i. Denial
The Department of Mysteries was unusually quiet, even for the ninth level. It was late on a Friday afternoon, and most of the Unspeakables in my area had left early. Not that I could blame them: it was a late spring day, warm and sunny, and the dark gloom of our department did not always sit well with people on days like that. They wanted to get away from the secrecy and the silence and venture out into a world brimming with vibrant life and color.
Normally I would too, but a difficult divorce really didn't put me in the mood for spring this year: it only reminded me of the first time I had met my wife--our first kiss, our beautiful April wedding. No, I didn't mind the silence and solitude of the department these days; it was easier to wrap myself in loss and regret that way.
There had been a time when those very things--silence and solitude--had almost driven me mad. But then I had slowly come to grips with my inner demons, until a chance encounter with a ghost--yes, a ghost--had finally inspired me to live. Megan Jones may have been dead when I had met her, but she had changed my life: I went out. I dated. I enjoyed living again. I met the love of my life six years later, and by the following spring, we were married.
It had been a good life, it really had. I missed it, even if it had become a lie by the end.
She left me for another man, a younger man and a Gryffindor on top of it all. They had met at a Divination conference and had run off to Australia together as soon as the divorce was final, chasing their crystal ball dreams across the outback. I missed her, even if she had hurt me, and I did, deep down, hope she was safe and happy.
If she was knee-deep in dragon dung, even better.
Bitterness aside, I had always enjoyed my work, so what better time to throw myself into it once more than now? I had spent years exploring the mysteries of death after meeting Megan Jones, trying to understand what had happened to me. And then I had realized something: there was no explanation. It could have happened in my head, for all I knew. It didn't matter, because it had changed me in an undeniably positive way. So I had moved from the Death Chamber and into other areas of study throughout the years.
Before the divorce, I had been working in the Time Room. Afterward I transferred to the Brain Room, my focus on the mechanisms of memory. Perhaps a part of me wanted to forget the last ten years of my life, lost to a cocky flash git with more money than Gringotts. Perhaps I just needed a change to take my mind off being alone once again. Either way, I was enjoying my work, as escapist as it was, and so I was the only one still working that Friday in May when a woman walked into the department, visitor's badge standing out against her green robes.
"Good afternoon. Can I help you?" I asked, striding out to meet her. She looked familiar. I had gone to Hogwarts with her, I knew: she was only a few years younger than me. Vibrant red hair triggered vague memories of a popular and rather sassy Gryffindor, until I recognized her from photographs in the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly.
Ginny Weasley Potter, recent widow.
She nodded in response, but did not offer a greeting or her hand. "I hope so. Are you Graham Montague?"
"Yes," I replied, surprised that she knew my name. Then again, it was on my badge, yet she was clearly looking for me, and I could think of no reason why the wife of Harry Potter would be looking for me deep in the Department of Mysteries at the end of the week.
No…maybe I could. Several reasons, actually. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Potter?"
She smiled sadly as she tucked a loose hair behind her ear. "I'm not sure, Mr. Montague. I probably shouldn't even be here."
I shrugged as I lead her down the corridor toward the small office I kept. As a senior Unspeakable now, I had that privilege and found I rather liked it. I offered her a chair and sat down at my desk across from her. "You're not the first person to come here seeking answers after a loss."
She glanced up at me, a spark of fire in her eyes. "That's not why I'm here!" she exclaimed, but clearly it was, because she was twisting her hands in front of her even if she did not realize it. "Well, not exactly, it's just that…" She trailed off with a frustrated sigh, her body almost radiating pain and sorrow. I felt for her, I really did.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Head Auror and hero for thousands, had died two months ago. It was all the wizarding world had talked about since. He had been killed, actually--assassinated by a lone wizard bent on revenge, a fellow Slytherin named Gregory Goyle. I remembered him, following Draco Malfoy around like an overgrown puppy from the moment he'd walked into the Great Hall and been Sorted. I had even let him and his crony Crabbe join the Quidditch team the year I was captain. Though all three had joined the Dark Lord, only Goyle had gone to Azkaban after the war; he had finally been released due to ill health. And he had promptly set out to kill Harry Potter before cowardly taking his own life.
Bloody hell, she wasn't here to ask me about Goyle, was she? I had barely known the guy; he had been a complete troll at Hogwarts. He had also been a year behind me, and I had preferred sucking up to the older students in my house or hanging out with Adrian Pucey, the only roommate I liked and still kept in touch with. I couldn't tell her anything about Goyle, or about her husband's death, for that matter.
"Mrs. Potter," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral even though I was finding myself growing uncomfortable. "I'm not sure what I can do. Are you sure this is the right place for you now?"
She glanced up at me and frowned. "Yes, I'm sure. I've heard about you, you know. And what happened."
I immediately found myself tensing up, assuming she was referring to the incident with the Vanishing Cabinet at Hogwarts. And then I remembered that it had been her brothers, those infuriating ginger-haired twins, who had caused it--who had pushed me inside and abandoned me there during my sixth year of school. And I found myself speaking rather coldly to the red-haired woman in front of me. "I'm not sure what you are referring to exactly."
"The ghost," she replied. "Megan, Megan Jones."
I shook my head in confusion, trying to process what she was saying. So she wasn't referring to the Vanishing Cabinet, but to something deeply personal I had shared with very few people. How the hell did she know about Megan Jones? The question must have shown on my face, for she leaned forward, placing her hands on my desk.
"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to overstep my boundaries," she began, but I cut her off.
"I think you already have," I said. "Not many people know about that, Mrs. Potter. I'm not sure how you found out."
She sat back and gave me a small, sly smile. "I work with Gemma Pucey, for one."
"She would never say anything." Gemma had been there the night I'd met Megan, but I trusted both her and her husband. There was no reason for them to share such a thing with Ginny Potter, even if her husband had just died.
"She didn't," Ginny said with a small shrug. "But I overheard her talking about it with Adrian once in the break room after your divorce. So I did a little digging." I froze: Ginny Potter worked for the Daily Prophet and likely had a number of resources at her disposal, including all her husband's connections at the Ministry. I nodded, reluctantly indicating her to continue. She let out a short, bitter laugh.
"Don't worry, it's not like that. I don't know your whole sordid life story. I just know you worked in the Death Chamber after that, trying to understand what had happened."
"I did," I answered slowly. "And I never really figured it out, so I'm still not sure why you're here, Mrs. Potter. I cannot contact your dead husband for you."
Her eyes flashed at me again. "I know that!" she snapped. "I'm not some fool of a teenage girl anymore." The spark died almost as soon as it had sprung to life, and she seemed wrapped in a cloak of distant sadness again. "But Harry was different, you know. I thought maybe there was something here…something you had learned, something you could do…" She trailed off once more, and I sighed.
"Mrs. Potter, I'm very sorry for your loss, but there is simply no way to bring back the dead, no matter how special they were, how different they were, or how much we miss them."
She sat up straighter, brown eyes suddenly boring into mine so intensely that I almost had to look away. "What if there was a way? Could you help me?"
"Could I help you?" I replied. "Or would I?"
"Both," she said, leaning forward once more. "Please."
"It would depend on the circumstances," I replied, curious in spite of my misgivings and drawn in by the strength of her personality, even in obvious mourning. "And I do not claim to be an expert on death, Mrs. Potter."
"No, but you are a senior Unspeakable," she replied with another small smile. Again it was tinged with sadness, and I felt myself feeling another strong surge of sympathy for her. "And you've studied it more than just about anyone else here. Will you help me?"
I stared at her, judging her sincerity. On the one hand, I wanted to tell her no and send her on her way: she was a Weasley, after all, and while the lingering resentment I felt toward her brothers should not transfer to someone who had nothing to do with it, still I was not completely comfortable with her in my office. And yet I was curious how she thought I could help her, and her sorrow and determination seemed genuine, and really, wasn't it petty to reject her plea for something that had happened over twenty years ago? If anything, perhaps I could help her move on with her life, for she seemed unable to accept her husband's death, even after several months.
"I can only try, Mrs. Potter."
She sat back, her whole body relaxing with relief. She nodded, brown eyes softening with another sad smile. "Call me Ginny, please."
"Then what can I do, Ginny?" I asked guardedly. I suddenly had a bad feeling about offering my assistance, as if I was getting myself into more than I had bargained for at the moment.
"I think my husband left behind a Horcrux," she stated. "And I need you to help me find it."
* * *
Solace by Gmariam
Story Notes:
First of all, this story is about grief and loss; if you have recently suffered a death or divorce, please be aware of these themes.
Second of all, this story also refers to a few things in another story I wrote called The Chartreuse Chanteuse, but you needn't have read it to follow along. But if you're curious about Graham Montague, please do!
Chapter Endnotes: Ooooh, interesting. A Horcrux, you ask? But Harry would never do that! Well, this is only the first of several short chapters. Please keep reading to see how far (or close) I've strayed (or stayed) to canon. Thank you for reading!