Outside it is already dark, still very cold. I wish I could convince James and Albus to go the Burrow for the night, but I don't know if I'll manage to persuade them. They scarcely left the hospital since they got here from Hogwarts.
Arthur is surely to Ginny, and I must exert at least him to go home. He spends there the whole day and it is not good for him.
I ask James if he wants to accompany me to visit Ginny, he only darkens and doesn't even answer. He didn't come a single time. It pains me very much, but I understand, and I don't press him; he is not a child anymore who can be forced, he has a mind of his own. When he will feel he can do so, I'm sure he will. I'm only scared he will never feel to.
I'm going everyday despite my heart is torn every time, but Arthur needs my sustain and I want her to know we are not going to abandon her. Even if I'm not sure whether she knows. I dearly hope so.
I find Arthur sitting down, his eyes hollow. My poor husband… He waits for a miracle. We are surrounded by all the flowers he brought. The firsts are lifeless and dry by now, I remove them under his afflicted stare.
I sit down by his side, and I pin him in my arms as tight as I possibly can. We leave ourselves slide in hushed tears. His body feels so old and fragile against mine, quivered by sobs, weakened by sorrow. How far it seems when quite young he, whistling, was sorting out materials to build a room for Ginny helped by Bill and Charlie, the beam on his face when talking to them, the love when he looked at me, when he looked at baby Ginevra in my arms. We were poor, but happy in our love.
I want to go back to that moment.
My poor baby, my poor girl.
It took me a while to convince Arthur to get going, he was keeping throwing glances behind his shoulders on the way back, almost if expecting, surely hoping, for a sign.
But she is smiling serenely totally unaware of our sufferance, and we must get used to the notion that this is the only expression in which we will ever see her from now on.
Albeit I preach well but I must struggle to follow my own predicament.
Hope is difficult to kill when you love somebody.
At the Burrow everything is quiet. Bill is at home with Fleur, I forced him to take an evening off. Between Gringotts and shifts at the hospital he has not a moment of repose, my poor boy.
He is of a great comfort to me, and I hope he gets the same from Fleur. It has been a shock for him to see Ginny when she has been brought to the hospital. He was the first to arrive when I called and was there when it happened.
Fleur and Hermione shared with me every task tirelessly and I can still see in Hermione's eyes the horror lingering for what she discovered in that room, the horror in front of the fear of being too late.
She is the one working the hardest. Harry and Ginny have always been her two best friends.
Far from condemn her zealous effort I comprehend it, but it also means that Ron is left to his own device, and he is not coping well. It has been a big blow to him.
He is closed in his old room basically since he got here. I wanted to go to him sooner, but I've been so busy I could hardly spare the time.
He is harbouring something ugly, and I'm determined to entreat for openness on his side.
I find him sitting on his bed in semi darkness, Hermione is at the hospital, she comes home only to sleep and sometime not even then.
I sit close to him, and I put a hand on his leg affectionately.
'Can you believe that while she was being tortured, I was swinging on the hammock looking at the sea?'
He says wistfully looking somewhere else. I lower my eyes sighing. The poor boy was only waiting for the chance to talk with somebody and I'm sorry it took me so long to give him the chance of confiding.
There were so many things and people to tend to. It seems as there has always been in my life something more pressing than tend to him.
'You couldn't know. Don't torment you with this'
But it's as though he didn't hear my answer.
'I was there, a building away, next door, dozing' he says darkly 'and she was being tortured by a mad man'
'It's not your fault' I say tightening my grip on his leg to mark my words, I don't want him to be carried away with these grim reflections.
'I know it's not' he says looking finally at me with those blue ice, the same shade of Arthur's.
On my adding something he precedes me 'It was Harry's'.
I'm so taken aback I don't know what to say for a moment 'It's not…' I stammer but he tails me off.
'He left her alone'
And those eyes become so dark albeit being so light they almost scare me. There is a hardness in them that wasn't there when he was a child, a bitterness, a dissatisfaction that grows with every passing year. And it has been worrying me for already some time.
'Ron, he was working, there was a breakout going on…' I try to say but he booms enraged
'This is not an excuse! Ginny had to be first! Not his sodding job! He left her alone! If he stayed on her side nothing of the kind would have happened!'
'That Dark wizard was deranged. He wanted Harry. He would have lured him out somehow. He would have gone for the boys or for Sunrise to lure him.' I say disconsolate and I shudder in thinking about us, with Sunrise here unprotected and what could have happened.
'But you see!' Ron exclaimed getting red and sprinting up going to the window 'It's his fault! In any case it would have been his fault! Our family really got the worst deal mingling with him! We had to distance ourselves from him! We had to understand he could only bring troubles!'
'This is unfair' I reply scandalized. The poor man hardly deserves this 'Harry has always been a good husband and a good father! He always put everybody's welfare before his own and you know this very well' I continue stern letting the last sentence coming out as a slight reproach.
But his vexation is uncheckable 'Why do you always defend him? Why does everybody always defend him? After all what he has done! After all that he has failed to do!' he shouts upset.
And I think about what Hermione recounted me when she got the hospital, how Harry, massacred and wrecked, was shielding Ginny with his own body, I think about what the healer told me, all the Crucio he got, and I don't understand. Ron was there, he has seen it too, he had heard it too. Why doesn't he feel any pity as I do but only this utter out of place hate?
'Because he has always been a good man' I reply simply.
'I'm a good man too for Christ's sake!' he yells slamming his hands on the windowsill.
My heart is heavy hearing him utter this sentence that reveals so much. There, there is a world of meanings.
'I know you are.' I said patting the bed on my side inviting him to sit down close to me 'You are indeed a good man' I continue at him sitting, limp after the outburst, listening to me with cast eyes. I take my son's head, kissing the forehead of this man who for all his life felt not to be enough, always comparing himself with everybody else around him and suffering by his inability to be up to his personal expectation. It's our fault though. Nobody of us never succeeded in making him feel important.
And seeing him here alone, wrapped in his discomfort knowing where Hermione surely is not, I get a hunch of something else too that probably bothers him.
'You are a good husband too' I say softly.
He shakes his head and flop on himself, his head hanged, hair covering his face 'I'm not. I'm not a good husband'
'Of course, you are' I say sweetly encircling him with my arm.
'Mum, if I was, she would love me'
And the distress is so palpable, I know I hit a mark. He lets me hug him limply, his voice slightly chock.
'But she loves you' I say more to be of any reassurance than for conviction.
Hearing my words, he looks up at me and there, after the distress I see again the hardening 'We both know, she doesn't. And we both know who she always loved'
I falter under that gaze understanding his meaning. I would dearly love to disabuse him, to tell him that it's not true that he was the one preferred, but I always taught my children not to tell lies and I must abide to the same rule. Because it's incontrovertible, if she would love him, she would be here.
'I hate him' he says under his voice and then he closes his eyes, ever so slowly and his face crumple while he leaves himself go to grief.
I hold my dear boy in my arms trying to soothe all that ache.
The late traumatizing events are unleashing incomprehensible feelings. Because I know he doesn't hate him at all. He only hates the fact that he has always loved him really.
And I don't know why but I find myself thinking how, we, women, are considered the weaker sex. I never comprehended it unless only physical power is meant, because, in all my life, all the women I met, had an incredible force, boldness, and endurance I scarcely found in men. They may be stronger than us in day-to-day events but when things are really going down, they cling to us for strength, for reassurance, for consolation. And it's only thanks to us if they can handle what seems unbearable.
And this truth is strong with me while I lull my youngest son in his pain, is strong with me when I take Arthur's hand, is strong with me when I see Bill keeping hold of Fleur and it was strong with me watching Harry and Ginny together.
'I hate Harry' Ron repeats sobbing, still in my arms.
I don't know what to reply reflecting on the enormous shadow Harry has always unwarily and faultlessly projected on my boy. But then, I wonder, is there any point feeling all this bitterness now?
I'm at the hospital. I convinced Arthur to stay at home with Ron. I hope he will get some repose. James is as usual in Sunrise's room and Albus is with me, writing a letter to Rose. She has been back to Hogwarts for already a few days, and they are writing to each other so often that Regina is starting to get upset, Albus is overworking her. I'm sorry she had to go back, Albus was decidedly better when she was here.
Now he is spending all his time either writing, eyes rimed red or sleeping on the armchair I brought here for him or staring fixedly at the bed, hoping. However, Hermione didn't want her to be in this environment and thought it best to send her back. Hugo spends all his time with Ion at the Burrow who is the least involved of us all having seen so little of Harry and Ginny in his life, far away in a different country. Perhaps it's for the best, at least Hugo can divert his thoughts. I know they will need to be back very soon; Charlie told me he cannot stay for more than a couple of days yet and it's the same for Ron.
It seems so impossible that the situation may improve in this brief space of time…
I'm looking at the bed hoping to see something encouraging, I don't know what. Anything. But everything is so still I can only hear the quill scratching the paper from the corner where Albus is writing.
I look in his direction, I can clearly see tears dropping from his cheeks on the parchment. He stops writing and with some blotting paper tries to mop them away, but they keep on falling making his act useless.
On him realising I was observing him, he half smile sitting back on the chair 'I made a mess' he only says chuckling, fiddling with his quill still in his hand.
'Oh dear…' I say trying to keep my eyes dry 'It doesn't matter.'
He looks at the bed and sighs.
The ward is silent, I can hear only a ticketing of heels on the tiles far off.
'Perhaps today…' I hazard as a comforting word.
He smiles mopping his eyes 'Perhaps…' he murmurs shrugging his shoulders, but I can see that it is said without conviction, it is said only for me, to reassure me.
At that moment all our attention is captured toward the door as a sudden mayhem is heard, somebody is shouting, there is commotion in the corridor.
I gesture Albus to stay, it is not the first time it happens. Surely somebody is trying to get pass in the aisle.
I hurry over there, and I see a girl, brunette and very showily dressed, struggling to overtake Bill who has just grasped her by the shoulders to prevent her coming forward.
'Keep your filthy hands off of me, old pervert or I'll report you for sexual harassment!' she shouts.
Bill, as if touching fire, let her go straight away but George, who doesn't let himself being put off so easily, step in blocking her 'You don't go anywhere, love.' He says wearily.
We are all beyond tired of this continuous meddling. Why cannot people just respect our situation and leave us be?
'Lemme go!' she shouts flailing to get free 'I have every right to be here! I wanna pay a visit! I'm a friend!'
'Yeah right, and I'm the Minister of magic. Go home to mummy and daddy, would you?'
'I ain't got any mummy and daddy, you knobhead. Ginny and Harry are all I've got!' she yells enraged. And then, out of the blue, she bites very hard George's hand who emitting a shriek let her go straight away.
'You bitch!' he blorts out grasping his hand while she is already springing forward.
'George!' I bellow scandalised.
'She bit me!' he retorts managing to grasp her wrist before she can slip in the aisle.
'I don't care! I won't allow this kind of language in my children's mouth, doesn't matter what'
I hurry forward turning my attention to the girl.
'This is hardly an acceptable behaviour, young lady' I apostrophised her 'You should show a bit of respect for our situation'
'I want to pay a visit' she mutters darkly 'I'm a friend'
'I'm afraid that won't be possible.' I reply with finality. If we should let pass everybody who states itself a friend this place would be overcrowded. I don't trust anybody unless real proof of being so can be produced. And I'm pretty sure this young girl (with definitely too much make up on, if I may say so) hasn't got any.
'I'm Regina' she says as I'm turning away and that stops me.
Ginny told me about a girl answering to that name, a poor dear with a very difficult background who she has taken under her protection finding her a job and a decent place to live.
I look at her again more closely, suspicious.
She, seeing my hesitation, carry on 'I know Harry and Ginny's address' and lowering her voice she reveals it to me quite correctly.
George, stunned, let her go.
'I want to pay a visit' she repeats.
I'm speechless for a moment but then seeing her so keen and reading what's behind the ferocious expression and the excess of makeup, my heart melt.
'There is not…' I stammer, my voice chocked, and then clearing it I try again 'If you read the papers, you may already know there is not really any point to a visit, dear' I say this time sweetly 'but I'm glad to have finally met you' squeezing her tight 'Ginny spoke very highly of you. I'm her mother'
She abandons herself to my hug and despite she is clearly not a child, it feels like she is still one in the way she leaves herself being hold. She mustn't have had many motherly hugs in her life. I had exactly the same feeling the first time I hugged Harry.
'I read the papers. But I'd like to say hello anyway, if you don't mind' she murmurs a bit more politely.
'Of course, child' and taking her around the shoulders I push her gently through the corridor.
She lingers a second looking behind to George and Bill 'Sorry for threat, and the bite' she says serious.
'It's all right' George says frowning massaging his hand 'Sorry for the bitch'
'George!' I bellow warningly at which both Bill and George grin taking back their position.
We head toward the room and entering I see Albus startle 'Regina!' he exclaims standing up.
But she only glance briefly at him, her eyes drawn to the bed.
The sight petrifies her, and a torrent of tears trace two black lines of mascara on her cheeks. I take a tissue from the table and I mop those tears affectionately. She wails a thanks and I push her gently forward making her sit on the chair I was occupying until only moments before. She leaves herself being conducted there and once sitting she reaches out taking that limp hand who is rested on the white sheet.
That hand has been held by so many people since we are here. I found Hermione sleeping on this very chair, her head rested on the bed's edge, her hand in it only this morning. I always hold it too.
'Are there any chance of…?' she asks not averting her gaze from the bed.
'Not many' I say honestly 'And every passing day thin them'
She nods imperceptibly.
Albus observes her for a while and then sit himself down returning to his letter.
I sit a bit farther away to give her some privacy.
She draws her chair closer and resting her head on the pillow I see her whispering something in those ears. I wonder if they can pick up any sound. We all in turns spoke to them. We entreated, we pleaded, we simply chatted but none of our words sorted any effect. I watch with a slight curiosity, a mild hope. Perhaps the sound of her voice will succeed where we failed.
But it doesn't seem to. There is no movement, no reaction.
Oh Harry, please, wake up!