Chapter Sixty-Nine: We Can Work It Out

It had taken a few minutes to find a corner of the castle that no one seemed to frequent. Dawn was a couple of hours away, now, and neither had any idea how long this would take. Harry was tired, every limb in his body seemed to weigh a ton, and it was almost impossible to keep his eyes open, but he knew that this could not be postponed. He would show his commitment to learning what was truly going on by bearing through it.

He ended up using the same unlocking spell Hermione had in first year (alohomora) on a locked door in the third floor Charms Corridor, because…why not? Though different, the setting put him in mind of many other things, stirring up memories of the night he'd spoken with Mother in the physical world, having pulled her from the Mirror of Desire, and of the night he'd faced off against Quirrell, fully awakening the side of his mind that…well, perhaps he truly couldn't shut out, anymore.

It had been different, before, when he could tell himself that it was just an irrational, deluded part of his mind that didn't know what it was talking about. But it had helped him to repair his soul when the dementors had rent him into a hundred pieces, and its advice was, while often questionable by standard morality, nevertheless insightful.

It had been different, before so much evidence had been given that what Mother said, was true. It had been different before Ron had spoken as if…as if….

As if what? He didn't like to think that he was running from anything (like Pettigrew) out of simple fear. But, what other explanation was there that fit everything he knew except that Ron was somehow a part of all of this, too? Perhaps one of the characters from his dreams. Perhaps the one he'd sought for the most fervently.

He refused to sit for the coming conversation. He probably should—there would almost certainly be a number of impossible revelations, if the rest of tonight was anything to go by—but he remembered what that not-so-distant corner of his mind had said: Stand your ground. Show no weakness.

And for some reason, he'd started listening to it; might as well see this through to whatever bitter end life had contrived for him, to make up for giving him so great a gift as his godfather (family) back.

"Ron," he said, to catch his attention. Ron, fidgety as ever despite the early hour, turned back to face him. "You said that you would explain—about those handcuffs. Where they came from."

He was too tired to beg, too tired to lie, too tired to fight. Maybe he'd fought the truth for a very long time. Perhaps, he'd known all along.

"It is a long story," Ron said. "One that I would do justice, if only I knew how. And difficult to know where to begin."

"Start at the very beginning," Harry said, thinking of The Sound of Music. Then, he frowned. That was a very ambiguous, vague request. And as Harry didn't know the story himself—

"I shall start at the end," Ron decided, in typical Ron fashion. "And I shall go back and explain more, after. The end will suffice: it is the most difficult to speak of."

Harry wasn't sitting, which apparently meant that Ron wouldn't allow himself such luxury either.

"It ends with death," Ron pronounced. "The death of too many whom I held dear. My mother died, and then my younger brother died, not even a day later. I had no experience with such grief, and thus I sought out the counsel of friends with no familiarity with those whom I mourned. My mother and my brother were dead, and I had brought death upon them—unintentional, yet nevertheless, it was my burden to bear. I once swore that I would protect him with my own life; instead, forsworn, I led him to his death. And though that was not a promise broken lightly—" he paused, and Harry suspected he was thinking of that first conflict with Malfoy, years ago, "—I nevertheless broke it, to great cost. And when I came home, finding that nothing took that sting away, the heartache, the pain, I turned to my father, who knew secrets I will never be able to understand, and begged him for any recourse, a way to undo what had been done."

"Begging doesn't suit you," Harry said. He had said it before—last year, he thought, and it was as true now as it was then. He couldn't imagine Ron begging, even though he had seen it himself. But there was something else strange, because what relevance did this have? Even the part of his mind that he'd shoved aside for so long couldn't see the way it all connected.

Ron managed a grimace, but refused to look at Harry. "He told me that I might be able to save them…but that I must go back in time, be born again, live a different life, as a different person. Give up everything I knew, and everything I loved. If I were willing to sacrifice everything, he said, I might succeed. I might be able to change what had happened, for it would then be the future, and not the past."

Ron officially sucked at explaining things, Harry decided, because this story was getting incredibly convoluted and hard to follow. And wait a second: go back in time? He'd heard of means to go back in time that had been studied, but the only even somewhat stable means was the use of time turners, closely regulated by the Ministry, and they still wouldn't be able to send you back years, or to enable you to be reborn…in another body….

Oh. The two puzzle pieces clicked together, and his stomach churned. He bit his tongue to keep from interrupting. He had nothing to say, anyway.

"I agreed," Ron said. "Perhaps I wished even to forget—to set aside that grief and shame, the remorse of what a foolish choice had cost. I agreed, and he used powerful magic to send me back in time…and I was reborn as Ronald Weasley. That was not my name before, but it is now. I am accustomed to it, now. For ten years, I knew no other name."

Harry closed his eyes. This sounded all too familiar, now. Ten years. And on the tenth year—that was when he had started having the dreams.

"When I turned ten years old, I remembered everything. That suffering and pain that for a decade I had been able to set aside, came rushing back. I remembered, and I understood, why I was here, in this world, and what I must do. I sought for my brother—my younger brother, who had died—and I found you. I knew you at once—how could I not?—but I kept my silence. Father told me that you would likely remember nothing. And while you remembered nothing, I had no desire to burden you with that pain. To protect you, I resolved to face what came, and to protect you on my own."

"Because I've had such an easy life," Harry said, with a sharp, bitter laugh. "Between Riddle and the Dursleys, it's a wonder I only died twice."

Because he was protecting you. He sacrificed everything for you, protested a voice that, with a bit of a shock, he realised was the voice he usually thought of as his own mental voice. Why did it seem foreign, now?

Ron looked hurt. "I only meant—"

"I had dreams when I turned ten, too, Ron," Harry said, leaning forwards, his voice low, and far too calm. Ron, sensibly, took a step back. But then, in true gryffindor fashion, he set his feet, despite his sudden pallor and shortness of breath, and stood his ground.

"What manner of dreams?" he asked, sounding wary, as if he already knew the answer. Whither the conversation was bound.

"I dreamt of a far-off land," said Harry, wistful in remembering the early days of his dreams, before it all had soured. "Perhaps I could ask you some questions, and see if anything sounds familiar."

He still remembered why he had gone to the library to research to begin with, years ago. The research that had led him to learn all manner of things he'd prefer not to know, and warned him of the sour turn his dreams would later take.

"Go ahead," Ron said, with evident misgiving. Harry closed his eyes, and bowed his head, and searched for a fairly vague question, a way to lead in, without being quite as alarming as he was tempted to be.

"Your father," he said, keeping his eyes closed. "Was his name 'Odin'?"

Ron took another step backwards. There was a moment when Harry thought he might not answer, and that was important, because if he refused to answer this question, then he would stay silent on the others. But if he answered this one…it committed him to answering the rest. The moment of truth, ironically.

And then, Ron spoke, just a single word. All he said was "yes", and that was all that he needed to say. As with Mother on that long-ago night, a one-word answer that left open no other interpretations.

Harry's heart decided to stop beating for a few moments. It couldn't be true. It couldn't all be true…could it? But this, here….

But there was still room for doubt. There was almost a sort of vindictive pleasure to be had of stripping himself of his own delusions.

"And your mother," he whispered, thinking of Mother in her cottage, and barely able to force out the words, even in a whisper. "Was her name 'Frigga'?".

Only one of the books in the library had used that name. Here, he was narrowing things down considerably. And Ron, who could not lie, who could only even say that he was Ron Weasley because that was in a sense true, was almost merely a sounding board, a means of proving what he already knew, in a way that he could no longer deny it.

"Yes," said Ron, and his voice was tight. Harry refused to look at him, refused to see how similar they could be in their grief. Show no weakness.

"And your brother," he said, desperation creeping into his voice, despite his fatigue. He had to ask the question. It had plagued him for years. "The one who died. The one you say is me—and you did say that we were the same person, didn't you? Was his name…was his name 'Loki'?"

And there it was: the question was in the air. It couldn't be taken back, now. There was a strong urge to see Ron's reaction, that he refused to humour.

The silence seemed a lot longer this time. Harry lost his internal battle, and glanced over at Ron. Ron looked…stunned, as if this were not going at all as he'd expected, and beneath that, the ever-present grief, that Harry had recognised, and then dismissed as after-effects of the dementors.

"…Yes," Ron said. Only, his name wasn't Ron. Harry was now absolutely sure of that, but he asked anyway.

"Then you…you're Thor!" he said, and this was not even a real question. "You…you—!" Words failed him, as they so seldom did. "Three years you knew, three years since we first met, and for three years, you let me suffer alone. I thought I was going mad. That is what came of your attempts to protect me. Do you never learn?"

He'd thought his energy spent, but the sheer injustice of it all flooded him, anger reawakening his mind, draining the strain from his sore muscles. He straightened up, marching forwards to confront Ron, to confront Thor, who, after all his questioning Mother, had been here all along.

"And especially after what I said about Hagrid and Sirius Black—that I hate it when people keep secrets from me—especially when they concern me, directly! You would think that you would learn from your father's mistakes!"

Ron's eyes were very wide. It was clear that he wasn't fully processing what he was hearing.

"I trusted you!" Harry cried. "How am I ever to trust you again?"

He needed time alone. He needed to think. He needed to leave. Unlike the Room of Requirement, he could not be shut in, here. Even there, he might have been able to access his seventh sense and force the door to reappear.

And somewhere beneath, the horrible suspicion that the anger was only a front, a way of avoiding the question that he now had to ask, but which Ron couldn't answer: Who am I?

"You…remember…?" Thor asked, voice somewhat subdued, which was saying something, for him. But Harry just remembered a similar conversation, years ago, with Mother. He knew the next word, and didn't want to hear it.

"I'm leaving," he said, cutting Thor off, his voice now completely level and calm.

But in three strides, Thor had blocked the door, arms folded. "You will hear me out," he said. "Tell me truly that I have ever mistreated you."

Harry had no great desire to damage the school grounds. He would have to find a way to force Thor to move out of the way, so that he could open the door and escape.

"Just let me go," he said, his voice far too level, as it was far too often, nowadays. Anger still surged through his veins, but it didn't show, as it hadn't last year, when he had given it free rein, in the wake of Hermione's petrification.

"Forgive me, little brother. I never meant for you to suffer alone. I thought that you were happy—at least, as happy as you could be, given factors beyond my control. I was only trying to protect you. But I admit that I was wrong. You are right. I should have learnt from Father's mistakes. I should have told you. I underestimated you, as I always have. And for that, too, I am sorry. I only wished not to lose you again. But I see that I erred greatly, and you have never been one who favoured forgiveness and lenity."

Harry wanted to be angry, truly he did, but a memory crept into his mind, the vague sentiment of his own opinions, back when his dreams had only been dreams, and he'd blamed Loki for tearing the family apart. That thought, that Loki was ungrateful, that he didn't appreciate what he had, that he didn't appreciate that his family loved him. That it didn't matter that they weren't related by blood. And that he, Harry, would have given anything—

"How much do you remember?" asked Thor, clearly hesitant, and there was an answer ready, but Harry swallowed it, tore it apart, and tried for something new.

"I remember everything, except for what happened after I fell. That's all in pieces…. I remember nothing after the Invasion. Perhaps, that answer pleases you."

He couldn't keep the bite from his voice, but it was not as sharp as it might have been. Progress.

Thor sucked in a deep breath. "…'Everything'," he repeated, eyes wide, and reached for Harry, as if he couldn't help himself, but Harry flinched, thinking of the Dursleys, and, eyes downcast, Thor withdrew.

"Then it was all for naught, after all. I am sorry, Brother. I meant only to help you. Forgive me."

Forgive me. Words spoken as if there were any merit to them. But the only thing Thor had done wrong was not to tell Harry. Harry, who had done too good of a job pretending that none of it were real. The anger drained away. He felt weak without it.

"What are you apologising for?" he snapped. "Just…leave me be." He didn't even feel like figuring out whether or not he was being consistent, or making any sense. There was pain in his voice, the pain of a wounded animal, and Thor seemed to realise that his lashing out was only born of desperation. His gaze softened.

Harry just wanted to rest, and to put this night behind him, although he knew he couldn't. It was all interconnected now; none of it could be denied without denying the rest.

"What am I to you, then?" asked Thor, and Harry tried for a smile, but it was too painful. Words from a dream, given life.

Harry sighed, and frowned. "You have been my bodyguard, although I did not see it. And you could never be a vassal, or a nursemaid. You are my brother, and therefore my equal," he said, and a smile tried to creep across his face, but its valiant efforts were dashed by Harry's lethargy. "See? I listened, sometimes."

He didn't know what would come of tonight. He only knew that things could never go back to how they were. But perhaps, once he'd acclimated to reality, they might be better.

"I don't know what happened between the two of you, but you're being stupid, and I'm tired of it!" she suddenly cried, throwing a heavy textbook down onto the coffee table of the Gryffindor Common Room so hard that the entire table wobbled, all chatter ceased, and everyone in the room turned to look at them.

Harry flinched, and then closed his eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he lied. It was a pointless lie, and they both knew it, but he was little more inclined to face what had happened right now than he had been a week ago.

"If this is about Scabbers—" she began, and he blinked, cocking his head in honest confusion, now.

"—You mean Peter Pettigrew—" he interrupted.

"—Ron really didn't know, and you're not being fair. I mean, he said that if he'd known the truth, he wouldn't have been so upset about Crookshanks trying to kill Scabbers—"

"Wait," Harry said. "Just how much did Ron tell you about what happened, anyway?"

He'd gone right back to calling him Ron. He didn't know what it was—habit, or delusion. It probably didn't matter that much, either way. Now that the truth was out in the open….

A week was far too little time for acclimation.

"Er…well, I'm not sure I understood everything he said, but he said something to the effect of Scabbers being a man named Peter Pettigrew who betrayed your parents to You-Know-Who. And he said that Sirius Black is innocent, and it was proven beyond a reasonable doubt, and something about how Black has been taken to a secure location pending trial…was there something else he should have mentioned?"

He'd left her out of the big secret, which, if you thought about it, was only to be expected. "…No," he said, wondering why he was keeping the secret, even as the truth was now eating him up from within. He couldn't talk about it to anyone. Sirius was the most tempting prospect—somehow, a certain sense of kinship made him easy to trust, violating Harry's norms of behaviour in a way that he should have found suspect. Ron was the second-highest candidate on the list—or he had been, but now….

Harry thought again of the Invasion, of the Coronation, of the Avengers, of a hundred things he'd been happier (or that he told himself he had been happier) thinking were only delusions.

"Then, really, you're making a big deal out of nothing," Hermione said, in such a supercilious manner that Harry grit his teeth, and stood, determined to find someplace that she wouldn't follow, and badger, badger, badger.

"You wouldn't be saying that, if you were in my shoes," he said, and, with a swift glare around the Common Room, he left.

"Ron's really upset, you know," Ginny said, looking as if she were seconds away from wringing her hands. "I don't think you two have ever quarreled before—have you? But Ron seems to think you're never speaking to him again—"

"So, he sent you to change my mind?" he snapped, and she flinched. Despite himself, his unjustified resentment towards her softened.

She thrust her chin up in an almost-haughty defiance, and crossed her arms. "No. I came to see you without being asked. I saw how miserable Ron was, and I thought—well, I'd made you see reason before—"

"That was different—"

"Quit interrupting!" Ginny snapped. "Let me speak!"

His eyes widened. Ginny's behaviour mystified him, but somehow—perhaps because he'd seen her at her most vulnerable—he wasn't alarmed by her when she snapped at him. And if Ron hadn't even sent her….

"You know, I idolised you, growing up. Then I met you, and realised that you're like everyone else—only a bit more socially awkward. And then…then last year…well, I suppose I respect you a lot for what you did, and I'm grateful to you, and all, but Ron's my brother, you know?"

No, Harry wanted to say. He isn't. The words strained against confinement, eager to be spoken.

"Ron loves you, you know? Whatever he did that made you upset with him, he didn't mean to. That's all I wanted to say. I know you wouldn't do what you're doing for no reason. I'm sure your anger is justified. But Ron didn't mean to hurt you. That isn't who he is."

She was spot on about Ron. Harry couldn't look at her. Silence reigned for a long moment. But Ginny was patient. She waited for him. He didn't want to know whether or not she could outwait him, too.

"I know," he said, the words a colossal effort to speak, harder than lesser truths. "I know he didn't. He just made me realise something I'd been trying not to. He forced me to face facts I was trying to deny. I suppose I'm shooting the proverbial messenger…but I just need time to…to think. To go through it in my mind, you know? I can't talk to him until I've straightened it all out in my head. Until I've straightened my head out. Will you tell him that?"

Her gaze was soft, and far too compassionate, as if she understood. As if she saw just how vulnerable and weak he was at the moment. He'd asked something similar of Hermione, but she'd refused, saying something about him being childish. But Ginny summoned a too-familiar, strained smile, and said, "Sure, Harry."

There was just one thing to be said after that, although it was perhaps a bit gauche.

"Say, Ginny, where have you been all year? I don't recall seeing you around."

Ginny huffed, and folded her arms, Ron-style, and frowned. Harry smiled at her.

"Harry! I thought that I might find you here!" a cheerful voice cried, causing him to start and very nearly spill his bottle of ink all over his notes on modern wizarding court procedure. He scowled, taking several deep breaths, and trying to be patient. It was probably a good thing that Ron was back to being fairly cheerful, despite…everything.

"Great. Now, I need to find a new place to hide," he said, in his flattest voice. Of course, he couldn't very well take this many books out of the library, a fact which Ron seemed to realise. "I asked Ginny to tell you to leave me be. Did she perhaps forget—?"

"She did say something to that effect," Ron mused, looking as if his thoughts had been knocked off-course. Now would be a good time to flee, if Harry were so inclined. But before he could, Ron came back to what he was saying. "I thought, perhaps, that you might not have been…entirely honest in your request."

"What, is lying all that I'm capable of doing?" Harry demanded, pushing against the desk with his hands to launch himself to his feet.

"That was not what I meant," Thor said, running a hand through his hair. "However, it has been more than a week—"

"Not long at all, by your standards," Harry said. "The blink of an eye. My transition was not easy, as yours was. Do you think I wished to be a monster?"

Thor shook his head. "You were never a monster, Brother," he said. He was saying all the right things, and Harry hated him for it. "We must talk. I will help you. I will do what I can. I have failed you before. I swore an oath to protect you, but I failed you. You suffered for my mistakes. I will not be forsworn again. I will swear another oath, if that is what I must do."

Harry's eyes widened. Suddenly, flight seemed imperative. He glanced around to see whether or not anyone were looking. Thor could make a spectacle of anything, without even trying.

"There is no need—"

"Whatever it is that I have done, only tell me. We can fix this. If we work together, we will succeed. I understand that I have violated your trust, but I know of no way to make amends, Harry."

"Why do you call me 'Harry'?" Harry asked. Surely, Thor's younger brother was more important to Thor than Harry was. Harry's only value to him was that he had once been—still was—Loki. Wasn't that right?

"That is your name," Thor said, with such evident confusion that Harry knew that he was sincere in his incomprehension—he truly didn't follow Harry's logic. "Did you wish for me to call you something else?"

Not that logic had ever been Harry's strong suit. He was better with manipulating people. Ron—Thor—was the chess master. And wasn't that strange?

Suddenly, all those old problems of identity seemed inconsequential. Ron had always been there, from the time Harry had met him on the Hogwarts Express, he had always helped Harry. That secret that loomed large had been kept for innocent reasons. And what did it matter, what name he was called? He was still Harry, still Loki, no matter what.

"Eh, 'what's in a name?'" he asked, with a crooked smile starting to spread across his face. For a moment, things were almost back to normal, almost better than normal, but then Harry remembered that Ron had interrupted. "Just leave me to work on Buckbeak's case in peace," he ordered, pointing in the vicinity of the library door as he returned to work.