Chapter VI: All That Is Sacred

A few days later, Harry found himself sitting in the Great Hall, staring at his breakfast. Hermione was beside him on the bench, coaxing him to at least take a bite out of his toast. No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much his stomach twisted inside his body, screaming at him to eat, Harry couldn't muster the effort.

He was too distracted with everything else around him. Far too caught up in wishing he was anyone else other than Harry Potter.

He tried to focus on his breakfast. He tried to ignore the noise of people talking, eating, laughing or complaining amongst themselves. The sounds of people with everything waiting for them. People who had no idea just what kind of burden had been placed on his shoulders.

Suffice to say having the knowledge of his own impending death hanging over his head was doing nothing for his mental health. If Harry had been in a bad place before, it was nothing compared to where he was now.

He felt like a drifter, barely conscious. Nothing seemed to faze him any more. Not even the allure of Dumbledore's limitless knowledge, his multitude of magic and wisdom, could bring him out off his constant stupor. Harry knew that he should feel things, that he should either be afraid, or sad or happy or anxious or angry. Still, for some reason, he could never conjure up the energy to actually feel them.

All he felt nowadays was guilt.

Guilt for not being enough, for not being the hero that everyone needed him to be. For not knowing how to help Hermione, who had become more clingy than ever, barely letting him out of her sight, and only crying when she thought he couldn't see her. And every time, he noticed, and we wished he could just disappear from her life. Anything that would stop her from suffering too.

The worst part of it was he knew that this was his fault. Hermione was crying over him, and Harry could do nothing to comfort her. He couldn't lie to her, tell her that everything would be okay, that he had any chance of survival because she knew, just as much as he did, that was a lie.

Hermione was suffering, and it was because of him. For some reason, that fact hurt more than his eventual death ever could.

Harry's thoughts were interrupted when he saw a flash of red in his peripheral vision. He looked up, hoping to see the one person he wanted to talk to, but instead, it was Ron, taking the seat in front of him. Harry froze. He had forgotten all about Ron.

What the hell was he going to tell him? How much could he tell him? Dumbledore had told him to keep his knowledge of the Horcruxes to the people he trusted completely. Harry knew that Ron absolutely fell into that category, it was whether he could bear to tell him the entire truth.

He gave Harry a quick nod, frowning when he didn't respond as Ron had hoped.

"You okay?" the redhead asked.

Harry tried his best smile, nodding quickly.

"Yeah," he replied, "of course."

Even to his ears, it sounded unconvincing, something that Ron obviously noticed. For a moment, he looked as if he were about to say something, maybe ask what was wrong or if he could help. Then, for a shadow of a moment, his eyes flickered to Hermione, still sitting by Harry's side. Whatever he was going to say was forgotten, and he began filling up his plate with toast.

Whatever just happened, Harry was glad for it. If it meant more time to think about what he going to say, he wasn't going to complain.

Harry turned, noticing none other than the one person he had meaning to talk to rising from her seat and making her way towards the entrance of the hall. Harry turned to Hermione, who had also noticed the youngest Weasley. Without a word, she nodded, and Harry stood, pacing after the redhead before she could leave.

"Ginny," he called a few steps behind her. She turned and greeted him with a small smile.

"Oh, hello, Harry," she said. "It's been a while."

"Yeah," Harry replied, recounting just how long it had actually been since he'd talked to her, face to face. The last time he could remember meeting her face-to-face was Quidditch practise, and that had been two weeks ago, at least. It had been a while, yet another regret to add onto the pile. "Listen, Ginny, we need to talk."

Her face fell from hopeful curiosity to burgeoning anxiety in the blink of an eye.

"Okay," she said hesitantly.

Harry gestured to the door, walking past her pointedly, leading her out of the hall. They needed somewhere private for this, she deserved it. It wouldn't do to be in front fo the rest of school when the conversation inevitably turned serious. He guided her to a secluded corner in a forgone hallway until he was sure they were alone.

"Ginny, listen …" Harry said, very quietly. "I've wanted something to happen between us for so long, and I think you have too. But now, I can't let that happen."

She said, with an oddly twisted smile, "It's for some stupid, noble reason, isn't it?"

Harry paused, wondering how to respond. He didn't think what he was doing was stupid, and he hardly wanted to think of himself as noble. It just what needed to be done, for her own sake.

"Ginny, we just can't... I've got things to do alone now."

She rolled her eyes, obviously irritated, and Harry could relate all too well. She wanted this as little as he did, but they had no choice.

"Voldemort uses people his enemies are close to," Harry noted. "He's already used you as bait once, and that was just because you're my best friend's sister. Think how much danger you'll be in if we… He'll know, he'll find out. He'll try and get to me through you."

"What if I don't care?" said Ginny fiercely.

"I care," said Harry. "How do you think I'd feel if this was your funeral, or Ron's, or Hermione's... and it was my fault …"

She looked away from him,

"I never really gave up on you," she said. "Not really. I always hoped ... Hermione told me to get on with life, maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit around you, because I never used to be able to talk if you were in the room, remember? And she thought you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more - myself."

Harry stared past her, thinking back to Hermione.

"Smart girl, that Hermione," said Harry, trying to smile. "I just wish I'd asked you sooner, Ginny. We could've had ages ... months ... years maybe …"

"But you've been too busy saving the wizarding world," said Ginny, half-laughing. "Well ... I can't say I'm surprised. I knew this would happen in the end. I knew you wouldn't be happy unless you were hunting Voldemort. Maybe that's why I like you so much."

Whatever Harry was going to say died in his throat. Ginny's words echoed inside his head, over and over again. He recalled them, analysing them as if he hadn't quite heard her correctly.

As if she hadn't just said that hunting Voldemort was what made him happy.

It felt like someone had thrown a rock in a pane of glass. The image of Ginny, their normal relationship, shattered into a thousand pieces before his very eyes, and Harry felt emptier than ever before.

Even if he had asked her out; even if Voldemort hadn't been resurrected; even if he was coming back for his Seventh Year and something came about between them; it never would have been normal. He still would have been the Boy-Who-Lived, even to her.

Not even in the safety and mundanity of a relationship could Harry escape his own public image. Of all the people he thought could see past that, Ginny was high up on that list, perhaps the highest. But no. It turned out the parts of him she liked so much were exactly what had tried so hard to divorce himself from. In the end, she was just like anyone else. Someone who thought that he enjoyed fighting Voldemort. Who thought that he took any joy out of risking his life, year after year, trying desperately to protect the people closest to him and losing them anyway. As if of this were his choice.

Harry noticed as he brought himself down from his musings that Ginny was staring at him. She was smiling a small, innocent smile, unaware of what her words had just caused. For some reason, looking at her now, she appeared very different in his mind. The once blazing, set determination in her gaze now felt piercing, judgmental, as if she were looking right past him into the eyes of someone else. As if she were constructing something else than the image in front of her, imagining what she wanted to see. It made Harry feel naked, and certainly not in a good way. It was as if she was expecting him to stand up at any moment and conjure a majestic light-show, or raise the castle from its foundations with the swish of his wand.

But Harry could do none of these things, he never could, and he never tried to. He never once advertised himself as anything more than just Harry. Yet, whenever anyone looked at him, just Harry was the last thing they saw. It broke his heart to know now that Ginny was among that number.

It was only as he felt Ginny's hand on his arm, and he came to, that he realised he hadn't spoken for a long while. She raised her eyebrows, tilting her head slightly, prompting him to reply.

Harry couldn't find the words.

Actually, he managed a few. Only enough to say goodbye, to politely part ways with her, leaving Ginny behind as he trudged back to the Great Hall, confused as to what she had said.

Harry didn't speak much for the rest of the day. Only to answer direct questions, or to tell Hermione the usual - that he was fine and she needn't worry. Of course, the truth was that he was the furthest thing from fine. In fact, he felt like he had just lost a leg or an eye. The future he might have had, the one he imagined, taken solace in, was built on a lie. That perfect image - that promising, safe, mundane life - was nothing but an illusion after all.

He should have known. Ginny had always been in awe of in some way or another. From the moment he first met her, she was shy, jittery, refusing to speak to or even look at him for the longest time. She was enamoured with him, or rather the idea of him, the hero that she wanted to believe in. And he was foolish enough to think that would all be erased, that she had magically been able to see past that.

It wasn't her fault, it wasn't like he ever did much to dispel that image of himself. He saved her life when she was only eleven-years-old, that was always bound to leave an impression. His fault, yet again.

It was always his fault.


The day was over before Harry even knew it, and as his thoughts came back to the present, he found himself back in the common room, with Hermione sitting by his side. Just as she'd been for the entirety of that day, right by his side.

He needed to be away from her, just for a little bit. He needed to get whatever it was that was bubbling inside him out before it swallowed him whole. And the last thing he wanted was for Hermione to be there when it happened. Not that it would be bad. It was perfectly natural, he dismissed. He just didn't need her worrying about him, thinking that he was handling it worse than he was.

He was fine. It was all normal. Absolutely normal.

Harry excused himself from Hermione's side, telling her he had to take a shower, that he'd be back in no time, and not to worry about him. Hermione was surprisingly calm when she conceded, telling him that if he ever needed her, all he had to do was shout.

The next thing he knew, he was in the boys' bathroom, his clothes bunched up in the corner, standing underneath a running showerhead. And wishing he had never left.

Harry felt awful. Truly awful, like a burning fist had been clenched around his chest. He couldn't tell if it was the water from the shower that was blurring his vision or if it was his own tears. Either way, he felt like a wreck, and the warm water wasn't helping matters.

He stepped out from underneath the shower, wrapping himself in a towel and stepping up to a nearby mirror. He turned on the cold tap, pooling a hand of water and throwing it into his face. He exhaled slowly, glancing up into his reflection.

He looked as bad as he felt. His eyes were red, darkened by a lack of sleep. His hair was soaking head, dripping down his face in dark, long tendrils wrapping around his face and neck, constricting against his throat, choking the life out of him as his vision began to darken-

Harry choked in a breath, trying to steady himself for the side of the sink. He glanced down, his hands were grasping the porcelain so hard that his hands were turning pale. A deathly pale, thin and sickly, devoid of life of love or mercy, eyes glowing blood red, staring into his with murderous intent. He was going to die, he was-

Harry slipped, falling to the floor as his fingers lost their grip. He crashed the floor, flopping like a corpse on the cold, wet tiles. Harry tried to stand, only for his legs to give way beneath him. He scanned the room, finding his clothes in a pile by the benches.

A glistening vial of blue elixir taunted him, so near and yet further than Harry could ever dread. He had to make it. He had to get that potion.

He reached forward, trying to reach the edge of the sink, using his towel as leverage as he rose to meet his reflection once again.

His once raw, grew eyes were now a blood-red; deep, rotting holes piercing through his skin like wounds. His scar was burning, black, viscous liquid bleeding down his forehead. Harry screamed, reaching his hands up, trying to scrape it away, only for it to remain impervious to his fingers. From beneath his fingers, he saw blood painted across his head, soaking him in deep crimson. Still, he kept on scratching away, trying to rip apart the Horcrux the beneath his scar, crying out when the red of his eyes became blinding.

Suddenly, Harry felt a pair of hands wrap around him, pulling him into the corner. He panicked, lashing out, trying to push away at whoever was clutching at him, dragging him away. Harry was shoved into the corner, his arms trapped by his sides. He shouted out, calling for help, masking whatever the stranger was saying.

A moment later, Harry felt the lip of a bottle pressed against his lips, a cold liquid pure against his closed mouth. He recognised the taste immediately. It was the calming draught. Harry opened his mouth, drinking the elixir down, clutching at the vial in the stranger's hands.

The effect was instantaneous. Harry's body relaxed, the pounding in his head slowed to a steady rhythm. And, with the adrenaline leaving his body, the pain began to set in. The scratches against his forehead began to throb and burn. His thighs and elbow bruised, and, looking down at his hands, he saw that he had acquired several deep cuts in the palm of his hands. Harry glanced over to the sink, only to see that it had been smashed, the floor now covered with bits of porcelain lining the floor.

Looking back, he realised how foolish he had been, how obvious it was that it had all been just a hallucination, conjured in a fit of mania. But it had felt so real like he was trapped in some horrific moment. The fear was real, at least.

Harry turned back to his saviour, expecting to see a head of bushy brown hair and chocolate eyes.

But he didn't, because the person sitting in front of him, staring at him expectantly, wasn't Hermione. It was someone else. Someone Harry didn't expect.

"Ron."

"Hey, bud," the ginger-haired boy smiled.

"How'd you know?"

"I just had a hunch," he shrugged. "Ginny, she came to me after breakfast, told me what you'd said to her. I knew you'd be pretty shaken after something so…"

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"Look," Harry began to confess, "Ron, I-"

"Hermione told me."

Harry stopped, staring at his best male friend, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"She told me everything," Ron continued, "the night we broke up. Well, I say 'broke up', but we weren't really a thing at the time, more just trying it out but it was- doesn't matter. The point is I know what you're going through."

Harry scrunched his eye, leaning into hands, trying not to cry.

"I never wanted you to worry, either of you."

"I know," Ron nodded, patting him on the back, "'cause if we worry it becomes real. Don't get me wrong, Harry, I don't like worrying about you, I don't wanna have to see my friend like this, but it's better than feeling like I can't help you."

Harry began to laugh morosely as something broke within him. Ron narrowed his eyes, clearly taken aback.

"What?"

"You can't help me, Ron," Harry choked. "No one can."

"Bollocks," Ron replied. "There are those, what d'ya call 'em, therapist people - those mind healers in the muggle world, they can-"

"No," Harry insisted, "they… I… Ron, I'm going to die."

Ron shook his head.

"No, you're not, Harry."

"Yes, yes, I am because I have to. Because I always going to have to, it was always going to happen."

"Look, mate, if this is about the prophecy, we've been over this."

"No, it's not just that." Harry glanced around the room, towards the door over Ron's shoulder. "Are we alone?"

"Pretty much," Ron confirmed. "No one's coming in. Why?"

"Voldemort," Harry began, and Ron resisted the urge to flinch, "he has these things, they're called Horcruxes. It's something he can use to store a piece of his soul."

"His soul?" Ron repeated carefully. "What, like…?"

"A piece of himself," Harry explained, "hidden away. As long as those Horcruxes survive, so can he."

Ron inhaled a shaky breath.

"Is that how he survived the first time."

Harry nodded.

"Yes."

Ron suddenly looked very anxious, deflating, his eyes were wide open, staring into the middle distance.

"Bloody hell," he breathed. "And, what, you have to find them all?"

"And destroy them. The diary, the one that Ginny was writing in, the one that possessed her…"

Ron paled.

"You're not saying…" Harry nodded gravely, and Ron shivered. "I feel sick."

"It gets worse."

"What can be worse than that?"

Harry looked at him, a deep frown set into his face.

"He made more than one."

"More than one?!" Ron exclaimed. "How many did he make?"

Harry shook his head.

"I don't know. We're not sure, but the estimate is seven."

"Seven?" Ron hissed. "He split his soul seven times? How the hell is he still alive?"

"I told you, the Horcruxes keep him from dying."

Ron sat back against the bench, his mouth wide open.

"Merlin…" He stared at the bathroom tiles, trying to digest what Harry had just said. Eventually, he sat up, nodding to himself. "So that's it. We have to find them all and destroy them. That's what we're gonna do. Right?"

Harry didn't answer. Ron turned, spotting his friend staring at the opposite wall, his head hanging on his shoulder, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Harry?"

"The last Horcrux…" Harry croaked, his hands trembling. "I know what it is, Ron. Dumbledore told me. It's how I've been able to talk to snakes. How I've been able to see his thoughts. Why I have those nightmares."

Ron stared at him, about to ask what it all meant, why he suddenly looked so...

"No…" Ron gasped as he finally put the pieces together. He leaned over, trying to look Harry in the eye. "Harry…"

The raven-haired boy remained silent, and Ron's worst fears were confirmed.

Ron stood from his seat, pacing the bathroom back and forth, his brain on fire. Harry merely sat and watched as his friend slowly lost his composure. His breathing turned into loud, heavy grunts, like a train reaching full-steam. His shoulders hunched, his fists clenched and - without warning - Ron threw his fist at the nearest wall, shattering the tiles.

"BASTARD!" he screamed with apocalyptic fury, his face glowing red, his eyes wild. He turned in Harry's direction, marching towards him. "Well, come on, how do we get it out?"

"We can't," Harry replied softly, to which Ron shook his head.

"No, no, we can," Ron doubled-down. "Of course we can. Why can't we? We… Hermione, she'll know. We'll go down to the library, and we'll…"

"Already tried that," Harry explained, too tired to raise his voice above a whisper. "We found nothing. Ron, there's nothing we can do."

Ron glared, pointing his shaking finger in Harry's face.

"Don't say that. Don't… don't you dare…" But something in Ron's eyes told Harry even he knew that it was a losing fight. "What are we supposed to do, then? Just let you die? Is that what we're doing?"

"Nothing else we can do."

"WHY THE BLOODY HELL NOT?"

At this point, Ron had tears streaming down his face, unashamedly mourning for his friends as he tried to regain his composure. Eventually, after several minutes of barely concealed sobs and troubled murmurs, Ron fell onto the bench beside Harry, feeling utterly drained.

"How long have you known?" Ron asked, wiping his eyes.

"Only a few days, Ron," Harry replied. "Barely even half a week."

Ron nodded, constructing a timeline in his head.

"Why didn't you…" he began, but the question fell away. "Have you told Hermione?"

"Yeah. She was the first person I told. You're the second."

"No wonder she looks awful," Ron breathed, rubbing his face with his hand. "Merlin, I feel awful. For you. Just can't catch a break, can you?"

"I guess not," Harry chuckled mirthlessly. "I was going to tell you, Ron. I was. I just never knew how to bring it up."

"No, I don't blame you. I don't blame you at all. You gonna tell anyone else?"

"I'm not sure," Harry sighed. "If Voldemort finds out we know about the Horcruxes, he'll move them, hide them away, protect them. If he does that we'll never get them. And if we don't get them all…"

"Yeah, I know," Ron nodded grimly. "Well, don't you go offing yourself anytime soon, alright? We need you, Harry. Hermione, especially."

Harry shook his head.

"What Hermione needs is to get far away from me. You too."

"Well, that's not happening in a million years."

"Ron-"

"It's not happening, Harry," Ron said firmly. "We had our chance to leave, and we're still here. And if you don't like it, tough. Hermione would agree with me."

"So would Sirius."

"Harry…" Ron tried to argue, but Harry stopped him.

"You think I don't want you guys around?" he said, his voice trembling. "Of course I do. You're my family. The only family I have left. And that's why I can't let you stay with me. So many people close to me have died, or suffered, and if that happened to you or Hermione… hell, it's already happened! I've nearly got both of you killed, so many times. Do you think I'd want to carry on if I lost you too? Who else would I have?"

"And that's exactly why we're sticking with you," Ron replied. "I don't care what anyone says. We're gonna find a way to get this Horcrux out of your head, and we're gonna find the rest of them and destroy them."

"We don't even know if we can, Ron."

"Then we're gonna keep trying," he said resolutely. "That's what we always do. We don't give up, right? That's what the Harry I know would do. And he's still in there, somewhere, I know he is. We need that Harry, more now than ever."

Harry looked at him.

"You think I can be that person?"

Ron tried his best smile, patting him on the shoulder.

"Honestly, I think you never stopped. You just needed some help realising it. You are gonna hunt down these Horcruxes, right?"

Harry shrugged.

"That was the plan."

"Yeah," Ron grinned, "he's definitely still in there. Come on, let's dry you off. I think the others want a shower."

Ron reached over, helping Harry to his feet, revealing the pooling river of blood running off of his frayed knuckles.

"Your hand…" Harry gasped. Ron looked at it, tilted his fist from side to side.

"Yeah, it does hurt a bit," he remarked nonchalantly. "Probably shouldn't have punched that wall, now that I think about it."

Harry emitted something between a laugh and a scoff.

"Yeah, maybe," Harry nodded. "Still, nice to see you care."

"You're my brother, Harry," Ron replied as he picked up Harry's trousers and offered them to him. "Of course I care."


The two friends returned to the common room shortly afterwards, walking in on an expectant Hermione. She was stroking a closed book that was resting in her lap, biting her bottom lip in the way that she did when she thought intensely about something.

The moment she noticed them, Hermione hurried over.

"What happened? What took you so long?"

Harry shrugged, offering his lacerated hand.

"Long shower."

Hermione's eyes widened, producing her wand and waving it over his hand.

"Oh god," she gasped as the wounds disappeared, "are you alright?"

Harry glanced to Ron, who was standing by his side, a small grin on his lips.

"I am now."

"Did you manage to get to your calming draught?" Hermione asked, bringing him into a tight hug.

"He did," Ron replied, summoning her attention towards him. "I know about the… you-know-whats. I know Harry's one of them. I want to stay. I want to help in any way I can."

Hermione gazed him, sending him a melancholy smile as she tightened her hug around Harry's shoulders.

"Thank you."

The three of them stood together for a while. Harry and Hermione wrapped in each other's arms and Ron by their side, smiling at them, someone of his own in his mind.

There the three friends remained, united once again, relishing in what little time they had left. And planning, for a steadily approaching future, and for the fight that lay before them. The battle that all three of them would inevitably face.

Together.