Author Notes at the end…
Enjoy.
V.Leigh
Epilogue
I like to come here. It's oddly quiet, especially on this day. It's always struck me as peculiar that the events everyone celebrates so heartily took place in this room, yet I seem to be the only one who comes here to remember it. It's funny I should think of it that way; I'm not "remembering" anything. I wasn't there. I had no hand in anything that transpired between these four walls, but I've heard the stories. I've grown up with them.
Most of the stories I hear relate to the events of the seven years prior to the events marked by this anniversary, and the many years that have followed. I've heard about trolls, hippogriffs, ferrets, and Quidditch. I must say I've always been a bit keen on the Quidditch stories. I hear them most often; I ask for them as well. But occasionally, I'll hear the "other" stories. For years, I never did. I only heard the tales that would send you gasping for breath amid raucous laughter at the dinner table. In my naiveté, I never grasped the concept that other stories existed. I'll never forget the night I realized there were so many more tales to be told - dark tales. Tales with few happy endings.
I was walking down the stairs in the dead of night, hoping to nick some trifle from the kitchen when I heard mum and dad in the study. Well, to be specific, I heard dad. Mum was merely listening as he spoke. It was the first time I'd really heard him talk about his godfather. I knew of him, of course, which is to say I'd heard his name in jovial conversation, and I watched him and my dad laughing in an old photograph that sat atop the fireplace mantle. But I'd never heard his story. I remember thinking it was the first time I'd seen my dad cry.
That's something I've never told him, nor will I ever. It's also the first time I realized he was more than just my dad - he was a man. He was Harry Potter.
Ever since that day, as I grew older, I became a bit restless with the same re-hashed tales. Although it remains a classic story within the halls of Hogwarts, how many times can you hear the firsthand account of the "Great Weasley Escape" before it becomes tiresome? Although, I'll admit the version told by Uncles Fred and George will never fail to cheer me from a bad mood. No one tells a story like they do. Nevertheless, I wanted to hear the other tales. I asked my parents. I asked my godparents. I asked the entire Weasley family. I asked everyone with any attachment to my parents during their time at Hogwarts if they could tell me the real story…the true story. The story no one wanted to divulge.
Then my letter came. That changed everything.
We'd had a wonderful celebration dinner. Everyone attended. My godparents (Uncle Ron and Aunt Beatrice), the entire lot of Weasleys, Uncle Remus, Aunt Tonks and the rest of the "old school," as I liked to call them, met in hushed conversation after they thought I was asleep. I wondered, at the time, why they were all so excited over a Hogwart's acceptance letter. In hindsight, I reckon it was their collective ability to release the breath they'd been holding since I was born. After all, my mum was a muggleborn witch, and my dad…well, he was a muggle when I was conceived. If ever there was a final nail to be driven into Voldemort's coffin, the owl that brought my letter swung the hammer.
After that night, they began telling me the stories. They started small, just the three of them. They said I needed to hear the truth, the real version of events as they unfolded, not the elaborative embellishments riding the waves of passing time. Over the course of the summer I heard about the Sorcerer's Stone. I heard about the Chamber of Secrets. I understood that my ability to talk to a snake did not secure my destiny in Slytherin (something I had been programmed for eleven years to disdain). That's also when I started hearing about my eyes - really hearing about them.
I'd heard the comments for as long as I could remember. I rarely met anyone that didn't like to point out how much they reminded them of my father. After eleven years, I'd started to loathe every synonym I knew for the color green. I'd convinced myself my favorite color was blue. I tried to convince them (and anyone who would listen) to call me by my middle name. I thought the incessant comparisons to my father, or his mother, made me less unique.
How ridiculous.
I looked around the Great Hall, a mixture of emotions flooding me, as they had every one of the six years previous to this day. Without realizing it, I found myself sitting in the same place - paying silent homage to the strength of my parents' character and the loyalty they still hold supreme. Their devotion to each other is what gives me such time to think. Since I entered Hogwarts seven years ago, they've chosen to spend this anniversary together…and alone.
I hold no ill will toward my parents. They need the time. It's not coincidental that this holiday falls so closely to their wedding day. This year they chose to spend the twenty-fifth anniversary of their marriage on a secluded Tahitian beach. Knowing what I do now, I understand their ardent desire to leave the whole of Great Britain as "Victory Day" approaches. As a child, I never understood why they weren't flattered by the parades held in their honor - why they refused the interviews and the photo calls. I loved the limelight and the adoring faces that smiled at me when they saw my bushy brown hair and radiant green eyes. That was before I knew who I really was. Before I had a clear understanding of what it means to be the firstborn child of Harry Potter. I'm still not sure how clear that understanding is, but I know this…
My name is Jade Elizabeth Potter, and I am the Heir of Godric Gryffindor.
***
HONK!
Harry snapped his head up from the London Times he'd been reading. He'd been staring at the words, trying to make sense of the reality he'd imagined for eight years. Without realizing it, he'd walked directly into traffic and nearly met his match in a doubledecker bus. Startled, he scampered back to the curb and returned his attention to a barely noticeable entry on the last page.
A homeless man, recently identified as Tom Marvolo Riddle, was found along the banks of the Thames late last evening. According to authorities, Riddle, a mentally unstable man believing himself to have supernatural powers, lived in a makeshift abode under London Bridge. Yesterday's torrential rains and subsequent flooding appeared to have swept the man downstream where he was later discovered to have drowned.
Harry read and re-read the newswire until he'd memorized nearly every word. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the reality printed in black and white.
Voldemort was dead.
"Sir?" Someone was tugging on his sleeve. "Sir, are you all right?" Harry looked up from the paper suddenly. It was the face of the newsagent sales clerk he'd come to know so well. He bought a paper from her everyday. Today he'd bought a bit more. "You forgot these," she said tentatively, looking between Harry and the bus as it drove away.
Harry looked to her hand and saw the bouquet of bluebells and foxglove he'd bought for Hermione. His face broached the faintest of smiles as he took the bouquet from the woman. "Thank you," he said, failing to remove his eyes from their delicate pink and blue blossoms.
"Go home, luv," she said, slapping him on the shoulder. "You look like you've had a bit of a shock today," she chuckled.
She was more right than she knew. Harry smiled at her and made his way across the street to the tube station. As he swayed to the rhythmic rocking of the tube, he couldn't help but look at the passengers riding with him. When he'd defeated Voldemort eight years ago, the celebrations were so widespread, the Ministry issued a record number of wizarding secrecy warnings. By dawn of the next day, the authorities abandoned the attempt to make witches and wizards adhere to the laws maintaining their confidentiality. As he understood it, that was much the same atmosphere the day he lost his parents.
As he looked around now, he saw nothing peculiar. One man was half-asleep, briefcase clutched in his hand. A mother was fretfully redirecting her young child as he emptied her handbag on the floor. One couple spoke in quiet tones, hands intertwined, while another appeared to be in the throws of a heated disagreement. In short, no one seemed to notice, or care, that the most powerful dark wizard of the age was dead.
Moreover, in the last eight years, no one paid the slightest attention to the scar emblazoned on his forehead. No one gasped or smiled or reacted in the least when he introduced himself as Harry Potter. Not that he'd expect differently; he was a muggle. Surely it would be different when he arrived at the Leaky Cauldron.
Harry pushed the door open, fully expecting to be bowled over by the celebration erupting within. He couldn't have expected what he did see.
"Harry!" Tom beamed. "How was your day?" Harry was dumbfounded. The pub was practically deserted and the people who were there were as nonplussed as the muggles outside.
"Er - it was fine," he whispered.
"You ready?" Tom asked, throwing his bar towel on an empty stool and walking toward the backdoor. Harry silently followed. Tom tapped the bricks to reveal the entrance to Diagon Alley.
"Thanks," Harry said as he walked onto the cobblestone street.
"See you tomorrow," Tom announced as the clinking bricks reassembled themselves into a solid edifice. This was one of the days Harry missed being a wizard, the walk home was not far from here, but apparition would've been far more convenient. As it was, he did the next best thing…he ran.
"Hermione?" he called as he threw the door open to their flat.
"Harry!" she responded from the kitchen. Before he had time to take another step she arrived in the front room. Harry was completely relieved. Of all people, she would understand the strangeness of this day. He crossed the room quickly, holding the newspaper at arm's length.
"Read this," they said together. Hermione was holding a small parchment letter, encrusted with the Hogwart's seal.
"What's that?" they chimed, looking at what the other had to offer. Although Harry was interested in the post, he noticed Hermione's eyes drift toward the flowers clutched in his other hand.
"Oh," Harry said suddenly. "These are for you." He grinned. Remembering the moment he'd planned before reading the paper, he pulled her into a loving embrace. "They're for both of you," he whispered, kissing her softly on the neck. She giggled and slapped him lightly on the back.
"Don't be silly, Harry. Even if I charm these flowers, they'll be gone long before this one arrives," she said running a hand over an unnoticeable bulge in her belly. Looking back to her husband she added, "Thank you. They're beautiful." With a simple peck on the cheek, Hermione took the flowers from him and handed him the post. "It's from McGonagall," she sobered. "She said it's important. They're sending a portkey for you. It should be here…"
Knock, knock, knock.
"…anytime," she finished flatly. As Harry turned to answer the door, Hermione looked to his other hand. "What's that?"
"Er - here," he said, shoving the paper into her hand as he turned to answer the door. "Page twelve, bottom left-hand corner," he instructed. He opened the door and took a parcel from the delivery wizard standing outside. As Hermione scanned, the paper, Harry opened the box to reveal a tattered girl's hat with a pink pom pom on the top.
"Harry?" Hermione whispered. He looked away from the portkey and toward his wife. She was frozen in the middle of the room, her eyes furiously sweeping the same few sentences over and over. She looked at him, tears beginning to glaze her eyes. "He's dead?"
"He's dead," Harry affirmed. Without warning, Hermione threw herself at him, wrapping her arms securely around his neck as she burst into tears. He held her tightly, whispering in her ear (perhaps more for his benefit than hers) that it was finally "over." It only served to intensify her tears. After a long embrace, she finally pulled back.
"I'm sorry," she said sheepishly. "My emotions are a bit out of whack."
"I can't imagine why," Harry replied and bent down to give her stomach a quick kiss. Hermione continued to stare at the newspaper as Harry unrolled the parchment from McGonagall.
Dear Harry,
I need you to come to Hogwarts immediately. I'm sending a portkey which should arrive shortly after this post. Please come alone; Hermione is in no condition to travel in such a manner. You won't be terribly long.
Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress,
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
"Go ahead," Hermione encouraged. "I'll keep your tea warm."
Harry looked into her eyes and replied as only a husband and expectant father could. "I love you."
"You'd better." She kissed him briefly, and turned toward the kitchen with her flowers in one hand and the muggle newspaper in the other. Harry couldn't help but laugh at her playfulness. With a smile, he reached in the box and grabbed the hat. Their flat spun out of sight as he felt the familiar tug at his navel and was transported to Hogwarts.
"Thank goodness!" McGonagall said in relief. "I was afraid you'd be too late."
"Too late for what?" Harry asked as he pulled at the twisted neck of his jumper. McGonagall's face darkened and she motioned for Harry to sit down. A familiar feeling of dread seized him. How many times had he been in this office and been instructed to sit down? In this office he'd relived the horrors of the graveyard during his fourth year. In this office he'd watched a wide-eyed Trelawney from Dumbledore's pensieve prophesizing his fate. In this office he'd seen Hermione collapse over the loss of her parents. He'd grown to hate this office.
"Albus needs to see you," she replied. Harry's heart sank lower. He knew that his former headmaster and mentor's health had been deteriorating for several months. In his mind he knew the day would come that he'd be summoned to say goodbye. Judging from the look on McGonagall's face, that day had arrived. Harry stood up from the chair and nodded his understanding. McGonagall, her eyes glassy from the tears her undying professionalism fought to restrain, pointed at the doorway that led to the bed chamber.
Harry walked to the door, impressed at the giving nature of Hogwarts newest Headmistress. While this suite of rooms is designated for the head of the school, McGonagall maintained her own private quarters where the rest of the teachers lived. She'd chosen to allow the greatest Headmaster Hogwarts had ever seen to live out his remaining years in the quarters he adored. Harry pushed open the doorway and found himself awash in the moonlight streaming from the open air above him. Sparing only a moment to look up, he redirected his attention to what remained of Albus Dumbledore's physical body.
When Harry first laid eyes upon the former Headmaster, many years ago, he was impressed with the command that Dumbledore achieved merely by standing in a room. He was tall, he was broad-shouldered, and he was always adorned in stunning yet understated robes. His voice filled the Great Hall as if enhanced by a sonorous charm and his eyes seemed to meet and respond to each individual student. He set the expectations for the students yet never failed to produce a smile or a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. In the past several months, all of that had ebbed away.
Harry looked upon him, lying amid his bed coverings, and saw an entirely different man. His body was a shadow of its former self. His skin had lost its luster and his eyes were dark. His glistening white hair no longer reflected the starlight above. He was old. He was tired. And it was obvious he was ready to move on.
Harry pulled up a chair next to the bed and picked up Dumbledore's frail hand in his own. Dumbledore turned a head toward him and managed a smile. "Harry," his voice cracked. "I've been waiting for you."
"McGonagall sent a portkey," Harry explained. Dumbledore nodded his head imperceptibly as Harry realized it was likely his request, rather than McGonagall's, that the portkey be arranged. Harry grasped his hand firmly, hoping his mentor would find the energy to return the gesture. Whether he wouldn't or couldn't muster the strength to do so, Harry would never know. He was overcome with the grim realization of why he was brought here.
Although he knew instinctively that he would bid goodbye to Albus Dumbledore at some appointed time, he was not ready for that time to be now. Yet as soon as he realized the pain of what lie before him, he also understood his good fortune. Harry did not have the opportunity to say farewell to his mother or his father or his godfather as they passed from one world to the next. With a grateful heart, he raised his eyes from Dumbledore's hand and tried to steel himself against the tears. He was greeted with a cockeyed smile from the former Headmaster. "There's no reason to cry, Harry. I've lived a long, full life. I have no complaints." The finality of his words crashed into Harry and the tears streamed down his cheeks onto the soft blanket below. Dumbledore grasped his hand firmly, rousing Harry from his sorrow. "There is much I need to tell you before I go." Harry nodded and wiped the tears from his cheek with the back of his hand.
"Voldemort's dead," Harry said. In retrospect, he had no idea why he'd said it. Perhaps the finality of Dumbledore's condition reminded him of the article in the paper. Perhaps Harry wanted to be the one with the answers. It didn't seem to matter. Dumbledore was nodding his head in assent.
"I know," he assured. "I couldn't leave you without knowing your connection was severed permanently."
Harry looked up in confusion. "But we're both muggles now. There shouldn't have been any magical connection at all after that night in the Great Hall."
Dumbledore nodded again. "You are correct, Harry. But, Riddle was a powerful wizard and I didn't want to take any chances. As long as Tom Riddle drew breath, I could not, in good conscience, leave you alone. I also could not tell you the rest of the story."
"The rest of the story?" Harry prompted.
"It's time for you to know the truth." Harry was floored. What more could Dumbledore possibly have to tell him? He felt a guilty anger well in the pit of his stomach. He thought Dumbledore told him the truth years ago. Dumbledore struggled to sit upright. Harry released his hand and puffed the pillows behind his back until the former headmaster seemed most comfortable. After he settled, an uneasy silence fell over the room. Harry sat back in the chair and waited for what he imagined could only be bad news. The first words Dumbledore spoke managed to ignite his anger and extinguish it at the same time. "I've lied to you, Harry. For that, I am truly sorry." Dumbledore looked to Harry's perplexed face. "For whatever it's worth, I had my reasons."
"The same reasons you had for keeping the prophecy from me for so long?" Harry was shocked at his lacking obeisance. He liked to believe that he'd put Sirius' death behind him, but this scene struck a familiarity with him that made that fifth year conversation come back to life in his mind.
"The very same reasons," Dumbledore affirmed. "As I explained to you then, and I repeat to you now, my judgment has been clouded by my love for you. However, this was a necessary deception and I apologize."
Harry tried not to glare at the old wizard. Dumbledore gave a weak cough and attempted to clear his throat. Harry handed him a goblet of water that was sitting on the bedside table. "Thank you," he responded after taking a sip. He handed the glass to Harry and drew a breath. "I know you're angry with me and I understand why, but I trust my rationale will be obvious after I've explained." Harry sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He absent-mindedly spun the wedding band on his left hand and waited for Dumbledore to begin.
"I've told you many times how proud I am of you. You have accomplished things in this life that many wizards could never dream of. You possessed an innate power and command of magic that surprised even me on many occasions." Harry couldn't help but scoff. He wasn't a wizard anymore. "Your bravery is unsurpassed. You have sacrificed your existence for the protection of others. I'd like to think that's a trait you inherited from me."
Harry's eyes snapped to Dumbledore's. "Inherited?" he asked.
Dumbledore sank farther into his pillows. "Yes." He replied. "Of all the things I've done in this life, the most difficult and painful, was placing you on the doorstep of a family I knew could not, and would not, love you as I did. But I had no choice. The knowledge that you were of my own flesh and blood was more endangering than the power Voldemort already possessed."
Harry's heart was pounding in his chest. Dumbledore looked to him with the most serious expression he'd produced yet. "You were in danger for so many reasons. Voldemort was not only following the path of his own hatred, but he was destined to walk that path, just as his many ancestors did. It's part of the reason I felt compassion for him. His fate was determined through generations of feuding, as was yours."
"I don't understand," Harry squeaked. "Are you my grandfather?" Dumbledore laughed aloud, causing himself to cascade into a fit of coughing again. When he finally composed himself, he returned his attention to Harry.
"I appreciate that you find me so young," Dumbledore replied. "There's not an easy way to say this." He hesitated. "Harry, I'm over 1,000 years old."
"What?!" Harry exclaimed. "That's not possible!" This entire conversation had gone from bad to worse. First, Dumbledore admitted to deceiving Harry, and now he's got the audacity to expect him to believe he was 1,000 years old. What was next?
"Next you're going to tell me you're Godric Gryffindor himself."
Dumbledore said nothing.
Harry couldn't take it. He leapt from the chair and began pacing Dumbledore's bed chamber. This was ridiculous. After all he'd been through, how could he expect to believe a word that issued from Dumbledore's mouth?
"Harry," his soft voice broke through the tirade in Harry's head. "Do you remember the conversation we had in my office after you defeated the Basilisk?" Harry nodded. "I wasn't exaggerating when I said it would take a true Gryffindor to pull the sword from the Sorting Hat. Only a blood relative could accomplish such a task." Dumbledore hesitated.
"I am Godric Gryffindor, and you are my heir."
The room fell into awkward silence before Harry's temper got the best of him.
"How? How is that even possible?" he blasted.
"The Sorcerer's Stone," Dumbledore replied. Harry took a step backward and looked at him with disbelieving eyes.
"You destroyed the Sorcerer's Stone! Flamel was the only one who could make one and he's dead!" Harry rebuffed. His anger did not assuage when Dumbledore's face broke the faintest of smiles.
"I'm often impressed at the nuances of language," Dumbledore scoffed. "Even the chocolate frog cards were correct when they said Flamel was the only 'known' maker of the Stone."
"No," Harry rebuked. "Flamel was over six hundred years old when he died. That would mean you were four hundred when the Stone was developed. Even by wizarding standards, that's not possible." Again, Dumbledore had the audacity to smile.
"Nicolas, while a good friend for many years, was entirely too proud. The books would have you believe that he'd developed the Stone himself. He never argued that point of fact. He also never mentioned that the Stone he developed was an alchemic reproduction of one already in existence. I never betrayed his secret."
"So if you had your own Stone, why all the secrecy over the one from my first year?" Harry argued, certain he would catch Dumbledore in his own story sooner or later.
"Because Nicholas was so public with his 'ability' to produce a Stone, it was the only one known to exist. If I didn't treat his Stone with the security one would expect, it would raise suspicion about its inimitable existence," Dumbledore explained.
"So you just let him die?!" Harry blasted. Dumbledore's face darkened.
"No," he replied. "Harry, in your twenty-five years of life, you have seen much pain, suffering…even death. You've lost those closest to you and carry their memories in a heart laden with the burdens of someone who's suffered too much. Imagine six hundred years of such experience. Imagine the heartache of watching every person you've ever connected with move on without you…everyone in your family, every one of your friends. Immortality is a lonely prison," Dumbledore whispered.
Harry was struck with the gravity of his words. He paused a moment and tried to fathom the events of his life replayed twenty-four times.
"He chose to die," Harry replied. Dumbledore nodded as Harry sat back down. Harry thought back to Dumbledore's declaration and another question erupted in his mind. "You can't be Godric Gryffindor."
"Why is that?"
"You would've known the location of the Chamber. You never would've allowed Moaning Myrtle to be killed or other students to be harmed. You certainly wouldn't have allowed Voldemort to take Ginny," Harry remarked in triumph.
Dumbledore took a sip of water and replied, "I wish that were true. Unfortunately, my arrogance did not allow me to recognize the fact that I did not know Salazar Slytherin as well as I thought I did. I didn't know the Chamber existed until after he'd died."
Harry locked eyes with Dumbledore. "So if you were Godric Gryffindor, hypothetically of course, why would you choose to live a life like Flamel's? Why would you want to watch your family and friends die whilst you lived on?" he asked skeptically. Dumbledore appeared heartened by the possibility Harry might be persuaded to believe him.
"The answer to that question is the same as the rationale for why I was dead set against the use of the Foederis enchantment," he replied.
"Because you'd seen it go wrong?" Harry scoffed.
"Because I lived it. What's more, I've continued to live it everyday of the last millennia." Dumbledore reached for his goblet again. As Harry handed it to him, he obliged the conversation Dumbledore seemed so desperate to tell.
"What happened?" Harry prompted.
Dumbledore took a sip and sat the goblet by his side, staring at the water dripping down the edges. "I've lived a lonely life, Harry. It wasn't always so. I had a friend as dear to me as Ron is to you. I've loved as deeply as you love Hermione. I lost them both." Harry sat back in his chair and listened. "Salazar and Athena were my best friends. We were inseparable. We were young, powerful, and arrogant. Salazar and I were in the process of building this place with two other friends…"
"Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw?" Harry interrupted.
"The very same," he affirmed. "We met Athena while developing the spell work for this castle." He looked at Harry. "The similarities between the three of us and the three of you were striking." He looked away not having to specify that he was referring to Ron, Harry, and Hermione. "We thought we were invincible."
"You cast the enchantment." Harry phrased it more as a statement than a question.
"We had such a powerful bond we never thought it would change. But I didn't know Salazar as well as I thought. I was naïve in the matters of love. I didn't see the way he looked at Athena. I never understood the desire he secretly harbored for her. More importantly, I never saw those same emotions reflected from her toward me.
"One spring day, Salazar told me of his interest for Athena. I have to admit I was taken aback. I'd never looked at her as anything other than a friend. However, the thought of her becoming more than a friend to him was unsettling. Nevertheless, I encouraged him to court her. I'll never forget the day he did." Dumbledore looked toward the sky, seeming to count the stars twinkling above his head. "She refused him. I tried to console his heartache, but the seed had taken root. Suddenly, I couldn't stop thinking about her. The relationship became awkward between the three of us. He couldn't stand to be in her presence and I couldn't stand to be away from it. Then it happened."
Harry shuffled in his seat, unconsciously leaning forward with wide eyes.
"Salazar was attending to the construction of the castle, as I was supposed to be. Athena found me in the grove. To this day I don't know what came over me. With little regard for anyone other than myself, I acted on impulse and kissed her. Much to my surprise, she returned the favor in kind. My heart felt like it would explode. I've never been so happy, and so scared, in my life."
Harry couldn't stop the smile that erupted across his face. He knew exactly what Dumbledore was talking about. He'd felt the same way the first time his lips touched Hermione's. With some effort, Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued. "Needless to say, Salazar was less than pleased. A broken heart robbed him of his common sense and grip on reality. He thought I encouraged him to court Athena for the sole purpose of embarrassing him. He became enraged and left. For as much as we tried to make amends, his anger grew. Days passed into weeks and he refused so much as the simplest invitation. It was clear that our friendship was over. Over the next several months, Athena and I grew to accept that Salazar was lost to us. During those same months, my love for her deepened. I couldn't stand the thought of another day without her."
"So what did you do?"
"The worst thing I could have…I proposed marriage."
"How is that bad?" Harry asked in confusion.
"The day she accepted my proposal was both the best and worst day of my life." He sipped the last of the water from his goblet. Lost in the tale, Harry refilled the glass while Dumbledore continued. "That was the same day I realized the depth of Salazar's mistrust." He gave a fleeting glance toward Harry and continued. "Apparently, he thought Athena and I had always harbored feelings for each other. He was so convinced we would eventually betray him that he changed the incantation in the initial casting of the enchantment. It wasn't until Athena broke the enchantment that we realized what he had done. By then, it was too late."
"She was a muggle," Harry replied, hesitating before setting the pitcher back on the table. Dumbledore nodded and took the refreshed goblet from Harry's outstretched hand. "What happened?"
"I've never been so enraged in my life. Not only had Athena lost her magical powers, but she was suffering physical and emotional pain. I couldn't take it. I lashed out at Salazar," Dumbledore said.
"You dueled?"
"For hours. Our families got involved and the battle grew desperate. We were equally matched, however, and there would be no resolution to the conflict. We were at an impasse. Both families left the field, broken and battered, and resolved to continue this feud to the bitter end."
"What happened with Athena?" Harry asked.
"I married her anyway. Something the Slytherin family took as a personal affront. They'd always thought themselves better than muggles, but the idea that 'the great Godric Gryffindor' would share his life, and his magic, with a mere muggle was beyond their comprehension, as was my family's acceptance of Athena to our home. The notion that such powerful magic could be passed to muggles made both my family, and Athena's, a delicious target."
"That's why Slytherin hates muggles," Harry whispered while Dumbledore nodded.
"And we used that knowledge to our advantage," Dumbledore explained. "We'd declared a blood feud between the two families and both sides sustained heavy casualties. My brother, my sister…my mother - they were the first to be killed at the hands of the Slytherins. There was no stopping the feud after that." Harry was stunned silent. "As the head of the family, I was the marquee target - as were my descendants. Athena went into hiding and I was set to join her," Dumbledore laid his head back on the pillow and stared through the open ceiling. "Before I could meet her, I encountered my one-time best friend. He looked so different. He was full of such hate. But he still had his wits about him. I was arrogant enough to believe that my plan was foolproof. I'd forgotten that Salazar and I used to finish each other's sentences.
"We engaged in a duel. It was relatively harmless, or so I thought. I managed to hit him with a few hexes and he landed one rather powerful curse on me before we disengaged and took refuge elsewhere."
"What plan?" Harry asked.
"No one wins a blood feud until the one who declared it, and all his line, are dead. I knew this, as Salazar did, and thought to hide my line in the one place Slytherin would never think to look," Dumbledore lamented.
"Muggleborns," Harry declared.
"Yes," Dumbledore affirmed. "However, just as you realized my plan, so did Salazar." He drew a long breath. "Athena and I lived in relative seclusion. The feud became less pronounced, but in the shadows it raged on nonetheless. Both Salazar and I could not avoid each other as the founders and teachers at Hogwarts. Rowena and Helga tried to stay clear of the awkwardness but it became too much to bear. They sided with me -something else that Salazar took as a betrayal of our former friendship."
Harry was struck with a sudden realization. "The book you gave me! Back in seventh year, after we had discovered the Foederis enchantment. It was all about the history of the founders. Fascinating, really, for a history book. I remember wondering why it was so important to you that I read that. I thought you were just trying to discourage us from using Foederis," Harry said.
Dumbledore smiled inwardly. "I've been trying to tell you this story for so long, I reckon I hoped you'd figure it out from that book and save me the trouble."
"So what happened to Salazar?" Harry asked. Dumbledore's face grew dark. The light escaped his eyes and when he spoke, his voice was as deep as Harry had ever heard it.
"Athena was picking berries in a field near our cottage one day after we'd married. Given the state of affairs, I insisted her pregnancy be kept secret. She was well into her eighth month and we were anxiously awaiting his arrival." He closed his eyes and Harry was shocked to see tears flow down his mentor's cheeks for only the third time in his life.
"I'll never know why Salazar sought her out. I've tried to convince myself it was to make amends," Dumbledore's voice drifted into silence. He sat, propped up in his bed, searching for the words. When he finally drew the courage to speak, his voice shuddered. "When I found her, she was clinging to life by a shread." He wiped his face with the palm of his hand just as Harry realized he was doing the same thing. "She told me of their argument. She apologized," Dumbledore gave a strained laugh. "As if she had anything to apologize for." His voice quaked. "She knew I could save our child. She begged me to do it before it was too late."
"How?" Harry's voice broke.
"It's an ancient spell that transfers the life force of a mother to her child. It's not terribly different than the protective charm I cast after Lily gave her life for you," he explained.
"But that meant…," Harry's voice drifted into silence.
"She knew she was dying. She begged me to save our child, lest they be lost together. She bid me farewell and pressed my wand into my hand." Dumbledore pulled his wand from the bed coverings and turned it over in his hand.
Harry couldn't stop the stream of tears. Of all the tragedy he'd seen in his life, nothing would've made him strong enough to do what Athena had asked of Dumbledore. He thought of the child Hermione carried and the tears continued. He couldn't bear the thought of being in a similar position. It was this thought - of Dumbledore's strength, of his bravery, of his strength of character - that persuaded Harry his story was true. It was his unwavering belief in the power of love that convinced Harry he was, in fact, looking on the face of Godric Gryffindor.
"What happened to Slytherin?" Harry asked.
"I killed him with the same sword you used to slay the Basilisk," Dumbledore replied. Harry's head snapped up and he caught the darkened eyes of the former headmaster before he looked away. "However, by that time, we'd both produced heirs so the feud between our families continued, as it would for generations." Suddenly, the timing of Dumbledore's summons made sense.
"Voldemort was the heir of Slytherin," he whispered. Dumbledore nodded. "You won." Dumbledore cut his eyes toward Harry with a look that nearly took his breath away.
"I dare say this is nothing to claim victory over."
An awkward silence fell over the room. After a few uncomfortable moments, Harry wanted an answer to the question that had erupted in his mind upon hearing the beginning of the story.
"So," he began. "How do you know that I am your heir?"
Dumbledore smiled and looked at Harry properly. "It took generations before I finally understood what Salazar had done. I can only assume he hexed me with the moniker charm in the duel prior to Athena's pregnancy."
"What's the moniker charm?"
"Salazar must've known I would disguise my lineage in muggleborn wizards. He used a blood hex to make the Slytherin search easier." Dumbledore smiled at Harry, a distant twinkle evident behind his half-moon glasses. "I knew you were my heir from the moment you were born. Just as I knew Lily was my heir, and those before her."
"Because I was her firstborn?" Harry asked.
"No. Magical ancestry doesn't operate as muggle ancestry does. You're not necessarily the true heir by virtue of being the first to arrive. Magical powers, while being passed onto all children in some manner, will manifest the sum of themselves in one child only." Dumbledore's voice broke and he began to cough in earnest. When he composed himself, he took a sip of water. "Salazar knew this. He also knew he need not waste his time on all of the descendants. He only needed to find the true heir to end the feud."
"That's why he cursed you?" Harry asked.
"You, like the others before you, have the most vibrant green eyes I've ever seen." Dumbledore huffed to himself. "I shouldn't have been surprised that Salazar used his favorite color to make my heirs easier to find."
***
I often wonder if the story was enough to convince my father that Albus Dumbledore was actually Godric Gryffindor. If I had been in his situation, I don't know that the limits of my common sense would've allowed it. Here he was, after eight years as a muggle, being told that the man he'd admired since his first year at Hogwarts was, arguably, the most powerful wizard of all time. That aside, to believe his story was to accept the notion that the frail wizard lying before him was over one thousand years old. Even the most eternal of optimists would've had difficulty accepting his story as truth. I did.
My mum and dad told me this story two months ago. I still have trouble wrapping my brain around it. I look in the mirror to see my father's eyes staring back and cannot fathom the notion that I am the next of the Gryffindor line. My only consolation is the understanding nature of my father. To say he understands my situation is an understatement. He said he felt the same way. But Dumbledore offered him irrefutable proof - the same proof that convinced me.
My father is a wizard.
***
Harry sat in a motionless daze. He didn't know what to say; he didn't know what to think. The existence of Albus Dumbledore, as a powerful but otherwise ordinary Headmaster, was the cornerstone of Harry's wizarding world. He was the first and last mentor Harry knew. His gaze drifted upward and caught the eyes of the man he thought he knew so well.
"I'm sorry," Dumbledore's voice cracked. "I only hope you understand why I couldn't tell you this sooner. I also hope you understand that while we are blood relatives, I had to place you with the Dursleys."
Harry wasn't sure he did understand but in the distant recesses of his mind it made sense. He was older, and hopefully wiser, now. He wasn't sure how he would've reacted to such information as a teenager. He was less sure of what his reaction would have been during the years following the final battle. In all honesty, he wasn't sure how to react now. In the span of a few hours, the face of the wizarding world he knew had been irrevocably changed. Voldemort was dead. Dumbledore was Gryffindor, and Harry was his heir.
"You don't believe me," Dumbledore's weakened voice pressed. Harry looked up in shock.
"No, that's not it," Harry clarified, although he felt like he was being deceptive. "I just…I…." His voice trailed off.
"I imagine this is quite a lot to take in. I'd like to be able to impart the wisdom of your predecessors, but you are the first of my heirs that I've told. Those before you, your mother included, did not know."
"Why me?" Harry asked. Dumbledore chuckled aloud, causing a fit of coughing that seemed to usurp his remaining energy. When he caught a clear breath, his eyes were as dim as Harry had ever seen them.
"That, I dare say, is a question you've asked many times before," he replied. "I'm tired, Harry. I refused to leave what was left of my family while the curse of the feud remained. Upon hearing the prophecy, so long ago, I knew that my journey, for better or worse, was drawing to a close. After a millennia, the curse is no more." Dumbledore hesitated before continuing. "My responsibilities are fulfilled." Harry nodded. He didn't need additional explanation. His thoughts drifted to his parents, Sirius, Hagrid, and the faces of the students lost in the siege.
"I've lost so much," Harry croaked. With great effort he drew the courage to voice the opinion of his heart. "I don't want to lose you, too."
"You aren't losing me, Harry. We will meet again." The finality of the sentiment brought the tears back to Harry's eyes. He'd often thought of Dumbledore as family, now he knew it to be true. He thought back on his life and wondered when he'd find his happy ending. As his thoughts came to rest on Hermione, he realized Dumbledore's quiet voice was beckoning him back to reality.
"You have been asked to do so much more than any before you. What you've accomplished has been extraordinary. I have been forced to sit by and watch you fulfill the prophecy alone, and I've been forced to wait - and watch - while you suffered the consequences." Dumbledore picked up his hand, still clutching his wand, and reached across to where Harry sat. "I don't have to watch any longer."
Dumbledore pressed the wand into Harry's palm. In confusion, Harry looked between their hands and Dumbledore's hopeful face. "What's this then?"
"You are my heir. Although a thousand years separate us, we share a unique bond - one that I can finally use to repay the services you've rendered to our family," Dumbledore replied. Harry furrowed his brow in confusion.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Harry, I've told you before that you've shown bravery I can scarcely imagine. You've given everything for our family. You've only asked for love in return," Dumbledore's voice quaked. "I only ask that you allow me to give it." Dumbledore grasped the wand held in Harry's hand. Opening his hand to release it, Harry quickly found Dumbledore's other hand grasped around his. His heart began to pound in his chest.
"What are you doing?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"Harry, I haven't much time," Dumbledore whispered. "Before I move on, I ask that you allow me one indulgence," he said as Harry began shaking his head.
"No," Harry said, unsure of what his request would be, but certain he didn't want to find out.
"I've destroyed my stone, and I've made all the necessary preparations. I have but one wrong left to right. You are more than a wizard, you are a Gryffindor - and you are my blood. He paused and held Harry's gaze. "Let me restore your powers."
Harry's brow furrowed. "How?"
"Through the life force that joins us both. The same force that allowed your mother's love to save you, and my love to save Athena and my child." Realizing the mortal connection between his examples, Harry tried to pull his hand away but Dumbledore showed strength uncommon for a dying man. "Please, Harry." The tears started to pour from Harry's eyes. He couldn't bear to be the cause of another death, or reap the benefits from Dumbledore's passing. He'd rather live his life as a muggle than face another personal sacrifice at his expense.
"No!" Harry cried, trying to pull his hand from Dumbledore's grip. "No…no," he muttered as his throat constricted. It was the calm serenity of his mentor's voice that registered despite his distress.
"Harry," he said. "I'm making this choice. I can do it with or without your help. I know you don't believe that you deserve this, but I will not leave until it's done." He struggled to sit up, and grasped both hands around Harry's, which was still clutching Dumbledore's wand. Their eyes met as Harry's chest hitched. "Please let me go."
Harry didn't reply. He couldn't. He knew there was nothing he could do to change his mind. He also knew there was nothing he could do to save him. If he truly was who he claimed, he was long since ready to rest. How could Harry be selfish enough to demand he stay? He mustered the courage to say the one thing he'd only ever been brave enough to say to Hermione.
"I love you," he whispered.
Dumbledore's ever-present twinkle seemed to brighten for a moment. A single teardrop fell down his cheek.
"And I love you," he replied.
He then closed his eyes and tightened his grip around Harry's hand. His mouth moved inaudibly as he muttered an incantation Harry did not recognize. Harry felt the wand begin to shudder as a surging pulse began throbbing in his hand. Harry closed his other hand around both of Dumbledore's hoping to seize hold of the family he never knew. As he grasped the frail hands, a tingling sensation began to creep through his body. He squeezed his eyes closed as his muscles began to burn. He struggled to focus on Dumbledore, who seemed to weaken as Harry's discomfort grew. Before he could respond, a searing pain erupted in Harry's chest as Dumbledore fell back against the pillows. Harry strengthened his grip and gasped for breath as he realized Dumbledore's breathing had become shallow. A familiar warm sensation flooded his hand and red and gold sparks began to shower the room from the wand clutched in Harry's hand. As the light danced across the stone walls, Dumbledore's hand fell to rest on the bed.
"Albus?" Harry choked, leaning over the bed. Dumbledore fought to open his eyes. "I…I don't know what to say," he mumbled.
Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak but his voice was so weak Harry could barely understand him. He leaned over and strained his ear to listen.
"Say what you couldn't say before…what you couldn't say to your parents, Sirius, or Hagrid."
There were hundreds of things he wanted to say to them and had never been afforded the opportunity. He wanted to thank them for loving him enough to sacrifice their own lives for him. He wanted to tell them how much he loved them in return. He wanted to tell them he'd be all right on his own - that he'd found the love of his life and that together they could make it through anything. As he ran through the litany of things he'd wished he'd had the chance to say, he realized he didn't have time. Dumbledore's eyes were drawing closed and his breathing had all but stopped. That was the moment he understood. Before he could lose another second, he threw himself across Dumbledore's chest and seized his opportunity.
"Goodbye," he croaked.
Harry's vision cleared just enough to see a faint smile cross Dumbledore's face before his chest fell for the last time and the room collapsed into silence.
Harry was hard pressed to remember the following hour of his life. He stayed at his mentor's side for a while before covering him in a fluffy blanket and joining McGonagall in the office outside. Harry felt selfish for not allowing her the same privilege, until he realized she'd likely taken it before he'd arrived. She was in tears as he emerged from the room and several wizards were standing by to carry out Dumbledore's final wishes. She encouraged him to go home to Hermione and asked if he would contact the Order as she had business to attend to on Dumbledore's behalf. Out of habit, she began to arrange a portkey when Harry realized he was still holding the wand in his hand. He thanked her for her kindness and left her in shock as he flicked the wand and summoned the portkey to his hand. She'd barely registered a response when Harry felt the tug behind his navel.
"Hermione!" he shouted as he spun into their keeping room. "Hermione!"
"Is everything okay?" she replied as she ran into the room with a small, half-knitted pink jumper in her hand. Harry didn't bother to reply; he didn't bother to explain. He crossed the room in three steps and slid his hand around the back of her neck. In one swift motion, he pulled her toward him and crushed his lips to hers. Knitting forgotten, the project fell to the floor as Hermione threaded her fingers through his hair and pressed the length of her body against his. He wrapped his free hand around her waist and held her body against him as his tongue danced across her lips. She opened her mouth to his and slid her tongue over his. He fell to his knees, dragging her down with him, and framed her face with his hands.
"I'm sorry," he laughed, wondering how her kisses still managed to weaken his knees. He felt her mouth smile against his lips.
"I hope Hogwarts sends for you more often if this is the welcome I receive when you get home," she giggled. He peppered her mouth with a few short kisses and slid his arms under her back and legs. "Harry!" she exclaimed as he gathered her from the floor and stood up. "Put me down!" she laughed.
"You're not heavy," he answered.
"Bollocks, I'm not!" she replied with a hand over the bulge in her abdomen which she'd become increasingly self-conscious about. He set her on her feet and reached for the wand in his back pocket.
"You dropped something," he said with a grin. Before Hermione could retrieve the knitting he brandished the wand and said, "wingardium leviosa!" The fluffy pink yarn flew up from the floor and hovered before Hermione's stunned expression.
"Harry?" she whispered in shock. "What…? How…?" she blustered. Enjoying every moment of her revelation, he pulled her to him again and pressed his lips to hers. Her warm lips remained motionless as she appeared to search for a logical explanation. Harry decided to end her confusion when he tasted the salty tears that had slipped down her cheeks.
"Let's sit down. I've got so much to tell you."
***
I heard the door creak open. It was a familiar sound that happened every year. "You're a bit early, Professor Weasley," I announce as I hear her footsteps crossing the stone floor.
"Oh!" she scoffed. "How many times must I tell you not to call me that in private?" an annoyed voice declared as she strode closer. I turned to face her as she settled herself on the opposite side of the house table from me.
"Sorry, Aunt Beatrice," I giggle as she rolls her eyes. I love to annoy her. She's such a sporting participant. I think she's a perfect fit for the Weasley family. You have to keep on your toes around that lot. "So, what brings you to the Great Hall?" I ask, assured the answer will be the same as it has been for the last six years.
"I'm your godmother. It's my job to ensure you are well cared for in the absence of your parents," she replied as I expected.
"Where's Uncle Ron? You usually tag-team me on Victory Day."
"He's been called away on team business. The Canons had a bit of a meltdown after their loss last week. He was summoned to help repair the public relations crisis the two beaters caused," she replied. I've never been able to tell if Uncle Ron is working his dream job or not. I think he'd rather play for the Canons, but I've played against him and his skills do not extend to the realm of professional play. If they did, I could have signed a contract by now. However, he seems quite content to work as the team's business manager. It's never bothered our family either. We've had box seats to every Canons match since before I was born and a complete wardrobe of orange attire to accompany our attendance.
"Well, I'm sorry to say the first-years did not heed my advice," I add, trying to keep the conversation from the topic it invariably finds.
"How do you mean?" she asked.
"I've told them not to neglect the History of Magic final but, Head Girl or not, they won't listen to me," I lament.
"I'm their professor and they don't listen to me," she scoffed. "I think that's implicit in the job description, though. I'd like to think I'm at least a tad more interesting than Professor Binns." I can't help but laugh aloud at her statement.
Not to burst her bubble, but a living, breathing, person was said to be a vast improvement over Professor Binns, regardless of their ability to teach. Still, I'm privy to some conversations, at least before the younger students realize who I am, and Aunt Beatrice is a popular professor. I don't think it sits well with my godfather that the boys, in particular, hold her in rather high esteem. I've overheard more than one discussing how she fine she looks in Quidditch robes. For her sake, I've never mentioned that to Uncle Ron, although it is amusing to watch his face turn the same color as his hair.
"How are the rest of the Weasley lot?" I ask.
"Wonderful! I have some cheerful news to impart. After Ron's trek to Baileywick, he's returning to London for the sole purpose of annoying your Aunt Ginny."
"Oh! Miranda had the baby!" I exclaim. Miranda Longbottom Andrews, while not technically related to me at all, is one of my many cousins. The Weasleys and the Potters might as well be family so all the children have been raised as such. Miranda was the first to be born after the war and is a few years older than I am. She's the daughter of Ginny and Neville Longbottom. They were married two years after the final battle and had Miranda about a year later. As she was the first to be born, she was also the first to marry. She and Jonathan Andrews, a muggleborn wizard she met at Hogwarts, married thirteen months ago.
Miranda was the first born of my age group. She was the first to attend Hogwarts. She's got Aunt Ginny's stunning good looks and the boys flock to her somewhat uncertain nature. She comes by it honestly; her father has always been a bit shy. The first Christmas Jonathan spent with us, I wallowed in self-pity. He adores Miranda. They make the perfect couple, and I was sure I'd never be able to match what they have. I stood up with them at their wedding and cried for a relationship I'd never have. Not only did I inherit my mother's intimidating nature, but I'm the daughter of Harry Potter. With the exception of a few glory-seeking blokes, I didn't attract a lot of men. I've never been happier to be wrong.
"Um hmm," Aunt Beatrice says thoughtfully.
"What?" I know where she's going. My defensive stance is nothing more than a façade. We've been doing this for months.
"Nothing," she answers. "But I've come to refer to that look," she's making a circular waving motion toward my face, "as your 'drifty' expression."
"What does that mean?" I rebuke, trying to contain my laughter.
"You get all dreamy-eyed and drift right out of the conversation," she answers. "I've had a talk with your dear Daniel. All this day-dreaming is affecting your preparation for N.E.W.T.s." She gives me a sly wink. "You're lucky I don't tell your mother." I can't help but laugh. She's spot on.
"Anyway, Ron has been counting the days until he could address his dear sister as 'grandmother,'" she laughs heartily. I know she thinks the same thing I do. It's really rather silly for Uncle Ron to make that comment as he'll only have a few more months before she will return the favor in kind. The eldest of Ron and Beatrice's three children, William Weasley, and his wife Celeste are expecting a child at the end of the summer.
"Wow," I smile. "All these weddings and babies…I feel a bit left out."
She breaks into a smile I believe to be a bit too wide and replies, "I have the sneaking suspicion it won't take long. I told you it would happen when you least expected it."
I huff a breath of air and play with an old scar on the table. I've avoided having this conversation with anyone since mum and dad sat me down to tell the story. It's about time I talk to someone. "Six months ago my lacking love life was my greatest concern," I lament. "Now, I don't know what to think."
She reaches across the table and takes my hands in hers. She gives me a supportive squeeze and flashes one of her signature smiles. "I know it's a lot to take in. I watched your parents go through the same thing about seventeen years ago." She winks at me and I can't help but smile. "I wish I knew how I could help," she adds.
"Perhaps we can help," a familiar voice interrupts. I nearly strain my neck at the sound of my father's voice. I haven't seen them since the last Hogsmeade weekend when they broke the news.
"Daddy!" I yell. I leap from the bench and dart across the room into his waiting arms. It may sound weird, but I think I understand the reason why mum married him. There's no safer place in the world than wrapped up in his arms. He squeezes the air out of my lungs and kisses me on the cheek before dropping my feet back to the floor.
"How are you?" he asks with sincerity.
"Fine," I lie. Mum brushes him out of the way to embrace me and I happily return the favor. They look stunning. They're as trim as ever, no doubt a side-effect of their profession, and tanned. "You look magnificent," I exclaim. "I thought you were spending this year in Tahiti?"
"We were, darling," mum replies. "But," she gives my father a loving smile, "we decided it would be better spent with you."
"What about the twins?" I ask with some hesitation.
"They don't even know we're here," dad replies conspiratorially.
"And they'd best be studying for their O.W.L.s," mum adds with a sneer. I can't help but laugh. Mum has always been meticulous about our studies. It always seems to amuse my father when she sends us those infernal homework planners. For that reason, I should be happy about leaving Hogwarts, and homework, behind, but I have three more years of studies to complete Auror training. I'm sure mum has stocked up on the assignment organizers already.
"I'm so glad you're here," I respond as I throw my arms around both of their necks. Dad is the first to step back.
"So let me ask again," he reiterates. "How are you doing?"
I drop my eyes to my feet and inspect my favorite trainers. "I don't know." I look up to dad's matching green eyes. "Why is this bothering me so much?" Dad throws his arm around my shoulders and walks me toward the House table while Aunt Beatrice and mum exchange a quick embrace and begin to catch up.
"It's not everyday you're told that you're the heir of Godric Gryffindor," he answers with a smile. "Trust me, I understand." I can't help but laugh as he bumps shoulders with me and we settle down to the table.
"I suddenly feel so much responsibility. I just don't know what I feel responsible for," I add. I don't know why I haven't spoken with him about this earlier. He'd sent back my last owl with an invitation to come home for a few days. I sent Hedina back to him with the response that I was perfectly fine. As I look at him now, I realize how thick I've been. He's the only one that can understand how I feel.
"Jade," he begins. He throws a quick glance toward mum and digs in the front pocket of his robes. I reach under the table for the chocolate frog I know he's smuggled past the guard. He smiles as I take the box from his hand. "It may sound like a slight against our family, but you're taking this too seriously."
I pop open the box and bite off the frog's head as I listen. In trying to avoid his eyes I find them anyway. "Is it?" I ask as I toss yet another frog card across the table with my father's image emblazoned on it. He glances at it and pushes it aside.
"You are the same person you were before we told you," he replies. Mum settles onto the bench beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. I look up to see a familiar look on my father's face. He is looking between me and mum and smiling with obvious contentment. It dawns on me then, that his sacrifices were all for us. He didn't give up the things he did, he didn't make those sacrifices, for others. He made them for his family. He made them for mum. He made them in the hopes myself and my brothers would one day carry my mother's features and his unruly hairstyle. Everything he did, he did in the name of love. Love is what drove him and love is what saved him.
And that's all I need.
Fin.
Author's Note:
First I'd like to say that I hope you enjoyed the story. I couldn't help but throw in a reference for all my "drifty" ladies from LJ in this epilogue. Also, I stole a reference from Pretty Woman in the wedding scene you probably caught. I thought it worked well.
As far as the story goes…I can hear your flamethrowers already. I might've mentioned that 4 ships would sail in this story…I never said I wouldn't sink one. I am of the firm opinion that Malfoy is a static character. He will never have some cathartic moment in Canon and I couldn't bring myself to write him that way here. The only thing that should've been your warning was the fact I made their relationship so obvious. Of all the twists in this story, that was the one plot line EVERYBODY got as soon as I hinted at it. That should've been its own red flag. I can only hope JK is going the same way with H/H.
I tried to reference anyone I got an idea from as I went along. But most of the plot lines here are what I have in my own mind as theories for what I think (or hope) JK will do with Book 6/7. I was glad to see that my theory on Mark Evans was spot on. I was using him as a red herring, and apparently so was she - if only because she didn't realize what name she'd given him. We'll have to see how the rest pans out. In any case, it will be fun to read if I managed to hit on a few.
As far as OC's go. I've never written one and I continue to be humbled by your reviews of Merc and Damien. I loved both of those characters and I'm glad they hit home runs for you as well J
I've thanked my betas again and again. In total, only three people ever looked at this story while it was being written. Melissa had every chapter and was the best plot and story beta in the box. I appreciate everything you did and the countless hours you've spent on this be it in a file or online. I never figured it would get as long-winded as it did. Bethy took glances at parts I was really stuck on as it went along. She was a lot of help when writing the death of Hermione's parents. That was among the toughest things I'd ever written and I appreciate all of the input there. Jane came on board late in the game and I wished I'd done it sooner. You'll notice the grammar and mechanics got a lot better in the end - I did not have a transplant…Jane got a hold of my chapters. I appreciate your thoroughness in every one. You worked harder than I did in writing them!
If you stuck with Triumvirate from start to finish, you've managed to read 531 pages at one inch margins and single spaced. That translates into 230,932 words. You are tigers! All of you! I can say without hesitation…(as I've already been asked)…THERE IS NO SEQUEL! The folks on the snitch (prior to the hack) are the one's that guilted me into a sequel to Power when I finished writing over there. They are responsible for the existence of ToR. I hope that I've told the story in enough detail that sequels aren't necessary. That being said…I'm sure I'll write some cookies from the TOR world in the future. I have a mind to fill in the wedding night at some point.
So, I shall close the "Power Series" (for good) with my deepest gratitude for all those who helped me write this story and for the many of you that were thoughtful enough to leave reviews (be they good or bad). I read every review and tried to respond to as many as I could. Thank you for your interest in the story. I don't have any new HPFF on the back burner. After all I've managed to put together here, I'd like to try my hand at something original. As I do that it will be friend locked on my LJ to maintain original publishing rights and all that should I be lucky enough to have someone pick it up in the future. Until then, thanks for all your support, and good night.
Vicarious Leigh