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Epilogues, Part I: Shadows

Chapter 1: Run

Smoke mixed with the stench of death as it wafted up from the cold, muddy ground. Here and there dark, hunched shapes shifted and lurched slowly, little more than charcoal gray blobs struggling to exist against the waning night. It was over.

Harry stared into the dulled red eyes as they in kind stared emptily into the lightly drizzling sky as it gradually slipped from jet black to the darkest grey. He was gone. No more did his chest heave with breath; no more did that nose, more like a snake’s than a man’s, inhale and exhale hot, venomous air. His already pale skin had now faded into an impossible white, as though it had in death rejected all possibility of color. Voldemort was dead.

At the end of the fight, when his final victory came, Harry had expected to feel a million different things, but not this. Not this hole that had seemed to crawl inside of him and spread like some disease. His stomach lurched and Harry quickly pulled away from the dead body before him and vomited violently, taking an inordinate amount of care not to let the putrescence spill upon his fallen enemy.

He wretched and wretched until all that came out was rank air and hot tears, and the tears continued to gush even after his body stopped convulsing mutinously.

Why does it feel like this? he asked himself. WHY?

You know why, a small voice said inside his mind, but Harry shook his head, refusing to listen. Refusing to grant it purchase in his mind. Thankfully, off in the distance, he heard a familiar voice call out in the approaching dawn.

“RON!” it shouted, and as Harry looked, he could see a bushy-haired shadow dashing across the field to a much taller shadow whose red hair was only just beginning to show its brilliance in the coming daylight. When the two forms met each other, they collapsed instantly, and Harry for a moment thought something was wrong, but he could still see them moving, the first slivers of the morning sun appearing behind them. He returned his teary gaze to Voldemort.

You know why it hurts this much, the voice reappeared. You killed a man.

He WASN’T a man! Harry screamed inside his head. Look at him! THAT’S NOT A MAN! HE WAS A MONSTER!

He was a man once, and a boy before that.

But look at what he became, Harry pleaded with himself.

Does that matter? Really?

Of course it does!

Than why do you feel this way?

I DON’T KNOW! he thought pounding his fist into the moist ground. But he did know. What is this, guilt?

The voice ignored the question. He was a boy once, remember? Like you. He was an orphan, like you. Only, hadn’t his life been harder than yours? Your parents died, yes, but, they died out of love for you. What about his parents? They both abandoned him in a way; his mother refusing to save herself for her only son, his father shunning his existence out of disgust. At least, for the short time you had them, your parents loved you. Tom never had that.

Shut up! Harry cried internally. The world around him didn’t even seem to exist anymore. It was just him, the cold body before him, and that stupid, useless, voice. Shut up. It’s not like that… It’s not… HE KILLED MY PARENTS!

Oh, revenge, that’s noble, said the voice and he hated it. He could have dealt with it, he thought, if it was smug, or nasty, but it wasn’t either of those things. It was, in fact, not at all unkind and vaguely sympathetic. You’ve come all this way, and in the end, it was all just for revenge.

Just stop! Stop saying things. He had to… to die. He had to… His head was spinning and as the tears came harder and faster, he felt as though he might throw up again. But he gripped his stomach and swallowed some tears and squinted his eyes, straining as hard as he could to stop that voice. That stupid voice that was at once ludicrous, and yet so… what exactly? Reasonable?

You can slice it any way you like, but in the end, you know what you are now.

Oh yeah? What’s that? Harry asked defiantly, though he already knew the answer.

A killer, the voice said in much the same way a parent would inform their child that the puppy was killed overnight. What’s more, they’re going to know it too. Not now. No. For now you’ll be the hero, but something will change. Everything changes. You’ll do something, say something, and it could be quite small, and then they’ll start to remember, and then…

Then what? he asked, and the voice didn’t answer. As Harry looked over at Ron and Hermione, they continued to sit buried in one another, rocking. He wasn’t close enough to hear, but Harry somehow managed to know they were crying. Why weren’t they running over to him? Why wasn’t he a part of their embrace? Crying with them?

Oh, I think you know the answer to that, came the voice, and Harry groaned audibly.

They’ll come for me. They’re my friends and they’ll come! he thought, sounding in his head more like he was trying to convince himself than stating a fact.

Yes, maybe, but the question is: do you want to be here when they do?

Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?

Come now. The stares. The looks. The whispers you know they will pass behind your back. The dread of waiting for them to realize what you already know about yourself. Do you really want to go through with that? With slowly losing your friends?

No. No. That’s not how… They… But, then, what do I do?

Run, the voice said urgently. Run, and don’t look back. Run and find yourself a hole in the world where you can truly start over. Where you won’t be seen as a murderer. Run, and start over.

Harry could feel his heart pound against his ribs and he lifted a hand to his chest as though to stop it. Instead of his beating heart, what he felt there was a small cold lump beneath his shirt. The locket. Ginny. What about Ginny?

What about her? She must obviously be so important for you not to think of her until now.

That’s not fair. I promised her… I promised her I would come back.

Do you really think she wants you back?

Why wouldn’t she? She told me…

Of course she said what she said. What did you expect her to say? “Off you go, pip-pip. Try not to get killed?”

But…

Don’t fool yourself. It’ll be worse with her than anyone else. She hated Voldemort nearly as much as you did. She hated him for what he did to her, and I expect she’ll hate you for robbing her of the chance to kill him herself. But then, she’ll get over it. She’ll be thankful that it was you and not her. Thankful because it wasn’t her hands with blood on them. But then, she’ll have to realize exactly what you became to do it, wouldn’t she? Besides…

Besides what? he asked, cringing as he knew exactly what the voice in his head was about to say.

Do you really think you’re the same boy she fell in love with? Are you still the same boy that fell in love with her?

I…

Run! Before it’s too late!

But…

RUN!

**

Ron stood on the battlefield, his jaw still hanging stupidly open. Harry had won. They were a far way off, but Ron could tell Harry had won! It was over. The bloody war was over!

Hermione.

They had gotten separated earlier, and knowing that Harry had made it, the only thing Ron had allowed himself to think about was her. There were bodies, too many bodies, strewn all about the field, and he felt a lump form in his throat at the thought that one of them might just be her.

He wanted to shout, but couldn’t seem to remember how to use his vocal cords as panic began to rise. Where the bloody hell is she? he desperately thought as he scanned about, praying that she wasn’t one of the lifeless forms about him. Then he heard it.

“RON!” It was her! She was running towards him, and he could see a steady stream of tears mixing with the blood on her cheeks. His body fell numb. She was alive. She was alive and she was running straight towards him.

“Oof!” he expelled as she collided with him forcing them both to the ground. Before he could make it up to his elbows she was wrapped tightly around him, her tears already dousing the front of his shirt. It was the only thing that distracted him from his own tears flowing freely into her hair.

He wrapped his arms around her tight, not wanting to let her go. He wouldn’t ever let her go. This was their chance, and damn it, he wasn’t blowing it. He held her, and rocked her and whispered shushing noises into her hair.

“Ron,” she sobbed, gripping his shirt so tight he thought she might tear holes in it. “Ron, I thought I lost you. We got separated, and... I tried. I saw you were surrounded and I did everything I could but Death Eaters kept getting in my way and all I wanted to do was get to you but they wouldn't let me and every time someone blocked me I thought that was going to be the one that kept me from getting to you before you..." she began but Ron stopped her from going into hysterics by cutting her off with a long, deep kiss.

Breaking up the kiss, Ron took one of Hermione's hands and said, "Look, it's all right, see? I'm alive, ain't I?" He had guided her hand over his chest slowly, explaining as he did so, "See? I'm all here." He then took her hand and playfully guided it over her own shoulders, and she let out a very wet chuckle. "And, you're here too. No pieces missing," he continued letting their hands wander from her shoulders to her neck, and then slowly down to her chest.

Just before their hands had wandered so far down as to be a little inappropriate, they stopped. A small circle lump had rendered the both of them motionless as Ron and Hermione found each other's eyes. A single tear raced down her cheek as she bit her lip, and Ron could feel his own heart race at the maelstrom of emotions that the shape had created. She used her free arm to pull herself closer to him so that their clasped hands were sandwiched tightly between their heaving chests. Together their hands closed around the small lump through Hermione's shirt, and the look they shared was more intense than any kiss they had snuck in during the past year.

Finally, Ron let go, never taking his eyes from her. "I've been wanting to do this for a long time," he croaked, unable to rid himself of the lump in his throat. Hermione's lip trembled and her eyes widened as she could feel Ron's hand slip around to the back of her neck. He could feel his fingers searching between the bushy hair and smooth skin he loved so much, trembling a little as they did so. Finally he felt the small metallic sensation he was look for, and let the chain slip through his fingers until they found the small clasp.

He remembered the exact moment he had given this to her. He remembered the full moon, and the tears, and how they were sitting exactly like this. He remembered wishing that it didn't have to be like this, but as he brought the two ends of the chain around in between them, he relished every single moment they were now sharing.

Gently, he tugged on the chain, watching with fascination as the lump slowly moved upward from beneath Hermione's shirt. Finally, it appeared from behind her collar, a small gold ring with a tiny diamond set in it. He caught it in his hand as he watched tears pour down Hermione's face, freeing the ring of the chain that had held it prisoner for over a year. Without a word, he took Hermione's left hand in his own, and slipped the ring on her finger. She collapsed into his chest as, for the first time since he had given it to her, she finally was allowed to feel the weight of the ring on her hand where it belonged.

They sat there for some time, enjoying each other's warmth, bathing in the tender feelings they had for each other. It was Hermione who had finally broke the silence. "Oh Ron," she sniffed, "It's over. I can't believe it's over."

He gently ran his fingers through her hair as she incredulously surveyed the ring on her finger. "It's over, and we get to be normal, Ron. Oh, we get to be normal, and have a normal life, and normal jobs, and no more war and death, and..." Her thoughts collapsed into a fresh round of tears, and as Ron felt her body shake with emotion, he realized he too was crying.

"And Harry," she eventually continued. "Oh God, Ron. Harry can finally be normal. He can finally just be himself, and I'm... I'm excited for him. He gets to finally have the life he's deserved for so long, and we're going to be here to see it..." Ron nodded into her hair, and she lifted her face up to his for another kiss, and all Ron could think was that there would be so many more kisses like this in his future that he didn’t think he could hardly stand waiting for the next.

When they broke again, Hermione continued, "And we can tell him, Ron. We can finally tell him about us! I've felt so wrong keeping it from him, but it's okay now, isn't it?" Ron smiled sheepishly in response, finding amazement in the mere thought that Hermione was excited to be marrying him. "Where is he Ron? We should go to him, and I want to tell him, I don't think I can stand waiting for another moment!"

It was only then that Ron realized he hadn't said a single thing in a while. Why should he talk, after all? It only robbed him of the chance to listen to her voice, really. Clearing his throat, he lifted an arm and pointed, "He's right over..." But the rest of his sentence had died in his throat. As the couple turned to follow Ron's pointing finger, the only thing they could see was the dead, and very much alone, body of Lord Voldemort.

Chapter 2: Boxes

Harry's eyes screwed up tight against the insistent morning sun. At once he felt too weary to wake up, but also unwilling to let himself return to the realm of sleep where only nightmares waited for him. If only he could have one night's sleep that was not filled with screams and blood and...

He groaned audibly as he rolled over. The sun was up, which meant that he would have to get up soon anyway. Gingerly he pried his eyelids open, grimacing in anticipation of the violent sting they were sure to receive from the flood of daylight.

"OH BOLLOCKS!" he cried as his eyes fell open upon the image of the four flashing zeros from his alarm clock. No longer caring about dreams or sleep or the pain that bright light brings to unready eyes, Harry shot out of bed, wide awake. He grabbed a white t-shirt from the floor and started pulling it on as he lurched his way towards the closet.

"BUGGER!" he yelped as he barked his pinky toe against the leg of his small bed. Hopping on one foot while clutching the other in pain, he clumsily collided with the door to his closet, and yanked it open. Tenderly testing his hurt foot against the hard, worn rug of his bedroom, he ripped a pair of jeans off of a hanger, and fell back on his bed as he frantically pulled them on.

Socks, socks, socks, he thought in a panic as he dropped to the floor and futilely darted his arm under the bed searching for the least dirty pair of socks he could find. Only then realizing that his search was greatly hampered by the absence of his glasses, he let one hand fumble around for them on the nightstand while the other continued its frenzied search.

Finding only one sock, Harry was about to try the closet again when the phone rang. "Hullo?" he asked, hoping for all he was worth it wasn't Mr. Jacobs.

"Potter, you planning on making it in today?" It was Mr. Jacobs.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. My alarm clock... I think we had a power outage last night."

"Well, get in here as quick as you can, we got a large shipment coming in this morning."

"Yes, sir. What time is it anyway?"

"Bloody hell, Potter. It's only half past. You're not too late... yet."

"Yes, sir. I'll be there right away."

**

After running from his flat to the underground, and then from the tube to the warehouse, by the time Harry showed up for work, he could do little but wheeze and clutch at the stitch in his chest.

"Oi, looks like sleepin' beauty decided to grace us with 'is presence." It was only Ernie, a tall, slim, blond kid not much older than Harry. He clapped Harry a little too hard on the back and chuckled. "Figured you'd 'ave a bit of a lie in, did you?"

Harry took a few gulps of air before trying to straighten up and answer. "No... I... my... power... out... alarm... never... went... off." Ernie gave him a half sympathetic look as Harry caught his breath and continued on a little more in control of himself. "Is the shipment here yet?"

"Nope," Ernie said, lighting a cigarette. "Won't be 'ere for another twenty minutes, I expect. But you never mind that now. Old man Jacobs wants to see you, mate."

Harry sighed as he made his way over to the shabby metal stairs. Jacobs' office was perched high atop a catwalk overlooking the entire warehouse, and Harry hated going up there. The stairs leading up to it were old, rusty, and creaked a little too loudly on more of the steps than he cared to think about. It wasn't that he was afraid of heights. That would be almost unheard of considering he was quite at home hovering mid air on a broomstick. Still, he thought. It's not like I can ride one of the handrails to safety if this thing collapses.

After a very anxious climb, Harry finally reached the office, and tentatively knocked on the door.

"Come in," came the muffled voice of the foreman, and Harry stepped inside. The office was very much like the rest of the warehouse, old and worn, smelling faintly of dried wood and oil. Reddish tendrils of time curled threateningly from the corners and the walls were void of decoration. The only evidence that people inhabited this space, and not some soulless automatons, were a few small faded photographs perched on Jacobs' desk in shabby frames.

Jacobs himself seemed as though he was a part of the place, as though he was never born, or enjoyed a childhood. Instead it was as if he were created in this very office, made of old crate bits and industrial plastic wrap and nails. His iron gray hair was always combed a little too perfectly, the pale skin of his sagging jowls shaved clean to the point where one would think hair couldn't grow there. Even when he talked it sounded more like the voice of a machine, gravelly and flat.

"Good, Potter. I was hoping you would get here before the shipment." Harry rubbed the back of his head nervously, hoping that Jacobs wasn't going to get too upset about this. "I've been thinking... that is to say... I was wondering why you were late?"

"Sir? I told you over the phone. Power outage," he replied nervously, unsure as to why his employer would seem so nervous to ask such a straightforward question.

"Right. Yes, I know that. What I mean is that, I know you don't go out and get pissed at the pub with the rest of the lads. Got no girlfriend or wife to speak of. So, and I know this is none of my business, but, what kept you up?"

"Uh," Harry started, caught completely off guard. "Television. There was a television program on last night, and I guess I lost track of time." He couldn't tell Jacobs about the nightmares, about how little sleep they afforded him, or about how much he had grown to hate sleep.

"Uh-huh," Mr. Jacobs said, giving Harry a look that let him know that Harry wasn't the only man in the room that knew that television didn't keep him up last night. "Look, Harry. You're a good kid. You show up for work on time... normally," at this Harry gave a guilty start. "You do good work, and while you may not throw in with the rest of the boys, you don't cause trouble with them neither. Still, something’s not right. A young lad like you should have a girlfriend, or any type of friend for that matter. London's a big place, Harry, and you can lose more than just your way around here."

"Yes, sir," Harry said a little warily. What's he playing at? he thought, instantly very keen to see if the shipment had arrived yet.

"My wife, Tabby, she's making pot roast tonight. It's about the best meal she knocks up, and I think you should give it a try, tonight. If you can make it."

"Sir?"

"I'm inviting you over for dinner, Harry. Get you out of that flat of yours. What do you say?"

"Well, I uh... I did have something to do early tomorrow, but if I can... I'll see if I can make it, sir. Thanks."

When Harry met back up with Ernie, Ernie asked him, "So, did old man Jacobs lay into ya?"

"No," Harry replied still a little taken aback. "He didn't."

"Ah Jacobs," Ernie started to explain, shaking his head with a wry grin on his face. "Tries so 'ard to be a real 'ard case, 'e do. Still, got a right 'eart o' gold. Oi, look, shipment's 'ere."

**

Harry felt his muscles tauten and tense for just a quick moment as he popped open the top of the wooden crate. This was the only part of his new life that he had grown to like. Work. Simple, mind-numbing, menial work. He liked the feel of his muscles burning with the strain of hauling countless anonymous parts to and fro, the feel of sweat rolling down his labor-hardened back, the way that after a good day's work his shirt would stick to his skin and the first breeze that met him outside the warehouse would chill him enough to raise goose bumps even in record highs.

He liked, in particular, how much he didn't have to think. In fact, thinking too much on the job was dangerous. If you let yourself get too taken in by your own thoughts, you stopped paying attention, and that's how accidents happened. So it was all too easy to let yourself idly dwell on the television show you watched last night, or the song they played on the radio as you brushed your teeth, and in the most blissful of moments, on absolutely nothing at all. Never, while he was really working, did Harry have time to think about his old life.

Feeling his arms charge with the effort, Harry pushed through the last few groaning nails trying desperately to keep the lid in place, and then, with an echoing clatter, the wooden top hit the deck. This was his prize; straw colored packing and nondescript boxes begging to be shelved in precious order. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as he took a moment to look up.

Ernie was guiding the forklift driver into the bay, staring fixatedly at the pallet slowly advancing on him. Idiot, Harry thought. You're staring at the bottom. Don't you know you always watch the top of the stack? I thought you've been doing this longer than me. Shaking his head, he was about to get to work unloading the crate when he saw it. The operator of the forklift had grinded gears, and the machine lurched. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence, but then the pallet was uncommonly loaded, and had Ernie been keeping his eyes at the top like he should have been, he would have noticed the shift in the weight.

It's gonna drop! Harry had time to think before he dashed toward him. No, he didn't even have that much time. Cursing himself the, only thing he could think as his legs pounded him across the warehouse floor was that he wasn't going to make it. He saw the top box lose its balance. He saw Ernie finally look up, and his eyes go horrifically wide. The box was in mid air and damn it he wasn't going to make it.

Harry screwed his eyes shut and willed his legs to pump harder and faster. They weren't going to get him there, and he decided to just leave the ground and hope for the best. He felt his shoulder collide with Ernie's bony hip and his arms latched around him, tightening in a steely grip. They were both in the air, and he heard Ernie curse violently. Then they were on the ground, the dull thud of their collision with the floor drowned out by the deafening crash that exploded behind them. Panting and wheezing, Harry opened his eyes and looked behind him. The crate, as big as a doghouse, lay partially shattered on the concrete not five feet away, it's innards spilled indiscriminately before it. So many strange bits of metal and stuffing. When Harry caught his breath he turned to Ernie and asked, "Alright?"

Ernie was pale, and his eyes were still as wide as they could go. His breaths came in great heaving gasps until he was finally able to relax. His eyes returned to their normal size, and his goldfish mouth curled into a nervous half smile. "Oi, Potter. You may never take us up on a night on the town, but you got a sixer and a lift comin' from me tonight whether you want it or not. Lucky you saw everything and got there in time, I am."

"Yeah," Harry said quietly as his brow furrowed. "Lucky."

**

This was the end of Harry's third week at the warehouse. He was thankful for the job, but then, he would have been thankful for any means of employment. Having not even finished his magical education, let alone any proper type of Muggle education, Harry was afraid that he would find no job at all, and would therefore be reduced to begging on the streets. To his surprise, however, Mr. Jacobs had hired him on the spot after only a cursory interview.

Of course, he nearly quit ten minutes later when he learnt that one of his co-workers would be none other than Piers Polkis, Dudley's old school chum, and one of his more enthusiastic assistants in the game of "Beating Up Harry." But Piers had changed. He grew up.

In a conversation that was all too uncomfortable for Harry, Piers had actually apologized for the way he had treated Harry when they were kids. "That's what we did back then. Followed Dudley. Of course no one really understood how big of an idiot and a prat he was. I didn't until we were nearly done with school. Your aunt and uncle could afford to buy his way into university even though his marks were terrible. Mine weren't so bad, but my mum and dad had no money. Well, when Dudley learnt I wasn't going off to university with him, and why I wasn't going, he started in on me. Guess I can't know how you felt back then, Potter, but you should know that after about the fifth time he took the mickey out of me for being too poor to go to school, I laid his fat arse right out on the floor. Boxing titles or not, he dropped. Stupid git."

After that came the first time Harry got invited out for a weekend of drinking, but it wasn't the last. As he sat in the passenger seat of Ernie's rustic little Peugeot, he fiddled with the beers in his lap and tried to suppress a grimace as he anticipated yet another invitation that he knew he would have to refuse.

“This it?” Ernie asked him as they pulled in front of a tired looking complex.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, reaching for the door handle with the sincere hopes that he could make his escape before the invite came. He was almost home when he felt Ernie’s calloused hand grip his shoulder.

“Listen,” he started, a sober expression on his face. “You really ought ter join us tomorrow night. It’s not like we’re criminals or nothin’. We jus’ ‘ave a few, tie one on, commiserate.”

Harry sighed. “I’d like to, but…”

“You got plans,” Ernie sighed back and let Harry go. “Well, try an’ open a weekend sometime, yeah?”

Harry nodded and thanked Ernie for the lift before making his way back up to his flat.

Opening his icebox, he frowned at the emptiness of it. Like the entire apartment, it was cold, and barren, and dreadful. He placed the six-pack in the fridge, lifting a bottle for himself before closing the door on the ice colored light inside.

Cracking the bottle open and searching for a packet of noodles, he dwelled on what had become his home. Home didn’t seem hardly a word for it. Living place was hardly better. It was a box, void and lifeless like so many of the boxes he unloaded and stacked at work. There were no Chudley Cannon posters on the wall. No pictures with smiling faces waving back at him. Nothing except a pathetic collection of second hand furniture that barely survived the trip up the lift.

Finding what would be his dinner tonight, he took the first swig of his beer and grimaced. He didn’t care for the bitterness, or it’s dead warmth, but he drank anyway. All of a sudden the noodles didn’t seem so enticing, and lay abandoned on the counter as he walked to the television room.

The television popped on with a faint hum, and Harry found absolutely no interest in what was on. He couldn’t find the will to drag his mind away from his thoughts. Bloody, useless magic, he thought. Why’s it got to be so damn confusing?

The bad joke that his life had become was all the result of magic. His parents dying, Sirius, Dumbledore, Voldemort. All because of stupid, pathetic magic. And yet, the moment he felt Ernie gasping for breath out of harms way, he knew it was magic that let Harry save him. Magic like he did as a boy when much of his life was trying to prevent his own pummeling at the hands of Dudley.

How can it be that way? Why can’t it be good OR evil? Not both.

Nothing made a lick of sense anymore, and he closed his eyes as he took another pull off of his beer. Instantly the image of a fifteen-year-old Hermione Granger flitted in his head. She smiled and chided him about his, “saving people thing.”

“Fat lot of good it did me,” Harry scoffed into the hollow room. As he continued to nurse his beer, Hermione’s image began to change. Her bushy chestnut hair began to darken until it was jet black, shortening as it did so until it clung to her skull in neatly combed locks. With her hair, she too shortened, her face puffing slightly at the cheeks, her eyes hardening until Harry could recognize the face of the eleven-year-old Tom Riddle.

Tom scowled at him. “Saving people thing. Where was your saving people thing when it came to me, Harry? Why couldn’t you save me?”

“SHUT UP!” Harry bellowed, hurling his beer bottle at the wall. He wanted it to break. He wanted it to shatter into a million pieces, letting the jagged bits of glass spray him and cut him. Maybe, if he could bleed, he could feel alive, if only for a moment. He wanted the sting, but it never came as the bottle only thudded against the wall clumsily before finally coming to rest on the carpet, white foam oozing out of it erratically.

Harry watched the beer spill out onto the carpet as the foam gradually returned to its amber color. A dark patch spread among the flattened rug, and only when the flow had reduced itself to a slow drip did Harry realize he was crying.

The air inside his apartment was beginning to suffocate him. The walls seemed made of cardboard and likely to collapse in at any second, smothering him in a pile of pointlessness. He needed to get out, and diving for the phone as if it were a life ring, he dialed and tried desperately to get his tears under control before he heard the other end say, “Hello.”

“Yes, Mr. Jacobs?”

**

“Harry! So glad you could make it. Come in, come in. Don’t dawdle.” Mr. Jacobs frog marched Harry into the living room with a surprisingly strong arm and a warm gesture. The living room filled Harry with a sense of warmth and comfort he hadn’t felt since the last time he had been to the… but he didn’t want to think of that place yet. When he tried to thank his boss for the invitation, all Mr. Jacobs said was, “Don’t mention it. And call me Simon. You’re in my home now. There’s no need for formalities. TABBY!”

Simon introduced Harry to a short stocky woman with hair as iron gray as her husband’s. Her eyes twinkled above a pair of plump rosy cheeks, and her smile was naturally heart-warming. “Oh, hello Harry. Excellent timing, supper’s just been laid out. I hope your feeling more than just a touch peckish.”

Harry hadn’t felt truly hungry in a long time, but the moment he clapped an eye at the set table, he felt his stomach growl in anticipation. The scent of pot roast filled his nostrils as he surveyed the rest of the meal. Mashed potatoes, chick peas, and much to Harry’s surprise, treacle tart sat their beckoning to him. Without needing to be told he took a seat, and had to repress licking his lips as Mrs. Jacobs started to fill his plate.

“So, Harry, where did you go to school?” she asked as she ladled out a heaping of the steaming, garlicky smelling chickpeas.

“St. Brutus’,” Harry replied and immediately regretted it. Mrs. Jacobs paused for a moment, and her face darkened, and in a desperate attempt to explain, Harry added, “It’s not like I did anything wrong, Mrs. Jacobs. It’s just that my aunt and uncle weren’t particularly fond of me.”

“You’re aunt and uncle? But where were your parents?”

“Tabitha!” Mr. Jacobs warned but Harry gestured to let him know it was all right.

“They died. It was a car crash when I was one, and I’m the only one that survived. That’s how I got this scar.” Harry motioned to the lightening shaped scar on his forehead, and he hated himself for telling the same lies the Dursley’s told him as a child. Mrs. Jacobs face, however, shifted from a look of apprehension, to one of sympathy.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” she said seating herself. That had stopped all conversation, and for the first time since entering their home, Harry felt uncomfortable. Can’t do anything right, can I? he thought darkly.

Seeking to lighten the mood again, Mr. Jacobs said, “Tabby, this young man saved a life today, it was incredible.” He then told the tale of how Harry had saved Ernie’s life. At least, he told what he knew from Piers’ account as he didn’t actually see it. Harry was grateful that Piers himself had only seen the tackle and not the flying leap that allowed Harry to clear half the warehouse in less than a second.

Chuckling, Mrs. Jacobs said, “Well, Ernie’s a nice boy, but he’s a little…”

“Dim?” Harry offered, and they all laughed. The mood lightened considerably, Harry began to eat with gusto.

“Mmph. This is really good, Mrs. Jacobs,” Harry said, forgetting that it was rude to speak with his mouth full. “I’ve been eating out of packages for weeks. I almost forgot that you can actually like eating.”

Mrs. Jacobs took the compliment graciously. “Please, dear, call me Tabby.”

The evening unfolded contentedly, and for the first time since Harry left, he felt actually happy. He felt like a person again, capable of laughter, and warmth. The conversation was light, and they all laughed as Mr. Jacobs told tales about when he was Harry’s age working in the warehouse. As they moved on to the treacle tart, however, Mr. Jacobs redirected the subject of conversation to Harry.

“So, my boy, what’re you planning on doing when you leave the warehouse?”

“Sir?”

“Come now. You’re obviously a bright, hard working young lad. You know you’ve got no business wasting your entire life hauling boxes. Where do you go from here?”

Harry shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He had the distinct impression that the warehouse was exactly where you ended up when you lost your way, so how was he to know where he would end up? It wasn’t that bad really, and while Harry could picture himself doing a million other things, it became decreasingly difficult to imagine himself jockeying crates for the rest of his life. He shrugged, “I suppose I haven’t given it much thought,” he finally said staring down at his dessert.

“Well, you think on it,” Mr. Jacobs said in a fatherly tone. “You’re no Ernie or Piers or Martin. They’re all good kids, but they belong there. You don’t, and I think you know that, son.”

“Yes sir,” Harry mumbled, still refusing to look Mr. Jacobs in the eye. He didn’t deserve their faith in him this soon. He didn’t deserve it at all.

“Simon, Harry. Simon.”

Harry forced his lips into a half smile as he repeated, “Simon.”

Eventually Simon had reminded the little party that Harry was supposed to get up early in the morning, and offered him a lift that Harry gratefully accepted. Before the two men could leave, though, Mrs. Jacobs came padding after them.

“Harry,” she called after him, a somewhat sad look on her face. “I’m afraid I’m not that great in the kitchen after all. I tried to make a treacle tart, but it was horrible, so I got this one at the bakers. You seemed to like it, so please, take it with you.”

She was holding a clear plastic box with the rest of the tart still inside. Harry took it, and thanked her, offering his hand, but instead of taking it, she pulled him into a quick hug before pushing both men out the door.

Later that night, as Simon and Tabby lay in bed, Tabby whispered sleepily into the dark, “He’s a good boy.”

“Yes, he is.”

“But he’s not happy.”

“No, he’s not.”

“I hope he finds his way soon, Simon.”

Rolling over to hide the look of concern on his face, Simon whispered back, “So do I.”

**

Harry placed the box of treacle tart in the icebox next to the remaining five beers. Skirting around the still damp beer stain on the floor he made his way to the bedroom, neglecting to undress himself before collapsing into his Spartan bed.

The image of the two gifts in the fridge haunted his sleepy mind. Three weeks in, people were heaping gifts on him he didn’t feel like he deserved, and trying to make him feel welcome when all he felt capable of feeling was alone. The last thought that crossed his mind before he once again faced his nightmares was that he would never again partake in either gift given him today, and he should probably remember to throw them away in the morning.

Chapter 3: Routine

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep

SLAM!

“Now you decide to work properly,” Harry protested groggily after silencing his roguish alarm clock. As much as he wished he could get mad at the offending piece of machinery, Harry had to admit that he was a little grateful for the reprieve from his ever present nightmares. Besides, he thought as he drug himself out of bed, It is the weekend.

Routines are a curious thing. They make us feel safe when we are in danger, and comfortable when we shouldn’t be. A well placed routine is what allows some of us to continue on with our existence when there seem to be too many reasons stacked up not to. For Harry, the work week provided him with plenty of routine. Get up, get a shower, get dressed, get a bite to eat, get to work, get through the workday, get home, get a meager supper, get an hour or so of television, and get to bed. Get up again, rinse, and repeat.

What had bothered Harry was the weekend. There was no work on the weekend, and the broadcasting stations, as if mocking the entire concept of routine, frequently shifted their programming, often times replacing a crime drama with a football game, or the news with the some old movie that no one wants to see anyway. That was why Harry developed his weekend routine, or at least that was why Harry had told himself he developed it.

This, of course, was a complete lie. The concept of a lie is pretty simple. It’s about protecting something. You could be protecting yourself, or someone else, or even an idea. When you tell your girlfriend that she looks rather smashing in the potato sack looking dress she bought earlier that afternoon, that’s a lie that you tell her to protect her feelings from getting hurt. When Harry told himself why he did what he did every weekend, it was to protect nobody but himself.

Why he needed protecting he wasn’t exactly sure, but he at least knew he needed it enough to construct the lie.

**

His hair still dripping from the shower, Harry opened the closet to survey the one thing he allowed himself to splurge on since striking out on his own. Lifting the sleek black suit from its revered place in the closet, he laid it out on the bed, and removed the towel from his waist.

It wasn’t a particularly fancy suit. Simple jacket, simple slacks, simple white shirt, and a very simple black tie. Still, it was the only thing he owned in this new life of his that was not second-hand, and he had even forked over the extra coin to have it tailored properly.

Slipping the black jacket from the hanger, he carefully undid the buttons of the shirt and pulled it on, numbly acknowledging the starched fabric as it slipped over his muscled torso. Next came the slacks, and he took particular care on how he tucked his shirt in, spending several minutes in front of the mirror to make sure that it didn’t bunch up or blouse at the bottom. After this came the tie. He had to have the shopkeeper show him how to tie it, and after several failed attempts on his part, Harry was given a little card with a diagram. While he finally did figure out how to tie the tie on his own, he still pulled the card out every time, if only for routine's sake.

Finally, he slipped on the jacket. He remembered the tailor explaining to him which buttons to button, and which to leave alone, and with an almost holy reverence, fastened the jacket buttons, taking particular care to make sure the bottom one was left undone. It is a good fit, he thought to himself just as he had done each Saturday for the past three weekends.

Satisfied that this was the best he was likely to make himself look, Harry sighed and slid his feet into a matching pair of shoes, and grabbed the little satchel that lay on the closet floor.

The satchel itself was of great importance to Harry’s routine, and in and of itself, warranted its own little mini-routine. He took it to the kitchen, made two sandwiches that he placed first in little plastic bags, then into a little side pocket, and then he padded back towards his bedroom. Harry would then sit on his austere bed, and place the satchel on his knees. Inside it were items Harry only ever allowed himself to use during his weekend routine, and before opening it, he would just sit there and reflect upon the contents. The moment of reflection over, he loosened the string that held the tote closed and removed, in order, his old wand, then the airy invisibility cloak that once belonged to his father, and finally, despite the impossibility of something so large fitting into a bag so small, a broomstick.

These items he placed on his bed carefully and took a few moments more to look at them sadly. In a way he felt like he was letting them down, chaining them up somehow, and only letting them fulfill their purpose in the most degrading of ways. They had each done so much for him, and his only way of repayment was to force them into the same sad dance weekend after weekend.

Wearily, he lifted his wand, and tapped at the somewhat battered broomstick with “FIREBOLT” printed in fading letters along the handle, and watched as the letters faded along with the rest of the broomstick so as to match his bed almost perfectly. Unceremoniously, he replaced the now nearly invisible broom into the satchel.

He then cast the same disillusionment charm on himself, shuddering slightly at the sensation of cool liquid trickling down his body. Checking to make sure that the charm had taken, he quickly scanned his feet which now looked like carpet, and his legs which were the same rust color of his bed spread. The charm, he had realized, was not absolutely necessary. Though he had grown quite a bit since he first donned his father's invisibility cloak, it still managed to cover him completely with only the smallest bit of hunching. Still, the charm made him feel safer; an added layer of protection against pesky breezes that might just whisk away invisibility cloaks.

Continuing with the routine, Harry looped the bag over his shoulder before grabbing the silvery cloak and covering himself entirely. He was now a thoroughly invisible man.

He took one final moment to peruse his barren bedroom. Pitiful, he mused to himself at the lack of life within the room. Eager to get on with his routine, he slowly spun around, and by the time his revolution was complete, the room had truly become empty.

**

After the sickening sensation of being gutted and tugged by a hook jabbed through his middle had passed, Harry gingerly opened his eyes. The sight of old oak trees adorned with mournful runners of Spanish moss hanging listlessly over rows and rows of erected stone slabs had greeted him. It was a sad place, and yet, it was one of the few places where Harry could find a measure of comfort, and he found a small smile play across his lips as he navigated deftly between the markers of those passed away.

It hadn't taken him long to find what he was looking for. It never did. Even when he had made this pilgrimage the first time about a year ago he found himself gravitating directly towards the spot he needed with little difficulty. Now, as he stood before the two modest gravestones, he felt as though he had always been able to find them if he had just tried hard enough.

"Hullo Mum... Dad," he said quietly, removing his invisibility cloak and breaking the disillusionment charm. "How're things?" They didn't answer. They never did. It wasn't as if Harry expected them to. Truth be told, he would most likely have been shocked right out of his skin if his deceased parents started chatting with him out of nowhere. All the same, he could never rid himself of the deep sense of regret at their continued silence.

"I, uh, brought you some flowers," he continued weakly, pulling two lilies out from another side pocket of the satchel. Without another word, he removed the wilting lilies he had placed at his parents' graves only last week, replacing them with the two fresh ones he had produced from his sack. Taking the dried lilies between his fingers, he sat down on the lush green grass and rested his back against the side of his father's tombstone.

He sat like that in silence for what seemed an eternity. A dead flower in each hand, he spun the skeletal remains between his thumbs and forefingers as he watched the sunlight dance with the shadows of the oak leaves above him on his mother's gravestone, making it almost sparkle in the comfortable midsummer morning. Harry had read stories of those who had visited the graves of lost loved ones, and had wished for a bird to sing out just then, or a warm breeze to caress his cheek, to feel some sign that they were with him. But, just as in weeks passed, he was disappointed. All he had was cold stone, green loam, moist Earth, and two dead flowers.

The silence was heavy, but not suffocating, and though Harry felt rather comfortable in its grip, the time had come to break it. "I saved someone's life yesterday," he said in an almost ashamed tone. "Ernie, I told you about him. Decent bloke, but daft. He wasn't paying attention, and would have been crushed under a huge box full of parts yesterday if I hadn't gotten to him. I don't think I would have gotten there in time, too, if it weren't for..." he paused for a moment, not even wanting to say the word. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he concluded, "Magic."

"Suppose you're really proud of me now, " he muttered sarcastically. "I try and run away, try and live like a Muggle, and I can't even manage that one properly, can I? And what am I supposed to do? Wish I hadn't used magic? Ernie'd probably be dead now if I hadn't. I don't... I just don't..." he couldn't finish. How could he explain to his parents how he felt about everything when he couldn't even explain it to himself? Even if they were alive, could they really understand how painful all of this was?

Out of nowhere, Harry chuckled slightly. Being dead, his mum and dad may very well understand what he was feeling better than he was. Fat lot of good it did him though, not being able to hear them.

Not wanting to waste his time with his parents on silence, Harry tried another, less painful, subject. "My boss, Mr. Jacobs, invited me over for dinner last night, too. You know, I thought he was going to be a bit hard when I first started working for him, but he's really nice. I like his wife too, she reminds me an awful lot like..." and Harry found himself stopped short by another painful subject. It had seemed like forever since the last time he had visited with the woman who had taken him in as a son. As Mrs. Weasley's plump face flitted across his mind he wondered if she was fretting over him right now, just as he saw her do over all of her children during years previous. Or, he pondered with fright, was she cursing his name instead?

"Well," he renewed. "If everything we talk about today is going to lead us to a sore subject, I may as well..." He sighed. "D-Did you know I had a… girlfriend?" This was a very valid question, he thought. As they were deceased, Harry had no way of knowing whether they knew everything about Harry's life, or nothing.

"I did, you know. Actually, I had two if you count Cho, but I don't. It's not like I hated her or anything, but we only had the one kiss, and it was pretty strange. Then we only went out on one date, and that turned out dreadful. I mean, she was nice, really, but she wasn't..." Before Harry could continue, he had to swallow down a very large lump that had somehow formed in his throat. Just thinking about her had caused him so much pain, but he had to tell his parents about her. He had to let them know. She was too important to him for them not to know about her. "She wasn't Ginny," he finally finished.

"I really wished you could have met her," he continued, feeling the all too familiar sting behind his eyes that arose any time he thought about her. "I think you would have really liked her. I might have mentioned her before, she is Ron's younger sister, you know. But..." Harry stopped, trying to figure out exactly where to begin. A thought crossed his mind, and the thought turned into a chuckle, which miraculously turned into a full laugh.

"It's a bit funny, really," he finally said. "The way things started out. I mean, she had this huge crush on me, and I didn't know what to do. Honestly, what are you supposed to do when you're twelve and your best mate's little sister has a crush on you? But it was bad. Some of it was kind of nice, like when she stood up for me against Malfoy in the bookshop, but some of it was just..." his words died in another fit of laughter.

"For Valentine's Day, she had sent me this singing telegram. Only, it was delivered by this really hefty dwarf dressed up as a cupid, and right there in front of the whole school this thing tackles me and starts singing this song that Ginny wrote for me. Oh, it was dreadful, and I don't think I've been more embarrassed in my entire life. I still remember it, too, every last word." With a huge smile on his face, Harry gruffed up his voice to sound as much like the cupid/dwarf from his second year, and began to sing:

His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.

When he had finished, the smile on his face had faded away, as though it Disapparated to a face where a smile was more apt to belong. "You know, I'm not really sure why I still remember that stupid song. I guess I always thought it was because it was so embarrassing, but maybe... I don't know, maybe a part of me knew even then." Harry's shoulders hunched, and he pulled his knees up to his chest before continuing.

"Well, then something funny happened. She got over her crush. She stopped swooning over me, and, thankfully, sending me valentines, and somewhere along the way, she became one of the most popular girls in school. Not hard to see why, really. She's pretty, oh dad, if you could see her. She's got hair kind of like yours, mum, and, well, these eyes. And she's funny, I mean, she'll take the mickey out of you without losing a beat. And the things she could do with a wand..."

"So, anyway, the funny thing that happened is that her crush on me died, but four years later, I had a crush on her. And, turns out, she was braver than I was. She got up the courage to send me that silly valentine. I spent the better part of sixth year worrying about what Ron would do if he found out I fancied his kid sister. But I did it. I finally did it," he said triumphantly. "I kissed her, and right in front of nearly every Gryffindor at Hogwarts too. That was... I think maybe you really might have been proud of me for that."

Harry let himself glow in the memory of his first kiss with Ginny. Feeling a small weight at his chest for the first time in weeks, Harry pulled out a small gold locket from beneath his suit, and opened it, holding it out at arms length as if trying to show both tombstones the tiny moving picture inside. "See," he muttered. "That was the moment," and sure enough, the picture, given to him almost a year ago, had showed Harry and Ginny kissing, a sea of red and gold clad students watching and cheering. After a time, he closed the locket, and let the weight settle once again on his chest.

"I ended it a few weeks later. I didn't want to, but, well, you know why." Harry let his head droop between his arms resting on his knees. "After that, we only had one really good day together, and I haven't really seen her since then."

He felt a tear drop from his face, and felt his fist clench, trying to stuff down the pain. "I miss her," he said, his voice a high-pitched whisper. "God, I miss her," he said again, and after this second declaration, he found he no longer had the will to keep from crying. Tears slipped hot and freely down his cheeks, pooling at his chin before finally diving down to wet the already damp soil. His breaths came in low hisses and his shoulders shuddered, and he cried, fully mourning the hole that seemed stamped straight through his chest. He wanted to feel a kind arm wrap around him, or hear a warm voice hush him. He wanted to be told that everything was okay, but everything wasn't, and there was no one there to tell him neither truth nor lie.

Finally, he lifted his head, and tried in vain to wipe the tears from his cheeks. "I want to go back. I want to so bad, mum. I really do, but I can't. I don't know... And I'm trying, mum, I really am, but it hurts, and I'm scared... Mum..." Again he let himself cry, slowly banging the back of his head against his dad's marker, hating himself for being so pathetic. "I need you two... I don't know where to go anymore."

That was the last he spoke for a long while, unable to manage anything intelligible through the tears. He hadn't cried in front of his parents like this before, and he wasn't sure if it had made him feel better, or worse, but eventually the tears did stop, and he was able to allow himself a slight, wet, snigger.

"Wonder what Sirius must think of me now," he chortled. "Is he doing all right? Not getting into too much trouble? I bet he's getting into loads of trouble," Harry concluded, and smiled at the thought of his godfather roaming free and unfettered. This image brought a new tear to Harry's eye, but this tear was a happy one, and his heart was warmed, if only a little bit, by the idea that at least Sirius was no longer cooped up in a house he hated, kept from taking action when his heart was demanding he do so. "Could you do me a favor, and not tell Sirius I'm such a mess? He worries about me too much sometimes, and I don't think he should."

Harry glanced at his watch, and seeing that it was already afternoon, gave a start. "Oh! I'm gonna be late!" he yelped, jumping to his feet and putting his things and charms in order. Invisible once again he took one last look at his parents' graves and said, "I've got to go, but I'll be back next week, okay?" After a hesitant pause, he added, "I love you." And with a faint pop, Harry was gone.

**

Mrs. Weasley, Harry had learned in his first outing, had taken to serving a very early supper these days. Sure enough, as he approached the tottering Weasley household, his nose was greeted with a wondrous array of aromas that had instantly sent his stomach to growling. He could smell roasted chicken and fresh baked bread, warm butter and peas. To Harry the smell was more than just that of food, but of comfort, and love, and home, and he let the enticing odors guide him gently towards the spot that had quickly become his spot.

Beneath a gangly willow tree, Harry had found a large gnarled knot in the root that had thrust up from the ground as though trying and almost succeeding at escaping its confines of hard-packed clay. It had served as a rather comfortable chair, considering the circumstances, and when Harry sat down, he had a perfect view through the Burrow's large window over looking the Weasley's dining table.

Despite the fact that dinner smelled nearly ready, the only two people seated at the table thus far were Ron and Hermione. As Harry watched the two leaned in close and talking comfortably, he found that this was not at all surprising. On one hand, the Burrow was the embodiment of chaos, and it was a rare moment when everyone was together, seated, and calm even now that most of the Weasley children had moved away. On the other hand, Ron was easily the hungriest person Harry had ever known, and seeing him eagerly awaiting his next meal was the most natural thing in the world. Hermione's presence had come as a bit of a shock to Harry during his first visit, but it didn't take him long to understand that the two seemed almost incapable to be outside the other's presence, and Harry couldn't help feeling a little touched by this.

How he wished he could hear what they were talking about. I should be in on that conversation, he thought sadly watching them carry on, their hands clasped tenderly beneath the table. It wasn't until their words had been halted by a kiss that Harry changed his mind, looking away as he thought, maybe not.

Hoping he had given them enough privacy, Harry looked once again only to find that they were still kissing. The image of his two best friends sharing this moment had stirred something deep within Harry, something at once hopeful and light, and yet painful and wanting. He couldn't express how happy he had felt for them, but at the same time he was filled with such a sense of longing, this burning desire to feel someone else's small, soft hand in his, to share the same close air, to let his nostrils fill with a familiar, intoxicating, flowery scent, and to let himself be lost in something other than pity and despair for once. Feeling slightly ashamed about intruding upon what was obviously a private and intimate moment, Harry was about to again avert his eyes when someone else barged into the room, disrupting the mood. Two someones, to be exact.

Fred and George charged into the room, fingers pointing, audible peels of laughter ringing from their mouths. They were saying something, and from the color of Hermione's and Ron's cheeks, it was something rather rude. As Ron leapt to his feet, wand drawn, and Hermione buried her flushed face in her arms, Harry allowed himself a silent titter. The laughter, however, was bittersweet as Harry reflected that sitting outside and looking in was no place to watch a first class Fred and George razzing. Even when you were the butt of their joke, you could never get too mad at them. They were Fred and George after all.

Eventually George had patted Hermione kindly on the back as Fred put his arms up in surrender at Ron's wand point, and the twins took their seats on either side of the couple. They were still bickering happily when Harry felt a pain like a dagger shoot straight through his heart.

Her cheeks flushed from the effort of carrying what looked like a small bathtub full of mashed potatoes, Ginny walked into the room. Her fiery red hair was done up in a ponytail that just grazed the back of a light green sundress, and her face did little to hide her displeasure (apparently at being left alone to help her mum with the cooking). The twins seeing the mountainous pile of potatoes placed by the basket of dinner rolls already present had said something in unison that darkened Ginny's face even more. She had spat something back at them and the twins only laughed heartily, but their laughter was cut short as she used the ladle to catapult a dollop of potato straight at George's face.

Before anyone could react, Ginny was under the table, two or three rolls bunched up in her arm. The twins had tried to retaliate, but in the cross fire, Ron had gotten hit by a stray roll. Not one to take that lying down, he had sent a retaliatory shot of potato that had managed to miss both twins, and nail Hermione directly on the forehead. For a moment, no one moved, unsure (and a little terrified) of her reaction. Calmly, she picked up a dinner roll, covered it thoroughly in potato, and matter-of-factly tackled Ron and started stuffing the roll in his face.

The all out food fight that ensued was chaotic, and when Bill walked in, his wife in tow, he hadn't even managed to get a greeting out before his scarred face had become yet another casualty of war. Well, Harry tried to console himself. At least my suit won't get ruined, but it didn't work. If he were to be honest with himself, he would have happily let Fred and George pour the entire tub of potatoes over him, especially if he were using his body to shield Ginny. Harry had little chance to flesh out this idea more, however, as everyone in the room froze instantly, and he thought he had a pretty good idea as to why.

Hardly a few seconds later, a tempestuous Mrs. Weasley stormed into the room, a dripping spatula in one hand, her wand in the other. At that precise moment, Harry had a very difficult time deciding which of the two weapons was more lethal. Her admonitions were loud enough that even outside Harry could nearly make them out; each word was punctuated by a violent jabbing of either the wand or the cooking utensil. Bill had raised his hand in an attempt to take the blame, but his efforts were thwarted as the rest of the Weasley children began pointing animatedly at each other, tossing accusations like hand grenades.

"ENOUGH!" he heard Mrs. Weasley bellow, shocking the rest of the family into silence, and the litany that followed, Harry suspected, was probably their mother telling them they had better get the mess cleaned up, or else. Sulky-faced, and quiet, the Weasley's confirmed Harry's suspicions as they had commenced with a healthy dose of Scourgify charms. Fred and George had went off chasing a few rogue dinner rolls that had been bewitched to dart around like miniature Bludgers, and Hermione helped Ron by licking a fleck of potato off of his eyebrow when she thought no one was looking. Aside from Harry noticing this, Ginny apparently did too, and he thought he saw her face fall a little.

The dining area clean, more platters of food seemed to arrive just as did more Weasleys. Percy had strode in looking as haughty as ever, letting his demeanor fail him only at the look of exasperation from his siblings. No one would explain, it seemed, why they were disappointed, but Harry had guessed they all rued missing their chance at having Percy as a prime target for a potato missile. Not long after Percy showed up, Charlie followed suit. This surprised Harry a little as Charlie hadn't shown in the weeks previous.

Finally, as Mr. Weasley made his way into the room, grinning as his children (along with Hermione, and Fleur) smothered him in a tirade of hugs, they had all sat down to eat. Dishes were passed around along with laughter and good cheer, and just as in his previous visits to the burrow, Harry tried desperately not to think about how nice it would be to sit there among them. When they eventually got around to actually tucking in, Harry pulled one of his sandwiches out of his bag and hungrily attacked it, willing it to taste like Mrs. Weasley's savory chicken and not like dry corn beef and crumbly bread.

He could just knock, he thought to himself as he finished his second sandwich. It wouldn't be that hard. He could just try knocking, and if they welcomed him that would be great, and if they drove him away, he at least had his other life to go back to. It was the easiest thing in the world, and before he knew it, he was standing on the Burrow's doorstep. Chatter filtered through the door to him, and he was stricken with a deep longing to be a part of it, to contribute, to laugh with them, and fight with them. To just go home.

Without realizing it, Harry's fist was poised mid air. His entire body shook with nerves as he remembered all the times he had so easily walked through this door. Mrs. Weasley would always meet him first, wrapping him tightly into a bear hug and complaining about how thin he had gotten. She would have him tucking into a plate of her delicious food before even Ron had a chance to greet him. But that was then, and as Harry began to reflect upon the hopelessness of now, he felt his fist slowly retreat from the door.

He was about to return to his root when the door flying open froze him in place. He had nearly collided head on with Ginny, the only thing saving him being a voice that called from the kitchen.

"Where are you going, Ginny?" Ginny turned to face her mother, her hand still on the doorknob.

"Just out for a bit of air, mum. It's nice out. Besides," she added, a sly grin lighting upon her face. "I've gotten used to this lot not living here anymore. It's got a bit stuffy for me."

Her jab was met with a healthy round of protest, but before it could get out of control, Ginny cut them off. "Shut it Fred, or I'll tell mum the 'new line' you and George are working on!"

"You wouldn't!" the twins answered in mortified unison.

"Fred! George! What's she on about?" came Mrs. Weasley's dangerous reaction, and Harry used the distraction to sneak back to a safe distance. As Fred and George stammered out hasty attempts to change the subject, Ginny shook her head and rolled her eyes as she closed the door behind her.

He was instantly mesmerized by her. The summer sun seemed to have no effect whatsoever on her cream colored skin, and he could feel himself gape at the simple action of Ginny pulling her hair out of its pony tail, letting soft strands of red fall carelessly over pale skin and light freckles. This was dangerous, she would hear him. How couldn't she hear his heart pounding madly as she sat on one of the old wooden steps leading to the house, pulling her bare knees to her chest as she did so?

Her chin rested on her knees and all Harry could think was that he could pick her up entirely in that little ball she made of herself. He could pick her up, and smother her and never let her go. At the same time, he couldn't even move. It was as though the sight of her coupled with that flowery scent that wafted over towards him on the warm summer breeze had paralyzed him, taunting him, torturing him.

It was then that he decided to enjoy what he had; this moment of closeness, the proximity. It wasn't nearly as close as he would have liked, but it was closer than he had been for what seemed like ages, and he let the sensation wash over him, sending his spirit soaring and at the same time killing him. He was dying, he could feel it, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

As though enjoying the effect she was having on him, Ginny smiled curiously, hugging her shins close to her, occasionally letting her fingers fiddle with her soft pink toes. He bit a knuckle hard to suppress a groan. She didn't know he was there, she couldn't. She was just lost in her own world, not even realizing that every little movement she made was dangerously close to sending her ex-boyfriend into fits of convulsions only a few short feet away.

The shadows had grown long, the sun was making ready to disappear for the night, and Harry's heart ached as he knew this moment they shared would have to end. Before it did, though, Harry watched in fascination as Ginny pulled out what looked like a small slip of paper from a pocket in her dress. It was tiny, not even maybe half the size of a Knut, but whatever it was, it must have been incredibly important because as Ginny held it before her, her smile widened a little. The smile, however, didn't reach her eyes. Instead, the brown eyes that Harry pined for so frequently began to sparkle with tears, and he could feel her forcing herself not to cry. He almost threw off the invisibility cloak right there. He almost cast off the charm. He almost ran to her, wrapping his arms around her, engulfing her whole, whispering in her ear that whatever it was, it wasn't worth her wasting a single tear on. He almost did all of these things, but actually did none.

His fingernails had dug painful little pricks of heat into his palms as Ginny sniffed, and he noticed that he stopped breathing. Inside he was cursing himself, hating himself, wishing he was anyone else on the face of the planet except Harry bloody Potter, but on the outside he just watched as the girl he loved put the paper back in her pocket, tucked the pain back deep inside, and walked back into the now twilight darkened house.

When Harry returned to the tree, he couldn't tell what was going on anymore. The entire family had moved out of the dining room, but Harry had no will to see what they were up to now. Night had fallen quickly and heavily upon him, and had it not been for the faint yellow-orangish light coming from the Burrow's windows, he would have been left completely in the dark. He watched bitterly as the lights of the house slowly went out one by one. Occasionally he could hear laughter or a scream, but for the most part as the number of lit windows went from four to three, the only sound keeping him company was the chirping of crickets off in the distance.

Now, with only two lit windows (Ron's room and Ginny's room), Harry could feel the tears again. It was the middle of summer, and yet he was cold. The invisibility cloak seemed to do little to keep him warm, and though he had wrapped his jacket around him like an extra blanket, it was far too thin to keep the cold from penetrating through. An owl hooted far off, and for some insane reason, Harry was filled with hope, but moments later it sounded more distant as it hooted again, and the anonymous hope fell. It was just an owl.

One window left. It was her room, he knew it, and that's exactly where he wanted to be. Not pulling out his broomstick and hovering up to have a look was the hardest thing Harry could remember doing, but it wouldn't be right, if any of this ever was. It wasn't like that anyway, he knew. He just wanted to see her, to watch her sleep and be peaceful. Part of him wanted her to know that even now, when he knew he couldn't have her, he would still watch over her and keep her safe. He didn't really care about himself anymore, as long as she was...

The last light went out just as Harry felt his last tear of the day roll down his cheek. Sliding down to the ground, Harry rested his head upon the knot he had used as a chair, and tucked himself into as small of a ball as he could for warmth. Sleepily looking over the opaque house before him, he yawned and whispered, "Good night," just before closing his eyes.

**

Harry's routine piggybacked him slowly but steadily along as the summer crept by at an almost unbearably slow pace. Work was work. Ernie had learnt to pay a little more attention to what he was doing, and therefore required far less life saving from Harry, though he never failed to remind Harry of his good deed just as Harry was on the verge of forgetting it. His invitations to the pub had stabilized out to a solid three per week, all hopeful but perfunctory as by now his co-workers had caught on that a few nights at the local pub just weren't Harry's cup of tea.

Somehow Friday evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs had made their way into Harry's routine as well, and as much as he hated to admit it, Harry was grateful for at least one decent meal a week. Occasionally Mr. Jacobs ("For the last time, call me Simon") would engage Harry in a discussion of what Harry was going to do with his life, but for the most part Simon and Tabby had little to offer but good food, and comfort.

While he continued to visit his parents on a weekly basis, Harry had found that their conversations were growing gradually shorter and shorter. It wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with them, he did. But he found that a curious side effect of all of his routines was that he had little news to report. Each week he found it more and more difficult to find something other than loading and unloading boxes to talk about. If he were to be completely honest with both himself and his parents, though, he would also have to admit that as the weeks drew on, he had found himself more and more anxious to return to the Burrow.

The Burrow. That was a wrench and a half. Under normal circumstances, the Burrow was bustling with activity, but as of late, the chaos had seemed to grow to epic proportions. People both familiar and strange were popping in and out, and Harry desperately wanted to know why. Of course this was difficult seeing as how he didn't dare let himself get close enough to listen to most conversations lest he be discovered.

On the brighter side of things, having the entire Weasley clan had made for some great sport. Nearly every weekend there was a pickup Quidditch match, usually on Sunday's, which were only marginally quieter than Saturdays. After the Weasley clan had split off into teams(sometimes with Hermione, or Tonks, or for one gloriously funny game, Lupin), Harry would hover just off the pitch, thankful for his Disillusionment charm. How he wished he could join in. It had been far too long since he had played in a proper match. Charlie had turned out to be a really good seeker, but what Harry really wanted was a go at Ginny. He had always respected her abilities, but as she pushed her beat up old broom around the pitch, Harry was beginning to wonder if she had gotten better than him.

But what became the true highlight of the week for Harry wasn't Quidditch, nor dinner at the Jacobs' household. It was Saturday afternoon with Ginny. Since that one Saturday when she and Harry nearly collided with each other, Harry hadn't dared to hope for that to happen again, but it did. The very next week, Ginny had again excused herself for "A bit of fresh air." And then again the week after that. Soon Harry grew dependent upon these little moments, privately drinking her in, greedily taking in her scent, letting her kill him slowly every Saturday right after supper. It was the most painful moment of his routine, but he needed it. He hungered for it. The moment she went to rejoin her family, Harry found himself stricken with unbearable loss, feeling as though he might suffocate, and frantically praying that he could make it until it happened again next week.

And so this had become his life. June had turned into a blistering July, but still Harry trudged on. He hadn't really noticed the coming of July. Honestly, he was able to keep track of the days because of work, but the weeks had all started to blend into one long anonymous chain, divided only by the markers of his well established routine.

It was a rainy Sunday in late July (or was it early August?) that found Harry sitting in his normal spot. Dinner had come and gone, and Harry was about to head back to his flat, but something kept him there. It wasn't supposed to be raining, in fact the weather man had called for yet another weekend of sun and sweltering temperatures, but here he was, Sunday evening, getting drenched through and through.

The Weasley's (and Hermione) were all anxiously discussing something. Papers and books were spread out upon the dining table where heavy dishes of food were only moments earlier. Ginny, Harry noticed, seemed listless, and nobody but him seemed to register when she had slipped away from the throng, and out the door. Her face was blank as she pulled the door closed, and she eyed the rain disinterestedly.

She had rubbed her arms almost automatically, and part of Harry wanted to cover her, shelter her from the rain, but something was about to happen, he could feel it. And there he saw it, small, but there. There on her expressionless face, he noticed the slightest twitch of an eyebrow. She slowly began to sink, and as she sat down, he saw another flicker of her other eyebrow. An eyelid fluttered, and for the briefest moment, Harry thought she was going to smile, but instead her mouth pulled into a grimace, and in an instant the rest of her face had cracked into one of complete sorrow.

She was crying, hard and fast, tears falling thicker and faster than the raindrops between them. Her shoulders rocked, and Harry could see her fingernails digging deep into her exposed knees. She was crying harder than he had ever seen her cry (not that he had many occasion to do so), and yet she didn't make a single sound. Ginny didn't want her family to know.

Unable to stop himself, Harry cried with her. Don't cry, Ginny... Please? he thought, willing her to hear him. Please don't... I wish I could, but I can't, so just… don't cry.

After a time, Ginny did stop crying, and with relief, Harry wiped at his eyes to get a better look. The moment he had, though, he instantly began wishing he hadn't. Replacing the looking of sadness on her face was a look of complete and total hatred and disgust. Her face was venomous, and when she spoke, though it was barely audible, the loathing that dripped from it had made Harry's heart feel as though it had been frozen solid.

"Happy Birthday, Harry!" she spat, and tossing something in the mud, she stormed back into the house.

Mortified, Harry found he couldn't move, his eyes glued to the door. After a few minutes his body finally gave his control back and his eyes darted to whatever it was she threw to the ground. Recognizing it immediately, he picked up the slip of paper he had seen her gaze at during their Saturday afternoons alone. It turned out not to be a slip of paper at all, but instead a very tiny photograph. The rain hadn't ruined the picture at all, and Harry felt as though someone had cut his stomach open as he watched himself, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all staring back at him happily. It was the last time the four of them were together and happy, a picture Mrs. Weasley had snapped of them exactly a year ago today; Harry's birthday.

As the memories of that perfect day flooded into Harry's mind, he turned the photograph over, and on the back, heavily blotched by the rain, and flecked with mud, Harry could just barely make out two words.

"Welcome Back!"

**

Apparating into a dark alley, questions flooded Harry’s mind. How could he have missed his own birthday? How could he... The questions came too fast for him to cope, and the only thing he knew for sure was that he had to get out of there. He had to get out of there before he went insane, and something inside him said he had to go get drunk. Stashing his cloak into his bag, Harry quickly took off the disillusionment charm, and stowed his wand before ducking out of the urine-scented alley.

The noise from the pub assaulted him before he even pushed upon the door, and when he did enter, he immediately began to hack at the plume of smoke that attacked him. This is where they went every weekend? he asked himself a little indignantly. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes filled his nostrils and Harry began to rethink this course of action when a familiar voice reached him through the din.

"Bless me soul! It's 'ARRY!" Ernie broadsided Harry aggressively, wrapping an arm around him a little too tightly. "Look boys, it's 'Arry!" he repeated a little shakily as he wheeled Harry around to face a table with several other boys Harry's age seated at it. Piers' familiar face had turned to look, and the moment his eyes caught Harry's, they went wide.

"Wow! Hey Martin," he said, nudging a scruffy, dark haired boy Harry barely recognized. "Go run outside and check to see what color the moon is. Bet you five quid it's blue. Better yet, why don’t you have a poke down there,” Piers said as he pointed towards the ground. “Fetch us a weather report. I reckon it’s a bit chilly. Bloody Hell."

The entire table got up and issued Harry a hearty round of hugs, as they ushered him into a seat. The seat was apparently already spoken for, but it's previous owner seemed ill disposed towards confronting a group of young men, the smallest of which being Harry (who wasn't all that small anymore). Harry was a little bothered by this, but even the man who gave up the chair seemed to take it all in stride, as though getting strong armed out of your seat was all part of the rustic charm of the place.

"Wotcha, 'arry, what fin'lly drug ya out?" Ernie was asking as he tried flagging down a particularly weary looking barmaid.

"Oh, well, I only just got in," Harry offered, pointing to his bag. "And it's my birthday, so I reckoned why not?"

"Blimey. It's your birthday? Oh ho, mate, you're far too sober this late in the day if it's your birthday. As I always say, any birthday you can remember is a bad birthday," Piers proffered sagely.

"Oh, stuff it," Martin snorted at him. "Yeh only been drinkin' for not a year yet. What do you know?"

"Oi! Wench! Over 'ere!" Ernie yelled over the two of them. Harry saw the young, but rather tired looking barmaid with blond curls roll her eyes as she made her way to them.

"Ernie," she began in a nasally drawl. "Don't yeh be callin' me wench or I shan't let you cop a feel for a month."

"Sorry Maddie," he apologized as he gave her an appropriately chastised look. The face didn't last as it quickly split into a grin when Ernie continued, "me mate 'ere needs a pint, fast!"

"'oo's 'e?" she asked nodding in Harry's direction.

"Whassit matter? It's 'is birthday it is. Come off it, get the man a pint, luv." She eyed Harry apprehensively, and finally Ernie decided to explain. "Remember that bloke I was tellin' yer about? The one 'oo saved me life? This is 'e."

That seemed to satisfy her, and she gave Harry a warm smile as she shuffled off into a cloud of smoke.

“He’s sweet on her,” Martin whispered to Harry. “That’s why we get the special treatment.”

“Whaddya mean?” Harry asked in confusion.

“What, you never been in a pub before?” Piers butted in.

“No,” Harry said plainly.

“Look around you, mate,” Martin continued whispering, though from the embarrassed look on Ernie’s face, Harry had guessed he heard everything. “You see anyone in here waited on hand and foot?”

Harry shook his head, and Martin finished explaining. “Too right you don’t. Maddie only does it for Ernie cuz they’re all hot for each other, but they try an’ play it off. Bit gross really.”

“Shut it,” Ernie admonished, and Martin fell silent.

Harry didn't have much longer to wait before the foamy pint was put before him, and he felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Maddie smiling at him as she whispered, "Thanks for that." She nodded at Ernie in explanation, and continued, "this one's on me. 'appy Birthday." And with a quick peck on the cheek she had made her way back to the bar.

Harry laughed at all the right moments, and answered all the questions he could without getting too deep in the conversation. The only thing he really paid any attention to was the beer. He didn't just want to get pissed, he wanted to get absolutely demolished. He was well on his way, too, when he heard a strange tapping in the background.

At first he thought it was just the beer playing tricks on him, but the tapping got louder, and he finally looked to see where it was coming from. It took him a second to realize that the sound was coming from the window beside them, and when he saw what was making it, he felt the nearly empty glass drop from his hand.

"Hedwig?"

"No mate, that's what us educated folk like to call an owl," Piers chided him, but Harry didn't take his eyes off of the snowy white owl.

"No," he muttered, not even realizing he was replying. "That's my owl."

And without another word he went to the window, desperately looking for the latch. Finding it, Hedwig nearly bowled him over when he finally managed to get the window open, and he immediately saw the letter attached to her leg. By now, his companions were eyeing Harry in complete amazement but he didn't care. All he cared about was that his owl, the owl he hadn't seen in months, was now perched on his shoulder as his shaking fingers fiddled with the small envelope she had brought him.

He read the contents. He read them again. He blinked the last little bit of alcohol haze from his eyes, and read the letter one last time. The rest of the boys were staring at him in anticipation, obviously wanting to know what the hell the letter was about, let alone why it was delivered by an owl to a pub of all places. They would be disappointed as he continued to stare at the parchment in his hands. For two whole minutes he stood there before saying, "I've got to go."

They had tried to stop him, but he was already out the door. They were fast on his heels but the moment the rest of the young men had gained the cool night air, Harry was nowhere to be seen.

Harry appeared at the cemetery gates with a loud pop, not caring who saw him, only caring about talking to them. He needed to talk to them.

With a vicious wave of his wand, the rusted gates flew open with a loud bang, the ancient hinges squealing in protest. As he stalked towards the final resting place of Lily and James Potter, gone was the care to not trod on the burial sites of others. Gone too was the vague feeling of comfort that Harry had grown accustomed to. All that existed was rain, confusion, and hurt.

The moment he saw the graves of his parents, he felt his fist clench tightly around the small piece of parchment given to him only moments before, the fine paper crumpling beneath his fingers. He hurled it disgustedly at the two stones before him, and it glanced off of the top of his father’s slab as he shrieked at them, “WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT THIS?”

The silence that followed slapped Harry across the face hard, and his jaw tightened as his teeth clenched together. In a low growl he heard himself say, “Answer me dammit! That’s what you’re supposed to do! You’re my parents! ANSWER ME!”

As in so many conversations before, they did not answer and the effect angered Harry more by the second. “You can’t… You can’t do this to me! You’re supposed to tell me what to do! I need someone to tell me what to do. I can’t do this alone!”

He had knelt at the foot of his mother’s grave, and he could feel himself crying, his chest heaving in hitched breaths, his voice coming out in pleading sobs. “Mum, please! I don’t want to live like this anymore! But I can’t go back, I don’t know how. I just… I just need you to help me, Mum, please.”

His forehead rested against his mother’s tombstone as he cried, dimly aware of the rain soaking through his suit and curling in cold fingers around his neck. He hissed sobs into the etched words of his mother’s name as his fist gently pounded against the wet, rough, stone, trying to work out the tension of the knot that was tightening in his chest. Regardless, the knot only seemed to continue tightening until Harry struck the marker so hard his knuckle split open, leaving a faint red streak across his mother’s name.

He howled, partly in pain, partly in frustration. As though giving up on his mother completely, Harry swallowed hard on his tears, biting back the fresh ones that tried desperately to fall. “You,” he seethed, turning narrowed eyes towards his father’s grave. “You’re supposed to be this great wizard, everyone’s said so. If you’re so great, where are you?”

Standing again, Harry glared at the two stones murderously. “WHERE ARE YOU, DAD?” he roared accusingly. “Look who I’m talking to,” he chided bitterly. “You’re not so great. I’M the one that killed Voldemort! ME! I’M THE MURDERER! That’s right! Feel proud! Your son’s a murderer! So tell me. How the hell am I supposed to go back… HOW AM I TO HAVE A NORMAL LIFE BEING WHAT I AM?”

Their continued silence seemed to mock him, and Harry felt what little control he had left slip away. “WHAT-BLOODY-GOOD-IS-A-SET-OF-PARENTS-WHEN-THEY-WON’T-EVEN-HELP-YOU-WHEN-YOU-NEED-THEM-MOST?” he raged, punctuating every word with a sharp kick at his father’s tombstone.

It was useless, the only thing answering him the continued fall of ambivalent raindrops. The cold rain fell upon his back like hammers, driving him to his knees as Harry began to buckle under the pressure of feelings of anger, confusion, and now shame. The shame he felt for taking a life had always been there, but now it mingled with the shame he felt at mistreating the memories of his parents as he had just done, and the two combined had filled his soul with an unbearable self loathing.

He wanted to tell them he was sorry. He was sorry for yelling at them. He was sorry he had become a killer. Finally he was sorry for becoming a complete and total failure. Harry could only imagine what his parents must think of him. Here he was, abusing his dead parents, blaming them for his own inadequacies. Ungrateful, he was. They had died to give him life, and here he was, barely a shadow, not even sure why he kept on breathing. They would be disappointed in him. They would be ashamed, and he wanted so desperately to apologize for what had become of his life, but all that came out of him were gut wrenching cries.

That’s when the futility of it all set in. He was utterly lost, and the only people that could help him were dead. He had for weeks tried in vain to talk to his parents. The situation with Sirius was even worse. Since he hadn’t a proper grave, Harry didn’t even know how to try to talk to him, though he knew the result would probably be the same. Then there was Dumbledore…

Dumbledore! A spark lit inside Harry that felt scarily like hope, and he immediately straightened a little. The spark evolved into an idea, and Harry sniffed back his tears as he searched for the crumpled bit of parchment, praying it hadn’t been ruined by the rain. He had turned to go, but something held him up.

Looking back at his parents, Harry let his fingers run along the top of his mother’s tombstone. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He had wanted to add that he would work it out, that he’d find a way, but he found himself not wanting to make empty promises. Instead, he let his finger’s graze his father’s stone, nodded at his parents, and was gone.

**

If Harry’s temper had diminished when he left his parents’ graves, the trip to the stone gargoyle he had made was enough to bring it straight back. He had first nearly Splinched himself terribly as he had forgotten that Apparition onto Hogwarts grounds was not only forbidden, but magically protected against. He would quickly run up against another roadblock after Apparating to Hogsmeade when, after walking all the way up to the Hogwarts gates, he found that the gates would not open for him, and trying to go over them provide equally impossible.

At a loss, Harry was about to give up when he remembered the secret passageway hidden in the cellar of Honeyduke’s. As it was the dead of night, this means of entry was some work, but after several castings of “Alohamora,” and the usage of the invisibility cloak, Harry had finally made his way into the castle.

This was not the end of his troubles, though. Upon first reaching the stone gargoyle that guarded the spiral staircase leading up to the Headmistress’s office, Harry quickly learned that while he could usually stumble on a password set by Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall lacked her predecessor’s eccentric predictability (and sweet tooth). After several tries, Harry gave it up as a bad job, and headed for the tower where the school’s post owls roosted.

Finding Hedwig there waiting for him gave Harry a bit of a shock. Instead of finding solace at the sight of his pet, he found it a little upsetting, as well as a little difficult to be pleasant to her as he tied a hastily scrawled message to her leg.

Only after all these irritations did Harry find himself back at the gargoyle waiting rather impatiently. Thankfully, his wait was not particularly long as Harry had only began toying with the idea of trying a few more passwords before the gargoyle leapt out of the way revealing a very groggy and put out looking Professor McGonagall.

Upon seeing that the author of the anonymous note was Harry, however, McGonagall’s face had shifted from one of irritation to one of complete and utter shock. The effect, Harry reflected, of seeing someone so put together looking so dumbstruck was surreal. Her mouth worked uselessly for a few seconds, cycling through what had to have been at least a million questions she had for the prodigal now standing before her. All she was eventually able to get out, however, was a mystified, “Harry…”

Harry hadn’t wanted to be rude, but he also hadn’t wanted to have a very uncomfortable conversation with the current Headmistress, a conversation he felt thoroughly incapable of carrying on. So before she had a chance to formulate her stammers into coherent questions, Harry spoke.

“Professor… er… Headmistress, I’m sorry for bothering you so late, but I was hoping to talk to… to him.”

The look of shock never leaving her face, the Headmistress finally was able to blurt out, “Yes. Yes, of course. Come in… I’ll leave you two alone.” She stepped aside, allowing Harry entrance to the staircase, and after letting him in her office, she wordlessly left, closing the door behind her.

Looking around the office, Harry found it one of the strangest experiences he had ever had. Having spent a significant amount of time in both Dumbledore’s and McGonagall’s offices, the sight that met Harry had given him the impression that someone had taken both rooms, and mashed them together.

The desk and chairs were all in the right places, as were too the portraits of previous Headmasters hanging on the wall. Harry even caught a glimpse of a lone silver trinket that was reminiscent of those that used to populate the office in hordes when Dumbledore had inhabited the place. But gone were the many bowls of sweets that used to lie about, succeeded by a lone tartan tin of what Harry knew to be rather dry and bland biscuits. In fact, tartan seemed to be the order of the day as green plaid seemed to be the only real decoration in the otherwise Spartan room.

Harry had found himself somehow compelled to explore the changes of the familiar office further, but was cut short in his discoveries when a familiarly warm and deep voice said, “Ahem.”

Harry spun around to stare directly into the smiling eyes of Albus Dumbledore. "Ah, Harry, how good it is to see you. If I'm not much mistaken, your presence is quite the rarity these days," the former Headmaster said, giving Harry a very pointed look as he did so. At this, Harry couldn't help himself but feel a little ashamed and found it difficult to continue to meet the gaze of the portrait before him.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, on the contrary, I feel that we have again come to a point where it is I who owe you an apology."

"Sir?" Harry questioned a little taken aback. "But, how? Why?"

"Why? Because I'm afraid this, too, is all my fault, or at least I expect it is. I've found in the past year or so that a curiously happy benefit of being among the deceased is that one finds oneself in far fewer situations where one can make a serious mistake. On the other hand, I've come to believe that I shall have many years to regret the mistakes I've made in life. In this particular matter, I believe I have committed both one of my greater blunders, which is quite the accomplishment considering, and most definitely the greatest of disservices to you."

"But sir, I don't understand. How do you reckon any of this is your fault?" This, to Harry, was completely unexpected. He had come for instructions, for help. He could not have guessed in a million years, that he would have instead gotten an apology. Dumbledore sighed, and his smile faltered.

"My greatest sin, Harry, was near-sightedness. When I first heard that you had taken it upon yourself to engage in an indefinite hiatus, I had found myself spending not a few hours considering the matter. Granted, in my state, there's not much else for me to do to pass the time, but it's a curious thing when you find a young man refuses to return to a good life he has more than earned filled with friends and family that love him. So I found myself wondering what would make someone so deserving think otherwise, and when I did, I found the answer so obvious I was quite disappointed in myself for not thinking of it earlier."

"You see, Harry, you are one of those magnificent creatures that we sometimes call a good person. As a good person, you were forced to commit what must have seemed to you a very horrific act, and I had strongly suspected that your unannounced departure was directly linked to the guilt you had felt regarding it."

"I still don't see how that makes it your fault, sir," Harry cut in bewildered.

"Because, Harry," Dumbledore said a little impatiently. "I had it within my power to provide you with the tools to be able to cope with said guilt, and I willfully failed to do so. I trust you remember our many journeys into the pensieve regarding Tom Riddle? There is one in particular that has plagued me to no end since learning of the fall of Lord Voldemort, can you imagine which one that might be?" Harry shook his head.

"If you'll remember, as we delved deep into the history of Lord Voldemort, much of what we explored involved the life and times of his parents, more specifically his mother. This was vital information as it set the stage, so to speak, for the teenage Voldemort who would indeed come closer to immortality than any other wizard had previously, or since. In particular, during one of our forays, we learned exactly how Tom Riddle had come to be an orphan, and even why he ended up in the orphanage he did. I take it that by now you must know of which episode I speak; the death of Tom's mother. It was a sad scene, and as we discussed its merits after, you had seemed utterly bewildered that Tom's own mother would not keep herself alive if even only for his sake. You do remember, don't you?" Still not exactly sure where Dumbledore was going with all of this, Harry did at least nod, acknowledging that he remembered the event rather clearly.

"I had asked you a question then, a question to which you either lied, or at the very least, you were not completely truthful. When asked if you might have pitied Tom Riddle, you answered a little too quickly that you did not. It was then that I was confronted with a very important choice. I could have either coaxed you into entertaining these feelings of yours, or I could have ignored it, hoping that any sympathy you felt for Riddle would eventually subside. As we both know, I chose the latter. Again, not a year after already apologizing for a very similar mistake, I found myself making the error of wishing to protect you so much, that I underestimated you. What good, I asked myself, could pity do you in your inevitable confrontation with Voldemort? On the contrary, at the time I felt that your sympathies would only put you in more danger, confusing you in a fight that I had already known would be excessively difficult. So I chose to do nothing."

"Alas, I chose poorly. When I say my error was near-sightedness, Harry, I mean to say that my only concern was getting you through the battle, paying little attention to what may occur after. In hindsight, I have come to realize that had I encouraged you to explore your feelings of sympathy, they may not have manifested themselves later as guilt. Or, if they still did, you could have been better prepared to cope with them. As it stands, when you finally stood victorious, at the point that should have been your crowning moment of triumph, I expect that you felt lower that day than you had scarce occasion to feel before. It has led you to flee a life you deserve, to deprive yourself of the friends you miss the most (and, might I add, that miss you as well). You had performed more admirably than anyone could have hoped, and, because of my lack of foresight, you have received naught but this shadow of a life for a reward. For this, Harry, I apologize."

Dumbledore fell silent, and Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the image of the former Headmaster's portrait now giving him a sorrowfully apologetic look. It was an extremely difficult position for Harry, one in which he had to once again contemplate forgiveness to a man that had given him so much throughout Harry's life. Still, much of what the portrait had said made sense. It had most definitely explained how he felt after killing Voldemort, and now that he thought about it, it could partly explain his feelings towards magic in general, having little else to blame for the pain and confusion that had eaten away at him over the past few months. And yet, these revelations did little to comfort Harry. He still had no guidance on what to do. Knowing why he felt the way he did didn't make the feelings stop. On top of that, as Ginny's outburst earlier had proven, Harry's prolonged absence had created more problems that he still did not know how to deal with.

"So, what am I supposed to do now, sir?" Harry asked when his own thoughts had failed to provide a solution.

"Unfortunately," Dumbledore began, looking even sadder than he had before. "I can't tell you."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, a little nonplused. "You always used to tell me what to do, where to go, how to get through things. What makes this any different?"

Dumbledore heaved a great sigh, and his shoulders hunched. "In the past, our paths converged. We shared common goals, and so I was obliged to help you. But we have come to a parting of ways, Harry. My way is to be deceased, while your way, Harry, is to live, and no two paths could be more separate."

"NO!" Harry yelled, again feeling his temper break at the uselessness of the situation. "You're not... You're NOT going to just apologize and be done with it this time! You say it's your fault, then FIX IT! TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" In a rage, Harry had picked up the closest thing to him, the tartan tin of biscuits, and cocked his arm as though to throw it strait at Dumbledore's portrait, but before he could release, Dumbledore's voice boomed out.

"STOP!" Harry froze. "Had this office still been mine, I would gladly let you destroy anything you wish. As it is not my office, I would think that you would show some gratitude to its current owner's hospitality." Looking down at the tin in his hand, Harry felt himself a little ashamed. She had given him a biscuit from this very tin in his fifth year, back when he was first getting in trouble with Dolores Umbridge, and now, though it was the dead of night (or, to be more accurate, very early morning), she had without question given him free usage of her office. As much frustration as Harry may have felt to the former owner of this office, he did have to admit that Professor McGonagall had done nothing to deserve his wrath. Putting the tin down, Harry watched as Dumbledore smiled mournfully.

Seemingly satisfied that Harry was no longer a threat to the Headmistress's things, Dumbledore again spoke. "Again, I must apologize, but you must understand Harry, as much as I wish I could tell you which step to make next, I can not. It is not my place because I am not of the living, and I am not you. If I were to tell you where to go, who to see, what to say, then your life would cease to be your own, and in a way, become mine. I have had a life, Harry, a rather long one, mind you. I've enjoyed my victories, wallowed in my defeats, and coped with my regrets. That is what any of us can ask for. This life, Harry, is yours, and you must choose to do with it, there is no other way."

"But, sir!" Harry demanded, but Dumbledore cut him off.

"While I may not be able to tell you what to do, Harry, I can give you some advice, which I shall so listen carefully. Live, Harry."

"But..."

"Harry, as fallible as I've proven in the past, I still hold my own advice in rather high regard, and will thusly not willfully help you not take it. I'm dead, Harry, and the living can not live if they dwell overmuch on those who are no longer. You ask me what to do, I tell you. Go live Harry Potter."

More confused than ever, Harry noticed the sky outside the window beginning to show the first signs of dawn. Had he been at this the entire night? An entire night, and the most he had gotten was "Live"? Without another word, without even bothering to look back at the portrait, and most definitely without a single clue as to what to do next, Harry had started to storm out of the office. His hand on the door knob, Harry was about to fling the door open when Dumbledore's voice again stopped him.

"Harry?" He stopped and turned at the mention of his name to find Dumbledore smiling at him, his eyes twinkling in that old familiar way behind their half-moon spectacles. "This may make me seem like a hypocrite, considering, but I wouldn't mind the occasional visit. After you've sorted everything out, of course."

Harry's grip on the door tightened, and looking at the now emerging sun through the window, Harry's reply came cold and bitter. "I'm going to be late for work." And he was gone.

**
After a quick shower, and a change of clothes, Harry rushed to work only to realize that not only was he not in danger of showing up late, but instead was nearly thirty minutes early. The warehouse was barren, his every footstep sending echoes bouncing from one high stack of shelves to another, playing a staccato beat to the thoughts that were storming throughout Harry’s mind.

Popping open the top of a soda he had purchased from a vending machine in the break room, Harry had started to drink from it when his hand in his pocket again met with the crumpled piece of paper delivered to him by Hedwig the night before. Setting the soda down, Harry pulled it out and read it again, shaking his head as he did so.

He had hardly the time to let his mind focus on the bit of parchment when a loud metallic clanking echoed down towards him from above. Looking up, his eyes quickly found the source; Mr. Jacobs looking down at him.

“Ah, Harry! What luck! Come up here for a mo, will you?” he boomed down, and crumpling the paper back up and stuffing it back in his pocket, Harry heaved a sigh and made the thoroughly unpleasant journey up the rickety metal staircase. At the top, he found the door to Mr. Jacobs’ office wide open, and a rather mussed Mr. Jacobs sitting behind his desk.

“Good, good come in,” he said, waving Harry in with a well-manicured hand. “It is a good thing you came in early. How are you? Have a good weekend?”

Harry shrugged. “Pretty good, I suppose.” Again, Mr. Jacobs flashed Harry a look that let on that he knew Harry was lying. While his face may have shown this, however, his words indicated that, at the very least, Mr. Jacobs was going to let the lie slip by.

“Good, I’m glad,” he intoned flatly. “Perhaps that will make what I have to say a little easier. I called you up here, Harry, because I’m firing you.”

“What? What did I do, sir?”

“Nothing. In fact, over the past few months you have proven to be one of the best workers I’ve had in my employ. I’m getting close to retirement, you know, and nothing would make me happier than to see someone like you as my successor. You’re hard working, responsible, and you pay attention. But it’s not you.”

“But, why fire me, sir?”

Jacobs sighed and gave Harry a look he had seen several times before. It was a kind look, a sympathetic look, but a tired and hunted look as well. It was the kind of look a dog owner gives his beloved pet right before telling the vet to put the animal to sleep forever. “Because,” Jacobs began to explain. “You don’t belong here. You don’t belong in this warehouse, wasting your life away, and you most definitely don’t belong in this world, Harry.”

“S-Sir?” Harry stammered in disbelief. Did he know?

Resignedly, Jacobs huffed, “I’m a Squib, Harry.”

“A WHAT?”

“Squib, you know, born to wizarding parents but not a magical bone in my body…”

“I know what a Squib is, but…”

“Yes. You see, back when You-Know… Oh I suppose it’s safe to say his name now, isn’t it? Okay, back when Voldemort was coming into power the first time, we Squibs were nearly as much a target as the Muggleborns. We were a disgrace, you see? An abomination to the idea of wizarding heritage. So at the time, I did what many other Squibs did, and fled the wizarding world to live like a Muggle.

“Oh, I always intended to come back, but then I met my Tabby, and, well, you’ve seen how special she is. But I had friends back in your world, and I always kept in touch. That was no small trick, I tell you, keeping tabs on wizard news. Made a habit of coming in an hour early just so that no one would notice the owls delivering the post. But I couldn’t let Tabby know, could I?

“Anyway, I had kept a few friends, and took in The Prophet when I had a chance. Then the most unusual thing happened. Not a full week after Voldemort was supposed to have been dead and buried, a young man walks into my office with a lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead, and looking very much like a lad I knew back in the days when I was still living among wizards. Right then I said to myself it was just a coincidence. But it was too much of a coincidence, and I found myself unable to refuse the young man a job when he asked for one.” Much of this slipped through Harry’s head far too quickly for it to take hold, but the one thing he took note of was that the man sitting in front of him knew Harry’s father.

“So, just to be sure I wasn’t seeing things, after everyone else went home for the day, I sent off a letter to another old friend of mine, a man by the name of Remus Lupin. The very next day, as I came into my office, I was accosted by an owl! Oh, Remus not only confirmed my suspicion, but had demanded that he be allowed to come and collect you.

“Let me tell you,” Jacobs continued, leaning back and letting a faintly fond smile play on his face. “It was a lark and a half trying to convince him otherwise. But I did. He didn’t understand, Harry, but after working in this warehouse for as long as I have, I did. I’ve seen what a troubled young man’s face looks like, how his shoulders slump when he’s lost his place in the world. I may not know what have happened in the final moments of your battle, Potter, but I know that whatever they held, you needed time alone to work that out.”

“So, sir,” Harry finally cut in pleadingly. “If you understand, why fire me? Why now?”

“Because I hadn’t the heart to do it sooner, as I should’ve. Around work, I had grown to depend upon you. Outside of work, well, Tabby’s grown quite fond of your Friday evening visits. It was only after this last Friday that I realized that I was no longer helping you, as I had started out to do, and was now only helping myself. What’s worse, I realized that my selfishness was now hurting you more than it was helping.

“No, you’re not,” Harry argued. “I’m fine, really I am. I like it here.”

“You’re about as good of a liar as your father was, Harry.”

“You knew him…” Harry muttered, almost whispering.

“Yes, I knew him, and Remus, and Peter, and Sirius, and Lily, though at the time I would have never have guessed it would have been James and Lily. They were just kids, and I was working at the ice cream shop in Diagon Alley. Not a lot of good jobs for Squibs in the wizarding world. First met your father and his mates as they were trying to nick a pack of Iced Pocket Peanut Patties. Made them sell ice cream for the better part of a day to pay it off, and by the end of it, we had taken a liking. But your father… terrible liar. You could see the guilt on his face like a billboard.

“Kind of like your face every time you try and tell me you’re fine. You’re not fine, Harry, and you never will be as long as you stay here. I can’t tell you where to go, or what to do, but I won’t actively help you run anymore. Go.”

“But, you can’t,” Harry begged.

“I can, and you’re still fired. Harry, go back to where you belong. If you can’t, then figure out why not, and fix it so that you can. Go, Harry, go and be the Man Who Lived, and not the boy who couldn’t.”

Harry stared at Jacobs for a good long time. Jacobs stared back, his jaw set, obviously unwilling to budge. As they stared at one another, Harry felt his hand dig back into his pocket and find the parchment he had clung to throughout the night. Pulling it out, he didn’t even need to spread it out anymore to know exactly what was on it. He knew every letter, every comma, every period by now. Even more, he knew every promise that piece of parchment held, and he knew how badly he wanted it.

Harry wanted to go back, that much he knew. But what kept him? What could he possibly fix? The events of the previous night played over and over in his mind as he stared at the parchment in his hand. He fought through the confusion and the pain, replaying words, trying to find some clue. And then, as he focused on his conversation with Dumbledore, something in his mind clicked in place. He knew.

His eyes shifted back and forth between the paper in his hands, and his now former boss. He could do it, he thought, and it wouldn’t be easy, but he could do it. He would do it, he finally decided, he would go back. But before he could do that, he had one more thing to do first.

Replacing the ball of paper in his pocket, Harry met Jacobs’ eyes one more time, nodded, and said, “Thanks.”

**
Harry hardly recognized the place. The last time he had been there, the ground was almost completely covered with dead or unconscious bodies. Now it was as if the great battle had never been fought there. The grass rolled on in lush green knee high waves, and wild flowers freckled the field with brilliant specks of yellow and white and blue.

The sky was different too. Back then it was the color of wrought iron and despair. Now it was the deep azure of summer, the kind of sky kids flew kites in and lovers lay beneath making shapes out of the lazily drifting clouds.

He wasn’t exactly sure how to find the right spot, as there was no marker, but somewhere deep inside himself, Harry realized that that wasn’t the important part. No the important part wasn’t where, but what. What he would say, and if he meant it.

After walking sometime through the fragrant grass, Harry found a place that he figured to be as good as any. As he sat, something inside of him stirred, and he had the impression that he was not only close, but exactly where he needed to be. It had taken him a long time to speak, partly because of how beautiful a day it was, and partly because he wanted to make sure he got it right. Finally ready, Harry spoke in a clear, strong, voice, and didn’t look back.

“I’m not sorry I killed you,” he said, letting the sun shine on his face. “I’m not,” and for the first time, Harry didn’t feel like he was trying to convince himself of anything, or that he was going on the defensive. He had spoken true, and for once, he wasn’t ashamed.

“You did things, and it may not be fair to say that anyone deserves to die, but I’m not sorry it happened, and I’m not sorry that I was the one to do it.” There was no malice in Harry’s voice, or even in his thoughts. He wasn’t saying this in any kind of a rant or rage, but instead he was simply explaining. He was explaining the one thing that even up until now he wasn’t even sure about; how he felt.

“But I am sorry, Tom. I’m sorry things turned out this way. I’m really sorry about your parents, and maybe if they didn’t turn out the way they did, maybe you wouldn’t have turned out they way you were. Heh, listen to me, I go my whole life listening to people tell me they’re sorry about my parents, and now I’m doing the same thing to you. I always kind of hated that. I mean, honestly, what are you supposed to say to that?”

Harry lay down in the tall grass, letting the warm day embrace him, lacing his fingers behind his head like a kind of pillow. As he continued to talk, he felt the pain that had been building up inside slowly start to ebb away. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that stuff. But, you didn’t have to turn out like this, Tom. Not really. You could’ve given people a chance. I mean, it was never too late, and they’re not that bad, people that is. But, I guess that’s what really sets us apart. I spent a lot of time worrying that I was too much like you, and in a lot of ways I was. In a lot of ways, I guess I still kind of am.

“But in the end, I’ll give people a chance. It may take me a bit to get there, true, but I’ll get there. Like now. For several months now I was afraid to go home. I was afraid of what I had done to you, and I was afraid of them, and I guess I was afraid of a lot of things, but I think I’ll go home now. I’ll go home, and give some of those people a chance, and if they throw me out on my ear, well, I’ll deal with that when I get there.

“I’m really sorry you never learned to give people a chance, Tom. I think you might have had a real chance at being happy some day. But you didn’t.” With this Harry stood up, wiping the soil and bits of grass from the bottom of his jeans. “You didn’t, Tom. And for a moment there, it was looking like I was going to follow your lead. Who knows? Maybe if I did, some other kid may be laying in some field apologizing to me years from now. But we’re not going to know that, because I’m going home. I’m sorry about everything, really, Tom. I’m sorry, and goodbye.”

With a faint pop, Harry was gone, and all that was left on the field was green, and flower, and the most comfortable warm summer breeze.

Harry stood before a creaky old shack that sat alone upon a wide country lane, eyeing it warily. After some time, he turned his confused gaze to the paper in his hand. This has got to be a joke, he thought for one terrifying moment, as he again apprehensively surveyed the crumbling structure.

He looked down at the rumpled piece of parchment once more. "712 Scottsdale Lane," it persisted in saying. Unsure of what was going on, Harry looked at the numbers that hung on the door; old and rusted so much that he couldn't even imagine what their original color must have been. 7-1-2. He even prodded at the last number to make sure it wasn't an upside down five, but it had been firmly bolted in place as an unmistakable two.

A little distressed, Harry traced his steps all the way back to the road marker, studying it intensely to make sure he had the right lane. It had two t's, an s between the second t and the d, and even ended in an e. Making his way moodily back to the ancient building, if it could even be called that, Harry thought to himself that, according to the paper, this was the right place, but it couldn't be.

Not wanting to give up, he made his way slowly around the shack. There were no windows at its front, but Harry found one around back, and tried looking in. The pane was so caked with dirt that he couldn't make out anything other than faint streaks of light and shadow. "Scourgify," he intoned, waving his wand at the window, but no matter how much he tried the cleaning spell, it did little to clear up the inside, leaving the window as opaque as ever.

Another window he found on the remaining side of the shack had produced similar results, and, in frustration, Harry gingerly sat on the front porch, grimacing at the prospect of splinters, or worse, a full out collapse.

He grimly stared at the parchment that he had not let out of his grasp for nearly two weeks now, looking for hidden hints or clues in the writing that just weren't there. After several minutes of finding nothing, he threw the parchment down to the ground in disgust. Forget it, he thought to himself, entertaining the idea of giving up.

But then he retrieved the parchment, chiding himself for even thinking of giving up when he had promised himself he would go through with it. He would at least try.

With a deep breath, Harry again faced the door, raising a fist as if to knock. It felt strange standing at the threshold ready to knock without the protection of his invisibility cloak or a disillusionment charm. He was going to do it, he thought as he pulled back his fist, bracing himself for anything.

Closing his eyes, he let his knuckles wrap against the feeble door, feeling small sprays of dust alight upon him as he did so. One, two, thr…

The door flew open, and Harry opened his eyes to see a short, plump woman with fiery red hair looking back at him. For what seemed like an eternity, they just gaped at each other stupidly, and then, without warning, the redhead crushed Harry in the tightest bear hug he had received in his entire life.

"Oh, HARRY!" Mrs. Weasley squealed, any further attempts at speech dying in low sobs. Though her grip was impossibly tight, Harry somehow managed to wrap his arms around her, and in seconds his sobs had joined hers. Clutching her nearly as tightly as she held him, Harry felt like a kid again; safe and warm again, wrapped tightly in the arms of the closest thing to a mother he had ever known.

"I was so worried," she managed in a very shaky voice that had filled Harry with guilt. "We didn't know where you were, or if you were alive, or in trouble, or anything," she continued, each new worry only strengthening Harry's feelings of guilt. Then, after a particularly strong squeeze, she parted from Harry, her hands warmly holding his shoulders, and added, "But you came… You're here now, and that's what matters. And only just in time too, you almost missed everything."

At first, Harry didn't know what to say. Just like that she was forgiving him, welcoming him back, and he felt that no amount of apologies or thanks could ever do her kindness justice. In that moment Harry knew that he really was as good as one of her own children. Her glistening eyes and motherly embrace had told him that no matter how far he strayed, as long as he was willing to come back, she would be there to welcome him.

Still unable to find words that could express how he felt, Harry gave up trying and wrapped her in an embrace of his own that knocked the wind out of her. Just as he had known she would always welcome him back, he knew that she understood everything he was feeling right then. He didn't have to apologize to her, or thank her. She already knew.

And so, instead of saying words that didn't need to be said, Harry let go of her, smiled warmly, and said, "Of course I came back, Mrs. Weasley. I wouldn't miss this for the world.

Mrs. Weasley wiped a tear from her eye and gave a very watery chuckle. "Of course you wouldn't, dear," she said as she patted his cheek fondly. "Now come along, I'll show you where you need to be. Oh, when Ron sees you…" She looped an arm around Harry's elbow and showed him into the shack.

The moment Harry crossed the threshold, though, his jaw dropped nearly to the floor. They were standing in an immense foyer with large oaken chairs lining the circular room and a high vaulted ceiling strung up with at least a dozen dazzling chandeliers, each the size of a small Merry-Go-Round. "Wow," he whispered in utter awe, and the woman on his arm chortled good-naturedly.

"Well, we wanted to do the thing properly, which meant loads of anti-Muggle security. Come on dear, we haven't much time," she explained as she gave his arm a squeeze. Obviously Harry's arm had changed a bit since last they met for she whistled and said, "My, you've filled out a bit, haven't you?"

Harry offered her a sheepish grin and let her guide him through a door so large that he reckoned Hagrid's younger (and considerably larger) brother Grawp could have easily fit through it without even hunching. If the foyer was large, it was nothing compared to the hall that followed as cream-colored walls arched high above him, meeting so high that Harry could only just make it out.

Mrs. Weasley continued to chatter excitedly, and Harry was able to get a good look at her. She was wearing a set of silver dress robes, and had grown even thinner than she was at the outset of the war. Despite her comparably gaunt appearance, though, she was positively bouncing as she spoke. He knew she was excited because it was a special day for her, but he wondered if at least some of that happiness was reserved for his return. Stopping mid-sentence to give Harry yet another hug, Mrs. Weasley had confirmed Harry’s suspicion that she was in fact happy he was home.

Eventually, after walking what seemed like miles, they reached another gigantic door, and Mrs. Weasley pushed it open quietly. The dressing room they had entered was considerably smaller than the first two rooms Harry had been in, but it was no less inspiring. Velvet covered chairs and sofas were scattered comfortably around the room, and a large bay window set into the wall had cast a soft glow over them, giving the impression that they radiated a kind of welcoming warmth.

In the middle of the room, standing on a modest pedestal and dressed in the most intricate set of dress robes Harry had ever seen, Ron was looking at himself, pale-faced, in a three paneled, full-length, mirror, worrying his tie nervously. For a moment, he continued with his business, completely unaware that two people had just entered the room, but when his mother cleared her throat, Ron started with fright. Turning, Ron’s eyes instantly latched on Harry, and his mouth fell wide open.

Quickly, the pale Ron gained what little composure he had left, and without smiling said, “So, decided to show did you? Cutting it a bit thin, don’t you think?”

"Well, I'll just leave you two to it, then. Ron, don't take too much longer, we'll be starting soon." Mrs. Weasley turned to leave, but not before giving Harry another great hug and repeating, "It's so good to see you back."

With Mrs. Weasley gone, and the door closed behind her, Harry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his traveling cloak, and didn't meet Ron's eyes as he muttered, "Guess she missed me, huh?"

“Nearly worried herself to death, more like. She wasn’t the only one, you know,” Ron answered pointedly, and Harry dug his hands in his pockets deeper, trying to find something he could fix his eyes on so he wouldn’t have to meet the glare that Ron must obviously be giving him.

“Look, Ron… I’m s-“

“Save it,” Ron sighed, and Harry looked up hopefully. Ron was looking at him with his brows deeply furrowed and a slight frown on his face. They stared at each other in silence until Ron’s frown eased a little and his shoulders shrugged. Finally, the faint frown had turned into a nervous smile and he said, “It’s alright. Really, I’m just glad you’re here.” Taking a step forward, Ron added, “Means a lot, actually.”

"So, um, you're not mad?" Harry asked, giving Ron a furtive look as he did so. Ron cocked an eyebrow at Harry before returning to the mirror and the task of trying to get his tie on straight.

"Of course not. How long've we known each other?"

"Little over seven years."

"Right. Seven years, Harry. Reckon I know a little bit about you after that. When me and Hermione saw that you had left after… well, after, I figured two things. I figured you needed to go off and sort things out, and I figured you'd come back eventually." Ron completely untied his tie in utter disgust, mumbling "blasted thing," as he started over from scratch.

"Yeah, well, I suppose you were right," was all Harry could think of to say as he watched his best friend fret over the tie in the mirror. "Those are some nice robes, by the way," he remarked, studying Ron's robes a little more carefully now that the initial shock of their reunion was over. They were jet black and cut in extremely sleek lines. The extraordinary thing about them, though, was not the color or the cut, but the embroidery work on them.

Covering nearly the entire garb were spider web-thin lines that curled and meandered in vine like tendrils. They were silver in color, but tinges of blue seemed to creep around the swirls in delicate ebbs and flows. Those must have cost a fortune, Harry thought to himself as Ron took the opportunity to marvel at his own clothing.

"They are nice, aren't they?" he said, his tie hanging limply around his neck. Ron gave himself a very approving look before returning his eyes to Harry. The moment he did so, Harry watched as his eyes grew wide with horror. "Blimey, Harry. Where are yours? We sent them, I know we did. They had to have gotten to you in time, we sent them over a week ago."

Harry looked down at himself, and only just then remembering that he was still wearing his traveling cloak, he unfastened the clasp, and peeled it off, revealing his own dress robes.

They were the same color of black as Ron's, and cut in the same way. But unlike Ron's, Harry's robes were not covered in the entrancing vine like designs. Instead only the cuffs and seams were trimmed in the silvery threading. At the sight of them, Ron let out a very relieved sigh. "I didn't want them getting messed up on the way over," Harry offered in explanation.
Ron continued to fiddle with his tie, and Harry could tell that he was growing paler by the second. "You alright Ron?"

"Of course I'm not all right," he snapped. "What if something goes wrong? What if she changes her mind? Merlin, what if she finally realizes what she's doing?" Tugging at the tie furiously, Ron added, "What if I can't get this stupid bloody tie to tie properly?"

Harry walked over to Ron and swatted his hands out of the way. "Here, I've had some practice," and, without pulling out his little cheat card, Harry deftly tied Ron's tie. As he did so, Harry asked, "You still love her, right?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"A good one, I've been gone for nearly three months, remember?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course I do."

"And she loves you?"

"Well, at least she says she does." Harry gripped Ron's shoulders and held him fast with his eyes.

"She does, mate. You know she does, and you know nothing's going to go wrong. Everything's going to be alright, okay?"

Ron nodded in reply, and Harry saw a slight look of shame cross his face. "Harry, I'm sorry we didn't tell you sooner. We probably should have, but, well, with you and… Ginny, and everything, we just… I just thought it was for the best."

Ron cringed in anticipation for Harry's reply, but he hadn't needed to. Harry only smiled, tightening his grip on Ron's shoulders a little more as he said, "It's fine, really. I understand."

"So, you're not upset about it then?"

Harry laughed. "Of course not. I'm happy for you two. You're getting married, Ron, and it's gonna be brilliant, and I couldn't be happier," and without really knowing how it happened, the two were hugging each other.

"I am getting married, aren't I?" Ron asked.

"Yes, you are."

"I'm getting married, and you're back, and you're going to be my best man, and everything," Ron muttered. Before Harry could answer back, the door to the dressing room flew open, accompanied by the sound of Fred and George catcalling.

"Oi, Fred, look at this! Don't think our blushing bride is going to be thrilled to find her groom smitten with another."

"No, George, absolutely not… Unless, well, she's into this sort of thing."

"It is always the quiet ones, isn't it?"

Ron had broken the embrace with Harry as he apparently needed both hands to give each of the twins a rude gesture of their very own. He had hardly gotten his hands up when the twins had swarmed Ron and Harry.

"Uh-uh, Ronniekins, we miss Harry too," said Fred as he and George wrapped Harry and Ron into a smothering embrace.

"Yeah, come off it, give us a hug," added George, and Harry felt the air forced out of his lungs as the group embrace tightened.

"Nice to… see… you lot, too," Harry was able to wheeze as he watched Ron turn blue. Again the door to the dressing room opened, only this time, Harry heard a voice that was all too familiar as belonging to Neville.

"Hey, Ron, your mum sent me to… HEY!" Amid the jumble of red hair and black clad limbs, Harry could vaguely make out the sight of Neville being pulled into the group hug, a look of pure shock on his face.

"Neville! Why don't you say hi to Harry?" Fred chuckled.

"Harry's here?" Neville had asked but before anyone could answer him, he let out a high-pitched squeak. "Alright, who did that?" Again, the twins laughed maniacally, but before the huddle could grow any more uncomfortable they let go, and the five of them broke apart.

"It's not too late to trade you two out for Bill and Charlie, you know," Ron warned in a strained voice as he massaged his misused ribs.

"You wouldn't, Ron," said George.

"Or we'll tell mum about your most recent order at the shop," Fred threatened for good measure.

"Hi Harry," Neville said as he inched away from Ron who looked like he was steeling himself to take on both twins at the same time. "Well, I guess… since you’re here… you're the best man now. So, you'll be needing this."

Neville pulled a small white gold ring out of his pocket and handed it to Harry. Harry looked at it dumbly. "Neville, if you're supposed to be the best man…"

"No, it was always supposed to be you. I was just in case," Neville explained, waving off

Harry's attempts to give the ring back. "Besides, I really didn't want to have to give a speech anyway."

"Speech?"

"Yeah, the best man's speech. Sometime while we eat, you're supposed to get up and deliver a speech about the couple."

"But, Neville," Harry protested. "I can't give a speech. I only just got here. I didn't have time to prepare…"

"TIME!" Neville interrupted Harry with a horrified look on his face. "Ron! Your mum sent me to let you know it's TIME!"

"Bloody hell," George groaned. "We're going to have to run if we're going to make it."

"What do you mean? We can just Apparate, can't we?" Harry asked, confused.

"Look at him," Fred said, pointing at Ron. At the mention of time, Ron had skipped being pale and went entirely green. His eyes bulged and looked as if they were about to pop right out of his head as his mouth opened and closed wordlessly. "He'd Splinch himself horribly if he tried to Apparate in this state."

"Yeah," George agreed. "Probably lose some parts he'll be needing later on, too."

"Right, grab him," Harry ordered, holding the door open as Fred, George, and Neville dragged a mortified looking Ron out into the hallway. As the four manhandled Ron down the hall, Neville and the twins took it in turns to catch Harry up on the ceremony, paying particular attention to the parts he would have to play. Ron, struggling for all his worth, didn't make an intelligible sound until Neville had got to the bit about the vows.

"Oh no," he croaked, and for a second everyone stopped dead.

"Don't tell us you haven't finished with your vows yet," pleaded George, shaking his head in disgust.

"Finished?" Ron said worriedly as he looked at his brother.

"You mean you haven't even started them?" Neville asked in exasperation. Feeling things going from bad to very much worse, Harry gave Ron a shove from the back, getting the procession moving again.

"Don't worry, Ron. You'll figure it out, we've got to go." Ron looked back at Harry, and Harry gave him the most winning smile he could muster. The moment Ron looked away, though, Harry's smile turned immediately into a grimace.

Finally, the odd procession had come across a very anxious looking Mrs. Weasley being calmed by her eldest son, Bill. Though the hall continued on, they stood in front of a set of doors that dwarfed all the doors Harry had seen up until this point. As they neared, Harry could hear Bill trying to soothe his mother, saying, "Don't worry, mum. He'll be here. It's probably just nerves."

The effect Bill's attempts at comfort would have on Mrs. Weasley Harry would never find out as at that moment she looked up to see her youngest son being dragged towards her by his groomsmen. Her tear streaked face had turned stern and she nearly shrieked, "Where have you been?" But when she got a better look at her son, her face softened, and she grabbed him by the hand.

"Alright, I got him now, you lot line up and get ready, the music's set to start the moment Bill opens these doors," she instructed the rest of the procession as she drew Ron a few steps away. As Harry was the best man, his position was still close enough to overhear the words that Mrs. Weasley had for the groom.

Embracing Ron in a tight hug, Harry heard her whisper, "Oh, Ron, I'm so proud of you. I've never been prouder." Ron mechanically hugged her back as if he were scarcely aware of what was going on. At this, Molly had taken a step back, and taking Ron's hands in her own, appraised her son with a look of absolute love in her face.

"My little Ronnie has grown up to be quite the man," she began in a more normal voice. "I've just been to see her, you know. She's beautiful. She's beautiful and excited, Ron. She's excited to be marrying you, and despite everything you've accomplished up until now, and that's a lot, nothing could make me prouder than knowing you've grown into a man so good that a woman that wonderful is excited to marry you." At this, Mrs. Weasley stood on tiptoe and pulled her son's face down to kiss him on the cheek. Holding his face in her hands, she whispered, "She's waiting for you, Ronald. Now, let’s go see about getting you married. What do you say?"

Harry watched as Ron nodded, and Molly looped her arm around his elbow. The scene that Harry had just witnessed had touched him in a way that was both a little painful, and a little lifting. This was what he had fought so hard for, he reflected. This was also what he had deprived himself of for three long months; love. It was a tribute to the tenderness of the scene that Harry realized that despite the molly-coddling, the twins had not uttered a single hiccup of laughter.

Mother and son standing side by side, Mrs. Weasley nodded at Bill, and Bill winked at Ron as he opened the great double doors. Music came to life from the other side of the doors, beautiful music that sounded like a hundred acoustic guitars strumming a heart wrenching ballad, and Harry could see Ron silently count to its seductive rhythm. When he had reached ten, both Ron and Mrs. Weasley took a step, and marched in unison through the doorway. Harry let out a sigh of relief.

Turning back to look at Fred, he had whispered, "Got a bit dodgy there for a second, didn't it?" but Fred just nodded to something over Harry's shoulder. When Harry looked, he felt his world come to a screeching halt.

Directly across from him, lined up exactly as the groomsmen had been, were the bridesmaids, and at their head, taking the place of Maid of Honor, was Ginny Weasley. All of a sudden, Harry found it very difficult to breathe; he had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Her dress was the color of a deep azure blue, trimmed in the same silver ivy like patterns as his dress robes. Her curtain of fiery red hair had flowed freely over her bare freckled shoulders, and Harry could feel his fist clench at the site of her fair skin as though his fingers were being drawn magically to brush against her exposed flesh. A few stray strands of her hair had fallen gracefully over her face in such a way that made Harry stifle a groan. For an instant Harry had worried that he would lose all control and just grab her right there and kiss her until the sun went down, wedding be damned. But he held fast.

The most wrenching thing about her, though, was her face. Angelic and perfect with just the slightest hint of lip-gloss, Ginny stared at Harry hard, letting through no hint of emotion. The only thing that told Harry that Ginny was even in there were her eyes. Eyes that stared at him, filling him with a flood of emotions he couldn't even name. The music was forgotten, along with the building they were in, the wedding they were supposed to be a part of, and everything else. So when Fred whispered in Harry's ear, he couldn't help but flinch.

"That look means you're in trouble, I’d wager," Fred had warned. "Wouldn't want to be in your shoes, mate, but best of luck to you."

Not daring to take his eyes off of her, as though afraid she might disappear, Harry whispered back, "You're her brother, aren't you? Thought you'd take her side."

"Yeah, but I think you're the underdog in this one, Harry."

Harry was ripped from this train of thought, however, as Bill cleared his throat pointedly, and he noticed that Ginny had taken several steps toward him. When he reached her, she did not give him the slightest bit of expression, but only pushed her elbow out a little so that Harry could take it. As Harry snaked his arm around hers, his fingers grazed the tender skin of the crook of her arm, and an intense tingling sensation surged from his fingertips throughout his entire body. They had not touched in ages; a fierce hug that felt so painfully like goodbye.

This was different, not like a hello, but instead like missing parts becoming reacquainted after years of longing. He felt his body thirsting for just another graze and he willed himself with every ounce of strength and self control not to wrap himself around her, smother her, engulf her until she was a part of him.

Bill had counted off the beats for the two, and when he nodded at them, Harry and Ginny had walked lock-step into the cathedral.

Just as he had gotten the air back in his lungs, Harry felt it immediately knocked back out by a severe sense of vertigo. Just as the doors leading into the cathedral had dwarfed all of its predecessors, so too did the room that he and Ginny had walked into. And it wasn't just the sheer size of it either, but the effect in total. Row upon row of pews had covered the immense floor, seating what seemed to be thousands of witches and wizards, each dressed in magnificently colored dress robes. The walls were paneled with a dark, rich, wood, and up ahead, adorned in red velvet, was the altar at which Ron and a curiously familiar old wizard stood.

The truly amazing thing about the room, however, was the lighting. Harry had gotten used to the multitude of floating candles that lit up the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but here, the many thousands of flames that floated in mid air had no candle from which to burn, and instead of giving off warm yellows and oranges, the brilliant flames cast a rich, rose color. Pristine sparks shot from the flames and instead of dying in the air, they soared up from the fire of which they were born, lingered for just a moment, and slowly drifted down until they hovered just above the heads of the congregation, giving the impression that the cathedral was filled with millions of tiny red stars.

The awe he felt was the kind of thing that Harry would want to share with Ginny before he had ran away, and he had almost did exactly that, but he almost lost his footing when he turned to look at her. She was smiling at some of the various seated witches and wizards, but that wasn't what had caught hold of Harry's attention. It was her dress. Whether it was a trick of the light, or some sort of magic, her dress was no longer blue, but now a luxurious, dark, wine color. The trimming had also changed, ceding its silver color for a passionate glowing flame that matched her hair perfectly. Just get to the altar, he told himself over and over again, straining to peel his eyes away from the image upon his arm.

Trying to find anything to distract him from the girl that was making his heart turn back flips, Harry looked out upon the sea of faces, and found to his dismay that many of them were looking back at him in shock. People were leaning over towards one another, eyes fixated on him, and whispering frantically. He knew only too well what they were whispering about, and wanted nothing more than to reach the safety of the altar.

Unfortunately, the altar provided little protection. Indeed, as Harry was too busy gaping at everything other than where he was going, he came upon the altar unaware and felt his toe catch on the bottom most step. As his balance started to fail him, terrifying thoughts rushed through his mind. He was going to fall. Here it was, his first day back and he was going to ruin his best mate’s wedding by falling down and making a fool of himself in front of the entire congregation. Worse still, Ginny hadn’t seemed particularly overjoyed at Harry’s return, and he knew that bringing her down with him could hardly improve her mood.

And so it was with immense shock and relief that Harry never found himself splayed across the steps. Amazingly enough he was still standing, his arm held fast by Ginny next to him. Before cautiously negotiating the steps upward, he ventured a glance at her, and though she had just saved them both minor injury and greater embarrassment, her face still showed no emotion, quickly eroding his newfound sense of relief.

As they took their positions, what little relief had still remained was wiped away as Harry realized that he and Ginny were positioned one step below the bride and groom. This would mean that Harry and Ginny would be facing each other throughout the entire ceremony, and Harry began to wonder if he could bear it if she continued to stare at him the way she was now.

Breaking eye contact with her, Harry shifted his eyes to the groom. "Alright, Ron?" Harry ventured, trying to alleviate the guilt that Ginny's gaze had filled him with.

"Think so," he replied hoarsely. "I'm here now, I suppose. No turning back and all that."

"No," Harry agreed as he watched Fred escort Fleur Weasley up the aisle.

Taking his position behind Harry on the step below, Fred huffed and whispered, "Good looking or not, that woman is a nightmare. Complained the entire time up the aisle. If the bride hadn't already threatened me and George with bodily harm, I swear I would have planted a Blimper on her."

"A what?"

"Oh, new item for purchase at the shop. Perfect for girls who are stuck on themselves. You just palm a tiny little button on them, and within minutes they blow up to the size of a house."

Harry's shoulders shook with silent laughter as George followed after, escorting Fleur's younger sister, Gabrielle up the aisle. A moment later, he overheard George say something about a Blimper, and it was everything the three could do to keep themselves from exploding into fits of laughter.

"What's so funny?" Ron whispered back, and Harry was quick to assure him it was nothing.
Neville came next, escorting Luna Lovegood. She was pointing at the lights above, whispering animatedly in Neville's ear, and Harry saw him on more than one occasion shake his head ruefully.

"Wonder what she's on about this time," Ron mused aloud. The answer came a few seconds later as Neville had explained that Luna was lecturing him on the dangers of "Coblomps," an apparently dangerous type of half insect, half fairy that liked to live in magically created fires.

Despite Ginny's continuous stare, and Ron's still present unease, the whispered banter that traveled up and down the line of groomsmen had done much to settle Harry's nerves, and he was feeling somewhat relaxed when all of a sudden the fires overhead had flared up into a bright white before mellowing into a softer, gentler, glow. The music had changed into the familiar Bridal March, and on cue, Ron had turned to face the altar.

Every seated witch and wizard rose and turned toward the great double doors, and the wedding party, minus the groom, followed suit. The anticipation hung thick in the air, and despite this not being Harry's wedding, he could feel his own heart begin to flutter.

"Whoa!' Harry uttered in an awed whisper at the sight that stepped through the doors, and Ron reflexively started to turn to look. Reaching an arm out to grab him, Harry muttered, "Don't look, mate, it's bad luck. But… whoa…"

"What?" Ron asked annoyed, but for a moment, Harry couldn't answer him. Harry had been through something similar to this before. In their fourth year, at the Yule Ball, nearly everyone was shocked to see that the beautiful girl on Viktor Krum's arm was none other than Hermione Granger. Again, at Bill and Fleur's wedding, Hermione had made more than a few mouths drop. But this had surpassed both events easily.

As she walked into the room on Mr. Granger's arm, the first thought that popped into Harry's mind was that she looked like she had just walked straight out of the pages of a storybook.
The sparks that hung in the air, now soft white, seemed attracted to her, and slowly began to circle around her, occasionally alighting on her beautiful white dress, giving it a heavenly aura. Like Ron's dress robes, Hermione's dress was also decorated with the same silver/blue designs that seemed to curl around her every curve accentuating every lovely feature. Unlike Ron's robes, the designs were not bound to her clothing, but roamed free over her uncovered shoulders, and wrapped around her delicate, unblemished arms.

Again, Hermione's brown hair was no longer bushy, but neither was it forced into a restrictive bun. This time, Harry noted, her hair hung free, sculpted into exquisite ringlets that framed her thin white veil and flirted tantalizingly with the silver designs on her shoulders. The most touching thing about her, however, was only partially hidden behind her veil. The veil itself was impressive as it not only carried those same intricate designs as the rest of the garb, but it also had the surreal effect of not just hiding Hermione's face, but at the same time accentuating it.

Though Harry shouldn't have been able to, as Hermione neared he could manage to see every detail of her face. Her eyes shown wetly with poised tears, her lips glistened softly, her bottom lip tucked nervously under her teeth, and her chin trembled slightly. It was the unmistakable look of someone so madly in love that every second apart from the one they belonged to was killing them.

Like everyone else in the room, Mr. Granger continued to gape at his daughter in sheer awe. She was, Harry had to admit, the loveliest vision in the room. Or second loveliest, he amended, but then, he might have been a little biased.

As father and daughter reached a very small section of the congregation dressed not in robes, but suits and dresses, they stopped. Hermione waved timidly at them, and a very teary eyed Mrs. Granger waved back. Mr. Granger then turned to his daughter, and for a brief moment, they whispered something to each other. He bent down to kiss her on the forehead, and before he could pull away, Hermione had wrapped her arms tightly around him, and he had little choice but to return the gesture. With a final look at each other, and a quick clasping of hands, Mr. Granger had joined his wife, and Hermione made the final leg of her journey up the steps of the altar alone.

Just before taking her spot at the altar, Hermione caught Harry's eye, and her mouth had shifted into a smile. A few tears ran down her cheek, and, to Harry, it somehow felt like “thank you.” As if to confirm this, she let her smile widen and gave him a very discreet wave before turning her attention to the matter at hand.

Finally, after listening to all the gasps at Hermione's appearance, after having to stand and wait to be the last one to see her, the old wizard who was overseeing the ceremony motioned for the bride and groom to face each other, and Harry heard Ron utter a very audible gasp. Red began to creep onto the back of Ron's neck, and his body began to tremble noticeably as the flames above dimmed even further, and the wizard at the top of the altar began to speak.

Harry had a hard time catching every word spoken as his attention was being viciously fought over by the couple being married, and the stony-faced Ginny who was now looking at them. As the old man continued to speak about the beauty of marriage and love, Harry found himself again amazed by Ginny's dress which had changed color for a second time, now a soft powder blue in the dim white light. As much as he wanted to lose himself in watching her, Harry forced himself to pay at least a little attention to what was being said as he knew he had still a part or two to play in the wedding.

The part of the speech that had grabbed the most of Harry's attention had come at the wizard's mention of Voldemort. It was then that the volume of people started to become clear as the priest (was he a priest?) had implied that this was the first celebration since his fall, and the type of thing that everyone standing at the altar had fought so hard for; joy, comfort, and love. It had become clear to Harry at that moment that these people weren't just here to celebrate Ron and Hermione's marriage, but also to celebrate the end of the fear that had consumed them for years. The couple weren't being honored just as lovers, but as heroes as well.

Ron had broken Harry's reverie when he reached back, his hand open expectantly. Harry realized that the wizard had called for the rings, and knew that the exchanging of vows was about to take place. As he put the ring in Ron's hand, he gave Ron a quick squeeze in good luck, and waited, trying not to hold his breath in anticipation.

The wizard had ceremoniously asked who would go first, and Hermione timidly raised her hand. Memories had flooded Harry's mind of Hermione thrusting her hand into the air, nearly jumping out of her seat at nearly every teacher's question back in school, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh. A second later, when she cleared her throat to speak, there wasn't a thing in the world that could have started him laughing.

After being given her ring by Ginny, Hermione took Ron's hand in her own and locked her eyes on to him. "Ron," she squeaked in a quavering voice and then stopped. She was trembling from head to toe, her perfectly sculpted tresses shaking at the edges of her veil, and Harry watched her eyes close slowly. It had seemed for a brief moment that she might faint, but then Harry saw her take a deep breath. Her jaw clenched for a moment, and with a very slight nod of her head, she reopened her eyes, fixing them upon Ron with a light of renewed determination.

“Ron,” she began again, and though her voice still trembled a little, it had returned to its normal pitch and was much more under control. “It’s been exactly one year, two weeks, and four days since you asked me to marry you. I know this because… because that’s the effect you have on me. I can tell you the exact date when we first kissed, or when we first rowed, and every row we’ve had since. I know the exact date of every single time I thought you were going t-to die, as well as the day when you broke my heart, and I thought I was going to die. I remember the day when you fixed my heart again, and the very first day you told me… the day you told me that you loved me.”

“I remember everything when it comes to you, Ron, because you won’t let me forget. We’ve known each other for six years, eleven months, and eighteen days and I know this because from the very moment I met you… the moment I set eyes on your red hair and smudged nose, you’ve filled my world with colors I’ve never seen before, and feelings I didn’t know even existed.”

“But the one that stands out now is the day you asked me to marry you. I remember every word. I won’t say them all but… that night… I asked you what marriage was. You told me that marriage was a different kind of love, the kind where you fought with that someone else, knowing you would make up. The kind of love that let you take on the world because you knew that no matter what it threw at you, that someone else would be by your side. That night, Ron, you told me marriage was being on your death bed, and knowing that the other person would be there, and that that’s all that mattered. That night you showed me that different kind of love, the kind that could be boring when it was just about the routine of things, but so much more exciting and wonderful because no matter where you are, or what you are doing, you know there is that someone else out there and that… that you belong to each other.”

"People are so quick to say how clever I am, but I know that's not true. If I were truly clever, then it would have never taken me as long as it did to realize just how much I needed you… how much I loved you… how much a part of me you had become. So I'm not all that clever, really. I have learnt a few things from books and classrooms, but… what I realized that night you asked me to marry you, was that the most important things I’ve learned about life, I learned from you, Ronald.

“I’ve learned what it means to be a hero when you came to the aid of a damsel in distress," at this, Harry smirked, knowing exactly what incident she was talking about. "I've learned the meaning of courage from you when you faced your greatest fear, again for the same damsel in distress," and at this, Harry's smirk had turned into a full smile.

"I've learned the meaning of loyalty from you, and the meaning of friendship as I watched you stand time and time again by your friends no matter the consequences. But more importantly, you taught me passion. From every row we've ever had, to every kiss we've ever shared, there hasn't been a single emotion that you made me feel that didn't swallow me whole. Most importantly, Ron," she said as she took an almost imperceptibly small step towards him, her voice now strong and solid. "You taught me how to love… you taught me about a type of love filled with mountain trolls and rushed breakfasts, and I learned that there’s nothing more in this world I want more than that, and no one else I would rather share it with."

"And so, with this ring," she said, slipping the wedding band onto Ron's finger. "I pledge to spend my life using the lessons you've taught me. I promise to save you when you need it, and to face my worse fears for you. I promise you my loyalty, and I promise to always be your closest friend and confidant. I promise to you every ounce of passion in my soul, and to give you nothing less then everything of me in every row, in every kiss, and in every single moment we share. And I promise to love you, Ronald, because without you, I would never really know what love is."

Silence. Years seemed to pass as thousands of pairs of moist eyes shifted slowly from Hermione to Ron. By now Ron was blushing furiously, and Harry could only guess how nervous he must have been as his incredibly shaky hand reached for Hermione's. For a moment, their hands shook in silence, and Harry saw Hermione's thumb run reassuringly over Ron's knuckles. This seemed to give Ron the courage he needed to go on as the shaking had ebbed to a slight tremble. A tear had fallen down his cheek, soaking into his lapel, and finally, Ron spoke.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Hermione," he croaked, and Harry heard a few people gasp. Hermione's face had threatened to don a look of horror, but Ron quickly started to explain. "I've neglected to do my homework… again," with this the gasps in the crowd had turned to chuckles from those who knew Ron the best, Harry included.

"I tried so hard to write the perfect set of vows for you, but I couldn’t. What made it worse was that it wasn't as if I could've gone to you for help, could I? Here I am, the most important assignment of my life, and I couldn't go to the one person I always went to for help. Only, this time, it was different. Every time you helped me in the past, it was because I didn't know what was going on, or too thick to understand it, but not this time."

"This time, I knew exactly what I wanted to promise you, Hermione. That's the easy part. I wanted to promise you the world, but… see… it's not mine to give. I wanted to promise you the moon, and the stars, but I'm just not clever enough to pull it off. I-I wanted to promise you fame and fortune, but I haven't figured out how to do that for myself yet, let alone give it to you." Looking around, Harry could see nearly everyone wearing fond smiles at Ron's touching, if slightly humorous sentiments, but then Ron's tone had shifted a little.

"I wanted to promise you a knight in shining armor… someone clever, and brave, and perfect, but I can't. I would have promised you someone better than me if I could, but I… I wouldn’t be able to stand it. I wanted to promise everything you deserve and more, but… I'm just… I’m just plain old Ron, and I don’t have any of those things to give." Hermione's head started to shake from side to side a little as tears slowly made their way toward her chin. When Ron had referred to himself as just "plain old Ron," a pleading look arose on her face as if she wanted him to know that that wasn't how she saw him. But Ron didn't answer this gesture as he slipped the ring over her finger, and continued to speak.

"I am just plain old Ron, and I have only one thing I can give… one pledge I can make. With this ring, Hermione, I… I give you my heart. I give it to you because it's the only thing I have to give… because I don't want it if I can't share it with you. I give you my heart, Hermione, b-because you're the only one that can make being plain old Ron feel like the greatest thing in the world."

By the time the wizard had taken back control of the ceremony, both Ron and Hermione were crying freely, and their hands were clasped tightly together, white and shaking with the effort. Ron had to be asked twice if he took Hermione to be his wife before uttering a barely intelligible "I do" and Hermione's was only a little clearer.

The minister had scarcely finished the sentence "You may kiss the bride," before Ron hastily threw back the veil, and swept her into a deep passionate kiss, and the room exploded into light. All throughout the hall wands were raised and sparks matching the fires above were rocketing towards the sky. Fred, his wand in the air too, had nudged Harry, and Harry followed suit. Cheers filled Harry's ears as the now married couple continued to kiss.

Hermione had wound her arms around Ron's neck, and the most bizarre thing began to happen. At every point where Ron and Hermione touched, the delicate designs that had adorned their clothing had separated themselves from their homes. Seeking each other blindly, the individual tendrils had found and entwined themselves with their counterparts. In tandem with the sparks from the wands and the fires above, the colors of the designs had faded from silver and blue to that same passionate color of rose red. At the height of passion, the threads had glowed, and then, as Ron and Hermione broke apart, the lights softened, the colors faded, and the vines untangled themselves and returned where they belonged.

Hermione grinned as she bit her lip, and Ron smiled almost goofily for a second as they rested their foreheads on each other, and then at the old wizard's cue, they turned to face the hooting crowd as the man behind them bellowed, "I'm very pleased to present to you Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Weasley!"

Chapter 6: Home


After the ceremony, everything seemed to move extremely quickly. The congregation was herded upstairs where the reception was to be held while the wedding party along with the Weasleys and the Grangers were held back to take photos. Harry had found the whole process of sitting for the multitude of pictures to be positively chaotic. It was one thing that he had been manhandled every few moments to be placed in one configuration or another, but it was a completely different annoyance that the few chances he had to rest out of the camera's eye, someone was constantly trying to bend his ear. Where had he been? To which he always answered, "long story.” Was he okay? To which he always answered, "I'm fine." And of course there were the tentative questions about Ginny that he didn't answer at all.

What made it all worse was the fact that the people Harry really wanted to talk to were the same people he had the least opportunity to visit with. In a rare free moment, Hermione had hugged Harry excitedly, but was only able to manage, "You don't know how much it means to me that you're here, Harry," before the photographer had grabbed her by the elbow. While both Ron and Hermione had made it clear that they were trying to catch up with their best friend, however, Ginny had continued to stonewall him.

She had looped her arm around his when asked, and provided a heart-shattering smile at every snap, but the moment the camera was off of them, it was as if Harry ceased to exist to her. Thankfully, the picture session didn't last too long, and the party had made its way around yet another immense hall and up a great set of stone stairs. Harry walked next to a glowing Ron and Hermione as they clasped hands, nearly incapable of peeling his eyes away from the sight of Ginny walking side by side with Luna a little ways ahead.

The three friends had fallen into conversation almost immediately, and the fact that the newlyweds had accepted Harry back so readily had lifted his spirits higher than he could ever remember being. Though, he had to admit, it had also made him feel a little bit like a fool. Upon their constant prodding, Harry had given them a very condensed version of his summer, telling them about his job at the warehouse, and his weekly visits to his parents' graves, but tactfully omitting the other part of his weekly routine that included his invisible trips to the Burrow.

Not long after Harry had finished his story, both Ron and Hermione had taken it in turn to heap apologies on him for not telling him about the engagement until they did. Just as he had done when it was just he and Ron, Harry had reassured the newlyweds that it was okay. "Besides," Harry grinned at them. "I think I already knew."

"What?" Ron and Hermione gaped in unison.

"Remember the fifth Horcrux?" Harry asked them, and all three of them stopped. Ron shuddered uncomfortably. All of the Horcruxes were, in their own way, terrifying, but the fifth one was probably the worst. Judging by Ron's reaction, Harry could easily guess that for him, there was no probably about it. Hermione just looked away. "Well, when I was carrying you back Hermione. Your robes were in pretty bad shape, and I saw it; the ring. I guess it wasn't very hard to figure everything out after that."

Harry fell silent, remembering what that ring had meant to him. If he had glimpsed it at any other time, he might have felt hurt, but carrying a nearly dead Hermione in his arms had given him a different perspective. Forgetting what the loss of his best friend may do to him, he had panicked at the thought of what losing her would do to Ron. Out of breath, and nearly out of hope, the only thing that kept pushing Harry at the time was a single thought that repeated in his head over and over again, They are going to get married. They are going to get married. I won't let anything get in the way of that. They are going to get married...

"I didn't say anything. Didn't want you two to feel like you had to explain, but I knew. And really, it's okay. I think... I think I knew what you were trying to do, and I appreciate it." Harry offered them a warm smile as they stared back at him guiltily.

"Look," he finally said as they neared the reception hall. Stepping in front of both of them, he put a hand on each of their shoulders and said, “This is the kind of thing we fought for, wasn't it? Seeing that ring, Hermione, was what gave me what I needed to get you to safety. I needed to see you two married, and happy, okay? So, please, don't worry about it. I can't tell you how happy I am you two are married. Well, I could, but I haven't had time to prepare a speech and if I said anything more right now, I'd be wasting material.”

"Now I'm going to go in there, take my seat, and try and keep the twins from sabotaging the rest of the event. You two have an entrance to make, alright?"

For a second they stared at each other, and then all at once they collided in a fierce hug. When Harry had let them go, Ron's cheeks were scarlet, and Hermione's eyes were wet, and they both gave him very grateful looks. "Okay then," he said, smiling, and walked into the reception hall.

And make an entrance the newlyweds did. To much applause Ron escorted Hermione through the hall, both of them glowing and positively giddy as they took the seats of honor at the head table. Thankfully, Harry thought, between Ginny and himself. An army of smartly dressed witches and wizards had appeared out of nowhere, laden with trays upon trays of wonderful smelling food, and a thought struck Harry that made him smile. Of course. Hermione would never agree to house elves, would she?

The food was wonderful; roasted duck, shepherd's pie, jacket potatoes, snow peas, and what seemed like dozens of other dishes Harry knew he would never have the room to even try. Tucking in enthusiastically, Harry had kind of hoped that everyone would forget about his most important duty as best man, but Fred had taken it upon himself to nudge Harry very hard in the ribs several times to remind him.

As nervous and ill prepared as he was about the speech, Harry still managed to somehow get through it. He had started off by taking the mickey out of the happy couple, first ribbing them for taking so long to figure out what everyone else around them had known for ages, and wrapping up by mentioning how he would have liked to think that them being married meant Harry could finally get some peace and quiet, but in all likelihood, they would be bickering loudly and happily right on in to old age. The audience had laughed both knowingly and appreciatively, and Harry let the din die down to a few light chuckles before continuing on.

"Not to change the subject, but… I know a lot of you have been wondering where I've been for the last few months… but I can't tell you. It really would take too long, and this isn't my day, it's theirs," he said, motioning towards Ron and Hermione. "What I can say... what I need to say is that I was lost. I was confused, alone, and scared to death. During the last three months, I think I was at the lowest point in my life, and… and that's saying something."

Here, Harry paused as he pulled something out of his pocket. Showing it to the entire audience, he continued, "And then someone sent me a lifeline. My two best friends had called me back. Just like for the entire time I've known them, when I needed them both the most, they found me. They saved me… again." Harry put the paper back in his pocket and turned to Ron and Hermione. They looked back at him, their hands clenched, their faces full of emotion.

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. You're not my best friends… you're my family, and I can't tell you how much you both mean to me. So… congratulations… and thank you. Cheers!" He drained his flute of champagne to the sound of hearty applause.

As he went to take his seat, his eyes caught Ginny's and she again adopted the face that she had reserved just for him. Desperately he tried to tell her with his eyes that she played just as big a part in his homecoming, if not bigger, but as her face remained rigid, he knew his attempt was a failure. Sitting again, Harry had just begun to feel a slight ache in his heart when he felt Ron slap him hard on the back.

"Anytime," was all his best friend had said.

**

The feast was followed by the cake cutting ceremony. Nervously Ron took a great deal of care to neatly feed Hermione a bite of cake, whilst Hermione had returned the favor by smearing Ron's face thoroughly. As she helped clean off her new husband's face, a few witches and wizards had made all the dining tables and most of the chairs disappear, converting the dining hall into a ballroom.

Hermione had scarcely finished with the last bits of icing from Ron's face when the band had struck up a beautiful song. Again Harry's ears were filled with what seemed like the strumming of hundreds of guitars as he watched Ron escort Hermione onto the dance floor. Everyone watched as they swayed to the music, their eyes locked on each other's in pure adoration. He watched as Hermione's lips mouthed, "I love you," and Ron answered her with a kiss.

Harry's mind had taken him back to a year previously, to a different wedding, and a smile played on his lips. Had it really been only a year since the infamous row that had finally ended with them kissing? And here they were, clutching each other furiously as if the other might disappear if they only let go for a second.

"Wish I could say they were making me sick," Harry heard George say in his ear.

"But it is kind of nice," Fred finished in Harry's other ear. Harry smiled.

"Could've been Lavender," George pondered, and Fred shuddered.

"No, our ickle Ronniekins did alright for himself, didn't he?" Harry nodded at this.

He continued to watch them, warmed by the love they shared and yet stricken with a sense of loss at his own yearnings. As if on cue, he watched Ginny step onto the floor, and heard Fred say, "That's your cue, mate."

"What? I have to dance with Ginny?" he asked in a panic.

"No," George sighed impatiently. "Hermione. Best Man and Maid of Honor dance with the bride and groom. It's tradition."

"Thanks," Harry said as he let out a very relieved breath. The entire time he made his way to the couple, he had a very hard time taking his eyes off of Ginny. Occasionally she would glance at him, but for the most part, she didn't take her eyes off of the newlyweds.

She had gotten there first, and tapped Hermione on the back. It seemed as though the two didn't want to separate, but they eventually did, and Hermione had turned around to give her new sister-in-law a warm embrace. This had given Harry ample time to reach the small group, and when Ginny had let go of Hermione in favor of Ron, he was already standing there with his hand outstretched.

"Harry!" she squealed, bypassing his hand and enveloping him in a hug. "Goodness! I finally get some time with you. I'm married, can you believe it?” At this, Harry could only nod and smile.

They had started to dance to the music, and when Hermione had caught her breath, she began again, a little more slowly, and in a slightly more normal tone. "I'm really glad you came, Harry. I missed you so much."

"Well, I missed you too," he said.

"Then why," she started to ask a little disapprovingly. "Did you stay gone for so long?"

"Being a bit of an idiot I suppose."

"Of course," she smiled at him. "But I guess it doesn't matter anymore, does it?"

”Doesn't it?” he asked nervously.

“What do you mean?” she asked in return as she gave Harry a confused look.

“It's just… well… I didn't really expect this warm of a welcome.”

“Oh Harry,” she smiled at him. “You said it yourself. We're your family. Of course we were worried. Ron wanted to go after you…”

“Really?” Harry interrupted, a little amused.

“What?”

“Oh, he said that he knew I needed time, and that I would come back eventually.” At this Hermione laughed, causing Harry's brow to furrow in confusion. “What's so funny?”

“Let's just say that he didn't come to that conclusion on his own, shall we?” she answered with a very knowing look on her face. Harry laughed.

“So everyone's really okay with all of this. You lot aren't waiting until afterwards to hex me or something?”

“For the most part,” she said. “I can't speak for everyone, though,” she added, glancing at Ginny. Harry felt very uncomfortable all of a sudden as he was reminded that Ginny didn't seem as willing to take Harry back as everyone else. Trying to get back on better footing, Harry changed the subject.

“Everything's been amazing, I mean, it's so much,” he remarked, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, I know, I didn't expect any of it at first, but…”

“But what?”

“Well, after it was finished… You know the Prophet, they had to have their celebrities, didn't they? You had left. That didn't stop them from writing loads of articles about you, of course, but I guess they lacked punch with you away. So, I guess, they decided to turn Ron and I into heroes as well.”

“It was all very strange at first, I have to admit. We couldn't go anywhere in public without people asking us what happened, shaking our hands, and begging for autographs. It was embarrassing at first, but then it got annoying.”

“Then about a month ago, and I still don't know how it happened, it got out that Ron and I were getting married. Oh, Harry, you have no idea. Owls started coming in non-stop, all of them from witches and wizards begging to be invited to the wedding. Finally, just so we could get some sleep, we decided to make it an open ceremony.”

“We couldn't have the wedding at the Burrow anymore like we wanted, so we settled on this place,” Hermione explained.

“What is this place, anyway? When I got here… I thought I got the address wrong,” Harry said, the memory of sitting on the rustic front porch of the shack still fresh in his mind.

“Oh, that,” Hermione chuckled. “Well, this is a very old wizarding cathedral. To keep Muggles away, the builders used the same kind of magic that the tents we slept in at the Quidditch World Cup used.”

“So that's why…”

“All you saw when you got here was an old shack, yes”

“That makes sense,” Harry mused. “But what about the rings and the robes? Those had to have cost a fortune.”

“Those didn't cost us anything at all,” Hermione said matter-of-factly.

“You're joking.”

“No, I'm not. We went to buy the rings first at a jeweler in Hogsmeade. We didn't have that much money to go with, so we tried to buy one of the cheapest sets in the shop, but the owner insisted we take his most expensive set. Same thing happened when we got to Madame Malkin's for the robes. Before we had a chance to look for fifteen minutes she was measuring us up for these. They're one of a kind, you know.”

“Well, it's good she did. You… you look beautiful Hermione,” he said truthfully.

“Really?”

"Most beautiful girl here," he affirmed warmly.

"Liar," she teased him with a sly look on her face.

"No, really," he lied.

"So," she said, her smile getting bigger. "You mean to tell me I'm prettier than a certain new sister-in-law of mine?" Knowing she had him dead to rights, Harry didn't answer. Silence followed, and despite any attempts not to, Harry's head turned to see Ginny dancing with her brother. They were laughing as they chatted idly, and, knowing he couldn't avoid this topic any longer, Harry sighed.

"Have you talked to her yet?" Hermione asked, and Harry grimaced in answer. "Harry, you know you have to. I think your little holiday was hardest on her. She wouldn't let on, of course, but I've spent half of the summer sharing a room with her. She may not have cried when I was around, but I still know."

Harry turned back to look at Hermione, and she really did look worried. He squeezed her hand and said, "I know. I even think I know what I'm going to say. It's just that I'm scared. Scared that she'll…"

"Hex you?"

"No, I expect that," he said truthfully. "I'm scared she won't…"

"Take you back," Hermione finished for him, seeing how hard the words were for him to say. "You won't know until you try, Harry."

"I get that now," he assured her. "Doesn't make things any easier, does it?"

Hermione patted his back reassuringly. "It'll work out, trust me. It won't be easy but… Oh no!"

"What is it?" Harry asked, his eyes wide, his muscles already tensing.

"The twins!" Hermione squeaked. "I have to dance with them, and they're both coming at once! Hide me!"

"Hermione, we're the only ones out on the dance floor. There's nowhere to hide you."

"I know," she said resignedly, her eyes fixated on a point just beyond Harry's shoulder. "But they're going to do something awful, just watch."

Harry didn't have to wait long as he felt a tap at both of his shoulders. He turned to see the twins both grinning wickedly, and, much to Hermione's dismay, Harry ceded the floor to them.

As Harry stepped off the dance floor, he noticed that other couples had tentatively joined in. Hermione was correct in thinking that Fred and George were going to be awful, as they both danced wildly (and a little too suggestively) around her, sending the partygoers around them into fits of laughter. After a bit, even Hermione had started laughing.

Trying to collect himself for the last thing Harry knew he had to do that day, he searched for a quiet corner. He thought he had just found the perfect spot, a shadowy corner by the punch bowl, when he heard a familiar voice say, "Welcome back, Harry."

"Lupin?" he asked, a little taken aback. Remus Lupin neared Harry looking much stronger and healthier than Harry had ever remembered seeing him. It may have been an effect of the dress robes, or it could have been a result of the very pregnant Nymphadora following him. Either way, Harry marveled at how good he looked.

"Wotcha Harry? Had a long enough holiday?" she said running a hand through her bubble gum pink hair.

"You know, I've gotten that a lot today," Harry replied in an embarrassed tone.

"Serves you right," Lupin scolded him, though not unkindly. With a slight wink, he added, "A lot of people wondered where you were, myself included."

At this Harry leaned in close and whispered to his old professor, "Thanks for… um… letting me stay there for a bit." Lupin simply clapped Harry on the shoulder and nodded knowingly.

Lupin and Tonks (though this was no longer her last name, she still insisted on being called that) had caught Harry up on the pregnancy and the names they were thinking of using. He had felt particularly sharp stabs as the names James, Sirius, and even Harry were mentioned. They then shifted into other goings on since Harry had been gone, and as they did, other faces Harry recognized had maneuvered their way towards them.

Seamus Finnigan, and Justin Finch-Fletchly had welcomed Harry first, followed by several members of Harry's old Quidditch team. Katie Bell had gotten engaged since the war, and Alicia Spinnet had been tapped to join Oliver Wood for Puddlemere United. All in all, Harry's quiet little corner had started to turn out not so quiet, and when he thought he was in danger of entertaining half of the entire party, he tried to find a way to sneak away when another familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Good to see you took my advice, Harry."

He spun around to see the iron gray hair, and perfectly shaved jowls of Simon Jacobs standing in front of him.

"Mr. Ja… Simon?" Before Mr. Jacobs could reply, the wind was knocked out of Harry by a shorter woman with equally iron gray hair. "Hullo Tabby," he said, hugging her back when he felt like he could move without dislodging a rib.

She had fussed over him for a short bit until Mr. Jacobs had stopped her. "Give him a break, Tabby. He's fine. He's here isn't he?"

"So, I guess you told her about everything?" Harry asked, and again, Mr. Jacobs had scarcely got out his reply before his wife took over.

"Oh, he told me everything, alright. Can't say I believed him. Who would? But then he takes me out shopping and got me these," she flourished her dress robes. "And the next thing I know, we're standing outside this rundown shack that turns into a bleeding castle when you walk through the door!"

Harry leaned in towards her. "I know, that bit got me too."

She chuckled appreciatively just as Harry heard Lupin's voice call out over the din. "SIMON! Is that you? I don't believe it!" and amid all the people, Lupin and Jacobs had met each other and embraced. Wives were introduced, and back-stories told, and Harry was enjoying the site of old friends reunited when he was brought back into the conversation.

"So, Harry," Jacobs had said. "How does it feel to be back home?" Harry had started to answer, but then he felt something catch in his throat. A flash of red hair had caught his eye through the crowd, and he felt his heart race. The whole while, Remus, Tonks, Simon, and Tabby stared at him expectedly, but it took Harry a full minute to realize it.

Simon had asked the question again and Harry flinched. Looking back at the expectant people, Harry cleared his throat, and looking for that flash of red again, he answered. "I'm… I'm not quite there yet… E-Excuse me."

Harry pushed through the crowd, a sense of urgency overtaking him. Twice he thought he saw that hair again, only to find that it belonged to another Weasley, not the one he needed right then. It wasn't until a faint, flowery smell hit his nostrils that he knew he had found her. There, talking to a very flush Hermione, and an absentminded Luna Lovegood, was Ginny.

Hermione had seen Harry first, followed by Luna. Holding a cup of punch, Ginny continued telling her story when Hermione tugged at her elbow and nodded in Harry's direction. When he reached her, he didn't say anything. He didn't dare smile at her. All he could do was hold his hand out to her.

She looked straight at him, her face immediately adopting the same stony expression he had seen all day. Just when Harry had decided she wouldn't dance with him, he watched in amazement as she handed her punch to Luna, and silently slipped her hand into his.

The moment they touched, Harry's body began to buzz. He didn't care if she was angry at him, or even if she hated him now. Her hand was in his of her own free will, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, he was alive.

Guiding her to the middle of the floor, he stopped, waiting for a new song to begin. She faced him, her eyes now locked onto his. He had intended to dance properly with her, one hand clasped to hers, the other hand gently at her waist, but the moment the deep, soulful guitar picked out a painfully beautiful tune, Harry knew he could not resist.

When the music started, Harry felt Ginny move gracefully against him, her eyes killing him slowly as she danced. Vaguely aware that his feet were moving too, his hand let go of hers, slowly making its way down along her side, remembering the feel of her beneath his fingertips before finding his other hand and letting his fingers lace at the small of her back.

As he pulled her closer, he was surprised at the fact that she did not resist. Indeed her free hand had worked its way up his arm, her thumb grazing the back of his neck in a way that made him shiver as he felt her hands clasp each other. Timidly, as if rediscovering each other, their bodies pressed gradually closer, the warmth and the pressure of her presence making Harry's head spin. And then she broke her gaze.

In a move that shocked Harry quite a lot, Ginny rested her head on his chest, and the simple gesture made his heart feel as though it would explode. His grip on her tightened, and he felt her hands splay themselves flat on his back, pressing him down onto her. When she looked back up into his eyes, her face was still expressionless, but now only inches away. She was close enough to kiss, and somehow Harry knew that if he just closed that last tiny insignificant gap, she would let him. The softness and warmth of her breath teased his lips, making them tingle in anticipation. He wanted nothing more than to finish it, kiss her right there, but he knew he couldn't. Not yet.

And so, partly to keep his resolve, he pulled away. At this slight motion, he thought he saw her face crack for just the briefest moment, but before he was sure what he was looking at, the stony mask was back. Despite every other part of her telling him with heat and gentle grazes that he was where he needed to be, that face remained a flashing warning sign.

Just when Harry was thinking he couldn't stand it any longer, the music stopped. So did Ginny's dancing, her feet locking up almost instantly. As couples milled about, changed partners, and waited for another song to begin, Harry and Ginny just stared at each other. He couldn't move. He didn't want to move. The way she was looking at him, if he let her go now, she may never let him hold her again, and that just wasn't acceptable. Finally, his mind found a compromise, and he kept his eyes on hers as he nodded his head vaguely away from the dance floor.

Ginny seemed to catch the meaning of his signal as she nodded. Not willing to spend a second not touching her, at least not until they were somewhere safe, Harry took one of her hands from the back of his neck, and led her off the dance floor, and out of the ballroom.

Halls. The stupid palace was filled with stupid, gigantic, maze-like halls, and Harry hadn't the foggiest idea where he was taking her. Occasionally he would run across a secluded looking corner, but just as he would decide that that would be the spot, a couple of party goers would come from the other way, ruining it. He had wanted to ask Ginny, whom he was sure knew the place better than he did, but somehow he felt as though talking was probably not the best of ideas right now.

Without realizing it, he had broken into a run, Ginny's heels clacking behind him loudly. His determination to find the right place had grown into a panicked frenzy and when the right spot came, he almost missed it.

Skidding to a halt, Ginny in tow, Harry backtracked to a faint patch of light unlike that cast by the chandeliers that had poured into the hall. There, right off of the hallway, was a wide stone balcony overlooking the countryside. Night had fallen, and thanks to a cloudless sky, the stars were shining brilliantly alongside a sharp white crescent moon. Harry smiled to himself. Perfect.

Pulling Ginny out onto the balcony, Harry felt her hand let go of his, and he stopped. A little put off by the break in contact, he spun around. There was a flash, and Harry hadn't the time to duck or dodge as Ginny's palm slapped him full force across the face.

WHACK!

"Ow!" he winced, his hand jumping to his hot, pulsating cheek. He deserved this, he knew, but that didn't take the sting away any.

"WHO THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!" she shrieked at him, her face crimson with fury. "WHAT? Didya think that after everything you've put me through you could just make it all better with one lousy dance? HUH? ANSWER ME!"

"No, I…" Harry stammered, but Ginny cut him off.

"You bastard. You bloody bastard. You LEFT ME! You… You promised me you would come back, and you DIDN'T!" she roared at him, tears flying furiously from her eyes as she pointed at him. "You had my family worried SICK! Mum was a complete WRECK! She was worse off than when Percy had left us for the ministry, you… you,” and, unable to find the right word, Ginny growled in a combination of rage and frustration. “And then… and then…" she seethed at him, her shoulders heaving in anger. Ginny took a second as her face contorted into a mixture of utter bewilderment and disgust before continuing on.

"Stalking? You were bloody STALKING us?" This hit Harry harder than Ginny's palm just a moment ago, and he felt his mouth fall open uselessly.

"You… you knew about that?" he stammered, unable to comprehend the idea that Ginny had caught him during his weekend routine.

"Of course I knew!" she yelled at him.

"But how…"

"You're such a prat, Harry! You could hide under every invisibility cloak in the world and it wouldn't matter. I don't need to see you, or hear you. I can bloody well FEEL you!" She was trembling as she explained this, her eyes narrowed to slits, her fists clenched, her breaths coming out in sharp, steaming puffs. The murderous looking Ginny before him, coupled with the revelation she had just given him, had forced a deep heavy pit into Harry's stomach. A further realization hit him, and he somehow found the nerve to speak.

"So… all those times you went out for air…"

"Yes, Harry! I went out for you, to be near you," her voice now came at a lower volume, but was no less dangerous than before. "And at first, I was okay with it. Maybe you needed time, I would tell myself. Maybe this would be the time you would come out from under that stupid cloak, I would hope every single Saturday. But it never happened, and I…" The fury in her face had at once all but drained, replaced by complete anguish. Her body shook with sobs as she buried her face in her hands, and all Harry wanted to do was wrap her arms around her and comfort her, but something inside of him knew that she wasn't just dangerous right now, she was deadly.

"And I," she sobbed into her hands. "Like an idiot… I waited for you. And I began to think that maybe… maybe I wasn't enough for y-you to come back to." She looked up into Harry's eyes and he felt as though something was squeezing his heart as she asked in a terrifyingly weak voice, "Was that it, Harry? Was I not… not enough?"

"Of course not," he rushed, his voice cracking. The look of hurt on Ginny's face was killing him and he couldn't take it.

"THEN TELL ME!" she screamed at him. "I NEED AN EXPLANATION!"

He flinched. He had gotten this far, thought he knew what he was going to say, but now standing face to face with the girl he loved staring daggers into him had rendered him incapable of anything. Trying to get control of the situation, or at least himself, he turned away from her, bracing himself against the stone railing of the balcony for support.

He could feel her dangerous eyes on him, and for better or worse, he forced himself to speak if only to keep her from attacking him. "You can't understand…"

"NO!" she bellowed at him, and he spun around. "You don't get to use that one anymore, HARRY! I'm SICK of it! You always do that. Well you know what, Harry? The only thing that stands in the way of people understanding you is YOU!"

"Will you let me FINISH?" he snapped at her, part of him hoping to make her flinch too. When she stood resolutely up to him, however, Harry cowed, a feeling of shame pouring over him. This wasn't her fault, it was his, and she had every right to be angry.

"Fine!" she huffed, folding her arms and staring expectantly at him. Harry let a few moments of silence pass between them before he tried again.

"You can't understand what it's like to k… kill someone. Not until you've done it," he said, watching as Ginny's jaw clenched at the word "understand.” "I didn't even understand it, and I thought I knew what I was getting into."

Harry eased himself to the floor, leaning his back against one of the stone supports for the rail behind him. He tried to look at Ginny as he spoke, but found that every time he did, the words would get stuck in his throat. So instead, he stared at the floor between his feet, and tried to explain why he had to leave for so long.

"I didn't know what to expect, not really. But from the way everyone spoke, it seemed that after it was finished, I should have been happy, or something like it. Relieved maybe? I don't know. Thing is, when it was over… When I killed him… I felt sick. Literally. I mean I threw up. And I didn't understand why."

"Killing Voldemort was what I was supposed to do. It was supposed to be a good thing, and he was a monster, and I would be saving lives and everything. But that's not what I felt. I didn't even feel like I killed a monster. In a way, I felt like I had become the monster."

"But Harry that's just…" Ginny said quietly, but Harry held up a hand to stop her.

"When he was dead, I didn't see Voldemort, you know? I saw Tom, Tom Riddle. And not the Tom that killed Moaning Myrtle, or set up Hagrid, or possessed y-you. But the boy Tom Riddle. Just some lonely orphan whose parents never loved him."

"From the moment I found I was a wizard, Ginny, I found people who were willing to be my friends, people who were willing to take me in, and people who loved me. The Tom I saw on that night never had any of those things, and when I realized what I had done… it made me feel ill. It made me feel like a murderer."

"Even that realization I think I could have lived with, but… but what scared me the most wasn't knowing what I had become. It was other people figuring it out. Sure the Prophet would probably call me a hero, but I wouldn't care. The whole wizarding world could call me hero or killer and it wouldn't matter much to me. What I cared about were the people I loved. What frightened me, Ginny, is that Ron and Hermione would figure out what I had become. That your Mum would realize the real meaning of what I had done. That you… you would start to see me as a… a killer."

"That's stupid," Ginny commented softly, sitting down against another pillar close by. Harry turned towards her, forcing his eyes to meet hers so she could understand.

"I know it's stupid! But that's how I felt, and I couldn't change it!" he said. "So I took the same path Voldemort took in my first year at Hogwarts. I chose a half life, a shadow of a life. At the time I figured it was better, safer, to run away and keep breathing then to come home and risk you finding out because…"

A lump formed in Harry's throat and he had to stop talking for a moment as he tried to swallow it down. Shakily, when he thought he could manage it again, Harry continued, "Because if you turned away from me, I think… it felt like… I would die."

He wanted her to come closer to him, to offer her arms in comfort, to hold him, but she remained still, her face unreadable with the exception of an almost undetectable sadness in her eyes. She was going to make him finish, and when he realized this, he continued.

"So I ran. I got a normal, Muggle flat with a normal Muggle job, and I swore to myself not to do magic again."

"Why would you swear off magic?"

"Because I had to have something to blame, didn't I? It made it a little easier if I could blame magic for everything that happened. After all, if it weren't for magic, my parents might still be alive, and Dumbledore, and Sirius, and everyone. I would have never had to kill Voldemort if it weren't for magic. It's silly to say now, I know, but at the time… it helped." Harry gave a bitter chuckle.

"But I couldn't keep that promise either. The first week I worked, everything went fine. I had these nightmares, and they were terrible, but when I was awake… well, maybe I wasn't really alive, but I could function. It was the first weekend that did me in. There, alone in my flat, I could only think about three things; Tom, my parents, and… you."

"And that's when the visits started. As much as I wanted to stay away, as much as I'd convinced myself it was for the best, I couldn't do it. So… that's when I started to come over on the weekends. And you would come out to meet me, and while in my nightmares I would do the most terrible things, in those afternoons… Ginny, you don't know how many times I held you in my arms during those afternoons, if only in my head. And then there was my birthday…"

"That was probably the worst day of my life. Between forgetting my own birthday, the wedding invitation, and watching you cry, I was completely lost. I wanted to come home so badly, but the dreams were getting worse, and I wasn't just afraid of what you would think of me anymore. I was becoming afraid of what I would do. In my best dreams, Ginny, I was the murderer of Tom Riddle. In my worst dreams…" Harry let the silence finish the sentence for him, unable to repeat the terrible things he had done in his worst nightmares. Even now the images of him killing his best friends tried to force their way into his mind, but he squeezed them out with all of his will. Ginny seemed to understand as her face grew worrisome.

"Did you think you would… hurt us?" she asked, and Harry nodded.

Shaking his head and trying to get back on track, Harry said, "But the wedding invitation wasn't the only lifeline I got that day. Do you remember this?" From a pocket in his dress robes, Harry revealed the small picture of himself with Ginny, Ron, and Hermione. Ginny took it in her hands and seeing what it was, nodded slightly.

"I… It was supposed to be…" she mumbled. Her mouth continued to open and close a few more times before she finally looked back at Harry. "Do you… still wear it?"

Harry nodded, and when he did, Ginny inched toward him. Without a word, she again sent tingles through his body as she reached behind his neck, her fingers searching for the tiny chain. When she found it, she tugged, revealing the tiny locket that lay hidden beneath Harry's robes. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp, and Harry heard her sniff as she did so. The locket now open, Ginny removed one of the pictures inside so that all that was left was the image of Harry and Ginny sharing their first kiss, and she replaced it with the new picture Harry had given her. Her work done, Ginny closed the locket back up, and let it fall against his chest.

She slipped her shoes off, and curled her legs beneath her as she regained her seat against the pillar, looking into Harry's eyes the entire time. “Do you know how many times I wish I never fell in love with you?” she asked quietly.

This was not good, he thought. This was definitely going in the wrong direction and Harry wracked his brain trying to find a way to get things back on the right track. Coming up empty, however, all he could do was sit there and shake his head.

Leaning her head against the pillar, she continued in that same quiet voice, “Loads of times. And not all of them were during the last three months either. You'll never know how hard it is being in love with you, Harry… never. I've… I think from the very first moment that I realized I was truly in love with you… It scared me. You had all this stuff going on, and it was dangerous, and painful and…” Her eyes had grown red, and she wiped at them, sniffing a little before speaking again.

“You don't know how much I wanted to fall in love with Michael, or Dean. I really did because… because it'd be easier. When you were away, during the war, I used to wonder what their girlfriends were thinking. How nice it would be to just have the same fear everyone else had about the Death Eaters, and not to be worried sick because the boy you love is their number one target. How simple it would be to not have to break up so that your boyfriend could go off and maybe get killed. That's what their girlfriends got, and a part of me wanted that too,” at this last sentiment, Ginny gave Harry a guilty look.

“With you… it wasn't just not being with you, or the danger, though. It was the pain. Your pain. You've been through so much, and… and you've been hurt so many times and each time you hurt, I hurt. When Sirius died… and Dumbledore… I didn't just mourn them for myself… I had to mourn them for you too. So yes, Harry, being in love with you is hard, and it hurts, and there have been so many times when I didn't think I could stand it anymore… but…”

A tear fell down Ginny's cheek, and Harry wanted to wipe it away but stopped himself. And then a voice in his head spoke up, Oh, just do it! He watched his hand shakily move towards her cheek, half expecting Ginny to swat it away, but she didn't, and he felt his thumb glide over the smooth wet skin of her cheek. His thumb lingered for a moment at her jaw, and the most incredible thing happened; she took his hand in hers and held onto it. Letting their hands rest on the stone floor between them, Ginny pressed on.

“But… I couldn't stop,” she said, rolling her eyes a little as though frustrated with herself. “I couldn't stop because… you have a part of me… and you always will Harry. You've taken a piece of me for yourself, and I know deep down inside, I have a part of you and… nothing can change that.”

“And when you didn't come back, that was probably the most hurt I've ever been. It hurt so much because I thought I was enough. I thought… I knew… you loved me too…”

“But I did… I do…” Harry tried to cut in, but Ginny silenced him with a look.

“But when you didn't come back, not even after the Saturday afternoons, Harry… I felt… I felt like I was eleven again… Like,” she screwed her eyes shut, tears squeezing through them and Harry inched closer until their knees were touching so he could use his free hand to try to wipe them away. Eyes still clenched tight, Ginny's words continued in a strained, painful whisper, “I felt like I had fooled myself, and that I was still that same stupid little girl writing stupid little Valentines, and pining away for the hero, and it hurt so much…”

“Ginny, you weren't…”

“But that's how it felt Harry!”

“I'm sorry…”

“I know,” she said opening her eyes to stare back into his. “That's the point. When I said I could feel you Harry, I wasn't lying. You really are a part of me, you know. I can tell when you're near, what you're thinking, how you're feeling. All of it. I know you're sorry. I knew how guilty you felt when I looked at you, and what that look you gave me after your speech meant, and how much you wanted to kiss me when we danced. I even knew when you were going to ask me to dance, I was just trying to ignore you. Of course, stupid Hermione had to ruin it.” At this they both shared a chuckle.

“But can't you see how that made it so painful when you didn't come back? It meant I was wrong. It meant that how I felt, and how I thought you felt, and all of it was wrong, and…”

“You weren't wrong.”

“Yes I …”

“Ginny,” Harry stopped her, cupping her cheek in his hand to silence her. When he spoke again, it was in little more than a whisper “You… you weren't wrong. But this was something I think I had to figure out on my own or it wouldn't have been the same… Do you understand that?”

Ginny nodded, and Harry noticed that they were now so close that their foreheads were nearly touching as a few stray strands of her hair brushed his face. “I never stopped loving you, Ginny.”

“I didn't either,” she whispered back, her lip shaking. “As much as I wanted to hate you, Harry, I couldn't.”

“Can you… will you… do you think you can forgive me?” he pleaded, his voice cracking. She looked down for a moment as a tear dropped and landed on their clasped hands. Slowly she nodded her head.

“Just don't do it again, okay?” she cried softly. “Don't do that to me again, please.”

“I won't,” he said, bracing himself. “That's the last reason why I came back. I've tried… living without you, and it wasn't living. I could breathe, and eat, and work, and hurt, but that was it. I wasn't really living, not without you, and it was… I don't want to do that again, okay? So I wanted to make another promise, and I know I botched the last one, but please, I won't… I won't screw it up this time.”

He waited for her to give him a signal that she would give him a second try for an impossibly long and torturous moment. Finally, she nodded and quietly said, “Go on.”

“I want to promise not to leave you again. I don't ever want to be away from you, so let me promise not to leave you again. Will you… can I… m-marry you?”

Silence fell heavily between them. With horror, Harry watched as Ginny silently rose before him, her face returning to the stony expression she had given him all day. As if in slow motion he saw a tear slide down her cheek as her head slowly shook from left to right. “No, Harry. You can't… I won't.”

Harry felt the world crumble around him. His heart turned to lead, his lungs seized up, and his eyes had started to sting. He stared up at her in shock, his mouth wide, the disappointment in his face matched only by the pain. She had turned him down, and he knew he deserved it.

Slowly, Harry got up, unable to meet her eyes. For one small happy moment he thought everything would go right, but now he knew it was over. A sickeningly numb feeling engulfed Harry, and without another word he turned away from her, his eyes leaking tears furiously.

“Damn,” he heard her whisper under her breath, but he ignored it, willing one foot after another to walk away. The pain was so intense, the emptiness so deep, all he wanted to do was run, but he found it difficult enough just to breathe.

He had almost made it to the archway when he felt her small hand wrap around his wrist, holding him back. “Harry,” she said, her voice pleading.

Half-heartedly Harry tried to free himself from her grip, but she held firm. “Ginny,” his voice cracked, “I'm fine, I just…”

“No, you're not, Harry,” she cried, and Harry turned to look at her. Her eyes, wet with tears, sparkled like the stars above. It was too much. Too much pain and he had to get out of there.

“It's okay, Ginny, I understand,” and despite his voice cracking and his cheeks damp with tears, Harry tried to bolster the lie with a weak smile. “I just think I need to be…”

“If the next word out of your mouth is 'alone' Harry, I swear I will hex you into next week,” Ginny cut in.

“Harry,” she sighed. “If you'd asked me three months ago, I probably would have said yes. It may not have been the right thing, and I guess we'll never know now, but… but it's different.”

He didn't want to be here. He didn't want be listening anymore. All of a sudden, Harry wanted nothing more than his empty flat and his menial job, and this time he would do it right. This time instead of doing stupid things like visiting his parents and spying on the Weasleys, he would go to the pub every weekend. But as much as he wanted to run again, he couldn't break the grip Ginny held over him.

“You don't… I can't… Harry, I'm not sure I know anymore. Don't you see? I want you so badly it hurts, but… I'm not sure I know… you. I can forgive you, and I can love you, but… after what happened, I can't say I know both of us enough to say we should be married.”

“Oh,” was all he could manage as each word felt like a punch to the stomach. Here she was, holding his wrist, and voicing his worst fears into the night air. She pulled at him, and when he refused to come an inch closer, she took a step towards him.

“Last time I saw you, Harry, I was sure, and I'm not now, and I can't get married like that,” she explained, desperation filling her words. “If I married you now, it would only be to keep you from leaving, and that's not what it's supposed to be about.”

Crying fully now, she stepped even closer, wrapping her other hand around his wrist and struggling to speak through the tears. “Harry, I've wanted this for as long as I can remember, and here I am turning it down, because I have to… because now we're just two people who dated for a few weeks over a year ago, and I… I just don't know anymore.”

“Okay,” he croaked. “It's okay, Ginny… I-I understand, really.” He tried to turn away, but she only tightened her grip on him.

“Harry!” she nearly begged.

“What?”

Only inches away now, she said in a voice just above a whisper, “I never said I didn't want to know… a-about us…”

Her voice trailed off, her face a mixture of despair and hope, and for a second Harry's mind went completely blank. Despite his reassurances, he didn't understand anything. And then it hit him.

A spark lit up deep within him. The spark grew to a flame, and then he really did understand, or at least he thought he did. His body began to shake, and his heart slammed against his chest as everything became clear. Just moments ago he had managed to ask her to marry him, and yet that was nothing compared to what he was about to do. That was… He didn't know what that was, but this was real, and it scared him to death.

“So,” he squeaked, cringing as he did so. He cleared his throat, and gently removed one of Ginny's hands from his wrist. She looked meaningfully into his eyes as she let him, her grip no longer firm. With impossible ease he held both of her hands in his own, and squeezing them gently, found the nerve to speak.

“So… Do you… w-wanna go out? With me?” he stammered nervously. An eager swelling of something like hope filled his chest as he waited expectantly, watching her as she bit her lip. Moments passed, and for a second he thought she might turn him down again, but this time, slowly as she looked into his eyes, Ginny nodded.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “Okay.” Harry had asked her and she said yes. Okay, she nodded, but as far as he knew, nods always meant yes. But then, maybe they didn't. Maybe in some cultures nods meant…

“Harry?” Ginny almost whimpered, snapping Harry out of his train of thought.

“Wha…?” he managed. Everything was so foggy and yet so unbelievably sharp, and Harry had the vague sensation that he didn't know exactly where he was. Was this real? Was this a dream? Was he really standing on some balcony, and did he really just ask Ginny to go out with him, after she turned down his marriage proposal? Did she really just say yes?

She tugged at his hands, her eyes teary and expectant, a small smile on her lips. “Harry… Why aren't you kissing me already?”

It was real. They were there and everything really did happen and now she was asking him to do the one thing he had wanted to do so badly for more than a year now. Not wanting to waste any more time on words or fears or doubts that didn't matter, Harry wrapped his arms tightly around her, almost falling apart when she returned his embrace. His heart raced faster than ever before as he looked into Ginny's eyes one last time, telling her more with a look than he could ever say in words how much he loved her. Closing his eyes, he leaned in and kissed her.

Harry was home.