Three Seasons to Closure

Chapter 16. A Visit with Loved Ones

At noon on the day following Harry's raucous visit with Ron, he was delighted to receive a yellow office note with a message from Hermione. She had been busy with exams and work lately, and Harry had seen very little of her - or at least he hadn't seen her as much as he wanted to. He had struggled all morning, but couldn't quite remember any details of his visit to her flat on the previous night and so he still felt as if it had been days since they'd last shared a meal, a conversation or a heated snog. It seemed, to Harry, that their new relationship was being mired somehow lately, and he was becoming terribly distracted with thoughts of his amazing girlfriend with all the separation he'd been forced to endure as October closed in on another school term for her.

Ron's diversion had done a fair bit of good, though, Harry reflected. A few of Harry's mates had made mention of fresh newspaper articles that morning but, in his new, good mood, Harry heard himself calmly answering questions about how they'd guessed that it was the London Seven who had sadistically murdered all of those poor people in the mall incident. He had even forced a laugh and a shy smile when the young witch at the building's security desk teased him about one of the pictures she'd seen published just that morning, calling him "Mr. Handsome", to Harry's extreme embarrassment.

But as the morning had turned into noontime, anxiety had begun to creep slowly back in, and it was currently threatening to erase all of the good work that he and Ron had achieved. In an effort to keep the tension from taking hold, Harry had found himself once again to be scoping about for something to dip into that would derail his thoughts for at least a few hours. He rubbed Hermione's note between his thumb and forefinger and opened it, hoping to find just the diversion he was looking for. It was, he discovered, an invitation from Hermione to meet her that evening for a "romantic picnic". The words lifted Harry's spirits considerably; Hermione wasn't prone to anything overtly romantic, and it would be interesting to see what she had conjured up for them this evening.

Harry smiled slightly as his brain imagined a rather saucy scenario which featured Hermione Flooing over to his flat wearing nothing but her dark gray cloak and carrying an overstuffed picnic basket. It almost hurt, how much he missed her, Harry thought as he envisioned himself drawing the scantily clad witch into a lavish kiss. A small bit of Harry's consciousness, however, managed to catch the date which had been scribed neatly on the top, right-hand corner of the office note. Harry's smile wilted as the numbers registered.

"October the Thirty-first," it read.

"Right, today's Halloween," he thought, feeling his spirits drop back down and he wondered why he hadn't realized this earlier. The sight or sound of that date had always cut straight through Harry, exposing the worst of his anguished memories. "Why would Hermione want to go out on Halloween?" Harry pondered this as he scribbled back an acceptance on his own light brown office memo pad and withdrew his wand to perform the Sending spell.

In her flat, Hermione paced back and forth in front of her fireplace, her eyes closed and her mind in an uproar. She had been positively seized in the middle of the night with what she thought had been a good idea to help Harry deal with his issues surrounding Halloween and all that it meant for him. Now, minutes away from their agreed upon meeting time, Hermione was more than having second thoughts; she was quite sure that she'd made a terrible mistake.

Hermione had taken up the idea that she needed to prod Harry gently into paying a visit to his parents. It had always struck her as unhealthy that Harry had never visited the graves where Mr. and Mrs. Potter were kept, and she'd long ago discovered that the anniversary of their deaths, Halloween, had become all but unbearable for her friend. He hadn't ever said anything until last night, but she and Ron had noticed Harry withdrawing into himself each year as the rest of the wizarding world flocked to bars and house parties to celebrate their day - a day to mock muggles a bit for having once caught on to the existence of magical people and creatures, and then promptly discarding the notion, owing it to superstition. Ron and his wife usually held a party of their own, and Hermione couldn't remember whether Harry had ever attended one of them.

Now that they were together, Hermione felt it was her responsibility to take care of Harry in ways that she'd never done before. Now, Hermione reasoned, that they shared such an intimacy, she would have to do everything in her power to protect Harry's spirit from the hauntings that were inevitably present, given his remarkable past.

So, an absurdly simple idea had formed. Hermione had decided to assemble a scrapbook - filled with pictures and stories of Harry's life as well as trinkets and art effects that she'd stuffed away in her Hogwarts trunk from her days as Harry's helper and confidante. She wanted to take Harry to a graveyard just outside of Godrick's Hollow, where she had discovered many years ago that the Potters had been buried. She wanted to look through the scrapbook with Harry, in the presence of his parents' remains, in order to force a kind of reckoning within him. She desperately wanted Harry to come to terms with his own actions, and to see himself just once in the way everyone else in the wizarding world saw him.

Now that the moment of truth was tortuously close, however, Hermione felt a terrible rush of insecurity. Insecurity, she scolded herself, brought about by a lifetime of overconfidence. Hermione stopped pacing and faced the fire. She reached into her dingy little tin of Floo powder and grabbed a handful, clutching a heavy satchel that she'd packed for the evening's goings on.

"Is this a loving gesture?" she asked herself, "or am I just being a controlling know-it-all?"

Closing her eyes, Hermione threw the powder into the fire. Harry was waiting for her, and whether right or wrong, she felt an underlying current of justification pushing her along. Harry did have wounds left to be healed, anyone could see that. It would be worth a try, wouldn't it? Hermione stepped into the flames and smiled bravely when she unfolded herself from Harry's fire. He had a slightly anxious look about him, but hugged her warmly once she'd gained her bearings in the living room.

"What's this?" Harry asked, pointing at the lumpy satchel Hermione had slung over her shoulder.

Hermione sucked in a deep breath. "You'll find out," she said, and she grabbed Harry's elbow and drew her wand to lead Harry to their destination. The pair Apparated to an alleyway that was no wider than a small car's width and almost completely smothered in darkness. Harry, grabbed by instinct, quickly spun around with his wand drawn and his ears trained on the night, listening for signs of mischief.

"It's all right," Hermione reassured softly. "I meant to bring us here."

"Here?" asked Harry. "In the middle of a damp...alleyway?"

"Yes," she answered.

"You want to have a picnic here?"

"Well, no, not exactly," Hermione answered, trying to sound assured. "The picnic was sort of a farce. I thought we should have some comfort food and a glass of wine, though, before going to the place where I really want to take you." Hermione lit the tip of her wand as she explained this to Harry, laughing at herself for not realizing the absurdity of picnicking in a gray, musty alley, just blocks away from a graveyard on Halloween. She was mad.

Harry's face held an expression that mirrored Hermione's own thoughts - he looked to be questioning for her mental welfare as well - as a blue sphere of wand light highlighted his features.

"Umm..." he muttered, "shall I pour us some wine, then?"

"Why yes! That'd be lovely!" Hermione said as cheerfully as she could manage, laughing at Harry's pretense of dignity in their grimy surroundings. "And would you care for some crackers and cheese?"

"Mmm, yes. Crackers and cheese are perfect for an alley picnic on this fine Halloween night," Harry chuckled. "Thank you."

He lit his own wand and placed it next to Hermione's to provide more light as he opened the wine that had been thoughtfully packed and poured it into two wineglasses. The alley felt much better now, lit by the combined power of Harry's and Hermione's wands, and Harry smiled at the effect. He looked around, studying the masonry blocks that made up the building walls and at the chipped and damp, black pavement beneath them.

"You know," he said, "if you ignore the fact that it's cold out and that we're completely surrounded by concrete, you have to admit it is kind of cozy in here."

He handed a glass of wine to Hermione and grabbed one of his own, sinking down into a sitting position and leaning up against the cold wall of one of the buildings. Hermione mimicked Harry's position and clinked her glass with his.

"To our first Halloween together," she said.

Nerves were beginning to tighten in Hermione's abdomen. She felt a tenuous pressure building within her. It was guilt for bringing Harry to this strange place mixed in with a fair amount of apprehension for where she intended to take him after their bizarrely planned picnic. Here he was, trying to make the best of her arrangements, smiling and making toasts as if he trusted her, and Hermione's confidence was crumbling apart. What had she been thinking? Had she really thought that she could heal Harry's heartaches - here in this place, armed with nothing but a silly scrapbook?

They ate and drank in silence, except for a few of the polite exchanges that would normally accompany a meal. When the cheese had gone, and she and Harry had each finished off their glass of wine, Hermione carried on with putting her picnic supplies tediously back in the satchel and stood up, staring at Harry. He was still wearing a cautiously humored expression and was looking up at her from his sitting position - patiently waiting in a blue-grey sphere of wand light for his girlfriend to enlighten him on the evening's festivities.

"I suppose you want to know where we're going from here?" she asked.

"I have been wondering," Harry replied, standing up and pointing his wand at each entrance to the alley. "Are we going trick-or treating or something like that?" he asked.

Hermione closed her eyes and checked her conscious one last time. "If this is a mistake," she silently pleaded, "stop me now." Harry squinted his eyes and waited for a response.

"No, Harry," she said. "We're not going trick-or-treating." She shrugged the satchel off of her shoulder and pulled out the large, orange scrapbook, pointing her wand light at it. "Harry, I made this...scrapbook. I used pictures and newspaper clippings and letters and such from over the years. I want to take it to your parents. They are buried a few blocks from here. I want to show it to them." She paused and turned her head away before continuing in a careful tone. "I feel like they should know what their son has done with his life."

Harry froze. In the space of a few seconds he felt his fingers go numb and the skin on his cheeks was suddenly as damp and cold as the alley pavement. He stood motionless for what seemed like minutes trying to find another way to interpret what his girlfriend - one of his oldest and closest companions and someone he trusted with his life - had just said to him. She brought him to his parents? To their graves? Never in a thousand Halloween evenings would Harry have ever thought that he'd have to face something like this.

Wind swept through the narrow alley and ruffled the scrapbook's pages lightly, and Harry remained frozen in place, neither moving nor thinking. All senses had abandoned him except for his hearing. He heard the light moan of the wind slapping against the concrete walls and he heard his heart pounding in his chest, strong and hard against his ribcage. A small whimpering sound was coming from the witch who stood next to him and Harry vaguely registered the noise.

"Harry," it said, "I'm so sorry. Please....please let's just go back."

But Harry couldn't move his mouth to answer. He couldn't force his brain to think about conversations. His body felt like a brick, useless and heavy, and his mind was stuck in some purgatory, somewhere between this stupid alley and the childhood home he could never quite remember. He closed his eyes and saw the bright green flash of light. He heard the screams of his mother and the emotionless cackle of his once-strong enemy. He felt a strong compression in his chest as his mind echoed the anguish of a young man realizing that he hadn't been able to save his own family. How that must have felt, Harry was thinking, to know that you've lost that fight...to realize that your baby was going to be murdered as blackness closed in on yourself.

"Harry," Hermione pleaded again, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him gently. "This was a bad idea. Beyond bad. The worst in a long line of really bad ideas. We're not going to go there. Not tonight. Don't worry, just come with me, okay? Harry, I'm going to Apparate us back to my flat. I'm so sorry."

Harry felt his head swaying forward and back as he felt strong hands pulling on his shoulders and the voice he'd been hearing finally broke his trance. The green light faded gently away and the cold numbness he'd been feeling turned to heat as a rush of shame swept over his body. Opening his eyes, he saw that Hermione was grabbing his arm now, obviously preparing for a side-along Apparition.

"No," Harry croaked, feeling himself break out of the strange entrapments that he'd succumbed to, trying to sound less pathetic then he knew he must look. "No," he repeated. Hermione broke down into sobs at the sound of his voice and Harry wrapped her up in his arms, taking the scrapbook from her as he did so.

"Shh," he said. "I'm sorry. You're probably right about going there tonight. You're always right, Hermione. It's obvious I have some...issues."

He waited for the sobbing to subside and then pulled the satchel toward himself and stuffed the scrapbook carefully inside of it. Hermione sniffed quietly while Harry wrapped his arm inside her elbow.

"Where to?" he asked.

"Harry..." Hermione began to protest, but Harry stopped her by squeezing her elbow in his strong arm.

"Where to?" he asked again, pointing his wand toward one of the alley entrances.

"It's this way," Hermione whispered, pointing her own wand toward the north-facing entrance. "It's...just a few blocks from here."

Harry allowed himself to be led down the alleyway, which turned out to be in a suburban shopping center at the top of a residential street. The moon was not full, but was bright enough to allow him to make out a large, tree-lined area ahead that was outlined with an ornate, black wrought iron fence.

"This must be their cemetery," Harry thought. "Mum's and Dad's cemetery."

He closed his eyes once again as he felt his legs stop their paces and Hermione's arm slip out of his grip. "Pull it together," he told himself. "You've been in deadly fights more times than you can count. This is your parents. You have to face them."

Harry squeezed his eyes tight as he fought the coldness that once again threatened to seize him up. He wished that he could conjure a Patronus to rid him of this dread, but knew that his silver stag would be of no use to him here. The Patronus charms were more or less for imagined horrors, not for real ones. Again, Harry heard Hermione's shaky voice followed by sniffles. He was breaking her heart, he thought. Hermione Granger was brave enough to pull bold stunts, and smart enough to realize when they were needed. But, Harry reflected, as he stood there paralyzed by his own ancient daemons, she had a fragile ego. And right now he was shattering it.

Reaching out to pull Hermione toward him, Harry opened his eyes to the dim night and focused on the witch before him. He let the sight of her glistening eyes push away the ghosts of his dead parents. He stroked her cheek and felt her hot tears under his index finger. She was real, and right there, and if he didn't do anything stupid, she would be with him for the rest of his life. There was no reason to fear a graveyard anymore - no reason to fill up with anxiety on the last day of October every year. His parents were gone, and they died in the most horrific manner, but he didn't have to pretend it hadn't happened anymore.

"I love you. You know that, right?" he said softly.

Hermione sobbed again and Harry laughed. "Not quite the reaction I wanted to hear, but..." He leaned forward and kissed her, letting out a moan. His emotions were being amplified one-hundredfold and he felt suddenly as overcome with love for the witch he held in his arms as he had been with dread just moments before. The couple shared a long and intense kiss, standing in the middle of the pavement next to the alley that Hermione had Apparated them to. After a few minutes, Hermione grabbed Harry's hand, budged up her satchel once more, and led him down the street toward the iron-lined cemetery.

They searched the graveyard by wand light, separating to cover the vast grassy area. Hermione walked quickly in a stooped position, reading the carved names out loud as she passed each stone and she could hear Harry rustling about at the far end of the cemetery. He seemed to be taking the search as somewhat of an adventure now, she thought, though she had expected him to turn away when they entered the gates, based on his earlier reactions. Hermione had known that Harry's sorrows ran deep, when it came to his family and his childhood, but she certainly hadn't expected him to suffer a breakdown. Harry Potter had been through so much. She had seen him pull through every sort of situation imaginable, and he rarely ever let emotions get the better of him.

She kicked a large rock out of her way as she turned toward a new row of gravestones: still furious with herself even if it seemed that Harry had forgiven her. Would she ever learn not to overstep her bounds? Hermione sorted through her tired old List of Things to Improve and felt her mind drift back into the familiar debates as she sought to fit "Stop interfering in Harry's life" on it.

"Hermione!" Harry called from across the cemetery plot. "I think I've found it."

Hermione shivered. Harry didn't sound excited, nor did he sound distraught. To her ears, he just sounded...resigned. She held her lit wand out in front of her and approached the large, rectangular stone that Harry had found.

Reading the names out loud, Hermione lowered her wand and dropped to sit Indian-style in front of the etched granite.

"I wonder who picked out the stone," she said quietly, not sure why such a question had bothered to surface.

"Don't know," Harry replied. He sat down next to Hermione and adjusted his glasses, staring at the names before him. Hermione set her satchel between herself and Harry and once again pulled out the scrapbook. She looked over at Harry, who gave her a nod and an embarrassed grin.

"I can't believe we're doing this," he said.

"Shush," Hermione answered, pretending to be annoyed. "Don't mock my idea of a hot date in front of the dead. It's bad luck."

Harry chuckled.

"Mr. and Mrs. Potter," Hermione began, "I'm Hermione Granger. I'm a friend of your son's. Well, I'm his latest conquest, to be honest...in a romantic sense, that is."

Harry nudged her, and Hermione giggled. "People laugh at the strangest things sometimes," she thought. How on Earth the two found humor in the situation she'd plunked them into, she could never hope to understand.

"Anyway," she continued, "I thought it was time that you got to know what became of your little Harry." Hermione's voice caught deep in her throat. The mental image of an infant Harry sobered her instantly, and she felt tears forming in her eyes once again. After a moment's pause, Hermione strengthened her resolve and began to tell Harry's story to the cold wind that had been whipping softly through the cemetery. She began with what she knew of Harry's childhood at the Dursley's, and ended with Harry's heroic slaying of his parents' killer. She cried steadily throughout the telling, and felt utterly spent as she described how she and Ron watched Harry drive Gryffindor's sword through Voldemort's crusty heart.

Harry listened quietly as Hermione flipped through the linen pages of her scrapbook. If he was breathing, she certainly couldn't hear it, but at least his eyes were open and he didn't look as if he was in the middle of some sort of fit. Sitting in silence now next to Harry, she felt her hair tickle her face and held it back with her hands. Astonishingly, on this dreary night, in the midst of all this drama that she had created, Hermione felt remarkably contented: a realization that made her practically vomit with guilt. She had broken Harry, she knew it. But, he sat next to her with the face of an angel - a baby, really - staring at a white headstone and moving his fingers across the deeply etched names, entranced.

Hermione's hair whipped around again in the wind and covered her face completely. She grabbed it to make a part in the curtain of wavy brown strands and peered at Harry, following his line of sight. With his index finger, he was tracing the "P" in the ornately carved "Potter" over and over again. She watched for a few moments, thinking that this was one of the most intimate gestures she had ever seen, and fresh tears began to spill from her eyes. Harry was too drained to hide his feelings at this point, and she could practically feel the turbid emotions stirring around within him.

As she watched Harry's index finger move from the "P" to the "O" and on to the other letters of the only thing that seemed left of his mum and dad, their famous name, it dawned on Hermione why she felt so inappropriately contented. "He said he loves me," she remembered. How had that occurred? How had he said it? She couldn't even recall whether it had been whispered or shouted, but it was said, this she now knew with a certainty.

"Harry loves me," Hermione repeated to herself. She felt numb. Stretching forward, she reached a hand out and joined her index finger with Harry's, tracing the name with him, and Harry looked over at her for the first time since they'd sat down at the grave site.

"Mr. and Mrs. Potter," Hermione said, addressing the tomb stone, "I don't want you to worry about your son anymore." She grabbed Harry's hand and, as he'd done for her on several occasions, she brought it up to her lips and kissed his palm warmly. "I'll look out for him, and keep him in line." She smiled and gave Harry a quick wink. "I'll love him enough for both of you now."

Harry lingered at the grave for a little while longer, not speaking to the stone nor to Hermione, but soaking in the sensations and feelings, trying to let in all the healing that wanted to take place within him. He rose up and gestured for Hermione to take his arm, Apparating them back to her flat where he led her directly into the bedroom. They were too tired to discuss it, but Harry knew it would be alright. He thanked her sincerely, hoping to relieve any guilt she might feel over bringing him to his parents' lying place, and told her again that he loved her. He kissed her, undressed her, and...eventually...decided to leave her alone to get some sleep.

"Mmm, that was fun," Hermione sighed as Harry prepared himself to Apparate, snuggling into her pillow and closing her eyes. "I like the adult-rated bits."

Harry laughed. "Me too. Now get some sleep, there'll be more trouble for you to conjure in the morning," he said, and then he Summoned and extra blanket from Hermione's couch, using it as an extra layer to tuck his girlfriend in with before he Apparated home to his own flat.

He lay in his bed for hours, unable to fall asleep, and not really wanting to. For as long as Harry could remember, he had been pretending that the day didn't exist - that October thirtieth would just slip right into November first - just because he wasn't a strong enough wizard to bear the anniversary of his parents' death. His mum and dad, their sacrifice, their struggles and their heartache: he'd pushed them all out of his conscience. His own life and the demands on him, the ominous expectations and prophesies: these were all he had been able to handle.

And so, Harry concluded in his bedroom in the early hours of November first, he'd played the part of a coward for well over two decades. What kind of wizard...what kind of man fails to honor his parents' memory as he'd done? Harry had always carried a heady dose of shame around with him regarding his parents' sacrifice and tonight he realized, staring at their names, that this was why he hated the occasion of Halloween more than anything else. It brought on unpleasant memories, and reminded him of what he'd lost, what he'd been deprived of...sure. But more than all of that, it was shame that drove him to hide from the wizarding world each year. He felt shameful for not remembering his own mum and dad, for not speaking about them often enough, and for not honoring them as he should have.

Tonight, however, had brought extraordinary changes within Harry. He was in love with Hermione Granger, an intellectual and a fighter and a true friend all rolled into one deliciously beautiful - if even a bit quirky - witch. Harry trusted Hermione's judgment and she seemed to believe that he had not neglected, but had indeed honored Lilly and James Potter. As she pointed at old moving pictures and spun the story of his life, sitting there on the grass, Harry realized for the first time how it all sounded. It sounded...honorable. It sounded like something a mother and a father would be proud of. Harry had waited for the familiar wrench of shame to grip him, but it hadn't come. Not there among the graves, not with Hermione next to him speaking calmly about a brave young man, and the end of the foul dark wizard who had sent his parents to that very place just when their lives had held such promise.

A portion of his life, Harry thought, did begin the moment he had set foot in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry at age eleven. But the rest of it - the part of his life that was meant to be shared with others - was irrevocably set in motion on this cold Halloween night, beside his best friend of fifteen years and girlfriend of only a few weeks, and among the spirits of his parents and the ghosts of his past.

He didn't want to feel the grief anymore. Sitting there with his girlfriend, Harry wanted freedom to be what she needed him to be. And so he had allowed himself to feel relief, and to forgive himself for not having parents to love. He had let himself breathe in the cold October air and let the Halloween night fill him up, closing his eyes and pretending to feel the souls of his long-dead parents. Harry's eyes finally slid closed and he relaxed into sleep, wrenched from the emotional journey he'd been on but, even more strongly, satiated in an overwhelming sense of closure.

The End.