Harry closes his eyes and attempts to force his brain to sleep. He tosses and turns for what feels like hours, yet when he checks, turns out to be less than ten minutes. Sighing, he stares up at the ceiling, although he cannot see much of it in the darkness. He should sleep, tomorrow will be a busy day, but he is too keyed up. Too many things could go wrong, and his brain insists on going over each and every one of them.

The Polyjuice could fail. Hermione might not be able to handle Bellatrix’s wand. Someone in Diagon Alley might spot Harry and raise the alarm. Griphook might raise the alarm, just so he can steal the sword from them. Someone who knows Bellatrix – a Death Eater – might come across them and realise that something isn’t right. They might not get past the goblins at the counters. Something might happen to them on the way down to the Lestrange vault. Something may happen to them in the Lestrange’s vault. The Horcrux may not be there, either because it never was, or because someone removed it. Even if they succeed that far, they may not get out of Gringotts again.

Or not alive, at any rate.

Harry has to wonder why on earth he came up with such a crack-brained scheme . . . or why everyone agreed to go along with it. Don’t they realise their chances of succeeding at this are miniscule – and that only if they are extremely lucky and are granted a miracle.

No, he tries to convince himself. The plan will work. It has to work!

Has Hermione studied Bellatrix enough? Sure, the woman tortured Hermione, but it’s not as if they’re planning to go in and torture the goblins. Can Hermione pull off the crazed carelessness well enough to fool the goblins? Of course, she doesn’t have to hold the pretence for long, just for a few seconds until Harry is able to put the goblin under the Imperius curse.

And that brings its own problems. Harry has never cast the Imperius before – how do they know that he’ll succeed? Can he even manage to cast it properly on a goblin? Understandably, Griphook didn’t want Harry to test it on him, so if Harry’s spell is likely to fail on the day, they will have no warning, and no back-up plan prepared.

But they won’t need a back-up plan, he argues with himself. He’ll put the goblin under the Imperius, and they will be shown down to Bellatrix’s vault. And then they’ll just have to get past the dragon.

Harry snorts quietly. Just have to get past a dragon. Griphook assured them that the dragon is secured, and he knows exactly how to get past it without injury. At least it won’t be a free-range nesting mother, such as he faced during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament three years ago. They won’t have to rely on his broom to outfly the thing.

Not that they could even if they wanted to. Harry’s beloved Firebolt was left behind at Grimmauld Place months ago, when they had to flee. With the Death Eaters gaining access, no doubt it ended up as kindling.

Ron gives a snorting snore, and Harry restlessly rolls over to peer at his friend through the dark. How can Ron sleep at a time like this? Isn’t he the least bit nervous about the part he’ll have to play? Unlike Harry, he will be visible, on show.

Wonderful – now Harry has a new worry. What if they run into someone who suspects that Ron isn’t who he says he is. Ron is supposed to be a foreign wizard, come to check out Voldemort’s way of doing things. What if they bump into a real wizard from whatever country they pick, and they expect Ron to know the language?

Harry feels his heart starting to beat faster. This plan seems to become infinitely more complicated with every person added to it. Perhaps it should just be himself and Griphook who go down to the vault . . . except he needs Hermione to pass as Bellatrix, since her wand won’t work for Harry.

Maybe that traitor Snape was actually right when he kept harping on about Harry’s reckless disregard for putting his closest friends in danger. Harry hates to admit he even thought that, but it does seem that knowing him constantly puts his friends in danger. Because of him, they are on the run – have been for months. Because of him, Hermione’s parents don’t remember they even have a daughter. Because of him, Ron’s older brother has lost his ear. Because of his angry dismissal of what Ron had said about Voldemort’s name being Taboo, Hermione was tortured.

And then there’s the people who have been killed because of him – Dobby, Cedric, Sirius . . . his parents. And he can’t forget Quirrell, who he personally killed, even if he didn’t actually mean to.

Harry’s breath is starting to come faster. No, no, nothing like that will happen this time. They will get through Diagon Alley, they will get into the bank and down into the vaults with no major problems whatsoever. If wishful thinking can make something happen, then Harry will wish it with all his might. They will succeed in getting the Horcrux. They will make it out and destroy it. They will – they must.

Voldemort has likely forgotten about this particular Horcrux – after all, Gringotts is supposed to be the most secure place to hold something in the world. Except . . . Voldemort himself, through Quirrell, proved that isn’t true. The only reason he came away empty-handed on that occasion was because Dumbledore had ordered Hagrid to collect the Stone earlier that day.

But surely, Harry tries to convince himself, the goblins would have added extra protection after that attempt. Precautions that Griphook knows well but Voldemort will know nothing about. It will not be a trap, because Voldemort is not aware they are chasing Horcruxes, apparently does not feel when one is destroyed. He will not be more careful of the remaining ones, because he does not know that half of them are gone.

Attempting to slow his breathing, Harry forces himself to go over the plan yet again, step by step, and think of ways to help if something goes wrong.

And yet they haven’t even left Shell Cottage in his mind before he finds half a dozen ways their plan could fail miserably. And it wouldn’t just be him and Ron and Hermione, and Griphook, of course, in danger, but Bill and Fleur, too.

Harry’s breath speeds up again, and he rolls over, burying his face in his pillow to hide the sound of his gasps from Ron. His heart is pounding as though he has run for miles, and adrenaline is causing his body to shake with chills. His stomach churns with anxiety. This is ridiculous, he tells himself, he is worrying over nothing, everything will be fine . . .

But what if it isn’t?

His imagination insists on seeing them felled as soon as they set foot in Diagon Alley, a horde of goblins descending on them as soon as they enter Gringotts, being tipped out of the cart at the top of the track leading to the underground vaults, being unable to distract the dragon sufficiently and being burnt to a crisp, getting locked in the Lestrange vault and suffocating . . .

No! Harry thumps his mattress with a fist, deliberately throwing those images out of his mind. He will not think of that, or that, or that . . .

But the images creep back, worse than ever, until Harry is shaking, burying his head under his pillow and gasping for air, his heart going like a jackhammer. All he can see is himself captured, Ron injured, Hermione dead . . . or, even worse, prisoners of Voldemort, paraded so the entire wizarding world can see just how useless their hopes are, how stupid they must all be to pin their hopes on a child and expect him to triumph.

He will triumph! He must! Dumbledore believed in him, so Harry will do his best to live up to that belief. No matter that apparently Dumbledore – one of the most powerful wizards in the world – couldn’t beat Voldemort; he wasn’t meant to.

Of course, Snape easily beat Dumbledore, and Harry proved unable to even finish a spell against him . . . but Dumbledore was dying already, Harry can admit to himself. And Snape had not even tried to teach him Occlumency, so no doubt he could read every single thought Harry was having.

That’s the only reason he couldn’t even beat Snape . . . not the fact that he is twenty years younger than the traitor, with that much less knowledge and experience . . . not the fact that he is weaker than Snape, and so completely not a threat to Voldemort.

Harry emerges from under his pillow, and rolls onto his back, trying to keep his desperate gulps quiet. His chest aches now, as though a belt is wrapped around him and being pulled ever tighter. Starting to panic, Harry pushes himself upright to sit on the edge of his bed, his head hanging almost between his knees as his lungs spasm.

His heart is now beating hard enough that it hurts his ribs, and the pain is spreading up into his left shoulder. Tiny sparks of light are dancing their way up and down at the edge of his vision. They look almost like fireflies, although Harry knows they are not, as they are still there even when he closes his eyes.

The room suddenly feels too large, as though Harry is nothing more than an insignificant speck of dust, free floating through nothingness. He suddenly longs for the safety of his cupboard – the one he’d left when he was twelve. To have boundaries, and know what they are. To not have anyone counting on him. To not hold the responsibility that he is in no way ready for, no matter what anyone else believed.

To not be expected to kill.

His chest burns, and Harry is quite surprised that his struggle to breathe has not disturbed Ron yet. Is it just that his gasps are not as loud as they sound to Harry’s own ears, or is Ron leaving him to sort himself out because he knows that whatever happens tomorrow – or today, by now – will be all Harry’s fault.

No, surely Ron wouldn’t think that. Yes, he left them. Yes, he let the Horcrux and the lack of food and plans get to him, and he ran away. But he came back. He’d wanted to come back almost immediately. He is with them now, with them to the bitter end, whatever end it may be.

Strangely, this thought actually helps. Harry does not have to do everything alone. He does have help. Ron and Hermione will stand with him, and whatever may go wrong, they know that it will not be his fault. They choose to stand against Voldemort. They choose to be Harry’s friend.

Harry can feel his chest muscles loosening as he thinks about this. Ron is a brilliant strategist. Hermione is one of the – if not the – brightest witch of their age. And Harry . . . well, Harry seems to work best by instinct and under pressure. Combine the three, as they did way back in their first year going after Quirrell and the Stone, and they will – one way or another – win through and emerge triumphant.

Finally, Harry’s heart rate is slowing down again. He is not wheezing for air like a sick old man. In fact, he is rather calm now, and completely sure that today will go well. One way or the other, they will succeed in obtaining the Horcrux from Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault, and they will deny Voldemort yet another part of himself.

Nodding to himself, Harry lies back down, closes his eyes and readies himself to drift off into sleep.