A Hope and Harry
GINNY
Strength can come to a person at the strangest of times. I always wondered how Harry had the resolve to keep on fighting. Even we he was exhausted, broken and fading into nothing, he still clung on. In my sixth year I used to tell Draco this and he would throw back his beautiful head and let out a bark of pure scorn. "Saint Potter! What next? His own herd of horny nuns?" he would scoff loudly. His face remaining, as always, unreadable but his eyes, those eyes told so much, they screamed out his hate and envy. They seemed to burn through my skin like flame on paper, and take pleasure in mocking my childish delusions.
"He's no hero," Draco would say with a dismissive wave. "Lucky perhaps, but don't mistake him for what doesn't exist. Heroes only live in fairy tales Ginny. Good, unselfish deeds breathe in books alone. Potter has only survived thus far by foolish luck and the incompetence of others." His tone was cynical and flat (and dangerously hollow…); like the speech was one he had heard many times before and was now reciting not out of feeling but merely because it was expected. I expected it. I had wanted somebody to shake me out of my adoration. I had wanted Draco, whose cold telling of the truth could always be guaranteed, to slice through the aura of power which Harry seemed to radiate and strip him of the pedestal on which he stood. At that point Harry was still a shadow and a thought to me. I knew him as a Friend, a Seeker, a Hero but it wasn't until months, maybe years, later than I truly loved him for who he was. He was flawed, both inside and out. His 'hero complex' was as infuriating as it was admirable. He was annoying, arrogant, his feet stunk and he always, without fail, hogged the covers. But he was Harry.
I don't why I'm telling you all this. It all seems so ridiculous, so completely unreal. Perhaps if I delve into the past then the future won't seem so hard. Perhaps if I think back hard enough then the present can be stilled like closing your eyes as a child in the dark and pretending that it's a bright, sunny day. Stupid logic I know, but as I stand here with my numb, filthy hands glued to my sides and a disgusted voice hammering impatiently for my attention, it seems the only thing to do.
Before I spoke about strength, and I know deep down that I have it. No person can go through what I have and not be strong. Yet some part of me knows that I can't do this alone. I need help. I need –
"Ron," I say, turning around. My voice is too calm. He looks at me like I'm insane (told you so). His face is stark white and the messy red hair seems unnaturally bright and cheerful as it falls past his wide blue eyes. He is wearing a long black coat, dark jeans and a smart black shirt. This is not the Ron I knew, this is not the Ron who used to feed me worms and spell my bedroom to disappear (I had to sleep on the sofa for three weeks before Mum forced the counter spell out of him). He looks mature and clever and handsome…this can't be my brother!
"What the hell have you done!" he says in a half-whisper, half-shout. His eyes dart to the discarded shovel and back to me.
"The grave, I mean the ground, is protected my magic. I had to use that…" I trail off as I point weakly to the shovel. He should know this! I think ludicrously He should have known because he should have done it himself! He was, is, Harry's best mate! Why is he standing there looking at me like I'm mad when I'm the one who…who has…become a grave digger…oh right…
"You're fucking crazy!" he mutters lividly but his body remains rigid, only his face is expressive as it shifts from shock to anger and back again.
"Come here," I tell him, my tone remote. Somehow we both know that those two words are an invitation for his world to come crashing down.
For a long moment neither of us moves. Ron shakes his head, as if to remove the image which is before him. It won't work. I've tried it already.
He takes a reluctant step forward, stops, takes a long, shaky breath and walks on, each step growing longer until he finally breaks into a run. He collapses besides me and without looking down, turns to me, an expression of utter confusion and fear on his face.
"Gin…?" he falters softly. He is waiting to be pinched and awoken from this strange dream. I wish I could send him back to sleep, I wish I could know why Blaise came to me, I wish I was ten years old again, I wish I could recognise the brother who used to be so much a part of me, I wish I could remember my husband in all this madness but I can't.
"Look down."
The blue eyes of my brother peer down. Silence stretches before us. No shouting. No screaming. Nothing. Just silence. Silence and tears.
"Ginny," he starts quietly, his chest rising and falling rapidly, "Tell me everything."
DRACO
If I believed in karma, then right now I would say that I've been well and truly screwed.
Remembering a very rare piece of advice from my father, bestowed in the vain hope that I might follow in his misogynistic footsteps, I had discreetly placed a tracking charm on my wife's wedding ring. I had chosen the delicate band with its rich ruby jewel as it had immediately reminded me of her. Frail but beautiful. Simple yet disarmingly complex. She is a contradiction. She is mine. She is standing before the open, empty coffin of Harry Potter. Fuck.
Why is it that when things go wrong, they go so spectacularly, so horrendously sodding wrong that you feel like jumping off a bridge or shouting 'Avada Kedavra' in the nearest mirror? I'm not one for fatalist thinking, strange as it may seem my messed-up childhood actually bred a great deal of optimism in me, but right now, with my blood frozen in my veins and my control threatening to explode, that confidence is running extremely thin.
I watch with an almost morbid fascination as Ron (a.k.a the brainless git) runs and falls next to Ginny. Standing up here, high on the heath, I can see only the back of their red heads standing static, as if I'm the controller, slyly manipulating their movements. In part this is true, yet I can gain no satisfaction. Saying 'that this was NOT meant to happen' would be the biggest, most idiotic understatement but it needs to be said. I need you to know that everything I have done has been for her. Everything. She is the reason why I stole Harry's 'life'. She is the reason why that damn coffin is empty. It is her. Always her.
The cold wind streams through my hair and it flies back like a bright beacon amidst the now overcast sky. I pull my long wool coat closer and calmly place my hands in the pockets. If she were to turn, just a fraction, then I would be in her sight. But she won't. Her curling red hair falls down her shoulders as her head remains bowed. Ron turns to her and I can distantly see his pale profile. I won't bore you with the details of those wretched Weasley features.
All good things come to those who wait…standing here, watching my wife once again under his grasp, that lie has never seemed so pathetic. I can see now that I've made a terrible mistake in waiting so long. I absently wonder how the hell she found out but my mind is now elsewhere. It is now lingering on his face; his face which will soon be slack and pained once more.
"Harry, enjoy it while its lasts…" I mutter maliciously, my fingers already itching to reach for my wand.
I take a step forward and stare at the back of my wife's head.
"Oh, and Ginny…," I whisper in a low, penetrating voice, "I love you."
GINNY
"This is unbelievable." Ron shakes his head wearily; his hand brushing carelessly through his hair. "How can it…how can he-," his voice breaks away and he looks me with close scrutiny.
"I'm not making this up!" I declare, sickened at the thought, "Christ Ron! What kind of person do you think I am?"
He sighs with something like derision and looks away. Heaven knows what's running through his mind. We are sitting side by side on the grass heath, overlooking the empty grave, yet the space between us couldn't be further apart. Over the last few minutes, I have told my brother everything, which when spoken out loud seems like nothing at all. Hearing myself speak in such an unsure, floundering voice, was like being dragged back to childhood, when I was trying to tell my family about a strange little book and the way it would send both shivers of fear and pleasure through my young body. I couldn't find the right words then either. I have nothing except for the 'truth' of a man I hardly know and…my eyes travel back to the grave…and that. I have that coffin. Morbidly, it fills me with a kind of hope.
"I saw the body, Ginny," Ron says through clenched teeth. "I-I felt his skin, he was cold. It was like he had gone and all that was left was his skin or something…I can't describe it." His eyes glaze over slightly. He must be thinking about that day. How could he not?
How could he not go through every awful detail in his mind, over and over, until something sticks out, some strange thing, which tells him that what his sister has been saying might not be madness?... It might be true.
"I know Harry's alive," I say, with a confidence that surprises me. "I just know it."
I add in a lighter tone, nodding towards the coffin, "Plus there's that, not exactly occupied is it?"
"Oh God…" Ron groans with a hint of brotherly affection, "I see you've still got the knack of saying the wrong thing at the worst possible time!"
I shrug as he gives me a brief smile before once again turning serious.
"We just can't trust Blaise. He was a world-class prick at Hogwarts. I can't see how he could know anything anyway; he was always so up himself even worse than Malfoy-" he stops and adds almost cheerfully, "Sorry, forgot he was your…husband." His lip curls as he says that word 'husband'. At the moment, I guilty know what he means.
"Ron, what was it like?" I ask slowly, both desperate and reluctant to know. "I know you've told me before but just once more, please, I need to understand."
I can vividly remember walking into that room. It was 7:45 in the morning. It was my turn to make breakfast in bed.
"You're risking death you know,"
"Come on, you aren't that bad!" he said with a grin.
"Harry," I replied with a long-suffering pout, "I burn toast! My eggs are sloppy! I swear I'm cursed in that kitchen!"
"Gin, I'll have two sugars in my tea…" he smiled, snuggling back under the covers.
They were his last words. Can you believe it? You'd think he'd say something profound, something I would remember later on and cry over but no, he spoke about tea! Then again that was Harry all over. When he was with me he wasn't a hero, he didn't deliver grand monologues or rally the troupes to victory. He talked about quidditch and music and football…to this day I have no idea what 'off-side' means.
"Not again Ginny, not yet," Ron replies flatly. "I need to get my head around this."
I nod and absently start picking up blades of grass, twisting them around and throwing them back down. The air seems heavy with awkwardness. Ron leans back and lies on the ground, looking up at the sky with unfocused eyes. His long legs are sprawled in front of him. His breathing is uneven. Is hasn't sunk in yet. Will it ever?
"Ron…" I venture after I lie back next to him, so close that our fingers are nearly touching.
"Yeah?"
"Why did you come? I thought you'd never talk to me again after-" I married Draco
He says nothing for a few minutes. I turn my head to the side. His eyes are scrunched shut, as if in pain or anger.
When he speaks his voice is deliberately blithe, "Lets just say I made a promise to a lady."
"Huh? What lady?"
"Can't a man be mysterious?" he moans but continues anyway, "I promised Mum. When you were born, she handed you over to me and you were just so ugly! All pink and with a big mop of orange hair. I knew that you would be prime meat for bullies so I asked her if I could take care of you. Recognising your dire physical appearance as a beacon for ridicule, she made me promise to look after you. Take you under my dashing and far more mature wing…"
"Oh really?" I comment wryly. "You must have had an extraordinary vocabulary at age one!"
"Oh I did," he replies and for a second it almost feels like old times. But then he grows more serious and once again a stranger is by my side.
"Nothing has changed, Ginny" he admits heavily.
"Of course it has," I reply with confusion. "Everything is different now. Harry… he's alive and we're going to find him." Perhaps optimism is clouding my perspective but I can't see how it can be anything other than…well, different.
"Maybe so," Ron starts, his grim face still staring into the sky. We won't find him up there.
"Maybe Harry is…alive or maybe he's not. This could all be a cruel, twisted trick. All I know is that I'm going to help you. You're my sister. I have to help you." He suddenly sits up and stares down at me. Blue eyes into brown.
"But I don't have to forgive you." His voice is sad and sure.
My face turns white. He's said this before but the sense of betrayal, the hurt, hasn't lessened with time.
"Fine," I respond in a small voice. I don't know what I expected. I guess I dreamt of a big reconciliation full of hugs and tears. I guess I expected things to just pop back into place, like suddenly finding the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle and making the picture perfect again. I guess it's about time I finally grew up.
"You'll help me find Harry, wherever he is?"
"Of course," he says, voice thickened with emotion. "He was my best friend too."
I think out loud, "The only lead we have is Blaise…not much to go on, is it?"
Ron doesn't answer. He is looking down towards the coffin.
"I suppose we need Hermione at a time like this. She'd know what to do," I say with a hint of nostalgia, remembering slightly guiltily, of how I once resented the girl who always seemed to know far too much and whose eager hand seemed forever reaching in the air for praise.
"No!" Ron commands, spinning around.
I stare at him. "Why not? She deserves to know."
"I said no!" he shouts, "I'll help you but I don't want her involved. She can't go through this."
He lets out a shaky breath, calming himself down.
"Come on," he says to me, holding out his hand to help me up. "We've an arrogant prick to track down."
He begins walking down the hill. A sudden thought occurs to me, "Ron, how did you know I was here?"
He stops and turns around. "I just had a feeling," He answers simply before carrying on.
I am left watching his retreating back. He's still a stranger but at least I don't have to do this alone. I'm not forgiven yet but there is still hope. I'm beginning to realise that there is always hope.
"Hurry up!" my brother shouts, tapping his foot impatiently.
I smile, just a little and run down to him.
There is hope yet.
DRACO
I walk slowly through the sleepy village, nodding politely at the passing muggles who wander through the afternoon, unknowing and oblivious. Their faces are smiling and woefully simple, as if the most complex thing they will have to think about is what to have for tea. They know nothing about power or passion. They know nothing about the pleasure magic can bring. To be without magic is to not live at all yet here they are, with their pasty, fat legs pushing through garish shorts and their stilted English manners, restricting any sense of freedom or spirit. They are all sheep. Father was right in that at least, they are pitiful and weak. Worthless, every last one…
I thought it best for Harry to return to his people.
My feet carry steadily on the path, I know by heart. I gaze vaguely at my surroundings, the leafy trees, and the excess of flowers, the mossy lake and the quaint, unassuming cottages, each one full of its own quiet character. Everything about this place is gentle and pretty. Is this is hell then heaven will be a walk in the park…
Is this all sounds too fairy tale, too jammed full of Laura Ashley (a naff muggle brand adopted by old wrinkles everywhere) clones and niceness, then…tough…get over it. If you want blood and gore then close your eyes and embrace that sadistic little voice which exists in us all. Listen as it whispers all those nasty secrets and commands, dispose of reality and become the thing that goes bump in the night.
In real life not everything is as it seems. It's been said a million times before but it remains the ringing bell of truth. I'll give you a piece of advice, always look beyond the surface because you never know when that hidden demon will jump up and rip you to shreds.
I stride up a windy lane and stop before the first house. In the garden, sitting contentedly on the too-green grass, there is a woman whose honey blonde hair shines gently in the sun. She looks like something out of a picture, something so wholesome and normal, that it leaves you with a queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. I used to think such overtly happy people were some kind of twisted myth, used as futile hope to those reaching suicide point (an exclusive clique for losers and deadbeats everywhere), but then I met her. I only dimly remember that meeting, as she made almost no impression at all. She was nice and still is. Nice, whoever thought of such a word? It is so flimsy and useless. It's what people churn out when they can think of nothing else to say. 'Oh she was very nice,' roughly translates into, she was so goddamn boring that Professor Binns seemed like the grand master of excitement, in comparison.
One of those dire muggle novels is two inches from her face and she lets out a quick, excited gasp before peaking discreetly up and then down again, a blush appearing.
Then he held her tightly to his manhood. 'Why, sir! Explain yourself!" the quivering virgin demanded, her knees already going weak. 'There is no need for words my darling. I am going to show you the universe! Starting with the ninth wonder of the world…"the dashing officer replied…
"Ahem," I say loudly as she looks up, an embarrassed smile on her pleasant face.
"Richard!" she exclaims, standing up and wiping the stray grass of a very rounded stomach. "I was just doing some light reading."
"So I see," I reply with eyebrows raised, "Are you enjoying it?"
"I think they will be in a page or two!" she says perkily, placing the dog-eared book on the grass. "Come in, come in," she gestures, welcoming me through the gate. "We haven't seen you in a few months. How are you? How's the job?" she asks cheerfully. "I so admire you. It must be terribly difficult to see all those people without homes or families."
I nod my head and put on my best sympathetic, 'adore-the-humble-hero' expression, "Yes, it just breaks my heart." Even I'm impressed about how sincere and wimpy my voice sounds.
"It's such hard work," being a fictional humanitarian "But I get through it." Quite easily actually, considering it's all a load of bullshit…
She, who I suppose deserves a name (it's Lara) smiles at me adoringly, like one who sees only the good in a person and is right now in the presence of one of God's little foot soldiers.
"Is he in?" I ask, nodding towards the ever-so-cute house.
Lara lets out a little sigh. "Yes, he's in. Working on the book. Again." Her face takes on a look of exasperation. "He's been sitting in front of that computer screen for two days straight. Say's he can't write a thing, he claims that his muse has absconded to greener pastures, or something like that. I try not to listen when he goes into one of his little moods…" her face darkens, "he can say such strange things…"
"Is that so?" I respond mildly. The sooner I get this done, the better. I cannot risk him remembering. At least not until the very end…
"I'll just get him." Lara walks into the house and moments later returns with another by her side.
That familiar, icy cold burden of hate shudders through me. As I look at him, a fake smile placed carefully on my face, I am eleven years old again, offering a hand of friendship and being rejected for a Weasley.
'You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.'
'I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks.'
That shame has never left me. That anger never will.
A boyish smile explodes on his tanned face. "Rich! How great to see you!" he takes my hand and shakes it with a vigor saved only for those he loves the best. (Ironic isn't it?)
His black hair is as messy as ever; it sits like some demented cat on the top of his head and flops past a pair of stylish glasses, strands hanging over his sludge-green eyes. Some would say that those eyes were, what's the word…remarkable, but they are not. They are standard, run-of-the-mill, muggle eyes, which see nothing, nothing, which I do not wish them to see.
"Harry." I force myself to smile and place a friendly hand on his shoulder. "How's it going, old friend?"
"Great." He replies brightly. We both look down at his 'outfit', which consists of a Hawaiian shirt, odd socks and appalling denim jeans, which are so old; they would make that old git Dumbledore seem like a spring chicken.
He lets out a laugh. "I guess I've been a bit distracted. Writer's block…dreadful thing! I've spent the last hour describing a tea bag!" He puts on an arty, high-strung voice, "Oh hark at the way it drips! Soggy and brown, it should wear a crown!"
He grimaces, "See what I mean."
"Indeed." I agree, not bothering to laugh. "I thought we could go for a drink. Catch up."
"I could do with a pint," Harry responds, absently rubbing the dark stubble on his chin. "Yeah, why not? Let's go."
Lara crosses her arms and lets out a mock huff, "I'll just stay in and do the ironing, shall I?"
"Aw darling, are you feeling a little neglected?" Harry asks in a soft voice, moving to kiss her neck.
I think I'm going to be sick.
"I suppose you can go," Lara says in a begrudging tone. "Is this what is going to be like when we're married? Me stuck in with the kids while you go off boozing with your mates?"
Harry smiles widely, showing his annoyingly white teeth. "You know it is," he responds jokily, "I'll want my tea on the table, preferably Yorkshire puddings, and then I'll need you to rub my feet, every night and then – ow!" he yells, as Lara's elbow rams into his stomach.
"Shall we go?" I interrupt. The oh-so-nauseating banter is already causing my temples to pound.
Harry nods and kisses his fiancé on the cheek. "I promise I won't get too pissed."
We begin walking down the lane. To any outsider, I imagine we just look just like any other pair of friends. One scruffy and lets face it, pretty damn ugly, and the other rather handsome. We look usual. I joke with him and talk to him as if I have known him all my life. Looking at us together, nobody would suspect a motive. Nobody would suspect a murder. Idiots.
The sky is gradually getting darker and darker. The safety of day is slithering away into the night, the eternally dangerous night.
Harry casts a speculative look at my attire. "You aren't going like that, are you?" he asks. Coming from the person wearing a bright orange shirt, this is beyond an insult.
"Yes," I respond tightly, managing not to drop my voice into a growl. "Is there a problem?"
Harry stops and considers, "Well, you are a bit drab. It looks like you're going to a funeral."
Does it really Harry? How strange. How very strange.
Coming up soon: Actual Draco/Ginny interaction/Blaise/A big secret/Harry/Ron/Flashback galore/Pansy/Discoveries/Lies/A baby/Heartbreak/Betrayal/Avada Kedavra/Love/Burrow/End of the world?
(Not necessarily in that order!)
Woohoo! 20 days and counting!