IX
"Ginny?"
"Nnnh."
"Are you awake?"
"No. G'sleep, Ermynee."
"Can I ask you something?"
Ginny groaned and fumbled on her nightstand for her wand. She flicked it once, and the light turned on. She poked her head up and stared at Hermione through her puffy eyes, yawning hugely. "Whuh?"
Hermione was lying on her back in her camp bed, one arm folded behind her head as she stared at the ceiling. She was wearing the expression that usually meant she had been deep in thought for quite a while, and had no idea where she was, let alone what time it was; Ginny glanced at the clock: two-thirty.
"Hermione," she said, when Hermione did not speak right away. "Talk, or I'm going back to sleep."
"Do you think about Tonks a lot?"
Ginny blinked. "Er…well…I suppose. I miss her."
"What about Fred?"
"Hermione, you're doing that thing that I hate," she said, feeling uncomfortable. She couldn't stand Hermione's detached, hypothetical moods. "Talk like a real person, please."
Hermione seemed to shake herself, and sat up on her elbow, looking at Ginny seriously. "Sorry. I was thinking of too many things."
Ginny nodded patiently.
"I just meant…you think about Fred, don't you? And Tonks, and Mad-Eye, and Remus? You do, right?"
"Of course," Ginny replied. "All the time."
"Well, so do I!" Hermione burst out, and Ginny groaned.
"Oh, Hermione, for Merlin's sake. Is this what you and Ron were arguing about after dinner?"
"He says that—I'm not feeling as much as I should. Like I'm not coping," Hermione muttered angrily, dropping onto her back again. "What does he know, though?"
Ginny yawned, seizing her pillow and starting to mash it into a more comfortable ball. She picked up her wand and turned out the lights again "Hermione, as firmly as I believe that Ron has no business telling other people how to deal with their feelings…" she paused, yawning yet again, "…especially when he has all the tact and subtlety of a Confunded graphorn, I sort of agree with him."
Hermione made a spluttering noise. "What?"
Ginny opened her eyes reluctantly. She could just see Hermione's outline in the darkness. "You know how you told me I need to remember that it's okay to be happy? I'm just saying that sometimes, you need to remember that it's okay to be sad. Or whatever the hell you're feeling. Sometimes you turn off your emotions and just do that weird thing with books."
"Reading?" Hermione asked tartly.
"That's the one," Ginny replied. She heard an angry huff from Hermione's bed, but smiled to herself; it meant she had won the argument, for Hermione had nothing more to say, for a few moments at least.
"I hope you know that was utterly useless advice," she sniffed at last.
"Mm-hmm," Ginny mumbled into her pillow. "Go to sleep."
"Morning," said Charlie, beaming at Darya as she came limping into the kitchen, blinking in the dawn sunlight that was streaming through the window. She still leaned on her cane, but moved much more quickly than she had just yesterday. "How did you sleep?"
"Well," she said. "It's early. I didn't think anyone would be up."
"We're two hours ahead of the rest," he told her, pulling out a chair for her. "D'you want tea? Coffee?"
"Coffee," Darya mumbled, rubbing her face with her hands.
"How's your leg?" Charlie asked, placing a cup before her and pouring out.
"Stop asking me questions and come here for a moment," Darya laughed, holding out one hand. Charlie took it nervously, and she gave him a gentle kiss on the back of his hand. "Good morning."
Charlie's stomach squirmed. "Morning," he said weakly.
Darya chuckled. "I think I might have embarrassed your brother last night. And Harry Potter, too."
Charlie shrugged. "I didn't exactly warn you that he'd be here. I don't think of it as strange anymore. But I wouldn't worry about it."
"Still, I won't be so rude again," Darya said. "I am afraid I hurt the girl—Herm—Herm-oney's feelings."
"Hermione," he told her. "And don't worry. The three of them have sort of all been together for a really long time. I think they're used to it by now."
Darya nodded, looking pensive. "That doesn't mean that I was not rude. I don't think I really stopped to imagine what it might mean, to come home for Christmas with you."
Charlie's heart twisted painfully. "Oh."
"No!" she said suddenly. "Oh! No, that—" she swore in Russian. "That is my stupid English not saying what I mean to say!" she told him. "I am sorry. I am so glad to be here, Charlie, I am. I mean that I didn't know what I would see, you know?"
"Right," he said, and Darya placed a hand on his arm.
"Where do you go for Christmas gifts?" she asked. "I want to find something for you—and your family."
"You don't have to do that."
"I do," Darya said firmly. "I have met your family, I most certainly do."
George opened the living room window and took a deep breath of the morning air in the alley; it was icy cold, and the sky was cloudy. Perhaps it would finally snow. He had fallen asleep almost immediately after locking up last night, and felt well rested and more relaxed than he had in months.
He turned and faced his messy flat, his eyes lingering on the pathetic little Christmas tree that Angelina had insisted he get. It was so small—barely a foot high—that it sat on the windowsill. Grudgingly, he filled a glass with water and carried it over to the tree, dumping it into its bowl. "That's all you're getting," he grumbled at it.
He frowned. Something beside the tree had caught his eye. Then his heart plummeted. He picked up the small, wrapped gift and flipped open the card he had written:
To Angelina,
Love, George
He had forgotten the earrings. He had forgotten Angelina's appointment and he had forgotten that he had bought her the earrings that she had admired for months in the windows of Lee's parents' jewelry shop.
"Damn," he muttered.
He stared at the box in his hand, furious. He had been so wrapped up in himself that he had forgotten all about the damned earrings—something stupid and pointless that had made Angelina smile—and that he'd bought them for her. George stormed back across the flat, flinging the little box against the wall. All this time he had been wondering why, why Angelina had left him, why she had given up on him.
But now, a nasty voice in the back of his mind said, Do you even need to ask? George glared down at the box, slightly crushed on one corner where it had hit the wall. You don't deserve her, and she deserves better than you.
"Damn," he swore again, more loudly. He paced back and forth, trying to relieve his sudden, pounding anger—and then he froze, his heart stopping. He had just caught sight of Fred, standing in their bedroom.
Without turning, George closed his eyes and counted to ten. It was not real, he told himself. It could not be real. Slowly, he opened his eyes and pivoted slowly to face the point where he had seen Fred.
It was the mirror that hung on the wall above their beds. George had seen himself in it, and it was his own reflection that gazed back at him right now. He could see the mop of orange hair and the pale white face and, most distinctly, his missing ear. It was himself, his own reflection, and not Fred.
You prat, you saw me because you were acting like me.
George pushed the thought away; he was not about to go mad now. But there was a kernel of truth in what Fred's voice said in the back of his mind.
If there was one thing for which George had never forgiven Fred, it was his selfishness—occasional, rare, and George had always managed to move beyond it—but he couldn't forgive it, because he had never been able to understand it. Actually, early on, in his fits of despondency, George had even blamed Fred for getting himself killed, as though he had had some say in the matter, or he could have known that a stupid wall would be the thing that got him.
You saw me because you were acting like me.
How could he have been so stupid? George pressed his hands to his forehead, rubbing his eyes furiously. How could he have let this happen? It was no wonder Angelina had lost patience with him. It was no wonder she was gone, and better off for it, because he had lost patience with himself!
You saw me because you were acting like me.
He snatched up the box and tore the card off, glancing down at his watch. He had more than an hour until opening, so he crammed the gift in his pocket, tied on his robe more securely, and scrambled downstairs.
He had to get to the post office.
Arthur whistled a Christmas carol as he carried a stack of firewood in the kitchen door, where he met Ginny, who was up bright and early, already wearing her cloak.
"Morning, Daddy," she said, pecking his cheek as she passed. "I'm going to check on Harry's present."
"Wear something other than your slippers, it's freezing out there!" Arthur called after her; she was already out the door, but stopped and came back inside, picking up her boots.
"Where's Mum?" she asked, tying them tightly as she sat at the breakfast table. "I haven't seen her yet."
Arthur did a double take. "You haven't?"
Ginny raised her head. "No…why?"
He swallowed hard, setting down the firewood promptly. "Nothing, dear."
She frowned at him. "Dad?"
"What, sweetheart?" he asked, busying himself with stacking the wood on the pile in the scullery. "Yes, you can have some of Errol's Owl Treats."
"No, that's not what I wanted," Ginny said quickly. "I was just wondering if Mum is all right? She hasn't been herself."
Arthur's heart sank, but he turned and faced Ginny, kissing her forehead quickly. "Of course she is, sweetheart. You know how tiring things get around this time of year. Don't worry about it." He looked out the window. "Looks cold, though. You should take an extra blanket out to the shed for the owl."
"Reckon it'll snow?" asked Ginny, picking up a soft, worn towel and refolding it. She seemed to be watching Arthur for signs of cracking—of giving up information. He smiled at her.
"Maybe so," he said. "Go check on the owl. Your Mum and I'll get breakfast going."
He watched as Ginny went out the back door, waiting until he could just see her go in the shed, and then he pelted towards the stairs. He did not know what made him so sure, but he knew that something was wrong.
"Molly?" He pushed the bedroom door open. "Molly, darling, are you awake?"
"Arthur?"
Squinting through the semi-darkness because he did not want to draw the blinds and disturb her, he found his way to the bedside and knelt down. Molly was curled on her side, shivering as though she were cold. He touched her shoulder. "Sweetheart, are you all right?"
She shook her head. Her face was white, and she looked very ill. "I feel awful."
Arthur placed a hand on her forehead. "You've got a bit of a fever. I'm going to Floo St. Mungo's."
"No, no," Molly insisted, catching his wrist. "I'll be all right. I just need to rest, don't call the hospital."
"I'd feel better—"
"Arthur," she said softly, "I know I haven't made it easy for the last few days, but please, don't call them."
"Molly," he said gently, and she gazed pleadingly at him. He could see it; she could not bear going to the hospital for Christmas. He sighed heavily, unwilling to give in, though he knew that this was the more rational decision. "Let me make you a deal. If you stay in bed and sleep—no knitting, no wrapping, no getting up at all—but you rest and relax, I'll be the only one to look after you. But tonight, if you've still got the fever, or you get worse later today, I'm taking you straight to St. Mungo's."
"It's not necessary," she protested, but Arthur squeezed her hand, trying to communicate to her all he felt in the painful lump that rose in his chest every time he thought of Molly being ill. And, by some miracle, a small piece of it seemed to reach her. She sighed and nodded. "All right. But I won't get any worse."
Arthur kissed her hot forehead. "I believe you. You don't even know how much."
"What will you tell them?" she asked, nodding to the door.
"I'll think of something," he promised.
She bit her lip, looking thoughtful. "I think you should tell them the truth."
"Do you want me to?" Arthur asked seriously. Molly thought for another moment. Then she nodded. "All right," he said. "Go to sleep, now. I'll come back in a bit with some chicken soup."
He got up to leave, but Molly caught hold of his hand. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said.
"Oh, Mollywobbles," he replied, and she laughed. "Of course. That's why I'm here."
"I love you, Arthur," she said, just before he closed the door.
He beamed, feeling happiness that had been absent for far too long rise in his heart. "Me too, Molly."
"Dragon pox?" Ron repeated, feeling stunned. He looked at Harry over their chess game. "That's a kid's disease. That's what Dad said was wrong with her?"
Ginny rubbed her eyes hard. She sat on the sofa beside Hermione, who was stringing popcorn; it was a Muggle tradition that Hermione had always practiced at home, and she was having fun turning the popcorn different colors with taps of her wand.
"But she's going to be all right?" Harry asked worriedly. Ron glanced at him again; he looked very tense. "I mean, he said that too, didn't he?"
"She says she just needs to sleep, and she'll be up to cook dinner for all of us," said Ginny; she had just spent an hour upstairs with Mum while Dad had run out for some food from the Leaky Cauldron. Not long ago, he had hurried upstairs without so much as a hello, bearing a steaming bowl and a soupspoon, and Ginny had come down a few minutes later. "I don't know. I wish I'd known—I could've—"
"Ginny," Hermione said gently, "There's nothing you could have done." Ron tried to give Hermione a grateful smile, but she missed his gaze.
"Yeah, Gin," he said. "It's just…one of those things." Ron glanced over at Hermione, who was now plainly ignoring him.
Ginny, however, seemed to notice his desperation. "Harry, come in the kitchen for a minute?" she asked, standing up suddenly. "Let's see what we can find for dinner so Mum doesn't have to cook."
Harry looked startled, but Ginny widened her eyes significantly. Ron hesitated for a moment, but Ginny threw him a filthy look and he fell silent. He watched as Harry followed Ginny out of the room, his stomach twisting anxiously, and then looked around at Hermione once more.
Fragments of their argument the night before floated between them, and he felt as though he were trying to navigate a particularly unpleasant and dangerous maze of emotions. Then, Hermione surprised him.
"So…are you all right? After all this with your mum, I mean," she said.
"Er," said Ron, feeling caught off guard, "I guess. I mean, she's going to be okay."
Hermione smiled at him. "Of course she is."
Ron felt a sudden swell of courage, and steeled himself. "Hermione, I'm really sorry about last night."
She blinked. "I know you are."
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
"I know," she said, more insistently. "You didn't mean it." She turned back to the popcorn in her hands.
"No," Ron said, shaking his head vigorously. "Seriously, Hermione. Can't we talk about this?"
"I'd rather not," said Hermione. She was avoiding his eyes again. "Really. I don't want to talk about it."
"Hermione, please," Ron said. He glanced to the kitchen doorway. Ginny and Harry were obviously still avoiding the room, so he stole over to the rocking chair beside Hermione. "Come on. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
"Hurt my feelings?" Hermione repeated, and she sounded a little breathless. In fact, up close, Ron could see that her cheeks were steadily turning a brighter shade of pink. His stomach clenched. That was never a good sign. "Don't worry about that, Ron. It's nearly impossible for you to hurt my feelings, remember?"
"What's going on?" Percy asked, bewildered as he came in from the kitchen, bearing many parcels and shopping bags. "Hermione, are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Percy, thanks," said Hermione, barely disguising the tremble in her voice as she leapt to her feet, thrusting the bowl of popcorn into Ron's hands and running off up the spiral stairs. Ron gaped after her, utterly shocked. Then he looked around at Percy.
"Where've you been?" he asked.
Percy held up his bags, still looking rather confused. "Shopping. Charlie and Darya are right behind me."
"Right," said Ron slowly. He looked up the staircase. Hermione was nowhere to be seen.
"Everything all right?" asked Percy.
Ron blinked, shaking his head. "I've got no idea."
"Right," said Percy. He held up his bags again. "Well, I'm off to take care of these. We can talk later."
"Sure," said Ron faintly. Percy left up the stairs, and Ron dropped his head in his hands, sighing heavily. Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches was not going to help him out of this.
