A/N: Okay, I lied. I meant to write only one chapter and an epilogue, but this chapter got longer and longer, and simply became unwieldy, so I divided it into two.

Chapter Fifty-Four: Running Towards Something

Ron couldn't be sure how long he held onto Hermione; he only knew he never wanted to let go of her.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered, clinging to him so tightly it made his ribs hurt, but he didn't care about that.

'Sorry for what?' he murmured, breathing in the scent of her hair.

'For not coming right away,' she said, pulling back from him. 'I should have been right here--'

'It's okay,' he said, putting a finger to her lips. 'You're here now.'

She smiled tearfully and placed her hand against his cheek; he leaned into her touch, gripping her other small hand in both of his.

'Listen, Hermione,' he said slowly, 'about...about the...'

'About the what?' Hermione asked, now running her fingertips through his hair.

Ron swallowed; he knew he had to say this quickly, or it would never be said.

'My eye's all messed up,' he said, 'so it looks like being an Auror is out...but I want you to know it's okay...I'm fine with it, I swear...I know you weren't really keen on me being one, anyway...and I'd rather make you happy than make you worry all the time--'

'Ron, you can be an Auror,' said Hermione, and she reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew a small, bulging suede sack that clinked suspiciously. She put the sack in his hands. Ron could feel the shape of the Galleons inside.

He let out a sigh. 'I told him not to do this,' Ron said. 'Look, Hermione, you tell Harry he has to take his money right back--'

'That's not Harry's money,' said Hermione, her voice straining slightly.

'What do you mean?' said Ron. 'Whose money is it?'

'It's mine,' said Hermione, her eyes filling again. 'Well, it was mine. It's yours now. For a new eye.'

The silence stretched as Ron stared at her. She bit her lip and smiled at him, and he was struck with something powerful. How could she do this? He didn't even know she had that kind of money.

'But...' he said thickly. 'You don't want me to be an Auror.'

'No, I don't,' she said. 'But I know it's what you want.'

'I want you,' he insisted. 'Hermione, I don't have to--'

'Yes, you do,' she interjected, struggling against fresh tears. 'You've wanted it forever. You've worked so hard, Ron, and you've come so far. I could never ask you to give up a dream like that. I know you'd never do that to me. I...I want you to be happy, and I know being an Auror is what would make you happy.'

'You make me happy,' Ron said fiercely. 'I don't need anything but you. You...you're one of my dreams, too, you always have been.'

'You shouldn't have to choose!' she said, a few tears dripping down her face. 'I don't want you to choose. I want you to have everything you want. I want everything for you.'

Ron's eyes burned; he could hardly believe what she was saying, what she was sacrificing. He never thought anyone could love him that much, ever. That this girl, this woman, his best friend, his lover, touched him so deeply it almost hurt, and he was filled with an ache that was both beautiful and agonizing, all at once. He had no idea what to say to her, how to tell her how much he loved her, admired her, felt for her...words didn't exist to express what he was feeling. It was almost too much.

'I don't know what to say,' he said finally. Because truly, he didn't.

'Say you'll take the money,' said Hermione, 'and use it to have the life you want.'

'I wouldn't want any life without you,' he said.

'You'll always have me,' she said.

'But you'll worry all the time about me,' said Ron. 'I don't want you to worry all the time about me.'

'I've been worrying about you all along,' said Hermione. 'It's the way I am. I'm a worrier.'

He smiled. 'You are that,' he said. He looked down at the sack in his hands, and then back at her. 'I'll pay you back for this. Every bit of it.'

'It's not a loan, it's a gift,' said Hermione.

'No arguments,' said Ron firmly, letting go of the sack and taking her hands in his. 'I'm paying you back, whether you like it or not. But...it might take a while. A few...dozen years or so.'

She laughed tearfully. 'I won't hold my breath,' she said. 'I love you.'

He rested his hands against her tear-stained cheeks and brushed the wetness away with his thumbs.

'I love you,' he said, and there were so many other things he wanted to say to her, but his eyes fell on her lips, full and parted and pink, and he had to kiss them, so he did.

She gave a soft whimper against his mouth, and parted her lips in response, threading her fingers into his hair. He took the invitation and swept his tongue against hers, and the kiss grew longer, deeper...he pulled her closer, and she clung to him as they kissed on and on, reminding each other how it felt just to do this...

The door clicked open and Ron vaguely heard footsteps, but he didn't care, he couldn't stop kissing Hermione...

'...if he's asleep we can always come back la--oh!'

Ron and Hermione broke apart and found themselves staring at his parents. Ron's ears immediately went red, and then it spread to his face; Hermione and his parents were all red, too. Ron's hands flew to his crotch to hide the embarrassing things happening there. He knew his hair was a mess, and that his lips were pink and swollen, because Hermione's hair was equally messy, her lips equally pink and swollen, and she was trying unsuccessfully to smooth the frizzy mess of curls that Ron's fingers had only seconds before been tangled in.

'Er...' said Ron stupidly.

'So sorry,' said Mr. Weasley quickly. 'We'll come back later.'

'No, Mr. Weasley,' said Hermione quickly. 'It's okay...I was...just leaving.'

The lie was so transparent Ron might have laughed, were he not in the throes of humiliation at having been caught passionately snogging his girlfriend by his parents.

'Are you sure?' said Mr. Weasley. 'We...we don't mind...'

'Arthur!' Mrs. Weasley hissed.

Ron put his head in his hands.

'It's fine,' said Hermione quickly. 'I just had to speak with Healer Smethwyck about...about something important. Something good.'

She picked up the sack of Galleons and gave Ron a swift peck on the cheek. 'I'll see you later, Ron.'

Ron gave her a very sheepish grin and squeezed her hand, and she left in a flurry of bushy brown hair, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Ron looked at his parents and felt his face heat up again.

'We...didn't mean to interrupt,' said Mr. Weasley.

'I'd say it's a good thing we did,' said Mrs. Weasley, 'or the room might have gone up in flames and the two of you wouldn't have noticed.'

'Mum!' Ron cringed and shrank back in his bed.

Mrs. Weasley smiled fondly at her youngest son and kissed him on the forehead.

'How are you feeling, dear?' she asked.

'Fine,' said Ron. 'Pretty good, actually.'

'I can guess why,' Mr. Weasley said, in a mock-musing tone.

'Dad!'

'What?' said Mr. Weasley innocently. 'I was simply commenting on the excellent care they provide here at St. Mungo's.'

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged amused glances, but then they both turned serious.

'Healer Smethwyck says you can check out of here tomorrow,' said Mrs. Weasley.

'Good,' said Ron. 'I hate hospitals. I guess I go back to school, right? I assume N.E.W.Ts are still on. There's still a few weeks left of term--what?'

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged glances again, this time much more somber.

'What's the matter?' said Ron, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. 'What's happened? Is it George?'

Mrs. Weasley's eyes filled with tears. 'No, George is fine,' she said. 'He's napping right now, the potion treatment he's on sometimes wears him out a bit.'

'Can I see him?' said Ron, relaxing a bit.

'Tomorrow,' said Mr. Weasley. 'Ron...we have to tell you about Ginny.'

'Ginny?' said Ron, and he felt his insides seize up again.

'Your sister,' said Mr. Weasley, 'well, you weren't awake for this, but she was abducted.'

'I know that,' said Ron, confused. 'Voldemort took her--'

'She was abducted a second time,' said Mrs. Weasley slowly.

'What?' said Ron. 'I don't understand.'

'To be honest, we don't understand all of it, either,' said Mr. Weasley. 'We haven't been able to get the full story. Draco Malfoy's been under sedation--'

'Malfoy?' said Ron hotly. 'What's he got to do with Ginny? Did he kidnap her, because if he did, so help me...' Ron started to swing his legs around, but Mrs. Weasley stopped him.

'Ron, sit back,' she said. 'Ginny was rescued. By Draco Malfoy...and Harry.'

'Oh,' said Ron, relaxing once more. 'Well...that's good, isn't it? Who took her?'

'A girl by the name of Pansy Parkinson,' said Mr. Weasley. 'Apparently she was a friend of Draco's. Did you know her?'

Ron stared at his parents. It was impossible, what they were saying. There had to be some mistake. Pansy was dead, long dead. She couldn't have taken Ginny, it didn't make any sense...

And then Ron remembered everything. His visions of Pansy; his difficulty finding her; the nagging sense, buried in the back of his mind, that something was off about the whole situation. She'd been brewing a potion in those visions. Polyjuice Potion. And the girl who he'd seen get raped and murdered was never Pansy, it was someone else made to look like Pansy...

Ron felt sick, but he forced himself to stay calm.

'I know Pansy,' he finally said.

'This girl, Pansy,' said Mr. Weasley, 'was working with Lucius Malfoy; Kingsley is quite certain Lucius set up the whole thing, and that Pansy was working under Malfoy's orders.'

'Lucius Malfoy?' Ron repeated, feeling a surge of hatred again. 'Did he hurt Ginny?'

'We don't know who hurt her, only that she was hurt,' said Mrs. Weasley. 'We don't know much of anything. Harry and Draco rescued Ginny and Pansy...she was killed during the rescue...an Auror killed her...he didn't mean to, but Pansy was about to use a Killing Curse and the Auror...he was tired, he overreacted...'

'So Pansy...she's really dead?' said Ron slowly.

'Yes,' said Mr. Weasley heavily. 'But Ginny...Ron, we don't know what Ginny went through when she was held captive. She won't say anything about it, and Draco Malfoy...as I said, he's under sedation, and Harry...Harry doesn't know anything, either...we couldn't really bring ourselves to ask him anything, even if he knew, not after what he's been through...'

'What's wrong with Ginny?' Ron asked, his stomach again twisting with dread.

'She's...she's had an emotional collapse,' said Mrs. Weasley. 'The Healers told us...apparently, she's an Empath...we had no idea...but she was so horribly traumatized by what happened while she was being held captive...she's very, very bad off...'

Mrs. Weasley dissolved into tears and sagged against Mr. Weasley.

'Did you know she was...an Empath?' said Mr. Weasley.

Ron saw no point in lying to his parents, not now. 'Yeah,' he said heavily. 'Yeah, I knew. I wasn't supposed to say anything.'

Mr. Weasley nodded, his eyes red-rimmed. 'Why the secrecy?' he asked. He wasn't accusing, he was simply asking, and yet to Ron, it was an accusation all the same.

'She was helping Harry,' said Ron. 'They were working together...so Harry could have the mental strength to fight Voldemort...Harry and Voldemort had this...this mental thing between them and Ginny was trying to help Harry with that. You know...because she...she had that thing with Riddle...'

Mrs. Weasley gave another sob, and Mr. Weasley nodded again.

'Does Harry know?' Ron asked.

'He knows,' said Mr. Weasley. 'He's not allowed to see her. Andromeda Tonks has agreed to help Ginny; she told us...Harry and Ginny have formed an Empathic bond, but...that bond is hurting both of them. They have to be separated.'

Ron felt his jaw drop, and then felt heartsick at the unfairness of it.

'Harry never said anything,' said Ron. 'When he was here earlier.'

'I suspect Harry was trying to focus on you,' said Mr. Weasley, smiling sadly.

Ron felt a lump in his throat. 'Where is he now?'

'He's gone back to the school,' said Mr. Weasley, as Mrs. Weasley wiped her eyes and sat back up. 'Remus took him.'

'How long?' Ron asked. 'How long do Harry and Ginny have to...have to be apart?'

'We don't know,' said Mrs. Weasley. 'Ginny needs extensive treatment; she...she can't be around Harry while she's recovering. Harry's...he's devastated, but you know how he is. He's put on a brave face.'

'That doesn't surprise me,' said Ron sadly, and then he scowled. 'This isn't fair. Harry never asked for this. He killed Voldemort, he saved the world and he can't even have a happy ending. I don't deserve a happy ending if he can't have one. It's not bloody fair!' Ron's voice rose with every word, and he felt hot tears stinging his eyes. Mrs. Weasley pulled him into an embrace, and he sank against her, struggling not to cry. Mr. Weasley took his hand.

'It's not fair,' Ron mumbled again.

'I know,' Mrs. Weasley murmured, stroking his hair. 'Harry's had such a hard time...'

'I was scared,' Ron admitted. 'I thought...for a while there I thought Hermione might not come back, but Harry brought her back. He...he fixed things up for us. Even though he must have known he couldn't be with Ginny...'

'Harry wants you to be happy,' said Mrs. Weasley.

'How'm I supposed to be happy if he's going through hell?' said Ron miserably.

'Harry will get through this, son,' said Mr. Weasley. 'He needs time, and he needs his friends.'

'What about Ginny?' said Ron.

'She's...she's going away for the summer,' said Mr. Weasley. 'She's been excused from her exams, and she's going to live with Mrs. Tonks. They have a cottage in Provence, although...you have to keep that yourself, dear. I know you'll want to tell Harry, but Mrs. Tonks worries that he'll try to come after Ginny. Mrs. Tonks thinks the change of scenery, the climate...it'll be good for Ginny. If everything goes well, she'll be able to come back to school for the autumn term.'

Ron nodded, feeling suddenly numb. Only a few minutes ago he'd been happy, back in the arms of Hermione, thinking of his brilliant future. Now...it seemed wrong, all of it. That he, of all people, should walk away with what he wanted most, and Harry and Ginny should be left with nothing but anguish and trauma.

'It's not right,' Ron muttered.

'Ron, the best gift you could give Harry and Ginny is to be happy,' Mrs. Weasley insisted.

Ron looked at his mother, and then his father. He didn't feel much better for it, but he knew, in spite of everything, that his mother was right. At the very least, Ron knew Harry and Ginny didn't need the burden of Ron's guilt on top of everything else they were suffering.

'We're awfully proud of you, son,' said Mr. Weasley, smiling warmly at him. 'And you know, I've been thinking...there's no reason you couldn't find a really good position in the Ministry...being an Auror isn't all it's cracked up to be, Kingsley was just saying--'

'I'm going to be an Auror,' said Ron, and then he brightened as he remembered something. 'Harry and I are going to do it together, in fact. That's it! That'll help him, right? The training is really intense and it'll help keep Harry's mind off...off the really bad stuff. And Harry likes to get physical anyway, when he's feeling low...yeah. It'll be good. Harry and I as Aurors.'

'But, son, what about your eye?' said Mr. Weasley.

Ron beamed; he felt a million times lighter since remembering that Harry was going to join the Auror program, too. It would be just the thing Harry needed, to get past all the bad things. They'd be the best damn trainees in the place; they'd get awards, they'd get promoted, they'd be Potter and Weasley, the Auror Dream Team. It would be perfect.

And Ginny...well, Ginny'd spend a summer in France and come back good as new. His sister was tough; the toughest girl he knew--okay, it was a toss-up with Hermione--but Ginny was a Weasley. Weasleys fought back. Ginny'd come back from France a new girl, a new woman, ready for her last year at Hogwarts. And then Harry and Ginny could be together again, as they were meant to be, as they had to be. Yes!

'Ron?' said Mr. Weasley, and Ron remembered his father had asked him a question.

'Hermione's getting me a new eye,' Ron said.

'What?' said Mrs. Weasley. 'But they're so expensive!'

'I know,' said Ron. 'I mean, you know I'd never take Harry or Hermione's money, but...but this is the only way I can be an Auror now and...and I want to be there with Harry. He'll need me, you know.'

'You'll pay her back, won't you?' said Mr. Weasley sternly.

'Of course!' said Ron defensively. 'It'll take a while, but I will.'

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley both smiled at him.

'We love you, Ron,' said Mrs. Weasley, hugging Ron again. 'Goodness, you must be tired.'

'We'll let you get some rest,' said Mr. Weasley, and his parents got up. They smiled at him again, and Ron grinned back. Things were so much better now. Yes, there would be some tough stuff to get through, but as long as Ron, Hermione, Harry and Ginny had each other, everything would turn out all right in the end.

His parents started towards the door, when suddenly it was flung open, and Fred, Percy and Bill came charging through.

'Boys, what is going on?' said Mrs. Weasley sternly. 'What are you--'

'Mum, keep your hair on,' said Fred. He looked fit to burst. Indeed, all three of Ron's older brothers looked fit to burst.

'What's going on?' said Ron.

'Bring him in, Charlie!' Fred called, grinning hugely.

'Wha--'

Mrs. Weasley's question died away as Charlie came in with George. George was in his dressing gown; his hair was sticking up everywhere. He shuffled in slowly, but his steps were nonetheless sure-footed.

'Boys!' Mrs. Weasley said angrily. 'What on earth are you doing? George isn't supposed to be wandering around like this. I can't believe you'd drag him out of bed all the way down here!'

'Mum, relax,' said Bill. 'We just wanted George to pay Ron a visit. He hasn't been down here yet.'

'I told Ron he could visit with Charlie tomorrow!' said Mrs. Weasley shrilly. 'Really, boys, this isn't--'

'H-hey, Mum.'

Mrs. Weasley stopped speaking and clapped a hand over her mouth. For George had just spoken, and he'd spoken real words. Ron gaped at his older brother.

'Hi, D-dad,' said George haltingly. 'H-how are you d-doing?'

Mrs. Weasley's eyes were huge, and her hand was still over her mouth. Mr. Weasley's Adam's apple bobbed as he gazed at George.

'A-aren't you g-going to s-say anything?' George asked.

'George...' Mr. Weasley whispered, and without another word he grabbed George and crushed him in a fierce embrace. 'Oh...oh, son...'

'D-don't cry, Dad,' George said, grinning, but his eyes were rather misty.

Mr. Weasley let go of George and took a deep breath, composing himself, but at that moment, Mrs. Weasley pounced, smothering her son with a hug and numerous kisses all over his face.

'George!' she shrieked. 'Oh...oh, thank goodness!'

'Mum, g-get a g-grip,' George muttered, but he kept grinning.

'I don't believe it!' Mrs. Weasley cried. 'When did this happen? When did you start talking?'

'A few minutes ago,' said Fred, clapping his twin on the shoulder. 'Once he got going we couldn't shut him up. He insisted we bring him down here to visit ickle Ronnie.'

Ron, who'd been watching the scene in a kind of frozen daze, blinked when he heard his name, or rather, the nickname Fred and George had always teased him with.

'H-hey, l-little bro,' said George, meeting Ron's gaze.

It seemed to Ron, in that moment, that the whole world was upside down. George was okay. George was standing in front of him, talking. Haltingly, yes, but he was talking all the same. Seeing George like this filled Ron with almost unbearable hope: if George could survive what he'd survived, then surely Harry and Ginny would. Yes, they would. Everything really was going to be okay.

And suddenly it became too much for Ron, and the lump that had been in his throat all day rose up again, this time threatening to choke him.

'W-what's wrong w-with everyone?' George complained. 'N-nobody seems t-to be able to t-talk. Hello, Ron? Are you th-there?'

'Hey, George,' said Ron, his eyes burning.

'He speaks!' said George, pumping his fist in the air, and he moved to the foot of Ron's bed, as everyone else laughed. Ron couldn't laugh. He could hardly breathe. He forced himself to speak.

'How are you feeling?' he asked.

George shrugged. 'C-can't complain,' he said, grinning. 'You?'

'Okay,' said Ron thickly.

'G-good,' said George, and his own voice became a bit strangled. ''C-cause you sure l-look like shit.'

The emotion in Ron's throat crested, and he let out a laugh that dissolved into a sob, but George was already there, hugging him. Ron knew the twins would give him hell for it later, but for now, he let himself cry. He didn't bloody well care. His family was alive. His parents, his brothers, Ginny, all of them were alive. Hermione was alive. Harry was alive. Damaged, wounded, but alive. There were some miracles that deserved some happy tears, and this was one of them.
Harry looked around the storage room numbly. He'd sat there on the floor for a few hours now, hardly moving. The cushions were no longer there, nor were the candles. Ginny wasn't there, tangled up in his arms and naked and smiling up at him. The school was mostly empty at the moment, but for the teachers.

He'd been back at Hogwarts for a few hours now. Amazingly, everyone he'd seen--even Filch--had left him alone. Perhaps it was something in Harry's eyes, or perhaps it was because they were all afraid of him, the Boy Who'd Killed Voldemort. Whatever the reason, Harry was glad for it; he wanted to be alone right then.

Odd, really, that he wanted solitude, when only a few hours before he'd been crying his eyes out in a loo with the realization that he was, in fact, alone. But now, the solitude was a relief. No questions to answer, no gazes to avert.

Kingsley had brought him back. Harry hadn't said a word; he just let Kingsley talk, and fill Harry in on everything that had happened in the past few days, from the time Harry had left the school until now.

The teachers were all alive. Firenze had been found in the Forest, wounded, but he'd survived, and he'd been welcomed back into his herd. He'd gone, leaving only Trelawney to teach Divination, which quite clearly pleased her. Hopkirk, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Vector had all suffered minor wounds in the battle, and were healed in a trice. Hagrid--with the help of the Forest beasts--had held off a few more attacks, and he managed to escape serious injury, as did Grawp and Mawg, who were, according to Hagrid, adapting well to their circumstances.

Snape was apparently still in hospital, much to Harry's surprise, but he couldn't really muster up the energy to care too much about that. The school itself hadn't been damaged, and Harry found he didn't actually care about this, either. The students were expected back in a day or so. Dean had been burned by a curse but his injuries were minor, owing to Seamus's fast spellwork. Both boys were with their parents. Neville had suffered a mild concussion and a few stress fractures, but he was fine, spending his time with his grandmother, Luna and her father. Luna, meanwhile, had been hit with a Confundis Curse, and had to spend a few hours in the Spell Damage word getting her brain unscrambled. Harry might have otherwise chuckled about that, wondering whether the Healers might have so unscrambled Luna's brain that she stopped believing in Snorkacks and heliopaths, but at the moment, it was just another thing he didn't care much about.

Kingsley also told Harry of all who had died, some of whom Harry already knew about, others he didn't. Daphne Greengrass was dead. Ernie MacMillan. Padma Patil. Morag McDougal. Kenneth Towler. Pansy Parkinson. Colin Creevey. Terry Boot, who'd seemed fine, but whose leg injury resulted in a massive blood clot that killed him.

Everyone else had suffered injuries ranging from minor to serious; everyone, said Kingsley, would be coming back to Hogwarts to finish out the term. There were still a few weeks left to it, although the students who'd lost family members would be allowed to leave school for their loved ones' funerals, and stay away permanently or return, as they chose. Kingsley left Harry with a pat on the shoulder, and told Harry that he looked forward to training him in the Auror program.

The Auror program...Harry thought about his desk, slightly dusty and stacked high with parchment. Job offers galore: Auror programs, Quidditch teams, teaching posts, including the Defense post at Hogwarts. The letter from the Ministry Auror program was on top; he'd left it there a few days earlier. Before everything had gone so horribly wrong. Before Voldemort's death.

It was just how it was when Sirius had died: everything in Harry's life was now divided by the singular event of Voldemort's death. A death that, Harry knew, people everywhere were celebrating. He hadn't looked at the papers, but Kingsley had told him that the press was 'all over the story', a few of the less than scrupulous journals insinuating that Harry hadn't really killed Voldemort, because there was no body to prove You-Know-Who was dead.

Harry didn't care about that; he'd been very effectively shielded from the press, in terms of not having faced any reporters yet, of not having to answer any questions. Kingsley had told him he'd eventually have to make an official statement to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but that could wait. What was most important, said Kingsley, was that Harry go home--back to Hogwarts--and let his life get back to normal.

Except that life After Voldemort's Death was anything but normal. Harry scowled at the bitter irony of it all: his life had had some meaning, some hope, some level of happiness before he'd killed Voldemort. But now, with Voldemort gone, things were worse.

Not for the first time in the past few hours, Harry contemplated just ending everything. Going up to the Astronomy Tower and leaping off it and putting an end to the hell that was his life. Sure, it was selfish, and yes, he'd be missed, but at least he wouldn't be suffering anymore, right?

That was partly what got under Harry's skin: that he was alive, but suffering, and Voldemort was dead, but not suffering. Harry scowled again to think that he'd given Voldemort a gift, ending his life. Voldemort was probably wherever it was dead people go. He probably wasn't even Voldemort anymore, but Tom Riddle, young and handsome, hanging around with his tragic, beautiful mother and listening to her sing Italian songs.

And yet, as Harry thought about suicide again, he knew he wouldn't do it. Something kept him from taking that step. At the moment, Harry couldn't decide if it was guilt or masochism. Probably both. Even now, wallowing in this dead, numb despair, Harry couldn't bring himself to cause his friends any more pain than he already had, and the pain he'd caused them was a lot. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel that only a masochist would go on living, faced with what he would be facing in the near and distant future.

He thought of his desk again, of the stack of letters. Even as he had returned from St. Mungo's, had exited the fireplace in the Great Hall and started back towards Gryffindor tower, Harry knew he could never be an Auror now. A life of fighting dark wizards was something he could no longer stomach thinking about. He'd just beaten the most powerful dark wizard in the world. He was tired of fighting, tired of death.

It was seeing Ron and Hermione together at the hospital, however, that had really sealed Harry's choice. He hardly knew if he could even bear to look at either of them anymore, knowing that what they had was still intact, knowing, even worse, that he had been the one to make sure they stayed together. How could he spend every day with Ron knowing that Ron had Hermione, when Harry had lost Ginny? How could he look at Ron without seeing him lying dead on the floor of the brain room--for Ron had indeed been dead for a few minutes--with Hermione desperately trying to start his heart again? Ron and Hermione, Harry realized, were a reminder of that night with Voldemort. They were a reminder that their bond had been shaken, but not broken, by the war. They were, and would be, a reminder of what Harry had lost: his relationship with Ginny.

Ginny...

Harry let himself think of her now; he'd been thinking freely of her for the past hour or so, from the moment he realized that thinking of her no longer brought that small sizzle of empathetic pain in his body. That must mean she was far away now, that she was already wherever she'd gone with Mrs. Tonks. Harry, of course, wouldn't be told. The Weasleys would know, but they'd never tell him. He might normally be angry that they'd keep something this important from him, but now, he was too tired to be angry. There was only this numb emptiness inside him, an emptiness that he knew nothing could fill. Nothing except Ginny, but she was lost to him, she might be lost to him forever.

This, then, was his life: one long catalogue of losses, starting with the day his parents had been murdered. But he thought he'd learned to live with those losses. They still hurt--they always would--but he'd accepted that, hadn't he? Surely, in time he could learn to accept losing Ginny, couldn't he?

Could he accept losing a piece of his soul?

For Ginny had taken a piece of his soul with her, from the moment they crossed over that line of friendship. He'd given everything to her, he'd turned himself inside out, and she had done the same for him, and there was no getting over that. There was no accepting it, learning from it, and moving on. Ginny had been taken from him a third time, and this time, there was no getting her back, and there was no retrieving that part of him that she owned. He knew, even as he sat there, at the young age of seventeen, that he'd never be as close to anyone as he'd been to Ginny. He'd cried over it a few hours ago, but now he was beyond tears, and there was only a void inside him. He wondered if this was how it felt to be Kissed by a Dementor.

He closed his eyes, and opened them again, looking around the room. He'd come here thinking, hoping, that he could feel her presence here, in this room where they'd made love, more than once, where they'd shared something Harry knew he'd never share with anyone else. Her presence was gone. She was gone. And yet he knew he would come here every day until it was time for him to put his decision into action.

He didn't need to wonder how Ron and Hermione would react to that decision. He wasn't half-sure he'd even bother telling them. He fingered the small note card Mrs. Tonks had given him. He'd memorized the information on it:

Mme Jeanne-Marie Verlaine

82 Rue de Carouge

Genève-Plainpalais

SUISSE

But that wasn't for now. There was nothing for now. There was just sitting here, in the empty room, with his empty, numb heart.
The students returned in full the next day. Harry had spent half the night awake, preparing himself, but the impact of the school filling up so quickly nonetheless unnerved him, and filled him with the urge to run and hide. To disappear into the storeroom and never come out again.

But reality sank its claws into him and he found himself greeting his housemates as they returned, accepting their congratulations with gritted teeth and feigned smiles. Dean looked just fine, Seamus looked just fine, Neville looked just fine. Parvati looked haunted and sad, and Lavender spent much of the day with her arm around her friend's shoulder as Parvati struggled not to cry. Harry kept his distance from all of them, and to their credit, they seemed content to leave him alone after a while.

Draco Malfoy didn't come back. News of Pansy Parkinson's death--her real death--had already reached The Daily Prophet, which Harry read with no real interest. Pansy's parents turned out to have been murdered, too, by Lucius Malfoy, right around the time Malfoy had the Muggle prostitute killed. The reasoning was obvious: the Parkinsons would have known, even if the Muggle girl was disguised with Polyjuice Potion, that she was not their daughter. Malfoy couldn't afford to risk the two of them reporting their beliefs to the Ministry, not if Malfoy's plan—and Pansy's role in it—was to succeed. Lucius Malfoy was still at large, rumored to be hiding out somewhere in Russia with Helene Rosier.

Draco, meanwhile, checked himself out of St. Mungo's only the day before, but by all accounts, he had effectively disappeared. Seamus was convinced Draco was out for revenge against his father. Harry could care less about the Malfoy family, except to hate them. He couldn't really get over the fact that Ginny was in the mess she was in at least in some small part because she'd agreed to help Draco with his emotional problems.

Ron and Hermione showed up just before lunchtime. Ron was on his feet and looked impossibly well, considering his injuries. He still wore the patch over his eye, but he reported excitedly that Hermione had spoken with Healer Smethwyck, and that he'd ordered for Ron the latest, top-of-the-line magical eye. It would arrive in four weeks, just after they finished school, and Ron would go back to the hospital for the procedure to replace his damaged eye.

'I guess I'm going to look a bit like Moody after all,' he joked. Harry pretended to laugh.

He also pretended to listen as Ron talked about their plans together, to go to the Auror program, to get a flat together. Harry nodded and said all the right things, even as the guilt gnawed at his heart that he would be dashing Ron's hopes of their glorious Auror partnership to dust in the near future.

Later on, Harry and Ron took a fly on their brooms, and after that, they sat under the beech tree, at which time Ron very tentatively brought up Ginny. Harry gritted his teeth again and listened to Ron outline a bright and optimistic future for his sister and his best friend.

'Ginny's tough,' he said. 'You'll see, she'll get through this whole thing and you two can be together again. I know it.'

'You're right, Ron,' said Harry, and for a second, he allowed himself to believe it, but then Ron and Hermione smiled at each other--the soft smiles of lovers--and Harry wished he had a fork so he could stab himself in the thigh with it.

That night, Ron retired early, as did Hermione, and this gave Harry nothing but relief. He found himself wishing that lessons would just start up already, if only to keep him busy. He waited until his dorm-mates were in bed, and then he crept out of the room, covered by the Invisibility Cloak, carrying the Marauder's Map.

Fifteen minutes later, he was in the storeroom. He Conjured some cushions and candles for himself, lay back on the cushions, and stared at the flickering shadows on the walls. If he closed his eyes just enough, he could pretend the golden glow from the candles were the golden glints in Ginny's hair. He didn't go back to the dormitory that night.

Next day lessons began, and the teachers picked up right where they'd left off. Indeed, Harry could almost fool himself, for a while, that none of the events of the last few days had happened. He could pretend that the empty chairs in his classes--chairs once occupied by students who were now dead--were in fact occupied. Harry even took comfort in Potions lessons. Snape was back, limping on a bad leg. The injury ensured that Snape was nastier than ever, but Harry didn't mind this, for a change. It let him believe things were normal.

At day's end, however, Harry was brutally reminded of what had happened over the past few days, when McGonagall announced a memorial service for everyone who had died, to be held that night at midnight, and to include a candlelight vigil. Harry wanted nothing to do with this; he didn't think he could stand being outside, listening to the quiet sobs of girls and hearing speeches, he didn't think his eyes could take looking at candles that weren't in that storeroom, that were lit for the dead. But of course, he had to go. The students who'd died wouldn't have died if they hadn't gone with Harry to the Ministry in the first place. It was only fitting that Harry showed up.

Naturally, Harry had to say a few words. Naturally, he had no clue what to say. He stumbled his way through a fast, impromptu oratory on the bravery and honor of his classmates, who'd given their lives to stop a terrible evil. It was only afterwards that Harry realized he'd actually been somewhat eloquent, but he didn't care about that.

He was losing track of the things he no longer cared about. They all seemed to fade behind the image of a freckled, red-haired, brown-eyed girl.

Ron tried to tell himself nothing was seriously wrong. Nothing that couldn't be mended with time, and space, and his own efforts to make things better.

The nagging doubts in the back of his mind he rigorously silenced every time they raised their voice to him. Yes, Harry was basically a mess, but Harry had been a mess before, Ron told himself. Many times before, in fact. He'd been a mess after Cedric was murdered; after losing Sirius; after losing Dumbledore. Harry was accustomed to loss.

Losing Ginny was no different, Ron thought. In fact, it really wasn't as bad as all that, because it wasn't as if the loss was permanent. Ginny was very much alive. She wasn't exactly whole at the moment, that was certain, but she was alive. That fact alone, Ron reasoned, was enough for Harry to eventually drag himself out of his funk. Ron reasoned further that if Harry got encouraging news about Ginny's progress, Harry himself would feel better. As such, Ron took to demanding daily updates from his parents about Ginny. The reports were frustratingly vague, but after a week, their mother was relieved to report that Ginny was finally out of her shock, and had begun to talk to Mrs. Tonks.

'So, that's good news,' said Ron bracingly, as they ate lunch under the beech tree one glorious afternoon in June. 'It's only the very early stages, but that means she's already on her way back.'

Harry nodded and smiled. 'That is good news,' he said, his voice wistful, his eyes distant.

Once again, Ron squashed the voice of doubt, and glanced quickly at Hermione, who was watching Harry with interest, but otherwise saying nothing. Ron had insisted on a particular approach for helping Harry--offer their support, but don't push; say at least one encouraging thing about Ginny every day, but don't push; let Harry have room to grieve and cope, and never, ever push.

Hermione agreed with Ron on this, or at least, she seemed to, but then, Hermione was acting a bit odd herself lately. At first Ron was terrified to think that perhaps she'd changed her mind, and decided that she couldn't be with him unless he gave up his goal of being an Auror. But after a few days, Ron realized it came down to something else: her leg injury.

He supposed he ought to have seen it sooner, but in truth, he was so glad to be back at school, so relieved that the people he loved were alive, relieved, even, that N.E.W.Ts were going to occur as scheduled. At the very least, Hogwarts meant normalcy, as did end-of-term exams. Ron threw himself right back into the swing of things as much as he could, with Head Boy duties and revising and patrolling and even helping set up new wards; he was so busy that he didn't really allow himself time to think about things for the first few days he was back.

It was only on the fourth night, as Hermione crawled into bed next to him, that Ron sensed something. They hadn't done more than kiss a few times since coming back; both had been swamped with helping to get the school re-organized, helping the teachers and organizing study groups and the like, and the heavy load left them both exhausted at the end of each day. Ron--against the suggestions of McGonagall and Hermione--didn't allow himself to slack off, either. He had wanted nothing more than to leave Hogwarts for the last time with some semblance of order and harmony restored. He was tired and his muscles still ached from the aftermath of his many injuries, and the wound across his belly--while fully healed--still tingled from time to time--but it was nothing he couldn't handle. Indeed, the only compromise he decided to make was to forego meditating for a while. The energy he expended meditating he instead channeled into revising for exams and finishing out his lessons.

As such, Ron and Hermione had had almost no time to be alone together, except at night, when both were typically too tired except snuggle and fall asleep. On this particular night, however, they started kissing, and it began to lead to other things, the removal of some clothing, when suddenly Hermione stopped and insisted he turn out all the lights. Ron hesitated, but then complied; he wasn't going to argue a point if it meant making love with his girlfriend. But then, as things progressed further, Hermione kept tensing every time his hands would wander to her thighs, or more specifically, her left thigh.

'It's still hurting somewhat,' she said.

'We don't have to,' he said.

'It's okay,' she said. 'Just...try not to touch it.'

Ron had no idea how he was supposed to make love with Hermione without touching her thigh in some way, but he agreed, and against his own will he kept his hands from touching her there, from giving into his usual urge to grip her thighs when she wrapped them about his waist.

It was only afterwards, when Hermione quickly got up from the bed and even more quickly pulled her pyjamas back on, that Ron realized what the problem was: Hermione didn't want him to see her leg injury. Vaguely he remembered how her skin had felt against his, and he realized that the skin of her left leg against his waist had felt very different, like scar tissue. He knew she'd been burned there, but he hadn't known how badly.

Now, Hermione seemed determined not to let him see her injury at all. Ron didn't push the issue; he figured in time she'd get over it. As it was, he was just happy as hell to be alive and making love with his girlfriend at all. And of course, there was Harry to consider...

Harry knew Ron suspected something. Ron knew him too well; Harry couldn't totally hide what he was feeling. But he tried very, very hard all the same. He needed to reassure Ron and Hermione that he would be all right. Even if a part of him questioned whether he ever would be.

The past few days had gotten a bit easier. He'd given his statement to the Ministry, regarding Voldemort's death and his role in it, but as expected, there was no inquiry. Nobody was about to start a legal proceeding against the Boy Who Defeated You-Know-Who, even if it were the usual pro forma in the wake of a death deemed to be self-defense. Harry agreed to release his official statement to the press, if only to avoid giving interviews. The reporters, meanwhile, had been as barred from entering the Hogwarts' grounds as they'd been the hospital, and this, perhaps, was the one saving grace of the school for Harry at the moment: he could, at the very least, hide from the rest of the world, even if he couldn't hide from his own pain.

The news stories themselves were as sensationalistic as could be expected. Rita Skeeter's byline was nowhere to be seen--she was still in St. Mungo's, recovering--but a new 'journalist' had clearly filled her shoes, and it was none other than Marietta Edgecombe, a former Ravenclaw; her photograph showed that she had been quite beautifully cured of Hermione's nasty hex. Marietta's tone in her articles was as snide about Harry as possible, and of course, she made no mention of the brave manner in which Ron and Hermione had fought. Ron's life-saving sacrifice, in fact, was entirely left out, though she did bring up Ron and Hermione's 'little fling', as she called it, 'which probably won't last long, as the wizarding world is fully aware of Miss Granger's penchant for breaking young men's hearts. This paper can't help but think Miss Granger is perhaps slumming a bit, seeking the attentions of Ron Weasley when it has been obvious in the past that her interests lie with far more famous, and far wealthier bachelors.'

Ron offered to hex Marietta again, and spent a few days intercepting some more hate mail directed at Hermione, but everyone laughed it off, and Hermione freely admitted Marietta ought to have her pound of flesh after suffering Hermione's acne hex for so long.

He kept to himself as much as he could, and he put on his stoic face, but Ron's and Hagrid's heroic efforts to cheer him up were such that Harry couldn't help but go along. Indeed, Harry's heart lightened slightly, but then he would remember Ginny, and remember what he was contemplating, and his heart would feel heavy again.

Frequently, he caught himself staring at the card for Mme Verlaine. She would have received Harry's owl by now--nobody was faster than Hedwig--telling her to expect him on the first of August. He didn't want to go to her right away. He needed to get away--completely away--from anyone and everyone he knew, and see if there was any way to get past his nightmares, see if there was any way he could hold onto the small vestige of hope that Mrs. Tonks had told him not to abandon.

That he had any hope at all seemed incredible to Harry, but impossibly, it was Ron who had given it to him; Ron who told Harry some news of Ginny every single day. Harry knew Ron was probably exaggerating things, but he appreciated the effort. It was difficult, with Ron's almost fierce delivery of this news, not to get caught up in a brief flash of optimism.

Yet the hope seemed so tiny and insignificant compared to the grief. He hated that his friends could not help him, and he hated himself even more for what he'd be doing to them, but it just could not be remedied. The longer Harry spent inside Hogwarts, the more time he spent in the company of his classmates, the more alien and alone he felt.

The dreams didn't help. They weren't bad dreams. On the contrary, they were good dreams. All of them so good, he never wanted to open his eyes. So vivid and real that when Harry inevitably did open his eyes, to find himself in the empty storeroom--where he'd spent every night since his return--the despair of the waking world hit him like a punch to the stomach.

Every night, Harry saw Ginny in his dreams. She was beautiful and whole and smiling, and she held his hand and kissed his mouth and whispered things in his ear. Sometimes they argued, but that was good, too, because she was there, with him, challenging him and getting inside him. He dreamed of their life together, in some distant future, in some unnamed place, with unnamed children. It was never perfect, but it was always real. Until his eyes fluttered open with the light of the sun, and the true reality came crashing down on him like a lead weight.

He had come so close to tasting that future, but Voldemort had snatched it away, was snatching it away even in death. The raw numbness of the first few days back at school were gone, and now there was this constant shifting, between total despair and irrational hopefulness. It was as if Harry's emotions were on some kind of sick carnival ride that shot to the heavens at the speed of light, only to plummet to earth just as fast. At the top of this ride was Ginny, at the bottom, Voldemort, but in between, there seemed to be nothing. In between but near the top, it should have been Hogwarts, and the Weasleys, Lupin and Tonks, Hagrid, McGonagall, Ron and Hermione, even Sirius, Dumbledore and his parents, though perhaps they were closer to the middle, given that they were dead. But nobody else was there. It was only Ginny and Voldemort; one who held the final key to his completion, who put him back together again, and the other who had been taking him apart, piece by piece, since he was just a year old. The two of them were inside Harry, fighting over his soul and his mind and his heart, and the longer he stayed at Hogwarts, surrounded by everything that reminded him of Voldemort, the more Harry feared he might go mad.

It wasn't Ron and Hermione's fault. That was what hurt Harry most of all, knowing what he was going to do. Both of them had never been anything but the best of friends to him; they'd sacrificed so much for him, and he was ashamed to look back and realize all those times he'd taken them for granted. But they couldn't help him now, not with this. Not even Ginny could help him. She was somewhere else--not even Ron had been forthcoming with her whereabouts.

No, it seemed the only person who could help Harry was a stranger in a city he'd never visited. What would it be like, living in Geneva? He'd heard Hermione mention it a few times, that it was a beautiful city on a beautiful lake with beautiful mountains in the distance. He wasn't sure he wanted to be surrounded by all that beauty--beauty seemed empty without Ginny in it--but that was where Mme Verlaine happened to be, and he would go where she was. Because his dreams were killing him. Because he wanted them to come true. Because he was past wallowing in numbness now, he was tired of just existing, of being caught between numbness and nothingness and wishing he could just kill himself, but not having the bollocks to actually do it. Because he was tired of being caught between guilt at having killed Voldemort, and rage at having shown him the mercy of death. If Harry didn't have the bollocks to kill himself, then he was going to live.

I'm not going to lose Ginny. I'm not going to lose me. Not when Mum and Dad, and Sirius, and Dumbledore, and Ron...

Ron.

Harry sighed. Ron would never understand. He'd be so hurt. He'd take it as a personal failing. He'd be angry. In such an instance, Hermione would be the one to truly understand. Harry could count on her to understand. She'd be hurt, too, but she'd let it go. Maybe, Harry thought, she could convince Ron not to hate Harry, or to hate himself.
'Does it hurt?'

'No, I just...'

'Hermione, what's wrong?'

She sniffed, and in the pitch dark of his room, he knew she'd begun to cry softly.

'Tell me,' Ron urged.

'It's just so horrible,' she whispered. 'I hate looking at it.'

'Hermione, it's just a scar,' said Ron. 'I've got plenty, Harry's got some. Hell, I've got to get a new eye and I'll probably look really freaky with it.'

'It's not just a scar...'

'Hermione, I'm not going to love any less for having a messed up leg.'

'I know...I just...I'll let you look at it, okay?,' said Hermione. 'Just not...right now. Maybe in a few days. I've been meaning to ask Madam Pomfrey if she can do something about the scarring.'

She snuggled up to him, and he felt the cotton of her pyjama bottoms brush against the skin of his knees. He held her close and felt her drift off, realizing once again he'd forgotten to tell her about the baby. He'd have to remember to do that this weekend, after the exams started.
N.E.W.Ts made O.W.Ls look like an easy pop quiz. They were longer, more comprehensive, and overall, just more brutal. After only one--Charms--Ron was certain his brain was splitting in two.

Indeed, the only student who seemed to emerge from the Charms N.E.W.Ts without looking like he'd been run over by a speeding train was Harry. Even Hermione looked a bit haggard for it, but Harry seemed almost refreshed, and there was an energy to the way he walked.

'What's with you?' said Ron, not sure if Harry's determination was a good sign or not.

'Just glad to get things over with,' said Harry. 'They build it up to be this huge thing but really, it's not so bad.'

Ron was about to make a sarcastic comment, but then decided against it.

He just killed Voldemort a few weeks ago. Exams are nothing!

Harry had the same alertness through the rest of the exams, and it was only when they were over that Ron noticed that Harry seemed to revert to his quieter routine, and the sadness in his eyes that had temporarily been absent during N.E.W.Ts was back.

'I guess now exams are over, he's got more time to brood,' Ron mused to Hermione, on the last Sunday of their final term at Hogwarts.

'That sounds logical to me,' said Hermione, as she scanned the contents of her acceptance letter as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries. 'Have you heard any news about Ginny today?'

'Nothing much,' said Ron. 'Just that's she's working with Mrs. Tonks on a daily basis, but no breakthroughs or anything.'

Hermione pursed her lips. 'Do you think they're going to be okay?' she said at last. 'Harry and Ginny, I mean? Not just...individually but...together?'

'They have to be,' said Ron fervently.

Hermione looked at him for a moment, and then nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'They have to be.'
Harry gazed around the dorm room. He hadn't spent a night in here since he'd gotten back from hospital. It seemed an alien place now; he could hardly believe he'd lived here for seven years. His bed was neatly made. His Firebolt leaned up against his desk, upon which were stacked his school books and his many notes for his exams. Hedwig was in her cage and Fawkes on his perch; Fawkes sang quietly to himself, but both birds were watching him. They knew something was happening.

It was the dinner hour, and everyone was in the Great Hall. The overall mood of the school had been quite somber, with students grieving over dead friends. Dennis Creevey and Parvati Patil had been granted leave to go home right after exams--both had insisted on taking them, most likely as a means to delay having to face the inevitable. Harry himself was about to face his inevitable, but as he looked at his enlarged schoolbag on his bed, which contained just enough clothes and money to get him to Switzerland, he felt slightly sick to his stomach.

Coward.

The word was unspoken and yet it rang in his ears. He was being a bloody coward. He was running away.

The letters were all written and slipped under the appropriate doors or sent to the appropriate residence. Lupin, Hagrid, McGonagall, Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys. The letters were all as personal as he could have made them, as apologetic, as pleading. Now there was nothing for him to do but see this through.

Of course, he'd have to leave a lot behind. Such as Hedwig and Fawkes. It was so presumptuous of him, really, to assume that Ron and Hermione would take care of his pets, but there was no way he could bring the birds with him: he didn't have the capacity at the moment to take care of anyone's needs but his own.

Selfish.

That was another word that hummed in his head, and yet the selfishness was unavoidable. He only hoped that in time, everyone would understand.

He'd told no one where he would be going; he didn't want anyone to come looking for him. He only said that he was going to the Continent. He had no plans to write, either. Not for a while. He just hoped nobody would hate him too much for that, for leaving them in the dark. Maybe they'd stop caring altogether, although he hoped not.

He'd written nothing to Ginny. It was far too soon for her to hear from him anyway, and in any case, what could he write to her that she didn't already know? Now that the time had come for Harry to go, he had accepted that he and Ginny were divided, that they would have to stay divided, until such time--if any--they could find their way back to each other. The thing that had brought him closer to anyone in his life was the thing that must stand between them now, like a wall, and only time and effort and pain and hope would bring it down.

Harry swallowed against the dryness in his throat, and checked his bedside clock. The dinner hour would end soon. Ron and Hermione would come looking for him. He had to go now.

He did a final quick check on the room, and removed his robes. Underneath he wore jeans, trainers and a jumper and t-shirt, and in the pocket of his jeans was the wand he'd borrowed from the school. The wand was too small for him, the grip was all wrong; he'd managed to do well on his exams with it all the same, but he knew he'd need a new wand as soon as possible. He only hoped he wouldn't get in too much trouble for stealing this one.

He shrank his Firebolt and shoved it into his schoolbag. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and realized he'd lost a bit of weight, which he could ill afford, considering how wiry he'd always been. His eyes looked a bit too large for his face, and there was his scar, which was smooth and white and didn't sting at all anymore. He'd have to worry about the Glamour Spells later, though. For now, he was in a hurry.

He'd left the Marauders' Map with Ron's letter, hoping that might ease his leaving just a bit, but he kept the Invisibility Cloak--it was too useful for him to leave behind, and in any case, it had belonged to his father.

Harry pulled on a jacket and pulled his schoolbag onto his shoulders; Hedwig hooted dolefully and Fawkes chirruped.

He looked back at them, and felt a sudden lump in his throat. He hadn't cried in a few weeks; he couldn't believe that looking at his pets had suddenly brought back that terrible burning in his eyes and throat.

'Sorry, guys,' he whispered. 'I...I'll see you some time.'

Hedwig gave him a reproachful chirp.

'Don't hate me, please,' said Harry. She hooted again and flew to him, landing heavily on his arm; she nipped his ear affectionately, to show him she understood, and flew back to her perch, as Fawkes began to sing again. Harry gazed at Fawkes for a moment, and felt his heart lighten slightly. Somewhere in the reaches of his ravaged soul, there was a glimmer of hope, and Fawkes's song fed it.

'I'll miss you,' said Harry, and before he really did start crying again, he flung the Cloak over himself, and left the room.
He flew on his Firebolt to Hogsmeade, which was crowded and bustling. There was a feeling of celebration in the air: Voldemort was finally gone, the wizarding world was free. Flying had been risky, but it was his only option. He'd had to fly carefully, and slowly, weaving through the trees, to avoid being seen. It had taken him nearly an hour just to get here without being spotted.

Harry moved quickly up the High Street, his hood pulled over his had, until he found a familiar hideaway. His heart gave a twinge as he remembered kissing Susan for the first time here. He wondered what it might have been like if she had stayed his girlfriend. He would have been happy, he supposed. Content. He might have even gone on to be an Auror. Maybe he and Susan would have had children someday. But she'd taken that decision out of his hands, and though logically she'd played no part in it, it was Susan's decision that had propelled Harry towards Ginny, and a relationship that from the beginning had been harder, more arduous, and yet, in the end, more powerful, more worth it. Harry realized he hadn't fought for Susan; maybe there was some part of him that knew it wasn't meant to be for them. But he was fighting for Ginny now. By fighting for himself, he was fighting for Ginny.

Harry pulled the Cloak off himself and lowered his heavy bag from his aching shoulders, and removed the wand from his jacket pocket. He wasn't looking forward to this part: Glamour Charms were painful, and he didn't have a mirror on him. He might wind up making himself look disfigured. But he couldn't very well go about as himself.

He raised the wand and pointed it to his face, and opened his mouth to say the incantation...

'Hello, Harry.'

Harry nearly leapt out of his skin. 'Bleeding Christ!' he croaked, jumping back, face to face with Griselda Hopkirk. 'You scared me half to death.'

'Sorry,' said Hopkirk, smiling enigmatically at him. 'So...you're slipping away, are you?'

Harry bristled, but he didn't answer. It wasn't as if she was wrong.

'I won't tell anyone I saw you,' she said.

'What are you doing here?' he asked, a bit rudely.

She seemed unfazed. 'Following you,' she said, 'and choosing my own escape route.'

'What?'

'Oh, come, Harry, you didn't expect me to stick around,' she said. 'Don't you remember McGonagall offering you my job?'

'I forgot all about that,' he admitted. 'I--'

'You were preoccupied,' said Hopkirk. 'Somehow that's not surprising. Anyway, I didn't expect to stay beyond a year. I was hired to help you, and I've done that, to the best of my ability. Therefore my work, as they say, is done.'

Harry swallowed again; he felt suddenly uncomfortable. He realized he was alone, in a dark space, with a succubus. Although Hopkirk had maintained control of herself with him at all times--barring the one instance of her letting him see her in her demonic form--Harry couldn't help but wonder if she'd sought him out for another, far more sinister reason.

'I'm not going to rape you and steal your soul, you know,' she said, smiling again.

'I know you're not,' Harry said quickly. He cast about desperately for a change of subject. 'Er...so...what will you do?'

'Go away,' said Hopkirk. 'Disappear...like you.'

'How do you know--'

'I've been watching you, Harry,' said Hopkirk. 'You've been dying to get away since the day you got back. For what it's worth, I don't blame you. I know how it feels to want to run.'

'I'm not running away,' Harry said defensively. 'I'm...I'm running towards something, okay?'

'I know,' said Hopkirk. 'I envy you that. Running towards something.'

She looked away, and Harry caught the sadness in her pale blue eyes.

'The connection between two human beings in love is powerful,' she said. 'Whether that love is filial, platonic, romantic...it is the thing that makes life worth living. Everyone wants that connection, even if they tell themselves they don't, even if they run from it. Especially if they can never have it.'

Harry pursed his lips, and a wave of pity came over him.

'You...you had that,' he said hesitantly. 'With my mum. A connection, I mean. You were friends.'

Hopkirk smiled sadly. 'Yes, we were. In our way.'

'Where will you go?' Harry asked.

'East,' she said. 'You?'

'Er...the Continent,' said Harry.

'I take it Ron and Hermione don't know,' said Hopkirk. Harry flushed.

'I left them notes,' he said.

'They'll understand eventually,' she said, letting her gaze wander, but suddenly she hissed, 'Severus.'

Harry froze for an instant and saw the dark form of Severus Snape limping up the High Street. Wasting no time, Harry ducked into some nearby trees and flung the Invisibility Cloak, which he'd stuffed into his jacked, over himself.

'Griselda?'

Snape's oily voice pierced the sultry night air, and he limped over to Hopkirk.

'Severus,' she said. 'Out for an evening constitutional, or are you seeking libations?'

Snape sneered at her. 'I'm looking for Potter, if you must know,' he said irritably. 'He seems to have done a disappearing act and naturally the school is frantic to find him.'

'He's done a runner, you say?' said Hopkirk.

'Yes, yes,' said Snape. 'Left a bunch of notes for his friends. They're all terribly upset. Minerva is ready to call in a Ministry search party. The stupid brat probably just went for a stroll around the lake, but as usual, everything must grind to a halt when Famous Harry Potter's in trouble.'

'Well, Severus, I think you can call off the search,' said Hopkirk.

'Oh, can I?'

'Yes, you see, I saw Potter only a few minutes ago,' said Hopkirk.

Harry nearly toppled over.

What is she doing? She can't give me away!

'Did you?' said Snape, through gritted teeth.

'Yes,' said Hopkirk. 'He was in an awful hurry. Said he had to get to the Continent and he Apparated off before I could dissuade him. He looked agitated, but he was otherwise fine. Said he was going to solve a problem he had, and told me that nobody should worry about him. He didn't elaborate on where he was going, I'm afraid, but he was almost certainly in his own right mind.'

'How comforting,' said Snape dryly. 'I suppose I should thank you for sparing me the agony of an all-night search. Perhaps you'd like to come back to the school with me and share the glorious news that Potter hasn't been abducted or murdered or has wandered off in a mad or drunken daze?'

'That sounds awfully tempting, Severus,' said Hopkirk, 'but perhaps it makes more sense for me to stand watch around here for a while. I don't mind, really.'

'I'll tell Minerva,' said Snape, and he turned on his heel, but stumbled. Hopkirk was there to catch him. He huffed impatiently and brushed her off.

'I'm quite fine, thank you,' he said, but Harry noticed a grimace of pain on the Potions Master's face.

'You know, Severus, if you need something a little stronger,' said Hopkirk, her tone now, if not friendly so much as helpful, 'I have just the thing for the pain.'

'No, thank you,' said Snape coldly. 'I'm sure it'll go away in time.'

'Suit yourself,' said Hopkirk coolly. 'I'll see you back at the castle shortly.'

Snape gave her a brisk nod and limped off, his bad leg stumping heavily on the soft ground.

'You can come out now, Harry,' said Hopkirk, and Harry slid from behind the trees, pulling back his Cloak.

'Thanks,' said Harry. 'For not giving me up, I mean.'

'You have important things to do, Harry,' said Hopkirk. 'Things that nobody should interfere with, and if I know the people who care about you at all, they might be tempted to interfere with what you're doing.'

'Is Snape okay?' Harry asked.

'Professor Snape,' said Hopkirk, 'and no he's not, but like most stubborn men he covers up his pain. He's wrong, though. Phantom pain never really goes away.'

'Phantom pain?' said Harry. 'What's that?'

'A rather unusual and ironic thing,' said Hopkirk. 'It's when an amputee feels pain in the limb that's no longer there.'

'What?' Harry asked, his eyes widening.

'Severus had his leg amputated below the knee, the morning after the battle in the Ministry,' said Hopkirk.

'He didn't say anything,' said Harry, amazed. 'I thought he just had a bad limp, that he was walking on...does he have a fake leg?'

'Yes,' said Hopkirk. 'He hasn't told too many people because the idea of anyone feeling sorry for him is appalling to him.'

'He was limping when...when he came in and gave Ron those potions,' said Harry. 'I remember.'

'Yes, his leg became infected, quite badly,' said Hopkirk. 'He might have been able to save it, but he gave all his potions to Ron.'

Harry's jaw dropped; for a moment he couldn't speak.

'Are you serious?' he finally managed. 'Snape...knew those potions could have saved his leg but he gave them to Ron? Why?'

'Your guess is as good as mine,' said Hopkirk. 'If you think I'm odd, I'm nothing compared to Severus Snape.'

Harry laughed shortly, but then realized he had to leave. 'I really need to get going.'

'Yes, you do,' said Hopkirk. 'I'll head back to the castle and make sure they don't send out an army to look for you.'

'Thanks,' said Harry. She turned to walk away, when Harry realized something. He knew it was pointless to ask, but he wanted to hear her say it, anyway.

'Professor,' he said.

'I'm not your professor anymore,' she said. 'I'm Griselda.'

'Griselda,' Harry said slowly. 'Will I see you again?'

She gave him a look, and the look itself could have told him the answer, but her lips formed the word.

'No.'

Harry nodded. He felt oddly sad; it wasn't that he wanted to see her again, not really. She was, well, a bit frightening and very odd, and she left him feeling very uncomfortable. And yet she was a major reason he was even standing there at all. She started off again, and he called her again.

'Yes?' she said.

'Thanks,' said Harry. 'For everything. For coming back and helping me.'

'Anything for Lily's son,' said Hopkirk.

'Will you...' Harry broke off; he knew he had to say it, knew he should even run back to the school and say it to his face.

'What?' said Hopkirk.

'Will you tell Snape--Professor Snape--I said thanks?' said Harry. 'For saving Ron, I mean?'

'I will,' said Hopkirk. 'I'm sure he'll accept your gratitude with the usual grace and courtesy.'

Harry laughed again, and Hopkirk backed away, fading into the darkness.

'Good luck, Harry Potter,' she said. 'I'll never forget you.' A flash of brilliant strawberry hair, of sad, pale blue eyes, and she was gone.

Harry stared after her for a moment before he remembered what he was supposed to be doing.

'I'm sorry, Ron, Hermione,' he whispered. He pointed the borrowed wand at himself and muttered a few spells, grimacing and grunting as the effects of the Glamours overtook his features. When it was over, his hands flew to his face; everything felt normal, or at least, as normal as could be expected. He felt his forehead; it was smooth, and he knew it had no scar on it. He pulled a strand of hair from his scalp and checked it under wand-light: non-descript light brown. His eyes should be the same color, and his nose a bit longer, his face a bit broader, his build a bit stockier. Yes. The disguise would work well enough to get him out of England.

He picked up his bag and stuffed his Cloak and wand into his jacket again, realizing that it was just a bit tight across the back. He heard the laughter coming from the Three Broomsticks, which was a quarter mile away. He saw the flickering lights of the inns and the shops, which were open in celebration of Voldemort's defeat. Harry stepped out of the trees and saw a pair of middle-aged wizards staggering drunkenly down the High Street, singing at the top of their lungs. Children were skipping rope nearby. Music was streaming from the Three Broomsticks and a family was looking in the window of Honeydukes, the children begging their parents to buy them some sweets.

Harry felt his throat close. He had grown to love this village. He looked down the High Street, and his throat bobbed as he looked at the splendor of Hogwarts castle, the place he'd called home for so long. It wasn't his home anymore, but maybe it could be again, someday. Maybe...

He heard one of the children giggle with glee, and saw the family go into Honeydukes, and he smiled through a thin film of tears. It was good, seeing people celebrate. He had given them that, and it was something. In spite of everything he'd suffered, there was that.

Harry glanced at Hogwarts one last time, and then walked slowly up the High Street and out past the village. He vanished into the trees beyond, and with a soft pop, he Disapparated.

A/N: Thanks as always to lina, and to Buckbeaky as well.