THAT SUMMER, Chapter 2
By Reija Linn
Bill
I took some time off from work after the incident in which my father and my little brother had been killed. My boss was understanding, they're all so bloody understanding. They wish you well, and offer their sympathies, and ask if they can do anything to help. And you stand there and nod, and thank them for their words, and all you want to do is scream, scream at them 'no, you bloody well can't *do* anything, they are dead, *dead*, and no one can bring them back, so what is there to *do*?'
But you don't, because somewhere in your mind, though overshadowed by loss and grief, you know they only mean well, that they can't fucking understand, but that they also don't know what else to do.
There wasn't even a funeral. No bodies left to bury, and returning to England was too dangerous at the moment. Right after the attack, the state of war had finally been called out by the British Ministry of Magic.
When the news about Mum reached me, I was past tears, and almost past feeling. All I wanted was to be alone, with no one to comfort me, and with no one in need of my comfort. We had gone through all of this before, hadn't we? The last time when Voldemort had held power, when my sister had died. The twins, Ron and Ginny weren't born yet, and Percy had been too young to remember, but the rest of us do... Mum had had one more kid between Charlie and Percy, our sister Tina, who had been killed in one of the Death Eaters attacks on Muggle-sympathizer's houses. The pictures of fire and smoke and the sound of my mother's screaming as Dad held her back from the smoking doorway have never left me. The four-year-old girl had been sleeping upstairs. Percy, still a baby, was wrapped in my own arms, and Charlie, who was eight years old, was sitting next to me, only nine myself, unable to speak, unable to comprehend anything except that it was *our* house burning, that is was *our* mother screaming and crying, it was *our* sister who was supposed to be here and wasn't...
The Burrow had been rebuilt with our last savings. Our family had, though never rich, been good-enough off before that, but afterwards, money had become a constant problem. And Mum had almost went insane back then, after loosing one of her children.
We had thought it was finally over. We had held to the belief that Voldemort was gone, and that our family had suffered enough under his dark reign.
And then he returned, and tore the rest of us apart. Dad and Ron... dead... Mum in St. Mungos... and the rest of us... well.
I was the oldest, and it should have been my duty to get the rest of the family back together, to take care of Mum, but I was struck with grief and unable to do much more than pity myself.
Upon arriving in Egypt, I showed Harry, who had been silent for all of our journey since the incident, and who's eyes were bright red, though I had never seen him cry during the day, to my small apartment. It contained a single bedroom, though large, a joined kitchen and dining room and a small bathroom. I put up his bed in one corner automatically, not speaking, trying not to think, welcoming every dumb, mindless work I could find as not to think about...
And somewhere in my mind I knew that Harry was suffering as I was, Ron had been his best friend, and after years of spending the summer with my parents, they had both grown very dear to him, as he to them, but my state of mind allowed for nothing but my own sorrow and self-pity.
So it was Charlie, always the practical one, always the one to act, always the fighter of the family, who was standing at my door one day, a week after it had all happened, as unable to utter a single word as I was. So we merely stood there, embracing, clinging to each other, and finally releasing the tears we hadn't been able to shed before.
Harry, who had been really helpful that past week, though I barely noticed at the time, had made some tea by the time I finally released my brother and invited him in, and for the first time in seven days, I talked, I spoke to Charlie of my feelings of grief and helplessness and anger and hatred. Harry had wanted to leave the kitchen quietly, but I stopped him with a touch on his shoulder and poured him a cup of tea also, inviting him to stay. After all, he was part of the family, if not before, then certainly now, after this tragedy had bound us together in pain.
And he was so young, even though almost eighteen. And so old at the same time. I guess life can do that to you, if it doesn't go all right and good, and his certainly hadn't.
So the three of us sat in my small kitchen, drinking tea and talking, and crying, and mourning, and talking some more. After a couple of hours, Charlie had to leave to see to the twins, but not before embracing Harry and me and telling us to come to his place any time.
When my brother had left, Harry and I were still sitting in the kitchen, still talking and trying to comprehend.
"Harry..." I started, unsure of how to say what I was feeling. "I... I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not taking better care of you, of not being there for you. I realize this is as hard for you as it is for me, but sometimes, it is difficult to see other people's pain if you are lost in your own."
He accepted my apology with a shrug and a feeble smile. "It's not as if I had been any better."
And there was an understanding between us from then on, that we were in this together.
By Reija Linn
Bill
I took some time off from work after the incident in which my father and my little brother had been killed. My boss was understanding, they're all so bloody understanding. They wish you well, and offer their sympathies, and ask if they can do anything to help. And you stand there and nod, and thank them for their words, and all you want to do is scream, scream at them 'no, you bloody well can't *do* anything, they are dead, *dead*, and no one can bring them back, so what is there to *do*?'
But you don't, because somewhere in your mind, though overshadowed by loss and grief, you know they only mean well, that they can't fucking understand, but that they also don't know what else to do.
There wasn't even a funeral. No bodies left to bury, and returning to England was too dangerous at the moment. Right after the attack, the state of war had finally been called out by the British Ministry of Magic.
When the news about Mum reached me, I was past tears, and almost past feeling. All I wanted was to be alone, with no one to comfort me, and with no one in need of my comfort. We had gone through all of this before, hadn't we? The last time when Voldemort had held power, when my sister had died. The twins, Ron and Ginny weren't born yet, and Percy had been too young to remember, but the rest of us do... Mum had had one more kid between Charlie and Percy, our sister Tina, who had been killed in one of the Death Eaters attacks on Muggle-sympathizer's houses. The pictures of fire and smoke and the sound of my mother's screaming as Dad held her back from the smoking doorway have never left me. The four-year-old girl had been sleeping upstairs. Percy, still a baby, was wrapped in my own arms, and Charlie, who was eight years old, was sitting next to me, only nine myself, unable to speak, unable to comprehend anything except that it was *our* house burning, that is was *our* mother screaming and crying, it was *our* sister who was supposed to be here and wasn't...
The Burrow had been rebuilt with our last savings. Our family had, though never rich, been good-enough off before that, but afterwards, money had become a constant problem. And Mum had almost went insane back then, after loosing one of her children.
We had thought it was finally over. We had held to the belief that Voldemort was gone, and that our family had suffered enough under his dark reign.
And then he returned, and tore the rest of us apart. Dad and Ron... dead... Mum in St. Mungos... and the rest of us... well.
I was the oldest, and it should have been my duty to get the rest of the family back together, to take care of Mum, but I was struck with grief and unable to do much more than pity myself.
Upon arriving in Egypt, I showed Harry, who had been silent for all of our journey since the incident, and who's eyes were bright red, though I had never seen him cry during the day, to my small apartment. It contained a single bedroom, though large, a joined kitchen and dining room and a small bathroom. I put up his bed in one corner automatically, not speaking, trying not to think, welcoming every dumb, mindless work I could find as not to think about...
And somewhere in my mind I knew that Harry was suffering as I was, Ron had been his best friend, and after years of spending the summer with my parents, they had both grown very dear to him, as he to them, but my state of mind allowed for nothing but my own sorrow and self-pity.
So it was Charlie, always the practical one, always the one to act, always the fighter of the family, who was standing at my door one day, a week after it had all happened, as unable to utter a single word as I was. So we merely stood there, embracing, clinging to each other, and finally releasing the tears we hadn't been able to shed before.
Harry, who had been really helpful that past week, though I barely noticed at the time, had made some tea by the time I finally released my brother and invited him in, and for the first time in seven days, I talked, I spoke to Charlie of my feelings of grief and helplessness and anger and hatred. Harry had wanted to leave the kitchen quietly, but I stopped him with a touch on his shoulder and poured him a cup of tea also, inviting him to stay. After all, he was part of the family, if not before, then certainly now, after this tragedy had bound us together in pain.
And he was so young, even though almost eighteen. And so old at the same time. I guess life can do that to you, if it doesn't go all right and good, and his certainly hadn't.
So the three of us sat in my small kitchen, drinking tea and talking, and crying, and mourning, and talking some more. After a couple of hours, Charlie had to leave to see to the twins, but not before embracing Harry and me and telling us to come to his place any time.
When my brother had left, Harry and I were still sitting in the kitchen, still talking and trying to comprehend.
"Harry..." I started, unsure of how to say what I was feeling. "I... I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not taking better care of you, of not being there for you. I realize this is as hard for you as it is for me, but sometimes, it is difficult to see other people's pain if you are lost in your own."
He accepted my apology with a shrug and a feeble smile. "It's not as if I had been any better."
And there was an understanding between us from then on, that we were in this together.