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Author: Aibhinn Story: Heal The Pain Rating: Teens Setting: AU Status: Completed Reviews: 13 Words: 198,021
Harry drifted awake, lying on his stomach on his bed in Ron's room. His pillow was damp, his eyes grainy from crying. Sirius. Why had he dreamed about Sirius? He braced himself for the guilt and sorrow he always felt when he thought of his godfather, but to his surprise, it didn't come hurtling down on his heart the way it had since the night of the Battle. He still mourned, still missed Sirius dreadfully, but the heavy weight of guilt on his heart had lessened. He said his death wasn't my fault. And…I believe him. He sat up, rubbing the tear-tracks off his cheeks. He reached into his trunk for a handkerchief to blow his nose and then retrieved his glasses. His memories of the Battle, especially the deaths of his friends, were raw wounds that he had tried to avoid prodding for too long. They had hurt so badly that he had shied away from them, trying to bury them beneath the routine of everyday life, but they had always seemed to rear up unexpectedly, catching him unawares at the worst possible times. He thought about what Sirius had said, how the rest of Hogwarts had taken time to share, to mourn, but he had been unconscious. His trip to the cemetery after he'd finally been released from hospital had been solitary; his grief had been buried deep inside. He hadn't ever even been able to cry. He had pretended it didn't exist; it didn't matter. But it did exist. It did matter. That's why Ron and Hermione have kept asking me if I'm all right, Harry realised suddenly. They saw me holding it in—and saw it breaking out despite myself. You need to talk to someone. That was what Sirius had been saying to him. Everyone else had had their period to mourn; he needed one, too, or it would just keep coming out the way it had done before—the way it had with the Dursleys. But who could he talk to? He would have been able to talk to Sirius or Dumbledore, but…. Maybe Ron or Hermione? He considered, then shook his head. Close as he was to them both, he just couldn't see himself unburdening his heart to them. Not like this. Mrs. Weasley? No. She was the closest he'd ever had to a mother, but he didn't somehow think that she could fully understand. Sirius had said that nobody came out of war unscathed, but Harry wondered if there wasn't a sort of connection between people who had gone through the same experiences. His and Ron's friendship with Hermione had begun as a result of a shared encounter with a mountain troll in their first year, and grew as a result of the adventures they'd had in successive years. But whom did he know who'd survived the Battle that he could talk to? He could only think of one person. The door opened quietly and Ron stuck his head in. "Hey," he said, when he saw Harry was awake. "Everything okay?" Harry gave a wan smile as Ron stepped inside. "Better," he said. Ron smiled too, relief clear in his face. "Everyone's back," he said. "They're all downstairs. Lunch is just about ready. Want to come on down?" Harry ran a hand through his hair and looked at his watch. It was half-past twelve. "Yeah," he said. "I'll just stop in the bathroom on the way." "Okay." Ron headed out the door, leaving the door open as Harry stood, stretching. I'd better do more than just splash water on my face, Harry reflected. Maybe I should just take another shower. I have to make it look good. Don't want them worrying about me. But then, maybe they have the right to worry, a small voice from the back of his mind commented. They are, after all, the only real family I have. And as annoyed as he had been the past few months over being fussed over, he had to admit that if he had been left alone to stew in his own juices, it would have been much, much worse. At least Ron and Hermione got me out of the dormitory, or I'd probably still be there. He trotted down the stairs toward the bathroom, but just as he rounded the landing, something thudded hard into his chest. He stumbled backward, his Seeker reflexes automatically reaching out to catch whatever it was. Brown eyes looked up into his, and his heart nearly stopped. Ginny. Her hair was shoulder-length now, no longer the glorious waist-length river of fire down her back. She was pale, her freckles standing out against her ivory skin. She had lost weight, too; her cheeks were hollower than they should be. Ginny, collapsing on the ground between himself and Voldemort, limp, white, barely breathing. Himself, screaming in terror and fury. Voldemort, laughing. "Such defenders you have, Harry," he hissed. "It was she who opened the Chamber a few years ago, wasn't it? Poor girl—no wonder she fainted at the sight of me. I remind her of—other days. My mark was already on her, Harry. All she could do was lead you to me. How very efficient of her." Before Harry could think about what he was doing, he had reached a hand up to cup her face. His head bent to touch his lips to hers. Warm, soft Ginny-lips… soft, lithe body against him… the months between them melted away. It was almost as though the Battle had never been. It was so clear again. She leaned into the kiss. His heartbeat sped up and his pulse began to thud in his ears. He groaned, stepping closer to her, but suddenly, she broke away. She stared at him for a long moment with something approaching pure terror, then bolted back down the stairs, out of sight. He stood there, stunned, as her footsteps receded, then he heard the back door open and slam shut. His heart sank into his shoes. She'd heard about the Dursleys. She must have heard. Either that, or she'd meant what she'd said to him during their last row, just before he'd left for Hogsmeade to face down Voldemort. That was one of the memories he'd been trying so hard to avoid. He went heavily down the next level of stairs and into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door. Wearily he stripped and turned on the shower, letting the hot spray bathe his face. The memories just wouldn't stay hidden any more. *** It was mid-March, and the rumours from Hogsmeade were becoming ever more violent since the siege had begun in January. Harry was returning from the greenhouses, where he'd served a detention for Professor Sprout. He slowed as he passed the Transfiguration classroom; he could see the staff all gathered there, Professor Dumbledore speaking to them. Dumbledore's voice sounded flat and exhausted. "It's no good denying it any longer, my friends," the headmaster said. "He is only getting stronger, and soon he will be able to overcome the protections on this castle. In the interest of the safety of our students, we must take matters into our own hands now. We must go down and face him on our terms, not on his." Face him? Face Voldemort? Harry glanced around, then ducked behind a statue. He had to hear this. "It's to be tonight, then?" Snape's normally-greasy voice had taken on a gravelly undertone. "It is. Sirius Black will be here in—" there was a pause and a rustle of clothing, "—half an hour. We will be going down to the village at that time." Another pause, and Harry could imagine Dumbledore meeting every staff member's eyes. "Any of you who do not wish to go will, of course, be welcome to stay here and help defend the castle. But as for me, I must be there." "Of course you must!" Professor McGonagall said tartly. "As must I." "No, Minerva." The soft voice had grown slightly deeper. "You will stay here and organise the castle's defences. You must not leave the castle except as a last resort. Should anything happen to me, you will be Headmistress." "If we go down with you, Headmaster, where will we be going and what will we be doing?" asked Professor Vector, the Arithmancy witch. "We will follow a secret passage into the cellar of Honeyduke's and take up our positions from there. The Ministry will be setting up their line not far away; we will be their backup. I will be able to tell you more about our specific plans when I see whom and what we have to work with, but I can tell you now that our job will be to hold the line. We must let none of Voldemort's supporters past us, for if they once get into this castle, we are all lost and Voldemort has finally, completely won." There was absolute silence. Then Snape's voice sounded again: "Headmaster," he said, "I must humbly beg the privilege of standing at your right hand." Had the situation been any less serious, Harry might have stifled a laugh. Snape, begging? "Of course, Severus. I would be honoured to have you there." Dumbledore's voice sounded as though it trembled slightly. But that couldn't be right; Dumbledore would never let his emotions get the better of him. Would he? Harry's jaw set. He slipped out from behind the statue and sneaked past the door, then broke into a run, all the way up to Gryffindor Tower. There was no way the staff were going to face Voldemort without his being there. He pelted through the nearly-silent common room—most families had already removed their students from school—and up the stairs to his dormitory, and grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and his wand. He paused, about to shut his trunk, then, with a shaking hand, reached in to pull out the picture album Hagrid had given him years before. Sixteen years ago, his parents had faced down Voldemort and lost, and his world had been changed forever. He'd spent every day since he'd found out the truth wishing he could have known them. What had his mother's laugh sounded like? Could his father sing? What were their favourite jokes? Did they have a nickname for him when he was a baby? What had his first word been? What had it felt like to be held by his father, to be kissed by his mother? He wanted to burn the images of his family into his brain before he left. He wanted their faces in his mind's eye when he confronted Voldemort again. If he died, he wanted to die with their images impressed on his heart, and he wanted with every fibre of his being to take Voldemort with him. And he would. When researching a paper for Flitwick's class last November, he had come across a book that looked like it hadn't been opened for centuries, buried against the back of the bookshelf so that nobody could see it unless the whole shelf were cleared. It was handwritten in old calligraphy, and very hard to read. Something about it had caught his eye, and he pulled it over to the window to look at it in better light. The heading on the page he'd opened it to nearly made him choke. THE FYNALLE STRYKKE He'd read it avidly, his lips moving as he sounded out the medieval spellings. The charm would collect all magical energy in the vicinity, channel it through the caster, and allow him or her to direct it at an enemy too powerful to defeat in any other way. But there was a price to be paid for this spell: once Fynalle Strykke had been called, the energy flow through the caster was so great that it would almost certainly take the caster's life, even as it killed its intended victim. It's worth it, Harry thought grimly, staring at the smiling, waving pictures of the family he'd never known. If I can take Voldemort now, it doesn't matter if I go out with him. I can save lives this way. I can protect the castle. I can protect Ginny. He'd read his notes about the spell so many times he could recite them in his sleep, so he left the parchment in his trunk. He wasn't about to go back down through the common room; he really didn't want anyone left, especially Ron, Hermione, or Ginny, to know where he was going. He pulled his Firebolt out from underneath his bed and opened the window as wide as it would go. Tall as he'd got, it would be a tight fit, but if nothing else he could just squeeze out the window and pull his broom up under him while he was falling. He had, what, fourteen stories? That would be plenty of time. He paused for a moment to shake the Invisibility Cloak open first, though. He was damned if he'd give the Death Eaters a target to shoot at before he ever got down to the village. "What do you think you're doing?" Harry dropped the cloak and spun around. Ginny stood in the doorway to his dormitory, hair tossed back, eyes flashing, one hand on her hip. He knew that look. His heart twisted, but he forced himself to say calmly, "Going down to Hogsmeade." "What?" Ginny's irritated demeanour dropped and she stared at him, her eyes filling with fear. "Why, Harry?" "It's tonight." He couldn't hide it from her; he was amazed she hadn't already Seen it coming. "I've got to go down there and help. The staff are heading down in a few minutes, through the Honeyduke's tunnel. I'll be there when they arrive, and they won't be able to send me back." "Harry—" Ginny looked at him for a long moment. "You don't have to do this," she whispered. "Let Dumbledore handle it. This doesn't have to be you." "Yes, it does," he said flatly. "This is my fight too, Ginny. I've lost as much as anyone to Voldemort. More than most. He's got a lot to answer for." "But it doesn't have to be you," she pleaded. She stepped forward, coming toward him, laying her hand on his arm. "Harry, please. I—" She swallowed. "I've Seen things," she said. "Horrible things. Harry, you can't do this." So, she had Seen. He wondered what it had looked like to her. Would he disappear in a flash of blinding green light, or would he simply explode with the power? He had to get close to Voldemort to do it; he had to be within a few feet even, if the book was correct. The pain in her eyes was too much to bear. He bent and kissed her hungrily, a deep, ravenous kiss that brought back all the memories of all the time they'd spent together, and made him regret all the time they never would. She clung to him, moulding herself to him. He let his Firebolt drop and held her as close as he could. His parents' faces in his mind and Ginny's kiss on his lips: yes, that was the way to die. He ended the kiss, drawing back with effort. "I love you, Ginny," he said hoarsely. Gently, gently, he pushed her away, picked up his Firebolt again, and stepped up onto the bedside table and thence onto the windowsill. "Harry!" Against his better judgment, he turned around and saw her again, tears streaming down his face. "If you go out that window," she said, her voice quavering and her face set, "I will never speak to you again." He flinched violently. How could she say that? Didn't she understand? He stared at her a long moment as she stood there, eyes full of fear and the anger that comes from fear. But he couldn't live with himself if he stopped now. He couldn't live with himself if more people died when he could have stopped it all himself. He swallowed. She never would speak to him again, but it nearly destroyed him to die while she was so angry. "I'm sorry, Ginny," he said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry." He turned and, before his courage could give way, flung himself out into the air. *** Harry sighed and raised his hands, running them through his wet hair. He had to go downstairs now. They were all waiting for him. He was almost glad that Ginny had run out of the house; he wasn't sure he could face her now, with the memory fresh in his mind and her taste still lingering on his lips. He turned off the tap and opened the shower. Gingerly, he felt the bandages along his side; he hadn't been able to change them himself, so they'd got wet twice today already, but they were just to protect the burned flesh while it was healing, anyway. He'd have to remember to ask Ron to help him change them later. Or maybe Hermione; she'd probably do a better job than Ron, who was more than a little squeamish. He dried both himself and the bandages with a quick spell, and got back into his clothes. He walked into the kitchen to find nearly the whole family gathered there. Percy and his wife Penelope were sitting at the kitchen table with Mr. Weasley and Hermione; they seemed to be discussing something going on at the Ministry. Ron and his brother Bill, who was still sporting a few bandages himself from the Last Battle, were playing chess in a corner, with Charlie watching—though Harry was amused to note that Ron spent more time ogling Hermione than watching the chessboard. Mrs. Weasley was standing at the sink, directing knives that were chopping food with vigour. Through the open door, he could see Fred and George in the back yard, apparently experimenting with more of their Weasley's Wizard Wheezes stock. A minor explosion sounded, causing chickens to squawk frantically. "Fred and George Weasley!" shouted their mother. "Don't you dare put my chickens off their laying!" She shook her head and turned, catching sight of Harry. Her face brightened and she came quickly toward him, arms outstretched. "Harry, dear!" she said brightly, enfolding him in a hug. "It's so wonderful to see you! Ron said you hadn't slept well, so we just let you carry on napping, but it's lovely to see you awake. How are you, dear?" "I'm great, Mrs. Weasley," he said. It was even almost true. "Thanks for letting me stay here." "Oh, posh," she said, waving him off. "You're family! We would have had you living here every summer for years now, if it weren't for—well—circumstances." The spell that Dumbledore cast to protect me when I was a baby, Harry translated. As long as he had lived with his relatives, he was safe from Voldemort. "I really appreciate it," he said warmly, and had the satisfaction of watching her eyes brighten with pleasure. He glanced around, getting waves and smiles from everyone in the room. "This has always been home to me." "You must be nearly starving," Mrs. Weasley said, letting go of him and trotting back to the sink. "I can't imagine you've had much to eat today. Lunch will be ready in a few moments, dear." She glanced over her shoulder and a small smile curved her mouth. "Ginny's out in the tree house, I think," she said. Percy looked up at his mother in puzzlement. "Why would Harry want to know where Ginny was, Mother?" he asked. Mrs. Weasley blushed, busying herself again at the sink. "Well, everyone else is right here. I thought he might be wondering where she was." "Oh," Harry said, a bit uncomfortably. "Well, if she's out in the tree house, I won't trouble her. I'm sure she's looking for peace and quiet." "With all of us here, who wouldn't?" Bill said with a grin, directing his castle. He looked up. "Charlie's brought his new broom too, Harry. It's a Nimbus 2002. My old Cleansweep won't do much against you two, but fancy a match out in the orchard after lunch?" "Yeah," Harry said. "That sounds great, Bill. Ron, you in?" "What?" Ron said vaguely, his eyes on his girlfriend. "Sure. In what?" "He's in trouble, that's what he's in," Ron's queen squeaked indignantly, one tiny fist on her hip and her finger waggling warningly. "Honestly, if he can't keep his eyes off the young lady and on the game, we're going to lose! To Bill!" Ron jerked his eyes away from Hermione, who was still deep in discussion with Mr. Weasley and apparently hadn't noticed a thing. "Oh," he said, looking back down at the chessboard and flushing bright pink. "Yeah. Sorry. Erm." He put his chin on his hand and stared at the board, apparently trying to concentrate. Harry suppressed both a chuckle and a pang. Once, not so long ago, that could have been Ginny and him. He looked up at Mrs. Weasley. "Can I help you at all with lunch?" he asked her. She beamed at him. "Well, bless you for asking, Harry. Would you mind giving Fred and George a hand with setting up the tables out there? I thought we'd eat in the garden again. It's such a lovely day." Another explosive thwomp sounded from outside, sending a hail of chickens flying. Harry profoundly hoped the birds were moving of their own accord. "And maybe you can convince those two to either stop totally, or take their inventions somewhere else," Mrs. Weasley finished with emphasis. Harry grinned despite himself and stepped outside. There were worse things to do than spend an afternoon with Fred and George. Maybe they'd be able to take his mind off Ginny. --------------- Ginny sat in the tree house, head on her knees, sobbing her heart out. He'd kissed her. He'd actually kissed her. And then she, coward that she was, had turned tail and fled. He probably hated her again. And even if he didn't now, he would as soon as he knew the reason why she'd been avoiding him so assiduously for so long. Hi, Harry. Good to see you conscious again. By the way, did I mention I sacrificed our baby to destroy Voldemort? Madam Pomfrey had told her the news when she'd awakened in hospital three weeks after the Battle. She hadn't even known she'd been pregnant. She'd sworn the Hogwarts nurse to secrecy; no one was to know. No one. But she knew she couldn't keep it from Harry forever. If nothing else, he deserved to know. But how do I go about telling the man I love that I went to face Voldemort pregnant? "Sorry, Harry; I Saw that if you went alone we'd all die, but if I went I could save us all. I took the parchment I found in your trunk and called Fynalle Strykke on him. It just happened to destroy our baby in the process. Another cup of tea?" That sounds wonderful, Ginny. Completely cold. Maybe it's best you're not a mother after all. Oh, God. She leaned her head back against the side of the tree house, looking up at the rough-hewn boards that made up the roof. She had tried to forget all about Harry, but knowing that he would be back at the Burrow this summer hadn't helped. She closed her eyes and let her memories take her back to the first—and only—time she and Harry had made love. *** It was after eleven o'clock on the night before Valentine's Day, and Ginny was exhausted. She was already in her night dress and dressing gown, and decided it was time to go to bed. Harry had gone up about fifteen minutes before, pleading exhaustion. She wandered into her dormitory, where the other four girls were already asleep, and had started to pull back the covers on her bed when she noticed a perfectly-formed red rosebud and a piece of parchment resting on her pillow. The parchment was obviously the Marauder's Map, and had already been activated; she could see tiny, labelled dots moving around the corridors of the school. The rose had been de-thorned, and a tag was attached to the stem just above the leaves. Smiling, she sat down on the edge of her bed, picked it up, and angled the tag into a stripe of moonlight so that she could read it. In Harry's handwriting, it read: It's a Valentine's Day present-hunt A game of seek-and-find Just follow all the clues you get; See if you read my mind. Ginny laughed in delight. A scavenger hunt! This suited her impish sense of humour down to the marrow. And at nearly midnight just before Valentine's Day! She read on: First, a charming little pillow She read it over again, frowning. Then she brightened. "The pillows in the Charms room!" she crowed, and leapt off the bed. Her roommates, who had been asleep, muttered and growled at her for waking them, but she didn't care. She tore out of the dormitory and into the common room, still in her night clothes and slippers. A few sleepy people were still up, but as it was very nearly midnight, not many were in evidence. She slowed down once she got to the bottom of the staircase, but Harry was nowhere to be seen. The grin still spreading across her face and the rosebud in her hand, she clambered through the portrait hole. She had to see what he had planned for her. "Lumos," she whispered, and, looking at the map carefully to avoid discovery, took off quietly down the hallway. Professor Flitwick's classroom was unlocked, the door open a few centimetres. She pushed it open gently, sticking her head in cautiously to make sure no one was in there, then dashed over to the cupboard where Professor Flitwick kept the cushions he used to teach Summoning and Banishing Charms. Sure enough, another rosebud rested on the topmost pillow, along with another note. She picked it up and read greedily by the light of her wand. Now, I don't want to "plug" myself This one made no sense at all. What did "plug myself" mean? "Drive your love away?" How could he even think that? A "remote chance" of finding him? "Think, Weasley," she told herself. "What do all these things have in common?" Plug… drive… remote… The Muggle Studies classroom! Away she went like a shot, almost able to hear Harry chuckling at the anticipation in her face. Muggle Studies was up a flight and over a few doors from Charms; she got there in only a minute or two. She slipped past the desks and toward the corner where the "television set" sat next to a model of a Muggle automobile, and sure enough, on top of the remote control was yet another rosebud with a note. Grinning triumphantly, she picked this one up and added it to the other two. On the topmost of towers This one was easy: Cassiopeia, the constellation shaped like a W, which was near the Pleiades, the Seven Sisters. He was on the Astronomy Tower. Hang on—there was something more. Your lover awaits you She blinked. "Your lover awaits you?" she repeated aloud. A warm tingle began to spread through her. Did he mean what it sounded like he meant? She and Harry had been so close to consummating their love any number of times, but things always seemed to interfere—things like her brother, or her roommates, or a teacher, or Filch. It seemed Harry had found his way around those. There was only one way to find out. Checking the map again, she determined that Filch and Mrs. Norris were clear down in the dungeons and no teachers appeared to be roaming the halls. Relieved of the fear of getting caught, she headed back out of the Muggle Studies classroom and up the centre staircase toward the Astronomy Tower. She reached the open-air landing where they did their observations. It was completely deserted—and freezing cold. Well, it was February. At least it wasn't snowing. "Harry?" she called through chattering teeth. She was glad she'd nicked his warm wool socks; they were what he used for Quidditch when the weather was particularly foul, and her feet got cold easily, even in slippers. He didn't answer, and she played the light from her wand around, looking for him. The beam fell on a stair she hadn't ever climbed, off to her left. To the left, up the stairs Clenching her teeth so they wouldn't chatter so loudly, she started up the staircase. It was narrow and dark, and she almost jumped out of her skin when a door in the wall swung open. She paused, heart thumping, before shining her wand inside. "Harry?" she whispered. A warm hand reached out to clasp hers, and Harry's face materialised out of the darkness. He smiled and kissed her, briefly but warmly. "Come in here," he murmured, reaching to close the door behind her as he pulled her to him. She doused her wand as the door shut, and they were in utter darkness. His mouth descended on hers again, possessively. She moaned and slid her arms around his waist, holding onto the roses in one hand as she pressed herself against him. After a long, sweet moment, he ended the kiss, chuckling at her small whimper of protest. "Incendio!" she heard him say, and a fireplace burst into flame along the wall behind her. She blinked at the sudden light, and then her jaw dropped open. It was a beautifully furnished sitting room, with soft rugs on the floor and red velvet furnishings arranged tastefully about the room. In front of the hearth was a small tray with cheese and fruit and a pair of goblets, along with a bottle of something that didn't look like pumpkin juice. She looked up at Harry in wonder. He chuckled. "This place hasn't been used since Professor Estrella, the former Astronomy witch, lived here with her family," he said. "She retired about ten years ago, and it's just been gathering dust all this time." He nodded toward a corner, where she could make out a pile of white fabric, probably dust covers. "I figured, as long as it wasn't being used…." He grinned wickedly at her. She smiled up at him. "Harry, you're amazing. How did you find out about this place?" "Ahh," he said wisely, "when you're in seventh year, you can pull a few strings. It's amazing the doors that will open when you produce a few well-timed pairs of socks." She laughed outright. "Dobby!" she guessed, and his grin confirmed it. "I should have known. Who else would dust and put a tray together for us?" Harry joined in her laughter, and then he sobered slightly, looking deep into her eyes. "Gin," he said, cupping her cheek with his hand, "I took a few liberties in that poem. I don't want you to think that I expect—I mean, that I think you owe—" He stopped, swallowed and tried again. "We won't do anything you don't want to do," he said huskily. "We won't do anything you're not ready for." Looking up at him, her heart swelled with love that she couldn't possibly express in words. She reached up, twined her fingers in his hair, and drew his face down to hers, letting her kiss speak for her. He groaned and wrapped his arms tightly around her, pulling her against him and letting his tongue gently explore her mouth. She was glad he had clutched her to him so hard; she wasn't sure her knees would have held her otherwise. Especially once his lips moved from hers, across her jaw line and to her earlobe. Sparks of desire ignited deep in her, and she arched toward him, whimpering. She had dreamed about this for so many years, it was almost impossible that it should be happening now. Harry pulled back to look in her eyes again, his breathing ragged. "Ginny," he said hoarsely, "are you sure?" She knew she probably ought to be embarrassed, but somehow, she just wasn't. This was right. "I'm as sure as I am of you," she said softly, running her fingers through his hair. "As sure as I am of us." He looked into her eyes for another long moment, then bent down and swept his arm beneath her knees, picking her up. She was amazed by how easily he did it. He took her over to the rug before the fire and knelt down, laying her on her back with all the tenderness of a parent for a newborn. He stretched out beside her, his hand on the tie of her dressing gown, but he didn't attempt to undo it yet. He smiled down at her. "Nervous?" he asked. "No," she said softly. And she wasn't. She didn't know how or why, but all her nervousness had vanished in the glow of those emerald eyes. A corner of his mouth quirked up. "I am," he said, gently brushing her hair out of her eyes. "I want this to be perfect for you." She reached up and touched his cheek. It felt as though her heart would burst with love for this boy, this man, beside her. "Harry," she whispered, "it already is." She drew his head down to hers as his fingers tugged gently at the tie of her dressing gown, loosening it so that he could slide his hands inside to caress her through the thin fabric of her night dress. *** "Ginny!" She sat bolt upright, startled out of her memories by her brother's voice. Hastily wiping her cheeks, she stuck her head out the trap door and looked for the source of the voice. "Yes?" "Didn't you hear us?" Charlie called up, shading his eyes from the sun. "We called you almost an hour ago for lunch. Hungry?" Her stomach twisted. "No," she said. "I'm not." She pulled her head back in. She just wanted to be left alone. Why couldn't they just leave her alone? "Ginny, you can't hide up there forever." Dammit, were those his footsteps on the ladder? "Come on. We're all going to play Quidditch down in the orchard. Want to come watch?" Do I want to come watch the man I loved and betrayed skate around the sky on his broom, looking far too sexy for my comfort? Do I want to give him the chance to corner me again and risk telling him what happened? "No," she said shortly, glaring at her brother's red hair as it appeared through the trap door. He stopped climbing, only his head, chest, and arms visible from her vantage point. "I've had about enough Quidditch talk, thanks. You've only been here three days, and already you and Ron are talking about nothing else. I still have another year at Hogwarts, remember? I expect I'll get more than enough Quidditch talk there." Charlie looked as though he would have liked to argue with her, but to her surprise, he said only, "All right, then. But come down to dinner at least." "All right," she sighed, leaning her head back against the wall. Maybe now he'd go away. He looked at her again, and then said with a mixture of concern and love, "Ginny, you know, if you need to talk about—anything—we're all here for you." Her heart nearly stopped, and she must have paled, for he was immediately up the rest of the ladder and kneeling next to her. "What's wrong? Are you okay?" "Fine," she tried to say, but it came out in a whisper. She swallowed and tried again, more firmly. "I'm fine." It worked better that time. "You are not fine. What happened, Gin?" Charlie had inherited the family's blue eyes; they were dark sapphire now, close and anxious. "Nothing. I'm just not feeling well." She started to struggle to her feet. "Maybe I should go have a lie down." Charlie helped her up, and silently they made their way down the ladder and toward the house. Ginny kept strict control over her face, but terror shivered through her. If I need to talk about "anything"—has someone guessed about the baby? Did Madam Pomfrey tell? Oh, God—what if someone tells Harry? As they approached the house they saw two figures outside on the grass. One was shirtless, pale, and clearly male, but she couldn't see who it was; his face was blocked by the other who was, by her hair, Hermione. A corner of Ginny's mouth quirked up. As painful as it was to watch her brother and his girlfriend together, remembering herself and Harry in their place, she had to admit that she was happy for them. Hermione was good for Ron, and it was obvious they were devoted to each other. Then, as they approached closer, Hermione moved, and Ginny gasped. It wasn't Ron lying shirtless on the grass—it was Harry. What she had thought was a redhead's pale skin was actually bandages. He was stretched out on his right side, arms under his head, facing her, and it looked like Hermione was doing something with the bandages on his torso. Replacing them, it appeared. She carefully removed them—by hand, Ginny was surprised to see, not with magic—but then, as Hermione delicately peeled the last of the bandages back, Ginny put a hand to her mouth in horror. His entire side, from the top of his ribcage to his low-slung jeans and nearly fifteen centimetres wide, was fiery red and shiny, though the skin was starting to take on the pebbly texture of a very bad burn that's healed over. Hermione was obviously being as careful as she could, but Harry still hissed in pain as the bandages were removed. "Sorry," Hermione said quietly, though she didn't stop what she was doing. "Just get on with it," Harry grated. Ginny could see the tension in his shoulders as he strove to keep from crying out. Images came unbidden to her mind. Voldemort standing over her, wand outstretched. Bright green flaring from its tip, right at Harry. Harry's form, glowing green as the curse shot toward him, leaping to the right as it cut the air right above them. A scream; a stench of burning flesh. Harry in hospital, still out cold. Bandages covering most of his body; minor burns and nicks were healed quickly, but the burn from the Killing Curse was so severe that more magic would only make it worse; it had to heal on its own. Madam Pomfrey's quiet voice, when she thought nobody could overhear her: "Poor boy looked like a charbroiled side of beef when he came in here. I may never eat steak again…" Hermione looked up from her work as she heard them approach. "Ginny!" she said with a smile. "Good. I could use a hand with this." She raised an eyebrow. "Unless you want to help too, Charlie?" At the mention of Ginny's name, Harry started and looked up. Their eyes met, green to brown. Ginny trembled at the depth of emotion in his eyes. She could read love there, yes, but there was also fear and despair and something else—something she couldn't quite read. Something she wasn't sure she wanted to. She looked away. "No, I don't think so, Hermione," Charlie said comfortably. "I'll let you two ladies do the spreading of glop all over Potter's body, thanks. I'll just go on into the house." "Then you can help me, Ginny," Hermione said, with an amused look at Charlie. "Come here. I need you to help hand me stuff." Ginny hesitated, and Hermione said gently, "Unless you'd rather not—?" Ginny swallowed and said, "No, it's okay, Hermione. I'll help." She came around Harry and knelt down, with Hermione between herself and Harry's eyes. She couldn't take her eyes off that livid burn scar. If it looks like this now, she thought, what must it have looked like three months ago? What must he have gone through? Hermione nudged her, and she looked up, startled. "I said, hand me that brown glass jar, will you?" Hermione said, but her voice wasn't impatient. In fact, her gaze was strangely understanding. Hermione had known that she and Harry were together, of course; most of the school had. Ginny knew that Hermione wished she and Harry would patch things up, but her friend had never pushed her to talk about it, for which Ginny was grateful. Now Hermione kept up a running commentary to Harry, letting Ginny remain silent with her thoughts. "This is looking really good, Harry. Another month or so and we can see about repairing the skin itself. You remember Madam Pomfrey said that burns like this were tricky to fix until they were healed, but once they've healed, we can get rid of all this scarring. You'll look good as new. You're doing those stretches, aren't you?" "Yeah," Harry said in a distracted tone of voice. Ginny glanced up. He had shifted slightly so that he could look at her. The longing and fear in those emerald eyes nearly undid her. She looked down and handed Hermione the strip of bandage she asked for. "You really should change these more often, you know," Hermione went on. "The more often you apply the ointment, the more supple the skin will be. That's all to the good, you know, supple skin. It'll make repairing the scarring much easier. Of course, it's in an awkward position, too, you almost have to have help to do it, and I know that the Dursleys wouldn't have given you any." Hermione broke off and looked around, frowning. "Well, really!" she said in exasperation. "What did I do with it?" "With what?" Harry asked. Ginny could still feel his eyes on her. She swallowed. "The Magical Meditape. I'm sure I brought it out with me. Ginny, do you see it over there? In a blue dispenser with a red cross on it." Ginny started, then looked around. "Uh… no," she said. "Shall I go in and get it for you?" "No," Hermione said, tutting to herself as she jumped to her feet. "So silly. I know right where it must be, I just saw it there. I'll be right back." She disappeared into the house, leaving Harry and Ginny alone together. There was a slight, uncomfortable silence, then Harry gave a short laugh. "If you hadn't just appeared unexpectedly," he said, "I'd almost suspect her of setting us up." Ginny couldn't hold in a chuckle. It did seem awfully convenient, and Hermione had been nearly desperate to bring them back together. Her laughter died in her throat, though, when Harry reached out and took her hand. Unwillingly, but unable to stop herself, she looked up to meet his gaze again. His eyes shone as though he had candles behind them, blazing out at her. "Gin," he said hesitantly, "does this—" he nodded at his raw, red side "—bother you?" Her jaw dropped. "Of course it does, Harry!" she said without thinking. "You think I can see you cooked like a chunk of meat and not be bothered by it?" Harry's eyes widened; he was obviously taken aback. "I—I—" he stuttered. She could have kicked herself. He'd been hurt so badly, not least by her. She should have told him what she'd Seen in the dormitory the day of the Battle, not just given him a stupid ultimatum. If she'd told him, maybe he would have been safe— And let me go risk myself on a Fynalle Strykke without him? Oh, right, Ginny. Of course he would've done. "Sure, love, go risk your life to destroy Voldemort. You Saw it, so it must be true. I'll have supper ready when you get back. Kisses." "Harry," she said more gently, "it hurts me to see you hurt." That was true. Merlin, that was true. "But if you're asking, does this disgust me…." She reached hesitantly toward his side, now even shinier with the ointment Hermione had put on it, but didn't touch; she didn't know how sensitive it was and didn't want to cause him any more pain. She rested her fingers on the untouched flesh of his abdomen instead. "No," she said firmly. "It doesn't." Harry's free hand reached down to lay across her hand on his abdomen, not quite clutching at it. She sensed his desire rising; saw it in the way his eyes became a deeper, darker green. Her traitorous body responded; she felt a tightening deep in her belly and felt an overwhelming urge to lean forward and kiss him. Without warning, Harry's face was replaced with an image seared onto her eyeballs. Dark, hooded figures appear in the middle of the orchard, wands drawn. Multiple voices shout spells; red-haired bodies fall out of the sky. The eldest, who had been flying lower than the others, recovers enough to fight back. A blast of light hits him in the chest; he falls back, screaming in agony, as the figures swarm another of the fallen—a tall, lanky teen. With a whoosh, they and their chosen are gone, leaving two identical broken, bleeding bodies and the other lying limply, barely able to breathe after the agony of the attack— "Ginny!" Ginny came back to herself. Harry was sitting up, injuries forgotten, clasping her hands tight within his. "What is it, Gin?" he asked. "What's wrong?" She was shaking. "The Quidditch match," she whispered. "Now—quick—your wand—" He snatched it up and sprang to his feet, pulling her along with him and pointing his wand at the table behind him. "Accio Firebolt!" he called, and the broom zoomed into his outstretched hand. "Come on, it'll hold two," he told her, helping her onto the broom in front of him. He wrapped one arm about her waist and kicked off, soaring up into the sky. The orchard wasn't far, but as they approached, they could hear the distinctive popping sound of Apparating wizards. Harry swore and pushed the Firebolt into a dive, holding tight to Ginny. She closed her eyes, fighting to keep her stomach as he swerved around a tree and leaned forward again. She heard startled shouts and opened her eyes just in time to see cloaked figures diving for cover; apparently Harry had aimed his broom right for the lot of them. "Wands!" he yelled at her brothers, looping back for another pass. "Come on! Now!" He suited action to word, pointing his wand at one of the cloaked figures and yelling, "Expelliarmus! Impedimenta!" Immediately the figure's wand flew out of his grip and his feet slowed, tripping him up. Harry caught the wand and landed next to a tree, handing the wand to Ginny and lifting her off the broom. "Stay here," he panted. "Put your back against the tree and hold them off. Right?" Her disorientation from the vision was gone. She was hyperfocused, just like at the Battle; it was as though she'd slowed the world through Omnioculars. "Yes," she said crisply, and he took off again, chasing down yet another Death Eater. A twig snapped to her left and she spun around, snapping the wand forward. "Stupefy!" She felt the captured wand give an almighty kick, and the spell that shot from it knocked the cloaked figure back a good metre before he fell to the ground, unconscious. Someone grabbed her from behind; remembering past wrestling matches with her brothers, she stepped backward with all her weight onto her attacker's instep. Something crunched beneath her foot, and she was released. She spun back around to face him. "Stupefy!" she shouted again, and the second one dropped. A curse shot over her shoulder, missing her by inches and exploding against the bark of a tree. Instinctively she dove for the ground and fired back, her Stunning spell catching the figure in the abdomen. He went down and she scrambled back to her feet, wand ready. Then Harry was in front of her, breathing heavily and holding his hands out. "It's okay, Ginny," he said. "It's me. We've got them all, I think." She lowered the wand and looked around, shakily. No fewer than a dozen cloaked figures were down, some Stunned, others simply rendered helpless. Bill, the twins, and Ron were keeping watch over groups of two or three. It was over so quickly. Relieved, she looked up at Harry, and she froze. She had never seen him so angry. He was shaking as hard as she, but it wasn't fear or adrenalin overload: it was blind fury. He stepped toward the second Death Eater she had Stunned and flipped him over with a foot. He rolled over onto his back and his hood fell back, revealing a youngish man, not older than 25 certainly, whom she didn't recognise. "Right," Harry said harshly, and pointed his wand at the man. "Enervate!" The Death Eater's eyes opened, and he stared up at Harry. "Don't move," Harry grated. "I'm waiting for an excuse to finish you off, you sorry piece of shite." The captive's face curved into a sneer, but he said nothing. "Now," Harry said, enunciating each word clearly, "you will tell me just what exactly you meant to do here, and who sent you." The Death Eater laughed. "Or you'll do what, Potter?" he scoffed. "Perform the Cruciatus Curse on us? Torture us into talking?" Harry turned deathly pale, but his mouth tightened into a thin line. "Talk," he said in the most dangerous voice Ginny had ever heard him use, "and you'll never need to know." The Death Eater laughed again, louder. "I don't think so," he said. He reached to his belt buckle. "Reverto!" he cried, and suddenly all twelve hooded figures disappeared. Harry stared, whirling around to check for the other captives, then his hands curled into fists. "Damn!" he screamed, throwing a punch at a tree. There was a nasty crunching noise as he made contact, but he didn't seem to notice. The other Weasleys, equally shocked at the sudden disappearance of their quarry, came running up to him. "What happened?" Bill said as they came up. "Where'd they go?" "Portkeys, at a guess," Harry said. "On their belts. Voice-activated for the whole lot of them. Damn, damn, damn." He looked at the brothers. Ginny realised that Ron had a nasty cut on his shoulder, both of the twins were sporting black eyes, and Bill was favouring one leg. "Injuries?" "What you see," George said flatly. "I think Bill's sprained his ankle, though." "Twisted it," Bill corrected. "Bloody good thing you came, Harry. What tipped you?" Ginny looked at Harry in panic, but he didn't even glance her way. "My scar," he said, rubbing it as though it bothered him. "Hermione was right in the middle of changing my bandages. I just hopped on my broom and took off when it hit." "Where's Hermione, then?" Ron asked, fear in his voice. "She'd gone into the house to get something she'd left behind. I don't think she knows anything about it." Harry looked down at himself, where dirt and leaves were stuck to the ointment on his side, and the few bandages Hermione had managed to lay on were hanging limply. He smiled a bit ruefully, wincing. "It looks like it's to do all over again," he said. "Come on, we need to get back to the house and discuss this. Apparently, though Voldemort's gone, we're not out of danger yet." They all started back toward the house on foot except for Bill, who didn't want to put weight on his ankle just yet; he coasted along on his broom. Ginny was grateful both for Harry's lie to Bill about his scar and for the fact that none of her brothers had questioned why Harry had brought her along. Ron was looking at her sidelong, but he said nothing. She drew a long, shaky breath. Two things were clear: Harry trusted her visions, and he trusted her to take care of herself. She wasn't sure which touched her more. But how will he be able to trust me when he finds out the truth about that night? A/N: Thanks again to my betas, especially Shannon, Michael, Helen, and, of *course*, Ahmie! Please R/R.
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