"Le vent se lève! ...Il faut tenter de vivre!"
("The wind is rising! ...We must try to live!")
- Quote from Paul Valéry's poem "Le Cimetière marin"
Disclaimer: I do not own the quote and as always, this wonderful world belongs to Jo Rowling.
"Wotcher, Harry!"
The raven hairs on the back of Harry Potter's neck stand straight up and he turns around. No one is there. He shakes his head.
Hearing voices never meant well.
After the healer's gone, Harry rolls up his sleeves and goes to pull out his wand, and Ron Weasley says, "Mate." He says, "Don't even think about it. They're all coming."
Harry glances around him, avoiding the pierce in Ron's gaze. He sees the nondescript white sheets. The table bombarded with cards of heartfelt wishes. The flowers and candy, smudged with tears and concern. Reminders that he is never alone, even if he is so convinced of the contrary. "I think I'm going to be sick," he says, finally looking at Ron.
Ron pales and bites his tongue.
Harry squeezes the metal of the bed he is sitting up on in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and doubles over his lap. The action causes the bed to lurch a bit and knocks into the table. The table of flowers and candy. A vase right next to him wobbles and falls, and he doesn't move to catch it.
Ron does, his reflexes outmatching Harry's for once. "What's with you?" he asks. "You're dead clumsy."
Before Harry has a chance to reply, a group of people walk in, loud and anxious. Red hair and freckles. Familiar looks of relief. Too sweet greetings.
"Harry!" Mrs. Molly Weasley cries in relief, throwing her arms around him. "Thank goodness you're all right! We've been so worried."
Harry isn't surprised. They were always so worried. The frowns. The furrowing of their brows. All red with freckles, and Harry knew this from the start. He squeezes Mrs. Weasley back. "I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley," he tells her. "I'm fine." As he pulls away, a loose string in the collar of his robes catches on her gold, fine necklace and he watches in dull horror as it snaps in half. For a fleeting moment, he wishes he snapped in half.
Ron catches the broken necklace, and watches Harry stumble backwards onto the bed. "Seriously, mate, what is with you?"
"It's all right, Ronald," Mrs. Weasley says, getting over her initial gasp of surprise. She takes the necklace from her youngest son's hand. She turns to Harry and sees his look of guilt. Always with the guilt. "Nothing I can't fix, dear," she assures him.
George Weasley squeezes by and glances behind him. His father and oldest brother, Bill Weasley, are standing. Watching. Waiting. He looks at Harry, who is still grasping the edges of his bed, and swallows a smart remark. "What happened?"
Harry shakes his head. "Not sure. Ron and I were on an assignment, and I got hit with a curse."
"That's never happened before," says George uneasily.
"No kidding," Ron interjects roughly. His jaw is clenching and he's staring at Harry. His bright eyes are blue like ice. "It's like he's lost control of all his limbs! I've never seen him act so thoughtless!"
"Was it the curse?" inquires Mr. Arthur Weasley, from way behind. Lines surround his face. The receding hairline. The bags behind his glasses. He stands tall and lanky, like his sons Bill and Ron.
Ron shakes his head no. "I reckon it's why he was hit. His movements and speech have been bloody awkward all day. I'm sure he can't even catch a Snitch!"
Harry thinks this is an exaggeration and opens his mouth to speak, not liking the deepened frowns on everyone's faces. Especially George's. "Don't worry about it, Fred," he says, and shuts his eyes close at his words. George stills, and the rest exchange glances.
"Harry!" Ron says angrily. He grabs one of Harry's shoulders and shakes it. He thinks he can snap his best friend out of it. The thoughtless actions. The reckless words. The lack of reflexes. Harry's cringing causes the red of his ears to cool, and he looks back at his family. "See what I mean?"
At that moment, Percy Weasley and Charlie Weasley walk in, their builds much like George's. Somewhat short and stocky. Harry's eyes shoot open. More red hair and freckles. His heart twinges violently when he sees no one else trailing behind. Not a scent of something flowery. No blazing looks. Harry's face doesn't look disappointed, and no one suspects a thing. "Sorry," he mutters.
Everyone turns their heads towards the sound of running footsteps, and Hermione Granger appears. She gasps at the sight of Harry, her face stricken with alarm. She takes in his black hair. Sweaty and unkempt. Her eyes dart to the thin lightening bolt scar on his forehead. The round glasses.
Harry catches her wide, brown eyes. He sees her struggling to run up to him. He knows of the hug she's holding back. He shakes his head slightly, imploring her to resist. Bushy brown hair and matching dark eyebrows, quivering to meet him. He was with her nearly eleven hours ago in the morning, when he woke up with bright pink hair. His vivid green eyes linger at the space behind her as Ron goes to grab her hand, and he knows no one else is coming.
He shouldn't expect it. He hasn't seen her in over two years.
His head is pounding.
His chest too, and he can't control the ache.
Harry tries to say something else, and he imagines his tongue is the only muscle working harder than his heart. "I know you're George," he says to George, who has not moved an inch. "Dunno why I said that," he says honestly. He looks at Ron and nods. "Ron's right. I'm a clumsy wreck."