Epilogue

by ElDarkoMarko

The epilogue that you dream JK Rowling will write. But she won’t. Warning for slight slash content. Very AU as of Rowling's sickening display in Nineteen Years Later from DH but we're assured you will adore this anyway.

1. Epilogue, Part One

Epilogue

By: Team Dark Marks for EE!

Rated: R (M) for language, some sexuality, and an undertone of slash

Genre: Drama

Disclaimer: Everything is JK's but for the plot and its confounding greatness.

Summary: The epilogue that you dream JK Rowling will write. But she won't. Snape and Luna discuss the fine points of life in an interview that is almost as freaky as that one with Kirsten and a vampire. Warning: this story contains a taste of slash (male-on-male pairing). All pairings involved with our tale are withheld for your suspense.

Authors' Note: This story was made by a team of people, of all different ages from twelve to early twenties. Different writing styles and levels have intermingled and ideas have been brought together from over seven minds. As this fanfiction was created in response to a challenge - the rules and requirements are cause for some instances in the plot that might seem a little farfetched from the original premise. All in all, we've done our very best to take the requirements and a complex plot idea and connect the two to make a story that flows and hopefully entertains and provokes thoughts and dare we add - feelings. Enjoy and leave a comment if you will. Writing credits at the end.

Must Includes: All these elements must be included in your fanfiction. Unless otherwise stated, the bare minimum to count as an inclusion is at least a reference. The dialogue you need to get in can be spoken by any character.

Characters: Luna Lovegood, Severus Snape, Voldemort (Must have at least 4 lines of dialogue and interact with another character)

Locations: Shrieking Shack, Knockturn Alley (A short scene in each)

Spells/Potions: Babbling Beverage, engorgio, rictusempra

Items: Half empty bottle of Firewhiskey, Falmouth Falcons Quidditch Shirt, A bagel, Marauder's Map, Floo Powder, Extendable Ears

Creatures: Niffler, The Giant Squid

Lines: "I think I'd rather be snogged by a dementor." "Who would have ever thought belly-dancing could be so pleasurable?" "You do know that's illegal in 87 countries!" "Can't you make a potion to fix that?"

Optional Includes: You don't have to include these but they're worth bonus points if you manage to work them in well. Just slapping them in won't work!

Characters: Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Narcissa Malfoy, Blaise Zabini (Must have at least 2 lines of dialogue and interact with another character)

Locations: Three Broomsticks, Forbidden Forest

Spells/Potions: Amortentia, Deflating Draught, incarcerous

Items: Time Turner, Pensieve, U-No-Poo, Firebolt, Kilt

Creatures: Kneazle

Lines: "Keep your Jimmy Choo's on!" "What's under Snape's cloak? I don't know but it'll be fun finding out!" "Is that your wand, or are you just pleased to see me?"

Our Epilogue, Part One of Two

Knockturn Alley at the noon hour was not an area to be unusually crowded, even on a weekend, and accordingly the silence of its narrow streets were in parallel to this sentiment on a musky Tuesday afternoon, mid-September.

The last lingering touches of warmth from summer had faded yet the air was still thick, the liability of this condition holding blame perhaps in the gloomy, dark streets of the alley than deviation in the weather patterns. It was no large vicinity by any means: small dingy shops were cramped together in lanes that could hardly hold the width of two wizards standing side by side. Seven steps made by a child could generously describe the street, and vendors took up space like a sore thumb sporting a triple hangnail on a manicured hand.

Considered the dregs of the Diagon Alley region by most (though immediately after The War not many could decipher between the two from exterior alone), it was named home to a select few who appreciated its grim silence as a sort of peace taken for granted in ordinary lifetimes.

Such were the feelings of Awilda, a hunching, white-haired witch who had lived so long in Knockturn Alley most visitors considered her ageless, a commodity that came with the setting. She owned a single cart, with a single tray, holding neat rows of human fingernails - varying from the newborn variety to as yellowing and curled as what remained of her teeth. How she made her living was not quite sure because the product of her stock was not of the thriving variety, yet she was out each day, a half smile played across her wrinkled and browning lips, calling to the passersby who turned their heads to avoid the sight and smell of her trademark items in equal measure. Awilda expected the same today, especially on a day so dull and tiresome as a Tuesday, when at times all she could do for amusement was engage in a thumb war by herself, extra pairs of nails attached to her own to heighten the stakes.

It was undoubtedly a slight shock when she was interrupted from a particularly heated play (she had gone as far as to include five spare fingernails on each of her knobby thumbs) by a low, throaty voice directed her way, cutting through the midday air much as a sharp axe through soft bark.

"Is it safe to assume that business is booming, dear Awilda?" It was a man who spoke, a slight snake of a man with paper pale skin and a nose that curled defiantly over his thin, smirking lips.

"Eh, boy?" She spat. "What be yer intentions pestering an elderly hag suchan' meself?" Awilda's thick grey eyebrows moved in concordance to her cold words and she straightened to as tall as her humped back would permit her.

The man cocked his own brow, one just as thick as the woman's but jet-black and severe against his ashen complexion.

"Not all of the ugly refer to themselves so unwaveringly as old," he said with little interest, his eyes becoming focused on the scattering of hand nails that had fallen from her own bent palms over the otherwise obsessively structured collection.

It was her piercing retort that salvaged his attention, "N' not all'n the ugly refers to t'emselves so unwaverin'ly as witty, Sev'rus!" She cocked her chin in boldness and stood with a mock smirk on her own face, mirroring his own. He could not help but chuckle.

"And after all these years you do remember me."

"Like remeberin' me own backside, boy."

"Ah, certainly it's charm that has kept you working this long, Awilda."

Severus Snape was in no hurry to his destination today; in fact, he had hoped his diversion of visiting the aged witch would have taken much longer than it had, but the flippant attention span of the crafty spinster had no sooner alighted upon his face then back to her precious nail collection, as she began resorting and separating the garish (but nonetheless delicate) bunch into a new pattern.

He wished not to be maudlin over the steady, knowing actions over her beloved merchandise, yet as he made his way along the quiet streets of the deserted alley he acknowledged that Awilda's ceremonious sorting of her produce mirrored his new life: the past two years after The War had come with much reshuffling and assessment.

The dismal, distorted pattern of his being was beginning to come together in ways he had never even thought could be possible - and he knew it was her, mostly her - but in view of she being the reason he was even in the position he was now, ambling towards a two-bit dining hovel not fit enough to feed the lot of Hagrid's flobberworms, he scowled and tore his mind away from the thought.

It was necessary to have the knowledge of precisely where The Hole in the Wall was or one might never find it. It had no sign or real name, but patrons had become accustomed to referring to it as just that, a hole in the wall, that the title had stuck for years after.

The Hole had no door but rather an old burlap curtain over a slim opening that, despite appearances, held in the warmth during winter and allowed a breeze during summer. It was all old wood and cracked tiles, with dark corners that most steered clear of and a singular window so decorated with cobwebs and grime it seemed its own drapes from the outside world. The bar was a counter that looked more like just a plain slab of splintering wood than a sturdy surface for many men to drink upon. But then again, there were only two aged stools before it for the fortunate first comers of the day. A ragged magic carpet that was too elderly and stupid for transport instead levitated high enough to be a third seat.

For those not early enough to claim their places at the bar, there were a handful of tables set for two scattered in the small space. The Hole operated on a first come first serve basis, a rule elected by the ageless bartender who overlooked his slight business proudly, a stout, cock-eyed man with a face so furry that he was nicknamed Kneazle by his mother and called that ever after. The Hole served more than fish and chips but few were bold enough to try anything other than that, preferring, instead, to vary with their drinks since as thrifty as Kneazle was, his alcohol selection was quite diverse.

Kneazle thought he had seen everything in his time at The Hole, but no recollection matched the oddity of sighting his first customer of today, who rushed in through the curtain entrance so rapidly he thought it was just a rough bout of wind. He would have still thought as much if, seconds later, there was not a flash of blonde and then a loud whapping sound as flesh met ground.

A bag of supplies including paper, quills and ink, a thing that looked like a very elongated ear, and a tiny corked holder of a fizzy liquid rolled noisily onto the floor. The sack's owner cursed under her breath as she recovered from her fall, before scrambling to collect the items spilled from the bag, shoving them in while muttering incoherently about something that could have been, "bloody loose plywood."

She straightened and took a breath, smoothing out her clothing: a Falmouth Falcons Quidditch shirt that was slightly oversized and hung over her striped blue and grey slacks, those of which were folded upwards at the bottom to better display a pair of black velvet clogs. It was the strangest getup Kneazle had ever seen, and he had witnessed Benny Giberson in nothing but leather and fishnets. Purple fishnets.

The young woman's blonde hair was in a professional knot at the nape of her neck, or had been until she tripped, strands of shoulder length hair now resting in wisps about her red face, her lips twisted in frustration. What stood out most about her were protruding blue eyes, large and slow to blink and, at the moment, a little watery.

Kneazle had never been married and had no daughters, and it was rare that a woman came into The Hole, but he suddenly knew in the pit of his stomach that this girl needed a drink more than she needed her next breath of air. He pulled out his finest Firewhiskey and a tall glass and waited politely.

Luna Lovegood knew she was a mess, drowning in a wreck of her own muddied nerves. She took a deep breath and tried to separate herself from the humiliation of the fall, smoothing the front of her jersey and trying to regain composure. When she was more or less collected she straightened her spine and peered around the empty pub, content that at least she had gotten there first, no Snape or other audience to have seen her tumble. Well, except for the bartender, and though his face was almost too hairy to tell, she was sure he was smiling at her. She hoped the grin was not of ridicule and something inside of her told her it was not, so she headed towards him with a shy smile of her own, determined to not let one mishap of the day have her leave a bad impression.

"Good morning sir," she began formally as she reached him, "My name is Luna Lovegood and I have selected this quaint establishment for the sight of an interview that will be in the very next issue of the highly famous and reputable magazine, The Quibbler. Don't feel pressured to attend to me with regal services, I want nothing but a table in a private location and I do believe I've found it here at the… er… the… place you have here…" she ended lamely, faltering when she realized she had no idea what "the place" was called. Not knowing what else to do, she shoved out a hand towards him and was thankful when he grabbed it heartily and shook, a chuckle escaping his wooly face.

"You needn't have those formal'ties and thin's in here Miss Luna Lovegood, we're all friends in The Hole. Now, yeh did look like yeh needed a drink dearie, so I took th' liberty of havin' one out for yeh."

Luna thanked him vigorously as she scooped the bottle of Firewhiskey into her arms (the glass remained forgotten) and picked out a table farthest from the door. She couldn't be certain that Snape would not try to bolt when it came to the nitty-gritty of things.

Snape. She still could not believe he was meeting with her today. For an interview, no less.

The interview that could jump-start her fledgling career as a journalist or just as suddenly raze it to ashes. Her father allowed Luna no leeway with her job at The Quibbler, even as his daughter, strictly telling her that if this golden opportunity - one which had not been so ripe as from the time when Harry Potter opened himself up to the magazine - did not go favorably she would be hauling coffee from cubicles in the office for the next five years, no wand allowed.

"But no pressure, Lady Lunalove," he had said planting a kiss on her forehead before she left today, trying to soothe her with his favorite pet name. Right. Of course. No bloody pressure.

But there was pressure, a ton of it, because this was not an ordinary interview with an ordinary man who would converse in an ordinary way and treat her as an ordinary acquaintance.

She had arranged a talk with Severus Snape: a man who had stayed quiet from the public after completing his trials, a man who found her so insignificant that in her first three years at Hogwarts he had called her Loren Levy, a Ravenclaw alumna who had left the school years prior. He was the shadow of an enigma, seemingly impermeable to the challenges of questioning.

She had figured he would be a mastermind at evading a question but at what lengths he went to evade an interview she had never heard of before. It was only when she reached Hermione Granger (Luna's last hope for getting to him), did he finally consent to her offer, on conditions that the location was a place completely private and that she waste more than an afternoon of his time.

Luna had eagerly agreed and now here she was, wishing she could leave and abandon the whole stupid notion of a groundbreaking exposé. The idea had been plaguing her since she had begun to think more deeply about the man who had killed Albus Dumbledore (at least now, after the trials, they all knew it was not murder). What were his motives and mind-set towards his part in Dumbledore's death? It had grown in a frenzy from there. Not only did she want to know the back-story of Dumbledore's death, she wanted to know of his life now and what he had in store for the future.

The article had manifested in her mind for over a year and through painstaking measures she began slow, rudimentary attempts to contact Snape. Months of rejection and mystification followed as Snape turned her down no matter how she spun the interrogation. Letters were returned to her unopened and bottles of noxious looking substances had arrived at her door with little notes in spidery writing attached that read "Drink me, I taste like candy." But eventually this back and forth was not enough; she had taken up writing silly blurbs for her father's magazine as a means of making a living.

When Luna finally proposed what she had been thinking of doing on Snape to her father, he had offered her a real career at The Quibbler, more than someone who wrote two sentences on the possibility of Mandrake pus being used to make toddlers smarter if added to heated milk and stirred fifty-three times counterclockwise.

She was desperate for the position as a journalist for The Quibbler, desperate to taste the success in the only field of life she found herself contented in, desperate to believe that perhaps this article would propel her to the level of launching a publication of her own, so she did not have to always heed her domineering father. Desperate times made Luna call for desperate measures, and her desperate measure was to call on Hermione Granger, who she had lost contact with after the girl's sixth year in school. And it had all come together from there.

Now all Luna could do was sit and wait for her charge, fingering idly at the glistening Firewhiskey bottle before her. She almost smirked as she realized how funny it was to think of Professor Snape as her charge, instead of the other way around.

And she was still smirking at the exact moment when her charge happened to storm in, black robes billowing behind him, wasting no time as he strolled up to their table and hovered before her, a sinister look on his sallow features.

"Miss. Lovegood, if you desired to have me meet with you so you could leer at me until my eyes shrivel and fall out of their sockets I strongly advise you go back home and rethink your facial expressions before requesting my services again."

Luna's face fell slack. There was a panicked moments of silence as she sought an appropriate response to such a testy greeting.

Gulping, she tried to make her tone polite and gestured courteously at the Firewhiskey as she stood to properly greet him. "I came bearing gifts," she lied, hoping Kneazle did not overhear her re-gifting her former Professor. As she did with bartender she did with Snape, putting out a hand, the other one at her side with fingers vaguely crossed.

Snape did not take her hand but he did raise an eyebrow and seat himself, letting his long fingers wrap around the bottle, pull off the top, sniffing at it before he took two long gulps of the amber liquid, killing a quarter of the bottle in half as many seconds. He swallowed slowly, deliberately, and peered at Luna through discerning black eyes. He placed the bottle back to the middle of the table but letting the cap fiddle idly in his hand.

"Do be seated, Miss. Lovegood."

Luna tried not to show her irritation at being the one ordered to sit, like a child, but she knew that was most likely what he wanted, a rise out of her to see what this was really all about.

She would show him. With newfound determination, she sat and folded one arm over the other on the tabletop, leaning in towards Snape to say simply, "Hermione."

It was obviously not what the man had been expecting because his face contorted into a look that suggested he might regurgitate the alcohol so recently swallowed.

Collecting himself, Snape breathed through his nose and resisted the urge to massage his throbbing temple.

"I presume, Miss. Lovegood, that you want to talk about Hermione Granger, and if so I beg to ask why you would draw her into a discussion I thought was solely on the subject of myself." His eyes had narrowed with each word and he eyed Luna warily.

It was with great restraint that Luna did not whoop gleefully at his reaction, knowing – as any decent reporter would – that expressions speak inordinately louder than words.

She felt confidant enough to slip the small flask of babbling beverage, which she had been grasping tightly in her hands since sitting, back into the depths of her purse, because now she was sure he would at least attempt to talk about himself.

"I assure you, Professor Snape, that this meeting is about you, but you can probably guess how I've made the conclusion that Hermione Granger is now a lot about you too. For this interview to work, I need you to let me in on all facets of your life with openness and honesty…" Seeing Snape stiffen further she added, with aggressive innocence, "And I do think Hermione would agree…"

Snape cut her off, "Oh all right you importunate girl, get on with it if you must."

He looked up to The Hole's ceiling as if wishing it to fall on himself, or maybe on top of her. When it stayed put above, he refocused his gaze on Luna and waited for her to ask.

She had wiped an almost stupidly triumphant grin off her face just in time to probe Snape again as he turned his attention back to her.

"Let's go back to the very beginning of it all: how exactly did you and she happen?"

Snape sighed soundlessly and stared at his clenched hands that had wrung together in his lap, trying to determine the best way to answer.

Should Luna know of the dream he had the first week of school that very year Hermione Granger had arrived at Hogwarts? It had been anything but a perverted night vision; instead, it was a more unsettling dream in which a faceless girl with a feral brown mane of hair had stormed up to him and harshly cried, "Who are you, Severus Snape?"

The next afternoon in Potions, teaching the Slytherin and Gryffindor group of first years, he had looked upon Miss. Granger, hand waving keenly in the air, and known it was her who asked the question of which his dream self had no certain answer.

Or had it happened the first time they met again.

It was the summer after he had killed Albus and fled. In the eye of the battle's storm, Snape found himself caught in Hermione's path and she in his.

Hermione cried at the sight of him. With words doused in tears and hatred she asked, "Who are you, Severus Snape?"

The question, the sound of her voice, and the remembrance of when he had first been asked the very same thing by that very same voice had caused him to stagger backwards and she had thrust herself out and caught him, her nails slicing into his arms through his Death Eater's cloak, because Hermione Granger never let go until she had an answer.

To Luna he said, "I'm not quite sure."

Luna had seen memories flash before his eyes in those seconds of silence, but she went with a different angle so as not to strain the exceptionally guarded man, "Well, Professor, was it gradual or did it happen fast? Were you aware of your feelings during her years at school or –"

"Don't dare suggest that I imposed an inappropriate relationship with a student during my time at Hogwarts, Miss. Lovegood, because you will only live long enough to regret it," Snape cut in, his face growing a little whiter.

Luna paled as well, her heart clunking against her chest as she tried to correct her ill-timed error, "That's not what I meant, I –"

He interrupted her again. "Stop. I know," he shook his head a little before clearing his throat, "You'll have to forgive me for my shortness eventually once this day ends, because there will certainly be more of it. But you can understand how the idea of having one's life displayed in someone else's words can put one on edge? The last thing I need now in my life is more delusional impressions."

"To answer your first question, Miss. Lovegood, and it may as well include the others - there was no definite beginning or spark or moment that defines my relationship with Hermione Granger. There was certainly no intimacy or love lost during my six years of teaching her at Hogwarts; moreover, I found her an irksome chit who desired to know and do too much for her own good. I respected her intelligence but was repelled by her incessant meddling into areas of knowledge that she had no business protruding her bushy head into. We 'happened' in multifarious stages that are unknown to me, but I do know it has led me up to this point of where the two of us stand today, together. I am neither prude nor liar, yet I do not believe our private lives should be paraded around wizarding England. Do know that everything that 'happened' between us was and is entirely consensual between two adults, and I suppose it 'began' and will end as such because we did not take up in any way that may be construed as unlawful until her seventeenth birthday had gone and passed for many months."

Luna had sat quietly and listened, far too fearful that she would put an end to this exposed moment of talkativeness to interrupt, entranced at his precise words that were more revealing than he let on. She wondered if he intended that because, though he had said nothing of the sort, Luna was sure he had just established that he and Hermione were indeed a couple, that he cared for her and their relationship a great deal more than he cared for himself, and that the relationship had long since been consummated.

The last of these realizations nearly made her choke on her own saliva, which she masked into a hacking cough, spinning away from Snape and bending slightly to ride it through. Snape sat still, waiting for her to compose herself, one black brow positioned high above the other.

"Still alive, Miss. Lovegood?"

"I'm fine, P-professor, just fine," she gasped, waving a hand at him.

Taking deep breaths to collect herself, she turned once again to her old Professor and could have sworn that she saw amusement overriding his expression. The look quickly changed to disinterest before she could register his humor. A rather silly idea flashed through her mind and she had to hide a smile of her own as she acted upon it.

"I see, Professor Snape. Now, to a more serious matter, who would you say 'wears the pants' in your relationship?"

It was Snape's turn to splutter.

"I thought so," Luna muttered to herself, smirking once more and making a mental note to be used for later.

It had been less than two weeks ago when Hermione had come up quietly behind Snape and snaked her arms around his neck, kissing him lightly on the side of his face as he flipped through the Prophet and munched on a margarine-drenched bagel. She knew he was only pretending to take no notice of her as he stared a mite too interestedly at an advertisement for a new installment of U-No-Poo product at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.

This didn't mean Hermione would vie for his attention any less. She reached further over and bit into the bagel that was making its way back to his lips, laughing with her mouthful as his head snapped in her direction and he glared, holding the now offensive food item at an arm's length distance.

"May I ask what it ever did to you, Hermione?"

She rolled her eyes and situated herself onto his lap, removing the bagel from his hands and placing it back onto the dish. She wanted no distractions for her lover as she prepared to ask him a favor that he would be undoubtedly and ridiculously stubborn about. She ran a hand through his inky black hair, marveling at how silken it felt in her fingers, though it looked more akin to an oil spill over his long, pale face.

"What do you think about talking with Luna Lovegood - she was a Ravenclaw just a year below me - for an article to be in The Quibbler?" Hermione tread over her words carefully but she felt Snape stiffen immediately at the mention of Luna and knew this could prove more difficult than she originally imagined.

"I think I'd rather be snogged by a dementor." His face held no trace of humor.

"Really Severus," she said, exasperated. Pulling away from him, she slipped to her feet and rest her hands on her hips, an accusatory stare meeting his gaze. "First, I find out today that she has been almost literally on her knees, begging you for months, to speak out to her and the world, to open yourself up once and for all in interview that might enable you to walk freely in the streets each day without at least one wisearse shrieking "murderer" in your direction. You know what it did for Harry in our fifth year! What's more, this can help the poor girl, her father still has not let her have a steady job at the magazine and her idea for this article - which I find rather brilliant by the way - with you, Severus Snape, could change all of that."

Her tirade did not leave him feeling particularly moved.

"The girl is near mad, Hermione, and you know that as well as me. I shudder to think what could happen to my own mental state if locked in a room with her for even a minute with the formidable task of explaining myself. Can you not see the headlines already? 'Severus Snape pleas insanity in slaying of young reporter when questioned persistently on opinion of cabbage-shaped earrings.'"

Hermione's eyes rolled skywards yet again. "Oh that is precisely what they would all say."

He nodded, seeming satisfied with the impression that the discussion was over.

But it was not.

"And what if I told you I gave Luna the right of using extendable ears to listen in while we have sex if you did not agree to meet with her?" Hermione was almost on her last resort, "I'm sure she could scrape together a quite lengthy, must-read commentary on what she learnt in that experience." Her tone was smug as she registered Snape's eyebrows rising so high upon his forehead that they almost disappeared from sight into his hairline.

"Then I'd tell you that I am quite capable of living without sex," he replied brusquely as he picked up the half finished newspaper and burrowed his large nose within it again.

"Really Severus."

"Really Hermione."

Before he could process what was happening he felt a body lunge between his legs and the wet heat of a mouth snacking on him through the fabric of his trousers.

"For the love of Merlin, woman!" He jumped slightly and the newspaper flew from his hands and settled in disarray over the table. He stood hastily and took a few steps away from Hermione, who sat kneeling partially under the table, her face flushed and a demonic smile upon her pouted lips. He knew why she was so complacent because his obvious erection pressed against his own thigh, and he shut his eyes in defeat for it was beyond doubt to late to hide it.

"And I think we both know I did not engorgio that, Professor Snape," she commented silkily.

He sighed. "You did not really tell Luna Lovegood she could listen in on our sex, did you?"

"No, but it was sheer pleasure to witness your facial expression when you thought I had."

"I'll contact the girl tomorrow then, Miss. Granger, but I do believe you have some unfinished business to take care of..." He gestured to the bulge in his pants.

"Take a deflating draught, Professor."

"Hermione!"

"I'm only kidding Severus," she said laughing brightly, walking over to the disgruntled man and placing her lips to his neck, "you know I never leave my business unfinished," she breathed. Her hands trailed downwards from his chest.

It was routine that the two had begun to rebuild the shattered pieces of their lives upon.

First, it was finding a new home, for neither of their mothers had wanted anything to do with their sons once the dust from battle had settled. Narcissa Malfoy had attempted suicide by jumping off the balcony of the bedroom she and Lucius once shared, but a house elf tending to the rose garden had seen just in time and levitated her to safety. Narcissa had the elf put to death. Her son, for whom she had dealt people's lives upon to keep safe from harm, was all but kicked to the road with not much more than a trunk of clothing and his wand. It was paradoxical to the point of being poignant.

Blaise Zabini's mother was a wanderer, a woman who dwelled in whichever mansion belonged to her present husband, and she had tired of hauling her grown son along with her. He too was left to the curb with not much more than a kiss on the cheek and a pet on his head for farewell.

So they had rented a flat together, it made sense enough.

The flat was in a Muggle district just outside of London, a simple redbrick building in an area where people tipped their hats low over their faces while going home to dissuade greetings from the others walking around them. It was solitary and affordable; two factors which years ago would have most likely turned the two boys away, but now was the one thing that drew them towards it. Nothing unusual: two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen with a table, a small living room that had a couch and fire place. Nothing unusual for a commoner, but quite the opposite for a Malfoy and a Zabini.

Blessed routine had quickly been settled after the purchase. Breakfast about nine, and they alternated who would cook the meal on different days of the week. Lunch at around two, but this was something they could do on their own, whether it was sitting alone in a café or eating in front of the refrigerator. Dinner near eight, and they went out or stayed in together depending on the other's mood. Flat cleaning had an unwritten schedule that the two followed religiously, grocery shopping was sporadic but the icebox was never completely empty. Life went on for Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, as long as they kept to the routine.

Alas, Draco was finally having trouble keeping up with this shared outlook. It had been a rare occurrence at first, but in the last few months he missed dinner near eight more often or rushed it to leave off to "out": the staunch location that Blaise was given in explanation for why Draco was never home until the early hours of morning. And now it was until past the morning as well, Draco flooing in at lunch around two with no justification for his absence, Blaise's poached eggs and ham slices waiting for him on the table, cold.

Blaise was wary of Draco, who was so dissimilar from his persona of schooldays now, after The War, to argue about him throwing off the routine. Though it was only a matter of time before the routine was the one who brought the topic up between the young men.

And that was this morning, when Blaise had awoken early with a parched mouth, registering the hour being not nearly dawn as he stumbled to the kitchen for a glass of water. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve he almost yelped as he heard a deafening rush from the fireplace and turned to see Draco step out, dusting floo powder from his hands, blonde hair shading his face as he hunched over near the mantelpiece. Blaise headed towards him, not masking his footsteps, but it was obvious Draco had not noticed his approach until one creak on the wooden floor under Blaise's feet sent the other man's head shooting upwards, his wand at the ready before Blaise could take another step.

Blaise put both hands up. "Is that your wand, or are you just pleased to see me?" He joked, though the grin did not reach his eyes.

Draco glared at him before exhaling a long breath of air, reaching his palm up and rubbing his eyes, suddenly looking for all the world like he would fall forward into sleep right then and there. The young man was still attractive as in his younger days, but he was zombie-like in presence: his pale face looked ghoulish from dark shadows beneath his eyes, his cheeks thinner from missing many meals. Blaise tried to be casual, but the worried note in his voice rung through the room as he asked yet again, "So. Where the bloody hell have you been this time, Draco?"

The young Malfoy stared at him stupidly, registering the question two long minutes later. "Out."

Blaise shook his head. "And where is 'out?' What is 'out?' Who is 'out'?"

Draco looked befuddled, and then annoyed, and then just plain tired once more. "Get off it Blaise, I was just out for a walk."

"Since before eight last night? You must be the best bloody fucking walker in all of England to hike for ten hours straight and make it back home in time for breakfast. Set a world record, I bet."

"Oh sod off, Blaise, can't we just go to bed? We'll talk on it tomorrow, promise."

"It's tomorrow, mate."

Draco's bloodshot eyes finally began to focus, and they bore into Blaise's own. "Gods, I was at the hospital, alright? I was at bloody St. Mungo's for the whole fucking night so can you get the fuck off it and let me go to sleep?"

Blaise was hushed for a moment, but when he spoke again his tone was softer. "Are you hurt, sick?"

"No."

A dense silence fell over the small space for a second time.

"Were you seeing… him… again, then? And here I had thought Snape had stopped pressuring you to do that months ago –"

Draco only shrugged.

Back in his own room, Draco shut and locked the door behind him, savoring the resonant click. He headed over to his dresser and rummaged through it wildly, socks and undergarments arcing in the air before spilling to the floor, until he finally gave in to the fact that he had run out of his last pack of cigarettes.

Breathing through his nose in displeasure he headed over to his window and dragged it open, the early morning air wafting into his face, taking away some of the sting of nicotine yearning. He could always ask Blaise for some of his "herbal" cigarettes, but he was quite sick of his flatmate and had no desire to beseech himself now, after just leaving his old Slytherin friend standing alone in the front room with no more to say. That and he craved just a normal, proper fag, not Blaise's that made his vision hazy and words thick. From his window he peered into the world outside, all things cloaked in the deep periwinkle glow of the early morning sky, the last white speckling of stars vanishing as a fog slothfully stole their place.

He would have to be more careful he decided, more attentive to the life around him besides the time spent in that hospital room alongside the silent figure who haunted his thoughts day and night. Blaise's suspicion was dangerous to them both, and he was agonizingly aware that the last thing he and The Boy Who Slept needed in their worlds was more at risk. Reminiscing over The Boy in question, Draco began to sense his own need for rest and fell upon his bed fully clothed, mind already in slumber.

Snape had his hands steepled in front of him as he pondered Luna's last question.

"The fact that Hermione was involved in my trialing would be my only reason to still hold contempt for Mr. Weasley, and since time has passed and he has so apparently left our world, I find my need to spend time resenting his involvement less pressing than ever. Do not mistake that I ever liked the boy; his ability to so effortlessly pity himself and covet the better traits in others instead of refining the good in his own irked me to no end. It is just more simple for me now to disregard him from that part of my life."

Luna's fair eyebrows raised.

"Those words are more kind than I expected from you when talking about the sole individual who publicly accused you of raping the woman you love," she said in wonder.

"Ronald Weasley's claims were obviously preposterous which is why that useless part of my trial was over within minutes. If he expected Hermione to take the stand and lie against me to pleasure some long held schoolboy fantasy of his then I'd question his mental state more than before," Snape crossed his arms and leaned back, daring her to challenge such logic.

"You just off-rhymed, Professor. 'More' and 'before'." She had decided early on in life that being random was a surefire way to diffuse heaviness of the air.

He glared at her. "Seem that it would, Miss. Lovegood." And then sullenly, "That was on purpose."

Luna bit back a smile.

"Do that top button up at once, you scruff!" Screeched the critical mirror at its punter, currently coaxing his red hair into a style it already was.

Ron Weasley sighed audibly. "It's intentional. I'm going for that smart-casual look." Inwardly smirking at the fact that he had used the term "smart-casual" and not felt like a git, he stood back and appraised himself. A brash smile spread across his face; he knew he looked good.

Ron had not always been vain. Indeed, as a lanky, awkward teenager he had positively loathed his outer appearance. Days were spent hiding disappointment in the fact that his flirting only ever yielded looks of disgust from the pretty girls, whilst nights were spent shedding heated tears that refused to stop falling no matter how much he swore at them. But time had smiled upon him and now, years later; he had grown well into his features. It was a well-deserved blessing and, moreover, a relief for Ron.

Since The War, Ron had been regarded as a true hero. His part in defeating the Death Eaters and protecting Harry had been heavily documented, and due to the fact that Harry was still comatose, Ron had been able to revel in the glorification that was normally reserved for his bespeckled best friend. He truly was the people's favourite now, albeit a temporary replacement. And the girls loved him.

Who would not want to be seen wrapped in the arms of a wizarding hero? Who would not want to appear on the front of the Daily Prophet locked in a suitably suggestive embrace with a fully-fledged stud of the magical kind? Who would not want to draw jealous glares from their peers as they strolled down Diagon Alley hand-in-hand with the Boy-Who-Helped-Out-The-Boy-Who-Lived? There were few who fit in those slots, a sure fact.

Yet…

Hermione Granger was one.

"Hermione…" Ron whispered for name, closing his eyes for a few seconds before opening them again to furtively check that nobody near was ear wigging. He was not quite sure when he had fallen in love with her, most likely somewhere between the troll and The War, and he imagined scenarios involving her, sex, and sometimes a family, though always afterwards he scowled at his own childish obsession.

Since The War and his trials they had steadily seen less and less of each other. Well, not exactly since The War. Since he had seen them. Since he had witnessed the debauched rape (for that was definitely what it was, no matter what anyone else said) of his best friend and later crush. He had been an uninvited witness to a haunting crime that smashed his reality of ever completing his full dream of happiness.

Severus Snape and Hermione Granger.

The nauseating recollection made him wince, still. Hermione's doe eyes, wider than he had ever seen them before, were glittering with many tears unshed, at least according to Ron, who had no idea why else her eyes would glisten during an act so vile to her being. She had been moaning, but Ron had decided it was in pain. She ferociously dragged her fingernails over every bit of Snape's skin she could reach, no doubt in self-defense.

And him.

His beastly furor with her made Ron still get physically sick when recalled in nightmares during the early hours of morning. His skeletal hand closing around Hermione's up stretched throat as he drove into her with an animalistic quality. Swearing foully (not that Ron could hear his words, but he made his assumptions) and his expression gruff as he slammed against her perfect body with reckless abandon. The whole scene had been inhuman, so horribly depraved.

Ron had tried to get into the room, to save her, to at least attempt to ward Snape off her salacious figure. But the place was heavily warded, and he simply was not powerful enough to break through. So he told the Ministry what he had seen.

Ron's fists clenched painfully as he remembered the trial. The day that Hermione went before wizardkind and told them that it was not rape, that she had wanted it, wanted Snape. She had stood with head held high, her eyes ablaze with a fierce intensity only she could muster so well and told the Wizengamot that she had actively encouraged it. That she, in fact, had seduced Severus Snape.

He had thought he had gone mad when he heard her say those words. Perhaps his mind really was blistered from war and had made him hear her incorrectly. He assured himself it could not possibly be the truth, that Hermione was protecting him. But why? Did she think Snape did not deserve Azkaban because of the part he had played in saving Harry's life? That must surely be the reason. Hermione was always so moral and forgiving: completely selfless. It seemed exactly the sort of thing she would do.

Since that time Ron and Hermione had not spoken, hardly seeing each other but for in passing. On his part, his philandering lifestyle did not allow for much time to chase old friends. He suspected that on her part, she was avoiding him because she knew he would be angry with her for her lies.

But Ron had decided enough was enough. He loved Hermione, had for longer than he cared to remember and he wanted her to know. He was sure that once they could have a talk together he would get the truth out of her about Snape's monstrosity, and then he would be able to find the courage to tell her how he felt. He could almost sense that she loved him too, and was too afraid to act upon her feelings. There had always been that so obvious connection between them.

With a final sweeping glance at himself, Ron grinned at his own reflection and strolled downstairs.

"Ron!" Mrs. Weasley was beaming, bustling about the kitchen like an overgrown bee. "You look lovely dear," she said, immediately moving to do up Ron's top button and sweep imaginary dirt from his face.

"Mum!" scowled Ron, firmly undoing the button again and wrenching himself out of his mother's deceptively strong grasp, "Leave me alone, I'm off to see Hermione."

"Oh," she paused uncertainly. "That's wonderful to hear, goodness knows she needs a friend around after all that," her lip curled in distaste over her next words, "Snape business."

"Perhaps even more than a friend!" She said pointedly, a knowing smile alighting her features as Ron moved swiftly towards the door.

He headed out into the heavy summer air, so like the day of the final battle less than a year ago, thick with the heady, sweet scent of wildflowers and grass, and with a loud pop, he was gone.

He apparated behind a concealing hedge around the corner from Hermione's small home. The area was quite out of the way, the nearest town not visible for a good few miles and Ron enjoyed the tranquility that seemed to envelop him as he sauntered down the paved path. He was almost at the corner when he heard a telltale crack from a short distance away and stopped dead in his tracks.

"Please don't have gone out, Hermione," he sighed grumpily to himself, setting off towards the house again, now with more haste.

As he approached the quaint little house (Ron thought it suited her well) he could not help but be astonished at the sheer magnitude of the magic that seemed to radiate from the place. He wondered what she could be doing in there to cause it, something brilliant most likely, judging by her own ability as a bravura witch.

He stopped in front of the door and steadied himself, flattened his hair one last time and took a deep breath, reached for the door and –

"Gahck!" A startled Ron yelped as the door swung open before he even had a chance to touch it. A familiar brown-eyed girl stood before him. He watched as her expression went from shock, to the beginnings of a smile, before it molded into resentment and finally resignation.

"Ron." She said, rather flatly despite her obvious attempt to inject a little enthusiasm into it. "What an…um…surprise."

Ron disregarded her hesitancy and quickly pulled her into a tight embrace, inhaling the scent of her freshly-washed hair. "Hermione… I've missed you," he said with meaning, not noticing how she broke the contact with hurry.

"Oh Ron," she smiled, although he could trace a bitter note in it. "I've… well I've missed you too." Ron beamed at her. "I was actually on my way out, but I suppose you want to come in for a minute?"

"Well, yeah," said Ron as he cleared his throat, "I think we need to talk, get a few things cleared up, there are some things I… some things I've wanted… I need to say."

Hermione visibly slumped as she turned to lead him into the sitting room. Ron's normal insensitivity seemed to have retired as he registered a consideration he had not even known he held: he felt for her at the moment. She knew the topic that had been pending discussion for so long now, bleeding hell, she had probably been waiting for it, perched by a window.

Ron felt slightly better at the fact that Hermione seemed rather despondent to his arrival - this talk would be painful for her, dragging up the raw, tormenting memories of what had happened. What that utter bastard had done to her. He fought to regain composure as a vehement rush of fury coursed through him, stealing his breath away for a short minute.

He sat down priggishly upon one of the comfy, Bordeaux-colored armchairs that took up the most space in the petite room. Hermione sat across from him, her legs crossed tightly and her hand clasped together. She smiled faintly and seemed to take a rather large breath.

"Hasn't the weather been lovely," she began awkwardly. "Absolutely lovely, I've rather enjoyed taking lots of walks out here, the wildlife is so pretty, for being uncultivated. Of course, at the middle of the day it's a bit too hot for my liking, but I'd rather it be too warm than too cold…"

"Hermione…" interjected Ron quietly.

"But generally it's been lovely, I've been growing lots of magical plants in the yard. I have a few flutterby bushes out there, some fluxweed, and this heat has caused my gillyweed to bloom wonderfully! I mean, after all that trouble Harry had in the Triwizard Tournament, I never wanted to be caught short again. It's a difficult plant to grow, but very rewarding." She babbled at a breathtaking pace.

"Hermione," said Ron, a little more forcefully this time.

"Oh yes," she continued, fidgeting, her hands twisting at a chestnut curl. "I'm growing mandrakes too, you should see them! I can't wait to begin brewing the Mandrake Restorative Draught, it is rather strenuous to do but at least Severus thinks I'll be able –" she stopped short, her eyes big as her mind caught up with the err. She bit her lip and looked down at her hands that had gone from fidgeting to outright trembles.

"It's alright, Hermione," Ron soothed, his voice low in a protective tone learnt from his mother, "You don't need to be afraid of him anymore and I won't let him hurt you ever again. I can protect you." He reached his hand out towards her but she suddenly snapped her head back and looked him in the face with a burning stare as she slapped his proffered hand away.

"He didn't hurt me Ron, ever," she growled, "When will you get it? I don't need your protection! You're confused. I never needed you to look after me and save me from him - I love him." Her voice had raised and her cheeks were burning in anger.

Ron gaped at her for a few moments, unable to say a word.

"I am sick to death of people and their own contorted impressions that he made me lie, or that I was under the Imperius in court or whatever the rumors are because it simply is not true! And it's all your fault, really, Ron. I want Severus, we are in a relationship and I am happy, happier than I've been in a long time. Please, at least acknowledge this, for my sake if not yours."

"You can't possibly love that slimy git, Hermione, you - you're lying to yourself!" Spluttered Ron, his blue eyes fully disbelieving.

"And why not? Not like you were ever as witty and intuitive, as sensitive and sexy. Got over yourself, Ron." Her tone had become ice cold.

"Sexy?" Getting to his feet he tried to regain a sense of control over the situation, but in a standing position his temper seemed to heighten as well. "Don't be so fucking ridiculous Hermione, he's about as sexy as a toad covered in stink sap!"

"Oh yes, Ron, sorry, I forgot. You're the sexy one aren't you! You, using the fact that you're Harry's best friend to get women to sleep with you! Because I can assure you Ron, you'd find it terribly fucking difficult otherwise!" Hermione was on her feet too, her face contorted and glowing with rage.

That one had hurt, but he tried not to show it. "But I saw you Hermione, he was raping you!"

"No, Ron, he was not. I wanted it. I. Enjoyed. Every. Second. Of. It." She slowly emphasized her words, reveling as the wretched boy in front of her winced with each punctuated syllable.

"But he was nearly choking you! You had tears in your eyes… he was, he was, p-pounding you like a madman!"

"Because that's the way I like it! Tender loving is good for a while but there are those times, many times, when I like playing the victim, I relish the danger, I like knowing that there can be pleasure found in pain." Completely in control now, she relished each word and Ron's ashen reaction.

Ron somehow found his voice again. "You do know that's illegal in 87 countries!" He roared, his ears so red that Hermione was momentarily entertained with the thought that they would set afire.

"Piffle, Ron." She said, her tone in control once more. "Stop talking like your mother, in fact, just stop talking at all."

She marched towards the door and wrenched it open. "Go on, get out. This conversation, much like us, Ron, is over. I have nothing more to say to you. Ever."

"Hermione, please," Ron started, his voice pleading as he changed tactic. "He will hurt you, you know he will. Maybe not for a while but one day. But I won't. Hermione, I… I love you. I've always loved you. Come with me. We can build a life together and it will be fantastic, and I'll make it perfect for you 'Mione, I promise. I'll do anything, anything you want, I'll do it. Please!" The loud rushing in his ears almost deafened him to her next words. Almost.

She had cringed while he spoke, but her features were soon harsh again, unforgiving.

"Right now Ron, I just want you to disappear. I don't love you and I never will. You're so incredibly selfish, and more to the point you're an immature prat not worthy of this frustration. Severus Snape is a real man, Ronald, and he treats me like a real woman. Not like a prize, not like a title, not for a thirty-second shag that is about as meaningful as love bottled in a potion sold off the common street vendor. He doesn't need to have a button undone to show me who he really is, and I love him more than I have ever, and will, love someone in my life."

His heart wrenched at the hardness in her eyes. The shame of their first, last, and very short sexual encounter, years ago, that she had just so vindictively ridiculed made heat prickle behind his gaze and he blinked furiously to stem it off.

"Hermione…" he croaked, now pitiful, "Don't do this to yourself, to me…"

"That's exactly the problem, Ron. After all I've said you still think this is about you," her voice cracked, yet she continued, "Just go, and I mean it with utmost sincerity when I say I never want to see you again." Her eyes were watering but the tone remained final.

Ron stood before the door for long moments after it had slammed shut in his face with a resounding snap. He turned and ran, as far away as he could get, trying not to tumble over the earth as his vision became ever more blurred.

The picture frame on the night stand was now only home to one occupant and she did not seem disturbed that her friend had mysteriously disappeared from her side, leaving a blank stretch of canvas next to her. She had not changed at all, at least from the photograph. Her bright brown eyes did not look worried; instead, they might have carried a slight hint of restlessness in them, but certainly no feelings of discontent. Her bushy hair was at its usual, out of control, but not as tremendously frizzy as it would be if she were feeling extreme anxiety. Presently, she was trying to mend a tear in her skirt because –

BANG!

The rumbling crash of the front door slamming broke the silence of the hushed house. Seconds later, a streak of red flashed into the empty bedroom. The trembling figure snatched the single picture frame resting on the nightstand and savagely hurled it at the wall opposite him. The glass of the frame shattered with a sickening sound that echoed in the same rhythm as his ragged breathing. The only other noise that had resulted was the penetrating scream from the photograph, now silent in a rumpled heap within the glass scattered on the floor.

Without stopping to clean up the mess that he had just made, the young man began to haphazardly chuck things into a battered suitcase. It was not much. Some clothes, a few orange items with wizards on broomsticks, and a thin sack of money. After having packed everything that he desired, he hastily grabbed the cage atop of the wardrobe and stormed out of the room. His voice laced with strangled emotion as he made a final parting statement in the only home he'd known since birth.

"Come on, Pig. We're leaving now... we're leaving now for good."

As he sat in the airport terminal (the Muggle way of transport had seemed an obvious means of disappearing off the face of the Earth because the Ministry would not be able to track his location until he landed) ruminating about the past couple hours, mere hours that seemed centuries, the horrid events kept flashing in front of his eyes like a never ending nightmare. It was her with another man, at first. How could she do this to him when they had been friends, maybe even more than friends, once or twice, for so long?

He kept imagining what would have been, what could have been, if Snape had not come into the picture - the picture now crumpled at his feet. Hermione and Snape. Snape and Hermione. It split his insides, his very soul, to even consider the two together. Why did things have to end this way… be this way?

His life was swiftly becoming like a hexed Marauder's Map, each path taken were footsteps to nowhere and he was not sure he could muster the mental energy to start in a right direction. He did not know what would happen next or what he was going to do. All he really wanted, needed, was to get out of this bloody place now, out of the country, out of the memory of what had been before. Yes, distance was his only hope for sanity now.

A booming voice, which seemed very far away to him as he sat lost in his thoughts, could be heard calling out, "British Airways Flight 187 to New York City now boarding. I repeat. British Airways Flight 187 to New York City now boarding."

As Ron Weasley stared unblinkingly at the ticket in his hand, a single teardrop fell onto it, smearing the flight number and spreading in tiny veins over the small surface.

"Goodbye Hermione," he whispered and got up to board the plane, for once in his life giving her what she wanted.

Snape had tired of speaking of himself and Weasley but it had been a turn of poor judgment when he had allowed Miss. Lovegood to continue rambling on about nothing, as she tended to do when he became silent. Even though she had been quite professional up until then, Snape could not exactly say he was surprised in the least when after stammering over a few questions that he would not respond to, she reverted back to her old ways: blabbering about nothing.

She had been talking breathlessly for about ten minutes straight, only once pausing to take swigs of Snape's own Firewhiskey, as if his lips had not been there moments earlier. The sobering affect it had left on Snape was immediate and effective, and he warily watched Miss. Lovegood as her eyes danced in time to her own increasingly slurred speech. Snape was tempted to just leave, but his mind traveled back to Hermione and his promise to her, so he blinked, let a sigh escape from his lips, but remained seated.

"Ah, Professor Snape," Luna said nodding sympathetically, acknowledging the sigh. Snape flashed a wry look in her direction.

"I know what's on your mind," Luna continued, pausing dramatically. "But not to worry. Giant Squids won't catch you here."

Snape stared.

Luna took a loud slurp of the half empty bottle of Firewhiskey, her eyes turning glassy as a drop of saliva slowly crept from her mouth, and gestured to the window with her head.

"Oh, oh! Professor Snape, look! There's a Niffler!"

Snape, patience wearing thin, followed her gaze. Not that much could be seen through the brown grime and dust that shielded the window from the outer world, but it was also quite apparent that there was no Niffler. The girl was getting rather tipsy on his hands, and Snape shifted uncomfortably.

Luna nodded her head vehemently.

"Professor Snape, are you telling me you don't know the secret about Nifflers? Well for one," her voice dropped to a mock whisper, and she released a high giggle before continuing, "Draco Malfoy is a Niffler at night. My father stalked his family's mansion a month ago."

Luna hiccupped loudly and Snape dug the dirt out of his fingernails, "Really Miss. Lovegood."

"Really! It's an absolute fact and you're the third to know."

Snape knew what Luna did not though, that Draco Malfoy had not seen the inside of Malfoy Manor for years. Draco had become much more secretive and brooding in his change to a modest man - few were aware of his current home in a quite unparticular flat. Shared with Blaise Zabini if Snape could recall.

Luna went on to say something about her mum, her mum's teeth, and the Niffler, with Snape nodding politely every few minutes, mentally strangling Hermione for dragging him into this. Clenching his teeth to restrain himself from an unpleasant outburst, he wondered if the afternoon would ever come to a close. Yet he knew it would not be before long, so promptly and without words, he cast a sobering spell over the girl and watched as she blinked and registered her surroundings without the fog that a sip too many of Firewhiskey can render.

"Did I just –"

He nodded solemnly.

"Oh dear Gods… sorry Professor Snape," Luna said, a bit bashfully, as she pushed the Firewhiskey bottle towards Snape and let him seat it off the table, on the floor and clear of his own chair.

"But let's get on," she continued, this new avowal in a much stronger voice.

Dust danced along the light rays, slicing through the tilted blinds of the window and onto the still form that was once known as "The Boy Who Lived."

The dancing dust mites made the unmoving figure in the hospital cot seem more still. Healers went about their morning routine, barely noticing the ginger-haired girl, head hung low, who sat devotedly by the boy's side nearly each morning for the last two years. Her eyes were dry - she had wept all that she could; she had no more tears to shed. She raised her head and gazed at Harry's still form, barely noticing the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She leant over and swept a stray lock of hair away from Harry's forehead, letting her thumb brush over the unblemished skin that was once occupied by a telltale mark of his past.

A torn expression rendering her face, she pulled her hand away and sighed. Fed up with waiting, Ginny fell back into the chair and began to talk to him.

"Harry," she started. She paused for a moment, as if waiting for a response. "Harry, I don't know if you can hear me, but you need to wake up." Her voice grew anxious. "You can't just stay in this bed forever, alright?"

Harry remained silent and Ginny let the thought cross her mind once more that it was possible that he might never wake up. Maybe he just doesn't want to…

"Harry, did you really break up with me just to protect me from Voldemort? Or did you… Harry, were you scared for a different reason?" She asked, her voice softening. "Or did you just change your mind?"

Ginny knew she was being pitiful but she could not hold her feelings back any longer.

"Harry, even if you were telling the truth…" Her lips started to tremble and she took a quiet breath before continuing, "I just don't know if I can wait around with you frozen like this forever, and I know you didn't ask for all this but neither did I, and it's just so unfair –"

Her breath caught in her throat and she let out a dry sob, bringing her hands to her face. She knew it was not Harry's fault. She was the one who refused to let go. A lot of boys had continued to vie for Ginny's affection, but she made it clear to them that she was still for Harry's, who slept on, unaware of her devotion.

She lifted her hands from her face and reached for Harry's, his features unresponsive and still under her touch. She smiled slightly, but her eyes remained sad as she whispered, almost apologetically, "I'll wait for you Harry."

She released his hand in defeat, glancing at the window at his side. Dust still played in the light beams, clouding warm rays. She sat there for some time, simply staring at the particles, waiting.

The night was quiet with tiny white diamonds embedded into the sky. The winds whispered in gentle wisps allowing emptiness to flow about in endless swirls. This slight breeze barely ruffled the light cream curtains that framed the windows of St Mungo's, the windows of the small room where Harry rest.

The moon was full and clearly visible through the window when the door opened, and a figure made its nightly visit to the side of Harry's bed - a boy whose glistening fair hair mirrored the moon's own ethereal glow. Hoary blue eyes watched Harry's motionless form in silence, a soundless mourning what could have been.

After what might have been an hour or more, the visitor broke out of his meditative trance and brought his hand to Harry's forehead, much in the same fashion as Ginny had hours earlier. He too unconsciously ran his fingers over where Harry's scar once lay. A burdening silence echoed in the night air as he pulled his hand away, feeling barren inside.

A thoughtful look fell over his face when he turned away, silently closing the door as he left. He looked back once, eyes radiating compassion, perhaps to leave one mark of warmth to the motionless youth in bed.

"The War."

"Mmm."

"Well?"

"Well."

"Well, what was it like?"

"Were you not present also, Miss. Lovegood?"

"Yes, but as we've gone over, this is not about me, it's about you. When I ask what it was like, I mean from your eyes and body and mind, clearly not my own," she said, teeth gritted.

He said nothing.

"Perhaps we should steer the discussion to you as a child or better, a teenager, because this habit of reversing the topic to myself indicates that you are not comfortable with accepting the details of your life said aloud from your own mouth. Did your mother and father stifle your words at the dinner table and did teachers not always become engrossed in your flawlessly correct answer to a question? Well?" Her clipped tone and attitude did naught to change the closed expression on Snape's face, but he did relent:

"Well, I believe we were discussing The War, Miss. Lovegood."

"Right we are Professor, The War."

Luna was still not quite sure how they went from having an analytical dialogue over Ron Weasley's mental state to her getting completely pissed on his Firewhiskey, but she was determined to redeem herself as they embarked upon a crucial topic of discussion.

The War had begun as a random brawl in the heart of wizarding London, Diagon Alley, which had spurred into a raging battle throughout the streets that became an endless day of blood and death, until Voldemort and his Death Eaters fell. And so did Harry Potter.

"Has a war ever been so unplanned?"

"Did you not pay attention during your History of Magic lessons?"

Luna ignored this, her face stern and she waited.

Snape ran a hand over his eyes and let it trail down the length of his face, incredulous that just four years ago it had been his right to look at this former student in such a way. There was no point in avoiding the inevitable.

"It was unplanned yes, but certainly should not have been as unexpected as it was. Harry Potter's seventeenth birthday had passed days before, Death Eater attacks on Muggles and wizarding people were more rampant than ever, it had only really been a matter of time. Voldemort was ready on that day, and the uprising he had heard wind of from Diagon Alley gave him full leave to summon us all and bring us into the fight, for he knew from there Harry Potter would arrive and the end could at last come about. We flew headfirst into battle, each hardly knowing who was on which side. Students, adults, the elderly alike - fighting for a cause of which the particular date had none."

"You call the survival of our people a non-cause?"

Snape sneered. "Miss. Lovegood, perhaps if you thought over my words before reciting to me the first garbled translation that alights in your inapt mind I would not have to restate myself. The particular date for out battle, August the eighth of 1998, had no significance over the cause in which we fought. It is only in that way was the battle unplanned. In our case it was purely impossible to simultaneously prevent and prepare for war. The random hour at which it struck left neither side with the ability to call on the creatures each had boasted when devising battle tactics: no dementor, nor giant, nor werewolf - save Fenrir Greyback and Remus Lupin - prowled the streets. It was purely wizard on wizard, something which in essence made it all much more damaging, in mentality at least."

Luna took his crack at her in stride and had sat listening intently. "Who won The War, Professor Snape?"

He just looked at her, and after a long moment pulled up the sleeve from his robes to reveal a left forearm. Luna's sharp intake of breath reverberated throughout her body and she felt a bout of Firewhiskey threatening to climb up her throat. She had seen firsthand the Death Eaters fall to ground and writhe in agony, clutching at their left arms as the limb all but dismembered itself, crumbling into black ash up to where their Dark Mark's rest.

To witness the damage to Snape was a different experience: for she knew this man, knew somehow that he did not deserve it. He was better for the wear, still having a full arm, but the spot where Voldemort's mark had evidently been was a twisted crater of flesh removed to reveal an area of graying skin dried and mottled over what look to be the outline of a bone.

"Considering members of The Order of the Phoenix went rather unaffected by Voldemort's fall, at least in this aspect," he gestured to the sordid abrasion, "I'd deduce that it was they who walked off victorious."

"Well –" she broke off, "well, were you not apart of the winning side?"

He was fixing the robe sleeve back over his arm. "Just enough."

August the 8th, 1998

Rufus Scrimgeour died first, and chaos erupted. From within The Leaky Cauldron customers cried out and exploded from the bar even before his limp body fell dead to the ground, and raucous took up in the streets as confused civilians scrambled about dodging the hexes that seemed to have no origin.

It was early August, and a heated, smoggy atmosphere began to lack more light as the minutes progressed, murky storm clouds rolling over the dusty blue of the sky and shadowing the frenzied region: a terrorized Diagon Alley. Children were dragged screaming from the streets, their bawling mothers risking being splinched to get as far away from the battleground as possible, apparating with the toddlers clasped tightly to their chests as they prayed for Merlin to keep their bodies in one piece. Shop windows shattered, from curses plunging into them or curses propelling grown men into them, the unfortunate latter sinking to sidewalk with thick trails of blood crisscrossing over their faces, wands limp in grip. More and more showed up, for word of war always quickly spreads, and the streets became so thickly mobbed that spells could hardly charge to their required destination without crashing into any wizard that took a step at precisely the wrong moment. The Death Eaters were soon entwined in the throng, maniacal laughter decorating the cries of wounded and moans of the dying as they leaped about killing with merriment, flashes of green and red circulating throughout the mad crowd of warring peoples.

Further down, Luna Lovegood, bleeding slightly from the back of her blonde head from being knocked about in the original riot leaving the Cauldron, was grasping at the arms of a lifeless girl, no more than ten or eleven, finally getting a strong hold of her and pulling her to the safety of an inner alley that seemed devoid of the surrounding death. She checked the girl's pulse, her own throbbing madly, before whispering a healing spell that she had once heard Madam Pomfrey administer to Romilda Vane when the silly girl had gotten herself into a tizzy and outright fainted. The one Luna was attending stirred, her eyes not opening, but her breath coming in shrill little gasps that assured Luna she was most certainly still alive. Without any more hesitation Luna ran back out into the heat of war.

Even beyond that, Neville Longbottom was panting as he ran, his heart pounding so wildly he thought at any moment it would find itself overworked and cease to pump at all. He heard steady footsteps crunching from behind and turned to see him still on his trail, long white-blonde hair whipping in the hot wind. Why Lucius Malfoy was cornering him, he could not be sure, but every hex he had already aimed at the man had been so easily deflected Neville had just given up and run, dodging the whizzing beams of burning red light that skimmed his body as he jerked about the streets uncontrollably, trying to avoid being an easy mark.

And then, "Incarcerous."

He had expected to fall and then see blinding green light as Lucius would undoubtedly kill him, the prey, but instead Neville remained standing, hunched in an upright fetal position as he felt no new sensation over his body. Realizing he was still standing, still alive, he whipped around to see Severus Snape kneeling before Lucius' unconscious form, the man gripped in thick cutting vines that encompassed the whole length of his body. Snape looked to Neville with no expression before rising to his feet and running swiftly in a different direction of battle, passing the boy with not another glance.

Neville stepped cautiously to Lucius' body, unaware of the curses thrashing themselves through the air around him as he focused only on the fallen Malfoy. With no thought he bent and used a foot to nudge the man onto his side, seeing a single trickle of blood escape his temple.

"A nasty little ingrate such as yourself dare touch Lucius Malfoy with a foot? Unheard of." The voice was a cracked hiss breathed right into his ear, and Neville knew it was she without having to turn around. His body stiffened, the hairs of his neck standing to one end, and all other cries of battle were zoned away from his conscious as he focused on her ragged breathing alone.

It was two singular motions that propelled the other and acted within all of a second. He heard the word "Avada" curl from her lips in the same instant he had already proceeded to hurl himself around the still form of Lucius Malfoy. Landing with a thud to the ground he felt a profusion of energy somewhere to the immediate left of him and then complete stillness once more.

Neville lay on the ground for long moments thinking himself deceased, before realizing he was still thinking. He dragged himself to his knees and trying to decipher what had just happened.

Lucius Malfoy was dead. His eyes were open but unblinking, silvery-steeled eyes peering into the sky with no recognition, slightly opened mouth allowing no breath in or out.

He looked over and there she was, on her knees like himself, her black hair mussed around her face as she too did not blink, looking at Lucius with a wide-eyed terror that drained the blood from her face and caused a vein near her mouth to convulse. Then she looked at Neville, rising to his feet. Back to Lucius. And then to Neville.

Her scream of anguish filled the air, a sharp cry that echoed into his ears and played over and over as he neared her, and finally stood before her, her hell raising screech of dismay revolving from right lobe to left.

She was at her knees before him, wand dropped forgotten to her side, large tear droplets falling down her face and entwining with the hair and mucus stuck to her mouth. She raised her head and looked at him. Below the swimming water in her eyes there was pure loathing.

"Look," she howled. "LOOK!" He remained staring down at her. "Look what you made me do you bastard, look!"

Something within Neville Longbottom snapped. He felt a heat rising in his temples, a painful awakening to someplace dark in the back of his mind.

"My mum didn't birth a bastard, Bellatrix," he barely mustered, his wand gripped sorely against his palm.

She did not seem to hear him as she looked beyond his body to Lucius' own, as if willing it to resurrect itself under her unnerving stare. Neville was not aware that he had reached and gripped a hand in her hair, but she was looking at him again as he pulled her head back with the captured strands in a way he knew must be excruciating, though she made no noise of protest.

An eternity passed as brown stared into jade.

She blinked at last, and her gaze flickered upon Lucius again before rising back to Neville, who still grasped her hair tightly, her neck wrenched all the way back.

"Cissy will never forgive me, I hope you know," she whispered, before shutting her eyes tightly and allowing more tears to seep out.

He let go of her hair and stepped back an inch, and her whole body frame fell forward with him, her face smashing into the calves of his legs.

Neville had never spoke two words more soundly in his life as he leant his wand into Bellatrix Lestrange's scalp and killed her.

Afar the sea of dead bodies that now graced the ground, Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort stood face to face, wands outstretched.

The seventeen-year-old boy was exhausted. He and the Dark Lord had sparred for what seemed like hours, though he knew it was probably just mere minutes as Voldemort deflected each spell Harry threw at him (unvoiced, he had learned) away easily. He was playing with him, Harry realized. For Voldemort, this was a game. The gaunt serpent-man was laughing shrilly at what he had to witness before him: a child attempting to defeat him and the death of the innocent aplenty.

Harry was about to launch another curse but Voldemort opened the hole of his mouth and the words that followed stopped Harry in tracks.

"Hear this boy, a tale of how a young runt of a wizard called Harry Potter thought he could outwit the greatest Dark wizard of all time by destroying pieces of his soul one by one. He even killed the Dark Lord's snake, unaware that little Nagini served as a ploy to fool The One Who Got Lucky into believing he had a chance. And then on the day of battle, as it dawns on him he cannot win, he learns that the last one of Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes has been closer to him than he ever could have dreamed: that it lay upon his own forehead, a sheer scar," Voldemort lip curled in pleasure as he finished, noting the blood drawn from Harry's face.

"To kill me, young Harry Potter," Voldemort hissed, "You must rid this world of yourself."

Harry was frozen, his wand hand shaking slightly as a strange ringing filled his ears, and he swallowed slowly.

"Shall I help you, Harry?" Voldemort raised his wand and aimed at the boy, but not before Harry was aiming to himself, pure resolve etched on his face.

"I'd rather be dead than leave the wizarding world to your feet, Voldemort," Harry said, his emerald eyes gleaming.

Severus Snape had watched this scene unfold in slow motion, he himself feeling sluggish as he came upon the moment of great truth. He struck his wand at an angle in the way of them both, uttering the words that he knew would decide the future of his world, of everyone's world.

The beam of white light that exploded from his efforts blasted over the Dark Lord and Harry Potter as each had began to shout the spell most unforgivable of all. It lunged upon their beings with a ferocity that propelled each to the ground, slicing itself in the middle between their two bodies before each jolt of energy moved in the direction of Harry and fed into him. All had gone as supposed to.

Yet it had not.

Snape's eyes widened as he simultaneously saw parts of Voldemort's body begin to disintegrate, his legs shriveling into stumps and arms becoming black and dead, as Harry Potter did not rise from the spot where he lay. Death Eaters were twitching upon the streets, holding their own stump of left arms but Snape did not feel the burn in his as he tried to understand why The Boy Who Lived did not look as though he were living at all. He scrambled over to the young man and placed his hand to his forehead and then his chest. He felt nothing for seconds and thought all was lost when a slight thump gave a sensation to his palm and he realized Harry was still breathing.

Thinking perhaps the boy had fainted from strain Snape calmed a little but as he turned to the contorted form of Voldemort he could have sworn he saw movement from the blackening, crumpled thing he laid as now. Something was amiss; he was not sure what yet, but what mattered now was that Harry Potter was alive and Death Eaters lay defeated in the dirt. The people of the Light who had remained standing held faces that were grim, questioning their victory.

Snape looked up to the sky, cleared of the overcast blackness, now a deep blue that twinkled like an old friend's eye.