Now for something completely different -- a romance!
This story involves many changes in point-of-view. To help the reader navigate some of the POV complexities, please note the following two conventions:
1) A single line break implies a POV-shift within the same scene, whereas the double line break is the ordinary scene shift, and
2) in their dreams, Ginny and Harry both vicariously inhabit other characters (for Ginny -- a woodland princess named Lannosea; for Harry -- a Roman Publican named Paternus Peuerellius); when this happens, the narrator will still refer to them as Harry and Ginny, but characters who interact with them will generally refer to their alter egos.
Confused already? Well, hopefully you'll get used to it.
Chapter 1. Concussions  (August 7-8, 1995)
Pffehhh!!
Spitting away a mouthful of grit, Ginny Weasley struggled up from the sooty, debris-strewn floor. Dazed and weary, her muscles trembled and sagged... then she steeled herself. Steadying into a low crouch, she raised her wand and scanned the brutal mayhem for someone to fight, or defend... or... or...
Sweet Merlin!
She froze, but not from horror or fear. Rather, Ginny was seized by an overpowering sense that... she had been here before.
Gazing about the Great Hall, she somehow found herself recognizing (or remembering?) every chaotic detail – each fallen stone, shattered table and scorched chair; every raging, panicked or delirious face... And the sum of all these details told her, with full conviction, that this was the image of destiny – a moment both thrilling and terrifying; so utterly inconceivable, and yet strangely inevitable.
It's happening. This is it! Be strong Weasley!!
A buzz raced through the Hall. On all sides, combattants stirred and shifted, feeling a chill of power flooding in around them. The battle clanged, hissed and rasped to a halt. Shrieks, wails and shouts died to an expectant hush. Hundreds of hands and wands lowered; shoulders slumped as though the entire throng had been summarily dismissed.
Ginny, however, did not stand down. Hair hanging loose and wild in her face, she rose to full height and stared toward the entranceway, bracing herself, breathing an old mantra.
It all comes down to this.
Be strong...
Strong for the light...
Strong for him.
This was no fool's resolve. Ginny knew that the coming moment was a culmination; a fulcrum; an entire society hanging in the balance. Sometime in the next few heartbeats, two opposing pillars of the wizarding world would take to the floor for a single duel to finally end the chaotic war. Death Eaters and Order members, alike, were irrelevant to the outcome – Ginny was certain of that. Yet, she was equally determined that she herself would be no mere pawn to be swept from the board; she had a role to play... and for this she must prepare, and be strong.
But why should one single young witch be so self-assured? Renowned seers had said nothing of a battle like this, so how could nearly everything before her eyes seem as familiar as a memory – vivid, horrific, yet somehow obvious and familiar?
How indeed?
But unfortunately, even to Ginny, one thing was still unclear.
She did not know (or remember? or guess?) how the battle would end. Who would be left standing – Harry, or...?
A weight of dread and desperate hope lodged in Ginny's chest as footsteps sounded. The mute masses shrank back, clearing a wide aisle for two opposing figures who emerged like looming thunderheads – a young man verging on his grotesque foe.
Battered, bloodied, but singularly noble, Harry moved with an air of predestination, barely scuffing the char and detritus as he closed on his wary opponent and began circling. The reptile-faced foe eyed him in turmoil, caught in clashing currents of his own rage... and what Ginny knew could be nothing less than fear.
Mere sight of Riddle's deformed features brought a surge of bile, but Ginny forced herself to focus on the enemy, parsing a series of half-disguised grimmaces from which she could practically hear his despicable thoughts:
How can this boy possibly...?!
He's dead! I killed him – struck him down!
Filthy little rat; how many times must I face this...!!?
But the villain was far from powerless. Armed with immense advantages in both sorcery and intimidation, Riddle stifled his doubt. His reptillian mouth oozed to a sneer, worldlessly boasting pre-eminence; complaining to the world how this trifling mismatch was an inconvenience, barely worth a moment of his day.
Ginny bristled. She'd have gladly pulverized the arrogant sod, or at least bashed his misshapen nose to a bloody pulp... but this was not the time. Feet rooted; arms braced at the ready, she cleared her mind, listening intently as the foes probed for weakness in a dialogue that Ginny seemed, somehow, to know almost by rote.
After a while, the verbal sparring fell into stalemate. With no room left for conciliation, negotiation or intimidation, the two fighters finally gritted their teeth and circled in silence... until Harry Potter stopped.
Setting his stance, he rose with a pure glint in his eyes. Flicking his wand, he opened his mouth.
"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?"
Heedless of the hundreds of wizards and witches straining to hear, Harry spoke low to an audience of one.
"Does the wand in your hand know its last master was disarmed? Because if it does... I am the true master of the Elder Wand."
Two red-flaring eyes flickered. For a barely perceptible moment, the monster seemed to consider Harry's words... but the course was set. Voldemort's only viable reply expelled like the hiss of a thousand tormented serpents.
"Avada Kedavra! "
"Expelliarmus! "
Red and green spell flares burst across the Hall. The first sanguine glimmer of sunrise leapt through a shattered window, perfectly bisecting the magical arc. At the duel's crackling epicentre, a blazing wall of white sparks burst, showering the scene in a blind glare, etching the moment as some masterpiece of ghastly apocalyptic art.
Reptile man quivered in weakness and fear.
The young avenger radiated magnificence, looking calmly on his faltering opponent as a vibrant pulse of justice and compassion poured from his wand, edging back the boundary flame.
Good overcomes evil; love withstands hate...
Or not?!
In an inexplicable flash – appalling, unfathomable – it was over.
Nobody – not even the trembling detestable herp-faced villain – could have foreseen it.
In an instant of infamy, all magic of hope and honour drained away. A fundamental truth shattered; the pulsing white fulcrum between their spells vanished, and a lurid tongue of bitter death – the vomit of hell – slashed unchecked across the hall...
The bold and selfless young man, icon of love and sacrifice, crumpled to the floor.
Eyes of deep emerald gazed eastward one last time as a quivering finger of sunlight touched tenderly upon his beautiful face... then faltered beneath an acrid shroud of dust, smoke and despair.
Harry James Potter... the boy who lived... the last hope of the light... was dead.
"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
An otherworldly shriek – possibly her own – throbbed in Ginny's ears as she launched. In that paralytic moment, every soul in creation seemed frozen in shock and disarray except for one young woman who could lose nothing more. She leapt at the Execrable Filth, her wand unleashing a staggering barrage of hexes that nobody could have duplicated, let alone actually taught her.
The vile bane of hope, despoiler of faith and mercy, reeled drunkenly. His shield quivered and failed. His spindly, misbegotten knees buckled in impotent terror. All magic spent, the Elder Wand slid from Voldemort's slack grasp as he turned, cowering cravenly, to beg for mercy – a final plea to forestall the death he dreaded more than anything else, when...
WHAM!!
Jagged sparks slashed across Ginny's vision as crude stone impacted the side of her head. An instant of blinding pain faded to the vague sensation of prickly wetness trailing down her face. A salty metallic taste crept into her nose and mouth.
Ginny had no idea what had just happened. To Harry. To herself. To the world.
She knew only that she was... so very very tired.
There is nothing left now.
Please take me away.
She cast off all shackles, renounced everything that she had ever known, and felt herself falling into darkness.
Memories, aspirations and everything corporeal slipped from her.
Please take me away.
There is nothing left.
Nothing left except...?
Except for two hands.
Calloused. Roughly gentle. Strong as oaken rails.
Warm on her icy skin.
One hand cupped the back of her neck; the other gently raised her waist an inch from the ground. With the care of a doting father, the hands half-lifted, half-rolled, her torso obliquely onto something firm yet soft; something that smelled of pollen... a faint residue of applewood smoke... the slightest hint of musk.
Her eyelids parted slightly, admitting a blurred montage of colour.
Light blue... sky?
Green? The soft pear-hues of a springtime's young leaves emblazoning the hedge and hills.
Grey? Sunlit flagstones – rough-hewn, worn smooth.
Red? Woollen fabric of a fine weave – sturdy, yet supple. Like an old tapestry?
Black? WAND!!
In blind panic, Ginny recoiled as the stick neared her face... but the warm grip tightened, bracing her against a man's chest. A well-muscled forearm and sun-bronzed hand angled the wand carefully toward her temple. She briefly considered struggling but instead found herself closing her eyes to the sound of a familiar, calming voice speaking the odd but reassuring word, "Emaculo."
A pulsing heat flashed across her face and scalp; a rapid cleansing tingle followed by a cool spring breeze...
Restorative energy surged through her body. Reopening her eyes, she followed the red fabric up the angled curves of a man's chest, to a mantle fastened by an intricate brooch – polished silver wings, central badge inset with two fine gems.
Borrowing strength from her still-woefully-depleted reserves, she craned back another inch to gaze ascendantly into...
Eyes?
Dear Mother Circe – it can't be!
Is it?
From the moment years ago when she had first glimpsed those eyes, she knew with every breath of her soul that she would never, ever, see another pair like them, and yet...?
How is it possible?
IS it possible??
The man was running his wand along her side, concentrating intently as he checked for internal injuries. He made no move to stop her as she reached her hand, shy yet determinedly, toward his face... toward his carefully cropped hair – straight tresses, once raven black, now blended with the frosts of many autumns.
Patiently, with unwavering focus, the man continued his travails, even as Ginny carefully swept his peppered locks aside to reveal a forehead – one she would have recognized in a heartbeat, except that it was... unscarred. It bore not a single defect. No lightning bolt. Not even the faintest trace.
Baffled, her hand trailed down his cheek – full, chiseled, and coloured of long seasons of wind and sun. And down there, where she would not have expected, she found a strange and ironic token of asymmetry. Just above the masculine grace of his firmly-set jaw was a scar – a single pale slash articulating one cheek.
It isn't...
But how...?
How could it NOT be???
"Harry?" she whispered, softly; beseechingly.
Completing his ministrations, the man gazed down at her with those extraordinary eyes.
With Harry Potter's eyes.
The eyes were deeply troubled; compassionate yet conflicted; torn between necessity and need.
The man put away his wand. Ginny saw one powerful hand slide beneath her knees, and felt the other arm brace her head and torso with kind firmity. In a burst of dizzying strength, the man surged to his feet. Ginny sensed herself being uplifted and swept away, almost floating, from the sunlit roadway, down a short embankment, and into the shade of a riverside willow.
They paused a moment amidst the placid greenery. When Ginny's eyes adjusted, she found them affixed to the man's gaze.
The man chewed his lower lip; faint worry lines creasing his brow. He opened his mouth and a gentle phrase issued. "Sume fibulam."
In her dazed state, Ginny drank in the words, absorbed their resonance, not bothering to ponder what they meant. The only thing that mattered to her was that this truly had to be the voice of Harry Potter.
Almost.
Thinking it over, she realized that the voice was ever so slightly different... almost like she recognized it, not from knowing Harry, but from recalling some dream of Harry... or some dream of someone who reminded her of Harry. Just as the man holding her so painfully resembled Harry, yet was not quite...
Ginny's injured head began to throb from the circular confusion. Nausea began to creep through her, fed by a growing dread that she was not only addled, but also negligent. There was something she had promised to do, but had forgotten. It was some sort of sworn duty; it was important; urgent even, but she simply couldn't recall...
What was it? A message of some sort? Instructions? Information? A warning? She sensed it was intended for this man – the same one who, at this very moment, was gazing down at her with a worried look on his face, saying, "Lanossëa?"
She pulled a deep breath into her lungs and opened her mouth desperately hoping that some sort of cogent response would emerge and that everything would miraculously begin to make sense but, when she exhaled, all that issued was a weak sibilance, unintelligible to either herself or the man.
The creases on his face deepening, the man reached out tentatively to touch her cheek. "Tu sume fibulam? "
Frowning, Ginny struggled to clear the cobwebs from her mind. A message to deliver, but... what? A familiar face resembling Harry, yet was greying hair and no scar. Voice – same yet different. Mature. Composed...
This was certainly neither the delightfully awkward boy she'd met years ago on Platform 9¾, nor the troubled but tenacious teen whom she'd so fancied in ways that suddenly seemed sophomoric and naive. Finally she realised that the face and voice were exactly how she might have pictured Harry if he had ever been permitted to mature into dignified adulthood, as he certainly would have, but for the fact that she had just witnessed the teenaged Harry being struck down and...
murdered...
taken from me.
Ginny choked, bitter tears prickling beneath her eyelids.
A hint of urgency crept into the man's troubled expression, yet he spoke with laboured slowness. "Lanossëa? " He peered deeply, queryingly, into her eyes. "Quaeso, tolle fibulam."
The clear, deliberate syllables hit their mark. Latin. Ginny bit back her anguish. He's speaking Latin.
She nodded in recognition. Of course, any witch or wizard would speak some Latin, since it figured so prominently in spellmanship. But 'fibulam' is not... it's not an incantation?
Her head still ached when she concentrated, but she pried her way slowly through memories of her Mum's patient language lessons (English, Greek and Latin) from back in those sweet, innocent years before Hogwarts. Ginny squinted for a moment, then raised a tentative, inquiring finger to his brooch. "Take this off?"
He nodded.
With trembling fingers, she tugged at the silver object. Anchored by a long, polished straight-pin, the brooch slid easily to the side and fell, smooth and cool, into her hand. The heavy grey mantle tumbled to the ground behind the man.
Still holding Ginny as if she were but little more than a waif in arms, the man turned. With his leather-bound feet, he kicked at the mantle several times, tugged it into a passable rectangle with his toes, and laid her lightly onto it. Her exhausted limbs settled into the fabric's comforting warmth, resting above soft cushioning grasses and moss that swaddled her aches.
With efficiency that bespoke exigency, the man set to work. Fingers tougher than tree roots (gentler than a masseuse) cradled Ginny's head as he rolled up two loose corners of the mantle to form a makeshift pillow. Sculpting a U-shaped roll to the contours of her head, he laid it back down to rest.
She sighed as her scalp gratefully enumerated each of the five strong digits woven into her hair... but then they were gone.
Ginny winced (in dejection, not pain) as the man withdrew and rose to his feet. She watched as he reached to the belt about his red and grey tunic, and unclasped a leather flagon and small pouch. "Victus et aqua," he explained, kneeling again to place the rations at her side.
Exhaustion beginning to verge toward delirium, Ginny braced herself, determined to capture some final shred of clarity from the chaos. Tremulously, she reached to touch the sinews of his arm. "Are you leaving?"
He turned to her with a look of contrition that pierced Ginny's heart. Empathy and loneliness pouring freely, she was swept by an overwhelming desire to clasp herself to him and never let go... but she knew she couldn't.
She still had no idea who this man truly was... (Harry, shrilled her fevered mind, but she stifled the voice)... and she knew from his body language that the man had urgent business elsewhere; some imminent crisis pulling him reluctantly away.
Let him go. I must let him do what he must...
Sighing, she surrendered. With her final ounce of strength, she fixed his gaze. "Come back to me? Come back when you can?"
Her eyes bored into his, imploring against all hope that this Latin-speaking man would somehow understand.
The man reached toward her, found her right hand, and grasped it tightly. His weathered fingers whispered to her an unspoken but resolute promise. Divine eyes once again graced hers.
Assured and grateful, Ginny let go. Her strength fading fast, she found herself drifting down, soft as a dewdrop, into a verdant boreal pool of sleep. Faintly, as if from a great depth, she heard the sound of a lone horse racing away over the stone road. As darkness engulfed her, she recalled only the sensation of cold silver wings still pressed firmly to her palm.
Was he already too late??
Hearing distant voices raised in outrage, Harry frantically scanned the palisade. No guards were present to admit him, and the walls were protected by magic stronger than his, but years ago he had discovered a secret weakness within the gate. Loath to trespass, but seeing no other option, he pulled out his wand and blasted away the vulnerable cross-bar. Pushing through, he sprinted the narrow wooded path to the longhouse and crossed beneath the lintel into the dark interior.
"Stop this madness; I have the treaty!" Brandishing the scroll, Harry struggled to catch his breath. "By order of the Proconsul, it has been decreed that..."
He froze. Just now adjusting to the low, smoky light of the chamber, Harry could not help but recognize that there were... twelve intricately carved wands pointed at his chest.
Bitter bile pooled in his throat as his eyes swept the room and confirmed the worst.
Treachery!
Bodies lay strewn about. In this proud court of warriors, only the indomitable sovereign was left standing, yet even she had been overcome – writhing against shackles, her hands were bereft of their mighty staff, renowned all across Britannia for its magical might.
Harry's gaze darted about the room in search for the ornate walnut pole, with its characteristic copper horse-head grip. His eyes fell upon it – there it was... cradled in the puff-pasty hands of the...
"Traitor!!" Furious, Harry whipped out his wand. Heedless of the odds, he plunged into the dusky room, blasting at the supercilious fink.
Stunning spells from Harry's wand somehow all missed his main target, felling three flanking wizards. Laughing, the lead villain brushed aside Harry's magic with barely a flick of the horse-head staff. Out of nowhere, suffocating restraints flung themselves about Harry's body, bringing his charge to a raging, impotent halt. Struggling to shake off the invisible bonds, he twisted hard, flailed and...
"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
The piercing, real-world shriek ripped Harry out of his nightmare, out of his bed, and into a half-blunted collision with his room-mate, Ron Weasley, who had also burst up from sleep.
"Noise! Scream?!" Harry looked around wildly. "Who yelled?"
"I dunno." Ron stepped back, pulling free of Harry's armpits. "A girl. Sounded like..."
THUD!!
"... Ginny."
Harry stared at the door, listened for residual noise (some continued ruckus downstairs, opposite hallway), and cursed. Shredding away the tattered remnants of a bed sheet tangling his arms and legs, he tore from the bedroom and raced down the steps. Skidding to a halt at girls' chamber, Harry elbowed his way past a teetering Sirius Black and gaped at the floor.
Hermione knelt on the cold stone, wracked by sobs. Beneath her, in a confused splay of limbs, face down in a spreading crimson stain, lay the youngest Weasley – ghostly pale in the light of a flickering hallway lamp.
Harry burst in, ushered Hermione to the side, and knelt beside Ginny. As gently as he could in his haste, he lifted the fallen girl's head and shoulders up of the blood and into his lap, heedless of the deep red smears across his flannel night clothes.
Instinctively, he braced her right shoulder into the crook of his elbow and drew his wand. Taking a deep breath to steady his shaking hand, he concentrated on the spell. "Episkey! "
Ginny flinched, but the gash closed and bleeding stopped.
Harry carefully pulled back disheveled red tresses from her pallid face – both soiled from her fall. He pointed his wand again and, with greater confidence, cast a Tergeo spell. The red stains and dirt vanished.
As Harry visually examined her head and face for secondary wounds, Ginny's eyes opened and her diffuse pupils focused long enough to recognize her company. "Hey..." Her lips parted slightly. "You came back."
Wracking his mind to remember a passable spell to treat deep bruising, Harry nodded distractedly.
Ginny stirred and touched his forearm. "Please stay this time."
Harry blinked at the the odd, unexpected (inexplicable?) request.
His best mate's sister had obviously just taken a frightful blow to the head but, even so, it hardly made sense that such a vivacious, independent and headstrong girl would be seeking his... comfort? Puzzled, he pulled his attention away from Ginny's bruised temple and met her gaze.
Ginny eyes were suddenly lucid and sincere. "Stay please?"
Harry nodded dumbly, struggling to put the request (and, indeed, the whole situation) into some sort of sensible context; trying to sort through what must have been a dream (racing along old roads and paths; suddenly ambushed in some primitive hut), versus the blurred, frantic (but seemingly real) sequence involving a scream, a mad dash down the stairs, and an apparently... appreciative friend?
The friend, although weary and hazy, was apparently also smiling at him. Ginny's eyes drifted to Harry's wand, still poised intently at her side. She reached out slowly with her right index finger, pressed it to the tip, and carefully pronounced a word she remembered from her own dream...
"Emaculo..."
Ginny then steered Harry's wand through a motion identical to a quill writing the Greek letter η.
Harry frowned in confusion. "Emaculo? "
She nodded and gestured at the swelling on the side of her face.
Baffled, he pointed his wand, clearly repeated the simple spell as she'd instructed, then gasped as a cool tonic spread through the air, bathing not only Ginny's face and head, but also Harry's own hand and forearm.
Her swelling gone and colour returning, Ginny's face relaxed and her eyes closed. "Thanks," she murmured.
Still reeling from the powerful cleansing sensation, Harry blinked at Ginny's face, now fully restored to a state of sublime peace. "But what... where...? Uh, who... did you learn that spell from, Ginny?"
A mysterious wistful smile drifted across Ginny's face for a moment. "Dunno," she replied hazily. She then reached her hand around to the small of Harry's back, pulled herself more snugly to his chest, and promptly fell into a deep, restful sleep.
"Ugh!" Hermione buried her face in her hands. "What happened to me?? Episkey, Tergeo – I know those spells! I can't believe I just fell to pieces! If Harry hadn't come and taken over, I... I...?!"
Having finished helping Harry get Ginny safely back onto the bed, Sirius cuffed Hermione gently on the shoulder. "Pah. If Harry hadn't come to take over, you'd have done fine. Merely needed to catch your breath and pull your head together."
Throwing an arm around Hermione's shoulders, Sirius led her over the threshhold and drew the bedroom door shut. "Next time, take a deep breath and tell yourself not to panic. Gingersnap wasn't in dire straits – just a bonk on the head. Besides, she was out cold and in no pain – not as if she'd begrudge you a minute to flip through an old spell book to find the right way to close a cut. Don't stew over it, Sweets!"
Hermione pulled away from Sirius and turned on him. "That's not the point! What if something really awful was to happen?! What if Ginny or you or Harry or... or Ron... was lying there with seconds to live and I was the only person around?" A lock of Hermione's rumpled hair fell across her face and she whipped it aside. "What do I do then?! What if I go blank again, forget everything I know, and started bawling my pathetic little head off??"
"Ssh Granger." Sirius raised a finger to his lips. "It's no fun to get blasted out of bed like that and be straight up counted on. Though, if it'd make you feel better, I reckon we could start doing practice drills. Back during the First Wizarding War, Order of the Phoenix members like Mad-Eye and them were constantly barging in on us at all the worst hours of night to get people used to being woken up for emergencies."
"Really?" Hermione's cringe evapourated, replaced by curiosity. "Did it work?"
"Hah!" Sirius barked. "Hell no! But it sure made a bloody good excuse to hit the bottle! Gideon, Fabian and I would tie one on nearly every night. Depending on when exactly the gits came to ambush us, we'd either still be sober enough to spray them with shots of Firewhisky, or else we'd be so rat-arsed they could have turned a Swedish Short-Snout loose on us and we wouldn't have budged."
Hermione laughed, relieved by the leavening humour.
Not sharing in the levity, Ron caught Sirius's shoulder. "Hey! You shut the door!"
"Aye." Sirius cocked his brow. "Else they'd get no rest with all our yammering."
"Bloody hell." Ron glared back toward the room they'd just left. "We're not going to just leave Ginny in there with... uh, with Harry?"
Sirius grinned. "That's exactly what we're doing. They'll settle a'right." He paused and pointed toward the stairwell. "Aand you too! You young urchins, back to bed – especially you, Copper-top. Weasleys need their sleep or they're bloody insufferable."
Oblivious to the blotch spreading up Ron's neck, Sirius gestured to Hermione. "Granger, you're welcome to take the small guest room up on third floor close to the WC – the bed is comfortable and freshly-made. And yes..." Sirius turned to make his way back out toward the front room. "We are going to leave the two little sweet-dreamers alone in there together. I'll peek in on them in an hour to make sure all's well, but beyond that we'll let them be."
"But... but..." Ron wrung his hands. "Harry will catch no end of grief for this! Ginny bites our heads off whenever we try to help her with anything these days. She says she's tired of being babied. And besides, all she had was a bad dream – she doesn't need anybody in there to..."
"No." Sirius shook his head, cutting him off. "You missed a few cues, Ron. Most importantly, she asked him to stay. Twice, if I counted right. I've no idea what kind of dream could have been bad enough to send her flying across the room into a full-on face-plant, but we're all bloody stressed out of our gourds these days. You remember how pale and quiet she got the other night when Tonks came in with the news about Harry's brush with the Dementors? Little Miss Pepper Vinegar may have us believe that she's all ready to tackle the world, but we all know that your sister is just as fussed and rattled by all this idiotic crap as anyone else. If she keeps her fears bottled in all day every day, it's little surprise to see them come screeching out in the occasional nightmare."
Hermione nodded thoughtfully, but Ron scowled and looked away.
"Listen mate." Sirius shrugged in a conciliatory way. "I'm a sorry excuse for a sage, but I do know two things damned well. I know for a fact that when a frightened friend comes asking for help, neither Cub or I would have the heart to tell her 'no '. Secondly, I've also learned that the best way to keep Harry from digging a grave over his own worries is to let him help other people deal with theirs."
Hermione's eyes widened and she nodded. "Good point! I'd never thought of that before!"
"No, YOU listen, Sirius." Ron whipped about, jabbing a finger at the man's chest. "That's all bollocks! Mum will go spare when she comes back in the morning and learns that Harry and Ginny spent the night together!"
Sirius merely offered his most roguish grin. "What Mummy Molly doesn't know won't hurt her... or hurt us !" He sighed theatrically. "Honestly mate, every time we save the poor lady from sweating some harmless little cut-corner or dodgy detail, we're doing her a good turn, aye? Molly's shattered enough from all the bedlam as it is."
Sirius paused to seek affirmation from Ron, but the youth didn't respond. The man fixed him with an earnest gaze. "Don't worry Ron, I'll make sure Harry is out of there well before breakfast. As long as the five of us tell noone, then who'll ever know the difference?" Sirius smiled and clapped the two teens over the shoulders. "Now you two get to bed!"
Still seemingly conflicted, Ron paused for a moment, then he nodded reluctantly and followed Hermione up the stairs.
Sirius took a final glance down the hallway toward the bedroom door, smiled quietly to himself, then made his silent way back to the sitting room, to rejoin the company of his Firewhisky bottle.
Harry stared at the bedroom door as it closed, then listened pensively as his friends' indistinct voices drifted down the hallway.
Huhhh...
How on earth had he gotten himself into this... situation?
Whoever would have guessed that the only bonafide adult in the house (if Sirius could truly be called an adult) would close the bedroom door, consigning him to spend the rest of the night alone with a sleeping girl?
Was that wise?
Harry didn't kid himself when it came to his godfather – he could smell liquor on the man's breath practically every night, and this evening was no exception. On the other hand, Harry would also sometimes glimpse in the man an otherworldly wisdom that couldn't quite be ignored. Like the hands of a stopped clock, Sirius was almost always wrong... except when he was right. Indeed, there were definitely circumstances (which seemingly came about twice in a dog's age) when Harry's godfather was absolutely spot-on.
He knew that Sirius was widely considered to be unreliable (nearly to the level of Mundungus Fletcher), but Harry was somehow convinced that, as damaged as his godfather was, the man would find a key role in the emerging battle against Voldemort. Harry could only imagine it being an unconventional contribution – something befitting his unconventional virtues.
As far as Harry knew, Sirius's greatest service to the order might be something like motivation or even 'morale'. For all the hardship faced by Order of the Phoenix members, few had weathered such torture and privation as Sirius, and yet he had somehow risen above it. With all of magical society threatening to crumble around them, the old dog's humour held a special value right now.
In particular here, for a Weasley family driven from their healthy, happy household into a hellacious dump that had not seen real habitation since serving as a de facto bunker in the First Wizarding War, Sirius added spice to the drudgery. His lax interpretation of 'etiquette' was relief and amusement to the younger folk, and even Arthur and Professor Lupin copped an occasional furtive smirk at Sirius's banter. His wit and pragmatic irreverence seemed well tuned to coaxing edgy people past the petty day-to-day stresses of a family under siege. And that was appreciated!
Except by Molly.
Harry could tell that Sirius was driving the Weasley matron practically out of her mind. It was especially galling for her to be expected to share domestic oversight with a host whose every wild instinct undercut her passion for orderly decorum. But whose fault was that? Molly might just be striving for what she felt was 'normal', but clinging to an illusion of sanity in this zoo was surely a recipe for madness.
Yes, this was one of those twice-in-a-dog's-age situations where Sirius was the unlikely voice of reason. And, just a little while ago, this particular voice of reason had, despite Ron's mortified protest, closed a bedroom door and committed Harry to a night inside a quiet darkened room with... with...
Well, with a girl...
In fact, a rather pretty girl.
Pretty... Harry stared off into the distance. When had that happened?
He returned his gaze to the face beside him; the smooth curves of her cheeks; the fine wavy hair that cascaded across her shoulders; a face he used to think of as, 'Ron's little sister'.
Harry shook his head, marveling at how greatly her stature had grown. This was no longer the nervous mouse that Ron would always ignore, except if he felt a need to roll his eyes and say something dismissive. No, Ron could rarely get away with scoffing at his younger sibling anymore. And, yes, Ginny had acquired 'stature'.
It was not that she was 'tall' per se (she was still attractively petite), but her stature was measured by growing confidence – a trait that made her seem more accomplished, more personable, even more mature, than most of the students in Harry's own year at Hogwarts.
Maybe the petals had unfolded on this vibrant bundle of life when Ginny had started smiling and laughing. She suddenly seemed to possess endless ways to be noticed – her wit, sparkle, an easy laugh. And pranks! The capers she pulled were brilliant, funny and imaginative enough to keep even the twins on edge.
All told, Ginny seemed to liven up Grimmauld Place almost as much as Sirius did. So yes, it was abundantly clear to Harry 'how ' Ginny had progressed from her old role as the Weasley door-stop. But 'when ' had this happened? At what moment had Harry been so blind as to miss such a glorious transformation?
Perhaps at the Yule Ball...?
A dagger of regret twisted in Harry's side, but he took a deep breath to suppress it and restore his focus to his remaining responsibilities.
Responsibilities.
Yes, Harry knew that he had to make sure that this vibrant, winsome, prankish, but currently very comatose, girl was comfortably settled for the night. Then he should try to salvage a bit of sleep for himself.
Rising to his feet, Harry took stock. The big task was done: Ginny was back on the bed, and seemed comfortable – Sirius had helped with that. Immediately thereafter, however, everyone had spirited away, leaving things in a bit of disarray.
Harry picked up the sheet, blanket and quilt that had gotten strewn across the floor. After casting quick scourgefy spells on them and checking to ensure that they were no longer bloodied or dusty, he piled them on a chair and began to arrange them over the peaceful girl.
As he was straightening the sheet over her, however, something scraped his hand.
Carefully lowering the sheet back down to Ginny's waist, he squinted, scanning the area where he'd been straightening. From faint light creeping in from a crack in the curtain, Harry glimpsed a glint of metal in Ginny's left hand. Drawing closer, he gasped. There was a thin silvery spike poking out from between her clenched fingers.
Oi! Glad she didn't spear herself when she fell!
Staring more closely, he saw that the spike was attached to something larger, clasped rigidly in her fist. He reached for her hand to see if he could gently extract the object from her grip.
Ginny whimpered and pulled away.
Harry deliberated for a moment, then cautiously touched her wrist, stroking it softly, tenderly. "Ginny? Please open your hand. I'd like to put this, er, thing on the night stand, okay? Just to keep it safe for you while you sleep."
A frown flickered over Ginny's face. Semiconsciously processing the request, she nodded slightly. "Uh huh. Thanks so much...." Her grip loosened and the object, heavier than Harry would have guessed, slipped into his hand.
Harry's throat caught, suddenly catching the significance of what had just happened; staring as Ginny settled straight back into blissful sleep, as though she vested in him her complete, unconditional trust.
Deeply moved, Harry found himself, impetuously yet innocently, placing a tiny kiss on her forehead. Harry could not remember ever having either given or received a kiss but, in that moment, the act seemed simple and natural. All of his stilted, awkward experiences with girls, and even his far more perilous concerns, seemed to fade.
With a happy glow, he finished pulling the sheet and covers over Ginny, then reached toward the night stand to stow the...
The what?
In curiosity, he raised the object in his hand so that it once again caught the faint light from the window. He examined it for a moment, vaguely stirred by the unusual, ornate craftsmanship, intrigued by the clasp's cool weight in his hand.
It almost seemed to make him tingle.
Construing the sensation as a figment of exhaustion, Harry placed the brooch on the night stand, and turned one final time to gaze down at his young and pretty friend. He was troubled by an apparent relapse of her old issues with nightmares, but he was once again touched by her wholehearted (if slightly puzzling) acceptance of a helping hand.
Helping a friend truly felt good!
Harry borrowed an extra pillow and blanket from the boudoir, and settled himself in the comfortable old armchair beside Ginny's bed. Within moments, he too was asleep, with a contented smile on his face.
Stop, whoa, halt! That's the end of the chapter!
What follows below is a shoddy, old version that I simply can't get rid of. I've tried! Please skip along to chapter 2.