The Gunman Chapter Eighteen, a harry potter fanfic

TITLE: "THE GUNMAN"

AUTHOR: sordid humor

CATEGORY: Adventure

SUB-CATEGORY: Humor; Romance; Drama

RATING: (Sesame Street) brought to you by the letter M: "M" is for mutual satisfaction

DISCLAIMER:

I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them whilst I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling.

- lyrics from Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here, a wonderful piece of music

- and from I Will Follow You into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie, equally superb

because I really need two theme songs for this chapter--you'll know why later. Trust me...

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

count: 5500 running count: 32,200

Sorry for the lateness of it all: master beta and I had a bit of a falling out, which subsequently explains why my grammar appears a bit wonky. Apologies.

It feels great to be here. I'm not sure where here is, or how I got here, but damn is it amazing. I'm already to chapter six. The requirements continue to flood in, racing toward insanity and impending doom at ever-increasing speeds, but no matter. I just feel lucky to be here.

As for Harry Potter, well ... that poor bugger. He's about to get it.

-we demand repeated appearances of young Mr. Quincy and the honorable Mr. Jones

-we demand toilets overhead

-we demand that Harry Potter stick his nose where it doesn't belong

-we demand from now onward never to be compared to those persons formerly known as

"The Nights Who Say 'Ni'"

(( come now, I will not be tantalized... you conceive too much of articulation ))

PART I

CHAPTER VI:

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

(NO, THIS IS NOT A MISTAKE)

So, so you think you can tell
heaven from hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field
from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
a walk on part in the war
for a lead role in a cage?

"Hermione, hurry up," Harry whispered to the door once again.

Ron rolled his eyes from the bottom of the stairs, slinging a light jacket over his shoulders and picking up an old briefcase. He and Harry had spent the better part of the evening enchanting the battered case to hold all of Ron's supplies for the next week. Hermione—ever mindful of Harry's pressing desire to be on his way—had spent her evening chattering away with Krum and the Weasleys. She now scrambled to get her things in order.

"Herm, we're leaving."

Harry turned from the door and made his way carefully down to where Ron stood, silently dancing his way past the sleeping Crookshanks in the middle of the staircase. Ron mimed his amusement and frustration in one exaggerated exhalation directed at womankind in general. Harry pulled on his sweatshirt and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, smoothing the strap over his chest. He nodded to Ron, and they began to creep through the great room towards the kitchen, cramming food into their pockets and picking up a few bottles of Butterbeer. Harry used a spell from The Darkest Room to silence the squeak of the kitchen door as they stepped out into the garden and out into the world.

Dew hung on the fields, moon hung high in the sky; Harry's mind began to wander as he and Ron put distance between themselves and the Burrow. He thought back to what Fred and George had told him about the mysterious Mister D whom he had impersonated in Kavall's shop. He couldn't risk returning to Kavall before he knew more about D. Meeting Kavall again could be death if the man's connections were as they appeared. And who else might Harry come into contact with while running about Knocknurn Alley in disguise? Who else might remember an assassin ten years past his prime? It could not be risked.

For a moment, Harry's thoughts turned to Voldemort. He had spent his entire life standing against everything Lord Voldemort was, yet now he was nearly becoming that which he had so passionately fought against. Dumbledore had introduced him to the core of Voldemort's power, yet he was now preparing to take on that very power as his own. Everything he had ever known was twisting; warping beyond repair, unrecognizable when compared to what it once was. The realms of his youth were crumbling at his feet and daring him to fall as well. Sometimes he wondered whether he was already falling with them...

Harry thought about the task ahead of him: his own horcrux. Everything was ready in his office, at his side. He had talked himself into this and he was determined to follow through even if it killed him. Or half of him. If Voldemort could live on one seventh of a soul, he could surely survive with half, he reasoned. He was going to go through with it. It might not even be so bad. At least it would be his...

"Wait up!" Hermione panted, interrupting his thoughts. She was skipping a few paces behind him, her overlarge shoulder bag bouncing off her hip with every step. Harry and Ron both knew that everything a human could ever need was magically concealed in that bag of hers, but they had previously decided to ignore her as punishment for... something. Ron wouldn't say what, and Harry didn't care to inquire. His spirits were rumpled enough as it was. He wanted to make a clean get away, and Hermione—with her running after him and her boyfriend and her overlarge bag and whatnot—needless to say, Hermione was not approaching Harry on his good side.

"What are you, deaf?" she asked, coming up between Harry and Ron with a little huff. She flipped a bit of hair away from her eyes.

"No, and the Ministry bloody well isn't, either," Ron snapped. "They're probably watching us right now. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do, Ronald," she bit back. "That's why we're not apparating; right, Harry."

It wasn't a question and Harry knew as much. Rather than become involved, he merely plodded on. One foot in front of the other, he thought. One foot after the other and eventually I'll get there. There was London, unbeknownst to Ron and possibly Hermione. Using Luna's map, Harry was able to discern a number of public apparition points in and around the city that he, Ron and Hermione could use undetected so long as they traveled separately. He had made out a bit of parchment for each of them with every apparition point listed in a different order. He was somewhat proud of himself: the Ministry would have no way of tracking them beyond London once they transfered to the muggle train that would take them to Godrick's Hollow. So long as Hermione and Ron followed his directions, all three of them should arrive at King's Cross Station at twenty minutes to noon from three separate directions to catch the twelve o'clock train northbound. It was a nice little plan, he thought.

Harry was distracted from his plan by the sound of yelling.

"Ron! How dare you say such—"

"I'll say whatever I bloody want to!"

"Would you both just shut up?" Harry yelled, stopping and staring incredulously at his two best friends. "There are more important things to worry about right now. The sun will be up soon, and if someone hasn't already spotted us, they certainly will." Ron and Hermione seemed to lay their differences aside at the tone of Harry's voice; reminiscent of his commanding words at the Ministry not so long ago, but now somehow weary; tired, worn down by destruction and time.

"Here are your directives—I think it's the only way we can shake the Ministry and the Order in one shot," Harry handed them each their slip of parchment and enough muggle notes for a train ticket. "Apparate as fast as possible. Never go through the same site twice. Don't hang around any particular spot, or we might see one another. Don't talk to anyone, but don't look nervous, either. Look busy."

Ron looked somewhat bewildered; as though his best mate had unzipped his skin to reveal someone Ron had never met before. Hermione appeared strategic and determined; she was already studying the list of points, committing them to memory.

"Burn the lists. Good luck." He disapparated.

"Jones! Jones, wake up!" young Mr. Quincy whispered urgently, shaking his sleeping partner. "Jones! They're gone!"

"Huh? What, man!" the honorable Mr. Jones mumbled. He rubbed at the sleep in his eyes and sat up, giving young Mr. Quincy an incredulous look. "What did you say?"

"They're gone..." Mr. Quincy was a young man; a recent recruit to the Ministry, and even more recently assigned to Mr. Jones for mentoring. Jones had given Quincy the dog watch, knowing that Harry Potter would not depart until first light.

"Damn it, Quincy! You let him get away!" the honorable Mr. Jones snapped, peeking over the bush they had been using for cover.

"But there were others with him..." Quincy muttered, looking away.

"Rubbish. Our information said he would depart alone. There was no one with him. You're imagining things, Quincy," Jones said sharply. His information was never wrong. He had the most reliable of sources. That was why Minister Scrimgeour himself had asked him to keep track of Harry Potter. And if it hadn't been for that rooky, Quincy, Jones would still have his eyes on Potter at this very moment.

"But..." Quincy protested.

"Rubbish! Not a word of it, Quincy! Not a damned word," Jones snapped. Harry Potter had gotten away.

Hermione lowered her copy of OK Magazine with an air of blazè detachment and peered through her overlarge sun glasses as the door to her compartment slid open. An elderly man poked his overlong nose into the compartment and jumped slightly when his eyes fell upon Hermione. She didn't remove her sunglasses. He removed his plaid cap.

"Are yeh expecting anyone, lass?" he asked in a clear Scottish accent, rotating his cap slowly in his bony fingers as he waited expectantly at the door.

Hermione froze for an instant, unsure of herself.

"That is to say, lass," the old man cleared his throat carefully, "is that seat taken?" and he gestured to the seat across from Hermione.

"Oh," she ruffled the pages of her magazine indifferently, "no."

Entering the compartment and sliding the door shut behind himself, the elderly gentleman took a moment to appraise her before sitting down by the window, replacing the cap on his head with a flourish born of time and graceful youth. Hermione skimmed her gossip magazine without taking in a word, watching for Harry and Ron out of the corner of her eye. The train would be leaving in a few minutes, and she was beginning to worry.

"Where yeh headed, if yeh don't mind my askin'?" The old man spoke in a conversational tone, watching people on the platform from his place by the window.

"North." Hermione was short, never looking up from her magazine in case the old man was Ministry. He let out a little chuckle at her obstinacy.

"I should hope so, lass, this train bein' the northbound one!" He chuckled a bit more to fill the silence. When Hermione only turned a page, the man fell silent. He contented himself to watch the people on the platform in silence. They were gathering their belongings and kissing their loved ones goodbye as the train was about to depart. Hermione turned yet another page of celebrity gossip as the final whistle rang out along the platform.

Hermione looked up at a sudden sound in the hallway close by. It sounded like two passengers had collided in their hurry to get on the train. She could hear one of them apologizing to the other as they came closer to her compartment.

"I really am sorry, mam!" she heard a familiar voice repeat, louder. A disgruntled looking woman stalked past the compartment window, dragging her bags behind her, her hat askew. Several heavy footsteps later, Hermione saw Ron's face moving past the compartment door. She jumped to her feet, tossing the magazine onto the seat beside her and yanking open the door before Ron had passed her by.

"Darling!" she called for the benefit of anyone close enough to hear or see. "I'm in here, Ronald!"

Ron jumped--whether it was because she had startled him or because she had called him "darling" she couldn't be sure, nor did she happen to distinctly care. The important thing was that he had turned at the sound of her voice. That was all that mattered.

"Oh, there you are," he said, cottoning on and covering the distance between them.

"I was worried you might not make it," she replied coyly, smiling up at him. He was almost as tall as Victor, she noted.

"Would I ever let you down, darling?" He slipped his arm around her waist as he drew her face closer to his own. Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

"Never," she droned sardonically. He simply smirked, lifting an eyebrow in a shifty fashion and refusing to loosen his grip on her. He bent down and kissed her forehead affectionately. Now he was just being ridiculous.

"Aren't you going to invite me in, dearest?" he whispered, lips in her hair.

She shoved him away, heaving a mighty harrumph as she turned back toward the compartment. Throwing herself down onto her seat and snatching up her magazine, she heard rather than saw Ron close the compartment door with a small snap. Seeing the old man snoring softly in his seat across from Hermione, Ron took up the seat next to her. Hermione scooted away from Ron, leafing through her magazine to find her place. Ron slumped down in his seat. The old man let out a snort in his sleep, his head rolling to the side as the train lurched forward.

"Think the old bugger's asleep?" Ron whispered--very close to Hermione's ear--startling her. He had gotten very close without her noticing...

"You didn't have to be so rude, Ronald," Hermione scoffed in a hushed voice, moving still further away from him, still fuming over his behavior outside the compartment.

"Oh, come on," Ron threw his overlarge hands in the air after kicking his tattered briefcase under the seat. "I was just playing along--you're the genius who started it, so don't you go an' complain."

Hermione wasn't really listening. She was staring out the window with growing anxiety as the train began gathering speed down the tracks. In what seemed like a sudden flash of light, the train broke free of King's Cross Station, speeding into a rare London-morning sunlight.

"Dementors must not be breeding today," she mused, trying to move farther away from Ron but finding her shoulder pressed firmly to the compartment wall. She fluffed her magazine indignantly.

"Hermione... where's Harry?" Ron suddenly looked all of a frightened twelve years old. He ran a nervous hand through his hair. His eyes snapped from the empty seat in their compartment to the doorway, and finally to Hermione. She could feel the panic in his eyes.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Ronald." This time, when he put his lips to her hair, she at least knew he was sincere.

The napping elderly gentleman from Ron and Hermione's compartment made his way to the lavatory half way through the journey to Godrick's Hollow. Once the lavatory door had been securely and sufficiently locked he removed his cap, retrieving from it a rather battered copy of the tome Great Britain: A History. He opened the book to page seven hundred and twenty three and went inside without further ceremony.

His feet landed firmly on the threadbare carpet. He pulled a harmonica from his pocket and breathed wheezily into it. Several sneak-o-scopes began rattling from their strategic places on the many shelves.

"Good," he muttered, relieved to hear the proper voice emanating from his body once more. He removed his clothing, folding each item and placing them in one of the trunks standing near his desk. The correction of his height, weight, and facial features was attained through an incantation.

"Veritas." It was funny that an incantation roughly meaning "truth" would be deemed illegal by the Ministry of Magic. It wasn't so much that Veritas itself was punishable by law, but the spells it reversed certainly were. It had taken him days to perfect a single disguise, but Veritas could strip it all away in one blazing second. He stood for a moment; breathing, feeling the planes and bony angles of his face restored. "Don't stop now," he ordered himself, hot breath pouring over his fingers.

Picking up his invisibility cloak and silencing a sneak-o-scope, he thought of the lavatory above...

He spotted them on the platform at Godrick's Hollow; granted, it wasn't difficult to spot two bemused-looking teenagers on an otherwise empty platform. Still acclimating himself to the fact that he was a six-foot something blonde, he folded his map and made his way to them.

"Hi," he said in greeting, still about ten meters away.

"Hello," Hermione responded calmly. She gave him a short smile and turned to resume her conversation with Ron.

She clearly didn't recognize his voice without his body to go with it. This troubled Harry greatly. He cleared his throat and closed the ten meters between them.

"I'm very disappointed in you both. I heard every word. What if I was Ministry?"

"Huh?" Ron's eyebrows came together as he stared at Harry over the top of Hermione's head.

"Ron--you twit--it's me." Ron blinked a few times before understanding.

"You gave us quite a scare, Harry," Hermione informed him with a brief hug. "We worried when we didn't see you."

"But you did," he said slowly, hoping she'd figure it out on her own. She didn't. "We should get going."

The sun had already set as they walked through the little town of Godrick's Hollow. Hermione had produced several candy bars from her oversize bag, so they ate as they walked.

"Wonder what happened to the old man on the train," Ron said through a mouthful of chocolate and raisins.

"That... that was you, wasn't it, Harry?" Hermione turned on Harry, pointing a finger at him as she looked up at his temporarily blonde head.

"Could you tell?" He was anxious to hear how his first original disguise had worked--he had hoped it wasn't too blatant. But he knew that anything good enough to fool Hermione would certainly be enough to fool the Ministry...

"Not at all, no!" she answered. "You'll have to show me how you did it."

Harry didn't think so; but he smiled and nodded, anyway. He had a lot on his mind and was anxious to get to the beginning of Lord Voldemort's end.

Later that same night--at the inn at Godrick's Hollow--Hermione and Harry talked over Ron's snores. Harry brought out the severed page he had found in Voldemort's book and showed it to Hermione. Wrapped in Harry's blankets and wearing her red pyjamas, she scanned the page and looked up at him, startled. She was shocked; how could he have gone to muggle school and never read The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli? How, indeed. Harry had shrugged and asked her if she planned on monopolizing his bed for the remainder of the evening. She laughed, saying she was glad he'd picked up something about economics if not political philosophy. He smiled, realizing how much he would miss her. He excused himself to go to the bathroom, and by the time he returned she was asleep. Kissing her cheek and turning a blanket over Ron's exposed feet, he left.

Outside the mist had returned, making it nearly impossible to see within five meters of oneself. Harry walked through the cemetery at the edge of the sleepy muggle town, stooping to read the names on each headstone. Sneaking out of the inn with his bag at his side, he had decided it was better not to think at all. There was no time for thinking now, only action.

Walking between the graves, he recalled how little time he truly had. If Voldemort were to come tomorrow--or even this very night--he would put up the best fight he could. If he knew the Dark Lord would be waiting for him in that cemetery, he would not run. He would stand and fight. He would always stand and fight.

Yet the Dark Lord was not waiting for him at his mother's grave. The Dark Lord wasn't going to kill him yet. It wasn't the fear of death that made Harry Potter hesitate as he knelt before the headstone, but the fear of the unknown. Voldemort could come tonight, tomorrow or any day he chose and Harry would be none the wiser. No matter how prepared he was, no matter how many weapons he possessed, it was all up to Lord Voldemort in the end. He could be coming tomorrow, and Harry would never know. Harry could only wait. And that was what scared him.

Harry recalled the first time he'd ever spoken to Voldemort, back in his first year at Hogwarts. He had known so little then, about magic and the past. And Voldemort had known it--he had offered Harry a chance at unlimited power, the ability to do unthinkable things; the ability to get his family back, the ability to have everything he'd ever wanted. And he'd turned it all down; not because he knew that Voldemort was lying and would never share that power, but because he had never wanted power to begin with. Dumbledore had helped him come to realize that. He'd had so many opportunities to become powerful beyond his wildest dreams, but he'd never taken any of them. He knew in his heart that he would be unable to wield it. It wasn't that he feared power: he simply knew that power was not what he sought above all else. He had seen men of immense power, seen their lives and the choices they'd had to make, and he knew he was not meant to be one of them. He was never endowed with such power for a reason.

But now he needed such power. He was not Dumbledore: he could never truly battle Voldemort and emerge alive. He'd been lucky, he'd had help--he couldn't face Voldemort and he knew it. This time he would need so much more than luck. He needed a power beyond his wildest dreams, a power so strong and so unexpected that not even the Dark Lord himself would suspect until it was too late.

No one else could do this. No one else would ever have the opportunity to get at Voldemort in such a way. For some reason beyond himself, Harry knew that he was the one meant for this. Call it prophecy, call it fate, call it what you will; he was the one with the opportunity. He was the one with the strength. He wanted to get to Voldemort: he wanted to kill him more than anything else he knew. He was the man who could do it.

And now he would have that dreadful power. Now he would create it for himself: he had the need, and his magic would create the means to meet him head on.

He raised his sword and began the incantation, chanting it under his breath as he made the long, ritualistic cuts to his forearms and chest. He traced them intricately, lovingly with the potion-tipped wand. His muscles tensed as the concoction burned in his veins. At least this was his.

The potion becoming more intense, he moved to replace his shirt against the chill of the fog.

"Dobby," he whispered. "It's time." And a moment later the house elf appeared with Hermione levitating just behind him, still asleep.

"You gave her the potions?" he confirmed, needing to use her but not wanting to harm her. The elf nodded in return, oblivious--as Harry wished them all to be. "That will be all. Thank you." And he turned to her sleeping form, sword in hand, tendrils of blood snaking their way down his arms and the smalls of his back. They had yet to soak through his shirt. He didn't have much time. It had to be done.

He threw the capture phial against the headstone and the sound of enchanted glass shattering filled the night air for a startling instant. Then blue smoke began to curl from the remnants of the phial; it quickly wrapped the two of them in its odor of rot and fear. Before she was lost from his sight he snatched her arm and pulled her to him. With a hand pressed firmly over her mouth to keep her from screaming, he drove his blade through the center of her.

"Ex Umbris In Veritatem."

Icy tendrils of pain and shock ran through his body, dropping him to his knees. The blue smoke was filling his lungs, taking him over. Slumped on his side, the last thing he saw was her; eyes closed, covered in blood, laid out before his mother's grave.

A bird was chirping in a very shrill fashion. Its pangs were hurting her ears. Hermione sat up slowly, shielding her eyes from the intensity of the morning light. Supporting her weight with some difficulty, she wondered how she had gotten outside. The last she remembered, she and Harry had been talking about Machiavelli... and then she looked down. She screamed.

The front of her pyjamas... covered in blood. In frenzied panic she searched herself for the source of the blood but could find none. There was only a tear in her pyjamas, near her stomach. She felt dizzy; she felt as dizzy as though she had actually lost that much blood. She felt sick. What on earth had happened?

She looked up, startled. Two men had come running into the graveyard, and--judging by the way they were dressed--they were clearly wizards. They wore an assortment of swimming gear, Halloween costumes and womens dressing gowns. In her dazed and sickened state, she braced herself for the onslaught of Ministry bureaucracy.

"Miss, are you alright?" the younger of the two men asked, kneeling down beside her and seizing her by the shoulders. He looked her in the face very critically before scanning her person for the source of all the blood.

"Never mind the girl, Quincy!" the older man shouted, his head pivoting, eyes jerking about like a nervous animal. "We have to find him! We have to find Potter!"

"Miss?" Quincy seemed to ignore his superior for the first time in his measly existence. "Are you hurt?" He still held her gently by the shoulders.

"I..." Hermione could hardly speak. Her mind was a complete blank. One minute she had been sitting with Harry and the next... she had woken up at his mother's grave, covered in blood and accosted by Ministry officials. She voiced the strongest question of all.

"Where's Harry?"

He had woken up with a start about an hour later, feeling nothing but the cold ground beneath him and the beginnings of a pounding headache. As soon as sentience and volition had knitted themselves anew so he could move, he glanced at his watch: three o'clock in the morning. He could catch the three thirty train to London if he hurried. He reached for his bag and pulled on a sweatshirt; the wind would only get colder.

With the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head to obscure his face, he shouldered his bag and got slowly to his feet. Every muscle in his body seemed to be dead set against him. Nothing was cooperating, his vision included. Removing his glasses helped. He didn't understand why but didn't bother to question. He could figure everything out once he got away.

He staggered out of the cemetery and got his head on straight soon thereafter. Once he could think properly he started to run. The last thing he needed at this point was to miss the train.

Coming into the train station, he couldn't help but notice how winded he felt. He used to run twice that distance when living with the Dursleys or training for Quiddich. Something was definitely wrong. As he slowed to a trot on the platform, the skin across his chest began to ache as though it had been pinched and then stretched. He could hardly catch his breath. The strap of his bag strained against his breast, doubling the pressure bearing down on his lungs.

At the end of the platform was a man in his early twenties wearing blue jeans and smoking a cigarette. He had looked up just as Harry had arrived. The man cocked his head to the side when Harry doubled over to rest his hands on his burning thighs.

"Here for the three thirty?" the man with the cigarette asked. Harry just nodded, too little air in his lungs to power his vocal chords.

"You made it just in time, looks like," he said, tossing his smoke aside and smothering it with the heel of his shoe. The train's whistles sounding in the distance, the man smiled at Harry. His smile only broadened when it was returned. Harry would have thought the man's behavior odd had he not been distracted by the sensation of a gravitational magnet pulling his chest to the station floor. His hair was in his eyes.

Getting on the train minutes later, he had yet another strange sensation. When he lifted his leg to mount the steps into the car, his boxers felt as though they were wet and stuck to his legs. How could he have pissed himself? It wasn't possible. He reasoned that he was imagining things, but made his way to the bathroom anyway. Besides, creepy smoking guy appeared to be following him. Harry lost the guy as the train started off.

He closed the restroom door behind himself with a dry click and sighed. The smoking muggle was the only one following him and a few nonverbal spells confirmed it. He was tempted to sneak off to his office and collect himself but wanted to get to the source of his strange sensations first. He could barely keep his eyes open.

He had to pee. He shuffled over to the urinal and unzipped his jeans.

He paused.

Something was wrong.

Something was missing.

There followed a rapid mental expulsion of thought. Though difficult to articulate the true function of the human brain, it may have felt something akin to the following: mydickisgone mydickisgone mydickisgone mydickisaaagh ! Something like that, yes.

Harry was trembling. He brought his hand up in front of his face. His fingers were small, thin, shaking. There was blood on them. It must have been from before. Steeling himself, he reached to where he... should have been, and sure enough his tiny fingers emerged with fresh blood. His heart was thumping so hard against his ribs that it actually hurt--either it was his heart or the stretching in his chest was getting worse. Not knowing what else to do, he zipped up his pants and turned to wash the blood off his hands.

Then he saw his reflection. He flattened himself against the bathroom wall with jarring force, denying his eyes. He felt the coolness of the wall against his shoulder blades, the heat of the light against his face, the press of his feet against the floor. He knew who he was.

He opened his eyes and couldn't find himself.

What he saw was not himself but a woman. He couldn't recognize her but she was beautiful, he thought. Her beauty was the thing that struck him, it was so powerful to him. He reached to touch her, her hands emerging in the mirror's pale reflection. She had a round face and tiny mouth, the pinkest he'd ever seen. He wanted to touch her; he couldn't believe. Her large brown eyes went wide, dainty brows arching as her fingertips met the side of her porcelain face. Orange freckles dusted the skin beneath her eyes like flecks of gold. She was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

Was he...

He shook his head--and she shook hers, dark hair falling out from beneath the hood of his sweatshirt. Her bangs fell before her eyes yet she continued to stare back at him. He felt uneasy under her gaze and didn't know why.

Harry had a sudden pain in his stomach, just below the belt. It felt as though he'd just been kicked by an angry mountain troll. He grimaced and she did too. Her eyes narrowed and her bangs further crossed her face. His gut gave another wrenching contraction and she gasped; a gentle, pained sound foreign to his ears. She put a hand to the counter top and leaned her weight on it, his sweatshirt hiding all but her fingertips from view. She closed her eyes for a moment only to open them sharply and be startled by her own reflection once more.

"Ouhi," she breathed. Her voice was soft, throaty. She had passion and inflection in that single breath. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, what he was hearing, feeling... it couldn't be happening. It simply couldn't. Magic didn't work that way...

The whistles blew once more, echoed by countless other trains. He could feel the train slowing as it came into the next station, closer to London with every breath, with every stop. If he didn't get back to his seat soon, cigarette man might notice and come looking for him... for her. Certain things began to make sense.

Not completely understanding himself, she hooked a finger around the collar of his sweatshirt and she pulled. He questioned, she looking down...

"BHUAGH!!!"

Their eyes snapped shut and their head snapped back.

Won't be doing that again...

Love of mine, someday you will die

but I'll be close behind, and follow you into the dark

through blinding light, or tunnels to gates of white

just our hands clasped so tight

waiting for the hint of a spark

If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied;

illuminate the "NO"'s on their vacancy signs,

If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks

Then I'll follow you into the dark

In catholic school—as vicious as Roman rule—

I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black

I held my tongue as she told me, "son,

fear is the heart of love." So I never went back.

If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied;

illuminate the "NO"'s on their vacancy signs,

If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks

Then I'll follow you into the dark

You and me have seen everything to see

from Bangkok to Calgary

And the soles of your shoes are all worn down;

the time for sleep is now

It's nothing to cry about

'cause we'll hold each other soon

in the blackest of rooms

If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied;

illuminate the "NO"'s on their vacancy signs,

If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks

Then I'll follow you into the dark

I'll follow you into the dark