AUTHOR'S NOTE This fic is my way of dealing with some of the deaths in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Guess what – that means that there are spoilers for Deathly Hallows.
Each chapter will be a short ficlet in which one character visits or spends time at another's grave. A character that you all know is narrating each chapter and kudos to the reviewer who can guess who that character is before he or she is revealed in the last chapter.
To those two of you who already know who is narrating, don't spoil it for the others:-)
The text in italics at the beginning of each chapter is the first time that the dearly departed character appeared in the books.
DISCLAIMER JK Rowling owns these characters, not me. If I owned them, I would not have killed off some of the ones she did.
Harry now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing.
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone Page 81
Somehow I recognize this place, though I've never been here. I usually recognize wherever I end up because they do. They're grieving. Long ago I made it my job to help them. Well, I suppose it wasn't actually that long ago, but it feels like it.
It all started with my mother. I just could not bear to see her suffer so much. I had to help her. And then there were others. I found that I could help them too.
I'm not a ghost. But I am always nearby.
I have followed him to a Muggle neighborhood – Little Whinging in Surrey. He turns down Privet Drive and suddenly I know where he's going. He hasn't been back here since, well, since the night he lost her.
I watch Harry as he stares silently at the empty façade of Number Four Privet Drive. It's not destroyed. From the look on his face, I think he expected it to be. The moonlight reflects on his glasses as he walks slowly around to the back yard.
He frowns when he sees that the lawn is as pristine as it always was. He looks up at the back of the house, but apart from a few deep scars in the brick around one of the upstairs windows, it too is perfect.
Harry sighs and heads back toward the street. I follow him from a distance, even though I know he can't see me.
I've been wondering when I would see Harry. There were many times I thought I would, but it always turned out to be someone else. Not that I minded. I never mind helping people find peace. But I admit to wondering each time when Harry was going to need me.
The houses are falling behind and getting farther and farther between. The grass that Harry is tramping through is getting higher and browner. Soon it gives way to scrubby undergrowth stunted by the pollution from Muggle machines.
He's looking around again. For the moment, we are standing in a large empty field. Then Harry's eyes light on something glinting dully in the faint white moonlight. A mixture of relief and dread floods his face. I know that look well. I have seen it in the eyes of every single person I've visited.
Slowly Harry approaches the dark lump and runs his hand over the ruined metal. It is twisted and charred, but I can still see the outline of what it used to be – the sidecar of a motorbike.
Harry drops to his knees beside it. For a moment, I know that he is thinking about the man who once owned the vehicle, about his beloved Godfather. But then he sees the blackened outline of a metal cage.
Tears gather in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, girl," he says softly. Hesitantly, he wraps his fingers around the rusty bars. "I'm so sorry I had to leave you. Can you ever forgive me?"
There is always a moment that people open themselves up for me to help them. This is that moment with Harry. I can feel the right thing to do and silently I call out for help.
A light flutter suddenly echoes through the darkness. Harry looks up just in time to see a small gray owl swooping down toward him.
It lands on his shoulder as he stands up. "Hi," he says and reaches up to gently stroke the owl's wing.
There is no letter or anything attached to the bird's leg. Harry frowns. "What are you doing here?" he asks. There is no suspicion in his voice, only curiosity.
For a moment, neither one moves. Then the owl releases Harry's shoulder and flies back into the night sky. And when Harry looks back down at the remains of the sidecar and the owl cage inside, there is less sorrow.
After another long minute, Harry pulls out his wand. It is his original wand. I know that he is happy to have it back. To a wizard, the destruction of a wand can be like the death of a friend.
He mutters an incantation and with a flick of his wand transfigures the sidecar and cage into a large boulder. It looks half-buried in the ground. No Muggle would even think to try to move it.
Harry gives the stone a last loving pat, then turns on the spot and disappears. I look more closely at the rock that marks the final resting place and smile. Just above where the ground and the boulder meet, Harry has inscribed one word.