Title:  Days of Awe
Author:  Lorien_Eve
Pairing:  Harry/Ron
Rating:  PG
Genre:  Drama/Angst
Archive:  You’re more than welcome, just let me know!
Spoilers:  Just from OotP.
Disclaimer:  They’re all J.K. Rowling’s.  Sadly, not one of them belongs to me.
Feedback:  Yes, please!
Summary:  Harry and Ron are separated in a battle against an army of Death Eaters. Harry thinks Ron’s dead. Ron thinks Harry’s not coming back. They find consolation in other people and places. Lives are changed and loves are destroyed when they meet again.

Author’s notes: A huge thanks to Lena, who, only through dedication and a strong stomach, was able to beta some of the later chapters.

Man has places in his heart which do not yet exist, and into them enters suffering in order that they may have existence.
-Leon Bloy



Registering a powerfully sterile smell that burned as it drifted into his nose, and a distinct change in the atmosphere he had last remembered, Harry opened his eyes slowly. Stretching out in front of him was a shapeless, blurry whiteness.  It was accompanied by a dull ringing and buzzing in his ears.  He fisted his eyes, and waited on them to focus.

Once the formless objects began taking a more distinctive shape, the colors increased, giving Harry his first indication that he was in some sort of medical facility.  Whether or not it was St. Mungo’s, he couldn’t tell.  He pushed himself up on his elbows, but the applied pressure made him wince. Ignoring the soreness, he tried to roll over on his right side, but every muscle in his body throbbed with a slow pain. He felt a knot constrict in the lower portion of his back.  He groaned, and with weak arms, lowered himself slowly back down into the bed.

That’s when he saw two people, standing like wooden figures, in a corner darkened by the shadow of the half-opened door.  It was Remus and Mrs. Weasley.

“Oh, Harry…” choked Mrs. Weasley when he looked over to her.  Her eyes were still soft and kind, but the red veins surrounding the warm brown eyes were more pronounced than he had ever seen them. This made her face look swollen, and Harry saw tears streaking down her cheeks.  She made a move forward, but Remus put out an arm to discourage her.

Then Harry remembered.  His mind was flooded with so many sights, sounds, and smells, it made his head spin, and he had to close his eyes so that he wouldn't get sick.  Ron, lying limply in the grass.  Death Eaters congregating and pressing down on him.  His face damaged and bleeding. Wands held ready for attack.

Ignoring the protests of his body, Harry sat up in the bed.

“Ron!  Where’s Ron?” he demanded.

Mrs. Weasley let out a sob and placed a crumpled handkerchief to her mouth. Remus cleared his throat.

“Listen, Harry,” he began softly. He moved towards Harry and sat gently on the bed. Harry thought he resembled a spectre, bearing ominous news. “There were no survivors, except Moody and myself.”

Harry stared at him, his mouth opening slowly, half in protest, half in disbelief.  This wasn’t right.  Surely he had misunderstood what Remus had said.

“Wha…?” The tightness in his chest prevented any further words.

“We searched everywhere.  I searched the area myself.  Some bodies weren’t found, including Ron’s.  But there would’ve been no way for him to escape.”

“B-but, if his…” Harry couldn’t say it.  “Just because you couldn’t find him, doesn’t mean he’s…” Harry trailed off.  Mrs. Weasley put her face in her hands, but Harry could hear her crying nonetheless.

“I’m afraid it does, Harry.” Remus said matter-of-factly, like he was correcting a small child for misbehaving.  “You’ve been in here for two days now.  If Ron were still alive, we would’ve heard something.”

A resounding silence fell on the room. Harry thought he could hear the air stirring between the four blank walls and the dust swirling in its wake. Then the silence faded, sliding away, waiting for a time when it would be called on again.

Suddenly a truth washed over him, as powerful as terror, shattering the stillness like a mirror. His stomach lurched, though it felt empty and tight. He closed his eyes and swallowed, hoping the sickness would follow his saliva. Once the nausea passed, he opened his eyes slowly and looked steadily at Remus.

“I told you to let me go to him, that they would kill him if I didn’t get there!” he screamed. The sickness and fear had been replaced with fury, burning and hateful. 

“WHY DID YOU STOP ME?! HE’S GONE BECAUSE OF YOU!”  Harry lunged at Remus, but Remus caught him with strong arms and forced him back down on the bed.

“Why didn’t you save him?!” yelled Harry, demanding a confession where one did not exist.  “If you wanted to save someone so bad, why wasn’t it him?!”  Harry’s eyes were narrow, and his chest was rising and falling with each accusation.

“I ran to you when you fell,” explained Remus slowly.  “I Apparated with you here, at St. Mungo’s.  By the time I got back, the battle was over.  There were only bodies, and Moody.  He was taking a headcount.”

“You should’ve protected him!  You should’ve left me!” Harry’s voice was breaking in this throat, betraying the anger he had adopted to disguise his grief.

“Harry, please, you’re not well.  Don’t make yourself worse,” said Remus in a quiet tone.

“You’re the one who’s made me worse!” he bellowed.  “If Ron’s not here, I don’t care if I live or die!”  His voice began to crack again.  He felt suddenly weak.  “Why?” he asked in a small voice, not unlike the child Remus had been scolding earlier. “Why did you stop me?”

Remus looked down at the white waffle blanket on Harry’s bed.  “I owed it to James.  I couldn’t save him, and I couldn’t save Sirius.  You were the most important person to both of them.  They couldn’t be there to save you, so I had to be.  I couldn’t lose you, too,” he finished gently.

Harry fell feebly back against his pillow.  The muscles in his throat tightened. The outer corners of his eyes started to burn, and teardrops threatened to fall. He turned on his side, away from Remus and Mrs. Weasley.  He didn’t want them to see.

“Harry…”said Remus, placing a strong hand on his shoulder.

“Go away,” Harry hissed through gritted teeth.

It seemed as though Remus knew better than to force the issue.  Harry felt the bed rise, and after some shuffling, he heard the door close with a small click.

Ron couldn’t be gone. Harry wouldn't accept it.  He had already lost too many people.  Why did he have to lose Ron, too?  Maybe Ron really wasn’t dead.  He might have gotten away.  Remus hadn't seen what had happened.  It had only been two days.  Maybe Ron had escaped, but just hadn’t made it back yet.  Ron wouldn’t leave him, he just wouldn’t. 

Harry repeated this over and over to himself until he could hear it without consciously thinking it.

He felt his chest begin to constrict and pressed his hands to his eyes, but that didn’t help.  He felt the first tear fall, slowly at first, barely creeping over his lower lashes. Then the next one fell, quicker, but not unexpected. After that, there were so many tears he couldn’t count them all.  He cried for hours, grateful that no one came to interrupt him. 

He cried for his parents, who he never knew.  He cried for Sirius, who he hadn’t known long enough.  And lastly, he cried for Ron, who he had known so long, he couldn’t remember not knowing him.  He cried until the sun had gone down, and the moon had risen silently. 

His room was dark now, except for a few slits of pale blue light coming through the breaks in the curtains.  His head throbbed with a rhythmic pounding that had successfully buried itself in his forehead. His cheeks were sticky with the remnants of tears and heartache.  His eyelids were heavy and swollen, and in his weakened state, he couldn't find the energy to keep them up.  He dozed at last, giving into a restless sleep.

****

The hospital kept Harry for two more days, despite his vehement protests.  The Medi-Wizards and Healers didn’t badger him excessively, probably at Remus’s request.  With their crisp white robes and peculiar instruments, they would bustle in at random intervals throughout the day, monitoring his vital signs and presenting him with one inedible meal after another. 

Remus tried to see him several times, though Harry would shout at him until he lowered his head and walked out, dejected.  Mrs. Weasley came to see him both days, though her visits had the opposite effect than she had intended.  Her eyes had still been swollen, like she hadn’t stopped crying since the day before, and Harry was startled at how much older she looked since he had seen her last.

“How are you feeling, dear?” she sputtered, barely louder than a whisper.

“How do you think I’m feeling?” he spat, crossing his arms over his chest and turning away.

He instantly regretted it.  Not just the verbal retort, though he hadn't meant to snap at her, but his purposeful detachment and reticent demeanor.  She was suffering as much as he was, maybe even more.  Still, though, in an effort to justify his behavior, he wondered if she really needed to ask.  The gray half-moons under his eyes and the drawn expression on his face should've answered her inquiry immediately.  He went to apologize, but when he looked at her, she saw the hurt in his eyes and she started crying again.  Seeing her tears, he felt his own building up and he turned away, covering his head with the stiff cotton sheet. 

She left a few minutes later.  Still, he was thankful in a small, silent way that she cared enough to visit him. 

****

Hermione stopped by on the second day.  He knew she meant well, but having all these visitors was grating on nerves that were already so thin, he worried that they would snap like a string being pulled in two different directions. He didn’t know why people wouldn’t just leave him alone. 

Her look was solemn, and her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, but she tried to put on a brave face.

“How are you, Harry?” she asked placidly.

Harry opened his mouth to give her the same scathing remark that he had given to Mrs. Weasley, but she put up her hand to stop him.

“I know, that’s a stupid question.  I’m sorry,” she said softly.  “I just wanted to see you.”

Harry looked at her, but then quickly moved his eyes away.

“I miss him, too, you know,” she started after a few minutes' silence.

“You don’t miss him nearly as much as I do.”  Harry had meant to sound harsh, but his voice died thickly in his throat and his reply was almost unintelligible.

Hermione sat down on the bed and took his hand, rubbing it like he was sure Mrs. Weasley would've done if only he'd let her.  “I’m here, if you ever need me.  I can’t get through it by myself, and neither can you.”

Harry didn’t say anything, and Hermione continued.  “I’m not going to stay long, I know you don’t want company.  He wouldn’t want to see you this way, though.  Don’t push us away.”  She leaned over and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Bye,” she said, and she got up and walked out the door.

Hermione’s visit had helped Harry more than any of the other ones.  Emotions were something he'd never had a firm grasp on, and revealing too much in front of an audience made him uncomfortable and self-conscious. easier controlled, which benefited Harry She would never miss Ron the way he did, but he knew that she still felt the loss.  She also knew Harry well enough to know she couldn’t goad him into talking about it if he didn’t want to, and right now, the last thing he felt like doing was talking.

****

On the morning of the third day, a Medi-Wizard entered his room, humming cheerfully.

“And how are we feeling today, Mr. Potter?” he asked.

“The same as I did three days ago,” Harry said dryly.

“Well, you seem much better to me, and I think you ought to be allowed to go home,” he said cheerily.

Ever since he had come around, finding himself in the hospital ward, Harry had wanted out. It was a barren, depressing place, secreting only death, disease, and insanity. No healing, no hope, no happiness. The smell, which had first been a generic sterility, had spread and thinned, depositing the stench of loss and anger on his sheets and his pajamas, so that there was no way of escaping it.

He thought of the Medi-wizard's words, but he had no home to go to.  Home was with Ron, and that was gone. It didn't exist for him anymore. The definition had no meaning in his vocabulary and no place in his heart. An understanding, though subtle, but not yet complete, came over him.

An hour or so later, a Healer emerged, brandishing Harry’s discharge papers.

“You’re free to go now, Mr. Potter,” she informed him.

Harry lifted the covers off his lap and changed back into his jeans and t-shirt.  These were the very clothes he had been wearing the last time he saw Ron. The last time Ron saw him. At some point during his incarceration, they had been cleaned. The dirt and grass and blood were gone. They smelled like the hospital now, stiff and decidedly hygienic.

He leaned over, and clutching the bedrail, Apparated to the flat that he and Ron shared in London.

****

Harry's first shock was that the place looked exactly like it did the last time he was there.  Because his life had changed in the most unimaginable way, he somehow expected it to look completely unrecognizable.  If it had felt what he was feeling - the loss and the emptiness - it would've be cold and dark; but there was sunlight shining through the shades that he had forgotten to close all those days ago, and the yellow rays had warmed the room.  Apparently it didn’t know that Ron wasn’t coming home. 

The only clear difference was the silence.  He heard the same cars zooming past and the same horns honking from the street below.  There was the same shutting of doors along the hallway and talking of neighbors that had annoyed him so much at first, but which had now become old hat.  The flat itself, though, was eerily quiet, almost expectant. Like it was waiting, anticipating an arrival. It wasn't accustomed to single habitation. Neither was Harry.

Next to the front door was a pair of Ron’s old sneakers. His favorite ones, in fact.  They were dingy and crinkled, and the perfect shape of Ron’s enormous feet.  Harry had continuously reprimanded Ron for leaving them so close to the door.  He tripped over them several times a week, although, as Ron pointed out, he should’ve been used to them being there by now.

From the living room, Harry could see through the doorway into the kitchen.  Ron’s chipped coffee mug was sitting next to the sink, just where he had left it.  It was still half full and stone cold, no doubt.  There were brown drips down the sides where it had leaked around Ron’s lips in his hurry to drink it.  They had had a bit of a lie-in that morning, and were running late for work. 

The dishes from the previous night’s dinner were still in the sink.  Spaghetti.  It had been Ron’s night to cook, and he had mistakenly thought it would be easy to make.  “I’ve seen Mum do it loads of times,” he had enlightened Harry.  Ron’s noodles, however, had been brittle and his sauce had been runny.  They ate it anyway, though, because they had been hungry, and Harry didn’t want Ron going to all the trouble for nothing.  Harry had amused himself that night by chiding Ron about his bad cooking.  Ron fondly reminded Harry that he wasn’t any better.

Harry felt sick again, and his knees almost gave way. He grasped the edge of the couch.  Ron’s absence left a gaping hole in his life, and Harry had no idea how to fill it, or what to fill it with.  There was a hole, black and immense at the core, the darkest green in the middle, with fringes of red around the circumference. He couldn't see through it or in it, or even out of it, but he could feel its presence, pulling him down like gravity.

He felt the tears coming again, a feeling that was as familiar to him now as Ron’s touch had been.  He hid his face in the lumpy plaid cushion.  The cloth smelled like a mixture of both Ron and himself, and he remembered all the times they had stumbled to it, desperately clutching, unable to walk the five unattainable feet to the bedroom.

That was the last room Harry would go.  The living room and kitchen held memories, but the bedroom breathed them in and whispered them back out.  Harry heard murmured promises and dreams, moans deep with anticipation and screams filled with pleasure. The times that he and Ron had spent complete days in there, tangled in warm sheets and each other’s arms.  And those nights…the nights when they gave themselves up to lust and love and more sex than Harry thought possible for two people to have in such a short amount of time. 

But things weren't always physical, and didn't need to be. It was where they reconnected when life as Aurors became too much and the war threatened the idealistic lives they had dreamed of living during those young, naïve years at Hogwarts. It was there where despair met hope, finding solid ground in a world of dizzying outcomes.  Whenever life as Aurors became too hard, it was their refuge. 

Ron never cried, except when another Auror was killed.  The first time was the worst.  Harry remembered finding him in a curled ball, a small lump in the center of the bed, completely covered by blankets. When Harry roused him and pulled him close, Ron laid his face in Harry's lap and cried without reserve. It was the first time Harry had seen Ron cry. Harry had tried to reassure him, though he didn’t know if he was trying to convince Ron or himself. 

It got a little easier for Ron after that, but it always affected him more than it did Harry.  Ron hadn’t truly known what it was like to lose someone until then.  Sometimes it was a close friend, and sometimes it was someone who they only nodded to in passing.  Harry didn’t think it was the association that mattered so much to Ron.  It was the thought that it could’ve been Harry, or even him. 

This time, it was him.

Those were the images and voices that haunted Harry now. He felt a hot tear spill over his lower lashes.  Tired though he was, he hoisted himself up off the couch.  If Ron really were still alive, the Weasleys would probably be the first to know.  It had only been five days.  He wanted to be there whenever they heard something. He Apparated to the Burrow.

****

The Burrow, like his and Ron’s flat, looked unattended.  There were dirty dishes and cups in the sink, and bits of old, crusty food scattered on the counters and the scrubbed wooden table.  Here, too, it was unnaturally quiet.  Harry had never known a moment at the Burrow when there was so little noise. 

He peeked into the living room, but it was empty.  Walking to the window to see if anyone was outside, he heard a faint sound coming from above him.  He crept slowly up the first set of stairs and looked in each room.  There was no one there, but he could still hear a noise, vague though it was.  He went up to the next floor, and then the next, but the house seemed deserted.  When he reached the fourth floor, the sounds were slightly louder.  It had to be coming from Ron’s bedroom. 

He looked at the faded sign reading “Ronald’s Room.”  Although he had long outgrown having a nametag on his door, Ron had wanted to keep it.  Pushing the door open slowly, Harry stuck his head in. 

Mrs. Weasley was sitting on Ron’s bed, hunched over like a deformity, sad and pathetic. Her face was buried in her hands, so that he could only see the tip of her nose and the middle of her mouth.  Most of her sobs were quiet, but occasionally one would escape. 

Harry felt a break, dull but resounding, in his heart. In trying to mend his own world, he hadn't thought that there were other people, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, who also found their lives changed and empty.

He rushed over to her.  She looked up abruptly.  Neither of them said anything, but Harry held his arms out and she leaned into his shoulder.  Her cries were louder now, and her body shook even though Harry was holding her tightly.  He wanted to cry, too, but he felt that it was his turn to be supportive. 

Moments passed before she pulled away and looked up at him.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, dabbing her shining eyes with the sleeves on her robes.

“It’s ok,” Harry told her.  “I do it all the time.”

Her maternal instincts seemed to take over suddenly, and her voice strengthened.  “Are you ok?  Is there anything you need?”

Harry shook his head, and looked down at the hole in Ron’s old orange comforter.

“Well,” he started after a minute, “I wondered if I could stay here.  Just for a little bit.  The flat’s too--”

“Of course, you can stay,” she interrupted him quickly.  “I hoped you might, but I thought you’d want to go back home.”

“I don’t have a home anymore.”

“Yes, you do!” said Mrs. Weasley in a strong voice.  “This is your home, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

Harry tried to force a smile, though he doubted if it ever truly formed.  “Thanks. I don’t really want to sleep up here, though,” he added, looking around the room.

“No, of course you don’t,” said Mrs. Weasley.  “We’ll put you in Percy’s room.  It’s closer to the main level.”

She got up to leave, but Harry followed after her.

She went down to the kitchen, with Harry close at her heels.  She started cleaning the dishes, though Harry noticed she wasn’t using her wand.  He scraped a chair stiffly across the floor and sat down heavily at the table.  Neither he nor Mrs. Weasley said anything, but it wasn’t awkward.  They both seemed far away, lost in some forgotten memory.  Mrs. Weasley scrubbed the same plate four times before she realized she had gotten it clean after the first.  The soft sound of running water and soap suds caused Harry’s head to nod, and at last he laid his head down in his crossed arms and fell asleep.

****

A sudden sound in the kitchen awoke Harry with a start and he jerked his head up.  It took his eyes a second to focus, but at last the blurry figures became Bill and Charlie.

“Did you hear anything?  Have they found Ron yet?” Harry asked, his voice full of expectation.

“No,” said Charlie sadly.  “We haven’t heard anything.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped and he bowed his head.  Although no new information had surfaced, Harry couldn’t believe that Ron was dead.  He wasn’t going to give up hope.

“Are you hungry, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked him, turning from the still soapy stack of dishes.

“No, thanks,” said Harry, and he laid his head back down on the table, though he didn't close his eyes.

Charlie walked over to stand behind him and patted him on the back.  “Fred and George will be here soon, and Percy is coming with Dad,” he told Mrs. Weasley.

“When did St. Mungo’s release you?” Bill asked Harry.

“This morning,” Harry said.  “I think I’m going to stay here for a while, though.  I don’t want to go back home just yet.”  Bill nodded in understanding.

Just like Charlie had said, Fred and George arrived next.  They came over to rub Harry's shoulders before moving over into the corner.  Fred stood in George’s arms, with his head against his twin's chest, both looking very sullen.  In a minute, Mr. Weasley appeared, followed by Percy.

“It’s nice to see you, Harry.  I’m glad you’re here,” Mr. Weasley said.  Harry noticed how tired he sounded and how weary his normally cheerful face was. Percy nodded civilly, but didn’t speak.

As the kitchen filled up, Harry started feeling claustrophobic.  It became stuffy.  There were too many people and too many loose emotions. He slid his chair back slowly, hoping to leave unnoticed, and walked quietly into the living room.  He collapsed in the middle of the faded sofa and laid his head back, closing his eyes. 

It was quieter here, but the air was hardly less heavy. Ron would've made everything okay. If only Ron could be here with him, he'd tell him what to do, how to deal with it. But that's where the problem initiated. Ron wasn't here, and Harry's chest ached with the absence.

After a minute, Harry heard muffled footsteps. The seat next to him sagged with added weight.  A hand was rubbing his arm. He opened his eyes slowly.  It was Bill. 

Harry closed his eyes again and leaned in, resting his forehead on Bill’s shoulder.  A strong hand rubbed his back and he felt the working, muscular arm around his shoulder. 

Without thinking, or even noticing, with his eyes still closed, he lifted his hand and ran it across Bill’s cheek.  A short stubble pricked the tips of his fingers. He breathed in.

Bill smelled like Ron, and in a few ways, even felt like him.  Harry raised his head almost instinctively, and pressed his lips lightly to Bill’s throat.  Bill swallowed against his mouth. His arms moved around to the back of Bill’s neck, and his hands raked through his hair, tangling in his low ponytail.  Bill waited a minute, but then he spoke.

“Harry…” he whispered, “I’m not Ron.”

Bill reached around and took Harry’s wrists in his hands, lowering them gently.

“I know,” breathed Harry.

Harry didn’t move away, keeping his eyes and nose buried in Bill's neck. After a minute, he felt warm arms circling his shoulders.  Bill held him securely and stroked his back, and if Harry could've ignored the tears sliding down his face, he would've felt stronger than he had in days.

****

For the next three days Harry and Mrs. Weasley were the only two in the house for most of the day.  Mr. Weasley wouldn’t come home from work until late in the evening.  Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, and George would pop in intermittently, but Mrs. Weasley’s unprovoked outbursts were often more than they could handle.  Although she and Harry hardly talked, he felt that he was a consolation for her.  He would never take Ron’s place, he knew, but he thought she was grateful to have him around so that she wasn’t completely alone.  He felt the same way about her.  He would often follow her from room to room and sit quietly until she moved on to the next chore.  If she stayed too long, he would drift off to sleep and wake up hours later, glancing around for her.

The night of the third day, Mr. Weasley came home in the usual manner, Apparaing in the kitchen.  Harry asked him once again if he had heard anything about Ron.  He merely shook his head this time, too tired to form any words.  Harry’s arms were numb from the weight of his resting head, but he pushed himself away from the table and left the room without a word.

It had been a week since the battle, and although Harry’s mind could hardly form the thought, it didn’t look like Ron was coming back.  Someone would’ve heard something by now.  Even if he had escaped the attack, which was highly doubtful, he wouldn’t be able to survive a whole week without food or water.  Harry had to come to terms with losing Ron.  Living in denial wasn’t going to accomplish anything.

He approached Ron’s bedroom with tears and trepidation.  He hadn’t been there since that day when he found Mrs. Weasley.  He hadn’t been up to the fourth floor since. 

The vulgar orange almost knocked him backwards, and he braced himself against the wall.  Ron’s room at the Burrow held almost as many memories for Harry as their bedroom did in London.  It was the place where he had first admitted to Ron that he had more than platonic feelings for him. 

Ron had been next to him on the bed, a little too close for Harry to sit comfortably.  Ron was leaning back against his pillow with his eyes closed, tired from playing Quidditch in the garden all afternoon.  Harry couldn’t stop looking at his face, with the sprinkling of brown freckles and the limp, sweaty hair hanging down in his eyes. Harry had leaned over, only inches from Ron’s mouth, before he was even aware that he’d moved. 

It had been such a light kiss, that Harry had wondered if Ron even felt it.  But instantly, Ron’s eyes darted open and he stared at Harry with his mouth open.  Harry had smiled uneasily, but offered no explanation.  Considering their proximity, there was no plausible excuse.  Ron, his lips still parted, had tilted his head and kissed Harry back almost immediately.  A year later, in the same position, they had overcome their physical shyness and delved into each other, all modesty forgotten.

Harry turned swiftly from the bed.  He wanted to get away from everything that held memories he couldn’t stand to relive.  It was enough.  It confirmed his reasons for leaving. 

On unsteady legs, he walked over to the desk by the window and pulled out a piece of parchment from one of the flaking drawers.  He hastily scribbled a note to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.  He knew they would come looking for him after a while and would find the letter.  He felt guilty not saying good-bye, especially to Mrs. Weasley, who had become his stability these days.  But he was afraid that they would talk him out of it, and he knew it was in his best interest to go.  He wrote that he was leaving, but that he would write again and for them not to worry.  He pinned the note on the wall above the desk and Disapparated to Diagon Alley.

****

It was a few hours later when Bill walked down into the kitchen, holding a piece of crumpled parchment.

“Mum,” he said carefully, “Harry’s gone.”

Mrs. Weasley turned to face him with a startled expression on her face.  “Gone?”

“He left this note.  It doesn’t say where he’s going, or when he’ll be back,” said Bill, handing her the letter.

Her face went slack as her eyes raced over the writing.

“I can’t say I didn’t expect this,” she gulped, “but I had hoped he’d stay with us.  I didn’t want to lose him, too.”

She laid her head down on the table and sobbed.