Chapter - 4 : Grief Part - 2

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Exhausted by his story, he sank back into the chair, waiting.

The first response didn't come from the expected quarter. "Harry," Professor McGonagall started gently, "I know it was an awful experience. But you can't blame yourself for Ginny's death. It's far more likely that You-Know-Who just drained her to death, rather than that your actions echoed through him to her."

He closed his eyes, feeling weak and tempted. Tempted to just… agree. It would be so simple to just accept the story she provided. And it would make everything so much easier; it would make his relationship with all the Weasleys so much easier. Leaving him the tragic hero, come to slay the Dragon but too late to save the lady. Not the knight's fault, not when others had caused his delay. Not his fault at all.

For one, brief moment, he teetered on the brink.

Gryffindor.

Then shook his head, looking up. "No," his voice was low, but clearly audible. "I knew. He told me. Trying to make me stop. But," he took a shuddering breath, "but he was killing her, and she was dying as each second passed and he had my wand. If he was telling the truth, I still knew I couldn't destroy him before he was fully alive. And after he'd killed me, he would have killed Ginny anyway. So if he wasn't lying, then she'd be dead no matter what I did, but if he was… If he was, it was the only way to save her. So. I did it. Part of me still hoped that he was just being a Slytherin, but I did it." A choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, escaped. "And the Slytherin was telling the truth after all."

He tried to ignore the look of shock, the touch of disbelief and revulsion, in Professor McGonagall's eyes. He tried to ignore the outright horror and hint of betrayal in the Weasleys' eyes as well. Easier to block out, though disturbing in its own way, was the assessing speculation that broke through the carefully controlled neutrality Malfoy's gaze had contained so far. As if sensing his need to have something – anything – else to focus on, Fawkes flew to his lap. Harry carefully fixed his eyes and attention on petting the resplendent plumage, avoiding the rest of the room.

From beyond his bent head, he listened as Dumbledore spoke, "A grave story, Harry, and a tragic one, though through no fault of your own." Harry winced. "What I can't help but wonder, however, is how Miss Weasley acquired the diary in the first place. When we consider whose diary it was, I fear the answer may be of grave importance. I know you are grieving, Molly, Arthur, but I have to ask if you have any ideas."

The conversation continued haltingly and broken, as Mrs. Weasley tried to muffle tears at the thought that their laxed vigilance might have allowed harm to come to their daughter. Sensing the attention had shifted away from him, Harry raised his head slightly to observe the room.

He, too, wished to know how Ginny had gotten the diary.

Watching the others as the discussion continued, Dobby's strange behavior caught his eye. The house elf deliberately locked gazes with him, then slid his eyes to his master, then followed this by hitting himself hard on the head. Then kept repeating the entire cycle. Granted, Dobby had always been weird, but this was a further step into the bizarre. What on Earth is he-?

His eyes widened, remembering a seemingly harmless past action which suddenly acquired horrifying significance. He looked at Mr. Malfoy, then looked back at Dobby. The elf nodded vigorously, then hit himself again.

Anger curled through him, and in some ways it was a welcome relief. He stood abruptly, interrupting the discussion and Mr. Weasley's grief filled reply. "Mr. Malfoy knows where she got it, doesn't he?" He stared at the man. The grey eyes flickered briefly, and Harry knew he was right. Rage ticked higher in his blood. "You put the diary in Ginny's textbooks while we were buying school supplies at the beginning of the year." And then, softly, certainly, accusation as heavy as the weight of Hogwarts itself: "You killed her."

He was furious. The kind of fury he might have felt toward Riddle, if fear and horror and the need to act had not crushed all beneath it. The kind of fury he would have felt afterwards, if grief had left space for any other emotion. But now, now there was no one left to attack him, for they were dead. And there was no one left to save, for she was dead too. He'd slayed the Basilisk, who'd only been following a parselmouth's orders. He'd stabbed Riddle, and felt nothing but satisfaction for his death. But Mr. Malfoy had started this, was responsible for this, and right now he wanted nothing more than to see Malfoy bleed.

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