Harry Potter sat at his shabby desk in his bedroom, gazing at the bright stars that littered the sky. This summer was very much like the last, surprisingly chilly given the season. Most nights had been cloudy and misty, so a clear one like tonight was somewhat of a rarity. Harry fantasised about taking off on his broom and touching the stars. His troubles always seemed to melt away when he was airborne, and he had never had greater troubles than at that moment. He’d been thinking about Dumbledore. He still couldn’t quite believe that he was gone. Ron and Hermione had been over as often as possible, and this was one of the many things they would talk about. Every so often Harry would catch himself still speaking of Dumbledore in the present, and this would often bring a tear to his eye. He, ever Harry, would quickly brush the tear away and continue speaking.
Having Ron and Hermione there as often as he was had made his stay at the Dursleys' far more enjoyable than previous summers. They'd been over almost constantly since the start of the holidays, something for which Harry was immensely grateful. The Dursleys' had refused at first, but when Harry had pointed out that both Ron and Hermione were old enough to use magic, the objections died in their throats. They’d decided to take a short holiday, and didn’t bother to tell Harry where. Ron and Hermione had therefore been there to talk with him, be it about Voldemort and Dumbledore, the recent escapes at Azkaban (“I heard the Dementors have left their posts completely now,” Ron had said), how worried Hermione’s parents were about the dark struggle they could never understand, or the Chudley Cannons’ premiership hopes for next season. Harry had a great time teasing Ron about their recent bottom-of-the-table finish. At first Ron had been a bit sensitive, but then his humour returned and he brushed off the teasing with an “I’m used to it.” His friends kept him from dwelling too much on Dumbledore’s death or his impending quest to destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes, without avoiding the topic. Whenever he would get depressed, or show signs of panic, they were there to help him out of it, encourage him, and examine it in a detached, matter-of-fact manner that always made it seem easier, at least for a while. They also helped him control his anger. Whenever he was reminded about Snape, his blood began to boil.
So nights like these, alone, had been a rarity. With the Dursleys gone, at least one of his friends had usually been able to stay the night, and often they both stayed. Ron would sleep on a spare mattress in Harry’s room, and Hermione would sleep in Dudley’s room, much to her disgust. Harry had also visited the Burrow a couple of times, and had stayed there one night. He wasn’t sure how much time he could spend there for the blood magic to be effective, so he didn’t dare risk much more time than that. He also didn’t want to have to confront Ginny. He had seen the look of hurt and anger that crossed her face when he tried to ignore her at the Burrow. He had barely seen her again the whole time he was there.
Harry sighed. He wasn’t sure about Ginny. He knew he liked her, and he knew she liked him. There shouldn’t be a problem, should there? Harry, for about the millionth time since he had turned eleven, found himself wishing he was just a simple, ordinary teenage wizard. He decided then and there that if he survived the final battle, which seemed less and less likely to Harry every day, he would try to make things up with Ginny. Then, and only then, because he knew that doing so beforehand would not only put Ginny in danger, but might possibly distract him from his goal.
Harry had discussed the Ginny issue with Ron. Ron told him in no uncertain terms how he'd felt about Harry dumping Ginny like he did.
“Don’t tell me you weren’t a little bit relieved when I broke up with her,” Harry had responded. “You didn’t want her in danger any more than I did.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Ron had replied. “I’m just not sure what I care more about, her safety or both or your happiness.”
There had been a meaningful silence between the two friends before Harry continued.
“Look, I don’t know if I’m going to beat Voldemort, and even if I do, I’m no certainty to survive.”
Ron simply looked at Harry apprehensively, not entirely sure where the conversation was headed. This had been the first time they’d spoken about Harry’s actual chances of defeating Voldemort.
“But, if it makes you feel any better, if I do beat Voldemort, and I do survive, I’ll try to make things up with Ginny.”
“Do you promise?” asked Ron, smiling. “Because I will hold you to that.”
“Yeah, I promise,” said Harry, his head lowered in embarrassment. “I have to admit, those weeks I spent with Ginny were some of the best of my life.”
“Good to hear it,” said Ron jovially, and he punched Harry’s arm and to cover his best friend’s embarrassment. “Though I may have to take that back if you start giving me details.”
“Hey, we’re not back together yet,” he objected.
“S’only a matter of time,” said Ron with his usual optimism. “Although,” Ron continued, “if you want any chance, you should try to at least clear the air with her pretty soon. At the moment she’s pretending you don’t exist.”
And so Harry had gained full forgiveness in Ron's eyes, and was determined to at least make things civil between himself and Ginny, for the time being.
Harry got up and trudged over to his bed. He lay down and looked over at the clock. All this pondering had stolen the night away. It was seven minutes past twelve. Already tomorrow, thought Harry. Probably time I got some sleep.
The weeks in the leadup to Bill and Fleur's wedding went by much the same for Harry, though his short stints at the Burrow painted a picture of continually growing tension, panic, disorder and worry as the wedding drew near, and things inevitably went wrong. Molly was concerned about the budget (she had refused to let Fleur's side of the family pay any part of the Weasley's share, despite their offers), nobody could agree on seating arrangements, and the bridal party were bickering over, well, everything. Charlie was to be Bill's best man, with Fred, George, Ron and Harry to be groomsmen. A friend of Fleur's from Beauxbatons, Jacqueline, would be maid of honour, while Ginny, Gabrielle, and a further two of Fleur's French friends would be bridesmaids. It was also increasingly difficult for Ginny to avoid Harry during these times, which made it even more awkward and obvious when she inevitably managed. As much as he loved visiting the Weasleys, Harry did feel a certain relief whenever he returned to Little Whinging.
In the end, of course, the wedding went off without a hitch. Bill and Fleur married, many tears were shed (not least by Hagrid, prompting some good-natured teasing), the delicious feast which Molly had prepared, with the help of Dobby, Winky and a few other Hogwarts house-elves, was devoured with gusto, and in true Weasley style, a large game of Quidditch broke out, actually taking place above the tables as lunch continued, to rather varied responses (“Never 'ave I seen such a vonderful display of ze yousful spirit!” exclaimed Fleur's father, as Remus tore after Ginny, while Jacqueline's mother nearly fainted over her dessert, muttering weakly about “ze barbarism of it all!”; Hermione's parents simply stared, stunned).
Late that afternoon, after the celebrations were complete and most of the guests had trickled out, McGonagall approached Harry and asked for a quiet word in the now-deserted living room.
“Yes, Professor?”
“Harry,” said McGonagall, not entirely sure where to start. “A few weeks ago, just after the…the events of…” She faltered, and brushed a quick tear from her eye.
“Yes,” prompted Harry, also feeling emotional.
“Well,” she continued, “as I'm sure you know, a portrait of Albus now hangs in my office. I had a conversation with the portrait.”
Harry just sat there, not knowing where this was going.
“Well, needless to say, it was among the more interesting conversations I have had. Albus, or rather, his portrait, asked me to ask you to go and see him. He suggested tomorrow. He has a portrait at Headquarters. He said that would be the best place to talk to him.”
By this time Harry was staring, transfixed, at his shoelaces. The idea of talking with Dumbledore’s portrait was daunting to say the least. So soon after he had died! Harry felt upset just thinking about it.
“If you would rather not, I’m sure it could wait a little while,” McGonagall offered. “Albus did not suggest it was urgent.”
“No, that’s OK,” replied Harry resolutely. “I’ll have to do it sometime. The sooner the better, right?” He gave a weak smile. “Did Professor Dumbledore mention what it was about?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m as much in the dark as you, unfortunately. Are you going back to stay at Privet Drive, or are you staying here?”
“Going back, I think,” Harry replied, a tinge of regret colouring his response. “I’ve stayed here two nights in a row. Don’t want to risk letting the blood protection fail, you know?”
“Hmm. Well, you’ll be seventeen in two weeks, am I correct?” Harry nodded. “I’ll have to get you something.”
Harry was about to protest this, but McGonagall put her hand up, insisting, a gentle smile gracing those usually stern lips.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning and we can go see Albus. How does that sound?”
Harry mumbled a thank you. Truth be told, he was feeling very tired. It had been an exhausting day, both physically, with the Quidditch, and emotionally, seeing Bill and Fleur wed, and then this. It wasn’t long before he said goodbye to the Weasleys and Hermione, who was staying at the Burrow that night. Mrs Figg had been at the wedding too, and he was following her through the Floo to her house before making his way back to Privet Drive.
Harry Potter and the Wizard's Tome by godblesmaryoloughlin
Chapter Endnotes: Don't like this chapter, but had to get it out of the way. Ah, well, please R&R. :)