Chapter Seventeen
"Tourniquet"
Dark, painful dreams plagued his sleep until the comforting, familiar sounds of Renee's morning routine roused Harry from his world of deep gray. He lay still for several minutes, pending thought, until he heard the front door close softly behind his roommate.
Shifting uncomfortably on the couch, Harry opened his eyes to find the living room bathed in a lighter cloak of gray. Wan morning light cast vague, foggy shadows over the slumped, curled figure with her head burrowed in the corner. Harry rubbed a fist into each eye. Massaging the back of his sore neck, he leaned down to the floor and found his glasses.
With his renewed ocular perception, the vagueness of the morning slipped bleakly, sharply into focus. Harry bit back a groan and rubbed absently at his scar. He didn't feel as if he'd slept at all, but he knew he'd gotten more sleep than Ginny. Dropping his hand, he studied her, relieved that she was still asleep.
She looked as if she'd fallen over; her body was folded and curved at slightly uncomfortable, accidental angles. One thin, worn strap of the old sundress Renee had given her slipped off her shoulder, revealing a tan line Harry found rather appealing before it ducked under the neckline. With her left leg curled under her body, she'd stretched out her right leg and buried her foot between the cushions. Her face was completely obscured by tangled red hair and couch cushions.
Watching her made Harry realize he did not want to be around when she woke up. Nor did he think he could return to his room to catch up on lost sleep. He had to get out.
Moving silently as he could, Harry dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, grabbed his Firebolt, and left the apartment. He paused just outside the door, wondering for a second if he should be there when Ginny woke up. She had not wanted to be alone last night, so what if she woke up to an empty apartment? Renee's absence would be normal, but Harry was almost always there in the morning, unless he slept in later. Would she take that as a signal of some sort?
"Guh!" Harry told the number 6 on his door.
He definitely needed to get out of the house.
Glancing surreptitiously around for Muggles and finding no one, Harry cast a Disillusionment Charm on his Firebolt. Then he quickly hurried down the stairs and made his way down the street to his usual Apparating point behind some large hedges surrounding a rusting, graffiti-covered sculpture of a surfing bunyip. With a sharp crack, he reappeared on a cliff overlooking a small, inhospitable cove between Bronte and Coogee.
Cold, salty wind whipped across the dark, slate surface of the water. Roaring waves crashed into the rock, spraying chilly foam over the hedge growing horizontal from the cliff edge. Harry shivered in his t-shirt as he blinked against the bleary morning sea. He could not recall such a cold day in Australia. The sun had not begun to peek over the horizon, or if it had, the uncharacteristic sheet of smooth, steely clouds obscured it.
Although metaphorical weather slightly unnerved him, Harry did appreciate the change in perfect weather. Something comforting and indulging could be found in weather that matched the wretchedness consuming him.
Taking a deep, cool breath, Harry Disillusioned himself as well and mounted his broom.
He kicked off fiercely and launched high into the air, soaring higher and higher until the large boulders breaking the water looked like pebbles. Then he pointed his broom vertically and dived.
The last vestiges of sleep and thought vanished as adrenaline rushed through him like the wind whistling past his ears. Wind buffeted him, trying to toss him off his nearly vertical path to the disgruntled sea, but he held fast. Closer and closer . . . the boulders were rocks, now they were boulders, he could feel the mounting, crashing waves—
He pulled up between two swells, his toes skimming the water before he rose over the wave as it capped on the uneven ocean floor. Again he rose high into the air only to come racing down faster than gravity would take him. Moist air soaked through his thin t-shirt, chilling his skin with goosebumps, but he didn't notice. He rode over the breaking waves, dipped between the crests, raced them to the cliffs, daring them to overtake him . . .
The gray sky had lightened a few shades when Harry eased into a gentle glide ten feet over the waves. Breathless, his heart pounding in his ears over the wind, he pushed wet hair out of his eyes and felt the adrenalin drain away. Cold, chilly drops slid down his back, trailing the despondency falling over him again.
Closing his eyes, Harry recalled last night in detail. The agony in Ginny's body and face, how her eyes became dull and dead . . . Even now he could feel her trembling, clammy body crushed against his, not at all like his fantasies. He'd been terrified—he was still terrified. The Ginny from last night had been the same Ginny he'd found in the Chamber of Secrets, ravaged and broken by Tom Riddle.
Harry gripped his broomstick tightly, feeling anger and hate boil hotly under the iciness wrapping around him. He wanted to stab that damnable diary again and again; he could not, however, bear again to witness the death of Lucius Malfoy or Voldemort—his hate was not strong enough to want to see that again, even if he relived it in his dreams. Nor did he ever want to see Ginny so dead and cold, her confessing mouth the only sign of life in her.
"I killed Macnair."
She'd been willing Harry to despise her for it, as she so obviously despised herself, but Harry rather thought this ridiculous. There had to be more behind the defeat in her voice, the self-loathing passing through her pale, gray lips. He'd so desperately wanted to redirect her anger and pain towards him when he had seen his own guilt reflecting in her glassy, bloodshot eyes.
It felt, even now, as if he'd done nothing. Actually, it felt worse, and Harry had not imagined he could feel even more terrible about what he'd done in seventh year. How could he feel better when Ginny looked to be in pure agony over his words? What the hell did she mean they couldn't be more than friends? Why couldn't she bloody tell him the bloody reason why they bloody couldn't? If it was a simple matter of I-don't-like-you-like-that or I-hate-your-guts-you-big-fat-liar, why couldn't she say it? Certainly a definitive reason would be better than more tears.
"One person can't feel all that at once," Ron had said in fifth year. "They'd explode."
"I'm going to explode," Harry muttered, his words lost on the wind. He opened his eyes to find that he'd drifted nearly a mile away from his last point. Turning north again, he paralleled the shoreline, half-heartedly dipping between the waves.
As he rounded an outcropping sheltering a cove, he saw a familiar figure rise up on a cresting wave, her wild, auburn locks tangled, wet, and black. The moment he saw her, Harry felt a little warmth thaw the bitter cold entombing him. He recognized this feeling and smiled a little; he felt this way when he saw Ron and Hermione after the summer holidays and, most recently, when they'd met him in London a few weeks ago.
Keeping low but just above the waves, Harry sped toward Renee. He moved over the crest of her wave and spotted the tag sticking out of her small, black t-shirt. Moving expertly as if it were a Snitch, he swooped down and waited just long enough for her to come out of the wave's under-curl before tugging sharply on her tag.
She let out a startled cry, wobbling precariously on the surfboard. Harry patted her head and shot past her toward the tiny beach nestled into the small, vacant cove.
When he landed, he tapped his wand to his head and felt the familiar warm trickle returning him to his normal state. Then he settled onto the beach, pushed his toes into the cool sand, brushed hair out of his eyes, and rested his elbows on his knees to observe Renee's very rude hand gesture when she spotted him. Satisfied that he'd gotten her meaning, she paddled back out for the next wave.
He watched her surf, daring the waves as he had done on broomstick. He needed to figure out what he was going to do now. The talk over the pizza had buoyed him, had felt like old times in the common and locker rooms where Ginny had been all enthusiasm and passion about trivial and important things. He wanted that back.
Could he get that back? Should he even try? Something told him that Ginny could never again be the same Ginny at fifteen and sixteen, just as he could never return to the fifteen or sixteen-year-old Harry. War changed people. Hell, someone had told him that life changed people. Still, he couldn't quite accept the shattered Ginny he'd seen last night. It'd be surrendering to Voldemort, tossing down Godric Gryffindor's sword and saying, "All right, you win."
No bloody way would he ever do that.
Yet he could not fathom what he was supposed to do. Harry was still lost in this train of thought when Renee dragged her surfboard up the tiny beach to him.
Wordlessly, she leant the board against a rock and sat down beside Harry and buried her toes in the sand.
"Hey," she said quietly, her eyes toward the sea.
"Hey," Harry mumbled, dropping a hand off his knees to run his fingers through the sand.
Renee turned to look at him, her mouth uncharacteristically frowning. "I hate it when you look like that, Harry," she said softly. "Other people can look sad, and I go 'oh, look, he's sad, poor him,' but you always look like the world's lost or something."
"Sorry," said Harry, feeling rather embarrassed by this.
"Don't be." Renee dropped her gaze to where his hand was playing with the sand. Then she sighed and put an arm around his shoulders.
Harry's shoulders sagged under the gesture and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. As odd as it sounded even to his own mind, Harry liked it when Renee touched him. Something about it was normal, friendly, and thoughtless. Having grown up with the cruel Dursleys, he hadn't really experienced human physical contact that wasn't harsh or cold. The general smacking around in the locker rooms or dormitory between the Gryffindor boys lacked something, although he had not realized it until sixth year. By then he'd been used to cringing whenever Hermione touched him—she was always so emotional and smothering when she hugged him. He didn't like having someone else's feelings pushed upon his own and he had no idea how to give anything back if he'd wanted to. But sometime in sixth year, Ginny had started nudging him with her elbow, tapping him on the shoulder, playfully smacking his hand away from her Chocolate Frogs, and he'd discovered what a friendly, undemanding feminine touch could do.
Of course, when you get closer and have certain more-than-friendly feelings toward a female friend, the touch could be given more thought, more emotion, and you wanted it to mean more.
Renee's touch, however, did not affect him as Ginny's did. He felt immense gratitude for her arm draped carelessly around his shoulders, silently supporting him without asking for anything back. Ginny had been like that once . . .
"I don't know what to do," he sighed, turning to Renee. "I don't even know what's going on really."
"She's hurting."
"I know that. Merlin, I know that." Grabbing a fistful of sand, he watched it sift between his fingers. "I hurt her. He hurt her. But I don't know how the hell she got like that, and she damn well won't tell me." He spoke quietly but he noticed Renee wince slightly at the anger in his voice.
She sighed a little, the motion carrying through her arm. "Who's this other bloke? The 'he' that hurt her?"
"Voldemort." Harry spat the name out with every bit of hate he felt in his cold, soaked body. He knew it wasn't just the wind rushing through his wet shirt that froze his chest.
"What sort of name is that?" asked Renee bewilderedly.
Harry snorted. It felt very weird to have someone not flinch at that name. "It's an acronym for Tom Marvolo Riddle."
"Marvolo?"
"Yeah. I know. I might have laughed if he'd told me in a slightly different situation." If Ginny hadn't been dying on the Chamber floor . . . He stared broodingly out at the dull steel gray of the waves. "I really don't want to talk about it."
"No worries," said Renee quietly. She pulled her arm around his neck to bring his head closer and dropped a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek. "I didn't want to listen to your sob story, anyway."
"Oh, shut up," Harry muttered, tossing sand at her. A smirk twitched his lips as she feigned choking on sand. "Cheeky monkey."
"At least I'm not a pale, broody Pommy," she retorted, sticking out her sand-less tongue.
"I'm not pale! Not anymore, anyway."
"You're no bronze surfie, either."
"Would you like more sand in your face?"
They tossed playful insults and threats to each other for a few minutes, but then Renee's giggles died as Harry's somber mood wouldn't quite lift. They sat in silence for a while. Harry battled between keeping to the mutual silence and confessing at least a little bit of what was on his mind. He would never unload completely on Renee—he didn't even think he could confess everything to Ron and Hermione—or betray Ginny's past to her, but he needed a hint in some direction.
"Nay?" he said hesitantly.
"Yeah?" She had her head on her knees, her hands on her ankles. Everything about her large, wide eyes and curious, soft face spoke of open earnestness.
"I . . ." Harry licked his lips, took a deep breath, and—
—he couldn't do it. Renee, a friend, was there—he could trust her because she had not betrayed him in anything—but he couldn't do it. If he just told her how he'd lied to Ginny and that he'd confessed it last night to no definitive prevalence or condemnation, he'd have to explain why he'd done so, why he'd been driven to it, why he and Ginny had fallen out . . . The "bog standard" as Renee called it would not justify or explain what had happened to Harry and his friends, and Harry knew that if he started to unleash one thing, he may not be able to stop the rest, because Ron was definitely right: you can't feel that much before you explode.
And Renee did not deserve to be caught in that blast; Harry could not stand to have this normal, casual relationship tainted by the war. He wanted her just like this: friendly, joking and without expectation. Without fear or sadness for him.
"Yes, Harry?" she asked when his mouth remained soundlessly open.
"I—I'm just glad you let me room with you," he said lamely, looking away.
A full second went by before Renee said sweetly, "Ah, shucks, Hay, I'm getting all warm and fuzzy inside."
Harry grunted for lack of the mentality to respond. Renee, however, seemed to brush over this and stood up, dusting sand off her legs and swimsuit bottoms.
"Come on," she said. "It's too cold out here, you'd think it was June or something. Want to come to the markie with me? We're a bit low on food. We can banish the board and broom."
Although the prospect of grocery shopping did not appeal to Harry, he definitely was not ready to return to the apartment.
As his morning custom, Rum pawed at Ginny's hair until she grudgingly obeyed his feline command. She groaned from physical and emotional pain that came with consciousness and briefly considered hexing the tiny cat until he pushed against her stomach, purring rapturously. Grateful for his comfort, she gathered him in her arms and buried her face in his fur. His pleasure reverberated through her head, sounding more like a fierce lion than a scrawny runt.
"I want to be a cat," she muttered wistfully into Rum's belly. He batted at her hair. It would be great until I had to lick myself, Ginny reasoned wryly as she extricated herself from Rum, who was now trying to eat her hair.
Looking around her, Ginny realized two things very quickly: that Harry was no longer asleep on the couch, and that the flat felt very empty. Relief and trepidation twisted her stomach. She chewed on her bottom lip, wishing desperately that she could sort out her thoughts and emotions right now.
Last night had been bad.
To say the very least.
Macnair's death ranked right up top with her worst nightmares. She could never suppress or conquer the hysteria that had risen inside her at that moment she'd ordered Voldemort's pet snake to kill the Death Eater. His body always fell in slow motion; the feral, vengeful urge to kill always recoiled into sickening realization and utter shame. Her throat and ears ached from her frenzied, panicked screams of horror and denial as she was sedated and then floated over her victim to be tortured and shamed by Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
That instance of madness, possession, and murder would never leave her.
"No," she croaked, beginning to tremble. "Nononono . . ."
Rum yowled and glared at her as she leapt up from the couch, muttering frantically as she raced to the bathroom. Shaking uncontrollably, she splashed cold water onto her face and drank great gulps until her stomach ached from the shock of it. Her echoing screams and the cold November frost faded into Harry muttering pain-riddled words in her ear and the sheltering, possessive, painful feel of his arms around her. Ginny bit painfully down on her wrist to keep from screaming outright.
Why hadn't he buggered off last night? He should have pushed her away disdainfully and demanded that she leave at once. Harry should have been sickened by her confession that she'd killed Macnair in cold blood, that she had been reduced to such a weak, pathetic state.
But of course not. Harry felt guilty. He thought it was his fault. It was just like Harry Potter to take the blame for her own murder, her betrayal. He thought it was his kiss, his lie that hurt her, that had brought her to Voldemort's mercy. So, he would not hate her for what she did, because it was his fault it all happened.
"Damn you, Harry," she whispered, releasing her wrist. Her scream was safely locked away. "You wouldn't feel guilty if you knew." The bite marks on her wrist were deep and blood was filling the cavities of torn skin. She watched the thick, crimson droplets stretch into ribbons, both disgusted and fascinated by her physical self-affliction.
Then she blinked.
Macnair's bite had looked like this . . .
Shuddering violently, she pushed her wrist under the facet, rinsing away her blood. Bile rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down. When the wound was clean, she found some bandage under the sink and wrapped up her wrist.
Somehow, the act of dressing her injury calmed Ginny. After returning the gauze and tape to its cupboard, she scrubbed her face until it felt raw and tender, but avoided looking in the mirror. She brushed her teeth and went to the kitchen.
The silence of the apartment unnerved her. Renee was usually at the beach by this time, but Harry would be making breakfast or watching the TV if he wasn't still asleep. Part of her knew his absence could mean anything—he could be buying breakfast, since the fridge and cupboards were low—but she knew he didn't want to be around her.
This is good, she tried to tell herself. If he doesn't want to be around me, then I have no conflict. Things are better this way and as they should be. Harry can move on to better things, like Quidditch and Renee, and I can just . . .
Leave.
She should leave. How could she possibly think about staying after last night? She was nothing but a messed-up, insane burden on Harry and Renee, and surely they wouldn't want to accommodate her after that revolting display of hysteria. Even if Harry was still focused on his own undeserved guilt, Ginny knew she couldn't stand his caring or his guilt anymore.
"Bugger it," she swore through clenched teeth.
Then she shrieked and hit her knee on a barstool, overturning it.
Two loud cracks had sounded just in front of her and a purple surfboard had dropped onto the island counter, followed immediately by Harry's Firebolt.
Moaning and nursing her knee, Ginny frowned at the surfboard and broomstick. If Harry and Renee had banished these back here, then that meant they probably weren't on their way home. A ridiculous, unjustified jealousy spiked through her before she firmly repressed it. Harry could shag Renee all for the better, if it meant he'd gotten over whatever guilt or feelings he might have had last night, right?
It did not make her feel any better.
Rum jumped onto the counter to inspect his mistress and master's items, his long tail twitching back and forth.
"Right," said Ginny. "I better be off, then."
Overwhelming sadness swept over her as she turned towards the bedrooms.
She didn't want to leave.
But I have to, she told herself. Her knee ached terribly and she could feel it stiffening from swelling. Harry has a good thing going here, I can't ruin it for him. He has to be the one who gets past the war. I can't help him with that.
A trembling began in her bones as it had two years ago on her journey from the numbing world of the infirmary to the Great Hall. Muscles tensed as she futilely tried to stop it. She limped to the stereo and found the Oasis CD Joe had burned her. Angsty acoustic and regretful words filled her ears.
No use in listening to something upbeat. She turned away and went to her tiny room. Tears would not come even if she allowed them.
Rum came to watch her pack after she'd changed into her black skirt and a long-sleeved, gray shirt. The process of sorting through her clothes and Renee's was slow; her limbs moved tiredly, as if echoing the doubt in her mind. She was numb and ragged, exhausted and wretched.
An hour may have passed, but maybe it was only fifteen, when the front door opened.
Ginny drew a deep breath and continued folding her cloak. I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I'm leaving. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.
Whispers rustled over the crackle of grocery bags. More whispers and then approaching footsteps.
No, please, no! Just go past, please just go past—
"Ginny?" said Harry quietly, hesitantly from behind her.
She could sense him in the threshold, raising the hair on the back of her neck.
"You're . . . you're leaving?" he said disbelievingly, taking a step closer.
"I . . ." The shaking was more noticeable now. She stiffened. "I—I don't know," she muttered. What the hell happened to your determination, Ginevra Weasley?
"What? Why?"
"What which and why which?" said Ginny, shoving her cloak into her travel bag. She hated the tired hopelessness in Harry's voice and definitely did not want to see it on his face.
"What do you mean by 'I don't know' and why are you leaving?"
Whirling around angrily, she nearly stumbled into him. She put her arms out against his chest to catch herself.
"I don't—" she started to say, but his hand clasped tightly around her wrist.
"Ginny?" Harry hissed. "What the hell is this?"
Ginny had squeezed her eyes shut in pain, but she opened them and nearly cried out at the utter horror affixed on his face. "I—"
"Wait—" He turned and shut the closet door behind him, his hand still fastened around her bandaged wrist poking out from her sleeve. Ginny jumped at the closing door, fear and shame crashing down on her as she found herself once again completely enclosed and trapped.
"Harry, let me go," she pleaded.
"No." Harry was staring narrowly at her, his eyes dark and frightened. "Not until you tell me what this is," he said, tugging on her wrist.
"It—it's nothing," Ginny lied, not looking at him. Blood rushed to her face and the walls seemed to close in. Harry was another wall, a closer wall, wall that could do more than just entomb her . . .
"Ginny," said Harry hoarsely, "did you—did you try—try to—"
"No! Would you please let go?"
Harry dropped her hand, but he still stared intently at her. Ginny quickly clutched it to her chest and noticed that blood had seeped through the gauze. That's what I get for not remembering to heal it first.
"You didn't try to—you know—"
"No," Ginny spat, shaking and taking a step back. Much further and she would hit the wall . . . She didn't want to feel the wall . . .
Harry raked his hair in obvious frustration and confusion. Looking at him now from under her ducked head, she remembered the burning look in his eyes last night, how he'd snatched her up as if determined to keep her from falling apart. Now, cornered, she feared he'd do it again.
"Ginny," said Harry helplessly, "then what—no." He shook his head and gazed at her half-packed things. "Why are you leaving?" When she didn't answer, he closed the space between them and she knew she didn't have the mental or physical strength to push him away.
His fingers closed gently around her bandaged wrist. "I don't want you to leave, Ginny," he whispered.
I hate you! she wanted to scream. Why do you have to be so obvious and open? Why can't you just go back to bottling it all up and hiding it like before? Why can't you pretend like me? Then we can part and never speak of this again.
"Ginny?" said Harry when she remained silently and staring down at her feet, mentally cursing him. He lifted her chin, but she jerked her head back.
"I'm going for a walk," she said curtly.
"Please don't leave—"
"I can't walk out of Australia, Harry."
"So, you're not leaving?"
"I honestly don't know." Ginny pressed her hands into her face, then pushed them through her hair, still refusing to look at Harry. If she could get away from Harry, she might be able clear her mind and think.
Or just stop shaking.
"Harry, please," she said. "Let me out."
"You're not going to leave?" he said. "Or—or that?" He gestured at her wrist.
"I didn't try to kill myself." It would be the easy way out.
Harry gave her a very dubious look. Anger rose in her. Did he honestly think she'd commit suicide?
"Look, you git," Ginny spat, crossing her arms. "Let me out. I'm not going to do anything stupid. I'm going for a walk."
Harry crossed his arms as well and she felt slightly amazed that he could look so much taller when really he was just a head and shoulders above her. "Only if you promise not to leave," he said firmly.
"Don't make me hex you," she said through gritted teeth.
"Your wand is by your bag. Conveniently out of reach," Harry said, but there was little jesting in his voice.
Ginny glared at him. Although Harry shifted slightly, he didn't budge and remained unaffected by her steely, angry expression. He was bound and determined, and she knew it.
"Fine," she sighed, dropping her arms and fierce act. "I promise I won't leave. Now let me go?"
Harry just stood there for a moment, scrutinizing whether or not she was lying, and then he unlocked his arms and shrugged. "Go," he said, stepping back and gesturing at the door.
Ginny didn't need to be told twice. She squeezed past him (and wished the space wasn't so small), grabbed her satchel and wand, and flung open the door.
"Ginny!" Renee exclaimed. She waved an oven mitt around. "We're going to have waffles! What syrup do you—?"
Ginny didn't let Renee finish but went straight out the door.
Not for the first time in her life, time seemed to not be of the essence nor hold any meaning. She could not even measure it by the tread of her feet or the slant of vague shadows under a slow-moving, thin veil of clouds. Not even if she counted her breaths would she acknowledge the hours passed as she wandered, aimlessly and numb, through Sydney's close suburbs, befuddled parks, and center streets. By the time the clouds surrendered to Australia's summer dryness and heat, the sun was slinking sheepishly toward the wild, unseen wilderness of the Bush, but Ginny only recognized the hour as a reluctant, foreboding step toward her inevitable murky doom.
She felt numb of anything except the dull ache in her limbs and stomach. Emotional fatigue had long preceded the physical exhaustion that drove her into The Smoking Beaker, a small, dingy pub tucked rather sulkily into a back corner of The Rocks' wizarding district.
"Wot will you 'ave, miss?" asked the shiny-faced, grizzly barman when she leaned against the blackened wood of the counter.
"Just . . . a butterbeer," said Ginny wearily. Her stomach ached weakly, hopefully, and she let out a sigh, "and a roll?"
"Comin' righ' up."
Muttering her thanks, Ginny shouldered her satchel and peered through the inky yellow glow of the pub for a small, indiscreet table. Since it was rather early on a Monday evening, only a few patrons adorned the crooked furniture, and most were slumped suspiciously over their hand of cards and paid little attention to her. A warty old witch with very little hair stared beadily at the steaming goblet in front of her. In one corner, two teenagers were gazing shiftily at each other, their hands fidgeting on the tabletop. The boy smiled nervously at Ginny as she passed, and she wished that she could smile back reassuringly.
Instead, she let her eyes slide past the young couple and found another empty, wobbly table tucked into the recesses of the room. She let out a groan as her body hit the hard, creaking chair. Closing her eyes, she let her head fall into her hands, and knew, had she not been so weary and numb, she might have wept.
Confusion threatened to overwhelm her, as if she were drowning and had one split, irreplaceable second to decide whether to keep fighting painfully for the top or surrender with a lung-filling, darkness-hailing swallow.
She didn't know what she wanted, only that she wanted all of this to stop. Could she, should she confess everything to Harry? How could she survive his scorn? For surely Harry, the pillar of loyalty, bravery, and steadfastness against evil, could not overlook her betrayal, her pathetic weakness.
She'd spent the past two years punishing herself for this, but the question was no longer whether or not she deserved this self-affliction or Harry's potential hate.
"'Ere you go, miss." A cold bottle of butterbeer and a warm, steaming roll appeared in front of her.
"Thanks," she mumbled. Not feeling very hungry but recognizing the telltale signs of dehydration and short-term famine, she took a drink and bite. Her parched, unused throat choked before she managed to swallow successfully.
Just as she was wiping crumbs and butterbeer off her lips with a napkin, the pub door opened and she nearly lost the food she'd just fought down.
It couldn't be . . . She was tired and delirious, her nightmares and circular, depressing thoughts were messing with her mind, and now her eyes . . . No, he couldn't be here . . .
But he was.
A manic, hysterical laugh almost slipped through her gaping mouth. How ironic that he would seek refuge from England in the same place as Harry!
The compulsion whooshed out of her as Draco Malfoy's cold, gray eyes landed on her, punching her in the gut.
They stared at each other for a moment, the candle-lighted distance failing to allay the horrified shock in those pale eyes. Ginny barely had a second to register the certain raggedness in Draco Malfoy's sunken, pointed face and lank hair before he whirled around and disappeared into the darkened streets.
For another second she sat there, dazed—shocked—and then she gasped.
The next second she knocked over a chair as she dashed out the door, her satchel banging against her thigh.
Looking left and right, she paused in the middle of the street, damning the sun for setting. The flickering pools of light from the street lamps hindered her as she searched frantically for any sign of Draco. Just as she was about to turn away, she saw a pale head pass quickly under a torch—
She tore off after him.
Part of her knew that chasing Draco Malfoy down the little, winding streets of wizarding Sydney was insane and not something the old Ginny Weasley would have done, unless he'd insulted her mother or threatened any of her friends. But that Ginny was dead on a cold stone floor.
Up ahead, as if sensing her pursuit, Malfoy ducked into an alley. She darted around a trio of chattering witches and plunged into the alley after him.
It was empty.
She raced down it, skirt bunched in one hand, her wand thrust forward in her other. At the other end, another narrow street opened and wound up in a curve. Her limbs burned and her lungs protested, but she ran up the slippery cobblestones determinedly. Just as she was passing the small space between two leaning buildings, she sensed movement in the blackness, spun around, and yelled, "Impedimenta!" as her ankle twisted viciously under her.
Someone cried out as the jet of red light connected. In that brief flash, a figure fell back into a dustbin, sending up a crash of noise.
Ginny stumbled and hissed in pain. She'd injured this ankle before.
Her wand thrust out, she limped to the gap between the buildings, and muttered, "Lumos."
"Draco?" she called, breathlessly, from pain and exertion.
"Damn it, Weasley! What the bollocks do you think you're doing?" Draco Malfoy's angry, muffled voice came from the awkwardly shifting lump of robes under the upturned dustbin. The sight might have been gratifying under different circumstances.
"I was about to ask you the same thing," Ginny said wryly.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" growled Draco.
"Well, obviously, I'm not referring to the effects my curses tend to have on you," snapped Ginny, trying to stand upright as her wand's light fell over Draco's crumpled, struggling form. "You ought to be grateful I didn't use my favorite hex on you."
"I would think—" an arm appeared from the folds, "—that you would be—" the arm tugged at the robe thrown over his head, "—a little more grateful."
Malfoy's face popped out of his robes and he squinted sullenly up at her, very un-Malfoy-like in his dilapidated state. His robes were well worn, and although they were of a finer material than Ginny's family could ever hope to afford, they were decidedly below the Malfoy standard.
"I thought you said you didn't want gratitude," she said quietly, watching him struggle with the stiffness in his limbs.
"Oh no," Draco smiled coldly with a corner of his thin mouth. "A Weasley indebted to a Malfoy is too good."
"I can see being a fugitive has cheered you up."
"You don't look rosy yourself, Weasley." He'd managed to sit up and used the overturned dustbin and brick wall to stand up.
Ginny didn't respond. Now that her heart had slowed to a manageable beat, she could feel the icy November chill seeping into her bones, a reminder of the empty, desolate place Draco had left her two years ago.
Her struggle between wanting it all to end and somehow striving to survive had begun there.
"You should have left me."
The words spilled out before she could stop them. Her throat constricted painfully, as if trying desperately to swallow them back up.
"What?" Draco snapped, pushing hair away from his eyes.
Ginny blinked, tried to grope for breath to speak, but stood there, dumbfounded by her own words. How could she say that? If he'd left her in Malfoy Manor, Voldemort would more than likely be ruling Britain and Harry would most likely be—
"Never mind," she croaked.
Draco stared narrowly at her, the Impediment Spell noticeably leaving his limbs while the tension still remained in his narrow shoulders.
"What are you doing here?" she asked quietly, wanting desperately for him to look away. She'd never seen eyes so cold, so unfeeling and shrewd. Voldemort's had held crimson cruelty and hate, however soulless they had been. These eyes, once haughty and prideful as cruel, were frigid and empty as the winter meadow he'd left her in.
"Think, Weasley," Draco said derisively. "You said so yourself—I'm a fugitive."
"By choice."
"Oh yes," he said with a short, cold laugh. "I chose to be in this backwater wasteland."
"Well, you did. I told you that you would have been under the protection of the Order—"
"And I told you that I wanted nothing to do with Dumbledore's pansy crusaders." Draco made to move toward the street, but he jerked toward her, his pale eyebrows arched, a familiar, sadistic curl to his thin lips. "What about you, Weasley? What are you doing down here?"
Ginny glared at him, feeling her old school malice toward Draco Malfoy, but also wanting desperately to hate him for asking the very question she'd been asking herself and didn't know the answer to.
"Not shagging Potter, are you?" he spat, taking a step toward her. "I would think he would have trashed you by now."
"Shut up," she said through gritted teeth. Her wand was still pointed at him, but it trembled.
Draco smirked, a gleeful twitch in his face. "That's right. I know he's here. The bastard. Does he know you surrendered to the Dark Lord, Weasley?"
"What the hell do you want, Malfoy?" said Ginny, her voice starting to crack.
"So you haven't."
"Answer the bloody question."
Draco merely raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "You're the one who chased me down the street. I believe the question is for you."
A long moment of silence passed, and then, slowly, Ginny lowered her wand. She gazed down at her feet. All of the pain she'd walked into numb submission welled up in her, pushing determinedly through her, begging for release. Out of habit, she forced it down before it became too much, before she could lose control in this tiny dark annex, standing before Draco Malfoy, the only other living soul who knew the truth.
"Right. I'm off—"
"Wait!"
She snatched at his sleeves, jerking him back. Draco spun around—and she thought she saw a flicker of hope? relief? flit across his drawn face.
"What now, Weasley?"
"I—er—" She paused, not knowing what exactly she meant to say, only that Draco Malfoy had a part in her pain and that she wanted something resolved. When she didn't speak right away, she thought he would roll his eyes and flee, but he merely crossed his arms and waited, and she wondered if perhaps they were once again weaving through the treacherous maze of the manor garden.
"You know you can go back to England, right?" said Ginny.
"For what?" snapped Draco. "What bloody is there for me? I know my parents are dead. The Ministry seized my wealth. Wrongfully, I may add. Fortunately, Father secured foreign holdings."
Judging by his robes, those holdings were not as secure as he would like.
"Why aren't you in England gloating over your side's victory?" Draco went on mockingly. "Why aren't you and Potter and your disgusting brother and his pathetic Mudblood making revolting babies? I'm sure it must be perfectly wretched. How horrid to have perfect little lives as courageous and just heroes."
"Because I'm no better than you!" she spat. "Because I am worse than you! And no one had it easy or perfect while you sulked! People suffered and died—and you—you did nothing. How can you do nothing?"
"I had no virtues to begin with," said Draco, his face impassive and shadowed. "When you have no virtues, you can't fall or redeem yourself. So why even try?"
Ginny stared at Draco Malfoy, at the hollowness of a face only etched in bitterness. How could someone go through a war unchanged? How could he be so soulless? She wanted to vomit at the sight of him; he reminded her too much of herself. Both of them had spent the past two years running from the same moment, neither of their intentions honorable. It struck Ginny as revoltingly ironic that she, a Gryffindor and advocate for the side of good, would willing surrender to evil, while Draco, a Slytherin and epitome of evil, spoiled git, would be the one to perform a heroic act. Even if it was just to get revenge on his father and, really, had nothing to do with the war.
For two years she'd been hiding her fall, clinging with shame to everyone's assumptions that she'd persevered through Voldemort's torture, while Draco had slinked away from gaining the freedom and praise of "turning to good." How could it be that Draco—Draco bloody Malfoy—was the most honest one of them?
"I think I'm going to be sick," she muttered, clenching at her stomach.
"Not on me." Draco moved toward the front of the alley again. He paused and turned around, his face dark and silhouetted by the distant glow of street torches. "Do not follow me, Weasley. Do me a favor and keep yourself and Potter away from me."
"Fine," said Ginny weakly.
"I'm thinking of leaving the country, anyway," he went on emotionlessly. "Australia is becoming a bit crowded."
"Brilliant." Her stomach was empty. At least then she wouldn't be able to deposit anything on the cobblestones.
"Farewell, Weasley," Draco said quietly.
And then he was gone.
A heavy silence seeped into the night, pressing down gloomily upon her. The buzzing of the city seemed distant and foggy, as if played through an old record player from a high window several blocks away.
Ginny, arms wrapped tightly around her hollowed stomach, let her body fall back against the grimy brick wall. The stone was indifferent to her; cast in the shadow of its neighbor, the wall had not seen much sun, but it had not completely escaped the summer heat. No comforting heat or icy cold seeped from the stone to her bones, and Ginny felt all the worse for the building's lack of interest in her need.
"Would you please stop galloping about, Harry?" pleaded Renee from where she was sprawled out on the couch.
"Sorry," Harry muttered, barely passing her a glance as he slid the balcony doors open again.
Night wind tossed the leaves of the tree down in the back garden, making the thinner branches sway and creak. The faintest hint of rain carried from the ocean onto the mainland, but it was distant, a barely perceptible flash on the horizon. Sweat trickled down his back, his shirt clung damply. Merlin, he wanted it to rain!
It could have rained all day, but it hadn't. He smelt it, had felt the cool, facetious promise of it, but it had not brought any relief. When the sun had peeked out at sunset, it had only served to warm the moist air, wrapping it heavily around him.
He pushed a hand through his hair, cast the scurrying, scattered clouds an irritated look, then turned on his heel and went back into the living room. Renee, ankles crossed on the back of the couch, shot him an exasperated look, strangely reminding him of Hermione.
"It's only a quarter past nine," she said.
"But she's been gone all day." Harry flung himself down on the other wing of the couch, but after a second lurched up again. He hated worrying and waiting. And he especially hated people telling him to calm down and be patient. Sometimes they may have good reason to pacify him, but it didn't help the heat and tension coursing through his veins.
"She goes out a lot. Maybe you should go out more," Renee said mildly, frowning at her nails. "Then you wouldn't be lit up like a bush telly."
"I am not lit up like a . . . like a bush telly," Harry said indignantly. "I am simply . . . concerned."
"Ginny's a big girl, I'm sure she's right." Renee reached for the remote and flicked on the TV, viewing it upside down from her position. "And, anyway, if you're going to be mean as cat's piss and not tell me what the devil happened this morning, you can't trench my floor with your abominable pacing. There's a movie on I want to see."
Harry scowled but dropped back down onto the couch. "I don't even know what happened, all right?" He frowned and added, "Since when are you such a stickybeak, anyway?"
"Since I started choking on all this unresolved tension," said Renee wryly.
"What unresol—never mind."
Renee grinned like a fox and righted herself to see the TV in a comprehensible manner. Just as Harry was trying to focus on the colored screen and take his mind off certain things, he heard the door open. His heart did a very strange and probably dangerous maneuver by splitting in two and lodging itself in his throat while sending half of it down to the very bottom of his stomach.
Renee shot him a warning look and shook her head almost imperceptibly. Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly—defiantly—but she made a short, curt slicing gesture with her hand. Giving her his best glare, he obeyed her and kept still as the door shut; Ginny's footsteps raised the hair on his arms.
Or it could have been distant lightning.
"Have a good walk, Gin?" Renee called, nearly sending Harry off the couch.
"Er—yeah. Brilliant," said Ginny; she sounded exhausted and shaky.
Despite himself and Renee's warning looks, Harry turned on the couch.
"What happened to you?" he blurted.
Ragged and white, she limped noticeably, a grimace of pain on her face. Her eyes, clouded but wide like a wounded, frightened animal, flicked toward him. "I tripped down at The Rocks."
Something about the way she said it or the fact that she did not look quite at him made Harry suspicious. Ginny was an excellent liar. Usually if she was completely covering something, she would be flippant and nonchalant, but if she was trying to hide under the truth, she could get a little twitchy or evasive about it.
"Are you all right?" he finally asked.
Ginny stared at him, as if he'd asked something bewildering or difficult. He couldn't help but glance toward her wrist; the bandage was still there. A horrible desperation to see what exactly lay under the gauze rose up in Harry, but he also very much wanted to remain ignorant.
"I Apparated," she said slowly, carefully. "That helped." Then, gingerly, she turned away and hobbled into her room and shut the door.
Harry let out a breath and glanced at Renee, who gave him a searching look.
He shrugged and dropped his head on the couch back. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax into the cushions. Ginny was home; safe and a little injured, but she hadn't fled the country or flung herself off a cliff. Clearly she wasn't all right and things definitely were not rosy between them, and this morning he was certain she'd done something very un-Ginny-like and extremely disturbing . . .
Oh Merlin – would she do it now?
"Harry—what—?"
Ignoring Renee's protest, Harry got up and knocked on Ginny's door. "Ginny?" he called, fearing he wouldn't get an answer.
For three long seconds, there wasn't one, but finally she replied, "What do you want, Harry?"
"Er." He couldn't very well say, "Just wanted to make sure you were still breathing." That would seem a little melodramatic and Ginny seemed to be rather offended that he'd suspected her of—of suicide this morning.
"I—er—just wanted to know if you needed anything. Like, um, some ice or—or I don't know . . ."
"I've got my wand, Harry, it works better than ice," Ginny's muffled, tired voice came through the door.
"What about food?" Harry felt rather stupid for still thinking like a Muggle sometimes.
"I'm not hungry."
Now that, Harry knew, was a lie.
"That's too bad," he said casually. Two could play that. "Nay and I were about to have some hot fudge sundaes."
He thought, perhaps, that he heard a muffled whimper.
"No, sorry," said Ginny. "I'm going to sleep."
Sighing, Harry left the door. If hot fudge couldn't bring her out, nothing would; and, frankly, he was just too tired to figure out a conversation or what the hell was going on. He mumbled to Renee that he was going to bed and then, wishing he had a good Sleeping Draught, collapsed into bed.