Chapter 11: Epilogue
London in December was cold, rainy, and dark. Sundown came very early, and by the time the workday was over, the sky was black, and the headlights of cars gleamed off the wet streets. Holiday lights adorned the facades of shops, and the flower boxes had all been put away in back rooms to await the arrival of the next spring.
Harry no longer walked to and from work. He commuted by Apparating, which meant he could leave the house later in the morning and return earlier in the evening and spend more time with Ginny and baby James. It was getting close to the time to be putting up a Christmas tree in the drawing room.
With a Crack! Harry appeared in the foyer of Twelve Grimmauld Place. As he was pulling off his coat, Ginny came running out of the drawing room, excitement on her face and a package wrapped in brown paper in her hands.
"How's my girl?" Harry asked heartily, throwing the coat over one arm and then using both arms to encircle her in a hug. "And where's my big boy?" He looked from side to side as if hoping to see James somewhere in the foyer or drawing room.
"He's down for a nap in his cot," Ginny replied. "But Harry! Look what arrived today!" she exclaimed, holding out the package. Harry took it from her and turned it over in his hands. It was about the size of one of his old Hogwarts textbooks, but not so heavy as that. It was tied all around with strong string that could be clutched in the talons of an owl, and on the face of the package was taped a white envelope addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter. Master James Potter."
"Who's this from?" Harry asked.
"I don't know," Ginny answered. "I don't recognize the handwriting; I don't think I've ever seen it before. It's not anybody in my family, that's for sure. It looks kind of old-fashioned, 'Master James Potter'. But I can't imagine that Auntie Muriel would send us anything."
"Why didn't you open it up? It's addressed to you too."
"Oh, I wouldn't do that. I waited 'til you got home so we could open it together."
They walked into the drawing room and Harry draped his coat over the back of a chair. Sliding his fingers under the string, he loosened the taped envelope off the package and pulled it out, unsealed it, and withdrew a Christmas card from the envelope.
There was a long note written on the inside of the card. Harry's eyes went immediately to the signature. "It's from Arabella Figg," he said in tones of surprise.
"What does she say?" Ginny asked as Harry silently scanned the opening sentences of the note.
He went back to the beginning of the note and began to read aloud.
Dear Harry and Ginny,
Words cannot express what a pleasure it was to see you again. Your visit last summer made this old lady very happy indeed. Harry, you are almost like the son I never had. After everything that you and all of us have been through, it is so heartening to know that life is good again. Congratulations on the arrival of your precious baby boy. Now your joy must be complete.
After you came to visit last summer, I wrote to Norah and Celia and asked them to send me the names, authors, and publishers of the children's books that I had sent to them. Then I engaged a book search firm to find these books in the used book market and am sending them to you as a Christmas gift for all of you. Harry, these are the stories I read to you when you were very little. Ginny, now you can see the stories your husband enjoyed so long ago. And both of you can read these books to James when he is a little older.
A Merry Christmas to you all, and many happy new years to come.
With affection,
Arabella Figg
"Oh, Harry," Ginny said. "She says you're like the son she never had, like her little Cyril she never had. That's so sweet, but it's sort of sad too."
"Maybe we should visit her more often. She's getting old. I don't know how much longer she'll live, though she still seems pretty spry."
Ginny turned her attention to the box. "Open the box, Harry. Let's see the books," she said eagerly.
Harry sat down on the chair with the package in his lap. "Give me the knife," he said, and Ginny handed him a little penknife from a cup on the desk. Harry cut the string, removed it, and laid it on the table. He unwrapped the brown paper and slit the tape that held the box flaps together.
He lifted out a bundle of little books swathed in layers of newspaper. Putting the newspaper aside on the table, he fanned out the books. There were four of them, slim books with few pages, as is typical of little children's books. The covers were slightly shopworn but still sturdy, the pictures on the covers still bright. They appeared to be about little animals.
Mrs. Figg read these books to me when I was very little, he thought to himself. Aunt Petunia had never read any stories to him during his early years before he had learned to read for himself. These books that he now held in his hands were tangible evidence that someone had felt some affection for him during that bleak time. They seemed to form a faint link between his happy days in Godric's Hollow and his life's renaissance at Hogwarts School.
Harry opened the first book and slowly turned the pages, trying to see if there were any pictures that looked familiar. Then, one by one, he looked into the other books and read some of the brief text also. He didn't specifically recognize the words and pictures, but he felt a visceral reaction spreading throughout his gut, as if his body was saying This is right. This is how it is supposed to be.
Maybe this is what they mean by 'deja vu', he thought.
Ginny continued standing over him, watching as he slowly turned the pages and moved his lips, silently reading the text. Finally she could stand the suspense no longer and she asked, "Well, do you remember these books, Harry?"
Harry raised his face to hers. "Yes," he said, and his eyes were shining. "I think I do."
The Baby in the Closet by Oregonian
Chapter Endnotes: To those of you who read my story to the end, a big Thank You. A bigger Thank You if you wrote a review. People looking for romance, mystery, or hard-hitting action did not find it here, but let me know what you thought of the story as a whole, both good and bad. It was a privilege to be able to present my ideas to you.