FIC: Excuse From Pain (Harry/Ginny, NC-17)

[pumpkinpasty]

Author: pumpkinpasty
Title: Excuse from Pain
Challenge: Patience and Kindness
Summary: They say that war corrupts. It does. It tears away innocence like a knife tears through skin. And with his innocence, Harry loses his ability to feel anything -- he becomes a hard shell, little more than a vague shadow of the boy he used to be.
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst, Drama
Word Count: 10,947
Warnings: Lots of angst, mature themes, violence, sexuality, very light bondage, and a disturbing recollection of Tom.
Notes: A thousand thank yous to ladyg_funk for putting together this fest and for putting up with my embarrassingly late entry. ♥ This fic evolved from about a hundred Google searches on my two virtues, patience and kindness, and ended up much darker than I originally intended, thanks to numerous quotes, Bible verses, and a little inspiration from my amazing beta, mlleelizabeth. This fic is for her, because she is made of awesome.

*

To develop true compassion, first we must know that suffering is real, and that sufferings hurt.
- Thupten Rinpoche

*

He is not Harry Potter.

Some years ago, he may have been, but today he is not.

The air is murky and thick with smoke when he slips into the Dublin pub, the hood of his cloak drooping low over his head. Dimly lit candles bob around the ceiling, and he has to duck more than once to avoid catching his robes on fire. As he takes his seat in the far corner of the room, a curvy barmaid serves him a pint of Firewhiskey. He has been in here enough times for the woman to know what he drinks and for her to know that he never talks to anyone, save the elderly owner, so she clunks the tankard on the table in front of him and walks away without a word, the hem of her skirt swaying around her ankles.

He takes the first draught slowly, savouring the trail that the whiskey blazes down his throat and the dizzying sensation behind his eyes. Tonight, all he wants is to get pissed - pissed enough to forget about Ginny and her family and his whole sodding life, beginning with the day he found out he was a wizard with a life and a destiny and people who loved him.

For a moment he watches the amber liquid swirl around in his cup, and then he raises his eyes to meet the reflection in the oversized mirror across the room, squinting through the smoke and low candlelight to make out his features. His reflection stares back at him, all dark green eyes and unruly black fringe, distorted by the crack in the mirror and flecked with mud, drink, and some sickeningly pale muck he doesn't want to think about. Cringing slightly, he tears his eyes away and looks out the window, watching rain form pools in the dips of the cobblestone street.

He is not the person the world thinks he is, not anymore. He is not the saviour the journalists write about. He is not the good, selfless man that Ginny fell in love with.

He is a shadow. A shadow of that hero, a remnant of that man. Tonight he is bottomless pints and nameless girls, endless guilt and hiding from the truth.

He cannot bear to face them; they are the only family he's ever come to know, and he wonders how he can possibly admit to them that he's the one to blame for all their suffering. It's better this way - it's better to leave than let them hate him, because if there is one thing he can't bear more than not seeing them, it is seeing them and knowing that they hate him.

Harry Potter would have stayed. Harry Potter would have admitted the truth and taken the blame. Harry Potter would have been good and brave and deserved forgiveness.

He is not Harry Potter, so he does not deserve forgiveness.

He swallows more of the Firewhiskey and wills thoughts of them away, closing his eyes and savouring the burn in his chest.

This is what he deserves.

.::.

It starts two weeks to the end of his sixth year, when he wakes to dim moonlight filtering in through the window of his dormitory, the soft pitter-patter of the rain, and Ginny's small hand nudging his shoulder.

He sits bolt upright, fumbles for his glasses, and draws his wand before he realises that no, the Death Eaters have not come for him. Not yet, anyway.

As he squints through the darkness, the features of the blob beside him sharpen into a smattering of freckles and a mane of long red hair.

“Ginny?”he mumbles, rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his hair. It's sticking up in all directions, but this early in the morning he finds it hard to care. “Whassgoinon?”

The moonlight casts an eerie bluish glow across her features as she sinks into the mattress beside him. “I wanted to talk to you,” she says. The flatness in her voice isn't like her and he frowns.

“What about?” he asks. She looks down into her lap, avoiding his eyes.

“I had a dream about Tom.”

His stomach drops like leaden ice, and he chokes on a breath of air. For a moment he is unsure of what to say, but when he sees the look in her eyes, one thing he knows is that his heart is breaking, so he grabs her hand.

“Tell me.”

They spend hours in the dark and empty Common Room, Ginny telling him how it felt to have Voldemort inside her - how it felt like her heart had frozen over, how every emotion that she had became his, how he slithered inside her like a black shadow that smotheredtorturedsuffocated her, how her tongue turned to poison when she hissed his commands.

And then there were the things he made her do. How one night, as she lay awake in her bed writing in that damn diary, he slid inside her and told her that Harry Potter could never love her, not the way she was. How he told her there was a certain way - a certain type of girl - she had to be, and he could help her if she wanted.

How that damn memory made her tear off her clothes and touch herself.

Ginny doesn't blink when she tells Harry. She doesn't cry or flinch or tear her eyes away from the full moon rising through the window. And Harry sits, frozen in some combination of horror and pity and rage, as she continues.

“I dreamt about us tonight,” she says. “It was you and me down by the lake, the time that we, you know - and your hands were everywhere and you were saying my name - ” She breaks off and swallows dryly.

“- And then they weren't your hands anymore, they were Tom's, and your face was his, and there was all of this blood dripping from his mouth, so much blood - ”

She's shaking now, shuddering so hard the sofa is shaking too, and Harry clenches his fists in frustration. He wants to hold her, to take her in his arms and shield her from the things inside her head. He knows he can't. Because he knows that when Voldemort is inside your head there's nothing anyone can do to help.

When she turns to look at him, her eyes are not warm and brown and sparkling but black and hollow and full of fear. He tries to hold her hand, tries to gather her up against his chest. She pulls away.

“He told me he was my best friend and I believed him,” she says, yanking her arm from his grip. “I could have killed someone. I could have killed Hermione, or - or you -

“There's something wrong with me. There is. He couldn't possess you because you were so pure, but me - he could possess me when I was eleven years old, Harry. Eleven fucking years old. I'm not a good person, not like you or Ron or Hermione or my family. I'm just like those Death Eaters - hell, I'm just like Him.”

She glares at Harry, daring him to contradict her, daring him to say Yes, Ginny, you are a Good Person. Which he does. He takes her hand and squeezes it, assuring her that she is honest and pure and beautiful, assures her that Tom is sick, assures her that it is not her fault.

She laughs at him. It is harsh and barking and he flinches.

Raindrops slide down the window, pooling and seeping through the cracks in the glass, as Ginny draws her knees up to her chest and stares into the empty hearth. Silence rings for a long time before she turns to face him, some of the warmth filtering back into her eyes.

“I'm sorry.”

Harry shakes his head. “It's fine.”

They sigh. Tentatively he reaches for her hand, and she grasps at his fingers, squeezing them tightly.

Another hour they sit on the sofa, curled against each other, lost for words despite everything. She feels so small in his arms - frail and fragile like a little girl - and he fights the urge to say something that will shake her out of this... mood that she's in. Because she's Ginny. And if this war has crushed her, too, then he doesn't know what he'll do.

She whispers later that she has never told anyone about Tom. That she doesn't like to talk about him because it makes her feel vulnerable and small and stupid. That she doesn't know why she's let herself be so vulnerable and small and stupid in front of Harry, of all people.

He kisses her cheek and promises he'll never tell.

That is the night he falls in love with her. Falls in love with Ginny Weasley, for God's sake, because she is gentle and strong and sweet and proud and most of all because she needs him, just like he needs her.

Two weeks later he sits beside her at a funeral and tells her that it's wrong, that it's too dangerous, that they should stop.

She never cried while talking about Tom, but that evening he stumbles across her in an empty corridor, tears streaming down her cheeks.

.::.

Four weeks into their search, Harry, Ron, and Hermione find themselves somewhere in the middle of Iceland, huddled and shivering in front of a massive château said to be Rowena Ravenclaw's holiday home.

“What sort of crazy old bat has a vacation home in Iceland?” Ron asks loudly.

“They say that in her old age Ravenclaw did go a bit mad,” Hermione replies, frowning.

“Right,” Harry says, “that's all well and good, but while the two of you sit out here and chat about Rowena Ravenclaw's sanity, I'm going to go inside and see if we can set up here for the night.”

They follow him through the heavy double doors - the door knocker is an eagle, Harry notices - and into the entrance hall, where it becomes clear that no one has set foot in the old castle for decades. The dust coating the oak floors and ornate furniture is at least an inch thick, and they leave a track of footprints in it as they cross to the Dining Hall.

A two-hour long search of the castle assures them that, apart from the few magical creatures that they encounter along the way and the fifty or so canvas paintings adorning the walls, they are mostly alone. Hermione suggests they sleep in Ravenclaw's library; Harry and Ron exchange amused glances and levitate the trunks, following Hermione through the red-carpeted corridors.

The halls are lined with peeling canvas paintings of old witches and wizards who sidle into one another's frames and whisper as Harry, Ron, and Hermione pass. Harry strains his ears to catch snippets of their conversations, cautious of anything that might indicate the portraits are less than friendly.

But it seems that they all have lost track of time - or gone completely mad - because the snippets he hears are things like “teatime is at four” and “Madame Ravenclaw still insists on riding with her legs on either side, for heaven's sake!”

Harry relaxes and follows Hermione into the library, where the air is thick with dust and the smell of aging parchment. Within minutes, she is curled up on one of the armchairs, her head buried in some oversized volume, and Ron has found his own mildewy sofa to doze off in. Harry busies himself with their tent, flicking his wand once, twice, three times until it is erected in the centre of the library, just as filthy as the room surrounding it.

They should be working out plans for tomorrow's search, but he can't bring himself to disturb them, not after the long, icy journey they had to the castle, where he is certain they'll find the fifth Horcrux - Ravenclaw's sapphire crown.

They are his best friends. Have always been his best friends. And lately, he thinks he's beginning to finally realise what that means.

There are nights when they fall asleep together, huddled beneath one blanket, if only because after the trying days they have, after reading and encountering so much darkness and death and pain, Harry needs them - needs to feel their hearts beating against his own. Needs to know that they are alive and real and that he is not alone.

And they understand this. They understand this in a way no one else can, and so they hug him tightly and fall asleep beside him, Ron snoring loudly and Hermione's hair spreading across the pillows.

With this thought, he sinks into one of the armchairs and watches the two of them until he can't keep his eyes open any longer, and before he knows it, he has fallen asleep.

By noon the next day, they are trudging through the wild forest behind the castle, their wands held ready and their cloaks bundled tightly around them. Harry's pockets are loaded with antidotes and bezoars, a vial of his blood and his invisibility cloak. Beside him, Hermione mutters countercurses over and over under her breath until the quiet chanting sounds more like mad gibberish than actual memorisation. On his other side, Ron keeps glancing at Harry and Hermione, worry written in his eyes.

They reach a small shack about a mile and a half away, so deep in the forest that the thick canopy of trees blocks out all the warmth and sunlight. Harry leads the scramble through the brush and tightly-packed trees towards the door until, quite out of nowhere, his face smacks something hard and invisible. Hermione stops abruptly and Ron bumps into her.

“What happened, Harry?” Hermione asks, wringing her hands. Harry rubs his nose furiously.

“Bumped into something - invisible. Like a wall. The crown is definitely in there, but something's blocking us.”

“Hang on,” she says, raising her wand. She flicks it once and suddenly a bright green light glows from the tip; she flicks it again and a myriad of symbols appear in front of them, suspended in midair around the spot where Harry crashed.

“Hermione, what - ” Ron begins.

“They're runes,” she says, stepping closer to the invisible wall. “Really rare ancient runes. I've only seen them once or twice before, in class.”

“Can you read them?” Harry asks.

She nods in assent and takes another step forward, muttering to herself. Once or twice she stops and points at each rune with her finger, as if she's counting them, and a few more times she sighs to herself, running her fingers through her tangled, bushy hair. After several moments she turns to face them, her skin pale and clammy.

“What do they say?” Harry asks, stepping forward.

“They say...” Hermione takes a deep breath. “They say that to pass, you've got to make a payment.”

“Blood?”

“No,” she says. “It asks for more - for 'flesh, blood, and bone.' The flesh, blood, and bone used to cast spells.”

Beside him, Harry feels rather than hears Ron's gasp.

“What - you mean like, like a hand?”

Hermione nods and stares at the ground.

“Look,” she says, raising her wand, “I'll do it.”

“NO!”

Harry and Ron shout it at the same time; Ron snatches her wand out of her hand and glowers at her.

“Don't be stupid, Hermione,” he says. “You - if one of us does this, you're the only one who knows anything about Healing. You would have to be the one to fix it. Can you fix it?”

“I think so.”

“Right, well, chances are that if one of us cuts off his hand, only one of us is going to be able to get through, just like with the other Horcruxes. And that has to be Harry, right? Which means I have to do it. I have to cut off my hand so Harry can get through, and then Hermione can stay and help me.”

Silence rings for what seems like ages, the forest growing colder and darker with the setting sun. Hermione shivers and stares at the ground while Harry racks his brain, hoping, desperately...

“There has to be another way,” he says finally. “I can't let you - ” He breaks off, struggling. “I can't let you do this. It's your bloody hand!”

Ron stretches himself up to his full height and towers over Harry. “I don't care,” he says fiercely. “Hermione will fix it and I'll be fine.”

And what if she can't? The doubts are there - he can read them on their faces, but no one dares speak them aloud. They tell themselves that she can, she will, she has to.

Ron kicks a few more stray branches aside and presses his wand hand against the invisible wall. “Let's just get this over with,” he says, his face hard, and he hands Hermione her wand. She turns to Harry, her face pallid.

“Run, Harry, as soon as I do it. Don't turn around, don't look at his hand. Just run.” Harry swallows hard and nods. Then, before he even registers what she is doing, she raises her wand and swishes it down, fast, as if she was brandishing a sword.

For a split second he sees Ron's hand fall, sees the blood gushing like a fountain, sees his hand drop to the ground, and then comes the scream - the roaring, agonised scream of his best friend in the whole world, and then Harry -

Harry bites back the bile in his throat, barrels through the wall, and doesn't look back.

.::.

The first time he kills a man he is seventeen years old.

There is no blood, only wide, staring eyes and the dead man's sobbing son - an old classmate, an old rival - throwing curses at Harry's back.

That night he closes his eyes and dreams of orphans like himself, dreams of fire and green light and that Death Eater's son.

But Harry never cries.

.::.

By Christmastime, he scarcely recognises himself.

For two years the war has raged, dragging him along with it - or rather, it seems, he drags the war with him. He has led every battle against the Death Eaters, Order members running behind him and Ron and Hermione standing beside him.

He dreams more, now. He dreams of curses and potions and Horcruxes and the Avada Kedavra, dreams of the day he finishes Voldemort for good, dreams of flashing lights and flying motorcycles and of his mum and dad and Sirius. What would they think of him now? Would they be proud? He doubts it. Because no matter how many Death Eaters he kills, he still doesn't feel like a hero. In fact, he feels a lot more like a murderer.

He dreams of her, too. Only they aren't dreams, they are nightmares. He sees her lying on a stone floor, naked and shivering, while he fights a giant snake. In the corner Tom stands laughing, but then suddenly the laughing man is not Tom anymore but Voldemort, who has a mouth like a Dementor, and then the bastard is kneeling over her naked body, mouth stretching wide as she screams and screams and cries, Harry, Harry, Please. Then Voldemort kisses her, and there's a terrible sucking, swallowing noise. Harry yells and tries to run to her, but he hears a roar and the last thing he sees are the snake's enormous fangs closing in on him before he wakes up, sweat and tears mingling on his cheeks.

He stands on the stoop of the Burrow's kitchen door alone, icicles dangling above his head and dripping icy water onto his head. The droplets slide down his face, into the crook of his ear, down the tip of his nose. He stands motionless, staring at the door, willing himself to knock. Through the curtains of the window he can see Ginny sitting at the table, her back to him, peeling carrots with her mum.

He isn't sure why he has come. Part of him wants to give Ron and Hermione time alone before they arrive at the Burrow on Christmas Day. Most of him wants to see Ginny again, because the memory of a few weeks at Hogwarts just isn't enough.

If he had the choice, he would wait. He would wait to see her until the war was over and everyone was happier and they could have a real shot. If he had the choice he wouldn't come to see her now, when all he can tell her is that he can't be with her, can't love her or need her or want her.

Instead, he stands on her doorstep, broken and afraid but unwilling to admit it, and when she turns around to get more carrots and spots him through the window, all he can do is wave meekly.

In an instant she has thrown open the door, skipped down the steps two at a time, grabbed his hand, and led him up into the kitchen, where Mrs Weasley drops the onion she's holding and flings her arms around his neck.

“Harry!” she says. She stands back and holds him at arms length, her face suddenly pale. “Ron and Hermione - are they - ”

“They're fine,” Harry says quickly. “They'll be here on Christmas day. I just - I sort of wanted to come a bit earlier, if that's all right with you.”

“Of course it is! Come here, sit down, eat some soup - ”

Harry takes a seat across from Ginny and stares at the table, watching her hands make quick work of the carrots.

“So,” she says, not taking her eyes off the cutting board, “how are things?”

“Fine,” he says. Fine. That's always his reconciliatory answer. He wonders if people really believe him. One look at Ginny tells him she doesn't.

She shoots him a sharp glare, and he glances pointedly at Molly with a look that clearly says, later.

Mrs Weasley sets a large, steaming bowl of soup in front of him, and Harry devours it ravenously, only half-listening to Mrs Weasley gibber about her sons and her husband.

“...Bill and Fleur have decided they want to have a baby, which is perfectly all right with me - though I'm not sure how I feel about being a grandmother - but I do wonder what they are thinking, bringing a baby into the world at such a dangerous time... Of course, Arthur keeps reminding me that we had Bill just the same way, but still, it's so dangerous...”

Harry nods politely, his mouth full of buttered bread. Across the table, he catches Ginny smiling to herself. Molly looks between the two of them and then jumps to her feet.

“Well,” she says, “I have a bit of Christmas wrapping to do tonight, so I'll just leave the two of you at it, for now. Ginny, your father's spending the night at headquarters, so when you finish with those carrots remember to lock up properly.”

“I will.”

“Right, then, good night. Oh, and Harry - I almost forgot - Ron's room is free, obviously, so you can sleep in there. Sheets and blankets are on the bed. I like to keep them ready in case one of you show up...”

“Thanks, Mrs Weasley. For the soup and for - for everything.”

She smiles at him and pads up the stairs. Ginny turns to Harry.

“So,” she says, dropping the rest of the carrots into a bowl and standing up, “I'll ask you again - how are things?”

Harry tears another piece of bread from the loaf and looks at her. He opens his mouth to answer again, fine, but she shoots him another one of her glares and he stuffs the bread in his mouth instead.

“Not fine,” he says, once he has swallowed. “You try living out of a tent for a year.”

Ginny nods. “And Ron and Hermione?”

“The same as always,” he says, standing up and putting his bowl in the sink. She huffs. Then he turns to her, glowering and irritated.

“Look, Ginny,” he snaps, taking a step towards her. “What do you want me to tell you? That we've nearly died at least twelve times in the past six months alone? Do you want to hear about the blood we see? About the death and the pain and the torture?

“Every time I see you or your mum or Remus, you ask us, 'How are things?' but you don' t want to hear the answers. You don't want to hear the truth. Hell, I don't want to tell you the truth. Because it's ugly and painful and I don't fancy seeing the look on your mum's face when I tell her that Hermione had to cut off Ron's hand and then reattach it, or that I killed Draco Malfoy with my fucking bare hands, okay?

“I know that you're trying to help. I know that you want to be the one to listen and understand, and I know you could, but all I want to do right now is see you and have Christmas and spend a few days where everything is not centred around the war, all right? And I don't want to answer your questions.”

Ginny stares at him, her mouth hanging open, and Harry stares back at her, breathing heavily and his mind racing. This isn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to see her and they were supposed to chat like old friends. He was supposed to kiss her on the cheek and tell her how he's missed her. He wasn't supposed to blow up at her like this.

He winces and waits for her to do anything - waits for her to slap him or yell at him or even march up the stairs without a word.

What he feels instead is the startlingly soft pressure of her lips against his, and her fingers caressing the nape of his neck. He can smell her shampoo and taste the shepherd's pie that she had for supper, can feel the warmth of her breath on his lips and her breasts pressing against his chest. He tangles his fingers in her hair and pulls her closer, kissing her deeply. His tongue traces the seam of her mouth and suddenly he's inside her, tasting her and kissing her - God, he's kissing her - and running his tongue along the back of her teeth possessively.

Their teeth clash and clack as he whirls her around and lifts her onto the countertop. His hands fly to the buttons of her pyjamas, and he hears them clatter against the floor as he tears them off, one by one. Pushing the top off her shoulders, he realises with a rush of heat south that she isn't wearing anything over her breasts; he cups them in his hands and brushes his calloused fingers over her nipples. Moaning into his mouth, she arches against his hands.

He kisses his way down her neck and then lower, across the plane between her breasts and down to her stomach. He watches it contract as she moans again, and he can feel her nipples growing harder beneath his thumbs. Her hands grapple with the clasp of his robes; within minutes they fall to the ground and she starts tugging at his shirt.

Growling, he pulls away from her and tugs it off, and then he grabs her and kisses her deeply, his hands running down her ribcage to the waistband of her pyjama bottoms. He slips his hand lower, between her legs, and strokes her over the cloth. He can feel how wet she is when she bucks against his fingers, and he groans.

“Harry,” she breathes again, and he doesn't think he's ever loved the sound of his name more. Then, again, more firmly - “Harry.”

He tears his lips away from her neck and looks at her, his eyes slightly unfocused, a thin sheen of sweat dampening his forehead. “Yeah?”

“We can't - not here - upstairs - c'mon - ” She grabs her pyjama top, holds it to her chest, and dashes up the stairs. All of the blood rushing from his head, he gathers up his robes and follows her into her bedroom.

He presses her against the closed door, swirling his tongue around the spot beneath her ear that makes her whimper. Hooking her legs around his waist, she wraps her arms around his neck. With a low groan he stumbles backwards, and the back of his knees knocking against the edge of the bed. He collapses, Ginny straddling him.

She pushes him onto his back and crawls on top of him, fingering the button of his jeans. She can't undo the damn zip; her hand keeps brushing against him there, and fuck, if she doesn't stop he's going to come inside his jeans. Gasping, he knocks her hand away, lifts his hips, and shoves his trousers off. They catch at his trainers and he squirms beneath her, kicking them off with a loud clunk.

Then his hands fly to her hips, and in one swift movement, he flips her onto her back and tugs them down around her ankles, revealing a thin pair of white knickers. It's only then that he realises she is shaking beneath them, and he hesitates, fingers plucking at the waist of her knickers.

“Ginny...”

“Just take them off, Harry,” she says, her voice much fiercer than she looks. So he does, and simultaneously, she yanks his pants down. His erection brushes against her stomach and he groans, both at the sensation and at the sight of her beneath him, all milky skin and freckles and gooseflesh wherever he brushes his hands. He wants to touch all of her - every inch of skin, every freckle - until she whines and arches into his fingers, begging for his lips, begging for Harry to touch her just there.

He bends down and kisses her deeply, running his hands down her side and around the inside of her thigh, where he tickles her and tugs at her curls. She spreads her legs wide and clutches at his shoulders, whimpering, and Harry grabs her hands, pinning them above her head. She squirms against him, hooking her legs around his waist and rubbing herself against his prick; his head falls to her neck and he groans, hips jerking involuntarily.

Ginny laughs breathlessly and circles her hips, increasing her rhythm. When she frees her hands from Harry's grasp, she slides them down his chest and caresses the inside of his thighs. He goes limp on top of her, his head spinning, and surely he is crushing her, surely she can't breathe - then, without much warning, she is pumping her fist down his length, faster and faster and -

He brushes her hand away with a guttural moan, swirling his tongue around one hardened nipple. He wants to come inside her, not all over her hands, wants to feel her warm and wet and tight around him, wants the feel her legs wrapped around him and her fingers digging into his shoulders when he comes.

He slips his fingers between her folds, circling the bundle of nerves that makes her writhe and moan his name, brushing the sensitive little nub that makes her toss her head back and scream so loudly that he has to swallow her cries with a kiss. Then he slides a finger inside her and thrusts, in and out, in and out, and suddenly she is fisting the sheets, her mouth open in a little O against the crook of his neck as he massages her breast with his other hand and rocks against her thigh, growing harder and harder.

She keeps whimpering his name, keeps mumbling words of encouragement, keeps begging him not to stop. He murmurs her name into her hair and doesn't stop, doesn't because she needs him, doesn't because he needs her, doesn't because he couldn't if he tried, couldn't if she asked him to.

He brushes his thumb over her clit and slides his finger inside her until his knuckles are pressing against her pelvic bone. She moans and squeezes her eyes shut, hips bucking against his hand.

“Open your eyes,” Harry manages to rasp as he positions himself at her entrance. “Ginny - I want to see you.”

She moans and tosses her head back, her forehead scraping the pillow, and Harry latches his lips to her exposed neck, sucking lightly and tasting the thin layer of sweat spread across her skin.

Then she relaxes against the pillow and opens her eyes. They are round and dark and full, and Harry's hearts swells at the sight.

In a split second, he pulls his hand away from her centre and replaces his fingers with his length, thrusting deep inside her and groaning. She is warm and tight, everything he imagined and more.

Beneath him, she digs her fingernails into his shoulders and bites down hard on her lip, drawing blood. Tears sprout in the corners of her eyes and he wipes them away, dropping his head to kiss her softly - softer than he ever has before.

She makes a small, strangled noise when he pulls out and pushes inside her again, stretching her, filling her. With each thrust she relaxes, and he tries to prolong it, tries to make it better for her. Then he feels a small spark at the base of his spine, and after one more rolling thrust he spills into her, and he isn't just coming inside her but pouring everything into her, pouring his fear and his hurt and his pain and his rage.

And she takes it. God, she takes it. She wraps her legs around him and meets his thrusts, wipes away her tears and kisses him fiercely, tangling her fingers in his hair and whispering his name.

He shudders and jerks against her, his head falling limply against her chest, and when he's through she wipes the sweat from his brow, strokes his hair and whispers to him, coaxing him back to reality.

For months he has spent sleepless nights in caves, drafty abandoned houses, and grubby inns. And over those months he has killed men and women and old classmates. Over those months he has forgotten how to feel - he has forgotten how to feel because he has to. Because no one can do what he does and still feel things, not without going mad.

But tonight Ginny takes him. Takes all of him - every bit, every flaw. She takes him, despite the things he's done, despite the way he left her that summer, despite - despite everything.

That night Harry feels more than he has felt in months. Years, even. And he feels it again the next night, and every night until New Year's Day, when he kisses her roughly and disappears with a pop.

.::.

Dumbledore told Harry that he could fight Voldemort because he could love. He told Harry that love was his one power, his one advantage.

It isn't. And that is something Harry finds out early on.

When you're looking for bits of Voldemort's soul, Harry thinks late one night, you've got to learn to think like him. You've got to learn to get inside his head, learn to be like him in order to know what he might do. To learn what he might've done with his Horcruxes.

When you're in the middle of a battle or a duel, you can't be thinking of who you love and how much you love them, or of where they are right now and if they're safe. You have to think like the burly, masked Death Eater with his wand pointed at your heart - you have to get inside his head and be him. You have to understand the evil you're fighting.

He learns a lot in those months.

He learns how to fight ruthlessly. He learns Legilimency and Occlumency and how to shut down his emotions - it's something he hates doing, and he and Hermione wind up rowing about the necessity of Occlumency more than he cares to remember.

He also learns the truth about what it means to be captured by the Death Eaters and all the sick things they do to the Muggle-borns and Muggles and Ministry officials and Order members before they kill them.

He learns how it feels to have utter power at your fingertips - he learns how tempting that power is and how easily people fall to it. It terrifies him, though he never admits it.

It's a slow descent into madness - madness that is seeing and hearing and knowing but never feeling, because if he even dares he will surely die from the pain.

In late May he returns to Hogwarts one last time with Ron and Hermione, and he is standing at the window of his old dormitory when he hears her knock. He knows it's her before she calls his name; her voice drifts softly through the door, and there's a trace of concern in her voice that is undeniably Ginny. He groans to himself, knowing that he won't be able to control himself around her. After months of keeping his emotions in check, the sound of her voice makes his heart thrum uncontrollably, and already, he feels himself unravelling.

When he doesn't answer, she creaks open the door and slips inside, padding over the clothes strewn across the floor to the window, where she stands beside him and watches Hagrid tending the garden outside his hut.

He doesn't speak to her; they've said all there is to say before and it doesn't help. Instead, he stands behind her and slides his hands around her stomach, tickling the soft flesh beneath her shirt and lowering his lips to her neck.

She tilts her head to the side and sinks against him, sighing.

“I think about you,” he whispers against her ear. “I think about how you felt last Christmas, how it felt to be inside you...”

She murmurs something inaudible and presses against him, her bum rubbing against his cock. He groans and slides his hands upward, cupping her breasts over her bra and squeezing before tugging her shirt over her head and tossing it to the floor.

His hands travel the length of her torso, calloused fingers brushing every inch of creamy skin. She shivers against him, moaning when he pinches her nipples into hard points over the cloth of her bra. Then he trails his hands up her back and fiddles with the catch, but he can't figure out the little hooks and growls in frustration.

“Here, let me,” Ginny says, reaching behind her. He grabs her hands and pins them behind her.

“No,” he says roughly, and a moment later the clasp pops open of its own accord, and the garment slides down her arms, pooling at their feet. Ginny gasps.

“Was that - how did you - ”

He grasps her arms behind her back and leans down, his breath hot against her ear.

“I've learned a lot since Christmas,” he says, and she moans almost inaudibly.

Another moment and Harry rids her of her clothes, whirling her around and pressing her against the wall beside his bed, her legs wrapped around him and his her nails scraping across the skin of his bare back. His erection strains against his jeans and, grinning wickedly, Ginny slides her hand down his stomach, cupping the bulge and squeezing.

He growls and kisses her roughly, their teeth clacking and her head knocking against the wall. He is acutely aware that this is the last time he'll ever taste her, the last time he'll ever feel her writhing beneath his hands or her breathy moans against his skin. So he knocks her hand away and presses her into his bed, kissing her deeply before rolling off her and wriggling out of his jeans and pants. His erection springs free and Ginny turns to straddle him, kissing her way down his chest and then lower, taking his cock into her mouth.

He lets out a strangled groan and bucks his hips involuntarily as she sucks him, her hands tickling the inside of his thighs and cupping his balls. This - he can't think, not with her doing this to him, fuck -

It's so good, better than anything before, except maybe the feel of her coming around his length, screaming his name and clutching at his shoulders, but -

Wait. This is it, this is the last time he's going to see her, and fuck, he can't come in her mouth.

Growling, he hauls her up to meet his lips and rolls on top of her, sliding his fingers down to her sex and rubbing her there. She twists beneath him and he smirks. Glaring at him, she wraps her legs around his waist and thrusts forward, rubbing his prick against her centre, where she's warm and wet.

“I've learned a lot since Christmas, too, you know.”

Harry wills himself to jerk away from her warmth and leans down low, his nose brushing hers. “Not as much as I have, Ginny, I promise you that.”

He peers into her bright brown eyes, and then he's inside her mind, travelling the twists and turns of her memories as they flash before him. He sees the two of them over and over again - in her bedroom at the Burrow, sprawled beside the lake at Hogwarts, curled up in the Common Room while rain pours outside. And then it's Harry on top of Ginny, popping the buttons off her shirt, pushing her skirt up around her waist, his fingers delving into her while she moans and fumbles with his cock - then it's Ginny on top of Harry, small hands caressing the length of his torso, soft lips peppering kisses across his chest -

And then there's something Harry has never seen before - something he can't remember but wishes he does, because it sends a rush of heat to his cock and makes his stomach dance uncontrollably -

It's Ginny, her hands clasping the bedpost above her head and her mouth hanging open as she gasps and moans, writhing beneath Harry's thrusting fingers and insistent tongue. It's the most erotic thing Harry has ever seen. It's-

“Harry! Stop!”

Her slightly panicked voice startles him out of his reverie, and as he breaks eye contact, the memory vanishes. He groans inwardly.

“What - what were you doing?” she asks, her voice breathy and quavering with indignation. His gaze softens, because the way she is looking at him - some combination of anger and love and fear and lust - terrifies him. He ignores her question and places a kiss on her collarbone.

“That what you want, Ginny?” he says, dragging his fingers along her side. She flushes. He tilts his head up to look at her, so close that he can count the freckles on her nose and see the faint trace of makeup on her lashes when her eyes flutter shut.

“Is it?”

Her blush deepens and she nods, her eyes closed. He bends down and whispers, his breath hot against her ear.

“Then it's what I want.”

And with those words Ginny's hands fly up to meet one of the bedposts; she tugs at them and they don't budge. Her eyes snap open and she looks up at Harry, who brushes his thumb around one taut nipple and kisses her gently. He pulls away and eyes her softly.

“Ginny...” he murmurs. He struggles, trying to find the right words, and suddenly he doesn't feel very sexy or experienced but rather, he feels like the teenager he is, and he hates it. “I just - this is our last time - our last chance - I want it to be right, I want it to be everything we want. I want to make you come and - and - ”

Shite. He sounds like an idiot. Like a stammering idiot who can' t even fuck the girl he loves properly.

“Just - you trust me, right?”

She swallows hard and nods, whispering hoarsely, “Yeah, I do.”

He weaves his hands into her hair and brushes his lips against hers. “Then let me do this. I need to do this. For you.”

It is the last time he will ever see her before the war ends. It might be the last time he sees her ever. And since the war has started, they've made love so many times. Only calling it 'making love' is a lie, because how can they be making love while she's got her back pressed against her bedroom wall, or while she's bent over the edge of the bed, or while she's propped up on the bathroom counter, his prick digging into her while she digs her nails into his shoulders?

He wants to make love to her properly, because he might die and so might she and he wants to do this right, because God, she deserves it. He wants to trail his fingers down her skin and forget all about the impending turmoil, wants to forget about his approaching battle. He wants to make her forget. He wants to lose himself in her and let her lose herself in him with each kiss and touch and moan.

She shivers and nods. “Okay.”

He lowers his head and brushes his lips against the column of her throat, nipping lightly and then soothing her skin with his tongue. He kisses and nips his way along her collarbone and then lower, down to the swell of her breasts, his hands gliding softly up her arms.

She whimpers when he blows lightly across one dark nipple; she arches her back and he watches it harden, feeling himself grow harder by the second. Her thigh rubs against him and he moans.

He catches her nipple between his lips, rolling the little nub between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and she squirms against him, spreading her legs wide and thrusting upwards, attempting to relieve the heat Harry knows is throbbing between her legs. She squeezes her eyes shut and whispers his name breathlessly. He kisses the tender little curve beneath her ear and whispers against her, his breath hot, “Tell me what you want me to do.”

She lets out a strangled breath and moans when she feels his fingers plucking lightly at her curls.

“Please, Harry...” she says.

“Tell me.” He crawls down her body, pushes her thighs apart and spreads her lips, breathing raggedly against her sex. She's wet - wetter than Harry's ever felt her.

“I - Harry - touch me!”

With that he slides one strong finger inside her and pumps it in and out, in and out; her mouth falls open in an inaudible scream and she jerks her head up to look at him. He grins up at her wickedly, holding her legs wide and thrusting that finger inside her, over and over, until she throws her head back and moans, her voice low and throaty and nearly unrecognisable.

Then his tongue is on her, laving her clit, and suddenly she's writhing and really screaming - Ginny Weasley is a screamer, no surprise there - and tugging at the invisible bonds around her hands.

Then Harry pulls away, abruptly - so abruptly that she swears at him and he laughs, crawling back up to kiss her deeply. He vanishes the invisible bonds and her hands fly around his neck, weaving through his hair and sliding down his back.

“God, Harry, I need you inside - now - ”

With one swift thrust he buries himself inside her up to the hilt, and he hisses as her muscles contract around him. He won't last long, he knows that, but then again, she won't either, so after only a few rough jerks of his hips he's spilling himself into her again and she's clenching around him and it feels like everything he's missed, everything he's wanted, and there's relief, so much relief -

When he pulls out of her they are both sticky and sweaty, and he collapses on top of her, his breathing quick and heavy. He tilts his head and props his chin on her chest, meeting those brown eyes he dreams of so often, and suddenly he feels like they are probing him - like she's reading his thoughts the same way he's read the thoughts of so many others in the past months.

Maybe it's just that he hasn't been so open, hasn't been so vulnerable or emotional in so long, but the thought that she can see inside him, can know his pain and learn his fears terrifies him. There is too much there that she shouldn't know - so much that she shouldn't see. With a jerk he rolls off of her and leans down to the ground, fumbling for his wand. He flicks it and all of their clothes land in a heap on top of them; he grabs his pants and tugs them on, standing up and cleaning their mess with another flick of his wand.

“Harry, what're you - ”

“You've got to go. I've got to go. Well, one of us has to go.”

“What're you - Harry -” He ignores her stammers as he pulls on his jeans and his shirt, and with a sound like an angry cat Ginny jumps to her feet, grabbing her own clothes and pulling them on.

“Look,” Harry says, “Ron'll be up here any minute. One of us has to leave.”

“Harry!”

He ignores her.

“What's wrong with you? Did I - did I do something?”

“No,” he says quickly, avoiding her eyes, avoiding that piercing gaze. “No. I just - I can't do this. I'm leaving.”

“You ca - you can't?” Ginny says, her voice high and furious and disbelieving. “You can tie me up and fuck me, but when it's time to have a conversation or even look me in the eye you say you can't do this and you're leaving?”

“It's not like that, Ginny. I'm just not - I'm not right for you. None of this should have happened. I shouldn't have let myself - You shouldn't have come.”

Twice she opens and closes her mouth silently, disbelieving and struggling for words. “I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have?”

All she can do is repeat what he has said, her eyes wide and brimming with hot, angry tears. Harry stares at the bed, unmoving, unfeeling once more.

“Don't you tell me what's right for me,” she snaps finally. “Don't you dare. But you're right. You aren't right for me. And you never will be, no matter how long I wait, no matter how many times we shag. That's all it is, isn't it? Shagging? Two people fucking to forget the war that's tearing their lives apart, right? Well if that's all this is then I don't need you, do I? I can shag any bloke I want. Why wait for you - why wait for us?”

Her words cut into him like freezing glass, piercing his heart, and he swears he can feel the blood seeping inside him. He hates the way she spits us, like the concept is something bitter and disgusting and stupid, and he fights the temptation to grab her again, to shake her and tell her that he does this to protect her, that there really is an us.

Check your emotions, he tells himself instead. Just ignore her. Ignore everything. Close your mind, Potter. It's what you do best, isn't it?

Ginny turns on her heel, wipes away the tears streaming down her cheeks, and leaves him standing there, alone, hating himself.

The last bit of her that he sees before she slams the door is her long red hair, dancing behind her.

.::.

The final battle arrives on a Monday in late June, when the air is warm and sticky and tiny beetles and chirping birds flit around the grounds of Hogwarts, blissfully carefree that this is a War.

Bellatrix is the first Death Eater he faces. With a flick of his wand, he stuns her and barrels past; tonight, she is the least of his worries. Tonight he wants Voldemort, and no one else.

Moments later, somewhere in the forest, he spots Ginny shooting curse after curse at the Death Eaters around her. Through the corner of his eye - almost in slow motion, he thinks later - he sees Bellatrix dart out from behind the trees behind Ginny, sees her raise her wand and bring it slashing down -

He screams, and Ginny whirls around to face him, but it is too late - that jet of green light is going to hit her -

Only it doesn't. Instead it bursts against another red-headed figure, one who darts between Ginny and Bellatrix just in time -

There is no noise, only that blinding green, lighting up the forest, and then a sickening cackle -

Harry roars in fury and raises his wand, thinking Sectumsempra, Sectumsempra, and then Bellatrix collapses in a pool of blood and brush and black robes -

He doesn't have time to run to Ginny, doesn't have time to see who the figure was - there isn't time for anything -

But as he turns and runs after the thin, cloaked figure he knows is his destiny, he hears her scream. He hears her scream and nausea rises inside him as realisation clenches an icy fist around his heart -

.::.

He kills Voldemort.

He kills Voldemort and once it is over, he Apparates to the Burrow, where he finds the entire Weasley family huddled around the kitchen table. Quickly, his eyes scan the room, hoping, praying -

His eyes flick across the empty spot at the end of the table, where a pile of Mrs Weasley's knitting sits, permanently abandoned.

At the other end of the table, the man who has treated Harry like his own son buries his face in his hands, sobbing hoarsely while his eldest son - disfigured; this is what the war does to the people Harry loves - pats him on the back. On Arthur's left Ron sits, filthy and bloody, his head resting against Hermione's chest. Silent tears stream down her face as she holds him.

Fred and George stare at the table, their faces pale. Even Percy is at the table, his face in his hands. Harry knows that this isn't how any of them imagined their reunion.

Charlie is the biggest man there and the strongest, too, but when Harry looks at him, all he can think of is how small he looks as he clutches at the Weasley family clock.

Ginny.

She sits in the corner of the room, huddled against the cabinets where Mrs Weasley keeps - kept? - the spices, her skin stark white beneath her freckles.

He wants to run to her, wants to kiss her and hold her and tell her that he's there for her, just like he used to. He doesn't, though. He can't. He knows he has ruined everything, knows that he lost the right to love her a long time ago.

She meets his gaze very briefly, and he tries to tell her then, with his eyes, that he's sorry, so sorry. For everything.

But she tears her eyes away from his and fixes them on some point in the distance. And then, after a minute, her face is blank. Expressionless.

He curls up in another corner and draws his knees up to his chest, sorry for everything.

So sorry for everything.

The next morning he is gone.

.::.

A crowd of rowdy, burly Irishmen enters the pub, roaring with laughter. Harry sees the barmaids perk up; it's been a slow night so far and they need the money.

He sighs and takes a long draught of Firewhiskey. For months he has tried to convince himself that this is his life - that this is really the way he is supposed to be living.

Day after day he reads something in the papers about the Weasleys - Arthur Weasley in line to head Ministry's Auror department (front page), Fleur Delacour on cursebreaking, motherhood (Celebrity Gossip, page seven), Ron Weasley signs as keeper for Chudley Cannons, expected to break 400-year losing streak (Sports, page five).

And then, today - Weasley daughter missing after months in St. Mungo's psychiatric ward (News, page three).

He shouldn't have read it. Of course, there were a lot of things he shouldn't have done.

According to the article she went missing exactly one week before, on her birthday. The Weasleys realised something was wrong when she didn't show up at the her party, and they had checked St. Mungo's, hoping she had gone in on her own for an appointment. She wasn't there. She wasn't at her flat, or at Hogwarts, or anywhere else they could think of. It was as if she had vanished off the earth, the reporter claimed. No trace of a struggle or a sign that she had planned to leave.

Harry feels sick as he reads the article, and with a furious growl he tosses it onto the floor.

The war has been over for months. Yet it isn't over. It can never be over, not for him, anyway. Not for this man that he has become. No, this is his life; there is no afterwards, no future, no real life.

Then, quite out of nowhere, the din of the pub lowers to a meagre hum, and he strains his ears, alarmed. Though not as alarmed as he is when he hears the snippets of the barmaid's conversation with the group of rowdy men.

“... yeah, been in here every night since last summer,” she tells one of them, a blond, bearded man so tall his head almost brushes the ceiling.

“...that's around the time Potter went missing, eh?” another cuts in, this one short and stocky, with dark red hair.

“Yeah,” the barmaid replies, and then she leans in closer to the shorter man, smiling conspiratorially. “And you know, he has a little scar on his forehead. He tries to hide it with that fringe, but I saw it once, when he was the last one left in here one night.”

“Only one way to find out who he is, isn't there?” the redheaded man says, and he turns to face the side of the room Harry is sitting in, cupping his hands around his mouth to magnify his voice. “Oy, you there! By the window!”

The entire pub falls silent as Harry stands - they've been listening to the barmaid's conversation, too, and Harry knows there is no use denying the truth. Not anymore; no one will believe him.

He takes off his cloak and tosses it to the floor, exposing his face and hair and - of course - his scar.

The entire pub takes a collective breath. Harry raises an eyebrow at the red-haired man.

“So it is you,” the man says. “Harry Potter.”

It was bound to happen, Harry thinks. Eventually. No one can hide forever.

“Yes,” he says warily, “it is. I mean, I am.”

“Bloody hell! Come over here, then, Mr Potter, and have a drink on me. Wouldn't object to hearing a story about the war! No one better to hear it from than you, eh? The teenage war hero?”

Harry clenches his fists and takes a deep breath. They don't know. They don't know. Control your emotions, Potter.

“I'm afraid I can't do that.”

“Why not?” someone at the other end of the room shouts.

“Because I can't,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “Not that I owe you a reason.”

The man stands up, swaying on his feet and clutching his lager. “Watch your mouth!” Harry's eyes flash dangerously.

“These famous types,” the red-haired man mutters to his friend, rolling his eyes. “Think the world owes them everything.”

The friend nods, shooting Harry a filthy look.

“Anyway,” says the redheaded man, obnoxiously loud. “I'll bet it's all a lot of crock. I'll bet he didn't even fight in the war. Bet it's just something those journalists cooked up to sell a lot of papers, wouldn't you say?”

It happens quickly - Harry's wand lets out a bang like a firecracker, and then he throws himself across the room at the red-haired man, pinning him against the wall, the tip of his wand quivering at his neck. The barmaids screech and scatter, and the group of drunkards let out a roar and charge at Harry. Another bang from his wand and they're pinned to the floor, shouting and cursing. The rest of the pub backs away and falls silent as Harry opens his mouth.

“The papers don't know the half of it,” he snarls at the crowd. “Or did the Daily Prophet report on all the people I had to murder? Did they write about that, too? And the parts about me destroying Voldemort bits at a time - did they report on that, too?”

He turns to the redhead and grips his wand tighter, months of pent up rage bubbling to the surface. “Did they write all about how the woman I knew as my mother died?” he asks, and red and gold sparks fly from the tip of his wand, scalding the man. He yelps.

“Did they write about that? DID THEY?”

He is about to hex the sod, about to hex the coward in front of the entire pub, when he hears something that sends chills down his spine.

“Harry, stop it. Leave him alone.”

He whirls around to face the voice, and nearly collapses at the sight.

It is Ginny, her wand drawn and her face hard.

But God, it's Ginny.

Ginny.

He lets out a strangled cry and pulls his wand away from the man's neck.

“Ginny,” he breathes. She grabs his hand.

“Let's go. We've got to get out of here.” Around them, the angry men are rising from their positions on the floor and advancing towards Harry.

She grabs his hand - God, she's holding his hand - and they dash out the door, into the rain. The men in follow them out, and they take off down the cobblestone street, feet pounding against the hard stones until the pub is far behind them.

Panting, Ginny stops and leans against an old building, brushing her wet hair out of her face.

Harry stops, too, and looks at her. He's finding it hard to look her in the eyes again, and he wonders vaguely why he only feels like this around her.

“You're coming home, Harry,” Ginny says, her jaw set. Her eyes tell him that she is Serious, that this is Serious Business, and he had better not decide to argue with her. He does anyway.

“I can't.”

“Yes, you can,” she says through gritted teeth. “You can if I say you can, and I say you can.”

Harry arches an eyebrow. “I don't have to do what you tell me to.” He still has his pride, after all.

“Shut up, Harry.”

He does.

“You don't know what it's been like without you,” she says. “After mum died, there wasn't anyone - there wasn't anyone there, Harry. You've always been there, and then you just weren't, and how could you do that? How in the hell could you just leave?”

Harry stares at the ground, clenching his wand tightly.

“It's my fault,” he says quietly. Raindrops drip down his face and into his eyes but he doesn't flinch. “It's my fault your mum died.”

“What?”

“I was duelling Bellatrix. I should have killed her. I didn't. I was too kind, too soft. Too damn stupid.

“And then there was you. After that day, at Hogwarts - I was stupid and I hurt you and I didn't deserve to be there. Didn't deserve to be at your mum's funeral, or stay in your house while your family was grieving, and I just - ”

He breaks off, grateful for the rain that washes away his tears.

“You just what?” Ginny asks, her voice low and dangerous.

“I just - I thought it would be better to be away from you than be near you and know that you hate me.”

Silence. Only the pitter-pattering of the rain and a sudden crack of thunder before the droplets start coming down harder, soaking their robes through.

“I don't hate you,” she says finally. “I don't hate you and none of it is your fault and God, Harry, I miss you. I've missed you and I love you and I could never hate you and it's not your fault and this is so bloody stupid! Ron misses you, Hermione misses you. Even the twins spent weeks looking for you. And I need you and you need us, so stop being an idiot. You're coming home right now, Harry, and nothing you say about how you don't deserve to is going to change anything. That's stupid and you know it.”

She stares up at him defiantly, drops of water running down her cheeks.

And then, without warning, he grabs her, pulls her flush against him, and kisses her.

She is warm and soft against his hardened body, and her hands flutter to his shoulders, curling in his robes and pulling him into her.

Every ounce of emotion he has had in months bursts from him, and he pours himself into her, wrapping his arms around her waist and letting the kiss and the rain and her hands wash over his aching body.

With a small pop, she Apparates them home, where seven freckled men and their families greet him jovially, clapping him on the back and hugging him and saying how much they've missed him.

Harry Potter lived with passion. Harry Potter lived to love and breathe and fight alongside the people who cared for him.

And despite everything that has happened, despite the hurt and the anger and the loss, he decides that maybe - just maybe - he is Harry Potter.