Chapter Seven
"That Cursed Mistletoe"
Snow fell slowly outside the window, coating everything in soft white. Ginny pressed her forehead against the cool glass and gazed out into the tranquil street as light slowly faded from the sky. She sighed as her eyes fell to her watch. Twenty minutes ago she should have been at the Burrow for Christmas Eve dinner, but despite her growing hunger for the abundance of well-cooked food, she couldn't bring herself to Apparate from Joe's flat.
"Bah humbug," she whispered, her breath briefly fogging the window. Just about any other year, Ginny would have been jubilant right now with Christmas cheer and general happiness to be home for the holidays. One Christmas was the exception, and she was quite sure this one would join it.
"Here's your hot chocolate, Scrooge," said Joe's translucent reflection.
"Thanks," said Ginny, turning from the window and giving him a wan smile. "Am I really that bad?"
"Yes, terribly." But Joe smiled indulgently and pushed the black mug into her hands. "Have a little chocolate, you'll feel better."
"Hmm," she murmured, and then deeply breathed in the steam rising from the mug. After a few tentative sips, she glanced out the window again. The snow seemed to be falling in bigger flakes now. By morning there would be enough for a brilliant snowball fight. She'd always loved smashing packed snow into her brothers' surprised faces.
"It can't be that bad, can it?" Joe broke into her musings.
Ginny turned, feeling the warmth of the drink leave her. "Not usually," she admitted. "Mum's an excellent cook and overfeeds us, and my brothers usually come up with something exciting to drive her mad." Her hands wrapped tightly around the mug and she moved her gaze away from Joe's. "It'll probably be mostly like that, but, well, they haven't seen me in over a month, and Mum doesn't approve of my life, and—" She swallowed and closed her eyes.
And Harry will be there, she thought.
Ron had told her that Harry had arrived three days ago from Australia. Harry hadn't bothered to visit, for which Ginny was both hurt and relieved.
"Ginny," Joe said, placing a hand on each of her shoulders. "If you're worried about what your family will think of you—don't. They're your family, they still love you, even if you've deserted and gone to the wild side."
She had to laugh. "The wild side?"
Joe grinned crookedly and shrugged. "Well, you have changed your looks a little, but what's wrong with that? You just wear your emotions outside."
"Yeah, that's what it is," Ginny muttered darkly.
"Anyway," said Joe, checking his watch. "You're making me late to my own dinner, and Alyson will taunt me to no end for it."
"Sorry. I know I abuse the 'open door' privilege too much." Ginny moved for her cloak and rucksack, but Joe stopped her with a hand on her elbow. "Tell Alyson Happy Christmas for me again, okay?"
Joe nodded, but gazed at her seriously. "Okay, but you have a Happy Christmas as well, Gin." Then he gave her head a pat and her cheek a quick kiss. Ginny tried to smile but couldn't, so she drew her wand, and Apparated to the Burrow.
The world was absolutely still and silent. Large flakes fell all around her, covering her head and shoulders as she stood at the edge of the Burrow's yard. Everything was perfectly silent. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees or whirled the perfect flakes. The ground, trees, and hills were pure and glowing softly around her. It was cold but so still she couldn't feel it. She could stay out here forever and let the snow cover her in white peace.
But the Burrow loomed before her, basking in its own glow, every window lit and displaying a homemade decoration. Smoke rose from the chimney, and she could faintly smell the delicious, enormous Christmas dinner. Her mother was no doubt bustling around the kitchen, waving her wand at the pots, her other hand swatting at whichever boy was dipping into the food early. The tree would be creaking under the strain of all their collected ornaments, barely supported by the small pile of lumpy, odd-shaped presents tucked under it. Someone would be constantly waiting in line for the bathroom, occasionally impatiently banging on the door. A cacophony would follow the twins wherever they went, as would their mother's shouts. Her dad would probably be dressed as Father Christmas for a good laugh, and everyone would be hopefully eyeing the presents that weren't obviously knitted jumpers.
Ginny sighed and shivered under her cloak. Part of her desperately wanted to join the warmth and forget the past few months—years—and smile and berate her mother for sneaking mistletoes all over the house. But she knew too well by now that even pretending to be carefree and excited only made it worse inside. Once, what seemed long ago, she had no need to pretend Christmas cheer.
Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Ginny gathered her resolve and started up the small hill to the Burrow.
Just outside the door, however, she paused as her nervousness jumped to a higher level. She could hear voices.
". . . is that girl? Honestly! Arthur, do you suppose she isn't coming?"
"Molly, she'll be here. You know how much she loves Christmas. I'm sure she's just been busy and is on her way."
"I don't, Arthur," Molly said worriedly. "She quit her job at Flourish and Blotts last month, hasn't been in to see the twins much, and we haven't even seen her since October! Always busy working in that Muggle café, too busy for family. What is happening to her?"
Ginny closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. She would rather stay out here and freeze than go inside to her mother.
"Let's not discuss this tonight," said Arthur hurriedly, dropping his voice slightly.
"Of course," Molly sniffed, sounding muffled. "Harry's here, and I don't want to spoil his Christmas. He's gotten a bit taller, hasn't he? And not quite as pale or skinny as he used to be. You know, Arthur, I wasn't so sure about him going off alone like that, but he does seem a bit happier, doesn't he? Bit of good to get away from all the fuss around here."
"Yes, he's growing up. Oh, that gravy smells delicious, dear."
It was quiet for a few minutes, and then Molly's voice startled Ginny as she called, "Dinner, everyone!!"
As always when boys moved through the Burrow, the house seemed to vibrate from their thundering feet and playful shoving. Ginny's breath hitched as she heard their exclamations over the lay of food and the scraping of chairs being pulled out and scooted in.
"This looks wonderful, Mrs. Weasley!" Hermione praised.
"Absolutely," said a woman's voice Ginny didn't recognize. "Thank you again for inviting us, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley."
"We're glad to have you," said Molly, clearly pleased with the compliments. "And do call us Molly and Arthur."
"But we can't eat!" Ron protested. "Ginny isn't here yet!"
"Yes, well, I'm sure she'll be here soon, and it's getting late," Molly said hurriedly, her voice strained. "Tuck in, everyone!"
Hearing the sounds of large spoons hitting plates as the potatoes, turkey, ham, and stuffing were plopped on plates, Ginny sank down to the cold front step, feeling anything but hungry. She could easily leave without them ever knowing. It would greatly hurt her family, and she knew she would regret it and feel all the worse, but it was tempting. Tomorrow she could celebrate Christmas with Alyson and Joe and owl her mother that she'd suddenly become ill. Bad eggnog or something.
But it would ruin Christmas for the family.
"This is delicious, Mrs. Weasley."
Ginny stiffened.
"Thank you, Harry, dear. Did you eat well in Australia?"
"Yeah," said Harry, and Ginny wanted to shut out his voice. "But not this well."
Oh, Merlin! Her chest was so tight, she could barely breathe. Panic was rising in her, an emotion she had been without since that terrible night at Dean's. How could she possibly go in there? She would probably breakdown in front of everyone or have an awful row with her mother. All at once. Wouldn't Christmas really be better without her?
"Where is that girl?"
"Molly—"
"No, Arthur, I don't want to hear it! It is Christmas and she simply can't do this!"
The anger and hurt in her mother's voice stirred Ginny. She didn't want to ruin everyone's dinner with Molly's weeping tantrum, nor did she want everyone—especially Harry—to hear how she had alienated herself. Taking a shaky breath, she hitched up her rucksack on her shoulder, straightened her back, and faced the door. For a moment, she was at a loss of what to do, but then she lifted a fist and knocked tentatively.
"Well, I believe that's her. I'll get it." Someone's chair scraped the floor, and Ginny's stomach somersaulted. Then it opened, and she was looking up into her father's smiling face.
"Pumpkin!" Arthur cried, pulling her instantly into a hug.
"Happy Christmas, Dad," Ginny murmured into his shoulder. She stayed in his embrace for a moment, then wriggled out. "Sorry I'm late."
"No worries, no worries. We've just started. It's really snowing, isn't it? Mr. and Mrs. Granger were just telling me about blowsnowers! Really quite fantastic what Muggles get up to, isn't it?"
"Yes, Dad," Ginny couldn't help but smile slightly.
"Arthur!" Molly called. "Don't keep her out in the cold!"
"Oh! Right." Arthur stepped back and Ginny hesitated slightly before stepping into the instant warmth and light of the Burrow. She blinked in the glow. Then she heard two gasps, one from each of her parents, and it grew very quiet.
"Ginny!" Molly said breathlessly.
"Sorry I'm late, Mum."
Ignoring the shocked look on her mother's face, Ginny slowly let her gaze sweep the kitchen cramped of food and people. As always the extended table was straining under the onslaught of delicious, piping dishes of food, the counters were lined with pies and sweets for desserts, and everyone was crammed so close their elbows were bumping into one another. However, at the moment, everyone was staring at her with varied looks of surprise and welcome. Seated on either side by the head of the table, Fred and George were grinning at her as if she were already boiling in the kettle. George's spiked hair was now tipped in green. Bill, who was sitting beside Fred, had swiveled around in his chair, his eyebrows raised mildly. Ginny recognized Hermione's parents, who were smiling welcomingly at her, but looked slightly confused by everyone's staring. Ron's mouth was agape, his fork poised above his plate and his other hand under the table, no doubt holding Hermione's hand.
Hermione seemed as surprised as everyone else, but she had quickly recovered and was smiling pleasantly. Ginny could have let her eyes travel further over, but she didn't dare. She could feel his gaze and didn't want to meet it.
"What . . . what have you done to your hair?" Molly finally said, one hand clutching at her heart.
"I dyed it." Ginny had done so two weeks ago, having been in a Muggle shopping center with Alyson and Joe, who had been buying gifts for their family. The deep, dark auburn had leant her hair an almost purplish look in certain lights during the first week. It had lightened as it gradually washed out, but it was still much darker than her natural copper.
Molly mouthed wordlessly, but Arthur quickly recovered and smile. "Well, it looks lovely, dear. Let me take your rucksack."
"No, that's okay, I'll just drop it off in my room," said Ginny, desperately wanting to exit the room before her mother started commenting on her eye make-up and lipstick. Without waiting for a reply, she hurried for the staircase. The moment her feet hit the creaking stairs, she felt the kitchen exhale and people stir. Quickly, she shut her door and leaned against it, releasing her own nervous breath.
Her room hadn't changed, except for the added cot for Hermione. The walls were still covered with the faded, indiscernible wallpaper, and her bed was still covered in the same old quilt of her grandmother's. Even her old school trunk rested at the end of her bed. The only change in the room was how tidy and well-dusted it seemed to be.
"Well." Ginny dropped her sack on the bed. It was tempting to lie down and curl up under the familiar quilt and hide upstairs all night. But her mother would surely come for her. Sighing regretfully, she headed back downstairs as quiet as she could, avoiding all the memorized creaks.
"Pass the potatoes, please?" said Hermione politely. "Oh, the gravy, too."
Ginny came down the last step and halted.
No one had noticed her arrival. From the shadows of the threshold, she could observe Harry without having to catch his eye. He was talking with Ron and nodding. His hair was as messy as ever, but she knew it was flaked with white from his final battle with Voldemort. Although it might have been the fact his shoulders weren't slumped, Ginny thought he looked a little broader under Ron's maroon jumper.
"Since when have you become so shy, Gin?" called Bill, causing everyone to look up as well.
"Merry Christmas, Ginny," Hermione said with a smile. She pointed to the empty chair between Arthur and George . "Come sit down."
"Happy Christmas, everyone," said Ginny, barely turning the corners of her mouth up. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable with everyone still watching, and especially annoyed with her mother's appraising frown, Ginny quickly sat down, tucking her long hair behind her ears. She knew her mother was frowning at her attire, which consisted of a deep green, flowing-sleeved blouse and her black broomstick skirt.
When she looked up from putting her napkin in her lap, she felt as if someone had dumped cold water all over her. Sitting directly across the table and gazing at her was Harry. Quickly she looked down again, not wanting discern the look he was giving her.
"It's been ages," said Hermione, starting to pass numerous dishes around the table for Ginny to scoop onto her plate. "You missed Harry talking about Australia and the other countries he visited, but I'm sure he'd be happy to tell you later. That's a beautiful shirt, by the way, where did you get it? Oh—and my mum and dad came for dinner—"
"Hermione," Ron interrupted, spooning some stuffing onto her plate, "hasn't anyone ever told you not to talk with your mouth full?"
"Ron," Hermione said patiently, "my mouth isn't full."
"So fill it." Ron grinned cheekily and held up her fork, which held a massive amount of stuffing.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but accepted the mouthful. Ginny caught the pink in Ron's ears as he darted a cautious look towards Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who still seemed to be explaining snow blowers to her father. She couldn't help but smile a little at the fascination in his face, and vowed later to show him the portable CD player she'd borrowed from Joe. At least her father wouldn't start questioning about Joe, if she was dating him, or if she planned on marrying a Muggle (which would excite him).
"Those two are disgusting," said George in Ginny's ears, nodding towards Hermione and Ron, who were whispering to each other. "Potatoes?"
Ginny accepted the bowl and scooped mashed potatoes onto her plate. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry was still watching her, apparently not interested in the turkey in front of him. Then she glanced down the table towards her mother and saw that she was still eyeing Ginny with a deep frown while nodding to whatever Bill was saying.
"I happen to love this shade," said George, following her gaze. He tugged at her long hair, studying it. "Sort of spunky."
"Going for the Christmas tree look this year, are you?" Ginny raised her eyebrows at his vibrant green spikes.
George grinned widely. "We could improve upon your own look. I happen to think blue streaks would be lovely."
"Nah, I'm thinking black next. Pass the rolls?" Although she felt decidedly more lighthearted bantering with George, she couldn't shake the miserable feeling in her gut. The food smelled delicious, but she had no appetite. Her mother was still staring at her, everyone seemed to be casting her worried looks, even George, and she could still feel Harry studying her.
I just want to get out of here, Ginny sighed inwardly. Away from all of this. She had been saving her earnings from The Sipper and Flourish and Blotts, not knowing what she was saving for until a couple of weeks ago. She didn't know exactly when or where, but she was going to get away from England. It wouldn't cure all of her pain, but put some distance between them at least.
"Dad," Ginny said quietly as she buttered her roll. "Where're Charlie and Percy?"
"Charlie had an emergency with a sick dragon, apparently," said Arthur, having finally been satisfied with snow blowers, "and Percy's having dinner with Penelope Clearwater."
"Oh." Ginny hadn't known her older brother ever healed the rift between him and the Ravenclaw girl. Unable to stop herself, she looked up at Harry, feeling guilty and sick.
Harry had been saying something to Ron, but caught her eye and stopped. Questioning green eyes burned into her, and suddenly Ginny couldn't breathe as images from the past flashed before her. Harry hurt, angry, sad, happy . . . but most of all, Harry's face as he leaned close at midnight—but then it transformed into Harry the day she lied to him in the infirmary.
Ginny gasped and closed her eyes. She was going to lose it unless she got control of herself. Why couldn't she just remain aloof and sarcastic as she had been? It was beyond her anymore to pretend that everything was fine, but couldn't she at least hide this?
"Ginny?" said George quietly from her right.
"I'm fine," she bit out. She opened her eyes, carefully keeping them trained on her plate. Out of the corner of her vision, she could see that only her father, George, Fred, and Harry had noticed her spasm. Swallowing hard, she tried to gather her wits. All she wanted to do was flee.
"Chew well before swallowing," Fred chided. "Didn't Mum teach you that when you were two?"
Ginny tossed him a scowl. Unwarranted, her eyes slid to Harry, and she lost any semblance of control. "Don't you know it's rather rude to stare?" she said harsher than she intended.
Harry's eyebrows shot up, but then immediately furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Molly's sharp voice cut him off.
"Ginny Weasley!"
It was definitely time to flee.
Without glancing at her mother, she scooted her chair back and tossed her napkin on her plate. "Excuse me." And then she was out of the kitchen and going up the steps toward her room. When she reached the first landing, she paused, her body shaking too hard to stand up straight. She leaned against the wall.
"Honestly, Mrs. Granger, she's usually a very sweet girl . . ."
Ginny closed her eyes and wished her nails could dig into the wall. Sweet? When was the last time she had been sweet? How could she be sweet and innocent when she had nearly brought Tom Riddle back to life, nearly sacrificed herself to him a second time, and killed a man? Sweet people didn't betray those they loved! Sweet people didn't fool friends or lead them on and then freak out.
Sweet people knew who they were and what to do with themselves.
"Merlin, what's happening to me?" she whispered to the wall. Something told her she should be in tears, but she lacked the capacity. Not even the soft sound of footsteps on the stairs could bring her to react.
"Ginny? Are you okay?"
She let out a short, derisive laugh.
"Funny you should ask that," she muttered. Her hands shook as Harry suddenly stood before her, blocking passage further upstairs. She rolled along the wall until her back was against it and she could face the opposite wall. Casting a sidelong glance, she studied him, still feeling too unstable to leave the wall's support.
In the dimmer lighting, he seemed taller, older in the shadow, but still held an awkwardness that she knew she caused. Standing quite still, his arms limp at his sides, he only looked at her, apparently quite lost and uncertain. But in control. Jealousy sparked in Ginny. She wanted what he had: the ability to escape, the fact that he knew who he was and seemed so in control. Rationality told her it had not always been this way and that she didn't even know if it was now, but such thoughts were less bearable.
Obviously uncomfortable with the silence, Harry finally spoke. "Ron said you broke up with Dean. Again."
"Well, Ron's got a big mouth," Ginny spat. "And we weren't together to break up." She frowned and turned her head sharply towards Harry. "Hang on—how did he know?"
"Colin Creevey."
A Bat-Bogey Hex would be just the trick to straighten that boy out, she thought, feeling anger seep into her already tumultuous emotions. Ginny shook her head and let it hit the wall again. She wanted to push past Harry to her room, but she couldn't move. Harry was here, right in front of her, and she wanted nothing more than to bury her head in his chest and hide.
"Please, Harry," she whispered. "Just let me pass."
Harry took a step forward, but he didn't pass her for the stairs. She couldn't avoid his concerned gaze and felt even dizzier. "Not until I know you'll be all right."
"Harry," Ginny said shakily, "I haven't been all right in a long time."
"Why?" he asked quietly.
Ginny shook her head.
Harry stood there, staring at her, his eyes unreadable. Then he sighed, shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," he said, and then started for the stairs.
Ginny watched his retreating back, urgency screaming at her. "Harry—wait—"
Harry turned on the second step, and she saw a guarded hope in his eyes that made her sicker than ever. She wanted to turn and run from it, but her instincts were overwhelming her, her brain forming an idea without her permission.
"Yes?" said Harry.
"Are you leaving again after Christmas?"
"After the New Year."
"Oh." Ginny's heart was pounding. It was ludicrous. This would only bring her more pain, but everything deep inside was urging, pleading, forcing her into an action she wasn't sure she could take. Harry stood poised on the stairs, ready to start down them again, and she knew if she didn't act now, she never would.
"I've got to get out of here, Harry."
Her words seemed disembodied, to come from somewhere else. Harry took another step, but not down.
"I'm really messed up," she went on, feeling the words spill out of her as he stepped closer. She didn't notice that she'd taken a step away from the wall toward him. Unable to look him in the eye, she focused to his right, but she could see his sleeve at the edge of her narrowed vision. "I have to get out of here. I've been planning on leaving—to travel or something—just to get away from here so I can figure things out. I meant to go alone, but . . ." Ginny swallowed, not believing her own words, wanting to stop now and flee to her room, but she couldn't. She had always been impulsive, but this went beyond that. "I wanted to go alone, to get away from everyone and everything, but now—it's just—I mean—it would be . . ." She trailed off, feeling a great void open before her.
"Lonely?" Harry finished softly.
Ginny looked up at him, feeling dizzy, and sucked in a deep breath. "Y-yes . . . lonely."
Harry's eyes were dark, his face unreadable. "You want to come back to Australia with me?" he said slowly, quietly.
"I don't care where, I just have to get away from this."
"Why?"
Ginny stared at him, at his guarded, cautious look. How could she tell him why? How could she tell him she was slipping? That she was setting herself up for more pain, that she didn't care anymore about anything except the pain? She knew only that she was drowning here and that she couldn't stay any longer to save money.
"I can't tell you, Harry," she said softly, dropping her eyes to the floor, "except I have to get away. If you say no, I understand. I can't even stand myself. But I'll leave here, anyway, alone if I must."
Harry said nothing for a long moment, and Ginny didn't trust herself to speak again. It seemed she had said more to Harry on this landing than she had in the past two years, and she was exhausted, confused, and scared. Already she could feel the pain that would come if Harry refused; but was it greater or less than the agony of being constantly in his presence?
"Okay," Harry said quietly, startling her.
"Okay," Ginny breathed. One hurt had been spared. She looked up, but her eye caught something above him.
Quickly, she lowered her gaze, but Harry had caught her mistake and looked up as well. His left eye seemed to twitch. "Mistletoe," he mumbled. "I hate those things."
"Mum puts'em up," Ginny said tightly. "Cursed things. They're all over the house."
"Yeah, Ron and Hermione noticed," Harry said, seemingly as an afterthought. He was looking back down at her, face clouded with emotion. "Never had much luck with those."
Ginny bit her lip, wanting to taste blood to cover her guilt. She had learned that Harry's first kiss had been under the mistletoe from a miserable Cho Chang, but his thoughts were probably where hers were. Two Christmases ago, they had been caught under mistletoe in the Gryffindor common room; Halloween and November had been too fresh, too painful, and the cursed plant had been salt in the wound.
"Ginny . . ."
Harry was so close; she could feel the heat coming from his body. She shivered, fighting the emotions rising in her. No doubt by the way he said her name, he still had feelings for her. I can't let him, I'll break.
"It's not an obligation," Ginny said stiffly, stepping back. "Just a silly tradition. Goodnight, Harry." And then she whirled around and fled to her bedroom, not stopping until she was safely locked behind her door.
Reeling, she ripped open her rucksack for the borrowed CD player. She didn't want to think about what had just happened or what could happen. Drowning in the music with the lights out, she was able to be safely lost.
Lying sleeplessly on the cot in Ron's room, Harry ruminated as he stared up at the faintly glowing Chudley Cannons posters reflecting the moonlight off the fallen snow. After the defeat of Voldemort, life had failed to become simpler. Those seven years had been full of toil and pain, but looking back, Harry reckoned that it had been rather organized and somewhat straightforward: he had his enemy and his friends. Surviving Voldemort had been a purpose he didn't need to question, whether it be for himself, his friends, or people he never knew and probably never would. Life, although deadly and painful, had been simple.
Even after Voldemort had been defeated, life had presented itself with another task that Harry had plunged into unquestioningly. If he poured himself into reconstruction and rebirth, he wouldn't need to question or feel the emptiness inside. Unfortunately—or was it by fortune?—Remus had cottoned on to the way Harry had tried to drain himself, and so Harry had been sent away to recuperate.
At first Harry had reacted badly to such a suggestion. Ridiculous ideas had crossed his mind, lending distorted interpretations to everyone's concern. Now that he had killed—helped end—Voldemort's reign, no one needed him. Everyone thought he was too emotionally unstable to handle any of the serious duties needed in the reconstruction. Having endured the Dursleys, his parents' and Sirius' death, Harry had battled with an acute sense of abandonment, and the Weasleys' and Remus' push for his sabbatical had been just as wrenching.
Once he had been away for a couple of months, however, he began to understand his friends' reasoning. Disentangled from the politics of the Ministry, the fame that had taunted him since he had become aware of it, and the heavy mood permeating the wizard world, Harry started to remember what it was like to be Harry, not The Boy Who Lived.
Drifting from place to place, Harry quickly realized just how much he didn't like to be alone. Although he knew one isn't to be defined by friends and company kept, Harry could feel in their absence just how much his friends truly meant to him and shaped part of who he was. Despite yearning for Ron, Hermione, and the Weasleys, Harry was compelled to experience other aspects of life than what had been offered to him in England. It wasn't so much the location as the actual atmosphere. He wasn't stifled or judged: just some British bloke wandering the world.
At some point the wandering would have to end and he would have to face the "real world." His money wouldn't last forever, even on the odd jobs he'd picked up in a couple of countries. Harry knew he would need to find a job, and although he was enjoying his near anonymity, he would someday soon return to England to live. Unfortunately, deciding on what he was going to do with his life brought on more questions, and Harry was rather torn. He knew every single Weasley, Hermione, and Remus would each tell him in turn that he should do whatever he wanted to do and not feel obligated by noble duty. However as draining as his "nobility" had been in the past, Harry couldn't help but want to do something significant and helpful. Perhaps The Boy Who Lived was permanently burned into him like the scar on his forehead, so why should he try to escape it?
"Damn vicious circle, isn't it?" Harry muttered wryly to the dozing Cannons players. He sighed and placed his hands behind his head. That was one thing he would like to do, had happily daydreamed about at Hogwarts: play professional Quidditch.
But was it real? Having been through what he had—and Harry didn't like to analyze or measure it—playing a game as a life seemed almost petty, trivial. After all, it really was just a game. A game he truly enjoyed . . . a game that held an enticing purity for him.
Few things seemed pure to Harry anymore.
He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
"Ginny," he whispered, unaccustomed to her name rolling off his tongue. It was lost in Ron's loud snores. Harry's thoughts fell back to only hours before.
"I'm really messed up, Harry." Her pinched, drawn face floated before him, extremely pale even in shadow; all her features had been sharply distinct but blurred by the torment pulling at her eyes and mouth. "I'm slipping . . ."
With a growl of frustration, Harry rolled off the cot to his feet. He swayed uncertainly for a moment, and then left Ron's room. No way would he find peace or sleep in there. Honestly, did Ron have a bloody cold?
Having acquired knowledge of all the creaky spots, Harry moved quietly down the staircase. If he was going to stay up all night mulling over Ginny's transformation and plea, he was going to have food readily available. And he just needed to move.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Harry noticed the faint glow coming from the never-ending fire in the living room hearth. The idea of staring into the flickering flames until his eyes burned seemed strangely appealing. How many times had he lost himself in the Gryffindor Tower flames?
Harry had taken two steps into the largest room of The Burrow when he froze. Someone was on the couch, her long hair splayed over the pillows. Was she sleeping or staring into the fire? Harry shifted uncertainly on his feet. Did he want her awake or asleep? He would have to confront her about the interlude in the hall at some point, but Harry was open to waiting a few more hours.
After all, Hermione always said I was a born procrastinator, Harry thought dryly. Then he frowned. Hermione had always tried to break him and Ron of that "horrible habit."
At any rate, nothing was going to come of him standing there. Inwardly sighing, Harry approached the couch, his stomach tightening with dread and anticipation, and then it disappeared in relief.
Ginny was sound asleep. Harry's restless nerves softened as he gazed down at her, his eyes roaming over her. In the gentle glow of the fire, Ginny's skin seemed luminescent instead of pale, the tiredness lost in flickering shadow. She'd washed off her dark eye make-up and changed into a cotton nightgown, and even though her hair seemed even darker in the lowered lighting, Harry could see the Ginny he remembered. The tightness he'd seen around her eye, through her whole body, reminded him of someone holding on to the very edge, fingers slipping, just before deciding to give up, let go. It scared him.
She had not reappeared after dinner. Hermione had whispered when he'd come out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth that Ginny had been laying on her bed, eyes closed, and listening to Muggle headphones. Studying her now, Harry figured she must have come down to eat or something after everyone else had gone to bed. By the way she was propped against the lumpy pillows, her head tilted slightly towards the back of the couch, she had accidentally fallen asleep. She looked relaxed, blissful and serene, asleep.
Harry's eyes traveled from her still face and down her neck. A deep longing to brush his fingers against the lightly freckled skin overcame him and he stretched out a hand. When was the last time he'd touched her? Even a nudge for her to pass the orange juice? With trembling fingers, he felt the long, dark auburn hair falling over her shoulder, wishing it were fiery copper.
I shouldn't touch her if she doesn't want me to, Harry realized, quickly withdrawing his hand. The longing only deepened, becoming painful. Had he known it would be like this, he would have stayed in Australia . . .
Casting about for distraction, Harry's eyes fastened on the book resting open in Ginny's lap. Her freckled hand loosely covered a fountain pen as the book slipped out of the other. Curious, Harry slowly edged the book from her hands, glancing warily at her face when she mumbled something and turned her head slightly. Fortunately, she remained asleep, and Harry quickly glanced down at the open pages, and felt instantly guilty.
It wasn't a book.
Nor was it a diary, but Harry still felt ashamed to be looking at it. The pages opened to him seemed quite impersonal as they were scrawled with numbers and symbols, but Ginny had scribbled comments around the edge, top, and bottom. He squinted at the numbers and realized he was looking at her finances, which, judging by her comments, weren't even near his depleting bank account.
One scrawl caught his eye. The numbers ring true—Why am I even doing this? Under the line in even larger letters was out Out OUT!
Harry glanced back down at Ginny. What was she trying to get away from? It was the next biggest question on his mind right after What happened to her? Harry couldn't quite answer the second, but he had a general feeling of where and when Ginny's change had begun. The deadened, unreachable look had settled into her eyes that day in the infirmary . . .
Not wanting to think about that day, Harry turned a page back, and saw not numbers but words spilling across it.
What messes come about! When life seems clear in its self-inflicted slavery and monotony, impulsion ruins everything. How can someone be compelled to be placed in even more pain, come closer to the torturer? Agony has become too inviting, beckoning. It drains under the falsehood of bringing life and feeling to overwhelming passivity. But even passivity is a lie. Telling yourself you don't feel, that you don't deserve to feel, is just as ridiculous and forged because you do deserve to feel that ache, that burn.
Perhaps by bringing the pain closer, like an enemy, it can be conquered. But pain is friend as much as foe, and so it must be embraced as both. Without it, I am alone, non-existent.
"God, Ginny," Harry swore softly, closing the book with a snap. He had somehow reached the floor, his back against the couch. Not sure what he just read, but feeling even more somber by it, Harry rested his head against the edge of the cushion. He could hear her deep, steady breathing, and closed his eyes, matching his to it. How could someone sleeping so peacefully write something like that?
She suddenly let out a sigh and Harry lifted his head as she shifted on the couch, turning onto her side and curling up like a cat. Long hair fell across her face, and Harry knelt, gently pushing it away. "I'm sorry, Ginny," he whispered, letting his fingertips stray to her cheek and along her jaw line. Compelled, he lowered his lips and gently kissed her forehead, suddenly understanding her disturbing passage.
Then Harry took the old quilt off the rocking chair by the window and draped it over her. He placed the book and pen neatly on the floor beside her, again feeling guilty for intruding. Again he touched her cheek, but resisted another kiss. He had trespassed too much tonight. As quietly as he'd come, Harry stole up the stairs, knowing he would find no sleep tonight.