The things they carried depended on their mission.
Sometimes, when undercover, they carried Dark detectors that would softly vibrate and glow in their pockets— their only warning that the veiled wizard to their right was one of Voldemort’s subordinates.
They guarded posts. Sometimes the posts were Muggle villages, sometimes a Ministry location, sometimes a potential horcrux, and sometimes… sometimes Harry.
Sometimes each other.
Then, they would carry invisibility cloaks, Polyjuice Potion, or other means of disguise. When they were preparing for an ambush, they carried magical decoys, sting powder, and wands. Above all, they always carried their wands.
The things they carried depended on the person.
Tonks would carry her mother’s picture. “Silly, I know,” she’d mutter sheepishly, “but we were so different, her and I. Reminds me of everything I’m not. That’s good,” she’d whisper. “Because I need to be those things now.”
Kingsley would carry his charmed compass. It was brushed silver laced in thin lines of gold, the glass covering so ancient that the liquid ions had shifted to make an uneven surface. He insisted it was the most valuable tool he had, and no one doubted that. Even still, they had yet to figure out what it did. Silently, they suspected it was only valuable because it was the one thing he had left from his father. “Memories,” Dumbledore used to say, “the one thing war cannot strip from you without permission.”
Harry carried Sirius’ knife. It was still melted from the Department of Mysteries, but the warm weight of it in his pocket was a constant reminder that there had been a time when he wasn’t alone. That there had been a time when he knew the feeling of parental love; that there had been a time when he knew the feeling of innocence. It embodied so much of him, because everything it represented was worth fighting for.
Neville would carry a chewing gum wrapper. Only one. And only a few select people understood what it meant. He didn’t have to explain. It was the first she had ever given him. When he unfolded the feathery paper in his hands, that’s when he knew. She was still there. Some part of her existed, and that part wanted to give. It wasn’t much. And although it was light, and tiny, and useless, it was the exact measurement required to rekindle hope.
But the things they carried were not always visible, or tangible. They were not always pocket-sized reminders or magical objects or wands or potions. They were not always spoken of.
But they were always there.
And they were heavy. They were cumbersome, suffocating things. They weighed on their shoulders like the Globe weighed on Atlas. They weighed on their minds like the opaque pressure of fear. They weighed on their hearts like the thick shadow of doubt. They weighed on their souls, and thoughts, and dreams, like a melting glacier of faith, trickling slowly, steadily, into a stream of desperate torrents.
Because they carried the burdens of the world.
A spell could blast away their wands.
A thief could steal away their wrappers and photographs.
A curse could forcibly close the last chapter of their lives.
But even when they were stripped of it all, even when everything else could be taken away, they still carried the heaviest of responsibilities. They could be naked, starved, homeless, crouched in a corner with all their belongings destroyed and all their freedoms snatched by the hands of hate. Yet even then, their accountabilities, their burdens, would still be carried by the ache in their hearts.
The things they carried were the grounding chains of obligation. They were shackled to them more completely than steel bolts. And Remus was sure, he was certain, it would be the end of them all.
How could he, let alone Harry, Hermione, Ron, Neville, Ginny— teenagers— shoulder such unbearable pains? He was already beginning to see the effects, he thought. Harry was isolating himself. Only Hermione and Ron had heard him speak more than a paragraph in the last month. Moody had become harshly demanding and overly critical, burning his bridges of friendship so that their tightly-woven group had adopted the tendency to ostracize him.
Remus’ eyes grew dark when he thought of it. The first indication that the enemy is winning happens when your side loses sight of the greater picture.
Tonks’ hair was silvery white now. Always. It had been that way for months, and when Remus finally asked her, she’d shrugged and solemnly replied, “I don’t care anymore. It's desaturated. A ghost of what once was. Like a lot of things.”
Arthur had thrown away his collection of plugs weeks ago. The Burrow, he said, carried enough weight without such useless trinkets. This hit Remus cold in the chest. They’re forgetting themselves, he thought somberly, a deep throb penetrating his temples, forgetting who they are.
And when he passed Harry in the hallway late one night, Remus had looked to see that Harry was peering right at him, square in the eyes. Goosebumps ran down Remus’ spine with the understanding that passed between them, dark and overt. He saw a secret knowledge there, in those familiar green eyes— somehow, they both understood. This was it. The end had already come. The others just didn't know it. Their spirit was torn. Nothing would be the same again. They carried too much loss, too much despair and pain for healing.
After a moment, Harry had hung his head and continued walking. But when he disappeared around the corner, Remus remained, unmoving. The blood that ran through his veins felt icy with desolation.
But it was when McGonagall announced in a rough, low whisper that she was stepping down from her teaching post at Hogwarts… it was then that Remus really knew.
The things they carried were too heavy to handle.
With slow, measured steps, Remus made his way down the staircase of Grimmauld Place. Muted light filtered through the murky windows, casting scattered reflections on the floor. His head was still spinning with his thoughts from the previous evening.
As the notions flooded him with the now-familiar sweeping chill, a deep sickness swallowed his stomach. He felt a burning nausea sweep through him as he thought, they’re never coming back. None of them. Though they were right there, under the same roof as he, Remus innately understood they were too far gone to return. To return to themselves.
A prickling sting tugged at his irises. He grasped the smooth surface of the railing, needing to feel something supporting him. In his heart, he felt… they had already lost.
Hesitantly, he forced his legs to take another step. And that’s when he heard it.
Disbelieving, he strained his ears, silently praying to anyone who would listen that he wasn’t imagining it; and that if he was, he wouldn’t wake from this beautiful hallucination.
But when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was sure. God, it was. It was.
Laughter.
Someone— no, several someone’s— were… laughing. It wasn’t cynical. It wasn’t forced. It was airy and light and… God help him, it was sincere.
Heart hammering, Remus pushed through the swinging door and burst into the wide, spacious kitchen.
And he immediately recognized it on their faces. Like encountering an old, long-lost friend for the first time in years, he remembered. That look.
Happiness.
“Remus!” Tonks called as she moved around Molly. “About time your lazy arse woke up,” she smiled.
Smiled.
“What’s—”
“It’s Harry’s birthday!” interjected Ron, his nose and chin covered with large heaps of chocolate icing. “And don’t look at me like that,” he said, eyeing Remus closely, “I bloody well know I’ve got frosting on my face, all right?”
“He lost a bet,” Hermione snickered, shooting Ginny a knowing look.
Remus was at a loss for words. His gaze swept quickly across the room, seeing McGonagall, Hagrid, Moody, and the entire Weasley family. His chest fluttered.
“Oh,” he eventually managed, blinking hard into the room as if he still couldn’t believe it. “What— what kind of bet?”
“Well, you see—” began Ginny.
“Nothing!” Ron shouted instantly, glaring at the side of his sister's face. “It was nothing.”
All the younger ones erupted in laughter. Fred and George gave Ron a hearty pat on the back as they took their seats, and Ginny was giggling so furiously she had to lean on Hermione for support.
“Well, Harry, you can open that any day now,” Ron said, admirably trying to ignore the others.
And then Remus looked down, and saw him. Harry. He was looking right at him again, square in the eyes. The same understanding passed between them, the same secret knowledge the two seemed to share; except this time, it was a look of relief. Of rediscovered dreams, of an intense comprehension that perhaps all was not lost… that perhaps they had been wrong.
Harry flashed him a boyish grin. It was bright, and it was innocent, and it said more than a million words ever could.
Tonks reached over and grasped his hand. Remus allowed her to guide him to a chair, all the while his focus on the light in Harry’s eyes.
Such a tiny, minuscule gesture— the laughter of a birthday party. So simple, so plain. So unfathomably ordinary. But it was more than enough. It was a reminder. It was an assurance. An assurance that the little things had not abandoned them after all… that the little things propelled them forward.
That the little things were worth dying for.
Remus saw this, and so much more, embedded deep in young Harry’s old eyes.
And when he peered into the room again, he saw it there, too.
The things they carried were not always visible, or tangible. They were not always pocket-sized reminders or magical objects or wands or potions. They were not always spoken of. But they were always there.
A spell could blast away their wands.
A thief could steal away their wrappers and photographs.
A curse could forcibly close the last chapter of their lives.
But even if they were stripped of it all, even if everything else could be taken away, the things they carry would remain: justice, and compassion, and conviction. They carried values, and dignity, and noble perseverance. The things they carried, they carried out of hope, and righteousness, and bravery. They carried strength, integrity, and love.
Love.
They carried their burdens. Oh, yes. And they carried their fears, and the fears of the world, and they were heavy, and they were painful. But Remus realized, with a wave of untainted clarity, that they carried those things willingly. That, as Dumbledore would have pointed out, it was their choice. And they carried the bad only because they carried the good. And it was worth it. All of it— the despair, the loss, the suffering— would all be worth it in the end.
Remus’ muscles twitched into a smile. He let out a long, slow breath of gratitude that his muscles had remembered how. Maybe, he thought, maybe… they hadn’t lost themselves after all. Maybe he had been wrong.
He flushed a happy shade of pink as his final realization hit him.
It was the things they carried that kept them going.