Chapter One Hundred Forty-One: Love, His Guiding Force

The only reason he knew that there was a storm brewing, up above in the open air, was due to a personal connection with storms. Otherwise, the Ministry was quite soundproofed, enough that the natural noise of actual weather could not be heard here. He could feel a pull from the sky. He wasn't sure whether it was trying to take energy from him, or give it to him, or just to catch his attention. He was too far away.

Something was wrong. But, he didn't know what. Something had happened to Harry—he was needed….

Lestrange sent another nonverbal curse his way, and it bounced harmlessly off a shield. Well, at least it was a curse that could be blocked. But, he'd never build enough focus to find his brother at this rate.

"Ron, where's Harry?" asked Ginny.

Thor blinked at her, and shook his head. "You should not have come back here, Ginny."

She cast another shield spell against another attack from one of the Lestrange brothers. (Which was impossible to see through his mask, but Thor thought it was the one they called Rabastan; Harry had killed Rodolphus. He was fairly sure.)

"See, I'm useful," Ginny said, with almost a smile. And, straightaway back to the concern of the moment.

He questioned the wisdom of admitting that he knew a spell that might find Harry, if he could just maintain his focus. Wizarding magic did not work that way.

"Where is he, Ron?"

A sort of creeping unease accompanied her question. Sirius had gone—he was, now, nowhere to be seen, whilst Thor had been focused elsewhere. He must have followed Harry. Was this how he died?

Thunder pealed like a bell, upstairs, as if as a warning.

Harry liked his patterns; he liked to see them even where they weren't. Well, here was a pattern: whenever Harry left Thor's sight at the end of the year, he seemed invariably to end up dying. Often—more often than not, he'd also used the mantra, and then Thor would need to drag him back. But, if Sirius and Stephen were above….

But, there was always the constant, looming threat of the mantra.

"Ginny," he said, with the level, deeper voice that he seemed to default to, to show how important what he was about to say was. "Harry—wherever he is…he might not be…quite right. Do you recall what I said about what happened at the end of first year?"

She ducked another blast of reddish light, pulling Thor down with her. "Yeah," she said, hair in her eyes, which were covered in dust and tracks of tears. Was it that dust had gotten in her eyes, or was it concern for everyone…or fear? Ought he to burden her with the rest of it?

Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head, slightly, as if trying to figure out what relevance that had to do with anything. "What of it?"

"Umbridge and Riddle have taxed him greatly, tonight. It may have been…too much for him, as it was before."

He willed her to understand, and tried not to hear that little voice in his head (Harry's) telling him how terrible he was at explanation.

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "If you're trying to tell me that I shouldn't go after him—" she began, and he could have sagged with relief, before he realised that she'd begun that sentence with the word "if". Ginny must not become involved, for more reasons than merely keeping Thor and Harry's secret. But, whom was he trying to protect more?

He should have told her. He should tell her. Harry was right: he didn't learn. Not from the mistakes of others. Not even from his own.

Are you ever not going to fall for that?

He shook his head, as if in agreement with the ghost of a question. "Listen to me, Ginny," he said, and seized her arm. He had a very strong grip, he knew, but he managed to soften it, somewhat, with the realisation that he might otherwise harm her. She was not made of adamant, or even steel. She was only mortal.

She couldn't escape. She twisted and jerked her arm, as if to free it, but he'd had the sense to grab her left, which removed even the claim that he was endangering her, keeping her from protecting herself, by incapacitating her wand arm.

"I owe you an apology," Ron said. "And, an explanation. Harry poses a greater threat, if he is not brought to his senses, than you can hope to defend against."

He meant not to let her out of his sight, until she saw sense, but the battle was continuing around them. Malfoy had brought more than only five Death Eaters, and the man himself had now entered the room. He was not an opponent to scoff at.

"And, you think you'll do better, 'cause you think you're so much older than I am?" Ginny scoffed, and gave another yank of her arm, after she'd subsided for a minute or so. Had he loosened his grip, she would then have escaped.

But, her words. He was far older than she, and that was part of why he stood a better chance against the possessed version of Harry. And, the longer he delay, the more likely Harry was to succumb. He didn't like to think of that..and how would he ever muster enough focus, having to watch his back against the Death Eaters, elude the notice of Ginny and the Order of the Phoenix, and try to find Sirius and Stephen, as well, to ensure that Sirius hadn't died, and made this all vain….

He knew better than to answer "yes" to that question, but didn't know what else to say. Harry would have known—he had a way with words. Thor did not.

"I have fought him before," he said, for something to say. "You have no prior experience as guidance."

She raised her head to glare at him, and gave another violent tug on her arm. "Let go, Ron! I'm the one of us better at magic, and you know it! Harry's been giving me private lessons—that's why mine was the only wand he supercharged with that spell, when we arrived. I'm not some damsel in distress, needing protection. And, I'm not ten years old, either. You really do take 'overprotective' to a whole new level. Can't you see that I can take care of myself?"

This argument was so like all of Harry's old arguments (stop smothering, Ron, the ghost of Harry's voice said) that Thor was momentarily stunned. Ginny took the opportunity to wrench free of his grasp, and stalked away.

He had never realised how fast she was, before.

Ginny knew that he was only trying to protect her. She knew that he was probably right, if he, having watched her progress through Harry's deathtrap, still thought that she was in danger. But, she didn't want to think that Harry was that far beyond her understanding.

Somehow, she thought she was different. Shielded. That he wouldn't hurt her. He's said that they had something in common. And, even when she'd been possessed, she told herself, she would never have hurt Harry.

Laid a trap for him, though, didn't you?

She kicked at the floor, as if it had been the voice daring to remind her of her own shortcomings, to attempt to drag her out of her infantile dreams and delusions.

Wake up, Ginny Weasley! This is the real world. If you think you can't be caught, you aren't on your guard!

Hermione would say that that was Harry's influence rubbing off on her. She would say it as if it were a bad thing, something needing to be fixed. But, the Harry Potter she'd idol-worshipped as a child was just an illusion. She liked this Harry better, anyway. He was more interesting.

And, they had something in common. That made him closer, more approachable. It meant that they were part of a group, perhaps a very small group, those to whom the horrors of hurting those you loved against your will was not a mental exercise, nor a nightmare, but a fact. Those who needed redemption.

She'd imagined that there was something about her, ever after—in her aura, if those existed. In her eyes, or her stance, or her attitude, that could be seen, but only by those who had suffered the same. But, to them, it was never invisible. "It takes one to know one", as the saying went. Even a possessed Harry would surely recognise it.

But, that wasn't her Harry. Maybe she didn't want whatever thing might control Harry to know that she was like him. Her footsteps slowed as she thought this. It was one thing for Harry to know, but whatever turned him against those he loved was no more a friend of hers than it was of his. Had that been what Ron had tried to warn her about?

No. He just thought her too weak to defend herself.

She glared daggers at the concrete underfoot, wandering aimlessly. She'd half a mind to go back to Neville and Luna, where Kingsley Shacklebolt was guarding them, high above, past the security checkpoint they'd passed through soon after arriving. But, she knew she wouldn't give him the slip twice.

Suppose she was needed, down below?

Well, she could at least see if she couldn't find Sirius. Or…Harry…he might still be alright. They didn't know for sure, and she had something of his.

Sympathetic magic. She drew out the coin, through which he'd said that he could guide them. She didn't think he'd remembered it, in the heat of the moment after the Death Eaters had sprung their trap. But, perhaps?

She stared at the coin, wondering what it was made of, or how he'd managed to etch and colour in that design of a red phoenix onto it. And, why that symbol for her? The phoenix was such a majestic bird…did he think that highly of her?

She and Harry had redefined the concept of "taking it slow". They'd never even kissed. Harry just always seemed to think that he'd scare her off, if he tried anything overtly romantic. In some ways, he was still completely shy, and awkward, and ordinary.

But…she cared about him, a lot. Was it really so arrogant to think that she'd be able to reach him, even if he'd been possessed? Ron was such a man of action—he thought violence was the only answer, to everything.

She remembered him hitting Harry over the head, back in Umbridge's Office, and paused. That had been to keep Harry from being tortured, because pain was the way past—

Something. Her heartrate sped up, as she began to connect the dots. It was as if she had all the puzzle pieces.

"Pain is the way—"

What was the opposite of pain, then? She sought for a concept—relief? comfort? apathy?—but pain was just something that either was there, or wasn't. The opposite of pain was its absence. Normalcy. Harry would never be normal.

She turned the corner, and stopped. She hadn't been paying enough attention to her surroundings. Rule number one to not dying in battle: pay attention to your surroundings!

But, the Death Eaters were all behind. There should be no danger.

The first thing she noticed was that his scar was bleeding. Even in the dimmer light of the corridor leading to the central hub, she could see the uneven streak of it, painting his face like darkened tears, like dye. But, she knew that it was blood, and not even just because more of it was still running from the scar, as if it wasn't a scar, but a still-open wound. It hurt seeing that blood—all that blood. And, she knew that head wounds hurt more than the same wounds elsewhere in the body (hadn't she heard it was because the head contained so many vital organs needing protection?).

Pain.

The second thing she noticed was that his eyes seemed to glow, if only dimly, blue. It was a very pretty blue, if you were the sort of person to go inane during a crisis, and notice completely irrelevant things. She had her moments of that, too. But, she knew that Harry's eyes were green. She'd put it in a poem when she was twelve!

"Harry? Are you—are you alright?" she whispered, in a contemptibly shaky voice. She hadn't realised that she was shaking, either, until she'd spoken.

His gaze snapped to her, from where it had been wandering the room. He did not seem to recognise her. Her heart plummeted to the bottom of her feet, at that. She cursed her own weakness. If Harry wasn't himself, that just meant that he needed her even more than usual. He'd saved her, back during her first year. She owed him.

It was more than a matter of debt and repayment that dictated her actions.

"Should I assume that you are speaking to me?" he asked, and his voice was familiar…but different, too. Deeper, perhaps. Harsher. Sharper. It reminded her a bit of how he'd sounded at the end of last year, and that gave her a pittance of hope, before she realised that hope would not save her, if she let it take the form of "there's nothing wrong".

And, he didn't know his own name. A chill stole up her spine, because how, how, how? She shook harder than ever.

"You're Harry Potter," she whispered. She knew that he had better hearing than most. She knew that he'd hear her.

She considered making mention of Harry Houdini—whoever that was—but she didn't quite dare. This conversation seemed to brook no excesses.

He paused—stopped walking, and stared at her. She resisted the urge to fidget.

"You should introduce yourself. It's only polite," he said, with the tolerant air of an adult minding a very young child. She bristled, despite herself. But, this was wrong. He should know her. He should always know her.

She reached out for him, as if she couldn't help herself, saw her hand stretch out, through a field of vision strangely blurred. "I'm Ginny," she said, as if anything that would pretend to be Harry was worth her attention. "Ginny Weasley."

Polite curiosity met this reply. He turned sideways to lean against the corridor wall, as if apathetic. "'Ginny Weasley'," he repeated. He sounded thoughtful. "Any relation to Ron Weasley, perchance?"

She stared at him, eyes narrowed. It wasn't fair that he'd recognise—that he'd know—Ron's name, but not hers. Unless….

Ron had faced possessed-Harry before. Did it, perhaps, remember from one time to the next—even if Harry himself didn't?

He glanced at her outstretched hand. Dismissed it, as Harry never would have.

"He's my older brother," she said. Now, her voice was neither quiet nor tremulous. She was angry, and hurt, and it was better to yell and fight than to back down and cry like some five year old who didn't get the candy she wanted—

"Is he?" asked Harry, with a forbidding, secretive smile. She didn't like that smile. "But, he tells me that he was my brother, first. I don't suppose he told you that."

Ginny's heart skipped a beat. Harry had to be lying—but that was such an outlandish lie, easily disproven. Harry was too smart to use such a feeble, flimsy lie. Did that mean it was true?

"I see that he kept secrets from you, as well. Perhaps, that is what trust means to him." He gave her a rather cold, mocking smile, as if he knew even more secrets, ones that she couldn't even dream of. Perhaps, she'd prefer not to.

"You—You're not Harry," she said, taking a step back. She'd been wrong to seek him out, wrong to think that she could fix anything. She should have listened to Ron.

"Clever girl," he said, and that smile, with all its scorn, was now focused on her. She thought her heart might have fallen on the floor and shattered. She didn't quite dare to check. But, this wasn't Harry. It wasn't.

"I never claimed to be," he continued. He seemed to be losing interest in the conversation. He'd crushed her, knew it, and was going to head on to Ron, next. Poor Ron. Even if he were keeping a huge secret from her. Should she ask—? No. She knew Harry's skill at twisting words, and rather suspected that this stranger would be a hundred times worse.

"You should introduce yourself, then," she said, staring him down. Defiant, she hoped. Not defensive. "It's only polite."

He blinked, as if startled, and she thought: "maybe not as different as I first thought". He almost seemed to see the humour in the situation, what little there was. His eyes narrowed, reevaluating her, she knew. There was enough similarity to know. He gave her quite a different smile. It was cold, and feral, and reminded her of that time in Hogsmeade.

He bowed to her—a quite shallow bow, more a display of the act that he thought her of little threat, even as the wand that Harry had bought for her hummed with the energy that Harry had lent it. Had given her, to defend herself.

"My name is Loki," he said. She waited for a surname, but none was forthcoming. "The prince in exile," he added.

She swallowed, hard. "And Ron?"

She had to know what he would say. She knew that she should wait and ask Ron, after this nightmare was over, and Harry was back. But, she wanted to know what it (not he) would say.

"Thor Odinsson? But, our names mean nothing to you. I can see that. Tell me, does my brother, the Crown Prince, protect you as well as he did me?"

She could hear the bitterness in his voice as he spoke about this brother of his—one bordering on hatred. Maybe founded on pain. To him, she was just a curiosity. Not a threat. He humoured her because it amused him.

He needed someone to look after that blood still leaking from his scar. That had to hurt. It hurt her, just looking at it. But, she didn't dare to move, somehow—too intimidated by this stranger before her. Someone needed to bring Harry back, please.

A snapshot, sliced, as if by a knife. Back in first year, back when she hadn't been herself, but had made a last attempt to reach out to the only people she could think of who might be able to help her. Ron, and Harry. The way he'd looked as she'd turned away.

He hadn't given up on her. He'd gone down into the Chamber of Secrets to save her. And, she must not forsake him, now. She took a step forward, and…—what was it?—Loki tilted his head, as if amused and curious as to what she could possibly be thinking.

Harry, though. He had to still be there. Ron had brought him back, before. And, if…if there were any chance of a future for them, then she'd have to deal with this, sometime.

As if fighting some sort of magnetic pull, she stumbled towards him, and he watched, with no idea of what she was doing. She remembered that he had the Sword of Gryffindor, and a wand, and who-knew-what other tricks up his sleeves. But, she was not a threat. He watched.

She reached out, and took his hand, and he watched, frowning, as his other hand came, as if automatically, to clasp her left hand in both of his own.

"…Ginny?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse and scrubbed raw. She glanced up to see that his eyes seemed to be glowing a sort of aqua, turquoise colour. The scar was bleeding more profusely than ever.

"I'm not leaving you, Harry," she said. "We'll get through this, together."

That was, she reflected, probably the sappiest thing she'd ever said in her life. But, she still threw her arms around him, and hung on, as if for dear life, thinking of the thestral that she couldn't see, which she'd ridden. She clung as hard as she could, and wept. She wasn't even sure why she was crying. Perhaps, the night was all too much.

There were a few moments wherein nothing happened, when she thought that it wasn't enough, she'd never reach through to him, and then a hiss and a crackle, and a burning, stinging sensation in her hands, as if she'd dipped them in bubotuber pus. She held on still, even though they felt swollen and raw and blistered.

"You drove it off," he murmured. "Interesting. What is Harry Potter to you, Ginny Weasley? Why did it flee?"

She reopened her eyes, and straightened up, moving her hands down to grip his shoulders, again as if in defiance. His gaze blazed a brighter blue than ever. Had she done something wrong?

"What was that? What did I drive off?" she asked. She prayed for answers.

"A foreign soul. An intrusion. I believe it called itself 'Lord Voldemort'. I have heard of a wizard by that name before. But, I was unable to drive him off. And you—you're only a mortal girl. How—?"

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she knew that he must hear it, but for once—for once—he made no comment. He must really want the answer, she thought, another of those inane thoughts.

"You're mortal, too," she said. "And—and You-Know-Who is—"

He laughed, a familiar, low, bitter laugh. "I am a god, Ginny Weasley. I am not like you. Or even him."

She clung to him to keep herself upright, now. She knew that he'd notice any reaction, and consider it weakness. And, she mustn't let him know that she had any vulnerabilities. He might notice her grip, but it was better than falling to her knees, as she sensed she would have, else.

A god. A god? Was that the big secret? She could feel a bout of hysteria coming on. There was only so much one person could handle.

"What's Ron the god of, then?" she asked, a question two steps removed from their current topic. He blinked, as if thrown.

Good.

"The god of thunder and storms, of course," he said. "A 'protector of humans'."

She didn't ask what he was the god of. It was horribly telling that he had an answer ready for her. But then, perhaps there were gods called Thor and Loki, and she'd never heard of them….

But, Harry was real, flesh and bone, and she could feel that, even now.

"You're mortal, now. You're human," she said, looking up into his eyes—they were turquoise again; that must be a good sign—she made her voice as desperately pleading as possible. "You're Harry, now. You can't do this to me. I love you. You must know that. And, I know that you love me."

She almost felt something shift. "Loki", or whatever, hesitated. He seemed unsure. She moved her hands back around his back, and pulled him close, and clung to him, as if he were her lifeline. She was sure that he'd brought her back from the brink of death, first year, although he'd never spoken of it.

A moment's pause, and then she felt his hands move to encircle her back, holding her close. For a moment, the illusion of safety, calm, washed over her.

"Harry, please," she whispered. "It's been a long night, and Sirius needs you. And Ron—or Thor, or whatever you want to call him. And, your other friends—Hermione, and Luna, and Neville. Even if not for me, you have to come back to them. You know Ron loves you, right?"

"I should think that he—" began that same voice, but it seemed weaker. Less certain. But, his gaze still glowed with that horrid blue backlight.

What did it take to kick that thing out? She'd tried everything.

She couldn't help it. She started to cry, again. She knew that she couldn't have lost Harry forever, but it was galling to think that the only way to get him back was to hurt him.

And then, she realised that she couldn't. She wouldn't be able to bring herself to hit him, even if she'd had the physical strength to carry such a blow.

"…Ginny?" he asked. His hands tightened around her waist, and he swayed where he stood, as if exhausted. "Oh, now what am I supposed to have done? What are you crying about?"

"You're—you're insufferable!" she cried, stamping her foot, and then looking back up at him. She blinked. Stared. "Harry?"

He cocked his head and gave her a stare, askance. "Who else would I be?" he asked. "And, what am I doing here? Dumbledore's fighting You-Know-Who up in the atrium—I should be helping, or I should at least break this—"

"I'm so glad you're back," she cried, burying her head in his shoulder. "I know it's stupid, but I thought I might have lost you forever."

He sighed, and shook his head. "Ginny, what—?" he began, but she'd been thinking (she was usually only about a step behind him, she was pretty sure).

But here, she knew that she had to be five steps ahead of him, because he didn't know the way. She leant forwards and kissed him. (He'd never get around to it on his own; he was too patient and cautious, and she was so relieved to have him back….)

She gave him the half an hour he needed to figure out what was going on (he could be so slow!), and thought that she was completely justified in melting in his arms when he finally realised that he should be kissing her back. They stood there for a moment, again, with his arms around her. Her heart was racing and she thought that, really, tonight had been the busiest night of her life, and perhaps worth all the pain and difficulty. Harry would always be worth it, to her.

"You'll never lose me, Ginny," he said. It was almost too quiet to hear, and he was even quieter when he added, "but, perhaps, I shall lose you."

She rather suspected that she wasn't meant to hear that.

He was still so close, but she knew that there was still danger behind them, and maybe above, too. She extricated herself with some difficulty, and much reluctance, and reached down to take his hand, instead. She knew how silly he could get—thinking that everyone would abandon him the moment he closed his eyes. That was, doubtless, what he meant.

"I made you cry again," he said, at last. "Somehow. I swear I don't get you, Ginny."

He shook his head, but he was grinning. But, there was a certain dimness to that smile, too. "Although, I still don't know how I came to be back here—or who you thought I might have been."

"You might have been Loki, still," she said, in her smallest voice, and she felt him freeze.

"Where did you hear that name, Ginny?" he asked, and his voice was suddenly strange, and dangerous.

But, his eyes were green.