Chapter 1: Meeting in the Pub

Alone at a small table for two in a secluded, dimly lit corner of the Leaky Cauldron sat a man reading the evening edition of the Daily Prophet. He wore a black, button down linen shirt with the first two buttons undone, a worn tan suede jacket and a pair of khaki pants that were frayed at the bottom.

The bartender of the pub placed his fifth glass of firewhiskey down next to him as the man folded up the paper, placed it on the table in front of him and pulled out an older newspaper clipping from an outside pocket of his jacket. Along with the clipping, another old piece of parchment fell out, but the man quickly picked it up, replaced it and turned his attention back to the clipping. The edges around the article were beginning to fade with age, but the date on the corner still clearly read 5 June 1998 and the headline stated:

"Reign of Terror Ends: Lord Voldemort Finally Vanquished"

Paying for the drink and scanning the article for what seemed like the hundredth time, he quickly found what he was looking for and halfway down the article he read:

"the destruction of Hogwarts castle. While repairs of the almost demolished school are nearing completion, families of those lost during the Battle of Hogwarts and the weeks leading up to it are finding it difficult to repair their broken hearts.

On the brighter side of things, citizens of the Magical Community once again find it impossible to hide their celebration from ignorant Muggles. This time, unlike when we first believed him to be dead, speculation into whether or not "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" is truly a thing of the past is nonexistent. Everyone who witnessed the historic final battle is in complete agreement that Lord Voldemort is never again to return. Details of the events leading up to the death of Lord Voldemort remain a mystery, however, as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived (Again), continues to refuse an audience with reporters. The only two others who could possibly shed some light on Harry Potter's quest the last few months, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, have also eluded reporters.

Meanwhile, newly appointed Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, continues to assure us that he and his administration are doubling efforts to track down and apprehend all remaining Death Eaters. If you have any information regarding the location of any of the following listed below, please notify Ministry officials at once.

Augustus Rookwood

Lucius Malfoy

Draco Malfoy

Annika Frost

Lavinia Mallory"

After he finished reading, the man folded the article up and tucked it back into his jacket pocket. Taking a long drink from his firewhiskey, he pushed a tuft of unkempt jet-black hair out of his face, revealing a scar on his forehead shaped like a bolt of lightning.

Harry Potter leaned back in his chair as he took another sip. He still looked as skinny as ever, but now his face had a gaunt, sickly look to it that his five o'clock shadow failed to hide. This combined with malnutrition, a lifetime of stress, and his drinking made him appear much older than his 22 years.

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his green eyes, which were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Grinning, he closed his eyes. He remembered how willing he had been to sit an interview with ex-reporter Rita Skeeter concerning the events when Lord Voldemort had first reappeared. Since Voldemort's death, however, he had found it oddly gratifying to refuse comments to the Daily Prophet reporters and to keep the Magical Community in the dark about what he had been through for the past six years.

Six years, he thought. Was it really that long ago?

Thinking back, it certainly was about six years since he'd first learned of Voldemort's seven Horcruxes and had set off to destroy them, not realizing at the time that he himself was one of them.

Snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of his name, Harry looked up. Without his glasses, though, all he could make out was a blurred figure standing before him. He replaced them, but still could not believe his eyes. Hermione Granger stood in front of him, smiling. She was wearing a long, elegant black cloak below which only a pair of black high heel shoes could be seen. Her brown hair wasn't nearly as bushy as it used to be and was tied up into a complicated bun with loose curls falling about her face and upon her shoulders. And Harry couldn't be sure, but he thought he could see a hint of makeup as well; she never used to wear makeup.

Harry merely sat and stared at her for a moment, taken aback at how beautiful she had become since the last time he had seen her and wishing he had made more of an effort to look presentable.

"Harry, are you okay?" she asked when he didn't say anything.

"What? Oh, yes, I'm fine," he said, quickly getting to his feet. "How are you, Hermione? It's been so long. Please, sit down."

Harry rounded the small table and pulled out the chair opposite his, noticing as he passed her an enticing scent of lavender that was undoubtedly her perfume. Hermione removed her cloak and draped it over the back of her chair before sitting down. Underneath she wore a deep red halter-top dress with a band of black lace just below the breast line, from there down it fit and complimented her figure quite well. The bottom of the dress was trimmed with the same black lace and reached down a little past her knees, showing off what, in Harry's opinion, was a spectacular pair of legs. Harry then circled back around the table to take his seat, not able to keep his eyes off her.

"It has been a long time, Harry. Over four years now since I last saw you." She looked him over, but said nothing of his disheveled appearance. "I'm glad you kept in touch. How are things going with the Defense Against the Dark Arts applications? Did you get the post?" she asked hopefully, but her expression soon changed, as did his.

"No, McGonagall turned me down again. She said she would be thrilled to have me on her teaching staff," he said with an expression of mock eagerness, "but doesn't think I have the right personality for teaching, whatever that means."

"Well, Harry, you know, you have always had somewhat of a temper." As usual, Harry knew she had a point, but he wasn't about to let her know that.

"So, where are you staying now? Here in London?"

"Yes, but on the other side of the city, near the Ministry. I walk there every morning to go to work. All the other Aurors think I'm crazy, that I'm most vulnerable traveling on foot, but I can defend myself. I have just about completed my training," she added excitedly.

"Auror training? That sounds great. Good for you, Hermione." Harry tried to sound enthusiastic for her but couldn't keep the slight bitterness out of his voice; that was the occupation he'd looked into for himself but was also unable to achieve, considering he never finished school. To him it was beginning to form a pattern, first he was denied an Auror job because he wasn't qualified enough and now he was turned down for a teaching job because he had too much of a temper at times.

Almost as if she had read his mind, Hermione said, "You know you could have become an Auror too if you had returned and finished out your seventh year with me."

"Nah, it would have been too awkward considering I killed Voldemort in the Great Hall. Not to mention I demolished half the school. I don't think they would have been very keen to let me return."

"That wasn't your fault! It's not like you asked for a war to be waged at Hogwarts."

"Voldemort was after me, Hermione, and I was at Hogwarts. Everything that happened there that night was because of me." He continued in a voice barely audible. "All the death and destruction could easily have been avoided if only I had given myself up sooner…" He trailed away, lost in thought.

They just sat there for a minute or so, Hermione trying desperately to catch his eye so that she might understand what inner turmoil he may still be under, even with Voldemort gone. But Harry kept looking around, at the floor, anywhere but at her so that he wouldn't have to see the pitying look in her eyes. He knew she had seen the firewhiskey glass and knew she had already figured out that he had somewhat of a drinking problem, but never once had he felt guilty about it. Until now.

He stood up, took hold of his half-empty glass and asked Hermione if she wanted anything to drink. She answered, "Just coffee, please," and he walked over to the bar. When he returned, instead of holding another glass of amber liquid as she had been expecting, he had two cups of hot coffee, one of which he placed in front of her as he took his seat.

Again, they sat in silence, drinking their coffee. Harry, who was never someone who could sit still for too long, placed his hand on the table in front of him and started absentmindedly drumming his fingers. Finally, no longer able to stand the quiet and being shut out of his head, Hermione reached out her own hand and gently took his. Softly and reassuringly she whispered, "Harry, talk to me."

He looked up and she then saw the despair lurking deep behind his eyes as if it had been locked there for ages. Years of pent up grief finally exploded out of him as if a dam had just been released as he dissolved into anguished tears.

Was this what he'd been waiting for? Was this really the only thing he had needed all those years to help him through? A chance to talk with Hermione? She and Ron had been there for him before, but he'd lived with Ron now for three years, why couldn't he have talked to him about it? Harry now realized it was because Ron and Hermione were two completely different people. Ron may have tried to understand, but empathy was never one of his strong points. He felt more comfortable around Hermione now and he wasn't ashamed to cry in front of her, unlike with Ron.

Hermione didn't say anything for a few minutes but moved her chair around closer to Harry and simply sat there trying her best to comfort him, though she still had no idea what was weighing on his mind. It was then that she saw the old piece of parchment; it had slipped out of his pocket and was lying on the floor by his chair. She picked it up and began reading:

Happiness is not real, it does not exist, it is only an illusion.

Battles leave cuts, but those wounds will heal

Leaving behind scars that remain constant reminders.

When a person dies, their body decays;

When a person isolates themselves from the rest of the world;

When a war is waged within ones own mind and heart,

It is an inner battle that destroys a person from the inside out.

Medicine cannot heal.

Magic will not help.

Nothing can be done.

All is lost.

She folded it back up and just sat there, bewildered. What is this all about? Why has he been isolating himself? she thought.

After a few more minutes, when Hermione thought he had calmed down enough to speak, she asked, in a slightly desperate voice, "Harry, what's wrong. I can't help you unless you tell me what it is I'm helping you with."

He tried to talk, but all that Hermione could make out were indiscernible words like "Dead," and "My fault."

"Harry, who's dead? What's your fault?" All that came to mind were Ron's parents, they had died battling the remaining Death Eaters two years earlier, but she couldn't see how he thought that was because of him.

Then a thought hit her. It seemed so obvious. Why hadn't she thought of it sooner? But it happened so long ago, she thought, and it didn't seem to affect him this much then.

"Harry," she began slowly, trying to choose her words carefully, "it's not . . . You couldn't possibly mean . . ." She broke off, understanding dawning at last.

"Fred . . . Lupin . . . Tonks . . . My fault." He gasped through renewed sobs. "All my fault. If only I had given myself up to Voldemort sooner."

"Oh. No, Harry!" She took hold of his shoulders and dragged him into a tight hug, but he did not object. The truth was finally out in the open. All that was needed now was time for all wounds to heal. Friends could do more than medicine and magic.

"All is not lost," Hermione whispered.

(end of chapter 1)