The last end–of–school feast for Harry, Ron, and Hermione was done. The final Yorkshire pudding was devoured, the last pitcher of pumpkin juice was emptied, and the last piece of chocolate torte was gone. Their stomachs were full, but the finality of it all was melancholy. They stared at each other glumly. Harry looked down the long, empty Gryffindor table, and then around at the Great Hall, also almost empty. Only Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were still at the staff table, speaking to each other in low voices.
Ginny, sitting next to Harry, tisked. “What a sad bunch you are,” she said. “You all look like you’re about to break into imitations of Moaning Myrtle.”
Ron looked at her sourly over the huge pile of empty serving dishes in front of him. “You’re coming back next year,” he said. “I never ate as well anywhere else, not even at home. I’ll probably never eat as well again.”
Hermione looked past Harry’s shoulder. “Oh, Professor McGonagall,” she said, “did you want to see us?”
The Headmistress was standing behind Harry. “No,” she answered, “just Mr. Potter. Harry, if you don’t mind, there is someone in my office who would like to see you. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind coming upstairs with me?”
Harry was taken by surprise. “Will it take long?” he glanced at Ron and Ginny. “We wanted to get down to the Quidditch pitch one last time for a little flying.”
“Well, I’m not sure how long he wants to talk,” McGonagall said, “but why don’t the rest of you wait in the common room? I suppose that is where your broomsticks are?”
They trooped out of the Great Hall. Professor McGonagall walked in silence as she and Harry climbed the stairs to the Headmistress’s office. Harry hadn’t the slightest idea who could be waiting for him. Someone from the Ministry, he supposed, maybe with a job offer. But even if it was something he might really be interested in, like an internship in the Auror’s office, he had summer plans at the Burrow which he was not about to change.
They stopped in front of the stone gargoyles. “Highland bagpipes,” intoned Professor McGonagall, and the doors swung open. In a minute she was leading Harry into her office.
“Well,” she smiled at Harry, “I’ll leave you two alone. Don’t bother to find me when you are done, Harry. I’ll probably be napping off the remains of the feast.” Without another word of explanation she walked out, closing the door behind her. Harry could hear her descending the spiral staircase, and then there was silence.
He looked around, but could see no one else; the portraits of the former headmasters were all asleep or else their frames were empty. All of Professor Dumbledore’s shiny silver gadgets were still whirling and humming as they had done before he died. McGonagall had not made many changes in the office yet, except that the golden perch on which Fawkes had always sat was gone.
Without knowing what else to do, and assuming that he was waiting for someone, Harry sat down in one of the chairs in front of the large desk.
“Tell me, Harry,” a familiar voice said, “how was the feast? I can’t tell you how much I miss eating.”
Harry looked up. The portrait of Professor Dumbledore was no longer empty. The Headmaster was sitting in an ornate, high-backed chair, his silver beard and hair neatly combed, a familiar twinkle in his eye.
Harry smiled. “I was wondering if someone from the Ministry would be coming to offer me a job. Are you hiring?”
Dumbledore laughed loudly, and Harry could hear a few of the other portraits stir in their frames. “No,” the Headmaster chuckled, “I think that for the first time in many years we will not have any openings at Hogwarts, thanks to you for much of the good fortune that caused it.”
Harry was silent for a moment. “Well, I guess that’s one of the good things, and I know there are plenty of others, but still…” his voice trailed off.
“Of course,” said Dumbledore. “and maybe it’s not yet time for celebrating. Forgive me. Although I have discovered in my present circumstances that it is always a proper time for whatever is good in life – or death, as in my case.” He smiled again.
Harry nodded, not really understanding what Dumbledore meant. But that was not unusual, he realized.
“Did you want to talk to me about something, Professor?” he asked. “Not that I mind just sitting here,” he added quickly.
“Well, yes I did. Are you sure you don’t mind chatting for a few minutes? I know your friends are waiting for you. It’s just that…” he paused, and looked uncertainly at Harry.
“No, really,” said Harry, “I don’t mind at all. We just wanted to get some flying in before dusk.” He shifted in the chair. He was flattered that the dead Headmaster wanted to talk to him, but he was getting the same feeling he occasionally had when speaking with the live Dumbledore, namely that he wasn’t sure what they were talking about.
Dumbledore seemed to sense Harry’s mood. His look became somber. “It’s been a very hard year for everyone,” he said, “even for those of us... those of us in different circumstances. But I wanted to talk to you now, Harry, now that you are leaving Hogwarts, because, as you know, I have felt for the past few years that I am responsible in part for many of your own difficulties and many of the dangers you faced. No, please don’t interrupt,” he held up a hand to stop Harry from speaking. “Let an old, dead man finish his speech.” He sighed. “It’s one of the few pleasures from life left to me.” He eyed a bowl of lemon drops on the edge of the desk, and sighed again.
“I want to talk about losses, Harry,” he went on, “and your own in particular. Your life has been too full of them. Your parents, Sirius Black, Cedric Diggory, myself, Rubeus Hagrid, Arthur Weasley.”
He paused and peered at Harry. Harry’s head was bowed, his hands clenching the arms of the chair. Dumbledore waited. After several long minutes Harry looked up, but said nothing.
Dumbledore continued. “When you got your wand, Harry, do you remember what Mr. Ollivander said to you about Tom Riddle, whose wand was the brother of yours?” Harry nodded. “He said,” Dumbledore went on, “that Voldemort had done terrible but great things. You, Harry, have done great and wonderful things, but since great risk accompanies great deeds, the deeds often lead to great loss. Your losses were so great and must weigh on you so heavily, that the deeds, as mighty as they were, cannot possibly counterbalance them.”
Dumbledore was silent again. Finally Harry spoke. “Yes,” he said, “that’s exactly how I feel. You know, Professor, looking back, even to my first year, I think I understood then that I had a lot to lose. And for a while I believed that I had more to lose than to gain. I guess it wasn’t until later that I saw any hope.”
“And when was that?” Dumbledore asked, looking keenly at Harry. “I am curious to know.”
Harry pondered a moment. “I think it was sometime during my fifth or sixth year, and it was something you said to me, something that I know you were trying to pound into my head for a long time. One day, it finally clicked.”
“And that was?” prompted Dumbledore.
“When I finally realized what you meant by love,” Harry spoke with a catch in his throat, but grinned at Dumbledore. “Pretty dense of me, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, no, Harry, not at all,” insisted Dumbledore. “The wonder of it was that you didn’t arrive here from your aunt and uncle’s home as a hardened criminal, considering how they treated you. I know that what you accomplished, the way you eliminated so much evil from the world, and the renown you gained, none of that will ever go to your head.” Dumbledore stood up and moved to the foreground of his frame so that he seemed to tower over the entire room. “No, Harry,” he said, with his eyes glistening, “your greatest achievement was not that you destroyed Lord Voldemort. Your greatest achievement was that you learned to love when you could have -- maybe should have -- turned out like Tom Riddle.”
Harry stared up at Dumbledore. “I can’t imagine being like him,” he said shaking his head. “He killed my parents. He almost killed my best friends. He almost killed Ginny twice.”
“Ah, Miss Weasley,” smiled Dumbledore, sitting back down. “A remarkable young woman. She has not even begun to realize what abilities lie within her. You truly deserve each other.”
Harry felt himself blush. “She is remarkable,” he grinned broadly. “But,” his smile vanished, “I will never forget what happened to her father. Ending Voldemort was worth it for Mr. Weasley alone.”
“Yes, that is true, that is true,” Dumbledore seemed to be pondering something.
“What is it, Professor?” Harry asked.
“Oh, nothing really. I was lost in a memory. I’m still allowed to have them,” he chuckled. His eyes were twinkling again. “Well, Harry, I think that is all I wanted to talk with you about. Is there anything you wish to say to me? If not, don’t worry. Minerva has assured me that you will have the freedom to visit her office as often as you like, and we can talk for as long as you can tolerate my lectures. In fact, she has arranged a special password for you, one that will never expire, as they say.”
Harry smiled and stood up, as did Dumbledore. “I would like that, Professor, I really would. The Burrow is pretty much my home now, but Hogwarts is... well, it’s more than home. I don’t know, when I’m here I feel like I’m everywhere and anywhere. Does that make sense?” he asked.
“I know exactly what you mean,” Dumbledore replied. “At least I think I do.” They both laughed.
“And now, Harry, I’m going to give you the eternal password, and at the same time reveal a secret about myself that very few people know.” He lowered his voice and looked around at the other portraits; all the ones that were present were asleep. “It’s my favorite candy,” he whispered, leaning toward Harry, “and it’s not lemon drops as is commonly believed. It’s orange slices.”
Dumbledore stood with a triumphant grin on his wrinkled face. “I think your friends have been kept waiting long enough,” he said. “And it is time for an old, dead man’s nap. And please, take some lemon drops with you.”
Harry scooped a handful of candy into his pocket, grinned at the portrait, and left the office. He did not see anyone until he reached the Gryffindor common room. Ron and Ginny had their broomsticks, and Hermione was holding Harry’s Firebolt.
“Who was it?” asked Ron eagerly.
“An old, dead friend,” answered Harry, and he burst out laughing at the looks on their faces. He took Ginny’s hand. “Come on, I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s go do some flying.”
The Last Day at Hogwarts by HarryForGinny
Chapter Notes: This story won first place in the Chamber of Secrets 20th story contest. I chose an upbeat theme; if Jo wants to kill off a main character she'll have to do it without my help. :-)