Disclaimer: Everything recognisable belongs to JK.

A/N: I was doing my annual all-nighter reread of the Deathly Hallows last night and this just sprang into being. Hope you enjoy, possibly a bit sadder than my usual HP stuff. Let me know your thoughts.

Everlasting Ink

'On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,

Lily and James Potter lost their lives.

Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever

to have survived the Killing Curse.

This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left

in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters

and as a reminder of the violence

that tore apart their family.'

15th December 1981

The spellwork was easy; it was the political part of it that was trickier. Not everybody had wanted to make a memorial of the old Potter house, and the negotiations had stretched on for a month until everybody had come to an agreement. The house was to be left, visible only to the magical, and there was to be a sign explaining the decision. Dumbledore offered to carry out the work and the Ministry agreed; there was so much to do after the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that they couldn't spare anyone skilled enough for months. And so, two weeks before Christmas saw Dumbledore standing in front of the Potters' home, casting the spells that would ensure its stability and security for as long as the magic would hold. He placed his hand on the gate; the first of thousands, and watched the sign creep up from the well kept path. The words glimmered in the weak December sun. Dumbledore sighed and looked at the house. The explosion had harmed little of the downstairs, it was only little Harry's room that was blasted open. The lower level still looked like somebody's home.

But no-one would ever live here again. This was a place of remembrance now. A place both of sorrow, and of hope. Voldemort was gone at last, and, ever prepared; Dumbledore had already set in motion the defence strategy for his inevitable return. He wiped his eyes and thought of little Harry Potter, sent to his aunt and uncle for protection.

He looked once more at the sign, the unsoiled, shiny wood, and he despised it. He conjured a quill, and began to write, in ink that would last forever.

21st July 1987 and 15th August 1991

'Who are we going to meet again?' Tonks sighed, tugging at her fringe. 'Jody who?'

Andromeda waved Tonks' hands away from her fringe. 'Jody Jacknife, she was a friend of mine from school, she moved to France when she got married but moved back when it turned out her husband…well, never mind.'

'Did he fondle horklumps?' Tonks asked as they crossed a road and she tripped a little on the kerb. 'Big old horklump fondler?' Andromeda wrinkled her nose.

'I certainly hope not,' she said. 'Anyway, she's back here now with a daughter your age who's thinking about transferring to Hogwarts so I want you to be on your best behaviour, alright Nymphadora?'

'Mum, what's that?' Tonks asked pointing down a side street. 'And stop calling me that, would you?'

'It's your name,' Andromeda insisted. 'And I think that's the old Potter house.

'Can we go see?' Tonks asked excitedly, already hurrying down the street.

'Nymphadora!' Andromeda called crossly, before giving up and following her daughter down the street, graceful where Tonks was ungainly.

'Wow, 'Tonks said. 'How old was I when it happened? Eight?' Andromeda nodded.

'Did you know them?' Tonks asked, standing on her tiptoes to try and see further. 'Whoa,' she said, grabbing the gate to steady herself after stumbling down off her tiptoes. 'Ooh!' she said, as the wooden sign emerged from the undergrowth.

'Not well,' Andromeda said, tucking some of Tonks' unruly pink hair behind her ear. 'Well enough to cry that night though,' she gestured to the sign. 'Do you remember?'

Tonks shook her head and reached out to the sign. 'Look how many people have signed it,' she turned to her mother. 'Can I sign it too?'

Andromeda shook her head. 'They shouldn't have written on it, Dora, it's a monument to these people.'

'But they've said nice things!' Tonks said, indignant. 'I want to sign it!'

'No, Dora, c'mon,' Andromeda said firmly, steering her daughter away from the sign.

'When I'm an Auror you can't tell me what to do anymore, you know,' Tonks said, crossing her arms. Andromeda laughed.

'I can't wait 'til you're an Auror,' she said, hugging her daughter to her as they walked away. 'You'll be begging for the days when I told you what to do!'

Four years later, Nymphadora Tonks returned, alone, by apparition. She ran one hand through her brilliant turquoise hair, placed the other on the gate and waited for the sign to appear.

'Um,' she said, stuffing her hands in her pockets. 'That's the first time I've ever Apparated alone when I haven't been sitting a test or practicing or whatever. I wanted to come here by myself one day and…' she looked up at the empty, broken house. 'And now I'm here by myself. I start my Auror training soon, and I kind of just wanted to come here and – well, I wanted to say that I hope nothing like this ever happens again.' she rests her hand on the gate again, as if to comfort the cold rusted metal, or maybe to allow it to comfort her. 'I'm really nervous, and I just thought that coming here, to a place that's – well, a place where everything changed for the better – for the Wizarding world that is – maybe it would help me feel better.'

She searched through the bag she'd brought for some Everlasting Ink and a decent quill.

'I've wanted to sign for years, but I never really thought about what to say…' She straightened up and faced the sign, took in the 'Long Live Harry Potter,' the 'Rest in Peace' the scrawled initials at the very bottom that looked like they'd been written by a child. She chose a spot near the top right hand corner of the sign, and drew a lightning bolt there. Underneath, she printed 'Auror Tonks' as clearly as she could.

'I guess that'll do,' she said, and with one last look at the old cottage, she turned and Disapparated back home

6th February 1982

Peter Pettigrew visits the cottage just once, three months after Voldemort falls and he loses everything. He's been living as a rat, but transforms as he stands in front of the cottage, it will be the last time he does until his old friends force him to in 1994. He has not yet attached himself to a Wizarding family, but the idea has occurred to him already. It's early morning, the sky is overcast and threatening rain; the sun will not rise for hours and even then, the light will be bleak. Peter's eyes, always watery, are swimming as he stands before the cottage, shoulders hunched, everything about him screaming that he is a desperately unhappy man. Twenty two years old.

The gate still shines; James painted it just months before he died. The grass is longer than Lily would have liked it, but apart from the caved in roof, the house still looks lived in. It still looks like Lily and James's place. The ivy is still decorative and controlled. Peter almost feels like he could walk through the front door, be hugged by Lily, slapped on the back by James, and have little Harry plonked on his knee, demanding love and attention from anyone who came near him. He flexes his left arm, where he can feel the hateful tattoo on his flesh, alive with malice even if the master it connected him to was dead. He makes to swing the gate open, considers going inside. The gate doesn't move, instead the sign shoots up from the ground, displaying its golden message for all to see. Peter reads the words slowly, and reads the scant writing around it. Someone's written 'Long Live Harry Potter,' and someone else has carved their initials. Peter never considers the arrogance he displays as he reaches for his wand, never thinks about how wrong it is that the traitor who lead the Potters to their doom is signing their memorial. But he magically carves 'PP' into the wood, and then, underneath, he writes 'Sorry.'

Then he removes the 'Sorry,' takes a last, long look at the house he once considered his home away from home, and transforms back into a rat. In a few months, he will be discovered by Arthur Weasley, and will be presented to his third child as a birthday present. He will never dream of anything but the word 'Sorry' for the rest of his life.

24th December 1984

'Come on, come on, Uncle Bilius' house is just over there,' Molly urged her flagging children on.

'I'm too cold to move,' eight year old Percy whined, hugging his coat around himself and standing stock still in the middle of the street.

'Come on Perce, moving will warm you up' Bill said, gangly at fourteen, as he grabbed hold of Percy's arm and pulled.

It was a bitterly cold day and the Weasley family were supposed to be visiting Arthur's brother Bilius for Christmas Eve supper. 'Tell me again, dear,' Molly asked exasperatedly, hoisting three year old Ginny higher up on her hip, 'why couldn't we just Floo straight to his house?'

'I told you Molly,' Arthur said haltingly; the six year old twins were held tightly in his hands but were doing very highly synchronised squirming to free themselves, and Arthur was finding it hard to concentrate on anything else. 'I told you, I can't quite handle Bilius without a drink in me. We had to go to the pub first!' Molly rolled her eyes.

'Charlie, keep a hold of Ron!' she called, as energetic twelve year old Charlie was bounding ahead and dragging poor Ron behind him. 'He's only four, he can't keep up with you!'

'Drat!' said Arthur, as George twisted free and scampered off to follow Charlie.

'Rats,' Fred muttered, and redoubled his efforts to be free of his father.

Charlie slowed down as he passed an abandoned cottage, and paused outside the gate to allow George to catch up. 'What's that?' George asked wonderingly. Charlie bent down to pick up the red faced and panting Ron. 'It's where Harry Potter lived,' Charlie whispered. George's eyes widened. 'Wow!' he exclaimed, staring up at the dilapidated cottage, the snow falling in strange drifts where the roof was caved in. He reached out a large mitten covered hand, and nudged the gate to see if it would open.

'George, don't!' Arthur shouted, chasing after Fred who had just wriggled free of him too.

A wooden sign with gold letters on it shot out of the snowy ground and stood like a sentinel just behind the gate.

Charlie read the sign aloud to his brothers as the rest of the family caught up. 'Look, people have signed it!'

'Can we sign it mum, please?' George asked pleadingly, while Fred was already searching his pockets for something sharp to carve into the wood with.

'No, come on now, we're going to be late,' Molly said, her brown eyes sparkling as she looked from her children's ruddy faces to the wild cottage behind them.

'Here,' Bill said, nudging Fred and handing him a quill loaded with everlasting ink. 'Hurry,' he said, as his mother seemed keen on moving on. Fred reached up to the sign; standing on his tiptoes he could only reach the bottom inch or so. 'F, G,' he said as he carefully printed the initials onto the sign. 'B, C, P, R and…G again,' he said, looking up at Bill. 'Is that good?' Bill grinned at him.

'No Mum or Dad?' he asked, reloading the quill with ink.

'They didn't want to sign,' Fred said, while George tugged his arm.

'Mum's shouting,' he said. 'Hurry up!'

'Sign for them,' Bill said, handing the quill back to his brother. 'Mum's probably afraid she'd cry if she signed it herself.'

'Crying is for girls,' Fred said as he signed an 'A' and an 'M' on the sign. Bill laughed.

'Come on, mum's getting frantic,' he said, taking a twin in each hand as Charlie ran with a barely recovered and still bright red Ron again to catch up with their parents and Percy. 'That'll be there forever now,' he said to the twins, who were not nearly so anxious to get out of Bill's clutches as they had been with Arthur.

'Will Harry Potter ever see it?' George asked absent-mindedly as he pointed out a robin to his twin. 'Don't know,' Bill said, shrugging. 'But if he does, I'm sure he'll appreciate it,' he said, and they fell silent as the wooden sign sank back into the ground, waiting for the next time someone wanted to remember.

30th May 1982

'Well, this is a fine sight,' Augusta said to the toddler on her hip. 'Leaving all this mess. Just as well we don't live here, isn't it Neville?' the sleepy boy perked up a little at his name. 'Terribly morbid. Wouldn't want to see it every time I went to the shops, would you?'

'Hmm,' Neville sighed into her coat. 'It's your dad's twenty-eighth birthday today, my lad,' she said briskly. 'I was going to buy him a new cauldron, a fancy collapsible one so he didn't have to keep shrinking that old pewter thing every time he went off on Auror business.' Neville looked up at her. 'Daddy?'

'Yes, Neville. Your father was a very brave man. A good son.'

'Sun,' Neville pointed at the sky, before burying his head back into Augusta's coat; the light was too bright.

'He is a good son,' Augusta corrected herself. 'Maybe one day he'll get better, hmm? And your mother too.' She wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve.

'What a mess they've left us in, boy,' she whispered to her grandson. 'Just when we thought it was safe, eh?' She sniffed, hard. A fierce resentment was rising up inside her now as she fought the tears that threatened to fall. 'They took my son from me,' she said, her lips brushing Neville's forehead. 'They took him away when we thought it was over.' The tears fell, splashing onto Neville's head. She clenched her eyes shut, blocking out the view of the ruined cottage and everything else except for her, the sobs wracking through her body and the small boy she clutched in her arms.

'Granny?' Neville broke her reverie. She opened her eyes, Neville had reached out his tiny hand and touched the gate, and he was transfixed by the wooden signpost that was growing out of the ground towards them. 'What's this, Neville?' Augusta said as she scanned the notice. 'Long Live Harry Potter, eh?' she sniffed again, and pressed a rare kiss to the top of Neville's head. 'At least we've got each other, isn't that right?' she said, smiling wetly at her grandson. 'Poor Harry hasn't got anyone. Been sent off to live with Muggles, I hear.'

'Muggles,' Neville cooed, reaching up for the brim of her hat.

A kind of childish defiance reared inside of Augusta as she searched, one-handed, in her red handbag for a quill. 'We're going to be fine, little man,' she said, hugging Neville tighter to her as she wrote 'Good luck, Harry' onto the sign. 'We're going to be fine,' she repeated, looking her grandson in the face. 'And you're going to be just like your parents.'

Neville smiled benignly and rested his head on her collar. 'Granny,' he sighed.

'Come on,' Augusta smiled sadly at the cottage. 'Let's go to St Mungo's.'

14th August 1993

It was long after midnight; the sky a penetratingly black colour that only occurred in the moments before dawn began creeping over the horizon. In fifteen minutes, the sky would be stained with pink and gold, but for now it was dark. The great black dog who sat outside the ruined cottage transformed into a man whose emaciated frame and matted hair were nothing compared to the haunted look in his eyes. For a moment, he did nothing. He looked hungrily at the house; it had been twelve long years since he had seen it. He thought fleetingly of going inside, but the thought scared him more that he would like to admit. No, he would stay here…the thought of seeing the kitchen he had helped to paint, or the couch on which he'd slept more times that he could remember…it was too much. The darkness seemed to solidify for a moment, before the first golden fingers of dawn appeared, and Sirius held his face in his hands. This had been the place where everything had changed. This stupid place, this stupid cottage, he had watched his best friends being taken from this place, broken and empty, watched their son, his godson being taken away from them, from – from him. A sob wracked through him, as for the millionth time he wondered what might have been if he had been the Potters' Secret Keeper, and he reached out to steady himself on the gate.

The sign appeared, the golden letters sparkling in the shimmering light of dawn.

Sirius lowered his hands; read the words, and wiped his eyes. He would sign. He had been able to do nothing for anyone for twelve years; stuck in a jail cell for a murder he had not committed…but now he would sign something. Something beautiful, something monumental, something Harry might see some day and think was wonderful.

Sirius stood until the sky was a bright, uninterrupted blue.

He couldn't think of anything he could write that would say everything he wanted to.

He exhaled slowly, raised his Muggle pen to the wood, and wrote 'Padfoot was here,' in the closest space to James' name that he could find. He closed the cap of the pen, closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and transformed back into the large black dog which had inspired his nickname. The church bell tolled, and the dog headed north, to find Pettigrew at Hogwarts.

9th April 1995

It was a constant source of concern for one Kenneth Leighton, of Godric's Hollow, that he could see something very peculiar that absolutely none of his friends or family seemed to be able to see. He was four when he first asked his mother what had happened to make the cottage at the end of Griffin Street blow up, and why hadn't anyone ever fixed it? His mother had laughed and ruffled his hair, told him what a good imagination he had and that he should take off his Wellington boots before he went inside the house, otherwise he'd get mud everywhere. He had frowned, looked behind him to check the house was still there, and wrinkled his nose at his mother. He didn't mention it again, in fact he tried not to look at the ruin, because nobody else did, not his parents, not his little sister, not his friends at school...but sometimes – just sometimes, when he chanced a look at the ivy covered walls and the loose rubble contained within the wildly growing hedges – he would see someone there. Sometimes local people he knew obliquely from village life, sometime total strangers. Once or twice, over the years, he'd see someone stop outside the cottage, and look up. He never went near them. His friends were getting bored with him asking about it.

After Kenneth started noticing that the war memorial in the centre of the town didn't always look like a war memorial, he started to worry. He was ten, and the week before he had fallen off his bike and instead of breaking his arm like Tommy Hunter did last summer, he had bounced off the asphalt and was completely unscathed. His mum was calling it a miracle but Kenneth was concerned. What was wrong with him?

So one balmy Sunday morning he took his new red, shiny bike – the last one got all scuffed and broken when he fell off it – and cycled all the way to the bottom of Griffin Street, where he looked up at the ramshackle cottage that only he could see. He leaned his bike against the gate, and brushed it with his hand, only to jump back in fright when a wooden sign appeared to be growing out of the ground, stopping just a little higher than the top of his head. He stepped back to read the words, pausing at the phrase 'invisible to Muggles,' and then turning his attention to the graffiti surrounding the golden letters. 'Long Live Harry Potter,' he whispered, tracing the loopy handwriting with his finger. 'I'm not the only one who can see it!' he breathed, pressing his hands to as many different signatures a he could, happy that he was sharing this moment, this experience with so many. He felt around his pockets for a pen or pencil, and found the latter, a stubby broken thing with the end all chewed. He found a small empty space near the bottom of the sign and carved carefully into the soft wood: 'Thank you, Harry Potter.' Smiling at his handiwork, he got back on his bike, and began pedalling home, choosing to take the long route so he could pass by the war memorial, which so often changed into the strange statue of the couple and their baby…who, now he came to think about it, must be the Lily and James and Harry from the sign. When he reached home, he was greeted not only by his mother, but by a tall, imposing woman, who introduced herself as Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which he would begin attending, just as soon as he turned eleven.

'I knew I wasn't mad!' he cried, hugging his mother fiercely. 'Can't I go now?'

Various

The cottage has two frequent visitors. Both men, both of whom appear far older than their years. One had been a frequent visitor to the house when it was a home, when it had love and happiness and laughter spilling out of its front door. This man does not come close to the house now. He visits every few years, as if he's reminding himself of the terrible direction his life took when his best friends died. As the years pass, his cloaks become thinner, his cuffs frayed, scars appear on his face. He does not come near the house, and never sees the sign. When his son is born in April 1998, he tells his wife who he wants to be Godfather, and she tells him a story about visiting the cottage when she was younger. He vows to revisit the place, to add his name to the sign, to make up for the years he never knew it was there. He never does; in May, Remus Lupin is killed in battle. He knew what would happen before it did, and in his final seconds, he doesn't regret not seeing the memorial, because he is about to see his friends again, and what memorial could possibly compare?

The other man never saw the house as it was meant to be seen. He has seen it only as an empty place, he remembers it only as a shell. He gets as close as he can to the cottage. He places his hands on the gate and feels the chill of the metal in every fibre of his being. He read the words on the sign hungrily, though he knows them by heart. He knows every piece of graffiti, can tell when someone has added something new. He traces Lily's name with his finger, wishes he could see her again, wishes that his life turned out differently. He never adds to the sign. He stands before it, spilling useless tears until his collar gets wet. He reaches out and touches her name. Lily. He sees the golden letters every time he closes his eyes. Every time he visits, her touches her name, and by his very last visit, in July 1997, the wood, soft as it is, has bent to his will, and there is a dip where he presses his fingers. Her name still shines, as it will always shine. The two men never cross paths, would ignore each other if they did. They die on the same night, hundreds of miles away from the cottage, never knowing what they have in common. As he dies, Severus Snape's last thought is of Lily Evan's eyes, and the golden letters that were all he had left of her.

May 13th 1997

Dumbledore knew this would be the last time he visited the cottage. He hadn't been here since the eighties, when he'd cast the protection spells and erected the little signpost. He checked that the wards around the cottage were still strong; strengthened any that needed it. He looked into the twinkling, broken windows. This was no longer a home. It was a memory.

He knew his days were numbered, but he wanted to see this place one last time before, if things went accordingly, he was killed cleanly and without pain. Without pain.

'Was it painless?' he asked the cottage, or maybe the night, or maybe the hundreds of people who had stood in this spot and looked at this house. The question escaped him before he could stop it, and he was glad no-one was around to hear. Dumbledore did not fear death. But he wondered about it.

He didn't much like being in this place of adolescent madness, the familiar streets reminding him forcefully of Gellert and Ariana and his mother and Aberforth. He could feel the quiet cemetery calling to him.

He grasped the thickly rusted gate and watched as the sign he planted sixteen years ago appeared before him. He smiled; his blue eyes twinkled. 'So many people,' he whispered. 'So much good in the world.' The sign, once so hatefully clean, was covered, simply covered in messages, names and sentiments, everyone who wished the very best for The Boy Who Lived. He saw names he recognised, some he didn't, noticed a funny little lightning bolt in the corner and what looked a little like Minerva McGonagall's signature at the bottom, above a long row of childishly scrawled initials. But shining brightest of all, just as he planned, was his own addition, the very first. 'Long Live Harry Potter' Dumbledore breathed, tracing the letters with a long index finger. 'I am sorry, Harry,' he said, looking at the cottage where Harry should have grown up.

He had to get back to the school. But first, he would visit his sister, and his mother. And he would apologise, like he always did. 'But it'll all come right in the end, won't it?' he asked the night or the cottage or the people before him. And although none of them answered, he knew, somehow, that it would.

A/N: Reviews are beyond lovely.