Author's note: this took ages to get up! I'm terribly sorry for that. I've been sick, and a bit behind in my homework (I sort of still haven't finished my book report, but I suppose I have a few weeks now-my teacher can't chase me over Christmas break!). And, speaking of Christmas break, I've loads more time to write. However, I have a book of short stories I need to finish (which I only get inspiration for once in a while, but now I want to write it so . . . I must answer the calling) and a novel that I'm only about a quarter way done that I'd like to finish by March. So, in short, it means you can't expect a lot of updates. I will update, but my priorities lie somewhere else. Anyway, this is the longest chapter yet, so I hope it gives you enough to live with until I get around to updating again.
Chapter Four: Admission:
"You know, I love Christmas," Sirius said conversationally.
"Oh, yes, we know," Remus grumbled. "We've had to live with your gaudy decorations for sixteen years, you know. I still don't know why James and Lily let you decorate their place once they were married."
"It was always Lily's idea," James put in miserably. "And then Harry liked them on his first Christmas, so every year since, Padfoot's taken that as a sign that it was okay."
"I didn't get yelled at," Sirius said cheerfully. "Besides, I was just trying to make up for ten really terrible Christmases."
"But it's been twenty years," James said tiredly. "My mum and dad should've never let you help them decorate, though. That way, you wouldn't have learnt much about decorations."
"Now, James, I'm hurt." Sirius put a hand over his heart dramatically. "Harry likes my decorating, so why don't you two?"
"I'm not sure Harry likes it much, either," Remus said. "You know, it must be pretty infuriating when he comes home and can't go anywhere without being tangled up in tinsel or something. And you don't even do it orderly. You could at least use magic to put it somewhere less dangerous."
"Ah, no, the Muggle way is great! It's amazing that there are people who actually do put up all their decorations with magic, when it's so much more fun to do it by hand."
Remus and James snorted.
"Also, my mother hates it. Didn't you hear the way she was screeching at me in the hall?" Sirius plowed on, his eyes glowing joyously. "She threw a right fit when she realized I wasn't using my wand."
"She throws a fit over everything," Remus pointed out.
"Yes, but it's so nice to have her angry again. I never quite realized how much I liked riling her up until I didn't have that anymore. It's better now, because all she can do is yell! She's just a picture!" Sirius laughed, and Remus noticed with a shock that his eyes filled with something that was not joy. It was something else, something terrifying. A dangerous glint that he used to get in his eyes when he talked about his parents and the way they treated him.
"Sirius," Remus said quietly. "They're dead. They can't do anything to you anymore."
"But they're managing, aren't they? Maybe they're dead, but it doesn't change the fact that this was the safest house for the Order and now I'm being forced to live her again because it's the safest place for us. I never came back here for a reason, and that was so I wouldn't have to remember the way he hit me while she yelled." He took a shaky breath. "I always liked getting under skin. I would've gone to any measure to be different from them. They had a perfect son, and they still were convinced that I needed to be just like they'd hoped I would be. They wanted me to be like just like Regulus, but he's dead, too, now, isn't he? He wasn't bad at all to me, but they pushed him into this terrible thing because they wanted him to be a bloody Death Eater!"
"Sirius!" Remus snapped. "Stop it!"
Sirius blinked and sat down heavily, looking blankly at Remus.
"You don't even know what you're saying anymore," Remus said exasperatedly. "Regulus made his decision, Sirius, and you made yours. Your parents aren't here anymore, and James always said that his parents considered you to be like a son of their own. Stop worrying about them. They're gone now, and they won't hurt you."
"It's not as if I can exactly stop myself from remembering them," Sirius muttered angrily.
"And we don't expect you to," Remus told him.
"Do you remember that time, right after you moved in with us," James spoke up, "when you said something—I'm not even sure what it was, now—and my mum laughed at it?" He was gazing at Sirius oddly now, as if he were picturing a sixteen-year-old Sirius, who had put his arms up in defence whenever somebody raised their hand nearby him. "You were so surprised, and she was really angry when you told her why. She dropped her teacup, I think."
"She put her teacup back together, though," Sirius said weakly. "She said it was from her favourite set."
"But she wasn't mad that you'd said something that made her drop it," James pressed.
"My mother would've been livid, if I'd ever even been in the same room at the time that something broke."
"But my mum wasn't. She always said that we'd be your family instead, that we had room for one extra all the time."
"Well, yes, that is typically how people manage a runaway child," Sirius said dryly.
James rolled his eyes. "Before that. From the time when you first came over Christmas and on. She always said you were great kid. I told her different, of course, but—"
"You said bad things about me to your mother?" Sirius laughed. "Wow, I knew you were low sometimes, but—"
"Ah, I only said you were the reason I got detentions sometimes."
"Well, surely she couldn't believe that!"
"She didn't, but I never gave up on trying to make her." James rolled his eyes. "She loved you. It was sometimes weird, actually. She usually believed everything I told her."
"Well, figures. She always did seem easy on you when you did something she didn't like."
"I'll have you know I'm a fine actor," James huffed. "She always believed me."
"Until she talked to your dad."
"Well, he just wasn't as trusting as her."
"No, he just knew you were a terror of a child."
James snorted. "Like you weren't."
"At least I can accept I was."
"I just don't want anybody to know that my mum thought I was better behaved than I was. It probably would make her happier."
"That doesn't even logically make sense."
James scoffed. "You don't make a lot of logical sense, either, so I'd just shut up."
"Oh, what a great comeback."
"Well, at least it wasn't as bad as your Christmas decorations."
"Way to hit where it hurts, James."
"He's right, though," Remus said thoughtfully. "Your decorations are awful."
"Well! It's not my fault—"
"Do you hear that?" Remus interrupted sharply.
Sirius paused, and listened for whatever it was Remus had heard. And, yes, he did hear it: the drawl of Phineas Nigellus Black from the room upstairs, where his portrait hung. Sirius blinked, a bit alarmed. He remember how Dumbledore had told him that he could not, by any means, remove the portrait, for Phineas Nigellus may need to relay important messages between Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place.
"I'll be back," he promised, before rushing up the stairs.
Remus stared after him, frowning. He turned to James. "What do you think is wrong?"
James wore a similar look, although he seemed to have paled drastically since Sirius had run off. "I don't know." But even if James said no more, Remus could hear the unspoken What if something's happened to Harry? hanging in the air.
They sat in silence for only a moment before Sirius came back down, appearing a bit shell-shocked. He blinked at the two of them, gazing back at him expectantly, then said slowly, "Arthur's been injured."
"Is that all?"
Even Remus could tell the relief, though mixed with worry, in James's tone easily, but he somehow suspected that James hadn't meant to sound relieved. Remus couldn't blame him, though: it seemed as though Harry was all right.
Sirius shook his head. "Dumbledore's sending the Weasley children and Harry here."
"Harry? Why?" James demanded.
"I don't know," Sirius snapped. "We'll just have to find out when they get here, won't we? It's not as if he thinks much to tell me anything. I'm not even on the family tree anymore, so, in all technicalities, I'm not a Black anymore!"
"Sirius, settle down," Remus advised. "We'll wait until they come and we'll get an explanation then."
It was soon when the five of them arrived, too, by Portkey. Fred, George, and Ginny were looking rather confused, but Ron and Harry looked quite distraught.
James leaped up, whether in surprise or because he wanted to grab his son, Remus wasn't sure.
Behind Remus, he heard Kreacher the house-elf mutter something and Sirius, flustered, yell at him to get out. Remus didn't pay much attention to it, focussed more on the five teenagers before him.
"What's happened?" Remus asked. "We got Dumbledore's message, but—"
Fred, George, and Ginny were all looking similarly confused. Fred turned to Harry. "Yeah, I was wondering the same thing."
Ginny and George nodded their agreement and Harry shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
"I—I had a . . . a vision, I guess." He swallowed, and looked up to face the Weasleys. Remus realized, as he continued to speak in his slightly choked voice, about Voldemort's snake and how it had attacked Arthur (in, Remus knew, the Department of Mysteries—although Harry was obviously unaware of this, Remus, Sirius, and James knew—and knew what in the Department of Mysteries was being guarded, too, Remus remembered grudgingly).
As he finished explaining about how Arthur had been injured, James took him gently by the arm and led him to a chair. He said something to Harry, but Remus didn't quite catch it, as he turned to face the four Weasleys.
"Come and sit down," Remus said, beckoning them to some of the chairs.
They sat down, a bit hesitantly, before Fred asked, "Is Mum here?"
Remus shook his head, glancing sideways at James and Harry, who sat listening awkwardly. "Dumbledore will probably talk to her soon. He's probably telling her now."
"We should be at St. Mungo's," Ginny spoke up. "Can you get us there?"
"Absolutely not," Sirius said. "How, do you suppose, we would explain you knowing what's happened to your father when his own wife hasn't even been alerted yet?"
"That's easy for you to say," George retorted angrily. "That's not your dad dying in there!"
Remus noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Harry turn away slightly, and decided that Sirius could handle the Weasleys. He sat down next to Harry and James, without a word, and put his hand on Harry's shoulder.
The twins, it seemed, were not pleased with Sirius's refusal to allow them to go and see their dad. This was understandable, of course, Remus thought. He figured if he were seventeen and he wanted to see somebody in the hospital, he wouldn't want somebody stopping him from going there. Ginny was a bit more calm than her brothers, and Ron just seemed to be completely out of it. He wasn't normally so quiet, but he kept glancing oddly at Harry, and Remus found himself wondering if, maybe, he was feeling some trepidation at the fact that his best friend had just witnessed his father being attacked.
Sirius summoned drinks, once he'd gotten the twins to see eye-to-eye with him, and they sat in silence, awaiting news of some sort.
It did not take too long, before they received a message from Molly. Apparently, Arthur was not dead—but he clearly was not all right.
Harry was looking quite pale, and Remus suspected he probably did not want to sit in this room while the family before him sat in a silent vigil for their father. He, too, was feeling slightly intrusive, and one look at Sirius and James told him they were thinking in a similar way.
James, though . . . James looked the worst, it seemed. It was odd, because he didn't know Arthur that well at all, but, then, maybe it was the parallels between this moment and the moment when he'd lost Lily. It both scenarios, Voldemort had been involved somehow . . . and Harry . . . and there was the fact that, if Arthur were to pass, he'd be leaving behind his partner and children—the way Lily had left behind her husband and her son.
However, Harry looked pretty ill, too, but this could be because he had his own experiences with loss, and now he was watching as his best friend was forced to face the fact that, maybe, his father was going to die, too, the way Lily Potter had all those years ago. It also didn't seem to help that Harry had witnessed the event—this, it seemed, had been extremely difficult for him to explain.
With a few words here and a few words there being the only thing to break the silence, they all stayed awake throughout the night. It was early in the morning when Molly came bursting in.
"He's all right," she reassured her children as they looked up at her sharply. "He's sleeping now. Bill's with him."
The room seemed to become lighter with these simple words, and Sirius said, "Well, breakfast, then, don't you think?"
He called for Kreacher, but made his way to the kitchen when the house-elf did not appear and began to prepare the meal himself. Molly rushed to his aid, knowing it would take him a while to cook for nine when he'd only ever cooked for four at the most (although, Remus admittedly had quite the appetite near full moons, and Harry was a growing teenage boy).
It seemed only minutes later that Molly and Sirius brought food out for all of them. Nobody seemed to want to eat much, and it didn't look as if Harry touched his food at all. Remus figured it would be best not to press this. While the Weasleys had been reassured greatly by their mother's appearance, it seemed as though Harry had only been slightly, and he still appeared very pale.
Molly ushered her own children to bed, and James turned to Harry. "You should sleep, too."
He blinked, then shook his head. "No."
Remus frowned. "You need to."
"I don't." Harry's voice sounded almost panicky, at this point, and his fingers were shaking madly. They had been all night, Remus thought. He'd noticed that before, when Harry had held anything, his hand would shake.
"You won't see anything else," Sirius told him confidently, as he stood behind Harry's chair.
"You don't know that."
"But what are the chances of it?"
"I still don't want to sleep," Harry said stubbornly. "Besides, I'm not actually tired, so it's not a big deal."
"Harry—"
"No," he said with finality. "You don't understand." His voice grew quiet. "I didn't just see the attack. I was the snake. I attacked Mr. Weasley. And even after I'd woken up, I wanted to attack Dumbledore, too."
Remus felt his throat go dry. He could recall, just after Lily had died, Sirius asking him to come and help James and Harry. Sirius had explained everything, and he'd explained what Dumbledore had said about Harry's scar . . . curse scars would have side effects. It could not be helped. And yet Remus could not swallow how anguished Harry looked at the prospect of having been Voldemort's snake.
James stared blankly at his son, then seemed to snap out of whatever weird thought had been holding him down. "Harry, it's all right. It's not your fault. You didn't do anything."
"But I—"
"—have no reason to be upset about this," Sirius finished for him. "Your dad's right: it isn't your fault."
"But just say that I had something to do with it," Harry insisted. "Because what if I did? What if—"
"There's no way," Remus said flatly. "Harry, what would you expect? If you hadn't fallen asleep, you might not have seen this? If you hadn't seen it, it might not have happened? Because it still would've, I assure you. And Arthur would likely not have made it. If you hadn't seen this, Arthur would likely not have been found until it was too late."
"Don't blame yourself," James told him softly. "You couldn't have changed anything. It's not your fault."
Harry was silent for a moment, looking down at his hands. "I'm not tired, though," he said.
Sirius looked like he wanted to argue, but James said, "Then don't sleep."
Harry nodded, but when James, Sirius, and Remus didn't move, he raised an eyebrow. "Well? You've been up all night, too."
"And who says we're tired?"
"Well, you probably are."
Remus shrugged. "I think you probably are, but that doesn't matter."
Harry sighed, but didn't say anything else on the matter. Instead, he said, "I see you've been decorationg for Christmas."
Sirius's eyes gleamed. "Yes, isn't it nice? I wanted to set up a tree, but I thought it would be more fun to have you help decorate."
Harry frowned, but said nothing. He wasn't sure he was overly up to decorating anything . . . not after it had been he who had decorated Mr. Weasley in blood.
No, that wasn't me, he told himself. I'm not a snake . . . I'm not a snake . . .
He felt suddenly sick. Why was it that he was the one to go through all these things? Why was it that he had a dead mother? Why was it that he had a scar on his forehead? And now he had somehow managed to get inside that snake's body. He was an oddity, wasn't he? Try as they might to tell him otherwise, Harry knew his guardians could never convince him that he as normal as Ron or Hermione.
"Do you not want to decorate?" Sirius looked a bit devastated at the possibility, but he hid it well; Harry simple knew because he had known his godfather since he had been a baby, so these things were a bit more apparent to Harry than to some other people.
"No, I just—sorry, I was just a bit distracted," Harry hastily explained. "I've helped you every year, what makes you think I wouldn't this year?"
"Ah, well, you're just nearing the age where I ran away from home." At Harry's incredulous look, he said, "No, I don't expect you to run away! It's just that I remember being pretty rebellious at your age. Enough so to run away."
"But what's that got to do with anything?"
James frowned. "I think every teenager goes through that rebellious stage, Sirius. Most of them don't run away."
"Yes, well, I wouldn't advise it. They've learned since I did it."
"No, I think it's more the fact that people have better families now," Remus said.
"Nah, all those big pureblood families are like mine were, Moony."
"Mine weren't!" James protested.
"Most of them," Sirius amended. He turned to Harry again. "Your grandmother was the sweetest thing. She was probably a bit too lenient with a certain somebody, though." He gave James a pointed look.
"Ah, well, guilty as charged," he said with a small laugh. "But she wasn't exactly strict with you, either, Padfoot dearest."
"Yes, but I wasn't her child." He rolled his eyes. "You can't discipline somebody else's kid."
"I don't know. Out of the three of us, I'd say Moony's probably the strictest, don't you think?"
"Oh, leave me out of this." Remus scowled, then turned to Harry. "Come on, let's go make some tea while these two sort themselves out."
Harry smiled a bit, then, but it immediately vanished as guilt washed over him. He could not smile and pretend that he hadn't seen what he had through the eyes of that snake. He could not simply shake everything away.
He followed Remus into the kitchen, knowing that the days to come would be impossibly long.
It was two days later when Hermione arrived.
James had always found Hermione as the Remus in Harry's group of friends. She was quite brilliant, and she always seemed to help Harry and Ron in their studies. It was a good thing to have her, as she seemed to be a bit more level-headed than the boys, and seemed to normally be the one directing them at Hogwarts. Actually, she reminded James a bit more of Lily. But James could see the apparent differences in them, and did not have any issues with Hermione in the least.
"Hello, Mr. Potter," she greeted.
"Good to see you, Hermione," James said with a smile. "I'm sure you remember which room you stayed in this summer?"
"I do. I think I'll go put my things away for now." She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then she said, "But, if you wouldn't mind, I've been wanting to ask you something."
James blinked. "No one's stopping you from asking," he told her.
"Right, well, it's just . . ." She looked at her hands. "I was wondering about . . . about Harry."
"What about him?"
"Well, it's just . . . he has girls falling left, right, and centre for him, yet he's never had a girlfriend before, and, well, I was thinking about it and . . . is Harry . . . gay?" Her voice was small, as if she felt it a betrayal to ask the question and hoped nobody would hear her. And James, frankly, figured she probably thought right.
"Hermione, I think you really ought to ask Harry about things like that," he said. "It's not exactly fair to talk behind his back."
Her cheeks turned rosy. "Right. Sorry, I'll just go and put my things away."
She turned without another word and pretty much ran up the stairs. James frowned after her, wondering if he'd done the right thing. Should he have told her the truth? Or lied to her? No, he thought, that wouldn't exactly be fair.
But, still, she probably would've been able to tell simply from his answer and tone of voice.
James had had his time of ignorance. Those were his school years, when he felt himself above everybody else. It had been Lily who had forced him into somebody else—somebody better. He'd been young and foolish, too, but that had been before he'd been casted into a war and had found someone he loved and had started a family. Now that family was not the one he had started out with, but he still knew he wouldn't be anywhere without Sirius and Remus. It would have been a lot easier with Lily, but he knew she was probably pretty happy with their family, even now.
Harry, however, had not been himself in the past few days. James knew why, of course, but he had no clue how to comfort Harry with something like this. It was one thing to help with the memories of the dead, but it was another to help with this. Every time James thought about, his mind went back to Dumbledore and his damned prophecy. Harry needed to know—and soon, too.
Hermione, meanwhile, had made her way upstairs. After she had placed her things in the room she would be sharing with Ginny, she'd spoken with Ron and Ginny. They'd caught up Hermione up on what had happened, and said they figured Harry was in the drawing room, if she wanted to speak to him.
So Hermione made her way to the drawing room, where Harry and Buckbeak, the hippogriff that Sirius had taken in for Hagrid after it was sentenced to execution (this had been a very intricate set-up that, quite surprisingly, Dumbledore had arranged himself, involving a Sirius in Animagus form to come to Hogwarts and set Buckbeak free while the discussions of his execution were going on, but that was a story for another time).
"Harry?" she asked cautiously, knocking on the door. A few seconds of silence passed, and she gave an inward sigh of exasperation. "I know you're in here."
She opened the door, not caring much if he wanted to see her or not, and stepped inside, closing it gently behind her.
"I thought you were supposed to be skiing," Harry said, turning to face her. "What are you doing here?"
Hermione smiled wryly. "I'm not overly interested in skiing, if I'm perfectly honest. I told my parents I was staying at Hogwarts, to study." She sighed. "Dumbledore told me what happened. How are you?"
"Oh, I don't know," Harry said, a bit snappish. "How would you feel if you were dreaming about being a snake, Hermione? I'm just great, though. Absolutely peachy."
"I'm sorry," Hermione said. "That was insensitive."
Harry let out a small breath and sat down on the floor. "It's a bit stupid to think that it's my fault. Everybody said that it was good that I'd seen it, because Mr. Weasley might've died if I hadn't. But it just feels like it was my fault, like I was the one who attacked him. And I keep replaying that scene in my head, and each time I see it, the more I think that it's my fault."
"Harry, it would've happened anyway." Hermione sat down beside him, frowning as he shook his head and gave a short mirthless laugh.
"And to think I went to sleep that night feeling guilty because I rejected Cho."
Hermione blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I said." He turned to face her blankly. "I rejected her. After that last DA meeting, she was talking to me, and I don't know exactly how it happened, but she kissed me, and I just kind of . . . pushed her away."
"Why? Why push her away?"
"Because you were right." Harry looked down at his hands. "I mean, I told her that I wasn't interested in her romantically, but I didn't give a reason. I probably hurt her, but . . ."
"But you would've hurt her worse if you'd lied," Hermione finished. "She'll understand eventually."
"I don't think it would've been fair to lead her on, but some part of me wanted to. You know, to be a normal person with a normal girlfriend. But that's not who I am. And I wouldn't want to burden anybody like that."
"I think you did the right thing. She's already crying all the time, these days. You wouldn't want to give her any other reasons to be upset."
"I think I did, though."
"But it would've been worse if you'd led her on."
Harry exhaled deeply. "You're right. But I don't really want to talk about this, Hermione. Not now."
"Are you sure?"
"I don't really want to talk about much of anything, actually."
Slowly, Hermione nodded. "All right. But let's get off this dusty old floor."
For a moment, neither of them moved. And then, Harry said, with a small laugh, "Actually, maybe I would like to talk."
"Indecisive, indecisive," muttered Hermione, but she smiled and said louder, "Okay. Talk, then."
"I thought you'd be mad," Harry admitted. "I'm not sure why you'd be mad—maybe because I never told you, or because I could . . . I don't know, get involved with the wrong person—but it was what I thought. It was a stupid fear, but it overtook me. That's what fears do, take people over. It's why I haven't slept properly in ages. It's why I don't usually talk about things.
"I realized when I was thirteen, of course. I told three people—my dad, Sirius, and Remus"—Hermione started at the use of their first names; Harry often didn't refer to his dad's best friends by their first names, but rather their nicknames—" and they didn't have any issue with it. I don't know why I thought you and Ron would. Maybe I was just afraid that it would circulate, that other people would find out. The media would eat that up, you know? I didn't want to go from the 'Boy Who Lived' to the 'Boy Who Liked Boys.'" He gave a small snort, but it didn't seem to be from humour.
"See, people already expected things from me. I was supposed to be powerful, someone who would look like the kind of person who would overthrow Voldemort. All I really was was a boy who hadn't ever really had any friends other than the people who'd raised him. A boy who couldn't let go of the fact that his own mother was dead. I'd been so isolated for the beginning of my life that I hadn't expected the stares to be quite so terrifying. I'd never really been in public enough to notice, and I was young and was always so immersed in something else that I didn't pay attention. And my dad tried to protect me from it, but he couldn't protect me forever. Eventually, I noticed. That was right before I got on the train to Hogwarts for the first time. I was so nervous that I noticed every single person watching me. They were watching for something special. So I tried to be normal and blend in. The attention was terrible, so I wouldn't do anything to draw too much attention to myself.
"I suppose that was just a dream, though. It's hard to avoid something you attract so much, and I attracted a lot of attention. Everything I do seems like a cry for the attention, but I would be perfectly happy to live without it.
"Then, last year, I couldn't do anything about Cedric. It was like I'd failed so terribly, and yet I was still being forced to go on. It's stupid, but I was pretty wrecked about it. I wished it had been me instead, that he hadn't died. I really only got myself out of there because Cedric wanted his body returned. I would have stayed there and let Voldemort take me down, if I hadn't promised him.
"And now it's like I'm attached to Voldemort in this weird way. It's like he's taken complete control of me and I can't do anything about it. And everybody thinks I'm going mad, that I'm not normal. That's all I ever wanted, and I still can't get it. Why would I want to give them any other reasons to think I'm not normal? Why would I want them to know that, on top of being famous because I did something nobody else has ever done and watched my own mother die and watched a classmate die, I'm also not straight?"
Hermione swallowed, averting her gaze from Harry's, which had lifted up to face her, asking a question deeper than the ones he had just said aloud, that he daren't utter:
What do you think?
"Harry," she said gently, setting a hand on his shoulder, "you make your own path. Maybe nobody will see you as normal, or like them, but it's what you see that matters. And right now your vision is clouded, and you won't let anybody wipe away the fears and the assumptions that are making it hard to see. I think you need to be the one to wipe them away, but you're afraid of what you'll see on the other side. And you need to brave. You've been brave before, Harry."
"No," he whispered, "I haven't. There are so many people that have died at Voldemort's hand, and it's my fault he came back. I let him come back. I wasn't brave enough to stand up to him. I was terrified and I thought it might be better if I died. I wanted him to kill me."
"But you still came back. That was—"
"Hardly brave." Harry scoffed. "Cedric asked me to bring his body back. It was what he wanted. I'd only been fighting before because I didn't know what else to do, but for a moment while we were dueling, I hoped his curse would reach me. And it would've, if . . ."
"But, Harry, the Priori Incantatem did happen. It happened for a reason, and that was because you were feeling hopeless. It gave you the drive to escape, and you're here now. We're happy you're here, Harry. We're your friends, and we love you."
Harry looked up at the ceiling, blinking slightly, and said, "I don't think I deserve that."
"It's not something you earn," Hermione insisted. "We don't think you've done anything wrong. You've done what's necessary to survive and what people have asked you to. Which shows you're trustworthy and determined. That's nothing to be ashamed of."
"No, it's not 'trustworthy and determined.' I lied to you, Hermione. Doesn't that upset you at all? Doesn't it prove I'm not trustworthy?"
Hermione sighed deeply. "Harry, I think you're thinking about this a bit too much. I would expect you to lie. That's what fear does. It makes people lie so they don't have to face the things they're afraid of. It's completely natural and I don't blame you for it."
Harry stood up so suddenly that Hermione nearly fell backwards in surprise, but instead she quickly composed herself and stood along with him.
"I'm not afraid," Harry snarled.
"You said you were," Hermione said calmly. "You told me you were afraid."
"I said that I was afraid. I'm not anymore."
"I don't believe you."
It was such a simple statement, something that hardly meant anything at all. People had been saying it to him for the past four months, and it hardly had a meaning anymore. They were empty words; they went in one ear and out the other without any kind of processing on the way. But when Hermione said them, with such conviction, it was like she'd slapped Harry, the way she'd slapped Malfoy two years before. It was like she'd turned around and she'd spoken against everything Harry had thought she believed.
"You don't?" Harry said quietly. "You don't believe me?"
"I don't. I think you are afraid."
"And if I am? If I am afraid?"
"What does it matter? Fears only matter if you let them control you."
"It's not as if I get a say in that, do I?" Harry growled. "Voldemort already has control over me. Why would my fears be any different?"
"Because they're yours," Hermione told him softly. "Because they are wholly, entirely yours, and what you do with them is your choice. If they take over, that's your choice. If you set them aside, that's your choice. If you bottle everything up, that's your choice. But everything you do will have consequences, and you'll have to face them. How you face them is up to you—just like with your fears.
"Everything needs to be conquered eventually. You'll have to conquer your feelings at some point."
Harry took a deep breath, then put his head in his hands and sat back down, though it was less graceful and more of a stumble.
Hermione softly resumed her place beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I think things will get better."
"They might not." Harry wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "Things might be this bad forever."
"Then face each day thinking it won't be," Hermione suggested. "Take every little thing that life throws at you and learn something from it."
Harry snorted. "Why would I do that if you and your books can teach me so much?"
"I can't teach you life lessons." Hermione rolled her eyes. "They're called life lessons because you learn them from life."
"How wise," Harry muttered dryly.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. But then Hermione asked, "Are you okay?"
Harry wiped at his eyes again, hating the way tears gathered in his eyes. It was just Hermione, though, and Harry had no issues showing emotion before Hermione. He had before, and it wasn't as if she wasn't understanding. In fact, she was like a sister that Harry would never have. He hadn't had a mother figure to raise him, and while Molly had been supportive and loving, it had been Hermione that had always seemed to be there. She guessed at what was troubling him with ease and knew him well. Of course, Ron was capable of these things, too, but he was more lofty and carefree than Hermione. Hermione, in some sense, was the mother Harry had never had. She acted rather motherly over he and Ron, and she was always the best person to go to for advice, after all.
"No," Harry answered truthfully. "I'm far from it, really. But you're right. You always seem to be right."
She blushed. "No need for flattery."
"No, but you are! Bottling my emotions didn't help anything. Keeping secrets only wound up hurting me. In the end, I'd thought I was protecting the people I loved, but I really wasn't. If anything, I was hurting you, and I'm not proud to say that I lost sight of the things that mattered while I fretted about your safety. You guys have proved time and time again that you can look after yourselves. You were right from the very beginning, and I wasn't ready to face it. I should've trusted you."
Hermione smiled softly, and leaned her head on Harry's shoulder. "It's okay. We don't care about your hesitancies. What matters is getting you to feel a bit better, and that's what we're going to focus on."
"Thank you," Harry whispered.
And they sat there together for a few minutes longer, two friends sitting in the aftermath of unmasked secrets and fears. The air had cleared, and though before him Harry had lain out everything, he hadn't felt so happy in ages. The clear air was fresh in his lungs, the truths singing passionately through his body. This was the moment after the storm when he began to take tentative steps outside to see the destruction. And yet his family was safe, so he was happy. So happy.
There would be more rain. But, eventually, all the clouds would clear away for good. And until that day, Harry would sit and wait, watching intently for the sun's reappearance. He would not submit to the waves around him; he would not submit to his fears.
He would face his fears with everything he had, and he would accept them. It would be okay again, Hermione had told him. He wanted to believe her. He did believe her.
It would be okay again.
Author's note again: wow, I'm actually really sorry about that last scene. I've been watching too much Avatar, and that show always makes me feel all deep and spiritual and makes me want to write angsty stuff. Which is all right. Angsty stuff is fun, right? Also, I needed to get across that Hermione's not the bad guy. She made herself out to be a bit silly, but she was genuinely worried about Harry, and they do have such a fantastic platonic relationship I feel needs to be put across. Ron will be shown, too, because he never seems to get enough credit for being a good friend. Right now, I'm focusing on showing Hermione and proving that she's not a bad person and that she loves Harry and supports him. So, I hope this makes her more likeable. If not, my apologies. Tell me what you think of this chapter, though!