Tears Shed Upon the Night
Had an idea while I was rereading Deathly Hallows: What was it like back in Hogwarts while our favorite Golden Trio was out hunting Horcruxes? A night in Gryffindor Tower may show you.
The common room was quiet at this time of night. Empty, deserted and slightly terrifying. The fire had gone out so long ago that the thick darkness and cold seemed almost to have existed eternally. And almost as if it would continue to.
The girl on the chair closest to the window had fallen asleep some hours before, and though she seemed to be unaffected by the temperature, her dreams were captured in its tight grasp. Only if one were to look very closely would they see that she was shivering.
She turned over very suddenly, as though she were awakened by a rough thought, but only curled up tighter against the chair's tattered arm and became still once more. Had one been able to know the dream that had made her react so outwardly and unexpected, they would have been quite impressed that she was still able to sleep. It was only the familiarity with these horrors that made her able to resist them.
The table beside her was where the thing that had instigated her nightmares, and the nightmares of many across the country, lay. It was beneath a pile of potion books, a broken quill, and a nearly finished History of Magic essay, half hidden for she had been too shaken to get rid of the thing thoroughly. The headline of the half rolled up newspaper was still faced towards her, as through it wished to mock her, though her eyes were closed.
The picture and the title had been the thing that hurt her most, though it shouldn't have been. The article in the Daily Prophet was what was supposed to make her upset, make her lose her morale, but the extra ink had been unnecessary.
She never read the stupid newspaper anyway, she had told herself. It was full of rubbish, influenced and practically controlled by the Voldemort supporters, so why, this time, had she picked it up? How she wished she hadn't but she had been desperate for news, even if it wasn't real news, even if it was completely manipulated and disfigured. She needed to know what was going on, but she hadn't expected this.
His picture was the first thing she had seen when she'd gingerly picked up the parchment that someone had left lying around. It took up nearly the whole page, plastered largely in front of her face so that even when she looked away it remained burned in her eyes. It was the first time she had really seen him since he left, the first time she had seen him, other than in her memory, almost tangible, able to touch, as though he was so close she could feel him.
The title above it had made her heart drop. Undesirable Number One, it said, almost harsh. Wanted.
That was it. Four tiny little words and she hadn't been able to go down for dinner. Four tiny little words and she had rolled herself up on the chair, and gazed out the window for hours. For tiny little words and her heart had broken again.
It wasn't fair, plain and simple. He didn't deserve that, any of it. It wasn't fair that there were people out there, terrible people who wanted to find him, wanted to hurt him or worse. She didn't want to think about that, oh how desperately she didn't want to think about that. But she turned over again defensively in her sleep, and one could tell that she was.
Somewhere, very far away, a small, brown owl was fighting through a nasty bout of wind. It struggled in the gusts that were bone chilling and unforgiving, but it did not stop. It was important, extremely important that the roll of parchment attached to its leg was delivered.
Back in the common room, rain had just started to beat against the high windows. Droplets that resembled tears in both the look and the sound they made as they sobbed against the glass, cried the agonizing weeps that the castle's occupants had so long been unable to express. They sounded all that much louder to the walls of the empty common room, but still the girl in the chair did not stir for, or because of the sound.
Now, though reason would suggest that no one would have been able to tell, the girl's nightmares had become increasingly more terrible. Full of screams and bright lights, they shadowed her mind so that she could do nothing to fight them off. The thing that made them so much more horrid was that many of them were real.
Just this afternoon she had been punished again by the Carrows for her outburst during breakfast. She had started something of a riot with her Gryffindor friends, in the sake and support of the man she had just been grieving over. She had been subjugated to the Cruciatus curse at least five times before she'd been able to go. Her throat was still sore from screaming though she hadn't wanted to give them the satisfaction of hearing it, or hurt her friends who were being punished with her.
But she'd take the pain, all of it, for him. Honestly, could they really expect her to sit by and let those vile Slytherins mock fun at him, threaten him? No, she wouldn't keep quiet, no matter what it cost her.
Now the rain had reached the small owl which shivered slightly and flapped its wings in an effort to both keep warm and shake off the wetness. The wind was blowing harder, but the owl continued on.
The girl, who had momentarily gone rigid in a way that suggested she was near waking, turned over so that she lay precariously close to the edge of the chair. Then, with a miracle that could be called a waste, she rolled over again so that she was saved from the imminent danger of falling.
She was dreaming again. The man of her desires, the one she'd been worrying about before, starred in this one too. But he was different. Before she'd seen him as the brave man she knew was real, a hero, strong and winning. Now, however, he wasn't.
Her empty stomach twisted over the fear that played, against her will, in her head. The fear of him possibly losing. She couldn't bear the thought, but she couldn't get rid of it either. If he didn't win....
Her mind briefly skimmed over what her world would be like if Voldemort triumphed. She saw that devastation, the pure horror as though it was strangling her. But she didn't linger on such thoughts for long, because there was something worse about that outcome that made her hardly able to breathe.
It was the idea of losing him, not the war that she knew would officially destroy her. She wasn't even sure she'd be able to live through that. She couldn't even imagine she could survive such a tragedy, him being gone.
After all they'd been through and after all they'd had to sacrifice, she would not be able to continue if it had been for naught. If he died, she would never forgive herself for the time they had lost, for not stopping him from this war that was becoming to feel pointless. There was too much on line, too much that could be lost. She would not be able to take it if it was.
Still sleeping, she didn't notice the moisture trailing down her cheeks.
The owl was very close now. The castle's tall towers loomed in front of the blue-gray backdrop that was the night sky, sheathed and muted by the rain so that the hues seemed to run like a watercolor painting.
Could it get past without being intercepted? Could the doors that had once accepted young minds and curiosity with eager arms deny a letter like this?
The owl circled around the castle's boundaries twice, though its tiny body was threatening to surrender to the cold. It knew where to go or course, but was afraid of taking an unnecessary risk in order to get there. Luckily it was so dark, so ugly and dreary, that no one had much of a desire to look out the window.
There may have been a magical barrier, but it didn't seem to exist as the bird flew over the grounds. Perhaps, as the Dark Side so often believed of other beings, a lone owl with a roll of parchment was nothing of a threat, and therefore, not important enough to barricade against. It mattered not, however, the reason why they had not set up any kind of lookout, it mattered only that they hadn't.
The owl sped up as it got closer to its destination, making as much speed as possible through the freezing torrents that continued to pour down. It made its was to one of the tallest towers, blinking droplets out of its eyes as it shot upward and arrived at the window of the girl's dormitory. It knew though, before looking through the glass, that the girl was not there.
The owl shot down instead and found, with a sense of satisfaction, the person it was looking for. As loud as it could, it tapped its beak against the glass.
The girl on the chair did not wake immediately. It had been a long time since she'd slept heavily – not soundly, or calmly – but not on edge, ready to open her eyes at the slightest warning.
The owl, however, would not give up; it hadn't made the dangerous journey to turn back when it had nearly succeeded. It tapped louder and then, in a way that suggested great strength, the girl finally opened her eyes.
She was not sure, at first, where she was or how she had come to be there. With a very tiny gasp she jumped to her feet, stuffing her hand in her pocket. She extracted her wand and lit it quickly.
It took a few slow seconds for her to realize and accept that no one was attacking her, before she noticed what had aroused her. She ran to the window, stumbling slightly, and pushed it open to let the bird in.
The owl flew in gratefully, spraying the floor with the water on its wings. The girl watched it carefully, waiting. She did not recognize the bird and figure that it must have either gotten lost, or been sent by a stranger. She did not trust herself to be able to determine which one it was so when the owl started towards her, she moved clumsily backwards till her was pushed up against the wall.
The owl was neither surprised nor disturbed by her rejection and continued to make its way towards her, its dark brown wings beating against the air so that it blew icy against her face. The girl shifted closer to the window, which she had accidentally left open. Maybe she should shove the bird back outside.
But the thought had not done much but run through her mind when she noticed that the sheet of parchment the bird was holding had her name on it. With a chill of fear that she blamed on her nerves, and shaking fingers that she blamed on the cold, she reached forward to untie the letter from its deliverer's leg.
The owl, finally free of its burden, gave a tiny little hoot, and sped out the window, leaving the room feeling strangely deserted.
The girl looked down at the letter in her hands, and recognized the penmanship immediately. She was reminded, only fleetingly, of how she had felt her first day of school when she had received the very first message from home. It had made her feel safe, comfortable. Would whatever was written in this letter make her feel the same way?
With a sudden thrill of needing to know, she ripped the letter open.
Dear Sweety, it said,
I hope your first week of school was nice. They haven't given you too much work, have they? Things are pretty well. You're poor brother's still sick though and Dad's been working overtime, but other than that they're doing fine. Don't worry about that problem we were talking about. I love you, be good.
Love, your Mother.
Ginny Weasley looked at the letter quietly. She reread it three times, and sighed.
Suddenly her legs felt very heavy, and she walked back to the chair and sat down woodenly.
She held the note close to her nose; she couldn't find the strength to tear her eyes away from it. It was written in a sort of code, she figured, sighing again. If she knew nothing else, however, at least she knew that they were safe enough to be able to send her messages; it would be her responsibility to figure out what they meant.
"Things are pretty well." She had to take that for what it was. Her mother would not unnecessarily lie to her. If she said their family was well, then they must be. She moved on.
"Dad's been working overtime." Well that could mean many things. If the Ministry was forcing her father to work late, maybe they thought if they kept a closer eye on him, they'd be able to monitor his affairs better. Then again, her "father's work" could mean the Order. Had they found something important, had they stumbled upon a new lead?
The questions only frustrated her more, and she forced herself to continue.
"Your poor brother's still sick." That one she needed no help translating. If her brother was still feigning illness, then that meant they had not returned. They were still out there, they were still doing whatever it was they were doing, and she, like her mother, still did not know anything about their whereabouts or conditions.
She studied the words for a long time, almost wishing that they would change into new ones to pacify her desperation. They did not.
"Don't worry about that problem we were talking about." She read the line again. The problem they were talking about, what could that be?
She glanced around the room to clear her head, and it suddenly came to her. She remember now, what it had been that she last discussed with her dear mother, the night before she was to board the Hogwarts Express. It had been the first time she'd opened up to her mother about what she was truly feeling, her true fears, her true worries....
Her mother came into her room just as Ginny was preparing for bed. Her trunk was already packed, leaning against the far wall, and she was brushing her long hair in front of the mirror.
Ginny looked up when her mother entered but her mother did not acknowledged her until she sat down at the foot of her bed. Ginny set down her brush and her mother patted the quilt next to her, begging her to sit too. So she did, rather curiously, and turned to face her mother.
"You were very quiet at dinner," her mother commented, looking at her strangely.
Ginny held her gaze only for a few moments. "Was I?"
"Yes, you were." Her mother paused. Ginny glanced at her again but found her mother's eyes still examining her face. "Was there anything you wanted to talk about?"
Ginny frowned at the floor. Was there anything she wanted to talk about? Well of course there was. She wanted to talk about what they were planning on doing next, how they were going to defeat Voldemort and what would happen if they didn't. She wanted to talk about how she could go back to school by herself, how she was supposed to make it on her own. She wanted to talk about her family, and how they were supposed to have any kind of chance if they weren't even fully together.
But most of all, she wanted to talk about him.
Her mother sensed this too and whispered, "Tell me."
Ginny finally looked up into her mother's eyes. "I'm scared."
It was the first time she'd ever said it aloud, and suddenly she couldn't hold back any longer.
Her mother let her spill her heart out. She sat there, an entity Ginny could find solace in, and nodded, whispering words of comfort and wisdom whenever she saw fit.
Ginny told her everything. She told her how she'd always loved him, how she'd tried to tell him, time and time again. How she couldn't bear to see him in danger, in trouble, and that she'd do anything, anything, if it meant she could ensure his safety. How she wished she could stop him sometimes, tell him that he didn't need to be a hero, that he could forget the rest of the world for all she cared, if he would just stay with her.
Finally she fell silent, tear slowly trickling down her face.
Her mother looked at her and Ginny looked back through the wetness. "It's kind of funny isn't it? Love," her mother said eventually. "You think you'd do anything for your other half, that you would risk your very life for them if you had to."
Ginny wasn't sure what her mother was getting at, but she did not interrupt.
"I've seen the way he looks at you," her mother continued. "I've seen that look and I know what it means, even if you don't. He loves you, Ginny. He loves you and that's why he does what he does. He has to fight, can't you see? He has to because he knows he must. Because he wants to keep you safe."
Ginny shook her head but her mother made her stop by cupping her cheek in her warm hand.
"You can't worry about him," she murmured. "He loves you; I know he loves you so much. You can't worry about him because he's so strong and he's so brave and he's always pulled through. He's doing it for you, for us, for the world. Don't fear for him, support him, and show him that you care for him, just as much as he cares for you."
And her mother smiled sweetly, gently whipping away the tears on her daughter's cheeks.
Ginny was crying again, in fact, she couldn't be sure that she had ever stopped.
It was her mother's words that had made her so adamant about making a ruckus if someone insulted him. It was because, she knew, as her mother had said, that he needed her support because he was doing it for her. He was doing it because he loved her.
Ginny looked out the window, at the rain, and curled up farther into the chair. The tears were coming faster, and she didn't think she'd be able to stop them.
"I love you too, Harry," she whispered with whatever strength she had left, before she was forced to succumb to the sobs.
A/N: It would be very kind of you to leave a review (hint, hint).