First of all, allow me to say how overwhelmed I am with all of your wonderful comments and reviews! I am truly grateful that you took the time to read this piece and give me your thoughts, questions and praise! I feel a special camaraderie with those reviewers who kept checking back in chapter after chapter to wonder aloud at the turn of events and rejoice in the small triumphs of the characters - believe me when I say I hung on every word and delighted in every compliment!

I wanted to provide one final post to answer any questions that readers cared to ask. Here are the questions and answers in order of appearance:

"Who is the large bird!?"

The large bird/man animagus was my version of Fenrir Greyback. He's not technically on anyone's side but his own.

"What made you do that Fleur-imperio thing? That's harsh."

I apologize for the graphic nature of "A Broken Flower." Unfortunately war is terribly graphic, and it was too much to hope that all the Hogwarts survivors could come through such an experience unscathed. I wanted to build off of the character of Fenrir Greyback to show that sometimes, regardless of 'good' and 'bad' sides, some souls are simply evil and have no allegiance to anything but their own perversions. War is a haven for souls like these, and so many have suffered terribly because of the situations war can present.

"I'm still confused by what happened at Hogwarts and why Hogwarts is now safe enough for Ravvi to reside there."

The Hogwarts battle was the catalyst for the possession of the creatures by Earth Magic. The moment the creatures turned, the Hogwarts survivors essentially became an 'infection' they had to eradicate. When all of the survivors were finally gone (to Malfoy Manor), the curse of possession was broken, allowing Hogwarts to return to its former state. Two years had passed between the end of the possession and Ravvi residing at Hogwarts. During that time, it was rebuilt and resumed its former function as a school for young witches and wizards.

"What happened to the others over the past two years."

Several of the other survivors are seen throughout the rest of the story. If the characters do not appear in the remainder of the story, they have faded into day-to-day life.

"East Finchley is not the wealthiest London neighborhood: I don't know what your point is here, but you might want to be thinking Knightsbridge, Mayfair, Kensington, Regent's Park, Park Lane instead."

My American background got the best of me here! I tried researching this online to get an idea of where Malfoy would be most likely to live. Clearly, Google betrayed me! Please replace East Finchley in your mind with a truly wealthy neighborhood.

"I must say my mind traveled to something else when it said Draco was in New York, and if you were following the correct HP timeline it fit, and I almost cried."

As an American, it is much easier for me to reference tragedies in other countries. If you'll recall, not long after September 11th, the London Underground was bombed. I was trying to keep to the timeline, but I conveniently left out the tragedy that had left its biggest mark on me.

I received several comments along these lines:

"Personally, I don't understand why every writer insists on making things right with the trio at the end of the story. There are some situations where the friendship should be allowed to end. I think this is one of them."

"I really hope you don't intend for Hermione and Ron to become friends again. Honestly, I think Hermione needs to be done with Ron and move on with Draco."

This was a difficult situation for me to resolve, largely because I feel as you all seem to. That being said, I had to consider it as though it were a real life situation. Realistically, Ron will always be a part of the Weasley family, and will always be connected with the Potters because of it. The Malfoys will always be close with the Potters, and so I had to resolve things between Draco, Ron and Hermione to a degree. I compromised with the fact that they'll never be friends – merely acquaintances who (in Ron and Draco's case, at least) are barely able to tolerate each other.

What happened to Henry (the son of the muggle who rescued Harry)?

Henry was a casualty of the muggle bombings, I'm sorry to say.

I caused an unintended panic in the epilogue:

"Where's Hermione? And where's Draco's son?"

"Your epilogue leaves so many loose ends with Hermione. For all we know, he could be a single father because she somehow died? You never know and it's leaving me hanging."

Rest assured, Hermione was asleep beside Draco when Rose woke him, and their son is fast asleep in his room. Looking back, I could have added something along the lines of:

Draco woke groggily with the uneasy feeling of being watched. Pulling his arms gently from around Hermione, he turned, and was met with a head of hopelessly wild blonde curls.

"Dad," she said in a tremulous whisper. "I think the bowtruckle of Bangleria is in my wardrobe."

Draco groaned as he rose from bed, taking his daughter's tiny hand, and frowning at his son's bedroom door as they walked past. He'd scolded his son for making up the rubbish, but clearly, the tale had done its work already.

"Rose," he said, squeezing her hand, "Where do bowtruckles live?"

"You wrote: 'her hands smoothing the linen bandage against him…' Did I miss something? To what does this refer?"

My goal was to recap all of the moments that led up to them on that balcony, together and happy at last. The bandage was a reference to their first attraction in Chapter 5: Secrets.

"The only way to bind his wound was to wrap clean linen completely around his chest, and it was all he could do to keep his breathing steady as her arms reached around his body, softly smoothing the cloth against him."

"If I may ask, how old were you when you wrote this? If you've kept this for hidden for six years, then I don't think you should have."

I thank you very sincerely for the compliment! I didn't keep the story hidden – rather, it was an unfinished work for six years. As I grew up, the story did too, gaining from my own life experiences, and at last, after six long years, I wrote the final chapters. I was 20 when I began this story, and had yet to experience what love could truly mean.

Several of you want to know what happened to Ron Weasely:

"I kinda want to know what happened to Ron."

"Who does he marry?"

Things are never as they once were for Ron. Although he has accepted that Hermione has moved on, the rift caused by their separation never truly heals. He will always be a part of the Weasley family and he will always be a part of Harry and Ginny's lives, but he and Draco are still barely-disguised enemies, and he is not able to be close with Hermione because of that strain. Our tragic hero, Ron, never marries. He is a chronic bachelor, holding onto girlfriends for a few months at a time, never able to commit to something more because of the heartbreak he has known.

"How old are Draco, Hermione, Ron and the others when they get married?"

Following the HP timeline, Harry and Ginny are only 18 when they marry, but following in her Mother's footsteps, Ginny's justification has always been: "Yes, well, we were made for each other, what was the point in waiting?"

Draco and Hermione are nearly 21 when they marry, although I think you'll agree that war and conflict have given all the characters more wisdom behind those years than most.

"Could you do something like this – romance/drama – for Hunger Games too?"

I am so flattered that you think me equal to the task. I can't tell you how many times during the past six years those closest to me have suggested that I just write my own story and publish it… think of the money you'd make… if you're working this hard on something already, it might as well be worth it. Unfortunately, all the arguments are invalid. It is worth it to me. I can only write what I love – what I'm truly passionate about – what I can still love after six years of writing. There are so few things this rings true for, and I'm sorry to say that Hunger Games is not one of them.

"Are you writing another story?"

In fact, I do have a story I'm outlining now. It seems I'll always need that outlet of writing what I love. I wish I could give you a time frame for its completion, but I can't hurry these things, as you have seen. I can promise that I will not post another story until I can present it in the same manner as this one. There is nothing more frustrating for me than reading a story without an ending, and my story won't be one of them. I can, however, leave you with a preview. This story is much darker than "Heaven's So Far Away."

As he walked down the corridor, a slender hand reached out and took his. Hermione. She looked as though she wanted to tell him something, but the intensity of his gaze paralyzed her.

He was glad she had found him. He would leave in a little over an hour – most of them would. If they were successful in overtaking this headquarters, the Dark Lord's forces would be thrown into confusion and chaos. If they were successful, it would be enough to turn the tide. They might not come back this time… certainly not all of them would. It was a larger attack than the duels and skirmishes they were used to – but no one talked about that. He was glad she had found him… to say goodbye.

Despite everything they had been through together, he hadn't found the nerve to tell her what she meant to him. She had a fucking boyfriend. He didn't believe she was in love with Weasley, so he had waited.

And waited.

Two years had passed him by, watching Hermione's cold romance unfold. He waited for Weasley to lose her respect. He waited for people's expectations of their relationship to grow stale. He waited for her to turn from Weasley and see him standing there in front of her. But routines are important in a time of war, and everyone carefully maintained the status quo.

So he waited.

She always came to tell him goodbye. Always took his hand, squeezed it gently and said: "Be safe." Another routine. Another goodbye. Another battle. Another homecoming, watching Weasley take her triumphantly into his arms.

This time was different. This time felt different. Anytime someone left the apparation point, it was with the understanding that they might not come back. This time, most of them knew they wouldn't. This single assault was too important to lose. Harry Saint Potter himself had given a heart-rending speech to the fighters about why this one was worth dying for. Maybe that's what made him feel different. Potter had broken the routine with that speech. When routines are broken, anything is possible.

He looked down at Hermione's hand gently squeezing his own, and he knew he had to break the routine. Maybe then she would see the possibilities.

Three years ago, the Dark Lord's forces had seized control of the Ministry. It was meant to be a silent take over – a silent occupation. Fear was a powerful weapon, and people living in fear were as good as allies. Somehow, though, they knew. The Ministry was waiting for them. There were Order members waiting to ambush them at every stage, causing the imperius-laden plan to fall apart. Their motivation was stronger than the Ministry's, though, and their numbers were great enough to overwhelm the waiting forces. It wasn't just their own lives at stake in this venture. Failure meant the death of their families, their friends, everyone who mattered to them. They had seen the Dark Lord wipe out entire branches of family trees when someone had the misfortune to fail him. Their fear of the Dark Lord's wrath had given them a haunted zeal that allowed them to carve their way through the resistance in the end. They had won. But things hadn't gone according to plan. Winning like this meant losing their greatest weapon. Alone and suspicious, people would have been weak. Now, those who opposed them rose up, united, to fight.

Draco Malfoy had been an informant for a mere 12 days when he approached Harry with the plans of the Ministry overthrow. Harry trusted his motives and information completely. Malfoy's father had died at the hands of Voldemort only a month before. Lucius' crime had been trying to smuggle his family out of the country. When they were found out, his wife and son were forced to watch his execution. That's when Malfoy had approached them with an offer. He would provide them with information until it seemed like his position was compromised. In return, he and his mother were to receive full amnesty and protection when they defected.

It had turned out to be the most important deal Harry had ever made. The information Malfoy had given them about the Ministry overthrow had changed the entire nature of the war. It had given them a clear enemy. More importantly, it had given the diffident Wizarding community a clear reason to fight. That was the official start of the war, and the official birth of the Wizarding Rebellion. A Slytherin, a pureblood, and a Death Eater – Malfoy had given them the upper hand.

When they didn't hear from Malfoy in the following week, they delighted in their good luck. If his position was uncompromised, they would still have access to the movements of Voldemort's forces. When they didn't hear from Malfoy for more than a month, they had no choice but to mark him as a casualty of war. A memorial was held, and his bravery and sacrifice were formally commended. He arrived a week later, carrying the limp form of his mother. In the end, it hadn't mattered to Voldemort who had given the information. He had tortured anyone who had the slightest connection with Potter, be it only a childhood grudge from Hogwarts days. Draco was unharmed, but Narcissa's torture and imprisonment had served to punish him more than any physical pain could have. No one knew how he had escaped with her, but by the time he reached them it was too late. She died on a Saturday.

Everyone handles death differently. Some people mourn. Some break. Some persist in denial, avoiding the reality of their loss. Draco Malfoy fought. He had found Harry within days of his mother's death and demanded to join the outgoing groups battling Voldemort's forces. Harry still didn't like Malfoy, but he understood him. He had granted his request at once.

No one else in the groups trusted him. School-age grudges and bad feelings abounded, but Malfoy ignored them. He fought with an intensity and a single-mindedness that bordered on madness. He fought as though he didn't mean to live. Whatever the other rebels had expected, they weren't prepared for the vengeful, driven man fighting beside them. A few months time saw his courage respected, his skill relied upon, and his advice sought by others. Malfoy ignored them.

Harry hadn't thought he'd have to reign in Malfoy's new obsession, but everyone could see that he was killing himself. By steps, by stages – fight upon fight – duel after duel. He meant to die. And Harry couldn't watch it happen.

"I'm cutting you down to one outbound assignment a week."

Malfoy was furious. Harry didn't care.

"That's the same rate that every other person here deploys," Harry said, with irritation.

"I don't give a damn what the others do," he said, deathly quiet.

"If you're desperate, you can do one more each week with the acquisition teams."

"You'd rather have me with the scavengers than the fighters?" he sneered.

"Those are your options, Malfoy. I'm not punishing you. I'm trying to give you a life outside of revenge."

"What. Fucking. Life? What do you expect me to do?"

"What you do with your time is up to you."

No. It hadn't gone well. Malfoy had continued to make his way to the apparation point daily, and to raise hell when his apparation with various groups was forbidden. It was only a matter of time until things went too far. Three weeks after Harry had reduced his involvement, Malfoy splinched himself badly. He had tried to apparate with a fighter group while being wrestled away by two supervising wizards. After that, Harry had him confined to a separate part of the headquarters.

He looked down at Hermione's hand holding his own, and he knew he had to break the routine. Maybe then she would see the possibilities. His free hand reached up, cupping her face, and he took a step closer. They were almost touching. She was so tantalizingly close that he could feel his heart pounding against every inch of his body, willing him to take her into his arms... to pull her body against his. Instead, he kept her hand in his, and caressed her cheek. His eyes hadn't left hers since the moment she'd reached for him, but now he couldn't help letting them wander down to her lips. He watched them part as she drew in an unsteady breath. He could lose everything he'd waited for with this single action, but he knew that doing nothing would cost him more. Slowly. He moved more slowly than he through was possible. He moved until his lips were a breath away from hers. And he waited there, hoping to feel her take that final step.

Dear Draco,

They say I can't keep coming every day. They say I'm killing myself the worst way I can. Maybe they're right. They're wrong about everything else, but this has been killing me for such a long time now. I think a part of me wants to let it happen, but, gods, then I think, 'what if?' What if someday you're better? What if someday, when I walk through that door, you know me again? And so I can't. I can't keep coming every day. I can't keep introducing myself as though we're strangers. I can't keep searching your eyes for that spark of recognition. I can't keep hoping that maybe this will be the day you're whole again. It's killing me.

Hermione isn't sure what she thought her life would be… but not this. Never this.

It had taken everyone she knew to confront her with her meager existence. She'd had to admit that she wasn't living… not really. But what could they expect from her? How could she let go of this without letting go of him?

It wasn't fair. Of course it wasn't.

They'd survived the entire war, they'd even had that first sweet taste of happiness in the months that had followed. They should have known better than to think it would last. All it had taken was a single Death Eater lurking in the shadows, and her life had turned into this. Waiting for him to remember her… or them.

He woke every morning without even knowing his own name. She could spend hours every day explaining his life to him, begging him to come back to her… the worst days were the ones he seemed to understand.

She had started taking days off from her heart-wrenching routine, and was ashamed at the relief she felt from the small breaks. The small breaks had slowly stretched longer and longer, until her visits were far and few between.

Somehow, though, she still couldn't help writing every day she wasn't there. Sometimes it was just a simple note to say, 'I'm still here. I'm still thinking of you.' Sometimes it was rolls of parchment telling him about every part of her day – every struggle – every thought in her head. Sometimes it was just a single line… "Do you remember me? I once meant everything to you."

If readers have questions beyond what I've answered here, feel free to message me or leave them in a review. I will do my best to get back to anyone who writes to me. Thank you again for reading.