Harry Potter and the Will to Live

Chapter Six: A Problem With Red

Harry Potter and the Will to Live

He woke up on the couch in Mack's living room. His entire body ached, but mainly his head. If felt, almost, as if someone was banging on it with a metal hammer. He let his head fall back on the couch with a groan of exhaustion, then frowned.

Mack's living room...

He jerked into a sitting position, only to come face-to-face with Mr. Weasley. He wore a worn brown cloak and a deep, tight-lipped frown. He looked tired and ill, but quite in control as he sipped a goblet of something orange. Harry swallowed and shoved his feet onto the couch.

And waited for him to start yelling at him or shouting, but he didn't. Harry knew Mr. Weasley had a wicked temper when he let it go.

When it became apparent that Ginny's father wasn't going to start the conversation, he shifted.

"How is she?" he asked worriedly.

For a moment, the wizard's eyes flared with fury, but then it was quickly banked.

"She's still asleep. Mackenzie says she'll be fine in a few days. Sore, but fine. I'm not happy with you, Harry. In fact," he set his goblet down with a loud snap that had Harry jumping, "I'm really tempted, for the first time in my life, to strangle a child."

Harry brushed a hand through his hair. "I'm not a child," he said quietly.

"Then why the hell is my daughter in a bed bleeding?" Mr. Weasley roared. "Are you telling me a sensible, responsible adult would have had sex with a fifteen-year-old girl?"

"No."

"I want to know why, Harry, that you bruised her." Mr. Weasley's voice vibrated with anger and betrayal that ripped Harry to shreds of bleeding, hurting flesh. "I could understand, I could live with everything but that. Why?" he demanded.

Harry's hand shook as he rubbed his face with it. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I swear to Merlin, Mr. Weasley, I'd never...I'd never..." He took a deep breath, fought to control his swirling emotions. "I'm sorry. There's no excuse. I shouldn't have done it, I admit it, but I was just so upset over what Ron-" He made a noise and imagined he'd still get killed when he saw his friend again. "It's still no excuse."

Mr. Weasley wrenched his wrist away from his face and twisted it hard enough to hurt but gently enough not to break anything. "I would kill you if you weren't Harry Potter. I would make sure you'd bleed if I didn't know my wife and children would weep over you, that I'd be equally upset with myself if I did. I've always liked you, Harry. You've always been responsible, caring, and you've always taken care of my kids. I'm so disappointed in you, Harry, that I could seriously consider telling you to stay the hell away from my daughter."

"I won't," Harry said instantly. His pupils dilated with the next painful twist, but they stayed clear and grim. "I-I don't know what I feel about her, but I know I've never felt it before, or I wouldn't have let her see me cry. She means something to me, Mr. Weasley. I don't know what will go on between the two of us, or if she'll even look at me again without disgust, but I promise to you, I promise," he repeated, "that I will never, ever, ever, repeat the mistake I made last night. I swear on Sirius' grave, I will never hurt her like that again."

He'd sworn on Sirius' grave, he thought, amazed, as Mr. Weasley released his arm. I've sworn on the grave of the man who died because of me, he thought. He felt limp and dead as Mr. Weasley shoved his goblet into his hands and made him drink. Harry gagged as fire lit in his mouth, but Mr. Weasley just pushed the cup up so he drank even more. He coughed when he could breathe again, and felt the odd sensation of fire leading a trail down into his stomach.

"Was that...?"

"Firewhiskey. It'll warm you up. From what I hear, you got a little hysterical last night. Since I lied to you about Ginny being asleep, I figure you could use a little strength when you go talk to her."

"She's awake?" Harry said sharply. "Are you sure she's okay?"

"She's fine. Now go see her." Mr. Weasley didn't have to tell him twice. He leapt at the door and yanked it open. Mrs. Weasley sat with Ginny's head in her lap, one of their hands entwined. When he opened the door, they both looked up at him.

"Mum?" Ginny said quietly, pushing herself up.

Mrs. Weasley stood quietly to go to the door. On the way, she gave Harry a hesitant kiss on the cheek. The door closed with a quiet 'click' on her way out.

For a moment, they stared at each other, unsure of what to say, until Harry dove for the bed and pulled her, gently, into a hug. She rapped her arms around his neck, much as she had the night before, and laid her head, just as gently as he held her, on his shoulder.

"I told Mum what I did. All of it," she said and blushed, although he couldn't see it since they were in such an odd position.

"You shouldn't have," he said, stroking her hair. How amazing that such a huge mistake would turn their friendship more intimate instead of destroying it. Harry felt a wave of unhampered relief. "I would have taken care of it."

"Just because you're older and stronger doesn't make it your fault, Harry," she said quietly. "Dad wasn't mad?" she asked hopefully.

"Oh, yeah," Harry said with a bitter chuckle, "he was very mad, but all we did was talk. No fisticuffs."

She pulled back, her eyes troubled. "What are we going to do, Harry? Ron-"

"Is going to kill me?" Harry suggested grimly. "Yes, I know that. I'm all too aware of that fact."

"He won't kill you." Her voice was firm with determination. And her eyes, the soft, chocolate brown of them, kindled with a fire he'd never seen. It scared him, because he thought he knew what it meant. "He'll try to, but we're in this together. I got us into this-"

"Ginny."

"Fine, we both got us into this together. Equal blame. Happy?"

"No," he muttered, brooding over it. He sat up, rolled so he could lean his back against the headboard of Mack's huge kind-sized bed. "And don't forget your other five brothers. Three of which were Quidditch players in school, the other two Head Boys, and Bill wears a fang in his ear. I think I have even more people out for my blood. And they all have bright, flashy red hair.

"Harry, we need to figure this out, not mope about it."

He glowered at her, then his shoes. "It's what I do, Ginny. All I ever do nowadays. Mope, brood, and be bitter."

Silence reigned in the room for a moment. Harry let his head fall back against the wall and shut his eyes. "No offense, Ginny, but I really don't know if I can handle having this much...stuff going on. The prophecy, this fight with Ron..."

"What did go on between you and him?"

He shifted his neck, rubbed hard with a hand at the crick in it. "He just told me how he felt," he said gently. "He was asking me if I knew who I was anymore. He'll never forgive me for this. Not ever."

The door opened. They both looked up, watching as Dumbledore and Mack closed the door behind them and took a seat in the two wooden chairs by the bed. Harry managed to share a dubious look with Ginny.

"Normally, I'd say good morning," Dumbledore said after settling in. "The sun is shining, students are learning, but I'm deeply concerned that we have a problem here."

Harry snorted lightly, but kept silent.

Dumbledore's eyes shifted to him, but there was only concern in those deep blue depths. The amount of it caused Harry's stomach to roil with guilt. What had he done? he wondered to himself again. How could he have done this to himself, to the Weasleys, to Ginny, for Merlin's sake? How could he? Disgusted with himself, he turned into what Dumbledore was saying.

He was disappointed in them, pointedly Harry, considering he was older and should know better. Did they know the consequences? He wasn't sure how to punish them. Should they get detention? he asked them. Ginny replied by saying that they didn't need to be punished because they'd learned their lesson. Harry, agreeably but not really caring what happened to him, said, "It won't happen again, sir. I can promise that."

"Professor," Ginny said quickly, after sending Harry an unreadable expression, "can I ask a favor?"

"Anything, Miss Weasley, if I'm able to do it."

"Can you tell my brother and Hermione what happened? Or can we keep this between Mack, you, and my parents?"

Harry turned to stare at her. "We can't keep this from Ron and Hermione! Where'd you get this idea?"

"It is none of their business," Ginny insisted. Her eyes glinted gold. "I don't see any point in them knowing anything more than me and Harry were caught after hours and since Harry was reasonably upset from disagreement from Ron, we went to spend the night here."

"I'm not lying to them," Harry hissed. "Ginny, we did something wrong. Something he, being your brother and my best friend, deserves to know. Trust me when I say it'll only come back to bit us in the arse if we keep things from them."

"Do you want your friendship with him to fall apart completely? You said you were having trouble. Why not just wait to tell him for a few months?"

Harry gave a mockingly thoughtful gesture. "Maybe because it would only fall back down once we fixed it! He'll be furious when he finds out what I did-"

"We."

"We," Harry corrected, frustrated, "but he'll only get angrier if we keep it from him. I'll never earn back his trust back if I do that."

"Stop arguing!" Mack cried finally.

Harry blinked at them. He had completely forgotten either of them were sitting beside the bed, watching them as they tossed the argument back and forth like a forlorn tennis ball.

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

"I have to agree with Harry on this," Dumbledore admitted. His face, as it rarely was, was unreadable. "And it doesn't matter since both of your parents have left to tell them already. They'll talk to your other brothers about it at dinner. This isn't something to take lightly. They all need to be aware of what happened. You are both a part of the Weasley family."

"I'm not," Harry said quietly, standing up. "I don't have a family, remember?"

He dashed out of the room before anyone could stop him.

* * * * * *

The weather outside of Hogwarts was surprisingly frigid. Harry ignored the rule of the Forbidden Forest and propped himself up against a tree. He didn't go far in. After all, he wasn't stupid. He knew what kind of danger he was in and how to avoid it. After all, he was Harry bloody Potter, wasn't he? The knower of all regulations and restrictions.

He felt like he couldn't breath, as if the cold, frigid air was freezing inside his chest until it turned into sold, razor-sharp spikes that grew, scratching at his inner organs and heart. And, oh, Merlin, did it hurt. The pain, the grief, the self-disgust, and the exhaustion. He was so tired, he mused dully. So tired of living with it all and being brave. That was it. Being brave. That was the one thing he couldn't handle. He couldn't be brave enough to face his own destiny.

How pathetic is that? You're pathetic, a small voice in the back of his mind told him, useless, spineless, and stupid. The world will turn to ash and cinders while you cower in your corner kicking puppies.

His head fell back against the rough bark of the tree. The wind rumpled his wrinkled robes and made his hair move back and forth against his forehead, making it itch annoyingly. But he kept his hands at his sides in some kind of self-punishment. The coldness of the air, the itching. For some reason he thought he didn't deserve to be comfortable. His parents and Sirius and Cedric weren't comfortable six feet under, were they? They didn't even get the privilege of feeling the wind against their cheeks. They didn't have a life to destroy like he did. And he was the one, single reason they were all dead.

How amusingly ironic. Not.

"You're an idiot, Potter. An insensitive, mindless, spineless git." Because he was muttering to himself, he didn't see the shadow of a person sneaking up to him.

"No arguments there, scar face." Draco Malfoy, looking smug and blonde in his neat school uniform, towered over his prone form.

Harry snorted. "Wonderful," he muttered again, still more to himself than his unwelcome visitor. He was talking to himself and his arch nemesis just calmly walks on up and plops himself beside you like a lifelong pal.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" he asked, resigning himself in defeat.

"Well, I was collecting some ingredients for a potion until I happened upon a pathetic mound of fat talking to himself in a forest."

Harry furrowed his brows, then closed his eyes. He didn't care-was actually hoping Malfoy would-if he attacked him. Was there anything in his life worth living for anyway? He doubted it sincerely.

"Not up to your usual insulting standards, are we, Malfoy? Having trouble sleeping lately? Those pesky little Death Eater face masks floating around, keeping you up?"

The pain came swiftly and sharply, but was definitely expected. He clutched his shoulder where Malfoy had punched it on instinct. It stung like hell, but Harry would die on his knees at the hands of Voldemort before he'd admit it. .

"Leave me alone!" He shouted angrily. "Merlin's sake, everywhere I go, someone's always got a stick up their arse!" Harry stood, then growled when Malfoy lunged to his feet and snagged his arm. The gray orbs of his enemy were sparking furiously, dangerously, with challenge. Harry stepped closer, adrenaline and blood lust pumping. "You don't want to mess with me, Malfoy," he continued quietly. His voice and eyes were just as dangerous, as challenging, as his opponents. "I'm spoiling for a fight and you're first in line."

"You want to fight, go ahead." He angled pale skin so Harry could have a perfect shot. "Do you even have the guts to do it?" he whispered as Harry hesitated. "What are you gonna' do when the Dark Lord challenges you to a duel? Mutter to yourself? Brilliant plan, Potter." Both teenagers' eyes flared. "If you want to get yourself and the entire world killed, that is."

Harry stumbled back, more in shock to the words being spoken aloud than fear. He wasn't scared of Malfoy. How could you be scared of something when you didn't care what happened anymore, even if it was to yourself? He wondered if that was what he was feeling for Malfoy. Dispassionate disinterest. Vaguely, he realized that was the emotion he was serving everyone lately. And he didn't particularly care, either.

Ron was right, he suddenly realized, although he'd known that before. It just suddenly began to sink in. He had no clue who the bloody hell Harry Potter was anymore. That stung more than any physical hit could. It made him bruise and bleed where nobody could see.

"Leave me alone, Malfoy," he murmured desperately, collapsing back to where he'd sat before.

"I can't. If you've already forgotten, you're my confidante."

"Confidante?" He tried to smother another bitter snort, but didn't particularly succeed. "Is that what you call what the tow of us have? Is this a game?" he snarled. "Do I get some really wicked nickname, like Thunder Bolt Double? Are we gonna' hide in the shadows and whisper dark, dangerous secrets in each other's ears? Sorry, Draco," the name fell off his tongue like a surprisingly foul poison, "but I thought we were fifteen, not five."

Harry had never played spies as a child, but thought it would be better not to mention it.

"What in bloody hell is your problem?" Malfoy demanded indignantly. "I'm trying to do the right thing!"

"The right thing? The right thing?" Gesturing with his right hand wildly, he curled his upper lip hatefully. "Merlin, not the right thing! "

So he was being dramatic and hateful. This was Malfoy, he told himself. Lord knew he had the right to rant on Draco Malfoy. "You want to know what's right, Malfoy, try getting a heart. Doing the right thing isn't just passing along second-rate info to the leader of the Light side. You have done nothing, believe me. If you were to die," which Harry desperately wished he would, "Dumbledore could replace you with the snap of his fingers. You are nothing to him, to anyone."

He was beginning to tremble with rage. He wondered when he'd stood up, when he'd grabbed the lapel of Malfoy's robes and slammed him up against a tree.

"The only reason" he said in a low voice, "Dumbledore isn't stepping on you like an annoying bug is because he's too soft and trusting to know better. You're nothing but a low-rated, pureblood idiot who would burst into tears if a piece of your hair fell out of place. Or maybe you broke a nail. Or maybe," he said on a burst of mocking sarcasm, "you just didn't have what it takes to stand up to Voldemort for yourself. Oh, yes, let's let Daddy rule my life. Maybe I could go make some little smart witch in Gryffindor cry."

He slammed Malfoy hard against the tree so his head would rap against it. "Let me tell you something, Malfoy. I don't care if you die or help. Voldemort will die." The words put together sounded sweet in his mouth. So much that he repeated them. "With or without your help. I don't trust you, I don't need you. Hell, I don't want you to be in the same country as me, but as I have no choice but to deal with it, I will. But don't mess with me or mine this year. If you do a single damn thing to piss me off, I will hound you down and murder you myself. I have nothing to lose anymore." That was the truth. "So don't think I won't."

Malfoy was shocked speechless a moment, then he pushed Harry off and took a menacing step toward him. "So you do have guts," he leered quietly. "That's good, Potter. Be angry. Hate everyone. Maybe you'll actually be of use sometime soon instead of letting people get killed one-by-one."

Harry took a step back.

"He'll be attacking a young family with the last name Gallan. A clan home in Scotland who has the Crystal of Moores Bourgh. The crystal will give him even more power. Enough to be able to control people through their minds. He plans to kill the five kids and take the adults so he can experiment on them. He'll host a Death Eater meeting near Hallen's Edge, maybe two miles away from the Gallan home in Genevio. It'll happen exactly three days after the new moon."

Without another word, he stalked off, leaving Harry raving. He lashed out at the tree, punching it over and over again till his right hand literally dripped with blood. It took nearly ten minutes for the monstrous pain to infiltrate his rampage. He sank to his knees, left arm grasping the tree for support as he leaned his forehead against the bark. He wanted to weep, but refused to. Look at what had happened the last time he'd wept. Harry Potter didn't cry, he scolded himself. The Boy-Who-Lived didn't cry, but avenged.

Isn't that what the people of the Wizarding World wanted? Someone to avenge their honor and save them? They didn't want some weeping weakling who pounded his hand against a tree until it cracked like a coconut. Wanting to laugh hysterically at the irony his life seemed to reek of, he cradled his hand against his abdomen and rocked.

Damn it all to hell, why was Fate out to torture him? What had he done to deserve so much pain and grief? And then the memory of Sirius' face flittered through his mind and he knew. Knew he was being punished for not ridding the world of Voldemort sooner. For causing so much pain to his friends and the Weasleys.

He lurched to his feet, pain only making his fury rage further and harder in his blood.

Harry found Mack and Dumbledore-surprise, surprise-together in Dumbledore's office. His arm was a point of darkness where his pain found a target to reverberate in, up from his knuckles to his wrist, from wrist to his shoulder, and shoulder to every part of his body from his temples to his toes. He could feel his heart beat in rhythm with his wound. Barging in without knocking and slamming the door behind him, he sent Snape, who stood by one of Dumbledore's book shelves, a dirty glare

"Ever heard of knocking, Potter?" Snape sneered.

Harry didn't trust himself to speak; he knew, irrevocably, undoubtedly, he'd have shouted and cussed Snape until the pain in his arm eased. So he kept his mouth shut, trying unsuccessfully to stop his eyes from blazing daggers.

"What did you do to your hand?" Mack cried, pouncing on him as she noticed him curling it towards him. He hissed at her when her hand carelessly tightened around the swollen mound of flesh. Then she was pushing him down onto the settee by the wall as she pulled out her wand. She hastily placed a healing charm where the blood flowed freely, then lifted her eyes imploringly to his face, as if expecting an explanation.

He'd be damned if he'd tell her. Oh, yes, Mack, he imagined himself saying cheerfully, I just thought the tree didn't look right and decided to rearrange the bark. Of coarse, the tree had much tougher skin. Oh, yeah, what a bundle of laughs that would create. Mack would only send him to St. Mungos. Only this time, it would be for a mental check-up.

"Oh, did you injure yourself?" Snape asked. His tone clearly meant he hoped Harry was feeling a whole mountain load of pain.

"I tripped," Harry said sarcastically. "Would you mind leaving, Snape? I'd rather like to talk to Dumbledore alone."

If Dumbledore hadn't given Snape a meaningful look, Harry was sure he would have stayed for the sole purpose of bantering with him.

"What did you want to talk about?" Mack said, massaging his fingers idly.

Harry slowly pulled his hand away. "You're a Snape, too, Mackenzie, and I'm pretty sure I said 'alone'."

She stared at him, her forehead creasing with something he knew was hurt, but she stood. If it was a little stiffly, Harry didn't notice. If the paintings of past Headmasters and Headmistresses grew noisy with whispers, he pretended not to hear them. He lunged to his feet to pace the room.

Dumbledore let him. The Headmaster leaned back in his chair, steeped his fingers under his chin.

And waited.

As it usually did, the boil of his rage took a long moment of pacing and breathing to decrease in potency to a simmer. Restlessness was a live thing inside him. He tried to keep the anger up, the restlessness in his limbs, or else the guilt and pain would come crawling back to eat him alive until he was nothing more than a mass of whimpering human.

"I saw Malfoy." And wanted to strangle him, he didn't add. He gave Dumbledore nearly the exact same speech Malfoy had given him, without a drop of hesitation or emotion. There was no need to think about the words, nor the meaning actually. Ever since Malfoy had spoken it, it had engraved itself upon his eyelids. Something like that wasn't something you forgot. In fact, Harry thought he would remember it for the rest of his life, even though all he felt about it was the firm detachment he got from making his heart black and cold. That was what he got. He had to admit it was better then feeling, or thinking, of that young family in Genevio, Scotland, and their upcoming grief.

He had enough emotions to deal with as it was.

"I'll deal with it," Dumbledore stated and went silent.

"How did Hermione and Ron take it?" Harry finally asked. He sat down in a chair in front of the Headmaster's desk, welcoming the warmth Fawkes brought with him when the phoenix settled onto his lap. For a moment, the aches and grief, and the gist of his pain, was replaced with that glowing warmth.

"Well," the Headmaster started, "they were both, needless to say, shocked. Mr. Weasley wasn't as angry as you both believe he would be, although he did looked tired and a little worn out."

"And Hermione?"

"Miss Granger left. She's somewhere in the castle, missing class just like you are, most likely looking for you. I do not believe they are mad at you, Harry."

"They should be," Harry whispered fervently. "They should be furious, unforgiving. They should hate me. Why don't they hate me, Professor Dumbledore?" he asked, a tint of desperation tinting his voice.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I don't understand you that well, Harry." The admission surprised Harry. Whether it was because it was a huge subject change or the fact that he knew nobody ever understood, he wasn't sure. "You're so full of emotions, of guilt, that you're letting yourself go. Don't you see you're destroying yourself, and in the process destroying your friends? Why do you want to be punished so badly, Harry? You haven't done anything. It pains me to see you putting yourself through so much pain and guilt when Voldemort caused it all. I don't believe either of us have the right to take the blame for him, for what he's done. He needs to he punished, not you."

Harry scrubbed his face. "It hurts," he said warily. "It hurts so much that I lash out. I can't control myself. When Ginny...She just trampled the only grip I had on control. It made me realize how much damage I can do to the people I love. My anger is worse than any curse, any hex, because I can't...I don't know what I'm doing when it takes over me. I don't want to lose control. I don't want to hurt my friends, but it's the only way I know to make it hurt less."

"I don't know what you want me to tell you. The only thing you can do is talk to people, let them know what in the world you are feeling. Why are you acting this way? You can't hold back from them. You can't do this by yourself, Harry. It's about time you figure that out and stop trying to do a solo-act."

* * * * * *

He found Hermione sitting against the wall in the kitchen. House elves swarmed about her, for the most part letting her be. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her hands shook when she lifted a cup of tea to sip. Harry watched her for a moment. His best friend. And wondered what she'd have been like if she'd never met Harry Potter. But he really didn't want to even imagine it.

He crossed to her and sat down beside her.

They were silent for a while, watching the house elves work to prepare dinner. Hermione sniffled and passed him her tea. He took a slow sip, then passed it back.

"Remember First Year, Harry?" she asked him. "The troll, Quirrell, the Sorcerer's Stone. Then Second Year, with Ginny gone missing, a serpent in the school. And Third, with Sirius and Lupin. Then Fourth, the Triwizard Tournament, and Cedric's death."

"Voldemort gaining his body back," Harry added.

Hermione nodded grimly. "Last year we had the Prophecy and Sirius..." She swallowed hard. "And Sirius dying. I mean, sure, we have our good moments, too, but that hasn't helped. What's next, Harry?" She swiped a hand across her cheek. "I don't know," she said honestly, looking at him. "You know, I just realized that the only reason I want to know everything, the reason I'm always reading, is because I just can't handle not knowing what's going to happen next. I want to know as much as I can about everything because, maybe, that'll help me predict the future."

There was nothing to say to that, Harry decided, a stayed silent.

She looked at him. "Do you love her?"

"Who?" he asked, although he already thought he knew the answer.

"Ginny."

Harry didn't answer right away. He stared at his shoes for a minute, pondering.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I'm feeling so many emotions at the moment. It might just be stress. I don't know what I feel anymore," he repeated meekly, but honestly.

Hermione, surprisingly, chuckled and grabbed his hand in a reassuring squeeze. "We're a mess, Harry. All three of us."

Baffled, he stared at their hands. He had friends, he told himself. Friends he'd been recently, unjustifiably ignoring.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, for ruining your life."

Her eyebrows lifted. "I'd like to say I'm surprised that you think of it that way, but I'm not. Ron and I both know you think like that."

"Like what? It's true."

"It isn't." She shook her head sadly. "The funny thing is, Harry, that Voldemort took your parent away. He took Sirius, too, your childhood, and your happiness. That is reality. He took Sirius, not you. He was the one who started this war. He is the only reason we went to the Ministry that day. He is the reason Sirius thought you were in danger, and followed."

"It doesn't matter. Not anymore. The fact is, Voldemort is here. I went to the Ministry. Sirius followed. I should have known, Hermione. I should have listened to you."

"You wanted to save him!" Exasperation made her cheeks flush. "Life isn't in black and white, Harry. There are grays, there are in-betweens. You did nothing wrong! For the sake of Merlin, do you think Sirius would have liked seeing you falling apart because he died? Can you imagine the guilt he'd feel if he were alive? Would you rather he'd live and you'd die?"

"Yes," Harry said without hesitation.

Her eyes flashed. "You want to keep him here when all he felt was guilt and worry and hate? He's at peace now."

Harry scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands. He kept them there until the tremors stopped and he had a grip on control. A greasy one, he admitted, but a steady one.

"Everything's just so screwed up. Ron and me, Ginny and me, the Weasleys and me." He looked at her. "I don't know how things are between you and me, but it isn't at its best."

"On the contrary," she corrected, giving him a genuine smile. "Our friendship is at its very best. I'm your best friend, Harry, and you and Ron are mine. It's too strong to break. Stretch, it will and already is, but it won't break."

* * * * * *

That night, while he lay spread eagled on his back, still dress in his robes from the day before, he thought of his friends. He and Ron and gone to fists, but they were okay now. Rocky, and in Hermione's words stretched, but they were talking.

Almost, if he closed his eyes, he could clear his mind. Wash it out of all its darkness.

Keyword being almost.

* * * * * *

September was like ink on a piece of dry, old parchment. With the comings of October, then the snow and frigidness of November, the ink dripped and fell away.

Harry watched the season's change through his dorm room window. He stared at it now, while the moon slashed light into the room and left a narrow line of light criss-crossing over Ron's face.

He'd gotten into the habit of leaving his curtain open enough to see his friend. Insomnia had swooped upon him like an avenging angel with sharp, pointy claws. He'd gotten used to it, though, and the paranoia of losing his friends.

He'd already checked up on the fifth and sixth year girls' room. They were fine, snoring and dreaming of Lockhart, most likely.

Dreams, Harry knew, were supposed to be good like that. Like the few, very few ones he'd had of Ginny. Not the ones with the voices, the darkness, and the pain. He hadn't told anyone about those. Why worry them like that? Especially since the four of them had at last gone back to normal.

They thought he was making progress. He'd been talking more, laughing; he wasn't spacing out as much. Harry was glad they thought he was. He was just beginning to get a grip on everything. But, he'd realized more than a month ago, was that the more controlled he was when he was awake, the stronger the voice in his head became. Which wasn't, he mused, why he'd taken Cho out to eat on the Hogsmeade weekend and kissed her.

Bloody hell, was he ever going to stop complicating things? Ginny...He wasn't sure how she'd react once Cho spread the word, which he had not one doubt that she would.

It wasn't as if he was hiding it. He was just...keeping it quiet for a while. His forehead leaned against the cold glass. Why was he so scared of losing Ginny when he knew he could never have her? He had to protect his friends at all costs, especially Gin. He would make sure they were all safe, even if it meant that he was protecting them from himself. He rubbed his forehead against the ache of exhaustion.

* * * * * *

The ache, and that awful voice in his head, dogged his heels during classes the next day. It wanted him to die, and it was through waiting. It was fear and constraint that had him shaking. His head, if it was still on his shoulders, was being shredded to pieces.

And all he could hear was that voice, egging him on, explaining what needed to be done.

They want you dead, Potter. You know it's true. All you do is cause them pain. Do it. Come on, just do it and stop their suffering.

"Potter!" Snape's harsh voice broke the last of his guard, and he crumpled, knees painfully hitting the cold stone floor of the dungeons. His hands fisted against the stone, fighting for some kind of purchase as the pain rocked through him in waves. He sensed his friends calling out to him, surrounding him, and Snape standing over them. But even as the world fell away, he felt the spell Snape cast around him, so no one, not even Ron and Hermione, could come close to him.

The air crackled and snapped like a Magical Whipley Fire Cracker. Harry felt it, fought to control it from lashing out. It was a danger to his friends. So he fought it, pulling it back into him. Electricity shot through him, spiking his heart rhythm to an inhuman speed. He saw, although it was blur, it shoot from finger to finger on each of his hands like small segments of blue lightning. He felt the pain, the pure ferocity of the fire in it, and he made a noise before he could stop himself.

His blood swam in his veins, circling, but it was faster, quicker, thicker.

And it wasn't all his.

Adrenaline surged. Magical power shot off him in searing, thick waves of heat. The tinge of it burned and flushed his skin. His eyes dried and clenched under his eyebrows. The muscles in his arms trembled and threatened to go lax, but he refused to let them.

He was going to implode. Through the pain, he felt something inside him grow larger, bigger than his skin, his bones. His body fought to expand, to adapt, but it stopped as the darkness inside him shrunk with a large, painful wrench.

Someone was screaming. Something was screaming inside his head. It was a cry borne of grief and a fury so pure in its hatred that it stopped his heart momentarily.

It felt as if his insides were being cut out in tiny, little pieces, then fried in boiling battery acid.

The assault left as quickly as it had come. He collapsed forward, his flaming cheek touching the stone, but instead of it being cold, it nearly matched his cheek and forehead in heat. His muscles and limbs shuddered uncontrollably with after-shocks.

As his eyes closed to relieve themselves of their dryness, Harry let himself lay limp. He felt...refreshed, even though his muscles were limp with exhaustion. But his heart was pumping. So loud, so fast. He heard it, felt it, because his body spasmed with it in harmony.

Through the pounding, he could have sworn he could hear quiet, strong voices in chant.

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