The Girl in the Tower

The Girl in the Tower

Chapter Eighteen: Rising from the Ashes

~

Draco,

It seems your letter came just a little too late.

Dumbledore and I found the box where you said it would be and all I can say is that I wish I had known sooner. I don't know what good it would have done, for I was on my way to kill him myself when the news came. However, I'm sorry for your loss. You know she never meant to hurt you.

I really don't know what to say. I feel I should speak on Sara's behalf but how could I? She's gone, you know. She left me, left all of us in fact, without a word or indication. She told only Snape and he foolishly kept her secret. What is it about Sara that seems to have such an effect on Slytherins? Between you and Snape, I don't know who is more easily persuaded. Sometimes, Malfoy, keeping your word is the wrong thing to do. Sara's silence is what brought us to this.

Don't blame her, Draco. She did what she had to do. She only wanted to protect us.

If you know anything else that may help shed some light, please send an owl.

HP

Harry folded the parchment, sealed the envelope, and took it to the owlry. He'd written to Malfoy on the stationery Sara ordered for the cottage. With help from Ron and Hermione, they created a crest for the future Potter household. It was the shape of his scar dividing the Gryffindor scarlet and gold. He'd objected at first, until Sara explained that the complex symbol on her spell book was the old symbol for Elemental. The more current one was a lightning bolt.

The memory twisted something in his chest and he walked with his head down. We're meant for each other, he thought. Could it be more obvious? How many people coincidentally have matching symbols?

Harry didn't know why he'd used the stationary. He'd even searched through his trunk for it when there was plain paper right out on the desk. Perhaps he'd just wanted to send expensive parchment but, maybe, he wanted Malfoy to understand that he'd lost something dear to him, too.

Harry watched the owl fly off with the letter in the dark.

The night was warm and clear and a gentle breeze blew in off the lake. He stood just outside the door, barefoot on the carpet and still wearing the rumpled black pajamas. His hair was a shock of tangles, his eyes sunken and dark beneath his glasses. Harry longed to be on his broom, roaming through the night sky amid the stars. He needed to feel fresh air on his skin, let it whip through his hair as he pushed the Mach 2 to its limits.

He returned to the tower at once.

With a light robe over his silk pajamas and trainers on sockless feet, Harry shouldered his backpack and glanced over to make sure the note was still propped on the table. It was there. It said only, "Broom ride."

With grace, he lifted off and took to the air, heading south at nearly the speed of sound, the wind stinging his eyes even behind his glasses. Harry pushed the broom harder, willing it to carry him faster.

* * *

"I'm glad you're awake," Mr. Sanders said when she'd opened her eyes. He sat in the chair by the bed, wondering what to do if she didn't wake up. "You've been out for a long time."

"How long?" Her voice was parched, her head heavy.

"Damn near 20 hours. I've never seen anyone sleep that long who wasn't in a coma. Sara, are you sick? If you are you need to tell me."

"Not in the way you think." Tears fell from her eyes at the very thought of Harry. "My heart is sick. And my mind is sick as well. Don't worry over me, Greg. All I need is time."

"You're crying again."

"I'll be doing a lot of that."

"But what am I supposed to do? What if you hadn't woke up? Sara, I'm driving blind here."

"If there ever comes a time when contacting someone is your only option, send a letter to Severus Snape. Instruct Topenga to deliver it to the school."

"Certainly." He hesitated. "Are you hungry? I could get room service for you."

"I'm not hungry," she whispered, clutching a linen handkerchief on the pillow. "Could you find me a Coke or a Pepsi? I'm so thirsty."

"You've had nothing to drink for a full day, unless you count that rocket fuel you were drinking when you found me. You're dehydrated." He went to the little refrigerator and found her a soda. He handed her the plastic bottle without thought of a glass, but she didn't seem to mind. Etiquette was the last thing on her mind.

Sara set the drink aside and rolled over to face the glass doors of the little balcony. "Open the drapes."

Sanders did as she asked and then stood there, wondering what to do next.

"Open the door, Greg. Let the night in."

When the door was open and she'd smiled the tiniest bit, Sara forgot he was there. The lights shut themselves off and Sara settled in, her arms around a fluffy pillow, squeezing it against her like a big teddy bear, her knees drawn up around it. She didn't move, yet the clock radio came on and flipped through the stations until it stopped on a classical piece he remembered from high school music class. Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. And if he could pick a more perfect backdrop to the night as viewed from this room, he didn't know it.

"Call me if you need anything. The phone's right there on the stand."

She didn't reply. She seemed lost in the music.

* * *

Feeling invincible, as he often did when he flew, Harry slowed and stood up on the handle of his broom, arms outstretched, riding it like a skateboard. He had only ever done this close to the ground and, if he fell now, there was no way he would live through it but he didn't care. He let his eyes slip closed as the light breeze ruffled his hair, his robe billowing out behind him. The anger inside him ebbed and dissolved, leaving him in a moment of peace high above the world. He opened his eyes and watched the stars for a moment and then, without hesitation, Harry stepped off the broom.

He almost panicked in the fraction of a second he spent free falling, but then his hands found the broom as they always did and he used the momentum to swing gracefully into a standard riding position.

Harry saw at last his destination in the distance. The ocean fell away on his right as he descended toward it, not knowing why he'd come here or what he hoped to accomplish. He didn't really expect her to be there, but maybe she had been. Maybe she left behind some clue for him to find. Some trace of her. A letter. Harry was hopeful, but didn't expect much.

He landed on Sara's beloved patio, admiring the beautiful Italian tiles in the harsh overhead security light; taking in the enormous fire pit Sara called "the grill." All the new furniture was out, arranged as if the people who lived here might come out for breakfast in the morning. An image rose in his mind, concocted for no other reason than to torture him. Sara, wearing her fuzzy purple robe, laughing in the sunshine, a salty breeze stirring her hair as they sat in these chairs at this table. He ran his hand across the colorful cushions, wishing she was there with him.

There were large stone pillars every few feet which held fire for light and, with a wave of his wand, they ignited, casting strange shadows and coating everything in an amber glow. Digging the keys out of his bag, Harry let himself in and dropped the pack on the kitchen counter. There was soda here he knew, a lot of it, and he got one out of the fridge, carrying it with him as he wandered the rooms. He lit the fireplaces, even though the temperature was quite comfortable already. Something had to fill the emptiness, and the silence that encompassed him.

His hand happened over an ornamental crystal ball, which they'd bought together in a Muggle curiosity shop in London during Christmas holiday. The memories came quick and each one stabbed him like a knife deep in his chest.

Harry flung the glass ball hard to the floor, anger consuming him as he cursed her aloud. He cursed Lucius Malfoy. He cursed himself. He sent chunks of jagged glass scattering across the room on the toe of his trainer. He found the metal base in the mess and sent it flying into a large mirror in the dining room, shattering it, too. Satisfied, his breathing slowed and he began to feel rationality slipping back.

"What am I doing here?" he asked himself. "I've gone mad." He paced the lounge, stepping over razors of glass, the fire warming the room a little too much, his eyes on the soft purple sofa where he'd sat with Sara just six months ago, discussing their plans for yesterday. She'd tried to tell him then, he realized. Every word she'd said was a warning and he hadn't listened to her. Passed her off as nervous and over-dramatic. No, it was safe to say he hadn't taken her seriously at all. And what she'd said about the house came back to him.

"...I'll do it myself if it comes to that, even if it's nothing more than a monument to broken dreams..."

So that's what she'd meant with the envelope full of money. She wanted him to build the house. He considered this for a few moments, decided he couldn't and left, extinguishing the fires on his way out.

* * *

Sara turned off the bathroom light and wandered back to the bed. She considered getting in but her worry over Harry and her anxiety over the discovery of Lucius' body left her restless. She was certain Draco had found him by now.

Sara hoped he'd found the ring she left and hoped he understood why she'd decided not to keep it. It was an apology, for the most part, and an acknowledgment, conceding the fact that she no longer deserved his thanks, his love, or his friendship. Tears coursed down her pale face, her eyes red and sunken, her hair tousled and pulled back. She half expected the raven to be waiting on the rail when she emerged onto the claustrophobic balcony but there was no sign of it. She would probably never see it again and the knowledge only made her anxious. Killing Lucius was supposed to free her from such desperate misery, but she'd only replaced it with something much, much worse. Something darker than threats and unwelcome desires. Knowing the hatred Draco would have for her was painful, but walking away from Harry was excruciating. She felt the loss in every fiber of her being. She dreamed of him, and of running away. She was trying to get to him but couldn't and when she finally found him he pretended he did not know who she was.

It was this dream which had awakened her. She didn't know if she could sleep again anytime soon, but she preferred it to the hell of this waking reality. Sara didn't want to feel. She wanted Harry in the worst way. Wanted him close to her, his arms around her. It was maddening, the urge to go back, to run to him and beg forgiveness.

She couldn't.

She had chosen a path and now must follow it or risk everything she loved in her life. Sara cried without shame to the night sky, holding her hands out to the darkness, inviting the wind to wash over her. There lived a soothing calm in the frenzy that enveloped her, twisting around her body, lifting her hair and whisking her words away on a river of air and sound to the one who was so heavy on her mind. Her every thought was of him. She wondered how he was, alone and deserted on what should have been the happiest of days. Her guilt was overwhelming and she felt weak again. Sobbing, she made her way back to the bed and fell into it, crying into the pillows, not bothering with the blankets.

* * *

Harry was restless. His fast, furious flight back to Hogwarts should have left him drained and exhausted but he was unable to sleep. He thought of Sara, of the anger he'd felt for her as he'd stood in the cottage. He didn't want to be angry with her. He wanted to see her more than he'd ever wanted anything as he stood on the roof of the tower, drinking a glass of watered down rum and watching the moon dance along the ripples on the lake. Two long, devastating days she'd been gone. Hedwig had still not returned and he could only wonder how far away Sara really was. He guessed she was in Europe somewhere, staying in a hotel and all alone with her conscious. He wondered if she missed him the way he missed her, desperately, as if his soul was split in two and half of it lost. That part of him cried out for Sara and to deny it was agony.

There were times when he wanted to smash everything to pieces until his hands were bloody and the rage subsided. Other times he stayed in bed, lacking both the energy and the motivation to get up again. He'd locked the door and refused to answer it, preferring the insistent knocks of Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape to any sort of acknowledgement. They tried in vain to get him to eat but he only played with the food with lackluster disinterest. He couldn't eat. His stomach felt sick most of the time and he just didn't care.

He played the stereo on occasion, reveling in the vast collection of heartrending music Sara owned. Harry found he could relate to the haunting melodies and sad lyrics but mostly he just wanted to be alone with his misery and his thoughts.

He'd read most of Celestira between shallow slumbers and felt for Sara in a new way. He'd never known about the "constants" Dumbledore mentioned. What the headmaster hadn't said was that the Elemental bends to darkness like a curious child. That she was often overwhelmed by emotion when these "constants" interfered with her own beliefs and personality. That she is always under the watchful eyes of an adept "guardian" to keep her from being led astray. He'd also failed to mention that most Elementals eventually succumb to madness.

He now understood that there was a part of Sara that wanted to give in to Lucius, the curious child she'd inherited, and the strength of will she'd shown by killing him was more than worthy of the name Gryffindor. It explained her fondness for Draco as well. The Heir of Darkness himself, struggling with his own morals and values. He would be irresistible to an Elemental, Harry supposed. And what about this guardian? Her parents had kept her safe, then Dumbledore and he himself. Who was watching over her now? Who would be there to save her from herself, from her own alien desires?

This troubled him, that Sara was alone in the world, vulnerable, isolating herself from those who loved her, who vowed to protect her at all costs. He needed to find her, if only for a moment, to be sure she was all right. Harry hung his head in despair. He didn't even know where to look.

Trying hard to swallow the lump in his throat, he returned to the bed they'd shared and pulled the covers over his head, burying his face in the pillow. He made no sound as the blankets shivered over his trembling form and a strong wind gusted in through the open doors. He heard her voice and sat up in the candlelight, letting it drift to his ears like a cure. The scent of her perfume, weak and barely there but heaven to his senses, mingled around the wretched sound of crying and her words were faint, but clear. He smiled as the tears ran down his face, choked by emotion and smiling though his exquisite pain.

* * *

Snape ate his dinner in silence next to Dumbledore, who seemed troubled and distracted. He paid Minerva no mind as she entered the room and took her seat next to Albus.

"He won't let me in." She sighed. "I think he threw something at the door."

"It's been a week," Dumbledore said, setting aside his utensils. "Minerva, I'm at a loss in this situation. I have to admit, I don't know what to do."

Snape sneered. "Break down the door and drag him out of there! Enough of this nonsense already. At this point, I'd have to say Potter is just looking for sympathy."

Dumbledore leveled his eyes at Snape. "If it was sympathy he was after, Severus, he would let us in."

"It's ridiculous! The way he sits up there, sniveling over a girl for a week like the world has come to an end."

"To him, it has."

"I thought only women acted that way."

"I beg your pardon, Severus?" McGonagall interjected.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Just..." He swirled his fork in the air as he picked the perfect words. "Just thinking aloud."

Dumbledore sighed. "Someone has to talk to him."

"I'll do it." Snape stood, wiped his mouth, and threw the napkin down. "Poor Harry Potter..." he mumbled as he walked away and took to the stairs.

"Do you think we should go, Albus?"

"Considering I almost had to break up a duel on Sunday, I would have to say yes."

"Potter!" Snape yelled as he approached the door. "POTTER! Get up! Enough of this nonsense!" He hammered on the door, getting no response. "I SAID GET UP!!!"
Again there was no answer. He lifted his foot and kicked the door in, just as Dumbledore and McGonagall rounded the last stretch of stairs, floating on tiny rugs.

The door imploded, the locks tearing the frame and splintering the wood. Snape slammed it against the wall, stormed into the parlor and made his way to the bedroom with the others hurrying close behind.

Snape stopped short. The bed was gone. The whole thing, frame and all. Even one of the nightstands was missing. "What the..." he muttered, confused.

He moved to the glass doors and flung them open, making his way across the roof. There was the bed, situated in the center, facing out at the sky and Potter buried under the covers. Not even his head was visible. The stand was in its rightful place at Harry's left hand. At least a dozen dirty glasses crowded its surface and, as he rounded the bed, Snape noticed several empty bottles of Finnigan's Swill, which he secretly had a liking for, littered the stone floor. Among them lay half-eaten bowls of food and the crystal decanter that once sat beside the couch. It, too, was empty and discarded.

"Wake up, Potter," Snape commanded, the edge having left his voice. "Get out of bed. Life still exists outside these walls."

Dumbledore and McGonagall had reached the bed and were staring down at it in confusion, much as Snape had done.

"Go away," came a shaky voice from under the covers.

"I will not! Get up or I'll drag you out."

Minerva held up a hand to quiet Snape and sat on the bed, touching Harry's shoulder. "Harry?" she asked in a soft, comforting voice. "We're worried about you."

"Who's worried?" Snape spat. "If you ask me-"

"No one asked you!" Her voice was sharp and cautionary and then went back to the hushed tones one would use with a distressed child. "Harry, you must leave this bed. Get dressed, come down to dinner."

"I can't," he whispered. "Just leave me alone, Professor. Please leave me alone."

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" Snape bellowed and yanked back the blankets. Harry clung to them, stopping Snape's effort just below the elbow.

"Please tell me those aren't the same pajamas." Snape scowled. "How perfectly disgusting!"

"Thank you, Severus!" Dumbledore said, looking less than happy. "That will be all. Please return to your dinner."

Snape dropped the coverlet and stalked off without another word.

Harry lay as he was, trying to duck back under the blankets, but Dumbledore stayed his hand, taking a seat beside Minerva. Harry closed his eyes to the bright glare of the evening sun and his head shone with perspiration from the heat of late spring. His hair matted to his head in places, stuck up in others, dull and unwashed.

Dumbledore said nothing. His hand lay over Harry's, wishing he had even a bit of wisdom that would help cheer his apprentice.

Harry kept his back to them, hiding his red rimmed, bloodshot eyes in their dark sockets, his pallor, and his misery. His voice was raspy, thick with sleep and dehydration. "She whispers on the wind," he managed. "She sings to me. It's faint and sometimes I can't even make out the words, but I hear her."

"Is that why you put the bed on the roof?"

"Yes."

"Good thinking, Harry." He gave his hand a gentle pat. "But I'm afraid it's time for you to get out of bed. It's not good for you to be alone all the time. Besides." He looked down at the dozen or so unopened envelopes and the terribly rumpled boy, who undoubtedly looked better than he felt. "Someone needs to answer all these letters before Mr. Weasley gets it in his head to come looking for you. You're friends want to know why you weren't on the train. You have to tell them sometime."

"I can't."

"Now those are two words I thought I would never hear from you."

"She's not coming back, is she?"

"I don't know. What does your heart tell you?"

"That I'll never see her again."

"That, Harry, remains to be seen. Sometimes our hearts know only our greatest fears. And what would Sara think if she dropped onto the roof at this very moment? Think about this. Are you who you want to be when you see her again?"

"It doesn't matter, does it?"

Dumbledore bowed his head. He couldn't see his face, but he thought the boy might be crying. "I think it does, Mr. Potter. You smell like a cabbage." Dumbledore stood, gazing down at one of the most powerful wizards alive. "I'll wait for you in the Great Hall. I left my dinner a little too soon I think."

* * *

"Sara?" Greg whispered, hesitant, hoping she was awake for once. "You sleeping?"

"Yes. I'm not hungry."

"You sure? Five star chef! Smells pretty good if you ask me."

"You can have it."

Sanders placed the take-out on the little dinette and crouched beside the bed to look her in the eye. "Get up," he told her, his tone authoritative. "Get up right now or I'm writing to that guy. Take a shower, you'll feel better."

"I'll never feel better," she mumbled, her throat constricted, her voice raspy from crying. "Go away, Greg. Just leave me alone."

"I know that's his shirt, Sara, but you've had it on for a week straight and I swear, if I set you out in the sun, I could fry an egg on your head. Don't make me dump a bucket of water on you."

"I know you mean well but making sure I'm clean is not your responsibility." Sara grew annoyed by his constant attempts to rouse her and firing him briefly crossed her mind. His bumpkin speech and unrefined manner were wearing on her nerves as well.

"No, but you're leaving me no other option than to write to that Snape guy."

"Do not bother him! He'd come on the fly. And for what? To get me to take a shower? I don't feel like it, okay? You don't understand!"

Fed up with her apathy and not knowing what else to do, he grabbed her around the middle and dragged her out of bed. She cursed him, crying again, and attempted to push him away as he lifted her and walked to the bathroom.

Sara slid down the wall until she came to rest on the tile, crying and trying hard to stop as he adjusted the shower and pulled the curtain. When he turned and saw her there, crumpled on the floor with her zombie-like blue eyes running with tears, his heart almost broke. Her hair stuck to her head. Long black tresses that had once been soft, pretty blond curls hung in ratty tangles, dull and lifeless. He thought again of writing to the teacher.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice hushed and full of sorrow. He knelt before her and wrapped his arms around her, helping her up off the floor. "Come on. There's something I want you to see."

Sanders led her to the long mirror she had avoided for a week and made her look at her own reflection. He saw the horror in her expression but it faded to indifference.

"It's nothing compared to the inside," she said with her quiet, shaky voice. "I fear I shall never feel in color again."

"You will," he encouraged. "What's all black and white now won't last forever, even though we don't believe it sometimes. Now get in the shower. My grandmum always said 'water cleanses'. She's right, you know." He left her side and moved to the open door. "Give me the shirt. The hotel has an hour service. I'll have it cleaned for you."

With a sigh, Sara closed the door, removed the shirt, and kissed the collar before handing it out with a terrifying anxiety. She didn't want to part with such a beloved memory but Mr. Sanders was right. She didn't want it ruined, either.

* * *

Sara stood before the mirror again, this time wearing a long terry robe with the hotel's monogram on the pocket, combing her hair and lost in thought. Greg had been right about the water. She felt awake, refreshed almost, and a little more solid. But she didn't know if she felt better.

A quick spell dried and styled her hair and Sara wandered back out to the bed. She stood next to it for several minutes. Half of her wanted to sink down into it and never get back up. The other half wanted to go outside, to follow the warm rain of the shower with fresh air and gentle, calming breezes from the Mediterranean. It was warm, wherever they were. Somewhere in the south of France, she guessed, and the robe was heavy.

Sara left the bedside and went to her luggage, digging through stacks of her favorite clothes, fine fabrics in pretty hues and every shade of purple. Looking at them brought back painful memories of happier times, before the darkness took the joy from her life. The green jumper she'd worn on St. Patrick's Day when Seamus had spiked the punch and they all got detention. The fuzzy pink sweater Hermione had looked fabulous in as they'd laughed and cheered their winning team at a November Quidditch match. Harry's favorite red dress that she'd worn to the Valentine's dance just to see him smile. Her fingers caressed the blue cashmere from their dinner at Angelo's in the Royal Westcott with Severus. Not the best of times. She knew he'd kissed Ginny the night of the Yule Ball, had divined it months before from touching Ron, but it was nothing to her. She knew who Harry loved. It was then that she decided she wouldn't wear these things again.

Sara piled them all into two suitcases, leaving only black clothing behind, along with her favorite midnight purple. The color of belladonna. She nearly choked on the thought and her mind turned to Draco. She pictured him, wandering his newly inherited manor, alone and walking the fine line between darkness and light with unsteady feet and disorder of mind. She closed her eyes and reached out to him, wanting to tell him all the things she felt, how she'd never meant to hurt him. She found him in bits and pieces. Images flashed behind her eyes, tattered thoughts of betrayal and vengeance echoed in her ears and she turned her mind away, knowing further contact would send her back to the blankets and she didn't think she would be getting back up again. There was only one thing that kept her from falling headlong into oblivion. Something she'd sensed quite strongly. He was still wearing the Amidon.

She'd taken it off after leaving Lucius, but Sara searched through her backpack and found the Fortificus Charm. Her tears splashed on its smooth diamond surface as it lay on her hand. Draco's blood. Harry's blood. Swirled together like a pinwheel. She transfigured its gold chain into a delicate strip of black silk and fastened it around her neck. Sara's eyes slipped shut as she savored the feel of their strengths, mingling together and coursing through her veins like a remedy.

This item meant more to her now than it ever had before.

Her thoughts turned to the little box she'd seen in her bag. A gold square about the size of a credit card and a quarter of an inch thick. The top boasted a crimson and gold coat-of-arms, a lightning bolt down the middle, intense and imposing. She took it out and looked at it, studied the crest, watched as the dim light glinted off its surface. She opened the lid and stared at the gold replica of a Muggle house-key, fitted in a bed of dark red velvet. She closed the box and wrapped her hand around it, wiping her tears with the other.

She stood and tossed on a random dress from the all-black selection and threw a jet summer cloak around her shoulders, tying it in front and drawing the hood down to cast her eyes in shadow. The two suitcases and huge selection of garment bags she'd no longer need jumped into the backpack with a command and a wave of her hand. Sara slid it onto her arm and opened the gold box, hesitating only a moment before touching the Portkey.

* * *

Harry slid into the chair across from Dumbledore, his eyes lowered, his manner detached and aloof. His hair was clean, sleek and shiny thanks to Hermione's enchanted comb, and parted over his scar of its own will. He wore Sara's favorite green jumper with a pair of old Saturday jeans. He was barefoot, Dumbledore noted, not a habit that belonged to Harry, but to the girl he missed.

"The elves will bring whatever you'd like. Why don't you give them a good challenge?"

"Whatever you have," he told the little elf who appeared at his side. "Something easy."

She hurried away and Harry studied his hands.

"I spoke to Remus Lupin today. It's not easy to reach him where he is, but I finally caught him just after lunch. We were in complete agreement that this might be a good time for you to learn about harvesting wolfsbane."

"I want to stay here, sir. I'd never forgive myself if she returned to find me gone."

"I wouldn't worry about that. I will be here to explain if the situation arises and, of course, I would call you back at once."

"I don't want to leave."

"I know you don't, Harry, but I insist you go."

Harry hesitated, examining the ripples in a bowl of soup. It was joined by bread, salad, and ambrosia, which appealed to him and his stomach erupted with a hunger so intense it nearly took hold of him. A hunger he didn't know he had. "Maybe in a few weeks," he said and pulled the dessert in front of him. "Don't ask me to leave Hogwarts right now, Professor. I'm sorry, but I won't do it."

"You can and you will." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and looked at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. "He'll arrive here late tonight to collect you for a few days and, since I sent Severus to check on our young Mr. Malfoy, there will be no altercations. Nothing lengthy, I promise you, just a little change of scenery."

"I don't want a change of scenery!" Harry had eaten most of the ambrosia in a few bites but his appetite tapered off as his fear grew with every rebuttal.

"You feel closest to Sara in the tower, this I understand. Harry, I also know that surrounding yourself with painful memories will only bring you greater anguish. Go with Remus. At the very least, humor an old man who asks of you only what is best."

Harry dropped his fork and toppled his chair as he hurried away from the table, walking as fast as he could without running, and fled through the side door. He went straight to his favorite bench by the lake and fell onto it. The moon had risen in a clear sky and Harry gazed up at the stars, his mind drifting back to a different moment in time, one that would never leave him as long as he lived. Sara, with her crown of silver roses on the day she turned seventeen, dancing slow in a sparkling cloud, her blue eyes smiling up at him.

"Mind if I join ya Harry?"

Harry was startled out of his reverie by Hagrid, who towered above, waiting for an invitation.

"I don't mind." Harry tried to smile and managed a pained expression.

"Professor Dumbledore told me about Sara." He settled in next to Harry. "I wouldn't worry over it. I have a feeling we'll be seein' her again."

"I hope you're right, Hagrid." Harry sniffled. "She was going to marry me."

Hagrid's oversized arm pulled him into an unexpected, but tremendously welcome hug and, when Hagrid finally released him, Harry felt a little bit better. Comforted. He wiped at his eyes and pretended to straighten his clothes.

"Harry, sometimes people jus' need to be on their own and it's got nothing to do with anyone else. There's nothin' to do but give 'em the space they need and go about yer business. She'll come back, a'course. Why, she'd be a bloody fool not to!"

Harry gave a soft smile. "Thanks, Hagrid."

"It's true! Why, jus' this past year every girl at Hogwarts was green with envy. But anyway, I understand yer gettin' a visitor. Should be here in just a few hours if I've got my times right."

"Dumbledore is making me leave." Harry sighed. "He doesn't understand."

"That's where yer wrong. He understands a'right. And I'll tell ya something else, Harry. He's more worried about you right now then he is about Sara. Don't hold it against him. Dumbledore knows what's best."

"I know he means well, I just need some time."

"That's somethin' you've got plenty of. Now, you'd better be getting' back inside, Professor. Old Moony should be arrivin' soon."

Harry sighed. "I think I'd just like to sit here awhile."

"Fine by me. I'll see ya later then." Hagrid took a few steps and then stopped. "Oh and Harry, cheer up. That girl's crazy about you, whether ya think so 'r not. You'll have to make the best of it 'till she sees fit to come back where she belongs."

* * *

Something glittered in the moonlight and Sara switched on the lamps to see what it was. Glass was everywhere. Jagged shards of what she guessed was the Muggle crystal ball littered the hardwood floor and the carpet. She held out a shaky hand and whispered, "Reparo."

A few steps into the dining area of the kitchen brought to light a similar scene. The large mirror that hung on the far wall was on the floor in a thousand pieces and she struggled to hold back her tears. She knew what sort of emotions had pushed Harry to smash things in their house and her guilt was overpowering. Her heart hammered away in her chest. Sara fixed the mirror and hurried to the bedroom, knowing he had been here and could return at any time.

She left the suitcases in the corner of the room and directed the garment bags to hang themselves in the closet. Sara placed her jewelry in a box on the dresser. She had no need of it, didn't want to look flashy and well off. The only things she wore were the diamond ring on her left hand, the amethyst bracelet Harry sent her last summer, a thin gold anklet that had been her mother's, the locator and, of course, the Fortificus Charm. These were the things from which she could not bear to part.

With a longing she did not understand, Sara climbed onto the bed and laid down on the right side, unaware that the blood leaked onto the comforter from where she'd stepped on broken glass with bare feet. She didn't cry as her head found the pillows, just stared up at the ceiling, wishing Harry was there next to her, wanting to tell him all the things she'd left unsaid. Her mind drifted back to their last night together and then the tears did come, fast and furious as she remembered the love she'd felt, the closeness. How she'd managed to leave him after that she'd never understand. Leaving had cast a veil over her heart and in darkness it would remain until she once again felt his touch, heard his voice in her ear, whispering. He might hate me by then, she thought. He may hate me already.

The sobering thoughts brought her back to the present and Sara remembered her hotel room, somewhere in the south of France, wouldn't be vacant forever. Greg Sanders would soon return and she needed to be there when he did.

With reluctance, Sara rose from the bed and went to the kitchen, getting herself a bottle of soda from the refrigerator. She wandered onto her patio, the one Harry had been so angry about. Sara had never understood his desire to pay for half of everything, but she thought she did now. It was because love is a partnership, where both involved contributed equally and Harry had been trying to do his part. Snape's accusations were a minor reminder that kept him honest, but it was she who had been wrong. And Harry was wrong, too. Love was also about sharing.

She picked a rose from the small garden Mr. Sanders planted just for her and left it on what would have been Harry's pillow.

Digging some lipstick out of her bag, Sara went to the mirror in the dining room and drew a heart on the mirror she'd repaired. It was the only message she dared to leave.

Tears misted her eyes as Sara took a last look around and opened the little gold box. She touched the key and was again standing in the hotel room. Greg was knocking on the door as she arrived and she ran to let him in, not knowing how long he'd been there. He held Harry's shirt on a wire hanger and covered with clear plastic.

She took the shirt. "Get packed, Greg, we're leaving."

He smiled his approval and went to his room straight away.

Sara's eyes landed on the take-out which sat untouched on the dinette. Feeling hungry for the first time in a week, she warmed it with a wave of her hand and sat down.

* * *

Harry sat on the bed on the roof, reading the letters different owls had dropped on him over the last few days, not wanting to answer any of them. He found the letter that had come with Hedwig two days ago, the same he had written, returned to him, unopened. Scrawled on the back in shaky hand were two words. "Please don't." This he tore to shreds and sent the pieces into the wind.

Seamus sent him a Portkey for the new "distribution center" he'd set up in the countryside and enclosed a letter urging Harry to come to work as soon as possible because orders were backed up. Apparently, he'd found a way to sell into the Muggle world and was hiring a few other people to help out. There was no longer a big tub of rum in a vacant room where Harry had spent many an evening ladling booze into a funnel, bottle by bottle. Seamus claimed he and Neville concocted a vat and spout method that filled the bottles for them. All that needed doing was inspection, boxing, and order filling. This sort of distraction almost appealed to Harry, but he would wait a while longer before using the key. He wasn't ready to see normal, happy faces.

There were several from Ron and Hermione, written on stationary embossed with the image of their twin tattoos. The sight of it made Harry jealous of their happiness, a bitter reminder of his failure. Their plans had come to fruition. His had not. His plans had gotten lost somewhere.

There were four letters from Hermione and Harry sighed as he read. The first was addressed to Harry and Sara, which he found depressing.

Hi guys,

Is everything all right? We were worried when you didn't get on the train. Did something happen? Let us know as soon as possible.

Our flat is great! The only problem is that we have to keep separate rooms because my parents keep dropping by and I have them convinced Ron and I are simply sharing costs. At least I think I have them convinced. Anyway, if we go up to the roof we can see Big Ben and Diagon Alley is only a ten-minute walk. You have to come and visit! The Velvet Underground is awesome! Ron and I went last night and they were having 2-for-1 shots. (Ron, of course, drank too much and threw up on the carpet in our new lounge. It took me all day to get rid of the smell. And he wonders why I don't drink...) Anyway, we ran into Seamus and Susan and he's hired Ron to fill orders. Ron likes it because it pays well and he can do it whenever he wants. He has nothing to do until his classes start in September, anyway. I start my job on Monday. I almost forgot, Seamus asked that you contact him.

We're meeting Ginny and Justin for lunch, so let us know what's going on?
Hope to hear from you soon.

Hermione & Ron

The next was more of the same, only more insistent, and Ron had even added his own thoughts at the bottom. This letter began:

Harry, what's going on? Since when don't you answer our letters? Is Sara all right? She's our friend, too, you know, and if she's sick or something we have the right to know. PLEASE write back!

Then there was the third, threatening letter.

It's Wednesday and this is getting a little scary. If we don't hear back from you by morning we're going straight to Dumbledore...

And what else would this evening's letter say, having only just arrived as he'd sat down?

Harry, we're so sorry. No wonder you haven't answered! We can only imagine how you feel, but you have friends who are here for you if you need us...

Sympathy only made him feel worse and he put the letter aside without reading the rest. He knew what it said and he knew they meant well but he just couldn't deal with sympathy right now. His thoughts were on Sara and he raised the locator, strapped to his wrist like a watch. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest and he leapt from the bed, tearing through the rooms before he realized what it meant. Her hand pointed to "home," but it didn't mean Hogwarts. Harry ran to his backpack and dug out the Portkey but, by the time he held it in his hand, the indicator was drifting back to "traveling."

Harry's heart sank and he knew she was gone. He'd missed his chance and could only hope she'd go back again. The excitement and hope he'd felt in those few frantic, elated moments turned to desperation and a sad acceptance.

He carried the gold box to the desk and found their special stationary. Once he had it in his hand, he opened the lid and touched the key.

Harry stood before the mirror, looking at her message with a smile on his face. She still loved him, he realized, and she'd wanted him to know. The worst of his anguish left him as he stared at the heart she'd drawn and Harry moved to the desk in the next room, returning with a wide black marker. He drew a second heart, overlapping hers, and smiled again. There was relief in this small gesture. Immense relief.

Harry sat down at the table with the stationary and a ballpoint pen. He wrote a short question, something to which he needed an answer, and left it there, out where she would see it if she happened to return here again.

He wandered the other rooms, finding little evidence of her visit. Another soda was missing from the fridge and he took the third of twelve. The crystal ball, which held no magic power, sat resurrected on the little stand in the living room, a spattering of red somewhere in the middle of it. An impurity he had never noticed before. It was now that he noticed the tiny flecks of blood that showed her steps from the front door. She'd cut herself, of course, on the mess of broken glass he'd so carelessly left behind. Harry followed her path to the bedroom.

The luggage in the corner puzzled him. He pulled it open one piece at a time, but it was only her clothes. Most of her clothes, actually, and he wondered why she would discard them like this. Wouldn't she need them? But of course, all the darkest colors were missing. Sara had a lot of black clothing and none of it was here. It occurred to him that she was dressing for a funeral every day, choosing the only color that could truly reflect what she was feeling on the inside.

Dismayed as he was by this idea, the white rose on the pillow pulled his heart in a different direction. Her side of the bed was slightly mussed and some drops of blood stained the lavender spread near the foot, meaning she had lain here recently, thinking of him, of their last night together. He lifted the rose and held it as he lowered himself to the covers, thinking of her, too, sinking into the memory the way he had a hundred times already. He stared up at the ceiling, wondering what her answer would be.

* * *

"Hello Harry."

Harry spun around, the key having returned him to the desk, and smiled when he saw Lupin emerge from the shadows.

"Sorry I'm late." Harry stood and crossed the room to shake his hand. "Sara was at our house. I tried to get there in time, but I missed her."

"What was she doing there? Why wouldn't she wait for you?" Lupin removed his cloak and sat with Harry by the fire.

"She brought some of her things there."

"What do you think it means?"

"That she still considers it home."

Lupin smiled as he saw the expression in Harry's eyes. Pained, yes, but there was relief there - and solace. This was not the apathetic young man Dumbledore had described, hiding from the world and lost in misery. Whatever Harry had found at the cottage had renewed his spirit, given him hope.

"You look good, Professor. Long hair suits you."

"Thanks. And look at you, Harry. Six feet tall I'd guess."

"Almost."

"Dumbledore says he gave you my old job. Congratulations, you're the youngest Hogwarts professor in history."

"Thanks, but did he tell you about the Order of Merlin?"

"It was his proudest moment, I think, presenting you to the Elders. And yet another first for you. The youngest wizard ever inducted as first class. I hear they wanted to change the rules so they could do it sooner. I wish I could have been there to see it."

"Me, too. At least Sara was here for it. I'm sorry you never got to meet her."

"I knew her mother, as you know. Her father, too, but not as well. If she's anything like Diana I'm the one who should be sorry."

Harry poured them both some Finnigan's Swill and relaxed against the back of the sofa. "What was she like, Sara's mother? All I know was that she sang very well and had a soft spot for the wayward Slytherin, which is exactly like Sara. She took a liking to Draco Malfoy and the two of them are friends. Well, she's friends with him and he's madly in love with her."

"Reminds me of someone we know." Lupin grinned. "How is old Sevvie?"

"He kicked the door in earlier. I'm going to kill him someday I think, if our duel stops getting postponed, that is."

"Don't hurt him too badly. He's always tried to be intimidating, but it just ends up being funny. Merlins, how we used to laugh at him! He'd get so mad his face would turn red and Sirius would do a countdown to when his head would explode." Lupin laughed with the memory. "Severus adored Diana, and their relationship was much like the one you described between Sara and the Malfoy kid. One sided, but she did care about him. We never understood it.

"What I have never told anyone was that I had a crush on Diana in fifth year. Nothing ever came of it, of course, but there was something that just drew people to her. She was a happy spirit, had an infectious laugh, but she was demure in a way. Not a wallflower, but never the life of the party, either. When she sang and played the piano even the Slytherins would stay and watch, but she never let it go to her head. Everyone liked her."

"Then you do know Sara in a way. Before all the trouble started she was exactly like that, except she was afraid to sing in front of people. She did it only a few times, but she was phenomenal. She's the only one who didn't think so."

"It's different for her. She's an Elemental and that's her emotional outlet. Harry, don't you know that her strongest inner feelings transfer to the music, mingle with it, affecting any and all who hear? Don't feel bad. I didn't know either. Dumbledore told me just a few minutes ago."

"I always said her music casts a spell. I guess that wasn't far off."

Lupin lifted a frame from the coffee table and studied the Muggle photograph. Harry and Sara stood on the front steps of a little cottage, champagne in hand. They smiled brilliantly back at him and Lupin's voice took a softer tone. "Is this your house?"

Harry's eyes grew depressed. "Yes. The day we furnished it. It was just before Christmas."

Lupin laid it face down and tried to smile. "We should be off soon, Harry. Dumbledore won't be up to see us off."

"Is he upset with me?" Harry wondered, feeling guilty. "I gave him a hard time earlier."

"He's not upset, just thought it would be best I suppose. Are you packed for a few days?"

"Yes, but I didn't really know what to bring. He didn't say where we were going."

"Nowhere special. There's a little island off the coast of Scotland where wolfsbane grows wild. No people for miles. I thought we could just hang out for a while. Wolfsbane, as you know, is only harvested by moonlight. That leaves plenty of time for other things."

Harry breathed relief. He didn't want to see anyone and Lupin' company was like a big band-aid. He felt better just talking to him these few minutes and, as much as he hated to leave Sara's tower, a little time away seemed a welcome idea. "Let's go then," he said. "I hope you have a fast broom."

"Not quite."

Lupin took the lead but Harry stopped to hover for a moment, looking back at the rooms, the open doors, and the bed on the roof. His heart hammered in his chest, suddenly terrified she would come home while he was gone and he would miss her again. Lupin was at his side, he realized, and an arm went around his shoulders.

"Come, Harry. It's time to go."

* * *

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