Chapter Seven: The Return
Sean was dreaming.
In his dream, James was standing in front of him, pointing out towards the hills that hid the Manor from sight of the village, and vice versa.
"He'll come from that direction, you know." James said.
"Are you sure about that?" Sean answered jokingly. "Seems to me the last time you tried a guess like that you lost fifty galleons to me in poker."
"All the same, he'll come from that direction." James said firmly.
Sean sighed and leaned back. "I wish you could be here to see him. I bet he wishes that too."
James smiled lightly. "The loved dead never really leave us. I have been watching my son from afar for many years now. Lily has too, and Sirius could do nothing but talk about him when he arrived. The first words out of his mouth were, `you've got one heck of a kid.' I'm very proud of my son, and he'll know just how proud before the day is out."
"What, are you going to tell him?" Sean asked, only half seriously.
"Not really, but you are."
"How? I don't think Harry would like anyone trying to take the place of his father as far as man-to-man talks go." Sean snorted in disbelief.
James started to fade away, his last words to Sean blurring, and fading into nothingness.
"You must not turn your back on what you've longed for all your life. Have courage, Harry, and face your destiny with courage."
"Tell him, Sean. Tell him."
*
Harry touched down on the path. As his feet touched the gravel he straightened, staring at the Manor.
The front of the building was an early Victorian style, but that strayed and blended into brick, then stone. It had obviously been added to over the years. The wall surrounding it was a hodgepodge of boulders cemented together, brickwork, and stone so ancient Hermione could easily believe it had been there for a thousand years.
A flood of memories poured in on Harry, each clamoring to be recognized. Every feature, from the iron gate, the fountain in the front garden, even the roses and ivy growing up the walls of the house, looked familiar to him.
Turning to Hermione, Harry spoke in a hoarse whisper.
"I was born here. I know this place!"
Dismounting, he walked towards the gate.
Hermione hesitated. Did she have the right to follow him? Shouldn't this be his, and his alone?
You promised him. Said a voice in her head.
No, she answered it silently. It wouldn't be right to intrude on him now.
Follow him. He cannot do this alone. The voice insisted.
Hermione dimly registered that the voice sounded male, before she started after Harry.
*
Striding up the path, Harry kept his eyes fixed on the gate. It seemed to pull him towards it like a magnet. There was a letter P worked in wrought iron at the apex of the top curve.
At first he thought his eyes were deceiving him. Pausing, he stared at the light coming from the stone obelisk that was the frame for the gate.
It was a light. Someone had lit a fire there recently, in the small guardhouse where might have stood an armed guard in days gone by.
The smoldering fire was outside of the guardhouse, and it had died to embers. The feeble light it cast was not enough to illuminate the space in the obelisk, but Harry could see the outline of someone sitting, huddled in a cloak.
Drawing his wand from the inner pocket of his coat, Harry walked towards the space silently. He entered the alcove, crouching slightly. He paused just inside, looking around until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom.
Covered by a long leather cloak, a man sat dozing, his back against the wall, head on his chest. He reminded Harry strongly of Remus Lupin, in that he looked older than he was, in a world-weary fashion.
Harry sat cross-legged in the tiny space, across the dirt floor from the man. This must be Sean Xavier, he reasoned. Harry had written him a letter by Owl Post telling him when he would be coming, but Sean had not had the chance to reply. It was obvious he had received it though, for here he was, sitting in the guardhouse.
Harry leaned forward, extended his wand, and tapped the old man's hand lightly. He did this once again, and the man stirred, raising his face to Harry's. The man spoke in an awestruck voice. "James, is that you?"
Wordlessly, Harry pointed his wand at the dying fire, muttering an incantation as he did so. The flames leapt higher, and light flooded the alcove. Harry leaned back until his back touched the wall. He set his wand to one side.
A slow smile of pure joy stole across Sean's face.
"James! It is you! But how…?"
Harry spoke gently, so he wouldn't startle the man. "I'm Harry Potter, son of James and Lily Potter. You must be Sean Xavier."
Rising slowly, the man shuffled around the fire. Sitting next to Harry, he reached out and touched the boy's face. Harry watched in silence as tears ran down the man's cheeks.
"So many years. So many years ago I came here, happier than I could have ever hoped. But it ended too soon, far too soon…"
Tears overcame further speech. Harry awkwardly placed his arm around Sean's shoulders, patting his back and feeling very wrong-footed.
Sean pulled away, searching Harry's face.
"You are Harry. So like your father, so like him. You probably don't remember me, but I remember you. Such a funny little baby, with that wild hair from your father, always trying to eat your toes. You liked my recipes though, I'll have to give you some, see if you still like them."
Harry coughed to cover his embarrassment. I wonder what Hermione would think if she heard that! He thought.
"You're right about one thing, I don't remember you, nor do I remember being that attached to my feet. But I'll tell you one thing Sean, if you insist on telling me embarrassing stories from when I was a baby, please do them out of Hermione's earshot."
"Hermione? Isn't she that girl that the Daily Prophet said you were dating?"
Before Harry could answer, Sean said hurriedly, "Not that I necessarily believe that, mind you, it's just that the articles were very detailed, and Dumbledore himself said you were very close friends. Not that that would mean anything other than friendship of course, but I…" realizing he was babbling, Sean trailed off in embarrassment.
Harry said nothing. Sean's words had given him pause for thought. He knew Dumbledore would never lie about Harry, but did he really see them as very close friends? What about Ron? Wasn't he Harry's friend too? Why would Dumbledore say that about Hermione, and not Ron?
Sean cleared his throat. "Well, I suppose you'd like to see the house?" he prompted.
Harry shook his head, as if trying to scare away a fly. "Yes, please. You said it was locked?"
Sean pulled a ring of ancient keys from his pocket as they left the guardhouse.
"Indeed it is. And it has been for fifteen years. Not a single soul has entered in all that time, unless they were ghosts. Ah, you must be Hermione."
Hermione stepped forward with her hand extended.
"And you must be Sean. Harry told me that you used to work here?"
Sean grinned cheekily at her. "Aye, miss. I did, and I tell you, if you are Harry's girlfriend, he could not have chosen a prettier girl."
Hermione turned to Harry, who covered his face with his hand.
"YOU TOLD HIM I WAS YOUR GIRLFRIEND?!?" she yelled.
Harry reached out a hand toward her, pleadingly. "Hermione, I never said that. He was just asking me if the rubbish Rita Skeeter wrote about us was true, and I didn't really give him an answer."
Hermione felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She herself had told people that Rita's articles had been rubbish, and not thought twice about it. Why should she feel so different now? Did a part of her wish they had been true? Did she wish it could be true?
Harry was looking at her with a worried expression on his face.
She closed her eyes. She had not really meant to yell at Harry for what Sean had said. When he had made that comment, a part of her had leapt for joy at the thought that Harry had told someone they were together. Of course it would have been nice if she had been informed first, but she was willing to take what she could get. Then she had remembered all the snide comments made as she passed, when people thought she couldn't hear her. Especially during fourth year, after the articles had been published. People, mainly Slytherins, had actually told her to her face then that she was too ugly for anyone to be interested in romantically. She had never told Harry this, though. He was already worried enough over the Tournament then, and she didn't want to add her personal troubles to his already heavy burden, especially when she knew he would take it seriously. She had cried herself to sleep many times that year, sometimes over Harry, sometimes because she couldn't shake the horrible feeling that what all those people had said about her was true, that no one would ever love her, no one would ever want to be with her, least of all Harry…
Her thoughts were interrupted by a pair of strong arms wrapping around her. She knew it was Harry without even opening her eyes. Only Harry had that scent, of leather and parchment and grass from the quidditch pitch. Only Harry could ever make her feel this safe, this…loved.
Before the implications of this thought had fully registered in her brain, Harry ran his fingers through her hair gently, driving all thought out of her mind as completely as the wind blows away dust.
"I'm sorry I didn't explain it to him. But I was thinking of something else at the time and, well…" He trailed off.
"It's all right. I didn't mean to yell at you, I was just…" She couldn't finish her sentence either.
Sean coughed to get their attention, and they broke apart, though Hermione noticed that Harry's hands lingered on her arms for perhaps a second longer than necessary before dropping to his sides.
Harry turned to Sean, reaching out his hand.
Wordlessly, clearly still embarrassed at what he had said, Sean handed the keys to Harry.
Harry stepped up to the gate. The largest key had a monogrammed letter P on its end, and it was this one that Harry inserted into the keyhole of the gate. Slowly, he turned it to the left. The lock clicked, and the gate swung open, creaking as though caught in a high wind.
Harry stepped inside the grounds, and headed for the front door, Hermione and Sean following close behind.
*
It was the saddest thing Hermione had ever seen.
Harry had paused outside the front door, reaching out a hand to touch the roses twined around the lintel. He found the key to the front door, though how he knew which one it was remained a mystery to Hermione, as all the other keys aside from the one to the front gate, and a smaller one that looked like a diary key, were all alike. Harry had lit his wand, and walked inside.
The first glance around the hall revealed more about his family than Harry could have imagined.
The walls were lined with portraits, paintings and photographs of people whom Harry had only seen once before, in the Mirror of Erised. His family, the Potters and the Evans's, all together on the wall.
Harry could tell immediately which side of the family each person belonged to. Those with green eyes or red hair were obviously from his mother's side, and those with unruly black hair from his father's.
He walked down the hall slowly, looking at each face, blowing away the layers of dust that coated the glass on the photographs, reaching out to touch the paintings.
It took Hermione several minutes to notice that none of the portraits were moving.
This surprised her. Half of Harry's family had been wizards, and yet none of the portraits moved. All the people stayed in their places, like in Muggle pictures. She wouldn't have been surprised if the only ones that were motionless had been those of the Evans's, but not a single one moved.
Harry continued down the hall. There were two doors on either side of the hall, but it was to the one at the very end of the hallway that Harry headed. He opened the door, and walked inside, not waiting for the other two.
"That was the kitchen." Sean whispered to Hermione.
She knew why he whispered. As soon as Harry had disappeared from view, the eyes in all the pictures seemed to shift to them, as though they had no right to be here. Though that may have been because neither she nor Sean had a light, and the glow from Harry's wand had disappeared with him.
Just a trick of the light, that's all. She told herself, following Harry's footprints in the thick dust that coated the floor.
Inside the kitchen she paused, feeling like her heart would break.
Harry had stopped next to the table. It was an enormous slab of carved wood that stretched the length of the room, so long that its far end could not be seen in this dim light.
Harry stood at the head of the table, on which rested two sets of dishes, set out for a dinner that would never be eaten. His hand rested on the back of a baby's high chair that stood in between the seat at the head of the table, and the seat just around the corner of it. On the tray was a bottle, lying on its side, its contents long since dried up.
Harry reached out a hand and picked up the bottle. He handled it as if it had been made of the most delicate glass, turning it over in his hands. His mouthed moved silently, as if he was trying to remember something, and it would help to say it aloud.
Hermione stayed in the doorway. Why had she come here? She asked herself angrily. She had no right to be here, this was private! If Harry had known, he would never have asked her to come, of that she was sure.
But then Harry turned to her. He walked towards her, still holding the tiny bottle in both hands. Hermione was motionless as he came nearer, not knowing what to expect.
What Harry did next, she would never have guessed would happen.
Harry reached out, and took her hand in his. He opened her fingers, which she realized had been clenched in her fury at herself. He placed the bottle in her hand, and wrapped her fingers around it, encompassing her hand with his own.
"Hold on to this for me, will you?" he whispered, not looking at her.
*
The next room they explored was the living room.
A doorway led off the kitchen, opening into a room so dim and dusty that Hermione at first mistook it for a storage room of some sort.
Sean reached around her and flicked a light switch.
The chandelier in the ceiling burst into light, and the effect was so startling that Hermione put her hand over her eyes, giving them time to adjust to the abrupt change.
When she did venture to open her eyelids, she saw Harry standing near the window looking down. Hermione followed his gaze, and saw an old rocking chair, lying on its side on the dusty floor, knocked over, as though whoever sat in it last had left it in a hurry. Harry bent down and wrapped his fingers around the headrest, pulling it upright and sliding it closer to the window.
"She always put it there, so I could see outside." He whispered to himself.
He turned in a circle, taking in the rest of the room.
A claw-footed sofa upholstered in dark green stood against the wall, large enough to seat at least six people. Red cushions decorated it, and a handmade quilt done in shades of blue was draped across the back.
The other wall was dominated by a fireplace, a richly carved mahogany mantelpiece and lintel encircled it, meeting black marble tiles on that section of the floor prone to soot.
Above the mantelpiece was a portrait, depicting three people, a man, woman, and baby.
This picture, like those in the hall, was also not enchanted to move, yet the figures it portrayed were so lifelike Hermione wondered that they didn't come to life and leave the painting altogether.
The man looked like Harry, except his eyes were hazel. He was sitting with his arms around a beautiful young woman with bright red hair, and emerald eyes. Her eyes were mirrored in the baby she was holding, a baby wrapped in a white blanket, smiling as he reached up to touch his mother's face. Both the man and woman were looking down at their child, smiling, completely oblivious to whoever the artist was that portrayed them so beautifully, lost in their own happiness.
Harry stepped closer to the fireplace, his eyes never leaving the portrait.
Something was struggling inside him. A memory, long since forgotten, rose to the surface of his mind.
"He has your hair. I told you I would never forgive you if he had your hair."
"It's not like I had a choice. Besides, he has your eyes. Doesn't that make up for it?"
"No it doesn't. Some poor girl is going to fall in love with him and their children are going to have your hair. I'll be the grandmother of a bunch of unkempt little raven haired children who have inherited the Potter's legacy of unruly hair."
"Aren't we getting a little ahead of ourselves? Besides, whoever he marries might have wonderfully straight hair, and it'll even out."
"I hope so. I don't want to be the grandmother of a bunch of untidy Elvis Presley look-alikes."
"Better Elvis Presley than Albert Einstein. Now that guy had messy hair."
Harry was interrupted by a hand on his arm.
Hermione had watched as Harry stared at the portrait, never blinking, never looking away. She watched as his eyes filled with tears. Knowing what must be going through his mind, she walked over to him and touched his arm.
He looked back at her without really seeing her, lost in whatever memory had made itself manifest to him. She raised a hand to his face, wishing he would blink, as his stare was starting to unnerve her.
As her fingers touched his cheek, he released his breath in a shuddering sigh and closed his eyes.
"Is there anything I can do?" she asked gently.
"No." he answered.
She nodded. Slightly hurt, and started to turn away, but Harry caught her hand in his.
"You've already done so much for me."
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