“It was small, the spectre. Larger than a child, but smaller than even a teenager, like some odd dwarf of fables. It was thin, skeletally so, and pale. It’s eyes were dark holes, and its mouth was an empty void from which emanated an unearthly whisper, like dry wind over desert sands. It was clothed in rags and scraps of linen, never enough to hide its deathly frame.”
“That was how Harry described it to me, his shadow. It always followed him, never left him, always just in the corner of his eye, barely in view. Sometimes it came closer. In times of hurt and despair. Whenever he felt alone, it would draw nearer. It never spoke, never did a thing, but its presence was enough to numb him to the world.”
“It was in his third year that it came to him in his dreams for the first time. After he encountered the dementors on the train to Hogwarts, it appeared in his sleep. Not standing, but walking. Slowly moving closer from the distance in a cold room filled with fog. It would near him and he would hear the whispers of wind, and it would hold out its hand to him. He never took it, not once. Not until the end.”
“It came close to him at other times as well, at his lowest points it would appear. Always there, offering a hand that no one else could see. He would find the strength to rise, to move away, to return to the fight, and the spectre would disappear.”
Hermione looked over at her, trepidation painted across her face.
“Did you, did you ever see it?”
Fleur shook her head. Not even when Harry had lay dying in her arms did she see it, but he had. She had watched his eyes, unfocused and distant, unable to see her right in front of him, focus on something right beside her. He had reached out a hand into thin air, moving as if to grasp someone else’s, and then he had died.
“Not a single time.”
Fleur felt a tear slip free from her control, sliding down the left side of her face. She let out a shaky laugh and wiped it away, smiling morosely and looking up at the sky, blinking rapidly.
“He never knew what it was. Never even guessed, if you can believe it.”
Hermione frowned.
“But surely… surely he must have had some idea?”
Fleur shook her head again, taking in the image of the mirrored waters of the black lake before her.
“I think he did not need to. I think… I think he was grateful for it.”
Fleur didn’t need to look to see the frown crossing Hermione’s lips and brow, and she spoke again before the bushy haired witch could respond.
“He was tired. So very, very tired.”
Fleur turned to look at Hermione for the first time since the other witch had sat down half an hour previous. Taking in the gaunt features of the woman who had led the efforts to protect the muggleborns and their families while Harry hunted down the dark lord's anchors of immortality. She was struck by how very weathered she looked. Only eighteen, but aged beyond her years.
“Harry was always tired.”
Fleur nodded at Hermione’s statement. It was true, Harry had always seemed like he was carrying a great weight with him wherever he went. Yet he had always soldiered on. She had asked him how he did it once, in this very spot secluded from the world with only the water in view. She had been at her lowest point, and Harry at his. He was her best friend, and so she had gone to him despite knowing that he would have no more comfort to offer than she did.
“He was, but he always had a reason to keep going.”
“Are you saying that he didn’t have a reason to live?”
Fleur smiled sadly at the sharp, fragile tone of Hermione’s words.
“You were the best friend he could have asked for Hermione, but some scars go too deep.”
“But, but he did it. Voldemort is dead, I don’t… He saved our world so why… why?”
Hermione trailed off. The loss too recent, the pain too sharp to continue.
“Harry did save the world, but he didn’t do it for himself.”
They sat there for a while longer. The two witches, the closest friends of the late Harry Potter, taking silent comfort in the fact that they weren’t alone.
“Why did he leave us Fleur?”
The question was quiet, barely a whisper, but there was no other sound to hear.
“He didn’t, not for forever.”
Hermione looked up at her, her brown eyes gleaming with unshed tears. Fleur felt her own begin to flow freely now, streaming down her cheeks in hot rivers.
“He- he smiled, you know, at the end. Like, like he was greeting an old friend.”
She broke down.
Fleur felt Hermione’s arms wrap around her tightly, a fierce embrace that she would always associate with her. She could remember it clearly, vividly. The sight of it was seared into the backs of her eyelids, the memory of it more real than the earth beneath her. Harry’s face as he died, truly relaxed for the first time she could recall. Harry had smiled often when he was alive. Wry amusement, mischief, tired irony, all were familiar sights on his face, but she had never seen that smile before. Not on his face or any other.
“W-what, what did it look like?”
Hermione’s question was barely intelligible through the hiccups wracking her too slender frame, but she understood and did her best to answer.
“It, it l-looked like he was at peace.”
She breathed deeply, the shuddering gasps becoming more and more regulated as she got her shaking under control. She blinked, and the momentary sight of Harry’s contented smile threatened to trigger the sobs once again. With a monumental effort of will, Fleur straightened her back and wrapped her arms around Hermione. Bringing her in close, she tucked her head of bushy hair under her chin, staring out at the lake once again, leaving the tear tracks on her cheeks to dry as she held the other witch tightly to her, feeling more than hearing the heaving gasps and sobs rocking the younger woman’s frame.
“He was at peace.”