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All Tangled Up Like Balls of String By tocourtdisaster
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Category: Post-DH/AB
Characters:None
Genres: General
Warnings: Mild Language
Story is Complete
Rating: PG
Reviews: 12
Summary: He sets his bag down on the bed and lets himself, for just a minute, feel the most lost he’s ever felt in his entire life. -- The summer following the war, Harry learns how to live a normal life.
Revised 16 September 2009.
Hitcount: Story Total: 5414
Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work.
Author's Notes: Since the first sentence of this qualifies as a drabble, I feel it’s only fair that I warn for blatant abuse of parentheses and the word ‘and’ and my apparently inability to say anything in a straight-forward fashion. Also, I’ve not read a lot of post-DH fic, so I hope I’m not treading on anybody’s toes with the plot. For all I know, it’s a cliché, but it wouldn’t leave me alone until I got it down on the page, so to speak.
The title comes from “Light on a Hill” by Margot & the Nuclear So and So’s.
A note on canon: I’m a firm believer that canon does not include author interviews; if it’s not in the source material (in this case, the books), then I don’t believe it’s canon. Interviews are nice addition to the story, but the information given is not set in stone. As such, I’ve basically ignoring anything and everything JKR’s had to say about these characters and their lives after the war and inferred some things based on facts given in the epilogue. Everything else is from my imagination.
Story revised 16 September 2009 to fix mistakes with canon.
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After all is said and done and Harry’s been given a clean bill of health by Madam Pomfrey (who insists on examining him herself, despite the number of healers at Hogwarts from St. Mungo’s; after seven years of misfortunes, Harry is used to her and her brand of medicine and would have no one else touch him anyway), he surprises everyone who knows him by collecting his few remaining possessions (living on the run for a year had managed to whittle down his worldly possessions to a handful of items) and moving into the guestroom of Andromeda Tonks’s London home.
“You know you’re welcome at the Burrow, mate,” Ron tells him in front of the fire at the Three Broomsticks (which is the only active Floo point in all of Hogsmeade for the foreseeable future), but Harry can’t go back there, not now, maybe not ever (though he probably will at some point that he can’t even think about right now, a point when Fred’s death won’t be all he can think about whenever he sees red hair).
“I know,” is all that Harry can get out before he feels his voice starting to crack, with grief or anger or despair or any other the other million emotions he’s feeling right now, he isn’t certain which.
“It’s just,” Ron continues, not cottoning on to the fact that Harry doesn’t want to talk anymore, let alone about this, “Mum’s worried that you think you’re not welcome unless you’re invited, but you know you’re always welcome, right? You’re like family. I’m sure Mum likes you better than she likes me sometimes.”
And Harry does know he’s welcome. The Weasleys are the family he never had the opportunity to have and he loves them (even though he can’t bring himself to actually say the words out loud) more than anyone could possibly ever understand.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Hermione says and Harry jumps because he hadn’t heard her walk up (and wouldn’t Moody be ashamed of him if he’d managed to survive the war). Her hair’s been pulled back into a tight braid and she’s wearing someone’s borrowed jumper and she doesn’t even look like Hermione anymore that it takes him a second to connect her voice to her face. She slips into her new place next to Ron, her hands wrapped around his arm, and turns to face Harry. “There’s no changing your mind, is there?”
Harry shakes his head, his fists clenching at his sides when he sees how red and sunken Hermione’s eyes are compared to the rest of her too-pale face. “I have to go,” he says, not caring anymore that his voice is rough. “I can’t explain it because I don’t understand it myself, but I can’t--” He cuts himself off, not sure what he was going to say but knowing he can’t say it.
Hermione disentangles herself from Ron and Harry’s ready when she throws her arms around his neck and buries her face in his shoulder (but he’s not ready for how different it feels when her hair isn’t covering his face and getting in his mouth and up his nose with every breath he tries to take). He squeezes his eyes shut and hugs her just as tightly as she’s hugging him because he’s done with taking things for granted and that includes Hermione’s sometimes overwhelming displays of emotion, no matter how embarrassed they make him feel.
“You’ll write,” she says into his shirt and it’s not a question, but he nods anyway, not that she can see. “And we’ll see you on your birthday. And we’ll come visit you in London if you want, but you’ll have to let us know because we’re no better at reading your mind now than we’ve ever been.”
Harry nods again when Hermione finally lets go of him before Ron pulls him in a quick, back-slapping embrace. Ron’s face is red (and Harry is sure that his is, too, if the heat in his cheeks is any indication), but he doesn’t look overly embarrassed, so Harry tries to act normally.
“Tell your Mum thanks for me,” Harry says, glancing down at the small bag on the floor at his feet which contains a few changes of clothes (Neville had donated most of what Harry now calls his wardrobe) and a handful of books (including, but not limited to, Quidditch Through the Ages and Hogwarts: A History, all from the Hogwarts library). “She can plan my birthday, if it’ll make her feel any better.”
All three of them smile and for a moment, it almost feels like old times, before the war heated up, when they could still pretend to be children. But the moment doesn’t last long and Harry, suddenly unwilling to prolong this goodbye any longer, mutters, “So I’ll see you later, yeah?” before taking a pinch of Floo powder from the pot on the mantle and stepping into the fireplace.
The last things he sees before the green flames obscure his vision are Hermione’s bloodshot eyes locked onto his and then he’s spinning, whirling, careening out of control through the Floo network. After what feels like forever, he finds himself stumbling out of Andromeda’s fireplace and tripping over his own feet (feeling so much like Nymphadora Tonks that his chest starts to ache) and landing with his face pressed against the rough carpet covering the drawing room floor, his glasses cutting painfully into his cheeks.
There’s a burst of childish laughter and Harry realizes that Andromeda and Teddy must have been waiting for him and he feels his cheeks burn in embarrassment; he’s fought against Death Eaters, survived Hagrid’s classes, and defeated the Dark Lord, but still manages to fall on his face while exiting the Floo. He summons his Gryffindor courage and turns his head slightly, the embroidered hem of violet robes coming into view.
“Hello, Harry,” Andromeda says as Harry rallies and pushes himself to his feet. He’s never spent any real amount of time around her and her resemblance to her sister still makes his heart jump in his chest before his brain catches up with his eyes and he remembers that this is the Black sister who didn’t follow the family line and that he’s safe here. She’s got Teddy (who’s hair is currently the same shade of violet as Andromeda’s robes) propped on her right hip; she reaches for Harry with her left hand, pulling him into a sort of half-hug. Teddy yanks at Harry’s shirt before he’s pulled away by his grandmother.
Oh, God, Harry thinks, his eyes locking on the infant in front of him (who’s part of the reason Harry decided to come stay with Andromeda instead of sucking it up and staying at the Burrow). It’s the first time he’s seen the boy in person. He’s got Remus’s nose and Tonks’s ears and that’s just an unfortunate bit of genetics, that is. This is my godson. Oh, God.
Andromeda’s hand is grasping Harry’s forearm, gently tugging him forward and that’s when he realizes that she’s walking and trying to get him to follow and he’s certain he’s never been as inattentive before in his entire life as he’s been today. “I thought you’d like to settle in before lunch,” Andromeda says, steering Harry out of the drawing room and towards the stairs set against the wall in the hall. “If you’re feeling up to it, we can go into town tomorrow and get you some things, clothes and the like. There are some basics in the bathroom,” and here she lets go of him to gesture to the first door on the left, “but I didn’t want to presume on some things.”
“Tomorrow would be great,” Harry says just to say something. He gets the feeling, though, that Andromeda’s not expecting him to be chatty and is speaking more to fill the silence than to hold an actual conversation (which is something her daughter used to do, making it easier for Harry to see her as Tonks’s mother, besides the obvious physical similarities). “If you don’t mind going into Muggle London, that is. I’m not sure I’m ready to face Diagon Alley yet.” He pauses as he thinks about his old wand, seemingly perfectly repaired by the Elder Wand (which is back in its rightful place in Dumbledore’s tomb), which he hasn’t used to perform even the simplest Wingardium Leviosa since it was repaired. He’s not sure he trusts it anymore, at least not until he gets a professional opinion on the matter. “I will need to get to Ollivander’s soon, though. I’d like him to look at my wand.”
Andromeda nods as she pushes open a door at the end of the hall and gestures Harry through. He’s glancing about his new room (bed, chest of drawers, wardrobe, small writing desk and chair, and two windows set in adjoining walls) when Andromeda says, “I’m not certain Ollivander’s is open quite yet, but I’ll send him an owl and see if he can get you in early. Avoid the crowds and all that.”
Harry’s grateful for Andromeda’s thoughtfulness, but he doesn’t know how to express that gratitude. His friends have always known (at least he hopes they know; he couldn’t stand it if everyone thought he was an ungrateful bastard) and he doesn’t have any practice saying ‘thank you’ except in a shallow, perfunctory way. Very, very rarely has he said it and actually meant it.
But he has to try, so he says, “Thank you,” and tries to meet Andromeda’s eyes, but she’s looking out the window, a slightly vacant look on her face, bouncing Teddy on her hip, who is gumming madly on his fist. Andromeda nods.
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” she says, turning towards the door, still not meeting Harry’s eyes, and he wishes he knew why she won’t look at him since it would make future interactions with her more pleasant and easier to understand. “There’ll be lunch waiting when you’re ready.”
And then she’s gone and Harry’s alone in his new generic bedroom, missing the Gryffindor pendants he used to keep up at the Dursleys’s (more as an act of defiance than out of any House pride), the smell of Hedwig’s cage when he left the cleaning of it off for too long, even the dust and decay of Grimmauld Place.
He sets his bag down on the bed and lets himself, for just a minute, feel the most lost he’s ever felt in his entire life.
* * *
Dear Ginny,
Please don’t burn this letter before you read it. I know you must hate me. I just want to say I’m sorry. For everything. I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you enough to tell you what I was doing this past year, though I’d like to share the blame with Dumbledore since he’s the one who ordered me not to tell. I’m sorry you’ve had to suffer so much because of the war.
I hope someday you can forgive me and that we can still be friends when that day comes.
-Harry
What Harry didn’t write (what he wanted to write but thought would only make Ginny angrier at him than she already was) was: I miss how you were always able to make me feel ridiculous about being so angry. I miss how you could always make me smile even when that was the last thing I wanted to do. I just plain miss you. Please forgive me.
* * *
Harry’s never been around an infant before, so living in the same house as Teddy takes some getting used to. For the most part, Teddy seems to be an agreeable baby and really only fusses when he’s hungry or needs his nappy changed or if he thinks he’s being ignored. He very rarely gets up in the night and even then, Andromeda’s the one who takes care of the midnight fussing. Harry’s beginning to think that he can help take care of an infant with no problem.
And then Teddy gets colic.
“Doesn’t he ever stop crying?” Ron asks on his and Hermione’s first visit to London that summer, a few weeks after their goodbye in Hogsmeade. Harry’s pacing back and forth in the kitchen, bouncing slightly, trying to calm Teddy. Andromeda’s upstairs with a silencing charm placed around her bedroom, trying to make up for all the extra sleep she’s lost lately. Hermione is fixing tea.
“Not very often,” Harry answers, giving Teddy his finger to chew on, which hurts a bit more than Harry would have expected, seeing as Teddy’s got no teeth (but it doesn’t hurt as much as most of Harry’s Quidditch injuries or being tortured, so he ignores the little bit of pain for the most part). Teddy’s hair slowly fades from the same shade of red as his flushed face to black as he calms down.
“You’re very good with him,” Hermione says and then gasps as she turns and sees Harry holding the baby, her eyes going wide. She’s silent for a long moment while Harry and Ron (and Teddy) stare at her in confusion. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Teddy looks a lot like you right now,” she finally says, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “You reminded me of one of your photos of your dad holding you when you were a baby.”
Harry’s not surprised. Andromeda’s remarked on the similarity before and all Harry can think is that the baby’s been morphing to look like Harry, bit by bit, and it makes Harry sad. Remus’s nose has been replaced, for the most part, with the nose Harry inherited from his father. When Teddy’s calm, his hair tends to stray to black more often than not, darker than Andromeda’s but not quite as dark as Harry’s. Harry doesn’t want the baby to look like him. He wants the baby to look like Remus and Tonks and Andromeda and Sirius and his actual family, not an interloper like Harry.
But he can’t say that, so he simply says, “I know,” and steps around Hermione to make Teddy a bottle.
* * *
Dear Neville,
That’s great news, mate! You’ve always been an ace at Herbology, so it’s really no surprise, but I’m still happy for you. Are you thinking about teaching, then, when your internship’s over? From what I’ve heard, I think you’d be great at it. You’ll have to let me know how it all goes.
I’m still trying to decide what I’m going to do. For now, Teddy’s keeping me busy and Andromeda’s not exactly letting me just lounge around the house, ha ha. But I’m enjoying it, and I guess that’s all that really matters, right?
In case Mrs. Weasley forgets, I just wanted to let you know that you’re expected to be at the Burrow for my birthday. And yours, too, if you want. Wouldn’t it be great to have a joint party? Just let Mrs. Weasley know if you’re interested.
At any rate, I’ve got to go. Andromeda’s insisting it’s time to teach me how to make her ‘famous’ spaghetti sauce. Have a good rest of the summer and I’ll see you at the end of the month.
Your Friend,
Harry
* * *
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