Chapter 1

It had been unexpected, unpreventable, unforeseeable. An explosion the result of a gas leak in the subway. In her close work with Muggles, Ginny took the underground quite frequently. She was not the only victim. Nearly 50 innocent people had died in the tragedy. Ginny had been the only witch; by the time she had arrived at the hospital and the Healers finally found her, it was too late.

That week was a blur for Harry and his children. Hermione and Ron had agreed to take care of the arrangements; Harry simply had to nod his agreement to questions that he neither heard, nor cared about. He had spent what felt like days at the kitchen table, but couldn't remember eating. He vaguely remembered Ron coming by and practically force-feeding him something a few times, but other than that, his only memories were of him hugging his children as they cried into his shoulders, him stroking their hair, soothing their backs with his hands. The funeral seemed to occur around him like he was looking through some sort of tunnel, like he was a million miles away. Everything sounded fuzzy, and he felt like he was in some sort of fog. He thought he remembered shaking lots of hands, getting hugs. He was unaware of exactly who had showed up and oblivious to the frequent darts of Hermione's eyes as the ceremony wore on. Before it had a chance to register, it was over, and Ginny was gone – buried beneath the earth in the Godric's Hollow cemetery, along with Harry's parents, Dumbledore's family, and so many others.

James and Albus returned to work, and Lily to Hogwarts. The Ministry gave Harry bereavement time – as much as he needed, they said. Harry found himself back at the kitchen table, staring at the grains in the wood as though they would suddenly come to life. He felt the sun move across the sky, changing angles through the windows. Sometimes, he laid his head down and closed his eyes; he supposed he might have slept. He received a plethora of Owls, but the only ones he opened were from his children – he knew he had to be strong for them; he wouldn't give them any reason to worry, not while they were trying to heal. It hadn't even occurred to him that he had not shed a single tear himself.

He opened the letter again – the letter Ginny had left him.

Dearest Harry,

My love, I hope you never, ever have reason to read this, but I know that it is possible, which is why I am writing it. I want you to know that I love you with all my heart, body, and soul. I have loved you since the day I set eyes on you in King's Cross. I only hoped and prayed for so many years that you would love me, too. I am prouder of you than I could ever say. I am so lucky to have had you as a husband and as the father of my children. I know you will find it difficult to deal with this, but James, Albus, and Lily will need you to be strong. We won't be apart for long, and you know I'll never really be gone. You can always find me. I'll always be with you. Harry, you have to understand something. I have to make sure I am inordinately clear. It is my fervent wish that you find a way to make yourself happy once I am gone. I want you to find someone who makes you happy. I do not care who it is. Please, believe me that this is the thing I want most in this world – for you to be happy. No matter what. Promise me you will do this. And remember, death is just a passing through the world. I have only gone into the next room, waiting for you, just out of sight. I will be there for you when you arrive. I am simply in the next room, ready to see you when you come to me. It will be our next great adventure. I love you.

Always,

Ginny

He had completely lost track of time when he jumped at the sound of the Floo. He whirled around to see Hermione brushing herself off as she stepped into the kitchen from the living room fireplace.

"Did I startle you?" She asked concernedly.

Harry shook his head and set the paper down on the table.

"Sorry," Hermione apologized anyway. "It's been nearly two weeks. You haven't answered any of our Owls; I had to come and check on you." Her eyes darted to the kitchen counter. "Have you answered any of your Owls?" She inclined her head to the growing stack of unopened letters.

Harry nodded and said, "Kids," surprised at how his voice cracked from lack of use.

Hermione's expression softened, her eyebrows drawing together. She walked over to Harry and sat down next to him, taking his hands in hers. "Harry," she said softly, brushing his hair out of his eyes, "Harry, how are you? Really? We've been so worried about you. It's been weeks. Have you eaten at all? Slept? These clothes look like you've been in them for days." Her hands smoothed over his shoulders.

Harry's eyes shifted to the floor.

"Harry?" Hermione's hand cupped under his chin and forced his head up. "Harry, you have to eat. You have to sleep. Say something," she begged him.

Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head again.

"I know," Hermione said softly, "we miss her, too." And she pulled Harry into her and laid his head on her shoulder.

Harry awoke in bed – still in his clothes, but underneath the covers. At least he didn't have his shoes on. He turned to his nightstand and saw a folded note.

Harry,

You fell asleep on my shoulder and I thought it best if you slept in your bed – you looked dreadful. I've made you some meals for the next few days – I understand if you still want some time alone. But if you need anything – even another hug, please just Owl us. Or Floo over – we'd love to have you. It will get better, Harry. We're here for you. Please take care of yourself.

Love, Hermione

Harry's mouth curved up into what was almost a smile. His face felt like a stone cracking. He threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His stomach growled and he decided he might as well make use of Hermione's cooking – it was nearly as good as Gin – no, he wasn't going to think about that. As Harry trekked downstairs, he noticed the house sounded dreadfully quiet. He was sure it had been that way for a while, but it was only just now that he actually noticed it. He suddenly realized he had no earthly idea what day it was. He looked down at his watch and his eyes widened in surprise. He had slept through the evening Hermione came, the entire next day, and the following night. It was eight in the morning and he squinted into the sunlight streaming through the windows. He noticed the food on the counter and walked over. Labels, he thought to himself, suppressing a snort, of course they would be labeled. Detailed content descriptions, along with breakfast, lunch, and dinner labels, were on each dish. He managed a half-hearted smile as he chose the nearest breakfast dish and walked over to the table.

He summoned some silverware as he was sitting down, and he was lifting off the cover of the dish when he noticed a book sitting on the table – a book that had most certainly not been there the last time he was down here. The Seven Stages of Grief, the title read, Dealing with the Loss of a Loved One. He took three bites of breakfast, the taste not registering on his tongue, before he reached out a tentative hand to finger the cover. He assumed Hermione had either left it before she had gone, or had perhaps come back later and put it there. He pulled the book over to himself and opened the cover to look at the table of contents.

Shock

Denial

Anger

Blame

Guilt

Pain

Acceptance

Harry closed the cover, not sure if he wanted to continue. He finished his breakfast – as much as he could, anyway, and vanished the rest. He cleaned the plate and sent it back to the counter, making a mental note to return it to Ron and Hermione's the next time he went over. He noticed the kitchen and dining area seemed to need tidying up, so he set to work making the room look habitable. Over the next few days, he managed to find the motivation to complete some other necessary household chores – including a shower for himself and laundry. He also managed to sort through some of his mail and answer the ones he felt like he could without falling apart – which seemed like it could happen at any given moment. In fact, the more time that passed, the more he could acutely feel the thin strings that seemed to hold him together. He could feel how tenuous they were, threatening to break at the slightest nudge. It was exhausting, keeping the strings from breaking. He found himself sleeping more and more, just to escape from the strings. In fact, after a while, he noticed that whereas a few weeks ago he had slept almost none, now he was spending more time asleep than awake. Some days it took all his strength just to climb out of bed.

It was with quite a bit of shock one morning when he heard a distinct knock on his front door.

He undid the latch and cracked the door to see who his visitor was, and his eyes widened with surprise when they fell upon the face of his guest.

"Severus!" he exclaimed in surprise. Professor Snape had been discovered alive after the battle, having fortuitously taken some anti-venom for Voldemort's snake before being summoned to see him. He had taken other precautions, as well, and had for quite some time, once the Dark Lord had procured the Elder Wand. Severus had known it wouldn't take Voldemort much time to deduce (albeit incorrectly) that Severus was the wand's true owner. It hadn't been assured he would make a full recovery, but with the expert help of the healers who had tended to Arthur Weasley some 2 years beforehand with similar injuries, he was out of St. Mungo's in a relatively short period of time. Now he fit into Harry's life on the periphery, coming over for Christmas, Easter, and other times when family and friends were invited.

"Mr. Potter," Severus Snape responded in what was, for him anyway, a cordial tone.

"What are you doing here?" Harry genuinely puzzled as he opened the door wider.

"Well, I was foremost hoping you might invite me inside, seeing as how it is beginning to rain." Snape answered blandly.

"Sorry," Harry apologized quickly, and backed away so Snape could enter. "Come in."

Snape quickly crossed the threshold and made enough room for Harry to close the door behind him. Severus shrugged out of his cloak and Harry held out his arms to take it, hanging it on a hook behind the door. Harry made his way to the sitting room and gestured for Snape to sit in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. Harry took the opposing chair. There was an uncomfortable silence between them as Snape kept his gaze fixed on Harry.

Harry cleared his throat, feeling suspiciously like a schoolboy again. "Erm, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Harry asked again, that fact that Snape had not answered his question earlier did not escape him.

Snape folded his hands together, his index fingers touching at the tips. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair and he pressed his fingers lightly to his lips. After a moment of surveying Harry, he leaned back and let his hands fall into his lap. "It has come to my attention, Mr. Potter, that you have not been out of this house for nearly two months. Are these rumors true?"

Two months? Harry thought to himself, eyes widening. He'd no idea it had been quite that long. It still felt like just days ago that his world had been turned upside down, the carpet tugged unceremoniously from underneath his feet.

"Judging from your reaction and lack of protest, I would surmise that they are indeed, although perhaps you were quite unaware that this length of time was so extensive."

Harry nodded mutely.

"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, that is to say, Mr. Weasley and the former Ms. Granger, have implored me to come in what I assured them would be a futile attempt to coax you out of your rabbit hole."

Harry's eyes narrowed. Snape sighed.

"Please, Mr. Potter, spare me your retributions. This island has room for only so many hermits. I believe that I am currently occupying the last available spot. So unless you wish to murder me in order to claim my place – which I would most certainly understand," he inclined his head with a smirk, "it seems we have some work to do."

"Work?" Harry finally found his voice.

"I suppose that may not be the right word. I am told you are occasionally known to engage in a game of chess?"

Harry's face contorted in true confusion. Snape was here to – to play games with him?

"I, erm, Severus, I don't understand…you want to play? Chess? With me?" Harry waited, but got no real answer, just a raised eyebrow from Snape, which after years of practice he knew meant 'Really? You expect me to answer such an imbecilic question?'

"Look," he continued, "I know that things are different now, I mean, I'm glad we see each other at holidays, and Quidditch matches and such, but chess? Do you even know how to play chess?"

At that, Snape rolled his eyes and gave a measured sigh, then shifted in his seat, leaning slightly forward. "Mr. Potter, I appreciate your sentiments about our…time spent together during the years, and no, I do not really want to play chess with you; based upon my interactions with you in the classroom for six years it promises to be a ridiculously boring – and short – escapade. However, contrary to popular belief, I do, in fact, know considerably more than how to brew potions, deliver curses, and display brilliantly sarcastic wit."

Harry stared, the silence hanging in the air. Finally, he responded, "Then why are you here? If you don't want to be?"

Harry was treated to yet another eye roll. "Mr. Potter, I merely said I did not want to play chess with you, not that I didn't want to be here. Yet again, your auditory powers astound me."

Harry bristled. Even after over 30 years, he wasn't used to Snape's condescension. "Why are you here, then, if it's not to play a boring game of chess?"

This time, he got a measured look from Snape rather than an eye roll. An improvement, Harry thought to himself.

"I have been informed that visits from your peers and family members have done little in the way of helping you return to some semblance of a normal life. Several of them thought it time to involve someone with whom you had a…different…relationship."

"You?" It was Harry's turn to raise a brow.

"Obviously," Snape drawled, bordering insulting.

"What made them think you'd be more…successful?" Harry struggled to find the right word.

"I am still asking myself the same question. However, it seems they knew what they were doing."

"What?" Harry was baffled. He certainly didn't feel any better than he had in the last – what was it – two months?

"Well, I have been told that no one has heard you speak more than one or two words at a time, most of those being monosyllabic. I, on the other hand, have graduated you to entire sentences – although they are full of a rather low level of vocabulary."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise. Snape curled one corner of his mouth into a smirk and inclined his head slightly toward Harry, clearly in an endeavor to say, 'I told you so.'

Harry was unsure of what to do. He couldn't sort through the emotions flooding his brain and his body – it had been too long since he'd felt much of anything except fatigue and the occasional hunger. He finally sighed in defeat.

"You really play chess?"

Snape smirked again at him, his eyes narrowing in challenge.