A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed. I appreciate it more than you could know.

The darkness seemed to envelop him as he ascended a small flight of gray stone steps to the manor, his head down and his jacket collar turned up. He didn't want to be seen here.

Glancing around him furtively, he raised his hand to the brass doorknocker and clenched his nimble fingers around the brass serpent. He shuddered slightly as the pounding of metal on metal seemed to echo across the static lawn behind him. He wasn't much for snakes anymore.

The door creaked open slightly, revealing a vacant looking woman sheathed in gauzy layers of black material. Harry supposed that once upon a time she had been perhaps been beautiful. Maybe there had once been a light in her eyes. Blanching slightly, he looked away, thinking of Hermione and just how close she had been to becoming the figure before him.

"Hello," she said dreamily, looking not so much at as through him. She could have just as easily been conversing with the wall. She smiled politely and walked towards the heart of the ground floor, Harry following in her wake, his heart heavy with a sadness he couldn't quite explain. It could have been Hermione. She had been so close…

The man he had come to call upon was seated on a bottle green leather couch, perhaps a tribute to his former House, a drink in one hand, the other resting at his side. Harry wondered where the blonde man's wand was hidden, and felt a rising reassurance as his dug in against his ribs.

He stood facing the man, his expression carefully neutral. He couldn't believe he was here, couldn't believe that the man seated across from him had agreed to see him. Most of all, he couldn't believe that Lucius Malfoy would dare to look him in the eye the way he was doing now.

"Mr. Potter," he drawled, letting the name roll about over his tongue as though savoring it. "We meet again." He made no move to shake Harry's hand, just leaned back against the cushions, sipping his drink and looking totally at ease and in command of the situation.

"Mr. Malfoy," Harry said simply, trying to quell the surge of hate the mere sound sent breaking through him. He may have hated the man before him and all that he represented, but, right now, he needed him.

"You may wonder," the older man said casually, "why I have agreed to see you here?"

Harry looked at him, his eyes never wavering. The blonde woman who had admitted him sat down next to Lucius, the vacant expression never leaving her face. She smiled slightly and began to hum. Malfoy glared at her, but she seemed oblivious and just sat there, rocking back and forth as she hummed her wordless tune.

At last, Malfoy spoke again. "My image, shall we say, has suffered a bit, I am afraid, since the fall of the Dark Lord. When word reached me that you would like a meeting, I felt it would be ill advised for me to turn down your request." He sighed haughtily, his voice thoroughly annoyed as he continued, "You might be very public in your denunciations of me were I not to graciously offer you my hospitality. I daresay that public opinion of you is very high at this point."

Harry said nothing, just continued to stare, feeling as though he still held the upper hand and unwilling to give it up just yet.

"What are you doing here?" Malfoy asked at last, a slight crack in his smooth voice. Harry remembered those eyes peering at him through the slits of a Death Eater's hood and bristled slightly before claming himself once more. Those days were over. Voldemort had fallen, and now only a handful of his supporters, those with enough gold to influence the Ministry's policy on punishment, were left at large, and even they were alienated from one another by an unwillingness to completely besmirch their names.

"I'm looking for answers."

Malfoy shrugged, continuing to sip his drink serenely. Harry still had not spotted where the other man was hiding his wand. "I have no idea what you're talking about, I'm afraid," the blond drawled at last.

"What is Draco doing at Hogwarts?"

Harry thought he spotted a malicious glimmer in Malfoy's eyes, but it was gone in less than a moment. Lucius shook his head, a tight sort of smile on his face. "Jealous are we of my son's appointment? Think everything should be yours, Potter, just because most of the world believes you're a hero?" The malicious gleam was back in his cold gray eyes. Harry said nothing. The words were meaningless.

Lucius waited a moment before speaking again. "Just because fame bought you a spot on some second rate quidditch team doesn't mean that it can bring you everything. Certainly it hasn't made up for the abysmal marks you obtained while at Hogwarts, has it?"

"My marks are none of your business, Mr. Malfoy, and in case you haven't checked lately, Oxfordshire is ranked third in the league." He stopped for a moment, letting his cold voice chill the air a bit before continuing. "That doesn't matter now, though. I just want to know why Draco is at Hogwarts."

Malfoy's face contorted into a hybrid of malevolence and glee. "It seems that, due to unfortunate circumstances, there was an opening for that particular position. Draco, being the good citizen that he was raised to be, offered to step in and fill the post." He shrugged. "I don't know why it's any of your concern."

"He doesn't want to be there." There was no sympathy for his long time nemesis in his voice, only the chilling revelation of fact. Somewhere, there was a reason. Draco had all but told him as much. He just had to keep his temper long enough to find it. He willed himself not to think of the destruction, the lives lost, the hopes shattered as he held the gaze of the steely eyes before him. He willed himself to breath, willed himself to be calm.

Lucius raised his eyebrows slightly, just slightly, as though the statement had caught him off guard, and then pursed his lips, replying. "I suppose we all must do things we don't want to now and then. Surely, you of all people must realize that."

"Voldemort murdered my parents." He felt a cruel sort of glee leaping through his stomach at the contortion of Malfoy's face at the mention of his former master's name. "He deserved everything he got. I never wanted to kill anyone, Mr. Malfoy, but I had only one choice if I wanted to live, and one choice is no choice." He tried not to turn away, tried not to relive the pain, not to succumb to the nightmare. Breath. Steady. His glance never wavered.

"No matter," said Malfoy smoothly, letting the subject lull itself away. The woman continued to hum, looking as though she had taken no notice of the heated exchange before her. Harry wondered how long she had been this way. "Draco is at Hogwarts now, and doing an admirable job, so I am told. With any luck, the position will become permanent."

Harry looked at him in askance. "Why would that be luck? Draco doesn't want to be there, and that would mean that Snape wouldn't be returning."

Lucius shrugged. "Draco must do my bidding for me now and then, Mr. Potter. I gave him life. He owes me that much. For now, that means returning to Hogwarts to restore our good name. As for Severus, I am afraid his retirement may have come early." He leaned back and sipped his drink again. The woman beside him had stopped humming and stared off into the distance, her cornflower blue eyes meeting Harry's for the briefest of moments. He would have sworn something had flashed inside of her.

Minutes passed in silence. Lucius finished his drink, never looking away from The Boy Who Lived. "Was there anything else, Mr. Potter?" His voice had a cold, formal sort of finality to it that matched perfectly the aura of the room.

"If you had anything to do with Snape…" Harry let his voice trail off, not caring about the man in question so much as about Hermione. No one knew he was here tonight. He had hoped to bring them a morsel of news, and despaired that he would be walking away with nothing more than he had entered with.

Lucius arched his eyebrows once more. "I have much to do with many things, Mr. Potter, but you would have incredible difficulty proving it. Good day, Mr. Potter. Narcissa, show him out."

Draco Malfoy's mother rose daintily to her feet, seeming as though she were floating and somehow ethereal. She swept from the room without a backwards glance, Harry following in her wake, feeling awkward and revoltingly stupid in the presence of such sadness. He wondered what Lucius Malfoy had done to her.

The door opened as though it had decided to do so of its own accord. Harry, not knowing quite how to act, waved slightly, wondering just how far gone the woman before him was. For a moment, he felt a twinge of empathy for Draco. He turned his back to leave when a faint whisper, soft as the spring breeze halted him.

"He's going to kill someone. I don't remember who. Someone, though. A friend." She smiled as she said this, her eyes mostly vacuous, but glimmering with the slightest fire of life. A moment later, the ember was gone and she looked much as she had before. "Were you coming or going?" she asked as he stood in the threshold of the manor, rooted by a pity such as he had never before felt."

"Going." He said firmly, turning away from the terrible sight in the door. She seemed beautiful no more, just empty, hopeless and defeated, bound to the home she lived in by the bars of her own soul. Were you coming or going? She was just there. He felt soiled, somehow, and hurried across the lawn, glad that he, unlike her, had been given that choice.

"It's Malfoy," Harry said, sprinting into the kitchen that evening, surprised to find Hermione alone at the table. "Where's Ron?" He added as an after thought.

"Upstairs," she said glumly. Her hair, which she had taken to fixing since rising from the ashes of her depression once again hung in lank, unkempt strands about her sunken face. Her eyes were tinged with red as though she had been crying heavily.

"What's he doing there?" Ron had graciously continued to sleep on the couch, leaving Hermione his room.

She didn't answer, just looked away and blushed. "I think you'll have to ask him," she said finally, a hint of a crack in her soft voice.

Harry shrugged slightly, intending to go up later. "I want to Malfoy's house this afternoon after practice and talked to his father. I know it's him that's trying to kill Snape. He didn't tell me, but I know."

Hermione didn't look up, just stared into the teacup she was sipping from. "I know that, Harry."

He felt a flush rising in his cheeks that was a mixture of embarrassment and fury. "If you knew, then why didn't you tell me? It would have saved me a bit of trouble." His eyes glinted hard and jade-like in the soft evening light of the room.

She said nothing, just traced the rim of her cup with her index finger, looking as though she were torn between tears and apathy. He moved back slightly, not wanting to watch her crumble away to dust once again. He felt a surge of fury at her sudden delicacy. She had always been strong and brave, a worthy Gryffindor.

He heard footsteps creaking through the living room and looked up as Ron came tottering in, a glass held loosely in one hand and the smell of alcohol stale on his breath. His hair was mussed to one side as though he had slept upon it, and his clothes were wrinkled and disheveled. He too appeared to have been crying.

"Would someone like to tell me what's been going on?" Harry asked, now feeling thoroughly put out and just a bit anxious. He was certain that it wasn't good news.

Ron looked at him, a stranger in his eyes. Harry couldn't even see his friend, so deeply was he buried beneath the psychotic rage that flashed from his liquid brown pupils. "No sense in asking her, mate," he slurred slightly, wobbling until he reached the countertop where he could brace himself. "She wouldn't even tell you if you were about to die." He upended the glass and gulped as though there were still something in its dry bottom.

Hermione made a slight whimpering sound, but said nothing.

"What are you talking about, Ron?" Harry touched the red head's shoulder, trying to ground him. He wondered if this was real or the alcohol talking. Gently, he tried to pry the glass away but found he wasn't strong enough. Ron clutched it like a lifeline, his eyes still glinting crazily.

"Go on Hermione, tell Harry the universe's plan for me." He looked as though he wanted to spit on her and she cringed, drawing her chair away from him slightly. "Go on," he prompted her, looking slightly more lucid and sane. Harry continued to hold his arm.

"It was a Prophecy," Hermione pleaded to him, begging him to empathize. He had told his friends all about the Prophecy concerning him and Voldemort before that terrible final battle had taken place. Perhaps she felt that he, above all others, should believe. In that hope, she was correct.

"What was the Prophecy, Hermione?" Harry asked her gently, not wanting to upset anyone further. Ron still looked as though he were moments away from going completely mad, and Hermione looked like a caged animal cringing in the corner.

"Yeah, Hermione," Ron sang out, sounding almost jovial. "Tell us about the Prophecy again. I'm just dying to hear."

She moved her lips, but spoke so quietly that Harry could not hear. Releasing Ron, he stepped forward and knelt in front of her chair. "Please say it again," he said, trying to ignore Ron's grunting in the background. He, Harry, was going to destroy every bottle of alcohol in the house before the night was over.

She looked up at him as though haunted, and whispered the words to him. Her voice took on a husky quality, cold and biting as though she were speaking from beyond the grave. Harry felt a chill sliding down his spine and didn't know which of the two to feel sorrier for: Hermione for living with that terrible secret or Ron, whom he knew must be the one she loved, for never knowing.

"Oh," he said stupidly. The silence was absolute. Hermione continued to cringe. Ron went on glaring. Harry sat dumbly, all powers of speech seeming to have left him.

At last, Harry spoke, telling them of his visit to Lucius Malfoy. "So it has to be him that's trying to kill Snape," he concluded at last, hoping that Hermione wouldn't say that she already knew as much and send Ron into another rage. He sighed to himself, relieved, as she remained silent.

"Great," Ron said. "Now I don't only know that I'm going to die to save people who aren't even worth saving, I know who's probably going to kill me, too." Not dropping his glass, he swept from the room, pounding up the stairs and slamming the door to his room.

Hermione looked stunned and horrified. Harry didn't even know what to say, he just opened all of the cabinets and poured the contents of every liquor bottle in the Weasley household down the drain in the stainless steel kitchen sink.

Snarling, he ripped the Chudley Cannons bed sheet away from his mattress, tearing one corner on the sharp edge of his metal bed frame as he threw the material into a heap in front of his closet. He went around the room in similar fashion, upending a chair, knocking a dresser askew, destroying knickknacks. Somehow, none of it was therapy to him. He felt ashamed of himself when he was finished and sat down on the edge of the bare mattress, his head in his hands, and wept.

She was gone. Whoever the girl downstairs was, it was not Hermione Granger. Not as he remembered her anyway. This girl was deceitful and selfish. Cunning, like the man she had married. How long had she known? From the very beginning? Had their whole relationship, that angry, resentful love that was never acknowledged as love, been a farce, a cosmic joke on him? Had she chosen him to love because she knew that the one she loved must also be the one to die? Had she wanted him to die? How long?

He felt as though the walls of the Burrow were crashing in around him, collapsing and suffocating his bleeding heart. His chest hurt, pressure building inside as though he were about to explode with a tremendous scream of pain and rage. He bit his lip until he drew the coppery taste of blood and continued to bite down. Somehow, the pain made him hurt a little less.

The pounding of his heart beat a vicious tattoo in his head. He was on a runaway train with no one at the helm. Things were unraveling faster and faster. He hated Snape, always had. He loved the memory of Hermione. He hated Hermione herself. He was alone and drowning.

There was a soft knock on the door. He ignored it, hoping that whoever was outside would walk away, leaving him to grieve in peace. He wanted a drink, but he lacked the will to get up and make it. He wondered how easy it would be to just fade away into nothingness.

The knocking grew more insistent, until it seemed to surround him, coming from everywhere at once. The room was closing in around him again. He put his hands over his ears and screamed permission for the visitor to enter, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his mind tottering precariously on the edge of reason.

"Ron?"

He clamped his hands tighter, squeezed his face tighter. He couldn't answer, couldn't look. The pain was taking over.

He felt a hand seizing around his wrist, freeing his ears. Slowly, he unscrewed his face and looked into a pair of emerald eyes. "Harry," he whispered softly, as though the man before him were nothing more than an apparition.

Harry shook his head slightly, a strand of his always messy black hair falling into his eyes. Unconsciously, he brushed it back, letting go of Ron's arm. The red head made no move to cover his ears again. He had been freed from the darkness inside, if only for a moment. "Do you want to talk about it?" Harry asked softly, concern dripping from his voice.

"I can't," Ron replied, a blush creeping into his cheeks. "I don't know what to say." He looked down at the mattress, stained and yellowed by the years of poverty it had seen. He picked at a small ball of lint, flicking it away to the floor. "It hurts," he abridged his feelings as though he were referencing a skinned knee rather than his heart. It had never hurt so deeply.

Harry said nothing, just sat stoically beside him, lending him comfort with his presence. He, too, was picking lint balls away from the mattress. "You ripped your sheet," he replied at last.

"It doesn't matter," Ron murmured. "It was old." It was part of another life, a life where he might have been happy. "It's funny," he said after a while. The sky was growing light again, the first hints of day peeking over the horizon. Still, everything was bathed in blurry shades of gray. It would be some time yet before enough light was diffused to define colors and edges.

"What is?" Harry prompted him.

"I always envied you, you know. I knew your life was hard, but I wanted it because it was, you know, different. Special. You were born with a purpose. I never felt like I really had one. I was just another poor, redheaded Weasley. Nothing I ever did was special. I felt like your sidekick. I only mattered because of you." He looked down again, not knowing or caring if he had said too much. The night had left them both in its shadow, and his mind had cleared of the earlier inebriation.

Harry laughed shortly, but it was not a pleasant sound. "You envied me? I wanted nothing more than to be you, with a family that loved me and was really mine. I didn't ask to be The Boy Who Lived."

"No one ever said you did, mate."

"Didn't they?" His gaze met Ron's for the first time. "They didn't have to say it. All those years, they thought I was cracked up. Maybe the avada kedavra had addled my brains. They thought I wanted fame, glory. I just wanted Voldemort to die." He sighed. "Sorry, mate. You'd think I'd be better at keeping that to myself by now. We're talking about your problems here, not mine."

Ron shook his head, a hint of a rueful smile on his lips. "Can't you see how similar they are now, Harry? It was you or Voldemort who had to die. It's me or Hermione and Snape. If I don't die for them there'll be 'mass destruction' the Prophecy said. I don't feel like I have much of a choice."

Harry nodded empathetically. "Until I listen to the Prophecy about Voldemort, I just wanted revenge on him. I always felt like it would be Dumbledore who finished him off in the end, though. I always felt like he would be there to protect me. It was our war, but I was just another solider. All of the sudden, I felt exposed. I knew it was Him or Me. I couldn't hide anymore. I felt trapped because there was no choice."

"I just always thought there would be something more for me, some purpose, something that would set me apart. I never thought it would be this, though. I never thought I would have to die for it."

"Do you think it's worth dying for?"

He sighed. "I would have done anything for Hermione until today. I loved her. I don't know how I feel anymore. Confused. I don't want to be a part of this, but I can't escape. Like you said, there's no choice. If I let it go, how many will suffer because of it? What does mass destruction mean? Why did it have to be me? Why did she have to change? Why couldn't she just once take a step away from what's true?"

"The same reason you can't. You wouldn't be able to live with yourself."

"I always loved her." His eyes grew softer, farther away. "Deeper than bones."

"I know."

"At least she loved me too. Once." He sounded close to tears again, and stood up.

Harry followed suit. "Maybe she still does, but she can't. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be allowed."

"Maybe." Ron walked around the room, straightening the furniture as Harry excused himself to use the restroom. He felt less pain now, more numbness. People used words like love so lightly, but he felt so deeply, only for her. The memories repeated again and again as he moved to pick up the discarded sheets. He couldn't lie to himself, couldn't lie to her. He had loved her always, even though he had known for so long that they were through. The plans he made had always had her in them. Somewhere. He tried to keep her in the background, but she would inevitably come swimming into view. It had always been he that had been in the background of his own life.

Deftly, he flipped the sheets over the bed, trying to smooth them out, make them right again. The hole remained, though, refusing to be mended with a flick of his wand. He felt like crying as he looked at it, knowing that it had been torn apart in less than a moment and would never be perfect again.