This is for the Quidditch League Semi-Finals. My story had to begin with "There was nothing else to do." Other prompts: "The sky looks less blue today.", fireworks, sloppy.

There was nothing else to do.

On the second of May, at a graveyard, or an empty pub, or in the middle of Diagon Alley, they stopped to remember. They recalled the last time they heard a person's voice or the flash of green before their eyes. They remembered the silhouette of a castle as they crossed a lake that seemed so much bigger when they were eleven. They'd remember the smell of their common room and think back on a time when that was home.

And even years later they would all look back on the road that lead them away from this place, and they'd still say the same thing. There truly was nothing else they could do but move on. Of course, moving on is different for everyone…

Ron set the last box of files on his desk in the Auror office with a loud thud. He'd left his badge with his credentials on Harry's desk, and all there was to do now was to leave for good.

He was relieved to be honest. The job had been great even if only for a couple of years but deep down Ron knew that this wasn't the life for him. He'd had enough of Dark wizards and going undercover for a lifetime before he'd even turned eighteen.

He picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet that he'd found on his desk the other day. It had been opened to a Rita Skeeter article complete with a picture of Ron with Harry at some Ministry dinner or other. How she'd found out about his resignation he still wasn't sure. He suspected she was still taking on her Animagus form to get stories but Hermione wouldn't hear of the idea. Either way, he'd found Rita's suggestion that he was mentally ill and not up to being an Auror rather rude.

He crumpled up the article and tossed it toward the bin in the corner but missed. Before he could pick it up, Harry came in and did it for him.

"You have everything?"

"Yeah," Ron said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Was just about to head over to George's. You coming later? He's going to set off the rest of the fireworks in Diagon Alley tonight. Should be fun."

"Maybe. I don't know."

Harry looked at his watch and then at Ron's empty desk.

"You sure you won't change your mind?" Harry asked. "It won't the same without you."

"Something tells me you'll be just fine on your own," Ron said with a roll of his eyes. "Besides, I've had my fill of being an Auror already. You're better suited for it. Always have been."

"Don't say that."

"It's true though."

Ron headed for the door, signaling for Harry to walk him out.

"Working for George will be great though," Ron said cheerily. "Steady hours. Decent pay, though I still say he's trying to get away with paying me less because we're family. In any case, I'm ready to settle down, you know?"

"I guess."

They reached the lift and Ron made as if to get in, but then he turned and gave Harry a serious look.

"You really shouldn't get low tonight, Harry. If you won't come to George's, at least stop by the Burrow. Mum hasn't seen you in a while."

"Right," Harry said, smiling weakly. "Thanks, Ron."

Ron nodded, got into the lift and pressed the button to go down to the Atrium, closing the doors on an old chapter, hoping to Merlin that he wasn't making a mistake.

The old man's gnarled fingers creaked around the Closed (forever) sign as he hung it up on the door of the Hog's Head. Chairs and mismatched stools sat upside down on empty tables and the bar was completely devoid of anything to sell. Not that he'd ever attracted a particularly large crowd, but it had been a steady business. Something to look forward to. Something to do.

But now it was probably best to move on. There wasn't a reason to stay anymore, after all. It was if a shadow had lifted and there was so much else to do then skulk around the village.

The tap of heels signaled Rosmerta's approach. He always thought her footwear was impractical and foolish. Turquoise and glitter! Flashy, sure, but the thought of walking around in them day in and day out just seemed absurd.

"The sky looks less blue today," she commented. "I can't believe you're closing."

The old man rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't pretend as if you'll miss me. What will you do without any competition?"

"Competition? Please."

Aberforth smirked. "That's the spirit."

"Where will you go?" Rosmerta asked.

"Not sure yet. It'll come to me though. Anywhere but here, yeah?"

"I suppose."

"Yeah, well…" Aberforth hesitated, his hand feeling leaden as he reached it out to shake. "If I don't see you…"

"Right," Rosmerta said. Her hand felt cold but strong in his. "Be safe." And then she was gone.

Aberforth picked up his small bag of things, ensured that his wand was in his pocket, and turned to look into the Hog's Head one last time. On the far wall behind the bar hung a small portrait of a young girl in blue. He caught her eye and waved. When she waved back and disappeared, he shouldered his bag, turned on his heel and Apparated away.

The faint pop! echoed throughout the man's flat and he stumbled before landing clumsily on his bed. It had been a year since the last time he Apparated, but he was pleased that he'd managed all right without splinching himself or worse.

The memorial had been nice. He hardly recognized anyone anymore and he'd kept to himself, uncomfortably warm in the only set of robes he owned now. He threw them over his head and changed back into his Muggle shirt and slacks, fumbling with the buttons with shaking hands. Perhaps he ought to have stopped by the Three Broomsticks before leaving but he'd thought better of it. It was too tempting and it wasn't a good day to be sloppy and drunk and stupid.

Maybe tomorrow, he thought. Or the day after. It'll be the weekend then, and Cecilia will be home from her business trip and she could drive him home from the bar.

Once dressed, he folded the robes neatly and headed toward the cupboard where he kept his trunk with all his old school things. His name was still etched into the top, though it was more obvious now how young he'd been when he'd carved D. Creevey into the wood with a handy spell Colin had taught him. He fingered the places where the wood had actually caught fire from his getting too excited.

Finally, he opened it, surveyed its contents and allowed nostalgia to borrow a few minutes of his time before setting the robes on top of his books and his Chocolate Frog cards and what was left of his Exploding Snap game and Colin's camera. And on top of all of this he placed his wand.

It mocked him. It was always the same every year. He'd sit and look at a past he'd left far behind that only came back to haunt him one day a year and he'd tell himself that this time really was the last time. This time he'd do it.

This time was different.

Without hesitating, he reached his still-shaking hand into his trunk, grasped his wand, shut the lid and finally, after years of preparing for this moment, he whispered that familiar spell.

"Alohomora."

A surge of energy ran down his arm and the magic left him, followed by the sound of the lock on his trunk clicking. There was a sort of finality to it that encouraged him to continue, and before he could stop and talk himself out of it again, he'd taken both ends of his wand and snapped it over his knee.

Splinters littered the floor and one end of his wand dangled from the other, held together by unicorn hair, and Dennis sank to his knees, both appalled and relieved by what he'd done.

There was little time to grieve, however, as the silence in his flat was broken by his cell phone ringing, bringing him back to the life he'd so comfortably settled into. A life where his mail was delivered by an actual person, and he took the train to work a seemingly mundane job, and the screen on his cell phone flashed his girlfriend's name because it was after five o'clock and she was probably just finished her meeting. He had to answer.

"Hey," Dennis said, his phone in one hand, his broken wand hanging limply in another. "No, no, I'm all right. Just a long day is all."

He left his wand on top of his trunk and closed the cupboard door. He'd deal with it later. Eventually.

All he knew was he had to move on. He had to let go or at least lock it all away so he wouldn't have to look at it anymore.

Maybe it was better to leave it all behind.