A/N: I did not invent the people in this fic, nor do I believe they are real.
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It had been two years, three hundred and fifty two days, thirteen hours and twelve minutes. Harry knew this much because he had spent the past two years, three hundred and fifty one days, ten hours and twenty two minutes of them in the very room he was now, staring at the grandfather clock, willing it to start running backwards. He counted minutes as they turned into hours, then to days and months.
At first people had come to visit him. People whose faces he knew but whom his mind could not muster up the energy to name. The redheads had come together at first, but one by one they had stopped coming until only two remained. The man would arrive with a fake grin and talk to him for a while before awkwardly patting him on the back and turning to leave. He had not been back for two years, fifteen days, eight hours and two minutes.
The woman had come by more, at first every day, always in very pretty clothes, laughing, joking and fluffing pillows. She had brought magazines and read all the strange and wondrous accounts of his whereabouts. Then she had started coming only once a week, still in work robes with a small smile that slipped easily off her face when he did not greet her. Once a week became once a month, until she eventually couldn't stand it anymore. She yelled and screamed, clawed cried and begged, only to be met with silence, and then she left, and he did nothing. It had been one year, three months, two days and five hours since he had last seen her.
He still couldn't bring himself to move because two years, three hundred and fifty two days, thirteen hours and twelve minutes ago, he had killed a man.
The brown haired woman was the only one that came now. He thought she lived on the floor below him, but he hadn't ventured out in so long he wasn't sure if there was a floor below him anymore. She came every morning and every night. She sat patiently at his side and fed him because he would not reach for the food himself. Every morning she read him the news and every night she read from a book. When he had finished the food she brought him she would pull him from his seat and put him on the treadmill she had bought for him. She would make him run for two hours while she read to him or told him about their friends and their lives.
Tonight she was telling him about Dean. Dean had asked her out twelve days, nine hours and five minutes earlier, and she was going to go on her third date with him the following night. He knew who Dean was, he was sure of it, but his mind did not want to show him a picture of the man. He tried to picture the brown haired woman next to a man, but his mind only showed him the redhead. He tried to focus, but his mind drifted.
She kept talking for a while, dusting the shelves and making his bed as she spoke. She turned and smiled at him as she said something about flowers and in his mind he saw her as a girl, he noticed her teeth had changed, but that was a long time ago. Hermione, her name was Hermione Then he saw a black boy, very tall with an easy smile on his lips. Dean. Dean Thomas. Hermione smiled serenely at him and told him she thought she could be happy with him, with Dean. He pushed the button on the treadmill to stop it.
"I'm glad." They were two simple words. He must have used them hundreds of times, but this time they meant so much more. For the first time in two years, three hundred and fifty two days, fourteen hours and thirty five minutes he had spoken. He had responded and the brown haired woman wept. He moved toward her and carefully wrapped his arms about her and allowed her to cry into his shoulder.
Two years, three hundred and fifty three days, fifteen hours and nine minutes after Harry Potter had killed a man he answered the door and was met by Dean Thomas' customary; "Alright Harry?" And he smiled.
Now wasn't that nice?