Hey. So ... this is it. The epilogue, and the end. I really enjoyed writing this story, though I did falter towards the end. I know the last chapter felt anticlimatic and rushed, and maybe this chapter will be the same. But at least it's an ending. It's the best I could pull together in a few chapters. This whole resolution was based on the comment by Stregian. I'm forever grateful. :D Anyway, I hope to see you guys around. Maybe check out some of my other stories.

Epilogue

Harry attended the funeral. He showed up in a black suit and wearing a different face, with McGonagall by his side also in a disguise.

It was a sombre event, and he was startled by the number of people who had come to say goodbye. He knew Dumbledore had been popular, that he had been nothing but kind to those students under his care, but he hadn't expected this.

It seemed like the whole of Hogwarts was here, mourning the death of their headmaster. The students stood together, talking, swapping stories, crying. He spotted Hermione, who looked ashen grey and downtrodden. Her eyes were bloodshot.

The sense of discomfort itched at him, and turned into downright horror. He felt like the murderer. He was the murderer. Dear Merlin.

There were a few families gathered together.

After wandering over to them, Harry found out that they had been the families who had been saved by Dumbledore's efforts of hiding them from the Dark Lord. If the word of the pair of nice couple was to be trusted, Dumbledore had demanded nothing in return.

Harry noticed that McGonagall had tentatively positioned herself next to the other professors, despite none of them having any idea who she was, and was talking quietly with a dark haired man he did not recognise.

Later, he realised the man was Snape, also under a glamour.

He had come to pay his respects despite his known association with the Dark Lord, and everything else.

Harry had no idea how he felt about Dumbledore's death. It wasn't delight, certainly, except it wasn't quite remorse either.

He had been in shock when Dumbledore died violently, and he doubted that the images would ever stop haunting him but he was not feeling true regret. Harry still didn't know what he would do if he was given another chance.

Let Dumbledore go? Kill him mercifully? He didn't know – but he knew that he would never let Voldemort get to him again.

Dumbledore was so hard to define. Harry had tried to, deep into the night when he would lie in his bed while McGonagall slept in the next room, but every effort had been futile.

He had tried to convince himself that Dumbledore was a bad person, to relieve himself of some of the guilt that had been slowly eating away at him, but even he had never heard a shoddier lie. He eventually learned to stop lying to himself.

'Good' and 'bad' – none of the two words would ever define Dumbledore. He wasn't good, he wasn't bad. He just was. Harry had come to acknowledge that.

Dumbledore would be missed. Greatly. He had been kind to many people, far more people than he had offended. He had saved even more. At the expense of the unfortunate few like Harry.

Now, seeing all these innocent people gather in one place to mourn the death of one old, benevolent but ruthless man, with twinkly eyes, Harry finally understood what he meant by the Greater Good.

It brought him even more moral dilemma. There was nothing as simple as right and wrong anymore.

All the same, he couldn't bring himself to look anyone in the eye. He had, after all, been a reason for their loss.

McGonagall had a disoriented, lost look on her face. The last thing she said to Dumbledore had been far from friendly. And they had been friends for years, regardless of how Dumbledore had changed.

Harry could only imagine how she had to feel.

He scanned the group of people for another familiar face and saw Grindelwald. He looked – and Harry thought he could never say this – fragile. His face was blank, emotionless. But he looked fragile and stricken. More than anyone else.

Grindelwald stood separated from the crowd, alone and lonely. It was as if there was a circle, and then there was him, closed off from the circle. Harry realised that people had only tolerated him, at best, for Dumbledore's sake.

He found himself at a loss as to how Grindelwald can still make a stand against Voldemort. People were not keen to follow him, and he looked wan. Easy prey to finish off. Like an old, tired one-legged cheetah that didn't want to run anymore. Too, too easy.

He hated this.

He hated how it had become impossible to think of even the worst people he knew as anything but humans. It made it so much more difficult to cope.

All of a sudden, out of the blue, a phoenix was singing in a way Harry had never heard before. A stricken lament of terrible beauty. The music was inside him, echoing across the fields, amongst the trees.

And then it came.

It flew, from the clear blue sky, towards them, still singing.

As Harry watched, the phoenix glided in a downwards arc, towards Grindelwald. A look of absolute grief crossed Grindelwald's face as he stretched out an arm for the phoenix to perch on. It cooed something in his ear and flew off, diving for McGonagall.

Every eye turned to her.

Again, it warbled in her ear, and her breath seemed to hitch for a moment. Harry had never seen anything like it.

And then the phoenix spread its wings and shot up, circling them a few times. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought it looked straight at him for a second or two, and inclined its head. On second thoughts, it probably was just his imagination.

When they left the funeral, McGonagall turned to him and smiled, looking brighter than she had looked in days.

Harry didn't ask what the phoenix had sung to her.

-0O0-

Glass crunched beneath his shoe. Harry lifted his foot gingerly.

He recognised it. It was one of the set of wine glasses that he and Tom only used on special occasions. Well, special occasions for Tom and untouchable for him until he was fifteen, the year that Tom finally gave in to Harry drinking alcohol.

"Just a little," he remembered Tom had said.

That night, Harry had stuck his head into the toilet bowl and vomited until his stomach was empty all the while Tom stood beside him, exasperated at how much Harry had drunk when he wasn't looking.

Harry glanced around.

Dust was coating everything, from the kitchen stool to the stove. This had never happened when they had been living here. Tom was the biggest clean freak he had ever seen and – as much as Harry still found it hard to believe – did most of their housework.

Their cottage, aside from falling into disarray, was exactly how Harry had remembered.

It was almost painful.

Harry inhaled sharply.

There were too many memories, far too many good memories. It hurt to think about it. There were far too many good memories ruined by bad ones.

He made his way into the corridor.

The wallpapers were cracking, but a portrait of him and Tom, both smiling, was still hanging. The frame had been broken, but Harry could see the happiness in his own eyes. God. Something rose in his throat.

He liked Tom, he really did. Tom was more than a friend. He was a companion, a cross between a brother and a teacher and a best friend, and someone who practically knew all his secrets. They had been close. Harry hated having to throw all of that away, out of the window.

He cleared his throat, awkwardly, despite knowing he was the only one there.

So sentimental … Tom would mock him if he were here.

Harry approached one of the bedrooms, the one that Tom had used in the years they had lived here.

The bed was carefully made, now layered with dust and spider webs. Harry looked over to the desk in the corner of the room. Tom had always tried to prevent him from looking – but it wasn't like he was here right now.

In the first drawer, he found documents. Piles and piles of paperwork, from the Ministry that Tom worked with.

In the second drawer were books. There were magical and muggle books alike. Novels, nonfictions, all obviously read for Tom's own entertainment. At the very top of the pile was the James Bond book Harry had got Tom for his birthday in an attempt to introduce him to modern muggle literature, 'Casino Royale' by Ian Fleming.

It was stained, yellow and had been dog-eared so many times that it became impossible to count. Harry had never known Tom even read it, let alone multiple times.

There were also others like 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. Harry wasn't surprised Tom would find that an interesting read.

In the third drawer, he hit gold.

There were so, so, so many pictures, photos. Harry in the garden. Harry when he was thirteen. Tom and Harry together at the park. At the beach. Photos from Harry's birthdays. Tom's birthdays.

He felt light-headed.

He hadn't even known Tom had been taken photos, let alone keeping them.

How was it that Tom could make him feel nauseous even without being here? How was it that he came looking for closure but became even more confused?

Suddenly, his head lit up in pain. Harry jammed a fist in his mouth and lurched for the bathroom. There, he sat himself down on the cold floor, hands clenching the bath tub next to him. His eyes burned. His head burned. There were little specks of light flashing everywhere.

This, this wasn't even surprising anymore. He just learned to deal with the pain. Whenever Voldemort felt like attempting to get to him, he would invade his mind. Frequently. At least a few times every week.

If it wasn't for the long distance between them, McGonagall's wards and Harry's own steely stubbornness, Voldemort would have discovered where they were weeks ago.

He would leave for Egypt soon with McGonagall. Perhaps putting more distance between him and Voldemort would help. He couldn't wait to see the pyramids, to see the statues of the pharaohs.

Another burst of pain.

Harry felt like slamming his head into the bath tub and knocking himself unconscious. But then he would end up with concussion. It would be over soon, it always was.

There was a sudden, loud crack from behind him.

Harry didn't stir. He wasn't even convinced it wasn't in his own head.

It was only when hands gripped him firmly by the arm and helped him off the floor that Harry realised there was another person in the room with him.

At first he thought it was McGonagall – but she hadn't known where he was going. He had just announced that he was going to do some shopping before grabbing a coat and heading out.

He blinked.

It was blurry at first, but the face in front of him soon cleared.

The dark curls, blue eyes, and sharp nose that Harry would have recognised anywhere in a crowd.

"Tom."

Tom smirked widely. "Who else?"

Harry couldn't believe his eyes. Tom looked a million times better than he had been when Harry last saw him. The Slytherin no longer appeared haunted. On the contrary, he looked as calm and in control as ever. And he was in a good mood.

Harry let himself be guided from the bathroom to the living room and dumped on a dusty couch. He slumped.

"You-you are here. What are you going here?" Harry said, before adding, "You stalker. You knew I was here, didn't you?"

Tom laughed. "What? I can't come here simply because I was lonely and wanted to visit the past memories? Why can't it be a coincidence?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Nothing is a coincidence when it comes to you." Abruptly, he hurled himself up. "You didn't lead Voldemort here, did you? He isn't coming for me? Because if you did, you git, I'm going to –"

The Slytherin Heir folded his arms, features soft and relaxed. Completely at ease. "Sit down. What kind of a friend do you think I am?"

He didn't budge. "Not the good kind."

"Sit down before you make yourself sick. The Dark Lord is not coming. I promise. Happy now? As if I would bring you to him like a dog depositing a rabbit at his master's doorstep."

"You would if you thought it'd benefit you in some way."

"I haven't."

"How did you know to come here?"

Tom scoffed. "You have no idea how predictable you are, do you? It was obvious that you would be at Dumbledore's funeral, considering the soft-hearted fool that you are and that McKitty is with you. The Dark Lord doesn't know you the way I do. I attended it under a glamour and tracked you from there."

"You put a tracking spell on me?" Harry was furious.

"I didn't have to," Tom said. "I knew you weren't happy with the way things ended between the two of us. The next logical place you would go would be the place we lived. I just wasn't sure when. All I had to do was set up a few charms around the house."

Harry was silent.

"So predictable," Tom said again.

"Ah, so you came here to mock me."

"No," Tom said. "I came here to join you."

"Join me?" Harry spluttered. "Excuse me? What?"

"This is what I always wanted. You think I enjoy being hunted as a pastime? And just between you and me, Voldemort isn't much of a companion. Old and serious. No fun." Tom winked. "This is my offer. Come with me. Think about it."

Harry blinked. "What have you always wanted?"
He still wasn't sure what Tom meant.

"To separate from Voldemort. Live the high life with a selected … friend."

"I thought you wanted world domination?"

Tom tilted his head. "Well, that too, but this is getting boring, don't you think? All this politics with the Dark Lord? I think we should try something new."

He felt torn. Did he want this? Tom was a psychopath who failed at emotions. Harry had learned that lesson once and for all.

"I … don't think so."

Tom looked startled.

And then there was a flash of something else. For a fraction of a second before it disappeared.

Confusion? Outrage? Hurt?

"Oh." Tom smiled. "Well, then. If you feel that way … You know what they say; once bitten, twice shy. If you live like that, Harry, you're going to miss out. I know you're suspicious, but I want to help you Occlude. I'm guessing your shields are still rubbish?"

"Occlumency? You gave up years ago."

Tom tutted. "Don't say 'gave up'. That phrase doesn't apply to me. I never 'give up'. Besides I seem to be the only person who can help. I want to help … as an apology. I never did say it, did I? I'm sorry. So what do you say? Come with me?"

A year ago, Harry would not have thought twice before saying yes. But he wanted out. He wanted freedom from all of this … independence. Going with Tom would strip him of that again. Because Tom, as long as he went with Tom, would always want to be in control.

Harry exhaled. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

This time, Tom did look hurt. "You don't know what you're refusing –"

"I do know. I won't be going with you. I'm sorry. But you can come with us. Professor McGonagall and I, that is. We're going to go travelling. Egypt, France, all the rest. You can teach me Occlumency during the trip."

Tom seemed to muse over it.

Slowly, his lips curled into an appreciative smile.

"There's an idea."

Harry wasn't sure what the future would bring, and what would come of his renewed friendship with Tom, or if he should trust him. But one fact is certain: the future would be made by his choice. And he was going to live.