Working Through the Rest

A Nice Day

We are silent for a long time as we climb up the hill slowly, the sun shining on our faces. Part of me regrets wearing my hoodie, but I don't take it off. As we reach the top, we stop, looking out at the view.
"So," dad says, "are you ready?"
"Ready for what?"
"Well," dad launches into what I assume is a prepared speech, "there's the fourth-year exams – then the fifth year – big year – in my fifth again I did–"

He cuts himself off, looking at me. I don't say anything, staring awkwardly at the ground. He keeps rambling, a little more slowly.
"I did a lot of stuff," he says. "Some of it good. Some of it bad. A lot of it quite confusing."
"Good to know," I mumble.

Dad smiles and I look away awkwardly, searching for something to talk about. For some reason, my mind lands on Godric's Hollow. So that's what I talk about.
"I got to watch them," I say quietly, "you know – for a bit – your mum and dad. They were – you had fun together. Your dad used to love to do this smoke ring thing with you where you..." I trail off. "Well, you couldn't stop giggling."
"Yes?"
"I think you'd have liked them. And I think their grandchildren would have liked them too."

Dad nods slowly and I swallow. At this point, I have run out of things to say, and I'm waiting. As is he, I think.
"You know," he says, very quietly, "I thought I'd lost him – Voldemort – I thought I'd lost him – and then my scar started hurting again and I had dreams of him and I could even speak Parseltongue again and I started to feel like I'd not changed at all – that he'd never let me go–"
"And had he?"
"The part of me that was Voldemort died a long time ago," dad nods, "but it wasn't enough to be physically rid of him – I had to be mentally rid of him. And now I am. And that – that is a lot to learn for a forty-year-old man."

He looks at me and I don't say anything. I don't know whether he expects me to. I hope he doesn't.
"That thing I said to you," he said suddenly, "it was unforgiveable – and I can't ask you to forget it, but I'm going to try to be a better dad for you Albus. I am going to try and – be honest with you and..."
"Dad," I'm mumbling again, "you don't need to–"
"You told me you don't thing I'm scared of anything," dad sounds as if he's starting to cry, "and that – I mean, I'm scared of everything. I'm scared of that dark, did you know that?"
"Harry Potter is afraid of the dark?"
"I don't like small spaces," dad is very quiet now, "and – I've never told anyone this but I don't much like," he pauses, "pigeons."
"You don't like pigeons?" I smile slightly.
"Nasty pecky, dirty things," dad wrinkles his nose. "They give me the creeps."
"But pigeons are harmless," I find myself laughing.
"I know," dad chuckles. "But the thing that scares me most, Albus Severus Potter, is being a dad to you. Because I'm operating without wires here. Most people at least have a dad to base themselves on – and either try to be or try not to be. I've got nothing – or very little. So, I'm learning, okay? And I'm going to try with everything I've got – to be a good dad for you."
"And I'm going to try and be a better son. I know I'm not James, dad. I'll never be like you two–"
"James is nothing like me."
"Isn't he?"
"Everything comes easy for James," dad says. "My childhood was a constant struggle."
"So was mine," I cut myself off. "So you're saying – am I – like you?"
Dad smiles at me. "Actually, you're more like your mum – bold, fierce, funny – which I love – which I think makes you a pretty great son."

I don't reply, a lump starting to form in my throat, I keep thinking about one thing. I keep seeing one thing. Over and over and over.
"I almost destroyed the world," I blink back tears.
"Hey, hey," dad puts a hand on my shoulder. "Delphi wasn't going anywhere, Albus – you brought her out into the light. You found a way for us to fight her. You may not see it now, but you saved us."
"But shouldn't I have done better?"
"You don't think I ask myself the same questions?"
"And then," my stomach begins to sink, "when we caught her – I just wanted to kill her."

I wish I hadn't said anything. Everything I did was one huge, fucked-up mistake. All of it. Because I got angry and couldn't control myself.
"You watched her murder Craig," dad says gently, "you were angry, Albus, and that's okay. And you wouldn't have done it."
"How do you know that?" I snap quietly. "Maybe that's my Slytherin side. Maybe that's what the Sorting Hat saw in me."
"I don't understand much about your head, Albus," dad looks at me, "you know what, you're a teenager. I shouldn't be able to understand your head, but I do understand your heart."

I nod, taking a slight step backwards. Whether or not it's intentional, I don't know, but he's slipping back to anger. I don't say anything.
"I didn't," he continues, "for a long time – but thanks to this – I know what you've got in there. Slytherin, Gryffindor, whatever label you've been given – I know that heart is a good one." He laughs. "Yeah, whether you like it or not, you're on your way to being some wizard."
"Oh, I'm not going to be a wizard," I grin. "I'm going into pigeon racing. I'm quite excited about it."

Dad laughs and then there's another silence. We don't know what we're doing. It's almost embarrassing. But it isn't because it's been like this for years.
"Those names you have – they shouldn't be a burden," dad says. "Albus Dumbledore had his trials too, you know – and Severus Snape, well you know all about him."
"They were good men," I nod.
"They were great men," dad says, "with huge flaws, and you know what? Those flaws almost made them greater."

I nod again, looking around. We've stopped walking and we're standing in the middle of a series of graves.
"Dad? Why are we here?"
"This is where I often come."
"But this is a graveyard."
"And here is Cedric's grave."
"Dad?" I look at him to see he's crying and I bite my lip; I understand.
"The boy who was killed," dad murmurs, "Craig Bowker – how well did you know him?"
"Not well enough."

Truth.

"I didn't know Cedric well enough, either. He could have played Quidditch for England. Or been a brilliant Healer. He could have been anything. And Amos is right – he was stolen. So I come here. Just to say sorry. When I can."
"That's a good thing to do," I mumble.
Dad looks at me, smiling through tears. "I think it's going to be a nice day."

I walk over to him, leaning in slightly. Dad puts his arm around me and I look upwards to the sky. It's comforting. It's unfamiliar. But it is something I would love to get used to.
"So do I," I smile.