A/N: Warning for character death.

Chapter Nine

The sun had risen. Harry knew, because there was light on his face. So much light, in fact, that he could barely see. Yesterday he'd taken the concealment charm off the window and folded the shutters back, needing to look at something outside, something impersonal, something…not Ron.

The mist beyond the window was clearing. It sparkled with a sudden blaze of late morning on a city's length of water molecules, melting away. Colors sprinkled the air, and the new green buds on the trees dripped flecks of silver. Every living thing out there was clamouring for the April sunshine. Rooftops glistened, and birds twittered from branch to branch, bearing bits and bobs of nesting materials.

Behind him, Molly Weasley wept. By now he knew the sound of everyone's grief. She'd been given a calming potion, and her tears were quieter, not the shrieks of denial and the bewildered, uncontrollable moaning of her son's name that had clawed the halls yesterday.

Harry's eyes watered as sunlight flamed across the window. He turned around.

Ron lay in bed, his mother huddled in a chair beside him. Ginny perched on the chair's arm, pressing her cheek to Molly's faded red hair and rubbing circles atop her mother's shaking back. Bill and George stood side by side at the foot of the bed, their jaws patchy with stubble, faces sagging and scalded by grief. Charlie had retired across the hall not long since, having Apparated from Romania to sit night-long vigil with his sobbing parents. A numb and hollow-eyed Arthur had been called downstairs to sign papers and ignore a research wizard from St. Mungo's arguments that they really ought to allow a curse-breaking team to perform a spell autopsy.

About an hour ago, Fleur had slipped tactfully away to the kitchens, murmuring something about making breakfast in case anyone was hungry. A very faint aroma of coffee drifted through the open doorway. Just before that, Remus and Tonks had withdrawn to give the Weasley family some privacy.

Hermione was in her room, drugged unconscious after the healer who'd pronounced Ron dead had insisted she be given a potion and made to lie down.

No one, Harry least of all, had expected Hermione to go to pieces. She'd progressed from a strange, breathless whimpering to increasingly desperate screams of, "No!" until finally Mr. Weasley and Bill had had to wrestle her up from the bed and guide her firmly out of the room. Adrian Hailstork had been Owled a portkey and was with her now, even though the Dreamless Sleep meant she wouldn't wake for hours.

Harry walked over and touched Ginny, then Molly. He'd been making a habit the past two weeks of submitting himself to be touched, offering comfort where he could, when he could. It wasn't penance, exactly. He'd decided, after wanking himself raw in the wee small hours of a sleepless night, that if he was going to let a greasy bugger like Severus Snape kiss him, the least he could do was make an effort on behalf of the people who truly mattered.

Half the time the touches left him so cold that he shook uncontrollably, half the time he was up for the rest of the night re-living the burning Ministry and having his nightmares invaded by ghosts.

But Harry was stubborn, and after the initial surprise his friends had started hugging him back. Ginny squeezed him and whispered embarrassing things in his ear, Hermione rested in his arms, saying nothing while gently rocking to and fro, Remus bestowed a short embrace and a shoulder-pat, Tonks slung an affectionate chokehold around his neck and almost knocked him into a wall, and George – well, George had held him rather tightly, then pulled away to look him in the eye. After the briefest blushing pause, Harry had looked back and nodded.

George hugged him frequently after that, often waiting until they were alone. Nothing was going to happen while Ron was alive, but Harry had reasoned that after kissing Snape he could go no lower, and if he didn't start defying Voldemort's curse he'd be doomed to wank to memories of Snape's tongue in his mouth, of the collar around Snape's neck, of rocking against Snape's thigh, for the rest of his life.

And that was just not on. So if George Weasley wanted him, he'd do everything in his power to want George back.

Snape had told him not to return to Spinner's End, and so far he'd taken him at his word. Nearly every day for the past three months had been spent in Ron's room, reading to him, playing with him, feeding him chocolate frogs. He'd even combed Ron's hair. Doing his best to keep touching. Doing what he had thought he couldn't do.

One day Harry had braved Muggle London and bought a CD player, letting the retailer pick out a selection of innocuous, upbeat music. He'd made a point of asking for something sprightly, not sad. "Not beautiful," he'd almost blurted.

The rhythm of the days, and the fragile innocence of Ron's company, had somehow reached him, and he was grateful for the way his heart had opened at last to embrace this changeling. It wasn't so much that the older memories of Ron had faded, as that Harry had grown used to the gangly, slack-faced, infantile fellow trapped in Ron's body, who looked like Ron but wasn't. Watching him grin at the melting colours on the walls or drop plates of food in his lap or lie a-bed sucking on the sleeve of his jumper, listening to him shriek happily and make foghorn noises, seeing him move through a world that obviously made no sense, had brought Harry closer, inch by inch, to loving this helpless stranger. He'd learned to treasure his existence for its own sake.

After so long, he'd finally forgiven him for taking Ron's place.

Gone now. Both gone. Harry lowered himself onto one corner of the bed and stared dully. The body was already stiff, and a faint bluish tinge, like milk that has separated and gone off, clouded his skin. Otherwise, he seemed at peace. The tousled Weasley hair stuck up, bright and alive against the pillow. Harry gazed at the freckled hands curled on the counterpane. The nails were all bitten down to the quick.

When he glanced up, Ginny's eyes met his, but there was no demand, no actual sense of tallying or keeping tabs in the way she looked back at him. She'd been purified of the possessive yearning and resentment, until all that was left was a mute, private pain. Her gaze seemed to come from very far away. After a moment, with a bashful twist of her shoulders that struck Harry as an unwitting imitation of Ron, she turned to whisper into her mother's ear. Molly shook her head in denial, and Ginny pressed her point at greater length, in an urgent whisper, before helping her mother unfold from her seat.

Even standing, Molly looked bent, disjointed, her hair a bird's nest, her robes rumpled and distinctly a hindrance as she hobbled toward the exit. Mother and daughter supported each other step by step from the room. At the last second Molly might have turned back if Ginny's arm hadn't guided her out.

For a brief while, Harry, Bill, and George formed a triangle of silence. The lines between them were taut with fatigue. If one of them shifted, the other two jerked upright a bit, resisting the lure of collapse. Gradually Harry realised that the brothers were suspended in a kind of waking torment, and needed someone's permission to stop playing honour guard and go seek what rest they could find.

"I'll sit up with him for a while, shall I?" he offered, and his throat nearly seized up with grief at the casual, familiar sound of those words. They were the same ones Hermione had used every night for the past month, after the healers had informed them that Ron's decline was inevitable.

George slurred, "Guess I should take you up on that, right? Maybe nip downstairs and grab myself a cuppa. If no one minds." He shuddered like a sleepwalker roused from a bad dream to face a devastating reality, and turned almost blindly, deferring to his older brother.

Bill passed a weary hand over his eyes and mouth, kneading his facial scars as if sorrow made them ache. "Just give me half an hour's lie-down," he muttered to the body on the bed. "I promise I won't be gone long."

"We'll be fine," Harry said gently. He watched the two men out the door, each of them staring back from the threshold as if to cross it would mean leaving a part of his life behind.

Harry waited another minute, wand in hand, and then spelled the door shut in silence. He'd stayed, even when it might have been more compassionate and respectful to withdraw and leave the family a little space in which to mourn, because he'd been hoping for a chance to be alone with Ron. He didn't need long; just a bit of privacy.

Since the chewed fingertips had drawn his attention, he touched those first. They were cool, wooden, all resilience fled. He didn't try to clasp the dead man's hand. Instead, he stroked the floppy blades of orange hair, the most vibrant and, well, Ronnish remnant of his friend.

Then, taking a deep breath, Harry leaned down and lifted the cold-smelling, uncooperative corpse, arranging it in his arms with extreme care, conscious of the stiff bones inside the soft, cottony pyjamas. Strange, how very clear it was that he was holding an empty vessel, and that what it had contained, from birth until yesterday evening at half past eight, had spilled out of it. Some essential weight was missing. Ron's absence from his earthly remains was mysterious but undeniable, and although it broke his heart, it contained just the slightest breath of hope. For it meant, as well, that Ron's spirit was free.

All right. Harry fumbled Ron closer, defying the masses of cold grinding like icebergs inside him. This was it, his last chance. He couldn't make up for all the times he'd been unable to touch Ron, but Harry cradled his friend now, rocked the rigid body with such delicacy that the mattress barely dipped. "Sorry, mate," he whispered, and then stopped, unsure. It sounded sillier than he'd expected, speaking aloud. Maybe it would have been as well to think about what he wanted to say, but he'd assumed it would just come pouring out, that having the feelings guaranteed he'd find the words.

"S'not fair. Life's not fucking fair, you know?" He sighed at this bit of clichéd wisdom, and suddenly what was really on his mind came tumbling out. "You're the best friend I'll ever have. I know that, mate. If you hadn't been, maybe you'd still be alive and I'd be the one dead. I'm so sorry about that, I can't even tell you. It's been awful not having you around. It's going to be so sodding lonely now."

This wasn't supposed to be about him, though. Get a grip, Potter.

Angrily, he wiped a sleeve across his eyes, disturbing the set of his glasses so that they ended in a cock-up across his nose. "We love you, mate. Me and Hermione, we'll always love you, okay? You," his voice caught, "you pillock. You're a hero, you know. Thanks for saving Ginny. I – " He had to stop again and muster up enough voice to start over with. "I wish I could have been your brother, Ron, but I can't. I can't be with her. "

He sighed and for a few seconds contented himself with simply holding his friend's body, with no fear of what his ghosts might get up to. Ron could no longer be hurt by his sins. It was such a wonderful feeling to just sit there, hugging him, aware of the ice accumulating along his veins, knowing he could go on holding Ron and that no one else would suffer. He'd been waiting for this…this liberation. He could press Ron to his curse-ridden breast and not care if the ghosts reached out to –

Harry grunted suddenly, with the pain of understanding. He freed one hand to tug his glasses off, fogged with tears that had slipped down at random. There was a constant trembling sheath of water balanced on his lower lids, and occasionally a blink would spill the excess onto his cheeks. His breath ragged, he maneuvered Ron reverently back onto the bed and watched the scattered, shining hair fall outward over the pillow. "Good night, best friend," he said hoarsely, even though it was morning and the room had swelled with a glorious, unbearable benediction of light.

He smoothed the knuckles of one hand along Ron's papery cheek, while his other hand flicked a concealment charm back over the window. The bed darkened.

Harry grimaced in disgust. No wonder Snape had given him a good, hard belt across the face. Don't care if I hurt you. I don't care. That's what Snape had meant by starting with the obvious. Well, too bad, but it was true. He couldn't help how he felt. He would have traded Snape's life for Ron's in a wand flick. After all, was there anyone who'd miss Snape the way every single person in this house would miss Ron? Not hardly. Lucky for him it wasn't Harry's choice to make.

~~#~~

The funeral was family-only, but in the wider sense, meaning that all of Grimmauld Place was gathered at the grave. Stoop-shouldered and mild, Remus stood protectively close to Harry on one side, while Hermione clung to his hand on the other. Within minutes, layers of ghosts had frozen their fingers together, and Hermione took pity on him, and on herself, pulling free with an apologetic wince. Harry's hand dove at once for his wand and held on for dear life.

Sweet-smelling with new grass, a great gust of wind ruffled the heavy robes of the mourners. Out of the sighing of the nearby trees a low, shivery hum seemed to rise. Harry looked up as Mr. Weasley filled his lungs and tried again, chanting louder this time in an unsteady voice, his face blotchy. One by one his sons joined in, and the sound grew richer, deeper, despite a detectable quaver in their voices. Then Ginny's higher pitch and Fleur's soprano entered on the octave, and Harry felt the resonant warmth beside him as Remus's baritone husked the next line, hesitant but nicely on pitch. Alongside Remus, Tonks struggled tunelessly, a wavering thread of wrong notes stitching in and out of the fabric of voices. Molly's lips moved, but Harry couldn't tell if she actually made a sound. He bowed his head, staring at the new boots he'd bought for this terrible occasion, their polished tips poking out from under his robes mere inches from the grave's edge. He didn't know the song. A gentle weight pressed his shoulder as Hermione leaned closer. They stood listening, heads bowed. Even Harry's ghosts seemed caught in the spell.

The harmony changed key, rising in volume. Slowly, caressingly, the strands of chant twined outward and Levitated Ron's shrouded body from the pallet where it had been laid. The draped figure floated toward them as if passed from hand to hand, from voice to voice, its shadow on the grass like a boat gliding on water. Steadily, but with such emotion that the very air trembled, the wizards and witches who had known Ron and loved him sang his body downward, down into the hole prepared for it, graced with flowers and a potpourri of herbs used for tranquility and untroubled sleep. Whatever magic remained in his rigid muscles would pass into the earth and rise anew each spring, shimmering through the grass.

Some of the voices had dropped out now, but still Arthur and his boys chanted, and still Ginny sang. The grave filled rapidly and grew to a raw, crumbling mound, terrible in its nakedness. Ron was down there, disappearing forever. Hermione wrung Harry's arm and his hand spasmed so tightly around his wand it was a wonder the wood didn't snap. When he would have turned to console her with his death-haunted hands, she shook her head, her touch softening, and tugged him back around.

The soft, bespelled harmony had converged into a single low note, unbroken and more reverberant than was humanly possible. With the same shared wonder and sense of loss with which they'd stood listening, the two of them watched. Small flower heads started pushing through the freshly turned soil, unfurling and bobbing in the wind like tiny flags. Within seconds, the long, low, earthen pile was quilted with springtime colors.

And then it was over, and silent, except for Molly inhaling a sob.

Once again, Harry made a heroic effort to return hug for hug, to wrap his arms around his friends and stave off the ghostly siege that swarmed his battlements and sucked at the skin of the living. Mr. Weasley attempted nothing more than a careful squeeze of his shoulder, but the shaky words, "Harry, thank you for everything," nearly undid him. Old memories boiled up, as if there were some Legilimency at work, summoning Platform Nine and Three Quarters to the forefront of his mind, along with the faintest echo of bantering, boyish voices.

Arthur shuffled back to where Percy, the prodigal son, stood propping up his mother. When the shroud had vanished under the swiftly rising layers of dirt, Molly had listed to one side as though she might faint. Harry didn't blame her. His own head felt a bit swimmy, and the bright sun and biting air were merciless.

~~#~~

After Ron died, Ginny was the first to leave.

Harry wasn't surprised. The whole household felt rootless, full of people needing to get on with their lives. Ginny would have moved out long before this if not for Ron.

Harry was surprised when Odile Lalique showed up to escort Ginny to Diagon Alley. He discovered her upstairs admiring Ginny's portrait, which was propped against a wall in all its pink-and-white glory.

Harry raised his eyebrows at ten paces and grinned at three, and was relieved when Odile grinned back. "Snaffling portraits again?" he said.

Odile placed a manicured hand on his arm. "You wouldn't believe the hours of entertainment Walburga's provided. What an unstoppable bitch, I'm sure I needn't tell you. The original Dark mother."

She drew his attention to Ginny sleeping naked on silk sheets. "Got to hand it to Horny Thorny, he's halfway decent with a paintbrush. He's got her to the life, don't you think? Just look at that skin tone."

Harry tried to tread carefully through the personal implications of that, but he couldn't help blurting: "Wait. Are you the one who told Ginny – "

"About the many and varied ways in which Horny Thorny lives up to his nickname? Could be. Might be. I'll get back to you on that." Odile cast him a measuring, sidelong glance. "You know, I never told you, Mr. Potter, how much I enjoyed this assignment. Heaps more than the previous high-security job Kingsley tossed my way. I don't suppose he mentioned that I was given the task of warding Professor Snape's house against him?"

Harry frowned at her. Odile gazed back, unblinking. Her nails flashed and glittered with stray reflections, like mirror chips. Save for the index fingers, of course; those were green. "If ever I detested a job, it was that one. Not that it lacked points of interest, mind. In fact, I'll let you in on a secret."

Was that a trace of mockery, or were Slytherins incapable of unshadowed smiles?

"I invented a very ingenious ward for that house. Based on sympathetic magic. Entirely different kind of locking system."

Harry hesitated. "I've heard of it. Haven't the faintest idea how it works, though."

Odile tapped her gold piercing. "What are they teaching children these days? Love and hate, Mr. Potter. Two of the most powerful sources of magic known to wizardkind." She smiled fondly down at Ginny's portrait.

Then she said, "Here's a clue. You know Snape's mum? That is to say, you know he had one."

Confused by this apparent non sequitur, Harry merely adjusted his glasses.

"Work with me here, Mr. Potter." Odile leaned back against the wall and crossed her ankles. "You see, Eileen Snape, Prince as was, used to grow roses. Some gnarly, tough-as-nails variety, all over thorns and manky as bones. Rumour has it she grafted the hybrid herself. Severus roses, she called them."

Harry started to interrupt, but Odile tut-tutted and raised her hand. "No need to say what you're thinking, Mr. Potter. Wretched things half the year, can't argue with that. But to see them bloom?"

She pushed away from the wall. Her smile came out of the shadows and touched him, just for an instant, before darkening again. "Like innocence incarnate. Like watching life blossom out of death, my lad. Have you ever stopped to wonder if hope has a smell? I assure you – "

Footfalls came pounding up the stairs. Ginny bounced into view, shouting, "I think that's the last box, Madame! I'm ready to go."

"Madame?" Harry glanced between them.

Odile's mouth widened in a lazy, slinky smile. "My dear," she purred to Ginny, "you light up this gloomy old pile like a torch."

Ginny shrieked, "Harry! For Merlin's sake, who said you could look at my portrait?" She flicked her wand, and a blanket came sailing out of Ron's room. It swooped down and prudishly enfolded the entire painting. They all looked at the tiny golden snitches fluttering along the borders, and Ginny's eyes grew bright.

Odile intervened with roguish frankness, "That portrait belongs to me now, Ginevra. Have no fear. Mr. Potter will never know what he's missing."

Ginny flushed to her hairline, looking deeply pleased. "But he saw me naked!"

"That does not change the fact that you are completely off-limits to anyone else. In paint or out of it. " Odile stood aside as Ginny levitated the portrait and floated it away, flashing a cheeky grin back over her shoulder. Watching her long, red hair and slim hips disappear down the stairs, Odile remarked, "Sometimes it takes a Slytherin to do the job right."

Harry snorted. "What, never try to tell me Owen's not Slytherin."

"You really ought to stop embarrassing yourself with your assumptions, Mr. Potter. Horny Thorny was a Hufflepuff," Odile said coolly. "His downfall is his obsessive need to have everyone like him."

Harry had no idea what to say to that.

Odile smirked at his silence. "Snake got your tongue?" When she sauntered to the top of the stairs and turned, Harry got a flash of how deadly serious she could be. "Think about what I've said. Go sniff the roses in Professor Snape's garden. See whether or not I know what hope smells like."

~~#~~

After Ginny moved out, George wasted no time propositioning Harry. "All for a lark," he said, and how could Harry object to that? The first time George got down on his knees and blew him Harry almost couldn't come from embarrassment, but he soon got over that. Sucking off a bloke wasn't half bad, either. Once you got used to the taste, of course.

Their affair managed to last beyond the first fifteen times George leered to a friend, "Oi, right blushing virgin I've got on my hands." Since protests only spurred George on to more merciless teasing, Harry learned to maintain a poker face.

It lasted beyond the first twenty times that something exploded next to Harry or whizzed screaming past his ears or dumped strawberry-flavoured goop all over him when he least expected it. Actually, he never expected it. Harry could have lived the rest of his life without one more blessed thing, no matter how harmless, blowing up in his vicinity.

It even lasted beyond the first thirty times he awoke to hear George analysing his sexual prowess with one of Fred's portraits. On the first occurrence, he'd pretended to sleep right through their banter. He'd just sucked cock for the second-ever time in his life, and George had relayed the news to the snickering piece of pigment that contained the spark of his twin brother. "Early days, mate, but I'd rate him a three."

"Eh, give him points for enthusiasm," Fred's voice rejoined. "Besides, that arse alone is worth a ten."

"Nine," George parried. "Still haven't met an arse to touch Oliver Woods', if you take my meaning. A pity the punter's picked up three stone since the war. Never met a chap with a more delicious backside."

There must have been eight or nine portraits of Fred scattered around George's flat, one in every room, including the loo, and all of them naked. Harry quickly came to accept that he was little better than a sex toy for the brothers to share. It was nearly impossible to escape Fred's presence, not that George ever wanted to. He and Harry never ate out, never made plans to go anywhere together, never had sex unless Fred was awake and on the wall and able to contribute salacious quips and commentary.

Harry didn't object too much. Within these limits, he was able to give and receive without fearing that the touch of his lips would freeze George's prick. For that matter, his sexual organs were rarely, if ever, possessed by ghosts; he didn't worry about George swallowing guilt and sorrow down with his spunk.

He finally asked George why one portrait wasn't enough – why the multiplicity of Freds?

"Because," George said, "I lost him once. I watched him die right in front of me. One Fred can be gone in a matter of minutes, Harry. I can't stand that idea. He's as much me as I am. The more Freds there are in the world, the happier I'll be."

So it wasn't brilliant sex or anything, but it was a welcome diversion from lying in bed having wet dreams about Snape.

It wasn't until he arrived at the Wheezes one Sunday after hours and witnessed Fred Weasley's ninth portrait in the act of creation that he finally called it off.

The shop was closed up and dark, but Harry knew his way. His feet soft on the stairs, he followed the sound of voices toward the back of the flat. Fred and George were always nattering on about every detail of their lives, which made them easy to locate. "I'm partial to a nice outdoor setting," Fred's voice was saying. "I'm shut up too much indoors. Give me a lake to sit beside and a broomstick to ride – don't even start, berk, I've heard them all. Bet I've ridden them all, too. So, how's that suit?"

"Fine by me," George said. "I could do with you having a nice tan line, mate."

Harry stopped in the doorway and studied the scene that met his eyes. If he was surprised at all, it was by the fact that, no, he wasn't really surprised at all.

George was lounging in mid-air, levitating somewhat sloppily, totally nude and with his bits bobbing up and down. Fred was on the back wall peeking over his shoulder. There was an easel set up, and the sharp smell of new paint permeated the room. The artist standing with his back to Harry had curly, rakish hair and an overdeveloped fashion sense. He looked, as Hermione had once pointed out, very much like a faun.

"Harry!" George called. "Stop mooching about in the doorway like a pickled newt and get your arse in here."

Owen turned around, paintbrush raised, and his face lit up, utterly free of embarrassment. "Harry, come in! How wonderful to see you again! Maybe you'd like to be in this painting?"

George's feet thumped the floor and he vaulted off the small platform and shouldered his way between Harry and Owen. "Oi, now, no offense, but no one gets to share Fred's portraits but me."

Unabashed, Owen indicated that no offense was taken by flicking his paintbrush. Tiny speckles of white dotted George's freckled arm and pale chest. Magpie eyes flickering once in Harry's direction, Owen reached over and made an unnecessary production out of wiping the paint off or massaging it in.

That decided Harry. He took in the trappings of the small, impromptu studio and realised that he had no desire to be window dressing in this particular scene.

"So this is how you manage to keep producing portraits of Fred, even though he's, uh – "

Harry hesitated, and Fred shouted, "Even though I'm right here!"

"How does it work?" It nagged at Harry that he wasn't angrier. For Ginny's sake, if not his own. "The magic, I mean."

George shrugged. He Summoned a bowl of cherries from across the room and started popping them one at a time into his mouth. "Couldn't rightly say, mate. But I'm the template. Also, I've got insider knowledge, you know? I can correct Owen when he paints something based too much on me and not enough on old Fred there."

Harry adjusted his glasses and felt a twinge of recognition. "Sympathetic magic."

"Right," Owen piped up. "Surprised you know about it, Harry. But our friends the twins here – well, let's just say there's a very special kind of magic between them."

"Yes," Harry said, watching George nonchalantly pull a cherry stem out of his mouth and toss the pit across the room. "I know." He couldn't help smiling.

Careless as ever, George set the bowl down on the painter's palette, looped one arm around Owen's neck, and leered frankly at Harry. "Gonna stay for afters?" he said. "Owen's got a standing invitation to stick around following a nice, long session of Fred-making. I usually need a little reminding by that point that I'm still George." He reached down and joggled his bollocks affectionately. Owen leaned against him, with a gleam in his eye that promised he'd take pleasure in painting directly onto Harry's skin.

"I'm sure it would be larks all round." Harry hesitated. "But I just popped by to tell you that I won't be – I'm going to beg off on our – for the foreseeable future. Changes in the air and all that." He smiled tightly. "New brooms."

"Sorry to hear it," George said, picking up immediately on Harry's inarticulate message. There was a brief silence. Then George sighed and pouted theatrically, rocking Owen against him. The painter seemed perfectly happy to act as a squeeze toy. "It's been fine times between us, Potter. If you ever need cheering up, you know where to find me."

"I'll still be stopping around, you berk," Harry said, walking over to kiss George on his cherry-stained lips. Owen watched as if memorising them for later inclusion in a work of art.

Harry raised his arm to Fred. "Enjoy your new broom, mate!"

"Will do," Fred called back. "And remember, Harry. You're sitting on a perfect ten!"

"Nine!" Harry heard George shout back as he went quietly down the stairs into the darkened joke shop.

Three days later he received a package that, when opened, covered him from head to toe in grape-flavoured purple gloop.

Two weeks after that, Hermione told Harry that she was leaving Grimmauld Place to move in with Adrian Hailstork.

This time Harry didn't have to think twice. He immediately threw his arms around Hermione and hugged her fiercely, daring his ghosts to have one bloody thing to say about it.

"You're not upset with me?" she said, blinking tearily into his face.

"You're barking," Harry chided, and hugged her again. "It's fantastic. Don't you think some of us deserve to be happy? Cripes, Hermione, it gives the rest of us hope."

He hadn't meant that personally, but Hermione clung to him and said, "I feel like I'm abandoning you to this horrid house and its depressing memories. Like I'm running out on you."

"You're not," Harry said. "Invite me to tea first thing, agreed?"

Once Hermione was gone, though, the ghosts grew stronger. He was cold ninety percent of the time, and they were into summer now.

The last straw was coming home to find Tonks anxiously waiting to speak with him. Harry assumed at once that she and Remus were giving notice.

He should have known better. Tonks's hair was mousy, her features drawn and tired. Harry realised it had been weeks since he'd been startled by her orange-streaked magenta hair.

Braced to be mature and supportive about the fact that all of his friends were deserting him, Harry was horrified when Tonks broke down and sobbed into her hands. He brought her tissues and tea, then waited until she blinked up at him and whispered, "It's Remus. It's the Wolfsbane. Oh, Harry, I don't know what to do!"

Neither did Harry. But he figured Snape would.