Harry looks at the Daily Prophet, dumbfounded. He was on a mission in Iceland (a very suitable place for Dark wizards to hide), and the news reach him only just now. The front page with a black border, and a black headline.

Ronald Weasley's Funeral Takes Place

He can't believe it for a while. Can't take it in. His first ever friend, the most faithful one – dead? How? Why? It can't be! Like Harry, Ron was one of the Golden-Trio-Who-Lived – despite anything, they lived. They made it through the war.

Ronald Weasley, 38, Order of Merlin, First Class, Hero of the War, Keeper of English National Quidditch team, killed by a Bludger during the semifinals.

A lump rises in Harry's throat – a cold, hard lump. Oddly he feels a sense of betrayal. How could you, Ron? You faced Voldemort's Horcruxes, you went down to the Chamber of Secrets, you – you – you can't be killed by an idiotic thing like a Bludger?

A photograph in the paper. The English Quidditch team plus Neville Longbottom carries the coffin. The players are in their robes (who thought up the detail? Are readers so dumb to believe they were too distraught to change since the match?) Neville's face wears an astounded expression. Neville must be shocked that he has outlived one of the Golden Trio.

Another picture. Hermione, looking strangely smart and elegant in black, her face crimson and puffy from crying.

Mrs. Hermione Weasley leaves the country immediately after the funeral. She refused to talk to the reporters, only saying she needs to get away from the memories.

"Why, Hermione?" Harry whispers, feeling betrayed again – even more. "You didn't even wait for me to return? It is easier to bear the loss together... Why?"

"She cleared off completely," Ginny tells him as he comes back. "Left a short note – that she wants me to take care of the children. Took all her possessions. I fear," she gives a quiet sob. "I fear she might want to commit suicide.

"Suicide? Hermione?"

He still can't fully believe it all. Two best friends – part of his whole life – leaving him like this.

In the night, he dreams of Voldemort for the first time in twenty years.

"Well, well, well, the Boy-Who-Continues-To-Live," his long-dead enemy taunts him, red eyes at the same flaming fury and colder than ice. "Can't even save your own friend. I wonder – if you faced me now, who would win?"

Harry wakes up in cold sweat. He goes to the mirror – quietly, not to wake Ginny. Sees himself as if meeting an old acquaintance after many years. An almost forty-year-old man, looking tired and frightened. Some extra fat already on his body that used to be so muscular. He hasn't played Quidditch for a long time, preferring to Apparate. Ron at least did his fitness... Ron...

He looks through the pile of issues of the Daily Prophet that represent the last weeks of Ron's life.

Quidditch Semifinals Approaching – Luxembourg versus China and England versus Bulgaria!

A picture of the English team, with Ron flying gleefully in front of the rings. And of the Bulgarian team. A skinny young blond Seeker in their midst... wait, what?

Hardly knowing what he is doing, Harry grabs the latest issue, about the funeral. He searches for Hermione in the largest picture – and finds her, in the crowd. He only recognizes her hair and mourning dress, because her back is turned to the viewer. She is clinging to a moody black-haired, tanned man with thick eyebrows. Harry knows him very well since the Triwizard Tournament. Everyone assumes that the widow only found the nearest shoulder to cry on.

Another headline – Krum Resigns From Team Due To Tragic Accident.

The flames in the fireplace burn merrily, eating away the Daily Prophet.

"I am the only one left," he groans as Ginny finds him there in the morning, staring at the dead coals. "The only one of the Golden Trio."

She doesn't understand. Not fully. She grieves for Ron, deeply, but she doesn't know what's going on. Harry fervently wishes to return twenty, twenty-five years back in time. So that he won't have to witness that. One friend dead at the hands of another. Himself, slowly wearing out – nothing like that Golden Gryffindor he used to be. Ginny in her comfortable little kitchen world, happy and smiling but nothing like the brave fighter he fell in love with.

The Triwizard Tournament is for some reason revived by McGonagall again. Albus Severus wins it. Albus is very much like Harry himself, and oh, doesn't he envy his younger son.

But as Albus returns with the gold and the glory – the things Harry used to dream of – something isn't right.

It's cold and cloudy, like in autumn.

Albus disembarks the Hogwarts Express, his black hair cut, his eyes... his eyes gleaming red.

Ginny doesn't notice as she runs to hug and kiss him.

"Missed me?" he smiles. "Dad, I won! Would I've beaten you at the Tournament?"

The red glimmer is gone, the boy looks normal again, but Harry feels a stabbing pain in his forehead.

No, my lord. I am not the one I used to be anymore. Find yourself another Golden Gryffindor.

Years pass, and Albus graduates – somehow his red eyes are only seen by Harry.

Leave me alone. I don't want my forehead aching again. Let me live the rest of my life in peace.

He does. He leaves the family, breaks all ties with them, but Harry doesn't feel the pain and is glad of it.

Twenty-five years of pension and new medals for the same old victory, and a bad attack of dragon pox takes him away quietly. The Dark Lord is rising, but the people must find a new hero.

Let him die in his last fight, like I was initially destined to do, Harry's last coherent thought. There's nothing more pathetic than a hero whose days are past.