Ch. 8 Tossing and Turning


"Luna, what can I get for you? Another pot of tea? A plate of biscuits?"

"Oh I'm fine. I'm enjoying listening to your story. Please, continue."

Ginny looked at Luna, watching her friend snuggle under the afghan on the back of the couch. She stole a glance at the chair in the corner, catching her sister in law's eye. Hermione shrugged and went back to her reading. The guys never would understand this, especially Ron. Only your girlfriends can, the ones who comprehend.


Once Hermione retired for the night, I got into the firewhiskey. One shot of Ogden's Finest following three glasses of wine helped me forget the anger. A second one almost immediately guaranteed I would pass out, too intoxicated to notice the pain.

I'd pay for it. Pay for it I did.


Merlin, turn off the drummer in my head.

I sat up wincing from the pain. Nausea greeted me almost immediately, following more pounding inside my head. As horrible as I felt, the pain was welcome. The tap dancing gnomes on my face were a reminder that I was still alive and hadn't cocked up anything yet. Forgetting everything for a short while was such a relief. The pain told me I hadn't said things in anger, any more than what I said at the Ministry. That was a pat on the back, if I wouldn't be sick from the movement. I should have eaten something with those glasses of wine. Bloody stupid on my part.

I opened my eyes and looked at the clock on the mantle. Half seven. Four whole hours of drunken numbness known as sleep. Brilliant! I'm as sore as if I fell off of my broom.

The room was entirely too warm; I had on entirely too many clothes; and Hermione was in the other room grumbling in her sleep. The couch I slept on wasn't as comfortable or as pleasurable as my bed at home, snuggled into the king sized bed under goose down with an almost naked Harry in it.

I resisted the urge to go curl up in the next room with my best friend. I wanted more sleep, but I also didn't want to get too far from the loo. The war between my head and my stomach was a rough one. I didn't know who would win that one – me retching in the toilet, or falling back asleep. Both were terribly tempting.

It is one thing to prank your best friends in front of others with a kiss and a fondle. It would have been another to wonder what the bloody hell I had done. Merlin knows I've had some wicked fun times when I've been home and inebriated. Harry loves when I get silly drunk. Had I passed out in the bed with her, it would have been very awkward if I couldn't remember what happened. It's not like she'd let anything happen anyway.

Three glasses of wine and two shots of whiskey would make a troll forget.

It's not like I've not done that before, passed out at home with Harry, drunk on firewhiskey while having a party with my brothers. It was awkward at first, waking up in bed with her the first time. The worst of that was waking up to finding my hair a strange shade of green and sugar embedded in my scalp. Percy admitted the sugar, and Harry the green hair. They never tried that again when I put Bat Bogey hexes on their tender bits. It hurt me worse than him to leave it on him since he wouldn't have anything to do with me for a whole weekend. George admitted playing the prank on us that morning. Everyone laughed after Hermione finished with him. I don't think he sat comfortable in her presence for a month.

I rolled onto my side, and felt the dancing garden gnomes traipse all over my head. That'll teach me to drink Ogden's Finest after wine. I know better than that!

My stomach still rolled somewhat from the wine and whiskey the night before. I was hungry for bangers and mash, and a plate of eggs with toast. A platter of bacon might be nice too.

I sat up, and felt like crap. I swear I feel like I was beat by Oxmoor's beater brigade!

The previous night's fight came back in startling clarity, making me groan. Shite. What to do? I sat up from the couch, aching body telling me that I didn't get my back rub or my hips stretched out. Both places were competing for which was hurting worse.

I toddled into the en suite. Once glance in the mirror showed my exhaustion, and a nest of hair that will take some effort to fix. A hot shower and I'll be ready for something to eat, the greasier the better.

I brushed out my hair, working through the snarls from sleep. Once the tangles were out, another one hundred strokes made it feasible to wash.

I stripped down to my skin, seeing the scars that remind me of what I lived through. Some were physical, such as the whip marks down my back, or the cuff creases in my wrists. Some you couldn't see, such as what happened the day in the headmaster's office with Neville. Hermione was there the second time I went to use the Prefect's bath. She found me the first time cowering in a corner hallway, crying my eyes out from the flashback of being ambushed. It took months to go the second time, and only with her help was I able to do so. The embarrassment of her finding me cowering like a child was worse than sharing my bath time with her. By then, we knew each other, down to the last scars under the skin.

I finished the shower, putting on a fresh set of clothes I brought with me. It was hot as blazes in the room, but once I step out into the hallway, I'm sure it'll be freezing. Ed keeps the inn chilly outside the rooms. Cheap sod, even if I don't blame him in the least.

A noise draws my attention to the other room. Hermione is as noisy asleep as she is awake. She tosses and turns better than I do on a broom. I stole a glance, and saw that the door was cracked. I padded over to the door and looked in. Hermione was asleep in the small bed, but not sleeping well. One of my best friends was tossing and turning in the cramped bed, kicking madly while thrashing an arm. I'm not the only one who misses their sleeping partner. Damn it.

I can't make her stay again tonight. She needs him more than I need her.

I crept into the room, watching her groan from some nightmare. Tears were leaking from her eyes, trapped in a dream and sobbing from the nightmare. Blimey. I know what's going on.

I padded to the bed, dropping a kiss on her cheek, and curled into the bed behind her. Her sleep shirt was soaked, twisted on her thin frame. The groans she was making sounded like her throat was raw. I rubbed her shoulders, running my hands up and down the arms. This worked best when she was trapped in a nightmare. It worked on me when I was having one too.

That last year of school, before the nightmares tapered off, I'd have to crawl into bed with her, waking her, and letting her cry on my shoulder for hours before a restless slumber would settle on both of us. She'd wake up embarrassed that she was weak, and we'd have the same discussion we had many a morning.

You're not weak. No one else has lived through what you did without permanent damage. You survived horrors that most can't fathom. The only ones who came close have been in the closed ward for eighteen years. Being a survivor doesn't make you weak. Going alone does. But you're not alone in this, ever. Letting others help you cope makes you strong. Sharing your pain makes you strong. Trusting us, your friends, helps you heal and grow. Confiding in us, and showing those scars, that makes you strong.

A squeeze on her shoulders was enough to get her to settle down into a more peaceful slumber. Once she was breathing normally again, I gently crawled out from the bed, and went back to the sitting room. I hastily scribbled a note on some leftover scrap of parchment on the table and went downstairs to the pub for breakfast. They make a mean cook up, having had it on many occasions during training camp and the season. The bacon is just like how Mum makes it – thick cut and not quite crispy – and the bread is fresh made every morning. If I can't be home with Mum, this is a good substitute.

I sat down at the booth in the corner, catching the waitress eye. A quick order – my usual one of fried eggs, rashers, bacon and fresh sliced bread, along with a pot of tea, was enough of a start. Few minutes passed before the tea and fresh bread was brought. It was piping hot, and the butter churned and salted. It would do until the breakfast showed up.

While waiting on the champion's breakfast, my mind wandered. I wonder if I can coax Hermione to eat anything. We'll see.