Chapter One: Reactions.
It was as if the place had been untouched. The three walked through the portrait hole, seeing the familiar red and gold tapestries neatly hung on the walls; the overstuffed chairs and sofas as inviting as they remembered in their 6th year. Parchment and sugar quills lay strewn about the many tables, as if the students had merely rushed away from their studies to go out and explore the bright summer outdoors. It was cozy… Unharmed… Home…
Harry slowly seated himself in the overstuffed chair, Ron and Hermione plopping onto the adjacent sofa. The battle was over, explanations given, and the day was coming to a close. Harry couldn't help but want to smile at the awkwardness of Ron's long arm around Hermione… Want to, being the key phrase... Hermione finally buried her face in Ron's shoulder, letting out a huge sob. Harry suddenly felt extremely awkward. He mentally shook himself, thinking "Merlin's Pants, we just fought a war. This is nothing…" As Ron put his arms around Hermione and gave her such a tender, concerned look that Harry felt deserved the utmost of privacy, and not wanting to interfere with the awkwardness between his two best mates, he thought he would pursue the sleep and sandwich he had been hoping for.
Shifting quietly out of his chair, he made his way up the stairs, trying not to creek as he walked up. A sting of fear shot through at the first creek, but the two on the sofa didn't bother looking up. Finally reaching the top, he realized how truly tired he was.
His body was heavy.
Two beds perfectly made, as if they were waiting for him and his red-haired friend to return. With no hesitation, he climbed into his bed, unable to form any comprehensible analysis of the room, the day, the two on the couch…
His mind was heavy.
His head sunk into the pillow, feeling the soft, cool cotton fabric; the comfort of the familiarity that this place had brought to him.
Through the open windows a thick, summer breeze wafted through: warm, humid, and heavy. Harry took off his shirt and robe, not caring about modesty – surely nobody was going to come up. Ron would be tending to Hermione.
They were alive.
Despite his tired thoughts, he couldn't help but notice the scent of charred wood and flesh in the breeze. The after-stench of war.
His heart stabbed as each of their faces ran through his mind. So many lie one next to the other on the Great Hall table. His eyelids grew heavier as he stared at Ron's bed. His eyelids fell heavier with every waft of the Hogwarts air. Thick… Humid… Charred…
Heavy.
Hermione sobbed into Ron's shirt. He patted her back, not knowing what to do. She gripped his waist, drawing him closer, shooting a surge of protective possession through his body. She was here. She was alive. He gripped her tighter, and closer, burying his face in her hair. It was over… Through the open windows, Ron could smell the thick, summer breeze: warm, humid, charred, like the scent of burn flesh and hair. It was so…
Heavy.
She rested her head on Molly's shoulder, her mother's red hair brushing against her forehead as she clung to her red-haired daughter. Molly's sobbing had reduced to sniffling, and clinging to Ginny, which was a relief. On top of all the sadness around her, she could never truly handle it when her mother was sad, let alone sobbing and sniveling past the point of recognizable speech. She looked on at the people lying on the wooden tables… A boy whose cheeks had always been rosy, and whose eyes had been bugging with enthusiasm lay with a gray pallor, eyes gently shut. Colin Creevey was never a candidate for Madam Goldhue's sun tanning potion, but what rosy bits on his pale skin was gone; gone cold, and gray… though, Ginny noted, peaceful...
Ginny felt a stab of pain on top of the already malaise. She felt a harsh sting in her eyes… But no tears would fall.
Her eyes moved down the line from Colin to the Order members… Tonks… Professor Lupin… One, next to the other. They were a pair of mismatched book ends: quirky. Odd looking when together, yet complementary. On their own they were another oddity tossed to the side by the world, but together, they worked. She brushed hair out off her old professor's face. Unconditional kindness, he remembered most of all. Tonks was the same. Whenever Harry snapped and got cranky in her fourth year, Tonks managed to make Ginny laugh, and smile. She remembered most specifically pig snouts and duck bills at dinner time… And how Lupin had a twinkle in his eyes as he'd peek back at them, during secretive discussions. Teddy had wonderful parents. Teddy will know how great they were… how much they loved him. How much they were loved…
Her eyes moved over the pair to another half of a pair of bookends, or rather, a set of 9. The red-haired boy lay cold and still on the wood in front of her. Three freckles on his left cheek., 4 on his right. She knew these well.
Fred was gone.
She couldn't help but let a small smile crack in her face. What the bloody hell is wrong with me? Fred was the instigator. Of the twins, he was the first to prank. The first to try and bury Ginny alive; the first to suggest putting Ginny on the top of a wardrobe; the first to be set on fire when Ginny had her first spout of magic. Just above his left cheekbone was a little scratch, no bigger than her pinky nail; not from the war, but from their childhood battles.
Fred and George had one day decided that it would be brilliant to tie Ginny, the smallest of the nine, to a Ministry Owl and deliver her to Mr. Weasley – she had been playing with his batteries, and left them rolling about on the floor. She couldn't have been more than 5, she recalled.
"Just like dad, she is! Ought to learn from him in a more proper environment… right, George?"
This took place in the garden shed, or rather, Arthur. Weasley's Muggle Junk Hoarding Shack, as Mrs. Weasley often called it. Being a both a garden shed and "hoarding shack," there were many things strewn on the floor which were most likely not proper for a small child. The owl flapped and screeched as it was being bound by its belly to Ginny's back – Ginny reached for the closest thing, a muggle stapler, grabbed its bottom, and swung. George was standing back; but her attacker, Fred, had received the blunt of the blow. It hit him in the face with such force that it managed to expel several staples, one of which stuck, the rest scratched and fell. George roared with laughter, as Ginny threw off the
Ginny snorted a little laugh, in spite of the tears rolling down her face, her chin trembling. "I guess George'll have to take over the teasing…Right, mum?" she said quietly, feeling as though she had lost a part of her. Molly held her closer, as Ginny turned to bury her face in her mother. Something she hadn't done since before Hogwarts. She cried for Colin. She cried for Remus and Tonks. She cried for Fred.
She cried for her mother. She had lived. Her father was alive. All but one of her brothers had lived. Harry, Hermione, Neville, Luna… They were alive.
"Mum?" she said, looking up through blurry vision.
"Yes, dear?" Molly squeezed her tighter.
"Mum, I'm going to go to the Gryffindor tower. I want to see it once more before this is all over."
Ginny kissed her mother, and turned to go, mentally shaking herself, wiping her tears, made the long, trek to the tower.
"Wait, dear! Isn't Harry up there?"
Ginny turned, and thinking back to how she saw her brother, Hermione, and him walk toward the tower, she nodded, hoping her mother wouldn't discourage her going up there.
"Hold on, Ginny, dear. He must be famished. I'll make him a sandwich." She bustled toward the kitchen. Surely it would be a wreck, Ginny thought. Though, with a small grin she continued, Hermione did rally them quite a bit back in third yea… Maybe they took a self-defense course or two… Ginny wondered how her mother
How could her mother be worried about food or feeding anyone at a time like this? Fred was on the table where mother and daughter both stood, looking on. Oh no… Ginny thought. She knew what she was to meet at the road ahead.
Molly walked back with a large sandwich, stuffed so that it was barely staying together, and a goblet of pumpkin juice.
"Funny they didn't raid the kitchen, lot of ruddy barbarians," spat Molly. "The house elves cleaned it up rather quickly, though they quite enjoyed recounting the tale about that one, erm—Blinky's or Winky's crack at one of the Death Eaters… She--"
"Mum," Ginny interrupted. She looked into her mother's eyes, concerned.
"Alright, dear. Off before the juice gets warm." Molly kissed her daughter, and turned back to Fred, brushing his fringe from his forehead as if he were merely sleeping. Something was not right in this picture, Ginny thought… Her mind swam with thoughts of all those dead. All left behind. All that was over. All that was to begin.
Her head hurt.
Her mind hurt.
Her body hurt.
The air felt so… Heavy.
Up the stairs she went, careful not to spill any of the juice, or slosh it on the sandwich. The Fat Lady in the Portrait merely smiled at her. "Go on, dearie. They're already in there." They? The portrait swung open, revealing the great hole through which Ginny had climbed so many times before. Ginny immediately saw the "they" of which the Fat Lady spoke: Ron, awkwardly holding Hermione on the couch. Patting her back, and mumbling what he assumed were words of comfort, again, in an awkward manner. She crept past the two; neither noticed, and seemed to be wrapped up in their business on the overstuffed sofa. At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped and turned, smiling a little at Ron's clumsy hands patting Hermione's back. With that, she went up the dormitory staircase, reaching what she knew was Neville and Seamus' room. Harry and Ron had been there, and from the late-night Dumbledore's Army meetings, Ginny knew exactly what Harry's living quarters would have been like, had he been there. Well, much neater without him, I assume, thought Ginny.
She knocked gently on the closed door, opening when there was no response. Harry lay fast asleep on the bed. His glasses askew, shirt on the floor; his mouth open a bit, as he gently snored. His hair was ruffled in every which way, reminding Ginny of the first time she saw the ragged-haired boy on Platform 9 ¾, Harry's first year. Placing the tray of food and juice on the bedside table, she pulled a chair next to Harry, and sat.
Some of his hair had stuck to his forehead. She reached over and brushed the stray fringe to the side, leaving her hand on the side of his face. Touching his face comforted her so greatly, Ginny almost forgot about the strange incident earlier with her mother… Harry was… Not just a traveling name on PotterWatch. He was tangible. He was here. As she let her hand rest on his cheek, he sighed heavily, not waking from her touch. Harry had grown quite a bit since she last saw him; his face was… older. Remembering the muggle Harlequin Romance novels her mother had read so voraciously, and how the men on the front cover had a "chiseled jaw," as were described, and "buff physique," she felt great happiness that though his face had been worn from exhaustion and rugged lifestyle of constantly being on the run from Voldemort, Harry's features had not hardened, or become like the facade of the "Greek olive farmer" her mother had once read about.
Harry's forehead creased, and he shifted onto his back, throwing an arm over his head so fast, Ginny removed her hand with a start. His cheeks lost their reddish warmth from what she assumed sleep brought, and began to pale, sweat collecting on his forehead. She felt cold sweat on his brow; his breathing becoming heavier, he muttered something Ginny couldn't understand… She leaned in closer, to hear.
Harry tossed his head from one side to the other has he spoke.
"No…" Ginny felt a stab of pain. She, too, had experienced nightmares. She could only imagine that his were as bad, if not worse..
"Hedwig." Harry raised the hand above his head, slightly. His pet. Ginny remembered how he had told her at Auntie Muriel's that Hedwig had gotten hit with the Killing Curse. Although Hedwig was snippy with Harry, she knew the two loved each other. She recalled a time when Hedwig had returned a letter from Dumbledore, her fifth year. Ginny had snuck up to Harry's dormitory to discuss quiddich tactics, when Hedwig flew through the window in a commotion of wings and wind and parchment, resting on the footboard of Harry's four-poster bed. She set out her leg, and nipped his hand affectionately as he reached to stroke her soft, white feathers. Never was Harry unkind to an animal, she thought, watching him.
Ginny put her hand on Harry's arm, as he muttered about Hedwig waking up, about the motorcycle…
"Harry." He did not wake, the crease in his brow only deepened. "Harry!" She said, shaking him a bit harder and moving to sit on the edge of his bed. His breath hitched, as if he were about to let out a dry sob, witnessing a traumatic event. "Harry!" she shouted, jumping a bit as he shot up in his bed, scrambling for his wand, and panting hard.
"Harry, it's me." He looked at her, sweat beading down his forehead, blinking furiously. Once he had gained consciousness, he looked rather embarrassed.
She handed him his glasses, and with no time for him to stammer some embarrassed protest, she pulled him into a hug more ferocious and protective than her mother had ever managed. Harry buried his face in her shoulder, holding on to her as tightly as she held onto him, breathing unevenly and shakily.
Ginny released him, Harry not meeting her eyes. His breathing had steadied after several minutes of regaining consciousness and composure. Harry saw she sat in a wood chair next to his bedside table. Next to her was a large plate, the majority of which was filled with a large, corned beef sandwich and goblet of pumpkin juice. Harry let go of her, not knowing what to say, embarrassed that someone was watching him sleep.
Noticing his awkwardness, Ginny couldn't help but smile at the cumbersome, clumsy boy sitting ajacent to her. She flipped up one side of the covers, and scooted in next to him.
Surprised by the small, red-haired girl, Harry shifted to make room for her, not knowing what to do in a situation like this. He wanted nothing more than to put his arms around her, and bury his face in her shoulder again. But putting more thought into it, he didn't really feel it appropriate to appear to put the moves on her, especially because of her newly deceased family members… Propping up pillows and shifting the duvet, she nested into place, and smiled.
When settled, she reached over to the table, handed him a large half of the sandwich. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. After having traveled so long and eating food conjured by Hermione, the most brilliant, yet not domestically so, witch Harry knew, he imagined that even a boiled leather boot would taste wonderful. But a sandwich. Harry looked over at the other half, nodded at it, then at Ginny.
"No, I'm not hungry."
Harry looked at her, raised an eyebrow, knowing that if she were at all related to Ron, she would be voracious, especially after…
Ginny took the sandwich, not wanting to contradict Harry at this time, eating a few bites and setting it back hastily. She was hungry. Why am I thinking of food at a time like this? she thought to herself.
After Harry shoved the last bit of the sandwich in his mouth, Ginny ran her fingers through his hair, and pulled him down into a tight embrace. She cradled his head in her arms; he felt her chest rise and fall against his cheek. Although his heart was pounding, he was feeling drowsy, yet again. However thrilling it was to have her arms around him again, and his arms around her waist, it was so… comfortable.
Pulling him down with her, Ginny shifted further down into the covers. She kept a tight hold of him. Harry realized she wasn't letting go. Finally, Harry gave in, forgetting any embarrassment he may have felt, and held her closer. She was warm, a kind of warm that he could not explain. Ginny radiated… peace.
His entire body grew heavier, and heavier, as she enveloped him in relief; and with one long, deep breath, Harry let go, and plunged into a deep, dreamless sleep.