Winter Sunlight

A Prologue

    The winter winds blew mercilessly over the grounds, whipping around cloaks and robes. The world was grey and dark through the cover of her black veil, the sky covered with threatening storm clouds as befitting the occasion. The trees were stripped of leaves, and there was no sight of green anywhere, but the brown of dead grass. The rows of headstones stared back balefully at her.

    The flapping of the cloaks and robes made a fitting last rite for the dead, as the coffin was gently lowered to the ground with a word of magic. It was a simple casket, unadorned and ugly, an unfitting resting place for the scion of an ancient house. Where mourners would have once crowded the cemetery and offered condolences to the family, only four now stood in a half circle around the open earth.

    The mother, standing up tall and proud, eyes dry, though Narcissa knew that the widow wept inside. She'd buried a son before, as well. Though she had wept no tears on the outside, either. She could remember the lessons from her youth - 'Grieve if you must, but to the world be strong.'

    Then there was the young widow, pale and frail in the widow black that she'd probably never expected to wear so soon. Her skin was sallow behind the smoky veil, and her eyes were red, but her tears had since run dry. One could only weep so much, before the eyes ran out of tears. The slight curve of her pregnancy was both comfort and burden to the young woman.

    Then there was him.

    At the thought, she spared a glance at him, expressionlessly wrapped in formal black that had seen many occasions such as this. Did he feel remorse for the dead? Did he feel pity for the living? Or did he feel nothing at all, having buried so, so many before? Only used to seeing his warmth and the tangle of passionate emotions, she couldn't tell what he was thinking behind the cold reflective green eyes. So this was the mask he wore to face the world - just as she wore a mask herself, to shut herself away.

    She turned her attention back to the funeral, and was startled to feel the press of a hand on her arm. She glanced back at him, who didn't acknowledge her look, but stared forward without expression. But she could feel the slight tightening of the hand, offering her the warmth of heart she needed. She allowed herself to lean against the protection he offered, from the cold, harsh wind of winter and mind.

    She was hugged in turn by the widows, and tried to offer as much comfort as she could, though she had little practice in it. The mother pressed Harry's hand wordlessly, before taking the young widow and walking away to the gates, leaving the fresh grave behind. Tall, dark figures appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and she turned her head to look at him.

    He replied to her unspoken question without taking his eyes off the disappearing figures. "They'll just escort them to their home. Too many unfriendly eyes."

    His kindness - so reasonable to him, so unfamiliar to her - touched a strange place in her chest that she'd thought buried with her only son. But this other young man also seemed to have an uncanny knack for bringing it back to life.

    "Thank you, Harry," she said, for both things. How strange the shape of his name felt to her mouth, leaving the tip of her tongue, sweet and soft.

    Holding onto his hand on her elbow, she headed to a different part of the cemetery. By his hesitant steps she could tell that he knew where she was headed, but he followed her without complaint. Soon they came up to a headstone, before a twin grave. The names were dated for the same day. They had told her that her son and his fiancee had died but a few hours apart, as if the death of one had snapped the life-thread of the other. Perhaps that had been the truth.

    He had been here too, she remembered. The day her son was buried here with his unwed wife. He had wept, and she had been slightly awed by the cruel green eyes shedding tears that she herself could not bring to reveal. It had been a warmer day than this, everyone filled with the acknowledgement of the sacrifice and the euphoria of victory that had tempered the sharp grief. Tempered for everyone but she herself, who could feel every cutting bite in her heart.

    Her husband had been buried but the day before - unmourned and unattended by anyone but for herself and the keeper of the ancient crypt where the Malfoys had been buried for centuries. Here the mourners had been numerous, as the only daughter of the Minister of Magic and the last heir of the Malfoy family had been buried together, as per their will. "A modern Romeo and Juliet," they'd whispered behind her back, where they thought she could hear. "Their love will be remembered through the ages." She'd held her tongue on her own thoughts, though grief and anger had threatened to flood from her lips.

    "Amor Vincit Omnia," he read aloud, inscribed on the headstone. Love Conquers All. Such simple words, and like all other such words laced thickly with meaning. It was salutation and mockery, truth and lie, hope and despair - and she wondered again at his choice. What had prompted him to gift this stone with the same words inscribed on the grave of his own parents? Who had left him orphaned, all alone, to save the world all by himself. The past two months had not been time enough for her to reach the parts of his heart that he'd closed away, even from her.

    Someone had left a bouquet of roses, now withered and dry, before the twin graves. He knelt before the headstone, and touched his wand to the dry bouquet. Under her eyes the roses sprang back into life, color flooding into each delicately withered petals, dried leaves blooming back to green.

    "Thank you," she said, when he got back up to stand at her side. She laid a pale hand on the headstone of the grave of her son and his fiancee. What would they say, when they saw her like this? What would her son, so young and wild and impetuous, say when seeing her standing by the side of his childhood rival? What would the young girl, who'd been the object of so much love - not the least from the young man by her side - say when seeing him with her?

    She closed her eyes and rested her hand on the cold stone, and breathed in the chill winter air, and waited for the words she knew she wouldn't come.

    Winter Sunlight

    Chapter 4: Looking In

    Neville walked down the hallway of the hospital, familiar from the years of visits. The carpet was thin and discolored from the decades of patients and visitors trampling over them, the patterns never changing, in all the years he'd visited St. Mungo's Hospital.

    Even the nurses knew him, and he nodded to the ones he recognized as he passed door after door, to finally arrive at the one that read: 'Janus Thickey Ward - For Permanent Magical Injuries.' It was a familiar door, and he took a moment to gather himself. Beyond lay something he loved and yet did not love at the same time, and he tried to curl his lips in a smile at the irony, that he and so many other children in the world shared that particular sentiment about their sires. Especially since his particular relationship with his parents were wildly different from any other. But he couldn't hold off the visit forever, and taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

    The large room was clean and the walls were painted with warm colors. As always, it lacked the harsh clean smell of muggle hospitals, but instead had the pleasant aura of comfortable residence. He strode down the rows of beds, some empty, some not, to the far end of the ward. Many of the patients were familiar, mostly here for the duration. The few lucky ones recovered and left surrounded by whatever family or friends they had left.

    The unlucky ones left in a box.

    As always, the same old flowery curtain was pulled around the farthest corner, to give its occupants - and the rare visitors - an illusion of privacy. He walked right up to them, until the tip of his nose was almost brushing at the thin fabric. There was little sound beyond, but his senses told him that there were two people there. His sense and his logic. They had, after all, never left this part of this room in this hospital for over two decades.

    He found the parting in the curtains, and gently pulled them aside. The two beds were put against each other, and a man lay on one of them, eyes closed, breathing slowly. His face had never regained the Longbottom roundness - that his son had also retained even through the bitter war. But he'd also lost most of his hair, and the few strands that he had left were wispy and dead-looking.

    Beside the bed, thick green vines rose from pots, to cling and climb up the wooden latticework built against the wall. The topmost vines had overgrown the length of the latticework, and threatened to start on the ceiling. He absently decided to extend the latticework onto the ceiling for them to grow over the next time he came. He'd have to talk with the nurses about that.

    There was a woman standing by the vines, watering them. She would have been tall, had she not been so hunched over, aged beyond her years, her shoulders bent. There were small patches of skin showing between her wispy white hair, and he realized with a start that she too was losing her hair. His heart gave a little clench, to see that the years had pressed upon her so heavily. It was unheard of, for wizards their age to look so old.

    He closed the curtains behind him back around their little corner. Then again, perhaps he should be grateful. The only other people who had faced Voldemort down three times were cold in their graves, their only son left to grow as an orphan.

    At this second rattling of the curtains, the woman finally turned around. Her hands were shaking - but then they always were. She held them out to him, and he took them with a smile that he tried to make as bright as possible, though she cocked her head a little to the side. When she spoke, he tried to convince himself that her regaining her speech was a minor miracle to thank the gods for. He really did. If only the knives stopped their stabbing into his heart every time he heard her scratchy voice.

    "Hello?"

    Which was worse? To be unrecognized and not spoken to, or to be spoken to and still be unrecognized? He still couldn't decide.

    "Hello, mum," he said anyway, laying down the flowers next to the vase. "It's been a while."

    Neville staggered up the stairs, not having bothered to take the elevator. It was very, very late, and the lights along the staircase were dimmed accordingly. He cursed roundly as he stumbled on a stair that wasn't quite there. Or was it an extra stair that he hadn't quite stepped on?

    Picking himself off the floor, he staggered across the familiar landing. He fumbled his wand out, and started tapping and muttering at his door. Had he been sober, he'd have been darkly amused at how he could remember all the wards and disable them in his current state. But he was roaring drunk, which was why the door squealed back open when he crossed the threshold into his flat.

    Despite the haze of alcohol, he weaved unerringly across the dark living room his bed. Kneeling next to the unmade bed, he reached down beneath the thin iron struts and drew out the small wooden box. The familiar sight of the box brought something sharp to bear against his belly, and he hunched over it, breathing heavily, fighting down the hot warmth that surged against his eyes.

    Giggling and sobbing, he carefully opened the thick wooden lid. The box itself was half-full with meaningless pieces of paper of diverse sizes and colors. Bubble-gum wrappers, candy wrappers, origami papers, and what not. Reaching deeply into his pocket, he carefully drew out another such piece and pressed the creases flat, laying it on top of the pile. Then he sank back onto his haunches and stared.

    "Blloodddy hellllll!" he threw his head back and shouted into the empty ceiling, the walls echoing him back hollowly. He closed the lid and slumped against the bed.

    "Lumos!" came a voice from the open doorway, and he blinked blearily as long unused lights came to light. "Neville?!"

    "Ehh?"

    "What on earth?!"

    Someone padded over to his side with soft feet, and Neville blinked up at the

figure, haloed by the harsh lights on his ceiling. Looking rumpled and wearing a nightgown, as if she had just got out of bed, she looked so beautiful that she took his breath away. His very own guardian angel, come to take him to hell.

    And she was looking down at him with wide blue eyes. His eyes were always

drawn to them, clear and bright, altering hue with the changing lights and emotions. At the moment, they were the deep blue that he'd labeled at heart as concerned and confused.

    "Neville? Are you all right?"

    "Ohh. It's youuu¡¦." he slurred. Hands reached down and grabbed his arm, and tried to lift him up.

    "Come on, Neville. You'll catch your death out here. Got to put you to bed."

    "Donn wann to gooo¡¦."

    He heard an exasperated breath above him, then the words of a spell. His body was gently lifted into the air, and floated back out of his flat into the one next to it, now quite familiar to him. He smiled and reached out for the familiar walls, though the view was very different when he was being floated lying down, and he couldn't quite tell why the walls were so far apart.

    His journey finally stopped above the bed, and gentle hands pulled his coat away before he was lowered to the bed. As he sank into the softness, he closed his eyes and let sweet oblivion come and claimed him.

    *    *    *

    It was only natural, he supposed, that he dream of her. Only natural that he dream this dream again, after this day's events. Only natural, and heartbreaking. And like all his other dreams, there was a red haze to his sight, as if he was seeing through a thin veil of blood.

    The room was dark and damp, a seldom-used storage room in the headquarters

of the order. It now housed two of its members, one sitting, the other laying down on the cold stone floor. The room was perfectly silent, but for the Voice in his head, chuckling and rubbing its hands, satisfied to see the traitor's cold body before him - if only in a dream. Only death was the reward for betrayal, as poor Snape had demonstrated before. Now the body of the second traitor lay before him, though probably not quite the way the Dark Lord had expected - or planned.

    Harry silently whispered a prayer for all the fallen, though to whom he prayed he didn't know. In what god could he put his faith, to comfort the dead in their cold slumber? And did he pray in his dream, or had he prayed in real life, in that cold room? But his uncertain prayers were all he could spare, for those no longer living and breathing life's torments.

    He slowly got to his feet at the sound of hasty footsteps, coming his way from the open door. He was tired, though his muscles still quivered with the adrenaline and his thoughts turned at a feverish speed. He'd been expecting her for sometime, ever since he'd brought the body back from the bloody field of victory. The pointless, hollow victory over nothing. For him, hope was a withered olive branch he no longer believed in, that others looked up to him to uphold.

    'Hypocrite,' the Voice stated, and he nodded in silent agreement.

    She burst through the doorway, her face pale, long thick red hair knocked astray. At the sight of the still, unmoving figure, she put a hand to her chest and drew in a sharp breath. The weak light caught the dim gleam of the ring, and he stifled a sigh.

    He moved aside as she approached, oblivious of everything but the cold body

lying before her. In slow motion, as if in a dream - even though he knew that this too was a dream - she knelt next to him, and gently lifted the pale blond hair onto her lap. She ran her fingers through the fine, silky hair, smoothing the frown of death from the still brows. Her fingers trembled - but hadn't she always trembled, when she was with him? Her beautiful, cunning, brilliant spy.

    Harry surreptitiously wiped away the blood on his hands, though he could still

feel the clinging feel of the hot wetness on his hands.

    She bent forward, her hair curtaining her face from view. She didn't make a sound, but the silent grief was all the more agonizing for it. He left, before the silent sounds of her weeping could reach him and twist the pain in his heart even further.

    Outside, the sun had fallen, and the moon, dark red in all her glory, was reaching its zenith. It was a full moon tonight, and the fleeting thought that he should let Remus sit this one out passed his mind, before he remembered that the gentle werewolf was dead. So many friends, so many dead.

    He leaned back in his chair, waiting for the others to arrive. They called this the Council Chamber, though it was but a large, empty room with an equally large oval table and chairs scattered around it. It didn't really deserve the name, this place. But he'd grown fond of it over the years.

    Or was it hatred that he felt? Here they had planned and plotted and argued and brought death upon others and themselves in their wisdom and folly. Enough blood to drown a dozen Harrys and Voldemorts, and to his burning shame they both still lived and breathed. Now he would plan a final act of idiocy, and drown themselves - or at least one of them - at long last.

    Slowly the others came into the room and seated themselves among the scattered seats. Ron looking deathly white, Hermione clinging to him, not much better. She still screamed in her sleep, and sometimes he woke to her cries seeping through the thick stone walls, before they were calmed and silenced by a presence not his own. Then he'd lie awake and count the hours till dawn, just as he'd done before, when she'd laid her chestnut hair on his chest and wandered back to her nightmares. Harry sometimes wondered whether Ron went back to his own nightmares, or was forced to stay awake, just as he had.

    Sirius was there, who slept only in his dog form, saying that it offered more comfort and warmth that way. But his lot was better than Neville's, who only slept in fitful snatches or drunken stupors, though no amount of alcohol could drown out the sights burned into his eyelids. But they met his eyes without turning away, battered and worn, but still sharp steel.

    Then Dumbledore himself, his beard now a pale wispy white instead of the shining silver he remembered from his school days. The old man had withered and wasted away with each passing month and each passing life. He was no longer the wise man, their oracle, the savior of last resort. Harry now knew Dumbledore for what he was - a tired, ancient wizard trying to make the best with what he had, even though he had more than what anyone else had. But he was still human.

    And to be human, was to err.

    They were all tired and dirty and stained with blood. They had seen and done what few had seen and done before, even if there was nothing new under the sun. Their heads crowned with the wreaths of outstanding valor and sacrifice, even as their hands were stained black with vile deeds of hell. And this grim lot was the best and the finest the Order could offer. The only people he could trust to celebrate this night's festival of death.

    "Tonight," he invited them, looking into each pair of eyes, and they nodded grimly in acceptance. They all knew what must be done - the only choice left them - death or victory. No more, this grueling, unending war. No more, the blood of innocents staining the earth. No more, this pointless death and destruction. After tonight, they could put their wands to rest, and kill no more.

    Even in his dream he could not help the strangled laughter that bubbled up from his throat, leaving behind the dark, bitter taste of despair. Ah, how naive he had been. How naive they had all been. Did they not know that the darkness doesn't rest in monsters outside them, but the ones inside?

    The wooden doors opened, and she strode into the chamber. She'd scrubbed her face before coming, that all color had left her already pale face, and her hair streamed around her head like a river of blood. She wore a plain black robe of mourning, and the only thing that he could see was the pale grip of her hand on her wand, and the golden gleam on her finger.

    She said nothing, simply stared at him and lifted her chin defiantly. He was both glad and saddened to see the little shy girl he'd first met at King's Cross turned into this beautiful creature, talented and willful - a rose with all her thorns intact. Certainly no longer the helpless innocent he'd saved from the basilisk, overwhelmed in the flush of her first crush. Nor his eager, brilliant student in his illicit class of children learning to protect themselves. Her hands were just as steeped in blood as any other in this room.

    The others fell silent, looking at them both, waiting for him to make his decision. Neither Sirius nor Dumbledore gave him an indication of their thoughts. He looked into her eyes and saw the burning anger there - but who didn't burn with rage, here? Certainly not he, out to avenge both parents and a multitude of injuries both personal and impersonal. Though in his vengeance he had only created the seeds of more wrongs to be avenged.

    "Very well, then." And even in his dream, the regret bit sharply into his heart. And the Voice chuckled in a dark corner of his sanity.

    *    *    *

    Neville blinked his eyes open, groaning. There was a familiar pounding in his head, though it hadn't happened for a while. Bloody hell, had he been drinking again? He put a hand to his head, feeling as if it would come apart at the seams. It throbbed with every beat of his heart, and he dimly wondered through the pain whether he should just knock himself out against the thick wooden headboard.

    "Here, drink this." A cool glass was pressed against his lips, and he wrinkled

his nose at the foul smell before downing the stuff in one gulp. He groaned, as the bitter greasy stuff flowed down his throat. It always reminded him of the stuff muggles put in their vehicles. Why her anti-hangover potion always tasted so vile was beyond him, though she argued that it had more therapeutic affects. He personally thought it was to discourage drinking, but then who was he to argue?

    His head started clearing up, and he finally managed to take a good look at his surroundings. He was in a bedroom, which was no surprise. That he was familiar with it, and still dressed in most of his clothes, was a tiny little bit more surprising. The thin sun was already high up in the sky, which meant that it was....

    "What time is it?" he asked.

    "Half past three," said an amused voice.

    "Ughh...." He was late for work - though in his current state, he could very possibly be out of one by now. He tried to gather his thoughts, scattered throughout his brain. They refused to cooperate, flitting about like a flock of headless chicken.

    "Where are you going?" she asked, still amused, as he tried to roll out of bed. Apparently, losing the hangover didn't mean he'd regained all his senses. Deft hands appeared and caught him before he smashed headfirst into the bedside lamp, and he sighed as he was rolled onto his back.

    "To work."

    "You don't have to go. I sent them an owl, saying that you were sick."

    Neville just groaned and put a hand to his head. Maybe taking today off was a good idea - if he could survive Sirius tomorrow. There wasn't anything pressing at the office, come to think of it. Except for that nice little serial murder and the death of young Nott just a few days ago, that had all of Wizard London up in arms. But surely he could be spared from saving the world for a single day?

    His train of thought was derailed by a familiar presence settling on the bed

next to him. "Now tell me what was that all about," she asked.

    "About what?" he evaded. But she simply crossed her arms and stared at him,

and there was a look in her eyes that demanded an answer of some sort. And wouldn't take no for an answer, either. She reached under the bed with her slim arm, and pulled out a very familiar wooden box. She cocked an eyebrow at him, challenging.

    "What's all this?"

    His heart clenched again at the sight of the box, and something must have appeared on his face, because her face softened and she snuggled a little closer up to him on the bed and draped her arms around his neck. She gave him a light peck on the cheek.

    "If you don't want to talk about it, it's all right."

    He stared at the box. It'd been his little secret for so long. First from Gran, and her well-meaning intentions to spare him from the pain of parents in permanent state of madness. Then again, the road to hell was paved with good intentions. Hers had just been another block on his road. Then from his schoolmates and the rest of the world, from whom he'd wanted no pity. After all, he'd had none to spare for them.

    But he'd wanted to talk about this for so long, to unload the burden somewhere that the words slipped from his mouth with an ease that surprised him.

    "They're from my mother. I visited her yesterday, you see."

    "I didn't know your folks were...." she trailed off, uncertain how to continue.

    "They're alive, all right."

    "Then how come I've never heard you mention them?" she asked, frowning. "Don't you get along with them?"

    He had to choke back bitter laughter at her innocent questions, and the smile that had refused to come to him in front of the hospital room now curled his lips painfully. Not get along with them? What a way to describe the relationship between him and his parents. The irony was heartbreaking.

    "They had a nasty little run in with Death Eaters, when I was young. They were aurors, you see. They were luckier than the Potters - all they lost was their sanity."

    "Oh," she said in a small voice. He looked at her, whose face had gone all pale and white. He tried to summon the smile back to his face. It refused to cooperate. The bitterness had come unbidden to his lips, and he'd let them fly without thinking about where they'd land.

    "Hey, it's all right. I've gotten used to it."

    He was surprise at the fierceness with which she suddenly decided to hug him. "No, it's not alright! It's not alright at all!" she said against his shoulder. "And you can never get used to it. No one can."

    He patted her back awkwardly, suddenly uncertain who was the one being condoled. But gentle hands reached up and stroking his head, and pulled him against her with surprising strength. She was all soft and warm.

    'Be comforted,' his logic told his emotion. Taking his own advice, he buried his face in her hair, and breathed in the comfort.

    *    *    *

    Harry glanced at Neville, who closed his coat against the harsh winds. His color was back, and he looked much better than when they'd parted company two days ago. Perhaps he'd rested a bit yesterday, after the unexpected sick call that had sent Sirius into fits of unamused outrage. He certainly looked better than when an incredibly unhappy Sirius had called the two of them into the office for a tongue-lashing. Neville had been practically lying down in his chair for the whole session.

    The shop Sirius had directed them to was one of the most rundown places Harry

had seen in all of London, if not his entire life. If the Leaky Cauldron had never been cleaned since its foundation, this would probably be how it looked. The windows were covered so thick with dirt and cobwebs that it made an effective barrier against prying eyes and magic, and only the half-wrecked sign hanging outside proclaimed in faint letters, 'Pawnshop.'

    The battered door squeaked as it opened perilously on rusty hinges. The dull clang on a bell rang out as they closed the door behind them. The inside of the shop didn't disappoint him. Lights were so dim, that he could barely make out the objects displayed haphazardly on the shelves or carelessly thrown to lie on the ground.

    The back of his neck prickled at the wave of coldness emanating from the displays, and he frowned. The aura of dark magic was thick enough to taste here, and he wondered how this shop had survived the war, what with the waves of Death Eaters searching for magical objects to further their cause. And the retaliatory waves by the Order against suspected sympathizers. Then the past few years of persecution against all things of darkness. Not to mention the fact that this was one of the few remaining fences in all of Wizarding Britain.

    It was certainly not by the charm of the shopkeeper, who lounged behind a counter of sorts, at a corner of the shop. Neville stepped up to the counter, and the old, wizened shopkeeper peered up at him with blinking eyes. His face was covered so thickly with wrinkles, and bags of loose skin hung beneath his chin that it was hard to imagine he'd ever been young and smooth faced. But the eyes were clear and sharp, and his withered hand was steady as it slid onto the wand that lay on the counter.

    The counter itself was a dirty, battered old counter made of crisscrossed something, smudged and blackened with dirt and the ages, but he could see that it had been white, at first. Somehow he knew just what it had been made of, and a corner of his lips curled in a sneer. He had seen too much to be shocked at such a juvenile display of evil. And human bone, unless treated right, became brittle with age, anyway.

    Neville casually leaned against the counter, and reached into his pockets and

withdrew a small picture of a thin young man dressed in black. Putting it on the counter, he slid it over to the shopkeeper. "Do you know him, by any chance?"

    "Doan knaw anywan laike dat," the shopkeeper responded, taking only a perfunctory look at the picture. His voice was a dry, harsh whisper, and he coughed and spat on the floor. Neville glanced at Harry, who nodded back. The man sounded...truthful. Of course, it only meant that what he said wasn't an outright lie. Turning back to the shopkeeper with a grimace, Neville asked again.

    "Then how about a woman selling dark magical objects?"

    The old man simply lifted a brow, and said nothing. Neville sighed and slapped

a golden galleon on the counter. A hand crept slowly over and took hold of the coin, hefting it.

    "Dar might hab been somewan laike dat."

    This time it was Neville's turn to lift a brow. Looking around the shop, he mentioned casually, "Lots of suspicious stuff here. Might have to have someone come down and look at things sometime later."

    The old man grimaced, his eyes darting between him and Neville. He gave the

shopkeeper the nicest, kindest smile he could summon, and was satisfied to see him pale to a sicken shade of puce in recognition.

    "Yep. Harry Potter himself," Neville supplied helpfully. "He eats dark wizards for breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner. Not a very healthy diet, I'm afraid."

    "Dar, dar was, was...a woman who kaime in reshantly," the shopkeeper said, shooting glances at him. Harry grinned back, and the words came out faster. "Good looking woman - kinda tall, laike. Bat icshy, she whas. Wary kool. Wary klashy. Look rich, but shold shtuff. Qoite a bat."

    The words were coming at a rush now, and the shopkeeper was babbling. Neville turned back to Harry and lifted an eyebrow, clearly impressed. He was forced to

stop a shrug of seeming nonchalance. "Did you get a good look at her?" he asked instead.

    "Naw. Had her kloak hood up. Nice whoit kloak, too. Gat dirty fram the dart,

a bits."

    Harry frowned. "What did she sell you?"

    "Cho wants to have a get together of sorts," said Neville, when they'd stepped

back out into streets. Harry breathed in the sharp, fresh air, glad to be away from the stuffy shop. It was quite hot, and he unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Neville gave him a strange glance, and buttoned his coat even tighter.

    "A get together?" he asked. "Get together for what?"

    "Oh, a sort of Christmas and end of year thing."

    "Well. Why not?"

    *    *    *

    The restaurant was small but very nice, and again Neville wondered how Ron knew to find a place like this. Leave it to Ron to find the hidden gems of this city. It was decorated with the buoyant red and gold and green of Christmas cheer, and there was a light, festive air to the place, despite the harsh winter cold outside. He'd bet quite a few galleons that this place had been up and running during the heights of the war. People held on to whatever little comfort they had, especially in desperate times.

    "You seem much better these days," remarked Hermione to Harry, who simply smiled in response. Though he'd gotten a bit paler since he'd last seen him, at the pawnshop. But there was an easy air of friendship at the table that Cho had rather aptly - with dry humor - described as "The Terrible Tricycle with training wheels."

    Ron, who had an arm slung over her shoulder, gestured at him with his glass. "She's right, mate. You don't look so much like a ghost now. Last time, you looked terrible. Both of you," he finished, gesturing to include Neville.

    Harry lifted his glass in a mock salute. "They say that a candle burns the brightest before it goes out."

    There was a momentary silence at the table, and Neville felt a sudden chill that he knew the others also felt. But Cho broke it with a laughing punch in Harry's arm. "Oh Harry! Really! You always say the wrong things!"

    The others laughed weakly. The shadows still hung heavily over them all, despite the years, and too many casual, ill-omened remarks had come to life for them. But Cho didn't seem to notice their unease.

    "Do you know the things he said, the first time we dated?"

    "Hey now!" Harry exclaimed, and the laughter strengthened as Cho went into descriptive detail over their disastrous first and last date. Neville slung an arm around her in - he admitted to himself - possessive protectiveness. But she didn't seem to notice, only pausing to give him a fleeting smile before going back to the telling of her story.

    He sat there casually, slumped slightly to the side as Cho pulled his arm closer around her while she gesticulated and waved her hands around to make her point. She talked as much with her body as with words, using gestures or looks to keep up with her thoughts, which sometimes ran too fast for her words to catch up with. She shined among people - attractive, charismatic, exuding warmth.

    He watched his friends, seeing how Ron and Hermione sat together, subconsciously aware of each other. They fit together seamlessly, unlike the turbulent and stormy relationship Hermione had with Harry. He admitted to himself, albeit reluctantly, that Harry wasn't quite what Hermione needed. And vice versa. Their emotions ran too high, their pride and intelligence too deep, to be completely comfortable with each other. Unlike Ron, who had the right temperament, despite his red hair, to give her the room she needed. But the two relationships, following on the heels of one another, had caused a rift in what used to be a perfect trio.

    A tripod, he reminded himself, could be the weakest of structures.

    And with that thought in mind, he turned his gaze to Harry, sitting alone. He

seemed comfortable, participating in the conversation when necessary, throwing in a comment here and there. Content to watch his friends interact. But Neville noticed that he often put a hand to his head, or checked his watch, as if waiting for something. Or maybe to go somewhere? Seeing a lull in the conversation, he struck.

    "So, Harry, been seeing anyone lately?"

    Harry looked at him straight in the eye, and a corner of his lips curled into a half sneer, half smirk as he shook his head.

    "No, not really."

    "Oh Harry, you're wasting yourself! I'm sure there are plenty of groupies out there, just waiting to get their hands on you!" Cho called out, and the others laughed as he blanched and crossed his fingers.

    Before anyone could grill him about his relationships - or the lack thereof, Harry turned to Hermione. "So, how's Hogwarts these days?" he asked, deftly turning the attention away from him. Hermione glowed - her students, along with their old alamater, was one of her favorite subjects. Ron had warned them that when once she got going, "the woman simply won't stop!"

    "It's really fantastic, the kids are from all over Europe now. Though we tend to have a little trouble with the non-English speakers at start. Hagrid's cleared some more of the Forbidden Forest away, for both Professor Flitwick and his own classes...."

    They listened with both interest and amusement at the tales she told of students getting into vast amounts of trouble - "Veritable oceans! The trouble the kids can get into!" Ron coughed theatrically, which turned into a real one as Hermione casually elbowed him in the ribs. "Though things aren't the same since Dumbledore passed away. But Minerva - Professor McGonagall - is keeping things together well...."

    "I heard she wanted to give you the DADA job," he threw in from the side, and she gave him a withering glance.

    "Hah! That job is positively cursed! Not a single professor lasted beyond a year since...what, when we were first years?"

    "I had Professor Quirell for two years. Though it wasn't particularly enlightening," said Cho wryly.

    "He was the last to do more than one year. I'm quite happy with Transfiguration, thank you very much." Then she went on, feeding them little gossips from the teacher's lounge, or Hagrid's still highly lethal Creature lessons. Until Ron, finally getting tired of her filibuster grabbed her chin and jerked her head to face him.

    "Ron! I was just -"

    She was abruptly cut off as Ron planted his lips firmly over hers. The friends hid their grins behind their hands as Ron, eyes open, counted off the seconds with his free hand, while Hermione melted into the kiss. With a thumb up, he finally pulled away, and Hermione gave a little purr, all flushed rosy, before coming to herself.

    "Well, I...isn't it time to be going?"

    They laughed and gathering their coats, and Neville helped Cho into her coat. She slipped her arm around his as Ron came up to them, and they headed for the exit together, Hermione saying something to Harry as they followed. He felt Cho's arm tighten slightly around him from the cold breeze coming from the swinging doorway.

    "How's the case going?"

    He gave a quick glance around the restaurant to see if anyone was listening. "We're not really getting anywhere. But we'll be fine."

    "Let me know if there's anything you need help with."

    "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks." He nodded to Ron, who smiled and started saying something to Cho. Hermione came up to him and gave him a light hug.

    "Do you know whom he's seeing?" she asked in sotto voice. He shook his head ruefully.

    "Sorry."

    She frowned at him, and he tried for his most innocent look. It didn't throw her off, he knew. She could be as tenacious as a bloodhound on scent. But she didn't probe any further. "Take care of yourself. And Cho. You two really look wonderful together."

    Cho, hearing the last comment, jerked Neville to her with a Cheshire grin. "Mine! All mine!"

    They all laughed, and said their goodbyes to each other. Ron and Hermione disappeared into the fireplace with a flash and a roar, hand in hand. Harry stood staring at the fireplace himself, then frowning, turned back to Neville.

    "I'd rather apparate." With a nod to them both, he strode out of the door into the darkness of the night.

    "So, the floo, or should we apparate?" Neville asked.

    Cho cocked her head to the side, looking up at the clear winter sky, then smiled at him. "Let's just walk for a while."

    "So," she said, arm linked against his own. Her breath was misty white in the cold winter air, and her cheeks were flushed with the cold. He pulled her closer, and she smiled up at him, though her eyes seemed to a little sad tonight.

    "So?" he prompted.

    "Who is Harry really seeing?"

    He smiled and turned his eyes away. "I don't know."

    "You don't know, or you can't say?" she clarified for him.

    "I can't say."

    "How about if I guess?"

    He raised his eyebrows, and she smiled up at him, though her eyes shined with something. He frowned down at her, and she flicked away something with the tip of her fingers.

    "Hey, are you all right?"

    "Oh dear, I don't know what's come over me." She smiled at him, and he thought she looked beautiful under the pale streetlight, night-black hair and white shapely face lifted up to him. He bent his head closer to hers, and she looked up at him with her lashes lowered.

    "Neville?"

    "Hmmm?"

    She faltered for a moment under his direct gaze. She alternately blushed red and paled. Then she closed her eyes and shook her head. "Nevermind. It's not important." She buried her face against his chest instead. "Let's just go home."

    *    *    *

     The door opened without anyone behind them, and he stepped inside, frowning. She was standing in the living room, clutching a parchment tightly in her right hand, so tight that her knuckles shone white against her pale skin. He had gotten much better at reading her expressions, as little as she showed them. And though this was one he saw for the first time, he had an easier time of guessing at it. After all, it was written bold and clear on her bloodless face.

     It was naked pain and anger, and he admitted, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he had not really thought her capable of that much emotion. Or rather, he amended to himself, capable of expressing it. Normally so composed, now her jaw was so tightly clenched that he could see the jutting outline against edge of her cheeks, where her face ended and folded back to the long, graceful line of her neck. He had a sudden, inappropriate craving to kiss that little spot, beneath her ear where the bone ended and flesh began.

     Silently, she took a step closer, and though he didn't back away he had a fleeting thought that this was where her son had truly gotten his poise from, that cold arrogant fury that had made everyone - even his own father - step back and reconsider. But the thought was dashed from his mind with the hard crackle of parchment, crushed into a ball and thrown at his face.

     Slowly, he bent down and picked up the parchment, and the feel of the paper was familiar to his touch, and he felt a cold fear start creeping into his bones. Slowly, very slowly, he straightened himself and spread the parchment. A shocking, hollow feeling bloomed in the pit of his belly, which only worsened as he read the heading in some agent's neat, uncharacteristic hand.

    'Reports on the activities of NM, from 27 January to 11 February.'

    Beneath was a detailed account of what she had done, whom she had seen, when and where, and the address of his own flat stared in his face, and he felt it burn. He took a deep breath, though he felt as if the air was so frigid that the cold seeped into his lungs and slashed them bloody like a mass of razors. At the very bottom were three familiar signatures - Sirius' bold handwriting, Neville's slanted cursive, and his own.

    He looked down at the hem of his black robe, splashed with specks of mud and dirt, and idly wondered where he had gotten them from. The Voice, so silent this past few months, awoke and cackled with mocking, manic laughter. Or had it been laughing all the while, all these months, and only now did he hear it?

    He raged at it to shut up, to go and fall to the pit of hell where it belonged, where it could rot for all eternity and more. But it did not go away, no more than he could think of something to say to her. All but the truth, and the truth, normally so easy and sweet on his tongue, was now bitter and heavy. He could feel himself sliding down into a black chasm, dark and unending, his fingers scrabbling to find purchase, clinging frantically for life and sanity, kicking futilely against the rocky walls. He desperately reached for a handhold, a foothold, a toehold, anything.

    "I'm sorry."

    She stood there, expressionless and unmoving, her grey eyes wide open and staring, as if by blinking she would give away something that lay beneath their stormy surface. It seemed that she was now finally frozen into her true form, and he could stand there, until the end of time, with manic laughter ringing in his ears, mind hanging on to sanity with slipping fingers, and he would get nothing from her lips until the world was unmade.

    She opened her mouth, but her voice cracked and she fell silent. But she did not back down, refusing to admit any more weakness before him. He feared that if he made the slightest movement or sound, he would break the fragile tension, and all would be lost. Even though he knew that there could be no other way.

     Then finally, an eternity later, her lips moved, lips shaping a single word. But he stood still, willing the word to disappear into the void, because if no one heard her say it, then it couldn't have been said, could it? But seeing him standing there, so still, must have given her a strength born from her pain and fury, and she spoke again, this time slowly and clearly, making no mistakes as to its meaning.

    "Leave. Never come back."

     He looked at her, standing so proud and tall, like the first night they had spent together, and he had watched her tapping against the windowpanes with her long fingers. But the fingers were now rolled into a clenched fist, though he could hear the tapping still. Or was that the clicking of the clock, counting down the time to the end of the world? But this time her eyes were no longer windows that revealed her soul, instead reflecting his own emotions. And neither of them offered their hands to each other.

     Hesitantly, he turned around, and closed his hand around the familiar brass handle of her door. He put his strength on his hand, trembling with weakness, and pulled the door open. So heavy and unyielding, or was it light and easy that it opened? He couldn't tell, her words ringing back and forth in his skull, and behind it he could feel the Voice, rubbing its hands with glee, at this show of betrayal that had been wrought, not by another unto him, but by himself.

     The door closed behind him, and he took the stairs slowly, uncertainly, as if he was a frail old man, groping his way along the banisters, until he finally staggered onto the ground floor. When he let go of the old iron rails, he knew that his fingers had finally slipped, and now he knew that he was falling, falling freely into the darkness.

End Chapter 4