Years after the war, after marriages, children, divorces, books, he came to London with his wife. He flooed her. She recognized him at once from the voice. He said, I just wanted to hear your voice. She said, it's me, hello. He was nervous, afraid, as before. His voice suddenly trembled. And with the trembling, suddenly, she heard again the voice of Bulgaria. He knew she'd begun writing books, he'd heard it through her former sister-in-law, Fleur Weasley, whom he'd met again at Hogwarts. And about Harry Potter, and he'd been grieved for her. Then he didn't know what to say. And then he told her. Told her that it was as before, that he still loved her, he could never stop loving her, and that he'd love her until death.
Five years later, after the passing of his wife, he yet again ventured to London. They met at a small café in Diagon Alley. Her greying hair in a lose bun, wrinkles round her eyes crinkled. Then she looked up and he saw him coming towards her where she sat. As their eyes met she blinked perhaps a bit rapidly as to stop tears that threatened to start running down her cheeks, but her gaze didn't waver. The shaking of her hand when reaching for her cup of coffee told him that he was not the only one who felt the same way they did on that cold, dark winter evening the Yule Ball had taken place. Despite that the years had hardened her expression and softened her features he could still see the young, principled, naïve and bright girl he once asked, with halting words, due to nervousness and poor English, to be his date. The young witch who had not, to his astonishment and relief, been impressed with his fame.
His gait was more ungainly now than when they first met. The numerous Quidditch injuries and the years had not been kind to him. He walked stiffly but he offered her his arm and he was as strong as she remembered him to be all those long years ago when he twirled her on the dance floor and lifted her like she was no heavier than a feather.
There was a sense of restrained urgency. In their old age they didn't want to waste more time than they already had. And wasted they had. Not that they hadn't loved their spouses and deeply so, but still. The memories of what had been and the thoughts of what could've been had at times weighed heavy on both their minds.
They took their time, reacquainting with what should've been well known landscape with since long trodden paths. Age has its advantages, as Dumbledore once had said. No pleasure hindered by shyness and insecurity. They knew what they wanted and weren't afraid of taking it. Her scars from the war had paled to white and he kissed them all. He kissed away the still lasting pain of what had been, of those who were no more, of those who never had made it through the terror.
After the war she had visited Auschwitz, as muggle-born she already knew about the muggle-side of the Second World War, but she had to see it for herself. To remind herself that all humans, magic and muggles alike were capable of great evil. She had devoted her career to legislate against discrimination and cruel treatment of beings by the majority considered lesser, against the cooperation with dark creatures.
Her books told the story of her life, her struggles, the war, what could be achieved when you persevere, reminding the wizarding world that the silence of good witches and wizards is to be as feared as evil itself. As one of few original members of Dumbledore's Army still left her work was all more important the older she got. Soon, too soon, no one would be left to remember it.
He started courting her. Bringing her flowers, taking her out to eat or to a walk in the park nearby her apartment. Sometimes surprising her with small and unexpected gifts, never forgetting to also bring something for her cat, a great-great-great-great-great-great grandchild of Crookshanks'. They cherished this second spring in the autumn of their lives. They shared her bed sometimes at night, sometimes not. Set in their own ways as they were, change was hard. Pleasure was not, however, only for the young and untroubled. All the while she was working, writing, afraid that the next generation would be victim to the same terror as she lived through in her youth.
They visited their old friends. Neville, still working as Headmaster of Hogwarts, a widow now, his once blonde hair since long paled to white. He had been all that Dumbledore was not, which had meant Hogwarts being a safe haven for his pupils. No psychological traumas inflicted by tormenting Professors were tolerated under his reign. She met with him as often as they both had time, with Ginny and George, they raised their glasses of Firewhiskey to their, numerous, absent friends, talking of what once were and what would be when they were gone from this world. Not without a hint of longing, not to die but to be reunited, in their voices. Many of those who survived suffered later in life. The horrors of the war aging them faster than what was expected in witches and wizards. They had had a hard time connecting with the younger generation, to an extent even with their own children. What they've been forced to live through sometimes acted like a wall between them and those who had the fortune of being born in happier days. Not that the younger generation was ignorant or uninterested of the War but their nights were not filled faces of those who they had lost and the terrors of Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
He took her to the seaside in the summer, watching young couples kissing, and families with laughing children learning how to swim. In the evening he took her dancing and when the band started playing song they remembered all too well, a feeling of hope and sadness filled them. Or was it simply nostalgia? Bittersweet as it was, it was at the same time as if they were young again – dancing in the Great Hall – with not a worry in the world.
That fall she started to fade. Little by little she got weaker. At first almost unnoticeable, she tried so to hide it. But he noticed, she had never been able to hide anything from her, and so did her friends. They'd known each other for too long, and been through too many hard times not to. They didn't say anything about it though, for what was the point? Her story was coming to a close.
Then, one evening at the end of October she passed on, holding his hand as she went. The tall windows of her bedchamber were open, as she preferred so that she could hear the wind and feel the starlight, her cat sleeping at the foot of her bed. A rush of wind causing the curtains to flutter in and waking the cat, she whispered his name, and was gone.
Her funeral was a stately affair, and not as she would've preferred, a private ceremony with her children and grandchildren and those who had known her when she was young. But they knew what was due when a hero of the war passed on. They had been to more funerals than they would've wished to remember to be ignorant of the rituals and the expectations of the wizarding world. With her passing the Golden Trio had left this world all together.
The following years he aged noticeably, his strength, physically as well as mentally leaving him bit by bit until he had a hard time getting around by himself. Company he had, often one of his great grandchildren who were curios of his stories of the war and how he had flown during the World Cup in his youth but they had not quite the patience for his slow speech and thoughtful pauses. It was a warm summer evening as the Sun was setting behind the mountains leaving the Black Sea dark until the next Sunrise and he was sitting in his favourite chair with her yellow cat sleeping in his lap, he saw her. Her hair was sleek and shiny and twisted up in an elegant knot at the back of her head. She was wearing robes made of a floaty, periwinkle-blue material. She was also smiling –rather nervously, it was true, but she was smiling.