i. Denial

The Department of Mysteries was unusually quiet, even for the ninth level. It was late on a Friday afternoon, and most of the Unspeakables in my area had left early. Not that I could blame them: it was a late spring day, warm and sunny, and the dark gloom of our department did not always sit well with people on days like that. They wanted to get away from the secrecy and the silence and venture out into a world brimming with vibrant life and color.

Normally I would too, but a difficult divorce really didn't put me in the mood for spring this year: it only reminded me of the first time I had met my wife--our first kiss, our beautiful April wedding. No, I didn't mind the silence and solitude of the department these days; it was easier to wrap myself in loss and regret that way.

There had been a time when those very things--silence and solitude--had almost driven me mad. But then I had slowly come to grips with my inner demons, until a chance encounter with a ghost--yes, a ghost--had finally inspired me to live. Megan Jones may have been dead when I had met her, but she had changed my life: I went out. I dated. I enjoyed living again. I met the love of my life six years later, and by the following spring, we were married.

It had been a good life, it really had. I missed it, even if it had become a lie by the end.

She left me for another man, a younger man and a Gryffindor on top of it all. They had met at a Divination conference and had run off to Australia together as soon as the divorce was final, chasing their crystal ball dreams across the outback. I missed her, even if she had hurt me, and I did, deep down, hope she was safe and happy.

If she was knee-deep in dragon dung, even better.

Bitterness aside, I had always enjoyed my work, so what better time to throw myself into it once more than now? I had spent years exploring the mysteries of death after meeting Megan Jones, trying to understand what had happened to me. And then I had realized something: there was no explanation. It could have happened in my head, for all I knew. It didn't matter, because it had changed me in an undeniably positive way. So I had moved from the Death Chamber and into other areas of study throughout the years.

Before the divorce, I had been working in the Time Room. Afterward I transferred to the Brain Room, my focus on the mechanisms of memory. Perhaps a part of me wanted to forget the last ten years of my life, lost to a cocky flash git with more money than Gringotts. Perhaps I just needed a change to take my mind off being alone once again. Either way, I was enjoying my work, as escapist as it was, and so I was the only one still working that Friday in May when a woman walked into the department, visitor's badge standing out against her green robes.

"Good afternoon. Can I help you?" I asked, striding out to meet her. She looked familiar. I had gone to Hogwarts with her, I knew: she was only a few years younger than me. Vibrant red hair triggered vague memories of a popular and rather sassy Gryffindor, until I recognized her from photographs in the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly.

Ginny Weasley Potter, recent widow.

She nodded in response, but did not offer a greeting or her hand. "I hope so. Are you Graham Montague?"

"Yes," I replied, surprised that she knew my name. Then again, it was on my badge, yet she was clearly looking for me, and I could think of no reason why the wife of Harry Potter would be looking for me deep in the Department of Mysteries at the end of the week.

No…maybe I could. Several reasons, actually. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Potter?"

She smiled sadly as she tucked a loose hair behind her ear. "I'm not sure, Mr. Montague. I probably shouldn't even be here."

I shrugged as I lead her down the corridor toward the small office I kept. As a senior Unspeakable now, I had that privilege and found I rather liked it. I offered her a chair and sat down at my desk across from her. "You're not the first person to come here seeking answers after a loss."

She glanced up at me, a spark of fire in her eyes. "That's not why I'm here!" she exclaimed, but clearly it was, because she was twisting her hands in front of her even if she did not realize it. "Well, not exactly, it's just that…" She trailed off with a frustrated sigh, her body almost radiating pain and sorrow. I felt for her, I really did.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Head Auror and hero for thousands, had died two months ago. It was all the wizarding world had talked about since. He had been killed, actually--assassinated by a lone wizard bent on revenge, a fellow Slytherin named Gregory Goyle. I remembered him, following Draco Malfoy around like an overgrown puppy from the moment he'd walked into the Great Hall and been Sorted. I had even let him and his crony Crabbe join the Quidditch team the year I was captain. Though all three had joined the Dark Lord, only Goyle had gone to Azkaban after the war; he had finally been released due to ill health. And he had promptly set out to kill Harry Potter before cowardly taking his own life.

Bloody hell, she wasn't here to ask me about Goyle, was she? I had barely known the guy; he had been a complete troll at Hogwarts. He had also been a year behind me, and I had preferred sucking up to the older students in my house or hanging out with Adrian Pucey, the only roommate I liked and still kept in touch with. I couldn't tell her anything about Goyle, or about her husband's death, for that matter.

"Mrs. Potter," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral even though I was finding myself growing uncomfortable. "I'm not sure what I can do. Are you sure this is the right place for you now?"

She glanced up at me and frowned. "Yes, I'm sure. I've heard about you, you know. And what happened."

I immediately found myself tensing up, assuming she was referring to the incident with the Vanishing Cabinet at Hogwarts. And then I remembered that it had been her brothers, those infuriating ginger-haired twins, who had caused it--who had pushed me inside and abandoned me there during my sixth year of school. And I found myself speaking rather coldly to the red-haired woman in front of me. "I'm not sure what you are referring to exactly."

"The ghost," she replied. "Megan, Megan Jones."

I shook my head in confusion, trying to process what she was saying. So she wasn't referring to the Vanishing Cabinet, but to something deeply personal I had shared with very few people. How the hell did she know about Megan Jones? The question must have shown on my face, for she leaned forward, placing her hands on my desk.

"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to overstep my boundaries," she began, but I cut her off.

"I think you already have," I said. "Not many people know about that, Mrs. Potter. I'm not sure how you found out."

She sat back and gave me a small, sly smile. "I work with Gemma Pucey, for one."

"She would never say anything." Gemma had been there the night I'd met Megan, but I trusted both her and her husband. There was no reason for them to share such a thing with Ginny Potter, even if her husband had just died.

"She didn't," Ginny said with a small shrug. "But I overheard her talking about it with Adrian once in the break room after your divorce. So I did a little digging." I froze: Ginny Potter worked for the Daily Prophet and likely had a number of resources at her disposal, including all her husband's connections at the Ministry. I nodded, reluctantly indicating her to continue. She let out a short, bitter laugh.

"Don't worry, it's not like that. I don't know your whole sordid life story. I just know you worked in the Death Chamber after that, trying to understand what had happened."

"I did," I answered slowly. "And I never really figured it out, so I'm still not sure why you're here, Mrs. Potter. I cannot contact your dead husband for you."

Her eyes flashed at me again. "I know that!" she snapped. "I'm not some fool of a teenage girl anymore." The spark died almost as soon as it had sprung to life, and she seemed wrapped in a cloak of distant sadness again. "But Harry was different, you know. I thought maybe there was something here…something you had learned, something you could do…" She trailed off once more, and I sighed.

"Mrs. Potter, I'm very sorry for your loss, but there is simply no way to bring back the dead, no matter how special they were, how different they were, or how much we miss them."

She sat up straighter, brown eyes suddenly boring into mine so intensely that I almost had to look away. "What if there was a way? Could you help me?"

"Could I help you?" I replied. "Or would I?"

"Both," she said, leaning forward once more. "Please."

"It would depend on the circumstances," I replied, curious in spite of my misgivings and drawn in by the strength of her personality, even in obvious mourning. "And I do not claim to be an expert on death, Mrs. Potter."

"No, but you are a senior Unspeakable," she replied with another small smile. Again it was tinged with sadness, and I felt myself feeling another strong surge of sympathy for her. "And you've studied it more than just about anyone else here. Will you help me?"

I stared at her, judging her sincerity. On the one hand, I wanted to tell her no and send her on her way: she was a Weasley, after all, and while the lingering resentment I felt toward her brothers should not transfer to someone who had nothing to do with it, still I was not completely comfortable with her in my office. And yet I was curious how she thought I could help her, and her sorrow and determination seemed genuine, and really, wasn't it petty to reject her plea for something that had happened over twenty years ago? If anything, perhaps I could help her move on with her life, for she seemed unable to accept her husband's death, even after several months.

"I can only try, Mrs. Potter."

She sat back, her whole body relaxing with relief. She nodded, brown eyes softening with another sad smile. "Call me Ginny, please."

"Then what can I do, Ginny?" I asked guardedly. I suddenly had a bad feeling about offering my assistance, as if I was getting myself into more than I had bargained for at the moment.

"I think my husband left behind a Horcrux," she stated. "And I need you to help me find it."

* * *

ii. Anger

At first, I had refused to help, and rather adamantly at that. I knew about Horcruxes, of course. They were Dark magic, but we studied even the Darkest spells in my department in order to understand the very nature of magic, and immortality was certainly one of life's best-kept secrets. I had even wondered if I had encountered some sort of Horcrux in my encounter with Megan Jones. Yet a return visit to the pub where it had happened and an awkward visit with her family had yielded no indication of such a thing, and I had accepted it as the least likely of explanations.

Now Ginny Potter had come to ask for my help in finding a Horcrux--and not just any Horcrux. Did she honestly believe her husband would create one himself? As the wizarding world well knew, Harry Potter had spent a year on the run during the war destroying several dangerous Horcruxes left behind by the Dark Lord. Potter had been almost killed that year, until finally--somehow--he had defeated Voldemort at Hogwarts during one final duel in the Great Hall. I had always wondered how he had managed it, but few people seemed to know the full story, or were willing to tell it.

Creating a Horcrux struck me as something Harry Potter would never do after such an experience. I had met him once, after the war, and I had not got the impression from our conversation that he was afraid to die. Nor did he seem capable, even as Head Auror, of deliberately taking a life in order to split his soul and power the spell. How could his own wife think him capable of such a thing?

After two weeks of persistent owls and a second visit to my office, I finally gave in and came to the house. Mrs. Potter was certain it would be there, somewhere, and she seemed even more convinced that I could find it simply because I was an Unspeakable familiar with the magic involved. I knew I wouldn't find anything because I didn't believe for a second there was a Horcrux for me to find. Harry Potter was dead, and his wife needed to accept that.

Nevertheless, I spent three days with Ginny--she insisted I stop calling her Mrs. Potter, as if she were an old, widowed spinster already--searching through the house where she had spent so many years with her husband. For some reason, it brought back memories of my divorce: of a home once shared in happiness, holding hundreds if not thousands of memories everywhere you turned. I had finally sold the house and moved out; Ginny had children to raise on her own now, and she couldn't rip them from the only home they knew when they had just lost their father. The house would haunt her, if she did not move on from what was beginning to become an obsession as the days went by.

She became increasingly frantic to find anything that might be a Horcrux for her dead husband, to the point of throwing things across the room, often at me: books, photographs, clothing, his wand. Sometimes she would yell, jinxing a simple pair of trainers when it was obvious she was cursing her husband for leaving her alone with them. Other times she would dash away angry tears and abruptly leave the room, whatever item she had been staring at left lying abandoned on the floor. There were recollections of him everywhere, memories of the man she had lost forever, tucked into every corner and crevice.

Having gone through something similar when my wife had moved out, I tried to stay calm and clean up after her, but eventually it became too much. I began to push back, to challenge her. It seemed better than letting her focus her anger on her dead husband and destroy things she would regret later, and I wasn't good at simply listening and offering sympathy with a pat on the back. So she yelled at me instead of at old Auror robes, and I let her. It was exhausting, though, and all the while I was still looking for the signs of Dark magic I knew would reveal a possible Horcrux.

She finally took out his glasses from a small box next to the bed, the same round spectacles everyone in the wizarding world knew and recognized. When I could find no trace of Dark magic on them, she threw them at me with a curse worthy of the crudest drunk at the Hog's Head. I stopped them with my wand, plucked them from midair, and tucked them into my pocket.

"I think we're done here, Mrs. Potter," I said, reverting back to the formal address. She narrowed her eyes at me, and I saw tears in them, but whether they were tears of sadness or anger, at that moment I could not tell. It was over: we had searched everywhere and there was nothing to find. Although I felt a great deal of sympathy for her, I was tired of putting up with her abuse for nothing, when clearly I wasn't helping her move on at all.

"Then get out," she spat, turning her back on me. "You've been no help whatsoever. I don't know why I even bothered coming to see you."

I nodded to myself as I made my way downstairs. I wasn't sure why she had bothered, either. There was no Horcrux; there never had been and never would be.

As I let myself out the door, I literally ran into another classmate from Hogwarts, Hermione Granger, now Weasley. I knew her casually from working together at the Ministry, but she still looked shocked to see me there; she was probably wondering why a strange man was in the house, let alone how I even knew Ginny Potter.

A young girl was with her, flaming red hair and green eyes clearly marking her as one of the Potter children. Lily, I think Ginny had said? She had been spending a good deal of time with her cousins since her father had died and her brothers were at school. Given Ginny's increasingly unstable state of mind, that seemed for the best.

I smiled at the girl, but she gave me a guarded look, with a questioning glance up at her aunt.

"Why don't you go to the kitchen and grab a snack, Lily?" said Hermione, staying remarkably calm in spite of the unsettled look on her face. "I'll be there in a minute or two."

I obviously couldn't leave now; Hermione was clearly not happy to see me there. I could only imagine what she might be thinking. She said the last thing I expected, however.

"So she really did go down to the Department of Mysteries," she murmured, holding my gaze as if challenging me. I nodded.

"She came to see me a few weeks ago," I replied, keeping my voice low so no one heard. "I tried to put her off, but she's been insistent."

Hermione nodded, glancing upstairs with a sad look on her face. "She wants to see Harry. Talk to him." It was more of a statement than a question. I followed her glance and pulled her into the front living room.

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, sounding concerned.

"She asked me to help her, yes, but not about contacting Harry. Has she said anything to you about…well, about Horcruxes?"

I could literally see the blood drain from Hermione's face. "She doesn't think…she isn't hoping he…" Her hands flew to her mouth, and I nodded.

"She asked me to help her find a Horcrux." I paused to let it sink in. "For Harry."

Hermione just stared at me, before finally running a shaky hand across her eyes. "And that's why you're here? To look for one of those…those things?"

"I didn't find one," I said quickly, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "I didn't even know Potter, but I know well enough that a man like him would never make anything like that."

"You don't know the half of it," Hermione whispered, and her eyes were distant, as if remembering something painful from the past. "I can't believe Ginny would even think that."

"She's in denial," I said brusquely. "Although right now she's angry--pissed as hell, even. Which was why I was letting myself out. You might find a bit of a mess upstairs."

Hermione nodded and guided me toward the door. "It's been hard for her, for all of us. Thank you for telling me, Graham."

I stopped at the door and cleared my throat. "I'm sorry for your loss. I know he was a good man, and I wish I could be more help, but…" I let my sentence trail off, because there was nothing I could do, really. It was none of my business; I hardly knew any of them and felt like I was only making their recovery worse by helping Ginny chase down a hopeless obsession.

"You've done nothing wrong," Hermione reassured me, as if somehow sensing my guilt. "I'll talk to her and make sure she doesn't bother you with such nonsense any more."

I nodded and turned to leave before I remembered what was in my pocket. "You might want to keep these safe for her," I said, handing Hermione the round spectacles. Her eyes grew bright, and I saw her swallow hard before she murmured another thank you. I said my goodbye, then slowly left the house behind me and Apparated back to my own quiet flat.

I had a feeling, however, that it was not the last time I would see Ginny Potter.

* * *

Bargaining

It was well over a month before I saw her again during a summer party at the Pucey's. Ginny had mentioned at our first meeting that she worked with Gemma Pucey, but I had no idea they were friends. Or maybe they weren't. Maybe Gemma invited her for the same reason they had been inviting me out for the last six months: to help me get over my loss and get back into living as a single man.

For whatever reason, Ginny was there, and though it had been four months since her husband's death, to me she still seemed as sad and alone as she had when she had first come to the Department of Mysteries, though less angry than when I had last left her house. Her eyes appeared brighter and she carried herself well, so well that others may not have noticed her lingering pain, yet I sensed it was an act, and I knew from experienced it was a difficult one. I remembered having to do the same after the divorce: put on the happy face and play at appearing normal, when inside I hated everything going on around me and just wanted to be alone.

Ginny had moved away from a small group of Daily Prophet reporters and had gone to sit under a tree by herself, a small plate of food in her hand. I decided to take her a drink and offer some company, knowing how awkward it was to sit alone those first few months when you went out on your own but were so used to sitting with someone you loved.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Potter," I said, smiling at her. "Do you mind if I join you?"

She gave me a rueful smile. "Of course not, Graham. But only if you call me Ginny, remember?"

"All right then, Ginny," I replied. "Next question: would you like a drink?" I offered her a cup of sparkling lemonade, and she smiled gratefully at me.

"Thank you," she murmured. "I couldn't carry it all. I'm surprised you're being so kind to me after our last meeting, though."

"The one where you cursed and threw things at me?" I replied as I sat down next to her. "I wouldn't hold that against you after all you've been through."

"I would," she replied. "I was a fright."

"You had reason to be," I said, hoping I sounded sincere in my understanding and acceptance. "So how are you doing?"

She took a moment to reply, as if trying to decide how to answer the question when a virtual stranger asked, as opposed to a much closer friend. I had always given strangers a hazy half-answer that effectively closed the subject when they asked about the divorce. Finally she shrugged. "There are good days and bad days," she said, remaining vague as well. "I suppose it just takes time."

"It does," I replied, thinking back to my first months after the divorce. It had been mostly bad days at first: days where I couldn't fathom living without her, days when I had been so angry it was a wonder I hadn't run off and done something stupid. There were days when I had almost called and begged her to come back, and days I had barely got out of bed. Until finally the bad days had started fade, though even now truly good days were still few and far between. Most days just were: I went to work, did my job, went home to my empty flat, and continued on till morning, when it all started over. "It takes a lot of time. Maybe forever."

She gave me a funny look, brown eyes gazing into my face with--of all things at that moment--sympathy. For some reason, it moved me and almost made me glance away. "You know about loss too," she stated.

I hardly thought that losing my wife to a cad in Australia was the same as losing a husband to a crazed murderer. Yet we did have some things in common: we had both lost our spouses and were still trying to move forward and learn to live on our own again. Sitting there on the grass beside her, I felt a sudden, almost physical connection with Ginny that I squashed almost immediately; why, I wasn't sure, but it didn't seem like the right thing at the moment. She was clearly still hurting, while I thought I had managed some semblance of healing.

"It's not the same," I murmured, but she set down her plate and shook her head.

"No, it's not, but it's similar. We're both trying to understand and accept what's happened, figure out how to start a new life after so many years of being with someone else all the time."

I said the first thing that came to mind. "How long were you together?"

She smiled and glanced off into the distance. "Twenty years," she murmured. "Give or take a few." Turning back, she picked up her plate and pushed her food around without taking a bite. "What about you? How long were you married before the divorce?"

"Ten years," I replied. Ten years that still felt like a lie some days. Maybe I hadn't lost my spouse the way she had lost hers --my wife was still alive, after all, even if she was on another continent--but there were times when I felt like I had lost just as much: ten years of happiness, of memories, of my own life wasted. Which was probably wrong: Gemma had told me over and over that I still had the good times to remember, and I tried, I did. Yet sometimes the bitterness kept me from appreciating the years we'd had together; I still questioned whether we had ever truly been happy, whether it had ever been real.

"Do you…do you miss her? Or miss being married?" she asked. I glanced at her in surprise, for it seemed a very personal question to ask a man she didn't know all that well. Yet she had started our conversation in the Department of Mysteries in a similar straightforward way, and I found myself appreciating it. Very few people actually asked me about it now, and as I had done from the beginning with her, I tried to be honest.

"I miss being married, yes," I replied. "And I miss her, even though I know it wasn't meant to be. She's gone and never coming back."

"Never coming back," she repeated, a poignant look on her face. "Yes, I miss Harry, too. I miss being married--waking up next to him and falling asleep in his arms, even fighting and making up. So much it hurts every day, and I'd give anything to see him again."

The conversation was growing uncomfortable, so I tried to steer it away. I knew those thoughts would only bring her more heartache, having already seen her desperate desire to find a Horcrux. "Have you talked to anyone? Since he died?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Have you?"

"My wife wasn't murdered," I pointed out rather bluntly; she didn't flinch, so she had apparently accepted that much, at least. "She left me."

"All the more reason to talk to someone," she replied. "So have you?"

"No."

"Neither have I." She paused and set down her plate, obviously not intending to eat anything. "But maybe I should. Maybe we both should."

"I've talked to my friends," I replied, rejecting the idea of a therapist just as I had every time Gemma had suggested it. "And my family. It was six months ago. I'm fine." Most of the time, at least.

"I've talked to my friends as well," Ginny replied. "And my family won't shut up asking me if I'm all right. I think I might like to talk with someone who doesn't walk on eggshells around me."

She was giving me a speculative look that I could read immediately. Raising my hands and shaking my head, I refused. "Sorry, I'm not that person. I don't know the first thing about helping someone through a loss like yours."

"Yes, you do," she said. "You've studied it. You've experienced it. And you've already helped me."

"I haven't--" I started to protest.

"You came to sit with me," she replied. "And you helped me when I came to the Department of Mysteries, even though you knew I was wrong, if not temporarily insane. And you kept Harry's glasses safe. Thank you for giving them to Hermione before you left."

"You're welcome," I said quietly. And for the first time, I found myself thinking…maybe she was right. I had done those things, and maybe I had somehow helped her. She did seem to be doing better than last time I had seen her. Perhaps we could help one another, even. I wouldn't mind talking with someone who didn't shy away from the hard questions like everyone else did, and she seemed able to handle my bluntness.

"Look, I'm not sure what you want from me, exactly," I started, and she shrugged.

"Just a friend, I guess," she replied. "An honest one. An experienced one." It was as if she were reading my mind.

"Never mind that I have access to the Department of Mysteries?" I asked. Though I was slightly suspicious, I tried to keep my tone light, and to both my surprise and relief, she laughed, though it was short and still sad.

"No, I won't ask you about that stuff anymore, I promise."

"Good." We sat in comfortable silence for several moments, before I cleared my throat and plunged on, some inner voice telling me it was all right. "Then maybe we could have coffee sometime."

She smiled, and if it seemed somewhat brighter than when I had joined her, then I was probably just imagining it. Yet deep down I felt like something was different, and I was looking forward to seeing her again, no matter reason.

"I'd like that," she replied, and I smiled back.

And that's how it really began.

* * *

Depression

I didn't see Ginny again for several weeks. I thought about contacting her, to see if she had actually meant what she had said and really wanted--or needed--to talk over a cup of coffee at the Leaky some afternoon. If I admitted it to myself, I wanted to see her. Whether it was to help her or myself, I wasn't sure. Yet something about her quiet sadness had taken hold of me that afternoon under the tree--maybe earlier.

I finally ran into her--almost literally--at the Ministry one afternoon after lunch. I was just returning and apparently she was just leaving, and we bumped into each other in the Atrium.

"Graham!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "I work here, remember?"

She smiled somewhat sheepishly. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"What are you doing here?" I asked, and her face fell a bit.

"Well, Lily started school this week, so Hermione insisted I come by for lunch." She sighed. "It's been a tough week. All the kids are gone now, and the house is so quiet. It's awful."

"Then we should have that coffee," I said before I could stop myself. I had forgotten that it was September, and Hogwarts would have started back; no wonder it had seemed so much quieter in Diagon Alley recently.

"How about lunch tomorrow?" she asked, and I tried not to imagine that she sounded interested or hopeful. I nodded and smiled; it had actually been ages since I had had a meal with anyone but a coworker or the Puceys. Going out for an entire lunch would be even better than coffee. I was already looking forward to it.

"Would you like me to walk you out?" I asked, the words once again falling out before I had really thought them through. She shook her head with a smile; of course she would know her way around--her husband had worked here. I wondered how hard it was for her to come back, and if that was part of the reason Hermione had invited her to lunch.

"No thanks, I remember the way. The Leaky tomorrow?" she asked. I nodded, and she left with a small smile. I watched her go, red hair standing out against a sea of dull grey and black robes, which was ironic, because she had still seemed rather dull and grey herself.

We met at the Leaky Cauldron the next day for lunch. It started out awkwardly, until I realized I needed to make her comfortable. She was dealing with far too much already to be sitting there in clumsy silence with me. I didn't want her to be embarrassed about what had happened so many months before at the house, so I obviously did not bring it up. And though I knew she missed her children now that they had all gone to Hogwarts, I suspected that like most mothers she was also incredibly proud of them and could talk about them for hours.

And I was right. I heard all about James's exploits, Albus's struggles, and Lily's first week at school. They sounded like good kids, and the thought of them growing up without a father really tugged at my heart. I knew they had a lot of aunts and uncles, but that wasn't the same as a father. I had always felt sympathy for Ginny; now I felt a deep pity for her children, anger that their father had been taken from them so young.

It brought back my own regret at not having children, but then, my wife had not been interested, and for most of our marriage, I had been all right with that. We had had time for ourselves and nothing else to worry about: we traveled, went out, enjoyed our childless status even as everyone around us kept procreating like rabbits and stayed home with their kids, tired eyes testament to the difficulties of beginning parenthood. Yet now my wife was gone, and I was alone. At least Ginny had her kids.

Some hint of my thoughts must have passed across my face, because she stopped and glanced down at her food in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I'm talking about nothing but myself. What about you? Do you have any kids?"

I raised an eyebrow. "I thought you checked up on me?" I tossed back. "When you first came to my office?"

She shrugged, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "I did, but I tried not to dig into your personal life too much. Plus some people do manage to keep their privacy these days."

"They do?" I asked, feigning surprise, and she laughed.

"I don't know many, but I've heard it's possible." She sipped at her drink and gave me a curious look. "You're avoiding the question, though. Did you have any children?"

"No," I said, with as casual a shrug as I could manage. "It just wasn't in the tea leaves for us."

"Tea leaves?" she asked, obviously confused, and I didn't bother holding back a bitter laugh.

"My wife was a keen follower of all sorts of divination--her crystal ball, tea leaves and tarot cards, all of it. And children never appeared in any of her castings, so we didn't pursue it."

Ginny was silent for a moment. "That's too bad. You sound sad about it."

I shrugged again, a discomfort settling around my shoulders that I tried to ignore. "I was fine with it while we were married, at least until the end. Then I started to ask about it more. Sometimes I wonder if that's what pushed her away."

"I doubt it had anything to do with you and everything to do with her," Ginny said, reaching across the table and taking my hand. It was small and warm, and it felt wonderful to hold hands with a woman again, even for a brief moment. She sat back and grinned. "Besides, children aren't for everyone. They are hard work."

"You seem to be doing well by them," I observed, hoping to steer the conversation away from my own problems. She frowned, though, and I immediately sensed I had said something wrong.

"I'm trying." She sighed. "They're all at Hogwarts now, so at least I know their teachers are watching over them."

"Is anyone watching over you?" I asked after a few moments silence. I sensed that sending her children to Hogwarts had left Ginny more alone than before, and I was worried about her. I hardly knew her, but I did not want to see her spiral into a lonely, locked-up depression. It was hard to break out of, having had to do so myself.

"Hermione does," she replied. "And Angelina, George's wife, comes by a lot. My parents still have the entire family over every Sunday, so that’s been good, too--for all of us."

It struck me then how different our situations really were. Last time we had met, I was certain we shared a connection, having both lost our spouses. Yet Ginny had a large, extended family checking in on her, helping her through her loss. I barely had my parents, a few friends, and a brother whom I'd talked to once since the divorce. Strangely enough, talking with Ginny made me feel more alone, and not less.

Regardless, I enjoyed our lunch and we agreed to meet the following week, though I wasn't sure why she wanted to meet with me when it seemed she had so many others supporting her. Yet that lunch slowly turned into a weekly meeting, sometimes a quick bite to eat if Ginny was working on an important story, sometimes a longer meal if neither of us had to rush back to work. We talked about all sorts of things, including our spouses, and I learned things about Harry Potter I had never thought to learn. He had been a great man, even with the little quirks and faults his wife shared; I regretted not knowing him better.

I also started regretting our meetings. Ginny seemed to grow stronger each week, yet I felt worse. The weather had turned cold and it just seemed easier to stay inside rather than venture out in the November chill. Yet I couldn't just abandon her, and I began to dread seeing her for lunch as much as I looked forward to it. She seemed genuinely interested in continuing our meetings; I daresay we were friends now. The real problem was that I had started thinking about more.

It had started with a simple peck on the cheek one afternoon after lunch: quick and light, it had sent shivers down my back. She had smiled at me and dashed off, but I had been dazed the entire walk back to the Ministry. She had kissed me, and in that moment I knew I had started to develop feelings for her that were more than sympathy, more than pity. I was falling in love with Ginny Potter.

Yet I knew I couldn't let myself: she was a widow, the widow of the most famous wizard of our time. She was a single mother with three children, at times still struggling to keep it together and move on with her life. I knew that because we shared these things with one another, the small but difficult challenges of losing a spouse and trying to put the pieces of one's life back together. I could not understand all of what she was going through, but I understood enough, and she understood me. Every week I found myself thinking about our lunch date more and more, until it was over and I felt empty until the following week.

I threw myself back into my work; it didn't help. I tried to distance myself when we met, but she always pulled me back. I even let Adrian set me up with a girl he knew, but she was much too young and inexperienced, and all I could think was that she didn't have flaming red hair and beautiful brown eyes.

I needed to end it. It wasn't right and never would be. I may have been a Slytherin, but I had changed a great deal over the years, and most importantly, I had my honor when it came to women. The last person I wanted to hurt was the one person I cared about the most.

It was December when we met for the last time. Ginny had been too busy for lunch and had sent me an owl to see if I was available for dinner instead. My heart dropped into my stomach: dinner felt much more like a date than lunch, and my feelings for her had not changed. I wanted to tell her no, dinner would not work, but I couldn't do it in a letter, so I said yes. I was determined, however, to end it in person that night: lunch, dinner, everything.

We met at an Italian restaurant just on the other side of Diagon Alley. Ginny wore a beautiful gold blouse with a skirt and high boots. Her hair had grown out since the first time I'd met her and was pulled back in matching gold combs. Her brown eyes sparkled in the dim candlelight of the restaurant, and I found myself avoiding looking at her, because each time I did, I wanted to lean over and kiss her.

"Is everything all right?" she finally asked as the waiter cleared our food. I sighed, dreading the answer I knew I had to give.

"Yes and no," I finally replied. "Ginny, you seem to be doing really well."

She seemed confused by my statement. "Yes, I suppose I'm doing better than I was six months ago. But what does that have to do with anything?"

The words were so hard. "I think maybe it's time we…we stopped having lunch. Stopped meeting." The shocked look on her face ripped me apart inside, but I kept talking as if I could somehow make it better with words. "It's just that we decided to get together and talk about our losses, but it's been several months now and you seem so much better that I--"

"Don't want to be friends anymore?" she asked, her voice rather cold. Merlin, I hated doing this, but it had to be done. I could not be with the widow of Harry Potter, which meant I simply could not see her anymore.

"It's not that--" I started, but she stopped me.

"Then what is it? Was I some sort of charity case? A patient who's been cured and dismissed from treatment?"

"No!" I exclaimed. I had known from the moment I'd set foot in her house that she had had a temper, and I was seeing it once again, directed at me full force. "Ginny, it's not like that at all."

"Then what's it like, Graham?" she asked, sitting back and crossing her arms over her chest. "Because I don't see any reason why we can't keep having lunch together--or dinner."

"Because it feels like a date," I hissed under my breath, refusing to meet her eyes. When I did glance up, she was staring at me as if I had gone mad for even suggesting it.

"It's not a date," she said. "It's two friends helping each other through a tough time in their life."

"And I think we're both through that rough patch now, enough that we should stop seeing each other." If I expected another shocked, hurt response, I was wrong. She narrowed her eyes at me and leaned forward.

"You just don't want to bother anymore. You don't want to see me." She was flinging a challenge in my face, and I actually groaned as I fell back against my chair.

"No, Ginny, that's not it at all." I took a deep breath. I wanted to be honest, because in the end it would probably hurt her less if she knew the truth. Yet I couldn't say it, because I was too afraid of being the one to get hurt. "It's just that…that…I like you, Ginny. Too much to hurt you."

"I thought we were helping each other," she replied.

"And we did. But…bloody hell…I think we've done all we can for each other. I really do."

"Fine." Her flat tone felt like a slap across the face. "But tell me the real reason why you don't want to see me anymore."

"You're making it sound like we're a couple or something!" I said under my breath, and to further rub it in, she laughed.

"A couple? Graham, you've been a great friend to me all these months, but not like that…oh." She stopped and stared at me, and I knew from the look in her eyes she had figured it out. It was probably written plain across my face at that moment anyway, and there was nothing I could do as I watched her set down her napkin and gather her purse.

"I see." She blinked back tears. "You've found someone."

"What?" I asked, blindsided. "Found someone?"

"To be with," she said. "And you don't want to hurt me--or her. I get it now." She stood to leave, a sad smile on her face as she looked down at me. "I'm sorry it took me so long to understand."

"No--Ginny, it's not like that," I said, standing and reaching out for her hand. She moved away just enough that I could not reach it, and it felt like she had stepped away forever with that one small rejection. I had to tell her. "There is no one else."

"Then why are you doing this?" she asked. "I don’t want to lose you, too." Her hand came up and touched my cheek. "You've been such a support, such a good friend. Please don't leave."

My entire body responded to her touch, but my mind reeled at her words: a good friend. Nothing more. This time I stepped away.

"I have to," I said. "Because I want something I can't have."

"What?" she asked. She honestly had no idea, and it broke my heart.

"You," I whispered. If we had been the subject of a tasteless witches' romance novel, I would have crushed her too me and kissed her passionately. Instead, we just stared at one another, until Ginny shook her head, a dazed look on her face.

"I have to go," she said, gathering her cloak and scarf around her.

"Ginny, I'm sorry--" I started, but she waved me off.

"No, it's all right. I get it now. It's for the best." She took a deep breath, looked me in the eyes, and held out her hand. "Good-bye, Graham," she said softly. "Good luck."

I held her hand for as long as I could before she turned and walked away--out of the restaurant and out of my life.

I finished dinner alone, but then, I had grown used to it months ago. I had just dared to hope that maybe I wouldn't be alone anymore.

I had been wrong.

* * *

v. Acceptance

The holidays were rough that year. It was my first Christmas since the divorce, and though I saw my family, including my brother, it was still lonely, awkward, and exhausting. I spent a very quiet Boxing Day with Gemma and Adrian, who wanted to set me up with someone again. I turned them down, knowing my heart would not be in it for quite some time after what had happened--or not happened--with Ginny.

January passed in a blur of cold and snow and lonely nights spent by the fireplace in my flat reliving that awful moment a year before when my wife--my ex-wife, as I had finally forced myself to think of her--had told me it was over. It all came crashing back: the shock and denial, the anger, pleading, and finally the depression. I slept more than usual, the fatigue of the holidays settling into my bones along with the dark mood I found myself reliving most days.

By February I was once again working late into the night, trying to put my past behind me, but this time I was trying to forget someone else. I had not seen or spoken to Ginny since our last dinner together before Christmas, when I had unexpectedly confessed my feelings for her. I had asked Gemma once how Ginny was doing, and apparently she was doing well, so I tried to let that cheer me up…only it didn't. I missed her, and it did not appear that she missed me at all, as she had not made any attempt to contact me whatsoever. She had moved on, and once again, I was struggling--physically and emotionally.

I fell ill not long after Valentine's Day. The lingering fatigue I had experienced since Christmas but had tried to ignore finally caught up with me. I developed a cough that frequently left me short of breath. I woke up with a fever toward the end of the month, but took a potion and went into the Ministry anyway, intending to work at least for half the day. I vaguely remember collapsing in my office, although I don't remember who found or helped me. I woke up in St. Mungo's, disoriented and confused.

I know I was very sick, but things were a bit vague after that, as if my mind and body simply did not wish to remember my illness. Soon enough I returned to the Department of Mysteries, determined to try and reestablish my routine. It was safe and it was stable, and I needed that in my life, as boring as it was. I needed to forget about St. Mungo's, about my ex-wife, about Ginny.

It was just so, so hard.

She came to see me on my first day back. It was toward the end of the day, and I was working alone in my office when she walked by. I stood and stared after her, wondering why she had not stopped. I was shocked to see her there, and just as surprised at how much it affected me: even after so many months, my feelings had not gone away.

It was March, and it must have been about the time Harry had died the year before, for she appeared very somber. The Auror department had probably held a memorial for him, because her eyes were red, and she was not smiling. In fact, she seemed more pale and sad than I remembered from our last meeting, and I couldn't help but wonder if our parting had upset her as much as it had hurt me, or if it was the anniversary of her husband's death that was weighing on her.

Not knowing what to say or do, I was glad when she doubled back and hesitantly stepped into my office. The look on her face, however, worried me: shocked and scared, Ginny stood rooted in place as I approached her.

"Hello, Ginny," I said, moving around my desk. "It's good to see you. Are you all right?"

She stared at me, her hand coming to her mouth in disbelief. Then she quickly closed the door behind her. "Graham? Is that really you?" she asked. "What are you doing here?" Her voice sounded frightened. I sensed that something was wrong, and my stomach clenched with fear.

I stepped closer, but she backed away from me. "I work here," I said, smiling so she might relax. She shook her head at me, still tense with apparent shock.

"No, no you don't," she replied. "Not anymore."

"Of course I do." I laughed, although something about her tone made me nervous, as if I was starting to suspect something but couldn't quite put my finger on it. "The bigger question is what are you doing down here? We haven't talked for months."

"I'm not really sure why I'm here," she murmured. "I guess I just wanted to…I don't know," she repeated. "I was expecting to speak to someone else. I wasn't thinking you would still be here."

"Why not?" I asked, completely confused. "This is my office, isn't it?" I studied her face closely. "Are you sure you're all right? Are you here for Harry's memorial?"

She shook her head and frowned. "No, that's not until the end of the month. Gemma and I came for something else."

"You're here with Gemma?" I asked in surprise. "Why? Are you following a story?"

"No, not a story," she replied.

"Is Gemma still with you?" I asked, confused by her vague answers.

"No, she went home with Adrian. I stopped by to see Hermione before I left and just decided to come down here on a whim."

"Was there something I missed upstairs?" I asked. I couldn’t recall Gemma and Adrian mentioning anything about going to the Ministry, but then again, I had not spoken to them for…well, I couldn't really remember that either. I knew they had been at St. Mungo's with me, but my memory since falling ill was very hazy.

Ginny motioned to the couch. "Graham, I think you should probably sit."

I slowly lowered myself to the sofa in my office, and Ginny sat down next to me. She started to reach for my hand, but then seemed to think better of it. My disappointment was second only to my increasing anxiety. What was going on? Why had they all come to the Ministry? Why didn't I know anything about whatever seemed to be going on?

"Graham, I came for a memorial service, but not for Harry," she said, her voice soft and gentle. She gazed into my eyes as if willing me to understand, but I still had no idea what was going on.

"For who, then?" I asked, running a hand through my hair. "I haven't heard anything, but then I've been out sick for several weeks…" I trailed off at the look of sympathy and pity on her face. I had a sudden suspicion of why she was there, but I shook my head in denial. "No…"

"It was for you."

"There must be a mistake," I said, jumping up and staring down at her. "Because clearly I am not in need of a memorial service."

I started pacing the office as Ginny blew out a long breath. "I was very sick, I know. I collapsed here at work, and they took me to St. Mungo's. But I'm better now--I feel fine!"

"That was two weeks ago. You were taken to St. Mungo's but you… you didn't make it. You slipped into a coma and never woke up." Ginny stood up and stopped me from pacing. "I'm so sorry, Graham, but…you're gone."

I grinned because it was utterly ridiculous to hear it out loud. "You mean I'm dead." I reached out and took her hand. She gasped. "No, I'm not. You can feel that, can't you? I'm here, alive, with you."

"You're cold as ice," she whispered, dropping my hand. "And you're not supposed to be here."

"Neither are you," I replied, sounding petulant. A part of me believed her even though the rest of me refused. "Why did you come here if I'm dead?"

"I came down to…I don't know," she said, turning away and waving her hand dismissively. "I came down to say a private goodbye, I guess. We left things so poorly in December that I've felt awful about it ever since."

"That was three months ago!" I exclaimed. "I figured since you obviously didn't feel the same, that you had moved on."

She turned toward me, a stricken look on her face. "And you were right. I didn't feel the same. I feel terrible for leading you to believe I did, or that I could."

"Could you?" I dared to ask, dreading the answer even as I craved it. I had often wondered about the answer, sitting alone by the fire: could she have felt the same about me, one day, when she was ready?

"It doesn't matter now," she said softly, avoiding the question. "You're a ghost, Graham. That doesn't make for a successful long-term relationship."

"I'm not a ghost!" I exclaimed, but I heard the hysterical edge to my voice.

"You are," she insisted. "I don't know why you're here or how I can see you, but you died two weeks ago. You have to move on. That must be why I'm here."

"I'll prove it," I said, ignoring her last remark, and I strode across the room. I walked right through the closed door and stopped in the corridor in shock. The door opened behind me, and Ginny came out, glancing around.

"Do you believe me now?" she asked, but I stubbornly shook my head.

"No," I replied, determined to prove her wrong.

I strode down the corridor to the next office, where Mitchell Goldstein, the Unspeakable in charge of the Brain Room, worked. We had been colleagues for several years, working together on memory study and having the occasional lunch, though we had never been close friends away from the office. Mitchell was sitting at his desk, sipping a cup of tea as he stared off into space, a thoughtful look on his face. Once again I ignored the fact that I could pass right through the door and strode up to his desk.

"Mitchell?" I asked, but he didn't look up. I waved my hand, then my arms. I stomped my feet and yelled; he simply continued to stare at the wall, silently drinking his tea before setting it down with a sigh and beginning to go through a stack of parchments.

"I hate this," he muttered. "Dammit, Graham, now I have to sort through this pile and find some rookie to do your job half as good as you." I glanced at the stack of papers and saw that they were all transfer slips from various departments around the Ministry.

So it was true: I was gone, and my position was already being filled.

I stumbled backward, bumping into a bookshelf and knocking a book to the floor. I almost stooped to pick it up, but Mitchell glanced up with a frown on his face. I swallowed hard.

"Stella Stebbins always wanted to transfer," I said, hoping that he might somehow hear me. He tilted his head, then rifled through the papers.

"Stebbins?" he murmured, reading through the slip. Then he glanced around the room, though it was obvious he still couldn't see me and probably wondered if he had even heard anything. "Thanks, Graham. Wherever you are."

I wanted to scream that I was right there in front of him, but I was starting to panic, so I bolted back through the wall. Ginny was still standing in the hallway.

She must have sensed my fear, for she took my hand and began to lead me down the corridor. Her steady, living presence calmed me. I still had so many questions, but the only one that I managed to ask was, "Where are we going?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "I've only been down here a few times, but I remember the Veil as if it were yesterday and not over twenty years ago."

She shivered, and I glanced sideways at her, suddenly even more anxious. The Veil had been known to entrance even the strongest of Unspeakables, the whispering voices of lost loved ones calling out to them from wherever they were on the other side. Even I had once been tempted to step through the archway and see what was there; I had only stopped myself by casting a Silencing Spell so I could not hear the voices and be enchanted. Aside from the fact that I still did not accept my circumstances, I could not let her near it, for fear of what she might do.

"Ginny, I'm not going through the Veil," I told her. "What if you're wrong? What if I'm under some kind of spell? Maybe there's a cure." I wasn't sure why I was clinging so desperately to life, when in truth it was a very sad, lonely existence for me. I just knew I didn't want to leave--not now that she was there with me.

"It's not a spell, Graham," she said. "You collapsed at work and were taken to St. Mungo's."

"But I remember that!" I exclaimed. "And I remember waking up."

She gave me a sympathetic look. "Gemma said you were conscious, for a while. But it was your heart, Graham. You had an infection in your heart, and there was nothing they could do. Too much damage had already been done, and you slipped into a coma and died three days later."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I remember getting up and going back to my flat. I got dressed and came in to work in this morning."

"Did you eat anything?" she asked.

"I wasn't hungry."

"Did you talk to anyone?"

I hesitated. "No, but that's not unusual. We Unspeakables sometimes stick to ourselves." And I had been in such a state recently that not speaking to anyone for an entire day was more normal than not.

"You're dead, Graham," she said bluntly, and to my surprise she had lead us directly to door of the Death Chamber. "You need to stop denying it."

"I'm not denying it," I snapped back. "I'm just telling you that you're wrong." Which was the same thing as denial, as I knew perfectly well.

"You can walk through walls," she said. "You can't eat. No one but me can see and hear you. Is that all part of being an Unspeakable too?"

I shrugged. "It could be, if I mangled a spell…" I trailed off at the skeptical look on her face. She pushed open the door and stopped almost immediately. Eyes closed, she took a deep breath, then set out down the stone steps leading to the familiar dais in the center of the room, where that mysterious black curtain fluttered, just as I remembered from the last time I had been there, years ago.

As always, I heard a soft whispering all around, the voices of the dead calling out to me. In the past, it had been only a buzz; I could never recognize anything that was said. Yet now it was louder, and I could understand much of what the voices were saying.

They were calling me home, entreating me to join them.

I froze halfway down the steps and swore under my breath, desperately trying to resist the impulse to turn around and run from the room. Ginny had reached the bottom and held out her hand to me once more.

"Are you all right?" I asked, forcing myself to continue and taking her hand. There were tears running down her face. "Can you hear him?"

She nodded as she wiped the tears away. "I can," she said, gazing up at the archway in wonder. "I can hear Harry. Graham, I can't stay here long. It's too hard."

"What?" I exclaimed, taking her other hand and turning her to look at me. "No, Ginny, you can't go through there. You still have too much to live for, you have to resist it!"

She laughed as she tucked her hair behind her ear and sniffed. "Of course I will. I'm not going with you."

"With me?" I asked. Even though I knew deep down why we were really there, it still wasn't sinking in: it wasn't a spell. I was dead. It was time for me to pass through the Veil. Ginny had brought me there for that reason and that reason alone.

"You have to cross over, Graham," she said, placing a warm hand to my face. "And I have to stay. I want to stay. I have my children to think of, and my family and friends. I miss Harry terribly, but it's not my time to join him."

I could only nod in dull bewilderment.

"I want to thank you," she said. "For being so kind to me for all those months. For being such a good friend."

"Friend," I said bitterly. "Ginny, how can you say that after what happened the last time we--"

"Hush," she admonished, a finger to my lips. I may have been a ghost, but I still shivered at her touch.

"You helped me through a hard time," she continued. "I'm not sure where I'd be now if it weren't for you."

"I'm sorry I ruined it," I murmured.

"No, you didn't," she said, dropping her hand with a small smile. "It wasn't your fault. I just wasn't ready."

"And now I'll never have another chance."

Ginny didn't reply as she guided me up the stairs toward the archway. I had been there so many times, spent so many years exploring the mysteries of the Veil, that I should have been more prepared. Yet I wasn't: I was scared. In spite of all our study, we still did not know what was beyond that tattered curtain, blowing in the mysterious breeze. The voices calling to me did not sound frightening, but stepping into the unknown beyond felt like walking off a cliff into the ocean, knowing I would fall into the sea but still dreading the sensation.

As I stood there staring at the thin shroud that separated life and death, I wondered how this could possibly be happening to me. Why was I still here? Why hadn't I already moved on? And why could Ginny see me?

I turned toward her, only to find her with her eyes closed and a small smile on her face. A tear slipped out, but I knew it wasn't for me, because I saw her husband's name on her lips. She touched them, as if some invisible force had kissed her, then opened her eyes and nodded.

"It's all right. You know that." I shook my head; I didn't know that, not really. I suspected it, but even in the Department of Mysteries, we had no answers to the question of what was truly beyond the Veil.

Yet there was really only one answer I needed, to a question that had nothing to do with living or dying. And I was suddenly determined to ask it, because I knew it was the question that was holding me back. I would only cross the Veil when I knew the answer.

"Ginny," I said, taking her hand. "Could it have ever worked between us? If you were ready, and I was…well, alive?"

"Is that why you're still here?" she asked, and her voice was filled with such pity I wanted to turn away in embarrassment. I didn't; I held her gaze, waiting for her answer.

"I need to know. Could you have ever felt that way about me?" I heard the pleading tone to my voice and hoped she would be honest.

She stepped forward so that we were close enough to feel one another's heart beating. Only mine wasn't. I was dead. I would never have the chance to know love again, to hold her hand and feel her skin against mine, to touch her face and feel her lips…

She leaned forward and kissed me. I felt it all the way to my bones. I don't know how I did, or what she felt in return, but it was warm and wonderful, and I could have stood there forever with her, on the brink of death but clinging to the woman I had fallen in love with.

"Yes," she whispered in my ear as she pulled away. She stepped back with one last squeeze to my hand before letting me go. "I think I could have loved you, one day."

I sighed. It was as if a tremendous weight had fallen from my shoulders. I was lighter, freer. I felt happy, relieved, and most importantly, I suddenly felt ready. It was finally time to move on, holding the knowledge in my heart that yes, Ginny Potter could have loved me.

Fate is a cruel mistress sometimes.

With a nothing but a nod, I turned toward the archway. The whispering was louder. I could make out more voices, clearer voices. I thought I heard Harry Potter and wondered if I would meet him on the other side, or if kissing his wife would send me in the proverbial opposite direction. Yet I sensed no hatred from the Veil, no sorrow or anger, only peace. They were welcoming me.

And then I heard singing. It was a voice I had not heard for years, a voice I had heard only once at a club in Liverpool. The woman who had changed the course of my life was singing: Megan Jones, the ghost from my past. I had never heard her sing, but it was as beautiful as I had imagined it in my head during all the years since.

I glanced back at Ginny one last time. She was smiling, but there were still tears running down her face. Whether they were for me at that moment, I did not know. Yet I did know that we could have had a chance--those tears could have been for me, one day--and that's all that mattered.

So I stepped through the Veil, finally accepting both my life and my death. It was simple and painless. There was light and love and laughter. There were my grandparents, friends and colleagues I had lost, and even Harry Potter, standing with Fred Weasley, who had changed my life as much as his sister.

And there was Megan Jones, singing.

Let me be your stillness, your calm and quiet core.
I can show you comfort and soothing sweet succor.
Let me be your solace, your peace and harmony.
I can show you true love and set your spirit free.

Let me be your solace, and set your spirit free.

* * *