Pulling away from Hermione, Harry started walking away. He heard his name being call, but couldn't stop: she said those things, but he knew she didn't mean any of them. He didn't feel like going back to muggle London nor changing back to James. His feet led him to his flat without Harry even noticing. Opening the door, Harry was immediately tackled by Dobby.

"Dobby is so happy to see Master Harry, sir! Where did he-"

He was quickly cut off as Harry left, going up the stairs. He flicked his hand and the door locked. Slumping on his bed, his eyes looked up at the ceiling of his room. Soon, his bright emerald eyes that once shone with unshed tears were now looking rather dead and pale, like as when he came back from defeating Voldemort.

His eyes were dull and dead for a different reason: having done what he did and became: being a murder. He had fallen trapped to Dumbledore by then end of his sixth year and there was no way to pull out.

His eyes now were an image of sadness and aloneness. He had a chance to live a normal life after defeating Voldemort…. if he had just asked Hermione to go out with him, but instead-he didn't. He could have had anything he wanted, but he knew he didn't deserve it, nor did he know that Hermione had felt the same way. Now he knew that she did, though he couldn't stand to be yelled at like she had been doing so to James.

Pulling himself into the shell that he had done after Sirius' death, Remus' death, Ron's death, and everybody else's, a single lone tear traced the very familiar path down his cheek, off his chin, and down onto the bed.

((... Hermione ...))

Hermione walked into the house. Soon, a hysteric Dobby rammed into her.

"What's the matter, Dobby?" she asked.

"Master Harry came home," he hiccupped, "and ignored Dobby. Dobby was bad, very bad, 'Ne."

"No, Dobby. You weren't bad. Harry is just going through a very tough time right now. I'm going to go talk to him right now, Dobby. I'll be down later."

Making her way up the green-carpeted stairwell that Harry had just made his way up not but moments ago; she made her way to his room. Trying the doorknob, it wouldn't turn. Sighing, she pulled out her wand and tapped the doorknob muttering a soft Alohomora.

Upon entering, she took a deep breath, not sure of what she'd tell him or what he'd do. Pushing the door open very slowly (inches at a mere moment), she took in the sight before her: Harry, looking up at the ceiling with a tear going slowly down a path she'd seen it take several times before. Expecting more to come, she just stood, not wanting to make herself present quite yet.

When Harry didn't move, she knew something was wrong. Slowly edging her way to the bed, she looked at Harry. Slowly letting out a breath she'd been holding in, she just realized that he was a shell- again- like so many times before: sixth year, after Sirius' death and on his 18th birthday, when he had to battle Voldemort who took away Remus, Ron, Ginny being in St. Mungo's, Dumbledore, Tonks…. the list just goes on….

That night, Harry became a murder to two people. Not only did he kill Voldemort, he killed one more. He killed Dumbledore, oh yes he did. Now with the weight of having to kill a reigning dark lord off his hands, he had the weight of killing- not only one, but two people.

Climbing onto the bed, she never took her eyes off of Harry in hope that he'd all of a sudden jump up and shout, "surprise!" or something along the lines of that. But he never did. She crawled along and up to Harry, using his chest as a pillow. Running her hand through his unruly jet-black hair that she had grown to love, she muttered an 'I love you, Harry,' before finally wiping away the tear that had fallen from his left eye.

Getting up for a moment, she gently laid a kiss on his forehead before finally took his hand and laid her head back down on his chest. Covering his hand with feathery light kisses, she held onto it like it was her last lifeline. She fell into a deep slumber, hoping to wake up and Harry was his old self again.

((...time lapse...))

Finally waking up to a bright light in her face, Hermione stretched and wiggled to get in a more comfortable position again. Her eyes suddenly fluttered open. Wondering what her comfy pillow was, she turned and looked to see Harry in the same position as before she fell asleep. Her mood immediately saddened. Giving a quick sigh, she sat up and called for Dobby. Seconds later, he appeared at the foot of the bed.

"What can Dobby do for 'Ne?"

"Can you please have breakfast ready for me in half an hour? I'll have it in here if you don't mind," she said, putting on a false smile.

"Dobby never minds, oh no! It will be ready for you, Ne!"

"Harry," whispered Hermione. "Harry? Oh, please, Harry, talk to me! You never let me have a say in all of this!" she said, exasperated.

Harry blinked. He never thought of that. What was her say? That he was a total and complete jerk? He snorted.

"No, Harry, you're not a jerk," she said before being pushed out of Harry's mind.

"Never thought you would sink that low, Hermione," said Harry and sat up.

"Well," she said in a huff and sat down, "at least you're talking to me. Now would you mind listening to me?"

He glared. "Fine."

"I'm going to tell you a story," said Hermione and sat down.

"I'm not going to-" started Harry, but Hermione interrupted.

"Just listen," she said and pushed him back down.

"I'm going to tell you a story." And so she started.