Hold On

Hold On

What you've got to do is finish what you have begun

I don't know just how, but it's not over 'til you've won.

When you see the storm is coming, see the lightning part the skies,

It's too late to run; there's terror in your eyes.

What you do then is remember this old thing you've heard me say:

It's the storm, not you, that's bound to blow away.

Harry knew that the storm of war was raging outside Hogwarts, although he and his friends were told very little about it. He felt so helpless. In a twisted way, he felt like all of these witches and wizards were out there fighting Voldemort and his minions just for him, while Harry stayed safe behind castle walls. A more rational part of him knew that there would be people defying Voldemort whether or not Harry Potter was alive, but it didn't help much.

Harry sighed quietly. He was sitting at a table in the Gryffindor Common Room, supposedly doing his homework. It just seemed so pointless to sit there, writing a Transfiguration essay, when he knew it was highly unlikely that he would even live to see his 17^th birthday. What did marks matter, in light of that?

Even so, his mortality wasn't what concerned him most this evening. This was the night that he was supposed to confide in Ron and Hermione, also sharing the table with him, about the prophecy. Ginny was there to provide him moral support. If the others questioned her presence, they didn't say anything.

Actually, ever since Harry had confided his terrible secret to her, he and Ginny had done a lot of talking. He'd found her surprisingly easy to get along with. He was rapidly considering her to be a very good friend, and he'd also noticed that she'd become a rather pretty young woman. Yes, she was still dating Dean, and her brother was Harry's best friend, but it couldn't hurt to just look, could it?

Ginny caught his eye and gave him a significant look, and he cleared his throat awkwardly to get his friends' attention.

"Er...Ron? Hermione? Ginny? There's something I need to tell you. I know I should have said something before, but I haven't really known how. I still don't, but I need to do this anyway. About the prophecy..." he trailed off, uncertain whether he could continue. Then he felt Ginny squeeze his hand under the table, and he decided to just come out with it. "It says that Voldemort and I, well, one of us has to kill the other. Eventually."

There was utter silence as his friends gaped at him. Ginny had to act surprised, too, since Harry was afraid that they would be hurt if they knew he'd confided in her first.

"That's bloody awful!" said Ron at last.

"Language, Ron," said Hermione automatically. "I'm so sorry, Harry. Of course, we'll help you in any way we can."

"Just - don't treat me any differently, okay?" was Harry's plea. "I mean, I wanted you to know about this, but I don't want you to walk on eggshells with me or anything."

"All right, mate," answered Ron, though he looked troubled. Hermione just nodded. It didn't feel right to any of them to simply go back to homework after that revelation, so they talked for a bit, gradually lightening the mood.

It wasn't long afterwards that Harry decided he was going to head up to his bed. He did feel a little lighter. The burden was still his, but at least he had friends who would stand by him to do what they could.

Storms did blow over, didn't they? The question was, would he still be standing when this one finally did?

Hold on, hold on to someone standing by.

Hold on; don't even ask how long or why.

Child, hold on to what you know is true.

Hold on 'til you get through.

Child, oh child, hold on.

Several weeks passed, and Harry found himself leaning more and more on Ginny's support. She had broken up with Dean in a very noisy row on the Quidditch pitch. It seemed that he hadn't thought it right for her to play such a dangerous sport. Her Weasley temper flared, and that was that.

Harry had been one of the unfortunate witnesses to this scene, and he felt guilty for how happy it had made him. After all, her being available made no difference at all. He cared too much about her to wish for her to be in a relationship with someone whose life expectancy was unnaturally short. He had already escaped death several times; he couldn't continue to do so forever.

Even so, he found himself more frequently wishing that things were different. Ginny was his anchor, continually pulling him back from the brink of despair and depression. He basked in her friendship gladly, grateful for whatever she was willing to give to him. If she felt burdened by his need, she didn't show it.

When you feel your heart is pounding, fear a devil's at your door,

There's no place to hide; you're frozen to the floor,

What you do then is you tell yourself to wake up, and you say:

It's this dream, not me, that's bound to go away.

Harry woke up abruptly, sat up straight, and clapped a hand to his forehead. His scar was driving a sharp needle of pain through his head. After what seemed like an eternity, the pain subsided, and he gingerly brought down his hand. He must have cried out before he woke because he could just make out shapes standing around his bed. It was still very dark, and he deeply regretted that it did not appear closer to morning. He didn't wish for any more nightmares.

"Another dream, Harry?" It was Ron's voice. Other shapes drifted away into the darkness.

"Yeah," Harry croaked, his throat very dry. "I need some water. Excuse me."

Harry grabbed his glasses from the bedside table and reached for the pitcher and glass that also stood there. He downed it quickly and poured himself another.

"I wish this were just all over!" he muttered angrily.

"You can't mean that!" said Ron, sounding shocked.

"I do too mean it! I don't think death can be worse than this horrible waiting, wondering, worrying.... Once it's over, one of us will be dead. At least then, I could move on. One way or another."

Ron sat down beside him on the bed but said nothing. Harry was thinking of the veil in the Department of Mysteries. At the moment, crossing it didn't sound so bad. He remembered the voices and thought that maybe he would see his parents again and Sirius.

It wasn't long, however, before such self-pitying thoughts faded away. Harry knew perfectly well that he couldn't face Voldemort until he was ready. If he went rashly, unprepared, he would surely be killed, and what was the point of that? His sacrifice would mean nothing, and the wizarding world would be plunged into another era of darkness. He had to wait until he had at least some small chance of success. More than that, he had to be ready to kill his enemy at last. If Harry were honest with himself, this was the thing that frightened him the most. Learning to be a killer seemed much more difficult and dangerous than preparing to die. What if it twisted him, made him into another Voldemort?

Harry swallowed, wishing that Ginny were there. At any rate, he didn't want to go back to sleep just yet.

"I'm going to the Common Room," he told Ron quietly. "I'm not ready to try to sleep again."

Ron murmured something unintelligible, and Harry put on his bathrobe and glasses and headed down the stairs.

Hold on, hold on; the night will soon be by.

Hold on until there's nothing left to try.

Child, hold on - there's angels on their way;

Hold on and hear them say:

Child, oh child.

Once in the Common Room, Harry sat on a sofa, held his head in his hands, and began to cry. For some reason, he had been unable to do this in a room full of teenage boys, even if most of them were asleep. He removed his glasses to allow the tears to flow more freely. The pressure was simply too much. All of his fear and uncertainty had been building up until he was like a boiling teakettle. It now spilled over as he sobbed uncontrollably. Ron was fortunate enough to have a pressure valve that released readily when emotions threatened to overcome him. He would simply explode briefly and be done with it. Harry seemed to lack such a mechanism. Even when he did vent some of his frustrations, it rarely seemed to relieve the percolations within.

Crying, however, did seem to offer the release he had been seeking for months. After a few minutes, the sobs subsided and he began to catch his breath. He then became aware of someone in the room with him.

"Are you - all right?" Ginny asked cautiously. It was a foolish question, and her tone indicated that she knew that but couldn't think of anything else to say.

Harry rubbed his face with his hands and replaced his glasses. He had no idea how to answer that question.

"I just..." he trailed off with an impatient hand gesture, not knowing how to put what he was feeling into words. Fortunately, he didn't need to.

"I know," she said softly and came over to sit beside him. Strange as it sounded, Harry believed that Ginny really did know. She put her arm around his shoulders in an almost motherly gesture, and he leaned gratefully toward her.

"I don't know if I can do this," he said. It was the first time he had confessed it aloud. Ginny did not respond at first. She did not need to tell him that he had no choice or that he had been selected for this destiny before he was even born; he knew all that. After a long pause, she spoke.

"You're not alone, Harry."

Such simple words, and yet they were like a ray of light into his soul. Of course! He wasn't alone! Harry suddenly realized that, even though he had told his friends of the prophecy, he had still been thinking and behaving as though he were alone in his anxiety. He had people that cared about him and would support him as much as they could. The final battle might be his alone, but the prophecy didn't say he couldn't have help. Harry sighed, and sat up.

"I think I can go back to sleep, now," he said. "Thank you." Then, before he had time to think about it, he kissed Ginny on the forehead. He returned to his dorm without waiting for a response.

And it doesn't even matter if the danger and the doom

Come from up above or down below

Or just come flying at you from across the room.

When you see a man who's raging,

And he's jealous, and he fears

That you've walked through walls he's hid behind for years,

What you do then is you tell yourself to wait it out, and say:

It's this day, not me, that's bound to go away.

With everything Harry had to worry about, one would think that classes would be the least of his worries. For the most part, they were. Potions, however, was still a trial. Professor Snape, after all, still hated Harry, despite knowing that he was the hope of the wizarding world. Therefore, Snape took every opportunity to embarrass and anger Harry during these lessons. At last, Harry had had enough. He stood up and made what was perhaps the longest speech of his life.

"I'm not my father!" he shouted in frustration. Then, in a calmer tone, he continued, "I may look like him, but I'm not him. I know that you hated James Potter. I have seen at least one reason you hated him, and I didn't like it either. For all I know, he also had reasons to hate you. Despite that, he still found it within himself to save your life once. You have repaid that debt, which I acknowledge here before these witnesses. Neither of us owes each other anything.

"That said, jealousy and an old grudge are no excuse for your behavior towards me. I have sat here and suffered your unjust wrath and ridicule for more than five years, and I will do so no longer. You felt unable to punish my father for whatever wrongs he may have done you, so you have taken it out on his son, who never did anything but try to survive and be the best wizard he could be. When was it going to be enough? When would you have been satisfied? I say, it ends here." Harry collected his things in silence and walked out the door. On the threshold, he turned back for a final word.

"A teacher should be able to put his personal feelings aside for the betterment of his pupils. In this capacity, you have failed me. And I don't think I'm the only one." With that, he left the Potions classroom, never to return. Even Snape didn't dare to give him detention under the current circumstances. Although it might have provided him some satisfaction, it could be easily countermanded by the Headmaster, who knew of the long-standing grudge and would be able to see right through the ruse of discipline. After all, how do you discipline someone who has nothing to lose?

Harry went immediately to Professor Dumbledore's office and told him what had happened. He also told him that he was withdrawing from Potions permanently.

"I have enough to worry about without having to suffer through that," he said. "I realize that I need to know about Potions to become an Auror, assuming I live long enough, but all I really need to do is pass the N.E.W.T.s. I'm sure I can learn everything I need to know (and probably more than I could learn from Professor Snape) in private tutoring from Hermione. We'd just need a place to practice mixing them."

"I can arrange that," Dumbledore replied. He offered no arguments to convince Harry to stay in the class. "Anything else?"

"Actually, yes. I was hoping that maybe you or an Auror or someone could give me lessons in fighting Death Eaters, now that I have some time open. If I'm going to face Voldemort, I need to know how to defend myself."

Dumbledore's eyes suddenly looked very sad and old.

"Of course, Harry," he said quietly. "I'll let you know."

Unable to think of anything else to say, Harry left.

Child, hold on.

It's this day, not you, that's bound to go away.