This Hard Road

At the end of this hard road

we'll sit all together at one meal

and I'll tell you everything: the names

of our comrades, how the letters were

were routed to you, why I left.

And I'll stop and say, "Now you,

grown so big, how was it for you, those times?

-Adrienne Rich, from "Letters in the Family"

George was quietly trouncing Fred at Gin Rummy, which Fred perpetually regretted letting Lee teach them, when Harry and Hermione plopped down on the couch by the fire, Harry ranting all the while. They could easily hear the third years, although they couldn't see much from their quiet corner of the common room. Any intention to ignore them was instantly dissolved with Harry's mention of their most hated teacher, and he knew that his brother was also listening, wondering if a revenge prank might soon be necessary. That notion fled as soon as the direction of Harry's thoughts became clear.

"And then he said to me, 'Well, Mr. Potter? Are you going to attempt to learn something in my class this year? Or don't you want to be a competent wizard?' So I told him that of course I wanted to be a wizard, but, you know, sometimes..."

"Come on, Harry," Hermione's voice slipped instantly into comfort-mode, "don't let Snape get to you."

"It's not that. I mean, Snape's a jerk, but really," Fred could hear Harry take a deep breath, "haven't you ever thought about not being a witch? I know we have no choice, I know we have to learn, especially with Voldemort and everything. But still..."

Harry fell silent. After a long while, Hermione said softly, "Remember literature? I always thought I would do really well in literature, and my parents and I would read books together, and discuss them over dinner. And in their last letter, my mother said, 'Congratulations, honey, but why didn't you just buy a pincushion if you needed one so badly?'"

There was another long silence. Fred had almost decided the conversation was over when Hermione burst out, her voice shaking, "And I try so hard! I work and I study and I try harder than anyone and then Malfoy calls me a mudblood and none of it is good enough." Her voice was loud in the nearly empty room. "And I miss my parents."

"I do, too."

"Dean?" Hermione asked through what sounded suspiciously like sniffles.

"I was over by the window," he explained. "And I miss my parents, too. But mostly, I miss Eric, my little brother. He's nine, and he writes to me about the football club we used to follow together. He's terrible at keeping secrets, so we couldn't tell him about magic or Hogwarts. So now he thinks I'm in trouble because I can't watch the games or even listen to them. He asked if the mean people would let me call him on his birthday. But, you know, phones don't work here."

Sounds of hugging and back-patting filled the common room. Fred met George's eye, and both were remembering conversations with Lee their first year. Muggle-born, alone in a mostly-white school, with no one who understood what was in him. Or how much he hated Hogwarts, how much he wanted to go home.

Fred's eyes shifted toward the stairway leading to their dorm. George nodded and got up, leaving Fred with the third years who were oblivious to his presence. He tuned back in to the conversation to hear Dean saying, "...and I'm afraid he's going to hate me. Or forget me."

"I don't miss the Dursleys when I'm here." Fred mentally dubbed that the understatement of the year. "And I like doing magic. And there's quidditch. But if I was a muggle, there'd be no Voldemort after me, no psychotic criminals trying to break into our dorm, no passing out in train compartments. Without magic, my parents might still be here."

The three were morosely watching the fire when George and Lee came down the stairs. From the rustling of fabric, Fred assumed there were at least two sets of wet eyes in the room.

George sat down next to Fred, and slid a comforting arm around his brother's shoulder. Fred sighed around the ache in his chest.

Lee's voice, when it came, was the most gentle Fred had ever heard it. "Hey, you three." The voices that greeted him in return lacked all energy. "Has anybody ever told you about the time I decided to run away from Hogwarts? I wanted to go home."

They must have indicated something, because Lee said, still oh so gently, "Come up to our dorm. I'm not sure I want this to become public knowledge." His voice drifted down the stairs, "First year, my dog died. My parents owled me..." The words faded as they climbed higher, and then a closed door cut off the sound.

Fred, eyes closed, leaned into George's warmth. "He'd raised it from a pup," George said.

"Of course I remember," Fred said. Warm, familiar fingers wiped the tears from his face, and Fred remembered that too.