Chapter 2
Helena Ravenclaw
He is guiding her to a crossroads. He has died for her, but it is her turn to make a choice. She looks at him, her soul glowing translucent, curiosity in her eyes.
“Why do you do this? Why do you take our deaths from us?” She asks him these questions without judgement; she does not mind his experiencing death for her.
He considers his answer. For all the questions he has been asked, he has never been asked in quite this way.
“I have no choice,” he replies, and the admission is heavy. It is the truth, though. He was forced into this position by chance, by fate - he doubts he will ever know who to blame.
They arrive at Helena’s crossroads, and she looks at them in consternation before turning to him. He cannot make this choice for her, cannot choose her path.
“What are my choices?” she asks quietly, as though she cannot feel the regret that tethers her to the mortal plane. And perhaps she cannot; he never spoke to her about her choice, the first time he knew her, and it is not everyone who feels that regret so keenly that they cannot move on.
Just like the living, the dead are complex and unique, he knows this, and yet they always manage to surprise him; he has been doing this for millions of deaths, and they all blur together. Even in his life, the dead were rarely memorable, and dying for them hasn’t changed that.
“You can move on,” he says, “or you can return to the world as a ghost.”
She looks at him. Asks, “What do you think I should choose?”
“I cannot make your choice for you,” he replies. “I have taken your death from you, I will not take this from you as well.”
He already knows what she will choose, knows that her presence is important in the future.
“If I return, will I see my mother again?”
“You will see her again no matter what you choose.”
“I will go back, then. I would like to see her again before you die for her.”
He leads her down the road that leads back. The end of it glows white.
“They always say not to walk towards the light,” Helena muses.
“The life of a ghost can be lonely,” Harry agrees, “most would not wish such an existence on anyone.”
Helena steps towards the light. “Thank you,” she says, “for taking my death for me.” And then she steps into it.
Frank Bryce
“This isn’t Heaven. You aren’t God,” says the Muggle.
“No,” Harry agrees.
“But I’m dead, right? That creature killed me with the green spotlight?”
“Yes. You are dead. Voldemort killed you. I’m sorry that your introduction to magic was in the form of death. It can be quite beautiful.”
He doesn’t expect anything to come of it, doesn’t expect Frank’s curiosity.
“Show me.”
Harry hesitates. This man is a Muggle, that much is true, but Frank is dead and can’t hurt him. He has nothing to be afraid of; the man standing in front of him is not Vernon, and this is what convinces him to flick his fingers, whispering “ Expecto Patronum ” under his breath.
Prongs blossoms into being, pearlescent and elegant. Frank looks at the stag in awe, stroking its flank. Prongs’ presence emits warmth, and Harry feels happy for the first time since he closed his eyes against the green that lit a forest.
“Thank you,” Frank says.
“No.” Harry returns. “Thank you. I didn’t know I needed that.”
He is an immortal who dies constantly. He is simultaneously old and young. He is a mess of contradictions, and yet this Muggle has just taught him something new. It is an interesting feeling, and it has been ages since anything has really broken up his mindless tasks.
It has been longer than he can remember since he has done anything other than die and lead the dead.
“Come, follow me,” Harry suggests, and Frank follows him unquestioningly. Prongs walks beside Harry, head raised, and Harry smooths his fingers down the stag’s side as they make their way through the fog that surrounds them.
The walk is long, and Frank eventually breaks the silence.
“Do you die for everyone?”
“I do.”
“How did the Riddles die?”
“The Riddles?”
“They were the family that lived in the Manor that I took care of. Everyone in town thought I killed them.”
“Ah. They were killed in the same way as you. Same person, too.”
“Who?”
“Voldemort. Tom Riddle Junior. Son of Tom Senior and Merope Gaunt.”
“Why did he kill his family?” Frank asks, as though he can’t imagine wanting to kill family members.
Harry thinks that maybe he can’t imagine it. Frank had a loving family, after all, was devastated when they died. He wonders what it’s like, to love and be loved unconditionally. He thinks that he could find out, if he wanted, thinks that he could visit his mother and father in their afterlife.
But there’s still a part of him that doesn’t think he deserves it.
“They didn’t want him,” Harry replies heavily, “and so he decided that he didn’t want them, either. Tom never knew love, not the way other people do, and he tore himself apart because of it.”
“That doesn’t excuse it.”
“No. His family issues don’t excuse his actions. They don’t make his choices right, but Tom was a broken human being. He literally destroyed himself because of them. His actions weren’t right, but neither were theirs.”
Frank looks pensive. “They didn’t want him?”
“No.” Harry agrees, and his heart breaks a little when he does.
The walk in silence the rest of the way, until they reach a door that juts up from the fog. Harry opens it, standing aside for Frank to enter ahead of him.
“This is like a waiting room.” Harry explains. “I need you to do something for me in a little while. You’ll know when it happens, and when it’s over, I’ll be back to take you to your afterlife.”
“I’ll be right here,” Frank replies, a smile breaking across his weathered face. “Thank you for showing me your stag.”
“His name is Prongs,” Harry says, “and you’re welcome. I’ll see you soon.”
Ron Weasley
Ron raises his eyebrows in astonishment when they finally emerge into the white fog that resembles a Quidditch Pitch.
“Harry, mate, you’re looking pretty youthful there. Care to share?”
Harry smiles ruefully. “I split when I was in the Forest. Since then, I’ve been dying for people.”
“Urgh. How long has that been going on? Didn’t it stop when you died?”
“Feels like it’s been going on since time began. And no, it didn’t.”
“That sucks,” Ron says succinctly. “What’s with the Quidditch Pitch?”
“That’s your doing. The in-between conforms to the dead. For some it’s a reflection of their home. For others, it’s Hogwarts, or their place of work. For me it’s King’s Cross.”
“So what happens now?”
“Now, you follow me to your afterlife. Fred will be pleased to see you. He tells me he’s been dying for someone new to prank. Pun intended.”
Ron’s afterlife looks distinctly like the Burrow, down to the lopsided rooms and the smell of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking wafting towards them from the kitchen. Ron’s family waits for him at the front door, greeting him enthusiastically.
Harry can hear Mrs. Weasley puttering about in the kitchen, and knows the instant the clock informs her of Ron’s arrival; her shriek of “Ronnie’s home!” drifts from the kitchen seconds before she wraps her son in a warm hug.
Harry smiles faintly, before turning and walking away.
Petunia Dursley
He can see the regret in his Aunt’s eyes the moment she looks at him.
“I’m sorry.” she says, “I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. I should have loved you.”
“You should have tried,” he agrees, “but I accept your apology, and I forgive you.”
Her eyes mist, and he can’t watch her cry, so he turns his face away from her, looks around the living room of the house on Privet Drive. He is distinctly uncomfortable in this in-between of Petunia’s.
“Let’s go,” he says abruptly. “Uncle Vernon and Dudley are waiting for you.”
She follows him in silence, as though she can tell conversation from her will not be accepted. Harry is thankful that she leaves him to his thoughts. He has had an eternity to remember his childhood, and while he forgives his Aunt and Uncle for their resentment and resulting actions, while he loves them, he does not particularly like them.
He drops Petunia off in her afterlife, and he doesn’t stay to watch her reunion with Vernon and Dudley. He has other people to die for.