Fridays

I clean Mr. Harry Potter's flat every Friday. The first things I notice each time are the photographs on the mantle. There are five.

The first is old. It is of a wedding. The bride is glowing. Her red hair flares against her white dress. Her almond shaped green eyes smile. They are Mr. Potter's eyes. The groom laughs at something his best man has said. His brown eyes sparkle as he watches his bride. His black hair is messy. It is Mr. Potter's hair. The best man grins and says something. The bride reaches across the groom and slaps him. The groom laughs again. They look so happy.

The second is newer. Three teenagers grin at the camera. I can tell the one on the left is Mr. Potter. He looks happier than I have ever seen him. He is wearing Hogwarts Quidditch robes. Gryffindor. He still holds the Snitch in one hand. The girl in the middle has bushy brown hair pulled back in a bun. Wisps fall out and frame her face. Her brown eyes shine. The boy on the right is redheaded. His hair is shaggy and falls in his blue eyes. He wears Quidditch robes and holds a large Cup in one hand. He wraps his other arm around the girl's waist. She tries to hide her delight and leans into him a little. Mr. Potter grins.

The third is of the same three teenagers. This time they maybe a year older and they are not smiling. The redheaded boy hugs the girl to him and she leans her head on his shoulder. Mr. Potter is pale and his green eyes are tired. They wear graduation robes and look grave. Then I remember Mr. Potter defeated You-Know-Who a few days after his Hogwarts graduation.

In the fourth the redheaded boy and the girl are older. She holds a baby with curly red hair and big brown eyes. The boy, no, the man looks tired and happy. The woman's bushy hair is pulled back and she looks down in wonder at the baby in her arms. The baby opens its eyes and looks up at them. They smile and she strokes its cheek.

The fifth photograph is of a young woman. Her red hair cascades down her back and she smiles at the camera. Freckles spatter her otherwise creamy skin. Her brown eyes laugh as she blows a kiss at the photographer. She stands outside Hogwarts, her uniform tie is loose around her neck, the first two buttons of her shirt are undone, her skirt is hiked up so it exposes more of her long legs. She is barefoot in the green grass.

I know who the girl in the fifth photo is. Anyone would. Ginny Weasley's death was all over the papers. Everyone who knew them said she and Mr. Potter were so in love; he lost his will to go on after she died in the Final Battle.

Each Friday when I clean Mr. Potter's flat, I find the same things. An empty bottle of Firewhiskey sits on the table. Broken glass is scattered around. Blood stains the carpeting. Pieces of burned parchment fill the fireplace. Every Friday, just as I am leaving, the door opens and the bushy haired woman and the redheaded man from the photos, Ron and Hermione Weasley, come in with several redheaded children in tow. Every Friday, I go home and their sad eyes haunt me all night.