Harry stood on the threshold to the library just watching Hermione stare out the window at the cold rain. It had been raining ever since Remus' visit last week as if the sky was mourning with them. Harry felt strangely befret of feeling—almost as if he had been hollowed out by the information that the werewolf had brought and was now waiting as an empty vessel to be filled once more.

Ron was gone.

If truth were to be shared, Harry had been expecting it. Ron was always up for anything that would garner glory, be it adventure or Quidditch. The self-enforced exile to Grimmauld Place had affected the redhead the most. Ron was a creature of action. This Harry knew just as he knew that Hermione was now suffering despite her dry cheeks. Ron would have preferred his death to not doing anything to help a friend. Death in battle with honor was surely preferable for any Gryffindor.

The memory of the unanswered letter around Yule rose within Harry's thoughts. The anger it inspired threatened to come to a boil once more. As ruthless as any Death Eater, he pushed the rage away as useless, along with unrealized hopes of reconciliation after all this was over. For one morbid moment Harry pondered the idea of meeting in the afterlife and whether it would be the same. Perhaps it was a holdover from the private funeral rite that he and Hermione had performed last night. Ironically, it had also been Ron's eighteenth birthday.

Hermione closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cold window as if she had heard his thought. She had pulled her hair tightly back from her face but frizzy little curls had escaped to wave defiantly in the air like honey-colored fronds of some kind of agitated fern. There were dark smudges under her eyes that told the tale of the nights she had been spending studying that little grimoire that had been among the attic stuff.

That day back in August seemed a lifetime ago from all the changes that had happened in his life. The tentative faith he had found in the Black Grimoire and his mother's grimoire had certainly centered him far more than Occulmancy lessons. While he enjoyed that feeling, Harry would be the first to admit that he still had reservations about the whole thing. On the other hand, Harry could tell that Hermione was growing more comfortable with the old traditions. That made him willing to relax into them. Her trust in authority figures was stronger than his, but so was her trust in a lot of things.

"I know you're there, Harry," Hermione said, interrupting his train of thought. Her eyes were still closed and her forehead was still against the glass, but Harry could tell—from that spot deep within him where their magic connected during ritual—that the pain she had been drowning in a moment before was back to manageable levels, at least for now. Harry left the doorway to pull out the chair tucked under the desk where Ron had done many of his assignments while he was with them. From his new position, Harry could no longer see her face, but he didn't need to in order to read her. That spot was twirling in a little whirlpool of strength as the witch became increasingly determined over something. Finally, she turned to look at him. Her normally hazel eyes were dark with sorrow as they met his. "Harry, I found something in your mother's grimoire."

"Isn't that what we've been practicing for the last three months?"

"Not just the offensive capabilities of her protection, Harry," Hermione answered without even a hint of rebuke in her dry voice. "It is something else. It appears to be a summoning ritual. It looks like it can summon a fairly large group of people so long as they share a set characteristic. It has a note next to it. …It was meant for the Death Eaters."

Harry stared at her for a long moment as his mind turned the words about in his head. The implications were confusing. Oh, he knew that his parents had been in the Order, so the idea that his mother was working against Death Eaters was not surprising. However, the idea of using magic in this way—everything he had read suggested that it was a bad idea, something about balance… He felt his eyes widen. The Black Grimoire was clear about the concept of culling for the purposes of maintaining status as well as the balance of power.

On the heels of that resolution there was a wave of betrayal as pieces connected in a way he had not thought of prior to that moment. What was his mother thinking? First there was the magic that she had building into the rune pattern on him, with its deadly capabilities. Now there was a summoning ritual designed to bring Death Eaters to a set location. He was being set up to become a murderer, and one of the conspirators to that end had been his own mother. Was there no one that he could trust?

'You can trust me,' whispered that spot inside of him. Magic blossomed inside him like brilliant gold flowers. Its gentle perfume tickled his nose even as he felt someone cupping his cheeks. He opened his eyes, dimly aware that he didn't remember closing them, to see Hermione's steady gaze. That little voice inside him repeated itself even as Harry realized that it was using Hermione's melodic tones.

"Of course, I can," Harry said and if his voice had a rougher edge than normal, Hermione ignored it. He tipped his head forward to bump his forehead against hers. "Of course, I can."

=[=]= [_P =[=]=

It was over.

They had won.

Those words resounded in his head. Their measures had been successful. There would be no more need to hide away from the world. For the first time in Harry's life, he was truly free. There were so many things that he had pushed off or kept himself from doing, all with the vague hope that there would be an after to the war. Now he didn't need to wait. There was no Dark Lord trying to kill him, no headmaster arranging his life like he was a chess piece.

It was over. They had won.

Grimmauld Place had never seemed so empty.

There were celebrations going on in every corner of Britannia. Obliviators were out in full force attempting to keep their world from being discovered, but aside from pub keepers, they were the only magical humans working. Voldemort was gone and this time there was no chance of him returning. His regime had been taken care of in one fell swoop. All that remained now was restructuring the government to adjust for the loss of key personnel in the short term.

The Second Blood War was over. The Resistance had won.

The silence seemed to echo with remembered laughter.

What was he going to do now? He may have pushed off things for this event, but he had never truly believed that he would live to see its aftermath. There had been so many close calls. His death had just seemed inevitable. If he were honest—and he was alone, so why not be honest?—that was the real reason that he had broken up with Ginny last year. It would have been better if there wasn't a lot of people to mourn him, not the Boy-Who-Lived, but Harry. He would have left everyone behind and performed the task that Dumbledore had left him, and then he would have died quietly.

Wasn't that how the story ended? The noble hero sacrificed himself for the Greater Good. He destroyed the Great Dark Lord and died due to his injuries from the arduous battle. Perhaps it would have been better if that was how his story ended. It seemed more fitting than moping in a library while watching firework explosions filling the sky. Kreacher wisely left him to it.

"Your father never brooded," Remus announced some hour after midnight. Not that the hour mattered to whoever was responsible for the fireworks that had drowned out the stars steadily since dusk. Harry spared the last Marauder a nod before turning back to the display. "He didn't—there just was not enough action in it for him. Sirius, though, now he brooded. Every Black I ever met had the act down to a fine art. Of course, every Black I ever met was just so much more than your average person. They had bred themselves to be so, as your grandmother was fond of reminding your father. 'Breeding always shows,' she would say."

"Aunt Marge would say the same, but it was usually as an insult to my parents."

"She may have meant it that way, but it's really a homage, Harry." Remus placed one hand on Harry's shoulder. It took a great deal of effort, but the werewolf managed to turn the teen around to face him. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Harry dropped his gaze. As he would do an errant child, Remus grasped his chin and forced Harry to meet his eyes. "I'm going to say something that I should have told you the moment I met you: your parents would be proud of you. You lack nothing. Don't waste your life brooding in an empty house."

"I'm not brooding," Harry protested. Remus raised an eyebrow at him in silent challenge. Harry sighed and ripped himself free from the other man's grasp. He stalked away from the closest thing he had left to a decent family member. "I'm not," he repeated, speaking more to the mantel than to Remus. He braced himself against cool marble, staring into the darkness of the unlit fireplace. "It's just that…"

"Just what?"

"It just hurts," Hermione interrupted softly. Harry immediately straightened as he felt the tug in his magic as it recognized hers. Her burnished gold eyes held the same ache as his heart did. The specter of Ron stood between them, invisible but recognized just the same. It was the same with Sirius and Harry's parents. "They should be here, but they aren't…and yet…"

"They are," Harry agreed. Remus nodded, his own experiences allowing him to follow the conversation. Better or worse, they had all survived a war that had claimed a dear friend who had been family. Harry didn't see Remus' nod. He found something in Hermione's eyes that captivated him.

Harry was filled to the brim with everything that he had ever wanted to say but had been too afraid to mention. There were a thousand acknowledgments, gratitude for the thousands of times she had encouraged him, believed in him. It was there. She had been so important for so long. Were there even words to ask her to stay, to fill the emptiness with her vibrant presence?

'I know,' her magic whispered. Hermione crossed to him. Her hands cupped his face like he was a precious jewel. With a dawning clarity, it occurred to him that to her, he was. He didn't have escape to the other side of magic to find someone who thought of him as a treasure. There was one right in front of him. He marveled at the idea. His eyes soaked her up like a sponge does water. Through his awe, he felt the steady pulse chanting. 'I know. I know. I know.'

"Well, I know when I'm not wanted," Remus declared. He might as well be declaring that he was the Queen Mum herself for all it mattered to Hermione and Harry. "I wonder what Dora is up to at this hour. I'll just be off then."

"I will," Hermione whispered in answer to his silent query, "for as long as magic lasts."

"And beyond," Harry amended. She smiled at him.

"And beyond," she agreed. He pulled her close, tucking their arms between them. Their fingers were a tangle, but their grips were as sure as the recognition humming in their souls.

Their journey wasn't ending.

It was only beginning.