Author's Note: Be sure to check out my revisions to Chapter 8 – small but important!

Chapter Nine

When the sun crept over the horizon, Harry finally gave up on the possibility of sleep. He suspected that Ron was also still awake, but his friend didn't stir as Harry slipped by; that was fine with Harry, who wasn't ready to discuss the events of a few hours ago yet anyway.

The rest of Gryffindor House was still tucked away in bed at dawn on a Sunday morning. Harry sank into a chair in front of the cold fireplace, trying not to remember how he and Hermione had sat together in this same spot just a couple of days earlier – the night they had kissed.

The way she looked at me in the hospital wing…Will she ever forgive me?

Harry's eyes were so tired they felt as if sand had been rubbed under the lids. He allowed his eyelids to drift shut and wished for sleep, but his mind refused to stop replaying the duel. Guilt settled heavily on his shoulders: Guilt for putting others needlessly in danger; guilt for forcing Ron into a situation where he had no choice but to invoke the Killing Curse; guilt for sinking to Draco Malfoy's level to prove some misguided point about his own fearlessness; guilt for not being the one in the hospital wing fighting for his life.

Harder to bear even than the guilt, though, was the fear: Would Malfoy survive? If he didn't, what would happen to everyone involved in the duel? Would Dumbledore send Ron before the Wizengamot for using the Killing Curse, and if he did, would they really sentence someone to a lifetime in Azkaban whose actions were meant only to save another's life? Could the lycanthrope curse be cured or reversed, or was Malfoy condemned to life as a werewolf?

Soft footsteps jolted Harry from his reverie. He watched in surprise as Ginny Weasley, clad in a maroon Gryffindor bathrobe and looking as tired as he felt, crossed to sit in the chair beside his.

"Hi," she said quietly.

"Hi," he said back.

A weighty silence descended upon them. Harry thought of how he must have looked to her when he had burst through the school's front doors with Malfoy's mangled body in his arms. No wonder she didn't know what to say to him; he must have looked like a monster. Like a murderer.

Maybe I am…

"Are you okay?"

Ginny's question startled him. Harry had expected anger or even revulsion from her, not concern. "Yeah," he answered automatically, but he knew he hardly sounded convincing as he half-choked on the word. He found he could hardly lift his eyes from the ashes in the hearth; he didn't want to see the accusations in those cat-green eyes, eyes which had once gazed at him adoringly.

Ginny reached out to lay her hand over his. Her soothing touch almost brought tears to his eyes. "Harry," she commanded softly, "look at me."

With an effort, Harry lifted his eyes to hers. The look she fixed him with was full of sympathy; to his relief, her eyes were empty of loathing.

"You don't look okay," she observed, drawing the smallest smile from him. "Do you want to sneak down to the kitchens and have Dobby fix us an early breakfast?"

Dobby. Thinking of the house elf, who had once belonged to the Malfoys, generated another twinge of guilt in Harry's gut: How would he explain his actions to Dobby, who believed in the supreme goodness of The Boy Who Lived? Could he stand to see that adoration morph into contempt?

"I'm not hungry, Ginny, but thanks," Harry answered sullenly. He let his gaze drift back to the fireplace.

She sighed. "First Sirius, now this. You have to take care of yourself, you know. With all this tragedy, I'm afraid you're going to waste away to nothing."

Her casual tone sparked a sudden fury in Harry. "That's a bloody awful thing to say," he snapped, jerking his hand out of hers. "My godfather dies, Draco Malfoy's probably going to die, I nearly got Hermione killed, your brother could go to Azkaban, and you talk about it like-like-like it's nothing!"

The knowing glint in Ginny's eyes cut Harry's tirade short. "Well," she commented dryly, "at least that got a reaction out of you. I didn't want to hurt you Harry, I just…I just hate it when you're so…"

She bit her lip, searching for words, while Harry glowered at her, too angry to really care what she was trying to say. "Sometimes, it's like you're not even here, and I don't know how to talk to you when you're like that, Harry." She paused. "Nobody does."

Harry flushed as he realized her ruse – make him angry, draw him out of his shell. He flung himself back in the chair, anger now smoldering at her manipulation. Ginny's tone became pleading. "Harry, seriously, you can't close off from everyone like this. It's not healthy. You still have friends, people who care about you. We want to help." She seized his hand again, refusing to let him pull away; her small fingers wound tightly around his. "I want to help."

Her earnestness doused the last embers of Harry's wrath. Rubbing at his sleep-sore eyes, he wondered how – or if – he could explain to her why he needed to deal with all of this on his own. It would be so much simpler if he could reveal the prophecy to her, if he could finally share with someone else the burden of his destiny: He would either kill or be killed by Voldemort. The literal weight of their world rested on his shoulders.

The temptation to break down and confess everything to Ginny, everything Dumbledore had told him at the end of the school year and everything Harry feared the future held for him and those he loved, was nearly overwhelming, especially when he knew that Ginny honestly cared about him. But that knowledge also forced him to hold his tongue: The last thing he wanted was to condemn someone as sweet as Ginny Weasley to helping carry the load of the prophecy. It was a heavy enough burden for Harry, who had no choice but to shoulder it.

"Ginny, I…" He found himself clutching her hand, as if she were a life-line in dark, stormy waters. "I know you want to help me. But you can't." He gripped her hand tighter when he saw the anguish reflected in her face. "No one can. This is something I have to face on my own."

"What, Harry? What do you have to face on your own?"

My parents' murderer. The most evil wizard to ever live. Someone who could destroy all of us if I don't stop him.

Silence stretched between them like a wire. Harry stared into her eyes, wishing he could tell her everything, knowing he couldn't; Ginny stared back, searching for the truth, conveying without words a depth of feeling for him that stole Harry's breath.

Not even Hermione looked at me like that when we kissed…Is she…Could Ginny be…

In love with me?

On the heels of that terrifying thought came another: Could he fall in love with her as well?

Finally, Ginny slipped her hand out of his and stood, ending the connection that had suddenly sizzled between them – but not severing it.

"Okay, Harry, you keep your secrets. For now." She turned and headed back toward the girls' dormitory. Harry's eyes followed her the entire way, his emotions a torrent of confusion.

At the entrance to the staircase, she glanced back at him. "Just remember, I'm here, Harry. And I always will be."

Harry stared after her for a long time. His fatigued mind refused to let him consider all that had happened; as sunlight streamed into the common room, he finally slipped into a fitful doze, too exhausted to think anymore.

Sometime later, he was shaken rather roughly awake. "Wha…?" Harry murmured, bolting upright in the chair, uncertain where he was for a moment as the cobwebs of sleep clouded his mind.

Gradually, his eyes focused on a delighted-looking Filch standing over him. Ron hovered nervously off to the side; he carefully kept his eyes averted from Harry's, refusing to meet his best friend's gaze. Harry's heart rate trebled as he realized that their moment of truth had arrived.

"Wake up, Mr. Potter," Filch cooed, his voice slick with ill-contained glee. "The Headmaster wants to see you and Mr. Weasley in his office. Right now."

It was time to face Dumbledore.