Author's note: This is a one shot I've had in the pipeline for an incredibly long time and today I finally sat down and finished it. I hope you all enjoy it, and I'd really appreciate any feedback and pointers on how to improve. Love it or hate it please tell me! I'd like to also say a big thank you to my wonderful beta reader Flocculus, who you should really pay a visit to!

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters you recognise as aquaintances or otherwise of Mr. Harry Potter. This wonderful song belongs to Greenday, who were kind enough to only put three chords in it, allowing me to murder it fairly well on guitar!

Good Riddance

Scaramouche Jay

Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road

Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go

Silence. Nothing but silence. She drifted through the house, trailing her hands over every surface, up the banister, down the banister, into every last room. She looked for his warmth, and light, the colour he brought to this drab, grey house. But there was silence, nothing but silence.

There had only been silence since he had left them. No stupid songs, no chatter or welcome when you fell from the fireplace or poked your head into another room. You weren't bombarded with questions about the outside world, about things that most people would even think about missing, but that he felt completely passionate about. You weren't told about secret business you shouldn't know, you heard no gossip. You weren't hugged or poked about, no rough and tumble and no laughter. No laughter anywhere.

It was most inconsiderate of him, she felt, to leave her again. To leave her again with out saying goodbye. To leave no forwarding address. He hadn't taken the scarf she had knitted him for Christmas.

So make the best of this test, and don't ask why

It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time

She felt the warm sun caress her skin and lick up and down her back, it affectionately run its tendril like fingers through her hair, kissing her, trying to suck away her pain. She looked out the window at it. She felt nothing but numb. She squinted out the window, standing rigidly before the sofa, she saw girls in colourful summer dresses, she saw boys pretending to play frisbee, while staring at the girls. She saw children and mothers and fathers and dogs, barking. She saw flowers and trees and heard reggae and ska and hip hop music mingling as it blasted from open windows, net curtains billowing, people dancing. Front doors open were wide open with neighbours chatting, laughing. She heard a band rehearsal and shouts, boys with skateboards. Cars pulling in and pulling out. The smell of watermelon and curry and jerk chicken and hot dogs mingled and floated to her nose. She saw life, she heard life, and she smelt life.

She felt black.

She drew the curtains.

It's something unpredictable, but in the end, it's right

I hope you had the time of your life

Sitting in the dark, she allowed the black around her envelope her, soothing her mind. It was over. It was done. No one had expected him to leave them, but then no one had expected him to come back in the first place, or leave them before that. He was a complete enigma and an open book, he always had a surprise up his sleeve, always had a plan. It wasn't always a good plan, but it would be a plan nonetheless. Better than nothing. He had left them with nothing. He couldn't resist sticking his two fingers up and waving them at authority. He had to do it. For so long it had been his only means of survival, and he never managed to break the habit.

He had been the first to leave them; it was the trendsetter in him. She was constantly being told how he had always been at the cutting edge. He had to learn to be less selfish.

She was restless, and suddenly felt suffocated, strangled by the dark. She ran to the door and through it, her feet tracing their own way to the kitchen, the heart of the home. It sustained them all. It was the place where everyone came together with their common need. To eat. So many different people but they all had to eat. He loved to eat, enjoyed food so much. He said it came from years of not knowing flavour, being leached of taste and smell, except for the vile rotting, mildewed mist that he had lived in, knowing nothing. She shuddered involuntarily. Seated at the table she stared blankly ahead. The squeezing on her lungs subsided and she breathed deeply. In and out, in and out. She felt a breeze behind her and saw a flash of a smile, heard a bark of a laugh.

It evaporated as she spun.

So take the photographs, and still frames in your mind

Hang them on the shelf, in good health and good time

She looked at the cupboard where that kreature had once slept, where the photos of that hateful woman had sat, watching and waiting, biding their time. Those unfeeling eyes burning holes in whoever they fell on, silently gloating, lofty, false superiority. Well they had burn for their last time that night as they flew into the fireplace, igniting and disintegrating to nothing but ash. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. He would never be dust and dance through the wind, floating and dipping on the breeze, as it pushed its fingers though his hair. He would never ride his bike again, she hated to think it would rust and linger. He would have hated to linger, growing older and frailer. Maybe it was better this way. He was pure fresh air.

Soft eyes and words had found her, binding her in their embrace as they she sat. These soft eyes felt betrayed, just as she, that they had been left behind again. Why must he always go where he could not be followed?

She had not cried but stared as the woman smoldered and vanished, her loathsome remains in the fireplace, laughing and taunting her. It seemed to her that he was the fire, dancing in its sprightly way, trampling that woman who thought she had won. She would never win, could never been. He was far to stubborn to let her win.

Tattoos and memories, and dead skin on trial

For what it's worth, it was worth all the while

Of course, had he survived, he would have remained here. A prisoner in his own home. He had laughed about it, 'No change there then!' but it bothered him. Every mission, every task, hell, every shopping trip he wanted to go. He wanted to leave this place that had so down trodden him, so destroyed him. 'I liked Azkaban better than this place'. He said it time and again, lifting a piece of falling wallpaper, battling with his mother's portrait. And it scared her. It scared her that he could mean such a terrible thing. But he had smiled and laughed. He had been joking. Of course he had been joking.

He had wanted to die a freeman. A freeman who could be what he wanted, do what he wanted. He had died a criminal. Nothing but a convict on the run. He had been so much more than a convict on the run. No one knew he was dead. No one other than those who had known he was innocent. No one would care that he was dead; they wouldn't say anything except he had it coming. He got what he deserved. Good riddance. He would never stand before a jury and hear the words 'not guilty'. He would never have his revenge on… that sniveling, pathetic excuse for a human being. His name caught in her throat as she thought of all he had done to her. It was the name she abhorred above all others. Above the dark lord himself. She burnt red raw at the thought of him, alive. His heart beating, his lungs inflating, deflating. His high-pitched voice, his round face. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. Red crescent moons burnt there, angry and sore.

When He died they would have a body. Anyone who cared about him, they could have a burial, they could have a wake, they could see his face one more time. They would know it was real. They could kiss his sallow, puffy forehead and bid him farewell, until we meet again. What did she have? An indentation in the pillow where his head had lain, the covers rumpled, he never made the bed. She had a pile of washing up that he had been doing, that no one had the heart to finish. She had a fleabite on her ankle. She had his face, staring at her out of the mirror. The eyes never lie. They hold the key to your soul.

It's something unpredictable, but in the end, it's right

I hope you had the time of your life

Author's note: I hope you all enjoyed this. If I get enough intereest in this I may be doing a chaptered story to explain the events behind this fiction. I hope that this in some way has made up for the months of nothingness! Hopefully the writers block has lifted! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed my work up until now, especially Unintended which was a real labour of love. Those reviews really spurred me on to get this one shot finished. I may be doing a chaptered story to explain the events leading up to Unintended too... I'll keep you posted.