* RAGE / AGAINST

This apathy was something she’d prepared herself for long ago. It was expected, even welcomed. No amount of therapy could make Petunia not appreciate a little well deserved flagellation. Her fingers tightened on the teacup as she gave him a tiny, tight smile.

“I found some more. Another box.” Another secret, hidden stash. “I thought I could tell you about them, if you came today. I was never very good at writing letters.” Reaching into her purse, she pulled out the bundle, wrapped in a faded, tattered pink ribbon. Undoing the tie, she spread them out – pictures not just of a smiling redheaded little girl, but two people who would have been slightly vaguely familiar to Harry. A large man whose sternness was undercut by the way his eyes seemed to smile, and a petite, angularly shaped woman who seemed perpetually caught between a scold and an laugh. Of these he would have at least seen a few occasional pictures, but never as familiar as those of Vernon’s family. His maternal grandparents. 

Petunia had never spoken of them much, either. One might have thought she would, with them being her parents, and Dudley’s grandparents, but aside from the occasional story, rare comment, they were another thing she’d keep carefully tucked away. 

“Lily was always the brightest person in the room. Da, your grandfather, always said she got it from Mum. Mum said she stole it from her when she was born, and she couldn’t be happier because it was always a lot of bother.” Her lips curled into a wistful smile as her fingers brushed again one photo of the pair, decked out in Christmas jumpers. “It was our father’s family tradition that daughters were named for flowers, you know.” Dudley was already saying if he and Susan had a baby girl, they’d name her Heather. Susan just pointed out that first they needed to get pregnant. 

       The pictures scattered on the table and, as usual whenever Harry saw pictures of his parents without warning, he could feel his heart jump with anxiety. Not necessarily a bad feeling. He remembered back with Moody, who had thrust the pictures of the dead at him and he’d needed to leave the room. But Harry had come a long way since then and, for the most part, the pictures were appreciated.

      He touched them gently, picking up one of a family he barely knew. His grandparents were recognizable from back at the Dursleys. But he never heard many stories about them, either. Sometimes, when he was little, he would wonder what his life would’ve been like if they weren’t dead too. If he’d gone to live with them instead of his aunt and uncle. Only... he learned that pretending and imagining didn’t help anything and went back to trying to be as small as possible. But now — he’s grabbing the pictures greedily, gaze on a little red-haired girl with green eyes. Lily’s smile was huge and all encompassing. Harry blinked, trying to picture that smile on what he remembered his mother to look like at the time of her death.

      She would’ve smiled at him like that as a baby. He knew enough about her to know she loved him.

      He hated how desperate he must’ve seemed to his aunt.  Pulling the pictures towards him, unable to get enough. Even with the racing heart and tight feeling in his stomach, he was desperate. There was no one left alive he could ask about his mother. His father ... it seemed as though James would be a mystery forever. There was no one with stories and pictures about him. His eyes were glued to the pictures — unmoving — as he listened to his aunt speak.

      Every word was a new fact, tucked away. He wanted to meet them. All of them. His grandparents. His parents. Meet them beyond a thin form of people ready to walk him to his death. ❛ I didn‘t know that, ❜ he said, his gaze shifting upwards from a picture of Lily riding a bike. ❛ I mean — I knew your name and my mum’s... I knew those were. But, uh, I didn’t know that. ❜ Would that be something he’d wanted to do, too? Had he gotten to have a normal life with Lily Potter?  

       The hallway was dark when Harry stepped into it, wand in hand, clutching tightly but not as hard as he would’ve been five years ago. He yawned despite the urgency of the situation. If someone were really trying to kill him, perhaps knocking first wouldn’t have been the best course of action. Whoever got through the wards of his and Ginny’s country cottage must’ve been a person he knew well anyway. Either that — or a skilled dark wizard on the run had discovered his address, still had their wand, and made it all the way here to curse him.

      Needless to say, he wasn’t as worried as he could’ve been.

      Ginny was out — travelling with the Harpies to an international match in Denmark — so it was just Harry who stumbled to the door in his pajamas, swiping his wand across the entryway until a small peep hole appeared for him to look through. Outside stood the lanky figure of his best friend. Ron’s hair was nearly as messy as Harry’s and his eyes were slightly bloodshot. Harry sighed and put his hand on the doorknob, waiting. He spoke through the frame. ❛ Where did I take the egg during our fourth year to hear the merpeople’s song? ❜

            Petunia had arrived well ahead of time, planning to have a cup of tea by herself first. To steal her nerves—and to make it seem less like she had been stood up if Harry didn’t come. A  possibility, even a likelihood she would not have blamed him for and she was aware she likely deserved, yet she wasn’t so changed as to be able to bear the pitying looks and sympathy for the woman obviously waiting for someone not coming. Thus she’d settled in at the corner table, ordered her first cup of tea, and pulled out her iPod, a Christmas gift from Dudley. 

No one was going to look strange at a woman who left after spending a half hour and a cup of tea in quiet, seemingly peaceful, escape. 

That didn’t mean Petunia wasn’t watching the time, picking up the iPod every so often to light up the screen and show the time, or that her head didn’t jerk every time the door gave its opening jingle. The time Harry had set came and went, with Petunia contemplating a second cup and one of those pastries on display at the counter to keep her company, when the door opened with the bell and her head, almost habitually now, jerked up. 

He was taller now, and had grown some scruffy approximation of a beard, but he still had that wary expression on his face, mixed with uncertainty, as their eyes met. And those eyes—those would never change, would they? Her own gaze dropped for a moment as he sat down, fingers tightening on the teacup, before she looked up once more. “Hello Harry.” And with that, she stalled out for a long moment, not knowing what to say, floundering for the right words that wouldn’t come. In the end, she went with the thought that had plagued her so much over the years, that had always gone unsaid. 

“ … your eyes are just like your mother’s.” 

       The first thing after hello out of his aunt’s mouth was about his mother. Harry instantly stiffened. The only mentioned of either Lily or James growing up had been when Aunt Marge came to visit and they were insulted — or just a simple mention of how reckless they were to have gotten into a car crash. That was it. As a child, Harry had been starved for information. And, even after Hogwarts and he got to learn more about them, it never seemed like enough. He didn’t have a lot of time with Sirius to hear his stories — and Remus was always more distant with his information. But Petunia, well, she could’ve filled Harry’s head with the words he needed, but she’d decided not to.

      And now — it did mean something that she was finally saying anything. But this wasn’t news to Harry and he wondered if she even knew that. They grew so far apart the moment he got that letter that she had no clue who he met in the Wizarding World. She had no idea that it was others who told him that first. ❛ So I’ve heard. ❜ His tone was flat, apathetic. And he had a sick sort of rush that he could shut her down in that moment as she had to him for years.

Harry, 

   This is a short letter, because if there are the right words, I don’t know what they are. The best I can do is I am sorry, and the confession that I know that isn’t enough. You deserved a better childhood than what I gave you. I have no pretensions to an ability to make up for that. But I can offer you something I think you’d like. Something I should have done a long time ago. 

I would like to talk to you about your mother. Tell you things about her. What she was like as a little girl. I’ve enclosed some photos for you of her. I don’t have many, but these are all of them. You should have them. 

Also enclosed is an address. There is a small cafe there, quiet, out of the way. I would be happy to meet you there and tell you all about Lily. Your mother was an amazing woman. 

Sincerely Petunia Evans

        Harry was nervous and hated that fact. He’d spent years trying to move on from everything from his past — the cupboard, the Dursleys, the war — and, upon receiving his aunt’s letter, it had all rushed back. He could tell Ginny knew he was struggling with this, but she’d been supportive with whatever he’d decided to do. For a few days, he’d decided that no, he wasn’t going. He didn’t own Petunia Dursley anything. But it wouldn’t leave his mind. The idea of hearing about his mother was too tantalizing and, if he were being honest, he wanted to sit in front of his aunt and show her the kind of man he became without her help.

        So he’d sent a simple letter back through the muggle mail — just a few sentences with a date and time he would meet her at the café. But now, standing outside the doors, he felt both like bailing and striding in there with his head held high. He was a Gryffindor, for Merlin’s sake — he could do this. Part of him couldn’t let go of the thought that she wouldn’t be here. That she’d do the Dursley thing and say that Harry’s suggested time wouldn’t work for her. Their time had always been more valuable than his.

The throbbing behind her eye sharpened into something more urgent even as she started to say, “I don’t have a lot of time right now James.” But only half of the sentence got out before that urgency burst over her, releasing that worry she’d pushed aside the moment before. Lily wasn’t with him, and he needed to talk to her. Lily wasn’t with him, and Harry was, and he needed to talk to her. 

That was enough to tell her something terrible had happened, and she was astute enough to be able to divine what that terrible thing was. Fingers gripping the doorframe tight, all the blood drained from her face, leaving her a fragile white colour. For once, she wasn’t thinking about the neighbors, about Vernon, what they would think to see this scruffy man on her doorstep. Instead, she took a deep breath and stepped back, letting James in. 

“Dudley.” Her throat hurt even to say that, it felt so constricted with holding something back. “Why don’t you take your cousin Harry and show him your room, and your new car toy?” She felt her son start to mount a sullen protest, and she stiffened, mind jumping to the tantrum that was surely coming. But then something turned, and she felt Dudley press against her leg in a brief hug before he turned to start of the stairs. “Go on Harry. Your Da and I will be right down stairs.” And as the other toddler wiggled down, her eyes didn’t leave James’s. Petunia waited until two pairs of footsteps had clambered up the stairs before she turned into the sitting room. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to sit down. “Would you like some tea?” 

       They were invited in and James watched as his son was instructed to leave with his cousin. His heart raced irrationally the moment Harry began to toddle to Dudley’s room to look at… a toy car? While James had no idea what one of those toys would do, that wasn’t the reason for the panic. It was about not being in the same room as Harry. Only a few months ago, his son was targeted by the darkest wizard of all time. Harry had nearly died. The scar on his forehead to prove it.

      But James also knew that he didn’t need to have this conversation with the kids in the room. It would be hard enough to tell Petunia what happened to her sister — hard enough to tell her it happened two months ago — hard enough to tell her that she’d missed the funeral. So he let Harry go and sat himself on the paisley couch ( Lily would’ve hated this thing ) to wait for his sister-in-law to join him.

      Petunia didn’t sit, though, causing James to have to look up at her with his hands crossed in front of him. He shook his head at her mention of tea. If he didn’t do this now, he’d lose his nerve. The last several months had definitely been a test to his Gryffindor traits. He didn’t feel brave in this moment — just weary, tired, sad. ❛ Listen, Petunia — Lily’s dead. ❜ He winced at his own words, could feel a familiar burning behind his eyes. He’d said it so bluntly, but he also didn’t know how else to say it. James hadn’t really needed to tell anyone else about this. They just knew. Everyone in their world knew.

Twelve had felt lonely without him, his ghost hanging behind her everywhere she went. She always had a sense that it was one of the reasons Haymitch hovered at times, knowing the sense of loss she felt at every turn. 

Peeta, unlike many of her ghosts, wasn’t actually a departed soul. But before his travel back to the district, it felt as though he had become one. And each night when she slept, the nightmares followed a specific pattern to the people she had lost, graphically watching them disappear before her eyes. They had all given so much and for what? It seemed at times that Katniss so easily forgot that the war had happened and that she hadn’t just caused a genocide by existing in a rebellious way. The mind played odd tricks it seemed, ones that took Katniss a moment to focus into to. 

“Out of the three of us, you’re the one who needs the least amount of eyes watching,” she let out a short laugh to the thought, her tongue running on her bottom teeth. Even now, after everything he had been through, a part of her still saw him as the most put together, the survivor of them all. “Lord knows he needs it,” she replied simply, unaware of his visits to Haymitch’s either. 

“Panem is the wild now,” she answered honestly, the thoughts of the wild always competing for the nostalgia she had for the home she lived now. “But… I like this house too much. It’s quiet and I don’t think that sort of peace can be found anywhere else,” her words were honest, fingers running against his shirt in the subconscious comfort she found. The Katniss she used to know would give anything for a life in the wild, disconnection to everything she had been so entwined in. But now, she wanted something different, something more. She wanted peace, quiet in a house she admired, and through it all, where they were now was just that. The house, like her, had seen war and still managed to exist a bit through. It had scares and it was worn, but it was nice nonetheless. It’s creeks and noises of the night made a simplistic mirror to that of Katniss when the moon shown. This house was her life now in a sense, something of which she didn’t want to let go of.

Her train of thought to the nostalgia of the girl she used to be and the one in the bed now quickly faltered to his words, eyes looking quietly into his. The fierceness that resided in his words at her own subconscious toil towards herself reminded her once again that in the world, he saw more good than she could ever see. And as she listened, she nodded quietly, words not finding themselves in the combination of loathing and understanding she felt towards it all. Instead, she pressed a simple, short kiss to his jaw before placing her head back on his chest. 

“Together then,” she replied simply, the only words she could muster in agreement. “We’ve always done better that way.”

       It’s ironic to hear that she thinks he needs the least amount of watching when it is him that turns into a homicidal maniac from time to time. But he decides not to say anything. He wants to her trust him. To view him as put together. To let him take care of her — even when he doesn’t always get the full chance to take care of himself. But Peeta is working on it and he doesn’t believe it’s one or the other. He can help himself and her and Haymitch. They’re a family.

      His lips quirk softly at her confession to feeling as though Panem is wild now. ❛ It’ll get better. ❜ It’s optimistic, but it’s also the truth. He saw the various cities as he rode the trains back home. He sees the progress that District Twelve has already made in his few weeks here. They’re all working on making this place not reminiscent of the war that destroyed everything. His parents and brothers are buried in that land and grass is slowly replacing the memory of bones. It’s beautiful, in a way, at the promise of a resilient world. ❛ Don’t go anywhere and you’ll see. ❜

      ❛ But, if you do, I’ll be right there with you. ❜ And then she says it and he feels his heart flutter, goosebumps raise onto his arms. Together.

      His agreement is a whisper. ❛ Always.❜ Real.

      He’s still there in the morning and is proud to see that the nightmares hadn’t turned him into something he’s not. Slowly, he makes his way from the bed, leg aching at where he hadn’t taken off the artificial part. It causes him to limp slightly, but he makes his way downstairs to start the bread. There’s no bakery anymore, but Peeta has still taken it upon himself to bake for the citizens of Twelve from his home. But Katniss has practically nothing in her cupboards and he sighs warily before finding something to write a note to tell her where he’s gone.

      Slowly, he makes his way a few houses down and bake into his own place. Still wearing only the bare minimum from the night before, he begins the baking process for the morning. It’s soothing — something Dr. Aurelius calls a coping mechanism — and it comes so second-nature to him that he lets his mind wander back to falling asleep with Katniss.

      Her bare legs brushed against his. Her head on his chest. His arm falling asleep around her, but not willing to move it. It all gives him hope.

He was talking and she didn’t know what he was saying, but that didn’t matter because he was talking and that meant he was breathing, which was as good a sign of life as any she could hope for—that or bleeding (bleeding was good, bleeding meant they were alive, bleeding meant there was something she could treat.) 

There was certainly plenty of blood on him, but the brown flaky dry stuff that mixed with dirt and grime and told her it wasn’t his blood. Some part of her noted ‘Benjy,’ and thought it must be Benjy’s. Or all that was left of Benjy. But that was a distant part, a part tucked away in favour of closing the door and gathering James close to her, holding tight as she took a few deep breaths, basking in the relief. 

               These were the moment you had to live for. The moments of life. Losing them meant losing everything. 

It wasn’t as difficult as one might have thought, manuvering their tangle of arms and legs down the hall into the bathroom. Harder was getting him to let go of her long enough to strip him out of the dirty clothes; she had to turn on the water with one hand, the other curled in his hair (she’d have to cut some of the knots out, she could already tell). Finally they were in a new calm, sitting in the tub as the water poured down, washing everything else away. She held his hands, kept him grounded, breathed with him through it, her forehead pressed to him, until he’d come down enough to at least be somewhat coherent. 

“You’re alive. That’s what matters.” 

       He moved between an abnormal sort of silence and sharing pieces of information that didn’t quite make sense without the whole story as she helped him out of his robes and into the bathtub, the water from the shower falling onto them both. James gasped his breaths, let the water spray into his mouth, and watched as Benjy swirled down the drain. These were the kind of days that made the war seem impossible — seem as though nothing they did helped at all.

      Tomorrow, he would be called to Dumbledore to debrief the failed mission. They would meet with the Order and he’d have to break the news about their fallen comrade. He’d have to go back to being a father and putting on a smile because he didn’t want his children thinking they couldn’t live in this world. But, tonight, it felt hopeless. Voldemort was gaining more followers every day, while the Order watched people die in battle for the greater good.

      He thought about the newest recruits. Fresh out of Hogwarts, a fire in their eyes that James himself remembered clearly. Back then, he thought that he and his friends could conquer everything. He was only twenty-five, but he felt so old. Soon, one of those newcomers would die too and he’d see the same pattern as all the years before them. A deepened passion for a while before it turns to a weary sort of commitment. James would never stop fighting, but that didn’t mean he felt the same sort of optimism as he once had.

      His breathing steadied with Lily’s hands around him, their foreheads pressed against one another. His shoulder had begun to ache the calmer he felt and he thought he might have sprained something, but a simple spell could fix most of his injuries, while no amount of magic would have been able to bring back Benjy.

                                                He considered himself lucky.

closed starter for @survivalworn​

returning to school, well, to her, had been one giant mistake. in fact, the only reason ginny had gone to complete her final year, was due to her mother insisting that she complete her newts, despite already securing a position on the holy head harpies. much to her annoyance, && her mother’s satisfaction, she reenrolled, doing her best to achieve decent marks. this, however, proved tough when every corner of the school reminded her of the year the carrows ran amuck, && each && every time she sat in the great hall, she remembered finding her brother in their – lifeless. life without fred was still empty && pointless, but she was slowly pulling herself out of the hole she was in earlier this year, which in part could be thanks to being quidditch captain && getting to fly a broom whenever she wanted (( the one thing that made her feel somewhat like herself again. ))

the burrow was decorated to the nines this year, she noted, entering the living room with her travel bag over her shoulder. this was of course due to her mother throwing herself into the holiday to avoid missing fred. her family as a whole each had a different coping mechanism, though none were exactly the healthiest. her eyes wandered around the room, counting the number of stockings – her heart fell, noticing that there was one missing, the giant stocking embroidered with the letter ‘ f ’ was gone. dropping her bag to the floor, a heavy sigh could be heard escaping her mouth, head shaking slightly in disbelief. it had already been six months without fred, yet it felt like worlds longer.  trying to forget about her departed brother, she walked into the kitchen, knowing there had to be something to eat. her mother warned her not to fill up on sweets since she was hosting a rather large dinner tonight to celebrate her coming home, which in a way, gave her something to be excited about. she hadn’t seen her brothers in months, so this family dinner could be good. what took her off guard though, was seeing harry potter standing in her kitchen. of course, she wasn’t completely surprised – her mother viewed harry as one of her own, so naturally he && hermione would be invited to a family dinner, but ginny hadn’t spoken to harry in months, so seeing him so soon && without warning caused her heart to stop momentarily, her mouth widened slightly in shock.  “   harry !   ”   she exclaimed, though her tone wasn’t all that telling. it wasn’t displaying any type of emotion other than shock.   “   i wasn’t expecting to see you here.    ”   she simply stated the obvious, not daring to get all that close to him. while they weren’t on bad terms, they were no longer dating, so ginny wasn’t entirely sure of what was normal && what was overstepping boundaries. she tried to be mindful of that.    “   uh, how’ve you, er been?   ”   not one to usually be at a loss of words, she was trying her hardest to fill up the uncomfortable silence.  

       The Burrow felt both as though he were stepping foot into a stranger’s place and his own home. It had been a few months since he’d come around last — since Ron could drag him from Grimmauld Place and to one of the dinners with the Weasleys — and Harry’s heart raced the moment he stepped through the threshold. With all the decorations for the Christmas holidays, the place reminds him a bit of Hogwarts, too. But both places held memories of death, which clouded the rest of the good ones. That sense of belonging.

      But mostly, with the Burrow, came guilt. He was guilty for not stopping by more often. For making excuses whenever Ron tried to get him to come after training. For never apologizing for all the horrific things he’d brought into their lives. Most of all, though, he was guilt for Fred. The presence of the dead twin was everywhere. On the staircase, in the kitchen, at the table. In George.

      It was because of Harry that the war fell so fully into his household. And he could still remember Mrs. Weasley’s wails as they’d buried her son. Standing stoically next to the grave himself. Then the paparazzi trying to hunt them down after. It had been because of him. Harry had watched Fred take that last breath and had left his body in the corridor, moving to the next Horcrux, the next mission, with Ron’s tears streaming down his cheeks. Harry could barely step foot in this house — once so loved — without that guilt trying to claw its way into his chest, suffocating his heart. Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Hedwig, Colin… the list could go on. Harry could picture hundreds of fireplaces with hundreds of missing stockings because of the war he’d allowed.

      If only he’d found the Hocruxes sooner. If only he’d gone off to die earlier in the night…

      The thoughts raced through his head, even with Mrs. Weasley’s gracious hug, tears in her eyes, hands on his hair, trying to flatten it. The closest thing to mother he would likely ever get and he could barely look her in the eyes. Ron grasped at his shoulder before he and his mother made their way out of the kitchen, leaving Harry alone. He looked up at the mistletoe hanging above the sink and let an ironic smile fall onto his lips. Even with his feet half ready to run, this place was better than the Dursleys.

      But then a voice startled him from behind, causing him to jump and turn, his wand ( ever-present in his reach ) lifted for battle. It took a beat before he realized who he was staring at and his lungs began to work properly. He lowered the wand, but kept it in his grasp. ❛ Ginny! ❜ Merlin, she looked beautiful. ❛ Well I, uh, figured I’d see you here. ❜

      Her question was simple and it was almost as though they hadn’t shared his happiest months together at all. ❛ I’m fine. ❜ The answer always on the tip of his tongue. ❛ I hear Gryffindor’s in the lead to win the Cup this year. Well done. ❜ Quidditch was one thing they could always agree on.