Chapter Twelve
“Hermione, I’ve been thinking—”
“Harry, could you help me with something?”
Apparently, Hermione hadn’t been listening to him. They’d danced to the song coming from the radio before parting. Hermione went back to her armchair and her book, and Harry prepared supper. Harry shut off the radio when it started playing soft Christmas carols—Christmas was only three days away, after all. But Harry didn’t want to think of how he’d be missing the holiday celebrations with his family. He was certain Hermione didn’t want to think of it either.
But as Harry had finished the washing, again leaving Hermione to curl up into the armchair with The Tales of Beedle the Bard, he found that he could not stop thinking about family. About his guardians and his little brother Teddy, but also of his parents. He didn’t remember the one Christmas that they had had together. He knew it had been lovely—he’d seen the magical pictures in the photo album Remus had given him.
In the animated pictures, suspended in time and place, James and Sirius’ hair had been dripping with melted snow from their snowball fight in the back garden. Remus had reached up to ruffle Sirius’ hair as Sirius tried to straighten it. Sirius had turned to him and Remus had surprised him with a soft kiss. In the foreground, Lily sat cross-legged with baby Harry in her lap, and James reached an arm around her shoulders, bending low to kiss her cheek. A fire roared in the hearth in the background, and a fat tree bedecked in twinkling lights and bright tinsel sat in the corner.
Looking at the scene and the figures—especially gazing at Lily with the bouncy baby—you could almost pretend that there was no war at all.
Except James looked thin, and Remus, too. And Sirius’ eyes were framed by dark shadows, and he didn’t take Remus’ hand as they all posed for the camera.
Harry hung his head, and then he’d turned back to Hermione and tried to voice to her these thoughts and the wish that they had re-kindled. He wanted to see it for himself. That place from the pictures.
It wouldn’t be the same, he knew that, of course. It would be haunted, not in the literal sense, but in the figurative one. It would hurt, too. But Harry had learned a few things now that he was seventeen, and one of them was that sometimes looking back offered resolution. And that was what he needed most with Voldemort and his own past.
But Hermione hadn’t been listening when Harry had started to ask.
She held up the children’s book, “Look at that symbol,” she said, pointing to the top of the page. Above the title of the story, there was a picture of what looked like a triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a vertical line.
“I never took Ancient Runes, Hermione. We could use the mirror, ask Remus…”
“This isn’t a rune,” Hermione said, shaking her head, “And it’s not part of the book; it’s been inked in. Think, have you ever seen it before?”
“Er…” Harry studied it, “Yeah, actually. Isn’t that the symbol Luna’s dad was wearing around his neck at Bill and Fleur’s wedding? Krum told me he thought it was Grindelwald’s mark.”
Hermione looked up at him, startled, “I’ve never heard that Grindelwald had a mark…there’s no mention of it in anything I’ve ever read about him. But even if it is…what’s a symbol of Dark magic doing in a children’s book?”
She stared at the page, biting her lip.
Harry took a breath and tried again, “Hermione?”
“Hmm?”
“I know what Remus said—and I did listen to him, I really did—but I…I think it’s something I need to do. It’s time to go to Godric’s Hollow.”
She looked up at him, and Harry saw her eyes were unfocused, “Of course…” she whispered, “Godric’s Hollow…how could I have missed the connection?”
Harry blinked, “Er…yeah?”
She snapped the book closed, “I think we should go.”
Harry stared at her, “You…do…?”
“It must be there. It’ll be dangerous, but now that I think of it, it is quite likely that the sword would be there.”
Harry floundered, “The sword?”
She stared at him, scrutinizing, “Why, yes, isn’t that what you meant, Harry? It’s quite brilliant of you to realize it before me, I must say. I mean Godric’s Hollow is Godric Gryffindor’s birthplace after all—”
“Really??”
Hermione threw up her hands, “Oh bloody hell, Harry! You’re the Chosen One and the Boy Who Lived, and basically the modern-day embodiment of Godric Gryffindor himself, and you never took a moment to consider that maybe the village that was named after him was where he’d come from?”
She stood now and reached for another book, waving it over her head, “With nothing much to occupy ourselves with I thought you’d finally read A History of Magic!”
“Aw, come on, readings never been my thing, Hermione—”
“It wasn’t until Remus Lupin came into your life!” She said, but her eyes were shining now and she let out a weak laugh, “He’s rubbed off on you in quite a few ways, Harry.”
Harry fidgeted, but he was smiling too now, “So…Godric’s Hollow, Godric’s sword; you reckon that Dumbledore expected me to make the connection?”
Hermione nodded slowly and then stared down at the new book she held, “I reckon so. And I also heard that Bathilda Bagshot, the author of A History of Magic, still lives in Godric’s Hollow, too.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
Hermione rolled her eyes, “Not everything in the Daily Prophet last year was news about disappearances and…well, nasty business. They did a feature on her for her 90th birthday last February.”
And then she gasped and her eyes went wide, “Harry!”
He stared at her, “Yeah…?”
“What if Bathilda’s got the sword? What if Dumbledore entrusted it to her?”
Harry considered the possibility and found he did not really know the answer…but it was a better idea than they’d had in weeks.
“Yeah, he might’ve done! So…are we going to Godric’s Hollow?”
“Yes,” Hermione said declaratively, “but we’ve got to come up with a proper plan first.”
Later that night, Harry pulled out the photo album and stared at the moving pictures.
His parents smiled up at him from the photographs, waving up at him from the images that were all he had left of them now.
Harry blinked back tears, and thought of the life he would have had if not for Voldemort.
Growing up and spending every school holiday with his parents…he might have even had a biological sibling too…
And then Harry looked at the two men that featured so prominently in the photos along with his parents. They would have been there too, in that would-be life. They would’ve been there, his uncles that came by for Sunday roast. And Sirius would’ve been untouched by Azkaban; Remus would never have been alone…
But what of Teddy? He would be raised by his parents, who would have never fallen off that cliff perused by Dementors. Would Sirius and Remus ever have a son, then?
Because things had gone one way, many other paths did not unfold. Some paths became possible, because others did not.
What had come from James and Lily’s sacrifice?
And how do you measure one potential universe with another?
It seemed to Harry that not even the most powerful of beings could ever attempt to know the answer.
December 24, 1997
Teddy had many Favorite Things.
Padfoot told him to think of his Favorite Things at night when he couldn’t sleep.
Father Christmas was going to come tonight and Teddy couldn’t sleep because he kept waiting to hear jingle bells and reindeer hooves and so he made himself think of his Favorite Things.
One of Teddy’s Favorite Things was when his Dad picked him up and rested him on his hip. He used to call his dad ‘Moony’ and he still liked that name, but he liked saying ‘Dad’ more. You should call things by what they are—Teddy thought—and Moony was his Dad.
And Teddy’s Dad had very strong arms, even though they were quite skinny and covered in scars. But when Dad picked him up, Teddy felt tall and big, and he could hold onto his Dad’s jumper.
And that was another Favorite Thing—his Dad’s jumpers. There were brown ones and green ones and the red one that Dad said he would wear tomorrow because it would be Christmas and that was a Special Day.
Another of Teddy’s Favorite Things was playing with Padfoot. Playing with Padfoot both as a human and as a dog. Teddy knew he was lucky—no other children had Padfoot. He was the best at dancing and singing and he laughed like he barked, and he let Teddy ride on his back when he was a dog and he let Teddy brush his fur.
Another Favorite Thing: Teddy’s stuffed wolf, Wolf. He was soft and smelled Good.
Another Favorite Thing: when Fleur came to see him. She was very pretty, but she also always said what she thought. She wasn’t like other Grown-Ups; she didn’t edit herself. Teddy felt smart for knowing that.
Another Favorite Thing: doing faces with Tonks! She was funny and she smiled so brightly at Teddy that it made him feel so…seen.
And one more Favorite Thing: Harry. But…oh no…that Favorite Thing made Teddy sad. Harry had been gone a long time, and he wouldn’t tell Teddy when he was coming home. That hurt. Did Harry not like him anymore?
Teddy threw back his blankets and padded outside his bedroom. He reached Dad and Padfoot’s bedroom door and pushed it wider open.
Padfoot was laying with his arm over Dad’s torso, and he was snoring lightly. But Dad was awake, sitting up against the pillows, almost like he had been expecting Teddy.
“Can’t sleep, little one?”
Teddy nodded his head.
Dad extended an arm and Teddy padded forward, scrambling up onto the bed with his Dad’s help. Padfoot cracked an eye open and then smiled, “Ah, it’s the tyke. Too excited for Christmas?”
Teddy shook his head as he snuggled into Dad’s side. Dad was wearing a soft cotton t-shirt that smelled of him.
Dad ran his fingers through Teddy’s hair, “What is it, Teddy?”
“Harry,” Teddy whispered. He watched his Dad and Padfoot exchange a Grown-Up Look.
“What about Harry?” Padfoot asked gently.
Teddy tucked his chin to his chest, “Does he not want to be here?”
Dad reached hand to lightly lift Teddy’s face. Teddy stared up at his Dad. He looked at the scars on Dad’s nose and cheek—Teddy didn’t like how the scars had gotten there, because he knew they must have hurt, and must have come from Bad Wolves—but he did like that they were there. It meant Dad was strong; that Dad’s wolf was Good.
“Harry wants you to be safe,” Dad whispered, “He wants all of us to be safe. Harry is not here, because he has to help.”
Teddy frowned, “I miss him. I want him home.”
Padfoot spoke, his dark eyes soft in the weak light, “Harry misses you too, Teddy.”
Dad leaned forward, and kissed Teddy’s forehead. Teddy added that as another one of his Favorite Things.
“We want him home too,” Dad murmured, “But he is helping make a better home for us all to return to.”
Teddy wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but it sounded good. But also, kind of sad. Teddy wished he had a word for that. Something that was half-way happy and sad.
“How about Padfoot tells us a story?” Dad said.
Padfoot smiled widely, “Alright. What’ll you have, tyke?”
Teddy found himself smiling back, “Babbitty Rabbitty.”
“Too right. Can’t go wrong with The Tales of Beedle the Bard.”
And Padfoot told the story, and Teddy snuggled deep into his Dad’s side, and his Dad ran his nimble, scarred fingers through Teddy’s now-turquoise and curly hair, and eventually Teddy faded off to sleep, reminding himself to add another thing to the list of Favorite Things.
Bedtime stories with Padfoot and Dad. How could he have forgotten that?
When Teddy was sound asleep, Remus reached for Sirius’ hand, interlacing their fingers across the toddler’s sleeping form.
“The holidays are a hard time,” Remus whispered.
“I know,” Sirius whispered back, “Even for children. They remind us of family. The good and the bad.”
Remus looked at him carefully, “What does it remind you of, love?”
“Regulus,” Sirius said without hesitation, his face open and raw, “He used to sleep in my bed every Christmas Eve. I knew it wasn’t because of his fear of the dark, that was just his excuse. But I never said that I knew it was a lie, because I wanted him there. I would wait up for him. I think the holidays…it made us want to be close. Even if it was just for one night, even if we never spoke of what really mattered.”
Sirius wiped a hand underneath his eyes and looked up at Remus, “And it reminds me of James. Of the Potter’s.”
Remus smiled weakly, “Me, too.”
That same Christmas Eve night, Harry and Hermione Apparated to Godric’s Hollow, using Polyjuice to impersonate an innocent old Muggle couple.
They stood on a snowy lane under a black night sky, stars glimmering feebly overhead. The icy air stung their faces as they walked forward, passing by cottages which boasted twinkling Christmas trees within.
They passed the cottages and reached the end of the lane, and stepped into the village’s central square. Harry felt his breath catch as he stared up at the obelisk in its center. As he stared, it transformed. It was no longer a simple war memorial, but was now a statue of three people.
A young man, with untidy hair and glasses. A woman with long hair and a face that was beautiful and bright, even carved in stone. And a baby boy in the mother’s arms, with no lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.
Harry never imagined that there would be a statue. He stared and stared, but the statue figures did not move. Just stood frozen.
“Harry…” Hermione breathed, but Harry just squeezed her hand, and turned away. They crossed the square, heading toward the church at its far corner, and the graveyard beyond.
The church lights were on, and the choir was singing behind the multi-colored stained glass windows.
Come, they told me, pa-rum pum pum pum
Our new-born King to see, pa-rum pum pum pum
Our finest gifts we bring, pa-rum pum pum pum
To lay before the King, pa-rum pum pum pum
They walked past the church, and stepped through the rusted gates of the graveyard.
Row upon row of tombstones protruded from a blanket of snow. Harry reached into his coat pocket and kept his hand tight on his wand as they walked past the graves.
“Harry, look!” Hermione whispered, pulling on his hand still holding her’s.
She pointed at the dark stone in front of them.
KENDRA DUMBLEDORE, the stone read. And below the dates of her birth and death, it read AND HER DAUGHTER ARIANA.
There was also a quotation:
Where your treasure is, your heart will be also.
Harry fumbled for words, “Dumbledore’s mother…and…sister?”
“Yes,” Hermione breathed, “Yes, I think so…”
Harry tugged on Hermione’s arm. He did not want to think of Dumbledore and his mysterious family, and all that he had not told Harry. Not here, not now.
They continued along the graves.
“Harry—” Hermione said again, “Look…the mark from the book!”
Harry peered closer; the grave was so old it seemed to be crumbling, but there did seem to be that same odd triangular symbol carved upon it.
“Yeah…it could be…”
They continued on, and at last, Hermione said, “Harry, I see it. They’re here. Right here.”
She pointed and Harry moved forward, feeling as if grief actually weighed upon his heart and lungs.
The headstone was made of white marble. It was easy to read, even in the dark.
James Fleamont Potter.
Born March 27, 1960, Died October, 31, 1981.
Lily Evans Potter.
Born January 30, 1960, Died October 31, 1981.
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
“Why…why that quote?” Harry heard himself say.
“It means…you know…living beyond death,” Hermione said, “It’s not really saying that death is an enemy, but that there is living after death.”
But they were not living, Harry thought. They were gone. The empty words could not disguise the fact that his parent’s moldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent and unknowing.
Maybe Death was not an enemy, but that did not change the fact that He took the living away, to some place that was not here.
Tears came before Harry could stop them. He looked down at the thick snow where the last of James and Lily lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not knowing or caring that their living son stood so near, his heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice and close to wishing, at least at the moment, that he was sleeping under the snow with them…
And then, for just a moment, Harry felt something warm bloom within his gasping chest, as if a hand had pressed itself there, saying, Hold on…just hold on…
Hermione was laying a conjured wreath of red roses upon the grave, and Harry found his way back to himself again. He did not think he could stand lingering for another moment before that sudden and mysterious warmth dissipated and he’d be so cold and so desperate once more…
He put his arm over Hermione’s shoulders, and she wrapped her arm around his waist, and they exited the graveyard this way in silence.
The church choir was still singing that same song as before, their voices high and calling into the cold, quiet night—
Shall I play for you pa-rum pum pum pum, on my drum
Mary nodded, pa-rum pum pum pum
The Ox and Lamb kept time, pa-rum pum pum pum
I played my drum for him, pa-rum pum pum pum
I played my best for him, pa-rum pum pum pum
Then he smiled at me, pa-rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum.
“Harry, there’s someone watching us,” Hermione whispered as they stepped out of the graveyard.
Harry looked around, but saw nothing. Still, they pulled the Invisibility Cloak over themselves.
“Let’s go this way,” Hermione said as they reached the square, ushering them onto the dark street leading out of the village in the opposite directed from which they had come.
“How are we going to find Bathilda’s house?” Hermione whispered, but Harry was not listening.
He had seen it—at the end of the street, at the end of the rows of houses. He sped up, dragging Hermione along with him; she slipped a little on the ice coating the cobbles.
“Look…look at it, Hermione…”
The hedge had grown wild in the sixteen years since Sirius had come to see the dead bodies of his best friends…since Hagrid had come to take Harry away…
Most of the cottage was still standing, though it was now entirely covered in dark ivy and snow. The right side of the top floor had been blown apart; that, Harry was sure, was there the curse had backfired. He and Hermione stood at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of the cottage.
A sign suddenly rose up from the ground in front of them, up through the tangles of nettles and weeds, and in golden letters upon the old wood it said:
On this spot, on the night of October, 31 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only Wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potter’s and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.
Breathing became hard for Harry, like a heavy, weighted blanket had been thrown over him.
He closed his eyes—he did not want to imagine how the house had looked that night…what Sirius had seen…his parent’s bodies…
And then Hermione abruptly pulled on Harry’s hand.
He turned to see a stooped figure making their way up the road towards them. The figure came closer and closer, and Harry realized with a jolt that she was an old woman. She stared at the ruined house, she was clearly able to see it, and so she must be a Witch…
And then the woman lifted a gloved hand and beckoned them.
Harry’s brain felt scrambled. How could she see them under the Cloak?
“How does she know?” Hermione breathed.
The woman beckoned again, this time more vigorously.
“Are you Bathilda?” Harry asked, causing Hermione to jump.
The figure nodded and beckoned again.
Beneath the Cloak, Hermione and Harry looked at one another. Harry raised his eyebrows and Hermione gave a tentative nod.
They stepped toward the old woman and at once she turned and hobbled off back the ways she had come. Leading them past several houses, she turned at a gate. They followed her up the front path through a garden nearly as overgrown as the one they had just left. She fumbled for a moment with a key at the front door, then opened it and stepped back to let them pass.
She smelled bad, and for a moment, Harry wished nothing more than for Remus to be with him. He would know that scent…he would know…
But Harry pushed aside that helpless wish; he wrinkled his nose as he and Hermione sidled past her and pulled off the Cloak. Now that he was beside the old woman, he realized how tiny she was; how bowed down with age. Her eyes were thick with cataracts and sunken into folds of transparent skin.
“Bathilda?” Harry repeated.
She nodded again.
Harry became aware of the locket against his chest—could it sense that the thing that could destroy it was near?
Bathilda shuffled past them and pointed her chin toward the stairs at the end of the hall where she now waited, “Come!” She called.
Hermione and Harry followed slowly. The stairs were steep and narrow, yet Bathilda somehow climbed them. She turned immediately at the upper landing and led them into a low-ceilinged bedroom.
It was pitch-black and smelled horrible. Hermione lit her wand just as Bathilda shut the door.
Harry started—the old woman had moved closer to him in the near-darkness.
“You are Potter?” She whispered to him.
“Yes, I am.”
She nodded solemnly. Harry felt the Horcrux beating fast, faster than his own heart: it was not a pleasant sensation.
“Have you got anything for me?” Harry asked.
Then she closed her eyes and several things happened at once: Harry’s scar prickled painfully; the Horcrux twitched so violently that the front of Harry’s jumper actually moved; and the dark, dank, fetid-smelling room dissolved momentarily and he felt a leap of joy and spoke in a high, cold voice, Hold him!
Harry swayed where he stood, but Hermione raised her wand and pointed it levelly at the old woman’s chest.
And in the next instant, the old woman moved. Horror paralyzed both Harry and Hermione as they saw the old body collapsing and the great snaked poured forth from the place where her neck had been. Harry raised his wand but the snake’s thick mass hit it and sent it flying…
And then the snake was shot backward by the red blast of light from Hermione’ non-verbal spell, the spell rebounded around the room, shattering wood, the spell continued balsting through the room, barely missing them, but the snake still hissed as it reeled, “Yes…yesss….”
A metal heart was banging outside of Harry’s chest and now Harry was flying, flying with triumph in his heart, whtout need of broomstick or Thestral…
Nagini was writhing on the floor, coiling, and then Hermione was there at his side once more and Harry shouted, “He’s coming! Hermione, he’s coming!”
And then Harry and Hermione were twising in mid-air just as Harry’s scar burst open and he was running across the fetid bedroom, over the hissing mass of the giant snake Nagini, and watching the old and the old woman twist and vanish on the floorboard as the white hands reached and grasped at nothing, and then he screamed with rage, a scream that echoed across the dark gardens, over the sounds of the church choir that sang its hymns of Christmas Day…
And his scream was Harry’s scream, his pain was Harry’s pain, that it could happen here, where it had happened before…here, within sight of that house where he had come so close to knowing what it was to die…to die…the pain was terrible…ripped from his body…but if he had no body, if he was dead, how could he feel so unbearably, didn’t pain cease with Death? Didn’t it go…
The night was wet and windy, two children dressed as pumpkins waddling across the square, and the shop windows covered in paper spiders, all the tawdry Muggle trappings of a world in which they did not believe…and he was gliding along, that sense of purpose and power and rightness in him that he always knew on these occasions…Triumph, yes…he had waited for this, he had hoped for it…
And now his destination was in sight at last, the Fidelius Charm broken by Wormtail, though they did not know it yet…He made less noise than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as he drew level with the dark hedge, and stared over it…
They had not drawn the curtains; he saw them quite clearly in their little sitting room.
The tall dark-haired young man in his glasses, making puffs of colored smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small black-haired boy in his blue pajamas. The child was laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in his small fist…
A door opened and the young mother entered, saying words he could not hear, her long flaming red hair falling over her face. Now the father scooped up the son and handed him to the mother. He threw himself down upon the sofa and stretched, yawning…
The gate creaked a little as he pushed it open, but James Potter did not hear. His white hand pulled out the wand beneath his cloak and he pointed it at the door, which burst open.
He was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was easy, too easy, he had not even picked up his wand…
“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!”
He laughed before casting the curse…. “Avada Kedavra!”
The green light filled the cramped hallway and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings were cut…
He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible, she, at least, had nothing to fear…he climbed the steps, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in….she had no wand on her either…how stupid, they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in their ‘friend’…that weapons could be discarded even for a moment…
He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled up against it with one lazy sweep of his wand…and there she stood, the child in her arms. At the sight of him, she dropped her son into the crib behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be chosen instead…
“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”
“Stand aside, you silly girl…stand aside, now.”
“Not Harry, please no—TAKE ME, KILL ME INSTEAD!”
“This is my last warning—”
“Not Harry! Please…have mercy, have mercy…Not Harry! Please—I’ll do anything—”
“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”
The green light flashed around the room and she dropped like her young husband. The child had not cried all this time: he could stand, and so stood, clutching the bars of his crib, and he looked upon the intruder’s face with a kind of bright interest…
He pointed the wand very carefully at the boy’s face. He wanted to see it happen, the destruction of this one, inexplicable danger. The child began to cry—
“Avada Kedavra!”
And then he broke; he was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he must hide himself, not here in the rubble of the ruined house, where the child was trapped and screaming, but far away…far away…
“No,” he moaned, “No…no…no…”
“Harry! Harry, wake up!”
He was himself…Harry…and not Voldemort. He opened his eyes.
He was in the tent, and he was drenched in sweat. And Hermione was hovering over him, and there, on a chair beside the bed, was the two-way mirror.
In it, Harry saw Sirius and Remus’ stricken faces.
“Harry…” Sirius croaked, “You’re awake…”
“Sirius,” Harry stammered, and then he managed, “I was in Voldemort’s memories. And I saw it all…I saw him kill them…” and then Harry allowed the dam to break.
When Harry’s sobs at last quieted enough for him to see straight, Remus whispered in a very weak voice, “Oh Harry...Hermione told us of the snake inside of Bathilda. This is magic we could never have imagined.”
“There’s more…” Hermione stammered, and from her pocket she withdrew Harry’s wand.
The holly and phoenix wand was neatly severed in two.
“It can’t be mended,” came Remus’ hoarse voice through the mirror.
“It was my spell,” Hermione stammered, “I’m so, so sorry, Harry. I cast a non-verbal Blasting Curse, and it rebounded everywhere, and your wand was on the floor…it must have hit it…”
“It was an accident,” Harry said mechanically. He felt empty; hollowed out and dry.
“You’re alright,” Sirius said from the mirror, “That’s the most important thing.”
But it didn’t feel like that to Harry.
And yet…even as he stared at the broken pieces of his wand, his first tangible connection to his magic, he saw his parents through Voldemort’s memory…and knew that the most important thing to them had been exactly what Sirius had said. That Harry was alive.
Harry turned away, snatching Hermione’s wand from the table as he mumbled, “I’ll keep watch,” and he escaped the tent, fled the worried, wearied looks of Sirius and Remus and Hermione, and only as he leaned against the tent’s canvas, did he realize it was Christmas Day…
And then he allowed the most vicious of his thoughts to swallow him whole. For what did it matter that James and Lily had died, and he had not, if he could not avenge them? What did it matter that Sirius and Remus cared for him, if he could not make their pain mean something?
To live was not enough, Harry thought, it was not enough....
December 25, 1997
Teddy looked up from opening his last present—it was a new set of Coloring Quills. Teddy had gaped at the range of colors, who knew how many shades of blue there could be to draw with??
But Dad and Padfoot were not looking at him. They were holding hands, heads bent, looking at the fireplace.
“Dad?” Teddy said.
His Dad turned to look at him. Dad was wearing the red jumper, just like he said he would, but Dad and Padfoot had been…not happy…since they had returned from their bedroom earlier that morning while Teddy had been eating his breakfast with Tonks, Andy, Ayala, and Diana.
Teddy liked all those women; they talked a lot. Teddy liked that. He didn’t like it when the house was too quiet. When Dad and Padfoot had stepped into the kitchen, Ayala had said, “What is the bad news?”
Padfoot had shot her a Grown-Up Look, “Nothing.”
Ayala had huffed, but Diana placed a hand on her knee, and so Ayala had smiled rather softly and did not mention the Bad News again.
Andy and Tonks had just stared at Padfoot. But then Teddy’s Dad had leaned low by Teddy’s ear and said, “Are you ready to open presents, little one?”
Teddy had beamed, “Yes!”
But now Teddy set aside his Coloring Quills and looked at Dad and Padfoot on the sofa. Andy and Tonks were in the kitchen, and Ayala and Diana were up in their bedroom.
“Are you okay?” Teddy asked.
Dad smiled, his warm brown eyes lit by the flames in the fireplace, “Come here,” he said.
Teddy rushed forward on his wobbly legs and Dad nimbly scooped him up into his lap. Dad smelled like he always did. That was Good.
Teddy reached for Padfoot beside them, putting a small hand on Padfoot’s arm.
Padfoot blinked his dark eyes and turned to look clearly at Teddy.
“Happy Christmas, tyke,” Padfoot said, and then he smiled, and it was Good.
Even with the question unanswered, and with the Bad News that they would not tell him, and with Harry not there, Teddy felt that in Dad’s lap, and with Padfoot beside them, and with so many Good Christmas presents, that that moment became another one of his Favorite Things.