The Dark and Winding Path by SSHENRY



Summary: *** The author has been reminded via the e-mail address on file that this story is listed as incomplete and has not been updated in over 2 years ***

"He did not feel the way he had so often felt before, excited, curious, burning to get to the bottom of a mystery; he simply knew that the task of discovering the truth about the real Horcrux had to be completed before he could move a little farther along the dark and winding path stretching ahead of him, the path that he and Dumbledore had set out upon together, and which he now knew he would have to journey alone." ~HBP NOTE: THIS IS NOT AN EXTENTION OF THE S.S.POTTER SERIES, BUT IS AN ENTIRELY NEW STORY. Enjoy!
Rating: PG-13 starstarstarstarstar
Categories: Post-HBP
Characters: None
Genres: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 2005.09.23
Updated: 2007.09.20


The Dark and Winding Path by SSHENRY
Chapter 1: THE MOUTH OF THE MATRIX
Author's Notes:


“He did not feel the way he had so often felt before, excited, curious, burning to get to the bottom of a mystery; he simply knew that the task of discovering the truth about the real Horcrux had to be completed before he could move a little farther alon






"He did not feel the way he had so often felt before, excited, curious, burning to get to the bottom of a mystery; he simply knew that the task of discovering the truth about the real Horcrux had to be completed before he could move a little farther along the dark and winding path stretching ahead of him, the path that he and Dumbledore had set out upon together, and which he now knew he would have to journey alone."


~HBP




~*~


 












Labyrinth (lab’e rinth’) n. 1. A structure containing an intricate network


of winding passages hard to follow without losing one’s way 2. A


complicated, perplexing arrangement, course of affairs, etc. 3. The


inner ear.


~Webster’s NewWorld Dictionary, 2nd Ed


 


 


 


THE DARK AND WINDING PATH












CHAPTER ONE: The Mouth of the Matrix


 


 


Lupin had been right. The grove of trees on top of the hill overlooking Godric’s Hollow was the perfect place to Apparate. Harry had pictured it in his head a thousand times; Godric’s Hollow. He had seen it as a small, sleepy town along the lines of Ottery St. Catchpole, the town outside of which Ron and Ginny lived.


Ginny . . .


Harry’s hand went automatically to the leather pouch he wore on a cord around his neck as he gazed down on town which was the object of his quest. The softness of the supple leather was as soothing to the touch as thoughts of Ginny were to his troubled mind.


Ginny . . .


It was she that had given him the pouch after bill and Fleur’s wedding . . .


* * *


The wedding had been a phenomenal success by anyone’s standards and not even the scars marring Bill’s once-handsome features could have hidden the happiness bubbling just under the surface. Bill had bounced back remarkably well, his personality as vibrant as ever it had been. Fleur of course had been glowing, dazzling everyone with her wit and open devotion to her intended.


Harry had expected the atmosphere to be subdued, given the tragic events at Hogwarts not even two weeks previously, but everyone involved seemed to be working on some sort of mutual agreement; determined to put the events behind them and get on with living. In a way it was fitting. Bill had nearly died, it was only right that he and Fleur and those they had invited to share their special day should have a chance to celebrate the life that had been given back to him.


Ginny had pulled him aside just after the service; her hair shining red and gold — like living flames in the mid-July sunlight; her pale skin offset dramatically by the shimmering silvery material of her bridesmaid’s dress.


"Harry, I need to talk to you."


He’d been purposefully avoiding her ever since he arrived at the Weasley’s, just in time for the ceremony. He knew Ginny was bound to bring up their last conversation at Hogwarts where he’d told her they could no longer be involved, that it was too dangerous for them to be together. He owed her an explanation, he knew that, yet he wasn’t entirely certain he would be able to explain it in such a way that she would understand. She couldn’t come with him. He couldn’t let her. And besides, as long as he knew that she was here, alive and safe, he had a reason to finish this. He had a reason to finish this and make it back alive. Even if she had gone on with her life by the time he came back, she would still be there, a sort of living symbol of what it was he was fighting for. As for Ron and Hermione . . .


Dumbledore had counseled him to open himself up to his friends, not to isolate himself from those for whom he cared. But how could even Dumbledore have possibly understood?


As much as he appreciated Ron and Hermione’s offer to come with him on his quest for the remaining Horcruxes, Harry knew that he couldn’t let them. The litany that had been repeating itself over and over in his head ever since Dumbledore’s funeral was too insistent;


He must abandon the illusion he ought to have lost at the age of one, that the shelter of a parent’s arms meant that nothing could hurt him. There was no waking from his nightmare, no comforting whisper in the dark that he was safe really, that it was all in his imagination; the last and greatest of his protectors had died, and he was more alone than he had ever been before.


It was time to finish this and it was something he had to do alone.


At the site of Ginny, at the sound of her voice, Harry had felt his heart clench, steeling itself against his sudden and desperate desire to loose himself in her arms; steeling himself against whatever it was she was about to say, what it was she was going to ask him to do.


"Ginny, I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but I can’t -"


"I’m not asking you to," Ginny had said softly, cutting across his protests by placing a finger on his lips. "I know why you’ve been avoiding me, Harry, and I just wanted to tell you that I understand. I know what you have to do and I know why."


Her hand had gone to her throat then, to a white leather cord she was wearing around her neck and she had removed a white leather pouch from the bodice of her dress.


"All I’m asking, Harry, is that you take this with you." She’d slipped the pouch’s cord over Harry’s neck before he could protest.


Harry had fingered the supple leather, swallowing hard as he realized that the pouch was still warm from having been next to her skin. There were various runic symbols etched into the leather of the pouch. Some of them were shimmering slightly; almost as if . . .


"It’s enchanted," she’d said, smiling slightly. "Muggles won’t be able to see it, so you can keep your wand and anything else you don’t want seen, safe."


"You did this?"


"Well, no. Ron made the pouch itself. Nearly sewed his own fingers together, clumsy git. Hermione did the enchantments of course and I, well, there’s something from inside it from me— don’t open it now!" she’d said, her hand closing over his as it made to open the flap of the pouch. "Wait until you’re on the road. I don’t want you changing your mind about this and then blaming me for your lack of willpower."


They knew then. Harry glanced over his shoulder to where Ron and Hermione were standing. Ron’s arm was draped loosely around Hermione’s shoulders, her hand resting lightly on his chest. Did they know how natural they looked together? Had they come to terms yet with the feelings they had for each other? He didn’t think so, not yet. But they would. It was inevitable.


He met Ron’s eye and Ron gave him the shadow of a nod. Go if you must. We’ll be here if you need us.


Harry tried to smile. It was a relief really; they knew and understood. He had to do this alone.


"You’ll never be alone, Harry," Ginny whispered, and Harry felt his gaze snap back onto the slim girl standing beside him. Her eyes were dark . . .and inviting . . .he felt as if he were drowning. . .


"Not really. We’ll be with you no matter where you go, Harry, here . . ." she’d touched the pouch with a finger, then moved her hand until it was resting lightly on his chest, just over his heart. " . . .and here."


He’d kissed her then, there was nothing else for it; kissed her so deeply, so searingly that he knew he was branding her, the roaring beast inside of him marking her as his own for the whole world to see. Voldemort be damned!


Voldemort . . .he would find out about her. He would kill her. He would kill her and then Harry would truly be lost. He couldn’t bear it . . .he couldn’t stand it!


The beast inside him had shrieked in fury as Harry had wrenched himself away from the comfort of her arms. He’d fully expected Ginny to be visibly upset, crying even, but the hard, blazing look on her face said it all; he thought he’d been branding her, but she’d been branding him, claiming him as her own. He could feel the tear of his heart splitting clean in two as he dis-Apparated, leaving a part of himself inside of her forever.


 


* * *


 


He hadn’t gone far at first; only to the clearing behind the Burrow where he, Hermione and the Weasleys had played so many happy games of Quidditch. Here, two days ago in the gnarled roots of an ancient oak tree, Harry had stashed the things he’d be taking with him.


Two changes of clothes, a few toiletries and a light blanket took up half the space in the old leather knapsack he’d nicked from the back of Fred and George’s closet. To this he’d added his invisibility cloak, the fake Horcrux and note he’d taken from Dumbledore’s body that nightmarish night back in June as well as a thick roll of Muggle money he’d exchanged a number of Galleons for the last time he’d been at Gringotts.


While all of this had made for a nearly full pack, it hadn’t been an especially heavy one, so when Harry hefted the pack onto his shoulders, he’d been astounded at how heavy it suddenly seemed. A quick check had told him all he needed to know. Someone (and Harry had a shrewd idea who) had crammed every spare inch of his pack with sealed packages of Fred and George’s newest merchandise; mini-meals ("Just pull the tab and watch your appetite grow!"), along with several bottles of water and two large bars of chocolate.


Harry had grinned in spite of himself. He really did have the best friends in the world. It had taken him only a moment to remove his Firebolt from the lowest branches of the oak where he’d stashed it for safekeeping, but before he could make the next jump in his trip Hedwig had glided out of the trees to land on his shoulder with an admonitory hoot.


"I can’t take you, Hedwig — ow!" yelped Harry, for Hedwig had chosen that precise moment to squeeze Harry’s shoulder with her talons a bit harder than she normally would have done. "Hey, don’t take it wrong girl, but I’ll be Apparating," he said guiltily, stroking her silken feathers with his free hand.


Hedwig gazed at him with baleful amber eyes. She seemed to be reminding him; He was underage. He shouldn’t be Apparating yet. He needed her!


"No, really, I can’t take you with me, not this time."


Harry had sworn loudly as Hedwig nipped his ear with such fierceness that he was certain she’d drawn blood. He couldn’t take her, not without drawing undue attention to himself. It wasn’t fair, she’d always been there for him. Hedwig had been his only friend when he’d been stuck on Privet Drive. He’d stood quietly, thinking hard. He would need a way to communicate with the Order, with Lupin and the others. If he didn’t take Hedwig, how would he be able to get messages to the others . . .unless . . .


"Dobby?" No sooner had Harry said the name, than the elf was at his side with a sharp pop of displaced air.


"Harry Potter called Dobby?"


"Yeah, I did. Dobby, will that work anywhere?"


"Will what work sir?"


"Calling you, like I just did. Say I needed to get a message to someone, if I called Kreacher-"


"Harry Potter needs to be calling Dobby, sir, not nasty Kreacher!" Dobby had said emphatically, his lip curled in distaste.


"But you’re a free elf, Dobby, and I don’t want to infringe-"


"Harry Potter would not be infringing, sir. Dobby is a free elf. Dobby goes where he whishes. He does as he chooses. And he chooses to come when Harry Potter calls, sir."


Harry had given the elf a rather sheepish grin. "Yeah, well, I was kind of hoping you’d say that, Dobby."


Dobby had beamed, his great tennis-ball shaped eyes shining with happiness.


"Anything Harry Potter wishes Dobby to do sir, just say it and Dobby will see that it is done."


"See girl?" Harry had said, addressing Hedwig. "Dobby will be there if I need him.


Hedwig had ruffled her feathers, clicking her beak in the way that clearly meant that she was annoyed with him.


"Please, Hedwig. I need you to stay here. There’s something very important that I need you to do."


Hedwig had given a low, questioning hoot.


"I need you to stay with Ginny, Hedwig. I need you to stay with her in case-" he’d had to swallow hard. He’d almost said ‘in case anything happens to me’. "In case she needs to contact me. I need to know that she can get in touch with me if she needs to. Can you do that for me?"


Hedwig’s expression had seemed to soften at his words. She’d given him an affectionate nip before sticking out her leg.


"No, I don’t think she’ll need a note, Hedwig. If you just show up, she’ll understand."


Hedwig had looked at him for a long moment before taking off into the clear blue sky with only the slightest of pressures on his wrist.


* * *


Had his parents really lived here? Harry wondered as he looked down on the bustling town laid out below him. Somehow the terms ‘Godric’s Hollow’ and ‘bustling town’ had never made any sort of connection in his head. But he had to admit that far from being the sleepy burg he had imagined, Godric’s Hollow was, from the looks of it, a thriving community.


Cars and lorries of all sizes and colors were zipping along the main thoroughfare that wound through the center of the town, past the old stone church and it’s sprawling graveyard, for a good while paralleling a sparkling river. The road and river parted company when they reached a number of older, established houses on well-kept lots that in turn led into the commercial district. Here the late afternoon sunlight glinted off the glass display windows in the storefronts and prisimed into rainbows around the bubbling fountain in the center of the small park. The pavements were littered with afternoon shoppers, all of them intent on their errands. Even from this distance he could see women pushing prams in the park.


On the far side of the park the river joined the road again, slipping beneath a stone bridge that led to a long, low building which, if the bright playground equipment was any indication, was probably the local Primary school and beyond the school, a sprawl of newer, smaller homes.


Harry had been thinking that he would have to wait until dark to slip into town unnoticed, but from the looks of it he would be able to just stroll into town and no one would be the wiser. In Jeans and a T-shirt, with the leather knapsack over his shoulder, Harry knew that he looked enough like a Muggle that no one’s suspicions would be roused. Now, if he could only find a safe place to stash his broom . . .


Struck by a sudden, Hermione-like burst of inspiration, Harry pulled his wand out of the pouch around his neck and muttered a shrinking spell. Even if the Ministry of Magic detected the spell, according to Lupin there were other witches and wizards in the area. It was highly unlikely that they would be able to trace the spell to him. A moment later he was holding a toy broom the size of his wand. He tucked this into the pouch. Then, taking a deep breath he began picking his way down the hillside toward the broad carriageway leading into town.


 


* * *


 


Harry felt the powerful pull of normalcy creep over him as he walked the length of road between the old stone Church and the primary school. There were people everywhere; doing their shopping, carrying packages, pushing prams, chatting animatedly on street corners and under shop awnings; everyday people living everyday, ordinary lives.


I could live here.


He had lived here. He and his parents had lived here. He paused in the park to watch a young woman with long, curly blonde hair pluck her baby out of it’s pram and sit him on the edge of the fountain so he could dabble his fat toes in the cool water. The baby gurgled with happiness, splashing himself and his mother until both of them were laughing. Had his mother done that with him once upon a time?


Had Lily and James perhaps brought him here to this very park on a picnic, like that family he saw sitting on a blanket in the shade of some old and gnarled yew trees? He paused again to watch a pack of small boys in shorts and T-shirts blithely kicking a football back and forth on a smooth, grassy place, watched indulgently by parents lounging on park benches.


What would it have been like to have grown up here? What would it have been like to grow up here with his parents, to have a place like this to come back to on school vacations? He paused again, watching an old couple strolling slowly hand-in-hand on the park path that bordered the riverbank and was amazed to feel tears prickling at the backs of his eyelids. What would it have been like for his parents to grow old together, to grow old together here, where everything seemed so peaceful . . .so ordianary . . .so normal?


"Deceptive normalcy!" he hissed, blinking rapidly as he passed the old couple, crossed the bridge and pulled even with the primary school. Even here, things were not as they appeared. Right here in this very town his parents had been murdered just sixteen years ago. Now what? Somehow he didn’t think that what he was looking for would be on this side of the bridge.


He sat down on a swing and rummaged in his pocket until he found the piece of parchment Lupin had given him. He unfolded it slowly, squinting against the glare of the sun. There, in Lupin’s neat block letters was printed:


Number eleven, Holly Lane, Godric’s Hollow.


That was all fine and good, Harry thought grimly, refolding the parchment and making to tuck it back into his pocket, but how on earth was he supposed to find out where, exactly Holly Lane was located? Harry hesitated, considering, then stowed Lupin’s scrap of parchment in the pouch around his neck instead of his pocket. As he slipped it into the pouch Harry’s fingers brushed another piece of parchment; thick and long and flat.


Ginny’s letter.


He knew it was a letter, and he knew it was from Ginny, but he also knew that he had to wait to read it. He would wait until he was finished here, in Godric’s Hollow. He would wait until he had seen the place where his parents had lived; the place they had lived and where they had died and where they were buried. Only then would he allow himself to read Ginny’s letter.


Harry took a deep breath, taking comfort from the feel of the letter beneath his fingers. If he closed his eyes he could almost convince himself that he could detect a trace of the perfume she wore, that citrusy blend that she always wore.


How hard could it be? He secured the flap of the pouch and got up from the swing, turning back towards town. How hard could it be to find one street in a town no bigger than the average postage stamp? It wasn't as if he were pressed for time after all.


 


* * *


Holly Lane hadn’t been so very difficult to find after all. He’d thought of asking someone, say in the grocer’s or perhaps at the library, but he didn’t want to arouse suspicion. Seeing the library, however, had given him an idea.


The library was an older building made of stone with high, arching windows, it looked as if it might once have been a church. Indeed, it looked as if it were closely related to the old stone church that marked the edge of Godric’s Hollow. Inside though, it was definitely a library. The smell of dust and mildew hit him full in the face as he walked inside, giving him an almost nostalgic longing for the Hogwarts library, even for a glimpse of Madam Pince and her squeaking shoes. He found himself half expecting to see Hermione spread out at one of the long, low tables, her bushy brown hair crackling with the excitement of another assignment properly done.


Just as he’d hoped, directly inside the front doors, hung a handsome map of Godric’s Hollow, complete with street listings and topical references. Holly Lane would have taken him some time to find without the map. The second street on the same side of the carriageway as the church was Oak Drive. This led, in turn to Willow Way and there, branching off of Willow Way was Holly Lane. According to the map, it paralleled the river as it looped away from Godric’s Hollow’s town center, dead ending in the point of land where the river began to loop back toward town and just beyond which the park proper began. If he started back towards the church it would take him only minutes to get there from here.


Three quarters of an hour later Harry stopped at the branch of Willow Way and Holly Lane to take a long drink from his water bottle. The map, he decided, must have been an artistic rendering of the town. Either that or the residential section of Godric’s Hollow was a lot bigger than it appeared to be.


He supposed he was used to Little Whinging, where the houses were laid out in geometric grids, each house situated on the same size lot; each lot laid out in the same straight lines. He’d been walking briskly ages, and the roads had definitely not been straight. Oak Drive had wound up and down several hills before it had intersected with Willow Way, which had looped down into a rather steep valley before branching off into Holly Lane. At least he’d been right about Holly Lane bordering the river.


The houses on Holly Lane were even bigger, if possible, than the large stately homes he had seen on Oak Drive. These were huge old rambling stone affairs, each surrounded by acres of artistically landscaped lawns; lawns dotted with perfectly positioned groupings of trees or cunningly designed terraces.


It took him another twenty minutes to walk the length of Holly Lane. The even numbers were ranged along the right-hand side. The odd numbers bordered the river. There, at the end, between number nine and where number eleven should have stood was a thick boxwood hedge. Neatly trimmed on number nine’s side, the boxwood was absolutely wild on the side which should have belonged to number eleven. The tangle of vines, trees, weeds and overgrown shrubbery that had grown up over number eleven’s plot had even partially reclaimed the low stone wall which had once separated number eleven from Holly Lane.



There was a break in the wall about halfway down its length. It looked actually, as if there had once been a stone arch here. Beyond it the tangle of undergrowth looked a little thinner than it did anywhere else. This, Harry decided, must have been the drive — or perhaps it had been a walkway. Whichever it had been, it still seemed impossible that a mere sixteen years worth of neglect would yield such an unkempt appearance.


"Welcome home, Harry," he murmured out loud before stepping over the remains of the arch and into the shadows inhabiting number eleven Holly Lane.


 


* * *


 


Harry sat on a broad, flat stone beside the smoothly flowing river, watching the sky over the river as the broad band of blue turned briefly orange and pink and magenta before fading slowly to a deep, dusky violet.


It had crossed his mind to break out one of the mini-meals Ron had packed in his bag if for nothing else than to give himself something to do, but had decided against it. He wasn’t really that hungry anymore. Not after . . .Harry swallowed, hard. He’d spent the late hours of the afternoon exploring the grounds and poking through the remains that had once been number eleven, Holly Lane.


There hadn’t been much left of the main structure, merely a stone shell and the foundations on which it had been built. Most of the roof timbers and the supporting structures of the floors and ceilings had collapsed into a heap of rubble that partially filled the basement.


It had been a large house, though not as large as some of the more pretentious structures that lined Holly Lane. It had been composed of only two stories, and probably had looked more like a rambling cottage than a manor house. The way it had been laid out, it must have been spectacular views of the river. In fact, in spite of the undergrowth, he could still discern that there had been several wide terraces leading from the house itself down nearly to the water’s edge. There had also been the more intact remains of several low outbuildings and sheds. Harry had poked about in these for quite a while, uncovering a number of interesting items, though nothing of any particular importance.


It had been strange, poking around in the remains of a house that he knew he had once lived in. The tangle of roses outside the front door (the vines of which were now nearly smothering the front half of the house) gave him a real wrench. Had his mother planted those? How come no one had ever mentioned the fact that she liked roses? How come he’d never asked? He’d continued to scratch about, uncovering a teakettle, a bent candelabrum, and an old rusted cauldron, but nothing that rang a bell.


What was he looking for?


I’ll know it when I see it.


See what?


I don’t know. But there’s something here, something I’m supposed to find.


Just as the light had begun to fail he’d finally given up on the search (not wanting to risk lighting his wand in case he alarmed the neighbors) and had begun instead to look for a place in which he could stay the night. It had been in his reconnaissance of the largest of the outbuildings that he had discovered the thing that had stolen away his appetite.


On the south side of the largest shed was a gnarled old apple tree in which he had discovered the beginnings of a tree house. The platform had been secured in the crotch of the tree some six feet off the ground and hung from this was a rope ladder, which had been secured to the ground so that it wouldn’t swing precariously. It had been obvious, given the piles of lumber stacked on the platform, that this had not been intended to be a simple tree house, but a deluxe model. There had been a rough sketch drawn on one of the boards propped against the trunk. But it had been the words printed below the sketch that had taken his breath away: "Yes, Lily, I’ll make sure to install a hand rail!"


James Potter had been building this tree house. James had been building this from his son. He’d been building it for him! Harry had stood there, his fingers tracing the words for nearly ten minutes, not bothering to wipe away the tears that had begun to flow in earnest. Now, sitting on the riverbank, he felt a powerful sort of longing well up in his chest. This was the life that could have been his, would have been his —if it hadn’t been for Voldemort.


Voldemort . . .


He was the one who had stolen this away. He was the one who had stolen so much away from so many people. Harry felt his fingers tighten painfully around the fake Horcrux he still carried in his pocket. The answer was here, he knew it was; in the note tucked so tightly into the locket; in the initials R.A.B. If whoever R.A.B. was had truly destroyed the locket Horcrux then there was one less Horcrux to worry about. He, Harry would be one step closer to his goal. Voldemort had to be stopped, and it was up to Harry to stop him.


He stood up abruptly, tossing his knapsack over his shoulder and heading back towards the house and the shelter of the apple tree. His time with Voldemort would come, he knew it would, but for tonight, just for tonight, he would pretend that he was small once again and that safety lay just a breath away, in the shelter of a parent’s arms. Tonight he would sleep in the tree house. He had a strange feeling that this was as close to home as he would ever get.


* * *


Harry sat with his chin on his knees, ignoring the tears trickling steadily down his cheeks, unable to tear his gaze away for the unpretentious headstone that bore his parents’ names as well as the date of their death:


Lily and James Potter


1959 — 1981


Harry traced the dates with his finger. Had they been the same age then? He remembered seeing his father in the Snape’s memory. If his mother had been taking her O.W.L.’s at the same time he supposed it wasn’t impossible that they had been the same age. Why had he always thought that his Dad must be older?


With a jolt Harry realized that when his Mother and Father had only been five years older than Harry was right now when they’d died. They’d married young then, although from what he’d seen, that wasn’t completely unusual in the wizarding world.


Harry swallowed, hard. They’d been so young; young and in love and with their whole lives ahead of them. The words inscribed beneath the dates said it all:


partners in a love so strong even death could not divide them


He closed his eyes, letting the cool smoothness of the marble sooth him like a mother’s caress. Who had been responsible for the headstone, surely not Aunt Petunia? She would never have sprung for marble, not for the sister whom she had declared to be a freak. She would have slapped up a granite marker, that is if she’d bothered with a marker at all. No. This was the work of someone who actually cared about Lily and James Potter. Who then, Sirius? No, he would have been in Azkaban by the time Harry’s parents were buried; Lupin then.


Poor Lonely Lupin, howling at the moon in despair of the world that had robbed him of his two best friends in the same night. No wonder he’d gone prematurely gray. Harry shuddered to think what his life would have been like if he hadn’t had Ron and Hermione as friends, or what would happen if he lost them. They were always there for him; making him laugh, helping him out of tight spots. Shit, if he had given them half a chance they’d be here right now, rising their lives for him.


And that was exactly why he was here alone. No one else was going to die to keep him safe. No one; not Ron, not Hermione, and definitely not Ginny. He was stronger with them, he knew that, but they were safer without him, and he didn’t think he could bear it if anyone else he cared about died. They couldn’t die. They were the only things that were keeping him going now.


You’ll never be alone.


Harry’s hand went instinctively to the pouch at his neck at the memory of Ginny’s words. Had she understood then? Had she understood how much he needed them? How much he needed her?


And then he remembered the letter; Ginny’s letter. He removed the thick packet of parchment from the pouch, shook out the pages and began to read;


 


Dearest Harry,


I knew it would come to this. I just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. It did seem rather like a dream didn’t it, those few weeks that we had together? A dream come true; a dream I’ve been indulging myself in ever since I saw you for the first time on platform 9 ¾ all those years ago.


I meant what I said you know; I understand what you have to do and, more importantly, why you have to do it. ‘Neither can live while the other survives.’ Yes Harry, I know what it was that Voldemort was after at the Ministry of Magic. I know about the Prophecy (no, Ron and Hermione didn’t tell me, give me some credit, I am Fred and George’s sister after all!)


I also know you, Harry, and trust me when I say that killing someone like Lord Voldemort (and you will, there’s no question whatsoever in my mind about that bit) will not make one iota of a difference in how your friends feel about you.


I know that you think killing someone, anyone, even someone as twisted as Tom Riddle (that’s how I knew him best of course) will make you a murderer, but I for one would see you as more of a liberator. Yes, a liberator, for think of all the people you will save from getting murdered once that git’s dead!


I also know you think that by pushing me aside a). you’ll be keeping me out of harm’s way and b). that you’ll make it easier for me to ‘get on’ with my life when you’re gone. So let me make one thing perfectly clear;


IF YOU THINK FOR ONE SECOND THAT I’LL SETTLE FOR ANY OTHER IDIOT ONCE I’VE HAD ‘THE BOY WHO LIVED’ THEN YOU’RE DELUSIONAL!


So understand that if you die out there, my life will go on, yes, but it will go on alone.


As for pushing me aside to keep me out of harm’s way, don’t get too cocky! I’m a Weasley; we’re a marked family, you of all people should know that; we have been for years, generations even!


I could be snuffed tomorrow just because someone wants to get back at my Dad for a decision he made about some damned hiccupping toaster, or because Charlie pissed someone off by losing control of a dragon again like he did when I was eight (long story). And of course there is always the chance that I could be targeted because of who my Mum’s family is, so don’t think that by keeping me away you are going to necessarily keep me safe!


Besides, don’t you realize that it isn’t only my own safety at stake here? Not just mine, not Ron’s, not Hermione’s, not even my family’s. This is about the safety of humanity Harry. Tall order, eh? So don’t be surprised if you find us fighting beside you at the end after all. If it comes down to it you won’t be able to keep us away. You may think this is your battle, Harry, but in truth this battle belongs to every decent human being alive, magic or Muggle. You just have a bigger part to play than most.


And finally, as you do what you must, I want you to keep in mind why you are doing this. You are doing this for your parents, Harry, for the happiness Voldemort stole from them. You are doing this for Sirius and the thirteen years he spent in that hell hole of a prison. You are doing this for Cedric and the life that was stolen from him before it had barely gotten started. You’re doing this for Madam Bones and Bertha Jorkins. Don’t let them have died for nothing.


You’re doing this for Bill, Harry. You’re going to give him and Fleur the chance to raise a beautiful family. You’re giving Lupin and Tonks the chance to find happiness and Moody the chance to enjoy his remaining eye. You’re going to give Ron and Hermione the chance to find each other.


You’re fighting for Neville and that twisted half-smile of his; for Luna and her Crumple-horned Snorkacks; for those two little witches at the Quidditch World Cup, Harry remember? The ones with the toy broomsticks, you’re going to make the skies a safe place for them to fly and you’re going to give the Dracos of the world the opportunity to choose their own destinies.


I know that it won’t be easy, and it sure as hell won’t be fun. There will be times when you want nothing more than to run away and never look back, but you won’t. You’ll fight him, Harry. You’ll fight him and you’ll win and you’ll live to tell about it, and you’ll do that for me because I love you Harry. I love you and I am NOT going to ‘make do’ with anyone else if something happens to you, so don’t get any weird ideas about making some sort of ‘noble sacrifice,’ because heaven help me because if I have to follow you to Hell itself and bring you back myself, then so be it. You’re mine now, Potter. Remember that.


Yours Always,


 


G.M.W


 


 


Harry wasn’t entirely certain as to what exactly it was he had been expecting the letter to say, but the letter had been exactly what he’d needed, and her parting shot — that bit about following him to hell if need be — Harry found himself chuckling aloud as he’d finished reading it. His laughter was strangely loud and out of place in the eerie silence of the shadowy cemetery. Trust Ginny to give him cause to laugh in a graveyard — in the very face of death as it were!


It wasn’t as if his parents would mind after all even if they could hear him, Harry thought musingly. And if Luna was right, if Nearly Headless Nick was right, his Mum and Dad, Dumbledore, Cedric, Sirius even, they weren’t gone, not really. There were there, all of them, waiting for him, waiting for him just beyond that thin black veil. His hand tightened on the letter; his letter; Ginny’s letter which he had refolded after he’d read it through the first time.


She loved him!


The thrill that shot through Harry at this realization nearly knocked him off his feet.


She loved him and he — "I can’t love anyone!" Harry said out loud in a small and miserable voice. If he admitted it, if he let himself love her, she’d be taken away from him; just like his parents and Sirius and Dumbledore.


The thought of Dumbledore, of the kindly face with its too-crooked nose and twinkling light blue eyes stopped Harry in his tracks. Dumbledore had said that it was love that would save him. That it was his, Harry’s capacity to care about others that would prove to be Voldemort’s undoing.


But what sort of love? Harry thought desperately. There were several different kinds, weren’t there? There was the kind he had felt for Dumbledore — as a Mentor, protector and respected friend. And Sirius, that love had been different even than that he had felt for Dumbledore; more like that of a big brother — almost a father figure. Was that enough to be getting on with? But hadn’t it been the thought of never seeing Ron and Hermione again that had saved him when he was in the grip of the red-eyed beast?


Harry shivered involuntarily at the thought of what his life would have been like without his two best friends. The three of them had been inseparable for the last six years. He’d given both of them the opportunity to distance themselves from him, but they hadn’t taken him up on his offer. They were in this now, nearly as deep as Harry himself. There wasn’t a soul at Hogwarts that didn’t know how he felt about Ron and Hermione. But as for Ginny . . .


He’d thought to give her the same chance he had given Ron and Hermione, but if her letter was to believed, ("I love you and I am NOT going to ‘make do’ with anyone else if something happens to you, so don’t get any weird ideas about making some sort of ‘noble sacrifice,’ because heaven help me because if I have to follow you to Hell itself and bring you back myself, then so be it. You’re mine now, Potter. Remember that") then she’d already made her decision to stand by him — beside him — no matter what.


That didn’t mean he would put consciously put her — or anyone else he cared about — in harm’s way, that’s why he was alone after all. But surely, if they knew what they were risking by caring about him, if they chose to care about him anyway, surely that meant that he was allowed to care about them as well?


Harry unfolded Ginny’s letter and read it through again.


She loved him.


"I love you too Gin," Harry whispered, hoping against hope that wherever she was right now, whatever she was doing, that somehow she would hear him and understand.


 


 




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