Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter...only in my dreams.

Warning: You should know the drill by now :)

P.S.- Hello again! So after a couple of people suggested it, I decided to do an epilogue. And I'm glad, I think it's a good idea to kind of show the aftermath of their deaths--show how everyone is coping.

I did my best to get it done ASAP because in less than 12 hours I will be cut open on an operating table (boo!) I didn't know how long I'll be incapacitated, so I wanted to get it out to you guys before you forgot about me!

So anyway, thank you guys so much for reading and reviewing--I have really appreciated it. And here, without further adieu, is the epilogue to Picking Up the Pieces!!

The quiet walk down the upstairs hallway chilled Emerson to the bone, but he couldn't quite figure out why. It wasn't as though it was the middle of the night; it was early afternoon and the sun was shining clearly through the unshrouded windows. There were no shadow people dancing and flickering on the walls with outstretched fingers, waiting to pull him into the darkness; there was no sense of urgency brought on by being out his bed without permission; no worry that a simple creaking floorboard could cause all hell to break loose. He had nothing to worry about, so why did he feel so tense?

Then it suddenly hit him. It was quiet--too quiet.

If Emerson had learned anything throughout his long stay at the loony bin, it was that it was rarely quiet there. Someone was always screaming; televisions were always turned up too loud; people were always off in a random corner talking to themselves or another crazy; there was always noise.

But as he crept down the long hallway to find Harry, it was so quiet he could have heard a pin drop. It seemed deserted, but Emerson had already checked the therapy rooms, the conference room, the common room, and the kitchen for Harry, so he knew the man couldn't be too far away. He figured Harry was more than likely in his room, maybe packing his trunk because the committee had said he could leave or maybe crying on his bed because they said he couldn't.

So pushing any sense of foreboding aside, Emerson strolled down to Harry's room, to either congratulate his friend or provide him with a shoulder to cry on. But when he was about two feet away from the bedroom door, he stopped dead in his tracks. A sickening smell hit him fast and hard, like a brick wall that sprang suddenly from nowhere. He knew instantly what it was, having been particularly sensitive to the scent as a child. It was rusty and iron and warm, and he could feel his stomach starting to churn with bile as he thought about where it was coming from.

Most people would not have even noticed the scent; they would have passed through the hallway, not knowing anything was wrong. But Emerson had been around enough blood in his life that he could smell it if someone had simply cut themselves shaving.

He smelled it frequently outside of Harry's room; he had been able to tell that Harry was a cutter the moment he met him. But the scent Emerson had gotten used to was nothing compared to what he was smelling now. There was more blood than usual, ten or twenty times more perhaps, and his hands were trembling as he thought about what he might see when he walked through the doorway.

Emerson took a deep breath, the iron burning his nostrils, and pushed the door open.

His breath hitched and tears began stinging his eyes as he took in the scene before him. Harry and Draco were curled up on the bed together, their arms and hands and legs intertwined like pale vines of ivy. They almost looked peaceful, and Emerson would have thought that they were just sleeping if it hadn't been for the blood soaked sheets and the rivers of crimson that wound down the comforter and gathered in a shallow pool on the smooth, white linoleum.

A small scream escaped his lips and before he could think twice about what he was doing, he threw himself to the side of Harry's bed and wrapped his arms around the fallen angels, his tears washing away the blood from Harry's and Draco's wrists. He wished he were a phoenix and his tears could heal the bloodied valleys between their forearms and hands, but logic told him not even a phoenix could help. Nothing could bring back the dead and Emerson could tell by the crusted crimson and the aged iron scent that they had bled out hours ago.

They died in each other's arms, their blood spilling simultaneously, their insides cooling in unison, their breathing slowing to labored gasps, then to nothing at all. They died on their terms, together, and a small part of him was at least grateful for that, maybe even a little envious that they got to spend their final moments the way they had chosen.

"Oh my god," a voice gasped behind him. Emerson turned to see Davis standing in the doorway, his face painted with shock and horror.

A sudden surge of anger shot through Emerson and he stood up and wheeled around, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "What did you do?" he said, he voice quivering.

"What? What do you mean?" Davis asked, his face paling further.

"Why did they do this? What did you guys do to them?"

"Nothing!" Davis quickly countered. "Nothing at all!"

"You're lying!" Emerson yelled as he threw himself at the doctor. He screamed and tears flowed freely from his eyes as he pounded Davis's shoulders and back with his fists. He kept hitting him and hitting him, taking out all of his anger on the man he was sure had something to do with Harry and Draco's demise. But the doctor didn't fight back; he stood there and took the blows, as though part of him thought he deserved them, or perhaps he was just too upset to fight back.

After taking the hits for a few more moments, the punches finally softened and the screaming quieted until tears overwhelmed Emerson. His body heaved violently and he struggled to breath as he sobbed into the crook of Davis' neck. The doctor wrapped his arms tightly around the boy's shaking body and whispered into his ear, "They're happy now Em. They're happy."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A warm breeze swept through the crowd as the priest said his final words. It had been a nice service; quick, quiet, not too over the top, just as Harry would have wanted it. Hermione wasn't sure if that would have been Draco's preference, but from what she had heard, he would have been happy with anything just as long as he was buried by Harry's side. So that was exactly what she did.

When she had gotten the call from Waverly just one week ago telling her that Harry was gone, she had fallen to her knees screaming, the phone dropping to the plush carpet by her side. Ron ran over and tried to help her up, but her legs had turned to jelly and she just kept collapsing. "Harry," she screamed. "Harry!"

A wave of terror washed over Ron and his pale face turned a sickening shade of grey. He lifted the phone off of the floor with trembling hands and whispered a hoarse, "Hello?" into the receiver, scared to death of what he might hear.

Davis was on the other end of the line, and he explained everything to Ron, also informing the man that he and his wife had been listed as Harry's next of kin. Ron numbly took all of the information in, wrote down the facility's phone number, and told Davis that his wife would be calling to make arrangements. Then he hung up and retreated to his room, where he stayed the rest of the evening.

After crying on the floor for a few hours, Hermione's sensible side kicked in and she knew she had to get Harry's affairs in order. She called around and made the funeral arrangements, then called the hospital back to let them know that everything was all set.

"Great," Davis said. "I just have another question for you, Mrs. Weasley. We have tried to contact Mr. Malfoy's next of kin, but we were unable to reach anyone. I know that he and Harry sort of grew up with each other...Do you happen to know anyone else we can contact?"

"Hmmm...Let me see what I can figure out," Hermione said thoughtfully. "I'll get back to you."

Hermione had spent the rest of the afternoon trying to track down someone, anyone, that would be able to take care of Draco's arrangements. She flooed everyone she could possibly think of, even popped down to the ministry, but no one seemed to know of any family or friends of the Malfoy's that would be able to help or at least point them in the right direction.

So in the end, Hermione decided to take matters into her own hands. She called Davis back and told him that she would be taking care of Draco as well and that she had already made arrangements for a double funeral.

She could almost hear the man smiling through the phone. "That's wonderful," he said. "I think that's exactly what they would have wanted."

And as Hermione watched the two caskets being lowered into the ground, she knew she had made the right decision.

Soon the crowd began thin and people came over to Ron and Hermione to express their condolences and share a few memories before apparating home. Hermione thanked them graciously, doing her best to stay strong.

Ron stood by her side through all of it, his eyes glued to the patchy grass below him, not uttering a word.

And when nearly everyone had left, a tall blonde man and a shorter brunette approached them.

"I'm Davis," the blonde said. "And this is Emerson. We knew Harry from Waverly."

"Oh, of course," Hermione said taking the doctor's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," he said. "I just wanted to thank you for what you did for them. Harry's lucky to have such wonderful friends."

"Oh, you're sweet," Hermione smiled.

Ron sniffled loudly and began absent-mindedly digging the skin on his thumb.

"And I want you guys to know," Davis continued as he eyed Ron. "Harry was a troubled young man, but he was very loving, very forgiving. And he would hate to see the people he loved beating themselves up over what happened to him. I struggled with it at first, but I realized that what Harry did was his choice, no one else's. Our disagreements, our harsh words to each other--none of those things made him kill himself. He killed himself because wanted the nightmares to stop, the guilt to stop, the pain to stop. To him, death was the only way he could truly find peace. So please, just know that Harry is happy now."

Hermione nodded and wiped away the tears that had fallen to her cheeks. Ron looked up, his own eyes puffy and red, and took his wife in his arms. "I'm going to miss him," he whispered.

"We all will."