The Days After

The characters, settings, world of Harry Potter do not belong to me. I gain nothing by writing these stories other than the pleasure of further exploring their lives and times.

Chapter Three

Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry. . .

Was he awake?

. . .but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?

It was a struggle to open his eyes; everything was white, and for a moment he thought he was back in King's Cross Station, with Dumbledore.

But the noises around him were definitely not King's Cross, imagined or real. He grimaced, unwilling to open his eyes to the brightness, and swallowed dryly.

"He's waking up! Mum, I think he's waking up!"

Harry felt a gentle hand on his brow, its coolness welcome.

"Harry. Harry, dear, can you hear me?"

With effort, he managed to open one eye and saw a blurry Molly Weasley bending near, Ginny standing close behind.

"H'lo," he croaked.

"Ginny, get that glass of water – just there – thank you, dear."

Harry felt the glass pressed against his lips. He took a sip, then a gulp, reaching jerkily for the glass. Some of it spilled onto the pillow case, but Ginny cleaned it up with her wand.

"Not too much just yet, dear, healer's orders, you know."

Harry managed to open the other eye, blinking against the too-bright light. Ginny handed him his glasses and the brilliance receded with his ability to see more clearly. He sat up, somewhat clumsily, and with the aid of the two women. Propped up on pillows, he looked around and saw that he was in a glass-walled ward of St. Mungo's. Then he noticed that every bed was filled, more beds and cots were in the halls, and a second tier of beds floated near the ceiling, attended by equally levitated healers and healers' aides.

"What day is this?"

"It's the ninth, Harry," Ginny answered, her hand covering his on the counterpane.

One week. One week ago and the Battle of Hogwarts – sometimes called The Great Battle – was raging. One week ago Snape was still Headmaster; one week ago Fred was still alive. . .

"One week," he murmured.

"Sorry, dear? What were you saying?" Molly asked, nervously fussing with the covers on Harry's bed. Harry reached out with his free hand and closed on Molly's wrist, pulling her gently until she sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes focused somewhere over his head.

"Is George here?" he asked, knowing that he wasn't.

"No, erm, no, Harry – he's – he's gone to Romania to stay with Charlie for awhile." Molly cleared her throat and tried to pull her hand away, but Harry held on tighter, stroking her fingers with his thumb.

"Mrs. Weasley, he'll be back. I'm sure he'll be. . ."

"Will he?" Molly snapped, jerking her hand away and folding it tightly in her lap with the other one. "Sure about that, are you?"

Harry darted a look at Ginny, who shook her head slowly. There was a silent agreement between them and Ginny left, making excuse to find Ron, Hermione and her dad.

He turned on his side, feeling sluggish but thankfully no pain, and reached for Molly's hand again. She jumped when he made contact, unaware that they were alone in the room.

"Harry, you shouldn't move about too much; your spleen's just been recently mended and your liver's bruised. You still need potions for internal bleeding. Healer Maricus says you're to be here another day or two and must not overdo. . ."

"Mrs. Weasley, George will be back. He's had a great loss and he's got to muddle his way through. But he will. He and Fr - he and Fred are the most ingenious problem-solvers I've ever known. It will be hard for him to go it alone without his brother, almost his second half, really. But he'll manage it."

Harry had released his hold on her wrist, but Molly was holding Harry's hand now, touching the damaged knuckles and broken fingernails, her eyes lowered. He could see she was trying very hard not to cry.

"You don't believe what that ol' boggart showed you in the Black mansion, do you?" Harry asked, ducking his head to look into the eyes of the woman who put those like Aunt Petunia to shame.

"How did you. . .?"

"Just a hunch. I remember how the visions affected you, because they were so real to you. But Mrs. Weasley, Fred's death had nothing to do with those visions! He died because he wanted to defend Hogwarts and his family; he wanted to defeat Voldemort, to play his part. He wouldn't have been happy doing anything else. And George was with him when he died. I think – I think Fred wouldn't have had it any other way."

Harry sighed, tired out by so much conversation. Molly was immediately on mother-hen alert, soothing him and making him lie back on his pillows.

They both turned their heads as they heard a healer's aide at the other end of the hall admonishing Arthur Weasley that only two visitors could be allowed per bed. Molly turned back to Harry and shrugged, drawing a deep breath. She gave a final squeeze to Harry's hand and released it, rose and walked toward the door. She stood there a moment, then squared her shoulders and smiled at her adopted boy, a hint of the old twinkle just there, if one knew where to look for it.

Harry knew.

"Life goes on," she whispered, turned away, and started down the hall towards her husband.

Harry settled back onto his pillows, looking up at the levitated bed above him.

"Yeah," he said quietly, rising up on his elbows again to greet his new visitors.

He gazed fondly on his two best mates as they sat on each side of his bed, both talking at once.

"Hi, Ron. 'Lo, Hermione."

Indeed, Life does go on.

Fin