Acceptance

All that Harry knew about the weather was that it was not raining. He was dimly aware of laughter and happy sounds - Happy? What was that? - reaching his ears, but none penetrated his consciousness of the fact that Sirius, his godfather-friend-brother, was gone.

His moods had become most predictable nowadays. He seemed to swing on a pendulum, oscillating between sullen, impotent rage, and soul-wrenching grief. Nothing Ron or Hermione could do would alleviate the loneliness, the darkness, and despair that were clouding his thoughts by day, and his dreams by night.

When he managed to wrench his thoughts away from Sirius for a brief moment, the harsh voice of Sybil Trelawney would sound in his ears, "...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives..." So he would be murdered or a murderer. But what did that matter? He was already a murderer, anyway. Sirius - he shuddered - would have been alive today had he, Harry, mastered Occlumency or even refused to believe his vision. He kicked a pebble viciously as he paced the lakeside, alone, hands thrust deep into his pockets, scowling to conceal the tears that winked in and out of his eyes. Then, "OW...!"

The sharp squeal of pain penetrated his consciousness. It seemed to come from nearer than the happy sounds, or maybe it just echoed the hurt inside him so much better. A familiar face looked up at his, wearing a serene expression that belied her squeal of a second before.

"You might have looked before you kicked that thing, you know," she said, smiling up at him from under an oak tree whose shadow he had miserably failed to notice. He wondered whether to explode at her as he would have done at any other person, but the mildly amused, indulgent expression on her face showed him how futile the attempt would be. Realising for the first time that his legs ached from pacing for hours on end, he flopped down beside her.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. And he meant it. Luna had a way of making him feel guilty about how much he hurt others with his own pain. Only she understood, and was - he smiled as he thought it - tactful enough to broach painful subjects in a way that made it easy for him to talk. He sat quietly at her side, remembering the only time he had talked, even briefly, about Sirius' death. He had talked to Luna. This very Luna.

She turned towards him now with a birdlike tilt of the head. "You miss him very much, don't you? I missed Mother too just after she died, but now I've learnt to live without her."

He looked into her eyes, his fathomless pain giving way to a look of understanding, the past fading against the present. "Will I learn too?" he asked like a child.

"Oh yes. You may still miss him, but you'll see that everything that happened was for the best."

"For the best? How can losing the person you loved more than life be for the best? Would you call having to see your own life end in murder as being for the best?" Much against his will he found himself snapping against Luna. He drew in ragged, deep breaths, willing himself to calm down. But she was looking at him thoughtfully, and he realised that he had unwittingly revealed what he had concealed from everyone, even Ron and Hermione.

Luna's look showed that she had realised what he meant, but she did not react, instead replying to his question. "Don't you think your second question answers the first, Harry?" she asked him. She let him mull things over, waiting until the realisation of his life's quest hit him.

He smiled bitterly, as he realised. Until he, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was hurt to the core, he would never be able to summon the hatred he required to kill Voldemort. If he did not suffer, the wizarding world would have to die. The injustice of it welled up in him, a cry of pain that he had refused to let escape in the past ten months.

He cupped his head in his hands and let the tears come, as she laid his cheek on her shoulder.