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The Difference You Made

I have not come to terms with his death just yet.

When smoking began to show drastic signs on his health about four years ago, Aunt Hermione had pointedly, but appropriately, said, “I think he’s determined to kill himself – he’s certainly doing a damn fine job of it. Isn’t that right, Harry?�

Dad had reacted to it like he always did when she reprimanded him for smoking – lighting another cigarette and saying, “Never marry twice, boys, never marry twice.� Other times – the rare ones – he’d hug her from behind, smiling, and blowing smoke clouds in her neck. When she scowled in response, we’d know that he had done something to piss her off at the office that week.

The memory of where it all began is regrettably a hazy one. I remember feeling surprised, nauseous, taken aback. Back then, I’d feel at times the need to escape a room when he entered, but I most often just tried ignorance as an acceptance device as best as any other thirteen-year-old boy would. He started smoking the September Lily began at Hogwarts. By the time we came over for the Christmas holidays, he was averaging one packet a day. No explanations given.

It was hard for most in the family to watch him light a new cigarette from the last one. But this was like all things we don’t approve of, and let them happen anyway, Dad’s addiction eventually became as present to us as he was himself. I suspect it was a bit easier at work for him, but then he’d stopped heeding much of what was said to, and for him within the Ministry walls twenty years ago. Teddy regaled some of the amusing tales of the department’s exasperation over Dad’s notorious habit during dinners while Dad watched him with eyebrows crooked and lips pursed to subdue an oncoming smile.

When time came for Healers, some had too little experience, and others were too medieval for his taste. He rejected some because of the connections they came through, rejected others because they had the perfect ways by which he could quit smoking.

All accomplished men like Dad share something in common – they are looked down, degraded, criticised for everything they say or do, right or wrong, and they take all of that in, patiently, uncharacteristically. Somewhere in those decades, the same society gives up on them, awards them with a pedestal of hero-ship and an immunity from all things used to roughen them up in a past life. People like Dad never again stand on the common ground like the rest of us.

He had been fading away for the past four years through a habit he’d built over eleven others. Now he’s gone.

But I haven’t come to terms with his death just yet.

Suddenly so much is happening beyond the territory of my head that I am mostly able to neglect the grumble that settles at the pit of my stomach; the sort that I will forget about entirely during the next few hours, and feel surprised over the ability to do so later tonight. Manu, the house-elf, delivers the news in the kitchen this stifling summer evening where I have been pouring myself coffee from a pot after a gruesome day at the office. The house-elf stands trembling in the bright kitchen light looking so frail for a moment that I’m scared she might crumble. The glass pot touches the marble a little uncertainly as the sense of touch drains momentarily from my hands.

I find her at his bedside, head against his chest, eyes closed.

“Mum?�

His eyes are closed also. His face is bare, wiped clean of things he didn’t want people to see, except all what is explicitly visible there – the skin that juts over the cheekbones of his thin face, the stubble on his chin that is at least a week old. The wrinkles that come alive when he talks, smiles, expresses frustration and anger are all smoothed away, and his face is like a beach after a high tide.

“Mum?�

“He said goodbye to me,� she says in a soft croak that I almost miss. “He said … don’t take too long.�


*

The bell rings and Manu hurries to open the door for Lily and Scorpius. Lily’s laughter echoes outside, their steps becoming louder on the staircase before she walks into the basement followed by her fiancé, both looking flushed from the heat wave outside.

“Hey, Al. Aw, my brother’s finally catching up with the style.� She stops to throw her purse on the sofa and eye my shirt speculatively, holding back a dimpled but far too amused version of Dad’s smile.

“It was a gift.�

She manages to form the words ‘painful honesty’ between laughter, before walking away to the kitchen counter over the self-stirring pans. “Anyway, I was just telling Scorpius about one of James’ infamous late entries. I just knew he wouldn’t be here yet –�

“That smells of thyme,� Scorpius warns her, just as Lily’s nose wrinkles in recognition and she breaks mid-way in speech to rush to the sink. Scorpius waves his wand and the scent of food clears from the air. She walks back in the room, looking a little pale, and takes the tablet Scorpius is holding out for her. He watches her swallow it then turns away to the bar to fix himself a drink.

“You okay?� I ask Lily.

She nods, collapses on the barcalounger and smiles weakly. “First the heat, and then these awful herbs… I’m going to pass dinner this time, and anyway, we have a reservation at the yacht. Oh, and we went to Mercy today. It’s a girl, Al. We’re having a baby girl.�

She smiles broadly and shares a look with Scorpius. My throat constricts.

“Something wrong, Albus?� Scorpius asks, shaking the cubes in his glass.

Lily brushes off his question with an annoyed shake of her head, but the trace of genuine happiness on her face ruins the intended effect. “Don’t bother asking an emotionless git like him – where is Mum anyway?� She stands up to leave the room. I feel words get stuck uncomfortably in my chest. Silence often comes naturally to me and the others intuitively always know what it means. But suddenly I’m groping desperately for words because I need to something to say.

Lily stops and stares at me. “Well?� I glance over her shoulder to see Scorpius also look up at me from the magazine he has been flipping idly through.

“Lily.� I hold my hand to me side helplessly. “Dad’s gone.�


*

I’m sitting on the steps in the entrance hall, because I can’t stand the sound of my relatives anymore. Mum’s family are essentially easy to get along with, especially when you were brought up tottering over the same young kids and bumping into the same adults twice a week as the Burrow grew smaller every passing year. But they have their moments. I know them, and yet right now, I feel like a stranger among them. Lily has shut herself up in a room, and because Scorpius is standing outside pleading with her, nobody else feels the need to go up there. Mum is in the kitchen with the rest of them, but with the urgent need to voice their many preoccupations on what happens now, I doubt they know she’s there. The weariness of the day that usually doesn’t settle in for a couple more hours is already overtaking me strongly. I think of the unconsumed coffee of earlier this evening.

The bell rings again.

The door to the basement opens and Rose stumbles out, looking exasperated. She notices me, and her face rearranges to hide the emotion I’m also feeling.

“It’s open,� I mumble, pointing uselessly in the direction of the dark hallway at the end of which the main door shuts and footsteps emerge. She nods, satisfied, and retreats back downstairs. I glance up as the newcomer comes into sight. It’s Lisa.

I stand up. She hugs me briefly, three-year-old Andrew pressed awkwardly between us. I pull away and watch as she examines my face, looking worried. “I’m so sorry, Albus.�

“Where’s James?�

“Parking the car – those lot took up all places close by,� she explains, tipping her head in the direction of the kitchen from where sounds ensue.

“Lisa, it’s Lily, she’s –�

“I know. She called me this afternoon. Is she in there?�

“Upstairs. She isn’t letting Scorpius in.�

Lisa shakes her head sympathetically. “I’ll go,� she says, pulling Andrew away from her and thrusting him into my arms. He moans softly, but then his thin arms curl around my neck and he becomes silent. “Percy’s here?� she asks, grimacing, recognising the voice. She doesn’t wait for my response, though, and hurries upstairs.

I draw a deep breath, open the door and walk down the stairs to the basement.


*

“… You should be thankful to me for keeping the press quiet for now.�

“In exchange for what?� James asks loudly. “You’ll just keep pretending as long as you come off in a good light. That’s how you have always played your cards, haven’t you? Nobody from this family is going to make any statements for you.� He is pointing a finger at Uncle Percy, whose jaw tightens.

“You’d better keep a leash on your insolence, James; you might not want to pass this inheritance to your son as well.�

“Percy!� Aunt Hermione cries.

“Percy, enough,� Uncle Ron interrupts strictly. “I think it’s time you’d better leave.�

I turn to look at James who is glaring murderously at Percy, Lisa standing in front of him, restraining his arms, trying to get his attention.

“I think your family should appreciate this gesture by the Minister, Ginny. They owe a lot to Harry, and this is their small attempt at repaying that. You should consider reasonably.�

“The Ministry will not organise this funeral,� James says hotly. “You can keep whatever the hell you think to yourself.�

“James.� Uncle Ron turns towards him, shaking his head. “I understand you, but it just won’t be appropriate keeping them out. It’ll only make the matter worse.�

Words become lost as several people start speaking at the same time. “Percy,� Uncle Ron starts, annoyed, “why don’t you leave now, and I’ll come over and let you know what is decided?�

Percy huffs in annoyance and Disapparates without another word.

The silence lasts only a few seconds.

“I can’t believe you would take his side.� James looks angrily at Uncle Ron. “You of all people should know Dad would hate this.�

Uncle Ron puts down the glass that is midway to his lips. He stares at James until James’ forehead clears of the frustrated lines.

“I didn’t mean that.� James takes a deep breath, sits on the sofa and rubs his temple. “I just don’t want a spectacle made of all this. He wouldn’t have wanted it.�

Aunt Hermione finally speaks. “They have seen his hesitation turn into confidence and audacity over time, James. But only those who were close to him knew that Harry always secretly sought anonymity, no matter how much at ease he appeared with all that publicity and exposure. We know, dear.�

Her eyes tear up. “If I could, I’d stand up against that opposes what you see fit.�

“Times, it seems, have changed so little in all these years. You saw how it was at the last ball, how those employees greeted him. They are simple people, James; they just want to be able to go back home and tell their veteran parents that they met with Harry Potter. Those among them who doubt him, unsurprisingly still continue to do so thirty-four years later.

“Bureaucracy is practised with a different fervour in the Ministry walls. As long as you flow with it, your life is simple. Money buys everything now, even souls. Your dad quit, because he no longer wanted to be a part of that system. But if you prick them now, they are going to make sure Harry’s legacy is shattered beyond repair. Let Harry freeze in this moment in time.� She begins crying in earnest. Rose walks over to her mother, and embraces her.

“His legacy is not that weak. But then you always got the obvious wrong,� Mum says quietly but her words cut sharply in the silence, suffocating the air in it. “James, I want to talk to Dominique.�

“He wouldn’t have wanted all this,� James repeats as Mum leaves the room. Lisa squeezes his hand.


*

I’m on my way to the pantry, hoping to find a beer, but stop in my steps when I see Uncle Ron standing there with his back to me, his hands on the shoulders of his wife. His head is tilted to one side, exasperated in disagreement.

“And she still blames me for it… Doesn’t she? She thinks it was my fault.�

“No, she doesn’t, Hermione. Ginny’s hurting. She didn’t mean it.�

“Master Potter?� Manu squeaks timidly from behind me.

I turn and catch from the corner of my eye when Uncle Ron turns too.

“Young Mistress is asking for you.�

“Tell her I’ll be there in a second,� I say, dismissing the house-elf.

“Albus,� Aunt starts to say as she takes off her glasses – never a good sign. “Are you–�

“I’m fine. Please feel free to take one of the rooms,� I tell them and turn away without taking what I had come here for. I don’t have to go looking for Lisa, instead I meet her on the stairs. She says she has to hurry home for a few changes of clothing, and that she’ll be back before midnight.

I continue up the stairs, and find Mum in Dad’s study. She looks so small sitting in his huge, leather chair. The darkness hides her partially. Bookshelves background her, but even the glory of all the antique mahogany doesn’t help her fit in this picture. In some parts of Dad’s life, she was always out of place.

“Shut the door behind you, Al,� she says in a voice hoarse from lack of use, but it has a satisfied, conversational calm to it. I walk to her and she swirls the chair around straight to face me. The last time I had come on this side of the desk was when James had asked Lily and me to rotate the chair as fast as we could while he sat on it. The temptation to sneak in Dad’s study was in my brother’s promise to give us our turns on the chair too. Till many years after the incident that followed, Lily believed that James had puked because the chair had a spell to tell when children were doing something wrong with it.

I crouch in front of Mum.

“He spent the least amount of time in this room, but it feels like him the most,� I say to her.

A very small smile breaks onto her face. “Yes, it does.�

I put my head in her lap and feel her smooth her hand over my hair. In the past few years, I came back to this house many times. But here with Mum in this room that reminds me of Dad, I feel for the first time in a long while like I’m finally home.


*

Everybody is here.

We are gathered in an abandoned Disillusioned field in Godric’s Hollow, which, due to drought, is rendered bare, and, for reasons only the Muggles understand, wasn’t commercialised like most other land in the village. It is late afternoon. Whenever I catch sight of the waning sun I expect it to burn the exposed skin on my neck, but a charm has been placed over the field that absorbs most of the heat. The grass is yellow below my shoes.

Mum sits in the first row, along with her friends and James and Lisa and their kids, Andrew and baby Ben. Scorpius is next to them, holding Lily’s hand tight in his. Most cousins have made it but those who are absent, were disappointed they couldn’t come. The aunts sit along with the other members of family. I spotted Fred with his dad and Teddy sometime ago greeting the guests. I recognise some of Dad’s friends; Neville came over home at dawn, and he and Mum stayed in one room through the morning.

Three rows behind, the Ministers are seated – the Heads of departments, their deputies, and occasionally an assistant who does the varied work of taking notes and parting crowds prior to an entrance. Scattered among them are other honourable members of the wizarding community. I spot a face I know now and then; some are Dad’s friends, some are people who abhorred him for his candid opinion, his sincerity to his work.

On the outskirts of the ground are the reporters. Whatever James’ view is of the press, I think this is one group of people who actually grew to understand Dad and respect him for who he is. It was the puppeteers that controlled the Ministry whom Dad hated. But among the reporters who are here, there is an almost shameful look in their eyes as they stand there out of obligation to duty. If Dad were here, I know he’d smile. They gave him a really hard time once, the newspapers did; they tracked his policies very closely, questioned them, criticised them, quoted him out of context, made him spend hours daily dictating letters to various editors, and later gave up on them entirely.

Several Aurors stand in a straight row, their faces impassive. At the end of their row, I spot Dominique Weasley, looking odd among the tall and burly Aurors, but no doubt an equal part of the department, as Dad’s former secretary. Dad was more fond of her than with any other cousin in the family. She was the only one beside the adults who called him by his first name, even at home. Well, Teddy did too. There were times when we felt Dominique knew more about Dad than we did. She looks bereft, her eyes gazing away in the distance.

As I look away from her, I spot Mr Malfoy standing at the farthest corner of the field, looking unsure of himself. I see Uncle Dudley and his wife sitting in two seats tucked safely away from the wizards. I mentally make a note to thank them for coming later.

Whatever is in their hearts, they are all unanimously solemn this afternoon. Or at least that’s what my pride wants me to believe it is.

I start from my thoughts as I see Teddy walk to Luna Lovegood and whisper something to her. She rises from her seat, her blonde hair appearing almost white in the sunlight, and makes her way to the makeshift stage.

“I’m not surprised to see this many of you here. I always knew Harry Potter had many friends,� she begins. “But he was the first one I had …�

I listen for hours as people go up there and talk about him. One thing is certain to me: whatever position he had gained in his life, he remained the peoples’ man. When they talk about him, it is of simple things – his habits, advices he had given, favours he had bestowed. All memories that are relayed this afternoon are personal, holding all meaning in a simple act merely for the one who narrated them. And the rest of us here can only imagine what it means.

I’m feeling right now the same combination of nerves and unease I experienced those weekends back at Hogwarts when Dad was invited to give ‘the speech’. James, Lily and I used to cringe whenever May loomed on the calendar. I used to awkwardly acknowledge it back then, but now I think of the glazed look Dad left behind on the faces of my peers with a smile. A Monday never went after one his visits without a few of the teachers sharing their view on Dad. Now felt like one of those times, because he wasn’t here and watching this I became a twelve-year-old boy again.

Some of what is said takes me by a pleasant surprise – and I can’t help but wonder how one incident heard from your father a long time ago could suddenly be so different from another person’s point of view. When it is Aunt Hermione’s turn, she says that he was a good man, but he wasn’t a great man. Yet his pure heart somehow always made up for that. There are knowing smiles at this from some of her closest friends.

Uncle Percy is the last one to take the stage, and even as he starts off with what promises to be a fine tale of how there could not be a hero like Dad again, I realise how wrong he is about that one.

I tell him that –

He falters in his speech. “Excuse me?�

“Dad wasn’t a hero. You may be to some, but not Dad, no.�

“Uh, well, Albus… � He is struggling with speech. That’s something I don’t get to see everyday.

“Dad was too good, too right to be a hero,� I tell him loudly.

Someone snorts in the second row.

I find myself smiling for the first time in days.

*

The following is nearly four years old, but remains very true.

At twenty-one years old I am between theories of heroes. For the first twenty one years of my life I believed that heroes existed and were a source of great inspiration. I acted like my heroes, both fictional and real, and hoped that one day I could be a "hero".

But recently I've lost sight of this. As I become slightly less naive, I've begun to spot the character flaws in the people I worshipped, and the unrealness of heroes on screen. Kurt Cobain probably wasn't against all the corporate interests I thought he was, Che Guevara probably had an extremely macho streak, John Lennon probably didn't treat people quite the way I believed. Yet I find myself an amalgamation of all of the pathetic, media documented and probably made up, characteristics of these people. Inevitably I have taken the worst from all of them and become a sad excuse for a person living off other people's interpretations of people I claim to love when I don't even know them.

So I'm between heroes

-AurorKeefy