AN: You don't have to have read "Simplicity" to understand this, but you might want to anyway. And I, regrettably, don't own anything Harry Potter or related to HP. I have written this for my own (unpaid) enjoyment.
I wake up as the last rays of the sun are sinking below the dormitory window.
It takes me a moment to register where I am and why, but after a few seconds of staring up at the red curtains hanging around the four-poster bed, the past morning starts to come back to me.
I am not in my old dorm as I had thought at first; I am on the other side of Gryffindor Tower, sleeping in what used to be the Seventh Year boy's room.
A glance at the clock tells me that it is 6:22 in the evening.
It has been twelve hours and five minutes since the end of the battle.
I slept less than I imagined I would.
A chill runs through me and I'm not sure if it's because the castle has always been drafty or because I am remembering the events of the past twenty-four hours in more clarity than I did when I fell asleep.
Did I really duel Bellatrix Lestrange? Are there truly piles of bodies lying in the Great Hall where I have studied and eaten and laughed with friends for the last six years? Well, I suppose by now they've moved all the dead.
The dead…
My thoughts are venturing to a place I am not ready to go, so I quickly decide that no, this castle is cold and that is why I've begun to shiver.
Still on my back, I grasp for a blanket only to realize that a bit of the comforter is bunched uncomfortable underneath me. I attempt to roll over, but stop because soreness is radiating through my whole body.
My legs are aching, my arms feel heavy and my neck is stiff. Moving is agony, but staying still is rapidly becoming worse.
Finally I make it to my side, and, making a feeble attempt to stretch, remember that I did not fall asleep alone.
Harry.
He must have turned over at some point in the past hours because we are now facing each other. He's not woken up yet, but he seems to be grimacing even in his sleep.
I'm not surprised in the least by that.
He forgot to take off his glasses and they are now askew, pressing into his face in a fashion that looks rather painful.
I reach to taken them off for him, but stop myself; I'm afraid the movement will wake him, and if anyone needs rest, it's Harry.
I begin to worry that the rustling I've already done was enough to disturb him, so, as I'm still fairly tired myself, I resolve to go back to sleep.
I shut my eyes and try to clear my mind, but it only takes me a few frustrated minutes to decide that it's no use. Now that I'm awake, I am too aware of my body with all its aches and pains, I am too cognizant of the fact that—no matter how hard I try to push it out of my head—my family is one of the many mourning downstairs.
I cannot fall back to sleep.
Unsure of what I'm supposed to do now, I sigh, and at the exact same moment, Harry whimpers, reaching his arm out and around me in his sleep. I guess I'm supposed to stay here a little longer.
I feel his arm trembling on me and all of a sudden it's shaking violently. I see that his whole face has become tenser than it was before, and he whimpers again, louder this time. His grip on me tightens and I wonder if perhaps I should wake him. He yells out and rolls over halfway before jerking awake with another cry.
Panting, he looks around frantically, and I struggle to pull myself to a sitting position.
"Wha—where am—how—" He looks panicked, like he has no concept of where or who he is; I get the sense that even though he's looking around, he's not really seeing anything that's in front of him.
"Shh, shh, it's okay," I say. Gently, I put a hand on his shoulder.
"Ginny?" He looks at me as if he's just noticed I'm there and I suppose that might be the case.
I nod and I watch him relax and my heart breaks a little because no one should be scared in their own bed, but he has been waking up afraid for most of his life.
"Sorry," he says.
"Bad dream?" I ask.
"Sorry."
He looks at me so apologetically that I am almost infuriated.
"Nothing to be sorry about, so don't you dare apologize again."
He nods and looks down for a moment.
"How did you know I was dreaming?" he finally asks.
"You were sort of thrashing and making noises."
His face flushes. "I didn't hit you, did I?"
"No, don't worry."
He reaches his hand out and lightly brushes my cheek with the tips of his fingers.
I close my eyes because it doesn't mater that it's only been a few hours and that I was asleep to most of them: it feels so good to have him touch me again.
Harry pulls away and leans back onto the pillows, sighing heavily. He pulls off his glasses and rubs his eyes.
"That happened sometimes," he says. "The…nightmares. Last year. It happened quite a lot, actually."
He says that and I imagine him sleeping in a cold tent, shaking and falling off his bed and I wish I could have been there with him.
"You're alright though?" he asks, looking over at me through still-bleary eyes.
"As alright as can be, considering the circumstances," I say, studying his face.
He looks like he's still a bit disoriented; like he's only halfway here and is struggling to pull his other half into the present. The fresh cuts that had been on his face now have a light crust of dried blood on them. His bruises have darkened. The bags under his eyes have not gone away.
My eyes are straining in the dark, so I grope for my wand on the bedside table and cast a few quick incendios on the candlesticks around the room.
"Much better," I say.
Harry hums his agreement. "I can see you now," he says.
"Well, now you can," I say as I grab his glasses and push them back on his face.
"Right," Harry says.
I settles down next to him and we face each other once more, both propped up on our elbows.
It strikes me that this is our first time waking up together. Our first time sharing sleepy smiles and having still-drowsy conversations. I hope that this becomes a daily tradition of ours.
Harry looks at me intently, his eyes traveling from my eyes to my nose to my mouth to my collarbone, and now I can tell he's staring at my breasts and waist, but I allow his eyes to linger for a moment before I clear my throat loudly and say, "Excuse me, but I'd prefer it if you didn't spend our entire reunion eyeing me like I'm the newest Firebolt model."
He looks back up at me and very somberly says, "Oh, you're at least a bit better than a Firebolt. You've got more curves than a broomstick."
"How encouraging." I roll my eyes jokingly and he grins at me.
"Ginny Weasley," he says, running his hand up and down my side, "how in Merlin's name do you manage to be so perfect after what has most likely been the hardest day of any of our lives?"
"I have my tricks," I say smirking. I wish he hadn't mentioned yesterday. I fight to push the flood of memories back down and turn my attention back to him. "And I must say I'm disappointed to see a year abroad has done nothing for your fashion sense."
"Ah. Not much news of what's in vogue in the woods. I liked to call my look staying-alive-casual."
We both grin at each other now, enjoying the easy flow of our silly joking and for a minute, I feel like nothing has changed. But it has. So much has.
And then, against my will, all the thoughts that I have been suppressing since dawn come rushing back.
The dueling, the curses, the fear in the eyes of so many First Years being ushered out of the crumbling castle. Watching Harry be carried back and thinking that I would never see him alive again, thinking of all the conversations I might never have with my friends or family, and fearing that I might watch every one of them die. And then, of course, my mind flashes to all the people I really did see dead. The old woman who used to drink tea outside of the Honeydukes, Collin Creevey, Remus, Tonks…and the last one, the one that has been drumming a steady beat in the back of my brain since I saw him…Fred. Fred, Fred, Fred…
Something on my face gives me away, because Harry frowns and sits up even though it clearly hurts him to do so.
"Ginny? he says quietly. "Ginny what is it? Did I do something?"
I open my mouth, but something seems to be lodged in my throat. My eyes are stinging and I blink desperately, but the burn just gets worse.
Harry whispers my name again and runs a hand through my hair before settling it on my shoulder.
I am still failing to produce sound, and suddenly I can't see anything but Fred's face and my father crying and everything is blurred by the tears filling my own eyes.
A squeeze to my shoulder brings me back and I look at Harry who looks so concerned about me that I want to tell him what it is, I really do.
I open my mouth one more time and choke out as many words as I can manage: "My brother's dead."
Harry makes a noise and it might be a word, but I don't know because I am suddenly sobbing like I never have before and Harry has pulled me into his chest and the position should feel awkward and painful but it doesn't because all I can feel is despair.
I feel like I have lost all control. I hear myself wailing and screaming and it frightens me because I have never lost it like this, have never felt like I was sinking in the middle of the open ocean with no way back to shore. I have lost all sense of reality because this can't be real because if Harry and I and Ron and Hermione and Luna and Neville and all the rest of my family is alive, then how can Fred not be?
I'm not sure how long I cry for, but I know it's long enough for my throat to be raw and my eyes to be puffed shut and my head to hurt.
Finally, as I hiccup my way back to sanity, I notice that Harry is rubbing my back and kissing the top of my hair.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be making stupid jokes right now. I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," I say. I look up at him and see that his eyes are as red as mine feel.
"Don't you see? It's all my fault." He draws his lips into his mouth and looks away.
I know that look; it's the look of someone trying desperately to keep their composure.
"If I had just—" he says.
"No." I wipe my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath. "No. None of it is your fault and I will tell you that until you believe it. None of it has ever been your fault. The only one to blame for any of this, for any of your entire life, is Voldemort. You are not the man who has caused all this pain. You are the person who defeated him, and I will not allow you to blame yourself for anyone who didn't make it through tonight."
He looks at me and I stare right back at him. He looks upset. He looks more than upset. He looks miserable.
"You should hate me," he says. He touches my arm so tentatively I think he expects me to pull back from him. "Your brother—"
"He was your friend too," I say, placing my hand over his. "And I'm not going to say it's okay, because it's not. It will never be okay that Fred or—" my eyes fill up again and I'm not sure if I can keep talking "—or anyone else had to die, but we're going to get through this. Together."
Harry's face softens and I swear for a moment he looks younger than I've ever seen him.
"Together." He repeats.
"Of course." I give him a watery smile. "Because I'm gonna fall to pieces again and I'll need you there when I do."
Harry smiles a little sadly and pulls me into him again. "I'll be there. As long as you promise to do the same for me."
"Anytime."
He takes a deep breath before speaking again. "So I told you I'd explain everything that happened this year."
"You said you'd tell me tomorrow. It's not tomorrow yet."
He lifts my chin up and we look at each other and in the candlelight everything feels so intimate and I think about how long I have wanted this and my God, there's still so much to discuss and so much to do, but as our lips meet and I feel Harry's hands against my skin, I decide that all of that can wait just a little longer. Tomorrow we will cast a million spells and clean a million floors and answer a million questions.
Tonight we will rebuild.