It takes you a long time to leave, anywhere. Whenever you try, after all, you are swept away by crowds of reporters and even - sometimes - fans, all wishing for your autograph. It is surreal, the kind of attention you are given. You don’t feel like the saviour of the world, but apparently you are; everyone around you is determined to know something about your so-called “adventures.� You wouldn’t call them adventures, though. You hardly felt even slightly adventurous while you were gone. It was tough; that’s mostly the part you remember. It was tougher than most would imagine, even given people’s apparent, appalling tendencies to exaggerate, but you handled it. You had to; you didn’t really have a choice, did you? It was always the way you needed to go – indeed, the only way you ever even saw - and from that one significant day on the Hogwarts Express, everything changed. You soon realized that you never had a choice. Your heart would never allow you to leave him.


And you never did. Of course, you fought, but that was acceptable. Of course, you felt obligated to be silent every now and again, but that was acceptable, too. You have always stuck by him, and you always will.


You are walking slowly, now, through the very back streets of London. It is dark and quiet. It is almost the perfect place for people you should really be avoiding, but you are totally lost in thought. You suddenly realize, as you round a corner, that you are alone. You can leave, finally be free. You can go where you have been wanting to go for several months. You Disapparate.


***


You stumble onto the ground, instantly confused by the light and the heat.


The wind rustles the eucalyptus trees as you walk through the bush. It is hot, startlingly hot. The temperature seems to rise every minute as the sun moves further across the sky; it is almost at the dead centre now. The dust is thick and strong, and the sand is painful when it touches your skin, but you don’t mind. It is all beautiful to you, everything. The sun, so bright; the ground, so soft and strong all at the same time; it makes you warm inside. Of course, it isn’t the heat of the weather, or the heat of the desert that warms you. It is the feeling of beauty, anticipation, and, above all: love.


You near a small shack as you walk. Your legs are tired. Your eyes are sore. Your arms are red and burnt. Your nose is peeling and painful. Your whole body quivers. Despite it all, you don’t mind. It is all beautiful to you, everything.


She steps from the porch, a large, straw hat on her head, a string tied beneath her neck to hold the hat on. Your eyes lighten; you forget the pain; you run to her; you take her strongly in your arms and hold her there. Your arms ache, but you don’t notice. You feel the warmth of her heart as it beats softy against your chest. You feel the wetness of the tears falling from her eyes landing on your bare shoulders. It cools your arms. It takes the sting away. They are tears of joy, and they make you feel fuzzy inside. You are home again. No matter where you live, you are home when you see her. She is home. She always has been, and she always will be.


He slowly exits the house, meeting your eyes. He hurries to you. You feel amazed at how much the love you feel for him breaks your heart when you see his face. It breaks your heart that you had to leave. You hardly notice, though. Your thoughts are separate; your logical thinking is still there, just hidden behind the happiness.


He hugs you, and her. You all stand there in the boiling sun, holding each other, unfazed by anything else. There are kangaroos nearby, hopping around, their tails flying. You would run to them, but you don’t notice them. You don’t notice anything but the feel of them holding you, the feel of their hearts beating against you. It is all beautiful to you, everything.


You slowly walk inside, talking to them animatedly. You enter their home. It is cosy; small, but not hot at all. You look around for the air conditioner you know must be hidden somewhere. You sit on the sofa. It is lovely – the very same you had sat on, laid on, and napped on since you were born. It feels like home.


You explain everything, slowly, for them. It is a lot for them to understand. They gasp and whimper involuntarily as you tell them your tales. They are afraid of what you have been through.


You stop. Your logical thoughts have kicked in, and you suddenly realize that they weren’t meant to remember you. They aren’t meant to know you were born.


You ask them plainly if they realize what you did to them. They say they aren’t sure, precisely, but their guess is close enough. You ask them one more question: how do they know you exist? They tell you plainly that it had started to wear off, and they would begin remembering you sometimes. They were worried, and you feel sorry for them. You apologize profusely, and they understand.


You talk for hours, telling them stories of the past, present and future. Occasionally, tears fall from your eyes, both from happiness and grief.


You wake in the morning; the sun is just beginning to rise. You realize you are snuggled, in between them, on that lovely sofa. It is just like when you were a little child. At first, your brain tells you to move, and you struggle a little to be free of them, but then your soul chimes in, and you stay still. You sigh and look through the window at the sun.


It really feels like Christmas to you, unlike last time. Even though you usually spend your Christmases in the cold, it could not feel more like Christmas. What you wanted more than anything, Santa Claus has given you, and you are thankful for that. It is no matter if you cannot hold it in your hand, for you can hold it in your heart; and you do.