CHAPTER 09
Harry woke up slowly, as if emerging from deep, dark waters. There was a suffocating weight on his chest, a numbness in his limbs, a metallic taste of dried blood in his mouth. He blinked a few times, the hospital room's light momentarily blinding him. Where…?
The white, sterile ceiling didn't take long to make sense. St. Mungo's.
The truth came in confused fragments. Tears streaming down Daphne's face. Mulciber's laughter. Rosier thrashing in bed. Pain. So much pain. He frowned, trying to move. His body protested with a cruel stab.
"Well, look who decided to rejoin the land of the living."
The familiar voice made Harry slowly turn his head. Ron Weasley was sitting beside him. His old friend looked… tired. The dark circles under his eyes were deep, his expression heavy, his arms crossed over his chest. But his face held the same expression as always—a mix of relief and irritation, as if he were about to launch into a lecture.
Harry tried to respond, but his throat was dry. He coughed and tasted bitterness.
Ron held out a glass of water, and Harry took it with trembling hands. The first sip slid down his throat like an icy blade, but it brought some relief.
"How long?" Harry asked, his voice hoarse.
"Two days."
Harry gasped softly. Two days?
Ron noticed his surprise and snorted.
"You were in bad shape, mate. I thought you were going to die in that bed."
Harry closed his eyes for a moment. He was trying to piece together the events before the blackout.
"What happened?"
"That's what I was hoping you'd tell me." Ron leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I got an urgent message from St. Mungo's the night you were admitted. They said you showed up here nearly dead."
Harry tried to sit up, but the sharp pain in his ribs made him groan. Ron pointed a finger at him in warning.
"Don't even try, mate. You're not getting out of this bed anytime soon."
Harry ignored the warning.
"And Mulciber? Rosier?"
Ron shook his head.
"No one knows."
Harry frowned.
"What do you mean, no one knows?"
Ron shrugged, impatient.
"That's what they told me. When I got here, you were already unconscious. Kingsley is keeping everything under wraps, and no one at the Ministry is talking about what happened."
That didn't make sense. Mulciber had been injured. Rosier had woken up. Something big had happened. But everything had been silenced.
Harry clenched his fists, ignoring the lingering pain in his body.
"And Daphne?"
Ron ran a hand through his red hair, sighing.
"She comes here every day to check on you."
Harry stretched his neck slightly, surprised.
"She what?"
"She's the one who kept you together until the healers arrived," Ron replied, his voice more serious now. "If it weren't for her, you'd be dead, Harry."
Harry swallowed hard. Daphne had saved his life.
He didn't have time to process Ron's words. The door suddenly opened, and he heard the sound of hurried footsteps echoing through the room. Daphne. She stopped midway when she saw him awake, her blue-gray eyes widening slightly. For a moment, she just stood there, motionless. Her chest rose and fell as if she had been holding her breath for hours.
Harry stared at her, noticing the exhaustion in her face. The dark circles under her eyes were deeper, her hair was tied up carelessly, and there was something in her gaze he couldn't decipher. Relief? Fear? Guilt?
Daphne looked like she was about to say something, but Ron cleared his throat loudly, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
"Well, I guess that's my cue to leave."
Harry turned his head to his friend, who shot him a look that seemed to say Good luck before getting up.
"I'm going to find something to eat and let Hermione know you survived," Ron muttered. "But don't try to escape from the bed, Potter. I swear I'll knock you down myself."
He walked past Daphne and left, closing the door behind him. Now, only the two of them remained in the room. Silence settled once more—dense, heavy with everything that wasn't being said.
Daphne took a deep breath and, without a word, walked to the side of the bed.
"You look awful."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Thanks. I worked hard for that."
She shook her head, exhausted.
"Idiot."
Despite the cold tone, Harry noticed a different glint in her eyes. Daphne glanced at the fresh scar on his side, where the healers had treated the wound.
"You almost died."
Harry tried to brush it off, but her gaze held him in place.
"But I didn't."
"Just barely." She swallowed hard. "You have no idea what happened after you passed out."
Harry straightened as much as he could, ignoring the throbbing pain in his body.
"Then tell me."
Daphne hesitated, and he knew that whatever she was about to say… wouldn't be good. And for the first time, he realized how much she looked… scared. A chill crawled down his spine. Something was very wrong.
Daphne hesitated again, her eyes fixed on Harry as if she didn't know where to begin. He saw how her fingers clenched around the edge of her robes, as if holding herself back from bursting.
"Mulciber was arrested."
Harry blinked, surprised.
"What?"
She nodded slowly.
"After you passed out, the Aurors arrived. I… I managed to stabilize your wound and call for help. When they entered the room, Mulciber had no choice but to surrender. They took him to one of the secure rooms in St. Mungo's, sedated."
Harry frowned.
"And he's still there?"
Daphne let out a bitter laugh.
"Of course not."
A shiver ran down his spine.
"What do you mean?"
She crossed her arms, her expression growing darker.
"The next morning, before they even started interrogations, he disappeared."
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a wave of frustration rise in his chest.
"That's impossible. He was sedated, wasn't he?"
Daphne nodded.
"Yes. But somehow, he vanished. There were no signs of a break-in, no one saw anything. It was as if he had never been there."
Harry huffed, running a hand over his face.
"And Rosier?"
Daphne averted her gaze.
"He's still unconscious. But now… the Department of Mysteries is in charge of him."
Harry clenched his jaw.
"Great. So he's been buried along with the rest of the truths that never leave that place."
"Exactly." Her voice was heavy with exhaustion. "The Ministry covered it up. They declared that the murders weren't connected. They pinned it on some random culprit, a shady underworld wizard with a criminal record."
Harry felt the bitter taste of frustration rise in his throat.
"And Mulciber? No mention of him? Rosier?"
"None."
Silence weighed down the room.
Harry ran his tongue over his dry lips, his mind spinning with the implications of it all. It was so obvious. The Ministry was protecting Mulciber. Or someone more powerful within it was.
Daphne took a deep breath, and only then did Harry notice how defeated she looked.
"There's one more thing."
He lifted his eyes to her, feeling the weight in her words before she even spoke them.
"My license was revoked."
Harry blinked, not immediately understanding.
"What?"
"The notice arrived just before I came here. I can no longer practice as a healer. Officially, they claimed it was due to unethical conduct. But we both know this was the Ministry's doing."
Harry clenched his fists.
"They're punishing you for being involved in this."
Daphne let out a humorless laugh.
"Of course. They can't imprison me, so they take away what I valued most."
Harry felt a tightness in his chest at the helpless glint in her eyes.
She had fought to save her sister. To find a cure. To understand the horrors that had happened in the hospital. And now she was being torn apart, piece by piece, by a system that did everything to bury the truth.
He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come.
Daphne looked away, pressing her lips together tightly. The silence between them felt heavier than ever. Harry could see how hard she was trying to keep her composure, but there was something different about her now—a vulnerability she rarely let show.
"I wanted to thank you."
Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but filled with something deep.
Harry looked up at her, surprised.
"For what?"
She let out a short, humorless laugh and ran a hand through her disheveled hair.
"For everything. For getting me out of that night at the hospital. For believing in me when no one else would. For saving Astoria."
He frowned.
"I didn't do that much. And you still lost your license."
Daphne shook her head slowly, her eyes meeting his.
"You did more than you think, Potter."
Harry looked away, uncomfortable with the intensity of the moment. He never knew how to handle gratitude. Especially when he didn't think he deserved it.
"I just did what anyone would do."
Daphne sighed.
"No. You didn't. Do you know how many people saw what was happening and just… moved on? The Ministry, the healers, the Unspeakables from the Department of Mysteries. No one wanted to get involved. You could have walked away. But you didn't."
Harry ran a hand over his face, trying to ignore the exhaustion seeping into his bones.
"And yet, it feels like I lost. Mulciber is free, the Ministry buried everything, and now you've lost your career. Doesn't seem like much of a victory to me."
She let out a small laugh, and Harry noticed that despite her exhaustion, there was something determined about her.
"It's not over yet."
Harry watched her for a moment, studying the way her blue-gray eyes gleamed in the dim light of the room.
"No, it's not."
Daphne held his gaze, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to shrink.
The air was heavy with everything left unsaid, with unasked questions, with answers both of them feared. She parted her lips to say something but then held back.
"You need to rest."
Harry huffed, leaning his head against the pillow.
"I doubt I'll be able to sleep."
Daphne took a step back, hesitant.
"Me too."
They stayed like that for a few more seconds, just looking at each other, as if searching for answers in one another. Then, without warning, Daphne reached out and placed her hand over Harry's. It was a brief, subtle touch, but it carried a weight that words could never express.
Harry didn't pull away. And, for a moment, neither of them needed to say anything.
~HP~
Grimmauld Place was silent. A dense, almost suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional crackling of the fireplace and the muffled sound of rain tapping against the windows.
Harry was leaning back in the office armchair, an untouched glass of whiskey in front of him, his fingers idly spinning the quill he held. Piles of parchment, inconclusive reports, and letters were stacked on the desk. He had been discharged from St. Mungo's, but the feeling that nothing had truly ended still haunted him.
He had been given a temporary leave from the Ministry. Kingsley claimed it was for his recovery, but Harry knew the truth. They were trying to get him out of the way.
Ron and Hermione stopped by now and then to check on him, bringing food and trying to convince him to rest. Ginny had also come a few times, always with that look that made Harry feel like he was trapped in a past he could never reclaim.
But Daphne…
Since their conversation at the hospital, they hadn't seen each other. Only exchanged letters—short, direct. And now, as he stared at the fireplace, he wondered if there was something in the words they both avoided writing.
The sharp knock on the door echoed through the house, pulling Harry back to the present. He frowned, hesitating for a moment before standing up. Kreacher usually announced visitors, but this time, there had been no warning. When he opened the door, he found himself face to face with the imposing figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"Harry."
The Minister of Magic spoke with his usual deep calm, but there was something else there. Something different.
"Kingsley."
Harry stepped aside, allowing him to enter.
Kingsley crossed the room with his firm posture, his dark robes slightly damp from the rain outside. He looked more tired than usual.
Harry closed the door and followed him into the office.
"Didn't know you made casual visits."
"I don't," Kingsley replied, lowering himself heavily into the chair across from Harry's desk. His dark eyes scanned the room before settling directly on him.
Harry picked up his glass of whiskey and took a sip, waiting.
"I think you know why I'm here."
Harry let out a short laugh.
"If you're here to tell me I need to 'forget this and move on,' you can save yourself the trip."
Kingsley kept his expression neutral.
"Harry, you've gone too far."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"You say that as if I had a choice."
Kingsley leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.
"You've been poking at wounds the Ministry has spent years trying to heal. Important people want this buried. I can't keep protecting you."
Harry set his glass down on the table with a sharp clink.
"Protecting me? Sorry, but from where I'm standing, all you've done is push me aside. They revoked Daphne's license. Buried all the evidence. Now they want to pretend Mulciber never existed."
Kingsley narrowed his eyes.
"Mulciber disappeared. If you keep going down this path, you won't find him—you'll find whoever is protecting him."
Harry clenched his jaw.
"Then who is it?"
Kingsley took a deep breath, his eyes carrying a weight Harry didn't like seeing there.
"If I tell you, you won't stop."
"And if you don't, I'll find out anyway."
They stared at each other for several long seconds.
Kingsley shook his head, as if trying to push away an uncomfortable thought.
"I can't tell you, Harry. But I can give you some advice."
Harry crossed his arms.
"I'm listening."
"Step out of the line of fire. You're a symbol. And a symbol only has value as long as it remains intact."
Harry let out a humorless laugh.
"So that's it? The only thing I matter to the Ministry is as some damn symbol?"
Kingsley didn't answer right away.
"You've always been more than that to me. But the world doesn't work the way it should. There's no point in fighting enemies you can't even see."
Harry took a deep breath, forcing down the irritation rising inside him.
"Are you afraid, Kingsley?"
The Minister was silent for a moment.
"I'm being realistic. You should do the same."
Harry clenched his fists under the table.
"And what happens if I keep going?"
Kingsley stood, adjusting his robes.
"Then I hope you're ready to face whatever comes."
Harry leaned back in his chair, studying the man in front of him. Whatever was buried deep within the heart of the Ministry, Kingsley knew. But he wouldn't say. And that only confirmed what Harry already knew: He was on his own in this.
Kingsley turned to leave but paused at the door.
"Harry…"
Harry looked up.
"This isn't a war you can win."
The silence that followed was sharp. Harry watched Kingsley for a few seconds before letting out a dry laugh.
"So that's it." He spun the whiskey glass between his fingers. "You came to warn me, tell me to disappear, and keep me in the dark. What happens now? Am I getting fired?"
Kingsley kept his expression firm, but his gaze carried a weight that Harry couldn't ignore.
"No."
Harry raised an eyebrow, surprised.
"No?"
"If I fired you, you'd be free to do whatever you wanted, without restrictions. And frankly, that would be a bigger problem than keeping you under supervision."
Harry scoffed, leaning back in his chair.
"So, basically, they want to keep me around to control me."
Kingsley sighed, crossing his arms.
"The Ministry wants to maintain peace, Harry. And lately, you've been stirring the waters too much."
"Because the waters need to be stirred!" Harry shot back, leaning forward. "Mulciber disappeared! The Department of Mysteries is hiding something that goes far beyond the murders! You know that!"
Kingsley didn't respond immediately. He just watched Harry, as if weighing his words.
"The issue isn't what I know, Harry. It's what I can do about it."
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"And what can you do?"
Kingsley pressed his lips together for a moment before speaking.
"Keep you from ending up like the victims you tried to protect."
The silence that followed was dense, heavy with unspoken meanings.
A chill crawled down Harry's spine.
"Is that a threat?"
Kingsley shook his head.
"It's a fact."
Harry took a deep breath, tasting the bitterness of frustration in his mouth.
"So I'm just supposed to accept that Mulciber is free? That the ones responsible will never pay for this? That the truth will never come out?"
Kingsley hesitated before answering.
"I'm not telling you to accept anything. But I am telling you to be smart."
Harry let out a bitter laugh.
"That's rich, coming from someone who just told me there's nothing to be done."
Kingsley narrowed his eyes.
"You don't get it, do you?"
"Maybe because no one explains anything to me," Harry slammed his fist on the table, exasperated.
Kingsley leaned slightly forward, his eyes locked onto Harry's.
"I can't give you answers, Harry. But I can give you time."
Harry frowned.
"Time?"
Kingsley nodded.
"You're still an Auror. And as long as you are, you still have access to certain files, certain contacts, certain doors that haven't closed for you yet. But if you keep chasing this the way you are now, if you go directly against the ones protecting Mulciber…" He paused. "They will crush you."
Harry remained silent, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the whiskey glass.
"And what do you suggest?"
Kingsley stood up, adjusting his robes.
"Be patient. Play the game. Find out what you need to know before you act."
Harry let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair.
"So you're not going to stop me?"
Kingsley turned to the door, pausing for just a moment before leaving.
"I can't stop you, Harry. But I also can't save you if you go too far."
And with that, he left, leaving Harry alone in the chaos of his own investigation.
Harry knew Kingsley was right. But the truth was simple: he wasn't patient.
~HP~
Silence once again took over the house as the door closed behind Kingsley. Harry remained seated, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes fixed on the whiskey glass in front of him. The conversation echoed in his mind, each word carrying hidden meanings.
The Ministry wants to keep the peace. And you're stirring the waters too much.
Harry scoffed, picking up the glass and swirling the amber liquid before downing it in one go. The alcohol burned his throat, but the discomfort was fleeting—nothing compared to the bitter taste of the truth Kingsley had tried to feed him.
He knew how the game was played. The Ministry cared more about its public image than real justice. And now, with the murders apparently solved and Mulciber missing, they would do everything to make sure the case was forgotten.
His eyes drifted to the table until they landed on a copy of the Daily Prophet, folded beside some files. He picked up the newspaper and smoothed out the front page, his eyes quickly scanning the headline.
"Auror Harry Potter Solves St. Mungo's Murder Case – Criminal Captured"
Harry felt his jaw tighten. They were rewriting the truth. Again.
The article detailed how an anonymous wizard—conveniently without a name or a face—had been identified as the killer responsible for the crimes. According to the report, the Ministry, with direct assistance from the Auror Department, had successfully prevented further deaths and dismantled a supposed criminal conspiracy.
Nothing about Mulciber. Nothing about the Department of Mysteries. Nothing about the experiments.
It was a lie. A big one.
He threw the newspaper onto the table with more force than necessary, feeling his chest tighten with frustration. So that was it. The official story had been fabricated, and no one cared about the truth.
Kingsley might have secured his job, but that didn't change anything. Harry was on his own in this.
He leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his wand. He took a deep drag, exhaling smoke into the air as his mind worked quickly.
Corruption in the Ministry was nothing new. He had seen it before—with Fudge, with Scrimgeour… even when Voldemort had infiltrated his followers there. But this time, the rot was hidden under a fresh layer of order and progress.
This time, it wasn't an obvious enemy.
He let out a long sigh, running a hand through his messy hair.
His gaze returned to the table, where a small piece of parchment had been placed atop one of the files. He frowned, picking it up carefully.
The handwriting was elegant but rushed.
"Meet me at Café Rocherolle, near the Clock Tower, tomorrow at noon. It's important. – Daphne"
Harry ran his eyes over the note once more, spinning it between his fingers.
Daphne.
She hadn't sent anything in days. Since she lost her healer's license, she had pulled away. They exchanged a few letters, but nothing too significant. Now, all of a sudden, she wanted to see him?
He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, still staring at the note. What did she want? And, more importantly... why did it seem so urgent?
The Café Rocherolle was a small, discreet establishment, hidden among the busy streets of central London, near the Clock Tower. The aroma of freshly ground coffee hung in the air, mixed with the smell of warm bread and chocolate. It wasn't an extravagant place, but it had a peculiar charm, with its polished wooden tables and large windows offering a wide view of the wizarding city beyond the enchanted alleys.
Harry arrived a few minutes before the scheduled time. He didn't like being late, but he also didn't want to seem anxious. He ordered a black coffee and waited, watching the street's activity through the window.
When Daphne arrived, he noticed the change immediately.
She looked... different.
The weight that always seemed to hang on her shoulders was still there, but there was something new in her posture. A lightness, perhaps. Her hair was loose, gently falling over her shoulders, and the deep circles under her eyes that marked her face seemed less pronounced. But her eyes still carried the same apprehension.
"I made it on time. That's a miracle." She joked, sitting down across from him.
Harry raised an eyebrow, bringing the cup to his lips.
"I thought you were going to make me wait."
"And miss the chance for one last conversation?"
He set the cup down slowly.
"Last?"
She hesitated for a moment, as if weighing her words before letting them go.
"I'm leaving London."
Harry furrowed his brow.
"Where to?"
"United States. Astoria is being transferred to a specialized treatment center. My mother managed to make the arrangements, and I'm going with her."
He fell silent for a moment, letting the information sink in.
"Is this definite?"
She absentmindedly stirred the spoon in the cup of tea she had ordered, avoiding his gaze for a moment.
"I don't know. I don't think so. But for now, it's the best thing to do."
Harry crossed his arms, watching her intently.
"And Mulciber? Are you going to let that slide?"
Her eyes hardened for a brief moment, but then she took a deep breath, relaxing her shoulders.
"No." Her voice was firm. "But I need to understand more before I act. I almost died, Harry. I need time. I need to focus on my sister before anything else."
He nodded slowly.
"That makes sense."
She watched him for a moment before letting out a short, humorless laugh.
"Aren't you going to try to convince me to stay?"
Harry took a sip of his coffee, setting the cup down on the table with a soft clink.
"I'm not good at emotional speeches."
"Ah, I noticed." She smiled slightly, but there was a melancholic tone to her expression.
The silence between them stretched for a moment, not uncomfortable, but laden with meanings neither of them seemed ready to express.
Daphne was the first to speak.
"And you? What are you going to do now?"
Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair.
"Apparently, stay in the Ministry. Kingsley guaranteed I won't be fired. But that doesn't mean I'm going to accept everything as it is."
She nodded, understanding.
"Be careful, Potter."
"Always."
Daphne let out a sigh and looked away, her gaze drifting to the busy street outside the window.
"Maybe one day I'll come back."
Harry didn't answer. He just watched her, memorizing the moment, as if he knew that this farewell was more meaningful than either of them wanted to admit.
The conversation seemed to continue, but there was something in the air, a subtle tension that grew with every word exchanged. Daphne leaned back in her chair, her fingers absently touching the edge of her cup as if searching for something to focus on. But her eyes, which had once been so distant, were now fixed on Harry, as if every movement he made was an unanswered question.
Harry felt it. The weight of her presence, the silence stretching between them. He didn't know what it was, but there was something in that café — in her gaze, perhaps — that unsettled him in an uncomfortable way.
"Do you think you'll be able to forget all of this?" he asked, his voice lower than usual, as if he were touching on a subject that should have remained unspoken.
Daphne didn't look away. She just smiled, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Forget? No, Harry. I can't. I'm not even sure I want to." She paused before continuing. "But I can try to move on."
Harry felt a strange sensation, as if time had slowed for a moment. The way she spoke, almost as if it were a promise, left him uneasy. He knew what it meant, but couldn't fully understand it.
Daphne looked at him more intensely now, and the conversation seemed to have lost its lightness. She was no longer the woman who had walked in there with a clear decision. There was something more, something hanging between them, almost like an invisible line waiting to be broken.
"And what does that mean, exactly?" Harry asked, curiosity mingling with a slight discomfort.
She gave a small, almost dismissive smile, but her eyes were still there, with a depth he couldn't decipher.
"It means that, for now, I need some time, Harry. For me, for Astoria. For... everything." She paused, her expression softening a little. "You'll let me go, right?"
Harry didn't know how to answer immediately. Her question seemed simple, but he knew it wasn't. She was asking for something more, something unclear, and at the same time, her tone sounded like a farewell.
"You don't need permission." The answer came out without thinking, but there was something in it that sounded sincere, even though the word "permission" wasn't exactly what he meant to say.
She watched him for a few more seconds, her eyes scanning him so intensely that Harry felt like she was trying to read something inside him. He didn't move. He didn't know what to do or say, but for some reason, he felt as if he was about to give in to something he didn't want to admit.
Daphne broke the silence, as if she had realized what was going through his mind, but without saying a word. She stood up slowly, pulling her bag from the chair beside her and throwing her coat over her shoulder.
"I'll leave then." She said softly, as if being careful, though a hint of sarcasm escaped in her tone.
Harry stayed still, watching her. She turned toward the door, but before opening it, she hesitated for a moment and, as if she knew he was there, waiting for something, looked over her shoulder.
"I'll see you soon, Harry." And with those words, she left, leaving the air heavier than when she entered.
Harry remained in the chair, his eyes fixed on the closed door. She had said more than she appeared to. Something was there, hidden between the lines. But what?
Harry stayed motionless for a few seconds, still absorbing what had just happened. The coffee beside him was slowly cooling, but he didn't care. The weight of the conversation hung in the air, as if something had been left unfinished.
He could have said more. He could have stopped her from leaving, somehow. But what exactly would he say? "Stay"? That wouldn't make sense. Not after everything.
Harry ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of his scruffy beard. His thoughts were jumbled, and the only thing that irritated him more than that was the fact that Daphne knew. She had always known how to play with words, how to hide meanings in simple sentences. And now he felt like she had left him there, alone, trying to decipher what exactly had been said.
His gaze slid across the café window. The fine rain that had started falling reflected the city lights, creating a dull glow on the cobblestone streets. He found himself wondering if he should follow her, call her back. But no, that would be a mistake. She had already made her decision.
He picked up the coffee cup and took a sip, even knowing it was cold. It didn't matter. The bitter taste seemed to match perfectly with what he felt in that moment.
"You look like a man who just lost something."
The voice interrupted his musings, and Harry looked up. The café attendant, a middle-aged man with a coffee-stained apron and a keen look, was watching him as he wiped down the counter.
Harry snorted lightly, leaning back in the chair.
"I didn't lose anything."
The attendant raised an eyebrow.
"If you have to say that out loud, then you did lose something."
Harry didn't respond. He simply spun the cup between his fingers, reflecting on the unexpectedly accurate comment from the man.
Daphne must have been far away by now. She might not even be in London anymore. He didn't like goodbyes. He never knew how to handle them. But there was something about this one that bothered him more than it should. Something told him that this wasn't just any goodbye.
A/N:
This story is already finished on my page and part 2 has already started. It will be posted here soon.
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"And in case I don't see you — good afternoon, good evening, and good night."