Harry lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was the Easter break, and he was alone in the dormitory. Though most students opted to stay at Hogwarts since the break was only a week long, the other fifth year Gryffindor boys in his room had made plans this year. Both Seamus and Dean had gone to Ireland to catch the start of the Quidditch season, and Neville was spending most of his days walking the grounds with Natalie. Ron was back at The Burrow, and had invited Hermione and him, but Ginny was going to be there, and he thought better of going, despite Ron and Hermione's many dismissals of any possible awkwardness.

Actually, Harry had been surprised at how Ron took the news that he had driven Ginny to tears that night. Initially, he had frowned and looked concerned over his sister, but had said wisely, "She's had a crush on you for yonks, Ginny has. And it's not your fault you don't like her. It's probably better that she knows now, rather than letting it carry on for another five years. I mean, it was bloody good of you to go with her in the first place… but mate, I don't fancy being you right now. She doesn't forgive very easily, Ginny." When Harry didn't look any less upset over the whole ugly thing, Ron added, clasping Harry's shoulder reassuringly, "She's strong, though. Don't think she won't bounce back. I know you're The Famous Harry Potter and everything, but she'll come good in time." Harry had nodded glumly and made some excuse to be left alone.

Fortunately, Ron and Hermione had been very sensitive towards him since the dance. Ordinarily, he would have resented being treated so cautiously, but for some reason, he really felt that when he tried to go back to "normal", there was a certain emptiness and falseness in everything he did. So, Harry was extremely grateful that Ron and Hermione seemed to understand that things were different, and that he needed time to himself.

Though since the dance they were officially a couple, Ron and Hermione had refrained from any kind of behavior that they thought might make Harry feel uncomfortable. They subtly stopped holding hands when he entered the room, or adjusted their positions on the couch so that their knees were no longer touching. He felt a twinge of guilt at how accommodating they were to his moods, when he gave them absolutely no hint of acknowledgement. Often, he thought they were talking about him; he'd caught them looking worriedly at him from across the room when they thought he wasn't paying attention. He wished they would trust him to be able to deal with problems himself, but at the same time, he was glad to have friends who cared so much.

A couple of weeks had passed since the dance, and Harry had attempted several times to talk to Ginny. At first, she seemed to surround herself with friends who glared at him coldly, while she merely ignored him. After a week of this, Ginny started to make eye contact… with daggers. Harry had watched helplessly as she went from being heart-broken to haughty. When he realized she wasn't ready to talk to him, he had started writing letters.

After the first few, spouting apologies, he got a response. One night, as he was in the middle of an essay for Transfiguration, she walked up behind him and dropped a bundle of the letters on his parchment, smearing the ink. Harry hadn't cared about the homework; he was glad to see that some of the letters had been opened. If she'd just read one, she would have an idea of how sorry he was. Though she'd walked away without a word, Harry had felt encouraged. He continued to write, sure that she would soon be willing to talk. But that changed the day she left with Ron and Hermione for The Burrow.

That night, as he had stoked the fire, he found a half-burnt piece of parchment in the corner of the fireplace. He recognised his writing. A closer look at the ashes nearby showed a bundle of delicate curls of blackened parchment, indelibly marked with burnt ink in his handwriting. He was crushed. It was a sensation he'd never experienced before.

Cho turning him down numerous times had disappointed and frustrated him each time, but this was absolute devastation compared to that. It was probably even worse than when he learned that his plans of living with Sirius were not going to be realized. It felt like a clamp in his chest, squeezing his heart so that he couldn't breathe, and that tears were forced to form in his eyes. He was so desperately and genuinely sorry, and he'd been trying so hard to convince her of it. He didn't know what else he could do, and then, just as he thought there was a sliver of hope, she crushed it, and it crumbled to nothingness like the ash in the grate.

He'd gotten up, brushed the moisture from his eyes, and made his way to bed, though it was only eight o'clock. There, he drew the curtains around him and buried his head in a pillow, feeling it turn hot and wet with his tears. He hadn't known when he'd actually fallen asleep.

That was two days ago now, and he'd done a lot of thinking, mostly in bed as he stared at the ceiling like he was this morning. He'd thought of giving up on her, moving on, but the lack of closure would bother him always, not to mention the constant discomfort of her presence whenever he visited the Weasleys. He couldn't give up visits to The Burrow! But most of all, he realized, he couldn't stop wanting her to know how he felt because… well, because he wanted her to know; he needed her to know. It was vital to him, somehow. Even if she couldn't forgive him, if she could just agree that they be amiable enough to exist in the same room as each other, he might be satisfied. That, at least… but while they were talking, he'd have to try make her understand his regret, and that he really did love being with her.

Harry sat up. He loved being with her… Yes, it was true. How had that escaped his notice for so long? It was the essential clue that made everything fall into place. His frustration, his angst, that feeling of emptiness… Though he was feeling guilty and wanted to set things right with her, he realized that most of all, he missed her. He'd felt so at home in her presence at the dance, so relaxed and free to be himself. He wanted that back.

Determined, he dressed, hurriedly packed a few items in his rucksack, and marched out to see Dumbledore.

"Hey, Harry!"

Harry turned, and saw Neville waving from an alcove. Harry greeted him as he approached, "Hey, Neville. How've you been? Haven't seen you in a while."

Neville grinned and shrugged, glancing over at Natalie, who was chatting with a small group of students in the alcove. "Well, you know…"

"Right."

"Hey, listen," Neville continued, "a bunch of us is heading down to Hogsmeade in a bit. Do you want to join us? We're meeting up with students from the other houses as well, and we're all going together." Sensing he wasn't convincing Harry, he added, "I heard Cho Chang is going too…"

Harry smiled at his friend's efforts. Funnily, the thought of seeing Cho or having an opportunity to talk to her again had no effect on him. Harry could barely remember the boy who had had such a crush on the Ravenclaw Seeker, and realized how much he had changed, while everyone else thought he was the same. "Thanks, Neville, but I have somewhere else I need to be."

"Oh. Well, if you change your mind, we won't be heading down for another hour."

"Thanks, mate."

Neville returned to the group, and Harry continued on to Dumbledore's office. He made his way past with "Pepper Imps" and ascended the steps. Dumbledore summoned him in after he knocked, and greeted him from behind his desk. "To what do I have the pleasure of your visit, Harry?" he asked, though Harry was sure he knew. There was something about Dumbledore's twinkling eyes and smile that made him feel like everything he said was already so obvious to the Headmaster.

"Sir, I was hoping that you would allow me to use your fireplace to go to The Burrow for the rest of the Easter break."

"You have already discussed this with Professor McGonagall? As Head of Gryffindor, she must be made aware of your plans, otherwise be distressed with worry at your absence." Harry had not thought of this. He hesitated, and Dumbledore smiled again. "Harry, I will permit you, as you seem quite determined to go, and I will inform Professor McGonagall. But first, I must ensure that you are expected by the Weasleys. It would be quite poorly of me to send you unannounced."

"Yes, sir. I have a letter here."

Harry rummaged through his bag, feeling for the parchment. He produced it and handed it to Dumbledore, who read it, mumbling, "'Dear Harry, I'm sorry you are staying at Hogwarts over Easter. I hope that… Ah! If you change your mind, please feel free to come at any time. Our home is always open to you. Love, Molly.' Yes, that is quite satisfactory." Then turning to Harry, he added, "Without those words, it would be impossible for you to travel there by floo powder. Security measures, of course. Just as it is impossible to Apparate into any building; you would still have to ring the door bell." Harry nodded.

Dumbledore returned the letter and stood up. He walked over to the immense fireplace on the far side of the room, gesturing to Harry to follow. Harry joined him at the hearth. Wordlessly, Dumbledore waved his wand over the empty fireplace, making green flames erupt from the grey coals. He took what looked like a polished trophy from a nearby glass cabinet and held it out to Harry. Harry recognized the floo powder immediately and took a good pinch. He stepped into the flames and looked at Dumbledore.

"Good luck, Harry," Dumbledore said, "and my regards to the Weasleys."

"Yes, and thank you, Professor." Harry threw the powder to his feet and felt the flutter of green flames as they climbed higher around him. "The Burrow!" he bellowed clearly. Then he was spinning, and lights flashed and streaked around him as he turned. There were fireplaces passing him by and he wondered how long it would take before he was there. And he began to wonder other things.

What would Ginny think? Would she turn hostile, or be surprised and - dare he wish? - impressed that he'd be so bold to insist that they straighten things out? What was he going to say to her? He didn't even know. He wondered if the rest of her family knew that he'd hurt her. Anxiety crept up from his chest to his throat. Was he doing the right thing? He started to feel ill.

Suddenly, everything stopped moving and he stumbled forward. Ash clouded his vision, scratching at his eyes, and he fell to his hands and knees, spluttering. Though temporarily blinded, his eyes watering, Harry knew where he was. He'd been hit with a tide of familiar smells; home cooking, the slight mustiness of the old carpet Mr Weasley refused to throw out, and the heady perfume of those small, pretty flowers that filled every window box.

He had arrived at The Burrow.

I love making Harry suffer. It suits him so well. I still don't know where this is going, but I'd love some feedback!