The Days After
The characters, settings, world of Harry Potter do not belong to me. I gain nothing by writing these stories other than the pleasure of further exploring their lives and times.
Chapter Two
"C'mon, mate, Mum's got breakfast ready for us."
Harry squinted against the morning sun. His reply to Ron was nothing more than a grunt, but it seemed to satisfy his friend, who had already left the room and was clattering down the steps. If anyone else had been asleep in the house, they weren't any more.
Sounds of people stirring in the old house - along with the smell of coffee - urged Harry out of bed. He sat on the edge of the cot which had become an old friend over the years, set up for him in Ron's room whenever he had spent time with the Weasleys, and put on his glasses. The room hadn't changed much, though it seemed smaller. The ghoul was quiet for a change, probably happy to have the spattergroit spell removed. With a pang, Harry realized all the boxes marked "WWW" were gone, too.
And then he thought of Fred.
Fred, who came into his thoughts in sharply defined memories. Fred and George, inseparable, riding their brooms away from Hogwarts after their victory over Umbridge. Fred, hovering over his brother, trying to help his mother staunch the blood from his severed ear. Fred, killed seconds after hearing his newly-restored brother Percy actually telling a joke. Fred, his coffin being lowered into a grave in the magically-hidden family cemetery in a small wood behind the house.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to shake the renewed feelings of grief, knowing he could not allow himself the luxury when he came into Molly's kitchen. There had been many losses in his life, for which he felt deep and lasting remorse: his parents, Sirius, Hedwig, Moody, Dobby, Remus and Tonks - so many. If there was a reason why he dwelt so much on Fred's death, Harry didn't know it. He was too drained, his head in too much of a muddle to figure it out right now.
His weariness continued to weigh on him. He'd slept more in the last three days than he had in as many months. He rested after breakfast, rested after lunch, went to bed early. But still the tiredness lingered. Hermione and Ron were picking up physically, though they both still grieved for Fred. They often went on long walks together, sometimes asking Harry to accompany them, but he usually declined, feeling too tired to go along.
This morning, as he tried to hurry, he felt sluggish: no pain exactly, but there was a nagging misery deep inside him he couldn't shake. Coming down the steps, he made an effort to hide it. Molly was waiting for him, pan in hand, serving up bacon and eggs onto a heated plate. The sight of her, carrying on as best she could when he knew the loss of Fred was an almost overwhelming pain in her heart, melted his own.
Everyone but George was at the table; they all greeted Harry in that warm, un-prepossessed way he had come to know and love. Even Percy was back to his old, pre-Umbridge ways.
"Sit down, dear, and tuck in. You need a bit of feeding up."
"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley."
"Now, as to that," Mr. Weasley spoke up from the end of the table, "Molly and I have been discussing it, and we feel it's high time you called us by our Christian names."
"But I - " Harry felt all eyes on him, and stuttered as he tried to explain. "It wouldn't - I mean, it isn't. . ." He took a breath and blinked, the room darkening for a second. "It's just that, well, I could never call my mum and dad by their Christian names. I wish. . ." He swallowed, waves of exhaustion washing over him again, his body growing heavier as if someone were piling stones on him. "I wish I could explain. . ."
But everyone looked as if they knew exactly what he was trying to say to the two people who had treated him, from the very first day they'd met, with kindness and fondness: that calling them by their first names would, in Harry's eyes, take away from the deep respect and affection - the deep love he felt for Arthur and Molly Weasley.
Molly's eyes filled with tears and she reached over to hug Harry from behind, laying her cheek against his. "We understand, dear, don't we Arthur?"
Mr. Weasley, his heart full, simply nodded, reaching over to pat Harry's arm.
ooOOoo
The walk to the family cemetery was a short one, just to the small copse of ancient evergreens behind the house. Emotionally, Harry dreaded the walk, recalling the pain of three days ago when he followed the casket – carried, not levitated – to Fred's last resting place. The finality of the grave, the lowering of the box, the rich, dark dirt shoveled on top; the clean, earthy smell of it and the trees, was so achingly poignant Harry was amazed none of them were brought to their knees. Physically, Harry was glad the walk was short, because the path ambled across an uncut field concealing dips and hillocks that made him stumble. The heaviness he had felt during breakfast grew stronger, and he found himself concentrating on just putting one foot in front of the other. He looked up from the path only when he felt the coolness of the shade of the trees.
Three days ago, as he had stood here with the Weasleys, the minister – an old friend of the family – said some very comforting words. Father Breandan, though not exactly a Squib, had very little magical ability. But what he lacked in magic was more than made up for by his big heart. About Arthur's age, he had been present for every special Weasley family event – births, christenings, and weddings – Arthur and Molly's the first, and Bill and Fleur's the most recent. Harry first met Father Breandan – in disguise – at that wedding. Father Bren, as the family called him, was surprised to meet Harry again without the disguise; it took a little explaining before he realized the spectacled person whose hand he was shaking was the same un-spectacled one he'd met under the wedding tent a year before. Their conversation had been brief, however, the reverend's time taken up with the immediate family and, especially, George.
Now the family gathered around the grave again, Molly holding on to Arthur's arm, Ginny and Harry holding hands, Ron and Hermione doing the same. Bill and Fleur were in London, having left the day before – as was Percy. Charlie was still in Romania, not able to leave due to the escape of several dragons who were wreaking their own havoc in that area. Just because Voldemort was dead didn't mean there wasn't much work to be done.
George was conspicuously absent. Harry had asked after him at breakfast; Arthur answered for Molly, who struggled to hold back tears and was unable to speak.
"He's taken his broom and gone off, just at daybreak. Our boy's in great pain, Harry. It's as if half his heart has been ripped out. I suppose, in a way, that's the very thing that did happen. I don't think he's gone far; I saw him walking around near the old Lovegood ruins yesterday. It's secluded and quiet there, and a stream runs nearby where he can sit and think."
"Best to leave him to it for a few more days," Molly managed to say, her eyes shining, her smile brave.
Harry took a deep breath, willing away the thoughts, the ever-present grief that hung over him. The group stood silently, looking at the new headstone. It bore Fred's full name, dates of birth and death, with the simple inscription, "Killed in the Great Battle". There would never be a need for further explanation; many graves would bear similar dedications.
What struck Harry the most was the Celtic Knot below the inscription. It was cut neatly in half, the left side engraved in the granite – the right side missing. Harry knew where the other half would be some day – in the fulfillment of time – when George joined his brother there, in the quiet under the trees.
Ginny and Hermione removed the fading flowers, replacing them with fresh ones. Molly stretched her hand toward the headstone, touching it. Then, lifting her chin, she turned away and walked toward the house, out into the sunshine. Everyone followed her example, Harry last.
"Fred," he murmured, and stood there a few seconds with his hand resting on the headstone, the slow burning deep inside increasing sharply, the heaviness almost unsupportable. "I never wanted. . ."
"Coming, Harry?" Ron called, standing with Hermione and Ginny in the sunlight.
"Yeah, I'm. . ." Harry turned to follow the path out of the woods, but the pain hit him hard and his sight failed him.
His friends ran towards him as he fell to the ground.
