Hi! Hoping you all had a lovely Christmas. I wrote this entire chapter today and I have to admit I'm pretty proud of it. Things are finally taking off with this story and I'm excited. Thank you all for the continued support!
The next two days were perhaps the longest of Ginny's life. Despite her mother's protests that first night, she did, in fact, return to her own house—only to spend a sleepless night staring at the ceiling, fighting tears while she tried and failed not to dwell on the facts. Any relief or hope she might have felt from her family's support and Ron's efforts to get Harry back vanished once she was alone in the dark confines of the room she'd shared with him for the past two years. The fear and helplessness and worry became suffocating once more.
The second night was no better. Maybe an hour or two before dawn, she gave up waiting for sleep—and likely nightmares—to claim her and padded out to the living room. She sat on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, and stared at the fire, tears falling, in silence. She was still there in the morning, exhaustion having gotten the best of her at some point, eyes swollen and neck stiff from the measly hour of fitful sleep in an awkward position.
Her only salvation came in the form of Quidditch practice every morning, which was brutal and unforgiving, especially with her sleep-deprived and emotionally strung-out body. But it provided enough of a distraction to keep her sane. The situation with Harry was not public knowledge for many obvious reasons, not the least of which was the public outcry that would have resulted from it, so her team members, while they suspected something was amiss with her performance somewhat below her usual standard of excellence, did not know the reasons behind her dampened reflexes and the completely open shot she had no excuse for missing. Gwenog, however, cornered her after practice ended on Wednesday.
Ginny stood before her coach, meeting her unyielding and disapproving gaze and wondering if she should have felt more fear in that moment than she did. Gwenog Jones was intimidating on a good day, downright terrifying on others; and the glare she cast over Ginny now was not a warm one. But compared to the giant of fear and worry that had loomed day and night since that conversation in Kingley's office, her coach's annoyance was nothing at all. Gwenog, her arms crossed, continued staring her down. "I'm only going to say this once, Potter," she said firmly, "I don't know what's going on with you—I don't want to know. It's your business and frankly I don't care. But you look like all hell and you're flying worse. We play Kenmare next week and I need everyone on their game before we do that. So you'd better take whatever it is that's distracting you and either get over it or find some way to work around it while you're on that field. Remind me why I made you my starting Chaser your second season and prove that you deserve to play in that match next week. Is that understood?"
Ginny simply nodded. "Yes."
Gwenog studied her for another moment before she uncrossed her arms. "Alright." She pointed her chin toward the locker rooms. "Go shower, Potter. I'll see you tomorrow."
Ginny moved to obey and while she showered and dressed, she promised herself she would do better. Clearly, dwelling on the situation was doing little to bring Harry home and even less for her career. Harry wouldn't want her to let her playing suffer, but even more than that, she was Ginevra Potter. She had not earned herself that last name by sitting around and wallowing every time something bad happened. She'd survived a war and had since earned a name for herself for her Quidditch abilities. She'd loved Harry since she was eleven years old, but he did not define her. And her heart was broken, yes, and a larger part of her than she wanted to admit genuinely feared what would happen if he never came home again, but she had a life and responsibilities that she could not and did not want to shirk in favor of merely being miserable. So Ginny promised herself that, at least during the day, at least in public, she would be strong. She did not want sympathy or pity, and she did not want attention she did not deserve, and if she looked back at her performance the past few days, she was a bit disgusted with herself. Because it was not that she had not been trying—quite the opposite really, considering how much more difficult everything physical was in her current state, but she could have tried harder, been better. She could have pushed through the fatigue and pain—Merlin knew she'd done it enough during her Harpies training, and not to mention the utter hell she'd endured during her Sixth Year at Hogwarts. Instead, she'd barely kept up, and that was not okay; not to her.
Harry would make it home; he had to and he would. He always did. And Ginny, while she waited, would not worry herself into a fit and she would not allow herself to grow weak and peaky because of it; she would be of no use to anyone like that. Harry was undoubtedly fighting, wherever he was, and so would she. For him, and for herself. Gwenog was right.
Of course, all of this was much easier said than done, but Ginny would try. It would get her boss—and also her mother—off her case at least.
Sleep still eluded her for a large part of that night, but she did manage to get a solid two hours in bed before a nightmare woke her. She stared up at the ceiling, willing her breathing to slow and the images of Hagrid carrying what she'd believed to be seventeen year-old Harry's dead body from the Forbidden Forest as Voldemort declared his imminent victory out of her mind. Once she'd done that, she'd glanced out the window, bearing the earliest marks of coming sunrise, and decided to get up.
It was as much an effort as ever to drag herself out of the house that morning, but she was at practice ten minutes early and had already flown several warm-up laps around the pitch by the time the rest of her teammates arrived. Gwenog gave her the smallest approving nod as she landed for the start of practice.
She was still exhausted and scared to death, but she was trying. For Harry, she was trying.
Hermione showed up at the door that evening with takeaway in one hand and a bottle of Muggle wine in the other. "What are you doing here?" Ginny asked upon opening the door for her.
"I can't stare at the four walls of my office anymore just now," Hermione explained, "and I didn't want to eat dinner alone." She held up the wine. "Also, I thought you could maybe use this."
Ginny smirked, stepping aside for her to enter. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."
They forwent any semblance of decency and ate from the takeaway containers on the sofa in the living room, feet propped up beside their wine glasses on the coffee table.
Hermione kept the conversation light, safe. Ginny was grateful. Her brother's fiancée certainly had her infuriating moments, but she'd become one of Ginny's best friends over the years she'd known her. Out of everyone, she knew Hermione likely understood better than most what she was going through—enough to leave it be.
In the end, it was Ginny who broached the subject of Harry at all. Hermione had been in the process of discussing the woes of wedding planning when she did. She and Ron had gotten engaged, to everyone's joy—and immense relief— over the past year's Christmas holidays, and since then, while there hadn't yet been very much progress in the wedding's planning, the two had managed to settle on a date just a few weeks earlier for the following Spring. In the time since, Hermione, being herself, had created numerous to-do lists and was well on her way to completing everything months ahead of time. At the moment, it was the guest list she was concerned about. "I have plenty of cousins on my mum's side of the family," she was saying, "but I haven't seen or spoken to a single one of them in years. I don't see why I should have to invite any of them, regardless of what anyone says. Not to mention, the more of my family that attends, the greater the risk of someone blowing it and using magic in front of Muggles. And frankly, that's a lot of paperwork I could do without."
Ginny took a sip of wine. "I never thought I'd live to see the day Hermione Granger wished to avoid more work."
Hermione only made a face at her. "Just because I don't abhor it like some people I could mention doesn't mean I've got nothing better to do than fill out incident reports for MLE and the Obliviators all day."
"I know. I was only kidding."
Hermione sighed. "I just can't believe how much goes into all this." She met Ginny's gaze. "You got married if far less time than we're taking, and yet I hardly remember you looking worried at all. How?"
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Between you and my mum, Hermione, I hardly planned any of my wedding at all. I had nothing to worry over." Hermione blinked and considered this. "Why don't you ask my mum to help you? Honestly, she lives for that sort of stuff."
"I know," Hermione said, "I probably should. But my mum wants to be involved too, and since I'm her only child I feel like I ought to let her. She's still working, though, so it's hard to find time. And Ron, though I love him to death, is absolutely useless with this stuff. He'd make everything orange and Quidditch-themed if I let him." She shook her head. Ginny actually managed a laugh—and wondered belatedly if she'd done so at all since finding out about…
"Have you heard anything from him?" she dared ask now. It had been a few days now since he'd left for Belarus himself.
Hermione met her eyes and then sighed. "Not much," she admitted, "I bumped into Kingsley briefly this morning and he said they're still searching but haven't found very much of use yet. But no news is probably good news." Good news in that there was no body to discover. Yet.
Ginny tried not to let her heart sink at that. She hadn't actually been expecting anything different.
Hermione eyed her carefully, considering her. "How are you holding up?" she asked at last, voice gentle.
Ginny sighed. "About as well as can be, I guess." She huffed what was maybe supposed to be a laugh. She honestly wasn't sure. "I got in trouble with Gwenog yesterday. She basically told me to get my head in the game or don't play Kenmare next week."
Hermione looked pained. "That's awful," she said, "How could you possibly be expected to focus on anything under the circumstances?"
Ginny shrugged. "She doesn't know the circumstances. And she doesn't care. It's her job to be hard on me and it's mine to put everything else aside and perform well on the pitch. I wasn't doing that, so I probably deserved it."
Hermione's look of disapproval could probably have gone up against Ginny's mother's and come in a close second. It softened into gentler concern as she studied her face. "Have you been sleeping?" she asked quietly.
Ginny only shrugged again in answer. Hermione's frown deepened. Ginny sighed. "I'm fine, Hermione. I'm doing my best." She shook her head, absently stroking the band on her left ring finger—a habit she found she'd developed over the past few days. "You were all away for a year before the war, and I didn't know if he was okay for months…" She shrugged once more. This wasn't like that, but it seemed like a valid point nonetheless.
"It was different then," was all Hermione said, seconding Ginny's thoughts. "He wasn't alone." Ginny nodded and then drained the remaining wine from her glass. She refilled it as Hermione got to her feet. "Want me to put a film on?" she asked, thankfully changing the subject and moving toward the Muggle television Harry had brought home shortly after they'd been married.
Ginny shrugged a shoulder. "No romance," she said, leaning back against the sofa cushions.
Hermione stayed late and between her lack of sleep over the past few days and the wine she'd had with dinner, Ginny's eyes were drooping as the older witch stepped into the Floo shortly after midnight and vanished in a plume of green. She stood there for an extra minute, studying the spot where she had vanished before she turned and grabbed the leftovers from the coffee table. She stored them in the refrigerator before trudging upstairs. She ran herself a hot shower and stood under the spray, letting it run over her face and down her back. When she got out at last, she merely wrapped a towel around herself and padded out to the bedroom. She donned an old T-shirt of Harry's and a pair of knickers, and crawled into bed, pulling Harry's pillow toward her. After so many nights of sleeping with it, hardly any of his familiar, comforting scent remained, but she buried her face in it anyway. And though she knew it was a side-effect of sheer exhaustion and alcohol, Ginny welcomed the sleep that finally claimed her.
She awoke at dawn with tear tracts down her face and no memory of the dreams that had caused them. But she had slept, and lousy as she still felt, it was a vast improvement to what it had been.
One day at a time, it was all she could do; take it one day at a time and pray she would never have to learn to cope without Harry forever.
Belarus was a miserable place. At least, right now, under these specific circumstances, Ron thought so. Normally, it was probably quite a nice spot indeed, with its towns and history. Ron thought Hermione might have liked to visit a country like this in the summer. He might even have enjoyed it himself. Currently, however, calling the conditions unpleasant might have been almost a compliment.
The Aurors' safe house was located in the village of Hubina, on the outskirts of what could only be described as a farm that had long since been abandoned and left to rot, during one of the coldest springs the country had seen in decades. In short, it was sad and miserable, and Ron wanted to find Harry and get home as fast as humanly possible.
This last part was proving much more difficult in practice, as he'd been here a grand total of two and a half days now and in that time, the team had accomplished essentially nothing. Not that they hadn't been working tirelessly—they had, they were just careful to do everything by the books and according to protocol, and frankly, Ron had little patience for protocol while his best friend's life hung in the balance. He and Harry had always followed it in the loosest terms possible. Ron had never realized how thankful he was for that until now.
They'd infiltrated all known Death Eater hideouts throughout the country and had turned up little in regard to finding Harry. They'd gotten lucky with a few and managed a handful of arrests, but even the skilled interrogators of the Auror Department made little progress. The Death Eater lackeys they'd found simply knew nothing about a captured Auror—they didn't dare leak Harry's identity. They were lowlifes, but not any affiliated with Reuben Knox.
The teams allowed Ron to tag along—some more begrudgingly than others. Few listened to what he had to say, even while he'd outranked most of them while he worked among them—this might have rubbed him wrong normally; right now, he had bigger fish to fry. Those under Harry's command, however, seemed glad of his help, so he tended to stick with them when he could.
Still no sign of Harry, after nearly three days and all available hands on deck. Not so much as a whisper from Knox's affiliates. No sign of any other Death Eater strongholds in the area—something nagged in the back of Ron's mind at the thought. No real success from any of the scouting teams constantly coming and going from the safe house. No sign of much of anything, really.
And Ron was growing restless.
Thanks for reading and happy new year!