"Of house-elves and children's tales, of love, loyalty, and innocence, Voldemort knows and understands nothing."
-Albus Dumbledore

-1-

"…And wait for it to all turn up….It always does in the end."

It was just one thing Luna had said among a list of others that evening that made Harry wish naivety could be a socially acceptable conduct. Because conviction was hard with the fibers of civilization tugging apart compositions like the Quibbler. Some called it nitwitted delusion. Harry thought nitwittery was fine if he could sleep at night. Even so, reality was so adamant and biding time grew too long. To believe absolutely that he would see Sirius again, even to see it printed in black letter heads in a half reliable magazine, even if it wasn't under the moniker of an obscure rock band. He couldn't be convinced any lone testament was enough; that anything was with him still gone.

Even if the wait wore thin, what with his fifty-fifty chances of dying now. The odds roused an already resonant warning, an intolerable buzz. Harry watched the little charcoal structures sink into themselves in the thriving orange blaze of just warm enough warmth, mulling over an abundance of mulling on his part. Education of loss was not a course warranting do-overs; demands for experience should have been reserved for spellcasting alone. Missing just became an unwelcome norm.

The small things, a sock's mate, a dropped quill—and Hermione always dropped a spare of those, what with all her spares and such—those things didn't turn up again. Never a case of happy reunions. And the considerable things just called for larger amounts of optimism he couldn't afford to invest in. Sirius once promised he could live with him; offered it as humble gesture. As if Harry would say no to his father's best mate, as if there was anything he wanted more than to see that offer upheld. The summer spent in the Black family house hadn't been home like the pair would have asked; not what they'd intended, not in the dusty thresholds and creaky beams claimed by a family Sirius was only a part by name. Harry had hoped. They'd both hoped. It only got them alone.

Sirius promised things. Harry had no particular aversion to long waits. It was easy to set expectations but too much to expect this just to be the end, or an end at all.

Dumbledore always spoke so high and mighty of some strength he said Harry had; it had never been a backbreaking power or formidable tactic. He determined it had something to do with will and what he willed to bring along and what he left behind. It was never so tangible as it seemed then, never so much like a suitcase. He could pick it up, pack it full and carry on if he so wished or leave it back and quit feeling weighty things. The option was never so plain. He could live without Dumbledore's catch all solution to life and quit expecting to see gaunt, yet thriving expressions whenever he thought he should or particularly wanted to see his old friend in thresholds and Quidditch stands.

It was a choice. For a second barely half gone, the certain side had potency and it had sprawling limbs and roots extending, growing, ever stretching and pointing all the places he could go with them. A short-lived stalk because Harry had already chosen, already got that there was no hesitating on some destitute alternative because he knew to live and let love. Exactly how, exactly when, exactly what to do—the details were just filler. Things of sizable caliber showed up when you quit asking; they never needed fishing.

The fire licked at ashy broiled interiors of the fireplace. Harry didn't need to see to know it was warm. Like so many things, it was there. He would let that count for something as he was never really alone. It came back to this always, to love, which was never a sacrifice.

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AN: This is my first shot at HP and I apologize for the plotlessness. I'm don't usually write drabbles but hopefully this wasn't too blah. The next two are still being revised, but should be up soon-ish.