Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

– CHAPTER TWO –

The Funeral

It is pissing rain. It is the only thought running through my mind: my wife's funeral, and it couldn't even be sunny.

I am long soaked. My cloak sticks to me like a boa around its prey: first smothering, then devouring. I know that if I don't get out of here soon, the long, black cloak of grief will devour me too.

Everyone else at the funeral seems to sense my mood. They huddle together under umbrellas, as far away from me as possible. I don't blame them in the slightest. You don't need to see my face to know how I feel. Unstable.

We were married two weeks shy of ten years. No children, just an easy life.

Well, no longer.

It will never be ten years. Just … two weeks shy of ten years, forever.

When I found what was left of her, I did nothing but laugh. That probably contributed to the exaggerated reports in the Daily Prophet about my sanity, but I really couldn't help it. It was the perfect end to my life. In the beginning, my mother died for me. In the end, my wife died … for me.

Now I mourn as a respectful husband should. People pat me on the shoulder, mumble some words about my terrible loss, and go back inside the funeral home to indulge in tiny sandwiches and tell each other how simply dreadful this whole fiasco is.

The intense pain I feel at her death is counteracted by the intense liberty afforded to me. I am free to do anything, anything at all, because absolutely nothing matters. No laws can constrain me. No matters of conscience can weigh me down. There is only me, and my wand, and my vengeance. It is … liberating.

I think back on our wedding, mere months after I had killed Voldemort. We waited just long enough for the funerals to end, long enough to find a way to get married without the whole world being there.

As it turned out, the whole world didn't attend, but neither did the people that really mattered to me. Hermione had left for Australia. Ron was still in shock: shock, it turned out, that would last well beyond my wedding. Remus, the last link to my parents, was dead. Only two of my classmates had attended, and I had only invited one of them. Instead of Ron, Neville Longbottom was my best man. The other, Dean Thomas, was invited by my wife out of some crazy sense of loyalty to friends. But she was known for that, I suppose, so I shouldered my desire to do a quick Switching Spell on Dean for Ron, and we tied the knot quietly, one week into August, and two months in to our round-the-world trip.

Apart from the daily ups-and-downs of my job, my life was happy, and fulfilling. She found work as a librarian to supplement her career as a Magizoologist, and we slowly grew adjusted to life in England again.

She calmed my anger. I found solace in her wonders. I found peace.

And now she is gone.

The ancient, tufty-haired Master of Ceremonies puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

'Go easy, Mr Potter. She's at peace now.'

'Thank you,' I say. 'That was a lovely service. She … would've really enjoyed it.' Bull-fucking-shit, my brain shouts at my mouth.

I am suddenly reminded of why I used to be so mad with everyone. Men like the Master of Ceremonies who think that a fancy song and dance will make everything okay. Witches and wizards who think that words are enough in an age of action.

I close my eyes and let the rain run down my face.

'Harry?' calls a tremulous voice I have not heard for a while. Hermione. Soaked to the bone, but still holding her umbrella high. Story of her life.

'Hermione,' I say, turning to look at her.

'Harry – I'm so, so sorry,' she says, as she takes a tentative step forward, and pulls me into a hug.

'I'm sorry too, Hermione,' I say, without any sorrow in my voice. That seems to upset her.

'I came as soon as I heard the news,' she says gently. 'I couldn't believe it …' Her voice, constricted with emotion, trails off. She takes my hand and pulls me underneath her umbrella.

We stand in silence, listening to the pattering overhead. 'How are you feeling, Harry?' she says.

'Fine …' She lightly squeezes my hand. 'I dunno … I s'pose I don't really feel anything. I mean, how can you feel when your heart's been cut out and buried six feet underground?'

'It isn't fair,' she whispers, leaning her sodden head on my shoulder. 'It isn't fair that you have to come here so often …'

A silence falls between us, pregnant with the memory of all those we buried here: Fred, Remus, Tonks, Mrs Weasley, Xenophilius, Hannah … As it stretches, I survey the huddle of umbrellas closest to me and notice a man with slick, black hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His clothes are crisp and dry yet he does not have an umbrella. He has disobeyed my request for no magic at the funeral.

'I've decided to move back, Harry,' says Hermione.

'You don't have to –'

'It wasn't right, running away like that –'

'It's not like you were the only one …'

'Don't excuse my cowardice,' says Hermione. 'You travelled to get away from the media circus. I – well, I was running away from him.' There is no doubt as to which him Hermione was referring to. Ron's absence weighs as heavily today as it did the day of my wedding.

'It's good to have you back, Hermione.' I watch the man with the wire-rimmed glasses say his good-byes and shuffle away before I say, 'Do you believe the Ministry line?'

Hermione looks up at me. 'That it was spell experimentation gone wrong?'

Even hearing the lie from Hermione's innocent mouth makes me clench my fist. The idea that someone connected to me, one of the most hated men by the wizarding underbelly, could die in such a frivolous way is ludicrous. But I am keen for Hermione to give my alternative theory her blessing.

'Well … on one hand, speaking as the Magical Ambassador to Australia, I doubt that Kingsley's Ministry would lie about something as serious as this. We grew up with Fudge's Ministry, so we'll probably always suspect that the government is dishonest. But things have changed: there isn't the corruption there once was under Fudge.'

As a Director in the Unit, I know the long and short of corruption in the Ministry far better than she does. I bite my tongue, though, and let her continue.

'On the other hand, the explanation I read just doesn't seem likely. I mean, her interest was always magical creatures, not spell experimentation …'

'Exactly! She was murdered, Hermione.'

Hermione bites her lip. 'I don't know, Harry. It just seems a bit …' Her mouth sets as thougt this were just another problem she could talk through or find in the Hogwarts library. 'If we assume that they, whoever they are, were trying to attack you, weren't there so many other surer ways to do it?'

'Well, they can't get me when I'm at work,' I say, 'the Department's impregnable now, after our little escapade in fifth year. And most of the places I visit outside of work still have the old protections from the war.'

'I suppose,' says Hermione, frowning. 'I tell you what, let me press the Ministry to re-examine the scene. I still have a bit of clout there.'

'Thanks, Hermione,' I say.

'And what are you going to do?'

'Well, I thought I'd take a look at the crime scene, too. It's my house, so I shouldn't have any problems. Then I'll ask some people I know – some informants for the Aurors – about what was happening in the shadows at the time.'

'That's a good start, Harry. Just make sure you don't overstep your bounds. There's serious tension between the Auror Department and the Department of Mysteries these days: they say Robards and Bogand are going to run against each other for Minister after Kingsley's next term.'

'You know how I feel about politics, Hermione …'

'I know, Harry. Just be careful, okay? We'll make sure this thing is settled … and then maybe you can come and stay with my parents and me. Some time on the beach would do you good. Every time I see you, you look paler,' she says, biting her lip. 'You could do with some sun.'

'All right, Hermione.'

'I'll drop by very soon,' she says, smiling, and embraces me once more, 'it has been way too long.'

She strides away, and I stand back, pull up the hood on my cloak, and let the rain obscure my face. Any Ministry re-examination of Godric's Hollow will render the same conclusion as the first investigation. I do suspect, though, that I will need Hermione's brains before my search is up, and I deliver a speedy, painful death to my wife's murderer.

I have no intentions of waiting for the massive bulk of bureaucracy to heave itself in the general direction of apprehending some upstart Dark Lord who thought it would be 'evil' to kill Harry Potter's wife. No, I am going use all of my resources to track them down myself.

Most of the little jumped-up Voldemort impersonators I leave to the Aurors to deal with. They usually throw them into Azkaban for the night, ask them if they had made any lifestyle changes in the morning, then let the bulk of them go.

Every now and then, though, a serious one springs up, and we have to step in and do what the Aurors weren't quite sanctioned to. One of those types killed my first partner, Terry Boot; another killed the wife of my next partner, Neville; and, apparently, the next had assassinated my wife. There is only one solution in those situations: call in the Unknowables.

Counter to what Hermione, Ron, and everyone else know, I am not actually a normal researcher in the Department of Mysteries. While Neville and I do work inside the Department, it is not in any of the parts that I had seen in my fifth year. Despite what Dumbledore had told me, that final room in the Department of Mysteries is not filled with anything resembling love. In fact, as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Dumbledore was one of the few wizards who knew the truth.

Behind the door is a long staircase only accessible to those selected by the Head of the Department of Mysteries. The Unspeakables work upstairs: they couldn't say anything about their work even if they wanted to. 'The Unknowables' is a pet name for some of us Unspeakables whose work is so veiled in secrecy that we always joke that nobody could know us.

The Unknowables. How morbidly apt that name is. My wife died thinking I spend most of my time playing with prophecies.

A hand rests on my shoulder. 'Hello, Neville,' I say.

'Hey, Harry,' comes the sombre voice of my best friend. Little Neville Longbottom, the near-Squib. Who would have thought that he would be the very last line of defence for British wizarding society? Certainly not Hannah Abbot, who died and was buried in this cemetery without ever knowing what her husband did for a living. 'Look, mate – I know this hardly needs to be said, but I'm here to talk if you need it, all right?'

'Thanks, Neville,' I reply, and mean it. If there is any one person who understands me, it is Neville.

'She – she was a great woman, Harry,' he adds, somewhat nervously, his eyes roaming back and forth. 'She never let anyone convince her not to do what she wanted. Her dad used to say she got it from her mum, but I think she got it from you … she really did love you, Harry.'

'I know,' I say, brushing a drop of rain away from my eye.

Neville waves his wand discretely, casting a Muffliato to secure our conversation. 'I know it doesn't make it any easier, but you spared her from having to worry every day.'

'Still wish I could've told her the truth.'

'She'd have been proud of you, Harry. She was proud of you.'

'It's … not the same.'

'I felt the same way when Hannah died. It gets harder, Harry; I won't lie. It's hard to lie in bed at night and think about sleeping when you know you're responsible for the cold bed you're lying in. It's hard to wake up in the morning knowing the thing you're fighting for is something you've already lost.'

I chuckle softly. Neville's brutal honesty is a breath of fresh air. 'You're terrible at this, mate,' I say. 'You're supposed to cheer me up, not make me want to slash my wrists.'

Neville does not smile; his mouth is a grim line. 'You don't need cheering up, Harry. What you need is to see her murderer have his soul ripped out of him by a Dementor.'

'You're right. So you agree it's a murder?'

'It couldn't be more clear-cut. Bogand put me in charge of the case yesterday. Said it suited my temperament.'

Yes, Neville, with his clear logic and dogged enthusiasm is an excellent choice. 'I want to help,' I say. With Neville and I working together, the murderer stands no chance.

'You know you can't be part of it, Harry. Conflict of interest. We can't afford this to be anything other than by the book.'

'C'mon, Neville. When Hannah died, I let you be there as I ripped apart Lestrange.'

'And it was foolish. If he'd gotten past your defences, I would've been a blubbering fool with a stick trying to kill him. Instead of a "sudden heart attack", the Unit would have had to explain a double-homicide and a psychopath on the loose.'

'You know I wouldn't be —'

'You remember what it's like to be up against someone so deadly who's responsible for so much of your pain? You lose it, Harry. You do stupid things … Remember Sirius?'

'I need to —'

'What you need is to take some time off. I overheard what Hermione said to you. Take her up on her offer. Bogand'll give you compassionate leave. Spend some time. Find what's important to you.'

'I – I just …' I stutter. I can't see straight. Doesn't Neville understand what it is like to lose half of yourself? Doesn't he know that burning desire to capture the bastard, rip open his rib cage, and light his heart on fire?

'It's hard, Harry, I know that. But she was such a kind soul. Remember her, and ask yourself how she'd feel if she saw you so angry. Remember her.'

'Happy birthday, Neville,' I say, as the rain rolled down my face, heavy and salty.

'Happy birthday, Harry,' he responds, with only the utmost sympathy in his voice, before he wanders off to deeper parts of the cemetery.

And all of a sudden, I am alone at her grave.

I stand there dutifully – defiantly, even – until everyone has left. It takes another hour; my wife had been well-loved, and had far more friends than I will ever make in my life time. One by one, they all shuffle past me, patting my shoulder, shaking my hand, offering their condolences.

I shake hands with a teary Hagrid and hug a weepy Padma Patil as they shuffle past me and out of the cemetery. I exchange condolences with Lisa Turpin, Cho Chang, and even Susan Bones, before they, too, leave, no doubt to go find some place warm to drink a pint of Butterbeer. Dean Thomas gives me a grin, apparently trying to get me to lighten up, but nothing can induce me to smile. Not even the coldness in my legs can matched the coldness in my heart. Everyone is returning to their homes, to cosy up to their husbands, to share warmth with their wives, and I – I am standing here, rain cosying up to me, stealing my warmth, as I weep for the loss of my love.

I kneel before her tombstone. Wiping the rain from my eyes, and clearing the stinging tears that have fallen, I stare at it balefully, wishing it were a lie, hearing only the roar of the rain in my ears, smelling only the ghost of a scent of her.

'I'm sorry.' My words are raspy.

'I'm sorry I wasn't there. I promised you, when I married you, to love you, in sickness and health, and to protect you ...'

The rain answers with nothing.

'And I wasn't there.'

No sound comes.

'I'm sorry I couldn't be there to catch who did this to you.'

Silence, but for the rain.

'But you have my word … you have my Unbreakable Vow in death that I won't stop until I've found who killed you, and sent him to meet his fate.'

There is no shot of flame. Just... nothing.

I look up at the marble gravestone.

Luna Potter, born 26 September 1980, died 26 July 2007

Friendship and equality to all.

'I'm so sorry, Luna,' I whisper. 'I'm so sorry. I need you … please … come back to me. Just give me one more day with you. A chance to say "good bye". I need you with me now. I can't stand this life by myself.'

I place her wedding ring on her grave, and cover it with dirt. 'This belongs to you. Just so you know … we're still married, you and me. You might've … you might've gone on, but I'll be married to you forever.'

'If only this ring could bring you back to me.'

Nothing.

'If only this ring could bring you back to me …'

Something.