A/N: Many thanks to Procyon for the beta and all the information about lobster picks and champagne. I would also like to thank those who've stuck around after basically six months of nothing.

Chapter 19

"What do we do?"

Harry crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the fireplace, watching the flames crawl about the edges and consume the writing. "I'll have to meet him then."

Severus swore under his breath. "Idiot!" he hissed. "If I hadn't hear the Sorting Hat's decision myself, I'd be sure you were in Gryffindor."

Wouldn't you be surprised, Harry thought, feeling somewhat amused by the look of annoyance on Severus's face. "What do you propose, then?"

"Propose?" Severus echoed harshly, angrily. He clenched his fists and began to pace. "Something with slightly more tact and less foolishness that waltzing into a dinner party hosted by the Blacks, a bunch of inbred knuckleheads whose house elves fantasize about fixing their heads next to coat racks!"

Harry laughed. Severus whirled around. "I do not see at all what you find so amusing," he drawled coldly.

"Well," said Harry, wondering to himself why he was so amused anyway, "you are a funny man, Severus."

Severus gave a very humorless smile. "Thank you. I have always wanted to be a laughingstock."

"No! That's not what I meant—"

"I know," Severus interrupted dryly, "and you are a very gullible man, Jonathan Frost." His brows drew down in thoughtfulness. "I suppose I could go with you, though I can't say I'm on very good terms with the Blacks—"

"That's the most idiotic thing I've heard in ages!" Harry snarled. "You're definitely not going with me. Remember what happened the last time we met Voldemort together?"

For a moment, Harry wanted to slap himself for bringing it up, but Severus's face did not seal itself into inscrutability as Harry feared it would.

"Tomorrow night," Severus muttered. "I'll have time to brew for you a few protective potions, to make sure you aren't poisoned by something slipped into your wine, which isn't very difficult when it comes to you…"

"You needn't worry about me," Harry said softly.

Severus glared in exasperation. "You were the one who emphasized how terrible and dangerous this 'Dark Lord' was."

"Yes, but if you want someone to destroy your life, nobody is better than Albus Dumbledore."

Severus paused and Harry's stomach sank as he met the fathomless darkness of Severus's gaze. The inscrutability of his eyes was like a cold blade, deftly and silently chilling the warmth that had lingered in the air between them, freezing their connection and snapping it. Harry found himself cursing himself for being so stupid as to invoke that look, but before he could open his mouth to explain, Severus interrupted.

"Do I presume correctly that this is one of those things you simply can't explain?"

"I'm sorry, Severus, but—"

"Yes, I know," Severus said, and Harry felt all words leave his mouth when he felt two of Severus's fingers gently pressed against his lips. "Don't say anything."

Harry fell silent, all the nerves in his body concentrated at the point where Severus's fingers were touching his lips.

"I'm not very fond of listening to apologies or excuses, no matter how heartfelt they are," Severus said quietly.

Harry nodded slightly and, before the fingers could slip away, held them to his lips with his own hand. Severus's eyes widened in surprise, and a tinge of color rose in his cheeks. Harry parted his lips slightly, and he heard, with a sudden acceleration of his heartbeat, the hitch of Severus's breath.

I want this moment never to end, Harry thought hazily, feeling the incredible longing reopen in his chest. Never—ever— His other hand crept behind Severus's back, feeling the warm, bony body under the uneven fabric of robes, and he pressed forward, giving a hoarse moan that disappeared against the trembling hand against his mouth—

Severus pulled back. Harry let go, swallowed, trying to read Severus's face.

"This is—inappropriate behavior," Severus managed, looked away, and walked across the room to his bed. "It's ridiculous to engage ourselves so when you're only forty-eight hours from what is most likely a very unwholesome end for you."

Harry touched his lips, still burning with the memory, and desperately caught Severus's gaze. It was only for a brief moment before the other man looked away quickly, but Harry felt the answer come to him as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Severus wanted reassurance. That was what he needed—something he could hold to in a world that left him drifting like flotsam upon the great grey sea, something that let him know in no uncertain terms that he was loved—yes, loved.

Can't I just tell him that, and haven't I told him that before? Harry thought wildly, and was a moment away from grabbing Severus by the shoulders and mashing their mouths together. But he stopped himself. No, Severus was a Slytherin, born and bred with ideals a family of his situation had never been able to meet. There had to be something more… ritualistic. Tangible. Words, after all, sometimes have two meanings.

A wedding ring? Harry wondered, and nearly puked. Well, maybe Severus would appreciate something like that. His mind conjured a picture of a gothic-looking monstrosity, studded with emeralds and other dangerously glittering gems. Eh, probably not, Harry thought, feeling rather confused. Where would I get one anyway? And to give it to him—?

The feeling came back, stronger than ever, the urge to simply clasp Severus's body against his and forget the world around them. I've so little time left, Harry thought, his gaze fixed on Severus sitting quietly on the bed. One day? Two days? And there are things I must do before I leave…

"…ask him for some help in the matter?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

Severus's brows drew down impatiently. "I said, since you obviously have difficulty helping me raise the caliber of my Occlumency abilities, we might ask Christolph for some help in the matter."

"Christolph?"

"Yes, Christolph. Please do not tell me that you not only suffer from stupidity but from amnesia as well—"

"No, of course I remember! But…" He trailed off. He did not particularly want to think about Christolph, especially because those thoughts were always associated with his impending fate and the fact that, no matter how he phrased it and laced it with excuses, he was lying to Severus. Severus knew it too and had—in his way—forgiven Harry. But that changed nothing. "Sure, why not," Harry agreed reluctantly.

"Well?" Severus said archly, and Harry reached into his bag to retrieve the slate grey book.

As it turned out, Christolph had little to say about how to learn Occlumency.

'Do you know how to whistle?'

Harry and Severus had exchanged puzzled looks. 'Whistle?'

'Yes—you know, making a sound from the effluent of air through pursed lips?'

"I do," said Harry.

"I don't," Severus said coldly, making it sound like some sort of vulgar and distasteful habit.

'I do; Severus doesn't. What does this have to do with anything?'

'Learning Occlumency is similar to learning to whistle. It's very difficult to force it, and just as difficult to teach, but generally, with enough practice, it clicks.'

"Enough practice?" Severus muttered. "We've got about—oh, forty seven hours for practice…"

'We'd like an alternative that doesn't take quite so much time,' Harry wrote, 'but thanks anyway.'

'You're welcome. I do hope you two lovebirds aren't planning anything terribly dangerous.'

Severus had snorted slightly, but, as Harry shut the book and slipped it back into his bag, he noticed that Severus blushed only slightly, and looked far less uncomfortable than he had before. That's an improvement, Harry thought and hid a smile.

Unfortunately, Harry did not manage to touch Severus much more that night. Severus had dug out a Potions periodical and lost himself in articles about the newest advances in Dreamless Sleep Potion ("You may not care about being severely sub par, Frost, but I do"). Harry had tried to keep pace with whatever he could find to keep himself awake, short of conjuring himself a mug of coffee, but he had been dismally unsuccessful.

Flattering that a magazine about Potions is more exciting than I, Harry thought grumpily as he made the sheets comfortable.

"Night, Severus."

Severus grunted.

Why am I even waiting? Harry wondered sleepily. Why don't I just go up to him and kiss him on the mouth, down to his neck…? Harry could see in his mind the smooth, pale skin, uncovered by the robes that slipped off like a glimmering sheen of water… I'd kiss down his chest, down his stomach… A fuzzy image arose, one patched together from memories and fantasies, and with a vague smile on his face, Harry fell asleep.

.o0o.

The door to Number 12, Grimmauld Place looked the same as it ever had, though the Muggle flats around it seemed somewhat newer. The only difference Harry could see immediately was was a small ensign of the Noble House of Black on a plaque above the number on the door.

"Here we are," Lucius Malfoy said, giving a brief, distasteful glance at the shabby Muggle houses on either side.

"It looks like another house," Harry said.

"That is the whole point," Malfoy said in a long-suffering sneer as the doors to the carriage flung open.

"Please, this way, Masters," an old house-elf wheezed, its eyes rolling slightly as it bowed its head to the ground. Harry followed, wondering where he had seen that elf before; its features were distinctly familiar.

"This way, Masters, this way," said the house-elf as he opened the door. Malfoy slipped in, and Harry followed suit. "May I take your cloaks—?"

"Yes, hurry up," Malfoy said impatiently, undoing the clasp.

"Manny is hurrying, Manny is bad elf, too slow for masters," the house-elf wheezed, reaching up with old trembling fingers as he hung Malfoy's cloak. "And you, Master?"

"Thank you, Manny," Harry said, unclasping his cloak.

"No! Mustn't thank Manny!" the house-elf squealed, snatching Harry's cloak and hugging it desperately. Harry watched with disgust as a large drop of snot descended from the house-elf's nose onto the cloak. Oh well, Harry thought, it's only a transfigured sheet anyway.

The house-elf, meanwhile, seemed to be getting even more distressed. "Manny bad to be thanked, bad, very bad!" He sniffed tragically and then turned his suddenly adoring eyes upward. "Manny wants his head there on the wall, with all the other loyal house-elves…"

Ah, Harry thought, lips curling in contempt. So that was where he'd seen that house-elf before. A mounted head on a battered wall. Harry moved down the hall, following Malfoy to a larger room lit by what seemed like a floating palace of candles. Now, he thought, scanning the room carefully, where in this chamber of inbred purebloods could Voldemort be…?

The party itself was actually very similar to the one at Malfoy's, much to Harry's discomfiture. Though nobody wore masks, the dim light transfigured faces into distorted shadows, and the stiff dress robes seemed just as bizarre as costumes. There, too, was music—floating out of a room to the side. Once again, it was the Goldberg Variations.

Coincidence, or Voldemort's intention? Harry wondered, wandering into the room with the harpsichord. Sitting at the instrument was not Lestrange but Narcissa Black; she played as though she was preening, and Lucius Malfoy was standing beside her, smiling smugly. The rendition was far less compelling than Lestrange's, but provided a ghostly echo. The image of Lestrange's naked body—sprawled glistening and cold before the fire—flashed through Harry's mind and sparked an unnamable flame in his gut.

Harry stiffened; someone was approaching.

"Master Frost?"

Harry turned and looked critically at the man who addressed him. His features bore the vaguely noble look of a purebred lineage, but were otherwise unnoteworthy. It was not a face Harry recognized.

"Yes?"

"Lord Voldemort desires to see you."

Harry waited for the old fear to snap through his body like a reflex. It came like a phantom pain, twisting only in the memory of things, giving way to an entirely different feeling—one that might have been cold anticipation. "Lead the way, if you please."

"Certainly, Master Frost," the other man replied, bowing low. He turned and began weaving through the crowd. Harry followed, glancing around and wondering if his departure was noticed, wondering if this—perhaps—would be the end of it all.

"This way," said the man—servant, Death Eater, slave—as he opened a door into what Harry recognized as the library.

Harry entered, stretching his senses. No Voldemort.

The man walked up to a bookshelf and tapped twice. Harry felt a twinge of magic as the bookshelf slid away, revealing a heavy mahogany door. I've never seen this before, he thought, moving closer with interest.

The man pushed open the door. Red light flooded out, and through his squinted eyes, Harry saw a table of black wood laid like a coffin in the otherwise empty room.

"Welcome, Mr. Frost," Voldemort said, his eyes a strange half-red in the firelight.

Harry walked in. The chair closest to him drew back, pulled by an invisible hand. "Good evening, Voldemort," said Harry, taking his seat. Remembering the dinners he had been forced to attend with various Ministry dignitaries, he took the cloth napkin and spread it over his lap.

The monster smiled. "It is, is it not? Jiggins, please bring us our dinner."

"Yes, my Lord," said the man—Jiggins—with a deep bow.

Voldemort smiled. His teeth are very even, Harry thought. "I hope you and your friend enjoyed my gifts. I had hoped, though, that you would wear the white gold crown I had given you. It suits you very well."

Harry thought to the circlet sitting in a drawer by his bed. "Forgive me. I had forgotten it."

"Ah, no matter," Voldemort said, eyes glinting. "I have another present for you that would suit just as well. Jiggins?"

"Yes, Master," said Jiggins. He appeared at Harry's side, holding in his hand a large platter that was covered by a metal dome.

"Thank you," Harry said, after Jiggins had placed the platter before him. I wonder what's inside, Harry thought, as Jiggins disappeared. Why isn't there a platter for Voldemort?—oh, there's Jiggins, with another one of these platters.

"Thank you, Jiggins," Voldemort said. Jiggins slipped back into the shadows. "Shall we eat, Mr. Frost?"

"By all means," Harry said. He gripped the handle of the dome—perhaps there's something horrible in it, he thought, like a human head—and lifted.

"I hope you're just as fond of lobster as I am," Voldemort said, as the dome removed itself from his plate and levitated away into darkness. He picked up the lobster pick that lay on the left side of his platter. "They're especially good when seasoned with a bit of white wine."

"Yes, delicious," Harry said, picking up his utensil and poking the red-shelled crustacean. It really was a lobster, it seemed. The dome he had set aside rose into the air and floated away.

"Champagne?"

Harry tensed at the tendril of magic he could feel floating up from the table, but a wineglass merely materialized next to his plate. "Yes. Please."

Jiggins poured out the champagne, then walked down the table and did the same for Voldemort. The Dark Lord lifted his glass.

"To the pure-blood cause?"

"To the cause," Harry said simply. He sipped the golden fluid, and as the liquid tingled down his throat, he felt Severus's magic leaping up and wrapping around the champagne.

"Ah, champagne—the ambrosia of the gods," Voldemort murmured.

Harry made a noncommittal noise, still savoring the afterglow of Severus's magic. True to his word, Severus had brewed a potion to ward off poisons and had watched Harry drink it down to the last drop. Harry recognized the concoction; it was one of Severus's inventions, one that would later be familiar to all Order members.

"Be careful," Severus had said shortly while Harry had transfigured his bedsheet into a satin cloak.

"Of course," Harry had replied. "Aren't I always careful?"

"As careful as a drunken Gryffindor," Severus had snapped back, dark eyes flashing.

"Is the lobster not to your taste?"

"I'm sure it is," Harry murmured. He glanced up to where Voldemort was spearing the delicate white meat. I wonder how he got rid of the shell, Harry thought. Hmm. Oh well. Muttering a cutting charm under his breath, he sliced down the back of the lobster, gritting his teeth at the loud cracking noises that resulted. Ah, shit!—a swimmeret had broken off and skittered across the table.

Jiggins reached forth and discretely picked up the lobster leg.

"A bit salty, I think," Voldemort said in a thoughtful voice.

"Is it?" Harry asked politely, poking at the tasteless white meat.

"I'll need to tell Flavia that her house-elves have fallen under their usual standards," Voldemort said with an air of regret. "Jiggins—some music, perhaps?"

"Yes, Master," Jiggins said.

A moment later, the strains of a harpsichord drifted through the air, seeming to come from everywhere at once.

"Lestrange plays very well," Harry murmured.

"Yes," said Voldemort, his eyes glinting. "His playing is very distinctive. Pity he will never play for us again."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"I'm afraid he passed away quite suddenly several days ago."

"Oh dear. How terribly tragic."

"Yes," Voldemort said, and suddenly there was an overtone of a hiss in his voice, rising with an abrupt flicker of the flames, "Indeed it is, especially for you, Mr. Frost…"

Harry lifted his wineglass. "Some more champagne, please?"

For a moment, neither Voldemort nor Jiggins moved. Then Voldemort tilted his head, his face once again bearing that even-teethed smile, and Jiggins approached with the champagne bottle.

"Thank you, Jiggins," Harry said courteously. He sipped the beverage luxuriously, letting his eyes fall shut like a satisfied cat as the liquid flickered down his throat. "I must say, as outstanding as Terrance's musical abilities were, his other skills were a bit—lacking. I was rather surprised."

"I don't believe I understand you," Voldemort replied, his voice low and threatening like the first currents of wind before a cyclone.

"Ah, you wouldn't, as you never had the chance of examining Terrance's body," Harry said, his tone still unfailingly polite. "If you had, you'd have noticed that he never really had the chance to give much of a struggle." Harry sighed melodramatically. "Too bad all that remains of his corpse are ashes. From dust he came, and to dust he did return."

Harry heard the footsteps and continued to sip the champagne as the tip of something cold and sharp came to rest on his neck.

"I would advise a man in your position, Mr. Frost, to lessen his flippancy," Voldemort said.

Harry gave Jiggins a critical glance. "Is that your wand you're pointing at me? Do tell me—how did you make it all sharp and pointy? If I'm not mistaken, it goes badly against the fashion of our times."

The pressure increased, and Harry felt the first stabs of pain. He sighed. "Voldemort, I have a question for you."

"Ask it."

"Would you miss your servant more, or your silverware?"

Before Voldemort could answer, both Harry's lobster pick and Voldemort's rose slowly as though suspended by strings. Then, so fast that only a streak of silver was visible, they shot through the air.

Jiggins stumbled back, dropping his wand and giving an inhuman shriek. His fingers clutched desperately at his face. Streams of blood rolled down his face where the picks were lodged in his eyeballs.

"Do—do be careful, Jiggins!" Harry said in a concerned tone. "Please don't trip and fall on your own wand?"

No sooner had he said those words than Jiggins suddenly collapsed to the ground. He jerked once or twice like a preserved frog shocked by electricity, and then lay still. A puddle of blood pooled around his neck, trickling darkly along the cracks between the flagstones of the floor.

Harry sighed and shook his head sadly. "Oh well. What an unlucky accident! I did warn him. If only he'd listened to me, he'd still have his life at least. Still, I'm sure you can spare him, my dear Voldemort."

The Dark Lord moved so quickly that, for a moment, Harry was impressed. The spells hurtled at him like two flaming hot brands, searing the table and leaving behind two cracks like a railway track. But Harry held up his hand, and the magic dissipated.

Harry smiled dryly. "Nice try—"

Voldemort was on his feet, his wand cutting an arc through the air like a glittering scythe. Harry watched the wave of magic and remembered the holly and phoenix-feather wand he had had—the brother to Voldemort's. That had tied him to the monster as inexorably as Trelawney's words, but now—now he was as free as the sun was of the earth; he was unchallengeable in his might.

Harry snapped his wrist and Voldemort's magic broke. He smiled. "I confess I am duly impressed. Unfortunately, my dear Mr. Riddle, you're still a bit wet behind the ears."

Voldemort snarled, and thrust his wand like a rapier. "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Harry froze. He watched the wall of green light approach him, filling the room like a massive tidal wave. A part of him cringed, the part that coiled instinctively with fear at the sound of Voldemort's name, the part that shuddered at the sight of death, the part that wept and laughed and found more than silence in the memories of lost friends and once-hated enemies and beloved family—that part begged him to duck, to hide under the table like any other human being would.

But he reached out his hand and caught the magic. Its halo passed through him, cold and biting and merciless like a river filled with shards of ice, but the core of the magic remained struggling in his hand. It twisted in his grasp like a worm, one covered with bristles, but he clenched his fist, and the magic dissipated into nothing.

He opened his fist, and smiled, but it was a dead smile. Suddenly he felt hollow inside, as though the blast of the Avada Kedavra had indeed killed something inside him and carried even the memory of it away.

Harry looked up. For the first time he could remember, there was a look of naked fear on Voldemort's face.

"I don't suppose that went as well as you'd have liked," Harry said. He pulled a piece of meat out of the lobster's tail, the juice dripping down his hand. "Why don't we finish dinner before it gets cold? Oh—I see. You're short two forks. That can be arranged."

There was a plopping noise, and the two lobster picks that had lodged into Jiggins's eyes returned to the side of their platters. "A bit bloody," Harry said through a mouthful of food, "but blood is high in protein and iron. Very nutritious."

He tapped the lobster's claw with his knife, and the thick chitin layer peeled away like a banana peel. "Much better," Harry said, and glanced up.

Voldemort's eyes were focused on the table, and his bottom lip was moving slightly, as though he were muttering something under his breath. Harry extended his senses, and felt the stirring of magic like the still of the sea before a storm.

Harry sneered. He lifted his hand, and the bottle of champagne flew through the air and into his grasp. "Ambrosia of the gods, indeed." He poured himself another glass and drained it. Under his hand, he could feel the glass quiver. The table, too, was shaking.

"Careful, now," Harry chided. The air thickened and tasted of something taut and untamed. "At least don't topple the Blacks' ancestral home. It'll be quite important for later generations, you know."

The sound of clinking dishware filled the air as the ground shook. "Alas, my lobster seems to be running away from me," Harry remarked with mock dismay. He quickly speared and ate the last bit of meat from the claw before the platter bounced off the table and shattered on the floor next to Jiggins's body.

"Hmm, no dessert," Harry murmured, licking his fork. "Unfortunate."

The table split with a tremendous crack. Fragments of wood splintered through the air like an explosion of glass, filling the air almost like smoke. Voldemort had his wand in both hands, and with a grimace, broke it in two.

Harry, still seated, watched the shell of light expand from the broken wand. He lifted his hand into the maelstrom of splintered wood and shrieking magic, feeling at the source of the power—and smiled at the familiarity. It was the Wild Magic, the same that Lily Evans had called with her rituals at the edge of the forest.

My friend, Harry thought, raising both hands and standing. The Wild Magic twisted like a giant snake in the sand, both tasting and resisting Harry's hold. My—servant…

The air groaned with the weight of magic struggling to remain free. Harry slowly closed his hands, and it felt as though he were squeezing an ocean of water into his clenched fists.

Finally! he thought with a mad rush of triumph.

He brought down his arms and opened his hands. Harry caught Voldemort's glimpse for a brief second, registering the frozen look of helplessness and fear—immense, mind-numbing fear—before the Wild Magic turned against its summoner like a loosed animal.

Leave him alive! Harry commanded.

The red light of the room mixed with the whitish-green tint of the magic, castling reflections over Voldemort's naked, shivering body.

Harry stood up and tossed aside the cloth napkin that had remained in his lap. A smile curved over his lips.

"How are the mighty fallen," Harry said, and his voice echoed through the room like the rays of the sun over the earth. He advanced upon Voldemort's shivering body, and the form of Wild Magic backed away slightly like a giant mastiff before its owner.

"I could kill you very easily," Harry said softly. "You are nothing to me—nothing. An ant in the dirt. An infant in its cradle. A hatchling just out of its egg."

Voldemort shuddered uncontrollably. He's not unattractive, Harry thought, examining the shadows of muscle under the white skin. But he was skinny and gaunt, like an underfed yet overgrown child. Harry's gaze went down to Voldemort's groin, and he sneered.

"My, my, my," Harry drawled, "poor little Tom. Am I really so frightening? You've even wet yourself." He flipped his hand, and Voldemort flipped in the air, landing facedown in the puddle of urine. "Lick it clean!"

Voldemort only jerked and quivered as though in the throes of a convulsion. Harry gritted his teeth impatiently and made a crushing motion with his hands. "LICK IT!"

As though pressed by a massive force, the raven-haired head smeared through the puddle, coloring the liquid red. But the mouth still hung open vaguely, ringed by blood and bruises.

Harry growled and clenched his fists. Voldemort's head jerked up as though pulled by a puppeteer. There was something familiar about that face, contorted and covered with disheveled hair, and the dilated green eyes, wide and staring, fingers fluttering weakly—

—he nearly couldn't recognize the face, contorted and covered with disheveled hair, but the eyes—darker than night, eyes wide and staring, fingers fluttering weakly—

Just like Severus's in his memory, Harry thought.

He was suddenly aware of the immense power simmering in his hands. The Wild Magic, now awakened from its uncaring slumber, growled menacingly with the force to tear the world apart. If Harry wished it, he needed only put enough strength into the thought, and he could turn Grimmauld Place into nothingness—no, not only that, far more than that. In his mind came the image of London, a city twinkling with thousands of lights, each light falling into darkness like fireflies dying of poison. And he could do more than physical destruction; seeping his senses into all the hidden complexities of matter and magic, he knew how to throw the world out of time, to freeze it into a stasis, to move it through time.

The thought struck something in him that froze the frenzy of power. He pursued it, and more images yielded to him: he saw the future fragmenting, saw the present world tear into two different possibilities that each etched its own path in the slate of time.

I can change things, Harry thought, looking down at his hands. Voldemort was as fragile as an eggshell, and he pressed experimentally, waiting to hear the crack. Nothing binds me at all. Nothing. The books were wrong, Christolph was wrong, he himself had been wrong. Traveling through time—indeed, changing time—was possible. Borne on this tide of magic, he could see how he might split the world and let forth an alternate reality. It had never been done before, and the power needed was beyond infinite, but his power yawned beyond infinite.

I can, he thought. I can. He stretched out his senses, steeping them into the wells of his might, and felt his power lengthen out around him like the plains of a desert, rolling endlessly in all directions, melting into the sky as a metallic band of white and leaving him utterly and desolately alone.

He released Voldemort's soul and felt the delicate sphere slip safely out of his grasp. The unearthly hues of green and white faded to their previous shades of red. He was a statue, frozen in time, or a robot, devoid of thought and emotion and moving mechanically as dry desert winds blew sand into his ancient joints.

Voldemort gasped and shuddered. He blinked, eyelids fluttering like the wings of a newly emerged moth.

Harry stood unmoving for what seemed like a long time. He felt as though he were a great force of nature, starting with the green tide of the Killing Curse, bearing inexorably on the shore—but dying out and passing into nothingness before the water had touched the earth. Now… now he felt empty. Hollow. As though he had forsaken a chance forever.

He bent and picked up the two broken pieces of Voldemort's yew wand. He put them together, and ran his finger over the crack. The seam vanished; the wand was whole again.

Have it back, Harry thought to say, but remained silent as he dropped the yew wand in front of Voldemort's face. The Dark Lord stared at the wand, one trembling hand crawling across the wet floor to grip it.

"Forget," Harry commanded, holding his hand out with five fingers spread. Voldemort fell back limply, and his green eyes clouded over. "Forget that this happened. Forget that you were beaten and broken and humiliated. Heal your mind, yourself." Harry swallowed before he spoke the next commands. "Remember your hate and arrogance. Remember Severus Snape, the man whom you lust for." He closed his eyes momentarily and summoned an image from his dreams—the Severus of the future on his knees, eyes filled with a bitter hatred that was utterly helpless… "Remember—him."

Harry let out a long breath. The hollowness ached so much that, for the first time in what seemed like years, he felt like crying.

.o0o.

Snowflakes fell from the sky, appearing like small white pinpoints against the inky blackness before drifting down and revealing all their sparkling intricacies in the pale yellow lamplight of Diagon Alley. Harry watched them fall and disappear as they touched his face.

He had left before Voldemort could orient himself. Nobody had noticed him, which was what he had willed, and even if they had, he couldn't have cared. He felt like a corpse, animated by a maker who had forgotten to end the spell, who had forgotten to give him a heart and mind and soul.

He stopped in front of a jeweler's shop. It was closed. He reached out, felt the layers of anti-Apparition and Locking Charms, and slipped through them.

The store was rather small. In the darkness, it resembled a cupboard filled with forgotten odds and ends. Against one wall was the cashier's desk, and running along the walls were glass cases full of gemstones. They looked as dull as pieces of chalk in the blackness.

Harry waved his wand at the windows, and they shimmered slightly. "Lumos," he muttered, more out of habit than out of need.

The gemstones glittered softly in the hazy light. He blinked, running his gaze over the earrings, the tiaras, the bracelets, the necklaces, the rings. Nothing really caught his eye. He sighed and looked out the window. What was he even looking for?

Outside the snowflakes floated down idyllically. The streets were mostly empty, though a few people shuffled about slowly in thick winter cloaks. Harry felt like he was gazing into a pool of water, with the world outside as peaceful and alien as a shimmering underwater realm.

Something caught his eye. Standing on the pavement half in and half out the lamplight were two people, their hands interlinked. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman, or two men or two women, but the simple connection between them was unmistakable.

Harry suddenly remembered an image from what seemed like years ago, when he had just been thrown into this time. He had been walking down Diagon Alley, shopping for supplies, when he had seen the image of a family—father, mother, and child, cocooned in their own, small world. What had he felt then? Longing? Envy? Wistfulness?

The hollowness deepened. Harry looked down at the display of jewelry, turning his attention to the rings. Something simple. Anything.

He reached through the glass and took out a small silver band. He held it up to the light. It was somewhat flattened in the masculine style, and it seemed completely plain, without any gemstone or inscription.

This will do, Harry thought, banishing the anti-theft spells and snuffing out the Lumos spell. He stepped out of the shop and glanced to where the lamplight formed a soft yellow halo, but there was nobody there. Harry tucked the ring into his pocket and walked down the pavement. There was no jewel to ask for forgiveness.