TEARS
Ginny numbly put down the letter on the table. She slowly went to the window, pulled the flowered curtain and gazed at the twinkling stars, pale and silent, far away in the inky sky.
She turned the latch, breathed in the night smell, the fragrance of the grass in the dark. A night bird called plaintively in the distance.
Everything was so peaceful.
She looked back at the cozy room. The candles' glints on the copper pans, the checkered tablecloth, the fresh peonies in a vase, the soft blanket on the couch, the books stacked on the round table.
She walked to the kitchen door, put on her old garden slippers. A red umbrella was leaning in a corner of the room, against the whitewash wall, next to the mat.
She opened the door, stepped onto the terrace, tightening her jumper around her shoulders.
Everything was so peaceful.
She tilted her head back, held a hand to her brow to search her favorite constellations. Red wisps of hair fluttered on her forehead in the night breeze.
Harry and the children used to put a blanket in the field over summer nights, and to watch the stars while gobbling crisps. The garden gnomes pranced around them, catching fireflies. James told jokes that made no sense. Lily giggled, a crystal clear sound in the vastness of the plain. Harry's deep voice mingled with their exclamations: he spoke of Firenze and of Muggle legends that made them dream. And Albus...
A small strangled noise.
Ginny did not realize immediately that it was coming from her throat.
She stood up, thrust her hands in her jumper's pockets, stepped in the weeds. The Burrow, on her left, stood in the night like a benevolent mushroom silhouette in the night.
Her eyes were hurting.
The house was lit behind her, cutting off her shadow on the field, but it was so dark in front of her.
She felt… empty.
First, there was the salty taste then a tear, burning and painful, slid to her mouth. She touched her wet cheek, feeling strangely detached.
Then the contents of the letter danced in front of her in the night, strangled her neck, suffocated her.
She gasped, bringing a hand to her heaving chest.
- "It can't be…"
It could not be her voice and the womb writhing in pain was not hers.
- "It's not true," she blurted. "They're wrong. It's not happening. DO YOU HEAR ME? IT CAN'T BE!"
The words were burning her dry throat and her legs wobbled suddenly.
She staggered.
- "It can't be", she stammered. "Not him... not Al... not my baby..."
She fell to her knees and cradled her stomach, unable to get up again. Her red hair tangled over her face sticky with tears dripping in her mouth, down her chin to the crook of her neck. Her nose was running and she felt like she would never again catch her breath. The grass stems were cutting her skin as she tore them, but she felt nothing.
- "Albus... my little boy, my very little boy... Al... oh, why... why... ALBUS!"
It was like her heart was going to be ripped off by her convulsive sobs.
She wanted to hold him, but he was not there so she wept wildly - desperately - because this was unbearable and unfair, and because she needed to touch his body, to kiss her son's black curls, to breath in the soft smell of his skin, to rock him in her arms, to reassure him, to protect him against the world, against any pain, any question, any difficulties.
- "Mummy's here, kitty cat... Mummy's here..."
But she was only in the field in front of her empty house, and her child was far away, lying on a mattress stained with blood, hovering between life and death.
The pale stars were twinkling high in the silent dark sky.
Everything was so peaceful.
oOoOoOoOo
Molly Weasley stopped crying and blew her nose loudly, then she crossed her crochet shawl over her opulent chest and plumped up her chin defiantly.
- "I'll go check on Ginny", she stated in a voice that trembled in spite of herself.
Her clear eyes had strengthened under her pepper and salt hair.
Arthur wondered for a moment if she drew her strength from the thunderbolts she must be intended on dropping on Harry upon his return, or if it was just her maternal instinct getting the better of the horrible news.
He just nodded weakly, his hands still clutching the letter.
He had not shed a tear.
Molly glanced at him one last time before leaving the house.
He looked so old, suddenly, with his woolen hat pulled over his protruding ears, his slumped shoulders, his wrinkles laced with fatigue and the age brown spots muddling with his freckles…
She sucked in a deep breath.
- "I'll be back soon, Arthur."
He lifted his head and smiled sadly.
- "I will be there."
The door closed and the smile died on his lips.
Yes, he would be there. He was always here, even after his war comrades had fallen, even after the death of his son, even after...
He buried his face in his hands, letting the letter slip to the floor.
- "Oh, Al..."
Memories were jostling under his skull.
His precious Ginny was putting in his arms a warm, soft bundle. She looked exhausted but was beaming with pride and joy. He was a grandfather again and, as always, he was overwhelmed with gratitude.
So fragile. So innocent.
Tiny bud mouth, little fist curling on his rough finger, a mop of dark curls, big eyes gazing at him thoughtfully.
Albus Severus Potter.
The baby was quiet compared to his cousins or his brother who vigorously claimed attention and love from the adults. Sometimes, Arthur tried to imagine the child Harry had been and something stringy pinched the back of his throat at the thought of another toddler, so like the one trotting toward him with reaching arms, whom had been rejected and mistreated when he only wanted to love.
Al grew up. He used to spent time perched in the Weasley's shed, his legs dangling off the workbench, just happy to be with his grandfather. He did not talk much, but he giggled often and always ended up coming to help to unscrew a nut, tinker with hybrid engines, pin to the ground a running off celluloid duck.
Arthur was taking the child with him for his strolls and they walked along the river, holding hands in the plain flooded in late afternoon sun. Albus asked questions about life, the world, Hogwarts and Muggles' cartoons. His grandfather was pointing at a heron or a deer, from time to time, and they crouched in the tall grass to observe the animals, holding their breath.
When Al started school, Arthur was surprised to find the time long despite Lily's daily visits. He waited for his grand-son's letters, read them aloud to Molly while she cooked and kept them in the pockets of his khaki gabardine to look at them again later, on his own, leaning against the worn workbench, in the smell of gasoline, wood and magic glue.
Upon Holidays, Al came back and he spent the whole summer in overalls, shouting and playing and splashing water with his cousins, his unruly dark curls falling on his green eyes sparkling with life, or lying flat down on the pleasantly cold wooden floor of the attic, reading beside a dusty pile of books, an owl perched on his head.
He had a spurt of growth the next year – gained height and wider shoulders - but failed to catch up with James who would surely be as tall as the twins. In this gaggle of coppery brown haired and redheads, he was the only grandchild with black hair: Molly called him "our little prince" and Lily wished she'd have his emerald eyes.
He had made friends at school and they were muggle-born! Arthur was almost as excited as him at the idea of inviting them to the Burrow. His budding friendship with Scorpius Malfoy was something of a sore subject for the grown-ups, but Albus had not noticed. He told his grandfather everything - and Arthur listened, fascinated. The innocence and tenderness of the child slowly becoming a teenager might have changed the course of things, if Albus had been born many years before, when Lucius had not yet been an enemy...
The old man shivered.
It was cold in the dark room. When Molly had shut the door the night wind had blown out the candle. The tap was dripping in the silence.
The letter was at his feet, a bit rumpled.
Arthur picked it up, pushing his woolen hat a little higher on his broad forehead. He smoothed the corner of the paper with his calloused thumb.
He read it again, then closed his eyes.
Slowly, a tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek.
oOoOoOoOo
The wind was howling gloomily, whirling in the aviary beams. The rancid smell of dried droppings mingled with that of the dead mice and pips. A feather glued to the floor was fluttering. Occasionally, an owl hooted or scratched its perch, a dry sound in the silence of dawn.
Lily gave the letter to a school Grand Duke, who flew off after blinking his piercing yellow eyes. She watched it disappear like a small dot in the sky, then shoved her hands under her armpits, jumping up to get warm. Morning was dawning beyond the Forbidden Forest, stretching its rays like creamy silk over the lake shrouded in mist.
It was beautiful - quiet and bright - and she suddenly understood why Albus spent so much time sitting on the window at the top of the old tower.
- "It's beautiful…"
She spun around, surprised.
- "James? What are you doing here?"
He looked tired. Dark bags under his eyes betrayed his sleepless night. He shrugged without looking at her, showed the envelope he had in his hand.
- "I've got a letter to send."
Lily's eyebrows bounced.
- "You never send mail", she said flatly. "I thought you didn't even know you could use parchment for something else than a purchase order."
- "Well, I did."
Something cracked on the last syllable, as if the sixteen years old boy had trouble controlling his voice. He walked quickly to his big gray owl and gave it the mail.
- "Who are you writing to?" asked Lily behind him.
Her brother's shoulders tensed.
- "To Uncle George."
James chewed the inside of his cheek, smoothed something invisible on the wooden rod where the owls were dozing.
- "Who were you writing to?"
Since Lily did not answer, he turned and looked up. His little sister was still standing in the middle of the aviary and was fighting tears.
- "To Uncle George", she whispered.
James hesitated. He was not sure he would be able to hold on to the little courage he still had left if he went to comfort her, so he just shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
- "It'll be okay, Lily", he muttered.
Her sister's eyes blazed up. She threw back her red hair and she stepped toward him, fists clenched.
- "No, James. NO. It won't be okay. Nothing will ever be the same. Al..."
Her voice broke.
She turned her back on him and flumped on the first step of the spiral staircase, biting her lips, her arms holding her belly.
She had not slept either since the arrival of the letter, the day before, during dinner. She had told no one about what it said, had locked herself in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom - the ghost had run away when she had thrown a toilet seat at her while sobbing like if she was going to choke. A few hours before dawn, she had finally made up her mind. She would not write to her mother, or to her grandparents. She knew who was the only person who could understand her pain.
James sat on the stairs next to her. He did not try to put his arm over her shoulders and said nothing. She finally turned her head toward him.
He ran a hand through his untidy brown hair, his eyes staring at the wooden floor.
There was something so painful, so tense on his face, that Lily felt her heart sink. She gently touched her brother's arm.
- "James..."
- "I always tell him rubbish", he croaked suddenly. "I'm always telling him to bog off, I-I don't make time for him... I never told him he was important..."
He buried his face in his hands. He was shuddering.
Lily snuggled against her big brother. She put her arm around his waist and kissed his brow, like their mother did when he was little.
- "Shh..." she soothed. "Don't worry... Al knows you love him, James."
- "I just want... to tell him now..." stammered the young man.
Lily nodded and clung a little more on him. Her tears overflowed without restraint, now.
- "I know. Me too…"
The wind had stopped. The lake was shimmering down below and the morning sun was bathing the tower in golden mist, gently warming the tiles and the old dirty floor.
In the courtyard, happy voices were calling as students were heading to the Great Hall for breakfast.
Everything was so peaceful.
But nothing would ever be the same.
TBC
Next chapter: MISSION REPORT n°543210