Another Goodbye

by Viscountess Babbles-On

The light is slowly and inexorably losing ground to the dark, and Harry knows they are fighting a losing war. Whose turn is it to say goodbye?

AN: This is my first angst. Flame if you feel like it, but please take the time to tell my WHY exactly you don't like it, so I can do better next time.

Disclaimer: I dis any claim to these gorgeous characters, or this wonderful song. They are not mine, but not for want wishing they were.

Title: Another Goodbye.

Summary: The light is slowly and inexorably losing ground to the dark, and Harry knows they are fighting a losing war. Whose turn is it to say goodbye?

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Angst

What do you say

When words are not enough.

Too few won't sum it up

Too many's just too much



I've read all the signs

But still don't know the way

I could try and lead you there

But I'd just lead you astray



Ask me no questions

And I'll tell you no lies

If you wanna be with me

'Cause the truth would set you free



Don't look too closely

Or you'll see my disguise

I saw the love between us die

But I'm not ready for goodbye



Don't ask for more

'Cause what you're searching for

You won't find at my door

Don't ask for more

My heart already knows

But my head won't let you go



Please try and understand

This is all I am

I keep holding on

But half of me is gone



The pieces of my heart

Are lying on the floor

Its been broken up before

It can't be broken any more



Ask me no questions

And I'll tell you no lies

If you wanna be with me

'Cause the truth would set you free



Don't look too closely

Or you'll see my disguise

I don't want to live a lie

But I can not say another goodbye



Don't ask for more

'Cause what you're looking for

You won't find at my door

Don't ask for more

My heart already knows

But my head won't let you go



(oooh. another goodbye)

(oooh. another goodbye)



Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies

If you wanna be with me - 'cause the truth would set you free



Don't look to closely

Or you'll see my disguise

I don't wanna live a lie

But I can not say another goodbye



Don't ask for more

'Cause what you're searching for - you won't find at my door

My heart already knows

But my head won't let you go

My heart already knows

But my head won't let you go



(oooh. another goodbye)

(oooh. another goodbye)



Another goodbye

'Don't ask for more' - Abby Dobson



It was the dark of the moon.

Beyond the dormitory window, the snow-covered grounds glittered faintly in the weak starlight. Occasionally, a patch of darkness would flicker as the Aurors made their rounds. The odd light glinted in the depths of the Forbidden Forest and howls would ring out as dark creatures hunted the source.

A solitary figure broke away from the tree line and trudged towards the castle, his progress marked by the glow of his wand. Halfway up the empty expanse, he stumbled to a halt and his shoulders sagged as though the weight of the world bore them down. Below the window, a square of light cut the darkness as a door was opened and a slight silhouette dashed down the slope, heedless of the cries behind her.

She stopped short of the slumped man, her face lit in the glow of his wand. Her mouth moved. Slowly, the man looked up and shook his head. The women took an involuntary step forward and urgently asked another question. This time the man nodded, and his shoulders slumped further. For a moment, the tableau was frozen. Then the women sank to her knees, unmindful of the freezing slush, and the deep silence pervading the castle was shattered by a heart-wrenching scream of denial.

Above the grieving pair, in the dormitory window, Harry Potter turned away from the all too familiar scene. Soon, he knew, would come the Knock at the door. Soon they would bring him the news of Voldemort's latest victory. He remembered the first time that ominous tattoo had been beaten on his door..



~ Flashback ~

Deep night. The window open to the paltry breeze drifting fitfully from the south. Five beds, the curtains drawn well back to allow the slightly cooler air to caress fevered skin. Four beds hold still figures, lost in the sweet realm of Morpheus. But in the fifth, standing between the window and the door, a figure thrashes, moaning softly.

In an instant, the body is rigid and the mouth gapes open in a silent scream. The next, the bed's occupant is sitting upright, clutching at his forehead. Responding to some unheard signal, the boy pushes back his covers and leaves the relative comfort of his bed.

His hand is already on the latch when an urgent tattoo is beat on the door. The boy flinches, and takes a quick step back as the door swings inwards. A battered and bedraggled man stumbles over the threshold and collapses against the doorjamb.

The other occupants of the dorm are sitting up in their beds now, awoken by the disturbance. Three stare, uncomprehending, at the intruder, as the fourth slips from his bed to stand by the first boy.

'Snuffles?'

The man ignores him, staring instead at his friend.

'Harry. The Dursleys. They're gone. Killed,' the haggard figure shudders at some appalling memory, 'it was.'

'Voldemort,' breathes the first boy and turns away. He hadn't loved them, but they were still his family. All the beds are empty now as the boy's friends and the message bearer close in on him, offering what comfort they can by their simple presence.

'Harry?' The boy shakes his head and stares out the window. Only the man standing directly behind him, one hand hovering above his shoulder, hears the almost inaudible whisper as it is carried southwards by the receding breeze. 'Goodbye.'

~ End Flashback ~



So many times had the Knock come in the six seasons since that night, Harry had long ago lost count. He had long ago *stopped* counting, realising he didn't want to know. It had been killing him to know the name of every person lost at the hands of the Dark side.

And yet, they kept coming to him, kept forcing him to acknowledge each mortality; each messenger so wrapped up in his or her idea of the great Boy Who Lived that none had realised what was happening in the eyes of their reluctant hero. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had begun to detach himself. Each time word was brought to him of another death, another victory to the Dark side, Harry had felt his heart break a little more.

And still the grieving relatives and friends looked to him for solace. He would speak the words - he always did - but he didn't know what to say any more. What was there left that he hadn't said a dozen, a hundred, a thousand times before?

He was losing the way and himself along with it. He could pin point the very moment in time things had started to slip beyond his grasp: the first time he had released a friend to the eternal rest.



~ Flashback ~

Early morning light slants through the cold dry air of the chapel, to be swallowed by the muffling swathes of black fabric. A stray beam falls on the small gathering beneath the holy symbols over the altar. Upon the lifeless stone of the altar lies an equally lifeless figure decked out in his best robes. An old witch dressed in mourning robes clutches tightly at a red handbag and sobs piteously.

A young woman, barely out of adolescence, her wild brown hair tamed strictly back in recognition of the sombre occasion, helps the old woman to a pew and settles beside her. Her young face is tight and drawn, the tracks of recent tears visible on her cheeks. Slowly, the group about the altar moves to the pews, leaving only one young man standing.

He is leaning over the altar, his black hair flopping over his glasses, refusing to be tamed for any occasion, even one so grave as this. His fists beside the body on the unfeeling stone before him are white, and a tear splashes on a cold white hand laying on a still chest.

The golden sunbeam, incongruous with the solemn atmosphere of the chapel, dances now on a pale round face, too young to be so still in the embrace of death.

Tears start to fall anew as the young man by the altar looks up and begins the eulogy.

'A more honest and loyal friend than Neville Francis Longbottom would be hard to find if you searched for a thousand years.'

A trembling hand lifts to a pale cheek, brushing at the briny tears coursing from emerald eyes.

'He was the epitome of the Gryffindor: brave, loyal and true. He lived a Gryffindor and he died a Gryffindor, giving his life so another could live. He never did believe in himself, but I did, and I was proud to call him my friend.'

The hand lifts again, but never makes it to the cheek. It hovers a moment, then is clenched in a fist and pounded on the altar.

'I don't understand why he had to die. I only know that he never flinched when he went to face his death.' The last words are whispers, but they still echo loudly in the mourning silence, 'His parents would have been proud.'

He steps back from the altar and draws his wand from within his robes. Hesitantly, not willing to say the final farewell, he reaches out and taps the altar. Lines of golden fire spread outwards from the wand, flashing across the body, consuming it in its liberating flames.

Cries of anguish spill into the air from the mouths of the mourners in the pews, but the young man behind the altar can't see them, and they can't see him. The tears on his face are rapidly drying now, though whether this is because of the flames of the cremation, or because he is done with crying, it is impossible to tell.

The next words from his mouth are lost in the crackling of the flames, heard only by himself: 'Goodbye sweet Gryffindor, and may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.'

~ End Flashback ~



Harry sank to his trunk and dropped his head into his hands as his mind flashed from one memory into another.



~ Flashback ~

A hidden room in the castle, no windows to hint of the outside world. A tense group of men and women pour over a map in the centre of the room. In one corner, beyond the circle of torchlight, a young man sits, staring blankly at a wall. His green eyes are shuttered and he still wears robes of mourning black.

In the opposite corner, a man steps from the air and hastens to group about the map. His arrival, and the information he brings, has been awaited and a flurry of activity ensues. Weary green eyes blink back into focus and the young man pushes himself from his chair and goes to stand on the edge of the group, listening to their words.

' - ten dozen hags amassing south of Bath -'

' - the vampires are stirring in Wiltshire -'

' - you don't think he's going for -'

' - isn't Stone Henge in -'

' - ghouls and trolls moving north out of Cornwall -'

' - the kelpies have been swarming south all week -'

A sudden hush falls across the room and every eye turns to the young man hovering at the edge of the group. One man, a waterfall of silver hair and beard falling about him, steps forward.

'Harry? Would Voldemort be after Stone Henge?'

The young man, hardly more than a boy, shivers at the faith inherent in the question. He steps through the group and stands looking down at the map. Markers and arrows dot the surface, all centring about a location in Wiltshire, north of Salisbury: the Stone Henge.

He looks up into the grave visages of his elders; all witches and wizards well versed in the ways of the Dark forces, all willing to take his advice. He gazes down at the map again.

'I guess he could be. I mean, it's a great source of power, isn't it?' He pauses and his gaze turns inwards, searching his instincts. Finally, his eyes snap back to the people about him. He nods firmly, 'I believe he is going for Stone Henge.'

The members of the war council reel away, shouting orders, sending messages and summoning subordinates. The young man stands by the map, questioning his decision. A hand falls on his shoulder and he looks up at his headmaster.

'It is a call that any of us would have made, young Harry.' The memory of a twinkle lights the old man's eyes; 'It gives them all hope that the call came from you.'

The young man nods and returns to his corner. Time passes and the faces in the room change, but still he sits in his corner, waiting. An unmeasured time later, a woman decked out in full Auror's robes steps into the room and the young man rises from his chair. This is what he had been waiting for.

The old man speaks briefly to the Auror. Her face is grim as she turns away. The young man steps forward and acknowledges her precise salute. His mouth is dry as he speaks the formula words.

'You have your mission?'

'Yes, Commander Potter,' comes the ritual reply. He nods, somewhat sadly.

'Then you know what you must do.' He salutes the Auror, 'Goodbye and gods' speed to you and your squad.'

~ End Flashback ~



Harry gasped and clenched his fists in his hair. He had been wrong. The move on Stone Henge had been a decoy and Voldemort had won precious ground against the forces of light that day. The squad he had sent out had been ambushed on their return and decimated.

His self-confidence had started to break that day. He had been able feel it all slipping from his hands, and he had been utterly helpless to stop it. But he was the Boy Who Lived and he had a psychic link to the mind of Voldemort. This led the leaders of the Light to believe he had the answers they required and they kept on returning to him for his advice. Even when his words led them astray, they still trusted him to tell them the best course of action.

Eventually, he had stopped talking. He refused to answer them when they asked him a question. He knew, with his lost faith in himself, that every word he spoke would be a lie, wether he willed it or not. It had been so long since he had spoken a true word that he barely remembered how it felt.

Harry dragged his hands down his face and clasped them under his chin, his knuckles white. His gaze lingered about the room. How it had changed in two short years. The walls were no longer plastered with the idols of five teenage boys and dust settled heavily on the furniture, the house elves being required at more urgent tasks then simple cleaning. Gone was the feeling of light and happiness that had characterised Harry's first years in the dorm, replaced now by a sombre seriousness imposed by the war.

But the most telling difference.. Of the five beds that had once stood about the dorm, only two remained: his and that of Seamus Finnegan. Seamus slept now; fitful in his bed pushed close against Harry's own. The emerald gaze lingered briefly on his sole remaining roommate, before he allowed it to drift onwards to where Dean Thomas's bed had once stood.

It was dismantled and in storage now that Dean had left the school. Dean had withdrawn completely from the magical world, submerging himself in the life of his muggle parents, escaping below Voldemort's radar. Harry imagined him even now, sleeping peacefully, dreaming of the muggle school he had no doubt been enrolled in.

The pained gaze drifted further. The next missing bed had belonged to Neville. Neville was. dead. Harry shied quickly from those memories; he had no desire to relive them twice in one night. But now his attention turned to the last empty space. The bed that had stood here had been the first to go. It was also the only one Harry did not regret the absence of.

So. This was what had become of the Gryffindor seventh-years. Harry was losing himself and Seamus had sunk into depression. Neville had died bravely, but he was dead and gone just the same. Dean had dropped out into the muggle world and Ron..



~ Flashback ~

A tranquil afternoon, early autumn. The leaves on the trees in the Forbidden Forest are just starting to turn. Several light clouds float across the cerulean sky, offering entertainment to students relaxing in the grounds. No sign to show of the escalating war in the world beyond.

The peace of the day belies the tension in the dorm room above. A nervous young man huddles against his headboard, eager to avoid notice by his two roommates. He reaches out and twitches his curtain slightly closed as the shouting starts again.

'You can't be serious Ron!' the raven-haired boy tries to catch his best friend's arm, but is shaken off.

'Oh, I am. Don't you worry about that.' The redhead spits as he rips open the night-table draw and dumps its contents into his open trunk.

Again, his friend tries to touch him, 'But why Ron? Why would you want to do this?'

The furious young man stills, his hands white in a death grip on his trunk. His shoulders start to shake, and the black-haired boy realises he is laughing; a dark, hollow laugh. Suddenly, he spins and looms over the shorter boy.

'Why? I'll tell you why!' his fists clench at his sides, 'I'm doing this because I don't want to be compared to my brothers any more. I want to be my own person, not a poor copy of someone else.' He turns back to his trunk and slams the lid, throwing snidely over his shoulder, ' I'm doing this because I'm sick to death of standing in your shadow.'

He moves to face the other young man again and looms over him, his voice lowering to a harsh whisper.

' But most of all, I'm doing it because of that muggle-born bitch.'

The boy hidden behind his bed curtains shudders at the pure loathing in the redhead's tone. A brief silence descends on the room again. It breaks as the black-locked young man speaks again.

'Justin was comforting her, Ron. She had just heard that,' his voice catches, and the breath of the forgotten young man hitches in sympathy, 'Lavender had been.. killed.'

Vitriol is laced about the taller boy's words, 'Oh and I suppose you were comforting her too, Harry?'

'Damn you Ron. You're being even more stupid then usual. Hermione loves you! She was upset and you wouldn't comfort her! What else was I meant to do?'

The tall boy's frame takes on a false calm. He shrinks his trunk and pockets it, along with his wand. He slowly pivots on one heel. His face is looming in the shorter boy's when he speaks, his words practically dripping venom.

'You and that mudblood deserve each other; I'm sure your parents were glad to die, just to get away from you and your super-sized ego.'

The hidden young man gasps softly and pushes himself tighter against his headboard. The black-haired boy is frozen. The temperature of the room suddenly seems to drop. The room is still, deathly so. Movement returns and the dark haired boy turns his back on his former friend.

He opens the door and gestures the red-haired turncoat through it, his voice as cold as ice, 'Goodbye Ron.'

~ End Flashback ~



Harry's heart had broken that day. It had broken for himself. The one person he had thought he would always be able to rely upon had betrayed him. It had broken for Hermione. She had loved Ron with all her being and he had never given her a chance to explain something that should have required no explanation.

His heart had broken for the last time. Since that autumn afternoon, nothing had touched him. He still went through all the motions, but it was only a façade; a mask he wore to cover the great emptiness within him. Without his emotions, he was only half a person and he had nothing to spare for anyone else any more.

But he couldn't bear to let go. His pride would not allow him to tell anyone that he was spent, with nothing left to give. Nobody would understand anyway. How could they? He was the great Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world. They all kept expecting him to pull some great miracle out of his hat like a two-penny muggle magician conjuring a white rabbit.

And he kept trying to deliver, all the while knowing, deep within himself, that there would be no miracle.

His head sagged in his hands again. He was so tired, so very, very tired. Harry knew he wasn't thinking straight any more. And this was dangerous. The tight control he kept on the remnants of his heart was slipping and the knowledge hidden there was surfacing. He was bowing to the inevitable. And the Knock.. the Knock was coming..

Harry stood and opened his trunk. He withdrew his invisibility cloak and settled it about his shoulders. He had no intention of being here when the Knock came.

His wand lay upon the pillow of his unslept-in bed as the door quietly shut behind him. He didn't believe he would need it where he was going.



The partially open door of the infirmary shuddered faintly as an invisible presence slipped into the room. The lights were dim in the dead of night, but the chamber wasn't still. Madam Pomfery was slumped over a bench in exhausted slumber but house elves, commandeered into the role of nurses, flitted between the beds, tending to the wounded.

The acrid scent of a disinfectant mingled unpleasantly with the fumes of the ill in an unavoidable miasma. Soft moans and cries rent the air and Harry's eyes were empty beneath the cover of his cloak. The suffering of the loyal soldiers of the Light stirred nothing in him, and he felt a faint twinge of shame at this. But not enough to sway him from his path. He doubted anything would sway him now that his mind had finally been made up.

He stepped lightly between the beds, making for the private rooms. At the end of the corridor, a door stood propped open. Harry sidled into the room beyond. A solitary torch burnt in a bracket by the door, casting long shadows on the bed that dominated the room. No scent of disease lingered here, only a fresh scent of pine and Harry breathed deep, clearing his lungs.

He released his breath on a sigh. Here lay perhaps the most important wizard fighting on the side of the light, the one man Voldemort had ever feared. And he was useless. Albus Dumbledore had lain in a coma, responding to no treatment, for the last month.

Harry stood over him now, staring down into the slack face of his greatest mentor. He wasn't sure why he was here. He had nothing to say to this man. Words weren't of any use to Dumbledore where he was now, and Harry had no use for them either.

So he stood and he watched the gentle rise and fall of Dumbledore's chest and wondered if he would ever wake up. He wondered what kind of world he would be waking into. He decided he didn't care. After all, it was no concern of his. Not any more.

Harry turned and left the room. There was nothing in there for him.

Again, he passed between the beds of the restless wounded. He dodged around Dobby as the little house elf darted from one bed to the next. Harry spared a glance for the still-sleeping Madam Pomfery as he approached the door.

He glanced back once as he left the infirmary. But he didn't say it. He wouldn't. Not another goodbye.

He turned his steps downwards now, descending the staircases towards the Great Hall. He passed Mrs Norris sitting halfway down a flight of stairs. Her lamp-like eyes turned to follow him, but she made no move to summon Filch. Harry supposed he was grateful, but he couldn't have cared if she had.

He paused as he reached the main floor, allowing Nearly Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron to drift by on their self-imposed rounds. A wry smile twisted Harry's lips; what the ghosts thought they could do to prevent an attack from Voldemort was beyond him.

Light spilled into the grand foyer from the Great Hall and Harry could here voices murmuring as he passed on his way deeper into the bowels of the castle. In there, he knew, people were eternally plotting, calculating and directing the war effort. A lost cause as far as Harry was any longer concerned. He wondered briefly why they all didn't just go home and spend what time remained with their families before Voldemort's inevitable victory.

But it was their choice. Their choice to live and die this way. And it was not something to be laughed at. It simply wasn't what Harry had chosen, however. He had other plans.

Harry's footsteps echoed dully as he moved unseen down a dungeon corridor. Dust coated the floor now, but that wasn't surprising. With the House of Slytherin dismantled and all Potions lessons cancelled, what need did anyone have to venture into the dank and depressing gloom of the dungeons. Harry was sure he must be the only living being in them this night.

The corridors seemed to stretch impossibly long beneath his feet, but Harry kept trudging determinedly on. Time warped about him, one moment dragging from instance to instance, the next rushing by him, hurrying him on to his chosen destiny. But all too soon, or not soon enough for his liking, Harry had reached his destination.

The latch rattled under Harry's shaking hands as he pushed the door open. Torches flared in the wall brackets as he slipped through the narrow gap into Professor Snape's disused workroom. Some small part of Harry's mind noted vacantly that the room must not have been disturbed in all the months since the double agent's disappearance; every surface was layered in dust. He sneezed as the dust hanging in the air tickled his nose.

Distantly, Harry realised he was cold, but it seemed the sensation belonged to someone else. He didn't even shiver as he slipped from beneath the concealing folds of the invisibility cloak. His movements precise, Harry folded the cloak that had served him many nights and set it neatly on the workbench.

He latched the door securely, and the same small part of him that had noted the room was undisturbed wondered idly why it hadn't been locked in the first place. Once sure of his privacy, Harry turned to the shelves of potions and ingredients.

By the light of the fitting brands, he scanned the labels in search of one in particular. At the end of the room, far back on the top shelf, he found what he was looking for.

A flare of a nearby torch sent a shaft of light lancing through the deep purple substance in the bottle as Harry lifted it from the shelf. Turning to the workbench, he tilted the vial to the light and peered closely at the label; it would never do to be wrong now.

In Snape's cursive handwriting, the name of the substance slanted ominously across the label: Extract of Belladonna. A poison of the worst kind; tasteless, odourless and fast-acting. Harry nodded in grim satisfaction and turned away to retrieve a small beaker. Gently he prised the stopper free and poured a liberal measure into the beaker. By this time, his hands where shaking so badly that he slipped, and he watched in slow fascination as several drops of the viscous liquid splashed on the desk.

He pushed the cork firmly back into the neck of the bottle and returned the poison to its hidden corner. Selecting a rag from the pile of cleaning clothes housed beneath the sink, Harry meticulously wiped up every spilt drop. The lacquer had pulled and burnt where the potion fell and a grim smile twisted Harry's lips at this proof of the poison's potency.

A thought flitted across Harry's mind as he disposed of the soiled cloth: at least no one would be able to fault his neatness.

He settled himself on a stool in front of his beaker. Carefully, with measured and controlled movements, Harry removed his glasses, folded them neatly and lay them atop his father's invisibility cloak.

Light flashed from the beaker and glinted in a single tear gathered at the corner of his eye as Harry lifted the beaker to his lips.





He had left no note. He couldn't handle another goodbye.



Fin.



AN: I don't actually know what Extract of Belladonna looks like, tastes like, or how fast it works. All I know is that it is a poison and will kill you if consumed in too great a dose.

So anyway, what did you think? Good? Bad? Ugly? I may or may not have left it open for a tale of the aftermath, but I will only do so if someone (or more than one person) asks me too. Especially if you can see how I've left it open. Besides the obvious, that is.

Anyway, review if you like and leave lots of helpful comments please. Much love to all the wonderful people that read me fic.

This is me, signing off. ^_~