I have nothing to say to the 128 of you who didn't review but to those of you who did, thanks! I feel guilty for killing Bill, if that's any consolation whatsoever however, for all you girls out there who have been begging Harry/Beth... I know you'll forgive me. :)

Warning: Bittersweet chapter up ahead!

I'll be updating Thursday!

Chapter 27

I had already seen my Father, and he seemed quite relieved I was all right, although I could tell that underneath his calm, smooth surface, he was boiling with rage. I could see the explanations now, and I knew it was not long before he banned me from seeing them. I took his hugs with remorse and regret because I knew what was behind them.

Harry came and visited me later that day, his eyes red and puffy. He was perfectly well, and had not been hit by one curse. His opponent however, was not so well off. He had killed one person, and the other had escaped. Snape had gotten away, faking death and disapparating. Bellatrix Lestrange however, did not fare so well. After I had fallen, Harry had committed one of the worst offences in the wizarding world.

"I killed her by the same curse that killed my parents," he whispered, sitting on the end of my bed. "I murdered her. And it's not even hate that I killed her with…"

It was noon, and Bill's funeral was the next day. There were people wandering around the wards, delivering objects from loved ones, cards and flowers. I talked to Harry until two o'clock at least.

"She… she was a bad woman Harry. I don't think she deserved to live."

Harry ground his teeth together and looked down. "They hate me."

I looked up. "No one hates you Harry."

"Yes. I was responsible. I killed Bill." I sighed.

"You didn't kill Bill Harry, it… this stuff happens. It's not your responsibility to save the whole world you know." He glared at me for a moment and then I saw his gaze flip to my arms and back.

"You can't go back home. I won't let you."

I snorted. "You're crazy. There is nothing wrong with me going home. Little bruises. So what Harry? I don't want you to take away my home."

His gray t-shirt hung on him like a hanger, and his tiny frame seemed to be slouching under the pressure of his lifestyle. "It's not right. I lived in an… in a household like that Beth, and it's not right. Besides, the Weasley's won't let you either. They'll want to take you in. They'll want someone to…"

"Harry Potter!" He looked at me. "I will not— I won't be Bill's replacement. They don't need a job t-to fulfill their time and help them live. They need time. They need to grieve and remember. We need to take time to remember. They love you Harry," I took a deep breath. "Don't make it worse than it already is." He nodded his head and I felt a tear roll down my cheek. It seemed like I was always crying.

Harry stood up and walked over to me. He gently placed his hand on my chin, cupping it, and tenderly wiped the tear from my cheek with his other hand.

"Don't." I turned away.

"Why are you so…?" Harry shrugged his shoulders. I pulled my knees up to my chest.

"…I don't want to be your pity project Harry. It's like… it's like what you said about me being a replacement for Bill. Nothing can replace a person like that. It's like me. You love to be the hero Harry, and you can't deny it, and it is your weakness. It won't be me, who is your damsel, your something to distract you from the real world, because as soon as someone else comes along in ten times as much pain as I am in, you'll rush to their aid, leaving me in the dust. I'm ugly, and I'll always be wrong in some way, and I'm…I'm just your pity project and—" I gasped a little. "I can't be Harry. I just can't."

He shook his head and walked out of the room.

§

Bill's funeral was a somber, guilty affair. Clothed in black it was like we walked into a room of darkness. Candles were lit in scattered places, floating along the walls. We all came in separately having been allowed to leave the hospital earlier that day. My father had not said anything about the situation, except that he would accompany me to the funeral.

His hand on my shoulder, my Father led me to where we would sit—his choice. Mrs. Weasley bustled up to us, a kerchief in hand.

"You're sitting with us dear," she said hushed. Her voice was very quiet, and I thought that she might burst into tears any second. "I'm sorry, there aren't enough seats, we didn't know you Father was coming, or else we would have… I'm sorry, Molly Weasley." She held out her hand but my Father simply nodded his head.

"I'm sorry for your loss Madame," he said stiffly. Mrs. Weasley burst into tears and pulled me into a tight hug. I glared at my Father over her shoulder.

"You-'re there," she said, pointing to the third row. My Father nodded his head, and proceeded that way while I held Mrs. Weasley's hand and made it appear as though she was leading me to my spot, not the other way around.

Her black veil covered her eyes which I knew were read and puffy and she brought herself to a silent reservation as I gave her a final departing hug and walked to the other end of the bench and sat down beside Harry.

The reception hall they chose was gorgeous although bathed in gloomy shadows. The marble walls had a sparkles engraved in them. Bill's casket sat at the front of the room on a black pedestal, closed. A picture of his face was floating in an oak frame above it, a beautiful platinum blonde smiling beside him, her head on his shoulder.

At the end of the row I leaned over discreetly. Harry to my left had his face in his hands while on his other side Ron was a nasty shade of green. Hermione was leaning on his shoulder, her normally frizzy hair pulled back tight, her eyes glossy. Ginny sat in-between George on Fred, each one of the twins trying their best to comfort their sister, who was crying silently, tears rolling down her cheeks, one after the other like soldiers marching. Charlie and Percy were the last of the children, each with their heads leaning on a hand, gazing at the casket.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley leaned on each other, the usually splendid father quite distraught. His disheveled robes normally look out of place because of work or some other technical reason; but here he appeared to be unable to function. His red hair, now down to a bit of a fringe, was tousled and uncombed, and his spectacles were covered in little patches of dirt.

Mrs. Weasley was unreadable, her black veil and robe covering up any emotion other than the sniffing sounds coming from underneath. She had a single rose in her lap, and fingered it tenderly.

The ceremony started shortly after I sat down, and I found myself engrossed deeply in my own thoughts, willing my cheeks to stay dry. People began to speak at the small alter, Bill's friends and family. Everyone was crying, and at this point Ginny had collapsed onto Fred's shoulder.

During one particularly touching speech, Harry stood up abruptly and I saw his face for the first time that afternoon. It had been buried in his hands which had now moved to his pockets, and his hair hung rather lank, as if interpreting his mood.

"Harry…" murmured Hermione. She went to follow him and Ron clutched her arm tightly.

"Don't… just leave him be." Hermione nodded silently and sat down. Without looking towards Ron I stood up and slipped out after him, up the aisle and past my Father who seemed too distracted by the sniffling crowd to see my exit.

I opened the solid door soundlessly, and slipped through it.

He was standing on the white front porch of the hall, leaning on the railing. His hands were cupped together and his elbows balanced directly on the post, his back hunched and a breeze ruffling his hair.

"Harry?" I asked. He didn't turn to look at me. "Harry…" I repeated.

"Go away," he said.

"I—Harry, it's okay to be upset."

He lifted his arms up and masked his face with his hands. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then made a sound somewhat like a gasp. For a moment I thought he had sneezed, his whole body moving with the noise until he took away his hands and I saw the tears plastered on his cheeks.

I moved towards him and pulled his shaking body into an embrace. He held me closely and I rubbed small circles on his back, hoping to soothe him. Gradually his sobs turned into sniffled and we remained there, my head on his shoulder, his hands around my waist, gripping me tightly.

He let go finally, and wiped his face. He turned around and faced the setting sun. Its glorious rays bathed us in a color undefinable, contradicting the sadness that rested in our hearts.

"Harry…?" He didn't turn to look at me but merely nodded his head. "Do you… do you want to talk about it?" I said the last seven words so quickly that he turned to me, an eyebrow raised in questioning. I sighed, flustered and he shook his head and turned back to the sun.

"I feel... guilty," I started. "He died after I was attacked by that Lestrange lady. If I hadn't been all hopped up in getting that little girl home… she died you know." Harry looked at me. "The little girl that was bawling, that I was going to try to get to the fireplace—I drew attention to us. If I hadn't shouted for Remus, the girl… she probably would've lived."

I said these words with a strange sense of clam. My voice had a pallid tone, and was strangely out of synch with what I had told him.

"It's not your fault Beth. That… that doesn't even make sense." I looked at him.

"Sure it does! If I hadn't distracted her, or revealed where I was, she wouldn't have gotten all wound up, and I would've been conscious and able to help." I argued this with a sense of awareness.

"It's not your fault," repeated Harry mildly, and from me again.

"Than whose is it?" I whispered.

"No one's," Harry answered automatically. "It was an accident. That's all. A tragic Accident."

The silence overcame us once again. The rays of defined light began to fade and I found myself wishing they would come back, and that the hopeful light would bathe us in its glory once again, portraying so many things I could never explain: happiness, peace... anything. But it didn't.

"You don't believe that though, do you?" He had walked directly into my trap. The truth was, I knew we all felt guilt, and I knew it was buried deep in every singles person heart somewhere, but with Harry it sat first and foremost in his brain. He would feel this guilt until someone told him not to.

"I—I… you tricked me," he mumbled, a little bit of color returning to his cheeks. I moved up alongside him and leaned upon the railing. It gave a squeak, but I continued to place pressure on the old peeling beams.

"It's pretty isn't it?" I asked, pointing to the sunset. "It's almost as if… as if it's a reminder that you can start new tomorrow; it's a new page. Bill didn't die because of you Harry. He died because of some... some wickedness that still remains in the world." My anger came through my words, and I felt my cheeks flush with the rage I hadn't been able to relieve up until that point. I hadn't realized how angry I was. It boiled deep inside the pit of my stomach and the hot tears that now covered my face represented that. They burned upon my cheeks like an evil curse that affected my whole body. "He died because a person was craving power and took people that could've been good and turned them into… puppy dogs. Helpless puppies that followed him bloody everywhere."

"I don't feel guilty. I mean I do, everyone does, but what you think about my supposed guilt… it's rubbish."

I stared hard at him. "I don't believe you." He snorted through his tears and looked at me, removing his round specs and wiping them on his shirt.

"Of course you don't."

"Rubbish. I believe almost every word you say, but I know when you're lying."

"Really? And how's that do you suppose?"

"When you lie, your voice is this super scratchy monotone, and you answer in really short sentences instead of trying to defend yourself—like you do when you know you're right, or you're angry." He glared at me and didn't say anything. "Don't get all knotted at me…"

"I'm not angry, I just… if I hadn't gone that morning, it wouldn't have happened. If I hadn't have been there, everyone could've enjoyed a lovely breakfast. Seven people died that morning out of all twenty-nine in the room. It's… it's just not right. And Snape…. I just think that—"

"Don't think for a moment. Come back to the real world Harry. It would've been attacked anyways, just," I gulped and started again. "They find it fun. They would've done it to stir up trouble. The fact that you were there was just a plus, an idiosyncrasy if you will. It was coincidental. And if you hadn't have been there, there probably would've been more deaths, so stop it right now!" He looked at me quite boldly and I turned away, covering up my face with hair, and chewing on a piece while I was at it. "I'm just saying," I said a little quieter, "that you need to stop taking the blame. Your friends are sitting in there feeling the very same way, and I know you've had a lot of stuff happened, but that's why you need to stop, or the guilt will eat you."

He remained in a still motion, his eyes clinging o me. I continued to look away, but his hand brushed the side of my face. I jumped away instantaneously. He sighed. I remained gazing at the grass, but shuffled close to him, regaining the space I had caused jumping away, plus a little more.

His arm moved over my shoulders and I moved into his embrace. At this point my brain started sending signals to my heart, the true decision maker. Things like pity case, and age difference were screaming through my mind at a rapid rate, however my heart seemed prepared for this ambush. It had barricaded itself in, and won the battle—not the war mind, but the battle.

His face leaned down towards mine and he brushed my lips gently with his. I smiled at the softness of it and he pulled away.

"My first snog was sort of like this… but it was the girl that was crying and not me." He laughed awkwardly.

"Were you that bad a kisser? Because it wasn't that bad to me." Through his troubled face, he grinned.