--
Chapter Three - Still Ill
--
As the bathroom door shut heavily upstairs, Harry eased onto the bottom stair, his legs cramped towards his chest. His face was indifferent but his hands were trembling and his heart was pulsating at an absurd rate.
That kiss -
*Tell me about it.*
It was a kiss, but barely - such a small peck that it seemed practically nonexistent. In fact, if he hadn't heard her lips smack slightly as they left his face he wouldn't have thought it a kiss at all. But after that kiss . . .
Almighty Merlin.
He ran a hand through his hair in a trademark fashion and trailed his fingers across one side of his face, stopping to linger at the skin where her lips had touched his jawbone; then to the place where her eyelashes, long and damp with tears, had grazed his cheek. She'd touched him in the same places Uncle Vernon had -
I wonder if she could have the same effect on me that goop of Hermione's had, he thought with a smirk; after the kiss a mark remained under the skin of his cheek that almost seemed to sting, as if he had been branded. It felt sharp, like thousands of pinpricks on him, Harry thought - like the flesh there was awakening after seventeen years of sleep.
*What if that was what saved you that night?*
It was a notion that couldn't be helped and even though it had come from his own mind the thought jolted him - he could sense something, a barrage of vague images and half-conscious retrospection swelling inside him. The memories were enough to cause a twinge in his forehead, and immediately he smothered it.
The raid was something he wasn't keen to think about. In fact, from the moment he'd woken up that morning to discover all that had occurred, he had become adamant about not discussing anything that had happened on the days surrounding his sixteenth birthday; not with his friends, Sirius, or even Dumbledore. Most notably, though, he had all but refused to even think about the occurrence himself. It was a decision he'd made in the instant his eyes had opened to gaze at the alabaster ceiling of St. Mungo's intensive care ward.
The young man swallowed, briefly closing his eyes before pushing himself to his feet and stretching his legs. He tried to clear his mind, but for a brief moment his stubbornness refused to secede.
*She saved you that night. It should have been impossible. How can you not want to talk about it?*
It's good that I haven't. Not as if she needs me to bring up painful memories.
*Harry Potter -Pathetic Wimp Extraordinaire . . .*
In the kitchen something crashed and a squeal resounded, causing a smile to form on his lips; in any case, Harry was more than glad to be there, and he wasn't intent on letting bad memories creep up on him and take over his life. He had to remind himself of this at times but it had become lessened - everyone seemed fairly content. From beyond the swinging door Ron chortled and Harry drew up a bigger grin, picturing a scoff he found to be on Hermione's face as he walked in the kitchen.
--
The morning passed quickly. While Ginny stayed in the bath for most of the time, Harry and his friends sat at the breakfast table and recalled small events of the summer. The majority of the anecdotes were from Ron or Hermione, and Harry found them all entertaining; he was in stitches when Hermione regaled him with tales of Ron's mishaps and run-ins with Fred and George's old tricks (none of which Ron found particularly amusing).
The clock was just striking noon as the door to the Burrow was swatted open and a quartet of boisterous adolescents tumbled out into the sun. Harry and Ron were the first on the lawn and, likewise, the first off. Before the girls could round the corner of the house with Ginny's art supplies and Hermione's books their counterparts shoved themselves from the earth rather hard, kicking up a good bit of ground as they soared and stepping on the heads of some already moody gnomes.
Hermione set her books carefully on the edge of an aged, unfinished side table and sat on a lawn chair opposite Ginny, who had already begun to rummage through her supply box, muttering about what was plainly a missing art instrument. She kept her face buried in the warped container under a screen of slightly damp, deep red curls, while waving her free hand towards Hermione.
"Are you done with Possession already?"
Hermione shook her head rather uselessly, as Ginny wasn't looking at her. "Still got a few chapters, but I thought I'd practice my Arithmancy while I had some free time - don't give me that look. Are you painting or drawing today?" Ginny stayed bent over the box for a moment, then quickly flipped back to a vertical stance, hissing through her teeth. She smiled triumphantly at the small stick she held in her left hand.
"Looks like charcoal today." The Weasley girl situated herself carefully, drawing her knees towards her chest to form an easel with her torso and propped the large sketchpad against her thighs. "Don't know what I'll draw, though . . ."
"Hmm. Landscape?"
"Don't think so."
"Portrait?"
Ginny tapped her coal against the edge of the pad for a moment in contemplation before nodding. "Right, then. Get comfortable because I won't have you moving in the middle of the sketch; I've got a headache and no patience."
Hermione smiled for a brief moment before registering the fact that she was the object of the portrait, a fact which should have been obvious as she was the only other being around.
"What -now?"
"Well, yes, now," Ginny sighed, "it's not as if I intend to have the gnomes try and pose for me. Go on, now, get situated."
Hermione scoffed and began protesting, her voice shrill and adamant, but a smirk tugged at the corners of her lips and she made an obvious movement to ease more into her chair, pushing a tuft of puffy hair away from her face before returning her eyes to her textbook, completely unable to concentrate.
--
From the second Harry had pushed off the ground something pivoted inside him; his blood accelerated its pace through his veins, and the bones in his wrists and hands cracked as he rhythmically tightened and relaxed his grip on the handle. He'd not wasted any time gradually building up speed as Ron did -- in fact, he'd expedited with such immense speeds it was almost too difficult for him to steer his broom away from the quickly approaching edge of the forest. He veered right merely feet from an Elm and flew along the tree line, not ready to settle at a reasonable pace. It had been much too long since he'd felt that familiar surge of adrenaline as he rushed through the open air. He felt as if maybe he'd not been getting enough oxygen in his body by being stuck on the ground during his stay on Privet Drive. The sun produced a glare on his glasses, but there was a slight breeze in the air, creating more intense friction against him, expelling the ink-black locks of hair from his forehead. That feeling - the resistance of his own body against the atmosphere - was so intense he felt he couldn't live without it.
He had circled countless laps round the perimeter of the Weasley's property, pushing his broom to soar at incredible speeds without a thought of slowing down for a thirty minutes before his friend flagged him down.
It was obvious that Ron's broom was fully exerting itself; the thing was much too worn to be racing with one in as good a condition as Harry's Firebolt still was. Harry flew in lazy circles at a speed that, while Ron found completely acceptable, made Harry's fingers itch to force himself forward.
"That still flies bloody amazing, mate." Ron nodded towards Harry, then gave a slightly wistful glance towards his own broomstick.
"Up for a game of catch-Quidditch, then?"
Ron shook his head. "How 'bout Grumplebash? You can start."
Harry nodded and flew about slightly faster as Ron summoned the grumple ball - the small brown sphere sailed out of the open garage window and into Ron's open hands.
"'Arry, you ready?"
Harry easily lowered his broom into position, drifting to a height of a mere twenty feet from the ground -- his hands abandoned the broomstick and he poised them at his sides. Ron stayed balanced, the ball tucked under one arm while he cracked his knuckles. He was squinting towards the burrow.
"What are they doing over there?"
Harry shrugged. "I can't see any better than you. Looks like Herm's studying --", Ron feigned a gasp, " - and I think Ginny's drawing."
Ron snorted. "Big surprise. Though she never shows me any of her drawings. Not very nice if you ask me."
Harry frowned. "You've not seen any of her drawings?"
"No, I said she's never let me see any. 'Course I've looked at 'em," Harry noted that Ron's voice held a twinge of pride for his younger sibling. "She's really good, too. Pity she won't show anyone - you ready now?" Ron tossed the ball between hands. "Harry?"
"Mmm?" Harry eyed Ginny for another moment, watching her place a hand against her lowered eyes, before shaking his head and attempting to return his attention to Ron.
"Are you -" Ron asked but his attention was cut short as his gaze averted to Harry's right. For a fleeting second the red-haired person's eyes had widened in alarm, and Harry's eyebrows furrowed.
"Look out!"
Harry, completely unaware, took a startling blow to his side as a large gray owl slammed into him.
The crash alone was something the skilled seeker might've handled had he been holding the broom with his hands, but the impact caused it to jerk to the right and bob unsteadily in the air as Harry's body flipped upside down. His legs were locked over the handle instinctively but the collision had left him in a daze that prevented him from reaching to grip the broomstick with his hands. He glimpsed a shower of dark feathers around him and the earth looming below him in a blur. Then the broom tipped, his legs slid off the edge of the handle, and while at the other end of the yard a girl cried out in pain, he toppled to the ground.
--
"First day here, and you're already bedridden. Very smooth, 'Arry." Ron said. He tossed a pillow to Hermione and she shook her head, sighing, and placed it behind Harry's lower back, keeping a hand braced against his shoulders. She'd been trying to adjust pillows carefully, but to no avail. The pillows were always too hard, too soft, or too lumpy - he'd absolutely refused to try Fred and George's old pillows, declaring them a "safety hazard" - and Hermione had to work slowly enough not to disturb the charms she'd put on him.
"You'd think with how much time you'd spent in the hospital you'd be used to discomfort by now," Ron chuckled. "Tea?"
Harry groaned. "It's probably not a good idea for me to drink anything." At the quizzical looks on his friend's faces, he added "I might not be able to get off the couch for a while." Hermione gently pulled him back onto the pillows and he winced at the movement, but gave a grateful nod towards his friends when he was reclined on the cushions. "Perfect, Herm."
"Mrs. Weasley's already begun brewing the potions you'll need in the single cauldrons," Hermione said. "It usually takes about twenty hours to finish brewing, except for a muscle reliever, which only takes about four to six. I'm sure we can ask her what would be the best way to - " she started, referring to his response to the tea offer, and her face went a bit red. " -- well, yes. Can I get you anything else?"
"Maybe some all-ailment tonic for my head," Harry said.
"No good. We got a defective batch." The three looked up at Ginny, who had entered carefully through the kitchen door, pushing it open with one foot. She walked with small, quick steps, balancing the tea tray awkwardly on her left arm and gripping the edge with her right hand. It teetered slightly and she paused before setting the tray on the table.
"Defective batch?" Hermione asked.
"I took some this morning and it didn't work at all." Ginny said, her voice sounding overly light.
Harry watched Ginny from the couch, eyeing her movements warily. He hadn't noticed her looking ill that day but as he gazed at her he saw how pale she seemed when she bent down towards the coffee table. Her movements were careful and and her eyes glistened . . . there was something else there . . . fear? Ginny Weasley's eyes were never something he could easily understand.
"Harry, darling, I brought you something to drink." Mrs. Weasley hurried into the room with a cup of steaming broth.
He protested - "Mrs. Weasley, I'm-"
"Don't even think it, Harry. This will make you feel much better." She placed the cup in his hands, pushed against his pillows slightly, summoned some Quidditch magazines from Ron's room, and brushed his hair from his forehead, then remarking "Oh, dear, you've got a spot, right here around your jaw. It's a bit red. I'll find something to take care of that in the cupboards. Ginny, darling, can you help me in the kitchen?"
He blinked. The door swung open and he saw Ginny disappear from the room behind her mother, with slightly faster steps. In his hands, the cup he held sent delicate wisps of stream into his nostrils, and he felt the bitter pungency of a sleeping draught with which Mrs. Weasely had laced the pumpkin cider.
"Fancy a magazine, Harry?" Ron asked, but the young man just shook his head slightly and poured the liquid down his throat methodically, Ginny's face playing on his mind. Sleep came almost instantly.
--
In the kitchen Molly darted back and forth between four miniature cauldrons and the kitchen table where her youngest child and only daughter sat carefully mincing ingredients.
"Poor Harry," Molly sighed, dispensing a fistful of small brown leaves into one of the cauldrons. "That boy doesn't exactly have to go looking for trouble, does he?"
"No, he doesn't."
"I s'pose we should be glad he stays with the Dursleys some, as he doesn't get injured over there, but Merlin help me, I can't stand him being over there with such horrible Muggles. I'm sorry the surprise of finding him here wasn't exactly as Ron and your father had planned." She paused, glancing back at her daughter, and took in the girl's appearance. Something was amiss.
"Hmm." Ginny's fingers moved along the wooden board gingerly as she sliced a plant stalk into centimeter-long pieces, but the knife was dull and each cut made a loud thud against the surface. She was frowning.
"Did you see whose owl it was?"
"No . . . I don't think it was carrying any mail."
Molly turned back to the cauldron and held her empty hands over the flames. The fire was too cold and they needed to brew more quickly; she needed to start dinner soon; something was wrong with her daughter.
"Well, I'll have to mention it at the next meeting. People don't train their owls well enough these days, I tell you."
The knife was being moved steadily up and down, pausing momentarily when Ginny brought more ingredients onto the cutting board, and then moving again.
*Perhaps she's still shaken about Harry,* Molly guessed - but wouldn't it be silly for her to be so upset when he was clearly going to be fine? As Molly surveyed Ginny more, small things began to occur to her - the white around her knuckles, the thinness of her lips, the rigid posture, her hand movements growing perpetually slower. She was beginning to panic.
"Ginny, shall I make some tea?"
Ginny looked up at her mother now. The inflection of the words she easily recognized as what her mother had used after she'd almost drowned in the creek near her house when she was six. She also remembered it from sitting alone with her mother in the kitchen -- much as she was now -- upon her return from her first year at Hogwarts. It was unquestioned that this was Mrs. Weasley's almost ever-successful tactic for getting the boys, who were generally closer to their father (or too full of pride to talk at all) to discuss something very important.
"I'm fine, mum. I was just . . . very worried about Harry." She laid the knife on the table. "Shaken up, you know. I think . . . I need to go upstairs and rest it off, if you don't mind. Yell for me when the muscle reliever's done, will you?" She stood up and closed the distance to her mother quickly, kissing her cheek and turning. Before Molly could say anything Ginny turned and practically fled the kitchen, leaving Molly quite alone.
--
The sight of Harry falling off his broom was horrifying to the point that for a brief second she felt as if she was falling, she was hitting the ground, the pain absolutely crippling. The charcoal had slipped from her hands and she, following instinct, had screamed as loud as she could. Hermione had looked up then and seen Harry, and ran to his aid, wand in hand. She hadn't looked to Ginny and Ron surely didn't register the piercing scream; only Ginny felt that surge of physical empathy that stunned her. She managed to stand just as Hermione magicked Harry's body, limp and suspended in mid-air, into the house.
She was reeling from the fact that when she was sure she'd seen Harry fall, her eyes were closed.
As she left the kitchen her movements were as fluid and swift as she could make them, her jean-covered legs moving gracefully in long steps that carried her past the other three teenagers (none of whom, she was sure, even noticed her pass by). She took the steps upstairs two at a time and when she reached her door she was almost sprinting - she heaved herself against the bed and buried her face in her pillow. Ginny heaved in sharp, restricted breaths.
She stayed that way for several long minutes trying to suck all the air she could through her feather pillow. The force of her breathing was beginning to make her dizzy, though, and she slowly rolled herself over so she teetered on the edge of the bed. Calm, deep breaths. In, out, in, out . . .
Her eyes had been closed, she was sure now. She had been looking at her sketchpad, her hand groping the table blindly for her kneaded rubber eraser, when her headache seemed to peak. She'd brought her hand against her forehead - her eyes were not only closed but completely shielded - but then, there was the blinding sun, the almost-white sky, and Harry looking at her, then turning away, ignorant to the owl coming at him . . . when her hand moved from her eyes Hermione was nearly to Harry.
There had to be a logical explanation, of course. Perhaps she suffered a relapse of the charm Colin had put on her in Charms class that turned her hand into glass. Since he'd removed the spell he cast, perhaps he didn't remove it thoroughly. Or perhaps she'd actually seen it through the cracks between her fingers and didn't realize it. Perhaps it was an after-effect of the spell she'd performed - or tried to perform -- on herself during the tri-wizard tournament her third year, when she was convinced he needed her protection (*Some good that did him,* she added ruefully to the thought). Perhaps . . . perhaps, she'd seen him with her eyes closed.
Ginny bit her lip.
It made her wish she could go back to the library and look over the old spell she'd cast more thoroughly, or that she could find a time turner to go back and watch herself closely. Of course, it didn't make any sense, but she was a witch. Logic had a completely different meaning to her kind than it did to non-magical people. She didn't know how much more she could think about this; she didn't have patience for things she didn't understand.
Ginny strained her neck to glimpse the floor near her bed and saw the book that had lay there, forgotten since the morning, and with a swinging arm grabbed it by a frayed piece of binding in one fell swoop. The cover was blank and smooth but for the lower right-hand corner which, though the gold foiling had flaked off years ago, still had gently impressed the words Gwinevere Weasley on the cover. Her self-replenishing parchment book - a book of fine paper that, after a letter was written would carefully tear out, fold itself, and slide into an envelope. To her recollection it was the only gift from her Aunt Marion she'd actually liked, and a gift she'd made use of whenever she could manage to find the quills she lost so often. The book seemed to beckon her now, though, and as she rolled back to towards the center of the bed the piece of binding she'd grabbed tore and the book landed next to her, opened to a page with only one short line, which was scratched through more than thoroughly -
Dear Harry -
She sighed. Almost ten pages were identical to that - all of which she started out whole-heartedly, though she could never seem to make it past the greeting. She was too afraid of what she might say.
Her thoughts briefly strayed to the occurrences of the year prior, and she bit her lip - it was almost the anniversary. Two days until, to be exact. And she couldn't seem to write a letter to him while avoiding the subject. When Ginny was speaking, she could manage to avoid the truth, but when she wrote she found it damned near impossible not to write what was on her mind. With other attempts she'd made it a sentence or two before beginning to hint towards the attack; Ginny's instinct was always to speak her feelings in situations like that, though it was apparent that Ginny had to ignore those instincts more often than not, for Harry's sake. He didn't want to talk about it, and even on such a topic as that, she wouldn't push it. She had no right.
Ginny closed the book and brought it to her chest. She fell asleep clutching it, oblivious to the sunlight on her face, and murmured softly in a dream she wouldn't remember when she woke up.
--
Arthur Weasley sat heavily at the table and nodded a thanks to Molly as he picked up the steaming teacup. His face was soft and warm and the creases at the edge of his eyes deepened as he raised them to his wife.
"Eventful day, I'm guessing," he said.
"Very," Molly said. She sat opposite him, her elbows propping her on the table. It was the first time that afternoon she'd gotten a chance to stop running around and she sat contently to take full advantage of the little time she had to rest. "I certainly wish I'd have known he was coming," she sighed. "I wouldn't have left, of course and I could have cleaned the house a bit."
Arthur's face went a bit pink. "Yes . . . sorry about that. I meant to say something last night, of course. With the ministry and all, I've been preoccupied. Er - he's fine, then?"
"I think so. I'm sure he must have a broken bone or two, but Hermione put a still-bone spell on him as soon as she could in case he's hurt his back."
"And the doctor?"
"Zora said she'd send her husband over to check up as soon as he returned from his hike up Kilamanjaro. He should be back tomorrow." Molly poured another cup of tea for her husband and saw that he was frowning. "What?"
"You didn't call Doctor Thurmond?" he asked.
"In his old age?! He can barely remember his own name, and I won't have him treating any of my children. It's far past time for him to go, if you ask me."
"Yes, but he's a friend of the family, you know."
"Arthur, I know he was your father's friend, but remember, that's because he was your father's doctor when he was a child. And even then he was incompetent."
"Well Doctor Hurston is just so expensive. If we don't watch he'll rob us blind. We'd do better to take him to St. Mungo's . . ."
"Oh, nonsense. He won't be too expensive. Zora and I are close friends, and she and Neal know our situation. And at least Harry will get the proper care."
Molly Weasley's face was easy to read - there was no way any other doctor would get near Harry, and Arthur had no say in it; in any case he knew she was probably right. He had to admit, his wife was, if not forceful, a very convincing woman and he loved her all the more for it.
"Well, yes. It's not the money, though - I just hope Strom doesn't find out."
It was at that moment the front door burst open and Ron and Hermione came in carrying paper grocery bags. Both of them seemed rather winded.
"'Lo mum, dad," Ron said, and Hermione did the same as they set the bags on the table. "We got everything you wanted but the leeks because they weren't too fresh, and we picked up some McMillians since Ginny said we had a bad batch. What're we having?" He looked up when his father gasped.
"I completely forgot," he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Gracious . . ."
"Forgot what?" Hermione asked.
"When I got Mrs. Beukelaer's cat out of that tree she was so grateful she told me I could bring the family into The Silver Toadstool any time for free. After I arranged Harry's arrival I made reservations for tonight -"
"At The Silver Toadstool?!" Molly exclaimed. Her cheeks were quickly turning pink. "My goodness, that's the most prominent wizarding restaurant in Ottery St. Catchpole . . ."
"No kidding," Ron laughed. "You have to wear dress robes to drive by it."
"I arranged a ministry car to pick us up and everything . . ."
"Oh, dear," Molly said slowly. "Well, we don't have to go, Arthur dear, it's alright." She smiled, attempting to hide disappointment, when a faint voice from the living room carried into the kitchen.
"Mrs. Weasley?" Harry croaked softly from behind the door and quickly she set her tea down and scurried into the living room, the crowd trailing close behind.
On the couch, Harry appeared to have just woken up. His eyes were rather dazed and his cheeks were flushed - one pinker than the other from the fall - he had a slightly unpleasant look on his face and was beginning to get slightly sticky from laying on the couch under and blanket in late July.
"Harry, dear, what do you need?" she brushed the hair from his forehead, most of which fell back into place as if it hadn't been touched, and put a hand on her wand pocket, prepared to cast comfort or still-bone charms.
Harry smiled at her, embarrassed, but his face was determined. "If you've made reservations for that restaurant, then go."
The replies came quickly - all four shook their heads and said something close to "Nonsense, Harry,", or "That's absurd,".
"No," Arthur said, "I won't hear of it. It's for you, after all, and there's absolutely no way I'm going to leave you here alone."
"No," Harry said quietly, "I'd feel much better if you went. In fact, I demand that you go. After all, if it's my night we should do what I wish, right? Nothing would please me more than for you all to go out. And you've made reservations -"
"Harry, we can't leave you here!"
"Surely you can. I've been in the hospital wing more than half my life - one night alone won't kill me."
And so went the bantering between Harry and the other four until there was little time left for them to prepare. The young man made an awfully convincing case and, though Molly swore she'd never forgive herself, she decided he could fend for himself that night and the family would benefit from a night out. Hermione hurried upstairs to wake Ginny and change into her dress robes and Ron did the same, whilst Molly hurried around the bottom floor of the house, collecting items Harry might need while they were out.
"Harry, I've put everything on the coffee table here - it's charmed to come to you if you speak its name - and Arthur showed Mildred Scalthe how to use some Muggle Talker-Walkies. If you need anything," she said, placing a small black device in his hand, "press that button and speak to her like you would with a tellyphone. She'll stop by to check up on you sometime during the evening in any case, if I can't get to a free Floo booth. Is there anything else?"
"Maybe a bit more of the sleeping potion you gave me earlier?"
"Oh . . . of- of course, darling . . . " She went into the kitchen and came out a moment later with a cup in her hands. "I put a bit less in it this time. Are you sure you'll be all right? We can still stay if you need."
He smiled gratefully and drank it, inhaling the vapors and laying his had against the pillow. "Thank you very much. I should be fine."
"Well." She said. "In any case . . . We'll check up on you."
Then she flicked her wand, and right as a muffled horn honked outside her robes became dark green dress robes, and she pinned her hair in a loose bun with a green comb. She kissed him on the cheek and Harry, blushing, quickly fell into the realm of sleep.
Ron waltzed down the steps rather clumsily in an attempt to flaunt his practically new dress robe, one which actually fit very well, an Hermione followed momentarily. Arthur returned from Mrs. Scalthe's house ("She was quite eager to learn about the Talker-Walkie!", he exclaimed upon arriving), transfigured his work robes to dress robes and stood in front of the other three, smiling at his wife.
"Dear, you look lovely. Oh -- where's Ginny?"
"I just woke her up. She should be coming down in a second." Molly frowned. Hermione started to speak again but was cut off by a pop that accompanied Molly's disappearance and, some long moments later, the sound of footsteps coming quickly down the stairs. Ginny's voice resounded in the small house.
"We're leaving Harry?"
"Mildred will look after him, dear," Molly offered, but Ginny looked none too happy as she entered the kitchen. Arthur assumed it was because she'd just woken up.
The redheaded young woman began restyle her long, thick hair quickly while Molly adjusted Ginny's dress robe. It was fairly new (less than a year old) and was a simple green one that almost matched her mother's. It was simple, but suited her very well.
"Shall we go then?" said Arthur, and the horn honked again. Molly looked around, nodded her consent, and the five trailed out of the house, leaving it a great deal quieter.
--
A/N - A big thanks to anyone who's continued reading this, as it did disappear for quite a while. I promise it's back for good. :-) And a gigantic thanks to Amy, the beta straight from the heavens, and to Rachel, for threatening my life if I didn't send this in.
Chapter Three - Still Ill
--
As the bathroom door shut heavily upstairs, Harry eased onto the bottom stair, his legs cramped towards his chest. His face was indifferent but his hands were trembling and his heart was pulsating at an absurd rate.
That kiss -
*Tell me about it.*
It was a kiss, but barely - such a small peck that it seemed practically nonexistent. In fact, if he hadn't heard her lips smack slightly as they left his face he wouldn't have thought it a kiss at all. But after that kiss . . .
Almighty Merlin.
He ran a hand through his hair in a trademark fashion and trailed his fingers across one side of his face, stopping to linger at the skin where her lips had touched his jawbone; then to the place where her eyelashes, long and damp with tears, had grazed his cheek. She'd touched him in the same places Uncle Vernon had -
I wonder if she could have the same effect on me that goop of Hermione's had, he thought with a smirk; after the kiss a mark remained under the skin of his cheek that almost seemed to sting, as if he had been branded. It felt sharp, like thousands of pinpricks on him, Harry thought - like the flesh there was awakening after seventeen years of sleep.
*What if that was what saved you that night?*
It was a notion that couldn't be helped and even though it had come from his own mind the thought jolted him - he could sense something, a barrage of vague images and half-conscious retrospection swelling inside him. The memories were enough to cause a twinge in his forehead, and immediately he smothered it.
The raid was something he wasn't keen to think about. In fact, from the moment he'd woken up that morning to discover all that had occurred, he had become adamant about not discussing anything that had happened on the days surrounding his sixteenth birthday; not with his friends, Sirius, or even Dumbledore. Most notably, though, he had all but refused to even think about the occurrence himself. It was a decision he'd made in the instant his eyes had opened to gaze at the alabaster ceiling of St. Mungo's intensive care ward.
The young man swallowed, briefly closing his eyes before pushing himself to his feet and stretching his legs. He tried to clear his mind, but for a brief moment his stubbornness refused to secede.
*She saved you that night. It should have been impossible. How can you not want to talk about it?*
It's good that I haven't. Not as if she needs me to bring up painful memories.
*Harry Potter -Pathetic Wimp Extraordinaire . . .*
In the kitchen something crashed and a squeal resounded, causing a smile to form on his lips; in any case, Harry was more than glad to be there, and he wasn't intent on letting bad memories creep up on him and take over his life. He had to remind himself of this at times but it had become lessened - everyone seemed fairly content. From beyond the swinging door Ron chortled and Harry drew up a bigger grin, picturing a scoff he found to be on Hermione's face as he walked in the kitchen.
--
The morning passed quickly. While Ginny stayed in the bath for most of the time, Harry and his friends sat at the breakfast table and recalled small events of the summer. The majority of the anecdotes were from Ron or Hermione, and Harry found them all entertaining; he was in stitches when Hermione regaled him with tales of Ron's mishaps and run-ins with Fred and George's old tricks (none of which Ron found particularly amusing).
The clock was just striking noon as the door to the Burrow was swatted open and a quartet of boisterous adolescents tumbled out into the sun. Harry and Ron were the first on the lawn and, likewise, the first off. Before the girls could round the corner of the house with Ginny's art supplies and Hermione's books their counterparts shoved themselves from the earth rather hard, kicking up a good bit of ground as they soared and stepping on the heads of some already moody gnomes.
Hermione set her books carefully on the edge of an aged, unfinished side table and sat on a lawn chair opposite Ginny, who had already begun to rummage through her supply box, muttering about what was plainly a missing art instrument. She kept her face buried in the warped container under a screen of slightly damp, deep red curls, while waving her free hand towards Hermione.
"Are you done with Possession already?"
Hermione shook her head rather uselessly, as Ginny wasn't looking at her. "Still got a few chapters, but I thought I'd practice my Arithmancy while I had some free time - don't give me that look. Are you painting or drawing today?" Ginny stayed bent over the box for a moment, then quickly flipped back to a vertical stance, hissing through her teeth. She smiled triumphantly at the small stick she held in her left hand.
"Looks like charcoal today." The Weasley girl situated herself carefully, drawing her knees towards her chest to form an easel with her torso and propped the large sketchpad against her thighs. "Don't know what I'll draw, though . . ."
"Hmm. Landscape?"
"Don't think so."
"Portrait?"
Ginny tapped her coal against the edge of the pad for a moment in contemplation before nodding. "Right, then. Get comfortable because I won't have you moving in the middle of the sketch; I've got a headache and no patience."
Hermione smiled for a brief moment before registering the fact that she was the object of the portrait, a fact which should have been obvious as she was the only other being around.
"What -now?"
"Well, yes, now," Ginny sighed, "it's not as if I intend to have the gnomes try and pose for me. Go on, now, get situated."
Hermione scoffed and began protesting, her voice shrill and adamant, but a smirk tugged at the corners of her lips and she made an obvious movement to ease more into her chair, pushing a tuft of puffy hair away from her face before returning her eyes to her textbook, completely unable to concentrate.
--
From the second Harry had pushed off the ground something pivoted inside him; his blood accelerated its pace through his veins, and the bones in his wrists and hands cracked as he rhythmically tightened and relaxed his grip on the handle. He'd not wasted any time gradually building up speed as Ron did -- in fact, he'd expedited with such immense speeds it was almost too difficult for him to steer his broom away from the quickly approaching edge of the forest. He veered right merely feet from an Elm and flew along the tree line, not ready to settle at a reasonable pace. It had been much too long since he'd felt that familiar surge of adrenaline as he rushed through the open air. He felt as if maybe he'd not been getting enough oxygen in his body by being stuck on the ground during his stay on Privet Drive. The sun produced a glare on his glasses, but there was a slight breeze in the air, creating more intense friction against him, expelling the ink-black locks of hair from his forehead. That feeling - the resistance of his own body against the atmosphere - was so intense he felt he couldn't live without it.
He had circled countless laps round the perimeter of the Weasley's property, pushing his broom to soar at incredible speeds without a thought of slowing down for a thirty minutes before his friend flagged him down.
It was obvious that Ron's broom was fully exerting itself; the thing was much too worn to be racing with one in as good a condition as Harry's Firebolt still was. Harry flew in lazy circles at a speed that, while Ron found completely acceptable, made Harry's fingers itch to force himself forward.
"That still flies bloody amazing, mate." Ron nodded towards Harry, then gave a slightly wistful glance towards his own broomstick.
"Up for a game of catch-Quidditch, then?"
Ron shook his head. "How 'bout Grumplebash? You can start."
Harry nodded and flew about slightly faster as Ron summoned the grumple ball - the small brown sphere sailed out of the open garage window and into Ron's open hands.
"'Arry, you ready?"
Harry easily lowered his broom into position, drifting to a height of a mere twenty feet from the ground -- his hands abandoned the broomstick and he poised them at his sides. Ron stayed balanced, the ball tucked under one arm while he cracked his knuckles. He was squinting towards the burrow.
"What are they doing over there?"
Harry shrugged. "I can't see any better than you. Looks like Herm's studying --", Ron feigned a gasp, " - and I think Ginny's drawing."
Ron snorted. "Big surprise. Though she never shows me any of her drawings. Not very nice if you ask me."
Harry frowned. "You've not seen any of her drawings?"
"No, I said she's never let me see any. 'Course I've looked at 'em," Harry noted that Ron's voice held a twinge of pride for his younger sibling. "She's really good, too. Pity she won't show anyone - you ready now?" Ron tossed the ball between hands. "Harry?"
"Mmm?" Harry eyed Ginny for another moment, watching her place a hand against her lowered eyes, before shaking his head and attempting to return his attention to Ron.
"Are you -" Ron asked but his attention was cut short as his gaze averted to Harry's right. For a fleeting second the red-haired person's eyes had widened in alarm, and Harry's eyebrows furrowed.
"Look out!"
Harry, completely unaware, took a startling blow to his side as a large gray owl slammed into him.
The crash alone was something the skilled seeker might've handled had he been holding the broom with his hands, but the impact caused it to jerk to the right and bob unsteadily in the air as Harry's body flipped upside down. His legs were locked over the handle instinctively but the collision had left him in a daze that prevented him from reaching to grip the broomstick with his hands. He glimpsed a shower of dark feathers around him and the earth looming below him in a blur. Then the broom tipped, his legs slid off the edge of the handle, and while at the other end of the yard a girl cried out in pain, he toppled to the ground.
--
"First day here, and you're already bedridden. Very smooth, 'Arry." Ron said. He tossed a pillow to Hermione and she shook her head, sighing, and placed it behind Harry's lower back, keeping a hand braced against his shoulders. She'd been trying to adjust pillows carefully, but to no avail. The pillows were always too hard, too soft, or too lumpy - he'd absolutely refused to try Fred and George's old pillows, declaring them a "safety hazard" - and Hermione had to work slowly enough not to disturb the charms she'd put on him.
"You'd think with how much time you'd spent in the hospital you'd be used to discomfort by now," Ron chuckled. "Tea?"
Harry groaned. "It's probably not a good idea for me to drink anything." At the quizzical looks on his friend's faces, he added "I might not be able to get off the couch for a while." Hermione gently pulled him back onto the pillows and he winced at the movement, but gave a grateful nod towards his friends when he was reclined on the cushions. "Perfect, Herm."
"Mrs. Weasley's already begun brewing the potions you'll need in the single cauldrons," Hermione said. "It usually takes about twenty hours to finish brewing, except for a muscle reliever, which only takes about four to six. I'm sure we can ask her what would be the best way to - " she started, referring to his response to the tea offer, and her face went a bit red. " -- well, yes. Can I get you anything else?"
"Maybe some all-ailment tonic for my head," Harry said.
"No good. We got a defective batch." The three looked up at Ginny, who had entered carefully through the kitchen door, pushing it open with one foot. She walked with small, quick steps, balancing the tea tray awkwardly on her left arm and gripping the edge with her right hand. It teetered slightly and she paused before setting the tray on the table.
"Defective batch?" Hermione asked.
"I took some this morning and it didn't work at all." Ginny said, her voice sounding overly light.
Harry watched Ginny from the couch, eyeing her movements warily. He hadn't noticed her looking ill that day but as he gazed at her he saw how pale she seemed when she bent down towards the coffee table. Her movements were careful and and her eyes glistened . . . there was something else there . . . fear? Ginny Weasley's eyes were never something he could easily understand.
"Harry, darling, I brought you something to drink." Mrs. Weasley hurried into the room with a cup of steaming broth.
He protested - "Mrs. Weasley, I'm-"
"Don't even think it, Harry. This will make you feel much better." She placed the cup in his hands, pushed against his pillows slightly, summoned some Quidditch magazines from Ron's room, and brushed his hair from his forehead, then remarking "Oh, dear, you've got a spot, right here around your jaw. It's a bit red. I'll find something to take care of that in the cupboards. Ginny, darling, can you help me in the kitchen?"
He blinked. The door swung open and he saw Ginny disappear from the room behind her mother, with slightly faster steps. In his hands, the cup he held sent delicate wisps of stream into his nostrils, and he felt the bitter pungency of a sleeping draught with which Mrs. Weasely had laced the pumpkin cider.
"Fancy a magazine, Harry?" Ron asked, but the young man just shook his head slightly and poured the liquid down his throat methodically, Ginny's face playing on his mind. Sleep came almost instantly.
--
In the kitchen Molly darted back and forth between four miniature cauldrons and the kitchen table where her youngest child and only daughter sat carefully mincing ingredients.
"Poor Harry," Molly sighed, dispensing a fistful of small brown leaves into one of the cauldrons. "That boy doesn't exactly have to go looking for trouble, does he?"
"No, he doesn't."
"I s'pose we should be glad he stays with the Dursleys some, as he doesn't get injured over there, but Merlin help me, I can't stand him being over there with such horrible Muggles. I'm sorry the surprise of finding him here wasn't exactly as Ron and your father had planned." She paused, glancing back at her daughter, and took in the girl's appearance. Something was amiss.
"Hmm." Ginny's fingers moved along the wooden board gingerly as she sliced a plant stalk into centimeter-long pieces, but the knife was dull and each cut made a loud thud against the surface. She was frowning.
"Did you see whose owl it was?"
"No . . . I don't think it was carrying any mail."
Molly turned back to the cauldron and held her empty hands over the flames. The fire was too cold and they needed to brew more quickly; she needed to start dinner soon; something was wrong with her daughter.
"Well, I'll have to mention it at the next meeting. People don't train their owls well enough these days, I tell you."
The knife was being moved steadily up and down, pausing momentarily when Ginny brought more ingredients onto the cutting board, and then moving again.
*Perhaps she's still shaken about Harry,* Molly guessed - but wouldn't it be silly for her to be so upset when he was clearly going to be fine? As Molly surveyed Ginny more, small things began to occur to her - the white around her knuckles, the thinness of her lips, the rigid posture, her hand movements growing perpetually slower. She was beginning to panic.
"Ginny, shall I make some tea?"
Ginny looked up at her mother now. The inflection of the words she easily recognized as what her mother had used after she'd almost drowned in the creek near her house when she was six. She also remembered it from sitting alone with her mother in the kitchen -- much as she was now -- upon her return from her first year at Hogwarts. It was unquestioned that this was Mrs. Weasley's almost ever-successful tactic for getting the boys, who were generally closer to their father (or too full of pride to talk at all) to discuss something very important.
"I'm fine, mum. I was just . . . very worried about Harry." She laid the knife on the table. "Shaken up, you know. I think . . . I need to go upstairs and rest it off, if you don't mind. Yell for me when the muscle reliever's done, will you?" She stood up and closed the distance to her mother quickly, kissing her cheek and turning. Before Molly could say anything Ginny turned and practically fled the kitchen, leaving Molly quite alone.
--
The sight of Harry falling off his broom was horrifying to the point that for a brief second she felt as if she was falling, she was hitting the ground, the pain absolutely crippling. The charcoal had slipped from her hands and she, following instinct, had screamed as loud as she could. Hermione had looked up then and seen Harry, and ran to his aid, wand in hand. She hadn't looked to Ginny and Ron surely didn't register the piercing scream; only Ginny felt that surge of physical empathy that stunned her. She managed to stand just as Hermione magicked Harry's body, limp and suspended in mid-air, into the house.
She was reeling from the fact that when she was sure she'd seen Harry fall, her eyes were closed.
As she left the kitchen her movements were as fluid and swift as she could make them, her jean-covered legs moving gracefully in long steps that carried her past the other three teenagers (none of whom, she was sure, even noticed her pass by). She took the steps upstairs two at a time and when she reached her door she was almost sprinting - she heaved herself against the bed and buried her face in her pillow. Ginny heaved in sharp, restricted breaths.
She stayed that way for several long minutes trying to suck all the air she could through her feather pillow. The force of her breathing was beginning to make her dizzy, though, and she slowly rolled herself over so she teetered on the edge of the bed. Calm, deep breaths. In, out, in, out . . .
Her eyes had been closed, she was sure now. She had been looking at her sketchpad, her hand groping the table blindly for her kneaded rubber eraser, when her headache seemed to peak. She'd brought her hand against her forehead - her eyes were not only closed but completely shielded - but then, there was the blinding sun, the almost-white sky, and Harry looking at her, then turning away, ignorant to the owl coming at him . . . when her hand moved from her eyes Hermione was nearly to Harry.
There had to be a logical explanation, of course. Perhaps she suffered a relapse of the charm Colin had put on her in Charms class that turned her hand into glass. Since he'd removed the spell he cast, perhaps he didn't remove it thoroughly. Or perhaps she'd actually seen it through the cracks between her fingers and didn't realize it. Perhaps it was an after-effect of the spell she'd performed - or tried to perform -- on herself during the tri-wizard tournament her third year, when she was convinced he needed her protection (*Some good that did him,* she added ruefully to the thought). Perhaps . . . perhaps, she'd seen him with her eyes closed.
Ginny bit her lip.
It made her wish she could go back to the library and look over the old spell she'd cast more thoroughly, or that she could find a time turner to go back and watch herself closely. Of course, it didn't make any sense, but she was a witch. Logic had a completely different meaning to her kind than it did to non-magical people. She didn't know how much more she could think about this; she didn't have patience for things she didn't understand.
Ginny strained her neck to glimpse the floor near her bed and saw the book that had lay there, forgotten since the morning, and with a swinging arm grabbed it by a frayed piece of binding in one fell swoop. The cover was blank and smooth but for the lower right-hand corner which, though the gold foiling had flaked off years ago, still had gently impressed the words Gwinevere Weasley on the cover. Her self-replenishing parchment book - a book of fine paper that, after a letter was written would carefully tear out, fold itself, and slide into an envelope. To her recollection it was the only gift from her Aunt Marion she'd actually liked, and a gift she'd made use of whenever she could manage to find the quills she lost so often. The book seemed to beckon her now, though, and as she rolled back to towards the center of the bed the piece of binding she'd grabbed tore and the book landed next to her, opened to a page with only one short line, which was scratched through more than thoroughly -
Dear Harry -
She sighed. Almost ten pages were identical to that - all of which she started out whole-heartedly, though she could never seem to make it past the greeting. She was too afraid of what she might say.
Her thoughts briefly strayed to the occurrences of the year prior, and she bit her lip - it was almost the anniversary. Two days until, to be exact. And she couldn't seem to write a letter to him while avoiding the subject. When Ginny was speaking, she could manage to avoid the truth, but when she wrote she found it damned near impossible not to write what was on her mind. With other attempts she'd made it a sentence or two before beginning to hint towards the attack; Ginny's instinct was always to speak her feelings in situations like that, though it was apparent that Ginny had to ignore those instincts more often than not, for Harry's sake. He didn't want to talk about it, and even on such a topic as that, she wouldn't push it. She had no right.
Ginny closed the book and brought it to her chest. She fell asleep clutching it, oblivious to the sunlight on her face, and murmured softly in a dream she wouldn't remember when she woke up.
--
Arthur Weasley sat heavily at the table and nodded a thanks to Molly as he picked up the steaming teacup. His face was soft and warm and the creases at the edge of his eyes deepened as he raised them to his wife.
"Eventful day, I'm guessing," he said.
"Very," Molly said. She sat opposite him, her elbows propping her on the table. It was the first time that afternoon she'd gotten a chance to stop running around and she sat contently to take full advantage of the little time she had to rest. "I certainly wish I'd have known he was coming," she sighed. "I wouldn't have left, of course and I could have cleaned the house a bit."
Arthur's face went a bit pink. "Yes . . . sorry about that. I meant to say something last night, of course. With the ministry and all, I've been preoccupied. Er - he's fine, then?"
"I think so. I'm sure he must have a broken bone or two, but Hermione put a still-bone spell on him as soon as she could in case he's hurt his back."
"And the doctor?"
"Zora said she'd send her husband over to check up as soon as he returned from his hike up Kilamanjaro. He should be back tomorrow." Molly poured another cup of tea for her husband and saw that he was frowning. "What?"
"You didn't call Doctor Thurmond?" he asked.
"In his old age?! He can barely remember his own name, and I won't have him treating any of my children. It's far past time for him to go, if you ask me."
"Yes, but he's a friend of the family, you know."
"Arthur, I know he was your father's friend, but remember, that's because he was your father's doctor when he was a child. And even then he was incompetent."
"Well Doctor Hurston is just so expensive. If we don't watch he'll rob us blind. We'd do better to take him to St. Mungo's . . ."
"Oh, nonsense. He won't be too expensive. Zora and I are close friends, and she and Neal know our situation. And at least Harry will get the proper care."
Molly Weasley's face was easy to read - there was no way any other doctor would get near Harry, and Arthur had no say in it; in any case he knew she was probably right. He had to admit, his wife was, if not forceful, a very convincing woman and he loved her all the more for it.
"Well, yes. It's not the money, though - I just hope Strom doesn't find out."
It was at that moment the front door burst open and Ron and Hermione came in carrying paper grocery bags. Both of them seemed rather winded.
"'Lo mum, dad," Ron said, and Hermione did the same as they set the bags on the table. "We got everything you wanted but the leeks because they weren't too fresh, and we picked up some McMillians since Ginny said we had a bad batch. What're we having?" He looked up when his father gasped.
"I completely forgot," he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Gracious . . ."
"Forgot what?" Hermione asked.
"When I got Mrs. Beukelaer's cat out of that tree she was so grateful she told me I could bring the family into The Silver Toadstool any time for free. After I arranged Harry's arrival I made reservations for tonight -"
"At The Silver Toadstool?!" Molly exclaimed. Her cheeks were quickly turning pink. "My goodness, that's the most prominent wizarding restaurant in Ottery St. Catchpole . . ."
"No kidding," Ron laughed. "You have to wear dress robes to drive by it."
"I arranged a ministry car to pick us up and everything . . ."
"Oh, dear," Molly said slowly. "Well, we don't have to go, Arthur dear, it's alright." She smiled, attempting to hide disappointment, when a faint voice from the living room carried into the kitchen.
"Mrs. Weasley?" Harry croaked softly from behind the door and quickly she set her tea down and scurried into the living room, the crowd trailing close behind.
On the couch, Harry appeared to have just woken up. His eyes were rather dazed and his cheeks were flushed - one pinker than the other from the fall - he had a slightly unpleasant look on his face and was beginning to get slightly sticky from laying on the couch under and blanket in late July.
"Harry, dear, what do you need?" she brushed the hair from his forehead, most of which fell back into place as if it hadn't been touched, and put a hand on her wand pocket, prepared to cast comfort or still-bone charms.
Harry smiled at her, embarrassed, but his face was determined. "If you've made reservations for that restaurant, then go."
The replies came quickly - all four shook their heads and said something close to "Nonsense, Harry,", or "That's absurd,".
"No," Arthur said, "I won't hear of it. It's for you, after all, and there's absolutely no way I'm going to leave you here alone."
"No," Harry said quietly, "I'd feel much better if you went. In fact, I demand that you go. After all, if it's my night we should do what I wish, right? Nothing would please me more than for you all to go out. And you've made reservations -"
"Harry, we can't leave you here!"
"Surely you can. I've been in the hospital wing more than half my life - one night alone won't kill me."
And so went the bantering between Harry and the other four until there was little time left for them to prepare. The young man made an awfully convincing case and, though Molly swore she'd never forgive herself, she decided he could fend for himself that night and the family would benefit from a night out. Hermione hurried upstairs to wake Ginny and change into her dress robes and Ron did the same, whilst Molly hurried around the bottom floor of the house, collecting items Harry might need while they were out.
"Harry, I've put everything on the coffee table here - it's charmed to come to you if you speak its name - and Arthur showed Mildred Scalthe how to use some Muggle Talker-Walkies. If you need anything," she said, placing a small black device in his hand, "press that button and speak to her like you would with a tellyphone. She'll stop by to check up on you sometime during the evening in any case, if I can't get to a free Floo booth. Is there anything else?"
"Maybe a bit more of the sleeping potion you gave me earlier?"
"Oh . . . of- of course, darling . . . " She went into the kitchen and came out a moment later with a cup in her hands. "I put a bit less in it this time. Are you sure you'll be all right? We can still stay if you need."
He smiled gratefully and drank it, inhaling the vapors and laying his had against the pillow. "Thank you very much. I should be fine."
"Well." She said. "In any case . . . We'll check up on you."
Then she flicked her wand, and right as a muffled horn honked outside her robes became dark green dress robes, and she pinned her hair in a loose bun with a green comb. She kissed him on the cheek and Harry, blushing, quickly fell into the realm of sleep.
Ron waltzed down the steps rather clumsily in an attempt to flaunt his practically new dress robe, one which actually fit very well, an Hermione followed momentarily. Arthur returned from Mrs. Scalthe's house ("She was quite eager to learn about the Talker-Walkie!", he exclaimed upon arriving), transfigured his work robes to dress robes and stood in front of the other three, smiling at his wife.
"Dear, you look lovely. Oh -- where's Ginny?"
"I just woke her up. She should be coming down in a second." Molly frowned. Hermione started to speak again but was cut off by a pop that accompanied Molly's disappearance and, some long moments later, the sound of footsteps coming quickly down the stairs. Ginny's voice resounded in the small house.
"We're leaving Harry?"
"Mildred will look after him, dear," Molly offered, but Ginny looked none too happy as she entered the kitchen. Arthur assumed it was because she'd just woken up.
The redheaded young woman began restyle her long, thick hair quickly while Molly adjusted Ginny's dress robe. It was fairly new (less than a year old) and was a simple green one that almost matched her mother's. It was simple, but suited her very well.
"Shall we go then?" said Arthur, and the horn honked again. Molly looked around, nodded her consent, and the five trailed out of the house, leaving it a great deal quieter.
--
A/N - A big thanks to anyone who's continued reading this, as it did disappear for quite a while. I promise it's back for good. :-) And a gigantic thanks to Amy, the beta straight from the heavens, and to Rachel, for threatening my life if I didn't send this in.