Chapter - 2 : Betrayal Part - 2

It was traces of this cold resolve that, last year, had pushed him into his assertion to Ron and Hermione that he would attempt to stop Voldemort from stealing the stone and resurrecting. The calm of this cold that had allowed him to leave one injured, unconscious friend behind amid a field of shattered rubble, and to send another friend back as safeguard if he died, while he stepped through a wall of purple flames alone. And it was this cold he had wrapped around himself, one pre-dawn morning several days later, as he stared at the lake and pondered his first kill.

Above all else, it was that cold. The one he 'd known alone on a chill morning, known and confronted and accepted, staring at hands that had set flesh to flame.

Gryffindor, they said, was the house of the brave.

I don't want to do this. It was a miserable whisper from a corner of his mind; begging for reality to go away. But 'want' had never made his aunt and uncle love him, or his teachers believe him over Dudley, or brought his parents back.

Harry was coldly, bitterly acquainted with all the thousands of ways want meant exactly nothing.

But if he was going to do this, he had to know.

Not for peace of mind. If Riddle was telling the truth, there would be no peace of mind.

Because Ginny deserves this. His throat was tight. Even if- even if it turns out she'll never know.

Riddle had been watching him silently, expressionless save for the triumph in his eyes. Eyes that mirrored in hazel Harry's own. Eyes he now met squarely.

"Promise me," he began softly, asking for an oath he'd read months ago, flowery and wordy and antiquated, but binding by the very things that made a pureblood's pride. "Swear by your life and the ancestor's blood you hold so precious, that you are telling me the truth."

The triumph grew stronger. "By my life and Salazar's blood, I am."

He listened to Riddle's level voice, then nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat. His eyes were burning. His heart felt like gravel; cold and in pieces. "Okay." He lifted his hand as if to cast the fang away-

- Riddle started to slash the wand down -

-and in a blur of movement, he slammed it straight through the middle of the diary.

Harry's Gryffindor traits were always so much scarier than other people's.

Riddle gave a long, piercing shriek and Harry cast away the diary as it bled ink out across his robes and the floor. His enemy was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing, and then he was simply gone. Harry watched only long enough to be sure it was over, then crawled over to where Ginny lay, reaching out to touch her skin. He was dimly surprised to notice his hand was shaking.

"Ginny?" He asked, hoping for a moan, a squeak, a breath…

Her unmoving silence made him terrified and hurt and nauseous.

"Ginny?" But the whisper was almost defeated.

And still no response came.

He knew muggles checked pulses - a brief flash of hands at wrist or throat on the telly, stolen glimpses as Dudley watched while he did chores - but he didn't have any idea how. But there were other ways to check. Carefully, he held his hand just above her mouth and nose, hoping above anything to feel a faint flutter against his hand.

Please, he begged silently. Please, please, please…

Nothing.

He didn't realize he was crying until he realized he could no longer clearly see her face. Didn't notice when it started, but couldn't make himself stop. He huddled on his knees by her cold body, and he cried. Above him, Fawkes was singing low, mournful notes of haunting beauty, but the phoenix did not fly down and cry for her. Not even a phoenix's tears, then, could heal a life severed so quickly.

He didn't know how long he cried, but eventually, he became aware of Fawkes' song coming to an end. When silence fell, he painfully pushed to his feet. Moving slowly, he gathered up his wand and the diary, rolling them with the Hat to stuff them all in his pockets. Then he made his way over to the dead Basilisk's head, not flinching as he passed the bloody sockets, silent testaments to Fawkes' skill and courage. Bracing himself, he reached towards the hilt and dragged the sword free.

He wished he could do something for Ginny right now – it didn't seem right to leave her lying there with the Basilisk's corpse and muck and water, not while he took away the remains of her murderer.

But I don't know a way to carry her other than the basic hover charm, and I've never held one that long. If I drop her-

Everything in him flinched from the thought. He settled for bowing his head and promising quietly to her spirit – wherever it was now – that he would be back.

Then he turned and, dry eyed and with sword in hand, limped slowly out of the chamber.