The house was not what she had expected; it was more cozy looking than impressive. In fact, it was not very impressive at all. There was an assortment of old boots by the door, a couple of old child-sized broomsticks that had definitely seen better days, and a tired looking rhododendron that had been potted into an old cauldron.

The girl knocked and waited, unsure of what to do with her hands. She’d been looking forward to this appointment, amazed that her request had been accepted. It was a well-known fact that the famous Harry Potter, who had defeated the Darkest wizard ever before he had been eighteen, shunned all interviews. Many had attempted to meet with him in order to write his much hoped for biography, but all had been rejected.

Standing there looking around, she stiffened as footsteps approached inside the house. The door was opened by an elderly witch. Her skin was surprisingly smooth for her age. Her hair, shiny and bright white, was pulled back haphazardly into a pile atop her head. Her eyes, brown and sharp, looked over the girl suspiciously.

“Yes?”

“Erm… hello. I’ve a letter here.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded parchment, worn from the numerous times she’d read and re-read it over the last month. “It’s from Mr Harry Potter. I had requested a meeting with him and was told to come here today. I’m Absinthe Longbottom.”

The witch eyed her with a new interest. “Are you? You must be Hem’s daughter, then?”

Absinthe latched onto the statement. She’d been so very nervous about this meeting with Mr Potter, and this witch was not rendering the visit any easier. “Yes, yes, that’s right. I believe Mr Potter is well acquainted with my father.”

The witch looked irritated. “Well, of course we’re acquainted with him. We’ve known Hemlock Longbottom since he was in nappies.” Her face softened just a bit. “I’m Mrs Potter.”

“Oh!” This woman knew her grandfather then. Absinthe gave a great sigh of relief. Her beloved grandfather had been the one to help arrange this meeting between her and Mr Potter. He had repeatedly told her that both of the Potters were the very best of people. He had been friends with them since their Hogwarts days, though the very idea that her grandfather had ever been young enough to attend Hogwarts was an oddity to Absinthe. “I’m sorry, Mrs Potter, I should have realized...”

“Not at all. Well, don’t just stand there. You might as well come in. Wipe your feet. I’ve just done the floors.” Mrs Potter stood back to let Absinthe inside. The interior of the home was very like the outside: cozy and comfortable, if a bit cluttered. The whole place had a lived-in feel, and there was a faint scent of flowers and freshly baked bread.

She followed the old woman into a large sitting room that had windows on two sides and a massive stone fireplace at the end. The mantel and several of the tables scattered about the room were covered with framed Wizarding photographs. Absinthe thought she caught sight of one of her grandfather as a young man, but she was quickly distracted by Mrs Potter addressing her again.

“Have a seat. He’ll be down in a bit.” She surveyed Absinthe again. “How is Neville getting on? I haven’t seen him since Ron’s — for quite a while now.” The elderly witch turned away from Absinthe to straighten a child’s drawing that had been charmed onto the wall, but Absinthe had glimpsed the witch’s expression before she’d turned.

“He’s well, thank you. He—he asked me to send his regards and said he would be by soon. I don’t think he gets about much anymore. This time of year he’s in his garden mostly.”

Mrs Potter turned back. Her eyes were shining in the afternoon light pouring in through the windows. “Ah well, I’m glad Neville’s coming to see us when he can. It’s difficult for Harry to go places these days. He’s lost all desire to do much lately since —”

“Ginny!” A voice bellowed through the house.

Mrs Potter huffed. “Oh, hang on, can’t find his glasses, most likely. You sit here. I’ll bring some tea in a bit.”

“Oh, please don’t go to any trouble, Mrs Potter.”

At this the old witch clicked her tongue, looking disgusted as if nothing could be more ridiculous. As she left the room, Absinthe could hear her muttering.

“… trouble getting tea… what the hell else do I do with all my time? Why doesn’t he put them so he knows…?”

It was relief to have her gone for a moment. She made Absinthe feel like she was being studied and dissected. Looking around the room, Absinthe moved over to the mantel to look at what were obviously treasured photos. Most of them featured people with red hair. Of course it was well known that Ginny Potter had been a Weasley, a family known for their hair color as well as for their bravery during the war and their tireless work during the reconstruction thereafter. A photo towards the center caught her eye. It was of three children: one dark-haired boy with a lightning shaped scar on his forehead; another boy, taller with red hair and blue eyes; and a girl with rather bushy hair standing between them.

“You’re Neville’s granddaughter then?”

She spun around, and there he was. He was nothing like how she had imagined. Her entire life had been sprinkled with information about him. He was one of her grandfather’s best friends, he’d saved the entire Wizarding world from the Darkest wizard in memory and his life story — what little was known of it to the public — was featured in many books, including the History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks Absinthe had studied when she had been at Hogwarts.

But standing there in baggy trousers, an old jumper covered with a faded housecoat and bedroom slippers, he didn’t come near to resembling a war hero who had been awarded the Order of Merlin First Class and had had his younger image on a much sought-after Chocolate Frog Card. His pepper-colored hair was a bit too long and stood up at the back, as if he was always running his hands through it. He had a tired look to him, as if he were ready for a long sleep after a day of hard work.

“I-I-I…” Now that she was standing there facing him, all her confidence drained away and she felt incredibly stupid and inadequate.

Then he smiled. It was kindly and pleasant and a bit reassuring. Slowly, he crossed the room and held out his hand. “I’m Harry Potter. You probably don’t remember… haven’t seen you since you were a baby. Hem’s daughter, right?” She nodded. He stiffly made his way to a large, overstuffed chair by the window. There was a matching chair nearby with a table in between that had more framed photos on it, each depicting people moving, waving and smiling. “Sit down, please, sit down. Ginny’s bringing tea.”

He sat with difficulty and sighed heavily after finishing the job. He looked at her for a moment. “Neville told us what you want to do. You think writing about me, about Voldemort, will help?”

She nodded. “The Dark Arts are popular. At first I had thought it was mostly with the orphans I work with. The Ministry has cut funding for many of the programs you and Mrs Potter had started for them —”

He held up a hand. “I’m aware of that. But it’s more widespread, isn’t it? There is a lot of discontent.”

“I’m afraid so. There has been talk of one young wizard in particular… he’s very… frightening. I don’t know how to describe it beyond that. I’ve tried to discuss this with someone from the Ministry, but no one seemed very interested in what I had to say.”

“Well, I’m not sure they’ll be any more interested in anything I have to say, either, Miss Longbottom.”

“Absinthe, please.” She paused, very unsure of what to say next. She stumbled around, hoping the right words would drop into her head.

Surprisingly, he seemed to realize she was nervous and unsure of herself. He smiled again, though his tone was serious. “There were many others in this. That is the most important thing. If you take anything away at all from our talk, you must understand that no one can do something like that alone. Neville had a lot to do with all this… Ron… Hermione…” His gaze drifted to some of the pictures on the table.

Absinthe fidgeted. He looked so sad. She had to say something. She didn’t know how to say it and just found herself blurting it out. “I’m very sorry about Mr Weasley. Grandfather was very upset over his death.”

The old wizard flinched at her last word as if he hated hearing that death had connected itself with Ron Weasley. Then he leaned forward, and she thought he was falling out of his chair for a moment, but he was reaching for the table between them. He plucked up a photograph in a frame. His hand shaking badly, he held it up to the light from the window and studied it for a long time, swallowing hard several times before he finally spoke.

“Ron Weasley was my best mate for over ninety years. He was with me through everything — everything. He and Hermione.” Absinthe watched helplessly as a wrinkled hand gently touched the faces in the photo. “Ron never saw himself as others did. Never. And I should have —” he swallowed again. “It’s a very twisted thing in life that we don’t appreciate what we have until it’s no longer there.” He cleared his throat loudly and set the photo back, his hand still trembling. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a well-worn handkerchief.

Absinthe pretended to keep herself occupied by looking about the room again as Mr Potter blew his nose. She noticed that his gaze stayed on the faded photograph of the young red-haired man and smiling girl. They were waving and every few seconds the man said something that made the girl laugh dryly.

Mr Potter seemed to have forgotten Absinthe was there. He spoke to himself absently, as if he was thinking out loud. “Ron was the same as he’d always been up until we lost Hermione. Then every drop of will to be here on this planet left him.”

“Well, that’s… that’s very sad,” said Absinthe, who had already heard a similar version from her grandfather.

“It was sad for us, not sad for Ron. He died happy. He wanted to be with her, you see. Ron loved his kids, loved his grandchildren, but he was ready to go.” His eyes remained on the photo of the young couple.

A moment passed and Mr Potter seemed to finally remember that Absinthe was sitting there waiting. He cleared his throat.

“After knowing Ron and Hermione for most of my life, I can tell you that they were far better together than they were apart. They had many happy years together, but you don’t realize it’s at an end until it’s upon you. You find yourself looking in the mirror one day and not having a damn clue who that old berk is looking back at you.”

Absinthe sat there, having no idea what to say to this. Suddenly, something occurred to her. It was very personal, and she didn’t realize she was going to actually put it into words until she heard them pop out of her mouth. “Do you fear dying, Mr Potter?”

He turned to face her then, the fading afternoon sunlight from the window hiding half his face in shadow. “No, but I fear being away from Ginny and Lily and the boys.”

“Were you afraid? Back when you… back then?” As soon as the words left her mouth she wished she could grab them back. He looked at her quickly, and she feared she’d said the wrong thing.

“Yes, I was. But I think on the whole I was more angry than afraid most of the time.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, and Absinthe became aware of the quiet. The only sounds were of a clock ticking away on the mantel and a dog occasionally barking outside in the distance.

 “People used to flinch if you said that name aloud, you know. Voldemort’s, I mean.”

She nodded, knowing full well who he had meant before he’d said the name. “Grandfather said everyone was afraid to say it. Except you.” Absinthe decided to try and steer the conversation back towards the reason for her visit. “People don’t want to acknowledge there’s more interest in the Dark Arts now. From working with the orphans I can tell you that some are really being lured into Dark magic. They find it fascinating, and they’re not as supported as they used to be. I really feel that if we understand what caused the situation to happen before, we can prevent it from happening again.”

“Oh, you know that, do you? Well Absinthe, you realize a great deal more than some of the idiots at the Ministry.” He surprised her by changing tack completely. “Did you know your grandfather confronted Voldemort and destroyed a portion of his soul?”

Her eyes widened with shock. This was something she’d never heard before. “A portion of his… I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“No, of course you don’t. There are parts of this we never told — well, except for Ron’s family and Kingsley, they all knew. But we never told anyone else. And now, other than my Ginny, they’re all gone. I should have told more people years ago.” He paused and looked out the window again. “People haven’t been paying enough attention to our problems, and now people feel shoved aside. It’s in the Dark Arts to find weaknesses and prey on them, and we’ve been handing it to them on a silver tray.” He sighed again. “I’m too old for this sort of thing, myself.” He sat back, looking exhausted. “There will be another Voldemort. I always knew that. People get greedy. People get power-hungry. Unfortunately, it happens and our current climate is ripe for it to happen again. I’m tired, Absinthe. I can’t do this anymore. And so, I’m going to tell you about Tom Riddle.”

Tom? “Who?”

“Voldemort! Voldemort, girl! Isn’t that why you’re here? You want to know how Voldemort came to power? He was a boy to start with, you know. Just a young wizard like any other. His name was Tom Riddle. The most ironic thing was that he was a half-blood himself.”

She took a deep breath. “I really wanted to learn more about him before he was a powerful wizard… and later on how you defeated him. I know what’s in the history books we studied at Hogwarts, but Grandfather said that was not really how things happened.”

Mr Potter snorted loudly. “‘Not really how things happened,’ eh? No, but it makes for fun fiction, I’m quite sure. As I mentioned, the only ones who knew the whole of the truth were Ron and Hermione. Hermione kept saying people should know. She felt it would help prevent it from happening again, just as you’ve said. And, once again, I’m very much afraid she was right, though I’m only admitting so because she isn’t here to hear me say it.”

His gaze shifted towards the mantel, and Absinthe had a strange feeling he was looking at the photo she had noticed earlier of the three children. He sighed deeply and began to tell Absinthe Longbottom the story from the very beginning.

*~*

The afternoon light faded as the hours passed, and dark clouds covered what remained of daylight. The air grew heavy with the smell of an approaching storm. Sitting in his favorite chair by the window, Harry Potter felt stiff, and his joints ached worse than they had earlier.

“You’d better hurry home, Absinthe. Or Disapparate from inside the house. It’ll rain soon. I can always feel it in my arm.”

Absinthe frowned. “Your arm, sir?”

He stretched out one arm and held it up as if to study it. “Quidditch accident, my second year. Lockhart…” He realized she had no idea who he was talking about, nor would she most likely care. His throat was sore from talking all afternoon anyway. “Never mind. Oh, and just call me Harry, if you would. No need to call me ‘sir.’” Thunder rumbled in the distance. “You’d better go.” He was grateful for the storm in a way. Exhausted from talking so much and up-ending so many emotions and memories, he only wanted to rest. He watched as she put her things away and readied to leave. “You’ll let me know then how you get on? I’ll want to hear about it.”

“I will, yes, and thank you again, Mr Potter.”

Harry sat back in his chair. He heard Absinthe Longbottom call out her thanks to Ginny for the tea as she left. He’d been impressed with her. She had ideas and energy and luckily had a lot of Neville in her. He hoped it would be enough. People had become complacent and were far less likely to listen to an old, passed it war hero from decades ago. He should have talked about all this years ago. More people should know. James, Albus and Lily knew some of it, as did Rose and Hugo and their younger brothers, of course. But he should have told others. Had he left it all too late? He hoped not.

There were sounds from the kitchen indicating Ginny was putting together something to eat. He supposed it was past dinnertime, and he should have invited the Longbottom girl to stay, but truthfully he’d been eager for her to leave.

Never one to be anxious to reminisce, he’d avoided thinking about the past even more so lately. He hadn’t wanted to talk to Absinthe at all when he had first received her letter, but it had been Ginny, as it always was, who had made him see that he was being selfish. She had drilled into him how important it was that things be changed before there was another Voldemort.

“We might be dead but the grandkids will still be here, or maybe their children. Do you want them to face what you did?”

Ginny came in and asked what he wanted for dinner. He didn’t want anything but to sit there with his thoughts.

“You need to eat something. I have stew simmering. It’ll be ready soon. And you need to take your potion.”

He was too tired to eat. “Maybe later. And I’m not taking that stuff.”

“The Healer said —”

“Sod the Healer.”

Ginny sighed. “I heard from Lily while you were talking to the Longbottom girl. She’s taking care of the kids for a few days. She’s coming over in the morning with them.”

Harry felt just a bit better. He rarely felt like playing with his great-grandchildren anymore, but he always felt better when they were around… for a while. After they left he and Ginny always had to kip down and recover.

“I’ll get you some tea then. We can eat the stew later in here if you’d like.” She paused. “Did everything go all right?”

He knew what she was asking. She realized stirring up old memories and guilt had left him feeling scattered and tired. “Fine,” he said. “I’m fine.” She turned and left without another word and after a moment Harry heard sounds as she moved about the kitchen again.

The sky was quickly growing darker, which fit Harry’s mood. He began to feel as if something was crashing down upon him, and he did his best to hold it at bay. What could it achieve to pull his sorrows out of a box and examine them?

But he couldn’t stop them the memories that began to fly through his mind. Harry could mentally see Ron just as clearly as if he’d seen him five minutes ago, barking out commands and complaints to the Quidditch match on the wireless.

In his head, Harry could hear his two best friends bickering as they had done all their lives. He had never thought that he would miss that, but he did so very desperately. He missed Ron’s dry wit and Hermione’s tenacity. He missed laughing with them, he missed their input. He missed looking across the room and seeing them there.

Without planning to, he found himself reaching out to take up one of the photographs from the table again. It had been taken several years after the war, one Christmas at the Burrow. Ron, wearing a Father Christmas hat, had a hand on Hermione’s back. He smiled drunkenly as his hand lowered until she turned to him and glowered. Harry snickered.

He set it back down on the table and his eyes fell onto another photo taken several years before the first. It was of a very happy Ron and Hermione the year after the war. Harry remembered it had been taken on Ron’s birthday. They were smiling up at him. Ron’s arm was around Hermione, and every few seconds as the moving image replayed itself Ron would say something which made Hermione laugh. Harry recalled he been standing near them when the photo had been taken.  He closed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could, trying to capture those moments in his mind. Ron’s voice rang out clear in his head, a voice he knew as well as his own and one he would never hear again.

Quickly, he set the photo down, his gaze falling on another one as he did so. It was of James, Albus and Lily the day before Albus had left for his first year at Hogwarts so many years before. They were no longer children now. Their own children were grown.

Looking at the photos it had been easy to forget for a few moments that time had passed.  It was the sound of the rain as it began to patter against the window that nudged Harry back to the present. Something about the rain bothered him now where it hadn’t before. Ron was out there in the rain. Harry knew it was stupid. Ron was dead. Hermione had been dead for nearly a year now. They wouldn’t know if it was raining or not. He could hear Hermione’s voice in his head telling him so.

That’s not logical, Harry. Of course it isn’t raining on Ron. He’s buried in the ground. He doesn’t know if it’s raining or not. He’s fine.

But Ron wasn’t fine. He was dead.

And Hermione wasn’t here to scold Harry. She had died before Ron.

He didn’t remember his parents, other than as misty images of the past. There had been no body to bury when Sirius had died and Dumbledore’s death, while painful at the time, had had no where near the impact that Ron’s and Hermione’s had. There had been many deaths over the years, but they had been his best friends. What if he lost Ginny?

“Do you fear dying, Mr Potter?”

Fear filled him at the thought of not having her with him. His eyes stung, and his breathing became forced. Memories flooded his mind of Ron after Hermione’s death.

Ron had completely fallen apart and had never been able to put himself right again. He’d even asked Harry about the Resurrection Stone one disturbing night, sobbing when Harry said he’d left it where it had fallen on the ground all those years before.

“She doesn’t belong here now, Ron. She’s with her parents and yours and Fred and George and the others now.”

For once, Harry hadn’t been able to help. Ron hadn’t responded to Harry’s efforts. Ron’s only daughter, Rose had been the only one who had been able to reach him during those dark days just after they’d lost Hermione.

The night before Ron had died, he’d been in the very room where Harry now sat, sitting in the empty chair across from Harry where Absinthe Longbottom had sat earlier. Harry stared at the chair as if he could will Ron’s presence by doing so.

What had they talked of that night? Harry’s recollections were hazy, though he did recall a spark of life from Ron as they’d briefly debated the latest Quidditch match. Ron’s grandson played professionally. He was Keeper for the Cannons, something Ron had talked about often and loudly.

Sitting there in the room with the rain pounding away, Harry thought of the things he’d never told Ron… what had been the last thing he’d said to his best mate? Did he even remember? Had Ginny said something about Ron spending the night with them or had that been another occasion? Ron’s voice rang back through time to Harry’s mind.

“No, thanks. Rosie’ll be by and she’ll wonder if I’m not around. If I act like my leg’s bothering me again, she’ll stay for a long game of chess just to keep me off of it.”

Had all those things he had told Neville’s granddaughter about that afternoon really happened? Had they figured out the Philosopher’s Stone? Harry thought of a twelve-year-old Ron astride a chess piece, of two boys in a flying car and Ron standing up on a broken leg to face down a raving, murderous lunatic who’d turned out to be Harry’s godfather. Harry remembered how Hermione had encouraged him to start the D.A. Pictures flew across his mind in a hazy blur: the three of them camping in the forest, at Grimmauld Place, at Fred Weasley’s funeral, at Ron and Hermione’s wedding at the Burrow…

There was a clink of china, and Ginny walked in again carrying a steaming cup of tea on a saucer. “Here’s your tea.”

Wiping his eyes on his sleeve as discreetly as he could, Harry eyed the cup suspiciously. “You didn’t put that potion in my tea, did you?”

She had. He could see in her expression that she had.

“No.”

He looked at the saucer. “Where’s my biscuit?”

“You said yesterday you didn’t want any more biscuits. Something about your teeth.”

“Oh.” Damn, he hadn’t thought she’d heard that. “Changed my mind. I can get it!” he called as she turned and left the room, grumbling as she went.

Harry watched her leave. There were things he’d never said to Ron and Hermione, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake with Ginny. He resolved that when she came back he would tell Ginny certain things. She knew he loved her, but it had always been difficult for Harry to express himself. He wanted to make sure she knew how much she meant to him, what she did for him.

Tiredly, he sighed as the rain pounded hard against the windows. It appeared they were in for a real storm. His arm ached, and his chest felt a bit tight, and he was so tired. He leaned his head against the back of the chair, closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the rain and of Ginny banging around out in the kitchen. He thought of James and Albus and Lily. He smiled remembering that he’d see Lily and the kids in the morning.

In the Potters’ kitchen, Ginny was just ladling stew into bowls when she heard the sound of china crash and the plonk of something hitting the floor. Dropping everything, she ran into the sitting room.

*~*

Absinthe Longbottom crumpled up yet another parchment into a ball and threw it into the wastebasket. The article she had written following her meeting with Mr Potter had met with more success than she could have hoped for. There were many volunteers at the orphanage again, including old Mrs Potter herself. It had been Mrs Potter who Absinthe had approached with her latest idea, and the elderly witch had readily agreed, stating that Mr Potter would have been very happy to lend his story to help others.

The Weasley family had also been spending time at the orphanage, playing with the children, taking them to Quidditch matches and doing odd jobs around the building. One of the orphans, a young boy who rarely spoke, had been adopted by Ron Weasley’s grandson and his wife.

And now her latest idea was almost finished: a book on the life of Harry Potter. All profits would go to the orphanage. All that was left to finish the book was the dedication page. Nothing had read quite right. Should she mention his title as head of the Auror office for all those years? Should she include that he’d been a Tri-wizard Tournament champion in his youth? There were so many great things to say about him, but thinking back she remembered Mr Potter as he had appeared when she had first caught sight of him that day at his home, dressed in too-large trousers, an old housecoat and bedroom slippers. After two more attempts, she sat back and sighed, reading over what she had written.

Dedicated to the memory of

Harry James Potter

The Boy Who Lived

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