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create_serenityTitle: Memories
Author: Katherine![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
create_serenity
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: If you're old enough to use LJ you're old enough to read this!
Warnings: EWE?
Beta: The wonderfulcandy_marie_55
Disclaimer: Owned by JK Rowling. Sadly I didn't invent Harry Potter and can therefore only borrow him and his world for brief periods of time.
Summary: Every year people remember the war and everything that was sacrificed. Can something good come out of it?
Author's notes: Set after the seventh book but ignores the epilogue. A short story that came to me after reading a line in a fic ages ago and just begged to be written. I've finally got round to posting it!
Memories
The Muggles of Godric’s Hollow had got used to seeing the flowers and tributes laid around the war memorial at such an odd time of year. No one ever saw anyone laying them, but somehow overnight hundreds of bouquets and wreaths and notes would appear. The Muggles met with each other and talked over it. No one could think why the tributes were laid, no one knew of any particular battle or event that might suddenly need to be commemorated. All they knew was that on this day, every year, in their tiny village, a forgotten war memorial suddenly became the focus of an outpouring of love and remembrance.
There was something else as well that happened without fail on this day. At around eleven o’clock a young bespectacled man with black hair would come slowly up the road towards the square. He would stand and gaze at the memorial, seemingly transfixed, and sometimes his eyes would fill with tears, and sometimes he would read some of the messages left around the base of the monument. Mostly though he would just look, as if remembering some painful and distant memory. Always by twelve o’clock he would be gone. He would walk back up the lane and stop briefly to lean on the gate of that abandoned, ruined cottage that seemed to have no owner, and then he would be gone. No one knew who he was and no one saw him at any other time of the year.
Perhaps it would be more strictly true to say no Muggle knew who he was. The wizards and witches who lived in the village knew who he was and knew his story and left him alone on this day out of respect. Why the Muggles left him alone, not even they knew. Why no one ever went to read the messages they were all so curious about they never could work out. And why anyone who attempted to stay up and observe the tributes being left never saw anything was a source of constant confusion.
There was always another visitor to the monument on this day. He came at one o’clock every year, his platinum blonde hair shining in the summer sun as he made his way up the lane. He would walk, always, with his head bent, only looking up when he finally stood at the base of the memorial. He would stand and look for a few minutes, then withdraw something from his pocket and tuck it in among the tributes, making sure it was mostly concealed. Having done that he would straighten and walk away without a backwards glance. What he left behind no one ever knew, for the Muggles could not look, and the witches and wizards, who knew perfectly well who this man was, would not look.
The Muggles got used to this odd sequence of events and many even found themselves looking forward to the day. Perhaps this would be the year things would be explained. Perhaps this year they would see someone other than the blonde man laying a tribute. Perhaps this year something interesting would happen.
And five years after the whole thing had started something did.
It had started normally enough. The residents of Godric’s Hollow had awoken to find the base of the monument covered with its usual array of flowers, and only the witches and wizards of the village did not wonder once again what anniversary was being marked. They were, however, just as surprised as the Muggles when 11 o’clock came and went and the black-haired man had not appeared.
Later they learnt that in fact the man had spent the morning at St Mungo’s. His best friend had been rushed into the hospital in the early hours of the morning having gone into an extremely premature and difficult labour that had the medi-witches and wizards fearing both for her own life and the life of her unborn child. Not until midday were they able to say that both mother and baby had pulled through and were out of danger. The Muggles, though, never learnt why he was delayed.
So it was that at half past twelve the man finally made his way towards the memorial. Today though he did not look as melancholy as he had on previous visits. Today there was a lightness to his step and a sparkle in his green eyes that had not been seen before. His relief at his best friend’s recovery and happiness at his Goddaughter’s safe arrival in the world was the reason, though of course, no one watching him was at all aware of these events.
The man was busily engaged in reading some of the notes left on the memorial, crouched down and mostly hidden from view, when the blonde man appeared in the square. He, as usual, walked with his head down and consequently was almost on top of the black-haired man before he was aware of his presence.
He gasped, and stepped back, but that small sound was enough to alert the first man to his presence. He straightened and looked round. The Muggles who always watched at a respectable distance, pretending to be busily engaged in some other task, heard nothing of the conversation between the two men, no matter how much they strained.
Eventually, after some minutes of tension, the two men appeared to relax. By the end of half an hour they were both smiling softly and standing side-by-side, so close they were touching, gazing up at the memorial as they continued their quiet conversation.
Eventually the black-haired man turned to leave. As he stepped off the base of the memorial he suddenly hesitated and turned back to the blonde man. Slowly the onlookers saw him raise his hand, and equally slowly, with a look of hope in his eyes that was visible even at a distance, the blonde man took it. Then hand in hand they left the village, leaving behind them only whispers and rumours and speculation.
--------
Many, many years later there was only one person left living in the village who had witnessed that day all those years before. She was an old Muggle called Matilda and had been only five years old when the two men had left the village together. Every year since then she had watched as the black-haired man had come down the lane to the memorial and carried out his usual ritual of standing and gazing, occasionally bending to read one of the many cards covering the base of the monument. Although she had never spoken to the man, she still felt a strange sense of connection with him, like he was an old, long-lost friend. She had watched as every year he had grown older, and she had grown older still – time seemed to be being kinder to the man than it was to her. Once he had left she would continue watching and waiting in her cottage overlooking the square, but never had she seen the blonde man again.
This year, as usual, her daughter had settled her down in her favourite chair so she could gaze out the window and watch for the man coming down the lane. Of course in recent years his steps had become slower and unsteadier, and he hadn’t spent as long standing as he had previously, but Matilda understood that. Her old legs didn’t work as well as they used to either.
Slowly the figure came into view down the lane and she watched it coming nearer, moving slower than she had ever seen it move before. It seemed almost as if the figure was reluctant to reach its destination this year, something she had never sensed before. It was not until the figure was right underneath the memorial that her old eyes realised that this was not the man she had been looking out for.
Even though it had been years since she had seen him, even though his hair was now white with age, she still recognised that this was the blonde-haired man who had left and never come back over a century ago. She leaned forward, her old, arthritic fingers digging suddenly into the arms of her chair. The man was now gazing up at the monument, tears running unchecked down his cheeks as he stepped forward and tucked something in among the wreaths already piled on the stone base.
A weight fell into the pit of her stomach, as realisation rushed through her like a wave. She was on her feet and hobbling to the door, leaning hard on her stick, before her thoughts had fully caught up with exactly what this realisation meant. Her daughter had heard the sound of movement and come out of the kitchen drying her hands on her apron. Matilda insisted that she put on her coat and accompany her outside to the memorial.
Although she leaned heavily on both her daughter and her stick, Matilda slowly managed to make her way across the square. The man never looked round, so intent was he on gazing upwards, his eyes filled with tears that constantly over-flowed and tricked down his cheeks. Only when she dropped her daughter’s arm and tottered the last few paces to the man did he seem to notice her and turn round.
“I’m sorry,” her voice was old and barely more than a whisper, but she knew the man caught the words because his eyes flickered in acknowledgment. Slowly she reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder, her fingers gripping tightly as she fought back her own tears. She wanted to cry for herself, for a man she had never known and for this man here now, who seemed to have lost so much.
Instead she blinked back the tears and not wanting to intrude further on the man’s grief, took one last glance up at the memorial and turned to go. It was as she glanced upwards that she suddenly got the impression that the monument was actually a statue, made of gold, depicting two people, one cradling a baby in her arms. She blinked and the moment was gone.
“Thank you.” She was a good few feet away now, but the man’s voice carried – tired, weary, grief-stricken – across the silence of the square. She reached her daughter and turned back one last time. Their eyes met and for a moment a flicker of understanding passed between them. Then the man turned away and the woman allowed her daughter to take her gently back to the cottage.
Eventually the man shuffled off back down the lane, his pace suggesting he was as reluctant to leave as he had been to arrive. When he had disappeared completely a gentle breeze blew through the now silent and empty square, rustling the leaves and flowers at the base of the memorial. It stirred them just enough to reveal the message written on the card the man had left.
Thank you.
Author: Katherine
create_serenityPairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: If you're old enough to use LJ you're old enough to read this!
Warnings: EWE?
Beta: The wonderful
candy_marie_55Disclaimer: Owned by JK Rowling. Sadly I didn't invent Harry Potter and can therefore only borrow him and his world for brief periods of time.
Summary: Every year people remember the war and everything that was sacrificed. Can something good come out of it?
Author's notes: Set after the seventh book but ignores the epilogue. A short story that came to me after reading a line in a fic ages ago and just begged to be written. I've finally got round to posting it!
Memories
The Muggles of Godric’s Hollow had got used to seeing the flowers and tributes laid around the war memorial at such an odd time of year. No one ever saw anyone laying them, but somehow overnight hundreds of bouquets and wreaths and notes would appear. The Muggles met with each other and talked over it. No one could think why the tributes were laid, no one knew of any particular battle or event that might suddenly need to be commemorated. All they knew was that on this day, every year, in their tiny village, a forgotten war memorial suddenly became the focus of an outpouring of love and remembrance.
There was something else as well that happened without fail on this day. At around eleven o’clock a young bespectacled man with black hair would come slowly up the road towards the square. He would stand and gaze at the memorial, seemingly transfixed, and sometimes his eyes would fill with tears, and sometimes he would read some of the messages left around the base of the monument. Mostly though he would just look, as if remembering some painful and distant memory. Always by twelve o’clock he would be gone. He would walk back up the lane and stop briefly to lean on the gate of that abandoned, ruined cottage that seemed to have no owner, and then he would be gone. No one knew who he was and no one saw him at any other time of the year.
Perhaps it would be more strictly true to say no Muggle knew who he was. The wizards and witches who lived in the village knew who he was and knew his story and left him alone on this day out of respect. Why the Muggles left him alone, not even they knew. Why no one ever went to read the messages they were all so curious about they never could work out. And why anyone who attempted to stay up and observe the tributes being left never saw anything was a source of constant confusion.
There was always another visitor to the monument on this day. He came at one o’clock every year, his platinum blonde hair shining in the summer sun as he made his way up the lane. He would walk, always, with his head bent, only looking up when he finally stood at the base of the memorial. He would stand and look for a few minutes, then withdraw something from his pocket and tuck it in among the tributes, making sure it was mostly concealed. Having done that he would straighten and walk away without a backwards glance. What he left behind no one ever knew, for the Muggles could not look, and the witches and wizards, who knew perfectly well who this man was, would not look.
The Muggles got used to this odd sequence of events and many even found themselves looking forward to the day. Perhaps this would be the year things would be explained. Perhaps this year they would see someone other than the blonde man laying a tribute. Perhaps this year something interesting would happen.
And five years after the whole thing had started something did.
It had started normally enough. The residents of Godric’s Hollow had awoken to find the base of the monument covered with its usual array of flowers, and only the witches and wizards of the village did not wonder once again what anniversary was being marked. They were, however, just as surprised as the Muggles when 11 o’clock came and went and the black-haired man had not appeared.
Later they learnt that in fact the man had spent the morning at St Mungo’s. His best friend had been rushed into the hospital in the early hours of the morning having gone into an extremely premature and difficult labour that had the medi-witches and wizards fearing both for her own life and the life of her unborn child. Not until midday were they able to say that both mother and baby had pulled through and were out of danger. The Muggles, though, never learnt why he was delayed.
So it was that at half past twelve the man finally made his way towards the memorial. Today though he did not look as melancholy as he had on previous visits. Today there was a lightness to his step and a sparkle in his green eyes that had not been seen before. His relief at his best friend’s recovery and happiness at his Goddaughter’s safe arrival in the world was the reason, though of course, no one watching him was at all aware of these events.
The man was busily engaged in reading some of the notes left on the memorial, crouched down and mostly hidden from view, when the blonde man appeared in the square. He, as usual, walked with his head down and consequently was almost on top of the black-haired man before he was aware of his presence.
He gasped, and stepped back, but that small sound was enough to alert the first man to his presence. He straightened and looked round. The Muggles who always watched at a respectable distance, pretending to be busily engaged in some other task, heard nothing of the conversation between the two men, no matter how much they strained.
Eventually, after some minutes of tension, the two men appeared to relax. By the end of half an hour they were both smiling softly and standing side-by-side, so close they were touching, gazing up at the memorial as they continued their quiet conversation.
Eventually the black-haired man turned to leave. As he stepped off the base of the memorial he suddenly hesitated and turned back to the blonde man. Slowly the onlookers saw him raise his hand, and equally slowly, with a look of hope in his eyes that was visible even at a distance, the blonde man took it. Then hand in hand they left the village, leaving behind them only whispers and rumours and speculation.
--------
Many, many years later there was only one person left living in the village who had witnessed that day all those years before. She was an old Muggle called Matilda and had been only five years old when the two men had left the village together. Every year since then she had watched as the black-haired man had come down the lane to the memorial and carried out his usual ritual of standing and gazing, occasionally bending to read one of the many cards covering the base of the monument. Although she had never spoken to the man, she still felt a strange sense of connection with him, like he was an old, long-lost friend. She had watched as every year he had grown older, and she had grown older still – time seemed to be being kinder to the man than it was to her. Once he had left she would continue watching and waiting in her cottage overlooking the square, but never had she seen the blonde man again.
This year, as usual, her daughter had settled her down in her favourite chair so she could gaze out the window and watch for the man coming down the lane. Of course in recent years his steps had become slower and unsteadier, and he hadn’t spent as long standing as he had previously, but Matilda understood that. Her old legs didn’t work as well as they used to either.
Slowly the figure came into view down the lane and she watched it coming nearer, moving slower than she had ever seen it move before. It seemed almost as if the figure was reluctant to reach its destination this year, something she had never sensed before. It was not until the figure was right underneath the memorial that her old eyes realised that this was not the man she had been looking out for.
Even though it had been years since she had seen him, even though his hair was now white with age, she still recognised that this was the blonde-haired man who had left and never come back over a century ago. She leaned forward, her old, arthritic fingers digging suddenly into the arms of her chair. The man was now gazing up at the monument, tears running unchecked down his cheeks as he stepped forward and tucked something in among the wreaths already piled on the stone base.
A weight fell into the pit of her stomach, as realisation rushed through her like a wave. She was on her feet and hobbling to the door, leaning hard on her stick, before her thoughts had fully caught up with exactly what this realisation meant. Her daughter had heard the sound of movement and come out of the kitchen drying her hands on her apron. Matilda insisted that she put on her coat and accompany her outside to the memorial.
Although she leaned heavily on both her daughter and her stick, Matilda slowly managed to make her way across the square. The man never looked round, so intent was he on gazing upwards, his eyes filled with tears that constantly over-flowed and tricked down his cheeks. Only when she dropped her daughter’s arm and tottered the last few paces to the man did he seem to notice her and turn round.
“I’m sorry,” her voice was old and barely more than a whisper, but she knew the man caught the words because his eyes flickered in acknowledgment. Slowly she reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder, her fingers gripping tightly as she fought back her own tears. She wanted to cry for herself, for a man she had never known and for this man here now, who seemed to have lost so much.
Instead she blinked back the tears and not wanting to intrude further on the man’s grief, took one last glance up at the memorial and turned to go. It was as she glanced upwards that she suddenly got the impression that the monument was actually a statue, made of gold, depicting two people, one cradling a baby in her arms. She blinked and the moment was gone.
“Thank you.” She was a good few feet away now, but the man’s voice carried – tired, weary, grief-stricken – across the silence of the square. She reached her daughter and turned back one last time. Their eyes met and for a moment a flicker of understanding passed between them. Then the man turned away and the woman allowed her daughter to take her gently back to the cottage.
Eventually the man shuffled off back down the lane, his pace suggesting he was as reluctant to leave as he had been to arrive. When he had disappeared completely a gentle breeze blew through the now silent and empty square, rustling the leaves and flowers at the base of the memorial. It stirred them just enough to reveal the message written on the card the man had left.
Thank you.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-03-25 12:43 am (UTC)Yay! I'm so happy before going to bed! now I'll dream about what happened during all those years! :D (and of course make Harry have a horcrux so he can't be dead :P... no?)
no subject
Date: 2008-05-01 05:12 pm (UTC)