder than she had been for a long time.
“Hermione, dear,” said the portrait of McGonagall finally. Somehow the phrase didn’t sound quite natural coming from her mouth. “Look at Linda.”
The portrait of Hermione stopped crying and looked at Linda, who had tears in her own eyes and was confused by the instruction.
McGonagall continued, “Here is Harry and Ginny’s daughter. Look out the window.”
Hermione moved to the edge of her picture frame and peered, as well as she could from her position on the wall, at the window. “How?” she asked sourly.
“If you could see all the students in the courtyard, and their parents, and their parents before them, for more than nine generations since Voldemort fell, you would be looking at the children of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley. None of them, none of them would be here but for the sacrifice of your friends. Harry and Ginny knew what was at stake and they fought Voldemort, as you did, with a clear mind and an open heart.”
“But Ginny didn’t die for the generations to come,” objected Hermione in distress. “She died trying to save Harry! And Harry didn’t die for posterity; he died because he couldn’t live without her!”
“Hermione,” Dumbledore said quietly. “A poet once wrote, The night my father got me / His mind was not on me. When a husband and wife embrace, they are thinking of each other, and of their love and their desire; usually they are not thinking of the child who may come as a result. Yet the child comes, and the parents love it because it is the fruit of their love for each other. Ginny did what she did out of love for Harry; Harry did what he did “ and I do think he had a choice; Harry always had a choice “ out of love for Ginny. But do you think they would scorn the thousands of children, and grandchildren, and great-great-great grandchildren, who have lived and loved and prospered as the result of their love for each other? If you had asked Harry and Ginny, If you could, would you die tonight for your love, and to save a generation? do you imagine that they would have hesitated for an instant? You knew your friends. What would they say?”
Hermione paused for a long moment. She looked around the room as though trying to read the answer from the walls. Then her gaze fell upon Linda and she answered, “They wouldn’t hesitate.”
There was a long silence. In it, Hermione seemed to settle, as it were, back into her picture frame. She looked quieter, more sedate, almost as if she had had a calming glass of wine after a bad shock. Then she looked steadily and Linda and spoke in an entirely different tone than she had used before.
“Well, Linda, did you get everything you came for? Is there anything else you need to ask me?”
“Yes, I did. No, I don’t. Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure. Now, do you remember where will you be going after this?”
Linda grinned. “Immediately to the library, where I will begin reading old newspaper articles and checking out books to find primary sources.”
“That’s right. Good girl.” Linda rose and walked towards the door. “And Linda?” Linda stopped and again turned towards the portrait. “Make it a really good essay; make it an essay that people will read. Don’t let them forget about Ginny. Don’t let them forget that it was all done for love.”
Linda nodded gravely. Hermione smiled at her, then appeared to doze off.
Linda walked out the door and carefully rode the rotating staircase to the bottom, thinking about the many hundreds of students and teachers who must have used it before. As she walked out of the tower into the light, she heard the doorway seal shut behind her. She looked around her at the other students crisscrossing the courtyard, the other children living with the unconsidered inheritance from those they would never know. She sighed and went to the library.
Author's Notes:
Antosha and Sovran separately suggested ideas for very different epilogues; I then realized that both epilogues could be merged into one “ which is the result here. (They have now taught me to refer to such ideas as “plot bunnies”, and to beware that these critters multiply if left to their own devices.) Antosha, Sovran and Something Flowery then looked at drafts of the Epilogue and made numerous suggestions, especially relating to Harry. Consequently their efforts form an integral part of the Epilogue, for which I am grateful.
There are two borrowed styles here. Linda’s introduction echoes the tone of Dr. Janice Norton’s “Treatment of a Dying Patient,” a reprint of which can be found in James Boyd White’s classic textbook, The Legal Imagination. The letter is, to some extent, modeled after both Gawaine’s letter to Lancelot near the end of Roger Lancelyn Green’s King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table, and Sullivan Ballou’s famous last letter to his wife. One line of the letter is paraphrased from Robert Penn Warren; all the male romantics will recognize it immediately.
The following excerpt comprises Appendix A of Love’s Weapons: Reflections on Primary Sources in the Dark Wars by Linda Norfolk-Howard (Diagon Alley Publishers, London, 2328):
***
First, an explanation:
It is regrettably well-known that I was discharged from my position as a teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as the result of “an act of vandalism in the Headmaster’s office.” I have never publicly disputed that assessment of the events, but because they are directly connected with the document that comprises most of this Appendix, I feel that an explanation is needed.
While conducting the lengthy research that eventually led to this book, I visited the Archives and Museum of the Ministry of Magic to examine various artifacts from the period of the Dark Wars. Preserved in a glass case in one of the less frequently visited portions of the Museum I found a set of robes owned by Harry Potter in 1998, the year the Dark Wars ended. Astonishingly, it appeared that no one had previously performed a rudimentary concealment survey charm or artifact assessment on the robes, and I obtained permission to do so. To my great surprise and delight, I found that an envelope had been concealed to act as a part of the robe.
The envelope was addressed simply Ginny. Anyone familiar with the biography of Harry Potter would have inferred that it was intended for Ginevra M. Weasley, whose pivotal (and even now somewhat unexplained) role in the ending of the Dark Wars is detailed at length in the main body of this book. The concealment charm was so designed that the envelope would have revealed itself instantly upon near proximity to Weasley; however, since she predeceased Potter, she never received it and evidently it had not been seen by a soul for the 319 years preceding my visit to the Museum.
Contained in that envelope was the letter whose full text appears below. It is, to my knowledge, the only surviving sample of Harry Potter’s writing, and the internal evidence strongly suggests that it is among the last things “ perhaps the very last thing “ he wrote. As such it is priceless, and the original is now displayed prominently in the Archives and Museum with appropriate scholarly commentary.
At the time, however, I needed verification of the letter’s authenticity. With no other samples with which to compare it, I resorted to the only reliable sources available, which were the portraits of persons who knew Harry Potter in his lifetime. (I was, of course, aware of the controversies that rage among historians concerning the veracity of portrait-based testimony, but the information I was seeking was relatively straightforward and I had, as indicated, nowhere else to turn.) I knew that at least three of the Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts School were personally acquainted with Potter: Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and Hermione Granger-Weasley. I obtained permission of Headmaster Alvaric to visit the portraits in his office, as I had done once before, and showed them the letter. The portrait of McGonagall, who had had six years of what she called “the frequently ambiguous pleasure” of reading Potter’s school essays, positively confirmed that the handwriting was his. The portrait of Dumbledore confirmed this view. The portrait of Granger-Weasley, who had been among Potter’s closest friends, also recognized his hand, and identified certain elements in the opening paragraphs as being things that “only Harry would have known or written.”
But after this, the portrait of Granger-Weasley insisted on reading the contents of the entire letter. The effect was terrible. I was shocked to find Hermione as despondent over the deaths of her friends as when I had visited her as a student ten years before. The letter, moreover, triggered the deepest part of her agonized grief, and she was inconsolable.
(On reflection I realized that I should have known that a portrait would not be able to “resolve” or “come to terms with” events in its past; portraits are incapable of true learning or growth. As a girl of seventeen, however, I had wanted to believe that the calmer, smiling Hermione had been comforted by the wise words of Albus Dumbledore, and so had allowed myself not to think about it logically “ a mistake the living Hermione Granger-Weasley would never have made. In my own defense, I do not think that anyone has previously interacted with a wizard portrait that permanently captured an individual who was sick with loss and longing; such people normally do not sit for portraits and only the enchantments placed on Hogwarts Castle itself caused the portrait of Granger-Weasley to appear upon her death.)
Hermione begged me to take away her pain; existing as a portrait, she said, was never-ending agony because she could never escape the sense of loss and emptiness that apparently had dominated her later years. She had endured it for over two centuries and could not bear the thought of millennia stretching before her, with no hope of balm or comfort. Here was the last remaining shred of one of the heroes who saved our world from torture and terror that might have lasted for an age, and her reward was eternity in a Hell of our making. I determined to pay part of the debt owed by nine generations.
I spent the next several months studying the very subtle and complicated complex of charms, curses and transfigurations that would allow me to destroy one portrait, but not others, in the Headmaster’s office. Such a thing is horrendously difficult because it is the magic of the castle itself that creates the portraits; to thwart this magic permanently is no small feat. I returned to the office on the pretext of obtaining more information and, after receiving Hermione’s thanks and her blessing, sent her to the rest she craved. The rest of the story is, as I have said, too well-known for my liking.
I do not intend, here, to debate issues of euthanasia. They are inapplicable; portraits are not alive. I destroyed a magical artifact that had the disturbing tendency to remind me of a soul in torment. As to those who would say that such a declaration is inconsistent with my claim to have pitied and paid a debt to this portrait, let them hear with their ears what I have heard with mine and see whether they can make the same critique.
Some historians (who do not reflexively distrust portrait-based testimony) have suggested that, having obtained crucial information from a rare source, I then eliminated the source and “conveniently” made it impossible for anyone to challenge my data. Of course it is true that I did this. For the assertion that such was not my purpose, you have only my word.
As to the letter itself, I have argued at length in the main body of this book as to its significance and meaning. Here, let me just say that this document, when read in light of the other evidence concerning the final defeat of Voldemort, adds weight to the proposition that the personal affections and passions of individuals may be as important, or even more important, than social, economic and political forces in determining the outcome of great events. To say this is to say nothing even remotely new. To say, as the vanished portrait did, that “it was all done for love”, seems fitting, if less than conventionally scholarly. One thing seems nearly certain, though: The reign of the Dark Lord would have been considerably longer and more terrible had it not been for what these two felt. We are all the children of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley.
Linda Norfolk-Howard
Academie Beauxbatons
11 August 2328
***
19 June 1998
Dear Ginny,
We learned yesterday that the last Horcrux (or second-to-last, I guess, if you count the bloody snake) is hidden at Hogwarts itself. Leave it to Voldemort to hide something right under our noses, in what we thought was the place safest from him. (I know you probably don’t know what I’m talking about “ but Ron or Hermione can explain if I’m not available.) So tomorrow we’ll return to the Castle and try to destroy it. It looks like we’re going to need all the teachers (or at least the heavy-hitters like McGonagall and Flitwick) as well as Bill and some of his mates, to tear down the wards and such that are probably protecting the cursed thing. It’s going to be some party.
Once we destroy this one, something tells me Voldemort will be after us “ or probably after me “ very soon afterwards. I’m not sure how I know this, but the fact that it’s at the School makes me think of Muggle burglar alarms. I think he’ll know we’ve taken it, and then he’ll attack. So one way or another I think this war will be over very soon. Dumbledore was certain that I could kill this ghoul, and I hope he was right.
But there’s the chance that we’ll lose, or that we’ll win but that I won’t make it. And there are things that I need to say to you, and if I don’t get to say them in person then I want you to have them here, in writing. I know it’s not as good as speaking it to your face, and that I should have said these things when we were together last year, but I blew it and this is the best I can do now. I really hope that this letter becomes unnecessary and that I can say all this to your face. Won’t that be a relief?
I need you to understand that I didn’t leave you behind because I thought you were too young, or too weak, or needed protecting. Far from it “ I know you’re probably tougher than I am. I went without you because I realized that I couldn’t stand the idea of your being in danger, and that I’d be completely useless if I saw you at risk. I’d spend all my time worrying. I know it’s stupid, and, yes, I know that you’re in danger everywhere, just like everyone else in Britain until he’s gone. But I can’t help it.
Here’s the thing “ Much as I know how much depends on finishing Voldemort, I still think that if I had to choose between your life and victory I wouldn’t be able to stop myself “ I’d sacrifice the victory. I’ve tried to be strong, and I think I’m stronger than I used to be, but I don’t think I’m strong enough to watch you die. I think it would kill me. I’ve had some bad moments this year when I’ve imagined him killing you, and it feels like I’m going to fall apart. Do you remember what it was like to do accidental magic, when we were younger? It felt like that, only it hurt, and it felt like I would pop like a balloon. If you were with me the only thing I’d want to do is watch your back. I hate this, I hate this war, I hate Voldemort, but most of all I hate that it drives me away from you. If I get out of this, I’m never leaving your side again.
So here’s the main thing “ I love you.
I’ve never said that to you before. I’ve never said it to anyone before. (I’ve never written it before, either “ it looks funny sitting on the parchment like that.) I tried whispering it a couple of times to see how it felt to say it “ “I love you, Ginny.” (Can’t say it too loud or Ron will laugh at me and Hermione will get all moony.) I get a little choked up. Ron tells Hermione he loves her all the time, and he doesn’t get choked up. Maybe it gets easier when you say it more often.
I’m not really good at this, but when I say “I love you”, I mean that I want to spend my life trying to see how many ways there are to make you smile. You have the best smile. I mean that I want to be the shoulder you cry on when you get upset. I think I want you to be the shoulder I cry on, too “ do you remember how Ron and Hermione held each other at the funeral? (Yes, Ginny, I know that you would have held me at the funeral if I’d asked for it or even looked like I wanted you to. I couldn’t ask. Not then.) You know, there’s a sound you make when you’re really happy, it’s like laughter but it’s “ more, I guess. I don’t exactly know how to describe it “ but I want to hear that sound every day.
(That paragraph looks like it came out of Witch Weekly. I really mean all those things, so why do they all look so clumsy on the parchment?)
It’s at this moment that I most hate what I have to do. I never, never wanted to be any kind of hero. It’s true that I want to kill Tom Riddle for what he did to my parents, and to you, and to Sirius and everybody. But what I want more than anything, right now, is to find a house in the country (something like the Burrow, only smaller), throw a Fidelius Charm over it with Hermione as the Secret Keeper, and find out just how much fun it can be for two people to live a nice, boring life. To see you every day and have nothing important to do. (To hell with being an Auror.) If I get out of this and I can talk you into it, that’s what we’ll do.
But if I don’t get out of this, you have a whole life in front of you. Don’t roll your brown eyes and talk about my being “noble.” I’m not being noble. If I’m gone then there’ll be nothing more anyone can do for me, you included. But I can’t stand the thought of your unhappiness. I need to know you’ll be happy.
I realize I’m not being consistent. I’m telling you that I can’t survive your death, but I’m asking you to make sure that you prosper after mine. Doesn’t sound fair, does it? But somehow I expect you to be stronger than I am that way. When I think about Ron and Hermione, it seems to me that Hermione would survive Ron’s death better than he would survive hers. (What a thing to be thinking about!) I don’t know why I think that “ I mean, I know Hermione isn’t made of granite or anything, but she seems so in charge of her own mind and her own feelings most of the time that I feel that, given enough time, she could manage just about anything. (Might take a really long time, though.) Ron, on the other hand, sometimes goes about in a fog, not really knowing what he’s feeling “ well, I suppose I don’t have to tell you that.
Please, Ginny, for me, to honor my memory, please be happy. Find something you can love to do, someone you can love, and make a perfect life for yourself. Tell all your children and grandchildren about your friend Harry, about what a prat he was but how much he cared for you. Tell them about that silly Valentine you sent me. Tell them how I got jealous of Dean Thomas. Tell them how it took more than five years for me to realize what you mean to me.
But Ginny, if there is a way (other than leaving behind a ruddy ghost or a portrait) for those who have died to tell those who still live how much they love them, then I will find it. And if Luna is right, and there really is something beyond, then I’ll be waiting there for you, to say all the things I was too scared, or too thick, or too bloody “noble” to say. Maybe we’ll be lucky and meet again. I hope so.
I’m getting tears in my eyes, which is stupid. If Hermione sees me she’ll worm out the reason, and then we’ll both be wrecks. And she’ll tell Ron, and he’ll be more of a wreck. I’m going to seal this letter up in a place where only you can find it. I hope I haven’t upset you too much. I needed you to know. With hopes that you’ll never need to read this, I am
Yours forever,
Harry
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