Author's Notes: I apologize for the lack of frequency in updates since returning from camp, I've been very busy, but I hope to regain some normalcy and inspiration in my life so as to continue updating with more promptness in the near future. Readers, please continue to read, and reviewer(s), please continue to review! Thank you and, as always, enjoy!

Chapter IV: A Weasel's Tale

Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not linger long in the kitchen; after several moments of awkward embracing they broke apart and trooped soundlessly upstairs, agreeing more by silent knowledge than by communication the need to be alone. Harry's mind barely registered the familiarity of the Weasley's humble but warm abode; his feelings of satisfaction at having escaped Privet Drive were overshadowed by the circumstance surrounding his getaway.

The moment they were all three holed up in Ron's room—Harry noted that the drapes were drawn about the thin-paned window, barring the sight of the goings-on with the rest of the Order—Ron threw himself down on the bed and demanded, in a voice that was quite empty of emotion, " What happened?"

Harry launched instantly into as detailed a description of the events at Privet Drive as he could, grateful for the distraction on his thoughts which had, for a moment, begun to wander over the pronounced absence of Ginny. Harry watched closely as the distance drained away from Ron's face with the progression of the story, a bit of color seeping back into his cheeks, and he actually flinched when Harry reached the part about Voldemort speaking through Piers' body.

" Blimey." Ron muttered as Harry concluded the grim tale with Piers' near demise, and he ran his hand distractedly through his fiery red hair, glancing into the far corner of the room where Hermione sat, perched on a stack of old schoolbooks, staring anxiously toward the closed door. " Blimey," Ron repeated, his gaze swinging back to Harry, " That's really off. I knew that You-Know-Who was sick, but I didn't know he was that sick…"

" Neither did I." Harry replied, his tone weary. " But I guess it's not below him, then, is it? He hates Muggles, he wouldn't count it as much of a loss if Piers died…neither would I, for that matter."

" Harry!" Hermione snapped, swiveling about to glare at him reproachfully.

" Hey, I've a reason to hate him, haven't I? He used to beat me up at school!" Harry defended himself. " Besides, you know me, you know I was only joking…"

Hermione simply wrinkled her nose and turned away again.

" Still, it's a bit odd, isn't it?" Ron mused, seeming oblivious to their argument as he plucked at a threadbare patch on his bedspread. " If he wanted to say something about Ginny…" Ron's voice contorted oddly around her name, and Hermione glanced round at him with concern. " Why didn't he just say it right there in front of those Muggles? What difference would it make?"

" Who knows?" Harry sighed. " I s'pose I'll find out soon enough what he's after, anyway. No doubt it'll be something dark and forbidden, or else impossible."

They descended as one into a gloomy silence; after several moments, the door creaked an inch inward, and Crookshanks, Hermione's long-furred ginger cat, crept lightly in to join them. He leaped into Hermione's lap, completely ignoring Harry, who sat cross-legged with his back to the wall, and Ron, who was lying crossways along his bed, arms tucked behind his head, his entire lanky frame rigid with intent.

Silently, they listened for some movement from downstairs. With each passing moment Harry's tension grew, until he felt he would have liked to have leaped to his feet and begun to pace. But Hermione and Ron seemed just as on edge as he was, fidgeting nervously and casting wary glances toward the door every now and then, and Harry had the sneaking suspicion that the sound of his restless footfalls would only serve to heighten the amount of anxious anticipation bubbling in the air. Like a worried blister, it might burst, leaving their tempers flaring high, and somehow Harry felt that he could not stand to fight with his two best friends just now.

After what seemed like hours of silence—-though perhaps only minutes had elapsed—Ron spoke up, in a tone that suggested he was simply looking for a topic of conversation with which to distract himself.

" So, Harry, have you, er…talked to Sirius lately?"

Harry stiffened automatically at the name, exchanging a brief but loaded glance with Hermione, and then his gaze sought out a knotted rut in the floorboards beneath his legs and he refused to look up from it.

" No, I haven't." He worked to keep his tone nonchalant, but he felt that Ron, who knew him better than anyone else, was not fooled.

" Neither have we." Ron sighed. " Bit strange, isn't it, him staying out of contact? But I guess Hermione's right, after all, maybe he's feeling guilty about…"

Harry felt that familiar wrench of agony beneath his sternum as the conversation veered toward Ginny, and he cast his mind about desperately for another, less painful subject matter on which to build a conversation.

" Have the pair of you received your O.W.L.s yet?" Harry inquired at last, relieved to have settled upon a topic that was likely to cause him minimal sensations of heartache.

Hermione flushed deep scarlet at Harry's words and began to run her fingers jerkily through Crookshanks' long, fluffy fur. When her fingernails snagged on a particularly ratty knot in his coat, Crookshanks hissed indignantly and sprang from her lap, marching away to curl up against Harry's thigh.

" No, we haven't." Hermione replied at last, her voice slightly breathless. " But it'll be any day now, I'm so worried, I just hope I didn't fail…"

" You? Fail?" Ron snorted, and there was a hint of his old liveliness to the words as he rolled over, propping his temple against his hand. " Come on, Hermione, everyone knows you're the smartest witch in our class, I'll bet an entire month's worth of Divination classes that you'll beat the rest of us out by a mile…"

" You hate Divination, that's hardly a proper betting standard." Hermione retorted, but she looked flattered and somewhat reassured nonetheless.

Ignoring them both, Harry got to his feet—disturbing Crookshanks as he did so—and trudged wearily to the window, sweeping back the tattered draperies and leaning so close to the window that his breath fogged before him.

It seemed as though all manner of vapor and cloud and night had pressed itself directly against the opposite side of the glass, revealing nothing more than a sea of endless pitch to Harry's exhausted, searching eyes. He could make neither heads nor tails of the world beyond the window, and he wondered, vaguely, if this was all there was…just darkness and bleak, empty hopelessness.

" Ron, Hermione?" He spoke their names quickly, feeling a sudden need to be assured of their lingering presence behind him.

" Yes, Harry"' Hermione replied sociably but tiredly.

" D'you think…?"

But before Harry could voice his questions regarding the lightless night beyond the glass, the door shuddered inward loudly, and Harry ducked from behind the drapes as Molly Weasley slipped into the room and closed the door softly behind her.

" How's Fred?" Ron demanded, sitting upright at once. Crookshanks, who had been stalking tentatively toward him, gave up on them all and stumped hurriedly from the room, tail whipping indignantly.

" He's better." Mrs. Weasley allowed, though the dark shadows beneath her eyes betrayed the worry that her tone belied. " We managed to stem the bleeding, but your father's wondering whether taking him to St. Mungo's would be best…it's still up in the air, we'll see how he's fairing in the morning, and there'll be someone with him at all times…"

" I can take a watch." Harry offered automatically; though weariness was creeping over him in a numbing tide, he felt too restless to sleep.

" Nonsense, Harry, dear, you're dead on your feet." Mrs. Weasley replied curtly, smoothing the front of her apron lightly with hands that trembled just a bit. " You'll need a good night's sleep to go off tomorrow…and you, Hermione, you've had quite a night…"

" I'm fine, I'm not tired." Harry interjected loudly. When the others turned to gaze at him curiously, he explained rapidly, " I swear I'll be fine, Mrs. Weasley, I won't stay up too late."

" Oh, then…" Molly's cheeks colored slightly. " Very well, Harry, but be careful…don't led Fred move about too much, we're not sure of what might restart the bleeding…"

" Right." Harry nodded vaguely, his mind drifting, recalling the last few moments they had spent in his Aunt and Uncle's kitchen…And he forced himself to ask, " What'll happen to my Aunt and Uncle? And Dudley? They saw Fred and Piers…I mean Voldemort…using magic. Will the Ministry have to Confund them, or something?"

Mrs. Weasley looked acutely sympathetic, and Harry's uneasiness evaporated to be replaced by cold defensiveness as he caught the pitying light in her eyes; he hated being pitied, and Mrs. Weasley should know better than most that his concern was more for Fred and George being tried for misuse of magic than for the future of his relatives.

" I can't say for certain, Harry." Molly admitted, her voice soft. " We'll have to ask Arthur, he might know. In the meantime, why don't you three come down the kitchen? I've just put supper on the table, and you all look like you could do with something to eat…"

" That's always Mum's solution." Ron muttered. " If no one's dead, then the problem's not so big that food can't fix it."

Hermione stifled an off-pitch giggle behind her hand.

The house was unusually quiet as they descended back to the ground floor; hardly a sound wafted through the high, airy chambers, and Harry felt dread creeping across his skin; he hadn't seen the Burrow looking so deserted since he had first come here years ago…

Mrs. Weasley led them as far as the sitting room, and then turned, pressing one finger dramatically to her lips. Satisfied after a moment that they would not follow her, Mrs. Weasley pivoted on heel and disappeared through the sitting room door. Harry leaned forward and listened intently, but he could discern nothing absolute beyond the strained swirl of voices. Frustrated, Harry resisted the urge to kick the door.

Hurry up…

After several moments, the door swung inward, and tall, balding Arthur Weasley emerged; his face looked drawn with fatigue and his eyes shadowed with uncertainty. He paused briefly to clap a hand on Harry's shoulder, and then he slouched off toward the kitchen. Harry remained rooted to the spot, straining to peer past the door shifting on its hinges, to catch a glimpse of Fred…

" Dinner, Harry." Mrs. Weasley spoke firmly, materializing in the doorway and blocking his view. " You'll need your strength if you're going to take watch."

" Okay." Harry agreed mechanically, and he turned to follow her from the room. As he did so, Ron stepped away, his head swiveling toward the sitting room.

" I-I'll take first watch." He volunteered, his voice quavering. " I just ate…"

" Fine." Molly sighed, all sense of authority draining from her as she trudged toward the kitchen. Hermione and Harry exchanged a worried glance, then fell in at her side, walking in silence to the kitchen.

They found the table absolutely crowded; Mad-Eye and Lupin were there, as was Tonks, Sirius's cousin, and Arthur with George at his side. George looked whipped, there was no better word for it, and he was staring down at a piece of chocolate on a small dish before him with listless eyes. Tonks was rubbing his shoulder gently but awkwardly, her head bent close to his, and as Harry passed them, on his way to the nearest empty seat, he caught a stream of breathless words issuing from Tonks's trembling lips, " He's okay, George, your brother's going to be fine…"

Harry felt sick to his stomach as he dropped down onto the wooden chair and buried his face in his hands. The horror and anger at what had transpired that evening had faded and bled into a terrible guilt that seemed to be eating him alive. Harry's eyes burned and his heart ached. He was so tired…

" Here." The voice that spoke near his head was quiet; Harry lifted his face away form his sweaty palms as Lupin pushed a mug of frothing butterbeer toward him. " Drink it."

Harry obeyed, hardly tasting the drink as it slid down his parched throat. He downed the whole of the glass in two gulps, then stared at the last miserable dredges in the bottom, swirling them around the base of the mug disinterestedly.

" Harry."

He glanced wearily up.

Lupin was leaning toward him across the table now, his face intent but haggard, and Harry realized that, as none of the others were paying them any mind, now was the perfect time for him to inquire as to Lupin's knowledge of his sleeplessness.

But before Harry could open his mouth, before he could speak at all, Mrs. Weasley was setting a cold sandwich before him, and urging him to eat; again, Harry obeyed without thinking, and while he was distracted Lupin was engaged in conversation by Tonks—who, it seemed, had given up on trying to comfort the inconsolable George— and the fleeting opportunity to question him was lost.

As Harry consumed the chicken-salad sandwich, he felt strength flooding back into his limbs. He hadn't realized until that moment how hungry he was, but he could see that Mrs. Weasley was infinitesimally cheered when he asked for a second sandwich. George, he couldn't help noticing, did not touch his food at all, but simply sat staring at the wall, as though he could see through it, to the sitting room where his twin and his younger brother were sheltered.

" Mr. Weasley?"

Hermione's tentative voice reached Harry through the dull murmur of interlacing voices. He wrenched his eyes away from George's creased, weary face as Hermione leaned across Mad-Eye to speak to Ron's father.

" Mr. Weasley, did George tell you what…what happened at Privet Drive?" Hermione's voice was careful, and Harry knew that she was attempting to dodge the subject of Fred, fearing, perhaps, that she would upset the Weasleys.

Harry hid his rush of admiration for her tactfulness by moving in to conquer his second sandwich.

Arthur Weasley leaned back in his chair, arms folded, and eyed Hermione speculatively, but not unkindly. Harry wondered if he could guess what she was playing at…he himself had a faint idea…

" Yes." Mr. Weasley confirmed at last. " George told me about the Muggle boy being possessed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." Mr. Weasley's voice was strained with distress; Harry knew that Arthur Weasley had a certain fondness for Muggles and greatly disliked the wizarding prejudices against them.

" Yes." Hermione plowed on, sounding a bit more lively. " Yes, about that…F-Fred and George called it Magical Channeling. They said you knew something about it…could you maybe tell us what you know?"

The subdued chatter humming about the table died away almost at once. Lupin and Tonks pulled away from one another with curious and slightly wary expressions; Mad-Eye, who had been silently watching all the talk-about without participating, grew exceptionally still; both of his eyes, magical and non-magical alike, were fixed on Arthur. Even George turned to face his father, and Mrs. Weasley leaned against the countertop, watching the proceedings with some unreadable emotion in her eyes.

Mr. Weasley ran one hand shakily through what was left of his fast-fading hair, and then he smiled, with what seemed like an enormous effort.

" It's a very complicated thing, Magical Channeling, and difficult to explain." Arthur exchanged a hasty look with his wife, and then turned back to meet Hermione's alert, expectant gaze. " I want your word, all of you, that what is said here tonight does not leave these walls. Understood?"

" Yes." Was the chorused agreement.

" Very well." Mr. Weasley sighed heavily, after a moment of gazing around the room. " The art…if you could really call it an art…of Magical Channeling was discovered nearly a century ago by a wizard known as Gaunt. Rumor has it, as there are no solid accounts, that hecame across the power to control Muggles by inserting a bit of his magical self into them when he was caught in a duel with a powerful wizard in broad daylight. He used a Muggle as a shield via Imperius, and, well…his desperation in the moment acted as a floodgate for this new ability."

" How does it work, exactly, Arthur?" Tonks interrupted, her eyes shining with interest. " I heard it mentioned when I was in training to become an Auror, I've always wondered…"

" It's no simple thing." Mr. Weasley interrupted her. " But I'll try to explain it simply." He smiled weakly at Harry, who forced himself to return the gesture. " To channel one's magical self into another body is an extremely dangerous act for both the wizard and the Muggle…or Squib…that he is performing on. Squibs are in considerably less danger of dying from the strain, however, since there is still a bit of magic in their veins, even if they can't use it. Muggles, however…well, the strain of magic on their bodies can often be too much for them to handle. They can succumb quite easily."

" Fred and George also told us…" Hermione glanced quickly toward Harry, then away. " That a conscious connection has to be made between the wizard and the…host."

" Yes." Mr. Weasley was talking more freely, now, perhaps not thinking about Fred as much, and Harry felt his alertness rising as the tale continued. " Yes, they're right. A wizard cannot use Magical Channeling on an unconscious body, it simply won't work…no one is quite sure why. And even then, after the connection is established, it is a very dangerous art to perform…the wizard drained on the one hand, the Muggle stricken to his soul on the other. The use of Channeling was outlawed in 1925, but it seems that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named learned of it…somehow…"

Mr. Weasley fell into a brooding silence. Harry and Hermione exchanged another fleeting look, and then Harry straightened in his chair, and spoke, choosing his words carefully.

" Another thing, Mr. Weasley…when we were at my Aunt and Uncle's house, it was…it was Piers…the boy possessed by Voldemort…" He ignored the way all of them except for Hermione and Lupin flinched at the name, and went on, " Who cursed Fred. So I'm wondering…what can you tell us about that?"

" I'm sure the boys filled you in already." Mr. Weasley sighed. " But the gist of it is that the wizard who uses Channeling has much less control over their own powers when they're flowing through the body of another. If the host is threatened in any way, then they, Muggle or not, can use the powers of the wizard to defend themselves…generally by the wizard's bodily consent, though that particular theory is still up in the air."

" So when Piers cursed Fred…" Hermione spoke, slowly.

" Judging by how powerfully the spell worked, it must have been You-Know-Who's doing, and not the instinctual reaction of the boy, who as being attacked, I hear." Mr. Weasley's voice shook slightly.

Harry transferred his gaze to the scarred tabletop, thinking.

" I've been wondering something else, Mr. Weasley." He spoke, after a moment.

" Yes, Harry?"

" Well, it's kind of strange, isn't it, how much Voldemort has been going at your family? First his snake attacked you at the Ministry, then they kidnapped Ginny…" Harry's throat swelled around her name. " And now Fred…"

There was a prolonged silence in the wake of his words that threatened to become uncomfortable. Harry glanced up in time to see Lupin and Mr. Weasley exchanging a loaded glance, while Tonks fiddled with the ends of her bright pink hair and Mad-Eye took a long draught from the flask always tied at his hip.

" What?" Harry demanded, meeting Hermione's bewildered gaze across the table.

" That's just…that's what happens in war, Harry." Arthur Weasley replied quickly. " If you're fighting…you lose things…things that will make you wish you hadn't been fighting in the first place…"

" This isn't a war."

George's voice was so quiet, Harry hardly heard him. But the others turned at once to watch him, curiosity burning in their eyes, and so Harry did as well.

" This isn't a war." George went on, barely whispering. " It's a vendetta. Voldemort came back. We made him angry. Now he's going to take everything we care about…every bit of it…until we can't fight him anymore."

Harry had never heard George sounding so hopeless, so devoid of lively cheer. It was as though the attack on his twin had demolished a bit of his soul—the bit that was always smiling and lighthearted and fearless.

" He'll hit us where it hurts most." George continued, gazing down at the tabletop, his voice soft but somehow hard-edged. " Because that's what he knows best. And we all know where he's leading up to, because there's only one place and only one way this can end." And as he spoke, George's eyes swung to Harry, and settled on him. His gaze was like that of a man who had seen too much, in too little time.

Harry's heart began to race.

" How? How's it going to end?"

" Now how, Harry, not how." George shook his head. " Not how, but where?"

" That's enough."

Molly Weasley's voice was thunderous, whipping through the brief silence, and Harry jumped. George leaned away from him, and Mrs. Weasley pushed herself between George and Tonks and began to speak very quickly into her son's ear.

" Right, then." Mr. Weasley got to his feet, looking strained. " Harry, you offered to take a watch by Fred's side, I think you'd better do that now…we'll send someone to relieve you in a few hours' time…"

" Yeah." Harry replied vaguely, his eyes still on George. His pulse was pounding in his wrists.

One-by-one, the others rose, and bade Harry goodnight in subdued voices. As the room emptied, Harry found himself still unable to move, his body frozen to the spot, until it was only him and Hermione left standing, watching each other with the table between them.

" What was that all about?" Hermione demanded, her voice pitched slightly higher than usual with fear.

" I dunno." Harry shook his head. " I think George knows…I think he knows something about Ginny, maybe. I think they all know, but they don't want to tell us."

" Why not?" Hermione sounded truly perplexed.

" Who knows?" Harry shrugged. " Might be something dangerous…might be the reason everything's going wrong with the Weasleys. I think I was right, I think there's something else going on here…first Mr. Weasley gets attacked, then they take Ginny, then Voldemort curses Fred…"

" But, if their family is being targeted, then that means…" Hermione's voice trailed away in horror.

" Ron." They spoke the name simultaneously.

" Oh, no, no." Hermione sank back into her chair, her hand over her mouth, her eyes glazed. " What if they come after him next? What if Voldemort tries to use him to get to you? What if…?"

" Stop." Harry interrupted her firmly, though each word she spoke expressed his own fears. " We might not even be right, Hermione. Maybe it is just coincidence that the Weasleys are taking so many hits nowadays…maybe it's just because they're at the center of the order, in Dumbledore's inner circle…"

" Maybe." Hermione echoed weakly.

A pause stretched between them; Harry's hands gripped the tabletop so firmly, his palms began to ache; the skin stretched raw over the scar on the back of his hand, reading, I must not tell lies.

" Well." Hermione spoke at last, her voice a token stronger. " I'm going off to bed. I-I think I'll take a shift watching over Fred tomorrow." She got to her feet, stood awkwardly for a moment, and then hurried from the kitchen, vanishing out of sight.

Harry lingered for several minutes in the deserted, quiet kitchen, listening to the comings and goings of his own breaths, and then he turned and followed Hermione from the room, through the swinging door and into the sitting room.

When Harry stepped into the sitting room, his first thought was that it seemed almost deserted; there was very little light, save for the thin beams of moonshine arcing through the large window opposite him, and for a moment he stood in absolute stillness and silence, waiting for his vision to adjust.

And then he heard it; a voice was speaking softly, raggedly, into the quiet gloom, a voice that was unmistakably Ron's.

" And…d'you remember that time when you turned my stuffed bear into a spider? I thought Mum was going to blow a blood vessel, she was so mad…" Ron's voice caught around a shaky laugh. " And then that stupid charm you and George taught me right before I started first year…made me think I could turn Scabbers yellow…prats."

Harry leaned against the wall, holding himself rigidly still, unwilling to disrupt this private moment. He had never heard Ron sound so terrified, so broken—sitting beside his brother, who was hovering near death's doorstep, Ron looked no more powerful than Dudley's gang had when they stood before the terrifying power of Voldemort.

Several minutes passed in absolute, surreal silence. When it became obvious that Ron had run out of things to say, Harry steeled himself and stepped from the shadows, into the shafts of moonlight slicing through the window.

" Ron?" He whispered.

The dark, lanky shape of Ron shifted suddenly, and Harry could see that his friend was kneeling beside the high-backed sofa at the center of the room, which was back-on to Harry. Ron was clutching something in his hand, and, when he glanced up, his expression was one of mingled surprise and defiance.

" Hi." He greeted, hoarsely. " Did you hear…?"

" Not a word." Harry lied firmly. Ron looked acutely relieved.

" Oh…okay, then."

He dropped his head, and Harry, sensing consent in the movement, walked tentatively around the couch to stand at Ron's shoulder. He squinted downward at the bundle of blankets splayed across the couch…and felt literally sick.

Fred was lying beneath a heap of comforters piled so high, they nearly topped the back of the couch. He was shivering slightly, his eyes closed, his fiery red hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. A faint trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, down his chin; he was pale as death, paler than anyone Harry had ever seen, but he was suddenly reminded of Voldemort's ashen pallor…

" How is he?" Harry whispered, though he rather thought that his eyes told him everything he needed to know. Still, he wanted to hear Ron talk—to hear something beyond the uneven rasping of Fred's breathing, and he had to admit, if only to himself, that the sight of Ron down on one knee, clutching his older brother's hand, made him feel terribly isolated…an outside witness to a terrible tragedy.

Ron made an odd shrugging motion in response to Harry's question, and the movement nearly unbalanced him.

" The same, I suppose." He muttered. " I was hoping Hermione would show up with some book that'd tell us what's wrong with him…"

" Time enough for that later." Harry interrupted quickly. " You look exhausted. Go to bed. I can take a shift."

" Are…are you sure?" Ron inquired, glancing around with shadowed eyes. " You just got here, you aren't tired, are you?"

" I don't sleep." Harry murmured, kneeling beside Ron. " Besides, I couldn't sleep here. It makes me think of Ginny too much." The explanation escaped him unbidden, and Harry suddenly felt as though he had confessed a terrible crime to someone with the power to punish him for it. He glanced sidelong at Ron, but his friend looked nothing so much as agonized.

" Yeah…yeah, I know what you mean." Ron whispered. " I can't stop thinking about her…about what those gits might be doing to her…"

An uncomfortable silence hung between them, as Harry tried to fend off the images that Ron's words had conjured in his fatigued mind.

" Right." Ron sighed, after several moments. " If anything changes…if he wakes up, or…you know…you'll come get me, won't you?"

" Absolutely." Harry assured him. " Just go, get some sleep."

" Right." Ron repeated, though the single word was distorted around a massive yawn. " Right." He released Fred's hand—which fell limply against the side of the couch—got to his feet, clapped Harry gently on the shoulder, and then departed. A faint beam of light from the hallway pooled beyond the door as it swung open beneath Ron's hand, then vanished as he did; the semidarkness returned.

Harry settled back onto the threadbare rug, watching attentively as Fred slumbered; it hurt Harry desperately to be so powerless to help, but he knew of no spell or charm to combat whatever Fred's infliction was, and he was an underage wizard besides…his skills would be of no use here.

The minutes fled past; the moonlight shivered sideways across the floor. Harry watched a fly twirling crazily against the windowpane, then grew bored of this and began to count backwards from one hundred…anything to keep his mind off of Ginny, in this place where her presence felt so pronounced…

An hour passed; Harry felt no more exhausted than ever he had, and Fred did not stir, save for the occasional jerking of his limbs, the convulsing of his body that brought a fresh trickle of blood to his lips. Overcome with pity, Harry used the sleeve of his own much-worn shirt to wipe Fred's face clean, and then he laid back flat on the floor, arms tucked behind his head, and watched as the shadows of the tree limbs outside the house moved noiselessly across the ceiling…

It was nearing half-past one, judging by the position of the moon, which Harry had learned to calculate during Astrology classes at Hogwarts, when a soft knock at the door roused him from a state of near-inertia; he had not been sleeping, not truly, merely sliding in and out of a state of restless semi-consciousness, his thoughts revolving from Ginny to Fred to Sirius and back again, and he leaped completely upright at the sound of a fist hammering against wood.

" Who's there?" Harry demanded softly, his heart pounding. He had half a mind to reach for his wand, but thought better of it; he didn't want to do something rash in a volatile burst of emotion.

His moment's pause of contemplation served him well; the voice that responded to his summons was quiet and familiar.

" It's just me, Harry."

" Professor Lupin?" Harry had no explanation for his relief…only that his many sleeplessness nights, tallying six now, were driving him absolutely mad with nerves. He was trembling fit to burst as Lupin stepped into the room, keeping well to the shadows, and circled around the couch to sit leaning against its arm, his serious gray eyes fixed on Harry, who sank back to his knees on the torn and ragged rug.

For a moment, teacher and student regarded one another, and Harry felt all the more a child beneath Lupin's wise, piercing eyes. Vaguely, he wondered what his ex-professor was seeing in him…wondered what lies and pretenses those eyes were stripping away…

" Can't sleep?" Lupin murmured at last, and his voice was cuttingly loud in the near-silence. Harry flinched—again—and then turned away to glance at Fred, who remained relatively still and silent in sleep. Without meeting Lupin's penetrating gaze, Harry shook his head.

" Can't you?" He couldn't help adding. A sidelong look revealed to him that Lupin was smiling indulgently, a secret shining in his eyes.

" It's my turn to watch." He explained, gesturing to Fred.

" Oh."

Silence hung between them as Harry marshaled his scattered thoughts, attempting to conjure the proper words to voice the questions burning against the back of his throat. He watched Lupin watching Fred, saw the creases of worry that lined the face of a man who should have looked so much younger…and he felt an unexpected rush of affection for his ex-professor. Perhaps he and Lupin were more alike than he had ever realized…both outcasts in their own right, bearing the marks of a curse neither of them had wished for…and now they were both being hunted, searching for some form of solace, for redemption, a way to unweave the tangled web that hemmed them in at all sides…

" Professor?" Harry blurted the word without thinking, and Lupin turned, his eyes calm but questioning, to look at him.

" Yes, Harry?"

" What do you know about my…about how I'm not sleeping?"

Lupin's face shifted into the first real smile Harry had seen him wear in quite some time. Leaning his head back against the armrest of the couch, Lupin offered Harry a slightly superior look that reminded him vaguely of Hermione.

" Did you truly think, Harry, that no one was watching you? That we would just abandon you this summer, as you thought we did during the last? No," Lupin shook his head. " I suppose you would have every right to believe us unconcerned of your fate…after all, we haven't been in touch…"

" How come?" Harry pounced on this invitation to another uncomfortable subject, his voice growing slightly louder. " Why didn't you write me? You saw what happened on the train, you know what the Death Eaters are capable of…"

" Of course I know, Harry." In contrast to Harry's rising tones, Lupin was speaking more quietly. " That's why we weren't writing you. Because someone, somehow…we think it was Dumbledore…put some sort of charm on your Aunt and Uncle's house, and the Death Eaters can't seem to find it. We couldn't risk an owl being intercepted, disclosing your location. We were protecting you…"

" What if I don't need protecting?" Harry demanded, feeling anger bubbling up inside of him. How dared they treat him like a child, making all of the decisions about his life over his head, expecting him to just sit quietly aside? " What if I want to fight?"

" You don't know what you're asking, Harry." Lupin murmured.

" Yeah, I think I do!" Harry snapped.

" You don't." Lupin's voice was strained. " Whatever you've heard about war, Harry, whatever you've read, it's a filthy lie. There is no glory in war, no bright and shining future. Look at Fred." He gestured to the unconscious heap of blankets on the couch. " That is war. That's all there is…bloodshed and grief and fear, and the faint hope that maybe, someday, all of the fighting will be worth something."

Lupin passed a hand over his gray-cast face, and he looked suddenly a hundred years older.

" Peter Pettigrew…Sirius, for a time, while he was in Azkaban…and your parents, Harry. Those are just a few of the people we've lost to this war. Now Ginny is in the hands of the enemy and Fred might not even live to see dawn." Lupin shook his head. " There is no glory in war, Harry. We fight because we must…because it's what must be done for us to survive. But there is always a price to pay…sometimes, it's far too high."

Harry's mind rebelled against the implications of Lupin's words, but somehow they slipped past the barrier erected around his mind. His eyes were filled with hazy visions of Ginny being tortured, Sirius falling back through the veil, Ron and Hermione collapsing, surrounded by an aura of green light…

" It won't happen." Harry stated resolutely, shaking his head. " I won't let them die." His hands clenched into fists against his knees. Lupin followed the motion with shadowed eyes, and then half-smiled, sadly.

" You can't save everyone, Harry."

" But I can save them." Harry insisted, desperately.

" You sound like James." Lupin commented wryly. " He said the same thing when Sirius sent Snape down into the Shrieking Shack after me…'Don't be a hero, James!' Sirius told him, and your father replied, 'I can save him!'"

" And he did." Harry pointed out stubbornly.

" War and the mistakes of a foolish friend are two very different things, Harry, two wrongs that are also righted in very different ways." Lupin's voice was gentle, and something about his knowing tone incensed Harry. In one swift movement Harry was on his feet, hands balled into iron fists at his side.

" I'm not going to lose Ron or Hermione or anyone else to Voldemort!"

" The enemy's reach is farther and more in-depth than you know, Harry. His treachery is everywhere…the Ministry, the Muggle world, maybe even Hogwarts…" Lupin shook his head. " I never knew…I don't think any of us had any idea…that the second war would be this terrible. Spies on both sides…and some of the lines are being blurred…"

" Well, I think it's time we un-blurred them, then! I think it's time we stop running and stop hiding in the shadows. Voldemort's not afraid to show his true colors, why should we be any different?"

" Because more is at stake for us than just interference if Voldemort discovers who is part of the Order!" Lupin's voice was chiding, a reprimand veiled only dimly in his words. " Think, Harry…Voldemort's only fear is to be hindered in his rise to power. But we…we care for more than just ourselves. That is a strength and a weakness in its own right…it gives us something to live for, and something to die for."

Harry stared at him, fighting against the hot anger bubbling inside of him, fighting against the part of him that wanted to run from the Burrow, to confront their enemies head-on and avenge all that had been lost…

Lupin scrambled awkwardly to his feet and rested his hands on Harry's shoulders, catching and holding Harry's eyes, gray staring into green, and Harry felt strangely as though Lupin was trying to tell him something more than words could express…

" Do you understand, Harry?" Lupin demanded hoarsely. " I would die for any one of you. Every member of the Order would do the same. That is what it means to be a friend, to be a true wizard."

In this dimly lit room, with Fred convulsing slightly on the couch beside them and Lupin looking as pale and haggard as one of the beyond, Harry found, suddenly, that he could not bear to hear any talk of death.

" I'm going to bed." He muttered, shrugging off Lupin's hands. " Good night."

Lupin did not protest as Harry stormed from the room, letting the door slam shut rather loudly behind him.

Harry did not, however, go to bed, as he had said he would; instead he wandered blindly through the familiar hallways, entering whatever rooms were accessible, pausing outside the locked doors for indeterminable amounts of time, and all the while he found himself unable to understand his own mind…to understand why his heart was racing, his head pounding with a terrible, burning ache, or why his limbs felt so heavy and his dinner sat so stonily in his stomach…

Harry wandered for a good hour—up and down the corridors, circling the empty rooms, thinking, thinking all the while—before he returned to the first-floor landing, where the greater portion of the bedrooms were located in Weasleys' towering house, and he stood for a moment at the head of the staircase, his hand braced on the railing to his right. Bending double, he forced himself to breathe deeply, to keep his mind in the here and now, because every few moments he was catching glimpses of things on the periphery of his vision that could not be; dark stone walls, soft beams of light, subtle movements, shadows coming to life…

Harry pressed his fisted hand to his scar, holding the pain at bay by force.

" Get…out…" He muttered, each word distinct and fringed with ice. " Of my…head."

Several moments passed in absolute silence; at last, daring to lift his head, Harry saw that all was as it should be; the moonlight arcing through the window at the far end of the hall, the walls in their proper places, the night quiet and the shadows still. Inhaling deeply with relief, Harry stepped off of the landing and into the hallway and through the first door to his right, which stood partially ajar; a door through which he had never been before.

Immediately, he understood why.

The walls here were different than in any other room of the house; it was relatively smaller than the rest, as well, with only a single bed in one corner and a desk in the other; the floor was tidy, cleanly swept, and the walls shone bright silver in the moonlight. But what drew Harry's attention at once and made him feel unnecessarily hot with embarrassment was the sight of the name engraved on the bed's headboard, in silver letters that danced and twinkled: Ginny.

He couldn't describe how being alone in her room in the dead of night felt so wrong to him; but he felt suddenly like something unclean in a holy place, and backed at once toward the door…only to halt a moment later, his attention thoroughly captured by a picture situated on the corner of Ginny's desk.

Transfixed, yet still feeling slightly shameful for his creeping, Harry skulked around the reach of the moonlight slicing through Ginny's window, approaching the desk roundabout, and stopping with one hand braced on the rutted wooden surface, lifting the photograph to eye level with the other.

It was a picture that was as unfamiliar to Harry as it was unexpected; it was a picture of Ron, Ginny, Hermione, and himself at the Quidditch World Cup two years previously; Harry didn't know who had taken it, or how Ginny had gotten it, but his eyes were drawn, irresistibly, to the place where his arm brushed against Ginny's shoulder. She was smiling directly at the camera…or rather, at him, as he was now, staring down at her…with a smile of such bliss, it made her face look as though a light was shining from within. As in all wizarding photographs, the contents never stayed still for long—Ron and Hermione appeared to be fighting over a pair of binoculars, but Harry noted that his own time-preserved self was almost constantly in contact with Ginny—their arms brushing, their hands brushing, shoving one another occasionally…

And Harry wondered, then, with a sickening feeling of pain piercing through his gut, why he had never before noticed how there Ginny had always been—present, yet somehow elusive. Someone he depended on without realizing it, someone he was himself around, someone who understood him in strange, otherworldly ways…

Harry staggered backward until his legs came into contact with the edge of the bed, and he sank onto it, still staring at the photograph. Wave after wave of tortured loss swept over him as he felt the emptiness of this room—after a year of being out of use, it seemed to represent the void in Harry's life that Ginny had left behind.

And he noticed, gazing down at the photograph, that, if he looked deeply enough, he could see a certain sadness in Ginny's eyes, perhaps a longing, and it never seemed to fade…instead it strengthened each time their skin touched, and Harry wondered if he had always been to her as she seemed to him now; untouchable, set apart, as distant as the limitless stars.

With a heavy sigh, Harry lay on his back, holding the picture high above his head and gazing at Ginny's face with a sort of greedy alertness…as though, somehow, if he thought of her enough or dwelled on her face long enough, she would come back.

But the room remained empty and silent long after Harry's eyes began to tire. Laying the photograph facedown on the comforter at his side, Harry turned his head toward the wall, inhaling the musty scent of sheets that, somehow, reminded him of her.

And he thought of her as she must be now; scared and alone, perhaps feeling discarded, at the mercy of Death Eaters and Voldemort himself. He wondered if she would look as healthy and alive as she did in the picture; or was she hovering near death's doorstep, wondering why her family, her friends, and he, Harry, the boy she so admired, had abandoned her?

" I'm sorry, Ginny." He murmured into the silence, his voice breaking. " I'm so sorry…"

The night passed in a blur outside the window, and the moonlight highlighted the curvature of each tear that carved its way down his cheek.

Harry Potter was weeping.