DISCLAIMER

The characters, locations and concepts within are the property of JK Rowling, not me. I am in no way affiliated with Ms Rowling, Warner Brothers, Bloomsbury, Scholastic or anyone else with rights to the series. No profit is being made.

AUTHOR'S NOTES

This story has been posted as part of an effort to put all my fanfic in once location, for my own piece of mind. Needless to say, if I get a few more reviews out of it, that'd be a bonus too. Reasons was written in August 2005, an originally posted at FictionAlley under the name sephiel.

REASONS

Everything he'd done, he'd done for a reason. He'd sent her away for a reason. And he'd come here, to the dust-choked house where his Godfather had spent his first and last days, for a reason. Maybe it was the elf-made wine, and maybe it was just her, but suddenly he just couldn't remember what those reasons were.

Slowly, his mind seeming to swim towards thought, he tried. It hadn't been planned, coming here. Not with her. But then... well, it'd been Harry's first time in a pub. Ron's idea, of course.

"You'll be seventeen, Harry. We've got to!"

Hermione had been against it, naturally. And, naturally, that almost seemed to encourage Ron. Finally, Harry had caved, and really, that was how he'd ended up in Sirius' old bedroom, sitting on the end of his Sirius' old bed, feeling more than a little horrible.

He leaned forward, running a hand through his hair, and the ground gave an unpleasant lurch. His stomach protested at the sight, and he let himself fall back onto the mattress; sadly, his stomach didn't seem much happier at the thought of falling, and he let out a soft moan.

"Easy, Harry."

She moved across his vision, little more than a dark shape and a touch of red in the dim light. She seemed more like a talisman than a person, really. Like some symbol for what he wanted and couldn't have.

"I'm never drinking again," he said in a soft, desperate voice. God, he felt horrible. How could people do this every weekend?

She laughed. "How often did I hear Fred and George say that?"

He didn't hear her. He just kept watching her move, a shadow that curved against the deeper darkness of the bedroom, and her face, pale and sharp in the light of the room's single lamp as she bent towards him.

Reasons... He'd drunk far too much. To be expected, he guessed. And then... Why here, why not back to the Burrow like Ron and Hermione? He tried to remember, but his head seemed to be filled with soup. She was looking at him, concerned, and he tried to sit up. His hands slipped on the sheets and he fell back, his belly protesting squeamishly.

Slowly, almost painfully, his mind began to play back...

"C'mon, Harry, let's..."

"No, not like this. It wouldn't be right, after all Mrs. Weasley - you know, your mum - after all she's done - if I came back like this and broke something or - you know..."

A hole, a place where his memory didn't fit. Then:

"Someone should go with him, if..."

"I'll do it."

"You sure, Gin? I mean..."

The next thing he could remember was Ginny supporting his weight down the main hallway of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. He laid there a moment longer, his mind buzzing from one topic to another; somehow, he couldn't recall anything his mind had touched, or even understand what he was thinking at the time. In fact, he had the distinct impression his mind was only pretending to be busy.

God, wasn't that a brilliant mental image? He could imagine his brain sitting in Potions, scrambling to cut up a maple berry as Professor Snape approached, or some such thing. Only that couldn't be right, because that'd make him Snape, and he certainly hadn't killed Dumbledore. But when he found Snape...

He opened his eyes, groggily, and realized that he'd fallen asleep at some point. Where was he? He had... he'd been getting drunk with Ron, for his seventeenth birthday, and then... what was he...

Someone was talking. Ginny. He should've been listening, but he'd been asleep instead. After all, she was his girlf- wait, no, she wasn't. Not any more. Too dangerous. Disappointing, really.

"...I know you've got to stop Voldemort, and I know it's dangerous, but I wish it didn't have to..."

She looked down, then started. Apparently, she hadn't expected him to be awake yet. Well, it was still night, he supposed. Dark, at least. Her skin seemed to sway softly in the lamplight; it sounded creepy, he thought, but it really wasn't. It was beautiful, somehow.

He felt a little better. Less like he was going to be sick everywhere, though he still felt as though he'd slept in a cement mixer. She looked down at him, and felt so sad, like this should all be his, but instead...

"I still love you," he said quietly.

"I know," she replied simply. She merely looked at him for a moment, her face calm and expressionless. Then, without hesitating, she leaned down and kissed him.

Somehow, he was simultaneously unsuspecting and unsurprised. The wine, maybe? Mmm. It'd be nice to slow his thoughts, especially while... He kissed back lightly, his head rising ever-so-slightly from the mattress. He felt her fingers snake around the back of his neck, tracing through his hair, and pulled her closer.

The kiss deepened, his hands settling on the small of her back, and his lips curled into a smile against hers. I shouldn't be doing this, I shouldn't, I... He rested his hand against her cheek, running his thumb against her skin. She seemed so small, in a way, but so much larger than normal, pressed against his chest...

The door opened with a crash, and Ginny pulled away, started. Harry looked over to see Hermione, blinking apologetically. "So... erm... Harry's alright then?" she said weakly. She shifted her weight awkwardly, gestured to the door and muttered, "The door was sticking, I didn't mean to..."

She hesitated a moment longer, than said, "I'll leave you to it then." She pulled the door shut behind her - again, the latch stuck and it took three attempts - and the bedroom returned to near-darkness.

Harry moved away, rolling onto his side. He could feel Ginny shifting towards him, her arm moving over him, and cast his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up. Ginny blinked. "Harry..."

"I can't," he said simply. "Not with... with the war, and everything else. I'm sorry," he added lamely.

Ginny nodded, and even through the darkness and the wine, Harry could see the furious set of her jaw. "Sure thing, Harry," she said darkly. "Have fun being a hero." He watched her move across the shadows of the bedroom, throwing open the door and disappearing into the dim hallway.

For a moment, he sat motionless, staring at the place he'd last seen her. Then, clumsily, he seized the lamp from the bedside table and flung it across the room. The flame died before it hit the wall, smashing and throwing streaks of oil across the sagging, ancient wallpaper. Harry stared after it. He didn't feel any better. The dark, oily stain on the wall just made him feel angrier, and more stupid than ever.

"Have fun being a hero," he repeated bitterly. "Yeah. Right."