His tongue was overwhelmed from the copper taste of blood as he struggled to get up from the ground; trembling knees and ragged breaths were the things he had to fight off as he managed to stand up slowly, wand heavily gripped on his hand. His vision blurred, from the pain and the blood and sweat that dripped from his brows, but his eyes managed to focus on the enemy in front of him.

A flash of light, a screamed incantation—

His wand answered, jabbing forward and meeting the other spell in a show of sparks and thunderous sound. He could feel the heat of the killing curse getting nearer, battling with his own spell and gaining ground slowly, only to be rebuffed each time as he stepped forward.

He was so tired; his knees were about to give up, unsteady and bruised, and each breath he took felt like the last one as his lungs fought for oxygen, and his head throbbed painfully. He didn't know how much time had passed since the break out of the last stand against Voldemort's forces, but the dark of the sky had been replaced by a dim color, and there was a ring of light making itself known on the horizon.

So much time. So much death.

It ended today.

His wand trembled slightly from the rush of magic, feeling warmer than ever before as the black haired man slashed it; the connection broke suddenly, dust and debris flying in every direction as he lurched forward into the ground, barely avoiding the green spell. He crawled forward, jabbing his wand and crumbling the ground underneath his enemy as he moved even closer, wishing for close contact.

Voldemort allowed it; in fact, he himself wandered closer rapidly, red eyes shining dangerously and giving him and unhinged look as he resumed his attack. Harry panted, dodging and scrambling to his feet before meeting the enemy's attack with his own spell. It was a standstill, he knew; neither of them were giving an inch of ground, and he could see the tiredness on the older wizard's face: it revealed itself on the bags under his eyes, small but noticeable, and the way his arm seemed to jostle more and more with each passing second.

They were both exhausted. It was a matter of who would last more.

It seemed to last forever, both of them locked in a single spell as their wands battled for dominancy, but it was over in barely five seconds.

Voldemort's body arched backwards as if stabbed, painful scream ripping out of his throat as his wand succumbed to the other's spell; before Harry knew it, the green light had reflected back to the older wizard, and he had slumped to the ground with nothing but a fading scream and unfocused eyes.

He grunted, his body giving up on him softly as his knees buckled. He ended up on the ground, arms supporting his weight as his sharp eyes moved from side to side, ready to encounter any danger—but it really seemed to be over. There were exclamations, excited ones, coming from the castle, and he wondered if they knew that he had won.

He willed his legs to give him one last burst of strength, and they thankfully listened; he walked slowly, dragging his feet and with his wand ready for any surprise attack as he crossed the doors to the castle. His eyes focused solely on the path ahead, but his stomach felt unsettled as he gazed at the splatter of blood on the walls and the unmoving bodies of several people. Most of them, to his horror, bore the crest to one of the four houses.

The voices got cleared and louder, and there were scattered sounds of incantations and spells connecting, but by the time he arrived at the destroyed gates of the Great Hall, the dust of battle had settled and he was welcomed with a joyous atmosphere. He strode forward, a small smile crossing his face as he felt himself being pulled into the celebratory period of the war, but his heart was beating loudly in fear and concern as he tried to look for his friends.

He spotted Ron first, and felt a weight falling off of his shoulders at watching his bruised face alight with happiness as he spoke with his father. As if feeling eyes on him, the redhead turned his gaze and met his own emerald eyes, and promptly left the table to jog towards him.

The force of his best friend's hug was almost enough to knock him off his feet, but he held on, and a disbelieving and relieved laugh escaped from his throat as he hugged him back. Within seconds, they pulled away, and he took a moment to assess the damage to the redhead before speaking.

"You're good," He said.

Ron nodded, his smile dropping slightly. "Better than most, yeah."

"That's great," Harry breathed, and his head turned to the direction in which his best friend had come to, expecting to meet Hermione's gaze—but his heart stuttered dangerously when there was no sight of her.

"Is she hurt? Hermione?" He asked frantically. "How bad?"

Ron's demeanor changed in half a second; there was no smile or spark on his eyes, and his shoulders slumped slightly as he regarded him silently. There was a feeling that traveled through his spine, cold and fearful, at the sight of hesitation and tightness around his best friend's face.

"Ron," Harry whispered, jaw clenching. "What's wrong?"

"You—I need you to be calm," The redhead answered, his voice heavy and low, and looking as if he didn't believe his own words. "You're tired, and injured—"

"—tell me," He pleaded, legs shuddering with anticipation as his head turned to the side, but Ron's arm tugged his attention back. "How bad? How bad, Ron?"

His friend still looked hesitant and lost, as if he didn't know the words or the way to confess to him whatever he was thinking about, but he caught the way the redhead's eyes wandered over to the side, shiny and forlorn, and Harry wouldn't resist copying him even as he heard his best friend call to him.

It took him a long, torturous minute, but between several covered and exposed bodies of students and the occasional adult, he spied a familiar mass of curly hair that belonged to the woman he was currently searching for. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him closer and closer as he stepped between lifeless bodies, head feeling lightheaded and throbbing.

He came to stand right next to her, disbelieving as he gazed at her pale complexion; she had her eyes closed, and if he ignored the blood on the right side of her face and the large gash on her neck, she'd look like she was sleeping. Her hair was mattered with dust and blood, and her clothes were ripped in some places. Her left knee was bent unnaturally backwards, and he couldn't help the wince that escaped his mouth as he imagined the pain she must've felt—

Everything came crashing down on him at once, and his mind tried to keep up as his eyes weren't able to rip away from the Hermione's lifeless body. His ears, overwhelmed by the blood pounding on them, barely registered the voices and footsteps that wandered closer.

He felt a hand on his arm, tight and desperate, and Ron's voice was muffled as he spoke to him, but his eyes stayed focused on the witch's face; so pale, and hurt and dead, and it took only a second for his knees to buckle under him.

He stumbled to the ground, arms landing carelessly against her body as his hands moved to roam her face; he could feel his eyes sting, tears blurring his vision as his breathing picked up and his heart felt like it would give out from the force of his beating.

His eyes settled on the gash on her neck, and he felt despair shooting through every one of his veins at the mere thought of her perishing in the middle of battle, so quick and painful and careless, and he wondered how many enemies passed through her body without a second thought—and he felt sick to his stomach, thinking of the way she must've laid there, bleeding out, alone and forgotten for the time being.

A hand pulled at his shoulder, and he turned his head up to meet Ron's stare, full of grief; his own tear-stained eyes moved, now aware of the way McGonagall and Hagrid had come to stand closer to them, both of their eyes looking sadly between his kneeling form and her laying body. Harry breathed shakily, feeling himself losing control of his emotions as he turned back to Hermione's body, and he decided that there was no point in keeping calm about this situation.

The first scream he released was of rage, thinking of the Death Eater that had taken her life as if she was nothing, and he vowed to find out the name of the enemy he'd cursed forever; the second scream that shot through his throat was of anger at himself, for not ending this sooner and letting the danger seep into castle grounds, for the sacrifice that his fellow students had given and for his late timing, for not doing enough; the third scream and the one that felt that would break his chest open, was of pure grief as he leaned forward, forehead connecting with her still chest as his hands closed in tight fist, resting against the railing of the small, transfigured bed that had been given to her.

He felt hand on his shoulders and heard words—but his mind didn't work properly, not when he was concentrating on the fact that she was so cold and gone, and his body shrugged off the person behind him.

Every single thought of victory, of a better, brighter future, suddenly felt hollow as he was forcefully pulled back, and his eyes wandered over to the bushy haired witch's face, hoping that her eyes would open.

They didn't.

0o0o0o0o0o

"Are you sure about this, Remus?"

Harry's question had the werewolf pause as he finished packing the last of his things. His office was now bare except for the ancient-looking furniture and the few books that he had decided to leave with the younger wizard as a gift for his new job.

"Are you having second thoughts, Harry?" The brown haired man asked lightly, closing his briefcase and waving his wand towards the worn suitcase on the corner of the room.

"No," The younger man answered, shrugging quickly. "No, I'm—I want to do this…but not at your expense. If you want to stay—"

"—I'm going to stop you right there, Harry," Remus interjected kindly, giving another quick glance at his now former office before addressing his companion again. "I have no problem leaving you in charge of the class. In fact, I'm glad it's you."

"You are?" Harry questioned, slightly baffled.

"I would've resigned sooner if it weren't for the fact that Minerva was having trouble finding a competent professor," The werewolf confessed. "I'm just glad you accepted the offer."

"What about…your finances?" The black haired man asked, slightly uncomfortable, but worried. "Hogwarts was a stable job, Remus, and Teddy—"

"—I've already found a job at Gringotts, Harry," The older wizard answered kindly, noticing the way his former student avoided his eyes. "Bill recommended me, and the goblins have been very accommodating. The pay is good, better than what I'm accustomed to, and I'll get to see Teddy every day when I go home for more than two hours. I have no regrets at leaving Hogwarts, I assure you…but I have a feeling this is less about me and more about you."

Harry passed a hand through the back of his neck, rubbing it nervously as he gathered his thoughts. It took his several moments, and he felt thankful for the calm, quiet and understanding aura of his former professor as he spoke.

"Do you think I'm doing the right thing?" He felt oddly vulnerable asking that, bearing his feelings so boldly to the open with his slightly trembling hands and clenched jaw, but as he gazed at the soft, green eyes of his father figure, he felt nothing but comfortable as he continued to speak his thoughts. "Coming to Hogwarts to teach?"

Remus shrugged, frowning softly. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? With all that Auror training under your belt, I have no doubt that you will be a fantastic professor."

"That's what I mean," The younger man stated, sighing. "Are you not—are you not disappointed?"

"Where does this come from?" The werewolf asked, eyes shining with concern as he leaned against the oak desk, facing the other wizard. "Are you okay, Harry?"

Such a simple question would usually be waved off by him, but Remus was different; he was his godfather, the man that had been there since he was eight, visiting and taking care of him, and Harry had never found it in himself to lie to the only adult that he trusted blindly.

"I spent three years training only to resign a year after becoming an Auror," The black haired man sighed. "Don't you think I should be doing…more? I was in. I was ready, and then they sent me on the field—"

Blood. Sweat. Broken bones. Shouting. Ash.

So familiar.

His heartbeat was failing—

"—and then I came back and resigned," Harry finished lamely, shaking his head to get rid of the memories. "What a git. I should've just stuck it out."

"Ah," Remus breathed, eyes lighting up in understanding as he wandered closer. "I don't think you could ever disappoint me, Harry…except for that month during Third Year, but that's another thing entirely."

The black haired man snorted softly, his humor tainted with sadness as he quietly waited for the older man's next words. The werewolf looked tired, as he usually did, but there was a certain energy that appeared to the thrumming under his skin; the space between his eyebrows was barren of the usual weight, light and free, and the creases on the sides of his eyes and around his mouth didn't look as tight as they normally did. He found himself grateful for the look on the brown haired man, realizing that this had been the most relaxed and happy that he had ever seen him.

"I'm not disappointed, Harry. In fact, I'm the opposite of that. I'm proud of you, extremely," The werewolf continued. "You decided to excuse yourself from further pain and a job that wasn't as fulfilling as you thought it'd be, and instead went on to search for something that wouldn't make you dread every day. You don't owe anyone anything, Harry."

They don't have the right to decide your future for you, Harry. You don't owe them anything.

The black haired wizard shook his head again, banishing another memory before he felt tension bleeding from his body, relieved as Remus patted him on the shoulder softly; his eyes traveled to the clock hanging from the wall opposite the entrance, alarmed that their time had come to an end and that his godfather would need to leave in three minutes.

"Tell Teddy I miss him," Harry said, moving to drag the suitcase closer to the werewolf, spying the broken, ceramic plate on the other man's hand—a portkey. "I'll come around next weekend, hopefully."

"You do that, or he'll never forgive you," Remus chuckled, making sure that his free hands were touching his bags before addressing the younger man. "Remember, anything you need or want to talk about, call me. I'll have my mirror with me at any time, alright?"

"Yes, sir," The black haired man teased, saluting lazily as the werewolf took advantage of the fact that the portkey was timed; he strode two steps to engulf him in a quick, bone-crushing hug before quickly stepping back, making it barely on time as the plate started to glow. In a matter of moments, Harry was left standing alone in a bare office.

He sighed, eyes wandering over to where his own bags were piled right next to the entrance, against the wall, and his wand moved quickly through the air to begin setting up his workplace for the foreseeable future.

0o0o0o0o0

The castle was deserted at this time of the year, though no less hectic. With less than a week before the students would arrive, Minerva had every house elf and professor running from side to side to make sure that everything was as it should be, and that no problems would arise in the middle of the school year.

He had been wandering the halls after making sure that his classroom was properly equipped and protected, distracting himself with the whispered gossip of the paintings and the echoing voices of the other professors going through last minute preparations; his mind had drifted over to times in which he'd wandered these halls in uniform when the sound of stone cracking caught his attention.

He turned behind him, welcomed by the sight of the stone blocks of the wall shuffling against each other, eventually parting way to make room for the steel door that started to appear slowly, revealing itself fully to him after several moments. The metal was rusted and burned, and the hinges were barely holding the door together as he stepped forward slowly.

The Room of Requirement was in front of him, as battle-worn as it had been the last time he had stepped foot inside; the door, heavy, shrieked in protest as he pushed, barely managing to open just enough to allow him entrance. Every single corner of the room was coated in black ash, and the only light that helped his vision came from the crack of the door that he had left.

He coughed, the smell of burnt pages and metal rushing through his nose as he walked even further, the tip of his wand now shining brightly. His shoes left footprints on the dust-covered ground as he tried to make sense of everything inside of the elusive room; there were maybe six or seven long shadows at the end, possibly furniture, and the mess around him was a combination of objects, all cluttered and piled up in uneven heaps that threatened to fall any second.

His feet turned around, intent on leaving the room and informing McGonagall of what he had found, to see if they could salvage anything, but a glint of light reflected on his glasses, and Harry found himself shuffling in between piles of burnt objects until his eyes settled on the origin of the strange reflection.

He stepped over another mess, coming face to face with a tall object that was covered in soot and ash, but the edges of it made it clear that it was a mirror—its surface reflected his own light spell, and his eyes turned up to examine the overall damage to the structure of it—

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi

I show not your face but your heart's desire.

His breathing hitched as he got closer to the mirror, heart stuttering; his head turned back towards the entrance as he hesitated, wondering if he should take it to McGonagall or dispose of it—

A thudding sound echoed through the room, making the black haired man turn back to the mirror in confusion; he gazed at his feet, but they were a safe distance from the clawed feet of the mirror, and he had felt nothing-

Another sound, peculiar; fabric rushing through the air, as if banished, and it made him squint his eyes in suspicion as he continued to gaze at the mirror. With a wave of his wand, all of the dust and ash that coated the surface of the mirror vanished in a second, leaving it pristine as he leaned forward.

His eyes widened, focusing on the witch that was walking closer to him from behind, her wand with its own right spell on the tip; his own wand slipped from his fingers in shock, clattering to the ground as he stepped as close as he could be to the mirror, drinking in the sight of the woman that he had missed for over four years as he eyes briefly met his.

Her posture tensed, and before he knew it she was facing away from him; his breath stuttered, correctly interpreting her disbelieving eyes as she searched the ground, refusing to see the mirror again, and he grew desperate. Her hand had closed around a piece of black fabric, but his voice echoed through the room before she could move another inch.

"Hermione."

It was soft, quiet, but it did the job, and he watched in morbid anticipation as the witch before him slowly turned around; he felt his chest constrict at the sight of her, with her mass of hair free and framing her face down to just beneath her chin. He wanted to be closer, to somehow reach through the mirror—

His thoughts started to unravel through a dejected path, the etching on the frames mocking him in the back of his head; she wasn't real, she wasn't real, she wasn't real—

But he heard it; he heard the barely contained sob that threatened to rip from her throat, and his mind shined with hope knowing that a mere vision wouldn't be able to produce sound.

Could it be?

He leaned forward as best as he could, right until his forehead collided with the surface of the mirror as he whispered her name reverently, and his heartbeat increased exponentially as she came forward closer and closer until she was right there. He felt tears well on his eyes, but he didn't even try to stop them—not she was right there, in front of him, eyes sparkling with life and bafflement.

"Hermione," He repeated again, his eyes traveling through every corner of her expression for a sign that the mirror had somehow mutated in a crueler, more powerful artifact, but it was her, wasn't she?

"Harry," She whispered, and he wanted to jump from joy as he managed to hear it, muffled and barely there, but loud enough that his ears welcomed the familiar voice that he hadn't heard in years with undivided attention.

He pressed forward as hard as he could, his breath fogging the glass as he nodded rapidly, and the tears that ran down his cheeks were a physical representation of the knot that had made itself known on his throat.

"Are you…" He couldn't finish the question, not when he felt the words lodge deep on his chest, afraid and hopeful.

He wished he could go through the mirror, to hold her and—

A muffled sound interrupted their conversation, and Hermione spooked; she turned back, apparently listening to whatever had echoed behind her as the black haired man moved to grasp at the edges of the mirror, as if that would let him get closer to the other side of it.

She turned around once again, panic reflecting on her eyes as she scrambled for something below her, and his heart skipped a beat as he spied the black fabric on her hands. His mind went into overdrive, desperate and distressed as he addressed her once more.

"Wait," He begged, voice gaining some volume as he stared at her, eyes wide with fear of not seeing her again. "Please, Hermione, don't leave me."

He couldn't bear to lose her again—the woman in the reflection was everything he had missed, and even if his mind was trying to play with him, to remind him of the mirror and the very essence of what it did, he wanted to disregard anything of reality and spend time with her.

He needed to say so much to her—

"I'll be back," She answered, and he sighed shakily as she pressed herself against the glass; he gazed into her eyes, shining with promise and reassurance, even if they had a glint of disbelief in them, and the tension on his shoulders started to receded slowly. "I'll be back."

"Please," He whispered, but the sight of her hiding the vision of the mirror in black didn't hurt as much as he thought it would, only because he held on to the way she had promised her return.

0o0o0o00o

He stayed in the Room of Requirement, having no strength or desire to leave its premises until he saw her again. Dobby came by two times, only to be gently dismissed as Harry sat on a conjured chair in front of the mirror; he was leaning against his knees, his foot tapping rapidly against the ash covered ground in nervous anticipation.

The mirror was truly something; while muffled, he had heard several, peculiar sounds from the other side, metal clicking together and footsteps echoing, along with quiet murmurs. His eyes had stayed firmly on the mirror, staring at his reflection in despair as the sounds taunted him.

It felt like forever until a glint of light caught his attention; his body moved of its own accord, coming to stand as close to the magical artifact as possible as the black fabric fell away. His eyes narrowed slightly at the sudden rush of colors to his sight, but he trained his gaze on the body on the other side.

He stared at her, meeting her eyes in awe as they stayed in silence, as if both of them couldn't believe the sight if front of them—and perhaps that was right, because her eyes shined with affection that was tainted by grief, and he was sure that his own gaze was reflecting conflicting emotions.

"You came back," He whispered reverently, feeling his lips lifting up slightly as hope started to bloom on his chest, unwilling and welcomed.

"I promised," She answered. "I told you."

"I know," He said, nodding as he felt a fresh wave of moisture on his eyes. "But I thought the mirror was playing cruel tricks on me like it had before."

He reveled on the sight of her, memorizing everything he could in anticipation of when she'd, inevitably, disappear from the mirror—

But a part of him held on to the notion that this was different that the time he had crossed paths with the mirror all those years ago, because she was speaking to him; the mirror had never made a sound, not on the few nights he had used it back in First Year, and Dumbledore had never hinted at anything even remotely possible.

The truth was eluding him, but his fear and joy battled each other as his ears welcomed her voice again, only to end up confused at her next sentence.

"It is, otherwise it wouldn't have shown me you."

"How so?" He asked, swallowing nervously.

"You're dead," Her voice delivered that statement so boldly and bluntly that he'd believed her, if he wasn't standing before her with a healthy heartbeat. "You're dead, Harry, and there's nothing more I want more than to break through the mirror and hold you."

She wasn't making any sense—

"Hermione…I'm not dead." He said, eyebrows softly pulled down as he regarded her.

"Stop. Just—just stop. Don't…"

She turned away from him and the mirror, and he felt a jolt of desperation shooting through his veins as he pressed as close as he could to the mirror, shaking his head desperately as his next statement left his mouth in a shaky voice.

"I'm not dead," He repeated. "You are—were…I've—I've missed you so much."

She turned back to him, and he made sure to convey everything he was feeling on his expression as she searched his face; he was telling the truth, he knew, but he begged that she'd see it to, that she'd believed him. He saw her leaving her sofa to kneel before the magical artifact, and he found himself copying her quickly.

His knees shuffled against the ground, spraying his grey dress pants in black ash as he rested a hand on the mirror; he felt tears welling on his eyes but blinked them away, not willing to let his vision of her be blurred for anything. She wandered closer, and there was something on her face that let him infer that she was believing him—

Her hand moved, caressing the mirror on the other side as she slowly made it wander closer towards his hand, the one that itched to meet hers in the middle, but he was patient. He needed to be.

When her hand met his, slowly and fully, there was warmth waiting for his fingers from the other side of the mirror, and he felt his body tremble as he leaned forwards until his head was pressed against the surface of it.