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SIYE Time:22:29 on 28th March 2024
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The Refiner's Fire
By Abraxan

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Category: Post-OotP, Buried Gems
Characters:All
Genres: Action/Adventure, Fluff, General
Warnings: Death, Sexual Situations, Violence
Story is Complete
Rating: R
Reviews: 618
Summary: In the summer before his sixth year at Hogwarts, Harry Potter learns to come to terms with the death of Sirius. As he heals and grows emotionally, he learns how to enjoy life again. But there's a war on, and Voldemort's primary objective is to kill Harry Potter, by any means necessary. As a result, Harry and his friends have a very adventurous sixth year at Hogwarts. Canon-based with some OC. HG, RHr, RT.
Hitcount: Story Total: 380719; Chapter Total: 15462







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DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author notes: Many thanks to my brilliant Brit-picker, Kelpie, and my beta readers, Blakevich, Starfox and Pilar! BTW, “Verre” means “glass” in French, which makes it a very appropriate name for an opti-wizard.

You can join the Yahoo! Group for this fic at:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/HPRef inersFire



Chapter 09 - Goodbyes



Hermione and Ron stood outside the door of Number Four, Privet Drive. “Are you sure you know what to do?” Hermione asked.

“Got it. I think it will work.”

“OK, then, here we go,” she said as she rang the doorbell.

“Yes?” Vernon asked as he opened the door.

“Hello, Mr. Dursley. I’m Hermione Granger, and this is Ron Weasley. We’re friends of Harry’s,” Hermione began pleasantly. “We’ve come for his things. He’ll be staying somewhere else for the rest of the summer holidays.”

“You’re his kind, aren’t you?” Vernon snarled. “You’ll not set one foot inside this house.”

Hermione and Ron both had their wands in their hands, held close to their bodies so people on the street couldn’t see them. “We’re coming in. Don’t make us stun you,” Ron warned.

“We can do this nicely or we can do it the hard way, it’s your choice,” Hermione said as she pushed Vernon back into the house and went through the door herself. Ron was close behind her. “Ron, you know where Harry keeps his things. I’ll keep an eye — and a wand — on Mr. Dursley here.”

“Bossy little witch, aren’t you?” Ron said fondly as he started up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“It’s one of my many charms,” Hermione replied with a serene smile. She turned her attention back to Vernon, who was puffing and fuming and turning many shades of purple. “Please don’t cause any trouble. All we want is to get Harry’s things. You don’t want them here anyway.”

“I will not have you. . .you. . .”

“Language, Mr. Dursley,” she said calmly.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Vernon cried, pointing a shaking finger toward the door. “I know you’re not allowed to use magic outside school. You can’t do anything.”

“Oh really? Guess what? Harry’s been allowed to do magic outside school all summer. Ron and I have permission from our headmaster to do whatever is necessary here today. So you’re wrong. We can do what we need to here. Get used to it.”

Ron came charging down the stairs, his big feet and the trunk each making loud clomping noises on the stairs. “All done,” he said with a grin.

“Are you sure you looked everywhere? You didn’t leave anything behind?”

“No, I checked all the places he told me to. It’s all here,” Ron assured her, waving Hedwig’s cage around as proof.

“All right, then. Good day, Mr. Dursley,” Hermione said in her most posh voice, and turned on her heel to leave the house, Ron following closely behind her with the trunk in tow and Hedwig’s cage in his other hand.

“Hermione, you were brilliant! You had ME scared!” Ron laughed as they walked toward Mrs. Figg’s, where they would use the floo system to get back to Grimmauld Place.

“Thanks. I was actually hoping he’d do something stupid so I could jinx him. Damn the man for behaving!”


* * * * *


“Hogwarts letters are here!” Remus called cheerfully soon after Ron and Hermione returned to Grimmauld Place.

“Wow, what a list of books,” Ron commented as he glanced over Hermione’s shoulder at her list.

Hermione snorted with laughter. “Have you looked at yours? It isn’t much shorter!”

“What is it?” Hermione asked as a noise from Ginny caught her attention.

Ginny had squeaked when she found a Prefect’s badge in the envelope with her letter. She held it up wordlessly for the others to see.

“Congratulations,” Harry said, a sad smile crossing his face briefly. He was just going through the motions, getting done what had to be done. He had no idea how he was going to live through the next few hours.

“Well done!” Hermione told Ginny sincerely.

“Mum’s going to be over the moon about that one,” Ron said with a laugh. He handed Harry his letter. “Here’s yours, Harry — it’s a bit fat,” he said with a grin. “Couldn’t be your Quidditch Captain’s badge, now, could it?”

Harry just glanced at Ron, then tore open the envelope. Sure enough, there was the Quidditch Captain’s badge.

“I’m getting good at Divination, aren’t I?” Ron laughed, putting on a dramatic Professor Trelawney pose, then collapsing in laughter. “Congratulations, Harry! You deserve it!”

“Yeah, Harry, that’s great!” Ginny chimed in.

Harry looked up at them, still quiet. After a while he said, “Odd, isn’t it, me being captain when I was banned from Quidditch for life last term.”

“Didn’t they lift the ban?” said Ron, completely astonished.

“No. So this is just a wasted effort, them sending me this badge.” He sighed.

Remus walked back into the room just then and heard the last part of the conversation. “What do you mean, a wasted effort, Harry? You’re the best Quidditch player Hogwarts has seen in years!”

“I’m banned for life, according to Professor Umbridge,” Harry said glumly. “They’ve never lifted the ban.”

“Yes, they did. I don’t know why you didn’t get a notice,” Remus said. “Albus and I were talking about it a few weeks ago and he said all Umbridge’s decrees, including your ban, have been overturned.”

Harry raised his eyes to his godfather. “Really?” He sat up and looked at the badge more seriously. “Well, then. This is nice.”

“Nice?” Ron exploded. “You’re QUIDDITCH CAPTAIN! You have a right to get a little excited about it!”

“I don’t feel much like being excited about anything right now, Ron,” Harry replied quietly, then took his letter and badge and went up to his room.

“Nice work, Ron, really,” Ginny grumbled.

“Oh, shut up. I thought if anything would cheer him up, it would be getting his captain’s badge.”

Ginny glanced toward the stairs, watching Harry disappear on the turn after the landing. “It will take a lot more than a badge to cheer him up.”


* * * * *


“Harry,” Hermione said as they got ready to go shopping a short time later, “I was wondering. Would you like me to do a Cheering Charm on you?”

Harry looked at Hermione, then back at his trainers as he tightened the laces. “No, thanks. I tried it. What you see here is the result of several Cheering Charms,” he said morosely.

“Maybe it would work better if someone else did it for you,” she offered.

“Go ahead,” he said as he straightened up. “Give it your best shot.”

Hermione performed the charm and didn’t see any difference in Harry at all. “I don’t understand why it didn’t work,” she said, looking at her wand irritably.

“Nothing’s wrong with your wand. It’s me. I think I’m beyond cheering,” Harry replied. He sighed, then gave her a small, sad smile. “Thanks for trying.”


* * * * *


Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Remus, Mad-Eye Moody and Tonks first went to the shop where Doug and Remus had taken Harry to buy his new wardrobe. Tonks and Moody had come along as protection, but Tonks was also enjoying the shops. Moody was as grumpy and wary as usual, keeping his green derby pulled low over his magical eye while he was among Muggles. Hermione was their “Muggle fashion advisor.” Ron and Ginny were with them because this trip also included one to Diagon Alley, and they, Hermione and Harry all needed their school things. Harry and Remus were quickly fitted for Muggle suits, which Harry paid for with his bank card. Remus took their shopping and went back to Grimmauld Place. He needed to take his potion before going to the funeral late that afternoon.

Soon the group entered Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron. First stop after Gringotts was Madam Malkin’s to be measured for new robes. Ginny spent some time choosing the fabric for her new dress robes, which were what she’d chosen as her present from her parents for being made a Prefect. Then the group went to Flourish and Blotts for their books. Dumbledore met them as they left the bookstore to take Harry to the opti-wizard’s shop.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Hermione called as the headmaster and Harry started to walk away, Tonks and Mad-Eye trailing behind them.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” Dumbledore replied, turning to smile at her kindly.

“Would you mind if I come too? I’d love to see how an opti-wizard works.”

“Me too!” came from Ron and Ginny.

Dumbledore considered a moment, then looked at Harry. He turned away from the others, bent close to the young wizard and murmured, “You’re going to tell them everything as soon as you get your new glasses, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” he admitted quietly. “Unless you tell me not to.”

“And what about the secrecy needed?”

“Professor, one day they may need such glasses,” Harry replied earnestly, “and you and I may not be around to tell them. I’m going to kill Voldemort. I don’t know if I’ll survive. I want to leave them with whatever information they need to be as safe as possible.”

Dumbledore studied Harry’s face, which had suddenly aged at least twenty years as he voiced the dread task awaiting him. The boy had already prepared himself to die in order to rid the world of Voldemort. Dumbledore was saddened that such a decision had been forced on Harry so soon in his life. “I’m going to trust your instincts, Harry. Do you mean to share this with all of them or just Ron and Hermione?”

Harry glanced over at his friends, looked back at Dumbledore and replied, “All of them.”

Dumbledore turned back to Harry’s friends, who were surprised that a seemingly simple request had resulted in such a serious consultation. “You may go with us, but you must promise to keep what you see a secret, or there will be very serious consequences. Do I make myself clear? No one but the four of you can know about these things,” he murmured to the young people.

“We promise,” they agreed, their eyes wide. What had they got into?

“Harry, are you certain?” he asked the boy.

“Yes.”

“All right then, we’re off. And I’ll treat you all to an ice cream afterwards, shall I? I could do with a butterscotch sundae with Fizzing Whizbee sprinkles,” he said with a smile that crinkled up his whole face.

As they got to the opti-wizard shop, Tonks stayed outside the front door while Mad-Eye went all the way through the shop, checking to make it was safe. They’d done this in every building they’d visited. Mad-Eye would guard the back entrance until they were ready to go.

While Moody scouted through the shop, the Headmaster explained to the Harry’s friends about the secrecy required, and why it was so important to keep whatever they learned in the shop to themselves. “The opti-wizard will put a Memory Charm on himself to keep from divulging any secrets. If you don’t think you can keep this information secret, we can do the same to you. We must protect Harry. He wants you to know about it for your own protection, in case any of you ever needs glasses like the ones he’s going to get. But Harry’s secret must be kept at all costs. Do you understand?” He got three solemn nods in response.

They entered the shop and were greeted by the owner, Mr. Verre, an ancient, owlish looking man with huge glasses. He was tall but stooped over with age, a large hump on his back. He reached out to shake Dumbledore’s hands, long fingers meeting long fingers.

“Ah, Professor Dumbledore! It has been a very long time! How may I help you?”

“Mr. Verre, I’d like you to meet some of my students. This is. . .”

“Harry Potter! I’ve wondered if you’d allow me to replace those glasses sometime. You’ve outgrown them, yes? Where did you get them? Are they Muggle manufacture? Such a pleasure to meet you, sir! I’m so honoured!” The man had taken Harry’s hand in both of his and was shaking it vigorously through this entire enthusiastic speech.

“Yes, this is Harry Potter,” Dumbledore confirmed, “and this is Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley and her brother Ron.”

“And do the others need glasses as well?” Mr. Verre said with a cheerful wrinkle in his face that must have been a smile. He had so many wrinkles, it was hard to tell.

“No, just Mr. Potter. The others wanted to watch you work.”

“Very well. Step over here, Mr. Potter, and I will take some measurements,” the old man invited, gesturing to a stool by a table full of instruments. Harry had never seen anything like them before.

“Um, Professor?” he asked Dumbledore hesitantly. “What are all those things? Will this hurt?”

“No, no, my boy, this won’t hurt a bit!” Mr. Verre answered, picking up one instrument after another, apparently trying to decide where to start.

Dumbledore patted Harry reassuringly on the shoulder. “It’s not painful or invasive in any way. Just relax, you’ll be fine,” he said with a smile.

“Let’s see your glasses,” Mr. Verre said, holding out one long, claw-like hand. “Ah. Yes. Muggle-made. Apparently damaged, but nicely restored.” He looked up at Dumbledore. “Your work?”

“No, actually it was Harry who mended them,” Dumbledore said with a smile.

“Ah, wonderful!” the opti-wizard replied. He finished examining Harry’s glasses, then lifted an instrument that resembled a magnifying glass, except that it had small appendages with a wide variety of tips all around the circle of metal holding the lens. “Which is your wand hand, Mr. Potter?”

“My right,” said Harry, still a bit nervous. He honestly couldn’t remember much about his last eye exam, but he was positive there were no pointy things close to his eye, and it looked like. . .yes, the opti-wizard was raising the instrument to his eye. Harry tried not to flinch.

“Fine, fine. Look through here with your right eye, then, please.” When he held the instrument up to Harry’s face, the small appendages whirled around in what appeared to be some kind of organized pattern as the man looked at Harry’s eye.

Harry flinched as they touched his face, but each touch was light and lasted barely a moment, so he finally began to relax about the process.

Mr. Verre stopped and made some notes on a piece of parchment, then held the lens up again. “Left, please.” He repeated the procedure and made more notes. He held various other instruments up to Harry’s eyes, asking him what he could see through various lenses, what shapes or colours appeared in different boxes, and so forth, humming happily the entire time. At one point, he asked Harry if he noticed any particular smell when he looked through the instrument.

Harry thought it all very odd, and quite unlike what little he remembered of previous eye exams.

When the opti-wizard had used every instrument, he bustled to the back and came out with a temporary frame and a box of lenses. “Let’s try some of these, shall we?” He put a pair of lenses in the frame and put it on Harry’s face. “How’s that?”

“Erm. . .it’s making me dizzy,” Harry replied uneasily.

“Dear, dear, let me see. Ah, try this then,” he said, putting a different set of lenses in the frames. This procedure went on through several sets of lenses until they found the right combination of prism, strength and curvature to suit Harry’s eyes. “Now then, frames. What style do you want? I have quite a variety.”

“Yeah, Harry, try on some different ones, let’s see how you look,” Hermione agreed.

He tried on small rectangular frames, rimless frames, oval frames, square frames, every kind of frame imaginable and didn’t like any of them. Ginny liked some, Hermione liked others, Ron laughed at a lot of them. Finally, Harry walked to the rack of frames and picked up round ones like the ones he’d worn all his life and put them on. “Well?”

“Well what?” Hermione said. “They look just like your old frames.”

“Do you like them?” he persisted.

“On anyone else, I wouldn’t, Harry. But on you — they’re you. I do like them. Which of the others did you like best?” Hermione asked. They all could tell his heart wasn’t in this task, that he just wanted to get it over with. But they also knew that, if he had to live with these glasses for a long time, he should be happy with them.

“Honestly? I’ve always liked my glasses. I think I look silly in these other frames. I like these,” he said seriously.

“Then that’s what you should get. They look great on you, Harry. The others were getting too small for your face,” said Ginny.

“OK, then. These frames,” he said with a small smile, handing them to Mr. Verre.

“Lovely choice, young man. Your friends are right, they do suit your face quite well.” Mr. Verre headed to the back of his shop to start making lenses for Harry’s glasses, but Dumbledore stopped him.

“Harry needs a ‘special order’ pair of glasses,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh! A special order! Well, that’s different. What powers do you want on them?”

“Give them everything you have,” Dumbledore instructed.

“Yes, I can do that. It will take a little longer. Shall we say an hour then?”

“Yes, an hour will be fine,” Dumbledore replied.

“Erm. . .how much are these going to cost me?” Harry asked nervously.

“With every possible option, one hundred and eighty galleons.”

“ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY! That’s. . .that’s. . .” Harry was dumbfounded.

“Mr. Verre,” Hermione interrupted, “maybe we could come to an arrangement?”

“What kind of arrangement?”

“You can advertise that you are the ‘official supplier of Harry Potter’s glasses’ in exchange for a serious discount on his glasses.”

Harry and the rest looked at Hermione in shock. “Hermione! These are supposed to be a secret!”

“I didn’t say he had to say anything about the secret part. But everyone knows you wear glasses. Wouldn’t it be good for his business to be known as the place where ‘The Boy Who Lived’ gets his glasses? I think in exchange for advertising, he should let you have the glasses for twenty galleons.”

“Twenty galleons! My dear girl, do you know how much work and expense goes into a pair of these glasses?” Verre said squeakily.

“No, sir, I don’t. But I do know the value of advertising, and I noticed you are not the only opti-wizard on Diagon Alley. Wouldn’t you like to have more business?” She looked at Dumbledore to make certain she wasn’t making an error of judgment. “There’s nothing wrong with this idea, is there, Professor? It can’t get Harry in any trouble, and it will benefit Mr. Verre as well, right?”

Dumbledore was chuckling. “I think you’re on to something here, Miss Granger. Go right on with your negotiation.”

“I think you’re asking too little, Hermione,” Ron said with a grin, getting into the spirit of the thing. “I think he should pay Harry AND give him his glasses for free!”

“Yes, I like that better too. All right, Mr. Verre, how about you pay Harry, let’s see, if you have ads in the Knight Bus and the best bookstores on Diagon Alley and in Hogsmeade, and Madam Malkin’s, in the Leaky Cauldron and Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, and the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly. . .hmmm. You should give him his glasses for free, and pay him five hundred galleons for the use of his picture and name.”

“Hermione!” Harry said in a strangled voice, absolutely astounded. “I. . .”

“Hush, Harry, I’m negotiating,” she said imperiously. Verre was obviously pondering what she was saying.

Ron leaned over and whispered in Harry’s ear, “Hermione’s going to get you paid for your picture being used — that’s better than you’re doing with the Quidditch poster, isn’t it?”

Harry thought about that a moment and said, “Yeah. I do need to talk to Colin about that,” in a grumpy voice.

“I’ll give you two hundred and fifty galleons and not a knut more,” Verre said.

“Six hundred,” Hermione stated emphatically. “And with every counter-offer, I go higher!”

“Six hundred? Are you insane?”

“Seven.”

Verre blustered for a moment, then cried, “Seven! That’s my final offer!”

“And the glasses?”

“And the glasses.”

“Seven hundred galleons and the glasses in exchange for Harry’s name and likeness in your advertising for say. . .a year?”

“Done.”

“And done!” Hermione said triumphantly. ”We’ll need to write up a contract stating exactly where you can use Harry’s photo — he does have his image to think about. His photo can’t be anywhere that isn’t a nice place to display it. And Harry gets to choose which photo you’ll be using. You can’t use just any picture you find.”

“I don’t advertise in such places,” Verre said with pride, “and I’d be pleased to use the image Mr. Potter wishes presented. It will be an honour to have him advertising my work.”

“Then once we agree to a written contract, we’re in business!” Hermione said with an exultant smile.

Harry looked at Ron, bewildered. “What just happened here?”

“Dunno, but I think what it boils down to is you getting free glasses and money to boot. Not a bad day’s work, eh?” He grinned at Hermione, quite proud of her negotiation.

As they walked toward the ice cream parlour, Harry said, “Hermione, what was all that about back there?”

“It’s about time you got some good out of being famous, Harry. There’s no reason for you to pay for things like glasses. I’ll bet we could do the same thing with Madam Malkin for your robes!”

“Oh, no, you don’t! I have enough people cross with me for being famous already! Thanks for what you did, but let’s leave it at that, all right?” he said earnestly.

Hermione deflated. “Oh. All right. I’m sorry.”

“No, Hermione, I do appreciate what you did,” he said hurriedly. “You were brilliant! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m glad I saved that money — and I’m making more! That’s great! But. . .”

“I understand. Sorry, I got carried away a bit.”

“No problem. And as my agent, you get a percentage, right?” Harry said with a smile.

“No, Harry, you don’t have to. . .”

“Yes I do. You earned it!” He smiled at the glow on Hermione’s cheeks.


* * * * *


At the ice cream parlour, Dumbledore bought sundaes for the group, then walked off while enjoying his. He had some other errands to do and would eat his ice cream on the way. Tonks and Moody sat at a table nearby, keeping an eye on the kids. As the four friends enjoyed their ice cream, Harry suddenly stiffened.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked.

“Colin Creevey,” he grumbled. He got up and strode over to the small table where the enthusiastic boy and his brother and father were sitting down to a snack.

“Colin, I need a word with you,” Harry said.

“Hi, Harry!” both boys chirped.

“This is our dad,” Dennis said. “Dad, this is Harry Potter!”

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Creevey,” Harry said politely. “Hello, Dennis.”

“A pleasure, Harry. The boys have told me so much about you,” Mr. Creevey said amiably.

“What can I do for you, Harry?” Colin said eagerly.

“I suppose we should speak in private,” Harry said, uncomfortable with the idea of having the confrontation he was planning in front of the boys’ father.

“Did you like the Quidditch poster?” Dennis said excitedly. “I got one of your Famous Wizard cards the other day! It was brilliant!”

“Erm. . .that’s what I wanted to speak to you about, Colin,” Harry began.

“Isn’t it great? My photos are published now!” Colin enthused.

“It would be great except you never asked ME if I minded you doing it,” Harry said sternly. He was fighting to control his temper. He really liked Colin when the boy wasn’t shoving a camera or a photo he wanted signed in his face, but Colin had gone too far this time. “And you gave the Famous Wizard card people a lot of information about me, too, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, they did a good job of getting it right, too!” Colin said excitedly. He still hadn’t noticed Harry was angry.

Harry sighed. Colin could be so thick sometimes. He pulled a chair up and sat down facing the boy. “Colin. I am a private citizen. I am not a rock star or a politician. And I’m a minor. It’s not right to publish pictures of me without my permission.”

Mr. Creevey said, “Colin? You did that without Harry’s permission?”

“Uh. . .yes?” Colin looked from Harry to his dad and back to Harry again, finally twigging on that he was in trouble.

“Colin, that’s not only rude, it’s illegal,” his dad said sternly. “Harry, I do photography as a hobby and I’ve had a few pictures published and in photography shows. The boys have watched me work for years. I can’t have made it clear to them about getting photo releases before publishing photos of private citizens. I’m very sorry this happened.”

“Thank you. That doesn’t make up for it though. I have a seriously hard time at school from people who hate me for being the ‘famous Harry Potter’ and now this card and poster are going to make things much worse,” Harry grumbled.

“How can we make it up to you?” Mr. Creevey asked.

Harry thought a minute. He’d planned the confrontation, but not exactly what it would take to satisfy him. He suddenly had an idea. “Colin, I’ll bet you’re making good money on those photos, aren’t you?”

Colin brightened. “Oh, yeah, it’s fantastic! I’m making pots of money! They’re selling like hotcakes!”

“OK, here’s how you’ll learn your lesson,” Harry said with an uncompromising look on his face. “You, your dad and I are going to Gringotts. We’re going to have them draw up a legal contract stating that a percentage of whatever you’re making will be put in an account to pay me for the use of my image.” He turned to Mr. Creevey. “What percentage do you usually pay people?”

“It varies, but usually around ten to twenty percent.”

“All right. You will pay me twenty percent of your proceeds. And the account the money goes into will be set aside for those who have lost family members to Voldemort and the Death Eaters. It may not be much, but it will be a way to help those who need it.”

“Wow, that’s great!” Colin said with excitement, pulling parchment and a quill out of his bag and digging around for his ink. “How do you spell ‘altruistic?’”

“What for?” Harry asked, unnerved that Colin thought his ‘punishment’ was a cool thing.

“I’m going to add it to the back of your Famous Wizard card! ‘Altruistic humanitarian, generous to a fault’ — how does that sound? And how do you spell it?”

“Oh, no, you’re not!” Harry said, a dangerous glint in his eye.

Colin finally realized he’d pushed his hero too far. He put his parchment and quill down and said, “Uh, OK, Harry, whatever you want.”

“You can keep producing the poster and the card, as they are, but I also want you to produce Gryffindor Quidditch posters with each player, and one with the whole team. That will help take the focus off of me,” Harry said. “You can do them for all the House teams if you want. And you will give each team member twenty percent of the proceeds of their posters — you will have a written agreement with each one, and permission from the parents or guardians of those who are underage, before you send their picture to the publisher. AND you’ll let them look at the pictures to make sure they approve of them. And you will NOT publish pictures of them without their and their parents’ approval — in writing! Agreed?”

“Great, that’s a fabulous idea, Harry!” Colin replied. “Thanks!”

“It’s only fair,” he conceded. He took a deep breath and said, “Colin, you are an excellent photographer. I’m very happy about your success. But I don’t like it that your success involves me. Please stop selling my photos and making posters of me and so forth unless you ask me first! OK?”

Mr. Creevey reached across the table and rapped his knuckles gently on his older son’s head. “Is he getting through to you, lad?”

Colin looked from Harry to his dad and back again. He gulped. “Yes. I’m sorry, Harry. It seemed like such a good idea. . . .”

“It was, except for the fact I didn’t want to be involved. Finish your ice cream so we can go to Gringotts and get this sorted out. My godfather isn’t here right now, but I’ll get him to come and sign it as soon as he can,” Harry replied. “Thank you for understanding, Mr. Creevey. I hope I haven’t spoiled your day.”

“No, Harry, it’s important the boys learn how to do business the right way. And I’m honoured to meet you, honestly. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you. I can see why the boys respect you so much.”

Harry blushed and studied his trainers while the Creeveys finished their snack. When they were done, Harry and his friends and the Creeveys went to Gringotts to set up the legal paperwork and the bank account Harry had described.


* * * * *


It was late afternoon. Harry wore his new suit and dress shoes and his new glasses, Remus had on his new suit and shoes as well, and Hermione had made sure the Weasleys were properly attired for a Muggle funeral. (“Dark blue will be fine, not sky blue. No, Fred, you can’t wear lime green. Dark green is better.”) A few glamour charms later, the Weasleys all looked perfectly acceptable for a solemn muggle occasion. On their way to the funeral, Harry insisted they stop at the Dursleys’ house. When they got there, he walked into the back garden and took out the pocket knife Casey had given him for his birthday, neatly cutting off a beautiful pink rosebud with a short stem.

“I ordered flowers for you, Harry,” Hermione said, confused at his actions.

“I always give. . .gave. . .Casey a pink rose whenever we had a date,” Harry said stiffly, determined not to cry again. Hermione made a small squeaking sound and backed away from him. He was methodically de-thorning the rose stem as he spoke, cutting toward his thumb as he’d learned to do from Doug, despite Casey asking him to do it the other way. He almost smiled at the memory, then pushed the thought to the back of his mind. With a shudder, he remembered the other pocket knife he’d had, the magical one Sirius had given him, which had been destroyed in the Ministry of Magic when Harry was trying to rescue Sirius. Two pocket knives, two deaths. No. Don’t go there, he thought, nearly mangling the rose in his sudden realization.

“WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU LOT DOING IN MY GARDEN!” Vernon snarled as he stormed out of the house.

Harry rounded on his uncle, so tall now he towered over the man. “I grew these flowers, every single one of them,” he said in a dangerously quiet voice, a steely glint in his eyes. “I planted, fertilized, pruned, sprayed, and weeded every single thing out here. I will take flowers from here when I need them.”

Vernon didn’t know what to make of his nephew dressed so elegantly in a fine suit, with a large group of people with him. Most of these people had red hair, so they had to be part of that wizard family who had crashed into his living room. Wary of more trouble from wizards, Vernon backed down, sputtering incoherent noises as he moved back toward the house. Harry glared at him until the man was back inside the house, then turned to go, leading his friends and godfather to the church where the Ashers’ service was to be held.

In the vestibule of the church, a man greeted them. Hermione said, “We’re here for the Asher service, please,” and the man shook their hands and held the door open for them to enter the nave.

A number of people were already seated, but the service had not yet started. In the front of the altar stood four coffins, three large ones and one tiny one. Harry caught his breath and stumbled in the doorway when he saw them. Remus put his arm around him and murmured, “We don’t have to do this.”

“I have to do this,” Harry replied, straightening his shoulders and taking a deep breath before taking another step forward. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right, left, right, keep moving, Potter, the boy told himself. Before he got to the coffins, a middle-aged woman approached and held out her hand to him.

“You must be Harry Potter,” she said, a tremulous smile on her face. “I hoped I’d get to meet you.”

“Erm. . .hello,” Harry replied, not knowing who she was or what he should do. Remus stayed at his side, his hand on Harry’s shoulder, and the rest of the group stayed close behind them.

“I’m Emily Thomas, Doug’s sister,” the woman said. “I’ve heard so very much about you. I thought you’d come — I hoped you would. I need to talk to you.”

Harry’s heart sank. She knows, he thought. She knows it’s my fault they’re dead.

“Doug thought the world of you,” Mrs. Thomas said as she drew Harry aside and sat on a pew nearby, silently inviting Harry to sit with her. “He talked to me frequently about the mosaics you were making, and how excited he was that you’d discovered such a talent while working for him.”

A tear escaped Harry’s control and slid down his face unheeded. “He. . .he was so good to me,” he murmured. “Such a good man, so kind. . .the whole family was that way.”

Mrs. Thomas smiled as tears filled her eyes. “Yes, that’s true. You knew them well, then?”

“Yes, I think so,” Harry replied.

“I have to sell the shop and the tools in it. I’m their heir and have no use for any of those things. I hate the idea of selling it, but there’s nothing else to do. I need to talk to you about your mosaics.”

Harry thought he knew where she was going with this line of conversation. “The tables that are paid for are completed and ready to go — they were to be delivered yesterday, actually. They have tags on them with the owners’ names and addresses. The others I was doing on spec, so there aren’t any customers waiting for them. Some of them I was doing on my own time as presents for my friends.”

“Yes, I thought that might be the case. You do beautiful work, Harry. I understand why Doug was so excited about it.” The woman paused. “Is this your father?” she said, looking at Remus.

“Oh, no. My parents are dead. This is my godfather, Remus Lupin. I’m sorry, I forgot my manners. These are my friends. This is Hermione Granger. That’s Fred, George, Ron and Ginny Weasley, and their dad, Arthur,” he finished, indicating each Weasley in turn.

“I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, but I do so appreciate your coming,” she said quietly to Harry’s friends. She turned back to Harry. “This is the key to the shop. The solicitor inventoried everything today, so the estate is all in order. I’d like you to take whatever you need to keep working on your mosaics — tools, supplies, whatever — as well as the ones that are not sold. Doug would want you to have those things — they’re yours to keep. You should finish them, maybe make some more. I understand there’s a table saw as well as a good many hand tools involved in what you’re doing.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. This woman was making a very generous offer. Those tools alone were worth a lot of money. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. You leave the key under the flowerpot on the porch when you’re done, all right?”

“Yes. Thank you very much.”

“And another thing,” Mrs. Thomas said, pulling a shopping bag from under the seat. “I found this when I was looking for a dress for Casey to wear. She had decorated a box with photos of you and little stickers and. . .” she broke off, tears suddenly streaming down her face. She took a moment to control herself, not noticing Harry was battling tears himself. “She obviously thought a great deal of you, Harry. I know her parents felt the same way. Apparently, she kept things you gave her in there. Lots of dried up flowers, ticket stubs from the cinema, a card with a picture of you on it. It’s an odd kind of picture, really, but you look so happy.” She reached out and touched his hand, leaning in to look at him closely. “You have an absolutely wonderful smile, do you know that? Seeing your smile in that picture made my heart lift a bit. Such a lovely smile. . . .” She sat back, looked at the bag in her hands again and sighed heavily, lost in her own thoughts for a few moments. Harry had no idea what to say. “I couldn’t make head or tail of what that card said on the back. I suppose it’s a joke of some kind?” she asked, looking up at him curiously.

“Erm, yes. A joke card one of my friends made,” he said uncomfortably, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain the wizard photo.

“Well, then. I have the box here, with all its contents. I thought you should have it,” she said, offering the bag to him.

With trembling hands, Harry took the bag, then very hesitantly reached inside for the box. He barely glanced at it before he had to put it away again, holding his breath to hold back a sob. He held the bag tightly in both hands. “Thank you,” he choked out.

“One other thing, dear boy, and then I’ll leave you to. . .well. . .um. . .I was wondering. Would you like to say something during the service?”

The Weasleys and Hermione made a collective gasp. They couldn’t see how Harry was managing to handle what he was dealing with now. Speaking at this funeral would be more than he could bear, wouldn’t it? Hermione put a gentle hand on his shoulder, leaned in and whispered in his ear, “You don’t have to do this, Harry. Just say ‘no, thanks,’ and leave it at that.”

Harry heard her, but he also heard Casey’s voice in his head, talking with him about having a memorial service for Sirius, and how he needed closure to get through his grief. He took a deep breath and blew it out, lifted his eyes to Mrs. Thomas and said, “OK. I don’t know what to say, though.”

“Just say whatever’s in your heart, lad. That will be fine. And if you decide you don’t want to, that’s not a problem. I just thought you might . . .”

“Yes. I’ll do it.”

Mrs. Thomas patted his hands, which still clutched Casey’s box. “Thank you.” She nodded at the rest of the group, then stood up to greet other people who were arriving for the service.

Harry looked lost. He sat staring into space, his knuckles white as he held the box tightly. He realized he was crushing it and released it suddenly, nearly dropping it.

Remus caught it. “Shall I hold this for you?” he offered.

Harry looked up at Remus, looking so startled it was as if he didn’t remember his godfather was with him. He glanced around at the others, then at the coffins in front of the room and the line of people passing by them. Harry stood up and started to walk slowly toward the line, not noticing when Remus removed the shopping bag from his hand and passed it back to Ron to hold. As they neared the coffins, Hermione noticed which flowers were Harry’s and pointed them out to him. Then she showed him some her parents and she had sent as well.

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry whispered, his head bowed. “They’re beautiful. I appreciate it. And please, thank your parents for me, too.”

“I will.”

The first coffin was Doug’s. Harry held onto the side of the coffin and gazed down into his friend’s face. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Asher,” he murmured. “Thank you for everything.” Remus kept his arm around Harry, squeezing his shoulder when the boy trembled. At the second coffin, Margaret’s, Harry said, “Thank you for being such a good friend — and for all the good food.” He looked at Remus and said, “She was like Mrs. Weasley, always trying to fatten me up.” At Casey’s coffin, Harry was shaking hard. No tears escaped his control this time, but he couldn’t speak for a while. He delicately put the rose in her hair, tucked behind her ear as she had done with every rose he’d given her. His hand brushed her cheek — then he recoiled in shock. “She’s . . .hard!”

Remus leaned over and murmured in Harry’s ear, “That’s something Muggles do to prepare people for funerals. She’s not there, Harry. This is just her . . . shell. Her spirit is free now.”

Harry looked at his godfather, his face and posture showing the strain as he tried to control his emotions. “Yes. Her shell. That’s why I had to come. To understand that she’s gone and won’t be back.” He nodded, his face bleak. He desperately wanted to kiss her one last time, but the thought of kissing those lips, those sweet, tender, soft lips that were now hard and cold, was more than he could bear. He bowed his head, his hands clenched tightly on the side of her coffin, remembering the first time he’d kissed her, the time he’d protected her from other people peeping at her bared breasts when her swim suit top broke, her head on his shoulder at the cinema, her joyful squeals as she held tightly to him on her first broom ride, snogging through the credits of the films, her easy acceptance of his being a wizard, their laughter, their lunches. . .their love. So many lovely memories of a warm, vibrant, beautiful young woman. He shuddered with a stifled sob but refused to cry. He’d be strong for her if it killed him.

At Patricia’s little coffin, Harry sobbed aloud. “This is so unfair,” he moaned. “She was still a baby.” Remus pulled him into his arms and held him until he was calmer. They went and sat in a pew with the Weasleys and Hermione, all of whom were weeping, mourning the passing of a kind family who had taken Harry into their hearts.

When Harry was called upon to speak during the service, Remus reminded him he didn’t have to do it. “Yes, I do,” he replied and moved to the podium. He lifted his eyes and looked at the crowded room. There was a huge turnout for the service. He recognized co-workers and customers among the crowd as he cleared his throat and tried to organize his thoughts. He squared his shoulders and began.

“My name is Harry Potter. I. . .I worked for Mr. Asher, and Casey . . .Casey was . . .my girlfriend. When Mrs. Thomas asked me to say something here, I didn’t know what I could possibly say. It. . . hurts too much. But then. . . . .” He took a deep breath, and then soldiered on. “When I met the Ashers, their dog had run away, and he ran right up to me. I’m. . . .” How much should he tell? He heard Casey’s voice in the back of his mind. Be honest, Mr.Potter! Spit it out! It will be good for you! He could almost hear her chuckling as she encouraged him to face his demons and move on. He blew out a deep breath and got back on task. “I’m an orphan and had to wear hand-me-down clothes until Mr Asher started paying me and I could buy my own things. He even took me shopping because I didn’t know how.” Harry had to stop a moment before going on. “When I met the Ashers, I looked like a tramp. But Mrs. Asher and Casey looked past my appearance and saw a worthwhile person. Mrs. Asher had me contact her husband about a job, and he, too, looked past my appearance, my lack of references, my lack of experience, and hired me. Then while I was working for him, he discovered I had a talent for mosaics and he let me work on those rather than just doing labour around the shop as I’d been hired to do. They encouraged me, fed me, helped me in every way they could — and they even let me go out with their daughter. She was. . .she brought light into my life. My godfather had recently died and I didn’t know how to mourn him. She helped me through that and helped me learn how to laugh again. We became friends, good friends, and then we started dating. Oh. . .I just realized.” He stopped as a single tear ran down his face. “Today’s her sixteenth birthday. What an awful way to have a birthday.” He rubbed at his eyes, keeping his promise to Casey not to cry here, then continued. “I don’t know how well you all knew this family, but they were the kindest, sweetest, most amazing people. . .and they will be missed. I will never forget any of them. It was an honour to know them.” With that, he sat down.

Harry didn’t remember much of the rest of the service. All he remembered was feeling relieved when Remus said they didn’t have to go to the graveside. He couldn’t have borne seeing those boxes put down in the ground, dirt thrown over them. That would have been too much.

The next thing Harry knew, they were at the tile shop and the Weasleys, Hermione and Remus were carefully pulling his mosaics off the shelves, quietly exclaiming over the beauty of the designs. They set all his work on the floor, as well as his big box of tile, marble and granite scraps, the boards he used for backing the mosaics, his grout supplies, and the tools he picked out, then put Shrinking Charms on everything so it would all fit in their pockets. In a short time, they were on their way back to Grimmauld Place, with Harry as silent as a statue among them. The Weasleys were uncharacteristically quiet, respecting his feelings.

When they got to the house, Harry sat on a chair in the living room with his suit coat unbuttoned and his tie loosened, elbows on his knees, staring into space, ignoring the movement around him. The Weasleys, Hermione and Remus were emptying their pockets of miniaturized tools, marble, granite and tile pieces, and the mosaics themselves.

“Where shall we put this stuff, Dad?” George asked quietly.

“Well, I suppose we could put the tools and supplies in the basement. Harry may want some of these mosaics to stay out. They’ll certainly brighten up this old house,” he said with a smile. “Harry?” Arthur said, turning to the silent boy, “where would you like us to put these things? Do you want to keep some of them in here? Or where?” He held out a tiny mosaic, the size of a galleon due to the Shrinking Spell.

“These designs are so beautiful. I can’t quite make out what’s on this one. . . .” Arthur mused as he studied the tiny object. “Well, how silly of me,” he muttered, then enlarged that mosaic to full size. When it expanded, Arthur could see that it was a circular piece about a foot across, with a pink marble rose in the centre of an ivory marble heart set in a sparkly grey granite background, with the same granite used to make small letters around the rose: “H.P. + C.A.”

Realizing what it was, Arthur moved to put it gently on the table by the doorway, but just as he reached out to lay it down, Fred tripped on the tattered end of the rug and stumbled into him. The mosaic flew through the air, seemingly in slow motion, catching the light as it turned. Arthur and Fred tried to catch it and wound up banging their heads together. The mosaic hit the floor with a loud “CRACK” right at Harry’s feet. A few pieces fell out of it.

Harry came out of his daze and looked down at the mosaic, which was fractured across the centre. He reached down slowly to pick it up, gathering up the pieces that had fallen out when it hit the floor.

“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry!” Arthur began miserably. “I didn’t mean. . .”

“I’m sorry! It was so clumsy of me!” Fred offered, devastated at what had happened. “Shall I fix it for you? I think I can do it.”

Harry glanced up at them, then back at the damaged ornament in his hands. “It’s OK. It’s just broken tiles anyway. And she’s. . .she isn’t. . .she won’t. . . .” Tears filled his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He clutched the mosaic to his chest and walked slowly out of the room, leaving his friends staring after him in shocked silence.

“I’d better go and see. . .” Remus said after a few stunned moments, moving to follow Harry across the hall and up the stairs. He stopped in the doorway. THUD. THUD. THUD.

“What the devil is that?” Arthur said, turning his head to try to locate the source of the sound, which was coming from upstairs.

“It’s probably Harry banging his head on the wall,” Ron said solemnly. “He does that sometimes.”

Remus took the steps three at a time, threw open the door and found Ron was right. Harry was sitting on the floor in the corner of the darkened room, the mosaic clutched to his chest, banging his head hard on the wall every few seconds. He wasn’t crying. He was just banging his head over and over. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.

“Harry, stop it! Why do you do that to yourself? Stop!” Remus cried, grabbing the boy’s shoulders and trying to hold him.

Harry fought back, refusing to be comforted or touched. When Remus left him alone, he went back to banging his head on the wall, but if Remus touched him, he was in for a fight.

“Harry. Harry, listen to me. Harry!” The heartsick boy seemed oblivious to his godfather’s voice.

“Here, maybe he’ll listen to me,” Hermione offered. She sat by Harry and tried to talk to him, tried to stop him from banging his head on the wall, but he just went on as he had been, with no change of expression or of the rhythm of his head-banging, as if nobody was there at all but him.

“He’s going to get a concussion if he doesn’t stop, or even worse,” Remus said. “Get back, Hermione. I don’t want you hurt.” Remus picked up the distraught boy and held onto him, despite the fact Harry was as big as Remus, and was fighting his godfather desperately. Remus moved to the bed and wrapped his arms tightly around his godson. “I’ve got you, Harry. You’re going to be OK. We’ll get through this. Hang on.” He sat and rocked the boy, who finally stopped struggling and started crying despairingly, holding on to his godfather as if his very life depended on it. “Shhh, Harry, there, there,” Remus murmured as he rocked the boy, doing his best to comfort him. He tucked Harry’s head under his chin, gently rubbed the boy’s back, and did whatever he could think of to calm him.

“Are you going to be all right here?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Yes, I think so,” Remus replied in a soft voice.

“Let us know if you need anything,” Arthur said, then turned to leave, herding his wide-eyed children and Hermione out of the room.

After holding him so long Remus’s legs were getting numb from the boy’s weight in his lap, Harry finally calmed down, a sniffle escaping now and then. “Harry?” Remus murmured.

“Hmm.”

“Would you like to change out of your suit?”

“’K.” Remus helped him change into a t-shirt and shorts, then they sat on the side of the bed together.

“Are you hungry?”

Harry barely shook his head.

“Thirsty?” There was no response at all to this question. “Do you want to talk?”

No response.

“Do you want to sleep?”

Harry nodded and lay down, curling up in foetal position. Remus pulled the blankets over him. “I’ll sit with you for a while, all right?”

He barely nodded. He still held the mosaic in his hand.

Remus sat rubbing the boy’s back, trying to get him to relax. He didn’t know what else to say or do.

“Remus?” Harry’s voice was hoarse and whispery, almost not there.

“Yes?”

“Why is Voldemort after me? Why is he killing everyone I care about? What did I do to deserve this? I’ve tried to be a good person. Casey. . .Casey. . .Casey and her family. . .they were the best. Why . . .?” His voice broke.

The questions hung in the air between them. Remus sighed. “I wish I could tell you, Harry. I honestly don’t know any of the answers except that you did nothing to deserve any of this. None of this is your fault, you know.”

“Yes it is! My fault, all my fault!” Harry cried and started moaning. “Mum, Dad, Cedric, Sirius, Casey and her family, all those Muggles. . .the Order members who died that night. . .all my fault. All my fault.” This litany of guilt went on for hours. Nothing Remus did could break through to the grief-stricken boy. Eventually, Harry was so exhausted he fell asleep, but he had terrible nightmares, during which his body flailed around and he tore at the covers and his clothing. He got very little actual rest.


* * * * *


Dumbledore showed up early in the morning with a Pensieve under his arm. Ginny had taken the night shift because it was still the full moon and Remus had to be locked in the basement for his transformation. She met Dumbledore at the door to Harry’s room. “Happy birthday, Miss Weasley. It is today, correct?”

“Yes, Professor. Thanks,” she said with a small smile.

“Have I missed your party?” he asked kindly.

“None of us feel much like having a party,” she said quietly.

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” he replied. He thought a moment and reached into his sleeve, pulling out a gigantic, fragrant red peony. “A bit out of season for these, I’m afraid, but I am rather fond of them, so I conjure them when the occasion warrants. Happy birthday, Miss Weasley.”

Ginny smiled, taking the flower and breathing in its rich perfume. “Thank you, Professor. I’ll put it in water and set it by Harry’s bed so he can smell it too.”

“That’s a very nice idea. How is he doing?”

“No real change. Extremely depressed the few times he’s been awake, and he won’t eat. I have to nearly force his potions down his throat. He just doesn’t want them.”

“I’m not terribly fond of potions either. I think I may have a solution that will help him get back on his feet,” the old Wizard said with a small smile.

“That would be wonderful!” Ginny replied. “What can I do to help?”

“Go find Remus and ask him to join us, would you? He should be fine by now.”

Ginny left on her errand and Dumbledore sat on the edge of Harry’s bed. The motion of the bed as he sat down roused the boy from sleep.

“Hello, Professor,” he muttered.

“Hello, Harry. I think I have something that will help you get through this hard time. I wish I’d thought of it before.”

“What is it?” Harry rubbed his eyes blearily, trying to focus.

“I brought you a Pensieve. It’s yours to keep. I think you, as I do, have too many thoughts in your head. As I told you before, taking thoughts out of my head and putting them in the Pensieve helps me to see patterns and examine my memories and ideas from different angles. Sometimes I just put thoughts in there that I prefer to deal with after some time has passed, which is what I think will be helpful to you.”

Harry struggled to sit up, his covers so tangled he could barely move despite Ginny’s repeated attempts to straighten them. When he was finally upright, he picked up his glasses and put them on. He took the mosaic out from under his pillow, gazed sadly at it for a moment, then resignedly put it in the drawer of his bedside table, closing the drawer slowly and staring at the mosaic until it was completely out of sight. He shuddered a little, then turned to his headmaster, gazing at him resolutely. “OK. I’m ready. How do I do it?”

“Get your wand,” Dumbledore began, watching him pick it up from the table. “Now concentrate hard on a thought or memory — something not stressful to you will be good for a start.” He watched as the boy focused his eyes on something far away. Dumbledore could see him working to find one quiet thought or memory to start with out of the tumult in his mind. “Got it?” Harry nodded. “Good. Concentrate on that one thought, then touch your temple with your wand. Pull it slowly away and the thought will come out. Then touch your wand to the inside of the Pensieve, and the thought will be deposited there.”

“Will I remember the thought?” Harry asked suddenly, looking nervous.

“Whatever you put in the Pensieve, you won’t remember that memory or thought itself — just that it exists. The actual memory will be fuzzy, like a dream you once had. Pick an easy memory for your first try, something simple, something pleasant.”

“Um. . .pleasant. OK. Meeting Ron on the train the first time.”

“Excellent. Concentrate on that.”

Harry concentrated on that memory, touched the wand to his head and then watched a silvery thread come out of his black hair and land with a plop in the Pensieve. His eyes widened.

“Well done, Harry!” Dumbledore said with a warm smile. “Now do that again, with another pleasant thought.”

“Um. . .getting my Nimbus 2000 at breakfast.”

“That’s a good choice. Go ahead.”

He complied, and another silvery thread came out of his dark hair, attached to his wand, then landed with a soft “plop” next to the first one in the Pensieve.

“Now you’ve got it!” Dumbledore enthused. “Do you remember those thoughts exist?”

“The ones in the Pensieve? Something about Ron and a train, and my first broom?”

“Exactly. You can’t remember the details, the memory is fuzzy, but you know it exists.”

“Right.”

“All right then, I think you’re ready to try something harder. Try concentrating on a less pleasant memory.”

Harry’s face became stony as he confronted the pain within him. “Got it.”

“A single memory, Harry, remember, and it can be just a little unpleasant or stressful. Don’t try to do a really difficult or uncomfortable memory yet.”

Harry nodded, then touched his wand to his head. A thicker silver thread came out and landed in the Pensieve.

“Be careful. Taking out too large a memory at once can be harmful.”

Harry glanced up at him and nodded again, then went still a moment before touching his head with his wand again. Another rather thick silvery thread came out.

“What are you removing, Harry?” Dumbledore asked gently.

“Casey.”

“Ah. I thought so. Be very careful to remove only one small memory at a time. The last two were a bit big.”

Harry nodded again, and screwed up his face in stoic concentration. Tears filled his eyes for a moment, then he blinked them away, rubbing furiously at his eyes with the heels of his hands. He went back to concentrating, then touched the wand to his head again. A massive, writhing ball of silvery threads came out of his head with a loud “pop” and fell into the Pensieve, and Harry fell back on the bed unconscious.


* * * * *


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