It happened in his sleep: the death of the great Harry Potter. The absence of his presence would be mourned by many; perhaps even the whole Wizarding community. Yet, it was his time. Harry had known this for almost a year now, and he was at peace with it. He had lived a long, full life, long enough to become a great-grandfather thrice. He had lived his life to the fullest extent, and he knew that, despite his children and grandchildren's desperate pleas for him to hold on, it was time for him to go. Harry James Potter died in his bedroom, sleeping peacefully, dreaming of someplace wondrous, where his Ginny, his old friends, and even his parents now lived…

Suddenly, Harry was not in his bed. He was upright, that much he knew, once he got the feeling back in his feet. Something that he had not felt in a very long time, pure instinct, told him to step forward. As his foot touched what he could only assume was the ground, he felt very differently. Instead of the crippling side-effects that had come with old age, Harry felt positively… young. There was no other way to describe it. He finally opened his eyes, and he took in the scene before him, recalling the time he had died previously. This very well could have been King's Cross station, Harry reasoned, for how crowded the place was, but he didn't think so. This trip was unlike the first one in one way: this time, it was his time. He was supposed to die; there would be no 'boarding a train', as his wise old mentor had once put it. It was ridiculous to think that he would come back as a ghost, so Harry assumed that he had gone straight into… well, wherever the dead went when they were gone.

He looked at the people surrounding him – no, they surrounded a circular blue light, the thing that he himself had just vacated – and almost instantly he saw a familiar face, standing there, smiling in that frustratingly adorable way, as if he was late for a previously arranged engagement. "Ginny?" Harry whispered, not daring to believe that he would get his beloved back so easily.

His wife, who had died at the age of eighty-seven, looked as if she was seventeen again, finally coming to terms with Fred's death, when she had agreed to marry him. "I was expecting you," Ginny Potter said simply, walking – no, gliding – towards her husband, stroking his cheek. She glanced behind her, and smiled. "The others are waiting."

Harry, who had been content to drink in the sight of his wife's face forever, suddenly regained his curiosity about this place. He trained his eyes on the point where Ginny had looked back and what he saw there brought tears to his eyes.

Hermione, alone, stood, smiling at her best friend, still waiting for her husband; Fred and George, finally together again, looking younger than he had seen George since Fred's death, both with identical grins on their faces; Tonks, her hair her trademark shade of magenta, hand in hand with Remus Lupin, who looked younger and so much happier than Harry had ever seen him in life, and in beside them stood Harry's godson, now a teenager also, his hair still a bright turquoise; Sirius Black, who grinned and waved; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, beaming, who seemed to have chosen to stay the age they were when Harry had met them; and, finally, he saw the couple whom he had no real, live memories of, but whom he loved with a fierceness that rivaled only their love for him. Lily and James Potter stood back, tears in their eyes at the sudden appearance of their son, but allowing him to be collected by his wife.

Harry yearned to go to them with his whole being, but he first looked into Ginny's eyes. "Is this real?" He whispered quietly, for her ears alone; he could not have anyone else knowing of his fear to believe in what would make him the happiest he had ever been. At Ginny's nod, he took her hand and they ran into the horde of loved ones, rejoicing. And despite the loving life he had led on Earth, he could not help but think: finally, I'm home.