"Whether you want to stay out of it or not, HE won't stop until you're dead," Fleur stated, her voice losing all its usual lightness and taking on a steely, serious edge. "You know that, Harry. You know that one day, you will have to face him. You doing everything in your power to avoid that… that is running away, whether you like it or not." Harry idly noticed that she'd said the entire sentence in almost perfect, unaccented English, which only underscored how incredibly serious she was about this.
"We can agree to disagree on this," Harry said, his voice flat, his own anger hardening into a stubborn resolve.
They had parted ways not much longer after those heavy words were spoken. Fleur, to her credit, had apologized for her bluntness and expressed her sincere hope that it wouldn't negatively affect their friendship. Harry had assured her it wouldn't, and they'd shared a brief, slightly awkward hug goodbye to reinforce the fact. Fleur had managed a small, sad smile as he and Ciri had then disapparated back to Potter Manor through the Floo network connection he'd temporarily established.
Ciri, true to her inquisitive and stubborn nature, had asked about that intense conversation almost every single day for the next month. She was relentless, determined to understand what had been said, what it all meant. Harry found her persistence both incredibly annoying and, at the same time, strangely endearing.
Eventually, he'd caved. He'd finally sat her down in the comfortable armchairs in front of the library fireplace and told her everything. His life, the Dursleys, Hogwarts, Voldemort, the prophecies, the betrayals, the losses. All of it. She had listened patiently, her ashen eyes filled with a deep understanding that few others had ever shown him. In return, she had shared her own story. Her world, her Elder Blood, the terrifying prophecy that made her a target, the relentless pursuit by the Wild Hunt. They wanted her power, her blood, she explained, to stop their own world from being destroyed by the White Frost. They wanted to kill her to do so, a solution Harry disapproved of with every fiber of his being. Still, sharing these burdens, these eerily similar destinies, had brought Harry and Ciri even closer together.
One day, Ciri had decided she needed to start practicing with her sword again, lest her skills grow rusty. She'd found Harry in the large, empty ballroom he'd converted into a makeshift training room for her, complete with padded mats and practice dummies.
"Have you ever actually used a sword before?" she'd asked, twirling her own blade with casual, deadly grace as she walked into the room.
"Yes," Harry had replied, leaning against a wall. "I killed that Basilisk with a sword, remember? That was the first, and pretty much the last, time I ever seriously used one." She'd shot him a look that clearly communicated she wanted to hit him again for his cavalier attitude towards near-death experiences, but she'd managed to restrain herself.
"I could teach you, if you're interested," she'd offered, a playful glint in her eye.
Harry had looked at her skeptically. "Are you trying to convince me to willingly let you hit me repeatedly with a long, metal, pointy stick?"
She had grinned, a wide, mischievous smile, and nodded enthusiastically. He'd sighed, a put-upon sound, but he couldn't quite hide the flicker of interest in his own eyes. "Fine," he'd grumbled. "I'll go get a sword then." He'd apparated to Gringotts later that day and retrieved a serviceable, well-made, but otherwise unremarkable longsword from the dusty depths of the Potter family vault. It suited his needs perfectly.
Ciri had declared him a natural with a blade, much to his surprise. He seemed to have an innate sense of balance and timing. Yet, that apparent natural talent didn't seem to ever stop him from walking out of the training room at the end of their sessions covered in a spectacular array of colorful bruises and aching muscles.
Yes, it had been a truly wonderful six and a half months. The best period of Harry's entire life, if he were being completely, brutally honest with himself. Yet, lately, he'd had a terrible, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach, a premonition that this precious, peaceful interlude was rapidly coming to an end. He had noticed Ciri staring off into space a lot more frequently, a profound sadness clouding her usually bright eyes. He suspected, with a heavy heart, that she missed her home, her world, her friends. Harry had tried his best to make sure she wanted for nothing, to give her everything he could, but he knew, better than anyone, that material comforts could never truly replace the feeling of belonging, of having a place that you willingly, unequivocally called home. If anyone deserved to go back to their home, it was Ciri.
It was these somber thoughts that were occupying his mind as he walked into the main living room one evening. He found Ciri sitting on the plush rug in front of the grand fireplace, staring deeply into the dancing flames, lost in thought. Harry moved quietly to sit down beside her. She briefly registered his presence with a small, almost imperceptible nod, before her gaze drifted back to the mesmerizing fire. They sat like that, in comfortable, understanding silence, for a good twenty minutes.
"You're leaving soon," Harry finally said, his voice quiet. He had meant for it to be a question, but they both knew, with a certainty that settled heavily in the air between them, that it was a statement of undeniable fact.
She turned her head to look him in the eyes, her own filled with a familiar sadness. Then, she looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, and nodded slowly.
"How long?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, already dreading the answer.
"A week," she said softly. "Maybe two, at the most."
Harry nodded, a lump forming in his throat. "Well… I suppose we should start making preparations then," he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. He moved to get up, to leave the room, needing to hide the sudden, overwhelming wave of distress that threatened to consume him. He didn't want her to see how truly distraught he was.
As soon as he made to stand, though, Ciri launched herself at him. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, burying her face into the crook of his neck, her body trembling slightly. He could feel the warmth of her tears seeping into his shirt. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped one arm around her waist, the other around her torso, holding her to him just as tightly. He rested his head gently on top of hers, closing his eyes, trying to make sure he memorized everything about her the feel of her hair against his cheek, the unique scent of her skin, the way she fit so perfectly against him in the precious, fleeting short time they would have left together. She smelled like the wild to him, a clean, earthy scent of pine needles and distant rain, a smell he never knew could be so utterly intoxicating, so painfully familiar. They stayed that way, holding each other in the warm glow of the firelight, for the rest of the night.
Two weeks later. February 1st.
Harry was helping Ciri pack the last of the clothes she would be taking with her into a small, unassuming wooden trunk. He had etched a very simple, but effective, rune onto the lid one that would allow the trunk to shrink or expand with a focused channel of magic. Something that Ciri, as he had discovered, possessed in absolute spades.
"Do you have everything?" Harry asked, his voice carefully neutral as she finished neatly folding a blouse and tucked it into the trunk. "Boots, blouses? Undergarments?"
She closed the lid and, with a soft murmur and a wave of her hand, the trunk shrank down to the size of a matchbox. She picked it up and threaded its thin silver chain around her neck, letting the tiny trunk nestle against her collarbone. "I'm sure I have everything," she said, a hint of her usual sarcastic humor returning. "Though, if you really want to go digging through my undergarments just to make absolutely sure, feel free."
Harry felt a blush creep up his neck at the very idea, but he still managed a small, amused smile. "No thanks," he responded, trying to sound casual. "I rather like my balls intact, thank you very much."
Ciri stepped in front of him, a soft, almost melancholic smile on her lips. "How do I look?" she asked, doing a slow, graceful twirl. She wore the same clothes she had first arrived in all those months ago: a simple white blouse, practical light brown trousers, and her familiar, well-worn sword strapped securely to her back.
Harry smiled at her, a genuine, though undeniably sad, smile. "Perfect," he told her, his voice a little thick. He hoped, desperately, that he was doing a good enough job of covering the profound sadness that was tearing him apart inside.
She smiled back at him reassuringly, then reached out and took his hand. Together, they began to walk slowly through the grand, silent rooms of Potter Manor for the very last time. It was such a nice, peaceful, almost dreamlike experience that Harry almost forgot, for a blissful moment, that this would be the first, and also the very last, time they would ever do this.
They reached the ornate front door, and Harry had to fight every single cell in his body that was screaming at him not to open it, not to let her go. But he did. He opened it, because he knew, with a certainty that ached deep in his soul, that as much as it hurt him to let her go, it would hurt him infinitely more if he ever tried to force her to stay.
The door swung open, and beautiful, bright sunlight streamed through, momentarily blinding them. Harry felt a small, irrational pang of annoyance that it was such a stunningly beautiful day, on what he knew he would probably consider one of the worst, most painful days of his life for a very, very long time to come.
They both stepped outside, onto the stone porch, and simply stood there for a moment, blinking in the sunlight. Harry didn't know how long they just stood there, hand in hand, him trying to soak in every last detail of her presence, to burn her image into his memory. All he knew, with a crushing certainty, was that it didn't last nearly long enough.
She released his hand gently and turned to look at him, her silver-grey eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and resolve. "I suppose… I suppose I should be on my way now," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Harry didn't know what to say, what he could say. So, he said the first thing that came to his mind, the truest thing he felt. "I'll never forget you, Ciri. You know that, right? I will never forget the time I got to share with you."
She smiled at his words, a soft, genuine smile that seemed to light up her face, and it looked like his words had made her happy, which was all he wanted. "I hope you know it's the same for me as well, Harry," she said, her voice full of emotion. "You gave me so many months of… of bliss. Of not having to constantly worry about people's expectations, about fulfilling some grand destiny. Of not having to be hunted down like an animal. It was… it was nice to just be normal for a while." Her smile wavered slightly. "I… I want to give you something."
She reached up towards her neck. Harry briefly, foolishly, thought she was taking off the necklace with the shrunken trunk, perhaps to give it back to him. He was about to protest, to tell her it was hers to keep, until she pulled a different, slender silver chain from beneath her blouse. As she pulled it off over her head, he saw what was on the end of it.
A silver, snarling, intricately detailed wolf's head.
Harry's heart skipped a beat, then seemed to stop altogether for a terrifying second. He, of course, had seen that particular necklace before. He knew its significance. He knew what it meant.