Future

(The Train to Nowhere)

This drabble contains spoilers.

–

“If,” Harry says, and Filippa looks up at him. The sunlight sweeping in through the windows bathes her in its glow, and yet it does nothing to make her look happier. Because she isn’t. Happy. At all. The ongoing, drawn-out war has left its mark on all of them.

“If?” she repeats, mouth drawn into a bitter smile, the exhaustion on her face telling Harry a story of nights spent worrying rather than resting. “If what?”

“If I don’t come back,” Harry says, and reaches for her.

“Don’t,” Filippa whispers, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around him. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s a possibility,” Harry admits. “If I don’t come back, I want you to be okay.”

“Harry-”

“Listen. It’s. You’re my truest friend, Filippa. No matter what happens, I want you to be happy in the end. I want you to try, okay? Try and try until you succeed.”

“What you’ll be doing is madness, though,” Filippa says, holding back her tears. “Harry-”

“I want you to have a future,” Harry tells her. “A happy one. Regardless of what happens, I want you to survive. I want you to stay safe and survive and live old and be happy.”

“Don’t speak as if you already know your fate, please,” Filippa pleads. “If you want me to grow old and happy and find peace, you must come back. Harry, you’re my best friend. A future without you, do you know what that will be like?” Her voice is shaky when she continues:

“We’ve already lost so many of our friends, and together, helping one another, we have been able to keep going on. But if you’re gone, too, I will not… I cannot…" Her voice breaks and she takes deep breaths, fighting her tears.

"The future,” Harry tells her, finally letting her go and stepping away. “I want you to have that. For… for everyone. For every friend of ours who lost his or her chance to have a future. Please. Please. Don’t give up on tomorrow.”

Promise

(The Train to Nowhere)

This drabble is a deleted scene.

–

“You promised,” Harry says, swallowing his tears and trying to ignore the smell of stale beer and spilled wine filling the room. James is pale, in yesterday’s clothes, with bruises under his eyes. He’s sitting on the couch and Harry doubts that the man could stand up even if he wanted to.

“Don’t shout,” James says. His voice hoarse and he’s squinting. “Is it morning already?”

“You,” Harry starts, but doesn’t know how to continue. There are so many ugly words and thougths inside him, waiting to be spat out – but he knows he will regret saying those words in anger. The disappointment he feels is nearly overwhelming, and all he wants to do is to give up and leave. Go and forget this man. Forget his promises.

“You promised not to drink again,” Harry says finally, and James sighs, closing his eyes.

“Not for… forever, Harry.”

“You know what you meant. I know what you meant. You promised you’d stop this and you’re still here, doing that, getting drunk because that’s all you seem to be capable of anymore!” Harry’s voice gets steadily louder as he speaks, and the last few words are loud enough to make James cringe.

“Don’t shout at me,” James tells him. “I’m… I’m your father.”

The words I wish you weren’t would have been so easy to say, and they would have hurt James so much, and yet Harry couldn’t say them. He wants to – a part of him wants that more than anything else, but he remains silent.

“This is nothing,” James continues. “Just a little drink, Harry, I’m not… I’m not what you think I am.”

“An alcoholic?” Harry asks coolly. “I know what you are.” James looks at him then, and Harry sees how old his father looks. Heavy drinking and so much stress and grief have taken their toll, and Harry wishes he knew how to fix this – how to fix anything. But he doesn’t.

“You promised me to stop this,” Harry repeats again. “You said you’d get help. Two days ago, you… liar.”

“I will,” James is quick to tell him. He leans forward and doesn’t push away the bottle of sherry. “Tomorrow I’ll-”

“Don’t bother,” Harry interrupts, and takes a step away. “Stop tellin me that you’ll stop tomorrow if you know very well that you won’t. I don’t want to hear it. I won’t be here to hear it. I… I’m going to leave.”

“You’d abandon me?” James asks, and Harry shakes his head and turns away. “You’d abandon your own father?”

“There’s no one left for me to abandon.”

Look

(The Train to Nowhere)

This drabble contains spoilers.

–

She recognizes him instantly.

Even through the rain, she can see him clearly. He’s shorter than Dudley, and very, very skinny. Doesn’t Lily feed her child enough? The boy’s hair is just as black and unruly as his father’s, and when he turns, Petunia sees a familiar pair of green eyes.

The child – well, he’s Dudley’s age, isn’t he? Hardly a child anymore – looks lost. He’s dressed in a black suit with a green tie, and looks like a wealthy, respectable young man.

Wealthy he might be, Petunia thinks, but respectable? He’s one of them. The other folk.

It’s no coincidence that the boy is in Surrey. Is he looking for her? Why? Does Petunia want to be found by him? The boy hasn’t seen her yet, and she really should stop staring, but that child right there is her nephew, and it feels so strange.

He looks tired. Exhausted. And not particularly happy. And then he sees her.

Maybe he would have turned away and went to look somewhere else, had it not been obvious that Petunia was staring at him. After a few moments of hesitation, he walks towards her. He’s nervous, it’s clear. He isn’t sure if Petunia is his aunt or not, and Petunia knows that she could, should, lie.

“Excuse me,” he says, and his voice is hoarse and tired and miserable, and Petunia says:

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

He swallows, his green eyes looking at her with too many emotions for her to name. He gives her a quivering, tearful smile.

“A long time ago,” he says.

“I’m not surprised,” Petunia tells him, and moves the umbrella to cover them both. The words tumble out of her mouth, as if she waited for years to say them aloud. “I told her, before she went off with your father. I told her that a fish may love a bird, but where would they live? She told me she’d learn to fly for him, but how long can a fish be out of water before it dies?”

Petunia then takes in a deep breath and pulls her nephew towards the car she had parked nearby. The boy comes with no resistance, and once again Petunia wonders if she should be doing this.

Only today. Vernon is on a trip anyway, he won’t even know about this. She’d take this boy home, feed him, see what his business is and then send him on his merry way.

And then forget about him, for good.

Denial

(The Train to Nowhere)

This drabble contains spoilers.

–

He wakes up, and the air is heavier in his lungs than it has ever been. His mouth is open and he’s trying to breathe, trying to surface from whatever swamp he unknowingly stepped into in his sleep.

He feels like he’s drowning, and there’s fear – irrational, unstoppable, uncontrollable fear – crawling beneath his skin, drinking his blood and squeezing his heart.

His whole body is trembling, shaking, and if there are tears, he surely would not care to notice them now.

Tom could feel his rusted clock of life ticking again, like a bomb waiting to explode. Each second makes his heart beat with a purpose Tom had witheld from it for decades. He knows what it means. He knows and yet he denies himself this knowledge. Turns away from it, refuses to acknowledge it. Pushes it away because it cannot be.

No, he tells himself.

No, he repeats.

No, he thinks.

No, he believes.

Harry would not do this to him. Not Harry.

Beginning

(The Train to Nowhere)

This drabble contains spoilers.

–

“Today it begins,” Björn says, grinning at Harry. His face is slightly flushed and he looks positively tipsy. “The rest of our lives. We’re graduating, man. Graduating!”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, and tries to smile. “Good for us.” The hall is crowded, the music is loud, the champagne ever-present and everyone looks happy. Harry isn’t. Doesn’t quite manage to be.

“Hey,” Björn starts, and sits down next to Harry. “It’s been one hell on a ride, huh. Sometimes I doubted that I’d ever get to this point. It’s been tough. But here we are.”

“Remember in the very beginning,” Harry says quietly. “There were ten of us. Ten. And now look at us who’re left to graduate – six.” Björn falls silent for a few long moments, before he sighs and shakes his head.

“You can’t keep thinking like that,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t think of that either. You know the circumstances. There’s nothing we can do anymore. About this, I mean. But there’s much else to do about many other things, Harry, and now that we’re out of school, we can… we can start.”

“Start what?” Harry asks, nearly breathlessly. His heart is beating fast in his chest and he remembers now, remembers that even if each one in their class is – or was – an extraordinary practicer of magic, the only genius is Björn.

People forget it so easily. Too easily. But facts, even if forgotten, remain facts. If there’s anyone who could figure Harry out and connect the dots even he doesn’t yet see, it’s Björn. Björn who spews off bad poetry but can memorize runes after a single glance. Björn who can’t quite manage to become the ladies man he claims to be, and yet can dissect and recreate spells at a moment’s notice.

“This is the beginning,” Björn repeats again, this time much more seriously. “Scary, isn’t it?”