In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.
--Robert Frost

Part I

He couldn't count the number of times he sat in this same white room, on this same stiff mattress, and fiddled with these same over-starched and eerily stiff blankets. He looked around the room he had seen at least a dozen times before and sighed.

The room was white—this was true— but it wasn't necessarily bright or cheerful, which he was sure was supposed to be its purpose. Instead of looking out of the window, which was enchanted to show you lush beaches or snow-capped mountains, he found that his eyes couldn't seem to stray away from the light above his bed. He watched it in vague interest as it attempted to keep itself lit. But try as it might, the faded yellow light flickered incessantly and grew dimmer each time until finally dying completely with a small click.

He sympathized with the small light and half-heartedly gave it a small tsk in empathy. After all, it wouldn't exactly be considered sane to tell a light bulb that you understood its frustrations. On top of everything going on, the last thing that he needed was for everyone to think that he had fallen off of his rocker as well.

His legs dangled off the side of the bed and his feet swung slowly in a boyish fashion. He looked at his knobby knees and shook his head. No, this wasn't quite the body he remembered from his youth anymore.

He felt his hands shaking harshly beside him and looked at the blue, spider-web veins bulging through his jaundice skin. No, he wasn't scared or nervous. He had faced many a more dangerous situations than that of sitting in a small room on an uncomfortable bed.

No, he was just old, plain and simple.

He looked to the doorway across the little room and sighed again. He had no idea how much longer he was going to have to wait this time. These hospital visits were pointless and becoming a bit mundane.

"Step on the scale, Mr. Potter"

"Why? I weigh the same as last week."

"Please, Mr. Potter, it's for our records."

"Fine, fine."

No matter the new ideas or medicines, the result was always the same. No matter what tests they ran on him, his fate would never change.

"We've got some new potions we've been working on especially for you, Mr. Potter. We really think these could help."

"So says you…"

"What was that, Mr. Potter?"

"Nothing. Let's just get on with all of this."

No matter how hard the healers tried to save the hero of the Wizarding World, it was all in vain.

Yes, Harry Potter was dying.

---

Eventually, he heard the doorknob jiggle and sat up as straight as his slightly hunched back would let him. The door opened and in walked his usual healer. Her heels clicked as she shut the door behind her and took a few steps across the dingy, linoleum floor.

She came to a stop in front of Harry but didn't look at him. Her frown was more than evident as she stared down at the charts in her hands. Finally, reluctantly, she looked at the eighty-seven year old man in front of her.

"The test results have just come back, Mr. Potter," she said cautiously.

Harry looked away from the woman and stared at the window. He already knew the results. He knew that the cancer had only gotten worse. The only reason he even still kept up with these St. Mungo's visits was to appease his family. He had come to accept the inevitable a long time ago.

The middle-aged woman peered over the top of her glasses at the old man who was clearly ignoring her and waited for a reply. When none came, she pursed her lips momentarily before continuing.

"It seems that the potions had no effect on the spreading."

This time Harry looked directly at her and nodded. He grabbed his jacket and started to scoot off of the bed, before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Please, Mr. Potter, you must stay. We have a few things left that we haven't tried. There are other potions—other forms of medicine. There are other alternatives."

Harry grabbed the woman's hands with both of his shaky ones and smiled at her. He gave her hand a small pat and shook his head again.

"No, that's alright. I think I might go back home now. I appreciate all that you have done for me, Healer Michaels."

The woman let her hand drop to her side before looking at the tiled floor and giving a small nod.

With both feet planted firmly on the floor, Harry took careful step after careful step until he reached the door. He twisted the doorknob and pulled the door open slowly until he heard Healer Michaels call out to him.

"Please, Mr. Potter," she pleaded as she wiped at her eyes. "Please, we haven't exercised every route possible. We haven't tried every alternative possible."

She took a few quick steps to stand in front of Harry once again and looked him directly in the eye.

"There are other methods, other potions and herbs, things we are researching that we think will work. They must work! I know that they will!"

Harry frowned at the woman before grabbing her shoulder. He shook his head one last time and spoke as evenly as he could.

"I want to be with my family now."

With that, Harry stepped into the hallway, walking through St. Mungo's one last time, and headed home.