In the beginning, it was every night. If one stumbled into the kitchen at three in the morning, seeking silence and a cup of tea, they were likely to find the scrubbed wooden table already occupied by another member of the family. But the kitchen became less crowded after a month or so. Charlie went back to Romania after the funeral, making promises to come home for Christmas. He had employed such platitudes every time he left his childhood home, but this time they were a bit more sincere. Bill and Fleur had returned to Shell Cottage, promising floos and family lunches.
The others stayed behind, swaddled in the quiet security of childish bedrooms. Percy, his stiffness softened by horrible grief. George, who avoided the shop and nearly everything else that wasn't a bottle or his bed. Ron, who cajoled Pig into taking thick letters to Australia, in between attempts to drag George away from said bottle and toward said shop. Ginny, more reckless than was strictly advisable as she pressed headlong in what she was sure adulthood must be. Harry, who walked around the house with his eyes on his trainers and a guilty expression, as if he himself had orphaned his godson and killed those people. Grief seemed to lurk in alleys that year, though the time was filled with beginnings and reforms and births. As anyone could have expected, grief pervaded the graveyards and the dark courtrooms, where Death Eaters bleated imperious. But grief lurked too in dark cupboards and the happiest of moments. It would perhaps have been better if the sense of personal grief did not seem to come and go. If it had existed like a sort of film over everything that year, it might have been easier. But it wasn't like that. Only sometimes did grief intrude upon happiness, and it came in the form of brightest flashes of the darkest moments.
Life moves at breakneck speed, and it does not stop for war or Molly Weasley's children. Ron and Hermione rented a flat near Charing Cross, where Hermione could write papers on the deplorable state of house elf working conditions and Ron could stay up late perfecting WWW products. Ginny fell into her bed after her Harpies workouts, but she always seemed to have enough energy to press her tiny body against Harry's thin one under the covers of her double bed or Harry's queen size.
But are those nights. The covers twist themselves around Harry's legs and his head hurts at the speed of the images flicking across his mind. The colour of Cedric's robe, of Fred's hair, of that last flash of green before the end of it all. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his legs kick out. The snake gliding forward, the screams reverberating, the dust of falling stone in his eyes and mouth.
Ginny does not turn on the light. She scoots clumsily toward Harry, her body pressing against him and her small arm reaching over his body to touch his hand. Even in the dark, she can always find his hand, and she wraps her fingers in his, the cold metal of her ring against Harry's hot palm. Her lips move near his ear. It's over, she says. You're here, she says, I love you. Never it's just a dream, because it isn't. Never you're safe, because he's not.
Harry's body stills after a few minutes. They will sleep like that, her body draped over his.
Sometimes it's Ginny. She does not kick as Harry does, instead she pulls at the covers and wraps herself into the smallest ball, freckled arms around bent knees. Her fingers turn white with the effort of holding her body together. The sickening sound of the Basilisk against stone, a fourth year's screeches of pain from Amicus's office.
Harry curls around her like a cat, coming as close as he can without letting his body touch hers. He knows better than that. Instead, he rests his head near hers and his words are muffled by her mess of red hair. In the pitch dark, he whispers I love you and You're here. Never it's just a dream, because it isn't. Never you're safe, because she's not. After a long time, she unlocks herself gingerly, and Harry knows that his touch is welcome again. Her body splays sideways on the bed, her head on Harry's chest and her ankles hanging off the side of the bed. The steady tattoo of Harry's breathing puts her to sleep within minutes, and Harry's head lolls as he falls back to sleep.
They do not turn on the lights. Such horrors of gaudy colour and dreadful realism are best confined to darkness.
The next morning, Harry makes tea as he always does. Ginny only burns the breakfast a little. She'll stand on her trainered-toes to kiss him before he clambers into the fireplace.