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Meaning of One, Part One: Stone and Fire | ||||||
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Category: Alternate Universe Characters:Albus Dumbledore, Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Minerva McGonagall, Ron Weasley Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, General, Humor Warnings: Violence Story is Complete Rating: R Reviews: 1026 Summary: If two people are deliberately created to be together, how will the challenges in a world of magic and Dark Lords be dealt with? What would it mean for two people to truly become one? A re-imagination of first year. Hitcount: Story Total: 548304; Chapter Total: 26220 Awards: View Trophy Room Author's Notes: Thanks, as always, to moshpit, Jonathan Avery, regdc, and Chreechree. |
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Ginny arched her back and thrashed her arms in Madam Pomfrey’s grip. The pain from Harry’s contact with the black flames utterly consumed her senses, shredding her consciousness, and she could no longer tell which body was suffering. Half a moment later, Harry’s intention to escape finally crystallised, and he appeared on the floor of the hospital wing on his back. Pomfrey hastily eased Ginny to the floor and hurried to Harry’s side. His eyes were squeezed tightly closed, but Ginny managed to turn her head in spite of the pain and saw him laid out on the floor. His back was arched identically to hers, and his robes burned with black flames that did not die out as she watched. “Help him,” she gasped. “Oh, please, help him!” Quickly, the matron levitated Harry and turned him face-down as she placed him on one of the beds. As he was rotated in midair, Ginny got a single glimpse of his back. Most of his school robes and shirt had been consumed, but the edges of the ragged hole still burned, and sullen black flames still flickered between his ribs and his hips. Ginny closed her eyes as she fought the bile rising in her throat. When he came to rest on the bed, Harry unconsciously panted and whimpered into the pillow, one arm tensely hanging over the side of the bed frame and the other trapped in the remains of his robes. Every few moments, something caused a new surge of agony in his back. With each spike, Harry and Ginny yelled vocally and mentally, their voices mixing in a demonic chorus. Their minds and bodies were locked in confusion and overwhelmed by anguish. Madam Pomfrey muttered a long incantation and swept her wand forcefully above Harry’s back. Distantly, Ginny saw the last of the flames disappear, and the trickle of sickly grey smoke coming from Harry’s body finally ceased. The constant pain was still almost insurmountable, but Ginny laboriously dragged herself across the floor. Through the agony and reek of burned flesh, she grabbed Harry’s dangling hand and squeezed it tightly. Tears streamed unnoticed from their eyes. The sensation of contact helped Ginny to focus slightly and to regain a faint sense of separation between their bodies. Harry was still lost in the pain and only vaguely aware of her hand crushing his. Pomfrey’s here, Harry. She can help. Ginny pressed the back of his hand to her cheek and rocked slowly, fighting the torment, fighting the stench, and fighting the screaming of his mind. She’ll help. It’ll stop soon. Ginny slowly sank into a stupor while chanting It’ll stop soon over and over into their minds. The litany was the only thing she could focus on through the haze of horrible perceptions. “Miss Weasley, I need you to move out of the way so that I can treat him.” Ginny looked up through eyes clouded by pain and found Madam Pomfrey standing next to her. The matron was reaching awkwardly across Harry’s body to wave her wand over his back. Without hesitation, Ginny sank to her hands and knees and crawled under Harry’s hospital bed, trying to ignore the thickening of the sickly sweet smell clogging her nostrils. “That will do.” Once out of the way, Ginny pulled her knees to her chest to get her feet out of Pomfrey’s path. The cold tile floor provided another solid, reassuring sensation, letting Ginny fight her way into a semblance of coherent thought. She seized Harry’s hand with both of hers, brought it back to her cheek, and resumed her rocking and silent chanting. Amid the words, she silently projected her affection and assurances that he would soon be whole again. That they would soon be whole again. Pomfrey moved into the space Ginny had left, and her robes swayed as she worked. Burned and smouldering scraps of black robe fell to the floor on either side of the bed, followed by barely-recognisable shreds of Harry’s uniform shirt. As she worked, the pain continued to hammer at their minds. It peaked a moment before each scrap of fabric fluttered to the floor. Ginny tried to ignore the strange, blackened lumps clinging to almost every shred of cloth on the floor beside her. The sleeves of Harry’s robe and shirt fell to the floor, and then the rain of unbearable and charred things mercifully ceased. Pomfrey’s sharp voice came to them both from above. “I have to remove the curse from these wounds before I can heal them. I’m sorry, but I can do nothing to stop the pain until the curse is gone. Normally I would stun you, but . . .” “No!” they exclaimed hoarsely together through Ginny’s lips. Harry’s body was still locked into a snarling rictus of pain and too overwhelmed by the physical sensations to allow conscious control. Even so, they knew that they preferred hours of agony to even a moment of near-oblivion. “Very well. Try to remain still, Harry.” Her voice softened. “This will hurt.” The hem of her robes swung again, and the pain tripled as a horizontal stripe of Harry’s lower back felt as though it were being ripped from his body. Harry and Ginny both yelled harshly, sounds from mouths and minds blending into an unholy, agonised plea. Ginny squeezed his hand spasmodically as his body involuntarily fought the pain, and he struggled to keep from lashing out at the matron. Ginny . . . he gasped at last, struggling for any coherent thought. Something . . . something else . . . Confusion played through their minds. They knew there was something he was struggling to realise, but they could not determine quite what it was. The pain warred with their thoughts. Mine! he tried again. No! Yours! Something yours! They finally realised the answer. Ginny pulled one of her hands away from Harry’s and wrapped her fingers around one of the metal legs of the infirmary bed. Harry! Harry, feel with me! The combined sensations of cold floor and the cold metal were enough for Ginny to begin to perceive them, but Harry’s pain still radiated through them both in excruciating waves. She concentrated, ignoring Harry’s agony as much as she could. Gradually, she became able to perceive the cool rigidity of the metal as more than a wavering background impression. She ran her hand up and down the pole to keep from warming it in any one spot. C’mon, Harry! Harry! Focus! Another flash of pain ripped through their consciousness, eliciting both mental and verbal screams of unending misery. Ginny struggled to focus again and returned her attention to the metal under her hand. Finally, Harry was able to distantly feel what she felt. Cool, he muttered. Hard. Yes, Harry, it’s cool and hard, Ginny said, fighting her own tears from the shared agony. She kept her attention on the input of her own senses as much as she could. Cool. Yours. Better. Harry’s thoughts were stronger, but then Madam Pomfrey moved again, and the pain returned in full force. The feel of the metal leg completely vanished from their attention. They had no knowledge of how long the misery lasted or when their mingled cries ceased, but when they had recovered slightly, Ginny thought of a new tactic. She removed her hand from the bed’s leg and pulled her tangled hair in front of her. She ran the back of her hand gently down the length of her hair, letting the loose waves tickle her skin. Feel this, Harry. You like this! Focus, Harry! Focus! His free hand, still clasped in hers, curled slightly to match the hand on her hair. As she moved her hand in long strokes, his wrist bent slightly to mimic her motions. “Soft,” he croaked, not realising he had spoken aloud. Ginny’s shaky burst of laughter emerged as a broken sob. It’s a mess, Harry. “Pretty.” Soft. “Yours.” Better. Madam Pomfrey bent down to look at Ginny and saw what she was doing. The older woman’s eyes flicked to Harry’s hand where it moved back and forth in Ginny’s grip in a weak echo of her own movements. “Well done, Miss Weasley,” she whispered. “It won’t be long, now.” She straightened, and the purposeful swaying of her robe resumed. When the pain in Harry’s back peaked again, smashing through their fragile focus on each other, Ginny reflexively drove her fingers into her hair and pulled sharply down. As the red locks slid between her fingers, they caught in the tangles, and she felt Harry regain his focus more quickly in spite of his shaky mental state. The combination of sensations from her hand and her scalp was enough to keep them focused through Harry’s pain. Don’t “hurt” yours“elf”, Harry said weakly. His thoughts were becoming slightly more coherent, but almost all of his energy was going into staying still and ignoring his own body. He had no idea of whether he was speaking audibly or mentally. Ginny’s temper flared momentarily, and a hot spike of resentment flashed through both their minds. You’re the one to talk! The momentary lack of sensation and the flash of anger broke their focus, and the driving pain that Harry’s body was experiencing returned in full force. Sorry. “Please?” Knowing there were more important things at that moment, Ginny untangled her fingers and gripped her hair loosely, letting it slide unhindered across her palm. The next spasm passed, and Ginny thought that perhaps it was less painful than the others had been, even though Harry’s mental screams were still terrifyingly real. She continued stroking her hair, and the repetitive motion was soothing in some obscure way. As she moved, the back of her hand slid along her cheek, where fresh tears fell in the tracks of older ones. Sorry, Harry said through the haze of pain. So sorry. Sorrysorrysorry . . . Later, Harry. Later. Pomfrey’s voice came from above. “Once more, and it’s over.” The pain spiked again, and Harry’s hand clenched as Ginny tightened her grip on her hair. Their cries were much softer, but Ginny suspected that the decreased volume was due to fatigue and vocal strain more than anything else. When the assault of agony finally passed, the matron’s robes swung in a broad motion, and the pain vanished completely. It was more than relaxing, because Harry’s entire back ceased to tell their minds anything at all. Harry and Ginny both released the breath they had been half-holding through the entire ordeal, and their bodies slumped weakly. “The Numbing Charm will only last for a few minutes,” Pomfrey told them. “Long enough for me to apply a poultice and bandage the burns. Mr. Potter, I am going to Petrify your back to prevent you from moving. Just because you do not feel excessive pain does not mean that you cannot make things much worse by improperly stretching the skin. Once the Numbing Charm wears off, you will feel discomfort and a slight burning sensation, but it should be easily manageable - comparable to a sunburn, perhaps. Tomorrow we’ll start proper conditioning of the skin, but for tonight you must let the potions work.” She muttered a spell they could not hear, and Harry’s torso stiffened under the effects of an immobilization spell. For a few blissfully painless minutes, Harry closed his eyes, and Ginny kept his hand pressed against her cheek. Their minds wandered over distant and indistinct images, but all coherence was lost in the sheer joy of the pain being gone. They did not speak at all and only let their sense of relief and mutual comfort soothe them as Madam Pomfrey worked on in silence. They heard the door to the hospital wing slam into the adjacent wall, and when Harry opened his eyes, they saw Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall enter the room at a jog. McGonagall spotted the two students first, and she rushed towards their bed with a horrified gasp. All Ginny could see from her vantage point was an occasional flash of purple- or tartan-covered legs. “Stay there, Minerva,” Pomfrey ordered. “They will be fine if I am not interrupted and quite otherwise if I am. Wait and be quiet until it’s your turn.” Dumbledore and McGonagall both stopped in their tracks. The normally stern professor moved to one side and leaned down until she could see Ginny around Pomfrey’s legs. Flicking her eyes up towards Harry, she raised her eyebrows in question. Ginny, huddled under the hospital bed and holding the back of Harry’s hand to her cheek, nodded faintly. McGonagall’s eyes closed, and Ginny heard her long exhalation. Then the professor opened her eyes again and gave Ginny a tiny smile of encouragement. With her free hand, Ginny reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out the Philosopher’s Stone. She had completely forgotten about it until that moment, but seeing the Headmaster reminded her forcibly of why they were here and why they had suffered such agony. Wordlessly, Ginny held the Stone in front of her for McGonagall to see. The older woman’s eyes widened, but then she nodded firmly. Ginny raised her shoulders slightly in question, and the professor made a small gesture with her hand in Dumbledore’s direction. Ginny scowled slightly and nodded. It will be safe with Dumbledore, Harry said at last, some coherence returning to his mind as he shared Ginny’s perceptions. I hope he does something better with it this time, she growled. Yeah, we should never have been able to get through all that. Harry’s voice was laced with weakness and exhaustion, and it was all he could do to keep up with her thoughts. Madam Pomfrey stepped away from the bed with a long sigh. “Very well, Mr. Potter. Your back will heal perfectly if you do not move improperly while the poultice heals the burn, and so you will continue to lie on your stomach with the Petrification in place. I shall give you Dreamless Sleep potions to ensure that you rest and to minimize the discomfort.” Dreamless sleep? Harry was groggy, but the effect sounded very close to the unconsciousness Ginny had experienced while Stunned. “What does the potion do, Madam Pomfrey?” Ginny asked in a whisper, her voice cracking slightly, fearing the answer. “You may come out, Miss Weasley.” Ginny slowly climbed out from under the bed, carefully holding Harry’s hand in hers to avoid shifting his body, and leaned against the mattress. Harry lay under a thin sheet and was clothed in white hospital pyjama tops and bottoms. Through the thin material of the pyjamas, she could see that his back was swathed in thick white bandages. His socks, shoes, and the rest of his uniform were nowhere in sight. His back was beginning to feel warm, as it had after a long day labouring in the garden at Privet Drive, and his instinctive efforts to shift his shoulders failed utterly. The matron ran her wand briefly over Ginny’s body. With a gentle hand on her chin, Pomfrey turned Ginny’s head to the side and then tapped the back of her head with her wand. A pain that Ginny had not yet noticed faded away, and then the matron continued. “The Dreamless Sleep potion is just that. Mr. Potter will sleep deeply for approximately eight hours at a time without having any dreams.” “Thank you, Madam,” Ginny replied, wincing at the hoarseness of her own voice. “Poppy, may we have a few minutes before you administer the potion?” Dumbledore asked quickly. Pomfrey looked sharply at the Headmaster with a stern frown on her face. “No, you may not. Have you not paid any attention these last nine months? If you wish to speak to Mr. Potter, address Miss Weasley. There is no reason to interfere with his healing.” Dumbledore blinked. “Ah. Yes. You’re quite right, of course.” “Indeed,” Pomfrey snapped. “And at some point, we will discuss where Mr. Potter encountered Dark Fire. I hope your explanation is very convincing, unless you wish to require my services yourself.” The matron crossed to the potions cabinet and returned with a small vial of liquid and a plastic straw. Pomfrey stopped and held Ginny’s gaze. Her voice became quite gentle as she continued. “You need not fear. It is nothing like the effects of the Stunning spell you encountered some months ago.” Holding the potion in one hand, she dropped the straw into the vial and positioned its other end at Harry’s mouth. “Drink, Mr. Potter.” Harry eyed the vial warily, but Ginny silently encouraged him to trust Madam Pomfrey’s assurance that the potion was harmless. Obediently, Harry drank the foul liquid. No matter what he thought of the taste, Ginny insisted that he drink it quickly and begin the healing process. When he was finished, Madam Pomfrey moved away, and Ginny released Harry’s hand to kneel on the floor next to the head of his bed. With gentle fingertips, she reached out and stroked his forehead and cheek. His eyes, though their lids were already sagging, met hers from the shadow of her palm. Ginny managed a small smile, and she watched as tears of relief began to gather in her eyelashes. You’re alive, Harry. You’re going to be alright. Blinking more and more slowly, Harry swallowed once and nodded slightly. Ginny looked into his green eyes and continued stroking his face until his eyelids closed and did not open again. The last thing he saw with his own vision was her face, smiling bravely and radiating her affection for him. After the input from his body retreated to a faint echo, Ginny’s senses were the only ones they could actively perceive. As promised, it felt nothing like being Stunned, and they marvelled at the novel sensation of Ginny being fully awake and mostly alert while Harry slept. Thank you, Ginny, he said. That really . . . that really helped. I’ve never . . . I mean . . . I know, Harry, she replied gently. You’re welcome. Sighing, she rose from her knees. As she leaned against the bed, she picked up his hand and held it in hers once again. “He won’t dream?” she asked Madam Pomfrey. “No, child.” Ginny glared at the Headmaster. “Why didn’t you give this to us before?” “The dreamless sleep potion causes serious problems if it is used regularly,” Dumbledore slowly replied. “It is also somewhat addictive.” The Headmaster waved his wand and conjured two plush and comfortable chairs for himself and McGonagall. Another wave produced a padded stool for Ginny, which was tall enough that she could sit and hold Harry’s hand without discomfort for either of them. Pomfrey sniffed. “You have precisely twenty minutes, Headmaster. Miss Weasley is uninjured, but she requires rest.” “May I please sleep here, Madam Pomfrey?” Ginny asked. Her voice was still scratchy and slightly uncomfortable. “I see no other option,” the older woman replied. She flicked her wand, and the next bed in the row slid across the floor until it butted against Harry’s. The sheets and blankets on the bed turned down perfectly, awaiting an occupant. Ginny stared longingly at the bed. They both wanted to just go to sleep and be left alone, but they knew that the Headmaster would not want to leave without at least some discussion of the evening’s events. Sighing in resignation, Ginny tried to find a comfortable position on the stool. The matron leaned down in front of Ginny and looked her in the eyes. “Miss Weasley, your task whenever you are here is to ensure that Mr. Potter is not moved. When he is awake, you should also be certain that he does not move himself. He should only move when I am supervising his healing. Will you help me to ensure that?” “Yes, Madam,” Ginny replied. “No one will touch him except you and me, and if he tries to move, I’ll petrify him myself.” Gee, thanks, Ginny. You’ll be happy if that’s all you get from my wand. The flicker of her anger and fear was a faint echo of her earlier feelings, but it was still tangible and immediate in their minds. Pomfrey looked at her searchingly for a long moment. “I believe you, Miss Weasley, and I trust you.” She straightened and turned towards her office. The matron addressed the two professors in a tone that broached no argument, which Ginny thought was perfectly appropriate. “Twenty minutes, Headmaster.” “Will you tell me what happened, Miss Weasley?” Professor Dumbledore asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence. Ginny slowly pulled the Stone out of her pocket again and stared at it. It was rough and warm and red. Altogether, it was no more than an ugly, heavy rock, and she hated it and everything it represented. They had spent weeks worrying over the Stone, trying to determine its nature and who wanted to steal it. When they eventually understood the danger, no one in authority had listened to them or even entertained their concerns. Ron was hurt, and Harry was incredibly lucky to be alive. She knew that it was ultimately Dumbledore’s fault, since he was the one who had it brought to the school. He was the one who had set up the protections. He was the one who had decided how the overgrown pebble would be dealt with in general. Ginny stared at the Headmaster in hostile silence, unaware of the heat radiating from the point where her hand held Harry’s. McGonagall wiped at her brow absently as Dumbledore regarded Ginny with an infuriatingly calm expression. “None of this should have happened at all!” Ginny finally shouted as she threw the Stone at the Headmaster with all of her strength. “We’re like this because of you!” Dumbledore quickly caught the Stone before it struck his forehead, and he gave Ginny a sad look as Professor McGonagall gasped. “Ginny . . .” she began, her tone tinged with faint reproach. “No, Minerva,” Dumbledore said softly, raising one hand up to stop her chastisement. “Miss Weasley and Mr Potter are, unfortunately, quite correct. Sometimes, one can be too clever. I was certain of the protections the staff and I had created, so I grew complacent enough for Professor Quirrell to make his attempt.” Carefully, Dumbledore tucked the Stone into his robes. “Miss Weasley, Mr. Potter. I am deeply sorry for everything. Though it may mean little to you now, I thank you. You two have done me a great service this evening.” Ginny stewed in the silence of their minds. She wanted to shout at the Headmaster, but her fatigue sapped her will to do so. She grudgingly admitted to herself, at least, that she had made mistakes as well. Harry had made even more mistakes, and she could never imagine not forgiving him. His remorse dulled the edges of their rage, leaving them feeling a simmering anger and a bone-deep exhaustion. Ginny did not care for Dumbledore nearly as much as she did for Harry, but she knew that eventually she would forgive him, as well. “And what will you do with it now? More mazes, more traps, more hiding?” Ginny asked tersely, ignoring the raspy sound of her words. The faint discomfort of her voice was nothing compared to the pain that they had recently endured. “What I should have done with it originally,” Dumbledore replied after a moment. “I have been in correspondence with Nicolas these past few weeks, and we have recently decided to destroy the Stone. As you have discovered, it can never be safe enough to risk its continued existence.” They had not expected such a permanent solution, and Ginny blinked in surprise. “But then . . . your friend will die.” “Yes, he will die. Nicolas and Perenelle are quite prepared for it, actually, and he finds some humour in the timing.” He sighed. “They are very old, Miss Weasley. They have been awake for a very long time, and they are ready to sleep. To someone your age, it seems quite final, I am sure. But to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.” Tell that to Voldemort. “What happened to Voldemort?” Ginny demanded at Harry’s unintentional prompting. “Is he dead now?” Dumbledore smiled faintly. “I am glad to hear that you do not fear his name. As they say, fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself.” He sighed deeply again. “I am afraid that he has, once again, escaped. He appears to have abandoned Quirrell’s body in the last moments of your . . . struggle. Without a body from which to feed, he is much weaker than he was before, but he was still able to leave the castle.” Bitterness washed over Ginny, and Harry’s fatigue reached new levels as they realised that everything they had endured had ultimately changed nothing. A single tear slid down Ginny’s cheek. “He’ll try again, then, won’t he?” “Yes, Miss Weasley, Mr. Potter. He will, almost certainly. But you have thwarted him most effectively merely by slowing him down. Next time, if someone slows him down again, and then again the time after that, continuing ever on, then perhaps he will never succeed at all.” “You seem to be awfully trusting that others will stop him,” Ginny whispered derisively. “He should never have had the chance in the first place!” McGonagall opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment the doors to the hospital wing opened again. Ginny shot to her feet and drew her wand in a flash. The two professors rose more slowly and turned towards the door while drawing their own wands. Hermione poked her head into the room, her wand held tightly in her fist, and looked around the door at them nervously. “Ginny!” she said in obvious relief. On some level, they were happy to see their friend. Ginny’s frustration and Harry’s fatigue, however, were sapping their strength. Ginny almost wished that they had been left alone so that they could rest. Before anyone could fully react, Hermione turned her head back into the hallway and quietly called out, “They’re here!” As she moved into the room, Ron, Neville, Fred, and George all followed her through the door. All four boys had their wands out and looked uniformly anxious. McGonagall lowered her wand. “Close the door, please.” George pushed the door closed, and the Headmaster sealed it with a spell as the new arrivals all hastily put away their wands. “Ron!” Ginny said, standing up from her stool. She kept a firm but careful grip on Harry with her left hand and held her wand in her right. “Hermione got you out! You’re okay!” Dumbledore chuckled loudly, and the corner of McGonagall’s mouth turned up in a faint grin. “Miss Granger was hardly prepared to be thwarted by such a trivial thing as our challenges,” she said. “What do you mean?” Ginny asked. Then she turned to Hermione. “What does she mean?” “I’ll tell you later,” her friend muttered, a look of embarrassment flashing across her features. The twins moved around the adults and towards Ginny. She raised her wand, pointing it harmlessly at the ceiling, and they slid to a halt. “Don’t touch the bed,” she warned sharply. “Harry mustn’t be moved.” “Okay, Ginny,” Fred said soothingly. “Can you let him go a moment?” You’ll know if it matters, Harry told her. Nodding, she placed Harry’s hand carefully on the bed, tucking it against his side. Then she stepped towards her twin brothers, and George picked her up and hugged her. “Merlin, Ginny. Don’t scare us like that.” “It had to be done, George,” Ginny whispered, her lingering anger slowly fading as she luxuriated in the warmth of her brothers’ affection and concern. She stepped back from him and was immediately swept up by Fred. “What had to be done?” George asked when she was back on her feet. “Ron told us all kinds of insane things that you four went through, but he wouldn’t say why.” Ginny’s resentment returned as she was abruptly reminded of the reason they were in the Infirmary at all, but Dumbledore interjected before she could reply. “Mr. Weasley, there are secrets which are kept for amusement or other personal reasons, but there are also secrets which are kept for the safety of all.” The Headmaster held the gaze of each newcomer in turn. “Suffice to say that Professor Quirrell sought to steal something that I was guarding. Please accept that knowing anything more would be most dangerous.” “Isn’t it dangerous to them already?” Fred asked. Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, it is. We will make every effort to minimize that danger, but we cannot deny the knowledge they have gained after so much effort.” “We could help them,” George protested. “You could,” McGonagall agreed quietly. “But you would help them anyway, without knowing the reason, wouldn’t you?” “’Course we would!” “For now, they need your help in keeping the other students from asking too many questions,” Dumbledore said. Fred looked back and forth between the two professors a few times before grinning wickedly. “Well, that’s easy. We’ll just give them more answers than they can handle. Standard operating procedure.” “Very good. Would you others mind leaving us with our four intrepid adventurers for a moment?” Dumbledore asked. “We have some things to discuss with them. I suspect that Miss Weasley will be back among you tomorrow, and you may visit Mr. Potter as Madam Pomfrey permits.” “You’re really alright, Ginny? You sound rough.” George’s concern showed in his words and the careful hand he laid on her shoulder. “I’m fine,” she replied with some tartness. “And Madam Pomfrey says Harry will be okay once he heals properly.” She was unable to stop herself from shooting dark glances at the Headmaster. Her brother sighed before giving her another brief hug. “Okay. If you two need anything, anything at all, let us know, alright?” She smiled tiredly, knowing that her exhaustion was plain on her features. “We will.” Neville, who had been standing quietly and uncertainly near the door, spoke in a mild voice. “I’m glad you’re both safe, Ginny.” Guilt washed through her mind, and Ginny hoped that it did not also show on her face. Nevertheless, she met his gaze. “Thanks, Neville. Thanks a lot.” Neville nodded, looking away from her again. Then the Headmaster unsealed the door, and Neville and the twins left. As the door closed, the two brothers cast final, uncertain looks over their shoulders. “I will not keep you from your beds for long, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley,” the Headmaster said. “As you most likely surmised from my explanation to Messrs. Fred and George Weasley, it is vital that no one know about Voldemort’s involvement or the nature of the Philosopher’s Stone. Since neither of you saw either of those things, I trust that you can avoid discussing them.” “Yes, Headmaster,” Hermione responded instantly. Ron nodded his agreement, but his eyes lingered on Harry’s back. “Excellent. Say goodnight, then, and we will let Mr. Potter and Miss Weasley sleep in peace.” Under Ginny’s watchful eyes, Hermione put a gentle hand on Harry’s forearm for a moment, and then she turned and hugged Ginny tightly. “I knew you could do it,” she whispered. Ginny smiled tiredly as Hermione turned back to face the two professors. “Ginny needs her pyjamas and clothes for tomorrow. May I go and get them for her?” “There is no need, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey said as she stood in the doorway of her office, clearly watching everyone in her ward. Ginny had no idea when the matron had appeared, but the older woman carried a small stack of clothing topped with a hairbrush and two toothbrushes. Ginny immediately recognised the blue of her pyjamas and the white and grey of one of her school uniforms. “Thank you,” she said as Pomfrey placed the clothing on a small table at the foot of Harry’s bed. “You’re welcome,” the matron replied. She looked at the professors once more, her gaze sharpening. “Ten minutes.” She turned and walked back into her office. Ron and Hermione said their goodnights, and Ron gave Ginny a crushing hug. They left, promising to return as soon as they were allowed to visit the next day. “I believe it would be unwise to stay beyond the limit of Poppy’s generosity,” Dumbledore commented as he sealed the door. “Someday, I should like to hear the story of your journey to retrieve the Stone, but we haven’t time for that this evening. Are there any questions I might answer for you?” he asked Ginny. His demeanour conveyed nothing but politeness and respect. Ginny’s anger refused to resurface when the old wizard was showing such obvious contrition, but she was still unhappy. Their encounter with Quirrell flashed though their minds. Most if it was simply too shocking to truly absorb without more time, but some of the things the man had said stuck out in their minds. “Yes,” Ginny broke the silence. “We . . . well, you know we thought it was Snape who was trying to steal the Stone.” Dumbledore nodded encouragingly, and Ginny saw McGonagall’s eyes tighten. “He seemed to really hate Harry, and we thought it was because he was . . . err . . .” She trailed off and took a breath to try again, wishing faintly that she had a cool drink to soothe her throat. “Quirrell said that Snape really does hate Harry, but now we can’t guess why.” "Hate is rather a strong word, wouldn't you say?” the Headmaster asked. “You lacked sufficient information about the situation, so I can understand that you might feel that Professor Snape does not like Mr. Potter. You presumed that he was acting on Voldemort’s behalf." Rubbish, Ginny said vehemently. We felt it because it’s true. Dumbledore sighed as he looked away toward the windows. “The real explanation lies in a very old, rather sad story, Miss Weasley, Mr Potter, and it is not entirely mine to tell. What I can tell you is that once, years ago, Harry’s father saved Severus Snape’s life, and Severus most certainly did hate James Potter at that time. Severus could never accept what had happened, I think, and hoped to repay the old debt by saving Harry’s life at the Quidditch match. Professor Snape informed me of what happened that day, and at the time we could not determine who was trying to harm you, Mr. Potter. In any case, it is important for you to remember that Professor Snape was trying to do the right thing at the Quidditch match, regardless of the rather complex reasons for his actions.” Ginny’s temper roared back to life when she heard the Headmaster’s explanation. “If you knew someone was trying to hurt Harry, why didn’t you do anything about it?!” she demanded. Her voice warbled and cracked from the abuse of her shouting. Dumbledore spread his hands helplessly. “As I said, Miss Weasley, we did not know who the culprit was at that time. Nevertheless, Professor Snape made an ongoing effort to ensure Mr. Potter’s safety and to determine the identity of the attacker.” Ginny’s weariness was already overwhelming the intensity of her anger at the Headmaster, yet Harry was not entirely certain that the explanation matched his experiences with Snape. After a moment, he gave a mental shrug. He still absolutely loathes me. But he’s not helping Voldemort. Not yet, anyway. He just seems like the type. Their thoughts triggered another question. “What happened to Quirrell, then, at the end?” Ginny asked, shuddering slightly as flashbacks of dissolving flesh flickered through their minds, and her emotions flickered between outrage and fear. “Why did he just . . . crumble away like that?” “Harry’s mother died to save him,” Dumbledore replied slowly. “If there is one thing that Voldemort cannot comprehend, it is love. He didn't realise that love as powerful as Lily’s for her son leaves its own mark. Not a scar, perhaps, for there is no external sign. But to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in Harry’s very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, and sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch him for that reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good." “How could he touch anyone at all, then?” Ginny wondered. “Surely everyone is loved that much by someone. I mean . . .” She lowered her eyes for a moment but pressed on determinedly. Her frustration demanded a more complete answer. “My mother and I haven’t had the easiest time of it lately, but I know she still loves me. So does Dad. And I love them, and Ron, and Hermione, and Harry. Shouldn’t we all be protected? What made Harry special?” “A very perceptive question. I expected no less of you.” The old man sighed. “Harry’s mother voluntarily died for him, Miss Weasley, when presented with a chance to save her own life. Though I hope that we are all loved by someone, very few of us have actually had someone trade their lives for ours. The magic of life and death is very strong, and none of us understand it completely.” She traded her life for mine, but why did it have to be me at all? Harry was unable to stop the faint tinge of bitterness from creeping into his mental voice. “But why Harry?” Ginny persisted, trying to soothe Harry with her concern for him while hoping to force the truth from the Headmaster. “Why did Voldemort try to kill him in the first place?” Dumbledore stared across the room towards the dark window for several long moments. At last, he shook his head, his eyes still focused on something far from the peaceful hospital wing. “I am no longer certain of the answer. Once, I thought I knew, but then . . . well. There are many factors involved, and I do not know them all. At this point, I believe it is dangerous and pointless to even speculate on that question, because we may still not recognise or have all of the information we might need. Someday . . . someday we will discuss this further.” In other words . . . Harry began. “There’s something you don’t want to tell us,” Ginny accused. The Headmaster nodded solemnly and continued in the same placating voice. “That is correct, Miss Weasley, but everything I have told you is absolutely true. I do not think it would be useful to tell you everything I know or suspect.” His beard twitched as he grinned ever so slightly. “If nothing else, I do hope that the effort might take quite a bit of time.” His attempt at levity did not impress Ginny and Harry. They did not think that Dumbledore would say anything further on the matter, so they reluctantly switched topics. Ginny knew that she would revisit the question when she had more strength to fight for the answers. “How did Harry get the Stone out of the mirror, then?” she asked. “You must have changed it somehow to guard the Stone, but we didn’t think we’d figured out what we needed to want to get it yet.” The old man grinned, looking suddenly much younger. “Oh, I had hoped someone would ask me that. It was one of my better ideas, if I do say so myself. And I must say so myself, because who else has more knowledge of my ideas?” Ginny glared in response to the Headmaster’s evasive nature, wishing she knew some spell or potion that would force him to answer their questions directly rather than indulging in flights of fancy. “I did not truly change the nature of the Mirror of Erised, Miss Weasley,” the Headmaster continued, unaware of her frustrations. “I merely . . . focused it for my own purposes. Only someone who wanted the Stone in order to give it to someone else could get it out of the mirror. More importantly, the person retrieving it could have no desire to use it, nor could he want or expect the recipient to use it. If all of those conditions were met, then the Stone would appear directly in the possession of the intended recipient.” “Why did it show up in my pocket, then?” she wondered, momentarily distracted from her antagonism. “We wanted to get it back to you.” The Headmaster leaned forward slightly. “Are you sure that’s what you really wanted?” Harry and Ginny considered the question carefully despite their fatigue and simmering irritation. We did want to give it back to Dumbledore, didn’t we? Well, I think so, Harry answered. But . . . that wasn’t what I was actually thinking of right then, really. I was thinking more about getting it away from Voldemort than of getting it to any one person. The explanation came to them in a moment of pure intuition, and Ginny’s anger was replaced by new feelings that made them both smile mentally. Harry felt the warmth of Ginny’s affection even as McGonagall spoke aloud. “I believe you have reached the proper conclusion,” she said gently. “Harry, or perhaps the both of you, did not necessarily want to give it to the Headmaster in particular. Harry wanted to give it to someone who could be trusted with it absolutely. Someone he was completely certain would not abuse its power. That person was you, Ginny. You are the only person in the world he would trust with the lure of eternal life.” I don’t think that’s quite right, Harry added thoughtfully. I trust you like that, of course, but all I really cared about was that we wouldn’t try to use the Stone. We were just trying to get the stone away from Voldemort, and the mirror was set up to allow us to do that ourselves. Ginny frowned at Dumbledore, her irritation flaring again as she thought of a new possibility. “Did you do it on purpose?” she asked. “Did you mean to make it so that only Harry and I could get the Stone?” McGonagall’s expression shifted as she realised the error of her statement, but the Headmaster only smiled and held up his hands, blissfully unaware of her ire. “I knew you’d notice that,” he said. “But no, I did not realise at first that my idea had that effect. I intended for it to be only accessible to Nicolas and myself in the proper configuration.” They wanted to press for more information about the mirror and the Stone, and Ginny was ready to start swearing in order to get it, but at that moment Madam Pomfrey returned. “That’s enough for now, Headmaster,” she announced without a trace of a smile. “You can come back tomorrow if you feel the need to continue your conversation.” “Very well, Poppy,” Dumbledore said. “Thank you for your diligence at this early hour.” He and McGonagall stood up from their chairs, and the old wizard banished them with a flick of his wand. “Ah, I almost forgot,” he said. He pulled Harry’s wand from a pocket of his robes. “You have returned something valuable to me this evening, and so I return something valuable to you.” He held the wand out to Ginny, and she took it with her left hand. In her right, she still clutched her own, shorter wand. “Thank you, Professor,” Ginny said, unable to avoid feeling a sliver of genuine gratitude in spite of her lingering bile. “We thought it’d been burned.” “No, Miss Weasley, though that would have been quite ironic,” he said with a grin. At her puzzled look, he explained. “Phoenix feather, you see.” Dumbledore moved towards the door and turned to look back at Ginny. “Good night, Miss Weasley, Mr. Potter. I will visit you again soon.” Professor McGonagall, who had been quiet and somewhat pensive throughout most of the Headmaster’s explanation, looked to the matron. “Poppy,” she said, “may I have just a moment with my students?” Pomfrey sniffed loudly. “A moment, Minerva. No more.” Dumbledore smiled. “Then good night to you also, Minerva. I advise you to be very conscious of the time.” With a nod, he unsealed the doors and left the room. Once the Headmaster had gone, Madam Pomfrey waved her wand and quickly resealed the door. “Take as long as you need, Minerva,” she said, and suddenly her voice was much warmer. “I have no reason to think you will keep Miss Weasley awake for pointless conversation, unlike some others we know.” She went back into her office and pulled the door closed. Ginny was still glaring at the door where she had last seen the Headmaster. A short lifetime’s worth of experience and family conversations told her that Albus Dumbledore was a man to be respected and perhaps even revered. But they now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the old man shared in the blame for what had happened to them that evening. They had not yet found any way to fully reconcile the two impressions. “Do not be too hard on him, Ginny,” McGonagall said in a quiet voice, perhaps recognising their state from the sweat on her brow and Ginny’s expression. “He is as human as the rest of us.” Ginny shifted her gaze to the tall woman. “Harry almost died.” She waved her hand sharply at Harry’s body. “Look at him. He almost died. I can’t . . . I won’t just ignore that. In spite of what happened, the Headmaster refused to even tell us the reasons for it all!” Ginny winced as her throat protested the harsh tone she was using. The professor sighed. “I would not expect you to ignore it,” she admitted. McGonagall conjured another stool to match Ginny’s and perched on it stiffly. After a moment of awkward silence, the professor conjured a tall goblet of water with ice floating in it. Understanding the gesture for what it was, Ginny shook herself out of her furious stupor and looked at the cup gratefully. While it would not cure anything, it would soothe her, and that was enough for the moment. She placed the two wands she was holding on the bed next to Harry and reached across to sip from the ice water. After completely draining the cup, Ginny reached across Harry’s feet to pick up her hairbrush. She had intended to begin brushing out the tangled mess of her hair, but the professor’s continued silence and the serious, pinched look on the her face made Ginny pause. Instead, she sat straight and still on her stool, holding the forgotten brush in her lap. “Miss Weasley, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall began. Then she shook her head and released a breath abruptly. “Ginny, Harry. I, personally, owe you a profound and terrible apology. In the many years I have taught at Hogwarts, I have become . . . accustomed to knowing more about a situation or topic than my students. Unfortunately, I forgot that it is still possible for others, even first-year students, to discover something that is new to me.” McGonagall sighed as she brushed absently at the tartan fabric stretched across her knees. “You came to me with a genuine concern based on evidence and experience. Your . . . conclusions were not precisely correct in every regard, but they were much closer than I would have thought possible. Based on what you told me, I should have at least investigated the situation more carefully rather than dismissing your concerns.” She met Ginny’s eyes squarely and smiled her tight, controlled smile. “In effect, I did very much the same thing that I recently punished you for.” Her smile faded, and her eyes became almost haunted. “My arrogance very nearly cost you your lives,” she whispered. “I, more so than anyone else, am responsible for what happened this evening. I am very sorry for that, far more than I know how to tell you, and I hope that someday you both will be able to forgive me for this.” She didn’t mean any harm, Harry said quietly. Just like we didn’t, Ginny agreed, the lingering shards of her anger fading into simple exhaustion. We messed up before, and she punished us, but then she helped us anyway. She forgave us. We all made some mistakes, Harry agreed. And she wasn’t afraid to admit to them. Ginny summoned enough of her energy for a small grin. “Fifty points from the faculty, Professor.” McGonagall relaxed visibly, her smile ever-so-faintly returning, though her eyes remained hooded with unspoken regret. “If I had house points, you would be welcome to them. All of them.” She paused for a moment. “Speaking of which, I feel that I must also apologise for the severity of the punishment I gave you after you attempted to attack Mr. Malfoy. I maintain that the loss of points was the proper thing to do at the time. I needed to convince you to not do anything like that again until I could prepare some type of lesson to teach you just how dangerous what you were attempting was.” She sighed. “But I had no idea what Hagrid was planning for the detention that night. The Headmaster has spoken to a centaur named Firenze. You’ve met him?” Ginny nodded, trying to keep visions of the forest and Quirrell out of their minds. Their memory of the forest was no longer as haunting and disturbing as it had once been. It was, however, inexorably tied to their memory of him disintegrating amidst the flames and agony of their confrontation that evening. “He told Professor Dumbledore what happened in the forest and how close you came to a confrontation with You-Know-Who. That would have included Quirinus, I suppose. In any case, I should never have allowed you to be put in such a situation. The interior of the forest is no place for students or even most fully-trained adults, and I have reminded Hagrid of that fact. I apologise for that oversight, as well. Hagrid means well, but he does not perceive danger as . . . well, as anyone else does.” Ginny and Harry reflected for a moment on how McGonagall’s obvious sincerity. The woman obviously had a mental list of faults that she was determined to work her way through, and they respected her all the more for her honesty. It left them thinking about their own actions and what they might have done differently. “We’re sorry, too, Professor,” Ginny offered. “We . . . err . . . we may have done something tonight that you . . . ahh . . . won’t like.” McGonagall raised an eyebrow in faint amusement. “You have done that several times this evening, Ginny. Which one is bothering you at the moment?” Ginny took a deep breath and pushed onward. “Have you seen Neville? Aside from when he came here to visit, I mean.” “Ah, yes, Mr. Longbottom. I spoke to him earlier tonight when he and your brothers came to find me. His story had already convinced me to follow you, even before you managed to notify me yourselves with your pendant. He said that he would have told me much sooner, but he somehow managed to Petrify himself. He managed this while alone in the common room, using a spell which he had never heard of before this evening and for which he could not remember the exact incantation.” Thank you, Neville. Their conscience forced Ginny to speak plainly. “You know I Petrified him, Professor,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “I knew that one of you had, yes, and I am still not certain which one of you is confessing,” McGonagall replied. “I am not pleased by your choice at that moment, but I cannot absolutely say that I would not have done the same thing in your position. Regardless, if Mr. Longbottom is unwilling to make any accusations, then I find myself unwilling to ask any questions as to who was Petrified by whom.” “Thank you, Professor.” “I am not the one who deserves your gratitude, Harry and Ginny,” McGonagall said meaningfully. “He was doing what he perceived to be the right thing, just as you and your friends were.” Ginny nodded as guilt roiled in the back of her mind. “I know, Professor. I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow.” “Good.” The professor looked as though she wanted to say something else, but then she shook her head slightly. McGonagall stood up and removed the stool she had conjured for herself. Following her lead, Ginny slid to the floor, and a moment later the stool she had occupied was gone also. The professor looked down at her for a long moment. At last, she reached down and put a gentle hand on Ginny’s shoulder. “I am very proud of you both,” she said. “You have done a great thing tonight and brought great honour to our House. I should have listened to you, and I shall regret that for a very, very long time.” Ginny could not help the bashful smile that crept across her face. “Thank you,” she whispered. “We don’t blame you, Professor. Please don’t blame yourself.” McGonagall smiled stiffly. “Sleep well, Ginny and Harry. I will see you tomorrow.” She squeezed Harry’s hand briefly and let herself out of the hospital wing after a final nod to them both. Ginny gathered her things, went into the lavatory, and wearily changed into her pyjamas. When she emerged, a screen had been erected around the two beds, and Madam Pomfrey was waiting for her. “You should sleep as long as Mr. Potter does if you can, Miss Weasley,” the matron said. “When he awakens, I will have breakfast brought for you both. If you need anything overnight, simply call out or tap your wand against one of the bed frames. I am only one door down in the hallway, and I have monitoring charms in place here. You, and only you, are welcome to be with Mr. Potter at any time during the day or night. Your friends will be limited to normal visiting hours.” “Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” Ginny said. “You are welcome. Goodnight, Miss Weasley, Mr Potter. Do try to rest.” She extinguished all but one of the lamps and lowered that one to a faint glow. Then she left them alone in the dark and silent ward. Ginny climbed onto her bed and picked up her hairbrush. Carefully, she arranged herself so that she was sitting up, with her legs folded beneath her and her bare left foot resting lightly in Harry’s upturned hand. Then she began methodically brushing the tangles out of her hair. It would require extra attention when she showered in the morning, but for now, brushing it out was enough. The familiar act of grooming helped her to relax a bit more, and their minds smoothed even as her hair untangled. Harry’s even breathing was the only sound in the room other than the rasping of the brush, and it, too, was somehow soothing. Their thoughts swirled, flashing through their experiences in pursuit of the Philosopher’s Stone. The encounter with Quirrell, coupled with Dumbledore’s explanations, brought them back to the idea that out there, somewhere, Voldemort was free again. Ginny’s irritation flared faintly, but she was too tired to stay angry at the moment. I’m so sorry, Ginny, Harry said, his mind flooded with regret and remorse. I really thought . . . I thought I could make him go away forever. That your family would be safe, that we’d all be safe. Ginny’s arm stopped moving, and the brush trembled slightly in her hand. You scared me so much more than Voldemort ever did, she whispered. I don’t want to lose you, Harry, and we came so close tonight. I didn’t want you to get hurt, he replied sadly, feeling her fear and anger mingling with his own regret and frustration. Not by Quirrell, not by Voldemort, not by anyone. Not ever. Ginny’s eyes squeezed tightly closed and her face contorted into a silent scowl as her knuckles tightened on the hairbrush. I want you to be safe, too! she shouted in the vaults of their minds. Us! Both of us, safe. Together! Not you and not me, but us! She dropped her brush and reached down to clutch his limp hand with both of hers. It’s only right if we’re together! Just an hour ago we said that we would always stay together, no matter what. Together, Harry! His misery beyond words, Harry let the feelings flow through their minds in a seemingly endless loop. He wanted her to be safe and happy. He would do anything to protect her. She would only be happy if he was safe. She wanted him to be safe and happy. She would do anything to protect him. He would only be happy if she was safe. Tears dropped onto her pyjamas, but she did not release his hand to wipe them away. Do you get it? she asked more quietly. Desperately. When you hurt, I hurt! Can you imagine how hurt I would’ve been if he’d killed you? I might survive, physically, but how could I live with half of me gone? The only way we both get what we want is if we’re both safe and happy, and we need to do anything to protect us. I watch over you, and you watch over me! Her thoughts became fierce, displacing her desire to make him understand. I could have helped you, she said. I could move, and I had my wand. I could have gotten back there and hexed him before he could even move. He might really be dead. I know, Harry admitted, his frustration fusing with his anger at himself for not thinking as well as Ginny could. You’re right, I know. But . . . you would have done the same thing in my place . . . wouldn’t you? She sniffed loudly and nodded into the darkness, her eyes still closed. The admission was all the more difficult because it was painfully true. Yes, Harry, I think I would have. It would still have been wrong, though. Neither of us can do things like that. We have to stay together. We can . . . we can do more that way. We’re stronger that way. Better. We both learned that tonight, and next time . . . next time there’s no one staying behind. Pushing her brush to the foot of the bed, she pulled aside the blankets and lay down on her side. She curled up against his arm, careful to avoid moving his torso at all, and pushed her cheek and nose against his elbow. She kept his hand in hers, holding it close against her chest. Please don’t ever do that again, Harry, she said, her thought a mere whisper in their minds. If we’re separated and you’re in trouble, you have to come to me or let me come to you. Promise me, and don’t you dare forget again. I promise, Ginny, and I won’t forget, he said solemnly. But you have to promise, too. She nodded against his arm. I promise. They lay in silence for a few minutes as her tears finally stopped. I wish I could hug you, Harry said at last. Me, too. He could not move at all, so Harry focused on Ginny and her senses. He let the remorse, promise, gratitude, and affection wash between them. The same feelings, redoubled, came back to him from her. Without moving or speaking, they shared an embrace of emotion. Exhaustion finally overtook Ginny, and she fell asleep with Harry’s arm providing her the physical security and reassurance that she needed in order to rest. The images started as they usually did, with a flash of green, a wrenching scream, and an echo of eerie laughter. As Ginny’s body tensed, the black figure from the forest arose behind bright bursts of red, green, black, and purple light. The screams grew stronger and harsher until Ginny could hear her own screams mixing with her mother’s and Lily Potter’s. Quirrell’s laughter joined the screams in a maniacal accompaniment, but then it shifted. The dry, harsh rasp of Voldemort’s voice as he had whispered to Harry from the back of Quirrell’s head drowned out the screams. Green light flashed, and they were shoved into a dark cupboard, feeling cramped and claustrophobic. Purple light flashed in the forest, and Fred did not wake when George tried the counter-spell. Molly Weasley screamed as Ginny’s hair burned in vicious red flames and the forest burned all around her. Ginny began to whimper and gasp in her sleep, unconsciously squeezing Harry’s hand in hers and crushing his arm against her face, neck, and breastbone. She launched blue flames at the Devil’s Snare, and as the plant became a writhing inferno, Professor McGonagall appeared in the middle of the blaze. Her expression remained disapproving and disappointed as her robes caught fire, and the professor was rapidly reduced to ash as the flesh melted away from her bones. Quirrell appeared and joined McGonagall in a macabre dance of bones and peeling flesh, screaming taunts in time to her pleas for mercy. The redhead’s movements became more frantic, and she made small sounds as she shuddered, her continual whimpers intermingling with louder cries of true distress. Ginny watched, and Harry screamed, a deeper and harsher sound, as his mother was consumed by purple flames next to the Mirror of Erised. In the mirror, the image of a happy, carefree Lily Potter smiled benignly down on her burning counterpart. Mrs. Weasley launched a bolt of green light, and Ginny screamed as it approached Harry. Ginny pushed Harry out of the way, but then Quirrell was there and leapt towards Harry, knocking him backwards into the black fire. Harry wanted to leave, to escape to Ginny, and she desperately willed him away. He did not move, however, and pain overwhelmed her as Harry continued to burn, his own flesh dissolving with Quirrell’s. Among towering black flames, two skeletons lay on the floor in front of her, and a shadow loomed over them all, laughing insanely. Ginny’s shoulder shook violently, finally waking her from the cycle of horrifying images and sounds. HARRY?! I’m here, Ginny. Harry’s voice was clear and comforting, even though he also felt the lingering effects of her dreams, and his mind shook from the imagery. That was . . . They shuddered, mentally and physically, and Ginny’s body quaked as their combined minds sought any outlet for the stress. There was a warm pressure on her arm, and her shoulder shook again. Her eyes, already leaking tears, flew open. Harry’s arm, covered in salty moisture, was flattened against her body, and her muscles quivered from the tension of fright. Looking up, she saw Professor McGonagall sitting on the edge of the bed next to her. The older woman’s black hair was rumpled from sleep and fell past her shoulders. She wore a tartan dressing gown, and she looked anxiously down at Ginny. Gasping in relief, Ginny sat up and let Harry’s hand fall into her lap, but she never released him. With wide, terrified eyes, she stared at her professor for a moment, seeking something she could not quite identify. Wordlessly, McGonagall reached out and, shifting her own position, pulled Ginny into her lap. Ginny put one arm around the woman’s neck, keeping the fingers of her other hand interlaced with Harry’s. When McGonagall put her arms around Ginny’s shoulders and began to rock, the tiny girl did not try to restrain herself, but her grip on Harry’s hand tightened painfully. She dropped her head to McGonagall’s shoulder and wept bitterly at the visions and memories that still flashed in distant echoes of her nightmare. For a while, Ginny’s whimpers, gasps, and broken sobs were the only sounds in the room. McGonagall did not speak. Instead, she held Ginny protectively in her arms and gently stroked her hair, slowly rocking her as though she were a very small child. Harry did the best he could to soothe her, constantly reassuring Ginny without words that he was alive and safe, but he knew that the true comfort was coming from the professor’s human touch. Harry knew that he would always be grateful that McGonagall had returned to the hospital wing, however she had known to come. Distantly, Ginny was aware of the door to the hospital wing opening and closing, and then soft footsteps shuffled across the stone floor. Her tears continued unabated as she shuddered and gasped for air, wishing the images would stop for just a moment. “Go back to sleep, Poppy,” McGonagall whispered. Feet shuffled again, followed by a muted clink and a slight movement of McGonagall’s shoulders. A moment later, the doors closed again. Quirrell’s dead, Harry reminded them both. Voldemort’s run off again. Your mum promised never to hurt us again, and we believe her. No more fires. No more curses. No more pain. You don’t know that! she cried. You can’t know there won’t be any more! Voldemort got away! It’s not over yet! No more for now, he amended, knowing he could not deceive her even to comfort her in her moment of desperate need. And if anything comes after us again, we’ll face it together. You won’t stay away? You won’t keep me away? Never again, he assured her. We promised to face these things together tonight, and that’s how we’re going to do it. They were absolutely sure of his sincerity, and they knew he would not forget this moment. Together. After a few more minutes, the lingering imagery faded somewhat, and Ginny finally began to relax. She spoke without raising her head from her professor’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she relaxed her crushing grip on Harry’s hand. “What on earth for?” “For . . . for this. I shouldn’t have cried all over you.” “You shouldn’t be ashamed of crying, Ginny,” McGonagall said gently. Ginny shook her head slightly, wiping at her nose and eyes half-heartedly. “I’m not. I meant that I didn’t want to burden you, and I’ve made a mess of your dressing gown.” The older woman smiled softly as she conjured a small, soft towel and handed it to Ginny. “Dear girl, you are certainly not a burden, and my robes can be cleaned. At times like these, it can be very helpful to let everything out. It cleanses you, if you will, and lets you face the future with your strength renewed.” You told me a long time ago that it wasn’t good to keep everything inside, Harry added. You never cry. I don’t know how, Harry said honestly, but you know I wouldn’t ever think any less of you for it. It makes you feel better, and that’s all that matters. It makes me feel better, too, though I’m not really sure why. So I get to cry for both of us? I wish I was awake, he replied after a moment. Me, too. Professor McGonagall is being very nice, but it just isn’t the same when it’s not you. “You are an incredibly strong person, Ginny,” McGonagall continued, without commenting on Ginny’s distracted expression. “One of the strongest I have ever known. And your strength has nothing to do with magic. If you need to cry to maintain that strength, then so be it. If I can be the one who helps you to do that, then I am happy to help. And you know by now that what we talk about stays between us.” Ginny could not think of how to respond. Her professor’s words warmed her, and she fervently hoped they were true. She wanted to be as strong for Harry as he was for her. You are, Ginny. You know you are. After a moment, she nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered, knowing it would be understood mentally and aloud in different ways. McGonagall shifted a bit and reached away from Ginny with one long arm. She raised her hand after a moment and offered Ginny a small vial. “Drink this, Ginny,” she encouraged. “No more dreams tonight. Dreamless Sleep potion is for more than just the physically injured and ill.” Without question or even hesitation, Ginny took the vial and swallowed its contents. She winced at the flavour. She had known what to expect after tasting Harry’s dose, but her foreknowledge made it no more palatable. McGonagall took the empty vial, set it aside, and then gently lowered Ginny back down to the bed. Ginny curled up against Harry again, just as she had before, with his hand clasped firmly to her body. She felt the professor lift her head away from Harry’s arm to slide a pillow beneath her. The cool linen was comforting, and Harry’s hand still lay in front of her. She moved slightly so that she could hold his hand in both of hers, fingers entwined, but she did not move the pillow that was preventing her from resting her face against his arm. “Sleep now,” McGonagall said softly, patting her shoulder. “I will be here.” Ginny twisted just enough to look over her shoulder and found the older woman curling herself into a large, plush armchair that had not been there a moment before. The professor’s eyes were open and alert, and she nodded encouragingly at Ginny as she faced the doors into the infirmary. “You’ll stay?” “Yes, Ginny,” McGonagall said with a faint smile. “I’ll stay, and you’ll both be safe now. I promise.” “Thank you,” Ginny repeated sleepily. “Good night, Ginny.” Good night, Ginevra. Good night, Harry. With Harry safe in front of her and McGonagall watching them both protectively, Ginny slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. |
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