It started again, of course.

It started in dreams, unbidden images that swam up from unconscious depths and refused to sink back whence they came.

It started in the spring, in May, on the night after the full moon. Every year, Harry hoped for a solid night of sleep as he went to bed under the first waning moon after Beltane, and every year, he woke gasping in the darkness of predawn.

By the third year, he'd decided it was a self-fulfilling prophecy: he was so concerned with keeping his dreams free of the swooping, coupling, nesting red-tailed hawks that he filled his mind with the very images he wanted to avoid. It was no wonder that the dreams came back.

If the dreams had been the real thing, after all, then Draco would have been having them, too. And if Draco had been having them for three springs as well, surely he would have got in touch. He was the one who'd wanted the dreams to mean something in the first place.

The truth, though, was that Harry had had no word from Draco since the Hogwarts Express had pulled into Platform Nine and Three Quarters, nearly three years ago, so clearly Draco's dreams weren't plagued with thoughts of Harry.

In a way, Harry was relieved to think that this 'Destined Love' bollocks was over, that it must have been only a coincidence, after all. In another way ... well, there was no use thinking about that, now was there?

When he'd awake, each time, Harry was out-of-breath and tangled in the covers, coated in a thin sheen of sweat. He might light a lamp, walk around the room, or draw open the curtains on the window. He could even run himself a bath, if he wished, without any fears of disturbing anyone else.

On this particular night, Harry's first action upon waking was to roll over and look at the clock. With a tap of his wand, the face lit up to reveal the hour as twenty-seven minutes past two. He stretched and groaned, then extricated himself from the single, light sheet and stumbled over to window, clad only in his shorts.

The moonlight that painted a silvery track across Salem Harbor from the mainland rushed into Harry's room when he opened the window and spilled across his sleep-warm skin. A light breeze from the water cooled the sweat on his brow and sweetened the salt air he breathed in deeply.

May nights were balmy and humid, even hot, in Massachusetts. It never felt right to Harry still to be giving lessons when the weather felt like July in Surrey. Weather like this made his heart race and his spirits rise, thinking his birthday was only days away, when in fact there were months to go. The students were restless and antsy this time of year, and so was he.

Persephone had offered to take him to Provincetown for a few days around July 31. She said she wanted to buy him his first legal pint in a proper gay bar, but the subtext was clear, that she hoped he would meet someone nice, or maybe bring someone nice along, if there were such a person in Harry's life. Harry indulged her occasionally by mentioning a date he'd been on or a nice bloke he'd met in town, but tried to steer her off the subject most of the time. The fact was, he really didn't go out very often, not in that sense. Harry was really happy to be here where Persephone was, and loved teaching, and that was the important part, at least most of the time.

By July 31, Ron and Hermione would be two months out of Auror Training and one month into their new lives as a married couple. The invitation was propped up on top of Harry's bureau, in the corner by the door. It would be a small ceremony, 'because we're so busy with our new jobs,' followed by larger parties with each side of the family, separately, later on. Hermione had told her extended family that she would be working in 'national security,' and couldn't tell more about it than that - which wasn't so far from the truth.

Ron had Flooed him earlier that week to talk about arrangements. Floos in and out of school were closely guarded for reasons of security and student safety, so Harry'd had to reserve one of the two school Floo stations and coordinate with Ron via owl to find a workable time. It was a real pain in the arse, so as much as they missed each other, they only did it when there was an especial need to talk:

"Mate! Tell me it's you planning my stag night."

Ron hadn't even bothered to say hello, but had launched right into his panicked plea.

Harry had barely arrived ontime, and was still trying to find a comfortable way of sitting close to the flames where Ron's head was floating. "What d'you mean?" he asked.

"It's Fred and George. They keep talking about my stag night and exchanging these looks. I know those looks, Harry. Please tell me you're not letting them plan it!"

"Relax, mate. I'm doing it, with some help from Seamus and Dean, until I can come over next month and make the final arrangements for myself." He had tried to lay a reassuring hand on Ron's shoulder, but had remembered Ron's shoulder was in England with the rest of him.

"Seamus and Dean? They never said they'd had owls from you! How come you're writing to them so often and not to me?"

Harry had decided to spare himself the chore of explaining things to Ron like 'email' and 'public workstations,' which were available at the Salem Public Library and which Harry used during his weekend visits to town to chat online with his fellow half-bloods. He'd settled for, "Get Hermione to explain 'Instant Messaging' to you, mate. It's a Muggle thing. Anyway, I Floo you whenever I can. I just can't make Hedwig fly back and forth across the Atlantic any more often than absolutely necessary. She's not so young anymore, you know."

Ron had looked a bit put out, but then blinked in a way that Harry had thought probably came with a shrug. "Whatever - just promise me you won't let Fred and George have any part of planning my stag night!"

"Forget it!" Harry had countered with a cackle. "It wouldn't be a proper stag night without a little humiliation, and no one knows how to make humiliation fun like your brothers."

"Harry ..." Ron had whinged.

"Don't worry, Ron. We'll keep them reined in."

"Well, if you promise ... oh, hang on, Hermione's home." Ron's head had disappeared for a few seconds, then reappeared in the flames. "She says 'hi.' Can't wait to see you next month."

"Yeah, me, too," Harry had said. He hadn't been to England in several months; getting back and forth wasn't horribly inconvenient, but it was expensive, and teaching kept him busy enough that it was hard to find time for visits. Hermione had made a point of stopping by the previous summer on her way back from an Auror Training course in Chile, but Ron hadn't made it to Salem since Emma and Persephone's party the summer they'd all left Hogwarts. It had taken some adjustment, going from sharing a bedchamber to living across the ocean from his best mate.

Harry had opened his mouth to add something, when suddenly Ron's eyes had bugged out and he'd shouted, "Whoa!"

"Ron? Are you alright?" Harry had asked, with great concern.

"Yeah," Ron had panted, "um, fine!" It had been hard to tell through the Floo, but Harry had been sure Ron's face had suddenly gone red. "Look, ah - AH! - I, um, have to go - OH! - now. Talk to you soon."

With an embarrassed but slightly mischievious grin, Ron had disappeared into the flames.

Harry had shaken his head, smiling and trying to clear the images at the same time. It seemed that Hermione and Ron's sex life was as healthy as ever. Harry was happy for them, but preferred not to think about the details.

Looking back on that conversation, Harry realised that night he'd talked with Ron had seen this year's first reappearance of the dreams. Maybe it was from being forced to think about Ron and Hermione's sex life - after all, Harry had learned they were sleeping together the same day he and Draco had become a couple.

Merlin, it felt like another lifetime.

He leaned his palms on the windowsill, tipping forward so the breeze caressed his chest and shoulders. He could still remember, if he concentrated, how it had felt to have Draco's hands on his skin. He closed his eyes, letting his fingertips brush the soft edge of his shorts. The bright beam of the Baker Island lighthouse crossed his eyelids and he inhaled the sea air deeply, focusing on every tiny sensation of bare skin meeting the surrounding atmosphere.

As on countless nights throughout the past three years, Harry took his memories back to bed, alone, to deal with them himself.

***

Cold ripples lapped onto Harry's bare toes as he hobbled his way out onto the sharply pebbled eastern shore of Great Misery Island to greet the sunrise a week later. The weather had turned a bit cooler again, and the morning was chilly. He hugged his arms around himself a little more tightly and rubbed his hands briskly over his elbows, trying to get warm.

It was a new ritual, but a surprisingly comforting one. As the sun came into view above the sea, Harry let himself imagine he could see England silhouetted against it for one fleeting moment before the brightness blinded him. He revelled in the dull, jolting ache of his stomach, knowing he was homesick, but never knowing where he really could feel at home.

Bending low, Harry found a small, flat rock among the larger, rounder ones. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it skipping two, three, five, seven times across the water.

"Good one," commented a voice from behind him.

Harry turned around, remarking to himself for the thousandth time how much it was like looking into a mirror, every time he saw Persephone.

Small and slight, but strong, Persephone was the blue-eyed, spectacle- and scar-free carbon copy of a fourteen-year-old Harry. Her short-cropped hair stood up in unruly clumps that stirred gently in the dawn breeze. Only a closer examination revealed the crinkly laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, the hint of soft roundness about her torso, or the strands of grey threaded through her black hair. The first time Harry had seen her at Logan Airport, nearly three years earlier, any lingering doubts of her claim to the Potter name vanished. He was shocked, in retrospect, that she had managed to hide as long as she had; 'Potter' was written, almost literally, all over her.

Harry shrugged and offered her a sleepy smile. "I have a good teacher," he answered.

Persephone grinned and handed him one of the cups of tea she was carrying. "Thought I'd find you out here," she told him as she bent to seek out another skipping stone. "It's cold, you should have a jacket on."

Harry sipped his tea and watched Persephone's stone hop nine neat skips out over the water. He tended to ignore Persephone's attempts to mother him, because he couldn't decide whether or not he was too old to appreciate being fussed over. The tea was good, though. He took another swallow to hide his contented smile.

"Boats coming today?" he asked after a few silent moments.

"First ones arrive in a few hours. I'm taking a group of students into the village, and the rest know to behave like picnickers or to stay underground."

Harry nodded. With only a couple of centuries of history compared with Hogwarts's full millennium, Salem Witches' Institute still hadn't worked all the kinks out of its Muggle-discouraging charms. Rather than being in the city of Salem itself, the Institute was located on a pair of islands out in Salem Harbor, which helped, but didn't keep unwanted visitors away entirely. The worst period had been in the early 1900s, when Muggles had discovered the islands' existence and tried to settle Great Misery as a resort community. Even though the charms had repelled enough people to make the club fail after only a year, several Muggles had held on and built cottages, returning year after year for a couple of decades. The school had barely functioned during those years, until the Headmistress at the time, Bianca Bulger, had 'accidentally' set fire to the larger island in 1926. Headmistress Bulger had disappeared, soon after that, and was never seen again. The fire was officially declared a 'brush fire' by the Muggle authorities, and vacationers soon sought out other destinations.

Within a few years, a solution was conceived: the new Headmistress, a Muggleborn witch named Amelia Eliot, worked with her sister, Abigail, who was then working with the Trustees of Reservations to acquire and preserve various landscapes of scenic or historic value. The land owned by the Trustees was protected from development, but had to be open to visitors. Desperate to keep more Muggles from trying to build houses on top of her school, Amelia begged Abigail to have the Trustees buy the Misery Islands, which they did, in 1935.

It took another six decades for the Trustees to acquire every last acre of the islands, but in that time, they helped fend off plans for an oil-storage facility and a wastewater treatment plant. Long after Abigail died and Amelia retired, the Institute continued to work with the Trustees to keep the school safe for the young witches it served.

The only catch was the boats. Every weekend, from mid-May through mid-October, Muggles flocked to the Islands for picnics and bird watching. They were there on weekdays during June, July and August, too, but that was less of a problem, because classes were not in session; the students went home to their families, and the faculty who lived on the island always spent the holidays on the mainland. Sunny, warm May Saturdays, like today was predicted to be, posed more of a problem, though: students and faculty had to be kept out of sight or had to blend in with the day-tripping Muggles.

Luckily, there were almost no pureblooded wizards or witches in America, so the students all knew how to blend in. There was the occasional scofflaw who decided to spend a warm Saturday afternoon showing off on her broom in full view of the tourists, but those incidents were few and far between, and Memory Charms were a speciality of the faculty.

Persephone took a couple of steps closer so she could reach to touch her fingertips to Harry's cheek.

"I'm so happy you're here," she told him. "I know I say it too often sometimes, but I'm so happy you're here."

Harry smiled as he brought his hand up to hers, giving it a gentle squeeze as he released it. He was grateful that she no longer added an observation about his resemblance to his father. No matter how much Persephone had loved James, Harry was still not entirely comfortable with the comparison.

As she stepped back again, she asked, "What are your plans for today?"

"Heading into the village," he said unconcernedly. "I'm meant to talk to Dean online for a bit around noon. After that, I'm meeting Ryan at Fuel for a bit, be back for tea." Persephone looked at him shrewdly. "If you want to stay out longer, with Ryan, no one will mind."

Harry took a deep breath, held it, and actually mentally counted to ten. Persephone reminded him so much of her niece, sometimes, it was scary. And she could get on his last nerve with her good intentions, in exactly the same way, as well.

"Actually, I think I'd rather eat with my family."

"But Harry, he's so handsome -"

"Yes, he is, and he has excellent taste in blokes," interrupted Harry, in a tone that he hoped would convey his disinterest in continuing to discuss this particular subject.

He appreciated her caring, he really did, but Persephone was so convinced that Harry needed to find 'a nice man' in order to be happy, and so unwilling to believe that he might be happy already, that it tended to grate quite a bit. In fact, Harry had become quite particular about what sort of bloke was worth his time, when he had so many other things he enjoyed doing, like teaching and coaching and spending time with his family ... when they weren't grilling him about his next date, of course.

If he was honest with himself, he was looking for someone who made him feel as strongly as Draco had, and that was a very tall order. And it probably wasn't fair to anyone that Harry kept making the comparison.

Persephone crossed her arms against the cold and let out a deep sigh.

"I only want you to be happy," she said, so sadly that Harry actually felt a little sorry for his bluntness.

He placed his hands on both of her arms and met her eyes directly. "I am happy," he told her quietly, and truthfully, and waited for her to smile.

When he turned to face east again, the sun was barely breaking the surface of the sea, sparking fire at the horizon. For that fleeting second, Harry swore he could see England.

***

Harry stepped out the front doors of the library and turned left to walk down Essex Street. As he passed shop windows crammed with tourist junk and tacky Muggle souvenirs meant to represent witches and magic, he thought wistfully of Diagon Alley and the shops there. The boutique across the street had nothing on Madam Malkin's; the book shop down the block was positively dull compared to Flourish and Blott's. And nothing, absolutely nothing around here could compare to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.

Letters from the twins reported that business was booming more wildly than ever. They sent Harry samples of their products, from time to time, which served Harry well on April Fools Day; the faculty at the Institute had a tradition of playing elaborate pranks on each other, which escalated every year.

Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes had also expanded their line of adult novelties, including a brand-new offering which Dean had just informed Harry would be ready in time for Ron's stag night. Harry chuckled to himself. Ron wouldn't know what hit him ... but would still be presentable for the wedding the next day, of course, or Hermione would hex them all into oblivion.

Harry continued walking, across Washington Street, down a couple more blocks and into a quiet cul-de-sac where Fuel was located. In the shadowy quiet of the sparsely populated coffee house, Harry bought a large iced latte and settled at a corner table, pulling his battered copy of So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish out of his backpack.

For nearly an hour, Harry was alone with Arthur, Fenchurch and coffee. It was pure bliss.

"Been flying yet?"

Harry jumped, nearly dropping his book. He stared in wide-eyed horror at the dark-haired, broad-shouldered man who had approached without Harry hearing. He surreptitiously checked his backpack to ensure that neither his wand nor the current copy of Which Broomstick? was peeking out into view.

"Hi," added the man, putting his drink down and leaning across the table to brush a roughly stubbled kiss onto Harry's lips.

"Hey, Ryan," replied Harry with a weak smile, marking his page as he closed his book.

"'Throw yourself at the ground and miss,' right?" Ryan was pointing to the paperback Harry was returning to his bag. "Have you gotten to that part? This time through, I mean?"

Air flooded Harry's lungs as he finally drew breath again. Been flying yet? Of course. Ryan was talking about the book. Douglas Adams's invention - throw yourself at the ground and miss - was one of Harry's favourite parts about this novel. The idea of flying without a broomstick or a Hover Charm was ... well, was something he wasn't able to discuss with Ryan.

One of the troubles with trying to be in a relationship with a Muggle was that Harry, who had now been openly gay for three years, felt as though he'd been shoved back into the closet all over again.

"You all right today?" asked Ryan, who hadn't taken his eyes off Harry since he'd arrived.

Harry shook his head, quickly, as though to clear it. "Fine," he answered. "You startled me, sorry." Having regained his wits, he stood halfway up to lean across and give Ryan a much more welcoming kiss. "How was your week?" he asked when they broke apart.

"Really good, actually. My concert was Wednesday, and the kids were great. The other faculty were a ton of help, as always." He took a sip of his iced chai and grinned. "Have I mentioned recently that I love my job?"

"Once or twice," answered Harry, mirroring the grin and threading his fingers into Ryan's. "Sounds like a great school, where you teach."

"You should come down for Closing. I'm having a party after, and I'd love for you to meet everyone." Ryan's tone was casual, but something behind his eyes let Harry know how important the invitation was.

"Maybe," said Harry evasively. "When is it?"

"Umm ... June fifth, I think? It's the Tuesday."

"Oh," said Harry, trying to feign disappointment as relief filled his chest. "I leave for England on the third, remember?"

There was really no reason for Harry to be tentative about meeting Ryan's friends. They sounded like very nice people, and Harry did genuinely care for Ryan. He also felt a bit guilty that Ryan had been the one to drive all the way up to Salem to see him every weekend so far, and Harry hadn't yet made the trip down to Providence. He claimed it was a problem with train schedules (in reality, Harry could just as well have Apparated to the station) or that he couldn't get away from school for the whole weekend; the real reason, however, was that Harry had never gone out with a Muggle and was going overboard in his efforts to keep Ryan from learning anything he shouldn't about the magical world.

Harry had never had to worry about these things with Draco.

He winced inwardly when he heard this thought. It was the dreams that were causing him to grow obsessed, all over again. He shook off the unbidden memory.

Being with Ryan was a far better situation for Harry, after all, than still going out with Draco would have been at this point. At least being with Ryan was something Harry could do here, in Salem, while continuing to get to know Persephone and Emma, and while teaching and coaching. At least Ryan was also a school teacher, so they had common experiences to discuss and could empathise with each other's frustrations (even if Harry couldn't always be specific about his). At least being with Ryan was something Harry had clearly chosen himself; he'd been the one to approach Ryan, on a rare night out in Boston at a club called Machine. He'd thought they'd only dance together, maybe share a drink or a little more, then never see each other again, but Ryan had asked for his phone number - Harry had given him his email address, instead, because he didn't have a phone - and had actually followed through.

And Merlin, Ryan was hot. He had a big, flirty, dimpled smile and a magnetic presence that drew attention from all around, in a way that made Harry feel stupidly proud of being the one on whom the deep, brown eyes were always focused. He could see the jealousy of others, men and women alike, when they were together in public. Servers in restaurants would always linger to talk to Ryan, and he would engage them in playful conversation, but always in a way that made Harry feel included in some private joke meant for his entertainment alone.

Not that people didn't notice Harry, too, but Ryan really turned heads.

Ryan also had some other lovely qualities, that Harry had been lucky enough to discover when they were together in private, but Harry was a gentleman and never talked about such things to other people.

Even Ryan's living an hour's drive away was ideal, because it avoided questions about precisely where Harry's school was located or why they only ever met at the weekend. In fact, Ryan couldn't be a more perfect boyfriend for this stage in Harry's life, if Harry had chosen him out of a catalogue.

So why wasn't Harry sure that this was going to work?

"Oh, that's right," said Ryan, in response to Harry's reminder about his travel plans. He gave a half-shrug and looked out the window. "I bet you're excited about your trip, huh?"

Harry couldn't help but smile at Ryan's genuine attempt to mask his disappointment. He squeezed Ryan's hand, honestly appreciating the effort, when he knew Ryan wasn't happy about him leaving for the whole summer. "I'll send you lots of postcards, yeah?" he offered quietly.

Ryan pulled Harry's hand to his lips and kissed one of the knuckles. "Have I ever told you I love your accent?"

Harry rolled his eyes indulgently. "Not yet today," he responded fondly. He watched with only slight trepidation as Ryan's eyes roved all over his face. The temptation to flatten his fringe down over his scar was almost completely gone, to the extent that he'd allowed his hair to be cut much shorter than ever before. In any case, the scar itself was so faded as to be invisible to all but those who looked especially closely.

Opening his mouth as though to expound on his comment, Ryan paused, then seemed to change tack when he said, "So, what did your friend Dean say about the bachelor party?"

"The - ?"

"Sorry, the whaddyoucallit. Stag night?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, y'know how I said Ron's brothers have a joke shop?"

"Yeah. They sound great, I'd love to meet them."

Harry gave a tight smile, and continued, "They've got some good stuff planned. Dean and Seamus and I will have to keep an eye out that they don't go overboard, but I still expect Ron won't know what hit him."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Like, um," Harry faltered, "it's sort of hard to explain."

Ryan shook his head, his expression something between indulgent and disappointed. "You say that a lot. I doubt England and the U.S. are really all that different. We Americans are actually able to imagine things that originate outside our borders, you know?"

"Yeah," said Harry, "I know." And you really don't, he added silently.

Staring into Ryan's eyes, letting his gaze wander over the darkly stubbled cheeks to the muscular neck, shoulders and chest, Harry decided he might prefer not to make it back to the island for tea that evening, after all. And for only the second or third time in their acquaintance, he seriously considered telling Ryan more about himself.

***

"Hey, Mr. Potter!"

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Potter!"

"So then I told her, I don't care what Mom says, I'm old enough and you're not ... Oh, hi, Mr. Potter!"

"Mr. Potter, are Disarming Spells going to be on the final?"

"How long is it?"

"Is there a practical part?"

"Are there going to be essay questions like the one last week? Because I don't think there should be."

Harry ignored the class, placing the satchel on his desk and taking a moment to write the date on the chalkboard by hand. As usual, the pause gave a couple of the students the signal to settle down, but most of the rest of the class took Harry's turned back as a sign that they could continue chatting amongst themselves.

"So then she went to Mom and told her about the thing I told you earlier, and I now I can't go at all -"

"Alright, everyone!" Harry said loudly, clapping his hands twice. "Settle down, please."

"Mr. Potter, guess what?"

"Yes, Becky?"

"My parents got me Finches tickets for my birthday, so I get to go over to Fitchburg and see them play next month!"

"That's great - keep an eye on those Beaters, make sure you pick up some pointers from them." He smiled at his star Beater and held up his hands. "But, this is Defense class, not Quidditch practice, and I expect you'll all be wanting to know what's on next week's final ..."

The class erupted in a brief ruckus of moans and shrieks and declarations of nervous breakdowns, but quickly calmed and quieted.

"Alright," said Harry, "there will be a one-hour written portion, followed by a five- to ten-minute practical portion. You'll sit the written exam in the dining hall with the other students, then I'll collect the papers and ask you to come to my office individually for the practical."

Harry was slowly getting accustomed to the American system of education, but it still felt a bit odd. The examinations were prepared and administered by the teachers themselves, and their own opinions of the students' work were sufficient to decide who passed the course and who did not. The school set its standards, with input of the faculty, as to which courses a student would need to complete in order to graduate, and whether the members of the graduating class had received sufficient course credit to be granted a diploma. Most were, of course. From what Emma told him, Salem Witches' Institute was as similar to the Muggle independent schools in New England as Hogwarts was to British public schools, but Harry didn't have enough personal knowledge of any Muggle school to make his own comparison.

The tenth-graders in Harry's current class were equivalent in age to fifth-years at Hogwarts. As his schoolmates in the D.A. had been, some of the students were incredibly bright, quick learners, while others had a great deal of trouble and required constant repetition of basic concepts. The culture of the school was such that the students were frequently making jokes with him, treating him as more of an older brother than as a teacher. Harry knew his age was a large part of the reason for this, and he didn't always mind; what he sometimes missed in the respect he'd like to receive, he more than made up for with his ability to connect with the students, to get them to care about the material.

The thing that never stopped surprising Harry was his students' lack of knowledge about what was going on outside of the United States, or even outside their school. Upon arriving for his first year of teaching, Harry had braced himself to be deluged with questions about fighting Lord Voldemort, but in fact, half of them couldn't even spell 'Voldemort,' and only a handful had any idea that someone called Harry Potter had been part of it.

Since 'Potter' was a common name, and teachers at Salem Witches' Institute never used their given names with the students, Harry's fame had in fact gone almost entirely unremarked here on Great Misery Island.

The topic did arise, occasionally, though, as it did on this particular day.

As Harry finished explaining the format of the exam and its weight in averaging the year's grade, one of his brightest students, a poised, quiet girl from Dorchester called Meisha, raised her hand.

"Meisha?"

"Mr. Potter, can you tell us the scariest situation when you've had to use magic to defend yourself?"

Normally loath to answer personal questions, Harry knew this was a subject he needed to address. First of all, it pertained directly to what he was trying to teach these students; second, he knew that Meisha's home city in Massachusetts was a far cry in scenery and safety from its Dorset namesake, and although her classmates from the wooded bedroom communities of Carlisle, Littleton and Bolton might never understand, it was his job as a teacher of Defense to help his students feel as assured as possible in their ability to protect themselves from harm.

"Wow," he answered, stalling a bit as he tried to decide how to frame his answer. "To be honest, it would be hard to say for sure. There are two situations, in particular, that stand out in my mind. One, because I was even younger than you are now, and all alone against a terrifyingly evil enemy and his followers, all of whom were adults; and the second, because I was exactly the age you all are now, and had brought my best friends into danger with me."

Twelve pairs of eyes, all around the room, grew very wide.

Into the dead silence of twelve pairs of waiting ears, Harry began to tell the stories of the cemetery at Little Hangleton and the battle in the Department of Mysteries. He didn't include the story of his final confrontation with Voldemort, because although he'd be scared, he'd been so prepared and determined that he hadn't felt the absolute, bone-chilling fear that had gripped him in the prior two situations. Once the story got rolling, he began to act out the duel that caused Priori Incantatem to occur, and the various spells and jinxes he'd thrown and received at the Ministry.

He was surprised to find that, thanks to the years that had elapsed and due to the fact that his audience was raptly and visibly imagining how they themselves might use their knowledge in the same situations - that he was teaching, in other words - Harry was able to enjoy telling the stories, to see them from the point of view of people who hadn't been involved, and to let go of the pain that had latched onto him for so many years.

As the pain left him, floating away into the dusty humidity of the warm, hardwood classroom, Harry was gripped with an ache of longing. He missed Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville and Luna. He missed England. He felt, all in that moment, as his American students gazed up at him and Meisha murmured, "Thanks, Mr. Potter," that he couldn't stand to be away from his best friends even a minute longer.

It was time to go home.

***

Ryan let out a long, shuddering sigh, his head tipped back and eyes closed in ecstasy. His fingers threaded through Harry's hair, insistently but without gripping or pulling. Harry continued his attentions, wiping a drip of sweat from his brow before it could trickle into his eye. It was beastly hot in Ryan's apartment, and at the moment, neither of them minded in the slightest.

With a shout, Ryan arched his back; this among other evidence indicated that Harry had accomplished his goal, so he crawled up the bed beside him, basking in the glow of gratitude that shone all over Ryan's face. Ryan didn't even need to say, "God, you're amazing, Harry," but he did, in a particularly awed, breathy version of his lyrical tenor voice that Harry could get used to hearing, if only he were going to have the chance.

Harry put his arm across Ryan's chest and snuggled close to him, annoyed with himself that he hadn't yet told Ryan of his change in plans, and annoyed still more with the fates for yet again offering him an ideal boyfriend at a time when geography was about to become a very large stumbling block.

Sprawled sweatily together across the half-stripped bed, Harry watched the dust motes play in the sunbeam that tumbled through the window, across Ryan's naked thigh, catching the darkly curling hairs with a glint on each strand. He knew it wasn't fair, but he was going to enjoy this for a few more moments, before he had to ruin it all.

Ryan tilted his head and kissed Harry's forehead, lightly, right on the faded hint of scar. It was something he'd done before, an action which showed that he noticed tiny details without needing to remark on them. Harry appreciated this attention and consideration more than he could ever express. He wondered what Ryan thought when he looked at it, whether he envisioned a bicycle accident or childhood brawl, or whether he noticed that the shape was too unusual to have been caused by such usual means.

"This is good," said Ryan simply, but Harry heard the much more complex feelings and tentative decisions that built the foundations of the words.

"I know," said Harry, more quickly than he'd intended for needing to force himself to speak. "Look, are you hungry? Fancy nipping down to Reflections for a sandwich?"

"And leave this bed?" Ryan answered with a naughtily arched eyebrow, then grinned. "Sure, I've worked up an appetite. Just let me find my boxers." He sat halfway up and scanned the bedroom. "Where did you fling them this time?"

Harry shrugged, laughing. Merlin, he was going to miss this man.

They finally found their clothes and left Ryan's apartment, walking down Governor Street to the corner of Wickenden. Reflections Café was brimming with their queer brethren, as was typical for a warm, weekend night, all of whom raked Ryan and Harry with appraising glances as they walked in the side door. Harry found himself on the receiving end of several jealous glowers, but Ryan, as always, appeared not to notice.

Inside, the brick red of the ceiling lent a hearth-warm tinge to the atmosphere. Harry scanned the day-glo marker menu boards on the wall behind the serving counter, squinting to remind himself of the fine print. In honour of his companion, he chose the sandwich called 'Capricorn,' but substituted mozzarella cheese for American, because he simply couldn't stomach the stuff. Ryan reciprocated by ordering the 'Leo,' which already came with mozzarella cheese, luckily, he said, because he couldn't stomach the stuff, either. They ordered drinks and found a table in the corner by the window where they could wait for their food.

Harry looked up at the oddly compelling assortment of busts lined up high on the wall behind Ryan's head. The torsos and faces, Classical in style, looked to be molded out of chocolate (which was impossible, given the weather). As Harry scrutinised them, he could feel Ryan's eyes returning to him with increasing frequency.

Ryan had opened his mouth to say something when the cute RISD student who'd taken their order appeared with their sandwiches. The spinach tortilla wrapping Harry's sandwich was a vivid shade of green that was almost Slytherin, while Ryan's tomato tortilla glowed a red-orange only slightly too pale to be Gryffindor. The colour scheme reminded Harry of Draco, which in this context brought to mind the row they'd had in the Entrance Hall at Hogwarts, nearly three years earlier.

As though hearing his thoughts, Ryan said, "So, you leave a week from tomorrow, don't you?"

Harry squirmed a little in his seat. "Yeah."

Ryan munched on his sandwich a bit, his eyes appraising Harry the whole time. When he'd swallowed, he said, "I'm not sure how to ask this ..." and trailed off.

Seizing the opportunity, Harry offered, "You're going to ask whether I'm coming back, right?"

With a nod and a sip of his iced coffee, Ryan stared at Harry a moment longer. Finally, he said, "You're staying, aren't you? You're not coming back from England."

Harry's shoulders slumped. "Look, I -"

"I figured," interrupted Ryan. "You've been here three years, right? I know someone at work who lived in Mexico for three years. She said that was as long as she could take, being away from home."

Harry boggled for a moment. When he'd got hold of himself again he could only think to ask, "You're not angry with me?" He hated the way it sounded pleading, but the look on Ryan's face put him at ease.

"Nah, I get it. I mean, I wish you wouldn't go, but I know I can't stop you."

"Look, if it were only about you and me -"

"Yeah, yeah," Ryan interrupted again, this time with a gleam in his eye. "So, how fast can we finish up here? If we're on a limited schedule, then I want to get you back to my bed as soon as possible."

"You mean you still ... you still want to? Even though I'm leaving?"

"Harry, as much as I like you - and I really, really like you - I can't expect you to stay here just for me. I've heard you talk about your friends, Ron and Hermione and the rest, and I know you won't be happy much longer being so far from them. And I can't move to England, even if you'd asked, because I belong here." He took another sip of his coffee and gave Harry a warm but wry smile. "Sometimes things just don't line up, you know?"

Harry blinked, and grasped Ryan's hand across the table. He was mortified to find there were pricks of tears in the corner of his eyes. "Yeah, I know," he said.

Ryan folded the paper around his half-finished sandwich. "You know what? Let's take these to go. I'm not wasting any more time when I could be having my way with you."

In full view of the many pairs of eyes that kept stealing toward their corner, Harry stood up, leaned across the table, and gave Ryan the snogging of his life.

***

School years ended much earlier at Salem Witches' Institute than they had at Hogwarts. The year-end exams flanked the late-May holiday of Memorial Day such that it was all over in time for the leaving students to have their graduation on the first day of June.

Harry attended his final graduation at the Institute that year, on a beautiful, sunny Friday morning. By that day, the faculty all knew he was leaving, and he'd managed to call his students together after their exam to tell them the news, as well. This led to a higher than usual demand for his signature in students' yearbooks, and a slight increase in the number of boxes of chocolates he received at graduation.

Yes, teaching had its perks.

He'd explained his decision to Emma and Persephone the previous Sunday evening, after returning from his weekend with Ryan.

"I really appreciate everything you have both done for me," he told them sincerely. "I'm so happy to have lived here, and to have got to know you. But once I'm back at the Burrow, with Ron and Hermione and everyone, I won't want to leave again. I can feel it."

Emma and Persephone had sort of nodded at each other, as though they had expected him to say this, sooner or later. They hugged him and issued invitations for him to come back and visit anytime. As they said it, he knew he would; not as often as any of them would like, probably, but he would.

He wondered how Ryan would change in the time before his next visit to America. He wondered how long it would take for Ryan to start seeing someone else, possibly even to find a life partner, if that was the sort of thing he wanted. Harry and Ryan had never got around to discussing that sort of thing.

At the same time, he wondered how much Draco might have changed in the past three years. The way they had left each other, it was impossible to know whether Draco would even consent to see Harry again, even for coffee or a pint.

Of course, Harry was powerless not to try.

After graduation, after the parties and farewells, Harry went back to his quarters, took out several sheets of parchment and wrote very long letters.

He wrote to Hermione, saying how much he was looking forward to seeing her and Ron again, and confirming the time he would be arriving at the Burrow on Sunday.

He wrote to Charlie and Viktor with similar content, adding a note of congratulations for their recent announcement that they succeeded in adopting a toddler who had been in their care for a little over a year; she was the orphaned daughter of Viktor's favourite cousin, and the couple had been petitioning for custody ever since her Muggle parents' death in a house fire. The Ministry of Magic of Bulgaria had wanted to place her with another Muggle family, until she began to show first signs of magical powers in early spring.

He wrote to Remus, who had left the Healing Centre in early April and was staying at the Burrow on Molly's insistence. From what Remus had said in his recent letter, he was doing very well, able to control his transformations, and looking forward to seeing Harry when he arrived. Harry had been so happy when he'd received Remus's letter, he'd run to the Floo station immediately to contact Charlie and thank him for his advice. It was good to have Remus back in his life.

He wrote to Fred and George to confirm that they were sticking to the plan - and only to the plan - for their part in Ron's stag night. Ron might murder Harry for what he was letting them do, but then Ron didn't know what Fred's initial suggestion had been.

Finally, down to the last sheet in the pile, Harry took a deep breath and stared out the window. The sky was already growing light; he hadn't realised it, but he had been writing for hours. This letter would be the hardest of all, but Harry knew that he needed to send it.

Dear Draco, he wrote, then paused and tapped his quill against his lip. Should he say, 'It's been so long'? No, that sounded accusatory. He rejected anything beginning with, 'I'm sorry,' because he didn't want to seem to be begging. He only wanted to reopen contact with someone who had once been very important in his life. There was no need for apology or explanation. He only needed to get started.

Dear Draco, the page threw back at him, in his own hand. He wanted to start with a greeting, lighthearted but not flippant. There was so much behind the very existence of this letter, it seemed to weigh down the very grains of wood in the desk. He needed a casual opening, something friendly that nonetheless did not brush away the reasons that this was the first letter between them in three years.

Dear Draco, he read, wishing he could say what he really felt. He wanted to start with a simple, honest, 'I miss you,' but knew how easily that could be misconstrued as demand, request, accusation.

Dear Draco,

I wish I could think of a fair way of opening this letter. Considering the way we parted, I will do you the courtesy of starting with the truth: I am coming back to England, to stay, and I would like to see you.

This was sounding too insistent already, coming on too strong. He scratched out everything after the word 'truth' and continued,

I am coming back to England for Ron and Hermione's wedding, and have recently realised that I need to come back to stay.

I know it's a lot to ask,

No, he scribbled over that new line. It sounded too much like begging.

I know it's been a long time, but I would really like to see you. I expect that your life has gone on without me

Another line through that sentence; it sounded dismissive, and a bit like a jealous lover.

I expect that your life will have changed during these past three years, but I hope there is room in it for us to be friends again.

Harry's quill hovered over that last statement, but he left it. In the long run, it was impossible to write this letter without begging at least a little.

I know it was my choice to leave, and I've finally learnt to understand why you reacted the way you did. Like you said, you were ready to give up your family obligations for me, but when the chance came, I ran across the ocean to be with family I'd never met.

Speaking of family obligations made Harry pause in his writing. It was tempting to ask about the news that Hermione had haltingly reported in her last letter: seeing Morag in Diagon Alley with a small child, her son, whose white-blond hair and grey eyes could only have been inherited from one father. He couldn't find any true benefit in asking, though; if it was true, then Harry would learn when he saw Draco, if Draco agreed to see him. If Draco didn't want to see Harry, then it really didn't matter at all.

I mean, I had to come here, I'll never regret that choice, except in that it hurt you for me to do it. I do, very much, regret hurting you. I do regret losing what we had.

The ironic thing is, and I only realised this last week while teaching one of my classes: I had family in England all along.

I don't just mean the Dursleys - in fact, I don't mean them at all. I mean Ron and Hermione, the rest of the Weasleys, the other Gryffindors. I mean you, too, Draco. At least during those last few weeks of Seventh Year, the way we were able to talk to each other about so many things ... it made you part of me. At least, that's what I finally came to understand, after so much time away.

Harry knew he was laying it on pretty thick, and considered crossing out the lot and starting over, but it was true, and he'd promised Draco the truth.

It was time for the big finish, anyway. He knew he mustn't beg. He mustn't.

Like I've said, I'll be back in England soon - Sunday evening, actually, so possibly even sooner than you get this. I'm going first to the Burrow, and then I'll probably find a flat in London. I'm thinking I might even owl McGonagall about a job at Hogwarts - I said I was ready to leave America, but I never want to stop teaching. I've heard the Defence teacher job isn't cursed anymore, since Voldemort's gone. In any case, if you'd like to get together, I should be easy to find. It's up to you, but it would mean a lot to me.

I hope life is treating you well, that you're happy, and that we'll get to see each other soon. I really have missed you, and I hope you don't mind me saying that.

No, that was laying it on too thick. Harry crossed out the paragraph and started it again.

I hope life is treating you well and that you're happy. Whatever else you're thinking by this point in this letter, I hope you'll believe that I wish you the very best.

Harry drew two quick strokes through the second sentence and tried again:

I know you've had a lot of reasons to be angry with me.

Another two quick strokes. This sodding letter was even harder to finish than it had been to start. Should he mention the dreams he was still having? Was it worth it, in the end, when he was so sure they no longer meant anything at all?

I'm sorry, again, he wrote at last, then experimented with closings: 'Best wishes' and 'Sincerely' both sounded stupid, so, throwing caution to the wind, he settled on,

Love, Harry

He recopied the letter quickly, afraid to let himself think too much more about his choice of words. When he finished, Harry dropped his quill, his eyes gummy from being up all night.

He looked in the mirror, astonished at his dishevelled appearance. He had a few hours to kip before he was meeting Ryan in town for one last day together. It was odd to be saying such a long goodbye to Ryan after having spent so much energy on trying to reconnect with Draco, but it felt right; Ryan wanted to see him, knowing he was leaving for good, and Harry wanted to see Ryan before he went. In the end, he wouldn't say anything to Ryan about the wizarding world, as much as he would have liked to do so, because it was a violation of the International Code of Wizarding Secrecy and Ryan didn't really need to know. Harry was happy enough to have ample opportunity to say goodbye.

Walking toward the window, Harry folded and addressed each of the letters and tied each securely with a bit of string. It was amazing how light his letter to Draco felt, considering the weight it had lifted off his heart to write it.

Hedwig, who had returned from her nightly hunt and was nibbling on an owl treat in the corner, saw what he was doing and flew over.

"It's a long trip," he told her, "but you won't need to come back. I'll be at the Burrow by the time you've finished delivering this last one, so you can meet me there."

Hedwig nipped his hand gently as he tied the letters to her ankle, then fixed her enormous eyes on him. He ran two light fingers over the top of her head, silently wishing her a safe and smooth journey.

She took off out the window, soaring toward the horizon. Harry gazed after her until she had faded to a tiny speck, invisible against the sunlight reflected from the waves.

Thank you for reading! Please especially feel free to comment or email about any errors or oddness that you find in any of the remaining chapters as I post them, since I am putting them all up rather quickly.

This fic has always been intended to end this way, with the hope that Harry and Draco still have a chance, but without any promises as to the outcome. Life is funny that way, yes?

Some real places and organisations have been blended with fiction in the locations that appear in this Epilogue. The Misery Islands are real, and the facts about their history (many of which I used in this chapter) can be found at the Trustees of Reservations site. I have visited them, myself, and highly recommend it. Bianca Bulger is named after famous Boston native and fugitive criminal 'Whitey' Bulger; the fire that she has set in this story was truly a brush fire, according to what I read. Abigail and Amelia Eliot are fictional, but named after Trustees founder Charles Eliot and, in the timeline, are meant perhaps to be his daughers.

Fuel is a real coffee house in Salem, and Reflections is a real caf� in Providence, RI; the sandwiches Harry and Ryan consume at Reflections are indeed found on the menu.

Many thanks, again, to my darlingest of darling betas, CopperBeech and Petunia. This fic is as much their creation as it is mine. More than four years in the making, it is wonderful to be done! I owe them everything. ♥

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