3. The madness of Harry Potter

Harry apparated in a small, neatly manicured square. He staggered on his feet a little and stood still on the grass for a few moments to steady himself. Almost immediately he was hit by a wave of nausea. He dropped to his knees and vomited into the grass. He remained there for a few minutes doubled over, his eyes shut. He felt light-headed, as if his brain had shrivelled, but the nausea had passed. Finally he stood up and looked up at the building where he and Ginny had been living for the past six months. They had decided to close up Grimmauld Place after Kreacher died. The atmosphere wasn't quite right there anymore and the house was too big for the two of them anyway. A foundation set up to help families decimated by the Death Eaters now occupied the house, although they still had access to the top floor, where they had stored some old furniture and other belongings that either wouldn't fit in their current flat (resizing charms had a habit of running out after a while, with disastrous consequences) or which they felt shouldn't be taken out of Grimmauld Place. Harry didn't rule out the possibility of going back there in the future, but not for the present, or any time soon.

Looking up to the third floor, he could see that the light in their living room was off: Ginny must have retreated to their bedroom. Disposing of his broom, he fumbled in his pocket for his front door key. Muggles lived in his building and in the other buildings around the square, so it made sense to keep a regular, non-magical key. He quite liked living among Muggles who weren't the Dursleys. Having located the key, he blankly turned it in the lock, entered the communal entrance hall of the building and trudged up the stairs. The flat was indeed far smaller than Grimmauld Place, with just a living room, one bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom, but it was only really intended as a stopgap.

The living room of their flat was dark and silent. He went into the kitchen without any particular goal. He turned on the light, took a couple of turns around the kitchen and then opened a cupboard door at random, only to shut it almost as soon as he had opened it. He went back into the hall and saw a line of light beneath their bedroom door. He felt light-headed and tense. He pushed upon the door and went in.

Ginny was lying on the bed, in a dark hooded sweatshirt and dark leggings. She looked up from her book and said nothing. Her face was pale but betrayed no expression. He stood in front of the bed and folded his arms. He found that he had no intention of speaking first.

'All bloodied up again, Harry,' she said in a low voice. 'I suppose you were waylaid by some dark wizards on the way home.'

He bowed his head slightly, in a vague attempt at seeming contrite.

'I know, I should have let you know I was going to be late.'

She assessed him coolly as he spoke.

'One of the more useful things Muggles have come up with, mobile phones, you know …'

He went and sat on the edge of the bed.

'Ginny,' he said, stretching his hand across the bed until it was a few centimetres from her outstretched leg. 'I'm sorry.'

She pulled herself a little closer to him then recoiled violently.

'Is that the charming fragrance of vomit?' she said, her voice much louder. She pulled away from him until she was leaning against the headboard.

'By the way, you'll be sleeping somewhere else this evening.'

He shifted off the bed and stood up again.

'Look, I said I'm sorry. What more can I say?'

She looked down and noticed that she was still clutching the book she had been reading. She reached over to the nightstand and calmly laid the book there. She looked up at him again, her lips drawn tight and her brow creased. Her eyes seemed to study him, trying to work out what on earth he thought he was doing.

'So you're not even going to tell me where you were tonight.'

'I was just about to.'

She folded her arms.

'Don't bother. You were out with your little Slytherin friends. You only ever go awol when you're out playing hide and seek with them. That's where you were, isn't that right?'

He sighed in spite of himself.

'Yes, that's right,' he replied in a neutral sort of a voice, not sure whether to strike a note of regret or defiance.

'Why are you hanging around with these people? They're barely out of Hogwarts for a start. Why don't you hang around with people your own age anymore?'

Defiance was starting to win out.

'Are we really having this conversation?' he replied, raising his voice too. 'Do you really think there's something wrong with them? Who cares if they're from Slytherin? They're all right. And they were against Voldemort. Besides, Severus Snape was the head of Slytherin.'

'Severus Snape has nothing to do with this.' She paused and began again in a more composed voice. 'Anyway, I agree that not everyone from Slytherin is bad. Henoc Lutumba is ok, but that Caius Hanmer is totally suspect. And don't even get me started on Ilaria.'

'What have you got against her?' He noticed he was starting to shake.

'What have I got against her? Well for a start she's so obviously after you. Always so interested in what you have to say, appearing to have all the same interests as you. Always looking at you with such a conspiratorial air. Oh yeah, you're such good mates.'

She had a point about Ilaria. But he had no desire to agree with her. He almost found himself wishing he was in Ilaria's company. He couldn't imagine her arguing with someone.

'I see, so all of a sudden I'm not allowed to have female friends.'

This drew a sarcastic smirk from Ginny, but she said nothing.

'This is incredible, coming from someone with as many male friends as you. I better not talk to Hermione anymore either.'

Her eyes narrowed.

'Oh I wouldn't want to deprive you of your best friend, Harry.'

The sarcasm in her voice took him by surprise.

'Why the sarcastic tone of voice?' he asked, trying unsuccessfully to appear calm. 'What can you possibly have against Hermione?'

'Oh nothing,' she replied, now mockingly upbeat. 'She's a lovely, well-meaning girl, who does her best to accommodate the feelings of me and my brother. She only puts her foot in it over you, let's say, about once a week on average.'

He folded his arms, his hands gripping his elbows tightly.

'What do you mean puts her foot in it?'

'Gets on my territory. Oh, she's enough of a friend to me to know that she's supposed to stay off it, much as it pains her to do so, but I think she genuinely can't help herself.'

'I'm your territory, am I?'

A look of fury shot across her face.

'Yes, Harry Potter, of course you are!'

'Well then,' he replied, 'you'd better give me some examples of Hermione's transgressions.'

She shot him a caustic smile.

'Where to start, Harry? The lingering embraces, the significant glances across the room, and the friendly advice, especially the advice! Imagine: Hermione giving me advice about you! You know Ginny, Harry's like this, Harry thinks that, don't forget what Harry's been through, Harry finds it hard to adjust to normal life now that the war's over. You know Ginny, Harry died and came back from the dead!'

'She wasn't really supposed to …' Harry began.

'Wasn't supposed to what?' Ginny retorted. 'Wasn't supposed to pass on to me what you obviously confide to her? You know Hermione, she loves to help out wherever she can. But I'm so pleased that you confide in her and not me.'

He felt himself swelling with rage. He dropped his hands to his sides and took several steps closer to her. He was now leaning over the bed and visibly shaking.

'Hermione risked her life a thousand times for me. Hermione was the only one who …'

Ginny leapt to her feet and shoved Harry, pushing him away from the bed.

'Who did what, Harry? Didn't I risk my life for you too? Didn't I, Harry?'

They stared at each other in the dimly lit bedroom. He couldn't say anything.

'You know what, Harry Potter? I think you wish you were back in the dark days. You wish you were still being hunted. You wish Voldemort was back so you could fight him again.'

'It's not that,' he began in reply. But what is it in fact? 'I just have these strange …'

'Strange what? Strange desires to fly your broom out in the middle of nowhere, exchanging curses with the remnants of last year's Slytherin quidditch team. What's next Harry, a duelling club with Draco Malfoy?'

'Look, it's just a bit of harmless …'

'Harmless fun? To enliven the boredom of living with me?'

'I never said …'

'When are going to realise that the world is safer and more boring now? You and I are safe. Our lives are boring, if being boring means not spending each day in fear of being murdered. When are you going to grow up, Harry Potter? When are going to stop wishing yourself back in 'the darkness', as you and Hermione like to call it? I can see how much it meant to you being the outlaw, with your faithful Hermione by your side.'

'You know something, Ginny, you claim to know me so well, but this is one thing you just don't get, and I'm starting to think you never will. If you're jealous of Hermione, you're insane, you're worse than Ron, because he at least had the excuse of being under the influence of a Horcrux when he had his little fit of jealousy.'

'Yeah that's right, Harry, it's a silly little fit of jealousy, and I'm a silly little hysterical woman. Not like Hermione.'

That's right. She's not like you.

'Understand this: there are just certain things that Hermione gets much better than you. You don't know what it's like to be completely isolated and hunted for month after month, living in the middle of nowhere, scavenging for food. You don't know what it's like to be abandoned by those closest to you, including your brother, by the way. You weren't there when I saw my parents' grave for the first time and the house where they were murdered. You weren't the last person still standing by my side. Hermione is the one person who has never given up on me, ever. It's as simple as that, no ulterior motive, no subliminal meaning.'

Harry stopped to catch his breath, which was on the verge of hyperventilation. His vision blurred, and he found it difficult to focus on Ginny, who was standing no more than a few inches away from him, visibly seething with anger.

'Do you have any idea how painful it is for me when you make me second best to her? Or when she presumes to think she knows you better than me? But I suppose she can't help herself, so maybe I should let her off. And what's more, she's so blind she can't see what it does to Ron. In fact, I think she actually congratulates herself on her restraint! With or without a Horcrux hanging round my neck I can see things very clearly. And I see it's hopeless trying to prise you away from your best friend. My father still has that tent, Harry. I suggest you take Hermione camping and the two of you can do whatever it is you do in the darkness.'

Something inside him snapped and Harry reached out and shoved Ginny hard in the shoulders, slamming her backwards onto the bed. He reached down over her, locked his hands around her neck and started to squeeze. Ginny screamed, but the scream was suddenly choked off. Suddenly realising what he was doing, He looked into her eyes and released his grip. She immediately raised her hands and pushed his away violently. He felt himself deflating fast, and fell to his knees in front of the bed. The feeling of total defeat that had flooded his body steadily gave way to disgust. He was unable to speak. He gazed up at Ginny with a look that was part vacant, part pleading. She looked back at him for a moment. It was perhaps the fiercest look anyone had ever given him in his life. But no hex followed: the next moment Ginny disapparated from their bed.

Alone in the bedroom, he slid to the floor. He stretched himself out limply on his side, feeling as if he would be engulfed by the shame and disgust that seemed to be seeping out of every pore in his body. He remained in a state of torpor for several minutes, until a violent tremor rippling down his spine brought him back to his senses. He felt utterly cold, but awake. He mechanically got to his feet and swayed across the room, not knowing where he was going. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung on the wall of their bedroom: his glazed eyes shone too brightly from a face that was sheet white. His matted dark hair seemed to be standing on end. He could not believe that the reflection in the mirror was his. Tom Riddle is smiling at me. He took out his wand and pointed it as if he meant to shatter the glass in the mirror. Instead, he turned the wand into his own face. He spoke the incantation clearly and with conviction:

Obliviate.

He found himself looking in the mirror at a face he didn't recognise. He looked around and saw that he was in an unfamiliar bedroom, surrounded by someone else's things. He tried to think where he was supposed to be, where the home was that he ought to be in at this hour. But he couldn't remember. Then it occurred to him that he didn't even know what his name was. He looked down at his hand and found he was holding a strange object, a slim, neatly crafted wooden stick. The object seemed to bear within it a memory, a dim memory, but one that was ridden with shame and reproach. He opened his hand and dropped the object to the floor. He heard the sound of footsteps and indistinct voices on the floor above him. Suddenly filled with panic, he bolted through the open door. He ran through an entrance hall, like a cockroach scuttling for safety when the kitchen light goes on, and wrenched open the front door of the apartment. The landing he found himself on was dark. He had no idea where the light switch was, and so he made for where he thought the stairs were, falling over twice as he leapt and slid down the steps.

When he got outside onto the street, the feeling of terror mingled with guilt began to subside. He felt as if he had been trespassing in someone else's life. Now he felt safer, just another stranger on the street. He raised his hand, looked at it and then brought it close to his nose and lips. He could smell a girl's perfume on his hand. A terrible thought seized him and he examined his hands more closely. There were no traces of blood.

He looked around and saw that several roads led off the square he was now standing in. Tall buildings loomed all around him, but he couldn't be sure that the roads leading away from there did not themselves lead to other places of danger. The second turning on the left somehow seemed to him the least menacing. He ran across the square and disappeared around the corner.

His heart was beating hard and he was sweating, but after a while he noticed that his extremities were growing cold. Cramps were starting to shoot up his legs from walking so fast. There was a light drizzle in the air. Nothing on the streets was familiar. Only the sky, illuminated by the glare of the streetlights and decorated by myriad droplets of falling rain, seemed a friend to him.

He kept on walking and the pain in his legs intensified until he was forced to stop and rest. He leaned against a low brick wall. He glanced at the suburban street before him, some houses darkened, others with their lights still on. He still had no idea where he was going, but he began to feel the need for shelter and sleep. He walked slowly through a series of streets, passing no one, until he reached a wide expanse of greenery, dotted with trees and crisscrossed with footpaths. He walked onto the grass, relieved to no longer have houses all around him, looking down on him.

He soon arrived before a small concrete kiosk. In front of the kiosk was a small paved area enclosed by a low concrete wall. To one side of the terrace wooden picnic tables were stacked. He stepped over the wall and walked up to the kiosk. He leaned his face against the window and looked in. There was little inside, the kiosk seemingly shut up for the coming winter. He heard a rattling noise coming from behind the building. He walked around it and found that the noise was coming from a window that had not been closed properly, blown ajar by the wind. He eased himself onto the ledge and slipped through the window. He dropped down into the kiosk itself, a rectangular room consisting of a cramped kitchen, with a desk pushed into one corner and an adjoining toilet. He sat down at the desk and let his head rest on the table. The chair was more comfortable than he had expected, and he began to feel drowsy. With one last effort, he got up and closed the window and performed a brief search of the kitchen. Most of the cupboards were locked, but in one he found a striped tablecloth. He lay the tablecloth on the floor by the side of the desk and then lay down on it himself. He pulled the remainder of the tablecloth over himself, then wrapped it around his body. Pleased with his sleeping arrangements, he looked up at the health and safety instructions pinned to the wall above the desk. He realised that he still felt exposed, so he shifted his position until his head and shoulders were under the desk. I'll know what to do in the morning. Then sleep overcame him.