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 TWELVE –

The Final Appointment

The chimes of the old grandfather clock momentarily drown the rustle of old parchment. Six chimes – six o'clock. We have been in this stuffy old library for six hours. Two hours more than yesterday, and three more than the day before. It feels like Hermione and I have spent most of the past few weeks holed up in ancient Ministry libraries. When asked, we tell nosy passers-by that we are researching alcoholism cures for our poor friend.

Well, I tell them; Hermione cannot pull off that lie. It is too close to home.

I peer down at the page before me. It describes the magic behind Inferi; not directly useful, but there is a vague possibility that we can use parts of it. Annoyingly, the author felt the instructions best suited to the medium of poetry.

Powerful intent must belie,

The creation of the Inferi.

Who am I kidding? If the magic was derived from Inferi, Dumbledore would have used it to raise Ariana years ago.

The more I stare at the page, the blurrier the words become. I sigh. The high, domed ceiling above performs its natural, acoustic duties and echoes my sigh. Soon, the dimly lit library is alive with the sound of my mutiny. I attract a withering look from a grizzled old warlock two tables down.

I glance up at Hermione, expecting a reproach, but she is engrossed by Forgotten Magicks. I toss the Inferi instructions aside and lethargically pick up Taboo. My desire to help Luna burns so fiercely that it hurts, but I cannot concentrate on these dry, academic texts for more than ten minutes.

Hermione, however, is another matter. She can sit for hours without moving a muscle. I wonder if she would even remember to eat if I were not here; catering duties have been my main contribution. I would happily leave the desk research in her hands but for that small voice in my head: she does not want Luna to return.

I have tried to ward that thought away, but it only returns stronger than ever. Each day of futile searching feeds it, like fear to a Dementor. Try as I might, I can't shake the feeling that she is merely using the research as a way to keep an eye on me. I had expected one of us to find a solid lead by now, but the best we have produced is some mumbo-jumbo about wizards trying Necromancy and falling foul of ancient curses, and detailed guides on how to make a Horcrux.

I am distracted from my seditious thoughts by a small gasp. I look up so quickly that my neck cricks. Rubbing it, I say, 'What is it Hermione?'

My question echoes around the hall, drawing a harrumph from the warlock. Startled, Hermione tosses aside a battered journal in a vain attempt at nonchalance. A mushroom cloud of dust rises as the journal lands with dull thump.

'It's nothing,' whispers Hermione, busying herself by fanning away the airborne dust, 'just a horrible article about how Voldemort's downfall was one of the great historical tragedies. The usual bigoted nonsense.'

I study Hermione carefully. She is biting her bottom lip and not quite meeting my gaze. She never was good at lying to me.

'Hermione,' I say, with a measured calmness, 'what's really in the journal?'

'I just told you.'

I reach for the journal when a particularly gusty draught sweeps past the table, taking with it the journal and a tornado of dust. I glare at Hermione, but her wand is nowhere to be seen. Accidental magic. My interest in the journal doubles: what could have possible made Hermione so scared?

With a quick jab of my wand, the journal flies through the lingering curtain of dust and into my free hand. I ignore Hermione's look of equal fear and outrage and study the front cover. It is a copy of Transfiguration Today. I leaf through it until I come to the page I had briefly glimpsed moments before. The first article seems to be a discussion about whether Gamp had been right.

'Harry, how did you do that?' said Hermione in a strained whisper.

'Do what?' I say, not taking my eyes off the page.

'Choose the right page first time.'

'Dumb luck, I guess.'

'Are you … are you a Legilimens?'

I glance up and frown. She is now studying me. Out of habit, I may have used some weak Legilimency over the past few weeks, but nothing detectable. And certainly not on this occasion.

'I'm a lousy Occlumens, what makes you think I'd be any better at Legilimency?'

'You're avoiding my question.'

'And you're trying to distract me.'

I shift my gaze back to the journal and find the other article. Hermione is saying something, but I can no longer hear her.

A STUDY OF DEATH

Emeric Switch goes in search of the dangerous wizards who experiment with life and death

In the centre of the article is a photo of an ancient man, stooped and leaning heavily on a wooden cane. His liver-spotted, shaved head gleams in the desert sun. His face is so heavily lined it is difficult to discern its features. The caption below the articles names him as Shakhs Khaled, a three hundred and twenty year-old warlock.

My hands tremble slightly as I begin reading the article.

Shakhs Khaled is not the easiest man to find, nor is he the friendliest. Before I announce myself as a reporter, he hits me with a nasty bed-wetting curse. But this is a small price to pay to meet the man the Arab wizarding community has dubbed 'The Immortal'.

We meet deep in the Yemeni mountains. It was a three hour trek from Sana'a: Shakhs Khaled is petrified that the Yemeni Ministry will hunt him down.

I skim over the remainder of the article in which Emeric Switch is being rather self-congratulatory. I focus instead on the surly old wizard trying to hobble out of the photo. He is three hundred and twenty years old and, according to the article, does not own a Philosopher's Stone. If he has unlocked the secret of warding off death, perhaps he could provide clues on how to reverse it. Even if he does not, I could persuade him to help me figure it out. After all, a three hundred and twenty year-old man is bound to have dead loved ones.

A waving hand suddenly appears in front of my face.

'Harry, I know what you're thinking.'

Hermione tries to snatch the magazine away, but only succeeds in ripping part of the article. The magazine struggles out of my grip and rises higher and higher towards the domed ceiling. Then the air is rent by a blood-curdling scream. I look at Hermione and she looks back, and we both know what the other is thinking. The last time I heard that scream was that day … the Battle of Hogwarts.

I get up, not wanting to be caught by the fastidious old bat that runs the library. The echo amplifies the Caterwauling Charm and tears at every nerve in my body. Judging by Hermione's frozen silence, it is making her relive something we have all tried to forget.

I grab her hand and dive between the narrow bookshelves to our left. A distant glow promises an end to the library and I follow it. The passageway seems to move in on us the closer we get to the exit. The screams follow us like a reproving wave.

Finally, we come to an old oak door. With some effort, I wrench it open, squeeze through it with Hermione and slam it shut. The screams immediately stop. All that is left is the ringing in my ears.

I pace around, exhilarated. Our untimely exit from the Ptolemy Library marks the end of our library research. I have a name: Shakhs Khaled.

Hermione's voice comes from behind me. It is shaky, but measured and determined. 'I've read about this Shakhs Khaled. He's sick, Harry. They say he slaughters babies to use in his experiments. There's a reason why he's a wanted man.'

'I'm not going to help him kill children, Hermione,' I say, holding her hand reassuringly, 'I just want his professional opinion –'

'– professional –'

'– on whether waking the dead is possible. Look, we've been stuck in libraries for ages now and we know less than when we started. If it turns out it's impossible, then we're both wasting our time. Wouldn't you prefer to get back to your normal life?'

'Of course I would, but obviously he's going to believe it's possible. But it's not, Harry!'

'It is –'

'No, it's not,' says Hermione, pulling her hand from my grip. 'We can extend our lives by slowing the degeneration of our cells, magic can do that. But once the cells are dead, there is absolutely no way of making them work again. I've read through countless conflicting accounts, but they all agree on that point.'

I smile and put my hand on her shoulder. 'I bet they all agree that surviving the Killing Curse is impossible, too.'

Nothing Hermione says can dampen my growing excitement. Shakhs Khaled will bring me answers. Of course, he will not solve the entire puzzle. If he could do that, he would be famous: The Man Who Cured Death. But even Hermione cannot deny that he will get me closer. That is the real reason why she does not want me to meet him.

Hermione briskly shrugs my hand off and says, 'You survived the Killing Curse because of ancient magic that people like Dumbledore only found in retrospect.'

'So you admit there's magic we don't know about,' I say, turning my back to her.

Hermione catches my shoulder and spins me around with surprising force. Her face is etched with concern and the beginnings of panic. She takes a breath and seems to compose herself.

'We can't go to Yemen. Just getting access to a Portkey or clearance to Apparate there will take weeks!'

'Unless you happen to be a Ministry of Magic ambassador.'

'Oh no, Harry. I've abused my position in the Ministry far too many times already.'

In my irritation, I cast my eyes to the heavens. Emerging from the blue ceiling, as if from an ocean, are ornate, marble sculptures. Directly above me, with his long beard seeking the floor, is Merlin, his staff raised. He seems to wink at me.

'Look, Hermione,' I say quietly. 'I'm not saying we should go marching into Yemen just like that. I've got an appointment with Sayer later, and I thought I might go and visit Teddy. It's been ages since I last saw him.

'I know you're worried about me, but you don't need to be. I just want to get some closure, and this Shakhs Khaled guy can give me that.'

Hermione looks at me for a long moment, her eyes shimmering. Finally, she says, 'I understand that, but this guy is evil. What will people say if they found out you went to see him?'

I give her a sly grin. 'I fully intend for people to find out I've seen him.'

'What?'

'I'm not just going there to get his opinion. I'll do the Yemeni Ministry a favour and haul him in for questioning.'

The edges of Hermione's mouth twitch, betraying a hint of relief. 'If you go to Yemen, and that's a big if, you should involve the British and Yemeni Ministries. The notion of a foreign national doing Auror work is a bit of a legal quagmire.'

'No Aurors,' I say firmly. The last thing I want is for that piece-of-shit Bogand to get wind of what I am doing.

'But –'

'No Aurors. We can involve them retrospectively, once I've brought him into custody'

'You'll never trust the Ministry, will you?' says Hermione, but her voice is softer.

'Never,' I say with a smile. 'So you'll get us a Portkey?'

'Us?'

'Don't you want to come with me?'

'I thought – yes, of course I do. Look, there's no way we'll find him ourselves; we don't know the country and we're not trained Aurors. I know an Auror in the Yemeni Ministry from a, uh, conference.' Hermione's cheeks redden in a way that suggests there was minimal conferencing. 'He knows a fair bit about Shakhs Khaled, and he'd be willing to keep things quiet for a while. Let me get in touch with him and we can go from there.'

'That's great, Hermione. I'll go visit Teddy and have my appointment. We can meet back at yours and make the preparations. How does that sound?'

'It sounds suspiciously like a plan,' says Hermione. She smiles ruefully at her reference to our failed attempts at planning during our school years.

'I will have order,' I say in a passable imitation of Umbridge.

For the first time in fifteen years, I hear Hermione's laugh. It is a nice sound, like a song from childhood.

She gives me a brief hug and Disapparates. I follow suit and land on the top step of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. There are no longer any wards, but old habits die hard.

The door swings open and I step over the threshold. I try to be careful, but a floorboard creaks and –

'FILTHY HALF-BREEDS, MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD TRAITORS! PLAGUE TO THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK!'

I roll my eyes and jab my wand at the portrait of Mrs Black. The curtains slam shut and her screeching is muffled.

'Harry, what a lovely surprise.'

Andromeda, haughty and beautiful, emerges from the drawing room. Her eyes are red and blotchy. She is not quite as composed as normal. I wonder what has happened for a moment before it hits me. She must be mourning her sister's death: after all, Narcissa and Andromeda had reconnected after the war.

I stride forward and take her hands in mine. It is a gesture I picked up in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts.

'I'm sorry for your loss,' I say. Empty words. We both know it, but Andromeda nods graciously.

'Please, come through,' she says, gesturing for me to enter the drawing room first. Pure-bloods and their traditions. How Luna and I used to laugh at their strange ways.

The war council glamour of number twelve's drawing room has long since disappeared. The dining table has been replaced by two elegant chintz couches separated by a mahogany coffee table. I take a seat on one and Andromeda rests on the other.

'Kreacher,' calls Andromeda.

The ancient house elf appears with a soft pop. He catches sight of me and bows so low that his nose touches the carpet. 'Will Master be wanting the herbal tea to which he is so partial?'

'Water will be just fine, thanks,' I say.

'If Master permits Kreacher to say, he is looking very unwell. Perhaps he needs his Kreacher to nurse him back to health?'

I muster a false smile for the elf. 'That's very kind of you, Kreacher, but I'll be fine.'

Kreacher gives another low bow, but mutters quite audible, 'Kreacher is worried that Master is not adjusting well to life after Miss Luna's death. Yes, very worried. And young Master Theodore worries too ...'

'You're dismissed,' snaps Andromeda, and Kreacher disappears as suddenly as he arrived.

'Is Teddy around, then?'

'He is, but I want to talk to you first.'

Kreacher returns with a glass of water, bows and Disapparates.

'My nephew came by some weeks ago. You would not believe the stories he told me.'

'Draco is quite the story-teller.'

'Quite. But these tales ring true. He tells me that you attacked him in a bar.'

'He told you that?' I say. I'm impressed that Malfoy broke through my Memory Charm, but he was always an accomplished Occlumens. However, I highly doubt Malfoy would freely admit to me besting him.

'He was not forthcoming, but I can be persuasive. He tells me that he does not believe the suicide story the Ministry came up with. He says that the wards around the Manor were triggered on the day of their death.'

'Does he know who triggered them?'

'Yes … it was you.'

I take a sip of water, careful not to break eye contact with Andromeda.

'I was there on Ministry business,' I say.

'You are on compassionate leave.'

I lean forward and take Andromeda's hands in mine; they are cold and veiny.

'Think of what you're accusing me of,' I say gently. 'Do you really think that I would kill the Malfoys?'

'You always hated them,' says Andromeda, but her tone is a little more uncertain and a little less accusatory.

'I never liked them,' I agree, 'but why on earth would I murder them? If I wanted to punish them for what they did in the war, wouldn't I have let the Ministry send them to Azkaban? But I didn't think they deserved it then, and I don't now.'

Andromeda sighs in relief. 'I'm sorry to accuse you, Harry, dear, but … I had to know.'

'I know what it's like,' I say, releasing her hands, 'it's so much easier when there's someone to blame.'

'I'll … I'll call Theodore down.'

'No need,' I say, getting to my feet, 'I'll go to him. I assume he's in his room?'

Andromeda nods and gestures to the door, the sign that I have permission to roam the house.

The lamp-lit hallway seems longer than I remember. It has only been a couple of months since I last visited, hand-in-hand with Luna, but it feels like a lifetime ago. As I climb up the staircase that was once lined with house-elf heads, I am attacked by a sea of memories: screaming at Ron and Hermione in my fifth year; spending those last, precious days with Sirius; and feeling utterly alone in my quest to find Slytherin's locket. Strangely, these memories do not make me feel: they are discordant and hazy. Things that were once everything are now nothing.

I come to Teddy's room, whose previous tenants include Hermione and Ginny, and knock. The old oak door is adorned with glittering golden letters that dart this way and that, refusing to stay still even for a second, very much like the room's owner.

'Come in,' calls Teddy.

Briefly, the letters read Theodore. I walk in and am met by the welcome sight of the warm, orange glow of Chudley Cannon posters. More welcome is my godson with his messy black hair and disconcertingly green eyes.

'Uncle Harry!'

For a second, Teddy looks as though he cannot believe his eyes. Then he runs and jumps into my arms.

'How are you, Teddy?' I say, mussing his hair fondly.

'Come see what I can do!' says Teddy, brushing my question aside. He leads me over to his four-poster bed and gestures for me to sit. With barely-contained excitement, Teddy squints in concentration and the replica snitch on his desk shoots across the room and bounces off the far wall.

'Pretty cool, right?' says Teddy eagerly.

'That's … quite extraordinary magic,' I say, and it is the truth; conscious underage magic is a rare talent.

Teddy preens at the compliment. 'Grandma says it's not right to use magic like that,' he says, and his expression clearly suggests that Andromeda is simply ignorant of such matters.

'Many witches and wizards think it's wrong to knowingly use magic without a wand.'

Teddy sits next to me on the bed and I put my arm around his shoulder. 'But you don't think it's wrong, Uncle Harry?'

Teddy stares up at me and it is as though I am addressing myself aged ten. There are things he needs to know; things I wish Dumbledore had told me. 'Intent is everything, Teddy.'

'What's that mean?'

I looks into those brilliant green eyes and say, 'Magic's only wrong if you intend to do harm. The ends justify the means, Teddy. Sometimes, when you're chasing after something that's right, you have to do things that are wrong.'

Teddy considers this for a moment, his head tilted to one side, then he says, 'Come and see what I can do on my broom.'

I allow him to lead me out of his room: he might understand one day, but today he is a child, and children should be children.

I slip into the office and glance at the old grandfather clock: half an hour late. Sayer is sitting in his usual place, a crease between his eyebrows. His eyes are blood-shot and there are dark circles under them. I collapse into the couch.

'Sorry I'm late,' I mutter, feebly attempting to sound convincing.

Sayer readjusts his glasses and says, 'We need to address your lateness, Harry. If you're not arriving late, you're storming out early.'

'I was only late because I was with Teddy,' I say truthfully, 'you know, like you told me to last time.'

'Admirable as that is, you had the whole week to see him. We meet only an hour a week.'

'I apologise, okay,' I say impatiently. If Sayer thinks he can chide me like I am back at Hogwarts, he's got another thing coming.

Sayer stays silent for a long while; I imagine he is weighing up whether it is worth the fight. Eventually, he says, 'How did seeing Theodore make you feel?'

'Good.'

Sayer closes his eyes for moment; when they reopen, he is composed. 'Let's try a different tact –'

'I'm not going into that bloody Pensieve again.'

'That wasn't my intention,' says Sayer, betraying a hint of impatience. 'Let's talk about your first meeting with your wife.'

I eye him suspiciously: what does this have to do with Teddy? I deem the question to be harmless and answer honestly.

'It was on the Hogwarts Express in my fifth year. Ron and Hermione were prefects, so I didn't really have anyone else to sit with. I wasn't in the mood to sit with people who believed the Ministry's lies –' The faded scar on the back of my hand prickles, 'so I sat in a compartment Luna happened to be in.'

'What were your first impressions of her?'

I smile as I remember the upside-down Quibbler, the radish earrings and the wand tucked behind her ear. 'I thought she was, you know, interesting –'

'What do you mean by interesting?' says Sayer in a tone I consider to be overly sharp.

'You know, she was different, but in a cute way. I had a lot of time for her.'

'Did you,' says Sayer.

'You're in a weird mood today.'

Sayer leans back in his chair and fixes me with a forced smile. 'I understand you were friends for a long while. When did you realise you had feelings for her?'

'After the Battle of Hogwarts … not straight after, though. That's what people assume, but they're wrong.'

'The idea of people thinking that angers you,' says Sayer.

'Wouldn't it make you angry? I loved Ginny; the idea that I'd disrespect her like that is disgusting! I'd planned on travelling alone. I had my bag packed and everything when Luna came round to visit. Said she'd always wanted to see the world and start a career as a Magizoologist and didn't care if it meant skipping her last year at school. I thought she'd be an interesting person to travel with and off we went. I guess my feelings for her grew over time until one day we were in the Great Plains and she nearly got stampeded by a herd of Re'em. The way I felt when I thought they'd got her … that's when I knew I loved her.'

'I see,' says Sayer.

'"I see",' I repeat, 'is that all?'

'Arguably, you saw in your wife an innocent sense of adventure. A life not burdened by destiny and expectation. What do you think she saw in you?'

I rack my brains; it is not, after all, the sort of topic Luna and I discussed. 'I dunno,' I say, 'I guess I could be quite fun when I wasn't being the Chosen One.'

'And yet,' says Sayer, as if weighing every word, 'she will have known that being the wife of Harry Potter was no easy life. She knew that reporters would constantly hound her for as long as she lived. She must have had good reason to endure the reports in the media about her sanity –'

'There was nothing wrong with her sanity,' I say, jabbing my finger in Sayer's direction. 'It was all lies!'

Sayer tilts his head and his mouth thins. 'Even so, you must admit that she must have needed a very good reason to endure that kind of intrusion.'

'It was love! Love doesn't need a reason, Sayer. It's not this rational, scientific thing. You don't sit down, make a pros and cons list and base your feelings on that. Haven't you ever been in love?'

Sayer's pale eyes shimmer behind his glasses. 'Yes … once.'

'Then you must know how ridiculous your question is. I know you're a man of Healing, all facts and evidence, but love is beyond all that!'

Sayer is dumbstruck for a moment but quickly readjusts his glasses. 'After our first session, I gave you some homework: if you could speak to your wife one last time, what would you say? Before you answer, I'd like to try an exercise. I'd like you to close your eyes and focus on your breathing.'

I reluctantly obey, feeling very foolish. Sayer's voice comes out of the darkness, 'Breathe in … hold … and breathe out. Relax your muscles … Clear your mind … Simply focus on your breathing …'

I breathe in and out, and, miraculously, after a few minutes I begin to relax. Sayer's voice comes out of the cocoon of serenity.

'When you feel ready, try and picture your wife's hair … Imagine a paintbrush bringing her to life in front of you … Once you see her hair, think of her face … Start first from her forehead and work down to the chin.'

I try to bring her face to mind. I can vaguely see blonde, straggly hair, but her face is blurry. The more I concentrate on what she looks like, the blurrier the image becomes.

'Can you see her?' asks Sayer.

'Yes,' I lie.

'What are you saying to her?'

'You … were taken from me too soon,' I say. 'It – It should've been me. You didn't deserve to die.'

'Imagine,' says Sayer quietly, 'that she responds by saying that she is happier now … She is at peace.'

'She can't be at peace –'

'You're speaking directly to her, remember …'

My eyes snap open. Sayer is clutching the arm of his chair and his pale eyes are blazing.

'You think she's happier dead?' I bark.

'No,' says Sayer, his voice rising, 'but now that she is gone, she would want you to move on and let her rest. That's what these sessions are about –'

'I am trying to move on,' I say, my own temper flaring.

'You might put on the façade of the grieving husband, but we both know it's an act –'

'I've told you: I'm not trying to find her killer!'

'Liar!' roars Sayer, and he knocks his armchair over in his rush to get to his feet. 'You're trying to bring her back from the dead!'

I jump to my feet and bear down on Sayer until we are nose to nose. He does not flinch or back away. His eyes are alight with fierce fury and his chest heaves.

'You're out of line –'

'I'm not stupid, Harry! You haven't once given any indication that you believe she's beyond your help! You want to bring her back but you can't!'

It would be so easy to reach into my robes and pull out my Elder Wand.

'Don't you dare!' snarls Sayer. 'Don't you dare befoul her memory!'

'These sessions are over,' I whisper.

Resisting my twitching hand, I sweep from the office and don't look back.