A Hero's Choice

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.