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vii. out of ice (quiet times)
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On Christmas Eve at the Dursleys', Harry always used to go to bed early. Dishes done, kitchen cleaned - it was a family night and Petunia never particularly wanted to see him. He would wait, pretending to sleep until they all left for Mass at half past eleven, Dudley would be grumbling loudly and Vernon, who had probably never believed in anything remotely religious, would say: 'Do you want to turn into the devil? Like your cousin?'
In their rush to be on time, they would forget to lock the door of the cupboard and after they left, Harry would tiptoe back into the kitchen to steal a bit of pudding. That was Christmas to him.
In 1998, he wakes up on the 24th and the world is blurry. There is: a fumble for his glasses, another person's hand placing them in his. That morning, Harry wishes he could talk about a short, sweet moment of oblivion, one during which he would slowly come to, not remembering what happened or where he is, but there isn't any. His body already aches with yesterday and the image of Giulia's lifeless form is still right there, like carved into the back of his eyelids. He feels Ginny still breathing softly next to him. In the darkness of the Burrow's sitting room, his eyes focus on the blurry shape of a woman; he takes his glasses from her hand and sighs. Unlike yesterday, the lenses are clear, immaculate.
He's not scared. After all those months in the tent, he'd recognise Hermione's blurry shape anywhere.
'Sorry,' she mutters. 'They'll all come down in a bit.' A quick glance thrown at the stairs behind her. 'Thought it'd be best to wake you.'
Harry shifts, brain still hazy with sleep, finds Ginny's limbs interlocked with his on the couch. He nods. The last thing he probably needs, right now, is an angry pack of Weasley brothers trying to hex him out of this world because he fell asleep in their sister's arms.
'Tea?' Hermione mouths. He nods, again. Stirs.
She disappears from view as he struggles up, a laborious attempt at heaving himself off the sofa without waking Ginny. His entire body protests the move, sore and painful in places he didn't remember existed, legs unsteady – she purrs awake gently. When he manages to stand, Harry leans in and pulls a blanket over her shoulders. 'I'll be with Hermione,' he whispers. 'Stay here, get some sleep.'
He doesn't know what is going on, there, between them. Doesn't have the brain space to think about it.
In the kitchen, Hermione's put the kettle on. Her back faces him; she fiddles with the tea bags and the cups over the worktop. They've both become experts at pulling the water off the stove right before the whistle blows. She throws a blanket over her shoulders and silently cocks her head towards the door. Harry nods, grabs his jacket from the chair and pulls it over himself, follows her out into the garden. The air is clear, that morning, crisp and cold, somewhere between night and dawn. In his pocket, he finds a pack of cigarettes, lights one and puffs out smoke. For once, she doesn't frown, just hands him a steaming mug of tea.
'What time is it?' he asks.
'About seven.'
Her voice is tired. He nods his 'thanks,' sips his tea. They stand outside, against the makeshift, brick-and-stone façade of the Weasley's home. Hermione's wearing slippers and his socks are wet with morning dew. 'It snowed yesterday,' she observes as he eyes the garden. Tiny patches of white in the shade of the trees. 'Didn't stick,' she adds. Obviously.
He wonders if it's been twenty-four hours, yet. Wonders what time it was when Giulia died yesterday.
They drink. Hot breaths colliding with the winter air and Hermione's silences that always remind him of owls and foxes, and the sounds of the forest. Sometimes, the two of them are quiet because there's not much to say, and perhaps, that's all there is to it. Harry breathes in a couple of drags from his cigarette, watches the sky gradually fade into lighter shades of whites and baby blues. Can't help but think of steady flames and lighting candles for the dead.
When he turns his face towards her, he feels Hermione reach out. Her palm gently cups his jaw, thumb running over a space just under his cheekbone. He winces, a short jab of pain as she touches his skin; she retreats, shakes her head at him. 'I've Dittany in my bag, remind me to bring it down,' she says before leaning back against the wall. 'Teddy'll get scared if he sees you like this.'
With a quick flick of her wand, she cleans the blood and dirt from his clothes. Here it comes, away it goes. Slow, he takes his hand to his chin, feels a large bump and a split lip. 'That bad?' he asks, attempts a smile. Even that hurts a little.
'Like you've been stampeded on by a herd of Threstrals, yeah,' she says, with a sigh that sounds a lot like: boys. 'Even Ron went to the mediwizards' – may I ask why you thought it best not to bother?'
He laughs, low and hoarse, then feels it in his ribs and stops. Is pretty sure that if Hermione looks away and out onto Mrs Weasley's garden, then, it's because she doesn't want him to know that she is smiling, too.
At the far edge of the orchard, the sun is steadily coming up the horizon. There are the trees and the light fog, glistening drops of frozen snow. 'You'll need to speak to Ron,' Hermione adds. The same matter-of-fact tone she had when she begged him not to ever let her give him a haircut again. 'Couldn't sleep last night, kept replaying the whole thing in his head. I think the Internal Affairs interview didn't help.' Harry sighs. 'He'll be out for a while, now; I ended up dosing him with some Sleeping Draught. He'll be furious the moment he wakes up, but -' she shrugs. 'Molly'll be fussing over the two of you,' she adds, a quick afterthought. 'Let her. At least then, she won't be thinking about Fred.'
Harry nods, silent. He obviously doesn't love taking orders but can't find grounds to object, either. Breathes in a drag from his cigarette and wonders when it was that he became the one who talks to people, has conversations, out of the three of them. 'You going back to your parents'?' he asks. They were flying across the world to see her and her plans for the three of them probably didn't include being at The Burrow at seven in the morning on Christmas Eve.
Hermione shakes her head. 'They're coming over,' she smiles. At that, he raises an eyebrow. She laughs. 'Put them in a hotel, over in the village. Mum's a bit annoyed, we had theatre tickets for tonight. Dad's happy to come along, I think. Finally, properly meet everyone,' she adds. 'Molly and Arthur are beside themselves, of course, having Muggles over. I think it might lift the spirits up a bit.'
In the faraway trees, they hear a bird sing. When they were kids, Dudley used to shoot pigeons in the street. When Hermione speaks again, sets her mug down on the windowsill.
'You know,' she says and Harry notices how dark her tea is, half-empty. 'I never knew what it was like: waiting.' His look is sharp but she's avoiding his gaze, staring out at the horizon. 'We got Kingsley's Patronus. We were at Grimmauld. Mum, Dad, McGonagall. Talking about school, believe it or not,' she shakes her head, seemingly at the ridiculousness of it all. 'They want me to go to uni. McGonagall volunteered to help, try and explain… That bloody lynx never comes with good news, does it? "Ron and Harry were caught in an ambush. Check your wards," it said. "Do not move." I sat there. I sat there, Harry. Thinking I could have been there,' she says, swallows. Her gaze finds her feet. 'Thinking I should have been there,' she breathes. 'Thinking that if one of you was dead, it was because I wasn't.' There are tears in her eyes and he's suddenly struck with memories of last year, when he realised that she could cry herself to sleep every night and still get up every morning and carry on. 'But that's just how it's going to be, now, isn't it? The two of you out there, and me sitting here? Waiting.'
She says the last word like an insult and he puts his mug down next to hers, lets his cigarette drop to the ground, and isn't quite sure why he does it. Maybe because he's seen Ron do it countless times before, whenever she cries. Maybe because her name was on his lips yesterday, the moment he got out of the factory, 'Herm-' because she was missing. She was missing from his side, the place she's always been whenever he almost dies and he pulls her towards him. Almost instinctively, the way he fell into Ginny's arms, last night, the way he imagines Ron fell into hers. She struggles, at first, wets his jumper with her tears and hits his chest. 'You, fucking arsehole,' she says. 'You promised. You promised you wouldn't die on me again, you -'
'I'm not dead,' he repeats. Holds her. 'I'm not dead. We're fine, we're both fine. I'm sorry. Hermione, I'm not dead. I'm sorry.'
He's not quite sure how long they stay out there, really. Eventually, Hermione settles in his arms, stops hitting him. When she pulls away from his chest, he notices that the sun's come halfway up above the horizon; it warms his face against the cold. Harry leans back against the façade of the house - in the morning light, Hermione's cheeks glisten; he smiles, reaches out to wipe off a couple extra tears. 'Come on, now,' he whispers in a tone that begs: please stop, and she lets out something between a snort and a laugh.
'Why, 'cause people crying makes you uncomfortable, Potter?' she challenges, drying her skin with the blanket she's wrapped around her shoulders. He laughs, good-natured; she's not exactly wrong.
He nudges a small stone with his foot. 'The Dursleys didn't like me crying very much,' he admits. Lonely Christmases and micro-tragedies. Her mouth twists in a sad smile, shoulder pressing into his against the wall.
'I suppose not,' she tells him.
Hermione doesn't push, that morning. Perhaps, because he's sad, perhaps because Giulia's dead and he can't help but think of Teddy who'll never see his parents again, and perhaps Christmas Eves shouldn't be plagued with battlefields. He shrugs, closes his eyes before catching her gaze again. He's so desperate to change the subject he doesn't even notice the way he walks himself into another minefield. 'I've tickets to Les Mis in January,' he tells her, without really thinking about it. 'It was Mia's Christmas present but I can get her something else. Give them to your parents, make up for all the fuss.'
He comes to regret his offer the moment he makes it. The moment he remembers that he's never actually told Hermione about Mia. She grins, raises an eyebrow and he's pretty sure he's every bit as scarlet in the cheeks, right now, as she was last summer when she admitted she and Ron hadn't had sex, yet. 'Please, don't tell anyone,' Harry begs quickly while she giggles next to him - at least, she's not crying anymore, he supposes.
'So, what you said in the interview was true,' she teases. By the time her skin has finally dried - still a bit red - she's laughed and laughed and laughed at the horrified look in his eyes, warmed up their cups and mildly tolerated him lighting another cigarette. It's to calm his nerves, he says, before he inevitably faces the ruthless interrogation that ensues. 'So: Mia?' she asks, laughs. 'Who is she?'
'Can we please be grim and go back to talking about death?'
Hermione shakes her head, smirks. 'Not a chance.'
So, yeah, they talk about Mia, a bit, that morning. He specifically tells her the very bare minimum. Like: 'the neighbour.' A raised eyebrow. 'You ask me who she is, well, that's who she is.' ('Yeah, right. Seventy quid on the neighbour's Christmas present, Harry?'). He's pretty sure, by then, that Hermione's enjoying this, the moment he looks back at her – he feels a burn in his cheeks and she pushes, keeps pushing with questions until he finally caves and admits: 'I don't know, Hermione, we shag, that's what we do.' She frowns at him, then, crosses her arms in response.
'Class,' she admonishes, to which he rolls his eyes again ('Hey, you asked -') and it's a bit of game, really. 'Well, I suppose if she's okay with that…' Hermione adds; he recognises her serious tone, now, the slightly judgmental one. 'I won't tell anyone, Harry, but don't you dare be a dick to her,' she instructs. 'I taught you better.'
He does snort at that (though, yeah, perhaps, she did, didn't she?).
A beat passes between them and he notices her glance drifting back inside, past the kitchen and into the sitting room. He already knows what she's about to ask and feels something sinking in his chest. 'And, Ginny?'
Harry sighs, looks to his feet before finding her gaze again. 'I don't know,' he shrugs. 'I miss her,' he admits. It's true. 'At this stage, I think I'll take whatever she can give.'
He finds that he can't quite decrypt the look Hermione gives him. In the end, the last thing he does, that morning, is to hand her his pack of Marlboros after he's done with his third fag. She raises an eyebrow at him. 'That was my last one,' he decides (there and then). 'Giulia said it made me look like a twat.' Hermione smiles. 'I'm going to be grieving and feeling like shit, anyway,' he sighs. 'Might as well also be on edge for a few days, won't make much of a difference.' At least he's aware of it, now, has been through this before.
At that, Hermione laughs, nods and vanishes the pack away. She pulls him into a hug, then, a shorter one, a tearless one. 'I'm sorry about Giulia, Harry,' she says and although it doesn't fill the hole in his chest (not at all), perhaps it's at least a start.
And, so, Christmas comes and goes, that year. A year they spent at war with Voldemort, first, then with the ruins of all the castles that he wounded, but failed to destroy. They're not dead, Harry thinks. It's perhaps a low bar, but it's something. And, so, that Christmas, he tries to laugh with George, chat with Mr Weasley about his life in London and how to get on the Tube, tries to listen to Percy talk about his job at the Ministry with relative interest. When Kingsley visits on Boxing Day, the both of them stand in the garden and watch the snow fall. They exchange gifts, talk about politics and Quidditch, about previous Christmases, and knitted jumpers, sweets and full stockings.
As instructed by Hermione, Harry speaks to Ron. They are both fine. They both kind of feel like shit. Strangely, Ron's main emotion is anger (at the Ministry, at the Death Eaters, at Thaddeus, at the world). Harry feels more apathetic. She's dead like an inevitable fact, so they might as well live.
Mr and Mrs Weasley try their best. Hermione was right: her parents are a much welcome distraction. She and Harry act as the family's official Muggle-to-Wizard translators and Harry sometimes wonders if, had fate decided differently, had it been Hermione and him (once upon a time, princesses and knights and all of that), rather than she and Ron, whether the both of them would have eased back into Muggle life, after the war. He doesn't mean that badly, doesn't have anything against magic, but if the Weasleys didn't drag them back into their world all the time, with loud bangs and tight hugs, and an overflow of love, maybe neither of them would have stayed. Hermione would have gone to Oxford, or Cambridge, or whatever the Australian equivalent is. Harry would have done something. Stayed away from drill manufacturing and done something. Probably.
On the 24th, that first morning, Molly's in the kitchen by the time he and Hermione make it back inside. Harry's gaze quickly finds Ginny's. She smiles at him, something tight but warm – he feels embarrassed about his outburst of emotions last night, feels like he ought to explain. Before they can get time on their own, though, she quietly slips away and Molly, instead, pulls him close. 'Oh, my boy,' she says with a hint of possessiveness that reminds him of the vow she made over his parents' grave. She looks at him, all bruises and broken bones, and grief, and asks: 'Have you eaten?'
When Andromeda arrives, Teddy takes one look at Harry and starts bawling (shit, he thinks, they forgot the Dittany) hides in the crook of Molly's neck. 'Oh, it's alright, tiger, it's alright, I promise,' Harry says, tracing a finger against his cheek. At least he knows that Teddy's upsets are still of the kind that abates quickly. 'I just got a bit hurt yesterday.'
Andromeda sends him a glare that asks: a bit? and Teddy frowns, shyly pokes at Harry's face. His godfather hides a wince. 'Ouch?' the little one asks.
Harry laughs, kisses the top of his head. 'Yeah. Very ouch,' he confirms.
Andromeda Floos back home. Lands just outside the wards less than five minutes later with her St Mungo's Healer's kit in hand and threatens Harry with her wand until he agrees to lie back against Charlie's bed. She has him strip down to his boxers to look at his leg and that is embarrassing, though he does have to admit she seems more interested in the wounds she's treating, rather than in his person. She (obviously) doesn't ask about the bruise on his chest.
Later, she sits Teddy on her lap as Harry puts his clothes back on. 'Your face should feel better already,' she says. In fairness, it does. Harry can feel the wounds and bruises starting to fill themselves – it's a bit of an odd sensation, but not an unpleasant one. 'For your leg, I've done what I could. You'll have to rebuild some muscle – I know you like jogging, that might actually be a good idea, when you feel up to it. It'll scar but overall, I have to say that considering the circumstances, that was some extraordinary emergency Healing, she performed. Probably saved your life.' And, well, there is that. Something seems to build up in his throat - he can't speak, just nods. 'For your ribs, they're fine; I've fixed the bones. Just try not to carry any heavy objects over the next few days,' she adds, this time with a smile. 'That includes Teddy.'
On her lap, Teddy babbles and points, knows they're talking about him. Harry gives Andromeda a pleading look. She laughs.
'He weighs over a stone, Harry,' she smiles. 'Trust me, that's heavy enough.'
'Wow, you have grown, haven't you?' he says, reaching out to ruffle Teddy's hair. The little one beams. Harry remembers last spring, their first awkward encounters, how he tiptoed and anxiously stumbled, afraid to even carry him. They've come a long way, haven't they? (For different reasons, though, he still can't carry him).
Andromeda laughs. It's nice to see her laugh. 'Yeah, believe it or not, that's what babies do.'
That night, Christmas dinner goes as you'd expect. Harry feels almost awkward in his grief, mourning too many people at once. The Weasleys put on a brave face for the Grangers. Andromeda distracts herself with the awe on Teddy's face - they tell him about Father Christmas, reindeers and twinkling lights. George plays tricks – they entertain the little one as much as himself. Hermione's parents (as evidenced by the daughter they raised) are polite, but not stupid. When Ron's father engages them into a riveting conversation about dentistry to hide his tears, they indulge him. Harry's pretty sure Molly's about to escape to the kitchen to have a cry of her own when Bill snatches up the opportunity to speak. 'Well, now that everyone's here,' he says. He's sitting between Fleur to his left, and Ron to his right. 'Fleur and I have an announcement to make …'
Then, Molly bursts into tears for a completely different reason. Ron, George and Ginny later drink to Fred's memory, and to a new Weasley in the family.
That night, Harry goes to bed ridiculously early. He doesn't know this yet but it will be his pattern, throughout the holidays. In bed by ten, up in Charlie and Bill's empty room (Molly refuses the mere thought of letting him go back to London on his own; Bill and Fleur head back to the cottage, and Charlie's stayed in Romania). Over the holidays, Harry sleeps eight, sometimes even nine-hour nights, straight through. If he dreams, most of the time, he doesn't remember. Actually starts to wonder if Hermione hasn't been dosing him with Sleeping Draught, too.
The thing is: it continues even after Hermione leaves The Burrow. She and her parents go skiing for a couple of weeks in La Plagne, taking advantage of the longer-than-usual Hogwarts break. McGonagall's closed down the school for three weeks instead of the usual two, aiming to get the final works on the castle out of the way.
By then, Harry is so confused, frankly, that he even asks Andromeda about it. She's the only Healer he knows. One who is rather competent, too; his wounds are healing nicely. 'I don't think you understand,' he tells her. She just smiles. On the floor between them, Teddy's steadily trying to push a square peg through the round hole of one of the educational Muggle toys that Hermione's given him. 'I hadn't slept since May. This isn't how it usually is. I'm sleeping all night, now.' It hasn't happened to him in years, if he's totally honest with himself.
'We all grieve differently, Harry,' she says. 'Different deaths, different events, will affect you differently. You're finally sleeping? That's probably a good thing.'
He shakes his head. 'I don't know,' he says, shrugs. 'I'm just… sad.'
And, that is what he is, isn't he? Sad. That's odd, almost new, in and of itself. It's sadness, but in its rawest form. Not buried in depression, or PTSD, or anger, or resentment, or more self-blame than he can carry. Of course, yes, he blames himself, but whenever he tries to be a little observant, he comes to the conclusion that Ron does, too. When, they both attend Giulia's service on the 29th (Harry looks at his black robes from last spring, that morning, and just can't – attends her funeral in jeans and Muggle clothes; figures she probably wouldn't have minded), he thinks it looks like Thaddeus blames himself more than them both. If they all blame themselves, maybe it really was no one's fault.
That day, Harry stands with his trainers in the grass next to Ginny and Ron. Wordlessly, they find her at the bottom of the stairs and she comes to the burial of someone she didn't know, for people she does know. She stands and doesn't waiver, between Harry and her brother. They go to the pub, afterwards, and sadness almost tastes like something quiet and peaceful. Over the holidays, the smiles he gives Teddy are often fake, but he gives them anyway.
'Sad's fine, Harry,' Andromeda tells him. 'Death is sad.' She'd know something about that, wouldn't she? They watch Teddy frown at his peg between them and in the end, instead of getting the round one through the round hole, he 'accidentally' magics the square slightly smaller. It fits through; the little one grins triumphally. Harry chuckles to himself; Andromeda smiles. 'See, he's adapting. Not the way you'd expect,' she laughs. 'But, he is. I think you are, too.'
And, through all of this, there is Ginny. At first, Harry's not too sure what to say about it, about them. They don't often get the luxury of time alone and over Christmas week, Molly's so worried (about him, about Ron, about everyone) – that as Hermione had predicted, she's around them constantly. Harry tells himself that he's not avoiding his ex, not really. There's also Hermione's parents to entertain, gifts to wrap and prepare, a party to be attempted. Yet, on Christmas Day, he finds her waiting outside the bathroom, banging on the door for Percy to 'bloody hurry up' when Harry comes down the stairs. He feels a bit trapped, stands there, a couple of steps up, can't really back away and pretend that he hadn't planned to join the queue, what with his towel and a change of clothes in his arms. 'You know,' she tells him. A voice escapes from the bathroom shouting 'I'm coming!' and there is the ghost of a smile on her lips. 'If someone told me they were embarrassed for breaking down in tears after their friend died,' she says, loosely inspecting her fingernails. 'Which, all things considered, is a rather expected thing to do, I would remind them that I once compared their eyes to fresh pickled toad and somehow still lived to tell the tale.'
He snorts, loud, and for a while, that winter, that is that. It's enough.
On Boxing Day, following Andromeda's advice, he starts going out jogging in the mornings again. Pops by his place to get his trainers and running clothes, Floos back to The Burrow and starts slow. He runs about three miles before his leg starts protesting, up the fields and past Luna's house, then over the bridge and the river, and back into the village. It's eight o'clock by then, the sun's barely up; he stops at a café for some tea and snack on a side street, quickly chats with the owner. 'Trying to work out all that Christmas food away already, eh?' the man asks. 'Very brave of you.'
Harry laughs. 'Something like that, yeah.'
He gets his tea to go and walks back up to The Burrow.
He does it for a few days. Goes to bed so early anyway that even with a full night's sleep, he's still up at the crack of dawn. On the morning of the 30th, he's surprised to find Ginny at the bottom of the stairs. She's wearing trainers, leggings, warm socks, and an old Gryffindor jumper. Has always told him she hated running. 'It's that or being stuck in here listening to Mum nag me about next year the moment I get up,' she declares, in lieu of an explanation. Smiles, almost pleads. 'I need to get out of the house.'
She gives him a run for his money. With the injury to his leg, he's been much slower than usual and she, on the other hand, is almost a professional athlete. He takes them through his usual route through the fields, past the river, into a nearby park and back down to the café – has to admit he is rather out of breath by the end of it. She – somewhat annoyingly – grins victoriously in response. It reminds him of their games over the summer. The way he ran next to her on the bike and she laughed, teasing: 'You're terribly out of shape, Potter.'
At the café, he pays for her hot chocolate with the Muggle money in his pocket. She chats with the owner with an ease that he's always admired about her, the way she's able to start up a conversation with any given random stranger in a matter of minutes. (He doesn't know this yet but that's what will make her a fantastic journalist, in years to come.)
That morning, they quickly find that Mr Allen has two grown daughters, a dog, a wife, and that he and his Muggle friends play amateur football at the weekends. Harry carries their drinks outside to a table set out on the pavement, facing the winter sun. He overhears the Muggle man say: 'You know what? Your boyfriend never told me he had such a nice girl at home,' and for a moment, he wonders what made the man say that, wonders if there's something in the way they move, act around each other that will always betray some sort of intimacy.
Regardless, he notes that Ginny just smiles and doesn't correct him.
They sit outside in comfortable silence for a bit, wrapped in a couple of blankets borrowed from the café. Leftover from their run, there's a slight flush to Ginny's cheeks, her hair tied up in a ponytail, almost sparkling in the sun. When she smiles at him behind her mug, he thinks she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
'How's Quidditch?' he asks, then. Safe topic, always.
She smiles, takes a sip of her drink, gives him an amused look. 'We beat Slytherin,' she says. He smiles. Always thought she'd make a much better captain than he was (though, considering that one of his players hit him with a bat mid-game, that's a pretty low standard). 'Thing is, I don't know,' she adds with a shrug. 'It feels like it's about more than just winning the cup, now, you know? Mum keeps saying I need to keep my options open, in case Quidditch doesn't work out but it's like… All I do is train. I go to class, do the bare minimum to get by, and train. I'm home three weeks for Christmas, and the only thing I can think about is that it's all just wasted time. Not much I can do in here except race myself in straight lines,' she sighs. 'I almost stayed up at Hogwarts over the holidays but with Mum and Dad, George, Fred –' she trails off. 'Mum says I'm throwing myself into Quidditch, ignoring everything else. And, yeah,' she nods, lets out a light laugh. 'Kind of. It doesn't have to be bad, though. It's what I've always wanted to do. It's stressful but it makes me feel - better, I suppose.' She sets down her cup, looks up at him. 'What?' she asks.
Fuck, she's caught him staring, hasn't she? Staring at her, obviously, listening to her, and he can tell that this, her ambition, her drive, is probably one of the things that made him fall in love with her. Ginny, he knows, has these great, big ideas about what she wants to do, who she wants to be, and whatever happens, he knows that she'll labour through hell and high water to get there. It's all of the courage and the fieriness that he knows run deep inside her, makes her one of the bravest people he knows. He just tends to let things happen, cross whatever bridge presents itself when he gets to it. She's got a will-power that could take down empires and they really are an odd pair, aren't they?
'I don't know,' he says with a shrug because obviously, there are no words to tell her all of the above. 'I just really hope you get what you want. That's all.'
She smiles. 'Me too.'
They sit out there for a while longer, that morning, just taking in the rare beams of sunshine, trading stories about their respective autumns, about things that might not really mean much, but warm his heart regardless. He admits to her (to her, and to no one else), that a few days ago, when he popped over to his place for a change of clothes, he also put the two extra copies of the magazine the Americans sent him into two separate envelopes.
With the appropriate stamps, he sent the first one to Surrey. Included the magazine and a note that said: she was your sister. Not, I was your nephew, because that never mattered. The second, he sent to Liverpool. Courtesy of Hestia Jones who'd previously given him the address of Dudley's university halls. At the time, his only response had been to choke on his drink. 'Dudley took A-Levels?'
Hestia had smiled. 'A lot happened last year, Harry.'
'Bit funny, isn't it?' he says, now, watching Ginny smile in the morning light. 'Dudley passed the Muggle exams and I'm the dropout,' he laughs. 'Petunia must be so proud.'
They (obviously) don't talk about the contents of the interview itself. Not about Witch Weekly, or about Mia, or about the fact that he accidentally admitted he was still in love with his 'ex' in front of the whole bloody world. Instead, Ginny asks, curious, rather than judging. 'Why did you do it? Send it to them?'
He shrugs. 'Giulia said I should. "Shove it right up in their face,"' he quotes. She chuckles a bit. 'Not the most honourable thing I've ever done, I suppose, but -'
'Hey,' Ginny laughs, stops him. 'Honourable's for people who deserve it. When Hermione set that curse on Marietta Edgecombe, let me tell you it didn't bother me one bit.'
They walk back up to the house. The weather's turned a bit, by then, darker clouds in the sky, Ginny pulls the hood of her jumper over her head. 'Hey, look,' Harry says. Forces the words out of his mouth before he can stop himself. She'll probably tell him to fuck off but – 'If you want to train while you're here, we could go and play out in the fields by Luna's house? There's more space than at The Burrow, and I've never seen a single Muggle pass by. I'm not much of a Chaser,' he adds, quick. 'But I can throw a ball.'
Ginny stops dead in her tracks, then, turns to look at him. Something seems to pass through her eyes, something that looks a lot like alarm bells. She clearly ignores them. There's an amused tint to her gaze. 'It's three degrees outside,' she points out, instead. 'And raining half the time. No one in their right mind would want to play in this weather.'
'Well, maybe I'm not in my right mind, then.' Maybe, I'd do literally anything to spend time with you, he thinks. He sort of also thinks she can tell.
And, so, for the next two weeks, that winter, this is how their routine goes: they get up around seven-thirty, get dressed in the dark and Apparate out to the café in the village. Get breakfast there (either inside or outside depending on the weather), buy sandwiches ahead of lunch and make their way up to the fields. They leave the brooms at Luna's house, pick them up on the way and play Quidditch for three, four hours, maybe, until whatever time they get hungry. Harry's main occupation is to help her train so he mostly just flies and does what she asks. He times her, throws the ball, tries to nick it from her, they climb high and dive low, and it's almost odd how easily they fall back into it, like Quidditch is the one language they will always share. He understands her every move, how she challenges him, how to challenge her. If during those mornings, they don't talk, it's truly because they don't need to.
On the 1st of January, the sun shines. It's 1999. They stay at the field for lunch, wrapped tight in warm winter coats. 'Christmas was grim, last year,' she tells him, between two sips of Coke (he's converted her). It's on days like these that he still finds not reaching for a fag quite hard. 'I mean, it's grim this year, don't get me wrong,' she says. 'But –' for a moment, she trails off, looking for her words. He waits until she finds them. 'Last year, Mum was so worried. We all were. Obviously, we didn't even know Ron was with Bill and Fleur, that bloody git. Now, Fred's dead, but at least we know, I suppose. Mum was fussing so much over all of us that Charlie said -' she looks down, holding her sandwich over her lap. 'He said, "They're fine. Trust me, if they'd got to them, they'd be chanting 'We killed Potter!' from the rooftops." I bloody hated him for it,' she sighs. Seems to avoid his gaze for a moment. 'I reckon Mum did see the logic, though. It calmed her a bit.'
To tell the truth, Harry kind of sees the logic, too. 'Gin-'
'No, I,' she starts, interrupts. She's struggling for the right words again, looks like she's slightly annoyed with herself for not being able to phrase her thoughts accurately on first try. He almost never can accurately phrase his thoughts - ever. 'I don't blame him, Harry,' she says. 'He did have a point, it was just -' she reaches for her drink, doesn't bring it to her lips. 'It was like you were a thing, you know? Not a person. I think Lupin felt it too. He came to find me outside, after dinner. He was always great, Lupin,' she adds, shaking her head. 'Really helped with… My second year,' she adds in a quick breath. 'He just stood there, next to me in the garden, watching the gnomes. He said that you were seventeen, that you were his best mate's kid. That you used to burp on his shoulder when you were little,' she smiles, like the memory's just materialising before her eyes, right there, almost within reach. 'I told him you rarely ever sleep well,' she adds before finally crossing his gaze. 'That you don't like milk in your tea. That at the time, you liked pumpkin juice, treacle tart, and kissing me.'
By the time she pauses, Harry doesn't trust himself to speak.
'He never told Mum and Dad, you know?' she adds, a bit later. 'Could have, I mean, not sure what they would have done but he just smiled and said: "He must really miss you, then." Wished me good night, walked back inside. It was different. Most people – Demelza, Neville – they all said that I clearly missed you, which I suppose was true, but it wasn't what I needed to hear.'
She bites her lip. Seconds pass. 'He was right,' Harry says. It's all he can manage without choking. The next day, he tells her the truth about the Hallows and the forest, and hearing his mother calling him brave.
They trade Quidditch tricks and stories, in '99, maybe in equal amounts. Often, the winter skies are dark and heavy above them, wind blowing – it's cold and it's wet - and miserable, and yet, neither of them particularly wants to go home. 'Master of Death, then?' she asks, one day.
He kind of shrugs, kind of sighs, too. 'Not anymore,' he admits. 'I lost the stone and the wand… I reckon at first, I thought that if I didn't get defeated in my lifetime, then it would just die out, you know? But now, with Auror training and all, I've been disarmed so many times - honestly, I don't even know who it belongs to, anymore.'
She bursts out a loud laugh.
(Hermione, on the other hand, almost had a heart attack when he told her. 'You didn't keep track?'
'Well, now even I can't get to it. Isn't that even better?')
Instead, 'Clever,' Ginny chuckles, bumping her shoulder against his. 'Same result, though,' she acknowledges.
They're walking back down towards the house when he pauses, looks at his feet. 'You're the fourth person I've told,' he admits. Notices that her mouth is slightly open, her breath a cloud in the air. He looks at her lips and wants to kiss her, then, he thinks. 'Ron and Hermione, I owed it to them,' he says. She nods. 'Kingsley, I had to. After Narcissa,' he sighs. That still makes him angry. Ginny rolls her eyes. 'You, I always wanted to tell you. I just -' He's not sure how to phrase it. 'I just couldn't find the words, I suppose.'
She shakes her head, then, and smiles, somewhat sadly. 'We had bad timing, Harry. I didn't want to hear them,' she admits. He feels her gaze on his face; it makes him look up. 'Now, I do.'
The following Monday, a week before she gets back to school, she tells him. 'I used to write you letters.'
He frowns. Remembers the poem, but -
As if reading his mind, she laughs, shakes her head. 'Not then, I mean. Last year,' she tells him. They're sitting at the café again; he notices a bit of chocolate at the corner of her lips. 'Never sent them, obviously,' she adds. 'I'd just, I don't know. Tell you about my days. About how school was. Then, I'd enchant them, lock them up, hide them in the Room of Requirement, away from the Carrows. I took them home, even after, when we were at Muriel's. It was like writing in a diary,' she says, quickly. 'But writing to a real person. Who thankfully didn't respond.'
She's smiling, despite her words, so he does, too. 'Well, now I feel less weird about the map,' he admits.
'The map?'
And, so, he confesses to that, too, that winter. She calls him a bit of a creep and he takes it, at first, until –
'Wait,' she asks. 'Do you still have it?'
He goes bright red, then. Bright red, very, very quickly, feels the heat in his cheeks. Fuck, he hasn't even really admitted that to himself, yet, has he? The way that sometimes, when he can't sleep – 'Ew, Harry!' she lets out but she's half-smiling when she does so thank God, he's maybe not in any real trouble.
'I don't know,' he claims, hopelessly trying to defend himself. 'Sometimes, it's nice just to see your dot on there. I'll see you in the common room with Hermione or something, I wonder what you're talking about. Or sometimes, I can see you're just lying in bed. It's … soothing.'
'Oh, I'm sure it is "soothing," Potter!' she laughs. Scandalised, though maybe a little amused, he's not sure. 'Bloody wanking off to me lying in bed -'
'Hey, that is not -'
She silently sets her cup down, then, and sends him a look. He quickly stares at his hands (fascinating, they are, his hands, aren't they?) and while he's pretty sure she isn't much of a legilimens, sometimes, it feels like she can see straight into his brain, doesn't it?
They stop by Luna's on their way back from training. She makes them hot chocolate, though her father still can't seem to look Harry in the eye. By the time Ginny and he walk home, that night, it's already dark outside and the rain has stopped. He can feel, rather than see, the gravel path under the soles of his shoes - the only light cast around them is that of the moon and of the tip of their wands. 'Do you still have them?' he asks. 'The letters.'
She doesn't respond, not right away. In the dark, it's hard to see her face. 'I do, yes.'
Her tone is curt enough that he almost doesn't push. Because for all that they've talked, he can tell that this place they've reached, it's fragile. Often, they live fast, but also burn fast. He fights with everything he has against his instincts, against asking questions and needing facts yet somehow, he still can't hold his words back. 'Can I read them?'
She wrote to him, after all. Must have intended for him to see them at some point, didn't she? He doesn't feel entitled to her (as he told Hermione, he'll take whatever she gives him), but he almost feels entitled to them, in a way, because if they exist, if she thought about him that much, last year, he wants to know. It's another tiny, little sign that they might have existed, at least then, if not now. Why won't she give that to him, at the very least?
She doesn't answer. This time, makes it rather obvious; they walk down the path in a tense silence for the next few minutes, until they get through the wards of The Burrow. He knows she's heard him, has chosen to ignore him, can feel the anger rising between them again. Why did you push? a part of him argues while the other asks: well, why did she bloody tease you with it in the first place?
In the end, she stops, facing the front door. 'Gin -' he says.
She shakes her head. 'I'll think about it, okay?'
On the 7th of January, he and Ron receive their Ministry letters. To be honest, by that point, while Giulia's laugh still seems to haunt him every day, Harry's almost forgotten about the enquiry. Regardless, as Robards predicted, they're both in the clear. Harry feels his frustration rising again, can't believe they gave Ron countless sleepless nights to just get here. In the end, it's much ado for nothing. It's –
The words suddenly come to him and he races up the stairs, locks himself in the bathroom, dry heaving over the toilet. Sirens and shite, is what it was. Fucking sirens and shite. (It never ends, does it?)
That night, he dreams of Giulia. He dreams of her saving him and in a bizarre turn of events, of her lying dead in his forest. He wakes up confused and hopes that if there is an afterlife, she's at least getting on well with Lupin, Sirius, Tonks and Fred.
'You're quiet,' Ginny observes, the next day. It sounds a lot like a plea, like: don't go quiet on me, Harry. He's still upset about the letters, hasn't been keen to show it much. 'It's like you aren't happy they cleared you,' she observes. 'Harry, if you still feel guilty -'
His voice is sharp when he interrupts her. 'It's not that,' he says. For once, it truly isn't.
He regularly wonders why he survived and she didn't, yes, but it's not that. It's that all they got is a lousy letter. A letter and an owl that flew off, stating that no charges would be brought. We expect you back at work on Monday, the 11th of January 1999, cheers, thanks for your service. And, because it's internal terrorism, Kingsley's explained, the report will be sealed, classified. Ron and Harry have a conflict, now, so they'll be taken off the case. Will never get to read it. Will never know what the conclusions were, or whose fault it was, if not their own. They won't know how Voldemort's former followers even planned this, or if they'd planned anything else, if Giulia's death at least helped to prevent something. Harry won't ever know, either, what Internal Affairs really thought of him.
'Their investigator,' he admits to Ginny. 'He said it was odd. That I could cast avada so easily, less than six months into the job.'
'Do you care what he thinks?'
They don't play Quidditch, that day. Instead, they stand in the cold under a light drizzle, in the fields by Luna's house. He leans next to her, bums resting against the side of a wooden fence and aches for a cigarette. 'Giulia said Robards speculated, too,' he adds. 'After training.' It's like they see him as a fucking Guinea pig, isn't it? Like the Healers and his killing curse. 'Said that maybe it was because I'd been hit by it. Or because I'd lost so many people in the war.'
In the distance, smoke's coming out from the chimney of Luna's house. Harry remembers last summer, the dragon she drew for him. It's still there, inked into the skin at his side – it got slightly hurt in their last battle together, but Andromeda and her bottle of Dittany dealt with the few cuts and left it as new.
'When I cast it, it's not me casting it.' He sets his jaw, looks to the ground. 'That's why it's so strong. Why it works.' Vaguely, he wonders if this might be where he loses her. Where she just comes out of this conversation thinking that he's an insane, dangerous creep and forever walks away from him. 'In my head, I see him murdering my parents but the spell that comes out, it's not me being angry at that. It's more like a memory. I remember what it felt like, casting it, being in his head. The anger he summoned to kill them. That's why it's so easy, getting the curse to come out. I've done it before.'
(Every time, he sees Tom Riddle murder his mother, doesn't he?)
'He's dead, Gin,' he says, then. Closes his eyes and feels like digging the heels of his palms into them. 'I know that. I killed him. He's fucking dead and he's still in my head.'
She's standing right in front of him when he opens his eyes. In the blistering cold he studies the freckles on her nose, her chapped lips, the scarf wrapped tight around her neck. He's not sure how she does it, but she draws his look back to hers. 'I know,' she tells him. 'Me too.'
He –
He kisses her. Like: reckless Gryffindors in the depths of winter, like the boy he thought had disappeared long ago, somewhere between Quidditch wins and common room crowds. He slips his palms under her jacket, turns them around and pushes her back until her bum is pressed against the fence, just loses himself in her. In her lips and the touch of her skin, and the hammering of her heart against his chest. He doesn't pull away, refuses to let himself pull away, even just to breathe, because a part of him still thinks that if he does, she'll vanish.
The thing is, though: she doesn't. Instead, she seems to be pulling him closer, if anything, intoxicating, her fingers trailing through his hair and her mouth warm and open against his, and –
He nudges at the space between her knees, against the fence, balances her against his thigh. Her fingers trail down, from his neck down his back, to his hips; he slips a hand against her bum, under the fabric of her jeans. Fuck, he thinks, he's hard already and they can't do this out here, and –
'Harry,' she says. The alarm bells in her eyes again. She pulls away from his lips. He trails down to her jawline, her neck. She moans, shifts to give him better access but - 'Harry, stop,' she says.
Suddenly, it's like someone's thrown a bucket of ice right on top of his head. He opens his eyes, finds hers, steps back. She must sense the panic in his look, he thinks, feels her hand soft against his cheek. Fucking mixed signals, like -
'Harry, you're with someone,' she says.
And, at first, the main thought that hits his brain then, is: Mia wouldn't mind. Later (a much less honourable thought): even if she does, I don't really care. 'That's not -' he starts trying to explain, meaning to tell her (finally tell her) that it's not serious, that –
But then, the moment he crosses her gaze, he sees something else in there, too. Takes another step back, almost instinctively, runs a hand over his mouth.
'Fuck,' he says. 'Fuck, sorry,' he repeats. It's starting to feel like the Earth is spinning, a bit; he tries to lay his eyes on something that's not her (but of course, she's the only fucking thing in this bloody field for miles on end), and – 'Sorry,' he says, again. 'I didn't know.'
She's walking back towards him, now, catching up the distance he's put between them – he feels her hand against his cheek again. 'Hey,' she breathes. 'It's my fault. I didn't tell you,' she tells him. 'And, I don't know, I just got a bit carried away, there.' A much less charitable part of him, then, can't help but think: actually, yeah, that's true. I wrote to you. Told you about Mia. You responded: 'Cool, thanks for letting me know,' not 'Cool, just letting you know I'm shagging someone else, too.' 'It's only been a few weeks,' she sighs, speaks quick, shaking her head and trying to explain. 'I wanted to tell you, thought I'd do it face to face, but then you almost got killed and we were talking and I -' she trails off. 'I didn't want to lose you again.'
And, that, bizarrely, is what gets him. He frowns at her and suddenly, he's bloody furious, and – 'You think I'd want to lose you? For this?' He finds himself throwing his hands up in disbelief. 'Giulia died in my arms, Gin! Do you not think I still have nightmares about losing you? Or Ron? Or Hermione? For fuck's sake, Ginny -' She opens her mouth but no sound comes out. 'After everyone, after everything I've lost last year, the only way I'd ever stop talking to you is a) if you wanted me to, or b) if you were dead.'
She stares. For a moment, he looks at her and she stares at him, about six feet of cold ground between them. 'I thought you'd be jealous, Harry. I thought –'
'Of course, I'm bloody jealous!' he says, laughs, cold. 'I'm raging, too. I mean, at this stage, the entire fucking world knows I'm still in love with you,' he adds. That bloody fucking interview. 'It's fucking embarrassing. But I've lost so many people, Gin. I -' he adds. It's true, but it doesn't make it any easier to say. 'Look, I'd much rather be your friend, than nothing at all. Might even grow out of love after a while, like most people do? Shit, maybe we're not meant to be, but it doesn't mean I don't want you in my life. Just fucking talk to me. Why don't you trust me?'
She is quiet, for a moment. The cold settles around them - Harry's warm, shouting breaths still clouding the air. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he shoves them back into his pockets. When she looks up from her feet, the ends of her ponytail caress the back of her scarf. Her eyes are red, he notices, but she's not crying - not like he's used to with Hermione, anyway. They're not heavy sobs, more like salt water, spilling over from an accidental overflow. Ginny stares, swallows, and wipes her tears off with her sleeve.
'Okay,' she nods. 'I'm sorry.'
And, so, when they head home, they talk some more, that night. Sit cross-legged at each end of her bed with another round of steaming, hot chocolate. His name's Matthew, she tells him. A boy, a couple years older than them; he lives in Hogsmeade, works in the bookshop. 'I've been spending my weekends there since September,' she admits with a sigh. 'Just to get away from the castle. It's just been tough, being back. Then, with Witch Weekly tailing me around everywhere.' Oh, for fuck's sake, he thinks. 'Anyway, we met in October and -' she trails off. Harry's pretty sure his heart's been breaking with every word that's come out of her mouth, so far, but he forces himself to listen anyway. After months of not talking, even if it hurts, he figures it is better than nothing.
'I'm glad at least you're not alone up there,' he says. Doesn't mean a word of it (or more like: I wish it was me, keeping you company) but at least he says it, doesn't he? 'Do you love him?' he asks, after a beat. She looks like she expected the question.
'I don't know,' she says. 'I like him, Harry. But that, I don't know.'
They talk until late, that night. Not only about that, about good things, too. About Teddy, about her brothers, a little bit about Mia. He's honest, there, mostly because she was honest with him. He tells her it's not serious, that they might or might not even be a thing by the time he gets back and, 'Do what makes you happy, Harry,' she tells him. 'Whatever that is. Merlin knows, you deserve it. Believe me.'
He smiles, watches the candlelight reflected in her eyes.
'Look at us,' she says. 'Proper adults.'
He laughs.
'Promise me you'll write, yeah?' she asks. 'When I'm back up there?'
He nods, smiles. 'If you'll write back.'
When he gets home, that Sunday, he knows that Mia won't be back for another week. Unpacks his bags, turns the heat back on, takes a shower before heading out to Tesco to try and restock his very empty fridge. The moment he opens the door, though, he finds himself faced with two large cardboard boxes, filled with papers to the brim – a note in an envelope on top of them.
Harry, she wrote.
I hope you got home okay. I'm really sorry for how I reacted when you asked me to read these. I think there are things on there that I wasn't sure I wanted you to read. The thing is, though, I think a bit like you with the Hallows, I've also been trying to find the words to tell you all of this – all of what happened last year – for months, now, and I haven't found them. So, I reckon they're all here. All 200,000 of them. I suppose I'm not very good at synthesising.
You told me to trust you, so I'm taking a leap. You'll see, there's a letter for each day, bar a couple of instances. They should be in order.
The only thing I'll ask is: please let's not talk about this until you've read it all. I don't think I could face a day by day commentary. I'll write to you about other stuff. You can nag me about Quidditch, Hermione's already nagging me about homework.
Love,
Gin.
(And, so, in January '99, he reads.)