There and Back Again Lane

Ch. 12 – Beaters and Hounds, Part 2: Confidentially Yours

Edinburgh

---(Ginny's POV)---

I don't know how Harry does it. Must be a bloody insomniac. Faintly, music streams from the kitchen into the bedroom, the door slightly ajar, eerily reminding me of when I first woke at St Mungo's...

The Healer was doing her rounds singing some dreadful old tune from the seventeenth-century. Her voice was quite lovely, almost enchanting, but the words, cutting through my potion-induced stupor, chilled me to the bone. Gasping in shock and into consciousness, I immediately began crying as I had when Harry saved me from Tom six years before. Terrified by my response, the healer dropped the bedpan she'd been carrying. Her song had made me think of Harry, of that bloody vision a summer ago.

Why did I have that nightmare that summer? We could have been close. We could have been happy then instead of having to wait, until he was too broken to love properly, until he couldn't remember who he was.

My fifth year, the first blow...

I remember seeing them in the lobby before the Great Hall. Cho Chang, holding Harry's hand, talking softly, asking for understanding. She was still proud. She didn't beg forgiveness, and as I thought on it, objectively despite my jealousy, she was right. I could see she still cared for Harry, though she did not love him. He, however, was detached, almost cold. As I secreted myself into a darkened alcove, I could tell from his poise how much this display of indifference cost him. Then she kissed him on the cheek, and he bowed slightly to accept it. I worried that he still cared for her. In spite of myself, I gnashed my teeth. Why shouldn't he have some pleasure in his miserable life? He squeezed her hand once, nodded briefly with a smile, and retreated upstairs to the Common Room. I waited for him to pass before following her into the Great Hall. I could have sworn I had seen him glance to the side where I lurked. And a sly smile slide edging the ends of his mouth upwards ever so briefly. But it might have been a flickering torch.

Later that night, wracked by nightmares of Tom and images of Harry's demise, I decided to spend my unintentional waking moments wisely by revising. Texts, ink, pot, and parchment in hand, I ventured to the Common Room to witness the three of them in their seats before the fire. Ron, aware of his friend's reticence, discussed Quidditch tactics and what he would do differently had he been named captain instead of Katie. As my brother became more animated, Harry would cast the occasional amused glance at Hermione who would respond by rolling her eyes and scribble with greater fervour on to the parchment before her. Eventually, even Ron tired of the discussion – maybe it was his extensive use of hand gestures in demonstrating certain moves, or was it correcting Hermione about 'Wonky Feints' – leaving him hungry and eager to visit Dobby in the kitchens.

Hermione waited until Ron left the room to fuel his hummingbird metabolism before turning to Harry. 'Harry,' she asked, the anxiety palpable, 'what exactly happened between you and Cho?'

Surprised, he looked wide-eyed at her for a second until he regained his composure. He wasn't angry or offended, though. 'Hermione,' Harry began nervously, staring intensely at his hands clutched together, tensing before him, 'I don't want to talk about it.'

'I know you wouldn't talk to Ginny about it and Ron, well, I wouldn't exactly trust his advice,' she declared. Harry snorted and smirked. 'And what's going on between you and Ginny anyway?'

'You're starting to sound like Ron, Hermione,' he retorted gazing into the fire, perhaps hoping Remus might floo in a better answer before staring her down. 'What do you want to know about Cho and me?' Now that was something I hadn't expected. 'And why.'

Hermione became flustered, because, even from my rather poor vantage point (I could only see the top of her bushy hair), I noticed her fidgeting. 'I just don't want to see you get hurt again,' she replied calmly to ward off a potential outburst. 'I'd rather not see you fawning over her again.'

'What are you on about?' he growled, his voice rising. 'I was not fawning over her. If you're going to spy on my private conversations, you should at least do a better job of it.' He rose to stand before the fire, indifferent to the occasional spark landing on his robes. 'Besides, she has Michael now, or don't you remember?'

'I saw her kiss you on the cheek, Harry.' A hitch in her voice revealed she was furious but her tone was generally placatory.

'And you did the same to me at King's Cross after Cedric died,' he answered bluntly, still facing the fire. 'Doesn't mean you fancy me.' She moved forward a little to rebuke him but thought the better of it. Finally, he turned to face us, er, Hermione. 'Look, there's nothing between us, really, if there ever was.'

'You're being too harsh on her,' she stated stonily, slumping back into her chair. Harry was certainly getting to her. 'She cares, or at least cared for you a great deal. She put up with all your tantrums and kept coming back, even now.' He looked duly ashamed, the bastard. 'I remember how you two looked at each other in the hallways before she started seeing Cedric.' She leaned forward a bit, trying even harder to reach an accommodation with him. 'She liked you a great deal, Harry, but she was confused,' she continued. 'And you buggered it up.' Yes, she did say a foul word.

Harry was wide-eyed again and chuckled a bit. 'You've been hanging around Ron too much, Hermione,' he announced. 'You're starting to pick up things.'

She gave a gentle laugh herself before prompting him further. 'So, is there anything between you and her?' Despite myself, my heart threatened to lodge itself in my throat.

'No.' He paused a bit before continuing. 'Like I said on the train last summer, I hope she's with someone who makes her happy, but that's it.' I would have been satisfied by that answer, but I knew the question she'd ask next. I pleaded silently with the back of Hermione's head not to badger Harry any further, but unfortunately her bushy hair interfered.

'Is there anyone else?' she inquired as if discussing the weather.

His face darkened and he hid his eyes behind his brows. He tried to speak but hesitated. My nerves were on edge, damned vision of his doom or no. Forgetting myself, I left the shadows of the staircase. Finally, he responded with a firm but otherwise disinterested, 'No.' Slowly, I slumped to the floor.

'Harry...' Just give up Hermione, I begged silently.

A devilish gleam soon leapt into his eye, though maybe it had been a trick of the firelight. His face brightened a little as an evil grin emerged. 'Now I have a question for you, Miss Granger,' he began. 'Do you need any help with Ron?' She flinched. 'Maybe a push into a convenient broom closet, a word here or there, maybe a Krum. Any little thing I can do...'

'He's coming 'round well enough without your help, Harry,' she averred huffily. Before relenting. 'I'll contact you if this waiting goes on any longer, though.' It was her turn to snort, though daintily as only Hermione could. I was, however, astonished she hadn't bothered to contradict Harry.

'You've the patience of a saint, Hermione,' he said.

'I learned that from Ginny,' she replied, looking up at him. The colour on his cheeks faded a little, but maybe it had been the play of the flickering fire. Yet, as he looked up and saw me sitting awkwardly on the bottom step of the staircase to the girls' dormitories, he visibly blanched. In a second, his colour returned. He gave me a little grin and tapped his nose with an index finger twice before heading to the boys' dormitories.

Seeing Harry's reaction, Hermione had immediately spun about in her chair. She peered anxiously over the back of the seat before recognising I'd been the interruption.

Deflecting any chance for her to start on my eavesdropping, I began interrogating her. 'What was that all about?'

'Harry and I were just discussing what great prats boys are and why we girls are daft enough to fall for them.' A grin fought to reveal itself, tugging the corners of her mouth rather cruelly. 'And what were you doing there?'

'Listening to you two scheme about my git of a brother,' I answered disinterestedly. She rolled her eyes knowingly. You think you are so bloody clever, written on her face. I didn't rise to it, though. 'Besides, can't sleep. OWLs and all.' Nightmares of both real and imagined events, you know. 'Like Harry said, you need any help with Ron, we're here for you,' I said, turning to go back up to bed.

I could have sworn she looked a bit smug when I said 'we' rather than 'I.'

That night I was sorely tempted to find Fred and George's secret stash of Ogden's they'd bequested me, despite having been named prefect. But I behaved like a good girl. In any case, either Hermione or Ron would've had my head if they'd found me singing songs about goblins in the wee hours of the morn, or head in my own sick at dawn. More likely the former than the latter.

Not all of that fifth year was bad, though. For instance, when Luna and I plotted against the gits of Slytherin before Christmas was purely brilliant genius.

Though the male of the species often forgets, it's true that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And Luna had been scorned far too many times by Crabbe and Goyle. Well, there had been others equally deserving even within her own house, but we decided the two biggest gits would provide the greatest amusement. Our scheme was fiendishly simple but required a great deal of work. Thankfully, we had Dobby assisting us: House-Elves are immune to Nargles.

Ah, Nargles. The cause of a great number of punch-ups, duels, and even murder in earlier times. With growing awareness among wizarding families, and of pesticide use by Muggles, Nargle populations have declined over the years. Nargles are a generally harmless infestation found on mistletoe, unless it's their mating season, which is, of course, from mid-December to mid-January. They require a mammalian host to propagate. Quite simply, Nargles are otherwise innocuous brain parasites that cause their host to temporarily exhibit amorous behaviour with anything suitably warm-blooded nearby. At this point, I would like to thank the Twins for their glorious invention of floating mistletoe, and dear Remus for devising the means of guiding it.

The scene: the Great Hall. The time: the feast before Christmas holidays. Mid-meal, while the two cretins ploughed food into their mouths in such a way even Ron would have been scandalised. I'd lent Luna Harry's Invisibility Cloak, having borrowed it myself two days before for an impromptu snogging session with Dean. (In the end I couldn't go through with it; the odd tensing of Harry's jaw as he 'happily' entrusted me with his father's legacy. Dean graciously understood, his mind on Parvati who was finally starting to crack.) There I imagined she stood at the end of the Slytherin table, directing the sprig of mistletoe with her wand until it hovered above our foes. I saw the twig do a little dance above each of their heads. At the head table, I noticed that Dumbledore was distracting Snape while dear Professor McGonagall submitted to the trail of a smile across her lips. It's wonderful to have such supportive teachers, I thought.

Within an instant, Crabbe and Goyle leapt at one another, snogging each other desperately, even going so far as to tear at their clothes. The Slytherins sat there goggling at their housemates passionately giving their best as the other three tables burst into rapturous laughter. Just then, Malfoy entered the Hall – likely after having done something suitably vile – and headed towards the commotion seeking to make some sport. As the swine passed our beloved Millicent Bulstrode, Luna gave the mistletoe another shake and in a trice he was flat on the floor clawing for safety as Miss Bulstrode sought to suck the life out of him. Snape finally extracted himself from his conversation with Professor Dumbledore and, having caught sight of the offending mistletoe, incinerated it before it could do further damage. It took five big Slytherin boys to pry Crabbe and Goyle apart, and a further four to release Malfoy from dear Millie's clutches. Snape vowed to catch the culprits, glaring pointedly at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Malfoy threatened revenge, glowering at the threesome as well, while Bulstrode glowed with delight even after the Nargles wore off. Crabbe and Goyle, however, were not seen in each other's company without at least four similarly sized escorts ready to pull them apart should the urge take hold once more.

After the Hall had at last quietened down, I chanced a glance at Harry. The briefest of smirks and a raised eyebrow flew my way. I knew I couldn't expect more, not with Dean beside me, but it was less than I'd hoped. Yet as he passed me sitting at the table, I felt the briefest of touches on my shoulder. That smirk and that touch were at least a start.

Or the end.

For I was certainly at my wits' end there in some shabby bed at St Mungo's, crying my heart out for Harry. Had I known about the rest of my family, I doubt whether the tears ever would've stopped, though probably my heart would have. Two weeks after I'd emerged from my medication-induced coma, during which I badgered the Healers constantly for news about my family – and others, I expect – Ron came to visit me with Hermione. From their faces I knew the toll was grim, but never would I have guessed that fate could have been so cruel. We hugged and cried for thirty minutes without rest. Eventually Ron broke off, reasserting the stoic composure he must have practised while I'd been under sedation to wander the ward visiting others we knew, including Fred. Meanwhile, Hermione braced to tell me about Harry.

At the time, I hadn't found it particularly odd that Ron had left my bedside at that moment. He'd never been entirely comfortable discussing Harry around me after that 'falling-out' in late May. Now I suspect my brother felt himself incapable of keeping Harry's survival a secret. My youngest brother, brave enough to face an acromantula despite his arachnophobia, stalwart enough to be Harry's friend despite the dangers and tantrums, loyal enough to stand by Hermione despite the Weasley Is Our King fanclub, couldn't summon the temerity to lie to his own sister to protect his friend. Strangely, I'm proud of his failure even though it meant three years of misery.

Not that the lie sat any better with Hermione, to be honest. She was just better at disguising her emotions. From years spent resisting the urge to pounce on my slow-witted git of a brother, I presume. Nevertheless, she must have been shocked by how dispassionately I accepted Harry's death. I'd seen him die in my dreams enough times over the previous two years and finally the night of the last battle that that part of my heart had grown numb, perhaps necrotic from all the damage. My eyes merely drifted from her sorrowful, regretful, and imploring gaze to the ceiling. Some part of me must have remained alive because I recall squeezing her hand rhythmically before the Red Caps – as I'd taken to calling the Healers – dragged this wounded soldier back into the moors of Morpheus.

When I finally emerged from hospital, my birthday had passed along with much of my interest in living. Still prescribed a potion a day by the charlatans of St Mungo's, I sleepwalked my way through the first term back at Hogwarts. Having started a month late, schoolwork and revision alone took up most of my time. Quidditch practice occupied the rest, Harry's Firebolt the only connection I had left between him and Hogwarts. It mattered not that I was as popular as Phineas Nigellus upon my return, even managing to hex one of my dormmates – Sophie, my best friend – who had tried to wake me for Charms. It was a learned reflex after all those DA meetings, something I'm glad she understood, though she padded around me for a fortnight. I was seriously tempted to scarper after that, terrified I'd do something worse to some other innocent sod who dared mention the war, my family, or Harry near me. Surprisingly, it wasn't until Christmas holidays that I collapsed into a shattered, tear-drowned disaster.

It was Ron and Hermione's hounding to confide in them that did me in. That and St Mungo's and Madam Pomfrey's refusal to renew the potion prescription. Madam Pomfrey worried that I'd become too dependent on the continual doses. She was, of course, right to think that. I've no idea why St Mungo's stopped the supply of sedatives. Probably expected me to top myself, save them the bother of continually having to guard their consciences. Through a veil of tears and reason concealed by haar wrought by the confluence of a fiery temper and a heart in winter I remember screaming at the pair of them (Ron and Hermione, of course), a knife in one hand pointed at my chest, my wand in the other, accusing them of trying to murder me to simplify their lives, to remove the last thing that reminded them of Harry. Dear God, to look at their faces as they were then now my mind is clear... Their eyes widened by terror, their shuddering mouths uttering pleas to calm me. My shame was so great I couldn't speak with them for months. At the time, however, I Apparated to Fred and Angelina's, stumbled into George's old room, and bawled myself to sleep.

Fred and Ange tolerated my presence during the brief spells I stayed. They didn't ask questions, either. That helped silence the ghosts and stop the clacking of the skeletons as I pressed them deep into the recesses of my mind. By the time the NEWT results came, I'd resolved never to let my emotions rule me. Even so, I was determined that I should live as happy and fulfilling a life as possible.

The results permitted me any choice of career. I chose the path that I thought would grant my thirst for vengeance the freest rein. Instead, my violent thoughts were tamed and focused on exacting justice. As for pleasure...

I did not want for suitors, but few were suitable. Of course, Auror training interfered with my 'love-life.' Finally, after a few brief relationships – none consumated – there was Dean again. After four years, he and Parvati had had enough. Parvati was in her second year of Healer training as an Apothecary, surprising all of us, especially Lavender. Dean was in between professions. Though he'd done well on the NEWTs, he gained his living through his art, first as an artist for the Quibbler before exhibiting his works in galleries. We met as friends, we became lovers a month after. We made far better friends than lovers and were wise enough to admit it. That's not to say he was a bad lover. I remember some of the first-time horror stories, but I'd experienced none of that. Dean was knowledgeable, attentive, and generous. He thankfully used condoms rather than relying on dicky contraceptive potions. But it was more sex with a friend than making love, pleasant yet somehow lacking. We adopted the excuse, mostly true, that we'd grown apart because of my training schedule and his travels. We still keep in touch. I kept Ron ignorant of Dean, though Hermione knew, as did Fred and Ange.

The next was a fellow Auror recruit. It was but a brief dalliance and just the one uncomfortable time. Better left forgotten, really.

Then there was Neville. I can honestly say I loved him not simply as a friend, just not as devotedly as I did, I do Harry, both ours and mine. Neville could've been an Auror, but he'd fought long and hard enough as a member of the DA and the Order to want a different life. Occasionally he'd get this haunted expression on his face, same as we'd seen at St Mungo's during the Christmas holidays of my fourth year. We'd shared a great deal, and together had lost much more. He'd become famous because of the war. A hero almost rivalling Harry. He sought me out knowing that to me he was 'just' my dear friend Neville. In the end, though, it was who we weren't that defeated us. On rare occasions, especially when he was distracted, he would call me 'Luna.' And when we rowed, there had been times I'd called him 'Harry.' Other times, as well. So, when I refused his offer of marriage, having thought on it for a day, he couldn't decide whether to express relief or regret and settled on a blinking bemused look. I'm glad to report, however, he's not having any such problems with Katie.

Ironically, it was my refusal to accept Neville's hand that brought me to the Leaky Cauldron the day I met my Harry. Hermione decided I deserved a right bollocking for throwing my life away yet again. I argued that marrying someone during Auror training is simply not on – for security reasons, if nothing else – and that, unlike her and Ron, I was far too immature to get married. She accepted neither of my points, prefering to berate me instead. She forgot, however, that I wasn't Ron and was totally unprepared for the vehemence of my retort. I left there shaking with rage after I'd finished, leaving her speechless and possibly a bit terrified.

Harry. Too much of my bloody life revolves around him. Would that it didn't I might have been happier. Yet I wouldn't trade what I have right now for the world. Except for my family to be alive and together, and that this Harry remembered the past. Now, that I wouldn't exchange for anything. The twins together against the world, or at least abusing Filch with their Skiving Snackboxes, Charlie with more tales about dragons, a giddy Tonks by his side. Bill, still pestered by Mum about his ponytail and dragon fang earring and Fleur's flitting eyelashes. Mum with her bone-crushing hugs that reduced us to five-year-olds, but which, despite ourselves, we always allowed to linger. Dad, with his bizarre yet useful fascination with all things Muggle. And Percy. He had his moments, until he became an unrepentant git.

Harry. Dour, impulsive, pensive, taciturn, and sweet. The Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived I'd longed to gape at adoringly in ten-year-old hero worship. Just Harry, Ron's friend, the brave boy who prevented Voldemort's return. Then, the object of infatuation of an eleven-year-old girl surrounded by brothers. Afterward, he became a painful reminder of my shame, a source of continuing embarrassment, and a blind callous bastard aided in that last category by my interfering prat of a brother. Slagging Neville of all people. At least he'd had the bollocks to ask girls out, unlike some raven-haired, green-eyed boys. In my fourth year, I imagined him as just another boy, another brother, not so much a friend but someone I'd liked to know better. Somedays I even believed it. His behaving like a prat that year certainly helped. The fifth year...

A year pre-empted by a false vision – very well, a partially true vision – beset by an eighteenth-century comedy of errors as well as two family tragedies. That was the year I discovered how close love and hate resided in the human heart. He started as a git but regained my friendship through kindness and cautious attention. He demonstrated his love for my family and to me as a brother, as a friend. We flirted, only casually; at least, so I thought. Seeker practice played havoc with my budding love-life, and his. But while he rarely tended his garden – bloody Susan; no, that's not fair, as she was there for him – I constantly had to weed out rumours of my continued adoration of him. Harry did his part in quelling them, I must admit, though not always with the intended results. Oh, Harry.

Then that sixth year... I don't want to think on it...

And now? Now... He allows me to forget the pain of his three-year absence and occasionally of my family's loss. When he embraces me in the early morning or after I'd done some fool thing, I feel like a giddy teenager and often have to suppress a fit of giggles. When we kiss, I'm left with no doubt I'm a woman, and the only one he loves. As his hands fall into mine, cusp my cheek, entwine around me, explore me, it's an aching delight. My mind is freed from clutter, the fog of the past and present clears so that I might see our future, of how things ought to happen. He can tell when I want to talk, and when I need to. He knows when I'm lying to him, as well. Clever sod.

And I didn't lie to Hermione when I said he's good in bed... Sorry, miles away. Harry might not have Dean's experience, but he knows the proper techniques and he knows my body, my reactions better than I thought anyone could. Coitus may not always result in earth-shattering simultaneous orgasms, but I'm left with no doubt of our compatibility. At least, that's what I think the glazed look and grins on our faces mean...

What is that...?

It's not the music nor his occasional and slightly off-key singing that wakes me but the smell of food. I may not have Ron's appetite, but I am a Weasley and a stomach isn't something to be ignored for long.

By the pleasant odour and the sound of bacon crackling, I can tell Harry's contenting himself with a simple fry-up and hope that I'm early enough to convince him to prepare two plates. I let the wafted aroma guide me to the kitchen, my eyes still half shut. At least until I reach the doorway, where I'm confronted with the oddest sight. He's dancing, oh so jerkily, to the music. I try to stifle a giggle, but it bursts forth as a gale of laughter. He abruptly turns from the stove the very model of embarrassment.

'Pity you stopped,' I finally manage though still battling a grin. 'I was quite enjoying myself.'

'For that, you only get three rashers and no tomato,' he declares in his best haughty voice.

'Though you do dance more like Ian Curtis than Stuart Murdoch.' His right eyebrow raises at the comment.

'I should never have introduced you to my video collection,' he responds shaking his head in mock disgust. 'And now you're down to two.'

'And sing like Mark Smith.' That wins a glare and a smirk.

When he's finished, he gives me six rashers of bacon and four sausages as well as two eggs, a tomato, and toast. Not much for a Weasley, but it's a start.

We eat in silence, enjoying the calm. Harry's nervous about something, however. I send him an inquisitive look a few times, but he simply motions that I should continue eating. With one rasher left, I finally ask him outright.

'There's a man outside, across the road,' he says. 'Bloke in an anorak.' He tells me precisely where he saw our watcher last.

Thomas Catesby. Member of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad's Special Section. A professional, and a cold-hearted bastard. Need to be in that job. The spells are still on the windows, but will need to be refreshed in a couple hours.

'What is he?' Harry inquires.

'Someone who might wish us ill.'

'Ginny...'

'We'd best get out of here as soon as possible.' I break from the window and head towards the bedroom to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. The clock shows it's gone five. Why does he let me sleep in?

'What about Hedwig?' he asks. 'And what aren't you telling me?' He follows me through the flat. More angry than anxious now. Tell him or simply insist that he believes me? He should know what we're up against.

'Wizarding police special branch.' He curses. I get my kit on. With my dragonhide knuckle-duster gloves, boots, and vest on I look like a deranged Quidditch player. Who knows what Harry thinks of me now.

'So what are you?'

'An Auror,' I reply automatically.

'Yes, you can be at times.' What? The bugger's smirking. At least he's properly dressed.

'An Auror, Harry,' I declare, 'not a horror.'

'Does that mean the sun shines out your arse?' When I look back at him, all I see is this snide grin. He must be nervous, or he wouldn't be so sarcastic.

I stick my tongue out at him before answering properly. 'We're like the SAS.'

'Bugger.' He blanches before recovering. 'So he's special branch, you're SAS, so what the hell does that make me? A prisoner of state?'

'Nothing of the sort, Harry.' It's not really a lie, is it?

I hoist my kit bag on to my back before using a Metamorphosis spell. Now I resemble a common or garden goth. Thanks be to cyclical fashion trends.

Harry's even more befuddled. 'This will take some getting used to,' he announces. The bugger's thinks this is for fun?

'We don't have time for that!' I swat him once with the wand. He now looks completely non-descript. Maybe I ought to have made him a goth as well, but it's too late.

'Come on, Harry,' I exclaim, pulling him along by the hand towards the door as if he was a misbehaving child. 'We have to go, now!'