Grey

You did not ask Harry Potter about the war.

Following his reaction to questioning just after the Final Battle (refer back to Chapter 12: The Boy Who Showed His True Colors), no one was ever brave enough to attempt to interview him for either published material or as a witness in the numerous trials that followed the death of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. His friends also chose to maintain this code of silence, refusing to provide any information on why Harry Potter suddenly became mute on the subject of the war. The responses that were given were either vague or very explicit, as in the case of Ginny Weasley.

From The Daily Prophet, Special Issue: "The Boy Who Wouldn't Talk" (reprinted by permission):

...Ginny Weasley, a member of the elite Magical Strike Force known as the Lightning Brigade, was a little more vocal in her refusals.

"Don't you get it?!" Weasley told a group of reporters outside the Ministry of Magic. "There are things that happened then that no one needs to know about. If Harry's staying quiet, I say good for him. Until he says something, I sure as hell won't, and neither will any of the other Lightnings, so you lot can just--"

The rest of Miss Weasley's comments have been stricken, in accordance with the Edict for the Omission of Anatomically Impossible Curses.

With Harry staying quiet and his friends following suit, we can only wonder if the world will ever know exactly what happened during those final hours of terror.

--excerpt from The Boy Who Could Not Live: A Psychological Profile by Aislynn Cornwall

/the sky is grey

the sand is grey

and the ocean is grey

and I feel right at home

in this stunning monochrome

alone in my way/

"--and it's a beautiful day here in London. Today's Thursday, so that means we'll have Jesse Krebs, our resident Quidditch expert, joining us later with his picks for this year's top teams. First up, though, is the Weird Sisters' newest single, 'Cursed with Charm.'"

Before the music can start, Harry grabs his wand and points it at the clock radio on the night stand. The thing falls instantly silent and he smiles a little. The wizarding world had discovered the uses of Muggle radio for communication during the Second War; after Voldemort's defeat, it had been put to more recreational purposes. It still annoys Harry, though, and he questions why he bought it, not being particularly fond of the announcer's voice. He wonders why Lee Jordan never applied for a radio job, then his mind trails off to other classmates and he shakes his head, but the train of thought is rolling and cannot be stopped.

Ron Weasley's right leg was maimed in the Battle for Hogsmeade; he still walks with a limp.

Hermione Granger (now Granger-Weasley) married Ron in a hurried ceremony just prior to the Battle for Hogsmeade. She fought the rest of the war while he recovered and came through in one piece, but Ron says she cries in her sleep.

Fred Weasley died in the Forbidden Forest Raid.

George Weasley couldn't handle his twin's death. Harry used to go with Ron or Ginny to visit him in St. Mungo's, but he hasn't been in months.

Ginny Weasley lost her left eye in the Battle for Hogwarts (the one everyone calls "the Final Battle.") She took over Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes and still wears Fred's dragon skin jacket, claiming she's only keeping it warm until she can give it back to him.

And then there is Harry.

/i smoke and i drink

and every time i blink

i have a tiny dream

but as bad as i am

i'm proud of the fact

that i'm worse than i seem/

Harry lives alone.

Harry has never had a lasting relationship.

Harry has never had a relationship.

He climbs out of bed and shuffles to the kitchen. He turns on the coffee maker, then charms the radio to play in the kitchen because the silence kills him. He looks around the flat while the coffee maker hums, eyeing the trash that's piled up. He grabs the trash can and resigns himself to cleaning up.

Empty cigarette box on the counter. Empty bottle by the chair; beer. Empty bottle by the couch; vodka. Empty cigarette box on the coffee table. Half-empty bottle on the coffee table; vodka, again. He unscrews the lid on the vodka, raises it to his lips, then thinks better of it.

He looks at the vodka bottle and wonders about the dream he had last night.

/what kind of paradise am i looking for?

i've got everything i want and still i want more

maybe some tiny shiny key

will wash up on the shore/

He had been standing on the beach. He's never been to the beach, so it struck him as strange, but he took off his shoes and walked down the shoreline, enjoying the feel of the sand beneath his bare feet.

He was looking for something. It was important; he needed to find it quickly. Someone was waiting for him.

A wave swallowed his feet. He caught a glimpse of something carried onto the beach by the wave, something small and silver and bright. He knew that's what he'd been looking for.

He lunged forward, falling to his knees in the water and dropping the sneakers he'd been carrying. He fumbled in the surf, trying to grab the thing before it was carried back out to sea. His hands closed around it and he brought it to his chest in cupped palms.

It glimmered in the sunlight and then he woke up.

/you walk through my walls

like a ghost on tv

you penetrate me/

The music on the radio stops abruptly and the announcer's voice takes over, rushed and anxious.

"We interrupt this portion of our program to bring you this breaking news bulletin. Though details are few, we know this much: after four years of evading Ministry operatives, Death Eater Draco Malfoy has been captured."

The vodka bottle shatters on the floor.

/and my little pink heart

is on its little brown raft

floating out to sea/

The room seems to tilt as the announcer reminds everyone of the atrocities Draco was party to, the Aurors he tortured, the Unspeakables he killed.

"Draco Malfoy is expected to be brought to trial within the week, charged specifically for the murder of Lighting Brigade member Neville Longbottom."
Harry staggers a step, puts one bare foot on the pieces of glass that litter the floor and doesn't notice.

He remembers.

Voldemort's body was not yet cold. Neville stood beside Harry and Draco was not far off, waiting for something.

Neville raised his wand, but Draco was faster.

Green light. Neville was dead.

Draco opened his mouth to say something, but a cry went up from near-by. Draco swore and fled.

Harry stood with a dead body on either side of him.

/and what can i say

but i'm wired this way

and you're wired to me

and what can i do

but wallow in you

unintentionally/

Harry looks down at his foot, which is bleeding, and he limps into the kitchen. Grabbing a hand towel, he picks out bits of glass and puts them in a neat, pink pile on the counter. A charm heals the wounds, but they are still tender.

The announcer has finally stopped talking about Draco and Harry sighs in relief. He wonders if he should go out and buy another bottle of vodka. Instead, he cleans up the last of the glass by the coffee table, then lies down on the couch and dreams of Draco.

Draco is holding something silver in his hand, which he slides into Harry's heart and twists. Harry gasps, wakes up and falls off the couch. He gets up and lights a cigarette, but his hands are shaking.

He knows.

/what kind of paradise am i looking for?

i've got everything i want and still i want more.

maybe some tiny shiny key

will wash up on the shore/

A few days later, the morning of Draco's trial, Harry goes to the Ministry of Magic. He stands in the telephone box and dials the number, hoping it hasn't changed. When the woman's voice asks for his name and business, he hesitates, uncertain if his old ID will work. He tries it anyway. "Harry Potter, Captain of the Lightning Brigade. I'm here to see Draco Malfoy."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," the woman says, sounding surprisingly contrite for a disembodied voice, "but Mr. Malfoy is a restricted prisoner and you are not on the list of authorized personnel."

"Fine, then," Harry says, "I'm here to see Draco's trial."

"Very good, Mr. Potter," the woman replies as the phone box lift descends. "Mr. Malfoy's trial is being held in Courtroom Seven."

The doors open and Harry steps out into the Atrium, the voice's wish of a pleasant day fading behind him as he crosses over to the golden lifts. He slides into the elevator like a ghost, fitting back into the corner unnoticed, as if he has been there every day for four years, as if he belongs there. No one speaks to him.

He rides it down one floor, then ghosts out into the corridor. He isn't sure of the location of Courtroom Seven, but finds it isn't necessary to know. A crowd is streaming to the courtroom gallery and he follows them, swept up in their motion as if it were a tide. There are faces in the crowd that he recognizes and he waits for someone to call out, to cry out, to ask him how he is. No one does. It would be funny if it weren't so sad.

He takes a seat and watches as Draco is led in and seated in a chair just like the one he remembers from Courtroom Ten. The chains bind Draco's arms, but the blond man only gives a half-smile and his grey eyes wander the gallery as the questioning begins.

Something in Harry that has been dying for four years shudders and moves no more.

/regretfully

i guess i've got three

simple things to say:

why me?

why this now?

why this way?/

"Draco Malfoy, you are on trial today for numerous crimes committed during the Second War, including but not limited to kidnapping, torture, and murder," says the Head Interrogator, a slender witch with silver-streaked red hair. "During the course of these proceedings--"

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," Draco says, cutting her off.

"Excuse me?" The witch raises an eyebrow.

"Those are the crimes everyone says I've committed," Draco corrects patiently. "The one I'm charged with is Longbottom; it's the only one you could make stick." He smiles and continues looking around the courtroom.

The Interrogator clears her throat. "You are on trial for the murder of Neville Longbottom, member of the Lightning Brigade. Following questioning, a verdict will be rendered and a date set for sentencing. Do you understand?"

The smile never wavers on Draco's face as he nods.

"Now, though it may seem a formality, I must ask: did you kill Neville Longbottom?"

"Yes."

If possible, the courtroom becomes even quieter.

"Was it a mercy killing?"

Draco cocks his head to the side and the smile wipes away. "A what?"

"Was Agent Longbottom in danger of dying in a more terrible way if you had not killed him?"

"No."

"Were the two of you engaged in a duel?"

"No."

"Did you have any logical reason to kill Neville Longbottom?"

Draco's eyes lock on Harry's at last and his lips quirk. "No."

"Why did you kill him, then?" the Interrogator demands. She is becoming impatient, as is the crowd in the gallery, which mutters and shifts like an uneasy sea.

Draco smiles again. "Because someone else wouldn't."
The Head Interrogator turns away to confer with the other members of the court, while Draco sits placidly in his chair, eyes flitting back to Harry every few moments. If he hands weren't chained, Harry suspects he would wave.

The Interrogator looks over at the rows of benches containing the jury. "All those in favor of imprisonment?" Every hand is raised.

The Interrogator nods. "Draco Alexander Malfoy, this court sentences you to confinement in Azkaban until such time as the issue of capital punishment may be re--"

"NO!"
Harry is on his feet, voice still echoing off the walls of the courtroom. Every eye is on him, no one speaking, until Draco makes a low chuckle and says, "Hello, Harry."

/with overtones ringing

and undertows pulling away/

Uproar ensues. Hands reach out for Harry, but he makes his way down to the floor beside Draco's chair. The Interrogator calls the room to order, then asks in polite and dulcet tones what the hell is going on here.

"Harry James Potter, Captain of the Lightning Brigade and witness for the defense."

The room does not breathe.

The Interrogator recovers first. "What do you have to add to the case, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, Draco killed Neville," Harry begins, "but he only did it because I wouldn't."

"What reason would you have for killing Neville Longbottom?" she asks.

"He was going to kill me," Harry murmurs.

Someone stands up in the gallery. "Harry, why?!" He looks and sees a shock of red hair and a bright green jacket.

"Miss Weasley, be seated or I will have you removed from the courtroom," the Interrogator admonishes. Ginny complies, but reluctantly. "Mr. Potter, explain yourself."

Harry takes a deep breath. "Right before I killed him, Voldemort--" Someone in the gallery moans. "--cast a curse on Neville. It...it..."

"It's called the Imperative Curse," Draco picks up. "It's a variant of Imperius. Instead of establishing unlimited control over a person, it sets one command in the person's mind. Until they complete the specific action, mental pressure builds until the victim goes progressively insane, eventually leading to death."

"Why not just remove the curse?" the Interrogator asks.

"Only the caster can remove it without causing permanent mental trauma," Harry says softly, eyes on the floor. "And he was dead by then. He was my friend...I couldn't let him suffer, but I couldn't kill him..."

"So I did it for him," Draco finishes. "Are you satisfied now?"

The Interrogator and members of the court confer; the jury chatters in rapid tones. Harry slides his wand out of his sleeve and undoes the chains that bind Draco. He helps the blond man to his feet.

"Thank you for this," Draco says.

"You're welcome."

"I wouldn't have told them, you know."

"I know, but it needed to be told. Get out of here, Malfoy."

Draco leans and kisses Harry's forehead. "Keys open doors; remember that, Potter."

There is a noise like a whipcrack and then Draco is gone.

"Harry, why?!" A cresting wave of outrage and confusion. It builds, then slams into him. They do not understand.

Harry drowns in the sound of the courtroom until he closes his eyes and sends himself as far away as he dares.

/under a sky that is grey

on sand that is grey

by an ocean that's grey

what kind of paradise am i looking for?

i've got everything i want

and still i want more/

Three weeks later, Harry goes to the beach for the first time in his life. It's a stormy day, the waves a dark slate color that hurts Harry's eyes. He remembers his dream and takes off his shoes, sinking his toes into the sand. He walks down to the shoreline, wondering if he'll find anything there.

The water sweeps over his feet, soaking the cuffs of his jeans. He rolls up the dripping material, but it uncurls and slaps against his ankles. He keeps walking. He dodges shells that have washed up, remembering the vodka bottle and the scars on his soles that have not yet faded.

He walks.

His muscles begin to ache. He does not stop.

There is silver on the beach before him and he knows what it is. Dropping his sneakers, he bends down and picks it up. It's an antique silver key, as long as his palm. Grasping it in his fist, he sticks it into the air as in a lock and gives it a turn. He smiles when he feels the tugging behind his navel and pitches forward into the unknown.

/maybe some tiny shiny key

will wash up on the shore/