VII

Harry couldn't get back to sleep. He'd turned in early in order to avoid conversation, particularly of the are-you-and-Ginny-back-together variety. The work they'd done all week was tiring, which meant that no-one found it strange that he wanted to go to bed. Now, however, he was regretting that decision. He'd already had about four hours of sleep and wasn't in the mood for more just then.

Deciding that staring at the curtains wasn't worth it, he crept out of bed and fished out his invisibility cloak. He held it for a moment, still in awe of what it meant, before slipping it on and padding out of the room. He sneaked through the portrait hole and stepped into the deserted corridor.

There was really no need for the cloak. He wouldn't run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, and even Peeves was keeping a respectable distance these days. In fact, the students didn't have nearly the usual number of restrictions, perhaps as a counter to the previous year's oppressive atmosphere. Still, Harry didn't want to be discovered by anyone on his travels. He shivered a little as his bare feet touched the stones. He decided that next time he was in the mood for a nighttime wander, he would wear socks; it made him chuckle a little at the thought that Dumbledore had been right about that after all.

He didn't have a plan, really. He thought he would just wander until he was tired enough to return to bed. Something was drawing him, though, and he was never sure later what it was. Perhaps it was some magic of Hogwarts, a desire on the part of the almost-sentient castle to heal itself. It might have been some latent remnant of the Founders, calling down through the years. Maybe it was something else he couldn't fathom. Whatever it was, Harry found himself moments later staring at the blank stretch of wall in the seventh floor corridor. He stood there for a long time, wondering what it was he should ask for.

For some unfathomable reason, the thought occurred to Harry that the Room of Requirement had drawn him there because of something it wanted rather than something he wanted. He wasn't sure how to frame a query, however. At last he settled on simply whispering, "I need you to show me what you want." He paced, keeping his eyes closed as he had done so long before when he'd wanted to find out Malfoy's secret project. When he opened his eyes again, the door was visible. He held his breath and turned the handle.

Harry gasped at the sight that met him. The room looked nothing like the way he remembered it on any of his previous visits. It wasn't the open space it had been when the DA met there nor the refuge it had been for hiding students. It wasn't even the crowded, messy place it had been when he'd gone in search of the diadem or to leave Snape's old book behind. Instead, it was a blackened, charred mess. The fiendfyre had destroyed every last thing in the room, and now it was full of burnt lumps and soot. The walls were cracked and peeling, covered in inky ash. As Harry stood there peering inside, something wet began to drip slowly down the walls and the whole thing heaved gently to and fro.

The room was crying.

Harry stood there, his mind racing. The Room had wanted him to see it, to see what had become of its magic. It had responded when he asked it what it wanted, and Harry assumed that meant it wanted to be restored just like the rest of the castle. He had no earthly idea where to begin. At last, unable to bear looking at the ruined Room any longer, he turned around and left, tiptoeing through the silent corridors back to the dormitory.


All through his work the next day, Harry was unable to shake the image of the ruined Room from his mind. The weeping walls haunted him, and he could think of little else. For once, he was finally distracted from his own inner turmoil. There had to be something he could do, but he had no idea how the Room's magic worked. He considered telling Hermione, but something stopped him. They'd lost a bit of their connection since returning from Australia; his own fear of being honest about himself kept even his closest friends at arms length. It was as though even the tiniest crack and he would be incapable of holding anything back from them.

By the time everyone had finished supper and retired to the dormitories, no one felt much like moving; they were all too exhausted. Weary students draped themselves over the common room furniture, and though there was light talking, the sound was low.

Harry, situated in a soft chair in the corner, dozed a little. When he woke, the sun had gone down and most of the others were heading to bed. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to tell someone about the Room. He glanced over at the sofa where Ron and Hermione were stretched out. She was leaning against him, a book in her hand; his arm was draped protectively across her middle, and he was playing with her curls with his free hand. Harry smiled faintly. He thought briefly about telling them what he'd seen when he'd gone to the seventh floor, but they seemed content. He was reluctant to bother them.

There weren't many people he trusted, however; aside from Ron and Hermione, the only other person he would have considered was Neville. He let his eyes wander the room, and he saw that it was now nearly empty—even Neville wasn't there. His gaze landed on Ginny, who was curled up in a chair by the window. She, too, had a book open, but she wasn't reading it. She was looking out the window into the deepening night sky. As though she sensed she was being watched, she slowly turned her head.

Harry had been caught out; he couldn't do anything other than offer a tentative smile, which she returned. He had an idea, which he very nearly stuffed back down for fear of doing something that would shred the friendship to which they'd agreed. Screw it, he thought, and he forced himself to stand and join Ginny by the window.

"Can I show you something?" he asked quietly, not wanting anyone else to hear.

Ginny frowned. "What is it?"

"It's not here. Can you come with me someplace?"

"I—why aren't you asking Ron or Hermione?"

He glanced over his shoulder to the sofa, and Ginny craned her neck so she could see around him. He said, "That's why."

"Oh." She set the book on the table next to her. "All right."

He put his finger to his lips, warning her to keep quiet. He stood and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. Without a word, they padded across the common room and slipped out. The corridor was cool and slightly damp. It was still early enough that Harry wasn't worried about what to say if they met anyone, though he was hesitant to imply that he was doing anything with Ginny other than having a pleasant evening stroll. Fortunately, everyone else seemed to be as tired as his own house-mates, and they didn't encounter anyone else on the way.

He led Ginny through the castle and up to the seventh floor. They stood there, staring at the blank stretch of wall. Ginny tilted her head in question, but she said nothing.

"Right then. We need to ask it what it wants," he told her. "That's how I got in last time. I think the Room doesn't work otherwise, but I'm not really sure."

"O-okay." Ginny shrugged, but Harry heard the note of uncertainty.

They paced, and when they stopped, the door was there. Harry grasped the handle. "Wait. Before we go in, you should know that it's not—it's not good."

Ginny nodded, and Harry returned it. He turned the handle and opened the door.

He felt her shift beside him, and she let out a gasp. He reached for her hand and took it, giving it a reassuring squeeze. They stood that way for what seemed like hours while Ginny took it all in—the ash, the soot, the weeping Room.

"What happened?" she finally asked.

"Fiendfyre," he replied, but he didn't elaborate, and she didn't press.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered. "It's like…it's almost like it's alive, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

She turned to face him. There was a glint in her eye, and Harry remembered again why he'd liked her so much. "Right. This Room—it kept us safe for nearly a year, and it's provided for us when we needed it. We need to help it."

Harry slumped with relief. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"Not just the two of us, though. I think maybe I want to tell Neville, too, since hiding in here was his idea. And we'll need Hermione, of course."

Harry grinned. "You mean we'll need Hermione to go to the library for us."

"That too." She paused. "You saw how exhausted everyone was, though. Are we going to be able to do this after we've worked all day?"

"I honestly don't know," Harry admitted. "I just know I can't leave it like this. I asked it what it wanted, and it wants to be repaired like the rest of the castle. Except it never would be, because it wouldn't occur to anyone else to know it needed fixing."

Ginny started. "What do you mean, no one else knows?"

"They don't know it was destroyed, do they?" As far as Harry knew, of the six people who knew about the fiendfyre, one was dead, one was carrying out a sentence for war crimes, and the other four were at Hogwarts. He was fairly certain Ron and Hermione hadn't told anyone about it, and he doubted Malfoy would have had the desire to implicate himself further.

"I was wondering about that myself. How exactly did it get destroyed by fiendfyre, anyway?"

Harry sighed. "It's a pretty long story."

"I have time," Ginny said, resting her hand on his arm.

"All right. But not in here." He stepped back out into the hallway. Once Ginny had followed, he shut the door behind him.

They found a secluded alcove and settled in. Harry wasn't sure where to begin. He'd assumed, the night the war ended, that he and Ginny would resume their relationship and he would fill her in on all the details. He'd thought about it at the time but decided against it, opting instead for a sandwich and sleep. Now, as they sat facing one another in the alcove, he was preparing to talk to her under very different circumstances than the ones he'd imagined.

"Well," he finally said, "the whole thing started with why we left last year."