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 FOUR –

Return to Godric's Hollow

Irony. It is not as though I am a stranger to it. But it is cruel irony that I am accustomed to. The 'if I hadn't tried to save my godfather, he'd still be alive' kind of irony. I can deal with that. Hell, I've been doing it for years.

But as I sit in the waiting room of the Ministry's only registered Mind Healer, I realise that this is something different. Something more … light-hearted. And it makes me smile – or, at least, it would if I could. When I had rallied for and almost single-handedly funded the Ministry's first Mind Healer, I never dreamed that I, the so-called 'Chosen One', would be a patient.

Yet here I am.

I can think of a hundred things I'd rather be doing than waiting for William Sayer to tell me things I already know. Top of that list would be avenging my Luna's murder. But, of course, the Ministry wouldn't like that. They'd prefer to protect their storybook hero. What would parents think if The Boy Who Lived To Kill Voldemort fell off the wagon? Think of the children!

My eyes are drawn to the glass coffee table; more specifically, the strange, marble statue slowly revolving above it. It looks like the glistening rubble remains of a once-great home ...

I did not think I would ever be here again. Godric's Hollow. My parents' house. Thick, dark ivy clings to the walls like a layer of green paint. The wild grass surrounding the cottage is so high it could hide a child. And the right side of the top floor still gapes, frozen in time.

'Luna, I'm not sure about this,' I say.

'Not sure about what?'

'About this!' I snap, annoyed at her feigned ignorance and perfect calm. 'All of this. Moving back to England, working for the bloody Ministry, abandoning your career and, above all, living here of all places.'

Luna cocks her head to one side and fixes me with one of her dreamy smiles. It is her way of telling me to shut the fuck up and stop worrying. I sigh.

'Can we at least have an adult conversation about it?' I ask.

Ignoring my question, she pushes open the gate and practically skips down what had once been a lane.

'Careful!'

I hurry after her, wand out. She stops suddenly and stares at a large rock.

'We could turn that into a sanctuary for Blibbering Humdingers,' she says.

I take her hand, partly to stop her from running off again. I try to get her to turn around, but she stares resolutely at the rock.

'Honey, we have everything we could ever want. Why should we –'

'You need this.'

Finally she turns around. My breath catches in my throat. There is no dreamy look. Only pain. And for the first time in my life, I see tears roll down her pale cheeks. When her father had died of dragon pox last year, there were no tears. But now they were falling freely.

I hold her close to me. Suddenly I understand. We practically fled after Voldemort's death. We – no, I – refused to dwell on the past. To check up on our friends. I had thought we could leave our grief behind in England. That we could have carte blanche.

I did not need this. She did.

'We'll build that sanctuary.'

'Harry?'

I am dragged from my thoughts by a man wearing the Healer's uniform of lime green robes with a crossed bone and wand etched on his lapel. William Sayer. I have met him once before, at the opening ceremony of the Mind Healing division. He seems to have aged decades since then. His pale eyes are blood-streaked and surrounded by dark rings, a far cry from the fierceness they had previously exhibited. He is somehow even whiter than I remember and this, combined with his sleek, black hair, gives him the look of a vampire.

He gives me a strained smile and indicates that I should follow him into his office.

The office is almost identical to the model the Archiwizard had shown me. With its wooden panelling and fur carpet, it has the feel of a log cabin. The entire back wall is covered in shelves that sink into the walls. The only shelf-free space is a small, frosted glass window directly behind Sayer's desk. Sayer sinks into a black, leather armchair and invites me to take a seat in the chamois leather sofa. Reluctantly, I acquiesce.

Sayer crosses his legs and peers at me over his wire-rimmed glasses. 'How are you, Harry?'

I am distracted by a movement to my left. I realise that a quill is poised over a piece of parchment on Sayer's desk. I clench my fist as I remember Rita Skeeter and her Quick Quotes Quill.

'Don't pay any heed to the quill,' says Sayer.

'I'd prefer it if you didn't use that,' I say, trying my best to sound measured and reasonable.

Sayer continues to smile and says, 'Of course, if that would make you comfortable.' As though it had heard its master, the quill drops to the table. 'You understand that, legally, I must take notes after our conversations. It will also help me to help you.'

I grunt, which he takes as consent. I almost laugh at the notion of this wizard helping me.

'So, how are you getting on?'

'Fine.'

Sayer waits for me to say more. Minutes that feel like hours stretch by; each second is punctuated by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock by the door. If he thinks that I will spill my guts to avoid an awkward silence, he is very much mistaken.

Sensing this, he says, 'Do you know why you're here?'

'The Ministry ordered me to be here.'

'Do you really believe that?'

I shrug. Another wave of silence rolls in and I concentrate on the kaleidoscopic effect the window has on the morning light. He is out there somewhere. The wizard who killed her. I wonder if he has a family of his own; perhaps they are having breakfast now, and he is laughing at the idea that I am in pain.

Or, otherwise, he might be planning another way to win my Elder Wand from me. He will attempt, no doubt, to steal it from Dumbledore's tomb. Perhaps I should lay a trap there …

'I find,' says Sayer, interrupting my train of thought, 'that these sessions are most useful when we set objectives up front, and both agree to work towards them.'

I turn to face him. 'My one objective is to stop coming here.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because I'm not crazy.'

Sayer shifts his position in his seat and gives a sympathetic half-nod. It is infuriating. Why can't he, Bogand, all of them, realise that I just need to be left alone?

'One doesn't need to be, in your words, "crazy", to benefit from these sessions. Sometimes it helps just to have someone to talk to.'

'No offence, but I don't need a stranger to talk to. I've got plenty of friends for that.'

'Do you?'

I am ready to reply angrily and reel off a list of names when I stop. Who is on that list? Neville, of course. Bill and Andromeda, while good people, are not exactly what I would call confidants. Hermione is barely in the country. Ron is never in a state to hold a conversation …

'How about we think of objectives later,' offers Sayer, 'and just have a general chat.' When I do not disagree, he continues. 'Let's talk about loss.'

I groan inwardly. Sayer seems hell-bent on making this as excruciating as possible.

'I know, I know,' says Sayer, who senses my thoughts. 'You're aware, of course, that I have done extensive research into the topic – something you were kind enough to fund.'

I nod, but it was Hermione's idea, really. She had noticed that a lot of wizards were struggling with their day to day lives; the British wizarding world had never experienced anything on the scale of the second wizarding war. Hordes of former Wandless had been brutalised and tortured; for many of them, their magic had turned inwards, not unlike Ariana Dumbledore's. St Mungo's simply could not deal with it. Hermione had tracked Luna and I down in Burkina Faso and unveiled her idea of creating a Mind Healer division. The idea had not appealed to Luna – probably because it came from Hermione – but I had agreed to put my name behind it.

'We humans are adept at building coping mechanisms in the face of loss,' says Sayer. 'For example, some people might become angry and destructive. Others might take to solitude. How did you feel when Albus Dumbledore died?'

I recall my foolish anger at Snape. I had wanted to rip him limb from limb. 'How everyone else felt at the time,' I say dismissively. 'I wanted to kill Snape.'

'So anger and vengeance,' says Sayer. 'And when your godfather died?'

'The same.'

'We could say, then, that loss drives you to action. But what about when you don't have a conduit through which you can direct your anger? There are times when there isn't a villain to speak of.'

'So you're here to support the Ministry party line,' I say. This is what I was expecting. The Ministry have set Sayer on me to reinforce their bungled conclusion that Luna died by accident.

'What makes you say that?' says Sayer.

'You're suggesting that Voldemort –' I had expected Sayer to be one of those wizards who flinches when they hear Voldemort's name, and I am satisfied to see that I am right, 'and Snape were responsible for Sirius and Dumbledore's deaths, which made me want to kill them. But this time, with my Luna, there's nobody to blame.'

Sayer takes a moment to gather his thoughts. 'Actually, I wasn't referring to your wife, Harry. Can you not think of a time when you lost someone but couldn't take it out on the person who was to blame?' I shake my head; everyone I've known who died before their time was killed by Voldemort, or one of his Death Eaters.

Sayer pauses, waiting for me to construct an answer to his question. 'Loss doesn't necessarily result from death,' he adds. The grandfather clock quietly chimes nine times.

The answer he is looking for suddenly dawns on me. Ginny. He means Ginny. 'She's off limits,' I say.

I follow Sayer's gaze and realise that my hands are gripping the edge of the sofa. I immediately let go and lean back.

'If this is going to work,' he says, 'we need to be as open with each other as possible.'

'She's off limits,' I repeat.

Sayer takes off his glasses and rubs the lenses on his robes. When he has planted them back at the end of his nose, he says, 'After the huge losses to you personally at the Battle of Hogwarts, you still took action, didn't you?'

I shrug. 'It's normal for wizards to travel the world when they come of age.'

'Of course,' says William, smiling sympathetically. 'Many were surprised, though, that you returned to Godric's Hollow. Why was that?'

'England's our home,' I say. 'We had a brilliant time travelling, but we got homesick.'

'You misunderstand me, Harry. Naturally you'd come back to England, but of all the places you could have lived, why Godric's Hollow?'

'The Potters have lived in Godric's Hollow for centuries; before they were even called Potter. Where else would I go?'

'But none of your ancestors experienced the kind of loss you had there. I'm sure they wouldn't have begrudged you finding a new place to settle down.'

'When we spoke at King's Cross,' I say, and my mind is far away, fixed on the clean, ethereal platform hall, 'Dumbledore made me realise how important it is to stay true to your family. Even if they're dead.'

I look up and spot a momentary look of surprise pass Sayer's face. I realise what I have said. Other than Ron and Hermione, I have never so much as mentioned to anyone, not even Luna, the conversation with Dumbledore at King's Cross. The potential danger of these sessions dawn on me with an unwelcome thrill. I must be more careful about what I say, or even do. My Occlumency, feeble as it is, will be my friend.

'We've had our hour,' I say, rising to my feet.

Sayer glances at the ticking grandfather clock. 'I'd like to set you some … homework, if you'll allow me.'

'I was never good at handing homework in,' I say.

Sayer smiles and, for the first time, it is genuine. 'Luckily, this one is easy. If you could speak to your wife one last time, what would you say?'

I give Sayer one last glance and consider him. Was Sayer hinting at the fact that he knew about my 'one last' conversation with Dumbledore? Surely this 'homework' is simply a happy coincidence, unless he had had performed some kind of undetectable Legilimency? No, I would have felt it. Tearing my eyes away from him, I leave the office, turn right down the hall and Disapparate.

The sun hangs low in the sky as my feet carry me down the sleepy streets of Godric's Hollow. My mind is still whirring from the conversation with Healer Sayer earlier that day. Not for the first time, I wish that I have access to a Pensieve so I can relive the experience and examine Sayer more closely. If, as I suspect, he is reporting back to Bogand and the Ministry, it will not do for me to lose my concentration in that room ever again.

But I must focus on the task at hand. Bogand wants me distracted. If I am off my game, then it will make it easier for Neville to find her killer before I do. As I round the corner that leads to my home, I breathe in and out, concentrating on clearing my mind. A sense of calm descends on me, and I am ready.

Our home for the past eight years is little more than rubble. The entire top floor is gone; only the back wall still stands and the brickwork is charred as though by dragon fire. The front garden, Luna's pride and joy, is covered in a layer of grey debris; the sanctuary for Blibbering Humdingers lies on its side like some casualty of war. The damage is worse, far worse, than I had imagined.

I start with the basics. 'Priori Incantato!' I say. Instead of the swift flick required by the traditional spell, I draw a circle with my wand. The spell then knows to apply itself to the general area rather than another's wand.

Thick, grey clouds of smoke begin to appear in different parts of the garden: Detection Charms, Muggle-Repelling Charms, and Anti-Disapparition Jinxes. All of them are clearly ghosts of the lacklustre Auror investigation. The Auror spells continue to appear and disappear in different parts of the grounds, none a surprise. Then a swirling mass of grey flames of abnormal size writhes itself around the garden, obscuring the remains of the cottage from view. The fire mutates into a pack of beasts: dragons, Hippogriffs and bears among them. I watch their dance and try not to imagine my Luna burning in their midst.

The ghostly flames die and a wisp of magic pulsates from my left and covers the ruins. The way it spreads out and thins suggests it is a Homenum Revelio that did not bear any fruit. I feel myself frown: the killer using that spell makes perfect sense, but why on earth would it not reveal Luna inside?

I am distracted from my thoughts by a ghostly man sprouting from the spot the Homenum Revelio was cast from. My frown deepens: the Priori Incantatem only reveals people if they are victim to an Unforgivable curse. As the man is not writhing in pain or lying dead, it must be the Imperius Curse. The man is holding a package in his arms with the kind of delicateness usually reserved for parents holding their new-born babies. I take a few steps towards the apparition and look more closely at the package. I have seen this before …

As the man slowly makes his way to the remains of the cottage, I wrack my brains. But the more I try and recall the memory, the more it alludes me.

The man disappears and no more ghostly echoes of spells past present themselves. 'Deletrius!'

I walk over to where the ghostly man appeared from. A sudden jab of pain courses up my leg. 'Fuck!' I cry. I glare down at the source: it is a charred chunk of plastic.

I bend down and examine it: it is a rectangular box that vaguely resembles a Muggle stapler; only it has what looks like an antenna coming out of the top. Suddenly, the memory I have been groping for comes to me. It was one of my first missions: Bolgrund, a goblin extremist hell-bent on murdering Shacklebolt, was rumoured to be hiding out in the Middle East. I had tracked him down deep in the Saudi desert and was on the verge of taking him down when he used an explosion to distract me and escape. He had left behind a detonator identical to the one I hold in my hand.

'C4,' I mutter.

The C4 detonator in my hand completely contradicts the evidence of Fiendfyre provided by the Priori Incantatem. Why on earth would Luna's killer force someone to detonate C4 and cast Fiendfyre?

'Harry?'

I spin around, ready to curse the intruder, but stop in my tracks when I see it is Mr Weasley. His stroke last year has taken its toll: he stoops slightly over a cane, his hair is more bald than Weasley red and his kind smile is layered with weighty sadness. I go over to him and shake his cane-less hand.

'It's good to see you, Arthur,' I say.

'I thought I might find you here,' he says, giving me a long look.

'Are you ok?' I ask.

'Quite alright, thank you. I wanted to see how you were, Harry.'

'Fine,' I say. 'You didn't have to inconvenience yourself by coming all the way here. If you'd have sent a Patronus message, I'd have come to you.'

Mr Weasley smiles fondly and places a hand on my shoulder in that fatherly way of his. 'It doesn't always have to be you checking in on me, as I keep telling you. Bill dropped by a couple of days ago and said he offered you a place at the Burrow.'

'It's ok, Arthur,' I say, glancing over my shoulder at the ruins, 'I've rented a flat.'

'Sometimes,' says Mr Weasley carefully, 'when everything in our lives is upside down, having one thing that's stable and constant makes all the difference.'

'What was your constant?' I ask. I have always wondered how Mr Weasley handled the cruel destruction of his family. Where Ron turned to drink and isolation, Mr Weasley had been remarkably stoic.

Arthur turns his back to me and gazes out at the ruins. Only the gentle hooting of a nearby owl disturbs the silence.

'Despite … everything … I still have six wonderful sons –' I realise with a jolt that he has counted me among that number, 'even if some of them have been led astray.'

I wonder if that is a reference to Ron, or George … or me. I go and stand beside him so we are both looking at the place I once called home.

'I know that the last thing you want to do is talk about it,' says Mr Weasley heavily, 'but if, or when, you do, I hope you come to the Burrow. There … aren't many others who'll understand what you're going through.'

'How … do you live without her?'

Mr Weasley's shoulders seem to hunch further. 'I can't pretend it doesn't hurt every day, and it certainly doesn't get easier with time. That's the myth people will tell you. The truth is, Molly would never have forgiven me if I wasn't strong for the family. She'd have wanted me to be there for the grandchildren.

'Our own parents died during the first war, Harry. They'd dreamed of meeting their grandchildren, but never got that chance. Molly and I … well, we didn't want history to repeat itself. This may not have been the way we hoped things would turn out, but you have to live the reality you're dealt.'

I can practically hear Dumbledore's voice from years past: it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.

'What if you don't have children to be strong for?' I say, barely above whisper.

Mr Weasley does something I can't remember him ever doing: he hugs me. I am so taken aback by it that I do not pull away. It is gruff and brief, but no less full of love than Mrs Weasley's long, warm ones had been.

'You have Teddy,' says Mr Weasley, after he pulls away.

'Yeah …'

'I remember the night Remus decided to make you godfather like it was yesterday. Said he'd come to Grimmauld Place and offered to help you, but you turned him away. Apparently you'd accused him of abandoning Teddy for a chance at glory. "He'll be the ideal godfather, he's got the instincts for parenthood" I think he said …

'I've often thought about that conversation, you know. It only occurred to me after the battle that Remus was acknowledging that he wouldn't get to be a father to Teddy. And the irony of it all is that if he'd really listened to what you'd said, he'd be here now.'

Mr Weasley peers over his glasses me and fixes me with a pointed look. The message behind the words speak louder than the words themselves.

'Remember that there's always room for you at the Burrow, Harry.'

His expression softens a little and he continues to look at me for long moments, as though he would never see me again.

'You're far too young to have lost so much.'

And with that, Mr Weasley Disapparates.