Disclaimer: This story is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.
Unbetaed so mistakes are all mine…
DREAMS OF CHILDREN
Chapter one
Harry Potter pulled the fridge closed and turned off the kitchen lights. It was half eleven on Friday the 29th of August, and even the constant gloom of Grimmauld Place would not dim the happiness he was feeling. Soon he would be returning to Hogwarts, the only home the 16-year-old wizard had ever known. He would get to play Quidditch, visit Hagrid, even try NOT to get stuck in the Forbidden Forest for once. He felt desperate to be back, now more than ever, because there was nothing in the dank, decrepit Order of the Phoenix HQ which didn't remind him of his late godfather. Irascible, irresponsible, irreplaceable Sirius Black seemed to have seeped into every pore of the house, and everything Harry touched brought back memories. Harry's stomach would clench reliving the time Sirius had dropped something, or thrown something at him; the silence his bark-like laugh left was enormous. But then Harry would feel a wave of shame that he could ever feel sad to remember Sirius, as if he was insulting his godfather to his face. It was complicated, and sometimes he felt as if there was so much going on inside him that his head would explode. "Nobody could feel all that at once, Hermione, they'd go mental," he murmured to himself, remembering Ron's (usual) deft analysis of the human condition. A small grin split his face as Hermione's answer came back to him. His friend was a bloke through and through. And blokes had their own ways of getting through stuff like this.
Thinking of Ron and Hermione caused his smile to widen. It would seem that having the "emotional depth of a teaspoon," hadn't hurt Ron where Miss Granger was concerned. Two weeks ago he had walked into Ron's room to find his two best friends in a position they certainly hadn't learned in the DA. There had been a moment's deafening silence and then he'd burst out laughing, a response which seemed to relieve and annoy Hermione at the same time. Ron had tried to explain, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, but Hermione had slowly and resolutely taken a handful of Harry's jumper and pushed him out the door. She'd smiled when she done it, and Harry had understood. As he'd walked away he'd heard her usual bossy "Oh for God's sake, Ron…" And whatever happened afterwards, he felt, was none of his business.
He padded back to his room, taking care not to be heard. His every movement seemed to provoke enormous interest from the adults in the house, as if they fully expected to find him hanging from a rope in his room. Everyone was Very Concerned, he thought, feeling his anger begin to rise. If they'd had the same interest in his feelings this time last year the tragedy of Sirius' death might never have happened. But then nobody had worried about Harry then. He could feel himself beginning to stomp, angry with the world, angry with himself, and sure that at any moment Mrs. Weaseley would pop out with a glass of pumpkin-juice and some sympathy, as if that would help.
Instantly he regretted his anger. Mrs. Weaseley was not to blame for what had happened. None of the people living in this giant crypt were responsible for what had happened to Sirius. Harry saw the person responsible every time he looked in a mirror; in fact he'd had to cover the one in the room he shared with Ron, and it was a measure of how worried his friend was that he hadn't said anything, even with his new-found interest in hair-gel. (Ron had taken to enchanting his hair so that it stood up at the front like that Muggle Timberlake. Harry had been mystified until The Hermione Incident). No, he couldn't blame anyone else; he had to take responsibility for what had happened. The Boy Who Lived had caused someone to die.
He peeked around the corner and checked out the door to Ron's room. There was no light showing under the door; this probably meant that he was asleep. It was safe to enter, he wouldn't have to make small talk, he wouldn't-
"Oh Ron!" That was Hermione's voice. Harry stopped dead. A month ago he wouldn't have thought she was capable of making a sound so, so… girly. It was kind of disturbing, thinking of Hermione being a girl. She was, well, Hermione. At that moment he heard the door to the kitchen downstairs open and recognised Mrs. Weasel's tread on the stairs. Panicking he ducked into the nearest room, hoping he wasn't interrupting the twins in some mischief. This room at least had a light on. Harry turned to apologise and realised that he'd made a mistake. For sitting on the bed, face creased in concentration, sat Ginny.
Harry's relationship with Ginny had changed almost beyond recognition since last year. He'd never really known her until she'd joined the DA: silent and nervous around him, unable or unwilling to look him in the eye, they had seemed like strangers who knew a lot about each other, rather than two friends. But now she treated him just like one of her brothers. She would laugh with him, ask for help with her homework, defend him in school, stop and talk between classes. Of course, since he was now officially the Eighth Weaseley, she also thumped him, threw things at him, hid and stole his stuff as she saw fit and in one memorable incident dragged him from her room via a combination of his ear and his knee. There were times when he actually missed the silent, demure Ginny of old. But they didn't last long. It was impossible to be awkward around her now, at least. And the awkwardness had been worse than anything.
She looked up at the sound of the door closing, and Harry was astonished to see tears in her eyes. She looked fierce, as if she were angry that she'd been found out: the Weaseley pride was formidable. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. For a moment he felt sure that she would start yelling and throw him out; for a moment she seemed to be considering it too, but instead she snapped "Close that bloody door, if you're coming in!" in a tone that reminded him strongly of her mother.
She stood up, her hands clenched in fists, and began to pace. Harry sat down on the bed opposite hers, wishing to get out of her way before she ran him down. He somehow knew that he shouldn't say anything: like her mother she would speak when she felt like it and not a minute before. He waited, tucking his legs in beneath him, hoping he was doing the right thing, hoping he wouldn't have to wait long, relieved almost that Hurricane Ginny was about to roll into town. It would be a relief to think about someone else's problems for once…
She suddenly looked up at him, as if for a moment she'd forgotten he was there. She stopped pacing and sat down, her movements jerky and angry. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands. She opened her mouth, closed it again, then opened it. Sucking in breath through her teeth she fixed him with her deadliest glare, then thrust the letter into his hands and threw herself onto her bed, trying to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand surreptitiously. She noticed Harry looking, and he dropped his eyes to the letter, suddenly feeling a blast of sympathy for his friends last year. Teenage angst wasn't fun for anyone…
The letter was hand-written, with a letterhead proudly proclaiming "Wolfram & Hart Law Firm, Los Angeles." Black ink, the handwriting elegant and slanting, the paper creased. It read
Dear Miss Weaseley,
My name is Wesley Wyndham-Price. I believe we met very briefly that first time you were in Los Angeles, when you visited Cordelia at our headquarters in The Hyperion Hotel. (Of course you might not remember me, you were having a very difficult night at the time). I was a close friend of Cordy's, and I know that she cared a great deal about you, a fact which makes what I have to tell you that much harder. Please forgive our delay in contacting you, but until your letter arrived on my desk I believed that everyone who knew Cordy knew what had become of her. I can only apologise if our thoughtlessness has caused you pain.
I must tell you that Cordelia Chase is dead. She was the latest (and for me, the dearest and closest) in the list of casualties amongst those who fight against the forces of darkness. A foul thing took her from us slowly, and before we knew what happened she had slipped away from us. My only consolation is the fact that I know she is in a better place, looking down on all of us and guiding us. She was the bravest, strongest, most loving woman it has ever been my pleasure to know, and I'm sure you will miss her as much as I do. For me Cordy exemplified the best in all of us: I believe you said it best when you stated that you wanted to be Cordelia when you grew up. We all did, and all the people who knew her and you want to send their sympathies. We hope that the few small items enclosed with this will bring you some comfort, though you are in distress. If you want to write to us we would love to hear from you, to share with someone who knew Cordy and loved her as we did. I enclose an address where I might be contacted, and hope to hear from you.
With deepest sympathies,
Wes
Harry looked up at Ginny. "Who was Cordelia Chase?" Wordlessly she held out a Muggle photograph, the type taken by a Polaroid camera like the one Dudley had broken and blamed Harry on when they were five. A very pretty young woman with short dark hair and a bright smile greeted him: she was hugging a much younger Ginny. Someone had written "Typical witches!" on the back with an orange marker. Despite the difference in their ages they looked like they were having a great time, and Harry silently wondered why he'd never seen Ginny that happy when she was around him. But then she looked much younger, and when she'd been much younger she had rarely laughed around Harry…
She stared back silently, seeming to crumple like a paper doll, as if all energy had left her. She seemed to be looking inward, as if she didn't even know that he was there. He made to sit beside her but she flinched and he sat back down, upset and slightly bewildered. Instead he took the corner opposite her on the bed across, curling up and watching her helplessly, unsure what to do but knowing that he couldn't leave. He remembered the date with Cho in Madame Puddyfoot's. There was the same feeling that events were careening out of his control, only this time it was a million times worse. The silence stretched out, the tension was unbearable, and try as he might he couldn't think of any way to change it.
"She was a friend of mine." Ginny said suddenly, her voice in the silence causing him to jump. She had her head down, and the veil of her red hair fell across her face, obscuring her expression. "She… helped me, at a time when I had nobody. She, she… I looked up to her, I suppose." Now she raised her head and glared defiantly at Harry, as if she were daring him to laugh at her. He flinched when he met her eyes, and both dropped their gazes down. "She was just… cool. Like Bill. It was… I don't know," and again she seemed to sink into the bed, weighed down with helplessness.
"What happened Gin?"
Now she met his eyes, challenging him, weighing him up. It made him nervous. "I could get someone for you is you don't want to talk to me."
"Which one of the reprobates I'm related to would you get? Fred or George? Percy? Ron? Ron'd run a mile before he'd have a serious talk with me. And Hermione's busy." She tried to smirk, but it came out pained. The act wasn't working.
Harry took a deep breath. "Well then I s'pose you're stuck with me. Out with it Weaseley, come on." He hoped the bravado would convince her. He couldn't think of anything else.
She broke eye contact and slouched back on the bed. Everything about her screamed "Moody and Defensive." Again a silence that seemed to last an age, and then he heard her sigh. "What I tell you never leaves this room Potter, you got it? Never ever, not even to Ron or I will never speak to you again as long as I live."
"OK."
She shot him another look, as if she once again she were testing him. "I suppose you remember our little jaunt into the Chamber of Secrets? How you had to come and save me from Tommyboy?" Disgust dripped from every word. Harry nodded wordlessly. It was the one subject they had never talked about, even since Ginny's change of heart towards him. It was just too painful and besides, how did you slip having your soul sucked dry by the disembodied memory of the most evil wizard who'd ever lived into a conversation? Maybe she didn't see his discomfort because she ploughed on, almost as if she were talking to herself. "Well poor little Ginny didn't recover from that quite as quickly and neatly as everyone wants to think. In fact-" the confidence slipped from her voice and for a split second Harry thought with panic that she was going to cry- "In fact poor little Ginny didn't recover from it at all. Oh I know it seemed like I did, but well, you know how deceptive appearances can be." She threw him a wan little grin. "I smiled, and played, and studied, and nobody asked me what really happened in that hole you found me in. Nobody was brave enough." She fixed him with a sudden glare. "Are you brave enough, Harry?"
Again he nodded wordlessly. He didn't think he'd ever be able to produce words again.
"Well, I was having what you might call "adjustment problems," when I came home. I was-" the attitude dropped again for a second and Harry was reminded of the little girl who'd tried to help him stand on a broken leg. "I was going somewhere dark Harry. And I'm afraid of the dark, y'know. Was back then. Still am, even now. And then, then I met Cordy…"
Three Years Before
Ginny slipped silently out of bed and reached for her wand. It was half past twelve on Friday night and she definitely had somewhere to be. With ease born of practice she rolled out of bed in one swift, cat-like movement and reached for her bag. The Burrow was silent: Mum and Dad were asleep by now, the twins were probably concocting some new piece of derangement in their bedroom, Ron was dreaming of the Chudley Cannons like a good little wizard. Nobody would see her, like nobody had seen her the last seven times she'd done this. Just like nobody had seen her when she'd been stealing her brother's brooms from the shed three years before. Being small and unnoticed had definite advantages, she thought with a satisfied smile. Pulling off her pyjamas she groped in the dark for a black denim bag, knowing better than to light her wand. Mum was a light sleeper and very sensitive to light: none of her boys had figured out that it was the glow from their wands, however faint, which alerted her to their mischief. But then, brothers usually weren't that smart, now were they? Ginny pulled out a pair of black jeans, a silver and black lacy top and a pair of very high platform shoes. Her battle armour. Within a moment she was dressed and brushing her hair, trying to get the curls caused by always having it plaited out. She didn't want to look like a little girl, after all. Finally satisfied she pulled the bag into her back, wand in one hand, shoes in the other, when she hit something.
Beside her bed there was a small statuette of a purple unicorn that danced in the dark. It had been a present from Percy "to cheer her up after all that nastiness." She'd stared at it, wondering how on earth this was supposed to make her feel better after what she'd experienced, when she'd seen the desperate, pained look of anticipation on her brother's face. How could she disappoint him and let him know that nothing and no one could make her feel better? So she'd taken it and hugged him, and when she'd gone into her room she'd displayed it prominently, right in front of her bedside mirror, so that her mother would see it and know how Unaffected and Happy she was. But lately she found that she couldn't even look at it and she'd covered it. But once again her mum had taken it out and given it pride of place, just like she'd uncovered Ginny's mirror, which was now glinting slickly in the moonlight. Ginny picked up a silk scarf off the floor and covered the looking glass before replacing the unicorn statue within its folds. She couldn't bear either: more than once as she'd stared at her reflection in the mirror while she got ready to go out she'd been overcome with the urge to put her tiny fist through the glass. But it didn't matter. Because now both were covered, and she was safe.
Taking tiny steps she slipped out, down the creaky stairs which were better than a nightingale floor for alerting her parents (except that every one of their children knew exactly which steps made what sounds and how to get around them.) She hurried out to the shed in the back yard, her teeth chattering with the cold. (She hadn't brought a coat, she wouldn't need one where she was going). Within moments she was inside the shed.
The shed always reminded Ginny of her father. It was the only place in The Burrow that seemed to be truly his. When she'd been a little girl he'd taken her down there when her brothers got too much and sat her on his knee and let her play with the Muggle toys which he'd collected. The shed had been a veritable Aladdin's cave of exotic wonders like clockwork mice and tiny model cars that didn't move. None of the other girls had had toys like hers. And as she'd gotten older she'd graduated to helping him work on his car. In fact, it was because of that car that she'd discovered the shed's Big Secret.
The shed was cloaked. It wasn't Unplottable, or anything, but her father had somehow managed to subtly slip it off the Ministry's radar. It made sense really; he couldn't have been working on a magical car with the ministry breathing down his neck. So Arthur had simply cloaked the building. He could've been working on resurrecting Voldemort and nobody would have been able to tell. No piece of magic, however powerful, which was cast in this room would show up on the Ministry's radar. Ginny smiled at the thought of how she was pulling the wool over everyone's eyes as she pulled out her wand.
Do you really not want people to know what's going on Ginny? A voice whispered in her head. Haven't we had trouble with that method before?
Ginny pushed the voice to the back of her mind and concentrated. Apparition without a licence was a criminal offence, and even if it wasn't being self-taught as she was had disadvantages: she wanted a night on the tiles, not to be stuck inside a wall or lost in Outer Mongolia. And tonight was a full moon: the old Apparition manual she'd taught herself from said that Apparating during a full moon was full of dangers. The thought somehow appealed, though she didn't want to examine why too closely. So she steeled herself, pulled out her wand and (with one more check that she was alone) she enunciated clearly "Knockturn Alley."
She was away.
A/N Should I continue? Review and let me know:-)
