What does one do whilst waiting to receive the fifth book? One
writes. And since my fifth book is arriving later than most, I've
decided to do something to fill in the space. One part self-
insertion, one part story continuation, a generous spoonful of
self-indulgent behaviour...consider this my rather belated entry
in the Sugar Quill's 'Unexpected Task' Challenge.

Standard disclaimers apply. Harry Potter, all related characters, and
various media incarnations are copyright of the very talented J. K.
Rowling, Bloomsbury, and other international companies involved in
its creation and distribution. Will Stanton and "The Dark Is Rising"
series are both copyright of the wonderful Susan Cooper. The
young woman in this story...well, no copyright is available, but
then again none is really necessary.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Valete
By: Gramarye

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Don't be dismayed at good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you
can meet again.

-- Richard Bach

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

If you go straight ahead when you walk out the door of Staircase B
in Second Court, Christ's College, Cambridge University, the path
will lead you through First Court, past the Porter's Lodge, and to
the high walls of the main gate. If you turn left, however, and wander
past the massive stone edifices of Third Court and the far more modern
building of New Court (which looks, oddly enough, almost exactly like
a giant typewriter), you will find a smaller gatehouse that leads to a side
street - King Street, as it's listed in the maps and guidebooks.

There hasn't been much foot traffic down King Street today, though
it is the middle of the high tourist season. The day's rain has kept even
the most determined of the summer trippers indoors. Nevertheless, the
pub directly across the street from the back gate of Christ's College
normally carries on a brisk business in the evenings - normally.

This evening happens to be different.

Tonight, the pub is quiet, practically deserted. There are only two
people in the main bar and restaurant area: the barman lounging
against the taps and a customer sitting at a corner table near the
window.

The barman - a postgraduate chemistry student looking to scrape
together enough money for a decent flat by the start of Michaelmas
Term - has long since ceased to pay attention to his only customer.
She has been sitting at the same table for well over an hour, and
in that time the level of her drink has not gone down very far. And
what a drink - sherry. Cream sherry. Harvey's bloody Bristol Cream
Sherry, one glass, without so much as a packet of crisps to go with
it. And not a word out of her since ordering it.

For lack of anything more interesting to occupy his attention, the
barman looks her up and down with the practised eye of the single
male university student. Age - early twenties, though could certainly
pass for older. Looks - not what he or his mates would call 'pretty',
but not unattractive. Personality - anyone's guess, though based on
her choice of drink his first guess would certainly include the word
'pretentious'.

The customer, unaware of his intense scrutiny, is lingering over her
one pretentious glass of sherry and staring off into space. Her brown
hair, thick and shoulder-length, is a bushy mass of loose and wavy
curls made frizzy by the humidity. She slouches slightly in her chair,
her long legs stretched out in front of her. The sherry sits untouched
on the table.

'May I join you?'

The young woman looks up, blinks her gaze back into focus, and
smiles.

'With pleasure,' she says, tucking her legs beneath her chair. She
glances over at the bar, where the barman appears to have gone to
sleep. 'What'll you have?'

The other chair scrapes along the floor as it is pulled out. 'Nothing,
thank you. After three cups of tea, I think I'm set for the night.'

'And how many cups did Harry have?'

'Three. But he also ate half the biscuits.'

She chuckles quietly. 'He probably thought it was going to be his
last meal before the execution.'

Her companion - a tallish man, mid-to-late-thirties, with spectacles
and a distinctly academic air about him - chuckles as well, though
the laughter is more rueful than amused. 'I'm not as bad as all that,
am I?'

The woman does not reply straight away. Instead, she picks up her
drink and gently swirls it, sending flecks of amber light dancing
across the table and in the depths of her dark brown eyes. She
glances up at the walls of the pub, where every available inch of
open space is covered with 'varsity sport memorabilia: clapped-
out sculls and moth-eaten cricket flannels vying for prominence
with broken oars and black-and-white photographs of champions
long forgotten.

She sighs.

'No,' she murmurs, more to herself than to him. 'No, you're not.'

The man studies her for a long moment, his blue-grey eyes critical
but not clinical. 'You're not going to start acting like Mr. Potter, I
hope.'

She looks up sharply. 'Good Lord, no. I'd hate to be that soppy.
And if that remark happens to mean that you're holding back on me
because you imagine I'm maudlin after half a glass of this stuff' -
she gestures with the sherry, sending it sloshing against the sides
of the glass - 'then don't. Do your worst, my dear professor.'

'My worst with what?' The man looks baffled; he folds his hands
on the table.

'Don't play coy. It doesn't suit you.' She takes a sip of her drink
and gazes at him imperiously. 'I've thrown you into a world that
contains a number of odd and occasionally creepy parallels to your
own early life, aged you by twenty-odd years and given you a hell
of a prior existence in the process - though no one would know that
unless they've read my other writings - and set you to work with none
other than Harry Potter and Company. I have been waiting for a year
and a half now for you to show up, raise one eyebrow in that way that
never fails to weaken my resolve, and then proceed to guilt me up one
wall and down the other.'

'Since when have you started channelling Arabella Figg?'

The woman flinches. She scowls ferociously at her companion. 'That
wasn't fair. I liked her.'

'And you didn't like Molly Weasley?'

The scowl deepens further, and the woman tosses back the contents
of her glass in one quick motion and stands, jaw tightly clenched.
'If you're going to be insulting about this - '

'Sit, sit.' The man waves her back to her chair, looking genuinely
contrite. 'No insult was meant, I assure you. Please pardon my
rudeness - it's been rather a long day.'

Mollified, the woman sits, irritably shoving her hair away from her
face at the same time.

'Hermione can at least magic her damned hair into submission, if she
wants to,' she mutters as she fiddles with the wayward strands. 'I can't
even manage a ponytail on days like these.'

The man blinks at the apparent non sequitur. 'I'm sorry?'

'Never mind.' Her hair somewhat in order, she turns back to him.
'So tell me what you think. You needn't worry about censoring
yourself. The story itself is over, and what's more it has just been
made redundant by the publication of our golden boy's actual fifth
year.'

'I wouldn't exactly say "redundant,"' the man demurs. 'After all, its
status as a crossover does give you a bit of leeway with the readership.'

'Point taken. But I honestly do want to know what you think - are
you at all sad to see this tale end? Or are you secretly thrilled to
have it over and done with?'

The man's mouth twitches. 'I don't think there's any good answer to
that question.'

'Then say what you think,' the woman replies with a lackadaisical
shrug. 'Take the advice that you so blithely quoted about half a year
ago - "Begin at the beginning, go on until you come to the end, then
stop." '

'Very well.' He leans forward; his face and tone both suddenly
quite serious. 'I think that you should be very proud for having
finished something that you yourself regarded as a monumental
undertaking, and that you should have no regrets about the writing.
No matter what you did to anyone in it - to myself, Mr. Potter, or
any of the others - it was never done with malice, or without
reason. Everything that happened should have happened. It's
as simple as that.' He taps the fingers of one hand against the
table. 'And if I'm not mistaken, the responses you've received
have reflected everything I've said.'

'So I've been told.' She glances down, rather shyly. One hand
steals up to toy with the hourglass pendant on the thin silver
necklace she is wearing. 'And I do feel proud, and so thankful
that I can't even begin to describe it. But...it's over.'

'And where have you ended it?' The man fixes her with a look
that would have panicked someone less accustomed to receiving
it. 'Tom Riddle and the power of the Dark within him have been
forever banished from this world. All your...issues...with the
wizarding world have been addressed in some fashion, as per
your original intent. Harry Potter has a family, a real family he
can call his own. And I - '

He breaks off, abruptly. His piercing gaze slides over her head,
staring at the framed photographs on the far wall.

Looking at him, the woman's face softens. Her eyes are suddenly
bright. Involuntarily, one of her hands steals out, reaching across
the table for her companion's clasped hands, but at the last second
she thinks better of it and lets her hand fall.

For a long moment, neither speaks.

'You didn't have to do it, you know,' the man says at last. His
voice is distant, as if the thought behind the words is coming from
very far away. 'You could have left it as it was, let him walk out
of that door and back to his world without....' He stops again,
and his gaze shifts back to her. 'Without that final goodbye.'

She shakes her head. 'Harry would never have done that. Never.'

'Oh? How can you be so certain?'

'Because he knows - truly knows - what it is like to be alone.
And he knows that he never wants anyone else to be alone,
either.'

He looks at her, but says nothing.

'So where have I ended it?' Her voice is wistful, her smile the
barest twist of her lips. 'Will Stanton, Sign-Seeker, Watchman
of the Light, Fellow of Christ's College and Lecturer in Social
Anthropology at Cambridge University...after all that I have done
to him, he will have someone to remember him.'

Her companion closes his eyes. His head bows slightly. 'Thank
you.'

'My pleasure,' she says softly. 'My very great pleasure.'

He opens his eyes, and looks up. 'There are always the side
stories, you know.'

'Oh, you've nothing to fear on that account,' she says with a
laugh, breaking the heaviness of the mood. 'But as it stands,
I should be leaving. We both have things to do. I know you're
heading off to Cornwall for a while, and I...I have other work
I've been neglecting.'

He nods, and they both stand, pushing in their chairs. Just as
they are about to leave, a noise from the direction of the bar
makes them both pause. Turning, they discover that the young
student has been roused from his nap. He blinks bleary eyes,
rubbing at his face and looking around with a bemused sleepiness.

The young woman glances at her companion. 'I expect that was
your doing?'

A dismissive wave of one hand. 'He lived somewhere over in
Third Court this past year and had a tendency to blast his music
at all hours of the day and night. It is the very least I could do in
the name of initiating a private conversation.'

Her eyes flash with laughter, though she keeps it to herself.
'Remind me to never end up in one of your lectures.'

'You know full well that you would sign up in a heartbeat, if you
could.'

'I would be first at the top of a very long waiting list,' she says
archly, walking over to the door that leads to the street. 'And
my designs on you are quite innocent compared to some of the
others on the list.'

He follows, reaching past to hold the door open for her. 'Is it too
late to revise my opinion on you?'

'Oh, hush now. You know you love it.'

Once they are outside they cross the street, stepping carefully
around the puddles of water left by the day's rain. The entrance
to Christ's College is directly ahead, and outside the gate they
stop, facing each other.

'Take care, Professor,' the young woman says, blinking back
tears as she takes his hand. 'Give my best to Harry, when you
see him next.'

Holding her hand - which is trembling, despite her best efforts
to control it - he sketches a courtly little bow. 'Take care, my
dear. We will meet again soon enough.'

Reluctantly, she releases his hand. She stares down at the rain-
slick pavement.

'I still want to be like you, you know.' Her whisper is just loud
enough for him to hear. 'I always have. I think some part of me
always will.'

'There's nothing wrong with that. But promise me, now' - and the
tone of his voice makes her look up - 'that you won't ever try to be
me. More trenchant minds than yours have declared that one of me
is more than enough.'

'I promise.' Two tears spill over, and she wipes them away with the
back of her hand. 'Goodbye, then. I'll see you soon.'

The heels of her shoes click on the pavement as she walks back the
way she had come, down King Street to Hobson Street and from there
to the main thoroughfare. Unlike Harry Potter, she will be using her
return ticket tonight.

Will Stanton watches her leave. He waits until she has turned the
corner - only then does he pass through the College gates.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gramarye
gramarye@postmaster.co.uk
http://gramarye.freehosting.net/
June 23, 2003