Print

Email story

Comment

Letter to the editor

Is this the end of Harry Potter?

Well, no. We don't really know how the story ends. But here, Times book editor Colette Bancroft takes her best guess.

By Colette Bancroft, Times Book Editor
Published July 15, 2007

[Times illustration | Rossie Newson]

Editor's note:

This is not the real final chapter of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I have not - repeat, have not - read the book, or any portion of it, so there are no spoilers here. And no, I don't have an advance copy you can borrow.

This epilogue is drawn completely from my imagination, based on my readings of the first six Harry Potter books, presentations by Potter scholars at the Phoenix Rising conference in New Orleans in May, and my own wishful thinking.

I also was influenced by the mythic elements of the Harry Potter saga, which, as many readers have noticed, reflect the journey of the hero as analyzed by such writers as Joseph Campbell and Lord Raglan. The King Arthur legend and Arthur's passage to Avalon after his final battle were of particular importance.

So were J.K. Rowling's many comments that she has long known what the last word of the last book would be: "scar." Although she said in a July 6 interview that she had changed her mind: "It was for ages, and now it's not. 'Scar' is quite near the end, but it's not the last word."

I'll be standing in line at my local bookstore at midnight Friday, waiting for one of those 12-million copies of the final book. Did I get anything right here? We'll find out Saturday.

Colette Bancroft, Times book editor 

- - - 

Epilogue

"Remember, ladies and gentlemen, tomorrow we turn beetles into buttons," Hermione Granger called as her students stampeded out the door.

Shaking her head fondly, she began to stack up her books. She loved teaching Transfiguration at Hogwarts. She had never felt more at home anywhere.

After the terrible battle that ended with the defeat of Voldemort 10 years ago, it looked as if the school might never reopen. But the wizarding world rallied around it even as they buried their dead, and although some of the castle still lay in ruins, children once again learned how to use their magical talents within its ancient walls.

Hermione was not yet 30, but threads of silver sparked in her curly brown hair. The three years she had worked as an Auror in the aftermath of the battle had been thrilling, but they had taken a toll. It seemed that after Voldemort's downfall, the surviving Death Eaters and Dementors grew more powerful for a time, madly hunting down their enemies in a kind of fatal spasm.

But as those days receded into nightmare, Hermione married Ron Weasley. When she found herself pregnant, she left the Aurors for the faculty of Hogwarts. She couldn't think of a place where she would rather raise her children.

She was expecting Ron and the little ones now, and a noise in the hall made her turn from her desk, a smile spreading across her face.

But it was just Draco Malfoy slinking past the door, dressed in the same severe style of robe Snape had always worn. He had taken on one of Snape's former jobs as well: teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. The curse on the position seemed to have faded. After three years on the job, Draco was alive and sound of mind, although his face was perpetually drawn with worry.

His parents, Lucius and Narcissa, had been patients at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries for a decade, with no end in sight, and the Malfoy fortune was depleted.

But Draco wasn't at Hogwarts just for the salary. Hermione didn't need legilimency to know that he too needed the companionship he found there - maybe even more than she did.

As Draco's quiet footfalls faded, a mad clatter announced the arrival of her family.

Ron strode through the door, gripping the hands of raucous red-headed twin toddlers, who shouted "Mum! Mum!" with such enthusiasm they sounded like a dozen boys. In a sling on Ron's back rode a tiny girl with a halo of auburn curls and brown eyes unusually keen for a baby's.

"Ready for duty?" Ron said. "Keep a sharp eye on Arthur here. He's been trying to get the mop to fly, and he got it far enough off the ground to knock Crookshanks off the footstool."

"Just one thing to do," Hermione said briskly, shuffling books. "I'll catch up with all of you at the Quidditch field, coach."

"Practice starts in half an hour," Ron said. Then his voice softened. "He won't be any different, dear."

"I know," she said.

Ron smiled, touched her hand, then hauled the kids away.

It took her a little while to climb the stairs to the highest tower. She stepped from the dark passage into a small round room washed in brilliant sunlight.

Its tall windows were open to the breeze. On one ledge perched Fawkes, Albus Dumbledore's scarlet phoenix, crooning his lovely, haunting song.

In the center of the room lay Harry Potter, fast asleep. He wore a simple student's robe, and on his chest, rising and falling slightly with his breath, was half of a silver locket.

Its front had been wrenched away, but within its shining oval a wizard photograph of Lily Potter smiled and nodded.

They had carried Harry here from the field of battle 10 years ago and laid him on a bed of holly wood built by Hagrid. Harry was burned almost beyond recognition, but he was breathing.

Over the years, the burns had slowly healed, thanks to every trick Professor Sprout could pull out of her greenhouse, the tender care of dozens of his friends - and the tears of Fawkes.

But Harry never woke. He looked the picture of health, although he did not eat or drink. Nor did Fawkes, who never left his side.

Harry's color was good, his skin fresh, his black hair as willful as ever - Hermione trimmed it herself, every week.

But he lay silent and still. Every healing spell in every book in Hogwarts' library had been chanted over him. The seasons turned, his friends married and had children, the wizarding world healed its own grievous wounds.

Harry slept.

"Harry, it's me, Hermione," she said, taking his hand and bending to his ear.

"It doesn't matter that you couldn't save Neville or," she whispered, her voice breaking, "or Ginny. Everyone understands. And Snape made his choice. He had to die to save you. And you know why.

"Please," she said softly, for the thousandth time, "come back."

For a second she thought a faint frown creased Harry's face. But she had thought that before. More likely, it was the shadow of a passing cloud, or of Fawkes' crimson wing as he settled himself, his song ended.

Hermione stroked Harry's brow anyway, a brow as smooth as the foreheads of her babies. No more scar.

[Last modified July 12, 2007, 11:31:59]