He was a ghost of a boy. I thought he was dead, and honestly, before now, the idea didn't really bother me all that much. Seeing him at my doorstep though, nothing like the proud, arrogant boy I had once known, any ill will I felt toward him melted away.

Those grey-blue eyes stared up at me weakly. He could just barely stand on his own; I could see his legs shaking under the pressure. Anger flared up briefly as I realized he was still to proud to ask for help, and I had half a mind to turn my back on him. He must have seen my anger though, and his gaze fell to the ground. A faint murmur of apology reached my ears, and the next thing I knew he was laying motionless in my arms.

Some time later I found myself sitting on the side of my own bed, stroking his platinum locks which had lost their luster over the years. At first sight I assumed he was exhausted, tortured with the Crutciatus curse most likely, and in a little pain. Crutciatus...if only...

After he fainted, I took him into my room. His robes were tattered and worn, so I went to replace them... I could count each one of his ribs, there were scars over the faint outline of the dark mark on his wrist as if he or someone else had tried to cut it away, and one of his arms was broken. I could have never imagined feeling bad for him before, but just looking at his battered form tugged at my heart.

I had become a fairly decent healer. So I mended his arm easily enough, and nourishment potions were fairly simple to make. He slept for three days straight without so much as stirring. When he finally woke it was because of a nightmare. He woke up in a cold sweat, screaming, and tears running down his cheeks.

I had never seen anyone so vulnerable...so hurt.

When I tried to comfort him those pale eyes stared fearfully at me and he shrunk away. So I backed off. I stood outside the door and peered in at him through a small crack. He shook and cried silently for a while before finally drifting back to sleep.

When he awoke again it was in a much more calm state. He wouldn't meet my eyes though. I brought him food, and he ate it without complaint; I ran him a bath, and he didn't protest as I wrapped an arm around him to help lead him to the tub. He refused to speak or look at me though, and he didn't cry at all after that one night even though I could see him fighting back tears whenever he woke up. It was like he was sad that he was alive; like he wanted to cry because he woke up each morning.

And for some reason...I cared. For some reason...I hated to see him like that even though, a mere month ago, I would've said he deserved what he got.

That didn't matter though. I shoved any emotion aside, and ignored any thoughts that questioned why I was even doing all this. After all, I could have just sent him to a hospital, right? They'd fix him up just fine, but that was if the ministry didn't haul him off to Azkaban first.

No. He stayed with me because I wanted to know what happened. I wanted to know why he was in this state. After he told me that, then I would decide what to do with him.

A month passed, and he remained my secret house guest. People came and went, I went about my business as usual, and no one was the wiser. A month in and he was just starting to look healthy again. It was a month in and he still hadn't spoken or looked at me though, and that was just fine because I didn't want him to do anything but survive right now.

A month and a half and he would occasionally whisper his thanks when I brought him food, or say "morning" to me as I pulled the curtains open.

Two months and he would look at me, but I hated it because he always looked so sad...so broken.

Three months and we could play chess. He lost that sad look, and substituted it for one of indifference and sometimes mild contentment. I would talk about myself and my life and friends, and he would listen. Occasionally he would comment or ask questions even. I would come home from work some nights and find a warm dinner waiting for me on the table. It was always delicious, but he would shrug off any compliments or thanks.

By four months we had developed a sort of friendship. He never smiled, but I could tell that he was, for the most part, happy. I would come home early and find him wandering out back in the gardens, or laying in the sun. (Not that his fair skin would ever tan.) He would always make meals for the two of us. We would talk much more often, and sometimes he would even let something about himself slip. Usually it would be some rare happy memory, which was always nice to hear. He looked so much better too. His blond tresses, which were shoulder length when I found him, now brushed a little farther down his back, and gained back its soft shine and silken feel. He wasn't as thin as a rail any more either, but instead had a bit of muscle.

Five months and I couldn't keep him hidden anymore. We went to London; to the ministry. As I had expected, they were eager to just drop him in Azkaban like the others. I had my fair share of power though. A few tugs here and there and he was given immunity on the condition that he remained under my probation for another three months, and be put under a tracking spell so they could monitor where he was at all times and any magic he used. We both agreed. It had been five months already, another three wouldn't make much difference. He hadn't cared about the tracking spell either, and was even somewhat cooperative.

I ignored the happiness I felt as his sentence; Ignored the fact that I was so pleased to have him stay with me longer. I brushed it off as if I had just come to like having wonderful meals and someone to talk to all the time. It wasn't like I had feelings of anything other then friendship toward him...

So two more months past and we were both happy. He lived with me, and did everything like before. Except now he would sometimes Floo down to London and shop or take little odd jobs to fill his time while I was at work. It was funny to see him so pleased with himself after earning a few galleons even though, between the both of us, we never really needed to work.

When three months finally passed the ministry decided he was a free man, though they would check in on him now and again. I tried to pretend it didn't hurt so much. He was a free man; which meant he could leave me, and I couldn't figure out why that hurt so badly.

That's a lie. I knew perfectly well why I hated the idea of coming home and having him be gone. I just wouldn't admit it. I'd kept him long enough and it was his right to leave.

So one evening I came home and there was no dinner, no talk of his odd jobs over a game of chess, and no quiet "good night." I fell asleep with and empty stomach, a heavy heart, and thoughts of him.

The next day went by so quick because I now dreaded going home to that empty place. So after work I went to a bar with some old friends. I had a drink, and sat around listening to them all talk. It was well into the evening when I finally apperated to my front door. I opened it and closed my eyes, trying to imagine the smell of his cooking, and seeing the chess board all set up in the next room.

When I opened my eyes that dream lingered. I could smell the spices in the air still, and the chess board was pulled out and all the pieces were set up.

I blinked once,
Twice,
Three times.

It was all still there. I could even see the plate of food sitting on the table. I could hear the running water in the kitchen, and then the faucet being turned off. I silently prayed this wasn't some cruel dream, or hallucination brought on because I had had one to many drinks.

"You're late."

He stepped out of the kitchen and stared at me, drying his hands on a small dish towel. I cried; tears blurring my vision and trailing down my face, but I couldn't help it. In an instant I had him trapped in my arms, hugging him as if he were going to vanish if I let go.

I tried to speak. Words and unfinished phrases escaped my lips as I wiped away the tears. Finally I gave up, and instead I pressed my lips against his; gently at first, and then harder, with more passion. When I pulled away he looked up at me, not in disgust or surprise, but with understanding.

"I missed you too."