Harry Potter is Dead
Chapter 2 | Empty Chairs
Breakfast in the Weasley household was typically a loud and messy affair; nine read-headed residents trudged around the kitchen in their pajamas, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and yelling hoarsely for someone to please pass the jam. Mrs. Weasley, outdoing herself as always, was up before all of them, laying out a multi-course meal for her seven children and loving husband to eat. "It's the most important meal of the day!" She chirped, bustling around the cramped space attending to various pots and pans, often finally settling down to grab some food for herself with a spatula still clamped in her hand.
Once everyone got some food in their bellies, their moods considerably improved; soon the sounds of happy chatter filled the room as the family prepared for their day. Plates rattled as they were dropped, chairs scraped against the floor. Six large Weasley boys inhaled their food with both impossible noise and inhuman speed, and without making much use of the utensils neatly laid out on top of their still-folded napkins. Laughter issued in great bursts every now and again from one section of the table.
On this occasion, however, the Weasleys ate in complete silence.
George was certain that the dark thoughts that had been clouding his brain as he awoke that morning were hanging stormily over the rest of his family as well. There was no doubting that they all knew what was amiss, and yet no one could really bear to bring it up.
It was a year to the day since George's father had found Harry's body, nailed to the door of Gringotts bank, quite dead.
It was also true that the cheery mood that usually hung about the kitchen at breakfast time hadn't truly, fully, been present in about two or three years, but on this day the silence and the gloom was especially unbearable. Of the seven rickety seats reserved for the Weasley children, only four were occupied, one of which by someone who was not technically a member of the family. But even that didn't really count; Hermione Granger had always been so close to them, and had been staying with them for so long now, that she was already something of a second sister to George either way.
Bill and Fleur had been gone for quite a while, and for a happy reason anyway, and so the eldest brother's presence was missed the least. Charlie was currently staying with them at Shell Cottage, as were many Order members in hiding, but he had also been living away from home for such a long time that they did not miss him much either.
But there was a burning, vacant hole next to George. It had only been a few days ago, that day that was perhaps, at least for George, even blacker than this one. A year and six days since his twin had told his last joke, smiled his last smile, squeezed his brother's hand to show that he was indeed there for him - a year and six days since Fred had been struck down. And George had not been there. And he could have saved him, had he been there, but he was not . . .
George stopped himself. How long would it be until he could move on, if George continued to carry on like this? Would he fall to pieces every time he spotted Fred's empty chair, his empty bed, the empty space on George's left side that was once always occupied by his other half? He stopped himself from thinking about it, poured his energy into other things. It hurt to let go, of course it did. But the more tears George shed, the worse the pain seemed to become.
George looked at Ron. It had been a year since his best friend died; surely he was feeling just as horrible, probably worse, than George felt right now. Sure enough, Ron was focusing so intently on his bacon and eggs as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. George thought he aught to have been wolfing down several helpings of food at every meal this week, on account of the fact that Ron always seemed to eat his emotions. But on this morning, Ron's grayish face stared down at his food with an expression akin to having just been told that he had contracted a deadly disease. Hermione sat next to him, her face colored not only with sadness but with worry for Ron, whispered to him in an effort to try and get him to eat. The tiny bite of egg that Ron took seemed to make him queasy and he pushed the plate away.
George remembered Ron's reaction when their father and Hermione had come home from Diagon Alley in tears. Mr. Weasley had been out in the garden with the body, not wanting to bring him into the house, when Hermione stumbled through the door. It was the middle of a meal once more; the Weasley family was crowded around the table for lunch, their conversations dying instantly as soon as they saw Hermione's face. Ron stood up. She immediately collapsed into his arms, letting out a fresh set of wails. She was no doubt dreading the moment when she would have to inform him of the terrible news - he had been closer to Harry than anyone there, possibly more so than anyone ever had been. Ron, just as confused as the rest of them, tried desperately to calm Hermione down, but she could make no sound other than choked wails. And tears. She produced buckets of tears.
"Hermione!" Ron said loudly, utterly bewildered. "Hermione, just bloody tell me!"
She seemed to finally come to her senses. "I'm s-sorry," Hermione lifted her head from where she had buried it in Ron's sweater. "I - I just - " But her words stuck in her throat. She could not say it.
Ron held her at arm's length. "You're covered in blood." He said. "Did they know you were coming? Was there a fight? Hermione, did those bastards hurt you?" She shook her head, but Ron seemed to suddenly realize that his father should have been back with her as well. "Where's dad?" His face darkened.
Hermione's gaze shifted from Ron's face to the door, and George got up. The rest of his family rose behind him; his mother put a hand over her heart. It seemed to be an eternity, that walk between the kitchen table and the back door, which still hung slightly ajar. What would he find in the front garden? His father's lifeless body? An army of Death Eaters? Voldemort himself, proclaiming victory?
And then the limp form of Harry Potter, cradled so delicately in Mr. Weasley's arms, came into view.
"What is it, George?" Ron asked, trying to see past him. Words failed George. He turned around, looking into his brother's eyes, his mouth opening and closing. "George, what the bloody hell is it?" Ron said angrily, and he pushed past George, who hung back limply, shocked.
The Weasleys pushed through the door, eyes falling on the body of the Chosen One, their rallying point, their one chance against Voldemort. The little boy they had taken in at eleven years old, who had been like a son and a brother to each of them. Dead.
His mother let out a wail and dropped to her knees; Percy knelt down to comfort her, screwing up his face as if he had just been hit with a painful jinx.
But Ron was the worst. Hermione clutched at him, both to keep herself from bursting into tears again, and to keep Ron from losing it. He stood stonily over his best friend's body, rage pouring from him like heat.
"How did he get like that?" Ron said quietly.
Hermione looked up at him. "We - we Apparated to the attic like we were supposed to, but Cho didn't - didn't arrive . . . we saw this crowd around Gringotts through the window, all gathered around - " Once more, Hermione could not finish, and she burst into fresh tears.
Ron pulled Hermione even closer, his face contorted with pain and rage. For several moments they just stood there, drawing stength from one another. But Ron's anger was building. "The bastards!" He suddenly yelled. Ron shook very badly. His hands were fists. "I'LL KILL THEM!"
"Ron . . . "
"We'll go now, storm the castle! I'll kill them! I'll kill them all! You-Know-Who won't know what's coming! I'LL KILL THE BASTARD! FOR HARRY!"
Hermione had released him, eyes flicking back and forth from Ron to her hands, which were very red. The air was boiling. "Ron, you mustn't get angry! It - it hurts for all of us! Please," her tone was suddenly soft, pleading. "Look at what you're doing," The tears in Hermione's eyes shone brightly, flickering weirdly in the visible heat that was pouring from Ron.
"You're not angry?" Ron shouted at her. "He's dead and you don't want to - " The grass at Ron's feet caught fire. Hermione shrieked. She fumbled with her wand, fingers shaking, as she pulled it out and extinguished the fire. Now a perfect circle of charred earth ringed Ron. The fire seemed to have made him come to his senses; he no longer shook or emitted heat, and looked rather shocked that he had let himself loose control so completely.
Hermione lowered her wand. They made eye contact; her eyes were sad. Ron seemed to apologize with a look, because a moment later the two were embracing again, rocking slowly with grief. They understood each other so completely, George marveled, that they didn't even need words.
"George," His mother's voice cracked, having not been used since the night before. It startled George, pulled suddenly from his dark thoughts, and he turned quickly towards the noise. Mrs. Weasley gestured weakly to a small wrapped parcel of food inside of a basket at the center of the table. "Will you bring her breakfast today? She must miss you, it's been a few days."
George had not eaten much, but was not at all hungry. He nodded silently and stood up - his chair gave a loud creak, and scraped gratingly against the scuffed floor, the sound unwelcome in the dead silence - and grasped the package. Without any other words George set up the stairs.
He wondered how it had come to this - scheduling visits to her room beforehand like this, as if she was some sort of mental patient - as he climbed slowly. It was only his sister. It was only Ginny.
George knocked softly on her door. "Ginny? Ginny, I've got your breakfast, are you hungry?"
She was sitting in the middle of the floor, her bed bare, the blankets spread out underneath her like a picnic blanket. Not a single wrinkle or fold disturbed the flat of the various cloths; she had probably spent hours carefully positioning the corners of each sheet and pillowcase so that they aligned perfectly.
Ginny herself was cross-legged, wearing a baggy nightshirt that had once belonged to Harry, and before that, his cousin Dudley. It was her favorite thing to wear. Her hair had not been brushed since the bad dreams of the previous night had driven her into her mother and father's bed for the third time that week. She had obviously tried to do it up herself; it hung in a frizzy mess around her face, a tangled chunk pulled on top of her head by a loose hair tie. Ginny's hands were balled together in fists. Her eyes were closed.
"Shhh. George, I'm thinking." Ginny said. It was a moment before she peeked at him out of one eye and offered him a devilish grin. "Play that game with me again."
This was George's invitation to enter. He smiled at her. "All right. You've got three guesses. Would you like me to give you a hint?"
Ginny nodded her head. She shifted from crossed legs to leaning close to him, legs folded together underneath of her in a kneeling position, interested.
"All right . . . Mum's got some fruit in here, and some eggs, and you know what's made of bread and lays eggs . . ."
"Animal toast!" Ginny cried.
"That's right!" George grinned, and she positively glowed. He ruffled her hair. "On the first try! How did you know?"
Ginny said nothing, but beamed up at him, cheeks flushed with pride.
She had been eating the same breakfast every day for a year.
"Can I sit with you?" George asked, and Ginny nodded, closing her eyes and resuming her meditative position. George lowered himself down next to her, but in a flash, Ginny's eyes were wide open, frenzied.
"NO! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO! NOT THERE! NO!" In the amount of time it would have taken George to say one word, Ginny's many frantic screams had already tumbled out of her mouth. She was breathing heavily, eyes wide with fear and madness.
"All right, all right!" George corrected his mistake as soon as he possibly could, and settled himself carefully across from Ginny. "Is this better?" He asked tentatively before sitting this time. The mad, hungry look in her eyes was at its least unsettling. She ignored him at first; a twitching hand immediately repairing the wrinkles her brother had made as he stood up. And then she stared at him as if he had just murdered someone. Then her eyes flicked back down, and her body bent inwards, muttering to herself. A tear leaked from one eye, but she caught it determinedly.
George would not say that his little sister made him worry. Made him afraid. It was Ginny; the sister he had loved since her birth. She was still the same in there somewhere, still the girl he knew. Still the girl he loved. His stubborn, tomboyish, and unstably insane little sister.
"Ginny . . . please eat." George said gently.
She looked up, stared at him for a moment. "It was a mistake. You didn't mean it. But you were mean. Say sorry."
"I'm sorry." Years of lying to teachers about his involvement in school pranks had made George an expert liar, and he was glad for that in this moment; because Ginny considered him for a second, tilting her head to one side, her hair falling this way and that, and then she nodded. While one hand remained balled in a fist, the other snaked into the wrapped parcel and pulled out a rabbit-shaped piece of toast and a jar of jam.
He was forgiven. George smiled and pulled out his wand, the sight of which made Ginny's eyes light up. As she ate George made the little toast-animals float around the room, dancing and wriggling, holding Ginny's rapt attention as she chewed. They laughed and smiled and tried to catch them as the whizzed above their heads.
Half an hour later Ginny was done, and George cleaned up her mess and packed it back into the parcel.
"That was yummy." Ginny said.
"Yes, it was," George replied. He stood up. "Do you want me to read you a book?"
She shook her head. "No. Go."
"You could come downstairs."
Ginny stared up at him, eyes full of sudden fear. "No," She said. "No, I couldn't do that!" Her tone suggested that this was some impossible feat; only someone crazy would dare try it. "Go."
She was adamant.
George hated seeing her like this. George hated what she had become. Trapped in her own little world. It was torture. He smiled again at her, the gesture failing to cover up he feelings and appearing sad and lonely on his face. "You just tell me if you need anything, okay?" He said as he left.
But she merely nodded, legs crossed again, eyes closed. Back in her trance.
"I love you," George said as he closed the door.
Ginny waited until his slow, somber footsteps were no longer audible before speaking.
"I'm sorry, Harry, he didn't mean to sit on you, he didn't see you there . . . I hate George! He should have seen you! Rude!" Ginny huffed, eyes fixed on a patch of air next to her that was quite empty. "He's always playing jokes, doesn't care if I don't like them . . . you're not hurt, are you? Please, don't be hurt, then I'll have to yell at George, George is nice, he brings me animal toast . . ."
"It's fine, Ginny." Harry said. His translucent, insubstantial body did nothing to ruin the blanket's perfect flatness as he moved to comfort Ginny. "It's going to be all right." He could not touch her in the truer sense of the word, but Harry had found that if he held up his arms more so than rested them on her shoulders, they did not pass through her. The slight warmth that she received was sometimes the only thing that could calm her when she was deranged.
Sure enough, her breathing slowed, and some of the confusion and pain that had clouded Ginny's eyes for a year faded away.
And then Ginny leaned into Harry's quite-dead body, and she slid right through him and hit the ground with a hard bump. Her fingers clutched the Resurrection Stone so tightly that it cut into her palm, and she burst into tears.
