EPILOGUE: Farewell, My Love
A week had passed since Harry's sixteenth birthday. He had awoken four days later in St Mungo's, under heavy medical surveillance. Too battered to move, he could only spoke in whispers, and only for a few minutes at a time. The first couple of days after he had woke up only close friends and Order members who fought alongside him were allowed to visit.
Harry barely remembered what he said at those visits, his injuries so severe that he had completely blacked out in the middle of one or two of those conversations, the medical wards stationed around his bed alerting the healers to come rushing. His medical report had set a precedent, and even though specialists were flown in from Spain, Iceland and Norway, none of the advanced healers could explain the bizarre anomaly.
The reports did not lie. The magical scan had clearly shown that all vital organs and brain activity had shut down completely, heart failure and time of death was precisely 2:22 A.m. on the first day of August. The autopsy report was there for anyone to see, the cause of death was due to the Avada Kedavra curse.
Harry Potter was clinically dead for almost three minutes. Yet here he was, speaking in hoarse whispers and trying to smile.
They didn't need to ask him. He could see it on their faces. They all wanted to know the answers to the same question: How did he do it? At only age sixteen he managed to defeat a Hunter, Bellatrix Lestrange, a renowned witch who was once hailed as a Cruciatus specialist, and the Dark Lord himself, Voldemort.
Harry kept his face neutrally pleasant most of the time, not wanting to let the doctors know the incredible amount of pain he was in. It was the scariest thing. In the few dizzy spells he endured over the last week when everything went black, he could actually feel Voldemort reaching out to suck him down into hell alongside him, the Avada Kedavra curse leaving an echoing imprint on his body.
Harry's head lolled to the side as yet another sudden pain gripped his heart. He closed his eyes as he fought off the impulse to just close his eyes and let it consume him.
The Dark Lord once told him that he had spent many years to find a way to cheat death. He boasted about devising ways to become immortal. He smiled ruefully.
So much for all that old talk. Harry had delivered him a one way ticket to the nether, right through his chest. Now that felt good.
It really did.
After Ron had pulled him out from the crater, he remembered hearing Ron screaming his name as he blacked out, but he knew his task was done, and his friends would live. His last memory before he went into coma was Voldemort was dead. He could have died peacefully knowing that. Thinking back; he remembered not seeing some faces at his few visits. He did not see Professor McGonagall, Sturgis Proudmore, nor Professor Snape. But what worried him the most was that Hermione did not come to see him as yet. No one seemed to give him a straight answer when he asked for her, but managed to skirt around it by asking him questions. Today he was feeling up to having conversations and asked each and every one of his visitors about her, and was now beginning to get angry because everyone was dodging him.
So here he was up and about at seven a.m the following Sunday, and was looking out the window overlooking London. His healer was the best in Europe, they flew him in from Spain to tend to the severe magical injuries he sustained to his vital organs. He came in through the door expecting Harry to be still bed ridden, but smiled brilliantly when he saw that he was walking without assistance. The healer opened his mouth to congratulate Harry about his swift recovery but his patient rudely cut him off.
"Where's Hermione?" he asked, his face set. The elderly man's happy expression wilted, and he clasped his hands behind his back.
"I think you should sit down." Healer Gonzalez said, his voice serious.
"I rather stand, thank you," Harry replied.
"The spell she used to save your life was the Infinite Revival spell, a very ancient form of sacrificial magic." He paused, letting Harry fully understand what he was about to say.
"...Sacrificial magic," he said flatly. Recognition dawned in Harry's eyes, and they widened in horror. She couldn't be …
"No…" he breathed, a hollow feeling sinking into his stomach.
"We're trying the best we can, but it doesn't look good. Believe it or not, she's in a much worse condition than you were."
"Where is she?" Harry asked softly
"Calm down son, calm down," Gonzales said in his heavy accent. "you need to rest-"
"Where is she?"
"I don't think –" Gonzalez eyes flickered in apprehension, and tried to avoid the question once again.
"WHERE IS SHE?" Harry repeated, and his eyes blazed alive, the window and the glass pitcher imploding on itself in tiny fragments of glass. Gryffindor's sword began to rattle on the floor in the corner of the room, inching closer and closer towards Harry.
"A-Aaaahh," he stammered, obviously unnerved by the energy pulsating form Harry. "Ward fifteen, second floor, two doors to the le-" Harry stormed past him, running at full tilt down the corridor.
"- left after the stairs…." He continued lamely.
Harry raced down the steps and along the hall in the wrong direction, before doubling back and finding the second door from the stairs which had Ward 15 written on it. He peeked through the little square window and saw two adults standing near the patient bed. He knocked quietly, and opened the door. Hermione's parents were inside at their daughter's bedside, her mother's face red with tears. Her father was pacing, his face set in a contortion of worry and anger. They both turned at the person who dared intrude on their visit to their ailing and only daughter.
"Mr. Gra-" Harry began, but was aggressively cut off.
"YOU!" Roger growled, his hands balling at his sides. " I TAKE YOU IN, AND SHELTER YOU, AND LOOK HOW YOU REPAY ME!" Mr. Granger shouted, his face set with fury.
"Sir.."
"NO! Just stay quiet! Look at her! This is what you have done! All this- risking her life- for what! Because of you! You son of a bitch- you go on some..some some.. suicide mission a-and expect people to die for you! Look at her! LOOK AT HER!" he cried.
Harry stood where he was, too stunned to move. His eyes darted down to Hermione. She was deathly pale and her cheekbones were sunken, her bushy hair lay flat and withered about her. She had lost a lot of weight, almost to the point of being only skin and bone, her skin was splotched and discoloured. Many cauldrons of different liquids and concoctions were placed in a line on the opposite side of the bed, and a magical syringe was stuck in her arm, the colour in its tube sequentially changing to the colour of cauldrons' contents, systematically keeping the distinct potions pumping into her.
"The doc said she is still critical, and her chances are extremely slim. Her condition has deteriorated, if anything else…" Roger looked down at her with paternal anguish. Diana burst into tears again, burying her face in her hands. Roger Granger stepped up into Harry's face, and stared into his green eyes. "Don't you ever come near my daughter again. If this doesn't kill her, you will. Get out, before I do what I really want to do, " he said in a flat voice, turning his back on him. Those words cut through Harry like a guillotine, hurting him more than any curse ever could. He looked solemnly at her mother's face, and nodded once.
"I understand."
He looked at his sweetheart for probably the last time, and went out the door. He walked like a zombie through the halls, his head blank except for the picture of Hermione being pumped with potions to keep her alive. Her dad was right, it was his fault. He went back up to his room, sat on the edge of the bed, running his hands through his hair.
What had he done?
Hermione was on the brink of death, and it was all because of him. He swore never to cause her pain again that Sunday night, and failed miserably. Throwing on a change of clothes, he picked up Gryffindor's Sword, and secretly left the hospital.
The next day, Harry sat in front of a new piece of parchment. The flickering oil lamps of Sirius' house cast shadows in the depressing study, but it suited his mood perfectly. He wrote Ron first, and couldn't bring himself to tell him the truth about what he planned to do. So he made up one instead.
Ron,
I'm going on a little trip with the Dursleys. I might be late for the start of the year, so I'll see you when I see you all right? It's something important for Aunt Petunia, so don't write me, I'll write you.
Cheers,
Harry.
There. That sounded innocent enough. Ron won't suspect a thing. He opened another fresh piece of parchment. He thought for about a minute, then started his letter to Hermione. His heart felt heavy at doing this, but his life really was too dangerous. He couldn't keep putting her in danger.
Dearest Hermione,
Remember what I said at Cho's place. I love you. Never forget that.
-Harry.
Even though Voldemort was dead, he knew that did not mean that there would no more attempts on his life. He really took what Mr. Granger said to heart, and knew what he said was true in each and every sense. Minerva McGonagall, Mundungus Fletcher, Sturgis Proudmore and Severus Snape were all dead from the fighting that night. Harry counted the victims caught in the crossfire. The Dark Lord and The Boy Who Lived were opposite sides on the same coin, but the end results were the same, no matter what side faced up. Death surrounded his name, just as it did Voldemort's. He didn't need to be told that there were many aspiring Dark Wizards who would want nothing more than to take a potshot at the one who defeated Voldemort, and his sixteenth birthday opened his eyes to the real world. Kidnapping was definitely a weapon to be used against him. He couldn't take that risk.
Hardening his resolve, he signed the letter, and put it in an envelope.
He went down the stairs of his godfather's house, looking at the exact spot when he felt the happiest in all his life, right at the base of the steps where he and Hermione had danced. The radio was still there, along with the chessboard and pieces that Ron and his brother were using the day of his owl results. He studied the board- it really was a beautiful checkmate. Roaming about Sirius' manor for the last time, he knew deep in his heart he couldn't live here any more. This place had too many good and bad memories. Picking up the small radio and the White Knight that masterfully checkmated George's king, he went out to find his pet, Hedwig.
"Hey girl," he said softly, petting her soft feathers. Two tears began to roll down his cheek, he was even deserting his only friend when he was at the Dursleys. He would miss all of his friends more than life itself, but it was the only way he could try and keep them safe. Not even two weeks had passed since Voldemort's death, but his cursed charm was giving him premonitions of a new danger. In addition to what Hermione's dad told him, it was the final drop of evidence that tipped the scale fully in the direction he was considering, cementing it as the only option he had.
Life at Hogwarts was something of the past. School, friends, Hermione; forget about all of that. He needed to leave this country, and begin again.
"Listen, I need you to do something for me. Send these to Hermione and Ron." He took out his wand. " Sorry to do this Hedwig. Obliviate minimus," The snow owl blinked once or twice, then flew off to deliver the mail. Harry watched her fly away, confident that she would not remember how to find Harry for any return mail once she was finished. He would disappear, and hope that his friends would live a long and peaceful life, away from the curse that is Harry Potter.
Picking up his sword, medallion, and cloak, he went outside and jumped on his Godfather's motorbike. Taking a last look at the only place he considered his home, he gunned the engine to life, and rode off into the night.
Nearly a month later, Ron and Hermione were at Diagon alley, looking at their non-eaten ice creams. This was the first time since his last visit to the hospital that Ron saw Hermione, and she seemed to be recovering nicely. Little did he know that physically she was recuperating at a remarkable rate, but internally she was dying with each passing day. That letter that she got from Harry when she woke up almost killed her. He was gone, and no one knew where. Ron had mailed her as soon as she left St Mungo's and arrived home, telling her about the letter Harry sent him.
"He'll come back," Ron said, trying to cheer her up, but failing miserably. "Look he said so himself, he loves you! I KNOW he'll be back!"
Hermione looked away, absently staring down the street, it was crowded with young wizards and witches all getting next year's school supplies. She had cried enough these past few weeks, and she felt that she had no more tears to shed.
"He told me to not fall in love with him. He said that the people closest to him were the ones who eventually get hurt. Mom told me that dad blew up at him the day he left the hospital, saying that he was a dangerous man, and that he'll be the end of me -I was so mad at him! Ron, you don't know the huge arguments we had when I found out what he said. Now he's gone… and to tell you the honest truth, I don't think he's coming back. But you hear this Ron, and I swear to God, I will find him, no matter how long it takes."
Ron looked at Hermione, seeing the fire in her eyes. She looked away again, and took out some money from her pocket. Leaving the uneaten ice-cream on the outside table, she got up and walked down the road. Ron sat there, watching her as she disappeared in the crowd.
"Hermione, I'll help you every step of the way," Ron vowed silently. Rubbing his fuzzy cheek, he got up, and dissaparated, his heart heavy with the pain his two best friends were feeling.
Harry, where are you?
To Be Continued. . .