Title : A Day for History
Word Count : 1748
Rating : solid G
Characters : Crookshanks, Harry, Ron.
Others by mention : Hermione, Rita Skeeter, anonymous officials, multiple Weasleys, kids, Luna, an anonymous House Elf, Hagrid, Harry’s parents.
Summary : On the Anniversary of the downfall of Voldemort, Hermione’s book is released, and Harry takes a trip down memory lane.
The ginger cat with the squashed face rubbed against his ankles as he stood in Ron’s kitchen. Well, actually, Hermione’s kitchen, their house at any rate. He bent over and absentmindedly scratched around the critter’s ears.
“We’ve been together quite a while, eh?” Harry quietly said, noticing the tufts of knotted hair on the animal’s back. Looking closer, there was a general worn-ness about Crookshanks now. Having never been particularly good-looking, Harry was concerned at this noticeable thinness and more ragged appearance.
“Wha’s that?” Ron mumbled through a bite of something from the fridge as he straightened up and closed the door.
“Nothing. Talking to the cat ’s all.”
“Well, we better get going. Hermione will have our hides if we’re late.”
“Have I mentioned how much I don’t want to do this?”
Ron rolled his eyes, “Only every hour, on the hour, for the last, oh,” he put his hand over his mouth to muffle the next word, then continued with, “days.”
“But it’s finally died back some. I can actually walk out in public without people looking at me funny… or worse, coming up and chatting as though I have a clue about who they might be,” he grumbled. “I haven’t had to sign an autograph in at least three months. It’s been nice.” He sighed heavily.
“But you know as well as I do, if she didn’t write a proper history of what happened, that ‘table-leg-prop’ of Skeeter’s would be the main source of info for the rest of time.” Ron looked meaningfully at his friend. “I know I really enjoy people thinking we were off in Romania - hiding! For Merlin’s sake, Harry! She makes it sound like we were having a holiday while all the rest of them were suffering. And then you swooped into Hogwarts for a photo op, just when the rest of ‘em had it all well in hand.” He took another bite of whatever was in the container he’d retrieved a moment before. “I still have scars from that stupid Vault!”
Harry looked perturbed. “And an Order of Merlin… two. And that whole stack of press clipping sitting under the awards on your wall in there,” he observed wryly, pointing through the archway into the other room.
Ron blushed. “Still, someone had to write a factual account of what happened, and who better than Hermione?”
“Do you guys have a time turner?” Harry asked.
Looking slightly gob smacked, Ron shook his head. ‘Why?”
“I’m just trying to figure out how she had any time to write anything. For the past three years, since James came along, even before, we haven’t had a moment to think, sleep, or barely to get our laundry done, let alone write a comprehensive book.”
“Yeah, well. It’s Hermione, isn’t it?” he shrugged. “She can be a bit compulsive, can’t she?”
Harry bent down again and scooped up Crookshanks. “This guy’s starting to look the worse for wear.”
“Aren’t we all… Hey, as long as you’ve got him, stuff him in that basket and tie the top closed. He’s not much on traveling anymore.”
“Was he ever?” Harry grunted while trying to contain what suddenly seemed like a ball of fur with claws on sixteen franticly slashing legs. Eventually he managed to jam the lid down during a fractional pause in the chaos. “Why not just leave him here? It won’t be that long and he certainly doesn‘t seem to want to go anywhere.”
“He’s going to The Burrow with us after the book release. Last time Gram’Molly liked to held us hostage. Not that I minded much, Mom’s still the best cook in the world. Anyway, he can’t stay here alone that long if it happens again,” he mumbled between bites, and the cleaning charms on the spoon he‘d been using.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seated on risers in front of the old War Memorial in the square at Godric’s Hollow with all the other dignitaries, Harry scanned the crowd. He lost track of what was being said while the several different officials droned on about historic occurrences and the significance of this place being where it had all begun. The day was gorgeous, sunny, with puffy lambs of clouds drifting by, but trickles of sweat were making his armpits tickle. He fidgeted. There had to be several hundred people who’d come; that still amazed him. Not quite out of earshot Audrey and Angelina Weasley, along with another witch that Harry didn’t know, were attempting to keep the children distracted and busy. He noticed a skinny half-grown House Elf lurking off to the side of where the kids were tearing around creating butterflies from the bubbles Luna was blowing for them. That was one of the better things that had come of the struggles. House Elves were now a bit less subservient and generally were paid - a flash of Dobby washed over him. His attention drifted back to hear Hermione explaining some of complexities of gathering facts to correlate her experiences with what had been going on in the wizarding world as a whole while she, Harry, and Ron were out trying to locate the horcruxes and going through the rest of what they had experienced. It seemed like she thanked somewhere around half the population of Britain.
Then suddenly, the three of them were answering questions from the audience, and he had to interact, pay more attention. It was funny that even though it had been so all encompassing and difficult then, now much of that time seemed like it had happened to someone else. Twice during the “Q&A“ Ron or Hermione stepped in and explained an aspect much more clearly than Harry was able to do. He was starting to appreciate how Hagrid looked and sounded - when was it? - during the interview at the five-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts (as it had become known). His fumbling about had been almost comical.
Then finally it was over. The Marquee company began packing things away, most of the crowd had disbursed except for the clutch of hangers-on around Hermione and Ron. Ginny was talking with her mother, who was holding James, Arthur off fascinated by the Muggle stoplight a block down the main street.
Anxious to get to the Burrow, Harry absentmindedly picked up the detritus of belongings his family had deposited beside the basket Crookshanks was trapped in, along with the basket itself, and started to walk over to Ginny. Less than a step outside the shade behind the monument the basket wobbled violently, exploding in another fit of orange fur and claws. Baby toys, sweaters, and the rest of the armload spilled everywhere. The cat wriggled out from under the lid and streaked away from the town square. Looking back on it, Harry still didn’t understand why he hadn’t grabbed his wand and just Accio-ed the frantic feline, but at that moment he simply ran after.
They dashed past the cemetery, running quite a distance down a nearby lane, finally cutting kitty-corner through an unkempt garden, before where they were headed registered. Crookshanks zipped around the back of a building that stopped Harry in his tracks. Pulling at the collar of his robes, sweating and panting, he continued on more cautiously, ducking between the over-tall lilac bush and back corner of the house, just in time to see a bottlebrush tail-tip disappearing through the slightly ajar back door.
“Crookshanks, come here,” he yelled, out of breath and frustrated, following.
A bright yellow kitchen, surprising in its lack of dust after so many years of disuse, greeted Harry. “Perpetual cleaning charm,” he mumbled looking around. “Must be.” Someone had taken the time to push the chairs into their places around the table. He wondered how many members of the old Order had sat in those chairs, and trailed his fingers along the upper edge of the back of one, a connection of sorts to people who died before he knew them and a few who hadn‘t. It felt cool despite the heat of the day. Some of the charms, undoubtedly placed by his mum, were beginning to dissipate. The designs along the lower ruffle of the curtain were fading, changing from small clumps of perpetually blooming-then-closing flowers with tiny blue birds flying around them to more static potted Muggle geraniums. A thump drew his attention elswhere.
Through the doorway he could see a wrecked front entry that had been left as the pieces had fallen. The noise was coming from the second level of the house, requiring a trip up the stairs. “It happened here,” he thought, passing the unmarked spot where his father had died. A flash of Voldemort’s memory surfaced, but he continued past, unfazed, surprised by the lack of emotion it stirred up.
Light shone through the ruined wall of the nursery. He only glanced that direction for a moment, turning instead to the other parts of what was left. A door mid-hallway showed a tub and toilet with a bin full of kid toys and towels not-so-neatly hung on racks. He stepped in. His father’s, or at least a masculine Gryffindor bathrobe hung on a hook behind the door. As he reached to touch it, a crisp clear voice startled him, unconsciously he drew his wand instead and turned.
“Your Hair’s a mess and your robes look like you’ve just run through a field!” He glared at the mirror and stomped out.
Exasperated, he shouted, “Crookshanks! Where are you, you bugger?”
Directly beyond a closed door, he found the most comfy dark bedroom. It was like walking into a glade. Diffused light from a window felt like the filtered sunlight of a thick forest, while the deep blues and greens were almost reverently restful. He could see his mother and father falling onto the bed exhausted from a day at the Ministry or an Order mission. A fat little pot marked “Dittany” still sat on the dresser and slippers were visible, kicked-off under the side of the bed.
“This is definitely more calming than Ginny’s awards and scarlet Harpies banners….” he mumbled unaware he was even speaking.
A soft sound, sort of a muted gurgling rumble, was being emitted from the corner to the left of the nightstand. where Crookshanks was casually ignoring Harry. Licking a paw, inscrutable, he sat on an overstuffed, pre-haired, cushion with “Ginger” embroidered along its front. After a meaningful pause and look, the cat curled up for a nap, completely at home.
.
tired
optimistic
quixotic
curious