Desclaimer: Not mine! Everything belongs to JKR, although I intend to borrow Harry and Draco for a bit of... fun.

A/N: SO sorry about how late I was! First I had exams, and then I was working on it and my computer crashed before I saved it, and I really didn't feel like redoing it, and then I had exams again, and then... well, you know how it is. I promise I won't be as late with the next ones.

Second chapter (or the second part of the prologue, if you may), in which Harry wallows in self-pity and reaches a conclusion.

This chapter is dedicated to Beth, who was the first reviewer of this story. Thank you. Everyone else- thank you so much for your reviews, you have no idea how much they mean to me.

"It hasn't really started yet," Hermione sighed gloomily, folding up the newspaper again. "But it won't be long now…" – Hermione Granger, OotP.

The drive back to Privet Drive was surprisingly uneventful. Uncle Vernon, still pale from his encounter with Moody, sat stiffly during the entire way, his eyes fixed on the road. Aunt Petunia held her head in her hands, and Dudley, in an effort to get as far as he could from Harry, tried to squeeze himself into the corner of the car, despite the fact that his stomach and thighs took over a seat and a half.

Harry, for his part, paid them no heed either. His mind was busy with thoughts about Sirius, whose loss was so recent Harry hadn't fully grasped it yet. He did know that the worst was yet to come, and what Hermione had said on the train about the upcoming war proved that. He was jerked back to reality when they pulled to stop in the drive.

His Aunt and Dudley hurried into the house, but to Harry's surprise, his Uncle grasped his trunk himself and, casting suspicious and panicked looks around, dragged it inside. "You write to those… people," he gasped, dropping the trunk next to the stairs, "and tell them everything is fine. I don't want to see any of them freaks around here, you hear me?"

Harry shrugged, and followed his uncle into the house. He picked up one side of his trunk and started to heave it upstairs. "I won't tell them anything if it isn't true." His uncle squinted at him, his face still quite red from the weight of Harry's trunk, as looked as though he was tying to figure out whether Harry was agreeing with him or not. Vernon eventually gave up, and Harry continued upstairs.

When Harry got to the top of the staircase, he Uncle called out "Which one of them was your Godfather?" The question caught Harry unprepared, although he should have expected it. He stopped at the top of the staircase, not turning around, not wanting his Uncle to see the pain on his face. "He wasn't there."

"Oh," his Uncle said. Then his voice turned nasty "I thought it was that scarred fellow, the one with the hat. He looked like a murderer to me,"

Harry gritted his teeth, not rising to the bait. He took a deep breath "I'll be in my room until supper if you need."

Harry put his trunk in his room, not feeling in the mood to unpack. Hopefully, he'll be out of here soon. There was no point in unpacking, really, if he'll just have to pack it all again in a few days. Suddenly feeling very tired, he threw himself on his bed. He was back here, at least for part of the summer, until Dumbledore announced it was safe for him to leave. Great.

Now what?

The first letter arrived the next day from Mrs. Weasley, saying they were working on convincing Dumbledore to let Harry come to the Burrow as soon as possible. She also gave him a heartfelt encouragement to write to her if he needed anything, however small or insignificant. Harry smiled to himself, feeling somewhat relieved, and with the joyful prospect of spending the next week already at the Weasleys, set down to do his summer homework. He wasn't feeling up to unpacking just yet.

The next letter Harry received, a few days after, when he was working on a Potions essay, was written on a much more somber note. It was from Hermione, and was a clear omen of how the war was about to progress.

'Dear Harry, do you get The Daily Prophet now? …'

Harry frowned.

'If so, then I assume you already know. If not, I am sorry you have to find out like this, but I thought that after last year, you have a right to know what's going on. This isn't your fault, Harry, remember that. There was nothing you could do'.

Enclosed in the envelope was a story, cut from a newspaper:

'Death Eaters attack- entire family killed'.

Harry swallowed, closed his eyes briefly, and continued reading.

'The Macmillan residence' his eyes widened 'was attacked at approximately three in the morning'.

Oh please, Harry thought, it may be selfish, but please don't let it be Ernie. Not him. Not another person I know…

'The Aurors who were alerted to the house by the neighbors found Allan (53) and Diana (50) Macmillan in their bedroom. Their children, Ernie (16)-' Harry felt a lump form in his throat 'who was meant to start his sixth year at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Margaret (9) were found dead as well. The Macmillans had an elder son, Robert (21), who was away on work that night…'

The article fell from Harry's numb fingers. He should have expected it, really; now that the Ministry acknowledged Voldemort's return, there was no reason for the Death Eaters keep low anymore. Still, Ernie's death had hit a close target, much closer than Harry had expected.

I never knew he had a sister. Harry felt a sort of faded guilt. I never tried to get to know him. If Hermione was here, she'd tell him he was stupid, he knew. She'd tell him he had a people-saving thing.

'This isn't your fault, Harry, remember that. There was nothing you could do' Her words shouted at him from her letter, smudged blue ink on an ordinary stationery paper. He looked away, and the title from the newspaper stared at him from the floor. He felt sick. Had she really believed that? That it wasn't his fault? Or was she saying it just to make him feel better? Of course it was his fault. He was the one who failed to stop Voldemort, time and time again, who was stupid enough to fall for his trap and get Sirius killed. He was the one who made it possible for him to come back. To have a body again. To be powerful again.

He was the one who made it possible for him to kill again.

Harry gathered the paper from the floor, his face grim, and his narrowed. The Ministry and The Prophet would just add Ernie's name to their list of Voldemort's victims and forget, but Harry wouldn't. He couldn't forget. Ernie's family would not be the first to die, nor the last; there would be more to come, but Harry would remember them all.

He carefully tucked the paperclip between some random pages of a book, and resumed writing his potions essay.

For the next three weeks, hardly a day passed without a letter from someone: Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Mrs. Weasley and even some Order members. He also got a letter from Cho. She had apologized for her behavior the year before, and told him that she really did like him, but had been very confused. 'Yeah,' Harry muttered to himself as he read this, 'I'm sure you had a really hard time.' She said she and Michael Corner broke up, and maybe he would want to try again?

Harry wrote back a polite answer, saying he was sorry, but everything was very confusing for him right now, and he was sure she would understand. He was surprised at how he felt nothing but relief when he watched her owl fly away with his answer.

Ron usually wrote about nothing Quidditch, Fred and George's joke shop and about Percy, who had come crawling back to the Burrow after Fudge admitted Harry was speaking the truth. Hermione's envelopes contained mostly pieces from the Prophet, which Harry dutifully read and then stored between the pages of his books. He told himself he didn't dread her letters, and convinced himself he didn't hesitate to open them. He didn't even bother to read what she wrote anymore, as all it the letters ever said was 'it wasn't your fault'.

His O.W.L. results arrived too. He glanced over them in disinterest before dropping them into his trunk to forget about them. Somehow, the idea of receiving an 'O' in potions didn't excite him as much as he thought it would. Becoming an Auror seemed more of a duty now than anything else, just another step in his life on the way to face Voldemort for the last time.

At night, he dreamt about corridors, and glass balls full of light, and of Sirius falling through the veil. Sometimes, he dreamt about a field of bodies, their eyes torn wide open, and all around him all he saw was grey, like the pictures from the newspapers that arrived folded neatly in Hermione's letters. He would have spent the rest of the summer like that, drifting in and out of reality, surrounded by books and letters and feeling only a dull sense of vengeance, if not for an old friend dropping by.

Harry was sitting in the kitchen one sunny morning, drinking orange juice and munching half-heartedly on a piece of toast. His uncle was at work, and his aunt and cousin out. He was just about to get up, leaving his almost untouched breakfast on the plate, when he heard a knock on the door. Frowning a little, he headed to the front door, opened it, and stared.

Remus Lupin smiled at him pleasantly from the front steps. He was dressed in an old brown coat and looking older and more tired than Harry remembered him. His smile faltered a little as he saw Harry, but he regained it quickly "Hello, Harry. May I come in?"

They sat in the kitchen, Professor Lupin held a steaming mug of tea, while Harry had a second cup of juice. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Professor Lupin cleared his throat. Harry looked up at him, an expression of attentive interest on his face.

"How have you been, Harry?" he asked.

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes, and instead shrugged. "Fine."

"Have you been taking care of yourself?" At Harry's raised eyebrow, he continued, "You're very thin. Much thinner than you used to be." He sounded worried, albeit in a distant sort of way, and Harry had the impression his weight wasn't the only thing the professor was concerned about.

"I wasn't very hungry" he answered. The werewolf nodded "That's understandable, really. But you must take care of yourself- not eating will fix nothing".

Growing tired with the conversation, Harry nodded again. He wondered when the man would leave. He had things he wanted to do. Lupin looked at him sharply when he saw Harry's bored expression, and narrowed his eyes at him.

How have you been, Harry? And don't answer me 'fine' this time, because you obviously aren't."

Harry's eyes opened wide "What?" he asked. "Sorry? Really, Professor, I'm fine". Why wouldn't he leave?

"It isn't your fault, Harry."

The words struck a cord at him, and he fixed Lupin with a somewhat hostile look, feeling suddenly angry. "Not you, too! Hermione's been saying that to me all summer- she's been owling me every time he killed someone, and every time, that's what she says- not your fault, Harry!"

Professor Lupin seemed taken aback, "Well, it really isn't – "

"Stop it! You don't even believe that, so stop saying it!" Harry was standing now, almost shouting. He felt more alive then he felt for the last weeks, since the first letter about Ernie. His numbness faded, leaving frustration and anger and hatred behind, leaving Harry without the strange sense of peace he found since then.

"What? Harry, I don't blame you- that's ridiculous –" Lupin stammered, more flustered than Harry had ever seen him.

"Stop lying!" Harry was acting childishly, he knew, but he felt so confused, like he was about to drown in the whirlpool of his emotions.

"Harry "

"If it wasn't for me, Sirius wouldn't have been dead. Ernie wouldn't have been dead. Maggie, his sister, and their parents! I made that possible!"

"Harry!" His former teacher grasped him by the arms, shaking him. Harry realised he was crying, although he couldn't remember starting to. "That's it, get it all out…" Lupin said, sounding far away, as he gathered Harry in his arms. "I can't believe we left you here…"

After Harry calmed down, which took a surprisingly long time, he untangled himself from Lupin, feeling very embarrassed. "Feel better?" Lupin asked him, smiling gently, and Harry suddenly noticed they were almost the same height. He nodded. To his surprise, he did feel a lot better.

"Sorry, for…" he wiped his wet face with the palm of his hand "…shouting at you". Lupin waved it away "Nonsense. You needed it". His face grew serious. "Now listen to me, Harry. We all make mistakes. Even you. You are, after all, only human. You are not responsible for Voldemort's actions. You are not the one who held the wand that killed, nor were you the one who gave the order."

"But I made it possible," Harry whispered.

"It was anything but your fault." He sighed, "Look at it this way, if you hadn't defeated him when you were a baby, he would have won years ago. We are at war and people will die, but it is not because of you. You are hope, Harry, not doom. Not death. You," he took a deep breath "are the possibility of life."

Lupin left a little while after that, leaving Harry feeling conflicted; on one side, he felt less guilty, which was like a great burden lifted from his shoulders. On the other hand, Lupin had left him with a much heavier burden- the burden of responsibility.

'You are hope, Harry. You are the possibility of life.'

For a moment, Harry saw it, the desperate trust in those old and wise eyes, a trust he began to recognise a long time ago. Not the trust of an old teacher in his student, not the trust of a friend. It was the complete and utter trust of someone in a saviour. In a hero.

And at that moment, he made a vow; no more dwelling in self-pity, no more wallowing in anger and guilt. He had a world to save, however harsh that was. He wasn't a sixteen-year-old boy; he never had been just a boy, really.

He vowed to do anything he could, anything in his power, to keep that trust. He would not fail again.