Epilog

The following is from the August 3 2146 issue of Witch Weekly.

Eggplant.

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                        EPILOG

                 By Raymond Laflamme

 

I thought it was a joke at first and almost tossed the note into the fire. It claimed that Harry Potter, a man notorious for not talking a reporter in well over a century, wanted to be interviewed and even more ridiculous it said he wanted me, just another failed author who drank a bit too much, to do it. Writers like me are a dime a dozen. I figured there was no way a great man like Harry Potter would single me out. For the fun of it I made a few inquires to find out which of my friends was playing a silly prank on me when I discovered with shock that it was no joke. Professor Potter really did want an interview and he specifically requested me, of all people, to do it. At first my thoughts were joyful; this could restart my declining career as an old-fashioned, hard news journalist and war correspondent in a world that preferred sensationalism and celebrity gossip. My feeling of ecstasy didn't last long, however, when the reality of the situation started to sink in. I felt nothing but pure blind mindless panic. It wasn't as though I hadn't interviewed important people before; you might not think so today, but at one time, I was a pretty successful reporter. I'd done religious leaders and political leaders, generals, artists, terrorists, movie stars, mass murderers, two ministers of magic and even the richest wizard in the world and none of them had intimidated me in the slightest. But this was different, this was Harry Potter, THE Harry Potter, the most powerful wizard who ever lived, the man who defined an age, the father figure for a nation, the man on the five Galleon coin in my pocket, the very man who killed Vold****t for heaven sake, and I'm supposed to interview him? God help me!

When I actually met Professor Potter at his modest house in Hogsmeade I was surprised at how small he was. I shouldn't have been because I knew intellectually he was only of normal height, but somehow when I think of Harry Potter I think of a giant. Instead, I found I was actually taller than the elderly wizard who stood before me. He was so thin that, if his movements hadn't been so fast and agile, I might almost have called him frail. The old man's trademark hair was as thick and unruly as it was when he was a boy, but it had turned quite gray. The years had worn deep lines into his haggard face, but it was only when you came to the eyes that you realized this was not an ordinary wizard. There was something about the twinkle in those brilliant green eyes that was reassuring; my feeling of apprehension went away. Mostly. 

Old as he was I noticed his hand was rock steady as he poured tea for me when we sat down in his small living room. The only scary moment was when I took out my notebook and quill, the twinkle seemed to go out of his eye for just an instant and I got a glimpse of some of the immense power lurking in the man. I thought of Ostric Lestrange, the greatest dark wizard since You-Know-Who and his grab for power just last year. He thought Potter was too old and weak to confront him. The late Mr.Lestrange soon learned he was very much mistaken about that, but not quite soon enough.

"Mr.Laflamme, that's not a Quick Quotes Quill is it?" Potter's voice had just a slight edge, but it but it was more than enough to send a chill up my spine. For a moment I felt like I was back in the trenches under artillery attack.

"N no, no sir," I stammered, "those things are garbage, no responsible journalist would use one, it's just a regular quill."

He smiled and I relaxed again.

"You'll have to forgive me," he said, "I've gotten a bit paranoid in my old age, especially with journalists. I've had some bad experiences with members of your profession. The last time I was interviewed, it didn't turn out well. It was so unpleasant that I vowed never to give another. But that was, let’s see, 152 years ago and I think it's time to give it another try. There are some things I'd like to get off my chest and if I'm ever going to do it I've got to do it now."

At first the discussion was mostly small talk, perhaps he was trying to get me to relax, or maybe he was sizing me up, or maybe he just liked to talk about Quidditch because when he found out I was Gryffindor's(mediocre) keeper in my seventh year at school he seemed positively delighted. We had an enjoyable talk about the sport for a while and then curiosity got the better of me.

"If you don't mind me asking sir,” I said, “why did you pick me? I hope it's not because we're related."

"Are we?"

"Yes, sir, distantly related. I never met the man, but Dudley Dursley was my grandfather. But I understand the two of you were not close."

"Interesting! I had no idea," he said, "and you're correct we, ah, we were not, ah, close. No, the reason I picked you was your book, the biography of Rita Skeeter, you did an excellent job exposing the venom inherent in that woman. I figured anybody who disliked her methods as much as you obviously did can't be all bad. Dudley's grandson, hmm, well it's still a first-rate book".

"I’ve learned to hate that book,” I heard myself confess,“it cost me nine years and three marriages to write the damn thing.”

I don’t know what made me blurt that out but he must have sensed my embarrassment because he said with it must be admitted some exaggeration, “Well, I thought you were brilliant describing that vile woman and the times she lived in, and the book got very good reviews too.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but reviews don’t pay the bills, it turned out to be a big commercial flop. Nobody wanted to read about a yellow journalist from the last century. I should have written a book about you".

"I'm very glad you did not!" he laughed.

I thought I saw a brief spasm of pain cross his face, but then I figured I must have been mistaken because he continued talking with no change in the tone of his voice.

"There are already about nineteen dozen books about me and the world can get along just fine without another one."

As he continued to speak he brought a small box from his pocket, opened it with one hand and put a pill into his cupped hand. He moved his hand casually toward his mouth and then took a sip of tea. But then he saw me looking at the box.

"Vitamins." He said a little sheepishly. Then he got more serious.

"I wanted to get on the record something I did as a young man."

"Yes, sir." I said getting down to business, "When you battled The Dark Lord, how did you…" but he held up his hand and I stopped.

"I don't want to talk about that twit. Everybody assumes my defeat of Voldemort was the defining moment in my life, but I can assure you it was not.  It was something that happened three months before that changed me forever; it was almost like the old Harry Potter died, I never liked the new version quite as much. Three months before Voldemort was defeated the two best friends I ever had in my life, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were murdered. I was the one who discovered their poor mangled bodies; I had never felt grief like that before, or since. They would never have been killed if their friendship for me hadn't made them prime targets; that thought nearly unhinged me, perhaps for a time it did." 

He hesitated for a long time before continuing.

"I wanted to give this interview because I wanted to tell people what I was doing about that in the two years immediately after Voldemort's defeat."

"A lot of people have wondered about that," I said, "that's the only part of your biography that seems to be a complete blank, Potter scholars call them "The Lost Years", nobody knew where you were or what you were doing."

"Oh, some people knew," he said, "but not many. You see, not long after Tom Riddle Junior assumed room temperature, I learned that, although he had ordered the murders of Ron and Hermione, Voldemort was not the one who actually committed the butchery. Well, I couldn't live with that, I could not rest until I found out who the killer was. It took me a year and a lot of undercover investigation, but finally I knew who the fiend was, it turned out to be a traitor and a spy, a high official in the Ministry Of Magic by the name of Jason Calendar.”

"I've heard of him," I said, "he was an Auror a long time ago, in fact he was the chief hit wizard at the ministry and one day he just disappeared. It was all very mysterious."

"Yes," he said, "one of Voldemort's top lieutenants was also a high official in The Ministry Of Magic. Calendar could be charming when he needed to be. He could converse brilliantly about art science philosophy music politics, you name it. It embarrasses me today, but I must confess I rather liked the man the first time I met him and thought of him as a friend. It took me time, too much time, for me to realize it was just a facade and pure evil lay underneath. If I’d been a little faster in recognizing him for what he was Ron and Hermione might not have…”

He stopped and took a long sip of tea.

“Well, no point in rehashing that. As I was saying our Mr. Calendar was not a pleasant man. I think he enjoyed making people suffer even more than Voldemort did. Voldemort was most interested in power, Calendar was interested in pain. In retrospect, it's obvious our side didn't have any secrets from Tom Junior, there's no telling how many deaths that spy was responsible for; but it was two murders committed by his own hand that most concerned me. Unfortunately, he was tipped off that I was after him so he abandoned his job and went into hiding. My fault, even then I didn't fully appreciate how corrupt and incompetent the ministry was, I should never have hinted of my suspicions to anybody there. Calendar did a very good job at covering his tracks. The man may have been a monster, but he was not stupid. But I wasn't stupid, either. It took me another year of research, much of it revolting, dealing with Death Eaters and wading through the pain and misery and decay left in their wake, but one happy day I discovered where he was hiding and that same day I paid my former friend a visit."

He paused for such a long time that it didn't seem like he was going to finish the story without prodding so I said, "What happened?"

"Oh, we dueled, he lost," he said simply. "I disarmed him, conjured some ropes and tied him from head to foot. At that point, I still planed to do the legal thing, to turn him over to the Ministry, the same corrupt organization he had helped lead until a year before. And that's undoubtedly exactly what the old Harry Potter would have done."

He paused yet again, I said, "But that's not what you did this time is it?"

"No, it's not," he said, "I started to think about Ron and Hermione, and I thought about Wormtail, too, and how my interference had prevented Sirius and Lupin from doing what needed to be done. History would not repeat itself I decided. So I took measures to ensure that nothing like that could ever happen this time."

"What did you do?" I asked, afraid I already knew.

"I didn't torture him or anything, if that's what you're thinking," he said, “I didn't quite sink to Calendar's level. He had a far easier death than Ron and Hermione had. I just sliced off his head; he never felt a thing. I used Godric Gryffindor's sword and did it with one blow, a former headmaster at Hogwarts left it to me in his will and I'd used that sword before. It's no secret I've killed men since then, but all those times I never had a choice - this time I did. I had a decision to make and I made it."

"You,.. you just executed him?" I said stupidly.

"You could put it that way if you like, "he said, "or you could say I relieved him of his commission as Chief Auror with extreme prejudice, but there's no point in euphemisms at this late date. A prosecutor could say it more simply; he would say this is not a gray area and the law is clear. I murdered Jason Calendar."

The silence stretched on and I knew I should say something but my brain felt numb. I stared at a tiny model of a horntailed dragon in a glass china cabinet; it was marching around something that looked like a large golden egg. I opened my mouth and said,

"Did...Why...Is it,"

I seemed to have lost the ability to form a coherent sentence. I took a deep breath and tried again.

"After all these years do you ever regret your decision?"

He thought a long time before he responded. 

"Oh, sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, but not often. I'd probably do it again, but who can really say? You can't relive a life."

He got up, walked to the window and stared out.

"You know, life is a funny thing. With all the powerful enemies I’d somehow managed to make, I always figured I'd die young. It really never occurred to me as a boy, that I'd be an old man some day. Yet as it turned out I outlived all my old friends."

His voice dropped almost to a whisper, so much so that I had to struggle to hear him.

"Ginny was the last, she died two years ago on July 2, it was our 146 wedding anniversary."

He hesitated and I didn't know what to say, but then he continued.

"I even outlived my son, not that he was worth much. Oh, I shouldn't have said that. James had a good heart, but he just didn't work well under pressure, and if truth be told, he wasn't the sharpest pencil in the box. That wasn't his fault. Everybody was always comparing him to me too and that couldn't have been easy for him. I never told James, of course, but I was very disappointed when he was chosen for Hufflepuff, not Gryffindor. Privately, I thought the Sorting Hat must have made a mistake, but it's obvious now that it did not. Poor James was just gullible. I think that's how he got involved in that junk bond scanda. His partners were just using him as a figurehead, using the Potter name to give their swindle an air of legitimacy. I don't think he knew it was a scam. Anyway, that's what he told me and I'd like to think it's true."

Then he turned around and smiled at me, the twinkle in his eye in full force.

"For the record I should add that I've outlived all my old enemies, too. But I'm rambling; old fossils like me tend to do that."

He walked from the window and sat back into his chair.

"Professor," I said, "did anybody else know what you did?"

"Ginny knew," he said, "and I told Ron and Hermione's parents. They had a right to know. I told the Weasley brothers, too."

"Weren't you afraid one of them would reveal your secret?" I asked.

"The thought did occur to me, but I wasn't bothered by it. I don't know, I guess I sort of thought of them as my judges, if they found me guilty and turned me in then that's the way things should be and I'd accept any punishment that came my way. Actually, Percy did want to turn me in. I think he would have, too, if his parents hadn't threatened to disown him and Bill said he could get Gringotts to audit his taxes for the last five years, and Charlie said he'd wake up some night with a Hungarian horntail in his bed, and as for Fred and George," he laughed, "Well, if you planed to have any dignity in life, you didn't want to get on their bad side." He stopped and looked a little wistful.

"They're all dead now of course, as far as I'm aware nobody now living knows." Then he looked me straight in the eye and said, "But that's about to change isn't it."

"Sir," I said, "I'm honored you chose me to interview you, but I'm starting to think this whole thing is not a good idea. I'm sure nobody would dare try to put you in Azkaban or anything. The public would never stand for it, but there's bound to be negative consequences for you of some sort when this is printed, and I'd hate to think anything I wrote would cause you pain. Give me the word and I'll burn my notes and forget the entire thing."

He grinned and said, "Dudley's grandson hmm, I never would have guessed it in a million years. Don't worry, there is no way it can cause me the slightest problem."

"With all due respect sir," I insisted, "I think you're wrong about that. It won't be for murder, but somewhere some ambitious wizard trying to make a name for himself is going to try to prosecute you for something, or a relative of Calendar's will sue you for damages." 

He laughed, "Nobody can sue me because the house is rented and I've already given away all my money; and, if the ministry plans to prosecute me, they're going to have to be mighty damn quick about it I can tell you that, but the ministry is incapable of doing anything fast."

"Why is that sir?" I asked thinking I already knew the answer and hoping I was wrong.

"Because," he said, "The ministry may be less corrupt than it once was, but it's still full unimaginative paper shufflers, unwilling to stick their neck out. I remember one time...”

"No Sir!" I said, “Ah, I mean, I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I meant why do they have to prosecute you quickly?"

"Oh that," he said slowly, "well, you'll know the truth shortly anyway so I might as well level with you. There is no way your article will cause me the slightest problem because very soon now, probably before it even makes it into print, I will be dead."

He must have seen a look of horror on my face.

"Oh come now, you can't be that surprised," he said with an exasperated smile, "I mean, do you know of any wizard older than me?"

"No sir but...” I couldn't put it into words, I knew he was very old, but he was our powerful protector, too. Things couldn't get too bad as long as we had him. Everybody knew he was old but nobody thought of him as an old man.

"Well there you go, nobody lives forever. I won't say I'm delighted with the idea, but I really don't mind, at least not much. I am a little sorry I won't be going to the Quidditch World Cup next month because I'm curious if Scotland or Nigeria has the better team. I'll never know, oh well, it's not a big deal. You won't believe it, but I bought tickets three years ago, I knew the good seats would go fast."

He laughed.

"For a man of my age, I guess that proves basically I'm an optimist. And I almost made it, too!"

I did not feel like laughing with him.

"Hey, cheer up," he said, "It's not like I've been short changed. I've had a longer life than most and one not lacking in incident. Things haven't been much fun the last couple of years anyway. Not since Ginny died. It's time to go. I know it. And there's something else." 

A big grin spread across his wise and ancient face as he said,

"An old friend of mine once told me that to the well organized mind death is but the next great adventure. Only recently have I started to understand what he meant."

Then he stood up, shook my hand, thanked me for coming and I realized the interview was over.

Two days later, just as the article was about to be printed, an owl I didn't recognize flew into my office. She was carrying two tickets to the top box at the Quidditch World Cup and a unsigned note that just said "Raymond, I won't be needing these, enjoy the game." I try not to drink this early in the day, but I had a feeling I knew what that note meant. I pulled out a bottle of whiskey from my desk drawer and poured myself a stiff drink. I’m glad I did because twenty minutes later the news broke and the reaction all over the world was like a punch to the stomach. The wizard stock market dived, classes were canceled at Hogwarts and people could be seen crying in the street. Like everybody else, I was saddened and frightened, but unlike most I was not surprised to hear that Harry Potter, the man who had been inexhaustibly defending our world for longer than most of us had been alive, was dead. Harry Potter died peacefully in his sleep at his home in Hogsmeade; it was his 166 birthday.