It was a word that James Potter wasn't afraid of anymore. Not any longer was he scared of saying goodbye. Why would he be? Every goodbye should be met with a new hello come next meeting. He always said goodbye to his parents before boarding the Hogwarts Express every year, but every end of the year, he would always say hello to them once again when they welcome him home, back into their arms. James didn’t feel sad for saying goodbye to his friends at school because come next year, they’d be together again, side-by-side, laughing, sowing the fruits of their friendship.
But this hadn't always been the case for James. He once thought that some goodbyes were to be met with no hellos. He thought that some farewells were not as temporary.
He had thought once that some goodbyes were for good...
And he had good reason to...
Everything around him played slowly, as if time was slowing down for them, people coming and going to pay respect to a person who would no longer hear them. Praises and words of honour were uttered by people who had no idea as to what real pain of loss meant, and yet James just sat there, right beside his mother, holding her tight as she shed tears, just letting her set her pain free; and he said nothing. He cried no tears, he said no goodbyes, and he set free none of his pain. He just sat there, watching everything play out around him, and realizing just how similar, yet different, the situation was to one he had witnessed long ago.
Seven years old, he was when in that same place, in that same spot, he sat right beside his mother, his father on his other side, nearly eleven years ago. People were weeping for the loss of a great man. A great soldier of justice, they all called James’ grandfather, and many people cried when he died; but the Potters themselves did not. Up on that pedestal, they spoke of great stories of the old man, but none cried. And it was not because they did not miss him. It was because they were just relieved that old man Potter had been released from the agony of life.
Old man Potter had been hit by a stray curse during a raid, and it was a part of life, a part of the choice he took when he became an Auror, but nobody knew how to counter the curse, nobody knew how to heal it. It was a demon’s touch, those from Mungo’s described it as. It targeted all his internal organs like a poison that licked his insides. One-by-one, his bodily functions started failing. From his muscles that weakened, limbs that cannot be moved anymore, to his digestive system that no longer accepted sustenance, everything started failing. But what hurt the most was when his memory started failing him.
Day in, day out, they guarded him. Nightfall or sunrise, the sons and the daughters took care of him, but it was only on certain hours that he knew who they were. Old man Potter’s memory started fading. ‘Who are you?’ came out of his mouth more often than ‘How are you?’ Even James, during those days that he visited his gramps, got a taste of a look that could not recognize him.
‘Who are you?’ grandpa had asked, and since that was the first day that James had been there, and without knowledge of what was happening, the boy, six at the time, got upset. Why wouldn’t he? His grandpa, his best mate, his best playmate, were looking at him with eyes that did not held the love they usually did. He cried, asking, again and again, if gramps was playing a joke, and at the sight of the boy’s tears, the old man felt useless, he felt at fault for hurting a wee little thing. And forced his memory, he did. He tried to remember the boy’s face, which, in turn, only worsened his condition.
‘Son, it’s not his fault he doesn’t remember you. He doesn’t remember all of us, but we can’t force him to, or else he’ll be hurt. Do you understand, James?’ his father had told him later that day, when grandpa Potter was slumbering silently, and the rest of the family were gathered just around him, speaking in whispers.
And then, for the first time that day, Grandma Potter spoke, ‘He doesn’t always forget, you know? He remembers sometimes. When everyone’s out. Before the day ends, and it’s just me here, he looks at me the way he used to before. He beckons to me and asks me to hold him like that last night. I think whenever he comes back, he forgets how long he’s been ill, and thinks he’s only been attacked the past night, not almost a year ago.’
Indeed, it was after the full year that Grandpa Potter’s body gave away, like the Healers predicted. But it was not a sad affair for the family. They were thankful for the year of agony had finally ended. They felt the loss, but the relief for grandpa’s rest was stronger. They were grateful that his suffering had finally ended.
Still, grandma Potter had been left widowed. Not too long, though, for half a year after grandpa Potter’s death, grandma followed; and though sadness overcame them all, they knew she parted with them to be with her husband once again.
And it was James’ dad who explained to him all this. It was his father who taught James that death wasn’t always sad, death wasn’t always a tearful goodbye. Sadly, that was not the reason why James would not shed a tear at his own father’s funeral. Though it was at the same place, at the same spot, and at a similar gathering, his father’s death wasn’t the same as grandpa Potter’s. They weren’t given time to accept it, time to say their proper goodbyes to his father while he was still alive. Just one night, James’ dad fell dead, and the Healers said it was not because of an attack, not because of a curse that slowly killed his insides, no. It was because his heart had already exhausted all its beats.
James had not accepted it, he had not believed it. How could he? Grandpa Potter had been older than his dad when he died. His father could not die of old age so early, was James’ argument with the healers, and with the other members of the clan of Potters that he had spoken to, who had previously cut-off their branch for their reluctance to follow in the ways of blood purity. But none of that mattered. Nobody felt the same agony as James and his mother. It was an agony that he could not accept, an agony that he could not let go off, an agony that he could not set free.
No tears fell, no grieving was done, no acceptance has been made...
Not until months and months after.
It was three months that James had lived in limbo. While the whole of Hogwarts were fretting about petrifications, about hidden monsters in the dark, James still held on to the dead memory of his father. And at the end of those three months, he was woken up from his slumber, woken up from his reverie, woken up from his denial. And all it took was the touch, the embrace of someone who wasn’t fazed by his glares, his evasions, his yells. Who set him free and convinced him to finally grieve was the person who stayed up with him late that night, listening to why he thought life was unfair. She let him tell her why it was hard for him to accept it, instead of just telling him to move on and to let go just because that was what his father would have wanted...unlike the others.
And so he let go... and it was his mother who he came to first after that night. And they talked, and talked, and talked about how she loved him and his father so much, and how his father loved the both of them. And the talk was all about love, and so it was that talk that gave James the indication, the strength to prepare him for the month that was to come.
Because four months after the death of his father, only a month after James’ acceptance of his dad’s death, his mother died.
And it was a different grief than the one before. James then knew how to let go, how to accept death, how to properly set them free. He remembered that every goodbye would be met with a new hello...
Even though James’ dad had said goodbye to them, he’d have said hello once again to grandpa and grandma Potter on the other side. Though James’ mother said goodbye to him, she would be saying hello again to his father. And one day, after he’d lived his own life, James would be saying hello to both of them again.
Goodbye wasn’t always goodbye. Goodbye doesn’t always have to be permanent. Goodbye can sometimes mean...
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