Okay, I love reading Author’s notes. Can’t get enough of them, to tell you the truth. So, in case there is someone else out there that enjoys them as much as I do, I’m going to get a little wordy. ^-^
For more than one reason, I would like to thank my sister. First and foremost, the basic idea for this story was something she mentioned casually over a year ago as we were discussing how we thought the series would end. I hope it doesn’t end like this, but I thought it would be a great idea for a fanfic.
Also, if it weren’t for her, I would still be waiting for the end of the HP series without having ever read a single part of it. About the time that COS came out, she suggested that I read this series. I thought I’d like the story, but was in the middle of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series at the time. If anyone was reading along with that, you’ll remember that he hadn’t written a book for a long time and had left the characters in quite a terrible position. I had vowed never again to start a series until I was sure it would be finished. Well, my sister, knowing that I couldn’t resist reading a book that I had in my very own home, bought me a copy of SS for my birthday. Many hours of enjoyment later, here we are. Little sisters can be so smart, can’t they? ^-^
Also, huge thanks to Cwarbeck for her fantastic editing skills, for helping me through a year-long case of writer’s block, and for being willing to warn me if DH requires extra tissues. Two weeks to go!
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Category: Post-HBP Characters:None Genres: Drama Warnings: Death Story is Complete Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 23 Summary: Harry wanders the streets of London trying to escape his memories of the final battle, memories that eventually draw him back to the family he has come to love as his own. Hitcount: Story Total: 4663 Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work. Author's Notes: |
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The wind howled down the quiet London street. Few pedestrians seemed willing to brave the biting cold; those that did strode purposefully down the sidewalk trying their best to ignore the conditions and get their errands done as quickly as possible. The one exception to this rule was a black-haired boy walking slowly, seemingly aimlessly, down the street. With his shoulders to his ears in an effort to survive the freezing wind, he gazed vacantly into the window of a shoe store as he passed, unaware of the havoc the elements were wreaking on his infamously unruly locks. A jarring blow to his shoulder startled Harry from his reverie. “Sorry, mate,” the man said distractedly as he adjusted his packages and continued on his way. Harry sighed, pulled his hand-knit scarf more securely around his neck, and rubbed his frozen hands through his hair. He had spent the last four hours wandering aimlessly through the streets of London. He had walked wherever his feet had taken him, refusing to stop for the cold, refusing to stop for anything. He knew that as long as he kept moving he could keep his mind occupied, could keep it from dwelling on things he was unwilling to face. Unfortunately, the oblivious shopper had broken his semi-catatonic state and his thoughts were headed back into dangerous territory. What he needed was a distraction. And maybe a little heat. He looked up and down the deserted street, searching for a sanctuary. The brick building on the corner wore a flickering neon sign advertising The Corner Café. Although the outside of the building had been neglected, the bright plaid curtains on the windows and the warm orange and red lights above the tables gave it a comfortable, homey appearance. Even more appealing than the décor, however, was the fact that it looked virtually deserted. It was just the kind of place he needed. He tugged on the glass door, ignoring the cheerful jingle of the bell that heralded his arrival, and stole a furtive glance around the café. He shook his head and wondered how long it would be before he stopped searching every building he entered for signs of Death Eater activity. A young man pushed his way through the swinging door between the kitchen and the bakery counter, wiping his hands on the apron he wore tied around his waist. He smiled at Harry. “Some weather,” he began, grinning casually at his customer. “Pretty bad day to be in the restaurant business.” Harry responded with a shrug and a small attempt at a smile. This poor man had no idea that the restaurants just a few blocks away were, without a doubt, busier today than they had been in years. “What can I get for you today, sir?” Harry pointed to the blueberry scone in the glass bakery case and nodded to the tea on the counter. As the man retrieved the requested items, Harry dug out the Muggle money that was wadded in his pocket. He separated some bills and dropped them on the counter. He knew he had given more than enough money to cover the cost of the scone and tea. He hoped he had left enough to buy him some time to sit in the warmth of the restaurant without being pressured to order anything else. He nodded to the waiter, and carried his food to the table in the back corner of the cafe. Although he didn’t want to invite conversation, he couldn’t force himself to sit with his back to the other tables in the restaurant -- another life-saving habit he suspected he would never rid himself of. He sighed as he sat with his back to the corner and lowered his head in an attempt to ward off any unwanted questions from the wait-staff. He had no idea how long he sat staring at his untouched scone and tea, but he assumed it was long enough to attract the attention of the man who had given him his food, because he saw the worn, brown oxfords of the waiter approaching. “Sir, is anything the matter with your order?” Harry shook his head. “Well, if there’s anything you need,” the waiter half-asked, half-stated. He turned and left Harry alone. If he heard the strangled sob escape the young customer’s throat, he gave no indication. *** The scuffed, brown, oxfords that had seen many days at their government job stopped in front of Harry. Harry bit his lip to keep from crying. He refused to look up. There was no way he could meet the gaze of the man before him, this man that had always treated him like a son. He knew that, if he focused hard enough on the sterile, white tile floor he could keep from seeing the expression he was sure would be on Arthur Weasley’s face. “Harry,” Mr. Weasley said sadly, his voice little more than a whisper. “She…she would want you in there.” Harry’s eyes burned with unshed tears. His heart, though broken, was trying valiantly to keep beating. He felt as though his chest would implode from the exertion. He tried to answer Mr. Weasley, but couldn’t force the words through his throat. He heard Mr. Weasley sigh resignedly. “Well…if there’s anything you need…” The despair in Mr. Weasley’s voice was somehow more terrible than anything Harry had witnessed in this nightmare of a day. He simply shook his head and watched Mr. Weasley’s shoes walk through the door. *** Harry wiped his burning eyes with the back of his hand and forced himself to eat a few bites of the scone, which was actually not half-bad. After swallowing a mouthful of the now tepid tea, Harry buttoned his coat and walked back into the blustery afternoon. The sun hadn’t made an appearance since he’d begun his tour of London. That was just fine with him. He didn’t know how it could ever shine again. He continued to go wherever his feet led him. During the rare times when the street felt too crowded, he would turn to the deserted alleyways. An occasional trash bin would feel the force of his pent-up anger and frustration. If he was lucky, it would dent or move with a satisfying clang. If he wasn’t, the bin would win and his foot would pay the consequence. What the hell did it matter, anyway? What was a broken foot when she was… Damn it! He kicked the newspaper box at the corner of the alley with all of the rage he was feeling. He felt a twinge of satisfaction as the glass front cracked. A grunt of surprise from the pile of rags beside the box caught his attention. The homeless man sleeping in the pile of old papers and clothes grunted again and rolled over. He came uncovered as he did so. Harry’s eyes softened, compassion replacing his anger at the sight of the man before him. He bent down and re-covered him as gently as he could. His hands immediately went to the warm scarf around his neck. As he grabbed the warm red wool, he hesitated. Could he really part with this? He closed his eyes and shook his head sadly. He realized he was being selfish. She would have wanted him to offer help where he could. He slowly removed his scarf and laid it beside the stranger. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and turned to leave. As he turned, he spotted the toe of the man’s ratty, orange trainer peeking out from under his makeshift blankets. He hurriedly fled from the alley. *** Four identical orange trainers strode purposefully to their places in front of Harry. They looked garish and out of place in the clinical, pristinely white environment in which they now found themselves. A plate containing a turkey sandwich and crisps unceremoniously descended in front of him, the carrot stick garnish the sole splash of colour on the plate. “We reckon you ought to eat something,” Fred or George said plainly. “I can’t,” Harry managed. They were the first words he had spoken in hours and they felt strange in his mouth, on his tongue. “We figured you’d say that,” the other twin replied with no hint of their usual prankishness. “But we thought we had to try.” “She’d never forgive us if we let you starve yourself to death.” “It’s obvious the three of you haven’t been eating much these past few months. You look terrible.” Harry grunted in acknowledgement. “Eat, Harry.” “Really.” And the ridiculously orange trainers walked away, leaving the carrot the only color in this impossibly white world. *** The bitter wind against his face made it painfully clear to him that he would have to go back. He sighed heavily and searched the street for a landmark that would direct him back to the Wizarding world. He wondered if he could get away with sitting in the hallway again. He thought that if he didn’t have to meet their eyes, didn’t have to see the grief reflected there… He might as well be honest with himself. It wasn’t the grief that worried him. If he didn’t have to see the resentment in their eyes he could pretend that he was still a part of the family that had come to be his own. He shook his head and continued down the street. He didn’t think he’d be that blessed. They had given him his privacy from the time they had arrived at St. Mungo’s. Leaving him to his grief, he supposed. But as he’d left them this morning he could have sworn that he’d felt Hermione’s questioning gaze on him. He had been able to feel her eyes narrow as she pondered how to force him to open up to them. He hadn’t seen that expression since Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Could it possibly have been just four months ago that Bill and Fleur were married in The Burrow’s garden? Was it just four months ago that he had spent the evening watching Ginny, a vision in pale gold? Watching her and cursing the destiny that was keeping him from holding her, from kissing her, from declaring his undying love for her? *** Harry watched breathlessly as her strappy, gold heels approached. He could picture her sad smile, could imagine the blazing look in her eyes, and could feel his heart breaking. Ginny reached down and grabbed his hand. He was suddenly surrounded by her warmth, his mind wrapped in the scent of wildflowers that would always say Ginny to him. He knew he was at her mercy as she gently pulled him to his feet and led him to the clearing beside the pond. He felt that he should say something - that he should offer some sort of explanation - but he couldn’t. He could think of nothing to say that could possibly make this situation any better. And then, Ginny found a way to do what he couldn’t. His wonderful Ginny found a way to say all that needed to be said. “I love you,” she stated simply. When Harry didn’t respond, she snorted and said, “I know you love me too, but that doesn’t mean a girl doesn’t want to hear it once and a while.” He met her eyes then. They were filled with love, and smirking laughter, and tears. He tilted his head and shrugged at her. Her lilting laugh echoed softly through the clearing. “Oh, aren’t you the sweet talker, Mr. Potter?” she said. And then she kissed him. They had spent their share of time snogging during their weeks together at Hogwarts, but he had known nothing that even approximated this. At first, he felt the fire from the touch of her hands on his arms, on his back, in his hair. He could feel the soft skin of her shoulders under his Quidditch-calloused palms. After a few moments, however, he lost awareness of where he left off and she began. He was consumed by a feeling of oneness that he had never experienced before. He was aware of her love for him; he could feel it in every breath she exhaled. He could feel her fear and her hope. And he knew that she could feel his love for her, could feel his need to keep her safe. When she broke the kiss he saw desire and love burning in her warm, brown eyes. “Promise me one thing, Harry,” she said. He nodded mutely, too entranced by the depth of emotion he saw in her eyes to speak. “Promise me that you’ll come home to me.” He opened his mouth to do that very thing. He tried to form the words with lips still warm from her kisses. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t lie to her at this, the most honest moment he’d experienced in his life. So he said nothing. She expressed her understanding with the addition of tears to her love-filled eyes. She flung herself against his chest and they cried together by the pond. *** He looked around and realised that he was only a few blocks from the shabby storefront that was St. Mungo’s. It was amazing that his subconscious mind could navigate his body through London without his awareness. Suddenly, a car backfired. Harry reflexively reached for his wand as he jumped into a fighting stance. When he realized the source of the explosion, he shook his head in disgust. He felt the trail of tears freezing to his wind-burned cheeks. He wondered if he would ever again live a day when he did not flinch at the smallest sound, see a threat in the most innocent event. He doubted it. The last day of the battle had insured that. *** They had finally destroyed the last of the Horcruxes. Ron and Hermione had spent the better part of two days urging him to enlist the help of the Order of the Phoenix before they initiated the final confrontation with Voldemort. In fact, they were in the middle of one of these discussions when a band of Death Eaters Apparated into the middle of their camp. Harry hadn’t even been holding his wand. As he scrambled to retrieve his wand from his back pocket, Ron jumped to his feet and began firing hexes for all he was worth. He was brilliant. In the midst of his initial assault, he nodded grimly to Hermione. She returned his nod and Apparated away. It was possible that none of the Death Eaters had even known she’d been there. Harry finally managed to locate his wand and rose to stand, shoulder to shoulder, with Ron. They fired hexes as quickly as they possibly could, but Death Eaters seemed to join the battle faster than they could jinx them out of it. Just as he was beginning to tire, and faster than Harry would have imagined possible, the cavalry arrived. An inordinate amount of the cavalry’s members were crowned with fiery red hair. A cacophony of shouted curses filled the night as the battle began in earnest. As he disabled his combatant, he spotted Fred and George battling the lumpy Death Eater from the Astronomy Tower and Mrs. Weasley locked in a furious fight with Lucius Malfoy. They seemed to be holding their own, so he rushed to help Hermione, who was trying to fight off two Death Eaters at once. He shot a Stunner over her shoulder at one of the Death Eaters and inserted himself into the fray. As the hexes flew like fireworks over the clearing, it became increasingly difficult to identify friend from foe. In the midst of the chaos, and even though he was entrenched in battle, Harry found that he couldn’t help but search for Ginny. His eyes swept the battlefield as he frantically scanned for her long, red hair. As he hit his opponent with a Stunner, he spotted her. She was at the edge of the battlefield, dropped low in a fighting crouch. Her face was pale, her lips curled in a snarl, and her eyes were fixed on something at the edge of the forest. Harry followed her gaze and saw the object of her hatred. There, at the edge of the clearing, stood Lord Voldemort. *** He walked through the dirty glass window of Purge and Dowse Ltd. and into the reception area of St. Mungo’s. He found himself longing for a hat, a scarf, an invisibility cloak, anything that would help disguise his identity. He was sure the reporters would be lurking about the hospital, but hoped that hospital security could be trusted to keep them off the fourth floor and away from the Weasleys. If he could only make it to the lift, he should be in the clear. He was halfway through the waiting room when the first reporter spotted him. He closed his eyes with a grimace and steeled himself for the barrage of questions he knew was coming. “Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter! How did you manage it?” “Who was with you at the final battle?” He just shook his head and tried to force his way through the crowd. He began to feel suffocated by the encroaching mob. The questioning continued. “What spell did you use, Harry?” “Is Hermione Granger going to be okay?” “What happened to Ginny Weasley?” Harry clenched his wand in his hand and restrained himself from hexing his way through the room. He lowered his shoulder into a fat, balding wizard holding a Quick Quotes Quill as he struggled to free himself from the media blitz. He felt a strong hand on his shoulder as a low voice continued the questioning, “Where in the hell have you been all morning?” Harry spun around to find Bill’s eyes on his. He could think of nothing to say so he just held Bill’s gaze, willing him to understand the need for escape that had caused him to leave the hospital this morning. Bill must have found something in Harry’s expression that satisfied him, for his eyes softened and he gave Harry’s shoulder a gentle shove, directing him through the crowd of reporters. “Come on, then,” he said softly. “Let’s get you upstairs.” Using Bill as a lifeline, he found his way to the lift. When the lift doors clattered open, Harry practically bolted inside. He slumped against the cool metal wall as the doors closed with a ding. He could feel Bill’s eyes willing him to look up. He knew he should thank Bill for rescuing him, but again, he found that words just wouldn’t come. “Harry,” Bill began softly, “We were worried about you.” Harry clenched his eyes closed and nodded mutely. Bill reached over and held the button that would keep the doors to the lift closed. “I just want you to know that…well…that we all want you here, Harry. No matter what happened, or will happen, you’re a part of this family. You…” but Bill didn’t continue. Harry chanced a look up at his surrogate older brother to find his scarred, though still handsome, face clenched against a howl of misery. Harry, in the rush of sympathy for Bill, felt the knot of worry that had occupied a large space in his chest all morning loosen just a little. As it did, he was finally able to release some of the anguish he’d been running from all day. The first of several great, wracking sobs escaped him. Bill pointed his wand at the button of the elevator, mumbled something Harry assumed would keep the doors closed, and then grabbed Harry and hugged him as they cried. When at last they had cried themselves out, Bill released the spell on the door and sent the elevator to the fourth floor. Harry conjured a handkerchief and blew his nose. He ventured a glance at Bill. “I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly. “About this morning, I mean.” Bill just sniffed and nodded briefly. “I just couldn’t…I mean I thought you wouldn’t want me around anymore.” “We figured as much. Well, at least Hermione did. Smart girl, that Hermione. How she found herself in love with Ron I’ll never know,” Bill supplied with a ghost of a smile. “Just don’t give us anything else to worry about, okay?” Harry hung his head shamefully, truly sorry that he had caused the Weasleys any more grief. Bill nudged his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Harry. Trust me when I tell you that there were times this morning when I wished I could have done a runner, too. But that’s not how it works when you’re a part of a family. For better of worse, you’re there for each other, even when you’d rather not be.” The lift doors pinged when they reached the fourth floor and opened on the sterile, white environment that Harry had fled this morning. He sighed, stepped from the lift, and turned left toward the room where his family was waiting. He had barely taken two steps before Hermione, a blur in her rapidly moving wheelchair, had whirred down the hallway and flung her arms around his legs. “Harry!” She hugged her friend tightly. Harry tried to return the embrace, but the angle made it awkward, so he settled for stroking her hair in what he hoped was a reassuring way. She pulled away from him and looked up concernedly. “Where on Earth have you been? We’ve been worried sick? Ron’s been, well, he’s been a mess, Harry.” She ran her hand through her unruly hair. Harry truly looked at his friend and saw the anguish behind her eyes. “Hermione…” He couldn’t think of anything to say. She squeezed his hand, her eyes bright with tears. “I know, Harry.” He squatted beside her, bringing himself down to her eye level. “How are you, Hermione?” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m fine,” she said brusquely. Harry shook his head, denying her quick response. “No, Hermione. I want a real answer. I mean, you wheeled that chair down the hallway pretty fast for a woman who was in the critical care unit until early this morning. Does that mean you’re cured?” “Well, they managed to stop most of the bleeding. It’s still trickling a little, so I have to take a blood replenishing potion every few hours until they can figure out what to do about that. And they expect the scarring to be pretty bad.” She took a shuddering breath before continuing. “But, all in all, it could have been a lot worse.” Harry closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m just glad Ron reached you before that Death Eater could finish you off.” Hermione placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and said quietly, “Me too, Harry. Me too.” *** Harry froze at the sight of Ginny and Voldemort. It was as though a wave of icy water had crested over him and left him slightly breathless. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and it seemed as though someone had turned off the sound of the battle that he knew must still be raging around him. “Hermione,” he managed to croak out. She held a Shield Charm easily in front of herself as she looked to Harry. She followed his gaze and paled. “Go.” And he left her to fight her own fight. He struggled through the opposing forces locked in fierce combat on his way to Ginny’s side, occasionally aiming whatever hex came to mind at a Death Eater as he passed. As he growled in frustration at the time it was taking him to reach the edge of the forest, he heard his best friend yelling just to his right. “HERMIONE! NO!” Harry turned as Ron rushed past him firing Stunners into the crowd. He saw Hermione, a tangle of limbs on the ground, as bright scarlet blood flowed freely from a gash across her chest. Before Harry could do more than make a move to go back and help his injured friend, Ron had reached Hermione and had Disapparated her away from the battle. As Harry turned back to Ginny, he fought the urge to be sick and willed himself to think only of reaching her, of helping her before Voldemort could torture her, could kill her as he had killed countless others. *** Hermione’s voice startled him from this reverie. “You really should go and talk to them, Harry.” He sighed as he struggled to find the right words. “I know, Hermione, but … How can they even want to see me? It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” “Honestly, Harry!” Hermione said exasperatedly. “No one blames you! How could they?” “How could they not!” Harry was shouting now. The anger and pain and grief he’d been running from all day were finally overpowering him. “You all think that you would have been in this war no matter what, but you can’t know that! You might not have been there at all last night! If you had never met me, you might have been somewhere safe!” Harry turned his back on Hermione and ran his hand through his hair. He struggled to get his breathing under control. “Harry,” said Hermione, her voice soft and steady, “you can let yourself believe that we wouldn’t have been there for the battle. You can believe that, somehow, miraculously, the entire Weasley clan, the bravest family we’ve ever known, would have neglected the duty you know they all feel toward fighting for what is right. But you can’t possibly, not by any stretch of the imagination, believe that we would have been safe.” She was right. He knew she was. But it wasn’t that simple. “All I know is that if she hadn’t loved me, she wouldn’t have died.” *** He had finally found an opening in the skirmish and had rapidly closed the distance to Ginny. As though his ears were tuned only to the frequency of their conversation, he heard Ginny say, “Like hell I will. I’m not eleven anymore.” With that, she fired off her first curse, a Rictusempra, if Harry wasn’t mistaken, which Voldemort lazily deflected. Harry found his spirits buoyed by the ridiculousness of the situation. Only his Ginny could fire a tickling hex at the most feared Wizard of the modern age. “Tut, tut, Miss Weasley. I think it’s time to teach you some manners.” Voldemort’s gaze flicked to Harry. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Potter?” Ginny turned, wide-eyed, toward Harry. Voldemort raised his wand and yelled, “Crucio!” The curse struck Ginny squarely in the chest and she fell to the ground, writhing in agony. “STOP!” Harry yelled. Voldemort’s eyes glowed a menacing red as he held Ginny under the power of the curse. His lip was curled back in a hateful grin. “That’s enough!” roared Harry. “Stupefy!” Voldemort simply waved the curse away with his other hand. Harry rushed to Ginny’s side. She had her knees drawn protectively to her chest as if trying to fight off invisible blows. Her head was thrown back in agony, thin strands of spittle ran from the corners of her mouth, her breath came in grunts. ‘He’s killing her! Oh, Merlin, he’s killing her’ was the only thought his brain supplied. He had to do something. He fired off a stream of curses, each more vicious than the last. Voldemort seemed to have conjured an invisible shield, however, and Harry watched with mounting desperation as each of his hexes rebounded off the unseen barrier. He chanced a look at Ginny. Her suffering was etched into every fibre of her being. She couldn’t possibly withstand much more of this; it seemed that she had been under the power of the curse forever. So he did the only thing he could think to do. He dove between Ginny and Voldemort, dove into the path of the curse. The pain that enveloped him was beyond anything he had ever known. He felt the scream rip from his throat as the red-hot irons of pain jabbed into every muscle in his body. And then it was gone. “Ah, Harry. So noble. Willing to suffer for the love of his life.” Harry struggled to raise his head, fought to lift his wand hand from the ground. “Too little, too late, I’m afraid.” Gasping for breath, Harry followed Voldemort’s gaze to where Ginny was lying, too pale and far too still, on the grass beside him. He felt the air rush out of his lungs and the bile rise in his throat. “Don’t be dead, Ginny. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead.” He repeated the chant as he forced his abused body to crawl toward her. He had almost reached her when the unbelievable agony of Voldemort’s curse struck him again. His hands reflexively reached for his scar as it exploded with searing pain. Surely, his forehead was being split in two. The pain seemed to be endless, beyond all enduring. How long could this last before he lost his mind? How long until the Fates took pity on him and let him die? When Harry regained awareness of his surroundings, he found himself facedown on the grass. Unable to even lift his head, he retched, spitting thick yellow acid onto the ground beside him. “How pathetic,” Voldemort drawled. “The mighty Harry Potter, supposed saviour of the world, vomiting at the feet of Lord Voldemort.” Harry struggled to lift his head enough to avoid aspirating his own sick. “I have waited for this night for a long time, Harry. I always knew that, one day, I’d have the pleasure of killing you. I didn’t realize that I’d also have the chance to kill your blood-traitor girlfriend.” Harry clawed at the grass in an effort to pull his body toward Ginny. He was beyond thought, acting only on the instinct to reach his love. “Look at me, Harry.” Harry, still inching his way over the rocky ground, felt his head turn as though being pushed by an unseen hand. Even his clouded, unfocused brain could register the glee on Voldemort’s face. “Now, Harry Potter, you die.” *** Harry was startled to feel a solid hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Ron’s mud-covered trainers beside his. Ron’s voice cracked as he spoke, “Ginny…she’s…” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the news he was afraid he’d hear. When he had carried her into St. Mungo’s hours before, the healers had said there was a chance. They had said they would do everything they possibly could. He couldn’t lose her now. Not after everything else. Ron squeezed his shoulder gently. “She’s going to be okay, Harry.” Harry’s head snapped up and his blazing green eyes sought the truth in his best friend’s red-rimmed blue ones. “Really?” Harry asked softly. It was more than he had dared to hope for. “Yeah. They want to keep her here for a few days, but they don’t believe the curse left any lasting damage.” All of the strength seemed to be sapped from Harry’s legs. He collapsed against the wall. He felt Ron’s strong arm around his shoulders, pulling him back to his feet. Harry ventured a glance at his friend. Ron smiled wearily back at him, his eyes filling with tears. “Ron, I’m so sorry,” Harry supplied lamely. Ron just shook his head as he tried to blink back his tears. “Go be with Ginny, mate,” was all he said. Harry turned back toward Ginny’s room and saw Hermione sitting in her wheelchair behind him. She smiled kindly at him, her face a mess of tears. He smiled back at her, knowing she would take care of Ron, and walked back down the hall to be with Ginny. He entered her dimly lit room, surprised to see it empty of Weasleys. Harry was even more surprised to find Ginny awake, a little groggy perhaps, but awake. An elderly nurse was fussing over her, straightening her covers and adjusting her pillows. Although he wanted to sprint to her side and crush her to him, he found himself unable to move. He couldn’t believe that she was actually going to be okay. He forced himself to take a deep breath, hoping his voice wouldn’t shake when he spoke. After what seemed like forever, the nurse finally left her bedside and moved efficiently toward the cart of potions near the wall closest to Harry. Ginny’s eyes followed her progress and widened in surprise when they found Harry. Like the sun rising, her face brightened when she saw him. “Harry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse. Harry found his feet able to move at last and he crossed the room and grasped her hand. As at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, he was incapable of speech. He simply lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. In spite of everything that had happened, he found himself powerless to keep the smile from his face. Ginny gave his hand a squeeze, cleared her throat, and spoke softly. “I didn’t know what happened to you,” she said, her voice filled with tears. “I’ve been so worried and no one would tell me anything.” She glared pointedly at the nurse who was carrying a vial filled with potion to her scowling patient. The nurse ‘tsked’ at the youngest Weasley, but didn’t respond. “Harry, what happened out there tonight?” Ginny’s warm brown eyes sought his, pleading with him to tell her the truth. Harry was consumed by panic. No one had told her anything? And now he was going to have to? Well, there was simply no way that he could do it. He wasn’t going to be the first to tell her what had happened. His fear must have shown on his face as Ginny’s expression became troubled. Thankfully, the nurse interrupted and saved him from having to answer. “Here now, dear. There will be time for that later. Right now you need some rest.” She handed Ginny the small vial. “Drink this. All of it.” Ginny took the potion and looked up at Harry, her eyes twinkling. “I think this one’s channelling Madam Pomfrey,” she muttered conspiratorially. She winked and swallowed the potion in one gulp. Her eyelids instantly began to droop as she handed the vial back to the nurse. Her now empty hand sought Harry’s. “I’m just so glad you’re okay, Harry,” Ginny said groggily. “I love you.” The last words were barely a whisper when her eyes slid closed and the potion she had taken carried her off to sleep. Harry leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to her temple. He still hadn’t told her he loved her, but he knew now that he would have many chances to do so. When she woke up he would tell her every chance he got for the rest of their lives. Harry, still holding on to Ginny’s hand, laid his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes. *** Harry managed to roll to his side, his head propped slightly on Ginny’s shoulder. He felt strangely disconnected from his body; the slightest movements seemed to take a tremendous amount of concentration. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a cloaked form stepped in front of him, blocking his view of Voldemort. He heard Voldemort’s high-pitched, irritated voice issue the command. “Get out of my way, woman.” “No. I won’t let you hurt them.” Harry was amazed to realize the voice belonged to Molly Weasley. Harry felt panic wash over him. He struggled to lift his wand and forced his voice to give his unnecessary warning. “Mrs. Weasley…take Ginny…get out of here…” “That’s right, Mrs. Weasley,” Voldemort sneered, “get out of here. My fight is with Harry. There’s no need for you to die…yet.” Mrs. Weasley, seemingly unafraid, answered right back, “You leave this boy alone. He’s suffered enough and I won’t let you hurt him anymore!” As Voldemort laughed his cold, cruel laugh Harry felt time slow to a crawl. He watched Voldemort‘s gaze leisurely descend to meet Mrs. Weasley’s. He saw the evil smile fade from his face, saw his snake-like eyes narrow to vicious red slits. Harry could only look on helplessly as Voldemort levelled his wand at Mrs. Weasley. *** Harry heard the door to Ginny’s room click shut. He glanced up quickly, his hand reaching for his wand. He relaxed as he saw Mr. Weasley enter the room. “She’s going to be all right,” Arthur said simply. He was crying openly and looked as though he had been for some time. “Yes, sir. Ron told me,” Harry said, also unable to stop his tears. “I can’t believe it.” Harry looked back at Ginny’s pale form and reached out a shaky hand to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. He was amazed at how comforting the simple gesture was. Unable to meet Mr. Weasley’s gaze, Harry cleared his throat and spoke softly. “Mr. Weasley?” “Yes, Harry?” “I haven’t told her yet, but I…I love her.” Mr. Weasley placed his hand gently on Harry’s shoulder. “I know. We’ve known for a long time.” He didn’t know how Mr. Weasley could still treat him with such compassion and acceptance, but the emotion in Mr. Weasley’s voice warmed Harry and gave him the strength to continue. “Mr. Weasley?” “Yes, Harry?” “I…well, I’ve never told you, either…or Mrs. Weasley…but I love you, too.” Harry felt Mr. Weasley’s hand grip his shoulder firmly. The room remained silent for several moments. When Mr. Weasley finally spoke his voice was thick with tears. “We knew that too, Harry.” “Molly and I knew that we could never take the place of your parents, but we always hoped you felt loved in our home. We couldn’t have loved you more if you were red-haired and freckled like the rest of them.” Harry struggled to speak. He knew that he should thank this amazing man for the love they’d given him so freely, but he was unable to find adequate words. He closed his eyes and gripped Mr. Weasley’s hand on his shoulder, letting the feeling of love wash over him. After several moments, he spoke, his voice husky and gruff with unshed tears. “Mrs. Weasley…she…well…she was an amazing person.” “Yes, she was, son. She was indeed.” *** Harry watched helplessly as the scene unfolded before him. Before he could do anything, before he could so much as utter a word, Voldemort pointed his wand at Mrs. Weasley and uttered the curse that had claimed so many innocent victims. “NOOO!!!” Harry heard his cry as though it came from the other end of a long tunnel. He was still unable to get his abused body to rise from the ground. A burst of green light flew from Voldemort’s wand and struck Mrs. Weasley in the chest. Her lifeless body fell to the ground. And then something happened that Harry knew he had witnessed before even though he was too young at the time to remember it. The jet of green light rebounded from Mrs. Weasley’s chest and struck Voldemort’s. His body collapsed beside her. There, at the edge of the forest, the once-again-mortal Lord Voldemort met his demise, struck down for a second time by a mother’s unconquerable love for her children. |
| Reviews 23 |
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