sorry, this one took so long...but on the plus side the fic is now complete (gasp, shock, horror...the world is clearly ending) and the next chapters should be posted soonish...

umm, so everyone enjoy

Chapter Five

Somehow, having the crowbar didn't seem as important in retrospect. Maybe, he thought to himself, if he hadn't asked for the crowbar Remus might've lived...because then Madam Pomfrey would have been here when Remus went in search of Harry. But that just led back to the thought that Madam Pomfrey shouldn't have left the hospital wing in the first place.

It was all too late though, and there was no way he could ever get Remus back.

But he still had the crowbar…because it had been forgotten in light of Remus' death.

But Remus' funeral coincided with a wonderful day: the day he would be released from the hospital wing with his hands almost entirely healed, save a few minor scabs that would clear up in a few days.

Harry quietly sat through the small private funeral, his hands clenched tightly together as he stared pointedly away from the coffin that would be burned with Remus' body in it. He could feel strange tingles running through his left hand as his fingers pressed down on the strangely beautiful scar that remained. It still had a vague purple-bluish tinge to it that Harry was sure would remain there for a while.

Harry refused to shake anyone's hand or show anyone his scars, not because he was too despondent over Remus' death (though it was true), or because he was too ashamed of his scars (which was quickly becoming untrue—they were fascinating to look at, and he swore the one on his left hand moved), or because his hands were still sore (which they weren't). It was because his hands felt so strange…maybe it was just having them out of the bandages, but Harry couldn't quite place what the feeling was.

It was just wrong to touch anyone directly…at least for now, and Harry really couldn't explain why.

Harry also didn't like to touch things, his left palm had brushed over the chair as he sat down and it sent strange a strange uncomfortable feeling stinging through his hand all the way up to his shoulder. It had also been like that as he'd dressed this morning; it had almost hurt every time he'd touched his clothes, but after he'd worn them for a few minutes it no longer bothered him.

It had been completely bizarre, but he didn't feel the need to tell anyone.

He did wonder if perhaps he should…but they'd been trying to steal his crowbar systematically for three days, so Harry didn't feel the need to offer up any information at the moment.

Harry's right hand floated to his pocket where he'd put the crowbar, his right hand felt like it was almost magnetized to the damn thing.

It felt like his whole body, and his life, had changed in a week.

And Harry wasn't happy about that.

Harry clenched his fists tighter at Hermione leaned over and cried on his shoulder, he felt like he should comfort her, but there was no way he was touching anything. So Harry just rested his head on top of hers and stared blanking into the rising flames of the funeral pyre.

Hermione pulled away a little later rubbing at her eyes; she placed a dainty hand on his shoulder and then gave him a quick hug. Harry didn't return the hug but offered her a weak smile, she graced with a watery half-grimace, half-smile.

Then Harry returned his attention to the flickering pyre, and Harry had no idea how much later it was when Dumbledore gripped Harry's shoulder with his oddly strong hand and said, "Harry, one can't put a time limit on grief, but the living must continue to take care of themselves."

Harry blinked and turned to look at the old man, the fire burning in his retinas. Dumbledore wasn't looking at him, but instead studying the dying flames.

"I feel as though I've failed you once more," Dumbledore conceded.

Harry decided this was like one of those moments of kindness from a torturer that made people develop Stockholm Syndrome…Harry wondered if it was worth the effort to self-diagnose…

"Come, Harry," Dumbledore said, but Harry could tell it was only a suggestion.

Perhaps...it was time to offer up his moment of kindness, so Harry stood, pointedly looking away from Dumbledore.

Then Harry found the perfect thing to say, and turned to look at Dumbledore, "I don't blame you," Harry told Dumbledore, wondering if his voice sounded as haughty to Dumbledore as it did to him, "I blame Madam Pomfrey and…well," Harry cleared his throat and turned away, "I don't completely blame you."

Harry made his way up to the castle, not bothering to look back at Dumbledore, wondering what happened to his moment of kindness.

Harry unclenched his hands and the breeze felt awkward against his palms.