Future Nostalgia / Harry Potter Fanfic

We've Had Time, Haven't we?

She looked nervous even saying the name.

"What about him?" asked Harry heavily, slumping back in his chair.

"Well, it's just as I was sort of right about the Half-Blood Prince business," she said tentatively.

"She's not saying it to rub it in, listen," said Estella, motioning for Hermione to talk.

"It's just that I was right about Eileen Prince once owning the book. You see...she was Snape's mother!"

"I thought she wasn't much of a looker," said Ron, and Estella laughed while Hermione ignored him.

"I don't know why he didn't turn you in," murmured Ron.

"I don't think we wanted to associate himself with that book," said Estella. "I don't think my grandfather would have liked it very much if he'd known. And even if Snape pretended it hadn't been his, Slughorn would have recognized his writing at once. I'll bet Dumbledore knew his mother was called 'Prince'."

Estella rose early to pack the next day; the Hogwarts Express would be leaving an hour after the funeral. Downstairs, she found the mood in the Great Hall subdued. Everybody was wearing their dress robes and no one seemed hungry. Professor McGonagall had left the throne-like chair in the middle of the staff table empty. Hagrid's chair was deserted too, but Snape's place had been unceremoniously filled by Scrimgeour. Estella had the uncomfortable feeling that Scrimgeour was looking at her. Among Scrimgeour's entourage, Estella spotted the red hair and horn-rimmed glasses of Percy Weasley. Ron gave no sign that he was aware of Percy, apart from stabbing pieces of kipper with unwonted venom.

"It's nearly time," said Professor McGonagall, who had risen to her feet. "Please follow your Heads of Houses out into the grounds. Gryffindors, after me."

They filed out from behind their benches in silence. Estella glimpsed Slughorn at the head of the Slytherin column, wearing magnificent, long, emerald green robes embroidered with silver. She had never seen Professor Sprout looking so clean; there was not a single patch on her hat, and when they reached the entrance hall, they found Madam Pince standing beside Filch, she was in a thick black veil that fell to her knees, Filch wore an ancient black suit and tie.

They were heading toward the lake. The warmth of the sun caressed her face as they followed Professor McGonagall in silence to the place where hundreds of chairs had been set out in rows. An aisle ran down the center of them: There was a marble table standing at the front, all chairs facing it. It was a beautiful summer's day.

An extraordinary assortment of people had already settled into half the chairs; shabby and smart, old and young. Most Estella did not recognize, but a few she did, including members of the Order of the Phoenix: Kingsley, Mad-Eye Moody; Tonks, her hair miraculously returned to most vivid pink; Lupin, with whom she seemed to be holding hands; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley; Bill supported by Fleur and followed by Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragon skin; Charlotte and Sienna, dressed in black, both wearing dresses and looking somber. There were so many more people Estella knew: Madame Maxime, Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron; Arbella Figg, Harry's Squib neighbor; the bass player from the Weird Sisters; Ermine Prang, driver of the Knight Bus; Madam Malkin, the barman of the Hog's Head, Madam Rosmerta, the witch who pushed the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. The castle ghosts were there too, barely visible in the bright sunlight.

Her father sat at the top next to an empty seat, the seat she'd take. Estella separated from her friends and made her way to the seat by her father, who took her hand.

He could tell she was nervous. People were whispering to each other and the crowd continued to swell. Fudge walked past toward the front rows, his expression miserable; Rita Skeeter, who Estella was ticked off to see, had a notebook clutched in her red-taloned hand, and then, with a worse jolt of fury, Dolores Umbridge, an unconvincing expression of grief on her face. At the sight of the centaur Firenze, who was standing like a sentinel near the water's edge, she gave a start and scurried hastily into a seat a good distance away.