i.
The first thing Ginny notices in the morning is the quiet.
All her life, all around her, she's been used to noise. Not the kind of noise that kept her awake back in Grimmauld Place in London, with the cars and the people and the crowds: those are city noises, as her mother puts in, and she isn't used to that.
What she's used to is the constant hum of people and magic. The Burrow is never fully quiet: even in the early morning, you can hear the chickens outside, and the sound of the dishes being washed in the sink, and the knitting needles in her mum's rocking chair by the fireplace. And then there's the matter of her brothers: they're always shouting at each other from across the house – which she is all too happy to join in with – things like have you seen my maroon socks and which of you hid my Prefect badge, it isn't funny and hey, Percy, maybe your badge is hidden up your – sorry Mum! and the ghoul wailing in the attic and…
And Fred and George's rooms, constantly emitting bangs and whirring noises. There's always been the sound of people around her, of life being lived, of family.
Which is why, when Ginny wakes up and walks downstairs on the morning of the fourteenth day after the Battle, the fourteenth day back home, the first thing she notices is the quiet. The dishes are piled up in the sink, stationery. There's no knitting on the rocking chair. Even the chickens are quiet. Fred and George's room – George's room, she corrects herself. George's room is surrounded with a thick shroud of silence.
Her mother isn't any better. She's been up in her bedroom for the last week or so, ever since Fred's funeral. Ginny hasn't much felt up to conversation with anyone, either, so she understands the feeling. Everything has felt off, and the quiet only adds to it. She wants to scream, to break something, to do something to shatter the silence and make herself feel whole, normal again, but she knows that won't help. She already tried it, the day of Fred's funeral.
The day of Fred's funeral was bright and sunny, as if to taunt Ginny. She sat next to Harry in the second row, screwing her face up against tears as she listened to an old wizard she remembered from Dumbledore's funeral and Bill's wedding talk about bravery and valour and true Gryffindor spirit. It didn't feel real: if it wasn't for the warmth Harry's hand holding hers, she wouldn't have even believed that this was happening. It reminded her of the summer after her first year, when she would have the same nightmare every single night: her family members dead in the Chamber, her holding the wand that murdered them, Tom Riddle's laughing face, and the deep-rooted knowledge that it had been her who killed them.
This felt like that. She knew it wasn't her fault that Fred was dead. It wasn't fair, though. He was her older brother, and now she would have to live to be older than he ever got to be. He didn't belong there, in the casket, surrounded by a grieving atmosphere he would have hated. He belonged in the sunshine, in the real world, telling her jokes and taking the piss about her and Harry, and mocking Ron.
The wizard finished speaking and waved his wand. Slowly, the grave was covered, and the words were engraved onto the tombstone under his murmured instructions. Here lies Fred Weasley.
It was the greatest effort of her life, keeping composed through the funeral. Later on, she would think about it, and would have no recollection of what happened. She was sure her dad spoke, at some point, and so did George, and maybe Percy, but she had no idea what any of them had said. Later on, once they were back home, she realised she had no memory of how they'd gotten there. Her mother squeezed her shoulders and let go, going to the kitchen, and that's when Ginny seemed to snap back to reality. She was crying, she realised, and didn't know for how long she had been, but that explained why her mother had been holding her. She could taste the tears, salty and burning on her cheeks, and the dull ache behind her eyes told her she had been crying for quite a while. Maybe she'd never stop.
She stormed her way up to her room and slammed the door shut behind her, shaking with sobs. "Fuck!" She shouted, and seized the books on her desk, throwing them to the floor as hard as she could. Her perfume bottle was next—it had been a birthday gift from Fred when she was thirteen years old, and she loved the flowery scent so much she had bought it every year since. She took vindictive pleasure in that, in throwing that to the ground and watching it shatter.
Five minutes later, when the door opened and her dad walked in, the room was absolutely destroyed, and Ginny was curled up in the corner of her bed, clutching her pillow like it was the only thing in the world left to anchor her. Her dad sat down on the edge of the bed, resolutely looking away.
Arthur waved his wand and the books returned to the desk, the bottle reassembled, and the room began to tidy itself. Another wave, and he produced a soft face cloth, which he handed to her. "Here," he said, and his voice was gentler than Ginny had ever heard it. "Wipe your face, love."
She sat up slowly, rubbing at her face angrily. She was grateful her father didn't look at her. She couldn't bear it when others saw her cry, especially her family, who already had a tendency to think her weaker than she was.
"Breaking things won't help," Arthur said. He still sounded gentle, but also tired. "I've tried that before. It never has helped. But then again, I've never had to bury my own son…" His voice broke.
Ginny moved without thinking, until she was sitting on the edge of the bed next to her dad. He wrapped his arm around her, she leaned his head on his shoulders, and they both didn't talk for a few minutes. She had never seen her dad cry before.
"How's George doing?" she asked, finally. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, distant and odd.
"Much as the rest of us are, I expect," Arthur said. "Ron and Bill are with him. It will take him a while. It will take all of us a while, but we'll be okay."
"How do you know?" Ginny asked. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel like anything would be okay every again.
Arthur looked at her then. "Because," he said, "we have no other choice."
She thinks about that conversation now. Her father's right: they don't have a choice but to move on with their lives, try to create a life in a world where Fred Weasley isn't there anymore.
She doesn't know how.
She doesn't think anyone does. They're trying. George has spent the last two nights at Shell Cottage with Bill and Fleur. Ginny wonders if that's easier for him, with only one brother and sister-in-law fussing around him instead of everyone here. Ron's been busy with Hermione. She doesn't know if anyone else noticed, but they're planning something. It's almost déjà vu in a way, seeing the both of them with their heads together, planning in whispers as far away from subtle as possible. Arthur's thrown himself into work, as has Percy. Charlie left back for Romania last night. And Harry…
He's seemed off, as off as she feels. He hasn't been part of Ron and Hermione's planning sessions; Ginny doubts he even notices them. He's been staying close to Ginny, mostly. They still haven't talked, after the Battle, but his presence makes her feel better, and she suspects it's the same for him, too. She hasn't had the energy to initiate a conversation with him about their relationship. She's barely had the energy for anything.
She can't handle it anymore. It's quiet and it doesn't feel like home anymore, and she feels as if there's something crawling under her skin all the time. She's still in her pyjamas and slippers, but she doesn't think twice when she walks straight out of the house.
The broom shed looks the same as it always does. Ginny hesitates when she sees the collection of brooms. She chooses an old Cleansweep, and retrieves it, and then she's in the air, and doesn't have to think about anything except the wind in her hair and the cold morning air whipping at her exposed face.
She doesn't know how long she's been flying, but the sun's high in the sky when she finally touches back down, and her stomach is acidic from hunger. Squinting against the sun, she dismounts from her broom and turns towards the shed when she realises she isn't alone.
Sitting under a tree in the orchard is none other than Harry himself. He meets her eyes and offers her a sheepish wave. Slowly, she walks over to him. His hair is rumpled and even messier than usual. "Hi," she says.
"Brought you breakfast," Harry says. It's only then that Ginny sees the little basket next to him.
"I didn't know Mum was up and about yet," she says. She feels a small jolt of hope in her chest at the idea that her mum may be up and about, bustling around the noise.
"Oh, er…" Harry shifts a little, and runs his hand through his hair. "She didn't—I mean, I made it. I thought maybe you'd be hungry. I saw you flying and…" he trails off, clearly self-conscious.
Ginny thinks of Harry, seeing her from the kitchen window and deciding to bring breakfast out to her, even packing it up nearly as neatly as her mum usually does, and feels oddly close to tears.
"I am hungry," she finally says. She sits down next to him and sets the broom down. She realises, with a jolt, that the broom she chose is Fred's old one. She turns to look at the basket, so she won't have to dwell on that anymore. Harry's brought her what looks like a selection of sandwiches, and even a little cup of tea charmed to stay warm. Her hands are numb, and she reaches for the tea gratefully. "Thank you," she says, very softly.
Harry hesitates for a moment, and then seems to reach some sort of inner conclusion. He takes out a sandwich for himself and takes a bite from it. "I forgot how well you flew," he told her. His voice sounds oddly thick, too. "If—if things had been different, I reckon you would've been Quidditch Captain last year."
For the first time in days, possibly weeks, Ginny smiles. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Harry says, decisive.
"Thank you," she says again. Harry seems to be making an effort, and she wants to, too. "They cancelled Quidditch last year," she tells him. She's done her best not to talk about the last year, about how awful Hogwarts was, but it's different with Harry. "They claimed it was for safety, but I think it was so that the Dementors could have free reign. They took over the Quidditch pitch…" She shudders as she thinks about the sight of her favourite place at school overtaken by… those things.
Harry doesn't say anything, but the hand that isn't holding the sandwich clenches up into a tight fist.
"It didn't feel like Hogwarts," Ginny continues. "Nothing felt the same. And I'd think of you, all the time. You, and Ron and Hermione, and what you three could be doing, on the run from the Death Eaters and Ministry and Merlin knows who else…"
"I'd think of you, too," Harry says. He's fiddling with his sandwich more than eating it. "I… I used to watch your dot. On the Marauder's Map. All the time. And when I… when I was in the Forest, with Riddle that last time… you were the last thing I thought of. Before the Killing Curse hit me."
Ginny looks up at Harry. His eyes are suspiciously bright. "So… you really did die, then?" she whispers. She feels like her heart is in her throat.
"I think so," Harry admits. Ginny knows he hasn't said this to anyone. "But I came back."
Ginny takes a moment to process this. She knows there are so many follow-up questions, not least of which is the matter of Harry's actual death, but all she can focus on is his green eyes, staring intently at her in the quiet way Harry has that's always managed to get to her.
"I've missed you," Harry continues. He seems determined to do this, to say everything he's come out here to say. "And I know it's a lot to ask of you, and the timing is terrible, but—"
Ginny interrupts him. "Do you remember what I said, on your birthday?" she asks him quietly. When he furrows his eyebrows in confusion, she puts down her cup of tea and reaches out to take his hand. "Did you meet any Veela when you were gone?" she whispers.
"Definitely not," Harry says. He gives Ginny's hand a little squeeze.
She leans in and kisses him then, without really needing to think about it. He feels the same as he always has and kissing him is a warm burst of familiarity in a world that no longer feels the same.
"I've missed you, too," she whispers. The words are muffled against Harry's lips, but she feels it when he smiles.
She knows it will take a while until her family's whole again, if that happens at all. She knows that they'll have to find a way to work through the grief, to keep going, to live in a world that Fred, Remus, Tonks, so many of their friends died for.
Things are far from healed. But here in the orchard, kissing the boy she's loved for years now, it's easy to pretend that they are.