Harry Potter and the Fortress of Woe

Harry’s back ached. He had been sitting in this uncomfortably hard chair in the Hogwarts hospital wing for at least six hours and the physical strain his silent vigil had put on his body was finally showing. The room was dark; sun had set nearly an hour ago, but Harry had not bothered to light any candles. Madame Pomfrey had retired in her office some time ago, having finished the therapy for today and apparently having decided to grant him some space after pestering about his uncooperative behaviour all day. Harry was glad for the solitude, for it gave him time to think, even though his thoughts tended to be full of sorrow these days.

It had been only two days.

Two bloody, heart-wrenching days. Two days filled with pain and despair. Two days filled with guilt, self-disgust and self-loathing. Two days filled with doubt about everything he had ever believed in his life. Two days in hell.

Sighing, Harry ran a hand through his hair. Most of it had been burned during his brief stay in the burning room and therefore it had been cut much shorter than ever before, so short that it had even lost its messy character. He looked like a Muggle soldier and Harry had chuckled mirthlessly for a minute or two at how appropriate his look fitted reality. He had retained several medium degree burns while saving Ginny, most of them on his torso and large parts of his body were still covered in bandages so that they could heal properly. Harry knew that it would only take two more days until they would be removed but nevertheless he was vexed by them to no end, because they reminded him every second of what had happened. A sliver of moonlight feel in the room, illuminating his tired face and the small bandage covering his right cheek, and revealing what he had been staring at for the last few hours.

It was another of the hospital wing’s bed occupied by a person almost completely covered in bandages. The only think left undisguised were the persons closed eyes and its right hand, which Harry was clutching as though it were his lifeline. A single tear trickled down Harry’s undamaged cheek as though of who was lying in this bloody hospital bed and why.

Ginny.

It was all his fault. He should have never ever let Ron talk him into taking her with them. The victory they had gained by finding the Horcrux was tainted by Ginny’s state and Harry was beating himself up inside over it. He should have known that Voldemort had placed a trap in the room, triggering when the Horcrux was removed, after all it had been the same in the cave. He should have sensed it, like he had the other traps, and he should have reacted more quickly as soon as things had started to get out of control. He had succeeded in neither of these things and it was eating him up inside.

Harry did not remember much of their return to Hogwarts; he had just woken up in the hospital wing, finding Ron and Hermione sitting in the space between his and Ginny’s bed. They had quietly explained about what had happened, that they had not told McGonagall about the mission they had been executing and that while not very happy about the secrecy, the headmistress had decided not to transfer Ginny to St. Mungo’s despite of her grievous injuries. In her opinion it would create way too much attention and odds were high that Voldemort would seize this chance to get his hands on her. Harry could not have agreed more.

Fortunately Madame Pomfrey had known immediately what had happened to Ginny, apparently having treated a patient with similar symptoms sometime during her life. The black fire was called Demon Gaze, an old necromantic spell designed to kill a victim quickly, but inflicting maximum pain during the process. Instead of only eating away her flesh, the magical flames had attacked the very core of her being, attempting to extinguish the candle of life burning in her. Harry did not know how close she had been to dieing and honestly he was quite glad to be left out in the dark in this particular detail, because he doubted that he would have been able to bear the answer. The last thing that kept his mind from falling apart at the seams, was the knowledge that Ginny had survived. She was not out of danger and lying in a coma, but she was alive and breathing and stable. For now.

For a moment white hot rage filled Harry, taking control of every synapse in his brain, washing away guilt and sorrow as though they were merely stains on a stone wall. His hands were balled to fists and he could feel his power building as his thoughts focused on the real reason for Ginny’s state. Voldemort. The name echoed in his head and for a moment he thought he could hear his nemesis’ sadistic laugh, mocking Harry’s attempts at destroying his immortality and taking wicked glee in the losses he suffered in the process. In this moment Harry knew without doubt that he would do everything to kill that monster, just because what his spells had done to Ginny. Voldemort was busy trying to destroy everything Harry cared about and Harry took the attempt more than a bit personally. Voldemort would pay and if it was even remotely possible, Harry would make him suffer as much as possible before killing him. An evil smile formed on Harry’s face as he imagined the look on Riddle’s face as he told him about the end of his precious immortality he had worked so hard to create. The look on the snake-faced bastard’s face would be enough to make up for all the blood, sweat and tears he had shed destroying them.

His gaze fell on Ginny’s face again, or rather it fell on her eyes, and his rage vanished as quickly as it had come. He knew without doubt that he would never forgive himself if she died or worse never woke up. He had a hard enough time looking Ron in the eye now, he did not want to imagine how bad it would be if Ginny’s condition worsened or endured. Bile roses in his throat at the mere thought and suddenly he felt himself sobbing quietly, his face buried in his hands.
“Don’t leave me Ginny!” he managed to say between his choked sobs. “I can’t do this without you! Please stay!”

Suddenly Harry felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Reacting completely on instinct he wheeled around, his wand drawn within a split second from its holster and pointed at the intruder. Just as he was about to launch a stunner, he realized that he was standing face to face with a startled looking Ron.
“Don’t do this.” said Harry, pocketing his wand. He was surprised at how gruff his voice sounded. “I could have seriously harmed you; I am not the most emotionally stable person at the moment.”
Harry chuckled for a moment mirthlessly at his own joke, while Ron was just staring at his best mate in shock.
“Seriously Harry, what on earth has happened to you?”

Harry suddenly realized how he must look like. His fingernails had been drawing blood as he had balled his fists in his fury mere moments ago and said blood had been smeared on his face as he had buried it in his hands and had mingled with his tears. He looked like a tormented saint weeping blood because of the world’s injustice. No wonder Ron was currently staring at him as though he were a ghost.

“Nothing Ron.” replied Harry bitterly, finally answering the redhead’s question. “Everything is just as ever, a perfectly normal day in my messed up life.”
Ron looked startled at his best friend’s bitterness for a moment, but recovered quickly enough. His face softened as he walked closer to Harry, finally halting only a foot away.
“I know it has been hard for you.” he said softly, desperately wishing for Hermione to bang into the room to help him. Hell, dealing with a crying Harry was much worse as dealing with a crying girl. A girl usually was not able to hex you into next month within a bloody heartbeat. He could see tears shining in Harry’s emerald eyes, something he had never seen before. It scared him out of his mind.

“Are you parents informed of Ginny’s condition?” asked Harry suddenly, his eyes staring through Ron as though he were not there. Harry’s sudden change of topic did not escape Ron and further increased his worry for his best friend. Where was Hermione when you needed her?
“Yes, McGonagall sent them an owl a few minutes ago, they will be here soon.” he replied, weighing his words carefully. Ron did not even want to think about what would happen if Harry lost the last bit of his composure. Bloody hell! Why on earth did Ron have to be next to Harry, when the usually so emotionally guarded git was starting to open up? Ron had lost count of all the times when he had been called insensitive in his life, but he knew that he was rubbish at figuring out other people’s feelings and even worse in acting accordingly to this new information. It had taken him almost four years to discover that he fancied Hermione, for god’s sake! And now he was supposed to comfort his best mate, who had just watch what Ron hoped was the love of his life, falling into a coma because she had insisted on helping him.

Having experienced Harry’s nobility complex for the last seven years, Ron knew that Harry was blaming himself for what had happened to Ginny and that it was tearing him apart. Maybe he had underestimated the depth of his best mate’s feelings for his sister. Ron himself was of course depressed himself over Ginny’s injury and of course he had blamed himself for not putting up a bigger fight as Ginny had exclaimed that she wanted to accompany them. But he had known Ginny long enough to know that she would have tried to help them anyway and would have consciously jumped into whatever danger necessary to do so. This knowledge helped him a lot to deal with the whole mess. While still being shaken deeply at how horribly their trip to Riddle Manor had gone wrong, he had come to terms with it so far that he accepted that it could not be undone. Perhaps for the first time in his short life, Ron really knew what war was. War was not some abstract term, war was personal. War meant to play a game of exploding snap with everything you held dear on the stakes. Sometimes you lose, sometimes you win, but in the end you are always poorer then you were before, even if you only lost your innocence. It was a hideous game with no winner and if Ron had to guess, he would say that the first round had been a stalemate between Voldemort and them.

“I can’t face them.” said Harry, his voice so low and his eyes so unfocused that he appeared to be talking to himself. “Not after everything I have done to their daughter. Not after last night. I would not be able to bear it.”
“It was not your fault Harry.” cried Ron, grabbing his mate’s shoulder to back his claim up. “Ginny chose to come with us, she knew what had been at stake and we were successful. We got the bloody Horcrux and she will be alright, you will see. No one could have known that You-Know-Who had placed further enchantments on the bloody cup. Heck, Harry, without you she would have burned to a crisp in there. You bloody saved her, for god’s sake! Why is it so hard for you to accept that you can’t protect everyone! You are not responsible for anything this sick bastard has done! You are the one who can get rid of him one and for all! You will save countless people in the future, but only if you keep going! Stop now and Ginny’s sacrifice will be useless!”

Ron would never know what had made him say all the things he had, but he succeeded in snapping Harry out of his trance.
“Saved her?” snarled his best mate, his emerald eyes blazing with anger and self-loathing. “Without me she would have never been near the bloody Horcrux. I have been bringing death to your family and everyone close to me since I was bloody born. My parents were killed because of the prophecy, Cedric died because he chose to accompany me, Sirius died trying to protect me, your father nearly died guarding that blasted prophecy, your brother forsook your family because of me, Dumbledore died because I was unable to help him! I never saved anyone Ron, I only managed to prevent that more people died because of me! I am dangerous and you should get away from me before I manage to get you killed as well!”

The next thing Ron could remember was the sight of his best mate lying sprawled out on the floor, his left hand cradling his bruised jaw. Ron could feel pain flaring through his right knuckle. He did not care. Rage was rushing through his system, muffling the pain so much that he hardly noticed it.
“Now you will listen to me!” he snarled at his best mate on the floor, not even sure why he was so angry. “If I ever hear you talking shit like that again, I will personally beat you to a pulp. What happened was not your fault, but You-Know-Who’s and you bloody well know that! Heck you were not even born when this blasted prophecy was made, so stop beating yourself up about it for god’s sake. God’s what would Ginny say if she knew what a poor bastard you have become?”

Ron was panting for breath as he finished speaking. For a moment Harry just stared at him in shock and then, to Ron’s distress, two single tears ran down his best friend’s cheek. Shocked, Ron kneeled down next to Harry, without even the sliver of an idea what to do next.
“Look, Harry, I am sorry…” he started to say, but was interrupted immediately.
“No, I am sorry.” said his best friend, his voice choked with unshed tears. “I am sorry for being such a prat, I am sorry for acting like a headless chicken and I am sorry for snapping at you. It’s killing me to see Ginny lying in this bloody hospital bed, I just can’t help thinking that she will never wake up again and that everything we could had have is gone forever. And I just can’t help thinking that it is my fault that it should be me lying in this bed.”

Harry promptly started sobbing again, looking more miserable than Ron had ever seen him. Acting on instinct, he pulled his little brother by proxy in a hug, hoping that his attempts to comfort him physically would be more successful than his verbal ones. He was surprised that Harry leaned in immediately in his embrace, burying his face in his chest. Ron lost all track of time as his best mate was sobbing against his chest. He had thought it would be more uncomfortable, but he felt strangely proud of himself. He had managed to comfort someone without screwing horribly up in the process. Hermione was going to be so proud.

Suddenly Harry moved away from the process and looked at Ron with still slightly teary, but clearer and more awaken eyes.
“Better now?” asked Ron.
“Yes, thanks.” replied Harry quietly. “I really needed that. If you had not snapped me out of my state, I probably would have cracked up before the night was over.”
“No problem.” said Ron, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Come one let’s get your face cleaned and get something to eat, you look as though you had not eaten at all today.”
With a last long glance at Ginny’s still form, Harry nodded and followed Ron out of the room after Scourgifying his face.

- - - - -

One day later, Harry was lying panting on the floor of the Room of Requirements. He was wearing training slacks and an old faded tee-shirt, which were both soaked in sweat. Harry was totally exhausted. His sides were itching, the air was burning in his lungs, blood was pounding in his ears and all muscles in his body were protesting, but for the first time since Ginny’s injury he felt something like tranquillity slipping over him. He could not believe how good he had become. He had entered the room almost three hours ago and had immediately started sparring with the training dummies. He never got hit. Not even a single curse managed to penetrate his defence. Harry had lost count of how many of the mindless constructs he had blasted into a billion pieces in the last three hours, but he knew that they had never stood a chance. His curses were flying so fast that they were almost impossible to dodge and so powerful that they were almost impossible to block.

Now, after most of the adrenaline had left his system, Harry started to wonder why he had grown even more powerful after the trip to Riddle Manor. He could feel the magic pulsing in his body even though he had used it almost continuously over the last three hours. It was exhilarating and Harry wondered once again why his control over his power had extended so quickly over the last few days. Then it hit him like a punch.

Ginny.

He had been training so hard, pushing him further than ever before because of all the rage, sorrow and loathing coursing through him since Ginny fell in the coma. He had searched for an outlet for all these negative feelings and had subconsciously found it in his daily training. Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned? Rubbish, hell hath no fury as a lover lusting for revenge! Voldemort would pay for every burn on Ginny’s body, on every minute she had been unconscious and in the end he will be begging for Harry to end his miserable excuse of a life! A part of Harry considered it extremely ironic that by seriously harming the thing he treasured most, Voldemort had effectively shovelled his own grave this move, causing Harry to finally reach his full potential.

Harry was roughly yanked out of his musings about his violent revenge on Riddle, by the feeling of his muscles starting to cramp. He knew that he should take a shower soon or he would be sorry indeed. With a single thought, he transformed the room, so it mirrored the prefect bathroom and started to fill the tub with almost scalding water. He peeled off his dirty clothes and slipped into the tub, silently praising himself for taking another set of clothes with him. The walk to the Gryffindor common room, would probably have been already too long. As the hot water worked the kinks out of his aching body, Harry’s mind calmed again. He had to think about Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who had been visiting her injured daughter yesterday. He had not been able to scoop up the courage to face them, knowing that he would never be able to bear the sympathy in their eyes without falling completely apart again. He knew that they had been disappointed about his absence and he hoped that Ron had been able to explain it as much as possible. He did not know how much his best mate had chosen to reveal of the circumstances in which Ginny was injured and a part of him hoped that he had stayed as vague as possible. Despite his better knowledge, Harry felt as though Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would blame him for what had happened to Ginny. He knew that it was irrational, that the Weasleys loved him like a seventh son, but blaming himself for the world’s hardships was apparently so deeply ingrained in his being that he could not help him.

Ginny.

He never spent a minute without thinking of her anymore. It was all about her and how he was going to make up for his failure to protect her. Harry had never seen his destiny more clearly than now. He was going to find the next Horcrux and then he would face Voldemort. He was not sure if he was going to win, but he knew that he would have to try. And that he would to do it soon. He could feel time slipping through his fingers, like water held in a sieve. It was only a matter of time until Voldemort had enough energy at his hands to take over the country. Harry was not going to let this happen. Also every day brought more causalities in this war waged simply to satisfy and insane man’s perverted mind. Harry was going to stop it, so that Ginny had a world left to wake up in. The thought to kill another man made him feel sick, but he knew without doubt that he would kill Tom Riddle without a second of hesitation, if presented with the chance to do so. He could still remember vividly the last expressions on the Death Eater’s face and Harry doubted that he would ever forget them. It was strange, he did not even know the man’s name and had acted in self-defence but still he could not help feeling guilty. Shaking his head to clear it, Harry stepped out of the tub, dried himself with the towel, which had promptly appeared next to him and slipped into his clean clothes.

“All just for you Ginny.” he whispered as he left the room.

- - - - -

Harry was standing in the Room of Requirements, which had once again taken the form of the amphitheatre used often during the PFT lessons. Despite being fixed on the steadily growing audience, his eyes were sightless, his mind to wrapped up in his gloomy thoughts to bother with taking in what he was seeing. He did not want to be here. For what must be the thousandths time in the last few minutes he cursed Ron and Hermione for talking him into doing this rubbish. The PFT lessons had been put on a hold after the trip to Riddle Manor nearly three weeks ago and Harry had had no intention to start them again, still way to affected by the disaster to even think about teaching.

However, Ron and Hermione had considered it a good idea to snap him out of the in their opinion unhealthy routine he had developed since Ginny’s injury. He would somehow endure the lessons every day, being distant and not even remotely interested in what the teachers were saying. Despite his lack of interest, his spellwork was better than ever, another sideeffect of his constant practicing in the Room of Requirements. Directly after dinner, he would slip off to the Room of Requirements and trained there until he was too tired to continue. After changing, he would go to the hospital wing and would spent the rest of the day sitting next to Ginny, catching up on his homework while talking to her prone form and in his opinion nothing was wrong with spending his days that way. Ron and Hermione, saw things differently though. In their opinion, Harry should not spend so much time in the hospital wing, because of his still emotionally labile state. Therefore they had encouraged him to find something to take his mind of Ginny’s condition, namely the PFT. After a truly spectacular row, Harry had finally agreed to at least continue with the PFT lessons, which was enough to cease his two best friend’s nagging.

“Err, Harry, we are ready to start.”
Ron’s voice penetrated the veil his busy mind had created around his other senses and suddenly Harry became painfully aware of his surroundings. Most of his students were staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and impatience and Harry was sure that he could see traces of sympathy in some eyes. Apparently rumours had been coursing about Ginny’s injury and about his involvement in the circumstances under which it was created. Harry did not like it. He did not like it at all, but he knew that he could not leave the room now. Instead of hurrying back to the hospital wing, as his instinct told him, Harry spoke up, his voice magically amplified by the room.

“Welcome to today’s Practical Fighting Techniques lesson.” he said, feeling the confidence which always took hold of him when he was standing in front of a group of students, return. Today’s lesson would be different from all the others before, but equally important, if not more important than any other before. He had learned it the hard way and nearly broke at the experience; maybe it was his protective instinct, but due to some fuzzy reason he just had to talk with his students about it. “It has been a while and I am sorry for the delay, I just did not feel like teaching thanks to some recent events… yes Zacharias?”

Zacharias Smith’s arm had shot up in the air as soon as Harry had started speaking. Harry was not able to read the expression on the Hufflepuff’s face, but his experience told him to expect the worst.
“Yeah, I wanted to know what exactly has happened to your little girlfriend.” said the noisy boy. “I have heard a lot of rumours and would really like to hear the truth about it. I mean you kind of owe it too us, after all we missed two PFT lessons because of it.”
For a moment Harry was absolutely dumbstruck at the incredibly blunt way Smith tried to wiggle information out of him. The rest of the room had fallen eerily quiet, apparently awaiting Harry’s answer to Smith’s demand. Harry could see Ron’s and Hermione’s livid faces, both as pleased about this question as Harry was. Then, Harry’s amazement transformed to white hot anger and he had to use all of his willpower to keep himself from hexing the annoying Hufflepuff into oblivion. He did not know what galled him more, the face that Smith had not even bothered to say Ginny’s name or that he had managed to reduce Harry’s trip to Riddle Manor to nothing more than an interesting piece of gossip.

“I don’t owe you anything Smith.” replied Harry through clenched teeth, his voice growing louder with each syllable, while staring furiously into the fifth year’s eyes. He could see a growing look of shock on the Hufflepuff’s face, who had apparently not expected such an intense reaction. Suddenly Harry found himself shouting at the insolent boy. “HOW DARE YOU ASKING ABOUT GINNY? HOW DARE YOU DECLARING THAT I OWE YOU SOMETHING? YOU DON’T KNOW THE FIRST THING ABOUT MY LIFE OR ABOUT FIGHTING VOLDEMORT OR ABOUT GINNY, SO SHUT THE HELL UP BEFORE I FORGET MYSELF! I DON’T OWE YOU; YOU OWE ME!”

Harry was breathing rapidly after his outburst, trying to get the rage coursing through his system back under control. He succeeded, slowly but surely and soon enough he spoke up again.
“Sorry.” he said quietly, his gaze once again resting on Smith, who had no moved a muscle since Harry had shouted at him. “I should not have done that, you could not have know that I would be so edgy about it. What I am going to tell you in today’s lesson is not a way to win a fight; it is how to deal with losing one. I learned during the last few weeks that the aftermath of a battle can be even worse than the battle itself. I have taught you how to fight over the last few months and some of you are going to leave Hogwarts this year. At the moment the school is a kind of save shelter from the troubled world outside and the moment you step out of the school’s gates for the last time, you will be at war. War is not limited to an area or to a special group of society. War does not care about how old you are or how much things you still have to do or whom you are leaving behind. Even if you don’t pick a side, odds are high that you will be trapped between them anyway. Today, I will try to teach you how to live with the knowledge that you or someone you hold dear could be dead the next day.”

Harry paused for a moment, both to have some more time to think about what he was going to say and to let his last statement sink in.
“Remember, what I am going to tell you is an advice, not an order. There is not the single right way to deal with a war and of course you are free to find your own way. Personally, I would ask myself every day before going to sleep what I would do, if I died tomorrow. Imagine dieing after having a huge row with a person you care about, without ever having the chance to make up. A horrible thought if you ask me. You the first part of my advice is: do not postpone things any more! You are waiting for the perfect chance to ask a girl to go out with you? Well, better get a move on, you or her could be dead tomorrow! Having never made up with a close relative? Now is the time or it may be too late forever. Think about what you always wanted to do before you die and do it, of course only if you don’t hurt anybody in the process. However, it is important that you don’t twist your life completely because of the war. I don’t want you to quite school, just because you think you will die tomorrow. Don’t throw away the possibility of having a normal life, Voldemort is not worth that. Live as you would live normally, but keep the possibility of dieing always in mind. I know it sounds paradox, but trust me it helps. This way will all still be sane if the whole bloody war is over and we have won and we will win, won’t we?”

A deafening cheer went up in the room, as the audience declared its desire to come out victorious out of the raging war.

“Alright.” continued Harry, now grinning broadly despite his previous bad mood. Maybe Ron and Hermione had been right in talking him into this. “You want to win? Then show me what you can do!”

- - - - -

“Too bad sucker, have a nice death.” said Sandro, his face twisted in an eerie smile, as he ripped the fallen Death Eater’s head off with his bare claws. The shade assassin was standing in the smoking remains of a Muggle village, which had been raided by Death Eaters only a few minutes ago. It had been a small raid, consisting of only five, mostly low rank dark wizards, but Sandro considered it as good as any place to start his quest for revenge. His ego had been bruised severely by the fact that he had been cheated by Severus Snape and Voldemort and he had vowed to himself that he would make the self-proclaimed Dark Lord pay dearly for betraying him. Sandro was not stupid enough to attack Voldemort directly, he knew that he was no match for the abundance of power the dark mage had acquired over the years; he was more than a match for the average Death Eater and not even Voldemort would be able to take over the country without any followers to support him.

The shade took another look around the village. He was standing at the cross of three roads, which created a small plaza. Snow had fallen some hours ago, but its pristine white surface had been almost completely transformed to blood red, having soaked up the blood of the Muggle victims, as well as that of the Death Eater’s. Bodies were lying around haphazardly giving the place the appearance of a twisted graveyard. The surviving villagers were starting to creep out of their hiding places and the shade considered this the right time to vanish from the crime scene. It would not take long for the Ministry of Magic to arrive and Sandro had no desire to find out what the aurors would do if they encountered him standing in the middle of a field of muggle bodies with to fallen Death Eaters resting at his feet.

Just as he was to about to fly away, he noticed a small bottle which apparently had fallen out of the now headless Death Eater’s robe during the brief struggle his last victim had provided. Careful not to break the fragile looking bottle, Sandro picked it up and brought it up to its eyes to examine it. He recognized what it was almost immediately, once having to steal one from its owner almost two hundred years ago.
“A Thought Bottle.” he said to himself. “I wonder what kind of dark secrets Lord Voldemort has to hide.”
Pocketing the bottle in the dark robe he was wearing, the shade flew away in the nightly sky.