Summary: Five years after the war, and the world had settled. The survivors were healing. The Wizarding world was healing from the disaster of Voldemort, and they were learning to forget.
Or most of them were. Harry was one of those few who couldn't. How could he, when the moment of his death, a death he'd turned away from, hung over his shoulder and breathed down his neck with silent words and secret promises?
Harry had learnt in those five years that the war was far from over for him. Death might have been avoided, but it would always leave its mark. The duties entailed by Harry's death, he never could have anticipated.

Rating: M

Tags: Harry Potter & Draco Malfoy; Post-Canon; Not Epilogue Compliant; Death; Attempted Suicide; Mental Illness; Depression; PTSD; Loneliness; Recovery; Mutual Support; Friendship; Platonic or Romantic, it's up to you; Hermione is a literal godsend

WARNING: this story contains strong themes and a heavy emphasis upon death, mental illness, and suicide. While Major Character Death isn't a part of this, I would really like to stress that some elements may be triggering to some people. Please read carefully if you think this might be relevant to you.

Chapter 1: Steps To Nowhere

~To himself, everyone is immortal; he may know that he is going to die, but he can never know that he is dead~
Samuel Butler

The cold press of fingers upon his cheek was all Harry needed. A feather-light flutter, a gentle caress, and he was abruptly awake.

Blinking his eyes open into the darkness, he squinted through blurriness. His room. The curtains drawn. The creases of a pillow beneath his cheek. With a fumbling hand, he reached for his glasses where they sat – always waiting – on his nightstand and pushed himself upright.

The room was bare. It had always been bare, and looked barely more lived-in after Harry had been sleeping between its walls for five years. His bed that wasn't really his was stationed in the very centre. A mostly empty dresser of worn clothes stood across the room, a single book resting atop it that hadn't been touched in weeks. The heavy drapes blotted out any morning light that might have seeped into the room, but Harry doubted there would have been much. Despite the modest autumn warmth that accompanied most mornings, Grimmauld Place seemed to be something of its own little world; it was untouched by that warmth.

The darkness was pervasive, but Harry didn't reach for his wand to cast a Lumos charm. He didn't bother, and not only because his wand no longer rested on his nightstand as his glasses did every night. It wasn't the place for his wand anymore. Instead, wiping a finger behind his lenses to scrub his eye, he drew his gaze around the room.

"Hello?"

Nothing. Silence. Harry knew someone was there if not who, but no reply was offered. Shoving his blankets aside – they were thick, thicker than autumn warranted, but comfortable nonetheless – he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"Hello?" Harry asked again, and it was only when he stood, the overlong cuffs of his slacks caught beneath his heels, that he saw her.

She was a little thing. Tiny, and couldn't be older than four or five. A tangle of dark hair hung around her face, swishing around her chin as, on hands and knees, she peered around the end of Harry's bed. Her eyes were wide. Her face was pale. She stared at Harry with wariness that denied the impossibility of her being in his room.

Harry wasn't wary. He wasn't scared, nor even disconcerted to find a little girl in his bedroom as no one should be able to enter. Call it habit, or perhaps the product of exposure, but Harry had years ago grown accustomed to unasked-for visitors appearing into his house as if Apparated.

The little girl couldn't have Apparated into Grimmauld Place, not even with accidental magic. Harry had wards to prevent just such intrusions. Too many people – fans at first, thrumming with hero-worship, and then the more concerning masses – had necessitated such measures. But Harry wasn't worried. Not for the little girl.

If anything he felt just a little… resigned.

Running a hand through his hair, Harry sighed. He lowered himself into a crouch, arms folding across his knees and his chin dropping atop them. He offered a small smile to the little girl, who only stared back at him owlishly. "Hey," he said quietly, the sound of his voice swallowed by the emptiness of the room. "What's your name?"

The girl blinked. Seemingly unconsciously, a hand rose to her lips and she sucked her thumb between her teeth. She offered no reply.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Harry said.

Still no reply.

"Can you at least tell me your name?"

And still nothing. Harry didn't mind. He wasn't even surprised. The sort of people who came to see him, those that made it into his house past the wards – many of them didn't ever utter a word. Many of them couldn't, even. That much Harry had discovered over the years. Most just came with a sore and desperate need, and that need…

"What can I do to help you?"

The little girl twitched at that. Her thumb popped silently from her lips before she shoved it into her mouth once more. She didn't seem any less wary than before, but Harry's words seemed to be a trigger. Shuffling like a three-legged dog on hand and knees, she crawled across the worn wooden floor towards him, her pale summer dress catching beneath her weight with each movement. When she paused before him, her free hand reached up and plucked at Harry's fingers where they rested across his knees.

Harry waited. He waited for the little girl to speak without truly expecting her to. When she blinked up at him expectantly, he offered her another small smile. "You want me to come with you somewhere?"

The girl nodded.

"Will you show me the way?"

The girl nodded again.

"Is it far?"

This time, the girl hesitated. Her lips pursed around her thumb, her teeth nibbling, and then she shrugged. It was an emphatic hitch of her shoulders, tucking them fully to her ears, and Harry couldn't help but smile a little wider. She was cute. A sweet little girl, if quiet, and smart for coming to him as one of the few – or perhaps the only – people who could help her. It was a shame, really. A shame that she had to come at all.

Harry wanted to ask her questions. He always did of those who came to him for help. He wanted to ask where her parents were, how long she'd been away from them, where she lived so that he might walk her home. He wanted to ask her name again, because it made her a little more real. He wanted to know what kind of desperation a five year old could possess that would have her deciding for herself to actively seek help. His help.

But Harry didn't ask. He'd learnt long ago that asking was… intrusive. That it was better not to know. Besides, if Harry didn't like to be questioned, he could hardly expect others to appreciate it. So he held his tongue as the little girl stared solemnly up at him and nodded.

"Can I get changed first?" he asked. "Then we can go. We'll go right away, I promise."

The girl nodded her understanding and, in a retreating shuffled, drew back around the safety of the bed once more. Harry could almost, almost hear the sound of her sucking her thumb as he absently dressed himself to be seen by the public. It was a challenge, sometimes; he wasn't used to going outside more than he had to. Sometimes, he had to remind himself to even wear shoes.

When he descended the stairwell, the dark, empty stairwell eternally rich with dust regardless of how proficiently Kreacher cleaned, the little girl followed him. Her steps made no sound upon the landing, her shoes silent even as they scuffed the floor, and Harry could have been alone with his own quietly thudding footsteps. He paused only briefly at the head of the narrow stairs leading down into the basement kitchen.

"Kreacher," Harry called, only slightly raising his voice. "I'm just stepping out for a little bit."

Barely a heartbeat passed before the crack of house elf Apparition sounded overloudly in the air alongside Harry. He turned his gaze down to the ancient little elf as Kreacher peered up at him through narrowed eyes, back hunched and lips pressed thinly. The little girl shrunk behind Harry, peering out from behind his legs as though she'd never seen a house elf before. For all Harry knew, she hadn't; Muggles visited him as often as witches and wizards. Those who needed his help weren't deterred by their magical abilities.

"Master is leaving?" Kreacher asked, though it seemed more in clarification than a real question.

"Just for a little bit," Harry replied.

"Where will Master be going?"

Harry glanced down at the little girl and she raised her gaze up to meet his own, her eyes as wide as ever. Kreacher hadn't even looked at the girl. He'd stared penetratingly at Harry as though he were the only person in the room. To Kreacher, that fact wasn't all that far from the truth. Despite their rocky beginning, Kreacher had grown to defer to Harry over the years as though he were his true master. Maybe it was because Harry had somehow grown on him like a wart with his constant presence in Grimmauld Place. Just as likely, it was born out of necessity; Kreacher didn't have anyone else to call 'Master'.

Harry understood that. He didn't have much of anyone to turn to either.

With that deference, however, came something akin to protectiveness. It was almost paternal in nature, and more than a little bemusing. Kreacher regarded Harry, his eyes narrowing further until they were little more than disgruntled slits as he awaited a reply. Harry shrugged. "Just out."

"Master is not to be going on another reckless pursuit?"

Harry shook his head. He didn't know what kind of help the little girl needed, but he doubted it was anything so much as reckless. "No. And I don't think I'll be gone for long."

"Master has not been eating his breakfast yet. Kreacher will be making him breakfast."

"I'll get something when I get back."

"Master has been missing dinner this past night as well."

Kreacher's grumble held more than a hint of reprimand to it, and Harry couldn't help but smile a little. Who would have thought that he would find a nanny of sorts in an objectionable house elf? "I'll get something when I get back," he assured Kreacher before dropping his hand in offering to the little girl. Almost instinctively, she reached her own free hand out to his and grasped his fingers. Her clasp was cold.

"I'll see you in a little bit, Kreacher," Harry said, skirting around him to make for the front door. Kreacher continued to grumble as he passed, and a final glance over Harry's shoulder found him still staring – at Harry, not the girl – from where Harry had left him. There was something almost like chiding concern in his gaze.

But Harry disregarded it. He had a stranger to help.

The morning was barely awakening as they stepped outside. The grey light of dawn flooded the streets, broken only by the streetlamps that fought their hardest to illuminate the semi-darkness. The puttering sound of distant traffic that rarely made it onto Grimmauld Place was an unbroken drone on the edges of Harry's hearing, and the thick, familiar smell of city air – a little pungent, a little mellow for the slight breeze – flooded his nostrils.

Not a pedestrian or morning jogger was to be seen as Harry clicked the door closed behind him. He glanced down at the little girl where she clasped his hand, shuffling between her feet on the doorstep. She regarded the street as warily as she had Harry himself. "Where to?" he asked.

She snapped her attention up to him. Her hand bobbed slightly as she sucked her thumb, but she still didn't attempt to speak. Her gaze darted towards the street, back up to Harry, and then she finally tugged his hand and led the way down the steps leading from the Black house.

Harry followed. It was his job of sorts to do so, after all – to help those who needed it, even if no one had expressly assigned it to him. But even if it wasn't his 'job', he still wanted to help the child. There were so many people – so, so many – that Harry wanted to help, needed to help, and only the barest scraping of them could he do anything about.

"Are you sure you know the way?" Harry asked as the little girl drew him unwaveringly down Grimmauld Place. She glanced up at him, nodded rapidly, and picked up her pace. That was good enough for Harry.

They turned a corner. They started down the next road, and crossed to the opposite side after she glanced with exaggerated turns of her head in both directions in a way that made Harry smile. Where were her parents that had so obviously taught her the dangers of careless crossing? He could only wonder.

A road.

A train station.

The clackety-clack of the train itself as it trundled along darkened tracks.

Down another road, this one weaving between early-morning city-goers that strode in the direction of work, or ducked into cafes to scavenge a burst of much-needed caffeine to kickstart their day. Was it a working day? Harry didn't know. He rarely kept track of such things anymore. Weekdays, weekends, public holidays and festivals – they weren't relevatnt to him anymore. He didn't need to know.

The little girl tugged him on unwaveringly. She clearly had her route determined, and for a whole hour Harry followed after her through the narrow streets of London that sparked more vibrantly to life with every passing minute. London never truly slept, but the relative quietness before the storm of mania struck was welcome. Harry had grown accustomed to silence; anything louder that a murmur was a battering assault to his senses.

But he withstood. To follow the little girl, to help her, he ducked his head, stoppered his ears as best he could, and endured it.

The battered old watch on Harry's wrist, the one he'd been given by the Weasley's for his birthday years ago, pointed to six-thirty when the little girl – silent, still sucking her thumb, still holding his hand and tugging him after her – drew him towards a foot bridge. It was small, branched off from a narrow road, and the trickle of a river it arched over barely warranted the title 'river' at all. Harry didn't know its name. He doubted that many in the city did.

The bridge was an old structure. A little rusted, barely wide enough for two people to cross abreast, it was a site all but abandoned in a city that hummed with life. Stepping off the footpath that skirted the nearest building, Harry allowed himself to be drawn down the cement slope to the bridge itself. Graffiti painted the pseudo path in faded colours that he barely glanced at.

The little girl didn't seem to notice either. Her step had picked up into a skip, and Harry had to hasten his own to keep up with her. She scampered and almost slipped, her footsteps as silent as they'd been their entire wayward journey, and her sudden burst of enthusiasm was to the degree that she even released Harry's hand to scramble ahead.

They were near. They were almost near to where Harry needed to be. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket – the autumnal air was warm, but Harry still felt chilled – he trudged after her. When she disappeared beneath the shadow of the narrow bridge, ducking her head and finally tugging her thumb from her mouth to use both hands to steady herself, Harry followed after her.

It was darker beneath. Almost as dark as Harry's room had been that morning, but he could see well enough. He hadn't brought his wand with him, had no artificial light to illuminate his way, but he could see. The little girl, her dress pale almost lambent in the darkness, had fallen to her knees on the grimy, damp concrete. She glanced Harry's way as he sidled towards her, then turned her gaze back down to the ground before her.

Harry followed the line of her sight. The moment he realised just what kind of help the little girl needed, his heart sank. Dropping onto his haunches, he bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Why did they come to him for such needs? Why did people instinctively, as though drawn by magic, come to him with the desperate askance for him to fix what couldn't be fixed? Sometimes, the requests weren't impossible to fulfil. Sometimes, Harry simply had to find someone, or speak to someone, or help retrieve a lost item – a wallet, a phone, a wad of cash stuffed into a sock draw – and they were easy enough. But other times…

Harry had been led to houses so thickly warded that even had his ward-breaking abilities been up to scratch he doubted he would have been able to break through them. He'd been dragged to a cliff side and directed through gestures more than words to retrieve what had been lost at sea days, weeks, even months before. He'd been all but begged to approach families that he had no connection to, to ask words that those seeking his help didn't – couldn't – utter. It was all impossible, and for different reasons.

But this one… this one was both impossible and heartbreakingly sad.

Cold fingers touched his forehead, brushing beneath his fringe, and Harry slowly blinked his eyes open. He met the wide stare of the little girl, abruptly right before him and with her thumb stuck into her mouth once more. She blinked at him, question and plea silently welling forth, before shuffling to the side and gesturing to the ground behind her. To the dead puppy that was far from saving.

Harry sighed. He didn't like dealing with death, though it always found him. He didn't like the finality of it, that it was so uncontrollable – or that he was a bigger part of it than he liked to admit even to himself. Seeing it so blatantly spread before him, Harry felt the reminder of his dislike settle heavily upon his shoulders.

Shuffling forwards in his crouch, he dropped a hand to the mange-ridden puppy's flank. Tufts of its fur were matted, and the poor creature looked to have had its ear all but torn off by something or other. A fight, perhaps. A battle for leavings against another stray that likely outweighed its pathetically small frame. Beneath Harry's fingers, he could clearly make out the ribs beneath taut skin. Not a huff of breath, though. Not even a hint of warmth to suggest it was newly dead.

Why the little girl had brought him to a dog that had clearly been dead for some time, Harry didn't know. Had it simply taken her that long to find him and ask for help? Or had she not understood that the dog was dead in the first place? She was young; Harry knew she likely didn't understand death and its finality, its irreversibility. He raised his chin to meet her hopeful gaze as she all but gnawed on her thumb.

"I'm sorry," Harry said in barely a murmur. His words, though quiet, still echoed slightly off the concrete walls of the alcove beneath the bridge. Sighing, Harry closed his eyes briefly once more, his fingers curling into the dead puppy's matted coat. "I don't think I can help with this."

For a long moment, silence met his words. He hadn't really expected the little girl to speak, but something in him still urged him to wait for some kind of reply. Another touch, maybe, or the barest whisper of feet shuffling on the ground.

None came. None would come either, Harry realised, for when he opened his eyes, it was to find himself alone in the alcove. Alone with a dead puppy and the little girl vanished as abruptly as she'd appeared in his room.

Harry wasn't surprised. The dead had a habit of disappearing without comment.

He still glanced around himself to be sure that she was truly gone, but he wasn't surprised she'd all but fled. They always did. When they realised he couldn't really help them, they left him to wallow in his uselessness and remorse for his inability.

Harry had learnt a lot over the years. He'd learnt that he wasn't good with people, and that interviews – with the Daily Prophet, the in-vogue magazines, and even The Quibbler – were a daunting task akin to torture. He'd learnt that he liked the quiet and to be away from loud noises, but he didn't enjoy being completely alone for too long either. Being alone too much left him open to attack from nightmares and the return of memories that hadn't dimmed in the five years since Voldemort's defeat. If anything, they'd twisted, grown stronger, battering at him more persistently and wearing away what little defences he still had.

Mostly, though, Harry had discovered that he was largely useless. He hadn't been able to become an Auror; it hadn't fit, and his inability to cast offensive curses after the war made it nigh impossible. He'd driven away his friends because he first depressed and then unwittingly disconcerted them with how he was changing – changing without meaning to, without realising it, without wanting to.

Harry had learnt that he couldn't really help people but for the few that came directly to him because he was, somehow, the only one that could help. Because they knew. Because they felt it, like the thrum of magic that plucked at Harry's nerves. Even then, sometimes Harry couldn't help some of them. Not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't.

Gaze resting on the mangy puppy, Harry felt a tightness seize his throat. His fingers stroked the pathetic little creature, regret welling within him that he hadn't known, that he hadn't been fast enough, even though the little girl had only approached him that morning.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help," he whispered, and it was as much for the puppy as the vanished little girl. He didn't know where she'd gone, but that fact hardly mattered. What mattered was that he'd failed her. What mattered was that he'd been useless. Again.

Rising to his feet, Harry ducked out from the shadow of the footbridge and clambered his way up the concrete slope towards the roadside once more. He would walk back to Grimmauld Place because he needed to. He needed the walk, but otherwise, he had no real choice. He didn't have his wand with him anyway, and even if he had...

Despite the warmth of the morning, Harry wrapped his arms around himself as he strode down the footpath. He hunched his shoulders with each passer-by he accidentally bumped into, chin ducked and gaze upon his old, ragged trainers. The weight that settled upon his shoulders was a force he'd long ago disregarded attempting to alleviate.

It was a warm morning, but Harry still felt cold. He always did these days.

The silence was equal parts comforting and oppressive when Harry stepped inside number twelve Grimmauld Place once more. It bespoke escape from the mayhem that was welling barely a street or two away, but it also breathed of loneliness.

Harry wasn't lonely, exactly. Or he'd grown to overcome loneliness, could push it aside if it niggled at him too strongly. Four years ago, he would have ached that Molly Weasley no longer came to visit and drop off more food than he could possibly eat before it grew stale. He would have mourned the amiable visits Ginny bestowed upon him despite that they were no longer dating, or when Bill would drop by with Victoire, or Andromeda with Teddy.

Years ago, Harry would have been torn between rage and grief for the fact that Ron hadn't visited in weeks. But not anymore. The feeling had dampened with familiarity.

The house groaned as Harry leant back against the closed front door. It sighed beneath the weight of its own height, a mumble of its own loneliness that it too had grown to embrace rather than resent. Harry closed his eyes as he slumped. If nothing else, he shared that much with the house. If nothing else, he had Kreacher, who wasn't truly a friend and wouldn't ever consider himself one. If nothing else, he had…

Well, they weren't always there, but he did have company upon occasion.

There was a niggle at the back of Harry's head that bespoke the presence of such company. It had been only a handful of years ago that he hadn't even understood what that feeling was, that tapping in his temple and breath of cold chill that was similar yet different to the tug of magic. Now he knew. Now he understood, and as the tapping sprung to mind, a chill prickling his nape, he pushed himself from the door and ghosted silently through the entrance hall and down the hallway to poked his head into the library.

She was there, of course. In the library was where she always sat, though she never read any of the books. Harry didn't know if she could even pick them up. Instead, she sat, staring through the grimy window that could never seem to be properly cleaned, lost in thought. Harry leant against the doorframe, resting his head against the faded wood, and smiled at her a little wearily.

"Hi, Mum."

Lily Potter turned. Her gaze – so like Harry's own as he'd been told countless times – took a moment to focus. When it did, a smile spread across her lips and she rose to her feet, crossing the room in a handful of steps.

"Sweetheart," she said in the barest whisper as she stopped before him. She raised a hand to his face, cupping his cheek in cold fingers that only he could feel, and her smile grew a touch sympathetic. "You look tired."

Harry shrugged. "I just had a visitor this morning," he said.

Lily cocked her head. She looked so young, was young, and Harry was reminded of that every time she appeared before him. She'd died younger than he was now, and though she'd been visiting him for years, she hadn't changed in that time.

Harry found he didn't mind. He didn't really care what she looked like, or how young she was. He didn't care for the same about his father, either, when he visited on less frequent occasions. They were there. They were company. Even if they were… even if they weren't really –

"Are you alright?" Lily asked, just as quietly as before. Her thumb stroked his cheek gently, soothingly.

"I couldn't help her," Harry murmured.

"Harry…"

"I shouldn't really expect to be able to. I know that some of the people I can't help at all. But this one – there was nothing I could have done from the start."

Harry's gaze dropped to his shoes, his fingers tugging at the overlong sleeves of his jacket. It was only when Lily tipped his head up – did she tip it? Or did Harry raise it himself? – that he met her eyes once more. She was of a height with him, Harry noticed, which wasn't particularly tall. He'd never known that before she'd first visited him.

"Tell me?" she asked simply, a question rather than a demand. She always asked. Always offered.

The tightened in Harry's throat seemed to tighten further, and he wasn't sure that he would even be able to talk, but he nodded. Then, whether following Lily's not-tugging pull – because there was never any real weight, any real force, behind that pull – or simply following her suggestion, he trudged after her to the pair of dusty old armchairs propped near the window.

Harry told her. He spoke to her as he often did upon her visits, telling her about the little girl and how she'd appeared in his room. About her request for help and the trip they'd taken across London. He told her about the puppy they'd found, long dead and impossible to save, and the catch in his throat grew almost painful.

"If I'd known," he murmured after he managed to swallow the tightness aside. "If the little girl had told me a few days before, then maybe I could have…"

Lily had been silent throughout Harry's retelling. She often was, though Harry knew such quietness had never been a part of her character. He'd heard enough reminiscing stories about her vibrant chattiness when there had still been people around to tell them. But she spoke up in her hushed whisper when he trailed off. "You couldn't have done anything if it was already dead."

"I know."

"You can't blame yourself for failing to do what no one can."

"Yeah, I know."

"But you still do?"

Harry caught his bottom lip between his teeth. He chewed it for a moment, gaze dropped to his hands in his lap, before nodding slowly. "I do. I always do. Surely, if I can see the people who come to visit, it must be for a reason. Right?"

Lily was silent for a long moment, and when Harry glanced towards her once more, the barest of saddened frowns touched her brow. "I don't know, sweetheart."

"I have to be able to help… right?"

"I don't know."

"Things don't just happen for no reason." Harry gnawed his lip until it started to twinge. "Surely I would have to –"

"Harry?"

Harry's words stuttered off. With a sharp glance, he turned towards the door to the library. He hadn't heard anyone enter the house, but that meant little. And if it was that kind of visitor, they wouldn't have spoken – or at least not so loudly. He glanced towards Lily briefly, and she only shrugged a shoulder.

Harry had barely risen to his feet when the soft thump of footsteps sounded down the hallway towards the library. A moment later and a familiar face poked around the doorframe. Her bushy hair raked back into a messy bun, her comfortable blouse slightly askew, and the cautiously curious and mildly welcoming expression she wore – Hermione looked almost exactly as she had when she visited every other time.

She scanned the room briefly before stepping inside. "I thought I heard your voice."

Slumping back into his armchair, Harry offered Hermione a feeble smile of greeting. It was difficult sometimes, when Hermione visited. Not because he didn't love her. Not because he didn't cherish her visits, and particularly since the Weasleys were so hesitant to do so anymore. It was just that simply…

"Who were you talking to?"

Instinctively, even though years of habit should have had him reacting otherwise, Harry glanced towards his mother. Lily wasn't looking at Hermione. She had eyes only for Harry, as she often did. Harry knew she noticed Hermione, but given that Hermione didn't spare her a glance in return, she seemed to deem her presence largely unnecessary.

Harry plucked at the cuffs of his sleeves once more as he turned back towards Hermione. He shrugged. "Just… you know."

Hermione blinked. Then that cautious curiosity grew a little wary. It was an expression Harry was familiar with, and strangely reminiscent of the puppy girl who had disappeared so abruptly. The hand she held against the doorframe plucked awkwardly at a splinter. "Oh. Um. Sorry, I –"

"It's okay," Harry said, sparing another glance for Lily. "It's just Mum."

Hermione nodded slowly. It was always the same, always an identical response as predictable as her jean-shorts and crisp blouse. "Harry," she began just as slowly. "I don't know if, ah…"

"You don't have to say anything, Hermione," Harry said.

"I know, but –"

"It's alright."

"Harry, she's not really –"

"I know." Harry closed his eyes briefly, and his arms rose to fold across his chest. It was more of an embrace than a gesture of defiance. "Yeah, I know, Hermione. I know she's not really there."

Because she wasn't. Not really – or at least not to anyone besides Harry. He knew that, just as he knew that her death twenty-two years ago hadn't been a fallacy. Just as he knew that Hermione couldn't see her because no one else could. Just as he knew that the puppy girl, and the boy with the blood-stained t-shirt that had visited three days before, and the elderly woman who walked far too sprightly for her age a week ago, hadn't been there either.

They weren't. Not to anyone else. To the world, they were dead, gone, passed – except for the shadow they left behind. That longing shadow, the shadow of need that still tethered them. They needed help, so they came to Harry. They asked, usually without words, and he tried. Sometimes he was successful. Oftentimes he failed.

But Harry didn't tell Hermione that. Not anymore. Not because she was wrong – because Lily, the puppy girl, and every other visitor, they weren't really there – but because she wouldn't understand. He didn't tell Hermione because now he did.

They were dead. Dead and desperate, and Harry was the only one who could see them, the only one who could help. It was a pity then, really, that he wasn't much help at all.

Pasting a poor attempt at a smile upon his face, Harry pushed himself up from the couch. "Can I help you with something, Hermione?"

Hermione's wary expression didn't fade. If anything, it was only shunted to the side, like a post-it note with a pin stuck in it. "I'm just coming for my weekly visit."

"Weekly? But you were here just –"

"That was a week ago, Harry," Hermione said with a sigh. She no longer reprimanded him for his lack of temporal awareness; resigned understanding was something she'd become very good at.

"Oh," was all Harry could think to say.

Hermione sighed again. Then she smiled. It was clearly as much of an effort as Harry's was. "Have you had breakfast yet?" she asked, half turning from the room. "I brought bagels."

"Oh. Thanks?"

"No problem. Come on, have breakfast with me. Have you been up to anything new lately?"

Harry followed her from the room, answering automatically as he always did. He loved Hermione, and he knew she loved him in return. Her weekly visits, even if they seemed something of a chore to her, were testament to that love. But they did grow a little wearying sometimes. Harry followed as she spoke over her shoulder, and only spared a final glance into the library over his own.

His mother smiled at him. Then, as she did, she flickered and disappeared. Gone for today. Always gone, but likely to return at some point. Harry didn't know how to help his mother, but he knew that much.

He followed Hermione and left the empty library behind them.

A/N: I hope you liked the first chapter! If you did, or you have anything to say, please leave me a review with your thoughts. I'd really appreciate it :)