A Hero's Choice

Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to JKR and are not being used for profit- since JKR shows no sign of selling me her copyright. Unfortunately. Luckily, I can still play in her world for fun.

Author’s Note: For Demosthenes, and especially for Goldy, as this fic was inspired in large part by her brilliance.

Part 1 of 5

A Hero’s Choice

Part One

~*~*~*~*~

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hands of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…

Argh! Harry clutched at his head, tugging at his hair, ignoring the stinging of pain as he did so. He couldn’t get the eerie voice of Trelawney saying the Prophecy out of his head. Always, it seemed, he heard it, vague echoes in his mind, taunting him, tormenting him with the stark, horrible truth of it all…

Telling him that it was because of this, because of him, that so many people had died. His parents had been the first to die because they’d been unlucky enough to have a son who was cursed with some ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’. And then it’d been Cedric, for being so fair and wanting to be a friend to him. Poor Cedric. Then Sirius… He closed his eyes and clamped his lips shut against the half-sob, half-whimper he felt rising within his chest at the name, the thought of his godfather. He could still see Sirius’ thin face, his sudden grin, hear his voice and the bark-like sound of his laughter. Could still see the look of surprise on his face as he fell through the Veil.

They had all died because of him, because of who (and what) he was.

And then there was everyone who’d been hurt simply because they were his friends. Luna, Ginny, Neville. They may not have been injured too badly (luckily) but it was his fault they had even been in the Department of Mysteries. Ron, attacked by that brain… Hermione… God, Hermione! Lying unconscious in the Department of Mysteries after that purple flame-like curse had gone through her…

And it had all been because of him. Because he was cursed.

He shuddered, feeling cold although it wasn’t a physical cold so much as a mental one.

He hated this house. Hated it with an intensity he couldn’t even describe. This terrible, stifling house, so filled with memories of Sirius. This house which had been Sirius’ prison…

But he hadn’t had a choice, had had to come here, when the Order had arrived to take him from Privet Drive. He almost felt that this house was worse than Privet Drive had ever been.

The sound of a knock on the door broke through his dark thoughts. He didn’t bother to answer the knock, didn’t bother to respond in any way. He didn’t want to talk to anyone and no one seemed to really respect his “Go away” response as it was.

And, as he’d expected, his silence again was taken for an invitation and he heard the door open. He didn’t bother to get up from where he was lying on his stomach on the bed, didn’t bother to look around to see who it was.

“Hello, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly.

Now he sat up, more out of surprise than a wish to be courteous to the Headmaster. “Professor Dumbledore,” he responded curtly. “What are you doing here?”

“I have been- I am concerned about you, Harry. You have had a difficult year, have endured things which would have broken a weaker person. I wanted to see you, to know how you are.” Dumbledore’s voice was gentle.

“How do you think I am!” he snapped angrily, his voice rising until it was nearly a shout. “My godfather is dead because of me and you just told me I’m going to have to kill or be killed! How do you think I am!”

Dumbledore sighed, moving until he was standing in front of Harry so Harry had to meet his gaze. “I am sorry, Harry. I seem to have made things harder for you instead of easier as I intended. I cannot undo what I have done, however, can only try to help you now.” He paused before continuing, his blue eyes solemn. “I told you once that it is our choices which make us who we truly are, far more than our abilities. And more than any prophecies, as well. Harry, it is true that you are the one Professor Trelawney spoke of; you are the one who has the power to defeat Voldemort. But Harry, that does not mean that you do not still have choices to make. No one walks alone from choice.” He paused, letting his words sink in to Harry’s mind. “Now, what you must decide is what to do about the Prophecy. The Prophecy only says you are the one with the power; it does not tell how or when or if you will use that power.”

“If you mean I have a choice about whether to face Voldemort or not, I don’t! I have to do it! I can’t just leave him to kill people and besides, he’s going to come find me anyway. I have to kill him or die trying! I don’t have a choice in that!” Harry spoke angrily, his voice harsh.

Dumbledore sighed again. “I did not mean to imply that you would, or that you can, simply run from your destiny. I do mean that now you must search your heart for what is most important to you, search your heart to choose how to react to the Prophecy. Search your heart for what you must do.”

There was another silence in which Harry stared morosely at the floor and Dumbledore studied Harry with his wise old eyes, eyes that had seen so much and now looked upon one of the saddest sights in life, a young boy afraid of life, a boy who hated the thought of tomorrow rather than welcoming it, a boy who, for all the pitiable circumstances of his life, still possessed something, a strength of feeling, a caring mind and a heart of courage that fitted him for the hard destiny which was his.

“Search your heart, Harry, and I am sure you will know the choice you should make. I will see you soon, I’m sure,” Dumbledore finished quietly, turning to leave the room.

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Harry alone again, to think over what Dumbledore had said.

To think—but not to decide. He had already decided. He knew what choice he had to make. Choice! It was hardly a choice; it was simply what he must do.

He had known it suddenly and with a certainty that couldn’t be denied from the moment of hearing Dumbledore’s words of searching his heart for what was most important to him. It was a knowledge that had been growing in his mind and heart for a while now, until that moment when what had been only lurking in the back of his mind had suddenly come front and center, until he could think of nothing else but this. His duty. What he had to do, the only thing he could do.

He chose to be alone—so no one else could be hurt because of him.

He was who he was—and he was meant to be alone.

He knew that now and he knew, too, what he needed to do. He needed to isolate himself. He had his task, his fate, one which no one could do for him and which no one could help him with. He was the one with the power the Dark Lord knew not, the only one with that unknown power. And he was a danger to anyone close to him.

He was a marked man—and therefore, unsafe company for anyone to be around.

For a moment, he had some vague plan of leaving Grimmauld Place altogether, taking his trunk and his broom and his Invisibility Cloak and simply running away- somewhere. Somewhere where no one else could be in danger because of him.

But even as he thought it, he knew it was impossible.

Grimmauld Place was not the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix for nothing. It was as close to impossible to sneak in as it was to sneak out—the more so because of the way he was watched.

Oh, Harry knew he was watched. No one had said anything to him but he knew how many times people, most often Mrs. Weasley and Remus, stopped off outside his room, not knocking or saying anything but simply making sure he was there. He knew that there was a reason he was never alone in the house, why there was always at least one, usually two, members of the Order in Grimmauld Place with him.

So, no, he couldn’t simply leave. And beyond that, the part of his mind that spoke in Hermione’s voice told him how reckless, how foolish to the point of stupidity, it would be to leave this one haven especially now when he knew just why Voldemort needed to kill him.

He couldn’t leave. What he could do—what he had to do—was to close himself off from everyone.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were, thankfully, preoccupied and busy with work, their Order duties, and their children. Remus would be more difficult—but he could avoid seeing Remus. Remus was also busy and with the full moon coming up in the next week, he had every reason to not seek Remus out. Ginny was more difficult but she, again, he could avoid and besides which, he’d never talked much to her as it was. She was simply Ginny.

No, the most difficult thing to do and the most important thing he had to do was somehow end his friendship with Ron and Hermione.

They were the two people he cared about most, what was most important to him, as Dumbledore had said. And they were the two people most likely to be seriously injured (more than they already had been, he thought, shuddering) or, horror of horrors, killed because of their closeness to him. He shuddered again at the thought, feeling the cold hand of dread squeeze his heart tighter, at actually putting into words the fear that haunted his every waking and most of his sleeping moments.

He relived, over and over again, seeing that purple streak go through Hermione, the look on her face as she fell, and then how pale— how terribly, awfully, heart-stoppingly still— she’d been, lying on the floor. Relived that moment of blind panic before he’d managed to reach her side.

And remembered, too, the relief he’d felt on hearing Neville’s, “Dat’s a pulse, Harry, I’b sure id is.” He’d never heard any words which affected him so powerfully, didn’t expect any words could match the sheer impact of Neville’s inarticulate, somewhat garbled, eight words telling him Hermione was still alive.

He didn’t know how he was going to end this friendship of five years but he knew he had to. It would hurt, feel like he was cutting his own heart out—but he needed to do this. To keep them safe and make sure that no one was ever again killed because of him again—at least not if he could help it.

He got up and opened his trunk, pulling out the book of pictures Hagrid had given him at the end of his first year to look at the picture of his parents’ wedding and swallowed back the lump of emotion that formed in his throat as he gazed at the familiar smiling faces of his parents and Sirius. I won’t let anyone else be hurt because of me, won’t let what happened to you happen again, not if I can help it. I promise. Mum, Dad, Sirius, do you hear me? I won’t let it happen again. I couldn’t do anything for you, Mum and Dad. And Sirius, I’m sorry. But I promise you I won’t let it happen again. I can’t let it happen again.

Whatever he had to do, whatever he had to endure, he would do it. If that was the price he had to pay for those he cared about to be safe, he would pay it.

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Author’s Note: For Anne U.

A Hero’s Choice

Part Two

Ron was in the house now.

The Weasleys had been staying at the Burrow (a Burrow which had been made much safer by a series of spells, he knew) with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley only stopping by during the days to meet with other members of the Order and look after him. Now, though, they moved into Grimmauld Place.

He had heard them moving their luggage in, Mrs. Weasley’s familiar scolding tones audible through the walls and closed door.

He had also heard Mrs. Wealsey’s hushed explanation to Ron about why Ron would be sharing a bedroom with Bill. “Harry’s had to deal with so much lately; we’ll just let him have that room to himself. Now, don’t give me that look, Ron Weasley. Think of what Harry must be going through, the poor, dear boy.”

Ron had knocked on the door once he’d arrived. “Harry, mate? It’s me. Can I-er- come in?”

“Go away, Ron,” he’d said in something rather approaching a snarl.

Ron had tried again a little while later, his voice sounding more hesitant but still concerned. “Harry? Are- are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” he snapped. “Just leave me alone!”

And Ron had. He hadn’t knocked again in the last three hours.

From below, Harry heard the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Black’s screeching something about allowing Mudblood filth into her house and knew Hermione had arrived.

Hermione was here.

And for the first time in his memory, he wished desperately that she weren’t, that she were a thousand miles away. Hermione was here—and that meant he’d have to talk to her, would have to see her and Ron. She wouldn’t give up, would simply make him face them. She was the only one who didn’t tiptoe around him, the only person who simply refused to listen when he said, Go away. He knew that after this last year.

And that made his task that much harder. She was so loyal, strong-willed, and she always seemed to know what he was thinking. How was he supposed to lie to her? How was he supposed to end their friendship?

He stiffened automatically at the expected sound of her knock. “Harry? It’s me. Can I come in?”

“I don’t want to talk to you, Hermione,” he said, injecting all the coldness he could muster into his tone.

A moment of silence and he began to hope that maybe she would simply go away and leave him in peace…

But then the door opened and he knew it had been a futile hope. This was Hermione after all and she cared too much, knew him too well, to listen when he said he didn’t want to talk. It was damnably annoying, that, he decided.

Hermione walked in, moving immediately to sit next to him. Ron followed, although he hovered awkwardly just inside the door, closing it behind him.

“Harry, it’s only us. You can talk to us, you know you can,” she began gently.

“I don’t want to talk,” he said shortly, avoiding her gaze.

She stiffened slightly at his tone and was silent for a moment. He sensed when annoyance won out over her sympathy.

“You can’t avoid us forever, you know, Harry,” she said, her tone sharper than before.

He sternly kept his mouth shut so as not to retort, automatically, inanely, “Oh, can’t I?” because he knew that she was right. He could hear her voice in his mind, telling him, You know she’s right. You can’t avoid them forever. And then could have glared impotently at whatever fate had decided that his rational mind would speak in her voice.

“We’re your friends. We want to help,” she continued, her voice softening as she put a hand on his arm.

No! He couldn’t allow any more of her little touches, gestures of a friendship he needed to end as they were. He couldn’t bear it. He leaped up from the bed, moving nearly as far away from both of them as he could in the not overly-large room.

“Don’t say that!” he finally burst out, making himself glare at first her and then Ron. He needed to hurt them, needed to drive them away. “You can’t help so don’t try!”

He heard her intake of breath, saw her flinch slightly at the force of his anger, and forcibly repressed the urge to apologize. God, he couldn’t stand knowing he’d hurt her. But he had to do it. For her sake.

He turned his attention and his cold gaze back to Ron because it was, for some inexplicable reason, easier to look at Ron while deliberately setting out to hurt his feelings than it was to look at Hermione. And he knew Ron well enough to know that it would be easier to drive Ron away.

“You can’t help me! Think about it, Ron, you’re too scared to even say his bloody name! Voldemort!” he said the name harshly, emphasizing it, and saw Ron go paler than he already was at the name. “Voldemort! Voldemort! See, you cringe on even hearing someone else say the name, let alone being able to say it yourself! How could you possibly help me? You can’t, so just let me be!” He made his voice coldly mocking, steeling himself against the shock, the hurt and the anger he could see in Ron’s eyes. “I don’t want your help,” he finished, lowering his voice to speak slowly with deliberate calm, more effective than shouting to convince Ron of his sincerity.

Ron’s mouth opened, then closed again, before he flushed up to his ears and left the room, closing the door forcefully behind him.

I’m sorry, Ron, but it’s for your sake I said all that.

Hermione had sucked in her breath sharply at his tirade at Ron, making a small sound of dismay when Ron left.

Harry took a breath, trying to close his mind and heart to caring, ignoring the part of him that was beating at the inside of his chest and shrieking, How could you say that to Ron? After everything you’ve been through together!

I had to! He shot back silently. I can’t let them be hurt again because of their friendship with me! I have to do this!

He turned to Hermione although he avoided meeting her eyes. If he met her eyes, he knew he couldn’t go through with this, knew she’d recognize the lies he said for what they were if she met his eyes.

“Why can’t you understand when you’re not wanted?” he lashed out at her. God, he hated himself for having to do this, for having to exploit knowing her so well that he knew just how to get under her defenses and wound her! “You don’t understand and you can’t help me either, anymore than Ron can. None of you can help me!”

Hermione flinched visibly as his words struck her with all the force of physical blows but she countered his insults. “Harry, you can’t- you don’t mean that,” she protested, biting her lip to stop its trembling. “Why- why are you saying these things? Why are you so angry at us?” Her tone faltered despite all her efforts to keep it steady.

And for a fleeting moment, he wavered, the deep hurt and vulnerability in her voice reaching out and clawing at him. Dear Merlin, he couldn’t do this to her. He couldn’t be so cruel to her!

But only for a moment before he stiffened his resolve. He had to do this. He focused on the memory of her lying unconscious in the Department of Mysteries because of her loyalty to him and clung to that desperately, driving out any and all thoughts of anything else, trying to ignore her pain. (And, he suddenly thought, maybe it might be easier not to see her, easier not to be reminded as he was every time he looked at her that Sirius would be alive now if he had only listened to her…)

“I’m angry because I want to be left bloody alone and you have to keep sticking your bossy, nosy self where you’re not wanted! What will it take to convince you to leave me the hell alone! I don’t want you here, don’t want to talk to you, don’t want to be around you. Understand? Is that plain enough English for you to comprehend?” he jibed cruelly. “I want to be left alone,” he repeated with intentional slowness and condescension as if he were speaking to an idiot.

An explosive silence followed during which he looked everywhere but at her and tried not to remember every horrible lie he had just said to her. Tried not to remember all the indications of her unwavering loyalty to him from the past five years of friendship. Tried not to think at all except to remind himself of just why he needed to do this.

He heard her take a shuddering breath and couldn’t help but glance at her, only to wish he hadn’t when the sight of her wounded look sent a piercing pain through his own chest. She bit her lip, blinking back tears furiously, opened her mouth, closed it and then rushed out of the room, letting the door close with a sharp click that sounded, to his ears, overly loud and terribly final.

It was done. He had done it, set out to end the two most important and precious relationships of his life.

And he’d succeeded. He was well and truly alone now.

Ron hated him with good reason. He’d hurt Hermione unforgivably and didn’t doubt that it would be a good while before she even wanted to see him again, let alone talk to him.

For a moment, he simply stared blankly at the walls around him, as his mind and heart adjusted to the knowledge that now he was truly alone.

He heard echoes of his own ruthless words to his best friends. Former best friends, he corrected himself, with bitter honesty, flinching involuntarily at the phrase. He could hear echoes of the words he’d spoken to hurt them that had turned around and stabbed him as well, cruel words which were a double-edged sword…

See, you cringe on even hearing someone else say the name, let alone being able to say it yourself! How could you possibly help me?...

Why can’t you understand when you’re not wanted?... I’m angry because I want to be left bloody alone and you have to keep sticking your bossy, nosy self where you’re not wanted!

Oh God! The things he’d said!

He felt his knees give way and half-stumbled his way to his bed where he collapsed, shudders beginning to rack his entire body in delayed reaction to the past 30 minutes of torture, as wave after wave of self-hatred, guilt, grief, and regret rolled over him.

He had done what he needed to do—but, dear Merlin, this was killing him! The images of Ron’s and Hermione’s faces tormented him, made even worse by the bombardment of memories from the past five years of their friendship of everything they had done for him, big and small, that demonstrated the depth of their friendship.

He remembered his relief on meeting Ron that first time on the Hogwarts Express, the immediate friendship that had formed. Remembered Hermione lying to Professor McGonagall about the troll in first year, that first act which had been the start of what would become the most precious relationship of his life. Remembered seeing Hermione Petrified in the Infirmary… Remembered Ron, his face paper-white from the strain, facing off against Sirius and declaring that if Sirius wanted to kill Harry, he’d have to kill both Ron and Hermione too… Remembered the inexpressible comfort of Hermione’s simple trust in him in 4^th year when no one else had believed his protests that he hadn’t entered his name into the Goblet… (He’d never thanked her for being the only person to stick by him in that entire fiasco—and now, he never could…) Remembered Hermione stepping in to save him from Umbridge using the Cruciatus…

And in those next few endless hours, Harry realized to the full just how precious Ron’s and Hermione’s friendship had been, how much they had meant to him.

He’d found out in the Second Task in 4^th year that Ron was the thing he would miss most and he’d always known Ron was important to him, the first friend he’d ever had. Ron was just- well, Ron, the person he talked to about Quidditch and just about everything else.

What he hadn’t fully comprehended until now was how much Hermione meant to him. He’d thought, unconsciously, that Hermione’s lying about the troll had been the start of the most precious relationship of his life—and now he faced that knowledge. Somehow, some time in the last year and half or so since the Second Task, Hermione had become the most important person in his life. She was the one he turned to automatically when bad things happened, the one he trusted more than anyone else, the person whose opinion he believed and respected the most… She was the voice of his conscience and his rational mind. He depended on her, needed her…

And that was why it had been marginally harder for him to hurt her than it had been to hurt Ron. Seeing Ron’s pain had tormented him. Seeing Hermione’s pain had killed him.

And God, but he had wounded her so deeply! He had seen it in her eyes that last moment before she ran out of the room, had seen the heartbreak and had hated himself for causing it. Hated knowing that he was the reason for the tears in her eyes.

But what else could he have done!

He needed her—and that meant he needed her to be safe. She wasn’t safe as long as she was his best friend, couldn’t be safe as long as she stayed close to him. He had already experienced some of the heart-stopping terror of seeing her unconscious and thinking she might be dead, enough to know that if anything really did happen to her, it would kill him.

He had to break her heart to keep her safe. He had to.

For no other reason would he have voluntarily caused her any pain. Merlin knew he would rather cut off his own arms than see her cry—but for her safety’s sake, he would do anything. To protect her, he would do anything, say anything.

And he had.

He tried to feel relief that now, Ron and Hermione should be at much less risk—tried and failed.

All he felt, all he could feel, was a sick sort of despair.

He was alone now, as he should be, and he would stay alone until the end…

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Author’s Note: For Gil aka Romulus Lupin- *hugs*.

And for Goldy because this chapter contains a blatant tribute to her genius.

A Hero’s Choice

Part 3

~~~~~

The only good thing that had happened in the last few weeks, the only thing which had given him a moment of brief joy, had been the owl from the Ministry of Magic which he’d received nearly two weeks ago, when he’d still been at Privet Drive.

Dear Mr. Potter,

In light of recent revelations, we at the Ministry of Magic’s Improper Use of Magic Office have decided that you are to be exempted from the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry for the period beginning at your receipt of this owl until you begin the term at Hogwarts, when, of course, the Decree no longer applies.

We would inform you that this exemption is being made with full faith in your compliance with every other Ministry restriction regarding the use of magic, including but not limited to the Statute of Secrecy.

Enjoy your holidays!

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

Improper Use of Magic Office

Ministry of Magic

The look on Uncle Vernon’s face when he’d “accidentally” let it slip that he was now allowed to do magic had been priceless—and he’d had a wonderful week of almost complete freedom in Privet Drive as all the Dursleys, especially Dudley, had been too terrified of what he might do to them to even look at him for too long, let alone talk to him.

And then he’d received the owl from the Order and had come here with an escort and his trunk and his sorrow weighing him down.

Being able to use magic was poor compensation for the stifling guilt he felt on setting foot inside the house but it did make things much more convenient if nothing else.

It was now pitch dark inside his always dim room and he sighed and reached for his wand. “Lumos.”

Nothing.

He sat up, frowning. He tried again. “Lumos.”

Still nothing.

For the first time in weeks his mind blanked of everything and he forgot to worry, forgot to feel guilty, forgot everything except to wonder with burgeoning alarm why he couldn’t perform this one most basic of spells.

“Lumos!”

Nothing. Again.

Frantically, he waved his wand around. It seemed fine; his wand felt the same in his hand. He knew it wasn’t broken; he’d used it just a few hours ago- before Ron had arrived- to Summon a cushion. Why wasn’t it working now?

Now beginning to feel the beginnings of panic, he gripped his wand tighter, closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to simply call forth some magic, some power, pointing his wand at his pillow.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

His pillow didn’t move. Nothing happened.

He felt nothing. There was no little tingle when he touched his wand, no almost tangible sense of magic going through him as he spoke the charm. There was nothing.

He tried again, desperation in his voice as he shouted the charm (as if the volume of his voice had something to do with the efficacy of the charm). “Wingardium Leviosa!”

Still nothing.

Oh dear Merlin. What- why- what was going on? His thoughts were racing with the frantic, incoherent speed that marked the onset of panic.

Oh God, oh God, oh God… What was happening? What had happened to him? Why couldn’t he do magic anymore? Not even the simplest spells. Nothing.

His wand might as well just be a random twig he had picked up off the street for all the good it was doing him.

He might as well be a Muggle.

A Muggle. His breath and his heart seemed to stop at that thought. A Muggle, no, a Squib. He couldn’t do magic!

“No!” The word expelled itself from his throat in instinctive protest, denial of the truth he was facing rising within him.

He- he couldn’t be a Squib! He- he was Harry Potter! He had a power the Dark Lord didn’t know! He was marked as the Dark Lord’s equal!

His hand flew up to his forehead to touch his scar as if to reassure himself that he really was still himself, still Harry Potter.

He was! He couldn’t be a Squib!

He was a wizard!

From somewhere in the back of his mind, he suddenly heard Hermione’s voice from so long ago. “Harry—you’re a great wizard, you know… Books! And cleverness! There are more important things—friendship and bravery and—oh Harry—be careful!”

Hermione… She’d said he was a great wizard, believed he was a great wizard. She’d been the one to tell him he could teach a class on Defense Against the Dark Arts, had always been the one to tell him he could do it…

Hermione. His heart clenched at the thought of her, the thought of her faith in his abilities.

When he doubted himself (“I’m not as good as you,” he had said to her in response and meant it), when he didn’t think he could do it, she had been the one to tell him he could.

And because he trusted her, he believed her when she said he could do something. She let him believe in himself…

And he- he had repaid her faith in him by driving her away, by breaking her heart, by hurting her with deliberate cruelty.

He was alone.

Even his magical ability had left him now. He’d driven that away, he suddenly found himself thinking, when he’d driven away his best friends- when he’d repudiated her.

He had no power anymore, not even the most basic of magical ability, let alone a power that would allow him to defeat Voldemort.

And he crumbled, his face going down into his pillow to muffle the strange sound, part moan, part sob, part cry that welled up in his throat. His grip on his wand slackened and he vaguely heard the sound of his wand falling to the floor.

His useless wand, now.

He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t do anything anymore. He wasn’t even a wizard anymore!

He was nothing.

He was nothing. Because he was alone.

He was nothing. Because he’d sent her away.

He was nothing without her.

He knew it was because he had driven her away, said such unforgivable things to her, set out and succeeded in making her hate him. Knew it with a certainty he felt for almost nothing else in his life, knew it as surely as he knew his name, knew it as surely as he knew he needed Hermione.

He’d been estranged from Ron before, had hated every day of it in those miserable weeks before the First Task, but he’d still been able to live.

He’d never—until now—been estranged from Hermione, not like this, not knowing she had every reason to hate him.

He writhed on his bed, smothering another moan of anguish in his pillow, as he felt a mass of despair smother him, crush him.

For a moment he felt a surge of fury at Dumbledore. Dotty old man with his cryptic statements—why, oh why, had he decided to visit! Sod Dumbledore! Why had he said such things about deciding what was most important to him and making a choice about what to do about the blasted, bloody Prophecy!

It was Dumbledore’s fault!!

As quickly as it had come, his resentment against Dumbledore vanished. He knew it wasn’t fair to blame Dumbledore. It wasn’t Dumbledore’s fault. It was no one’s fault but his own.

He had been the one to decide what he had, to choose to isolate himself, even if he hadn’t felt he had much of a choice.

It was his fault. Again.

His fault, his decision… His mistake?

Had it been a mistake? To hurt Ron and Hermione and send them away as he had?

And yet- and yet—how could he have done anything different? How could he have just let them continue as his friends? How could he have done it, knowing that just being his friends made them targets too? He may as well paint a target on their backs.

He shuddered. No. He had done what he had to do.

And now, even if he was powerless, he would think of something. He had to.

No. He would stay alone.

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Author’s Note: In this chapter, I try to answer the question of just why Hermione stays with Harry and Ron after all that’s happened to her because of them.

Part 4 of 5.

A Hero’s Choice

Part 4

His words echoed in her mind.

I’m angry because I want to be left bloody alone and you have to keep sticking your bossy, nosy self where you’re not wanted! What will it take to convince you to leave me the hell alone! I don’t want you here, don’t want to talk to you, don’t want to be with you.

Every word slashed at her heart and drew blood. The coldness of his tone, a coldness she’d never heard before in his voice, never dreamed of hearing, hurt her too. Everything hurt her- his words, his pallor, his expression, the distance between them, both the physical distance and the mental one he’d created…

She wrapped her arms tighter around her knees as if she could somehow contain the agony she felt.

She had cried all the tears in her body already, cried until she could cry no more, cried until her eyes were dry and scratchy.

She heard the harsh things he’d said over and over again, an unrelenting echo in her thoughts, tormenting her, ripping out her heart.

And always in the midst of her heartbreak, one word, one question echoed. Why? Why, why, why?

What had she done to make Harry so angry? If she hadn’t done anything, then why had he been so angry? Why had he said what he had? Cruel words, cutting words… Why?

Why had he said such things?

She knew him. Knew him like she knew no one else and she could swear that he cared too much to deliberately hurt someone. But that was what he’d done earlier in what he’d said to Ron and to her. She knew him and she had recognized the purposefulness in his voice. His words hadn’t been words spoken in the heat of anger and then forgotten. He’d known exactly what he was saying, how they would hurt—known and had said them anyway.

He’d meant to say them.

But why?

She knew he was grieving for Sirius, knew he felt guilty over Sirius, knew it because of how well she knew him.

But she still didn’t know why…

And she needed to know.

Because she still loved him. She still trusted him and wanted to help him. Despite everything he’d said… Even if he didn’t want her help, she would find some other way to help him. She had to. It was simply something she needed to do.

And she needed to understand his reasons.

She knew saying the words hadn’t been easy for him to say, had sensed the strain, the tension in him, as he lashed out at them. His gaze and his expression had been cold, as cold and angry as his voice, but he had been hurting too.

She thought again of their fight (had it been a fight?), relived every horrible, heart-rending moment of listening to Harry’s angry and oh so hurtful tirade. The way he’d leaped up, avoiding her touch as if it were poisonous—oh that had hurt to see. The lines of strain framing his mouth, the look on his face that suddenly made him look so much older than his years, the look of someone who’s seen and experienced things no boy his age should have to have seen or experienced (but then, he had).

He had looked so vulnerable, so young, when she’d first walked into his room this afternoon, and she’d had one of her rare moments of realizing she was older than Harry though she never thought of it usually. Harry was simply- Harry, and they were equals, friends, and she never thought about any difference in age as it just didn’t matter.

But then he’d let loose his anger, words she could still hardly believe Harry had really said, spilling out of his mouth, and the vulnerability was gone, replaced with a hardness that had wounded her almost as much as his words. Oh, his words—painful, painful words that still echoed in her mind…

And yet- and yet he- he had never, she suddenly realized, through all those minutes in his room, met her eyes. Not once. It almost seemed, remembering it now, as if he’d been avoiding her eyes… So she couldn’t read his expression…

Oh… She let out her breath slowly and for the first time felt a faint flicker of hope break through her aching hurt.

He hadn’t—he couldn’t have meant his words… Surely that was the reason he hadn’t met her eyes even once. They hadn’t sounded like something he would say, especially when she knew he hadn’t spoken in the heat of anger; his words had been too deliberate for that.

Or was she only clinging to an invented hope to block out the unbearable truth that maybe he really had meant every word he said? That he really didn’t want her around? That he really did find her bossy and annoying?

No! She shut her ears to the insidious fears, refusing to give in to the vulnerability she hid so carefully.

He couldn’t have meant what he said! Not Harry. He wouldn’t hurt her like that, wouldn’t say such things, wouldn’t think such things…

She believed that. She had to believe it.

Otherwise she would be lost—and at that moment, she knew just how true that was. She would be lost. She hadn’t fully realized just how much it had meant to her to have Harry and Ron as her friends, to believe that they—that he— liked her, enjoyed her company. That she was needed, that she could help, because of her cleverness and her reading…

After a childhood spent with books as her main companions, it had meant so much- just how much she hadn’t even stopped to think about until now- to know that someone, that Harry, liked her and appreciated her for who she was. To know that he respected her, trusted her, appreciated her… To know that he needed her for her knowledge, yes, but also just as his friend… It was what made her try even harder than she otherwise would, made her read even one more book than she otherwise would, research a little longer, write a longer paper than she otherwise would—just the hope that all her studying, all her love of reading, would help Harry. The knowledge that he needed her had kept her going—and she loved him for needing her, loved being needed.

But if he had meant his words; if he really did find her bossy and nosy and irritating… She shuddered, a small sound, half-moan, half-whimper, escaping her lips. No, no, no, no, no…

He couldn’t have meant what he said, had to have been avoiding her eyes for a reason. She believed that. She did…

Her hand was on the door knob and then she hesitated, bit her lip, and then let her hand fall, stepping back from the door. Again.

How long had she been standing out here, debating with herself, hesitating? She couldn’t believe how nervous she was, how incredibly, painfully afraid she was of facing Harry. Harry! To be afraid to see Harry, talk to Harry! She’d never been nervous, dreading the sight of him as she certainly did now, before. He was her friend, her best friend, and he still was…

Yet still she hesitated, her cowardice getting the better of her, afraid not of him but of the truth she knew she couldn’t bear if it were the truth—that he really did find her bossy and nosy and didn’t want her to be near him anymore… She couldn’t believe it was true but she was so afraid it was, afraid because she loved him and knowing- really knowing-he didn’t like her, let alone love her, would break her heart.

She bit her lip again as she stared at the door to Harry’s room. And then lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders and opened the door. She wouldn’t be a coward anymore; she was a Gryffindor too and besides that, this uncertainty might just be worse than anything else.

It was pitch black in the room and she wondered briefly why he hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights. “Lumos,” she said softly and then made the light dimmer with another wave of her wand.

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t reacted to her entrance or to the light in the room, just stayed in his position sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, legs curled up, his face buried in his arms.

Oddly, something about his position reassured her, even as it sent a sharp pang of sympathy, of worry, through her. He looked—broken, was the word that came into her mind, as if he had lost everything of any value to him and had nothing left, was only a shell of his former self.

And somehow, suddenly, looking at him, she knew he hadn’t meant what he had said. She didn’t quite know how she knew it but she did, was as sure of it as she’d ever been of anything. Harry, whatever his reasons for saying such terrible things, hadn’t meant them. He wouldn’t- he couldn’t- look quite so despairing, so terribly solitary, if he had…

She moved closer to him, slowly, wondering as she did so what she should say- what could she say to help him…

She knelt in front of him, putting a gentle hand on his arm, feeling the sudden tension at her touch. And then she knew what she needed to say, the only thing she could say right now to help him. “I’m here, Harry. I forgive you.”

I forgive you. And she did. She still didn’t understand why he’d said what he had, the wounds from his words still present but right now, at this moment, her own hurt didn’t matter. Her own hurt, her anger, her confusion—all was momentarily forgotten in a surge of love, of forgiveness.

“I forgive you,” she repeated firmly.

He tensed even more at her words, drew back to press himself even further against the wall. He didn’t want to feel relieved at her words, didn’t want to hear of her forgiveness. And yet—and yet, he couldn’t help but feel relief, a surge of sheer gladness so powerful it nearly overwhelmed him. She didn’t hate him; she forgave him… And even though he knew that in giving in now, he was putting her in danger, at that moment, he couldn’t help but give in. He couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough, couldn’t do this without her. He needed her and dear God, it meant so much to hear the familiar warmth in her voice, filling him, healing him…

The emotional walls he’d built around himself came crashing down and he crumbled. He pitched forward, his arms closing around her with stunning force, his face burying itself in her shoulder, his entire frame trembling from the force of his turbulent emotions.

He didn’t say anything for a while, until gradually his trembling eased a little. “I’m sorry,” he gasped out as if the words were being ripped from his throat. “Oh God, I’m so sorry…” His voice cracked with regret and sorrow and he swallowed hard. “I- I didn’t mean it, didn’t mean any of it. I’m so sorry…”

He felt her arms tighten around him. “It’s ok, Harry. It’s alright; I know you didn’t mean what you said and I forgive you.” She paused and then added, softly, “I’m here, Harry, I won’t leave you.”

I won’t leave you… He wasn’t alone… Not anymore… he would never be alone again… He heard it in the simple promise in her words, her tone. She wouldn’t leave him. Even if he’d hurt her, even after all he’d done to her, she wouldn’t leave him.

He flinched a little at her words. “How—how can you say that after all I said to hurt you? Why do you still care? Why- why don’t you hate me?” he asked so softly she could barely hear him, his voice hoarse from emotion.

She sighed and answered him, speaking slowly, thoughtfully. “Do not ask me to abandon or forsake you. Where you go, I will go… I’ll never leave you—I- I love you.”

For a moment, his heart seemed to stop beating, time stopped, the entire world stopped its spinning and held its breath. “You- you- what?”

She shifted slightly, moving her shoulder until he lifted his head, meeting her eyes, his own still damp with the few tears he’d shed. “I love you, Harry.”

He opened his mouth. “I- I don’t know--” he began and then stopped. He didn’t know—didn’t know what to say or how to react or what to think or feel…

And then he forgot whatever it was he had half-meant to say or what he’d even been thinking because she had moved just a little closer to him and before he had time to react or wonder, her lips were on his.

He stiffened from shock and- and surprise and… something that might almost be pleasure? His eyes closed automatically, his hands going up to grip her arms but he didn’t push her away, only held her. Her lips were warm; he could feel her breath on his cheek and a pool of heat settled in the pit of his stomach. Her lips softened, parted ever so slightly in response to his angling his head in an instinctive move to deepen the kiss. He didn’t think of what he was doing, only acted, only felt that somehow, this kiss felt good- felt right…

The kiss ended slowly; she drew back but only until there were a few inches of space between their lips and he could still feel her breath in a soft whisper against his cheek. She was flushed and looked, it dawned on him slowly, almost as surprised as he was by what had just happened. As if she hadn’t consciously meant to kiss him at all but had reacted instinctively, thoughtlessly, to the vulnerability in his expression and his tone…

“I…” he began and then trailed off uncertainly.

“Ssh,” she said softly. “You don’t- you don’t need to say anything. I- I just needed to show you, to tell you, I loved you. You don’t need to say anything.”

She looked away, drawing back further as if to restore the normal amount of personal space between them.

His hands unconsciously, automatically, tightened their grip on her arms, keeping her where she was as he thought, confusedly, that right now, being this close to Hermione felt good… The warmth of her made him feel warmer, dispelling the chill that simply being in this wretched house caused, comforting him insensibly.

He just wanted- needed- her to stay close, to reassure him that she was still here for him, that he wasn’t alone, that he would never be alone. After the past few miserable hours of believing she hated him followed by the sudden incredible release of accepting that no matter what his reasons—his still-valid reasons— for trying to drive her away from him and despite all the risk, he needed her beside him, wanted her beside him. He would, he knew, hate himself for his own weakness that he couldn’t stay alone, that he couldn’t continue to shut her and Ron out—but not now. At this moment, all he cared about was knowing she still cared.

She settled down to sit beside him, in silence. Right now, there was no need for words; there was only the quiet reassurance of sitting side by side, together.

She knew there were still things to be discussed, things which needed to be talked about to clear the air and heal the lingering wounds from this afternoon. The impulsive kiss she’d given him which had turned into something more…

But they would wait.

For now, it was enough simply to sit beside him and feel the certainty in her heart and soul that, whatever else went on, Harry truly did care about her… And that was all she needed to know.

I will be the answer
At the end of the line
I will be there for you
While you take the time
In the burning of uncertainty
I will be your solid ground
I will hold the balance
If you can't look down
~Sarah McLachlan, “The Answer”

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing this fic so far. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

Part 5 of 5.

For danielerin.

A Hero’s Choice

Part 5

She was the first one to break the comfortable silence, a silence that healed them both, a silence of trust, of faith restored.

“Why did you say those things, Harry?” Her voice was quiet.

He hesitated for the barest moment but then answered, “It’s because Voldemort has to kill me so being my friend is dangerous and makes you a target too. I couldn’t- I didn’t want anything to happen to you because you’re my friend.”

She was silent for a moment and then frowned. “But Harry, you’ve known about Voldemort since 1^st year; why suddenly did you decide you needed to protect us by keeping us away from you?”

He swallowed. He should have expected that her logical mind would see through his admittedly rather flimsy summary, truthful as it was, of his reasons. “I saw what happened to Sirius, what happened to you and Ron and everyone in the Department of Mysteries because of me and I knew I couldn’t stand it if anything like that happened again. But more than that, it’s because Voldemort doesn’t just want to kill me; he has to. Because I’m the one ‘with the Power the Dark Lord knows not’ and neither of us can live while the other survives.” He spoke dully, too drained to feel the usual mixture of dread and fear and helplessness and anger at remembering the words of the Prophecy.

“What- who said that?”

“It was Professor Trelawney’s first real prophecy, the one Voldemort was trying to get in the Department of Mysteries,” he answered tonelessly.

“It wasn’t lost?”

“No, that record of it was destroyed but Dumbledore still knew it; he showed it to me from his Pensieve afterwards.”

“Oh,” was all she said, somewhat feebly.

He was silent as well and wondered with a rather sick feeling of apprehension, how she would react, what she would think. What she finally did say was the last thing he expected.

“That’s all?”

He turned his head to stare at her.

“That’s all the Prophecy said?” she repeated.

He blinked. “Basically, yes.”

She nodded once. “Okay.”

“You- you don’t care? Don’t you have anything more to say?” he asked incredulously.

“I only care for your sake. Otherwise, it doesn’t matter,” she said calmly, almost as casually as if they were discussing the weather and not a prediction that he would have to murder or be murdered.

“What?” he gaped at her.

She met his eyes. “Harry, I’ve known for a long time that you’re going to have to face Voldemort. You’re going to face him and you will defeat him and you are going to survive.”

Somehow, the sheer confidence in her voice comforted him. If Hermione was so sure of it, then maybe it would really happen and he would survive…

And though just a few minutes ago he could never in his wildest dreams have imagined making light of the Prophecy in any way, he felt the corners of his lips quirk upward in the faintest of smiles, felt the smallest flicker of amusement. “Can you predict what will happen so certainly, given that Divination is such an imprecise branch of magic?”

She didn’t smile; her tone and her expression remained completely solemn. “Yes because this has nothing to do with magic. I just know that you’re going to defeat Voldemort and live to celebrate it.” She paused slightly and then said, “I know it, because I can’t believe, refuse to think, that it’s possible for you to go through so much and not survive in the end. You’re going to win and you’re going to live because you’re doing this for good.”

She paused again and now she did smile slightly, just the hint of a smile lifting the corners of her lips although her eyes remained serious. “Besides, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

It was a promise, a solemn one; he could see it in her eyes. And the depth of devotion it revealed, a devotion that went beyond simple loyalty and beyond friendship, shook him to the core. He knew, suddenly and certainly, that she was committing herself to do anything to help him. She would do anything to help him. And the knowledge touched him, and comforted him, too, somehow. Comforted him—and for the first time since that afternoon, no, the first time since hearing the Prophecy in Dumbledore’s office, he felt the beginnings of hope.

She said nothing more and neither did he but he somehow knew that whatever happened, whatever Voldemort had planned, he would get through it. He could endure anything, as long as he had Hermione by his side.

Hermione and Ron—they were what he needed.

Oh lord. “Ron. He- he must hate me now,” he burst out suddenly.

“No, he won’t. You just need to explain things to him,” she reassured him. “We can explain now,” she continued, standing up and holding out her hand.

Harry stared at her outstretched hand for a moment, an odd look on his face.

“I- I hate fighting with Ron,” he said quietly as he put his hand in hers and stood up.

“I know you do. But it’ll be okay. He’ll forgive you.”

“Yeah,” was all he said, somewhat curtly, but the fact that his hand was still holding hers more than made up for any curtness in his tone.

He automatically reached for his wand, forgetting for a moment what had happened earlier, and then gasped. His wand felt- warm- to his touch, again. And he knew that he could do magic again. His magical ability had returned to him. He was himself again. “It’s back,” he said, staring at his wand in his hand, more to himself than to her.

She heard him and glanced at him curiously. “What’s back?”

He looked up at her, smiling slightly and tightening his hand around hers. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I just- I really need you,” he finished softly and realized it was the first time he’d said that. The first time he’d admitted aloud that he couldn’t do this alone.

Her gaze softened, the corners of her lips lifting slightly but she said nothing, only turned and they left his room together.

He knocked hesitantly on the door to Ron’s room and then opened it, without waiting. He glanced at Hermione, hesitated, and then slipped his hand out of hers. She understood and waited, hovering just inside the room while he continued inside until he was facing Ron who was staring broodingly at a chessboard and the game he looked to be trying to half-heartedly play against himself.

“Ron…” he began and then trailed off, uncertainly.

“Sod off, Harry,” Ron snapped coldly, not looking up from the chessboard.

He flinched and felt a pang of fresh guilt and regret. It was his fault Ron was so angry; he’d been so harsh, so mean. “Ron, I- I’m sorry. I- I just-- it’s because of the Prophecy!” he finally blurted out desperately.

Now, Ron looked up, confusion written clearly over his features. “What Prophecy?”

“The one in the Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore- he told me what was in it, why Voldemort wanted it. It- it said I-” he swallowed before forcing himself to continue. “I’m the one with a power the Dark Lord knows not, the only one who can defeat Voldemort. And that- that Voldemort has to kill me or I have to kill him because neither of us can live while the other survives.” He finished in one breath, his words running together, his voice dropping until it was a hoarse whisper. “And I- I didn’t want to drag you two into it, didn’t want to make you targets.”

Ron stared at him, his anger completely forgotten, blinked, opened his mouth, closed it and then opened it again. “Harry, I- you- er—you might d--” he stopped abruptly, cutting off the last word before he could say it.

“Yeah. I know,” he responded quietly, meeting his best friend’s gaze. “I really am sorry for what I said. I didn’t- I didn’t mean it, you know,” he stammered a little awkwardly.

Ron’s eyes met his levelly and for a split second, Harry saw the part of Ron he rarely showed to anyone, the part of Ron that felt deeply, the depth of loyalty and friendship and simple courage that Ron hid behind jokes and wisecracks. “It’s okay. Forget it, Harry.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry faltered, just needing to say it, make sure Ron really understood.

“Stop apologizing. You sound like an ass,” Ron said, the beginnings of his usual grin appearing on his lips.

Harry felt his own lips twitch into an involuntary smile and knew it was okay. He still had Ron.

And he had Hermione.

He needed them. And he knew that as long as he had them to help him, he could do anything.

~*~*~

Harry swallowed as he faced Dumbledore, his insides suddenly feeling very cold. He wished sickly he had never agreed to this. Why had he agreed to this? He wasn’t ready, didn’t want to do this again…

Dumbledore had come again to Grimmauld Place just a week after his first visit and suggested, gently, that if Harry was willing, he should continue his Occlumency lessons. Suggested but with a certain look in his eyes and slight hint of steel in his tone that made Harry feel with a dull certainty that Dumbledore’s “suggestion” was more of an order and if he chose not to follow it, he would regret it all too soon.

He shuddered slightly at the memory of his Occlumency lessons with Snape and had just thought, desperately, not Snape. I won’t do it if Snape’s teaching me again. I can’t, when he heard Hermione clear her throat slightly and say, with less confidence than usual, “I- er, I don’t think that Professor Snape should teach Harry Occlumency again. He- he didn’t really help and he made things really hard for Harry.”

He snapped his head around to look at her, meeting her eyes for a moment. Thanks, he told her with a look, a slight smile.

She shook her head ever so slightly, as if to say, It was nothing. Don’t thank me.

Dumbledore turned to look at Hermione and for a moment, a flicker of regret and sorrow crossed his face. He sighed. “Yes, Miss Granger, you are right. I’m afraid that I misjudged Professor Snape and that is one mistake which I will regret for a very long time.” He turned back to meet Harry’s questioning gaze. “I will be taking over your Occlumency lessons, Harry.” He paused. “I will understand if you do not feel quite ready yet but I must stress how important it is that you resume your lessons soon.”

Occlumency… If he had tried harder, would Sirius still be here? Harry wondered with a sudden sharp stab of loss and regret.

But he didn’t know if he was ready, ready for another invasion into his mind when even the memory of Voldemort possessing him seemed to cause his scar to twinge in remembered agony.

He felt Hermione move closer to him, slipping her hand into his, and he knew he had to say yes. He had to agree. It would be difficult but he- he had Hermione and surely it wouldn’t be half as bad as lessons with Snape had been…

“Okay,” he heard himself say. “When will we start?”

And Dumbledore had finally allowed himself to smile, a glint of unmistakable approval in his eyes. “I think this weekend will be quite soon enough. I will see you then, Harry.”

Now, facing Dumbledore, with every terrible memory of his lessons with Snape in his thoughts, he wished he hadn’t felt so confident.

Yes, he had Hermione and she gave him strength but how much could she really help? How much could anyone really help against the incredibly draining experience of having your mind invaded?

“Calm, Harry,” Dumbledore spoke soothingly. “Shut your eyes and simply try to empty your mind of everything, as if you’re trying to fall asleep.”

Harry closed his eyes, aware of at least one difference immediately. Closing his eyes facing Dumbledore did not seem nearly as stupid as closing his eyes while facing Snape.

Empty his mind… empty his mind… How did a person empty their mind? He wondered if there was a book on it, How to Empty Your Mind, and decided to ask Hermione. She would know. She always knew…

Empty his mind. He tried not to think anymore…

“Now…” Dumbledore drew the word out slowly and Harry tensed automatically. “Legilimens.”

Aunt Marge was handing him a box of dog biscuits as a Christmas gift and Uncle Vernon was glaring and hissing, “Thank her, you ungrateful boy, thank her!”… Hermione lying Petrified in the Infirmary, a mirror clutched in one hand… Sirius was falling through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries, looking surprised… Hermione, her eyes filled with tears of hurt and heartbreak and reproach, turning and running out of the room… Hermione falling to the ground after being hit by Dolohov’s cur—no! Not Hermione! He jerked back, his knees weakening, giving way, and then he was back in a room at Grimmauld Place, Dumbledore’s concerned face staring down at him.

“Harry, are you alright?”

He was breathing hard but his head was clearing. “Yes,” he gasped out, moving to stand up.

“You did quite well, Harry, for the first time. You did eventually manage to block me out; now we must work at making it come easier and not make you collapse from the strain of it.”

Harry grimaced, resisting the urge to hold his aching head.

Focus. He had to focus. He had managed to resist Moody’s Imperius; he could do this, couldn’t he? Faintly, in some part of his mind, he heard her familiar voice say, “You’re a great wizard, Harry…”

“Ready now, on the count of three… one—two—three-- Legilimens.”

The room wavered and then vanished from his sight.

Ron was lying unconscious on the wizarding chess board surrounded by decapitated stone chess figures… Cedric was lying dead on the ground, eyes wide open, a look of surprise on his face… He was staring at the ghostly figures of his parents who had been conjured from Voldemort’s wand…

And then the image flickered. He heard someone cry out, felt a sharp stab of pain go through his head.

He was on his knees in Grimmauld Place still, panting, his cheeks wet with tears he realized belatedly. He swiped them off with a trembling hand, forcing himself to his feet.

“Better, Harry, better,” Dumbledore said quietly, encouragingly. “It took you less time to expel me from your mind and seemed to take less effort as well. And now I think that’s enough for today.”

He reached into the pocket of his robe and handed Harry a bar of Honeyduke’s chocolate. “Chocolate might help restore you a little.”

He smiled slightly now as Harry sagged into a chair. “I fear I must be careful not to make these sessions too difficult for you or Miss Granger will, I have no doubt, be upset with me.”

Harry tried not to flush at the knowing understanding and gentle amusement in Dumbledore’s tone, as if Dumbledore knew very well how Hermione felt and worse, how Harry felt about Hermione.

Dumbledore sobered. “I am glad that you have Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger to turn to, Harry. Value their friendship. This capacity for friendship, for love, is perhaps the greatest strength you have against Voldemort who knows nothing of it. The strength which we gain from our friends, our loved ones, is the most fundamental and most human of feelings—and Voldemort neither understands nor cares about this sort of strength. You have it, Harry, in abundance, and it may be what saves you in the end.”

“But- but they’re in danger because of me. People who are close to me, people I care about, die…” Harry protested, his voice faltering on the last sentence as he spoke aloud part of the guilt he felt at not being strong enough to isolate himself from Ron and Hermione.

Dumbledore sighed again, suddenly looking weary. “What happened to Sirius was not your fault, Harry. As for your friends being in danger, they are in very little more actual danger by being your friends than they already would be, living in a wizarding world at war as they are. Your Miss Granger is Muggle-born and the best witch of her year; she would already be in danger even were she not your friend. And being your friend has helped them, saved them, in ways you may not even know. No, Harry, isolating yourself will solve nothing; your friends will not be much safer and you will be weakened, more vulnerable to Voldemort’s schemes.”

“I- I wanted to push them away,” he finally admitted. “But I- I couldn’t.”

“Pushing them away would only play into Voldemort’s hands. In the end, Harry, it’s your choice, your choice to cling to the good in your life, the loyalty of your friends, or to allow Voldemort to weaken and finally destroy the good in an attempt to save those you care about.”

Harry stared. “My choice… is that what you meant about choosing what to do about the Prophecy?”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes met his, the twinkle in his eyes absent. “Yes, I must confess it was. You did well today, Harry. I will see you again at this time next week.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered somewhat absently. Was it true that being his friend had helped Ron and Hermione in some way? He hoped desperately that it was; if he could believe that, he would feel better about not being able to push them away.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice sounded concerned as she stopped in the doorway. “Are you alright? How did the lesson go?”

“I’m okay,” he assured her, managing a smile. “My head just hurts. I- I’m just going to head to bed.”

“Okay.”

They headed down the hallway to his room in silence and had just stepped inside when it happened.

Sudden searing pain erupted in his head, through his scar.

He was angry, vindictively furious… He was looking down at a man, kneeling in front of him, his head bowed… “I am sorry, my Lord,” the man murmured humbly.

“I do not accept failure,” he hissed. “Fool! Blithering idiot! Failures are useless to me.”

The man bowed his head even lower. “I will not fail again, Master.”

“No, you will not. Go now. Next time I will not be so forgiving,” he said, a wealth of deadly warning in his tone.

The man looked up and he saw his face.

Dolohov.

He felt a fresh surge of anger on recognizing the man, his hand clenching tighter around his wand… Dolohov- he hated him for another reason…

He jerked sharply, suddenly aware of other things, the bare dungeon-like room, Dolohov kneeling, fading around him… He was still angry but it was for something else and the awareness somehow dimmed his anger.

It was something else… A vague vision of someone falling to the floor flickered through his mind and his anger abruptly vanished, replaced with fear and--

And someone was shaking him.

“Harry! Harry!”

He blinked, realizing he was looking at Hermione’s terrified face.

“Harry, are you okay?” She looked close to tears, her hand gripping his tightly.

“I- I was in his head again,” he gasped out. “He was angry. About something.”

He winced, grabbing his head with shaking hands as if holding it would somehow ease the throbbing in his scar. He was trembling, his heart pounding, but amid all his exhaustion, his aching body, he was conscious of what had first broken through the haze of his intrusion into Voldemort’s mind. Seeing Dolohov- remembering what he’d done to Hermione- had been the first thing he felt that was himself and not an extension of Voldemort’s mood. And it had broken through his trance-like state.

Harry stumbled over to his bed, with Hermione’s help, collapsing onto it.

“Go to sleep, Harry,” she said quietly, turning to go.

But he grabbed her hand. He didn’t want her to go, didn’t want to be alone right now when he still felt the remnants of Voldemort’s vindictive fury inside him, blurring the line between himself and Voldemort. “Stay with me,” he blurted out.

She moved back to sit beside his bed, her free hand smoothing over his hair in a soothing gesture, and then she bent and pressed her lips gently to the scar on his forehead, lingering for a moment. And he could have sworn the burning pain in his head eased, to be replaced with the warmth of her lips, the soft puff of her breath against his skin.

He let his eyes close, exhaustion rolling over him, but his last conscious thought was of the comforting awareness of Hermione, sitting beside him, her hand holding his. And maybe, even Occlumency wouldn’t be so terrible—as long as he had Hermione…

If it takes my whole life
I won't break, I won't bend
It will all be worth it
Worth it in the end
Cause I can only tell you what I know
That I need you in my life
When the stars have all gone out
You'll still be burning so bright…

~Sarah McLachlan, “The Answer”

The End