Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters you recognise- they all belong to the lovely JKR.
"Answer me in one word."
-As You Like It, 3.2
When I was in third year, I remember asking my friends what sort of person I was.
I hadn't meant it to be a big deal, but my friends took it upon themselves to come up with a proper answer. They had fun with it, messing about creating a survey, making everyone in our year describe me in one word. They spent days asking everyone, running round to question people in between classes, yelling across the table at dinner, sneaking into other dormitories at night.
Imagining it now, It seems ludicrous. But at the time we found it stupid and funny and it was the sort of thing that we used to do back then before we had anything else to worry about. The five girls in my dormitory recorded every answer on an enchanted piece of parchment and it wasn't until they had all forty two replies that they showed me the list.
They came up with a lot of words. Bubbly. Fierce. Smiley. Scary. Stupid. Fun. Daring.
I wonder if that really was me, once. I didn't even question it then. It never crossed my mind that there might be something else, something darker underneath. I just accepted that was who I was.
I'm not that person anymore. Looking at me now, the first word that springs to mind is broken.
They did get one word right though, all those years ago. One word that came up the most. Fiery.
At the time I laughed at it. Fire was lively, exciting, fun. People gravitate towards fire, because it has a certain light, a spark that nothing else can quite compare to.
I didn't realise, back then, that fire burns. I didn't recognisethat fire is dangerous and destructive and deadly. Or maybe I just didn't care.
Fire is uncontrollable, but sooner or later it will always burn itself out.
There is always a moment, when I wake up, when I do not know who I am anymore. There is always a moment, when I can pretend that nothing bad has happened to my world.
It's a nice feeling, believing that everything is alright. Believing that all the people I love are still living, still breathing, still smiling. I live for that time.
I lie in my bed, staring at the velvet canopy above me. I'm on the brink of sleep, my thoughts blurred and confused. I vaguely remember my name and my mind drifts to thinking about my family. I try to remember how many brothers I have, I try to remember what my mother looks like, but I'm still dreamy and I can't quite summon the information. A part of my brain seems to block me out and so I don't bother thinking about it anymore, because I'm not sure I'll like what I remember.
I focus instead, on the wooden carvings around my bedposts, examining the intricate swirls, that seem to move like serpents in the half-light. The curtains around me are swaying gently in the breeze, and it's much colder in the dormitory than usual. I exhale slowly and I watch as an icy cloud of air rises above me, drifting and twisting like smoke until it becomes lost in the folds of the canopy. I shiver, and think to myself that Bea must have left the window open again.
There is a niggling doubt in the back of my mind though, and the part of my brain is slowly waking. With it comes a familiar, cruel voice in my head telling me that I am lying to myself. Telling me that Bea did not leave the window open. Bea could not have left the window open, because I saw her hit by a killing curse over a year ago.
I ignore the voice and instead think about getting up to close the window, shut out the wintry air, but I feel so tired and my legs are shaky and weak and I am not even sure if I would have enough strength to cross the room. I am exhausted, but I tell myself I don't remember why.
I notice, for the first time, how still the room seems, how my own quiet breathing is the only sign of life. The quiet is resting heavily on my shoulders and it feels strange and unwelcome. I tense slightly, and strain my ears, listening out for the sounds of the other girls in my dormitory, waiting for the moment when the silence will break. My breathing is speeding up, misting the air in front of me with silver vapours, but the dormitory is still noiseless. Any minute now, I'm sure that Helen's cat will start mewling or Lucy will fidget around and throw off her blankets. Any minute now, I tell myself, as the silence stretches on.
I wait and wait, telling myself that in just a second someone will move, someone will cough, someone will breathe. Telling myself that what I'm thinking couldn't possibly be true. Telling myself that it was just a nightmare. That It couldn't be real because I'm still at Hogwarts, still in my dormitory.
But I know there should be a sound by now, because our dormitory is never this quiet. Because something must be very wrong to make everyone so silent.
And something is very wrong, because I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. Because there is the cruel voice in my head still, telling me that there was a war, and that I have left Hogwarts for good. I stare at the unfamiliar pattern on the velvet curtains of my bed, and I see that they are emerald, not scarlet. I sit up, nearly banging my head on the hard wooden headboard behind me, and I realise that the bedspread is satin and it smells of a stranger.
Something is wrong here, but I still do not open the curtains.
I wait just that little bit longer, because I want to hang on to this time. Because when I open the curtains, my last bit of hope will be gone, and I will have to face the ghosts of my past once more.
I sit in my bed, feeling my heart shuddering, too terrified to reach out and look past the safety of velvet shield. I just sit, breathing in and breathing out. Until finally I have the courage enough to draw back the curtain, and confirm what I already know.
Because I am not in my dormitory and there is nobody here but me.
There are no other girls sleeping here anymore, because I am in a lonely house in London and they are all gone.
There is no cat mewling in this room and there never will be, because it smells too much of dog. Even though no dog lives here now and the only dog that ever did left four years ago.
The breeze is coming from the draughty corridor, not the window I slept by for six years, because there is no window by my bed here, and there is no Bea to open it either. Because the voice was right and Bea will never be coming back.
I can't escape the truth any longer.
Memories are leaking back to me, like water trickling down a hillside, gathering speed until they are flooding over me, and I feel like I am drowning. I remember the war, and the endless fighting and the way it felt to be so utterly helpless.
I remember walking into the great hall, to find it full of bodies, the people I loved lying row upon row upon row, broken and still, like twisted toy dolls.
I remember everything now, and it is like a weight crushing down on me, until I am struggling to breathe. I am choking and I can't feel anything but the emptiness, the blackness pressing down on my chest. I can see their faces, dancing in front of my eyelids. I hear them murmuring my name, whispering to me, calling me closer. I press my hands over my ears desperately trying to block out the sounds in my head as I feel the panic pull me under. The room is closing in on me, the patterned walls shrinking, until I can't see anything at all. Until my world holds nothing. Nothing but the dark aching hole in my chest and I feel like screaming. I need to get away, go somewhere, anywhere.
I can't stay here.
I slip out of bed, the covers falling back with a thud. It echoes distantly in my head as I stumble out into the corridor. I don't know where I'm going so I just concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, breathing in and breathing out, trying not to lose control. I stumble along the empty corridors, my bare feet pattering on the floorboards, drumming a frantic rhythm against the quiet of the house. I go down a staircase, along another corridor, through a maze of forgotten rooms, wondering where my feet are leading me.
I come face to face with a heavy oak door and I rest my forehead against its cool surface, breathing in the smell of the faded paint on the wood. It's comforting to me, and somehow I know I was planning on coming to this place all along, because this is where I always go. I place my hand on the dark black surface to push it open, and I silently stare at how pale my hand seems. It is white and ghostly in the half light, and I hardly believe it belongs to me.
The door scrapes against the floorboards, a loud rasping noise that makes me freeze for a second, because it sounds like breathing. Because listening to that noise reminds me of how it felt. How it felt to see someone struggle to breathe... choking... powerless against the darkest curses. Because just hearing that noise is enough to send me stumbling back to the war and all the terrible memories I have from there. I remember watching Padma Patil choking, rasping while a hooded figure laughed above her. I remember screaming for help and trying desperately to do something myself, when I realised that no-one else was coming.
I think of that terrible night, when we fought for so long, and it is enough to make my blood run cold, and my heart break. I think of the families, of the dead and the missing, thinking how hard it must be for them. Then I realise that I am one of the families too. I lost my brother in that war. The grief tightens around my chest and I clench my fists, trying to hold myself together.
I close my eyes for a moment, as the noise of the door scraping fades away, taking the terrible memories with it. I am left with silence and somehow it sounds even louder than the rasping. The cold hole in my chest aches again and I open my eyes, trying to distract myself from the emptiness inside.
I slip inside the door, and the room is just as I remember it. There is still the same smell in the air, of faded perfume and old parchment. There is still the same rickety furniture and peeling wallpaper. Here I can almost believe that nothing has changed. Here, I can believe that I am fourteen again, spending the holidays in this black house, with my family smiling still, with my friends around me.
I imagine that there is a hippogriff hiding upstairs and that any minute now a grumpy house elf will find me and spit insults at me. I imagine that Hermione and Ron are bickering over something stupid, and that soon Hermione will come storming down the stairs muttering. I pretend that down in the kitchen, Harry is happy once more, talking to his godfather about his parents, listening to stories about their school days. I tell myself that Remus is in the library, lost in a book and that Tonks is standing outside the room, just waiting to burst in and ask me whether I prefer her with green spikes or pink plaits.
Most of all, I imagine my twin brothers, just laughing, grinning at me. George being happy. Fred being alive.
And it's perfect until I open my eyes and see the empty room. Because then I know that I'm not in fourth year anymore. I'm eighteen and the war is over and my family is broken beyond repair.
I think back to the memory, searching for some comfort, a snatch of the happiness I felt just a second ago, but I find none. Instead I see that it is made of lies. I see that even all those years ago, my family weren't smiling. My family were gathered around a hospital bed and my friends were silent and scared. Even back then, there was a feeling in the air. Something terrible was coming.
I thought we'd been prepared.
I was wrong. Nothing can ever prepare you.
I pull my mind away from my recollections and instead look around the familiar room. My gaze travels across the swirling patterned rugs, woven images of dragons and serpents in glinting colours. I see the faded emerald curtains fluttering and I notice that the high window has been left open. A gust of wind blows in a mist of white snowflakes, swirling and spinning with a hypnotic, chaotic beauty. The only light is coming from a flickering street light outside, and the snowflakes shine brightly in the dim glow. They float slowly down onto the wooden floorboards, and little by little melt away, leaving nothing but a silver puddle of ice water. I stare transfixed, at the place where the snowflakes had been, wondering how they could disappear so quickly. Dancing and twirling so solidly one second, gone forever the next.
No two snowflakes are ever the same, I recall. Each one is perfect. So carefully sculpted and with such precise detail, that it can never be replicated.
Rather like a person. No two are ever identical, no matter how similar they appear.
I turn away from the window, unable to look at the pool of water any longer.
Instead I look at the other side of the room, breathing in the memories that this room holds. As always, my eyes are drawn to the imposing tapestry that covers the far wall and my heart catches in my throat. I can't look away. I tiptoe across the room, and run my hands along the cool, silky surface. Stroking the glossy material. It is woven from a thousand sleek strands, the ornate lettering and delicate patterns inky black against the faded background.
I know that it is an evil object. I know that it shows the lives of one of the darkest wizarding families. I should hate it; I know Harry does. He wanted to burn it... but just looking at every delicate, tiny stitch, I know I could never destroy something so perfect.
It is beautiful; and for me that is enough.
I stroke it again, but my hand runs across a sudden hole and I can feel the black scorch marks in the fabric. I jerk my hand back, as if I have been burned, and stare at the spot where it had been, the empty place where a name belongs. I realise that this tapestry is not perfect yet.
I search for my wand, deep in the pockets of the old sweatshirt I am wearing and when I pull it out, the wood feels too heavy in my hands. I place the tip to the hole in the tapestry and watch as the thread begins to heal itself. The curses from so many years ago are weak and dying and so they disappear, as silk grows over the hole, and swirling black letters begin to unfold. I whisper the names as they appear; one next to Regulus, anotherunder Andromeda, and the others after that. When it is finished, I trace every letter of each name with a finger, memorising the feel of the words, locking them away in my mind. My hands are shaking as I trace the curve of the S in Sirius, the angles of the T after Nymphadora, the swiftness of the L in Lupin.
I remember the faces that belong with the names, and I feel the loss reverberate around my chest. I think of another name, that the tapestry does not show, but that makes my heart ache all the same. I whisper again to myself, repeating the names like a prayer, louder and louder, until I am shouting and my ear drums are ringing.
I whirl away from the tapestry and cross over to the door, gasping for breath. I suddenly want to get away from this room, away from the memories. They are suffocating me now, and the once-sweet taste of forgotten happiness is only reminding me of everything I have already lost.
I push the heavy door aside, and rush through the labyrinth of rooms, down dark corridors, trying to escape from the misery inside me. I run down the stairs, past a row of elf heads watching me sombrely and sadly. Their large glassy eyes stare out at me blindly, milky white in the darkness and I choke back a scream. I run faster, thundering past the portrait, not caring if she screams and I wake Harry by mistake.
I arrive at the bottom of the narrow hallway, undo the locks with trembling hands and throw open the front door. I pause for a moment, taking long gasping lungfuls of the cold air. I look out at the grey street beyond, at the black trees in the park and the eerie silver of the frosted grass. Nothing moves.
I sit down on the doorstep of number twelve, still hidden from the muggle world. The shadows cast by the flickering street lights leer down at me. I am not afraid of shadows though, I am afraid of ghosts.
I remain sitting on the step. In this space I am nothing, invisible.
It does not matter though, because the street is empty and there is no one around to see me. In this moment, the London street is sleeping, lifeless and vacant.
And so I let myself go, let the misery wash over me, in a choking, guttural sound that comes from somewhere deep in my chest. No tears fall and I wonder distantly if I will ever be able to cry about this. Another choking noise bursts from my chest, wracking through my body until I am curled up on the ground, hugging my legs to myself, and rocking slowly. I can't think anymore, I can't feel anything but the loss and the pain and the memories. I stay that way, huddled on the step for hours, until my throat is sore and the sky has lost its stars.
When I am done, I feel exhausted. I slowly sit up, and concentrate on taking deep breaths, trying to calm myself, trying to regain control. I stare above me at the grey clouds. The first rays of winter sun have begun to glare through the haze and I marvel at the way the frost has begun to glitter in the morning light. It seems strange to me that something so ordinarily beautiful can still go on, even when my life feels at its darkest.
Sadness makes my lungs constrict once more and I twirl my wand in my hand, stroking the smooth wood, feeling its power.
I sit there, alone and watch the frost dance as the day begins to light up the London street. All around me, I can hear the quiet noises of the world waking. A baby crying softly in the next house, cluttering footsteps from a far off alley, the noise of a car starting up two streets away. I am disconnected, far away from all of the noises of everyday life. In my world, there is nothing but the pain and the sound of my own pulse. My single lifeline is the piece of willow in my fist.
I look down at it, uncurling my fingers. The wand is solid and warm in my hand and I think about whispering the words that I know will end all this. Avada, I say to myself, trying out the feel of it on my tongue. I say it again, louder, and press my wand against my chest. I murmur the word, again, and again, waiting for the moment when I will finally gather the strength to whisper the other half. Avada, I say, waiting. Avada.
But I can't do it and I know that I will never be able to complete the words.
Because everytime I hear them, I feel Fred's bright blue eyes watching me. I hear Sirius' barking laugh and see Remus' shy smile. I keep whispering though, because I can't stop. Because my tongue has become caught around the words and they will not leave me alone. Avada, I say, hating the sound of it. Avada.
A pair of warm hands close over mine, gently tugging the wand away from my grasp. I look up to see two bright green eyes gazing down at me, a strange mix of pity and sadness mixed there. He gives me a long, searching look but I say nothing. There is nothing I could tell him that would explain how I feel. Nothing that could describe the misery that threatens to overwhelm me.
Harry must see this in my face, because he doesn't bother asking me why I'm sitting alone in the half-light, outside in the middle of winter, holding my wand to my heart. He knows exactly what's wrong, and he knows that there's nothing he can say that will ever make it better. He simply pulls me to my feet and hugs me tightly.
"Your hands are freezing," He tells me, his voice soft and concerned. I do not say anything. I look down at them and they are a ghostly white colour, the knuckles tinged with an ice blue. It occurs to me that they should be hurting, but I didn't even notice that my hands were cold. It somehow didn't seem important. I shrug instead and stare back at Harry, knowing that eventually he will look away.
He does, and I know it's because there is something in my eyes that he cannot bear to see. I know, because I see it in the mirror every day, and I hate it too. I want to tell him all this, but he already knows it and I would be wasting my breath.
"How did you know I was here?" I ask instead and my voice sounds all wrong when I speak, flat and weak and hoarse from screaming.
"Footprints" Harry says, pointing through the door, where I can see two trails of dust-steps. I stare at them for a minute, trying to believe that I really made them. They seem too solid, too real. I shake my head in confusion and Harry puts a hand on my arm.
"Go back to bed," He says, guiding me towards the door. I open my mouth, trying to find the words to explain. To explain that I can't go back in the house. That I can't handle the emptiness and the memories that I will find there. That I can't go back into my room alone.
I turn to stop Harry, to not let him guide me back into the house, where the nightmares of Remus and Colin and Bea and Fred will haunt me.
I spin around, and I am surprised by how close Harry is. I am surprised by the way he is so warm, and how I can hear him breathing and how he is looking at me. His eyes are so full of emotions. Sadness... pity... confusion... guilt... anger... hurt... all swirling round, mixed with something I can't recognise. And it is all so different to the deadness inside me that I can't help but gasp a little bit. Impulsively, I reach out and kiss him.
When I pull away, he stares at me for a long moment, those green eyes filled with puzzlement. Probably wondering why, when after weeks of hardly speaking, I am suddenly kissing him again.
I can't really explain it myself, so I don't bother trying. All I know is that I feel so numb, so empty right now, and I need to be close to someone. I kiss him again, deeper this time, absorbing everything about him. Memorising the way his hair sticks up at the back and feels soft under my fingers. Taking in the way he tastes of spearmint toothpaste and smells like fresh sea air. I press myself nearer to him, listening to the way I can hear his heart beating.
He kisses me back this time, wrapping his arms around my waist. I lean even closer, sealing the gap between us. I relax just that little bit, because now Harry is holding me together, and I don't have to bear it all myself. His arms around me are strong and solid and I feel safe for the first time in months.
I pull him towards me, into the house, because going inside doesn't matter now, because I have someone to keep the ghosts at bay. I lead him up the stairs, my heart pounding and I can't remember the last time I actually felt something like this. I can't remember the last time I smiled or felt glad or felt alive.
But kissing harry, I can almost remember the person I used to be. The person who was bubbly and fun and fierce and all those other things. The person that had a reason to live, because she loved life and she loved Harry.
I kiss him again, overwhelmed with new feelings. This time he pulls away gently and immediately the loss comes sweeping back to fill his place. It hits me hard in the chest, so hard that I reach out for Harry again, pulling him closer. He still resists though, and I feel like I am about to break inside.
I try hard not to feel upset with Harry. I don't want to blame him for this. I am a mess right now, I know and it must be hard for him, trying to cope with the darkness that surrounds me. He is pushing me away, but he would never let me go.
Because at night, when I can't sleep from the nightmares, it is only Harry who comes to find me as I wander the house.
On the good days, when I manage to get dressed and go out, it is Harry I talk to and share secrets with. And on the bad days, when I won't talk at all, when can't even leave the room, it is only Harry who will sit there with me, waiting for the time when I will be able to start living again.
It is always Harry. Because there is no one else who has the time, or who cares enough to look after me. Because my family are too broken and I can't handle being around them anymore.
So I need Harry more than ever now. I can't allow myself to turn away from him too.
I look into his eyes, trying to tell him that I want him to stay. That I need him to kiss me, to remind me what happiness feels like.
I lean in to him, slowly and this time he doesn't pull back. "Are you sure you want this?" He asks, his face inches from mine. I stare at the faint scar on his forehead and trace it with a finger. My mind is spinning and I wonder what he means by the question. It takes me a few moments to realise that I have led him upstairs to his room.
But I know straight away that this is what I want to do.
I don't care if we are being reckless, or stupid. I don't care that I am doing it for all the wrong reasons or that this is the worst time. I simply know that I want Harry.
I silence his questioning with another kiss, and he knows that this is my answer.
The door behind me is pushed open, and we stumble inside, still holding tight onto each other. I don't let go of him, because I can't, because the second I do, this happiness will end.
Instead I pull him closer, until we are lying on the bed and I can hear his pulse racing. I listen to the steady beating, amazed at the way life seems to radiate out of him. I want to capture just a little bit of that energy, take it for myself.
I feel something spark deep inside, but it is weak and feeble and overshadowed by the grief that surrounds me.
I try and concentrate on the spark, as Harry pulls me closer towards him and my mind becomes blurred and confused. All I know is that Harry is near me and I don't feel so alone anymore. It is not perfect, but it is close.
'I love you.' Harry whispers, and I want to say it back. I love you too. I think. I love you.
But the words are too difficult to say outloud, so I do not.
I do love Harry, but not in the same happy, carefree way that I used to. I don't think I ever will again. I have seen too much suffering, lived through too much.
The last few years have changed me, and I can't help but wonder if the fire that used to be inside me has gone out forever.
A/N So, what did you think? This is my first attempt at writing so please don't be too harsh. I would love to get some reviews though, and constructive criticism is always appreciated. Thanks for spending the time to read and please let me know if it's worth continuing.
Just to let you know, the time-scale in future chapters may be a bit AU, I know certain events didn't take place until Ginny was older, but it's kind of essential to the plot so I hope you'll forgive me.
Shell x
