Summary: Still reeling from the aftermath of his memory loss, Hugh Granger faces his daughter and her best friend turned boyfriend, while also questioning the changes in their lives and personalities. Written for IWSC Season 4 Round 2.
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“Mum? Dad?”
Hermione’s shaky voice catches Hugh Granger's attention. His brain remains foggy as he orients himself to the changes in his life, two of which now sit at the dining table in his coastal home.
“Ron traveled with me—you remember Ron, right? I spent time with his family over the summers between school.”
Hermione references the tall ginger-haired boy sitting next to her boasting a sheepish grin on his face. Judging by the scruff on his chin, Ron looks older than Hugh imagined, and his stomach churns as he remembers how much time has passed.
“Ah, yes. Ronald.”
The boy she once spoke of endlessly, both good and bad.
“It’s nice to finally put a face to a name!” Jean Granger acknowledges the boy with a welcoming smile. “Any friend of Hermione’s is a friend of ours.”
“Well…” Hermione bites down on her lip to hold back a smile, leaning closer to Ron’s statue-like form.
She doesn’t have to finish the sentence; her intention is obvious.
To Hugh’s surprise, during his time as Wendell Wilkins, Ron has managed to solidify himself as Hermione’s boyfriend. Jean is thrilled, of course, reassuring her husband when they had a moment alone before dinner that Ron is a nice boy who comes from a nice magical family. Sure, that may have been the truth before their daughter erased her parents’ memories, but what is he like now?
The disgruntled thought permeates his brain as he surveys the aperitive array of roast chicken and potatoes displayed on the table. When his gaze travels to Ron, he spies the boy fidgeting with his cutlery before stashing his hands in his lap. The action was quick and subtle enough that Hugh would’ve missed it entirely if he had so much as blinked.
“This looks delicious.” Ron’s eyes light up as he tucks into the meal.
The initial conversation lends itself to trivial topics and mundane discussions of the weather in Australia. Ron asks Hugh and Jean about their favorite coastal activities and the state of their current dental practice. The boy diverges from topic to topic, always prepared with another question as soon as an answer to his previous is given, and Hugh doesn’t often have a chance to ask one of his own.
“Oh, bugger.” Ron shifts in his seat to examine a chip in the wooden chair and the snagged threads hanging loose from the end of his jumper.
"Oh, dear.” Jean frowns, making a move to stand up. “I can take a look—"
Ron shakes his head, tucking the threads into his sleeve. “Oh, it’s alright. I'll just fix it later with—well, you know."
Once again, Ron’s composure falters, even if only for a split second. Thus far, Ron’s a charming bloke who does almost everything right. He’s presentable in dress trousers and a jumper that’s only slightly frayed, offering a smile and a hello with a firm handshake.
Visions of Ron’s personality as Hermione had once described him flash through Hugh’s mind. She always wore a massive grin whenever she spoke of Ron, despite her attempts to mask the excitement when expressing annoyance over his penchant for childish behavior.
Hermione wrote home often when she was in school, and in one of her letters she went on for two paragraphs about how she wished Ron would take their classes more seriously, and perhaps, tuck in his shirt every now and then. Although Hugh’s memory is still a bit hazy, the description she gave doesn’t match up with the smartly-dressed boy he sees in front of him now.
“So, tell us more about what’s happened in your world.” Jean sets her fork down and rests her elbows on the table while leaning in. “We have a lot to catch up on.”
Hermione covers Ron’s hand with her own. The ginger-haired boy flinches from the contact and clears his throat before saying, “You have a lovely home here in Australia.”
Hugh and Jean exchange puzzled glances. He narrows his eyes at the teens who refuse to meet his gaze as a long, pregnant pause fills the room.
What is happening? He’s still wrapping his mind around his memory loss; he doesn’t need to fret over secrets that could tarnish the foundation they’re trying to rebuild.
“Oh, you don’t want to know more about our lives.” Jean laughs it off, leaning into Hugh. “It can’t be nearly as interesting as what you’ve been up to.”
Determined to stay rooted in the truth, Hugh clears his throat. “Ron, we appreciate you looking out for Hermione in our absence. For keeping her safe.”
“It’s, er, well—” A noise leaves Ron’s throat that he attempts to mask as a cough. “We’re glad we were able to sort out your memories. It's nice to finally meet you.”
He continues to steer the conversation into safer territory. What is he hiding?
"Ron is a tactical thinker, I’m always impressed by his ability to combat highly-stressful situations."
The words his daughter once spoke echo through Hugh’s mind. He should challenge Ron to a chess match given how Hermione once raved over his logistical abilities—it makes Hugh wonder what Ron’s strategy is for getting through this evening. Hugh fights the urge to narrow his eyes, weighing his options for continued discord.
“We’ve always wanted to go on holiday here. Haven’t we, Jean?”
A wistful smile appears on Hermione’s face as her eyes glisten. Ron’s hand tightens over his girlfriend’s and they share a meaningful look that eases the tension in Hermione’s shoulders. Hugh’s amazed at how quickly Ron’s able to calm her worries. He imagines Ron knows his daughter better than he does at this point in her life, and the thought is both comforting and unsettling.
Jean once showed Hugh the tear stains on the parchment Hermione had sent home, indicating that their daughter had been crying when she wrote the letter. Ironically those were the messages she spoke of Ron the most, and that’s when Hugh knew his daughter was falling in love for the first time.
But as his gaze travels over the young couple shifting in their chairs, his vision focuses on a thin red cut on the front of Hermione’s neck. Although Hugh knows that the pair have likely dealt with danger, it’s dawning on him how perilous their situation might have been.
When Hugh’s eyes return to Ron, the younger man averts his gaze.
Hermione dives into a recap of her former years at Hogwarts, and Hugh knows she’s avoiding discussion of her whereabouts over the last twelve months. As he listens to his daughter talk, he realizes he’s getting a glossy version of how she met Ron; what their history is with each other, how they transitioned from friends to friendlier…
“And where will you be staying until you figure out your plans for the future?”
A rosy tint colors Hermione’s cheeks as she addresses her mum. “We haven’t discussed living arrangements yet. I’ve been helping Mrs. Weasley take care of the Burrow.”
One glance at Ron’s face—now an even deeper shade of red than Hermione's—and Hugh fears the young pair may not be thinking about making a deeper commitment to each other because they already have. He wonders exactly how far their relationship has progressed, an uncomfortable thought for any father to have.
Ron sits in companionable silence as Hermione takes the lead in the conversation, but Hugh’s gaze remains trained on him. He looks calm and assured on the outside, but Hugh remembers how he was at a young age, and he knows the boy must be dying inside.
“Water, Ron?”
“What?” The boy jolts in his seat, his knee banging against the underside of the table with a solid thwack.
Ron’s squirming forces Hugh to hold back a smile. “Would you like another glass of water? You look parched.”
“Oh, s-sure. That’d be nice.”
“Brilliant. Follow me.”
Hugh stands from his seat and exits the dining room without waiting to see if Ron follows him. The door opens and closes behind him only a few seconds later, signaling Ron’s arrival into the study.
It’s not going to take the Weasley boy long to realize they’re not in a place where water is kept, so Hugh quickly walks over to his antique standing globe in the corner of the room near a shelf of books. He opens the lid, revealing a mini liquor bar and a stash of glassware hidden beneath a map of the world.
“Whoa.”
“Between you and me, I need more than water for events like these.” Hugh twists the cap on a half-full bottle of whiskey, sets out two crystallized tumblers, and pours a small amount of the caramel-colored liquid into each glass.
“Sir?”
Ron’s voice is sharp and raspy. Hugh hands Ron a glass that he clinks with his own.
“Cheers!”
Hugh takes a small sip, allowing the smoked taste to roll down his throat. He settles into a squashy armchair, gesturing for Ron to sit in the other. He waits to make sure he’s satisfied with his drink before broaching the subject he wants to discuss.
“So… you and Hermione.”
Ron starts rambling before Hugh can get another word in. “She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever known—apart from my mum, of course. I’m not saying my mum isn’t brilliant, because she is—”
“It’s okay. Relax.”
It’s obvious that Ron is terrified, and Hugh wants the integrity of the conversation to remain intact. He doesn’t want to be misrepresented as the intimidating father; he only wants to know why Ron is seeking his trust and forgiveness for something that he hasn't explained yet.
“No need to validate your relationship with my daughter. She’s an independent and brilliant young woman. If she thinks you’re up to her standards, then so do I.”
Ron’s mouth hangs open, poised to comment, yet no sound comes out. The quick dip of his head indicates that he accepts the approval.
“Regardless,” Hugh carries on, hoping to alleviate the beads of sweat glistening under the boy’s ginger fringe on his forehead. “I’m not all that surprised you two ended up together, given my own superpower.”
He holds up his glass with a teasing smirk, observing the way Ron’s cobalt eyes go round. “I’m psychic by the way. I saw this coming; I just didn’t say anything.”
“You did?”
“Okay, so maybe I’m not psychic, but I didn’t have to meet you to know how my daughter feels about you. Hermione is intelligent beyond her years. Her Mum and I knew she’d figure it out.”
Ron chuckles, tapping his fingers on the outer rim of the glass. “It seems like everyone else knew before we did, honestly.”
Hugh tilts his head, studying Ron’s demeanor with more concentration. He’s already impressed by the boy’s ability to remain neutral and present in the conversation. But Hugh didn’t miss the scar on his daughter’s neck. He doesn’t want to question Ron’s character or motives, but he’ll have to if he can’t get Ron to start talking.
Speculation can only lead to detrimental consequences.
“So, how are you coping with what’s left of the magical world?”
Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments before Ron breaks the contact. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You came to our house appropriately dressed. You have excellent table manners. You’re doing all the right things, and yet, I don’t feel like I’m getting a chance to see the real you. I think you might be withholding significant information, I just don’t know what it is yet.”
As Ron remains close-mouthed and unforthcoming, Hugh presses on.
“What happened, Ron?”
“I don’t think that’s my story to tell, Mr. Granger.”
“I don’t mean what happened to Hermione. I’ve always been quite bemused by my daughter and her abilities, and she’s a tough biscuit to crack, but I’m talking about you. How did the war change you?”
Ron drags his gaze from the floor but remains quiet as he weighs his options for responding.
“You’re different. You’re not the same boy Hermione used to spend her summers with. This may be our first official meeting, but she certainly told us a lot about you.”
He goggles at Hugh as if he’s sprouted an extra head. “I’m the same Ron Weasley, sir.”
“Yeah. But you’re not the same, are you?”
“If you’re insinuating that I’m an imposter, I can assure you it doesn’t happen in the magical world that often.”
“That often?”
Vertical wrinkles appear between Ron’s eyebrows and he slumps lower in his chair. “Forget I said anything.”
“Why are you shying away from the truth? Has Hermione instructed you to keep quiet?” Hugh scoffs. “She only altered our memories, of course, she would—”
“She wanted to protect you!”
Ron’s eyes blaze with a fire that matches the intensity of his striking red hair. It’s the second glimpse that Hugh receives into what his daughter’s boyfriend might be thinking. Slowly but surely Ron’s emotions unravel, requiring more transparency than ever.
“I know that now. But you can’t expect me to not ask questions, especially when Hermione revealed she did not attend her final year at Hogwarts and instead traveled the country with her two best friends—one being her boyfriend.”
Ron opens his mouth to debate, but Hugh holds up his hand.
“For the mission. I know that too.”
A stony silence fills the air. The caliber of the conversation has changed, but Hugh remains purposeful in his actions, seeking even more clarity.
“But there’s something you don’t want me to know—something you believe will make me think less of you.”
“Bloody fu—” Ron clamps his mouth shut as the tips of his ears burn red. “That’s, er, simply not true. Respectfully, sir.”
The corner of Hugh’s mouth twitches. He remembers from Hermione’s stories how Ron possesses a foul mouth at times, and he almost wishes he hadn’t held back. At least he’d be showcasing his real self.
“What is the truth?”
Ron tips his head back, downs the contents of his drink as if garnering all of his liquid courage, and sets the empty glass on the end table. He leans forward with his forearms resting against his knees, holding Hugh’s gaze through steely eyes.
“I just want you to see me as a person who cares a lot about your daughter.”
The statement doesn’t come as a surprise, but Hugh challenges Ron’s intention with a single eyebrow raise. “Are you saying that’s not who you are?”
“No—no, absolutely not—I mean, I’m not saying that I don’t—” Ron takes several steadying breaths while threading his fingers through his hair. “I haven’t always made positive choices.”
Well, that’s a lofty opinion of himself.
“Who has?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Who has, Ron? We all make mistakes. I’ve made my fair share with Hermione.”
Ron grimaces as he picks at the imperfections on his jumper again. “There was a time during the war… I let her down. And I vowed I would never do it again—”
“Then I trust you won’t.”
Ignoring Hugh’s side remark, Ron continues to unload his failures. “I thought I ruined years of friendship in just a matter of minutes. I got angry. I wasn’t in my right mind and I left the mission we set out to accomplish. I left her.”
Loyalty. So that’s what it comes down to.
He sees the boy in all of his anguish, striving to hold himself accountable. Hugh almost feels guilty for coercing Ron into showing his emotions, as he’s still bearing the brunt of his mistakes. It’s a difficult thing to carry tremendous guilt, and who knows how long he’s suffered with it.
“I wasn't careful enough to realize the influence a magical object had on me, and—I'm sorry, Mr. Granger. I'm not sure how much detail I should give you without Hermione here."
"It's alright."
The ticking clock nearby fills the empty silence that follows, and Hugh levels his daughter’s boyfriend with a look of determination.
“You realized what you did was hurtful and gave her a genuine apology?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then that’s all I need to hear. You’re rebuilding your trust with Hermione. That's more important than anything I think.”
Ron’s responsible efforts demonstrate the strength of his character. Hugh wants to tell Ron he doesn’t expect him to be perfect nor does he think he is. He knows this boy has likely broken his daughter’s heart once or twice, yet he can tell from a single interaction with him that Ron’s the one who cares the most about her, apart from himself and Jean.
“We can’t always prevent conflict from happening. I couldn’t prevent Hermione from stealing my memories. Try not to query on things you have no control over.”
“But I do have control over how you think of me. I want you to see me as someone worthy of your daughter. I don't want you to think I’m going to leave her just because of things I’ve done in the past.”
“That’s what you believe?” Hugh’s gut tightens as he realizes Ron is full of scars that can’t be seen, including some that are self-inflicted. “You're an honorable man, Ron. You may not have always made the right decisions at the right time, but you are good and decent. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t care enough to sit here and tell me this right now.”
It dawns on Hugh that Ron is no longer the boy who was friends with his daughter. Now he’s the man who’s in love with his daughter and would do anything to protect her.
Not wanting the two women in the dining room to wonder for too long where they’ve been, Hugh stands and gestures for Ron to do the same. He leans forward and gives the young man a hearty clap on his back.
“Let’s get back to dinner, only this time, try being yourself!”
Hermione’s quill taps a nervous rhythm against the wooden tabletop, the only sound in the quiet library. She must be alone here. The only person not at the feast.
She was so excited to come to Hogwarts, so excited to finally be around people like her. Except not everybody is like her. It turns out there’s a big difference between muggle-borns and those with magical parents. At least to her housemates.
Hermione read Hogwarts: A History cover to cover during the summer, so she knows all about the different houses. On paper, the rivalries and bloody purity standards appeared archaic. A relic as bygone as Salazar himself.
And yet, not one of the Slytherins had spoken to her after the Sorting Hat made its choice and she took her seat beneath the green and silver banners.
Shortly after that, Hermione had excused herself from the feast, seeking solace in the one place that had always been a comfort. She has survived this far in her life with only books as friends; why should the next seven years be any different?
A creak of hinges echoes through the cavernous library, and Hermione gathers her things. It can only be the librarian here to tell her off. First years don’t have free reign of the castle, after all. It’s not Madam Pince, however, who rounds the end of the bookshelf closest to her. The boy who appears instead looks as if he ran all the way from the Great Hall.
His red hair is tousled, and based on Hermione’s interaction with the other Slytherins, the smile on his face doesn’t match the green and silver striped tie that hangs loose around his neck. She remembers seeing him briefly on the train but never caught his name, and she didn’t stick around long enough to see him sorted.
“I didn’t think anyone else would be here,” he says, leaning against the bookshelf and yanking at the knot in his tie to fully unfurl it.
Hermione gives the boy a curious frown. “Are you hiding from someone?”
“My brothers.” He sighs and rolls his bright blue eyes. “I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.”
“I’m Hermione Granger. Why are you hiding from your brothers?”
Ron shoots her a rueful smile as he holds up the tie in answer before tossing it aside. “My whole family are in Gryffindor,” he replies as he slides down the length of the bookcase to sit on the ground. “Bloody hell, I’m never going to live this down.”
Hermione frowns. She’s never heard such language from someone her own age.
Before she can comment, Ron continues, “Reckon it’s my own fault. I went up there thinking ‘I just want to be different’. But I thought, y’know, maybe Hufflepuff. Not Slytherin. Never Slytherin.”
His frustration mirrors her own, and Hermione says, “I don’t belong in Slytherin, either.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m muggle-born.”
“That’s a load of rubbish. Anybody can be a good witch or wizard. None of us knows what we’re doing yet, do we?”
“No, I guess not.”
Hermione settles on the floor across from Ron, tucking her feet beneath her as she fiddles with the end of her tie.
“Why do you think you got sorted into Slytherin, then?” Ron asks.
She wonders that herself. She hadn’t really guessed at what house she would be sorted into prior to coming to Hogwarts, preferring to keep an open mind, but her chilly welcome into Slytherin is a clear sign she doesn’t belong.
“Well, I’d like to be Head Girl one day. So ambition fits, I suppose.”
“Head Girl? We’ve only just got here!”
“I know what I want.”
Hermione shrugs and gets to her feet. Ron seemed nice enough at first, but if he’s only going to tease her, she’d rather be alone.
“Hey, wait!”
She hears the shuffle of Ron’s feet as he scrambles to follow her, and she slows her steps to allow him to catch up.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s—I mean, I get it. It’d be wicked to be Quidditch Captain one day.”
He offers her a smile that she chooses to take as sincere. Maybe it would be nice to have a friend, after all.
“Perhaps the Hat sensed ambition in you, too, then.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Ron holds his tie up in front of him as they walk, giving it a look of disdain. “But hey, at least we have each other,” he adds cheerfully.
His words put a smile on Hermione’s face for the first time since she was sorted. With Ron by her side, maybe being in Slytherin won’t be so bad.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley
Characters: Bill Weasley, Fleur Delacour, Victoire Weasley
Additional Tags: Dancing, Fluff, Love, Baby Victoire
Series: Part 2 of the broken wireless
Summary:
bill weasley reminisces on the love in his life, and marvels at the new love he's only recently found.
Death doesn't seem so imposing when you know that you're dying—when you realised it a long time ago. Harry's journey as he deals with Cancer. Haphne. IWSC Final entry. Hogwarts JP.
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Written for the International Wizarding Schools Championship.
Round: Finals!!!
Theme: Dittany, which means healing. The theme is shown here as Harry trying his best to recover from cancer.
Year: Year 7
School: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Prompts: Potions (object) [additional]
Emerald (colour) [additional]
St. Mungo's (setting) [main]
Special Rule and Link: The special rule here is used by Showing 'birth'.
Warnings: Cancer, Major character death, mentions of infertility.
A/N: In this fic, Harry and Daphne are 80, and their children 40-44 years of age. The three children Harry and Daphne have are called Sothis, Jacob, and Lily.
————
14th January 2060
8:35 p.m.
Diary,
Death doesn't seem so imposing when you know that you're dying—when you realised it a long time ago. It's funny, really. We know we're all dying but rarely does it ever truly sink in. But in my case, I've had the pleasure of having realised this way back at the age of seventeen. I hadn't thought I'd get out of the Forbidden Forest alive again, especially if I were meant to die in the end, and so I had submitted to my sentence. I was as surprised as anyone at my continued living, I assure you, and with the amount of downright stupid things I've done in my lifetime—fighting Voldemort some five different times, riding thestrals, wandering into acromantula nests, and then contemplating becoming an auror before Daphne talked me out of it—I've already outlived my expectations, so I don't think it bothers me too much that death has come to claim me now.
Daphne and Hermione would both glare at me for saying that probably, and Sothis, Jacob, and Lily would frown. Acquiring blood cancer does not necessarily mean death, especially since it's a muggle disease, but at the age of 80, I have my doubts. Wizards might not be as affected by muggle ailments, but this is cancer. It's been nearly ten days since I've written to you, as you might have noticed, and that was because of the numerous tests they conducted and reconducted at St. Mungo's. I've had to quit teaching at Hogwarts because of this accursed illness. Those of my family who haven't had much exposure to the muggle world didn't realise just how serious cancer was, and they were rather unconcerned—it's a muggle disease, wizards always recover from muggle diseases—but Hermione knew exactly what it was, and how serious, and she passed this information to both Ron and Daphne—even when I begged her not to—who told others. So now, everyone is extra polite around me, and extra careful. I hate how everyone looks at me like I might shatter at any moment. Even Malfoy's started acting differently again, and it's just so frustrating!
I just want everyone to get back to normal.
Harry James Potter
————
8th February 2060
8:15 p.m.
Diary,
My health has gotten worse instead of better. Last week, I began coughing violently and realised that I was coughing blood. My body hurt. I also had a temperature and felt dizzy. Daphy took me to St. Mungo's as soon as she saw my pitiful state. I was kept there for a whole day while the healers ran tests and took samples. While the wizarding world doesn't use injections, their methods of extracting blood hurt just as much. The healers only let Daphy see me during around dinnertime after they thought me stable enough. Daphy was by my side the entire night after that, holding my hand, helping me eat, and then finally settling me down for the night. I hadn't seen her that tired in a long time, diary, and it was … unsettling. I wonder if I'm being too selfish in not really caring if this cursed disease takes me down. Daphne would be shattered.
Hermione and Ron were there at the hospital before I woke up the next day, considerably late and still feeling pretty shitty. The two of them and Daphne were talking to a healer, and none of them had realised I was awake. I could only catch a few phrases of their conversation—flu, immune system, careful—but the grim expressions on their faces told me that whatever it was, it wasn't good. The healers sent me home with instructions to take some fifty odd potions every eight hours and to exercise regularly, but not so much that I overexert myself.
I was too tired the next three days to pick up a pen to write, let alone go for a walk. But yesterday, after Daphy and I got back from the walk she had coaxed me into going for, we came home to a pleasant surprise in the form of Lily and Sebastian. Lily has always been big on surprises, but the one she gave us yesterday was the best surprise I have gotten in a long time. They're expecting their first child in July! After a number of failed tries, Lily and Sebastian had both given up on trying to have children, but that right there was proof that miracles do happen. Daphne was so happy, she had tears in her eyes. So did I. For a moment there, I think all of us present in the room were a little misty-eyed. It took a little effort to digest that bit of news, happy as it was because our sweet little witch had grown so old so fast. Wasn't it just yesterday that I had first held her in my arms? She was finally going to be a mother now! I am happy as can be, of course, but I wonder if I'll be able to live long enough to see my grandchild in this life.
I really hope I do.
Harry James Potter
————
18th March 2060
8:00 p.m.
Diary,
I don't think I'd be able to stand a single more piteous look directed toward me, even if my situation is miserable. I feel tired all the time now, even though I've been taking all my potions on time and have done all the exercises that the healers had told me to do. My body still hurts sometimes, and I feel utterly useless. The healers in St. Mungo's still take samples of my blood to see if my condition is getting any better.
They don't say so to my face, but I'm only getting worse. It is clear by the looks they direct towards me, in how Ron and Hermione both always say goodbye to me at the end of the day as if it were their last goodbye, in how Daphne strokes my cheek at night when we’re both in bed and tells me to stay strong for her. I wish they'd just tell me, so I don't have to go through everything pretending to be blissfully unaware.
Sothis and Jacob came to see me today. I hadn't seen them since my birthday last year. Sothis lives in America now with his family and practices as a curse breaker while Jacob has been wandering around the world with Lorcan Lovegood. They were upset when they'd been told of my cancer, of course, but today I truly saw how much my sickness really affected my family. If I had been my old self, I would not have wanted them to see me like this, but times have changed. At least I'm not in St. Mungo's because I wasn't able to fight a common cold.
I really do want to get better.
Harry James Potter
————
21st May 2060
8:40 p.m.
Diary,
Things have begun to look up for me now, and I feel I've gotten a little better for the past few weeks. I don't feel as tired anymore, and Daphy does not have to force me to get out of the house. Daphy could not be happier about this. I've begun working on a book to keep me occupied. This was Hermione's idea—to write a book on Defence Against the Dark Arts from my experience as a professor and what I learnt when I was still studying for it. That I have fought the supreme leader of the dark is an added bonus. I think the one single perk of being sick is that the children come to see me more often. The others came around too, recently—the Weasleys, Neville, Luna. It felt nice to see them all after so long, but it felt a little disconcerting that this might be the last time we saw each other. I suppose that was the reason they made the visit in the first place, to see me again while they still could.
In other news, I am in the news again. The Daily Prophet found out about my illness somehow, and it was all anyone talked about for the last week. Daphy and Hermione both blew up over the staff of St. Mungo's because no one else would ever leak any information to the Prophet of all people. Astoria, who works there, is having the board conduct an entire investigation to find the gossip.
Lily had her first contraction while she was here with us. It was a false alarm, the baby is due in the second week of August, but it felt strange and surreal. Everyone was excited though, Lily especially, even if she complained non-stop about her backache. Things are looking up, finally, and everyone, the healers included, think that I'm going to get better quite soon.
I hope I do.
Harry James Potter
————
5th July 2060
8:40 p.m.
Diary,
While my health had been stable enough for the past two months and was inching towards recovery, it has now gotten worse again. The healers think that I've been exposed to an infection which my body is not able to fight off. The incessant pain, the omnipresent tiredness have both returned with assorted bottles of potions that taste like sewer water.
I was kept at St. Mungo's for a week, and the healers were still reluctant to let me go home because apparently, my immune system has become so compromised that even the mildest of bacteria or virus could be the cause of my death. It wasn't until Hermione had reasoned with them that I was more likely to be exposed to pathogens—whatever those were—in a hospital than back home that they let me go. I've been told in no uncertain terms to take all my potions on time and to get plenty of rest. The worst part is that I am to avoid the outdoors completely, so no more walks or anything. Daphne looked defeated yet determined.
When they thought I wasn't listening, they also told Daphne and Hermione to keep the visitors to a minimum, so people coming to see me is also out of the question now, although Lily did come here the other day, so I guess the kids are allowed.
I had thought I was getting better, but now … they don't say it to my face, but their pitiful expressions make it clear that my days now are numbered. I hope I get to see my youngest grandchild before I die, though. They aren't here yet, but I love them already.
Harry James Potter
————
31st July 2060
8:45 p.m.
Diary,
It's my birthday today, but so much has changed since last year. I was teaching at Hogwarts happily. People weren't scared of sneezing around me. I was cancer free. But most importantly, I didn't have a new grandson who looked exactly like me. His eyes are the same emerald green as mine, and he has a small tuft of jet-black hair, although I really hope he has better luck with it than I have had.
From what Daphy tells me, Lily had been visiting when her water broke. I don't know the exact details of what happened since I had been in St. Mungo's since the past week, but everyone panicked except Daphne, who had gone home for a while to shower and eat after leaving me in Hermione's care. She calmly called for a mediwitch from St. Mungo's and made preparations to transport Lily to the hospital for the delivery.
The baby was two weeks early, but still very healthy. He had curious green eyes, and the memory of how he looked at me with interest when I first held him is still fresh in my mind. I did finally get to meet my grandchild—Lily's first child—and I couldn't possibly be happier. If I were to die now, after I've seen my grandchild, I'd die happy. My princess had finally started a family of her own, and the baby looks just like me. He's a tiny and beautiful baby, and I am so proud. Lily and Sebastian are both beaming. They named him after me and Sebastian's father—Harry Alex Grahams.
I love him.
Harry James Potter
————
Daphne closed the diary shut on the morning of August the 2nd with tears rolling down her eyes. She put it beside her on the padded carpet she was sitting on and drew her knees closer to her. Harry had to go, leave, just as Lily's first child was born, just as he had turned Eighty-One. It was painfully sad. Lily had cried through the last night, and it had taken Daphne all she had in her to not join her in it and to comfort her instead. She took in a deep breath. Harry was right, though. The child was beautiful and looked painfully like him. At least she knew that he had died painlessly in his sleep. Happy. Content. His suffering had ended, and he had had the joy of holding his grandson in his arms. He had been happy. That was all that mattered
Harry led Hermione out of the room and Luna could hear him explaining what had happened to Ginny who had followed them. Luna dug out a handkerchief stashed away in the pocket of her dress and dialled 999 on the phone on Sirius' desk, careful not to disturb anything. However, the line was dead. A crash out of the window confirmed the reason: a flash of lightning had hit the telephone pole. "Harry, the phone's out. We will have to wait for the storm to pass and then one of us will have to head to the mainland," she said as she joined them in the entrance hall. She looked to each of her companions, one of them had to be the killer. It was unlikely that it was an outsider considering that she came on the only boat of the day and from what she could see, Sirius had been dead for an hour at most.
"But who do we send? We send the wrong person— the killer— they get away for good before the police can stop them," Harry said. Ginny sobbed quietly, grasping a small lace handkerchief and Harry placed her arm around him.
"Well, I suppose we will have to find out who did it then," Luna said. She opened up her notebook— she had always fancied herself a detective— that was what a journalist was, after all, a seeker of the truth. "First, I suppose I will need to look at the crime scene ," she said, tapping her pen on the notepad. 'Crime scene, alibis and then go from there,' she thought.
Submission for @iwsc Luna Lovegood tries her hand at being a detective even though the truth may end up hurting her friends.
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