This attacked me a few nights ago. Listening to “A Rush of Blood to the Head” by Coldplay too many times is bad for me.

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Harry Potter stood on a hilltop overlooking the burning Riddle House. The last bit of his past was being destroyed.

Only a few days earlier, he had been in the realtor's office, listening to his congratulations on buying the house. “Little Hangleton could use the fix-up,” he had said happily.

A section of the roof fell in and Harry allowed himself a smile. He was surprised that the plan had gone so well. When he had gone to Fred and George a month ago asking for their help, he hadn't expected them to come up with such a powerful blaze. They had outdone themselves.

Who knew such a small marble with fire inside would make such an inferno? he thought.

He looked to his left where there was only air. Ron should have been there. He was gone on a journey to, as Luna put it, “find himself.” Harry could remember Ron's almost giddy expression as they arrived at Harrington Airport. “I'm finally going to see what this fuss about airplanes is about,” he had grinned. Ron wrote every once in a while. The last time Harry had heard from him, he was enjoying the sun in South America.

Ron needed it after his family's tragedy. Percy had died protecting Ron from a Killing Curse and Charlie had been paralyzed from the waist down from so many curses. His mum and dad had never really recovered from the shock of three children being attacked within a year. Ron couldn't do much to help them, and so, he had left to figure out what his place was.

There had been another reason Ron had left England for a while. Harry looked to the empty space on his right. Hermione had left them to fend for themselves and Ron had needed the reality check. Her death made Harry turn inwards. He was alone.

She had been his Hermione for four months. Whether or not it had been the happiest or saddest time of his life he could not say. All of his dreams had been gone in the instant she had fallen in front of the library of Hogwarts.

What irony, he mused, for her to be killed before the things that had protected her so many times before.

This had been her brainchild, burning the house. It had all started as a joke between her, Harry, and Ron and developed into a solemn pact. Late one night, Harry asked her how she came up with the proposal to start with.

She only shrugged and said, “I have no idea. Blame it on a rush of blood to the head.”

Below him, the roof caved in. The deafening noise of its collapse mixed with the sirens of the fire trucks rushing to the scene. Soon the fire would be put out, leaving behind a charred wreck.

Harry turned away. He had seen enough to know that their promise had been fulfilled. A small weight lifted from his shoulders with every step he took down the hill. From here, he had no idea what to do. Fate and common sense would guide him as it always had.

Decisions from a rush of blood to the head would show him the way.