James Potter and the Curse of the Gatekeeper

1. ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

"C ome on, James!" Albus cried, hopping impatiently. "Let me give it a try. Nobody will tell!" "You know I can't, you Skrewt," James replied calmly, swinging a leg over his Thunderstreak. "You're underage. You'll just have to learn in school like everybody else does." He kicked off, leaning forward so that the broom rocketed out over the garden.

"You just want me to look as much a fool as you did on a broom your first year!" Albus called, running after his brother. "It won't work! I'm gonna be brilliant! I'll fly circles around you, you watch!"

James smiled as the wind whipped through his hair. He pulled up and banked, circling back toward Albus. Albus stopped, frowning, and ducked as James flew past, tousling his younger brother's hair.

James hugged his broom and climbed into a streaking corkscrew, pulling up into the blue dome of the sky. Below, the Burrow spun lazily, casting its shadow out over the garden and the nearby fields. James drew a deep breath of the rushing air, and then dipped his broom, pulling it to a sudden, practiced stop. He knew he shouldn't show off in front of his brother, but he was quite proud of his increasing skills. His dad had been working with him over the summer, and James had become cautiously confident that he'd make the House team this year after all.

"About time, Potter," Ted called, swinging in next to James on his old but well-maintained Nimbus 2000. "Three-on-three is hard enough, even with experienced players. You'll need to play Beater and Seeker. Just keep an eye on Angelina. She'll let you think she's delicate as a flower until she drafts you into a tree. George is playing Beater and Keeper as well, so he'll be plenty busy, but his long-range Bludger will still find you if you don't watch it. But the one you've really got to keep an eye on is—"

Something red and green roared between Ted and James, forcing them into opposite tumbles. James gripped his broom and swung it around, craning to look. His mum spun to a stop and drifted gently over him, grinning, her cheeks flushed and her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She was wearing her Holyhead Harpies tunic.

"What do you think, James? Still fits!"

James heard the sound of an appreciative whistle behind him. He looked and saw his dad smiling at Ginny, pulling his broom into position thirty feet away.

"Dad! Mum!" James reproached, stifling a grin. "Quit it! You're both an embarrassment!"

Ginny blew a stray hair out of her face. "You just watch your back out there, love. I may be your mum, but that doesn't mean I won't broadside you to get to the Snitch." She grinned at him, and then spun on her broom and zoomed to the opposite side of the pitch.

"She's not serious," James said, turning to Ted.

"You better hope not," Ted answered, watching Ginny fly off. "I've played against her before, and I tend to think your only hope is that she won't Bludger her own son in the back of the head."

"You're a great help," James said, but Ted had already dropped back into formation.

"Knock James off his broom, Mum!" Albus yelled from below. James glanced down and saw him standing at the edge of the orchard. Nearby, Lily, Rose, and Hugo sat on a huge tartan blanket, grinning and squinting up into the sunlight. Charlie's twins, Harold and Jules, were perched in a gnarled old oak tree by the barn.

Rose nudged Lily with her elbow. "Go for it, Aunt Ginny! Knock him flying! You can always have another kid! One with better manners and less stinky feet!"

"I heard that!" James called down.

"I should hope so," Rose said primly, putting her fists on her hips and smiling coquettishly. Lily giggled.

"Enough, Rose," Aunt Hermione admonished from a deck chair at the edge of the garden.

"I'd play on your team, Harry, if I could," Ron yelled from the chair next to her. "But three-onthree's the tradition. Maybe somebody will get hurt enough not to play and I'll be able to sub in, eh?"

Hermione grimaced and scowled at him.

"What? A guy can hope, can't he?" Ron protested. He looked back up at Harry. "Looks like we'll have to host an all-out tournament by next year!"

Harry nodded. "None of us were kidding when we said we wanted to have enough kids to make a Quidditch team, were we?" he called back.

Charlie stood in the center of the garden, below the players. He had one foot on the family's bedraggled old Quidditch trunk. He held a Quaffle, yellow with age and grass-stained, in his right hand.

"The Annual Weasley Family Quidditch Match is now underway!" he boomed, grinning. "I want to see a mean match. I want to see plenty of blagging, loads of bumphing, and a good bit of blatching. Any player not bloody by the end of the match will be deemed unfit to remain a Weasley and will have to defect to the Potters. Understood?"

"Throw the Quaffle or get on a broom, Freckles!" Harry yelled, resulting in a round of laughter and catcalls. Charlie grinned crookedly.

"Ball up!" he shouted, lobbing the Quaffle and releasing his foot from the Quidditch trunk. The lid exploded open and the balls soared into the air.

James gulped, gripped his broom, and lunged into the fray.

Technically, it wasn't James' first Quidditch match. He'd played several matches over the summer with whoever happened to be around. Granted, most of them had been two-on-two matches, sometimes using 'ghost players', which Ted provided from a small box he'd bought from George. Apparently, it was a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes test product. When the tiny wooden box was opened, it released four Boggarts, all of which had been specially hexed to only take the shapes of famous dead Quidditch players. They looked extremely convincing even if they were a bit transparent. The problem was that the Boggarts didn't have the slightest idea how to play Quidditch; thus, despite their impressive appearance, they tended to simply swoop randomly over the pitch, their arms in the air, making ghostly noises. Also, Bludgers flew right through them.

"Still," George had concluded, "they do add a certain something to a match lacking the right number of players, don't they?"

None of the matches James had taken part in that summer compared to this, however. Not only did the Weasleys tend to be fiercely competitive, but all the players knew each other eerily well. This was sometimes a benefit, such as when George ducked beneath a Bludger and lobbed the Quaffle over his head, knowing Angelina would be directly behind him to swat it into the goal with her Beater club. It was also sometimes a dread drawback, such as when Ginny predicted Ted's favorite maneuver and plucked the Quaffle from beneath his arm the very moment he swooped to score. Despite the fervor of the match, there was plenty of laughter and hearty encouragement on all sides. James knew he'd probably influence the match very little. He was mostly concerned with staying on his broom and not letting his own mum make a complete fool out of him in front of Rose and the rest. To his great pleasure, however, he did manage a few lucky swats with his club, sending the old Bludgers careening into the fracas and even occasionally striking their marks. One of them caromed off of George's broomtail, sending him into a wild, momentary spin. When he recovered, he glanced back at James and gave him a huge, toothy grin.

"Look at James!" he called to the other players. "Giving the 'old guard' a warning shot! Next one will be my head, eh, James? Nice shot!" And he dove back into the melee.

Ron couldn't help jumping up and down at the edge of the pitch, shouting instructions and warnings through cupped hands.

"Dragon formation!" he bellowed furiously. "Dragon formation, George at the wing! Harry's left is weak since that hit with Angelina! They've no defence against it! Ginny, you're drifting to the right! Fix your tail! Your tail! Oh, come down here and give me your broom!"

Right next to him, Albus matched him shout for shout, sometimes shoving his uncle aside with both hands. "They're planning a Waterloo Skidoo, Dad! Stack up and plow the center! Ted! Mum's stopped to fix her broomtail! She's exposed! Forget she's a girl and Bludger her back to the Stone Age!"

Hermione had moved to the blanket to sit with Fleur. The two of them were pointedly ignoring the match, lost in their own animated conversation.

And then, just as the sun was beginning to redden, James caught a flash of gold flickering near the fifth story of the Burrow. He glanced around, opening his mouth to alert the Seeker, and then remembered he was playing Seeker. His heart trip-hammered and he lunged forward, touching his chin to his broom handle. He shot forward, banking around Angelina and a wildly spinning Bludger. The rickety walls of the Burrow swayed in front of him, its windows winking daggers of burnished sunlight at him, half blinding him. There it was again, the flash of gold, darting through a stand of birch trees at the corner. James leaned, and the Thunderstreak responded with perfect control, ticking down and to the right, homing in on the Snitch. He strained forward, nearly climbing off the end of his broom, and reached for the tarnished golden ball.

The Snitch suddenly bobbed upwards, just over James' reaching hand. He shot under it, swore loudly, and then tucked his head as he whipped through the branches of the birch trees. They tore at him, but he barely noticed. He leaned so hard that he nearly fell off his broom, slewing to a halt and craning his head back to find the Snitch. The setting sun dazzled his eyes. James squinted and saw the tiny golden form of the Snitch. It hung in the air near the corner of the Burrow's roof, bobbing in the air like a bumblebee. A darker shape appeared behind it, blocking the sun. It was Ginny. She saw the Snitch, and then saw James. She grinned, and hugged her broom, rocketing forward.

"Oh no you don't!" James growled. He lunged, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the Snitch and not to check to see where his mum was. The Snitch seemed to sense the pursuit. It zigged out over the pitch, threading through the players. James hugged his broom, willing it to go even faster, and was suddenly reminded that the Thunderstreak was equipped with a rudimentary ability to read its owner's mind. It leapt forward, faster than James had ever gone before. He dipped under Ted and his dad, who had noticed the Snitch flash past them. James heard them cheering him on raucously. A shadow fell over the end of his broom and James couldn't help glancing up. His mum was directly over him, swooping toward the Snitch, her tunic flapping. James did the first thing that occurred to him. Suddenly, wildly, he steered to the left, away from the Snitch, still reaching forward as if to grab it. Instantly, he corrected and threw himself forward on his broom. It had worked! He sensed the movement over him as Ginny feinted left, believing James had seen the Snitch move aside. She'd been watching him rather than the Snitch itself! The Snitch didn't dodge away from him this time. He strained forward, brushed it with his fingers as it flew, and then clamped his hand on it. The wings buzzed against his palm for a moment before going still. The game was over.

James turned on his broom exultantly, holding the Snitch over his head. Far behind him, Harry and Ted threw their hands into the air. They were shouting at him. A second later, James realized they weren't celebrating. They were making warning signs. James hadn't stopped his broom. He whipped around to see where he was going just as the gnarled apple tree at the back of the pitch loomed over him. The breath socked out of him as a branch swept him from his broom. There was a sickly sensation of weightlessness, and then he thumped to the ground.

"Ooh," he moaned. Running footsteps approached and a moment later his mum was kneeling over him.

"James! Tell me you're all right!" she commanded. Lily peered in next to her, her eyes wide.

"He's all right, everybody," Ted said as he landed nearby, laughing. "He only dropped eight feet. Besides, all those rotten apples broke his fall."

James sat up and felt the sticky mush of a dozen rotten apples plastered to his back. He moaned and shook his head, flinging gobbets of apple pulp from his hair.

"Gah!" Lily cried, sputtering. "Warn me next time you do that, idiot!"

Suddenly, James remembered the Snitch. He glanced down at it in his hand, and then showed it to his mum. A huge grin broke out on his face.

Ginny smiled down at him crookedly. "Nicely done, son. Just don't expect to beat me twice."

"Did we win, then?" James asked as Ginny gave him her hand and pulled him to his feet.

"I hear Albus and your uncle arguing about it even as we speak, but I'd guess you did."

In the near distance, James heard Ron and Albus heatedly arguing the final score.

"Excellent grab, James," Harry said to his son, brushing rotten apple off the back of James' shirt as they returned to the Burrow.

"Yeah," Ted agreed happily, "great use of the old dodge and feint. I was sure your mum was gonna beat you to the gold, but you really took the biscuit, didn't you?"

"I'll say," George said sourly, turning and walking backwards so as to glare pointedly at Ginny, his broom slung over his shoulder. "In fact, if I recall correctly, I think it was a member of this very family that invented that maneuver."

Ginny looked innocently at her brother. "I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, George."

"No? Hmm! Well, if I remember right—and I do—the Harpies' announcers used to call it the 'Ginevra Gambit'. Funny thing, you falling for a maneuver named after you, isn't it? Right suspicious, in fact."

Ginny simply shrugged and smiled. George continued to walk backwards, fuming at her. Finally, Angelina tripped him.

"James, why don't you go gather your brother and cousins for dinner?" Harry said, ruffling his son's hair. "Your grandfather will be home soon and we all want to be there for the big surprise."

"Now look what you did, Dad," James said, trying to matt his hair back down. "I look like an old picture of you."

"That rotten apple's even better than Hermione's hair gel goo," Ted commented. "You should tell her about it. Ron says she spends more money on Muggle hair potions than she does on food."

"What?" Hermione shrilled, bumping Ron with her hip. "You did not!"

James didn't wait for the rest. He tossed his Thunderstreak to his dad and turned toward the sound of his cousins' voices.

"Hey, it's almost dinner, you lot," he called as he entered the shadow of the Weasley family's small stone garage. As always, the doors were thrown wide open. The cool, familiar smell of the dirt floor and dusty shelves surrounded him. He sighed happily.

"Nice grab, James!" the twins, Harold and Jules, called in unison as James approached.

"Thanks!"

"Too bad you spoiled it by getting intimate with an apple tree," Rose said from where she sat, kicking her legs idly. "What a downer."

"Hey," James said, ignoring Rose's remarks. "That's Merlin's car! What's it doing here?"

Rose glanced down at the bonnet of the car she was sitting on. The old Anglia had been meticulously cleaned and was half-repainted, but one headlight still hung askew from its socket. "This isn't Merlin's, you nitwit," Rose chided. "It's Grandfather's. Don't you remember the stories about the flying Ford? Your dad and my dad took it for a joyride back when they were in school. They ended up losing it in the Forbidden Forest. All Merlin did was find it. When he discovered whose it was, he arranged to have it returned here. Grandfather's been getting it back into shape over the summer."

"He's making some pretty keen modifications to it too!" Hugo announced, popping his head out the driver's side window. "Watch this!"

He disappeared again and the car rocked a bit as he and Albus moved around in the front seat.

"That's probably not a good idea—" James began, and then jumped back as a pair of wood and canvas wings shot out of the sides of the automobile, squeaking and ratcheting as they unfolded. They began to flap up and down violently, making the entire car bounce and rock. A moment later, they screeched to a stop.

"It's a good thing you know how to turn those off!" James exclaimed, his eyes wide.

"I didn't!" Albus answered, working buttons and levers on the car's dashboard. "They stopped on their own. Looks like they aren't quite finished yet. I hope we didn't break them. Hey, Hugo, climb back there and jump on them a little, why don't you?"

"No, let us!" the twins cried, scrambling toward the wings.

"No!" James called, throwing up his hands. "Nobody jump on anything! Granddad will leather you with a hex if you break his stuff!"

Hugo scowled, ignoring James. "Too bad Uncle Percy and Aunt Audrey aren't here. Lucy's the mechanical one. I bet she could get this thing in the air."

"I wonder why it needs the wings anyway," Rose commented. "I thought it flew on its own."

"Uncle Harry smashed it into the Whomping Willow at Hogwarts, remember?" Hugo called out. "Totally crippled it. That's why it ran off into the Forest and turned all feral."

"You've got it all wrong," Albus said. "Your dad was driving. If my dad had been behind the wheel, they'd have made a four-point landing."

"Yeah," Rose agreed, "probably right through the windows of the Great Hall."

The twins guffawed and ran around the car, pretending to fly and crash. Harold mimicked the Whomping Willow, thrashing at his brother, who feigned death and keeled over.

"Anyway," Hugo continued, "everybody knows about the Alma Alerons and their flying cars. I bet Granddad wanted to see if he could make this fly even better."

James grinned. "Come on, you lot. He'll be home soon. If we don't get inside, we'll miss the surprise."

"And the cake," Rose added.

That got their attention. Jules and Harold spun on their heels and darted past James, yelling and trying to push each other out of the way. Albus shrugged and followed Hugo out the driver's door of the car. Rose slid off the bonnet and brushed the dust from her bottom with her hands.

"Grandfather's quite peculiar, isn't he?" she said, glancing around at the Anglia and the collection of mismatched Muggle objects that filled the shelves nearby. James had seen them a hundred times, but there were always a few new things. He followed Rose as she approached the collection and ran her hand lightly over some of the items, drawing lines in the dust with her fingers. Alongside the assortment of batteries and electric can openers, extension cords and nose hair trimmers, James saw the newer additions. There was an old laptop computer, a video game controller, and a digital alarm clock in the shape of a cartoon character.

"Why do you suppose he loves all this stuff so much?" Rose asked.

"I don't know," James said. "I think part of it is because he grew up a wizard, not like us. My dad grew up with Muggles. Your mum too. They brought a bit of the Muggle world with them, so to us, it's no mystery. But for Granddad, the Muggle world is as foreign as aliens would be to us. He just loves figuring out how it all works, and what they use it for."

"He could just take a Muggle Studies course, nowadays, couldn't he?" Rose said as the two of them turned toward the door. "They didn't have classes like that when he was a kid."

James shrugged. "I guess so. I don't think he wants to learn it like that though. That's not the point for him. I don't really know what he thinks the point is though."

Rose tilted her head. "He just loves the mystery of it, don't you think?"

"Well, what's the point of a mystery if you never find out?" James frowned.

"You're such a boy, James. The moment the mystery is solved, it's not a mystery anymore."

"Granddad's a boy too, you know."

"No, Grandfather's a man."

James rolled his eyes. "What's the difference, then?"

Rose sniffed. "Well, a man can catch the Snitch and not come out smelling like a rancid cider house."

James chased her the rest of the way to the back door.

Inside, Grandma Weasley was frantically arranging the final details as the family milled around, mostly trying to stay out of her way.

"Hugo! Dominique! You get your fingers away from that cake this moment!" she admonished as she passed by the table, her arms full of plates and cutlery. "Fleur, would you be a dear and help me with the pudding? It's Arthur's favorite and I want it right in the middle of the table. Oh, when did this family become so large that we can't eat indoors without sitting on each other's laps?"

"It's your fault entirely, Mum," George said reasonably. "You can't go having seven kids and not expect the lot of us to see it as a dare to have more."

"Don't you start," Angelina said, grimacing and throwing an arm around his neck.

"You knew what you were getting into when you got engaged to me," George replied airily. "The thing I love best about you is your childbearing hips."

Angelina tightened her grip around his neck, dragging him into the parlor where everyone was gathering.

"How'd the match go, James?" Bill asked from his seat next to his son Louis.

James shrugged and grinned. "Pretty good. Nobody got killed. I caught the Snitch."

Louis smiled crookedly. "Rose told us all about it already."

James rolled his eyes as Bill laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Oh! Arthur will be here any moment!" Molly fretted, wringing her hands on her apron and glancing around at her gathered family. "I just know I'm forgetting something. He's so dreadfully hard to surprise. James! You didn't change your shirt! You're covered with rotten apple! No! Don't sit on the sofa! It's too late now to do anything about it, I suppose…"

"Mum," Charlie soothed, "calm down. It's a birthday party, not a military campaign."

She heaved a quick sigh, letting Charlie massage her shoulders for a moment. "All I can say is it's a good thing he agreed to that consultant position at the Ministry. At least it gets him away from the Burrow a few times a week. Otherwise, I'd never have got him out of the place long enough to arrange such a thing. Especially since that Merlin character returned that awful car… Oh! That's what I forgot! Ronald! Do you have the—"

"Socket wrench set," Ron nodded wearily. "Fresh from the Muggle hardware store. All wrapped and on the table along with everyone else's gifts. He'll love it, Mum. Calm down or George and I will have to break out the Firewhisky."

"Shh!" James' mum hissed, looking hard at the fireplace. "Here he comes!"

She leaned in, gripping Harry's arm and pulling him with her. The room fell silent as everyone drew their breath, preparing to shout.

The ash in the fieldstone fireplace swirled, and then suddenly erupted into flame. It flared, and a figure materialized out of it, plopping onto the floor in front of the grate with a practiced hop.

"Surprise--" everyone shouted, but the strength of the shout faded on the second syllable. The new arrival wasn't Arthur Weasley. There was a sudden, awkward silence as everyone stared at the unexpected form of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Kingsley's face was grave. He looked over the room, scanning faces, until he saw Molly.

"Oh no," Molly said simply.

Kingsley's face didn't change. Together, both he and Molly looked aside, toward the Weasley family clock.

"Oh no!" Molly said again. She slowly raised her right hand to her mouth, her eyes wide, shining.

Everyone in the room looked toward the magical clock, the clock that showed every Weasley family member's whereabouts and well-being. Most of the family members' hands were pointed toward The Burrow: Parlor. Arthur Weasley's hand of the clock was pointed straight down, toward two small red words.

No More.

"Arthur Weasley was among the rarest and most honorable of men," Kingsley said in his calm, measured voice. "With those whom he loved, he was faultlessly gentle, loyal, and wise. With those who deserved his ire, he was fair, unflagging, and when necessary, fierce. Few who grew up with him would ever have guessed that this soft-spoken, even comical man would someday face the greatest enemies of his time. And yet he did, firmly, and with the kind of quiet courage that comes only from loving well, and being wellloved."

James sat in the second row, between Albus and Lily. He stared furiously at Kingsley's face as he spoke, concentrating on the words, trying very hard not to look at the shiny wooden box behind the big man. The lid was open, showing a snowy white, cushioned interior. Next to James, Lily sniffed quietly and leaned against her mother's shoulder. Albus sat ramrod straight, his face blank and pale. The tiny church at Ottery St. Catchpole was packed and hot.

"During Arthur's lifetime," Kingsley went on, "he saw both great and horrible things. In his family, he witnessed the purest of delights, and more importantly, was the sort of man who knew how to enjoy them. He also faced the most terrible of trials and endured the greatest sacrifices. And yet his heart was pure enough to not become embittered by them. Hatred had no foothold in this man. Viciousness knew him not. Corruption could not bend him."

Dimly, James was aware of the many family members and friends who'd travelled from far and wide to be present. He'd seen Hagrid come in, and even now he could hear the half-giant blowing his nose in the row behind him. Luna was there along with her skinny new beau, Rolf Scamander, who in his brown suit and huge glasses looked, to James, vaguely like a human version of one of those insects cleverly disguised by nature to resemble a dried stick. Neville Longbottom was present as well as the Diggorys, who lived nearby in the village. A surprising number of Granddad's co-workers from the Ministry had also come, most straight from London.

Directly in front of James sat his grandmother. Molly's shoulders shook, but she made no sound. Next to her, Bill put his arm around her. His eyes glistened. He frowned very slightly as Kingsley went on.

"There are men who devote their lives to fairness, who study, and campaign, and lead charges. There are men who seek power and influence, who arise to positions of great authority and make momentous decisions. And there are men who devote their lives to training for war, whose skills with the wand and the sword are legendary, who are the first into battle and the last to retreat. Arthur Weasley was not any of these men. He was better. His benevolence had no root in guilt. His position was not born of pride. And his fight was not for the sake of glory. In his steadfast heart, he was effortlessly what most of us try to be by sheer willpower. He was a man without guile. A man of duty and loyalty. A man with the strength of right, and love. But mostly, Arthur Weasley… was a father… and a husband… and a friend."

For the first time, Kingsley lowered his eyes. He pressed his lips together, and then removed his glasses. Still looking down at the small podium before him, he concluded:

"Arthur Weasley was the best of his kind. And we shall miss him."

In the silence that followed, James fought back his tears. It was so confusing. When he'd first understood what was happening that afternoon as they'd all stood in the parlor looking at Granddad's hand on the Weasley clock, he'd felt strangely numb. He'd known he should've felt sorrow, or anger, or fear, but instead, he'd felt just a strange, ringing emptiness. As the family had dissolved into confused conversation— demands of explanations, expressions of grief—Harry had taken Lily, Albus, and James upstairs to the bedroom they'd so often shared.

"Do you understand what this means?" he had asked them, looking each one in the eyes, his face serious and sad. Lily and Albus had nodded dumbly. James hadn't nodded. If he'd understood what had happened to Granddad, he'd have felt something, wouldn't he? Harry had gathered all three of them into an embrace, and James could feel his dad's cheek on his shoulder. It had felt hot.

Now, as James watched his grandma and Uncle Bill approach the casket, he could barely grope around the edges of this sudden, monumental grief. His throat ached from holding it in. His eyes burned and he blinked yet again, forcing back the tears. He was ashamed to let it all out, and yet it felt wrong to hold it in. He was torn in the middle.

Why did Granddad have to die of a stupid heart attack, of all things? Great wizards just didn't die of such things, did they? This was the man who'd faced Voldemort's snake and survived to tell of it. How could a man who'd fought the most vicious villains of all time, who'd made such terrible sacrifices, have died so stupidly in the end? The unfairness of it was like a weight of stones on James' heart. Hadn't Granddad earned a reprieve from something like this? Didn't he deserve at least a few more years to watch his grandchildren grow up? He was going to miss James' first year on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He'd not attend George's and Angelina's wedding, nor know the names of their children. He'd never unwrap his Muggle socket wrench set, never use it to finish the homemade wings on his prize Ford Anglia. It would sit there in the garage, half-painted and with one headlight still hanging out, until it rusted and lost whatever soul Granddad had given it. Nobody else cared about it. Eventually, it would be towed away somewhere and disposed of. Buried.

At the end of the aisle, Harry stood up, helping Ginny to her feet. Lily and Albus stood as well, but James remained seated. He stared straight ahead, his cheeks burning. He simply couldn't do it. After a moment, Ginny led Albus and Lily up the aisle to the casket. James felt his dad sit back down next to him. Neither tried to talk to each other, but James felt a hand on his back. It comforted him a little. But just a little.

A few minutes later, the room was almost entirely empty. James blinked and looked around. He'd barely noticed everyone trickling away, heading outside into the blinding summer sun. Harry still sat next to him. James glanced up at him, studying his dad's face for a moment, and then lowered his eyes. Together, they stood and walked up the aisle.

James had never been to a funeral before, but he'd heard about one. Albus' namesake, Dumbledore the Headmaster, had meant a terrible lot to his dad. He'd heard about how, at Dumbledore's funeral, Fawkes the phoenix had suddenly flown overhead and the tomb had briefly, gloriously, burst into flames. As James approached his granddad's casket, he wished something like that would happen. James hadn't known Dumbledore, but how could that old man have been nobler than his granddad? Why wouldn't something glorious and beautiful like that happen for Arthur Weasley? And yet, sadly, James knew it wouldn't.

He climbed the steps to the casket and looked in. He couldn't have done it if his dad hadn't been there with him, with his big hand on James' shoulder. Granddad looked the same, but different. His face was wrong, somehow. James couldn't see specifically what it was, and then he realized: Granddad was just dead. That's all. Suddenly, shockingly, a memory leapt into James' head. In it, he saw Granddad sitting on a stool out in the old family garage, holding a much younger James on his knee, showing him a toy aeroplane. He held it up in front of young James' wondering eyes and made it fly back and forth over the workbench, imitating jet noises. James hadn't known it at the time, but he saw it now in his memory: Granddad was making the plane fly backwards, tail-first. He smiled down at the boy James, his eyes twinkling. "It's like a broom with a hundred Muggles in it," he said, chuckling. "You know, I've never actually seen one fly. I hope to someday, James, my boy. I truly do."

James closed his eyes as hard as he could, but it was no use. He sobbed a great, dry sob and leaned on the edge of the casket. Harry Potter put an arm around his son's shoulder and held him tightly, rocking him slowly while he cried, hopelessly and helplessly, like the child that he still was.

"It wasn't really his birthday, of course," Molly was saying to Audrey, Percy's wife, as they stood in the sunlight of the Burrow's backyard, punch glasses in their hands. "He was actually born in February. This was going to be his seventy-eighth-and-a-half birthday party, more or less. Why, it was the only way we could surprise him! Of course, I should've known that he'd find a way to have the last laugh, God bless him. Oh Audrey."

James ladled himself a glass of punch and moved away from the table, not wishing to hear any more. Hagrid was seated rather uncomfortably on one of the tiny lawn chairs, pressing it into the ground.

"I knew Arthur back when he was still in school, yeh know," Hagrid said to Andromeda Tonks, who was seated at the table with him. "Never knew of a gentler soul, did I. Always ready with a smile an' a story. An' sharp in 'is own way. Sharp as a talon."

James slipped past as inconspicuously as possible. He loved Hagrid, but he felt weary and washed out from his tears back at the church. He didn't think he could bear hearing any stories about his granddad as a young man just now. It was too sad.

He saw Rose, Albus, and Louis seated at one of the portable tables at the edge of the lawn and went to join them.

"I hear Grandmother might sell the Burrow," Louis said as James pulled over a chair.

"She can't do that," Rose said, shocked. "It's been the Weasley home since… since… well, since I don't know how long, but since before our parents were even born! It's like a part of the family!"

Louis shrugged. "Dad says it's too big for her to manage all alone. I mean, the place is seven stories tall, not even counting the attic and the cellar. Besides, it takes a lot of magic just to keep the place upright. Now that the kids are all moved out, and Grandfather gone, it's just too much work for her all by herself."

"It just doesn't seem right," Rose insisted, kicking the table leg. She glanced up, widening her eyes. "So why shouldn't somebody just move back in with her? George could bring Angelina here when they get married, couldn't he?"

James glanced out over the yard at the knot of family and friends milling morosely in the sun. "George can't stay at the Burrow," he said. "He has the shops to run. Besides, Angelina's taking a tutoring job in Hogsmeade. They're looking at renting a flat just down the street from the shop."

"I hear Ted is going to live in the upstairs part," Louis said, brightening. "He wants to try out for the National Quidditch Team, so George said he could live with them and work at the shop while he trains."

"He can't be serious," Rose grimaced. "Ted's all right, but does he really think he can make the national team?"

Louis shrugged again. "Mum says it's a mistake for George to take him in. She says that Ted just doesn't know what to do with himself and that he should just buck up and find some regular work."

"Aunt Fleur thinks that about pretty much everybody," Rose commented.

"Are you two looking forward to starting school next week?" James said before Louis could reply.

"Is the main ingredient of Halflinger Root potion Halflinger Root?" Rose said, sitting up excitedly.

James blinked. "I assume the answer to that is 'yes'."

"The new Headmaster's made some changes since last year, you know," Louis pointed out. "No more sharing dorms between different years. Much more regulated class schedules. No more putting off secondary classes until your last year. He pretty much completely wiped out the changes made by that guy that was Headmaster before McGonagall. Tyram Wossname."

"I kind of liked having some of the other years in my dorm last year," James muttered.

"Yeah, well, Mum says it was Tyram's 'forward-thinking' business that led to the Progressive Element and all this reforming Voldemort rubbish," Louis said wisely, raising his eyebrows.

James didn't have a response to that. He wasn't surprised in the least, however, that Merlin had made some very conscious choices to take Hogwarts back to its pre-battle standards and procedures.

"What house do you think we'll get into, James?" Rose asked. "Dad thinks I'll be a Gryffindor, but what would you expect from him? Personally, I hope I get into Ravenclaw."

"I haven't the faintest idea what houses you'll be sorted to," James said. "The Sorting Hat itself doesn't even seem to know until it sits on your head. I wouldn't be surprised if it takes one look at you and throws eleven O.W.L.s at you."

Rose arranged the napkin on the table in front of her. "Just because I'm my mum's daughter, doesn't mean I'm some unnatural genius, you know."

"No," Louis agreed. "But the fact that you've read the entire Encyclopaedia of Magical Poisons and Antidotes and can actually remember the exact page number for Barglenarf salve… does."

"That didn't actually happen!" Rose insisted, her cheeks going red. "Mum's been telling that story for months and it's pure rot. She bought me those encyclopaedias for my tenth birthday, for Merlin's sake. The only reason I read them at all is because I wanted to learn how to make the Draught of… er…"

Louis smiled politely and raised his eyebrows. "The Draught of…?"

"Well, it hardly matters," Rose said stiffly, still fiddling with her napkin. "But I simply can't help it if I have a mind for details. Besides, it was just a cure for poison ivy. And I didn't remember the exact page. Just the chapter it was in."

"Well, that's different, then," Louis replied sardonically.

"Don't try that expression on me," Rose said, throwing the napkin at him and hitting him in the face. "Nobody does it like Aunt Fleur. She was practically born with that look on her face."

"Well, I expect to get into Hufflepuff," Louis said, tossing the napkin back to Rose and trying to look composed. "It's the house most known for diligence and hard work. I plan to take school very seriously."

Rose rolled her eyes and soundlessly mimicked Louis' words. James smiled.

"What about you, Albus?" Louis said, nudging James' brother.

Albus sat back and glanced around. "What's it matter, really?"

"What does it matter?" Louis repeated incredulously. "It's only the single most defining thing about your school life. I mean, what if you get sorted into the wrong house?"

"And what house would that be?" Albus asked pointedly.

"Well, I don't know," Louis answered, throwing up his hands. "It's different for everybody, isn't it?"

"Albus Severus Potter," Rose said meaningfully. "Louis hasn't figured it out, yet. So much for diligence and hard work."

Louis frowned at Rose. "I figured out Albus' full name quite a few years ago, thanks."

"It's his initials, you git," Rose said primly. "A. S. P. An asp is a kind of snake."

"So what's that supposed to mean, then?"

"Albus is afraid he'll get sent to the Slytherins," James said, rolling his eyes. "It's been a bit of a family joke for some time. First Potter to go to the snakes."

"Oh shut up, why don't you?" Albus said dourly.

"What?" James replied. "It's possible, you know. I almost got sent there myself."

"Yeah, that's what you keep saying," Albus said quietly. "But then, glory be, you ended up in Gryffindor. The first-born son of Harry Potter goes to his dear old dad's house. Who'd've thought it?"

"It's true, Al. But come on, Slytherin can't be all that bad anymore," James reasoned. "Ralph's there, and he's all right. Maybe you can join forces with him and turn the old Slytherin legends inside out, eh?"

Albus scowled, leaned forward, and rested his chin on his forearm.

"Green really is your color, Albus," Rose said thoughtfully. "Goes with your eyes and your darker hair."

"Yeah," Louis chimed in, "and I hear their dormitories have hot and cold running dragon's blood."

Albus suddenly stood and skulked away from the table as the others watched. Rose glanced aside at Louis, one eyebrow raised.

"What?" he said defensively. "It was the best thing I could think of. Hot and cold running… you know, they say Slytherin families hunt dragons." He rolled his eyes. "Never mind, it's probably over your head."

"It's unwise to believe everything you hear," a voice said from directly behind them. James turned and looked up into the face of a man with pale skin and sharp features. A dark-haired woman stood next to him.

The man smiled tightly. "Please forgive the interruption. I was about to ask if this was the correct home, but I see the evidence right here in front of me. I cannot but assume I am speaking to Mr. James Potter, yes?"

James nodded, looking back and forth between the man and the dark-haired woman. They were both good-looking in a rather cold way, and both were dressed in very tasteful black. James was suddenly sure that if Zane, his American friend, were present, he'd make some comment about how brave it was for them to be out in the daylight, or how they managed to comb their hair so nicely, not being able to see themselves in mirrors. Needless to say, he was quite glad Zane wasn't present.

"Perhaps," the man went on, "you'd be kind enough to direct me to your father, James. My name is—"

"Draco?"

James glanced aside and saw his mum approaching slowly. She looked at the newcomer with a mixture of disbelief and caution.

"Ginny," the man said. There was a long, uncomfortable pause, and then the dark-haired woman spoke.

"We're very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Potter." She tried to smile, but it was a rather strained attempt.

"Does Harry know you're…," Ginny asked, still looking at the man.

"I think he does now," Draco said, raising his chin slightly and glancing past Ginny.

Harry stepped next to his wife and looked the pale man up and down.

"It's good to see you, Draco."

Draco nodded slowly, not quite making eye contact with Harry. "Yes, it has been quite a long time. When we heard about Mr. Weasley's passing, I thought it would be… appropriate… for us to offer our condolences."

James recognized the pale man now, even though he'd never seen him in person. He compared this grown man to the few pictures he'd seen of the young Draco Malfoy. The eyes were the same, and so was the white-blonde hair combed back from the temples. There was still the trace of a sneer there too, just like in the old school photos, but as James looked, he thought the sneer was no longer particularly mean, or even conscious. Draco had simply been doing it for so long that it was now just part of the topography of his face.

Harry studied Draco for a long moment, and then smiled. James recognized it as his dad's polite smile.

"Thank you, Draco. Ginny and I appreciate it. We really do. This must be your wife?"

Draco put an arm around the thin woman's waist. "Of course, I apologize. This is Astoria."

Harry bowed and Ginny shook the woman's hand lightly.

Ginny brightened and said, "Would you like to come up to the house for some refreshments?"

Astoria half turned to Draco, raising her eyebrows.

"I'll have some of whatever he's having," Draco said, glancing toward James and smiling a small, crooked smile. "Thank you, darling."

Ginny led the way between the tables and Astoria followed, glancing back once toward Harry and Draco.

"So how are things at Gringotts, Draco?" Harry asked, making no effort to lead the pale man into the throng gathered near the house. "I understand humans are almost unheard of in the bank offices, and yet here you are, vice chairman of something or other, or so I've heard. We'd have had a good laugh back in our school days if someone had told us you'd end up a big wheel at the wizarding bank of England."

"Back in our school days," Draco said quietly, still not looking directly at Harry, "we'd have had a good laugh if someone had told us we'd someday stand in the same yard without pointing wands at each other."

Harry's smile faded. "Yes," he admitted in a lower voice. "There is that."

There was a long pause. James could hear the babble of subdued voices closer to the house and the twittering of birds in the orchard. He glanced over toward Rose, who was also watching the scene with rapt interest. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head minutely.

"You know," Draco said in a different tone of voice, laughing a little humorlessly, "to tell you the truth, there isn't a single thing about the way life looks today that I would have predicted during our last years at Hogwarts."

Harry's smile had gone entirely. He stood and watched the pale man, his eyes unreadable.

"We are all taught things, growing up," Draco went on. "And rarely do we have the sheer audacity to question them. We grow to take the shape of whatever our families define for us. The weight of generations of belief presses down, and makes us in their image. And most of the time that is a good thing." Draco finally looked Harry in the eye, and for the first time since his arrival, the sneer was gone from his face. "Most of the time, it really is a good thing, Harry. But sometimes we grow up, time passes, and long, long after any hope of rejecting those defining beliefs, we look back. And we wonder."

James looked from Draco to his dad. His dad's face was still unreadable. After a long moment, Harry glanced back toward the house and sighed.

"Look, Draco, whatever you have to say, whatever you think needs to happen here…"

Draco shook his head. "Nothing needs to happen here. I didn't come here to ask your forgiveness, Harry. I just came to tell you and your family that I am sorry for your loss. Despite what you might expect, I know Arthur Weasley was a strong man. He was an honorable man. My father wouldn't tend to agree with me, but it's like I said. We get older. Some of us look back, and wonder."

Harry nodded slightly. "Thank you, Draco."

Draco took a step closer to Harry. "There was one other reason I came today though. I think I should admit that to you. I came to prove something to myself."

Harry didn't blink. "What were you hoping to prove?"

Draco smiled a little, not taking his eyes from Harry's. "I wanted to prove to myself that I could come and speak to you. And more importantly, that you'd hear me."

Draco extended his right hand. Without looking down, Harry slowly shook it. James could hardly believe what he was seeing, knowing the history of these two men. It was hardly a tearful reconciliation, and James had the distinct impression that if Draco knew anyone in his family could see it, he'd never have done it. But it was amazing, nonetheless. The handshake was over in seconds, and less than five minutes later, both Draco and Astoria had left, driving away in their very large, very black automobile. But the image of that handshake, somehow both daring and vulnerable, tenuous as a soap bubble, stuck in James' mind for a long time.

Most of the immediate family stayed over that night at the Burrow, and James felt a particular sadness in knowing it might be the last time the family gathered in the old home. A palpable sense of loss and coldness filled the rooms despite the bustle of evening activity. It was almost as if everyone was mentally throwing dustcovers over the furniture, taking down the pictures, and dividing up the dishes. James felt a vague, aimless anger about it. It was bad enough that Granddad had died. Now it seemed that the Burrow was dying too. Nothing felt normal or comfortable. Even the bedroom he'd shared with Albus and Lily for so many years seemed cold and empty. It had never once crossed his mind that this room might someday belong to someone else, someone he didn't know. Worse, what if the new owners simply tore down the house and built a new one? What if they were Muggles, who wouldn't know how to maintain such a place? He couldn't bear the thought. Angrily, he slammed the door and began to put on his pyjamas.

"Hrmm!" Lily muttered, rolling over in her bed and covering her head with a pillow.

"Never mind us," Albus griped from the big bed in the corner. "We're just trying to sleep. Let us know if we're bothering you."

"Sorry," James muttered, plopping onto the bed and kicking off his shoes.

Albus sat up and stared at the door of the room. James glanced aside to where Albus was looking. They'd seen it a thousand times before: the inside of the door was covered with worn etchings and carved words. This room had belonged to many people throughout the years, and most of them had made some sort of mark on that door, to Grandma Weasley's constant annoyance. Still, she'd made no effort to fix the door, which wouldn't have been all that difficult for a witch. James thought he knew why. In the very center of the door, much older than the rest of the carvings, was a series of carven hash-marks, the kind used to mark off days. Above the hash-marks were the words 'Days To Freedom!' Below the last set of hash-marks, which was very large, the same hand had scrawled 'Fred And George To HOGWARTS And BEYOND! Long Live Fred And George!'

"You think Grandma will really sell the place?" James asked, still gazing at the carvings on the door.

Albus didn't answer. After a moment, he rolled over, facing the wall and pulling most of the covers with him.

James stripped off his shirt and grabbed his pyjama top. He slid to the floor and padded toward the bathroom door to brush his teeth.

The bathroom was shared by three bedrooms and the third-floor hallway. Lucy, Percy's daughter, was sitting on the edge of the ancient claw-foot tub, studiously brushing her glossy black hair.

"Hi, James," she said, glancing up briefly.

"Hi, Lucy."

"It's good to see you. I missed everybody this summer," Lucy said, drawing the brush over a lock of her hair. "Daddy says we'll be able to spend more time at home next year. I was pretty happy about that until today. I mean, by next year…"

James nodded. "Yeah."

"Did you like your first year of school?" Lucy asked, looking up. "Are you looking forward to going back?"

James nodded and picked up the glass that stood on the side of the sink. It was packed with the family's toothbrushes. He grimaced and turned the glass, trying to find his own.

"I can't wait to start school," Lucy said, returning to her brushing. "Daddy says I should enjoy being free while I can, but it doesn't feel free living with him and Mummy in hotel rooms for weeks at a time. Mummy says it's best for us to travel with him on all his international trips, so we can all stay together as a family. She likes all the travelling though. She's always dragging Molly and me out to some historical thing or other, telling us to smile while she takes pictures of us in front of this statue or that rock that some famous person from some great battle stood on or something. I write lots of letters, but not that many people write back, or at least not as often as I'd like."

She glanced meaningfully at James. He saw her in the mirror as he brushed his teeth.

"What's wrong with Albus?" Lucy asked, standing and putting away her brush.

James rinsed his toothbrush. "What do you mean?"

"He was awfully quiet tonight. It's not like him."

"Well, I guess everybody is a little quieter than usual," James replied. He glanced aside at Lucy and smiled crookedly. "Well, almost everybody."

She bumped him playfully as she passed him. At the door, she stopped and looked over her shoulder.

"We'll probably be gone when you get up in the morning," she said simply. "We have to get back to Denmark first thing, Daddy says."

"Oh," James said. "Well, happy travels, Lucy. Sorry about all that. Uncle Percy's quite the man at the Ministry, according to Dad. Things won't always be like this, don't you think?"

Lucy smiled. "It won't much matter by next year, will it? I'll be with you, Albus, Louis, Rose, and Hugo at Hogwarts. Won't that be fun?"

James nodded. There was something rather disquieting about talking to Cousin Lucy. It wasn't that he didn't love her. In many ways, he liked her better than many of his other cousins, particularly Louis. She was just so different. It made sense that she would be different, since she'd been adopted by Uncle Percy and Aunt Audrey back when they believed they couldn't have kids of their own. Talking to Lucy, much like talking to Luna Lovegood, was a rather literal affair. She was extremely, almost eerily, intelligent, but unlike most people, Lucy didn't much joke or tease. She always said exactly what she was thinking.

"Write me a letter or two this year, won't you James?" she said, her black eyes serious. "Tell me how school is going. Make me laugh. You're good at that."

James nodded again. "OK, Lucy. I will. I promise."

Gently, Lucy closed the door to the bedroom she shared with her sister. James turned toward the door to his own bedroom when a movement caught his eye. He stopped and glanced aside, following the motion. It had been in the hall adjacent. The door was slightly open, but the hallway beyond was dark. Someone was probably waiting outside for him to finish. He pushed the door open and leaned out.

"I'm done," he announced. "Bathroom's all yours."

The hallway was empty. James looked in both directions. The stairs at the end of the hall were notoriously creaky; he'd surely have heard someone on them. He frowned, and was about to turn away when the movement came again. It flickered in the moonbeams cast by the landing's large window. A shadow danced for a moment and then went still.

James stepped out of the bathroom, keeping his eyes on the pale window shape cast across the floor and wall. He could no longer see whatever had moved. He took a few steps toward the landing and his foot creaked on a floorboard. At the sound, a shadow leapt in the moon-glow. It scampered over the shape of the window like some kind of lizard, but with much longer, many-jointed arms and legs. There was a suggestion of a large head and pointy ears, and then, suddenly, the shape was gone.

James stopped in the hall, the hairs on his arms prickling. The shadow had made a noise as it moved, like dead leaves blowing on a stone. As James strained his ears, he could still hear it. A faint scuttling came from the stairs below the landing. Without thinking, he followed.

As always, the stairs were unbearably creaky. James had completely lost the sound by the time he reached the main floor. The Weasley family clock ticked to itself in the darkness of the parlor as he crept through, heading for the kitchen. One candle guttered in a volcano of wax on the windowsill. Moonlight played across the room, reflected from the dozens of pots and pans that hung over the counter. James stopped and cocked his head, listening.

The scuttling came again, and he saw it. The tiny shadow flickered and jumped over the fronts of the cabinets, flashing in and out of the moonlight. It seemed to scamper up the pantry. James glanced around quickly, trying to locate the figure that was casting the shadow, but he couldn't find it.

The shadow stopped in a corner of the ceiling and seemed to look down at James for a moment. The tiny shape looked a little bit like a house-elf except for the proportions and the unusual number of joints in the arms and legs. Then it leapt again, out of the shadow. James lunged in the creature's direction, sensing the thing was heading for the back door. To his surprise, the back door was wide open.

James jumped out into the cooling night air. He looked around wildly, straining his ears for the tiny, scuttling sound. There was no sign of the tiny shape.

"Good evening, James," a voice from behind him said, and he nearly barked in surprise. He spun around and saw his dad seated on the woodpile, a small glass in his hand. Harry laughed.

"Sorry, son. I didn't mean to startle you. What are you so wound up about?"

James looked around again, his brow furrowed. "I thought… I thought I saw something."

Harry glanced around as well. "Well, there's a lot of somethings to be seen in this house, you know. There's the ghoul in the attic, and the garden gnomes. They usually stay out of the house, but there are always a few brave ones that'll sneak in at night and nick a turnip or two. They think harvesting the vegetables is stealing from them, so they get a little mercenary about it sometimes."

James padded over to the woodpile and climbed up next to his dad.

"What are you drinking?" he asked, peering at his father's glass.

Harry laughed again, quietly. "It's more a question of what I'm not drinking. It's Firewhisky. Never got much of a taste for the stuff, but tradition's tradition."

"What's the tradition?"

Harry sighed. "It's just a way to remember. A sip to commemorate your grandfather and all he meant to us. I did this with Grandfather and George on the night we buried your Uncle Fred."

James was silent for a while. He looked out over the yard and the dark orchard. Just below the crest of the hill, the peak of the garage could be seen in the moonlight. Crickets chirred their constant summer song.

"I'm glad to have you out here with me, James," Harry said.

James glanced up at him. "Why didn't you come and get me, then?"

Harry's shoulders lifted once. "I didn't know I wanted you here until you appeared."

James leaned back against the smooth stone of the house's foundation. It was pleasantly cool after the warmth of the day. The sky was unusually clear. The misty band of the Milky Way stretched like an arm across the sky, reaching down toward the glow of the village beyond the orchard.

"Your granddad was like a father to me, you know," Harry said. "I was just sitting here thinking about that. I used to call him that all the time, of course, but I never really thought about it. I never realized how true it was. I guess I didn't need to, until now."

James looked up at the moon. "Well, it would make sense. I mean, your own dad died when you were just a baby. You never even knew him."

Harry nodded. "And my Uncle Vernon… well, I wish I could say he did his best to be a father to me, but you've heard enough about how things were with them to know that's not true. Honestly, I never even knew what I was missing. I just knew that things weren't the way they were supposed to be."

"Until you married Mum and became an honorary Weasley?"

Harry smiled down at James and nodded. "I suppose."

"You suppose?"

The smile faded slowly from his dad's face. He looked away again, out over the darkness of the yard.

"There was Sirius," Harry said. "He was the first father I ever knew. Technically, he was my godfather, but I didn't care. He asked me to come and live with him, to be family. But it didn't work out. He ended up on the run from the Ministry, moving from place to place, always in hiding. Still, he did his best. Bought me my Firebolt, which is still my favorite broom of all time."

Harry stopped. He reached up and took off his glasses. James remained silent.

"So I was just sitting here thinking about how Granddad is really the third father I've lost, that I'm back to where I started. If you want to know the truth, son, I was sitting here feeling sorry for myself. Sirius was killed before we had the chance to take even a single family picture to remember him by. Sometimes, I can barely remember what he looked like, except for in his wanted poster. But the hole he left in my heart has never been filled. I tried to fill it with my old Headmaster Dumbledore for a while, but then he was killed, too. Granddad made me forget for a long, long time, but now, even he's gone. I mean, honestly, this should be a bit easier for me. I've had… I've had practice. And yet, if you want to know the truth, I think your mum is handling it even better than me. I'm angry, James. I want the people back that I've lost. I can't seem to just move on like the rest. Just now, I was sitting here thinking that Granddad was just one too many. I didn't want to accept it anymore. But what could I do? There's no way to bring them back, and wishing for it just makes us bitter. I was thinking all those things, and then do you know what happened?"

James looked up at his dad again, his brow furrowed. "What?"

Harry smiled slowly. "You jumped out that door like a jack-in-the-box and scared me so that I nearly dropped my glass."

James smiled back, and then laughed. "So when you startled me, you were just getting back at me, eh?"

"Perhaps," Harry admitted, still smiling. "But I realized something in that moment, and that was why I was glad you came out here, that you sat down with me. I remembered that I have another chance at the father and child relationship, but from the other side. I have you, and Albus, and Lily. I can try my best to give you three what I missed for so much of my life. And you know what's really magical? When I do, I get a little of it back, like a reflection, from all three of you."

James looked hard at his dad, frowning a little. He thought he understood, but only very dimly. Finally, he looked down at the glass in his dad's hand.

"So are you going to drink that?"

Harry lowered his eyes to the glass of Firewhisky, and then raised it. "You know, son," he said, examining the moon through the amber liquid, "I think it's time to start some new traditions. Don't you think?" He held the glass a little higher, at arm's length.

"This is for you, Arthur," he said firmly. "For the father you were to all of us, not the least of which to me. And for you, Dumbledore, for doing your formidable best right to the end… and for my real dad, James the First, who I never knew but have always loved…"

James stared at the glass in his dad's hand as Harry paused. Finally, in a softer voice, he finished:

"And for you, Sirius Black, wherever you are. I miss you. I miss you all."

Almost casually, Harry flung the Firewhisky from the glass. It made an arc in the moonlight, sparkling and spreading, and vanished into the dimness of the yard. Harry drew a deep breath and sighed, shuddering a little as he let it out. He leaned back and put his arm around his son. They sat that way for some time, watching the moon and listening to the crickets in the orchard. Eventually, James drifted to sleep. His dad carried him to bed.