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He didn't know what to do. He could have stopped it, couldn't he have? If only Dumbledore hadn't–

No, don't blame the Headmaster. Dumbledore had done right. He'd protected Harry. The Death Eaters would have killed him if he hadn't be forced to remain still.

But, then...

Harry wondered if, one day, he'd be wise enough to not have to enquire about the 'what if's and the 'my fault's. He wondered if, once Voldemort was dead, he'd be able to go on without guilt. The way things were going – one person who was important to him lost per year – he'd better kill Voldemort soon, lest he lose them all.

Lest Hermione and Ron and Ginny all follow Dumbledore and Sirius and Cedric. Lest Hogwarts is taken over and the Ministry falls. Lest the Muggles are killed off and Harry is left alone in a world with him forever running from Voldemort through empty villages of once allies long dead.

Visions of the future were gloomy.

Harry remembered broken glasses and broken bones. He remembered a room of broken toys and mended pants. He remembered torn books and basilisk fangs.

And then the memories of broken necks and green lights flashed past his mind's eye.

And Harry knew that not all things could be repaired.