Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Chapter Twenty-Five: Training and Dumbledore
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'What do you want me to do?' Harry asked McGonagall.

It was two days after Ron's funeral, and Harry's first training session had just begun. He had been instructed to Floo to Hogwarts bright and early (though Harry didn't think the term bright applied, since the sun wasn't really out yet), and meet McGonagall in the Great Hall, which had been emptied out. It was strange being in Hogwarts, and Harry wasn't so sure that he'd be able to attend many training sessions if they were all to be held here. He made a mental note to ask McGonagall if they could relocate.

Harry stood over the place where the Gryffindor table had been and tried not to think of all the mornings he had spent there, wishing that he could have been somewhere else. Now, Harry would give anything to be back there. He could almost hear the sounds of owls fluttering through the open windows, delivering the mail. He could almost hear Ron's loud, booming voice as he talked excitedly about Quidditch, and Hermione's irritated tone as she lectured him about talking with his mouth full.

Professor McGonagall was walking in a circle around him, and Harry wondered if she noticed that she was doing so. He wished that she'd stop; he had to turn with her, to keep her in his sights, and he was starting to get dizzy.

He stifled a yawn. It was so bloody early. He wouldn't have even bothered getting up if Mrs Weasley hadn't come into Ginny's room and woken him up herself.

That was awkward, and even though Harry didn't particularly want to be training now, he was glad for an excuse not to be at The Burrow. Ginny would no doubt be getting a lecture from her mum about why it wasn't proper for a girl to sleep in the same bed as her boyfriend when nobody else was there to make sure they behaved. Mrs Weasley had known all along of Ginny and Harry's sleeping arrangements – of this, Harry was sure – but it was only now, since Hermione refused to sleep anywhere but in Ron's bed, that it was a real issue.

If Harry knew one thing about Ginny, though, it was that she was stubborn – even more than Ron had been. If her mum told her that Harry wasn't allowed to sleep in her bed anymore … well, Ginny wouldn't take that. She'd simply insist that they were responsible and that they weren't doing anything inappropriate, until her mum saw reason and caved. Mrs Weasley always seemed to have a weak spot when it came to Ginny and Harry. And really, why couldn't they share a bed, if they weren't doing anything but sleeping?

Of course, they were doing a little more than sleeping. They were doing things that they wouldn't do if Hermione was sleeping in the next bed. Things that would probably land Mrs Weasley in St Mungo's, if she only knew. And Harry would be in right behind her, because each and every one of Ginny's brothers would probably hex him into next week.

But it wasn't as if they were shagging, so why couldn't they put up a Silencing Charm and night and enjoy each other? They were only doing what any other couple their age was doing. The only difference was that Harry might not live to see his next birthday, and maybe, if this was all he and Ginny were ever going to get of each other, they shouldn't waste it.

McGonagall finally stopped moving around. 'For today, I would like to work on your wandless magic,' she said.

Harry hadn't thought he needed to tell her that he couldn't control his wandless magic and, most of the time, didn't even know when he was doing it … but he did, apparently.

'Um,' said Harry. 'How're we going to do that? I mean … it isn't like normal magic, Professor. Am I just going to wave my hands around and shout out spells until something actually happens?' he asked skeptically, thinking that it sounded ridiculous and she had to see reason.

McGonagall nodded. 'Yes,' she said, pulling out her wand. 'That is exactly what you are going to do.'

Harry was waiting for her to crack a smile, to shake her head and tell him that she was kidding, that there was another, easier way to go about this … but she didn't.

But a part of him expected it. As he was beginning to learn – no, as he had always known but hadn't before realized that it applied to every single aspect of his life – things did not come easy to him.

McGonagall raised her wand and Conjured a feather. 'It would probably be too difficult to use non-verbal spells while you are still inexperienced. Therefore, you may speak aloud for the time being.'

'Oh. Okay. Thanks?'

Harry didn't know if he should be relieved, because he could yell out the spells today, or worried, because he'd eventually have to use his non-verbal skills, and he still wasn't too sure that he even had those sorts of skills. While he may have gotten away with whispering the incantations under his breath before, in a classroom with dozens of other students, he knew that he wouldn't have the same chance now, in a one-on-one session with McGonagall.

McGonagall took two steps back. 'Use a Summoning Charm to bring this feather to you.'

Without thinking, Harry reached into his pocket and grabbed his wand. Realizing what he was doing, he smiled sheepishly and pocketed it again. Shite. It was going to be more difficult than he'd thought.

He suddenly felt very stupid, standing in the now-empty Great Hall with his arm stretched out, saying 'Accio' and watching as nothing happened. He tried shouting and he tried whispering. He tried it with his eyes wide open and with his eyes shut tight. The feather didn't move once, not even the slightest bit. Harry desperately wanted to grab his wand and make the bloody thing come to him already, but he knew that McGonagall would only lecture him for not taking these lessons seriously.

By the time McGonagall proposed they take a break, she was standing significantly closer to Harry, but the feather still had not budged. The sun, however, was now clearly visible in the sky. He vaguely wondered why he had even bothered accepting McGonagall's help with this. It wasn't as if he'd ever make any improvement.

He wondered what Ginny was doing. Upon checking a clock, though, he realized that she was probably just waking up. He wished that he could just go back to The Burrow and forget that he had ever done wandless magic. Maybe using it would help him beat Voldemort, like McGonagall had said. But it wouldn't do him any good if he couldn't figure out how to use it in the first place.

'Come, Harry,' said McGonagall.

'Where're we going?'

'Albus wishes to speak with you.'

Harry swallowed thickly and forced his legs to follow her. He had forgotten that Dumbledore's portrait hung in his old office. He certainly hadn't realized that he would be given the opportunity to speak with him. He wondered what he should say. Should he apologize? Should he ask Dumbledore why he had ever thought Snape was on their side?

Question after question entered his mind as they approached the entrance to the office he had spent so many hours in over the years. McGonagall muttered the password – it was the same as it had been the night Harry was there to go searching for that Horcrux with Dumbledore. Of course, Harry realized, causing his stomach to twist uncomfortably, Dumbledore wasn't alive after that night to change it.

Knowing full well that any speech he prepared on his way would leave him the minute he saw Dumbledore looking at his through his portrait, Harry followed McGonagall into the office.

……………………………………………………………

'Things are not as they seem, Harry.'

'What does that mean, though?' asked Harry, sighing in frustration. 'I'm tired of people talking in riddles. What isn't as it seems?'

He was long since past being tongue-tied and not knowing what to say to Dumbledore. He had already apologized profusely and Dumbledore had already told him not to be silly.

Dumbledore looked truly apologetic. 'I cannot tell you.'

'Why not?' Harry demanded.

'In your third year at Hogwarts, I allowed you and Miss Granger to use the Time Turner to travel back in time and save Sirius Black.'

Harry furrowed his brow. 'So?'

'Many rules were broken that night,' said Dumbledore. 'But one rule – perhaps the most important one – was upheld.' Harry raised his eyebrows at his former Headmaster. 'It was absolutely necessary that you did not run into yourself while attempting to rescue your godfather and Buckbeak. Do you know why?'

'Because I would've thought I'd gone nutters?'

Dumbledore shook his head. 'Sometimes, we are not meant to know things, even though we think that we are, until we are truly ready for them,' he explained. 'Sometimes, we must let things play out as they would naturally.'

'How the bloody hell is any of this natural? Is it natural for seventeen-year-olds to die, Professor?'

Dumbledore did not reply.

'Is it?'

'No, Harry. It is not.'

'You should tell that to Ron.'

Dumbledore paused for a moment. 'You are going to have to learn to trust others, Harry. You cannot fix everyone's problems. In many cases, the best way to help someone is to make them help themselves.'

'What if you're wrong?' asked Harry. 'What if you're wrong about … this thing that you're talking about … this thing you can't tell me about?' He sighed. 'I mean, you were wrong about Snape, after all.' As soon as the words left his mouth, Harry knew they were probably a mistake.

But Dumbledore merely raised his eyebrows. 'Was I?' he asked. Harry nodded grimly. 'Another thing that you must learn is to separate your emotions from your decisions.'

'You mean to say,' said Harry slowly, 'that you don't hate Snape for what he did?'

'Professor Snape,' said Dumbledore, and Harry was amazed at his nerve.

'Snape is no longer my professor,' said Harry.

'Just as I am no longer your professor,' said Dumbledore. 'But it is a courtesy that I hope you will not soon forget.'

Harry shrugged. 'Fine. Professor Snape,' he said, drawing out the words.

'No, I do not hate Severus for what he did,' Dumbledore answered. 'I have not earned the right to hate him, and neither have you, Harry.'

Harry was dumbfounded. 'He – he killed you!' he cried. 'And he all but killed my parents … He played the Order for years … He kidnapped Ginny! What hasn't he done? I hate him, sir. I have the right to hate him.'

'Do you?'

'I – yes, I do!'

Dumbledore bowed his head. 'How is your training?' he asked, changing the subject completely.

'Not good,' said Harry truthfully. 'I don't think I'm ever going to get it.'

'You have only just begun,' Dumbledore said. 'If you remain dedicated to the program Minerva has designed for you, I am confident you will see results very soon.'

Harry shrugged. 'Maybe. I … I don't know.'

'And have you made any progress regarding the Horcruxes?'

Harry shook his head. He didn't want to tell Dumbledore that, really, Horcruxes were the last thing on his mind right now, behind Ron being dead and Hermione being in denial and training with McGonagall and countless other things.

'Not since Romania,' he said.

'I see,' said Dumbledore. 'I am aware that many things have happened recently, but I must remind you not to let the Horcruxes stray too far from your mind. It is imperative to –'

'Yeah, I know,' Harry said. 'But … sir, if I spend five days in the week training and the rest of the time looking for the remaining Horcruxes …' He was suddenly very interested in his shoes. 'Well, I mean … I'm not going to have any time for, um, Ginny.'

He looked up, feeling silly, and Dumbledore was smiling. 'I am sure you will find a way,' he said. 'Of course, you and Miss Weasley will have to make certain sacrifices …'

'I'm not giving up my time with Ginny,' Harry said firmly. He stood from his chair, suddenly restless, and paced the room. 'Last term … you sat here and told me that the key to destroying Voldemort is love. And – and now, after I've finally figured out that it's been staring me in the face for years, you decide to tell me that the key isn't just love, it's a whole lot of other things, too.'

'As you will soon learn –'

'Why soon?' Harry demanded. 'Why can't people just tell me things if they think I need to know them so bloody badly? Why are they trying to protect me from something that I'm going to have to face eventually? Why do they make decisions about my life that aren't theirs to make? I thought you, of all people, would realize this … you've done it to me before, you've said so yourself!' Harry knew that he was getting worked up and tried to take a calming breath before continuing. 'I – I just don't understand why everyone trusts me to save the wizarding world, but they don't trust me enough to tell me the truth. Why does everyone think I can't handle hearing bad news? I – my entire life has just been one bad thing after another … I'd like to think I can take it by now,' he said bitterly.

'I understand your frustration,' said Dumbledore, and Harry wanted to ask him if he really did, or if he was just saying he did. Because he didn't see how Dumbledore – how anyone – could understand. 'It seems our conversation has run longer than it should have. You should be off. Minerva is waiting for you in the Great Hall, I believe.'

Harry nodded and walked to the door. 'Sir …' he said, pausing, 'if I may ask … do you have any other portraits? And … where are they?'

Dumbledore smiled. 'Before I died, I arranged to have three portraits of myself put up. One, of course, is here. Also, if you take a look around Grimmauld Place, I believe you will find me.' He narrowed his eyes. 'And my third portrait,' he said, in a voice that made Harry feel as though he should know something he didn't, 'is in Spinner's End.'

'Oh,' Harry said, feeling quite the fool. He left the office and returned to the Great Hall, taking quick, frustrated steps. Why did talks with Dumbledore always serve to confuse him even more? He thought, after the night of the incident in the Department of Mysteries, that he had earned the right to know the truth – especially when the truth concerned him in such a way. And he thought that his relationship with Dumbledore was better than this. He had spent countless evenings last term in Dumbledore's office, learning about the Horcruxes and talking about important things. Now, however, it seemed Harry was right back where he started from.

Angrier than he knew he should be, Harry stormed through the large doors of the Great Hall and found McGonagall waiting for him.

'Are you ready to continue?' she asked, seemingly hesitant. She was still clutching the feather in her hand.

'Let's go,' he said. He reached out his hand and shouted, 'Accio!'

His voice echoed off the walls, but when it died down, McGonagall's sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the room as the feather flew from her open palm and toward Harry. It lost momentum just before it reached his fingertips and gently floated down to the floor, but the message was clear to both McGonagall and Harry: Harry could control his wandless abilities.

……………………………………………………………

Hermione walked into the kitchen and gasped.

'Mrs Weasley!' she cried.

Mrs Weasley looked up from her tea. 'What's wrong, dear?'

Hermione pointed at the clock. 'You – where's Ron's name?'

She was met with silence for a moment.

'I – I took it off,' Mrs Weasley said guiltily. 'It's too hard to look at it.'

She took it off? Hermione couldn't believe it. Nobody in this house spoke of Ron. With the exception of Hermione, and sometimes Harry, nobody went into Ron's room. It was almost as if Ron had never lived at The Burrow. Were they trying to forget him? Did they think that ignoring the problem made it go away?

'Did you happen to notice what his hand was pointing at before you got rid of it?' she asked.

'It was pointed at Lost, of course,' said Mrs Weasley.

Hermione knew that she should tell Mrs Weasley. Ron was alive and if anyone deserved to know, it was his mother. But Hermione didn't know how the woman would react. She would either believe Hermione, or she wouldn't understand and be completely outraged. Hermione had to go for it, though. There was this … feeling inside of her. And maybe, if anyone else was going to feel that same feeling, Mrs Weasley would.

She looked at Ginny. Harry had probably told her all about their previous discussion. He probably had Ginny completely convinced that Hermione was insane.

Perhaps Harry hadn't said a word to Ginny, though. Perhaps Hermione could tell Mrs Weasley and Ginny how she knows Ron is alive, and they'd believe her, and Ginny would convince Harry.

Really, it didn't matter if everyone thought she was crazy. But Hermione needed Harry to believe her. For as long as she could remember, they were always on the same side of things. Granted, they had disagreed over what to do with the Prince's Potion book (… but hadn't she been right about that?), but it had been okay back then.

Now … now, this was much more serious than the Prince. She was losing her best friends. Ron was gone, disappearing off to somewhere and not coming back for reasons unknown. Harry was spending most of his time with Ginny, and it appeared that the rest of his time would soon be spent training. Plus, he had to spend some time searching for Horcruxes. There was also the aftermath of the Final Battle to take into consideration.

Why did it feel like everything important in her life was moving away from her?

'Look,' she said, sitting down. 'I have to say something. And you might be a little skeptical at first … but hear me out. Please?'

'Of course,' said Mrs Weasley. Ginny smiled weakly and nodded.

'It's about Ron,' said Hermione. 'He's not dead.'

The silence was thick and heavy.

Mrs Weasley cleared her throat. 'I'm sorry,' she said slowly. 'What did you say?'

'He's alive,' Hermione said. 'The clock said he was Lost because … because he isn't dead.'

'Hermione,' said Ginny softly. 'That's enough.'

'Yes,' said Mrs Weasley. 'When a person d-dies, their hand on the clock will always point to Lost.'

'How do you know?' asked Hermione. 'Maybe –'

Mrs Weasley sighed. 'My mother had the same clock in her house,' she explained. 'She had a hand for each of her children. When my brothers, Gideon and Fabian, passed away, their hands pointed to Lost.'

'That doesn't mean anything, though!'

'That's enough,' Ginny repeated.

'It means quite a bit,' said Mrs Weasley. 'Their hands were pointed at Lost because their souls are gone forever. And my R-Ronnie's soul is g-gone forever, t-too.' She sniffed and dropped her gaze to the table.

Hermione wasn't convinced.

'Mrs Weasley,' she said desperately. 'Don't you understand? I – I can feel it!'

'My son is dead, Hermione,' she said, still staring resolutely at the table. 'Let him have his peace.'

'He isn't dead! It sounds crazy, I know. But I know it's true. If Ron was dead, I would accept it. I would let him go. I'm not a complete lunatic! He isn't, though. And I can't pretend that he is! Harry said that –'

'Harry knows?' asked Ginny. 'Harry knows that you're saying these things and he didn't tell anyone?'

'He doesn't believe me, either,' said Hermione.

Mrs Weasley sniffed dramatically.

'Because you're insane!' said Ginny. 'My brother is dead. End of story. No matter how much you say otherwise, you won't bring him back.'

'If you would just listen to –'

'I've heard enough,' said Ginny fiercely. 'You're upsetting Mum!'

'I'm not trying to!' said Hermione. 'I'm just –'

'ENOUGH!' cried Ginny, standing up. 'What is wrong with you! Ron is dead. He's gone.'

'He isn't,' said Hermione passionately, looking at Mrs Weasley again. Surely, she would understand. She had to. She would see the truth in Hermione's eyes.

But Mrs Weasley wouldn't meet Hermione's eyes.

'I think,' said Mrs Weasley slowly, 'that it would be best for everyone if we all just dropped this discussion.' She stood up. 'Excuse me,' she said, and then left the room.

'Good going,' Ginny spat.

'Ginny,' Hermione pleaded. 'You know that I'm not making this up. Maybe you don't want to accept it … but you know it's true. Ron was your brother. You must feel something. Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that he's dead?'

Ginny walked over to Hermione and stopped inches from her face. Her cheeks were bright red and her eyes were glistening with tears. 'Ron is dead,' she said. 'But the rest of us aren't. And how dare you bring up this rubbish around Mum?'

'Ginny –'

'Save it,' said Ginny, brushing past her and following her mum out of the room.

……………………………………………………………

'Hey, Joe,' shouted the man over the music in the club. He hadn't wanted to come here, but Joe had insisted on it. He said it would be fun. So far, though, the man wasn't having any fun. 'Bellatrix Lestrange … who is she?'

Joe looked up from his drink. 'What? Who told you about her?'

The man shrugged. 'Nobody. I read about her in the paper you gave me this morning.'

'Oh,' said Joe.

'So?' asked the man. 'Who is she?'

'Don't worry about it,' he said dismissively. 'You know who you should be thinking about? That girl over there. She's watching you.'

The man looked up and saw that a girl in the corner – one with long, straight blonde hair and a very pretty smile – was indeed watching him.

Joe nudged him. 'Go for it.'

Feeling slightly self-conscious (perhaps she wasn't looking at him)the man grinned and went over to her. 'Hello, there,' he said. 'Can I buy you a drink?'

She smiled. 'I've already got one,' she said. 'But you can certainly buy yourself one and join me, if you'd like.'

Oh, he'd definitely like that. He sat down at the bar beside her and ordered a Firewhisky.

Several drinks later, the girl – Rachel – grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. 'Let's dance,' she said seductively, pulling him to the centre of the dance floor.

He didn't want to dance. Really, though, what they were doing couldn't be called dancing. She was rubbing her gorgeous body against his in an altogether delicious way and his head was swimming from the Firewhisky.

Rachel pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. He could taste the alcohol on her and didn't like it. She moaned in his mouth and when she wrapped her arms around his neck, he resisted the urge to push her away. Something about her was wrong.

But that was ridiculous. She was funny, sexy, and brilliant at snogging.

Still, something about her was wrong. —

'I love you,' he whispers. He mentally screams then, calling himself an idiot for ever telling her that. Hermione doesn't love him, and he's gone and scared her now, hasn't he? She's not going to be able to look at him when he gets back. He feels her let go of his arm. And when he pulls his mouth away from her ear, she is staring at him in absolute shock.

'What?'

She sounds scared. For a moment, he isn't sure if she's scared of him going off, or of his feelings for her. Perhaps she is afraid of her feelings for him.

But he sees it in her eyes. And he knows.

She loves him. She always has.

And he wants to kiss her again. He wants to brush that beautiful brown hair out of her even more beautiful face and wipe away her tears, but he can't. He is needed elsewhere. Isn't he?

He feels a sense of panic and thrill when Kingsley begins counting to three. He has to go. He wants to go. But he doesn't want to leave.

'We'll talk when I get back,' he says.

Her face falls, as if she momentarily forgot that he is leaving, and he hates himself for having to choose between his sister and the love of his life. He wonders if he is making the right choice.

Hell, he isn't even making the choice. There is no choice. There is no contest, no debate, no question about it.

But he still has to go after Ginny, in spite of it. She needs him more now. At least, he thinks she does.

There is a tugging at his navel and the last clear image he sees before he is gone is of her.

Because, really, she is all he's ever been able to see clearly. —

The man pushed her away gently and gasped.

'What's wrong?' she asked.

He couldn't even begin to tell her everything that was wrong.

He was having flashes of people he didn't know, places he had never been. He could see them clear as day, but as soon as the flash was done, he would not be able to pick them out of a lineup. He knew there was a girl. But who was she? What was she to him?

'I – I think it's time I leave,' he told her over the music. 'You know, go home.'

'Want some company?'

He shook his head. He didn't think that was such a good idea – and not just because he was rooming with Joe, and didn't think it would be appropriate to bring some girl back, no matter how much Joe seemed to have encouraged it.

'No, thanks. I, uh, I'll see you around,' he said.

And then the man left, not bothering to grace Joe with an explanation when Joe caught his eye and threw up his hands in confusion.

The man was far more confused that Joe, anyway.

……………………………………………………………

Dumbledore fascinates me, but, unfortunately, I don't write him nearly as well as JKR. To that note, don't flame me for disgracing his character. I've read worse.

As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.