AN: Hi, guys. This is the end of all, the last chapter of this fic. Thank you all, all followers, for keeping up with this story, I could never have written it without the encouragement of you all. As they say, while writing a story, one must dedicate it. Hence, this is-

For you.

The storm blew around them as they faced each other. A man had been waiting for her, at the outskirts of Hogsmeade, to where she had disappareted, bearing the Potter emblem, with a portkey to him. Daphne's heart missed a skip as Harry smiled tentatively at her, but she knew better. She had known exactly why he had done what he had done, and it irked her to no less, but it also told her why she loved him so much, because she was never a fan of blind bravery that so many thought Harry Potter to be the primal example of. So, she took a step forward, and Harry's smile stretched his face even more till-

She slapped him. Hard.

The crowd of witches and wizards behind Harry sucked in a collective gasp.

Then, Daphne Greengrass threw them an irritated glare, and took Harry Potter by the collars of his shirt, and kissed him with a passion that even the older magicals standing behind Harry had to avert their eyes from.

Harry's smile widened when they broke the kiss, and Daphne whispered in a frosty voice, "Who gave you the freaking idea of proclaiming your love for me in front of the whole world."

Harry looked amused.

"I wanted a target."

"You made me a goddamned target!" Daphne yelled, even though she knew the reply that would come. But still, she had to yell and keep up appearances for appearances sake.

"Wrong. I made Hogwarts a target." Harry said, still amused.

Protestations and shouts began breaking out from the crowd behind him, and Harry simply raised up a hand. "Think." Was all he said.

Of all the ones in the crowd, Hermione Granger was stumped. Both she and Ron had accepted Harry's current relationship status quite easily: after the things they had seen happening with Harry and after the number of times they had seen Harry taking out the Marauder's Map just to see if Daphne was still there in the castle, they had no longer been blinded by prejudices. Daphne Greengrass had been there for Harry when they had failed; and for that, they owed her, and of course, they wished the best for their best friend.

But surprisingly, it was Ron Weasley who spoke first in the crowd. "Bloody hell." The youngest male Weasley said. "You do not wish to divide and conquer. You wish to-"

"Unite and Destroy." Daphne completed the sentence.

By proclaiming that Daphne was the beloved of Harry, the Chosen One had sent out a flare to his opponents, and they would flock to the castle to take hold of the only thing precious to their opponent-and put an end to all possibilities of his campaign against them. Lord Voldemort would rush to Hogwarts to get hold of Daphne Greengrass and would bring the entire Death Eater force with him; he would make no qualms, take no risks. So in an entire castle, the entire Dark Army would be present.

And if somebody laid siege to the castle-

"Oh!" Hermione said, having seen the bigger picture. She was shocked. She never thought that her glassy-eyed best friend could cook up such devious plans.

"Where did they come from?" Daphne asked, pointing to the crowd behind Harry.

"You don't know what a handful of us can do with some fake galleons." Neville Longbottom grinned as he threw the coin at her. As she caught it, she saw the inscription on it slowly melting away, but she was fast enough to read it.

It all ends at where we all began our journey.

"Well, the plan is in motion, and set. What are you people waiting for?" Harry asked to the crowd.

"For you to give an inspirational speech?" Ron snickered.

Harry flipped the bird at him, as Ron laughed even harder. "Shut up, mate. Look, guys, this is not a field trip. Stick in groups, ambush, yada yada. You all know the drill, we had discussed it before."

As they began to disapparate on by one, Daphne asked Harry, "Are you sure that this plan would work? Will the world ever accept us?"

"We love, live, and die, mere puppets of destiny. But I, for the first time, want to conquer my destiny, because I do not want to survive. I want to live. And if I live, it shall be with you. Only you. If there is no you, then it is not a logical occurrence to be a me."

The moon rose behind them as they kissed.

(line break)

Anomalies. Anomalies. Anomalies. Dominated Harry Potter's life.

As an infant, he wasn't supposed to survive the Killing Curse.

He wasn't supposed to survive the abuse of his childhood.

He wasn't supposed to escape Quirell's murderous touch, wasn't supposed to escape the poison of the basilisk, wasn't supposed to escape the Dementor's soul-sucking, rasping breaths; wasn't supposed to escape Lord Voldemort at the graveyard, wasn't supposed to escape the Death Trap at the Ministry, wasn't supposed to escape the Inferi in that infernal lake, and last of all, wasn't supposed to survive the Killing Curse a second time. But the main anomaly was: Harry Potter was never supposed to be in love with Daphne Greengrass.

Both Harry and Daphne had made the decision to separate during the battle; for Harry could be easily cornered if one went to fight off Daphne, and Harry would then have the entire Dark Forces crashing on him. So while Harry, Hermione and Ron had gone off in search of Ravenclaw's diadem, Daphne had decided to apply some glamour charms on herself and tweak her appearances a bit so that she looked more like Pansy Parkinson's elder sister, and had gone to seek out her Godfather-who she knew had been ousted by Professor McGonagall before the Battle of Hogwarts started.

And she had managed to corner Severus Snape in the Shrieking Shack, where he seemed to be waiting. A tunnel had been burrowed by the side of the Whomping Willow to make passage to the abandoned House. To say that her Godfather was shocked to see her would have been an understatement.

And then, Daphne Greengrass had sat and had heard the Prince's Tale.

She couldn't even cry. Tears had dried up from the accounts that she had heard. To think the level of debasement that her Godfather had to reach because he had loved somebody who never looked at him that way-Oh, he was so, so much of a fool! But are not those who love a fool? Daphne thought. For lovers wish to capture, freeze time so that death do not separate them, but eventually, it is again like throwing a pebble into a vast ocean and dreaming that one could bridge the gap between two worlds; separated by the ocean. She did not rail at him, because she understood now.

Human life is futile. It must end, as all will end. But there, in every life, is a spark of something that shall exist even beyond death-a longing for something, anything that reaches so high of a proportion that the unknown forces that governs us has no choice but to acknowledge it, and pay tribute to it. St. Peter's Basilica would be built on the supposed grave of the very man who is crucified upside down, not even given a proper death of a common criminal by his opponents.

Does not love have a part to play in this order of things which transcend death and eternity? Daphne asked, and remembered an unmoving, muggle picture that Harry had once shown her: the picture of the Taj Mahal. The Emperor's wife had died young, but they say that still, in full moon nights, when the silver of the moonlight slip over the marble of the solemn, great Mausoleum, Shah Jahan's longing for Mumtaz could be felt; a poetry inscribed on every brick, even on every tiny waterdrop in the air around it; an eternal love that shines true and stands fast, transcending its physical boundaries of marble and brick, but becoming a symbol of the feeling to an entire country, to the entire world.

That was the first time Daphne cried that night, but it certainly wasn't the last time. As footsteps resounded in the tunnel, Severus Snape petrified her, and pushed her under the table by the side of where they had been sitting.

And later that night, Daphne watched the great serpent's venomous fangs pour their unholy poison down the bloodstream of her Godfather, helpless, but ironically, at peace as the calming darkness began to put him in his last sleep.

Only when Harry Potter had taken the memories from her Godfather, did Severus's hand slacken and fall to the floor, and the light in his eyes went out, as did Daphne's only surviving relation to this world. When she came out of her impromptu shelter, free of the paralyzing curse, did she and Harry stare at each other and understand their strange equality: both had lost all of the persons they had wanted to live for, except for each other. And they also understood, somehow, that the world might never, never let them be together. Dark Lords might rise and fall, but some aspects, some mindsets, might be too late to change. In face of the Dark Forces, in face of obstacles, the world had temporarily overlooked them and seen only Harry Potter, not Daphne Greengrass with him. And if their suspicions were correct, the world had not changed, if Grindelwalds, Riddles, could arise.

Question was, as they heard Lord Voldemort's invitation to Harry Potter to come to the clearing, will fate even allow that bond to stay?

(line break)

She let him go, and knew that he would come back. She hated with every pore of her body that he was going to face the pain of the killing curse again, but she knew, from the look in his eyes, that he will come back. Even if he had to enslave death itself. For one was the other life; and as much as Daphne hated the fact, also death.

As he disappeared from her view, she wondered. How would it be like to die? To let go of all in this world? Maybe there were so many problems in this world because people just could not learn to let go at all, she mused. But if people learnt to let go, then was what she doing love? Could letting him go to his death, though she knew that he would return, be true love for them?

No, Daphne thought. Love was never a mundane thing to be associated with truth or false. It is a spark that lights up the flame of our life, lets us savor and understand how is it like to live, and why must we live; if not for our own, then for the other. And to compress it into a means to hold on to someone, pressurize them into changing their opinions and principles….no, she couldn't think of that as love. But then, why was she even thinking of it?

This is strange, she thought. This is personal, yet so impersonal. It is relative, yet so rigid. Love is always about not playing safe. It is never about playing by the book religiously. If it was, then it would've been a chemical experiment. There's no recipe for love. We make it up as we go along, and that is why it is unique to every single person, yet also same in a way to everybody.

Daphne could live with that, and she evaded a stunner as she jumped back into the battle.

(line break)

As Harry Potter stared down Lord Voldemort before drawing him into Hogwarts in the ensuing chaos and confusion of a dead man coming to life, several things happened.

You take a heap of coins, and try stacking them up. The stack totters on the way of getting built up, and soon, it would collapse.

Ironically, this frivolous exercise seemed to be the same case on the cosmic levels. There were too many-

Anomalies.

And when Harry Potter proved that he was alive and again duelled the Dark Lord, another anomaly was added to the stack, and the stack tottered.

And then, fell.

Neville Longbottom cut off the head of the serpent and then, in the momentum, rotated with the sword, and missed sight of the stray, green light speeding towards him.

Remus Lupin saw that, and wasted his breath in trying to warn him, and wasted the precious moment, in which Antonin Dolohov threw the Sectumsempra at his unguarded neck.

Nymphadora Tonks howled with rage as she saw what should not have been, and missed the sight of the consecutive diffindo that broke her wand and the Avada Kedavra that slammed into her chest, courtesy of Yaxley, who was thrown down, down from the banisters to his death the next moment, by Ron Weasley.

But even he would only watch in helpless rage as Molly Weasley would try to barge into the duel between Bellatrix Lestrange and Ginny Weasley, and one of the stray curses would hit her, and though Arthur Weasley would see to Bellatrix's end, Ginny would never really recover from the trauma of her mother's useless death and the cruciatus curses used on her.

And worst of all, would Harry Potter desperately look around for those icy cold sapphire eyes which made him melt in the throng, and would slip and would put up the Protego shield too late, Voldemort's Sectumsempra tearing through it to his chest, blood bursting out as the incurable hole would open on his chest. He would try to stop the bloodflow by using his magical will, and the blood would stop, but the wound would turn inwards and start to poison his blood, slowly, making him too dizzy to look up at where Lord Voldemort would stand over him and laugh a jeering laugh, to utter the killing curse-

When a very familiar figure would cover him, and futilely throw another killing curse, the first she ever cast, to deflect Voldemort's. But the Dark Lord's curse wouldn't be deflected, and the curse would slam into the chest of the person who was guarding him-

Only for her to fall to the ground and let her lifeless, sapphire eyes stare at Harry Potter's emerald ones, the cold gone from her eyes.

The Great Hall was shocked into silence.

An animalistic roar broke the silence, as Harry struggled to stand up, and the Dark Lord backhanded him, throwing him a feet away from Daphne Greengrass's body. As Riddle marched towards him, Harry stood up on tottering legs, and threw him a punch straight across his face. Tom Riddle would be reminded of his childhood, the last time he ever got punched by someone. The desperate force behind the punch broke his jaw, and he tried to raise up his wand to only-

Crunch.

The Deathstick was broken in two by Harry's foot on it. Voldemort looked up in shock; only one person could break the wand-it's Master. True Master. Fear, for the first time, took hold of him, as another backhand to his face laid him prostrate on the floor.

Harry Potter had lost himself; he did not care what he did, except the one single aim he had in his mind.

Conjuring ropes around the Dark Lord's neck, he dragged the shocked, bleeding, broken Dark Lord up the marble staircase, and then propped him against the highest point of the banisters, tying the free end of the rope to his hand.

The last thing that Voldemort would ever see was the blank,

The body of the Dark Lord was thrown over the banisters, hanging from it, Harry holding onto the other end by an animalistic, desperate will. When the body of the Dark Lord had stilled, Harry cut the rope, and fell down the staircase.

(line break)

It was a White Night.

The first flake of the snow fell in circles, Harry noticed. With wonder, he stretched his hand, and opened his palm, letting the snowflake settle on it, an innocent, silver, frosted drop of water that just fell out of the sky. Of course, it looked a lot like a drop of dew as one might see on a cold morning, on the grass. This was the first snowfall of the year. The streets had cleared out almost fully, even those who were there were hurrying onto their homes. The street-lamps were slowly gaining a layer of silver snow on them, while the road was turning white before his very eyes, as his black trench-coat seemed to have a white collar and white shoulders. It felt cold, yes, but not that cold. After a humid, hot day, you just want to feel a bit cold. Yeah, it was that kind of cold.

The Hogsmeade village is a broken kaleidoscope of emotions and bricks alike; it is still only recovering from the massive casualties. But this snow covers all that. He means, the broken bricks and all that. As for emotions, he doesn't really know, or care. All he knows is that he's going to die. Here, where it's going cold a bit…..too much. He wonders, what will happen if he died here? He'll freeze to death, but would that be a pleasant experience, or not? What else does he have to live for, except for the burning pain in his lungs that he had been informed was at the most advanced stage? Frozen to death by cold, or tortured to death by the dark poison in his lungs?

He was having this morbid debate in his head, as he was climbing a bridge over a stream which was passing sluggishly through the village. He looked over the bridge, on the waters, and sighed at the look of the snowflakes falling on the water like water-lilies blossoming. He stopped, and turned the stone in his hands, and wondered about the properties of being Master of Death? Did he even want to be, when he so desperately wanted to embrace Death? He raised the stone to his lips, and murmured,

"I want to die. I wish I could see you, when I die."

There was nothing. Harry chucked tiredly, then crushed the stone into smithereens by a concentrated blasting curse, and watched the dust float onto the stream beneath. He felt a burden decrease from his shoulders, and felt happy that somehow, destroying the last artifact(he had destroyed the Invisibility Cloak sometime back) had relieved him of his title of the Master of Death. As life had been trying to teach him, he had let go.

Often, you know when you are being looked at; a keen sense of human intuition does more than often grasp the brightest possibilities of being correct in this regard.

The cold was freezing the regular, clenching pain in his swollen poison-struck lungs, and breathing was getting difficult. He turned around, and saw someone sitting on the bench by the other side of the bridge opposite to where he was standing. Snow glistened on the mahogany of the bench; and a bit on the hair of the person who was sitting on it, face towards him, apparently looking at him. He took a step forward, and the cloud suddenly shifted from the moon, letting moonlight stream upon the figure, thus making the snow appear dazzling.

Her hair was midnight-black, and the soft curls in her hair seemed to house shadows cast by the moonlight on them. Her eyes were almond-shaped, sapphire but having a familiar juxtaposition of cold and warmth, and a fair face, pale with the cold of the snow, somewhat oval, was decorated intricately by a pair of rose-red lips, striking against the pale texture of her face. She was dressed in dark blue, patterned by designs of sky-blue, and she was looking directly, at him. She let out a breath, and he watched in fascination as the moonlight somewhat condensed around her, giving her a pearly glow. He came to stop in front of her, and she looked up at him, lips curving into a bedazzling smile.

"Can I sit?" He asked.

"If the snow doesn't bother you." She answered in a musical voice, like the soft patter of the snow as it lands on the soil.

He looked at the snow for a moment, and shrugged. If he was already going to die, then what will a bit of snow do to him? Give him a bit of cold? Hard to be afraid of that when he's got the incurable poison in his lungs. He didn't brush off the snow, but instead, sat on it. Due to some uncertain reason, her smile grew brighter at this.

"You are not afraid of dying." She asserted.

"Kind of hard to be so, I guess. I'm already dying." he shrugged.

"So I thought." She said, "Someone who comes out here, all alone, and sits on a bench, on the snow on a cold night like this."

"I can say the same for you." he replied.

"Yes, you can, I guess." She smiles again, "I love these nights. Makes me feel giddy. Makes me want to…dance."

"Then why don't you?" he asked.

"Yes, why don't I?" She says to herself, and then gets up, and leans against the bridge, for a moment, and then, turns around. Or rather, swirls around. Her hands stretch forward, her body twirls gracefully, and the suddenly, he feels jealous of the snowflakes that fall on her, as she gracefully circles under it all. He gets up, and she stretches a hand to him. He takes it, and is pulled into the dance. In time, he finds himself spinning her out, twirling her, and matching steps with her. At the end of it, they stay in the embrace, unmoving, as she opens her eyes slowly, and looks into his. Sapphire eyes look into green ones, as the killing curse green seeps away, and a familiar, emerald green takes its place.

"It's been a while since….I danced." She tells him, her hand around his neck, hands exploring through his hair. He said, "You sound like you don't get asked to dances."

She laughs, and says, "Oh, yes. I' m usually not someone who many asks to dances. I'm not…..much adored I guess. Taken for granted, you might say. But that's all right. Do you think the snow has any other work to do besides fall? Who adores it, who freezes in it, what headache is that of snow? The snow, just….falls, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does, I guess. I missed you so-" he starts.

"Shh," she gently laughs, and pulls him closer. He can now count the thin strands of silver that he sees in her sapphire eyes, he's so close. He raises a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, hardly daring to think her solid, and her forehead is cool. She continues, "You are really strange. You are dying, but you spared me a dance in the snow."

"A far better way to die than thrashing about in a bed with the torture of poison in my lungs. Or becoming a large piece of icicle in the snow. Besides, I love you." he smiled.

"After all this time?" She strangely asks.

He raises his gaze from her eyes and looks around. The snow falling in swirls. The moonlight glistening on the bridge. And reflecting off her sapphire eyes. What a nice picture he's going to die with in his mind. A nice vision which might be the last his eyes ever saw. He looked down to her, and answered.

"Always."

"You seem to be rather fond of making this a fairytale." She said, with an amused glint in her eyes.

"Everywhere I see beauty, and if these are my last moments, then I can die with peace," he said, "You brought peace to me. You are like the…..snow. It falls without a headache of consequences, and you dance just like that. If this is not a better way to die, with this beauty in my last hours, then what else hour is there for my death? I wonder; does it hurt to die?"

"Faster than falling asleep." There was a smile in her voice.

Silence, as his eyes feasts on her.

"So you want to really die here, now?" She asked, biting her lips. He pulled her closer, and he could almost see the faint shades of silver the moonlight produced in her midnight-black hair.

"Yes." He answered. She searched his face for some sort of an answer, and then, slowly, immersed her lips in his. It felt cold, unbearably cold, at first. That cold moved up his legs, which had gone numb. Only a tiny part of his mind registered that he was now kneeling on the ground, against the stone railings of the bridge. She had also kneeled with him, deepening the kiss. He could feel the cold rise up his abdomen, numbing everything from within, till it reached his lungs and…..ahhh. The burning fire of the pain of cancer there, died down, slowly overcome by the cold, till his lungs…..felt nothing. The cold then rushed up his throat, to his face, when, it suddenly stopped. He felt images rushing past his mind: indistinct memories of good times past. His hand closing on hers which held a parchment. Her snuggling against him on the broomstick, flying over the Astronomy Tower. A doe looking at him with sapphire eyes. Them kissing at the background of Hagrid's burning hut and Dumbledore's fall, and her lifeless eyes staring into his. But it ended, and came onto a scene, which was replaying itself again and again.

He and her. Dancing in the snow. The snowflakes falling like white lilies on them. Him twirling her, her lips open in a joyous laugh, with a strange beauty which seemed similar to the snow falling around her. The moonlight streaming over them. He felt his heart lift in joy, in a joy he had not felt for a long, long time since that eventful day. This would be the last and best memory he'd ever carry. Slowly, the moonlight in his mind grew lesser and lesser brilliant, and sleep ran through his veins, a sleep of peace, not the ten-hour unrestful sleeps he used to have. A deeper, meaningful, sleep, carrying the promise of finally resting. It felt like…..coming home.

"I never really stopped loving you, Harry. They say, that till Death do us part? It's wrong, Harry. I still love you, and you me." A musical voice whispered in his ear.

"It was indeed a lucky Moon that I came upon you in a White Night, Daphne Greengrass. As always, you light up my darkness. I love you." he smiled, as sleep overtook him, finally, restful and…peaceful.

(line break)

When the rays of the morning Sun touched the bridge, the snow was still falling lovingly on the dead body of the black-coated man with messy hair who sat kneeling against the railings of the bridge, eyes closed, a smile of peace curving his lips, which glistened with a strange frost, as though someone with a face of snow had been kissing him.

The lightning shaped scar on his forehead would never again pain him. All was well.