The After Life

No Long Goodbyes

The portrait was nearly twenty feet tall. Harry looked up at it and wanted to be physically sick. It was a fairly accurate rendering, except for the one, glaring mistake in the detail that had Harry's insides roiling. He was there, well depicted. Stockier and stronger than in reality, but he wasn't about to correct that. Voldemort was there too, his slit-like red eyes unsettlingly real. It was the moment of his defeat, that momentous point in time that in a few hours witches and wizards from all over the country would arrive at Hogwarts to celebrate, reflected in magical paint and ink.

What Harry couldn't stomach were the actions of his moving facsimile.

It was casting a spell with an acid green tail. Harry didn't want this on display at all.

"That wasn't how it happened," he'd protested when the portrait first arrived. "I didn't -"

"Everyone knows that," said Alexandra Woodhouse, the artist, abruptly cutting him off. "This is just dramatic reinterpretation. Happens all the time. It just looks better. And it's only for one night. People wont notice the finer details."

Harry wasn't so sure. As he considered the painting, standing where the teachers' high table normally was, he greatly doubted this assertion. It was the centrepiece of the room, an altar for reverence and celebration. Everyone would be looking at it. Worse still, a small side table had been placed next to it, with a large ledger propped open on a stand, and a handsome eagle-feather quill and inkpot for company. A Book of Thanks. For everyone to scribble their words of appreciation. For Harry. A memento of his victory.

As though he wanted to remember it forever.

He shuddered as he thought of it. They'd want him to sit nearby, he was sure of that. As much on display as the huge painting. People would be queueing to shake his hand, maybe ask for an autograph, or worse. He'd already had two marriage proposals from witches he'd never met. And then people would want him to recount the event, relive the battle again and again. Maybe even make a speech. Oh, they would definitely expect a speech. As though he had suddenly become a great orator since he'd committed a murder. They'd look to him for all sorts of things. But they'd have to look a long time.

Because Harry intended to be a long way away by the time any of this happened.

It had taken a few days to get things in order. His few possessions didn't take long to pack. Most of his clothes were still at Privet Drive, stored in his trunk since the end of his sixth year at Hogwarts. He'd mail ordered some new Muggle things, he'd need them where he was going. These were now stashed neatly away in a magically-modified man-bag (they were all the fashion, apparently) along with anything of value Harry had left in his dorm at Hogwarts. His Firebolt was there, too, lying on his bed next to the silvery Invisibility Cloak he'd inherited from his father, and a wad of Muggle money.

Everything was ready. Harry could leave right now.

But he was waiting for something. The moment was fast approaching, Harry knew that. He felt there was another loose end he had to tie up, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. He hoped the realisation would just come to him when the time was right. So for now he just meandered around the castle, watching the final preparations for the party being put into place.

Party. Harry spat at the notion. It would be more fitting for a memorial. Harry might have stayed for that. A remembrance service for those who had died in this struggle against darkness. Those who had pointlessly given their lives when it was Harry's task in the end. It had always been his task. Written in prophecy, set in destiny. Why had anyone else even bothered? Why had they raised their wands? Why hadn't Harry just been better for them, or Dumbledore more active in his pursuit of the Dark Lord?