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A/N: I'm not JKR; get over it . . . --snickers--

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Chapter 7: or; The Talking Deads

Harry found himself back at the strange King's Cross station once more. It was a bit different this time 'round.

The platform was a hive of happy people greeting friends and relatives amongst them. A bright blue train was busily loading passengers from the now crowded platform.

Many of them Harry had never met before; though some of whom he recognized from his daytrips into Hogsmead over the years, or had seen as a student passing them through the crowded corridors of Hogwarts.

There were also a select few scattered among them that he knew personally.

First among those few was a bustling Molly Weasley, calling out, "Fred! Where've you gotten to now, you scamp? FRED! Fred, oh there you are! Don't wander off again, and keep hold of your ticket. Arthur? Have you found Percy and Charlie yet?"

The Weasley patriarch answered his wife with a twinkle in his hazel eyes, "Yes, dearest. I found them and they'll be along shortly. They're over at the Information Desk. You know how they both always want to know everything."

The couple exchanged amused glances with each other at their private little parenting joke.

Even when potty-training, everything had had to be explained in great detail to both Charlie and Percy before they'd either dare to sit on the toilet.

The two of them had also taught themselves to read before the age of four, with Bill's help, just so they could understand the mysterious words that their parents 'spelled out' in front of them.

That both of them had followed in their eldest brother's footsteps to later both become Head Boy of their respective Year's had not came as any surprise to either parent.

Harry's heart ached in the knowledge of the loving family's death. Harry had grown to look on the Weasley clan as the family he might have had, if not for Voldemort.

Even here, in this mysterious waiting room, his heart could still painfully grieve for the loss of yet more 'family'.

As sorrowful tears began to fill his emerald eyes, he felt a hand slap him on the back.

"Oi! Hi ya, Harry!" Ron's smiling freckled face beamed at him.

"RON!" Harry joyfully screamed as the two best friends embraced in a tight hug, and engaged in much back-slapping and laughter.

"You look great! But . . . Ron . . . if you're here, then that means that you're . . ."

"Yeah. I know," he somberly replied to Harry's unfinished sentence.

"Just my time, mate. Nothing you could've done to have stopped it even if you'd been there. I never saw it coming; more's the mercy. One minute I was running through the Dark Forest for all I was worth, then . . . nothing. I never felt a thing. Strange it'n it? It was easier than falling asleep."

"Yeah. I remember," Harry soberly said, thinking back on Sirius' final advice to him that night back in Godric's Hollow. "But you look great now! Death really suits you."

"Same to you, you poncy git!" Ron smartly responded with a broad grin. "What's happened to your glasses . . . and . . . bloody hell, Harry! Your scar's gone!"

"Yeah, I know. I guess I don't need them here," the green-eyed young wizard replied to his redhaired best friend.

Molly Weasley came bustling over toward them, her loud voice simultaneously scolding and loving. "There you are, Ronald. Here's your ticket," the Weasley matriarch said as she passed him a slip of blue parchment.

"Keep hold of your ticket, there's a good lad, and board the train before the last whistle. Do not miss the train, or I'll box your ears for days."

Molly turned to observe Fred's attempting to wandlessly levitate himself above the station; she flounced away with an annoyed huff to pull him back in line.

The parents were acting like this was simply another great adventuring Weasley family vacation, and expected it to be great fun. Perhaps for them it was.

Ron stared down at the glowing golden letters embossed on the sky-blue ticket. "Bloody hell, Harry. I've only got a few minutes left before the train leaves."

Brilliant blue eyes misting with tears raised to solemnly stare into emerald green. "Where's your ticket, Harry?" he tremblingly asked.

"I haven't got one," Harry softly responded.

"Not yet, anyways. See, I've been here once before and talked to Dumbledore that first time. He told me that there was something special about my blood; about how since Voldemort had taken my blood, and my mother's love that it held within it, to help reconstitute himself physically that it bound us together. So that as long as he lived, I could not truly die."

Ron softly whistled, then said in an awed whisper, "Blood magick; that's what he did! Harry, that's the very darkest of all of the Dark Arts. He's bound your very souls together! What can you do about it?"

"I don't know yet Ron; but I believe that there must be some form of Higher Power using me, and this connection we share, to prevent the whole Wizarding World from falling into chaos. Whatever it is that I'm still supposed to do . . . well . . . once it's been done, I think that then I'll get my ticket."

Ron choked down a sorrowful sob for his misused friend. Harry was stuck and unable to move on.

He'd had it so very wrong for years; Harry'd never reveled in the spot-light's glare that had been forced upon him when Voldemort had marked him as his mortal nemesis when he'd survived the Killing Curse as a baby.

He'd never wanted the admiration and glory of being the Hero, the long-anticipated Saviour, that had been thrust upon him as an eleven year old boy.

All his friend had ever wanted was to be 'just Harry', have a place of his very own to belong to, and people around him who loved him.

Even as hard as his short life had been, Harry still had a remarkable amount of love in his heart to give. Remus had been right; Harry was very much his mother's son.

Perhaps that very love, the love that Voldemort denied the existence of, would be what would eventually turn their defeat around and bring back the Light.

The train blew a long, keening, last whistle and Ron looked once more into Harry's eyes. He said, "Harry, I've gotta go now; or Mum will kill me."

The two young wizards quirked mirroring grins at each other.

"Go on then. Off with you," Harry responded with a joking punch to Ron's shoulder. "Best of luck to you, mate. Pick me up at the station when I get there too, will you?" he half-jokingly, half-seriously, asked.

Ron swiftly replied, "Of course I'll meet you at the other station, mate. Count on it." He began trotting towards the final few boarding passengers, then stopped and turned to wave.

Harry lifted his hand and returned his best mate's wave.

Ron called out, "Oi! Harry? P'raps love is the weapon that you needed all along to kill Voldemort with. Tom Riddle might could've been redeemed; it was only after he'd made himself into the Dark Lord that he truly crossed the line into Unforgivables and Horcruxes."

He turned and ran to grab the steprail and hop onto the last car of the bright blue train as it pulled out of this strange King's Cross.

Ronald Weasley had been awesomely gifted with strategy; he had always been able to see the proper moves well in advance when playing Wizard's chess.

Perhaps it wasn't checkmate for the side of Light just yet.

Perhaps this was only a re-match.

Harry turned and walked back over to resume his seat to ponder what Ron had just said.

It could have been minutes, or hours, or even days that he sat thinking and remembering; it mattered little to the Boy Who had Lived only to die.

He wasn't hungry; he felt no thirst; although from time-to-time he thought that he felt a breeze, warm and infinitely loving, caress his skin and ruffle his unruly dark hair.

Time had no meaning here; everything simply was.

From a long way off in the misty distance, Harry suddenly thought that he heard the keening falsetto of a panicked child's voice shrilly calling--

"Friend? FRIEND! Where are you? Please help me, friend . . . I can't do this. Friend, I need you!"

Harry stood up, and calmly went to help the fragile bit that still remained of Voldemort's humanity; if there was any way that he possibly could.

End of Chapter 7

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A/A/N: And yes, I meant for there to be an "s" on the end of Talking Deads; it was a play on words--anybody out there ever heard of the Talking Heads? --snickers--

It has come to my attention that I'm not lingering long enough, or explaining thoroughly enough, the scenes that you've been reading. Sorry. I didn't mean to be so confusing, only secretive with my plot. (and I am coming back to them in the next few chapters to wrap up the loose threads and move ahead with the plot-bunnies--snickers.)

In case you didn't guess already, this story's Prologue was really the End of the Tale.

I've been showing what's happening (simultaneously) for SEVERAL characters that this story will be featuring via a revolving format; now I'd like to take a vote, please.

Those who would prefer separate chapters of each character's POV of the same scene instead of the revolving format that I'm currently using, this is your chance. (please review & let me know) Otherwise I'll be going on as I've begun.

Thanks so much to everyone that has actually reviewed this ficlet of mine. You are the spur that my muse needs to keep going. You inspire me.

Signed, Victoria Prince

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