Harry Potter: Westeros’s Plant Life

Chapter 479 479: 0479 The Talks

"Professor Westeros," Amy said as he was preparing to leave, her voice becoming quieter, and more uncertain. "Will I really be able to go to Hogwarts? When I'm eleven? Even with... this?" She touched her chest, where the Obscurus lived.

Adrian knelt down so he was at her eye level, meeting her eyes with sincerity.

"Yes," he said firmly. "I promise you that. You're going to attend Hogwarts, learn magic properly, make friends, have a completely normal magical education. You're going to do wonderful things."

Tears filled her eyes, but they were good tears of relief and hope rather than fear. "Thank you," she whispered. "For saving me. For not being afraid of me."

"I was never afraid of you," Adrian said gently. "Of what might happen without help, yes. But never of you yourself."

He held her gaze for a moment longer, wanting the words to land properly. She was young enough that she might forget them in a week, or she might carry them for the rest of her life. He hoped it was the latter.

He stood, pulling a sealed envelope from his robes.

"Actually, there's something I wanted to tell you about. I've established a fund—a magical trust that will pay for your education at Hogwarts when the time comes. Books, supplies, robes, everything you'll need. And I've also set up an ongoing research fund at St. Mungo's specifically dedicated to studying Obscurials and developing better treatments and support systems."

Amy stared at him, her eyes going wide. "You did that? For me?"

"For you," Adrian confirmed, "and for others like you who might need help in the future. People who've been hurt the way you were hurt, who need to know that there's hope and support available."

He handed her the envelope. "This is just a letter explaining it all. Aberforth has the detailed documentation. The money is there. Your future is secure."

She took the envelope with both hands, as though it might dissolve if she held it carelessly. She looked down at it for a long moment without speaking, and Adrian didn't rush her. Some things needed silence to become real.

"I don't know what to say," Amy said at last, her voice was breaking slightly with emotion.

"You don't need to say anything," Adrian said. "Just promise me that when you get to Hogwarts, you'll work hard and be kind and make the most of your education. That's all I ask."

"I promise," Amy said fiercely, clutching the letter to her chest. "I promise I will. I'll make you proud."

As Adrian left the Hog's Head, exchanging a brief nod with Aberforth who was now actually sweeping the floor with what might have been resentful domestic responsibility, he felt a deep sense of satisfaction.

Outside, the village of Hogsmeade was quiet in the early afternoon, a few witches and wizards moving between shops, the distant outline of the castle was sitting above the valley like something permanent and indifferent to human troubles. He stood there for a moment before walking on, letting the cold air settle around him.

This—this use of his sudden, unwanted fame for good might be the only genuinely positive thing to come from all the attention the Daily Prophet had been giving him.

He'd already received dozens of endorsement offers from companies wanting him to promote their products, to lend his name to everything from broomsticks to butterbeer.

The sheer volume of them had been startling at first with owls arriving in clusters, some of the letters written in such florid, congratulatory prose that he'd felt vaguely nauseated reading them. The wizarding world, it turned out, was not so different from the Muggle one when it came to commodifying heroes.

He'd turned down all of them except one—a high-end magical education supplies company that had agreed to donate a substantial percentage of their sales to his Obscurial research fund in exchange for his name attached to a limited product line.

It was mercenary and commercial, yes. But if exploiting his celebrity could help children like Amy, could fund research that might save lives, then he'd tolerate the discomfort of being a public figure.

At least for a while.

At least until people found someone else to celebrate.

The matter of John Selwyn's death hung over everything else like a shadow.

John's family—his parents had been found and notified of his death shortly after the battle. Adrian had not been present for that conversation. He had been glad not to be, and guilty about being glad.

They had wanted to see the body. Dumbledore had explained that there was no body.

The funeral was held at a small church in the village where John's family lived. Adrian had attended from afar, standing toward the back with his hat in his hands.

That evening at Hogwarts, Adrian had gone to Dumbledore's office and asked the question that had been lingering on him for days, the one he'd been turning over in his mind like a stone, examining it from every angle, unable to put it down.

"Could I have saved him? John. If I'd acted faster, or differently, or—"

"No," Dumbledore said with absolute certainty. "By the time Voldemort possessed the boy, it was already too late. His presence in a host body causes deterioration that cannot be reversed. Even if you had somehow expelled Voldemort earlier, John's body and mind were already too damaged to survive. What happened to him was tragedy, yes. But it was not your fault, and it was not preventable by you."

"But—"

"Adrian," Dumbledore interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. He set down the small silver instrument he'd been turning in his hands and looked at Adrian directly.

"Listen to me carefully. We cannot save everyone. No matter how powerful we become, no matter how much knowledge we acquire, we cannot prevent all tragedy or spare all innocent lives. We can only do our best with the information and abilities we have. You did your best. John's death is on Voldemort's conscience or lack thereof—not on yours."

Adrian knew it, of course. He had known it intellectually from the moment it happened. But knowing something and being free of it were not the same thing, and he had not come to Dumbledore's office seeking new information.

He had come to say the question out loud, to give the guilt a shape it could be examined in, and perhaps diminished by being seen. Dumbledore, who had likely understood this from the first word, had answered it accordingly.

"Thank you," Adrian said softly.

Dumbledore picked up his instrument again. "There is no thanks necessary. Come back if you need to say it again."

The week ended with Adrian at his plantation, standing beneath the Tree of Wisdom in the evening light as the sun set beyond the pocket dimension's boundaries.

The Tree was healed now, the damage from the battle repaired by time and magic and its own considerable regenerative capabilities. It looked, to the casual eye, exactly as it always had, tall and broad and unhurried, rooted in something that felt older than the plantation itself.

But if you knew where to look, you could see the silver leaves scattered through the green canopy like stars, permanent marks of what they'd been through together.

Dobby brought tea on a small tray, setting it carefully on the bench where Adrian sat. He'd arranged a small sprig of something flowering beside the cup, which he did sometimes for reasons he had never fully explained.

"Master has been thinking very hard," Dobby observed. "Dobby can tell because Master's forehead gets wrinkly when he thinks."

Despite everything, Adrian smiled. "I suppose I have been thinking quite a bit, yes."

"About the bad wizard?" Dobby asked, settling onto the ground nearby.

"About everything," Adrian said. "About what comes next. About what we do now that the war is over."

Dobby considered this with the seriousness he brought to most questions. "Dobby thinks that when things are over, you rest first. Then you decide."

"That's very sensible."

"Dobby is often sensible," Dobby agreed, without particular pride.

"The war was the easy part, in some ways," Adrian said aloud, speaking to both Dobby and the Tree, or perhaps to no one in particular.

"The goal was clear. The enemy was known. Everything pointed in the same direction." He wrapped both hands around his teacup. "Now there are a dozen directions and none of them feel urgent enough to move quickly, but all of them feel important enough to worry about."

Eldra gave no response. She rarely did now. But her presence in the back of his mind was steady, and he found it easier to think here than anywhere else.

A letter had arrived that morning from his sister.

She was continuing to recover well, growing stronger each day, relearning herself after years of absence. She wanted him to visit when he could, wanted to know more about what had happened, wanted to rebuild their relationship after so much lost time.

The letter had been careful and a little formal, the way letters are when two people are reaching toward each other across a distance they're not entirely sure how to close. He'd read it three times.

He wanted that too. He was just going to have to figure out how to say so.

The Ministry had sent official paperwork requesting his ongoing cooperation with their investigations, implying that his future position at Hogwarts might depend on said cooperation. He had read that letter only once before setting it aside.

Dumbledore had sent a note saying, in essence, that the Ministry could go hang and Adrian's position was secure regardless. That note he had found considerably more pleasant to read.

Students were already submitting requests to study with him next year, excited about Care of Magical Creatures under the professor who had defeated Voldemort. Several of the letters were very earnest. One had included a drawing of a dragon. He'd kept that one.

Everything was complicated and exhausting and full of consequences he hadn't fully anticipated.

There would be more paperwork, more questions, more careful conversations with people who wanted something from him. There would be students who came to his class hoping for a legend and found only a teacher, and he'd have to cross their disappointment and hopefully, eventually, show them that a teacher was worth more than a legend anyway.

But sitting here, in the plantation, with the Tree's presence warm in his mind and Dobby humming quietly nearby and the evening light painting everything in soft gold, Adrian found he could face those complications. They were not the kind that required a battle. They were the ordinary kind, the ones that asked only for patience and time and the willingness to show up again tomorrow.

The war was over.

He sipped his tea.

Above him, the silver leaves caught the last of the light and held it briefly before the sun moved on.

"To new beginnings," Adrian said softly, raising his teacup in a small, private toast.

Dobby, without being asked, raised his own small cup and touched it gently to Adrian's with a quiet clink.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new questions, new complications.

But tonight, he could rest.

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