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.