Disclaimer: Harry Potter isn't mine; this story is.

A/N: I don't know what possessed me to go Harry-centric as opposed to Weasley-centric, but they will have a large role in this story as you will see from the first chapter. This one is set at the end of Goblet. Subsequent chapters will take us through the next three books.

It's my fault it's my fault it's my fault.

Harry doesn't know if he'll ever get those words out of his mind. They are like an echo. He hears them with every step he takes, and whenever anyone else starts talking to him, their words sound like buzzing in his ears, drowned out by the endless echo.

He needs to get away from all of these people, but whenever he turns around, Ron or Hermione – or both of them – are there. They don't understand. He doesn't deserve their company, their friendship. It is all his fault – his fault Cedric died, his fault that the school is sunk into this gloom, his fault that Cho, apparently, hasn't stopped crying… he shakes his head. He can't think about that, not now with his friends trailing him once again as they walk in the direction of Hagrid's hut.

"What time does it start?" he hears Ron ask Hermione, and he tries not to listen to her answer, tries not to think about where they have to go this afternoon.

Have to go… why did he have to go? If anyone shouldn't be at Cedric's memorial service, it's him. No one wants him there, after all. If he hadn't insisted that Cedric grab that cup with him, he would be here right now, and there wouldn't have to be a memorial service at all.

"You two go on," he suddenly says, turning around. Ignoring the looks of surprise on their faces, he adds shortly, "I'm skipping the service. I'll – I'll see you back at the castle."

Before either of them can argue with him, can try to insist that he has to be there (Ron), that he has to get this kind of closure (Hermione), he beats a hasty retreat. He doesn't even care where he goes as long as he goes by himself.

He doesn't turn back. He just keeps going, ignoring their cries for him to stop, to wait, to listen. He can't do any of it anymore. He can't stop, wait, or listen to anyone. He just needs to be by himself, and he can't understand why they even want him around anyway. Not when everything is all his fault.

He finds himself alone on the bank of the lake, and he walks along slowly, finally starting to relax a little. It isn't that he doesn't appreciate his friends or their attention. He knows they are only hovering because they care, but they can't possibly understand how he feels just now. No one can.

He walks until he finds a large tree that provides some measure of shade, and he sits down, his back against the trunk, and closes his eyes. Deep breathing will help, he thinks, and he sighs. Something has to help.

His eyes are still closed when, moments later, a shadow crosses his eyelids and blocks the sun. He clenches his jaw. He can't yell at them. They're here because they care they're here because they care they're here because they care. Finally, he feels calm enough to open his eyes – and his mouth falls open.

Molly Weasley is standing before him, her eyes worried and sympathetic. And he suddenly realizes that she is the person to fear. Neither Ron nor Hermione has the same effect on him that this woman does. He remembers when she hugged him in the hospital wing, and he swallows hard, trying to force a smile. Maybe he can fool her now. Last time, after all, he'd been tired, and everything had been so fresh. He knows deep down that he is stronger than that.

"Hello, dear," she says softly. She gestures to the ground beside him and asks, "would you mind?"

Startled, Harry shakes his head. He hasn't expected her to want to sit there, but here she is, clambering to the ground beside him much more nimbly than he would have given her credit for.

They are silent for a moment, and then she says quietly, "Harry, your friends are worried about you. They really want you to go to the Memorial Service."

Harry takes a deep breath. None of this is Mrs. Weasley's fault. She is simply the messenger, and he knows it.

"I can't go," he says simply. He doesn't look at her, but he can tell from the corner of his eye that she is looking at him. He stares straight ahead.

"Why not?" she asks gently. He stiffens. He doesn't know why he hadn't expected that question. Well, he does know. No one else has asked.

"Because I shouldn't be at Ced – at his memorial." He can't say his name. He hasn't done it yet, and he doesn't know what will happen to him if he does.

He continues to stare straight ahead as he lets out a shaky breath.

Molly's heart hurts. Harry, as much as he might not realize it, has become almost as dear to her as her own children, and she finally recognizes the extent of his pain. She knows that this is the time when she will have to be strong for him. He needs this. He also needs to say all of it even as much as he seems to be resisting.

"Why don't you think you should be there?" she asks. She is careful not to look at him. She knows he needs at least the pretense of privacy even as they sit side by side.

He sighs again. "If it weren't for me, there wouldn't be a memorial," he says in a low voice. His throat aches with unshed tears, but he swallows hard. He can't do this now. He is stronger than this, and besides – he doesn't deserve anyone's sympathy, least of all someone like Molly Weasley.

Molly feels as if her heart will break. "Harry," she says softly, unable to stop herself any longer from turning in his direction. "Harry, why on earth would you say something like that? This is not your fault."

He feels her eyes on him, and he forces himself to look up at last. He can't say a word. He just looks at her, and his eyes fill against his very best efforts to blink away the tears.

"If I hadn't told him to take the cup with me, he'd be here right now," he rasps. He swallows painfully but even as Molly shakes her head, he insists. "He told me to take it, and I wouldn't do it without him."

"Harry," Molly interrupts. "Did you know the cup was a portkey when you got to it?"

Harry shakes his head and starts to speak, but she holds up a hand to stop him. "Did you know You-Know-Who was on the other end?"

He shakes his head again, frustrated. He knows all of this. But – but it doesn't change the fact that he is the one who insisted they share the prize and now Cedric is – well, he's dead.

"It doesn't matter!" he bursts out, and his voice is shaking terribly. He tries to take another deep breath but it catches in his throat. "He – he's gone, and it's because I made him do that."

"Would you have told him to do this if you'd known it was dangerous? No," Molly says before Harry can answer. "You wanted to share the glory. If you'd known this was going to happen, you wouldn't have even taken it yourself. You didn't lead him into any kind of danger, Harry. You are the only one who thinks you did, and it's not like there are any details you're not telling that should make you think any differently from the rest of us. I know you feel responsible, sweetheart, but you have to understand that this is NOT your fault. Terrible things happen to good people when You-Know-Who is involved. You – you, of all people, know that."

Harry looks down at the grass, but he nods almost imperceptibly. Logically, maybe she is right, but it still doesn't change the fact that Cedric is gone, nor does it change the image that is still frozen in Harry's mind, the image of Cedric falling to Voldemort's curse.

"I know," he whispers. "But – but I can still see it."

Molly inhales sharply. She shifts closer to Harry and says quietly, "You're talking about what happened that night?"

He nods again. He can't look up. Then she'll see. He can't let her see. But he underestimates the power of a mother.

Molly recognizes the moment when he loses control even though he doesn't know that, and he is still staring at the ground when she can't hold herself back any longer. He needs her now even if he doesn't know that either, and she moves over to him, gently putting an arm around his shoulders.

All it takes is her touch. That's always all it takes, but it usually happens with the redheaded boys who populate the Burrow. This time, the dark haired boy hardly knows what's happening as he finds himself turning to bury his face in her shoulder, his arms encircling her as the tears come hot and fast. He tries to take deep breaths, but they aren't working anymore, and he finds himself sobbing in a way he can't ever remember doing before. Molly's soothing noises eventually work, but it is many minutes later when Harry is finally able to let go, to wipe his eyes with the palms of his hands, and to look completely ashamed.

Molly shakes her head, her eyes pained. "It's ok, Harry. This will be between the two of us. I won't tell Ron."

Now he seems to relax while also looking somewhat apologetic.

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley. For – for everything."

She tries to smile at him, but it is hard. "I'm always here if you need me, dear. I hope you know that?"

Harry nods. It's clear that he is still miserable, but the sharpness of his anguish seems to have dulled, and Molly finds herself saying, "Are you – are you going to go back now? There's still the Memorial…"

Harry looks at her for a moment and then nods. He pushes himself to his feet and then reaches down to help her to hers.

They are walking silently back to the castle when he mumbles, "I'll go, but I want to stay in the back."

Molly nods understandingly. "That's fair," she says quietly.

They are almost back when he asks, haltingly, "Will you – will you stay with me? I'll understand if you want to sit with Ron," he adds quickly.

She stops walking, and he does too, turning to her in surprise.

"Harry, I think Ron and Hermione will want to sit with us too," she says, and he flushes. He hasn't even thought of that, but after a moment's consideration, he nods.

"Ok," he says slowly.

And it is.