“Well, Gin,” Harry said as he slid heavily onto one of the tatty, overstuffed chairs in the Weasley’s parlour.  “I suppose that’s it then.”

“Harry,” she answered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.  She sought and held Harry’s gaze for one moment and then turned towards the cheerily crackling fireplace, her perfect profile, the one he had professed to love since sixth year, kissed by the golden glow of the flames.  “It’s just that...you have never really... I mean, I do love you... I’m just not in love with you...”

“Save it, Gin,” Harry cut her off, his tone much more fatigued than he thought it should be.  He just could not dredge up the emotion needed to mimic surprised betrayal.  If he were honest with himself, it was a relief to finally hear that the problems he and his wife of ten years were having were not all caused by him.  She had admitted her part in it, had as much as said that she had fallen out of love with him.  It lessened Harry’s own burden of guilt at never having loved her as she needed to be loved. There was just one little detail that he needed to hear to make it all real.  “Is there... are you...”

Ginny stifled a sniffle before answering the unarticulated question sharply, “I’m not George, Harry.  I don’t have a bit on the side, nor do I want one.” She spat out the last words, the unspoken verbiage of betrayal stinging Harry more than his wife’s request for a divorce.  She looked away again, but not before he saw the accusation of his own longstanding yearnings for another woman in her eyes.  She knew, had always known, that Harry’s heart was compromised, filled with love for another.  Even though he had never acted upon the emotion, it was still present, a stain on the perfect life they had tried to create after the war.

Their disparate unvoiced subtext was the warp and weft of their relationship.  The resentments built over years on both their parts, never said out loud, only thought, were the reason they were sitting in her parents’ parlour on at eleven-something in the evening on New Year’s Eve, dissolving their marriage so calmly.  Harry slid his hands along the rough denim of his trousers.  He wanted to tell her that what they were going through was just a bump in the road, that he had never loved another but her.  He had given his virgin body to her, that much was true, but the year he had spent looking for Horcruxes with Hermione and Ron had taken his heart from him and he had unknowingly laid it at the altar of an unattainable woman.  She was his best mate’s girl, the woman he should have only seen as a sister, but never quite could after spending that time alone with her in the Forest of Dean.

It was a stroke of irony that he had had a better understanding of a dying Severus Snape than either of the men could have known when the professor spewed his dying memories.  Sometimes Harry thought that it was wrong that Snape had died that bloody summer night.  Snape’s punishment for the sin of loving futilely and too well should have been the same as Harry’s.  It was only fair that the two lives that mirrored each other’s so well would end with both of them sharing the broken feeling of love never attained.

Ginny sighed into the silence, bringing Harry’s attention back to her.  She rose, gathering her dressing gown around her.  It was the one she had worn when she was in hospital to give birth to Jamie, Al and Lily.  Harry followed her movement and she grimaced before saying, “We’ll work out something for the children.  This isn’t their fault.”

Harry sensed the accusation in her tone and did not rise to the bait that he might have when he was deluding himself that something could be salvaged of their marriage.  Ginny pressed past his knees on her way to the winding staircase that led to the room they shared when they visited.  “I think it’s best that you stay tonight so that we can tell the children tomorrow morning.  I expect that you’ll want to move to Grimmauld Place as soon as possible so we can have the house in Godric’s Hollow.  There will be less disruption in the children’s routines that way.”

Harry nodded, not wanting to speak so that she would hear the relief in his tone and misinterpret the emotion.  Harry had always wanted to be a father and had feared that Ginny might not have seen that he still wanted it.  He swallowed the sting of the relief along with the tears that had formed at the back of his throat, the salty tang an unwelcome penance.

Ginny moved to the stairs.  “Mum left some bedding out for you to make a pallet on the floor.  I don’t think, under the circumstances... well, I just don’t want to sleep with you anymore, Harry.  It’s just not right.”

He heard her tread on the first step, then further up, her weight making the fifth one up squeak as she walked on it.  Arthur always spoke of fixing it, but never got around to it.  There were always other more interesting or pressing problems for him to deal with.  Harry rose after he heard her shut the door softly upstairs and found the bedding laid out for him on the bay seat.  He flipped out the first blanket and laid it on the floor, folded in half so that he could get a better cushioning charm on it.  The furniture in the Weasley household had been charmed to look new too many times to transfigure it and have it hold the form.  A pallet was the best he could expect now.  As he cast the last spell, a warming charm, the clock in the kitchen whirred and began chiming.  Harry counted the chimes as he was always compelled to do and as the last bell sounded at the count of twelve, he said, “Happy fucking New Year, Harry.  You’ve really bollixed your life up now, haven’t you?”

He slid under the blanket of the pallet, keeping his clothes on, and waited for sleep to come that he knew never would.  He closed his eyes to prevent the tears from falling so copiously.

Life with Ron had always been a struggle. It wasn’t that Hermione didn’t love him.  She did with her whole heart.  It was that they had two different outlooks on life, two ways to view their marriage.  Hermione supposed that it was normal for two people who had lived together to fall into a sense of complacency.  Not that she had seen that type of relationship as she grew to adulthood.  Her own parents were still quite passionate about one another, and Arthur and Molly seemed to have a nicely intimate relationship.   It seemed that their role models for marriage were on the proper track, so why then did it feel as if she and Ron were at odds most of the time? 

They hadn’t been married more than a week before Ron took off to see a Quidditch match in France with George, claiming that his brother needed his support since he no longer had his twin to skive off with.  Less than a fortnight after that trip, Ron had accepted a position with the Chudley Cannons as their offensive coach, a job that took him all over the UK and Europe and away from her for long periods of time.  He had accepted the job without consulting her. In his defence, she had enrolled in both Muggle and wizarding universities to further her education right after she finished her seventh year at Hogwarts, without asking his opinion.  He had accepted the situation with good, if resigned, grace.  He knew that Hermione Granger-Weasley had never lost sight of her goals, no matter that she was married with children.  Now, on New Years Eve in the eighth year of their marriage, she watched him progress through the ranks of the party guests, never once looking at her to see if she was comfortable, occupied, or even the same room as he was.  Hermione felt as if she was living her married life alone. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, her life.  They were supposed to live with each other comfortably if not happily ever after.

Her mind skittered over a memory from the war; one she did not dwell upon, a memory that would spell disaster for both her marriage and Harry’s if it were ever discovered.  A quick Obliviate had taken care of Harry’s part in the event, but Hermione had to bear the sweet, sad memory alone.   Before and image could form in her consciousness, she pushed it to the back of her mind once more just as Draco Malfoy made his sneering, yet welcome presence known at her elbow. 

“I see the hubby is on his rounds again.  He’s such a dutiful employee,” Draco said into the shell of her ear, his breath stirring the tendrils of her hair that had escaped her chignon.  “When will you break away from him, and be with me, Granger?  I pine for you, you know.”

“A fact that I’m sure your lovely wife over there is quite thrilled with, Malfoy,” Hermione answered with some asperity.  Draco’s flirtation with Hermione was just one of the many things that marked their less hostile interactions since the war ended.  Ron was not pleased with their friendship, but since both she and Draco worked in the same office of the MLE, Hermione could not justify scorning him.  Besides, she had grown to like his pointed repartee, and he seemed to have truly changed since he was a child.  She also liked his wife, to whom Malfoy was utterly devoted, a great deal.  Astoria was not who Hermione had expected Draco to marry.  She was an unassuming, unaffected woman who was more at home on their sheep farm than at fancy balls.  Astoria, half-sister to Daphne Greengrass, had been raised in Australia on a cattle station with her mother and step-father which had saved her from having to experience her husband as the prat that he was during his school days.  Astoria caught Hermione’s eye and waved a tanned and toned arm before being enveloped in a bear hug by an over-lubricated Oliver Wood.  Hermione turned her head to take in said former prat’s rather resplendent, if somewhat subdued robes. “How can a man achieve such perfect grooming and not be gay, Draco?”

“Good breeding, and a homosexual stylist that is a martinet when it comes to my public persona.  You could do with an hour in Diego’s chair, Granger.  Your hair is still quite frightening,” he answered with a matching arid tone.  “Mother sends her regards.”

“How nice of her.  Please convey my warm wishes to both your parents for the New Year,” Hermione said with only a small amount of irony.  “And please tell Narcissa that I do miss our little chats now that your father is no longer under house arrest.”  Hermione took a sip from her flute of champagne grimacing at the dryness of the beverage.  Draco spared no expense for his team, but his taste in wine was atrocious. “I thought they might be here tonight since their son owns the team.”

“Father tells me Chudley orange gives him a migraine,” Draco said with a small chuckle.  “But really, they are in Venice for the New Year.  It’s become a tradition with them.  They remain disgustingly affectionate, even at their advanced age.”

Hermione chuckled at the comment.  Draco’s parents had finally fallen in love after years of marriage, a child, and two wars.  Hermione, who had handled Lucius’ case as an intern, had become a friend and confident to Narcissa Malfoy during that time, surprising both women at first.  Lucius merely tolerated Hermione still, but Hermione never felt slighted.  He seemed to hold most people at a distance.  It was just his way.

Ron finally looked up from the overly made-up matron that was clutching his hand and gesticulating with her wobbling chins and scowled as he saw with whom his wife conversed.  Hermione cringed inwardly, knowing there would be a fight when they finally made it home for the evening.  Draco inclined his head towards Hermione’s husband before he sketched a kiss over her cheek.  “You would think your husband would grow out of his antipathy after all these years.   After all, I do sign for his wages every month.  I’ll leave you to your Weasley, Granger, though I will never understand the attraction.”

Draco strode away from Hermione toward his wife who was engaged in a game of ring around the rosy with two of the newer player’s children and a wonky Oliver Wood.  Ron shot Hermione a murderous look before being once again caught up in a conversation with another important supporter of the programme.  Hermione just wished for the evening to be over so that she could be the focus of her husband’s attention, even if he was angry with her for an imagined indiscretion with Draco.

At the end of the evening, as the countdown for the New Year began, Hermione was the only person in the ballroom who did not have anyone to kiss.  Hermione had seen Ron disappear moments before with a corpulent middle-aged supporter to seal a deal over a disgusting cigar, no doubt. At the end of the evening, as the countdown for the New Year began, Hermione was the only person in the ballroom who did not have anyone to kiss.  She had seen Ron disappear moments before with a corpulent middle-aged supporter to seal a deal over a disgusting cigar, no doubt.  She sipped a bit more of her wine and went to gather her cloak.   She’d had enough for the evening.

Time had a way of slipping through his fingers in the afterlife.  Albus Dumbledore looked once more on the sleeping form of the boy turned man that he would have gladly called his own, his spectral form becoming solid this one night of the year when Janus was occupied with the closing of one year and the opening of another.   Albus had assumed that things would turn out well for young Harry  after all the sacrifices Potter had been forced to make, yet here he was, just as lost, just as bereft as he had been as a boy.  The deepened shadows and hollows of his face showed his age, but Albus had seen the shadows of those same features on the boy as an eleven year old.  Harry had always seen too much and felt too deeply for one so young.  As Albus watched sleep claim Harry, he realised that the man young Potter had become was essentially the same as the boy he was, except for a few more age lines and a few more scars. 

Albus knew he had done a great disservice to the boy that Harry Potter was.  There had been many that Albus had failed in his life, but two stood out from the crowd. Both Harry Potter’s and to a lesser extent, Severus Snape’s fates haunted him.   Both of them had been so similar in their psychology and their experiences.  Both were dark, both loved too well for their own good, and both had hated with the same burning passion.   Those were the two men in the plethora of dead and dying that littered Albus’ wake, who he had failed utterly. 

In the between of the new year, Albus whispered brokenly, “Severus, Harry, I am so sorry.”

It was almost an imprecation, the way he said the words.  He had failed Severus Snape, both as a homely bookish boy and as an intelligent taciturn man as surely as he had failed Ariana.  But while his sister was in the afterlife content and whole, Severus would not speak to him and was clearly unsettled by his situation.  And then there was Harry.  Even now, he could sense Harry’s bewildered anger, his yearning for a normalcy that would forever evade him.  Had Albus known of the abuses of the boy’s guardians, he might have pulled Harry (or Severus for that matter) from the situation, though he doubted that the Albus Dumbledore that had lived would have actually stepped in with any alacrity.  He had learned early that the more a piece of metal was hammered, the more likely a fine blade could be honed into a very effective weapon.  The Albus Dumbledore in the afterlife could see his hubris for what it was, and it shamed him.

On this night, when the doorway was both open and shut, Albus had been given one chance to change things for the better for both Severus and Harry, and tonight, the anniversary of the night Ronald Weasley had destroyed the locket, he could finally do something about it.  Albus Dumbledore would make things better for all

concerned.  He had to or he would remain a restless spirit, not quite a ghost and a soul that was still unready for reincarnation.

He closed his eyes and willed the slippery strands of time to spin backwards.  For good or ill, he would give them back that night so that both of them could live with their choices whilst not altering the course of the war.

31 December, 1997, 18:00

Headmaster Severus Snape looked out of the battlements around the Astronomy tower, letting the unaccustomed feeling of blankness wash over him.  He felt as if something had changed materially in his life in between the beats of his heart.  It wasn’t as if he were new to the world, but almost as if he had become reacquainted with his own senses after a long absence.  He tested his body which had become extremely sensitive to the flow of blood, the watering of his eyes, and the feel of the wind on his cheeks.  Inexplicable joy filled him as he sneezed after drawing a deep breath.  He hadn’t felt so carefree in years, if he ever had. 

His mind dwelt for a moment on the one time he had come close to that feeling of freedom, and he drew a well-worn and torn picture from his waistcoat pocket, his finger trembling as his eyes ran over the laughing image of Lily.  A chubby hand clutched at her chin from the section he had excised and just as suddenly as the joy came, his mood plummeted.  That little hand was the reason he was still alive, existing in a half-life of joyless days and terrifying nights.  He tried to dredge up the feelings of inadequacy and hatred that the boy Potter always brought Severus, but could not.  It was a new lack of feeling that he might have welcomed under different circumstances.   If he hadn’t killed Albus, if he hadn’t unknowingly engineered Lily’s death, if he had never said that word to her...  His path had been forever Dark, and the way lonely. 

He did not expect to live to see the end of the war.  He was Moses, leading his people to the Promised Land, forever condemned to look on it from another plane after all his hard work and suffering yet to never set foot in it.  Severus’ idea of God was what his father and the schoolyard had taught him.  God was a careless bastard who toyed with people’s lives for his own pleasure.  There would be no reward for all Severus’ service.  Pain and more pain was what he could expect until that dark angel closed her wing over him, shutting his eyes for the last time.

It was the idea of his own demise at the end of his travails that got Severus through this seemingly endless midnight.  Yet now, with his new symphony of feeling, this new spinning sensation of hope, he wanted to see what would happen after his former Lord was vanquished.   It seemed from this vantage, that something indefinable had changed in him.

Severus turned from the parapet, and climbed down the stairs that were magically attached to his office.   Albus had said this was the evening he would be needed to provide Potter with a certain Gryffindor artefact.  He mustn’t be late.