Ginny
January, 1998
Sometimes I wish I was an only child.
Don't get me wrong, I love my brothers and my parents, but when one of us is depressed, everyone is depressed. That's why it'd be easier to be an only child, or maybe even an orphan. I'd only have one person's emotions to deal with, not eight.
And today things are especially bad here at the Burrow.
Right now I'm standing at the sink peeling potatoes for supper. Thank goodness I'm old enough to use my wand now—I wouldn't survive without it. The house is relatively quiet. I can hear Mum doing laundry in the back room, but other than that, the average observer would think we're the only two home. The sad thing is, we aren't.
A pop outside alerts my attention to the fact that someone has just apparated to the Burrow. A second later there's a knock at the door, and I dry my hands on a dishtowel.
It's Harry. Much as I'd like just to fall into his arms, security is security. "What's my fondest dream?" I ask.
"To play professional Quidditch and then retire and raise kids," Harry says, grinning tiredly at me. "What do I have behind my back?"
"What kind of question is that…?" I begin, but I'm cut off as a he pulls the door open and pushes a bunch of purple carnations into my face.
"Harry, you shouldn't have," I protest, my voice muffled as I inhale deeply. The flowers smell heavenly. I grasp the bouquet and pull him inside. Hardly pausing to toss the flowers on the counter, I throw my arms around his neck.
"Now, now," Harry chides. "For all I know, you could be a Death Eater."
I giggle. "Would a Death Eater do this?" I kiss him.
"Definitely not," Harry says when we break apart and I settle my head back on his chest.
"I'm so glad you're back."
"Bad day?" he inquires, kissing the top of my head.
I sigh. "The same as always. But somehow each day is always worse than the day before."
"Tell me," he commands, and I do.
I guess it started at breakfast when Mum found Crookshanks chewing on an Extendable Ear. She took one look and burst into tears. Dad tried to comfort her, but when she rushed from the room, he just sighed and told Percy they'd better go or they'd be late to the Ministry.
They've been spending a lot of time there lately.
I really think that each of us has our own ways of dealing with Fred's death. Dad and Percy—well, they work. And work, and work, and work. I know they're just trying to clean up the mess Fudge and Scrimegeour left, but they don't understand that we've got a family that needs fixing and that should probably come first.
Bill has become the ultimate family man. He's so absorbed with Fleur and the baby that's on the way that he doesn't have much time to spend with us anymore. In a way, I think he's relieved that he doesn't have to hang around here at the Burrow where everyone tiptoes every time George enters a room and whispers Fred's name, if it's used at all.
Charlie's still in Romania. I guess he's kind of avoiding the whole situation too, and frankly, I don't blame him and Bill at all. Sometimes the tension around here just makes me want to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower.
Ron's been the most mature about it, which really surprised me, but he's grown up a lot from sixth year. Hunting Horcruxes will do that to you, I suppose. When George absolutely refused to set foot back into Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, Ron stepped in and took charge of the business without a single complaint, though I know he really wanted to enter Auror training with Harry. Seven months later, Ron's still there, managing the shop, Harry's continuing his training and—since his is a special case—he is also helping Kingsley and the other Aurors round up the last free Death Eaters, and Hermione's spending all her time at the Ministry, sorting through years of backed up legal records, Wizengamot cases, and unresolved Ministry reports.
As for me, I'd say that I'm dealing with the loss pretty well. I cried a lot at first, and couldn't hardly stand to even look at George, but Harry was there for me. Oh, did I mention he's living at the Burrow? I think he feared facing Mum's wrath is he chose to live anywhere else. Hermione's here too, most of the time, but she has a flat in London as well; she decided not to bring her parents back until there's absolutely no threat from the Death Eaters who still have her close to the top of their hit list for being friends with Harry.
So that's about everybody, huh? Oh, yeah. Except for George.
We all knew he'd take it the hardest, but none of us expected this deep, unbreakable depression that's gone on not for weeks, but for months. And it seems there's no light at the end of the tunnel. All George does is hang around the Burrow, usually in his room. When he does emerge, he hardly talks, barely eats, and his eyes have a hollow, haunted look. He hardly ever showers, his face is scruffy, and he wears the same pair of sweatpants and t-shirt all the time. Sometimes he disappears in the evenings and is out all night. When he comes back, his eyes are bloodshot, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
I don't know what to do. No one does. It's not like I haven't tried—Ron and I have been trying to lift the cloud of depression and gloom for months now, but the rest of the family hasn't been helping much; they wince when we mention Fred's name, they glare whenever Ron talks about how things are going at the shop, they pretend like George is fine.
But back to the story.
"And Mum hasn't talked to me hardly at all today," I finish, untangling my limbs and racing back to the stove where the soup is threatening to boil out of the pot. "So how was your day?"
"We took Dolohov and Avery to trial today," Harry says. Even though my back is turned, I can tell he's gotten all stiff.
"It was a rough one?" I pause mid-stir.
"Yeah," he admits quietly. "Dolohov…well, he killed Remus."
I turn back to him, forgetting the soup. "I'm sorry," I say softly, touching his arm.
"Well, he's in Azkaban now, getting what he deserves," Harry says, and the temperature in the room feels as if it's dropped a few degrees. I can tell he's ready to change the subject.
"I'll finish dinner then," I say, glancing at the pot. "I hope the rest are back soon. The soup's done."
Harry disappears upstairs, and I turn back to the meal. You're probably wondering why I'm home cooking instead of at school. The truth is, I'm going to take my N.E.W.T.'s in the spring. I decided to stay home and study here instead of returning to Hogwarts—a decision that Harry fully supported. But more important than that—I needed to be here for Mum.
Not ten minutes pass before the quiet is broken once again by simultaneous cracks in the yard. Even from inside I can hear the muttered oath from my brother and Hermione's yelp of pain. Apparently he's apparated right onto her foot.
"Bloody hell, Hermione," Ron says immediately after answering my security questions. He sinks into a chair. "I'm sorry."
"You should have just let me Side-Along Apparate both of us," she says, wincing as she pulls off her shoe and examines her left foot.
"But I'm never going to learn if you won't let me practise," Ron argues, scowling at Hermione.
I ignore him. "Hermione, did my dad say when he and Percy were coming home?"
She doesn't look at me, a bad sign already. "They . . . well, Mr. Weasley told me they were really busy tonight . . . He said not to hold dinner."
I turn back to the soup, trying not to show my disappointment. "Well then, I guess we're all here," I say with more brightness than I really feel. "Ron, can you go get Harry and check to see if George is in his room?"
"Sure thing," Ron says, and disappears up the stairs.
I wave my wand; six sets of plates, bowls, and mugs fly out of the cupboard and neatly arrange themselves on the table. Only one plate slides off the end of the table and shatters at Hermione's feet. A new record for me—usually I break at least three.
"Repario," she says dryly. "You're getting quite good at household charms, aren't you, Ginny?"
I make no reply, biting my lip to keep the sarcastic remark from coming out. She means no harm—it wasn't her fault I am stuck at home studying for the bloody N.E.W.T.'s while everyone else is starting their careers and making a difference. . .
"Uh, I'll just go get your mum now," Hermione says quickly, and leaves. I think she took my silence as the cold shoulder.
I set the soup on the table and pull a casserole out of the oven. A clattering on the stairs lets me know that Ron and Harry are approaching.
"George wasn't upstairs," Ron informs me as he collapses into a chair.
"Great," I mutter. "I guess I'll check the living room. Put the bread on, won't you, Ron?"
Ron groans something about being forced to do female tasks, to which Harry says something about him being well suited to the jobs, but I'm already too far away to hear it all. Down the hall, and to the left . . .
George is in the living room. He's sitting on the couch, staring unblinkingly at something on the side table.
"George, time for dinner."
He doesn't stir. I move a little closer, looking over his shoulder to see what he's looking at.
It's a picture of him and Fred, arms thrown around each other, a bottle of Butterbeer (or maybe Firewhiskey in disguise) in hand. They're laughing and waving at the camera and I recognize the picture as one taken at a colossal party in celebration of a Gryffindor win several years back.
"George?"
No reply.
"George, dinner's ready."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat something."
"Go away."
I stand there for a moment more, unsure of what to do. No convincing I can do will be enough to get George to the table—that much is clear—but he's my brother and I still feel an obligation to try.
"George—"
"Damn you, Ginny, just leave!" he mutters, and the note of finality and desperation in his voice makes me feel as if something in my chest is cracking open all over again.
He doesn't want me there. He can't stand to have me see him like this, and that hurts me worse than everything else. I am suddenly angry, more angry than I've felt in a long, long time. It's as if all the sorrow and grief I've been struggling to control, burying under the surface just so I can get up in the mornings and function from day to day has suddenly blossomed forth, but now it's red and hot and furious. Without a backward glance, I turn and storm away, back into the kitchen. Thank Merlin all the right people are there.
"Your mum says she'll be just a few minutes more . . ." Hermione begins, but trails off when she catches sight of my expression.
I shut the door and quickly cast silencing charms. Then I turn to Hermione and the boys, who are all gaping at me. "We need to talk."
Hermione
You can always tell when Ginny's set her mind on something. Prime example, right now.
"We need to talk," she says, eyes glittering, and I wonder what's gotten her all riled up this time. Last time she looked this mad was when a few remaining idiots at the Ministry tried to chuck Harry into Azkaban last summer on the charges of murdering Vincent Crabbe. Amazingly enough Draco Malfoy got Harry out of that fix! But I'm jerked out of my reverie as Ginny yanks the tray of bread out of Ron's hands and slams it down on the table, hard. As if she didn't already have our undivided attention.
"I can't do this anymore," she practically yells. "I can't just stand back and watch my family deteriorate like this. Dad, Percy, Bill—they all avoid this place like a plague. Mum's gone from being bossy to tiptoeing around like a mouse. She cries day after fucking day, even after all these months. George is dying—not literally, but his spirit is. I see the way he's filling himself with alcohol and wasting away like a broken man with nothing to live for. I can't fucking do it anymore; I can't watch from the sidelines as all this happens. I have to do something!"
"Gin…" Harry begins tentatively. Bad decision, Harry.
She rounds on him, fists balled, ready to attack. "Don't 'Gin' me, Harry James Potter! It's your family too. We're all responsible for this—Mum, Dad, my brothers, all of us—we never should have ignored this for so long . . ."
Ron and I are smarter than to interrupt her. She turns back to us, eyes blazing, but I can see the tears sparkling on her cheeks. "I'm not going to fade into the shadows anymore. If no one else in this family cares enough to do anything, I still will. You know why? Because someone's got to take action, or this family will go down like the Titanic."
We watched Titanic a few weeks ago. Not that it's important, especially not now. Ron and I hold our breath as Ginny reaches the climax of her speech.
"I'm going to do something," she says breathlessly, her voice trembling with emotion, "and I need your help. Please."
Two hours later finds the four of us crammed into Ron's bedroom. With Mum in bed early complaining of a headache, Percy and Dad slaving over paperwork they brought home, and George gone, Silencing Charms are more than sufficient to ensure secrecy of our meeting.
"Here, Hermione," Ron says, pointing the floor in front of him. He's perched on the edge of the bed, and I gratefully sink down on the carpet and stifle a moan as his fingers begin kneading the tense muscles of my shoulders.
Harry's curled up on the other end of the bed, watching Ginny pace back and forth across the small expanse of floor space in Ron's room. Finally she halts. "We need to come up with a plan," she begins. "Fred has been dead for seven months—yes, I miss him, and it still hurts, but what hurts even more is seeing George destroy his life like this. Have you really looked at him lately? Have you?"
Ron stops massaging my shoulders, and I feel him tense. Harry shuffles his feet. I examine my fingernails.
"He's wasting away. He's slowly losing the will to live—hell, I'd wager he lost that a long time ago. And it's not completely his fault."
"We've tried—" I begin.
"We haven't tried hard enough. We've been too involved in our own grief and problems to notice George." Ginny swallows hard. "Me included." Her voice is shaky. "I—I miss Fred too. I miss him so badly sometimes that my chest aches. Thinking about him feels like twisting a knife lodged between my ribs." Without warning, tears begin to roll down her cheek and drip off her chin, and seeming to have no more strength, she sinks to the carpet and puts her head in her hands.
Harry, Ron, and I stare at each other helplessly. Harry, especially, seems frozen in place. "Harry," I hiss at him, and finally, he seems to jerk out of it. He climbs off the bed and settles himself next to her, placing his arm around her shoulders.
"There, there," he says awkwardly, looking only slightly fearful.
He should've known better, I think, as Ginny explodes, shoving Harry away. "Don't even think about saying 'It'll be OK,' because it won't!"
"Then I won't say it," says Harry, regaining some of his courage and moving slightly closer. "We'll do something about George instead. We'll all do something," he adds, shooting meaningful glances at Ron and me.
She looks up, tearstained but hopeful. "Really? You will?"
"Yes, we will," I say instead of Harry, nudging Ron.
"Er, yeah," Ron mumbles. And I know that this conversation is more difficult for him than anyone else in the room, because of all of us, Ron had done the most for George with the least results, especially regarding the shop. I know Ron feels like nothing Ginny tries will work; he doesn't want to get her hopes up.
"She needs this," I whisper in Ron's ear so only he can hear. "Humor her, please. For me?"
Ron clears his throat. "I'll help too, Ginny," he says, slightly more convincingly. His voice gains strength. "We've let George go for too long."
Her face brightens considerably.
"But we need a plan," I say, certain that planning will at least give Ron a little time to resolve his internal conflict. Certainly Ron will have to see that leaving George alone is not in his best interest—something must be better than nothing on our part.
Ginny, reminding me a bit of myself, whips out her wand and conjures up a nice little whiteboard. "Then let's get started."
Harry
Did I think it would work? No. Did I support Ginny fully for trying? Yes.
Oh, come on. Like I wouldn't support her. She's my life now. Don't believe me? Try falling in love with the one person in the whole entire world that makes you feel complete, then we'll have another chat. But for now, you'll have to trust me on this one.
Well, Ginny immediately set about trying to get George out of the house. Quidditch games, gatherings with old friends, the release of the Thunderclap 4500, the newest, lightest, fastest broom on the market, even simple things like a walk in town or a trip to Diagon Alley to pick up some school books for her studies.
Nothing worked.
The harder she tried, the further George retreated. Finally, it looked as if Ginny were going to give up.
As I watched Ginny settle into despair, I grew angrier and angrier with first George, then myself. Angry at George, because if he could see what he was doing to his family, surely he'd snap out of his depression, come around more often, even visit the shop. He'd fix the Weasley family.
Then I remembered the mind-numbing weeks after Sirius's death. I knew how it felt to lose people I loved, that was certain. But then I considered the people I'd lost, one by one, and realised that I'd never fully come to terms with Fred's death. Oh, I'd been there for Ginny—I'd held her throughout the long, painful funeral and tried to keep the handkerchiefs coming—but I hadn't grieved myself. I'd been dry-eyed through the entire service—unlike Remus's funeral, through which I'd bawled like a baby. Not very manly, to be sure.
I'd almost accepted the other deaths. Even Remus's. Putting Dolohov in Azkaban had certainly helped with that. But not Fred's—not by a long shot. It was too close to Ginny for me to handle. Every time I'd thought of Fred, lying still and cold in the Great Hall, the laughter gone forever from his eyes, I'd shoved those memories back, letting others take their places. There were many people to remember, many nightmares to combat.
But now I can ignore it no longer. That's what has got me here, lying awake, long after the rest of the house has gone to bed. Beside me, Ginny rolls over in her sleep and sighs. Outside, the moon is just rising, a mere sliver of silver against the dark sky. If Mrs. Weasley knew that some nights after she's asleep I sneak into Ginny's room and Hermione (if she's here) tiptoes up to Ron's, she'd have a heart attack. Or an aneurysm. Something like that. But so far, we haven't gotten caught. Sleeping together (in the same bed, I mean. Get your mind out of the gutter.) became essential after the battle. Ginny cried herself to sleep every night for months, and I started to retreat from everyone. I felt as if I didn't deserve to look into their eyes anymore. But Ginny never made me feel guilty. We helped each other.
I stare at the ceiling of Ginny's green and lavender room and at her scattered posters of the Holyhead Harpies and the Weird Sisters. I've always wondered why Ginny hasn't changed her room in years. Maybe it's because it's the last thing that remains the same from her old life—before the war.
Why Fred? He was just twenty, barely old enough to be considered an adult.
Why not someone else?
Why did it have to be a Weasley who died?
The anger I feel is more over my own involvement than anything anyone else did. I still feel guilty. I'm the one who has brought these innocent people into the destructive path of Lord Voldemort.
I remember worrying aloud to Fred one evening at Grimmauld Place that I'd placed his family in more danger than they could comprehend.
Fred had laughed aloud, a rather odd reaction, I'd thought at the time. "Harry, old boy, you need to stop thinking too much," he'd said, clapping me on the shoulder.
"But—"
He hadn't let me finish. "I mean, I don't think things are working right upstairs for you," said Fred, tapping my forehead. "Just consider my family for a moment. Dear old Dad, we all worry about him. He's a Muggle-lover, through and through. Who do you think the first ones singled out are going to be if our dearest Dark Lord ever gains enough power?
"And Bill won't stand for mistreatment of magical creatures, goblins especially. He's worked with elves, centaurs, and even dwarfs overseas. I can't even make vampire jokes around him. He's too bloody sensitive. Charlie too, now that I think of it. That super-uber-dark lord we're all fighting? Seems he has a thing for abusing innocent animals and creatures."
"But—"
My useless attempt to defend myself was cut off immediately. "And George and me, well, we've been itching to fight the powers of darkness with a few powers of our own ever since we were old enough to hear stories about the first war. Not even Mum will be able to keep us from joining the Order as soon as we're old enough."
"Still—"
"Still," said Fred dramatically, rolling his eyes, "still you think that you're the cause of the 'danger' my family's in? Sorry, Harry. You're not as important as you thought. Truth is, you're only a tiny little contributor. We were royally fucked before you ever showed up on our doorstep."
And no arguing on my part had been able to convince him otherwise.
I smile at the memory. Then I sigh. Ginny doesn't stir beside me.
Unable to sleep, I finally climb out of bed and tiptoe to the door. Ginny rolls over, flinging her arm over the side of the bed, and snores softly. She's always been a deep sleeper, unlike me.
Donning a robe, I creep downstairs, taking care to make as little noise as possible. In the kitchen, I search the cupboards for a midnight—or rather a four a.m.—snack. Then, I hear the creak of the front door, and I freeze, hand flying to my wand.
But it's only George. He stumbles in, leaning heavily on the door as he tries, and fails, to murmur the simple locking incantation the Weasleys use as only one of many protective barriers around their home. Finally George gives up and staggers into the kitchen. He looks bewildered to see me at first, but the sliver of interest quickly fades.
I clear my throat awkwardly. "Hey, George."
"Harry."
George manages to land himself in chair and sits there in the dimly lit kitchen, staring into nothing. I can smell the beer on his robes all the way across the room.
"Well, I'm going back to bed, I think," I say after an awkward pause. "G'night."
Instead of answering, George goes to the pantry and reaches for something on the top shelf. I can hear cans and tins banging together as he searches.
He stumbles back to the table. He's holding a flask. Probably the last drop of booze in the house. Mrs. Weasley has certainly done her best to keep all alcoholic beverages out, especially now that George is drinking so much—but she can't have found all his stashes. She's too short to see the top shelf anyway.
The sound of the flask being opened brings me back to reality. George takes a long swig and sets it down hard.
"I think you've had enough for one night, mate," I say.
George drinks again, clutching the container to his chest. "Th' moon. It's pretty tonight," he murmurs after a long pause, his eyes glazed and lifeless.
I clear my throat. "Yes, it is."
"Think he's up there? Watching this debacle?" George cranes his neck to look out the kitchen window for a moment as if desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of a ghost in the darkened night sky. Then his face falls. "Guess not."
I'm completely out of things to say. I shuffle awkwardly from foot to foot, wishing I were somewhere—anywhere—else. Someone else should be with George when he's finally ready to talk. Ginny, or Hermione. Mrs. Weasley. Not me.
George suddenly chucks his half empty flask. It bangs against the kitchen cabinets and lands on the floor. I wince.
"Should've been me," he mumbles. "Should've been me instead."
No, it should've been me.
George sits there, his shoulders slumped like a man who has nothing left to live for. And suddenly, it hits me like a bludger—the one thing we have in common. He has no one to blame. No one but himself.
And an idea—a crazy one, but an idea, all the same—begins to form in my head. The one piece of the tragedy that is missing, the one unresolved mystery, had been who exactly killed Fred. In the chaos surrounding his death, no one saw the murderer.
If he had someone to blame, maybe he wouldn't be like this. I dunno. Maybe it's a stupid idea, but perhaps—
Honestly, when I'd seen those Azkaban doors close on Dolohov, knowing that the inside of a barren, empty cell was all he'd ever see for the rest of his life, I'd felt some resolution. Life in prison wasn't nearly what Dolohov deserved, not after killing one of the kindest, gentlest men alive, but it'd helped.
If only I could give that to George.
His head is bobbing now, though his eyes are filled with tears.
"Come on, mate," I say. "Let's get you to bed."
It isn't easy to get him up the stairs without waking the rest of the household, but finally, I've got George tucked safely away. He's out almost before his head hits the pillow. I pull his shoes off and drape a blanket over him. It hasn't been many months since Ron was doing this for me. We've all had our low points since the battle.
I creep back to Ginny's room, but only to grab a clean shirt and trousers. She stirs a little when I enter, but doesn't awaken.
The house is still silent when I arrive back in the kitchen. It's almost five when I step out the door, wearing my dark green Auror robes. For the first time in months, I feel almost hopeful.
Maybe there is something I can do to help.