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Brave New World | ||||
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Category: Post-DH/AB Characters:None Genres: General Warnings: None Story is Complete Rating: PG Reviews: 6 Summary: "It had taken only moments for the world to fall apart around her, but to Ginny’s dismay it didn’t seem to have stopped falling." On a quiet afternoon at the Burrow after the battle Ginny reflects. Hitcount: Story Total: 3675 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: Many thanks to Lina for her very efficient beta-work, to Chelle for her constructive comments when this was first posted at UR.org, and to you for reading! Please do review; feedback inspires me to keep writing, and helps me to improve. |
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Ginny Weasley looked out over the garden and sighed. She seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. She found that if she let the sadness out in frequent sighs (and blinked quite a lot) it didn’t come out so readily as tears. Of course, Ginny had cried. She had cried a great deal, in fact. Tears of joy, sadness, astonishment, grief and regret had flowed down her cheeks over the last two weeks. Quiet tears, coursing down her face at memorial services, great wracking sobs into Harry’s robes after the one for Fred, childish hiccoughing gasps in her mother’s arms… oh yes, Ginny had cried. But she was tired of crying now. Where at first it had left her feeling emptied and cleansed, now it just left her sore and tired. So instead she sighed. She turned away from the idyllic picture before her. The garden was in the full bloom of late spring, a riot of colour and life everywhere she turned. Flowers seemed to explode from their stems in vibrant hues, leaves swayed gently in the dusk breeze while two gnomes fought over a fat caterpillar behind some overturned flower pots. It was all too soon, too much. It was so alive. And so many others weren’t. She turned and scuffed the toe of her trainer along the path before climbing the porch and entering The Burrow. She was home — and yet she wasn’t. Ginny had longed for the topsy-turvy, comfortable familiarity of life at The Burrow during those weeks of encampment at Auntie Muriel’s house. She had dreamt of her room: her bed, her window overlooking the back garden and beyond it, the Quidditch orchard. She had daydreamed of sneaking brooms out of the shed and flying for hours in its shelter. And here she was — she could stand in that very garden, take a broom (without even sneaking) and fly for as long as she liked. She slept in her bed, woke every morning to the familiar sounds and smells of her mother’s cooking, as she always had before. And yet, nothing was the same. Ginny couldn’t believe how quickly her world had been turned upside down. It had been twelve days since the battle. Twelve days since the world had been delivered from tyranny. Twelve days since the man Ginny loved had done that delivering. Twelve days since she had discovered that her mother was a tremendous and accomplished dueler. (And that she wasn’t at all bad herself.) Twelve days since Ginny had reclaimed a brother. Twelve days since she had lost another. Ten days since they had buried him in a private ceremony. Eight days since they had attended a similar service for Tonks and Remus. Seven days since she had visited Teddy Lupin with Harry. Six days since he had left for Australia with Ron and Hermione to bring her parents home. Five days since George had gone into his room and not come out. Four and a half days since Percy had set up camp in a chair outside his door. Four days since she had seen her father cry. Three days since Kingsley had appointed him a deputy minister in charge of reconstruction. Two days since she had cried herself (having since forgone it in favour of sighing). One day since she had received the owl from Professor McGonagall saying that they were hoping Hogwarts would be operational by September the first. Two hours since she had lied to someone and said she was ‘all right’. Ten minutes since she had looked over her shoulder, expecting to see Fred standing there. It had taken only moments for the world to fall apart around her, but to Ginny’s dismay it didn’t seem to have stopped falling. She knew it was too soon for healing to truly begin — knew that eventually they would rebuild and this strange parallel world she had happened upon would come to feel normal, but Ginny couldn’t help feeling that it had already been a lifetime since Fred had died. A lifetime measured in days, hours, and minutes, rather than weeks, months, and years. A lifetime defined by absences, as much as the one before it (though she’d never thought to characterise it as such) had been defined by presences. She trudged up the narrow stairs, almost tripping on Ron’s Quidditch gloves. This nearly brought a smile to her face: her slob of an older brother had been gone nearly a week, but was still leaving a mess about the place - at least one thing hadn’t changed. She picked up the gloves and continued up the stairs. The corners of her mouth changed direction, however, as she came to the second floor landing in sight of the twins’ door, Percy sitting stubbornly in the corridor next to it. She raised her hand — still clutching Ron’s gloves — in greeting, but Percy didn’t seem to notice her. He was staring in her general direction, but Ginny had the distinct impression that he was having some sort of internal monologue and she continued on to her own room without interrupting him. She opened the door and flopped down on her bed, dropping the gloves on her quilt beside her. She couldn’t be bothered to trek all the way up to Ron’s room to put them away just yet. Besides, she had a feeling there was no pressing hurry. Harry had pulled her aside before they left and explained that they weren’t sure how long it would take to locate the Grangers but that Hermione feared it might take weeks. After all, Australia was an awfully big place. It seemed especially cruel that now, after suffering through the last year of total separation, when the chance for a reunion had finally come, Harry had had to leave her again. Still, it was nice to be able to write letters this time. Well, letter, rather. Ginny had borrowed Hermes from Percy (surmising that Pig would likely get lost in Malaysia en route or something) and sent him after Harry the evening of the day that he’d left, and she didn’t honestly expect to hear back for some time. She had no idea if Hermes had even reached Australia yet. It was so far away. She marveled, not for the first time, at Hermione’s determination and strength to send her parents so very far away from her for their own protection. Ginny sighed (again). Her own parents frequently drove her mad, but she could hardly imagine being so far from them — let alone without any contact. Let alone without them knowing she existed. They were both away at the moment — Dad at the ministry, and Mum visiting Auntie Muriel — she, Percy, and George were the only ones home at The Burrow. And while Ginny would ordinarily appreciate the restful silence, today she found it too quiet — a bit eerie. How long Ginny lay there, worrying the edge of her quilt and listening to the wind hum through the trees outside her window, she didn’t know. Truthfully, she did not consider it. Time seemed to move oddly in this new universe — sometimes speeding by in leaps and bounds, and then suddenly dragging interminably. So it might have been after just a few moments — or, it might have been several hours later — that the crash came. Ginny leapt off her bed, scrambled to find her wand, and raced out of her room with it at the ready. The sight that greeted her in the hall was not a death eater, an erumpent, or a marauding troll, however. (All likely possibilities considering the great noise it had made.) It was altogether more surprising. George had finally come out of his room, and apparently startled Percy so much that he had fallen over in his haste to get up from his chair. (Ginny wondered if his legs were asleep after so much time in that position.) George looked… different. His hair was the same as he and Fred had always worn it — curling just below his ear, long enough to irritate their mother, but not so long that she was constantly after them about it, as with Bill — his ear was, of course, still missing. But he had five days worth of beard on his face, having not bothered to shave in his reclusiveness, and his eyes looked indefinably different. Older. Sadder. More thoughtful. Ginny stopped in her tracks and stared at him. George reached out his hand and helped to haul Percy back to his feet. He said something to his older brother and clapped him on the shoulder. Though only a few metres away, Ginny couldn’t quite catch the exchange. His voice remained uncharacteristically low. Percy seemed to mumble something in return and George shook his head. He rummaged in the pocket of his robes and produced a packet which he extended to Percy. Ginny just caught the words, “…bit peckish, though. Have a biscuit?” Percy frowned slightly, and Ginny knew from experience he wanted to scold George about not eating properly, and undoubtedly subsisting on biscuits in his self-imposed exile. He wisely (and uncharacteristically, Ginny thought) bit back the reprimand and fished out a custard cream from the packet. In a single moment, George glanced up and caught her eye, watching them there. Though he didn’t smile, a familiar glint passed through his eyes, and all of a sudden Ginny realised that one thing had not changed in this post-Voldemort world. You did not accept food from the twins. Either one of them. Ever. She opened her mouth to say… she didn’t know what… but the unformed words died on her lips as Percy turned into an affronted looking hornbill. For a long moment Ginny and George both just stared at him, until a reluctant giggle escaped Ginny’s paralysed throat. George snorted. Percy ruffled his feathers and gave an indignant squawk. It seemed to be all the encouragement either of them needed. Before she knew it she was rolling round on the floor laughing so hard that, despite her no crying resolution, tears streamed down her face. George was laughing deeply from the depths of his belly, weakly propping himself up against the wall. Ginny could not remember laughing — really laughing — like this in what seemed like a very long time. She was a bit surprised, and more than a bit pleased, to find she could still do it. After several long minutes, she got a hold of herself and pulled herself upright on George’s elbow. “Modified canary creams-” he managed to get out between snickers “-that turn you into the bird that most resembles your personality.” They took another look at the now glowering hornbill with his beak in the air, and were off again. This time leaning on each other for support as gales of laughter carried them temporarily away from everything. Finally Percy molted and stared at them both, an unreadable expression on his face, his hair ruffled from its recent stint as feathers. “S- Sorry, Perce…” George managed before dissolving again. Percy continued to stare, until finally he opened his mouth. Ginny braced herself for the shouting she had come to know from childhood when the twins had pranked Percy, but instead what came out was a chuckle. And Percy began to laugh, too, working himself up to a great guffaw. The three of them stayed in the corridor, wailing with mirth that was, Ginny realised, probably disproportionate to the prank. But the relief that suffused that corridor in The Burrow that afternoon had less to do with jokes or canary creams, and more to do with the restoration — of sorts — of one of the brothers Ginny had left to her. It brought with it the realisation that, after everything that had happened, after all the terrible loss, they could still laugh; could still take pleasure in a simple joke. And that, Ginny knew, was something that would have made Fred very pleased indeed. All wasn’t well. Not yet. But given some time it could be. -End- |
| Reviews 6 |
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