Magical Frequency

Chapter Four:

Harry made his way back to the Common Room in silence, smiling to himself. A sense of warmth had overcome him and he could not place the source. Hermione held his hand, and he could not help but smile as she smiled at him. Something wonderful had filled him inside, something that he could not explain. His scar was still there, and his memories were still jumbled, and it finally hit him that his father was still not there with him, rather taken by cancer.

“You sure you okay?” Hermione asked as they stopped at stairs in the common room. “You seemed a bit odd today?”

“I think so,” he said. “Thank you for coming with me.” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You don't know what it means to me.” He said as he pulled back. Not wanting Hermione to see his blushing face, he said his good nights and headed up to his dorm.

Climbing up into the little alcove with the window, he stared up at the northern Lights again, the mirror in his hand. His father was still dead, but he had been there for some of his life, and he could still remember his mother's hugs as she let go of him this year at Platform 3/4. But he could also remember them not being there, like he had lived that life too.

“Harry? Harry you there, chief?” James said. Harry jumped to the mirror, a smile growing larger across his face.

“Yeah, dad, I'm here,” Harry said.

“You're right,” James said out of breath. “We're all fine.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I remember you being there, but I also remember you not. It's like I've lived two lives.” James's face darkened for a moment.

“I'm sorry son, that I, we couldn't be there for you,” James said. Harry shook his head, smiling.

“No, you were there for me now,” Harry said. An awkward silence surrounded them for a moment.

“So, tell me a bit about yourself? Got anybody?” James asked, causing him to blush.

“Yeah, kinda,” Harry said, running his hand through his hair.

“So, who is she?” James asked again with a smirk.

“Its complicated Dad,” Harry said, sitting down in the alcove. “I like her; I think maybe I love her, but….”

“But what?” James said. “If you love her tell her. That what I did with you Mum, course took me about seventy times for it to work.” Harry could not help but share the smirk of his father.

“Its not that simple Dad,” Harry said. “She's been my best friend for almost seven years now. I don't want to risk it.”

“Son, life is not worth living if you don't take some risks,” James said.

“But what if those risks get the ones you love killed?” Harry asked quietly.

“What are you talking about?” James gave him a questioning look.

Harry began to slowly explain his last few years of his life at Hogwarts, from the Philosopher's Stone to the Department of Mysteries. He kept the tears at bay as he spoke of the last part, of how close he came to losing Hermione again this year. He spoke of her and Ron's, his other best friend, failed relationship. His father remained quiet through letting Harry do the most of the talking.

“Son, I don't know what to tell you. You've done all you can,” James said. “Tell her. That's all I can say because its up to you.” He nodded. Another awkward silence. “So….do you play Quidditch?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, discreetly wiping away his tears. “Youngest player on the House team in a century.”

“Really, you must have been a great Chaser,” James said, smirking. Harry could not help but laugh.

“No dad, I play Seeker,” Harry said. “I had a rough childhood.” His face was downcast for a moment, but he tried to hid it.

“I'm sorry son, for not being there again,” James said running a hand through his hair. “But I'm going to be there for you, I promise chief.”

“I know dad, I know,” Harry said, wiping away a tear. “Let me tell you about Quidditch, there is so much I want to tell you.” Harry relaxed as they traded stories. Even in this “new” life, his Quidditch had not changed. He still was the youngest player in a century for the Hogwarts. He still was the best, and Hermione still was his best friend.

As he finished his conversations with his father, he felt relaxed, more alive then he ever felt before. Clearing his mind of anything he did not love, he fell into the calmest sleep he had for more than a decade.

* * * * *

There was a flash of memories in the early morning, ones he had never known before. They were not of the “new” life that he had created for himself. Nor where they from his old. They were flashes of him, in his father's arms as they passed a large box. His father wore black, as did he, still a babe of no more than three.

Harry woke up with a shook, and torn open his curtains. The woman in the box was dead, this he knew and recognized, but it was not the woman he thought. “Normal” memories were that of Hermione's funeral or death. No, this coffin held one Lily Evans Potter in its grasp.

Looking at the picture on his left, he noticed it had changed. The picture was once of both him and his parents at the age of ten, before his father died. Now the picture was just of his father and himself, though his father looked distant, and lost. Shaking his head, the memories of past flooded back to him, but in a jumbled mess. Grabbing his album of photo's now filled with pictures, he flipped through them. His early years still had his mum, but beyond the age of three and the pictures of him with them between the ages of one and three showed her growing weaker, and thin, as if something had taken a hold of her body.

“No,” Harry said. Breaking down in tears, he let the album fall to the floor. His mother was gone, as was his father. His parents were gone again. He barely noticed Hermione sticking her head through the dorm door, and he barely noticed her rushing to his side, knowing what was wrong before he did. All he felt was the pain of being alone disappear, if just until the sun rose.