Black Horizons Blue, Chapter One, At the Burrow

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, they're Jo's.

There was a simple reason as to why I had not spoken to Harry Potter in the three days he had been at the Burrow: he had not spoken to me. In respecting the decision he had made at Dumbledore's funeral, I kept my distance. I would not burden him with my presence unless I had to, and that was only during the evening meal.

He had appeared grim when he arrived, and in the glimpses I allowed myself to take of him, he visage had not wavered since his return to the wizarding world. I imagined his two week stay at the Dursely's must have been agonizingly slow. Hermione had told me he had spent the whole of it in his room, studying various texts that were pertinent to their impending journey. All I knew of this impending journey was that it was supposed to be continuing Dumbledore's work in bringing down You-Know-Who, of what deeds and texts it might entail, I was painfully ignorant.

Hermione, it seemed, acted those first few weeks after his return to the Burrow, as Harry's messenger to me. She offered information about him and their journey, vague though it was, much more often than I inquired after it. She told me that he had taken to keeping a journal of his research. It was enchanted, she was sure, by a most powerful string of charms; after all, he wouldn't want just anyone to be able to read it. She was nervous about it, she said, keeping any record of their journey was, in her opinion, unwise. She was not able to convince him otherwise.

She did not cease her narration until she had imparted to me all she could safely say. While she did not name the locations to which they planned to venture, or mention what it was they planned to do there, she gave me as many hints as she could: clues aimed to allow me solace in wonder.

I willed myself to be content in being Hermione's confidant instead of Harry's; however, respect does not beget contentment. The three days since Harry's arrival felt more like three years spent rising early to avoid him at breakfast and dodging round the other side of the broom shed to keep from his sights. I told myself it was for his benefit–that he was sacrificing himself–and had so much more to lose for it.

I wondered as I gave the vegetable garden a violent weeding, two weeks after his arrival, why I did not simply go to him and demand he not be noble. I longed to spend this summer as I had the last: laughing and flying and swimming. Seeking solitude and solemnity went against my very nature, and to even cause a slight smile in the corners of Harry's mouth would have relieved me of the acute burden pressing against my chest. It was all in vain hope, I knew because I felt that I could no longer be near him without assuming what I felt was my natural place at his side. To refrain from grasping his hand or kissing his lips, or even simply mussing his hair seemed more torturous than this devastating avoidance.

The only way out was to confront Harry and ask of him something he could not do, no matter how much he love me (for I did not doubt that he loved me still), because nobility was just as much a part of his nature as flying–and I would no sooner request he quit the former as the latter. He was, as I wrenched the weeds from the soil by their roots, playing Quidditch in the clearing with Ron, against Bill and Hermione. I had offered to aid in the preparing the yard for the wedding so my mother and Fleur sewed and chatted and ordered and spent a great deal of time arguing over flower arrangements. Occasionally, Fleur's mother would stop in to have her say, which only served to cause enough commotion to upset Mum to the point of consenting on whichever point the current argument was centered.

Being a member of the Order of the Phoenix, Mum's main concern was the safety of her family and guest, while celebrating the occasion adequately. Fleur and her family, not being privy to the inner workings of the Order, appeared to have forgotten (temporarily at least) the cause of the severe scarring over Bill's face in their eagerness to have the wedding as much to their indulgent tastes as possible.

As the wedding was just a few weeks away, my aid was enrolled much more often than it had been in the past. I begrudged anything to do with the event–not because my love had separated himself from me for the my own safety, but because I was still attempting to deny Bill was going to marry someone with as little sense as Fleur Delacour. I detested any woman that demanded such constant attention and possessed herself only according to her looks. I had expected Bill to choose someone who was clever, rather than someone with whom he might have beautiful children. The idea that my favourite brother had chosen appearance over a sharp mind stung me deeply. While I knew I was not unattractive, I did not flaunt my myself like she did. Men were not my purpose for living–and I would never marry to sit at home and have a brood of children.

It's not that I did not find something noble in the raising of children. It was the idea of doing only this that made me feel as though I were being smothered slowly with a down pillow. I knew I could not be content living as my mother had done; there were too many other things to do first.

In all my cursing of the women who surrounded me then, it had not escaped my attention that I was currently doing something I had said I would never do. I was standing by the wayside while Harry was to fight. He had, essentially, taken me out of the war–and I, by doing as he asked and stepping aside and letting him go, had agreed to be the good little woman who sat quietly at home to wait. It was as if I had said I would wait for him to come back to me victorious; we would then wed to the celebration of the wizarding world. He would then handle the affairs of his massive estate and juggle his fame while I sat in his manor nursery with our horde of offspring. Harry Potter would, of course, be expected to live in a manor and produce many little black-haired, green-eyed children. I choked on the thought as though I had inhaled a mouthful of dirt, and could not produce enough saliva to spit it out. I could not allow such a doom to befall me.

I reminded myself that in stepping back, not aside, for now, was not inviting that distasteful fate in, but merely aiding Harry's piece of mind in his quest to defeat You-Know-Who. For this reason alone, I had resigned myself to abiding.

---

Despite all the physical labour I endured that summer in preparation for the wedding, I ate little and rarely slept through a night. I had become thin from lack of food, and pale for need of rest. When the color in my cheeks faded so much that my mother became worried, she demanded I work less, and take a potion to help me sleep. After that, I took afternoons off, retreating to my bedroom to read if I could concentrate–or write in my journal if the words would travel to my pen from my head. So often that summer I found that they would detour from their path somewhere about my shoulder and I would sit on the floor, leaning against my bed with my journal open and my quill inked only to create a page of drips and blots. I never did take any of the potions my mother gave me in the evenings, preferring to throw them out the window and brood on my bed until morning came I could commence working once again.

The night before the wedding, I grew restless, as I often did, and rose to dress. I lit my lamp and snuck outside to the far side of the broom shed. I sat, opened my journal, inked my quill, and commenced dripping black ink onto an already blotted page.

What kept me from my bed that night had been the memory of Mad-Eye popping in and out of the kitchen all afternoon, checking on the extra precautions the Ministry had placed over the Burrow because of Harry, and placing a few of his own. He was convinced the wedding would not come off without incident. Such an occasion would be to Voldemort like a slap in the face–a celebration of love even amidst all his power-seeking mayhem. How could people still love when they should be obsessed with finding him–stopping him–defeating him if they could?

Bitterness crawled up my spine and settled in my clenching jaw and narrowed eyes. I could not help but feel as though Harry was falling for a ploy of Voldemort's by pushing me away. He loved Sirius, he loved Dumbledore, and both were gone. They were used against him. Their deaths fueled his anger at the injustice of it all and pushed him to irrationality. Should he not allow himself to love while he could?

Bitterness was quick and fleeting, as it was soon replaced by Fear. A twig snapped just on the other side of the shed. I could clearly hear footsteps coming for me. I realized then that I was alone, outside, with nothing to defend myself but a quill and a book. I snuffed the lamp and stood, holding my quill as if it were my wand. I had fought DeathEaters before–I could do it again. I bit my lip as a white trainer came round the corner of the shed.

The trainers stopped, and I did not move, my eyes slow to recognize a friend. "Ginny, is that a quill?" Harry asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yeah," I laughed, lowering my arm and sliding down the wall of the shed as my shaking legs gave out. My heart was pounding in my throat, and my head surged with too many thoughts to hold. I rubbed my eyes and heard Harry settle himself on the grass beside me.

"What are you doing out here?" he said. I looked up and he was offering me a mug of pumpkin juice. I was sure he must have just conjured it, because he had not been holding anything before.

"Realizing how stupid I am for coming out without my wand," I mumbled into my mug.

"Took you all summer then, did it," he chuckled. "Hey, don't look at me like that." He pointed to the attic window. "You know I don't sleep much. That lamp's like an open invitation isn't it?"

"So why come down tonight, then?" I said between sips. I wanted him to bow his head and blush–to mumble something incomprehensible that meant he hadn't had a reason other than wanting to be alone with me. Instead his eyes bored into mine, and I saw the same grim determination there I had seen all summer.

"We're leaving tomorrow, after the wedding." He spoke like an automaton, his words clipped and rehearsed. "I thought I should say goodby to you properly as everyone else will go mad Sunday morning when they wake up and find we've left." His passion must have been stirred, whether by the thought of the impending chaos of the prospect of his next adventure I do not know, but his words regained his normal voice here. "The three of us agreed it would be best if you told everyone once we're gone. We'd like to say goodbye, but we know they'll stop us if they can."

"But you still won't tell me where you're going, will you?" He shook his head and pushed his glasses up his nose. My mouth frowned against my will, but I asked if he could tell me something of what he had been reading at least.

"I've been studying the Dark Arts," he stated.

I gasped, but he was quick to cup my chin in his hands and glue his gaze to mine. "You have to understand that it is not to use them, Ginny. It is not to use them. I just have to know what it is I'm up against. I have to know how to protect us from whatever it is we might find out there."

I nodded, but he did not leg go, and even though I was still mortified, I did not look away. "It's good," he continued, "that you've stayed away all summer. I'm sorry it couldn't be like last year, and I know you're probably not very happy with me for that. I want to be with you, but it's hard when all I feel like doing when I see you is kissing you...I'll take your smile to mean that you don't hate me just yet. I'm glad."

He pulled me into a hug, and I was startled into tears. Though it had been scarcely more than a month since our last embrace, it felt as though it had been years longer. He was warm and firm, just as he had been then, though he smelled musty, like Ron's room.

"I still love you," he whispered, as if from a dream, and kissed me quickly before disappearing round the side of the shed.

---

I woke early to help with the last of the baking. From six to ten I frosted pink roses on hundreds of flat mints. Fleur insisted that it must be done the day of, otherwise the icing would grow hard and deesgustine.

Gabrielle had hovered over my shoulder the last hour, wanting to know when I would be done so she and Fleur could help me get ready. When I asked her why she didn't get ready while she waited, I was told with no little hesitation that she and her sister would dress me first as I would no doubt take much longer to make presentable than either of themselves. I rolled my eyes and deliberately slowed, saying my wrists ached too much to retain my former speed.

The second I had finished with them, Gabrielle grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me up the stairs to my bedroom, which had been transformed in my absence. My bedroom was now covered in mirrors and fairy lights. Make-up and various other female things were haphazardly strewn about. Fleur took up my other wrist and the two guided me to a pink vanity that was not my own and sat my on a lacy pouf. Both pulled out their dainty wands and set to work.

I had planned on wearing my hair down, maybe curled a bit round the edges, and perhaps a bit more make-up than usual. I generally only wore concealor, eye shadow, and mascara. I did not wear color, but I had considered going for a shimmering gold shadow I had helped Fleur pick out a few days before.

When the two stepped away to examine their work nearly an hour later, I saw that my plans were entirely superfluous. The top half of my hair was done up in a set of elaborately threaded knots and curls, that still managed to have enough excess hair to be secured in the back by a gold clip and decorated with a lily. The bottom half was down, and curlier than I had imagined doing myself, but manageable. The make-up was over-done, I thought, as the French girls fawned over how beautiful I looked in rouge and eye shadow. My face looked like one big blob of shimmer. As I dressed, I couldn't help but feel as thought I'd been abducted and coiffed against my will. I thought I might have preferred a duel.

The wedding began promptly at one. It and the reception passed peacefully—that is to say that no DeathEaters made their presence know if they had indeed decided to show.

Not long after the cake had been cut and the dancing begun, I finally was able to corner Tonks. Professor Lupin had not left her side the entire day—until my father had pulled him away, undoubtedly to talk business. I spotted her then, loafing about the snack table, picking at the food.

I snuck up behind her and startled her in saying, "I'm so glad you went with pink today, Tonks. At least one of us looks normal."

After she had calmed herself from jumping and overturning the entire tray of rose mints into the grass (at which I smiled; I had always felt that in Tonks, I had found a kindred spirit), she grinned and hugged me. "Merlin, what did those girls do to you? You look positively French!"

She released me and I pulled her to set of chairs off by a row of shrubbery. "They attacked me with their wands: it was terrible. I look nothing like myself."

She laughed with me and nodded toward Lupin and my father. "That old fart over there wanted me to go natural, just for today, he said. He thought pink might attract too much attention from the Bride. I told him sixty rampaging hippogriffs wouldn't distract anyone who cared from that bride…

She was silent for a moment, searching the crowd a moment before smiling to herself as her eyes found Lupin once again. I watched as Professor Lupin blushed at something my father said. "Oh no," Tonks paled. I asked the matter.

"Remus is blushing." For the second time that day I felt myself drug by the wrist into a situation I probably did not want to be in. When I heard Professor Lupin stumbling over a few words, including "marriage" and
"practical," I knew I didn't. It did not help that even despite his best efforts, he looked absolutely terrified that we were joining the conversation just then.

"What he means to say, Arthur," Tonks interjected as she dropped my hand for Lupin's, "is that I'm not as self-important as all this—and I don't really think I could handle everyone fawning all about me like one is supposed to do to a bride. You know me, I'd probably trip over my dress and knock him into the cake or something awful like that.

My dad chuckled, but I wondered if he understood what I suspected the two were trying to avoid vocalizing: Tonks and Lupin were not planning to marry—at least not while Voldemort was still a threat. Even if they lived through it, I fancied they'd get on well enough unmarried. Simply being in love was enough for them, besides, they wouldn't have children. What was the point of marrying?

I imagined them in a hundred years, Lupin's hair and beard grown out to resemble Dumbledore's and Tonk's still as pink as ever. Both would be sitting in a chair by the fire, generations of Weasleys running about their house, stirring up plenty of trouble. Tonks would still hall him an old fart, and he would still be the only one who could get away with calling her by her first name. They would be happy, even without a pair of wedding bands.

Tonks awoke me from my musing by elbowing my ribs. "Someone hasn't taken his eyes off you all afternoon. Haven't you noticed?" she whispered, nodding to where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were huddled by the gift table. Harry turned his head rapidly back to his conversation as I looked up. I sighed and shrugged as Tonks raised her eyebrows in question. I told her I had no idea what was going on there anymore. She nodded and agreed that men were more trouble than they were worth before Lupin pulled her back into the conversation. I went in search of more punch.

I watched the Harp strings twang on their own accord as I drank the tasteless gold liquid, wondering if the odd notes it was emitting ever now and again was the result of a bad enchantment or the beginning of a prank from Fred and George. There was a tap on my shoulder.

"Would you like to dance?" Harry asked as he stepped into my line of vision.

"Sure," I said, setting my cup on the ground, allowing him to lead me by the hand to where other couples were swaying gently to the gentle plucking of the self-playing harp.

I saw Harry tap his wand minutely just before he brought his right hand to my waist. "Muffliato," he whispered as I looked at him quizzically. I nodded and allowed him to lead silently for a few moments, wondering what might require that particular spell.

"When Ron and Hermione asked me if I'd spoken you yet, I told them I hadn't," he began, but did not continue.

"But you have," I said. "So why lie?"

This time, he did bow his head and blush. He whispered in spite of his charm, "I don't think I wanted them to know I had been alone with you, since we broke up for your safety and all."

I frowned. "Do you feel guilty about last night, Harry?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm glad I had a chance to see you—but I think last night was just for the two of us. When people ask how you know, you should tell them this is when you found out, not then.

"I will," I said, not hiding the bit of a smiled that played about my lips.
"I still—" He shook his head again and I stopped.

"Don't say it," he warned, "not now. Just know that I know.

I nodded and rested my head on his shoulder. We continued to dance in silence until Charlie cut in, for which I was glad. It was becoming painful to be so near to him when I knew I might never see him again once we parted.

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A/N:

Congratulations, you made it to the end of my very convoluted first chapter! (Don't worry, the next few won't be so bad). If you have a moment, I'd love to hear what you think, so please leave me a review!