Chapter 3:

Sand is Slipping

A Mistress Through the Soul Bond was clutched in Harry's left hand as he crept down the stairs to the kitchen. It was the middle of the night, and Harry knew that everyone was asleep. Or, at the very least, in their rooms with a light buzzing in their ears.

He stepped into the kitchen and was not whatsoever surprised to find Ginny sitting there, flicking a muggle pencil up the table, and letting its natural incline bring it back to her.

"Tea?" she asked out loud, not having shown any signs of noticing his arrival.

"Sure, thanks," Harry smiled and took the offered drink. "I had a chance to look through this when Ron fell asleep and…"

Ginny snorted into her cup. "They're hilarious, aren't they?"

Harry hid his smile behind his cup. "I'm glad your mum thinks they're silly because I don't know what I'd do if she found these legitimately enjoyable,"

Ginny shook her head, showing Harry some mock sympathy. "Oh… you poor thing. Did you take that at face value? No, no, no. She adores those books. You knocked over a stack of them and you think she reads them for a good laugh?"

Harry recoiled as though he'd been struck. "Ginny these books are… explicit!"

Ginny pressed her lips together to stop herself from laughing at him. Harry got the gist of what she wasn't saying though, even without hearing her thoughts.

"Right, well," Harry cleared his throat. "I know it's fiction and I know it's just some randy author writing about someone much more pleasant than her husband, but," Ginny laughed, "I think there's some… erm… similarities."

"Like," Ginny inquired, twiddling with her thumbs.

"Well, for starters, they have a mental connection," said Harry. As the words left his tongue, a rush of Ginny's thoughts poured through into his mind momentarily. Like a floodgate opening only to be shut immediately after. "Did you just…?"

Ginny cringed. "I heard yours too,"

Harry clicked his tongue and pulled out a small journal that he'd carried with him throughout the Horcrux hunt. He pushed a muggle pen and wrote, "Inconsistent mental connection, seems to appear when acknowledged,"

"I hear what you write," Ginny said suddenly. "You're focusing on what you're saying through writing so your thoughts are just… really loud,"

Harry wrote that down too.

"Another thing is that the mental connection was really weak at the start," Harry read off the mental notes he'd taken earlier. "It got stronger the more they… the more time they spent together,"

Ginny nodded along to what he was saying. "Did it ever try and explain why they were bound?"

"Soulmates," Harry shrugged. "A bit ridiculous if you ask me. Then again, the book didn't focus much on the plot,"

"Did you read the whole thing in the last four hours? You said you took a look at it," Ginny asked with an inquisitory stare.

Harry shrugged again. "I'm a fast reader,"

"You skimmed?"

"I skimmed." Harry conceded.

Ginny snickered and ran her short nails against the cup. There was a long and tense silence. It wasn't awkward, by any means. Harry was never all that uncomfortable in Ginny's presence. Eventually, she opened and closed her mouth a few times, clearly thinking about what to say, before finally, "Do we want to strengthen it?"

"What?"

Ginny sighed and dropped her face into her hands. "Do we want to strengthen the bond? Spend more time with each other… let it grow and… flourish, or whatever,"

Harry drummed his fingers on the old wooden table. "Depends,"

"On what?"

"How do you want to go about it?" Harry asked. He was working on focusing on random, loud, and emotionally charged thoughts more than the ones he was really thinking about.

"Well… the bloody…" she fiddled with her thumb. "The book says we need to spend more time together to strengthen it… I want to know if you want to. Do you… are you alright with having me inside your head? Are you alright knowing that we probably have an unbreakable bond and… we'll share this for the rest of our lives?"

Harry swallowed hard. Now that she'd really pointed it out, the reality of the situation pressed in on him. This was life. Real life. For the first time in forever, it was in his hands, and already there was something trying to take that control away from him.

He fancied Ginny. Maybe even more than fancied, though he wouldn't go on thinking about that for too long. But was fancying someone enough to lose any and all personal control? Freedom? It was a much heavier decision than he'd thought it had been.

"You've thought about this a lot more than I have," Harry admitted, fighting the urge to continue tapping the table, something he knew irritated her.

Ginny laughed ruefully. "Women do tend to be more logical,"

Harry groaned and shook his head, dispelling whatever stray thoughts were affecting his judgment. "I need to wait and see," he said after a short pause. "I need to know for sure,"

Ginny sagged, seemingly in relief. "Good. I think… a lot has happened and… we need to…"

"Be sure," Harry finished for her, "Yeah,"

Now it was awkward. They both sort of avoided eye contact with each other. Ginny chose to look at the fireplace while Harry inspected the sink. It was complete and total silence for a long, long time.

"Fred's funeral is on Thursday," Ginny said quietly.

Harry closed his eyes and nodded. That was five days from now. He focused his attention on Ginny again.

Except Ginny wasn't sitting there. In fact, she wasn't in the room at all. In her place was a shadow. Made up of a great rolling black fog, with two glowing red orbs for eyes.

The distant creaking of a tree in the wind met Harry's ears as once again, all sound of the natural world around him was drowned out.

"Tell me, Harry Potter," the shadow spoke. Its voice was like nails on a chalkboard. Icy and cold. "Why do you believe your choice made any difference?"

The shadow rose from its chair and stalked towards Harry. Only, it wasn't really getting any closer. Harry's perspective was changing. Everything in front of him was being stretched like an elastic band far away from him.

A skeletal hand revealed itself from the shadow's side. It seemed the fog was more of a cloak than anything. In its hand was an hourglass. "Your time ran out, Harry Potter," an odd, guttural clicking sound rang out from the shadow. It was in perfect sync with the clock on the wall. "No one stays once their time has run out. Not even he who fled; Tom Riddle,"

The name was like a spear being driven through Harry's chest, and suddenly he was back in the Burrow's kitchen, wide awake. His breathing was normal and he wasn't sweating. It was the direct opposite of the visions he'd had into Voldemort's mind.

"That's probably because you weren't supposed to be in Voldemort's head," he thought to himself. Perhaps he was meant to be wherever the shadow was.

He looked around. Across from him, Ginny was asleep as well. The sun was up, and, quite to his surprise, Charlie was in the kitchen, making breakfast.

His eyes were red-rimmed, and his hair was disheveled. He clearly hadn't showered since the battle, which, come to think of it, neither had Harry.

A plate glided to Harry's spot at the table and Charlie winked. "Morning," he said with a smirk. "Did you have a nice chat last night?"

Harry straightened up and brought the plate closer. "Not particularly, no,"

"Ah, rubbish that," Charlie waved his wand and directed another plate of eggs and toast to Ginny. He levitated a spoon to tap her head until eventually, she woke up.

Ginny blinked owlishly up at the floating spoon before it fell with a clatter onto her plate.

She looked around for the perpetrator until her eyes landed on her brother.

"Charlie," she greeted with a noncommittal smile, pulling her plate of eggs and toast towards her.

"You are very welcome for breakfast," Charlie muttered into his coffee.

"Yeah, thank you," Harry hastened to reply.

There was a deafening silence as Ginny ate her eggs and Harry prodded his with a fork.

"How are you holding up?" Ginny asked, laying her spoon aside and looking up at Charlie.

He sat down next to her, cutting Harry off somewhat, so he stood from the table and brought his plate to the sink, vanishing the eggs.

He wasn't hungry.

Then, as he was tip-toeing his way to the stairs, he felt an odd tingling at the back of his brain. Like someone was holding a feather and brushing it.

Right as he lifted his hand to scratch the growing itch, he was no longer seeing what his eyes could see. Instead, he was watching and hearing Charlie from Ginny's perspective.

Her thoughts were still veiled, but he might as well have been her for all he could tell.

"I'm doing," Charlie began, tears already forming in his eyes. "I'm doing really not spectacularly," his voice broke, and Ginny reached forward to hold his hand. "But I'm here and that matters. At least… that's what Percy told me,"

"Is Percy still at the castle?" Ginny asked looking around to see if any other brothers were lurking in the kitchen.

Charlie nodded. "Yes, and I reckon he will be until the funeral. He feels responsible, I think. We all do, really, but him especially. He was there when he died."

Harry fought against the connection as he had done whenever Voldemort tried to infiltrate his mind. Think of anything but what was going on in the kitchen below.

Finally, it broke. For some reason, he didn't think it was he who did it. Perhaps Ginny was purposely sharing that conversation with him. Trying to make him feel like he hadn't just been unceremoniously kicked out of the kitchen.

He shook his head and climbed the stairs with a mechanical rhythm. Lifting his leg just high enough to reach the next step each time.

He felt distinctly unnerved. The shadow was closer this time. Physically moving within a space he was in. It spoke to him much longer this time, and even if it was minor, the shadow had been far more detailed than before.

Time passed. The sun rose and fell. Mrs. Weasley would come further out of her room with each passing day. Things became a sort of routine.

Ginny was completely shutting him out now. Both mentally and, to an extent, physically. She was focusing entirely on her family, and the upcoming funeral, which Harry understood.

He would have done the same.

It felt rather uncomfortable, living alongside the Weasleys in this strange broken reality. He found solace in Hermione when he could. She was rarely alone, seeing as she was much better at the whole sympathizing thing than he was. She was always spending time with Ron, or Ginny, or just generally hanging around with the others.

It wasn't that Harry couldn't sympathize. Hell, the death of a loved one was practically his specialty at this point.

No, it was the fact that he didn't want to. He didn't want to let that much of himself go. Maybe it was some long-residing instinct to conceal his emotions. Maybe it was simply the fact that he didn't want to feel, right now.

Lupin. Tonks. Colin. Fred. Lavender. Cedric. Sirius. Dumbledore. Moody. Hedwig...

He couldn't think of them. He didn't want to think of them.

So he focused on other things. Namely cooking.

Mrs. Weasley wasn't quite ready to do what she'd done non-stop for over twenty years, and Harry didn't blame her. She'd seemed quite with it, strong and capable after the battle. Harry should have known it was a façade. The death of a child is something Harry couldn't even fathom.

So, he'd taken to cooking. He was quite good at it, thanks to his time with the Dursleys, and was appreciated for his efforts.

It was the day before the funeral. Everything had been set up out back. Everyone was eating dinner as always. Well, he really shouldn't say everyone. George, Percy, and Mrs. Weasley were all absent. The former two still holed up at Hogwarts while Mrs. Weasley was quietly eating upstairs, thanks to the quick trip Harry ran to bring her dinner.

Ron stared down at his shepherd's pie with a deep frown. "Harry, what I don't understand is… well, where did you learn how to cook like this?"

Harry's mouth was full of his own food, so he just stared at Ron, waiting to swallow.

"And don't tell me you watched the bloody house elves-" Hermione cut him off by slapping him on the shoulder lightly.

Harry swallowed his bite. "My aunt taught me. I've always been able to cook,"

Everyone at the table sort of perked up at the mention of Harry's relatives. It was Hermione's turn to frown now. "Hang on… so you knew how to cook. Really well. All this time?"

Harry nodded, confused.

"And you never once offered to cook in the tent?" Hermione asked, outraged. Her eyes didn't seem all that angry, and eventually, the telltale signs of someone trying their hardest not to laugh cropped up.

Harry snorted into his dish, laughing for the first time in days. Ron and Hermione followed while everyone else remained relatively silent, with a few smiles going around.

"I have a question, actually," Charlie spoke up, "What did you eat? I mean… you couldn't conjure any food, and I can't imagine you were camped near any towns,"

Hermione was rolling a pea around her plate with her fork. "It wasn't all that difficult, really," Ron grunted but otherwise remained silent. "We foraged when we could, stole what was able to be stolen, and… just… well I can't really remember how we ate, honestly,"

"Probably because it wasn't a common occurrence," Ron mumbled, causing Harry to chuckle. It was all much funnier now than it was then.

"So, you were starving the whole time? Bloody hell," Charlie sat back in his chair and patted his stomach. "I can't think when I haven't eaten properly. I can't even imagine,"

"There are worse things than going hungry," Ginny said quietly, her words were like nails on a chalkboard to Harry.

Ron nodded, scratching at his neck absently. For a moment, Harry thought he could still see the locket's chain wrapped around there. Upon closer inspection, however, he realized it was just a trick of the light.

"We made it through, though," Bill said, loud and clear after clearing his throat. Fleur nodded from beside him. "Not all of us… but we did," he said, choking on something in his throat.

"We made it through," Ron echoed, raising his glass. Everyone around the table mirrored his actions. All except for Mr. Weasley, who had apparently passed out in his chair.

"They're working them too hard," Fleur whispered, looking at Mr. Weasley.

Since the battle, all Ministry personnel who'd volunteered had been working on overdrive. Laws were being rewritten from the ground up, and Kingsley needed as many hands in the margins as possible.

Mr. Weasley, of course, had volunteered. Whether it was to get his mind off Fred, or perhaps he just wanted to do the right thing. Maybe a bit of both. It didn't matter. He was helping, and he was exhausted.

Everyone rose to their feet quietly. They knew that though it would leave a crook in his neck, this was probably the first consistent sleep Mr. Weasley could've had for nearly a week. They wouldn't dare wake him.

Everyone climbed the stairs to their rooms. Ginny and Hermione were the first to go, then Charlie, then Bill and Fleur, and finally, Ron and Harry in the attic bedroom.

"We're going to have to tell them. All of it," Ron said as he stripped down to his boxers. He spoke as if he was discussing Snape's newfound love for Hermione. Revolted.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, hugging his knees to his chest and looking out the window. He could hear the breeze and the crickets outside. Fireflies hovering low around the pond. He could understand Ron's hesitation. The Horcrux hunt had brought out the worst in all of them, and even though Bill knew of Ron's stunt before Christmas, the rest of the family may not be so forgiving.

"Ginny'll kill me," Ron muttered to the ceiling. Harry laughed to himself. It was nice not having her in his head. He didn't know if he wanted to explore the bond further.

The only problem with that, of course, is that he wanted to spend more time with her. And if the romance novel was anything to go off of, (Which realistically, it wasn't), then any time spent with her would only develop the bond further.

"No, Harry, you don't understand. She'll end me. Full killing curse and everything. I'm sure she's capable of it," Ron groaned, rolling around in bed and saying something that was muffled by his pillow.

Harry chose not to ask him to clarify. "No she won't, Ron," he rolled his eyes, "She'll be just as pissed as the rest but then I can describe your heroic sacrifice and… you know… everything you did after that,"

Ron sighed. "I was on full damage control for months,"

Harry threw his head back and laughed. He would never forget the constant pandering and sucking up Ron had done, especially to Hermione, in the weeks following his return.

He could remember pulling Ron aside and explaining that, in his eyes, he was forgiven, and that he didn't have to act any different around him. Then, there'd been a pause, and Harry had said, "I'd keep it up with Hermione, though. She seems to be softening up a bit,"

"Also, I don't think you do understand how angry Ginny is going to be," Ron said, again, drawing Harry out of his thoughts.

Harry shook his head and turned to face him. "Mate, she'll get over it,"

Ron wasn't looking at him, he was laying on his back and staring at the roof. "No, Harry, you really don't get it. I mean, she loves you. Like… she has forever and now she really actually does and I am so done."

Harry didn't respond. It felt like his brain had just… left. His mouth dried up and his insides felt all fluttery.

She loves him? Is that why she didn't want Harry to hear her inner thoughts? Because he'd never thought of-

Well, that wasn't true. He'd thought of it many, many times. Those thoughts were something that were so private, so unbelievably quiet in the grand scheme of his mind, that if he could draw a map of his brain, he'd assume those thoughts were kept at the very center.

He dropped his head to his knees. No, it wasn't that the thoughts were quiet. It was that he kept them well buried.

Love.

His supposed greatest strength.

Ron let out a brutally loud sigh. "Shit… I shouldn't have said that. I know how you get. I don't want you to feel all trapped and… you know,"

"I don't feel trapped, Ron," Harry whispered. Except that wasn't exactly true.

Ginny's supposed 'love' for him wasn't making him feel that way. It was the soul bond. Or… whatever it was.

He felt trapped both in his own head and with Ginny. He felt like any choice, any belief, had been taken from not only him but her as well.

It had been a year since their 'relationship'. Which, in hindsight, didn't feel like much more than two randy teenagers getting to snog the person they actually wanted to kiss. One year had gone by, and that was not anything light, either.

A war had risen to its apex and come crashing down in that time. They had each suffered horrors words failed to describe. Both physical and psychological, at that.

That changed a person, and Harry felt like maybe, if he'd let enough time pass, Ginny would have come to realize what she surely will.

Harry wasn't worth it.

"Alright," Ron said, breaking the silence and crashing through his thoughts like some great tidal wave. "Goodnight, then,"

"Goodnight," Harry replied, absently.

"No," Harry clenched his jaw and shook his head. He may be acting immaturely, but it wasn't right.

Mrs. Weasley was standing in front of him, tears streaming down her face. She'd asked this same question in the morning, and he'd given the same answer. Mr. Weasley was standing right behind her, watching the interaction with a lost expression.

"I won't be a pallbearer," Harry announced as quietly as he could. "You have six children to do it. It shouldn't be me,"

"Harry, please," Mrs. Weasley begged, her lower lip quivering, "We haven't got anyone else we trust as much as-"

"Let Ginny carry it," Harry repeated for the umpteenth time that day. His formal black clothing stuck to his sweating body, but he wouldn't back down on this. He didn't care what tradition it violated.

Mrs. Weasley bit her lip and nodded slowly. Harry, acting on a sort of instinct he didn't understand, wrapped his arms around her shaking body. He rested his head on hers and she returned the gesture, holding him close.

"Oh, Harry," she wept into his chest. "You're such a wonderful boy,"

Harry smiled despite himself. He'd been told so from this very woman a thousand times before. It was like she felt some sort of motherly duty to make up for every time he wasn't told such things growing up.

He felt like he needed to say something. So, he cleared his throat and worked his way past the lump that had settled there. "And you are a wonderful mother," he whispered, "that's all you have to be today,"

Mrs. Weasley cried harder and clutched at the back folds of his clothing. Harry looked up at Mr. Weasley, standing across from the exchange, and was met with a fond sort of expression. His eyes, though lined with tears, shined a little brighter at Harry. He bowed his head slightly.

It felt odd, like a rite of passage.

It had rained, earlier in the day. So, the grass was wet, and the air was full and thick with that wonderful dewy smell.

There were maybe fifty guests. It was difficult to judge. In the end, it didn't really matter. There was no celebration here.

Harry walked his way down the aisle and saw it. The grave. It wasn't like with Dumbledore, where everything was laid out as this ridiculous overblown ceremony the man himself would have despised. This was quite fitting.

It wasn't a mess, far from it. It was just natural. The tombstone was natural, even though it hadn't been inscribed yet. The grave itself wasn't overly magical. It was just a hole in the ground.

Harry felt that the simplicity and… normalcy of it all was what mattered. Fred wouldn't have minded it, though Harry doubted he would have loved it either.

He made his way to his seat and sat down. He was right next to Hermione. She'd done her hair properly, with a generous use of Sleekeazy's, it would appear.

"Are you ready?" Hermione asked in a hushed whisper.

Harry shook his head. "And to think… we still have Lupin and Tonks' to go to,"

Hermione turned to him. "You didn't tell me about that invitation,"

Harry shrugged. "I didn't get one. I just sort of assumed it would come,"

Hermione repositioned herself back to what she'd been in when Harry had sat down. "Funerals typically take place around a week after death, so as to preserve the body as much as possible. Fred's was already delayed quite a bit, so it's only natural that it would have either happened already or would happen today,"

Harry sighed. He didn't need to have this Hermione, right now. "I don't know. I'll ask…" he had to think for a moment. Ted was dead, Lupin's parents… he didn't know if they were dead or not. It was just Andromeda and…

"Teddy," he breathed.

He hadn't thought of the orphaned boy. Not once. Well, maybe once but it can't have been more than a passing thought.

"What?" Hermione asked, but she was naturally shushed by the rest of the audience, as the two parents strode down the aisle to the front, hand in hand.

Then, it was the pallbearers.

George led the front with Percy. Then Charlie and Bill, and finally, Ron and Ginny.

It was slow. Ginny's near-miniature height compared to her brothers would've been comical on any other occasion.

Except there was nothing comical about this. There was nothing comical about George and Percy's faces. Ravaged by grief. George's eyes were a bloodshot nightmare of their usual spark.

Percy, well, Harry had never seen a man so broken. He couldn't imagine the thoughts and actions those two had over the past week.

The latter four were simply crying. Some more so than others, but it would've been an insult to say they weren't all feeling an indescribable loss.

A brother.

A friend.

The coffin was magically lifted off their shoulders and maneuvered to hover over the grave.

Mrs. Weasley spoke first. At least, she tried to. She'd speak for a moment, maybe even laugh a little, before having to take a ratchety breath and fight the tears.

Eventually, Mr. Weasley took over. His hands shaking, his eyes never leaving the ground as he spoke.

It came to Harry then that Mr. Weasley may have been a shy sort in school. He was quiet, yes, but he'd never gotten that impression.

Grief, and any extreme emotion, really, always brought out our more primitive mannerisms.

Then, it was each of the brothers' turn. George hung around until last.

Bill got through his full speech with confidence. Fleur, who sandwiched Hermione between herself and Harry, had wrapped her arms around herself to keep herself from breaking down.

Charlie wasn't quite so successful. Harry could only imagine the remorse coursing through his veins at the thought of lost time. He'd been off in Romania all this time.

All of that time that could have been spent with Fred.

Then there was Ron. He had the least to say, but Harry understood. He was a man of fewer than most' words. It was in his fidgeting and stuttering that Harry could grasp his sorrow.

Then it was Percy. Harry had never seen him like this, and he hoped he'd never have to again. It was like packing layer upon layer of depressing memories and thoughts. Regrets and dreams.

All turned into nightmares.

Then, it was Ginny's turn. If Harry had thought he'd be able to sit through this without weeping like the rest he'd been wrong.

She stepped up and seemed so small. Much younger than she really was. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and though the circumstances were terrible, she was beautiful all the same.

She smiled and told jokes, cried through the words she'd wished she could say to her brother. Just one last time. Harry hated it. He hated seeing all of them like this, but it hurt even more with Ginny. He felt awful for thinking that.

She went quiet for a moment, and Harry felt it. Like an electric shot to the inside of his very being.

Ginny.

He could feel her pain, her loss, her struggle to grapple with what was happening on this day.

Just as quickly as it had begun, it shut. It shut in time with her taking a deep breath.

That was no intentional link. The emotion had shattered through her barriers.

Then, it was George.

"There are so many of us I figured I wouldn't have much to say by the end," George said, his voice crisp and clear, booming over the crowd. "I'd wanted it to be that simple, honestly,"

The wind picked up again, and thunder clapped in the distance.

"I was wrong, of course," George smiled briefly and stuffed his hands in his pockets, "Because with someone like Fred you just never run out of things to say, really. You can go on about your favourite memories with him, you can talk about his absolute failure of a sex life," he chuckled quietly and wiped his nose. "I think in the end what matters most is that we got Fred in the first place,"

Harry saw Mrs. Weasley nodding in the corner.

"We got to hear his voice, we got to see his face, we got to laugh and shout and yell and run and…" George took a deep breath. Tears once again brimming along his eyelids. "We got cross with him we took the mickey out of him we… did a lot with him," small rain droplets started falling.

They were infrequent enough to make Harry feel like his arms were going numb.

"What I'm trying to say is that we got a lot from Fred and that's what we should be celebrating," he held his arms out. "This isn't much of a celebration, but I want to make it one. We shouldn't stand here and… wallow in self-pity because we didn't get to do everything with Fred. It's impossible to do everything with someone and there's no point pretending like we lost that opportunity because we never had it in the first place," he raised his hand cupping an invisible glass. Harry mirrored the gesture and slowly everyone followed suit in the imaginary toast.

"I'm not saying we should bury our grief and move on. That's unhealthy," he fluctuated his voice to emphasize the word, drawing a hesitant laugh from the crowd. "I'm saying we should stop mourning what we never had, and appreciate what we did. That's what I want to do, and I reckon Fred would've agreed,"

The rain started coming down hard now.

George lifted his arm a little further to promote the toast. "To Fred Weasley!"

The crowd echoed the call. George mimed drinking and wiped at his lips. He looked down at the coffin and placed a hand on its top. "I'll always love you, Freddie," he blinked incredibly fast and sniffled, "and I'll never be the same without you,"

Harry's smile fell, then. What had been a rather refreshing and sentimental speech now rang hollow in his ears.

George was right. He'd never be the same. Hell, none of them would. The void would always be felt and there was nothing they could do about it.

Death was the end. Without fail.

He swallowed past the dread in his stomach at the thought.

Harry watched the guests leave, helping them off the property and thanking them for coming. He seemed to be receiving a lot more 'thank you's' than he was giving out, but he chose to ignore it.

He watched the last guest leave, in a muggle car, of all things, and turned back to The Burrow.

He froze.

There, standing in the center of the lane like a distant tree, was the shadow. Its glowing red spheres for eyes staring out against the expanse.

The shadow's shadow extended as if the earth was being tilted and the sun was forced to depict something it shouldn't. Its shadow grew and grew until it was right at Harry's feet.

Again, the sound of a distant creaking tree broke the muffled silence.

The tree groaned and cracked. Wherever it was, the wind was picking up.

The shadow was so far away, but its shadow was right in front of Harry.

The shadow's shadow moved of its own accord, drawing what seemed to be an hourglass from behind its silhouette. It lowered the shadow hourglass to what would be its floor. Its skeletal hand tapped the hourglass once, twice, and then, the shadow's shadow receded back into itself.

Hundreds of meters in front of him the shadow slowly raised its hand, the bone-white digits shining in the sunset. It pointed at Harry.

He felt like a bucket of water had been poured over him.

"Harry!" someone grabbed his arm, and he felt a jolt of magic run through him. He looked down at the culprit and found Ginny, eyes wet and worried. "Are you alright?"

Harry felt sick to his stomach, but he turned and looked down the lane, where the shadow had been.

There was nothing.

He glanced at his feet, inspecting the area around them to see if the shadow's own shadow was still there.

It wasn't. Instead, there was a small pile of fine sand sitting on top of the brown earth. Harry crouched down, Ginny following his actions, and touched the sand.

It was from an hourglass. He was certain.

"I had another vision," Harry explained to the patiently waiting Ginny. Except this time, the vision had grown in power again, it seemed. The sand of the shadow hourglass remained.

Ginny nodded and stood up, Harry following her.

"How are you?" he asked stupidly. "You know... all things considered,"

Ginny sighed and took a step towards him. "Hold me?"

Harry obliged, wrapping his arms around her and feeling the magic flow from him through her and from her through him.

The magic wasn't painful this time. Nor was it frightening. It was precisely what he felt he needed. And judging by the relaxation of Ginny's shoulder blades, was exactly what she needed.

It ebbed and flowed like the tide. Rushing from his fingertips to her back and through her body back into his. It was warm and understanding. The magic itself was a manifestation of their emotions and comfort around one another.

"I missed talking to you," she mumbled into his chest, "More than I did while I was at school. This was like…"

"Stronger, yeah," Harry sighed into her hair. Thoughts of the sand and the shadow expulsed from his mind.

He and Ginny didn't need a verdict on their... situation yet. They didn't need to understand everything that was happening to them. They were teenagers with a lot to decide and a lot to be.

They had all the time in the world.

She pulled away from him and wiped at her eyes. Setting out back home. "You tend to have my best interests at heart," she said, randomly as they walked back in a warm silence.

"What?" Harry asked.

She smiled gratefully at him. "You, convincing my mum to let me carry Fred with the boys," she shrugged her shoulders, "I just thought it was nice,"

Harry smiled to himself and kept walking. Proud of whatever wins he could take.

Ginny's mind was still blocked off, and he didn't care. Fred's funeral seemed like a great barrier to the broader world, but now it was over.

Now, the world was ahead.

"Hey, have you heard from Andromeda?" Harry asked, breaking the silence again.

Ginny shook her head. "She was invited to the funeral but… I don't know. We never heard back from her."

Harry felt a slow sinking feeling. People, especially those close to them, never went silent for this long.

"She has Teddy," Harry whispered, seemingly to himself.

Ginny sighed. "I know,"

"I don't know if Remus told you but he's my godson,"

Ginny kept walking, seemingly unperturbed by the news. "Good. He did say around Christmas that you gave him the best advice he'd ever received and that one day he'd try and repay you," she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "I don't know what you told him but he was quite emotional over it,"

Harry nodded, remembering with a touch of guilt the conversation, or rather screaming match, he'd had with the werewolf in Grimmauld Place nearly a year ago. "I told him to stick with Tonks. Called him out on his… rubbish husband and fatherly behaviour. I'm glad he listened,"

Ginny linked her arm around Harry's. Their magic once again rubbed together. "Me too,"

They made it up to The Burrow's front door and Harry once again turned to face the girl beside him. His eyes shot down to her lips…

Then, the door opened roughly, and Hermione stood there, giggling and holding a glass of champagne.

"You two have got to come see!" she squealed, in a very un-Hermione-ish manner. "Fleur and George are in an arm-wrestling match and George is losing!"

Harry sighed. This was clearly something that was only funny if, A) You were there for it, or B) you were already tipsy.

Or both.

"Well, that does sound like quite the frivolity!" Ginny replied, giving Harry a teasing grin.

For such a horrible day, it hadn't ended all that poorly.

Harry took a step in after Ginny and felt a million goose pimples erupt all over his body. He turned on the spot and looked back out to the lane.

The shadow stood in silence. Unmoving and uncaring. It again slowly raised its skeletal hand and pointed at his chest.

Harry's breath quickened, and he slammed the door shut. All sound returned as he joined the Weasleys' post-trauma frivolity, as Ginny so eloquently put it.

The shadow's first words echoed through his mind.

"Death is coming for you, Mr. Potter,"

A/N: The shadow is directly inspired by The Ghost of Christmas Future from Robert Zemeckis' 2009 film "A Christmas Carol", as well as the recent portrayal of "Death" in Puss in Boots: The Last Wish.

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