Other Paths, Other Lives

Author's Notes: Many thanks to abigail89 who beat this fic into submission.

Other Paths, Other Lives

It wasn't difficult finding an empty compartment. He shook his head as he thought of it. If he could remember how, he would have laughed. After seven years of whispers and rumors, of wide-eyed stares and pointed fingers, of distinction and celebrity, he finally got the privacy he so desperately wanted.

It's easy to romanticize about heroics when one heard stories of a mother's sacrifice and the destruction of a great evil. Stories that got grander with each retelling. More fantastic. More magical. But since Voldemort's return, Harry Potter couldn't travel anywhere without having his every move watched, so this time there would be no speculation as to how it happened. This time there were witnesses.

The world saw the path of dead bodies that Harry and Voldemort left in their wake as they made their way to each other across a charred battlefield. They saw the look of hatred in Harry's eyes as he cast the spell that stripped Voldemort of his magic, that turned him into nothing but an old Muggle, spindly and feeble and worn-out. They saw the look of pure joy in Harry's twisted smile as he waved his wand again and sent a hex that tore through his opponent's skin, shredding it from the body corporal, and sending pieces of bone, muscle, and flesh raining down on the field. A blood-soaked crater marked the spot where a man once stood.

It wasn't romantic or glorious. It was the end of a war. But it wasn't the neat ending everyone wanted, full of stories of bravery, selfless sacrifice, and honor. Valor was lost in brutality, humanity covered in blood. When the smoke cleared, Harry was seen standing amid the shattered remains of life. His face, without emotion. The brilliant green of his eyes, forever dimmed.

Harry, barely more than a child, committed murder and relished in the bloodshed. He had convicted Tom Riddle of a thousand atrocities toward the world and executed him without a trial. He had killed with the same mercilessness as the man he destroyed, imposing a death sentence and implementing it without pity. He deemed Tom Riddle unfit to live and turned him into dust with a flick of his wand. The world was left stunned, half relieved, half horrified. Harry Potter was left wondering if he became the very thing he was fighting against.

He was too tired to think of it any longer. Harry hadn't slept without the benefit of potions for weeks. He wasn't eating properly. He was barely breathing. The only thing he wanted to do was to sit in an empty car and say goodbye to the past.

They had spoken of this trip for years, of the last time they'd ride this train together before heading out into the world. Hermione always got teary-eyed. Ron tried to console her by telling stories of all the grand adventures they would have once they were fully qualified wizards, free from Snape's ire and McGonagall's stern glances. They'd live together in a flat in Diagon Alley. He and Harry would become Aurors, and Hermione would get some huge job at the Ministry where she could tell them everything they'd done wrong for the last seven years. It always made Hermione smile to hear Ron's speculation of their future. Harry enjoyed the stories as well. And up until a few weeks ago, he truly believed they could really happen.

Things were different now. Hermione decided to become a Healer and was considering learning Muggle medicine as well, hoping the combination would help some of those who suffered long term injuries that magical means alone couldn't cure. It would take most people years to complete such a lofty goal, but Harry knew Hermione could do it in half the time. He also knew that meant he wouldn't see much of his studious friend in the next few years.

Ron had applied for the Auror program, and considering all the combat he'd seem the last year, he, too, was going to go through his studies twice as fast as anyone else. Harry, however, would not be going with him.

There was something comforting about the idea of following Ron; a part of Harry always hoped they could be together forever. But Harry couldn't follow this time. He was drained. Empty. And though it hurt him to disappoint Ron, he knew it was the only choice he could make. Harry had lost a piece of himself on the battlefield. He had lost sight of why he had to fight Voldemort. Why it had been important to stop him. Instead he had allowed himself to be overcome with vengeance and hatred. Harry had enjoyed killing Voldemort, and it scared the hell out of him.

So when Ron and Hermione told him that as Head Boy and Head Girl, they would have to patrol the train, he said it was fine; he wouldn't be the greatest of company anyway. And when they promised to sit with him as soon as they could get away, he told them not to bother; he was probably just going to sleep.

It would be easier to say goodbye that way. Harry hadn't been able to tell Ron he wasn't going back with him to the Burrow. That they weren't going to start looking for a flat next week. That the plans they had fantasized about for years weren't going to come to fruition. Harry had no idea what he was going to do, other than a vague notion that he might stay with Remus for a while. He didn't want to think about the future. The idea of spending the next several hours in the peace and quiet of his own car was too wonderful a prospect. He wouldn't have to answer questions or make decisions; he could just forget.

Harry settled into the soft cushioned seat of his lonely car. He took one last look at the Hogwarts station platform, wondering if he would ever see it again, wondering if he really wanted to. It all seemed so big a few years ago, bright and vast and overwhelming. Today, under the threatening grey sky, it seemed grimy and so very small.

The lump in his throat settled into his stomach as the train pulled away. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the platform rolled by. Despite the fact that it was a blistering June day, he was cold. He wrapped his arms around himself and curled into a ball as he leaned against the window. Enveloped in the unnatural silence, he watched the world pass by. Lush trees and dark earth rushed up to meet him and quickly retreated. Soon the greens and browns of the Scottish countryside blurred as they sped along, until they were nothing but blocks of colors. The soft hues of summer began to swirl around him as his eyelids grew heavy and his breathing grew shallow. The last thing he would see was shock of bright red on the horizon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He awoke with a start as he was thrown from his seat and landed on the floor on his hands and knees. It took a while for him to remember where he was. The train had stopped and it was dark, as if the grey of the overcast sky dripped onto the earth, leeching away all color. And it was silent. Harry strained to hear anything other than his own steady breaths but there was nothing.

"Hello," he called. "What's happened? Why've we stopped?" He got up and walked to the door, opened it, expecting to see the corridor full of irate students demanding an explanation. But the hallway was deserted.

"Hello," he called again. "Anyone there?"

Harry felt a familiar tightening in his stomach, an instinct he'd developed from infancy that told him when something wasn't right. He drew his wand and cautiously stepped into the hallway, looking up and down the passageway as he inched his way towards the conductor's car.

His mind began to race. Could this be the work of the handful of surviving Death Eaters who had escaped capture? Old enemies deciding not to go down without a fight? Or was this a new threat? A group that had waited until Voldemort was out of the way before staging their own invasion?

A dozen possibilities, each worse than the last, flashed through his mind as he reached the open door of another compartment. He stopped and nearly dropped his wand when he looked inside.

Lavender, Pavarti, Dean, and Seamus sat as still as statues, their mouths frozen as if caught mid-conversation. Harry blinked a few times as he stared dumbly at the scene before him. Lavender's hand was covering her mouth, her face caught in a shy laugh. She was facing Seamus who was sitting next to her, his arms thrown up in the air, his mouth unmoving, stopping what ever amusing tale he was sharing. Across from them sat Pavarti and Dean; her legs crossed and her foot rubbing Dean's ankle, his eyes, half-lidded as he faced her.

Words stuck in Harry's dry throat as he walked into the compartment, his eyes darting back and forth between the still figures. He stood in the middle of the small room between his motionless friends not knowing what he should do. Instinctively, he lifted his hand and reached out, his fingertips hovering a hair's breadth from Seamus's unspeaking form. With a hard swallow and a deep breath, he lowered his hand until he could feel cold skin. Suddenly the air exploded in color and movement. Harry jumped back as he pulled his hand away. Instantly the movement stopped and the color faded.

His heart was pounding against his ribcage. He looked around the room nervously, but nothing had changed, nothing was different. Everyone sat stiff as statues, and everything was mired in dismal grey. He looked at his own hand as if it belonged to someone else; his fingers tingled where they touched Seamus's skin. His gaze volleyed between his hand and his friend. Something was telling him that the answers he wanted were within his grasp, literally at his fingertips, and all he needed to do was reach out. He stood up straight, took a deep breath and placed his hand on Seamus's outstretched arm.

Harry found himself standing amidst piles of stone and rubble from what once must have been a very large building. Around him, the ground was covered in ash and broken glass. Smoke was steadily rising from the ruins. The only sound was the clacking of rocks being moved around and thrown as people tried to sort the damage. Harry looked around at unfamiliar faces trying to clear the debris until he found Seamus; two clear trails ran from his eyes down his soot-covered face; his clothes, ripped and bloodied.

Harry watched as Seamus lifted stone after stone, and the tears continued to flow. It tore at his heart and he tried to speak out but he had no voice in this world. He then watched mutely as Seamus fell to his knees and brought his hand to his mouth. Harry stomach nearly went inside out as Seamus threw his head back and let out a wail, a howl like a wounded animal. Harry looked down to see an arm sticking out of the rubble, pale skin and twisted fingers hanging limply from the pile of rocks. He then realized what he was seeing: he was in the middle of what used to be Hogwarts, and Seamus was searching for bodies.

A wave of nausea swept though Harry, and he doubled over. He was about to pull away, to try to leave the nightmare that was playing out before him when he heard something. A child. Harry looked behind him to see a small girl running toward him. Ringlets of thick brown hair bounced around her smiling face as she ran. She was giggling and calling, "Daddy."

Harry watched her approach, watched her run across a grassy paddock, her arms outstretched. "Daddy," she called again. He wondered who she was and why she was calling him daddy when she rushed past him. Harry turned again and saw her leap into the open arms of Seamus. He twirled the little girl round and round as her giggles rang out and echoed in Harry's ears.

Gone were the piles of stones covered in ash and glass. Gone was the ruin of his childhood haven. Gone were the bodies hidden beneath rubble. All that remained was a father and his daughter laughing in a meadow.

Just as suddenly as the image appeared, it changed, and Harry found himself back in the compartment of the train, standing between the still figures of his friends. He stared at Seamus's unmoving body, trying to figure out exactly what just saw. Was he looking at the future? At two futures? As two possibilities of what could be? And which scene was real? Which was going to be played out? Both? Or neither?

Harry shifted his gaze back to his hand and to the other three in the compartment. His hand continued to tingle. Without any further hesitation he reached out and touched Lavender's shoulder.

He blinked.

The house was old. The paint was peeling, the furniture torn, and a curtain billowed in the wind that blew through a broken window pane. It reminded Harry of the Shrieking Shack-- old and lonely, haunted. A shadow shifted in the corner, and Harry tuned quickly to see a figure curled on the worn sofa, an old quilt wrapped around her legs, and long blonde hair obscuring her face. Though he couldn't see her face, he knew it was Lavender.

He watched her for a while, looking for some sign of what she was doing, of why she was here. Lavender was always so sociable, so out-going. He would never have pictured her sitting in a decrepit house, alone. Time passed, but she continued to sit there as motionless as the person who sat in a colorless train compartment in some other world. Harry wanted to call to her, but he knew she wouldn't hear him. He wanted to walk to her, but was afraid any movement would break the connection.

She shifted uncomfortably under the quilt, as if she could sense the intrusion by an outsider, as if she could feel his questioning eyes upon her. And in response to those eyes, and their questions, she looked up. Harry's gasp thundered in his ears. Deep gashes ran from her temple to her chin, across her cheek and on her throat. One eye was milky white and part of her ear was torn off. As she turned her head he noticed patches of hair missing, exposing more long angry scars on the other side of her face.

"No," he said softly as he watched her lonely form settle on the sofa, making no effort to do anything other that stare at the peeling paint. He could feel his legs go weak, feel the room begin to sway.

"No."

He turned away, unable to look at her any longer, and he suddenly understood why she would lock herself away in the ramshackle house. But as he turned his head the room changed. He was no longer in the house but in what looked to be a classroom. Harry was surrounded by children sitting at desks with pastel colored quills in their small hands. They were all facing the front of the room. Harry followed their gaze to see a woman waving a wand over a blackboard wiping it clean. She turned and Harry saw that it was Lavender, her blue eyes twinkling and her smile dazzling. She was more beautiful than he had ever seen her. And she was happy.

Harry found himself once again in the grey and colorless train compartment. He turned instantly to Pavarti, finally understanding the rules to whatever game was being played, and reached out. In the skeletal ruins of an old house, through clouds of black smoke that filled the air, he saw her holding the lifeless body of her twin sister. No tears ran down her face, she made no effort to speak.

Harry watched as Pavarti sat and stared blankly at her fallen sibling, looking confused and lost, disbelieving what was lying right before her. The scene then melted away and was replaced by her on her wedding day. Pavarti wore a gown of brilliant red and gold. Sheer scarves were wrapped around her head and shoulders, and golden bangles decorated her wrists. Padma came racing into the room, waving a golden brooch that she quickly pinned to Pavarti's gown and both sisters laughed and hugged tightly.

As soon as he could, Harry turned his attention to Dean, grabbing his friend's shoulder and clawing it roughly. He saw Dean lying glass-eyed and silent in a hospital bed. An elderly woman, who must have been his mother, was sitting beside him. She lovingly smoothed the bedding with her wrinkled hand until not a crease could be found, all the while talking to him as if they were having a pleasant conversation. She paused every once in a while to smooth out his hair, as she did the comforter, and ran her fingertips down his cheeks. That scene faded, and in its place was an image of Dean in an office at the Ministry, his wall adorned with a patchwork of citations and awards.

Harry realized then that he was seeing not just the future, but another possible future. What could have been and what could be. Suddenly he was struck with panic; he needed to find Ron.

Harry left the train compartment and ran back into the hall. He sprinted past other open doors, resisting the temptation to enter see what happened, what could happen to those that sat inside. He kept running until he found the hall blocked by Ginny and Neville. They were holding hands. There was no way around them without having have to touch them. He looked into Neville's round and smiling face, at Ginny's mischievous grin and felt a twinge of sorrow and fear. He wasn't sure he wanted to see what the future held for them but he had no choice. He placed his hand on their joined ones and waited.

Neville sat stone-faced in a wheelchair, his head held up by a support structure built into the top of the chair. His unmoving arms looked as if they were pinned to the chair and his shriveled legs hung limply before him. Ginny, looking thin and grey beyond her years, sat with him. But despite looking haggard and frayed she has a small smile on her lips.

Ginny seemed calm, completely at ease in her surroundings. She offered Neville a cool drink through a straw. Later, whispering words Harry couldn't hear, she tried to feed Neville from a spoon, like an infant. All Neville could do was blink.

"No, damn it," he screamed. "We fought against this. We fought to keep this from happening." This time he could hear his words. And as they left his lips, the image changed. Ginny was sitting up in her bed propped up by pillows, her belly large and round. Neville walked in carrying a glass of pumpkin juice and a tray of cookies. He set them down beside her and walked to the other side of the bed. He kicked off his slippers and climbed in. Before sitting back, he reached over and placed a kiss on her belly. She said something to him which caused him to laugh aloud. The only sound Harry could hear was that laugh, a rich, joyous laugh that warmed Harry's ears.

When the images finally faded Harry was able to pass the couple. Harry lingered for a while, staring at them. No matter what the future held for them, they would be together. No matter how dire the situation, Ginny stood by the side of the person she loved. Suddenly, Harry felt very guilty.

He continued his walk down the corridor in search of Ron, but his step was much slower. Images of Ginny and Neville replayed over and over in his mind. As he thought of them he couldn't help but picture Ron and himself. He saw himself caring for Ron, or being cared for, much in the same way Ginny and Neville cared for each other. It seemed a natural comparison, and Harry wondered why he never saw it before.

Unexpectedly, he found himself in the first car of the train. Instead of several small compartments, it consisted of one large room. Several people, all of whom Harry knew to be prefects, stood facing Hermione; she seemed to be giving out instructions of some sort. Harry's eyes honed in on the determined look on her face. His hand tingled, calling for him to reach out to her, but his mind was swirling with images of Ron.

He looked around until his eyes caught sight of something bright on the other side of the room. In the middle of the colorless and motionless quiet of the train was a shock of red calling to him like beacon, and pulling him to his friend.

While everyone else the train looked as if they were trapped in an old photograph, Ron stood out in full color. His hair, his eyes, his freckles -- all glowed brightly against the gloom of the rest of the room. Harry walked through the crowd and toward his friend. He was breathing heavily as if he had been running, his heart fluttering madly, his hands trembling. Whatever was going on led him here, to Ron, and it was time to see what he was meant to see. He reached up and gently cupped his quivering hand on Ron's chin.

The train car slowly dissolved around him, and Harry found himself standing inside a cluster of trees. He was looking out over a charred battle field. Billows of black smoke rose high into an angry red sky. Bodies littered the ground and flashes of hexes rifled through the air. It all looked chillingly familiar.

And then, Harry saw it. What he was meant to see. He saw himself walking steadily through bloodshed, his wand outstretched and madness in his eyes. Walking from the other side of the field was Voldemort, his own wand pointed steadily at Harry's double.

Harry remembered this moment all too vividly. Soon he would see himself hurl the hexes he was been working on for a year and destroy his archenemy and blow him in to a thousand bloody pieces. But something was wrong. Voldemort threw out the first hex instead, and Harry looked on in horror as his mirror image twitched and convulsed until he crumbled into a heap on the ground.

"No," came a loud scream from just behind Harry. He turned to see Ron, his face stricken and pale. Harry watched as Ron raced across the field, jumping over the dead and dying until he reached the body of the fallen hero. "No," he screamed again as he stood and pointed his wand at Voldemort.

Two more hexes were thrown across the battle field that day. One struck Voldemort and sent him tumbling back. The other, however, hit Ron squarely in the chest. Harry watched Ron fall. Watched the lifeless body of the person who mattered most to him in the world fall to the ground.

He stood gasping as all the air was knocked out of his lungs. "Please," he cried. His knees were beginning to buckle beneath him. "Please change it," he pleaded though the tears streaming down his face. "Make it change. Make it right."

Around the two still bodies the fighting continued.

Harry closed his eyes. "No," he whispered. "This isn't right. This isn't what happened. It all turned out right. It all turned out the way it was supposed to." He felt weak. He felt all the strength in his body drain out of him, like the color that was drained out of the world on the train.

And when he opened his eyes, the world had changed again. He was no longer in a field but in a dimly lit bedroom where the light of a dozen candles floating in midair flickered on two bodies that lay entangled in the bed. Harry's face flushed when he realized what he was seeing. His eyes traveled down the soft arc of Ron's back as it tapered to his waist and rose again with the curve of his backside. His eyes continued to travel down to where four legs intertwined.

Harry was mesmerized by the image Ron and himself making love. Theirs were the movements of two people who knew each other's bodies fully. Who had learned to move with practiced grace, perfectly in sync with one another. Unrushed, precise, determined.

There was passion and hunger pouring from Ron's fingertips and into Harry from where they held his shoulders and arms. There was tender devotion in the slow swaying of Ron's hips. Harry looked up to see Ron whispering words of love into his own ear, and though he couldn't hear the words, he knew what Ron was saying. He felt it bloom in his chest and warm the tips of his fingers. This was real. This is what the future held. This is what he had fought for. For daughters and sisters. For mothers not to have to sit and watch their children die. For a smile and the beauty it held. For a love that couldn't be broken. For Ron.

With a renewed sense of calm, he continued to watch the scene. He could almost feel Ron's weight upon him, feel his warm breath on his neck. The gentle rocking of the bodies was hypnotic, and soon Harry found himself breathing to the same pulsing rhythm of each thrust. Ron's face tightened as climax approached, biting his lower lip as he was overcome. Harry watched breathlessly as Ron gave in and his heart skipped a beat as Ron called his name.

Harry.

Harry.

"Harry."

His eyes slowly fluttered open to the sight of Ron standing in front of him with a sympathetic smile on his face. "You weren't kidding when you said you'd sleep the whole way, eh?"

"Wha...what?" Harry said groggily. It took a moment for him to focus properly, for him to realize where he was. He looked out his window at the colorful confusion of Platform 9 ¾. Parents gathered their children. Professors said tearful goodbyes to former students and colleagues. Pavarti and Lavender hugged and cried. Dean and Seamus shook hands before they too ended with a hug. Terry Boot helped Susan Bones with her trunk. Neville and Ginny kissed behind a pillar. Hermione talked to Hagrid, her arms swirling in broad circles, his beard quivering with his laughter. It was all so normal.

"You're a right heavy sleeper, I was calling your name for ages," Ron said jokingly as he held his hand out to his friend. "It's time to go."

Harry looked up at his friend and back to the hand that was offered. He couldn't manage to do anything but blink. Did he dream it all? Was any of it real? No. He decided. It was all real. Too real.

"Right," he replied almost to himself. "It is time to go."

Harry slowly brought his hand forward and grabbed Ron's, allowing himself to be hoisted up. When he stood he looked down to his hand still clasped in Ron's. He half expected to see another scene play out before him, images of other paths, of other lives. But there were none. Instead he was left staring at the possibilities of what he held between his fingers. Harry realized that there was nothing to see, as that tale had yet to be written. This wasn't the beginning or ending of anything, just the continuation of what would hopefully be a long story.

"You okay, mate?" Ron asked.

Harry thought for a moment as a catalog of memories flashed by. Some real. Some not. Some that would never be. "No," he said honestly. "But I will be." And he believed it. "Let's go home," he added. "We have a lot of plans to make."

Finis