Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter, to any of the characters, nor to any of the wonderful creations of JK Rowling.
Heart, We Will Forget Him.
By Emily Dickinson.
Heart, we will forget him,
You and I, tonight!
You must forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.
When you have done pray tell me,
Then I, my thoughts, will dim.
Haste! Lest while you're lagging
I may remember him!
Chapter 1: The End of the War
Harry sat still and watched. Watched the chaos around him. He was sitting in the Great Hall of Hogwarts and the War was over. He had managed to find a space by the west-side wall and had his legs had almost collapsed as he pulled himself to the floor to sit. Everyone was running around in disorganised chaos, counting heads and embracing those they thought dead.
There were brothers and sisters and friends and relatives desperately calling out each other's names – with frantic hope that the one they searched for would find them and would be on two feet, whole-of-body. There were children, and adults, and those in-between, some who had tear streaked faces, bloodied and bruised and wearing the physical signs of a battle well fought.
Harry himself was a sorry sight, and if he had looked into a mirror at that moment he would barely have recognised himself. After the past year of travelling around the countryside, and only recently having been reintroduced to a razor, not to mention having just participated in one of the greatest battles the wizarding world had ever born witness to, Harry's appearance was very much worse for wear. His unruly hair was a wild mess, a streaky mixture of blood, grime and sweat clung to his face, his clothes, and every inch of his exposed skin.
He was a living collection of cuts, scrapes and bruises. His infamous lightening bolt scar on his forehead was reddened, inflamed and had obviously at some point of the battle burst open and started bleeding as it was now smeared with clotted blood. And it now had a sister scar on his chest, for had he cared to look underneath his ragged t-shirt was another lightening scar across his chest, much larger than the one on his forehead. Just above that was yet another scar to add to his collection – a very dark blackened circle marred his upper chest and was surrounded by angry welts around its circumference. Yes. Harry certainly looked as if he had been through a war.
But no it was over. Truly over. The wizarding war that had scarred the world, that had invaded and infested every aspect of happiness and had loomed over every witch and wizard for the past two decades, the effects of which could even be felt in the muggle world by the non-magical folk completely unawares of the cause of their despressing feelings, that war was over. Sure, there would be years and years of tidying up, of reconstructing the government, of resurrecting from the ashes the foundations for a new wizarding existence. There would be many years of ensuring those involved in the war reaped the consequences, of ensuring that the scaffolding that had enabled such a dark overlord to rule was never again allowed to occur. Death Eaters and their families would need to be found, trialled and punished. Funerals would be planned. Families reunited. Loved ones returned from their hiding spots. Muggle-borns and muggle relatives reintroduced to the magical world. Memory charms would need to be reversed.
But it was definitely over.
So why didn't he feel elation or something?
For Harry Potter it was as if he was watching the world through a bubble, or through one of those annoying smudged windows that Aunt Petunia had always insisted upon in the bathrooms – that he had cleaned a million times over and over and could never figure out why they needed to be cleaned if you couldn't see anything clearly through them anyway.
Aunt Petunia.
The Dursley's.
Someone needed to let the Dursley's know that they were safe. That they no longer had to put up with whatever measures had been taken to protect them. He smiled briefly then – there was no doubt in his mind that Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley were in their own version of hell, surrounded by magical protections whilst the war had been happening. He wasn't sure where they had been taken, he hadn't really cared. But he also had requested that they be protected by the Order, that the last living link to his mother be preserved.
He knew Ron thought he was nutters, asking for the Dursley's to have special protection. Ron had always been quite vocal in his feelings towards his relatives. Hermioned had too, in her way. She hadn't ever outrightly called the Dursley's 'sodding evil pig-faced warts' like Ron had, but the way she scrunched her nose in distaste when, on the rare occasion, he mentioned his aunt or uncle or cousin, or the way she politely enquired after his summer holidays how he was and then managed to manoeuvre the conversation away from his summer experiences to the upcoming year, was enough to let Harry know her thoughts on the matter too, and that she suspected at least a little of the torment he went through at the Dursleys. He couldn't really blame either of them for their feelings.
The Dursley's weren't exactly his cup of tea either, and certainly weren't the epitome of hospitality. He certainly wouldn't be volunteering them as the face of muggle-wizard relations anytime in the near future. And he was quite sure that they were going to be thrilled to say good riddance once and for all not only to their weird nephew's world, but to their weird nephew himself.
Harry sighed. Never mind them, he thought to himself. He'd deal with the Dursley problem some other time.
For now he just wanted to sleep.
He suddenly yawned, overcome with tiredness all of a sudden. He hadn't realised how tired he was! Suddenly his eyes seemed so heavy he could barely keep them over. He closed them – just resting them for a second he thought.
What he thought was a second at least. In reality it was probably much, much longer.
A tap on his shoulder.
He forced his eyes open and looked up into the worn and tired face of Professor McGonagall. She smiled down at him and motioned for him to follow. He stood up and barely registered his steps and he placed one foot in front of the other mechanically as she led him out of the Great Hall and through the dark, destruction-filled corridors of Hogwarts. The corridors were a mess. Broken glass, fallen walls lined the floor. Columns and shattered statues, paintings hung unevenly with their occupants hiding behind chairs, or straightening their possessions, or in some paintings simply hanging onto random objects that had been painted in attempting to stay in the frame. Many frames were simply devoid of inhabitants, their occupants most likely having fled to far areas of the school, or to their other portraits in some other place in the wizarding world.
There was a stench that lingered, it made Harry's stomach turn. It smelt of charred meat. Burnt flesh. Small fires could be seen where wayward spells had obviously hit flammable objects. Embers of burn items burnt slowly red. A smokey haze filled the air and added to the desolate atmosphere. For all that they should be celebrating the atmosphere reminded anyone who needed reminding that there were losses that had been suffered too.
McGonagall didn't utter a word, and her lips were drawn tight as she led him through the castle. She ushered him along the corridors and he followed her lead blindly. Whenever they reached a turning point he waited for her to nudge him along in a direction. He didn't even try to register which way they went, didn't register his surroundings, and didn't acknowledge the surprised looks, or smiles, or teary faces that looked at them as they passed.
Surprised, he found that they were at the portrait of the Fat Lady who, again wordlessly, opened.
Harry didn't ask questions. He was too tired to even be coherent in his thoughts. He was too tired to even acknowledge to the wizened witch that she had taken him to the only place he really wanted to be right now...near a bed. He climbed through the portrait hole, and without realising or knowing how he made it there he managed to make his way through the common room.
The common room itself looked just as Harry had remembered it. He hadn't been here for almost a year now, although it seemed so much longer. It seemed as if eons had passed since his carefree days where he had just been able to spend hours down by the fires playing chess with Ron, or pretending to study under Hermione's constant prodding. There were a few chessboards set up, Harry noticed, and even an unfinished game of Exploding Snap. There were a few books set out around the room, and it looked as if the last occupants of the room had abandoned their pursuits in haste.
Harry climbed over an upturned chair and headed up the staircase towards his dorm. He wondered if it was still his dorm. With his absence for the most recent school year would the dorm that previously had 'belonged' to Harry and his year-mates have been given to incoming students?
Harry opened the door. It appeared as if he could still claim his bed as his. There didn't appear to be anyone's claim to the two beds that Ron and he had previously used. In fact only two of the beds appeared to have any sign of life – if you could call it that. One had a poster of the Puddlemere United quiddich team by the bed, and another bed had a wilted and obviously neglected pot on the bedside table containing a plant that Harry could only hazard a guess at. Herbology really was never his thing. But whatever it was had obviously suffered as the purple bell-like flower drooped and its gold-tinted leaves seemed to have taken on a rusty sheen.
Harry made his way to 'his' bed, managed to pull back the sheets. They were the same red sheets that he remembered. Clean and red, with gold linings. The coverlet was soft, clean, inviting. He toyed with the idea of leaving his shoes on, but after a year of living in a tent thought the least he could do on his re-introduction to humanity was to remove them before hopping under the covers. He lay back, and was entirely unprepared for how quickly he gave into sleep. He didn't even have a chance to remove his glasses as his leaden eyes needed no help to close and he succumbed to a deep and blessedly dreamless sleep.
Ginny could feel a deep stabbing pain in her chest – she knew its cause was the suppressed sobs that threatened to escape.
She tried to focus, tried to put all her effort and energy into her breathing. Breathe in. One, two, three. Breathe out. One, two three.
How could this happen? She dared to glance down again and felt the racking heaving in her chest threaten to escape again. She bit down. Hard.
Down at her feet was her brother Fred. Despite the blood on his face and shirt he could have been asleep. His red hair was flattened against the floor. Someone had placed his arms crossed against his chest. Beside him George wept openly, with a deep cavernous despair that was evident to anyone that heard him. For that one brother this loss truly was like losing a part of him. Ginny couldn't even remember the last time the twins had been separated. Actually she doubted that they had ever been separated. And now, for George to lose his twin, well. Well. There were not words to describe the bond that had been lost.
Ginny couldn't even chance to speak, she suspected that if she were to open her mouth it would not be words that would come out.
Breathe in. One, two, three. Breathe out. One two three. In, two, three. Out, two three.
And her mother...her poor mother! Ginny was standing in the middle of the Great Hall, vaguely aware that around her people swarmed. But here, here in the centre the Weasley's had claimed this part of the hall as their own. Here they were in solitude. Her mother clung to her with one arm, clasping Ginny's sweat and blood-soaked t-shirt so tightly in her right hand that Ginny could see that her fingers had turned white from lack of circulation. Her father held her mother from the other side, and she suspected that without her father's support her mother would crumple in a pile beside her baby boy.
Molly Weasley had known from the outset of the war that the chances of her entire family's survival were slim. They were a large family – seven children! And not only that but they were right in the centre from the start. Not that she would have changed that at all, how could they have done anything but stand by Harry's side, how could they have continued to hold the Weasley name in pride had they done anything but give their best efforts to fight the dark. They were a family of the light, the Weasley's always had been, and the Weasley's would continue to be. So there was no doubt that they were at risk of losing one of their own.
But still, to lose her son!
Ginny buried her face in her mother's shoulder, trying to find some comfort amongst all this sadness. There was none to be found. Her brother. Dead. Remus and Tonks. Dead. Sirius. Dead. Dumbledore. Dead. And the list went on and on and on, she thought. How many had given their lives to this outcome?
Too many.
But still, it was over now wasn't it? The light had won.
No. Harry had won.
Harry.
Her breath caught in her throat as she frantically realised she didn't know where Harry was. He had been alive! He had lived again! He had died, or at least she had thought he had died, and then he had appeared again alive!
How was that possible?
Who cared how that was possible! He was alive!
But where? She glanced around the hall, still supporting her mother one on side. On the other Ron stood with Hermione clinging to him. Ron was looking down at George who was still weeping over his brother's still form. Ron's eyes looked vacant, as if he was seeing but wasn't really seeing. Ginny could tell that Ron wasn't really there at that moment. He had retreated inside himself. And she knew that the best thing for him at this moment was the brunette who clung to his side, moulding herself to him supporting him in his grief.
But where was Harry?
She looked around searching. Searching each face, each back, each body. He was alive. But where? She couldn't see him anywhere. Her innate ability to zero in on where Harry was, her seemingly instinctual Harry-Radar seemed to have deserted her at what was a most critical time. Where was he?
She detached herself from her mother and stumbled across the rumble-strewn floor. Chairs and overturned tables, smouldering piles of ashes and wood, across mounds of rubble Ginny climbed and weaved and pushed. Through other families clutching at their own losses, past friends embracing in relief, through couples simply holding on to each other in the midst of such turmoil. She couldn't see him anywhere. She couldn't sense him. And it frightened her all of a sudden.
Ginny had spent the past six years with Harry at the centre of her universe. Well, if she was honest with herself she had spent her entire life with Harry at the centre of her universe. But the past six years had certainly revolved around one scraggly messy-haired teen. And although she no longer harboured that stupid blushing-inducing, elbow-in-the-butterdish, frankly nauseating crush she had once had, she still had some part of her that always knew exactly where and what the young Mr Potter was doing.
Well, except for the past year when he was off traipsing about doing goodness-knows-what with his two best friends and she was here stuck at Hogwarts spending each day simply trying to survive the sadistic punishments of Death-Eater fiends and helping the other students push through relatively unharmed.
Except for that, the thought. Except for the past year. Maybe her senses had simply become dulled. She was just being stupid, she knew. But still, she let out a huge breathe of relief when she saw the back of an unruly black mop of hair on the head of a figure she would know anywhere. He was with McGonagall and was heading out the back of the hall.
She couldn't blame them really. Harry had just killed the most evil dark lord known to the world, and had ended a two-decade-long war. He was probably exhausted. No wonder he was making his way out the back.
She mentally slapped herself for her silliness in getting so worked up, and more importantly for deserting her family in this time of need. She looked back. They needed her. They needed Weasleys. That group of red-heads stood out like beacons in the middle of the calamity of the Great Hall.
But still.
She turned back to the doorway she had seen Harry leave through.
Harry was family too wasn't he?
Mind made up she followed where she had seen McGonagall and Harry leave, wove her way through the maze of hallways and stairways and broken statues. She suspected where they were going, because if McGonagall had any sense she would know what Harry needed. Sleep. Bed. Comfort. And McGonagall was one of the most sensible witches Ginny had ever met. Was one of the very few people that Ginny let herself trust.
In fact, in the past year McGonagall and Ginny had developed something akin to a friendship despite their difference in years. Where Ginny was young and feisty and temper-prone, McGonagall was cool-headed but with a temper to match when she wanted to. And Ginny had spent a fair amount of time in McGonagall's office this year, hiding from detentions with the Carrows. When she had been able to McGonagall had tried to switch the odd detention with the Carrows to one under her tutorage. And Ginny had loved those detentions.
Because when Ginny managed to find herself in McGonagall's office it was like an escape from a world where she sometimes felt more than a little overwhelmed. In the Gryffindor common room people looked to her and Neville for instruction, for support, for stability. She and Neville were supposedly the ones to turn to when someone was hurt, when someone was suffering the after-tremors of a cruciatus, when someone found out that their parents had died. It was Ginny and Neville that had replaced the void that had been left when Harry had not returned. They were somehow put on the recently-vacated pedestal. And Ginny didn't mind. Not really. She felt like she should be doing something, and caring and organising the students was something she was able to do.
She was more than happy to reignite the DA with Neville, be his co-leader in such times. She and Neville had recruited, and trained, and organised the students. Preparing them for the worst. Trying to equip them to the best of their knowledge with skills they may need. Making sure that their shield charms were up to scratch. That they knew to stick in groups. That everyone had a buddy system. That muggle-borns were paired with pure-bloods so there was less chance of random disappearances. That the lies the Carrows taught in muggle-studies and proven wrong, so that students were not swayed.
She and Neville. It had been one heck of a team. And they had done well she thought. During the battle there were moments when, in a lull of activity, she had been able to glance around and was truly proud of the students that she had helped guide. She had seen her 'students' shooting spells alongside full-grown wizards and aurors.
But even then sometimes she just wanted to feel her age, to be a girl. And McGonagall had allowed that. Countless evenings she had spent curled up on McGonagall's couch, sipping hot cocoa and sharing biscuits. What had started out at an escape from cruciatus-inflicted detentions had ended up being evenings that were truly enjoyable. Neither McGonagall nor Ginny had expected to develop such a friendship, but nevertheless both had welcomed it. McGonagall, Ginny suspected, was just as lonely. With Dumbledore gone and the Carrows and Snape infecting the school the teachers were all on their own too. And McGonagall had seemed to relish the chance to play a simple game of chess, or cards, or simply tell Ginny about her times in school or her adventures as a twenty-something witch making her way in the world.
And Ginny had leant heavily on McGonagall as a mother-type figure when her own mother was so out of reach for her during the school year. When communicating back home was impossible due to her close circumstances to Harry and the inevitable searching of her mail that would occur. Ginny had loved her times spent in the warmth of McGonagall's office.
And so Ginny knew her professor would guide Harry to comfort, to a place he was familiar with. She knew where they were headed. She reached the portrait hole of the Fat Lady who swung open to her without even needing to think of a possible password (it had been a while since she had been out of the Room of Requirement). She made her way up the boys staircase and peered into the room where she knew Harry would be.
He was there, like she had expected. She sat next to the bed for a while then. Fully aware of how creepy it is to have someone watch you when you sleep, but also unable to draw her eyes away from his face. A face she hadn't seen for a year now. She took in every feature, every line, every scratch. She felt drunk on the sight of him.
God damn it. She hated that she felt like this sometimes! Hated it and loved it. Abhorred it in her weakness and treasured it.
She tentatively reached out her hands and drew off his glasses. Folded them, placed them on his bedside. She drew back his hair to reveal the scar that emblazoned his forehead. That stupid scar. So many people had used it as an excuse, an excuse to place the weight of the world on a young boys shoulders. Who knew if it was fair? All she knew was that so many people saw only the scar, they refused to see the boy, the man. She sighed then, put her own head in her hands. She, too, was tired. So tired.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that this had happened to him. To them. It wasn't fair that anyone had died. That Fred was gone. That George no longer had the other half of his soul. That Teddy, little Teddy would never know his parents. And it wasn't fair that so much had been left to such a young man who had never had the chance to have a childhood.
The sobs came then, from deep within her. The racking sobs that heaved her chest and clogged her throat and blinded her. She collapsed in half on herself. Her chest heaved with effort for what seemed like eternity. Tears pooled in her lap. Never ending gasps for air. Uncontrollable. She felt out of control.
And then it stopped. As suddenly as it had started. She sat curled in the chair by Harry's bedside, head in her hands, hair messed and tangled falling around her. Her breathing slowed again. The huge block she had been feeling in her throat, the deep pain in her chest, they had now passed. All that was left was an aching exhaustion. She was so tired, so gut-wrenchingly tired she felt like a chasm was inside her. No. She felt like she was a chasm.
She glanced over at Harry. Still soundly sleeping, dead to the world. She made her way around the other side of the bed and curled up against him. She didn't care what he would think when he woke. She didn't care what anyone would think if they saw here curled against him.
Right then all she wanted was an anchor in this world, all she wanted was to be able to know he was there. That all was going to be okay again. That all this turmoil, this disaster, everything that was wrong and distorted and abhorrent and mutated, it would all finish now. Now they could start again. Now they could rest and then, once rested, they could rebuild. Rebuild what once was, but better. Reconstruct from the foundations a better world, a safer world, a more tolerant world. It would be okay now. Harry was safe. Her family, well...she buried her face into Harry's back and tried to force the tears back again. She closed her eyes, willing them to go away.
Before she knew it she, too, succumbed to the sheer exhaustion. She fell into the deep sleep of someone who had seen a lifetime of tragedies in a very short space of time and lived to tell the tale.