Chapter 4: To Blame

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A/N: Well, it's been another exciting, eventful week. Notably, my Pi turned 16 on Monday – Happy Birthday! Everyone sing; it embarrasses her and she hates it. Other events have included having to decide my A-level options (English Language, Psychology, Latin and Biology, since you asked) though things are still open to change.  Choosing is incredibly stressful and evil. And bad.

Many thanks go to my wonderful betas, who seemingly set out to completely tear the entire chapter to pathetic shreds and just end up with an in-depth, humorous commentary. You all rock.

Which is pretty much all I want to say. I'm pleased with this chapter, and as always: enjoy.

~*~

He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare,
And he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere.

Ali ibn-Abi-Talib (602 AD - 661 AD), A Hundred Sayings

~*~

Harry was alone in the house.

The Dursleys had left some time ago. A friend of Aunt Petunia's had given them tickets to the cinema, to see the latest one of the senselessly violent films that Dudley adored. Even if he'd been given a ticket, Harry would have refused to go. He had lost his taste for death and pain.

The Dursleys hadn't specifically forbidden him from doing anything – they barely spoke to him nowadays – but even though he could have watched TV or read a book, he didn't want to.

He'd been lying in bed  for the past few hours, wishing he was tired enough to sleep. He didn't have to think when he was asleep – but then again, he'd have to dream of Sirius. Which was worse – lying awake and thinking about it, or reliving the past in nightmares? Harry didn't know.

He turned onto his side, which brought his room into view. It was twilight, and the dim light of a newly-risen moon filtered into the room, making everything colourless and pale. Something struck Harry in that moment. The room was full of things the Dursleys didn't want – Dudley's broken toys, the small table Uncle Vernon's brother had given them, the battered chair which had once been part of a set of four in the dining room, but had been relegated to this room after the other three were broken. And he himself, just like everything else in the room was something the Dursleys had rejected.

Harry sighed and turned over again, to face the wall. It was less complicated; empty, unadorned white paint. He closed his eyes, pulling the covers closer around him, and tried to sleep.

Knock. Knock.

The sudden noise made Harry's eyes fly open, and he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes and looking around with a frown. The patterns of moonlight across the floor had changed, and he realised he must have dozed off. Had he only dreamt the noise, then? Or was it…

'Harry? Are you there?'

The voice startled him, and he grabbed his wand reflexively. It had been a female voice, not Aunt Petunia's, not anyone's that he recognised. But a Death Eater wouldn't knock before coming in. Neither would a burglar.

'Who's there?' he called out.

'It's me,' the voice came back, 'Tonks. So you are there, then? Hurry up and let me in.'

Harry heaved a sigh of relief, immediately followed by a surge of alarm. The only reason Tonks would be here would be to take him back to the Order, something he had been alternately dreading and wishing for. He had wanted it because it would mean a return to the people who cared for him, somewhere he could be surrounded by friends rather than enemies. He had dreaded it because it would mean having to deal with anxious questions, worried expressions, and Sirius' house with no Sirius in it.

'Hurry up, boy,' came another gruff voice that Harry had no difficulty in placing: Mad Eye Moody. 'We're working with a time limit here.'

Harry slowly slid out of bed; thankful that he'd not bothered to change into his pyjamas earlier. Crossing the floor swiftly, he opened the door onto the landing, the light outside causing him to screw his eyes up against the sudden brightness.

When his eyes adjusted enough to see, he could make out Tonks standing directly in front of the door, looking at him with a curious and slightly worried expression. Harry looked away sharply, not particularly wanting to meet her eyes. He knew she, like everyone else, would be worried about how he was coping with Sirius' death. He knew she'd be full of pity and sympathy and… and he didn't want any of it. Not from people who couldn't understand.

'Come on, come on,' growled Moody, 'we haven't got all day. Got your wand, I see? Good, good, you should always be prepared. Constant vigilance! Now, where are your things?'

Harry glanced upwards at Moody, strangely gladdened by his no-nonsense attitude. Acting as though everything were normal. It helped a little. 'All my things are in my room,' he replied levelly. 'It won't take me long to get them together. I assume we're going to the Order? And was it you who gave the Dursleys those cinema tickets?'

'Better than a lawn competition.' Tonks replied. 'We've got a Portkey set up this time. We can make much better travel arrangements now we don't have to keep the Order a secret from the Ministry. Though we need to keep an eye on the clock. The Portkey's got a time limit on it, there's a very narrow slot for it to work in – security, you understand Moody insisted, in case we were both suddenly murdered by Death Eaters between stepping out of the front door and touching the Portkey.' She laughed a little, with a teasing glance at Moody, before looking back to Harry. 'Come on, then, I'll help you pack.'

Harry nodded, turning and walking back into his room, followed by Tonks. Moody waited in the doorway, keeping an eye on a completely normal Muggle clock, which Harry assumed to be the Portkey. There were very few things that weren't already packed away in his trunk – some clothes, his birthday cards, some quills and parchment and a book or two that lay untouched on the table. It took about a minute for Harry and Tonks to check the room for anything that might have been missed, whereupon Moody announced that there were five minutes left before the return Portkey became active.

Harry perched on his bed, leaning against the wall, and waited. Tonks and Moody had a brief conversation in hushed tones by the door, which Harry ignored, preferring instead to think about the implications of going back to the Order…

The bed sank next to him, and Harry opened his eyes to see Tonks sitting beside him, giving him a soft smile. Sympathy. Just what he didn't want.

'Hey, Harry,' she spoke, 'I was just wondering if you're feeling okay. You look a little pale…'

At least she was direct about it. 'I'm fine,' Harry said firmly. 'I'm completely fine.'

She snorted. 'Harry, you've less meat on you than a vegan salad, you look like you haven't seen sunlight in years, and you…'

'I am fine.' Harry interrupted her firmly. 'I'm completely, one-hundred-percent sure that I am fine.'

Tonks sighed, tucking her feet up onto the bed, so that she was hugging her knees to her chest. Her face became more serious. 'Well, I'm glad you're coming back to the Order, anyway,' she said. 'It can't be good for you, having to cope with… what happened…'

'Sirius's death.' Harry said shortly, irrationally annoyed. Did they think that by skirting around the topic they'd make him feel any better?

'Having to cope with Sirius' death on your own,' Tonks finished. 'Plus, I think you'll make everyone back at the Order feel a lot better too… especially Remus. He's been…' She sighed. 'Not good, but you'll make things better for him. I could tell you feel a little reluctant about going back – it was written all over your face. But you needn't feel like that. It's really all for the best.'

Harry's stomach clutched into knots of cold guilt at the mention of Lupin. The only Marauder left – discounting the treacherous Wormtail, of course. And Harry knew exactly why Lupin was depressed. Sirius had been the only one of his friends left. And now Sirius was dead.

'I don't see why Lupin would be pleased to see me,' Harry said in a low, dark tone, 'when it was my fault that Sirius died.'

He heard her gasp of surprise. 'Harry, why… what on earth makes you think he'd blame you?' Tonks asked incredulously. 'None of what happened was your fault, Sirius…'

Moody's rough voice cut into the conversation. 'It's almost time.'

With a sigh, Tonks was cut off. Harry stood and grabbed his trunk, not looking upwards, churning inside with a bitter cocktail of feelings. Guilt and pain and anger and misery.

Moody offered him the Portkey, and he took it with his free hand, noting that the long, thin second hand was ticking closer and closer to the ornate figure twelve at the top of the clock's face. Eleven, ten, nine…

Tonks came up behind him, placing her own hand along with Harry's and Moody's on the Portkey, and whispered in Harry's ear, 'It wasn't your fault. You're not to blame for any of it.'

His mouth tightened in anger – couldn't she see that it had all been his fault, his own reckless stupidity that had got Sirius killed and all his friends in danger? – but before he could do anything, the familiar sensation of Portkey travel came upon him, and in a brief second they were standing in a secluded road in the middle of London.

~*~

Ginny was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, twisting a glossy red strand of hair around her finger as she watched Hermione hovering agitatedly in the hallway.

'…And I don't know whether we should try to act like everything's normal or not, because if we do and he wants to talk about it he'll feel like he's not supposed to and that could end up with him repressing his feelings, and then…'

'Hermione, calm down!' Ron stopped her firmly in mid-babble, grabbing her wrists. 'At least breathe more often, you're making me light headed just listening to you.'

'I know, I know, but what do we say?' Hermione looked desperate. 'I mean, anything we mention might just make it worse, and there's no knowing what things we should avoid, and how will we know whether he's okay or not, and…'

This time, Ginny cut her off. 'Hermione, stop worrying about it,' she ordered sharply. 'It's Harry, remember? Something will make him explode, certainly, but that's just something you have to avoid as much as possible and then cope with when it happens. You're acting as though he's going to crawl into a hole and die somewhere if you say the slightest thing wrong! He's an incredibly strong, brave person, Hermione. He'll get through it fine.'

Ginny's speech seemed to fortify Hermione; she drew herself upright, took a breath, and said, 'Yes. Thanks. You're right; I'm just getting too worked up about it. He'll be fine, I'm sure… eventually.' She sighed deeply, then rocked backwards onto the balls of her feet, looking at the clock, and added impatiently, 'Oh, when will he be here?'

Ginny let Ron take over the task of keeping Hermione calm, knowing from experience how comforting her older brothers could be if you were upset. She leaned her head against the banisters, the hard lumps of the elegantly carved wood pressing hard against her skull, and went back to her thoughts.

He's an incredibly brave, strong person… It was something she'd always seen in him. Well, perhaps she exaggerated there. As with all wizarding children, her first knowledge of him had been as the Boy-Who-Lived, defeater of Voldemort. Almost a legend, another fairy-tale her parents used to get her to sleep. All the more enticing for its reality, to know that somewhere out there, the little boy with a scar on his forehead was growing up…

And then Ron had gone to Hogwarts, and the Boy Who Lived, figure of legend, had become Harry Potter, the dark-haired, green-eyed friend of her brother's. Ginny's ears reddened when she remembered her first year – her crush on Harry, which Ron still taunted her about sometimes, had been quite silly when she remembered it. And after… after Tom, and the Chamber…

She still didn't like to think of that, all these years later. Instead, she thought back over the things she'd begun, slowly, to discover about Harry. How his window had been barred and his door locked when Ron and the twins rescued him from the Dursleys. The way he always appeared thinner when he arrived in the summer holidays than when she'd last seen him at Hogwarts. And things she'd heard from her mum, or Ron, or Hermione: things about cupboards under stairs with locks on the door, about an aunt who detested magic in any form, about an uncle who wanted him to be miserable and a spoilt, bullying cousin.

Which was unthinkable, to Ginny, who had grown up surrounded by loving parents and a gaggle of older brothers to tease, care for and play with her. While Harry, to put it bluntly, had been locked in a cupboard.

Long after she'd matured enough for any romantic feelings towards him to wear off completely, that had remained: a sense of… respect, or even awe, that anyone could come through a childhood like that and still be warm and friendly and caring, still be brave and strong, still have the ability to fight against the Darkest of wizards. Ginny knew what Voldemort was like, knew what it took to face up to him, and she admired Harry for that.

And now there was the sound of a knock on a door, and Moody's harsh voice rasping something, and Hermione jumped a little with tension, cried, 'He's here!' and dashed to the door, closely pursued by Ron.

The door was opened, revealing Mad Eye Moody standing squarely on the doorstep, Tonks just visible over his shoulder, and in front of him, in front stood Harry.

He was pale, and thin, as Ginny had expected, his face more pinched than last time she'd seen him, and dark shadows marring the skin under his eyes. But he was looking upwards, smiling slightly as Hermione promptly hugged him tightly and Ron grinned brightly, welcoming him back. His eyes, Ginny noted, had a haunted look about them, a kind of darkness at the edge of the green. But there was also a spark there, and a warmth in his tone as he greeted his friends, and that, if nothing else, proved he would be alright.

'You're not in the same room as before, all that section's gone to temporary accommodation for Order members, we're in a different bit now.' Hermione was gabbling as she tugged Harry inside. 'And we've been doing so much cleaning it's been insane, really, I've barely had time…'

'Hermione? Remember what I said about breathing?' Ron asked.

Moody tugged Harry's trunk inside, closing the door behind himself and Tonks, watching the scene with his magical eyeball spinning wildly, fixed on the kitchen door. 'Look out, here comes Molly…' he muttered.

As promised, Mrs Weasley burst through the kitchen door, flour settling in her hair, beaming brighter than a sunbeam. 'Harry! You're here!' she cried, before enveloping him in a bone crunching hug. 'We're having tea soon, I'm making plenty, I know you must be hungry…'

'Thanks, Mrs Weasley.'  Harry replied politely, with another smile, which elicited a further sparkling, shining grin from the woman in question.

Everyone, Ginny could see, was overjoyed to have Harry back – including herself, of course. Thinking this, she chimed in with her own greeting, 'Hey, Harry.' Which caused him to look over, give her another one of the weak, vague smiles, before getting drawn away by a question from Ron. Moody nodded to everyone, before deciding that his mission was completed, and leaving through one of the doors to the left.

Ginny drifted off a little, after that, her thoughts wandering into a contemplation of what could happen next. Harry, judging by his outburst after Cedric's death last year, would probably explode a good few times in the course of getting back to normal. Probably he'd end up fighting with Malfoy. Perhaps they should convince him to leave his wand behind whenever they'd be near Malfoy, which would at least stop Harry getting in trouble with the Ministry for even more underage magic…

Slowly, Ginny realised that the room in front of her had fallen silent. She looked up, frowning, and the reason became clear.

Lupin had walked in, and now stood rather awkwardly by the door, a mug of tea in his hand, looking worn and anxious. Harry, near the middle of the hallway, had his arms folded defensively and his head turned away, an expression on his face that Ginny could easily place: guilt. She quickly figured it out. Sirius had been Lupin's best friend, and Harry must blame himself for the death. He felt guilty about it, certainly. Guilty for causing Lupin pain.

'Harry…' It was Lupin's voice, wavering, frail, unsure. 'Harry, I don't blame you.'

There was silence. Ginny saw Harry's face tense, and then slacken, the skin as pale and thin as paper that would tear with but a little effort. He had never seemed so fragile.

'It… It was my fault. It was all my fault.'

His voice was low, lower than normal, and laced with something dangerous, something fearful and dark. And for a moment he could have been Tom, standing in the Chamber – because Tom had suffered too – but the moment passed, leaving just a cold shiver on Ginny's spine and tension in the air.

Harry moved first. Turning, he blindly ran for the stairs, so that Ginny had to squash herself against the banister as he thundered past for fear of being trampled on. Ron and Hermione ran after him, calling, 'Harry!' as Lupin's eyes darkened, closed with despair.

Tonks came to his rescue, with a smile and a friendly hand on his shoulder, as the thundering footsteps from above died away. 'Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. Harry's been through a lot, you know, and I really think that with time…' she chattered gently, steering a passive Lupin through one of the side doors into a sitting room, her speech lost as she shut the door behind her.

Mrs Weasley sighed, and Ginny looked up the stairs. 'I should go after them. Help, if I can,' she said, getting to her feet. Her mother nodded.

'Hermione will be in a state,' she said morosely. 'And Ron won't know what to do. And Harry… I worry about that boy.' She shook her head. 'Back to the kitchen for me. Do the best you can,' she instructed her daughter with a fond smile, before returning to the kitchen.

Slowly, Ginny rose to her feet, turning and walking upstairs. As she turned, something – someone – caught her eye. Looking up, to the place where the banister at the top met the wall after encircling the stairwell, she saw an annoyingly familiar figure. Monochromatic, otherworldly, Draco Malfoy was standing above it all, watching the goings-on below him with a slightly puzzled expression.

Her eye caught his; he sneered briefly at her, before shifting his gaze to a spot in the middle of the hall, as if trying to figure something out. Ginny shuddered. It was creepy, having him up there, watching everything like some kind of inverted guardian angel. Turning, she ran up the stairs, leaving the empty hall below her. Now, to find the others…

~*~

Draco kept his eyes fixed on the hallway a long time after all activity had ceased, thinking. Potter was here. Another enemy to add to the list of people he was forced to live with. People who hated him, people he hated… or he assumed he hated them. He had pretended to hate them, back when everything was simpler. Now he didn't know.

He had shouted at that Weasley, though – Ginny? Yes, that was it. After she'd been asking questions about why he was there. Of course, that secret should be kept hidden at all costs from everyone but the select few who had to know about it, but he had no idea why the act of asking about it had caused him to react so… explosively. He was assuming that emotion to be anger.

What was there about that scenario that had caused anger, then? A simple question, that was all – annoying and difficult to fend off, perhaps, but no more than that. Not even an insult. And there had been plenty of other worse things that day which could have made him snap – that fat Weasley woman giving him the burnt toast, for example, and making him help with cleaning like a common house elf. In fact, he'd been feeling a negative emotion – hate, anger, annoyance, pain, he didn't know – for most of that day. So what about that particular scene had made him react as he had?

Muttering a curse word under his breath, he leaned back against the wall, tilting his head upwards and closing his eyes. All this could be so much easier if he didn't have to be here. If he didn't have to be surrounded with Scarface, Weasel and the Mudblood. What ridiculous names, he mused. So childish, but that was part of his role, wasn't it? Only he didn't know what his role was now. He had no role. He didn't understand this new self.

If only someone could help him figure it all out. After all, practically everyone else on the planet had felt emotions from birth. Any idiot on the street could tell him which of two emotions was which. But here, he had no one but enemies, none of whom he particularly wished to explain his problems to.

Besides, everyone here was absorbed by their precious Potter, who had so many issues after his dear godfather died that he had to be wrapped in tissue paper as though made from glass. While he was struggling to get his head around what was basically an entirely new mind, a new self, and what did he get? Treated like some dangerous criminal, hated and suspected.

It made one of those damned emotions sizzle in his chest again. This one was… Painful. When his Fallen side was dominant, he hadn't realised that emotions could actually hurt. Like a dull needle poked through the chest. And then an uncomfortable feeling, everything tight and clenched, coiled up tight around the needle, driving its point in further.

He stood upright, shaking his head. This was useless; he'd never figure anything out standing here, and besides, he was tired. Sleep would be a good idea; and perhaps in the morning some of these emotions would be clearer.

Turning, he returned to his room.

~*~

A/N: Reviews would make me happy. Very happy. Ecstatically-bouncing-on-the-bed-with-glee happy. Spread some happiness. Go on.

And as for next Friday? Yes, another chapter – with an intriguing development if all goes to plan. See you in another week, and in the meantime, you know what to do. Review!