In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;

And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.

Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

~ Kahil Gibran

April 1999, another Scotland

Harry tapped his boots against the steps. The rain had not abated, laving everything. Harry shook out his cloak, closing the door on the gale. The silence and darkness of the cabin made him feel like the only man left on earth. Sneezing and shivering, he shot a fire in the hearth, cursing when it revealed the sparse fuel left from the last attempt to shuffle out of the rain. He transfigured a table and began ripping its legs.

When the girth of the flames was comfortable, he pushed his hands against the grate and let the heat slap his face. He heard Buckbeak in the stall beside the house, kicking their shared wall to remind him he hadn't been fed.

"I hear you!" he shouted back, sniffling.

He lit a twig to light the lantern, illuminating the rest of the cottage. The shack could only barely be considered inhabitable. It had been left in disuse for too many decades, void of plumbing or even a bathroom. It was secluded, facing the tyranny of the North Sea. The man who sold it did well enough to replace the rotten lumber, thatch the roof, and drive off the animals that had denned inside, but it was still rudimentary even to wizards, who still did not quite understand the concept of electricity.

He took the lantern and proceeded back outside. The wind whipped rain up from the eave into his side, and he scurried to the other side of the shed where Buckbeak, the ungrateful sod, was flicking his tail and clucking at him. Harry ran inside, banging the gate. Buckbeak made an odd coo that might have been a whinny and tapped his hoof.

He swept a bow, and Buckbeak bowed back without aplomb already rustling through the rucksack on his back. Harry hurriedly threw it off and let the hippogriff root for the grouse he'd bagged.

"Ron thinks you're getting fat," he said petulantly as the sound of Buckbeak crunching bone and ripping flesh filled the room.

The hippogriff glanced up and down his flank, fixing Harry with a curious gaze before returning to his meal. Harry disentangled his bag from the offal, leaving the beast to pick through the remains, and ran back through the rain into his portion of the house.

Once, Harry would have never imagined living in such seclusion. He'd envisioned a home, maybe like the Burrow, where he'd settle down with Ginny, play Quidditch with Ron, and maybe let Hermione harp at him about house elf rights. That was the dream he pretended he could have during the war, after Dumbledore died, the world went to hell, and the search for horocruxes was an exhausted failure. He'd never really thought about what life would actually be like. He'd never pictured it real.

It had taken Harry a week after the Final Battle to notice. The wand sitting casually by his nightside after he'd buried it in Dumbledore's grave, the stone heavy in his pocket one morning while he was walking to the Ministry. He'd thrown them away, buried them, bespelled them, given them away, even tried to break them and scatter them in the sea. But they were there again the next day, maybe a week, or somewhere in between, waiting for him.

He didn't know why, if it had something to do with owning them all at once or if it was just another mysterious fluke that made up his miserable life. He thought maybe he could live with it. He'd fought temptation once, buried the souls of the ones he loved in the Forbidden Forest, but it was different then, when it had been a single decision made on the way to his death.

It was publicized that he was the owner of the Elder Wand. He hadn't minded at first, since in some roundabout way, it helped Draco Malfoy stay out of Azkaban. Then, after the dust settled, wizards started attacking him, not some bigoted Death Eater but normal wizards questing for power. Some demanded duels. Others attacked without warning. He'd had his home invaded, his friends endangered, when everything should have been bloody well over.

And how could he give them the wand when he knew the power it possessed? How could he be responsible for that?

He'd died, and he still wasn't free.

What kept him awake most nights was the fear that one of those power-hungry bastards would steal Ron or Hermione or Ginny. How could he have kids? How could he trust anybody? And if he somehow managed to survive, what then? Get old and have some kid murder him for it?

As his isolation solidified, his desperation for the stone increased. He was sick with it, turning it in his pocket, dreaming of possibilities. He thought now he might understand why Dumbledore risked the curse to bring back his sister in a moment of madness. God, how he wanted to see his parents again. Sirius, Remus. How could he live with that?

He bought a shack by the sea and holed up to rot on salt brine. The beach front wasn't the lover's retreat that the Shell Cottage was. It didn't provide much of a barrier to the wind, but Harry figured it a fair sight better than the tent he lived in with Ron and Hermione, or the cupboard under the stairs. He'd brought Buckbeak and in addition to the rare dinners with Ron and Hermione, that was all the company he kept.

He made a small meal for himself on poached game, the satisfaction he felt in providing his own food salted by loneliness. He washed the dishes (plenty of bloody rain outside) and sat in front of the fire with a bottle of firewhiskey. He felt pathetic drinking alone, and he could never quite drown out the small, Hermione-like voice in his head that forewarned him becoming a drunk. Merlin, what if summoned his mother while he was pissed? He wouldn't deny it wasn't fear that kept him out of the bottle too.

He spent most afternoon, rather than swigging, watching the amber liquid play with the flames in the hearth. The things he contemplated were things he'd never tell Hermione. She'd skin him. Then, she'd cry.

He closed his eyes. He climbed, almost mechanically, out of his chair towards the table at the other end of the one room house. Though Hermione was a far better researcher, he'd tried his hand at a few books. There was a legion of strewn papers dotted with ink splats and his messy handwriting. He wasn't very smart, and certainly not organized.

He lost his train of thought too easily, jumping from one subject into another whenever it interested him, regardless of whether or not it was useful. What resulted was a chaotic bedlam of half-finished books and interspersed notes that were impossible to reference. Even looking at it gave him a headache.

With a sudden burst of anger, Harry launched the bottle across the room. It smashed against the wall, amber liquid streaming down over the glass. Of course, no one came. No one admonished him, though the other voice, more Snape-like, in his head made quite a surfeit of unneeded commentary.

He banished the mess sullenly, wordlessly, and went to glare out the window into the darkness. Just as quickly, the anger dissipated, leaving him feeling stupid and empty. With one more swig of firewhiskey, he decided to go to bed before he didn't something he couldn't fix.

.o0o.

"Harry?" Hermione called his name.

The fire in the den in the Burrow was much cozier than his own. The mantel was laden with photos. There were children's knickknacks, pieces of toy that had never been returned to the chest, and clumsy handcrafts.

Harry turned to look at her, not quite able to banish the melancholy that had overtaken him. He knew it by her soft gasp and the mist that invaded her eyes. He turned away.

She sat down beside him. She didn't say anything. Somehow, he thought, even when she was eleven, telling him that he was one who had to continue on towards the Philosopher's Stone, she'd always known him.

"It's getting worse," he said, his voice thick. He wanted to bite his tongue.

She took his hand. They stared wordlessly into the fire before Hermione spoke.

"Harry," she started ominously.

Ron came in, though it was almost midnight, when Hermione went quiet, torn and stricken over whatever thought she held. Ron sat down beside her, taking her other hand. Harry glanced away embarrassedly as he placed a kiss on it. He tried to take his hand from Hermione, but she tightened her fingers.

For the first time in months, something warm blossomed softly in his chest. Ron didn't seem bothered by him either, sitting at the foot of the couch with them quietly.

"I've been looking into the origins of the tale from Beetle the Bard," Hermione said suddenly, one of her crazier nonsequitors. "It grew from an older myth, a pagan one," she said. "It wasn't about three brothers but three witches, who had been tricked by a mortal into parting with their magical devices." She leaned her head against Ron's shoulder. "A tooth that could talk to the dead. An eye that could see the future. And a strand of hair that could contain the life of every living being on earth."

Harry didn't know much of anything about mythology or any type of lore that wizards and witches had. The blankness must have shown on his face because Hermione continued.

"A lot of European countries have a tale about three witches. The Parcae in Roman mythology, Moirai in Greek, Norns in norse."

"Of course," Ron said. He pointed up above the mantel. In the beam, there was a well-worn and clumsily drawn figure stamped the wood. Harry couldn't make out most of it. "The Matres. I mean," he said, slightly self-conscious. "They're supposed to watch over the family, but it's just a picture. Superstition, you know, with how mum gets. It's not a spell or anything."

Hermione squinted, trying to study it, but eventually, she settled back against Ron.

"What does this have to do with anything?" Harry asked, staring at the marking.

After a long moment, Hermione answered, "There are different versions of the tale. Like The Tale of Three Brothers, I mean, except for the third brother, most of them end up getting killed or, you know."

Harry didn't blame her not saying. He tried to keep that word as far away from him right now as possible.

She swallowed. "But there's... There's a few where he's cursed. After becoming Master of Death, he just... can't die."

Harry looked at her, horrified. "What are you..." He licked his lips. "What are you saying?"

She bit her lip and didn't answer. Harry stared at her and the guilt and regret that swelled her eyes. He felt like the world was caving into his chest. He could only stare at her in incomprehension. She grabbed his arm.

"We don't know, Harry. There's no way to know," she impressed in a hard, unforgiving voice.

He shook his head, trying to pull away his arm. "I can't do this."

She clung to him, refusing to let go. "What does that mean?" she demanded. "Harry? Harry, don't go do something stupid."

Ron grabbed his bicep. "Don't even, mate. Don't even think about it."

Feeling no strength in his legs, Harry couldn't shake them off. He couldn't even move. He was shaking too hard to do anything.

"Oh, Harry. I shouldn't have told you. I'm so sorry."

Shouldn't have told him? As opposed to what, wondering years down the line why he wasn't dead? Why he was old and alone and miserable and why everyone around him was gone.

"No," he whispered. "I needed to know." He looked at her through red-rimmed eyes and crooked glasses. Her hand fisted and yanked on his sleeve, her fear in wide, glistening eyes. The weight of it was omnipotent and invasive.

The only reason he was still here was for her and Ron. Through all their adventures, their stunning loyalty, that should be enough. But it wasn't. He could almost feel their bond dwindling in the darkness of his thoughts. He would not say that he didn't love them, for it was as fierce and possessive as freeborn dragons.

He felt like what was important about him was being eroded. There was a thought in the back of his mind that almost believed that what was left of him was only a ghost. He thought maybe some part of him that made up the essential code of Harry Potter was lost at that last terminal. That this had very little to do with Hallows. The spirit of his passionate rebellion against death was growing cold, and not even Ron and Hermione could chase it out.

Hermione grabbed his chin, yanking him out of his reverie. Her fingers were painful as she frantically tried to sound the depths of his mind. He knew that this was hard for them. Ron was as stony-faced as he was during his brother's funeral, his eyes suspiciously rimmed.

For some godly, unfathomable reason, Harry felt a calm settle over him. It was like a pall. The inconsistent apathetic drone that had shadowed closer and closer to his heart, which had scared him so, finally wrapped its wings around him. Right while he was sitting with his friends. His guilt for hurting them, his fear, and confusion seemed so inconsequential. While he could still know that he loved them, know the grief of his lost comrades, and the bitterness of their imperfect world, it felt inanimate to him, as factual as the couch behind him.

Hermione's eyes flitted back and forth over his, searching for the cause.

He wished his inspiration came with clever words or some explanation, but he remained as clueless as he always was. He sighed, leaning against the sofa. Hermione's fingers left him when he turned his head, staring at the light reflected over the pictures on the mantel.

"Harry, what is it?" she asked.

"I just realized I've never had to say goodbye before."

Hermione's lip quivered and she started crying. "What are you talking about?"

Ron sat up, watching him dangerously.

Harry spoke, "We have more than anyone else in the world. We've held each other's lives so many times." He looked at his hands.

Ron licked his lips and whispered so quiet and rough that Harry barely heard him. "You're scaring me."

Harry looked at him, his cherrywood eyes, impetuous and stolid. He looked at Hermione, silently crying.

"I'm going to go, and I'm not coming back."

Ron's throat bobbed, and he shook his head. "Wherever you're going, we're coming too!"

Harry rested his hand on his shoulder and waited until Ron looked up. "It's enough," he said gently but firm. "What you've given me is enough. You're done."

"Are you going to die?" Hermione sobbed.

"No," Harry said curiously. "I don't think so. I'm just going to go. I don't want you to think I'm dead."

"I don't understand," Ron said. "Why are you doing this?"

Harry took his hand off Ron's shoulder and placed his arms on his knees. "Because I'm done too. I think."

"Harry," Hermione said tremulously. She touched his arm. "Harry, you're sick."

He frowned, wanting them to understand so badly. He picked cautiously through his words. "If I stay, I'll waste away. I can feel it." He touched his chest. "It feel like... someone's pushing a pillow on my face, but I can't move. Like everything's being muffled, and I'm suffocating. And I know if I don't do something I'll go mad."

Hermione embraced him. "You're not alone, Harry."

He smiled against her hair. His hand encircled her waist, and he closed his eyes. Strangely, the memories didn't flood him like he thought they would. They were there, swimming under the surface, but he was calm. He breathed in Hermione's scent, wanting to imprint it on his brain.

"I love you. You and Ron. More than anything else in the world." He pulled her back. "But I don't feel scared anymore." He cradled her face. "I don't feel alone. I just don't want to be a ghost. The last you see of me, I should be smiling right?"

He smiled to prove his point, and Hermione ducked her head under a fresh bout of tears.

"Is there nothing we can say?" Ron said helplessly, his own track of tears making their way over his cheeks.

"I'd like you to say goodbye."

Ron's lower lip trembled before he wiped a hand over his face. Harry climbed to his feet. He helped Hermione up and waited for Ron to find his feet. Before their eyes could meet, he drew Ron into his arms. His oldest friend's chest heaved, his long arms strong as goal posts. He recalled the kid on the train, how so much of him now relied on meeting and befriending Ron. Even if their roads together hadn't been perfect, they were cherished, like a child's treasure trove of otherwise unremarkable memorabilia. They'd been kindred since then.

"Goodbye, my friend."

Ron shook his head, unable to speak. He released him roughly and turned away, leaning his hands against the mantel. Harry looked at Hermione.

"Clever witch," he said as she near threw herself into his arms, sobbing. "The three of us will always belong to each other." His arms tightened. "You were always there for me," he whispered. "I will always remember you. No matter where I am. You and Ron will always be with me."

He had to force her away. He kissed the top of her head. "Goodbye, Hermione."

And he left.

.o0o.

Harry opened the door to his shack. Buckbeak was grazing. He was still mostly wild and could manage on his own, even if he'd become horribly spoiled. He looked at his ramshackle bedding and uncleaned table with a surreal sense of disbelief. He ran a hand over his face.

He fetched a pot of ink. Kneeling on the floor, he thumbed a roughhewn design. First, the triangle, then the circle, and last the staff. The ink was barely visible on the darkness of the floor, gleaming faintly, and his hands were black.

He leaned back on his thighs. The sun was setting over the cliffs, slanting through the window. He pulled the wrapped cloak from under the bed, placing it at a corner of the triangle and did the same with the Resurrection Stone and Elder Wand. So far, he'd moved automatically, without a wonder to how absurd his actions were. He looked over his work, wondering what was missing. He could feel it like an itch he could just barely reach.

He let his hand waver over the enchantment, the last of the sun climbing along the opposite wall. His hand shook, with excitement more than nerves.

"Come through," was all he whispered in the end, covered in a sense of magic he'd not felt sicne entering Hogwarts for the first time by the lake.

He walked forward, over the edge of the line of the ink. His heart was beating mad, his breath caught somewhat up in his throat. It was some wild, enchanted drum, beating against thighs in the swamps, fens, deserts, and backcountry of the olden worlds. He knew only that he felt like dancing, that every step forward was less of a moving towards or away from something, and more an intricate dance he'd never known he'd learned. Some part of him knew the lunacy of it but after so long in the muffling, he felt like he'd welcome a fire under his skin.

He stepped forward, on nothing but hope, delusion, and magic. Like stepped into a world of dreaming, he could not recall leaving the cottage, nor entering a world of mist. But like the call that had bade him scrawl the runes of the Deathly Hallows on his floorboard, he knew he should keep moving forward, listening to wild lyrics that were and weren't song.

There was a cauldron, a huge thing like the distended black-iron belly of a troll. He came to the rim and peered inside. The seamless liquid inside, like unicorn blood or mercury, formed a mirror, rippling across a vast surface. His image distorted, green eyes winking wickedly back up at him. He looked up from the pool, and three witches stood at the other side of the cauldron, calmly passing the ladle between themselves.

Harry, having risen to his toes to view into the pot, set back down on his heels. The mist curled white around them, making shadows like sun through water.

"I'm returning the Hallows," Harry said.

They continued passing the ladle. They were so coated in silver spiderweb, glistening with dew, that Harry could not tell hair from garment or silk. If they were old or young.

He stared again into the pot. "What are you making?"

"Time," they said.

"What for?" he asked.

They didn't answer.

"Are you death?" Harry asked.

"No," he thought the middle one said. "We are death's spinners."

Harry looked at the potion.

"I'm here to return the Hallows," he said again.

"We know," they said softly. The two on the ends opened their hands. "Choose," they said.

Harry looked between the hands. "I don't know what they mean."

The ladle passed evenly through their hands.

"Choose," they said again.

Harry frowned and studied the hands. They were each lily white and horribly stunted, fat with work and knotted. He shook his head.

"I don't know."

They didn't speak and the hands remained extended, palm up over the jutted slope of heels and knuckles. It wasn't a choice if he didn't know what it meant. He studied the hands again, the wet sleeves over them.

Inexplicably, he found himself drawn to one more than the other. His feet moved of their own accord. The witches remained immobile, stirring. He stopped and tried to understand why he'd chosen that one, when it was no different to its ugly twin.

"Do you need to know why," the middle witch said, "when you've already chosen?"

"But I don't know what I've chosen," Harry said. "What if it's bad?"

"What is bad, Harry Potter?" they asked together.

"But good tortured by it's own thirst and hunger," they said.

"Can you endure thirst?" they said.

"Can you endure hunger?" they said.

Harry frowned. "I think I can."

"Then what have you to fear?" the middle witch asked, like the head of an enormous body.

Harry took a step towards the hand. But though their reasoning was sound, something else bothered him. "What if I hurt others?" he asked them, staring into the eldritch shadows of their hoods.

"Time," they said together, stirring the pot.

He stared into the twisted reflection of his face once more, jumping and blinking and screaming. One folded atop the other, seeming without fault or line. One continuous wave, making illusions in light and shadow. He took the last step towards the witch. He placed his fingers in hers. Neither warmth nor cold met him. She folded their hands together and pulled him up.

"Though the eye of god," a voice said. "We seek no evil."

Harry felt like he was falling apart, like bits and pieces of him were disconnected. The grey goddesses cradled him in a cocoon as he disintegrated and coalesced.

"It is but a veil of truths," another voice, different but the same, prodded inside his sheath.

He could see himself, like a drop in a silent, molten gaze, as clear and silent as the moon, forming his own soup.

"We seek the all-seeing," the goddess sang.

He watched himself, a tiny, weak bead in their mighty hands. Then, he watched himself disappear.

o.O.o

So mote it be.