Unofficial Portkey Archive

I know some of you are waiting for a very long overdue update of Candleburn, and it's coming, but after reading HBP, I knew I had to write something that took those events into account. I think that given all that happened in those books, this could happen. It's not playing or changing anything that happened, or trying to analyze it. It's taking everything in tide and bringing the story forward a decade.

There is a strongly implied Ron/Hermione, but it's essential to the story. Also, Fe is a goddess and the best beta in the world.

The curtains were drawn on the immaculate room, everything put neatly in its place as though nobody lived in there. The walls were white, greatly lacking the posters or pictures that could give them life and the top of the nightstand next to the bed was bare except for a small lamp. The desk bore the only traces of someone actually ever being in the room, a few books piled on its corner, a few pens and paper. And there, on the bed, was that someone, his eyes open in the darkness as he laid on his back, his hands joined behind his head.

Eventhough the state of the room would indicate elsewise, it had been his for a few years now, almost three to be exact. He had been worried about moving to London at first, knowing that being so near to where he had once lived could mean bumping into someone that knew him. Ultimately, his choice of living in the muggle world with muggle means had left him little choice: he had been offered a good job in London and given his lack of muggle credentials, a job of that importance would probably not come around twice. He snorted, breaking the silence, thinking about that word. Importance? He had had an important job once, and now everything paled in comparison. But he had done what he had been meant to do, what he had been expected to do and what he had been prophecised to do. The man he had been then was dead now.

The next day he would be turning 28. Six years, he thought, one hand coming up from behind his head to scratch absently at the lightning bolt scar that marked his forehead. Because of course, in the charming way fate knew just how to hit him hard, it had all happened on his birthday. Closing his eyes as his hand rejoigned the other, he saw it all play out again as if it had been yesterday. Too many Death Eaters, too much pain. Horrifed, he had thought he had lost her at first, sinking to his knees next to her. She had been okay, offering him a soft smile as she had clutched to her wound. She had tried to get to her feet, with little luck and he had helped her to hide, turning his back as she argued with her husband that she was fine and that he should go. He knew she must hate herself for it now.

The rest was too painful to remember. He clenched his jaw, trying to push the ache back to no avail. It was foolish to even try; the pain never left, day in and day out. Removing his glasses, he set them down on the nightstand next to the lamp and rolled on his side, hoping that he would not dream of it tonight, as he did more often than not. It was always the same. Wide eyes looking up at the sky as he laid on his back in the grass, his face petrified in an expression of fear. Harry Potter would never forget the expression on Ronald Weasley's face as Voldemort had performed the killing curse on him. He never would.

The sun shone brightly, a deep contrast with the way Harry felt inside. His face was expressionless as he wandered through Hyde Park, rollerskaters passing him by. No matter how much he had protested that it was fine, he could work, his current boss had insisted on giving him his birthday off as he did for every other employee. He knew that if he were to go back to his flat, alone, he would only end up ressassing memories so instead, he had gone for a walk in the park. He had been walking for hours now.

Approaching the Peter Pan statue, he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his vest and took a seat on a bench. Every year it was pratically the same: he would spent the day either working until he fell asleep on his desk or wander off, walking through whichever city he lived then until the night came. The first three years had been hectic, travelling from place to place every few months, if not weeks. He was but a mere shell of himself for the first of those three years, working small jobs he would quit every time he moved. They had allowed him to survive at first. In Farnham, where he had stayed for a year, he had stumbled upon a place as a publicist, a fairly dull job he had only gotten out of sheer luck and kept because of his uncanny ability to work well under pressure. Quickly, he had been offered a better position in London, which he had pondered on for almost a month. Being so close to the world he had left behind, so close to Diagon Alley, the Ministry of Magic and other things that had marked the life he had once led was a risk he was not sure he was willing to take. But in the end, the need to keep this job in order to live a life that did not ressemble that of a shadow had been greater than the need to hide. He was still hiding in a way, keeping away from the surroundings of The Leaky Cauldron and such.

Harry did not know how long he had been sitting there, his eyes set on the statue but his mind miles away. When he seemed to finally snap back to reality, the sun was setting down, the sky red and purple. With a sigh, he stood up and turned to go around the bench, stopping dead in his tracks as he looked up in front of him. Mere feet from where he stood, there she was, her face white and her bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. Her eyes were open wide, much as his and she simply stared back at him as he took in her appearance. Even thinner than she had been the last time he had seen her, she was wearing a simple top over jeans, her hair up in a bun, but an aura eradiated from her: she embodied everything he had left behind and the reason why he had. Eventhough his brain was shouting her name, it still had trouble finding its way to his lips so that when he finally spoke it, it ressembled a moan. 'Hermione...'

She seemed taken aback by the sound of his voice speaking her name and for a moment, he thought she would simply turn and run away. His mind racing, he wondered how long she had been standing there, staring at him in disbelief, before finally, she took a few steps forward, looking up at him as if she still doubted it was truly him. Standing about a feet away from him, she raised a shaking hand and tentatively touched his face, pulling away as if she had been burned the moment the tip of her fingers touched his skin. Unable to stand looking at her any longuer, he lowered his eyes to the ground as she pressed her palm against his cheek softly. 'Harry? Oh god, Harry...'

His arms encircled her instinctively as she threw herself around his neck, crying with her head burried in his shoulder. He felt the tears come too, her presence bringing as much pain as it brought good memories, but he pushed them back, holding on to her tightly. She mumbled something against his chest that he did not quite understand and only pulled her closer, letting her cry. As he held his only surviving best friend, the one he had not failed to protect yet had hurt so badly, he watched all he had worked for, six years of almost incessant running, crumble away.

Harry turned on the light as he lead the way into his flat, looking back at Hermione. She had not said a word, crying silent tears for most of the way and then simply following him as he had pulled her out of the park by the hand. He might have been uncertain about what would be said, but he was sure a public park where everyone could see them - and most importantly, hear them - was the worst place to be reunited with Hermione. He closed the door and leaned his back to it as she took a few steps into the living room, eyeing the white walls, dusty television and the piles of books that sporadically covered the floor. Some were muggle books, others - such as The Monster Book of Monsters, which was slightly hopping on the ground in the far corner of the room - were undoubtebly magical. She seemed to frown at this and threw Harry a quick glance over her shoulder before returning her attention to the rest of the flat. He remained where he stood as she continued to explore, popping her head into the kitchen, the bathroom and finally, his bedroom. He heard her shuffle a few pieces of paper and then calling out his name.

Hearing her voice felt so strange. He had heard it so many times in his mind - hers, Ron's and so many others - but actually hearing it sent him back several years before. He nevertheless slowly made his way to his bedroom, finding her sitting on his bed. She looked up at him and extended her arm to the side, patting the bed softly to encourage him to come sit next to her. He hesitated for a moment, then sat, hoping that she would speak because he was at a loss for words.

'So...how long have you been living here?', she finally said, breaking the long silence.

'Close to three years... Do you, huh.., live in London or are you just passing through?'

'Moved just outside the city about three weeks ago. Everything is closed today and I simply could not stay alone in my flat', she said, looking down at her feet, her hands joined on her lap. Harry nodded slowly, understanding all too well how she felt. Something she had said suddenly grabbing his attention, he frowned, then repeated her words, 'Everything is closed today?'

'Yes. The Ministry found it fit to celebrate your defeating of Voldemort by decreeting it a national day of some sort. For me, it simply means I get to stay at home and remember -', she started, stopping abruptly to look up at him. Her eyes were shining with tears as she stared at Harry, obviously trying to bite back words she did not want to speak, until the urge to do so became too great.

'How could you do this, Harry? Just throw your cloak over Ron's body, leave him there and never come back? A bloody letter one month later did not help, Harry!'

'I just couldn't...I couldn't face you', he said in a barely audible whisper, standing up and turning his back to her. He heard the mattress protest with a metalic grunt as she pushed herself up. Her small hand grabbed his arm, forcing him to face her. Hermione's face was red, her tears now falling freely.

'Do you have any idea how lost I felt? Any idea of how much I needed you to help me go through this? Because burrying my husband wasn't enough, I had to lose my best friend too?!'

He did not want to yell back, but as she continued to bury him under accusations of all sorts, he felt his own anger and pain swell up inside of him. And finally, when hearing from her all the blame he felt for himself became simply too much, he exploded right back at her. 'You have no idea Hermione, no idea what happened that day! You don't know what it was like, watching as he got killed, being the one responsible for it! Don't pretend for one second that you have any notion of how it felt to be me or even think about telling me what I should have done!'

She stopped as soon as he spoke back, an expression of shock on her face. She obviously did not expect him to scream back at her. Scanning his face with her eyes as he remained in an oddly still position, his hands slightly raised on each side of his body, she seemed to be debating weither to continue the fight or to simply leave. When she did nothing, he slowly lowered his arms and looked at her uneasily, the tide of anger inside of him pulling back and leaving him feeling guilty for yelling at her. He then watched with a frown as a twisted grin made its way to her face. 'I almost forgot. Happy birthday, Harry.'

And with those words, she spun on her heels and left the room. Seconds later, he heard the front door slam shut.