The End of All Things

Chapter Three: Wise and Otherwise

“See you,” said Ron brightly to the Dursleys. He grinned broadly at Harry, then stepped into the fire, shouted “the Burrow!” and disappeared.

Now Harry and Mr. Weasley alone remained.

“Well . . . `bye then,” Harry said to the Dursleys.

They didn't say anything at all. Harry moved toward the fire, but just as he reached the edge of the hearth, Mr. Weasley put out a hand and held him back. He was looking at the Dursleys in amazement.

“Harry said good-bye to you,” he said. “Didn't you hear him?”

“It doesn't matter,” Harry muttered to Mr. Weasley. “Honestly, I don't care.”

Mr. Weasley did not remove his hand from Harry's shoulder.

“You aren't going to see your nephew till next summer,” he said to Uncle Vernon in mild indignation. “Surely you're going to say good-bye?”

Uncle Vernon's face worked furiously. The idea of being taught consideration by a man who had just blasted away half his living room wall seemed to be causing him intense suffering. But Mr. Weasley's wand was still in his hand, and Uncle Vernon's tiny eyes darted to it once, before he said, very resentfully, “Good-bye, then.”

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, “Back to the Burrow,” first paperback edition, American edition, page 48.

....

“Well,” said Mrs. Weasley, breathing deeply and looking around the table for support that did not come, “well...I can see I'm going to be overruled. I'll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has got Harry's best interests at heart-“

“He's not your son,” said Sirius quietly.

“He's as good as,” said Mrs. Weasley fiercely. “Who else has he got?”

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, “The Order of the Phoenix,” first paperback edition, American edition, page 90.

Harry paced upstairs in the room he and Ron shared. Anger, righteous and otherwise coursed through him, pounding in his head until he no longer noticed his surroundings.

This explained everything, but Harry took no comfort in the knowledge that his actions of the previous year had been the result of a love potion.

Memory after memory flashed through his brain, leaving him with mixed feelings of rage, sorrow, and embarrassment. It seemed that a majority of the problems last year had been a result of the potion. Everything from Ron and Hermione's theater--worthy spectacles, to the raging beast that had been born inside his chest, all had been a result of the potion.

He felt sickened as his thoughts landed on Hermione. Why hadn't he realized how much she had changed? She had snapped at him more in the last year than she had in the previous five combined. Belittling him and being downright nasty in many cases, treating him as an annoyance at best, and, at worst, as a hated enemy. Why hadn't he noticed how much they were hurting each other?

Ginny had hit the nail on the head when she apologized. “…you were the best of friends…”

Were.

The past tense froze him in his tracks.

If Hermione's behavior could be attributed to the love potion, surely that meant she was still his friend? He compared her behavior of last term and beyond with how things had been between them when he had arrived at the Burrow recently. There was no comparison. She had asked his opinion on her new hairstyle, been among the first to greet him at the door, smiled at him when she caught his eye over the table at all the meals since…

She had been…herself. Freed from the potion, she had been Hermione again.

The sickened feeling turned abruptly to sorrow and regret. If he hadn't been so busy mooning after Ginny, he might have been more concerned over her behavior. But, while he had noticed, he hadn't cared…

Sorrow quickly turned to guilt. Whatever Hermione's behavior or the reasons behind it, he had also behaved just as badly toward her, by doing nothing.

“Indifference and neglect often do more damage than outright dislike.”

Dumbledore's words made more sense now, but at how great a cost…

Harry prayed to whatever powers were listening, that the damage done would not prove to be irreversible.

Arthur Weasley slowly ascended the rickety stairs to the top floor of the burrow. His pace was much slower than his wife's; he could already hear Molly saying something gently to Ginny through her closed door.

He had no idea what to say to Harry. That he should say something was certain, but he had no idea what. It wasn't as if he could go in and talk to the boy like he would to one of his sons.

Could he?

Arthur paused as this thought occurred.

Had anyone ever done that for Harry? Sat down and talked with him, as a father to a son? Probably not, he reflected, recalling his brief visit to Privet Drive three years before when he and his sons had gone to get Harry for the Quidditch World Cup. Would Harry appreciate Arthur trying to fill that role, especially in these circumstances, at this time in his life?

Arthur decided it was worth a try. He had done his best to treat Harry more or less as one of his own sons, as a member of the family. He wasn't going to stop now, just because of the delicacy of the situation.

He only hoped it wouldn't drive Harry farther away.

A sound behind him caused Harry to whirl around.

Arthur Weasley stood in the doorway. He looked saddened, and a little awkward.

“Harry, I feel I should apologize on behalf of my daughter…”

Harry cut him off.

“No need, Mr. Weasley. Ginny has already apologized, it seems.” He wished his voice sounded less bitter as he said that last.

Mr. Weasley sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

“Let me say then that I am just as ashamed of her actions as if I had been the one to use the potions on her behalf. I've tried to treat you well, and Molly has too, I'm sure you know. And it seems we can only repay you with trouble.”

Harry's mouth fell open in shock.

“No…Mr. Weasley, you can't…You don't think I blame you for this, do you?”

Arthur continued. “I hope that you realize this doesn't change the fact that we still care about you. I know things are probably going to be pretty tense around here for a while. Ginny for one will probably be too embarrassed to speak to you for some time. I know you have every right to blame Molly and me for not keeping a closer watch on Ginny's activities, to blame Ginny herself for doing this to you, even blame Fred and George for creating the potions and supplying them, albeit unwittingly, to their sister.

“Heaven knows you probably have plenty to blame Ron for, love potions aside…” He sighed then, and looked directly into Harry's eyes. “However, the fact remains that we owe you so much, Harry. In many cases our lives. You rescued Ginny from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself. You saved my life when no one else could have possibly done it. It is because of you that Ron is still alive, after swallowing enough poison to kill a hippogriff. It is because of you that the only girl born into the Weasley family in decades is even around to cause trouble. I've never properly thanked you for that, by the way. Even Fred and George's success, and as a result, our family's newfound wealth, is because of you.

“Fred and George told us what you did Harry,” he said, before Harry could protest. “If it hadn't been for you, their business would never have gotten off the ground as well as it has, or perhaps even at all.”

He sighed again, and looked at the floor.

“Again, Harry, you have every right to blame us for many things that have come about as a result of our knowing you. If you decide to leave, no one in this house will try to stop you. However, know that if you ever decide to return, we'll, as they say, keep a candle in the window for you. But I think you should at least stay for the wedding.”

He turned to leave.

Before Arthur could escape, Harry's voice stopped him.

“You just said it, Mr. Weasley. You've tried to treat me well, you've treated me like your own family, which is more than my relations have ever done, and I…you…I'm on your clock…” he said, just as disbelievingly as he had when he had first noticed the addition.

“Mr. Weasley, you and your family are the only ones in the world I consider my true family. You're certainly more my family than the Dursleys. And if you think some misguided use of a love potion is going to change that…”

It was Arthur's turn to be shocked as Harry stepped forward and grasped him in a hug. Arthur returned the embrace, shocked at the emotions he could literally feel emanating from the young man in his arms.

Harry clung to Arthur, not so much in love or affection as in starveling trust. Trust borne of a loneliness that had at long last been relieved by him and his family; loneliness that had ruled the larger part of Harry's life to date.

Arthur in his turn felt humbled, and very much moved. For the first time, Arthur Weasley understood.

He understood why Molly's mother radar went off like crazy whenever Harry was around. Harry had never been mothered in his life.

He understood why even Ron, perhaps the dimmest of his sons, treated Harry like a brother, almost fiercely. Harry had never had anyone he could call his brother before he met Ron, least of all his cousin, Dudley.

He understood why Ginny wanted so desperately to love him. Harry had rarely felt love, and since Ginny was so like her mother, but unable to give Harry motherly love, she had tried to love Harry in her own way; not as a mother, like Molly could, but as a girlfriend.

As Arthur's arms tightened around him, Harry's mind flashed briefly to the Hospital Wing after the third task, to the time when Molly had embraced him, as he lay on the bed overcome by misery, trying desperately not to cry. It was the first time he could remember being hugged by a mother. It may not have been by his birth mother, but it made no difference just then.

Just as it made no difference now that Harry was finally receiving his first hug from a father.

That the Weasleys were not his parents made no difference, just now. Just as it had never made any difference to the Weasleys that Harry was not their son. It didn't change the fact that they were all family.

Harry smiled as he stood there with his head on Arthur's shoulder, safe and secure in his embrace.

Ginny lay with her head on her mother's lap. Molly was stroking her hair, just as she had done when Ginny was a little girl. Ginny had finally reached the stage where she was too drained to cry loudly. She made little hiccupping sobs as her mother brushed her hair away from her face.

“You know, Ginny, I once liked a boy enough to want to use a love potion on him, too.” Mrs. Weasley said gently.

Ginny sat up slowly. “You did?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Who was the boy?”

Mrs. Weasley sighed. “His name was Arthur Weasley.”

Ginny gasped. “You mean you and Dad are…”

“Oh, no!” Molly said quickly. “Don't worry dear, our love is legitimate. I never used the potion.”

“You didn't?”

“No, I didn't”

“What made you change your mind?”

Ginny's tears were forgotten as her mother told her story.

“It was in our fourth year. I was running down to the greenhouses when I tripped over a boy. He had dropped his glasses on the grass and couldn't see well enough to find them. I picked them up for him, and he thanked me. He was walking away when I realized he had red hair, just like mine.

My surname was Prewitt, then. My elder brothers, Gideon and Fabian, had both left Hogwarts by then. Maybe something about Arthur reminded me of my brothers, perhaps because of their hair, but I felt a connection with him.

“I began purposefully looking out for him. After a while, I found myself wondering why I hadn't noticed him before. He was in most of my classes, since we were both in Gryffindor, and I felt a little silly for not realizing how smart he was.

“I'm embarrassed to admit that my not noticing him probably had something to do with our social groups. I was fairly popular, because of my brothers, and Arthur was…well…I suppose you could have called him a nerd, back then.”

At Ginny's giggle, Molly said quickly, “I don't mean that he was smarter than everyone else, just that his habits were a little, um, odd. Apparently he kept his trunk half full of Muggle things, and he sometimes got in trouble if they went haywire. He was top in the Muggle Studies class, and his friends called him “Muggle-man” because of this. He laughed it off when they told him he should go join the Muggles since he was so fond of them.

“As time passed I couldn't help but notice how cute he was. By the time we entered our fifth year, I had a painful crush for him. Being a witch, my first thought was a love potion. I had brewed it up and was on my way to dinner to slip it into his pumpkin juice when a thought crossed my mind. I thought, “Why should I have to use a love potion? Why shouldn't Arthur love me just as I am? And if he doesn't, then he's just not the one for me.” I poured the potion down the toilet, and then went to the Great Hall. I sat right down next to your father, and re-introduced myself, reminding him of when I'd found his glasses for him. By the end of the meal, we were firm friends.

“By Christmas that year, I knew for a fact that if I became Arthur's girlfriend, there wasn't a thing about him that I wasn't sure I could put up with, even his Muggle obsession. I sent him an anonymous Christmas present that year. A book I'd ordered called, “How in the World?” It was all about how Muggle things worked, and I read a bit of it myself before I wrapped it up. Your father still has that book.”

She sighed in memory. “I put a note with that book. Come to the trophy room at midnight on Christmas Night. Hopelessly yours and hoping you are mine, too. Your Secret Admirer.”

Torn between sighing and the reflexive urge to vomit that all children feel whenever they are reminded that their parents once were—and are—in love, Ginny asked, “What happened?”

Mrs. Weasley smiled as she remembered.

Molly hid herself to one side of the trophy case, awaiting Arthur.

She heard the door open, and his voice say “Hello?” high pitched and nervous, as if afraid that whoever was waiting for him would try and jump out at him any moment.

Before Molly could answer, he said quickly, “Look, I appreciate the book, and I'm flattered that you think so much of me, but I'm in love with someone else.”

Molly felt her heart drop into her shoes, only to soar to the ceiling at his next words.

“You see, there's this red-headed girl, she helped me find my glasses once, and she's my friend now, and she's so pretty and I absolutely love the way her name sounds, Molly…”

Suddenly realizing what he'd said, he added quickly, in slight panic, it sounded like, “oh please don't tell anyone though. She can't find out, she's so nice she'd feel guilty…”

Whatever he had been going to say next was cut off as Molly jumped out from behind the trophy case and put her hands over his eyes from behind. Before she could react, she giggled and said, “Guess who, handsome.”

“Molly?” His voice was disbelieving.

“Who else thinks you're the greatest thing since sliced bread?” she giggled again.

He turned to face her, lost for words as a goofy grin started spreading across his face. He lifted his finger to his nose and pushed his glasses back up to where they had been before Molly had ambushed him.

“Well, are you just going to stand there?” she asked, a blush creeping across her face.

“…your father got caught and punished by caretaker Pringle on the way back to bed. He told me to `run for it, I'll hold him off!' ” she laughed as she remembered Arthur's attempt at heroism. A heroic attempt that she had, perhaps oddly, found terribly romantic, in a clichéd sort of way…an attempt that resulted in marks on Arthur's body that she hadn't seen until they were married.

Ginny sighed as her mother's tale ended. What must it be like, to hear a boy confess his love for you to someone else, slip of the tongue or no? Would she ever find that?

“You know dear, after your father and I had been dating for a while, I admitted that I had considered using a love potion on him, and he admitted that he had entertained using the same method to get me to notice him.”

“Why didn't he?”

Molly smiled. “For the same reason I didn't. He said that if he needed a potion to get me to notice him, then that was a sure sign that it wasn't meant to be. If love is created falsely, it can never be anything but false. That's not what you want, dear, is it?”

Ginny sighed tearfully. “I'm beginning to wish Harry wasn't so wonderful.”

Molly clucked sympathetically. “I think you should be grateful he is. Because then he has a chance of finding, with another young woman, what you wish you could give him yourself. Don't you want that for him?”

“Yes.” Ginny said immediately. Then, quieter, “I just wish it was me, that's all.”

Molly said nothing. She understood.

Ginny looked at her mother again, trying not to sound too hopeful. “Do you think Harry will forgive me? Will he still be my friend, after this?”

“I think he will, if he's half as wonderful as you know him to be. His honor may be offended, and he may need some time to get over the embarrassment of the situation, but I think he will forgive you. I wouldn't be surprised if a small part of him isn't flattered that you wanted him so badly, even if you went about trying to get him the wrong way. I wouldn't worry about it too much, dear.”

“He's….well he's perfect is what he is.” Ginny tried to laugh, but the laugh was strangled as she continued,

“He's just not perfect…for me.”

Ginny nodded, as if in confirmation of her own words, then she started crying again.

Molly pulled her daughter close and held her. Even with logic and common sense, some things just needed to be cried over before healing could begin.

Arthur had steered Harry into the kitchen. Tempted briefly to give the boy Firewhiskey, he settled on butterbeer, warm from the heat of the oven.

He set the bottle on the table in front of Harry. Harry looked up and smiled his thanks halfheartedly, but Arthur trusted that was due to the evening as a whole, and not a sign of ingratitude.

Wordlessly, Harry popped the cork and took a gulp. Arthur could almost see the warming effects that the beverage invariably had on people spread throughout Harry. Giving the boy's shoulders a brief fatherly rub, he started toward the kitchen door, thinking some fresh air was what he needed right now, when it flew open from the outside.

Gabrielle stood in the doorway, breathing hard enough to have been running for some distance. She looked at Arthur, said “Excuse-- moi” breathlessly, and then hurried to Harry's side.

Gabrielle did not know enough English it seemed, to explain exactly what was wrong. “'Arry,” she said over and over again, tugging at the arm holding the butterbeer bottle. Harry quickly set it down, to keep it from slopping over the table. He looked at Gabrielle in bemusement, and tried to ask her what was wrong. She didn't understand him any better than he understood her. Finally, he disentangled his arm from her fingers, and held up his palm toward her, the universal gesture for Stop.

She understood that at least, for she dropped her hands to her side as Harry pointed at himself, shrugged, and then pointed to her, raising his eyebrow as he did so.

I don't understand you.

Gabrielle paused for a moment, seemingly to think of a response that Harry would understand.

She pointed to herself—I—to her eyes—see—then she grabbed a handful of her hair, twirled it around her finger, then, giving him a meaningful look, pulled it back straight, while, with her other hand, she made a cutting gesture across the hair she held at shoulder length.

“Hermione?” Harry asked, feeling an unpleasant jolt in his gut.

Gabrielle nodded, and then she traced a finger from the corner of her eye down the side of her cheek, to her jawbone. Confused, Harry shrugged.

She repeated the gesture. He shrugged again.

This continued for a few moments, then Gabrielle said something that might have been “Oh bugger” an expression she had probably picked up recently. Then she punched Harry on the nose.

No matter how tough people are, their eyes will invariably water when their nose is assaulted in such a fashion. Harry clapped both hands to his face as his eyes streamed. A tear escaped his eye and ran down his cheek as he rocked back and forth in his chair, trying not to moan in pain.

He felt Gabrielle's fingers tracing the path of the tear that had slid down his face.

He opened his still watering eyes and looked at her, wondering what on earth she was doing.

She signed back to him again, I—see—Hermione—then her finger followed the same path down his face. She caught the tear where it hung suspended from his jawbone, then held it up to her eyes, giving him a look that clearly said, “If you don't understand this, you're an idiot.”

And Harry wasn't that big an idiot by a long shot.