As Black Horizons Blue, Chapter Two, An Accident and a Secret
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.
A/N: I solemnly swear that I will only place one character (and only in this one instance) in a catatonic state for the sake of badly played irony. Thank you.
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Platform 9 ¾ was not baron, as I had half expected it to be. There were not as many students as usual, but enough to calm the loneliness that had snuck upon me when I had received my Quidditch Captain badge. I had realized then how many people would not be returning to the site of the demise of the greatest wizard of the age.
The compartments did not fill as quickly, and family goodbyes were stretched up until the final whistle Mine was no exception. Mum, who had not stopped sniffing back tears in the presence of others since Ron, Harry, and Hermione left, sobbed on the platform, hugging me over and over again. Charlie, who was in the country indefinitely, pried her arms from my neck just in time for me to hop on the train.
I felt sorry for her. She was alone at the Burrow most of the time, with only barn cats and garden gnomes to keep her company. In my experience, neither were very companionable. I imagined she would divide her time between knitting and pounding mounds of bread dough, always keeping her eyes on that blasted clock of hers. Every one of the hands lingered on Mortal Danger unless someone happened to be traveling. Once at the chosen destination, the hand went right back to Mortal Danger. The two hands that moved with the most frequency were Ron's and Dad's. Each time one began to move, Mum would hold her breath and oversee the progress, hoping in vain that one destination might override the other, but even Home and Work were all over ridden by Mortal Danger.
I couldn't help but think if my mother had some other occupation, then she might not stress herself so with anxiety–anything to get her out of the house and away from that clock. When I broached the subject with her at the end of the summer, she intimated that beyond having no desire to leave the Burrow for safety's sake, she had quite enough to keep her busy at home–and anything added to that would only serve to vex her further. I told her, that according to her clock, she would be no less safe standing at Voldemort's wand point than she would be as was, isolated at Otter St. Catchpole. For this, I was immediately sent away.
I found Charlie by the pond. He had taken to spending as much time outdoors as possible. He said it was because the house felt as though someone within it were dying. It was stifling. When I told him Mum was practically killing herself with her constant worry, the bitterness in my voice gained me a hug and a promise to try and get her active after I left. As I sat with him at the water's edge, I was thankful. I thought Mum might pay his entreaties more heed because he was older and male. I was afraid she did not listen to what I had to say because I, being her only daughter, should share in her despair. That was something I could not do. As much as I did hope for my family's safety, I would not be immobilized by fear of possibility when there was still a chance that Harry might triumph.
"What do you think will spike Mum's interest more, Quidditch, dragons, or dueling?" Charlie had asked me.
"Perhaps you can get her a job at Fred and George's while you're at it," I laughed, wondering exactly how Charlie, the most active and athletic of my brothers would coerce our mollycoddling mother into living when their interests diverged so.
We did agree, before we left the pond, that if Mum did not find some occupation soon, she would not make it through the war, whether she had a run-in with some DeathEaters or not.
On the train, I found a compartment with Neville and Luna. We spent the train ride discussing Long-Snouted Rushkivs and Luna's trip to Russia. Neville was interested in hearing that I had been made Quidditch Captain, but more so about Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Both had the grace to nod and seem impressed rather than afraid and astounded at the task they had undertaken.
"It's about time someone did something practical," Luna had affirmed with force. Even though it was not particularly funny, it brought tears of mirth to my eyes. I wished everyone thought like she did.
The Feast passed without incident, aside from the introduction of two new teachers: Kingsley Shacklebolt had been made the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. On September 2nd, the Prophet ran an article on the placement of a fully-trained Auror as Defense teacher at Hogwarts, citing the mutual agreement between the new Headmistress and the Ministry that Defense was perhaps the most important subject for returning Hogwart's students. Shacklebolt, the paper said, had volunteered immediately upon hearing of the opportunity.
The new Transfiguration teacher was Professor Aberforth Dumbledore, the late Headmaster's younger brother. His introduction caused a wave of a murmur to cross the Great Hall. Neville leaned across the table and asked me if he wasn't the barman from the Hog's Head.
"I think he might be, Neville," I had said, wondering whether the Hog's Head was a Dumbledore family establishment.
Professor Shacklebolt turned out to be an exhilarating instructor, and quickly became a student favourite. Professor Dumbledore was a gruff and cold teacher, but not at all ignorant of his subject. Most students found his impatience disagreeable, and the void left by the former Professor Dumbledore could not be filled by his younger brother, as many had hoped.
Class sized were smaller, but not minuscule, and the Quidditch team proved easy enough to fill. Dean, Demelza, and a girl name Myra Benford were my Chasers. I held the same Beaters from last year over, and I found an able Keeper in a third year named Franklin Robins. I ended up playing seeker, as no one else was able to fill the position as well as I.
We narrowly won our first match against Slytherin, who had found a talented replacement for Malfoy (who had also not returned to Hogwarts this year), who gave me the best challenge I'd had since playing against Harry. After we scraped a victory out of the game (250 to 240, Snitch to Slytherin), I trained the team extra hard. They had played excellent in the first game of the year, it was I who had nearly cost us the match, but the exercise helped to keep my mind off Harry.
We played our second match against Hufflepuff just before Christmas in horrid conditions. It was snowy and windy. Everything was white and dull. The Quaffle and the Bludgers were nearly impossible to see, let alone the Snitch. After an hour of play the score was only 30-20 Gryffindor. The crowd was frozen and restless; many had already returned to the castle. The Snitch zoomed past my nose, and I shot out after it, determined to make up for my failure to catch it in the last match. I couldn't see if the Hufflepuff Seeker had notice me give chase, but I couldn't see anything. The wind was howling so loudly, I could hardly make that Demelza was screaming something at me. I dared not deviate from my trail. I nearly had it. It was hovering about the base of the Hufflepuff goal post: I reached for it.
--
I awoke in the Hospital Wing with a marvelous headache. My eyes weren't focusing well, and all I could make out was the candle on my bedside table. I groaned and registered the shuffle of hurried footsteps and a woman's voice saying, "She's awake."
Someone put a potion to my lips, and I drank. The pain lessened. I sat up, and my eyes focused. Ron and Hermione sat at my bedside. Hermione looked tired and careworn. Ron's left arm was in a sling, and his right hand appeared to have been burned severely some time ago, and was now scarred and slightly lame.
"You make a horrid Seeker, you know," he said. "Two games in a row, you've missed it now, Ginny. What are you doing to the Weasley family record?"
Hermione glared at him. "Ron, she had her skull cracked by a bludger, I'd like to see you win a game in that state."
"I think you've done more damage to that record than I have," I amended.
He shrugged and held up his right hand. "I can't even hold my wand, let alone grip a broom—just be thankful you can." He quieted, sat back in his chair, and stared dejectedly at his hand. Hermione grasped it between her own, and tried to smile at him, but he did not look up. They sat there for a moment, holding hands, looking very tired.
"What happened to you two?" I asked. They didn't answer. "Is Harry here?" I tried again.
Hermione nodded and motioned over her shoulder to the bed next to the office. It had the curtains pulled around it. "He's over there, asleep," she said. "He has been for two weeks."
"You've been here two weeks!" I choked on the sip of water I had just taken.
"Actually," Hermione corrected. "We've been here near on a month now. Two weeks ago, we thought we had found something in our research, and we went after it. We've been a bit worse for wear since then."
I thought she looked fine, despite a few scratches. Ron was trying to flex his right hand, but his fingers did little more than twitch. His index finger, it seemed, preferred not to move at all.
"Your hand?"
"No, I did this one in Wales in August—broke my arm last time."
"Ron!" Hermione scolded.
"What? We didn't find anything at Godric's Hollow—it was more of a sentimental trip." He winked at me. Hermione looked as if she would have liked to argue, but bit her lip instead. I thought he must have been lying, because I didn't see how he could have hurt himself so severely at a graveside.
"And Harry's been asleep since you broke your arm?" They nodded. "Is he going to be alright?"
"We don't know," Hermione answered quickly. "All the Healers that have been in to see him can't see why he hasn't woken yet. They guess there must be some bit of Dark magic in him they can't get at. They just keep telling us to wait it out." I nodded, but I still did not know what had happened to him.
"We think he'll be alright though," Ron said. "Hermione's been doing some research about what it is we ran into, and it'll take awhile for him to wake up, but once he works all that stuff out of his system with a little help from the right potions, he'll be good as new—except for the eye, of course."
"The eye?"
"We ran into some trouble on our way back, and Harry got hit in the face with a burning spell. It shattered his glasses," Hermione said. "And his left eye is gone."
"Poor bloke, he'll be devastated when he wakes up. Probably won't ever play Quidditch again."
I did not register Ron's nonchalant tone or Hermione's tired rebuff, as I was picturing Harry with a magical eye like Moody's. I shivered visibly. I didn't want him to be hindered by the loss of his eye, but I wondered if he couldn't replace it with a magical eye that wasn't not quite as astonishing.
Ron and Hermione were bickering about the importance of Quidditch when I interrupted them. "So, you'll think he'll recover then?"
"Oh, it's just a matter of time now, really," Ron did not sound a bit worried. Hermione told him he talked too much. "It's not gonna hurt her to know that you've been slipping him potions 'Mione!" She's got a right to know a little bit, you know!"
I switched my gaze rapidly back and forth between the two. I suppose I had misunderstood how far their distrust of those outside their trio stretched. Ron made it sound as though they had not even told the Healers what had happened to Harry beyond the burning spell. Curiosity flamed up within me, more brightly and more vigorously than before. To be left here, with nothing but Quidditch seemed transitory ad superfluous in relation to their quest. I wanted to know what feats they'd conquered, and what places they'd seen. However, Ron and Hermione left my bed for their own. Where they were staying I did not know, but it was outside the Hospital Wing.
I lay in bed awhile, until the potion had renewed me, and all pain was gone. I did not need anymore sleep, and the pull to see what was behind the curtains grew too strong for me to deny once I'd overcome all ill-effects from my fall. I slowly rose from bed, crossed the room, and slipped silently inside Harry's cubicle.
It was dark, so I lit a candle, and held it over him. He had gauze over his left eye, and I could see the shadow of burn scars splattering over the bridge of his nose. His lips were dry, but beyond that, he merely appeared to be sleeping.
I smoothed his fringe out of his face, and scratched his scalp just behind the hairline like I knew he liked me to do at the base of his neck.
He didn't move, but his breathing was regular. I traced the bandage over his eye, barely touching the skin. I leaned over and kissed his forehead just above the gauze as if it would help. It stung me to see him so helpless and weak. I needed him to be healthy—we all did. I wished then, that I could heal him. If he never woke, what would become of us? Would he atrophy in this bed, lost in a dream and falling into nothingness while the world crumbled around him?
He had to live to defeat Voldemort. Quitting now would only leave the rest of us to deteriorate into creatures of fear, waiting only for our turn to die. He knew better than anyone, that he was now our only hope.
Impassioned by the thought, and encouraged by his coma, I pressed my lips to his, as if to wake him from a faerie sleep. With this kiss, he would wake, and the world could hope again for happiness. The second I felt his lips part, I gasped, and shot upright. Reaching for the candle, I held the flame over his face to examine him once again. His eye was open, and he smiled. "I was wondering how long that was going to take you," he whispered.
"How long have you been awake?" I asked, stifling the urge to smother him. All despairing thoughts had departed, and I was overjoyed to see that he seemed to be recovering.
"Near two days," he croaked, then asked for water.
I nodded, and dashed out to retrieve the water that had been left on my bedside table, as there was none on Harry's. I poured him a glass, and waited patiently for him to drink it. After a few minutes, he set the empty glass down, and I refilled it in case he should want more. He cleared his throat and his voice returned. "What are you doing here?"
"I cracked my head at Quidditch this afternoon, I've only—"
He held up his hand to halt me. "I know all that. I heard you talking with Ron and Hermione earlier. I meant, why did you come in here?"
I thought this was a very silly question. Why wouldn't I want to come see him? My love for him had not waned in the last months, and neither had my memory of what he said at the wedding. I was torn between scolding him for worrying everyone, and humouring him with the answer he wanted. As he had been so ill, I decided on the latter.
"I wanted to see you," I said simply.
"And why did you kiss me?" he grinned dizzily, and attempted to sit up a bit more.
I saw quickly that he was in much worse shape than he wanted me to know, and indulging him now would only allow him to lead me into a conversation concerning our love for one another, and how warm and fuzzy it must be. I did not doubt that he had a perfectly valid reason to direct the conversation thus (not among which was the fact that he hadn't had a good snog in months), but I had more pressing topics on my mind, and I was not to be detoured.
"I think the better question her is why have you let everyone think you're nearly dead if you've been awake for two days," I said.
The dizzy grin fell, and he grew solemn. "I've been weak. I've had barely enough energy to call Dobby for food at night—let alone eat it. Just that has exhausted me, so I've been sleeping a lot. The rest of the time I've been listening. I found out about my eye last day by listening to Ron and Hermione. I heard them bring you in, and you talking with the others. I heard you get out of bed and walk over hear. I didn't mean to be deceptive, I just wanted to avoid a lot of attention right away. I wanted to find out how badly I was hurt. And with you, I just wanted to know what you thought of me now that I've been maimed beyond repair."
"Satisfied, are you?" I asked, not happy with the deception. He nodded. "All better then?"
"Let's see, shall we?" he threw off his covers and stood very fluidly for someone who had hardly moved in two weeks. He took two steps without hesitating, and then crumpled to the floor. I rushed forward and caught him, helping him back to bed.
"You're a real prat, you know that," I said as I took my chair again.
"You think I'm faking?"
"You are faking. You are feeling much worse than you're letting on. Just sit back and rest for now."
"But I can't afford to be held up much longer. I have to get better," he said, the charade falling away.
"Well, pretending you're healthy isn't going to make it so any more quickly."
"It's frustrating, not being able to walk. I can't see anything, and I hate that I let that happen to myself. I should have been able to stop it, but I was weak from what we did, and I saw Ron go down, and I got distracted. I was already half blind, now that I'm missing and eye, maybe next time I won't see it coming."
"It could have been worse," I said. "It could have been your hand, or leg, or something."
He nodded. "It still could get worse. They know we're out there now Ginny. They don't know exactly what it is we're doing, or how successful we've been (and we have been successful), but the DeathEaters know we're snooping about. If Voldemort weren't so sure of himself, he might suspect us. Right now though, I'm sure he has no idea, and that's the best I can hope for."
He had excited himself, and his tone, while grim, was also passionate. His face was no longer pallid and sickly as it had been, but flushed and glowing. It did not seem that the loss of his left eye would haunt him long.
"They'll not stop you before the end," I said, kissing his cheek. I felt that it was time for him to rest again, so I stood to leave. "Wake up for them tomorrow. You're worrying Hermione to death."
He nodded and pulled me down by my wrist to kiss me on the lips. "Are you staying for Christmas?"
I told him yes, and he smiled widely. "So are we."
I kissed him again, and left him to sleep.
--
I was the only Gryffindor left over break, so Ron and Hermione felt it was safe to join me in the common room in the evenings. We chatted, and played games, and laughed a lot, like before Dumbledore died. It was almost as if there was not a war for a few hours every night.
On Christmas Eve, I was playing Chess against Ron on the hearthrug, while Hermione read from an enormous tome in one of the dilapidated armchairs. The portrait hole opened just as I was taking Ron's king-side castle, and Harry crept in under his invisibility cloak, claiming to be fully recovered. "I'm through with Healers," he said, sitting down and wrapping an arm around my waist. "It was Hermione that saved me anyway." He nodded at her in gratitude and pushed his repaired glasses up his nose.
The gauze had been replaced by a black satin eye patch, courtesy of Hagrid. He'd made a trip to Diagon Alley exclusively for it, and gave it to Harry as a Christmas present. Other than a few slight depth perception troubles, he really did appear to be healthy. I smiled as I lost to Ron because Harry had been nuzzling my neck. It was something he only ever used to do in private.
Ron and Hermione said nothing, but left early none-the-less. As I was not one to object to pleasurable attentions from Harry, I didn't mind when he leaned over and kissed me fiercely.
I feel as though I should clarify what I mean by not objecting, so that what follows is clear. I did not argue with him, because from what I'd heard from Ron and Hermione, Harry had been sulky since the start of their journey. To see him in such high spirits was a treat for everyone. Furthermore, to feel his touch was something I'd been dreaming of having back for months. I loved him, and seeing him happy made me happy, but not enough to forget the situation outside the castle. It had not yet left my mind that Harry's time might be better spent trying to defeat Voldemort, however indirectly.
This conflict bubbled inside me as I was kissing him in front of the dwindling fire. I could feel the passion in his desperate kisses, and the need in the hand that had slipped inside jumper, caressing my back. My heart thundered a warning to my brain, and I pushed him back, reason overruling desire.
"What?" he blinked. "Do you not like kissing a one-eyed man?"
"If eyes had anything to do with kissing, I might have something to say about it," I said slowly, regaining equilibrium. "What I'm more concerned about is that you're kissing me at all."
The smile slipped from his face, and he sat up. The hand that had been running his fingers through my hair dropping to his side. "Do you not want me to kiss you then?" he said.
I wondered what had happened to Harry to make him so fragile in my presence. Why was he now going back on a resolution he had made so earnestly half a year ago. "What if this was your funeral?" he had said. What would he have done if it had been my funeral. And yet, here were, snogging madly, and very openly. He had been flirting with me and touching me all night. Simply put: I was confused.
"By all means, I would like you to kiss me. But—" I said as he started to lean forward, "first I want to know why."
"I love you," he said, as if that solved everything. He leaned in again, and again I pushed him away.
"What about Dumbledore's funeral? What about this summer, Harry? I thought there were more important thing going on that the two us snogging."
"There are—it's just that. . ." he mussed his hair as he thought how to word his answer. "You know, last spring was the best few weeks of my life. You make me so happy, but I know what I have to do. This has to be done without you. I won't allow him to take you too. It puts you at less risk if you're not known to be with me—anymore, at least. That doesn't mean you haven't stopped making me feel incredible."
"So you're taking back what you said at the funeral."
"No, not entirely. I just thought, that if no one really know, than it can't be harmful, can it?" His hand found my hair again, and twirled the ends absently as I thought about what he said.
He still wanted to have a relationship with me, so long as it was secret, because he didn't know if he'd be able to sacrifice me if it came down to it in the fight with Voldemort. I was his weakness. This though, while empowering to a degree, was terrifying. I understood fully what Harry was asking of me: to save the world, I would indeed pretend that I did not love Harry Potter; to save Harry, I would have to love him all of me.
With this thought guiding me, I kiss him with all the vigor he had shown me before. He encircles me in his arms, and pushes me back on the floor. I discard his glasses, and kiss his neck as I tug up on his jumper. He sits up and pulls it and his t-shirt over his head, and is quickly pressed against me once more. My jumper soon follows his to the pile of clothes on the rug, which grows quickly.
We made love that night, for the first time, quietly and anxiously. We were afraid of being fond out, because just then, it seemed as if the fate of the whole world rested upon our secret.