I’ve loved the same girl since I was eleven.

I’m sure you’re thinking that’s crazy—what does an eleven-year-old know about love?

Quite a bit, actually.

Being around her almost every day for seven years, spending our breaks together, holidays, classes.

Besides being the worst torture imaginable...it’s been bloody fabulous.

Everything about her makes me like her more. The way she smells, the way her hair frizzes at the slightest opportunity, the way she’s always carrying a million more books than she’ll EVER read in that damned bag of hers...

But she doesn’t know I like her. I’m too much of a bloody chicken to tell her, and besides...

There’s another bloke.

She’s never noticed me in anything more than a friendly, brotherly way. And I was never brave enough to hint that there might be more beneath that first glance.

I don’t mean I don’t like him. He’s a nice enough bloke. He treats her good, probably because he knows my best mate, my brothers, and I would pound him into a bloody pulp if he ever did her wrong.

And she seems happy enough with him.

But maybe that’s what bothers me the most. Not that she’s with him, not that they’ve been together for almost a year now.

But the fact that it feels to me like she’s settling, and she knows it.

That she thinks she’s got the man who isn’t her perfect match, her soul mate, but close enough to live with.

And I’d love to tell her otherwise, to show her otherwise, but...I can’t.

I can’t break them up. Not after this long, not after seeing how happy they make each other.

I have too much respect for them, as a couple, than anybody gives me credit for.

Nobody ever thinks there’s more to me than there is on the surface. I care about more than having my stomach fed three times a day, and being comfortable.

I care about my friends, and my family, even the stupid gits that I’m forced to admit I’m related to.

And I care about the happiness of those around me.

Maybe I’m not the smartest, or the quickest, but I can still tell when the people around me need cheering up, or need someone to talk to.

Just because I don’t have the words to explain it, it doesn’t mean I don’t understand.

I catch on to more than you think.

I just wish there was more bravery mixed in there with all the other qualities.

And then sometimes...

Sometimes she gives me this look....and it’s like she knows exactly what I’m thinking, exactly where my mind is when I’m around her, but she never says...hasn’t ever even hinted at the reason for the look.

It drives me mad.

So many times I’ve been tempted to pull her into a broom closet and snog the life out of her, see if my actions can say what my lips just can’t.

Forget words—sometimes things call for action.

And sometimes I feel like action is what it’ll take to make her realize...

But if she does know...

...then why doesn’t she ever say anything?

Because she’s happy to settle for what she’s got, instead of reaching out for what she could have?

Because she knows I’m too much of a gentleman to get in the way of what she already has?

Because she’s not entirely sure that what she thinks I’m thinking is actually what I’m thinking?

Bloody females...

She’s the smartest one I’ve ever met in my life, the smartest one I’ll probably ever meet, but sometimes I have to wonder if she pays as much attention to reality as she does her books.

Just more of what makes her so adorable, I suppose.

I would do anything for her...

I’m ready to do anything for her...

If she could only see...

Maybe I’ll paint her a picture.

Or write her a letter.

Sing her a bloody song, have it written in the sky, anything to get her to look at me the way she looks at him.

And then I’m not so certain that if she knew, it wouldn’t ruin the friendship we’ve worked so hard on for almost eight years.

We’ve had our problems, certainly. I still haven’t forgotten a certain flock of birds she set on a few years back, bloody canaries that pecked until I bled. I never did properly repay her for that one...not that I’d’ve done much to get her back.

I’m not that mean.

And the shouting match we had after that stupid ball when we were fourteen...I was so sure she was going to beat me to death with her shoe. And now, looking back, I couldn’t blame her if she had.

Maybe I should give her a shoe and let her have a go. It might do us both some good.

Or maybe...

Just maybe...

I’ll show her this journal.

And then I’ll sit back and watch what happens. . .

Two men sat at the table in the farthest corner of the pub, both sitting with their backs to the crowd and general hubbub, both of them clutching identical leather-bound books.

“This is the most ridiculous thing we’ve ever done.�

“I quite agree, but you have to admit: it was a good idea!�

They laughed, identical grins lighting their faces.

A waitress paused beside their table, set down a tray filled with glasses. The looks she shot them were equally curious and nervous. She’d seen too many drunken escapades to underestimate the two men before her, knowing exactly what they could be capable of with the amount of drinks they’d ordered.

She slunk back to the bar with the empty tray, praying her shift ended before the fun began. The barmaid grinned at her, trying to reassure. The waitress might think she knew what the two at the back might be capable of, but she, the barmaid, knew exactly what they could get up to.

Back at the table the first man cracked his knuckles; his eyes narrowed to mere slits as he stared the book now lying on the table in front of him.

“Are you ready?�

The second man nodded, rocking his chair back onto two legs, waiting for the debacle.

The first flipped his book open to the first page, cleared his throat loudly, several times, and read the first sentence.

“Dearest ambition number one: To snog a girl in a broom closet long enough that she forgets who she went in there with.�

The second man roared with laughter as the first took a glass, raised it, and swallowed the contents in one go.

Then he turned to his partner, eyes glinting.

“Your turn, mate.�

Another flip of the pages, another loud knuckle-cracking and obnoxious throat-clearing.

“Dearest ambition one: To discover what it feels like to be a hairless cat.�

Another roar of laughter, another drained glass.

They traded turns, reading on and on, page after page, drinking, drinking. They lost count of the glasses they’d emptied.

The waitresses refilled glasses as soon as they emptied—there was something to be said for tipping the help before having a few too many Firewhiskies.

“Dearest ambition number seventy-three: To fly a broomstick, starkers, through the Quidditch World Cup.�

They caught each other’s eye, both snorted with laughter, clutching the stitches in their sides, clutching each other to keep from falling out of their chairs.

“Wait, wait: does it have to be through the Cup?�

Grasping the edge of the table in an effort to remain upright, the first man blinked blearily at his mate.

“What?�

“You know. Flying starkers. Any crowded area work?�

They stared at each other for a moment, and then their faces lit with identical mischievous grins.

They staggered to their feet, stumbled out of the pub and into the damp spring air.

The sun was still shining brilliantly down on them, making them squint.

They stood on the path for a moment, considering, and then turned to face the other.

“If I have to do this, you’re going to do it with me. I know you’ve got at least one ambition that involves being starkers in a public place.�

“Fine, fine.�

They both raised wands, took breaths.

“Accio Rosmerta’s brooms!�

A pair of rather weathered-looking broomsticks burst out of a ratty shed behind the pub, came hurtling toward them.

They each caught one, darted into the shadows.

Cloaks, robes, shoes, all lay discarded in a matter of mere seconds. Shivering slightly in the cool air, feeling absurdly ridiculous and trying desperately not to laugh at each other, they mounted the brooms.

“Count of three.�

“One.�

“Two.�

“Three!�

They kicked off simultaneously, rose unsteadily into the air, hidden still for just an instant under the eaves, and then, as though reading each other’s mind, they darted out into the sunlight.

Someone below screamed, someone else burst into laughter, and the two on the brooms both blushed a brilliant red.

They soared through the air, the wind rushing at their faces and other certain...parts...

Once....twice....three loops around the village, and they disappeared once more into the shadows.

Dressing hastily, dreading someone finding them, half-naked, beside the Three Broomsticks.

They snuck around the building, tucked the brooms securely back into their shed, pointed wands at the lock that had broken, putting everything back to normal.

Satisfied that nothing was out of place, they strode confidently back into the pub.

They’d made it almost to their table when the first chuckle sounded.

One by one, more patrons joined in, until the entire building was shaking with laughter.

Their ears flushed an impossibly dark shade of red as they slid into their seats, sinking low until only eyes showed above the table.

Neither of them was much in a mood now to continue reading, though the books still lay open on the tabletop.

Behind them, someone coughed impatiently.

Glancing round, they were met with the smiling face of the barmaid.

“Next time you boys decide to do something like that, you go starkers on someone else’s brooms, alright?�

Both nodded sheepishly.

“Yes, Rosmerta.�

“Of course, Rosmerta. Anything for you.�

As she turned and weaved her way back through the tables to the bar, the men cast each other dark looks.

“Next time, Georgie-boy, you can fly starkers by yourself.�

“Next time? Who said there’d be a next time, my dear Fred?�

Germany, December, 1991

 I’ve heard it said that anger is simply misdirected passion. I pray that the saying isn’t true, for the people who truly anger me are the last people I would ever want to even imagine being passionate about.

 Bloody purebloods and their idiotic ideals… 

This is my life. I’m ashamed to admit it, ashamed that the world we live in has come to this. Separations, impenetrable walls built between families. Lives torn apart, happiness dissolved in a matter of moments.

 I am a Mudblood, living in a pureblood controlled world.  It can’t get any worse. Even death would be better than this. If anyone knew, truly knew, how many times I’ve prayed for death in the past days, weeks, years…they’d think I’ve lost my mind, and there are times I’d have to agree.

 How did things come to this? How did I end up with status lower than that of a house-elf? How did I end up, living on the street, eating any scraps I can salvage from bins along the way? Having no other choice but to live in the filth, the desolation? Watching the others around you shuffle through the days with the same looks of utter desperation plastered on their faces… 

I had everything…a life, a home, a lover…Gone in the mere blink of an eye.  Now there’s only this: this abomination I’m supposed to call an existence. I’ll be damned before I call it a life.  

For a long time now I’ve been merely existing. Not living, not in any sense of the word. Floating through the days like a soap bubble, ready to disappear at any moment. 

Living in the memories I have of what once was, and never will be again....and yet, still aching from the want of having it all back. 

These memories are killing me, slowly, surely, eating me alive from the inside. And nothing I can do will stop it. And at times I’m not even sure I want it to stop… 

This journal might be a bad idea, recording all these thoughts, but some days it’s all that keeps me sane. And someday...it might fall into the hands of the people who will understand. 

~~~ 

Diagon Alley, November, 1994 

“Such a shame, really. All that potential, all that talent, gone to waste.”

 

“I can’t pretend people didn’t wonder where she’d gone, what she’d become after, well, after everything…but now…I find myself wishing we’d never found out.”

 

The two men paused to nod, silent in their agreement, heads bowed, surveying the gruesome scene that lay before them.

 

A body, dressed in tattered, shredded robes, soaked from the cruel icy rain that poured down in sheets.

 

A girl, frighteningly thin, ribs showing through the holes in her robes.

 

Her long, curly brown hair, matted with blood and dirt, clung to her pale skin, laced across her face in garish strands.

 

Her eyes were open, staring unseeingly into the rain that pattered mercilessly down on her.

 

Neither man could look away, entranced by the horror, repulsed by the attraction, both of them filled with the same overwhelming sense of loss, of sadness.

 

Such an innocent creature shouldn’t die like this in the street, as nothing more than a beggar, a waif.

 

Where was the honor in death, and the respect?

 

The first man sighed, chest heavy with the raw emotions that swarmed through his soul.

 

“The Ministry’ll need to be informed.”

 

The second man nodded again, his despondent expression a mirror of the one standing beside him.

 

“Indeed.”

 

They shared a long look before the second man finally echoed the first’s sigh and let his shoulders slump in weary defeat.

 

“I’ll go.”

 

As the crack signaling his Disapparation rang along the brick walls, the first man bent forward, gently closing the girl’s eyes.

 

“I hope you’ve found peace at last...”

 

~~~

 

 Hogsmeade, June, 1988 

The sun was bright as it twinkled down on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Graduation ceremonies were almost required to be held outside when the weather was this inviting, even if it meant the students and adults alike that were seated, in neat rows, across the grass were withering with the heat.

 

Minerva McGonagall stood before the assembly, proudly calling names, shaking hands with each student as they came forward.

 

Polite applause rang from the crowd as each name was called.

 

The girl that bounced up the aisle when it was her turn was radiating an exhausting amount of excitement. Her eyes sparkled as she shook the hand of her previous headmaster and professor, now resigned to the role of dear friend. Educator no longer.

 

The two shared a small, secret, smile as they shook hands, both remembering years, and events, now firmly in the past.

 

The girl missed the rest of the ceremony as she retraced her steps to her seat, lost in the jumble of her thoughts and memories. All around her people were crying, both for joy at the end of another term, and sadness at leaving their beloved castle. Shouts and screams filled the air as the service ended; she brushed away the lone tear that slid down her cheek as the feeling of finality washed over her.

 

She slipped away from the crowd, crept inside the castle, suddenly desperate for one last romp through the corridors, one last jaunt through her old common room.

 

One more password whispered to the guardian swathed in pink robes.

 

She had to bite back another flood of tears as she climbed the stairs, running a hand along the smooth, cool stone of the banister, staring at all the paintings that covered the walls around her. Trying to memorize every brushstroke, every stone in the wall, every grain of wood in the frames.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

The sudden voice made her jump; she spun around, hand grabbing automatically for her wand.

 

She found herself staring into a pair of brilliant blue eyes that were smiling gently down at her.

 

His face was familiar…for a moment she could do nothing but stare, and then…

 

“Oliver?”

 

He grinned, bowed deeply.

 

“At your service.”

 

He held out a hand; when she took it, instead of shaking, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a gallant kiss to the back of her fingers.

 

“What-what are you doing here, Oliver?”

 

He nudged her gently with an elbow, as though sharing some secret joke with her.

 

“I always come back for end-of-term ceremonies. Get in touch with my roots and all that.”

 

She nodded.

 

“Right. I figured you’d forgotten about this place…Being a big Quidditch star and all, these things sort of slip your mind...”

 

He laughed softly.

 

“Yes, yes. I’m not that big of a star. And you! Still head of your year, best of the best. Not at all surprising, if I may say so.”

 

She fixed him with a rather quizzical look.

 

“I’m rather surprised you noticed. You were always too busy being out on the Quidditch pitch, too busy to pay much attention in lessons, or anywhere else.”

 

“Been talking to McGonagall again, I see.” He chuckled, the warmth that radiated from his smile sinking down into her toes. “I did pay more attention than she, or any other professor, gave me credit for. And there was the always the added insult of getting outscored on every test, in every course, by someone four years younger.”

 

She was gracious enough to flush delicately.

 

“I take it you’re not sorry?”

 

She smirked up at him.

 

“Not in the least. Someone had to be responsible for bringing you back to earth when your head got too big for your own good.”

 

He returned her smirk, eyes twinkling merrily, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

 

“It’s good to see you, Oliver.” Her voice was quiet, gentle. “I always wondered how you were doing after you left for Scotland.”

 

“You did?”

 

She nodded, flushing a deeper red, infuriated with herself for being such a…a girl...

 

“Everyone talked about you a lot. The celebrity of Hogwarts, gone off to play pro, turned into a household name. It was hard not to wonder.”

 

He nodded slowly, still watching her with those gorgeous eyes of his.

 

A sudden thought occurred to him.

 

“What say we get a drink later, at the Three Broomsticks? Grab a butterbeer, do some catching up?”

 

He looked so hopeful, so adorable, she couldn’t say no.

 

“That…that sounds nice.”

 

He broke into a grin, obviously elated.

 

“Seven o’clock?”

 

“Seven it is.”

 

He turned to leave, the foolish grin still plastered to his face, stopped halfway round.

 

“Hey-“

 

She twisted to face him, waiting for him to finish.

 

“Thanks.”

 

She nodded, smiled, and then he was gone.

 

 ~~~ 

London, November, 1994 

She was buried in a small cemetery in England.

 

Three people attended.

 

Three men.

 

All of them wept unashamedly as they stared at her coffin, none of them hearing the generic words of comfort the priest uttered.

 

Finally, they were left alone. The silence around them was deafening, thick and heavy, filled with pain.

 

“I can’t believe she’s gone…”

 

The short, raven-haired man was the first to speak, his words so quiet the others almost missed them.

 

“I don’t want to believe it…this is a joke, isn’t it? Someone, please, tell me it’s a joke!”

 

The burly brunette’s voice broke as tears poured afresh down his cheeks. His heart was beyond broken, nay, it was shattered. Shattered into miniscule fragments, unfixable.

 

“Where was she, all those years?”

 

The lanky redhead was the last to speak, voicing the question that had passed through all their minds at least once, if not a million times.

 

None of them had an answer. Nobody did, it seemed.

 

She’d simply vanished.

 

And with her she’d taken a piece of all of them, leaving gaping holes behind that nothing, no matter how they tried, could fill.

 

“I always hoped she’d come back. That she’d hear the news and she’d just…appear…”

 

“We all did.”

 

“We all never stopped hoping, either.”

 

“Fat lot of good it did…”

 

They fell silent again, unmoving in their vigil even as it began to rain.

 

How fitting that here, on their saddest of days, the sky should mirror their emotions.

 

It was growing dark when they finally turned, as one, to leave.

 

Several reporters were lurking beyond the gate, waiting to catch them at their lowest, at their worst, waiting to exploit their grief into skyrocketing sales.

 

Such was the price for being famous.

 

Hogsmeade, June, 1988  

That one drink at the Three Broomsticks turned into an all-night dinner at a nearby restaurant. Just the two of them, sitting alone in a booth, talking about anything and everything.

 

She was amazed at how fast she grew comfortable with Oliver. Everything about him set her perfectly at ease; the way he crossed his long, lanky legs under the table as they talked, the way his eyes brightened every time he smiled. The way he watched her, so carefully, as she talked, hanging on her every word.

 

When they finally left the sun was starting to rise, the sky tinged with deep pinks and oranges. Oliver walked her back up the grounds to the castle, slowly, neither of them wanting the night to officially end. When they reached the doors he took her hand, once again pressing a kiss to her skin.

 

With a promise to keep in touch, to owl each other often, he was gone.

 

Not an hour later a tawny owl arrived, bearing a thick envelope with her name on it, written in his surprisingly neat scrawl.

 

Six months later she had moved into Oliver’s flat in Scotland.

 

They spent every moment together. She went to every Quidditch practice, every game, every tournament. Every celebratory party, every consoling dinner after every loss, always wrapped in each other’s arms. Countless women threw themselves at Oliver, begged to take him home at the end of the night, but he had eyes only for her.

 

~~~

 

Two years passed. They’d talked about marriage multiple times, both of them knowing deep inside that they were meant for each other, belonged to each other.

 

And yet… no weddings took place. No vows, no rings, no honeymoons…

 

Despite the times, the rumors of Death Eaters, the rumors of Voldemort gaining more power than ever, the rumors of Muggleborns and Squibs being attacked, killed, tortured...

 

She’d put most of her energy into enjoying being with Oliver. What she had left went to her friends and the Order. It was dangerous, certainly, being connected with the one group still strong enough to stand against the growing force that was Voldemort, but exhilarating at the same time. Still, she knew her friends well enough to know that they kept her away from the more dangerous plans, knowing full well how much trouble they would be in with Oliver if any harm came to her.

 

She’d been on her way home from the market one night when she saw the Dark Mark hovering above their flat.

 

She’d vomited there on the sidewalk, knowing in the deepest part of her soul that he was gone, that Oliver was gone, that he was dead.

 

She hadn’t gone inside; instead, she turned and ran away from whatever horror awaited her there, away from the heartache, and the loss…

 

She’d never been back.

 

She’d left Scotland, gone back to England for a time, then Italy, France, Spain. Always on the move, always running. The longest she’d stayed in one place was three weeks.

 

When Voldemort had finally taken over the Ministry, enacted the laws that kept anyone below pureblood status from having a job, having a life, or anything that resembled a life, she’d fallen, as the Americans so liked to say, ‘off the grid’.

 

Never staying in one place more than one night. She never used magic, relying solely on Muggle transportation and her own two feet. She’d slept outside, in fields, or in the woods, more often than not.

 

Nicking the occasional newspaper from bins along the way had provided her with all the information she’d ever needed. About the war, about the way the entire world had gone downhill, both Wizarding and Muggle, since Voldemort’s rise to power.

 

And then, one horrible morning, the newspaper she’d nicked held more tragic news than any.

 

Her two best friends were dead.

 

Killed in battle, as she’d always feared.

 

Voldemort was gone, though his Death Eaters remained in power, their status now long established.

 

She never read another newspaper after that. Never spoke to another living soul.

 

A cold feeling settled at the pit of her stomach, a constant reminder of the pain that made it so hard to breathe. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep.  The days began to blur together. She lost track of time, of the seasons. When winter came, snow lay on the ground for a week before she became aware of it.

 

She wasted away slowly, but surely. She caught sight of herself once in the reflection of a stream; shock had rippled through her. She hadn’t recognized the face that stared back at her.

 

She’d become a mere shadow of the girl she’d once been. A wraith, wrapped in shadows, living the life of the damned, of the exiled.

 

She didn’t deserve to live…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~` 

 Hosmeade, November, 1994  

The three men sat, silent, stoic, at the table in the darkest corner of the Three Broomsticks. Two of them nursed flagons of Firewhisky, the third simply sat, arms folded about his chest, his expression dark, grim, unreadable.

 

None of them paid any attention to the curious glances thrown in their direction, nor did they acknowledge the looks of pity and sympathy from the bartender they’d all known for too long.

 

“I miss her.”

 

The redhead was the first to break the uneasy silence. The other two nodded solemnly.

 

“We all do.” The brunette’s voice was so quiet it was almost lost in the din of the tavern. “I keep praying that we’ll wake up and everything will have been a dream.”

 

A bitter laugh sounded from the far end of the table, where the raven-haired man lurked uncomfortably.

 

“Bloody hell…Why don’t we all just wish for world peace and unity with the Muggles while we’re at it?”

 

The other two traded looks; sadness and misery were to be expected after a funeral, but anger?

 

They weren’t quite sure how to deal with that one.

 

Before either of them could speak the third rose from his seat, nearly knocking it over in an angry huff.

 

“Bugger off, the both of you. Stop fantasizing about what-if’s! She’s dead, alright?”

 

He spun around, robes swirling around his ankles, and stormed out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

 

“Blimey…think we should go after him?”

 

The redhead’s face was concerned, hurt. The brunette shook his head.

 

“No. I think he just needs some time.”

 

The two turned back to their flagons, drowning their emotions with another round of Firewhisky.

 

~~~

 

As soon as the raven-haired man stepped outside, he wished he’d stayed where he was. The night was cold, the wind that whipped along the street frigid at best, made it hard to breathe as it slapped him full in the face.

 

He wrapped his cloak tighter around his body, gritted his teeth, and started to walk.

 

He had no destination in mind, barely paid any attention to where his feet carried him, so it was a surprise when he ended up at the gates leading to the castle where he’d spent so many years as a child.

 

It had been years since he’d set foot inside.

 

He was tempted to counter the spells that held the gate shut, slip inside, return to his favorite schoolboy haunts.

 

Instead, he wrapped his hands around the cold, hard iron bars of the gate, leaned his forehead against them, and let his eyes slide closed.

 

Unbidden, a rush of memories filled his mind, and he was unaware of the hot tears that began to slide, slowly at first, then faster, down his numb cheeks.

 First journey on the Express…The snobby girl with the fluffy, frizzy brown hair, already the know-it-all and they hadn’t even had one class yet… 

Fourth year...his two best friends having another row, all because of a stupid ball none of them wanted to attend in the first place… 

Seventh year…gods, graduation…watching her fall in love with someone he near worshipped, breaking another’s heart in the process… 

He couldn’t breathe; the sobs were growing stronger, shaking his entire body. His knees gave and he fell to the ground in a heap, fingers still wrapped around the bars of the gate.

 

“Why?” he cried, furious. “Why did it have to be you? Why couldn’t you see past the stories?”

 

It was dark when he finally calmed enough to rise to his feet. He was shaking, frozen through. He jumped near out of his skin when he turned and found his friends standing behind him, watching him with identical expressions of both caution and worry.

 

“You alright, mate?”

 

All he could do was nod.

 

“Come on; let’s get you someplace warm.”

 

~~~

 

Later that night he lay in bed, huddled beneath layers of blankets, unable to shake the chill from his bones, unable to sleep. Instead he found himself staring at the blank expanse of the ceiling, his mind creating pictures out of the shadows that danced across the room, anything to keep from replaying the events of the day in his head…

 

He was drifting in that ethereal place between wakefulness and slumber when he heard a faint tapping.

 

Instantly awake, his eyes flew open. The shadows on the ceiling had morphed into something distinctly owl-shaped. He rolled onto an elbow, stared through squinted eyes at the window.

 

There was a large, tawny owl perched on his windowsill, a letter and a small parcel tied to its legs.

 

He lurched out of bed, disentangling his feet from the sheets in one swift motion, and flung the window open. The owl stood still long enough for him to remove the letters and then flew off, hooting in a rather dignified sort of way.

 

The letter bore the instantly recognizable, sturdy handwriting of Minerva McGonagall; the writing on the package was dainty, flowery, vaguely familiar.

 

He opened McGonagall’s letter first.

 I received this yesterday; one look and I knew I should send it to you straight away. I hope it answers your questions, and gives you peace.

~Minerva 

His heart was thudding in his ears, hands were shaking as he lifted the parcel. It took four tries to get his trembling fingers to cooperate long enough to untie the strings.

 

A small, leather-bound book fell into his lap as he upended the box. Its edges were worn and cracked, the ends of the pages dirty and smudged.

 

He opened it gently; the pages were filled with the same graceful, girlish script that graced the wrapping.

 

He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and started to read…

 January 3rd, 1991 I found this journal in a trash bin today…I don’t know what possessed me to take it. I suppose I just couldn’t resist the urge to feel an actual book in my hands again. God, I’ve missed the feel of paper, the smell of something other than newsprint…Only the first few pages were written on. I felt a bit guilty pulling them out but…this is my story. My life, though it’s a bit of a reach to call it that.  

As he read he was struck with an overpowering feel of familiarity. The author signed none of the pages but…he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that he knew the one that had penned the pages.

~~~

 

It was growing light outside as he came to the last few pages; he hadn’t been able to stop reading. The pages wove into a heavy tale of despair, of heartache, of a life unworthy of living. He couldn’t take his eyes from the words. Each one felt like a fresh stab to his already broken heart.

 

Silent tears streaked down his cheeks more than once as the writing turned darker, more desperate, growing farther and farther from reality. The pages that came after the tale of finding the deaths of loved ones, of best friends, took a turn for the worse, barely making any sort of sense.

 

The last entry, dated nearly two weeks previous, was the worst. The writing was so hurried, so sloppy, he could only pick out a word or two here and there.

 Getting sick……..shaking…..…cold…….. 

And then, at the bottom, printed thickly in almost childlike handwriting he could tell had cost tremendous effort to write:

 ...pray someone finds this---I need them to know…gods, Oliver, I miss you… 

And then it hit him, the reason why the writing was so familiar, why the parcel had been addressed to McGonagall. He lurched sideways, the journal sliding from his lap, and vomited over the edge of his mattress. 

“Bloody hell,” he whispered to the silent house around him, “no wonder she never came back.”

 

Burying his face in his hands, Harry Potter wept.

 

That was how they found him later, huddled in a ball beneath his blankets, tears still streaming from his eyes.

 

Without a word he flung the journal at them and closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to watch them read.

 

A hoarse cry some time later let him know they’d understood.

 

That they knew.

  Fin.