For the Fallen

For the Fallen

The Second Voldemort War had left unbelievable devastation everywhere: Hogwarts was almost completely gone, Hogsmeade was practically a ghost town, and the back Alleys of London were completely unrecognizable.

The most shocking loss, apart from Hogwarts--and, of course, Harry Potter--had been the Gringotts building. One night in the middle of July 1998, the Death Eaters had apparated en masse into Diagon Alley and beseiged the building. The goblins had fortunately seen this attack coming well ahead of time, and had been able to seal the portal between London and the actual treasure vaults in China. Nevertheless, the Death Eaters had completely and utterly destroyed the building, leaving none of its white stones unmarked.

Now, in December of 1999, Dean Thomas stood in the open space of what had once been Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

It would never return; the goblins had made it clear that they'd had enough dealings with humans after the war. All treasures and vaults had been returned to their owners, and, ironically enough, the Wizarding economy was in far worse state now than it had been during the war.

But Dean didn't care. All he saw was his memory of the huge bank hall, with the long row of clerks weighing treasure or counting out coins. He remembered exactly the angle of the vaulted ceiling, exactly the color of the marble flooring.

He blinked, and suddenly the empty space was there. Cleared of all rubble, it was a square block of dirt and weeds, and a large sign stuck into the dirt:

The future home of the Harry Potter Museum. Coming soon.

The sign was a year old.

* * *

Dean wasn't sure why he kept coming back to the old Gringotts site. Nothing was happening there, and nothing probably would, not until someone put up some money as capital for the museum venture.

But still, nearly every day after his eight-hour shift in a nearby Waitrose, Dean would make his way through the Leaky Cauldron--about the only thing the Death Eaters hadn't touched--and to the back alley that led to Diagon Alley. From there he'd wander the darkening street, noticing who had managed to stay open this month and who had closed, and eventually finding himself squeezing through a gap in the fence to stand in the middle of what had once been Gringotts, staring up at the sky and seeing something else.

* * *

It was a small shock, but nonetheless a shock, when Dean realized he was no longer seeing the vaulted ceiling of Gringotts, but something that had come from his imagination.

* * *

The next small shock was when Dean spent an inordinate amount of money (according to his roommate, to whom he owed two months' rent) on professional quality pencils and a stack of fine paper.

* * *

A week later, Dean was fired from his supermarket job. He'd not come in all week; he'd spent the entire time sitting in Diagon Alley, sketching.

But Dean didn't mind too much--not even when his roommate tossed everything Dean owned into a couple of boxes and told him that he'd better clear out in two days' time, because someone else was now renting that room.

He moved in with Hermione Granger, who was now inordinately rich, as both Harry and Ron had left everything to her in their wills. Hermione didn't mind that Dean spent all his time with his sketchpad, and Dean didn't mind the succession of Muggle boys Hermione perpetually brought home and kicked out.

"Things are going to be fine," he kept telling her, especially after a particularly nasty breakup. "You'll see."

* * *

The sign was still there.

* * *

"Dean," said Hermione one morning, "I know I said you could live here until you got back on your feet, but it's been four months since you moved in and, well, the money's not going to last forever."

Dean, who was bent over his sketchpad, didn't look up for about a minute, during which time Hermione began to breathe in a way that should have worried him. She hated missing out on a good argument, and it had gotten worse since Ron's death.

When he finally did look up, she had crossed her arms and was tapping her foot.

"Well?" she said.

"Well what?" he asked.

"Did you even hear what I just said?"

"Yes."

"Well, then?"

"Hermione, who's behind the Harry Potter Museum?"

At first, Dean thought his sudden change of subject had infuriated her, but then he realized that the furious working of her jaw was her attempt not to cry. She sank down onto the couch and, losing her internal battle, began to sob into her hands.

Dean went and put one arm awkwardly around her. "Shh," he said. "Shh, it's all right. I know you miss him."

Hermione just shook her head, gulped, and then said, "It's my idea, but there's not enough money for it and no one wants to design it."

Dean laughed, and this time Hermione did glare at him.

"Come," he said, then pulled her over to his sketchpad and tapped it with his wand.

Hermione rarely complimented someone for being clever, but this time she had no choice.

* * *

They were standing in a translucent blue wireframe model of Dean's imagined Second War Museum. His sketchpad, full of outside views, interior views, carpet designs, lampshades, ticketing office and Pensieve-projector, display cabinets, and detailed blueprints, had flipped up into the air, flapped wildly, and then spat out mile after mile of thin blue thread, which had coiled and twisted and stretched itself into this life-size model.

Through the blue wire, they could still see the sitting room of Hermione's apartment. But if they walked, they actually didn't go anywhere--the magic of the Blueprinting Spell made the model shift around the observer, and even modify the size of the observer's companions.

"It only works for up to three people," Dean said apologetically, "so we can't bring everyone in to see it at one time. Still, though..." He gestured around at the shimmering threads, outlining room after cosy room of space dedicated to the memory of the war and its fallen.

Hermione couldn't speak, but Dean understood.

~fin~