Chapter 1
Strength and Comfort
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world is the property of J.K. Rowling.
The plot is of my own invention.
"And in the end there are three things that remain-faith, hope and love-and the greatest of these is love."
1 Corinthians 13:13
Mid-Afternoon, 11 September 1997
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
It was finally over… well, almost.
All his friends wanted to accompany Harry to McGonagall’s office, but he refused their offer and left them standing at the south lawn entrance. Trudging slowly through the empty corridors, where every step drummed like a slow-march cadence, every one of the school’s stones seemed to listen for words from the shaking teen. What had happened? Was it over? Even Dobby and Winky stood silently as Harry turned to ascend the stairs. He stopped and turned towards his little friend. In the elf’s face he seemed to read a message. I told you, Harry Potter! Harry continued, unable to reply.
The true reason for leaving his friends behind had nothing to do with privacy or him earning the right to tell Albus Dumbledore about what had just happened. No, Harry was in a state of disbelief. At every step, every turn, he wondered if Voldemort would jump out at him and wreak his vengeance. Would his scar suddenly flare up causing him to retch in pain? Or… was it really, truly, finally over?
Harry felt odd entering the office, with its previous owner dead and the animated portrait of him watching every movement. He really did not want to be there, but felt it was his duty, perhaps his last duty to perform concerning events surrounding the recent death of Lord Voldemort. No, that’s not right, there’re still the memorial services…
“Good afternoon, Harry. How are you?” inquired the portrait of Albus Dumbledore pleasantly.
Good question! “I’m fine, professor. It’s... It’s finally over, sir,” Harry stated plainly, emotionlessly.
The animated picture of the late Headmaster looked shocked for just a second and then leapt to its feet. “Harry! That’s marvelous news! Please, pull up a chair and tell me about it.”
But there was something about Dumbledore’s request that irked Harry tremendously: It was his lack of interest in casualties. Didn’t he care? Could he care? Nevertheless, Harry conjured a chair and sat silently in front of, and beneath, the portrait. One couldn’t really blame the ‘man,’ Harry realized, he did not truly exist as he once had...
“Thank you, sir...” But Harry couldn’t say what had happened.
“I can tell that the news is not all good. Were you able to destroy the remaining Horcruxes?”
Harry nodded, remembering that if Dumbledore mentioned the accursed objects any other time over the previous weeks, the neighboring portraits would rise up to shout him down. It was different now. “Yeah, we were. Can you talk about them now, sir?”
“Harry, I made a terrible mistake when I taught you about Horcruxes. If you had not discovered their secrets from Martin, you might have spent time and lives destroying Horcruxes which were already expended.” The figure in the frame rubbed his face with both hands. “To answer your other question now, as you recently saw, Harry, this part of me exists in a place that is neither here nor there. And as a resident, I can see things you can not. Shortly after my arrival I came to learn the details of Martin’s work. But the rules of existing here are very, very strict. Since I had not discovered this information about Horcruxes in life, I could not speak of it to you after my death, unless you discovered it on your own. I am sorry, Harry.”
Harry just nodded.
“Who has been hurt, my boy? Certainly not Ms. Weasley?” There was finally a hint of concern in Dumbledore’s voice.
“Remus Lupin is missing, Boris Titov is out looking for him. Martin Morley-Mauer is dying, sir, from injuries he received when he destroyed the Coin Horcrux. He’s not expected to live much longer. And...” Harry choked back a sob, “…Neville, he was... killed.” There, he had said it.
“Harry, I am truly sorry. Would you care to talk about it?”
“No... at least not now. It just happened a little while ago.” Then jumping back to his feet, unable to stay any longer, Harry backed away. “Look, professor, I have to go, there’s a lot to do. I... I just wanted you to know. Goodbye.” Harry left the office as quickly as possible, hoping he would never have to return, but knowing he would.
Harry’s friends waited where he had left them. In the distance a few smoldering scraps of clothing could be seen here or there. Emergency personnel from St. Mungo’s attended to the ghastly job of collecting more than four hundred severed arms that lay about the trampled green grass. This last horrible task made necessary when the burning Dark Mark on the Death Eaters’ arms finished their work. There would be no trouble identifying any of Voldemort’s most loyal followers now.
“Why did they take the Mark knowing this might happen?” asked Diane Bradley, her voice not much more than a whisper. She, too, was clearly in shock.
“Maybe they didn’t know?” suggested Ron.
“Perhaps it was an incentive to protect their master,” Hermione guessed.
Silence returned; there were simply no adequate words to express the emotions running through them. After a few more minutes, Jason Graham approached, tapped Diane’s shoulder and drew her aside.
“Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you; are you ok?”
“Yeah, I just wish I knew how I did what I did,” the American witch said shakily, holding herself until Jason pulled her into an embrace.
“Another mystery for you to work on this year. I have to go soon, is there anything you need?”
She shook her head no and started to sob quietly. Ginny, having overheard the conversation came over and took her new friend from her former Principal, comforting the frightened and confused girl. Jason gently kissed the top of Diane’s head, said his goodbye and walked off to the other adults who were about to walk in Hogsmeade and Apparate to the Ministry of Magic.
Ron and Hermione stood alone, holding hands, trying to absorb the events of the day, but their minds were overloaded. As they saw Harry approach, his chore complete, they released each other’s hand and walked over to meet their oldest and best friend.
The initial shock of victory was beginning to wear off. The hundreds of guests who had been at the castle the day before were mostly gone now. Only a few of the staff were present, even the Headmistress was mysteriously absent, though most thought she was at the Ministry of Magic finding out what would happen next. Harry, Ginny, Ron, Hermione and Diane were the only students remaining. The others, DA members and supporters of the school, had long departed. Yes, the initial shock of the victory had passed, but another shock was settling on the entire Wizarding community in England. It was the shock of sorrow; but even more, it was the shock of uncertainty.
Unlike sixteen years earlier, there would be no all-night parties this evening, only a few celebrated Harry Potter this time. The English wizards and witches, with very few exceptions, knew nothing of Horcruxes, so they tempered their enthusiasm with the fear that You-Know-Who may return yet again. And in a twisted, immature and distinctly selfish way, The Chosen One had reverted back to The-Boy-Who-Lived.
That same child probably buggered it up and didn’t do it right this time, either. That seemed to be the consensus.
Fortunately, Harry had not heard this… yet.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley approached the table after watching the teens push food around their plates with no apparent appetite. Heightening the tension, Hermione stood, glared at Mrs. Weasley and walked away before they arrived. Ron looked at Harry with a regretful expression and followed Hermione out. When Mrs. Weasley called out to her son, he stopped for a moment, but then kept walking.
It was an embarrassing situation, and Harry felt it keenly. Bickering within their small community was one thing, but now they had a guest from a foreign country, a guest who might have been nearly as responsible as Harry for Voldemort’s defeat, or at least their victory, as anyone else. Then he felt both Ginny and Diane, one on each side of him, take and squeeze his hands. It generated a curious feeling; from Ginny he received comfort, from Diane he received strength.
“Ginny,” Mr. Weasley began wearily, “we’re returning to the Burrow tomorrow morning. We want you to come home with us and start putting things back together. And you, too, Harry.”
Harry knew that was what they were going to ask, just as he knew he could not go. But he would talk to Ginny about that later. For the time being he just thanked his adopted parents.
Then Mrs. Weasley spoke. “Harry, would you please speak to Ron? With Percy back, it would mean so much to have the whole family together again. I never thought we would make it through this without one of the kids…” Then she stopped, she had recalled the Boggart from Grimmauld Place of two years earlier. Harry thought she might have been prepared to say more, but she remained silent.
“We’ll both talk to him, mum,” Ginny answered; she could tell that Harry was not sure what to say.
Mr. Weasley looked at the three teens and smiled. “You were all magnificent today. Thank you.” Then he and his wife walked away in stunned disbelief and weary thanks.
Diane leaned behind Harry to get Ginny’s attention and asked quietly. “What’s wrong with Hermione? PMS?”
“I don’t know,” Ginny replied honestly.
Harry looked back and forth between the two girls. “What’s PMS?”
Diane answered first. “Pre-Menstrual Syndrome.”
“Sounds like… is it related to, er... sex?” Harry whispered the last word, giving Diane his full attention. But Ginny leaned over and whispered into his ear. “Not exactly, Harry.”
“Oh... brilliant! Can you tell me about it?”
“In a couple days I’ll give you firsthand experience,” Ginny said flatly.
Behind Harry, who had now given Ginny his full attention, Diane was rolling her eyes. I can see this is going to be an interesting year.
Later that evening, Harry and Ginny found Ron alone in the common room and started to talk him into going home. But it didn’t take much work, he agreed almost immediately. A while later he said something about Quidditch and left the room.
“Ron’s acting barmy, Gin. What’s wrong with him?”
“Dunno, love.” Then Ginny changed the subject. “Listen Harry, I want you to come home with me tomorrow, but I think you have other plans. Am I right?”
“No... I mean yes. I didn’t want to leave Diane and Hermione here alone. Would you mind terribly?”
Ginny pouted briefly and then kissed him. “Of course I mind, but I think it’s very noble of you to stay here.”
Harry grimaced. “Cut the noble stuff, Gin. You know how I feel about...” Ginny silenced him with another kiss. “...being called...” Another kiss. “Ok, you win.” Smiling, Harry explained a bit further. “If they got along better I’d go, but they need a buffer. When are you coming back?”
“Sunday, at the latest. We have to be ready for... Neville’s...” But she couldn’t finish. Harry understood and they both sat in silence for a long time.
The end of the most important day of Harry’s life was quiet and peaceful. By nine o’clock he and Ginny were ready for bed, both were mentally and physically exhausted. They kissed goodnight and went to their respective rooms. Twenty minutes later, Ginny climbed into bed with Harry.
“We only have a few more days to be together like this. Do you mind?”
Harry’s answered with a light kiss on Ginny’s cheek just before he extinguished the candles.
That same evening, the Ministry of Magic building, well beneath the streets of London, was in complete chaos. Dolores Umbridge’s aborted attempt to take over as temporary Minister of Magic had failed miserably. She was now under lock and key in one of the many temporary holding cells in the Ministry’s basement. But removing the toad-like witch did little to help the situation a few floors above. Almost eight hundred wizards and witches, some proudly sporting wounds from the afternoon’s events, were crammed into the Parliamentary Hall, and nearly every one of them was speaking (or shouting) at the same time.
Off to the side, Arthur Weasley, Gilbert Wimple, Phoebus Penrose, Kingsley Shacklebolt and a few other current and former Ministry officials were trying to decide the best way to proceed. While they were arguing amongst themselves, Penrose, an elderly gentleman with a distinguished career in many Ministry departments, walked onto the stage. Placing his wand at his throat, the elderly man silenced the crowd with his thundering voice.
“PLEASE QUIET DOWN!” The crowd did as they were told. “There, that’s much better. I believe we are all here for the same reason: Putting the Ministry back together. Anyone who has another agenda, please leave now and your concerns will be addressed in due course.” No one left. “Very well, the first thing we have to do is…”
The groups and sub-groups that were formed over the following hours broke up early the next morning. And in the truest example of democracy, little of substance was accomplished, either good or bad, except one thing.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was voice-voted in as interim head of the Aurors and tasked with reestablishing order in and around the Ministry and other key buildings, such as St. Mungo’s. He was also given the authority to establish temporary teams of Aurors and other skilled wizards to seek out the homes and businesses of the known Death Eaters. Eyewitnesses at Hogwarts had compiled extensive lists of suspects, but Shacklebolt directed his lieutenants to only detain the persons who had multiple witnesses’ report them present at Hogwarts and on Voldemort’s side. He knew it was an imperfect system, but over time the kinks would be ironed out, the guilty identified and the innocent released with apologies.
And Arthur Weasley was tasked with the unenviable job of contacting the Muggle Prime Minister and informing him of the end of the war.
It was a start, of sorts.
Amidst the hubbub and chatter ringing throughout in the Hall, three wizards stood off to the side, expressing their satisfaction with the proceedings that evening. All three agreed that changes were needed, and that Penrose was just the person to get things organized, if anyone could. One of the friends, Gilbert Wimple, hushed his voice and asked in a confidential manner what the other two men thought about the American witch. They shared glances and then spoke their fears.
“You know the facts, Wimple, there’s no possible way for her to be able to…” He hushed his voice quickly as two witches in a spirited conversation about parliamentary rules walked briskly by. “It’s impossible, it is. Even Dumbledore would never have allowed it.”
“I’m not so certain; did you see her face when she cast the Charm? She was as surprised as anyone. And that bloody bastard, V-V-Voldemort,” he had just forced himself to say the name for the first time in his life, “nearly soiled Potter’s pants.” The other two chuckled.
Wimple spoke again. “I’ll see what I can find, but it’s more than obvious the girl bares absolutely no resemblance to any of those bastards who lost their arm.”
The three nodded wisely, hoping fervently that they were correct.
Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, only had a few hours to check on business at the school before she needed to return to the Ministry of Magic. Sifting through a small pile of mail on her desk, she saw one from Jason Graham, her counterpart in Salem, and opened it immediately. What could he want? I just saw him ten hours ago... The answer to her own question came out as a shout.
“Status reports?! What do these Americans think I am?” she asked herself irritably. “I don’t have time for this.” Stuffing the papers back into their envelope and slamming it down on her desk, the elderly witch removed her tall pointed hat and pushed a few stray locks of graying hair from her face.
From around her office, not a few of the portraits chuckled at the comment. Two laughed right out loud. McGonagall was sorely tempted to demand their silence until she recognized one of the voices talking in the background. “Albus! Stop leading them on, it’s bad enough when it’s just you!” Scowling, the Headmistress picked up the envelope that she had just thrown down, and walked over to the portrait of her late friend. It was almost three months to the day and hour since he had died.
“Look at this, Albus,” McGonagall said testily, holding up a letter from the envelope. “Graham wants status reports for Miss Bradley! Can you believe it? And he even sends me the forms to fill out; look!” Dropping the letter, McGonagall pulled out a number of sheets of paper (not parchment) stapled together. It’s thick, and she waves it in front of the portrait. ”See this, Albus? He wants me to fill this out four times a term!”
Much to her dismay, the face of her late friend smiled and shook its head. “You always said you wanted more international magical cooperation. Here it is.” McGonagall could tell that Dumbledore was just able to hold back a laugh. But then he sobered up. “Minerva, you are allowed to tell him ‘no,’ you don’t have to do it.”
“But what if he...”
“He won’t, and you know why. Miss Bradley is here because of Harry and our school. She could never get what she needs at Salem; and we could never get what we need if she isn’t here. Mr. Graham was forthcoming about that the other day. My guess is that he didn’t even send that monstrosity you’re holding. He probably told his secretary to do a standard... American standard transfer and he simply initialed it.” In fact, this is exactly what had taken place.
“Be that as it may, Albus, he should know what he’s signing...”
“Yes, yes, Minerva,” Dumbledore sighed, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice, “and he’s also faced with something of a crisis of his own.”
This surprised McGonagall. “How so, Albus?”
“I understand he has enough admission requests to fill his school, and then some. Many wanting to start this term. You should consider yourself lucky he only sent one student.”
“Oh, very well, Albus. I suppose you’re right.”
“My friend, your job is going to be demanding, especially this year. Have you given thought to changing anything?” Here it was, the subject McGonagall was dreading talking to Dumbledore about. “Ah, I see from your expression that you have some ideas. Please, tell me about them.”
McGonagall looked warily at the portrait, wondering if she should do this. She decided she should. Conjuring a chair, just as Harry had done the afternoon before, McGonagall sat and began to share her ideas. Long into the early morning hours of the day, Minerva McGonagall headed back to her room. In spite of the annoying letter from Graham, she felt good; progress had been made and her changes, she was now certain, were for the best.
The second night after the victory, Harry lay in his room in a near panic. All the Weasley’s had returned to the Burrow. Hermione and Diane Bradley were the only other two students present and Harry was worried about Diane. Everyone she knew at the school had left, except for himself and Hermione, and the two girls did not get along well.
But first Harry decided to speak with Hermione about her situation with Mrs. Weasley. However, Hermione had other ideas. She politely declined, even after Harry insisted, to discuss anything. So Harry went back to just sitting around the common room and relaxing. He picked up one of Ron’s Muggle paperbacks and tried to get his mind involved with the plot, but invariably Diane or Hermione or Dobby would appear and break his concentration.
Early Saturday morning, Harry and Diane were sitting on Harry’s bed, as they had done in Salem, chatting, talking about everything, yet trying to avoid the subject of Voldemort and what had happened Thursday. The conversation moved on to classes and what Diane should expect from some of the teachers Harry knew. And while the American was not certain which courses she would take, she could see that many of Harry’s tips would be useful.
“I can’t believe this, Harry. My freshmen year, that’s like your fourth year, I had two pathetic courses dealing with magic. No practical applications at all. My sophomore year wasn’t much better. Last year we finally got a couple good teachers. You met them, but even after three years of schooling I barely have as much knowledge as your first year students. God, I’m going to make a fool out of myself here. I don’t know what I was thinking coming over!”
Harry nudged Diane’s foot with his owl and reminded her that she had cast the first Shield Charm ever known to stop a killing curse. If she did nothing but that the rest of her life she would still be in every Wizarding History book. “And your Patronus! No one’s ever killed a Dementor before… that I know of. And that’s the first non-living form I’ve seen a Patronus take. You could probably write your own ticket in the Wizarding World.”
But Diane pushed his foot right back. “Right, Harry. They’d dissect me to find out how I work.”
“Maybe,” he allowed, “but you’ll have to face it soon anyway. There were plenty of journalist and reporters on the grounds. They’re bound to make up some wild stories.”
Diane shook her head and groaned. Harry laughed. “Get used to it!”
“Did you?” Diane shot back.
“Get used to it? No, but that’s me, not you.”
“Think so? We’re not so dissimilar, Harry.” The way she said this caught Harry’s attention, but then Diane moved up and lay curled up next to Harry; she appeared to fall asleep almost immediately. Panic flashed through Harry’s mind for a second. Not this again! But no, he knew Diane “ and himself - better now. She was a friend, not a threat; more like Hermione - though he didn’t think he and Hermione would ever be comfortable together like this.
He sat in silence for a long time, deep in thought, contemplating the life altering events they had both been through. Finally, weariness told him to get more rest and Harry slipped his arm under his friend’s neck, like he would do with Ginny, and pulled the American witch in closer. Her breathing slowed, a sign of deepening sleep, a fact Hermione had taught him a couple years before.
An hour later, Diane woke to find herself in Harry’s arms. It wasn’t an intimate sort of position, just... comforting. Harry was warm, alive... and he was there for her. For just a moment the personal issues she had been dealing with for six years seemed so far removed that she didn’t want to change a thing. Here was someone who was non-threatening, kind, understanding... and powerful, so much like me! Why couldn’t life be this simple? she asked herself, trying to hold back the tears. Unconsciously, she moved in closer to Harry and laid her left arm over his chest. Again she fell into a content slumber.
Harry smiled as he watched Diane. It was obvious she had rearranged herself and was now sleeping with her head on his chest. Her feet seemed to be holding his, seeking out warmth. At times like this Harry wished he could offer his friend more; not intimacy, just the kind of comfort Ginny showed him when he was anxious or pained. He made a minor adjustment, laying his cheek on the top of Diane’s head and putting a hand on her arm. She stirred, but Harry lay still and soon both were asleep again.
Near lunchtime, Diane and Harry finally woke up completely. Following a few humorous seconds of untangling themselves, the American thanked Harry and went off to shower and dress. At noon, Harry saw her and Hermione chatting in the common room “ civilly, for once; his long-time friend telling the exchange student more about classes and N.E.W.T. exams. Diane looked like she might need more comforting later.
The paparazzi, which had, only two weeks before, become infamous for their role in the death of Princess Diana, had become, overnight, a bunch of blood-sucking, heartless, opportunistic bastards. But the worst of the lot, by unanimous consent, was Michael Allen, an American ex-patriot. On their way into custody, the paparazzi who had made themselves a nuisance at the crash scene were happy that, for once, Allen had missed the action. Digger, as Allen was known, had played hardball with the tabloid photographers for almost thirty years. He had some ambiguous source of wealth that allowed him to piss-off every “respectable” paper, publication, periodical, magazine, monthly, journal and tabloid in Britain “ and their editors “ and still maintain a comfortable lifestyle. If he really irritated someone important, he would lay low for a few months and then pop back into the scene, obnoxious as ever.
Between 1970 and 1989, Digger lived and worked primarily in England. In late ’89 he moved to France and was living a couple floors above one of the most famous bordellos in Paris: Le Baton Rose. During his stay in Paris, the raunchier tabloids enjoyed a renaissance spurred by an excess of fine pictures, mostly of their Government Ministers, in compromising positions. Digger made excellent use of state-of-the-art technology to capture the best shots.
But Digger was, at heart, an investigative journalist. He wrote for a number of papers under the pen name of Mickey Dee, a name he’d chosen decades earlier as a joke and stuck with once he started getting his stories and exposés published. It was fortunate, he knew, that no one had ever made the association between Michael “Digger” Allen and Mickey Dee.
Of all the stories Digger had worked on over the years, the one that intrigued him the most had never been finished. It began in the autumn of 1981 while he was living in Surry. Amidst a frenzy of odd phenomena, (things like unusually high numbers of owl sightings, magnificent but untraceable fireworks and oddly dressed people,) he’d heard many of these strangely dressed people muttering a name that stuck in his head: Harry Potter. Then, in just a few days, the strange people, the fireworks and owls all vanished. When he consulted local phone books he found dozens of Potters, and even a few Harry Potters, (or Henry Potter, a brainstorm that sent him back to the books at three o’clock one morning.) But try as he might, he was never able to break the case, so to speak. For sixteen years his scant notes lay buried in a filing cabinet, almost forgotten.
On the morning of Friday, 12 September 1997, Digger was breakfasting with an obnoxious French photographer who claimed to have the Princess Diana photos from the night of the wreck. Digger was trying desperately to cool his coffee and make a hasty departure, when he heard it. Could it be? He motioned to his fellow professional in a way that instantly silenced the man. Both were hunters, of a sort, and one had alerted the other that the hunt was on. Digger’s ears were now tuning out everything but a single voice, his companion was getting his camera ready for… something.
There it was again! He was absolutely certain of the name: Potter… Harry Potter. But the real test had not been passed. Over nearly two decades he had heard people use the name Potter many times, but they all lacked one other attribute that connected them with that odd day after Halloween in 1981, none had spoken the name in the presence of those oddly dressed people. Digger knew there was a connection, probably a cult, or something similar. Casually standing, he motioned the other man to stand. He touched his right eye in a way that would make anyone believe he was clearing out a speck of sand. As he did this he also nodded his head in a direction and the photographer brought the camera up. In seconds he had taken a dozen photographs. In that time, Digger had vanished, but the other man wasn’t worried, he knew how and where to find him. He also knew that for his deft action he would be paid very well. He dropped a ten franc note on the table, gathered his things and departed.
There was an unseasonably chilly north wind in the air for the Ides of September, and it swept through the open church doors, extinguishing candles and lifting the pall from Neville Longbottom’s coffin. Harry fought the urge to jump up after the billowing shroud, but releasing the handle rod would be poor decorum, so he waited as the situation reinforced his feeling of helplessness. The doors slammed shut an instant later and the pall floated back down where it was quickly re-set upon the wooden box by the Funeral Director.
Behind Harry were Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan. Opposite Harry, on the right side of the casket was Ron Weasley, followed by Colin Creevy and a boy Harry had never met before this day, Terry Mason. A distant cousin of Neville’s, Mason was one of only four Longbottom family members present. The six pall bearers, Harry had learned, were selected by Neville weeks before. Just in case.
Leading the recessional parade were the three alter servers, the first carrying the cross. Behind the three youths was the Anglican minister whose name escaped Harry at the moment. Trailing the casket were Neville’s grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, Terry Mason’s parents, and then the remainder of the attendees.
Exiting from the dark cathedral into the sunlight, each processor was, in turn, briefly blinded by the abrupt shift in brightness. Down the steps and to the side of the building, the Funeral Director led the pall bearers to the hearse. In seconds they were finished. Standing aside, the hearse and automobile drivers patiently waited for the family to enter their vehicles, whereupon they left with the Funeral Director in the lead, his limousine blazing their trail far out of the city.
The last goodbye Harry uttered was brief and woefully inadequate, spoken as the hearse departed for the long drive north. Being excluded from the graveside ceremony hurt him, and many other. But Augusta Longbottom wished that only the immediate family attend, and she was bringing Alice and Frank, Neville’s parents, to the graveside ceremony. The family matriarch was not ashamed of her son and daughter-in-law, but simply believed in having only the family present as their kin was committed to the earth.
A warm hand slipped into Harry’s, this time it was Ginny’s. She pulled him into an embrace and then led him off to mingle with the crown for a few minutes. The turnout for the service was heavy, and it was not unexpected. Word of the defeat of Lord Voldemort was immediate throughout the Wizarding world. But the details, while spreading, had just made their way through England. If Harry was the hero, Neville and Diane were very close seconds; but he would have given up his “fame” in an instant to have Neville back.
As usual, Harry was disgusted by the attention given him and he made every effort to credit all who made the victory possible. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. He knew Aberforth and Martin would never receive the public recognition for their work. The lone Daily paper that did mention Aberforth also had the gall to bring up his goat ‘experiments’ from decades earlier. So in spite of Harry’s best efforts, he remained the center of attention.
Harry and Ginny mingled with their friends, schoolmates, and guests for nearly an hour. Tonks finally had to drag him away, fearing he would lash out at an imbecilic busybody who insisted on pestering Harry for details of the “great battle,” as he called it.
“Some people just don’t get it, Tonks. Why?”
“Harry, some people don’t want to get it. That bloke’s perception is more interesting, you have to admit. He could care less about reality.”
Grunting a response that he’d heard Tonk’s message, but did not necessarily believe it, Harry sat on a step and looked around. The crowd was thinning, the wind had died out, but Muggle traffic was thick with people heading to lunch, or wherever. Across the street was an old bank. Looking absently for a name, Harry noticed something on the front of the building. He pointed it out to Tonks.
“It’s damage from the Blitz. 1940 or ’41, can’t recall which. This part of the city was hit pretty hard. My parents were kids at the time, but remember it well.”
Looking around, Harry saw other buildings with their stone façades chipped. Very few had been repaired; they appeared to wear their scars as badges of honor. Without realizing what he was doing, Harry put his hand to his forehead.
“So, is the, er, operation still on for Saturday?” asked Tonks, her voice lowered.
Harry nodded. “Yeah, and thanks.”
Tonks playfully slapped at Harry’s hair. “Don’t mention it. Ready to head back to school?” Harry nodded and they rose to find Ginny. Minutes later they were back at Hogwarts.
Now it really was over.