Epilogue

The kiss of the salt was bittersweet on his lips. It stung, but he found himself wearing a smile as he stared into a mist choked sky where the sun peaked beyond its thick grey coat. The day was beautiful, not conventionally so, just simply for being alive.

It was a blessing, every moment where the sharpness of breath filled his lungs. He loved mornings the most, their peace, their still stirring air, and their chill touched by the magic of the night, and if he could experience one last one, he would be pleased if this would be it. He only wished she could be here with him, to witness just how wonderful life could be when together.

She wasn't, however. He kicked the gravel underfoot and watched as it skittered to the edge of the cliff. He hadn't seen her since Voldemort died.

They took her. At least, that is what he had been told by Kingsley. The Auror had taken it upon himself to head the reestablishment of the Ministry and had been in constant communication with the ICW ever since. Someone else had come in to take over from Viktor, an important man, old, with even higher authority. He wasn't sure his name, in truth he didn't care for it, all he knew was that they wanted him, desperately.

In the days following the battle, he had tried to go and find her but was stopped by the better judgement of his friends. He had been furious with them, accused them of keeping her from him, and in an act of great shame, he even destroyed the dining room of Grimmauld Place as he threatened to curse them all. It was only because he knew they were right. He came back to apologize but was told he didn't need to.

He didn't need to do anything anymore, it seemed.

A hole opened inside him, deep and black and filled with a worthlessness in this new world he found himself in. A world without Voldemort. A world without Grindelwald. A world he had no place in anymore. His purpose had vanished in a flash of golden flames, and all that was left of him was taken before it was truly his.

It was how he found himself limping up this lonely path by the sea, watching the grey, choppy waters beneath the steel sky.

He stopped for a moment to rest, as a grimace wormed over his brow. His leg ached terribly, and he knew if he shifted his eyes downwards, he'd be met with a patch of dark, rotting skin. The pain came and went like the tide, and to his current misfortune, the waters were rising high. A pulse came from across his chest as well, and a thin streak began to blossom through his sticking shirt.

Even from death, Voldemort's curses held power.

Professor McGonagall had brought Madam Pomfrey to him the evening following the battle. She had tried everything she could, and for the first time he could remember, he saw her lost as to what to do with him. He needed a hospital—a rather difficult thing to come by for a person with a price on their head. In the end, she'd taught him the spells to close a wound and keep it clean: for his leg it didn't work altogether, and for his chest, after a time, the skin would peel back open again.

Pressing his lips together tightly, he kept moving, past a bend in the path and to a simple iron gate overlooking the edge. Taking from his pocket the holly wand, he tapped it twice and watched as it swung open. Foam sprayed up from the crashing waves underneath as he settled his breath and stepped off the cliff.

Ron and Hermione would think this is brilliant, he thought while walking the invisible path which hovered over nothing but the sea.

He frowned. He hadn't told anyone he was here. All there was, was a letter, one far more difficult to pen than the other he had written. They wouldn't find it until the afternoon.

His friends were all being watched. The ICW knew they were in contact with him, which left Grimmauld Place as the only space to meet. At first, he'd been surrounded, the halls bustling as they were during the war, but with each day fewer and fewer came, leaving him alone in the quiet of its gloom. He was glad for that. The guilt was too much. He couldn't stomach throwing them into any more risk after all they had done… all they had lost.

He felt as one would while watching a sinking ship. The blow had been dealt, crushing, mortal, enough for the gushing, umbral waters of grief to flood in, but its devastation did not strike at once. It came over days, drawn out in its agonizing inevitability, one part disappearing beneath its midnight depths and then the next. Even now, he couldn't be sure if their heads still fought above the surface.

It will only get worse before it gets better. The thought would not leave his mind every time Mrs. Weasley broke into sobs and disappeared for hours. Arthur had thrown himself tirelessly into work, beating back what images would greet him if he closed his eyes through sleepless nights with Kingsley. Two sons, dead, the eldest and a twin. Charlie locked himself away in the room he'd once shared with Bill, leaving Percy to look after their Mum; Ginny went off flying from dawn to dusk; and Ron went through phases where all things vanished, and it looked like he'd been hewn from stone. And George… no one had seen a single trace of him.

It will only get worse before it gets better, he repeated again, as he approached the cavern cut into the face of the cliff. But how could it, when they were faced with the living embodiment of why their family had shrunk two sizes too small?

Tonks was left without a husband, only a son who would never know his father. She'd been saved by him, kept from the battle knowing what it would entail, but if you asked her, she would say she didn't care. She'd rather have died with him than live without his smile, which is exactly what Fardale had guarded against. She would see no one but Remus, who visited the small cottage she'd bought for her and Heath's blossoming family every night carrying only the silence of a man who'd known nothing but pain for years.

It wouldn't get better; not for the Weasley's, not for Tonks, and not for the others. Not for quite some time.

He stopped at the entrance and stared at a large slab of white stone which rested at the back of the cave where nothing had before. It was a tomb, he realized, as he stepped towards its head where the light twinkled over its marble surface as it once did from his brilliant eyes. I should've known I'd find him here, he thought with a smile as his fingers traced the name carved into its side, buried with everyone he loved…

He turned to the garden which lay untouched at his feet, the flowers still caught in a full bloom of rose. They stretched in their rows facing Dumbledore like students did before a teacher.

He bent over and gently brushed the blushing petals of each carnation. Each had a name, a love, and a story of their own, which was never to be forgotten in this hallowed place.

His heart grew heavy. There were too many, and more to be added as well. But not yet, not now, not before their bodies had touched the dirt. The funerals were still to come, one following another in a solemn march.

He wouldn't be there to bear witness.

The bench overlooked the sea, and with the mist fading in the encroaching day, the sun beat down against the chill as he sat down in its pooling warmth. He regretted he could not bury Grindelwald here, or at least someplace nearby. His body was gone, taken by the ICW to someplace never to be found again, along with the broken ends of the Elder Wand which he had carried into death.

I really am the third brother, he thought, reflecting on his dream. The wand and stone were gone, destroyed as they were intended to be, leaving the cloak as Death's final gift. A cloak of truth.

As the nerves began to crawl along his stomach, he was glad he had passed it along to Remus to take back to the Black Forest for safe keeping. If not, he might have been tempted to use it.

Remus had appeared confused at his request, but he had a feeling the man knew what he intended to do. His father's friend had offered him a place with his family at the colony, but he had refused. A similar one had been made by Molly, saying he was already family, and Hermione had asked if he'd come with her to find her parents. His answers were all the same. It wasn't his place. It wasn't where he belonged. He wouldn't run anymore.

Where do I belong? he wondered, and the answer was clear. It was why he was here, to get to her. It was the only way, no matter how improbable. The world was bleak, but there was always a light, and even if all he managed was a final fleeting glimpse of silver hair and pale blue eyes then it would all have been worth it.

He was Ignotus Peverell, who tossed away his shield and had come to face Death as an old friend. There was no prophecy guiding his fate anymore. He didn't hold it in his hands either. It was only Death who would determine if he saw out the day, and the next, and the next.

Off in the distance a series of pops crackled through the air over the gentle rush of the sea. Harry stood and palmed his wand before slipping it away and closing his eyes. He wished he could smell lavender.

AN

Okay, I lied... there's one more chapter. It will be posted tomorrow. But thank you for all the kinds words I received following the last chapter, I'm so incredibly grateful for all of you who have read my story. I genuinely can't believe we've come to the end. And yes, to those of you who asked, I do have another story in the works.