Stoicism (and the Breakdown of...) by iluvfanfics



Summary: COMPLETED. When something hurts too much, when it distracts you from your purpose, it's better to push it away--right? A short story about Harry and Ginny's journey after Dumbledore's funeral. Sometimes, happiness just has to wait.
Rating: R starstarstarstarstar
Categories: Post-HBP
Characters: None
Genres: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 2007.01.07
Updated: 2007.01.08


Stoicism (and the Breakdown of...) by iluvfanfics
Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Author's Notes:

(Thunk.)

Rubbish.

(Thunk.)

Rubbish again.

(Thunk, thunk, thunk.)

Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish.

So pretty much everything in here is rubbish, Harry Potter decided. His whole life, the things that mattered to him anyway, could be contained in this one school trunk…and it wasn’t even full.

He was sitting on the bed he’d occupied for the last five years at his Aunt and Uncle’s house, his old school trunk on the floor before him. At Hermione’s insistence he was finally cleaning the thing out. She insisted that he do so before they left to go track down the rest of Voldemort’s Horcruxes and claimed she wouldn’t go anywhere with him until it was finished. He’d been tempted to not clean the trunk and see if she was serious but something in her voice told him it wouldn’t be that simple. Plus if he was honest with himself, he knew he would probably need her before the end.

“Honestly, Harry,” she’d chided him, as she stared down at the mess inside his trunk in disgust. “When was the last time you organised this chaos? How do you ever expect to find anything?” She handed him a black rubbish bag and pointed at the trunk wordlessly before slamming the door behind her. She and Ron had a date to “scout the neighbourhood” but Harry had a pretty good idea as to what exactly went on during their “scouting” missions. The reconnaissance had been Ron’s idea after all.

Harry didn’t care what they did as long as he didn’t have to watch it. Let them grab their happiness when and wherever they could get it. Who knows how much longer they would have?

He glumly shoved another set of old school notebooks into the trash bag Hermione had nicked from his Aunt’s pristine kitchen. His two best friends had finally made things official the moment the three of them had stepped foot in Harry’s bedroom at Number 4 Privet Drive. They’d been dancing around each other for years, and Harry was elated they’d finally admitted what he and everyone else had known for far too long–Hermione and Ron were made for each other. Despite the events of the past two months, he’d never seen them happier with each other.

Which was exactly why he kept trying to stop them from coming on this quest with him. The two of them had made it clear they would not leave him and, while a part of him was overjoyed with the loyalty of his friends, another part was cringing with the expected guilt that was sure to consume him if one of them didn’t make it back from this dangerous mission. They were trying to destroy bits of Voldemort’s soul–the chance of them all making it back was slim. And he couldn’t imagine one without the other.

Pushing aside the thought, Harry focused on the task before him. What did one really pack to destroy an evil wizard? Invisibility cloak? Check. Useful schoolbooks and other materials nicked from the school library? Check. Clothes, racing broom, Chocolate Frog cards…ah, no, that was definitely rubbish. His mind automatically sorted the contents of his trunk into two distinct categories: items necessary for survival and items that were not. Those that weren’t necessary were trash. It was a clear-cut system, and Harry tried not to think about the many memories he was casually throwing away.

He caught a glimpse of something red buried underneath a pile of old parchment and he reached for it, tugging whatever it was out of the mess…and froze.

Sudden, swift, aching pain pierced his abdomen and shot upwards into his chest ripping an already existing hole into an even bigger chasm until he was sure the cavity had consumed his heart and lungs, making it impossible for him to breathe and to feel…anything. He was cold and numb, his eyes fixed on the soft, red cloth that he had completely forgotten about until now.

His hands fisted in the fabric, pulling it taut. It was hers. He knew it with certainty, the memory of when she had handed it to him, laughter shining in her brown eyes, rushing over him like a wave. Even if he hadn’t remembered when and where he had gotten it, the lingering perfume of the scarf would have told him it was hers.

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“You look cold, Potter,” she’d said, her mouth twitching with amusement. He rolled his eyes at her and tried not to shiver but she caught him at it anyway. She laughed and snuggled further down into the cloak he’d forced on her, insisting it was his chivalrous right to freeze while she kept warm.

She unbuttoned the fastening around her neck and held the woollen cloak open with both arms. “C’mon,” she said, her eyes twinkling mischievously, “I’ll share.”

He had gulped, because what they had was still new and they hadn’t been that close before. But a force greater than his own had compelled him forward into the shelter of the black tent she was offering him. He stepped into her embrace and she wrapped the cloak around the both of them, her arms coming up to wrap themselves around his neck as she pressed her lithe frame to his in a way he had only dreamed about until that moment. His arms went around her waist automatically and, as if he had some notion of what he was doing, he dipped his head down to capture those laughing lips, unsure if it was her or the cloak that had made him warm. After a few bright moments, he pulled away panting, his blood burning. His entire body felt like it was on fire and he’d stepped back, knowing that the way his hands itched to rip the cloak off of both of them was a sign it was time to slow down. She’d stared at him with glazed eyes, her lips swollen from his kisses, and let the cloak envelop her once more.

He’d held out a trembling hand and they’d resumed their walk. When a sudden breeze sprang up and he’d shivered again, her hands had automatically gone to the fastenings on the cloak but he’d begged her with silent eyes to not tempt him again. She’d smiled demurely and instead slowly unwrapped the red scarf from around her neck before tying it around his own neck. He’d lifted the ends of the soft cotton and inhaled deeply, grinning when he smelled her scent on the fabric. The scarf had kept him warm the rest of the afternoon and that night, when he slept with the scarf tied to his bedpost, the unique smell of her had wrapped itself around him, sinking into his subconscious so that instead of nightmares, he’d dreamt of her and sunlight and long, slow sweet kisses that were like a drug.
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Harry hardly realised that he had buried his face in the scarf. He was lost in the memory and of the flowery smell that had always enveloped every bit of her.

Hermione and Ron chose that moment to return from their walk and they stopped short in the doorway, surprised to see their friend sitting in front of his still messy trunk, his hands fisted in a piece of red fabric. Harry looked up at them with unfocused eyes and his friends were shocked to see more emotion swimming in the bright green orbs then they had seen in two months.

“H-Harry?” Hermione said uncertainly.

Ron could have told her to be quiet, to not break the spell–it was the first time he’d caught a glimpse of the old Harry in weeks–and just as he suspected, her inquiry caused the shutters to fall back over his friend’s eyes.

“Back so soon?” Harry asked tonelessly as he shoved the scarf back into his trunk. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

Ron remained silent; sure that Hermione would not let this show of emotion go by without a fight. He watched as his girlfriend leaned down and slowly pulled the red fabric back out of the Harry’s trunk. It was a scarf and it looked familiar.

“What is this?” Hermione asked in a hushed voice, her eyes fastened on the scarf.

Harry averted his eyes and busied himself with sorting through the stack of papers in his lap. “S’nothing,” he said casually. “Just a scarf.”

“That’s Ginny’s scarf,” Ron said, suddenly recognizing it. “Fred and George gave it to her last Christmas.”

Harry’s hands sorted parchment faster. He did NOT want his friends asking him questions about Ginny–or why he was sitting in his room smelling an old scarf of hers. The subject had been taboo since he had broken up with Ron’s younger sister at the end of the term, right after Dumbledore had died. He’d broken up with her to protect her, he had informed them in a hard voice, and he didn’t want to talk about it. They didn’t have to know it was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do and that every day, the hole it had left inside of him got a bit bigger.

“Right,” Hermione said firmly, “that’s it.” She let the scarf fall back into the trunk and slammed the lid shut. Both boys jumped at the sound. She plopped herself down on the trunk facing Harry and grabbed his shoulders forcing him to look at her.

“Harry,” she declared, “you’re a mess.”

“Gee thanks,” he answered dryly. “You really know how to build a bloke up.”

Hermione shook her head, her fingers biting into his shoulders as she shook him a little. “Stop it,” she said, her face completely serious. “This isn’t a joke. I mean it.”

She let her hands drop and sat back. “You’ve changed,” she said in a low voice. “And we all know why.” She locked her eyes on his, as if daring him to stop her from speaking.

“You need her.”

Ron watched the bravery of his girlfriend and was immensely proud she’d had the courage to say what they’d both been thinking–what they had in fact, just been discussing on their walk around the neighbourhood. Harry’s attitude had grown steadily worse since they’d returned from Hogwarts. No one could blame him; he’d lost a mentor and was preparing himself to hunt down an evil wizard. But instead of snapping at his friends like he usually did when he was upset about something, he’d completely shut down. He refused to discuss Dumbledore except when it was strictly necessary and he’d made it clear the subject of Ginny was off limits. He didn’t look well either. Dark shadows had appeared under his eyes and his face had taken on a haunted look. Ron knew his friend wasn’t sleeping well but had remained quietly in bed each night while Harry fought off his nightmares. He’d heard his sister’s name murmured more than once but since they’d always been followed by whispered pleadings for her life, he hadn’t called him on it. Ron had come to the conclusion, with Hermione’s help of course, that Harry’s stoicism was out of control.

“Drop it, Hermione,” Harry finally said sharply. “It’s none of your business.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But you’re my friend, and I can’t sit by and let you do this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything to myself,” Harry said, a warning note in his voice. “I’m fine.”

Ron took a deep breath. “No, you’re not,” he said bravely. “You’re losing it.”

“I’m not losing anything,” Harry said with a hollow laugh. “I’m perfectly sane.”

It was Ron’s turn to shake his head. “I don’t mean losing your mind,” he clarified. “I mean you’re losing sight of what’s important, of what’s real, of what Dumbledore tried to teach you.” He walked over to the trunk and gently pushed Hermione off so he could open the trunk back up. He reached down and snagged the scarf again so he could thrust it in Harry’s face.

“This is real,” he said quietly, shaking the scarf a little. “Whatever it means to you, whatever it was you were doing with it when we came in here–that’s what you’re fighting for. And pushing us away, refusing to talk about it, to talk about her, to face what she meant to you…all it does is make you more like him.”

Ron dropped the scarf in Harry’s lap and Harry stared at him, shocked. “I am NOT like Voldemort,” he finally said hoarsely.

“Not yet,” Hermione said. The bed sagged with her weight as she sat next to him.

“Harry,” she said urgently. “The difference between you and Voldemort has always been your capacity to love. Your friendships, your loyalty, your bravery–those make you different from him and it’s why you’re going to beat him. But lately, all you’ve done is shut down those parts of you–you can’t ignore them just because it hurts.”

“We can’t really imagine how it must feel,” Ron said slowly, “and, truthfully, I wouldn’t want to with everything you’ve been through. But mate, I’m tired of hearing you sob my sister’s name every night. I don’t think pushing her away is the answer.”

Harry’s hands tightened in the scarf on his lap. “You don’t know anything about it,” he said tightly. “You don’t know what it’s like-“ he cut off, shaking his head to stop the lump from rising in his throat. He cleared his throat loudly and continued, “She’s safer without me.”

“Bollocks,” Hermione said suddenly, and both boys stared at her. Ron couldn’t stop a smile from spreading over his face.

“Hermione Granger,” he said delightedly. “Did you just curse?”

Hermione flushed. “Shut it, Ronald.” She turned to Harry who was smiling faintly at her. “Oh come on,” she said exasperatedly, “it’s not the first time I’ve said a bad word.”

“Actually-“ Ron began but she stopped him with a look and he shut his mouth with a snap.

“Harry,” Hermione said, suddenly businesslike. “We understand what it feels like to worry about someone. We have each other and we worry about you of course, but Ginny isn’t safe–no one is.”

“And you’re a real idiot if you think Snape and Malfoy didn’t hightail it to Voldemort and tell him all about your school year,” Ron pointed out.

“She’s still better off without me,” Harry insisted. He couldn’t understand why his friends didn’t get it. He was a walking death trap. Everyone close to him got killed–they’d had this argument a million times.

“Oh really,” Hermione said shrewdly. She stood up from the bed and walked over to her neatly organized trunk in the corner of the tiny bedroom, grabbing a piece of parchment from the top. It was a letter from Mrs. Weasley she’d received yesterday but had refused to share with them. She unrolled the scroll and began reading aloud:

“Dear Hermione,

I know you said we shouldn’t write too much but I’m at my wits end and thought you might be able to help. Do you have any idea what might be wrong with Ginny? She won’t talk to me about it and she moves like a ghost around the house, snapping at everyone. She pretends nothing is wrong but I’m her mother and I can tell something is going on. She’s lost weight and isn’t sleeping well. At night I can hear her nightmares but by the time I make it to her room, she’s woken herself up and refuses to be comforted. She used to be so loving and laughing all the time. Even Fred and George can’t get through to her…”

Hermione stopped reading and threw the letter at Harry, hitting him in the head with the scroll. “Doesn’t sound better off to me.”

Harry unrolled the letter on his lap and stared down at Mrs. Weasley’s words. He ignored the worry she broadcasted in her letter and soaked up the information about Ginny. His forced moratorium on the subject meant he hadn’t heard much about her since they broke up. He wasn’t pleased to see that she wasn’t eating or sleeping and it occurred to him in a sudden burst of realization that they were both far too much alike.

He crumpled the letter in his hand. “Ginny understands,” he said in a low voice. “She knows why-“

“That doesn’t mean she has to like it,” Hermione interrupted.

“Do you think I do!?” Harry finally thundered at her, rising to his feet. “I don’t expect her to like it! I don’t like it either! I HATE IT. I hate that Voldemort killed my parents, I hate that Sirius and Dumbledore are both DEAD, I hate that he possessed Ginny and made her do horrible things she still has nightmares about! I hate that because of HIM, I have to spend what should have been one of the best years of my life, hunting down these bits of evil he’s hidden all over the place! I hate that you and Ron are walking into danger with me and there’s nothing I can do about it because I need you both so damned much!”

He stopped, breathing heavily, staring at his friends whose mouths had fallen open in shock with his tirade. “I hate everything about this Hermione,” he said suddenly tired. “I hate the emptiness inside of me and I hate the emptiness I’m sure is inside of her but there’s nothing either one of us can do about it–not until he’s gone.”

Harry sat back down on his bed with a thump and put his head in his hands. “I’m not like Voldemort,” he said, his voice muffled. “I’m not going to ever be like him. Not unless something happens to her.” He looked up at them.

“Which is why we have to be apart,” he stressed. “She has to be as safe as I can make her.”

Ron and Hermione looked at each other and then back at Harry. “All right mate,” Ron finally said. “We’re with you, whatever happens.”

Hermione nodded and reached for Ron’s hand. “I’m sorry Harry,” she said quietly. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I know ‘Mione,” he said. And he did. He knew they both meant well but he just could not let himself dwell in his memories of Ginny. It hurt too much; the pain clouded his thoughts and he knew instinctively that his judgment where she was concerned was faulty. Happiness would just have to wait.

“I promise I won’t push either of you away so much,” he said, offering a compromise. “And I’ll try to be nicer about things, but please…Ginny…I just can’t–it’s too private.”

They both nodded again and shaking off the tension in the room, sat down on the floor to help him finish cleaning out his trunk. Harry relaxed and watched his friends sort through his memories. He smiled. Their devotion made the hole in his chest shrink, if only for a moment. It was enough–for now.


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