Sample Thread - Harry Potter & Conroy and Margaret Moon (OCs)
Private Storyline : Post-OotP : Harry Potter / Conroy & Margaret Moon

Them: It was almost two in the morning by the time the Moon house had settled down and gone to bed. The endless amount of rooms were hidden away by normal looking hallways and only the hazy moonlight streaming in from the windows disturbed the darkness that seemed to settle comfortably over what once was bright and cheerful. Yet, even the shadows of the house felt un-threatening.

Me: The normalness, try as it might, couldn't lure Harry in. He felt anything but normal. Change was something he should have expected in his life, by now. God only knew how many changes had taken place since his eleventh birthday - The realization that everything he had ever known, unpleasant as it was, was a lie. The burden of his own importance in the world. The discovery that he still had family, a godfather, somewhere out there. The feeling, the terrible, gnawing feeling, that if it weren't for him, a former classmate would still be alive, and Voldemort would still be hiding in the shadows.

The feeling of responsibility for someone else's death was one Harry knew he was never going to shake. When he returned to the castle that night, with Cedric's body, he had known his life was Different. More Different than it had been after he received his Hogwarts letters, more different than it had been after helping to save Ginny Weasley's life, more different than it had been after he was reunited with Sirius. He had thought, at the time, there couldn't possibly be a feeling that was worse. Cedric had everything going for him. He was smart, well-liked, never caused any trouble. He should have lived, and not only that, he should have won the Triwizard Championship. Harry claimed he had simply given the winnings to Fred and George because they needed the money more than he did, but there was a secondary reasoning behind it, as well. It felt like blood money. Something he had wrongfully come into, thanks to the death of someone who, all things considered, was probably a more valuable asset to the world than he was.

But there was a worse feeling: the feeling that you had caused not one death, but two. One could be explained as an accident. Two? A character flaw. Something deeply wrong with him. His friends tried to distract him, but Harry was rarely free from the thought that ran like a marquee in the back of his head, If you'd just went and slowed down for a minute, Sirius would still be alive.

If he'd just tried to contact someone at Grimmauld Place. If he'd just thought of Sirius's two-way mirror sooner. If he'd just...not let his fear overcome him so quickly. It was ironic, wasn't it, that his fear for Sirius's safety had been the thing to bring Sirius into danger? And his friends. Some of them had been hurt badly.

It bothered Harry, that no one would blame him. Maybe it was "irrational," but he had had his moments of irrationality since that night at the Ministry, as well. There had been times when he blamed Sirius for what happened. If you just wouldn't act like everything's a game... If Sirius wouldn't have laughed. If Sirius wouldn't have underestimated Bellatrix. If Sirius wouldn't have been so eager to show off...

But Harry knew how wrong it was, to think that way. Every time the thought occured to him, it was followed by the most violent pangs of self-loathing. The loathing was always the worst, after he mistakenly blamed his godfather. He, Harry, was the one who was really at fault. You couldn't blame Sirius. He had been so tired of being pent up.

Harry felt pent up, now. The window in the guest room he shared with Ron was cracked, and a steady breeze had been wafting through it for most of the night, but even with the covers kicked down to the foot of the bed, Harry felt stifled. In the next bed, Ron snored happily. How could he sleep? It was so humid, the air itself was practically sticking to his skin. Harry kicked the last few inches of blanket off his feet, and sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and onto the floor. It was a bit of a drop; the beds here were old and high off the ground, and made Harry feel a bit like a kid, any time he climbed in and out of one. And that didn't make him feel any better. He already felt stupid. He didn't need to feel childish, on top of it.

The floor barely creaked, as he snuck past Ron's bed, and out into the hallway. There was no sound coming from Hermione and Ginny's room, next to them. From the twins' room, there was an even more suspicious lack of noise. Harry almost caught himself smiling; the odds were good that Fred and George had worked a silence charm on their guest room, so they could tinker with their inventions all night. As entertaining as it might have been to see what they were doing, Harry didn't think he could stomach being roped into playing guinea pig for them. He passed their room, and headed down the stairs.

Part of him wished Remus was awake, but another, larger part was glad the man wasn't. He hadn't had more than a superficial conversation with Remus, since arriving at the Moon home, and he wasn't planning on having one, any time soon. To have a real talk with Remus, no doubt, would be to have a talk about Sirius. It was another irrational thought, but Harry was afraid that Remus would be the first person to step up and admit that Harry was the one to blame for what had happened. And even if he didn't say it, Harry was afraid he would see it in the man's exhausted eyes.

Them: As Harry made his way down the stairs, the three flights surprisingly short for such a large house, a glow could be seen towards the bottom. Unlike the homes of most wizarding families, the light reflecting off the floor stayed still, electricity used throughout the entire house during the hotter months.

Reaching the last step, Harry found that a light had been left on in the nearby sitting room, a man sitting comfortably in one of the arm chairs. Above him rotated a ceiling fan, offering relief from the humid weather, while behind him, against the wall facing the large picture window, was several shelves of books, offering anyone something to do while keeping cool.

Me: Harry's foot touched the floor, and a board creaked, loud enough that the man in the sitting room must have heard him. The boy berated himself; he should have turned and gone back up the stairs, as soon as he noticed the light. Of course there would be someone down here, if the lights were on. Knowing this house (even though he didn't know it well), it could probably shut the lights off on its own, when all its inhabitants had gone to bed.

"Er. I was going for a glass of water," Harry said, before anyone even had a chance to accuse him of sneaking around. The man didn't look like the accusatory type, but having spent the past few weeks under the watchful eye of Ron's mother, he was accustomed to having only two options: don't get caught, or fully explain yourself.

Them: A deep relaxed laugh flowed out from the chair and out into the hallway as if it were searching him out. "I see I'm not the only restless soul in this house."

The book the man had been reading closed and a thick, rounded hand motioned for Harry to come into the sitting room. "Please, come in and enjoy the cool air with me. Keep an old man company."

Me: "Ok," Harry said. "Sure." There was an intense and new nervousness apparent in his voice, which said that he would very much have liked to stick with his original plan to go straight back upstairs, but didn't want to appear rude towards the people whose home he was visiting. It was jarring, to be surrounded by a family he barely knew, who treated him as a friend - a little bit like that first visit to the Leaky Cauldron, with Hagrid, six years ago. Everyone knew his name, and carried a secret glint in their smiles that suggested they knew a great deal about him, and about Sirius, that they were not yet inclined to mention.

It sort of infuriated Harry (as a lot of things did, these days). If they had something to say about him, or Sirius, they should out with it. He had always had a right to know everything he could about his place in the world, and about his family, and the older he got, the less excuse the adults had to not tell him. Sirius had been the only person who was really forthcoming with that sort of information, and Sirius was gone. Harry knew the Moons thought they were doing him a favour, by including him in their end-of-summer invitation, but all their closeness did was remind him that he was once again without a family.

Harry sat down in an armchair across from the old man's. He recognized him, from the party, but he couldn't remember his name. There had been so many new people, so many faces to memorize, and he was more concerned with remembering things like the path from the sitting room, to the kitchen, to the loo. "I don't walk around like this all the time," he continued to explain himself. "You were busy. I'm sorry."

Them: Again, the man gave a soft laugh. "No, I was only rediscovering a book I have long since lost. I am glad for the company, as my Alex is still too exhausted from her herding to stay up with me."

The older man leaned over in his seat to get a better look at Harry. "Goodness boy, you aren't one of my nephews. Who are you and why hasn't anyone seen to that nasty scar on your head? Surely my granddaughter would have seen to it as soon as you walked through the door."

Me: An incredulous smile snuck up on the corners of Harry's mouth, as he felt his cheeks burn faintly. It had been a long time since anyone expressed surprise towards his scar. Back then, it had been out of shock over actually meeting the Boy Who Lived. Now, Harry was sure, the man had to be joking with him. It wasn't a very nice joke, either.

"Are you joking? Harry Potter," he said. Quickly, he realized how arrogant that might sound, and tacked on, "Ron Weasley's friend." No one special. Just Harry Potter, the boy you couldn't possibly avoid knowing, thanks to the Daily Prophet's rumour-mongering throughout the past school year.

It also seemed just a little possible that the man was old enough to have started going dotty. Maybe he ought to have known who Harry was, and had managed to forget. Nevermind what the reason was, Harry didn't like people mentioning the scar. After an entire year of being placed under an unwanted spotlight, he wished more than ever that the thing would just go away and leave him alone. And, barring that, that the people he had to spend his time around would leave him alone about it.

Them: The man looked as though he realized he had upset Harry and felt compelled to remedy it. "Weasley... Potter... Goodness, that old bat was right, I am out of the wizarding world too much." He slipped his reading glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he tucked them into his shirt pocket.

"You'll have to forgive me, Mr. Potter, for not knowing of you fully, but everyday I, a wizard, teach science to university students with no magical ability whatsoever - muggles you call them. For a good part of the year I am out of contact with the wizarding world and as you can see, it hampers my ability to properly socialize. I have heard of your name though, mostly mentioned by my great granddaughter, Margaret. She seems to believe you are in need of a proper home, away from a family that I again, have not heard of. That is very much like her to think that. Her belief in makeshift families is an inherited trait." The wizard stood and politely held out his hand towards Harry. "I am Conroy Moon, it is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Potter."

Me: The blush left Harry's cheeks, and creeped up into the tips of his ears. He stood, without too much of a fumble, and took Conroy's hand in his own. His shake had a practiced firmness, for such a young teenager. It gave away that Harry was more accustomed to making himself put on a mature appearance for adults of distinction than he wanted to be. He had to be. It wouldn't do him any good in his battle to be trusted, if he looked too much like a very young boy.

"Sorry, sir. I didn't know." Some of the heat in the tips of his ears dissipated, as the handshake was ended, and he sat back down. "It's just, in a place like this, I thought you were all..." Blast. Harry couldn't think of a way to finish the thought without coming off as an arrogant git. I thought you were all great wizards? The man probably was. I thought you were all a load of nutbags? True as that might be, he didn't mean it.

"I thought you were all involved. Like Margaret. In the wizarding community." It felt slightly odd to say her first name, so soon after meeting the woman, but she had assured Harry, at countless points during the previous day, that it was fine to call her by it.

Them: Conroy had sat down again and smiled across the space between them. "Ah, but that's where your wrong, Harry, if I may call you that." He didn't wait for Harry to answer. "Our family is a smattering of occupations, ones that have been passed down for generations. It is not smiled upon by the Ministry, but many of the Moon family aid those of non-magical ability, like the great witches and wizards of old. Surely you've heard fairytales and rumors created by villagers who knew something magical was living amongst them? Many seeking out their help? I must say that several of my ancestors where those very people, helping to shape the hearts and minds of those all across Europe. That is a dangerous act of kindness now, seeing as the Ministry has band most magic related relations between us and our non-magic brethren. I do what I can though, as I've mentioned."

The older wizard chuckled. "Pardon my rambling, rarely do I get the opportunity to speak on such matters. You're probably not interested, as I can see great emotion in your Aura." Conroy's voice suddenly sounded sad, effecting the light beside him. "I take it you've recently lost someone very dear to you?"

Me: If Harry didn't know better, he would have said again, You're joking. Again, it wouldn't have been a funny joke. But he knew the rumours about Ravenclaw Sarah Moon better than he knew the girl. Her family was supposed to be absolutely brimming with seers of all levels of power. Harry didn't know exactly how true it was. Enough rumours had been spread about him that he knew better than to believe everything he heard about his schoolmates. Muggle fortune tellers used a technique called cold reading, which, from what he understood, wasn't much more than intuition and observation. Even if Conroy wasn't a seer at all, Harry was sure he could have picked his statement off of Harry's demeanour, even in this short span of time.

"Yeah," said Harry. "I have. It'll be just about three months ago, in September." The residue of the words seemed to settle heavily in the back of his throat. It took Harry a momen to swallow the lump. Owning up to the amount of time that had passed, nearly twelve weeks, only made Sirius seem that much farther away. The wider the time barrier grew, the more certain Harry was that, despite what some part of him had continued to hope all summer, there was no way to bring his godfather back from where he had gone to.

Them: "Ah, him, yes, I know who you speak of now." Conroy stood and started slowly around the room as if he were looking for something. "It isn't something most notice outside of the family, but this has been and still is a House of Mourning." He stopped at a wall of pictures, studying them. "A man by the name of Sirius Black was ripped away from my dear granddaughter before his time. I regret that I never sat and spoke with him, as many times as he's been here throughout the years. She spoke so fondly of him that I thought surely, they would marry."

A book floated down off a top shelf, causing Conroy to turn and chuckle. "Ah, there it is." He took the book and sat down again, opening it to reveal a photo album. "She hasn't told me yet, but I know that for several weeks after his passing she had taken all my books on death magic in hope of resurrecting her friend. I'm sad to say that Mr. Black cannot be brought back that way, not if what I hear about his death is true."

From out of the book, the man drew out several pictures and handed it to Harry. The top was of a younger Margaret and his mother both holding onto him as someone took the photo. The next was of a young Sirius, Remus, and Margaret at Christmas, Margaret having somehow gotten into the Gryffindor Common Room. The last one looked recent, as Sirius still looked malnourished and was somewhere in the Caribbean. He and Margaret were on a small houseboat, drinking from unmarked bottles and fishing, looking as though they were enjoying themselves, despite the circumstances.

"If you're looking for solace, young Master Potter, take comfort in those who truly understand your loss." Conroy placed his hand on Harry's messy hair and the scar on his forehead tingled with a cold sensation, unlike the burning feeling he usually felt.

In that cool rush, images of Sirius filled his mind that he had never experienced before. Moments shared by those inside the house. Nothing too personal could be seen beyond the happy memories, only years of coming and going.

The last memory seemed to take forever to fade, as a different feeling surfaced. Sirius carried in an unconscious Margaret from the backdoor, her blood covering him from head to foot. It was a moment that wavered between stages, as if it was only everything the house could see.

I’m sure Harry hates us, after everything that’s happened. I should have asked Dumbledore to let Sirius stay here, where it was safer. Margaret’s voice was soft, like she was whispering in his ear. I should have been with you when you went to the Ministry. If I could have just…

Remus’ voice filtered into his other ear just as softly. You’re blaming yourself again… please don’t Maggie. You and I both know Sirius would have, and has, faced death just to protect us. He couldn’t protect James and Lily, he wasn’t going to let that happen again.

Harry blames himself doesn’t he?

As much as we blame ourselves.

Without warning, the visions stopped and Conroy was nowhere to be found, the photo album resting on Harry’s lap.
Me: "Wait," Harry said, before his eyes had opened. He wasn't quite sure who he was talking to; he couldn't have known the wizard was about to move out of his sight, and there...there was no one else in the room.

On the bottom edge of his vision, the figures in the photographs moved, endless streams of energy trapped in the magical photo paper. Harry had seen something like the Christmas picture, before. Where had it been? Remus's office at Hogwarts? The kitchen at Grimmauld place? He wasn't sure. One thing was for sure - Sirius and Remus were the youngest he had ever seen them, on that far-off Christmas morning. Their hair was tousled almost as badly as his own always was, and Margaret had a happily content look on her face, as she sat before the fire, that made Harry wish he knew her better.

Where was his father? Harry tilted the picture slightly to the side, to see if, just maybe, another figure was lurking at the edge, but his parents were nowhere to be seen. In startled him to know that, a few months ago, the lack of his parents' presence would have bothered him distinctly. It didn't really register, now. For the moment (though he felt a little guilty for it), they weren't the ones he was looking for. He was looking for Sirius.

The picture's young version of his godfather (younger than Harry was now, he had to be) laughed silently, at something Margaret had said, and leaned back against portrait Remus's shoulder. Sirius and Maggie. Had they really been that close? Harry had some ideas about his godfather and former professor, but Conroy's first words about him were sticking in Harry's mind. The knowledge that Sirius might ever have felt that close to someone outside the Marauders' circle stung in a way, reinforcing Harry's belief that there were things, so, so many things about his parents and their friends that no one would tell him. And here, Conroy had begun to, and then meandered away.

Harry leafed through the loose pictures in his lap, and stacked them, one on top of the other, until the only faces looking at him were those of Margaret, his mother, and himself, as an infant. He set them in his lap, between torso and book, and flipped a page in the photo album. This must have been Margaret's personal book (or one of them), because he was greeted with more pictures of Hogwarts. A group of Ravenclaw girls who were likely from Margaret's graduating class. A pair of the kitchen house elves, in paper Christmas hats. Sirius, maybe sixteen or seventeen, smoking on the front steps in his undershirt, with a caption that read, "Yule Ball (Or Not.)." A tendril of moving smoke curled out from the teenage Sirius's lips, and he turned to look over his shoulder, his blue eyes catching Harry by surprise, although he had known the picture would move at some point.

Them: “I remember that night very well, it was our annual Christmas Eve party. The house was very crowded and I lost sight of him after Remus was introduced to my Great grandfather. I took that picture after I found him.” Margaret appeared at the archway of the sitting room, her long purple sleeping gown shimmering in the lamplight. “He never really liked crowds.”

She walked across the wood floor and sat in the same chair Conroy had recently vacated, curling her long legs under herself so she didn’t need to cross them. “My grandfather told me you were wandering. I see he’s shown you what I couldn’t.”

Me: "He said...you might have married him." It took Harry a moment, to pull his eyes from the distant glowering of the young Sirius, and look up at the woman who had entered. "Is that true? I thought. I thought Sirius and Remus were, you know."

His ears threatened to turn red again. Harry couldn't say exactly when it was that he had put two and two together, and determined what they equaled. Maybe it had been after last Christmas, when Harry's Christmas gift bore the names of both Sirius and Remus. In hindsight, he remembered Remus's agitation, whenever someone made mention of his godfather, during Lupin's stint teaching at the school. In hindsight, he remembered the utterly relieved look on his teacher's face, when he had taken Sirius in his arms, the night that Wormtail got away. He had rarely seen Sirius without Remus, or vice versa, during the past school year. It would be odd to see Remus without him, now. It was simply odd to be without him. How could a thing you knew for such a short time dig its claws so inextricably into the web strands that made up your life?

Them: Margaret's smile had it's own glow to it. "He meant that, if the circumstances were a bit different... If I hadn't met my husband and Sirius hadn't met Remus, than yes, I might have married him. Though, I can't even imagine not ever having Daven or Remus around, and am very grateful to have them in my life the way I do." Reaching over to Harry, she took the photo album and flipped a few pages, unfamiliar faces passing by until she reached a page marked '1973' and handed it back to him.

"I met Sirius during our third year at Hogwarts, and Remus shortly after. I wasn't very close to your parents, they were really Sirius and Remus' friends, but your mother was very gifted with potions and she helped me whenever I had problems. I don't think your father ever really talked to me until after school ended. I think he felt I was a bit of a bother, what with my time with Sirius." She sighed. "If it was anyone who should feel jealous, it should have been Sirius. Remus and I were together much of the times Sirius and James were off doing whatever. It isn't common knowledge, most people usually focus on James and Sirius when remembering those days. I don't blame them though, they were quite the pair."

Me: Maybe he wouldn't have died, thought Harry, moodily. Again, as soon as the thought had flitted through his mind, he felt guilty. If Sirius had married Margaret, any number of other, unforeseen things could have gone wrong. There was the chance that something could have turned out for the better, but there was no way of knowing.

Harry had never really been surprised to know that Sirius and Remus had a good deal of close friends, outside of his father. From what he could tell, it was his father who was the semi-elitest one, who refused to form close relationships outside of his original four. Harry remembered one of the last conversations he had with Remus and Sirius, as a pair, when his fears that his father had been a bad person were their strongest. What did Sirius say? They were young. They were stupid and full of themselves. That was all. It couldn't have been that his father didn't like Margaret. His father just wasn't interested in having other friends.

"Everyone says that," said Harry, studying the faces of Margaret and her friends in their third year. Third year seemed like such a long time ago. "Funny how we both met him in our third years." Exactly twenty years apart, too. Margaret had met Sirius at thirteen, and Harry had met him at thirty-three. Harry would have liked to know the boisterous looking boy in the photographs.

Them: Margaret rubbed at her face. "You remind me of him, you know. People say you're a lot like your father, but I think, somehow, that your mother and Sirius have had more of an affect on you in the short time you were with them." She sighed, "I wish I knew what to tell you. I'd answer any question you gave me, if you just asked. I owe you that much... for not appearing in your life sooner."


Me: Harry wished he did have questions, but his mind was a jumbled mess of Whens and Whys and Hows. He flipped a few pages into the book, and his eyes landed on an older Sirius, a Sirius he recognized. The caption under the picture confirmed what Harry believed - it had been taken shortly after the Marauders and Margaret finished school. Sirius was around the same age as he was in Mad-Eye's old photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix.

"You aren't part of the Order of the Phoenix." Harry looked up at Maggie, while her younger self and Sirius saluted the pair of them with half-empty, froth-damp tankards of ale. Even out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see that his godfather looked positively exhausted. Dogged, to use a word that wasn't really funny. There were nearly bruise-like dark circles beneath his blue eyes, but he turned and kissed the younger Margaret's cheek, before they toasted each other, mugs clanking together.

"You weren't in Moody's picture," Harry went on. "And you can't have joined up since. I didn't see you at any of the meetings." From what Harry could tell, there were no members who didn't attend meetings, at least once in awhile. "Why weren't you there?"

Them: For the first time that night, Margaret looked as though she had been slapped in the face. A look of utter remorse filled her features - but she answered, as she promised. "I was asked the same thing by several of the Order. I'm not terribly proud of my decision to stay rogue, but it still is, and will always be my only choice."

She looked down at her hands, twisting a silver ring. "As you've noticed, Harry, many people come to this house, and not all of them are strictly family. This house was built by my grandmother, long ago before either of us were born. Every board in this place was charmed to keep out dark magic and those who would do us harm. All those who mean no harm may walk through that door and find a friendly face beyond it. The Order needed a place on the outside of everything to find refuge. Since I never became an Auror, even though I was asked to be, and I am in no way connected to anything in the world that would harm or seek out the Order, I decided it would be best if this house and I became the safe haven Witches and Wizards seek when all other places have shut them out."

It was brief, but Margaret's mouth twitched upwards slightly. "I was told by Moody himself, after I declined his offer in place of my own, that I was the most ignorant woman he had ever met. That following summer, I was surprised to find him on my doorstep, asking in his very grumpy way, for a safe place to stay while he was hunting down a wizard who was proving to be quite the challenge. I've never received such a thank you from that man as I did when he left this place."

Finally, a proud smile spread across her face. "I am a Secret-Keeper, of what, I will not say. I'm sure you know of what though, as you have been inside the Order's headquarters. I might not be a part of the meetings, or officially an Order member, but I know, when the time comes and Albus needs me, I will fight beside them."

Me: It should have made perfect sense. If Hermione was awake to hear this (and he was glad she wasn't), Harry and Ron would have spent something like the next week and a half listening to her expound on the virtues of such a "sensible" plan, and wonder aloud why she hadn't assumed there was a secondary safehouse before. Harry would not tell her about this conversation with Margaret. He didn't want to hear it, because while he knew it was perfectly sensible, it wasn't what he wanted to hear.

These people, the members of the Order, were some of Margaret's best friends. If she was in such close cahoots with Dumbledore, how was it that she hadn't come to their aid, in the Department of Mysteries? Again, the urge to blame someone else for what had happened to Sirius tugged at Harry's spine, like a leash. Maybe if you had been there...

"Yeah," said Harry, before he could stop himself. "Next time, maybe you can save some of your other best friends." As soon as it was out of his mouth, he was sorry.

Them: The woman in front of Harry visibly bristled, her hair in the moonlight lifting slightly at his words, as if the magic that gathered around her could have easily made her levitate. The chair underneath Harry creaked - but not because of his weight.

The room grew suffocating and unbearably hot. "It all happened so fast... They didn't summon me because they had to act quickly - Order members only. I had no idea that anything was going wrong until... Until things in the house start breaking."

The light from the lamp revealed that tears were dripping off of Margaret's face. "By the time I arrived, Sirius was gone." Her hands shook, the air still stiff and heated. "I had been planning on visiting him that evening too, just to keep him company... Remus and I could have stopped him, we could have... reasoned with him..."

Suddenly the air began to cool, Margaret laughing bitterly into her hands as they covered her face. "I've told myself that for almost three months now. It sounds just as daft as it did the last time I said it. I haven't slept a straight week since he passed. All I can do when I close my eyes is wonder what I could have done to keep him safe."

She finally looked back up at him, her eyes clear and ready for him to question her again. "Sirius wouldn't have wanted you to blame anyone for his death. He died doing what Sirius does best - protecting those he loves. He died knowing that his friends knew he was an innocent man and that he not only got to see his Godson again, but that his Godson is alive because he protected him."

Me: "I didn't." God. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry." Harry recalled, with blinding clarity, similar explosions he had detonated in the faces of his two best friends, last summer. He had regretted that, and the rift it threatened to cause, and he regretted this, now. By now, he should have been used to seeing adults visibly shaken. It was a pretty common occurence, these days, but Margaret looked fragile and sad, even under the watchful eye of the unwavering electric lightbulbs.

June's events had all happened incredibly fast. It seemed mere seconds passed, between the ambush by the Death Eaters at the hall of prophecy, and Sirius's fall. It seemed even less time transpired afterwards. The next thing he knew, everyone was gone. The fight was over. Sure, he remembered his encounter with Voldemort. He remembered it all too clearly. But it seemed like a thing that had happened in a dream; agonizingly vivid, and yet fleeting.

"You're right," he continued, lips in a hard line as he shut the photo album on his lap, safely tucking the three loose pictures back between its pages. "But he shouldn't have died at all. I should have been able to protect him, too." That's all I wanted to do, he thought. Sirius, don't you know? It's the only reason we left.

Them: The other side of the room sat quiet for what seemed longer that it should have been, until Margaret stood and her long gown rustled against the chair. Silhouetted by the lamplight, she stood over him, her hand outstretched to take his, but only if he gave it to her.

Me: The hand seemed like a peace offering, and Harry took it. His fingers felt gangly, ungainly around Margaret's thin digits. But her palms felt caloused, real, unlike the pampered strangeness of grown women who had never worked or done any real thing in their lives. Women like his aunt and Dolores Umbridge, who were more concerned with what their hands looked like, than what their hands had done.

Margaret's reminded him of Molly's, as he stood up, and saw that he was just a little taller than she was. Molly's hands were welcoming and motherly, but felt like the hours she had put into tending her garden, working in her kitchen, and mending hand-me-down clothing. Margaret's had that same air of a kind of earthy devotion to something. It was reassuring.