4: Moving on.

When Harry and Mrs Weasley got back to The Burrow from Hemplestuffle and Himlock's the air seemed thick with anticipation. Harry could tell that everyone was curious about what had happened at the Speaking but no-one wanted to be the person to ask.

Ron had an unnatural smile on his face and Harry couldn't look at Hermione without seeing the pity that shone in her eyes.
"Er... I think I'm going to go upstairs for a bit," Harry said quietly without bothering to make up an excuse.
"Alright. I'll bring you up some lunch in a little while, dear," Mrs Weasley said as he slipped out of the room, trying to avoid looking anyone in the eye.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed that the Weasleys had made up for him in Ron's orange-coloured room. The walls' vibrancy glared at him and he found the Cannons players watching him intrusive; he closed his eyes, willing everything from the room's colour to Sirius' death to have been nothing more than a bad dream.

But it wasn't to be. Instead, he heard footfalls on the landing, followed by a gentle knocking.
"Come in," he said, without any enthusiasm.
Mrs Weasley entered and placed a plate of sandwiches and a glass of pumpkin juice on Ron's desk before she sat down on the bed next to Harry.
Without warning she pulled him into a warm hug.
"You poor thing," she said quietly. "How are you feeling?"
Harry just shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it.
"I know," she said soothingly. "You just remember that, red hair or not, you're still one of mine. If you need me, you come and find me, alright?"
Harry managed a nod but didn't feel capable of anything else. He sat limply in her tight embrace. Normally, her hugs brought up all kinds of emotions in him - sadness, envy, joy, relief, embarrassment - but today he couldn't feel anything. It didn't reach him, as if there was an invisible barrier between him and the outside world and nothing could get in.

"Have something to eat then come and join us when you're ready," Mrs Weasley said as her hold on him loosened and disappeared. She got up and left the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Harry in silence.

Having spent most of the summer trying to avoid thinking about Sirius, the Speaking of his Final Intention seemed to unleash all of Harry's unexplored thoughts and they now swam around in his head, unrelentingly. It was like someone was constantly screaming at him and he was forced to shut off everything else in the hope of stopping his head spinning.

But the thoughts kept coming, plaguing his every waking hour: images of Snape taunting his godfather for being a coward, Sirius battling to quiet his mother's screaming portrait or sitting in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place looking gloomy as the Christmas holiday drew to a close, then falling... always falling.

Harry became more and more worn down as the week progressed. He gradually became closed off from his surroundings, going through the motions but hardly realising what he was doing, avoiding pointless small talk. He had tried to force himself to just snap out of it, but it wasn't as easy as it sounded.

He declined invitations to play chess and stopped agreeing to test Ron's Quidditch skills - he couldn't seem to enjoy either these days. He lost interest in Fred and George's jokes and, to Ron's alarm, didn't even object when Hermione started explaining that they should already be preparing for their NEWTs. He continued to eat, but only because Mrs Weasley never left him alone until he did. The nights were the worst; it was almost impossible for him to clear his mind with so many thoughts fighting for dominance and he'd occasionally felt snatches of emotions that were not his own. He found he usually slept restlessly for a few hours then gave up and ventured downstairs.

This was why the early hours of Tuesday morning, a week after the fiasco at Hemplestuffle and Himlock's, found him curled up in an armchair in his pyjamas. He was sitting in the living room at The Burrow in semi-darkness, the flickering light from the fireplace throwing shadows around the small room. He had brought down one of the Weasleys' worn but warm blankets as well as his photo album, which lay untouched at his side. As had become habit, he was staring into the flames, lost in thought, in guilt, in what-might-have-beens, whilst the rest of the house slept.

Harry had no idea how long Ginny had been sat in the other chair by the hearth before he noticed her. She hadn't said anything and was looking at him in the way Snape or Dumbledore did when using their Legilimency skills.

Everyone had tried being there for him; Mrs Weasley's hug was only the first of many attempts to get Harry to speak about his godfather. Dumbledore had brought him words of wisdom that Harry had barely listened to, Mrs Weasley had mothered him and the twins tried to cheer him up. Ron tried to be consoling in his own lets-ignore-it-and-everything-will-be-okay sort of way and Hermione, frustrated that Harry always spent his days alone and refused to open up to anyone, finally yelled at him that he couldn't go on like this before she burst into tears and had to be consoled herself. Bill had even made time to talk to him. However, the only person Harry thought might have understood what he was feeling was Lupin and Harry hadn't seen his former professor since the Speaking.

But by now Harry was fed up of their pity; he was fed up of the worried glances they shared and their quiet insistence that he needed to talk. He recognised that deep down he appreciated that they'd tried but no matter what they said, Sirius would still be gone.

Ginny still hadn't spoken and Harry realised that if he was ever going to be left to brood alone, he would have to say something.
"Hi," he said flatly.
"Hi, Harry." Ginny was wrapped in a large wooly night robe and her hair looked like she'd slept on it. she was speaking softly and didn't ask how he was, which he was relieved about. It was a stupid question and he always wondered why people bothered asking. They'd be horrified if he ever replied honestly. Harry avoided looking into Ginny's eyes; pity, useless pity.

"I know you probably don't want to talk to me," he heard Ginny say. "I just wanted to make sure that you know that if you do want to, I'm here. Or if you want to shout at someone, or ... or if you just need ... a shoulder to - you know ..."

She didn't move and was obviously waiting for him to say something. He didn't want anyone to talk to, or to shout at. He'd shouted at Dumbledore until he was hoarse the night Sirius had died and it hadn't helped. Didn't she think that if he thought it would, he would have done it by now? He wouldn't even know where to start. It would be too embarrassing. They wouldn't understand. Besides, they'd already done so much for him and he didn't want to bother them. He wanted to get rid of Ginny though - wanted to wallow in sadness without an audience - so he forced himself to look up.

To his surprise there was no pity in Ginny's eyes and no encouraging smile pinned to her face.
"Thanks," he said mechanically.
She still didn't move though. He tried to ignore her, staring into the fireplace. A log shifted, sending sparks fluttering into the grate.
"Here."
Harry looked back and saw that Ginny was holding out a quill and a roll of parchment.
"What's this for?" he asked.
She took a deep breath. "I know you don't feel like talking to anyone just yet, but there must be things you want to say." She paused and looked uncertain. "I thought you might want to write a letter t- to Sirius."
"Sirius is dead," Harry snapped.
"I know." Her voice was calm and gentle. Harry could feel anger building up inside him, but she didn't stop. "I admit that my attempts at keeping a diary weren't entirely successful ..."
Harry looked up. Ginny never mentioned her experience with Tom Riddle. He noticed that she wore a sad smile.
"... but it does help to put your feelings into words."

Harry's anger was threatening to break through but he forced himself to speak quietly - he didn't want to wake the whole household.
"This isn't the same as some silly crush, you know." As soon as the words had left his mouth, he regretted them. "I'm sorry," he apologised. He hadn't meant to make light of Ginny's encounter with Voldemort; mentioning her former hero-worshipping was cruel.

She had blushed slightly but didn't show any other sign that she'd taken what he'd said to heart.
"I know it's not the same but you might find it helps."
Harry still hadn't taken the parchment she was holding out so she put it on the small table beside him, next to his photo album.
"Come back to us, Harry."
She got up, reached over and squeezed his shoulder briefly, then left the room. Harry heard her footsteps travel up the stairs and turned back to stare numbly into the fire, as if she had never been there.

The flames danced and crackled in front of him. Silence fell once again, save for the wind gently rustling in the trees. His eyes were sore with tiredness but he didn't sleep.

After a while Harry heard an owl hoot somewhere out in the darkness, stirring him out of his trance. He glanced around him and his eyes fell on Ginny's quill and parchment; the letter she wanted him to write.

Ginny's intentions had been good, Harry was sure, but he didn't see how writing a letter that could never receive a reply would help. He picked them up, intending to return them to their rightful owner. He would thank her but tell her that it really wasn't necessary. He would lie and assure her he was fine.

Harry looked down at the parchment and hesitated, his fingers playing with the soft, grey-feathered quill.

'I HATE YOU', he found himself writing, then 'I miss you'. Once he had started, he couldn't stop, and all his emotions poured out onto the parchment, the quill moving quickly and steadily across its surface, covering both sides. All the things he'd wanted to say to Padfoot but never been given the chance, all his regrets, the injustice of it all: everything tumbled out in one long, incoherent sentence.

Before Harry knew it, he was empty. He felt dizzy and weak, and didn't even realise that there were tears streaming down his face until they dropped onto the parchment in his lap, smudging the wet ink. He was exhausted, feeling all the strain of the last few months weighing down on him.

He slowly unfolded from the armchair and bent to put the parchment he was holding into the fireplace. There were still just enough flames to turn it slowly into ash as Harry watched, the edges catching light, curling and slowly turning brown. When the letter had finally disappeared he wiped his eyes then dragged himself up the stairs to the room he was sharing with Ron. He no longer possessed the energy to even pull back the blankets and he fell onto the bed, sleeping soundly for the first time in weeks.

At breakfast the next day, Ron tried once again to talk him into going up to the Weasleys' plot of land to play Quidditch. This time, though, Harry agreed. Ron looked surprised but Hermione soon elbowed him to close his mouth.
"Well, have fun," she said. "Ginny and I will be upstairs."
Harry chanced a look at Ginny. She gave him a warm smile that he wasn't quite able to return yet.

Not surprisingly, Harry failed to get any of his apple 'Quaffles' through Ron's goal but it felt good to be outside again; to be flying again; to feel again. They landed to go back to The Burrow for lunch. As they made their way down the hill Harry was lost in his own world and Ron slowed to turn and look at him.
"You alright, mate?" Ron asked.
"Fine," Harry answered automatically.
He wasn't, of course, but he thought, for the first time in a long while, that one day he might be.

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To be continued...

In chapter 5: Bill has an announcement, Mrs Weasley weeps and Lupin makes an offer.

A/N: Well this is quite freaky... I first posted this chapter on my birthday last year. And now (purely by chance) I'm re-posting it on the day before my birthday this year. (Where are those de-aging potions when you need them?) I suppose I could have waited until tomorrow but I'm feeling impatient! ;) Hope you are too... thanks for reading!
Until chapter 5,
myrti xxx

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written Summer 2003
posted April 2004
re-posted April 2005