Chapter XV: Unbroken Into Pieces

The days went by quicker than Harry wanted. Just when he thought he might have a grip on the seconds as they passed by him, his mind slipped, distracted by something else that needed his attention. And then it would be the next day and he would be back to wanting everything to just slow down for a second. He wondered how he could have wasted all the days before this moment, what he wouldn't give to have just a few of them back. When he was a boy, time used to move so slowly. A week was an eternity, dripping by like molasses. Now a week was a blink of an eye.

One day very, very soon, he wouldn't have the chance to simply bide his time in the Burrow. He wouldn't be able to pretend his life was normal whilst the world burned down around him. They were all about to go to war. This one quiet moment was the calm before the storm and Harry knew he had to make the most of every second.

Mrs Weasley kept him, Ron and Hermione busy with jobs, sorting out the house, preparing for Fleur's wedding, anything that would keep them from planning their next year. The others made no secret how much it annoyed them and whilst he was similarly annoyed, Harry was secretly happy for the distraction, even though he knew he shouldn't be. Better to have his head filled with busy work than worrying about the insurmountable task in front of them.

However, whilst his days were filled with chores and busy work, his nights were hardly so mundane. Once they were sure everyone was asleep, Harry and Hermione would sneak into Ron's room, where they would talk into the early hours of the morning, planning their next move. Before they could do anything, they needed to figure out their first targets, namely which Horcruxes to hunt first. They had all poured over Dumbledore's extensive research, combing the objects' histories for possible leads, any intersections in the life of Tom Riddle. Their information was limited without access to the Hogwarts library, but with the Black library at their fingertips thanks to Dobby, they were already forming connections.

They started by going through the list of the Hogwarts Founders' treasured items. They had already destroyed Slytherin's locket and Gryffindor's sword was accounted for, which only left Hufflepuff's cup and Ravenclaw's diadem. They would have to do a thorough sweep of the castle just in case they were hidden somewhere in its depths, but disposing of them would be relatively easy once found. The others would be much harder to nail down. Nagini, for example, would have to be one of the last ones they destroyed, considering how she never left Riddle's side. Killing the snake would mean coming face-to-face with Riddle, and that was something they wanted to delay for as long as possible.

Then there was Harry himself. However much Ron and Hermione tried to convince him otherwise, he knew he would have to die by Riddle's hand. In fact, he had almost come to accept it, in a weird way. It's just what had to happen. Who knows? Maybe he could take Tom with him? Or at least give him a good fight on the way out? He never voiced these thoughts, neither Ron nor Hermione would find the humour in them like he did. Then again, he supposed there wasn't much humour to be found in knowing that your best friend was going to die.

This was all going to be a major undertaking, in more ways than they had even considered. It was only when they detailed the nitty-gritty of their life on the run did they realise how under-equipped they were to survive on their own. Food, water, bedding, clothing, washing - all these things that they had taken for granted were all suddenly no longer so simple. It would only be the three of them most of the time, they had to make do with what they. Hermione made it abundantly clear from the get-go that she would not be doing their cooking just because she was the only girl, a sentiment that made both boys flush with indignity.

"Surely we won't be completely by ourselves?" Ron offered as a platitude. "I mean, we'll have Hogwarts right next door."

"Not for everything," Harry replied, pacing from wall to wall in the cramped room that he and Ron had been sharing in the week since Harry's birthday. "It'll only be whatever Snape can smuggle to us and I don't want to rely on him too often. If he gets found out it's all over. The less attention we bring to him, the better, and that means staying out of his way as often as we can."

"Dumbledore said that V…" Ron hesitated before gripping his fingers into a fist and gritting his teeth. "Oh, bloody hell- Voldemort would probably take over the school once he's done with the ministry."

"You control the children, you control the families," Hermione surmised from her seat on a small wooden chair beside him. "You control the families, you control the Wizarding World. He'll want to crack down on Hogwarts as soon as possible."

"Just like Umbridge," Ron noted. Harry shook his head.

"Worse."

Ron's face contorted as the true horror of that scenario slowly began to sink in and the red hue in his cheeks drained away.

"Right," he whispered. The young Weasley glanced at his two best friends worriedly. "Should Ginny even be going back?"

They were silent for a moment as they both realised that they had somewhat forgotten not just about Ginny but about everyone else at Hogwarts. What nightmare would their lives at Hogwarts become whilst they were off hunting Horcruxes?

"I don't know," Harry finally spoke. "The Weasleys are technically pureblood. If she keeps her head down, she'll probably be fine."

"And how likely is that to happen?" Ron scoffed.

"I'm more worried about the muggle-borns," Hermione muttered darkly.

"Well, obviously," Ron replied. "I can't imagine what it's going to be like for them."

The idea sat in the air for a while, the dreadful possibilities swimming amongst their thoughts. A school run by Death Eaters with no one to answer to. At least Umbridge had her career to keep her in check and a Ministry with some level of accountability. Riddle had neither.

If he wanted, Riddle could turn Hogwarts into a torture chamber for any child not deemed of pure enough blood and there would be no one to stop him. Besides them, of course. There used to be another, but now he was buried in a tomb of white marble, unable to help anyone.

"How could Dumbledore let this happen?" Hermione whispered despondently. Harry had no answer, for he often wondered the very same thing. All those years to plan ahead, to prepare for what was coming, and yet it still came down to this. Not an army, but a group of teenagers scrambling for lost treasure. This should never have happened in the first place.

"At least we have Snape as headmaster," Harry offered as some small glimpse of optimism. "He won't let it get too bad."

Both Ron and Hermione's faces remained thoroughly unconvinced.

"Won't he?" Ron asked.

"If Dumbledore trusts him, surely we can."

"He won't be the only one, surely," Hermione reminded him. "If Voldemort's willing to put one Death Eater in charge of Hogwarts he'll probably instate more. People far worse than Snape."

There was a gasp and Ron sat bolt upright.

"Can you imagine if it's Bellatrix?"

By now, he had gone a near snowy pale, his eyes wide as saucers.

"It won't be," Hermione explained, though even she was starting to grow rigid at the thought. "She's his right-hand woman and a wealthy Pureblood. A Black married to a Lestrange. There's no point having her up at Hogwarts when there are better uses for her, politically I mean. And it won't be someone like Greyback either, he's more valuable as a fighter and recruiter."

Whilst her words provided some relief, Ron's body still refused to relax.

"So it's a lesser-evil sort of scenario?" he sighed.

"If that even exists with the Death Eaters," Harry muttered.

Then again, what if Riddle did do the unthinkable and placed Bellatrix at the head of the school. What if the worst came to the worst? What then? What could they possibly do? Rebel? Take back Hogwarts? It seemed laughable to even consider it, but then again, eventually, they would have to fight. God knows how many Death Eaters they would come to face on the run at any one time. If it came to just them, in an ambush with nowhere left to run, could they possibly fight a horde of Death Eaters by themselves?

It wasn't too long ago that Harry himself had led a group of six against them, but even then they needed the Order to bail them out. That wouldn't be an option this time. Harry tried desperately not to think about the moment Dolohov's curse collided with Hermione's body, how he watched in horror as she fell silently to the floor. The split second when he was sure she was gone forever.

What if it happened again? It might, that was the problem, and he was no more prepared for it as he was last time.

Harry came to a realisation.

"We're not enough."

It took several seconds of oppressive silence for Harry to clock on that he had said that out loud. He glanced at Ron and Hermione only to find them staring back at him.

"Not saying we three aren't terrific but we're hardly an army," he explained as he crossed his arms. "If we run into a group of Death Eaters along the way, what's to stop them from overwhelming us? Even if we were the best duellists in the world, it would still be a hard fight. We need more, as many as we can get. At least one more person. Surely there's one more person we can trust."

"We need someone with a strategic mind," Hermione pondered, pacing back and forth alongside him. "Someone crafty, able to think on their feet."

"Hey, I'm strategic," Ron piped up from between them. Harry and Hermione gazed at him silently for a few seconds, before immediately going back to pacing.

"Someone with training," Hermione continued without missing a beat, "who's able to hold their own in a fight."

"Oi, I am," Ron argued.

"And what makes you think that?" Harry asked. Ron rolled his shoulders, pumping up his chest.

"I'm pretty good at chess," he offered.

The pair merely stared at him, supremely unimpressed.

"Alright Ronald," Hermione eventually replied, "I'll indulge you. Let's play a game."

Ron, taken aback by her sudden turn, blinked.

"Okay," he said, holding up his hands, "as long as you're sure."

He slid a well-worn chessboard out of the nearby bookcase, laying it on the coffee table in front of the sofa and set about placing each of the pieces in their proper positions. Hermione kneeled on the other side of the low table, patiently observing him. Harry couldn't help but be reminded of a cat getting ready to pounce on an oblivious mouse.

"Now the first move is always the most important," Ron explained, to which Hermione nodded enthusiastically. "It sets the stage for the whole battle."

The redhead grabbed a pawn in the middle of the first row and set it two squares forward. He smiled triumphantly.

"See, look at that," he marvelled. "Confident, decisive. Now your turn, Hermione."

Instead of reaching forward to move a piece, Hermione untucked her wand from her pocket. With a small wave, she set the board on fire.

Ron stared at the ruined game, his face unreadable like his brain was stuck trying to process the scene. Harry meanwhile, was trying desperately to mask the smirk that threatened to erupt on his face, for Ron's sake.

"Good game, you two?" he asked once the flames had died down.

"Quite" Hermione beamed before turning back to Ron. "Practising chess doesn't make you better at war, Ron. It makes you better at chess."

"So, what? Have I just wasted all these years playing chess for nothing?"

"Yes."

"Cool."

Whilst the pair argued, Harry was already thinking ahead, weighing up his options. That was until his focus was broken by a soft bang below him, muffled through the floorboards. He glanced down at the floorboards at his feet. Underneath them was the twins' room. Likely what he had heard was one of their experiments. They were always designing and refining new pranks to sell in their shop. He could at least admire-

Harry stopped and then he thought for a moment. Maybe… possibly… but if… Yes, actually, that could work. That would work extremely well. It was a wonder that he hadn't thought of it before.

Without a word, he left Ron and Hermione to bicker amongst themselves and descended the staircase down to the lower floor. He approached the first door on the left, confident that this was the right one.

He knocked and waited as two pairs of footsteps approached from the other side. The door opened and two ginger heads poked out through the gap.

"Good evening, Harry," one of them spoke, indivisible from the other.

"Hello, Fred, George," he greeted cordially. "I have a proposition for you both. Let's talk inside."

The long conversation that followed would not leave that room, but as Harry departed the twins' abode later that night, he knew that he had just recruited two valuable and very cunning allies to his cause.


"I don't know how… you do this every day," Hermione's voice huffed and puffed behind him. Harry shrugged as best he could as he slowed down a tag to a light trot.

"You get used to it," he replied. "Besides, it's easier when you're not stopping and starting so often."

For that, he earned a piercing glare, which would have been followed up by a punch to the shoulder if she had the energy. To be fair, she was doing well for her first jog in who knows how long. The wards around the Burrow, by virtue of being connected to ley lines, covered great swathes of the countryside, far enough where a round trip around the perimeter was a hearty mile. The perfect route for a light jog on a sunny day like today.

"I really am… out of shape, aren't I?" she laughed breathlessly.

Harry certainly didn't agree with that sentiment. Despite not being in the best shape she could be, Hermione didn't give herself nearly enough credit. He thought about saying that her shape looked absolutely fine, then wisely bombed that thought from orbit before it could go anywhere near his mouth.

"Better to work on it now than not at all," he shrugged. "This could save your life."

"You know, for all the running around we do…" she pulled in a large breath through her nose, releasing it from her mouth as Harry had told her, "you'd think I'd be better at it."

"Well, it doesn't help if most of the time between all that running is spent sitting in the library and studying."

Hermione glanced at him, wanting to argue but knowing his logic was mostly correct. She groaned, stretching her back like a cat.

"Urgh… how much further?"

"Only half a mile," Harry provided cheerfully. "We can get that done in five minutes if we don't stop."

He saw her eyes dart down the track, then back at him, before she closed them and stretched onto her tiptoes.

"Okay… Okay…" She sighed, readying herself with a steely glint in her gaze. "This time don't let me stop."

Harry dutifully shook his head.

"I won't," he promised. A few seconds later they were off again.

True to her word, Hermione didn't stop jogging until she reached the Burrow's garden fence, and once she did, she cheered and whooped herself, revelling in her victory. Three miles in 35 minutes was nothing to scoff at. There was room for improvement, but then there was time for that yet. Although, the triumph was slightly dampened by her collapsing onto the lawn. Harry dutifully brought her a cool glass of water to resurrect her, which she gratefully accepted. The water was gone so fast Harry thought she might have vanished it.

Eventually, Hermione peeled herself off of the lawn and rose to her feet. The image of her hair all over the place and her face flustered and covered with bits of grass was quite the sight to behold, however, the look on her face when he said they'd be doing it all over again the next day was priceless.

For the rest of the day, Harry was put in charge of putting up the marquee with Bill. The majority of the work was a few focused levitation charms, nothing too complicated. It made Harry smile, remembering a time when he struggled with something as simple as levitating a feather. That one morning charms lesson stood vivid in his mind, being surrounded by students all clumsily chanting the spell, with only Hermione able to do it flawlessly, because of course she could. Then he thought back to that little eleven-year-old boy, excited to learn all about this new world that had been inducted into, and all the things that awaited that little boy. The good and bad.

There was no doubting that he was a completely different person now, he had to be to have survived for as long as he had. A part of him wondered what that boy would think seeing him as he was now. Would he be disappointed? Afraid? Sad? Or maybe he would be happy to see his older self alive, anywhere but Privet Drive, surrounded by people who actually cared about him. Because really, despite the fact that Riddle and his followers wanted him dead, that he would soon be forced into a war for the fate of the world, he still had so much to be thankful for. Friends, allies, warm meals, a roof over his head. Some people didn't even get that.

It was a challenge to remind himself that there were good things in his life that he should cherish, but it was a necessary one. Some days, it was so very hard to stop himself from going to that dark place in his head, where it all seemed so pointless and tomorrow seemed unreachable. That was when it was most important for him to pull himself up by his britches and get on with the day, even if that meant busying himself with mundane tasks that a first-year could accomplish. That was what his new therapist had told him to do.

True to her word, Fleur had gotten in touch with an acquaintance from France, someone who she said could help him find a road to recovery. A couple of days later, a stranger was walking up the path to the Burrow, someone who Fleur cheerily met at the gate. After several thorough checks by the Order, Harry was finally allowed to meet her, a woman in her early thirties, wearing a pristine suit that reminded Harry of a primary school teacher. Her name was Amélie Sauveterre, beyond that Harry didn't know what to remark upon. The way Fleur talked about her made her out like she was some miracle worker but from what he could tell, she was just an ordinary woman. She was plainly unremarkable, seemingly by design. but then maybe that was the point.

After a brief introduction, he and Ms Sauvaterre - "Please, Harry, call me Amélie." - sat themselves down in a secluded corner of the living room and Amélie erected a few privacy charms around. Remus was visibly sitting at the doorway, unable to hear anything but always watching. He gave Harry a wink from his chair which set some of his nerves to rest.

As it turned out, she was nice. The majority of their sessions were her asking fairly simple questions, getting him to repeat what he already knew, probably more for her sake than his. It was only his first session, a catch-up, much the same as his first time with his previous mind healer, the one provided by St Mungo's. He hadn't made much progress with them either before all that business with Dumbledore. Hopefully, this would be different. Amélie briefly asked about him too, whether he wished to discuss his feelings regarding the whole situation, but Harry sidestepped the issue.

The truth was he still had a lot to say about Dumbledore. There were days when he forgot the old man was dead, times when he was almost waiting for him to walk through the door with some new mission. Harry would imagine him pacing his office at Hogwarts, waiting for him to return on the Hogwarts Express, ready to teach him some new lesson or impart some more cryptic wisdom. That was how he wanted to remember him, rather than him slumped in his chair, his glassy eyes staring outwards and…

"Harry?"

His eyes perked up, wiping the clouds away.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Yeah, I'm here."

Amélie wrote something down on her notepad in a neat scrawl and Harry felt himself shift in his seat.

"Would you like me to repeat what I said?" she asked to which he politely nodded. "Alright, then. I have tried to get a referral from your medical records at St Mungos, however, no one could find them. They were heavily classified. However, I understand from speaking to Fleur that you have had therapy briefly before. Tell me, how do you think that went?"

Harry thought for a moment, wondering if Dumbledore was behind his medical files being treated like a state secret. It made sense, he didn't want the fact of his illness to be known to the other side. The last thing he needed was his golden boy, the Chosen One, looking weak.

"I'm not sure." He shrugged. "I'm still sick, aren't I?"

"How do you mean?"

"PTSD," Harry supplied. "That's what they call it. Like what soldiers get. Means my brain's not working properly or something like that. I don't know the specifics."

"I'm guessing they did not explain it to you properly, then," Amélie replied. At his nod, she sighed, noting it down with an underline. She then set the notepad aside and gave him her full attention. "It's an anxiety disorder. It typically develops after moments of severe stress or trauma, however, it can also develop after prolonged exposure to repeated incidents of trauma. We call that Complex PTSD. Sometimes people develop it immediately, sometimes it can develop many years after the fact, but both can be treated in time. Really, if you are suffering from PTSD, it takes more than this kind of therapy to truly tackle it."

"So there is a cure? I can get better?"

"It's not quite that simple. It takes a lot of work from both ends, I'm afraid. I'm not here to cure you, Harry. This isn't an injury or a sickness. I'm here to help you understand yourself better so that you can start to come to terms with how this has happened and how you want to move forward."

A tired sigh escaped from him before he could quell it.

"So there's nothing you can give me for this? No medicine or pills or something?"

"It would be much easier if there were, wouldn't it?" Amélie smiled. "But no. Typically the only drugs that are prescribed, at least in the muggle world, are antidepressants, which, as you might guess, counteract the chemical imbalances in your brain that come with depression or other disorders. But they aren't a cure, Harry. They're more like a crutch, I suppose, and they do have numerous side effects. There aren't many potion substitutes either. Magic is far too spontaneous to have such specialised usage, however, I heard you've been taking Calming Draughts on occasion?"

"Just to stop the panic attacks," Harry nodded.

"That's some good initiative. However, I wouldn't recommend using them too often," Amélie suggested softly. "We don't want you becoming dependent on them, even if they can help you."

"Sure."

"Would you like to talk about those panic attacks, Harry? Can you remember when they started?"

Harry cast his mind way back, months ago, back to that evening in detention, eagerly awaiting his release.

"It was May. Or April. Maybe earlier. It was definitely after Easter, though. I was at a party, in my common room, and then suddenly I just wasn't there anymore. It felt like I was back in one of my memories. I couldn't breathe. I didn't know what was going on."

"That is called a flashback. Certain sounds or images can trigger you to partially relive traumatic moments from your life. It often feels like you are living in two moments, the past and the present. Is that what it felt like to you?"

"Yes. Yes, exactly."

"Okay. Do you have any idea what might have triggered this memory? Anything from the party in particular? Was it a loud noise, a certain smell or taste, anything that might have reminded you of the event?"

It was difficult to picture the scene exactly as he saw it all those months ago, but the memory he could envision was clear as day.

"I think someone was setting off fireworks. All the people as well, crowding around me, saying my name. It reminded me of…"

Photographers, flashing bulbs, the Ministry, his friends, Riddle, Sirius, the Veil… Damn it, he thought he was over this already. Why the hell was it still affecting him now? Why were his eyes hurting? His hands were shaking and his tongue felt like lead.

"We don't have to talk about it, Harry, if you don't want to." Amélie's voice rang in his ears, keeping him rooted in his armchair, on this summer day at the Burrow. Reminding him that he was safe. She took his silence as a sign to move on. "It's alright. We can tackle this at your pace."

"I want to," Harry refused, forcing himself to breathe. "I just… I'm sorry, this is stupid of me."

"No, it's not. It's common for your mind to attach certain sensations to traumatic memories. It's a survival mechanism that helps the brain identify danger and process severe trauma. Except, sometimes the brain doesn't process it correctly. Whatever you saw at the party reminded you of that day and told your brain that you were in danger, even though you know you really weren't."

"So, how do I tell it to stop?" Harry growled through clenched teeth. "How do I get it to shut up?"

"Breathing helps," Amélie said pointedly. Harry paused, taking in another long breath of air, trying to relax. "Curing PTSD is a long and difficult process. The most I can do is to help you understand why you're responding to these memories the way you are and possibly how to change that. I understand that we may only have so much time, not nearly enough in a typical case, so I want to give you as much advice as I can while you're able to listen.

"However, this doesn't mean I'm going to force you to progress any faster than what you're comfortable with. These things take time. If you're not ready to relive these memories, then I won't make you. I'm here to help, Harry. I promise."

Their session didn't last much longer than that. It was mostly a review of what they had discussed. Seeing it all written down on paper made it all seem so meagre, but Amélie assured him that they indeed made good progress. Their next sessions would be the following week, to which Harry asked if she needed him to prepare anything. She laughed at that, though not in a demeaning way. She merely asked him to think about what he wanted to talk about for next time.

Once Amélie had left the property, Harry made a point to find Fleur and thank her for introducing the pair. In response, Fleur merely gave him a soft hug and told him it was no bother.

"Consider it your birthday present," she smiled, a sentiment that caught Harry wildly off-guard.

His birthday. He'd almost completely forgotten all about it. Then again, considering what had happened recently, it was no wonder it had skipped his. Honestly, he didn't expect to receive a single gift, however, at this point, he couldn't find it in himself to care. There was no use wasting money on a dead man, anyway.

That idea was disproved the very next day when Mrs Weasley wished him a very happy seventeenth birthday and carefully presented him with an old watch wrapped in paper. It was a dull gold, with little stars across its face, obviously well used but still ticking.

"It's traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age. I'm afraid that one isn't new like Ron's, it was actually my brother Fabian's and he wasn't terribly careful with his possessions, it's a bit dented on the back, but-"

But it was perfect, Harry told her via a fierce hug. It didn't matter that it was a hand-me-down, that it wasn't the newest or shiniest on the market, it meant so much more than that. He carried a piece of her family's history now, a family she had welcomed him into, that had become like his own. One that, despite his mistakes, still accepted him, still loved him.

It was surprisingly comfortable to wear, the type of comfort that had been worn in from years of use. Putting on the watch felt like stepping into another man's shoes, yet it felt like his own too. According to Wizarding tradition, he was a man now. It would be up to him to see if he turned out a good one.

However, this wasn't the only surprise the day had in store for him.

"Harry?"

He turned as he was about to mount the stairs back up to Hermione's room, only to find Ginny's eyes staring back at him.

"Hi," he said awkwardly, not sure what to say. Ginny, however, looked like she had plenty to say.

"Do you mind following me for a second?"

Harry caught Mrs Weasley's eyes just for a moment he thought he saw her wink at him, only to return to the marquee outside like nothing happened.

Slightly confused, Harry followed Ginny up the stairs towards a green door on the third floor. The redhead opened the door and pulled him inside, allowing Harry his first-ever glimpse of Ginny's room. It never occurred to him until now that he had no idea what Ginny's room actually looked like, however standing in the middle of it now, staring around, it didn't look like a girl's room. There were posters of Quidditch players all around, a clean set of uniforms in the corner along with her broom, books and trainers and all sorts of things she had collected in her time at Hogwarts. Not a single thing in her room was pink, rather it was a scene of reds and greens and golds. It suited her very well.

The owner of the room was now standing in the centre, her hands behind her back, staring up at him from underneath her long eyelashes. She almost looked bashful, in a way that was very unlike her.

"I couldn't think of what to get you," she said. "For your birthday, I mean."

"Honestly, Ginny, you didn't have to get me anything."

Ginny ignored him, taking a step closer. Her eyes never left his face.

"I didn't know what would be useful. Nothing too big, because you wouldn't be able to take it with you." They were but a foot from each other now, so close that Harry could see she was wearing make-up, more than she usually was. "So then I thought, I'd like you to have something to remember me by, you know, if you meet some Veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing."

"I don't think we're going to be meeting very many Veela on the run," Harry laughed nervously. Ginny smiled mischievously.

"Maybe… but if you ever did…"

And then she began leaning towards him, her eyes closed. There was a moment of infinitesimal time when he considered letting it happen. The moment passed and his heart squeezed in his chest as he forced himself to lean back, avoiding her lips.

"Ginny, what are you doing?" he asked.

Her eyes opened, only to roll at him as she grinned.

"Giving you my present," she replied in a sly whisper. She closed her eyes again, continuing to lean into him when Harry grabbed her arm and pushed her away.

"Stop it."

This time, when Ginny's eyes opened again, their mischievous spark was gone.

"Wh-What?" she asked, her smile faltering.

"I told you we can't do this."

For a moment she looked confused, only for a sense of relief to wash over her.

"Harry, you don't have to be noble," she laughed, taking his hands in hers. "It's just us."

"I meant it."

Her brow furrowed. The girl looked genuinely taken aback as she realised his reluctance wasn't a joke.

"I won't see you for months," she argued, her concern turning to frustration. "At least let me give you this."

Harry was about to once again reiterate that he didn't want to, that it was irresponsible of them, when he was reminded of the last time they spoke, of what she had said to him.

"Did you mean it?" Harry asked a perplexed Ginny. "When you said the only way you could see me happy was if I was hunting Voldemort?"

Harry had hoped for this moment for so long now, the chance to ask Ginny to her face, to get her genuine answer, as if knowing the answer to that very question would force it all to make sense. The redhead simply stared back at him, as if trying to read him and not knowing where to start.

"Well… yes," she replied hesitantly. "Isn't it?"

A thousand times he had pictured this moment in his head. In his mind, he would breathe, look her dead in the eye and calmly explain his feelings to her, where she had gone wrong. But now it was actually happening and all of his carefully-imagined confidence had been thrown out of the window. Ginny's innocent reply had disarmed him to the point where he wasn't sure if he could say anything. He couldn't even look at her the same way anymore.

Here she was, standing right in front of him, yet Harry had never felt further away from her. They may have been in the same room but they were nowhere near on the same page. At that moment, Harry felt like he was staring into the eyes of a stranger.

Harry shook his head. He wasn't ready to deal with any of this. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have right this second. Desperate to escape back to his room, ignoring Ginny's concerned face, he turned towards the door.

"Harry? What is it?" He felt her hand on his shoulder, stopping him from leaving. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

"Oh, I can talk to you, can I?" he replied sharply before he could stop himself, sharply shrugging her off. "Or would you rather talk to the Chosen One?"

Much to his shame, Harry couldn't help but take some grim satisfaction in the shock written so plainly on her face. At this point, he was too far gone to feel anything like that. He wanted to throw her off balance. He wanted her to feel some small measure of his own discomfort as some sort of retribution for what she had inadvertently been through.

Of course, Ginny's shock didn't last long. She was much too resilient for that.

"I'm sorry?" she bit back just fiercely, but she had no idea what she was getting into, how long he had been waiting to say these words.

"You really think hunting Voldemort is what makes me happy?" he said with barely held anger, letting his hurt bleed into his voice. "Seriously?"

Her eyes widened as she realised her mistake. She shook her head violently.

"No, I- I didn't mean it like that-"

"What else could you possibly have meant?"

"I meant-" she took a moment to find the right words, all the while Harry had to resist interrupting. "I meant that you couldn't just stand by and let someone else do it for you." explained, so crystal clear to her. "You don't give up, you don't stand aside, you don't think about yourself, only about other people. You saved my life when you barely knew who I was. And I know that you wouldn't let anyone else take this burden for you."

"Yes, I would," Harry responded immediately. "If I knew that was a choice, I'd take it in an instant."

The words hung in the air, followed by a deafening silence. Ginny's face froze in some combination of shock, disgust and sadness, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in a frown. She looked at him as if the person she had known for so long had disappeared and she was looking at someone entirely different.

"You don't mean that," she protested faintly as her entire world came down.

Harry could only scoff.

"Don't I?" He took a hard step towards her, advancing on her as his anger grew in his chest. "You don't think that maybe I'm tired of this shit? Waking up every day wondering if this is the day that I'll have to fight Voldemort again? Wondering if maybe I should just run away and leave you all behind because better that than watching you die one by one for my sake?

"I worry about everyone all of the time." He bit his teeth together, trying to tame the tremor in his throat and the stinging in his eyes. "All I can think about is how much safer you'd all be without me in your lives. I almost died last week, Ginny, and a part of me actually wanted to, just so that I wouldn't have to live like this anymore. I have no choice, I have to fight Voldemort. Not because I couldn't be happy otherwise, but because I never had a choice, from the moment he gave me this." He pressed a finger to his scar, so hard he thought the tip of his finger might push right through his forehead into his skull. "This… this isn't who I am, Ginny."

By the time his tirade ended, his chest was heaving from the effort. Ginny stood silent in front of him, stiff and straight at her full height. Her shock had slowly been transforming into anger, until now she merely looked him in the eye with a hard stare embedded in her stony, freckled face. Almost immediately, he wished he could take the words back, but it was too late.

"Then who are you, Harry?" her voice was eerily calm and yet brimming with emotion. "Who are you really? Because I can't- I-" Her stoic facade quickly began to crumble. "You don't let anyone in, ever. I'm trying, Harry, I really am, but every time I'm just met with this brick wall. What do you want me to do? I can't keep giving my all to someone who won't give anything back. You even kept your panic attacks from me. Do you know what that's like to watch you suffer and be able to do nothing about it? It made me feel so worthless, so- so useless." Furious tears were running down her face. "I hated myself for it. And then you didn't speak to me for weeks and when you did it was to tell me that you didn't want me… I didn't even know what I'd done wrong."

Eventually, it all became too much for her and she broke down into sobs, having reached her limit. And Harry was forced to watch, knowing that it was his fault. A pang of horrible guilt clogged his lungs and stabbed like sharp pins in his heart.

"Oh, God," he stammered, for he didn't know what on earth else to say. "Ginny, I never…

"Never what? Never thought I cared about you?" Harry winced like he had been exposed to bright light. It would've hurt less if she had slapped him. "I know what you did on your birthday, Mum told me everything. I didn't sleep that night, Harry, because my friend, a boy I care for so much, sent himself off to die and now you're putting that all at my feet like it was somehow my fault-"

"Ginny-"

"No, you don't get to do that to me! You don't get to pretend like I'm some heartless bitch who only wants her fairy tale hero who'll go off and die for her! You don't put that on me!"

Her eyes were wild with a burning fury that made Harry's skin prickle. The pair sat simmering in an oppressive silence, so heavy that it felt like you could scream and not break it. Harry wanted to say something to ease the situation, but his mind came up blank at every turn. Nothing he could ever say felt like it would be enough. They had dug so deep that any sort of effort to climb out felt insurmountable.

Realising that he had nothing to contribute, Ginny sighed forlornly and turned to stare out the window. There wasn't much to see - the marquee blocked most of the view - but that wasn't the point.

"I've tried my best to help you from an arm's length," she said softly, her arms wrapped around herself, "but if you don't want that anymore then… Then I'll just try to stay out of your life from now on. You can ignore me as much as you want, pretend like I don't care, that I never cared about you. I can be that for you if it helps."

That was as clear an invitation to leave as he was going to get, however that was the last thing he wanted. Harry felt hollow. He wanted to help her, to console her, but he didn't know what on Earth he could possibly do to make this better. This was all his fault. She hated him. Everything he did just seemed to make things worse, no matter how much he tried. Hurting people, just like always.

With his heart in his shoes, Harry turned and walked to the bedroom door. Ginny didn't move to stop him, proof in his mind that she wanted nothing to do with him.

His fingers gripped the doorknob with the intent to turn it. It sat tight in his hand, waiting for him to twist and pull it open. Harry, however, did no such thing.

He couldn't leave it here, not like this. In a moment of clarity, Harry let go and chose instead to be brave.

"I'm sorry."

The words tumbled from his throat clumsily, but in the silence of the bedroom, they echoed like church bells. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny look back at him over her shoulder. She was standing completely still, caught in a moment.

"For what?" she said, clearly taken aback.

Harry wanted to say 'everything', but he knew that wouldn't cut it.

"For ignoring you. For never letting you in."

He took a step back from the door and turned to face her head-on. It was time to be brave.

"I didn't do it because I hated you. I never hated you. I liked you, a lot. I just thought…" He gritted his teeth, trying to think of the right words. This really wasn't the time for him to trip up and say something he didn't mean in trying to protect himself. "Ginny, I'm a mess. I'm not well. I hurt people. I didn't want to hurt you too, because you don't deserve that. I thought if I stayed away for long enough, you would just move on with someone better."

"Just move on?" Ginny murmured in disbelief. "From you?"

"Yeah," Harry shrugged as if that were the obvious solution. "If either of us could do it, it would be you. You can walk away from all of this, from Voldemort, from the War. I… can't."

"I don't want to walk away." She tentatively stepped closer. "Harry, I- I care about you. I want to help you. I do. I want to help you get through this, I just don't know how."

"I don't want to put that on you-"

"But I can learn. I can learn how to help you, I know how to fight. I want to be there for you if you'll have me. And whoever you want to be, beyond all of this, I can love him, too."

It broke Harry's heart to see just how eager she was, how ready she was to help. After all the things he had done to her, she had forgiven him, she still wanted to commit to him and a part of him wondered if it would just be easier if he said 'yes.' That thought was fleeting, quickly filed away. That was exactly what they had done last time. It wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't be fair to either of them.

"I'm sorry, Ginny, but that's not the point." He took a deep breath, steadying himself for what he knew he had to say. "I… I don't love you, not in the way you want me to. I'm not sure if I ever did. I liked you, a lot, but… I'm sorry. I've been lying to myself and to you. But I do care about you, never doubt that. I never wanted to hurt you. Never. So, I think it's best if we… don't."

Harry looked up, his eyes having drifted downwards as he spoke, and saw Ginny faintly nodding, not in acceptance but by instinct, her face clearly distraught.

"I don't want it to end like this," she whispered.

"It has to," Harry assured. "I can't give you what you want. I can't be that person. I'm just me and I can't change that."

"I can love you…" Ginny insisted, and then she paused. "But you love someone else, don't you?" Harry said nothing. He didn't know how he could explain. He certainly couldn't deny it. As it turned out, he wouldn't have to. "It's Hermione, isn't it? Does she love you back?

Harry couldn't stop the blush that appeared on his face, confirming her every suspicion.

"It wasn't- I never cheated on you, if that's what you think," he said. "I didn't even know that I loved her when we were together. I really wanted to be good enough for you, Ginny. I wanted this to work but it didn't. And ever since, she's been there for me and I… I need her, Ginny."

"I know you do," Ginny replied, now far more understanding. "I've always known. You and Granger against the world. It's how it's always been. I just wanted to believe otherwise." She suddenly became very nervous. "You don't… hate me, do you?"

Harry stared at her in shock.

"No. No, of course not," he insisted, followed by a smile. "Couldn't hate you if I tried. You don't hate me?"

Ginny shook her head.

"No. It hurts like a bitch, but I don't want to lose you, so I guess I have to accept it."

"You can be angry. You have every right."

"I'm not angry. I'm just…" She shifted anxiously. "It wasn't my fault, was it?"

"Absolutely not," he said softly. He gently gripped her shoulder. "Hey, look at it this way: we tried and it didn't work. That's not either of our faults, it's just the way it is."

It seemed like that was enough for her, since her spirits quickly lifted, at least on the surface. She sniffled, unconsciously tidying herself up.

"Well, now I don't have anything to give you for your birthday," she laughed half-heartedly.

"I'm not sure I've earned a birthday present," Harry smiled back. "Maybe next year."

If there was ever going to be a next year, which at this point was seeming ever less likely. The shadow of that fact cast itself over them, and what little relief they had managed to claw back retreated into the shadows. The pair glanced at each other, realising that this might be the last time they would have a moment alone. The last chance to make peace with what was to come.

Without warning, Ginny swept him up in a desperate hug, not quite as tight as one of Hermione's but affectionate in its own way. Muffled by his shirt, he heard her whisper something in a small voice.

"What was I to you, Harry?"

Harry wrapped his arms around her shoulder, drawing her in closer, thinking over his answer.

"You made me feel… normal," he eventually replied. "That I was like anyone else because that's what I wanted to be. But you don't need someone who uses you for their own ends. That's not what love is. I'm not like anyone else and I need to accept that. And you deserve someone better. Someone honest."

Eventually, the two parted, having said all that needed to be said. They looked at each other, taking each other in, seeing each other more clearly.

"Please don't die, Harry."

Harry put on a brave smile for her, knowing that he could never promise such a thing, nor could he explain why. Even after opening so far up to each other, there were still things she could never know, things that she deserved to know, and it sickened him. How the hell did Dumbledore do this? Hiding bits and pieces of himself to his friends, his family, and his allies, hoarding them inside his head and letting them eat at him?

Not for the first time, Harry wished that the burden of the Horcruxes hadn't fallen to him. He wished that he at least had the security in the chance of survival, the dream of a future surrounded by his loved ones. He imagined what kind of life lay in store for Ginny, many years from now, long after he was gone. He imagined her having a family of her own, a career, friends she hadn't met yet, moments he would never get the chance to be a part of.

It was a life that he himself would never get to see, but that didn't mean it wasn't something worth fighting for.

Harry couldn't promise his own future, but he could promise hers as well as everyone else's. All those who Riddle wished to exterminate, all those young children somewhere in the muggle world who had yet to receive their letters, every student whose lives had yet to get started. They deserved a future without the spectre of Tom Riddle hanging over them, without the hatred that poisoned the Wizarding world. Those were the people he could promise himself to, Ginny included.

He would make sure that no one ever had to carry this burden again, not Ginny, not her family, not any of his friends. That this whole sordid ordeal would end with him and Riddle lying in the ground if that was what it took.

"I'll try my best," Harry vowed, conviction imbued into every word.

They parted soon after as friends, only friends, and Harry spent the rest of the day assisting in preparing the marquee for the wedding. Moving chairs and tables, putting up decorations, laying out carpets and all sorts of other tasks filled his mind. All the while he strangely felt lighter than he had in days, one less weight on his shoulder, the certainty of a question answered. He didn't see Ginny again that day, probably for the best to save them both the awkward exchange, for it would be awkward for a while.

By the time the sun set, the marquee was all but ready for the wedding that would be taking place in a few days' time. Harry sat in his room - waiting for the rest of the house to fall asleep so he, Ron and Hermione could scheme once again - staring at his new watch. It used to belong to Mrs Weasley's brother, who had died in the previous war. How many years had Fabian owned it? Judging by the subtle denting and worn edges of the straps presumably a while, many years if he were to guess. Longer than he would ever have it, Harry realised.

He wondered what would happen to the watch once he was gone, whether Molly would keep it for one of her grandchildren, perhaps. Harry only hoped that whoever finally received it on their seventeenth birthday would be living in a better world than he was, one without Tom Riddle or his Death Eaters.

A world that no longer needed a Boy-Who-Lived.