The End

Chapter 29: Don't Look Back in Anger

Hermione spent that night in the hospital wing and got a good night's sleep with the help of the Draught of Dreamless Sleep. Over the next few days she spent most of her time either crying, sleeping, or learning to fight without magic from Sydney, and almost none of her time eating, at least until the others noticed and started forcing her down to the Great Hall at every meal. Gradually, her spirits improved as she came to accept what had happened to her and move on from it. Eventually, she even took the initiative herself to reintegrate into normal society, although she still tended to set herself on the defensive when older men were around.

"How've you been, Ron?" Michael asked carefully after finding the wizard alone in the substitute teacher's common room a few days after Hermione got her memories back.

"Hermione's the one we should be worried about," Ron replied, not looking away from the blazing fire in the fireplace.

"Sydney's with her," Michael said.

"I know," Ron muttered.

Michael watched Ron roll his wand between his hands for a moment, considering his options. Finally, he said, "Fred was your brother."

"Oh really? I'd forgotten," Ron snapped, finally turning to face Michael.

"It's just that, with everything Hermione's going through, we seem to be ignoring you," Michael explained.

"Suits me fine," Ron said, turning back to the fire.

"Ron-" Michael started.

"What?" Ron demanded, whirling back around. "Am I just supposed to tell you everything? Will that magically make everything better again?"

"It wouldn't hurt," Michael maintained, watching helplessly as Ron returned his attention to the fire.

"I can't fall apart over this right now," Ron said slowly. "Hermione needs me."

"From the sound of it, she had a similar idea," Michael pointed out. "Look where it got her."

"You were there when she said why she did it, weren't you?" Ron asked accusingly.

Michael faltered. "Yes, I was," he finally replied. "And I don't want to belittle her sacrifice, but I just wonder if things would have gone different if she'd known she had other options."

"Probably," Ron admitted.

Unable to conjure a response, Michael allowed the conversation to fall into silence. He watched as Ron resumed rolling his wand between his palms, marveling at how much more sure of himself the wizard looked now that he had that small tool back in his possession. How many times during their capture had he said he was no use without a wand? And how many times had he proven himself wrong. Wandless or not, Ron was a lot more help than he tended to give himself credit for.

"Thanks," Ron said suddenly.

Michael looked up from his musings to find that Ron had turned around to face him once again.

"For what?"

"For being there when we were captured," Ron replied.

"Well, it wasn't like I had much choice in the matter," Michael pointed out with a shrug.

"Thanks for the question game," Ron continued.

"We had nothing better to do," Michael replied.

"For insisting that we try to find a way to escape," Ron added.

"I'm just glad that worked out," Michael admitted.

"You don't understand," Ron said. "I had no idea what to do. If it had been just me I don't know what would have happened. I might've told them anything they wanted to hear."

"I don't think you would have," Michael interjected.

"My point is, with you there, it was almost alright."

"You helped me too," Michael replied after a pause. "I said it before; it's not often that I get captured with someone to talk to."

"Oh," Ron stammered. "Well, you're welcome."

"You too," Michael replied.

The conversation one again faded into silence until, all of a sudden, Ron jumped to his feet and exclaimed, "It's just not fair!"

"That we got captured?" Michael asked, confused.

"No, Fred," Ron clarified.

Michael bit back a response as he watched Ron begin to pace.

"I mean, why him?" Ron continued. "Out of everyone who went into Malfoy Manor that night, why did it have to be him? He was a good fighter, he could have been better than me. All he ever wanted to do was run his joke shop, he didn't even live long enough to see a world where people have time to laugh again.

"But I'm not sad for Fred, I can't figure out why. I miss him, but I'm sad for my parents and my brothers and Ginny. I'm sad for George, I can barely even imagine what it's like to be him right now. It's like he lost a part of himself, like I did when that curse hit my arm, but Fred is never coming back, not even a little bit. I don't think George has looked in a mirror since Fred died. I'm not sure he can, but that's not the worst of it. You were at the funeral, you've seen how people act around him. He can't even walk through a door without everyone in the room thinking he's Fred, back from the dead. Then when they realize it's really George, they look so sad, like they're disappointed to see him. And everyone does it, even Mum and Dad. Especially Mum and Dad."

"They just need time to get used to Fred not being around," Michael sighed.

"And everyone treats him different on top of that," Ron said, "like he's got some contagious disease all of a sudden. I know what that's like, and so do you. All he really wants is someone to treat him like they did before, just one person. Hermione was that person for me after my arm, Sydney made sure we were those people for the two of you..."

"And you can be that person for George," Michael suggested.

Ron stopped pacing at this. "I suppose I can," he breathed. "I can try, at least."

"That's the spirit," Michael said encouragingly. He allowed Ron a moment to bask in this revelation, then added, "Do you have some spare time right now?"

"Sure," Ron replied with a shrug, still smiling. "What do you need?"

"I was wondering if you would come down to the Hospital Wing with me," Michael replied.

"What! Why?" Ron demanded. "Is something wrong? Why didn't you tell say so before?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Michael said. "This is actually about your arm."

"What about it?" Ron asked.

"I think I might have found something that could help," Michael explained, pulling the vial of potion he'd gotten from the Rambaldi machine from his pocket. "I thought Madame Pomphrey might know what to do with it."

"Really?" Ron asked, examining the vial. "Where did you get it?"

"That's kind of a long story," Michael began, "but-"

"Wait," Ron commanded. "In that case, save it until we get there, that way you won't have to tell it twice."

"So you'll give it a try, then?" Michael asked excitedly.

"Of course!" Ron exclaimed. "If there's a chance it'll help then I'm willing."

As Ron predicted, when they arrived at the Hospital Wing, Madame Pomphrey insisted on hearing everything there was to know about where the potion came from. When Michael finished, she performed every test for poisons and dark magic know to wizard kind, apparently convinced that fifteenth century Seers who leave dodgy potion making machines in rooms that no one can find weren't very reliable sources of healing magic.

Still not looking quite convinced, Madame Pomphrey poured a bit of the potion onto a rag and dabbed it onto Ron's right arm. When Ron said that this method had no effect, she scowled, summoned a bezoar from the potions stores, and gave the potion to Ron to drink. He drained the vial in a single mouthful then reported that it tasted like cherries.

Ron didn't move for several minutes, then, finally, he brought his right arm up in front of his face and studied it with a bemused expression.

"Is anything happening?" Michael asked, concerned.

"Tingling," Ron replied thoughtfully.

"Does it hurt?" Michael pressed.

"No more than when it gets stiff," Ron explained, "but it's going away."

"It's getting better?" Michael said.

"Yeah," Ron replied, finally looking up. "It's getting better!"

Ten minutes later, the potion had run its course, and, while Ron said that his arm wasn't quite back to normal, he also added that "its better than it used to be, and much better than I could have hoped for."

A triumphant looking Madame Pomphrey released the excited wizard a few minutes later.

"How do you feel?" Michael asked.

"How do you think?" Ron replied, an impish gleam in his eye.

"How would I know?" Michael maintained.

"How can I even describe it?" Ron said.

"What do you think Hermione will do when you tell her?" Michael asked.

"Wouldn't Sydney do about the same thing?" Ron replied.

"Kiss me until I can't breathe?" Michael asked, eyes narrowing.

"You do realize that you and Sydney are like my Aunt and Uncle?" Ron said, cringing.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Michael replied, looking surprised but honored.

"Would you like to hear about your Aunt and Uncle snogging?" Ron pointed out.

"Wouldn't you rather hear about that than your Mum and Dad snogging?" Michael said impishly.

"Why did you have to tell me that?" Ron exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air.

"Because I'm trying to trick you into not asking a...damn!" Michael swore, realizing what he'd just done. "243 to 501, your lead."

"We were playing best out of a thousand, right?" Ron asked. "So that's it, then, I win?"

Michael nodded. "I should have quit while I was ahead."

"You were never ahead."

***************

Over the next few days, Sydney and Michael spent most of their free time replacing all of the clues to the Rambaldi device. They remained convinced that taking them back to the CIA or hiding them someplace else would only work against them in the long run, for Rambaldi's hiding spots were tried and true, but they still tried to conceal them well enough to prevent someone else from finding them. As an added precaution, Sydney located the branch that had tapped out the original Morse code message and ripped if off the tree.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were shocked when the Muggles announced that they had to leave Hogwarts in a few days, having received orders to return to the CIA soon after they completed their mission, and they couldn't go on ignoring them for much longer. It was a parting of the ways that none of them were looking forward to. They might have had their differences and only known each other for a short amount of time, but fighting had accelerated things. Now, each group had become a part of the other. They understood each other, depended on each other, and the idea of losing that companionship was difficult to accept.

However, while the group celebrated Ron and Hermione's recoveries and lamented Sydney and Michael's departures, Harry found himself unable to join in. In fact, as his friends came to terms with their pasts, Harry forced himself to become increasingly distant, for he had realized something: intentionally or not, he brought misery to other people's lives. He could no longer do that to his friends.

***************

"Sydney?" Harry asked, "could I talk to you for a minute?" He'd spent the better part of the afternoon looking for her, but he suspected it might have taken less time if he wasn't constantly talking himself out of starting this conversation. Harry supposed that if he'd really thought about it he would have checked the library first. The battle might be over, but Sydney had never erased her habit of spending time in the library, reading all the books about wizards that she could find.

"Of course," Sydney replied, curious about why Harry had even bothered to ask. Ordinarily, he would just start talking to her.

"In private," Harry stammered.

Their location in the library was far from secluded, but they were the only people around, which was usually good enough. Sensing that an important and delicate conversation was about to ensue, Sydney led him to the Room of Requirement and summoned the door. They stepped into an inviting room with a table, two chairs, and two steaming mugs, one filled with tea and the other with hot cocoa.

Sydney locked the door, sat down, and picked up the cocoa. Harry followed, but he didn't touch his drink.

He looked utterly without the courage it would take to start whatever conversation he had in mind, so Sydney said, "What's up?"

"How do you handle it?" Harry blurted out.

"Handle what?" Sydney asked, wishing that she could have given a better response now that Harry had opened up.

"Everything, your job, fighting evil people for a living," Harry replied. "Ron, Hermione and I are falling apart, but you and Michael seem so normal."

"Michael and I are good actors, nothing more," Sydney replied.

"But there must be some things you can't act," Harry pressed. "Don't you ever just feel like you'd do anything to make it all go away."

"That's what we are doing," Sydney said gently.

"Oh," Harry stammered, looking downcast.

"We also know how to get help when we need it, mostly," Sydney added.

"But what about killing people?" Harry demanded. "I mean, how do you..." He trailed off when he saw the look on Sydney's face.

"Oh, Harry," Sydney stammered uncomfortably, "I thought you knew, I've never..."

"You've never killed anyone," Harry finished. His expression was impossible to read, but he'd started shaking uncontrollably.

"I was trained to incapacitate opponents by non lethal means," Sydney explained. "I've been the direct cause of deaths, but I've never actually pulled the trigger myself."

"But you can see the thestrals," Harry said. He spoke so quietly that Sydney had to read his lips to understand him.

"I've seen people die," Sydney confirmed. "You said that's all it took."

"I'm sorry I bothered you," Harry said, jumping up and heading for the door.

"Wait," Sydney called, getting up as well.

Harry cringed but paused, his hand gripping the doorknob.

"We're almost the same, you and I," Sydney said desperately. "We could have lived each other's lives and things might have worked out the same. I might not have killed anyone, but I still understand you. So what did you want to say? I might still be able to help you."

Harry turned back to her and said, "Keep it that way."

"What?" Sydney asked, unsure of what Harry was referring to.

"You said you've never killed a person," Harry clarified. "Don't ever, not if you can help it. I can barely live with myself, knowing what I've done, knowing that the only difference between me and the Death Eaters is honor, whatever that means. The worst part isn't seeing it happen over and over whenever I close my eyes; it's knowing that if I ever kill someone again, it will be easier. It was with Malfoy."

"I've wanted to tell you since we met," Sydney exclaimed as Harry opened the door. "This isn't all there is to life, you could have it easier than this if you just let yourself."

"Creating a Horcrux isn't the part that splits a person's soul," Harry said. Then he left.

***************

The morning he and Sydney were to leave, Michael was startled awake by a panicked yelp from across the room. He jumped up, prepared to defend himself against all comers, but found only Ron sitting on his bed and clutching at his chest as he stared at a piece of paper in his hand.

"You alright?" Michael asked.

"Yeah," Ron gasped. "It's just, Harry left this, and at the beginning it sounds kind of like a...a..." but he couldn't bring himself to say it. "Just come over and read this."

Michael sat down next to Ron, who held the note so they could both see it.

To Everyone:

By the time you read this I will be gone. I'm not sure where I'm going or if it will be better than here, but I can't stay here any longer. Please don't come looking for me.

I want you to know that I care about you very much. That's why I must leave. Trouble seems to follow me wherever I go and I can no longer stand it when my friends put themselves between it and me. Please understand that I left because I know that you will be happier without me there, just like I know that you didn't believe me when you read that.

I'm not sure when I'll come back, or even if I ever will, so know that the key to my vault in Gringotts is in my trunk, please help yourselves to it if you ever again fall on hard times. I've also left Hedwig behind, I know Errol deserves to retire, and if you ever have need of me she'll know how to find me.

Take care of each other.

Love,

Harry.

When Michael was about half way through the letter Ron's hand started shaking so badly that he could barely make out Harry's words. He'd stretched out a hand to help steady the paper only to discover that his efforts only made the effect worse. It took them a full minute after they finished reading to realize that the next logical step would be to show the note to Hermione and Sydney.

***************

The sun had only just risen to the familiar chorus of birds when Harry let himself out of Hogwarts and into the chilled air of the early morning. As he walked, his feet disturbed the frost covered ground, leaving a clear trail behind him. His pack was filled with extra clothes, food from the kitchens, money, and a few items of sentimental value. His Firebolt was slung over his shoulder. Missing from his possessions was the Marauder's Map, which he'd snuck back into the Confiscated and Highly Dangerous file in Filch's office for the next group of mischief makers to find and solemnly swear that they were up to no good.

He was a lot less sure about his desire to leave than he'd made it sound in his note, but the fact was that he needed to leave to save his friends from the hardship that followed him everywhere, and he needed to leave before he managed to convince himself otherwise. There was, however, one last thing he needed to do.

Since it was built on the grounds of his beloved school, Dumbledore's tomb was never lacking in flowers and other tributes from the students and teachers, but as Harry approached, he pulled out what could quite possibly be the strangest trinket the grave had ever seen: a pair of thick wooly socks. It seemed like a pathetic thanks for everything Dumbledore had done over the years, but it was all that Harry could think of. Years ago, just after Christmas, Dumbledore had revealed that his heart's desire was a pair of socks, not the piles of books he always received at that time of year. Harry had always suspected that he'd been lying at the time, but now it seemed that the story had been rather close to the truth. Instead of knowledge, which Dumbledore had in abundance, all he really wanted was something to keep his feet warm in increasingly dark and cold times. It hadn't occurred to Harry that he could be the only person who knew of this desire and thus the only person who could help him find these socks, even though it was much too late now. It had taken Harry nearly eight years to figure out just how important a pair of socks could be. Now he felt as if he could do with a pair himself.

Harry located an open space on the tomb and deposited his gift there, then backed away respectfully, his glasses a little foggier than they'd been before.

It was strange, sifting through his memories now that his own brain had stopped forcing him to at every opportunity, although he was still plagued by flashback from time to time. If he went back far enough, Dumbledore was there again, alive and well, if tainted by Harry's knowledge that when he flipped further forward Dumbledore would suddenly cease to exist. Backwards he was there, forwards he wasn't, and every time Harry went into his past to visit, it was a little more difficult to return to the present, where there were voids for all of them; his parents, Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Snape, Lupin, Fred...

Harry snapped out of his reverie. The rest of the castle was waking up, Ron or Michael might have already found the note and any minute all four of them would come racing outside to try and stop him. Eight people dead was far too many, one person was far too many, and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he waited around long enough for that number to become nine. Since the darkness of the world was never going to stop searching for him, the only way he could be sure that no one else would stand between him and it was if he removed himself from society. The last great performance of the famous Harry Potter, in which he shall vanish forthwith, leaving no trace behind.

Finally, Harry did something he'd wanted to try for a long time: he cast his bag and broomstick aside and spun around in a circle. Faster and faster he went, until his surroundings looked like nothing more than a blur. Blood rushed painfully to his fingertips so he pulled his arms in to his chest and spun faster still. Finally, when he felt he could carry on no longer, Harry stopped spinning, but the world did not. Slightly queasy, Harry struggled to keep his feet as he gazed blearily at what he was facing: Hogwarts. He didn't mind the idea of flying over his old school one last time at all. In fact, he couldn't have chosen a better direction if he'd tried. Still feeling far too dizzy to fly, Harry staggered back to his belongings, slung his bag over his shoulder, boarded his broom, and took to the air, intending to fly in a straight ling for as long as it suited him. A moment later he was nothing more than a black spec against the grey sky.

Harry didn't know what new adventures would find him, he didn't even know if he would be over an ocean when he became so exhausted that he had to stop, and at that point he didn't particularly care. However, he did know that his friends wouldn't understand why he'd left, especially not at first, but he hoped they'd come to accept it. He might even come back some day, after it was safe, but whether it was after a month or ten years, he was sadly convinced that friends would be removed to acquaintances and things would never be the same between them. It was the price he had to pay to ensure that they would never again have to face the horrors that came with befriending Harry Potter. This way they all could carry on.