DISCLAIMER: Nothing belongs to me. It's either from J. K. Rowling (mostly) or The Fictionist.

III

It's been two weeks since the final battle.

The school is in the process of being rebuilt. There are many memorial services in which he's required to attend, feasts and celebrations held in his honor, from the Ministry, the public, the Order, his close friends. Much like he isn't absolutely certain why he'd stepped into the battlefield, he allows Ron and Hermione to drag him to some of the smaller scale events. He sits there and smiles and gives polite talk.

The public thinks he's recovering well, obviously. It's hard to imagine otherwise with his charming façade, his light-hearted tone and well-placed jokes. But only his close friends are at a loss at his behavior, because everything he does now screams Tom.

It's as if he's so desperate to find another version of the other that even his sub-conscious is playing up to the role.

…

Nobody else knows where he disappears to in the aftermath of the battle, when the survivors simply lay amongst the rubble, weary and jaded yet triumphant under the ceiling of stars in the Great Hall. He isn't around when the people cheer at the rising sun, at the dawn of a new era free from Lord Voldemort. Even when the bodies of Fred Weasley and Remus Lupin are carted away, there is no sign of Harry.

His friends had known all the while where to find him of course. But no amount of pacing or hammering on the invisible door in the seventh floor corridor permitted them entry. It wasn't until the second day when Hermione was beyond worry when he finally let them in, and for all her reprimands they died on her tongue the moment she stepped in.

He's created the same large handsome fireplace roaring in the middle, the high-ceilinged chamber. He's recreated the carpets, the dim glow of the lights down to perfection. And there in the middle he's seated on the left, facing the empty sofa across him.

He's been circulating around in a memory. A picture-perfect one.

A trail of tears slips over the brim of Hermione's eyes, and she steps forwards and wraps him in a hug. There isn't any way left for her to piece him back again she knows, but it's the only thing she can give. A faint smile touches his lips then, but at least it's genuine and not the perfect charming ones he's attuned to adopt in front of cameras.

"It's okay Hermione," he says, and she can see that he actually means it. She wonders what his definition of 'okay' is. He shrugs. Everything has gone according to what he'd expected, and he's taught to be contented with that.

He hadn't won, but his friends did. It had to be enough.

…

The night is dotted with stars.

Despite his inexperience he inadvertently finds patterns among the random sparks of light. He recognizes Scorpius easily, the two close stars marking the curve of its sting, red Antarus burning the last of its embers. Further down there's Centaurus where Alpha Centauri glows near and bright, next to it is the Southern Cross. A faint smile touches his lips. He still remembers, and he remembers well.

He's standing on a small hill. Far below him the village lights glow like dim embers in the aftermath of dusk. He allows his gaze to trail downwards, finding the familiar silhouette of the buildings, in the far distance the gloomy darkness of the graveyard.

He turns his eyes to the grass-carpeted slope running down from where he stands, and for a moment then his heart misses a beat.

He sees them now, two figures worn out and yet laughing hard out there in the open grass. It's almost as if he'd never been one of them; he'd forgotten that utter liberation, that relief. He watches them until the phantom flickers out of his mind then continues to stare blankly at the empty spot.

They'd been abiding by the world every single time, except for that precious once.

There's the oddest urge to join in their laughter. Or at least that's what he thinks. But when the urge breaks free of his hold and rises to the surface, his eyes sting, and the grass becomes a swipe of green blur. It leaves as soon as it comes, leaving the dull sting of its loss. The words why did you give it up?! thunder through his mind like a roaring train and are caught in the gentle breeze in a heartbeat.

Slowly he reaches into his robe pocket and draws out a silver chain.

It slides over his palm smoothly, glittering like the crimson stain of blood, like a guilty secret. It's been scratched and scarred all over its body, but the windows leading into the fragment of soul behind it remained whole.

All this while he'd been trying so hard to find his answer, but he realized now he could hardly name the question.

…

-X-

"So it was this hard?"

Dumbledore's portrait faced him from across the wall. Even so the brilliant blue eyes never seemed to lose their twinkle, but they dimmed somewhat as he regarded the green-eyed boy sitting before him.

"You and Grindelwald," Harry continued in a flat tone, regardless of his response. "Was that why? You tried to stop history from repeating itself?"

Dumbledore said nothing. He simply had no words.

A lull of silence followed. Harry didn't offer any more questions, it was as if for once he really wanted Dumbledore's answer.

"I tried to," the elder of the pair replied at last. "There were too many similarities, too many parallels. I was afraid you would become like I was."

He half-expected the boy to offer a sharp biting remark, but none came. Instead Harry looked away, his expression giving away nothing.

"It was different," he said finally.

Harry said nothing after that. Dumbledore continued to watch him silently. He noted the fatigue lining the slouch of the boy's shoulders, the dark circles framing jaded brilliant green orbs. The hard, blank expression, lips pulled into a defiant line yet with a bitter curve to them.

"I think you came to ask a question," Dumbledore said, breaking the still silence. "But that wasn't it."

Harry's eyes flitted across the other sleeping portraits before landing on him once more. They gave nothing away. "You're right, as always," the boy replied. There was no hint of mockery in them. He hesitated. "Could you name my question, then?"

It was easy for him to reply. "To forget or to remember," the wizard replied simply, his blue eyes burning into Harry's. He allowed his words to wash over the younger boy as he watched the other for an effect before adding softly, "But either way, Harry, you have to move on."

A spark entered those brilliant green eyes then, not vibrant nor alive but it was hope nevertheless. "Moving on simply means not staying in the same place, doesn't it?" Harry mused, a wry smile touching the corners of his lips. His eyes flickered to meet his ex-mentor's ones again, challenging. "In the same way I could draw a straight line from left to right," he said, "Or from right to left."

To Harry's surprise, Dumbledore only smiled at that.

"It is not my business to interfere with affairs of the Living anymore," Hogwarts' former Headmaster said. "But I do believe that you've found your question." His blue eyes twinkled as he surveyed the battle-weary boy sitting before him just as they had many times in the past, and like all others they gave nothing away.

"As for drawing the line, Harry, be it left to right or right to left – it's time you can finally make your own choice."

…

A/N: Again, I wrote this completely by accident. Uh, at least, once more – I really didn't plan to. It's actually a product of being upset at the prospect of having to study so much during a Christmas break. Lols.

P.S. I've written a Tom Riddle / Harry centred fic, check it out if you're interested and leave me more presents this season.

Anyway, merry Christmas – hope you enjoyed my gift even though it might be a little depressing, and do leave me a present too if you catch my drift. :P