A/N: I do not own anything related to this story, just a fan lol. Just a warning, I will not be anything not covered in the HP Book series (that includes anything Rowling had laid out for the NG and anything covered in the plays). So yes, many will seem OOC and the timelines will be adjusted for fluid storytelling purposes. Please don't crucify me haha. Please enjoy this fairly long prologue (sorry!), and as always; thanks for reading! :)

NOVEMBER 1998

No matter how much dust she cropped and scrubbed off the counters, it never seemed to be enough.

It made her sick, and her eyes teary. As she peeled the mustard colored rubber gloves from her pale hands, she took a moment to examine the wrinkles that had set into her fingertips and palm. Small blisters caused by the constant friction were starting to develop around the joints. And all she could do was sink into the blue cushioned chair that sat behind the cash register. The same chair that her father found easy comfort in.

Full ownership of the shop had fallen to her since his...passing.

She had nearly wasted away; six months of mourning.

Her Aunt Emily had remarked that she looked 'gaunt' and 'ghostly'. The analysis had no effect however. Emily had always been a wretched woman - father's stories about her highlighted the worst qualities you could possibly find in another human being.

Eloise Avery was one of the last remaining members of her family. Nearly all of her male cousins had lost their lives in the War. And besides their own father and mothers, they were not mourned. Though she never agreed with their politics or world views, they were family. And as an only child, she had been close to them as if they were her own brothers. Now their names were only mentioned before a wizard would spit on the pavement.

Father. Uncle Finneas. Francis. John. Martin. Claudius. And...Bertram.

All dead.

The sun had nearly set, and Diagon Alley became illuminated with an orange glow. Jolly passerby's cheered as a street performer sang an Irish tune aloud.

And Eloise began to sob. She had once considered selling the shop - even agreeing to sell the damn thing at a half of it's true value. But as soon as interested investors saw her last name on the lease, they would essentially apparate, courteously smiling before running far, far away. At one point she even considered changing her name. It was a moment of weakness for her, a desperate attempt to try and bury the past. But as quickly as the idea processed through her head, she forced it from her mind. She loved her father too much to abandon his name and memory. The tears flowed down her cheeks and into her lap. Small gasps escaped her lips. She stifled them, despite the fact that she was alone. Even as a child, one of Eloise's biggest fears was being a burden. She didn't want anyone passing by to hear her weeping.

She rushed to the restroom sink in the back room, brushing aside the mahogany privacy curtain and turning on the faucet.

As she splashed cold water on her face and stared into the mirror, she began to wonder.

Would she ever feel genuinely happy again?

Her family had been torn apart, and left with little to no resources. The Ministry had seized nearly all of their assets, calling it 'profit as a result of suffering.' Anyone and everyone who had family ties with the...Dark Lord...was treated with hostility. It angered her. But instead of making a fuss and risking further punishment, Eloise remained silent.

Beads of water dripped down her pointed chin, and onto the sink counter. She reached for towel and wiped her face dry. The scent was faint, but she could almost still smell the aftershave her father used to apply to cheeks every morning. Not wanting to shed anymore tears, she turned away from the restroom and to the office where her belongings were.

And that was when she heard the chimes above the stores entrance sway about, creating a high pitched melodic sound.

It was late, and she was absolutely sure that she had locked the door.

Part of her wanted to just stay within the confines of her office. Rustling about her satchel, she frantically searched for her wand. Patting the sides to feel for it's outline, she did not find anything. But a moment later, her finger grazed the smooth handle of her ashwood wand. Her hands were steady, in spite of the fact that her nerves felt like wet noodles. Aside from the fading sound of the chimes, the store had fallen silent.

Who would burglarize a broken down shop like this one? Didn't they see that there was absolutely no merchandise to sell?

An anger began to rise within the girl's chest. After all her family had been through, she couldn't allow a petty thief to further the damage. Moving forward, still cautious as ever, she quickly surveyed the area. Just outside the window panes, the wind carried a small pile of leaves in a current that drifted away into the central plaza. Her eyes search frantically for the intruder, gripping her wand tight. For a moment, it seemed as though there was no one there. Until, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the silhouette of a shadowy figure.

It appeared to be a man; large, and with shoulders as broad as an ox.

Pointing her wand in the shadows direction, she struggled to cast a spell.

"L-Lumos!" she shouted.

A bright flash emerged from the tip of her her wand. and in an instant, the figure was illuminated. But strangely enough, he or she did not cower in fear of the light, or turn to run out the door. Instead they began moving towards Eloise, slowly.

"Stay back! Don't make me -" she choked on her words. The light from her wand faded, but not completely, allowing her to look upon the face of her would be intruder. It was a man indeed. Mustached and gruff, but still...young. No older than herself. His hair was cropped short on the sides, but a little longer on top. It was combed to the side, which made him appear older than his face would tell. His cheeks still had roundness to them, and his beady eyes were black as coal. She felt as if she recognized him, purely based on his sheer size.

"Easy," he said calmly, holding his hands up innocently. "I'm just an ordinary customer."

Was he completely mad? "We're closed indefinitely!"

"Really? A shame. I used to come here with my ma and pa to shop."

Now, Eloise's curiosity had taken over. Strangely enough, in this man's presence, she didn't feel fear, but distant familiarity. His voice was deep, but his inflection was...juvenile.

"I know you," she said, her tone halfway between a statement and a question.

"No, I don't think you do," he replied.

Not too distant memories began to flood her mind. But none were clear enough to make a positive identification. He stood a good three feet away, and his eyes wandered. And that was when she noticed something familiar. Of course, her inner voice said. Tucked into his coat, around his neck was a scarf. It was loosely woven, and worn out. But it's colors remained. Emerald and silver threads.

"You're a Slytherin," she said.

His eyes fell on her, and he appeared to hesitate. "Aye. I was." The tone of his voice indicated that he was conflicted about the way she had said 'Slytherin'.

Licking her dry lips, she continued. "Were you there? At the battle?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You were in the year ahead of me, weren't you?" he asked, ignoring her question.

"Erm...I'm not sure."

Snapping his fingers, the intruder suddenly started to chuckle softly. "That's who you are. Now I remember. You're Bertie's older sister, aren't ya? You have the look, but I didn't wanna assume that you were an Avery."

At the mention of her younger cousin's name, Eloise felt her throat tighten. The boy - and that's what he was, just a boy - had been her closest friend growing up. During Christmases, the two would flee up to the rooftop of their gran's home in Somerset. He would make snow angels and she would sing along to the small transistor radio they would take with them. Once, during Eloise's first Christmas home from Hogwarts, Bertram had cast a snowball below, and nearly hit Mrs. Pickett, the miserly next door neighbor. They laughed quietly, but not quietly enough to remain unnoticed. The next day, they were instructed by their parents to keep off of the roof and behave like a proper wizard and witch. But they kept carelessly climbing onto the roof.

This Christmas, however...

It made her eyes sting to think of him. As she felt the tears brimming, she wiped them away quickly and tried to answer.

"No...no. He was my cousin."

"Right!" bellowed the man. He pointed in her direction "Ravenclaw if I remember correct."

"Correct-ly," she mumbled softly.

"Huh?"

"Nothing," she lied. "But yes. I was." It seemed a lifetime ago.

He nodded carefully, a solemn expression coming over his face.

"My condolences for your loss. He was a good lad. Really he was." His voice was rough, and low.

"A Death Eater," she said angrily. "He was that as well."

"Aye, he was. Awful fit for him, really. He wasn't like the rest of us." He hadn't taken his eyes off of the floor, until the ruckus made crowd outside broke his trance. He used his index finger and thumb to brush his mustache. "His older brother on the other hand - a born psychopath, he was. Cruel fucker."

Everything seemed to slow down. Despite having her initial suspicions, she had allowed her defensive wall to come down ever so slightly. This man was one of them. It all seemed to make sense now. Raising her wand from her side, she pointed it at the intruder.

"Get out." Her tone was icy cold, and packed with intense fury.

Confusion came over the man's face. And then his brows relaxed. And he frowned.

"Calm down a moment. Let's talk. I can explain." Just as he finished speaking, the man looked down to find the sharp point of a wand jabbed into his chest, and he could feel the heat nearly burning through his coat. Acting on instinct, he leapt back on his heels and drew his wand from where it rested on his hip. He stood tall, aiming his wand for her with cool confidence.

"Calm-"

"No! Get out, now!" she shouted. She would be damned if she were going to let a thug come into her fathers shop and browse around so casually. "If you don't leave within the next two seconds, I'll scream!"

He scoffed, not buying her bluff. "Oh please, don't get your knickers in a twist. I came to pay my respects."

"Well then, pay them and get the fuck out!"

"At least let me-"

"I don't care!" she yelled, not allowing him an inch. "You're one of them. Your friends and your feckless crusade cost the lives of my family!"

Left with little to say, the mans shoulders slumped. He lowered his wand. His attempt to seem intimidating had failed.

"All of my friends are either dead...or jailed. I..." he trailed off.

The first person he had visited upon his release was the man he had followed throughout his entire compulsory education. His mother quietly told him that she hadn't seen him in nearly a week. He was rarely ever home, apparently. As he turned to leave, the small woman grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into a tight embrace, and began to sob softly. He did his best to offer comfort, despite not having any experience doing so in the past. Just over her shoulder, he saw the familiar figure of Lucius Malfoy standing over a crackling wood fire. He was faced away, and seemed farther away than he was physically. The War had not concluded the way he and many others thought that it would.

"My name is Gregory Goyle. Yes, I was a Death Eater. Fought against Harry Potter. Fought against liberation. Did awful things. To innocent people, no less. And spent the past...six months...in Azkaban. Paying for my crimes." An icy chill crawled across his skin.

Goyle. He was a fellow student. Even as fourth-year, he towered above his classmates. And based on what she remembered, he was a complete and utter brute.

The stories of what happened in Azkaban were haunting. Every Hogwarts student from their second-year on knew of the horrors.

His appeal made her narrow her eyes. "You should be grateful you're still alive."

Sniffing, Goyle pulled on the ends of his coat strings. Beneath his breath, he offered a reply:

"I'd rather be dead."

Unsure if she was supposed to hear his dark admission, Eloise chose to ignore it. "Whatever the case, this not where you ought to pay your respects. Bert..." she was breathless, stressed by the thoughts clouding her mind. "His grave is not in Diagon Alley."

"I had been meaning to ask."

His voice was sincerely sad. But she was finding hard to offer him any sympathy. He was an admitted criminal. But as she looked on him, all she could see was a frightened boy. Large and square jawed, yes; but nothing more than brutish baby. Goyle was no older than nineteen. A child, by all accounts.

Still it was not in her best interests to share his grief.

"He's buried alongside the rest of my family. In Somerset." She did her best to contain her emotions. As she looked on the boy - no, the man - no, the Death Eater that stood before her, she was having a difficult time adjusting. Caught in between sympathy and disdain, she cleared her throat and began to think of ways to get him to leave.

But before that, her eyes met his.

"I actually...don't really know my way around anywhere outside of Yorkshire."

"Is that where you're from?" she asked.

"Yeah."

She wasn't keen on becoming his guide. "I'm sure you'll find your way." And with that, she started back towards her office, to collect her bag and go back to her humble flat.

"Please!" he called after her. "I need to do this. I'm doing...I'm doing the best I can to repent." Passionate and sincere though he was, it was impossible for Eloise to erase her initial impression of him from her memory. But when she turned to face him, she was surprised but the sight. His face was wet with tears, and he looked tortured.

Was this the effect that Dementors had on people?

And the longer she thought, the more she pitied him. Something in the way he spoke made him appear non-threatening. Weak, in a sense. And ever since her youth, the young witch had always felt compassion for the weak. It was that compassion that she shared with Bertram. Their common bond. But when she learned that he had taken on the dark mark, and fought in the name of He-Who-Shall-Be-Named, she blamed him completely. I t was something that took her months to convince her of. But the evidence had been damning. She shut him out. Her last words to him would haunt her forever.

In truth, she had not entirely made peace with the death of her many family members.

She hadn't even brought herself to return home.

It wasn't like her to exhibit cowardly behavior. Or at least it wasn't...before. No longer would she hide. And perhaps going with another would ease the blow. Still, it was no easy decision. There was still a lot that she was unsure of. But doubt had no room to wander in her mind. Before she could talk herself out of going, the girl looked up an spoke with clear intent.

"We'll leave for Somerset in fifteen minutes." It had to be tonight.

With an appreciative grin, Goyle smiled through the tears.

"Thank you," he squeaked.

The girl finished packing her bag, and tucked her wand away in the inner pocket of her grey cardigan. It had been months since she'd been back. And she was in no rush to return. They would not use floo powder to travel. If they were going, it would be by train. Deep within her, she felt the flames of determination burst. Taking a deep breath, she eased herself into a calm state of mind. It was the most stable she had felt all night. Her hands weren't shaking anymore.

When the pair arrived, it was dusk, and a warm bronze glow fell over the landscape.

Old houses, rich with history, with magic ingrained into every stone, were grouped together in collections of five, each spaced apart by what seemed like several acres. It was new territory to Goyle, who despite having a rich pureblood background, came from humble circumstances. Never before had he seen so much open land. Even when the streets outside his two story house were quiet, it was always somewhat lively.

An alleycat would screech every so often. The shrill voice of a woman scolding her husband would echo across the tops of steel bins.

But here in Somerset, the silence was almost deafening. It was naturally cold. No accompanying breeze to add a chill. Snow covered shrubbery and hundred-foot-tall trees were scattered across each property. Feeling his nose begin to sting and itch, Goyle adjusted his thick scarf to cover his face, and pulled the hood of his coat overhead. To his immediate right, his traveling companion adjusted her satchel and took in a deep breath.

"This way," she said simply.

To Goyle's amazement, she seemed impervious to the cold. Unaffected, and moving through the snow with elegance. He picked up his feet and stayed on her tail, not wanting to get lost in such a large area.

No longer than a year ago, he was walking about town, with his sleeves rolled up, proudly displaying his Dark Mark. Now, he tugged at the wrists of his coat, feeling disturbingly aware of the stigma behind the ink that stained his left forearm. The confrontation he had been in earlier was the first reminder he had since his release that things were not ever going to be as they once were. He would have to adjust to this new world. And there was really no reason to resist. In the first month he spent in Azkaban, he had plotted his revenge. On Hogwarts. On the Wizarding World. On Harry Potter himself. But those feelings quickly went away, and were displaced with deep seeded self loathing. Images flashed through his mind. Haunted him.

But none more so than his last moment with his closest 'friend'.

Crabbe was hardly a decent person, even as boys, Goyle could acknowledge that. But there were qualities the two shared that, no matter the degeneracy, was something that would bind them together; until Crabbe's demise. They were both great admirers of Draco Malfoy, which stemmed from an early age, dating back several years before the trio were sorted into Slytherin house. And Crabbe had the sickest sense of humor between the three. But over the years, Gregory had grown accustomed to his presence. It was strange. He didn't miss the man. But the look of pure unadulterated rage on his face was an image that Goyle would not soon forget.

As he adjusted the hood of his coat and fastened the thick leather belt holding up his trousers tighter around his waist, he noticed that Eloise had stopped in her tracks.

"Come along, we're almost there." They had arrived at a long dirt path, surrounded on both sides by tall bushes.

They continued on their way.

When the pair reached the end, Goyle spotted two wooden posts on the left hand side of the path. Attached was a smoothed out sign. Carved into the stained oak was the last name AVERY.

On the train ride to Somerset, aside from thoughts of Bertram, Goyle had tried to imagine what the cemetery might look like. He expected hill upon hills of graves. A few with flower arrangements. Food offerings on others. But instead, he stood in a picketed area, no larger than one of the greenhouses at Hogwarts. The grass was a few inches tall - it had been some time since it was last cut. And in eight perfect rows were beautiful marble headstones, glimmering in the moonlight. The graves at the very front were fancier than the rest, complete with engraved portraits.

"All of my ancestors are buried here," Eloise said in a clear monotone. "Even those who don't bear the Avery name. If you have an ounce of Avery blood, you must be buried here." Her tone implied that most weren't given a choice. Goyle had no trouble believing that.

The petite girl bowed her head, and slowly began to walk in between headstones.

"The newest burials are at the rear," she said softly. Her face was turned away, but Goyle could tell from the way she spoke, that she was crying.

His own memories of the lad were becoming more vivid with every moment that passed.

The broad shouldered Goyle did his best to shrug it off.

Each grave was marked the same, very simple black engraved names. And beneath the names, were the years, days, and months each wizard or witch had passed.. Some went as far back as the late eighteenth century. Just as Eloise had said, as they neared the rear the dates were becoming increasingly closer to present day.

As Goyle followed closely, he felt a chill pass up his spine.

"It's...just over here." Her voice was weak, but Eloise managed to lead Goyle to the very back of the cemetery. She motioned for the large man to move closer, and he obeyed. "I'll be with you in a moment. I have to take care of something."

"Oh, uh- yeah. Okay." Goyle had never been an eloquent speaker.

Eloise nodded once in acknowledgment, offered a weak smile, and then moved to walk several rows back from where they came. Goyle watched, nervous about being left alone. He removed the scarf from around his mouth and exhaled, watching his breath turn into thin fog before his eyes. The Avery girl eventually stopped and stood over a headstone several yards away, putting Goyle at ease.

He knelt in the snow and removed his padded gloves before reaching into satchel, aggressively searching for a particular item. As his hands rustled about the loose papers and water-damaged books, his eyes more carefully examined the stone that stood before him.

{}

Betram Proteus Avery

b. 14 February 1980

d. 2 May 1998

In the moment after reading the man - no, the boy's date of death, Goyle clutched his stomach and felt a sharp pain spreading from his midsection up to his chest. He felt sick.

Distant memories of a pair of tall, lean boys with robes two sizes too big flooded the former Death Eater's memory.

"Right, lads. You remember my baby brother, Bertram. Be sure to greet him properly!" Laughter had erupted in the room, just looking at the boy. The others knew reluctance when they saw it. And the boy was little more than a sheep amongst wolves.

Malfoy hadn't stopped cackling since the boy walked in. "Took you long enough, Bert!"

"Are you sure you even want to be here, Avery?" Crabbe chimed in.

Theodore Nott wasn't as amused as the others, rising to his feet and casting a charm that knocked Bertram on his rear end.

The fight that ensued landed Nott in the Hospital Wing for two weeks. He should've known better than to cast a jinx at John Avery's younger brother.

Bertram was a quiet boy all through his years at Hogwarts. The only people he seemed to be lively around were members of his family. Though Goyle thought of him as pompous at first, he would later prove to be as selfless as he was reclusive.

He sacrificed his life, crushed by a stone claymore, to save a comrade.

The image of a young man smashed to a pulp was seared into Goyle's memory, and would likely never leave him. On that fateful day when Britain's finest wizards fought to a bloody end, he had seen the cost of war. The toll. The bodies that littered the courtyard were not theoretical.

The veins in his temples began to throb painfully.

He closed his eyes tightly, and smashed his palms into his eye sockets, desperately trying to control his breathing. But just as he felt himself starting to lose it, he heard light footsteps come up from behind him.

When he turned around to look, he found Eloise. Her nose and eyes were red, but she was smiling somehow. Judging by the way she looked, Goyle surmised that she had been visiting her father's plot. Just then, he began to think of his own parents. They didn't show up to the Ministry on the day he was sentenced to six months in Azkaban. Their absence wasn't unexpected. His father would have been arrested on sight. While he sat on the cobblestone floor of his cell n Azkaban, the younger Goyle wondered if his mum and dad had made it away safely.

Now that he was free, he had no idea where to start looking.

As his knees sunk deeper into the snow, he came to the realization that Bertram would never feel his mother's embrace ever again. The thought caused a tightening in his chest.

"Is his mum still...alive?" He hadn't carefully considered his words.

"Um..well, yes. My Aunt Patricia. She lives nearby."

Goyle had no intention of visiting her. He wasn't ready to face anyone, let alone the mother of a fallen comrade.

"He loved the winter." Eloise stepped forward to lightly brush the snow off of the top of the stone. Through soft sniffles, she cleaned it entirely, before stepping back to stand beside Goyle. "This kind of weather always made me miserable, but he insisted that we be outside as often as we could. He had a way of shining through even on the coldest, darkest days."

She took a moment to lick her dry lips.

"I miss him...terribly. Well...I miss all of them." Her voice was low. "My family. Snuffed out in a instant." Her teeth were clenched now. "Damn them. Selfish fucking bastards!"

Lunging forward, she began to slam her fists against Bertram's gravestone. Goyle sprang to his feet, shocked by her sudden outbust. With each strike against the marble, she sobbed louder.

"Why did you abandon me, you son of a bitch! We were meant to grow old together, you selfish shit! You were supposed to...supposed to…" her voice weakened, and she groveled in the snow, weeping inconsolably.

"Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

Her shrill shouts cut through the frosty air.

Goyle could feel the agony in her voice, which only further deepened his sadness and guilt. The pain of those left behind was not something he or any of the others had ever truly considered. She got back up to her knees and was now hurling handfuls of snow at the grave. Goyle felt helpless. It wasn't his place to tell her how to feel. But he didn't want to see her hurt anymore.

He acted quickly, placing himself in between Eloise and the stone she was trying to deface, and dropped to one knee. Her eyes were swollen, and tears continued to stream down her cheeks. Her shoulders slumped in surrender.

Moving slowly, Goyle gently took her into his arms, carefully drawing her closer.

She collapsed, laying her face against his chest.

Her hair had come undone in just a few moments, going from a neat ponytail into a collection of strands that spread out like a fan across her back. Goyle's body, which had been tense and rigid at first, gradually eased into relaxation. Her sobs continued, and just when he thought that she was beginning to ease up, she would cry harder.

Unsure of what to say, all the man could do was embrace her. When she tightened her arms around his waist, he felt a stirring within.

Say something. his inner voice urged.

Trying to find an appropriate moment to speak was proving difficult. In between the sniffing and sputtered coughing, he could not afford to say the wrong thing. Though remaining silent might have given her the wrong impression as well.

"I...uh...know you're angry. But you should hold onto the love you felt. I think they all loved you just as much as you loved them." The words felt foolish as he said them.

For a few moments, she said nothing, but he could feel her fingers pressing into the base of his back.

"If it was love they felt, they would have chosen honor over their outdated ideology. The Death Eaters were monsters, and my family bred our boys to be frontline pawns in their sick game." Her voice was shaky, but she spoke with fierce conviction.

Goyle was beyond the point of words stinging.

"Men are weak. Easily swayed by lofty ideals. Sometimes we let our passion blind us to our flaws. It makes living easier." He paused. "But the strong and determined always find their way. And...I think you're both."

The young wizard and witch each found themselves at a loss.

For the latter, a business on the brink of bankruptcy and desertion awaited her upon her return. And there was no one left to rely on. The cool simplicity of a distant memory was quickly fading.

For the former, a life of stigma and sorrow was surely all that was left. Well earned, he thought to himself.

And here they were - two strangers, essentially - sharing a moment that neither of them felt needed to end. Eloise in particular, despite the fact that her arms were getting tired from wrapping around Goyle's much larger torso. Letting him go felt almost like...a risk. His rhythmic breathing was comforting.

"Gregory?"

It was the first time she had addressed him by his given name.

"Yes?" he answered in a whisper.

She hesitated initially. But Eloise was never the type to keep things to herself. At least, not for very long. Lifting her head off of his chest and peering into his eyes, she was surprised to find that he too had been crying. His eyes were pink, and the tracks of tears were apparent along the ridges of his cheekbones. .

"Thank you. For everything. I don't know if I could have come here by myself." Perhaps instinctively, she giggled.

And in return, out of a sense of comfort, Goyle nervously chuckled in return.

In the moonlight, he had to acknowledge that she was absolutely stunning. Goyle had known Eloise Avery as a pretty girl all throughout their schooling, but passing someone in a stairwell or occasionally glancing at them in the Great Hall wasn't comparable to being intimately close to them.

The tip of her petite nose was rosy pink and her amber colored eyes glowed as if a warm log fire burned within her.

She reached up slowly to his face, gently grazing the ends of his beard with the back of her hand.

"You have a good heart. I know that much. Otherwise you wouldn't have stepped foot in my shop."

"I wouldn't claim to-"

"Well, I would," she said definitively. "You're good. I believe that now."

The way she stared into his eyes in that moment - it was not a look he was familiar with. From what he could discern, Eloise was gazing at him affectionately. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the stress culminating.

It left him stumped.

Goyle was by no means an ugly man, but he never thought of himself as a contemporary to Cedric Diggory, Dean Thomas, or even Draco. No, he had known the words people used to describe him, and 'handsome' didn't even break the top fifty. In fact, he was sure that no one had ever used the term in relation to his appearance.

"Ahem...we...uh. We should go. Before it gets too dark. I reckon the train is headed back to London soon."

The suggestion had taken her by surprise. "Yeah, um...I agree."

Goyle was the first to steadily begin to break away, nervous. Though the time felt short, they had been on their knees for nearly an hour. Both struggled to get to their feet, numbness still incapacitating them for the most part. But after a few seconds, Eloise sprung to her feet like a cat.

She laughed as Goyle stumbled to his feet like a fawn, before grabbing her arm to gain stability.

"I'm bigger. The blood flows slower," he said abashedly.

She rolled her eyes at his lame excuse, and pulled up the hood of her jacket to hide her mess of hair.

Just as they were ready to depart, the large man remembered. Rummaging through his bag, he located the item he had been meaning to leave behind. As he felt it for the last time of the skin of his palms, he knelt down to the base of Bertram Avery's grave and closed his eyes.

And on the snow covered grass before him, he placed a small wooden carving of a Swedish Short-snout.

"He learned from my father," Eloise said from over his shoulder. "Spent an entire summer bugging him about it until the old man finally caved in and took him as an apprentice. I can tell his sculptures apart from my father's. Bertram had imagination. Dad was a detail freak."

Goyle nodded, and adjusted the dragon to face forward.

"This was the figure he kept above his dresser at school."

The young Avery felt her eyes start to sting yet again, but fought to suppress it."I'm grateful that you brought it with you. He would have appreciated it."

The two shared a knowing glance before Goyle got up and started for the entrance. As he tightened the satchel strap across his back, he felt his arm being tugged at. He looked back, surprised to see that Eloise had already laced her arm into his. She had briefly stopped to take one last look over her shoulder, as if to say goodbye, and then continued alongside him.

Exhaustion or not, Goyle did not care. Her closeness bought him immeasurable comfort the like he never thought he'd ever experience after spending six months with the dementors. Their methods were inhumane - not that he was one to complain. His newfound companionship was a welcome reminder that there may very well have been hope for him.

Hope for actual happiness.

Arm in arm, they walked out of the graveyard and towards the train station. Their travel was accompanied by peaceful quiet. That was, until the raven haired beauty finally spoke up.

"Wait."

Goyle stopped immediately heeding Eloise's request. They had come upon a clearing, where the sky was open, and the open patches of grass shined a radiant emerald.

"Are you okay?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes, of course I am," she muttered. "I just…"

There was a glimmer of doubt that flashed in her eyes for a split second, before she slowly and deliberately walked forward. Standing on the very tips of her toes she softly placed her lips on the tall man, and he received her, his head awkwardly tilting to fit hers. Cheeks glowed red for both, and for a moment, both man and woman felt the pangs of loneliness melt away. Goyle kept his eyes slightly open the entire time to make sure he wasn't doing something wrong. But to his surprise, Eloise never once giggled or pulled away. To some, it may have seemed like a simple kiss. But not to the former Slytherin.

It was his first.