Prologue:

The Ghost of You

---

At the end of the world
Or the last thing I see
You are
Never coming home
Could I? Should I?
And all the things that you never ever told me
And all the smiles that are ever going to haunt me …

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"Let me see her!" The black-haired man wrestled in his wife's grasp, his face drawn and somber. "I need to see her!"

"She needs to be alone," the woman replied, trying to sound calm, but her voice broke. Her own face was held in sorrow and loss. "Harry, please, give her time … "

"You don't understand," he responded, struggling free of her hold. Her eyes were pained, and Harry softened, "She … she's my best friend, Ginny. She'll be hurting more than all of us, and …" Ginny looked away, biting her lip hard, "… and she needs someone there with her. I need to go."

He turned, and Ginny sunk down in a chair, her hands clasped tightly on her lap. "You're always leaving," she said softly. "I need you, too, Harry."

"I'm sorry." He kissed his wife swiftly on the cheek, and grabbed his cloak, moving toward the door.

"I can go with you," she spoke up suddenly from the chair. Harry turned back. Her eyes were large and brimming with tears. Her voice cracked as she talked, "I'm her friend, too. We can both go …"

"Ginny …" Harry looked at her solemnly.

Ginny smiled sadly. "I'll see you in the morning, then." She looked down firmly at her feet, but couldn't stop herself from wincing when the door slammed shut.

---

She lay on the couch, an empty bottle of Firewhiskey on one side, and a small handwritten letter on the other. She didn't move as she heard the crack of Apparition, and the sound of a voice speaking to her.

"Hermione …"

The voice sounded sad. She didn't flinch as a pair of familiar arms found their way around her neck.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione."

It wasn't his fault, it wasn't his fault! Hermione stared up at the ceiling, suddenly wishing for solitude when just moments ago she would have done anything for his company.

"This is all my fault."

"It is not your fault, okay?" she snapped. She stared away as she saw the hurt on his face from her words. He was being stupid.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop being sorry!" she shouted. Her voice echoed through the lonely chambers of her home. The silence beat at her, tearing her apart and putting her on display for the world to see. Her breath hitched, and her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. "It's not your fault, okay?" She whispered.

"Okay," he responded, his own lips twitching, trying to stop himself from crying.

"Harry, he's gone," she said quietly, her large brown eyes flitting around his face, taking in every bit of his sorrow. "He's gone."

"I know." His voice was weak. She could see a tear slide down his pale face, leaving a thin, clear river. Hermione couldn't stop herself as she fell forward onto her friend, her shoulders shaking. Sobs racked from her throat, and tears fell from her eyes, drenching Harry's sweater as he held her tightly.

"He's gone!" she cried, digging her nails into Harry's shoulders. The pain would stop soon, it had to stop, it would, it had to… "He's gone, he's gone, he's gone …"

Harry held her tight, his own tears falling slowly. He didn't know what else he could say. He couldn't even comfort himself, how could he comfort someone who probably hurt even more than him?

---

A man with long, pale fingers sat in jail, reading an article from the Daily Prophet.

Ronald Weasley, friend to Harry Potter and war hero, has been killed today in his own home. It seems to be the result of a post-war rampage, brought on by the few remaining un-caught Death Eaters. The Minister of Magic has assured the public that though this casualty has indeed been tragic, it will not happen again, as the Death Eaters responsible are now behind bars.

The man holding the paper snorted. As if.

Ron Weasley has left behind a loving wife, doting parents, and numerous siblings. His presence will be sorely missed.

A small, unreadable smirk crept upon the man's face. Lifting a thin finger, he turned the page.

The funeral will be held on Tuesday of next week.

He carefully folded the paper in half and stood up, walking over towards the guard.

He handed him the paper, his fingers stretching through the gaps in the iron bars. It almost, sometimes, gave him the illusion that he was free, if only for a moment.

"I'm finished," he drawled.

The guard, who had been dozing off, started, and quickly took the paper. "Sad thing, that," he said offhandedly.

The prisoner raised an eyebrow, wondering fleetingly why the guard was trying to make small talk with a convicted Death Eater. "Indeed."

"'E was a great man, that Ron Weasley," the guard nodded solemnly toward the paper, as though giving his condolences.

I am surrounded by morons. "Oh, I'm sure," he said quietly, his voice bored and dry.

The guard didn't seem to mind. Oh, joy. "I can't believe 'e's actually gone."

The prisoner was sure he thought he saw a tear in the man's eye. Rapidly losing interest, he inspected his nails. "It is a terrible loss."

The guard shot him a look. "Eh, you wouldn't care though, would ya?"

How sharp you are. "Casualties happen every day," he said, his tone dull.

"Not any more, they don'," he replied sharply. "Wars over, ainnit?" The guard looked down at the paper again, frowning sadly. "I'm feeling sorry for his wife right now, though, aren't I?"

"Are you?" he responded, almost, almost rolling his eyes.

"Sure am. That Hermione Granger, eh? They were all best friends in Hogwarts, weren't they? Her, Harry and Ron. But – I suppose you'd know that, wouldn't ya? Ya taught 'em, that right?"

The prisoner sighed, agitated. "I did," he said quietly, through gritted teeth. A distant laugh sounded from a few cells over. "Shut up, Lestrange!" he snapped at the offending prisoner.

The guard was now looking at him what could only be described as disgust. "And, eh, then you go and betray 'em all? Despicable, I tell you, despicable."

"And here I was thinking you didn't know such a big word," responded the prisoner.

The guard glared at him. "You deserve whatever sentence is handed to ya, don't ya, Snape?" He threw the newspaper on his chair and turned away from the prisoners cell.

His long, thin fingers clasped together tightly, Snape walked back to the corner of his cell. His eyes fell on the barred window, and he saw the fleeting image of a bird flying by. His eyes closed and he let himself believe, for one moment, that he was out there, too.

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A/N: This will be a multi-chapter pairing. Please, please R&R, I am desperate for constructive criticism. I will probably experiment a few times with this chapter, depending on the feedback I receive, so I will more likely than not be deleting this, and then reposting it, until I finally get to where I'm content with this story. If you are interested in reading later chapters in futures, I suggest you put me on author alert as I will eventually be making this mulit-chapterI hope everyone liked this little tid-bit, and thank you for clicking on my story and checking it out. It's much appreciated.

The lyrics used at the beginning our from My Chemical Romance, The Ghost of You

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