This is my entry for Iron Fic 5-1: Moving Time.
'On July 29th, 2080, Harry James Potter died aged 99. Known throughout Britain and indeed the world for his defeat of the Dark Lord Voldemort, his passing will be felt by many but perhaps most of all by his family. He is survived by his loving wife, Ginny Potter and his three children — James, Albus, and Lily.'
"I can't say it's the best opening paragraph, sir."
"Perhaps not," said Dumbledore and stroked his long white beard, "and please, call me Albus. You've long since earned that right."
Harry shook his head. "Doesn't feel right."
"Harry, please. You have a beard almost as impressive as mine."
"Perhaps," said Harry and looked down at himself. His ghostly form appeared as it had in life, old, loose flesh hung off knobbly bones. By far his most impressive feature was the long white beard but even that wasn't particularly important to him, no matter what his grandchildren might think. He concentrated and shimmered, shifting to a younger form. The end result appeared perhaps twenty, strong of transparent body and raven black of hair. "Better now, sir?"
Dumbledore just sighed. "Were you always this stubborn or is hindsight just natures Rose-glass Charm?"
"I'm informed I've mellowed in my old age."
That brought a smile to Dumbledore's face but it didn't last long. It faded to a faint frown and he shook his head ruefully. "You're lingering Harry."
"Haven't I earned that right," said Harry, "after all I've done?" He looked around, taking in the kitchen of his family home, the place he'd lived for almost seventy years. There were memories here, almost too many.
On the mantle was his wedding photo. A smiling Ginny waved out and a miniature Harry clutched her tight. It had been a good day, the first of many.
On the wall were the broken remains of Albus's first broomstick. Ginny had been so furious, but Harry had been oddly proud when everyone proved uninjured. It had been a very impressive dive for a seven year old and he did catch the Snitch.
There were more, lots more. A vase inexpertly transfigured by Lily with a stolen wand. James's own wedding picture, muggle style to match his bride. Handmade cards from the grandkids, finger-painted stick figures and oversized letters clearly coached by doting parents. And then there were the mundane objects: The gas-hob on which three decades of meals had been made, a large plastic spoon used only a week before, the door mat that had welcomed thousands of friends over the years.
"To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure," said Dumbledore from behind Harry. "You accepted it once, those years ago in the forest. You walked willingly to your death and saved the world."
"I was young. Children bring chaos. They... Tie us down."
"I've had more children than stars in the sky."
"Hm?"
"Hogwarts, Harry, Hogwarts."
"But even if you start counting when you were just a teacher, you won't reach—"
"I was being poetic, Harry. The old are allowed their foibles and the dead more so."
The silence stretched.
"My wand wilted, you know."
"I'm happy for you. Only the most loyal of companions join their masters in death."
Harry raised the ghostly reflection of his wand, 11 inches of holly with a phoenix feather core. It seemed almost solid, as if it alone held real substance. Despite the barrier of the grave, it felt right in his hand, a perfect match. The real wand lay on the table but it was somehow deader than the ghost, lifeless, wilted, the magic gone. It wasn't his wand any more; it was just wood and feather.
"Shouldn't I feel sorry that it's coming with me? A wilted wand will never be used again. It's as dead as me."
"Never apologise for love, Harry. Your wand chose to follow you, for the connection you share and the care you showed it. You turned down elder for holly, Harry. How many would truly do that?"
"Everyone? Nobody? I'm not as special as people seem to think."
"You were not born special, no," said Dumbledore and slowly shook his head, "but you're actions made you so."
"But if Voldemort hadn't marked me, if he hadn't believed the prophecy?"
"Would you have done anything different?"
Silence hung.
"I've missed you, sir."
"As have I you, Harry."
"And that does bring up something I've been meaning to ask: to what do I owe this visit?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "You are dead, my boy."
"So are you — seventy years gone — or are you going to be annoyingly pedantic about whether you are really here or a product of my mind again?"
"Would it make a difference?"
"I'll take that as a yes."
Dumbledore moved to the window and looked out. "They're at your funeral?"
"Yes, probably on their way back by now."
"You need to make a choice before they return."
"You think I have a choice?"
"You always have a choice, Harry. Ghosthood is not something I'd wish upon anyone, but you have the option. The choice is yours until human eyes lay upon you."
"Human eyes? None of the Hogwarts ghosts mentioned that."
"Some secrets we take with us to the grave."
Harry paused. "I'm sorry, sir, but that was just bad."
Dumbledore coughed into his hand. "Ah, yes, I do apologise."
"So human eyes? Seems there's some potential for abuse there. What if my wife was blind?"
"Is she blind, Harry?"
"Well, no, but the point still stands."
"I think you're taking me rather too literally again."
"So I have to make a choice: Move on, leave the nest, make the final bureaucratic transfer; or I can stay here with my family."
"They won't thank you for it. Ghosts aren't people, Harry. Oh, they can think and talk, but they are like portraits, hollow echoes of what once was. You'll fade if you stay, a worn out pair of socks on the floor of the world. You'd be left alone when they move on in turn."
"And if I go into the unknown?"
"You'll face the next great adventure."
A faint smile pulled at Harry's lips. "I always did like the sound of that."
"I was rather chuffed when I coined the phrase."
A third silence.
"Read this," said Harry, "'A shining bacon of hope to the nation, Harry Potter lived a life of service.'" He pointed to the third paragraph of his obituary, which contained a brief history of his life post Voldemort. "Bacon. What does breakfast have to do with anything?"
"I think they mean 'beacon'."
"That would make sense. Still it's not much better. A bit clichéd."
"I'd count myself lucky. Most of my obituaries were quite unflattering. I was going through one of my periodic phases of vilification, if you recalled. That said, there was a rather nice piece in the Nauru Wizarding Times. They complimented my choice of socks."
"Socks?"
"Never underestimate a good pair of socks, Harry. They can get you through anything."
Harry chortled despite himself and moved to stand beside Dumbledore at the window. He could just make out the bright-blue shade of James's car as it approached, moving down the country road towards the house.
"Time to make a choice, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Life is made of choices and I'm sorry to tell you so is death. This one cannot be put off any longer."
"I know, sir." Harry's ghostly throat felt tight and tears stung the corners of his eyes. "I know."
As the muggle car rumbled into the driveway, he took Dumbledore's arm. They stepped forward together into the next great adventure.
The Next Great Adventure
'On July 29th, 2080, Harry James Potter died aged 99. Known throughout Britain and indeed the world for his defeat of the Dark Lord Voldemort, his passing will be felt by many but perhaps most of all by his family. He is survived by his loving wife, Ginny Potter and his three children — James, Albus, and Lily.'
"I can't say it's the best opening paragraph, sir."
"Perhaps not," said Dumbledore and stroked his long white beard, "and please, call me Albus. You've long since earned that right."
Harry shook his head. "Doesn't feel right."
"Harry, please. You have a beard almost as impressive as mine."
"Perhaps," said Harry and looked down at himself. His ghostly form appeared as it had in life, old, loose flesh hung off knobbly bones. By far his most impressive feature was the long white beard but even that wasn't particularly important to him, no matter what his grandchildren might think. He concentrated and shimmered, shifting to a younger form. The end result appeared perhaps twenty, strong of transparent body and raven black of hair. "Better now, sir?"
Dumbledore just sighed. "Were you always this stubborn or is hindsight just natures Rose-glass Charm?"
"I'm informed I've mellowed in my old age."
That brought a smile to Dumbledore's face but it didn't last long. It faded to a faint frown and he shook his head ruefully. "You're lingering Harry."
"Haven't I earned that right," said Harry, "after all I've done?" He looked around, taking in the kitchen of his family home, the place he'd lived for almost seventy years. There were memories here, almost too many.
On the mantle was his wedding photo. A smiling Ginny waved out and a miniature Harry clutched her tight. It had been a good day, the first of many.
On the wall were the broken remains of Albus's first broomstick. Ginny had been so furious, but Harry had been oddly proud when everyone proved uninjured. It had been a very impressive dive for a seven year old and he did catch the Snitch.
There were more, lots more. A vase inexpertly transfigured by Lily with a stolen wand. James's own wedding picture, muggle style to match his bride. Handmade cards from the grandkids, finger-painted stick figures and oversized letters clearly coached by doting parents. And then there were the mundane objects: The gas-hob on which three decades of meals had been made, a large plastic spoon used only a week before, the door mat that had welcomed thousands of friends over the years.
"To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure," said Dumbledore from behind Harry. "You accepted it once, those years ago in the forest. You walked willingly to your death and saved the world."
"I was young. Children bring chaos. They... Tie us down."
"I've had more children than stars in the sky."
"Hm?"
"Hogwarts, Harry, Hogwarts."
"But even if you start counting when you were just a teacher, you won't reach—"
"I was being poetic, Harry. The old are allowed their foibles and the dead more so."
The silence stretched.
"My wand wilted, you know."
"I'm happy for you. Only the most loyal of companions join their masters in death."
Harry raised the ghostly reflection of his wand, 11 inches of holly with a phoenix feather core. It seemed almost solid, as if it alone held real substance. Despite the barrier of the grave, it felt right in his hand, a perfect match. The real wand lay on the table but it was somehow deader than the ghost, lifeless, wilted, the magic gone. It wasn't his wand any more; it was just wood and feather.
"Shouldn't I feel sorry that it's coming with me? A wilted wand will never be used again. It's as dead as me."
"Never apologise for love, Harry. Your wand chose to follow you, for the connection you share and the care you showed it. You turned down elder for holly, Harry. How many would truly do that?"
"Everyone? Nobody? I'm not as special as people seem to think."
"You were not born special, no," said Dumbledore and slowly shook his head, "but you're actions made you so."
"But if Voldemort hadn't marked me, if he hadn't believed the prophecy?"
"Would you have done anything different?"
Silence hung.
"I've missed you, sir."
"As have I you, Harry."
"And that does bring up something I've been meaning to ask: to what do I owe this visit?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "You are dead, my boy."
"So are you — seventy years gone — or are you going to be annoyingly pedantic about whether you are really here or a product of my mind again?"
"Would it make a difference?"
"I'll take that as a yes."
Dumbledore moved to the window and looked out. "They're at your funeral?"
"Yes, probably on their way back by now."
"You need to make a choice before they return."
"You think I have a choice?"
"You always have a choice, Harry. Ghosthood is not something I'd wish upon anyone, but you have the option. The choice is yours until human eyes lay upon you."
"Human eyes? None of the Hogwarts ghosts mentioned that."
"Some secrets we take with us to the grave."
Harry paused. "I'm sorry, sir, but that was just bad."
Dumbledore coughed into his hand. "Ah, yes, I do apologise."
"So human eyes? Seems there's some potential for abuse there. What if my wife was blind?"
"Is she blind, Harry?"
"Well, no, but the point still stands."
"I think you're taking me rather too literally again."
"So I have to make a choice: Move on, leave the nest, make the final bureaucratic transfer; or I can stay here with my family."
"They won't thank you for it. Ghosts aren't people, Harry. Oh, they can think and talk, but they are like portraits, hollow echoes of what once was. You'll fade if you stay, a worn out pair of socks on the floor of the world. You'd be left alone when they move on in turn."
"And if I go into the unknown?"
"You'll face the next great adventure."
A faint smile pulled at Harry's lips. "I always did like the sound of that."
"I was rather chuffed when I coined the phrase."
A third silence.
"Read this," said Harry, "'A shining bacon of hope to the nation, Harry Potter lived a life of service.'" He pointed to the third paragraph of his obituary, which contained a brief history of his life post Voldemort. "Bacon. What does breakfast have to do with anything?"
"I think they mean 'beacon'."
"That would make sense. Still it's not much better. A bit clichéd."
"I'd count myself lucky. Most of my obituaries were quite unflattering. I was going through one of my periodic phases of vilification, if you recalled. That said, there was a rather nice piece in the Nauru Wizarding Times. They complimented my choice of socks."
"Socks?"
"Never underestimate a good pair of socks, Harry. They can get you through anything."
Harry chortled despite himself and moved to stand beside Dumbledore at the window. He could just make out the bright-blue shade of James's car as it approached, moving down the country road towards the house.
"Time to make a choice, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Life is made of choices and I'm sorry to tell you so is death. This one cannot be put off any longer."
"I know, sir." Harry's ghostly throat felt tight and tears stung the corners of his eyes. "I know."
As the muggle car rumbled into the driveway, he took Dumbledore's arm. They stepped forward together into the next great adventure.