Harry appeared at the cemetery gates with a loud pop, not caring who saw him, only caring about talking to them. He needed to talk to them.
With a vicious wave of his wand, the rusted gates flew open with a loud bang, the ancient hinges squealing in protest. As he stalked towards the final resting place of Lily and James Potter, gone was the care to not trod on the burial sites of others. Gone too was the vague feeling of comfort that Harry had grown accustomed to. All that existed was rain, confusion, and hurt.
The moment he saw the graves of his parents, he felt his fist clench tightly around the small piece of parchment given to him only moments before, the fine paper crumpling beneath his fingers. He hurled it disgustedly at the two stones before him, and it glanced off of the top of his father’s slab as he shrieked at them, “WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT THIS?”
The silence that followed slapped Harry across the face hard, and his jaw tightened as his teeth clenched together. In a low growl he heard himself say, “Answer me dammit! That’s what you’re supposed to do! You’re my parents! ANSWER ME!”
As in so many conversations before, they did not answer and the effect angered Harry more by the second. “You can’t… You can’t do this to me! You’re supposed to tell me what to do! I need someone to tell me what to do. I can’t do this alone!”
He had knelt at the foot of his mother’s grave, and he could feel himself crying, his chest heaving in hitched breaths, his voice coming out in pleading sobs. “Mum, please! I don’t want to live like this anymore! But I can’t go back, I don’t know how. I just… I just need you to help me, Mum, please.”
His forehead rested against his mother’s tombstone as he cried, dimly aware of the rain soaking through his suit and curling in cold fingers around his neck. He hissed sobs into the etched words of his mother’s name as his fist gently pounded against the wet, rough, stone, trying to work out the tension of the knot that was tightening in his chest. Regardless, the knot only seemed to continue tightening until Harry struck the marker so hard his knuckle split open, leaving a faint red streak across his mother’s name.
He howled, partly in pain, partly in frustration. As though giving up on his mother completely, Harry swallowed hard on his tears, biting back the fresh ones that tried desperately to fall. “You,” he seethed, turning narrowed eyes towards his father’s grave. “You’re supposed to be this great wizard, everyone’s said so. If you’re so great, where are you?”
Standing again, Harry glared at the two stones murderously. “WHERE ARE YOU, DAD?” he roared accusingly. “Look who I’m talking to,” he chided bitterly. “You’re not so great. I’M the one that killed Voldemort! ME! I’M THE MURDERER! That’s right! Feel proud! Your son’s a murderer! So tell me. How the hell am I supposed to go back… HOW AM I TO HAVE A NORMAL LIFE BEING WHAT I AM?”
Their continued silence seemed to mock him, and Harry felt what little control he had left slip away. “WHAT-BLOODY-GOOD-IS-A-SET-OF-PARENTS-WHEN-THEY-WON’T-EVEN-HELP-YOU-WHEN-YOU-NEED-THEM-MOST?” he raged, punctuating every word with a sharp kick at his father’s tombstone.
It was useless, the only thing answering him the continued fall of ambivalent raindrops. The cold rain fell upon his back like hammers, driving him to his knees as Harry began to buckle under the pressure of feelings of anger, confusion, and now shame. The shame he felt for taking a life had always been there, but now it mingled with the shame he felt at mistreating the memories of his parents as he had just done, and the two combined had filled his soul with an unbearable self loathing.
He wanted to tell them he was sorry. He was sorry for yelling at them. He was sorry he had become a killer. Finally he was sorry for becoming a complete and total failure. Harry could only imagine what his parents must think of him. Here he was, abusing his dead parents, blaming them for his own inadequacies. Ungrateful, he was. They had died to give him life, and here he was, barely a shadow, not even sure why he kept on breathing. They would be disappointed in him. They would be ashamed, and he wanted so desperately to apologize for what had become of his life, but all that came out of him were gut wrenching cries.
That’s when the futility of it all set in. He was utterly lost, and the only people that could help him were dead. He had for weeks tried in vain to talk to his parents. The situation with Sirius was even worse. Since he hadn’t a proper grave, Harry didn’t even know how to try to talk to him, though he knew the result would probably be the same. Then there was Dumbledore…
Dumbledore! A spark lit inside Harry that felt scarily like hope, and he immediately straightened a little. The spark evolved into an idea, and Harry sniffed back his tears as he searched for the crumpled bit of parchment, praying it hadn’t been ruined by the rain. He had turned to go, but something held him up.
Looking back at his parents, Harry let his fingers run along the top of his mother’s tombstone. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He had wanted to add that he would work it out, that he’d find a way, but he found himself not wanting to make empty promises. Instead, he let his finger’s graze his father’s stone, nodded at his parents, and was gone.
**
If Harry’s temper had diminished when he left his parents’ graves, the trip to the stone gargoyle he had made was enough to bring it straight back. He had first nearly Splinched himself terribly as he had forgotten that Apparition onto Hogwarts grounds was not only forbidden, but magically protected against. He would quickly run up against another roadblock after Apparating to Hogsmeade when, after walking all the way up to the Hogwarts gates, he found that the gates would not open for him, and trying to go over them provide equally impossible.
At a loss, Harry was about to give up when he remembered the secret passageway hidden in the cellar of Honeyduke’s. As it was the dead of night, this means of entry was some work, but after several castings of “Alohamora,” and the usage of the invisibility cloak, Harry had finally made his way into the castle.
This was not the end of his troubles, though. Upon first reaching the stone gargoyle that guarded the spiral staircase leading up to the Headmistress’s office, Harry quickly learned that while he could usually stumble on a password set by Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall lacked her predecessor’s eccentric predictability (and sweet tooth). After several tries, Harry gave it up as a bad job, and headed for the tower where the school’s post owls roosted.
Finding Hedwig there waiting for him gave Harry a bit of a shock. Instead of finding solace at the sight of his pet, he found it a little upsetting, as well as a little difficult to be pleasant to her as he tied a hastily scrawled message to her leg.
Only after all these irritations did Harry find himself back at the gargoyle waiting rather impatiently. Thankfully, his wait was not particularly long as Harry had only began toying with the idea of trying a few more passwords before the gargoyle leapt out of the way revealing a very groggy and put out looking Professor McGonagall.
Upon seeing that the author of the anonymous note was Harry, however, McGonagall’s face had shifted from one of irritation to one of complete and utter shock. The effect, Harry reflected, of seeing someone so put together looking so dumbstruck was surreal. Her mouth worked uselessly for a few seconds, cycling through what had to have been at least a million questions she had for the prodigal now standing before her. All she was eventually able to get out, however, was a mystified, “Harry…”
Harry hadn’t wanted to be rude, but he also hadn’t wanted to have a very uncomfortable conversation with the current Headmistress, a conversation he felt thoroughly incapable of carrying on. So before she had a chance to formulate her stammers into coherent questions, Harry spoke.
“Professor… er… Headmistress, I’m sorry for bothering you so late, but I was hoping to talk to… to him.”
The look of shock never leaving her face, the Headmistress finally was able to blurt out, “Yes. Yes, of course. Come in… I’ll leave you two alone.” She stepped aside, allowing Harry entrance to the staircase, and after letting him in her office, she wordlessly left, closing the door behind her.
Looking around the office, Harry found it one of the strangest experiences he had ever had. Having spent a significant amount of time in both Dumbledore’s and McGonagall’s offices, the sight that met Harry had given him the impression that someone had taken both rooms, and mashed them together.
The desk and chairs were all in the right places, as were too the portraits of previous Headmasters hanging on the wall. Harry even caught a glimpse of a lone silver trinket that was reminiscent of those that used to populate the office in hordes when Dumbledore had inhabited the place. But gone were the many bowls of sweets that used to lie about, succeeded by a lone tartan tin of what Harry knew to be rather dry and bland biscuits. In fact, tartan seemed to be the order of the day as green plaid seemed to be the only real decoration in the otherwise Spartan room.
Harry had found himself somehow compelled to explore the changes of the familiar office further, but was cut short in his discoveries when a familiarly warm and deep voice said, “Ahem.”
Harry spun around to stare directly into the smiling eyes of Albus Dumbledore. "Ah, Harry, how good it is to see you. If I'm not much mistaken, your presence is quite the rarity these days," the former Headmaster said, giving Harry a very pointed look as he did so. At this, Harry couldn't help himself but feel a little ashamed and found it difficult to continue to meet the gaze of the portrait before him.
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, on the contrary, I feel that we have again come to a point where it is I who owe you an apology."
"Sir?" Harry questioned a little taken aback. "But, how? Why?"
"Why? Because I'm afraid this, too, is all my fault, or at least I expect it is. I've found in the past year or so that a curiously happy benefit of being among the deceased is that one finds oneself in far fewer situations where one can make a serious mistake. On the other hand, I've come to believe that I shall have many years to regret the mistakes I've made in life. In this particular matter, I believe I have committed both one of my greater blunders, which is quite the accomplishment considering, and most definitely the greatest of disservices to you."
"But sir, I don't understand. How do you reckon any of this is your fault?" This, to Harry, was completely unexpected. He had come for instructions, for help. He could not have guessed in a million years, that he would have instead gotten an apology. Dumbledore sighed, and his smile faltered.
"My greatest sin, Harry, was near-sightedness. When I first heard that you had taken it upon yourself to engage in an indefinite hiatus, I had found myself spending not a few hours considering the matter. Granted, in my state, there's not much else for me to do to pass the time, but it's a curious thing when you find a young man refuses to return to a good life he has more than earned filled with friends and family that love him. So I found myself wondering what would make someone so deserving think otherwise, and when I did, I found the answer so obvious I was quite disappointed in myself for not thinking of it earlier."
"You see, Harry, you are one of those magnificent creatures that we sometimes call a good person. As a good person, you were forced to commit what must have seemed to you a very horrific act, and I had strongly suspected that your unannounced departure was directly linked to the guilt you had felt regarding it."
"I still don't see how that makes it your fault, sir," Harry cut in bewildered.
"Because, Harry," Dumbledore said a little impatiently. "I had it within my power to provide you with the tools to be able to cope with said guilt, and I willfully failed to do so. I trust you remember our many journeys into the pensieve regarding Tom Riddle? There is one in particular that has plagued me to no end since learning of the fall of Lord Voldemort, can you imagine which one that might be?" Harry shook his head.
"If you'll remember, as we delved deep into the history of Lord Voldemort, much of what we explored involved the life and times of his parents, more specifically his mother. This was vital information as it set the stage, so to speak, for the teenage Voldemort who would indeed come closer to immortality than any other wizard had previously, or since. In particular, during one of our forays, we learned exactly how Tom Riddle had come to be an orphan, and even why he ended up in the orphanage he did. I take it that by now you must know of which episode I speak; the death of Tom's mother. It was a sad scene, and as we discussed its merits after, you had seemed utterly bewildered that Tom's own mother would not keep herself alive if even only for his sake. You do remember, don't you?" Still not exactly sure where Dumbledore was going with all of this, Harry did at least nod, acknowledging that he remembered the event rather clearly.
"I had asked you a question then, a question to which you either lied, or at the very least, you were not completely truthful. When asked if you might have pitied Tom Riddle, you answered a little too quickly that you did not. It was then that I was confronted with a very important choice. I could have either coaxed you into entertaining these feelings of yours, or I could have ignored it, hoping that any sympathy you felt for Riddle would eventually subside. As we both know, I chose the latter. Again, not a year after already apologizing for a very similar mistake, I found myself making the error of wishing to protect you so much, that I underestimated you. What good, I asked myself, could pity do you in your inevitable confrontation with Voldemort? On the contrary, at the time I felt that your sympathies would only put you in more danger, confusing you in a fight that I had already known would be excessively difficult. So I chose to do nothing."
"Alas, I chose poorly. When I say my error was near-sightedness, Harry, I mean to say that my only concern was getting you through the battle, paying little attention to what may occur after. In hindsight, I have come to realize that had I encouraged you to explore your feelings of sympathy, they may not have manifested themselves later as guilt. Or, if they still did, you could have been better prepared to cope with them. As it stands, when you finally stood victorious, at the point that should have been your crowning moment of triumph, I expect that you felt lower that day than you had scarce occasion to feel before. It has led you to flee a life you deserve, to deprive yourself of the friends you miss the most (and, might I add, that miss you as well). You had performed more admirably than anyone could have hoped, and, because of my lack of foresight, you have received naught but this shadow of a life for a reward. For this, Harry, I apologize."
Dumbledore fell silent, and Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the image of the former Headmaster's portrait now giving him a sorrowfully apologetic look. It was an extremely difficult position for Harry, one in which he had to once again contemplate forgiveness to a man that had given him so much throughout Harry's life. Still, much of what the portrait had said made sense. It had most definitely explained how he felt after killing Voldemort, and now that he thought about it, it could partly explain his feelings towards magic in general, having little else to blame for the pain and confusion that had eaten away at him over the past few months. And yet, these revelations did little to comfort Harry. He still had no guidance on what to do. Knowing why he felt the way he did didn't make the feelings stop. On top of that, as Ginny's outburst earlier had proven, Harry's prolonged absence had created more problems that he still did not know how to deal with.
"So, what am I supposed to do now, sir?" Harry asked when his own thoughts had failed to provide a solution.
"Unfortunately," Dumbledore began, looking even sadder than he had before. "I can't tell you."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, a little nonplused. "You always used to tell me what to do, where to go, how to get through things. What makes this any different?"
Dumbledore heaved a great sigh, and his shoulders hunched. "In the past, our paths converged. We shared common goals, and so I was obliged to help you. But we have come to a parting of ways, Harry. My way is to be deceased, while your way, Harry, is to live, and no two paths could be more separate."
"NO!" Harry yelled, again feeling his temper break at the uselessness of the situation. "You're not... You're NOT going to just apologize and be done with it this time! You say it's your fault, then FIX IT! TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" In a rage, Harry had picked up the closest thing to him, the tartan tin of biscuits, and cocked his arm as though to throw it strait at Dumbledore's portrait, but before he could release, Dumbledore's voice boomed out.
"STOP!" Harry froze. "Had this office still been mine, I would gladly let you destroy anything you wish. As it is not my office, I would think that you would show some gratitude to its current owner's hospitality." Looking down at the tin in his hand, Harry felt himself a little ashamed. She had given him a biscuit from this very tin in his fifth year, back when he was first getting in trouble with Dolores Umbridge, and now, though it was the dead of night (or, to be more accurate, very early morning), she had without question given him free usage of her office. As much frustration as Harry may have felt to the former owner of this office, he did have to admit that Professor McGonagall had done nothing to deserve his wrath. Putting the tin down, Harry watched as Dumbledore smiled mournfully.
Seemingly satisfied that Harry was no longer a threat to the Headmistress's things, Dumbledore again spoke. "Again, I must apologize, but you must understand Harry, as much as I wish I could tell you which step to make next, I can not. It is not my place because I am not of the living, and I am not you. If I were to tell you where to go, who to see, what to say, then your life would cease to be your own, and in a way, become mine. I have had a life, Harry, a rather long one, mind you. I've enjoyed my victories, wallowed in my defeats, and coped with my regrets. That is what any of us can ask for. This life, Harry, is yours, and you must choose to do with it, there is no other way."
"But, sir!" Harry demanded, but Dumbledore cut him off.
"While I may not be able to tell you what to do, Harry, I can give you some advice, which I shall so listen carefully. Live, Harry."
"But..."
"Harry, as fallible as I've proven in the past, I still hold my own advice in rather high regard, and will thusly not willfully help you not take it. I'm dead, Harry, and the living can not live if they dwell overmuch on those who are no longer. You ask me what to do, I tell you. Go live Harry Potter."
More confused than ever, Harry noticed the sky outside the window beginning to show the first signs of dawn. Had he been at this the entire night? An entire night, and the most he had gotten was "Live"? Without another word, without even bothering to look back at the portrait, and most definitely without a single clue as to what to do next, Harry had started to storm out of the office. His hand on the door knob, Harry was about to fling the door open when Dumbledore's voice again stopped him.
"Harry?" He stopped and turned at the mention of his name to find Dumbledore smiling at him, his eyes twinkling in that old familiar way behind their half-moon spectacles. "This may make me seem like a hypocrite, considering, but I wouldn't mind the occasional visit. After you've sorted everything out, of course."
Harry's grip on the door tightened, and looking at the now emerging sun through the window, Harry's reply came cold and bitter. "I'm going to be late for work." And he was gone.
**
After a quick shower, and a change of clothes, Harry rushed to work only to realize that not only was he not in danger of showing up late, but instead was nearly thirty minutes early. The warehouse was barren, his every footstep sending echoes bouncing from one high stack of shelves to another, playing a staccato beat to the thoughts that were storming throughout Harry’s mind.
Popping open the top of a soda he had purchased from a vending machine in the break room, Harry had started to drink from it when his hand in his pocket again met with the crumpled piece of paper delivered to him by Hedwig the night before. Setting the soda down, Harry pulled it out and read it again, shaking his head as he did so.
He had hardly the time to let his mind focus on the bit of parchment when a loud metallic clanking echoed down towards him from above. Looking up, his eyes quickly found the source; Mr. Jacobs looking down at him.
“Ah, Harry! What luck! Come up here for a mo, will you?” he boomed down, and crumpling the paper back up and stuffing it back in his pocket, Harry heaved a sigh and made the thoroughly unpleasant journey up the rickety metal staircase. At the top, he found the door to Mr. Jacobs’ office wide open, and a rather mussed Mr. Jacobs sitting behind his desk.
“Good, good come in,” he said, waving Harry in with a well-manicured hand. “It is a good thing you came in early. How are you? Have a good weekend?”
Harry shrugged. “Pretty good, I suppose.” Again, Mr. Jacobs flashed Harry a look that let on that he knew Harry was lying. While his face may have shown this, however, his words indicated that, at the very least, Mr. Jacobs was going to let the lie slip by.
“Good, I’m glad,” he intoned flatly. “Perhaps that will make what I have to say a little easier. I called you up here, Harry, because I’m firing you.”
“What? What did I do, sir?”
“Nothing. In fact, over the past few months you have proven to be one of the best workers I’ve had in my employ. I’m getting close to retirement, you know, and nothing would make me happier than to see someone like you as my successor. You’re hard working, responsible, and you pay attention. But it’s not you.”
“But, why fire me, sir?”
Jacobs sighed and gave Harry a look he had seen several times before. It was a kind look, a sympathetic look, but a tired and hunted look as well. It was the kind of look a dog owner gives his beloved pet right before telling the vet to put the animal to sleep forever. “Because,” Jacobs began to explain. “You don’t belong here. You don’t belong in this warehouse, wasting your life away, and you most definitely don’t belong in this world, Harry.”
“S-Sir?” Harry stammered in disbelief. Did he know?
Resignedly, Jacobs huffed, “I’m a Squib, Harry.”
“A WHAT?”
“Squib, you know, born to wizarding parents but not a magical bone in my body…”
“I know what a Squib is, but…”
“Yes. You see, back when You-Know… Oh I suppose it’s safe to say his name now, isn’t it? Okay, back when Voldemort was coming into power the first time, we Squibs were nearly as much a target as the Muggleborns. We were a disgrace, you see? An abomination to the idea of wizarding heritage. So at the time, I did what many other Squibs did, and fled the wizarding world to live like a Muggle.
“Oh, I always intended to come back, but then I met my Tabby, and, well, you’ve seen how special she is. But I had friends back in your world, and I always kept in touch. That was no small trick, I tell you, keeping tabs on wizard news. Made a habit of coming in an hour early just so that no one would notice the owls delivering the post. But I couldn’t let Tabby know, could I?
“Anyway, I had kept a few friends, and took in The Prophet when I had a chance. Then the most unusual thing happened. Not a full week after Voldemort was supposed to have been dead and buried, a young man walks into my office with a lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead, and looking very much like a lad I knew back in the days when I was still living among wizards. Right then I said to myself it was just a coincidence. But it was too much of a coincidence, and I found myself unable to refuse the young man a job when he asked for one.” Much of this slipped through Harry’s head far too quickly for it to take hold, but the one thing he took note of was that the man sitting in front of him knew Harry’s father.
“So, just to be sure I wasn’t seeing things, after everyone else went home for the day, I sent off a letter to another old friend of mine, a man by the name of Remus Lupin. The very next day, as I came into my office, I was accosted by an owl! Oh, Remus not only confirmed my suspicion, but had demanded that he be allowed to come and collect you.
“Let me tell you,” Jacobs continued, leaning back and letting a faintly fond smile play on his face. “It was a lark and a half trying to convince him otherwise. But I did. He didn’t understand, Harry, but after working in this warehouse for as long as I have, I did. I’ve seen what a troubled young man’s face looks like, how his shoulders slump when he’s lost his place in the world. I may not know what have happened in the final moments of your battle, Potter, but I know that whatever they held, you needed time alone to work that out.”
“So, sir,” Harry finally cut in pleadingly. “If you understand, why fire me? Why now?”
“Because I hadn’t the heart to do it sooner, as I should’ve. Around work, I had grown to depend upon you. Outside of work, well, Tabby’s grown quite fond of your Friday evening visits. It was only after this last Friday that I realized that I was no longer helping you, as I had started out to do, and was now only helping myself. What’s worse, I realized that my selfishness was now hurting you more than it was helping.
“No, you’re not,” Harry argued. “I’m fine, really I am. I like it here.”
“You’re about as good of a liar as your father was, Harry.”
“You knew him…” Harry muttered, almost whispering.
“Yes, I knew him, and Remus, and Peter, and Sirius, and Lily, though at the time I would have never have guessed it would have been James and Lily. They were just kids, and I was working at the ice cream shop in Diagon Alley. Not a lot of good jobs for Squibs in the wizarding world. First met your father and his mates as they were trying to nick a pack of Iced Pocket Peanut Patties. Made them sell ice cream for the better part of a day to pay it off, and by the end of it, we had taken a liking. But your father… terrible liar. You could see the guilt on his face like a billboard.
“Kind of like your face every time you try and tell me you’re fine. You’re not fine, Harry, and you never will be as long as you stay here. I can’t tell you where to go, or what to do, but I won’t actively help you run anymore. Go.”
“But, you can’t,” Harry begged.
“I can, and you’re still fired. Harry, go back to where you belong. If you can’t, then figure out why not, and fix it so that you can. Go, Harry, go and be the Man Who Lived, and not the boy who couldn’t.”
Harry stared at Jacobs for a good long time. Jacobs stared back, his jaw set, obviously unwilling to budge. As they stared at one another, Harry felt his hand dig back into his pocket and find the parchment he had clung to throughout the night. Pulling it out, he didn’t even need to spread it out anymore to know exactly what was on it. He knew every letter, every comma, every period by now. Even more, he knew every promise that piece of parchment held, and he knew how badly he wanted it.
Harry wanted to go back, that much he knew. But what kept him? What could he possibly fix? The events of the previous night played over and over in his mind as he stared at the parchment in his hand. He fought through the confusion and the pain, replaying words, trying to find some clue. And then, as he focused on his conversation with Dumbledore, something in his mind clicked in place. He knew.
His eyes shifted back and forth between the paper in his hands, and his now former boss. He could do it, he thought, and it wouldn’t be easy, but he could do it. He would do it, he finally decided, he would go back. But before he could do that, he had one more thing to do first.
Replacing the ball of paper in his pocket, Harry met Jacobs’ eyes one more time, nodded, and said, “Thanks.”
**
Harry hardly recognized the place. The last time he had been there, the ground was almost completely covered with dead or unconscious bodies. Now it was as if the great battle had never been fought there. The grass rolled on in lush green knee high waves, and wild flowers freckled the field with brilliant specks of yellow and white and blue.
The sky was different too. Back then it was the color of wrought iron and despair. Now it was the deep azure of summer, the kind of sky kids flew kites in and lovers lay beneath making shapes out of the lazily drifting clouds.
He wasn’t exactly sure how to find the right spot, as there was no marker, but somewhere deep inside himself, Harry realized that that wasn’t the important part. No the important part wasn’t where, but what. What he would say, and if he meant it.
After walking sometime through the fragrant grass, Harry found a place that he figured to be as good as any. As he sat, something inside of him stirred, and he had the impression that he was not only close, but exactly where he needed to be. It had taken him a long time to speak, partly because of how beautiful a day it was, and partly because he wanted to make sure he got it right. Finally ready, Harry spoke in a clear, strong, voice, and didn’t look back.
“I’m not sorry I killed you,” he said, letting the sun shine on his face. “I’m not,” and for the first time, Harry didn’t feel like he was trying to convince himself of anything, or that he was going on the defensive. He had spoken true, and for once, he wasn’t ashamed.
“You did things, and it may not be fair to say that anyone deserves to die, but I’m not sorry it happened, and I’m not sorry that I was the one to do it.” There was no malice in Harry’s voice, or even in his thoughts. He wasn’t saying this in any kind of a rant or rage, but instead he was simply explaining. He was explaining the one thing that even up until now he wasn’t even sure about; how he felt.
“But I am sorry, Tom. I’m sorry things turned out this way. I’m really sorry about your parents, and maybe if they didn’t turn out the way they did, maybe you wouldn’t have turned out they way you were. Heh, listen to me, I go my whole life listening to people tell me they’re sorry about my parents, and now I’m doing the same thing to you. I always kind of hated that. I mean, honestly, what are you supposed to say to that?”
Harry lay down in the tall grass, letting the warm day embrace him, lacing his fingers behind his head like a kind of pillow. As he continued to talk, he felt the pain that had been building up inside slowly start to ebb away. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that stuff. But, you didn’t have to turn out like this, Tom. Not really. You could’ve given people a chance. I mean, it was never too late, and they’re not that bad, people that is. But, I guess that’s what really sets us apart. I spent a lot of time worrying that I was too much like you, and in a lot of ways I was. In a lot of ways, I guess I still kind of am.
“But in the end, I’ll give people a chance. It may take me a bit to get there, true, but I’ll get there. Like now. For several months now I was afraid to go home. I was afraid of what I had done to you, and I was afraid of them, and I guess I was afraid of a lot of things, but I think I’ll go home now. I’ll go home, and give some of those people a chance, and if they throw me out on my ear, well, I’ll deal with that when I get there.
“I’m really sorry you never learned to give people a chance, Tom. I think you might have had a real chance at being happy some day. But you didn’t.” With this Harry stood up, wiping the soil and bits of grass from the bottom of his jeans. “You didn’t, Tom. And for a moment there, it was looking like I was going to follow your lead. Who knows? Maybe if I did, some other kid may be laying in some field apologizing to me years from now. But we’re not going to know that, because I’m going home. I’m sorry about everything, really, Tom. I’m sorry, and goodbye.”
With a faint pop, Harry was gone, and all that was left on the field was green, and flower, and the most comfortable warm summer breeze.
Epilogues, Part I: Shadows by Grimmrook
Chapter Notes: Well, here we are, chapter four. Again, I need to put the same thanks out to the same three people. Rosebeth, and Critmo who were all wonderful beta readers, and HPManiac666 for inspiring me on this one. Now for our reader review incentive playlist: We get angsty here so I think Shinedown's "45" is perfect. Staind again gets honorable mention with "Please" off of their Chapter V CD. Papa Roach comes in with "Scars" and continuing with the Angry White Boy music, as my wife likes to call it, we're gonna throw in Seether's "Fine Again". I had more, but I'm drawing a blank now, so please, send in the reviews, and help make this playlist longer. Enjoy!
Oh, one more note: This chapter is in part me paying homage to a television writer whom I believe is highly underappreciated because he keeps to a niche market; Joss Whedon.