The Way It Is

The Way It Is

"I can't tell you where I'm going Ron," Harry said apologetically.

Ron snapped back angrily, "Why the hell not?"

"Because if I tell you, you'll follow me," Harry replied simply.

"Is there a problem with that? Don't you want me around anymore?"

"It isn't that," Harry protested.

"Then what is it?" Ron asked, confused.

Harry slowly shook his head. "You can't follow me for the rest of your life."

A tall, redheaded man wandered slowly down a dark street. The street was small and rundown with ramshackle houses lining the side. A few dirty, ragged children played in an alleyway. The man shook his head. This couldn't possibly be the place he was looking for. He glanced up at the street sign and then looked to a crumpled piece of paper that he held in his freezing hands. It was the right street name. He pulled his frayed, patched coat tight about him. As the sun slipped below the horizon the air grew colder. The man continued down the street, looking for Number Ninety-Seven.

He passed Numbers Eighteen and Nineteen. He was beginning to regret ever accepting this assignment. There was something inside him telling him to turn around now. To go back to the Ministry and tell them he had failed; that the person he had been sent to search for was unfindable. But then there was something else telling him to keep going. He supposed it was that tiny thread of an almost imagined memory that still connected him to his old friend.

The man had lost most of his old friends, either through the war or lack of contact. But that was the way things were. In war some people die and some live. Over time friends simply grow apart and become less important to one another.

"Everyone else is hurting too Ron," Hermione yelled. "You're not the only one who needs answers."

"No one knows how hurt I feel," Ron said stubbornly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "How the hell do you know?"

"None of you ever had anything even close to what I had with him," Ron exclaimed. "You have no idea what you are on about."

"I loved him, too." Hermione had tears in her eyes.

"But he didn't love you back," Ron snapped. "Not like he loved me."

"Screw you. I don't have to listen to this." Hermione stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

The man continued on his way up the darkening street. He saw people curl up for the night under awnings, wrapped in a few threadbare blankets. Groups gathered around bin fires in the side streets. The houses began to merge into one another and glide by in flashes, blurs of dingy colours until Number Ninety-Seven loomed out of the night. He hesitated a moment before the door, before ringing the bell. There was no answer from within the house, so he began to knock. Still there was no answer.

He turned away from the door, walking back down the front steps. Then he went back up the steps and turned the front door handle. The door opened with an ear-splitting creak. The man entered the rickety house, peering into the rooms. The furniture inside was minimal and inexpensive. The walls were a faded shade of red, reminding the man of blood. He made his way further into the house, passing a small kitchen, which held only a stove and a steel kettle. The room at the very back of the house was almost pitch-black. The moth-eaten curtains were drawn and the lights were off. A single candle burned in the left corner of the room. In the middle of the room sat a striped armchair and a small electrical device--the man thought it was called a television.

"Why are you here, Ron?"

The voice came from someone sitting in the striped armchair. There was a click as the television was turned off. The person sitting in the chair stood up. He only looked a little like Ron remembered him. Maybe it really had been too long. His scruffy black hair was around shoulder-length and untamed. He was much thinner, almost fragile. The only things that remained unchanged were his eyes. They were still emerald green beneath those cellotaped glasses. And the jagged scar that marked his forehead.

"The Ministry sent me to find you," Ron replied. "They want to thank you Harry. For ending the war."

"I don't need their thanks." Harry turned his back on Ron. "I did what I had to do and nothing else."

"We thought you were dead. Hermione and me," Ron whispered after a moment of silence.

Harry turned to face him. "Why didn't you keep on thinking it? It would have been better that way."

"She still believes it."

The two men remained silent. It was like there was an age of awkwardness between them. A few too many years of not talking, no contact and now they were both trapped on different sides of the rift.

"Did you have to tell her that?" Ginny exclaimed.

"What?" Ron asked in an enraged voice. "Tell her the truth? That I think he's dead."

"You're hopeless." Ginny shook her head.

Ron raised an eyebrow. "What and you think he is still alive?"

"No," Ginny whispered slowly. "But you didn't need to just blurt it out like that. Mum's been through enough already."

"I didn't think she'd take it so badly. I mean it's been years since he left," Ron protested.

"Did that make that thought hurt you any less?"

"How is Hermione?" Harry asked cautiously.

"She's married," Ron answered. "A career woman."

The eerie silence returned to the two of them. Harry returned to his striped armchair, so Ron sat on the floor slumping against one of the walls. He watched the minutes ticking by on the clock.

"Are you going to come back with me?" Ron questioned.

Harry shook his head. "I'm never going back there."

"Why?"

"Too many memories." Harry shuddered.

Ron shut his eyes and the years unfolded before him like a movie. It was the first time that he had thought of the fact that not many good things had happened in those years. Again that is just how war worked. It wasn't meant to leave people thinking happy thoughts.

"I can't stay long," Ron said simply.

Harry got up from the chair and moved into the kitchen. Boiling the kettle, he made some tea for the both of them. Ron went to sit at the small dining table with Harry. Their hands brushed for a moment longer than they should, leaving a hint of something, some feeling hanging in the air around them. They stayed there for a long while, sipping the tea.

"I should go," Ron commented after an age. "Are you sure you won't come?"

"I've done everything I can for that world. I don't want to go back," Harry replied.

"Not even just once to see everyone who misses you?" Ron asked softly.

"NO, Ron!" Harry yelled. "I'm not going back. NEVER!"

Harry retreated back into the dark room of the house. Ron followed quietly. Harry was curled up in his armchair, hands clutching his head.

"I made my decision long ago," he said in a strangled voice. "I can't change it now. Not even for you."

"What if he wanted to go?" Hermione asked. "What if he doesn't want to be found?"

"I have to at least try." Ron sighed. "It's my job, finding people."

"Maybe he really is dead," Hermione whispered.

Ron shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

Ron turned and walked to the front of the house and out the door. The door creaked back into place behind him. His own footfalls sounded distant to him as he walked down the front steps. Ron began his journey back down the street pondering what he could tell the Ministry when he returned. He ignored the sound of a door creaking open behind him. Then he heard his name called and looked over his shoulder to see Harry sprinting down the street towards him. Harry came to a halt in front of Ron and took the redheads hands in his own. Then as if some inner fire possessed him, he plunged in kissing Ron firmly, almost violently.

"I'm already dead to them. I don't want to stay dead to you," Harry whispered.

"I doesn't work that way Harry," Ron exclaimed. "You've been dead to me for a long time now. Things can't just go back to they way they were."

"Why not?" Harry asked, sounding like a lost child. "Why can't they?"

"It's just the way it is," Ron replied. "Goodbye, Harry."

Harry kept a strong grip on Ron's hands. Ron tried to pull away, but those fragile hands were strong.

"You can't tell me that you don't still have feelings for me," Harry protested. " Or that everything we had means nothing. Don't be so bloody selfish."

"You're right. I can't tell you that. But I can tell you time changes things, and people. That's the way it is and you have to accept it. Like I did when I thought you were gone forever," Ron burst out angrily. "Would it have killed you to write or something? The whole fucking wizarding world has been on the lookout for you and you just hide away from everyone who loves you in some bloody Muggle town. And you have the nerve to tell me I'm selfish."

"I had to. I--" Harry was cut off.

Ron started to shout. "No, you didn't have to. You wanted to and you know what? I don't care anymore. I don't give a flying fuck. Since you obviously didn't give a damn about me, so I'll do the same in return. I'm going to forget that this ever happened. It's too late to fix it now."

"Fine!" Harry yelled. "I don't give a shit either."

Harry pulled away from Ron as fast as a thunder bolt. Ron angrily turned his back and stomped away down the street. Harry returned to his ramshackle house with the creaky door and faded red wallpaper. Ron continued down the street until he found his safe place to Apparate. As he arrived home in his own kitchen he shook his head. There was the sound of clumsy footsteps coming towards the room. A young boy came running into the room and leapt into Ron's arms.

"Daddy! You're back," the boy squealed excitedly.

The boy jumped out of Ron's arms and sprinted out of the room. Ron heard the boys voice echoing through the house.

"Mummy! Mummy, Daddy's home!"

Another set of footsteps came towards the kitchen, this time more controlled. A woman with bushy brown hair and hazel eyes entered the room.

"Did you find him Ron?" she asked earnestly.

"No, Hermione," he answered with a twinge of guilt. "I didn't."