Disclaimer: I don't own them. I just like making their lives difficult.

Chapter 2: Plain Covered Books and Risk Assessments

In the Gryffindor common room, Ron and Hermione watched helplessly as Harry turned away from them and headed to the dormitories. Ron briefly considered following, but Hermione stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"I promise you, he won't want to talk."

Ron shook her off in exasperation. "But I need to keep trying, 'Mione. If he just opened up about what's bugging him…"

"We know what it is. The same as always." She led Ron over to an empty window-seat and sat down before she carried on talking. "Honestly, they could at least have saved him some butterbeer. He did win the game for them." She opened her bag and began extracting the books, taking care to keep the spine and front cover away from prying eyes.

"I can see their point, though. Colin's been in the Hospital Wing for a week, now. Madam Pomfrey can usually heal burns in moments – like Cedric's, in fourth year." Ron sat down and gazed absently at the books between them. "It wasn't like he was even doing anything, not like Malfoy. They didn't mind that so much…"

"I'm sure Malfoy minded. And Professor Snape." Hermione's voice was sharp as she rebuked him, but then softened. "Besides, he is scary. It was just luck that Malfoy didn't get more than a concussion, and Colin could have burned to death. Everyone thinks we're fools for still being with him."

"Yeah, I know."

Ron sat in silence as Hermione, equally despondent, magically bound the incriminating texts in parchment. Harry, on hearing that Madam Pince's protections on restricted texts were foiled by wrapping them in plain parchment to hide the title, had burst out laughing and still refused to tell Ron why. Hermione has seemed torn between amusement and disdain, convincing Ron that he needed to know why plain covers for books caused their reactions.

"Did you see the books Harry took?" He asked suddenly.

Hermione frowned as she lined up the edge of The Sharing and Leaching of Power with the sheet of parchment. "I thought that was what you were doing. He took about three, didn't he?"

"Five," Ron grimly corrected. "All very dubious titles – soul arts, legilimency, possession and blood charms."

"Well, in all fairness, we're looking up blood charms, too."

"Yes, but yours isn't called The Blood Sacrifice Retaliation, is it?"

"You don't think he'd actually use those, do you?" Hermione was worried now; her hands had stilled completely and she looked at Ron with worried eyes.

"If he reads them, the idea's there, isn't it? He might think it's the only way."

"But – what about what we learnt in Defence? Using magic like that affects you, and with the amount of power Harry has now, it's really dangerous."

"So are you going to stop him?"

"Yes. I mean – if he reads it around us – because if he knows these dark arts, and his magic is so uncontrolled – he might do worse than burning, next."

"Ah." Ron bit his lip. "I hadn't though of that point. I really don't want to be around Harry when he's wildly spewing magic everywhere and can twist it into dark arts. Bugger. If you bring the issue up, I'll agree with you."

"No you won't, coward. You'll stay out of it so that Harry can vent his temper on me and then you can reason with him." Hermione smoothed the last temporary cover out before re-packing the books to take them up to her dormitory.

"'Mione, wait," Ron caught her sleeve as she started to stand up. "You said you found a problem today. What is it?"

Hermione looked at him and shook her head. "I can't believe we didn't think of this earlier. We're binding Harry to us, with blood and magic. What about the other blood bonds Harry has? How do you think those will affect us?" Without waiting for a reply she turned and left the nearly empty common room.

Ron sat there for a few minutes more.

Of course, You-Know-Who was bonded to Harry – it was his blood that resurrected him. But was it the scar or the blood bond that caused Harry to harm students, and to scream almost every night as he saw the Death Eaters' atrocities? Yes, Harry had dreamed before the resurrection, but not every night. Did it make a difference, considering the rituals that would bind both their blood and magic? You-Know-Who had raised power through a blood ritual that summer, surely that meant that the magic came to Harry through the blood?

If they were bound to Harry, would Ron and Hermione be vulnerable to him in the same way? And did that affect Ron's decision?

It's for Harry, to help him. I said I'd die for him. Hell, I've risked dying for him before now. But the visions…and possession. It might not happen, but it could. Dumbledore said himself that blood rituals affect each other in unpredictable ways.

Can I do this, put my mind at risk? And if You-Know-Who finds out, my whole family will be primary targets, too. Can I risk them?

Can I risk Hermione?

Can I go through what Harry does, to help him survive?

It was a full hour before Ron headed up to bed, but when he did, he knew that the answer had been decided six years earlier on a chessboard.

It had always been "Yes".

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Harry had turned away from Ron and Hermione the moment they climbed through the portrait hole. The common room was still fairly busy, with almost all the older students still awake among the remnants of that afternoon's celebration. He walked hurriedly through the groups of people, ignoring the half-glances, the mutterings, and the silenced conversations being hastily restarted in voices that were a shade too loud and cheerful. He particularly ignored the worn red armchair by the fire, where he used to sit. The fire – where he had talked to Sirius last, before killing him with his own stupidity. Ginny was sitting there, tonight, talking animatedly to Dean. He determinedly did not see her flush as she almost rose to speak to him, only to be pulled down by her boyfriend.

Nor did he let himself look at the rest of the Quidditch team, the current darlings of the House. They weren't the centre of attention, though, sitting at a table in the corner, muttering among themselves. Kirke and Sloper shot him dark looks, and Harry forced himself not to react. He hurried up the stairs to his dormitory, shutting the door behind him. It wasn't until he had flung himself, face down, onto the red and gold blankets of his bed that he let out a long shuddering breath, struggling not to let it turn into sobs.

Outcast again, with the stares again, and Sirius, I can't even talk to you about it like I could before, when Ron was mad at me. Now it feels like the whole school's mad, and half of them are scared stiff. Those first years, today, Sirius, they actually turned and ran when I was in the corridor. And all the staff keeping watch in case I lose control again, except the greasy git, who just wants to provoke me into it, and talks about you all the time and I don't know how I can just sit there and listen and it just makes it harder to stay under control…

I'm scared, Sirius. All this – it's too much. I can handle being the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, I can handle Snape and the Slytherins, I could even deal with being a parselmouth. But seeing him every night, what he does. Ron said I screamed so loud that the whole tower heard, and so they're even more scared, and McGonagall listens to me talk and sends me off to Pomfrey for a throat soothing potion, but she says she can't do anything about it that might make me dangerous. As for Dumbledore, he can hardly bear talking to me anymore, but he said it might be too risky for me to stay at Hogwarts, if I threatened other students. Hell, Sirius, it's scary. Even Malfoy's scared, though I can't blame him. I'd be scared of me too, after what I did. But I didn't mean to, Sirius! Honestly I didn't. It just kind of surged through me, and I couldn't stop it. But even Snape's worried about what I might do, I think. Not that it stops him – he'd love to see me expelled.

We won the game today, Sirius. It was brilliant, diving after it, and I felt so guilty afterwards. Cedric's dead, Bertha Jorkins, that old muggle, Mr. Weasley was bitten, and I killed you, and Professor Lupin went of to Pakistan ages ago and hasn't even come back for the Wolfsbane Potion, I overheard Snape tell McGonagall. He hates me now, you know. I don't blame him – I killed the only friend he had left, the last-but-one Marauder. And if he's bitten or killed people, or been hunted, then that's my fault too.

It's stupid, you know, Sirius, because this summer was actually good. I suppose Voldemort was concentrating on his own little raising power ritual thing, but I hardly dreamed at all. The Dursleys even let me alone for the most part – I guess Moody really scared them at the station. Either that or they looked at me and could tell that I'm a murderer. But they let me just stay in my room and think about you, Sirius. And other things. About how Dumbledore needs me, to carry out the prophecy, and he wants me to be trained and powerful for that. But I'm too strong now, Sirius. Too unpredictable. When a weapon can't do what it was designed for, you get rid of it. I think that's what he's doing, really. Ignoring me so that I'll realise that he doesn't want me any more – I'm a liability. I can be used by Voldemort – lead people into traps and get them fucking killed! Gods, Sirius, I'm sorry.

But that's what I spent this summer thinking about. Well, I had to work it out for myself, he wasn't going to tell me. Like he wouldn't tell me about the Occlumency or the prophecy…

Hermione would say I was brooding all summer. She thinks I do too much of that, you know. She's enlisted Ron to help her get me to stop. Whenever I get too deep in my thoughts, one of them's there, wanting me to go to the kitchens, or out to the lake, to visit Hagrid, or even to actually work rather than staring at blank parchment. I reckon she thinks I'm depressed. And now they're working on this, and they're so determined that it will work, that it will help. They don't realise that nothing helps a murderer.

And I'm scared for them. They'll only get hurt for trying to help me, and I know it. It would be better if they just stopped and left me alone, but they won't. I should try to push them away – they'd be safer if they had nothing to do with me – but I'm too weak to make them hate me. But they'll be killed, I know it, Sirius, and I hate that. Why can't they see that everyone near me gets hurt? Maybe I should just run away – creep out to Hogsmeade in my cloak, and then fly off – to Europe, or America, or just some island where no one will find me.

But then there'd be no one to kill Voldemort. I don't want to kill, Sirius! I know I'm a murderer, but I don't want to be, and if I stay I have to, because Dumbledore needs me, to stop him killing others. But…I don't want to. How is it possible that I'm the one bloody hope of the whole fucking world?

Harry drew the curtains around his four-poster and curled up under the covers. When Neville, Dean and Seamus came up to the dormitory, he pretended to be asleep. When Ron came up, later, and hissed his name, he ignored it. Later still, when steady breathing and Seamus' snores were the only sounds in the room, Harry kicked his shoes off and cast his usual silencing charm at the curtains. He lay on his back and drifted into an uneasy sleep. Nobody heard when he screamed.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Author's Note: Hmmm…I'm not sure how well that worked. Angst is a tricky thing to write, as are thoughts and character development. I hope I managed to get Ron's dilemma across okay. Constructive criticism is, as always, rapturously welcomed. Flames are also appreciated – anything to let me know that there are people reading this. I'm beginning to see the advantage of Skyhawke – counting hits as well as reviews. Hopefully the next chapter will be up before long (possibly Monday or Tuesday).