Chapter Text
Manufacturing a hero is easy. Ordinary wizards placed in unordinary circ*mstances will, by nature, do extraordinary things. Harry Potter was a hero, a fact no witch or wizard worth their wand weight would argue. How could they? His was the perfect war story. The tabloid headlines practically wrote themselves: WIZARD ORPHAN SAVES MAGIC. DARK LORD VANQUISHED. POTTER PITTED AGAINST EVIL. TRIUMPHANT SAVIOR CELEBRATES.
With all odds stacked against him, Harry Potter won the day because good triumphs over evil and justice always prevails. The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, the Gringotts Gazette; it didn't matter which, they all printed the same nonsense. But deep down, deeper than blood and magic and bone, buried under piles of emotional rubble, Harry himself was not at all convinced that he was a good person. And you had to be good to be a hero.
Truth be told Harry didn't feel like he was much of anything these days, not counting being a sad, soppy drunk with a lifetime of regrets washed down with a bottle of Odgen’s finest top-shelf reserve. At one-hundred galleons a swig it was supposed to have been an anniversary gift, but instead he was sitting outside alone, drinking without a glass, soothed only by the whispering trees outside of Galloway’s Stead. That was where he lived now. He wasn’t sure who Galloway was, and he wasn’t sure if a Stead was a place or a horse, but Ginny got Grimmauld in the divorce as well as half his Gringotts vault, and he got a bunkie with a dodgy floo that might send your left elbow to Albania, your right knee to Guam, and the whole rest of you somewhere on your arse hopefully close to where you intended.
The cabin was an eyesore. Patched, painted and peeled so many times that the outside looked like a thousand colour shedding snake. The water he dragged up from the well tasted like licking a muggle penny, the walls were drafty, the bedsheets were musty despite several thousand washings, and Harry was more in love with it than he had ever been with his wife. The solitude, that’s what sold him. Nothing but trees and sky and more trees and more sky, a lake that he fished from, and a dock for a boat that he didn’t own. The first night he’d stripped down to his skivvies and dove in headfirst only to come up half-drowned and chattering because nobody told him it trickled down from a glacier.
But, despite the state of his rotting house, Harry’s friends visited often. He was delighted when they did, but equally happy when they left again. They worried about him, and tried to check in without making it look obvious. Harry insisted that being alone didn't necessarily mean being lonely, but Hermione vehemently disagreed. She gave him dozens of muggle books with titles like ‘Life Beyond Loss: Learning to Grieve’ and ‘Understanding Trauma’ and once, one called ‘Escaping Alcoholism’ but Harry didn’t feel particularly depressed, traumatized, or boozed. Most days, at least. Sometimes things just… got bad.
Ron was no less concerned, but instead he brought quidditch magazines and broom polish, a fancy new fishing pole with a magical ever-wriggling bait kit, and said things like ‘cheer up, mate’ which didn’t do anything, but was nice of him to say. Ginny didn’t visit, it was too hard, but Molly and Arthur did. Charlie once, Bill and Fleur twice. Percy never. George when he needed money for some new trick or store gimmick. Luna came with braids of garlic, jam, and charms to chase away things nobody else could see. Neville, being Neville, brought houseplants that Harry over-watered until they died. And that was it, everyone he knew well enough to give his home address.
Plenty of people, he thought. Too many, most days. He always had parcels, or letters, or visits, and that was nice. But tonight he was glad that everyone had plans, because that meant nobody would stop him from being upset when he wanted to be. The constant pressure and demand to get well, stay well, to improve himself, to move on. It was exhausting. Everyone seemed to be doing much better at adulting than he was. Ron was an Auror, Hermione worked at the Ministry. Even Ginny had it all figured out, working as a popular quidditch radio host for Broomsports United. Harry, on the other hand, was too famous to be functional and so spent most of his daylight hours twiddling his thumbs.
As he drank deeply from his bottle, Harry stared out at the darkening treeline surrounding his property and thought about Ginny. They would have been celebrating their fourth wedding anniversary, if Harry hadn’t spent most of their marriage shell-shocked and emotionally avoidant, wafting through the world smiling and nodding and just… going along with things. Ginny would have been a good wife if she wasn’t married to him. The stress of his fame, the constant owls and howlers, the complete invasion of privacy every second. Being with Harry was hard, and finally she just couldn’t handle it anymore. She wanted out, and he wanted her to stay, and they fought and fought and fought until they had no more fight left between them, and then the lawyers handled the rest.
In retrospect, Harry wasn’t sure if he had ever wanted Ginny quite the way she wanted him. In fact, he was sure that he didn’t. But he did want to be a good husband. Giving up meant admitting he failed. That was part of the problem, according to Ginny. He was always trying to be some caricature of himself, trying to fill whatever shoes he thought needed filling. On top of that, it didn’t help that as voracious as Ginny’s sexual appetite was, Harry preferred comfort to intimacy. He wanted to share a bed, hug his wife, tug her close, but as soon as anybody’s clothes came off he was as useless as an erumpent in a glass factory. Harry hadn't actually questioned why that was until very suddenly he knew.
The first and only time that Charlie Weaseley came to visit Galloway’s Stead (and the reason he never visited again) was that they both got absolutely sauced and had the kind of grabby, needy, desperate sex that leaves bruises. It had only been eleven days into he and Ginny's trial separation when it happened—the trial part at Harry’s insistence, not hers—and the next morning, well before dawn, Charlie snuck out like a thief in the night leaving a hasty note that read: ‘Ginny is still my baby sister. I'm sorry Harry. C. W.’
So, Harry Potter was gay.
That was new.
And it made a lot of hard things less hard, really. Reflecting on his marriage and the circ*mstances that led to his divorce, being sexually attracted to men cheered him up to no end. Only half of the things that he’d blamed himself for were his fault, and he wasn’t rubbish at sex, he was just rubbish at sex with women. It also explained the flip-flop of his stomach back in school when Oliver Wood would clap him on the back after a match or when Hermione would get postcards of Viktor Krum with his shirt off sent from Bulgaria, or, if he was being bottle-of-Ogden’s-honest, his instant, unyielding, seven-year obsession with Draco Malfoy. Naturally if anyone else asked about that last bit, he’d lie a Swedish rug.
“Thick as bricks, me.” Harry said to the trees, taking another swig.
He didn’t hate Charlie for leaving the morning after, family was family. Still, Harry wished he'd stayed long enough for a thank-you waffle or some high-five eggs. He didn’t suppose that people sent ‘cheers for the sexual awakening’ greeting cards the morning after a good shag, but he was genuinely grateful. At least until Charlie’s guilt got the better of him and he told the entire Weasley family over breakfast. Harry was less grateful for that.
Cat out of the bag, Harry barely had time to be angry or even embarrassed because everyone else started reacting before he could. Ron came by the same day and, turning tomato red from the roots of his already red hair to his freckled toes, stumbled through a very awkward, very confusing explanation of quaffles and snitches, and how it’s okay to play a two-Seeker game if you want, if the other Seeker is also interested in playing with you, too. Hermione, more tactfully, owl-ordered him a book called ‘Bedknobs and Broomsticks: Embracing the Magic of Wizard Sexuality’ and said nothing about it at all.
Ginny's letter arrived after that.
It was brief but not unfeeling, rewritten so many times that the parchment itself was worn where she had magicked off the ink. She began with ‘I wish for both of us you knew sooner’ and ended with a bittersweet ‘I love you, Harry’. Her engagement ring and wedding band, which she had initially kept, were included in the envelope, along with the deed to Grimmauld, signed back into his name. There was no postscript indicating why, but Harry suspected it was because she was a hurt person, not a mean one. Ginny knew that these precious few things—his mother’s wedding set and his godfather’s dilapidated murder house—were all that Harry had left of his family now that she wasn't a part of it.
It took Molly and Arthur a long time to visit. Harry understood why, and he didn’t hold it against them. He had hurt Ginny terribly and then went and jumped into bed with Charlie two weeks later. The whole thing was a confusing, tangled mess (as was most of his life) but after several months, just a scant few days before his first Christmas alone, Molly bustled in unannounced like nothing at all had changed and squeezed Harry into a tight, soggy hug. She then gave him a treacle tart and a ham and potato casserole still warm from the oven before handing over a lumpy, hastily knitted sweater in plum purple with a pattern of little pink snitches on it. “So the young men know you’re interested, Harry dear.”
Harry wasn't too proud to admit that he cried over that sweater after she left, but it was a good, healing cry. Also, Ron's bizarre Seeker speech made a lot more sense in retrospect, once Harry knew that gay wizards used quidditch slang for things. Which he would have known, if he bothered to read Hermione's book when it was first delivered.
Startled out of his own thoughts by the loud overhead call of an owl, Harry nearly fell off the back of his porch.
Seconds later an enormous tawny female landed gracefully on the railing next to him. It hooted reproachfully when he swore at it, but still extended a leg out to offer him a very fancy, gold colored envelope. Harry accepted it, tipped a knut into the white leather pouch on its leg, cast a soft Lumos, and opened his letter.
To Mr. Harry James Potter
Ministry Registered Private Address
Owl Delivery Route KRJ9572, U.K.It is with respectful and sad remembrance that we include information pertaining to the First Annual Survivor’s Charity Ball, to be held on the anniversary date of the Vanquishing of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, with the most gracious ascent of Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.
As this is the first of many such planned reflections, we would like to extend this invitation in due time so that you may prepare in advance your speech.
Should you have any questions or require additional tickets for permitted attendees, please return your owl hastily to Miss Felicity Ruldark, Department of Events.
See AlsoPrintable Cover LettersLeading French novelist Jean-Baptiste Del Amo: ‘Macron is getting more arrogant, more aggressive’Top 27 Creative Sibling Tattoos That Symbolize Family Love40 Creative Sister Tattoo Designs You Will Love 2024Magically Yours,
F. Ruldark.
After he finished reading, Harry ripped both the letter and its envelope into a thousand angry shreds which he then lit on fire with a poke of his wand. Draining the last dregs of Odgin's he staggered inside to bed, letting the wind scatter the remaining ashes of yet another thing the Ministry of Magic wanted from him far, far away from his house.
***
How well a man dresses himself says a great deal about his pedigree and Draco Malfoy was, if nothing else, well bred. And, although the Malfoy name may have been sullied beyond repair in the aftermath of the Dark Lord’s foredoomed war, that was his father’s doing and his father was dead. So, Draco woke up early, put on quality socks, a clean, pressed shirt, a well-tailored suit, a silk tie, and dragonhide loafers worth more galleons than the dragon they came from. He took his wand, his keys, and he did the family business because someone must, and Mother’s nerves could no longer handle the stress.
It was Draco’s enduring fear that Mother would turn a wand on herself to escape the soulless hounds baying at the manor door. For months the downfall of one of Britain’s most well-known, longstanding pureblood families flooded headlines: LUCIUS MALFOY, SUICIDE OR MURDER? But of course Lucius had done it himself, that Draco knew for certain. Father was a coward. Even so, the bastard aurors at the DMLE didn’t even wait for the body to go cold before they sprang into action like starving dogs on a hare. Half of the Malfoy estate was robbed blind via manufactured charges ranging from Conspiracy to Distribute Prohibited Dark Objects to Class IV Possession of Restricted Necromancy. That last charge had been tacked on when one lucky auror found the box of shrunken heads under the stairs that Mother used to decorate the house elves’ tree over Christmas.
For three years Narcissa Malfoy was relentlessly harassed, harangued, and bothered, her house turned upside down so often that a polite knock was enough to send her into trembling hysterics. While aurors gleefully rifled through everything his family owned, Draco flooed home from PIMM (Paris Institute for Magical Masteries) on evenings and weekends to file appeal after time-wasting appeal, push court dates on petty technicalities, and demand complete recounts of everything taken from his house down to the last shiny brass dent in Abraxas Malfoy’s chamberpot. He wanted to curse the whole lot of them, but as the reluctant head of house Malfoy, what he needed was a well-rounded education.
In the end, Draco graduated his T.O.A.D.S. with distinction, boasting a Transfiguration Mastery, double Miserys in both Charms and Potions, and a grudge against the entire Ministry of Magic. It nearly killed him, but now he was educated, capable, and furious. He hired a private doctor for Mother, a ruthless goblin lawyer, and an accountant for the family vault under so many unbreakables that if he shorted the Malfoy coffers even a single, tarnished sickle, his balls would fall off and regrow where his nose had been.
For the next two years, battling an increasingly frustrated team of aurors, Draco repatriated the sum total of his estate. It infuriated them that despite the stain of a Dark Mark, Draco was smart. Out of four-hundred-and-thirteen items, four-hundred-and-eleven were grudgingly returned. The remaining two—an armchair made entirely out of wet, blinking eyeballs and an overlarge taxidermy troll—were surrendered, but only because they had given Draco the creeps since he could toddle and he was glad to be rid of them.
The harder he pushed, the more often ministry officials seemed to show up at his front door until finally, in an inspired countermove, Draco caught Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour outside of a courtroom and asked conversationally if he thought the Daily Prophet might be interested in the total taxpayer cost of the six dozen raids conducted against the Malfoy family, given that none of the charges had stuck. Scrimgeour, facing a tricky election with a post-war budget that no one was fond of, turned an exciting shade of green and, after shooing away all of his interns, promised Draco that there would be no more surprise visits in exchange for his absolute and total silence on all matters of money.
At long last (and no longer worried about having aurors for tea) Draco was left with ample time for other endeavors. Tonight, for example, he was drinking expensive wine in his study and sorting through the endless pile of hate mail delivered to Malfoy Manor. He liked to save clippings of the particularly creative, nasty ones and was currently scissoring around ‘soul-sucking, needle-nosed son of dogbreath Deatheater’. Howlers he directed to a purpose-built sound-safe to scream obscenities without disturbing Mother, and at last he turned his attention to a glittery gold Ministry envelope that he had been eyeing all night.
To Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy,
Ministry Registered Public Address
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, EnglandIt is with respectful and sad remembrance that we include information pertaining to the First Annual Survivor’s Charity Ball, to be held on the anniversary date of the Vanquishing of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, with the most gracious ascent of Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.
As this is the first of many such planned reflections, we would like to extend this invitation to all wizarding families since legally pardoned by the Ministry of Magic, so we may sally forth in the name of a peaceful, united, and productive future.
In respect for the deceased, widowed, injured, inhumed, or mauled, please ensure that tattoos or markings of a delicate nature remain private during your attendance.
Should you have any questions or require additional tickets for permitted attendees, please return your owl hastily to Miss Felicity Ruldark, Department of Events.
Magically Yours,
F. Ruldark.
Draco leaned back in his chair, amused.
Tattoos or markings of a delicate nature, what an absolutely Ministry way of saying ‘cover up that nasty dark mark, Deatheater scum!’ as if the entire Wizarding world didn’t have three-hundred candid shots of his criminal hearing, sleeves yanked up to his elbows. The only reason that cursed mark hadn’t bought him a one-way, whole-life ticket straight to Azkaban is because Harry Potter had shown up and thrown his celebrity around.
Draco remembered every detail about that day. Sitting in shackles, alone, Mother being held in some dark cell in the bowels of the ministry, Father dead. Deatheaters, like roaches, scatter when you turn the lights on. He didn’t have a friend in the world at that moment and then, like a miracle, along came Potter looking like a crazed madman who hadn’t slept in days, hair at all ends, shirt days old and dirty. But nobody cared what he looked like, they cared that he came. He could have waltzed in naked as a jaybird and nobody would have said a damned thing about it, because any wizard powerful enough to kill Lord Voldemort could just as soon kill you, too. That was just how real power worked. Potter stacked it on thicker than toast and then stormed out of the court before the vote was even cast. He didn’t need to stay, he already knew the outcome. They owed him.
In another life, Malfoy might have been embarrassed. Poor, pitiful Draco Malfoy. He didn’t know what he was doing, he was a product of his pureblood upbringing and his useless, rotten father. He was trying to protect his mother. He had no choice. He was a child. How could any single witch or wizard of the assembled Wizengamot sit there and judge him knowing full well that if Draco had dropped to his knees on their doorstep and begged for asylum a year before, they would have slammed the door in his face on surname alone? It took less than fifteen minutes to find Draco not guilty on all accounts and by the time he found out where Mother’s trial was being held, Potter had bullied her release as well.
Draco wondered idly if Potter had also been invited to the Ministry’s little sad-eyed soiree, but of course he was. They would probably haul him up on stage and parade him about like a prized war pony, make him say a few wibbly words, ask for donations for the widows and orphans fund. Heroes have duties. But after that, when everyone was expected to mingle and drink, Draco would finally have the opportunity to thank Potter in person. And, should the papers catch a photo of him and the Chosen One bumping elbows, and should that wipe another layer of grime off of the Malfoy name, well, coincidence bless.
***
Harry Potter felt like he had been bowled over by the Knight Bus which had then reversed and run over him again. He smelled like a brewery and his skin was grey and sticky. He woke up too late for a hangover potion, but not too early for him to weasel his way out of a trip to Diagon Alley to have a cheeky pint (barf) with Ron, George, and Luna.
Harry didn’t like visiting the wizarding main streets anymore, too much had changed while still not being different enough. Shops that had withstood centuries disappeared; Ollivander’s wand shop, for example, was replaced with a kneazle cattery. Two doors down a new wand shop opened run by a grumpy, rat-toothed wizard with a glass eye and people complained that he offered wandcores made of strange, foreign magics like manticore stings or thestral hooves which simply wasn’t done in Britain. But capitalism bows for no lord, so most witches and wizards just scrubbed off the blood and dust, slapped on a fresh coat of paint, and ordered a new street sign. This was why the Leaky Cauldron was still called the Leaky Cauldron but the inside had been recoloured a cheery yellow that made Harry ill and the menu was updated to exclude (most) things made with pickled spiders.
“I’m going to die. My bones are going to dissolve to jelly and I am going to melt into a puddle of goo,” moaned Ron to Harry, George, and Luna, thumping his forehead to the table. He raised it briefly to eat a handful of chips which were half price on Leaky Friday.
“Rough day?” asked George, and Harry coughed to hide his laugh.
“They’re going to kill me, you know. They had me chasing the bastard for nearly half an hour. In the rain!” Ron, who did indeed look like he had a rotten day, was still a bit damp, a soggy auror’s cloak strung over the back of his chair. “I don’t know how the muggles do it for sport, all the running. I thought I was going to sick-up on the last turn.”
“Did you catch him in the end?” asked Luna, kindly.
“No, that’s the worst part!” Ron exclaimed, dragging himself upright and signalling the waitress for another round for the table for everyone but Harry, who was sipping a lemon water and considering suing Ogden’s for brain damage if his headache didn’t let up within the hour. “The second I finally caught up to the bastard, it was like he went poof! I know he didn’t apparate ‘cause there was no sound or smell, but we turned a blind corner and he was just, well, gone. I had the team search the whole damn ally for a hidden door or something, but nothing. I’d be the laughing stock of the entire force if twenty other reports hadn’t come in from other auror’s saying the same damn thing last month.”
“It’s vampires,” said Luna, sipping from a periwinkle fizzy drink in a twisty glass she had ordered before the others arrived. “You’ll need to call in a consultant, I think.”
“Aren’t actual vampires pretty rare?” asked Harry.
“Oh, very. But you see—” Luna reached into an violently pink crochet bag beside her, digging around for a parchment which she unfolded into a massive map covered in little red ink dots. “We’ve been tracking them at the Quibbler for quite some time. It’s all here.”
“Y’know, I could make a mint selling dodgy vampire repellent at the store,” said George, thoughtfully. “Garlic gum, trick fangs, the whole lot.” He stole several of Ron’s chips, and some of his mustard. “Edible stakes would be a hoot, maybe mirror cream.”
“People have been murdered, George.” said Ron, indignantly.
“Not by vampires, obviously. No offense, Luna.”
“None taken, I’m not a vampire. At least, I don’t think I am.”
Harry hid a smile in his sleeve and avoided catching George's eye. He liked Luna and her wild way of looking at the world. But sometimes even he thought she was barmy.
“Fred and I were working on a prototype for a thirty-second animagus sucking candy once,” said George, “Thought it was rubbish ‘cause all we could manage was a great dirty bat each time, never any other animal. Maybe it’s time to dust the ol’ recipe off, eh?”
“That’s a myth,” said Harry.
“What is?”
“That vampires can turn into bats. Lupin said once.”
“Huh,” said George, eating more of Ron’s dinner.
Ron, who had snatched the map from Luna, was scanning it with his finger and mumbling under his breath with an increasing level of concern. “Where’d you get all these dots from, nobody but aurors ought to know this! We didn’t even tell the press about these attacks,” he prodded a red cluster near the edge. “This is privileged information!”
“I told you, we’ve been tracking them. Rolf and I, for several months now. Rolf studied vampires quite extensively in America, you know. We’ve sent dozens of letters.”
“Vampires,” said Ron, thoughtfully.
“Vampires,” said George, entrepreneurially.
“Vampires,” said Harry, just so he wasn’t left out.
“We did try to tell Mr. Robards,” said Luna, crunching noisily on an ice cube. “He threatened to have us detained. But I thought we still ought to inform the authorities.”
“You’re sure?” asked Ron, trying not to puff up over being called an authority.
“Certain as a Snallygaster,” confirmed Luna. “Rolf was quite adamant.”
Harry, who had no idea what a Snallygaster was and was pretty sure that Ron didn’t either, ordered another basket of chips for Ron as his basket was now empty. Rolf Scamander knew more about magical creatures than the entire DMLE combined and they all knew it. While George pitched an entire line of Weasley products that would both ‘delight and terrify’ and ‘entrance your fangless friends’ Luna and Ron whispered in hushed voices, and Harry couldn’t help the prickle of unease crawling up that back of his neck. It felt too recent, too familiar, like any moment a whisper of Voldemort would catch the wind and ruin his life yet again. So palpable was his anxiety that when Ron invited him back to his flat for a proper meal, he accepted immediately. He didn’t want to be alone and he didn’t know how to say so without looking like a complete idiot afraid of muggle Dracula.
***
“Who in Merlin's name is Felicity Ruldark?” Demanded Harry, shoving an overlarge forkful of Ron's homemade chicken pie in his mouth. “Never heard of her before.”
He was sitting with Ron and Hermione in their cheery blue and white checkered kitchen, his anxiety from earlier temporarily displaced by a second little gold envelope addressed to his friends. The ministry certainly didn’t waste time filling the attendees list.
“I’m not entirely sure,” admitted Hermione, who was refilling herself a glass of pumpkin juice before offering one to Ron. It didn't escape Harry's notice that she never served alcohol when he came to visit. “I don’t know everybody at the entire Ministry!”
“You do,” said Ron with his mouth full. “By name and birthday, most of ‘em.”
“Ronald, just because I know a good number of people from—” Hermione cut herself off when she saw the wry grin on Ron’s face. He was riling her up for sport, again .
“If I’ve never met her, and neither have you, why is it that's she assuming we're going to do a speech for—for—what is this even for?” Harry had snatched Hermione's invitation from the mail sorter on the wall the second he'd arrived, since he'd gone and destroyed his own. He was now re-reading it for the fifth time, getting more agitated with each go.
“I don’t need a ‘planned reflection’. I reflect enough as it is, it’s why I don't sleep. I don’t want to do it. I’ve done enough awful speeches for twenty lifetimes.”
“Nobody is gonna make you, mate. It’s just…” Ron trailed off, looking at Hermione who nodded slightly. “Well, when they asked us to say a few words, we figured—”
“You said yes?!”
“Well, er…” Ron floundered. “We haven’t said no, exactly.”
“We think that it might be helpful for some people,” Hermione said, carefully watching Harry’s face. “It could be good to hear a few words about what happened, if only to keep the memory alive. It’s important not to forget, Harry. That’s how things like this end up happening again and again. There are always wizards like Grindelwald or Tom Riddle. But if the next time, or the time after, if we remember—well, maybe they will never rise to power if enough people know better. Just like muggle Remembrance Day.”
“And you agree?” Harry put his fork down and turned to look at Ron.
“I don’t like the idea of dragging it up again and again either, really. But Hermione does have a point. And I think that since they’ve gone and invited a mixed lot, we—”
“What do you mean a ‘mixed lot’?”
“Y’know, like, some of the pardoned families like the Bullstrodes or the Malfoys or the—” Ron realized his mistake at the exact moment Harry’s folk clanged to the floor.
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Harry, look, nobody is going to make you come, or speak, if you don’t want to, like we’ve both said a dozen times. But I think it could do some good overall. And I know you don’t like that some families walked away free and clear, but you had a hand in that directly. When you spoke for the Malfoys, you set a precedent for any other young Deatheater, too. And rightly so, we can’t be holding children accountable for the sins of their parents, even if sometimes it feels like I really want to.” Hermine took Harry’s hand gently, “I know it’s all much harder for you.”
“I died, Hermione.” Harry said in a quiet voice. “And even that wasn’t enough for them, y’know? There is always someone who wants more. I get so tired I can’t stand it.”
“I know,” Hermione gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “But if you don't make an appearance, every reporter in Britain will be chasing you down to ask why not.”
“I don't care!”
“Maybe if you would consider—”
“Tell you what,” Ron said, recognizing that Harry needed a break as he floated his dropped fork to the sink. “Let’s let Hermione do some digging on this Ruldark bird before anybody decides, and if you don’t want to go then we’ll pretend you’re on your deathbed with Dragon Pox or something. Heck, I’ll call Charlie. You can have actual Dragon Pox, oozing sores and all. And if Witch Weekly shows up, you can cough on them real hard.”
“Don’t call Charlie,” groaned Harry, “I only have so much dignity.”
“How about Bill? Bound to have some ancient, undead Mummy curse lying around.”
“Maybe Percy,” Hermione added, grateful for the segue. “After the fourth hour of comparative cauldron prices throughout North America, you would be asleep for a week.”
And like that, the conversation migrated to which obscure Weasley relative could be called on to curse, maim, or otherwise decommission Harry so that he could escape public speaking for the rest of his natural life. By the time they had reached great, great, great Aunt Simotius whose alpaca spat fire, Harry went home feeling almost like himself.
