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Name: Rayvyn_Vaughn
Title: Myrtle's Halloween
House: Hufflepuff
Author: Bagge
Link: Myrtle's Halloween
Summary: Moaning Myrtle looks forward to spend her Halloween alone, but even if she is dead, she is not forgotten by the living. Friendfic. Characters belong to Rowling.
Note: I didn't write this. All credit goes to the author. I only fixed a couple of spelling/grammar errors.


Myrtle floated in midair in her toilet. She often did, thinking of nothing in particular. Fifty years of being dead had taught her that the bother of thinking very seldom was worth while. Today, however, it was hard to keep the thoughts away. Today was the day of the dead. Today was Halloween.

She had as usual been invited to the Halloween party of the castle ghosts. Both the Fat Friar and the Gray Lady had asked her to come, but she had refused. She did not like to be among people, even other ghosts - not to mention Peeves the poltergeist - and when all was said and done it was simply not worth the bother. Therefore she spent her Halloween alone in the damp toilet where she had died so many years ago. Around was the silence of loneliness, interrupted occasionally by the sound of dripping water and the discreet crawling of a spider. However, now there was another sound as well, steadily increasing. The sound of voices.

"...I agree, yes. But all I'm saying is that she might not want us there. She has chosen to be alone, and she might want us to respect that."

"Why would she not want us to be there. Don't you want us to be with you?"

"Of course she does," a third voice cut in. "But what if we are disturbing her. What if..."

"Hush. We're here."

And the door opened. Myrtle watched surprised as three girls walked in to her toilet. First was Luna Lovegood of Ravenclaw. Dirty blond hair, wand behind her left ear and pumpkin earrings. After her went Hermione Granger of Gryffindor who Myrtle had met a number of times before. She seemed to have made an- admittedly unsuccessful- attempt to comb her bushy hair, and she had polished her prefects badge. Last was Ginny Weasley, looking slightly nervous- her last encounter with Myrtle having been under quite stressful conditions for both of them. Her red hair was kept in place by a silver hair buckle in the shape of a ghost. All girls wore dress robes and they carried an enormous basket. Luna smiled brightly.

"Hello Myrtle. Happy Halloween!"

"Have you come to taunt me?" the ghost asked, floating down to ground level. "Come to laugh at me? Come to make fun at me?" she jabbed at finger a Luna.

"Not at all," Hermione quickly answered.

"We have come to celebrate Halloween with you," Luna said. Myrtle stared at her.

"That is nice, is it? Celebrating Halloween here, in my room? Myrtle's toilet is all she got, but don't let that stop you. She is dead so her opinion doesn't count. Use it as a party room, why don't you? Fill it with filth, why not? Why not throw things at her when you are at it?" Sobbing, Myrtle dived into the nearest toilet from which her wailings echoed. Ginny shook her head.

"Well, that did not go too good. What now?" Luna opened the basket.

"Now we put up the decorations."

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked hesitantly. Luna gave her a curious glance.

"They aren't much good in the basket, are they?"

"Er... No, I suppose not..."

"That's right," Luna said matter of factly and gave Hermione a garland of paper bats, bewitched to flap their wings and squeak with tiny voices. Hermione hesitated a moment, looking as if she was going to protest, but then she took the garland and used her wand to wrap it around the pipes in the ceiling. Luna and Ginny kept unpacking the basket and soon the toilet was as decorated as any Halloween party room. When Myrtle, after a while, returned from her S-bend, the room was totally transformed. The pipes were covered by bat garlands. Every sink was occupied by a leering pumpkin. Silvery spiders crawled on the wall. On the floor was a large, orange blanket.

"You are really having a party here?" she asked suspiciously. Ginny nodded.

"With you," she said.

"But why?" Myrtle asked. "Why here? Why not with your friends in the Great Hall?"

Ginny and Hermione glanced at Luna, but she was head-first halfway down the basket. Hermione took a deep breath and looked Myrtle in the eyes.

"Because Halloween is your day, Myrtle. You and all the others who are dead. And you have helped us. You have talked to us and comforted us and we think of you as a friend. That is why we would like to celebrate Halloween with you."

"But I have never asked you to," Myrtle cried, bewildered. "I don't need friends. I don't want friends. Friends taunt you and talk behind your back and hurt you. Leave me alone."

Tears were streaming down her face where she hung in mid air. Ginny and Hermione said nothing, uncomfortably staring down at the floor. But Luna gasped, suddenly white in the face. She dropped the spoon she had been holding and it fell to the floor with a tinkle. She stared at Myrtle, her eyes very big, and suddenly moist.

"Don't you want to be our friend?" she said with a small voice, and such was the serenity in her plea that Myrtle actually felt some pity for the young girl.

"I didn't say that," she began, and Luna lit up.

"Then you DO want to be our friend," she cried, and with tears in her eyes but radiating of joy and relief, she ran forward to hug the confused ghost. Due to her momentum she ran straight through Myrtle and crashed into a sink, where she ended up in a laughing heap on the floor.

"What..." Myrtle tried, but Luna had managed to get to her feet and dragged Hermione and Ginny with her to the ghost.

"I want to hug you," she simply said and, walking right into the ghost, she put her arms around the waists of the other girls, who after a moment of confusion returned the hug.

In the middle of the hugging girls Myrtle floated, not knowing whether to cry or fly away or what to do. She could feel the warm, living bodies of the hugging girls inside her. Being a ghost she could feel some of their thoughts and feelings as well. Their friendship, their anxiousity, their happiness. Their joy of being together. Suddenly, Myrtle realized that she liked it. The dead girl floated in the middle of the hug of the living girls, and in a way she was sharing it.

After a long, long time Luna let go.

"Now I'll unpack the food," she said and returned to the basket, leaving the others to glance at each other in a slightly uncertain way.

"So?" Ginny asked, smiling a shy little smile. "Can we stay?" And to her surprise Myrtle realized that she actually wanted them to.

"Please do," she answered, suddenly shy herself. "I would very much like to spend my Halloween with... friends."

Hermione actually burst into tears.

"Sorry," she laughed. "I... It's just... Oh Myrtle, why did it take us this long?"

"Sit down and eat," Luna interrupted. They followed her to the blanket and sat down. Even Myrtle floated down to ground level. Luna had produced plates and bowls and jars and jugs of all different kinds and shapes imaginable. But they were all empty.

"You see," Hermione said to Myrtle, "since we can't eat the food you normally eat at ghost parties, and since you can't eat the food we normally eat, we thought we should bring something we all can enjoy."

"And what is that?" Myrtle asked nonplussed, eying the empty plates.

"Make-believe-food," Luna said, handing her a bowl. "Care for some chicken pie?"

They had a wonderful dinner, talking and laughing and giggling. Luna told them the most amazing stories from her travels and of the strangest of creatures. Hermione told about life as a muggle, and she and Myrtle marvelled over all that had changed since Myrtle had lived. Ginny told stories about her family, and they all laughed at some of Fred's and George's more memorable pranks. Myrtle, who by now had forgotten all about her not needing or wanting friends, told them about the secrets of the castle and the strange existence and past times of its ghosts. Then they talked about Harry Potter and they giggled. They ate and drank and the fact that there was not really any food did not bother them the least. Witches are good at make believe.

They had finished their pudding and were lying outstretched on the blanket, looking at the ceiling which Hermione had bewitched to look like a star-dotted night sky. Ginny rose her head and turned over to face their new friend.

"Myrtle..." she said. "Can I ask you something?"

"Whatever you want."

"Well... It is kind of personal, you see, and if you don't want to answer, that is just fine with me."

"What is it you want to know?" the ghost asked, a touch of uncertainty in her voice.

"When you were alive you knew Tom, didn't you? Tom Riddle? What was he like?" Ginny actually blushed slightly.

"Ooooh!" Myrtle said, clearly flattered by the question. Luna and Hermione looked up as well to hear the answer. "Tom was such an interesting boy, with his dark hair, his big eyes and that simply adorable little nose of his..."

"And his voice," Ginny cut in. "Gentle and calm, but still powerful..." They talked about Tom Riddle for a long time. And they giggled a lot.

At last they decided to break up. Make-believe food or not, the three living girls were hungry and wanted to go to the feast. Also Myrtle decided to leave her toilet and join the other ghosts at their party. They cleaned up and packed their decorations with a flick on their wands- yet another advantage with being a witch - and together they left. When they came to the stairs, however, Myrtle halted, hovering in mid air. The others halted as well.

"You're my friends now," Myrtle asked anxiously. "Aren't you? You won't just disappear and leave me alone again?"

"Yes we will," Luna said with no trace of anything but honesty in her voice. Myrtle stared at her, her eyes suddenly starting to get wet again.

"We'll take our exams and leave," Luna went on, "in just a few years. Then we'll travel somewhere else and do other things, and after just a hundred of years or so we'll die, and probably not become ghosts. We will disappear, Myrtle, because we will change."

"But," added Ginny, "there is nothing that prevents you from changing as well."

"And however we change, we will still be friends," said Hermione.

Myrtle could only stare at them for a long time, completely speechless. Then she started to cry. Big, howling tears. But they could all see that the tears she cried now was a different kind of tears than those she had cried for the last fifty years.

They entered the Great Hall where the feast was at its peak. They were greeted by their friends and could soon stuff themselves with real food. They saw Dumbledore dance by with professor Sinistra, followed by the clearly tipsy Trelawney who danced double folded with the tiny Flitwick. The evening was great. Ginny managed to lure Harry to the spot under the mistletoe. Hermione danced with Ron and they ended up in a corner shouting at each other about who had stepped on who's toes. Luna put a flying charm on herself and spent much of the evening floating upside down in mid air because "Everyone looked so funny from above".

As the evening turned to night the girls gathered to catch their breath and take some pumpkin juice. As they sat down at the table the ghost of the Fat Friar drifted out from the wall and approached them. They greeted him and he bent his head.

"It was a very decent thing the three of you did today," he said, the gratitude in his voice obvious. "Never before in my afterlife have I seen young Miss Myrtle enjoy herself to the extent I have witnessed tonight. Why, even Peeves could not ruin her good mood. And I have understood that it is all thanks to you."

"She is our friend, sir Friar," Luna answered. "It is not anything special to be nice to friends. That is what friends do, isn't it?" Ginny and Hermione nodded in agreement.

"Undoubtly," the Friar smiled. "But despite the fact that I can't possibly give any of you a reward for your deed matching that of your newly formed friendship itself, I still feel that a little token of the gratitude of me and the other house ghosts would be appropriate." He glanced at the large hourglasses that kept score of the house points.

"Thus. Thirteen points for Ravenclaw. Twenty-six points for Gryffindor and as for Miss Myrtle herself, thirteen points for Slytherin."

The faint rattle caused by the gems that moved to indicate the newly gained points was completely lost in the noises of the party.

Name: Diana Tregarde
House: Gryffindor!

Wow, I read about a dozen fanfic stories before I found this--this one had me so sad and crying through the first half. I could just see it....!
And then it went on to...well I don't want to spoil it. Kinda unnecessary to say, but anyway, I didn't write it. I hope you enjoy it!




George couldn’t quite bring himself to go inside. Not just yet.

His first thought was that it looked completely empty – dark windows, which in itself might have meant nothing, but this was that sort of entirely still and opaque, dusty grey darkness that said the place had been vacant for a long time. It wasn’t as if whoever’d been living there had just stepped out on impulse for a cup of tea, because places like that still had a sort of… brightness. A residue life and light still floating about them, as if the building knew that its inhabitant would come walking round the corner at any moment. They’d come home again. No – this shop had been left alone for months; it knew nobody was coming home. Given up hope. It had been dark and vacant for a year. Just over a year. Only he knew precisely how long, down to the day.

He knew because it had become increasingly more important to him, day by day over the past few weeks, it was always on his mind – I should go back. I really should go back, open the shop again, it’s been far too long. There’s no reason at all why I shouldn’t. There’s every reason why I should, actually: it’s over now, the war, the threat of violence and death, the need for constant vigilance – people didn’t need to look over their shoulders all the time anymore. They could relax. Hell, they could laugh now, and not feel guilty for letting their guard down. It was time to help them along with it too, help people get slowly back to normal. Laughter was the best medicine (quite handy for creating shining silver animals, too), and who better to supply it?

And, besides, it’d be nice to be there again, in the shop with the little apartment rooms up above. But no, no, that wasn’t even it, really, it wasn’t that he wanted to be there, it was that he wanted to be somewhere other than where he was: that overcrowded house, where there used to be the happy chatter and comforting chaos that he’d loved and helped to create. His mother hovering over him now with only his best interests at heart, wanting so badly to comfort her suffering child, but how could she help him when she couldn’t help herself? Nothing could help her. Nothing could help any of them except time, went the old saying, and time was the only thing he felt like he had far too much of, and at the very same time, none at all. It was all just… backwards. All wrong.

Seeing your own white, bloodied and discolored face and staring, horribly empty eyes tended to make one feel that way. Seeing that broken face every moment, everywhere, even when he closed his eyes… well, that did more than make him feel just a little ‘wrong’. That was…

But that house, that cramped, tumbledown, wonderful little Burrow, comforting at first with family and friends nearby (most of them, anyway – but we weren’t thinking about that, remember?) had become so oppressive. And he’d tried to keep busy, he really had, he’d withdrawn from the others, stayed by himself, but he’d tried to not mope and wallow in grief alone but actually do something worthwhile, take his mind off it… He wasn’t used to crying. Tried it once, didn’t like it, not even when it was about…

But all the possible product designs he’d forced himself to think of had turned unintentionally serious and in some cases even morbid. They became reminders. What had begun as a platypus pudding (light, fun companion piece to the very well-received canary creams) had somehow transformed itself into not a duck-billed mammalian anomaly as could be reasonably expected, but some sort of accidental explosive. And not just a small or medium-sized, prime-for-practical-mayhem grade, but a truly volatile substance that threatened to go off at any moment, would have brought the whole upper story down around his head… would’ve been perfect for a big battle like the last cataclysmic clash. Could’ve done some real good for their side. Good for you, George, inventing that now, when there’s absolutely no use for it, there’s nothing it can change, nobody it can bring back. Well done.

He’d had enough of explosions and collapsing walls for a while, anyway. Enough for a lifetime. He’d left the thing alone, hadn’t even tried to tweak it back to its original transfiguring-into-weird-animals purpose or find some utterly hilarious and brilliant use for it – which was his first clue that there really was something different about him since…

And the others. He knew they were only trying to help, but God, he was getting so tired of them half-looking at him, never sure what to say, not knowing what would make it better or just make it hurt more. He’d gotten really good at laughing things off, as could be expected; the loss of his ear had been good practice. Somehow, even that, he’d been able to make into something – well, funny. Not devastating anymore. Or not as much as it had been, that horror of having the entire half of one’s world so suddenly become silent and empty – and the headaches that came with it. Not just from the wound, though it hurt like absolute hell, but the extra strain on the other ear, nobody ever thought about that or warned him about it. It had really taken getting used to, but he had, eventually, even managed to laugh about it.

Of course, then, he’d had help.

And however good he was at laughing off problems… this one was a little bigger than anything he’d faced before. He wasn’t that good. Not by himself, he wasn’t.

The only one who’d really been able to understand, he thought, was Harry. Oh, of course everybody understood to a degree (he wasn’t the only one in the world who’d lost someone in the final desperate struggles of the war, after all) or tried to, but Harry knew what it was to be looked at differently, to watch people struggle to come up with something to say. Their well-meaning awkwardness, trying so hard to think of just the right apology for long-dead parents and a childhood spent away from the world he belonged in, and now George was watching people do the same thing to him. Feeling their goodwill and apologies just weighing down on him, suffocating when he wanted just to tell them to stop it, stop it right now, it’s not your fault and we both know you can’t do anything to make it better, just stop trying, it’s better for everyone if you don’t. Don’t even try to say you understand, because there’s just no possible way you could. Don’t believe me? Still think you can understand what I’m going through? All right, then. You try losing an ear and then losing something else that’s just as important. More important. Might as well have lost both ears.

I would have, sooner than live like this. Still would. It’d be a fine trade, I’d make it any day. An eye for an eye, an ear for a twin. Sorry if I seem a bit bitter, but complete deafness is starting to sound okay, maybe then I wouldn’t have to listen to people saying “oh, I’m so sorry”, when they have no idea what they’re sorry about and could never know. Ha, ‘sound’ okay, get it? … Just stop it, please.

Actually, that it looked empty hadn’t been his first thought. It was just the one that didn’t hurt as much to acknowledge.

His first thought was, really, I can’t believe I’m coming back here. Alone.

He stood on the doorstep of Weasly’s Wizard Wheezes, adjusted the strap of the bag that hung from his shoulder, and fumbled in his pocket for the key without bothering to try the knob first; he knew it was locked. He remembered making damn sure it was locked when they’d left in a hurry, though of course a locked door wouldn’t stop anyone who really wanted to get inside. Lucky then, that a locked door wasn’t all that any sneaky evildoers would meet. Anyone who tried messing about with their store would’ve been lucky to scarper off with their head on the right way and all important body parts still attached and the right size and color, much less actually managing to nick anything or do any real damage. Intruders wouldn’t be seriously injured by the booby traps, of course, just stung a bit and creatively humiliated – the owners of the shop weren’t Death Eaters, after all.

They weren’t evil, sick bastards bent on purifying the blood of all imagined imperfections. They weren’t ruthless, sadistic bigots, willing to kill with impunity, taking out anyone who stood in their way, even schoolchildren or completely innocent and ignorant bystanders. Those men (and women. Some of the most evil had been women.) with the masks and the Marks were the ones who’d taken everything from him, robbed him as surely as if they’d ransacked and destroyed the shop, left it broken and bleeding and –

Might as well just go inside, can’t stand out here staring bleakly up at the place all day. Damn it. Can’t find the key. Know it was in here somewhere.

Oh. Pocket’s got a hole.

Fine.

He took out his wand and jabbed it at the knob, muttering the appropriate trigger word under his breath. The doorknob actually jumped and rattled a bit in its socket and a couple of white sparks flew and fizzled on the ground, leaving little trails of smoke and a sharp, sinus-opening smell in the air behind them. Bit more aggressive than he’d intended – and it was lucky he hadn’t accidentally tripped a security charm he’d forgotten about. Maybe he had, and it had just recognized him as the caster. Never mind, no harm done, just get ahold of yourself. Don’t feel like putting out any fires. The door swung open and he slipped inside.

God, it was good to be home. Wasn’t it?
It was even darker inside than it had looked from the front. Still, he didn’t turn on any lights – no need. Some fading daylight still came in through the windows, and anyway, he knew the rooms well enough to walk them with his eyes closed, past the shelves and displays of wonderful and ingenious objects of mirth and mayhem. If it were any brighter, he’d be able to see the layer of dust coating everything, which would make him feel guilty for letting it get that way. Even if he’d never had any concern for cleanliness in any other part of his life, had even cultivated an atmosphere of familiar and easy chaos (even though he and Fred had had a system when it came to the important things, it was a system nobody else could ever have made sense of)… this was different. And he didn’t want to look at it right now, didn’t want to face it. Disturb it, even to clean and brighten it up and get it ready for customers. Except for the dust, it was the way they’d left it. To mess with anything now would feel like… disturbing something sacred. A shrine.

He didn’t feel the need to turn on any lights because the shadows weren’t all that threatening. At least intellectually, he knew that there was nothing lurking in them. No killers lying in wait, no masked figures ready to leap out at him with green lights at the tip of their wands and murder at the tip of their tongues.

George moved slowly through the shop, back through a door behind the counter with the sign: “No entry beyond this point. Violators will be toad.” It led to a narrow staircase that led up into a slightly brighter part of the building. He hesitated, just looked up the stairs for a few seconds, still lost in unaccustomed deep, dark thought.

People didn’t need defenders anymore. They didn’t need brave, hardened fighters like Mad-Eye, who’d send potential evildoers running for their lives, or… die trying. That was one thought that somehow made it all right, Moody’s death – that he’d died in a way he would’ve wanted, defending Harry and the Order’s hopes. George could never imagine Moody old and weak, dying slowly and quietly, alone in some sickbed… and that was in all likelihood what would have happened eventually, now that there was no more war to be fought – at least, not so overtly. Of course, knowing Mad-Eye, he would have managed to find the last remains of battle and make himself invaluable, courageous until the very end… but right here, right now, there was no need for him. Practically speaking. He would’ve hated it. It was this thought that helped George make sense of it.

When it came to his twin brother, George had no such comforting thoughts. Nothing made sense. Nothing.

He made a sudden and odd noise that was equal parts sigh, scoff, and agitated growl, and started stomping jerkily up the stairs. He hadn’t meant to let that line of awful thoughts grimly tiptoe up on him. They were doing that more and more often (really, what had he expected, coming back here? That bit about the place being a shrine of all things had really set a new mark for odd, unhappy thoughts), but up until now he’d been getting good at keeping them at bay. Training himself in a new kind of constant vigilance, he supposed. But really now, just because he was back in the shop didn’t mean he was suddenly going to give in to hopelessness and grief, dissolve into tears and become completely helpless, useless, pathetic… no. It wasn’t him. Despite everything that had happened, he wasn’t about to let that happen.

Breaking down like that would mean losing the very last scrap of himself he was holding desperately on to. Start down that path and you’ll never come back up from the spiral. Let one tear fall, and you’ll never stop the rest. No.

He reached the top of the stairs and came to a halt, just looking around for a moment. He let the strap of his bag slide from his shoulder and felt the bag slide down to rest against his leg, but he was staring around the small, dusty hallway, into an open doorway. That way led to what could unimaginatively be referred to as the development room. Their laboratory of laughter. The room they’d nearly destroyed so many times with experiments and testing the new merchandise, his favorite part. Where the magic happened. He could see enough without taking another step – the tables filled with orderly (to them) clutter, items covering the desks, left out when they’d cleared out in a hurry to join the Order’s efforts. Objects large and small, bizarre and innocuous, some fuzzy, some furry, and some dully shining beneath the fine coating of dust. The blackboard that took up an entire wall, the most bright and colorful drawing board a “development room” could ever boast – filled with sketches, scribblings in two similar but distinct handwritings and every color of the rainbow, and many, many doodles. Unfinished projects. He couldn’t even remember any of them now – and they had seemed so important.

No, he wasn’t going in there yet. In the very best-case, unlikely but optimal scenario, he’d remember everything they’d been working on, be absolutely bursting with new ideas, and spend all night bringing them to life. And he simply wasn’t right for even that happy possibility just yet; he was tired. It was only just getting dark outside, but all he wanted to do was sleep, right now. Sleeping was something he’d found himself doing a lot more of, when he wasn’t awoken by nightmarish images and sounds, and odors. Even smells, in his dreams, something he hadn’t even known was possible. Like the headaches that came with one ear compensating for two, this was something else that nobody had warned him about, being around the dead and dying. The smells…

He turned his back on the open doorway and the ideas on the blackboard that were slowly bringing him back here (“hair turns orange and green? Or just falls out? Rotten egg smell – rid or keep?”), and walked slowly down the hall. Two doors stood next to each other at the end opposite the lab. Identical.

He quickly opened the door on the left and stepped through, shutting it immediately behind him. He wasn’t ready for the door on the right yet.
It had been odd when they’d first moved into the shop in earnest, having his own room. They’d always shared one growing up, in the higher floors of the Burrow (but, mercifully, not directly beneath the ghoul in the attic). It had always been a bit cramped, true, especially when they’d gotten older – one more person in there would have been unbearable, and there would have been a mild Weasly-boy rebellion before the youngest had started Hogwarts. They’d never minded, however – what with the constant collaboration between the two of them, it was actually more convenient to share a room when a late-night discussion was only a poke or well-aimed pillow toss away.

When they’d realized that there were two bedrooms instead of one on the shop’s upper floor, there’d been a bout of gleeful celebration followed by a several hours of isolation in their respective bedrooms, basking in the unprecedented luxury – what George would remember as until then the longest time he had spent away from his twin. They’d been constantly together as long as he could remember, at home and then inseparable at Hogwarts; this really was a change. And he’d loved it at first, despite the strangeness. He adored new experiences, and that certainly had qualified, and merited exploration. It wasn’t until later that night that he found himself lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep without the soft sound of his twin’s breathing and light snoring across the room from him. The atmosphere was alien, strange without him. It had been a very long, very lonely night that passed without his sleeping a wink. He blearily stepped out of his room the next morning to see Fred do the same at precisely the same moment, an equally bag-eyed and blinking, tousle-haired mirror image in pajamas, but holding a pair of objects in his hands and that excited glint in his otherwise sleepy eyes that meant he’d had an idea in his twin’s absence.

They were two tin soup cans with strings attached through the bottoms (but two separate strings, not connected), a near-replica of the Muggle toy phone their excited father had shown them years and years before – that was how Muggle children communicated, he’d said, when they were far away from each other, by pulling the string tight and speaking into the cans. He’d found it fascinating. They hadn’t seen the point – they were never far away from one another, and they had owls and magic anyway, so why would they need an old can and string? But Fred explained, in a light and offhand way, that they really could be useful now with a bit of magical enhancement - one simply needed to have the string in contact with a wall and the can earpiece could hear right through it: a prototype of what would later become their invaluable Extendable Ears. It would be downright handy to have an easy communication device right there on their bedside tables, wouldn’t it, and maybe we could try them tonight? He’d spoken in such a light, casual way as to say that it was just something he’d cooked up on a whim, no real reason, stupid idea really, understand completely if you think so too.

But George had been delighted, happily taken one of the can-and-strings and placed it in his own room right that second with a “brilliant, mate!” through it once it was done. He’d been lonely too.

“Trust that at this moment I am bowing deeply at your generous appreciation, good sir!” had been the laughing, mock-formal reply that George could hear as if his twin were standing next to him. Or something like that… Couldn’t remember the precise words, but Fred had sounded almost relieved, he remembered that much.

George had had no trouble sleeping in their new home ever again, after that morning.

Now he turned the can around and around in his hand, curling the string around his fingers. This night was going to be different, he could tell.

There wasn’t going to be a reply if he spoke into the can and pressed the string against the wall.

Face twisted, he firmly put the can down on the nightstand and wound the string around it like a spool of thread, before getting beneath the bed covers and laying down. A few long seconds passed, and he sat up again, unwound the string. Pressed the end of it against the wall again. It was better that way.

He laid back down, and tried to sleep.

He tried for a long time.
“Oi…”

George stirred, flopped one arm over his head, across his eyes, and let out a little groan. What the hell was he playing at, waking him up now, when he’d just gotten to sleep a minute ago, a second?

“Oi, Forge. Wake up, mate!”

“Shaddup. Talk inna mornin’.” Any other night and he’d be happily picking up that can and holding it to his ear, curious about what was so pressing that it had to be spoken of right that moment, certain he was about to hear something really good. But not right now, he’d just dropped off after hours of staring at the ceiling and warding off the stuff that bad dreams are made of, didn’t Fred know how tired he was? Didn’t he know he just wanted to be alone in this empty house, to think about…

Damn it, Fred, you’re dead. Leave me alone. Let me sleep, forget about you for a while. It’s better that…

Wait.

George sat bolt upright in bed, gaze flying around the room, searching frantically for the source of the voice. It was so familiar, so very familiar, he might have suspected himself of sleep-talking. But no, the room was dark and still and achingly familiar. It was nothing.

Unless – with a jolt, George’s hand flew to the can and string, held the twine to the wall and pulled it tight with his other hand. “Erh – hello, is anybody there?” he spoke into the can, hearing his voice echo in the metal space. “This is private property, you know, you’d better get your arse out before I – well, use your imagination!” He was too sleepy to think of a suitably creative and ominous threat, instead held the can to his ear, listened intently. Silence. The things were sensitive, too: they’d pick up the slightest noise in Fred’s room, the creak of a floorboard, the shift of furniture, even breathing. Nothing.

It had been a dream. Just a dream.

But he’d been so sure he’d heard something… But then, he wasn’t exactly the authority on accurate hearing anymore. Probably just his poor, overworked ear and tired brain having a bit of fun with him.

He sighed, and placed the can back on the bedside table, string against the wall. What had he been thinking? The shop’s defenses were still up, secure as when they’d left, and if they’d managed to ward off a legion of dark wizards and dementors, what chance did a common house-burglar have? Of course it was nothing.

And the other wild thought he’d had, the one that had nothing to do with burglars and everything to do with… well, that was even more ridiculous. He was sleep-addled and might even still be dreaming, right this minute, how could he be so stupid? Even still… But no. Of course there was nothing there. But with that resolution, something inside started to hurt. He lay back down, pulled the covers up over his head.

He just needed a good night’s sleep. It’d be the first he’d had in weeks – maybe the strange-familiar voice had been just a byproduct of exhaustion and grief and emotional trauma. He was so worn out, in many more ways than one. Or maybe it was something more serious… God, maybe it was something he’d better have checked out. After all, if reliable sources could be believed, hearing voices, even in the wizarding world, wasn’t a good sign. What was wrong with him? Could he really have… snapped? He’d heard of people ending up in St. Mungo’s after suffering an interminable loss, and really he was forced to admit… this was pretty interminable. But no. No, no, there was nothing, repeat, nothing wrong with him. Just needed a good night’s –

“OI! YOUR HOLEYNESS!”

“BLOODY HELL!” George shot bolt upright, nearly giving himself whiplash in the process. He’d definitely heard something that time and it was right here in this room, loud and clear and definitely not a simple dream-voice, this was real… but, for the life of him, there was still nothing there. He looked in every direction – the closed door, the walls, window, posters, ceiling, nothing. Nothing. What in the world was –

“Ahe-he-HEM. Down here.” The voice had taken on an air of long-suffering, martyrlike patience.

George slowly lowered his head from where he’d been searching the ceiling, down past the walls and empty dark, to the floor.

His scream filled the small room and the bed actually slid a few inches across the floor as he leaped upright on it and backpedaled, snatching at his wand on the bedside table and pressing his back against the wall, as far away from the object of his horror as he could get. He just barely managed to hold onto his wand with violently shaking fingers and point it at the bizarre object on the floor.

“Get away. Now. If this is a joke it’s a truly ******** tasteless one and – and I swear I’ll kill you, if I find out who this is!” He spoke through gritted teeth and squinted eyes, starting to sting and burn with hot tears. “N-now, you have to the count of three to get the hell out of here and lea-leave me the bloody hell alone! One… tw-”

“When we were a precocious nine years old,” the voice interrupted him loudly, speaking very quickly, “you had a stroke of pure genius for one so young and innocent and we transfigured our dear baby brother Ronald’s teddy bear into a giant spider, resulting in his lingering aversion to all things eight-legged and hairy! Really quite a nice bit, that, McGonnagal would’ve been proud if her sense of humor was as elevated and refined as ours and not more on the level of a wrinkled, vulturelike executioner.”

During this thoroughly unsettling speech, George had slowly, slowly started to open his eyes and loosen his death grip on his wand. Something in the voice made him stop, listen… And that story – only the family and the ones they and Ron had told knew about that… and he couldn’t possibly imagine any of his closest friends or family ever cruelly toying with him like this. Of course, there was one other person who knew about it, one who had been directly involved… Irrational, wild, arguably insane hope started to fill him, foolish hope that all common sense dictated had no hope of not being crushed beyond resurrection… But when had he been one for common sense?

“What… are you?” he whispered in a broken voice, blinking several times. He could barely see now with the burning tears spilling down his face, tears that had never had a chance to fall, ever since he’d seen his brother’s shattered body for the first time. But he wouldn’t forget the thing he’d seen seconds before.

“Come on, mate. Open your eyes.” The voice was softer this time. Gentle. “I know I’m not all here, just yet, but you should recognize this ruggedly handsome face. It’d be yours too, if yours weren’t all screwed up and damp at the moment.”

George fought to obey. He wiped his hand across his face, took a deep sniff and blinked rapidly while the voice made various encouraging noises. Within a few seconds his vision had returned through the blur, and he sat down hard on his bed. He shook his head, slowly, and let out his tense breath in a long hiss. “Can’t be.”

There on the floor at the foot of his bed, sat a silvery, translucent, and very disembodied head. Or rather, it was apparently bodied, as the neck extended down into the floorboards, and the body was presumably floating around the ceiling of the bottom floor. This was all secondary to the visible head sticking up through his floor, however – and primarily, to whom the head belonged. It was presently grinning at him in a winning manner that George recognized wrenchingly from countless exploits and adventures.

“Can too.” The voice was reassuring, the face open and happy, with that excitable, pleased-with-himself glint that George remembered seeing early one morning in the hallway outside, the first time he’d seen the cans and string… “Say it.”

“No…” he shook his head. To say it would be to acknowledge that it was really there, it was there, in his floor, in front of him, that he was actually seeing it… this wasn’t real, and saying the name would make it real. This couldn’t be true. It was too good.

It was going to be taken away as soon as he believed in it. Everything had been taken away from him, so why not this?

“Come on, say it. It’s all right, it’ll do you good. Better than Remus’ chocolate against a pesky dementor.”

But then, he was here. It was his voice, his face, his mannerisms – at least the ones George could see from the neck up. This wasn’t a dream…

“Fred…” George breathed.

“That’s right. In the fl – well, no, not quite in the flesh. There, now was that so hard?”

“Yeah – no - wait.” George was shaking his head, staring still in disbelief This is all insane. Maybe I’m the one who’s insane… this must be all in my head. But then… Hogwarts had been full of ghosts. Why not this room? Why not his brother? “This is – how are you here? You’re… dead. Are you a ghost?”

The face looked decidedly as if he were about to let loose with something quite sarcastic along the lines of “figured it out then, did you? Well done!”, when he stopped, nodded all of him that George could see, and smiled. Best be gentle with his poor twin – he’d had a hard enough time of it already. “Yeah, though I’m still getting used to it, haven’t quite got the – hang of it – so far.” This was punctuated by various grunts and struggles, as something quite odd began to happen. An arm appeared suddenly through the floorboards as well and gripped at the floor, simply going back through it twice but then seeming to be able to get a sort of grip. The newly ghostly Fred strained and managed to pull himself up as if climbing out of a swimming pool, and he appeared from the chest up now.

“Er, a bit of help? No, never mind, don’t guess you could do anything… with you in a tic…” Before George’s dizzied and red eyes, he struggled up through the floor with an outpouring of grunts and imaginative expletives, grabbing the floorboards and bed legs to pull himself up. It took around a minute of climbing and sinking back through the floor, but eventually he succeeded, and stood triumphantly in front of his amazed twin, looking tired but extremely pleased. “Right, then! I’ll get this in no time, just a bit of practice is all! Still can’t manage stairs, hence my exciting appearance in the floor, but I’d say I’m quite talented at this so far. It’s really amazing!”

This had, mercifully, given George the break he needed to return to his senses, put some of the pieces of his near-broken, jangled nerves and emotions back together, though by no means were they all in place. It was definitely going to take some doing. “Fred,” he said again, just pronouncing the syllables slowly. Getting used to saying the name again. Staring at (and, unnervingly, through) his apparently resurrected brother. “I thought… When that wall collapsed on you, they told me… I saw your body. It was dreadful. I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Not an unreasonable thought. But hey – hey, now.” He saw the look on George’s face, and took a step closer. His foot sank through the floor up to his ankle, and he tugged on his leg below the knee, heaved it back up, looking a bit peeved. He sat down on the bed next to his twin, tried to put an arm around his shoulders, but George drew back, shivering.

“God, it’s like ice! Er, I mean - ” He quickly tried to amend, not wanting to insult his twin on his new state of being.

“No, no, I forgot.” For the first time, Fred’s face fell. Clearly being a ghost, while entertaining and fascinating at first, wasn’t as wonderful as he would have had George believe. “Listen. Point is – I’m here now. I’m back.” He spoke firmly, looking directly into the identical eyes. Or at least, they had been identical the last time they’d met. Both pairs of eyes had changed; both twins been through unimaginable horrors, they’d been hurt and torn in so many ways, and slowly had begun to piece themselves together again. “And I’m not leaving again.”

George’s shoulders shook a bit as he gave a sniff and drew his hand across his eyes again. He looked as if he would very much have liked to put his arms around Fred or his head on his shoulder for a moment or some such gesture, but the chilling contact of skin against ghostly apparition kept him away.

Instead he just looked at his twin, taking him all in with his eyes, and smiled. He was silver and shining, and giving off a very faint, white glow. He reminded George suddenly, wonderfully, of a patronus. The concept was more beautiful than he could express, even in his own thoughts. It made him blink a few more times, and not from the brightness of him.

“So tell me about it.” He said at last. “What’s it like, being a – ghost?”

“It’s… different.” Fred said after hesitating, holding up his own partially opaque hand and turning it in front of his face. “It’s like having pins and needles all over your body. Can’t always tell when I’m going to go through things either. And there’s the chilling effect, as we’ve just discovered.”

“Is it cold?”

“No, it’s not really… it’s not really anything.” Fred shrugged, frowning a little.

Suddenly, something occurred to George like an impossibly wonderful electric shock. “Fred, has anyone else come back? Remus, I mean, and Tonks, and Mad-Eye? Or anyone else that - anyone?” He was suddenly alive with excitement at the prospect of having more friends back, at the miracle expanded.

Fred was shaking his head – but rather than looking apologetic or saddened, a smile spread across his face. “No, not a one. But smile a bit, it’s a good thing! They’ve all gone on. They’re together, and they’re happy.”

“Gone…?”

“Gone on. You know. Up there?” He jerked his head up at the ceiling. George was certain he didn’t mean they were having a party on the roof. At least not in the commonly thought-of way. “Or something – I don’t really know what they’re doing now, or how they exist… but I had the choice too. I saw the light!” He said in an exaggerated parody voice that made George almost laugh. “And mate, it was really, really good. I wanted to go, really badly. It was beautiful.” He looked faraway for a moment, as if remembering a gorgeous piece of music, trying to memorize every note.

“So then… why didn’t you go?” George spoke gently, was reluctant to shake him back to reality (however surreal it might seem).

Fred didn’t answer, just looked at him very deliberately, a little smile tugging at the corner of his colorless mouth.

“Oh…” George was taken aback. “Fred – no. You did this for me?”

“That’s right! Not even death can break up the mighty dream magic-and-mayhem machine of Gred and Forge!”

George shook his head, looking stricken. “But – no! You gave up – Heaven, Nirvana, The Big Joke Shop In The Sky, whatever it was, you turned it down for me? No, you shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t say that.”

“No, I mean you really shouldn’t have!” George sat up taller, looked at his twin’s translucent body that even as he spoke was sinking down into the bed. “Look… look at you. You’re going to be a ghost… and you could’ve – gone on.”

Fred sighed, looking as if he were grappling with the words, trying to explain it in a way to make George understand without thinking he’d gone mad as well as see-through. “Listen to this, now. There’s nothing to do about it, it’s too late for right now. And even if I had the choice again, right now, to go up in the white light or to stay right here with you… I’d stay here. I’d do it again. I would.”

“But… why? It can’t be just because of me. I’m not worth that, Fred! I’m not worth giving up – giving up bloody Heaven, and all our friends…”

“Come on. We’ve always been together, ever since we were born. Before we were born. That’s not going to change just because of a little… erh, a little…” he shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. “That’s not going to change. It’s the way it’s supposed to be.” He paused, grinned. “Besides. All harps and halos and puffy white clouds? Not my kind of place. It’d be really boring without you around to shake things up a bit with me.

“So I’m staying right here with you, until you… well, you know… kick it.” He was smiling widely now, sounding not at all as if he were talking about his brother’s eventual death but rather planning a party or particularly luscious prank. “At a ripe old age, of course, nothing so messy as me, with a long lifetime of brilliant, magically mischievous achievements under your belt – and I’ll be there to help you and make some more of my own, of course. Didn’t think I was going to let you strike out my name on the sign out front, did you?” He was getting more and more excited with every word, planning out their futures. “I’ve still got my genius to add to this excellent little establishment – and really, do you have any idea the advantages I’ve got now in my specter-ly state of being? I can walk through walls, man! I can be invisible without a cloak or charm – I think! I got my left big toe very nearly vanished the other day!”

He laughed, then became more serious, speaking more slowly and in earnest. “And then, once you’re… done here, I figure, we can both go on. Into the white light. Together. The Big Joke Shop In The Sky, did you call it? Yeah, that’s rather good, mate!”

Tears were blurring George’s vision again, but this time he was smiling, laughing a little. “That sounds... perfect.” Couldn’t think of anything else to say. Going on… together. A year ago, faced with something this wonderful, he’d have been all around the room, dancing, whooping, doing impromptu cartwheels and making up improvised songs with snappy and probably inappropriate lyrics. But there’d just been too much shock and loss, too much denial and anger, bargaining, desperation, and if he hadn’t yet accepted, at least he’d been starting to. As unbelievably thrilled as he was, he needed time to get used to this. To get used to being happy again – he couldn’t do it all at once.

“The others will want to see you,” he managed after a hard swallow. “Ron and Harry, Hermione… Mum and Dad. Everyone. They’ll be so happy…” He still couldn’t quite believe any of this. It was too big, too sudden – too good. What would guarantee that Fred would be there when he woke up, assuming he could get to sleep at all tonight?

“Yeah! So, how do you suppose we break it to them? Head up through the floor again?” Fred grinned, pleased when he succeeded in making his twin laugh. That was a good sign.

“Nah – let’s go a bit gentler on ‘em than you did for me. Ground floor only. And let me talk to them first, give them a bit of preparation. Don’t want any heart attacks and more silvery, floor-challenged people on our hands.” George had to smile, imagining their reactions. Doubtless there would be shocks, and many more tears, but the joy and love that was to come, the relief…

He suddenly felt drained, exhausted, and Fred clearly noticed.

“Try and get some sleep, mate. You look like death on two legs.” He gave a crooked little smile at George’s grimace. “But I won’t joke about that for a while, if it pleases Your Holeyness. It’ll be our one forbidden topic of amusement.”

“Just for a while. Until I get used to this.”

“Right-o.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, before Fred extricated his not-quite-solid form from the very solid bed, and stood up with minimal sinking. “Good night, then.”

“Erh – wait.” George called, haltingly. “Would you mind… staying, for just a bit? Because, I really don’t know if this is – real, even. Any of it. I might be going mad… I probably am… but, I don’t care.” He gave a little nod in a sort of resigned resolution. “You’re here, and even if it’s all in my head, that’s better than you not being here. Who needs sanity when I’ve got you, right?” He gave a weak little laugh and didn’t look up at Fred. “And… it’d sort of – help convince me this isn’t a dream, if… if you stayed. And you’re here when I wake up”

Fred turned back, a sort of sad smile on his face, the kind that never would have appeared there while he was living. The kind that knew that there really were monsters under the bed, but not the kind small children had nightmares about. “Sure.” He said gently, putting his hand on his twin’s shoulder. This time George didn’t flinch away; he was ready for the cold – but it didn’t seem to be as intense as before, for some reason. The hand felt more solid, more… real.

“Practice makes perfect.” Fred grinned at him, tried to give George’s shoulder a little squeeze - which was actually felt, just a little bit. “Quite encouraging, eh?”

“Brilliant.”

Fred crossed the room (with much more ease than his previous steps) to a comfortable, overstuffed armchair in the nearby corner. “I’ll just be right here, try and get some winks as well. I assume ghosts sleep and if not, well, we’ll find out. In any case, I can be your glowing silvery nightlight, chasing bad dreams away better than any flimsy dreamcatcher; nightmares are no match for me…” He eased his ghostly self down into it, and was pleased to note that he didn’t seem to be sinking as much as before. Practice did indeed make perfect, apparently. Or it would, eventually.

George still hadn’t laid back down or cracked a smile at the weak jokes, was still watching his brother with a vaguely wary expression, as if afraid he would disappear at any moment.

“Don’t worry.” Fred said gently. “I know this is really weird - it is for me too, believe me. But it’s real, and we’re going to get through this together, like we always have. Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up, I promise.” He smiled. “I’m only a can call away.”

George nodded, and laid down, but kept his eyes on his twin for a long time. The patronus in human form curled in the armchair cast a faint, soft silver-white light around the room, like a small moon had come in through the window. There was something else George had to say, but he had no idea how to put it into words – he didn’t even quite know what it was.

It’s incredible, unbelievable that you’re here. When you died, so did I. I have no idea what I would have done without you; it was only a matter of time before I broke. I love you so much.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too. Go to sleep.”

For the first time in weeks, George found that sweetly, mercifully, he could. It was the same way he’d felt with the magical can and string right by his bed, connecting them again, but so much better: this was how it was supposed to be.

It was better this way.

In Memorium

Written by Kitsune no Zetsumei



Disclaimer: I do not proclaim possession of any of the names mentioned. So please, do not sue. I got nothing that you want anyway.

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It was a clear night. Silvery moonlight reflected on the lake's surface at the grounds of Hogwarts. There was a slight cold autumn breeze rushing through the thick forest behind the massive lake. It was truly a beautiful night. And if you narrowed your eyes, you might've spotted a young man, sitting at the edge of the lake and peering into its deep depths.

This was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived to Defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort. He was eighteen now, and had been so for the past three months. If you asked him why he was here… Well, I don't think you would've gotten a proper response.

Perhaps he was just here to look at the grounds of the school he had attended but two years ago? Perhaps he was just enjoying the view? Just taking a relaxing walk in the moonlight, remembering the good times? No. That was not it. Harry was here simply to memorize. To remember the people who had been lost over the course of the war with the Dark Lord.

The first Harry remembered were the deaths that started all of this: The death of his parents, Lily and James Potter. He had never gotten to know them, since they were killed by Voldemort, the 31st of October. That was seventeen years ago now. Harry had been told so many amazing things about his father. A kind and brave man, who had loved his son and wife with all of his heart... a true, just and loyal Gryffindor. A man, that Harry had heard more times than Harry could count, that he was very similar to. His mother had been a fierce red head, yet kind, loving and highly intelligent. Quite like the woman he himself had fallen in love with. His taste was like his father in that area, he guessed. But Harry had always been very proud when he heard he had his mother's eyes. For some reason, he found himself at his proudest when people talked about his mother.

Someone else's memory that Harry would always remember was Cedric Diggory. He was one of the first victims of the second war with the Dark Lord Voldemort. Cedric Diggory had been a seventh year Hufflepuff when Harry attended his fourth year at Hogwarts. Cedric had been one of the two Wizarding Champions from Hogwarts, the second being Harry himself. At the third task, Harry had suggested that they'd take the cup together, it would be a victory for Hogwarts either way, after all. And for that, Harry would forever feel guilty. The cup had been a portkey, and led them straight to a Graveyard where Cedric had been killed. Sure, Harry had brought back his body like Cedric wished for, but he would always feel at least a little guilty. Not even time could rid him of that guilt.

The death at the end of Harry's fifth year was one of the deaths Harry would hold closest to his heart. He didn't believe time would ever get rid of the feeling of loss for Sirius Black, his dear Godfather, yet another death that Harry felt guilty for. At the OWL's exam in History of Magic, Harry had a vision sent to him by Voldemort. He believed that his Godfather was being tortured. So being the Gryffindor that he was, he rushed towards the Department of Mysteries, bringing Hermione, Ron, Neville, Ginny and Luna with him. They found a prophecy about him and Voldemort, and Harry brought it from the shelf. This caused the Death Eater's that had been hiding, to come forth and attacked them. They were saved by the Order of the Phoenix. While there, Sirius and Bellatrix Lestrange fought. Of course, Sirius, always the prankster, had to start laughing in the duel. He had no way of seeing that curse coming from Bellatrix. His smile never quite left his face as he fell down behind the curtains of the veil...

Harry felt something wet run down his cheek. Was it raining? No... There were no clouds in the sky. That meant that he was crying. He hadn't done that for a long time now. It comforted him slightly. That he was still able to do such a mundane, human thing such as crying. Harry let a small, sad smile appear on his now tear streaked face.

Albus Dumbledore. His headmaster had always been a role model, a grandfatherly figure to Harry. He'd always helped him, even beyond his death, he had helped him. Albus had brought Harry with him to find one of Voldemort's Horcruxes. This had nearly killed the man. And to discover later that it had been fake... After they had returned, Hogwarts was under attack. Albus talked to Draco, and the blond had no intentions of killing him after awhile. He didn't have it in him. So Severus Snape had uttered those tragic words, and Albus's body had fell down from the tower. Harry had been furious with Severus. Oh, how he had hated the man.. Only to later find out that Albus had been dying.

Then we had Hedwig. Killed in her own cage while Harry was trying to leave Privet Drive; right before he turned seventeen. Hedwig's death had been a huge blow to Harry. After all, the owl had been a faithful companion since he was introduced to the Wizarding World. The snowy white owl would always hold a special place in Harry's heart.

When they had arrived at the Burrow, they had been waiting in tension. Nearly none of the people that should be there had arrived. But one after another, people had started coming. But then, they were struck with another piece of tragic news. George Weasley had lost an ear, and Alastor "Mad Eye" Moody had passed on in combat against Death Eaters. Harry might not have known the paranoid old ex-Auror very well, but he had liked the man.

Several more tears slipped down his cheeks as he remembered his mentor, owl and friend.

Then there was Dobby. Dobby, the house-elf Harry had rescued, at the end of his second year. Dobby had repaid the favor by freeing Harry and his friends from the Malfoy Manor's dungeons. He could still see Dobby's tiny form lying there, with a knife that was meant for Harry in his small chest.

Fred Weasley. He still could not get the image of Fred lying there, with a smile etched into his face. Also, he would never forget the forlorn look on George during Fred's funeral. He doubted that the man would ever overcome the loss of his twin. It was rather ironic. Fred and George had always had a huge, mischievous smile on their faces, they had lived to make other people smile, they created a joke shop so that they could still manage to bring a smile on other people's faces, and Fred had died with a smile on his face. Harry had to wonder what George would do now. A year later, he had yet to re-open the shop. Harry wondered whether he would open it again. Well, only time would tell.

Two of the most tragic deaths that had occurred during the second war was the deaths of Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin. They've just gotten a son, Ted Lupin. He'd inherited his mother's gift instead of his father's curse. They'd died in the battle at Hogwarts. Harry hadn't seen them die with his own eyes, however, he saw them lying next to each other beside Fred.. He had known, he's simply known that they'd been dead. And so, a wonderful, clumsy Auror, and her husband, the last of the marauders had ceased to be.

Lastly, there was Severus Snape; probably one of the greatest and bravest men that had fought in the war. He had allowed everyone to believe that he was on the Dark side, when he in fact, had been on the Light. How he had managed that without anyone but he and a dead man knowing, Harry could only guess. He had been killed by Nagini, Voldemort's snake, because the Dark Lord thought that he was the one that was the master of the wand. He had been killed, for no reason; since it wasn't Severus that had been the master, but Harry himself. The man had given Harry his memories with his last breath, and Harry had viewed them in a pensive. He saw some of the conversations between Severus and Albus. That was when he found out which side Severus had really been on. More shocking however were the man’s memories about his mother, and his feelings for her. It was then that Harry realized another reason why Severus had always hated his father, and himself. His father got the one thing that Severus desired above all else in the world: Harry's mother. And he hated Harry for being the proof of their union. And yet, he had always protected him in honor to Lily.

Harry buried his head in his arms and for the first time really cried for the death's that had occurred during the war. The names of several others crossed his mind, but it was there people that held his thoughts the most. While he was the hero of so many, they were his heroes. They were the people he looked up the, admired; All of them.

The stars twinkled down at the green eyed young man... No. At the green eyed young child beside the lake. For now, in the pale moonlight shine, Harry was reduced to the small, naive young boy he had been before he entered Hogwarts. Before he was forced to grow up; before he was pushed into war. And there was one reason why Harry was reduced to tears this particular night.

Because today, it was exactly seventeen years since it all started.

Today was All Hallows Eve. The day to remember those you love that had passed on. The day, where you honor the dead souls, of the people you admire.

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A/N: Just a little something I thought up for last Halloween. Hope you enjoyed it! It is in remembrance of some of the characters that died during the Harry Potter series. And yes, I am aware that these are far from all of them. But these are the ones I wished to write about. Also, the title I stole from the "In Memorium" thread on here! biggrin

Edit: By the way, here in Norway there's not much celebration around All Hallows Eve. On "All Helgens Aften" it's an old tradition to visit the graves of deceased friends and relatives and put light on their graves.

Personally, I find that to be a more beautiful tradition than the one which is being practiced today. smile

"D'you know," James says, tugging at the white curls sprouting from beneath his nostrils for the umpteenth time, "it's a marvel old Dumbledore gets anything done with all the itching and the tangling and the getting caught on things."

"Well, if it makes you feel better, you look terribly handsome." Sirius favors his best friend with a winning smile, pulls down his immense hat and flutters his eyelashes. "I've always had a thing for older men."

"Oh my, Minerva," James says, in a passable imitation of Dumbledore's sparkling baritone, "I don't know that that's appropriate intra-staff conversation." Sirius cackles lecherously and slaps his bum.

"On the contrary," says a faintly amused and much richer version from in front of them. "I encourage all forms of flattery from my underlings."

Albus Dumbledore has an uncanny habit of appearing for the tail ends of the bawdiest conversations. James attempts to scoop his jaw up from the floor and hopes against hope that's another McGonagall costume and not actually McGonagall with her arm in the headmaster's.

The stern cough and well-concealed flicker of amusement signal the worst has, indeed, happened. "They do say," Professor McGonagall murmurs, "that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

James' eyes dart to Sirius. They've known each other for long enough to communicate wordlessly, eyebrow twitches, lip quirks, a flash of teeth, a nervous tug of the earlobe, a scratch to the side of the nose. To anyone else they're just fidgety boys. To James and Sirius they have just had a lengthy conversation extending far beyond their current dilemma.

James rubs underneath his nose, disturbing the silvery-white whiskers: Don't do anything stupid, Sirius.

Sirius rearranges the spectacles on his nose, nudging them into a more severe resting place: Sorry, it's as good as done already. Sirius flicks his fingers through the front of his hair: Showtime.

"Professor McGonagall!" he exclaims, bringing to bear all the warmth and suavity that his good breeding and fortunate genetics have given him. “Say I do, Professor! I shall never give up until you accept me.” He has quite the nature for dramatics, dropping onto one knee and sweeping the battered black hat off his head. He's always been good at this, at wild theatricals and mad improvisation, things that would be impertinent and stupid from anyone else but that from him -- and he knows this, it isn't just conceit -- are charming and often mesmerizing. It's all to do with confidence, he reminds himself. "You are the only woman who has ever managed to hold my complete attention. I can't stop thinking about you, I can't eat, I can't sleep, I do nothing but pine and steal your clothing--"

"I was under the impression that I had never even held your partial attention for more than a half an hour." McGonagall raises her chin slightly, the corner of her severe mouth twitching more energetically than ever.

"Oh, no," Sirius breathes, rapturously. On an insane whim, he grabs her hand. McGonagall shoots a glare at Dumbledore, who shrugs. Always innocence beneath the faint smell of lemon. "Professor, if ever I seem distant in your class, I'm probably dreaming of our future life together: frolicking by the ocean in the sands of Tahiti, skiing hand-in-hand down the mighty Alps, feeding adorable orphans in the slums of Bombay--"

"The resemblance is absolutely breathtaking," says Dumbledore, and Sirius notices with a faint glow of triumph that his shoulders are shaking. "Really, Minerva, it's like watching you be propositioned by your own twin."

"Well, I'm hardly observing any kind of effort from your evil doppelganger," says McGonagall.

James sighs, most gravely, " How can I, choking upon my own beard, hope to compete with his protestations of love undying until the end of time?" Dumbledore makes a sound like choking. Falling to his knees, praying to whatever gods of mischief might actually give a Bundimun that he doesn't trip over the troublesome beard, his eyes focus, myopic and wildly passionate, upon Dumbledore's chuckling face. The reaction is one of surprise, shock, truly divine, from all witnesses. A crowd is gathering, which only fuels each action, the next more ludicrous than the one before. "I am all confused, Headmaster -- it is like looking into a mirror --"

"Loves to do that, you know," Sirius explains in a stage whisper. "Does it all the time. Like heaven for him.”

Dumbledore's cheeks are rosy with suppressed amusement. "I was not aware," he murmurs, the calmest poker face of them all despite the ever-present twinkle in his eye, "that we taught play-acting in our institution."

"Oh no, Professors," James protests. "We are in earnest!"

"We are so in earnest that it is very painful," Sirius agrees.

"Painfully earnest," James confirms.

"How painful, exactly, would you classify your earnestness?" Dumbledore inquires archly.

"Oh, terribly painful," Sirius says, very sincerely. " But of course, no physical pain, no description I could conjure could possibly compare to the, er--” He springs to his feet, still clutching McGonagall's hand, hoping that the movement will catapult him into inspiration. "For the favor of a woman who could never deign to love me in return, 'tis better to have loved and lost, er, and so on--" He fumbles, opens his mouth, closes it -- James is eyeing him in slowly growing panic, come on, Padfoot, do something! -- and finally thinks to hell with it.

Sirius launches himself forward, and kisses his Head of House full on the mouth.

McGonagall makes a strangled noise and flails at him. Their hats knock together. So do their spectacles. Sirius decides after a panic-filled moment that his point is made perhaps too well, yanks himself back, and gazes ardently at her. She looks, he thinks with great admiration, rather magnificent: bright red, helpless with confusion and probably rage, and yet altogether in possession of her dignity. "I'm sorry, Professor! I just -- couldn't hold back any longer! I love you! And it tears me up inside!" Considering the Deed Done, Sirius grabs James's wrist and flees down the hall, pursued by roars of laughter and a shriek of "Mister Black! Twelve million points from Gryffindor!" floating down the corridor after them.

"I heard you and Professor McGonagall shared a most passionate embrace." Remus is wearing a towel. No. A sheet? And there are leaves in his hair. Or something. " You launched yourself at her like a lamprey and near sucked her face off her face." Remus adjusts the leaves curled against his ears. They're drooping.

"And you went down on one knee in front of Dumbledore, James," Peter chimes in. His voice is muffled behind another white sheet, draped lumpily over him, two eyeholes revealing Peter's blinking, awe-filled eyes. "How'd you do it? How'd you do it?"

"Why did you do it?" Remus revises. He's wearing sandals, as well, brown and strappy over his fidgeting feet.

"Elementary, my dear Moony," James replies. He smoothes his moustache casually.

"You just love doing that, don't you." Sirius shakes his head. "Dirty moustache-stroker. Don't get used to it. Facial hair isn't a good look for you."

"He says that because it hides my lovely face," James whispers loudly.

"You're such an idiot. Anyway." Sirius turns his attention to Peter and Remus, who are regarding him with a mix of admiration and horror, respectively. "Of course, there's a full and very reasonable explanation that mostly does not involve me being drunk. Don't look at me like that! She's really a terribly attractive woman, you know, for her age…Hey, Moony, are you meant to be cupid?"

"Don't be silly, he's a wood-nymph," James cuts in, smiling reasonably at Remus. "Aren't you?"

"Er," Remus says.

James frowns. "Guess you're not a wood-nymph, then?"

"No."

"Or cupid?" Sirius asks, hopeful.

"No."

"I already guessed cupid," Peter explains. "But he's not cupid. He's not Zeus, either, and he's not blanket-man -- though I thought that one was a little farfetched to begin with." Somewhere beneath his own sheet, Peter is chewing his lower lip. "And he isn't Julius Caesar and he isn't about to flash any of us, either, so don't ask."

"Of course he's not about to flash us." Sirius grins. "It's Moony."

"To save you all the endless heartache," Remus begins, "I'm--"

"No, no, you absolutely cannot tell," Sirius insists. "I won't allow it."

"Come on." James nudges Sirius with his elbow. "Or there won't be anything left at the feast.”

"This doesn't mean I give up!" Sirius grabs Remus by the hand and Peter by the ghost flap. "I'm still guessing!"

"Hm," Remus mutters.

"I've got it!" Sirius says around a mouthful of butterbeer. Remus ducks just in time. "Me last week after I ran out of towels!"

"No," Remus says.

"Good one, though," Peter encourages. "Don't give up now."

"No, really, Moony, this time, I've got it. That bloke who said Eureka!"

"That was Euclid." Sirius gets the feeling the only reason Remus hasn't throttled him is all the chocolate is placating him. "Euclid did not wear a toga."

"Me when I'm drunk? I've done some pretty arse--"

"No."

"I'm not giving up." Sirius tries to look nonchalant while glancing eagerly out the window. It's almost time to head off to the Shack for the night -- a yearly ritual, and therefore Holy. Already the clouds are the spectral Hallow's Eve color, yellow and gray and silver and shifting across darkness into darkness.

"Of course not, no." Remus reaches up to settle his leaves more neatly behind his ears.

"It's on the tip of my tongue," Sirius insists.

"So's some of that gum from earlier." Remus motions with his thumb and Sirius sucks it off hurriedly. "You have until morning." Remus smiles the grim smile of a much-beleaguered entity.

"Bugger," Sirius says.

When they finally arrive at the shack they’re ready to tell ghost stories.

"Ooh, I've got a good one! It’s about--”

"Don't tell us what it's about, Wormtail! Just tell us the story,” orders James.

"Righto. So once upon a--a dark and stormy night--this little kid named, er, Mark. His Mum says to him, 'Mark, go down to the butchers' and get us a shrake's liver for our, um, our liver, that we're having for supper tonight."

Sirius wrinkles his nose. "Eww, shrake's liver? What kind of a mother is this woman?"

"I like shrake's liver," states Remus.

"Yes, well, you are a Dark, Inhuman Creature. Who knows what-all you like?" sniffs Sirius haughtily.

"You know,” Remus glares, “I do find myself developing a strange craving for human flesh."

"Shut up and listen to the story!” James commands.“You two have no respect. Honestly, canines."

"So--so down she goes. He goes. He goes to the butcher's, and there's the liver. Oh wait, his mum's only given him seven sickles, I forgot that bit. So he goes up and he says, 'How much is the shrake's liver?' And the butcher says 'It's seven sickles, but we've also got all these pumpkin pastries on sale for seven sickles as well.'"

"Why is the butcher selling pumpkin pastries?"

"His wife makes them. Anyway so Mark goes, well, all right! Because he loves pastries. So he buys them with the money, and he starts home. Then just as he's leaving, he remembers that his mum asked him for a liver!"

"He knew that though, right? I mean, he was just asking about the price of shrake's liver, presumably he knew he was supposed to buy shrake's liver."

"He was forgetful, Sirius, do shut up." Says Remus impatiently.

"Yeah, shut up. Anyway, luckily at this point he passes an undertaker's. And--um--outside the undertaker's, there's an open coffin with an old witch inside."

"Eurgh!" Remus grimaces.

James wrinkles his nose. "In the sun and everything?"

"Is it kind of like a pub sign?" asks Sirius curiously. "Corpses Within, style of thing?"

"No! No, it's just, um..." Peter flaps his arms, flustered. "A sample."

"A sample? A sample corpse?" Remus incredulously asks.

"It's a Muggle undertaker! I don't know. Anyway just then Mark has a brilliant idea. So he gets out his wand and he cuts out the old lady's liver and takes it home, and his mum fries it up for dinner. And it's the most delicious thing they've ever eaten. They eat it up and then the sun sets."

"Because they ate the liver?"

"No! Because it's night time! The sun goes down and Mark and his mum go to bed. And then they wake up. He wakes up. And he hears this thumping. Thump, thump, thump. Oh no wait! No he doesn't. He hears a voice from outside, and it says: 'Mark. Maaaaaaark! I'm outside! I want my liver baaaaaack!'"

"It's a talking shrake!"

"Sirius, you are not allowed to talk anymore. So Mark is terrified, obviously, so he runs and hides in the closet, yelling for his Mum, but there's no answer. So he's hiding there in the dark--who's breathing like that?!"

"Moo ha ha ha ha ha ha."

"Sod off, Sirius! You aren't funny at all. Anyway so as he's hiding there and he hears a creeeeeak and then the same voice says 'Mark, Maaaaark! I'm inside! I want my liver baaaack!' He totally freezes. Not even breathing. Not moving at all. And then, now's when he hears: Thump. Thump. Thump. When the neighbors came in the next day, they found the bodies of Mark and his mum, and they both had their stomachs and livers torn out."

"But so wait, actually we do know what it was, right? I mean, it was the old lady," Sirius comments.

"I think he should be beaten," remarks Remus calmly.

"Too right he should,” James agrees.
“Pillow, Mr. Prongs?"

"Thank you very much, Mr. Wormtail."

"No, no! Not the costume! My stockings'll get runs in--oooh nooooo--"

On the white folds of fabric tugging across Remus' lap the book rests, a permanent fixture of his life. The title is worn away with age and time and the binding cracked. He has his right pointer finger stuck into the center to keep the page. Just below where his thumb rests the rubbed away lettering is just legible. Poe. It is one of Remus' irrational life long dreams to read Poe to his friends while they are actually paying attention.

"Argh, get off, you've beaten me, all right? You win. Ow. All right, Remus. S'your turn. D'you have one of those Muggle stories again? Muggle stories are never as scary as Wizarding ones."

"I don't have to read it, you know."

"C'mon, Remus, you know what I meant."

"Well, if you're sure it won't bore you. The Telltale Heart, by Edgar Alan Poe."

"Didn't he write that Raven poem? Nevermore, and all."

"Put a sock in it, Sirius."

"Sock. In. Put. Go on, Moony."

Later, Sirius shivers happily and sprawls his legs carelessly apart, heedless of the skirt. "Wow," he says in admiration after Remus finishes.

"Yeah,” concurs James.

Peter adds, "Better than the Raven poem."

"All right, it's me now.” Sirius leans forward so that the firelight glows menacingly in the hollows of his face. “There's this gorgeous girl, right. And she lives with her parents in oh, say, I don't know, let's say Surrey."

"Evans lives in Surrey!"

"I know that, idiot. So this girl, right, this lovely redhead, she lives in Surrey with her parents and her nasty sister. And her big black dog, who is her best and favorite companion and with whom she snuggles up to sleep every night, cuddling against him in flimsy nightwear and stroking his big old fuzzy head--"

"Screw you, Black."

"What? Don't get shirty, Potter, it's only a story. What's the matter, are you frightened?"

"No, but you should be--"

"Honestly, the pair of you. I want to hear the story. Sirius?"

"Thank you very much, Mr. Moony, it's nice to know that someone around here still has some respect for the lost art of storytelling. -- So this one evening her parents decide to go out for the night, okay, and so they leave this helpless, beautiful girl, sixteen years old, alone in the house with her horrible sister. They figure it's all right, because she's got this bloody great dog around to protect her from whatever. The girl goes round the house to lock all the doors and windows except there's one in the cellar that won't shut. She's not too worried though, as it's in the cellar and all."

"Why doesn't she just charm it shut?" Peter points out.

"Must you ask stupid questions? She's not allowed to do magic outside of school! She's a prefect! It could be extremely damaging! The point is so she goes back upstairs, has a bit of supper, and changes into her nightie, which is very short and terribly flattering, and she curls up on the sofa to go to bed, her slender fingers lightly caressing the dog in its favorite place right between the ears--"

James is livid. "Don't you even dare talk about Evans like that!"

“When the revolution comes, you will be eaten. May I go on?"

"Fine, don't let me stop you, you great canine pervert."

"Thank you. All right. So she drifts off into a peaceful sleep, right. And then about two hours later, she wakes up to hear something coming from the bathroom: drip. Drip. Drip."

"I know what that is!"

"You're a sick man, Peter Pettigrew."

"I meant the tap!"

"Will you lot shut up? So she hears this noise, right. But it's dark, it's about two on the morning, and she doesn't want to get up, she's a bit frightened--anyway she figures, as our clever Peter has, that it's just the tap leaking, as it does, because this imaginary redheaded girl is not as good in Domestic Charms as she is in all her other subjects. So she just kind of wants reassurance, so she sticks her hand over the side of the bed to pet her dog, and it gives her hand a nice, reassuring lick, because it is a Good Dog."

"Padfoot, you are foul and disgusting."

"This is not about me, James Potter, how many times do I have to tell you? Anyway! Reassured by her loyal pet, she goes back to sleep. She dozes for a while, and then suddenly she's awakened again: drip. Drip. Drip. And this time there's another noise: a sound like claws on wood. Skritch. Skirrrrriiiiitch. She's a little bit more frightened now, so she kind of sits up, but it's so dark in the house and she's too scared and groggy to get out of bed, so again she puts her hand down for reassurance. And the dog licks it, all protective and sweet, and she falls back asleep. Then suddenly she's awoken again. So she reaches out her hand, but the dog isn't there. Righto, she thinks, I'll just go look at it, it's only a drippy tap."

"It's not a drippy tap, is it."

"Shut up, Peter."

“She goes into the bathroom. It's too dark to see anything. Trembling, she reaches for the light, and she fumbles around and finally gets it on. The first thing she sees is her dog, tied up inside the towel cupboard, scratching frantically at the door. Skritch. Skrrriiitch."

"How is it scratching if it's tied up?"

"Potter, I will kill you. It just is. Christ. So there's the dog, scratching and struggling, and the girl starts to panic. So she turns round. Slowly. And there, hanging from the curtain rod, is the mutilated body of her sister, dripping blood onto the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. And on the wall of the shower, written in blood, she sees: Humans can lick too, my lovely."

"Brilliant!"

"Thanks, Pete."

"You know, Pads, at first I thought the dog was your little avatar in this story, but now I'm starting to think that maybe you're the murderer,” says Remus contemplatively. “You're also inordinately fond of licking people."

"Not helpless sixteen year old girls! -- Well, actually. But not while pretending to be a dog! --Well, actually--"

"You know,” James interrupts, “in the version I know, the murderer kills the dog. Skins it alive actually. That's the dripping. And there isn't a sister."

"Look, Prongs, it's a little thing I like to call Artistic License. If you don't like it, tell your own bloody story."

"No, I don’t feel like it after that. I’m going to sleep.” And he does. Inevitably, about half of an hour later the others follow suit.

Sirius lies totally still, staring sightlessly into the dark, shadowy peak of the Shack's ceiling. He can't move. It's not an issue of comfort, it's an issue of Things that are Waiting in all the hidden corners, horrible hulking dead Things that are just drooling for him to expose a foot or a finger so that they can strip the flesh from his bones and--

Thump.

Sirius sits bolt upright, clutching his sheet. The wind whistles eerily through the cracks in the wooden wall. It's never been this dark ever, anywhere, in the history of the world, Sirius thinks.

Thump.

"Prongs!" hisses Sirius as quietly as possible, jabbing a thumb into the hulk of cloth that he hopes -- oh my God, oh my God -- is still James. "Oi, Prongs! Proooongs. Are you awake?"

James lets out a phenomenal snort and flops onto his back, breathing noisily through his nose like a death rattle. Snoring, at a time like this. Completely oblivious to Doom, which even now thumps closer. Sirius curses and crawls back into his defensive position, gnawing convulsively on his thumbnail. James sleeps like the dead (oh my God oh my God); there'll be no waking him at this particular stage. On other occasions, Sirius has tried everything, up to and including judicious application of saliva, but it's no use when James is snoring like that.

Thump.

"Christ!" Sirius launches himself frantically at his last hope, which is Remus, huddled comfortably against the far wall. "Moony! Moony! You awake? Moony?"

"Nghf," says the bundle. "Go 'way."

"No," says Sirius. "Something is Thumping. Wake up. Moony. Moony Moony Moony."

Thump.

Remus groans low and long and rolls over onto his side. His face comes out of the carnivorous shadows into a brief slant of moonlight. Sirius is relieved to see Remus' nose, mouth, cheekbones and chin are all still in tact. Nothing has eaten him. Nothing has eaten him yet. Remus rubs blearily at his eyes. "S'the matter?" he asks. "Time is it?"

"I don't know." Sirius grasps him by the shoulders. "Listen, Moony, you've got to just -- shh! Be quiet! -- and listen."

"But what's going--" Sirius clamps his hand over Remus' mouth.

"Wait for it," he mouths.

The silence stretches infuriatingly across the room. It's taunting him, Sirius knows, teasing him, prolonging the agony of just waiting for it. Clouds shift over the moon. The sound of the Shack creaking back and forth on unstable foundations is less frightening than the silence it obscures, the silence buried deeper, the silence which is more unbearable the more it lasts. Sirius can hear his own heart pounding, and the steadier beat of Remus' heart against his forearm, just speeding up from the sloth of slumber.

Thump.

Sirius nearly jumps, the floorboards shaking beneath him. "There," he hisses. "Did you hear it? It's closer now. Moony, it's getting closer." He almost expects Remus to laugh at him, but instead Remus' eyes turn keen and narrow.

"I hear it," Remus says.

Thump.

It's somewhere near Sirius' left leg now, as if it knows the way to win is to divide and conquer. It's going to come around from behind, Sirius realizes, and it's going to slip between Remus' leg and his own leg and it's going to get them both before they can warn one another.

Thump.

"I'm not frightened," Sirius insists, out loud, voice rough. "Are you?"

Thump.

"Remus. Remus, it's the Telltale Heart. It's your bloody Telltale Heart, so do something!" Sirius clutches Remus' shoulder, almost feeling the brush of something nameless crawl up against his spine.

Thump.

It grabs the back of his robes with spindly fingers not a moment later. Sirius opens his mouth in a silent yowl, trying to leap free, but the hand is strong and holds firm, dragging him back to the floor. For a moment Sirius doesn't remember hearts don't have hands. "It's got me!" he groans. "Oh God, it's got me, with its fingers and -- waitaminute."

"Thump," Remus says.

Sirius considers this new development for precisely seven seconds, which is how long it takes for his heart to start beating again, and then says with deadly calm, "Lupin, you are about to learn the meaning of a thumping."

Remus cackles, slightly hysterically, and tries to wriggle away on his elbows, which is tragically inefficient to someone fleeing the mighty wrath of a Black. Sirius grabs him by the ankle, snarls, and launches himself forward to belt Remus round the ear, making the whole shack creak and shudder under them.

"Aghn," Remus says, "you nutter, you'll wake up everyone!"

"Good, then they'll get to see you die!:

Remus makes a noise of indignation, struggles up, and smacks the heel of his hand into Sirius's cheek. It'll be a glorious shining bruise by morning. With a great heave of his shoulders, Remus flips Sirius head over heels and straight into the rickety door. It bursts open, rocking on ancient hinges, and suddenly they're rolling out onto the landing. Sirius's knee smashes into the banister; Remus yanks at Sirius's hair. Sirius yelps and flips himself away, and then he abruptly remembers that they are at the top of the stairs.

There is a little moment of dread. They glance at each other; and then gravity, as it inevitably does, kicks in.

Thump thump thump thump thump.

At the bottom of the stairs Remus groans at the starry burst of pain in the back of his head. Sirius, sprawled heavy beneath him, lets out all the air in his lungs in one long Ungh. For a full minute they lay where they fell, taking inventory of each and every twisted muscle and smashed joint and smarting bone, the little scrapes of skin peeled off their shins, the cracks in their knuckles, the splinters in their rears. Slowly the Shack calms, swaying back and forth with almost melodic rhythm, the lullaby of an ancient spell.

"Am I as heavy as I feel?" Remus winces.

"Heavier," Sirius says.

"Do you have a splinter in your--"

"A whomping great one right in my," Sirius confirms.

James and Peter appear at the top of the stairs, rubbing their eyes, and James yells, "What are you two doing waking everyone up?"

Remus, with Sirius's gulps of laughter against him, is glad that he isn't as good at pretending to snore as James is…even if he isn’t glad that they never guessed his costume.

Name: SuzelovesJamesPotter
Title: Our Last Farewell- I wrote this story
House: Gryffindor
Summary: AU. Lily never died Halloween Night. James died to protect her and she got out of the house in time. What happens when Lily visits James' gravesite and sees a familiar face there?
Disclaimer: I do not own HP at all. JKR does. Also I don't own the quote on James grave. JKR used it first and I believe it is from the bible anyways. Yup. Oh and I got the idea for the title from the song "Our Farewell" by Within Temptations.
Note: This is only the 2nd story I've ever put online. If you have any ideas on improvements, please PM me. Thankies. biggrin

Our Final Farewell

Her emerald eyes stared into the sky. Her knuckles were clutched into fists and turning white. Tears tracked down her face.


“Why did you leave?” She pounded everything she could reach. “You promised forever. You promised you wouldn’t be stupid and sacrifice yourself. We are finally together, why did we have to break apart? Why?” She started screaming louder and louder, “James, why did you leave? Now Harry doesn’t have a father. He was too young for you to leave. Dang it James, you were too young to leave.”


She felt drops of water start to fall from the sky. “James, I hate you so much! You promised you would get out. You never broke a promise before, why now?”

She started running out of anger. She had no clue where she was going. Her red hair flowed behind her and she felt the tears leaking more and more. She ran for a few more minutes until she felt something tell her to stop. She looked around and everything overwhelmed her. This was where he died. This was his gravesite. She forced herself to look at her surroundings. She hadn’t been anywhere near her home in a week since his funeral happened.


She saw his name on one of the stones in the graveyard near the house and forced herself to read it:





The stone was perfect. She had let Sirius and Dumbledore take care of it. She had been crying too hard to even see the basic outline of it at the funeral. The rain began to get harder as her tears fell faster.


“Lily,” a familiar voice called her. She quickly wiped her eyes and turned. “How did you find me, Sir.... James?”

She couldn’t believe her eyes her eyes. In front of her was her dead husband. “Yes, my love. You are not imagining this. I’m so sorry for making you cry. You know I hate when I do. I didn’t want to leave. Really I didn’t. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me!”


“James! Oh my god! Why’d you leave us?” She ran up to him though too afraid to touch. She had no clue what he was. Was he a ghost, a spirit?


"Do you think I had a choice? If I hadn’t of gotten the mirror, called Sirius quickly, and fought, would you be alive? No! You would be a ...um... well whatever I am.... dead! How could I be able to live? Wait, I’m not living. How would I be able to rest in peace? Lily, I had to!”


“No, you didn’t James. You didn’t deserve to die. What will happen to Harry? James, he is a mini you. It hurts too much to even look at him at times. I can’t do this.”


“Lily Grace Potter, you are strongest woman I have ever known. You will get through this. You will raise Harry to be a good man. May I ask you a favor though?”


“Anything James, anything.”


“Please don’t let Harry forget me, as my dying wish.”


“Lily, what are you doi... James?” A new voice was mixed in with the sound of four feet moving quickly. “James, what are you, a ghost?”


“Sirius, Remus,” James smiled, “I miss you both. And no, I will be moving on soon. I just came down for one last chance to say..,” he choked on the word, “goodbye.”


“No! No! We lost you once; we can’t do it again James. I forbid you! You were the first real person I could call a part of my ‘family.’ You can’t leave! No!” The boy with the onyx hair screamed. James looked pain.
“Sirius, I am sorry, but it is my time. My ticket was pulled and I must go. Remus, you the sanest one here so please help me!”


“No James. No. Hold a moment and I’ll show you the exact reason why.” Remus walked over to the motorcycle in which a cot was lying beside. He reinstated the dry spell and Remus picked the sleeping boy up out of the cot. “This is the reason why. James, this is your son. You can’t leave him. This is you wife, James, and you can’t leave her,” Remus stood next to Lily and his once strong, loud voice became a whisper. “You can’t leave us.” It was evident Harry had awoken at this exchange as he squirmed in Remus’ arms.


James looked like he was about to cry. “Do you think if I could’ve, I would’ve stayed and tried to save myself? Do you think I had a choice to save myself and Lily and Harry, I would’ve taken it? I get to be here with you guys for one last time to tell you goodbye. If I’ve known I’d trouble you all this much, I wouldn’t have come. I need to go. I need to move on. I love you all. Never forget that.” He floated over to Harry. “My boy. I love you son. Be good for Mummy, Uncle Pads, and Uncle Moons. Goodbye my little Harry.”


His face turned solemn as turned towards the adults. “Goodbye. Enjoy your lives. I’ll be waiting for you. Don’t show up too soon Lily or you Sirius.” He put on a stern face.


“No James, please. Please don’t leave. I’m sorry. Please, don’t leave us... leave me.”


“Lily, don’t make this harder. I must go. I love you, but I must go.” He slowly started to disappear when Harry started to cry. Remus passed Harry to Lily to try to soothe him.


“No, no baby, don’t cry. Daddy’s just going to leave for a while. Please Harry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry Harry. I’m sorry Sirius and Moony. I’m sorry Lily. I gave up my life for you to live and now I have to go. That’s how it works. Forget me if you must, just please let me go.” He looked like he was about to cry, if he was able to.


“Dada... Dada, come back. Me wants Dada,” Harry whined.


“Goodbye my son,” he said as he began to get fainter.


“Goodbye my love. I miss you so much. I wish you didn’t have to go. I love you,” Lily whispered to James.


“As do I, my love, as do I. You will be fine, Lily. You will move on, maybe give Harry siblings. If you’re happy, I am,” James replied.


“Never,” she said in a voice that made it sound sinful. “You know me. I love you too much to ever move on.”


“I don’t know if I should be as happy as I am to hear you say that.” The two lovers’ soft laughs mixed together for a moment.


“Goodbye Prongs. Thank you for being the first to accept me for what I am. Thank you for becoming a brother to me.”


“I wouldn’t have had it any other way Remus. Goodbye. Make sure these two don’t join me too soon and of course keep yourself safe. If you want Harry to have any little friends, you need to get a move on. Don’t give me the werewolf crap because both you and I know the child won’t be affected.” Remus put on a short smile.


“Goodbye? What are you all saying? This isn't goodbye. James, I don’t care if you are um... well whatever you are. I can’t lose you. Please James.” For the first time in his existence, James saw Sirius cry.


“Sirius, I want to stay. Really I do. But I can’t. I have to say goodbye. I need to go... now.”


“James don’t... please.”


“I need to go. I love you all.” James was getting more transparent to where you could barely see him.


“Forever my love. I’ll love you forever.” Lily murmured.


“Goo....” That was all that James got out before he was gone. Remus hurriedly took Harry from Lily before she collapsed on James’ grave. Three voices were heard crying heavily and one silently. Remus looked over the little group. This was a group that would never be completed because their ‘leader’, husband, father or best friend was gone. This group was held together because of him and Remus was sure their ‘leader’ would’ve died before he let it fall apart. Now that he was gone, it was so much harder.


James Potter was an amazing man and Remus made a promise to James and himself to never let anyone forget it.