Inexorable Tide and Pounding Surf

Summary: After a lifetime of war, Harry searches for something he can't quite define. His journey takes him all the way to Northern California, to the rocky shore of the Pacific Coast, where he finds what he was searching for — if not what he expected.

A story of endings and beginnings, of loss and letting go and moving on. Of the pull of gentle hope and despair, and a quiet, bone-deep strength. Of peace.

Notes: An odd little story; a love letter to the place I live, and a testament to how the power of the ocean and the trees can heal the heart and soul. Told through Harry's eyes, beginning with the end of Hinny and ending with the beginning of drarry, because I love drarry nearly as much as I love where I live.

***

Harry woke alone in their rented room, fingers searching blindly across the empty expanse of the bed for Ginny. The sheets were cold, the warmth of her body already leached away. He fumbled for his glasses, tugged on worn jeans and a jumper, ran a hand through sleep-tousled hair. He glanced at the clock by the bed; it was early, still.

Her shoes lay by the door, where she'd kicked them off the night before; the quilt was missing from the end of the bed. Frowning, he shoved his glasses up his nose, bleary eyes catching on the sliding door, left open, curtain billowing gently in the breeze.

He slipped on his shoes and stepped out into the morning, shivering, jolted into wakefulness, and then took the jagged stair down the face of the cliff, instinct drawing him toward the sea. He watched his footing carefully, feeling every one of his half-healed war injuries protesting as he navigated the steps carved into the sandy cliff.

They had been eroded, worn down by wind and rain, and the logs forming each step were slick and treacherous. They were deeper, he guessed, than when they'd been put in and uncomfortably steep. Each step jarred his aching knee, and he winced, clutching at the splintery handrail, as his thoughts skittered around just how he'd injured it. He didn't like to think of the war — it hurt too much. He'd lost too much.

Some of the steps were gone completely, washed away in some long-past storm, and he jumped awkwardly down, grimacing as he thought of having to clamber back up. He could apparate, he supposed, but their magical tourism VISA only allowed the use of magic when strictly necessary. He didn't really want to be dragged before MACUSA just because he couldn't manage a few measly steps. Hermione had explained that very thoroughly — enough that he'd done no magic at all since arriving. He supposed he'd feel bad about that, only Ginny hadn't done any either. Anyway, he hadn't needed to. Yet.

He wavered as a loose pebble shifted beneath him, gripping the handrail tighter in case his knee chose that moment to fail. But it didn't, and after a moment he went on.

The crashing surf grew louder as he descended, filling his ears with a constant pulsing roar. Scraggly plants he couldn't identify clung to the cliff face; tiny pink flowers bloomed impossibly, defiantly, in the sandy soil. A gull soared past him, crying mournfully, and he stopped to watch it fold its wings and dive, brushing across the top of the waves before climbing back into the air. He turned his head, tracking its path across the low-hanging clouds and out over the churning sea, colorless and dotted with foam.

He thought of the disposable camera tucked away in his bag, of Hermione's insistence that he absolutely must bring her photographs, and he half-turned to go back and fetch it. But the sight of the stairs stopped him, and he reminded himself that he'd come out here for a reason, anyway. Ginny often woke before him — he'd carried the habit of insomnia over from the war — but something whispered that this time was different. He didn't question it. He didn't sense any danger, but... Still. He needed to find her.