NB: Harry Potter and all related indicia are copyright to, and owned by, J. K. Rowling. This story simply represents one of my many forays into the Harry Potter playground.

PROLOGUE

"All of these lines across my face tell you the story of who I am.
So many stories of where I've been, and how I got to where I am."

~ Brandi Carlile – 'The Story'

As it neared three o'clock in the morning, Galway lay drenched with rain beneath a starless sky, and around me the merry hustle and bustle of O'Halloran's Pub had finally faded. From the corner of the room I watched the last of the patrons pushing his empty tumbler into the hands of the bartender, tipsily with a trembling grasp, and dazedly grinning at the wall opposite before stumbling out of the front doors thrown wide open to the world. Drifting in from outside was the sound of men singing, disjointed in tone and pitch, but also hearty and passionate as though it were the night of St. Patrick's Day, until it too faded into the night. I nursed in my hands my umpteenth glass of wine for the night, silently priding myself on remaining upright with such doubled vision. I could still think with big words, and that relieved me somewhat; I was getting better at this business of acting stark-raving sober. The very last draught, just little drops, coursed sweetly down my throat.

"How're you farin' there, Fallon m'lad? Had enough of the piss for tonight?"

I looked up from my empty glass to meet the eyes of the bartender looking down upon me with kindness. I peered at him, soaking in the lines that deepened at the corners of his eyes when he smiled widely, the carelessly thick moustache of ash brown above his lips, the pale dryness of his cheeks. There was something so intrinsically fatherly about him that caused my heart to stir. I felt the edges of my mouth instinctively curl upwards; he never failed to cheer me up.

"Part 'n' parcel, Daire," I mumbled. I struck one of my nails pointedly upon the glass and listened to the echo of the tinkle reaching my ears. "Another day, another dollar, another dunce, another distraction." I carefully lowered my voice until it was barely louder than a willow whisper; who knew if there might be someone listening into this conversation? "The Ministry's gone to the horse's backside and done a full circle back to ridiculous. Not a single story in today's Daily Prophet could be considered even remotely credible …"

Daire lifted the empty glass from my grasp and shook his head, returning to the bar for a moment. I watched him with bleary eyes. His handling of glassware was deft, from the way he dried with a fresh tea towel too many tumblers too quickly to count, to the way he would seem to just throw them onto perfect stacks on the shelves against the wall. I blinked, and by the time I opened my eyes he had slung the damp tea towel over his right shoulder and returned to sit opposite me in the corner of the room. A few moments of silence passed.

"Did y'want a coffee, m'lad?" Daire offered, extending his hands forward with palms upward as though he could conjure one out of thin air; he was such a subtle Squib. "Wake you up for the walk home, since y'never want to take me offer of stayin' here and savin' all the cold 'n' sniffles."

"No, no, no, you're already sittin' down," I murmured, batting a hand towards him. I shook my head firmly. "No use in gettin' up again for a while. A little bit of a chat would be good, though."

"Got a lot on ye mind, laddy? You've not opened up at all. Worries me to see y'here every night with five wines and no words."

I didn't answer with words – simply a nod. Suddenly my skin felt numb, and I felt within me the memories of the past two months coursing through my veins. I closed my eyes tightly, and the memories flooded into my mind. Such excruciating detail. I remembered the hollow greyness of his eyes, glazed over, unblinking. I could see in my mind's eye the paleness of his skin, tinged with a blue-purple hue that left a sick feeling rising in my stomach. I recalled the crowds who had converged around him, blocking my vision of him; their panic-stricken gathering had been something for which I had been grateful in that moment, as it helped to curb the tears. And I remembered seeing just the one figure, isolated, alone, in the middle of the crowd that had assembled.

A girl, this figure, quite slender. Her hair was black and still as night. Her hands were clasped at her mouth, and even from a distance I could see the tears glistening on her golden rose cheeks. For a moment she was all I could see, and in that one moment she looked up, her eyes brimming with salty sorrow, and her gaze bore into me. It lasted only for the quickest of moments, that stare, but I shared it with her. There was realisation in it, a realisation we both felt so viscerally, and a sense of knowing that plucked at the heartstrings and then abruptly silenced them by enclosing them in a fist of jarring emptiness. My body was racked with guilt, then, and a loneliness that drew my own arms around myself in a desperate seeking of comfort nobody else could give. Then I stood up, arms falling to my sides, turned on my heels, and left the benches of the stadium …

I opened my eyes. Daire's gaze met with mine, and for a moment I was reminded strongly of the memory. I flinched. His eyebrows knitted together, into the look of concern that I had become to used to seeing from the other side of the bar so many evenings past. I recovered quickly, and waved away his concern with my hand again.

"I've plenty of words, Daire, believe me," I sighed, folding my arms across the cardigan that had soaked up more than few simple drops of wine this evening. I was glad that we were the only two people left in the pub. "I've always plenty of words. I've also plenty of memories. Memories I don't think an eighteen-year-old should have. And feelings I don't think an eighteen-year-old should have, either. I should be happy to have finished my years at Hogwarts. Anyone else in my shoes would be … wouldn't they? But instead, I'm just sitting here, drinking more wine than my weight can bear, and not looking forward to next year."

"My, we're a rambler," Daire chuckled. "I think a cuppa tea would be best. A cup o' coffee and we'd be havin' y'bouncin' five different ways all over the room."

I nodded mutely; I knew better than to refuse. I had first stepped foot in O'Halloran's as a boy of barely seventeen years, politely sipping Coca-Cola while my older friends chugged down pints of Guinness. More recently, I had been frequenting O'Halloran's for some weeks now, since I had returned to Galway from my final year at Hogwarts. Never had this city made me feel lonelier. Emptier. I remembered back to a year ago, when I had been ripe and ready for my final year at the castle beloved for so many. Galway had seemed warmer back then, the corners of street blocks brighter, the people more cheerful. But now, not even the merriment in the voices of passers-by was quite the same anymore. Daire had been a small but thriving candle for me in the darkness. In the feelings of confusion and loss, he was here at the pub every evening – perhaps the first constant thing in my life since … since …

I snapped clear from my thoughts to find Daire behind the bar again, steam rising from a silver machine beside the cash register. Soon the scent of hot peppermint and chamomile tea filled the air, and I sighed with a small smile. How was it that this middle-aged bartender recognised all the nuances, caring even about the little things, paying such careful attention to even the subtlest of details? He was so fatherly that I felt currents of both tenderness and envy echoing in my heart. He carried two large cups over from the bar, each on a saucer that did not match it; it seemed that a mismatched theme was what O'Halloran's was all about. It endeared itself to me.

"Thank you, Daire," I whispered, accepting the cup of tea with a gratitude that suddenly overcame me. I trembled, feeling a tear at the corner of my eye. "You always seem to know how to make me feel better. Tea does help."

Daire smiled softly and lowered himself back down onto the chair opposite me. We were sitting at the smallest table in the entire pub. The closeness of our seating relaxed me, fuelled by his good-natured aura. He took a sip from his cup right away, wincing at the hotness of the tea.

"Best to let it breathe for a bit?" I chuckled, feeling more sober with each minute that passed. Daire nodded with a tired grin. "You look tired, my friend."

"You look tired, m'lad," he shot back, his voice genuinely light-hearted and well-meaning. "I know I may look tired, but believe y'me, I could stay up past the sunrise and talk. I only hope y'don't fall asleep on me!"

"Hey, don't be an arse!" I punched his forearm lightly for the quip, grinning. A deep breath filled my chest, and then slowly left it. "Alrighty. I s'pose I'll talk. But where do you want me to start?"

Daire gazed at me again, thoughtfully this time. His stare was comforting, warming to the heart and to the soul. I was almost for a moment reminded of my late mother, whose eyes would show that same warmth and care. It felt as though he had started to read me, like a book with pages spread open and words clear and sharp to the reader's sight. There was no pity in his face, not in any corner of it, and for that I was thankful. I could see concern, laced in his brow, and I wondered where he wanted me to start.

"Start for me with where everything started for you, Fallon m'boy. Start at beginning in your heart."

I inhaled sharply, knowing in my mind the precise moment he had asked me to remember. I took a sip of the tea, relishing the warmth that reached from my heart out to my fingers and toes. I did not know how he brewed the tea, but it warmed me from the inside out, and then from the outside in. Suddenly, there was stillness. There was calm. And as the grandfather clock by the bar chimed three o'clock in the morning, I looked into Daire's warm chestnut eyes, nursed the cup in my hands, and used the words from my heart …