Chapter Two
"Who is he?"
"I dunno." Harry lay the boy down on the couch in front of the fire. Ginny abandoned her game of Solitaire and crouched beside him. "I guess we'll find out when he gets up."
"If he gets up, that is." Ginny said dubiously, obviously noticing the boy's less-than-normal complexion. "Look at the color of him."
"He'll get up." Hermione assured her, her lips pursed and eyes dark with determination. "I'll make sure of that. Watch him while I run upstairs and get Molly, would you, Harry?"
"Yeah, but what I am I supposed to do if he--" but Hermione had rushed passed Harry, who stared at the boy draped across the couch with a look of mixed puzzlement and fear. "...if he wakes up?"
He sighed and knelt beside Ginny, examining the boy who he had just carried four miles. He looked to be about eight, maybe nine, and somewhat weedy. He had a narrow nose, dirty hair, and his thin hands were calloused and bruised, as if he had worked very hard at something that was sharp and heavy. His clothes were much too thin for the weather, and they were singed.
"He doesn't seem like he was very well taken care of." Ginny commented in a low voice, as if the boy were on his deathbed. Which, Harry thought sadly, he could be. "Poor thing."
"Yeah." Harry muttered, and more to feel as though he were helping than anything, he lifted a hand and adjusted the cloak around the boy's skinny frame. To his alarm, the boy stirred and croaked desperately, "Dad."
And the bruised, purpled hand grasped Harry's wrist with a grip so strong that his cracked, dirty fingernails dug into Harry's skin.
With wide eyes, Harry turned his face to Ginny helplessly. She stared back at him in shock.
"What was the green light, Dad?" the boy's voice was fevered and reedy. "Where's Mum? Where is she?"
"Hermione!" Ginny was up and running toward the stairs.
"Stop them, Dad!" the boy screamed, clawing at Harry's hands. His eyes were open now, bright blue and wildly roving everywhere, "Don't let them!"
Desperately, Harry closed his hands around the boy's bony hands, stilling them.
"Calm down!" he pleaded hoarsely, "Please calm down!"
The boy shrieked, his thin body shuddering with sobs.
"Let me go, let me go! Why won't you help her, Dad, I thought you loved her! Don't-- fire... light-- Dad!" he screamed in a tone so shrill and so terrified, Harry shuddered.
"I don't know what to do, I'm sorry, I'm Harry, not your dad, I--" he yelled over the boy's fevered cries, "I'm only a kid, too, I--"
He felt Hermione fall on her knees beside him.
"Hold his mouth open, Harry!" cried Hermione, and Harry reached out and clutched at the boy's pale jaw. Hermione reached out and poured a liquid into his mouth; the boy choked but some must have reached his throat, for he fell still and silent, face glistening with sweat and tears.
Shaken, Harry let out a breath and swayed on his knees, feeling nauseated. As if sensing his feelings, Hermione whispered, "You can lean on me, Harry; it's okay."
Harry stared mutely at his scratched hands. Some of the cuts were long and bloody, but he couldn't feel them.
"Let me go, let me go!"
He shuddered, and Hermione's hands cradled his own gently.
"Here." and she lifted her wand and mended each scratch. He felt tears form at the corners of his eyes. He lowered his gaze, avoiding her warm, understanding look.
Her hand descended on his cheek, a cool, light touch.
"It's not over." Harry managed, in a twisted, tight voice he barely recognized. "It's not over..."
"No." she said simply, her eyes glistening with sorrowful tears. "I'm sorry."
Her other hand cupped his other cheek.
"But it can be, for you." she said quietly, her eyes boring into his. Her lips were trembling, but her voice was steady. "You've spent your whole life fighting, Harry. This is my battle, really. You don't have to involve yourself. If anyone deserves peace, it's you."
The offer was so tantalizing, so real, so kind... Harry's lips opened, ready to blurt out his immediate answer. He wanted peace; he craved it. And here she was, simply offering it to him His eyes traveled over her face, and locked on the tears clinging to her eyelashes, preparing to rush down her pale cheeks. Her teeth, gently biting into her trembling lips...
"Why won't you help her, Dad? I thought you loved her!"
Then he heard himself breathe out a shaky answer.
"No."
She let out a breath, a sob of relief. She buried her eyes in his neck, the tears he had seen quivering in her eyes now trickling into the neck of his sweater.
"What am I supposed to do, Hermione?" he whispered, "Let you fight a battle alone when you spent your entire life fighting mine?"
She curled up against him, arms wrapped tightly around his torso, and sobbed unashamedly into his sweater.
It was here that Harry allowed himself-- just this once-- to stroke her hair.
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