A/N - This is the first part to a multi-chaptered story I've had rattling around in my head for ages. I was planning on waiting until the whole thing was complete to publish it, but now I think that maybe the pressure of keeping up with my readers is the kick in the butt I need to beat the writer's block. I will probably have to change the rating in the next several chapters, but I will warn you when I do. Please review! there's more to come, so let me know if you're enjoying it!

Harry let the revolving staircase carry him down and out of Dumbledore's office for perhaps, he thought, the last time. They were so exhausted that the exertion of carrying themselves down to the Gryffindor common room seemed overwhelming, but the thought of their four poster beds waiting for them gave them the strength they needed to make it to the portrait hole. There they stopped, and looked a little anxiously at one another. For here they were, looking up at the portrait beyond which their beds lay warm and waiting, and they did not know the password. Harry could have laughed had he not been so tired. How funny it seemed to be standing there, worrying about passwords after the past few months. Like the rest of today, it seemed surreal, and he couldn't process it. The Fat Lady looked them up and down appraisingly.

"You're filthy," she said frankly. And it was true. Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another to see their clothes torn and spattered with dirt and blood.

"Yes, well, we've been a bit busy," Ron said. His voice was heavy and deadened, and Hermione looked at Harry helplessly. Harry knew that, like exhaustion, grief was seeping through them like icy water. He didn't know what to say to her that would be useful, so he said nothing at all. He looked back at the Fat Lady to see a faint smile on her face.

"So I've heard," she replied, and glanced at the other portraits on the wall across from hers, their occupants toasting one another with overflowing goblets, all clamoring to get a better look at the three students they heard had ended the war at last. Hermione took Ron's hand in her own, and looked up at the Fat Lady.

"We…" she began, her voice failing. "We… we're just so tired," she finished lamely, and looked pleadingly up at her, hoping that would be enough. She looked steadily back at Hermione, and Harry was bizarrely reminded of the Sphinx he had faced in the maze during his fourth year. "Do we, I mean, we've been gone, but we're just so tired," Hermione said again. "We… we don't know the password."

And all three of them looked glumly up at the Fat Lady, too tired to do anything else to argue their case. As she looked back at them, the Fat Lady thought to herself how much they had grown from the small, nervy eleven year olds she had once known. She was proud of them. She was proud of all her house. They didn't know it but she cared for them all, and every time they left her portrait, she waited like an anxious mother for them to return again, and safely. She smiled down at them.

"I think I can make an exception, just this once," she said. They sighed with relief. "I'm proud to say I think you deserve it." She swung forth to admit them into the beloved common room. It was now slightly less homey then it once had been. The fires were all out but for a few dying embers, and it had an aura of having housed a much more somber group of students then usual. But it had housed them, none the less, and protected them in all the ways that it could, just as it always had, for that's what it was there for.

They looked around without really seeing, hardly believing it was true. It was all over. There was nothing left to do now but sleep, only how could they just fall asleep after everything that had happened? Perhaps it was because they had kept sleep at bay for so long, or that it hadn't fully sunken in yet that they no longer needed to be on their guard, but sleep, despite their exhaustion, seemed impossible.

With a strangled sort of moan, Ron sunk into one of the armchairs, and buried his face in his hands. He didn't cry, but Harry could tell by the way his whole body seemed to have clenched that is was only by means of the strongest will power. Hermione rushed to him, her face white as chalk, and wrapped her arms around him. Harry could see his shoulders begin to shake with suppressed sobs as Hermione whispered words of comfort into his ear.

It was like he was watching the scene from somewhere outside himself. He did not go to them. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he was not needed this time, and even if he was, he knew there was nothing he could do. Perhaps it was hard of him, but he had no words of comfort to give, and his own guilt made him feel as though it would be somehow hypocritical of him of him to offer any. He stood there like a statue watching Hermione rock Ron back and forth as he succumbed to his grief and wept. Harry felt as though he was intruding on something private, but he couldn't make his feet move. He was terrified that if he stayed there any longer he too would crumble, but his legs seemed like lead, and much as he would have liked to, he couldn't make himself turn around and flee up the stairs behind him.

Hermione turned a tear streaked face to him. He looked back at her unblinkingly. She seemed to be trying to ask him something with her eyes, but he couldn't understand. He never felt before just how different a language they spoke. She seemed to give up after a moment and closed her eyes to stem the flow, turning her head again to Ron's. He couldn't stay. He wiled himself to move and slowly trudged up to what he realized must now be the seventh year dormitories. He was surprised to see that his bed was made. It had occurred to him on the way up the stairs that the House-Elves mightn't have bothered since he hadn't been there all year, but here it was, the velvet curtains pulled back to reveal his old familiar bed just as he had left it.

Without a second thought, Harry fell onto the bed without undressing. He couldn't have even if he wanted too, he thought, because everything he owned, with the exception of the contents of Hagrid's moleskin purse around his neck, the Elder wand and his own, was in Hermione's little beaded bag downstairs. He didn't even bother to turn back the covers. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the dark canopy above him. The sounds of celebration throughout the castle could be heard faintly, and it was comforting to listen to. He could not be a part of it, he knew, not yet. But at least he wasn't apart from it.

As if on cue, it began to rain. It was not the dark, thunderous, and foreboding rain he had been used to finding himself in over the past year, but instead it poured through the dawn as though it were cleansing the castle. Harry closed his eyes and listened to it beat against the window, willing it to lull him to sleep. He lay there for what seemed like an eternity, counting down from a thousand to stop his mind from reverting to the images of the dead. When the rain finally stopped, the sun shone brightly in the room and pierced his eyelids. He thought that he ought to close the curtains, but couldn't summon the energy to lift his arms.

He heard the creak of the door open and thought that Ron had finally come up to bed. The newcomer said nothing, nor did he move. He hoped it was not Seamus or Dean, or Neville. He didn't want to answer any questions, and he hoped that if he lay still enough they would believe he was asleep and let him be. He was surprised, then, when quite a different voice from the one he was expecting broke the silence.

"Harry?"

Harry turned to see Ginny standing in the doorway. She looked as though she had been out in the rain. Wet strands of hair clung to her face and neck, the rest hung damp down her back. Her face was ashen, and he noticed a fresh cut just below her right eye. Her eyes were red and bloodshot as though she had been crying, but she wasn't crying now, and the hand that held her wand did not shake. Perhaps it was the rain on her, but she seemed, somehow, incredibly small. He looked at her trying to make his brain realize what he was seeing, but it seemed to have frozen so that all he could do was stare. She looked steadily back at him, hardly blinking, and he could see her jaw set as though to keep it from trembling.

"Ron and Hermione are asleep on the couch," she said hollowly. Her voice was steady, but it sounded as though she had to fight through a lump in her throat to get the words out. He nodded. He seemed to have completely lost his voice. She looked around the room without moving her head, her eyes resting again on Harry.

"Can I come in?" she asked. He nodded, and scooted back to allow her room on the bed. She curled up on her side in front of him, her back pressed against his chest. He realized how cold she was in his arms, and after fidgeting with the clasp on his robe, he wrapped it around her, drawing her into it's warmth with him. He buried his nose in her hair, loving that, while everything else smelled of smoke and death, Ginny's hair still smelled of flowers. He breathed in deeply, and focused on her heartbeat.

1000, 999, 998, 997…

"I missed you," he said into her hair. He didn't know what else to say. There was so much he needed her to know, but he thought that of all the things that had happened, letting her know that it was the thought of her that kept him going was the most important. The rest could wait.

She didn't say anything, and at first he thought she had fallen asleep. Then her cold hand tightened around his own, and she snuggled in closer to him.

"I missed you too," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

996, 995, 994, 993…

Ginny turned around so that she was facing him, her big brown eyes looking squarely into his own. "I thought you'd died," she said, and her face seemed to lose even more of its color as she said it.

992, 991, 990, 989…

"So did I," he replied, looking straight back at her. They were so close he could see his own reflection in her eyes, feel her breath against his lips. He reached up to brush her hair off of her forehead, running his hand through the tangled, damp, sweet smelling strands. She brought her hand up between them and rested it on his cheek as though she were determining for herself whether he was real.

"Kiss me," she said.

Harry looked at her.

"Kiss me, Harry. I feel so hollow inside, that if something doesn't fill the space, I'll just cave in and never feel anything again. And if you don't, I'll just have to go downstairs and stick my hand in the fire, because even that would be better than what I'm feeling now."

She looked desperate, and determined, and small, and fierce, and sad, and just as tired as he was. He closed the distance between them gently, just pressing his lips to hers, remembering the feel of her, the curve of her mouth. He opened his eyes to look at her, but her eyes were closed as though she was trying with all her might to loose herself in it. He deepened the kiss, taking her face in his hands, and wiling that somehow he could breathe life back into her cheeks before they turned the color of snow and he lost her to the cold.

He couldn't tell when they broke apart. He wasn't quite sure if they had, really, their faces were barely an inch apart. He wiped away a tear that was just clinging to her lower lashes leaving a smudge of dirt where his thumb streaked across her face. He wished there was something he could say to her to make her feel better, but nothing he could think of seemed to be good enough.

"I'm sorry, Ginny," She opened her eyes, and looked directly back into his.

"So am I."

Downstairs in the common room were the sound of voices – by the sound of it, Dean, Seamus, and Neville's.

"I think they're coming up here," he said. He didn't want her to go, nor did he want to face any of them just yet, but they slept here too, and absolute privacy was too much to ask.

"Do you… do you think I could stay here?"

"Harry looked at her, half focused on her eyes, half focused on the approaching voices.

"Only," she continued, "I don't want to be alone right now."

The voices were now almost at the top of the stairs. The fact was that he didn't want to be alone now, either.

"Neither do I," he said, and he reached up and yanked the curtains of his four poster closed just seconds before the door to the dormitory opened. Harry lay back down beside her, the two of them listening to his roommates.

"Ron and Hermione look comfortable down there," said Seamus cheerfully.

"Yea, I know, only where d'you think Harry…?" came Dean's voice.

"Shh!" Neville said. "I think he must be sleeping."

"Oh, right," said Dean in a hushed voice. "He's gotta be exhausted."

He looked into Ginny's eyes as they listened, both of them holding their breaths.

"You know," Neville began, "maybe we should give him some privacy. I mean, I think I'd want some after what he's been through…"

The others murmured in agreement.

"I think there are some empty beds in the fourth year dormitory," said Seamus. "We could sleep there."

"Good idea," Neville said. "Let me just get my things."

Harry and Ginny listened to the little noise they made while digging out their various possessions from their trunks, Seamus trying to find a pair of pajamas that would be long enough for Dean. Inwardly, Harry thanked Neville. He had done more than he knew for him over the years and especially tonight. He made a mental note to tell him how much this meant to him as soon as he got the chance. He could hear the boys leaving, but the door didn't close behind them. Neville voice came quietly through the curtain as though he was standing just outside it.

"Thank you, Harry. For everything."

Ginny looked up at him, but Harry just listened. No, he thought. It is I who should be thanking you.

There was a shuffle of feet, and the dormitory door closed leaving Harry and Ginny alone again in silence. He looked down at her. There were dark circles under her eyes, and he was sure they were under his own as well.

"Do you think you can sleep?" he asked.

I think so," she said. They kicked off their shoes and he shoved them under the bed. Again he lay beside her and brushed the hair from her face. She reached up and ran her finger along his scar.

"It's over now, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he said wearily, exhaustion sweeping over him again. "Yeah, it's finally over." He leaned over to kiss her and wrapped his arms around her to hold her close, and slowly, without even noticing, sleep finally claimed them.

It was after sunset when he woke again, the last fingers of light just barely stretching out from behind the mountains. Ginny was gone. He lay there for a moment, his arm stretched out across the bed where she had lain. There was still a lingering scent of flowers on his pillow. He wondered what was going on downstairs, who had stayed at the castle to sleep, who had returned to their homes. He wondered if Ginny had slept as well as he, and hoped that she had. He wondered where they were now, Ron and Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys. With a stab of pain he wondered whether they had moved the bodies from the Great Hall or not.

As though his brain was redirecting him away from painful thoughts, he remembered something he had to do. He rolled over to look at the Elder wand sitting beside his own on the bedside cabinet. This was his last promise to Dumbledore. He wanted to do it before the day ended, and he wanted to do it alone. Getting up, he slipped on the Invisibility Cloak before drawing back the curtains on the empty dormitory. He took the wands in his hand and purposefully made his way downstairs. He could see Ron and Hermione still fast asleep on the couch, a fire someone must have lit for them burning low in the grate. No one else was around, and he figured that people were giving the place a wide berth. He had a feeling he had Neville to thank for that.

He clambered out of the portrait hole and made his way through the partially demolished castle. Scattered around were teachers and families and students repairing what damage there was that could be quickly repaired: vanishing rubble, righting fallen statues and suits of armor. As he passed the Great Hall, he saw the bodies of the dead covered with a silvery white sheet. Harry thought he saw the top of Colin's head just beneath the shimmering fabric, and quickly looked away. The wounded were sitting in a row at the Ravenclaw table and being tended to in turn by Madame Pomfrey. Fleur was there, being tended to by Bill, who's face was white and set. The rest of the Weasleys, however, were no where to be seen.

Harry stepped out into the fading light and crossed the grounds to the lake unnoticed. There, glowing softly in the twilight, was the tomb. He walked over to it, and laid his hands along the cool marble, tracing the unusual runic inscription that had been carved into it. Upon closer inspection, he realized that it was the Sign of the Deathly Hallows. He wondered how many people who'd seen this knew what it was. He pressed his forehead to the carving, and closed his eyes. He thought of Neville.

"Thank you," he whispered softly into the stone. "For everything."