Requiem
Leaves and bramble crunched under foot as Harry trudged into the Forbidden Forest, everything shrouded in the deep, cool grey of early morning, just before the dawn of May second. Solemnity settled around her like the trusty cloak she had yet to don; the air was unnaturally still, as if magic and time itself hung suspended, watching, waiting. Pluto, looking like little more than a dim star [1], was at the edge of the horizon, glittering at her — like tears under moonlight — with a heavy heart but an un-staying hand, and, as it slipped below the forest canopy, Harry knew: this is the night that she would die.
Her steps did not falter even as reality sank into her bones, polluting their spongy marrow with dread and acceptance. Where they once felt as light and hollow as the fragile bone of the falcon, now they seemed as leaden as any other man. And that's what Harry was.
A human, made from blood and meat and bone.
Mortal.
And she would die.
Still, yet, she marched on in the face of Death, a faithful soldier — ever the mortal human with a cause to die for.
And her courage was steel in her veins, her golden heart iron plated. Her jaw was set, even as her feet caught over tree roots in her weariness, and her chin did not dip and her crown of thorns did not fall. But, however determined she was, however resigned in that she would not bid this cup pass from her unto another, she was still afraid. Harry, after a childhood of war, was battle weary and drained of her fight. She knew not if she could walk honourably, finding only cowardice in her exhausted stumbling, but she did know that the fate of Hogwarts, and the children within her walls, layed only on her shoulders.
If she was to be grateful for anything, she presumed, at least it did not take much effort to die.
Sirius certainly slipped away easily enough.
At the thought of her long-passed godfather, in her clammy palm the Hallowed Stone of Resurrection tingled, and it was then that Harry was struck with startling, electrifying, utterly brilliant clarity. So impotent was she from this sudden idea that she stopped dead mid-step, heel frozen just before it could touch the forest floor. It was only thanks to her years filled with experiences of life-or-death that her body could go ridged as the petrified in such an awkward position despite being so weary.
The stone, drawing her attention from where it had wandered, and in the same hand as her shivering wand, seemed to grow warm, the tingling becoming a pleasant buzz almost as if it was trembling separately from her hand. On the edge of her perception, something whispered from the shadows of the trees, yesyesyes wehelp wehelp thechilde, eagerly brushing the back of her hand where he gripped the Hallowed Cloak of Invisibility and running down her arm to embrace her other hand, flittering around holly wood and dirt-stained flesh.
Though she could not see these apparitions, they seemed to reach out to her, through her magic, sending impressions of children: innocent, anxious to please, possessive.
Unbidden, a thought brushed against her pitiful occlumency shields, somehow seemingly still her own, This is the Cloak, the Stone; they want me to do something. It did not take a Ravenclaw to figure out what. Despite this, a fire of eagerness and anxiety began brewing in her gut, staving off the cold and apathy that her looming death had bred.
Hesitantly, awkwardly, and only after several moments of staring, she draped the Cloak around her shoulders, trying not to jab it with her wand or let it touch the muck of the Forbidden Forest by her feet, though her own clothes and skin were not much better. It took some manoeuvring, but the second it settled into place, it seemed to embrace her in a manner unlike any time before: it shortened to just above her heels and the folds behind her neck mysteriously became a tailored hood, which she flipped over her unkempt hair; even without wind or movement of her own, the Cloak shifted to brush against the bare skin of her arms and calves every so often; and, finally, she realised with a jolt that the fabric wasn’t invisible despite being worn as she stared at sentient ripples and creases — though it still boasted its iridescent shimmer, the Cloak was now a deep black, darker than pitch or the night sky. It looked, for all the world, as if Harry had been swallowed by the Abyss, writhing around her silhouette like it could pull her into its own eldritch form.
After several moments of observing her altered cloak in muted horror and not-so-muted fascination, the Stone, lying forgotten in her palm, stung lightly, insistently. “Bloody hell,” she murmured to herself, staring intensely at the Stone as she transferred it to her left hand but coming up short on the energy needed to baulk at her newfound freak-show attraction — or even become mildly bothered at its apparent feelings, “you’re a persistent bugger, aren’t you?” Slightly doused by her drifting thoughts, the fire in her gut began anew, rapidly consuming more and more of her insides as her mind returned to thoughts about finally meeting her parents.
Oddly enough, Harry seemed to feel a surge of anticipation at the edge of her awareness, as if the self-important rock was saying, "I, too, am very excited to be used!"
“...Right. What did the story say again? Turn it over or something?” Faux-dispassionately — as if convincing it of her lack of faith would prompt it to put more effort into her family's summoning — Harry rolled the Stone over her knuckles, letting her thumb brush against it all the way. With each pass of her thumb over the stone, each gentle scrape of her bitten nail on one of its faces, a new person appeared — first her mother, next her father, and then Sirius.
Directly in front of her stood Lily Potter on her husband’s arm, presumably gripping the appendage hard enough to make the undead man next to her wince and struggle lightly where they were joined. The fire seemed to come to a peak, an inferno warming her limbs from where they connected to her body and out.
“...Mum?” She called hesitantly after a moment of drinking her remarkably healthy appearance in — she was not living, but at least seemingly-breathing and there, with a delicate flush to her cheeks and clumpy eyelashes that dripped with tears, and the analysis caused her internal hearth to crackle and roar.
“Oh, Harry! My baby!” Their words seemed to have broken whatever immobulus had taken hold of them as Lily almost threw her husband aside in her rush to meet her daughter and Harry found herself sinking to her knees. Lily threw her arms around her shoulders, and they went down together. Her hands frantically patted down her hair, her face, dipping down every now and then to feel her heart thrum or chest swell with breath. Harry, or perhaps one of her companionate apparitions, seemed to consider, could she feel her blazing warmth, her roaring joy, a lion making a den for itself in her chest out of her hope and love?
Quietly, almost silent after years of practice, Harry wept into her shoulder. The Cloak fluttered around her, flustered somehow, and again her mind wandered, could her tears, so potent with joy, rival Fawkes?
Another distant thought, again not quite her own, had her acknowledging that, despite her translucence, Lily’s hug was as solid and warm as Hermione’s had been just half an hour before. She did not question her corporeality, and instead consciously chose to bask in her embrace, the first from her mother that she would ever remember.
Eventually, her tears slowed, less like rushing river rapids and more like hot molasses on her face. Delicate pale hands drifted from their places on the back of her head and shoulder to her face, brushing away tears like she brushed dew from delicate tulip petals. Her own hands rose to her wrists, curling loosely around them as if to keep her from pulling away too soon. Her wand lay forgotten by her thigh, but the Stone stayed stubbornly in place as if it were embedded in her palm.
"We're proud of you, Lovely," Lily started, after a moment of staring kindly into her eyes, so like her own. "No matter what my horrid sister says, we were always proud of you." She leaned forward, one hand leaving her face to brush away her fringe, exposing the highest point of her scar which just met her hairline. Gently, sweetly, she pressed her lips there, and Harry nearly started crying again.
“I love you, Mum,” she choked. “I love you so much. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, my Heart[2] , I love you, too. I just wish I could have told you sooner.”
“I’m sorry,” she cried, the fire curling up to her chest, burning hotter, hurting.
“It’s not your fault, baby. Don’t ever apologise for living. Yes?”
“Yes, ma’am… Mum?”
“Yes, darling?”
She took a deep breath, then, quickly, quietly, as if expecting to be rejected or reprimanded, “I missed you.”
Oh darling, her eyes seemed to say, plagued with great sorrow as she stared into the broken soul of her life’s magnum opus, “My heart has ached every day for the moment I would see you again. Harry?”
"Yes?”
“Be good.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Delicately, one more kiss was pressed to her brow, then, with tremendous effort, Lily separated herself from her daughter and got to her feet. Two pale hands were held out to Harry, and, with great hesitation, she let her grasp her own in a firm grip. With surprising strength, Lily hauled her to her feet and Harry was left staring at their joined hands, admiring the contrast of her pallor to her tanned brown, not quite the darkness of her father but certainly not the lightness of her mother.
Lily leaned forward to brace her forehead against Harry’s own bowed head and whispered softly, “You are stronger than you could ever imagine. Be great.”
Before Harry could gather herself enough to respond, she stepped away to rejoin her husband, only for her — and Sirius, falling into step behind her — to step away. James paused just in front of her, and, with a careful look into her eyes, bent down to pick up her precious holly wand, never breaking eye contact. Hesitantly, he took Harry’s right hand and pressed it into her palm, curling small fingers around it before laying both his hands on Harry's shoulders, somehow able to impart warmth where he touched despite the visage of his ghostly apparition, just like Lily. "Hey, bud," he began, staring searchingly into Harry's eyes.
"…Hey, Dad." That one word seemed to choke Harry as it came out, and it was all she could do to keep the tears from restarting. Of its own volition, again the hand with the Stone raised to grip her dad's wrist, as if to keep her from pulling away like it did with her mother. And, miraculously, for the second time, her hand did not phase through and she clutched at the warm, brown skin of her father's forearm.
That seemed all the permission he needed as James quickly pulled Harry into a tight embrace thereafter, burying his nose in his girl's messy, Potter-inherited hair. She smelled of dirt and the sweet rot of leaves, of magic_[3] and life. Harry found herself leaning into her father's arms, letting her forehead thunk onto his solid shoulder even as her arms fell limp at her sides.
James, like his wife before her, pulled away only far enough to cup Harry's face in his hands. "Merlin, Harry," he whispered, "you've grown up so much!"
Harry gave her a weak smile, "Not more than you."[4]
James cracked his own charming, lopsided grin. "No, you'll only ever be a little Prongslet, to me."[5]
Harry couldn't help the wet giggle falling from her mouth, and James couldn't help but plant a kiss on her hair after his adorable daughter made such a darling sound.
"I love you, Dad," Harry whispered into the hollow of James' throat as he pressed his nose into Harry's hair again.
"I love you too, Bint[6]. If only we could spend the rest of eternity like this, I would be content,” James’ voice was soft, bitter, and more than a touch heartbroken himself. Somewhere in the background, Harry could hear the soft murmur of her mother’s voice, echoing her father’s sentiment.
“You won’t have to wait much longer, now, in any case,” her voice was grim and wry, and her hands tightened on James’ wrists. The air was much heavier after her words as reality settled around them: this reunion would not be temporary.
"Guess it’s my turn, then?" Sirius asked, faux-lightly from behind James. Behind him, Lily called his name in a low, warning tone. "Right, sorry, carry on then."
“No, no, it’s fine. Get over here, Padfoot,” with a lighter air around them, James pulled away, letting his hands linger on Harry’s shoulders for a moment longer as he gazed into the mirror of his flower’s eyes. “You’ll do fine. Don’t worry, we’ll be there to greet you.”
Slowly, unwillingly, James backed away, eyes never leaving his daughter’s, and no sooner had his hands left Harry was Sirius barrelling into her, scooping her in a big bear hug. The Cloak pulsed with warmth and seemed to wiggle and shiver with joy at the affectionate touch, even if said touch was not directed at it specifically.
“Prongslet…!”
“Padfoot.”
“I’ve missed you, Pup. It’s been a while, yeah?”
“I missed you, too, Snuffles,” Harry leaned into the hug despite her limited manoeuvrability, gladly suffocated by her godfather’s wild black mane.
“Hey now, that ain’t cool, kid.” Sirius released one arm from around Harry to bury it in her hair and ruffle the bird’s nest there.
“‘Pup’ isn’t very cool either, is it?” Harry shot back, raising her now-free arm to bury it in Sirius’ own veritable bird’s nest and tug lightly for each pass through her hair that Sirius’ hand ventured. The Stone stung lightly in her palm, presumably for being in the hand currently void of use.
In moments, Sirius stayed his violent assault in favour of carding his fingers through curls and knots, deceptively gentle despite his earlier ministrations, and Harry allowed her hand to relax its grip on Sirius' mane, sliding down to find purchase on the nape of his neck as Harry leaned into the affection, going near-limp into Sirius' left arm still curled around her back.
"I called for you, I screamed your name into the veil," Harry whispered into the space where Sirius' shoulder met his neck.
"I know, pup," he answered, whispering just as softly.
“But… you didn’t come…”
“I’m so sorry, pup, I tried so hard,” Sirius said, the explanation falling like acid from his lips, burning a path to Harry’s heart.
"We were going to get a little cottage near the beach. You were going to give me a room just for me, and a perch just for Hedwig, and a room to honour Mum and Dad. We were going to have a home. We were going to be a family."
"We are," Sirius said, guiding Harry's face back with light, but firm tugs on her hair. "You have to know, Harry, a house doesn’t make a family. Just because we didn’t live together doesn’t make us not family. You are my daughter. You have to know," his words were insistent, and the gravel in his voice belied his despair.
Harry, moved by his conviction, could only nod.
"As long as you know." Sirius began petting Harry's hair again, allowing her to once more brace her forehead against his shoulder.
"Yeah, Pads. I know."
"I love you, kiddo. You're my world."
"I love you too.” Quiter, now, “…I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, and I don’t blame you. You’re a child. Don’t forget that.”
With a final soothing pass of his hand over ink-black hair, Sirius completely relinquished Harry from his embrace and stepped away.
“Is it time…?” Harry asked, once Sirius had rejoined her parents. Lily offered her a sad smile, and James’ eyes held a definitive sheen.
“Yeah, Habibti[8] , it’s time. Be brave. We’ll see you on the other side.”
And, like a soft breeze, all three of her parents were gone, leaving only the impression of their love on her skin. After several moments, the Cloak and the Stone began to pulse again with gentle warmth and impressions of comfort-we-arehere brushed her mind.