Chapter 11 : Mending Body and Mind
The emerald inferno whirled all around him, flinging him across the flames like a pebble in a storm.
How long had it been since he's jumped into the pit? Since he had lost sight of the others? Everything swirled too fast to see and time had no meaning. His bruised ribs and his mangled hand flared up in pain every time the burning currents twisted his body. Had the magic not paralysed him, he would already have thrown up.
All he knew was that there had to be an end to this insanity. He would come back out into the real world at some point.
He had to.
Something hit him hard in the back of the head, and Seamus knew no more.
"Firewhiskey, Freddy? Really?"
"Doug, it's not even eleven. I'm not takin' out the good stuff before the Falcons break into the hundreds."
Frederick Bates, a middle aged man with a receding hairline hidden under a floppy hat, put down a large bottle and two glasses on the table. Douglas Collins, who had been fiddling with the wireless until then, popped open the bottle and filled the glasses generously with a wave of his wand.
"Wasps' new keeper would put Puddlemere's to shame, I tell ya. They won't make it past thirty"
"Oh yeah? Care to put down some sickles on that? The brand new couch you won me last month could use some-"
The unmistakable sound of bursting flames and a heavy thud echoed through the house. Their banter stopped before it could truly begin, the men exchanged uncertain looks until Douglas turned down the volume of the wireless.
"Ya didn't invite Robert, did ya?"
"After last time? He'd better be hopin' I don't hex his arse back to Wales next I see him... Wands out you reckon?"
"Gotta be these days..."
Wands in hand, they made their way to the living room, finding it covered in soot and dust, dark rock fragments littering the carpeted floor. Sprawled out in front of the fireplace was the prone body of a child, clad in a strange gold bodysuit with red parts that looked like those old armours back in Hogwarts.
"Barnaby's butt, the couch! Look at it!"
"It's just soot, ya pillock" Douglas approached the prone form on the ground, pokin' him with the tip of his feet while Freddy vainly waved his wand above the ruined sofa. "Oi, kid. Ya better have ol' Grindle after your arse to get in here like that or I-"
"Stop yappin'. Boy's knocked out."
"How'd you know he's a boy?"
"I have eyes, nitwit. He don't got lady parts."
Douglas humphed as he knelt beside the boy, slipping his hand around the armoured plates to palpate his neck in search of a pulse. After a few moments of awkward flailing, he took the helmet with both hands and pulled. It hissed when he removed it, uncovering the blood caked face of an unconscious dark-haired boy.
"Don't think that's normal."
"What'd we do? Ain't no way I'm callin' the Aurors cause my floo threw up a dead kid!"
"Hang on, alright? Ya pick him up and I go grab a shovel from-"
"Merlin's saggy bollocks, he's still breathin'!"
"And if you don't forget to burn the incense at the feet of your bed every night, the feathers should be gone by next week, Ms. Genfried."
"Thank you my dear. Bit of a shame, though. The green was pairing so well with my favourite cardigan."
Reginald Swansforth, one of the youngest Healers on staff at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, was guiding his elderly patient toward the entrance hall with a strained smile.
"Now, now. They might be pretty, but you wouldn't want to be covered from head to toe. And think of the shedding once summer comes around."
"You're right, as always." Ms. Genfried smiled widely in his direction, her milky eyes looking right past him. "You always were the clever one, Tommy."
"I'm not-" Reginald sighed. "Never mind. We're here."
Ms. Genfried was a sweet lady, although her mind wasn't all there anymore. Lost with her husband in the war he had been told.
Poor woman.
This did not fail to fan the flames of Reginald's simmering annoyance, however. He had been here more than four years already, and still he remained at the bottom of the totem pole, only to be given minor cases like hers. Not that she didn't deserve to be healed any less than anyone else, Morgana blessed her, but he had not graduated at the top of his class and worked his arse off apprenticing for eight years to remove feathers and foot fungus.
They arrived in the entrance hall and Reginald carefully guided his charge toward the row of fireplaces on the far wall. Like any other day the hall was filled with patients and visitors waiting to be let in. From a man with large butterfly wings for ears, a small girl who let out colourful balloons every time she hiccuped to someone who's behind had fused with a bar stool, the sights of the entrance hall never failed to surprise.
Different from any other day, however, were the growing lines in front of the fireplaces. A man tried to step through the floo by throwing some powder and saying a name, only to jump back with a pained shout when the fire flared, lacking its usual green tint.
"Ms. Genfried, I fear I'll have to leave you in the hands of one of our nurses." Raising a hand, Reginald signalled a man in the green and white uniform of the hospital to come and care for his charge. "Something appears to be wrong with our fireplaces."
"Oh, don't fret, Tommy. I understand. Always trying to help. That's why Marianne always had her eye on you, you know?"
"If you say so. Have a good day M. Genfried, and don't forget the incense."
Walking away as the nurse arrived, Reginald took the direction of the fireplaces, where increasingly infuriated visitors were quickly getting short on patience and covered in soot.
"Now, what seems to be the prob-"
The chime of the main door rang in the hall, turning a few heads, and quickly left its place for horrified gasps and more than one cry.
A man had come out of the brick wall that served as the front door, holding soot covered teenager in his arms. The child was dressed in a strange looking armour whose tint approached that of the blood covering the back of his head and his mangled hand.
"Everyone, out of the way!" Reginald shouted, coming out of his shocked stupor as he rushed to the man's side. "Maddie, get a trauma kit!"
While one of the Nurse behind the front desk hurried to the back room, Reginald arrived at the door, taking in the man's bewildered expression. Wasting no time, he checked for a pulse before opening one the teen's eyelid and bringing his light up wand in front of it, checking the pupil's reaction.
"Is this your son?"
"No he's-I don't know who he is. I just found him and-I didn't do nothing! He-He's hurt and-"
"Calm down, please. It's alright." The nurse arrived, a large leather bag with the Hospital emblem embroidered onto it in her hands. "Thanks. Now this way, quickly."
The bag in hand, Reginald left the hall in a hurried pace, the man and the nurse following after him. His steps led them to the nearest observation room he could find, which was thankfully unoccupied.
"Put him down on the bed, please. Gently."
Setting the bag on one of the counters, Reginald began to take out the potion and medical instruments it contained.
"You've done well bringing him here, mister..."
"Doug. Douglas Collins. Me and my mate Fred, we was just listenin' to the game, you know, when the kid-"
"Thank you, Mister Collins. Why don't you go with Maddison here and tell her all that happened while I take care of him, alright?"
"I... Alright."
As the muttering man was led away by the comforting nurse, Reginald opened one of the vials and soaked a compress with it before carefully applying it on the back of the teenager's head. Satisfied with its application, he then brought his wand up and began casting charms on the boy to detect any trace of residual hex or curse. His eyebrows rose high in surprise, however, when every single one of his spells fizzled out as they made contact with the strange armour.
This was new.
An hour after the commotion had died down in the entrance hall, a man in a too short Auror trench coat barged in with half a dozen of his colleagues. More than one seemed slightly injured and all were covered in dust. Patients and visitors alike hurried out of their way as some walked up to the reception desk, sombre and furious expressions on their faces while the others scattered, roughly searching the crowd.
"W-Welcome to St Mung-"
"I want every patient who arrived in the last hour here." The witch was struck mute, her mouth hanging half-open uselessly as Selwyn leaned forward, bringing his face right before her own. "Now."
"I-I can't. The privacy of our patients-" She tried to back away, only for Selwyn to grab her wrist with force. "What are you doing! Let me-" Her eyes widened and filled themselves with terror as the Auror's sleeve was pulled back by her struggle, revealing a vivid mark moving on his left arm.
Noticing her stare, Selwyn brusquely pulled her back toward him and brought up his wand, lowering back his sleeve in the same movement.
"I won't ask again. Were. Are. They?"
The witch raised a trembling hand toward one of the hallways.
"R-Room sixteen."
Selwyn released his grip, letting her fall back heavily on her chair as he pulled back his coat into place. Every trace of anger disappeared from his face as an easy expression and a toothy smile took its place.
"See? That wasn't so hard."
The first thing Seamus noticed when he regained consciousness was the massive headache that seemed to have replaced his brain. Groaning, he tried to open his eyes, only for treacherous rays of light to pierce them, sending new spikes of pain though his head before he could shut them close.
"Ah, you're awake. Good." The man's voice was unfamiliar, but friendly. It would be even more if he took pity on his poor head and spoke a lot quieter. "I'll admit that I have a few questions for you, kid. It's not every day we get visitors like you around here."
"Where ... Where am I? What happened?"
"I was kind of hopping you could tell me."
Seamus managed to open his eyes once more, this time forcing them to endure the light, yet despite his best efforts, his vision remained blurry. He only managed to make out large green and white blobs all around him, and the indistinct silhouette of the man standing at what he now realised was his bedside.
"Who-Who are you?"
"I'm Healer Swansforth, and I've been treating your injuries. Could you tell me what happened?"
"I ... I remember holding the line ... The Captain shouting ... We were running and-" The flames. The pain. And then nothing. With his memories returning, his vision finally cleared up. The sea green walls, the white furniture, the man with the robes sharing the colour scheme and adorned with a crossed wand and bone in what was unmistakably a hospital, albeit a magic one. "This is-I can't-"
He tried to get up, only to lean heavily on the bed as he faltered, blood rushing to his head and legs too weak to support him. He could feel the hands of the healer on his back and shoulder, steadying him.
"Easy now. You're in no condition to run around. I haven't finished healing your hand and you need to rest as much as possible. On that note, you should avoid all strenuous activities, including apparition, for the next few-"
"You don't understand. I can't be here."
The sudden rebuttal seemed to shock the healer for a moment, until his features softened and a small smile tugged at his lips.
"It's alright. I don't know how you managed to injure yourself like that, but I'm sure your parents won't be mad."
"You don't know my mum." Laughing felt weird. Like his lungs and throat weren't used to it. "But I mean what I said. I can't be here. There's probably Death Eaters on their way already."
"Death Eaters, really?" The healer gave him an awfully familiar disbelieving look from above his glasses. Maybe he did know his mum after all. "You should work on coming up with more tasteful excuses, kid. There are certain things you really shouldn't joke about."
"I'm not joking. I was ..." His head felt so heavy, it was hard to think. He brought a hand to it, hoping to soothe the pain by steadying it. "I was at the Ministry. They were going after the kids. We couldn't-"
"You were hurt at the Ministry?" The healer - Swansforth, was it? - frowned. "Is that where you got this stuff?" Following the pointed look at a table, Seamus discovered what remained of his armoured plating, or at least the top part of it. Looking down, he could see that his suit had been peeled down to his hips, revealing a nasty black bruise that covered a good portion of his right side.
"That's..." Hastily pulling the suit back into place, Seamus tried to stand once more, only to be stopped by a more forceful hand that sat him back on the bed. "That's mine. I'd probably be dead without it, I think."
"I'm not surprised. That's quite the armour you got here. It was a pain to remove it so I could heal you, though." Another attempt at moving from the bed was put down by Swansforth's grip on his aching and tired shoulder. "I said take it easy. You won't be going home for a few days at least. In the meantime, my boss would love to know where you-"
Loud thumping sounds cut the unwelcome query, as the only door in the room rattled violently.
"Who the hell-"
"Aurors! Open immediately!"
The grip on Seamus' shoulder slackened as the Healer's shocked gaze went from the door to him.
"Please." He looked up at the man, pleading. "I need to get out of here. They'll kill me."
Swansforth finally released his shoulder, wearing a painfully forced reassuring expression on his face as he walked to the door.
"Whatever you did at the Ministry, I'm sure they'll understand."
"They might be Aurors, but they all wear the mark on their arm."
The Healer's hand stopped just short of the rattling handle. The men outside were still shouting their commands for him to seize it and let them in, but his attention was entirely focused on Seamus' pleasing eyes.
For all his training and armour, Seamus felt so frail and vulnerable in this moment that seemed to stretch forever.
"Please."
Swansforth's hand fell back to his side while the men outside banged on the door with renewed fervour. His wand swished through the air, opening the window with a soft click and revealing the emergency staircase behind it.
"You're damn lucky this was the closest room available."
Seamus released a shaky breath, feeling like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Bracing himself, he finally managed to stand up on uncertain legs. Propping himself against the bed, he walked up to the window, where Swansforth met him, an improvised bag made with a bed sheet in hand.
"You'll need these, I take it." Taking the bundle, Seamus could feel the weight of his armour inside. "I'd advise you not to run, but it might be unavoidable given the situation."
"Thank you." Seamus pushed the bag through the window before he heaved his leg across the sill. He was about to bring the rest of his body through when he stopped and looked back. "Come with me. They won't be happy when they see you've helped me run."
"Don't worry about me, kid. I'll be alright. Now go."
Feeling hands push his back, Seamus crossed the sill and landed on the metal staircase.
"And get someone to look at your right hand, ok?"
With that, Swansforth closed the window and drew the blinds, disappearing from Seamus' view. He could hear the sound of something heavy being dragged on the wooden floor as he picked up the bag and began his descent, sparing one last glance at the window.
Hurrying down the stairs as fast as his legs would allow, Seamus dug through his improvised bag until his hand closed around a familiar rounded shape. Taking it out, he brought the communication stone to his mouth.
"Anyone there? I'm still alive, but I wouldn't say no to a side-along pick-up right about now."
The door to his quarters opened with a soft hiss and Harry walked in, not bothering to activate the lights. Mars shone in the distance beyond the window, bathing the already red room in a carmine hue. Discarding his helmet on the bed, he walked up to his desk, still covered in data slates and piles of unread reports. Ignoring the chair, he leaned on it and picked up one of the slate.
Seamus, the last unaccounted member of their strike team had been found and brought back onboard and was now resting in the ship's infirmary with the other injured. Harry's own shoulder cramped in pain every time he stretched it the wrong way, but he had refused to stay with them.
How could he stay among them when they had been injured by his decisions? When Ernie died because he caved in to Ginny and agreed with Ernie's plan? When he had failed to guide them safely as soon as they had walked into danger together? When he had pulled them in this war to begin with?
Captain? Admiral?
What a joke.
He should have stood his ground and refused all of it. Kept them safe in orbit. Maybe bringing their families on board if necessary, secrecy be damned. In a few months, they wouldn't even be in the solar system any more, so why should they care about such a small country? What had it ever done for them, except perpetuate centuries of prejudice and cower when things got hard?
Why should he care?
They could leave it all behind and explore the stars, maybe find another planet to call their own, Voldemort and fickle wizards be damned.
If only he'd done any of this instead...
Tears of rage, shame, grief and impotence blurred his vision and dropped on the slate, breaking the silence that permeated the room like it did a tomb.
With a shout, Harry let it all come out for the first time since the graveyard, sweeping the desk and throwing everything on it to the floor.
His trembling knees gave in and he sat down, his back to the desk as the tears continued to flow freely down his face.
It had been days since the debacle at the Ministry, and it seemed to all like the combat team had brought back the dread and gloom that filled Wizarding Britain back to their stellar oasis. The carefree altitude and tense anticipation had been replaced by a veil of doom and grief. Even the stars' shine seemed to have dimmed.
The hushed whispers in the corridors of the station had spread the news and the fears they brought. The Daily Prophet had printed a special issue entirely dedicated to what they had dubbed an act of muggle-born terrorism. The terrorists, having failed in their attempt at assassinating the Minister, had been cornered by the Aurors in the lower levels of the Ministry. There, they had decided to take their own lives and to bring with them as many innocents as they could by collapsing the level above on top of the heart of the Floo Network.
No mention had been made of the apparent age of the "terrorists", or even of Ernie. Either they could not identify the body or they did not want it known that they had been dealt a severe blow by school children. In any case, the crew had decided to keep to Hogwarts when they got back to Earth for now, just to be safe.
There were talks of Dumbledore summoning Harry to his office, but no one knew what had happened there. Had they talked of Ernie? Had Dumbledore learned the true nature of their activities? Was that why Sprout had looked so crestfallen the previous day? Will the headmaster try to put a stop to their work?
Rumours and theories ran rampant, while the truth remained locked behind the closed doors of Harry's room. Despite the restlessness of everyone on board, the Captain had only been seen out of his room since he had come back from the Ministry.
At Ernie's funeral.
The circumstances being what they were, they could not afford to organise a public funeral, so they held a private ceremony on the ship. Since they had no body to bury and none of his relatives could be brought on board, it had been a sombre and quiet affair. Beautiful, though. For a moment, the main hold of the ship, cleared out for the occasion, had lit up like the night sky as they raised their wands to their fallen comrade.
They had shared stories in hushed whispers and shed tears before sending the few belongings they could not return to his family into space. Their trajectory had been calculated by Lee to keep them in a stable orbit around Neptune, so a part of him could always look after them like he had done for the past year.
The next day, Hermione had been heard saying that the Captain had gone to break the news to Ernie's parents. If one was to believe her, it had gone ... poorly.
Amongst their fears and doubts, one thing was certain in the mind of the crew.
If the Captain continued to shut himself off, this war and their dream of a great adventure through the stars were doomed.
The knocks on his door echoed through the room, like they had every day since he had locked it.
"You can't keep on like this, mate. You have to come out."
The knocks kept coming, only to be answered by the silence reigning inside.
"I'm not taking no for an answer today, Harry. Alohomora."
With a clunking sound, the door finally opened, revealing the disorder beyond. Scrolls, books, clothes, bed sheets and discarded plates littered the floor while the furniture had been knocked over. The Gryffindor banner had been torn down and burnt before its remains had been bundled in a corner.
Carefully stepping in, Ron went around the bed to find him sitting on the ground, his back to the bed. His tired features were accentuated by the pale light of Neptune in the darkness of the room.
"Well, you look like shit."
For a moment, Ron thought he wouldn't answer, continuing to ignore his presence like he had done for the last five days. After a while though, he finally talked, his raspy voice grating to hear after so long.
"What do you want?"
"It's been almost a week. You already kicked out Hermione and Ginny's as much of a mess as you. You can't stay in here forever so," Ron raised the Quaffle in his hands for him to see. "I'm dragging your arse out of here."
"I'm not in the mood, Ron. Just leave me alone."
"Didn't I make myself clear?" He grabbed Harry's underarm and pulled him up. "I said I was getting you out of here, and I'm damn well gonna do it."
Physically and mentally spent, Harry did not offer much resistance after that and allowed himself to be dragged back to the castle and down to the snow covered grounds. More than one curious or aghast look were sent their way, but Ron did not slow his pace until they had reached the Quidditch pitch. Once there, he threw one of the school brooms at Harry, who caught it, only to look at it for a moment, as if he didn't know what to do with it.
Once in the air, they passed the Quaffle between them in silence for a few minutes, Harry's half-hearted attempts barely managing to keep up with Ron's.
"You're thinking that it's your fault." Ron said matter-of-factly, breaking the almost comfortable silence once Harry started to put more strength in his throws. "That you shouldn't have caved to Ginny and that we should have stayed away from the fight. That way, Ernie would still be there."
The sudden affirmation, neither accepting nor judging, took Harry by surprise and he almost failed to catch the Quaffle when it came to him.
"That's not-"
"No? Then what is it? You've been holding back. Keeping us away from danger because you wanted to take all the risks yourself by helping Dumbledore. Just like you've always done. And now that you did allow us to get out and fight, Ernie died."
Harry's brow furrowed in frustration and anger, but his mouth remained shut. His jaw was set as he threw the ball backward.
"Thing is, it wasn't up to you. It never was." Ron circled around Harry, catching the ball before it could lose too much altitude. "You may be the Captain, but it's our fight too. For our families, for our home, for our friends..." He sent him back the Quaffle, his eyes looking straight at Harry's. "Don't we deserve the chance to fight for them too? Wasn't that the whole idea in the first place?"
"Ok, you know what?" Harry caught the ball and threw it back with force. "You're right! This is exactly why I didn't want us to fight like that in the first place. We weren't ready!" He caught the Quaffle again, preparing himself to send it back. "We should have stayed on the ship, kept training and building and, and ... and we didn't." He let the ball slip from his fingers and fall. "And Ernie's gone."
Ron stared at him for a second, before diving toward the ground. Twisting in mid-air, he hit the Quaffle with the brambles of his broom, sending it back up and snatching it out of the air as he levelled back with Harry, the ball securely under his arm.
"I didn't really know Ernie. But I know he was a right bloke who believed in what we're doing. He didn't volunteer for the mission on a whim. We all knew the risks and how much was at stake. Sure, we took some blows and lost more than we thought we could, but we completed the mission."
They floated above the pitch, unbound from everything like they were from gravity, the soft wind blowing in their hair and robes as Harry looked down at the ground, refusing to meet his eyes.
"How many families do you think they would have killed this week if we hadn't? Or next month? Despite everything, we did the right thing. And deep down, I know you know that."
Silence fell on them once more, disturbed only by the quiet murmurs of the wind and the distant shouts of students playing in the melting snow.
After a while, Ron pushed his broom forward, intent on bringing them back down. He stopped, however, when Harry spoke again, his voice so quiet it could have been lost in the wind.
"Every time I lead people into danger, something goes wrong and they're the ones paying the price. The chessboard, the chamber, the graveyard, the ministry ... my parents ... even your father. People keep dying for me, Ron. Why? Why do I get to live and not them? How is that fair? Where does it stop?"
"It's not. Nothing really is when there's a mad man like you-know-who out there. But they made their choices. And you made yours."
Ron leaned his broom forward, bringing him next to Harry and put a hand on his shoulder.
"You're the captain, you accepted that role. It doesn't just mean you get to order us around and stop us when we go too far. It's your job making those decisions and sometimes ... Sometimes our best is not enough. And we have to live with the consequences. But shutting yourself down like this? That's not you. You get back up and keep trying. Not because you need to get your revenge or because you're callous enough not to care, but because there are still people worth saving."
Gripping the handle of his broom again, Ron began to slowly drift back down.
"We both know you're better than this. When you're done wallowing in your guilt, I promise you one thing. Whatever we face, we'll face together, like we always did. But this time, you'll have all of us standing right beside you. And I'll be damned if I ever stop doing my best to get everyone home safe."
With one last throw, the Quaffle spun in the air until Harry caught it with both hands.
"So I'll be waiting for you. We all will."
With a single step, Harry left behind the freezing air of the castle and entered the carefully controlled temperature of the Requirement. Ron had left him alone with his thoughts hours ago, and although winter was nearing its end, the nights in the Scottish highlands were never warm.
He hadn't wanted to go back to the ship. Not just yet. He still needed time to think. Time to...
Anyways, his stubbornness had finally been broken when he could not fight the cold and his empty stomach anymore. He would have been perfectly happy to stay the night on the grounds with the help of a warming charm and after summoning food from the kitchen, had he not left his wand in his room when Ron had dragged him down here.
So he had walked back up to the castle, visiting the kitchen for a late dinner amongst Dobby and the other elves, before wandering the empty halls of Hogwarts on his way back. Quite certain that Mrs Norris was hot on his heels, he'd finally made his way back to the seventh floor corridor and to the ship.
Even at this hour, he could see the light coming from the workshops and the muffled voices of the late night workers behind their doors. A week ago, he would have reminded them to curb their enthusiasm and to take the time to sleep, but after everything and with his own sleepless nights, he didn't have the heart to be the hypocrite that would quench their desperation to work on a solution to all their problems.
Those thoughts spurred his already foul mood, and fueled his feet as they wandered the corridors to get him as far away from those doors as he could. He quickly recognised the section of the ship where he had ended up, having spent many a sleepless night in this very observation deck watching the stars.
Sometimes, Luna would join him there, either to look into the emptiness with him or to paint, always in silence, and at first he thought this would be one of those nights. However, while a girl was indeed on the deck, sitting at the feet of the great window that extended across the ceiling with her knees close to her chest, the short flaming hair and the gold suit gave him no doubt that this night would be different.
It had been five days since the funeral.
Five days since he last saw her.
He doesn't know how long he stood there, watching her sitting with Neptune and the stars shining brightly behind her, and after an eternity, he gathered up the courage to sit next to her.
At first, she did not seem to notice his presence, however her gaze soon tore itself from the view to look at him, almost scared. Dark circles surrounded her eyes and, for a moment, Harry thought back at Ron's earlier comment, wondering if he was in as bad a state as she seemed to be.
Then again, five days. He was probably worse.
They sat together, close, but not quite touching, as if afraid the smallest brush would break the other and end the moment.
In the end, she proved braver than him.
"You were right."
He did not need to ask what she was talking about. The thought had been echoing in his mind for a week now.
"We weren't ready. I shouldn't have pushed you to do it. It's just ... It was all so frustrating. Sitting here, safe in our own little paradise while knowing that Mum, Bill and the others were fighting ... This wasn't why we'd done all of this. But you were right. I should have just listened an-"
"No." It was weird, having the very thoughts that had haunted him for so long being repeated back to him. It should have felt good, to be validated-vindicated, even-in such a way ... yet he could only taste ashes. "You were right. This needed to be done. I ... I only wished it didn't come at such a price."
She looked at him, disbelieving.
"But we failed, we even lost the files. All because of me."
"And yet we still completed the original mission. And what happened wasn't your fault." Because if it was anyone's, it was his, and he would not let her carry this weight. "Your hand was forced."
"They found us because I stepped in! If I hadn't-"
"If you hadn't, Percy would have been tortured and either killed or sent to Azkaban." And he might still. They had heard nothing of Percy since the Ministry, and he could have been arrested after they left for all they knew. That wasn't something Ginny needed to be reminded of right now, though. "You did the right thing."
"For all the good that does us." Ginny buried her head between her knees. "I can't believe Ernie died because I protected Percy." She spat the name, as if saying it burned her tongue. "He's not even family anymore."
"Yes he is."
She leaned onto his side, not raising her head.
"Yes he is ... Despite everything ... He still is ... Is that strange?"
"No." His hand found hers and gently took it into his own. "No, it really isn't."
The ticks of the two clocks echoed on the bridge, silent despite being fully staffed, marking the coming of the tenth hour of the sixth day since the Captain had disappeared. The sun burned bright on the horizon as their course took them straight for it.
None of the bridge crew was particularly enthusiastic at the idea of testing Requirement's shields when they had just lost one of their own and the chair behind the main console stood empty. It had been one of the last tasks that Ernie had organised, however, and they felt that, despite everything, they could not deny the last of his work. As such, they carried on, holding their heads high in defiance of the weighty silence and sombre mood as they prepared the ship to withstand the full force of the solar winds.
"Get us at the first set of coordinates, Lieutenant."
Ron circled the main console, taking the time to inspect its readings before sitting down, his lanky frame filling the high chair awkwardly.
Cho, who was standing next to him at the console, sent him an uncertain look while the rest of the bridge crew exchanged their own.
"Are we... Are we not waiting for the Captain?"
They had heard of his talk with Harry then. Not really surprising since he had not bothered to be discreet. He did not like that it gave them a hope he would have to crush, however ... Being here giving them order already felt weird, so he couldn't imagine how they felt.
"Harry's not coming. I'll supervise the test today."
Cho's hesitant eyes did not leave his own, searching for something. Reassurance? Hope maybe? There was precious few of it to find in him these days. With a small nod, Ron turned her attention back to the console, where she moved and turned the command stone without a word to adjust their course.
"Once we reach the first position, I want a detailed report on the shields before we move to the next-"
The all too familiar hissing sound of a door opening was soft enough that it was often missed, but in this instant, it seemed as deafening as thunder.
Every head turned to see Harry step onto the bridge and stop, their eyes darted between him and Ron while they waited for one to move with bated breath.
Trying very hard, yet still failing to repress his smile, Ron stood up.
"Captain on the bridge."
A small, grateful smile tugged at Harry's lips as he stepped forward, taking back his chair while Ron stood by his side.
"Proceed as planned, Lieutenant."
A scruffy looking Reginald Swansforth stood in front of a peculiar shop in Diagon Alley. The streets were a far cry from their former glory, all warmth and life gone with the many disappeared denizens and the now boarded up shops. The few passersby did their utmost to get to their business quickly, looking everywhere but at the abandoned storefronts and loitering homeless huddled together for warmth.
It was in search of that same warmth that Reginald tightened the too small cloak around his lanky frame with hands that refused to stop trembling. Repeated exposure to the Cruciatus would do that to you. Had his wand not been snapped, he would have been able to keep the cold away without second hand clothes he had picked up in a trash bin, but this luxury wasn't one shared by undeserving citizens these days.
His eyes darted to the letter he held, checking the hour and address written on it for what seemed like the hundredth time. It had appeared out of thin air in front of him, in the alley where he had taken to sleeping these last couple days, snatchers having raided the abandoned house he and a dozen others had claimed for themselves. The loopy handwriting on it promised him food and shelter at no charge, and while it seemed far too good an offer to be true, he knew he wouldn't last much longer on his own out here.
So it was with a grim face that Reginald knocked on the door displaying the word "closed" in glowing letters surrounded by glittering stars. He did not have to wait long, as a middle aged woman opened the door with a large smile only a few moments later. She seemed to know exactly who he was and what he was here for, inviting him to come in and to leave his coat on the rack before ushering him deeper into the shop.
The shop had been decorated garishly, as if an over excited teenager had made an attempt at it and decided to cram as many space themed items in the relatively small room. However, he could not deny that the sight of the model of the planets circling just under the star-dotted ceiling lightly tugged at his heart.
Since he'd graduated and joined St Mungo's apprenticeship program, he never had the time to really indulge in his love of astronomy. And with all that happened, he doubted he would ever have the opportunity again.
He was brought to an office in the back, a blond girl that the woman had called Abbott sat at a desk, writing loopy letters on a parchment. Reginald's eyes, however, were wide open in shock and fixed on the boy with a wide grin standing next to her. He had not seen or heard of him in two weeks, and here he was, looking like the perfect picture of health if one excluded the thick scars on his hand.
"Good to see you, Swansforth. Tell me, would you like a job?"