This story now has a companion piece called The Glow of Sunrise. While it is not necessary to read that one to understand this one, it does answer some questions.
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The Wound Dresser | ||||
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Category: Post-HBP Characters:Harry/Ginny Genres: Drama Warnings: Death, Violence Story is Complete Rating: R Reviews: 19 Summary: Ginny doesn’t know where Harry is, only that he is with Ron and Hermione. After discovering them gone the morning after Bill's wedding, Ginny seriously considered trying to track them down. But that had been a year ago and that very day, Lord Voldemort declared open war on the wizarding world. Indeed, as much as Ginny wants desperately to track down Harry and fight along side him again, the tattered remains of the Ministry say she is too young. Desperate to help in some way, Ginny instead follows her mother out into the field hospitals, and discovers a talent for healing the wounded. But when familiar faces start to show up among the wounded, will Ginny be able to help or will it be too late? Hitcount: Story Total: 4820 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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Ginny Weasley was not a squeamish girl. Being the only daughter and the youngest of seven children, she was tougher than she appeared. After surviving a childhood fraught with her twin brothers Fred and George’s pranks and experiments, not much could shake the young witch. Except Harry Potter. She would have followed Harry to the ends of the world, if he had let her. She had loved him literally at first sight. Just ten years old, she had chased the Hogwarts Express, laughing at the bubbling feeling in her chest and crying because she would not see Harry for nearly a year. It had only taken Harry five years to catch on. It wasn’t fair that their time together had been so short, but Ginny was not angry with Harry for trying to protect her; she understood that he had dangerous things he had to do and he didn’t want her to be hurt. It was the fact that he left her behind that made her mad. She didn’t know where Harry was now, only that he was with her brother Ron and their friend Hermione Granger. Ginny had seriously considered trying to find them when she had risen the morning after her brother Bill’s wedding and discovered them very much gone. But that had been nearly a year ago and it seemed like on that very day, Lord Voldemort declared open war on the wizarding world. Indeed, as much as Ginny wanted desperately to track down Harry and just see for herself that he was okay, she had been far too busy shuffling from field hospital after field hospital, helping to heal the wounded. For Voldemort in his reign was truly terrible. The Ministry of Magic fell within the first week of full blown war. The Death Eaters took Diagon Alley soon after. Hogwarts, while still standing, now served as an internment camp for Muggle-born witches and wizards. Each day, Lucius Malfoy presented Voldemort with a Muggle-born prisoner, which the Dark Lord then creatively and violently tortured until he either killed them or forced them to kill themselves. And every day, the promise of power lured more wizards into Voldemort’s service, and it seemed that for every Death Eater the Light Side managed to kill off, three more sprang forth to take the empty spot. Ginny lost track of the battles. The skirmishes and ambushes and full out battles all blended together into one never ending mass of injured, shrieking, bleeding innocents, Aurors, and Death Eaters. She presented a calm, indifferent and detached face to each patient, no matter their allegiance or injury. A Cutting Curse flesh wound? Blank and dispassionate face. A victim of a thorough Incendio? Not a twitch, not a flicker, just calm hands and a face set in stone. An unfortunate soul suffering from the Entrails Expelling Curse? Ginny was unmoved. The other healers looked down upon her for being cold hearted and unsympathetic, but Ginny had learned her no-nonsense approach from her mother after her very first day of dressing wounds and soothing dying wizards had nearly unhinged her. In her eyes, every unidentifiably injured wizard was Harry, or one of her brothers, and every wailing witch with an immolated face was Hermione. Of course, they weren’t actually, but at the end of that first day, Ginny collapsed, sobbing, into Molly Weasley’s stoic arms. Molly soothed her only daughter, the only one of the Weasley children that had remained behind when the call went up for qualified wizards ready and able to battle Voldemort’s minions. It was not by choice that Ginny stayed; the tattered remains of the Ministry would not allow a sixteen year old witch to face off against werewolves, giants and Death Eaters, regardless of the fact that she’d fought fully qualified Dark wizards both during the fiasco in the Department of Mysteries her fourth year and also during the invasion on Hogwarts the night Dumbledore died. So Ginny, still fiercely determined to be instrumental in the Light’s war efforts, followed her mother out into the hospitals and recognized at once the natural aptitude she had as a healer. But that first day, after the last whimpering wizard slipped into unconsciousness, Ginny rushed out the canvas flap opening of the portable Medi-tent, her hands and front of her shirt still bathed in extraordinarily red blood. “You cannot let them see you cry,” Molly had whispered into her daughter’s hair before planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head. “We are their only hope, and if we lose hope, they are lost.” Ginny had sniffled miserably and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. “I keep seeing them, their faces…” “I know, I do too,” Molly sighed. “Our family stands to lose so much in this war, with all your brothers and your father Merlin know where, and Ron off with Harry and Hermione, doing Merlin knows what.” Ginny burst into a fresh wave of muffled sobs, panic tingling the back of her neck and filling her with the thrill of dread. Molly had firmly but kindly grasped Ginny’s chin in her hand and forced her to look up. Gulping back a sob, Ginny looked at her mother through watery eyes. “But we cannot give in to despair, Ginny. Then, You-Know-Who wins. So for your brothers’ sakes, for your father, and Hermione, and for Harry, you must be strong.” Two final tears slipped down Ginny’s waxen cheeks and she shakily nodded her head. For Harry, she would have done anything. “Don’t cry, Ginny,” Molly had whispered, hugging her daughter to her chest once more. So months later, while other Mediwitches and wizards lost their composure when faced with children who should have been in their second year at Hogwarts who were maimed so severely that the wand with which they’d tried to defend themselves was fused to their charred and oozing flesh, Ginny whispered soothing words too quietly for the other healers to hear and went about her business of easing the child’s pain before they succumbed to the relief of death. Unless she had to, she tried never to look at faces. And only at night, in the privacy of the tent she shared with her mother, did Ginny allow herself to weep silently into her pillow out of fear for her family and her friends, and for Harry. In the middle of the night, Ginny felt herself shaken awake gently. “Ginny, up,” Molly whispered. Blinking sleep out of her tear crusted eyes, she sat up in her tent and listened to the sounds of the night. She could hear the agonized screams of the newly injured echoing up in the dark. “How many?” Ginny asked, quickly jumping out of bed and slipping a fresh frock over her head. Molly, also hurrying to get dressed, answered in the same detached voice she always used when discussing casualties. “Initial reports indicated only a half dozen injured and two deaths, but the verified number of injured has tripled.” Absently, Ginny smoothed back her fiery red hair and pulled it into a severe bun. She stowed her wand in her pocket and darted out into the night with her mother right behind her. In the distance, the hospital glowed with gas lit torches, and macabre shadows danced against the stained sides of the russet colored tent. Dozens of Aurors were popping in around the shadowy compound, holding up wounded comrades. Ginny helped the nearest wizard who was staggering to hold up his companion. “Where are you injured?” Ginny asked briskly as she conjured a stretcher and gently eased the hurt wizard into it. The man groaned through clenched teeth and hissed, “My side. Got hit with a curse I’d never heard of before.” Ginny peeled back the man’s sodden robes and held up her lit wand in the darkness. She hurriedly held her breath as a fetid stench reached her nose. Though the deep slice was not bleeding, it was decaying before her eyes. She had only seen this particularly vicious curse once before and had been informed then that it was one of the many that Voldemort had invented through his daily Muggle-born tortures. Without hesitation, Ginny cast the Stasis Charm and the wizard lapsed into unconsciousness. The spread of the decomposition slowed and without another word, she hurtled the stretcher up the hill and into the hospital tent. Mentally composing herself, she raced behind it and left the wizard’s friend panting to keep up. “It’s the Rotting Curse!” Ginny called out as she maneuvered the wizard off the stretcher and onto one of the few empty beds. Several of the healers looked up, aghast. Ginny knew they were thinking of the only other unfortunate soul they’d seen suffering from the curse; it had been a slow and excruciating demise, and the young witch had begged for death. In the end, they gave her a Sleeping Draught laced with refined Oleander, which quickly put her out of her misery. Not intending to lose this patient, however, Ginny gathered vials of Blood Replenishing potion and a sharp knife. “Accio cauldron,” Ginny murmured, and without glancing up from her study of the wound, she snatched the small cauldron full of Epidermi-Gro out of the air. “Can you help him?” asked the young wizard who had brought in the injured man. Again, without looking up, Ginny calmly answered, “I don’t know. I’ll try.” Even with the Stasis Charm, the skin around the festering wound was gradually becoming mushy and greenish in color. Ginny took a deep breath and blindly shoved the handful of Blood Replenisher at the wizard hovering by the bed. “Pour one of these into his mouth every time I say so. Give him one now,” she commanded. “And if you can’t handle the sight of blood, I suggest you look away.” Ginny waited until the injured man’s friend shakily emptied the first vial into the man’s mouth. Reflexively, the unconscious man swallowed, as did Ginny. Without further hesitation, she placed the tip of the knife against the man’s skin, just beyond the edges of his putrid flesh, and made a deep cut. With a yelp, the young wizard turned his back and took a gasping breath. Grimacing slightly, Ginny carved along the outer edge of the wound. She pressed her lips together as the smell of rotting meat erupted from the cut. With a quick, concise movement, Ginny excised the first layer of flesh and fatty tissue. With a sickly moist popping noise, the skin detached from the man’s body and Ginny rapidly banished it. “Another vial, now,” Ginny stated. Trembling violently, the young wizard complied, but kept his back turned. The exposed flesh twitched with the injured man’s heart beat. The gaping hole began to well with blood and Ginny flicked her wand to wash out the wound. She examined the throbbing, raw maw in the man’s side. She was almost satisfied that she’d gotten it all when she saw the first signs of duskiness on the abdominal muscles laying exposed. Cursing quietly, Ginny brought the knife down and with one quick slice, removed the top layer of muscle. She washed out the wound again and brought down the tip of her lit wand, searching for any further signs of the spreading infection. Again, she saw the persistent seepage of decay creeping deeper into the muscle tissue and across the man’s abdomen. “Oh no, you don’t,” Ginny stated quietly. “You’re not doing that to me. Work with me here, mate.” With her wand, she began to trace a series of healing runes in the air. With her other hand, she used the knife to expunge the spoiled flesh, all the while muttering quietly to herself. “Give him another,” Ginny snapped. Again, the shaking wizard tipped a vial of the potion into his friend’s mouth. And yet, the curse continued to spread. Though frustrated and aching with fright, the youngest Weasley showed only a blank and expressionless face and kept slicing away layers of flesh and tissue. If she cut any deeper, she feared she’d reach his organs, and then there was no saving him once the curse ate away at his insides. Desperate, Ginny tried one last time before ordering the wizard’s companion to administer the remaining three vials. Blood washed out of the wound and onto her hands and wand, but she kept chanting the healing dirge and for good measure, she added a little prayer. One last time she cleaned out the wound and studied the edges for signs of the infection. She held her breath and watched the man bleed for a full minute, waiting for the tell-tale color change, or the first faint wisps of the rancid scent. She cauterized the edges of the wound and conjured a magni-scope, and leaned forward to examine the gaping injury. “I did it,” Ginny whispered, amazed. “I did it!” She exclaimed, louder. Molly hurried over, her hands covered in blood and her face lit with hope. “You got it all, you’re sure?” She asked tremulously. Ginny handed her the magnifying scope. Her mother leaned down close and dispassionately searched every ragged edge of the laceration. Finally satisfied, Molly stood tall and announced, “My daughter has just successfully treated the Rotting Curse!” An exciting murmur ran through the room and Ginny almost flushed with pleasure, but maintained a stoic face. She met her mother’s eyes briefly and nodded slightly. Molly gripped her shoulder proudly before rushing off to assist another injured Auror stumbling into the tent. Fully focused on her patient once more, Ginny administered the Epidermi-Gro and lifted the Stasis charm. The young man remained unconscious as his skin and muscles slowly began to grow back, slightly paler than the rest of his dark body. “He’ll live,” she announced, and the injured wizard’s friend turned around for the first time since the beginning of the procedure. He dropped to his knees next to the bed and laid his head on the slumbering man’s shoulder. “Thank Merlin,” he sighed wearily. “Are you injured?” Ginny asked. The young man shook his head slightly and turned his face to her. The shocked look of recognition flashed across his very familiar young face. “Ginny?” “Seamus,” she responded, exhaling as though she’d been punched in the stomach. She looked at her patient for the first time and felt her professional mask threaten to drop. “And Dean.” “Ginny,” Seamus whispered in disbelief. “What’re you doing here?” She looked around the hospital tent. Her mother bent over a wizard missing an arm who was crying so quietly that the sound was lost amid the other wails of patients and shouts of the healers. All of the beds were full of injured, but no other faces looked familiar. Ginny looked back at Seamus. “Helping,” she said simply. Then before she could stop herself she blurted, “Have you seen my family? Or Harry and Hermione?” Seamus nodded, his eyes rimmed with red. “I saw Fred and George wreaking havoc during a battle a three nights ago.” He grinned weakly at the memory. “Death Eaters dinnit know what hit ‘em.” “What happened tonight?” Seamus wrinkled his nose as though he smelled something foul. “Voldemort tried to destroy the orphanage where he grew up. Luckily, we’d heard he was planning it, and we managed to remove all the children just before he struck. But the Death Eaters, they fought somethin’ fierce.” “Did you see — was there anyone else…” Ginny started to ask, but then trailed off, not sure she wanted to hear. Dean groaned and began to stir. Seamus’ face wrinkled with concern and Ginny summoned another potion, which she poured neatly into her patient’s mouth. “What was that?” “The healing coma,” Ginny said simply. Seamus nodded with recognition. “Have you — I mean, how long have you been fighting?” Sighing wearily, Seamus rubbed his face. “I joined up when Hogwarts fell. Me mum tried to send me to the States to live with me cousins, but I wanted to stay. I’ve been with a company of younger Aurors, and Tonks, and some of the D.A. members.” Seamus thought a moment. “Luna Lovegood, Ernie Macmillan, er — and Cho Chang.” Ginny wanted to respond but at that moment, half a dozen spell-burned wizards tumbled in through the entrance of the tent. On her feet at once, Ginny guided a disfigured young witch to a bed. She set her face blankly and ruthlessly squashed the urge to look over at Seamus, afraid that if she saw his face again, she would not be able to push aside her thoughts of Hogwarts, or Harry, and begin to cry. When Ginny dared look up hours later, Seamus had collapsed into the bed one over from Dean, and still wrapped in his battle torn robes, was snoring quietly. The walls of the tent had begun to glow with early morning sunlight and the last of the injured drifted quietly to sleep. Molly caught her daughter’s arm and pulled her to her feet. “Sleep, Ginny,” Molly whispered. She pulled back the tent flap and gave Ginny a gentle push towards their tent. Ginny stumbled tiredly into her tent and wrenched off her bloody robes. She stepped into the shower and watched numbly as the water flowing down the drain slowly faded from red to pink, and finally to clear. Once she was clean, she flopped down into her bed and pulled the tangled covers up to her chin, and immediately slipped into sleep. When Ginny roused much later, she was uncomfortably warm. The sun streamed in through the tent flap and she squinted sleepily. After a languorous stretch, she kicked her way free of the twisted sheets and donned a clean uniform. She stopped at the mirror to pull her hair back into the customary bun and then stepped out into the bright morning sunlight. The hospital tent utilized a cooling charm, and Ginny sighed in relief as she closed the canvas flap behind her. Hoping to see Seamus and Dean, Ginny scanned the beds. To her dismay, most of the beds were empty; obviously the transport to St. Mungo’s had already departed. “Mum,” Ginny called. Molly popped her head out of the supply cupboard at the far end of the room. “Yes, Gin?” Ginny pushed up her sleeves. “I’m here. What do you need?” That night, she felt she’d barely more than closed her eyes when she felt the gentle shake on her shoulder once more. “Ginny, up.” Sighing, Ginny opened her eyes. “How many?” she asked automatically. Molly’s face, glowing in the lamplight, looked flustered. “There’s a rather large battle going on tonight at Hogwarts,” she grumbled darkly. “We’ve only just received notice that we’re to expect an onslaught of wounded. Get ready, quickly now.” Ginny blinked her eyes blearily, feeling not quite awake. “At Hogwarts?” she asked, trying to wrap her mind around the oddity of an offensive on Voldemort’s mainstay. “Ginny, up,” Molly said sternly, tying a crisp apron over top of her scrubs. “I’m up, Mum,” Ginny protested, cranky. She rolled out of bed and pulled a clean uniform on over her head. “Why are you being so —?” “It was Shacklebolt who sent the Patronus,” Molly brusquely interrupted. “Bill and Charlie and your father were involved tonight. Now no more questions, we need to go.” Ginny, her mouth agape and her head swimming with unasked questions, obediently preceded her mother out into the dark night. A heavy rain was falling but Ginny, distracted, didn’t think to cast Impervius, so by the time she reached the hospital, she was rather drenched. Icy water dripped from the ends of her bedraggled hair. Belatedly, she hurried to pull it back into a bun. Molly bustled ahead and pushed into the tent, her face set in a tight mask, but Ginny saw the nervous twitch at the corner of her mouth, and the deep lines around her eyes. Inside, the hospital was in chaos. The first wave of injured had been transferred directly into the tent, and they were covered in blood and wailing with pain. Ginny joined her mother and the other Mediwizards as they levitated the wounded onto the waiting beds. No sooner had they moved the last handful of wizards than the air outside the tent filled with the cracks and pops of Apparition and chilling shrieks that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. Still dripping with rain, Ginny pulled back the tent flap. Cries for help echoed through the small valley and Ginny was momentarily transfixed in the shadowy light of the gas torches; dozens of bodies writhed on the muddy ground. Figuring she couldn’t get any wetter, she darted out into the storm to help. “Over here!” “Oh God, I think he’s dead!” “Someone please, I need help!” Torn, Ginny didn’t know where to go first. There were so many bodies; so many witches and wizards, so many more than they’d ever had before. “Ginny!” She whirled, her throat tightening painfully at the familiar voice. “Dad?” she called, unable to see her father through the rain dripping into her eyes. She pushed her heavy wet hair back off her forehead. “Dad?” she called louder, running in the direction from where she thought his voice had come. “Over here, Ginny!” She corrected her path and splashed through puddles until she saw the outline of two wizards huddled together, carrying a third wizard between them. She skidded to a halt, her chest constricting, as she stared at her father and oldest brother Bill, holding up Charlie, who was bleeding and comatose. “Oh, Charlie,” Ginny breathed, feeling tears mixing with the rain trickling down her face. She looked Arthur and Bill up and down quickly. “Are you two alright?” “A bit banged up, Gin, but we’ll live,” answered her father. Ginny felt her breath catch in her throat as she conjured a stretcher and eased Charlie down on the bleached canvas. “And Charlie?” she asked, staring horrified at the blood trickling from the corner of her brother’s mouth. Bill answered angrily, “Wormtail hit him with the Hemorrhaging Curse.” Ginny’s healer’s training kicked in at once and she didn’t bother with rushing him up the hill to the hospital; she grabbed hold of his arm and Apparated the both of them directly into the ward. A healer’s aide shrieked as Charlie’s stretcher knocked her over but by the time she’d regained her footing, Ginny had transferred her brother onto a bed. “Mum!” Ginny cried, looking wildly for her mother’s flaming hair. “Mum!” Molly hurried over, with eyes only for her distraught daughter. “Ginny, I’m here. What —” Her eyes widened as she saw the patient bleeding on the bed. “Charlie…” she whispered, and her knees seemed to go weak for a moment as she swayed slightly. Ginny reached out a steadying hand. “He’s been hit with the Hemorrhaging Curse,” Ginny said lowly. At once, Molly sprung into action. “You go help the others Ginny, I’ve got him now,” she stated hoarsely. Ginny lingered for a moment, staring tearfully at her older brother, his red hair dark with drying blood. “Ginny, go,” Molly whispered lowly, even as she became a flurry of action around Charlie’s bed. Tearing her eyes away, Ginny glanced around the hospital and then plunged out through the tent flap again. She nearly barreled into her father and Bill. “This way,” Ginny croaked. “Mum’s got him. Are you sure you’re alright? I’ve got to go and —” “We’re fine, Ginny,” Bill answered as their father was too busy gazing with relief at his wife. “You go do your job.” For the next hour, Ginny darted from patient to patient, struggling to stay focused. Twice she glanced over at her family, four red heads pushed closely together, and felt painfully alone. Sternly she berated herself and bent over her patients again. There were so many familiar faces amongst the wounded, and Ginny found it harder than ever not to look up and search for Harry’s shining face. She recognized a few Aurors and several Hogwarts students from years above her. Two of those students bore the Dark Mark. Ginny never got used to removing a shirt and seeing the black tattoo throbbing on pale, dirty skin. Invariably, with those patients, her eyes always drifted up to their faces, praying she wouldn’t recognize them. Tonight, however, she found Pansy Parkinson and Teddy Nott. Nott was too far gone, and Ginny knew he would be dead by morning, but Pansy was awake and lucid, and rather unpleasant, until Ginny roughly administered a heart-felt Stupefy, which was standard practice with Death Eaters. Just when she was certain that the last patient was treated and asleep in bed, another wave of wounded arrived. “We haven’t enough beds!” a Mediwitch named Robin whispered hoarsely. “So conjure more,” Ginny replied, lifting her wand and doing just that. Then Ginny heard the name — Harry Potter — being murmured from bed to bed. “They’re saying Harry Potter was there,” Robin said lowly to Ginny. “They’re saying he stormed the castle and nobody has seen him since —” But Ginny had stopped listening. Instead, she looked over at her family; Molly hovering over her men protectively, Bill and Arthur curled in chairs next to Charlie’s bed. She glanced around the room at the familiar faces, some twisted in pain, some sleeping peacefully. The tent seemed to lurch sideways and Ginny felt lightheaded. “Ginny, Ginny, over here!” called a new healer frantically. Shaking her head, Ginny looked at her family again. Molly looked up and their eyes met. Did they know? Had Bill and her father been with Harry? Ginny took a halting step forward. Molly shook her head slightly and then motioned to the end of the ward, where the young healer continued to call for Ginny. Gritting her teeth in frustration, Ginny stumbled to the end of the tent, where the young witch was pressing a bloody bandage against a shaking, pale wizard’s side. “What?” she snapped. “He won’t stop bleeding, and — and he asked for you.” Still trembling and woozy, Ginny bent over the wizard and lifted the bandage. Shaking her head, she swept her gaze up the thin body, taking in the unnatural twists in the legs, the purple and black bruising around the waist, the raw lacerations across the chest, the charred fingertips, and then — Her eyes widened in disbelief. She almost didn’t recognize his face through the bruises and burns and blood, but she would have known his bloody platinum hair anywhere. “Malfoy?” she breathed, her dispassionate façade crumbling away. He clenched his teeth and gasped in a wheezing breath. “Weaselette,” he croaked. Horrified, Ginny gaped at his battered appearance. She was frankly amazed he was still alive at all. She couldn’t be sure for the swelling, but she was almost positive he’d lost one of his stormy eyes. His neck bore lines of deep red abrasions and blue bruises, as though he’d swung from the end of a rope. Blood leaked slowly from his ears and his proud nose cantered sideways, flattened and swollen to twice its size. His bottom lip hung half torn from his ruined face. Deep inside, she felt a moment of satisfaction that the boy who caused Harry and Hermione and Ron so much pain was now suffering horribly. This mangled wizard barely more than a boy had brought so much agony to the world when he opened Hogwarts to the Death Eaters, and helped eliminate the one man Voldemort feared above all others. She could picture the cold sneer on his face as he taunted her friends, as he slandered her family, as he cornered Dumbledore in the highest of Hogwarts’ towers. Then he coughed up a mouthful of blood and the satisfaction faded into guilt and nausea. Ginny sank onto the edge of his bed and raised her wand. As she began to cast every healing spell she could think of, he wildly grabbed at her arm with his blistered fingers. “Potter; has he finished it?” he gasped, the breath rattling in his lungs. “Don’t talk, Malfoy,” Ginny replied coolly. “He left me,” Draco moaned in disbelief, arching his back as a ripple of pain shot through him. “I wanted to be there. He promised I could be there ‘til the end,” he wheezed. “I can’t heal you if you won’t shut up,” Ginny sternly told him. She banished the tattered remains of his shirt and exhaled sharply as she saw the telltale black tattoo on his left arm. “You’re a bigger fool than I thought, Malfoy,” she spat. “Stup—” “Ginny, no,” said a voice at her elbow. She jumped, startled, and turned to see Bill standing there, his wand tucked in his waistband. “He’s a Death Eater, Bill. It’s standard procedure.” “He’s an Order spy, Gin. For nearly a year. He’s been helping Harry with the job Dumbledore gave him.” Bile rising in her throat, she stuttered, “W — what?” Bill bent slowly, grimacing, and said quietly in her ear, “He was fighting along side us. The Death Eaters kept trying to surround him; now that they know he betrayed them, and their orders were to torture and kill. But Harry kept pushing them back, keeping Malfoy safe. They were fighting side by side, but Harry had to go on into the castle alone and Malfoy had to defend himself. And he was holding his own when we left the battle, but they obviously got him in the end.” “He was — he was helping Harry?” Ginny asked, stunned. Draco began to cough and choke, and his blackened fingers twisted and clawed at the bed sheets. “Get back, Bill,” she ordered, resolutely. Confused, Bill stepped back. Ginny clenched her wand determinedly in her fingers. “Abstulo Defero,” she chanted. “Ginny, no!” Bill exclaimed. Unwavering, she touched the tip of her wand to Draco’s chest and brought it away again. The shimmering thread of the Transference Spell materialized between his skin and the worn end of her wand. The strand grew thicker as more threads wove around it and melted into it. The wand began to shake in her hand but Ginny held on. The silvery thin rope wound its way up her wand. She held her breath and braced herself for the impending pain as it inched towards her fingers. Draco hissed and swatted her wand away. The shimmering line sank back into his chest and he whined in renewed pain. “Let me take some of it, Draco. I’m strong enough —” “No!” he ground out. “Its mine, I earned it. I deserve it.” “I’m only trying to ease your pain,” Ginny began. Draco interrupted, almost panicking. “You’re not transferring with me, Weaselette. I knew what I was doing. I deserve this. I earned it!” he panted insistently. “It’s mine.” At a loss, Ginny looked helplessly over her shoulder at Bill, whose jaw was set firmly. “Fine,” she snapped. She summoned a fistful of potions and began to uncork the vials. “No.” Draco’s breath hitched and the blood bubbling from his mouth trickled down his face. “Just stop.” “You’re going to die if you don’t let me help you, you git,” Ginny said angrily. “I know,” he whispered, his remaining eye fluttering open and locking with hers. Taken by surprise, Ginny hesitated. His unspoiled hand groped blindly and automatically, she reached out and grabbed it. His hand was frighteningly cold but it still held remarkable strength as he squeezed her fingers. “S — sorry, Ginny,” he said brokenly. “Malfoy,” she began. His face contorted in what looked like sorrow. She started over. “Draco, I — I can save you,” she lied. “Just let me help —” But just then his fingers tensed in her hand and a faint smile crossed his deathly pale face. “He’s done it,” he gasped. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he died, still smiling. Stunned, Ginny stared at Draco’s battered face, which wore an expression of utter peacefulness. A flicker of movement drew her eyes down and she stared, uncomprehending, as the mark branded on his pale arm bleached red and dissolved. Tentatively, she touched her fingers to the unblemished surface and stroked along the smooth stretch of skin. A sob escaped her throat and suddenly a rush of tears streamed down her face. An excited murmur rose up around her. “Look! It’s just disappeared,” a healer’s aide cried further down the ward. Blinking away tears, Ginny tore her eyes away from Draco’s still face. The aide bent over Pansy and held up the Stupefied girl’s bare, unmarked left arm. “What does this mean?” asked another healer, stepping away from Nott’s nearly lifeless form, pointing at his shriveled arm, and the fresh, unspoiled skin where his Dark Mark had been. Bill’s hand settled on Ginny’s shoulder reassuringly. She looked up at him, her brow wrinkled. “Harry…” she breathed. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he told her calmly. He reached down and tried to pull Draco’s limp hand out of her grasp. “Let go, Gin. He’s at peace.” Looking at Draco again, she repeated his last words, “He’s done it…” Wide eyed, she turned to her brother. “Bill…is it — did Harry — is it over?” “Dunno, Gin.” Bill extracted Draco’s hand and placed it gently on the dead boy’s chest. “I hope so.” He put his hand on her elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Come see Charlie. He’s starting to wake up.” Ginny let Bill guide her back into the circle of red heads. Shaking and sobbing, she kissed her ailing brother’s cheeks, and then she wrapped her arms around her father. She buried her face into his shoulder, smelling his comforting smell of worn leather and pumpkin spice. Then she sat on his lap like a little girl and listened to him explain where they’d been and what they’d done while they’d been away. Sleepily, Ginny rested her head on her father’s shoulder and let her eyes close, just for a moment. Ginny jerked awake, startled to find herself back in her tent, nestled into her own bed. “What?” she asked groggily, trying to blink fog out of her eyes. “Ginny, up.” Ginny bolted upright in bed, and looked around for her mother. Confused, she tried to remember the dream she’d been having. Draco Malfoy had been in it, and so had her father and Bill and Charlie. She shook her head, a wistful smile on her face. “How many?” she asked, stretching her arm out for the frock hanging on the hook by her bedside. “Just a few, Ginny,” answered a young healer, holding out a starched apron. Ginny blinked and stared. “Missus Weasley sent me to fetch you. Said you’d want to see one of these patients. Something about eyes the color of pickled toad?” Oh, sweet Merlin. It had been a dream, hadn’t it? Her heart choking her, Ginny stumbled to her feet and lurched out of the tent, her mind focused on one goal: getting to the hospital as quickly as possible. She tumbled up the muddy hill, tripping over her shoes, and burst into the hospital tent. Several healers looked up in shock as unflappable, cold Ginny Weasley flung aside the tent flap, her red hair tousled and streaming down her shoulders, her eyes bright with tears. “Where is he?” she choked out, her eyes roving from bed to bed, searching for the familiar startling green eyes. She saw her family’s red heads bent over a cluster of beds at the far end of the ward. With legs stiff with fear and excitement, Ginny stumbled closer, not daring to breathe. Molly turned and saw Ginny’s hesitant approach, and gently touched her husband’s arm. Arthur looked up and quietly smiled before stepping back from one of the beds. Ron turned his head on his pillow and smiled weakly at his sister. Ginny inhaled and wobbled dangerously. A warm hand closed around her arm and Ginny turned. Hermione steadied her with a kindly smile, her eyes brimming with happy tears. “Over here, Ginny,” Hermione said, and Ginny numbly blinked her eyes, sending rivulets of tears down her flushed cheeks. Hermione led her to the bed next to Ron’s, where Molly sat, a pleased smile on her face. Molly stood and stepped away from the bed. Ginny stumbled and felt her legs go out from under her as she saw, for the first time in nearly a year, that happy, slightly crooked smile, the messy dark hair, and those startlingly brilliant green eyes gazing up at her. “Harry…” |
| Reviews 19 |
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