Remembering With Joy

puck_nc

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 23/11/2008
Last Updated: 23/11/2008
Status: completed

AU post-Hogwarts. Harry and Hermione go on holiday to Mexico to escape the memories of Ron's death, and find unexpected solace in the ancient ritual of Día de los Muertos. This fic was the winner of the Harmony Podcast's 2006 Halloween fanfiction contest.

Chapters

1. untitled

1. untitled

Disclaimer: Most definitely not my characters. No money being made. Just working out my frustrations over what could have been since it’s cheaper than therapy.

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Death grinned at them from every direction.

Harry and Hermione wandered the street market they’d stumbled across. The air positively swam with aromas. Spicy peppers being grilled in the open air to stuff into warm corn tortillas. The tang of salt on the breeze coming off the nearby sea. Rich sugar from the decorated calaveras, mounds of paralyzing sweetness pressed into skull shapes and trimmed with frosting. Thick resinous incense burning in little dishes with the smoke curling up in wisps. And the pungent perfume of the brilliant orange marigold flowers that decorated every stall.

When they had decided to take a vacation away from England on the fifth anniversary of Ron’s death, to get a little distance from painful memories, Harry had chosen Mexico on a whim. Hermione had been focused on her job, clearing her calendar in preparation for a fortnight on the tropical island of Cozumel, and had let Harry handle the travel arrangements.

The flight from Heathrow had been pleasant enough, and much easier than arranging a Portkey. Their hotel was an older one, small and quietly elegant. They had been able to explore the island on rented scooters, snorkel in the marine preserves, and parasail over the sparkling blue waters. They’d balanced the adventures with relaxation: bathing on the white beaches and sitting in open-air bars to drink whatever fruity concoctions the bartenders could imagine. They had even been able to banish the memories long enough to finally make love on Hallowe’en itself, hearing the children’s cries through the wooden shutters as they went through nearby neighbourhoods in costumes, looking for treats.

But now, on November the first, Hermione began to wonder if she should have paid more attention when Harry made the plans. They were in the middle of an ancient Aztec ritual, the celebration of the Day of the Dead. This was a time that Mexicans believed the spirits of their loved ones returned to the earth, and made elaborate preparations to welcome them.

In every home, Hermione knew, families were preparing altars decorated with brightly-coloured paper, bunches of marigolds and other flowers, water and salt to represent the Catholic baptism rite, and items that reminded the families of those they were honouring. Treasured keepsakes, favourite food and drink, and photographs would adorn the main room of each house until the festival was over.

And it was a festival. Here in the marketplace masks, carvings and candies representing skeletons smiled gaily. Little calacas showed funny scenes populated by the grinning skeletons and puppets of every size were dressed in bright outfits. Death was not the Grim Reaper here, but a friend to greet when one’s appointment came and to mock gently in the meantime.

They made their way back to the hotel and Hermione could feel Harry’s pain as he thought about Ron. How the joyous afterglow of their hard-won victory over Voldemort had been snuffed out. The memories sprang up in her mind’s eye, all too easily:

They’d gone to Diagon Alley for Hallowe’en, starting and ending their evening in the Leaky Cauldron and roaming the street in playful costumes along with a throng of celebrants. Harry had followed the classic horror tradition and created a very grotesque zombie from stage makeup and ragged clothes. Ron had dressed as a Muggle rugby player and was now shivering as the wind chilled his exposed legs.

Hermione would have been cold also, except for the warming charm she had cast on her harem costume. There was an unspoken dare in the purple silks and gold glitter, a very unsubtle nudge aimed right at Harry. She could see him swallow, under his thick greenish-black makeup, every time her ankle flashed from under the scarves or the slits in her top parted to reveal her midriff.

Finally, well past midnight, they’d had enough. They stumbled out through the door, all slightly pissed, into Charing Cross and began walking toward the nearest Tube station. Harry pretended to chase Ron with a shuffling gait and outstretched arms, moaning, “Brains…brains…” Their laughter echoed through the dark streets and then Harry had turned to chase Hermione instead.

Ron had been the first to spot the cloaked figure, the raised wand. He had pushed Harry out of the way as the green jet of light streaked toward them, as a harsh voice shrieked the fatal words: “Avada Kedavra!”

Hermione had been the one to stun and restrain Bellatrix Lestrange, missing since Voldemort’s defeat, while Harry collapsed by Ron’s side, screaming in denial…

Harry stopped short, jarring Hermione out of her memories. She glanced at him and followed his gaze across the lobby. The manager of the hotel, Señor Salguero, was arranging a tiny altar on the reception desk. They walked over as he put a photograph of a smiling young man in the centre of the altar. It was littered with the bright marigolds, some small brightly-coloured candies marked with white “m”s, and a diving watch with a rubber strap and a thick silver-rimmed face. Señor Salguero waved them over cheerfully, greeting them in his slightly accented English.

“Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Potter! What has been the adventure this morning? Have you gone over to Isla Mujeres yet to swim with the sharks?”

“No, señor. Just wandering the marketplace. It seems to have been spray-painted overnight with orange, though,” Hermione laughed.

“Ah yes, they have brought in the cempazúchil, the Flower of the Dead. Its colour and scent help guide the spirits to their families. Many scatter the petals into a path to lead the way.”

Hermione noticed Harry’s mouth tighten and spoke before he could. “Is it true the families stay the entire night in the cemeteries?”

“Oh, sí, sí! They bring flowers and candles and things to remember the spirits by. They sing, they pray, and they remember. It is a beautiful sight. You should visit tonight and see.”

Hermione waved a hand at the little altar. “Why did you set this up? I thought altars were put in the homes.”

“Oh, they are, yes. But I wanted something here for Manolo. He worked here at the hotel, a very good boy. He drowned in a scuba accident this summer. It was very sad.”

“So why do you torture yourselves, remembering him?” Harry’s voice burst out, more strident than he probably intended, and Hermione winced.

But Señor Salguero only smiled. “Because it brings us joy to think of him now. Because it helps to remember that we will see him again when the time comes. So we welcome the visits every year.”

“Thank you very much, señor,” Hermione replied and steered Harry away before he could put his foot in it again.

***

That afternoon, after lunch, they wandered into some of the shops they’d noticed but not visited yet. One of them featured a huge selection of stone carvings: figures of all shapes and sizes in every colour onyx could come in. Hermione had found a darling pale green owl that she wanted to give to Luna as an inside joke. (Luna had managed to turn Hedwig green with a misplaced spell once.) She went to show it to Harry and found him watching an artisan at work, shaping pieces for a chess set.

Hermione paused as well, admiring the pieces of silvery grey-white and shining ebony and the skill that had gone into inlaying the board. As they watched in respectful silence, the crafter paused in polishing a snowy white knight, shook his head, and set it aside in favour of another piece.

“What’s the matter with it?” Harry asked. The man looked at him blankly and Hermione began to translate.

“There is a crack in the piece. It will break if it is handled too much. I cannot use it.”

“May I buy it from you?”

“What, one piece of a chess set? What good would it do you?”

”Please, I’d like it. And it’s of no use to you.” Harry pulled out a handful of coins and the man finally accepted a few, shaking his head at the strange foreigner.

Harry studied the knight closely. “He’s a nutter. You can barely see the crack.” He showed it to Hermione and she smiled.

“You’ve got an idea, don’t you?”

“Maybe I do, smartest-witch-in-a-generation. Maybe I do.”

***

They started at the hotel, searching their luggage. Hermione had tossed a few sweets into their travel bag and scavenged a chocolate frog and some Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour beans. Harry dug out the photograph that he always carried in his wallet of the three of them, not long after Voldemort’s defeat. They returned to the market and bought flowers in Chudley-Cannon orange, a football-playing calaca dressed in an orange uniform, and some of the pan de muerto pastries.

In their room, they cleared off the bedside table and laid everything out. Harry opened the chocolate frog and let it have its one jump before putting it on the table. He glanced at the card and snorted. “Ptolemy. Ron never did find Ptolemy.”

Hermione squeezed his arm. “I remember when you found Agrippa and surprised him with it.”

Harry swallowed hard and grinned at her. “He had the biggest collection in Hogwarts.”

She fingered the calaca. “Why this? I mean, it is dressed in Cannon colours, but Ron never played football.”

Harry smiled. “Do you remember Dean’s poster of the West Ham team?” She nodded and he went on, “It drove Ron crazy that the pictures didn’t move. He was always glancing at it or trying a spell on it. And he and Dean had some wonderful debates over which was better, Quidditch or football.”

Hermione took one of the pastries in the shape of a bone and broke it in two. “Here.” As they munched on the sweet bread, they finished laying out the altar. Hermione took one of the flowers and pulled it apart, scattering the petals in a small circle around the collection. Harry lit the candles they’d used the evening before and they stood back and admired their work.

For once Hermione didn’t know how Harry felt, but she was moved. Little facets of Ron’s life lay before them, and instead of heart-rending sorrow she was feeling comfort. She could hear Ron’s laughter, see him zipping around on a broom, stuffing an entire chocolate frog in his mouth in one go, hunched over a chessboard as he studied it. She remembered him standing tall and straight, his wand pointed straight at Lucius Malfoy, ready to begin the duel in an instant. Hermione remembered how proud she’d been of Ron that day, ignoring every jibe and insult that the Death Eaters threw at the “pure-blood traitor” and letting his spells speak for him as he fought. If it hadn’t been for Ron assuming leadership of the remnants of Dumbledore’s Army against the Death Eaters, Harry would never have been able to reach Voldemort…

Harry put an arm around her shoulders, recalling her to the present. “All right, there?”

She wiped a tear away. “Yes. Señor Salguero was right. We’ll see him again one day.”

***

They went to the cemetery at dusk.

Harry and Hermione walked quietly among the families as they decorated the gravestones. Intricate, beautiful displays transformed the graveyard into a riot of light and colour and the copal incense floated on the air around them. From time to time someone would offer food and drink to them, speaking happily in Spanish and welcoming these respectful tourists.

They were startled when they saw the first of the ghosts. The rotund little old man waved his pointed hat cheerfully at them before returning his attention to a young woman soothing her baby. But as the night deepened, more silvery-white forms drifted in until a dozen or more wandered the large cemetery, enjoying the celebration. One ghost, a woman exquisitely dressed in antique robes, floated over to them.

“You two are a long way from home,” she observed, looking pointedly at Harry's scar.

“We’re on holiday,” Hermione explained.

“Well, Merlin knows you deserve it after taking down that nasty Voldemort. What do you think of all this?” She waved a translucent hand at the scene.

“It’s…very different,” Harry replied. “But good different. What do you lot think of it?”

The ghost looked surprised, then appreciative. “It’s actually quite pleasant, Mr Potter. These people aren’t mourning unless it’s for someone who died very recently. They’re remembering with joy. Quite a refreshing change from so many other places, where you can’t look in on your family without seeing them moping about.” She nodded at them. “Augusta Fitzjames-Madison, by the way. Very nice to meet you both.” She sailed off in the direction of another ghostly figure.

“Remembering with joy,” Harry murmured, watching her go. Hermione put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. He returned the embrace and kissed her on top of her head.

“Remembering with joy,” she repeated, and let her thoughts dwell on the lanky redheaded man whose grin had matched the glee of the skeletons around them.

They would remember Ron with joy.