A fic two years in the making
I'm in the process of backing up all my files and transfering things onto my new external hard drive and I found a fic that I wrote TWO YEARS AGO and never posted. I wrote it before DH came out and attilatehbun helped me out with some ordering questions (thanks friend!) and then... I don't know why I didn't post it. Then DH came out and I had to update a couple things but I made the fic canon-compliant and... still no post. So I'm posting it now because honestly, why the hell have I been holding onto it for so long? I don't understand me. I'm not even going to take the time to try to put it in an archive because I clearly cannot be trusted with this fic. Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.
Title: Conclusions
Summary: Everyone reacts differently to the end.
Genre: Not very happy
Rating: PG-13ish?
Length: 1350
Note: I've never been good with numbers so forgive me if the ones I chose here seem off to you.
---
Conclusions
---
The final numbers were printed in The Daily Prophet today. Two thousand four hundred twelve were killed. Five thousand seven hundred forty five were injured. Two hundred eighty seven are still missing.
-
Hermione pays the owl an astronomical fee.
It's truly appalling how expensive it is to fly The Daily Prophet from Britain to Australia every day. Sometimes she wonders why she does it, but then she'll remember she hasn't seen her friends in over a month; she hasn't kissed Ron since he left two weeks ago; she hasn't attended any of the award ceremonies or funerals or even talked to half of Hogwarts since it all ended; she hasn't had a chance visit Diagon Alley or buy her new school books. Sometimes it hurts-physically hurts-to realize she's so far away. She needs a little touch of normalcy each morning. So she pays the owl and drinks her coffee and prepares for another day of searching.
She's determined. Her parents may not be listed in the paper, but they're missing all the same. They're lost in their own minds and she's not going to let that happen. Especially not when it's her own damn fault.
-
Minerva almost smiles.
The numbers don’t discriminate. Purebloods, halfbloods, muggleborns, even muggles-all are accounted for. Dumbledore would be proud to see such unity.
The almost-smile disappears. Merlin, she misses him. Sometimes when she’s sitting in the office that will always be his, as she tries not to think about lemon drops and long beards, sometimes she just want to steal a Pensieve and hide away with it and lose herself in the better days.
But only sometimes. Minerva tucks the newspaper away and pulls out a piece of parchment. It won’t be long before the school opens again and she still needs a Defense professor.
-
Ginny throws the newspaper away.
She doesn’t need the numbers, doesn’t need the proof. She’s trying to move on, thank you very much. She's not trying to wallow in memories. The memories could kill her and that would simply be a waste. Ginny refuses to survive a war only to fade away.
The trash bin is mocking her. It’s too close. The memories are near enough to choke. She bites her lip and stands up. Only one thing to do.
Ginny burns the paper. She’ll be the first to admit it’s a stupid gesture, but she doesn’t care. A stupid gesture is still a gesture.
-
Luna hums a strange little tune.
Professor Binns will be pleased. Maybe she’ll pay him a visit. He doesn’t always keep up with the news, but this is something he should know. Numbers belong in a history class. Strange they decided to put them in the newspaper. It’s not really news anymore, is it? It’s in the past.
Luna picks some flowers of the windowsill. It’s a nice day. She’ll visit Daddy on the way to Hogwarts. He was a journalist, and would probably like to hear the news as well. She wishes briefly that Daddy had followed Professor Binn’s example but she doesn’t let that thought stop her strange little tune. It’s still a nice day and Daddy always did like sunflowers.
-
Percy scowls.
Page fourteen. That’s where they printed the final tally. Page fourteen. Behind the classifieds, for Merlin’s sake. This should be on the front page. These numbers deserve the front page. These people deserve a Goddamned above-the-fold headline.
They deserve names, too, but you can only expect so much from The Daily Prophet. It’s a small miracle they even printed the numbers. Percy used to be proud of his government and its institutions. He used to believe his upstanding morals were a perfect fit for his Ministry job. He used to trust his superiors and his own ethics.
Now he uses blackmail to force the truth into the newspaper.
-
Neville waters his plants.
Dead. Wounded. Missing. The numbers don’t mean much to him, but the labels do. The labels mean something. They give him the real information, the real truth. People died. People were injured. People are missing. Lots of people are broken.
Some of his people are. They're never going to get better, his parents. He's always known it but now he knows it. He understands war now. He understands the way it burrows into your mind and under you skin. He knows there are some things a person can't escape.
Of course, that's no reason he has to join them. Neville won't try to escape his past (as if the nightmares would ever let him) but he's not going to be joining his parents just yet. He's going to throw away the newspaper-or maybe use it as lining on the bottom of the plant pots, there's something poetic about that-and then he's going to rebuild the greenhouses.
-
Ron pinches the bridge of his nose.
He wishes he hadn’t opened the paper this morning. Hell, let’s face it: This is one of the mornings he should have stayed in bed. Damn comfortable, it is.
He wonders what number his brother was. It was toward the end of the war, so somewhere in the two thousands. He considers a few numbers, finally settling on two thousand ninety seven. He takes a deep breath. His brother was the two thousand ninety seventh person killed in the war against Voldemort.
Ron had never considered that one of his brothers would die. He’d been worried for Harry, scared for Ginny, terrified for Hermione, but he had never-never-thought one of his brothers would die.
Big brothers aren’t supposed to die. They just aren’t.
-
Draco listens to the silence.
Professor Snape is dead. Peter Pettigrew is dead. Peter used to pass along information sometimes, little hints to help Draco survive the Dark Lord. Bellatrix did, too, though usually with an insult or two. She's dead. All of his parents friends are dead.
Goyle is dead. Crabbe hasn't been the same since. He's mildly surprised that he misses them, but even more surprised to be missing Pansy. She's shacking up with Longbottom's parents now. Hasn't talked to a bloody soul in weeks.
Draco would bet his father’s fortune none of them are included in the final numbers.
-
George hasn't opened the newspaper or the door since the funeral. Later Molly will barge in and force toast down his throat but she won't mention the numbers. Not yet.
-
Andromeda hugs the baby.
Remus was such a nice man. Perhaps not a perfect husband for Nymphadora but he'd treated her well and loved her dearly and really, what more can a mother wish for? Especially the mother of such a colorful, strong, strange child. And her child is-was, she reminds herself-a strange, awkward little thing. Ted used to call her his little elephant. Long on memory but short on grace, he'd chuckle after rereading the scrawled letters Nymphadora sent home from Hogwarts every week.
Ted would have helped her take care of the baby. She smoothes his blanket and fusses over little Teddy and yes, maybe she cries, but he smiles at her and that helps.
Nymphadora sent those letters like clockwork. Andromeda still has them, has them all lined up and ready for the day Teddy asks where mommy is. She'll put this newspaper with them and then on the day when the letters aren't enough, when he's angry all his friends have mum's home cooking and dad's bear hugs waiting at home, on that day she'll take out this newspaper and show him he's not alone.
-
Harry touches his scar.
He tried so hard to keep those numbers small. He busted his arse finding those Horcruxes and this is what he gets in return? Over two thousand people were killed. That number should be smaller. Almost three hundred people are missing and now, so long after the war’s end, most of those people are going to stay missing. If only he’d been a little quicker.
Harry can admit he has a saving people thing and a bit of a hero complex. He can admit he’s too noble and stubborn and (let’s be frank) just too bloody controlling. He can accept that.
But he can also accept that it wasn’t enough.
---
Title: Conclusions
Summary: Everyone reacts differently to the end.
Genre: Not very happy
Rating: PG-13ish?
Length: 1350
Note: I've never been good with numbers so forgive me if the ones I chose here seem off to you.
---
Conclusions
---
The final numbers were printed in The Daily Prophet today. Two thousand four hundred twelve were killed. Five thousand seven hundred forty five were injured. Two hundred eighty seven are still missing.
-
Hermione pays the owl an astronomical fee.
It's truly appalling how expensive it is to fly The Daily Prophet from Britain to Australia every day. Sometimes she wonders why she does it, but then she'll remember she hasn't seen her friends in over a month; she hasn't kissed Ron since he left two weeks ago; she hasn't attended any of the award ceremonies or funerals or even talked to half of Hogwarts since it all ended; she hasn't had a chance visit Diagon Alley or buy her new school books. Sometimes it hurts-physically hurts-to realize she's so far away. She needs a little touch of normalcy each morning. So she pays the owl and drinks her coffee and prepares for another day of searching.
She's determined. Her parents may not be listed in the paper, but they're missing all the same. They're lost in their own minds and she's not going to let that happen. Especially not when it's her own damn fault.
-
Minerva almost smiles.
The numbers don’t discriminate. Purebloods, halfbloods, muggleborns, even muggles-all are accounted for. Dumbledore would be proud to see such unity.
The almost-smile disappears. Merlin, she misses him. Sometimes when she’s sitting in the office that will always be his, as she tries not to think about lemon drops and long beards, sometimes she just want to steal a Pensieve and hide away with it and lose herself in the better days.
But only sometimes. Minerva tucks the newspaper away and pulls out a piece of parchment. It won’t be long before the school opens again and she still needs a Defense professor.
-
Ginny throws the newspaper away.
She doesn’t need the numbers, doesn’t need the proof. She’s trying to move on, thank you very much. She's not trying to wallow in memories. The memories could kill her and that would simply be a waste. Ginny refuses to survive a war only to fade away.
The trash bin is mocking her. It’s too close. The memories are near enough to choke. She bites her lip and stands up. Only one thing to do.
Ginny burns the paper. She’ll be the first to admit it’s a stupid gesture, but she doesn’t care. A stupid gesture is still a gesture.
-
Luna hums a strange little tune.
Professor Binns will be pleased. Maybe she’ll pay him a visit. He doesn’t always keep up with the news, but this is something he should know. Numbers belong in a history class. Strange they decided to put them in the newspaper. It’s not really news anymore, is it? It’s in the past.
Luna picks some flowers of the windowsill. It’s a nice day. She’ll visit Daddy on the way to Hogwarts. He was a journalist, and would probably like to hear the news as well. She wishes briefly that Daddy had followed Professor Binn’s example but she doesn’t let that thought stop her strange little tune. It’s still a nice day and Daddy always did like sunflowers.
-
Percy scowls.
Page fourteen. That’s where they printed the final tally. Page fourteen. Behind the classifieds, for Merlin’s sake. This should be on the front page. These numbers deserve the front page. These people deserve a Goddamned above-the-fold headline.
They deserve names, too, but you can only expect so much from The Daily Prophet. It’s a small miracle they even printed the numbers. Percy used to be proud of his government and its institutions. He used to believe his upstanding morals were a perfect fit for his Ministry job. He used to trust his superiors and his own ethics.
Now he uses blackmail to force the truth into the newspaper.
-
Neville waters his plants.
Dead. Wounded. Missing. The numbers don’t mean much to him, but the labels do. The labels mean something. They give him the real information, the real truth. People died. People were injured. People are missing. Lots of people are broken.
Some of his people are. They're never going to get better, his parents. He's always known it but now he knows it. He understands war now. He understands the way it burrows into your mind and under you skin. He knows there are some things a person can't escape.
Of course, that's no reason he has to join them. Neville won't try to escape his past (as if the nightmares would ever let him) but he's not going to be joining his parents just yet. He's going to throw away the newspaper-or maybe use it as lining on the bottom of the plant pots, there's something poetic about that-and then he's going to rebuild the greenhouses.
-
Ron pinches the bridge of his nose.
He wishes he hadn’t opened the paper this morning. Hell, let’s face it: This is one of the mornings he should have stayed in bed. Damn comfortable, it is.
He wonders what number his brother was. It was toward the end of the war, so somewhere in the two thousands. He considers a few numbers, finally settling on two thousand ninety seven. He takes a deep breath. His brother was the two thousand ninety seventh person killed in the war against Voldemort.
Ron had never considered that one of his brothers would die. He’d been worried for Harry, scared for Ginny, terrified for Hermione, but he had never-never-thought one of his brothers would die.
Big brothers aren’t supposed to die. They just aren’t.
-
Draco listens to the silence.
Professor Snape is dead. Peter Pettigrew is dead. Peter used to pass along information sometimes, little hints to help Draco survive the Dark Lord. Bellatrix did, too, though usually with an insult or two. She's dead. All of his parents friends are dead.
Goyle is dead. Crabbe hasn't been the same since. He's mildly surprised that he misses them, but even more surprised to be missing Pansy. She's shacking up with Longbottom's parents now. Hasn't talked to a bloody soul in weeks.
Draco would bet his father’s fortune none of them are included in the final numbers.
-
George hasn't opened the newspaper or the door since the funeral. Later Molly will barge in and force toast down his throat but she won't mention the numbers. Not yet.
-
Andromeda hugs the baby.
Remus was such a nice man. Perhaps not a perfect husband for Nymphadora but he'd treated her well and loved her dearly and really, what more can a mother wish for? Especially the mother of such a colorful, strong, strange child. And her child is-was, she reminds herself-a strange, awkward little thing. Ted used to call her his little elephant. Long on memory but short on grace, he'd chuckle after rereading the scrawled letters Nymphadora sent home from Hogwarts every week.
Ted would have helped her take care of the baby. She smoothes his blanket and fusses over little Teddy and yes, maybe she cries, but he smiles at her and that helps.
Nymphadora sent those letters like clockwork. Andromeda still has them, has them all lined up and ready for the day Teddy asks where mommy is. She'll put this newspaper with them and then on the day when the letters aren't enough, when he's angry all his friends have mum's home cooking and dad's bear hugs waiting at home, on that day she'll take out this newspaper and show him he's not alone.
-
Harry touches his scar.
He tried so hard to keep those numbers small. He busted his arse finding those Horcruxes and this is what he gets in return? Over two thousand people were killed. That number should be smaller. Almost three hundred people are missing and now, so long after the war’s end, most of those people are going to stay missing. If only he’d been a little quicker.
Harry can admit he has a saving people thing and a bit of a hero complex. He can admit he’s too noble and stubborn and (let’s be frank) just too bloody controlling. He can accept that.
But he can also accept that it wasn’t enough.
---