Coming Home

Author: Isobel Pranger

Title: Coming Home (1/3)

Prompt: Many years after school: Harry has gotten used to being alone, having pushed people away out of fear for their safety. Hermione works an internship at the Ministry. Ginny plays Quidditch for the Harpies. Ron works internationally. The loss of Mr. or Mrs. Weasley (due to natural causes) brings friendships back together. People have moved on and Harry realizes how much he missed them. Especially a certain brown-haired witch.

Summary: Sometimes when life claims the innocence of a young soul, all that soul has left is to hide away and heal. When Ron suffers the death of his mother, can Harry pull himself together enough to mend his friendships and his heart?

Warning: None

Other ships: R/LL, N/G

Rating: PG-13

Notes: Sorry this is out so late after when I said it would be. I’m incredibly busy and slow. This story has been broken down into three parts, for both your viewing pleasure and my own time management. Big thanks and hugs to Steph for her beta!

Coming Home

To most people, the life of the ever famous Boy-Who-Lived might seem lonely. Waking up every morning without another person with him and then spending the whole day in solitude, is certainly uneventful. In a world filled with grateful wizards and witches, one might question why he would wish to live out the rest of his days in a small Muggle village where his name wasn’t spelled out in lights for everyone to see. But if he was to be honest, this was the way Harry Potter liked it.

There were no people knocking down his door at all hours, no twisted, evil madmen on his tail, and no absurd hero-worship and proclaims of him being chosen. He woke up every day and ate breakfast, just like everybody else. He wore regular jeans that were just a few sizes too big, and ratty old t-shirts that were well lived in and he saw no real reason to replace. His favorite pair of trainers sat by the back door, covered in mud and stained by grass, and he wore the same silly Muggle coat he’d had since he was seventeen.

Harry Potter considered his life humble, especially whenever he took a moment to compare it with some of the greater wizards before his time. Even Dumbledore, extraordinary man that he’d been, had dressed in brilliant colors and had thousands of rare trinkets. Harry only had his house, which he would admit was rather large, built on the same site in Godric’s Hollow that his parents’ home had once rested. He wasn’t sure why he felt more secure here than any place save maybe Hogwarts, but he did. It wasn’t overly magical; in fact, its walls were filled with many simple Muggle inventions and a fair few that would have any neighborly visitors questioning.

Though no matter how far he’d try to run from it, it seemed that the one thing Harry would never escape would be gossip. It was only natural, he’d decided, for him to be used to it. He was sure the young kids at his Muggle primary school had jabbered on about him like he was some kind of freak, and the wizarding world hadn’t failed to print anything about his life from the moment he stepped in until the moment he stepped out. And part of him, or at least the part that would admit that sometimes he thought about it, was sure that they still did.

And so too had it gone for the Muggles. They had all been very interested in their new neighbor, as there were very few moving in annually, when he moved into town. The old ladies at the hair parlor had gotten right into gossip about how he lived alone, on a lot that had not been used since the early eighties, and had been rumored to have been haunted. There were also a few awkward moments involving some teenage girls chasing him up his driveway after they’d spotted him jogging down a gravel road without his t-shirt on. The one thing that got them going more than anything else, however, was his visits to the cemetery.

He’d barely lived in the Hollow for a week when the woman in charge of the grocery shop, Margaret, had spotted him dressed in his black suit walking through the headstones with flowers in his hand. He’d stopped near the top of a small hill and knelt down, softly, placing the flowers at the base of the marker. He leaned forward, rested his forehead against the stone and started to whisper something that the old woman couldn’t hear. He sat there for a long time, she would later inform her friends, he eventually stood up and walked away, but he indiscreetly wiped tears from his eyes as he left

After he’d left and Margaret had taken the opportunity to see whose final resting place it was he’d been to, she’d discovered the power to rekindle one of the greatest mysteries on the area.

It had always baffled the people of Godric’s Hollow when it came to what happened to Lily and James Potter. They’d been a handsome couple, though very young, with a small baby boy. They were rather quiet though, and kept to themselves, as if they didn’t want to draw attention. Then one morning, the sleepy town had arisen to find their home in ruins. Their bodies were being examined by authorities of anunknown nature, both parents dead and the baby alive. Lily and James were buried later on that week, and they never saw the baby again. So naturally, when a young man shows up and builds a home on that lot and visits their graves, questions and far-fetched stories had to arise.

Harry felt no need to fill them in on anything. He’d let them talk, he decided, because if it weren’t that, it would be something else. He’d rather they wonder than notice something important about him, like his magic and then he’d have to leave. He didn’t want to leave. He liked it there.

It was almost like home.

He’d made the decision to move to Godric’s Hollow a few days before his defeat of Voldemort, which he wouldn’t discuss with anyone even if they were standing next to him when it happened, thank you very much. All he’d say on the subject was that he’d stood up, battered and bloody, and walked off. He’d made no comment to the Prophet, he’d not spoken to any Aurors or any other authorities, and he’d not even blinked in the direction of a single Order member. All he’d wanted was to grab what few things in the world he considered his and go hide somewhere. Some place where no one would find him, where nobody would care about his life before now, and were he’d have no one close enough to him to ever get hurt.

Especially so no one would get hurt.

The last he’d seen of his best friends, Ron and Hermione, were a bit fuzzy. They’d been together, he remembered. He’d told them goodbye, and that even if he lived, he wouldn’t come back. Hermione had run to him and hugged him tight, and she’d whispered over and over that he couldn’t go, that they needed him. He didn’t think they would. They had each other now. That would have to be good enough. They’d never be in danger when they were together, they’d never be hurt when they weren’t with him.

Dobby had been the only one to follow him. Dobby and that painful sack of skin, Kreacher. They’d served him for years, with pay of course, until Kreacher died. The first instinct Harry had was to build a bonfire, but the sound of Hermione’s voice in his head, telling him that Kreacher should be treated like a person, prompted a shady funeral service at the far end of his backyard. Only he and Dobby were in attendance.

To say that Harry separated himself from his past all together would be a bit harsh. He’d not tried to forget it or lock it all away in a box in his attic. He no longer read the Prophet and it would be a long time before anyone ever saw him in Diagon Alley again, but he’d not forgotten. In fact, he had a wall in his library dedicated specially for it. He’d nailed up many important items from his past, including what remained of his invisibility cloak, the Marauder’s Map, the label to his old broom servicing kit, a few stray Exploding Snap cards, the Dumbledore card from his first chocolate frog, and the mirror that Sirius had given him.

While Harry had never been much of a reader, one of his favorite places was his library. The walls were covered in books, some he’d read and many more that he hadn’t. There were several he’d taken from best-selling lists and several more that Hermione had suggested to him at one point or another in their years in Hogwarts. It was a large room that he could sit in and feel like the rest of the world was just a million miles away, and he loved it.

Which was perhaps why Harry was so surprised when, of all creatures, Hedwig came flying up to the window of his library one dark, cloudy afternoon. He’d been sprawled out on a couch in the middle of the room, a small stack of books on the floor close by and one lying comfortably on his stomach.

He’d been grumpy and irritable when he reached the window and let the owl in, having completely forgotten that he’d let her out in the first place. She’d ruffled her feathers and stuck her beak up to him, shoving her leg out into his hand like he didn’t deserve what she had to offer. He peeled the envelope open, once she’d allowed him to have it, and tugged the letter free.

“Oh,” he said, scanning over his old friend’s handwriting, “Fuck.”

* * * * * * * *

Hermione Granger’s ride to the Burrow was without incident, though had there been any she would hardly have noticed. Life had just taken a sudden and scary turn for the worst, and while she liked to consider herself the kind of person who could easily roll with the punches, she’d become too comfortable and out of practice to do it now.

It had been a long time since she’d been to the Burrow. Five years, maybe, if she were to track it backwards. That didn’t mean she’d cut herself out of the Weasley family’s life all together like that of her former best friend, Harry Potter. Oh, no, she’d visited with them often. Catching Mr. Weasley in the Ministry or having lunch with Percy. She sometimes stopped into the Wheezes in Diagon when she was feeling down, and Fred and George were always willing to do whatever they could to help pick her up. She was still good friends with Neville and Ginny, and though there was an unspoken strain between her and Ron, they still found the time to exchange owls from time to time.

The car she rode in stopped in front of the funny looking house at the furthest corner of Ottery St. Catchpole, the front yard covered family members dressed in black. Looking out, she could see countless Weasleys, spouses of Weasleys, and even a Weasling or two. Some of them were talking to one another, some were just hugging and crying, and there were a few stray mourners who simply stared ahead and said nothing.

She’d known that Molly Weasley had suffered a form of cancer, she wasn’t sure which, and Ron had told her in no uncertain terms a few months ago that it had gotten worse. It didn’t stop the owl tapping on the bedroom window of her London flat from being a shock, though. She wouldn’t lie and say that she hadn’t cried like it had been her own mother, because she had. She’d rocked herself back and forth and sobbed, and she was sure she wasn’t the only one. Once she’d composed herself she wasted no time in owling Ron back, informing him in a note stained with tears that she would be the first one there for the funeral.

She pushed the car door open and tipped the man who’d driven it for her, since she’d never officially learned how to drive herself. She slowly climbed out, taking hold of the doorframe and pulling herself to her feet. The heels of her shoes stunk into the ground that was completely saturated from a night of solid rain. As she walked across the front yard in search of either Ron or some other close Weasley who needed comfort, she spotted Neville Longbottom standing uncomfortably outside a ring of females that were hugging and crying together.

“Hello Neville,” she said, as pleasantly as possible, stopping to stand next to him. Neville took his time in pulling his attention away from the mob of sobbing women before looking to Hermione and smiling for her weakly.

“Nice to see you, Hermione,” he said, turning to her and initiating the appropriate embrace that should be exchanged at a time like this, “So terrible that we must meet on such an occasion,” he said, looking back to the women. Hermione nodded in agreement. Neville and Ginny had come together a few months after the end of the war, both depressed and lonely after the final battle. Hermione supposed, at the time, that it would only be natural since there were parts of their past that they shared with very few others. And while most had believed it would be a short relationship in the absence of who was popularly felt to be Ginny’s ‘ideal man,’ Harry, Neville had taken it upon himself to prove them wrong. Hermione couldn’t deny that they loved each other more than anyone she’d known up to this point, and had been very excited when they chose to marry three years ago in the back yard of this very house.

“How has Ginny been holding up?” Hermione asked, gesturing to the scene before them, a tangle of red Weasley hair slightly visible from somewhere near the middle.

“As well as can be expected, I guess,” Neville said, shrugging. Hermione got the impression that he’d tried his best, but as it goes in a family like that of the Weasley clan, the only way to heal is in a group, and one man couldn’t bear that load. “She’s been crying every moment since we heard it was over. But it’s getting better. At first she wouldn’t get out of bed. She got up and did a few minor things around the house yesterday and she was up bright and early this morning… I think it’s safe to take that as a good sign.”

Again, Hermione nodded, not necessarily out of agreement but out of a loss of anything encouraging to say, “And you? Are you doing all right, Neville?”

Neville’s eyebrows rose, “I don’t know… how am I supposed to be, Hermione? I was never as close with the Weasleys as you were, even after I married Ginny. I can’t tell her I understand or know how she feels because not only are my parents still alive, but even if they did die, I have never really known them in the same way she’s known hers. It’s just so hopeless.”

Hermione rested a hand on Neville’s shoulder gently, in an attempt to be soothing, “It’ll get better, Neville. Time will make it better.” He almost responded with a comment he may have regretted later, but something in Hermione’s expression made him change his mind. She wasn’t looking at him anymore; she was gazing off in the distance behind him. Neville craned his neck to see if he could find what she was seeing, and if he’d expected anything at all, it wasn’t what he found.

Harry Potter had just climbed out of a parked car. Neville watched wordlessly as the color quickly drained from Hermione’s face and the hand she held on his shoulder got a great bit tighter. He’d never bothered to ask what Hermione felt of his disappearance, though he didn’t really need to anymore. He had discussed it with Ginny, who’d been a mixture of frustrated and understanding. Part of him figured Hermione would have been all understanding, seeing as she seemed to be the only person alive who ‘got’ Harry almost all of the time.

“So sorry Neville,” Hermione said, faster than he’d ever heard her speak before, and in a voice a lot tighter than usual. She fisted her purse in her hand and left him. His attention going went from Hermione as she walked out of sight to Harry as he walked into it.

Neville, had he been honest, had been dreading seeing Harry again. As the world-proclaimed successor to Ginny’s heart, he must confess the fact that they’d never so much as gotten a blessing on Harry’s part had worried him. What if Harry still harbored feelings for his wife? Neville was sure Ginny no longer reciprocated, but Harry’s presence had a way of instilling fear in people. Now, quickly forgetting Hermione’s hasty departure, he wiped his hands off on his pants and forced a smile onto his face, “Hiya, Harry!”

Hermione, for her part, made it out of the front yard in record time. She’d had no indication that Harry had noticed her, and she had no intension of seeing him. That realization broke her someplace inside. It was odd, how there was a point in her life she thought she’d never tire of being with him. She would never dread seeing his face. But she did, and that hurt.

She had tried to be understanding when he hadn’t returned after the fight with the darkest wizard of their age. Even though the Order had insisted over and over again that he’d survived, without seeing his face and holding him close, she’d mourned him as though he’d died. It had been several weeks before Ron could pull her out of her bed, and it was well over a year before she was willing to go to places like Hogwarts again. For the longest time, people wouldn’t speak his name or talking about him in her presence, all of them fearful that she would lose it. It wasn’t until she initiated a conversation about him on her own that regular talk of Harry began.

The end of her and Ron’s relationship had been her fault, and she was willing to take the blame. It was Ron who had been grown up enough to call it as it was, but it was her general disinterest that finished them off. It was strange, after all she went through… that sort period in the summer between fifth and sixth year were she figured she might as well go for it, until the moment on their journey that had finally caused it… that uncomfortable tension had felt like the worth it part of the relationship. Like if they could survive all that, they must be destiny. They could handle the long haul. But in the final months, it was that there was no Harry. Nothing was ‘worth it,’ if there was no Harry. Not even Ron.

And Ron had tried, he really did. He worked his butt off in the hopes that somehow he could fill the hole in her that Harry had left behind. But the hole wasn’t just in her. It had always been there, always filled by Harry. Something about her and Ron just didn’t click, and Harry had always been the neutral territory. He was their only common interest, he was the thing that brought them together and kept them that way… but once he left, his absence made them fall apart.

They’d both promised in their final moments as a couple, that they would always be friends, and that they would always be close. They hadn’t lied entirely. They were still friends, and they had enough respect for each other to be close… but it was that damn elephant in the room that kept it from sticking. It had saddened her; both in the way that so many had revolved themselves around one man and in the way that he was what tore his own inner circle apart.

She found Ron sitting alone in his old room. He was slumped over with his elbows on his knees and his hands were clasped before him. Even though his head was down, she could see that he was crying silently, trying to be the tough guy he’d always hoped he was and really wasn’t. Had she been anyone else, any normal person, she might have turned and left him with his pride. But she was Hermione, and the last thing she would ever leave her boys with was pride. “Hello, Ron,” she said.

Had Ron been making any movement at all, it halted when he tensed up in surprise. He lifted his head to look at her, and while in his youth he might have smiled or joked to relieve some tension, he didn’t anymore. His eyes were hopeless and lost, like a little boy who was far from home and had nobody to hold his hand. He took a few moments to collect himself, before he swallowed and replied, “Hi, Hermione.”

Hermione closed the door and walked into the room, sitting down next to him on the bed and taking a tight hold on one of his hands, “I’m terribly sorry about your mum,” she said, using her other arm to rub his back soothingly, “How are you holding up?”

“As well as you think I am, I’m sure,” Ron said, looking any place in the room but at her. He wasn’t the Ron of younger days any longer. Hell, she was sure that under his robes he wasn’t the Ron she remembered any longer, either. His body had finally caught up with his height, giving him a more adult look. His hair had darkened a shade or two. He held a maturity that only life could bring, and should a younger version of herself ever try to travel time and find him, she would probably have no idea who he was.

“I’m making no assumptions about you Ron,” she said, lifting her chin a notch. He scoffed, probably as he knew her too well, and she frowned, “I mean it, I’m not. Despite everything that’s in our past, I can’t assume losing your mother would be even remotely the same as anybody else you’ve lost. So just tell me, how are you doing?”

“She was my mum,” Ron admitted, nodding as he looked down to the floor, “There’s really no way to describe the way that feels and do it any real justice.” Hermione nodded to his admission. That, she could understand. Not know or feel, but understand. Her mother was miles away, safe, with her father, and that’s exactly the way she liked it. She couldn’t imagine being in Ron’s shoes, and she not-so-secretly hoped that she wouldn’t be for a long, long time.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Honestly? No,” he said, lowering his head as his shoulders sagged, “I’ve talked with all my brothers and my sister and my dad about it since her final moments. And when it wasn’t one of them, it was Luna or her dad, trying to get to some lost hostility towards the world or some such nonsense. But you know me, Hermione. If I were going to be hostile to the world it would have been long before now. I have nothing to be upset about but the fact that everyday for the rest of my life my mum isn’t going to be there.”

“She’ll always be with you, you know,” Hermione reassured, quietly. Ron laughed and turned his face to her, smiling a little bit more bitterly than usual. It twisted her heart a little, to see him so depressed over his mother. It took her a few moments to remember that it was no longer her job to worry about whether or not his pieces got back together. That job belonged to a woman with blonde hair and strange tastes. Hermione wasn’t going to overstep those bounds anymore, and it was a promise she’d kept since right before a boy with green eyes walked out of her life.

“We must have one hell of a crowd going out there by now,” Ron said, as he twisted his fingers together, like he’d forgotten their basic purpose and was curious as to what they’d do if he bent them in different directions. Hermione couldn’t think of anything to say, so she just nodded her head.

The door opened in a polite intrusion, and once the initiator showed himself Hermione considered it completely inappropriate. Harry stood in the doorway, one hand still loosely on the knob and the other miserably tucked into his pants pocket. His hair was disheveled presumably from running his fingers through it repeatedly but his eyes were the same. No matter how old he got, they always would be the same. “Hi, guys,” he said, his misery apparent.

“How’d you find us?” Ron blurted out, before Hermione could even get the chance. The upstairs of the Weasley home wasn’t usually open to strangers, and Hermione could hardly continue to call him a family friend, seeing as the first thing he did was flee from it.

Harry shrugged his shoulders before letting them hang loose again, his expression unchanging, “Your dad found me in the midst of the strangest conversation with Neville… we chatted for a sec, and he told me you’d come up here to hide and Hermione was hot on your trail,” he seemed to be refusing to look Hermione in the eye, “So I headed on up.”

Ron nodded, as though this wasn’t out of the ordinary and the way Harry acted, as though little to no time had passed made perfect sense. “Well,” he said, looking from one to the other, “I guess this means that it’s the trio back together again…” he paused as he grinned a bit to himself, “How awkward.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

After an hour or so of uncomfortable silence broken only by the occasional reassurance by himself or Hermione, Harry wandered out by his favorite spot in the garden. There was a dark chair sitting in one of the murkier corners, that few of the Weasleys ever seemed to acknowledge and during the summers in the packed house he would come to this place to recapture a state of mind. He sat down in the chair, somewhat dirtier and weaker than he remembered it being, and looked out into the green wilderness. Looking out, he could see how Mrs. Weasley’s illness had affected it, any flowers there may have been were no longer visible amongst all the weeds, and there were patches of dead, brown plants scattered throughout the field.

Harry wouldn’t deny that he enjoyed his time by himself. It was one of those facts that weren’t necessarily flattering, but true in an undoubtable way. He needed to gather his thoughts in absolute peace, or he’d start to think of things he had gone out of his way for many years to forget.

As most things go in life, however, his hopes of peace were to be shattered. Ironically, they were also shattered by the one person who seemed to fight her way into his awareness right when it was least comfortable or appropriate. Hermione had non-accidentally followed him to his favorite hiding place. She’d known about it, even when he was a boy. It was one of those things they’d had in common, their need for alone time. He would sneak off, oftentimes after dinner and hide out there by himself. She would go up to the room she and Ginny shared, and while the younger girl would fight for attention with her brothers downstairs, Hermione would curl up with a book. Sometimes she would look out there and see him, and once again realize how lost and innocent he was, and part of her would wish that he could always be that way.

He wouldn’t be. She knew that now. He would never be that lost little boy who was just looking for someone to love him. He was a lost, full-grown man, and even though he was loathe to admit it, he was still needing someone to love him. And she would love him; no matter how old he became or how much innocence he lost. It was a difficult fact of life for her. She would watch him from the shadows, she would cheer for him when he was losing, and she would hold his hand even if he didn’t realize she was there. That was her lot in life.

She walked quietly along the path; spotting Harry seated several feet ahead of her. His face was shielded by his hands, covering it from her view. He was thinking bad thoughts, she could tell. Part of her hoped that he was beating himself up over all that he’d lost in his time away. She wanted that small bit of revenge. There was a burn in her that felt he deserved it.

Harry’s age had brought an obscure form of knowledge, an awareness that few others possessed. While Hermione may have been walking quiet enough to surprise any other person, Harry had a sixth sense about a hostile force approaching, and the manner in which Hermione walked would never change. He looked up and saw her standing above him, so he sat up and straightened out his back, though it was hardly enough to make him feel any less small.

The look on her face spoke volumes to Harry. Other people might not have been able to see any difference between how she looked normally to how she did now, but there was a subtle bit of snarkiness that told him she was in a dreadfully sarcastic mood. He watched without word as she turned and walked away, spinning in almost a complete circle before she plopped herself down onto a chair across from him, the dirt and weakness of the chair equal to his own. She rested her elbow on the armrest and then set her cheek on the heel of her palm, “What has you out here all by yourself, Harry?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal manner, “I’m just used to being alone, I guess.”

Her eyebrows instantly knitted together, and Harry got the sense that she was fighting to not glare at him, “You’ll find no pity from this bench,” she said, her tone firm as she stared him in the eye, “Any loneliness you suffer you brought upon yourself.”

Harry nodded, knowing better than to fight with her about it. He chose to look to the ground than directly in her eye. He knew he’d been wrong to go. Leaving like that wasn’t fair, and if he’d thought that showing up out of the blue would make everything a-okay, he was deluding himself. If he ever wanted a relationship with Ron, or—obviously—Hermione, it was going to take a hell of a lot of work for him to earn it. He chanced a momentary glance at Hermione again, giving her the quickest once-over in history before looking down again. Would it be worth it?

“I guess you’re right,” he admitted. He kept looking at the ground as he spoke, “I just feel like I missed so much, you know? I mean, Neville and Ginny are married. Percy’s back in the family, he’s married to some woman I don’t know, and they’ve got two kids. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes is the biggest chain joke shop in the world. Charlie moved back home and has a new job. Bill and Fleur have moved about seven times between here and France. And Ron started dating and got engaged to Luna Lovegood and I never knew anything about it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, rather openly and without any sort of modesty, “Our world doesn’t stop spinning just because you’re not in it, Harry.”

“’Guess that’s hard to remember when everyone’s been telling you it rests on your shoulders,” Harry said, growing tired of her attitude. He shook his head, “And what about you, Hermione? Are you running the world and showing up a husband yet?”

Hermione huffed a laugh, “I work as an intern in the Ministry, Harry. That’s hardly running the world,” she slouched in her chair, “And I have no husband. I was with a man, for a very long time. But he and I have parted ways, because we were far too different from one another.”

Harry finally looked back to her face, “Really? Who?”

“Doyen Wellaras, he’s a professional Quidditch Keeper. Everyone thought we were so cute, because we never agreed on anything. Once he became a high-profile personality, the papers used to say stuff about how we were complete opposites,” Harry’s eyebrows rose as she spoke, “they were wrong. We had lots in common. Unfortunately it was everything we hate about one another. In the end, I hated how he made me feel about myself, and I realized I’ve had better platonic relationships.”

“That’s too bad,” Harry said, half-heartedly.

Hermione’s lip quirked, “You don’t mean that, Harry. You would have hated him, and we both know it.” And that’s probably why I stayed with him so long, she added to herself.

They sat in silence for a few beats as Hermione thought about the best way to voice her next question. How could she ask Harry how he’d been since he’d been gone? What if he had a harem of women at home? What if he was married with three kids? What if he just sat in a bar every night and drank himself into a stupor? How could she bring herself to ask, when she was so afraid to know? “What have you been up to in your absence, Harry?”

Harry didn’t say anything at first, a fact that caused her pulse to race and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. His lower lip curled into a shadow of the boyish smile he used to have, and he looked in her eyes with a glitter of glee that she’d almost forgotten he’d ever, “I buried Kreacher like he mattered,” he said.

* * * * * * * * * *

End Part I

Author: Isobel Pranger

Title: Coming Home (2/3)

Prompt: Many years after school: Harry has gotten used to being alone, having pushed people away out of fear for their safety. Hermione works an internship at the Ministry. Ginny plays Quidditch for the Harpies. Ron works internationally. The loss of Mr. or Mrs. Weasley (due to natural causes) brings friendships back together. People have moved on and Harry realizes how much he missed them. Especially a certain brown-haired witch.

Summary: Sometimes when life claims the innocence of a young soul, all that soul has left is to hide away and heal. When Ron suffers the death of his mother, can Harry pull himself together enough to mend his friendships and his heart?

Other Ships: R/LL, G/N

Rating: PG-13

Notes: Must apologize to my beta, I got too antsy waiting for this chapter to be edited that I up and posted it anyway. All errors are mine, and I don’t own Harry.

Part II

It was a fair while later when Harry found himself confronted for the second time that day. He’d long since parted his conversation with Hermione, who had been a whole world of nicer once she’d heard his confession of his fairness to the rights and dignity of house elves. She didn’t ask if he’d treated Kreacher like a living thing because of her, and for that he was thankful. It would have been incredibly awkward to say that it was she inside his head that made him do it. Though, he could reason, she probably knew already anyway. Hermione always had an amazing aptitude towards him, and he never fully knew why.

George, once he’d approached, was more cordial towards Harry than either of his best friends had been. Another fact that Harry supposed shouldn’t shock him after all this time, that even while mourning the Weasley twins managed to hold that certain air of jubilancy. Not to imply that George was bouncing up and down to meet with him, quite the contrary, he had matured enough to keep his feet on the ground. Nevertheless, his presence made Harry set down the biscuit he held and slowly back away from the snack table he was standing by for fear of injury.

George smiled for him, be it real or not, as he gathered together his own plate of food. “Hello there Harry,” he said calmly as he scooped up a fistful of crackers. Harry noticed, despite himself, that George had barely changed at all. He was still tall, but shorter than Ron, with the same red hair and the same freckles. The more he stood amongst the Weasleys the more he started to think that time never touched them.

“Hello George,” Harry said, paying close attention to what George picked up from the table and dubbing that officially safe to snack on. George nodded in his recognition. “I’m terribly sorry about your mum. I wish there was something I could have done…”

George’s lower lip curled, “It’s quite difficult to do anything you aren’t here for,” he said, taking a bite of a piece of celery, “Which would make most people question why you left in the first place.”

Harry nodded, though why he did he wasn’t sure. He looked about to the people that were present to get a feel of the atmosphere. Luna was chatting with Charlie, Neville and Ginny were holding hands and having what appeared to be an intimate conversation, and Mr. Weasley was sitting by himself in a chair watching over his children in much the same way Mrs. Wealsey used to. “I left because of moments like these.”

George blinked a little in surprise. Apparently, this hadn’t been the answer he was expecting. One of his eyebrows lifted and he tilted his head to the side as he carefully set his plate back onto the table, “Excuse me, Harry, but I don’t think I follow.”

“I can’t stand watching people I care about die,” Harry elaborated, “I hate the flowers, I hate the services, and I hate watching everyone pretending that the end of their life wasn’t sad or depressing. The ironic bit is that funerals have practically been my whole life. From the day my parents died until this funeral right now, everyone I care about are dropping like flies around me.”

George shook his head in disbelief, “Harry, listen to someone who’s spent most of their life being blamed for every little thing that went wrong…” Harry’s eyebrow quirked, “Okay, so MAYBE it wasn’t my fault a handful of times, but that’s not the point. There is no cure-all pill. You are a normal human being and not even The-Boy-Who-Lived can stop something like cancer. Nor could you have stopped any of the other deaths that have darkened your morale. Every one of those people knew there were risks, and they took them. They just weren’t as lucky as some of the rest of us. It’s no reason to block out people.”

Harry nodded again, “I know. I’m starting to see it. It wasn’t until I got here today that I realized how much I missed this place.” He sighed and stuffed his hands on his trouser pockets, “But then again, I’ve recently been informed that not everything in this world is about me… who knew?”

George chuckled, “Certainly not I.”

* * * * * * * * *

Not far from the location of Harry’s conversation with George, another pair sat in placid silence. Hermione sat comfortably on a swing with Ron, her head resting on his shoulder as he watched his brother and best friend discuss who knew what. He rubbed her arm absently, frowning to himself, “What do you reckon they’re going on about?”

“How wonderful they think they are, I’m sure,” Hermione said, a bit bitterly.

Ron laughed to himself, shaking his head in the process. Looking back on his life at times, he was positive that Harry must have had one hell of a time trying to be friends with both himself and Hermione, for all the mutual support they offered one another. Their relationship was theirs alone, and Harry would probably never understand it any better than he or Hermione did. This, to Ron, was incredibly ironic, because more often than not he understood Harry’s relationship with Hermione more than they could ever hope to.

“You know, I’d always been a bit jealous of him when we were younger,” Ron said quietly as he was capable.

“One must wonder why that is,” Hermione said absently.

“But my opinion’s been on the path to change for a fair while now, and I think that today was the nail in that coffin,” Ron said, halting his caresses on her arm, his hand coming back around to rest on his lap, a position he found more comfortable anyway. Harry laughed and clamped George on the shoulder with his hand, before the older man grabbed hold of his plate and walked away.

“And why is that?” Hermione asked, still not paying quite enough mind to care.

“Look at him, Hermione,” Ron asked, tilting his head downward to look at her. He caught just the end of her pronounced eye roll, before he frowned. “No, I mean it,” his fingers grabbed a hold of her chin and forced her face in Harry’s direction, “Really, really look at him. What’s wrong with that picture?”

Hermione stared across the lawn to Harry, who stood by himself now close to the snack table. He was taller than he was when he was an adolescent, and a little scruffier. He looked more worn in than she remembered, and when he spoke he was a whole world more lost… but all of that, when she thought about what had happened in his life, was understandable. The part that was wrong was that in a way, that’s how he’d always been. There had never been a moment when he wasn’t alone or lost since she’d met him.

“When I was younger I always dreamed of having a different life. I wanted to be dealt another hand of cards. I wished for no nagging mum or annoying brothers. I wanted enough gold to do whatever I wanted, instead of constantly hearing we couldn’t afford things. I didn’t want to be in the shadows anymore, I wanted everyone to see me,” Hermione heard Ron pause his confession to sigh a bit, “And then I met Harry, and I was jealous. He had all the gold I could have dreamed of, no parents to tell him what to do, no brothers or sisters to break his things, and everybody knew who he was. I didn’t think it was fair.”

Hermione turned her face back to Ron after watching Harry turn from the table and walk away someplace. Ron continued, “But I can see how wrong I was now. There’s nothing desirable about his life. He was abused and put down for his first eleven years. And then, yeah, he didn’t have a big obnoxious family—because a madman killed them… and I can’t help but wonder how rough life must be without knowing there’s at least one or two other people who ware going to love you no matter what you do. Yeah he had money, but it was at the expense of family. And everyone knew who he was… but I think at times he would have preferred getting no privacy from eight other people than getting no privacy from anyone at all… It’s a wonder we ever got close enough to know him.”

Hermione nodded shortly, “He’s always been alone I think, even in a power-crazy crowd of people.”

Ron chuckled to himself, “And that’s what always choked me the most.”

Hermione’s nose crunched in confusion, “I don’t follow…”

Ron simply shrugged his shoulders, “You and Harry… you’ve always been supportive and understanding of him and I both, but… I don’t know. Something about the way you were the only person who could really save him made you guys special.”

* * * * * * * * *

Harry found Mr. Weasley sitting alone at one of the tables. He was holding a mug in his hand, staring down into it as if he didn’t know what to do with it next. Harry could see what looked like a half-finished Weasley sweater seated next to him, and he smiled a bit, taking a seat across from the man he, in many ways, thought of as his own father, “Guess I should add one of mine to my wall of memories, huh?”

Mr. Weasley’s head jerked up, a reaction that told Harry he hadn’t been aware of his presence before he said something. He looked at the sweater next to him and grinned, “Ginny told me yesterday that she wanted to take all of her old sweaters out and wear them at once. The kids all hated those ridiculous things, but they wore them anyway… mostly because Molly made them do it.”

“She certainly had them all tied down. But that’s to be expected when there are quite so many,” Harry said, feeling uncomfortable, “How are you doing though… you know, other than that?”

Mr. Weasley frowned, looking Harry directly in the eye, “It hurts, Harry.”

Harry understood, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Mr. Weasley replied, smiling a tiny smile that Harry would have almost called grateful, “There are some things in life, Harry, that you can only appreciate through really living. Oh, and I don’t mean the kind of living I know full well that you do. Getting up in the morning and going through the motions isn’t any kind of life.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Mr. Weasley continued on before he could, “Really living is when you can find someone who makes everything worth it. Not having your every want, not being famous, it all really doesn’t matter. Yes, I probably wouldn’t be this way right now, and yes none of us would be hurting so bad. But she’ll always be here, Harry. She’s here in you and me and in all of our children. Just like your parents live in you, just like Sirius and Dumbledore do too.”

Harry frowned, really feeling the weight of his own grief for the first time in a long time, “How are you supposed to just pick up and move on, though? It’s never going to be the same…”

“No, you’re right. It won’t ever be the same,” Mr. Weasley agreed, “and the memory how it once was will haunt me for the rest of my days. But I’ve had the opportunity to love someone with my whole heart in my lifetime. I may not be a particularly smart or wealthy man, Harry, but I think that makes me lucky.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you got someone like that for yourself, Harry?”

Harry nodded a bit bitterly, “I used to.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

It was scarcely a half of an hour later that Harry found himself seated on a bench by the woods, directly next to Ron. They both sat as far away from each other as they possibly could on such a tiny resting place, so they were only about as far away as not to touch legs. Ron was bent forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Harry was sitting up, straight-backed, trying desperately to think of something worthwhile to say. “Sorry about your mum, Ron.”

“It’s all right, Harry. There’s nothing about it you could have changed,” though Harry swore he heard Ron add, ‘for once’ under his breath.

“How’s Luna?”

“She’s fine.”

“How did you and Luna come together?” Harry asked, “How did you and Hermione break up, consequently?”

Ron smiled and sat back to face his friend better, “I met Luna one morning when the baker in ‘Catchpole ran out of cookies and I nearly went mental. She found me by a fountain and invited me to her house for some cookies she baked… it was love at first bite.” Harry smiled with his friend, “Seriously though, she’s a great girl. I’m terribly upset with myself that I didn’t see it sooner. I think it might have saved a lot of people a lot of heartache.

“As for Hermione,” Ron shrugged to himself as if their relationship had never been something he’d considered important, though Harry knew that wasn’t the case, “Her heart was never mine to have. It took me a while to see it, but once something like that finds you, you can’t fight it.”

Harry frowned, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Ron.”

Ron smirked to himself, knowingly, “You wouldn’t have helped, trust me.” He held a blade of grass between two of his fingers, and began to play with it absently as he spoke, “Seriously though, I’ve found that I can’t be sour about it any more. Some loves are just unavoidable, so the least I could do for Hermione was be her friend when she needed it.”

Harry nodded, “Were you planning on inviting me to your wedding, Ron?”

Ron’s expression of reverence disappeared almost instantly, “I’m not sure.”

“Why?”

“Well, my reasoning goes something as follows,” Ron replied, “I may not be able to be sour with Hermione, Harry, but up until today I was sure I could have been sour with you for the rest of my life.”

Harry’s head spun. He was sure Ron would have been mad at him, just like Hermione had been. But for the rest of his life? Certainly leaving and letting your friends move on with what remained of their lives didn’t warrant such a harsh punishment. He gave Ron a queer look that begged his former best friend to continue, because he was certain that he’d either missed a large chunk of his own life or something had gone on behind the scenes he wasn’t aware of.

“I just finished explaining this to her, so it figures I would have to explain it to you as well,” Ron said, leaning forward once more so his elbows were back to his knees and the blade of grass was once again his favored plaything, “I know full well you don’t think there’s anything in your life worth having, Harry. And I, like Hermione, didn’t agree with you—for completely different reasons. She always thought there was worth in every situation and I just saw all the material things you could have and I never would and got jealous,” they shared a shadow of their boyhood smiles, “She was always much deeper than I. But now that we’re older I can see that it’s really the other way around. I’ve always had everything in life a man could really want, and you’ve had to suffer with the knowledge that every chance at it you’ve ever had has been taken from you… except in one thing—though you were always too stupid to see it.”

“What’s that?”

Ron simply looked at him and said, “It’s always been you she really loved. You were just too high up for her, too busy and too important—too closed off is how I see it. I was going to be the man she settled for… the next best thing. I couldn’t live with that, and in the end, neither could she.”

Had Harry’s heart ever been a balloon, the feeling Ron’s words created was as close to a needle searing through it as anything else. Harry could hear the pop and feel himself deflate at the very thought, “Is it fair then, to ask how she’s been?”

Ron’s eyebrows rose, “She has spent all this time more lonesome than you could ever dream of being, Harry. And do you know why?” Harry shrugged his shoulders and shook his head no, as Ron nodded knowingly to himself, “You have always secluded yourself. Being away from people wasn’t a life you had to adjust to… it was one I imagine you welcomed. But her… she lost the one thing she would have fought to the death for… and that created a sort of black hole nobody who’s tried has been able to fill.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, for what felt like the ten thousandth time that day.

Ron pushed himself to his feet and made to leave before he turned back to the one man he would always consider his best friend, even when this torture they’d all put themselves through was over, “You’re invited to my wedding. You’re still my best mate. I’m not sour on you anymore,” he gave him a sympathetic look, “As I see it, mate… she needs you and you’ve always needed her. It’s time you two fess up and at least be friends again. You’re making my mum’s funeral a real downer.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It took Harry a while to find her. When he did, she was in the living room with Luna, talking about who-knows-what and it didn’t really matter. He wouldn’t be too proud to admit, later in life, that he’d walked up, greeted Luna, and then dragged Hermione away. Luna was eccentric, she wouldn’t mind. And if she did, well, then she would never fit in with this crowd anyway.

Hermione, for herself, was downright pissed as Harry pulled her up the stairs. What right did he have? “Harry!” she called, in spite of his apparent deafness toward her cries, “Harry Potter what in the HELL do you think you’re doing?!”

He didn’t even have the decency to turn in her direction as he mumbled out that they really needed to talk. This wasn’t the kind of answer that would sate her, though, “Obviously we need to talk, Harry. It’s been ten bloody years. But you shouldn’t pull me out of a perfectly interesting conversation with Lu-“

“Interesting, eh?” Harry asked, with a hint of his own sarcasm as they reached Ron’s former bedroom door and he pushed it open, “And what, pray tell, was the conversation about?”

Hermione was silent for a minute before she scowled and stormed past him, into the room. She stopped in the middle and turned to him, raising an eyebrow expectantly, “So? Where’s the fire? What’s so important that you had to drag me up here and talk about it?”

Harry quietly shut the door behind them and then stuffed his hands into his pockets, “You were right, Hermione. It took me all day and a half dozen depressing conversations to see it, but you were right. Funny how you always are.” She displayed her opinion that it wasn’t humorous at all by crossing her arms, “This is a day of mourning… it’s a day about death.”

That did catch Hermione off guard. Her arms unfolded as fast as they’d come to be and her angry expression dropped entirely out of sight, “It’s not a day about being sad that Mrs. Weasley died, Harry. It’s a day to celebrate how she lived.”

Harry gave a bit of a half-laugh, half-sigh as he waved a ‘no-no,’ finger out as if to scold her for doing something wrong, “See, that’s where you’re wrong, Hermione. It’s never about celebrating a life for me. It might be for you, and for Mr. Weasley, and George, and Ron… but not for me. It’s about how everyone I care about and everyone who tries to make a difference in me—hell, everyone whose presence has changed me for the better--dies. They leave me, and I’ve got to confess, Hermione, I’m not very good at handling that.”

“That’s not true, Harry,” Hermione urged, “Ron and I are still alive and well.”

“Ahh, but not unscathed,” Harry pointed out, “You almost died.”

Hermione was silent, merely staring at him for what felt like forever. She wrapped her arms around herself as if to comfort herself in the knowledge that it was past as she nodded for him that she remembered, “But that wasn’t your fault, Harry, that was my careless mistake.”

“It was my fault on most counts, Hermione. I was too stupid to listen to you. I had to go charging in. I should never have let you come with me. I knew what being my friend would do to you, I knew that somehow they’d get to at least one of you… but I let you stay with me anyway. I would rather be dead than carry that memory with me,” he said, taking a few steps closer to her and placing his hands on the sides of her face, “But you—you cared too much—you should never have cared that much for me. Ever. I let you. I reaped the benefits and all it’s ever given you is pain,” he let her go and stepped back, “and that will always be my fault.”

Harry swore he could see her eyes mist over and she growled in frustration, “That’s just it, isn’t it Harry? That’s your problem. You see all these people all around you who love you because of what you’ve done in your live and you think you don’t deserve them… and maybe you don’t. But then you see me, and you see Ron, and the Weasleys and everyone else who loves you just because you exist and nothing more, and you think you don’t deserve us either. But you do, Harry. Everybody does. Just because you’re the Boy-Who-Lived doesn’t make you immune.”

Harry laughed bitterly, “I’ve spent more than half my life thinking about death, Hermione. When I was young I knew my parents died; and there was a time when I hated them because they got to be dead and I was suck living with the Dursleys. You see, I thought it couldn’t possibly be worse than them. But I was wrong. I was so wrong on so many different levels even I still can’t conceive of all of them. How was I wrong? They died because someone else wanted them dead. They wanted them dead because they would do anything for me. But I was still too young to get it; I was too young to understand. The best part was yet to come.

“I watched Cedric die, and I was crushed. It hurt so bad I used to dream about it. He wasn’t the end, either. I watched Sirius die, and I watched Dumdledore die, and so many more,” his voice had begun to raise, like he was a teapot that had just started to boil over, “But it was that moment, Hermione, that ten seconds in the Department of Mysteries that I was the most…” he struggled to find a way to describe it, “insanely, out-of-my-mind, shredded by the thought of losing somebody.”

Hermione’s tears spilled over, as she stared silently at him. His hair was ruffled and his chest was heaving like he’d just finished running from one end of England to the next. “D-“ her voice broke, “Did you dream about that too?”

“No,” Harry said, at a normal volume but in a rusty voice, “But every other time I’ve been faced with that situation I’ve always been able to think. What to do next, how to survive, whether or not the person in question was dead. But that time, the only time, I was so incapacitated that I couldn’t move or think straight until Neville assured me you were still alive.”

Hermione looked down to her shoes.

“It has taken me years—years, Hermione—to figure it out. Somehow I’d grown to depend on you more than anyone else I’d ever known. I needed you more than Hagrid or Dumdledore or even Ron. I was in love with you. Even then, at fifteen years old… probably before that. I didn’t think you were as lost as I was until I spoke with Ron today. He told me it was my fault you and him never worked out. And I have to apologize for putting you through this; from the second we met until now… I’m sorry,” Harry said, once again approaching her slowly.

“Oh, Harry…”

Harry shook his head, and he, himself began to look as if he might break down into sobs, “And that’s why I have to ask—no, I have to beg you to stop loving me, Hermione. You don’t deserve this,” his hands cupped her cheeks and she slid her own hands up to cover them, “If this were your funeral, Hermione, I don’t know what I would do.”

“It won’t be… Harry… It’s over, Voldemort’s gone…”

Harry shook his head, “I’m sorry,” he whispered before he leaned in an gave her a kiss on the cheek, “Please move on.”

And with that, he turned and left the room.

TBC